#so when she brings you to her mother and she’s just a visually fereldan white woman in fereldan peasant dress you’re like. Huh.

[vigilskeep]

one thing abt visibly chasind morrigan that’s super interesting is that it makes your ability to ask if flemeth is really her mother actually makes sense when it’s startling how fereldan flemeth looks and dresses when you’re brought there

[morganaseren]

OC Introduction

Tagged by: @illusivesoul Thanks! Sorry this took so long!

Tagging: @this-is-something-idk-what, @noeldressari, @alessandramortt, @theherowarden, @jellydishes​ As per usual, I can never figure out who has or hasn’t been tagged by this. No pressure if you don’t want to participate though! Below is the template you can use.

My answers will be under the Read More.

---

Fandom:

Role:

BASICS

Full Name:

Nickname(s):

Pronouns:

Sexuality:

Occupation and Titles:

Birthday & Age:

Physical description:

Clothing style:

BACKGROUND

COMBAT & SKILLS

Preferred fighting style:

Special skills:

RELATIONSHIPS

Family:

Love interest:

Best friends:

PERSONALITY

Positive traits:

Negative traits:

Likes:

Dislikes:

Fears:

Guilty Pleasure:

Hobbies:

Fandom: Dragon Age

Role: Inquisitor

BASICS

Full Name: Niamh (pronounced “Neev”) Cousland

Nickname(s): Neevy (from Sera), Brat (from Leliana lolol), Storm Pup (mostly from her late mother’s side of the family)

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Lesbian

Occupation and Titles: Niamh is the leader of the Inquisition forces and is also hailed as the Herald of Andraste. Although all her rights to the Cousland estate along with any titles associated with it were forfeited the moment her magic manifested, her ties to her family name are still recognized and vice versa--perhaps especially so now with her being Inquisitor. Thus, in accordance to an older tradition from her late mother’s family, she is also titled the Storm Wolf of Highever per her brother Teyrn Fergus Cousland.

Birthday & Age: Niamh was born on the 3rd of Cloudreach in 9:08 Dragon, so she’s 33 as of Inquisition and 36 as of the Trespasser DLC.

Physical description: She’s a woman of middling height (5′6″ or 168cm). Niamh’s hair is pitch-black, which settles asymmetrically around her face with a longer fringe covering one of her eyes--a pale, misty-grey hue. Physique-wise, she’s full of wiry muscle, especially along her arms, shoulders, and back--testament to years of heavy staffwork.

Clothing style: This is more dependent on what setting she finds herself in. Around Skyhold or in more official circumstances, she tends to garb herself in formal wear such as the one seen below.

When she’s out and about on missions, her attire consists more of cloth and leather as depicted in the screenshot above. As a native Fereldan, she has a tendency to favor fur in her overall field outfit, which is evident in the black Great Bear fur seen along the spaulders atop her shoulders. Then, as an occasional artist, her sketchbook is ever present, constantly hanging from her belt as she draws flora, fauna, and anything of interest in her travels to properly document later. Littered amongst the sketches are also occasional plans for whatever project she’d like to work on back at Skyhold.

Art and crafting is ever her way of relaxing.

Despite being an artist, her color palette in terms of clothing remains relatively simple even if the cut of them are always finely-tailored. She favors darker colors overall with white and varying shades of grey. Occasionally, a splash of color is thrown in every now and again for visual emphasis.

For instance, the red scarf you see on her is a gift from Bethany Hawke. ;3

BACKGROUND

Niamh is the youngest child of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland.

She was born beneath a violent storm that only settled as her newborn cries filled the world--a telltale sign perhaps of the destiny that would later be laid out before her.

She was taken away to Ferelden’s Circle when her magic manifested at the age of four. Niamh was the youngest to enter Kinloch Hold that year, and she was inconsolable for several months as she struggled to adapt to her new surroundings and the many strangers that were meant to be her new family of sorts.

Of all the mages present, she was closest to Jowan since he was only a year or two older than her, and the then young boy was responsible for drawing her out of her sullen shell--enough to where she could finally be comfortable with interacting with others after months of frightened silence. The two children did everything together and were otherwise inseparable. Unfortunately, their relationship would later become strained as they entered into adolescence, especially as Niamh grew into her magical abilities and surpassed him entirely in power, astounding the likes of First Enchanter Irving and Wynne--both whom became her respective mentors--with her command over the elements. 

