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The Chargers don’t have the most comfortable accommodations in Thedas, but a bed in a castle with thick walls and solid roof is a lot better than a mat of half-rotted weeds in the Kocari Wilds during monsoon season. As second-in-command, Krem even gets his own room. With a fireplace, no less. And a door.
Door’s aren’t much use against eight feet and five hundred pounds of Qunari. At least Bull is courteous enough to leave the hinges on.
“Tell Varric the story about getting paid in rice is real; I need him to put it in the book.” The thick oak door crashes against the wall. Without opening his eyes, Krem can feel Bull hesitate before he coughs awkwardly, scrapes his feet against the stone floor, and quietly nudges the door shut. “Your lady friend isn’t in here, is she?”
“The right time for that question is before you’re in the room, Chief.” Krem cracks one eye just to make sure there is no novel-writing dwarf hidden in Bull’s shadow, then rolls out of bed and starts looking for trousers. “She’s not here. We’re not… there yet. Shut it.” He finds the pair he was wearing yesterday, checks for obvious dirt, blood, or stench, then drags them on. The room has a window that faces north; the light tells him that it’s a little after sunrise. “Have you even slept?”
Bull huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “That implying something?”
“Yes.” Pause. “Have you?”
“Some,” Bulls says. “So, about Varric…”
“Yes, I’ll tell him about fighting off the bandits and getting paid in rice.” Socks, next. And boots. The floor is cold. “Is he putting me in the book?”
“Well, yeah. You’re-”
“Not just the Chargers,” Krem says. “Is he putting me in the book?”
Bull produces a boot from thin air just as Krem gets ahold of its mate. “Do you want to be in the book?” He tosses it to Krem, who catches it one-handed while yanking the other one on. Arms the size of Krem’s torso get folded across Bull’s slab of a chest once more.
Krem pulls the second boot on while he thinks. Then he pauses, squinting out the window. “Why am I getting dressed? Why are you awake right now? What are you doing? Is Varric even awake?”
“He’s in the meal hall. The cooks start serving breakfast at dawn. I left you some of the bacon.” Bull turns and stoops, hooks one horn through the doorframe, then the other, and drags the door shut behind him.
Krem yells “Isn’t that cannibalism for you?” as it swings closed, then goes back to lacing up his boots. Staying a step ahead of Bull isn’t something the entire Ben-Hassrath organization was capable of. Krem is awake; might as well eat.
Binding your chest with narrow strips of cloth is a bad idea; Krem learned this the hard way back in Tevinter (bribing the healer was a much better idea). But there was a mage in Minrathous – a regular mage, not a magister – who had a little shop with all kinds of magicked clothing. Small pockets you could fit a crate into, shirts that repelled dirt and water alike, a couple of robes that could change colors… and, after some hushed whispering and the exchange of an entire month’s paycheck, a pair of undershirts that felt like almost nothing, but bound down those obnoxious sacks of fat and meat until they might as well not have existed at all. Krem would have delivered an entire diamond mine if that had been their price.
Linen tunic next, then leather cuirass. Don’t need full armor for breakfast.
***
There is still bacon left, being served in great heaping piles that steam their heat off into the mountain morning. Bull’s nowhere in sight, but Varric is, crammed in next to Rocky and Dalish, the hulking machinery of that famous crossbow strapped to his back.
Krem saunters over to set his plate down across from Varric. “How’s Bianca doing this fine morning?”
“Right as rain,” Varric says back. He squints at Krem through the dimness of the mess hall – there’s still not much light from outside, only torchlight to see by. “Tiny’s been reeling off every story he can remember or cook up, trying to get me to stick it all in the book before I go back to Kirkwall. He get you in on this plan?”
“Tried to.” Krem rips a strip of bacon in two and eats half. “What’s this book called?”
“All This Shit Is Weird. Don’t give me that look; it’s the best I’ve come up with, and I’ve been working on it since we plugged up the hole in the sky. It’s hard to summarize the almost-apocalypse.”
