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The game was meant harmlessly.  Snow is still a wonder to Kat and the others meant well, showing her how fun it could be.  Kat was laughing at Leliana’s well-aimed throw that landed square in Alistair’s face when another snowball missed its intended mark.

Everyone froze as a low growl grew more audible over their mirth.  Zevran nervously chuckled as Sten turned his eye on the assassin, snow falling from the back of his head where it impacted.

With greater speed than any of them thought him capable, Sten’s retaliation is ferocious.  He doesn’t aim just for Zevran; Sten lobbed snowballs at all of them indiscriminately.

It all happened so fast then came to a crashing halt.

Kat shrieked delightedly as she dodged each throw in her direction.  Her merriment blinded her as suddenly she collided with another body, snowball soaring overhead as they fell to the ground.

Morrigan’s cheeks are flush.  Kat can only blink, her presence of mind completely gone from her.  Whatever apology she should offer gets swallowed when they meet each other’s gaze.

A lump lodges itself in her throat instead.  Morrigan’s breath is hot on her face; Kat feels a little dizzy from it.

“Are you quite comfortable?” Morrigan snaps like the cold.

Immediately, Kat scrambles to stand and offer her hand.  Flustered, “Oh!  Of course!  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean –”

There are boundaries with Morrigan, ones Kat usually maintains.  But this was an accident; she would never cross Morrigan’s personal space on purpose.

Morrigan cuts Kat off, “Tis no trouble.  If not you, then it would have been one of those stray projectiles.  Curiously, this was preferable.”

She brushes the snow off her as she retreats away from the rest of their company, boundary intact.

Kat counts her blessings Morrigan is not more put out.  She begins to wonder how long it will take for the snows to melt, the world to thaw, and if Morrigan will ever let them closer.

----------

Her house creaks and groans against the howling winter winds; the streets of the city as harsh as the peak of a mountain.  Those are the sounds Merrill has grown accustomed to, not giant thuds (not unless she’s dropped something and she hasn’t this time).  And that is most definitely a human groan of pain, not the settling of a building.

Merrill flings the door wide to the alienage courtyard.  She yelps, surprised.  Hawke is also stunned by her abrupt appearance.  His legs are splayed at awkward angles; the street below him is frozen solid.

“Don’t get up!”

“Don’t?  Merrill, my ass is about frozen to the ground.”

“I know!  I’m coming!  I’m coming!”

Merrill dashes across the pavement, to lend Hawke a hand.

“Merrill!”

“Oh!  I’ve forgotten something, haven’t I?”

“You’re not wearing any shoes!”

Blankly, she looks down at her feet.  Her toes have turned pale blue in the moment since she stepped outside.  She wiggles them to make sure they’re still responsive.  “Never mind them.  Let’s get you inside.”

Hawke’s so big, he almost pulls her down with him when she offers her hand.  But she keeps her feet firmly planted and he manages to get to his.

“Thanks.  That wasn’t embarrassing at all.”

“Of course it wasn’t.  It’s been icy for days –”

Hawke raises his brows amused.

“Oh.  That was sarcasm, wasn’t it?”

“You’re getting better at picking up on it.”

Merrill still pinks.  Humans are funny things; she just doesn’t get most of their jokes.  No matter how long she is around them.

“But you must be freezing,” she shoos Hawke into the house.

“Me?  Merrill, your feet!”

They have gone slightly numb.  And when they step inside, Hawke insists she sit while he stokes the fire.

“Still got all your toes?” he asks over his shoulder; she carefully counts and wiggles all ten before rubbing them raw.  “If you never wear shoes, you really ought to invest in some woolen socks.”

Merrill’s insists she’s been alright thus far, but Hawke doesn’t relent.  A few days later, a package is left on her doorstep.  New socks flop around her toes and heel, entirely too big for her, but Merrill delights in wearing them.

----------

A steaming how mug is placed directly under her nose.

Josephine looks up from her work to see Leliana’s wide beaming grin, “A gift from the Marquis DuRellion for the Herald and her holy crusade.  His way of apologizing.”

“Arms and supplies would be more beneficial,” Josephine grouses, but the cocoa does smell lovely and it’s been so long since she’s had anything this lavish.  Army rations are hardly worthy of the moniker ‘food’.

Josephine sips at the cocoa, sweet and bitter at once.  Haven’s harshest temperatures cannot chill her bones now.

