The Spectral Breath

~~o~~

Chapter Five: Midnight Explorations

She heard him rise the stairway of her tower, one sluggish boot at a time. The beats of sanded limestone coated in a year's frost. The clash of a steel sheathe clattering against the walls. The hagged breath of a man succumbing to exhaustion, panting as needly as a bear waking from a long winter slumber. All noise resonated through the tower to centre in her chamber, as if sound itself wished to aid in her escape.

She imagined a pale face stricken in rose-tinted cheeks; a scraggly beard freckled in snowflakes; a whineskin dripping at the belt. There was a thunderous clap when he landed into the nearest chair by her door, coaxed tired eyes with a weather-worn glove and settled in for another quiet night.

She overheard the other guardsmen call him Ser Castillon, handsome by any means a human could be, yet who was young enough to fall asleep at his post without a thought on the consequences. He was new, had no wife or babe in a cradle. Perhaps he had family in Orlais, Val Royeaux maybe: a mother and father tending merchant stalls and attending extravagant parties for the local lords. She remembered how her own family had been as such, thought on his existence, gave way to fantasy when the sun set passed her window. In the end, however, she, like him, never bothered to think on the consequences of her choice, only what it could lead to.

She closed her eyes and wound her finger around the lock in her door twice, mumbling words in a tongue forgotten that not even the crows could understand. Incantations tempted the inner mechanisms to sleep, to freeze, to harden. Slivers of blue embraced the blackened iron, hummed into the metal, caused ice to freckle and expand upon it until the entirety had been solidified, the glassy surface reflecting a spectre of what she was.

Perhaps this will work a third time, she thought, taking a pin from her gown and fixing it into the hole.

She pressed her ear against the door, tilted the pin with her fingers until she heard the mechanisms within begin to snap one by one. She then hooked the end onto an inner spring and whipped her hand left. The lock shattered instantly.

The young elf smiled, sewed her pin back into her gown, rose to her feet and gently snapped the latch down, parting the door with a creak of old hinges. She paused, slipping into the corridor to find Ser Castillon had indeed fallen asleep with a pouch of wine dripping from his waistbelt. Gingerly, she crept out, one dainty step at a time, closed the door behind her and slipped down the stairway, halting at each turn to check another guard hadn't come her way.

By the third turn she had come upon the final door and eagerly pushed it aside. The breath of winter instantly brought her body to a standstill. But it was not just the cold that inhibited her attempt to flee. There was a vision on the horizon, one she had not seen even when she was forced to meet the Inquisitor at court, or during the day when the horizon looked like valleys merged together under a pink blanket.

What she saw was the Breach. She knew of it, as had all in Thedas when the heavens parted in shamrock green, presenting a swirling vortex of pulsing cloud causing the entire world to scamper in fear. She remembered witnessing the tears in Fereldan when demons poured from the forests, towering upon the Dalish like a sea of evil. She remembered the fires, the cries, the dead floating in the river, tainting it in blood.

Lahris shuddered, hugging herself through the evening wind.

That had been a year ago and still the Breach appeared as menacing as it had when it first ripped the sky. The Veil that tore the Fade. If only the mortals knew that the Veil had not always existed. Perhaps the world would have been different. Perhaps I would have been different.

She sighed, peering down upon Skyhold in newfound curiosity. From above the fortress did not seem quite as grand, somewhat smaller than what she had expected, though she supposed seeing the outer walls and inner courtyard looming down upon first sight did spark an awe-inspired presence.

Lahris gazed further south, her ears twitching at a deep bellow that howled from the straw-roofed stables farther down the way. But the cry was familiar, and her ears drooped beneath her hood, instantly recalling whom the wail belonged to. She flew down the steps of the parapet walk and into the courtyard, slipping into white-stricken veld, ice and rubble.

Even from a distance the paddock gates rattled from within the stable, under war with the hooves of a creature battling for freedom. Two elven servants manned the outer doors after hauling a thick beam of oak across the iron supports in the hope of subduing it. Yet the creature continued to ram the gates, shattering the wood and wailing through the night, deep and guttural, like a lion.

