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Chapter Text

Haven's snow melts into the knees of her trousers, but Adaar persists. With a careful hand, her dagger cuts the stems of flower after flower, red blossoms soft against her calloused fingers. She only counts herself lucky that she found flowers at all; when she went in search of the logging stand, an eye out for any promising blooms, she expected to find nothing but elfroot.

Behind her, Varric shivers and stamps his feet. "Hurry up. I think I'm getting frostbite."

"You didn't have to tag along, dwarf." She ties the bundle of flowers together with a spare bit of twine from her pocket.

"And miss this? It's not every day you see a qunari picking flowers."

Adaar lets the mistake go, bringing the bundle to her nose instead. Not much of a scent, but that's probably safer. Josephine might have an allergy she doesn't know about. It wouldn't be a particularly kind gesture if it made her sneeze.

"She'll like them," Varric says, a little uncertainly, as though to reassure her. But Adaar doesn't blame him for his tiptoeing; they have not known one another very long, after all, and he has gone out of his way to be kind to her. She knows what happened in Kirkwall. He is a good person—not that he doesn't judge, of course, but he does it on a case-by-case basis.

She has met precious few of those. It's nice to find one here.

"I hope so," she says, tucking the bundle safely into her satchel. "She's always working—holed up in that office, getting her ear talked off by every visitor. I would have cut someone's throat by now, and she just smiles." She sighs, waving Varric forward. "Come on. Let's find that logging stand. Threnn said it ought to be around here somewhere."

She walks a little more slowly than she usually would, mindful of Varric's much shorter legs. The snow is still falling—light, tiny little flakes. They feel like the softest drops of rain on her skin.

"Josephine's a people-person," Varric says. "She likes the challenge."

"I don't think she likes me," Adaar mutters. She sort of hopes Varric won't hear her, separated by height as they are.

"Doesn't like you? Everyone likes you."

She casts a withering look downward.

"Okay, not everyone," Varric relents, "but no one is universally liked, kid. Most everyone here likes you. And Josephine likes everyone, so it stands to reason that she likes you."

"I've heard such tales of your silver tongue, but so far, I am not impressed."

"Take that back."

At last, Adaar chuckles, a little tension easing in her chest. "I won't. And how would you know, anyway? You're not standing around every time I go to talk to her. It's always, 'Your Worship, please say hello to visiting Duke such-and-such if you can,' and 'My lady Herald, how is your campaign in the Hinterlands going?' and—"

"So she's a little wrapped up in her work," Varric interrupts. "It's the end of the world. People cope in weird ways. Josephine works herself to death, and you, apparently, spend all your spare time worrying that your crush doesn't like you. Like a teenager."

"Take that back."

"No!"

They're laughing when they finally reach the logging stand, half-buried beneath a mound of fresh snow. "I just hope the flowers rouse her from her work," Adaar says, marking the spot on her map to show Threnn. "Whether she likes me or not, she deserves a little rest."

Varric makes exaggerated retching noises. Adaar knocks him into a snowdrift.

When she walks into Josephine's office, hands full of the bundle of flowers, Leliana is leaning against the desk, reading a report. Adaar hurries to hide the bouquet, but Leliana's eyes narrow just as she conceals them behind her back.

"Your Worship," Josephine says, looking up with a smile. She makes it look so easy. "What can I do for you?"

Leliana slides from the desk and leaves without a word, but not before catching Adaar's eye with the tiniest of frowns. She shuts the door behind her.

Adaar shuffles her weight from one foot to the other. The silence feels awfully heavy in the wake of that closing door. "I wanted to thank you," she says. She stumbles a little over the words, even though she rehearsed them. "You've been working so hard for the Inquisition, and these aren't exactly ideal circumstances…"

Josephine's smile is so kind. "It is my pleasure, my lady Herald."

Adaar brings the flowers out from behind her back. No turning back now. She sets them gently on the desk, and Josephine's eyes follow them down, her lips round in a little "oh" of surprise. The bow on the twine is lopsided, Adaar notices. It would end up that way, wouldn't it.

"I brought you these," she says. "I thought they might add a little color to your office."

Josephine traces a fingertip along one petal, smiling. It's wider now, her eyes crinkled at the corners. She has such lovely eyes. "They're beautiful. Truly. Thank you."

There's an awkward pause while Adaar stares and Josephine admires the flowers and then, hastily, she begins her retreat toward the door. "You're welcome. I hope—um—I'm glad you like them."

Josephine looks up. There's a little red in her cheeks, so perhaps she's taken Adaar's meaning after all.

"I've heard you'll leave for the Hinterlands tomorrow," Josephine says.

Adaar nods, one hand already on the doorknob.

"Be safe," Josephine tells her, voice soft, and bends her head back to her work.

Adaar flees before Josephine can catch sight of her ridiculous grin. It's a start.

Chapter Text

There is something truly beautiful about Haven, even though the beds are hard and the rations are tasteless and the snow never stops falling.

Josephine never strays far from the Chantry. She is truly not fond of the cold, and prefers to appreciate the mountains from the safety of the doors, where she can wrap her arms around herself to ward off the chill. The setting sun brightens the line of the mountains until the Breach is almost invisible. It still tugs at her gaze, though, like a monster lurking just out of sight.

"I'm taking out one of the new mounts, if you'd like to join me."

She startles, turning to find Adaar lingering in the Chantry behind her. She looks terribly out of place. Those taking advantage of the Chantry's warmth stare at her; some don't bother to hide their gaping. Their eyes linger on her horns and the faint green glimmer around her hand. They don't see her.

But Adaar pays them no mind. She is an extraordinarily patient woman. From the beginning—according to Leliana and even Cassandra—she has been nothing but quietly, earnestly cooperative.

Her eyebrow quirks, just a bit, and Josephine remembers that there was a proposal and she has said nothing.

"I don't know," she says. Adaar is a full head taller than her, but she kindly stands far enough away that Josephine doesn't have to crane her neck to meet her eyes. "We're losing sun, aren't we?"

"Are you afraid of the cold, Ambassador?" Adaar asks, smiling now.

Josephine lets her hands fall from her arms. The wind makes itself known. "Not precisely, no."

"Then humor me, and take a few minutes away from your musty office and your stacks of missives. They'll all still be there when you return." She moves forward to pull one of the heavy coats from the rack on the wall and offers it to Josephine. "Besides, someone should come along in case this new fellow decides he truly dislikes me."

"All right," Josephine relents, taking the coat. "I...suppose I could use the fresh air."

They make their way to the stables in silence. Some members of their camp thump their fists to their chests as Adaar passes; others look up from their tasks to stare or chatter behind their hands. For her part, Adaar seems not to notice these. She inclines her head when their people call a greeting, but otherwise, she walks with purpose, ignoring whispers.

Josephine can hardly stand it, but no glare or spare look of hers can halt this behavior.

"I can feel you simmering," Adaar comments, waving to Dennet. "What's wrong?"

Josephine glances up. "Do you truly not know? Your Worship—"

"Adaar. Please." A shadow of discomfort passes over her features at last.

"Forgive me." Josephine sighs. "I only wish our allies would treat you with more respect. They gape like children. It is embarrassing."

"It's natural." Adaar nods to one of the stalls. "The Forder is gentle. He'll like you."

