Gwendalyn Trevelyan felt like her next step might send her collapsing face-first into the snow.
She'd done that once tonight already, and it was not an experience she wished to repeat, even if she was surrounded by familiar faces and relative safety this time.
Although, then again, she'd considered Haven relatively safe, too. That hadn't worked out so well.
Images of burning buildings and blackened bodies were still seared into her mind's eye. Sure, she had managed to save a handful of people on her way to the Chantry, and maybe a few more when she bought the escapees time with the trebuchet, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough to replace the lives that had been lost.
And there had been so many.
It was a miracle anyone had escaped at all. If it hadn't been for Cole and the quick thinking of the Inquisition's advisors, the whole village would have been turned to paste. Or ashes, perhaps. That seemed more fitting.
That thought only served to remind Gwendalyn of the way the Elder One—Corpypheus—had strode directly through a wall of flame to approach her for the first time, his sick and twisted visage making her stomach do the same. The skin of her wrist where he had lifted her as easily as a child still felt like it was burning. Looking at it now, she found the skin there reddened and raw, weeping fluid. Whether the wound was from the heat of the flame or from the very touch of whatever the hell Corypheus was, she didn't know. She didn't really want to know.
I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.
A chill ran down Gwendalyn's spine as she crunched through the snow toward the edge of camp, and it wasn't from the cold. Corypheus claimed to have entered the Fade? Seen the so-called throne of the gods? No man had done that in a thousand years, which could only mean one thing. He was over a thousand years old.
And he was one of the magisters that started the Blight, originally.
But Gwendalyn didn't want to think about that, either. In the end, it didn't really matter how old Corypheus was, or what his existence might mean in regards to the Chantry's lore. All the Inquisition really needed to know was how to beat him.
An avalanche apparently wouldn't do the trick.
It had certainly been enough to make Gwendalyn regret ever being born, however. The pain in her ribs had lessened thanks to Mother Giselle's work, but it still felt as if she were being crushed under a giant's foot with every breath she took. And that was only the worst of it. Her wrist and her head and pretty much everything in between was in pain, too.
Still, she refused to lie still and rest. She would not sit idly by while the rest of her people suffered. She was responsible for their situation, and she would try to remedy it in any way she could. She'd spent the last hour shuffling through camp, helping distribute what little food and supplies had managed to survive Haven. There was not nearly enough. Even if strictly rationed, they would run out of food by morning. Many of them might not even make it that long, if the lack of tents and blankets was any indicator. Trevelyan prayed feverishly the whole time she worked. It would take a miracle, after all, to get through this.
All the while, Corypheus's words sowed doubt at the back of her mind:
It was empty.
But what did they have to hold onto, if not faith? Yet another problem Trevelyan did not want to face right now.
Once there was nothing left to do for the survivors of Haven; nothing to distract her from her grim thoughts, the Herald gave up and went in search of a quiet place to rest. She kept to the outskirts of camp, trying to keep her head bowed and her face out of sight to avoid drawing attention. She did not want these people to look up to her. She did not want them to trust in her. She did not want them to kneel before her.
She could not save them.
A canvas tent at the very fringe of their makeshift campsite beckoned to her. The seam of the entry flap revealed no light within, which hopefully meant it was not currently in use. She intended to take full advantage of that fact, at least until somebody came along and tried to cram three refugee families inside along with her. She did not begrudge them a warm place to stay, of course, but she ached to be alone.
It was a surprise, then—and an irritation—when she finally made it to the tent and swept open the flap only to find someone already inside.
She could not make out details in the dim, but she could hear the muttered string of curses in Antivan just fine. They broke off as she appeared suddenly in the entryway, apparently startling whoever was within.
"Oh! My lady, is that you?" accompanied the unexpected encounter, and the voice helped the pieces to click into place in Gwendalyn's mind: she'd walked in on Josephine. The realization made her irritation fade away.
