From her balcony Elenora could hear the mirth of soldiers stumbling in and out of Herald's Rest, laughter and drunken shouts peeling out over the mountains encompassing Skyhold. On another night she may have been tempted to join them, or otherwise just enjoy the sound of her army finding some peace in the midst of war. Tonight, however, was different.

On this night the sounds of merry-making only further embittered the elf, her foul mood seeming to seep into the very stone of her bedroom. The half-drunken bottle of wine she'd been clutching to clunked down on the table roughly as she shoved back in her chair, moving quickly to slam the doors to her balcony shut. The movement of her night gown caught her eye in the floor length mirror that sat across from her bed.

She was a mess. The ember-red hair that she typically kept tightly braided to her scalp in a similar fashion to Cassandra's was now a flowing mess of knots and sweat trailing down to her waistline. Her normally deep brown skin- skin which made it clear the elf was also part Tevinter- had taken on a nasty green hue as well as being slick with sweat. Her sharp yellow eyes were puffy and rimmed red from crying, tear stains tracking her cheeks, the only markings on her face where the elaborate gold tattoos tying her to Mythal had once been.

Once, she thought painfully, flopping heavily back into her chair before resuming her assault on the Antivan vintage, before he undid me.

Elenora's thoughts had been heavy with the vision of Solas and her beside the lake, his hands winding around her impossibly slim waist, gripping her ass in that cheeky way only he could, his mouth hot and needy on hers, tongues dancing together in a waltz only they knew. Then he drew back, a warm hand ghosting over her face, the marks that tied her to her goddess and her clan removed with so little effort the irony could not be missed.

And then he was gone.

His excuses, if they could be called that, were pathetic. A babbling of nonsensical apologies about how he couldn't do this, wouldn't distract her from her work as the Inquisitor. Elenora wished she had pushed him away, slapped him, called him names, but to her horror as she took another burning chug of wine, she'd begged. She pleaded, apologized, asked what she'd done to push him away. To her dismay he gave no answer, only told her that her groveling was making it harder for him, the bastard.

She'd had no time to process what had happened. There was a war table meeting to be held- an attack on Adamant was absolutely unavoidable now after discovering the Wardens had fallen prey to demons and the ministrations of Corypheus. Even with that threat lingering, preparations were to be made for a damn ball of all things— yes, to protect Celine from an assassination attempt, but appearances were to be kept. Orlesian customs and dances had to be learned, and somehow the Inquisitor managed not to break under the monotony of planning it all. But as soon as she was able to break away, she fled to her rooms and sobbed and drank and sobbed some more. Now, with no tears left to cry she was just angry. Angry for allowing herself to believe that the few stolen moments they'd shared between Haven and Skyhold meant anything. Angry that she'd been 'distracted' as Solas so lamely put it. Angry that she allowed herself to believe she was worthy of anything resembling happiness.

She whirled from the desk once more, slamming open drawers, in search of something. She found it quickly: light but dangerous, the poison dagger that she'd brought to Heir in order to prove herself worthy of training as an assassin. She found the tasks to be silly: taking out a few assassin guild members, traipsing through sand dunes in search of deathroot— but in all honesty she enjoyed the sort of 'hunt'. It was what she did for Clan Lavellan: Hunt and lead, spying on the shemlen surrounding their clan when necessary. A painful thought struck her as she realized it was precisely that spying that resulted in her acquiring the mark, and the rather shameful moniker of 'Herald of Andraste'. An elf, scion to the Maker's bride and leading the Divine Inquisition. And now, to make matters worse, a Dalish without her clan markings. She was an island alone now.

Alone

With a choked sob she brought the dagger to her throat and paused. The Inquisition needed her. Thedas needed her. It would be selfish to throw her life away, pining after some damned apostate and his petty excuses. But in that moment of pain she couldn't be bothered to care or see the bigger picture. She just wanted the hurt to end—

Downstairs there was a panicked banging on her door. Sighing, she returned the knife to its hiding place amongst her things, calling for the untimely intruder to enter, though before she got the word out she could already hear the door swinging open. She was opening her mouth to protest the intrusion before she found herself surprised at the sight of Cole, wringing his hands and looking mortified.

Elenora slumped onto the end of her bed, too tired and angry to deal with the spirit and its riddles.

"Speak, demon."

Cole flinched at this. The Inquisitor was one of the few people in Skyhold who enjoyed the boy's company, not seeing him as a threat. In this state of mind, however, she could not stop the biting words, lashing out, needing to release the fury and pain somehow.

"A book, well worn and beloved, the pages practically memorized, but now the words swim, meaningless. I love her, but I can't do this—"

"But why?!" Elenora snapped, baring sharp, elven teeth. "Why can't he?"

"An ancient pain too old and to engrained to bare. No one can know. No one can help—"

"Cole."

Elenora rose from the bed and rounded on the boy. She was small, but as she stood nearly chest to chest with her fellow rogue, she was menacing.

"Unless you can give me better answers than he did, you're only making things worse."

Seeing him flinch again, she backed away, sighing and running her hand through her bedraggled hair.

"Cole," She started again, softer now, voice breaking. "Please. I hurt. I hurt and I don't know if I'll ever stop hurting. Don't speak to me of Solas. If you have something you think will help, I'll hear it out. Otherwise I'm very tired and need to rest. We have a siege to plan."

Cole's frown deepened, but he steadied himself, head cast down at the floor, his hat hiding the entirety of his face. He was thinking, searching, looking for something to pull lose the barbed wire that coiled around Lavellan's heart.

"There's... singing. Soft and sweet, it's beautiful and foreign, in the tongue that Dorian speaks when he swears, but her words soothe like honeyed tea to an aching throat. It's her. Maker, she is beautiful, and the tune won't leave his head. He hums it to himself later, soft, like a prayer."

Elenora frowned at this. She'd been in the garden before meeting with Solas, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather in the mountains and singing an old Tevene lullaby her mother had taught her when she was young. She'd thought the garden was empty, that no one would hear her, and so she sang the song to the flowers and the wind. She was happy then, before Solas asked to speak with her.

"Cole? Who—"

But the spirit was gone, leaving her to stay up the rest of the night, wondering who it was that pined for the Inquisitor.