“Delicious, isn’t it?”

Josephine hums in agreement with Leliana.

“The recipe is straight from the Winter Palace.  I have never tasted any better.”

“It could do without these enormous sugary puffballs,” she critiques.

Leliana is appalled, “But they are part of the experience, Josie.  Honestly, one would think you were raised in Antivia.”

Josephine’s lips quirk.  She spoons the marshmallows from her cup and takes another sip.  It is still delicious, but she can’t help but think it could use a little extra heat.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little extra spice instead of a little extra sugar.  When there is time, I will find some Antivian chili and show you how to make hot cocoa right.”

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Sera’s never been very good at keeping quiet, but concealed in the undercroft, she has to.  Unless she wants to be discovered by Harritt and chased away.  Quiet’s just not Sera’s style –

Snap – BOOM!

As evidenced by the exploding package that’s just been opened.  She shifts her position to get a better angle on the recipient’s face.

Dagna is in awe, still holding the red ribbon that was tied around the cracker, some dust from the explosives settling on her in a thin coating.

Totally worth it, Sera puffs proudly at the expense of a few of her explosive arrows.  She eagerly awaits the gift’s extraction from the wrappings.

“Another one?  What’s that make four now?”

“Six.  This is the second one I’ve found today.”

Sera curses Harritt’s interruption.

“Figure out who’s leaving them yet?”

“Not yet,” Dagna says carefully.  “I may have a few ideas.”

Sera freezes.  This wasn’t supposed to be a guessing game; Dagna would either know or she wouldn’t.  Sera wasn’t sure which she was hoping for.  She still can’t quite work up the courage to tell Dagna.

“Well, whoever it is – they certainly have a talent for art and explosives.”

Absently pulling the latest gift out of the wrappings, “Yeah.”

The parchment unfolds to reveal a detailed sketch of Dagna hard at work, hair falling in her face.  Stray hearts float here and there over the page.

Dagna gazes at the portrait with tenderness then hangs it on her drawing board beside all the rest; sketches of Skyhold, of Lake Calenhand, of all the places the Inquisition’s been.  Dagna deserves to see more than these grey cavern walls.  With the sketch of her placed among them, she’s now there too.

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Package tucked under her arm, Lace breathes in deep and pulls open the medic’s door.  Four of the six beds have occupants, most of them asleep, but the patient she is looking for is sitting upright and reading.

“That’s one of my favorites,” Lace seats herself on an empty cot.

Krem lowers the book, though it was practically in his lap already, arm in a sling from where his shoulder was dislocated.  “I can see why.  It’s excellent.”

Lace hopes the wind chill has already painted her cheeks with pink so Krem cannot see the pleased blush beneath.

“I could lend you the next one if you’d like.”  She tries to shake off the shyness that’s overcome her.

It wasn’t like this a few months ago when she started this flirtation.  When it was just flirtation.  Lace hadn’t realized how truly charming the lieutenant could be.  She would have to be blind to not recognize how handsome he is, but there’s something more to her feelings than simple attraction.  Something far more complex.

Mama’s suspected for a while now.  Her letters have been getting nosier and nosier since Lace first mentioned Krem three months ago.  There may have been some less than subtle prodding in a certain direction as a well as investigating every aspect of Krem’s personal history.

“That’d be great, especially if the doc keeps me here any longer.”  Tilting his head curiously, “What’s with the package?”

“Oh!” Lace almost forgot her purpose for being here.  “It’s from my mama – it’s for you actually.”  She hands it over.

“For me?”  Krem accepts it with his good arm.  “What for?”

Lace shrugs, “I may have mentioned your gambeson wasn’t exactly weather proof.”

The packaging crinkles as Krem unwraps it.  A good sturdy jerkin to shield him against the cold unfolds in his lap.

He smiles as he traces the stitches, “It’s very well made.”

“She was concerned the Tevinter standard issue didn’t properly attire you for Southern winters.  I told her you could do it yourself –”

Krem scoffs lightly, stopping Lace from babbling, “When would I find the time?  Thank her for me, will you?”

“Of course.”

“And thank you.”

She’s been inside too long now for the cold to disguise her blush now.  “I’m just the deliverer.  I think you’ll look quite fine in it.”

His eyes have barely left the livery, but something like a blush creeps into his cheeks as well.  “Help me put it on?”

