Haven's greatest failing, Luck reflected, her well-heeled boots crunching through the thin layer of dry snow that still dusted the best-travelled paths through the village, was its distinct lack of walls. Accustomed as she was to Ostwick, where finding a high place to stand and think required only that one walk to the city's boundaries, finding a good place to reflect on the day's events had been a challenge. So too had been the overwhelming lack of privacy. Not that it made a difference, she smiled to herself as an ever-present reminder that everything was being watched, read or otherwise inspected dashed up the stairs past her, in the form of one of Sister Nightingale's many spies.
Continuing on her way, she reached the front gate, passed through and raised a gloved hand in greeting to the guard on duty on the ground, the wave somewhat impeded by the unopened letter she was holding. The Inquisition soldier on duty, used to seeing her at about this time of day, the point at which the sun has dipped just enough that it no longer feels appropriate to call it afternoon, but likewise is too early to be evening, returned the gesture.
"Need a hand, m'lady?"
She made a point of looking to the one still hovering by the side of her head, "I appear to have one already, thank you, Cormac," she parried, in what had become a daily exchange.
"That you do m'lady," he agreed, grinning at her, "Two of 'em!"
She chuckled, adjusting the sling around her shoulder, which had shifted during the exchange. Of all the guards who had this particular duty, Cormac was one of her favourites, a Ferelden freeholder who'd fought during the Blight, he gave as good as he got, had made the pilgrimage with his wife and children to join the Inquisition after the Breach. He had precious little good to say about nobles, and he'd been sure to say it all to her face, at their first meeting, when he'd told her that if she got herself into trouble, he was not about to come and fish her out. He'd softened after her acerbic retort that if she had gotten herself into trouble with the nugs surrounding the encampment, she wouldn't deserve a rescue.
"Letter from home?" he lifted his hand from where it sat on the hilt of his sword to gesture at the page she held in her hand.
"Letter from the Hinterlands," she corrected, tipping her chin towards the dock within view of the gate. "You know where I'll be."
Feet light on the snow, she all but danced down to the dock, past the heat and hammer of the forge, the ring and clatter of the training grounds, and slipped the cloak from her shoulders to have something slightly warmer than bare wood to sit on. She struggled for a moment, the letter in her lap shifting as she tried to break the seal one-handed, but eventually succeeded, flipping the page open, eyes shining as they skipped over the salutation.
Chauncey Bonaventura of House Trevelyan
Formerly of the Order of Formari of the Ostwick Circle of Magi,
Now styled Herald of Andraste of the Inquisition,
To Lucrezia Reinheilde of House Trevelyan,
by the Maker's Grace, Lady of that House and of the City-State of Ostwick,
Rider of the Watch Beyond the Wall,
Lady of the Order of the Wild Rose,
Greeting.
Did that sound pompous enough? I'm practicing dealing with officialdom at the Lady Montilyet's insistence. Maker, Luck, look at the pair of us, that's an absurd amount of space just to get our titles out of the way. Not bad for a couple of youngest children, eh, even if they are mostly honorary. Or ridiculous, in my case. Herald, forsooth. (Yes, I'm practicing the fancy vocabulary too. It's been a while.)
She shook her head, giggling, as she took in the shape of the letters, tighter, more cramped than she remembered, angled backwards as a result of his left-handedness.
I find myself digressing, so, to the point, insofar as there is one. We have arrived in the Hinterlands! Joy and rapture, et cetera. There is a miasma over this place thicker than Cousin Albrecht's cologne, and infinitely less pleasant. Between the mud, blood and burning bodies, occasionally overpowered by that all-pervasive Ferelden perfume of wet dog, I'm amazed any of us can breathe. The wet dog is preferable to the rest, in my humble opinion, though I know some might disagree. (Best not mention I said so to the Commander, lest he be overwhelmed by a sudden patriotism and an urge to remove my head from my shoulders, though he doesn't really seem the type.)
The weather is fine, for the South on the verge of … spring? Impossible to tell the season, really, considering that we freeze through the nights and sweat through the daily skirmishes with Templars, mages, mercenaries, and, worst of all, bears (!), none of which help the smell situation. I suppose the demons are bad too. So bad, in fact, that I am beginning to loathe the colour green. Pity, as I've always looked exceptionally good in it. Pity, too, because between the rifts, the grass and the endless trees, it's bloody everywhere.
I complain, Luck, (No, I do. Loudly and frequently. Ask the others.) but truthfully, I'm revelling in this. Magic aside, just to feel, I can't even begin to describe it, what it's like to have everything back. I spend hours staring at nothing, at everything. The first day we made camp, it was a wildflower, I watched the bees, fat, fuzzy, float over to visit, to drink. So many colours, textures, infinitesimally small variations in the surface of each leaf, the slowly growing pattern in the spider's web that was forming between the petals and the neighbouring bud, all things that I'd seen before but had never compelled me to sincerely look.
I think Lady Seeker Pentaghast suspected I was ill, or in shock, or possibly that I was possessed? (By a sloth demon? Anything else would have actually done something.) I had to explain that I was just relearning the world. She grunted, Solas hummed thoughtfully, Varric pulled out a notebook. He asks a hundred thousand questions a day, scribbles the answers whenever he gets a Chance (heh). I'm beginning to believe that he may well be doing some not-quite-covert research. A Tranquil character in the future?
And here I am writing circles around the point once more. Too much to think and feel and too difficult to do it all at once, I suppose. I shall endeavour to think only one thing at a time.
It's like being awake after an endless grey nightmare, like the first day of being well, truly well, after a lingering illness, breathing fully, nose clear, no fear of coughing, ravenous after the loss of appetite, and even the simples fare is the most delicious taste that has ever touched one's tongue. Probably for the best, really, as it's been ram stew and hard-tack for the better part of I can't bear to think how long.
