Chapter Text
Everly came awake gradually, stirring under the pile of furs that took up most of the bed. One eye cracked open, than the other, her vision slowly coming to focus on the first light of dawn rising over the Frostbacks. The doors to the balcony were wide open, as usual, and she could see the dark outlines of the peaks against purple sky. A cool breeze swept through the room. She inhaled deeply, hoping the bracing mountain air would chase the fatigue from her body.
A shiver snaked down her back, but she forced herself to sit up, wiping at bleary eyes. She was never an early riser; the running joke among her advisors was that it was impossible to get an audience with the Inquisitor before mid-morning. And on the rare occasions that did happen, her responses were limited to monosyllabic grunts. In fact, she was half-tempted to fall back into bed and huddle under the thick furs until Josephine found her. But then she remembered a boastful promise, and felt a surge of renewed determination.
Everly pushed off the bed and set to work dressing herself, pulling on her leathers and boots, then strapped her bow and quiver to her back and crept down the stairs. Although the main hall was deserted at this early hour, the fireplaces were still roaring--Everly always wondered how that was accomplished, and whether it was due to some magic she wasn’t aware of. After a brief moment of appreciation, she darted past the dining tables and silently exited the hall, bounding down the stairs to the main courtyard. The morning was crisp and clear, and the first rays of sunlight were beginning to cut across the sky. It would be a bright red dawn.
Everly smiled. She’d be lucky today.
A quick detour lead to the kitchen, where she strutted past the food stores to the butchering station. Reaching up, pulled down the small folding sled that hung on the wall behind an array of hatchets and knives. She maneuvered it over her shoulder, careful to avoid her bow, then headed out towards the main gate. The courtyard was empty, save for a few guards posted on the battlements, and she was just about to call up to the guardhouse when a familiar voice stopped her cold.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
Everly tried to fight her smile, but it was no use. Already the grin was spreading, so wide across her face she was sure one day it would just split in half. She had always hated the reaction, frustrated that she should lose all control over such simple a gesture. Also, she remained convinced it made her look like a complete idiot. Although recent events had made her feel slightly less self conscious. Biting her lip slightly, she spun around on her heel.
There was never a moment where Cassandra didn’t look stunning.
The Seeker stood with her hip cocked, hands crossed and lightly resting on the pommel of her sword. Even though her stance was relaxed, the power in her form was evident: all broad shoulders and tightly coiled muscle, always ready to move with a strong grace few realized she possessed. Her armor, polished and sharp, gleamed in the early morning light. The sight was awe-inspiring. Everly hoped she would never tire of it.
Cassandra arched a suspicious brow, and Everly quickly bowed in greeting, still smiling.
“Will I ever be free of you, Seeker?”
Cassandra inclined her chin ever so slightly. “Is that what you wish, Inquisitor?”
“Never.”
Cassandra’s mouth twitched, and Everly brightened even more. The Seeker never smiled, at least not fully. Instead she fixed everyone and everything with the same hard glare, hazel eyes as impenetrable as her armor. But Everly had quickly learned that the key to deciphering Cassandra’s mood was her mouth, not her eyes. From the varying depths of her frown, or how tightly her lips were pressed together, or the rare moment the right corner curled softly--always more than the left side, a result of whatever weapon that had sliced her from ear to chin. Those tiny cues all conveyed different degrees of anger, frustration, surprise, and in Everly's case, bemusement and affection.
“I am glad we are in agreement, then.” Cassandra shifted and crossed her arms. “You’re not supposed to wander about by yourself. As you know.”
Everly made a face. Technically, that was true. Upon their arrival at Skyhold, it had been decided among her advisors that she would not leave the fortress without an escort. At first, it had been easy enough to comply with, but now she chafed under the restriction.
“I gave instructions to bait the deer herd that’s been moving through to the south. I was going to check them."
“We have plenty of meat stores for the winter.”
“Yes, but as I recall you prefer venison.”
Cassandra’s mouth twitched again and for the briefest of moments, it looked as if she was biting back a smile. Everly took a step forward, suddenly aware they were still in full view of the guards manning the gate.
“Would you care to join me? For security purposes, of course,” she said.
