So many refuse to speak of it, but how can we know it, how can we identify it, if we do not share it? The Calling is not a source of shame. The song that whispers in the back of my mind is no evil upon my soul, but the mark of a life well lived in service of a greater good. If all things come from the Maker, then is this too not part of His plan? Could it not be a gift, a final haunting melody to send us into the afterlife with hearts opened? Could this not be His song? But if I am to die, after all I have given, can I not at least allow myself the pleasure of the song's beauty?
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| rdfs:label
| - Codex entry: Regarding the Calling
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| rdfs:comment
| - So many refuse to speak of it, but how can we know it, how can we identify it, if we do not share it? The Calling is not a source of shame. The song that whispers in the back of my mind is no evil upon my soul, but the mark of a life well lived in service of a greater good. If all things come from the Maker, then is this too not part of His plan? Could it not be a gift, a final haunting melody to send us into the afterlife with hearts opened? Could this not be His song? But if I am to die, after all I have given, can I not at least allow myself the pleasure of the song's beauty?
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| px
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| Name
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| Text
| - So many refuse to speak of it, but how can we know it, how can we identify it, if we do not share it? The Calling is not a source of shame. The song that whispers in the back of my mind is no evil upon my soul, but the mark of a life well lived in service of a greater good. If all things come from the Maker, then is this too not part of His plan? Could it not be a gift, a final haunting melody to send us into the afterlife with hearts opened? Could this not be His song?
It scratches at my thoughts, the music almost a voice, at once unearthly and beautiful. I found myself humming it aloud a few days past. Where once it intruded, it now feels a natural part of my mind's course. It coils around memories I hold dear—training with Ser Keller, riding in the moonlight, my mother's face the last time I saw her—and inserts itself into them, so that I could almost swear that music, that sense of a presence watching and calling, had always been a part of what I remember.
This is what the senior Wardens warned us of, I imagine. I should not find it beautiful. I must remember the corruption and recognize that my mind is slowly losing the wit to differentiate between this world, and that which would consume and destroy it. I must. I can.
I will tell the Wardens tomorrow. I have seen their looks. They already know, I suspect. I will heed the Calling and go to the Deep Roads to die with the dwarves, fighting as a Grey Warden should.
But if I am to die, after all I have given, can I not at least allow myself the pleasure of the song's beauty?
—The final pages of To My Fellow Wardens, by Ser Marjorie Berran
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| See Also
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| Icon
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| location DAI
| - On the desk in the cave where the Warden ally is found during Here Lies the Abyss in Crestwood
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| category DAI
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| number DAI
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| abstract
| - So many refuse to speak of it, but how can we know it, how can we identify it, if we do not share it? The Calling is not a source of shame. The song that whispers in the back of my mind is no evil upon my soul, but the mark of a life well lived in service of a greater good. If all things come from the Maker, then is this too not part of His plan? Could it not be a gift, a final haunting melody to send us into the afterlife with hearts opened? Could this not be His song? It scratches at my thoughts, the music almost a voice, at once unearthly and beautiful. I found myself humming it aloud a few days past. Where once it intruded, it now feels a natural part of my mind's course. It coils around memories I hold dear—training with Ser Keller, riding in the moonlight, my mother's face the last time I saw her—and inserts itself into them, so that I could almost swear that music, that sense of a presence watching and calling, had always been a part of what I remember. This is what the senior Wardens warned us of, I imagine. I should not find it beautiful. I must remember the corruption and recognize that my mind is slowly losing the wit to differentiate between this world, and that which would consume and destroy it. I must. I can. I will tell the Wardens tomorrow. I have seen their looks. They already know, I suspect. I will heed the Calling and go to the Deep Roads to die with the dwarves, fighting as a Grey Warden should. But if I am to die, after all I have given, can I not at least allow myself the pleasure of the song's beauty? —The final pages of To My Fellow Wardens, by Ser Marjorie Berran
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