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Gallant can see how Emprise du Lion bears down on the Inquisitor’s proud shoulders, winding them tighter and tighter, until Gallant almost expects her spine will fissure. Half wishing she knew a god to pray to, she hopes that a return to Skyhold will come soon. It makes sense to stay, to make sure loose ends have been tied up so that they do not have to return, but she wants to go.
She doesn’t hate this place, not exactly. The ice and snow carry their own kind of brutal beauty. But even with fur-lined cloaks and wool scarves, the cold here leeches joy, seeps into marrow and weighs them all down. Suledin: captured, Imshael: dead, dragon: dead. Distractions have dwindled. Now, as they wander, Inquisitor Shirari—just Shiari, she’s told Gallant a thousand times, and Gallant still has to correct herself—looks at the elven ruins and whispers, “This was our home, once.”
It makes Gallant think of the lonely farm on the plains in the Free Marches, smoke curling from the chimney and dispersing instantly in the howling wind. Of her parents and grandfather and youngest two siblings, huddled silent in front of the fireplace. She imagines that they are thinking of Oak, his body charred and twisted in the aftermath of the conclave. Her brother doesn’t dominate her thoughts the way he did months ago, and guilt anchors its self in her belly.
Dorian, too, is miserable in the chill. It does not agree with his northerner’s blood, and Shiari’s dour mood turns him sullen. Sera tries to joke and prank and tease to gird them against despair, but her heart’s not in it, not here. She drags another layer from her pack and swears about the cold, again. Cole tries to help, of course he does, and Gallant loves him dearly for it, but it’s a difficult job for one spirit—boy? She’s never been quite sure—to hold up so many heavy hearts.
He falls into step beside her, trotting to keep up with her long strides. Ahead of them, Shiari has stopped to harvest a stalk of bone-white felandaris. Sera is behind them, twirling an arrow in her fingers and scowling, while Dorian scans the horizon, though there hasn’t been a threat in hours.
“Sparking, crackling, thundering all apart,” says Cole, “but underneath, pieces glimmering in the dark, and you, holding them together.”
Startled, Gallant looks at him, and follows his gaze to Shiari, still crouched in the snow. Her nose is red, and there are snowflakes clinging to her warm brown hair. She’s beautiful, Gallant thinks, and it is not the first time.
“I don’t know if I understand completely,” Gallant said, “but I think that’s what I want to be for her.” When she looks back at Cole, he is holding a snowball.
She draws her brows and tilts her head. He says, “You hold her sorrow, listen to tears and open the world for laughing, and she feels lighter, brighter in the dark. The thunder stops threatening, looming, bearing down.” He opens her hand and gently places the snowball in her palm, then steps back, the pristine snow scarcely giving way beneath his boots.
“Now I’m sure I don’t follow,” says Gallant.
Suddenly, Sera cackles. “Inky’s in for it,” she whispers, drawing up beside Gallant. “Better than moping about elf this and elf-y that. Give her something else to worry about, yeah?”
Sera’s whispers are not as soft as she thinks, and Shiari lurches to her feet and whips around to face them. Her eyes lock onto the snowball, loosely held in Gallant’s hand—where has Cole gone?—and for the first time in days, something that might be the beginning of laughter is in her eyes. Gallant understands, and raises her arm.
“Gallant Meraad,” Shiari says, trying to use the tone she uses when she sits in judgment, but mirth is coursing too close to the surface for it to carry the full effect, “don’t you dare—”
The snowball hits her square in the chest, and some of it slips down the front of her cloak. She shrieks and laughs all at once, batting at the snow and reaching for her staff. Dimly, Gallant realizes that perhaps starting a snowball fight with a mage was a terrible idea, but Shiari’s laughter floods her with so much warmth that she cannot summon any regret.
Somehow, Sera already has two snowballs in hand as she launches herself away from Gallant and towards a rocky outcrop. Dorian is reeling away from all of them, throwing up a barrier as he roars, “No! Absolutely not!” Cole has appeared again, this time at Shiari’s side, and whatever he’s saying has made her grin, wickedly, wolfishly and whole-heartedly. Gallant sprints after Sera, stumbling and scooping up snow as she races for cover.
Twenty minutes later, sporting clumps of snow in their hair, Sera, Shiari and Gallant are laughing, falling against one another. Dorian, who has mostly escaped damage, finally looks more amused than indignant, and Cole is watching, quiet, bright eyed.
“I think we needed that,” Shiari says once she’s calmed down enough to speak. Her eyes are bright, the color like they’re drinking in the whole sky, and there is high color in her cheeks. Gallant thinks, again: she is beautiful.
Shiari is not tall enough to reach Gallant’s cheek, so she takes her hand and brushes her lips against the tips of her fingers. Gallant can’t even feel her lips through her gauntlets, and Dorian’s face is smug and Sera is wolf whistling.
Gallant cannot find it in herself to mind.