Josephine offers her hand to the horse, and he snuffles at it, eyelashes batting. Adaar moves around her to the next stall; from within, there's a snort of derision.

"Oh, come on, big guy," Adaar says, exasperated. "We're practically kin, you and I. Look. Horns." She knocks on the broken one on her own head for emphasis. Josephine leans around the partition for a better look. The hart shakes his head, barely avoiding the walls with his antlers.

"I don't think he believes you," Josephine points out, some bit of her irritation melting away. There's a chuckle caught in her throat.

"Well, he's a fool. And a hart. I suppose it's to be expected." Adaar opens the door to the stall—rather fearlessly, given the look in the hart's eyes—and reaches out to put a hand on either side of his face. They stare at each other; she and the hart are nearly at the same eye level. She blows, gently, into his nostrils, and he snorts back.

"We've been doing this for days," she sighs. "It's now or never, buddy."

His feet shuffle, but he stills under her hands and gaze.

"Good," she says, as though they've reached an understanding, and moves around to saddle him. His ears flick back and forth, but he moves no more than that. "You're staring," Adaar adds, not looking up from her task.

Josephine ducks back to the Forder, who doesn't protest a bit at being saddled. "You're very patient," she says, her ears burning.

"Everyone deserves a bit of patience," Adaar replies. "Even stubborn old harts." He snorts again. "Yes, you. But don't be fooled," she adds. "I have a short fuse for the sort you deal with. I was never good with those."

They lead their mounts out. The sun is behind the mountains, now, the only light left ambient. The Breach grows brighter against the darkening sky, but Josephine does not look up.

"I don't require respect," Adaar says, when they have quietly ridden out of sight of Haven.

"Pardon?"

Adaar glances at her. "What you said earlier. You were angry with the behavior in camp. You said you wished they would treat me with respect."

"It is deserved."

"It doesn't matter whether it's deserved or not." Adaar frowns, brow furrowing, and glances up. Josephine looks at her instead; she can see the Breach, in perfect miniature, reflected in Adaar's dark eyes. "They've hardly had time to adjust," she continues. "Qunari are a curious sight in the best of circumstances. In these circumstances…" She shrugs.

"You aren't Qunari," Josephine points out.

Adaar wrinkles her nose. "Vashoth, then, but the point stands. They hardly know the difference. They only know that some woman, stupidly tall and with horns, is now the supposed Herald of Andraste. Frankly, I'd be more worried if they didn't stare."

Josephine frowns, but says nothing.

"You're kind to worry," Adaar adds, looking away. "But I've had thirty years to get used to those kinds of looks. I will survive."

"All right." Josephine casts around for a different topic. "How do the Hinterlands fare?"

"Poorly." There is a note of resigned misery in Adaar's voice. "I was not sorry to put it behind me for a few days, but I will not be able to stay away long, if we're going to help the people there." She shakes her head, a bit of irritation showing through. "I would rather not make the journey to Val Royeaux while Redcliffe tears itself apart."

"My lady—Adaar. We need—"

"I know what we need." The hart trumpets quietly, straining at the bit, and Adaar lets him move a little faster. "That doesn't make it easier."

"You are doing wonderfully," Josephine offers. She feels terribly out of her depth, like she is saying all the wrong things. It is a peculiar feeling for her, one she doesn't like.

This, though, prompts a small, shy smile. "Well—thank you. That's…" She shuffles the reins, ducking her head. "I'm glad you think so."

Is she blushing? Certainly her cheeks are darker than they were a moment ago. Is that just the wind?

The hart trumpets—much more loudly, this time—and before Adaar can get more than a startled "Whoa!" out, he takes off, jostling her along with. Josephine heels the Forder and chases after her, the laugh in her throat coming loose.

Chapter Text

The words blur on the page before her; Josephine blinks to clear them, and they resolve, rather reluctantly. She brings the scroll a bit closer. It is to be expected, after years of straining her eyes to read so often, but she is not quite willing to admit she could use spectacles. Not yet. That must wait until she is at least thirty, surely.

She shuffles to the next missive in the pile. It's just the hour, she's sure; her eyes always play these tricks as the night deepens. Candles burning low, shadows creeping closer, the rooms of the Chantry falling quiet around her, one by one. She ought to be in bed, but there is a never-ending deluge of work.

A throat clears—a gentle huff, somewhere near the door.

"I wish you would stop mothering me, Leliana," Josephine sighs, not looking up.

There's a startled laugh. Not Leliana's, not high and sharp like the chatter of birds, but low, a lilting husk of a sound. Face already burning—she thanks the Maker for her dark skin, which hardly shows a blush—she lifts her eyes from her paperwork. Adaar stands in her doorway, hip braced against the frame, smothering her last chuckles with her palm.

"My lady," Josephine begins again. "Forgive me, I thought you were—"

"Our spymaster," Adaar finishes, grin emerging from behind her hand, "come to harry you to bed?"

Josephine's fingers fidget, against her will, on her pen. "Just so." She peers more closely at the Herald; there are circles beneath her dark eyes, wisps of her hair pulled free of its braid, mud caked from boots to knee. "Perhaps I should be harrying you to bed, instead."

Adaar doesn't find the joke in that sentence, thankfully; instead, she strides across the room—it takes only three steps, with those remarkably long legs—and drops into the chair in front of Josephine's desk. "I was going to have a bath, first," she says. "But it's too bloody cold, even for me. I must stink."

Josephine sniffs. "A little more wet dog, and I might mistake you for a Fereldan."

Adaar chuckles again. Despite her exhaustion, she appears to be in a good mood. "I'd like a dog," she muses. "I don't suppose I could requisition a mabari?"

"You might persuade Cullen," Josephine replies. She puts the missive down at last and leans back in her chair, reaching for her half-cold tea. "For my part, I must inform you that our resources cannot bear the strain."

Adaar leans back in her chair, too; broad shoulders notwithstanding, she looks rather comfortable. "Ah. A shame." She pauses a beat, then continues, "I missed Haven, while I was away. Hard to believe. Never thought I'd like a little wooden house of my own."

Josephine hesitates over her next words. She is curious, but afraid to offend; she speaks cautiously, ready to rescind the question. "Have you always lived…"

"No," Adaar replies—not unkindly. "My family had a home, when I was younger. Close to the village, far enough away to keep the locals comfortable. But I've been a mercenary for more than a decade now. I hardly remember what it was like to have a home base. It's nice to have something to come back to again, even if it is in the ass-end of nowhere. The quiet is sort of peaceful." Her shoulders roll back against the chair; she stretches her legs out with a bone-deep sigh. Rather like a cat, Josephine thinks. A great jungle cat, perhaps.

They sit in silence for a few long moments, Josephine sipping her tea, Adaar considering the ceiling. It's the snow, really, that keeps sound from traveling; all of it, draping like a blanket to muffle them. It is peaceful, but she wishes it were warmer.

Adaar tilts her head, her features softening. Her fingers brush the dried petals of the red flowers she brought Josephine weeks ago, now bundled and preserved at the corner of the desk.

"I'm glad you liked them," she says, then stifles a yawn behind her hand. "Excuse me, Ambassador. I think I'll take my leave."

She unfolds from the chair, gives a parting smile, and slips out the door with hardly a sound. Josephine strains to hear her footsteps receding, but nothing echoes back from the Chantry's main hall.

