Chapter Text
[Two letters exchanged on the heels of Adamant, two months after the peace talks at Halamshiral; the Herald and Yvette have struck up a fast friendship, made possible by a dozen ravens, a great deal of ink and paper, and one particularly audacious courier.]
Dearest Y,
My concerns are perfectly understandable, you know that! If not for an accident of circumstances we never even would’ve met, and now I am dueling in Val Royeaux and dancing in the Winter Palace. Yes, tease me at the soonest opportunity, but please speak well of me to your parents!
Enough of my silliness, though. You asked for my thoughts on Lord J—’s new book of poetry (I think you’re right that it’s his, no one else writes such passionless innuendo), and I have suffered through verse after verse of it. Boring. Not even cliché, just boring. Ugh.
Including a book of my own with this letter; Swords & Shields might be his publisher’s nightmare, but it’s my favorite of Varric’s works. (He wrote this one for Cassandra in particular! What does that say, do you think?) We could both use a little fun.
Good luck with your newest work—capturing the Breach in oils seems a daunting task to me, and we are to the Hissing Wastes next week. I hope you wish me the same, as I haven’t heard a more ominous name for a place since the Fallow Mire. Still, at least it should be dry.
Your friend, confidant, and reluctant literary critic,
Evie
Marvelous Evie,
Is it true that you found the tomb of an ancient king out in the desert? Is it true his ghost was still haunting it? What was the decoration like? Angeline will not stop talking about Tevinter architecture, ugh, as though the inclusion of angles is enough to make something revolutionary. Still, I haven’t told her to shut up yet, which makes me nearly Josephine’s rival in diplomacy. And is it true you fought a dragon there? I have been muddling through your professor’s work on draconology, if only to read his descriptions of them. I hope you were careful—I would hate to lose a friend to an unpleasant belch of fire.
News from here is the same as always; Father is doing a series of sunrises and Mother is having meetings with the shipwrights guild (and their feathered companions, if you can believe that) and my brothers are their usual selves. The King has declared a great celebration to commemorate the burning of Andraste as he does every year—I’ve a new dress, green and gold! Oh, you should see it! I will draw it in the margins. It is better than Angeline’s, I will say, though it will pale in comparison to some of the others in our set. Madrigal is devoted to her namesake's inspiration; she will come out of it with something magnificent and only probably scandalous, I’m sure. There will be dances, as always.
You should have a ball at Skyhold for the occasion! Oh, it would be so exciting, I wish I were there with you! I will settle for your accounting of the outfits, dances, scandalous affairs, and everything else important—I know you won’t let me down. And if nothing interesting happens, please make something up, your letters are the only diverting things in the world.
Your friend, secret keeper, and most interesting correspondent,
Y
---
After their meeting ends, Evelyn lingers at the war table as she so often does, turning one of the markers over in her hands. Cullen makes his exit swiftly, set upon by one of his aides as soon as he clears the threshold, and Leliana leaves with a wink tossed towards Josephine.
It is good to see her with a bit of laughter on her face; the letter from Surana has breathed life back into her friend, just as her talks with Evelyn have. It would just be a little easier if that joy came without the teasing.
There are a dozen contracts that need looking over, and more correspondence that needs Josephine’s seal of approval, and in the last two hours there’s definitely been some kind of incident with the nobility currently staying in Skyhold, but there is a wrinkle in Evelyn’s brow. Josephine lingers.
“My love?” she asks, soft. “What troubles you?”
Evelyn sighs and Josephine thinks of a daydream she has, where she and Leliana work to spirit the Herald away to the estate of any of a dozen nobles that would be honored at her presence and would also give her all the privacy she wanted. The work they do is arduous and Josephine knows she does not rest often, that her sleep is troubled when she does.
“It’s the ninth of Justinian,” she says, and her fist clenches around the marker. “My, ah, forgive me.”
There is the briefest sheen of tears in her eyes, and Josephine is at her side in an instant. Some unmentioned injury, or pain from the Anchor—perhaps she will call for Madame Vivienne or Solas, sent a servant running to fetch them—
“It’s only my brother’s birthday,” Evelyn forces out. “Nothing to worry about, I’m sorry. You don’t need to worry. Please don’t.”
“Darling,” Josephine murmurs, when Evelyn turns. In one motion Josephine’s arms are full of her, tucking her face against the golden silk at her neck, breathing shuddering breaths.
“Do you know,” she says into Josephine’s neck, voice odd but steady, “that when I met Vivienne, she asked why I was at the Conclave?”
“What did you tell her?” Josephine rubs a slow circle on her back, mind racing, connecting disparate pieces: a letter to the Bann sent from Haven, one mention of Lucille Trevelyan’s parties, a few notes exchanged with Lady Bayart. Evelyn rarely speaks of her family at all.