"Crazy beast, keep down in there I say!" one of the servants yelled, whacking the gate with a thick fist. "See, and you wonder why I don't follow my cousin's doing in joinin' the savages out there in the wilds. Nothin' but mad they are."

"Isn't as bad as some of the Inquisitor's mounts," grunted the other, skinny and shaken, falling back from the stables with his arm hung limp. "Did you see the last one he captured from the wastes? Andraste's mercy, the thing's like a dragon. All teeth and eyes. Scratched my arm the other night. The healers say it'll never fully heal."

"Aye, saw that one when it first came in. Hell of a temper on it, but at least it isn't as bad tempered as that ram in there. Should have the guards put it down, put it out of its misery."

The other servant frowned, moving out towards the barracks. "I wouldn't go that far. Might be scared is all. Cannot blame it from being away from its master…"

Lahris peeked out from behind a well, finding the servants disappearing into the distance. Once the door to the barracks closed, she crept out on her hands and knees, crawling through the snow, feeling the cold string her legs and dampen her skirts. The paddock gates continued to be hammered, so much so that a bolt flew from one of the hinges. It was as if the beast rebelled with the entirety of its strength, uncaring if it hurt itself so long as it was free.

Only one creature could be so stubborn.

Lahris rose to her feet and pressed her hand against the wood, hearing the grunts of a wary halla within. "Assan?" she whispered, her tone as soft as the snow.

The stable fell silent. "Assan," she said again, sighing in relief. "Shhh, I'm here. Just, stay still."

Her gaze swept across the courtyard, searching for a way to cut the beam or aid in freeing it from the supports. Ice magic would have had little effect on wood, and burning it would only alert the Inquisition. That was when she saw it: a crack in the sideward wall, small but the wood around appeared soft, hollow. Bending down, she turned on her heel and kicked the timber around it, again and again, until the side wall cracked and a chunk of it fell into the stables.

Lahris crouched, hugging her skirts to her chest before slipping through the crack, finding the stables within dark and dry. Hay tickled the underside of her feet, made her toes curl and twitch. Though the inside was consumed in shadow, parted by stray shafts of moonlight seeping through the straw like tiny stars, the stable was clear enough for her to spy the outline of her halla, raised upon four legs, stilted by hooves the height of her hands while the spiral pattern of his antlers curved back from his crown, lightly scraping the upper beams.

There was a reason he was chosen out of the herd she had found him in. A scrawny doe orphaned by his mother, a baby that would not ween even from the medicine of the clan wise-mother. She remembered the memory well, felt tears threaten to fall at the thought. But then he had grown into a robust, sturdy beast, one with fur as white as snow-kissed cloud, who towered over the other halla in his herd, who was strong enough to carry both her and others across vast lands both familiar and foreign. Her friend. Her companion, who had been away from her for days, perhaps not knowing if she were alive or dead.

She reached out with her hand, feeling his breath frost the air. "Ir abelas, falon. I am here. You do not need to fear anymore. I promise you."

She approached him slowly, slightly bowed, her heart battering against her chest, worry twitching her fingers. Yet after a moment he lowered his snout, sniffed her hand. The fright in his eyes softened and he bowed his neck, his jaw lightly resting in her open palm. He purred, a deep rumble in the depth of his chest. And she knew.

He forgave her.

"Nothing will happen to you," she promised, threading her hands into his mane. "Be patient, Assan. You will see the grassland of Fereldan again one day, I promise you. But we have to stay here. It isn't safe out there for us. I hope you can understand that."

Halla were known for their intelligence amongst the Dalish, many far more capable of being trained than a mutt on a leash. They were intelligent enough to escape traps set my hunters, shy from humans but stray towards Dalish. But even she was surprised to see him settle in his den of hay, quiet and complacent, as if he did understand. He even scraped his hoof against the straw, beckoning her to stay with him.

Lahris smiled, shaking her head. "I cannot. Not now, at least. Stay put, be good to the shemlen while I am away. Please."

Assan raised his head from the ground, ears tipping back. "Goodnight, Assan," she bayed before crawling back out through the stable nook, folding layer upon layer of snow over the sideward wall until it was entirely concealed.

