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It takes weeks for the first shipment of food to arrive; the Frostbacks are unforgiving at the best of times, but in the cold clutch of winter, travel is nothing if not harrowing. It’s nothing outstanding; barrels of vegetables grown cold in the frost, bags of rice, a few casks of oats to boil into gruel.
All of them are accustomed to hunger, of the gnaw of a stomach gone empty for days, save perhaps a mouthful of watery broth or a stew of mushrooms and weeds, so the sight of fresh food brightens the spirit of everyone within Skyhold, adds a sparkle to the faces of the stableboys, the maids, the Inner Circle alike.
Malfinneth chews a piece of jerky as she watches the proceedings from the parapets, her golden hair plaited close to her head. Her pointed ears are raw from the cold, the chill easing its fingers beneath her heavy woolen blouse, the collar lined with fur, tickling the underside of her jaw. Over her shoulders rests a vibrant green mantle, the ends flicking to and fro in the breeze.
Iron Bull and the Chargers are helping unload the carts, whooping in the way that they do, Bull yelling something or other about sticking Rocky in one and rolling it down a hill until he pukes.
The jerky leaves her mouth tasting of woodsmoke, almost like the kind she grew up on. Her clan thrived mostly on what she and the other hunters could catch; there were silvery fishes plucked straight from streams, finicky squirrels pinned to trees by clever arrows, rabbits lured into traps, other small animals which were quick, but aplenty. Larger game was rare.
What they could not catch, they foraged, earthy mushrooms pulled from the soft soil, berries, fat grubs squirming beneath fallen logs. That particular detail had caused Josephine to blanch. The memory pulls a soft giggle from Malfinneth’s throat, warming her gut despite the cold.
“Something amusing?”
She had heard him approaching, of course, though his bare feet were quiet on the stone. He’s dressed in his usual attire, that awful fur-lined vest, the patchy leggings, though neither his face nor his bare toes show signs of the cold.
Solas carries a wrapped package beneath one arm, a grin slanting the fullness of his lips.
“A little,” Malfinneth replies, “Just remembering Josie’s face when I told her the staples of a Dalish diet.”
He makes a thoughtful noise, that smile broadening as she eyes the package beneath his arm.
“I hope you’ve brought something to eat that isn’t dried meat or stale bread. Otherwise, I might have to throw you over the wall.”
His breath comes as mist as he laughs, the sound thrumming all the way down to her soles, bubbling like that expensive Orlesian champagne Vivienne likes so much. It’s a sound she’ll never tire of, one that she’s determined to coax from him again and again, because she hears so little of it, because his joy latches onto her bones like nothing ever has.
She doesn’t realize she’s staring until his gaze lowers and - yes, that’s a blush on his cheeks.
“You shall see when you open it.”
He pushes it into her hands, their fingertips brushing. The package is heavy, square, wrapped in waxed paper and tied with twine. Her gloved fingers undo the knots with ease, unfolding the paper gently away from the box.
She feels his eyes on her face the entire time, which brings a blush of her own to her cheeks, poorly disguised from the cold. The lid is next. Her lips part on a little noise as its contents are revealed; nestled in the middle is a jar of honey, dark, more copper than gold in color, the cork sealed in a thick coating of wax.
She runs her fingertips down the glass. “I haven’t had honey in ages. How did you get this?”
Solas cants his head to the side. “Easily,” he says, stepping closer to pry the jar from the box. “But we can discuss that once inside. Cassandra would likely hang me if she knew I kept you out in the cold over a jar of honey.”
His other arm slips easily around her waist, warm, solid, rooting her as a tree to the moment. “Thank you,” she says, for lack of anything else, and before she can think on it, she leans up and kisses him on the mouth, quickly, though the heat of it is no lesser for its brevity.
From down below, someone whistles obnoxiously. Bull, if she has to guess.
He has that look he gets when taken aback, like the first time she kissed him in her dream, when she shows affection for him at all, as if the idea of someone caring for him is startling.
His fingertips run across her brow. “You are welcome.”