The Seeker rolled her eyes, then uncrossed her arms. Everly spun around and lead them out of the main gate, across the bridge that spanned the chasm the fortress had been built over. They entered the forest quietly and turned right, heading down a path that was easily concealed from anyone who didn’t already know it existed. As they moved deeper into the woods and out of sight from Skyhold, Everly felt Cassandra relax behind her ever so slightly.
It had been nearly a month since the night in the garden.
Everly could recall every single day since that evening with startling clarity, each one bringing something new and wonderful with it. Her mind held a constant litany of firsts, a list she kept referring to in wonder. There was the first kiss, of course. But then there was the first time she had taken Cassandra’s hand, on a brief walk through the courtyard after dark. The first time Cassandra had ran her fingers through Everly's hair. The first time they shared a bedroll together, during the expedition to the Exalted Plains, when Everly had woken in the night to find Cassandra curled up next to her, arm draped over her waist.
As if reading her thoughts, Cassandra snaked an arm around Everly's waist, pulling her backwards to plant a kiss on her temple. “I enjoyed your company last night,” she murmured against Everly's ear. “You...did not have to leave.”
Everly blushed. Their routine had managed to remain mostly undisturbed, even as her duties increased as the Inquisition grew in size and influence, and last night Everly had again found herself in the forge. They had split a bottle of strong ale and she had nearly fallen asleep in with her head in Cassandra’s lap, as Cassandra read aloud from her latest novel. It was ridiculous, of course, completely overwrought and dramatic, but she could listen to Cassandra’s voice for hours.
“I snore, remember?”
“I remember.” Cassandra's hand trailed across Everly's stomach and up her side. Everly tensed until she realized what Cassandra was searching for. Her coat of mail, still too heavy for her liking, had been left lying in a heap at the foot of her bed.
Everly chuckled. “Deer don’t shoot arrows, Cass."
Cassandra made a disgruntled noise and let her hand fall. They continued forward.
Ahead the woods thinned out, and they emerged into a small grove of birch and pine trees. The bushes and brambles they had navigated through disappeared completely, leaving only a ground layer of soft moss, grasses, and pine needles. The canopy overhead was dense enough to block the wind but still allowed sunlight through, and beams of light filtered down to the undergrowth below. Abruptly, Everly realized that Cassandra was no longer beside her. She turned back to find Cassandra looking up at the canopy as she walked. Cassandra’s face had softened, the hard line of her jaw relaxed, taken aback by an unexpected moment of serenity. The effect was striking. Everly quickly looked away, afraid she would be caught staring.
When they reached the edge of the grove and stepped back into deeper forest, Everly crouched down. While the nights had grown longer and cooler, the frost had not yet set in and the ground was just pliable enough for the deer to leave tracks. There was an array of hoofprints at her feet, pointing in the direction of the grain feeder that had been built weeks ago. Pleased at the signs of activity, Everly looked over her shoulder and pressed a finger to her lips. She silently drew an arrow from her quiver, nocking it without looking. Cassandra nodded and gripped her sword to prevent it from banging against her hip.
Everly turned back and took one step--only for the silence to be shattered by the snap of a twig. She whirled around to see Cassandra slowly lift her boot and scowl at the offending stick, as if it had deliberately positioned itself beneath her heel. Everly put her finger to her lips again, more emphatically this time, and the scowl was immediately aimed in her direction. She shook her head, grinning wildly as she returned her attention to the trail in front of her. It truly was a rare occurrence where Cassandra’s sheer physicality was a hindrance rather than an advantage.
Moving through the thick undergrowth was slow going, made even more so since Everly wasn't used to navigating the terrain with someone else. She could feel Cassandra’s presence just behind her, mimicking her steps in a deliberate and thoughtful manner. Everly knew the effort it was taking for the Seeker to restrain from impatiently charging through the brambles and bushes.
Thankfully, they didn’t have to test Cassandra for too long. A small clearing came into view and Everly's hand snapped up, halting their approach. Through the low-hanging branches was the gentle movement of several light brown coats, blending in against the fall colors. Three deer stood in the clearing: two does and a buck, the latter only a year or so old, judging by the small set of four-point antlers. He stood broadside to Everly, gazing in the opposite direction as the two females ate placidly next to him, picking at the pile of corn and grain at their hooves.
In one smooth motion Everly dropped to her knee and silently drew her bow back to her chin. She steadied her breathing, inhaling deeply then forcing the air out evenly through pursed lips. She heard Cassandra shift behind her, the familiar creak of leather and softly clinking metal filling her with reassurance.
