Early autumn storms lash our keep, the wind driving rain in diagonal sheets against stone that has withstood the elements for centuries. Winds shriek and gibber, rattling windows in frames and shoving at anyone mad enough to risk the battlements. Rare, clear days, when they come, bring watery sunshine briefly between the relentless clouds.

Would that my heart be as enduring as the stones of Skyhold. I won't fret, I won't let on to the others that it bothers me that the rotunda has been empty this past week that we've returned from the Exalted Plains. A teacup contains the residue of its past contents, fragments of leaves adhering to the porcelain. The pigments have dried on the palette, stiffened the brushes. A folded paper covered in sketched glyphs has been used as a bookmark. Of course I've lingered, late at night when the embers in the hearth in the Great Hall are banked, when even Varric nods over his writing and a sleepy cat yawns, turns on the dwarf's lap.

Events are moving ahead – we will be travelling to the Emprise du Lion within three days. Without him. I won't let on how much that bothers me yet there is more than enough to keep me occupied, so that those quiet moments of worry don't creep up on me as often as they might've.

He's not coming back, despair whispers.

Dorian and I have been talking strategy, how to best complement each other's abilities. We've practised. It's not the same.

Masons are busy with the more urgent repairs before the onset of winter; there's the laying in of supplies in the stores in case the mountain pass is blocked; medical supplies tallied; winter-weight clothing issued. Troop movements plotted. Not to mention the piles of correspondence that simply cannot be ignored. Creators bless Josie for shielding me from all but the most important missives.

Fereldan nobles grumble about the Inquisition encroaching on their land. Orlais courts us with honeyed whispers, trying to gain a measure of our strength. We're called to settle disputes, stick our noses into affairs as far afield as Nevarra, Antiva. We're like a spider on a web. I've said as much at the War Table. Cullen just looks at me, shakes his head. Leliana slides me a smile. Josie hides her amusement behind a page.

All the while there's a hollow ache where my heart beats. I'd keep watch on my balcony if it weren't for the inclement weather (and Josie's justified fears that I might be swept off).

Dorian's perceptive, however, and drags me off to the Herald's Rest in the evenings – and between him and Bull, they conspire to get me motherlessly drunk on most occasions, in addition to losing outrageous bets in games of diamondback and wicked grace. The double-edged dagger is that my sleep is mercifully dreamless, even if I wake the next morning with a ferocious dragon of a hangover.

Other, small hints are clear, for I suspect that Cullen – despite the pressures of his lyrium withdrawals and the preparations for our departure – invites me to play chess. My protestations that I'm terrible at strategy fall on deaf ears when we repair to the library where Dorian presides over our matches, offering awful advice to both of us, often laced with grotesque innuendo. It's difficult to decide who blushes more, me or Cullen. Hardly a moment passes where I'm not in the company of someone, be it Varric talking my ear off or Vivienne and Josie attempting to instruct me on Orlesian etiquette in preparation for my debut at court.

They mean well, and I offer the appropriate murmurs of appreciation, a laugh or a smile at the expected beats of conversation, yet my gaze strays always and my heart constricts.

He's not coming back.

As if aware of my fears, my Mark chews at my arm. I am here, it says with a sharp-toothed grin. Hot compresses help somewhat to dull the ache. I am not going away. The magic is impatient, as if it wants to leap from me. Each rift I close dispels some of the magical residue, but with my inactivity, the blighted thing turns and tumbles on itself like a horse with colic, restless.

I will not fear. I will endure.

Endlessly I replay the sequence of events as they transpired on the plains, those foolish mages who were so certain they had the right of things binding Wisdom, and Solas's anger such an inferno that I quailed, stood back as he destroyed them. I could not have prevented their demise even if I willed it, and yet at the time, I felt myself drawn along by Solas's need to lash out, retaliate, even in hindsight, I realise now that my inaction was not the response of a strong leader. I have allowed matters of the heart to overrule my better judgment.

Let me never be the recipient of your wrath nor the object of your disdain.

For an instant I have glimpsed a fraction of Solas's true power, and what I have seen frightens me profoundly. I would never seek to turn my lover into my mortal enemy. I have not spoken to any of my other companions about this either, though I've hinted around the edges of what transpired that afternoon to Dorian. It was an isolated incident, and at the time I don't think either Cassandra or Blackwall was fully cognisant of the deeper ramifications of Solas's actions, how quick he was to the kill. Without visible remorse. The former has no love of mages, in any case, and the latter offers unquestioning support most days. I suspect they'd follow me into the Deep Roads, if need be.

