The snow came down in perfect, soft-drifting whorls, gentle on the mountain breeze. The first breath froze the lungs, but the second eased the burn, and the third brought only clean comfort.
Leona sighed, a plume of mock-dragon's fire, white and misty, puffing from her lips. She touched the lingering music of the Fade and closed her eyes, wrapped her cheeks in warmth like the fur-lined cloak draped across her shoulders. Fingers curled along grey stone, and she gazed down from the battlements, ignoring the faint ache in her bones.
The valley below was a fog of dancing snowflakes, the serpentine glint of a frozen river, little columns of smoke that rose and disappeared into lambs-wool air. The sounds of construction did not cease, but they seemed muffled, distant.
"It all seems pretty big, doesn't it?"
She smiled, finding Varric at her elbow, bundled up to his ears in what she suspected was a fennec-lined coat, fur peeking out of its sleeves and high collar. "It is a mountain." Leona winked.
The dwarf chuckled. "That, too."
Little cloudy puffs drifted out of Varric's collar, and the mage watched them with growing amusement, but her companion made no move to continue on to the makeshift tavern. "And here I thought dwarves weren't partial to the cold."
"They're not. And I can't say I like the great outdoors period."
She shook her head, eyes crinkled at the corners. "We could move inside if you want to talk."
"Nah, you look like you need the fresh air." Varric jammed gloved hands further in his pockets, rocking on his heels.
"And here I thought I was doing better."
"You've gotten your color back, Motley, that's for sure." He winked. "Pretty important, if you ask me."
That silly piece of wordplay yielded hearty chuckle—which unfortunately petered off into a cough, pressing on still-bruised ribs. "Shit." Leona's eyes watered, but she was grinning.
Varric shook his head. "Well that settles it. I need to lay off even the weakest jokes for at least another week."
The laughter renewed with a hissing, hiccoughing sound.
"Come on, it wasn't even that funny, Motley." He gently shouldered her elbow. "I don't want to be the one to tell everyone that their new Inquisitor, after closing the Breach and facing down a damn Darkspawn Magister and his pet Archdemon, died of laughter at a bad joke."
The sound ceased. Leona nodded, laying her palms flat on the frigid stone, pulling a slow breath through her nose.
Varric's brow furrowed. "You all right?"
Snow continued to fall in gentle whorls, no sign of ceasing.
Her fingers twitched, fighting the urge to curl in upon themselves. "It's…" She shook her head.
They looked over the distant mountains. A painted, grey horizon of filtered sun and woolen streams. Clouds coiled in layers, lavender silhouettes of stone and snow. And still the flakes fell, little stars dusting the breeze. A chill sank into Varric's hair, frosted the exposed tips of his ears. Leona let her fingers fall numb, dulling the burn and prickle of the mark—the Anchor—on her palm.
She closed her eyes. "It's this Inquisitor business."
Varric nodded, slowly, eyes on the horizon.
"I see the appeal, I suppose." She glanced over at him, cocky smile across her lips. "A young apostate, symbol of hope—role model for mage-lings everywhere! Nothing but wits and luck and a little magic to get by." Leona ran a hand through greying forelocks, dusted with snow. "At some point they'll need a real leader, not a story."
"That's where you're wrong, Motley. Everybody always needs a story."
She felt those words tug at her heart.
"I don't know anything about armies or spy networks or diplomacy."
Varric let a smile tug at the corner of his mouth as he watched a flurry of snowflakes drift below his sight. "That's what Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine are for. You're here to… make it all work out. Think of yourself as the tie-breaker."
Leona grinned. "Andraste guide us if it's all up to me."
"That's what they say."
The mage folded her arms, braced herself against the battlements.
Varric sighed. "Look, Leona—no one's going to make you do this alone. No one's going to let you do this alone, for that matter." He glanced up, finally, to find her eyes. "There's still a couple weeks before my friend arrives. Take your time. Talk to Cullen. Do what you have to." He took hold of her arm. "But for the Maker's sake, don't sulk."
Her grin was easy as she let the storyteller lead her away from the rampart's edge. "It's not becoming," she agreed.
Varric nodded. "Now that we've gotten through the serious shit, how about a drink?"
"Last one to the storeroom takes the blame if we're caught." With a wink, Leona tore off down the stone steps—but little did she know, any rogue worth his salt always knows the best route to the libations.
He was already drinking when she skidded through the threshold.