The moment came. Her lungs emptied. With her last breath, her fingers relaxed and the arrow flew.
The buck jumped into the air, kicked once, then fell dead. The two does disappeared, bounding away through the undergrowth. Everly felt the weight of a gauntleted hand on her shoulder and a gentle squeeze.
“Nicely done.”
Everly felt a burst of pride, but was immediately up and approaching the buck with a purpose. She paused only to poke at one black, unblinking eye with the tip of her bow. With the death confirmed, she dropped back down to her knees and stripped off her gloves. A blade was produced from the sheath strapped to her thigh, different than the daggers she carried into battle; smaller and with a thicker handle, but no less sharp. It pierced the hide easily as Trevelyan made a long slit from the hindlegs to the throat, then began pulling back the skin, exposing the muscle layer underneath. Next, she flipped the blade around in her fingers, pointing it upwards, and started cutting through the muscle, using the fingers of her free hand to pull the layer away and ensure the organs were not punctured.
There was a small noise, almost a gentle chuckle, as Cassandra moved to stand beside her “You are remarkably proficient at this,” the Seeker said, appraising Trevelyan's work.
Trevelyan shrugged as she continued working through the carcass, cutting the windpipe and esophagus in two, then pulling down hard to free the entrails down to the buck’s midsection. “I got my first deer when I was six. My father showed me how to dress it, right then and there. Both Robb and Brayden couldn’t handle doing it until they were much older.” She allowed herself a small laugh. “He would tease them about it for years. He loved that story.”
“How is your father?”
Trevelyan’s hands stilled.
The last update from Bradyn had been more of the same. Their father was dying, his body now wasting away as fast as his mind. The fact that it was his intellect to go first had always struck Trevelyan as a form of an insult; his broad shoulders and muscular hands remaining intact even as he began faltering.
It had been simple at first, occasionally forgetting a name here or a chore there, so insidious that it was barely noticeable. But then came the mood swings, the complete disorientation, and the violent outbursts, made only more terrifying by the large frame he could no longer control. Eventually those episodes ceased altogether, along with most forms of communication, and now Bann Sandor Trevelyan was confined to his room. Destined to live out the rest of his days staring blankly out a window, looking over his family’s estate with dull, unseeing eyes.
Trevelyan glanced at Cassandra out of the corner of her eye, then returned to her project. The knife sliced through the layer of tissue that held the entrails to the ribs, perhaps more forcefully than was necessary.
“The bad days outnumber the good, as it has been for a while now,” she said. “The problem is our uncle. He started sniffing around the estate as soon as Father fell ill, claiming some nonsense about an improper bequest generations ago. Father probably could have strengthened his position had he remarried, but he never did. Stubborn old fool.”
She said it affectionately, with no real malice. Truth be told, she was pleased her father had never married any of the women he had courted over the years. Sadly, they all seemed too interested in wealth and the Trevelyan name, and exhibited little to no desire in being a parent to three rambunctious children.
A few more flicks with the blade, and the rest of the entrails came free.
“I did not mean to upset you.”
Trevelyan turned her head, seeing Cassandra’s eyes wide with concern. She stood and pulled a rag out of a side pocket to wipe off her hands. Despite the invasiveness of the procedure, there was only a thin layer of blood on her fingers. “You didn’t upset me. It was kind of you to ask.”
“Oh.” Cassandra’s weight shifted and she appeared surprised by the compliment. “I am glad I did so, then.”
Trevelyan grinned at the awkward reply. For all of the Seeker’s confidence and raw power on the battlefield, she could be adorably inept at personal interactions. Of course, Trevelyan valued her life, so she would never say such a thing to Cassandra’s face. Instead, she just unpacked the sled and gestured for Cassandra to assist.
They loaded up the buck carcass quickly, each grabbing the end of the rope and began dragging it back through where they came. The buck was surprisingly heavy and the ground was uneven beneath them, but they made short work of the journey, mostly due to Cassandra. Trevelyan was positive that the Seeker could have easily slung the deer over her shoulders and marched it back to Skyhold with barely a labored breath.
