Cassandra stands in the dark of the chantry's garden and regards the newly closed breach, now only a scar against the emerging stars, as lively music and laughter spill from the camp. Haven will celebrate until morning and she will be dragged only a little begrudgingly into the festivities at some point, but for now she allows herself a moment to reflect. The Inquisition's path is unclear, as is her own, yet for the first time since the conclave she feels no sense of dread or urgency pressing on the backs of her eyelids, against her sternum, upon her shoulders.
Golden light spills across trampled snow as the chantry doors open with their customary groan and Cassandra is drawn out of her thoughts by a sound that she has not heard in a long time; Leliana's laugh. Her real laugh; musical and light, and she knows the source of the spymaster's mirth before she sees her. Josephine appears a moment later, her hands dancing in front of her as she weaves her story, and as she turns to grasp Leliana's shaking shoulder she spots Cassandra and her grin widens.
Cassandra feels her skin warm, her heartbeat pick up, just a little, and allows herself to feel this affection tonight as she nods to them, turns back to the sky. A Fereldan jig winds down, seams into a slow Orlesian waltz, and she senses Josephine beside her. They watch the stars in comfortable silence as Maryden sings of old lovers reunited, her voice blending with the crackling of the fires, and Cassandra's thoughts turn to the ambassador, as they often do. It is a terrible privilege, Leliana had once said, to be loved by Josephine Montilyet.
Cassandra, pulse still thrumming, shifts her gaze and finds that Josephine is already watching her, a soft smile on her face. She raises her eyebrows.
Josephine shifts closer, eyes lit with delight. "I had almost forgotten what your smile looks like."
Cassandra feels a blush creeping up her neck as she turns to face Josephine, she had not realized that she was smiling. "I suppose I am… content." Josephine hums in agreement, tries to hide a faint shiver, and Cassandra enfolds her delicate fingers, ink stained and calloused, within her warm hands. "Where is your cloak?"
"I'm going back inside presently." Josephine steps closer, and Cassandra recognizes her determined expression, "I simply wanted to congratulate you on your victory."
Cassandra swallows, hands flexing, "it is a victory shared by many."
"I wanted to congratulate you, all the same."
Josephine rises onto her toes and lifts her chin, eyes expectant, and Cassandra, as if pulled by an intangible thread, bends down into the soft brush of lips once, twice. She leans her forehead against Josephine's, eyes still closed, and feels their hands separate, feels fingers trace her jaw, slide into her hair. Her own hands find Josephine's waist as she is happily pulled into another kiss, so tender it makes her chest ache.
…
Cassandra is one of the last on the icy path out of the chantry; a stoic, golden figure lit by torchlight at the top of the first bend, above the haze of disturbed snow, and the stragglers find strength in her fearless gaze and unwavering voice as she orders them to follow the trail of torches. Their numbers thin quickly; the tide of bodies turning into a trickle, and, though she does not know how many have gone before her, she senses that the loss of lives in this holy place has once again been great.
She measures the passing of time by the slow settling of the snow, the numbing of her fingers and nose; still dazed by the unexpected battle, the destruction of Haven, the sacrifice of the Herald. Odd shapes appear on the recently deserted path as the air clears; boulders, she thinks. Except they shift, and they moan, and abruptly her mind snaps into focus.
She signals down the line and cautiously makes her way to the first body, boots skating on the ice. He is on his hands and knees, coughing up blood, and as she reaches him she lifts her torch to see his face. She knows him, or at least of him; he is one of the cooks; a faithful pilgrim unexpectedly turned volunteer during his short introduction to Josephine. She had seen the bewildered look on his face as he agreed and sympathized, knew that she had worn the same look for the same reason more than a few times.
Now his body is failing, and she can offer little comfort.
Finally, finally a runner comes up behind her, winded, "Lady Penta-"
Cassandra cuts him off, "there are weak and wounded, find soldiers to help them."
