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The Spectral Breath

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Chapter Seven: Parting Wishes

Assan relished the open roads of the Hinterlands just as any true beast of the forest would when free. The plains of wild verdures reached out far from the Frostback Mountains to the distant districts of Denerim, from the Kokari Wilds to the glistening blue waters of the Amaranthine Ocean. Many of the Inquisition rode on horseback, but the spritely halla had caused many mares to shake their reigns and prance their hooves. The vast nature called to them, beckoned them home. Yet all they could do was bay the calls of their masters, perhaps with only dreams of galloping through the land to settle their yearnings.

In a way, Lahris yearned the same way. As soon as the great gates of Skyhold had opened two days prior, she had been torn between wishing to stay and wishing to tear into the unknown. There were mysteries in Skyhold that wept to be solved, and there was safety in a fortress of a hundred men. Seeing the forests again had set her mind at ease for a while, though. Nature always had.

From the soft embrace of a spring wind against the heat of daylight, rosing her cheeks and matting her hair, to the patters of a nearby brook floating over emerald stalks. The sight of clear water gleaming over white pebbles. In truth, even though winter was the most beautiful season, there were times when the warmth of the sun was needed just to feel apart from the ice.

But the lingering fear of the open plain kept nudging that peace away. Her gaze swept across the land, from boulders to clustered oaks. Her hands clenched the halla reigns tight, even though iron shackles weighed them down.

She had not felt such fear since leaving the Dalish several months ago, and even that seemed like a distant past.

To her left another steed strode alongside her. The mage riding him was clad in a frayed tunic of evergreen, sashed in a pelt of old wolf fur with wilted leaves sagging in the hairs. "You fear too much, da'len," he said, rearing his stallion across the valley.

Dressed as he was, Solas appeared more like a humble apostate rather than a proud knower of Fade magics, one who dwelled in a grand tower of nobility. Perhaps that was the purpose of such clothing. And yet she concentrated on his words, found her throat dry.

Fear has kept me alive until now.

"We were relatively safe in Skyhold, hahren. Guards patrolled every tower, Templars trained in every courtyard. I was uncomfortable for a time, it is true, but out here anything can happen."

Jaras joined them on his own shaggy mare, falling in line with the two elves. He too had been shackled to his mount, the chains locked tightly into the saddle horn, while the remainder swayed against his thighs.

Lyrium-laced binds, Lahris knew, solemnly tilting her hands. Despite her frail attempts, no spell could break them.

"She was like this every time we were on the road. Better to be cautious than not, the Keeper would say. Hunters words that, thick and true, but sometimes you have to let nature take you, Da'mi, just as Ghilan'nain would have wanted. We are bein' marched through Fereldan with our very own escort. Inquisition shemlen, no less. Royalty in the makin'."

He chuckled, resting further along his saddle front. "We're as safe as safe could be."

As much as it pained her to admit, they indeed were not alone in their journey. Three archers guarded the back of their company. Two swordsman strode ahead. The last watched their port, though by the hundredth swig of his wineskin, Lahris held little faith in his reliability. Who would allow one of their own to drink never mind be drunk on an assignment?

The family of Ser Castillon must have been wealthy indeed.

The chains on Jaras' saddle begun to rattle. Slowly, the Dalish hunter reached out, his left arm shaking in what Lahris knew to be pain. Yet even with a scrunched face he continued to swat the air, leather-clothed thighs clenched tight along the edge of his saddle.

Ser Castillon scrunched his hook of a nose, batting the elf's attempts before raising his wineskin higher and higher as his horse began to drift away.

Jaras jerked sideward, yanking his reign so hard that his pony reared on its hind legs. "Calm down ya shem bastard!" he yelled, holding onto the saddle horn for dear life. Half rearing, he attempted to grab the reigns only for the mare to snatch it away with a sickening wrench of his arm.

"Hah!" chortled the guard, waving his drink around in triumph. "Serves you right for attempting to steal the Flames of Our Lady Red, serah! The drink is too expensive for the likes of you."

After a few moments the steed begun to settle, shaking its head and cantering down the valley. Jaras pulled the reigns back as far as such constraints could go, slowing the mare down to a mild stride.

"Lad," he groaned, rolling his shoulder back, "a bronto probably pisses better ale than that swill."

"Why, maybe you would not like a taste then."

The Dalish faltered, licking parched lips. "Andruil preserve me, oh you are a special kind of bastard, aren't ya?"

Ser Castillon grinned, toasting his wine to the heavens. "Why, my Dalish, there is no better! This wine is only for the once chevaliers, and would rot your gut 'til there was no elf left!"

"Rot my gut, he says," the elf grumbled, tugging his binds one last time. "The clan had ale so foul it'd keep you dazed for days. Toad's tongue we called it. Like to see you try to keep that down long enough to not spit blood. Damned shemlen."

The company continued along the road south until daybreak, finding only travelling merchants and occasional tale of Fade Rifts to entertain them. By the time they had meandered up the tallest of hillsides, they happened upon a fire set far into the distance. Thick, black and growing like a plague upon the plain. It did not spread further than the borders of the village holding. It did not lie dormant when the cloud reached there either.