She then turned her focus towards the Keep and followed a path of melted stones and shivering puddles up to approach its grand auburn doors. To say she was surprised to find no guardsman patrolling the stairway was an understatement. She looked in all manner of directions, from the floating fireflies on the ramparts to the glints of silver guarding the front gate. When she was sure she hadn't been noticed, she grasped the iron torc and dug her heels into the stone, cranking the old hinges with an unsteady groan.

Her slim form slipped into the gap like a hare in a burrow. She scurried through the long throne hall that in the depths of night only seemed more foreboding, the high arched panes allowing the waxen light of the moon to shine unhindered. It may have lacked the courtiers, jesters and noblemen, even the Lord of Skyhold himself that reigned during the day, but the coal in the hearths still burned in warm black ash, goblets remained tall and full on trestle tables, so much so that she could even spy the ceiling in the surfaces. And though the throne itself was empty, the very shape of the sceptres were angled in such a way that it was as if the Inquisitor's spirit still lay claim to it; power and authority instilling an uneasy wariness into her gut that made her feel sick.

You will be made tranquil, left to serve the Inquisition until the end of yours days…

She did not tarry within any longer. She scampered into the atrium, or rotunda as others had taken to calling it. It was there that she paused in her wandering to come across the fresco she thought so much of for many nights. The one of the long, dark mage depicted in subtle clarity. The sconces in the tower swayed in its grace, causing the mask of the mage to adjust with the shadow, alternating between two people, two identities: light and dark, black and grey. Dirthamen and Falon'Din.

Lahris raised her hand and closed her eyes, attempting to feel the waver of energy around her that seemed to be part of Skyhold's very foundations.

Her mind silenced. Her senses attuned to her surroundings. Birds flittered in cages from above, wax dripped from ivory palettes, tiny spinnerets threaded silk into frosted glass. There was even the smell of old tomes newly opened. She sensed - knew - all. All in the tower were one: one life, one energy, one feeling, one smell, one sound, each clinging to the fabric of old magic, even if it was as little as borrowing air to breathe.

She imagined herself reaching out to that magic, threading her fingers into the strings, plucking the cords into a melody of her own choosing, one that would open the heart of its source. She felt the brush of the canvas, the rough texture of the fresco even though it was just out of reach. She smelt the paint as if it was dew on grass, tasted the sweetness of the oils, felt the hint of pride in the strokes as if it were her own hands creating the piece. Then, the texture twisted, from one of cold and prickly paint to warmth and heat and flesh. And breath, as musty as old parchment, as fresh as evergreen mint.

The lids on her eyes creased, not daring not see or even acknowledge what lay in front of her. There is nothing but wall, she reminded herself, biting her bottom lip. It is a test, a lie, deceit.

But am I?

In her mind she sensed another peering into her thoughts, paralysing her body, stilling her hand in the air. Whispers seeded into her ears like a song from a voice both clear and haunting, raspy and sweet, like the voice of a grandfather, one who had seen all the years of the world and still found it beautiful.

She attempted to resist, tried to pull her hand back when she felt the warmth of his breath tickle her fingertips. With such gentleness, such care, each whisper could only coax her forward, releasing tension from her shoulders, fogging her mind into further disquiet until even her own rationality had been smothered. For who could resist the temptation of an elder, so full of wisdom and knowledge? Only the truly ignorant could ignore such a call.

She could only give in.

La'var ar dirtha, lasa renan ver ma. In theneras ar ame mar. In elgar ma ane emma. Harmin, da'len. Harmin, dal'len. Sul ar ame garal.

Her feet begun to rock to the whispers, seducing her into the depths of tiredness to eventual slumber. Her hand touched another, strong, firm, wrinkled. A foot stepped forward, the other lost balance. She sagged into the arms of another, held so softly that she might shatter. Her fingers loosely gripped his vest, her inner self trying in vain to concentrate on the coarse wool in the hope of not fading forever.

Another voice spoke amongst the song: lighter, realer, concerned. She groaned in his hold, curling her hands around his waist and digging her fingers into his back, fighting for release. The whispers in her mind begun to drift as realness grew. Weakness faded from her body. The whispers faded from her ears, then all together disappeared.