"Yes," she said haltingly through a throat that ached. "Sorry. I, um, didn't mean to interrupt." She was about to step back out into the night when she paused, wondering for the first time why exactly Josephine was in a tent alone without any lights, because she obviously wasn't sleeping. "What is it that you're doing?"
A frustrated sigh split the air. "Trying to start a fire." Ah. That would explain.
"I see you're having trouble."
Josephine harrumphed. "Clearly, this is not my area of expertise."
But it was Trevelyan's, so instead of leaving the poor ambassador to her struggle, the rogue took another step into the tent and knelt before Josephine's silhouette. Her eyes had adjusted enough to register the ambassador's hand as it extended, offering her a flint and steel. Gwen took the tools from her. As their fingers brushed, she found that Josephine's were cold as ice.
All the more reason to stay and help, then. Gwendalyn unearthed her own tinderbox from her belt and removed her char cloth, then got to work. As she struck the flint and steel together, illuminating the tent at intervals with sprays of sparks, she spoke up, "So, you and the other advisors are finished arguing, then?"
Josephine sighed shortly, obviously still incensed, but forced a note of understanding into her voice when she replied, "I think we all just long for some control over a situation in which we have none."
A spark landed on her char cloth and began to burn, and Trevelyan folded it into a bed of tinder to coax it into flame. "I can't argue with you there," she said between exhales into the embers. "This has been…trying, for all of us."
Josephine's face became visible as the tinder caught and a warm glow flickered forth. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes; in the hollows of her cheeks, and it wasn't just a trick of the light. Her hair was a mess, but she'd neglected to take it down from its updo. She was watching Trevelyan with her head tilted and eyes unreadable as always. "None so much as you, I daresay."
Gwendalyn shrugged dismissively, tucking the tinder into the stack of kindling Josephine had been slaving over and watching as the tiny, flickering flame began to spread. The blooming warmth was nice, but it also served to remind Trevelyan of the inferno that had consumed Haven just before it was buried. She sat back and wrapped her arms around her bent knees, searching for comfort. "I escaped with my life. Not everyone can say the same."
Josephine bit her lip as if deciding whether to respond. Her eyes roamed Gwendalyn's face, and the rogue was tempted to turn away from the scrutiny. Josephine's eyes were always too intense; too likely to make her say or do something stupid.
"I—we—feared that perhaps you hadn't," the ambassador finally confessed, stumbling over the slip—if it really was a slip. Josephine was not usually inclined toward misspeaking. A beat of heavy silence passed between them before she shifted slightly closer and raised one hand toward Gwendalyn, who didn't resist as she brushed slender fingers over the bruises mottling her face. The chilly touch made the rogue's breath come shallow. "Are you in any pain?" Josephine asked softly, unaware of the effect she was having. Or maybe not.
Gwen snorted on instinct, then winced. "Quite a bit, actually," she admitted, because somehow telling Josephine did not seem like a weakness, but a profession of trust. And trust Josephine she did. "Mother Giselle says I shouldn't even be up and about, but I couldn't just lie there while our people starved and froze."
Again, those piercing gray eyes seemed to pick her apart from the inside out. "One woman cannot do everything, you know."
"I know. Maker, do I know," Gwen sighed, rubbing a weary hand over her face—and that hurt, too, naturally, "but these people look up to me, for whatever reason. And I—" Here she looked away, hand falling to worry at the wound on her wrist instead. I failed them, was her unspoken thought, but she couldn't finish it aloud for the lump that had gathered in her throat.
It was as if Josephine read her mind. "This is not your fault, Gwendalyn," she said, and though she spoke at hardly more than a whisper, it came out surprisingly fierce.
Trevelyan looked away, face flaming in a mixture of shame and bashfulness. She didn't believe Josephine. She wouldn't believe anyone that told her Haven's demise was not her fault, and yet coming from the mouth of her lovely ambassador, the notion was unbearably tempting.
