#plus he's like a buff stable worker so extra points there

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this epilogue, Giles finds her way home.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Touledy's Epilogue. Erridge's Epilogue. End. Words: 2,393. Rating: all audiences.)

Epilogue: Giles

Inquisition troops marched through field and farmland, nothing more than a movement north, bound for the Waking Sea and Free Marches beyond.

That was the story Jader had been told; that was the story Jader had believed. With the assent of its rulers, such movement was permitted. They had no idea that, amongst those simple-looking soldiers, the missing daughter of Samient walked.

The site of her ‘disappearance’ would have been discovered, by now. The Duke’s guard would be crawling all over it, like so many ants upon a fresh carcass. The Inquisition would be all apology, offering whatever help they could—but the blame would ultimately lie with her father. He hadn’t sent her with a guard, the other nobles would say. What could he expect?

Giles felt the guilt of it strongly. Every step she took, she questioned whether this was the right path. But she reminded herself, of what waited at its end. This would be worth it.

“Almost there,” Loranil told her. “If the others have already arrived, then we’ll be meeting at the docks. All right?”

Giles nodded. “Thank you,” she replied. “Thank you for doing this.”

Loranil smiled. “Not the sort of mission I expected when I joined the Inquisition—but I don’t mind it. I think it’s more pleasant than most of the soldiers have had, anyway.”

That much was true. They’d exchanged stories with Giles on their way, usually whilst bedding down for the night. She only believed half of them. No way had Troubridge fought a giant and lived to tell the tale, let alone done so without being raised in rank!

Though it did put her own situation in comparison. There had been no giant-killing on their journey, thank the Maker. In fact, their greatest danger was this. Jader. The last of Orlais she would see, the most likely place for her to be recognised. Best keep the helmet on tight.

But it served its purpose well enough. They walked the streets of the city with no resistance. Guards nodded them through, residents stopped to watch them walk by. A child stared with such wonder, it was as if the Inquisitor was the one striding past instead.

And thus, unhindered, they made it to the docks—a bustling shipyard, adorned with grand vessels, ready to sail the Waking Sea. The abundance of Orlesian heard throughout the city melted away, and left instead was a mixture of tongues, flying between sailors of varying origin.

With a quiet word of confirmation to the dockmaster, the Captain of Giles’ retinue led them where they needed to go. A ship, moored on the third dock to the right. That was where the other Inquisition had gathered.

Giles’ heart pounded against her chest. They rounded a corner, saw a group of soldiers scattered across crates and barrels, leaning and sitting and talking and relaxing. She halted in her tracks. Her eyes scanned the face of each and every single one. Until—

All went quiet. A soldier stood.

“Giles?”

He took the helm from his head, and revealed the man beneath. Vichy. Her Vichy.

She had feared this moment greatly. That the war might’ve changed him, that he might be beyond recognition. But every fear fell away, when she saw him.

It was the smiling face she knew; the deep brown skin and muscled arms; the same rich black hair—though his curls and coils had been cut shorter than she recalled. It didn’t matter. It was him.

“Vichy,” she breathed.

Her feet took off running before she had even realised it. He was ready for her, arms open. She collided with him, embrace so powerful that her helm was knocked from her head, to skitter across the ground.

It didn’t matter. It was him.

“I’m so sorry,” she wept, clutching him tighter than she ever had before. “This was my fault.”

“Don’t you worry,” he whispered, “it’s my fault, really.”

“How? How could any of this be your fault?”

“Well, a bastard son of an elf can’t really meddle with the Duke’s daughter and expect to get away with it, can he? You’re trouble, Giles. Beautiful trouble.”

She smiled. If there was any greater proof that this was her Vichy, it was this—for he never could take a single situation seriously. She was glad that that had not been taken from him. It was that very attitude that had her broken in the first place.

“My father should never have done this to you,” she told him. For, as much as she adored it, this was no time for his jokes.

“I chose to go,” he replied, kissing the tears from her cheek. “Besides, with what the Inquisition lot have told me about the Commander, I think you got the worse end of the deal. I have every respect for the man, given what he’s done for us—but Creators, he sounds boring.”

