The Dragon-Slayer had conceded to remain for one more night at his host's behest. Jemimah had pointed out that the storm had not yet passed in its entirety, and he would do well to allow Onyx more rest before he was once more sent into Thedas' harsh terrains. He enjoyed Jemimah's company and respected her advice, so he had agreed – a final night in Merricastle, which he would spend in the inn's rather quaint library on the second floor.
Before he could retire for the evening, however, he needed to examine his horse. Onyx had been sequestered in a far-end corner of the stables, away from the 'commoners', where he had enough food to sate an elephant and enough water to fill a noble's bath. The rider enjoyed the privacy this little nook afforded them. As he brushed the stallion's mane and stroked his sleek flank, he felt for the first time as if no one was watching him; not even the stable-hand, who occasionally glanced in his direction while tending to his flock.
"Soon, Onyx," he reassured the restless beast, "We'll return to the highways soon."
The braziers lit and the smell of hay in his nose, the rider felt oddly at peace. He wondered at life in the stables, and questioned whether or not he would have ended up there if fate had been kinder.
The doors to the stable opened. The Dragon-Slayer, lost in deep thought, did not look up to see the soldiers step inside, clad in full Inquisition regalia and holding a small scroll in their hands. The stable-hand was the first to take notice of them.
"Welcome," he said in a low, friendly voice, "Does the Inquisition need to store horses?"
"No," the first soldier – a redheaded woman – replied, "We're here to see someone. We were told he might be tending to his horse."
The stable-hand fell silent for a moment. He glanced in the rider's direction, who had caught sight of the soldiers and re-focused himself on brushing Onyx's side. His actions were concentrated and purposeful; he did not want to be disturbed.
"Is it…is it quite important business, madam? Only, I'm not sure—"
"The Inquisition's business is always important." The soldiers turned almost as one and moved towards the end of the stable, leaving the man mid-sentence, his mouth opening and closing as he attempted to stutter out a response.
The Dragon-Slayer ignored them as best he could, but once the soldiers had reached him he resigned himself to their presence. He saw the intent in the redhead's eyes – she would leave after speaking to him, and not before.
"Master Dragon-Slayer," she said, standing upright and proud before him, her face vacant of all telling emotion, "It's an honour to meet you."
"I'm sure."
"The Inquisitor sends his regards, and an invitation. He requests your presence at Skyhold," she handed him the scroll. It was tied with a coarse red ribbon; it felt almost familiar on his skin. "It's in rather a difficult position in the Frostbacks – a full entourage will be sent to escort you."
The rider opened the scroll for a cursory glance and then set it down on the stool beside him. He started once more to brush the hay out of his horse's side, his expression firm and indifferent.
"Thank you, Sister Nightingale," he said, "but I don't accept invitations."
Leliana appeared surprised for a moment – but just a moment. By the time he had said the words, she had regained her composure.
"That rule is not set in stone, no?" she ventured.
"Whatever information you have, Nightingale, it's misled. I don't heed invites, not even from the Chantry. Mine is not a road paved with summons."
"This is not a summons, Dragon-Slayer, but a chance to do more."
"The Herald did well enough without me during the troubles," he said, "and I did well enough without him. My answer is firm. I don't accept invitations."
The Dragon-Slayer returned his attention to his horse. Leliana searched for a hint of emotion in his eyes – one scrap of uncertainty she could use against him – but she could see no faltering in those whisky-coloured depths. He was resolute. As she looked at him, a contingency plan started to form in her mind.
"Very well, Dragon-Slayer," she said as she turned on her heel and gestured the soldiers to do the same, "I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Please, enjoy your evening."
The rider knew he would see her again.
Skyhold's throne room was quiet and empty that early winter's morning, void even of Varric's laughter or Vivienne's soft humming in the stands above. The Inquisitor loved the peace of a new day. He moved across the hall with a smile on his face, heading towards the room where Josephine had her desk and important documents set up and wondering if she would be awake.
