There lived a bird somewhere on the roof outside the Inquisitor's chambers, a pretty, red thing not at all suited to Skyhold's harsh climate. The bird sang in the evenings and hopped to and fro across the balcony, and Mahanon could almost have loved the thing were it not for the fact that the bird was the most unintelligent creature the elf had ever seen.
Every morning, right as Mahanon began to rise, he heard it - the soft but unmistakable thwap-thwap-thwap of the bird colliding with the great glass doors that circled his quarters. Each day, the bird threw itself at the glass, over and over, until the sun sat fully in the sky. Then, dejectedly, the bird would hobble away, gaining nothing from its efforts except bruises on its wings and ego.
Mahanon had tried everything to stop the bird's self destructive habits. He waved the bird off. He set out a feeder to draw the bird away. He even, at one point, had hung a curtain on the outside of the window, hoping to at least stop the bird from injuring itself, but the creature managed to find an uncovered section of glass anyway.
It just didn't understand, he thought, trying to ignore the repetitive thumping sound as he pulled on his jacket. Perhaps, the glass confused it. Perhaps, the cold was so foreign to the bird that it would do anything to escape it. Perhaps, Mahanon thought bitterly as the bird collided with the door with a particularly loud thwap, it had simply bashed all of its brains out.
In the end, he supposed it didn't matter. Mahanon finished fastening the clasps on his jacket, sent the bird one last, frustrated look, and began to descend down the stairs into the great hall. Though breakfast was already served, the hall was unusually quiet that morning. One of Varric's informants had tracked down what appeared to be a red-lyrium mine south of the Hinterlands, and a group of the Inquisition's forces – along with several of Mahanon's inner circle – had set out earlier that week to investigate.
It was odd, the elf mused, to not be out in the field with the others. The Inquisitor did not head every one of the Inquisition's missions, but he hated sitting idle when he knew his friends and his forces were out working in his name. Under normal circumstances, he would not have stood for it, but he refused to be out of Skyhold when word finally arrived.
Surely, there would be news today. He knew the Commander and his troops were still days out, but there must be a raven, a runner – something – on its way to Skyhold with news of Wycome.
Mahanon could not work like this – in the crippling limbo of not knowing. From the moment a decision had been forced from him, Mahanon had felt himself begin to unravel.
Though he found it embarrassing to admit, he rather enjoyed politics. He had always liked puzzles – always enjoyed games of strategy – but there was nothing he hated more than a rigged game.
He remembered: his nails digging into the smooth, lacquered wood of the War Table as he was forced to choose between two poor options. When Clan Lavellan had called upon the Inquisition for help, Mahanon's advisors had been spread thin. Leliana's hands were tied, stuck as she was in Val Royeaux, and Josephine was in Fereldan, attempting, not for the first time, to smooth things over with the king and lords after their perceived insult at Redcliff.
Which left Cullen – loyal, sure Cullen – who never for a moment doubted his soldiers' ability to deal with the situation in Wycome. The alternative was to wait, which wasn't really an option at all. Some help had to be better than no help, Mahanon reasoned, and he refused to insult the Inquisition's forces by telling them that he would prefer to leave Clan Lavellan defenseless than send them in.
But before the day was out, doubt began to creep in, heavy, twisting doubt that set his stomach churning and sweat prickly down his neck. Something felt wrong, and Mahanon grit his teeth against it, burning through the days since in breathless, terrified expectation.
Mahanon scooped jam onto one of the still-hot rolls on his plate, biting into it as he kicked absently at the legs of the empty high table. The hall was so quiet – quiet enough to hear the low, groaning creak Skyhold made every time the wind blew too hard.
Quiet enough to hear the distant chirruping caw as a raven announced its return to the rookery.
Mahanon dashed to the library stairs, leaving his mostly untouched plate still on the table. He made his way up the stairs as quickly as he could without flat out running. As he began circling to the second staircase, a soft voice called for his attention.
"I have the bird, Inquisitor," Helisma said, petting absently at a raven that sat proudly on the railing by her table.
"Loudest, cursed thing ever to live, I do believe," Dorian said from behind Mahanon in his usual spot by the window. Mahanon started, turning his way, and Dorian continued, "Could you hear it all the way in your rooms?"
"I was in the main hall," Mahanon said, fumbling. He could not put a finger on why Dorian's presence surprised him. It was just that, whenever he imagined reading this update from Cullen – and he had imagined so many scenarios at this point that he could no longer tell what was realistic and what was not – he had never pictured himself having an audience. Suddenly, he wasn't sure he wanted to read this letter.
Strike that. He definitely didn't want to read this letter. He could see it, curled around the raven's leg, and it was far too long. People didn't send lengthy messages about good news - especially not Cullen. The Commander only padded his words when he was uncertain of what to say, and Mahanon took one shaky step back towards the library stairs.
He could not deal with this. Not here. Not with an audience. What if some elves had gotten caught in the crossfire? What if the keeper had been lost? His clan had already lost their first, and their second was far too young to make for a reliable leader and guide. Creators, what if they needed him? How could he possibly be expected to make that choice?