Crows arched the skies over such smog, and beneath feathered shadows the last holdings of the village crumbled into shimmering flame. Lahris tugged her halla backward, for her eyes scanned the horizon in a newfound silence.

There were no cries surrounding such a disaster, nor were there people fleeing the valley. It was as quiet as she, like witnessing a dream. A dream so far and ill-defined that it may have not been real at all. But of course, as was the will of shemlen, danger beckoned them come. With bows drawn and swords lifted the company drew closer to the village, striking swift across an ashened earth and rocky road, until the scent of smog was so thick it snuffed everything else.

Solas drew a sleeve over his nose, spying hints of cloth and bone from the ash. "Whatever happened here, it was no accident."

Jaras leaned over his saddle warily, his small, shaggy garron trotting carefully over the trail. "How can you be so sure, lad?"

The apostate pointed to the oaks beyond a row of once-cottages. "The forest around stands tall and untouched. The earth lies scorched but unbroken. And in the sky there's no hint of a storm in sight. No, nature was not the cause of this disaster. If I were to guess, I would say rebel mages were the cause. Only those with the ability to manipulate fire in such a way could leave the road bare."

Ser Castillon laid a hand over his sword, swiftly halting his mount. "You mages are always the cause. It is why we need the Templars, why the Chantry must be rectified and a Divine made present. Andraste's light, only she will know what will come of us, I say." He took another swig. "Maker blessed be these people, aid those who tarry not into darkness, but reach for your light…"

Jaras frowned. "I doubt you'll find your answered prayers at the bottom of a skin, lad."

Ser Castillon gazed into his uncorked ewer, sighing deeply. "All the Maker's chosen find wine in the end, serah. Why would he make wine if it were not true to do so?"

Our Gods teach of a different plan, Lahris wished to say, but found no words being uttered. Death is not an end but a beginning. We will all be found in the Fade, eventually, and will be born upon our people anew under the grace of Elgar'nan and Mythal. Wind and sky, river and stone, warmth and cold.

Yet teachings and prayer were not so comforting. She had seen such destruction before a very long time ago. Memories of scorched hills and fire demons befell her mind, twisted her courage into indescribable fear, just as the flames charred the foundations of once-homes into withered stems; jagged, skeletal bones that would soon welt into wind-swept soot.

The company faltered within the heart of the village. The only shrine to survive such burns was the monestary of Andraste positioned by their front, its body of clinker finite only slightly bruised, though its diamond-tinted glass remained as bright as a newly born dawn.

Even fanatical faiths last in such devastation. If only the true pantheon were to be so fortunate.

Solas left the saddle of his steed in a sweep of black fur, cleansing the land beneath him in several flares of his hands. The fires parted further to the outskirts, only cresting the pinnacles of the more preserved ruins. The Inquisition knights also strode across the land, each scouting the terrain for the purpose of such a travesty. But of course the young elf knew who dealt the village a sore hand before she had smelt the tint of familiar magic in the passing breeze.

It was He who marked the land. The entire breadth was artistry of the damned, branded by a signature of His own wicked cursive. Yet not one so simply found. It took a keen observance to spy the hidden details that marked his passing, to put travesty to name, memory. And with Him, inspiration dined with madness, along with the blessing of three gods.

The wrath of Elgan'nan scoured all corners controlled, for flame indeed was the essence of might. His might. The second and third were water and light, reflection and face, breath and lung. A scene ravelled in mystery was the canvass, her own Dirthamen. Clues deigned by the hand of the burned and the pattern of the dead were that of Falon'Din. Shows of mystery and fealty, war and conquer. The living were a mercy after all, and by the detachment of the corpses, there was no mercy to be found.

Lahris saw the spire of the monestary and wondered, if she were to scower the land from the top, would she find scattered fragments of a fumbling apostate or the smouldering sceptre of horse hinds and severed heads dotting a void landscape?

If so, her fear was rightly placed.

"There's a note on the corpse," had come the call of an archer further down the path. A letter had been hammed by nail to the body though the parchment itself lay unscathed. Inbued by spell, it had been. Frost glittered along the edges.

Ser Castillon swiped the letter from the archer, thrusting the page into the bristles of his brows. He snorted, snapping it in the direction of the apostate. "I cannot make head or tail of this. Perhaps you will, messere. If not, to the fire it will go!"

Solas took the paper freely, peering down upon it with a reflective face. Until his bottom lip quirked. "This script is of my People."

"Elves?"

Solas went quiet, his gaze drifting across the text to accommodate every detail. "In a way," he mumbled, brows drawn lavishly close, his voice very low. Ser Castillon found himself leaning over his saddle to listen. "I can translate it, but perhaps it would be better for the Inquisitor to see it for himself."

"My Lord Inquisitor would not be privy to such trivial matters! No, best to share, messere. It might aid our search. Would not want the lions to pick up the scent when hounds do just as good."

