The Spectral Breath

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Chapter One: Soul Keeper

In the long years of slumber for one of the elvhen, the beauty that once was Elvhenan had fallen unto ruin.

Spirits no longer sung in the vibrant tears of a shimmering river; magic no longer bathed in the colours of the wind. Horizons shone with a familiar dawn, evenfall fell in to the west as it always had since the beginning of Thedas. But though nature remained similar, the formations built into the foundations were utterly foreign.

One such elf had observed the generations closely, spied the founding of new provinces and the makenings of spires erected from the spare parts of her history. Though, to her pleasure, nature had always proven itself to be a thorn in the shadows, and had reclaimed the bones of her people many centuries later.

Yet the pariah that was humanity never truly folded. Empires far grander than those before, both ill and old, had proven destructive, ill-thought. Fields once rich in wheat had been burned away with only blood to sate nature's appetite. And the only word to drift through the ashes were the whispers of a faith that had blossomed into a poisoneous weed. One not even nature could reclaim.

The pantheon of the ancients had eventually been drowned by the fanatical maddening of a shemlen Maker. Her people did not even remember themselves.

Yet the mother-goddess and her children still rung true in her heart, but faith was a fraying virtue, one that not even an ancient could uphold eternally. And during her journeys she had found little to kindle her once bountiful pride in such spirituality. For before long she had come to realise what her mind dared not truly believe.

Mythal had long forsaken the great summits of western Fereldan. And the world was poorer for it.

In truth, the mountains had never truly been her domain in the Elvhen Pantheon, for it was Dirthamen that inhabited the farther lands away from the heartland where secrets dwelled deep within realms under lock and key. But when sunlight distanced in the west; when eve fell upon glaciers and high peaks glinted in the wake of silver radiance, the mother goddess would have reigned over all.

But the stone had at long last succumbed to mortality, lacking the gentlest of the godess' whispers. The very tempest from the mountains stood unshackled from the once merciful hand of her caress. Even the heavens were lain with snow and cloud. Far more grey without the true glimmer of an overbearing moon to guide the weariest of elvhen home.

Winter had come unkindly upon the world, perhaps resentful for the loss of the Gods. It was far more rueful to the small company that journeyed along wind-swept roads in pursuit of aid, unleashing cold that frosted the buckles on their belts and cloaked the fur of their mantles in snowfall.

The elf remembered their journey, just as she remembered the pantheon, though wary she was of both.

Lush valleys had been consumed by highland frost in a matter of days. Paths dipped and rose from the earth and with it mountain had begun to tower over the roads like ivory bone barring a chalky sea. Only by map and star charts had the company managed to guide themselves through such unchartered terrain, yet when the mountain claimed them, all they had were distant shadows playing on ice with cairns bracing the wind - the only ruins to distance themselves from the lethal fall of a cliff edge.

Very little could truly be seen in such weather, even when the elvhen lass straddled upon a hefty halla drew her cowl further across her brow, craning the leather in an attempt to keep the snow from catching her lashes.

Her halla was a mighty beast: one of antlers and hooves and mane. Yet such a beast was meant for southern plains and rich grassland, not high inclines or soft snow. He swayed to and fro while his long antlers churned the ice for firm land.

Through the storm, the halla itself could scarcely see, folding layer upon layer of white until his antler chipped the sharp corner of the cairn.

The elf reared the reins and changed her course, shifting him as far left as he could possible turn. And when he returned to a steady stride, she felt the cold flare across her fingers. Peering down upon the reigns, she found that her freckled hands were growing pale. She drew them to her lips and blew a warm sigh. Her fingers remained numb and white.

"How are you faring, Da'mi?" called a man through the long, drawn-out howls of the wind.

The elvhen mage peeked up from beneath her cowl, spying the neighbouring mare drifting her way. The rider caught the reigns of her halla and drew the straps together. His gaze was gold underneath his shroud, narrow and uncertain. "Andruil's mercy, has the cold gotten to you so quickly? You appear as death itself."

"Emma souveri," she whispered in the elvhen tongue, closing her eyes tight before murmuring a translation. "I am weary. How much farther have we to wander?"