Lace jumps up from the cot and holds the jerkin for Krem to slide his arm into.  She holds up the other arm when they both remember it is in a sling.  They both laugh as Lace drapes it over his shoulder instead.

It’ll be a perfect fit when he can don it proper.

----------

The Inquisition should throw parties more often.  Lots of drunken nobles making asses of themselves, outstanding feasts, loud music, Josephine nearly tears her hair out with the decorations, and most importantly: free booze.

So much booze.  Drinks from every corner of Thedas.  And Bull’s just getting started.

He distracted by the next crowd coming into the hall from the blizzard, when someone far further into his cups than Bull tactfully positions himself in front of Bull.

Bull doesn’t think he’s ever been cornered before.  Dorian is on the larger side, for a human.  Strong, for a mage.  And nothing if not determined when drunk.  Bull might have to let it happen more often, not that he exactly let it happen now.

Taking another step forward, Bull’s back presses against the wall, “You know what I can’t understand?”

“What can’t you understand, Dorian?”

“I can’t understand what’s so attractive about you?  You’re everything I was conditioned to hate, but here I am,” he spreads his arms wide as if waiting for something.

Several reasons immediately jump to mind.

First and foremost: Dorian’s proclivity for anything contrary to the Imperium’s sense of decorum; he notes the mostly empty flagon of Ferelden ale in Dorian’s grasp.  Same goes for Bull, though he’s stopped questioning why he’s attracted to everything and anything – even a Tevinter.

He shrugs, “Physical fitness transcends all feuds.”

“But you’re a lumbering giant!” Dorian emphatically sighs and falls into Bull’s chest, making himself quite comfortable there.

“Does that concern you?  Or are you just surprised?”

“Possibly a little of both.  I’ve always thought of myself as a man’s man, you know?”

Bull grunts, not quite understanding Dorian’s meaning, but managing to feel a little insulted by it all the same.  “You never wanted to try a little bit of everything?”

“I know there are some tastes I don’t like.  Are you saying you don’t have preferences?”

“One in particular,” Bull can hear the hunger in his own voice as clearly as he can hear it in Dorian’s.  It is suddenly husky and thick, and he wishes Dorian would just take advantage of his position already.

This is likely a once in a lifetime opportunity, if Dorian doesn’t leap now, Bull will never let him get it again.

It’s a miracle that Dorian’s next move is to throw himself at Bull, his arms looping around Bull’s neck, knocking him flat against the wall, his horns catching in the garlands Josephine tediously oversaw the raising of.

Rather than attempting to shake loose, Bull lifts Dorian up, Dorian’s legs hooking around his waist.

Bull catches Dorian’s lower lip with his teeth when he starts to break away, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I need a refill.”  The now empty cup bumps against Bull’s arm.

Bull’s grip gets tighter, “So do I.”

Like he said, Bull’s tasted just about everything, but Dorian’s been his favorite by far.

----------

Snow hasn’t been so wondrous since Alistair was a boy.  Though it quickly lost its luster as he shoveled muck from the stables, soiling the pure white powder.  A few too many ice chunks to the head may have also ruined it for him.

Kat’s first snow should hold a stronger place in his memory, and he does remember it enchanting her, but mostly they were focused on the Blight.

Bouncing Nell on his knee, warm beside the fire, the falling snow seems to hold charm again.

A surge of cheer rushes through him and he wants to celebrate Satinalia as elegantly as they did at the castle.  Garlands, wreathes, candles, and a feast that could have fed an army.

“What do you say, Nell Bell?  Want to decorate the cottage before mama gets home?”

Nell merely yawns.

Alistair makes sure her swaddling is in place and sets her on the bed.  After her nap, she will be as surprised as her mother.

It is Kat’s first proper Satinalia as well as Nell’s after all.

Alistair sets to work.  Candles arranged on the table, the fire built up, the least dead branches from nearby trees draped over the doorway.  It’s not much, but Kat’s eyes go wide when she returns home from the market, Alistair just lighting the candles.

Kat picks up the still blissfully sleeping Nell, “What is all this?”

“The magic of the season,” Alistair beams.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Kat pecks his cheek.

----------

The other Gull & Lantern patrons couldn’t look more scandalized.

