Implied that Trevelyan is feeling a little Impostor Syndrome-y. Default name is default. Cullen is angsty.
Unspecified timeline, but pre-smiting 'ol Coryphy-tit. Reviews are love.
Maker, but she was tired.
It was the kind of tired that seeped deep into your bones, the kind that settled in your core, the kind that made everything heavier, the kind that lingered long after a long bath and a full nights rest.
It dragged her down in the saddle, hung her head weary, blue eyes fixed on the ever changing landscape moving between her horse's ears, chestnut hair braided but swinging free over her shoulder. Her cowl had blown back, useless like her cloak fluttering behind. Her right hand gripped the reins like a lifeline, but they were loose on the bit, letting the forder lead her. Her attention wandered, fading in and out, only partially aware of the structure looming ahead as the horse pressed on, steady.
She was, however, fully aware of the sharp, pinpricks of pain in her left arm.
Still bloodied, her sleeve ripped and torn, the limb dangled at her side. She extended every effort she had available to her to keep it still, but the movement of the mount as it walked on jostled it constantly and her reward was a stabbing sting, bringing the smallest kiss of salt to her eyes.
For the last hour she had ridden in silence across the frozen mountainscape, bearing the weight of her wound like a mantle. A healing potion had dulled and knitted the skin enough to allow for travel, but bright red drops still traversed the darkening brown rivulets formed earlier, tracing a slow and agonising path.
Without warning, the steady crunch of snow ceased and was replaced with the strike of hoof on stone and the brunette jolted, biting back a scream, forcing her eyes to focus. They rode across the bridge, each step jarring, the pain threatening to unseat her with an ungainly tumble.
She struggled on, pride and foolishness equal partners in keeping her upright.
She could hear shouts and murmurs, words unintelligible to her ears, focus fading out again, darkness pressing in. Gloved hands were helping her dismount, arms were carrying her, cold metal bit into her unwounded arm and she whimpered, apologetic, trying to stand, trying to bring her vision to bear.
Instead, she faded, and her dreams were of Haven; Chantry bells ringing in warning; the crackle of fire and murk of smoke; hands pulling her out of the snow; fur warm against her cheek.
She was slow to wake, assuaged by the rustle of drapes stirred by a spring breeze. Light dappled the floor of the room in a multitude of colours as the mid-morning sun hit stained glass, and her vision converged slowly into something that made sense as she blinked the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes.
Evelyn Trevelyn was in her quarters.
Disconnected fragments of the day before returned as her head cleared the last of the night's fog and she moved to sit up. The sharp stab of pain in her arm caused her to hiss and blue eyes slid down to the bandages covering her left side, shoulder to elbow, clean and white against her skin, and the faint bitter tang of elfroot hung in the air. Using caution this time, she slipped free of her sheets, swinging bare feet onto the floor with her right arm compensating for the left as she raised herself.
She found a healing drought left for her on the desk and downed it without complaint, savoring the tingle it left on her tongue before turned her attention to getting dressed. It was a slow affair, hindered by her reduced range of motion, but eventually she tied the last lace on her boots.
Keeping her stride unhurried, the brunette slipped from her chambers to the war room, avoiding the milling crowd by keeping her eyes fixed at a point a few feet in front of her, shutting out the sound of their voices. She noted absently that Josephine wasn't in her office as she passed, but unsure of the time, didn't linger on the fact, intent in her purpose.
She need not have concerned herself, it turned out, as she pushed open the door to the war room. The three advisers stood around the war table, discussing in low tones, oblivious to her standing in the entry. Evelyn paused for a moment to watch them, then cleared her throat to get their attention.
"I assume our Commander is feeling very smug for telling me I shouldn't go hunting alone?"
It was meant at a joke, but the disquiet was visible on their faces regardless. Cullen shook his head, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. "I do not feel smug at all, Inquisitor. Merely relieved at your return."
Leliana and Josephine echoed his sentiments as she padded over to the table to see what they were working on. "Apparently, I need to keep a better lookout for wolves. Which wouldn't be a problem if we could get a hunt-master," she posited, locking her gaze on Josephine. "Even just one mabari would be an improvement to our kennels."
"We have no kennels," the Antivan responded, then tilted her head with a sigh. "Which is your point, of course."
"How is your arm?" Blue eyes flicked to the spymaster, and Evelyn wilted a little under the observant stare. Tenacious, as always.
"Healing," she waved off the concern with her right arm. "Fortunately wolf bites are easier to deal with than Orlesian nobles." That earned her a smile, a giggle, and a snort of derision from her advisers, and Evelyn leaned forward, resting her hands carefully on the table. Fingers skimmed the edge of the map as she gave them an easy grin, "now, what are we working on?"