Lahris gasped, inhaling the scent of the new when the magic of old still fought to drown her.

She opened her eyes, finding white and green thread smothering her nose and cheeks. For a moment she listened to the heartbeat, vibrant against her left ear. Rising and falling a lot slower than her own. Fingers raked her hair, curled in the braids, stroked strands behind her other ear. The touch was foreign but soothing. In the end it comforted her. She even smiled, slightly, to herself, for longing had begun to hurt her chest.

"Are you alright, lethallan?" her saviour asked, peering down upon the girl in his arms in concern.

When she looked up, she found grey eyes staring back, held upon a long proud face, yet as sharp as a knewly whet blade. "Solas?"

The painter smiled faintly, halting the roam of his fingers, softening his hold on her back. His lips were moist, his neck flushed above his collar. A blush? Or worry?

Lahris glanced around, finding sunlight cresting the panes above. "How long was I asleep?"

"Many hours, I suspect. I found you by the wall, you seemed…"

"I'm fine," she quickly said, rubbing a hand over her brow. "I… sometimes walk at night, it helps to concentrate and sift through my thoughts. I was admiring your painting when I must have fallen asleep. The last few days have been a lot for me. Ir abelas, if I frightened you."

"Think nothing of it," he said, aiding her to a stand. "Might I ask how you feel now? You seemed to be under a lot of duress."

"It was just a nightmare. Skyhold is old, I think, and spirits sometimes find amusement in tormenting me. They sometimes surface memories I would rather forgotten, but I will endure. I think it has something to do with the magic inside of me, but I suppose every mage is tempted by demons at some point."

Solas inclined his head, releasing her from his hold. Lahris attempted to walk, only to fall back into his arms. "My legs?"

"Come, lethallan, sit."

Holding her by the waist, Solas aided her into a chair, then begun to clear tomes and parchment from his escritoire. "I'm afraid I wasn't expecting company, especially so early in the morning. Would you care for something to eat? I could procure something from the kitchens, or perhaps you would like tea to shake the dreams from your mind? I detest the stuff myself, but I find that sometimes it is a necessary vice."

Lahris smiled, lightly shaking her head. "Mas serannas, but no. I think I will be quite alright."

He nodded, returning to his own armchair opposite her. He seemed to wish to discuss her situation further. Perhaps on how she managed to leave her tower without an escort, or if her dreams held a relation to the magic coursing through her veins. Yet before he had a chance to ask, she had taken notice of his fresco once more and quietly asked, "That painting, it is familiar to me. Will you tell me the story behind it?"

The painter leaned back in his chair, gazing upon the wall rather absentmindedly. "Certainly. I suppose you have heard the stories of the Inquisitor? Brave tales of war and heroism? Perhaps of him arriving to battles on a griffin under Andraste's light. It is up to you. Do you wish the truth, or a false story?"

Lahris thought on the choice for a moment, twisting the ends of her hair. "Is the Inquisitor that vain?"

Solas shrugged. "Perhaps. He is the Herald of Andraste after all, whatever the truth, and to some people such stories are to be believed. But that is all people in power are, lethallan. Simple men with stories warped by faith."

"Then I would like your truth, hahren. I do enjoy stories, but with this one, I would like to know what really happened."

"As you wish. I'm sure you have heard of the Grey Wardens."

"Never. Who are they, exactly?"

"I can't say I'm surprised if you grew up with the Dalish. Very few elves even remember the darkspawn, save for stories. The Grey Wardens are an old order of humans that predate most organisations to this day, but that does not make them noble. They're the only order known to fight the darkspawn and successfully prevent the Blight from taking over the world."

He sighed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "But in this they are flawed. The Wardens will do anything to stop the Blight. There is much to admire in that commitment, but much to be wary about as well. To many, they will be heroic. To me, well, I have known them long enough to have little interest in them. They are a necessity, but are foolish in the way they handle matters."

He seemed to notice the judgment that fell from his lips and instantly frowned. "I apologise. You didn't come for a lecture, and I didn't mean to…" he sighed. "We had a matter that involved them. The Inquisitor and I worked with them to prevent Corypheus from gaining further power. In doing what we did, we learned much about the Inquisitor, but I'm afraid the entire affair was utterly dull, and not one that would interest you."