The rider tore the shawl away from his jaw, presenting a sharp face of scars and hollowed cheeks. She found herself smiling at him, despite his scowl. "Not much father to go, I'm sure of it. The final cairn was only a stretch down the path. A little further and the fortress should appear just over the mountains. That's if this blighted cold doesn't claim us first."

"And… Skyhold is close at hand?"

"Very close. Spied ram carcasses not far down the way. Ravens were munching on the innards. Where there be ravens there'd be rookeries, and with a little luck, it won't be a village we come across but the hold itself. Burned meat by a well-lit hearth, ale and a bed. This I promise you."

The rider drew his mare up to the halla. He noticed his friend swaying and caught her shoulder with a gloved hand, shaking the feathered pauldron until she woke. "Hey, stay in this world, Da'mi. Don't go straying off to the Fade just yet. I promised I'd bring you to a healer, and that's damn well what I'm going to do, so stay awake just a little longer. You hear?"

The mage tried to focus but her gaze appeared as if glass itself, hazy and dim. Still, she found the strength to nod, falling back until her head connected with his shoulder. He sighed, patting the snow from her hair. "We've survived worse. Just stay awake a little longer. It's all I ask."

When the mounts parted she slumped back into her saddle, holding the reigns tight to her chest for the fear of falling.

A fall in such terrain would surely be her end. Still, she did wonder…

Would falling into the snow truly be so ill? The cold was peaceful, after all, numb and painless. Like a dream.

"We have only heard rumours of this Inquisition," she whispered, her words raspy, dry. "What if we are refused entry? The shemlen may turn me away for fear of disease."

"Then they're the ones with the disease, heartless rats. Mark my words, Da'mi, they'll have no choice."

Her lips split in a small smile. There was no pain. Only hope.

Hope was what they had to value most, for their expedition had been long and was destined to be far longer. Through the remainder of the night the beasts strained on the way to the crest of the mountain, shuddering even with thick fur under the sheerness of the element. Ferns fell to land, rock formations became unseen. Over the hours their path disappeared, leaving them lost in wander.

But when all seemed bleak, when days tarried on with agonising slowness and blurred with the remainder of the surroundings, when hope itself had withered, a fire begun to burn in the north. From the horizon great braziers flickered like embers rising high into the sky. And beneath were stone towers dappled by shadow with roves slanted in sleet. The closer the company dared to trek, the more of the fortress became clear, with old outer walls and pinnacles of an inner keep jutting out like a crown.

Skyhold was mighty even in the breath of a blizzard. The elvhen mage looked up from her saddle, lips parting for a quivering breath. She could imagine such a ruin in daylight, of how the courtyards in their youth intertwined with a flourishing bailey, how the keep may have sung with the battle cries of thousands.

A sense of familiarity crept upon her, causing her to frown. There was an essence to the foundations, something light and fleeting. Like the magic of old.

The two elvhen passed a stone bridge wrapped in chains, and with each step the walls of the fortress grew ever grander, baring them under its great shadow. It was not too long before the gateway came into view, with thick iron bars preventing their entry.

Jaras slipped from his mount. He shook the excess snow from his mantle and staggered forth to the front gate; an arm shielding his brow.

Through the gate a guard did emerge, tall, rounded and cloaked in Inquisition raiment. He eyed the elf warily, flicking his gaze up and down before settling upon his face. "Who goes there?"

Jaras threw his arm against the outer wall, lifting his shroud high.

The guardsman narrowed his eyes, having noticed the scars dotting the face of the elf. Surely it was not the most welcoming sight, marks of battle held upon tanned cheeks. The guard immediately curled his gauntlet over the hilt of his sword. "What say you, elf?"

"We are Fereldans seeking shelter from the storm!" Jaras slipped a hand into his inner jerkin, pulling from a pocket a frayed scroll with a ruby seal. He slipped it through the railing, watching closely as the guardsman took it. "Here, by decree we are to be permitted entry. Open these gates, I say."

Even from a distance, it was obvious the guardsman had trouble deciphering the text. He gestured for another guard to shine a torch over him, but even that did not last with the waging war of the wind. "Mercenaries?" he finally shouted, his voice dripping in accusation. "We already have mercenaries."

"Don't be a fool, shemlen. You've seen the hole in the sky. A few more fighters couldn't hurt. We're willing. We're able, and we're here. Now, open the damn gate."

