If Cailan sleeps that night, it is not in Arya's chambers, nor is it Anora's. He had looked distracted at dinner, barely speaking to them before disappearing back into his study. Arya wanted to go check on him, but she also didn't want to disturb him. She trusted him to find her if he needed her- she supposed he was just putting in extra work on some sort of law that needed passing.
Arya spends three hours tossing and turning before she stomps out of her bedroom in frustration. The palace is becoming easier to navigate- where all the corridors looked the same before, she is noticing differences in them now that keep her on track. She knocks on Anora's bedroom door before she slips inside. Eliza, stationed outside, gives her a knowing smirk as she does. Arya only rolls her eyes in response.
"Oh! Do you need something, Arya?" Anora asks, looking up. She's sitting on the couch with a book, legs tucked underneath her, hair in one long braid.
"I can't sleep by myself. I was hoping you might indulge me and share your bed," she admits, biting her bottom lip. Here, in the flickering firelight and a long white nightgown, Anora doesn't look like a queen. She looks like a girl, with too many expectations placed on her shoulders.
"Of course. I was just getting ready to turn in, myself. Make yourself comfortable," Anora encourages, a soft smile on her face as she slides a bookmark neatly into her book, returning it to the shelf. Arya climbs into the bed as Anora banks the fire.
Just before she clambers into the oversized bed, Anora blows out the candle, leaving them in darkness. She takes a moment to pull the curtains tight around the four poster bed to keep the light of the fire at bay.
Arya's arm snakes around her waist, and Anora curls into her warmth, practically melting against her. "Don't get cuddles often?" she asks, sleepily. Anora shakes her head silently, curling around Arya. By the time they're settled, their legs are tangled together, and Anora's head is pressed against Arya's chest, the sound of her heartbeat lulling her to sleep.
Bellanaris had grown up wild and free, like the beasts that roam in the forests she calls home. But then Mythal had claimed her, and the All-Mother had no purpose for a feral and free thing. First, Bellanaris was caged with the blood writing on her face, and then the All-Mother began to tame her.
It happened slowly. Bellanaris was resistant until the very end, but Mythal's love and patience wins out, and one day she allows her new champion to join her among the Evanuris.
This new and tamed Bellanaris is pleasant, smiling and chatting with the other elves even as she eyes them with distrust. It is not until she meets two shadows that she remembers her last experience with the Evanuris.
"My, my. Mother has a gentle hand, as always. Wouldn't you agree, ma taron sol?" Falon'din asks, turning to his other half. Dirthamen's smile is predatory.
"Yes. The little wildling is nothing like she was when last we saw her," he says. Before, Bellanaris would have snarled and screamed, would have raked her nails across his face for daring to speak about her like she wasn't there.
This Bellanaris only smiles, sugar sweet. "Oh, but of course. The Lady Mythal is love incarnate. I think perhaps she needs to spend time with you, next," she says, before slipping away and vanishing into the crowd. Falon'din's bark of laughter follows her.
She wishes she could cut his tongue out and feed it to him until he choked.
It is only Elgar'nan that doubts her transformation. The others are shocked but they do not doubt their mother's capability. Elgar'nan, however, tells her he can see into her heart.
He tells her she burns almost as brightly as he does. He whispers in her ear until she follows him down a long and dark hallway, empty save for them.
She lets him pin her against the wall, lips grazing the point of her ear, the pulse point at her throat. Elgar'nan says that she is special. Elgar'nan says that her anger is a beautiful and terrible thing. It has been a very long time since she was allowed to be angry.
Mythal catches them, because Mythal always knows when she is needed. Elgar'nan flees, and Mythal will not allow Bellanaris to join her amongst the other Elvhen for centuries after.
Arya wakes to an empty bed, an old anger stirring in her chest. She had loved Mythal, once. But there had been a time when she had hated her, too, because eternity was not meant to be caged.
After seeing him in her dream, Arya realizes that Elgar'nan looks like Eldris. The Warden she knows is different in several aspects- his ears are longer, his hair is a light brown and a different style, and his eyes are not the blazing red that Elgar'nan's had been. She wonders if she would find Elgar'nan on his family tree, if she could trace it back far enough.
It is not a thought she wants to dwell on. She pushes herself up, swinging her legs off the side of the bed. Sunlight streams through the curtains, and there is a note that Arya spots on Anora's bedside table.
With a smile, she rushes over to the window. There, in the garden, she can spot Anora with her morning cup of tea. The Queen is sitting with the King, who looks exhausted even from this distance.
Arya turns away and drifts through the palace to her bedroom, a faint smile on her face.
Eldris is the first one awake. They were close enough to the road that they hadn't felt the need to keep watch- the Grey Warden Griffin on many of their things would likely serve as a sufficient deterrent.
He thinks about loping off into the copse of woods nearby, to find breakfast. But Eldris had not been the hunter of the family. That had been Eden, deadly with a bow. Eldris was the one who would skin and gut her kills.
Even now, he misses her, like he has lost a limb.
With little to do, he watches as the sun rises. When the sky has turned light, he nudges the rest of the camp awake, and they resume their travels once more.
He does not speak to anyone until they stop, lost in thoughts about forests and childhood.
Arya does not see Anora again until mid-morning. She herself had missed breakfast, opting to find her way down to the training yard and watch the recruits as they sparred. She found herself wishing Lysander had been there for another training session. She supposes at some point during the winter she will need to find Leliana and ask the bard for training.