The apostate nodded.

Lahris closed her eyes, knowing the very words that would be uttered from the cracked lips of her mentor. Festered poison.

"Ar'an ane a alas'nir feel'ala, tarlin da'len. Ar silderara mar nu, mar revas nu. Ar ame. Sa shemlen mar nu, Var'sulahn. Itha ash'ala dina ise.

"Lasa Elgar'nan lasa ma soun'in i atish. Ar ame melenal."

Ser Castillon groaned. "I may be fashioned in the arts of tongue, messere, but, pardon my vulgarity, by my dear mother's blessed heart I do not know bloody elf-speech! Speak true, man. The mother tongue!"

He speaks the mother tongue, Lahris thought grimly. He speaks the mother tongue… the one tongue… His tongue…

"We are a dance to last the centuries, master and child. I feel your pain. Yet your freedom is also pain. Bow, for I am still eternal. Save the mortals your pain, my song, or see them die in fire. I am waiting." Solas scowled, his finger near the end of the page. "Let Elgar'nan grant you wrath or peace."

"Was there a signer?" the once-chevalier inquired, twirling the end of his moustache in a peculiar manner.

Solas scowled deeply into the letter; his fingers crinkled the ends. "None."

Ser Castillon straightened, rearing his stallion back from the elf. "Then I find the answer obvious. We are dealing with a maddened elf admist the lust for power. Demon gone mad, I say. Still, the dead will deserve a proper burial. I will have a cleric come to bless the mound."

"And the letter?"

He swiped the icy parchment with one outstretched hand, picking the frost with a handkerchief and pocketing it within his pampered doublet. "I will take this personally to my Lord Herald. Either he, or the Commander, will be graced to see this. Let us hope we catch the criminal who did this most haste. Come, we must not tarry. Bay the graves adieu."

The once-chevalier cantered back down the road until only the slight flicker of a crimson cloak flared in the distance.

Solas looked to Jaras questionably, for he had grown suspiciously quiet.

The Dalish raised shackled hands. "I know what you're thinking, lethallin, and the truth is more complicated than you realise."

"Oh? How so?"

"This is a beginning, lad. You said it yourself, something about this land was wrong the moment we stepped in it like foul muck. You think a mage is responsible? A mere mage couldn't do all this, no matter what the Templars tell you or that pompous druffalo hide!"

"You're saying this village and your artifact are one in the same?"

Jaras raised a finger, slipping it over pursed lips. He leaned over his saddle, glancing into varying horizon. Crows, fire, smog, grassland and thickets. There was no concerning life.

He slowly nodded. "One and the same. The two where never different. Your shemlen herald will just not listen to reason. I'd doubt anything sprouted by our people would be heard in that head of his."

"Then you know more than you let on."

The Dalish shrugged, then winced. "Not as much as you might think, lad. Truth is I only know stories. It's my Da'mi that lived the tales and survived."

He gestured to the lonely elf with a hand, covering his bandaged elbow with the other.

The two elves observed the maiden on the halla silently, but to picture her condition as quiet, composed, shying off natural made as much sense as candleflame compared to the sun.

In a truth there was a similarity. Her breaths were low even symmetry from breasts to stomach. If seen from afar, she appeared not to be breathing at all.

Though she did not breathe because she could not. Inside her windpipes were constricted with the withering hooks of consternation. Her long nose flared in the need for breath. Her very face was iced in a sickily blue. The hands bound to her saddle grasped just a little too tight, as if she hung at the edge of eternity by a nail and the very forces of nature sought to shake her into the very heavens.

Lahris stared into the distance, her face void of drawn emotion. Solas took her hand, firming it in his own. "Da'len?"

Her chest fluttered, then sank. Her gaze remained on the open plain though her lips attempted to part, as if woven from within like the mouth of a Qunari mage.

The apostate reached up and shook her shoulder. "Da'len?"

"It is him, he is here, it is him, here is here," quivered her lips. The young elf inhaled sharply. "It is him, he is here, it is him, he is here. Come for me, fire and ash, fire and ash. The world of old undone by his hand can renew in blood and fire, fire and ash. Prophecies foretold, my power his…"

Her entire being broke, her body shaking like the shivering flames around her. "He is here, fire and ash, come for me, fire and ash."

She braced her head in her hands, hearing her own words drown her. "He is here, fire and ash, the world of old undone, his hand renew in blood-"

She gasped, her world tumbling as her back fell into the arms of the apostate. The sky above swirled in cloud, soon consumed by a flash of sunlight.

"Fire and ash, fire and ash-"

"Da'len!" Solas cried, clutching her tight to his chest.

"Da'mi!" she heard Jaras cry, but the world spun too swift for her to understand.

Solas held her face, stroked her cheeks, coaxed the soothing vibrations of a spell into her skin, for her to calm and lax and sleep.

"Who is here?" his voice resonated above the crackling fingers of fire, through her heart, tap, tap, tapping like a gong in her mind. "Lahris…"

She gasped one final time before the Fade consumed her.

"My master."