Niamh was able to successfully undertake the Harrowing at the age of seventeen, earning the right to be recognized as a full-fledged mage. She was never designated an Enchanter throughout her time in the Circle, for she had no personal apprentices of her own. The few new ones to arrive at the Tower were assigned to those who had passed the Harrowing before her, but she was content to help them and the Senior Enchanters however she could. Her kindness, patience, and calm diligence earned her easy friendships.

...or at least she thought so until some of her colleagues turned on her with Uldred’s coup following the onset of the Blight.

Caught between blood mages and Templars who believed she had a hand in Uldred’s machinations, she likely would have succumbed to either party eventually had her sister Saoirse--now a Grey Warden--not arrived to help cleanse the Tower of abominations and save First Enchanter Irving and the remaining Senior Enchanters.

For her efforts in saving them, Niamh was allowed to accompany her sister on her travels across Ferelden along with Wynne. She formed a fast friendship with Leliana early on, and it eventually led to heavy infatuation on Niamh’s end, but it stuttered to an abrupt halt when she realized her sister was also in love with the bard. Believing that she had nothing of worth to offer to Leliana as a mere mage, Niamh buried her feelings for the other woman, watching from afar as she fell for Saoirse.

Saoirse was as bold as all great heroes could ever hope to be, and so she was well-suited for Leliana, but it was Niamh who tempered much of her sister’s impulsiveness, especially when it came to matters of diplomacy.

---

"Can't we just--"

"No." Niamh just kept her gaze forward as they walked out of the Deep Roads, refusing to look at her sister.

"But it's a good idea!" Saoirse insisted earnestly.

"Saoirse, in no world where you throw the crown at the two candidates for Orzammar's throne and expect the least most concussed to be King can ever be considered a 'good idea,'" Niamh deadpanned.

---

Yet, for all her brilliance with tactics and matters of negotiation, Niamh was unable to convince Saoirse to allow Morrigan to use her Dark Ritual despite knowing it would have saved any of the Grey Wardens from being sacrificed. Worse, her sister made her promise not to tell Leliana of Saoirse’s own plans to slay the Archdemon in the final battle.

As expected, it resulted in Saoirse’s death.

Racked with guilt over never telling Leliana the truth of the matter, and believing she had been left the last of the Couslands--a mage that Thedas would have never recognized--she disappeared following the end of the Fifth Blight. Niamh placed herself in a self-imposed exile abroad for over a decade until news of a Conclave by Divine Justinia was brought to her attention. The Divine had hoped to bring together both sides of the Mage-Templar War and negotiate its end.

For Niamh, this led her to return to Ferelden. It was her last hope to see if the world could finally begin to change for the better.

Instead, she was given a far different destiny...

COMBAT & SKILLS

Preferred fighting style: She prefers keeping herself at range on the battlefield, for it allows her to better survey it. She sees everything like an intricate chess game, and she always tries to place herself and her team at the best advantage to overcome their opponents.

As a mage, Niamh incorporates a lot of staffwork in her fighting, especially when it comes to casting magic. However, when she was living abroad, she had to learn to adjust her fighting style altogether so that she would never be suspected of being a mage. As such, she taught herself to fight with spears and polearms, as they were still similar enough to normal staff-fighting that it wouldn’t require a completely new foundation with which to work from.

Because the new style of fighting required her to be within relatively close quarters of her enemies, she learned to try and limit the time of the engagement with them as much as possible with quick, brutal strikes. That methodology happens regardless of how many opponents there are. A quick takedown means a much quicker escape after all. As a runaway apostate, she couldn’t risk leaving a trail of bodies behind her wherever she went.

Special skills: Niamh is specialized in all the elemental houses of magic although she favors lightning the most. During her time with the Inquisition, she also specialized in necromancy--much to the surprise of many.

RELATIONSHIPS

Family: Of the renowned Couslands, only she and her older brother Fergus remain, but despite their years apart(she honestly didn’t know that he survived the Battle of Ostagar until she returned to Ferelden in 9:41), they remain loving and supportive as always toward one another. Of her late mother’s family, the Mac Eanraigs, she gets along well with them, especially her Aunt Eithne (who will be making her first official appearance in chapter 24 of OtSttCA).

