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They’re in bloom again. They only like to grow in one corner of the courtyard.
Giselle knows why he hangs around the chess table so much, even when no one is playing against him. She clips them, finds a vase and leaves it in his tower.
The vase is always her favourite colour.
There’s water in there too, he can feel it moving gently as he walks through the winds, and through the main hall. No one questions him.
The stairwell is cool, though the air feels stale. There used to be more movement through it, keeping the air fresh.
Even the birds are gone from the landing. They used to wake her, them, in the mornings, peck at them for bread in the evenings.
He doesn’t dwell, knocking on the last door to her private chambers, only opening the door when he hears a muffled “Come in”.
Her room is warm from the sun coming in the windows. Splashes of colour on the wall behind him and he likes looking at it.They used to sit and read on the sofa by the banister. Sometimes they even pulled it out onto a balcony.
He stops at the top of the stairs and looks around the room. Neat, as always. Letters and paperwork stacked on her desk neatly. Not a single speck out of place.
His eyes settle on her, sitting on the bed, looking at him and a letter poised in her hands. “Hello, Commander.” He’d think her bored if he didn’t know better.
"Hello, Lavellan." He steps forward, carefully replacing the vase by her bed. The one on the desk, and the mantle of the fireplace are due to be replaced in a few days.
"You do not need to do that." He’s still facing away from her and bites down hard on his lip. He doesn’t answer and comes to kneel in front of her, hands gentle on her knees. He nods to the letter in her hands.
"From the clan." She blinks at it slowly. Always slowly. "I do not know an appropriate response." He nods and gently takes it from her hands, laying it beside her on the bed.
"How do you think you should reply?" She looks at the letter then back to him, placid and calm. Even when he takes her hands in his.
"I should inform them I am safe and comfortable." He squeezes her hands and nods, forehead coming to rest against her knuckles.
He can’t speak. Every time he tries, a choked noise comes out. She’s gone. She’s gone and she isn’t coming back. He bows forward, head coming to rest on her knees as he cries silently, tears hitting her slippers.
She doesn’t try to move or stop him. She doesn’t do anything.
"I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry." She gently, silently, places a hand on his shoulder, a mockery of the comfort that would be given and he clenches his eyes shut.
"They were your favourite flowers."
"I know."