The sun was high in the sky when they reached the fortress’s bridge, and a thin sheen of sweat broke out across the back of her neck. Their pace slowed as they approached the gate, and Trevelyan knew it was not due to fatigue. The air shifted between them and she could feel Cassandra tense up again; out of the corner of her eye she saw the Seeker’s jaw tighten and her mouth purse together in a thin line. Trevelyan sighed inwardly, saddened at the transformation. It was a unspoken arrangement that they would keep the nature of their relationship to themselves for as long as possible. Although, considering how incessant the rumor mongering could be, both inside the Inquisition and externally, Trevelyan wondered how long it would remain a secret.
Trevelyan had no time to consider the matter further. The instant the drawbridge touched down, she was immediately accosted by all manner of well-wishers. Skyhold was bustling, everyone now awake and plunging headfirst into the day, and the courtyard was full of people on their way to morning chores. They all stopped to greet the Inquisitor and congratulate her on another fine trophy. Some even hung off the stairways and battlements, invoking Andraste’s blessings upon her as she passed by.
She ground her teeth. The endless fawning could be too much at times, equal parts grating and exhausting. But still, she raised her hand and acknowledged each and every one, thanking them for their kindness and wishing them all a pleasant day. Cassandra met her fair share of greetings as well, almost as robustly celebrated as the Inquisitor.
Trevelyan slowly extricated herself from the crowds and began making her way through the main courtyard. The buck carcass had already been swept away to the butcher and the gathering of people had begun to thin out. It was mid-morning now. The tranquility of being alone in the forest with Cassandra already seemed so far away, despite being less than an hour ago. The familiar tension between her shoulder blades began to grow as she thought about all she needed to attend to. Her advisors were surely gathered at the war table, with a list of things to attend to as long as Cullen’s arm. Trevelyan felt Cassandra fall into step beside her without a word, maintaining a respectable distance, and was briefly comforted by the Seeker’s presence.
“Inquisitor?”
A voice called out just as they reached the foot of the main stairs, and both Trevelyan and Cassandra spun around in unison. Varric stood behind them, with the look of a man who wanted to be anywhere else but there. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, and nervously scrubbed at the back of his neck. His eyes flicked from Trevelyan to Cassandra, then back again.
“Yes?” Trevelyan frowned at the dwarf’s uncharacteristic behavior.
“There’s, uh...there’s someone here you ought to meet.”
“What?’
Her expression changed from suspicion into outright befuddlement, as she had no idea who Varric could possibly be referring to. The confusion worsened when she realized Varric was no longer looking at her, but at Cassandra, almost wincing as if he expected to be hit. The Seeker’s jaw had begun twitching manically and both her hands were balled into fists. She spoke through clenched teeth.
“What.”
***
“How pissed is she?”
“Pretty fucking pissed, Varric!”
Trevelyan shot a glare at the dwarf as she paced across the battlements, running both hands through her thick hair and muttering when it just fell back into her eyes. Varric, for his part, at least appeared somewhat remorseful, if not quite apologetic.
“What did she expect me to do? Did she actually think I would tell her where Hawke was? She’s my friend. Those people have done enough to her.” Varric planted both feet and crossed his arms defiantly. Trevelyan sighed and dropped her hands to her waist, turning her head to look out across the courtyard, towards the training area. She was convinced the sound of metal striking wood could be heard all through Skyhold.
“Go easy on her. She was trying to do the right thing, just like you.”
Varric snorted. “Make sure to tell her that.”
“I will,” said Trevelyan. “When she’s ready to hear it.” She turned a glare on him for added emphasis, and to disguise the fact that she didn’t know exactly when she’d be informing Cassandra of this.
In her experience, Cassandra’s temper was the equivalent of throwing dried leaves on a fire--igniting instantly and spectacularly, but just as quickly burning itself out. However this time it was a long, sustained eruption, and Trevelyan had arrived just in time to see Cassandra actually take a swing at the dwarf. Luckily, her intervention had prevented any further violence, but she was still surprised Varric had emerged from the yelling unscathed. Trevelyan sighed again. Collateral damage was not an uncommon occurrence when the Seeker was raging, and she hoped Cassandra’s anger would not be turned on her. As it were, she felt a distinct twinge of sympathy for the practice dummies.
Varric cocked his head, eyeing the Inquisitor curiously. “You two have really hit it off, haven't you?”
Trevelyan stiffened. He was far too observant for his own good, and while that was a necessary skill for a writer, she wished he would turn his scrutiny elsewhere.