Giles chuckled. “His presence made me miss yours all the more. We should have run.”

He held her close, serious for the first time in his life: “No. I would have agreed to anything your father offered, to keep you safe.”

“But every moment without you I have been in danger of myself.”

She felt Vichy’s head shake, against hers. “Come now, none of that. I’m here. I’m here.”

He was. If only to prove it, if only to know it was real, if only to make it complete—she kissed him. Any lingering doubts fled, in the wake of that kiss. She had made the right decision.

An unfortunately public one, for a cheer went up—a few of the soldiers, who were swiftly reprimanded by their Captain—and Giles was suddenly reminded that they were not alone.

Vichy laughed at them. “All right, pay up!” he called. “Whoever said she wouldn’t show, you owe me a crown!”

Giles chuckled. With the distraction, she could part to find her helm—though she did not have to look for long. It was already discovered, in the hands of Loranil, who’d prevented it from rolling away.

“Best get this back on,” he said, handing it over, “we’re not in the Free Marches yet.”

***

They arrived in the Marches days later, to rendezvous with the Inquisition base in Kirkwall. The majority of the retinue would sequester themselves within; few were permitted to travel on to Sumara.

The Clan was last traced to Planascene Forest, where it had shrouded itself since the troubles of the Breach. Inquisition scouts had confirmed its location, and offered warning: more Inquisition were bound, to return a lost daughter.

The Clan had given no reply—except to say that they were waiting.

That sense of anticipation was felt throughout Planascene. Ancient trees shadowed the path, so that daylight could barely break through. Swaying leaves atop the canopy never quite settled into silence.

Giles felt watched. As if the Creators themselves now weighed her worth. What if they rejected her?

Such concern was halted, by the touch of a hand slipping into her own. Vichy.

“Chanter to E-4,” he whispered, with a smile.

Oh. Not a valid opening move. Unless…

“Are you referring to our game from the boat?” asked Giles.

They’d had to pass the time over the Waking Sea somehow, and they always did their best talking over a game of chess. Lucky for them, the skipper had a board.

“I am,” said Vichy. “I was about to win, and the fact of our journey’s end was quite convenient for you, I’d say.”

“Empress to E-4, capture,” Giles replied, quite in disagreement.

Vichy chuckled anyway. Giles did not truly think that he had restarted the game for his own glory. No, it made for a perfect distraction, and she was grateful for it.

It also served as a reminder. No matter what happened in the next few hours, she had him. They had each other. That was enough. That was more than enough.

Trees gave way to boulder-like stone, too purposefully-carved to be merely natural—likely some kind of ruins. The largest of its old columns towered over them, defiant in its continued existence. Loranil, treading carefully, raised his hands. To the stones, he called out, in Elven:

“Hold! We are friends!”

Movement, atop the ruins. A pair of elves, dressed in the leather of hunters, and carrying bows as tall as their bodies, made themselves known.

They asked something of Loranil, to which he gave a hasty answer. Though they seemed unsure, one withdrew, and disappeared beyond the ruins.

“I’ve asked for their Keeper,” Loranil explained to Giles. His eyes passed to the soldiers behind her. “Keep your weapons sheathed,” he warned.

The soldiers nodded, even stepping a pace back. The hunter who’d remained watched them, carefully.

It was some time—a half-hour at least—before the other finally returned, to their perch. Yet, more movement came with them. Out, from betwixt the ruins, emerged an elven man. He was of middle age, at least, with pale skin and paler hair. The robes he wore were unmistakably elaborate, the staff he bore thrumming with magic. The attire of a Keeper.

Though Giles did not understand it, he asked something of her. Loranil stepped in:

“Yes, this is the woman. Her mother was of your Clan.”

The Keeper switched to common tongue. “And what is your name?” he asked.

“Giles. Giles Samient,” she told him. “It was my mother’s wish that I would one day return to her Clan.”

“Have you any proof?”

Giles stammmered, “What?”

The Keeper gestured to his hunters. “I understand your hopes—but I must exercise caution. I cannot allow outsiders into the Clan without proof that you are, indeed, of Sumara.”

