Chapter Text
“She prefers blue.” It’s an innocuous statement, in itself, and Josephine finds herself pulling a quite lovely pale blue sash from the small collection in the shop without further thought, a smile playing at her lips before she blinks, glancing to where Leliana is perched by the door.
“Who does?”
And oh, the laugh that gets her is light, and sweet, and an echo of times so long past, she’s only miffed for a spare moment that it’s at her expense.
She must find something to complement the sash, regardless. Maybe Vivienne could recommend a tailor.
She smooths the ruffled silk of her overskirt, again, even as her fingers curl in it a moment later. It’s a nervous habit she’s picked up lately, though her assistant has been kind enough not to mention it.
They are reviewing the latest correspondence - sorting what needs to be addressed, what can wait, and what can be tossed to the tavern for a laugh. Of course, she would never, but it is an amusing thought, when answering the latest in a long line of dithering nothings. The task only just holds her attention - she is not some lostlorn waif, unable to do her job for a heaviness of the heart, but it is…trying, and that she only admits in tired smiles and flitting eyes.
Her assistant reads her well enough - quietly sorting some further down the scale than she normally would without a word to the contrary.
There is a letter there, with a seal she recognizes, and she can feel her brows pulling to a vee as she takes it. There is her mother’s handwriting, but they had only written two weeks past. What had her siblings done now?
As she lifts the seal, a horn echoes across the battlements. She has stopped rushing out at every one now - too busy, too distracted, too…weary, of not seeing the banners she desired, though she would never admit it. It is only when her assistant lightly touches her shoulder that she takes in the notes of the final echo - too long, too far.
That horn did not come from the keep.
Letters are forgotten on her desk even as her assistant laughs and quickly clears out of her way.
She allows herself to rush, delights in the thrill - only to find her feet held fast at the stairs. To the battlements? The courtyard?
She hears the echo of the keep’s horn, and her mind is made, her way turning to the courtyard.
Hardly the first to crowd the keep’s main gate, she finds little difficulty in working her way out to the very bridge, and it’s not long before she finds herself held fast once more.
The army marches on - not so bright as when they left, but just as proud, and just as beautiful in their triumph. Banners have been pinned, and tack is sorely worn; wear visible in faces and battered armor. But there is laughter in the ranks - soldiers being tended to with care, and those that can keeping formation with clear vigor and earnestness.
And at the front, Hissera, Cassandra, and Vivienne form a striking spearhead, just as when they left.
She doesn’t know what possesses her. But they are not so far. And Hissera seems finally, finally, to break rank once she sees her path, gently urging her horse forward to meet her halfway.
She is not dressed for walking in snow, or mud, as the case may be with the early season melt, but that is of little concern when she sees the delight on Hissera’s tired face, and even less when she is helped easily onto the back of the saddle with one strong arm. She wraps her own around Hissera’s middle, and only truly settles when she feels a hand settle on her clasped ones at her stomach, keeping her hold close.
Resting her cheek against sun-warmed skin, feeling a strong heartbeat there, and a gentle rumble of a laugh, she finally lets herself breathe.
It is not so far, back into the keep, but she would not spare those precious moments. Not for anything.
There is a flurry of activity once the army makes its way into the keep in its entirety. Dennet and his stable hands have their hands full rounding up the mounts, the armory their own collections, and the near constant swarm of people rushing back in to fill well-worn spaces left empty for want of hands.
The rhythm of the keep falls back into place as though they had never left, and Josephine allows herself a moment to marvel at the resilience, before returning her attention to her current goals.
The homecoming celebration had been put into motion as soon as the horns had sounded of course - but a party this big required all hands on deck, and Maker be blessed, she was going to make sure this went flawlessly. She could do nothing less.
It’s record time before the keep is lit by firelight in a way they rarely bother with, long tables set out with as much food as they could manage, and continue to manage, and casks of wine and ale are on a constant rotation from the cellar below, and though the soldiers are ragged rather than refined, and the accompaniments rustic and filling rather than delicate puzzle pieces, Josephine finds herself far more proud of this than any fete the Orlesian court could permit.
It is only when a hand gently snags her overcoat as she passes back from the kitchens that she stops - allows herself to - only to be pulled into an alcove away from the bustle and the noise and…
And she blinks.
She has not stopped moving since she had hopped down from Hissera’s horse, and watched her be pulled away by Cullen and Cassandra. There had been a sorrowful look back, and all she could do was smile, and wave, and move.
It has been hours. Josephine knows she’s seen Hissera in the crowds, at the tables. Knows too that her eyes have been on her rather than those she was talking to - caught Varric at least once ribbing her over…something.
And while she hasn’t been avoiding the woman - never - she has been…moving. Moving, and working, and distracting, because if she has to see Hissera walk away once more, she might actually break.
But here, in this suddenly quiet, out of the way space, warm dark eyes take in hers, and a tired smile graces a weary face, and Josephine…Josephine crumples into waiting arms. Feels relief that the arms around her grip just as tightly - soothed in knowing that she was not alone in this wait.
There is a kiss to her forehead before Hissera is pulling away - not far, unable to without pulling apart Josephine’s grip. And she should perhaps be embarrassed. They are not this…attached, not this selfish. Normally. But that Hissera only just leans away, not even trying to release her grip, tells Josephine she does not mind so much, if at all.
A simple entreatment, a quick nod, and they are escaping their respite with a better goal in mind. The great hall is loud and jarring after their moment of shared peace - but Josephine notices Kost step in the way of a pair of nobles with too sharp eyes, and Vivienne captures attention with barely a tilt of her head, noticeably tilted away from their path. She’s pretty sure she even sees Sera - though what she does to get that yelp, perhaps she is better off not knowing.
They make their way through the door unaccosted, and when Hissera presses it closed behind her, they pause, staring at each other. The laugh they share is breathless, and delighted, and the lightest thing either has heard all day. The grip on Josephine’s hand is tight, but lacks the rush of only a moment before. They have the time.
They have the time to curl up on the couch, a quiet fire stoked just for them. The time for Josephine to note new scars across dark skin, and just as much time for Hissera to soothe new worries.
Time for a tale, and twice as much for reassurances whispered on the winds.
Time for disbelief, and, even, time before the sun stretches pale and golden over the mountain, for them to breathe.