“We understand each other. That’s all.” Her reply was short and clipped, hoping to end this particular line of questioning.
Varric smiled up at her, not quite believing. “Sure. Whatever you say, Your Worship.”
Trevelyan scowled at him, then began walking towards the other end of the battlement. “Or would you prefer that I don’t intervene at all? I could easily let you solve this one alone. And I doubt she’ll only stab a book this time.”
“Fine,” Varric groaned. “Just do me a favor and remind her that she can’t get the next chapter of Swords & Shields if she kills me.”
Trevelyan chuckled. “Now that would be the real tragedy,” she said, as they finally approached the bored-looking figure leaning easily against the wall of the guardhouse.
She was larger than expected, and although Trevelyan had gotten quite used to most warriors being bigger than her, it was unusual for a rogue to have that kind of size. The realization was particularly grating. The vicious daggers strapped to her back and spiky armor struck a dramatic silhouette, and the--blood? tattoo?-- streaked across her face actually made her look even more menacing. Trevelyan could easily picture her running head-first into battle, as Varric had gleefully depicted in his novel. She also couldn’t decide which bothered her more: the fact that Hawke was clearly the inspiration for the charming rogue in the Swords & Shields, or that Cassandra had read Tales of the Champion just as often as the romance serial.
Hawke straightened as they came closer and greeted Varric with a loud clap on the shoulder, smiling widely. Her brown eyes were bright and flecked with gold, sparkling mischievously in the midday sun.
“That was the Seeker you told me about?” Hawke’s tone was a mix of incredulity and appreciation. She shook her head. “I’m surprised to see you still intact.”
“Cassandra’s a real sweetheart, once you get to know her,” Varric said dryly. “You should introduce yourself. She’s a big fan.”
“Oh?” A thoughtful look crossed the Champion’s face. “Perhaps I shall. You know how I feel about brunettes.”
Trevelyan’s jaw tightened and she fought to keep her expression neutral as she stepped forward. “I believe there are more pressing matters at hand,” she said, trying to hold back the growl that was rumbling up from back of her throat. She shot a look at Hawke, then Varric.
“Of course, introductions are needed. How thoughtless of me.” Varric made a grandiose gesture in Trevelyan’s direction. “Hawke, meet the Inquisitor.”
Her hand was lost in an enthusiastic grip before she knew what had even happened. Hawke’s smile was all teeth, bright white and perfectly aligned, and Trevelyan wondered how many people she’d been able to bend to her will with that look.
“A pleasure,” The Champion said. The smile turned wicked. “Thought you’d be taller, though.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Trevelyan yanked her hand free, then cocked an eyebrow as she readjusted her glove. “Varric said you fought Corypheus before ?”
Hawke cast a sidelong glance at the dwarf. “All business, that one, eh?” she said. Varric just shrugged. Hawke turned back to Trevelyan, and her face hardened.
“Yes, fought and killed him. The grey wardens were holding him, but he somehow used his connection to the darkspawn to influence them. He got into their minds. If the wardens have disappeared, the same thing could be happening again.”
“Wait, back up.” Trevelyan held up her hands, palms out. “You say you killed him? Pardon me, but he appeared very much alive when he attacked me with a dragon.”
Hawke bristled. “When the fight was done, he was dead on the ground. I saw it myself, and I don’t give a damn what anyone else says about it. Maybe the Blight brought him back, or it was old Tevinter magic. Either way, he was dead.”
Trevelyan eyes narrowed. She had heard many stories from Kirkwall about its Champion, but none of what she had been told lead her to believe that Hawke was a liar. A trouble-maker, yes, but not an outright fabricator. Stretching the truth seemed to be solely Varric’s vocation.
“Very well,” Trevelyan said. “If the wardens are under Corypheus’s control again, is there a way to free them?”
“It’s...possible.” Hawke sighed heavily, sounding like she didn’t quite believe what she was saying. “But we need to know more. I have a friend in the wardens; he was investigating something for me and the last time we spoke he was concerned about corruption in the ranks. And I think possible mind control at the hand of a demented Tevinter magister would count as corruption, no?”
Trevelyan stiffened.