The guard peered back upon the scroll, pale brows creasing ever tighter under a nasal helm.

Jaras sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose and pointing back to the elf still perched on her halla. "Look, we both know that the Inquisition can use all the help it can get. My friend, she is unwell. She needs a healer. Are you going to let us in or am I going to have to break this Veil-saken gate open myself?"

Curious, the guardsman squinted through the dark to the mage on the halla, frowning deeply when he saw the fragility of her state. Yet Lahris knew that there was no reason to not permit them safe haven. She indeed was weak, a ghastly alabaster that only seemed to worsen as time pressed on while the snowfall grew ever thicker. In some variants of torchlight, her hunched appearance would be indistinguishable from the mountain terrain. That should have scared her, but instead it gave her some small comfort. For when it came to the wilderness, as she had learned from the Dalish, it was sometimes far more opportune to blend into the surroundings then stand out.

And the parchment they had was one signed by the Spymaster of the Inquisition herself, sent for aid many months back when their army was little less than a battalion. It may have been a late response, but the significance of the letter still stood.

If they do not answer the call to arms, Lahris thought grimly, then they are just as corrupt as any other shemlen order. Such false promises. And the Inquisition will fall to chaos, eventually.

"That won't be necessary," the guardsman decided, raising his arm high. Chain-mail figures drifted behind him. All of a sudden the iron gates began to shudder, cracking and rising from the frozen earth.

Crows fled from tattered nesting, plumes of black rising into the circular tower overlooking the courtyard. With a little movement the halla began to descend into the bowels of Skyhold, hooves clattering against wet cobblestone while the thunder of the gates consumed any other sound.

Though amidst such a blizzard, the majority of Skyhold seemed untouched. There were pits of steel and oak hidden where thatched cottages nestled together for haven, and such fires must have warmed the town from the breath of winter, for the cobblestones were damp, shimmering. The only traces of cold to bare were slithers of swords reaching down from tower corbels.

Yet despite the guardsman that patrolled the parapet walks, many of the arrowslits within the town remained unlit. The windows on the cottages were woven shut. The keep itself held a peculiar abandonment to it, as if ghosts were the only ones residing inside. It was only the armorsmith that held any sort of luminance, and that was from the heat of a forge that could never truly be allowed to vanquish.

Lahris felt the last of her strength wain. Her chest felt plagued by a forbidden magic that until now had managed to remain dormant. Her heart spasmed, her fingers twitched against the reigns. Her cowl dropped further into her chest, and she slumped forward, resting on the neck of her halla.

The creature sensed her displeasure, beginning to flick his antlers from side to side and rear back against the cobblestone, preventing any neighbouring human to go too near.

Jaras quickly grabbed the reigns and pulled the snout of the halla down into his hand, soothing the beast with a few eloquent words. He then tied the straps to a nearby post, pulled himself onto the saddle and hugged Lahris to his chest, gently tugging her down. "It's alright, Da'mi. We're here, you're safe now"

Lahris shivered in his hold, curling her fingers deep into his jerkin. When she met his gaze, her eyes once bright like summer grassland flickered in an unusual violet, one that bore no natural familiarity, just a curse as ancient as the moon and stars. For a moment it seemed as if he was looking into eyes belonging to another person, a reflection, a window into the mind of another soul. Then the colour faded just as swiftly as it had come.

Jaras held her closer, humming into her long ears and stoking the snow from her braids. "Stay with me, lass. The shemlen have called for a healer. You just need to hold on a little longer."

The mage chuckled, smiling away her pain. "If a… shemlen could heal me, then… that would be a worthy gift indeed."

He winced, kissing her crown.

She never thought her life would end in the arms of a friend, nor that it would be a shemlen to be her only saviour. The very thought was absurd, sickening. Yet when a healer did indeed approach them, swaying in the angelic robes of the Maker, she could do little other than grit her teeth and bury her nose deeper into his chest.

The healer hovered over her, shrugging the mantle from the elf's shoulders and checking the skin for breakages. What the healer found had her ruby lips puckering. "I see no physical wounds, ser. Has she truly been in a battle?"

"She has, lass," Jaras replied, unlacing the straps along Lahris' left arm and tugging the fabric free.