Love interest: Leliana (although they won’t be an official couple until close to chapter 30 or so)

Best friends: Dorian, Sera, and Cole. She views the three of them like younger siblings, which was an admittedly odd feeling for her at first, given that she’s the youngest of her own siblings.

Of her other companions, she is also closest to Vivienne although Niamh sees her more like a fond, maternal figure than a best friend. She greatly respects how the older woman was able to take her status as a mage and turn it into a position of power within the Orlesian Imperial Court, especially when so very little of it was ever afforded to their people. When it comes to the mage allies she gathered from Redcliffe, she trusts Vivienne’s judgment in overseeing them along with the Knight-Enchanters Niamh requested of her back in chapter 13, especially since Niamh travels so much between missions. Then, when it comes to just about anything regarding Orlais, she goes to Vivienne as much as Leliana or Josephine, mostly wanting the insight of a mage in regards to the culture and politics seen there.

Then, of her War Council, Leliana and Josephine are her absolute favorites. Niamh and Leliana have so much history between them that it’s impossible to separate themselves from one another, and she appreciates Josephine’s sweet nature as well as her diplomatic acumen.

PERSONALITY

Positive traits: Her adaptability. There’s an almost... chameleon-like nature to Niamh at times. As such, she can acclimate herself to whatever her environment asks of her and find a way to thrive in spite of it all. She’s also quite intelligent. Ever the eternal student, she constantly looks to expand her wealth of knowledge. Had she not been born a mage, she likely would have done well as a scholar in the world of Thedas. Niamh is also benevolent, always seeking to place more kindness into the world rather than contributing to the bad already within it.

Negative traits: After years of being taught rather toxic, religious doctrine from the Chantry in regards to mages, Niamh has rather low self-esteem, especially when it comes to the subject of love. She doesn’t believe herself worthy of Leliana for instance. As brilliant as she is, her mind can be rather restless at times. This can lead to overthinking outside of any tactical or official setting, which tends to feed back on her latent anxiety as a leader. Then, having spent a decade constantly on the move, she’s not used to staying still for long periods of time, which lends itself to some trouble, especially if she’s injured. She is quite literally the worst patient ever. :P

Likes: Storms, the ocean, mabari, tea, strategy games, sweets, books, art

Dislikes: The Chantry, Templars, discriminatory behavior, incivility,

Fears: The Rite of Tranquility, outright failure as a leader

Guilty Pleasure: Niamh has the most terrible sweet tooth. If given half the chance, she’d get her entire day’s sustenance through sweets alone. She actually does like fashion; she just couldn’t allow herself to indulge in it since her nomadic lifestyle before joining the Inquisition didn’t permit such luxury. She’d happily window-shop the entire day away if given the opportunity.

Hobbies: Sketching, painting, crafting, reading, chess

[veridium]

To read the previous episode, click here.

Josephine Montilyet isn’t easily caught of balance, but with the morning of her lover’s departure to the front lines encroaching hour by hour, she is left to her own devices and thoughts. Stressed sleep ends in a dream that fast becomes a nightmare, which then turns into an omen. Lady Montilyet can play the Game as well as anyone, but what happens when the rules distort themselves beyond recognition?

The night was agony, and as soon as the festivities had concluded, Josephine felt free to finally worry about the pressing issues on her mind, rid of having to put up a façade to those around her that she was the same engaging and lively diplomatic mind she was. She had watched the Inquisitor all evening at dinner, though she couldn’t tell for certain whether she was surveilling her in return. The two men on either side of her seat seemed bent on distracting and charming her, and their mediocre attempts to do so were obnoxious at best.

So, when the Inquisitor retired early, and left the Hall for good, Josephine’s heart sank through her chest again. No word, no nod, no anything. It was the antithesis of how they had been for weeks, and being rebuffed so harshly with so little time left between now and her departure instilled a sense of panic within her.

After the revelry had been spent and she, herself retired to her own chambers, she realized just how alien it felt to be in her own room after what had transpired. The bed had been made for weeks, untouched and unneeded. At best, she would come here to nap on the couch or be dressed/bathed in the morning. Even her personal correspondences took place in her office.

The room was cold, not in the normal way. It felt like a hole in the wall, lonely, impractical. Nothing of her was here, save for letters and a few small gifts she had tucked away in her trunk. There were no imprinted memories, no lingering aromas or sensations of her. She was traceless.

