"Pardon, your Worship?"
Josephine wondered what happened to the Herald lately – two blue-black, but already yellowing at the edges, bruises bloomed under his eyes, a scratch crossing his nose bridge. A fight – and here, in Haven! But with whom? It aggravated Lady Montilyet to not know. If anything, that was her biggest peeve – not knowing was a curse, an itch that couldn't be scratched. She frowned briefly, and then turned her attention to the man standing in her cabinet.
"The horse, Josephine... Uh, Lady Montilyet".
She set her feather down.
"I'm awfully sorry... I'm just head's deep in these reports, the letters...", she gestured at parchments strewn across her massive desk. "Care to repeat?"
The Herald smiled, and grabbed a chair to sit down before her.
"Master Dennet's horse, the gift for helping with the farms. That mare, a Fereldan Holder? Forder? Never mind. I want it to be yours. You travel a lot. And I'm... not much a rider, you know".
Josephine suppressed a delighted giggle. No, of course that was a generous offer, and unexpectedly so, but she knew a part of the Herald's reasoning. The man couldn't ride a horse for his life, and even feared the animals after that exact mare almost took his fingers off, attempting to bite them when the mage tried to feed salt to her. The only witnesses to the shame was Varric – who told her of it and Cassandra – so she kept her mouth shut about it. It was expected, though – Circle mages didn't need to learn riding a horse (or swimming, or functioning like regular human beings) and the thought colored her mood slightly blue.
She nodded curtly to him.
"Thank you, serah Zarreth. It will most surely be of great assistance".
Her acceptance brightened the mage's face. Josephine made a note to herself from the beginning, that the man liked being called directly by name or his House's name – too, a remnant from the Circle days, as she assumed. Most of the Inquisition addressed him as "Herald" or "mage", at least those with the Chantry ties. "Must be awful to feel yourself more of an instrument, than a man", Josephine thought whenever the Council was summoned and the differences found room to clash.
Perhaps, that was the reason why Zarreth stuck to her. The Antivan woman was so... different? As if she lived in a world different to his. Despite to the years spent in Orlais and Ferelden, in the thick of their politics, Josephine shined like a pristine gem, untouched by the muck and filth in which she traded. She appeared to care not about mages, templars, demons, clerics – just getting to the right deal, with the right effort. That graceful and subtle pragmatism in the quest for power, spoke to Trevelyan's heart no less than the woman's sculpted, regal visage.
Zarreth sat there, taking in the quietness of her improvised cabinet, interrupted only by the "scritch-scritch" of Minaeve's feather in the corner. Lady Montilyet's quarters had became a haven for him, where he could escape from the pressing reality of the Frostbacks, the Breach, his own status. Josephine was neither suspicious of him, nor piously fervent... Of course, there was Solas, a peculiar mentor and a well of knowledge, and Varric, the dwarf he would gladly call a friend – plus the Tevinter, serah Pavus, whom the mage didn't find time to know better amongst the chaos of their mind-boggling time-travel. But Lady Josephine was something else altogether. A woman.
"I'm glad. I don't understand anything about breeds, but it's supposed to be one sturdy mount. Anyway", he fumbled with his bandages. "Any news?"
"Lelliana's spies are still trying to track down the Grey Wardens – I'm positive in their success. And, in a strike of luck, some Houses are ready to press down on Lord Seeker... and then there's Sera".
Zarreth rolled his eyes.
"Don't even tell me. A few days more, and I'll resort to violence, and be forever known as "Herald of Elf-ass-beats", the unimaginative quip sparked laughter from Josephine, and the mage felt a swell of pride, to catch an interest of someone like Lady Montilyet... Josephine herself. It was magnificent.
Little did he know that she enjoyed the Herald's visits no less than him. The ambassador quickly learned that beyond the magic, the Mark, the scars and the cynicism, lay an educated, sharp mind that in other circumstances wouldn't be out of place in the Great Game. He even attempted to talk to her in Antivan a few times, with a horrible accent to boot.
Josephine was a bard, but her love of stories extended all around, and she loved to hear the man fill her on various subjects, from Draconology to the History of the Undead. Not that he had much adventure, but Circle life intrigued her, and knowing of it was a powerful asset to her arsenal.
And on the other side of the coin, there was Zarreth's thirst for tales as well. Not even the tales, but the life that existed apart from the war, and the Circle, and the grim mess they found themselves in. Under vague pretenses, he'd come to her quarters, and they'd talk, talk – about the places beyond Ferelden and Ostwick, people and customs, and sights that the mage hadn't seen. Her voice was like liquid lyrium, even, soft – enveloping, in a way. He'd close his eyes and imagine the Waking Sea as she described it, rocking on the waves of her calm narration. At such times, he wished he had the audacity to sit at her feet, put his head on her lap and let her tend to him in a motherly fashion he new she was capable of... Josephine was intriguing, a sun-kissed mystery that had been utterly impossible in the dull fabric of his universe – a window to a world that turned without the need for him at all. Until the Breach.
The mage inhaled deep. Well, everything changes.
"Josephine", he stood up, strolling towards her desk. "Can you ask Minaeve out for a bit?"