“They did it with the blights.”
Varric shakes a piece of toast at him. “We’ve been having blights for a thousand years – give me that long, sure, I’ll get you a good title.”
Krem grins and eats more bacon.
The sun has to get above a couple of mountains before its light truly hits Skyhold, but this happens abruptly, in the span of a heartbeat: suddenly the stained-glass windows are brighter than jewels, splashing colors across the walls and ceiling, shining flakes of dust caught in the beams.
“Pretty,” Varric says absently. He’s forgotten his toast; it hangs from his fingers, halfway between plate and mouth.
“Dalish can do better,” Rocky grunts.
Dalish flinches, then clears her throat and elbows him in the ribs simultaneously. “Yeah, with arrows,” she announces to the whole hall.
Krem rolls his eyes. “Flaming arrows, is it? Or ice ones?”
Dalish chucks a roll at him; he has to yank his goblet out of the way to keep it from being toppled, and the roll bounces twice before it reaches the edge of the table and falls into open air. A ghostly white hand catches it, brings it up to a face half-concealed by a drooping hat brim: Cole. Spirit-boy.
“Thanks,” Krem says.
Cole sniffs the roll, then hands it to him. “Horns pointing up. Holding that – holding them – not afraid of the death-eyes but of the nightmares that bring them down on friends; there is no hawk for him to hold onto, and words can’t bring them back.”
Krem blinks. “I don’t speak spirit metaphors.”
Cole tilts his head; his eyes exit from view. “Mage with a bow; dwarf with a bomb; easy. Rent and ripped and raging soul is hard, hardened; the small wants to protect the strong; no more storied whispers clawing at the secret, had to stash it away in stone; he doesn’t care about the whispers anymore, but he needed the horns to pry it open. Is it even ripped at all? It’s a suit of armor, reflective as the mirror. Blondie daisy Rivaini hopes and dreams all so easy, even the warrior keeping watch with hair like a forest fire. Where does a shout go? Into the arms of song?”
Krem looks at Varric.
Varric picks up his own goblet with a smile. “Nice catch.”
Krem looks down at the roll in his hand, then back at Cole – but Cole is gone. Not walked away, not anywhere in the hall, just gone. But Krem can remember him. He knows about the nonsense with daggers and mint, the memories wiped, but he can remember. What’s Cole talking about, with hawks and whispers and… Dalish and Rocky? And walls and horns and daisies and guards? And shouting?
Varric is squinting at him when he looks back. “You alright there? Turning into a Kremsicle on us?”
“Har har.” He’s going to have to kill Bull. “What’s Cole again? Spirit of help or something?”
“The kid?” Varric’s face changes: his eyes widen, brows rise, and then they collect and steady again. “Spirit of compassion.”
“This was him.” Krem hefts the roll.
Dalish and Rocky glance around like they expect Cole to bounce through a rift and start dancing on the table. Varric just stares at Krem. He feels a prickle on the back of his neck.
“Never mind.” He lobs the roll back to Dalish and goes hunting for a new subject. “The story about getting paid in rice is true. There were only seven of us then; we got real good at making rice pudding, after. Looked awful. Tasted great.”
“’Kay.” Varric plays along. “What about the ‘death on feathered wings’ one?”
***
After breakfast, Krem finds Bull next to the training ring watching Commander Cullen get beat with a blunted sword by Seeker Pentaghast. When she’s not hitting him with the sword, she’s doing so with her shield, as Cullen’s blade flashes back and forth trying to block blows. Somewhere in the background, Sera is yelling “aim for the codpiece!”
“Krem of the crop,” Bull yells when he sees him. “Are we in the book?”
“I don’t know if he’s got room for your giant arse,” Krem says. He steps up beside Bull and elbows him in the ribs. Bull’s retaliation catches him at shoulder height and sends him sideways into Grim, who gives them both a disapproving grunt and moves further away into the crowd. Krem shakes his head at Bull. “Rude.” He brings his arm up to block another blow, then gets caught in a headlock. “Shit, Chief!”