She had been ten, maybe eleven, when she first heard news of refugees flowing into the Free Marches, running from the horrors of the Blight. Convinced that Ostwick would be overrun within a matter of weeks, she suffered from vivid nightmares every night, until her father sat her down and told her of the Grey Wardens. He had spent weeks spinning tales, telling reassuring stories of an order that was devoted to the cause of protecting all people from darkspawn, fearlessly facing death when the time came.
She clung to those tales like a lifeline, believing fervently that her family would be saved by the revered order. It was only when she had grown older that she realized her father’s accounts were not quite accurate, and that black and white heroism actually existed more in shades of gray. Still, it had been difficult to shake her childhood idealization, and the thought that Corypheus had somehow compromised the Wardens left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Where is your friend now?” she asked.
“He’s hiding out in an old smugglers cave near Crestwood. Name’s Stroud. ”
“Well, he sure picked a lovely spot to camp,” Trevelyan said, recalling earlier reports of a large fade rift beneath Crestwood lake and a rampaging dragon in the area. It certainly wasn’t going to be an easy expedition. Her eyes flicked over to Varric, then back to Hawke. “It’s worth a try. We’ll make plans to depart as soon as possible. I appreciate the help.”
Hawke nodded. “I’m doing this for myself as for you. Corypheus is my responsibility. This time, I’ll make sure he stays dead.”
“That makes two of us,” Trevelyan said.
“Excellent.” The perfect smile appeared again, and suddenly the Champion looked as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Now where can a girl get a drink around here? And that Seeker --Cassandra, did you say? Is she--”
“I’ll show you to the bar,” Varric said quickly, stepping between Hawke and Trevelyan. He began ushering the Champion away before Trevelyan could say anything. She was suddenly grateful for his intervention. There was no way Hawke could have known, of course--Varric probably had just told her of the Seeker’s love for his novels. Trevelyan was not the jealous type, but she was overwhelmed by the desire to lay claim to Cassandra publicly, especially in the presence of the renowned Champion of Kirkwall.
She fixed a dark glare on Hawke’s retreating back, watching them both until they descended the battlements and disappeared out of sight. Eventually, her ire faded away. Alone for the first time since early morning, she let out a heavy sigh, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. She stood with her hands on her hips for a long moment, gazing out over the mountains.
And she had been having such a nice day, too.
***
By her estimation, Trevelyan had been pacing around the giant oak tree for a better part of an hour now, circling the trunk so many times the grass was beginning to wear away beneath her boots. Her eyes flicked towards the line of candles illuminating the path into the grove, then to the fire she had built, then to the bedroll she had not-so-subtly laid out next to it.
Oh, Maker, this was a terrible idea.
She hadn’t really expected to go through with it today, of all days, when Cassandra was still so clearly upset about Hawke’s appearance at Skyhold and Varric’s obvious deception. Trevelyan had assumed she would eventually calm down, but as the hours passed it became clear the Seeker had no intention of letting the matter go. Trevelyan had never seen Cassandra that angry before--her lips were pressed together so tightly her entire mouth had practically disappeared, and a vein in her forehead throbbed visibly. For a brief moment, Trevelyan had thought she would be able to disarm Cassandra with a few lighthearted comments, but when she tried, hazel eyes flashed at her dangerously. She immediately scurried off, resolving to just give Cassandra a wide berth and hope for the best.
But then the decision had been to set out for Crestwood the very next day, and the candles had arrived later than expected from Val Royeaux (and, if she was being honest, didn’t look nearly as “romantic” as advertised) and she was forced into action. It was only going to get colder in the Frostbacks with each day, and by the time they returned from Crestwood she could miss her opportunity.
So she had thrown caution to the wind, leaving a note above the forge for Cassandra to find and sneaking out of the fortress undetected. Trevelyan thought that in the very least, they would benefit from some time outside of Skyhold, especially since Varric and Hawke appeared committed to a raucous reunion and had taken over the tavern, along with Bull and all of the Chargers. The party would undoubtedly go on all night, heedless of the expedition planned for the next morning.
Trevelyan continued to pace, each passing moment feeling like agony. Maybe Cassandra’s duties had gone on later than usual, or maybe she was still so blinded by anger she had missed seeing the note altogether. Or maybe she had simply decided not to come. Trevelyan mused over that last option, chewing on the bottom of her lip. If that was the case, she would just have to pack everything up again and sneak back into Skyhold. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except that Cassandra would no doubt find her and demand to know what the cryptic letter was all about and didn’t she just tell her not to wander off alone and where in Maker’s name did all those candles come from?