"Woof," a dreamy voice supplies from near the bookshelf.

Josephine startles back from her desk, half-rising from her chair, but her visitor reveals herself soon after: Sera, perched on the trunk a few paces away, her eyes still fixed on the door.

"Is that necessary?" Josephine asks weakly, falling back into her seat. "Woof?"

"Woof, right, like…" Sera gestures to the door, still ajar. "She just goes on for ages."

"I'm sure she'll be pleased with your interest," Josephine says—a bit peevishly—and bends back to her paperwork.

"Oooh, little lady prissypants, all touchy," Sera replies, grinning. She hops down from the trunk. "She's not looking at me. I mean, she does, right, but not like that."

Josehine presses a few fingers, hard, to her temples. "Sera, I'm afraid I don't understand what you're saying."

"Get off," Sera says, brow furrowing. "She brought you flowers."

Josephine's face is burning again; she can feel it, an awful heat that stretches from her neck to her cheeks. "I'm sure she was just being thoughtful," she says, more firmly than she feels.

Sera laughs, hopping down from the trunk. "Sure," she says. "Thoughtful."

And then she makes a gesture with her fingers that Josephine would rather not think about—and of course, that's the moment that Leliana decides to stop by after all, a mischievous smile on her lips at the sight of Sera's gesticulating.

"You're friends," Sera says, nudging Leliana with her hip as she makes her way out. "You tell her."

"What am I to be telling you, then?" Leliana asks. Sera's laughter drifts back from the Chantry hall.

"Nothing," Josephine replies, ducking her head back to her work. "And if you're here to tell me to go to bed—"

"No, I just—couldn't sleep." Josephine is not sure Leliana ever sleeps anymore, truthfully, but she rarely looks worse for it. "The Herald is fine?"

"Adaar is in fine spirits," Josephine says. "If she was irked by the events in Val Royeaux, she did not show it."

"Adaar, hmm?" Leliana asks playfully.

"Oh, not you, too," Josephine groans, dropping her pen at last. "We're merely friends. There is no hmm."

"Of course," Leliana agrees, eyes seeking out the dried flowers. "She brought me flowers last week, too. Very kind of her."

Josephine's stomach drops, though she'll never, ever admit it. "She did?"

Leliana chuckles. "I'm only teasing, Josie. She most certainly did not."

"If you are set on being utterly maddening, I think I'll go to bed," Josephine grumbles, snuffing out the candle on her desk.

"And as delightful as teasing you is, I think I will, too."

"You suffer so."

They walk across the Chantry together. For a moment, Leliana pauses at the statue of Andraste, her eyes gazing into a face of stone.

"We live in dark times," she says at last, looping her arm through Josephine's. "We all need some sign that there is still hope."

"My social life hardly constitutes a silver lining."

Leliana's lips quirk up. "We both know you don't believe that."

Void take her, but she's right. Adaar brings warmth with her wherever she goes; Josephine cannot help but bask, just a little, when those dark eyes turn on her.

Chapter Text

Adaar can't bring herself to leave the Hinterlands.

Cassandra is as desperate as she to help the people here, and does not complain, not even when they've been camping a full fortnight. Varric does enough grousing for all of them, but Adaar can tell that he wouldn't leave if given the choice. Every time they pass by a wagon of refugees, gathered around a pitiful fire, she sees Kirkwall in his eyes, a memory of the rubble he left across the Waking Sea.

One of Leliana's ravens arrives at the beginning of the third week, a day after they've established Forest Camp. "Message for you, my lady," the scout calls, scroll held out.

She worries that it will carry orders to return to Haven and takes it reluctantly, cutting the wax seal open with a nail that she really ought to file down soon.

My lady,

I assume that you will be in the field for some time yet, but the below matters require your attention. A return message will suffice.

I hope that your campaign goes well.

Josephine

"Are we to return, then?" Cassandra asks; Adaar can see in the set of her shoulders and angle of her brows that she dreads such a suggestion.

"No. I've just been asked to tend to a few issues by letter." She squints at Leliana's handwriting—so elegant that it's near impossible to read—and Cullen's plainer penmanship. "It can wait until this evening."

Cassandra breathes a sigh of relief, and Adaar feels it, too, but there's a twinge of wistfulness, as well. Haven isn't so bad. If it weren't for the poor state of the world, she'd be eager enough to return. Even with the Breach looming overhead, it's a cozy little place, with all that crunchy snow underfoot. The chill in the Hinterlands just leads to the mud freezing, which is somehow more unpleasant than mud's usual state.

And there's the company, in Haven. Such as it is, anyway, when it can be bothered to look up from its letters and candles and—

Adaar snorts, shaking off her thoughts, and hands the missive back to the scout. "I'll write a reply tonight, assuming we survive the fortress," she says.

Varric groans from the shadow of his tent. "You're inviting all kinds of awful scenarios with that sentence," he warns, struggling into his boots.

Adaar thinks she hears Cassandra mutter superstitious dwarf under her breath, but she can't be sure.

She sits beside the fire that night to scribble out a missive, trying and failing to make her letters look as beautiful as Josephine's. Her hand aches where the pommel of a greatsword cracked down on her wrist; it's only bruised, but it complains with every motion of her fingers. Maybe she ought to commission Varric to write the blasted letter for her, but she can already hear him snoring in his tent, useless to her.

Cassandra is cleaning her sword, gaze occasionally drifting over the flames to fix on Adaar, who does her best not to notice. If Cassandra has something to say, she'll spit it out eventually, and Adaar doesn't blame her for her suspicious nature. These days, you can never be too suspicious.

Think about that before getting ideas about the pretty little ambassador, Shokrakar would say. Adaar snorts aloud.

"Something amusing?" Cassandra asks, her voice a little too sharp.

Adaar does not rise to it. "Imagining a conversation with my old boss, that's all," she says easily.

She meets Cassandra's gaze; her eyes narrow, but her next words are gentler. Marginally. "You said that your company worked in the Free Marches?"

Company sounds nicer than mercenary band. "Mostly. It's been harder to find work since Kirkwall. Shokrakar would never have signed us on for the Conclave, otherwise."

Cassandra tucks the cloth away and sets down her blade. "Why not?"

Adaar chuckles. "Isn't it obvious? She didn't think having that many mages and templars holed up in one place would end well. Common sense. We didn't have any stake in it. We would just get in the middle. But Fereldans aren't as tetchy about Vashoth as Marchers, so I convinced her to take the chance."

Cassandra mulls this over for a moment. Adaar appreciates that about her—her thoughtfulness, her consideration, before speaking. She goes back to her letter, reading over one of the missives Josephine had sent. This Lord Kildarn sounds exactly like the sort who might have hired the Valo-Kas, thinking a few menacing Vashoth would be enough to drive the poor and the hungry from his lands. She always did hate that kind of job. She seconds Cullen's suggestion to aid the refugees.

If the mark on her hand is any indication, her mercenary life is behind her. She misses her comrades, but not the things they once did for coin.

"Do you regret it?" Cassandra asks at last, her hands braced on her knees.

Adaar gives equal thoughtfulness to her answer. She puts her papers down and holds her hands out to the fire. Certainly, her life has lacked a certain rhythm since the Conclave. It has been an adjustment, trying to sleep with a hand that glows. It has been unnerving, to see humans look at her with awe and fear rather than just plain terror.

