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Josephine rose when Branwen approached her desk. That was Branwen’s first inkling that something was wrong. Josephine was always polite, and always kind, but she was also so busy that she often barely looked up from her correspondence.
But this time she stood, and her face was serious, and she held out a folded piece of parchment to Branwen, saying, “Inquisitor, this arrived for you today.”
That was unlike Josephine, too, to dispense with the pleasantries. The smile Branwen was accustomed to wear when she spoke to her ambassador faded. She reached out to take the missive, her arm moving automatically even though she wanted to stop herself. “What’s this about?” she asked.
“It’s better if you read it,” Josephine said. “I’m sorry.”
The letter had been opened, of course; Josephine’s people opened all correspondence addressed to the Inquisitor. This letter had an unfamiliar wax seal on it, now cracked. It was short, so it took very little time for Branwen to read the contents.
Ambassador Montilyet,
I regret that my help for your Dalish allies came too late to be of use. By the time my forces arrived in the area, the Dalish had been scattered or killed, and there seems little left of their clan.
I understand your Inquisitor must be feeling the loss of her clan. Please accept these gifts and my promise of future help whenever it is necessary.
Yours,
Duke Antoine of Wycome
Branwen read the letter again, and a third time.
“I am so sorry,” Josephine said.
“I don’t... understand,” Branwen said. The letter meant nothing more a fourth time.
Josephine shifted in place, with a rustle of silk. “You will recall your clan’s Keeper had written to complain of bandits. We asked Duke Antoine to look into the situation—he cannot allow bandits free reign of his territory, after all—and I am afraid this was the reply.”
“Right,” Branwen said. Her voice sounded normal, almost, although it also felt as though it wasn’t quite hers, as though it came from somewhere far away. “I see.”
“I am so very sorry,” Josephine repeated. “We may have agents in the area who could make further inquiries, perhaps locate any survivors...”
“All right,” Branwen found herself saying in the same calm, toneless voice. “Yes. If you would.” If it’s not too much trouble, her mind supplied.
“Of course,” Josephine said, her normally smooth brow furrowed. “I’ll discuss it with Leliana. Inquisitor—”
Branwen had already turned to go. She couldn’t remember any more what she had had in mind when she came in here. “Yes?” she asked without turning around.
“Are you— I realize this must be a shock, do you—”
“It’s—” The words all right froze on her lips. “I just need a moment alone.”
She kept moving, one foot in front of the other, and did not hear Josephine’s reply over the blood rushing in her ears.
The bustle and noise of Skyhold’s Great Hall came as a shock. She stared around blankly at the scaffolding and the workers with their hammers, at two dwarves swearing at each other as they wrestled with a load of timber. No. Not here. She couldn’t be here right now, nor the tavern, nor the library, nor the courtyard, nor—
She needed to be somewhere apart. Alone. She’d been told over and over again how people looked up to their Inquisitor. They couldn’t see her go to pieces now, and Branwen thought she might—just fly apart, or dissolve into nothing. What would they think of her, if she burst into tears like a child? She was supposed to give them hope; that’s what everyone said.
Her feet carried her to the door leading up to her quarters. Once the solid oak slab had shut behind her, she tilted, pressed her hands and forehead against the wall until the cool gritty texture of the stone stung her skin. It helped ground her against the light-headedness and rising nausea, and there she stayed, head against the rough stone until she was sure she wouldn’t faint. Only then did she start the climb up the stairs.
Mother. Oh, mother, her golden hair threaded with silver, but her eyes as sharp and her hands as deft as ever, always smelling of leather. The Keeper, her face so lined that her vallaslin blended into her wrinkles, who always had a kind word and a sweet for the children. Laughing Fioled and her son, as near to being Branwen’s sister and nephew as anyone could be, and shy, kind Davi, who’d waited until Fioled finally looked around her and saw what was under her nose. Old Gheron, who remembered all the tales, even as his sight failed. Kerrith with his swift bow, one of Branwen’s dearest friends, and his Awena, dark and plump and a masterful maker of vallaslin. Tellin, so gifted at working wood and ironbark. Carys, who danced as graceful as a halla even thought she was past fifty.