“I lied, of course,” the Herald laughs. There is something bitter in it. Grief. “Said something about order, I think. That’s all we were saying, back then. We clung to it a bit.”
She pulls away, leaving Josephine’s arms empty. But she takes one of her hands, glove rubbing circles on her knuckles.
“I’m the youngest of five, did you know? Of course you know, what am I saying; you probably knew that while I was still unconscious.” Evelyn stares at the center of the map, the x that marks where Haven used to be.
“I had no idea who you were,” Josephine says, careful to keep her voice gentle. “No one did, save perhaps Leliana, until you woke up.”
“Ah.” She doesn’t elaborate.
They stand breathing together in the war room for a very long moment. She holds Josephine’s hand in the most delicate grip.
“Evelyn?” she murmurs, and the Herald breaks her staring match with the map to meet her gaze.
“He was a Templar,” she says. “And my sister was a Sister, of course. It’s what you do, when you’re a Trevelyan. Go into the Chantry, I mean.”
“Oh—”
“So it was a little bit of a reunion,” Evelyn continues. “My parents sent me to see the both of them, to convince me to take my own vows. Do you think they’re proud?”
Josephine can bear no more of it; she cups Evelyn’s cheek with the hand that isn’t being held, draws her close enough for their foreheads to touch. “If they are not, they are fools. I should have asked you, I, I do not often find myself at a loss for words. Forgive me for not knowing.”
“I’m not angry with you,” Evelyn says, eyes going wide. “I promise, Josie, I’m not angry. We don’t need to speak about it.”
“You can be, if it would help you. If I can do anything at all, anything that can ease your heart, you must ask it of me.” She traces her hand through the fall of Evelyn’s hair, strands escaping her bun as they always are.
“We should have a dance,” Evelyn blurts, before she flushes. “That was—disregard it. It’s a ridiculous thought.”
“I will not,” Josephine says instantly, feeling the door close very firmly on the difficult parts of the conversation. She will have to approach it later, stepping carefully, perhaps with a set of lockpicks in hand—Evelyn never wants to trouble her, which is kind, but it makes it rather difficult to get her to open up. “A ball at the scale of Halamshiral would be a challenge to arrange, but it’s not impossible to put things together...”
“Gah,” Evelyn splutters, dropping the marker at last to flail her other hand. “Once was enough. I was so sure I’d forget a step or offend the wrong person, and then we’d all completely fall apart.”
“And you did so well,” Josephine reminds her, smiling.
“I just said increasingly vague things,” she groans, “and it kind of worked itself out around me.”
That is far from accurate. Josephine is hard-pressed to imagine anyone else walking out of Halamshiral with an actual peace agreement between Celene and Gaspard, but she is a diplomat. She knows how to pick her battles.
“Something smaller, then? Maryden knows any number of songs, and we could have someone enchant lights in the garden. A little party, for our people here at Skyhold. It’s a wonderful idea. What brought it to mind?”
In her mind she begins putting things together; guests and some food, nothing elaborate. Music and cards and dancing, one night where the world isn’t ending. Evelyn needs it, she can see, and it will be easy enough to sell the idea to the other advisors.
So it’s understandable that it takes her a moment to react when the Herald says, “Yvette.”
“Yvette?”
“Yes.”
“My Yvette?”
“Yes.”
“When did you even—are you writing to her? Why?”
“We’re friends.”
It is a little as if she’s just been told the sky is orange. Of course the two of them met at the Winter Palace, and Yvette had said something about Josephine never telling her anything, but surely Evelyn hadn’t taken that as an obligation? Yvette is young and excitable, flighty and easily distracted, nothing like Evelyn at all. But... I’m the youngest of five, Evelyn says, and she had been rather kind to Yvette in their conversation.
“Ah.”
“Is that a problem?” Evelyn frowns, concerned. “I’m not telling her anything that might put her at risk, I promise. We mostly discuss books.”
“Do you... want me to invite her to this party?” Josephine asks, still trying to connect Yvette and the Herald of Andraste.
Said Herald of Andraste mercifully shakes her head. “It’s a very long journey, I wouldn’t ask for that. She’s already excited about something the King decreed? A celebration?”
“Yes, of course, to honor Andraste. I nearly forgot about it, remote as we are, but we should arrange an extra service on the day. It’s not much of a holiday outside of Antiva City, honestly, but some of our allies will appreciate it.” Yvette and the Herald of Andraste.
Okay. Stranger things have happened. It’s been a very interesting year.
Clearly she must also write to Yvette, if only to make sure she isn’t telling stories about Josephine’s climbing habits, or her dolls.