But she thinks of the gratitude in their eyes when she hands over slabs of ram meat or a box of warm blankets, and that means more than the rest.

"No," she says. "I may not believe in your Maker, but I believe that I can do good as the Herald, with the help of the Inquisition. We already have, haven't we? The world's a mess, but the Hinterlands are looking better, thanks to us."

Cassandra actually smiles—the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth, but it's there. "Yes," she says, getting to her feet. "It is. Good night, Herald."

Adaar nods. Cassandra takes her sword with her to her tent. Her eyes are itching, burning, but she will finish this letter before she gives up for the night, even if the penmanship is not perfect at the end of it. She takes comfort from the crackling warmth of the fire, the soft sound of the breeze in the trees, and soldiers on.

Josephine,

I've attached my opinion of these matters in the accompanying pages.

Our campaign goes well. You should see new supplies and recruits—green as saplings, but tell the commander that complaining doesn't suit him—within the fortnight. We hope to return by then, as well.

The feather charm is for you. I thought you might find it pretty, in a quaint sort of way.

Adaar

If Josephine had known the letter would contain a token, she would not have waited to open it in the war room, with Leliana and Cullen looking on. The feather slides from within the rounded vellum, weighted down by the delicate beads attached to the shaft. It will make a poor quill, but it's a pretty charm.

Even Cullen raises an eyebrow. "From the Herald?" he guesses.

She tucks the charm away in a pocket, her motions deliberately slow, as though she is completely unruffled. "She's very sweet."

"Sweet as poison," he says, a little dry. "I felt like one big bruise after sparring with her a few weeks ago."

"You did not expect her daggers to challenge you?" Leliana baits, smiling.

"I did not expect her to trip me so much," he replies.

Josephine looks down at the war table to hide her broad smile. Her fingers brush the soft vane of the feather in her pocket.

Adaar surely means nothing by it, but it is good to be reminded that there are still beautiful things in the world they are trying to save.

Chapter Text

The scouts sound the call for friends approaching at midday, just as Josephine's about to sit down to her meal.

She decides that the over-stewed turnips can wait and leaves her office to see who has come. There has been a slower trickle of business in and out of Haven this past week than she would like; it seems that now that the initial shock has passed, everyone is content to wait at a distance to watch what the Inquisition will do.

She hopes that Adaar's progress in the Hinterlands gives them pause. From the sound of it, she's scouring the place step by step: listening to refugees; solving problems; clearing out bandits, rogue templars, and rudderless mages alike. It is only a beginning, but it is a good one.

Adaar is well-suited to this role. Josephine would never have believed it—first awe at the Herald's size aside, she knew that the people would have difficulty accepting a Vashoth as Andraste's Chosen. Even a human Herald would have faced plenty of derision and disbelief, but Adaar bears it all tenfold, as though the hissing whispers and outright challenges fall on deaf ears.

She does, as she's said, have experience with that sort of thing. Josephine's own responsibilities are not so different; she must work not to ruffle feathers when she can, even when that involves weathering insults and barbs with nothing but a polite smile. Still—there are rules and customs for what she does, and a rather narrower class of people to handle. Adaar sees them all, and endures.

She meets Leliana at the steps leading out to the soldiers' encampment. "I believe it is our Herald," Leliana says, "finally tired of the Hinterlands, or out of errands to run."

If Leliana believes it is so, then it likely is. Josephine's heart lifts; she tells herself it is because these last few weeks have grown dimmer without the Herald to keep hope alive in Haven.

Adaar leads the pack of mounts and people coming down the road, but she isn't riding. She leads her hart instead for the small rider in her saddle. Josephine shades her eyes against the glare of sun and snow and makes out the gleeful faces of two children, one in front of the other. Adaar has an ear bent toward them as they chatter at her, a weary smile on her face.

"That's more people than we were expecting," Cullen points out, breaking off from drills to stand at Leliana's side. "We already got her handful of recruits last week."

"I believe she's found more," Leliana says.

Cullen makes an impatient noise in his throat. "I hope they've better training than the last arrivals."

Leliana and Josephine exchange an amused look. "Complaining doesn't suit you," Josephine tells him. He scoffs again.

The soldiers break off their drills to watch the Herald approach, too. Josephine notices that the newest are quickest to press fists to their chests, to bow their heads as she passes. That bodes well; they've seen her in the field, and respect her for it. Josephine must make time to watch one of her sparring sessions while she's in Haven. She's yet to see Adaar fight.

The caravan comes to a halt near the three advisors. It stretches back, halfway up the road leading away from Haven. Josephine estimates at least a hundred adults and a dozen children. Adaar swings the older child down from the saddle; the girl shrieks with delight.

"Vale's Irregulars," she says in greeting. She gestures behind her to the crowd of adults already outfitted with their own weapons and armor. None of it is ill-fitting; it is clear these recruits already have some skill and experience.

Cullen's mouth comes just slightly open and hangs there, as though he can't think of what to say. Adaar catches Josephine's eye and winks, her grin stretching wide. Josephine smiles back; she has to work to keep from grinning, too.

The boy still in the saddle tugs at Adaar's broken horn to get her attention. "Piggyback?" he says hopefully. "You're taller than Stripey."

The hart grumbles at this nickname, tossing its head.

Sensing the danger, Adaar tightens her hold on the reins and beckons Dennet over. "Alright, one piggyback ride," she acquiesces. "But then it's time for a meal for all of you."

She leans down so the boy can clamber onto her shoulders, then hands the reins to Dennet. The hart immediately tries to rear, but Dennet's hold is firm. The boy laughs, arms looped around Adaar's horns to steady himself, and Adaar turns to face the crowd.

"Irregulars, report to Commander Cullen to add your names to our roster," she calls out, her voice pitched so they all can hear. "We'll get a new space cleared for your camp by nightfall. The mess is inside the wall, up the stairs and to your left." She points. "Help yourself after you've put down your name."

The crowd moves eagerly, and finally, Adaar trots over to her advisors, the boy still on her shoulders. He swivels around avidly, taking in the sights from this new height. Adaar keeps a firm grip on his legs.

"They're all skilled, in some way or another," she tells them. "Some of them couldn't be parted from their families. I hope we've enough room. They don't mind camping."

"We will find the space," Leliana reassures her. "Thank you, Herald."

Adaar nods; the boy, hanging onto her horns, squeals and laughs. "To the mess we go," she tells him, and jogs up the stairs and out of sight, quite as though the extra weight makes no difference to her at all.

Leliana chuckles and elbows Josephine in the side. "You are staring," she admonishes, and moves off to assist the crowd before Josephine can argue.

She returns to her office. She feels unaccountably cheerful, even sitting down to her now-cold stew. Before she can take a bite, there's a knock at her door.

She holds in a sigh. "Come in," she calls.

Adaar opens the door, the child gone from her shoulders. Instead, her hands are full of hot stew, a basket of fresh bread tucked beneath her arm. The scent makes Josephine's mouth water.

"Would you mind company?" she asks. "The mess is a little noisy, after days on the road with that lot."

"Please," Josephine says, relieved that it's Adaar and not a dignitary she somehow missed in the crowd.