She thought of another name with every step. She was no Keeper, but she would remember—she had to—for there might be none but herself left to remember. Scattered or killed, the letter had said, as if it made no difference, and she supposed it didn’t, to a shem lord.
By the time Branwen reached the top, she could hardly see through the film of tears in her eyes. Her quarters seemed too large, echoing with the sound of her footsteps, and at the same time so close she could hardly breathe. She stumbled across the room to the balcony, where at least the air was fresh and cold, and there she let her knees give way at last. She sat with her back to the wall, her arms curled around her knees. The first sob tore at her throat; they came out rough and loud, like the cries of some beast, uncontrollable. Her lungs heaved, so that every breath she took in led to a fresh sob.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed before her sobs quieted, though her cheeks were still wet. Her head seemed too heavy to hold up any longer, so she let it rest against her knees. She opened and closed her left hand, without looking at it. If not for the cursed mark, she’d have been back home weeks ago, back where she belonged, helping to protect the clan. She had a duty to help all the people of Thedas now—the mark had seen to that—but before that, her duty had been to them, her own people, her own clan. She had failed in that. She hadn’t been there when they needed her.
Branwen only realized she wasn’t alone when she felt a shadow pass over her.
“You might not have mattered,” Cole said.
She gritted her teeth against the sudden wave of anger at the intrusion. Of course Cole had come. He could hardly help it, could he? He was drawn to other people’s suffering like a moth to a campfire. She tightened her arms around her knees and held her tongue between her teeth to make herself think, so that she wouldn’t say something cruel in the heat of the moment. Cole only wanted to help. Other people might have mixed motivations, but his intentions were pure. It was his nature. She lifted her head and opened her eyes, blinking once against the light. Her eyes felt swollen and gritty. “It’s all right, Cole.”
“But you’re sad,” he said. “You hurt, because you thought they were safe and they weren’t.”
Her jaw clenched. She’d never been the target at which his insights aimed, before, sharper than any arrows. “Yes, but. Sometimes people have to work through things on their own. They don’t need help.”
“No,” he said, with that faint air of puzzlement. “Why? That’s not right. I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t help.”
She lifted her hand, palm out, and turned her head to look at him. “I don’t want to forget,” she said, her voice sharp with urgency. “I want to remember everything. Even the parts that hurt. Don’t make me forget a thing.” She couldn’t forget a one of them, and she couldn’t forget, either, the mistakes she’d made.
“I won’t,” Cole said.
Branwen let out a breath, and a little of the tension in her chest and back and shoulders loosened. “Thank you.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
She sighed, and laid her head back down against her knees. “Sometimes you don’t need to do anything, Cole. I’ll be all right. I just... I just need some time to be alone.”
“You’re mourning the pack,” he said. “Should you do that alone? Oh! I know!”
“It’s not like that,” she said, but Cole had already disappeared, leaving her sitting alone on the balcony in the slanted afternoon light.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes. Her well of tears felt empty, leaving her heavy and exhausted. She could sleep, perhaps, in spite of the chill of the air. When she woke, her clan would still be lost, but for an hour or two, she could cease to feel it.
She might have drifted off, if only for a short time. She couldn’t be sure, but she started when she heard a crisp knock coming from somewhere in her quarters. Her head jerked up, and her muscles, cold and stiff, protested the sudden motion.
“Inquisitor?” It was Solas’ voice she heard, carrying through the room. “Forgive the intrusion, but Cole said you might have need of me?”
Her arms tightened around her knees. Of course Cole would know. Solas was the person she most wanted to see, a selfish ache deep down in her heart, but... much as she wanted to beg comfort from him, she feared it, too. Every time Solas showed her something of his heart, he stepped back afterward. Always one step toward, and one away. Right now she wasn’t sure she could bear it. Perhaps, if she stayed very still and very quiet, he would simply go, and think he’d missed her.
She couldn’t hear his footfalls on the soft carpet, but she could hear his voice growing nearer. “Branwen?” There was a pause, a weighted silence while she huddled into herself, and then he stepped out onto the balcony and dropped to a kneel beside her. “What has happened?”
