Who builds a chateau in such an isolated area in the first place? Then again, there is no accounting for the whims of the Orlesian nobles – that much has been made abundantly clear to me through my dealings with them. The Dalish girl I used to be would've been affronted by such a conspicuous display of ostentation that we discover within the grounds of Chateau d'Onterre that lies within the heartlands of the Emerald Graves. Here all one needs to do is trip over remnants of my people's past if one doesn't look where one is going.
Except we don't have the luxury of touring this region at leisure. Time is running out. We may have bloodied Corypheus's nose, but Samson is still at large and in command of his Red Templars, and each encounter we've had so far with these red lyrium-crazed monsters has left us battered and broken.
I barely have time to heal when I sport fresh bruises and lacerations upon old injuries. If it weren't for Solas's barriers, we'd all be dead ten times over. He's even shown me how to cast barriers of my own, but I'm not nearly half again as proficient as he is. Yet here is no such word as "can't" in our vocabulary. We endure, because I know what lies in store for us if we fail. I've seen what becomes of my companions when the red lyrium eats them from the inside out – a gradual, creeping red death that infests their bones and corrupts their flesh until nothing remains.
Every time I feel my limbs grow leaden, my will flagging, I recall the scarlet haze tainting my vhenan's eyes in that other Redcliffe that still haunts my dreams, his weary resignation for having failed utterly in his purpose in a world torn asunder.
Not while I draw breath.
"I don't like this place," Cass says as we pause outside the gates of the chateau. "It's far too quiet."
"Abandoned, more like," Thom says. "See the rust here at the hinges." He is eager to prove his worth, this human. Yet for all he's served the Inquisition so selflessly, bled for our cause, I simply cannot conceive of leaving him to his fate at the hands of the Orlesians. No matter how much we are judged for interfering with the course of their law. No matter the crimes he committed. He is no longer Blackwall, yet that name keeps straying to my lips. I believe in second chances. No one is beyond redemption.
What good can a dead man do to make reparations for his sins?
My judgments have not made me a popular person in some circles. Long ago, that Dalish girl would have cringed and said whatever people wanted to hear, just to keep them happy. Now, not so much. It's not that I care – I still care, too much, in fact – but I've grown into my power that I can affect change and turn the wheel rather than be the one directed by change initiated by others.
"We need to investigate," I say and shove with my shoulder against the gate.
It barely budges, but Cass lends her weight, and the gate squeals open in protestation.
If ever there was a haunted house to rival some of the stories Varric has shared, this Chateau d'Onterre is paramount. Beyond the conspicuous wealth, it feels as if we've stepped into the tail end of a tragedy. Our explorations yield a cautionary tale, intended for those who'd wilfully ignore the dangers presented by entanglements with the spirit world.
The place is crawling – in this case in the literal sense – with activity. Lamps flicker on when we enter rooms, fires leaping into life in hearths. Whispers at the edge of our awareness – so much so that even Thom complains that he's hearing things. By the time the creeping undead shuffle across our path, I'm hardly surprised. We dispatch them quickly enough but it's the relentless tide of the things that causes me despair, as if this chateau is a dark beacon for every unclean thing within miles seeking to wear us down through sheer numbers.
By the time we finish off the arcane horror (because of course there has to be some sort of big bad responsible for all this), we're exhausted, and though we'd like nothing more than to head off to camp, dusk has settled and faint pinpricks of stars grace the darkening sky.
Surprisingly, Thom's the one who's pragmatic about things when we're resting in the courtyard.
"Why don't we stay the night, Inquisitor?"
Cass scoffs. "What, have you taken leave of your senses, Rainier?"
Solas glances up at the twilit sky. "He has a point."
"And those things that we killed. What if there're more?" Cass's expression is a mingling of disbelief and disgust.
Thom leans back, stretches his arms so that we can hear the vertebrae in his back pop. "Consider it, Seeker, that if we depart now, it will be fully dark by the time we reach camp. Need I remind you about the bears we encountered on the way here?"
I am burdened to add to the misery, when I remember one of the scouts' reports. "Oh, and the giants. Allegedly not far from here either."
Cass makes a strangled noise. Solas and I trade a glance.
"There are those bedroom suites upstairs," I add, my thoughts way ahead of me. "We could get the hot water going. There was enough fuel still. Just think, the plumbing still works. We could have a bath, a cooked meal that isn't camp rations, and sleep in soft beds."
"You've gone quite mad as well," Cass says.