Adaar closes the door with her hip and sets the food down on Josephine's desk. The smell is even better this close. She tries not to breathe too deeply. Adaar's dark eyes squint down at her stone-cold stew.

"I see our arrival interrupted your meal," she says. "Here—I'll trade you."

Josephine stares up at her, aghast. "I couldn't possibly—you've been out in the cold for weeks—"

Adaar smiles, dropping into the chair that's too small for her long legs. "I'm made of stern stuff. One more cold meal won't hurt me. Besides, hot bread."

She swaps around their bowls of stew with quick hands. Josephine catches sight of all the scars on them, standing out a few shades lighter than her dark skin. None are as severe as the ridge that cuts down the right side of her neck, over her collarbone and vanishing beneath her scarf.

"Thank you," Josephine relents. Now that the bowl is right under her nose, she simply can't refuse. The warmth of the first sip helps chase off the lingering chill from standing outside.

Adaar fishes a roll from the basket and bites deep, giving a contented sigh. "You're welcome. I'm happy enough to not sleep on the ground for the next few days. My back tells me I'm not as young as I was."

"I would think you'd be used to it," Josephine says, teasing just a little, and takes a bread roll herself. She can tell how hungry she is by how good it tastes; usually, the bread around here is exceedingly bland.

"Camping, sure. Wading through bandits and templars and mages every day for weeks, though, that's different." She cracks her neck to the side, wincing. "I haven't seen so much constant fighting in years. I should write to Shokrakar, tell her we've gotten soft. She'd smack me for the insubordination if she could, glowing hand or not." She smiles fondly.

"A letter came from her this past week, actually." Josephine doesn't miss the way Adaar's dark eyes light up at that. "She's asking for a job." She flicks through the piles at one corner of her desk and unearths the missive, holding it out to Adaar.

She reads while Josephine finishes off her stew, occasionally fitting in a mouthful of her own meal. She doesn't even seem to notice the taste. When she reaches the end, where Josephine has written a few viable jobs for the mercenaries, she chuckles around a bite of bread.

"Demons," she says, grinning. "Definitely send them to take care of the demons."

Josephine raises her eyebrows. "I confess, I did not think that would be your first choice."

"Why?" Adaar asks, just a touch shrewdly.

She will try to be delicate, though she suspects that Adaar will see through it. "Demons are more dangerous than guarding a supply caravan, even if it does cross a battlefield," she points out.

"And Qunari are afraid of demons," Adaar guesses, not unkindly.

"Everyone is afraid of demons."

Adaar snorts. "Qunari most of all. You're not wrong, but the Valo-kas aren't Qunari. They're Vashoth or Tal-Vashoth. None of us have the Qun in our heads to frighten us anymore." She raises her water skin in a mocking toast. "Poor Bull."

"The Qun is the reason The Iron Bull is afraid of demons?" Josephine asks, amused.

"The Qun is all about fear." Adaar puts down the missive and leans forward, her face earnest. "Fear that you'll do your job wrong and be sent to be re-educated. Fear that some passing mage will attract a demon and it'll get inside your head, and they'll kill you for it. Fear that your next position will take you away from friends you know, people you care about. The Qun teaches you to fear retribution before you have even made a mistake, so that you will make no mistakes." She pauses for breath, and then she shakes her head with a rueful smile. The tension leaves her shoulders. "Sorry. Sounded like my ma for a minute there. I never lived under the Qun, but they did, and it gets me all heated. And Bull likes to stir the pot. Called me Tal-Vashoth the other day." She rolls her eyes. "Asshole. He knew it would get under my skin."

She curses without heat, like she isn't really even angry with him, but Josephine thinks she knows better; she's never heard Adaar's voice so full of emotion, and it's a far cry from being raised in anger, but it's still more than she's letting on. Her dismissal, though, reveals how little she wants to dwell on her anger, so Josephine allows her to let it go.

"Your parents lived under the Qun?" she asks instead. "How did they escape?"

Adaar's grin comes back, bright and easy. "It's a harrowing story," she says. "I probably can't tell it as well as Leliana would, but I'll try, if you want."

"I'd love to hear it," Josephine says with an encouraging smile.

She's astonished when Adaar finally leaves to find that, according to her candle clock, two hours have passed. Usually she takes only half an hour for midday; she will have to work fast or work late to make up for the time she's lost, but she can't bring herself to call it wasted. Adaar is not a bard, but the tales of her parents are so rich and genuine that her lack of flowery language and singing voice doesn't matter at all.

Chapter Text

My lady,

I know your campaign is as trying as ever, especially with the reports of rain we've received from the Storm Coast, but if you have the time, would you kindly review the attached issues?

I wish you success in your pursuit of the Wardens.

Josephine

"Letters from mistress prim and proper, is it?" Sera leans on Adaar's shoulder, reading, and Adaar lets her. There's nothing personal in there, anyway, and Sera figures that out soon enough, reaching down to flip through the extra pages with a disgruntled snort. "What, that's it?"

Adaar laughs; Sera flops down on her bedroll. Neither of them have been properly dry in at least a week, and the inside of the tent smells musty and damp because of it. The rain drums on against the canvas, just like it's done every night on this all-gods-forsaken coast, and their lantern flickers with the breeze that's still finding a hole to get through somewhere, threatening to go out.

"What did you expect?" Adaar asks, grinning. "Dirty pictures?"

"Something more interesting than all that noble-talk, anyway. I wish you success," she mimics, and Adaar chuckles good-naturedly. "Josephine's nice enough, but soon as you overhear her talking to some important cock, you remember she's not like us."

Adaar hangs onto her smile, but it's a near thing. "Of course she's not. She wouldn't be any good at her job if she was. And we wouldn't be any good at our jobs if we were like her."

That's the truth, and isn't Sera sharper than she lets on, to get at the heart of the matter so quickly—that no matter how many trinkets Adaar sends, no matter how many words she reads into, she and Josephine belong to entirely different classes of people, mark on her hand or not. She might be the Herald, but she's still a Vashoth, an outcast, a thug; Josephine might be lowering herself to the cold and snow of Haven, but she still wears gold like she was born to it.

Sera groans. "You're getting all in your head again. Stop it, yeah?"

"Sorry, sorry." Adaar puts the stack of missives down on her knees. "What do you want to talk about, then?"

Sera mulls this over, arms folded beneath her head, one leg crossed over the other, a bare toe dancing to an unknown beat in midair. "Weaponized insects," she decides.

"What, like…flies?"

"No," Sera says, a dreamy smile crossing her face. "Bees."

Adaar pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment and puts Josephine from her mind. "Continue."

Sera's snoring by the time Adaar gets around to writing her replies. Foolish or not, she slips a shiny piece of fire agate into the letter. The firelight picks out all the shimmers of color in its depths. It seems like the sort of pretty thing Josephine would like.

She deserves pretty things. No one would argue that.

Even when the swing of Bull's practice axe nearly puts her on her back in a snow drift, Adaar is obscenely, terribly happy to be back in Haven. It's not raining, and even if the snow gets beneath her scarf, even if the cold sneaks under her armor and settles deep in her bones, at least she's dry.

Bull grunts and swings again. She ducks neatly. It's nice to fight someone her own size; it takes a lot of flexibility to duck under blows from people smaller than she is. Bull, of course, has fought plenty of people their size, so he knows plenty of her tricks, but she's got a few still left to her.