“Never expect your enemies to have your morals,” Bull announces. “Get killed that way.”
Krem kicks him in the knee repeatedly until Bull lets go. ‘Drops’ might actually be the more correct word, since Krem’s knees almost buckle upon release, but he straightens up and dusts himself off with manufactured dignity. “Hey, Chief?”
His tone must be different; Bull looks away from Pentaghast slamming her shield past Cullen’s guard to make him drop his sword. His head cocks to the side.
“You know the spirit – Cole – more than I do. What’s he – when he does that riddling, what’s he doing?”
Bull makes an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. “Reading your mind. Trying to make something hurt less.”
Krem watches Cullen lunge for his sword. “But I don’t think he was reading my mind – it wasn’t anything I’ve thought. Just nonsense about hawks and nightmares, secrets in a stone wall…” He watches Bull’s face change. “What?”
“Hawks and nightmares is Varric.” Bull casts his gaze around them, but no one is watching. “Not hawk like the bird. Hawke like the Champion of Kirkwall.”
Shit. Thick-headed ‘Vint sack of shit. “Killed in the Fade by the Nightmare demon,” Krem finishes under his breath. “So why could only I see him?”
Cullen is scrambling to get upright while Cassandra charges at him with the force of an avalanche. Bull turns his back on them. “Let’s take a walk.”
They go up to the ramparts, where no one can eavesdrop. Krem plops down on a step and scrubs at his hair with both hands; Bull leans against the parapet.
“What else did he say?”
“I’m trying to remember – it was weird, just a bunch of jumbled images he spit out all at once.”
“Sounds like Cole,” Bull muses.
Krem presses his face into his knees. The wind is cold around his ears. “Ah… He started with ‘Horns pointing up’, holding them – that was what he said. “Holding them.” Then, um, the stuff about Hawke, “words can’t bring them back”, then talking about Dalish and Rocky – “mage with a bow; dwarf with a bomb”. Said they were easy. But after that it got weirder.”
“Breathe,” Bull tells the mountains.
Krem picks his head up and breathes. He clasps his hands around the back of his neck. “Dalish and Rock were easy, but there was… there was a… a ripped soul that was hard? And then… um, something small? Protecting the strong? And a secret?” Had to stash it away in stone; he doesn’t care about the whispers anymore, but he needed the horns to pry it open. “Ah, shit.”
Krem. Varric was thinking about Krem.
“He’s trying to figure out how to put you in the book,” Bull says, about the same time Krem makes that logical step himself.
“Why did a spirit need to tell me that?”
Bull’s harness creaks when he shrugs. “Do you feel better knowing it?” He backs off the railing and comes to sit beside Krem – not touching, just close.
“I don’t know. No. Maybe. I – ” Krem folds his legs up to his chest, wraps his arms around them, plants his chin on his knees, and stares at the banners fluttering from the top of the great hall. “’Where does a shout go?’ That was the end of it. A shout. That’s me.” Snort. Choke. Half-laugh. “The most famous writer of the age can’t figure out how to put me in his book.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re such-”
Krem groans.
“Aclassi guy. And he’s intimidated by your maul.”
“He’s got a fucking repeating crossbow that’s the only one of its kind; I don’t think he’s afraid of a hammer.”
Bull shrugs. “Go wave it in his face. See what happens.” He watches Krem not laugh. “Do you want to be in the book?”
“The Chargers deserve to be in the book,” Krem says. “I don’t know if I need everyone who might hire us knowing my life story.”
Bull nods. “Okay. Want me to talk to him?”
“No, I’ll do it.” Krem pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just need to figure out what I’m going to say first.”
“Alright.” Bull rises to his feet. “Let me know if you want help.” He treads down the steps to the courtyard, leaving Krem with his own tangled thoughts.