She sighed and leaned against the trunk of the oak, then slowly slid down to a crouch. There was a soft thump beside her, and Trevelyan glanced down to to see that her journal had fallen out of her pocket. She began flipping through it, the small book opening as if by habit to a the middle section, where the binding had been cracked from use. Trevelyan could barely read her own handwriting anymore, the poem had been so hastily scribbled weeks ago, but it no longer mattered. She had committed it to memory almost immediately after she had found it, reading each stanza over and over again whenever she had a free moment.
There was a slight rustle of leaves, the gentle snap of a twig, and Trevelyan was on her feet. She peered around the massive truck at the path she had illuminated. The dense birch and pine canopy blocked the wind completely and each one of the candles had stayed lit, protected from the breeze. The sounds grew louder and Trevelyan saw the outline of a shadow approach. Her heart stomach lurched and she ducked back behind the tree.
“Everly?”
She leaned her forehead against the tree trunk, exhaling slowly to steady herself. Then she forced a smile across her face and stepped out into the open. Cassandra’s hand instantly flew to her sword and her entire body froze. Her mouth was still pressed into a thin line, but it softened ever so slightly as Trevelyan emerged. The hazel eyes remained hard, though, as she favored Trevelyan with a suspicious look. Trevelyan took another breath and cleared her throat.
Light, so low in the vale
You flash and lighten afar,
For this is the golden morning of love,
And you are his morning star.
Flash, I am coming, I come,
By meadow and stile and wood,
Oh, lighten into my eyes and heart,
Into my heart and my blood!
Cassandra’s eyes widened and her hand fell. Trevelyan began circling the Seeker as she recited the poem, sweeping her arms theatrically and gazing upwards at the canopy .
Heart, are you great enough
For a love that never tires?
O' heart, are you great enough for love?
I have heard of thorns and briers,
Over the meadow and stiles,
Over the world to the end of it
Flash for a million miles.
She finished with a flourish and bowed deeply, as if she was on a stage at the Grand Royeaux Theater itself. She swept back up, still smiling, but her expression quickly fell. Cassandra stood before her stoically, with her arms crossed, arching a brow. Trevelyan felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of panic, wondering if she had completely misjudged the entire situation. She clasped her hands behind her back firmly, her nails digging into the leather palms of her gloves, and started fumbling for the words to apologize for being so forward.
Then Cassandra punched her in the shoulder.
“You cannot be serious,” the Seeker said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Of all the poems, you pick that one?”
Trevelyan’s grin returned in full force as she massaged her shoulder. “Would you like a different one? I memorized a few other selections.”
Cassandra didn’t answer. Instead she took a tentative a step forward, glancing around at the fire and the candles before slowly reaching for Trevelyan’s hand. “You did this all...for me?” She looked away, almost shyly, her voice soft and disbelieving. Trevelyan swallowed hard.
“Yes.”
Their gazes met. Cassandra’s eyes turned dark, in a way Trevelyan had never seen before, and suddenly all the air was rushing out of her lungs and she felt lightheaded. Then Cassandra’s hands were on her, digging into the front of her scout coat, and Trevelyan let out a yelp as she was pulled down to the bedroll.
***
All that was left of the fire was coals.
Trevelyan lazily watched the glow of the embers as they burned themselves down, the occasional flame still catching and briefly lighting the area near the bedroll. She would have thought she was dreaming, trapped in the Fade somewhere, almost afraid to believe it had actually happened, but her loose, sated body and bruised lips told her it was real.
Cassandra’s head was resting on Trevelyan’s shoulder, a strong arm tossed lazily across her chest. Trevelyan kept her right arm wrapped around her, barely able to reach across the broad expanse of the Seeker’s muscular back. The Anchor remained safely tucked away behind her head.
Trevelyan trailed her fingertips over warm skin, feeling the hard muscles beneath and lightly tracing the lines of each scar she found. Cassandra’s body was peppered with them; various burns and cuts and puncture wounds that were almost too many to count. Yet Trevelyan had been determined to map them all with her mouth and hands, much to Cassandra’s surprise and eventual delight. She silently marveled at each once she catalogued, amazed at all that the Seeker had endured. And yet, despite how divergent their paths had been, somehow amidst chaos and destruction they had been brought together.
