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Dark storm clouds, fat with rain that threatens to drench the keep hang menacingly above Skyhold. The sight is enough to send most with sense into whatever building is nearest, to escape the impending downpour. That’s why it’s such a surprise for Katari to find Maraas lingering in the courtyard. Her head is tipped back towards the sky with eyes closed, her entire body is still with her hands delicately resting in her lap. For a moment, Katari considers the idea that Maraas has fallen asleep in the peace of the afternoon, but as soon as he takes a step closer, Maraas' eyes crack open and turn towards him.
“Kadan.” The word is spoken with reverence, the older Tal-Vashoth reaching towards Katari with a kind smile. She beckons him away from the dry safety of Skyhold’s bailey. “Come, sit with me.”
The request gives Katari pause, gaze turning to the clouds above as if he’d somehow missed their departure and the threat of a downpour is gone to allow such an offer from his former charge.
“It is… Moments from rain, Maraas.” To his surprise, the elder woman nods, her eyes leaving him to return to the clouds. Maraas beholds the sky as if it is an old friend, warmth spreading through every inch of her face. It’s a side of Maraas that Katari has rarely seen, but one that seems to become more and more prevalent the longer they spend in the safety of Skyhold’s walls. Her smiles come more frequently than he has ever seen, her laughter a common echo in the tavern, mixing into the natural din and the minstrel’s calm voice.
It’s nice, Katari thinks, to see this side of his mother.
“I know this, my dear imekari.” Maraas pats the spot beside her, then watches each step he takes to join her. “The elven mage, Solas, was not lying when he spoke of the magic in these walls. I can feel it at all times.” Maraas’ voice is always affectionate when she speaks of Solas. Her hand comes to rest on Katari’s arm once he has arrived at her side. “I think it influences the weather as well.”
“It could.” Katari says, eyes fixated on Maraas’ face as it once more tips back. He finds his gaze is still drawn to the puckered scars surrounding her once sewn lips. The sight of healing flesh rather than sutures is still unnerving at times. Katari remembers the way it felt to remove them; the feeling of freedom that grew with each stitch removed. Sometimes he swears he’s still able to hear the cry of pure joy when the last one fell to the floor, and the way Maaras' arms wrapped around him as if he kept her from floating away.
Maraas’ hand is perched so delicately on his arm, somehow prompting him to quiet his mind and instead notice the calm that hangs in the air. There are no birds singing, no wind rustling the sprouts in Maraas’ carefully planted garden. Never has he experienced a calmness like this one, the life now behind him instead crafting a man accustomed to expecting the worst. His life used to be filled with waiting; waiting to be called to action, waiting to be reprimanded, waiting to be noticed, waiting to be caught.
Yet, here he sits, the most gentle serenity washing over him despite the charge in the air as thunder rumbles through the sky—a final warning of the rain to come. A curious glance is thrown to Maraas, still with her face turned toward the sky, expression relaxed. He cannot help smiling when he sees that her face has not changed, no worries left to sour her disposition.
It is harder for him to remain so at ease, but with a moment’s hesitation, Katari’s head tips backwards and his eyes close, mimicking the expression his mother wears. His shoulders sag as he sinks into the posture, seeking a clearer mind and weightlessness for the first time in months, and his hand searches for Maraas’. Their fingers thread, her calloused fingers squeezing Katari’s in unspoken solidarity.
It is okay just to be, for now; there is no need for all of this waiting, this watching.
The feeling of the first few droplets of rain on his face are cool in their liberation; they streak down across his cheeks and forehead and disappear under the collar of his tunic. While raindrops find careful passage across his skin, dripping down from the ridges and edges of a warrior’s frame, he wonders why he had never done this before. The water makes him feel as if his worries are eroding away just as a stream eventually cuts stone. All his fears about living away from the Qun, all his doubts about his place amongst the Inquisition—everything feels as if it's melting off with the gentle rainfall shrouding Katari and his mother, both held in meditative silence.
There is no warning—no thunder nor crescendo of the droplets—when the clouds finally give way to the full weight of the rain they carry. The droplets turn suddenly into a heavy, relentless downpour.
His instinct is to break out of the trance they’ve settled into, goad his mother into somewhere drier and warmer. The words to begin any urging cannot take root in his throat before Maraas' laughter fills the courtyard. The sound of it carries over the hammering of the rain, her arms reaching towards the clouds as if they might all fall in line to settle into her hand. They might—Katari would not doubt her having such a power.
The joy on her face is overwhelming , one he hadn't seen since the night he promised her he was going to get her away from Par Vollen. Her wide smile is contagious, and soon his own laughter joins hers in a chorus that echoes off the garden’s stone walls. By the time the rain stops it could be hours later, and they've both been soaked to the bone, hair flattened against their backs and faces, sticking awkwardly to their horns.
Despite his clothes feeling 10 pounds heavier, it's the lightest Katari has felt in ages.