Morning sun on warming skin. Cool sheets underneath, heaped and tangled, half pulled from the mattress. Shiral’s eyes opened slowly, reluctantly. Another day.
Mind still foggy, she stumbled down the steep, worn stairs of Skyhold. Every breeze came through the cracks of the building. Winter here was terrible, no matter how many tapestries she put on the walls. Absorbed in morning grumblings, a routine Shiral had kept from her days in the clan, Shiral forgot all about last night’s guest.
There was a palpable awkward silence throughout the long tables, broken only by spoons against bowls. It was almost physical. Heads throughout the room were bowed, seemingly intent on their meals, but eyes glanced surreptitiously up to the stranger sitting upright in the corner, back very straight. He was also very intent on his plate, a faint expression of distaste on his face.
“Food not up to ancient Elvhen standards?” She tried to keep her tone light, unsure of how to treat him. Her first impressions had been of a figure that she could not entirely connect with, one who didn’t want to be associated with her either way. This cold man was what her kind was descended from?
There was a beat where nothing was said, and Shiral felt obligated to fill it, increasingly flustered. “We can talk somewhere private. So you can tell me what you want. Er, not in that way. We can use Josephine’s office.” Abelas inclined his head and rose to follow her.
Keenly aware of eyes following them, Shiral tried not to burn more red than she already was. It was better than taking him up to her room, but barely. At least the door closing behind them provided some relief, though suddenly the room felt small and intimate, far too full of dark shadows.
“Inquisitor. May I again ask for the whereabouts of your party companion?” Shiral leaned back in Josephine’s chair. If she had to deal with this, at least she would be comfortable. Josephine truly had excellent taste in furniture.
“Shortly after the battle with Corypheus, he vanished. Leilana launched an extensive campaign to find him, but we’ve had no luck yet.” The anger was mercifully free from her voice, though it still ran through her. It was cold. Even if he came back, she would not welcome him again, but those thoughts weren’t appropriate for a civil conversation. “And please, you don’t need to call me Inquisitor. The formality of the title still seems strange to me. My name is Shiral, though my friends call me Shrike.”
“Shiral. Do you think he will return? I have much I need to say to him.” Abelas was so insistent. It was like having a conversation with a wall. Or a tree, as may have been more appropriate.
“He’s gone. Permanently, as far as I know and as far as I care.” Harsh, uncaring. Become stone. Stone had no regrets. Stone had no feelings. “Is there anything I can help you with?” Stone didn’t feel as though they had to help everyone, as if the whole world depended upon them. What was one more person to the burden she already carried?
She leaned back against the soft leather, let its smell envelop her for a moment. Her eyes started to close, unbidden.
“I required guidance. The others they… they returned to Uthenera. I am alone.” His voice cracked for a moment, and the façade was broken. He had appeared so smooth, but now his eyes were sad, lost. His lips, thick as they were, turned down at the corners. It was not quite crying, not quite an outpouring of emotion, but it was the most she had seen thus far, and at that moment, Shiral knew he was as lost as she was, perhaps more so. “Please,” he added, that one word coming with reluctance. “Will you help me?”
Retour en haut
