Chapter 36: Perceptions of the Addled
Sister Letha of Cloughbark
On the shoulder of my friend, I rest my head,
with a wound upon his heart,
and consider what it is like to be dead
when the journey makes a new start.
He worries for a woman with a broken face,
vainly pretending not to care
and a demon in armor fears disgrace,
seeing nothing with his blind stare.
The songs of the Chantry are converting in my mind, to bend themselves to fit the sense as it comes to me in fragments. The swaying of the cart has its own melody, and there is a rhythm to my friend's breath.
He knows my name and I seem unable to hold onto his. I only know him as friend. As long as I can remember him as such, he will make sure that I am not lost.
His eyes wander to the woman who gifted me her scent on her green cloak, like loamy soil and rich earth. There is the soft scent of faith underneath, the grace that I recall so well and yet cannot remember where I first encountered it. It has warmth to it and yet she seems so cold, wearing threadbare kindness when I am robed in what she freely shares. The cords of betrayal choke her, but she has strengthened her neck so it has not muted her song. May the Bride see fit to bestow such strength on me when I have need.
The falsest of Templars lusts for her. His eyes burn when they fall upon her, near glowing coals, deep banked, biding eyes. The Fade Water only fuels what consumes him, turning him into a pyre.
When the darkness coalesces at the waning of the day, we find shelter in a ring of trees: a holy ring to be profaned, for circles can only be traced by a steady hand. The Maker is a circle amid the straight lines for mortals. We are all paths; we are all journeys that lead to the Veil. The road has become broken, its cobbles are displaced.
Then there is another, an other. The broken road beckons him, for it is an intriguing chaos. He knows of Fade Water, as his kind holds the memory of a trespass of arrogance in a place where the river flowed freely from a benevolent hand. That trespass poisoned the font, much as the water can poison the bodies of mortals. Most like him only know hunger, but he knows curiosity. Most like him only know instinct, but he knows purpose.
"There is potential here," the other muses, "where the Fade is thin and the dreamers wander as freely as the dead."
I hear him thinking in my head
like I can hear the singing dead,
their hymns the same as beating wings
tugging on me like invisible strings.
Strings, cords, chains, chafing iron.
The song of the creaky cart stops and the armored evil prowls the forest for wood. The chopping echoes and the tree shrieks as it falls. The glow of fire casts shadows across those drawing close to its warmth. It mirrors a memory as it glitters on armor, but is it my memory or hers, for she is equally reluctant to draw near, though she is cold. She shuns the fire and she refuses to trust the men who wield it.
My friend, he longs for her as much as the false one lusts. It is a strange longing that is not based in the body. It is holy in a way equal to the profanity of his rival. They are a balance: point and counterpoint. The inequality is in her regard.
He wants her to speak to him, to give him a soft word, to answer questions, to know her as she is now that part of her is broken. He wants her to know him, now that he is scarred. He longs to confess, to discard his mask so that there is comfort for both.
Her silence is a mask, the last one she might wield. Once a mask protected her softness, now her mask is meant to protect him.
It is a mask,
it is a shield,
it is the task
hiding what is revealed.
My friend wraps the cloak closer around me. He smiles and speaks softly, as much for her ears as for mine, "This is a good cloak. It suits the wearer and will keep you warm. Be at ease."
Kind Eyes tries to bring us food, but his act is blocked by evil armor. It is puzzling to see a fox with kind eyes. The steel is not easily coerced by a bushy tail, but he knows the night is long and even the sword must be sheathed and the steel must sleep. He will wait and will ensure that we are fed.
The night deepens, and one by one the false Templars sleep, though they twitch like cats. Even asleep they hum. Only one remains awake, but his resolve is waning, it is only his cloying paranoia of the silent night. He hears not the hum. He only hears the empty forest. Even the wolves have abandoned their howling. They need no longer speak. They hear the hum.
It is at moments like this that I realize I will never be free. I am as trapped as they, but they think I am their captive. I am simultaneously filled with pity and revulsion, though I refuse to claim either, for I wish to be as my friend sees me. He sees me as salvageable and I want to be saved. There are people who want to save me and the Templars have none but false faith.
Maker be merciful, though they deserve no mercy.
Maker be merciful, though they extend no mercy.
Maker be merciful, for I wish to receive mercy.
Andraste prayed for those who persecuted her, even from the pyre.
I do not want to die for my fragile faith.
Do not be disappointed in me, Mother.
I sought not to abandon you, but my memory abandons me.
It is not my singing that breaks the stillness for once.
A voice rises in the cold, with white misted words. It is sweet to hear and drowns out the hum for a while.
My friend is still, save for the smile that creeps to his lips. It is her voice and it is plenty for him. He gazes at her softly as his arm reaches to encompass me in warmth and protection.
The last Templar dozes, the song bringing solace to his addled soul.
The kind fox creeps from his nest nearer the fire, bearing a loaf and more water. It is enough to warm our stomachs for a time, but he withdraws hastily. The Templar's slumber cannot last, for there are turbulent waters that engulf them. They must wake to catch their breaths, lest they forget.
"If I could walk the Fade and touch a dreamer's mind…" the other mutters to himself.
His plans are as fragmented as my thoughts.
The plans of the Falsest Templar all reek of smoke and ruin. He dreams of fire. For him it is not a nightmare, but a sense of consummation.
"I am sorry," she whispers.
Her words catch me unaware, for I must have drifted. She hides in a shadow near us, away from the fire, taking advantage of our watch dogs' slumber. Hesitant fingers brush my friend's hand and he snatches at it, hoping to hold on and she struggles slightly.
"This is my fault," she insists.
"Never!" he huffs.
"Never!" echoes the Red Knight that haunts them still.
She tries to break free, but to struggle too much would alert our hosts, so she allows him to hold her, if only to appease him and avoid shattering the silence.
He pulls her into the cart with us, robed in night, and we huddle around her to warm her with our light. I stroke her hair and we share with her what she gave us to share. It is safe here, though the safety be borrowed. Kind Eyes watches over us, ready to alert us of danger, for he is wary.
The hum is strong, but they are stronger, though they have not discovered it yet.