He opened the door to the smell of fresh fruit and a beautiful fire roaring in the fireplace. Josephine was hunched over her desk, scribbling away at some document or other, when he approached. She started once she noticed him, clutching at her heart with a soft chuckle.
"Inquisitor!" she said. "I apologise – I didn't hear you come in."
"It's alright, Josephine. Have you been here all night?" he asked.
"Yes, my lord. There's much to be done in case Leliana is successful in our new venture. I've ordered the tower at the far end of the garden to be cleared and new stocks for the tavern."
"Why clear the tower?" he asked as he took a seat in one of the fireplace chairs. The Inquisitor could understand the tavern –a noble himself, he had become used to his parents ordering new reserves for when people visited – but the tower surprised him.
"To serve as accommodation," she replied, turning towards her notes and picking up her quill, "The Dragon-Slayer is a Vessel of the Maker, renowned for his mysteriousness. It will behove us to oblige his privacy."
"That makes sense. I only hope this alliance happens – you took enormous pains with the invitation."
"The Dragon-Slayer rarely accepts invitations, and he never accepts invitations with spelling mistakes," she replied.
"That seems…odd. Why decline over a misspelling?"
"There are some theories but, no one knows for sure."
"Peculiar," he said, "I read the report you sent me. Is there no more information at all? I feel like we're walking into this blind."
"Believe me, Your Grace, if there were more it would have been included in that report." Josephine set down her quill again. Even in her sleep-deprived state, she seemed prim and proper; the Inquisitor wondered if any situation would fluster her. "I'm nervous for Leliana's return. The Inquisition's public image has been somewhat lacklustre as of late."
"We've had very little to do since Corypheus' defeat."
"We must do more," she told him, "If we lose the public's approval, we lose most of our power. The Dragon-Slayer is an inspiring figure – to have him allied with us will be monumental."
The Inquisitor nodded and sat back in his seat. He watched as the flames crackled in front of him, licking at the stones and billowing wispy, playful smoke up the chimney. For a moment, he thought about his victories. His survival in the Fade. His survival of the anchor. His involvement in world-changing decisions. Rescuing Empress Celene from assassination. The impossible feats he performed to inspire the people – to have them rally around him in Thedas' time in need. An entire army, raised from nothing. Was it so easy to forget all of that once the threat was dealt with? Had the Inquisition lost so much traction that no one remembered their heroism in the battle against Corypheus?
"Is there something wrong, Inquisitor?"
Josephine's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. The Inquisitor smiled at her.
"No, Josephine. And there's no dignitaries here – you can call me by my name."
"Ah, forgive me, Damien. I forget, especially when nervous."
"Let's just hope Leliana returns soon. I'd love to hear how the meeting went."
The door crashed open the second the words left his mouth, and in walked a silent Leliana. She strode towards them with purpose, undisturbed by her long journey or disappointing news. The soft firelight reflected off of her svelte outfit, winking in the links of her chainmail and highlighting her pale complexion.
"Josie. Inquisitor," she nodded at them both. "I've news."
"On no, that doesn't sound good," Damien said. He had readjusted himself in his chair so he could lean in to hear her, as if at any moment she would drop to a whisper.
"The Dragon-Slayer declined our invitation."
"He did?" Josephine sighed, her voice stoic and tired, "I was afraid of that. Perhaps I did not word it correctly?"
"It wasn't your fault, Josephine, but mine."
The ambassador's expression grew puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"I hate to admit it, but Dorian was right."
"What does Dorian have to do with this?"
"He pointed out to me that the Dragon-Slayer is not one lone voice – he has the support of the Chantry, and nothing can be done to remove that support save disgracing him as a Vessel."
"We cannot do that, Leliana," Josephine said, "Not only would it be sacrilege, it would render our alliance moot."
"I'm not saying that, Josie," she chuckled, "I'm saying we need to employ some of our advantages. The Dragon-Slayer may have the Chantry, but we have the court – and we have the Game."
"What are you saying, Leliana?" the Inquisitor asked.
"I have an idea…"