***
He goes to the Herald’s Rest with half a mind to find Cole and make him sort out the mess in his head, but Maryden’s performing, and he finds himself at a table with Sera, Harding, and Dagna. They’re just eating breakfast now. He winds up in a corner, mug of cider in his hands, back to the wall, watching the room, watching Maryden, listening.
“She’d make a right brilliant Jenny, if the world didn’t know bards are spies,” Sera muses between eating strawberries whole.
“That’s why she calls herself a ‘minstrel’,” Harding says. “Safer.”
Sera shakes her head. “You can’t be seen if you want safe. Most Friends aren’t, because no one looks at them long enough to see, but they’d see her. They watch for singing.”
“Not if you sent her in with bees,” Dagna offers.
Harding hefts her mug. “Could only do that once, though.”
Sera looks mildly affronted. “Why not more?”
“Just couldn’t. People would notice.”
“Notice bees, yeah. Pretty faces ain’t pretty when your eyeballs are too full of stingers to see them.”
“Her voice,” Dagna says. “That’s where they’d catch her. People can remember a voice without ever seeing a face. Especially if they remember the voice and bees.”
Sera scowls. “Sod it, all she needs to be is angry. Everyone knows an arse or two. Everyone small’s been stepped on. Friends go everywhere; that’s how we win. Denerim and Minrathous are closer for us than nobles. Move her around, they can’t catch up.”
Listening to Sera is not much easier on the brain than listening to Cole, but Krem rests his chin on his folded arms and half-dozes on the table, listening to the three go round and round: how to make a Friend, a Jenny, how to win as a small person against the big. At some point he becomes distantly aware of someone running fingers through his hair. It feels nice.
“Orlais is too savvy to bards,” Maryden’s voice says. “I’m better for helping spirits than hurting them, anyway.” Krem turns his face to the side: she’s next to him, now, somehow. She’s the one with the hand in his hair. She feels him move, looks down and smiles. “Hey, sleepy.”
“Mmmmmm.” Krem rolls his head side-to-side until his neck cracks, then pushes himself back into a more upright sitting position. “Hey.”
She reaches across him to grab the mug of cider he’d forgotten about; she brings it to her lips and drinks it dry. Her hip is pressed against his.
Sera wolf-whistles. Dagna elbows her in the ribs, and Harding snorts into her own mug. Sera tackles Dagna, knocking her off her chair. They roll across the floor in a tangle of shouting limbs.
Krem looks at Maryden. Maryden looks at Krem.
“The garden is much quieter,” she says brightly.
***
With Morrigan and her weird god-child and giant magic mirror gone, the garden feels warmer, safer without the tickle of raw magic that used to creep up Krem’s spine every time he walked into the place. The Inquisitor’s collection of alchemical plants has grown – elfroot is everywhere. It’s a little scrap of wild in the middle of Skyhold. They pause inside the gazebo, leaning on the stone railing, watching the castle residents swirl and settle along the pathways, on the patches of grass.
“How are you?” Krem asks, because it’s been silent for too long.
“I’m good,” Maryden says. “It’s nice to know we’ll all live past tomorrow, now.” She pauses. “Most of us, anyhow.” She tilts her head, gives Krem a studious look out of the corner of her eye. “The Chargers riding off anywhere soon?”
“Might be something in Nevarra in a week or so; we’re waiting on more details. Hunting down Venatori remnants, like always.”
Maryden nods. “Be safe.”
Krem feels his entire face go red, thoroughly against his will. “We are. We will be. Uh - ” He clears his throat. “The Chief’s got good instincts-”
“Cremisius.”
Krem bites his tongue. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Maryden props her hip against the railing so she can face him. “What are you nervous about?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
“Bah.” Krem looks down at his hands, then holds one out to her. She takes it, steps closer, knocks their shoulders together. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll forgive you,” she says. “But don’t mistake me for a blockheaded soldier who thinks saying “I’m brave and honorable and just” makes it true.”
“Works on Rocky.”