"Your letter," Helisma said, untying the scroll of paper and holding it out before her. Mahanon breathed, his chest hot and a small, tight pain curling behind his eyes.
He could not do this. He couldn't, but with Helisma solemnly shaking the scroll in his direction and Dorian staring, strangely silent, from his spot in his usual chair, Mahanon was left feeling like he had little choice.
He hated when games were rigged against him. He took a step towards Helisma, hand out and open, and thought of red birds beating against glass.
He read the scroll. He did not have to read far.
It occurred to Mahanon to wonder how his advisors would have chosen to give him this information, had he not gotten to the letter first. Would they have gathered him in the War Room with carefully guarded faces, breaking the news in the most politic fashion that they could manage? Would they have chosen to shield him from the news, worried about the effect a personal tragedy might have on their figurehead?
Would it have been offhand? A footnote, easily missed. Oh yes, that Tevinter text has been translated, we managed to locate a store of Deathroot in the Hissing wastes, and oh by the way…
It occurred to Mahanon that he was shaking, losing balance, and catching himself on the guardrail as something low and stuttering and not quite a sound clawed its way out of his throat. He pressed a hand to his mouth, pressed it harder, until his thumb bruised into his cheek and his teeth bit into the meat of his hand and yes that hurt and that was better. Then even that was gone.
Fingers gripped at his hand, gently prying it open and pulling the scroll away. A rustle of fabric, a hand on his shoulder and "Kaffas…" spat bitterly by his ear – Mahanon knew these all had meaning and, in a distant way, understood why they might require his attention, but none of it mattered. None of it.
Because it occurred to Mahanon to run.
He was not supposed to be here. This wasn't home – not the cold, not the throne, not the stone and glass walls – and he needed out. He needed out. He needed –
Blood on his tongue, a winded, muffled curse, his nails dug deep into flesh, clawing, biting.
His name called once then again, then two more hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him back.
Mahanon growled, shaking off the hands and vaulting over the railing onto Solas's scaffolding. He descended the ladder quickly, his hands sticky and red around his nails, and he tried not to think as he ran across the main hall and up the stairs to his quarters.
Mahanon took the steps two at a time, throwing open the inner door and slamming it closed again. He secured the lock, hands still shaking – barely functional – and staggered back until he fell to sit on the bottommost steps in his room.
Distantly, he heard the lower door to the main hall open, muffled voices carrying up to his room. Someone was yelling – or at least talking loudly and passionately – and after a moment, Mahanon heard the lower door close.
It was quiet, then. Mahanon sat, not moving and barely breathing, on the bottom of the stairs, trying to focus. He could leave. Surely he could. He wasn't a prisoner anymore, and while it was unlikely that they would let him travel through the mountains around Skyhold alone, he could shake a small team once they got properly into Fereldan. He could catch a ship, travel to the Marches, and then…
And then nothing, he thought, sinking in his seat lower and lower until he could rest his forehead against his knees. There was nothing - nothing to go back to and nothing to look forward to.
They were gone. He tried not to picture it, tried to pretend it was beyond imagination, but in truth, it was far too easy. When he was a child, Mahanon's older brother fell to shem traders, furious that the rabbits dared to hunt beside them on common land. His clan had lost four to slavers over the years, two more to Templars, and he tallied it together, imagining each death added to the next, only it wasn't six or seven this time, it was all.
The girl with the knack for bringing in beautiful bucks, even in the off seasons. Dead.
His father's old friends, too old now to hunt, whispering secrets and memories around the campfire. Dead.
The leather crafter. Dead.
The healer. Dead.
The children. The warriors so fresh that their vallaslin were still inflamed and lined with red. The keeper. His blood. It was all spilled across the ground somewhere, seeping into the dirt, and Mahanon gasped, shuddering into a sob, but the air tasted like copper, and he retched.
His hands. His nails had blood caked into the crevices, partially dried now and tacky.
Dorian. He must have hurt Dorian.
Above, the bird crashed into the window, the soft, repetitive sound breaking the silence.
Mahanon stood, climbing to the top of the stairs and crossing to the window. The red bird stood outside, looking dazed and addled, and Mahanon spotted a greasy smudge on the window where the bird must have hit.
He stared at the bird. The bird looked up, acknowledged his presence, and then began to hit against the window once more.
Something once tightly knotted went slack, and Mahanon fell to pieces, breaths hitching and gasping beyond his control as tears slid down his cheeks. It burned. It hurt. He felt disgusting and small, but when the bird moved to bash against the glass once more, Mahanon pulled the door open, and the bird flew inside.
He watched it, turning its way around the room.
"There," he said, lowly. "You've gotten what you wanted. Happy?"
The bird landed, hopped twice, then flew back out the window.
Startled, Mahanon laughed, the noise high and unpleasant through his tears.
"Thought not. There was nothing for you here."
He cried until exhaustion hit, until he simply could not any more, and then rose, crossing to the water basin to wash his face and hands.