Moments

Moment of Choice - Part 6

After getting properly outfitted, and trying a new coat with a better lining against the cold, I fished through my desk. The quill was blunt, the words blobby stains upon the page, but I left a note telling Cullen where I intended to go and that I should be back soon. Positioning the note on the desk, I rose, tiptoeing towards the landing.

The anchor nipped across my palm like a paper cut. I glanced out the window into the endless mountains. Who knew how many more assassins lurked in the snows of the Frostbacks, best to not go unprepared just in case. Sliding my refilled quiver across my back, I checked on a few of my better daggers, and strung my bow. Now equipped to take on a fade rift, I slipped out of the room leaving the man I loved to slumber alone.

Almost no one stopped me as I worked towards the gate, the pre-dawn hours of morning showing neither the night owls nor the early birds of Skyhold. Only the occasional patrol shifted, their golden helmets bouncing moonlight as they marched. Cullen wasn't kidding about increasing them. I smiled at the one guardsman working the gate, a dwarf named Harry who did not appreciate the jokes. He nodded at me, glancing back at the lack of an entourage in curiosity.

"Just taking a bit of a walk."

"In the middle of the night?" he asked.

"Old elven trick." It was an idiotic excuse, but it got me out of more hot water than one could imagine. Anytime someone caught me, say, foot deep inside the midden hole I'd shrug and say "old elven trick." Nine times out of ten, they'd smile, nod and continue on their way leaving the Inquisitor to figure out if her boot was worth rescuing from the pile of shit.

The walk out of Skyhold bit colder than I remembered, only a smattering of stars making it past the blankets of clouds. But I had the light of the moon to guide me towards the west. For a time, I followed the trail up to our fortress in the mountains. It was more a road now than the ruts in snow dug up by a bereft retinue of souls hoping to find succor after losing Haven. So many people passed across it that snow could no longer cling. Even after a blizzard the carts had to travel, word needed to be sent, and the ground was churned up, melting away the pristine white.

A wind whispered across my skin, softer than the blasts from around the mountains. I curled my cloak closer and turned off the road, heading deeper into the mountains. My boots moved of their own accord, driving me wherever they wished as my mind wandered untethered. If I remained here, in Skyhold, would this be my life? The hero, once savior, surrounded by stark white snows and frozen winds, slowly aging into uselessness? There was much yet to do. Orlais, while not wanting to admit it, remained in tatters from the civil war. Refugees cluttered the roads from both war and rebellion, needing shelter and the possibility of work.

While Cassandra could whip the seat of the Divine into whatever shape she preferred, smaller chantries currently suffered. So many called upon us to find them clerics, even grand ones, after they lost their own at the conclave. When traveling through a minor town in the golden hills of Orlais, a pair of sisters ran towards our banners. Upon discovering the Herald of Andraste herself stood just to their left, they fell to their knees begging me for help. The conclave took everything from their small chantry save the two people left behind to tend it. Now there was no one. They stared at me, tears streaming in their eyes, begging for an answer as if I knew a thing about chantry politics. I hadn't even set foot inside one save the meeting with Dorian. It seemed unlikely demons were a main decor choice for the chantry, but anything was possible when it came to humans.

What can I possibly add to that heartbreak? A friendly hand wave, a smile, a promise that their Maker watches over them while my gods silently fume in their prison. Or worse, they were always with us but never bothered to help. I don't like feeling helpless, my power comes from drawing my fingers across the string and loosing it, not letting my ass fill a creaking seat. If I remained would I be no better than a bowl of fire?