The thing that is so strange about the days after the battle of Denerim is the stillness.
The city itself is usually full to bursting; bustling, criers in the markets, gossiping in the alley corners, loud singing by drunkards swaying across bar tables. Cries for help as pickpockets hurry off with purses; hooves clattering against cobbles as merchants and nobles push through the hovel of people. Dogs barking and cats fighting, mothers snapping and children laughing. The clank of armours of the Templars.
It crescendos with the roars of fires and groans of houses as they crumble. It races with the screams of people, the shrieks of darkspawn. It rises to the sound of bodies thudding.
It stops with a primal scream, the sound of sin beating the skies.
It ends in relief, and the sound of laughter.
The Warden wanders through these still streets just days after chaos has numbed them. It is the first time in a long time she has spent so long without her armour, and a part of her feels lost without it.
The streets are not completely bare; rather the opposite. Merchants are digging through the remnants of their market place, attempting to see if there is anything that remains. Other people are stood around rubble that once belonged to homes; some people still being pulled out. There are some of these buildings where there are several person-shaped blankets laid quietly at the side of them; The Warden finds she has to quickly look away.
Unbelievingly there are still patrons attempting to enter the taverns, even though half the building is missing on one of them. A man raises his arms in disbelief at this lack of access and the innkeeper motions in such a way as to say, maker's breath, if you want a drink so badly, then bloody help sweep this mess yourself. Some things never change, and the Warden rolls her eyes.
It is the Chantry that is full. As always, it is one of the only buildings that remains largely vigilant. However, the unhinged doors tell of its hollowed insides. Even so there is a large, but quiet crowd, stood outside. There is the striking sound of praying and occasional, orchestrated movement as people move to receive aid. She knows there are similar scenes at the palace, led by Teagan.
She turns around, her back to the chantry, and scopes the city in front of her. It is certainly not empty, but there is stillness. Rare, certainly for her in recent times. A stillness that holds the air of a sunrise, that pause between slumber and awake, by a morning blanketed by snow, by a world forced to stop and sigh in relief. The last time the Warden recalls this simplicity was back with the Dalish, surrounded by a world that would not pursue anything but its own pace.
It won't be long until everything begins to rebuild, though it will take time as much as no one wishes it to.
Ignoring the stares of recognition from a few people, she chooses to make her way down to the docks. Her usual grievance at the state of the water is replaced by an unwelcome sense of relief. The murkiness hides any stains from the battle, and she finds an empty pier and settles herself down, legs hanging over the edge.
The weather itself isn't exactly bright, clouds crowding the sun just enough to hide it from sight. But it's enough to make the sun filter through the surface of the sea, and she has to squint to look at it. It soothes her all the same, taking her back to evenings spent in Highever sat along the cliff face not far from home, with her father or mother or brother or others who she grew to know and nearly love.
It is different now.
The sound of waves lapping at the stilts of the pier is the only company she needs, and in her, there is stillness.