Sunsets were always beautiful in the Frostbacks. Despite the encroaching chill of the air, regardless of season, there was an undeniable sense of warmth from the deepening golden-orange-red light that crept across the fortress, fading only when the light did. Evelyn watched the dying light spill through the stained glass atop her windows, the colours blending and fracturing, sending patterns scattering across her floor. Skyhold quieted, as it always did around this time, and she inhaled deeply, releasing slowly.

It was genuinely and utterly peaceful.

She stretched, wincing slightly as sore muscles protested the movement. Evelyn had pushed herself too hard; been too angry. Close quarters combat always exhausted her regardless of her opponent but her fight with Nathaniel and tired her more than she cared for. Even with lightened duties for the day - a few hours break had turned into 'don't let us see you until tomorrow when you're healed' - and a long, hot soak, she couldn't banish the fatigue sinking into her bones. Fortunately with Skyhold's healers on hand, she'd been able to speed through the healing process. Her shoulder still ached and her jaw felt stiff, but the bruising was fading quickly and all the cuts had closed. It was safe to be seen wandering the halls again as the Inquisitor.

Perhaps best of all, Leliana had personally overseen Nathaniel's removal from Skyhold and assigned two of her agents to shadow him and his armed escort. Without his presence, knowing that he would not be allowed to return...

The evening truly was peaceful.

It wouldn't last, she knew. The breach still shimmered sickly, out of reach. Corypheus stalked her dreams. Her left hand stung, pins and needles dragging her focus to the anchor more than it should. It had flared in the fight and she knew she hadn't hidden the pain etched on her face.

Tied to her, indelibly etched under her skin, it reacted when her anger bubbled over. Solas had little insight, but he had examined it for her, calm and collected. Meditation, he suggested, if it's so connected to emotion. But what use would meditation be on the battlefield? What use would it be when it wasn't just anger that set it off?

It had flared before with fear, with trepidation. It had flared all those weeks ago when she had sought absolution and instead found her Commander gripped by his nightmares. It had flared the first time she'd gone to him with the desire for something more and the fear that he'd reject her, hate her.

Would a similar fear manifest itself against Corypheus, render her useless?

For all the time she dedicated to Solas and his study of the anchor, they only ever came away with more questions. They had scant few answers, and even those were mostly guesses. It was stable; for now. The breach was stable; for now.

The more she talked to the rift mage, the more she thought she saw pity in his eyes.

Still, she shook her head, drawing another deep breath, now was calm. The sun slipped lower, sinking behind the mountain peaks and she wandered to her desk, slipping the whisky free from its drawer.

The daylight was fading fast but the candles over the desk were already flickering as Cullen worked diligently, working his way through troop rosters and reports, missives and mission briefs. The hand that palmed his neck in frustration at the tension building there came forward to sweep over his jawline, taking a moment to scratch absently at the coarse hair there.

He should probably shave soon.

But not right now. Right now was dedicated to the work before him, work to drown out the throb building in the back of his mind. He set aside one of Harding's field reports from the Storm Coast and frowned at the bundle of letters underneath it, several envelopes tied together with twine. Curious, he tugged the twine free, spreading out the envelopes across the surface of his desk. They were varying sizes, varying shades of white, probably bunched together for ease of delivery. Loose envelopes could get lost in a messenger's bag, he well knew.

One clearly bore his sister Mia's elegant script, and he set it aside for the morning. His head already hurt, he didn't need to read about her berating him for failing to respond quicker to her last letter with his mood already fouled.

He looked at the other letters, all addressed to him, one in a cursive he thought he recognized, one he for sure knew.

Commander,

Let me begin by apologising, because I should just come to you in person. However, I fear I have found my knees too weak for the task, for reasons I'm sure you can contemplate. Of course, that means you will get this some time after its writing as I do not trust it to a runner, but I hope you know the sentiment contained within will not have faded.

I have a suspicion that our Spymaster is much too good at her job and since I am sending this officially, I will not put into writing exactly what I feel about our lunch meeting as those thoughts are for us alone. I will, however, blame you for a thorough distraction that has prevented me from accomplishing any work for the rest of the afternoon and, I fear, into the evening hours. I also find my attention wandering to your letter from the other day, further keeping me from my duties. For shame, Commander.

Pressed elderflowers tumbled free as he unfolded the paper to finish reading, and he chuckled, feeling some of the tension lift from his shoulders. Maker, but his love was one of a kind. What other man in Thedas could count himself so blessed? The formal but teasing tone of her letter is one he knows well from notes he and others have received when she is away but this time it is something far more intimate. The cursive swirl of the words on the page evokes her voice as he continued.

With the blame now on your shoulders, I wish to tell you that I adored the flowers, truly. The scout you assigned to the task was remarkably effective at not only finding me, but finding me at the most perfect of times. You do wonderful work training the men and women under your command.

Speaking of command and flowers, though, it occurs to me I never did tell you what I liked. In truth, I like so many, but I remember a Rivani trader that came to Ostwick once. She had these beautiful blooms she called wisteria, and they were such a lovely shade of purple. According to the Court - they assign a language to everything, honestly - they mean devotion, that the giver is yours to command.

I wish I could find some to show you, but I fear we do not have the climate to grow our own. As such you will just have to take my word.