Giles hurried to unclasp the pendant from her neck. “This,” she said, holding the halla-horn out, “this was my mother’s.”

The Keeper, with a nod, permitted Loranil to retrieve the pendant from her—though he seemed as reluctant to take it as she was to let it go. Every step it retreated from her felt like another claw piercing her heart, threatening to tear it out.

But the pendant was safely delivered, and the Keeper regarded it with a curious eye.

“I was First to our previous Keeper, when we settled near Samient. Both your mother and father were friends of mine,” he revealed, meeting Giles’ gaze, “but I do not recognise this trinket.”

Panic struck her face—yet he went on:

“However, there is one who may. Excuse me for a moment.”

The Keeper withdrew into the ruins. The hunters remained, watching. The wait, this time, was even longer. Vichy and Loranil did their best to console Giles’ worry, but with every passing minute, it grew. It felt as though the longer they waited, the lesser her chances became—

Rustling, beyond the ruins. The crack of a twig, underfoot. Someone was coming.

The Keeper re-emerged, accompanied by another. An older woman. Her skin was tan, a little lighter than Samient’s—but her hair was the same shade of reddish-brown, greying at the scalp.

The pendant was in her hand, now, the chain dangling from her tightly-curled fingers. Her frail eyes darted between the gathered visitors—until they settled on Giles.

A string of Elven spilled from the woman’s mouth, as she stumbled forward. There was only one word Giles recognised.

“Terana.”

Giles’ breath caught. Her father had spoken her mother’s name only three times her whole life—each time more pained than the last. But this woman’s single utterance bore more pain than all his put together.

The woman came face-to-face with her, eyes searching Giles’. More words she didn’t understand. Giles called to Loranil:

“What did she say?”

Almost speechless, Loranil answered: “She asks if you are Terana. Her daughter.”

Her—? Giles shook her head. “What do you mean?”

Tears welled in the woman’s eyes, as she raised her hands to cradle Giles’ face.

“I think,” Loranil breathed, “this is your grandmother.”

The woman rubbed her thumbs over Giles’ pointed ears, and turned back to the Keeper. She said something; sobbed it, screamed it.

“Your companion is correct,” the Keeper said to Giles, a smile forming across his face. “This is Terana’s mother. And she says you are her granddaughter.”

Giles met her grandmother’s gaze. Words she had never expected. Her grandmother.

She saw, in her face, a reflection of her own. In every curve and feature, there was something of her that they shared. She was so beautiful. Even their tears fell the same.

“My granddaughter,” she whispered, “at last, Ghila’nain has guided you home.”

Her hands withdrew, and she threaded the necklace around Giles’ neck, sealing the clasp herself.

“I gave this to your mother, so that one day, she could come home. That is the last you have of her,” she said, wiping a tear from Giles’ cheek, “and you are the last I have of her.”

Crumbling, collapsing, Giles fell into her embrace. She hoped it was something like holding her mother would have been. She hoped her mother knew. She hoped she could feel it too.

But her grandmother noted Vichy beside them, and curiosity drew her to part. She asked of Giles:

“Who is this?”

“This is Vichy,” Giles explained, “we are betrothed.”

Her grandmother took his hands, and squeezed them. “You brought her home. Which Clan are you from?”

“None, I’m afraid,” answered Vichy. “An alienage. But my mother—she was born in a Clan.”

“Good. Good, strong boy.” She patted his hand. “Then you are home.”

“Ma serannas,” he said, before adding to Giles: “I think she likes me.”

Giles gave a little laugh. “Good.”

Her grandmother took her hand once more, and led her toward the Keeper. The hunters above relaxed their bows, standing to attention, rather than to guard.

“I present my granddaughter,” she said.

The Keeper nodded. “Andaran atish’an, Giles. Welcome to your Clan. In fact”—he looked to Vichy, and Loranil, and their little retinue—“let me extend my welcome to you all. You have returned to us a daughter of Sumara. We must celebrate.”

He extended an arm towards the gap in the ruins. The hunters drew back; Loranil and the soldiers took the invitation. Giles, one hand taken by her grandmother, threaded her other through Vichy’s.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Giles smiled. “Better. I am home.”