Lahris straightened in her chair. "But I would like to know more, hahren."

He smiled wryly. "I know, but it isn't one I'm willing to share. I'm sorry."

Lahris frowned down at her lap, knowing that she should not urge more information out of the painter, especially not information that he was unwilling to give, but she also craved more understanding just as a starving halla craved fresh grass in the winter. "Could you at least explain what each part of your painting means?"

"That I could do, yes. Which particular part interests you?"

The likeness of Dirthamen. "The mage holding the orb. Who is he? What power does he wield?"

"That would be Corypheus. He held considerable influence in the matters we had in the Western Approach. It seems he has a hand in everything we come across now."

Except me, the younger elf thought, remembering her master and the shard. She reached down into her satchel, feeling the wrapped rock dig into the pads of her fingers and thumb. It was a good thing she had come to the Inquisition rather than risk the temptations of this Corypheus. Not even her master would have been foolish to share power with another. At least, in that regard, she knew she was safe to some extent. She only needed to watch the Inquisitor closely, and his people even closer.

"And your painting, hahren. How did you learn to paint like that? I haven't seen paintings like that since," before the war, "the temple I found the shard in. It was from the ancient elvhen, yes? I did not think that any elf knew how to recreate it. Even the Dalish have their cave paintings and they are nothing like yours."

Solas raised his eyes at the mention, brows high in surprise. "I learned this and a great deal of other things while journeying in the Fade. Some secrets, even that of the elvhen, can be found if one knows where to look. I happened upon one such sight when I was younger, dreaming in a cave far from the reaches of my village. In my sleep, I found a painter, young it would seem by mere appearance, but in the tremble of his hands and the wisdom in his eyes, it was obvious that he was ancient. He used pigment and plaster in mastery. Some of the arts he depicted will sadly always be lost to time, and my works are poor compared to such lost treasures. All I can hope is to reinact them and give some sense of the People back to the world, even if their glory is lost."

"That's quite noble, Solas."

His smile widened, as if he was not used to compliments. If he is a lone apostate, he would not be. "Thank you. I know not many will see it as so but, to know that some arts can be recovered gives me hope that someday things will be better."

Lahris parted her lips to speak, but found no words could describe the awe she felt. She took comfort in his words, even though he would never know how truly glad she was to know that at least some of her past may yet be recovered. Perhaps, if there were more like Solas in the world, she and her people would have stood a chance.

Lahris quietly rose from her chair, steadying her hands against the armrests as her legs begun to regain feeling. Solas, too, rose from his, holding his arms out just in case she fell again. "I believe my guard might be wondering where I am. I better leave before he tells his commander, though I'm sure you will more than likely tell the Seeker what happened. I, thank you for this morning, hahren. It was nice."

She raised a hand to which he took, grasping her other arm and aiding her to a stand. "As have I, lethallan."

"May I come and see you again sometime, not just in regards to my condition?" she asked, shying away. The doorway was close when she peaked over her shoulder for an answer. "You are nice company to be in."

He nodded, smiling more brightly than usual. "I would like that."

She left the rotunda just as the last rays of dawn began to rise over the crest of the Frostback Mountains. Her guard remained asleep in her tower until noon. Yet as noon settled to eve, when eve drifted into night, the young elf was left pondering on the familiarity of the fresco and the words that poured from its skin. That night she dreampt of red hearts burning in the snow, of faces shimmering in glass, all the while wisemen whispered over and over in her ears…

La'var ar dirtha, lasa renan ver ma. In theneras ar ame mar. In elgar ma ane emma. Harmin, da'len. Harmin, dal'len. Sul ar ame garal.

As I speak, let my voice take you. In dream, I am yours. In spirit, you are mine. Rest, my child. Rest, my child. For I am coming.

...

I'm really enjoying writing this fic and I hope you are all enjoying this as well. Thank you for reading so far, more chapters will be coming soon but until then, thanks for reading : feel free to leave a comment, I love knowing what people think