“Mmmm, well, you can go court Rocky then.” Maryden makes to step away, and Krem yelps in protest, and she comes back, quick as a knife thrust, backs him up against a pillar, folds one warm hand around the back of his neck, and kisses him.
Soft, strong, soft, soft, sweet.
It’s the first time.
Maryden doesn’t really pull away, just tips her forehead to rest against his, rubs her thumb over his cheek. Krem’s hands have landed on her waist; he folds his arms around her and breathes; she kisses the tip of his nose and he smiles.
“You know, most boys would’ve at least tried for something inside the first month,” she murmurs.
He hums a little. “Guess that makes me a better gentleman than most boys, yeah?”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s one way to think about it.”
“You know, Bull wanted me to-”
She taps a finger against his cheek. “You keep bringing Bull into these conversations, I’ll have to invite him to join us.”
Krem snorts. “Message received.”
Maryden’s fingertips curl around the back of his neck. Krem swallows fear, nudges their faces together, and kisses her again.
***
He finds Varric sorting through piles of mail in a side room off the great hall. Everything from the Dwarven Merchants Guild and the Prince of Starkhaven appears to be going into the ‘Ignore’ pile, to his seneschal’s dismay. They’re snapping at each other when Krem walks in; Varric glances up and immediately looks relieved. “Lieutenant. What can I do ya for?”
Krem folds his arms behind his back. He put on armor for this meeting; it makes him feel better to watch the seneschal calculate the appropriate degree of formality, and to swipe aside whatever statement he’s forming with a brisk “May I have a moment?”
“Sure,” Varric says. “Bran, go find some documents for Josephine to sign or something.”
The seneschal scowls but goes.
Krem waits for the door to thud shut, then takes a deep breath. “You’re putting the Chargers in the book?”
Varric raises one eyebrow. “Yes. I thought that was you and Tiny’s agenda?”
“Am I going in the book?”
“Ah.” Varric’s expression clears. “I’ve been considering that.” He leans back and kicks his boots up on top of the desk and the pile of ‘Ignore’ mail. “This is good, actually, that you asked. You’re second-in-command of one of the most elite mercenary companies in existence; you’re a deserter from the Tevinter military who helped fight a bunch of crazy ‘Vint magisters; you’re the reason the Chargers and Inquisition hooked up in the first place, according to your commander – who, by the way, traded his left eye for your life at your very first meeting…” He spreads his hands. “I can leave it at that. Makes a hell of an advertisement for the Chargers.”
“Who is actually going to read this book?”
Varric throws his head back and laughs. “Maybe ten people. Maybe no one. Maybe every literate person in all of Thedas. No way to tell you until the damn thing’s actually published.”
This is not the answer Krem was looking for.
“But,” Varric continues. “What I can tell you is that there is at least one kid, somewhere out there right now, who will never grow a beard, but stands in the bathroom next to their father pretending to shave.”
Krem’s face gets hot. “I’ve only told-”
“Cole wanders up and tells me weird riddles, too.” Varric isn’t looking at him with pity, or like he’s an insect. He’s looking at Krem the same way Bull used to: I know it hurts; how do I help?
Krem stills, squares up his stance again, takes a breath. “You think it would matter? To that one kid?”
“Would it have mattered to you?”
He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”
“Alright.” Varric’s feet come down. He shoves the dirtied letters into a basket sitting next to his desk, then digs out a notebook that’s a foot thick from a drawer. “You can just be Cremisius Aclassi the soldier; Aclassi the lieutenant. I can write that story if you want me to. Or you can be Krem… Krem who wrote his own damn story because he didn’t like the one the universe wanted to tell about him.” He smiles. “Wouldn’t fit too terribly, in a book about fighting a wannabe god.” He nods at the chair in front of his desk. “Your call.”
Krem sits. “Can I read it before you publish?”
“Sure. Exclusive privilege.” Varric picks up a quill. “I’ll only put in what you tell me.”
