The Arbor Wilds shake as the Inquisition's and Corypheus' forces prepare themselves for the clash, trees, older even than the legends about the place in which they stand, quivering as shouts and curses and prayers bounce off their bark and lose themselves into their leaves, legions treading the ground only before walked by those who wished to die or cover themselves in glory.
He draws her away from the others silently and, preoccupied as they are, they do not notice her departure. They walk alone for a moment, his hand brushing against hers with every step but his fingers never daring to twine with hers until they are out of sight of the camp, just behind a red-leafed oak that seems to bend under the weight of its own boughs. His hand finds her cheek, his eyes slam shut, and even as he kisses her a prayer comes to his lips, silent but more heartfelt, it seems to him, than all the prayers he had ever voiced in all of his life.
Maker, bring her home to me.
Warm, breathless, the air is too still here, and even if he knows he should be riding out with his soldiers he cannot tear herself away from her. The bark at her back is unyielding as he presses against her, more, always more, her fingers tangles into his hair and he wants, he wants, he wants –
Maker, bring her home to me.
He stops kissing her then, but he does not dare look at her face. He feels her finger ghosting over his cheeks, his lips, his nose, her mouth pressing a ghosting kiss upon his forehead, like his sisters used to do, and for a moment what lies ahead does not seem so daunting.
Maker, let her come back to me. I want her at my side. Maker, for all I have given you –
Now she is kissing him, drawing him impossibly closer, and he cannot think, only feel. He feels alive and he feels safe and he is content, but the next second he is gone and he is parting from her again, although this time he looks up at her. The smile upon her lips should comfort him, but it does not. He knows it might be the last time he ever sees it. He does not voice the thought, but it tears at him all the same. He wants to pray, but all the prayers the Chantry had taught him, the prayers he had repeated for years on end, the words that had been his only comfort when the Circles had fallen, all slipped from his mind.
Maker, bring her home to me.