Josephine sat at the side of her bed, poised and collected in posture. She was finally alone and still, having to reckon with just how much Theia had swept up her life and senses beyond repair. She had flown to her side at the revelation of her injury, doted on her, oversaw her care, without being asked to do so once. It was a responsibility she gripped on for dear life in the face of so much unknown.

Her trance of emotions was broken by the sound of her door opening. It was her maid, Berenice, who obviously did not expect to see her Mistress in her room so late in the night. She flinched at the sight of Josephine on her bed. “My Lady!” she quickly curtsied in recompense, “I did not…expect…” her words escaped her mouth before she could think, maybe, it wasn’t wise to say your Mistress was expected to be sleeping in the bed of another.

Josephine sighed silently and nodded dismissively. “Yes, Berenice, I know. You thought I wouldn’t be here.” She slid off her bed and went to her clothes trunk. Untying and unwinding the clothes from her body herself, before Berenice could do it for her, she tossed them onto the nearest chair and reached for the trunk lid, opening it with frustration.

Berenice quickly tried to play catch up, reaching for the side of her trunk where all of her night clothes were neatly folded and organized by color and fabric. Josephine stood upright and did not wait for ceremony, taking off more layers as urgently as she could before she was only in her neatly-tailored smallclothes. It felt as if it were a whirlwind, getting her into her night dress, a simple grey number with light embellishments down the side of her waist, and the classic puffy sleeve style of her attire. Once she was all fitted and adjusted, she turned now to her smaller and more ornamental desk, eyeing the bottle of ink and quill, and nearby parchment. She contemplated impulsively that she could just send one final note, or sneak one letter into her supplies trunk for her to read when she was out there. Perhaps she could preserve her pride and say what was on her mind.

Josephine stopped herself, though, when she remembered just how unpredictable Theia was with writing and correspondence of personal nature. The lack of response would make her nervous, even if Theia did not mean it hurtfully. This time, she might intend to leave her hanging, and that was worse.

--

Hours passed without sleep coming to provide escape. She laid in her bed, only one sheet drawn of three, eyeing the ceiling like she wanted it to talk to her. Tell her stories, comfort her nerves, play with her hair, pull at the fabric of her night dress in temptation. Slip a hand underneath it and grip onto her side as it slept beside her. There was nothing, no hot breath, no cooing sounds of dreaming, or distressed rumbling to comfort.

Oh, she had made a mess of her, that foolish woman.

How could she expect her to level herself down to the stature of a Mistress? Of a courtesan? Even if she was uneducated in the consequences, she should have conceded once it was explained to her. How could she insist on something that Josephine could not afford to do in good conscience? She could see the letters from her Mother now: “What are you gambling with, taking the bed of the Inquisitor? Is there something you’re after, or have you been blinded by infatuation?”

Perhaps it was both. Perhaps neither.

She should have reminded herself, back when she was tending to her in her sick bed, that playing with something so powerful would burn her. If only she could have remained intent on reality as she watched her sleep, her paleness ill and not porcelain, her hair tangled and tousled from being pressed to a pillow. She had to have known what she was doing, that Theia. Laying there, being so beautiful, even when she had endured injury and surgery.

But no, this was Josephine’s fault. She should have kept on her feet, not given into fancy or fairytale tropes of ardor. If she had just resisted the urges, looked away every time the light of the Council room window cast on her face and cheekbones in that picturesque way, kept talking when her purple, iridescent eyes had looked into hers. Beguiling her every sense and nerve. The gaul of her.

Such women only bring trouble.

--

Sleep finally came to visit, but it was a restless guest. A half hour slipped away, but it was yanked out from under her by the sensation of fingers in her undone hair. A sharp inhale as her eyes opened wide, perhaps she had come to see her. Looking over her shoulder into the nothingness, the truth bore itself open to her. No one had come. No one was there. Just the unraveling hours of night, leaving her without mercy, just like she had done.

--

Another hour lost to light, easily-broken sleep. Feet scuffed along the floor outside her door. She sat up again, waiting for the shadow to come to her door and stop. But, it went by with rigor. Perhaps the guard, or a servant sneaking off to bed.

Back on the pillow she went, resting on her side, curling her legs up. As more time passed with no disturbance, she gripped onto her pillow even tighter. It was soft, almost like her, less bony and shapely, but…if she could close her eyes and pretend, it was almost like the real thing.