Krem leads another verse, his arm draped over Lace’s shoulder, “It was Satinalia in the Circle and the tranquil were standing around, and hundreds of beautiful women were stretched out on the ground, when in strode the bold bad templar, and gazed at his marble halls, saying, ‘What do you want for Satinalia, boys?’  And the tranquil answered…”

The Chargers all bellow, “Tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy!  Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!”

There are certainly worse verses, but the Chargers are drunk enough to lose the tune after two.

Lace’s cheeks are a bright, rosy red, embarrassment and drink heating them.

Krem leans in close, “You should have seen the reaction that got on the Tevinter border.”

“And you’re lucky my parents or any of their friends aren’t here.  This would ruin mama and papa’s image of you.”

“Meeting me didn’t do that?”

Lace tries not to cringe too visibly, but it’s not her fault – Krem doesn’t know how he’d explain it if he were in her position either.

Krem knows there are a hundred things about him a mother or father wouldn’t wish for their child.  The Hardings may have been surprised on meeting him, but they have been nothing but welcoming otherwise.  Krem never expected even that much.

Laughing it off, “Only kidding.  Besides theirs aren’t the hearts I’m trying to win.”

Lace blushes deeper.

“Another round!” Rocky shouts.  Grim bangs the table with his tankard in agreement.

“And another song too!”  Dalish demands.

Krem can’t help, but grin as he inhales, the familiar tune in his throat, but ruder words on his tongue.

“‘Fuck!’  The Maker’s Chosen sang, ‘Screw me harder til you're sore!  In my bed or in the briar, Maferath couldn’t lick me drier!”

It doesn’t take much more than that for the barkeep to throw them out in the snow.  The Chargers don’t resist; they’ve been kicked out of enough taverns to know when they’ve gone too far.  Besides they’d rather be crude in the cold than warm and polite.  So none of them are upset.

Thankfully, neither is Lace.  “I didn’t know what a singer you were.”

“Passes the time when you’re marching.” Krem shrugs.

“You think of those lyrics yourself?”

“Some of them.  Armies are a wealth of frustrated soldiers trying to find creative ways to get off.”  He can just imagine the looks on the lady seeker and commander’s faces if they heard the blasphemous talk among the troops.

“Got anymore?  I think I might know another tavern we can go to that won’t mind so much.”

Krem is overwhelmed.  Lace is beautiful in the crisp white landscape; her hair curling in wisps around her ears, her nose bright red from the cold.  He swiftly leans down to steal a kiss.

He lingers to rub his nose against hers, “Lead the way, Scout Harding.”

----------

The last time Aveline and Donnic had the same night off, Hawke dragged them into a mess with a Darktown trader that ended in an ambush they wouldn’t have escaped if Fenris hadn’t shown up in the nick of time.

This time, Aveline is certain Hawke and Fenris have already locked themselves away for the evening.  The only trouble they can get into is with each other.

Aveline sinks heavily into the couch once the fire is stoked, ready to stretch out and put her feet up.  Donnic can join if he doesn’t mind being subjected to the very edge.

A tumbler appears over her shoulder.

“What’s this?”

“A bargaining chip for some space beside you.”

“You know I prefer ale.”

“Yes, but we’re out.”

Aveline grumbles, but relents slightly, “You can sit, but only if you don’t mind my legs in your lap.”

“Never,” Donnic kisses her temple and hands her the glass.

He squeezes his way onto the couch, Aveline dropping her legs on top of him as promises, and holds out his own glass for a toast, “Happy First Night.”

“Is that tonight?”

“For someone who spends all day scheduling patrols, you’re terrible with dates.”

“That’s what I married you for.”  She clinks her tumbler with his and leans forward for a kiss.

They talk quietly through the hours, but are asleep long before the stroke of midnight.  A real nice night for an evening in.  After all, tomorrow will be a long day.

----------

Snow gleams in the daylight; Celebrain always loved that about winter.  She was always disappointed her magic couldn’t quite create the same effect.

Cullen comes up beside her, Avery in his arms, as she sighs.

“Tired of winter already?”

“Hardly.  It’s only just begun.”

“Don’t remind me.  At least it’s not as cold here as in Haven.”

Celebrain laughs as Cullen shivers violently; he made a much more valiant effort to hide his hatred of the cold during the Inquisition’s early days.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see who Avery takes after when it comes to the cold,” Celebrain plants kiss on her son’s tiny red nose.  Then examines her husband’s coat, “You could wear something warmer.  That would help.”

He shivers, “But this one’s my favorite.”

