Chapter Text
Drynne stood alone on his balcony, fingers gripping the railing hard enough to feel the cracks and opening in the stone. He watched the mountains through bury amber eyes, the light slowly dying around them. He didn’t know how long he stood there, didn’t know when the sun finally set or when the moon’s light hit Skyhold. He didn’t know anything anymore.
The entire week had been a blur. He received news from one of Leliana’s agents in the Val Royeaux, over a week ago, after he and the other returned from stocking up on supplies for Skyhold. Drynne was able to secure new caravan guards, get a wider range of potions and poultices for the Inquisition’s soldiers. It had been a surprisingly good day.
Had been…
He remembered receiving the scroll from Leliana’s agent, his hands clutching tightly to the scroll as he saw the agent’s expression morph to pity before they uttered out a small apology and left.
“I’m so sorry, Inquisitor.”
That’s all he’s heard for the past week. Soldiers, mages, templars, advisors, friends… Only Amirra understood what was happening, but she had locked herself in her room and refused to come out. He’d spotted her two nights ago, sprinting through the Main Hall to get to the kitchen in the dead of night. She hadn’t looked good. Her sepia, reddish-brown skin had dulled, her Red Ochre vallaslin nearly invisible in the darkened hall. Her jet black hair had become lifeless, having fallen flat against her back, their usually waves and curls vanished. Her mismatched eyes puffy and tired.
She hadn’t looked that bad since the clan had found her…
Drynne sighed, releasing his hold on the railing to lean forward. He placed his elbows against the stone, leaning down to press his forehead against an arm before letting his hands rest over his head.
He knew he probably wasn’t looking as great, even if he was doing more than Amirra. Sure, he was going outside, eating regularly, forcing himself to persevere through the pain and heartache because he had to. He forced himself to train with the soldiers, with Blackwall and Cullen. He forced himself to focus on defense instead of attack, focus on helping his soldiers instead of helping get rid of his frustration. He purposefully kept away from Solas, Varric and a few others, knowing fully well that he might break if spoken to about what happened. Blackwall would pat him on the shoulder after training, his own form of comfort, before heading towards the main hall.
Drynne had seen his reflection only twice since receiving the news. Once was when he returned to Skyhold, covered in armor with dry blood, daggers recently cleaned and a quill holding no arrows. He had arrived after his other companions returned, having left them at camp in the middle of the night to sort out through his feelings. He remembered seeing worried and pitiful gazes burning into his back as he made his way to his room. He remembered ignoring Solas’ silent offer to heal any wounds, remembered the way Josephine was unable to meet his gaze, her own eyes puffy and lips turned down in a notable frown. He went to his room and locked the door. He hadn’t recognized himself in the mirror.
The second time had been when he woke up this morning, his chestnut colored hair tangled and knotted, sticking up every which way and barely grazing the back of his neck. His eyes tired and noticeable bangs pooling around his dulled amber eyes. If it was even possible, the scars around his features seemed to stick out more against his tanned skin. His face looked sunken in despite forcing himself to eat three meals a day. He had tossed and turned the entire night and spent an hour in the morning getting the knots out of his hair.
Speaking of, new knots from today’s wonderful training session and back to back noble meetings found their way to trap his fingers in his hair.
He was a mess.
“For a man who is as stealthy as he is loud, you haven’t been much of either lately."
Drynne turned his head to the side as Solas stepped onto the balcony, hands placed behind his back and shoulders squared. Drynne frowned, forcing himself to stand. He turned, resting his rear against the railing and crossing his arms over his chest. Solas’ usual dreads were pulled back into a messy bun, a few stray ones falling over his shoulders.