Almost.

--

Sleep stayed for the remainder of the night, though it was the kind that felt like your body merely turned off for hours and your mind kept going.

A dream, just one. But once was enough.

The colors were warm golds, browns, and reds. A Hall, a beautiful, lavish surrounded her. It was robust like those in Fereldan, but the sun and the warmth felt familiar, like home. She was wearing dress like the ones she used to wear in Antiva, with a purple colored layer underneath of durable fabric, and then a silken sash wrapped around her waist. Her sheer sleeves bunched together at various points down her arms. A barren neckline exposed to the sun-kissing air.

She was walking towards the center of the room, where there was a glorious porcelain-stoned fountain. It gushed spirals of water; architecture was reminiscent of the grand fountains in Val Royeaux. She grew more curious as to the true location of this place, now seeming to be a fluid space of all Thedas’s visual influences on her life.

Then, as she turned to look back, there she was. She was beautiful, glowing, almost unhuman in measure. Her dress was white and shining in the skylight. It made her complexion almost look warm, tan in a way. Her abundant hair, sleek and straight as it had grown down to the bottom of her waist. A generous portion of it was resting down her right shoulder. She wondered why it felt familiar to her, this image of an other-worldly and benevolent blonde woman. Then it hit her.

She was reminiscent of Andraste. The Herald of the Maker’s woman, built in her image.

Her eyes were closed, soft and devout. Her face was unstressed. A strand of beads strung in and out of the top of her hair. Jewels hung from her ears, rings on her hands that were coupled together in front of her waist, elbows bent as if she were readying for prayer.

“Theia?” Josephine called out, as if the room became vast and cavernous. Her voice echoed.

That made Theia’s eyes open for the first time, and then went straight to hers, knowingly. They were her signature purple irises, confirming to Josephine that it was really her. When her gazed locked on Josephine, a benevolent grin appeared on her lips.

“Josephine.”

Walking towards her, Josephine wanted answers. Why was she dressed like this? Where were they? What had happened to put them there? For some reason, she believed Theia would have all these answers and more, as if she was at fault.

Theia did not move as she watched Josephine approach her, only her eyes followed her. When she finally came to stand a foot away from her, she could see more details in her complexion and built that felt…off. Her face was glowing as if she were made of stone, not flesh and blood. There was no blush in her cheeks, no wrinkles around her eyes or forehead. No scar. No stress lines.

It was like she was a talking, breathing idol.

“Theia, what has happened?” Josephine pressed.

Theia’s face remained frozen for a moment, before she finally blessed her with a response.

“What do you mean, Josephine? I am here, as I always have been. Why do you fret so?” this was not the tone Theia had always shown. There was no kind humor, no musing, no empathy. It was the voice of someone who did not see much reason for toil or questioning.

“Where are we?” Josephine countered, eyes narrowing as she clamored for some form of information, some form of clarity.

“We are in the heart of the Inquisition.”

“Skyhold?” Josephine felt like she was being duped. There was no way in hell this was anywhere near Skyhold or its mountains.

“No, deeper. The heart,” Theia repeated, her voice expressionless.

Of course it would be something cryptic and artistic. Put a few feathers and gaudy decorations and she could swear she was in her sister, Yvette’s imagination.

“Fine, I…suppose. Then, why are we here?” her voice was short.

Theia did not respond immediately. Instead, she graced Josephine with a soft smile, though it did not match her eyes in expected exuberance.

“My dear Josephine, we are always here. Whether we are physically, or spiritually.”

Josephine’s chin tilted.

“If this is some form of religious vision, I am surprised you, someone who does not pray or worship Andraste, would be used as its muse.” She could imagine how much the undisturbed and unpossessed Theia would feel about being used as a body double for some pious dimension of reality.

Better that then the Fade demons, perhaps.

Josephine’s impatience was starting to grow. She wanted either out of this place, wherever it was, or she wanted a full explanation, and she was getting neither. She tried to turn away, to go back to evaluating the location for exits or open doors. Her wrist was caught by Theia’s outstretched hand, though she did not sense it move from Theia’s side at all. It was just…there, enclosed on her skin, adamant but gentle.

“Josephine, what you seek is not anywhere else but here in front of you.” Theia’s eyes softened, as if she was sympathetic to Lady Montilyet’s temper, though concluded it to be useless.