Celebrain appraises; he does look very dashing, but it is hardly weather appropriate.  Not like the coat he wore as commander.  The fur trim on it used to feel like burying her face into a feather pillow.

“At least put on a scarf, if you insist on wearing this.”

Cullen agrees and Celebrain unties the scarf around her neck, retying it about his.  He watches her with great intensity, which would have made her self-conscious in their younger days.

Not now though, she draws him in be the scarf and kisses him awkwardly over Avery’s head.

When they break apart, Celebrain suspects Cullen is not totally resistant to winter’s charms, for the gleam in his eye matches the glisten of the snow.

----------

It’s hard to imagine a place where more than sun rays can come down from the sky, but Bethany’s description of winters in Ferelden make Oksana a little jealous.  She makes it sound so wondrous.

Oksana especially enjoys the stories of how Bethany and her brothers used to play.  Sledding, snowball fights, building snowmen; they all sound like games Anton would have loved.

And telling the stories adds a warmth to Bethany’s voice that Oksana has never heard before.  A totally different quality to her usual cheer.  Mentioning her twin doesn’t even seem to make her the least bit sad.

Oksana gives it a try, “For Satinalia, mama would let Anton and I use the sugar reserves to make sweets.  Though Anton used to eat them before they were finished.”

She laughs remembering how sticky he would be after.

“Sounds like fun,” Bethany grins.  “What else would you do?”

“Papa liked to bring us to the chantry to sing hymns.”

“My mother liked that too, though she had a hard time getting either of my brothers or father to come with her.  So it became our time.”

Bethany’s good spirits start to fade slightly; the memories taking a solemn turn.

The hymns will continue to be sung, but never again will Bethany stand beside her mother and sing them, nor Oksana and her papa.

Lifting her voice, “We could go to the chantry Satinalia service tonight and sing.”

Bethany smiles once more, “I’d like that.”

----------

Hood and scarf cover all but Nell’s eyes, barely able to open against the swirling storm.  She stumbles backwards into Kieran.  He steadies her, holding her by the shoulders.

Nell is glad he hasn’t changed into some animal form and left her struggling on her own.  Her voice is almost lost in the howling wind, “We can’t keep this up!”

Kieran points our ahead of her, “A light!  We may be able to take shelter there!”

She can’t see the glow in the dark, but she follows his lead.  It is not like Kieran to accept the goodwill of strangers, but if he is willing to tonight, Nell will not pass on the opportunity.

Carling tries to bound ahead, but has no more luck against the sleet and gales than them.  She keeps to Nell’s side as best she can.

Eventually, a light does pierce the darkness; a stone building gives enough cover from the wind.

Drawing his scarf down, Kieran looks suspiciously at the oak doors.  “It is a chantry.”

Nell brushes her hood off, “Then they won’t turn us away.”

Kieran’s stare hardens.  “You go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kieran –”

But with a rustle of wings, he has already flown off.

Nell sighs and pulls the heavy door open.  Warm incense immediately fills her nose and low candlelight gives off a dim aura that comforts her weariness.  Carling shakes off the snow and follows her down the aisle.

She does her best not to disturb the sisters or the few worshipers scattered throughout the sanctuary.  Not a one says a word about Carling at her feet when Nell seats herself in a pew in the back.

Soft singing lifts to the eaves; it has an almost otherworldly effect.  The wind and the cold seem so distant here.  Nell nearly drifts to sleep as the snow melts from her.

A raven’s caw snaps her eyes open.  Kieran still fights against the strength of the gales.

Nell can’t bear to watch him struggle.  Leaving her cloak in the pew, Nell braves the storm once more.

“Kieran!  Kieran, please!  Just come inside!”

The raven defiantly makes another push against the wind.

“Setting foot inside a chantry doesn’t have to mean anything!  But you can’t keep this up!  And I won’t go back in without you!”

There is a moment’s hesitation then Kieran lands and reforms as himself.  “You will catch your death out here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nell chastises.

They find Carling right where Nell left her and sit in the pew.  Nell thinks Kieran looks pale, even for him, and wraps her arm around him.

He stiffens.  Nell knows Kieran isn’t fond of physical affection, but she’s not about to let him shiver all night.  After a moment, he relaxes and surprisingly rests his head on hers.

The spell of the candlelight and song lull Nell and Kieran into a deep sleep.

O