Anora found her yet again in the palace corridors, although this time Arya wasn't lost. The smile that the Queen gives her is radiant.
"What are you up to?" she asks, falling into step next to her. Arya smiles without realizing it.
"I'm on my way to the kitchens. I want to try to make some food from home," she says. If she could make a decent sauce, she could make a decent pizza, or maybe a calzone. Maybe she could revolutionize Thedas cuisine while she was here.
"Oh! May I join you? I usually get chased out of the kitchens, but I think I'd like to try and help," Anora asks. Arya smiles, linking her arm through Anora's.
"You don't even have to ask! You're welcome to join me anytime, Anora," Arya says. Ducking into the kitchens, she finds that much of it is taken over by the staff that is working to feed the other denizens of the palace. There is a single oven not in use, and a small stretch of countertop. It is enough for Arya's needs.
"What do you plan on making?" Anora asks, watching curiously as Arya weaves around servants and gathers ingredients.
"I was thinking pizza, but now I think I might do a calzone instead. If I can get it right, it may be something the palace serves. It might even be decent travel rations, if the cooks can adapt them," she answers, dumping her prizes on the counter.
Anaba had set aside dough for her, after an earlier conversation in Arya's quarters. Arya only had to roll it out, and begin to work on the sauce.
She and Anora fall into a rhythm, and before they know it the kitchens have cleared out, leaving the two of them alone, wrist-deep in mashed tomatoes.
The next time Arya glances at Anora, she notices flour on the Queen's cheek. Impulsively, she reaches up to wipe it off, freezing as her hand cups Anora's cheek.
"How very bold of you," the Queen teases, a wistful sort of look in her eyes that tells Arya just how badly she wants bold.
Arya's answer comes in the form of a kiss, quick and gentle. Anora freezes beneath her, but as Arya pulls away the Queen grabs her back and kisses her again, fingers fisting in the loose fabric of her shirt.
They kiss, and they kiss, until Arya thinks she might drown.
The dough lays forgotten next to the tomatoes.
Anaba will clean it up later, a fond smile on her face.
The first snowstorm of the season is a pain in the ass, and Eldris would have been the first to admit that he loved snow. Many of his memories came from chasing his sister through the forest and pelting her with snowballs, before going back to camp and flopping down next to the fire with a cup of the sweet chocolate tea the Dalish served.
Those memories were fond. This situation was very much the opposite.
He was cold, and wet, and tired, and he knew the others were in much of the same boat. The storm had moved in suddenly and quickly, forcing them to shelter in a shallow cave below the highway. Were it not for Alistair's quick thinking, they likely wouldn't have found it.
So, there they sat, stripped down with their clothes spread in front of the fire to dry, huddling against the cold rock wall.
Surprisingly, the teryn's son was the one complaining the least. Lysander sits by the fire, stirring it occasionally with a stick, his eyes hooded.
Eldris knows enough about ghosts to see that Lysander is thinking of his own.
When Arya finally talks about her recent birthday, she is lying in bed between Cailan and Anora, watching the first snowstorm of the season. She had been thinking of Eldris and Alistair and the others and wondering if they were close to Orzammar. With as little time as had passed since their departure, she doubted it. She only hopes they have found a decent place to shelter.
"Another year has almost passed," Anora says quietly, breaking the sleepy silence they had fallen into. Cailan stirs, disrupting Arya. She curls up closer to Anora with a huff.
"Tell me about it," she says, yawning, "my birthday passed almost two months ago and I never even knew it."
That gets their attention. They both sit up, leaving Arya as the only one still laying down. She rolls onto her back with a groan.
"So, you're eighteen now?" Cailan asks, a grin on his face. He could get the palace to celebrate. Knowing Arya, she wouldn't want anything big, but perhaps he could gather those who had stayed behind. He could get the kitchens to send up all the best desserts, and he could raid the cellars for the best wine they had.
"Yup. You know what that means? That means I am totally, one hundred percent, legal. It's hard to keep track of the months, but I think I've been eighteen since right around Kinloch?" she says. She could try to count backwards, but she'd lost count of the days and she knew she'd only give herself a headache with that line of thought. It just wasn't worth it.
"No, that means you need to let Cailan and I treat you the way you try to treat me," Anora says, reaching over to brush Arya's hair out of her eyes.
"Well, I wouldn't say no to some late birthday pampering," Arya replies, almost reluctantly. As much as she liked getting pampered, she also hated being the center of attention. At least she could always return the favor later for both of them.
"Then leave everything to us," Cailan says, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead before leaning over to kiss his wife.
Arya wakes bright and early the next morning to a quiet but insistent knocking on her door. She wiggles out from underneath Cailan's arm, bringing a blanket with her that she has wrapped around her shoulders. She opens the door to reveal Anora, who darts into the room and shuts the door behind her.
"What's going on?" Arya asks, uncertainly, glancing back towards the door.
"You need to get dressed and come with me," Anora says briskly, pacing back and forth with pent up anxiety. Arya lets the blanket fall to the floor and tugs one of her dresses from her closet. It is one of the warmer ones, a deep red fleece. Anora automatically moves to help her lace it up.
"What's going on, though?" Arya insists. She can feel her own panic rising, and forces herself to take deep breaths as she breathes in.
Anora finishes lacing up the dress before she answers. When Arya turns back around, crossing her arms over her chest, Anora's lips are pursed. After another moment, the Queen finally answers.
"There's a man who claims to be Lysander's brother waiting in the throne room."