Lahris had to bite her lip to quell fresh tears. Scarring supple skin were the roots of poison; black groves that rippled like watery tattoos but were pulsing in hues of violet. The further the healer searched, the worse the marks became until the entirety of her left shoulder had been consumed, appearing as a patch of skin with ashen bruises.

"By the Maker," the healer whispered, cupping her mouth. "How did this happen, ser? What kind of blood magic is this?"

Upon the sound of a forbidden art, several guardsmen had emerged from the gateway, arms braced menacingly on their swords.

Jaras stared at the healer questionably before stepping away, tugging his friend back until his body was all that could be seen. "Listen, it isn't blood magic! She's sick, can you not tell? We've been told your order can help - will help. Use ointment, or a spell, I don't care, just see that's she's healed."

The healer's rounded face softened. "I-I would not even know where to begin, ser. The wound… it is like nothing I have ever seen. Perhaps, this is the Maker's will. We can end her suffering, perhaps make her passing more comfortable for her."

At the mention of a funeral, an argument sounded out for what felt like years. Lahris tried to concentrate on their words, but it eventually fell on deaf ears. All she could feel was her heart, the unsteady thrum battering against her chest for some form of release. Strength in her legs instantly faded. She collapsed into the snow, scratching at her chest, raking her nails until her skin begun to bleed.

Magic in its very definition was deadly. In that moment, she knew no other truth. Her eyes closed, her body fell limp, and from her skin a spell unknown to any mage surged through the courtyard, snuffing out all trace of life that was near her. Guardsmen were flung from the ramparts, swords were left to clatter unmanned against the stone. The very essence of a god had been unleashed, and any within the vicinity had either been scorched to ash or lay maimed near the gateway.

"Apostate!" many called along the parapet walks. "Murderer!" cried others. Some simply stared at the scene before them, shock stilling them from any motion of movement.

Just as her magic began to spread further out, a sudden lash of light ceased it. From the corner of her eyes, Lahris could just about see the shadow of a man. He spun the magic from her like a loom, threading the thin fibres into the crystal of his staff with long, nimble fingers. She felt the stone in her heart lighten, as if water had suddenly flooded into the artery. She could finally breath without drowning, feel the crisp cold of the blizzard without suffering.

She drew in a quiet breath, parting her focus from the man to the sky, where clouds begun to part and a moon begun to peek. "Mythal…"

From the keep many men and women huddled by the doors, observing the scene as it begun to settle. Ghosting over the ruins was the Right Hand of the Divine, her hand drifting over the ashes of the fallen, churning the grains with her fingers. She surveyed the ground, searched for any hint of the identity of her soldiers, but none could be found. "Who could do this?" she asked, sadness and demand spoken in unity.

From the gateway the apostate had managed to curl the last remaining threads of magic from the elvhen mage, settling his fingers on the staff's crown. He watched the crystal undulate, the inner energy coursing through, rattling against the cage before disappearing entirely. He sighed, rubbing the wrinkles from his brow until he heard an unfamiliar whimper.

He spied the woman on the ground, noticed how she gazed up into the sky and murmured words even his keen ears could not hear. He knelt, cupping her left cheek and tilting her chin to his face.

Her gaze remained glazed, hazy, but when her eyes met his, a tear slipped down her cheek. He leaned over her, the base of his ear just ghosting her lips.

The Right Hand of the Divine crept up behind him, placing her hand on his shoulder. "What does she say, Solas?"

The apostate frowned, leaning up to meet the seeker. "You should fear me."

...

I recently started this story on my old fanfic account, The-Freckled-Mouse, and I have since reread the story and can't believe I've left it abandoned this long - for ages I lost the password to my account and just never went back on, which is why I have this one. But I have fallen back in love with the story but cringe at how badly my writing was. So I'm going to be updating all of the chapters and will be posting them on this account. So sorry for any inconvenience I've just been using this account for so long that it feels easier for me to post on.

Because im only updating the chapters and making them less cringeworthy they should be put on here pretty quickly. I've also noticed quite a few plot elements that need correcting and instead of just deleting half of the story it'll be easier when I rewrite it.

i hope you continue to love this story, and if you wish to read the rest so far (even though the writing is terrible), please find this on my the-freckled-mouse account x