Chapter Text
There are, as always, it seems, a million things to do in Haven. Josephine hurries towards the Chantry, the wind attempting yet again to steal her papers, wishing her stockings kept out the cold a little more; she’d thought herself well-prepared when she left Orlais, but she was obviously mistaken.
It’s only her years in the Game that allow her to spot it behind the wall of the Chantry: a flash of silver, a spot of brightness amongst the snow. (It’s always useful to see a knife as it is coming.) It is, she realises after a moment, a shield. She looks again and sees brown hair, part-shaven, and armour.
The Herald.
She approaches cautiously. This is a quiet corner, and he was half-hidden; he likely doesn’t desire disturbances.
Trevelyan has barely spoken to anyone since he arrived. At the war table he simply stands and listens, those unnervingly blue eyes glinting in the darkness. When they have spoken, he has been polite but distant, offering little of himself. He fights like a chevalier, planting himself as if he is determined to be a shield rather than just wield one, but has none of their straight-backed pride, the arrogance that makes them both so detested and so popular. He is more desperate, too; he fights as if each moment is his last, uncaring of any potential audience. It should be brutish, but she respected it even as she wondered where it came from.
The Chantry, she learned eventually, from one of Leliana’s files. He ran before his final vows. He claimed his family had given him leave and then fled for the nearest ship. Clever, to capitalise on the Trevelyan name. He must be persuasive, or at the very least a fine liar, but she has seen none of that here.Taciturn would be an understatement.
He leans heavily against the wall, his shield placed next to him, resting on his leg. He is holding a piece of parchment. At first she thinks that it seems flimsy in such large, scarred hands, but then she realises those hands are shaking, and that it might not be the letter which is fragile at all.
“Herald?” she tries, tentative.
He doesn’t look up. When he speaks, his voice is soft, prim around the vowels, a noble through and through - surprisingly gentle for a man who looks as he does. “Please… not that.”
She finds herself stepping closer. “Is something wrong?”
“They disowned me.”
Ah. Leliana had mentioned it as she’d sifted through the intercepted letters, passing her a parchment with the Trevelyan seal. “This might be one for you, Josie. How do you think he’ll react?” After reading it, they’d put it with his personal correspondence without comment, leaving it for him to find. It wasn’t their place to interfere, not yet.
The way he speaks: it should be matter-of-fact, but there is pain in it. It is barely hidden. He’d be torn apart at court. She has pretended not to see far too much for the sake of peace or of diplomacy - but this she can see. Here, there is little point in pretence when kindness will do just as well. She takes a place next to him, despite the fact that this is silk and there will be moss, and damp, and dust… She cannot bring herself to care. “I see. Are you close?”
He shakes his head. There is a movement in his face, and she realises that he is almost, but not quite, smiling. “I’m an embarrassment.”
“I’m sure it can’t be - “
“It’s here in writing.” His eyes are still on the letter, and his face is bleak as he continues, without prompting, “I’m a false prophet. A blight on the family name.”
“I…” The words will come, she is sure of it. She has prepared for this moment. Even so, Haven seems as if it is constantly trying to tip her off-balance. “They are pious, are they not?”
At last, he looks at her. He seems to realise he’s here, that he’s speaking to her, and she wonders for a moment if he’ll retreat and pretend at blankness again - but instead he nods. “There’s the Chantry, there’s the family name, and then there’s me. Perhaps there’s me.” He raises his eyes to the sky. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
She sighs. “Andraste asked us for unity. It seems they may have missed that verse.”
“Blessed are the peacekeepers.” It’s rough, with a half-laugh contained in it, and he looks at her pointedly. Those eyes… Perhaps it’s simply the way he paints them, but she wonders how much they see. She almost wants to shrink underneath their scrutiny. “The Chantry should approve of you.”
She finds herself smiling at that. “Alas, I must be the wrong sort of peacekeeper.” She makes her way back to the true course of this conversation. “However, Ser Trevelyan… there are many here who would call you a saviour. They would not be alive if not for your actions at the Breach.”
“I didn’t close it,” he mutters, looking at that strange, flickering mark on his hand.
“But you gave us time,” she stresses. “Time is worth more than gold, in crises such as these. And you have done so much for us.” She exhales, her breath misting in the air. “If that’s their definition of an embarrassment… Well, I should like to be one.”
He raises his head slowly to look at her, and he seems almost amazed. There is silence for a long moment, and then he says, “Thank you.” And then he smiles at her - a true smile, without bitterness, one that softens his face. He might almost be someone else. It is there and gone quickly, but she would like to see it more often. (They had wondered at the war table before, when he’d been elsewhere, if he was even capable of it. Not quite mockery, but too close for comfort. Now she regrets it.)
“I am glad to be of service,” she says. She allows a smile of her own into it, carefully filing away the formality. She nods in acknowledgement, and then she straightens.
As she walks away, she sees him out of the corner of her eye. He watches her go, curious. In those eyes, there is someone far removed from the cold, silent shadow they have seen so far. She hopes to meet him again.