“It’ll be a mess.”
“So is everything,” Varric says. “Just say what you want known; I’ll make something out of it.”
“Okay.” Krem stares at the wall of memories behind his eyes. He takes a moment to sort them into some kind of order. “My family was always poor – same as most people in Teveniter who aren’t mages, honestly.”
The nib of the quill scratches across the paper.
***
“Krempuff!” Sera bellows it at him as he’s climbing the steps towards the top of Herald’s Rest, looking for Cole. She’s clearly been spending too much time with Bull.
Krem pauses on the landing. “Shorty?”
“Pissbag.” She squints at him. “You’re a bit weird, but you’re better than most ‘Vints. Except Dorian. Dorian’s best. But you’re alright.”
“Thanks? I think?” He wraps one hand around the railing and leans on it. “You’re not pretty good for a girl who can’t see over the top of the bar.”
Sera sticks her tongue out at him. “I’m trying to say you’re not half bad, but if you’re an arse to the bard, I’ll have to fill you full of arrows, get it? I like my music.”
Krem blinks a couple times. “Okay?”
Sera throws up her hands and sighs in frustration. “She sings happier now that she’s got you around, but her sad songs make things hurt, and I have to listen to her all day. So don’t make her sad. Or I’ll make you regret it.”
Krem smiles. “I’ll try.”
Sera nods once, authoritatively, and shuts her door. He goes back to climbing stairs.
Cole’s up at the very top, socked away in a corner. He watches Krem approach. “She threatened to make you Krem brûlèe.” Cole has also been spending too much time with Bull.
“She did,” Krem agrees.
“And you undid your tangle.” Cole looks pleased.
“Um?” Krem tries to logic that one out. “The tangle in my head? About the book?”
Cole nods eagerly. “Some of it. It is…” he pauses to think. “Most are small. A tug, a whisper, one move, they get better.” He looks down, that enormous hat shielding his face and most of his torso from view. His hands grip at each other. “I was afraid I would make yours worse.”
“But all you did was tell me what Varric was thinking.”
“You are not afraid of yourself,” Cole says. The hat lifts a little, but Krem still can’t see his face. “You are not your body; you are your armor, and the song about horns, and you are a Charger. Most live sheltered, secret, hidden from the truth of their own hearts, and I have to be a mirror to make them less afraid of their own insides. Cremisius Aclassi knows what he will see in the mirror; he is only afraid of what the world decides to see.”
Krem pulls up a chair and sits. “Isn’t everyone afraid of what everyone else thinks? That’s life, isn’t it?”
“Yes. No.” Cole pulls the hat off. “The Iron Bull fears that his own mind will break; Varric, that he will become his parents; Cassandra, that she will one day not be strong enough; Blackwall, himself, his own heart; Dorian, a temptation he will not resist; Sera, that her beliefs are a lie; Vivienne, that others will find the holes in her armor and cast her down –”
Krem feels his stomach clench. Riddles were better than straight talk.
“- and I am afraid,” Cole says, “that one day Compassion will give in to Despair.” He holds his hat in both hands. “You know who you are, Cremisius Aclassi, and who you always will be. That is better than most. That is better than me.” His fingers clutch tighter. His eyes close. “The story is in the horns; a safe place to nest, where it doesn’t hurt. The stone is shattered, but that’s okay. Even though the hawk is gone, it didn’t take the world with it, and that pain is not a course of action. Just leaves you looking like a bar fight. You should have friends, if you’re going to start a bar fight.”
“You’re losing me again,” Krem has to say. “Is Varric okay?”
“He will be.” Cole puts his hat back on. “You should go downstairs. The Iron Bull wants to give you a hug.”
“Okay. Thanks, Cole.”
“It is what I am.”
Krem smiles, and stands, and goes.
