Many thanks to all of you for reading!
The Herald's Rest was packed as Ren made her way inside. She smiled at the people she passed, most of them soldiers and various Skyhold workers. They made room for her, bowing and generally trying to get out of her way, and she regretted that. So much of her still felt like one of them, awed in her own way by the power of the Inquisition's leadership.
Farther in, she found a few of the Chargers, who lifted their mugs to her. They were singing loud enough to drown out Meryden, the resident bard, and that was always a good thing. Ren liked Meryden well enough, and the bard had a pretty voice, but all her songs were so depressing. The only one that had any kind of decent upbeat tempo was the one about Sera, and that one was usually interrupted by Sera throwing things at Meryden until she stopped singing it.
"Inquisitor!" Cullen was standing next to her, holding out a tankard.
"Cullen, we're in the midst of a party. Don't you think you could call me Ren for once?"
"I ... suppose I could."
They stood there looking awkwardly at each other for a few moments. They had had many long conversations in his office about the history of war and the Templars and the best ways to beat Dorian at chess, but somehow standing in the middle of a party had Cullen off his conversational game. Ren supposed she wasn't overly surprised; he wasn't a man who spent a lot of time at parties.
Or possibly he, like so many other people she'd run into since Adamant, didn't know what to say to someone who had been physically in the Fade, twice, and lived. Ren sighed. "Nice party," she said.
"Yes, isn't it?" Cullen looked tired, she thought, as though he'd been sleeping even less well than usual. She should check in with Cassandra on how he was doing without the lyrium. "The Chargers have been very good for morale, and they fight extremely well."
"It was a good day for the Inquisition when they came on board," Ren agreed.
"And the Iron Bull, also," Cullen continued. "I admit, when he first joined I had concerns about ... his circumstances, but he has certainly been an asset." He frowned. "Given how much time the two of you spend together in the field, it's fortunate that you seem to get on well together."
"Yes. The alternative would be ... unpleasant," Ren said dryly. 'Get on well together', he'd said—apparently the Iron Bull was far better at sneaking into her room than she'd expected he would be, if Cullen didn't know about them. Come to think of it, no one in the Inquisition, other than Krem and Varric, seemed to have any idea there was more to their friendship. She wasn't sure if that said good things about their discretion, or terrible things about the Inquisition's spy networks.
Cullen said, "I am glad you have people you can count on at your back. And you know I am one of those—if there is ever anything you need, I hope you won't hesitate to ask."
"Of course." She took a step closer, speaking almost into his ear. "The same goes for you, Cullen, if you need to talk about—things."
"Thank you." He put a hand on her shoulder. "I ... may need to take you up on that."
"Any time." Ren watched him go with some concern, hoping he would be able to get some sleep. A gloved hand came out of the crowd and appeared on his arm, and she saw the familiar purple hood behind it. Leliana would take care of him, then, and hopefully work him through whatever was bothering him tonight.
Across the room, the Iron Bull was singing loudly with his Chargers. And Dorian, which surprised him a bit. Dorian had never been one for loud carousing before. Being pulled physically into the Fade had clearly shaken the mage up more than he wanted to admit. Varric, too, although the dwarf was handling it more in his usual way—holing up and writing things down.
Sera and Cole were sitting on the railings looking down at the party. The Iron Bull would have given some serious coin to know what they were talking about. At the bar, he could see Scout Harding talking to the Ambassador, both of them leaning toward each other in a fairly unmistakable flirting pose. So Harding had transferred her affections elsewhere. He couldn't blame her; Josephine was a fine-looking woman. If you couldn't have the Inquisitor—and Harding couldn't—you couldn't go wrong with the Ambassador.
Without entirely meaning to, he turned his head and scanned the crowd, looking for the familiar head of rich dark red hair, finding her at a corner table with Blackwall, laughing about something. Blackwall had been very pleased at the choice to bring the Grey Wardens into the Inquisition, but he had made no effort at all to spend any time with the Wardens once they'd been brought in. Cassandra had taken them on as her personal project, instead, leaving Blackwall plenty of time to lounge around in the tavern, apparently.
As if she could sense his gaze, Ren looked up and met the Iron Bull's eye, and he felt the heat in her eyes as if she had touched him. After all the times they had been together, he would have thought the effect of her nearness would have lessened, but it had increased instead. And he marveled at that as much as he worried about it and what it meant for him, and how it changed who he was.
"Chief!" Krem bumped against his side, the lip of his wine bottle digging into the Iron Bull's ribs. "You're not drinking enough, Chief. This is a party, after all. What is it you Qunari say?"
"Anaan," the Iron Bull said.
"Yeah, anaan. That's the one. Anaan, Chief."
"Had a bit too much tonight, Cremisius?"
"You said it." Krem grinned, raising his arm and beckoning across the room. "Inquisitor! Honorary Charger! Horns up!"
She said something to Blackwall and got to her feet, coming across the room toward them.
"Horns up, Krem de la Creme," she said, grinning at him. Flissa linked her arm with Ren's, the two of them looking very alike standing there.
Krem handed her a mug. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Your Worship."
"What are we drinking to?"
"Demon armies, and how we kill 'em!"
Ren raised her glass to that. When Krem and Flissa drank, she lifted her cup, too, but she only swallowed a little of the liquid. Looking as though she was keeping up glass for glass with heavier drinkers when she was actually keeping her intake moderate was a skill she had learned early on with Dooley's Raiders.
"You're not drinking tonight?" she asked the Iron Bull.
He shook his head. "No," he said, in a voice that was clearly meant to be heard, "still processing what happened in the Fade. Best to do that with a clear head." He frowned, looking around him. "I might head up to bed, actually."
There was a chorus of protest at that—the Iron Bull was usually the life of the party, and rarely left early—but he stuck to it, and eventually Krem waved the rest of the Chargers back.
For her part, Ren was confused. Was he actually going to bed? Was she supposed to follow him? They had never been together in his room before. Or was that code for meeting in her quarters? Or were they simply not going to be together tonight, again? She hoped it wasn't the last one—even without anything physical, she really wanted just to be alone with him, somewhere quiet and private.
"Hey, boss," he said, "we were going to talk about the next expedition."
She frowned at the sudden change in topic, but noticed that he was moving them slowly toward a less crowded portion of the room, near the stairs, so she went with it. "There are a lot of places that require our attention; I'll have to look at the map in the War Room and give it some thought."
"Tomorrow's soon enough for that." The Iron Bull lowered his voice. "For tonight ... will you come upstairs in a few minutes?" Fuck, he thought. His heart was pounding and his breath coming short; he couldn't remember being this nervous the first time he'd dropped his pants for a tamassran.
She bit down on a smile, nodding seriously as though they were still talking about work. "Sure. I'll see you up there."
"Good-night, boss," he said more loudly, and turned to climb the stairs. He knew what he wanted to say, and to offer her. Now if he could only keep his courage up long enough to follow through.