The light pressure of a cold hand covering her own, just over her wound, brought her back. "It is easy to dwell on what could have been—what should have been done," said Josephine firmly. "Believe me, we advisors have spent the night agonizing over that very topic. But," she gave Trevelyan's hand a gentle squeeze, then let go, "no one is truly to blame but the enemy. We must remember that." And though she sounded certain, the shadow behind her eyes suggested that she was reminding herself of that fact just as much as she was the Herald.
"Corypheus," said Gwendalyn abruptly. "That's what he calls himself." It didn't really matter, but she felt like telling someone. Felt like telling Josephine. Partly just to change the subject.
But Josephine did not let her escape that easily. "I shall update my records, then," she acknowledged diplomatically, but then gave a little shake of her head. "But, my lady, my point still stands. Please do not subject yourself to more suffering than is necessary."
Trevelyan met those heavy eyes head-on for the first time tonight. "As long as you don't, either," she said, voice coming out low and gravelly, and she couldn't be sure whether it was from a physical cause or the tempest of emotions swirling in her gut.
Josephine always made her feel so much. Gwendalyn had not expected to grow close with her advisors; thought instead that they might only cross paths on a purely professional basis, but she'd been foolishly mistaken. Not only had she become friends with each of them, but Josephine—
She was something else. She was not just a skilled diplomat and leader, but also so kind and caring and smart and lovely and—
And Trevelyan was in the midst of falling very, very hard.
That thought made her realize abruptly that maybe she shouldn't be huddling in a tent alone with her ambassador at the outskirts of camp at this hour. Shouldn't be holding her molten gray gaze this tenderly; this close, the echoes of her touch still lingering on her skin. Shouldn't be wondering what it would be like to lean in and—
Josephine let out a shaky sigh and broke eye contact, turning her gaze to her own trembling hands. "As I said," she continued, and Gwendalyn had to rack her brain to remember what it was they'd been talking about, "it is easy to dwell."
Oh. Yes. She certainly had that right.
And Gwendalyn did not feel much like dwelling any more; not on Haven, not on Corypheus, and not on whether the blame fell upon his shoulders or her own. So she instead turned her full attention to Josephine, soaking in the sight of her in the glow of the meager fire. The wood was half-consumed already. Yet another resource they did not have to spare. And Josephine, though she still somehow managed to look radiant while exhausted, unkempt, and grieving, was shivering.
"You're cold," Gwen observed, phrasing it more like a question than a statement. Requesting, in a way, that Josephine allow herself the same vulnerability that Gwen had. She ached for Josephine to trust her, too.
The Antivan hummed in displeasure and wrapped her arms around herself. It felt a little like a confession, and Gwendalyn felt her heart lift, just slightly. "I presumed my clumsy attempts to light a fire might have given it away."
Gwen looked around for a remedy and found the tent devoid of any blankets or sleeping arrangements at all. She knew that if there were none here already, it meant that there were none to spare, so it seemed they would have to make do. Which was all right, because Gwendalyn had an idea. A risky one. A thrilling one.
In actuality, a perfectly practical, perfectly rational one that she was blowing far out of proportion because feelings made everything terribly complicated. But Trevelyan had faced Corypheus and not backed down, so she could certainly manage to help warm her crush without making a fool of herself. Right?
Easier said than done. Trevelyan had to clear her throat multiple times, stomping down the fluttering in her gut, before she could get the words out: "Do you want me to, um…?" When Josephine looked at her curiously, she opened her arms; a tentative offer.
Did Josephine flush, or was that just the cast of the fire? She ducked her head like she always did when the Herald attempted to flirt with her and demurred, "Oh, I would not ask you to—"
"I'm offering," Gwen cut her off gently.
And Josephine was still shivering, and there was nothing else to be done for it, so after a long, uncertain moment during which she and Trevelyan simply sat and watched each other across the fire, she let out a long breath and nodded. "Yes, please," she conceded softly. Yes; she was definitely blushing.