I grin at her. "Have I? You've seen for yourself. All the original inhabitants of this chateau have either fled or met with some unfortunate end. Who's to stop us from requisitioning their wealth in aid of our cause? After all, if we don't avail ourselves of these luxuries, who will? Some bandits, come scavenging through here once we're gone? Would you rather vermin enjoy the fruits of our labours now that we've taken care of the malignant presence that lurked here?"
Thom rises. "I do believe there was an unopened cask of cider there that had a Fereldan stamp. Orpen's Gold, if I'm not mistaken. A particularly excellent brewery not far from Denerim."
"Ooh, I haven't tasted that one." I find my feet – albeit a bit creakily.
Solas pretends interest in his belt pouch, but not fast enough for me to miss his slight smile.
Cassandra makes a disgusted sound but she's not long in following us to the kitchen, with Solas bringing up the rear.
Our evening meal might not be completely merry – after all, it's difficult to fully relax knowing that the hallways beyond the kitchen are littered with the remains of undead – but it's still a damn sight better than traipsing through the graves at night.
I suppress a delicious shudder imagining that many of the trees have been planted on the final resting place of one of the People. Solas has shown me visions in the Fade, of great battles where Emerald Knights and their lupine companions fought so bravely to forestall their inevitable fall.
Later, when we retire to a luxuriously appointed suite of rooms, I stand by the window and lean out, breathing the night that is filled with the soft soughing of the breeze through the boughs where wood owls trill. Frogs' clinking and chirruping provide a counterpoint to the cricket chorus. In the distance, a frogmouth whoops sadly. Our turns to keep watch will be closer to dawn, when Solas relieves Cassandra, and I eventually relieve him, though I suspect I'll join him in his vigil. My Mark is hurting tonight, and despite my exhaustion, I fear I'll struggle to sleep.
"The night is never still," I say to Solas, who has fallen onto the vast bed, in an uncharacteristically careless pose.
"I'd prefer it if you closed the window so that the night's denizens don't decide to take you up on your invitation for them to come feast on our blood," he replies, his words muffled by the bedding.
I laugh. "When did the vagrant apostate become so concerned with a few bloodthirsty mosquitoes? Or are you secretly a runaway from some noble estate where you were used to feather beds and silk stockings?"
He rolls onto his side so that he can regard me, his expression nearly (but failing) to be stern. "And what is madam the Inquisitor trying to imply? That I was some sort of pampered house elf who wearied of his master's yoke?"
"Well, you were certainly no shem lord astride his magnificent steed aiming to whisk away the hapless Dalish girl, were you? More like she had to employ all her talents to stalk down the wary wild apostate and –" I pounce across the intervening distance, my fingers curled into mock claws, and growl ferociously as I attempt to tickle him.
He's far stronger than me, but I wriggle, bite and poke at him until we're both quite breathless, with me – invariably – pinned beneath him.
His eyes are dark in the low light cast by the candles we've lit. "Would that I could capture this moment for an eternity," he whispers.
"We could run away," I say. "No one would think to find us here. We could enchant vines to grow around this chateau, thick thorns, like in that children's tale with the sleeping princess. We could make it our forever."
"And yet they would come. The world would burn and us with it, vhenan."
"We can dream, can't we?" The immensity of all that waits outside this abandoned dwelling drags at me.
"Dreams may well be all we have in the end, ma lath."
"We can pretend then, at least for one night, can't we?" My voice catches in my throat with the prescience of sorrow. None of this will end well. I feel it in the dull ache of my bones, in the constant gnawing of my cursed Mark.
"Don't cry." He kisses each eye before the tears can form. "I would prefer to remember you well, smiling."
"You speak as if this is already over."
"Everything ends." Inevitability weights those words.
His kiss is slow, lingering, as if he would memorise every inch of me, drawing out the taste of our desire. Our lovemaking is languid, unhurried, as if we would pretend we have all the time in the world. In my dreams this is our castle and he is my lord, and together we rule a kingdom where all is right in our realm. A perfect future for our storm-eyed children to play with wolf pups in a verdant garden where the dog-roses bloom, and lazy bumblebees bump against nodding irises while the cuckoo calls from the oak tree.
Such dreams of afternoons where the sunlight makes golden shafts between the trellised wisteria heavy with blooms. Always flowers. I don't know why I have such a fascination with shem gardens. I don't suppose it matters, does it?
Afterwards, we lie tangled in the satin sheets that still smell faintly of camphor. I listen to Solas's deep, even breaths, feel how his body slackens. Outside, in the passageway, Cass paces, her presence reassuring me that no ill will befall us this night.
I wish I could sleep but I'm too scared to let go of the edge, to lose my awareness of this encapsulated moment.
Dawn will come too soon, as it always does.