“Oh, so you are the door that I am looking for?”

“In a way,” Theia responded.

“Well, that’s…typical,” she let a faint growl vibrate from her throat. “And how is it that I utilize your door?”

Please don’t say it I have to kill you first, for Maker’s sake.

“Kiss me, Josephine.”

Oh, great, even worse.

“Absolutely not. How do I know this won’t make it worse? I do not even know if you are truly who I think you are.”

“You would wonder that anyway even if I had convinced you of my true self. If you kiss me, I can show you who you are truly fighting.”

“Is…is it a demon?”

“Josephine.”

Josephine sighed heavily, rubbing the back of her head and eyeing her surroundings absentmindedly. She had no idea this kind of supernatural phenomena would come into her own life, she only heard stories from the allies when they would return from adventures. Although, she couldn’t be sure if this was “the real thing,” or just the result of too much wine at dinner. Either way, she knew something was afoot.

“Fine, I’ll oblige. But if you turn into something that desires to murder me, I will be sufficiently furious,” she warned, eyeing the woman.

“Josephine, I am only here to show you what you risk, what you fear, and what you must let go of. What those things are, only you can know for sure. Kiss me, please.” Theia’s voice was monotone, but it asked much.

Josephine took a breath, riling up the courage to do something that every nerve in her body told her was a foolish idea.

Cautiously, she leaned in, one hand going to her Theia’s cheek with care. At the touch of her fingers to her skin, she felt the warmth of her body, the most familiar thing about this vision of her. It was a short-lived solace as her lips made contact with hers, their soft, almost-clay-like feel remaining still as she kissed her.

Nothing happened…at first. A couple seconds went by with an awkward, hushed air. Then, she felt what could only be compare to the feel of fog blow into her face coolly. Even though she had closed her eyes for the kiss, at that sensation Josephine immediately opened them. A voice inside her told her not to move her lips.

From what she could see, it looked as if Theia was…eroding. Like a sculpture of sand that had dried on the shore in the sun, a gust of wind had fallen into the surrounding air. Theia’s hair began to wisp and flow in the air along with the inertia, though her body remained still. The length and voluminous locks of platinum blonde waved and flowed around them in an almost protective way.

Then, it started to shrink. The long lengths growing backwards towards her head. Josephine’s eyes stared back at her face. Now, she could see pores, scars that had faded with time but were still there if you desired to search for them. Then, her trademark scar that went down her left eye. The jewels on her ears dissolved and disappeared as well, leaving her ears bare. The crystals in her hair remained, though.

Josephine was now trying to track the changes, reaching a hand to touch the gown she thought she was still wearing. The plush fabric she was expecting was now a light, almost muslin-feel, but still almost white in color. The modest sleeves and neckline dissipated into straps over her shoulders and nothing more, a layer of sheer fabric enveloping the first layer of opaqueness. No more rings and necklaces, only a gold arm cuff on her left upper arm, the arm that was supposed to have the anchor. The arm cuff was Antivan in design, and she could tell from just the shape of it.

Her observations were curtailed briskly by the feeling of Theia kissing her back, with love and feverish adoration. Theia’s hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her in as if she had been walking to her and had finally met her body with her own.

Josephine closed her eyes again, feeling in more familiar territory than she had been the entire time. Though, even in the closeness of Theia’s embrace, she felt there was still something different about her. Different about them. There was a contentedness reverberating from Theia’s body that Josephine intuitively felt.

As quickly as she had zeroed in on her, Theia pulled away. Her eyes were bright and the smile she wore was matching the joy in them. It was as if the soul in her had returned, had taken back what it rightfully owned.

“My love,” Theia hummed reverently. Her hair was shoulder-length now, the shortest Josephine had ever seen it. It was simpler, but still stunning.

“Theia? What happened?” Josephine asked, eyeing her up and down, trying to get ahold of just what was going on, and why her lover had suddenly turned into some shapeshifting creature who shapeshifted into…different versions of herself? Oh, Maker.

“You are pleading ignorance with me, woman. You were supposed to take me down to the docks to show me the lights an hour ago. You work too hard! Come on, let’s go, I’ve been delaying dinner for hours now and I’m starving!”

Theia took hold of her hand, and began to pull her along. Her voice was melodic, hybridized with a laugh.