It is glorious, and terrifying, this feeling again. I swing between extremes in mood, as though after a decade of polite neutrality I can only be anywhere but. I sympathise, for the refugees, for the dead, and it moves me to tears. I see the brutality of the rebels on both sides, the real rebels, not the one who are trying to make what they call improvements, but those butchering their way across the countryside, and I find myself in a state of anger so white-hot that my fingertips dance with embers. Varric and Solas trade barbs, and I laugh until my sides ache, and I'm left gasping for air. But that I can feel, Luck! I can feel! And the world is full of feelings, of light and life and music and joy and pain and horror, and yes, disgust, but Maker save me and Andraste preserve me, it is worth every ounce of whatever I must suffer to have this which was torn from me back.
I won't promise that we will return soon, there is much still to be done here in this beautiful backwater, but as soon as we're able, we'll be back in Haven, hot on the heels of a handful of new recruits and a rebellious Chantry mother (!).
Heal quickly (more quickly). It would be nice to have your company on the road, to say nothing of your bow in a fight.
Your taller, handsomer, more magical brother
Chance
The first read-through of the letter had her laughing, shoulders shaking as she struggled not to break the silence in which she sat. The second read was slower, and she was in tears, holding the page away from herself to keep the salt from staining the page. A third read, then a fourth, a fifth, like the proverbial starving man before a feast, she gorged on the words, the heart-felt humor, the sheer sentimentality. Picking passages at random, she read, committing them to memory, until the sun had sunk well below the horizon, and it had become far so dark that the ink blurred, blended into the page on which it stood. Still, she stayed, staring at the moonlight reflecting off the ice-covered lake, heedless of the growing cold, that the sounds of soldiers training had long since faded, that she sat alone beyond the wall after dark.
So oblivious to the world, lost in thought, in the hallowed halls of memory conjured by a familiar hand, that she didn't notice the footsteps on the dock behind her, heavy boots creaking across the old wood planks, slow, steady, so as not to startle. Still, it took a quiet a-hem, a voice that she was far more accustomed to hearing bellow across the frozen expanse that stretched from treeline to lake to Haven's gates, now soft and low, "Lady Trevelyan?"
She managed, just, not to jump, but couldn't stop herself from starting, the sudden shift sending a sharp shaft of pain searing across her chest, caused a swift inhale, hissed, breath pulled through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed tight around the prickle of tears, fist clenched around her letter as she exhaled through her nose. She struggled to regain her composure as she stood, shaking out the stiffness in her legs, and turned to look at the Commander.
He was still in full armor, in spite of the lateness of the hour, which came as no surprise; privately, she was certain he slept that way. The furrow in his brow as he looked down at her was typical of him as well, so far as she had seen. He raised his hand, and for the briefest flash of a moment she thought, no, felt, for it was too short a time for a thought to form, that he would reach for her shoulder, but the hand halted, jerked, continued to rise and ran through his hair, dislodging a few locks just enough to stand at odd angles to the rest.
"You've been here some time, Lady Trevelyan. The men," he gestured vaguely towards the gate, "were concerned. Is everything alright?"
Continuing to breathe carefully, the pain of the broken clavicle came under her control, just in time for her to be nearly floored by a new warmth, radiating out from under the sling, the cracked bones and healing bruises, touched to the core that he cared enough for the opinions of his men to come personally, that his men trusted him enough to send word, when he had, must have had, mountains of work to do. That was it, must be it, certainly, and nothing to do with the crease in his brown over the dark eyes, the downturned edges of full lips, stubble dotting a strong jaw.
She inhaled deeply, giving herself a mental rap across the knuckles, and responded in the only way her stuttering mind could manage. "Luck."
"I… beg your pardon?" he looked lost, the knot above his nose becoming more pronounced as he canted his head in confusion.
A small smile was all she allowed herself, wide mouth curving, demure, ladylike, in spite of her surroundings, the simplicity of her clothes and her untamed mane of hair.
"My name, Commander," she clarified. "Lady Trevelyan is reserved for the Bann's eldest daughter. As the youngest, I only have the right to be addressed as Lady Lucrezia, and I have never liked Lucrezia. So, Luck, if you please."
He nodded, slowly, seemed to be processing what she had said, without having the slightest inkling of how to react to it, if the slight shake of his head was anything to go by. "And, are you…" he hesitated, glanced from her face to the letter now held limply in her hand, "alright?"
She smiled more broadly, showing the slightest hint of teeth as she chuckled, "Perfectly, Commander. I'm afraid that I was simply thinking, and lost track of time. I do apologize for having worried your men."
"Ah, right, well," crisis resolved, he fumbled over his words, "I'm sorry for interrupting." Nodding curtly, he turned back towards Haven.
It was her turn to frown, then. She hadn't anticipated the hasty retreat, had been hopeful (had she really been hopeful?) that he would stay to talk. She opened her mouth to speak, to nurse that bright bubble that had bloomed within her back into being, got so far as, "Commander?"
But then his eyes were back upon her, and her courage quivered, quavered, was quashed. It was too early, too soon, and in spite of her familial claim to boldness, she didn't know him nearly well enough to be quite so forward. Not yet. He was still looking, however, and something had to be said.
"Thank you." She gave the slightest of bows, head inclined, "For coming to check on me."
In the light of the full moons, she could have sworn that his cheeks darkened as the frown fell from his face. It was not enough to be a smile, not truly, but enough to see for the first time what he might look like if he ever tried.
"Of course," he nodded again, turned for good, that slow, measured step taking him back the way he had come, a quiet march through the snow.
Alone, Luck sighed deeply. Eyes closed, she smiled and gave herself a little shake, trying to fling her confused thoughts out into the cold night air.
You were right, Chance. The world is certainly full of feelings.