Sillage- (n) the scent that lingers in the air, the trail left in water, the impression made in space after someone has been gone; the trace of someone's perfume.
She has coils of hair the color of tree bark. During the early hours of the morning, when the sun was peaking just over the horizon, the bright beams of light turn her hair into a fiery tangle of oranges and reds like newly fallen autumn leaves. Like crisp, cool days of autumn bringing a stillness to the world. She slows everything down, brings crystal clear focus. Intelligent eyes, stubborn chin, sensitive mouth, but pride, too. Pride in the set of her mouth and her brows. Heat, fire, autumn, mouth pressed against mouth, warmth—
"So, that's where Cassandra's comb went." The inquisitor stood behind Cole, hands on hips, smile curling the edges of her mouth. He crouched in the barn, carefully brushing the knots out of Bruce's short, recently-shaved wool with an ornate Orlesian comb. Beyond the confines of the barn, wind and rain hammered against the roof and trees groaned in the torrent. It was a dark, wet and overall miserable night at Skyhold, threatening to turn to snow and ice as the world became darker and colder.
"Autumn." Cole said. "A snap of cold wind, smell of leaves and of rain. Standing tall like a tree. But a tree must not fall, for in its height, it creates a home for many." The wool was short and gritty. It would not do for such a proud animal as this.
"We were worried about you," by which, he knew she meant that her head was full of terrors and thoughts and that the fade would not enfold her into its soft arms tonight. She was standing over him, her hair tugged and prodded into a frizzy and tangled coif. He had thought she was a tree when he first met her. Her face had been inscribed with whorls and eddies, delicate lines dividing her face so that he could only look at one side or the other. But now, she was whole, and her bark was gone—its absence loud. Missing things were always louder.
But her name was Atlas, and she could not be a tree, not now. Now she was a mother cat, carrying her kittens back into the warm confines of her nest. One lost kitten making her all the more protective. He was not a kitten, but sometimes he enjoyed her mothering. It made him feel more real.
"Bruce is too queen-like for a brush like that," he looked pointedly at the bedraggled horse-brush on the bench next to him. "He used to be majestic. Now he is naked. Like an emperor without clothes."
"He needed to be sheared. We're selling the wool to the merchants tomorrow."
"They are like dragons. Proud and fiery."
She squatted heavily onto the stool beside him, and pulled the comb out from her hair, letting it fall into a fuzzy cloud around her face. She sat down next to him, petting Bruce. Rubbing behind his ears in just the right spot. In her mind, he knew, Bruce was just another halla. A short, fat halla.
"You came to ask about him." Cole said. It was not a question. Her thoughts were too loud. They always had been, partly because she was a mage, and partly because of the rift. The rift had torn cracks through her, and now things were not quite aligned, and like hands cupping water, there were always parts of her slipping through, no matter how tightly she tried to control herself.
"I was worried about you. And I wanted to know if you knew anything." She was vibrating. Not her, really, but the parts that were leaking. He could feel it as a buzz that sat low in his lungs and hovered about her—a tangled mess of feelings and pain colliding together into a jumble.
"Things are different now" he said. "He wanted to stay but couldn't."
"Do you know where he went?" she asked.
He opened himself, once again, to the fade and—
"Ancient leaves in an ancient grove. Overgrown paths and a broken, cobbled road. Every step moving away and yet towards. Ripples and lights, there is nothing left to find. The world was in his hands, and he had broken it open."
And then he was back.
She was silent for a second, contemplating. Deep within herself. Trying not to feel. Tendrils of frustration and hurt sheered quickly before they could grow into monsters.
"What does it mean?" she finally asked.
He concentrated on his brushing and on Bruce, once again reaching and reaching. "She thought that her brother was the dragon, but it was her all along. A queen among the barbarians she—" His face crumpled into a confusion. "No. wait. That's not right. Let me try again."
She waited patiently.
"Two wizards, lives entwined by a prophecy. One could only live while the other died and—no. No. No. That's not it either."
She sighed. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter." Bruce had cuddled up to her, resting his head in her lap as she scratched behind his ears, tail wagging and back leg thumping happily.
Cole sat in silence beside, her, head swimming. This was happening again. He was lost and lost and lost and it was harder to return now. The tear was stitched back together, and the defenses were high again. Like pounding a hammer into a door, trying to get someone, anyone, to answer.
Flashes of scenes darted before his eyes. Tall spires rising into the sky like honey combs going and going and going forever and ever, scraping against the heavens. Dragons flying low over the skyline, dancing in the sunset. People on a bright red planet, carving their existence into a cold, uninhabited, and dead world. Trees rising above him, a path going forward, mirrors all around.
Nothing made sense. Where was he?
And things shifted again, and he was somewhere else. Somewhere all around him. The smell of dead leaves on the ground. A world of orange and green and a softly lit sky. Around him, large stones, set into the ground, arranged into a strange pattern. And next to each one he could see a person, frozen, cold.
Dead.
Each face was the same, but slightly different. Some were older, some were younger. Wrinkles of happiness dotting this one, a frown on another.
And then they were talking to him. Whispers at first, growing louder and louder.
"You must help us" one said, cold dead eyes watching, pinning him in place. She was shorter than the others, with a larger nose and smaller eyes.
"Time is leaving her" said another, who was heart-achingly beautiful.
The oldest of them, a wizened crone whose face was cracked with scars whispered "We are dying."
And then they were talking over each other, growing louder and louder. Dead lips opening and closing like the beaks of some foreign creature.
And then he saw a flicker of movement. A splinter on the wood floor, hay piled in the corner. The smell of wet. Wind outside blowing on the door. And soft, springy wood underneath his fingertips.
And then he noticed her face— her barren, unbroken face— and he was back again.
"Are you alright?" Atlas asked.
"She's gone missing."
"Who has?"
He stared into her bright, dark-rimmed eyes.
"You."