Yours, and yours alone,

Evelyn

He is no stranger to hidden meanings. He much prefers the bluntness of barracks life, but Leliana and Josephine have made him uncomfortably aware of what the Orlesians mean in their letters to him; the suggestions of riding lessons, of long afternoon sword fights, of what, exactly, silk should be used for. Evelyn is not so determined to hide her meaning that he'd need another to point it out, however.

No, in this her meaning is clear.

It brings a smile to his face as he tucked the letter and dried blossoms back into the envelope, setting it next to the one from his sister. While improved, his mood is still at odds with handling her correspondence, and he turned his attention back to the others. One or two are almost certainly from Orlais and he pushed them aside. There's one with blocky lettering, a simple black Commander Rutherford embossed on the cream that almost begs for him to open it, but his attention is drawn from his desk as the door across from him creaks open.

"You work too hard."

The words aren't meant as an admonishment, the tone gentle and fond. Cullen tapped the letter he'd been about to read against the wooden surface in front of him before straightening them all into a pile for later perusal. Hers resting on top. "No sleep for the wicked, isn't that what they say?" He's sure his smile betrays the exhaustion creeping over him, long days bleeding into longer days, despite his efforts.

Despite the woman in front of him offering him the greatest of distractions.

It always catches up to him. "Are you?" He snapped from the reverie he had sunk into as Evelyn spoke, puzzlement on his brow. Her hands came to rest on the desk and she lent forward, tilting her head to the side. Belatedly he noticed the unopened bottle of whisky she had placed between them, the dampness of her hair as it spilled down her back, unbound. The crown of white blossoms resting on her head. "Wicked, I mean."

There's a coy smile tugging at her lips and he shook his head, all too serious for her lighthearted teasing. "Some would say so." Never proud of the steps that brought him to the Inquisition he sighed, mirroring her stance from his side of the desk. Swallowing, Cullen asked "would you?"

He watched her dark lashes flutter down and up as she blinked; the rise and fall of her chest under the confines of her usual light jacket; the tip of her tongue that darted out to wet her lower lip before she responded. Yes, he was wicked. In every sense of the word, feeling a familiar heat rising. His eyes drifted to her letter as she spoke. "I find you quite honourable."

Oh, oh, she had no idea the absolution she offered. His scar tugged up with his lopsided grin, exhaustion fading like the last vestiges of the sun, replaced by something new. Something primal and possessive. "Honourable enough for your devotion?"

The candlelight made her gleam and close as they were, he could see the flickers of gold in her eyes. The rasp in his voice made her shiver, he noted, a brief slip of decorum that she covered with a light scowl. Evelyn had no trace of the morning's fight on her and he ran a hand across her cheek, gentle, awed all over again by her.

His devotion, she had. His heart, she had. His everything, she had.

And she gave in turn.

With a sultry chuckle she pressed her lips to the leather of his glove before withdrawing, fingers teasing a light touch across the lip of the desk. "Is that what my Commander desires, devotion?" She moved, her hand trailing over carefully arranged stacks of paper as she walked around the obstacle between them, stopping when she came to the letters. Her fingers tapped against his name in her script as she looked up at him. "I came to share a drink. But if you have other plans..."

"No plans." The rasp persisted, gravel in his voice as he watched her.

Evelyn smiled, reaching for the bottle, but he grabbed her outstretched hand, tugging her around the corner of the desk and into him. Into his arms, and into his kiss. He didn't know if devotion was what he wanted, what he desired. He didn't want to take control she wasn't prepared to give. But he needed to tell her.

With his mouth on hers, he told her he'd bear the brunt of any blow she could not shoulder herself. With his tongue chasing the delicate curve of her neck, he told her he would be her shield, her protector. With his teeth sinking into her collarbone, he told her he would be her blade, strong and sharp enough for any enemy. With his hands tangling in loose chestnut waves, he told her he was hers, to do with as she wished. With the press of her body against his, he told her he'd do anything to keep her safe.

With his lips, he told her of his love.

It's spoken quietly, softly, reverently. It's a fragile thing, it needs her to keep it safe, but it exists for her and only her. She takes it with a gentle sigh, tucks it safe in her heart, and offers her own.

The dance has changed again. Cullen will find what her devotion means another night, he swears. This night is for holding each other close and whispering secrets and when she leaves him, she sets the wreath of elderflower blossoms on his head, crowning and claiming.

He is hers, utterly and wholly as he promised.

She is his, and only his, she vows.

When she is gone, his eye is drawn back to the letters. The blocky print calls to him again, and he slipped the letter free, scanning the message. It is short, blunt, and summons a pang in his chest.

Evelyn's father does not mince his words. There's no approval but it's not condemnation.

Commander Rutherford,

Married or not, I want Evelyn's happiness. If she feels as you do, to have found such a rare thing as love in the middle of all this mess, then I trust you know how lucky you are. My daughter is stubborn, tempestuous, and proud. She has always done her duty at great detriment to her own well-being. I was unable to help her before and I am unable to help her now. If you speak the truth of your intentions, then I beg of you, keep her safe.

Whatever you do, ser, if nothing else, keep her safe.

Andraste keep you,

Bann Trevelyan

There are unspoken words between the lines, words not meant for him, he knows. Words from a father worried for his daughter. Words of concern. Words he knows well. Words he fears having to voice when next they march.

He can only do as he's bidden, and he will keep her safe. This he pledges.