The butterflies in Gwendalyn's stomach began fluttering double-time, but she would much rather feel awkward than let Josephine freeze, so she only hesitated a second before shuffling around the fire to draw closer to her. The faint smell of the ambassador's perfume floated to her nose as she entered her proximity, and Gwen felt her own face heat up, wondering exactly what she was getting herself into. This was not the time for useless crushes, though, so she cleared her throat and shoved unwelcome emotions down into the deepest recesses of her heart. Josephine needed her warmth, not her silly feelings.
"Your wardrobe does seem to be lacking in the warmth department," Trevelyan pointed out, just to say something, as she reached out to slide an arm around Josephine's waist and pull her close to her side. At least her hand didn't shake as she did so. Much.
"Forgive me," Josephine shot back sarcastically as she acquiesced to the touch. "I was somewhat pressed for time."
"I suppose we must make do, then." Trevelyan tightened her hold around Josephine as the young woman leaned into her body, seeking her warmth. This close, the rogue could feel her constant tremors as if they were her own, and as Josephine wrapped delicate fingers around her arm, she found them almost purple at the tips. Her worry deepened. The ambassador was in worse shape than she'd thought. "Josephine," she said tightly, trying not to let panic rise.
Josephine was leaning her head against Gwen's shoulder, cold nose brushing her neck. "Mm?" she murmured so close the rogue could feel her breath.
That little detail certainly did not help steady Trevelyan's nerves as she mulled over what she ought to do next. Certainly, she knew that Josephine's safety must come first. And she even had an idea to help preserve it. Only, it was even more anxiety-inducing than the position they currently found themselves in. Should she even…?
Yes. If there was anything she could do to help Josephine, she had to.
Gwen hoped the other woman could not feel her pounding heartbeat as she swallowed around the lump in her throat and managed, "I—I think you should, um. Put your hands in my shirt."
"What?"Josephine jerked upright, looking at the Herald as if she'd just suggested they run laps naked around the courts of Orlais.
Trevelyan forced a deep breath in and out. "You're going to get frostbite if you don't warm them up soon," she said in all seriousness. That could not happen. The ambassador's hands were absolutely crucial to the success of the Inquisition—and not only in Gwendalyn's opinion.
Josephine hesitated. If she'd been blushing before, now she was positively flaming. Good. Maybe the extra blood flow would warm her up. "You're certain that's the only way?" she hedged, scanning Trevelyan up and down like this might be a dirty trick.
But Trevelyan would not dare play dirty tricks on her ambassador. And not just because she happened to be a high-ranking member of the Inquisition and a very dangerous enemy besides. She met Josephine's eye and tried to communicate all her sincerity in that single steady look. "It's up to you, of course," she allowed softly. She would never pressure Josephine into something she didn't want. She took Josephine's discolored hands, then, and held them up to the dimming light, "but the fire obviously isn't doing enough."
Josephine scoffed, flustered, but was already beginning to turn toward Gwendalyn to comply. "Lady Trevelyan, the things I do for you," she grumbled, nearly inaudible, as they moved into one another's orbits again, but made no other protest. That was enough to put Gwendalyn's mind at ease. She knew no one could truly make Josephine do a thing she didn't want to. She would have stormed out of this tent and into the freezing cold sooner than let herself be bossed around.
Which meant at least a small part of her wanted to be here, tucked against the Herald's chest as the light of their little fire grew darker with every passing second. Trevelyan didn't dare let herself begin to pick that detail apart. She knew from experience that it was foolish to get her hopes up. No matter the way she wanted to believe that she and Josephine might be able to build something…more.
Trevelyan shifted around so that Josephine could sit between her legs, her own folded off to the side so they could press as close together as possible. Once there, she wrapped both arms around Josephine's back, and though the space between them wasn't yet warm, the spark that flared up in her heart at the proximity nearly made up the difference. Oh, she was so far gone.
Maker preserve me.
Gwen felt Josephine's hands slide to the hem of her tunic; felt her heart begin to kick faster in response. There, the ambassador paused. "You're sure?"
"Yes," Gwendalyn replied, trying to sound more confident than she felt. She was truly sure that Josephine needed to warm up fast if she wanted to make it through the night with all of her extremities intact. She was less sure that she herself would be able to stand the process.