He's slow. Not as slow as he could be, given the size of that axe he likes to lug around, but a lot slower than her. He's still finishing a swing that missed her by the time she dances around him and smacks his shoulder with her practice dagger. She's gone again, well out of range, by the time he heaves around to attack her.

He roars his irritation. She grins. He deserves the winding up, honestly.

"Just imagine if I had all my grenades," she taunts, jumping over a blow he aims at her knee. "You'd be dead before you even saw me."

"If I had my actual blade, it would take one swing to chop you in half."

She somersaults under and around his heavy overhand strike; one of her dull blades is around his throat and under his chin before he can begin to straighten up, the other pressed lightly to his ribs in warning.

"If you could catch me, anyway," She takes her blades away and gives him a good-natured shove forward. To his credit, he hardly moves. He's like a damn mountain that way.

He finally laughs, though, shouldering the axe. "Someone's caught you before." His eye wanders up to her broken horn, casual, but she knows bait when she hears it.

She tucks her daggers away and doesn't blink. She smiles, too, all small and embarrassed-like. "I smacked it on the roof of a cave. Never heard the end of it, but no one sawed it off or anything." Deep inside her chest, her heart beats a little faster.

"If you say so, boss," he says—amicably enough, but she's sure he heard the lie, even if he's letting it go for now.

He wanders off toward Krem, who calls, "Nice one, your Worship!"

Bull points his axe at Krem. "Who pays you, asshole?"

"Technically the Inquisition, Chief. Right now, anyway." It's good for him, Krem mouths, and grins at her.

Adaar brushes the snow off her gloves and turns back toward Haven's massive doors. Josephine's standing there, not far off, her face flushed with cold. The heartbeat that had begun to fade picks up again.

"What can I do for you, Lady Montilyet?" she asks, sure that there's some form or order that needs to be signed, a project that needs to be seen to.

To her surprise, though, Josephine only shifts her feet and says hesitantly, "I've heard of your skill from what seems like the entirety of Haven; I thought I should witness it firsthand."

"Ah. Well." All her confidence during her snarking with Bull goes completely out of her; she ducks her head and rubs the back of her neck, avoiding Josephine's eyes. "They exaggerate. I'm nothing special."

"You can't possibly mean that." There's a shiver of excitement in Josephine's voice. "Leliana favors a bow, it's true, but she has considerable skill with daggers, and I think you would more than outmatch her. You're so fast."

"It just looks that way, because I'm so, so tall." The heat creeping up her neck makes her wish she could fling herself into the nearest snowdrift. "And Bull is really slow. Makes me look good."

"Are you always so modest?" When Adaar chances a look up, Josephine is giving her the most bemused of smiles, her eyes glimmering in the thin sunlight.

Adaar smiles back, knee-jerk. It's impossible not to. "Not at all. You just caught me off guard. You ought to have heard the bragging I was doing to Bull; I'm only trying to tip the scales back to their proper balance."

"Oh," Josephine laughs, "I heard."

"So it was a trick question, then?"

"I don't think any question is a trick, precisely," Josephine hedges, but there is a mischievous curve around the corners of her mouth. "Did you really break your horn on the roof of a cave?"

Adaar forces herself to chuckle, but her heart has gone out of it. An old unease turns in her gut. "Truthfully? No."

Josephine blinks. She heard that note of foreboding, then, hard as Adaar tried to stamp it down. "My lady—forgive me. You don't like to speak of it. I should not have pried."

Adaar brushes her fingers over the ragged edge of the horn. She remembers the sensation of its breaking—duller than a broken bone, but deeper, too, and grating. No one who knew it would call her my lady.

"It's not a pleasant tale," she replies finally. "I like to spare my listeners' stomachs, that's all."

Josephine nods, understanding. "Then let us speak of more pleasant things. Are you glad to be out of the rain?"

She groans, and Josephine chuckles. They walk back to the Chantry together, talking—or, rather, Josephine talks, and Adaar listens to the bits of gossip and arguments over which noble visitors warrant their own room and which high-thinking merchants think they deserve better meals.

It's all more complex and clever than what Adaar does in the field, but at least Josephine laughs when Adaar tells her about slipping and falling in one of the Storm Coast's many jumped-up rivers. She puts a hand on Adaar's arm when her chuckles have subsided, still grinning.

"Were your bruises seen to, at least?"

"My pride hurts more than my backside, to be honest."

And Josephine's off laughing again, apologizing in between little gasps for air, but Adaar grins wide through the whole bout of it.

Ah, she's a fool, but at least a fool knows the sun-bright touch of Josephine's laughter.

Chapter Text

A shadow moves beyond her office door.

For a moment, the superstition of night and the lingering anxiety of the reports out of Redcliffe frighten her. She gets a good grip on her candelabrum—for all the good it will do her—and calls out, "Is someone there?"

The footsteps return, louder now, and a familiar horned head pokes into her office. Josephine sags back in relief.

"Only me," Adaar says, her voice more subdued than usual—indeed, there's no expression at all on her face, just a vacant look in her dark eyes. "Sorry—I hope I didn't startle you." Finally, her gaze focuses on the candelabrum still clutched in Josephine's fingers, and her lips quirk. "Were you going to hit me with that?"

"I was going to try," Josephine retorts.

The smirk lasts a second longer, but then it fades—drains, really, leaving Adaar's face empty. "It's late," she points out. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Josephine releases the candelabrum—her fingers ache from gripping it too tightly—and shifts around some of the papers on her desk. "I couldn't sleep," she admits.

There is a long pause, and then Adaar comes fully into Josephine's office, the door shutting softly behind her. "Me, neither," she mutters. "D'you want a drink?"

Josephine looks up and realizes that there's a bottle of wine in Adaar's hand. It looks only a little too small for her.

"Yes," she decides, "that would be lovely."

Adaar moves forward, working the cork free, and pauses again. "I didn't bring any glasses," she says, brow furrowing. "I admit, I was going to be completely uncivilized and drink straight from the bottle."

Josephine opens a drawer in her desk and brings out two teacups. "It's not the right kind of stemware, but it will serve."

Adaar pours before she sits, a tea cup full for both of them, and then they drink quietly. Adaar's cup is empty in three deep gulps; it's so quiet that Josephine can hear her swallow. She pours out another. There is something dark, disquieted, in the line of her mouth, the hard set of her shoulders.

"Are you…alright?" Josephine asks, her voice low. A stupid question—she is not alright, and she had only to read the reports secondhand. Adaar's careful penmanship is buried somewhere in the piles on her desk, growing swift and hurried toward the end, as though frantic to finish reliving that waking nightmare.

But she expects Adaar to say she is, anyway, to avoid discussing it. They have not known one another very long, after all, and Josephine is not sure whether she is in Adaar's confidence, so she is surprised when Adaar says, "No. I'm…no, I don't think I am."

She drinks down the second cup and pours out a third, but she lets it sit there and stares into it, frowning deeply. Josephine wants to reach out and touch her mouth, mold it back into the proper shape with her fingers, for it seems to her that Adaar's face was made for smiling, for a guttering laugh and bright eyes—not for this awful melancholy.

Her eyes dart up, and Josephine realizes that she's been staring, but now she's caught by that gaze and can't look away. "Are you?" Adaar says, completely earnest. "You said you couldn't sleep."

