For a Liar's Love
It's different, this place. I realize that can be said of any location that is indeed not another. But the spirit of this ancient hold is unlike anything I've dwelt in. And Skyhold does have its own presence. When one is walking across that lofty bridge, cold and fearful of looking away from your destination lest the dizzying heights make you lose your footing, the spirit of the looming towers and steadfast bulwark makes you shrink beneath it. Serault was not without its own tall structures and striking strongholds. But nothing in my brief life truly commands as this place does. Even when broken and nigh ruinous itself, Skyhold never swayed from its arresting spirit. Its a quality I suspect the elves were careful to craft into the very stones that made up the unbreakable bones of the hold. When I left my home and my family to pledge myself in service of the Inquisition I saw Skyhold when the fingers of civilization just barely began to pry away the grip of the untamed wilds across the courtyards and halls. I was no less taken with it then. It's been a truly remarkable journey this hold and the tour de force it housed has taken to come this far. Now it groans with supplies, stocked well enough to outlast any seige those blood crazed abominations could mount, and a stable boasting a calvary that could run them down and carve them to pieces when they retreated. The sense of determination and promise to overcome has been replaced with surety that comes with knowing victory is possible and we are capable of fulfilling the purpose of the Inquisition.
My hands have not known much hard work, my fair skin has never seen many hours beneath the unforgiving sun, but that spirit made my chest swell with pride as I rolled up my sleeves and put myself to work. The days were spent aiding the builders and carpenters, helping the sisters bind wounds and scrubbing uniforms. I was happy for the work! I realized I wasn't suited for the role of a minor noble, the fourth daughter of a retainer to comte so on and so forth. I felt truly fulfilled here. But the night, the night was different. When all falls to silence, and the only thing to keep me company in the long hours in the darkness is the mournful whistle of the mountain winds through the trees I'm left with a different feeling. A dull ache of lonliness that is only eclipsed by the painful ebb and flow of my own haunting thoughts. In my bunk I wring my hands and rock myself, seeing shadows in the dark and making every effort to contain myself and let my bunkmate sleep undisturbed. But there are nights when I have to escape. When the only that can steady my thundering heart is to flee the heavy darkness and oppressive stillness of night. I walk the ramparts on those nights.
The cold mountain air grounds me and cuts through my cotton chemise. On most nights the light of the moon is enough to illuminate my way, and on the rare occassion that it isn't the soldiers light crackling braziers. Those are the nights I appreciate the most. The cold air soothes my flushed skin, the scent of smoke and decaying leaves on the breeze eases my rolling stomach and the eternal blanket of sapphires dotting the velvet sky above me subdues my heavy thoughts. I always leave behind my robe when I come here, sometimes the weight is too much to carry. The patrolling soldiers barely spare a second glance when they see me wander across their paths. That's not to say they know me, and I think they assume I'm a survivor of Haven's destruction. Maybe I saw horrors when the mages attacked and the only escape from my memories is to pace this endless loop on the walls of Skyhold. Perhaps it's untrue to call it a loop. I ascend the stairs outside my quarters, my mousey brown hair tightly bound in a neat braid, feet and face bare, and blue eyes blinking away the mist of leaving my warm bunk. My hands wring my sleeves and the dirty hem of my too long skirt billows and nearly tangles about my legs. The stone steps are polished smooth by the endless coming and going of heavy boots and they could nearly pass for alabaster under the cool blue light of the half moon. I tread the same path, following the tall ramparts until I reach the door I won't let my shadow touch. Then I turn and retrace my path until I come upon the same dilapidated tower, only the opposite door, and stop before my shadow reaches the threshold when I turn and do it all again. It's a cycle I follow until my lids are too heavy to lift and I dare brave the darkness of my bunk again. Those nights are the easiest. I fall into a heavy sleep and the rest until the fingers of dawn break the horizon. But there are a few nights when I lack the courage to return and I slip to the ground, knees drawn to my chest and back against a corner where I slip into a slumber until the morning's patrol gently shakes me awake and ushers me back to my quarters before the pale light of the sun can push away the shadow of the evening.
That's where I find myself tonight. I lean against an outcropping of stone and look out over the garden. The rustle of changing leaves against the long, low moan of wind drawing my eyes across the beautifully appointed sanctuary. I applauded the decision to designate this an area of reflection and introspection. The images of Andraste in her graceful pose, head tilted and bowed and hands offered outward in mute benediction, was something of a source of comfort. Despite my lack of fervent faith. My still too alert eyes urged me to take up my pacing again and I of course obeyed. Those I passed in my walk only acknowledged me with a curt nod, but said nothing. And I was content not to expend the energy in interaction. My mind wandered as I strolled, to my mother and father, their chagrin at my decision to make the pilgrimage after the news of Haven's destruction came. I lamented the loss of my nug, Leopold, and his happy honking when I gave him a long stroke and scratch of his back. I pondered how my eldest brother must be faring. I wondered if I might see him again as the Inquisitor conscripted and leased the remaining Templars. I would wager his loyalty would bring him to take his armor up again and return to the fold.
My knee impacts a solid surface and my nearly shut eyes snap open. I start and jump away, one hand rubbing away the pain of the impact and I can't contain the gasp of shock at my own lapse in awareness. I hear the creak and groan of wood within and I reel away from the door. The door that I have always taken such great care to leave undisturbed and give the occupant within no reason to suspect my presence outside on the nights that I pace these walls. The pain of my bruising knee is forgotten and I gather my skirts then flee. I push open the door leading through the commander's vacant office but the sound of a latch lifting and hinges creaking breaks the sound of my retreat and I duck my head. I feel the ox man's gaze burning like dragon's breath against my back. The door slams shut behind me and it only just drowns the sound of my curse. I keep my head low and by the time I reach my quarters my chest is heaving and the threat of returning to the heavy darkness of my bunk is made insignificant by the fact that I woke and was seen by the only person in this Inquisition that I fear: The Iron Bull.
I burst through the door to my shared quarters and slam it shut behind me, already realizing that he likely heard it echo across the courtyard. My bunk mate shoots out of bed, a shout of surprise on her lips as she reaches for and lights a candle. "Colette!" She admonishes, strands of silver hair falling from beneath her night cap. "Mabella forgive me." I gasp, pushing heavily against the door behind me. Mabella holds the candle high and rises to her feet, gazing curiously at me over her sharp nose. "Is there cause for alarm?" She uses the candle to gesture towards my heaving chest. "No, no," I reassure her with a wave of my hand. "I sleep walk every now and again." A lie, and I feel guilty for telling it. I cross in front of her, not a terribly long distance in our cramped accomodations. I fall heavily into my bed and pull the wool blanket up to my chin. "I woke up in the stables and frightened myself." I was eager for her to swallow my lie and leave the subject be. The older woman stares at me for a few moments longer, and seemingly accepts that if I were untrue it would serve no purpose to contest me now. Not this late. She climbs back into her bed, snuffs out the light and with no utterance of goodnight I force my eyes to shut and will myself into a fitful sleep. Even in my shallow dreams dreading the normally celebrated emergence of the new day.