She did not get to worry about it for long.
Josephine's hands slipped under her shirt. Trevelyan flinched at the first contact of freezing fingers against her warm flesh, but forced the tension out in a sigh. It came out shakier than she would have liked.
"Are you all right?" Josephine asked worriedly, beginning to lift her hands away, but Trevelyan pressed them back down.
"Yes," she said, barely managing more than a whisper. Her head was pounding with every beat of her racing heart, and it hurt, but it was not the sort of pain that she regretted. "It's the least I can do."
In lieu of a response, Josephine's thumb grazed her injured ribs, feather-light, and Gwendalyn was unable to suppress a shiver. She glanced up to find the ambassador's stormy eyes on her; her lips parted in something like…curiosity? Interest? She dared not guess. She dared not let her mind wander too far in any direction when it would be so easy to trip and fall.
Josephine's hands were in her shirt.
For warmth. For functionality. For—for—
For none of the reasons Trevelyan truly desired. But that was one of the forbidden paths for her thoughts to go down, so she reined them in sharply and forced herself to concentrate on her breathing. On her heartbeat. On providing the support Josephine needed.
On warmth.
She could do that. No matter the fate of Haven or the fate of the Inquisition, Gwendalyn could at least be there for Josephine. She could hold her through the night and make sure she was safe, and at least she would have been able to protect someone in all this. She wished she could do more, but this would have to suffice. This would have to be enough to stem her guilt. To atone for her mistakes. She would have to be enough.
At length, Josephine relaxed into her, resting her head in the crook of Gwen's neck. Her hands were a little closer to a healthy temperature by now, but she did not remove them from where they lay flat against the rogue's sides. It made the contact feel a little more like a choice than a necessity. More like something meaningful. Josephine breathed in, long and deep, and then released the air in a sigh that feathered over Trevelyan's throat. "Gwendalyn?" she whispered into the quiet. The only other sounds were the hissing of dying embers and the murmur of lingering voices outside.
"Yes?" The woman in question ran a hand over her ambassador's back; just once. Just enough to be comforting without bordering on the improper. What she did and what she wanted, however, were two very different things indeed.
"Thank you."
"Of course." Trevelyan so wanted to punctuate her words with a fond kiss to Josephine's forehead, but she could not. She settled for tightening her arms around the other woman ever so slightly. Josephine snuggled closer.
And, for a while, they simply rested together like that. As the night wore on, Gwendalyn sank deep into her own thoughts—most of them bad—and she suspected that Josephine might be doing the same. Her shivers did not subside for a long time, and it took even longer than that for her fingers to match the heat of Gwendalyn's body. Even then, she did not remove them.
That detail gave Trevelyan the courage to step just a little closer to the edge. At some point, after the fire had gone dead, she began to stroke her hand up and down Josephine's back again, mapping the curve of her spine. Offering that extra tiny bit of warmth. Lulling her toward a doze, if the way her breathing evened and slowed was any indicator. And Josephine melted under the touch.
Maybe, thought Gwendalyn, and perhaps it was just the exhaustion catching up to her; muddling her mind, but a little flicker of hope had wakened in her heart.
Maybe.
In a world full of horrible, deadly, monstrous things, maybe she and Josephine could have something better. Something brighter. Something good.
Maybe she would be able to protect someone she cared about, just this once.
Those thoughts lingered as Trevelyan looked down to find Josephine fast asleep, expression serene, as if no tragedy had taken place tonight. She reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind the ambassador's ear and wished to be enough.
She could have sat there and gazed at Josephine Montilyet for the rest of her life, but it was late, and she was tired. Slowly, gently, so as to avoid waking the other woman, she lowered them both to the ground and let her own eyes drift shut. Even in sleep, Josephine did not let go, and so Gwendalyn did not either.
She doubted that this was what Mother Giselle had meant by bed rest, exactly, but she would not trade it for a thing.
…