Chapter Text
Moirin coughed, trying to ease the ache in her throat as she crossed Josephine’s office. There was a constant tickle of annoyance, scratchy and irritating. She felt like she had just gulped down a shot of Bull’s favorite potent brew. That stuff burned on the way down, left tears in her eyes as she tried to finish even one drink. Only now she didn’t have the fun side effects.
She pushed through to the war room, her advisers already gathered around. She was weary, wouldn’t mind going to take a nap, but there was work to be done. “Right, let’s get started.” Or, at least, that’s what she tried to say. Her words were thick and goopy, all of the t’s sounding more like d’s.
They looked at her confused for a moment. Moirin just blinked, waiting for them to start, but nothing happened. She could feel that constant trickle of liquid run from her nose, and she sniffed. Unlike how it had worked throughout the earlier part of her day, though, she couldn’t draw air in. She scrunched her face, breathing through her mouth as that liquid escaped. With a little moue of disgust, she wiped it away on the sleeve of her robes.
“Moirin!” Cullen burst out, rushing around the table. “What is wrong? Are you sick?” He stripped his gloves, laying one of his large hands gently over her forehead. Moirin smiled up at him, his display of affection unusual when he was working.
“I’m find.” Her words came out strange again, causing her throat to scratch and making her cough. Cullen’s face paled; fear as if she were meeting her doom settling over his face.
“You have a fever! You are sick. To bed instantly. I will make sure you have soup and liquids. Josephine,” he spun, his expression not relaxing in the least. “Have the maids deliver a hot bath.” He twisted quickly back to Moirin, then spun around again. “And have a fire lit.” He did that silly little about-face once more, and Moirin had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. “And some fresh warm linens.”
“Right away!” Josephine started to scribble something as she rushed through the door. “What was that tea mother always made for me? I will need to send a raven, have her send me the recipe. Oh, Grandmama had that soup that was especially hearty. I will send a letter to her as well. Will they get here soon enough? Maybe I should ask King Alistair if he knows of any remedies. Oh! And the Dalish! Her clan would know of some secret cure...” Her low mutters drifted back from her hurried dash towards the kitchen.
Leliana watched the frantic movements of her counsel-mates, laughter rising in her chest. Cullen peppered Moirin with questions of how she felt, producing a handkerchief from Maker-knows where as he dabbed at the elf’s delicate red nose, trying to coax her faster from the War Room and up to her bed. In general acting like a mother hen. Josephine’s haste left little splashes of candle wax on the ground, a loose paper tumbling to the stone floor. Leliana shook her head, smiling slightly. It was only a little cold. It wasn’t like the Inquisitor was dying. She had suffered far worse injuries before, although it was true she had never gotten sick.
She just barely stopped herself from laughing as she saw Cullen sweep Moirin up into his arms, the Inquisitor obviously not moving fast enough for him. Leliana smiled indulgently, then made her way up to her ravens. No doubt she would need to prepare ten or so for Josephine’s letters. And it wouldn’t hurt to send out a few inquiries of her own.