Cassandra stirred, reaching across and pressing her hand against the patches of twisted skin on Trevelyan's ribs, from where the arrows had pierced her side in the Mire. Trevelyan hardly had any scars, and felt oddly embarrassed by that fact, but it was soon forgotten as Cassandra raised her head to press her lips against Trevelyan’s jaw.
“We should return soon.”
Cassandra’s voice was still thick and heavy, the accented words falling from her mouth like honey. A shiver went down Trevelyan’s spine. She ran her fingers up Cassandra’s neck and through her hair, brushing aside the braid that had become undone earlier. She smiled at the low, pleased rumble in Cassandra’s chest.
“You move first,” she murmured into Cassandra’s hair.
“Hmph.”
Cassandra straightened and rose up onto her arm, propping her head against her palm. She slowly drew her other hand across Trevelyan’s chest, lightly grazing over her breast before reaching up to cup the side of her face. She pulled them into a deep kiss, hard and yet somehow tender at the same time. Trevelyan responded immediately, deepening the kiss and tightening her arm around Cassandra’s waist. Without thinking, brought her left hand out from behind her head to reach for the back of Cassandra’s neck. She caught herself before she made contact and quickly pulled back, balling her hand into a fist. Cassandra felt the movement and broke away, turning her head to see Trevelyan keeping her hand off to the side. She looked back down.
“You know it does not bother me.”
Trevelyan sighed and glanced over Cassandra’s shoulder at the dying coals. Her reticence was difficult to explain. She had gotten used to the Anchor's constant presence--even if it still hurt on occasion when she encountered a rift--but there was something unsettling about actually touching Cassandra’s skin with the magic, even though she knew the Seeker had already felt its energy multiple times. She had kept her hand hidden away during their lovemaking, either tucking it underneath the small pillow or grasping the corner of the bedroll. It wasn’t a part of her, not really; it was something that had been burned into her without her consent and that she could barely control.
To prove her point, Cassandra reached for Trevelyan's hand, pulling it towards her as she rolled onto her back. Trevelyan followed, laying on her side and watching as Cassandra examined her hand. The mark was as dormant as it had ever been, its presence only given away by the shimmer just below her skin. Cassandra’s fingertips brushed against her palm, as fearless in this as she was with everything else.
“It frightens me,” Trevelyan whispered.
“I know.” Their fingers laced together and Cassandra gently squeezed her hand. “I wish I could do more to comfort you.”
“You do more than enough.”
Cassandra sighed, moving so that they would face each other, deliberately placing Trevelyan's hand on her hip. Her brows knitted together as a thoughtful look crossed her face.
“They will say one of two things about me. That I stood by the Inquisitor's side--her lover, her protector--and that it was meant to be. Or that I was lead from the path of faith by the wiles of a madwoman.”
Trevelyan chuckled. “I’ve already been called worse than that. But I think it matters most what you believe.”
“Indeed.” Cassandra took another breath. “Beyond anything else, beyond what people say...I believe you are capable of anything. And I believe that to be true whether or not you have the Anchor. That is what frightens me.”
The guard behind her eyes fell, and for the first time Trevelyan saw a breadth of emotion that was only hinted at previously. Cassandra, the truest servant of faith she had ever met, actually believed in her, implicitly and without question. It filled her with both a sense of pride and complete terror. How was that even possible? Trevelyan couldn’t believe she had done anything to earn that level of devotion. She was practically a nobody, her only asset a name whose power was rapidly depleting each day her father grew sicker, thrown by sheer luck into the middle of events she was expected to control and a host of problems she only pretended to know how to solve.
There was one reason, and one reason only, she had made it this far.
Cassandra’s hand, callused and scarred, brushed across her face with an impossibly light touch. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Trevelyan glanced away briefly, almost undone, and swallowed hard. When she looked back into Cassandra’s eyes she almost couldn’t speak.
“Because you make me feel like I can do anything.”
The look was back again, the same one she had been greeted with when the Seeker first stepped into the grove: eyes wide at first, disbelieving, then narrowing into outright skepticism. But then Cassandra’s face broke out into a full smile, broad and dazzling, and Trevelyan swore to the Maker that there had never been anything more beautiful. She was still smiling as she pulled Trevelyan into another kiss.
“Flatterer.”