A small, quiet peace about my Inquisitor from Dragon Age: Inquisition.
Elusive Silence
Even here, he can hear it.
The noise of war. No, he corrects himself, the drumbeat of inevitability.
Even here, it filters in through the high narrow window and through the open door behind him. He contemplates rising to close it and then dismisses the thought.
Time is precious. Time alone even more so.
He closes his eyes to meditate before the silent white stone figure of Andraste. Here, hidden away in a small room, the statue offers a space for meditation. She is quiet, surrounded by a hoard of red Chantry candles which paint her robes with an ever so delicately faint blush of gold and pink.
As he sits before her, he does not look up. Far above the flickering candlelight, her face, now cast into shadow by the falling light of early evening, seems even more inscrutable. She is welcoming, but he has no real place here before her. His posture is worshipful, but his doubts are many and his heart lies far away in the wild northern lands where his people roam. Scripture is placed here for contemplation, but he pays no heed to the words.
This is not my place. His hands grip his knees tightly at thought. Yet it is now my home, and I seek peace before a foreign god. Goddess? The one who supposedly called me to take a forefront role in the weaving of Fate. I am faced with so many choices and must make those choices on the behalf of many people. The drumbeat of inevitability.
His eyes are closed, but his keen elf ears can hear a maid calling into the garden for someone. A child? A friend? He knows not. So many have come. Countless. Many come who I do not know by name. Leliana and Cassandra see such support as a double-edged sword. Varric would say… Varric would say… "The more, the merrier."
Hm. In the distance, the familiar rumble of the inner gates resounds after a short blast of a watchman's horn. He assumes it is the watchmen with a new form of allowing access to Skyhold. Who else would be blasting away on horns? Ah, he reminds himself, but we have Cole and Sera now. Not even the Maker can guess what those two will be up to next. At the thought of his two diametrically opposite companions, he is struck once again how many people can share traits – mischief-making or drinking – and yet be totally different in other ways.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop. The troop's clatter diminishes as the small band moves to Dennett's stables. Cullen? No. Cullen rarely leaves his council chamber these days, the elf frowned. Perhaps it is The Iron Bull and is Chargers… Well, it might be them. If Iron Bull can tear himself away from our tavern. I swear he sleeps in that chair some nights.
A clanging pot follows. More yelling. Heavy scents of fresh bread and beef stew scents the air. The swift patter of feet – maids and servants congregating for a well-earned supper. A dog barking; other hounds join the call.
There are other voices. The sharp shrill tones of Sera and Blackwall's cursing her good-naturedly. A murmur follows. Varric laughs and says, "You tell 'em, Chuckles."
Solas. The mage elf in many ways is close to him. Both of us are elves; both of us are mages. Both of us seek peace in our own way. Solas may yet find his, the Inquisitor rises with a sigh, but shall I ever find mine?
Perhaps I will, but not here. These gray stone walls are filled with the sounds of life, the lives which depend on me to lead. Too much rides on me, and this Fate is one I cannot escape.
Even here, I can hear it.
Let me know what you think~!