Josephine's fingers twitch around her cup. "I'm only a little unnerved. It is nothing."

This is the wrong thing to say, apparently. Adaar's frown becomes more like a scowl. Josephine's never seen the like on her face before; she imagines that this is what Adaar's opponents on the battlefield must feel like, targeted, harried. The blood rushes to her face.

"Why do you say that?" Adaar asks, leaning forward. "Of course it's not nothing. Everyone deserves to feel safe." She snorts, working her hand irritably into the roots of her loose braid. "Listen to me. How can anyone feel safe, when there are people running around who can change time itself?" She lets go of her teacup and rubs both hands over her face, so hard that Josephine is certain it must hurt. "I should have approached the templars," she says, her voice muffled by her fingers. "I've put us all in danger."

"You are being too hard on yourself," Josephine tells her. She wishes she had the right to reach out and pull Adaar's hands away from her face—hold Adaar's fingers in hers, soothe her somehow with touch. The flush on her cheeks burns deeper. This…infatuation…goes too far. Adaar needs a friend, not a besotted girl with her head in the clouds.

Adaar emerges from behind her hands. "Am I?" She picks up her teacup and sips, grimacing. "I don't think so. If I made the wrong move—if the mages can't close the Breach—we will all die."

"We will find another way," Josephine says, more firmly than she feels. "The connections and soldiers you've brought us give us a little time. We have more scholars in Haven every week. We will find a solution, Adaar."

She blinks; her mouth moves again, this time toward a small but warm smile. She eases back in her chair, cradling her teacup. "I believe that's the first time you've called me by my actual name," she says. "I'll have to be distraught more often."

Josephine clears her throat and ducks her head, but she peeks up at Adaar through her lashes to gauge her reaction. "Please forgive the impertinence, Your Worship."

Adaar knows that she's jesting, because she brays out a surprised laugh and nearly sloshes her wine onto her tunic. This, in turn, make Josephine lose her composure, and then they're both laughing, trying to keep their voices down and failing utterly. When the last chuckles have finally subsided, Adaar looks like herself again, steady and a bit flushed, her smile wide, her dark eyes sparkling.

"Will you tell me something, Josephine?" she asks, and her voice is so warm that Josephine immediately forgets any stern words she spoke to herself not five minutes ago. Adaar, grinning now, continues, "What's this about smallclothes and a Chantry board?"

For a blissful moment, Josephine has no idea what she's talking about—and then she starts so violently that she almost upends her teacup. "Leliana," she curses. "What did she tell you?"

"Just what I said," Adaar says, something playful in the way her hand waves vaguely in the air. "I have so many delightful theories—"

Josephine groans.

"—but I'm sure it pales in comparison to the real story." She raises her eyebrows hopefully. "Please?"

Josephine can't turn her down. She wonders if it's terribly obvious. She wonders if Adaar knows. She puts on a show of reluctance, at least; Adaar nearly has to pry the tale from her line by line; but she tells it all the same, and Adaar keeps pouring out the wine, urging her on, until they've drunk the whole bottle between them and the world is a warm, candlelit blur, breathless with laughter. Between her reluctance, and Adaar's frequent asides, the candles have burned half away while they talked.

"It's funny," Adaar says, swirling the last of her wine in her cup. "I never imagined that you would do something so improper."

Josephine gives an indignant harrumph. "I'm drinking wine out of teacups, aren't I?"

"I suppose I just wouldn't put that on the same level as pinning your smalls to a Chantry board to make a statement," Adaar chortles.

"Leliana has always known how to goad me," Josephine sighs. "She implied that I was too buttoned-up and proper—she was not being cruel, not at all, just teasing—and I was a little drunk, and simply couldn't stand for it."

"Buttoned-up?" Adaar repeats, cocking her head to the side.

"Restrained—boring."

"I know what it means, Josephine." She's exasperated, but even so, Josephine thrills a bit at the sound of her name on Adaar's tongue. "I just think it's silly. You're the least boring person I've ever met."

Josephine meets her eyes, startled; Adaar looks away and sets down her empty cup, as though the force of feeling in her voice has surprised even her.

"We should turn in," she says, but reluctantly. "I'm not proud of it, but half a bottle of wine on top of this week has made me feel like an overboiled potato." She gets to her feet, balancing carefully with one hand on Josephine's desk. "Thank you, for the company."

"You're most welcome." Josephine stands, too. "Would you like me to walk with you?"

"No, no, you stay in the warm." She smiles a last, lingering smile. "Good night, Josephine."

She's gone before Josephine can reply, moving quite a bit more quickly than any overboiled potato Josephine's ever come across. She chuckles a little under her breath at the thought, snuffs most of her candles, and carries her candelabrum across the Chantry to the room she shares with Leliana—who is, for once, in bed before her.

"You positively reek of wine." Her mussed red hair emerges from beneath her blankets. Though she was undoubtedly asleep just a minute ago—there is a funny crease on her cheek to attest to just that—her blue eyes are sharp as ever.

Josephine starts the long process of untying and unbuttoning. Her chain of office comes off first. "Adaar came by." She carefully coils the clinking metal into the drawer in her bedside table, fingers absently brushing it once it is neatly piled.

Leliana sits up straight at that, folding her hands primly in her lap. "How is she?"

"Better, now that she's finished laughing at my expense." Josephine sits at the edge of her own bed to remove her shoes and roll her stockings down. "I'd thank you not to mention any more interesting tidbits to her in passing."

"Oh, the smallclothes incident." Leliana's eyes are laughing. "Was she entertained?"

"Terribly." Josephine hesitates, but then she decides she won't share what Adaar said. Surely it was an exaggeration, and Leliana would tell her so, but—she's happy to daydream, just for a little while, of the way Adaar's voice dipped, the burning determination of her eyes.

It's only when she's snuffed out her candelabrum and slipped between her sheets that Leliana says, her voice rising up in the dark, "She stood around in the Chantry for a good five minutes, you know, trying to decide whether or not to disturb you."

Josephine pulls her pillow over her head. "You're supposed to be spying on our enemies, Leliana."

She only chuckles in reply.

Chapter Text

Adaar keeps herself tucked in the corner of the garden, where she won't be noticed.

She'd thought she never got a moment's peace before, but after Haven's destruction, she knows the true meaning of being constantly harangued. If it's not the healers—checking to make certain her bones have healed right, worrying over a tiny bit here or there that's still not quite aligned—then it's every passing servant, gawping; it's every nagging runner, trying to thrust a message into her hands; it's her relentless advisors, running meetings in the war room day after day for hours on end.

Her collarbone always aches at the end of all that, healed or not. It aches now, too, with the sun slipping below the horizon and the cool mountain air making itself known, but she will endure it. It's this time of day that the garden is emptiest, that she can finally, finally be alone.

Funny. She feels alone all the time now, no matter how many people she's surrounded by. Alone, with the icy burn of the anchor in the palm of her hand, her fingers clenched around it. She has to pretend, in front of them, but she doesn't have to pretend here.

She hasn't even spoken with Josephine in weeks—well, not without a table between them, anyway, but now that she thinks about it, there's always been a table between them. A mountain of rank and nonsense, too.