***
He gets tackled before he’s even off the last step, but it’s not even by Bull: it’s Skinner, whooping and cackling and shouting “The smooth Kreminal’s gonna be famous!” to the tops of the castle walls. Then Rocky pops out and slaps him on the back so hard his spine realigns itself, and they’re both towing him towards the bar and the rest of the Chargers. Varric’s there too, and Commander Cullen and Seeker Pentaghast, and Maryden. None of them were here when he arrived.
“What’s all this about?” Krem asks no one in particular. His eyes land on Varric.
Varric waves one hand at him while beckoning to the barkeep with the other. “A writer has to have multiple sources. I went asking after more background on the Chargers, trying to fill out your recent past a little more. Turns out, the people who do most of the fun things in stories don’t always want their names and faces attached. Open warrants, all that crap.” A tankard of ale lands in front of Krem. “You’ve received credit for… a few things. I may have to write a separate book for you.”
Krem mock-scowls at the crowd. “What’ve you numbskulls done?”
Dalish claps his shoulder. “We all grew up with our own heroes. Now you’re going to be one. And if you’re gonna be a hero, you may as well be a fucking mighty one.”
Krem’s throat closes up. “Andraste’s fucking knickers-”
Bull comes on like a – well, like a charging bull, and he’s got both arms wrapped around Krem before you can say “pillowy man-bosom”, which is fine, because Krem is absolutely fucking crying in the middle of the fucking tavern with a hundred people watching him, so having Bull bound around and bruise Krem’s internal organs with each step while he bellows “Krem de la crème” repeatedly is fine. He can barely breathe by the time Bull deposits him next to Maryden. She folds him into another hug, albeit one that does a lot less damage to his ribcage.
“Any story that can be written can also be told in a song,” she murmurs into his ear. “If you want.”
He hiccups. “Yeah, I’d – that’d be nice. That’d be good.”
She kisses his cheek and lets him go. Someone gets his drink back to him. Grim grunts approvingly in his direction. Stitches cracks his spine back into its correct position. Then they open a new keg – with an ax – and Dalish and Skinner start dancing, and Maryden picks up her lute. The Seeker and Commander both find a way to give Krem approving nods from across the room, but they don’t try to insert themselves into the riot that is a Bull’s Chargers party. Harding does, of course, and Varric’s already in the thick of it, and Sera and Dagna climb on top of the bar when it’s clear that there’s not room for them to dance on the floor without catching accidental elbows in the head. Krem looks up at one point to see Cole sitting on the railing of the stairs, hat gone, just watching.
He does catch Bull in a lull at one point, past midnight. “This seems like the kind of thing your other favorite ‘Vint would love.”
“Dorian? Yeah.” Bull wipes his mouth and belches loud enough to shake the rafters. “He’d be proud of you, too. I’ll make Varric send him a copy of the book.” He sighs. “You’ve done well, Krem.”
Krem looks at the swirling mass of people straining the seams of Herald’s Rest. “You have too, Chief.”
***
He gets woken up by the light streaming through the window, and lies there for a little while, watching how the light warps the beams, and how the dust motes dance in them. Then he feels someone else move against his back, and a gentle hand drags fingertips through his hair. He freezes, then rolls back over.
Maryden smiles at him. “Morning, handsome.”
He catches her hand in his. “Did we…?”
“No.”
Krem’s entire body relaxes. “Thank the – not that I don’t want to! I just-”
Maryden squeezes his hand. “Drunk first times are no fun, sweet boy. But come back here; I’m cold.”
Krem laughs and lets her pull herself into his chest. She fits her cheek into the cut of his collarbone; he presses his face into her hair. “Did you dream about anything?”
“Not really – just… I was just happy. Did you dream?”
“Yeah. It was a little weird.” He kisses the top of Maryden’s head. She smells like elfroot. “A hawk got lost; really lost. It didn’t know what to do for a long time, but in the end it found its home. Not its old home: it made a new one.”
“That sounds… a little poetic, or something.”
“Yeah,” Krem says. “Or something.”
Maryden laughs into his neck. The sensation makes him smile.