The question begets images of innocence, of sincerity, and largely-- feelings of kindness. Yet smiles held lofty and serene are only as benign as the illusion they evoke. Even as he stands tall, vigilant at his nonsensical post, he seems small to esh. His armor cloaks him, his hood obscures vallaslin and features alike, but he is bare. Something has fallen from his shoulders, like damaged pauldrons, dropped off in the heat of a battle where twisted metal would hinder more than help. Something has been cast away, but not of his volition. It is all too easy to see the gouges he has left in the world, clinging to something lost.
He towers over esh, even though he is not of extraordinary height, and es not severely lacking in stature. It is with posture; he speaks so loudly without even opening his mouth. The straightness in his spine seems severe-- painful nearly. There is an itch to his fingers that es cannot see, but es can feel; a subtle draw on the essence of the Beyond, even through the Veil. It washes over esh like the water of a stream, cold, but insignificant. No fires burn at esh roots, no smoke clogs at esh leaves; no spring river can gouge away trees as old as es.
”A rose?” What does he expect? Glowering down upon esh as he does? That some plan will unravel, spider web threads burned beneath the scrutiny of his age bleached gaze, and the fabric of esh contrast fraying in turn? A laughable thought and es, as ever, takes enjoyment in humor; es revels in the joy taken at the expense of others.
”A rose, yes.” Es coddles him, wrapping him in soft comfort of thick leaves, their texture akin the soft fibers found among the sheep’s kin. It is an insult, esh gentleness, and an attack. There is satisfaction in his hardened glare, clear eyes turned upon esh like a looking glass, and the light of one burned in flames born in foam nettles into esh skin. The light of one such as she no longer has a place in hallowed graves; bleached bark does not wither before his scrutiny. Limbs as old and white as the moons that hang in the sky unfurl, but just a slight amount. A construct that dates the very structure they stand upon bares itself, just for a moment, for it desires to; not that it must.
Esh staff unfurls gently about esh waist, white wood bending and flexing as if sap and water still ran through their veins, and new life springs from the shadows it casts. Whether the bloom grows from esh staff, the pleated and woven clothes esh wears (es has heard them called less kind things, by those who could not even skin the beasts to cover their own back), or from esalin. Life comes from the ashes of death, glorious and bright, even when in the form of roses the color of a moonless night.
They are harmless, their stems colored midnight, and lacking in thorns. A bouquet manages to bloom at esh hip, gathered up within pale hands, and offered out. The roots of the bush they were torn from are not seen, but they exist. (Slithering like serpents beneath esh skin; a rolling of organic material as skin is pulled taunt once more.) Yet the gift is as welcomed as esh presence, his glare rendering his features like stone, and joy flutters falsely in a forcefully animated heart. ”No?” Surprise colors esh tone, like saccharine oils, ready to turn amber and stiff. Sap runs inherently sluggish through esh core, but it cannot fight against the quickening of excitement; there is still enough ’ life ’ within esh to rouse a blush to esh cheeks.
There was no expectation that esh gift would be taken, even gracelessly and with aggression laced in every gesture, so there is no loss. There is only joy, a horribly callous sort of joy, if one dared define it. The roses in esh hands go brittle, their life drawn out of them and back into esh skin, and they wither in esh grasp. Midnight grows pale as the sun rouses from its rest, though it is the moon that settles in the now dried blooms. The stems grow vicious, thorns only found in uncultivated nature twisting this way and that. The roses, pure white and dried like salt, are settled upon the stones beside him. The wind that whisks over Skyhold could not dislodge them, especially not beneath the weight of his stare. The weight of the glare that bores into esh as es passes, too close and too kind, at his side.
”Perhaps another time,” es ponders aloud, even as es hears the scrape of his gauntlet as he brushes the ’ gift ’ towards the valley below.