He returns the day before we're set to leave, not long after the clouds have parted and the breeze makes cat's paws on the puddles in the forecourt. I've run down to see Bonny Sims about some blank rune stones for Dagna when Solas strides through the portico as if he's never been away. It's as if he's just returned from strolling about gathering herbs, though there are small tells that his grief is real, tangible thing – the faint bruising under his eyes, his pallor and the tight set of his shoulders.

Will he feel such visible sorrow when I die? (Because if I'm brutally honest with myself, it is a case of when and not if, considering my line of work.) He is polite yet holds himself back while we talk. No caresses, no public displays of affection (Of course not, what did I expect?). His smile is tight, his gaze is indifferent, and that stings me deeply, though I will not allow my dismay to show. The next time he has to mourn, I tell him, he doesn't have to do it alone. He responds by telling me it's been so long since he could trust someone.

Trust?

"Good day, Inquisitor," he bids me as he continues on his way.

I bare everything to him, and yet he still speaks of trust? I clench my fists at my sides and watch him take the steps up to the Great Hall two at a time.

Cullen waylays me after dinner, ostensibly to go over last-minute arrangements at the War Table, and it's just the two of us poring over the map, moving markers and quietly discussing troop movements so I have an idea of what to expect in weeks to come. Something's come up, and Leliana's been called away. Josephine has urgent paperwork to attend to.

I'm aware of Cullen then, more so than other times. The way his voice echoes, the scent of him – musky, with traces of bitter herbs. His hands are large, spreading fingers on the edge of the table to support himself as he leans over. The spray of stubble on his face, so unlike an elf. The way that scar on his lip pulls when he smiles. His amber gaze that lingers on mine.

He stammers a lot more with the others gone, holds himself in a way that he's as aware of us being man and woman alone, and that's when all the small pieces fit together.

Oh.

My heart bleeds for you, Cullen. This is not to be.

He is a comely man, even for a human. He deserves better than me; I wonder, belatedly, whether Leliana and Josie haven't been conspiring with regards to this evening. I wouldn't put it past them.

Yet once we're done, I allow him to walk me to the door of my quarters, where we talk for a short while about his family back home in Ferelden. He inquires after my clan; I offer vague pleasantries. They're fine. They appreciate the Inquisition's efforts to keep them safe.

I can't help but glance over his shoulder, but the door leading to the rotunda remains resolutely shut and a servant is banking the fire in the hearth where Varric usually sits.

It's time for me to retire.

"Good night, Rosala," Cullen says. "And thank you for your time."

"Only a pleasure," I say.

An awkward pause, and then I retreat up the stairs, glad to shut the door to the Great Hall behind me.

The servants have turned back the covers of my bed, drawn the curtains, and lit the lamps. My suite is welcoming – and empty. Rain hisses against the windowpanes, and I can't help but shrivel a little, knowing that it's the sort of weather that will continue in such fashion throughout the night to provide us with a dismal start to our journey.

No doubt Lynna will ensure that my warmest things are packed; no matter how hard I try, I am still unused to having others care for my every need, as if I'm royalty.

A discreet knock sounds on the door. I stiffen, my pulse hammering.

Solas?

"Yes?" I call, hating the quaver to my voice.

"Inquisitor, would you like us to draw your bath?"

It's Lynna. Bless her.

"No, it's quite all right," I respond. "Get some rest. We have an early start."

"Inquisitor."

The elf is so quiet I don't hear her tread on the stairs. For all I know, she could still be waiting at the door. She might even sleep there, and I wouldn't be the wiser.

I'm perfectly capable of drawing my own water, as much as I appreciate the care, and yet even while I lie back in what will most likely be my last hot bath in weeks, I can't help but feel that perhaps I should have had Lynna make a fuss over me.

My bed, on this last night in Skyhold, is so vast, the sheets icy until I can warm them with my body. The Mark's constant gnawing conspires with my burden of sorrow to keep sleep at bay until I begin to hear voices stirring in the courtyard below.

It still hasn't stopped raining.