Maybe that's why she's pulled away. True, Adaar has not been in top form, but Josephine had at least begun to respond…positively…to her company, while in Haven. Now she seems busy, distracted. There is, of course, a great deal to do, but Adaar wonders if it's a convenient excuse. If she's realized that there can never be anything more than a flirtation between them.

Inquisitor. Adaar's fingers dig tighter into her palm. Another title that means nothing, so long as her blood still runs red, not gold.

She can still feel the slick heat of that dragon's breath, caressing her skin. Tired as she is, she doesn't dare close her eyes. It's better to focus on silly romantic frustrations than to think of the way that thing pulled at her veins and bones, as though the anchor has sunk its claws so deep in her that her whole arm would go along with it if someone tugged hard enough.

"Inquisitor?"

Her heart gives a sad little stutter. She peers cautiously out from behind the gazebo; Josephine stands in the middle of the garden, her eyes narrowed against the sun's parting glare.

"Over here," she calls back softly, and Josephine turns toward her, smiling.

"They're serving supper," she says, picking her way across the uneven ground. "No one had seen you, so a few of us went looking."

Adaar settles back on her bench. "That's alright. I'm not very hungry." At Josephine's concerned look, she hastens to add, "I ate earlier. Really. I'm fine."

Josephine sits beside her, a few scant inches between them. "Are you certain? You've seemed…"

Adaar waits, but Josephine doesn't go on. "What?" she prompts, trying to keep the edge out of her voice. "I've seemed what?"

"Sad," Josephine says, her hands picking at the many fine embroideries on her sleeves. "Sometimes, when we're in the war room, you…I see you staring at the map. At Haven." She reaches up to rest a hand on Adaar's shoulder. Her fingers are unbelievably warm, even through the fabric of Adaar's shirt. "We spoke of it briefly, but…there was a runner standing over my desk, as they do, and it's hard to speak freely in those circumstances. Is there something else? Haven was…" Her fingers tighten, just a little. "And you had to wander through the snow for hours with broken bones just to find us. We thought you were…" She blinks rapidly; her voice has gone thick.

"I'm here," Adaar tells her, both astonished and a little ashamed. She has, of course, given Josephine too little credit. "Would you believe me if I said that's not the worst wandering I've ever done?"

"It was the worst I have ever done," Josephine informs her. "And worst of all was believing I'd lost a friend I'd only just begun to know."

Adaar doesn't know what to say to that at all. She's not sure she could get the words past her closed throat even if she knew the right ones. Instead of speaking, then, she puts an arm around Josephine, drawing her close against her side, and Josephine leans against her shoulder, one arm sneaking around Adaar's waist.

She can be happy with this, she tells herself. Josephine's friendship, after all, is a wonderful enough thing, something that makes her feel that much less adrift. Someday, she'll forget her infatuation. She has a lot to do, anyway; she'll have little time for romance, hunting far and wide away from Skyhold for rifts and demons and who knows what else.

But a friend? She needs a friend.

"Listen," Adaar says, when the threat of emotion has receded far enough for her to speak clearly. "Maybe I'm hungry after all. Let's…let's sneak something from the kitchens, go up on the battlements. Have a picnic. You wouldn't believe the view up there at night. Makes it worth all that marching."

Josephine pulls back a little to look up at her, and—Adaar, for all her attempts to rationalize, to be pragmatic, just doesn't think she ever won't find those eyes utterly beautiful, especially with the sun cutting down and lighting them as if from within, a soft diffuse glow of gray and a bit of green and brown here and there, framed by the soft fan of her lashes.

She can sit on her stupid feelings, at least. She's done it before.

"I would be delighted," Josephine tells her, so Adaar gets to her feet and offers her a hand up.

The cook is an unbearably kind woman who sends them on their way with a jug of mulled cider and the kind of food suitable for picnics: warm bread, cheese, fruit, some of those small meat pies that Adaar loves so much. They take extra blankets from the crates of supplies, just in case the mountain chill becomes too much. On their way to the wall, Adaar picks a few of the flowers that have grown wild in Skyhold over the ages, and once they've found a secluded stretch on the southern ramparts, they spread their blanket and lay the flowers in the middle and watch the color go out of the sky, eating quietly.

"My word," Josephine breathes, when the stars have all come out.

"You're always tucked in your office by the time the sun sets. See that constellation there?" Adaar leans over and down, to Josephine's eye level, and points to the sky. "Fervenial—the Oak."

"I admit, I haven't spent much time staring at the sky since my childhood, but Voyager was always my favorite." Josephine leans in, too, straining her neck up a bit—Adaar smothers a laugh—and points to a different part of the sky, sketching the shape of a ship with her elegant fingers. "Peraquialus."

"Why that one?" Adaar asks.

Josephine laughs, too, the sound ripe with embarrassment. "My mother told me wild tales of it—that it was one of our ships, sailing away to other stars to trade. She'd tell me it would return someday with the cooled hearts of tired suns, and we'd rebuild our lost fleets…ah, it was a silly fantasy, but I'm fond of it." She pops another blueberry between her lips; they've stained her mouth a bit purple. "Why the Oak?"

"There was an oak tree beside our house, the place that my parents built for us." Adaar tears off a piece of bread and chews, remembering. "There weren't trees like it in Par Vollen, they told me. To them, it was a symbol of a fresh start, a new life. To me, it was home. Even when they were gone."

Josephine's face falls. "Forgive me—I didn't know."

"It was long ago," Adaar reassures her. The pain is old, barely felt; she remembers better her parents' brief smiles, their subtle touches of affection. "The wasting—not the best way to go, not the quickest, but they weren't unhappy. They'd had nearly twenty years, built a quiet, peaceful life. And of course, they went together, as they did in everything." She chuckles, and Josephine smiles. "I couldn't see staying to tend the farm myself, not without them, and I wanted to explore the world, so I asked one of the locals to look after the house for me, use the fields if she wanted. I haven't been back since the Conclave. I hope she's alright."

"You have the full resources of the Inquisition now," Josephine reminds her. "We could always send someone."

Adaar considers it, but she already knows the answer. "It'd feel wrong, not going myself."

Josephine nods. "I understand. Maybe, when things are more…settled, you'll get a chance." In the dark, Adaar can't quite make out her expression—a little timid, maybe, nervous? Absurd. Josephine doesn't have nerves. "If you'd like company, I'd be happy to go with you. If you don't, of course, I understand."

Oh. Emotion rises in her throat again, threatening to choke off any words of gratitude. She forces them through. "I'd appreciate it, but what about your work?"

Josephine waves this off. "I'll have to work from the saddle eventually. There are already half a dozen events I'll need to attend in person, and I do have a few secretaries. Skyhold won't fall in my absence."

"I don't know," Adaar says, a little dubious. "Cullen and Leliana might get up to something while you're not here to keep them level."

Josephine laughs, bright in the crisp mountain air. They stay, blankets wrapped around their shoulders, passing the flask back and forth between them, until all their food is gone and only the night watch is left awake.

Adaar's heart is more snared than ever before, but in the end, she decides she doesn't mind. That there might be more nights left in the world like this, with Josephine's warmth huddled close to her and the stars all glittering like jewels, is enough. For now.

She is, at heart, her parents' daughter, really—always clinging to hope, to one last chance. She doesn't fault them for passing that on to her. They found their happy ending on just that sliver of an opportunity and a whole lot of effort.

Maybe she will, too.