He looks about at the bodies desperately, shakes his head, "my Lady, there is no one-"
"We will not abandon them. Find some." The runner nods and stumbles up the hill, disappearing around the bend, and Cassandra places a hand on the cook's shoulder. He looks up from his pool of blood and she can see the whites of his eyes, glossy with fear and death and, upon recognizing her, hope. She cannot remember his name. "I will not abandon you."
Her aid comes in the form of the chargers and a few of the rescued mages and, she thinks at first glance, Leliana. But the woman rushes from body to body, searching. Cassandra lets a mage take over care of the cook and stands, "Leliana, what are you-"
"She's not with the main group!"
Her heart seizes as a chill runs down her spine, into her fingers, but she cannot let dread control her; not yet. Leliana is as close to panicking as Cassandra has ever seen her; she is already heartbroken over the loss of Divine Justinia, and now the Herald; losing Josephine would break her. It would, in truth, break them both.
Cassandra catches up to Leliana and grabs her elbow, turning the woman to her, "go to the front, lead us, I will find her." Leliana's eyes harden; she intends to argue, and Cassandra does not have the words to explain, but she tries, "your scouts know these mountains, and you camped in them before. Cullen and I are inadequate here." She would say more but there is no time, so she only squeezes Leliana's elbow, "I will find her."
Leliana nods, once, "you must."
...
After a few hundred yards Cassandra reaches where she estimates the chantry should be. She pauses, doubtlessly standing on top of its remnants, and studies the snow beneath her feet, ponders how far she would have to dig to find the roof, before scanning the area in front of her for any signs of Haven. But there is only snow, white and pure, a mountain's worth of rolling swathes as far as she can see, and her hand wraps around the leather hilt of her sword so forcefully her fingers ache.
"Josephine!"
"Josephine… Josephine…" the mountains mockingly echo her voice, but nothing stirs.
She tries again, shouting into the stillness, "hello!"
"Hello… hello…"
She instinctively knows that there are no survivors here, in the foothills of Andraste's tomb, knows that pressing forward would squander both time and strength, but her humanity calls to her to try. How can she leave the pilgrims that had flocked to her cause, that shared her faith? How can she leave without exploring? But she must, and in this moment she is powerless. It takes her a full minute to gather enough willpower to turn around, another to take that first step.
…
Cassandra trudges along the edge of the mountain path, knees and ankles protesting, torch slung low to illuminate the ground, searching. She is no tracker so this is her best, her only, idea; walking the boundaries of the trail, up one side then down the other, looking for some sort of sign that she cannot currently envision while calling out every so often.
A flash catches her eye and she looks up, sees a paltry orange flickering on the distant trail. It takes her muddled mind a moment to decipher the glow; a flame, a torch, a runner. She straightens, her back resisting, vertebrae popping, and begins the climb to meet them, focusing on the placement of her boots with each step.
As she gets closer she realizes that there is not one figure, but two, and her heart constricts. She will not allow herself to hope. Not yet.
"Cassandra!"
Her hands, knees, shoulders shake with relief. "Josephine!" Her voice is hoarse after calling out that name for hours, but it carries, and one of the figures breaks away and starts running down the path. She tries to will her legs to move faster, but she has been hiking for hours, and they will not, so she continues at her same slow pace. Cassandra loses sight of her as she fades into the long shadow that lies between the two pillars of light, and her heart batters against her ribs for long minutes.
And then Josephine is pulling her into her embrace, one arm sliding behind her neck and the other around her waist, slipping under the shield, and Cassandra lets her head fall to her shoulder, breathes her in, spreads her palm against her back, under her cloak. Josephine presses firm kisses to her temple, her ear, anywhere she can reach, the hand at her neck fisting into her hair.
Cassandra swallows, squeezes her eyes shut and sees Haven, buried, curls the fabric under her hand into her fist. "I thought…"
"Me too."
She lifts her head and they meet in a rough kiss; all chapped lips and cold noses and hot breaths and here and safe. Slowly their desperation fades, their kisses turn gentle. The other figure, a grinning Dorian, reaches them and they break apart.
Cassandra lets Josephine twine their fingers, waits for Dorian's sarcastic quip as he eyes their laced hands, but it never comes, and they start making their way up the path in silence.
