Fadesparks
The Veil was an ever-present hum that pressed against the small of his back, a constant presence that welcomed and warned at the same time. It was home, it was beyond, it was real and it was not real and more real than reality was. Through it he knew where everyone was, could measure their weight in the Fade, judge the flavour of them outside of the mundane world.
The Keep was dotted with the everyday pressures of its burden of life - tiny, glowing sparks from cook and runner, maid and soldier, healer and diplomat. New herbs growing in the garden sent up the scented sparks of spring, the sparks of the bevy of mounts in the stable were a swirling, precise herd, forever running. Hearty, solid, warm glows from the tavern; frail ones from the infirmary. Elven sparks differed from humans', and dwarven ones were both unyielding and yet faint at the same time. Curious.
Brightest of all were the Fadesparks of the mages, each spark a reflection of the person they would normally be. Skyhold had attracted more than her fair share of the gifted to her walls, its ancient beacon still holding after all these years, providing refuge and succour to those bounded and defined by the Fade. They glittered through the Veil; tiny, alluring, dangerous sparks of life and magic, ready to fold reality to their whim.
He catalogued them from his vantage point, high above the press of minds and lives; his own spark a part of the Veil, separate from those below (always alone).
The cold, clear spark that shone like sun on crystal, like moon on ice, or like the perfect, sharpest blade - beautiful to behold, but perilous to touch - was Vivienne, sitting alone in her tower: reserved, regal and achingly sad, but revelling in her loneliness.
Dorian's was ruddy and warm, like the fire he favoured; a crisp crackle kept restrained by a lifetime of hurt and a desperate need for acceptance. The underlying openness previously kept hidden now unfolding, bathing all around him in his light; warm, humorous, self-depreciating.
The lone, strong spark in the garden - dark, feathered, fanged, shot through with gold, an ageless mystery that even she did not understand - her he avoided, along with the attendant spark of her strange son, small yet vastly winged and shadowed. They were beings tethered by love and duty, opening doors that arguably should have been left closed.
The mages elsewhere in the Keep could not hold his attention, their small sparks reflecting their individual petty hopes and dreams - here a healer who despaired over her patients, there a battlemage who dreamt of burning. A protector who practiced barriers far into the night so as to not fail again; a gentle soul who cried over each life she took, but went out to do it again day after day after day.
Cole, of course, not a mage, no longer wholly a spirit, or at least not one he was familiar with. A quiet, fathomless well of compassion and hope, always watching, seeking, helping. His spark moved restlessly, continually, flitting from one end of Skyhold to the other, exhausting him.
But the spark he lingered over, the one that kept his attention, that drew him back again and again like a moth to the flame of a candle, was the spark of his Lady Inquisitor, his vhenan. Bright and quick, a flash of lightning in a sudden summer storm, first drops of cold rain on hot stones. Her spark brought the taste of the Fade to his tongue even outside of it, and pressed it into his spine.
He wondered if she had always been thus, if this was why she had been First of her clan - children, all, but still able to recognise the bright, marvellous spirit within her.
He studied her - tasting her magic, the flavour of her very being; testing her strength, now greatly grown from when they had first met. Her hope and charity, still untarnished by all they had been through thus far. Her capacity for loving him, which never ceased to amaze him, given all that he had not said to her. She wondered, yes, but she never doubted, and he loved her for it.
Her spark stirred, sensing his regard. He smiled. He adored this about her, that even through the Veil she could feel his watching her. The fullness of her bright spark turned to him, and he bathed in its warmth unabashedly, revelling in her very essence, wallowing in her being. It had been a very long time since he had felt its like, and he fully intended to enjoy it while he could.
"Emma lath," he felt, rather than heard, and smiled again.
"Ma vhenan," he whispered, and went to her, both here and in the Fade; and left those other sparks to their own devices for a time.