Chapter Text
She watches, high atop the battlements as the first contingent sets out on horseback for Adamant Fortress. The main force will follow shortly behind - a day at most, two maybe for those with mounts to gather and messages to deliver. But there’s something special about that first parade.
They’ll meet with the siege weapons outside of Jader and slowly but surely the force will grow as they pass through Orlais - it’ll be a motley mix by the time they skirt Halamshiral. But now - now there’s gleaming silver and striking red, mounts in matching tack and banners held high and straight.
And at the front, the Inquisitor, flanked by Cassandra and Vivienne, sitting tall and proud on fine steeds. If she looks to the left, she can just catch Leliana in the ranks, and here and there other familiar faces.
It’s beautiful, in its way. Sobering, to be certain - this is not to be the last battle, but it is to be a hard one, and everyone knows it. But there is muted cheer, still there. Pride in the force they’ve built, and determination in their march.
She smiles, and she raises her hand as the Inquisitor twists in her seat long enough to look back, sun glinting bright off the silver of her horns. A wink, if she squints.
She can’t see the return smile, but she knows it’s there - and it’s that lingering warmth that she takes back with her to the quiet, and suddenly very empty, courtyard.
It’s not so for long, of course. The keep is not just soldiers, not by far. And once they have cleared the way, it takes very little time for the keep to resume it’s usual bustle.
She does not receive anything with the first couple of reports. Standard things - who has joined the march, who has allowed them to travel through, what favors are now owed to ease the way. Leliana’s people are busy, flitting in and out of the rookery not unlike the birds they keep. She has her own list of responsibilities to tend to, both in favor of their travelling army, and in maintaining their appearance despite the emptiness of the hold. It wouldn’t do for any visiting, wandering nobles to get any ideas, with all the space to spread their egos.
She does not receive anything - cannot, in the flurry of a march - but she remembers that look back, and holds it close.
The first letter is bound in blue ribbon, and Josephine smiles, even as the courier titters and swoons, the raven perched on her arm cocking its head curiously. She shoos the woman away with a laugh.
The Inquisitor doesn’t carry ribbon with her, but a certain friend does happen to know both Hissera’s favorite color, and the fastest way to Josephine’s heart.
That her friend would take the time, the care, with her…with Hissera’s letter means the world to her.
The letter is short, sweet. A simple, but needed, all-clear from the front. A short story about the latest prank from Sera (welcome, currently, in the tense camps). A hello and a reminder to get some rest from Kost. Some observations on the rest of the crew. Subtle in it’s reassurances, comforting in it’s familiarity.
She only rarely wishes to join them, out in the field. And as she passes a letter, stamped with blue wax, to a still smiling courier, she finds this is one of those times, fleeting though it is.
But Hissera is needed there, and she is needed here. And if she finds some small mercy in the need for her attention, that is between her and the Maker.
Another letter, wrapped in blue. They are marching on Adamant tomorrow. The day before last.
A kindness, she thinks, as her fingers crinkle the edges of the paper, as she forces herself to let go and smooth it back out, that distance is all it takes to remind one that time keeps moving without you.
There is no news for three days.
The whole keep feels heavy. Nobles chatter quietly in the hall, and retire much earlier than traditionally polite. The courtyard is bare by sundown, rough-trod paths in the grass and dirt seeming deeper as of late. The tavern is busy, but there is no song floating up to her window as she burns through another candle.
She shares a weary smile with Elan, though neither breaks the dusk-lit quiet of the garden when she finally makes it down. For now, they are the only ones inside these walls.
The next time Josephine looks up, even she is gone.
The gazebo is a favorite place of theirs. And she has avoided it in the weeks since the army left. But now, she sits on the cold stone, and watches the stars slowly wink to life above the keep’s walls, trailing the cloak of night as it’s pulled over the mountains.
Watches, and waits, for a glint of blue on the wing.
It’s a wave that wakes her. A swell of sound from the courtyard, the tavern. A cheer she can’t quite parse as she blinks sleep stung eyes and stretches out a stone-sore back. A song on the winds - the first in days. And when she looks to the rookery, she sees it. A banner thrown over the balcony - in victory, announcing what a raven cannot to the crowd.
She’s up the stairs before she’s had a chance to smooth out her skirts - to press down her windswept hair.
She doesn’t care.
They are coming home.
It’s another day before a true report comes in. It’s still only a rough outline of what happened - there’s only so much a crow can carry - but it is enough.
The keep is alive again with chatter, with song.
Casualties will come later. Will be mourned, later. For now, there is a victory to celebrate, and a homecoming to plan. They have three weeks still, at least, but it is nice to have something to focus on, to look forward to.
There is no blue ribbon, but there is a note included explaining that Leliana’s non-essential pack was lost. She’ll be more careful in the future. And it is such a…needless frivolity, that all she can do is laugh, sticky and sweet in her throat as she swipes away tears. Of joy, of worry, she cannot tell.
This letter can’t quite manage reassuring, though it tries. She tries. But Josephine has already heard some of the more detailed reports.
Hours on the battlements, swarms of demons and half-mad Wardens, after seeing their Inquisitor fall. Watching her disappear into a rift the size of Adamant itself. The demons vanishing and the Wardens regaining their minds as she comes tumbling back into the world.
She came back. She came back, and she wrote this letter, and this was all days and days ago, and Josephine only knows a small fraction. She is lost without information, but cannot untangle what she has in her grasp.
Her assistant takes one look at her and shoos her away. But to where? Where should she go? The garden is full, the tavern lively again, and the courtyard bustling. The hall is full of smiles and gossip, and she has no wit to spare.
There is nary a sideways glance as she slips through the door aside the throne. Whispers follow her up, echoing off bare stone walls, but sliding around her with nowhere to hold.
She has been here plenty of times, though never alone. Has never thought to…intrude like this.
With a fire lit, and her legs curled up under her on the couch as she reads the letter again, again, it feels less like intrusion, and more like small comfort.
The first few crews begin marching into Skyhold in two weeks time - on strong mounts, with sturdy caravans, with people who need special tending to, and those with information for allies. She is busy planning, writing letters, and starting homecoming celebrations ahead of time. It’s not the full festivities they have earned, but it seems these few are more than willing to wait.
She is on the battlements every time a horn calls an approach. Has ruined at least one letter with spilled ink in her rush to see.
She is back in her seat, heartwarmed at the numbers returning, but quietly worried, every time yet. She knows, she knows, Hissera stayed back with the main contingent. Has the very letter apologizing - Maker! Apologizing! - for the delay at her right elbow on her desk even. She chose to ride home with her soldiers, as a leader should.
And Josephine would not take that from her. She is proud, even as she is…not jealous. There is no place for that, not here. But she does envy that camp, when she lets herself imagine it.
A week more. That is all.