His tone was level. His gaze was steady, penetrating, with more than a hint of concern, and she could not resist it. The words spilled out of her, disjointed, not forming a proper story at all:
Josephine said the duke would help, she said, and My clan... there were bandits...
Solas would have told it better, a small part of her thought, in those even cadences he used to speak of his journeys in the Fade. Varric would have told it better, too, would have found a way to make it mean something. Instead, it was just a cold, small story of death and loss, one more page to add to the stories of the Dalish. But it was all out, at last, in some kind of order, and she fell into silence, staring out through the stone railing to the mountains beyond.
Solas shifted, so that he sat beside her rather than knelt. He said nothing, but stretched an arm around her shoulders. Branwen took in a breath. The warmth of him, seeping into her side, made her more aware of how cold she had grown. The unexpected contact—that he’d known what she wanted and offered it without asking—made a few more hot tears trickle out of her eyes. “Are we awake?” she asked.
Solas chuckled, no more than a breath. “Yes. We are awake, and not in the Fade.” He was silent for a moment. “I am sorry, for your loss.”
“I forgot,” she said. Her voice shook. “I was a fool. Josephine made it sound so reasonable—just ask the duke, it’s his responsibility to deal with bandits. But I forgot. I forgot that shem nobles don’t care what happens to us.”
“It’s often convenient for a ruler to ignore those who are already despised.” Solas spoke in his usual calm, even tone.
Branwen’s breath hitched. She let it out in a sigh, and dared to lean a little closer to him, soaking up the warmth. “We’re expendable,” she said. “I can’t forget that they think of us that way. They might be willing to call me Inquisitor and be polite to my face, but that doesn’t protect a single other one of my people.” Her status hadn’t protected her clan. It seemed so foolish, looking back, that she had imagined it would.
“That is unfortunately true.”
She sighed and let her head droop. “I thought they were safe,” she whispered. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to go home for a long time, but I thought they were safe, so it would be all right.”
“I am sorry,” Solas said again.
She said nothing more, and neither did he. She didn’t mind. The quiet was welcome, and it was enough to have company.
The sky was darkening when she finally sighed and made to rise. Solas stood first, with his usual smooth, controlled motion, and offered his hands to pull Branwen to her feet. She was glad enough of the help, since her every muscle seemed to have locked up. Once on her feet, she had to stretch, slowly, trying to shed the chill and stiffness that had crept right down to her bones. She felt far older than her years as she made her way back into the greater warmth of her quarters. “Thank you,” she said, suddenly self-conscious—to her knowledge, Solas had never been up here before, and she was hardly at her best.
“I am glad if I was able to help,” he said with a slight smile.
“You did,” she said.
“You need not bear this entirely alone,” Solas said, serious now.
“I— thank you,” she said again. Cole had been right, she thought, had brought her the right companion. She was more grateful than she could say, to both of them.
“Are you ready to go out?” Solas asked. “You need not, if you need more time.”
She shook her head. “Just give me a minute.” A splash of cold water, to ease her swollen eyes, and she could bear to face the Inquisition again.
When they emerged from the long stairway into the bustle of the hall, the heat and noise rose up around her, soothing in its normality. Varric and Dorian were making their way across the hall toward her, somehow keeping in step in spite of the disparity in their heights. “There you are,” Varric said as they closed the distance. “How are you holding up? Ruffles said you’d had some bad news.” His smile was, as always, kind, even if there was something perpetually heavy at the back of his eyes. Today, Branwen felt like her own answering smile, weak as it was, matched that heaviness.
“I... did,” she said, not wanting to say too much, to unleash her grief again, here in the middle of the crowded hall.
“I find a sure remedy for that is drink,” said Dorian. “Join us?”
“Bull said he’d save us a table,” Varric said. “Though we might have to share with the Chargers.”
She smiled again, a little more real this time. These were her people, too, and so many of them couldn’t go home, either.
It didn’t make up for the ones she was missing, but it helped, for now.