“The docks? We are in Antiva now? What happened to the heart of the Inquisition?”

“The Inquisition? Josephine, the Inquisition has been disbanded for a while now. Did you fall asleep and have an odd dream or something?” Theia called back to her, still guiding her woman down the Hall of mixed visions.

“Disbanded? Wait, wait just one! Moment!” She broke free from Theia’s exuberant hand, and stopped dead in her tracks. Theia turned around and also halted, gazing back at her with confusion.

“We were at Skyhold! The Inquisition was still very much in existence! Your hair was at your waist! And we were nowhere near the Antivan ports! What is happening and why am I here?” Josephine was damn near meltdown mode.

Theia listened to her attentively, as though she suddenly understood why Josephine was so upset. The confusion gave way to compassion.

“Sweet Josephine,” Theia answered, “once you see me for who I am, in addition to what I must do in this life, then you will know. Remember who we each are, and who we must be. They are not always the same, but both have needs and desires, and that is nothing to be ashamed of. It will become clear with time.” Theia’s voice began to echo ever-so-lightly, as if the void around them were expanding further into itself.

Solemnly, Theia extended out her left hand, her anchor hand, towards her. As if she was asking her to join and keep going. Just as Josephine was about to touch it, though, Theia’s hand began to crumble like clumps of half-dried mortar to the floor. The breaking climbed all the way up her forearm and up into her shoulder, before the Hall began to darken. In an instant, it felt like all the light that had consumed the space had vanished.

She reached out farther and with a bit of franticness. “Theia!” she called out, but it was all coming down on them. Then, Theia was gone, fully engulfed in the expanding void. The ground gave out under her feet, and she instantly felt the dreaded sensation of falling.

Her eyes broke open wide, and she lurched up in her bed immediately at the sight of her room. Gasping for air, the strands of her hair stuck to her forehead, bound in sweat. She was in her room, she was at Skyhold, she was alone. The night was still in the sky. None of it was real.

For a split moment in time, though, she had almost been convinced that it was real, and that the toil and of Skyhold had been a long and faraway dream.

--

She did not bother with sleep after that ordeal. Expectantly, she sat on her loveseat, hugging her knees as she watched the light turn from night to early morning twilight. Surely, Theia and the rest of the contingent had awoken, and were preparing to depart. A part of her wanted to run out and catch her before she was gone. Another wished to lock the door, and wait for her to pass over like a troublesome storm.

The conflict kept her frozen on that loveseat. The dim fire embers in her fireplace were the only thing keeping her company.

So, maybe she thought she would come to her. Maybe she hoped for it. Perhaps she desired for her to burst through that door, be apologetic…not even that, just there. They could argue some more, become furious, and then have it out in bed like all those haughty romance novels Seeker Cassandra read. What a first time that would be, engrossed in their mutual aggravation for one another. It would be a story to tell one day, one of many from this era of their lives.

The dream’s imagery haunted her peripheral imagination. The sight of her face, perfect like an immortal being, and then watching it give way to who she had always known Theia to be. The duality of her nature, as a Herald of Andraste, and as a woman who was the helm of an Earth-shaking force for peace. She didn’t know which side of the coin to be more intimidated by.

Did she at least manage to do one thing right in this whole mess? If so, what was it? Because that would be the key to knowing where to go from there. Her lover was leaving in the cloak of night, armored and ready-minded for perils of and spoils of war. Undoubtedly she would bleed more for this cause before it was all over.

Berenice made her morning entrance quietly and less curious now; she knew when to leave well-enough alone. Dutifully, Josephine rose from her place on her loveseat, and went to the panel screen in the corner of her room. She would dress, she would tie and gather herself into being the same person she had always been. Maybe then the day would bring solace.

--

She made her way through the Great Hall to the door that held her office behind it, just as the last traces of horse footfalls and neighing rang from the Courtyard. She knew that Theia herself was long gone, always at the front. Now she was safe to move about.

As she walked though, her friend Leliana was returning from watching the departure. Her pace quickened as she tried to catch up with Josephine’s figure.

“Josie! I did not see you out there, did you miss the departure?” Leliana called out, finally coming close enough to carry on a more discrete conversation.

Josephine looked back, rubbing one of her eyes with fatigue. “No, I slept in later than I wanted to.”

“You mean, you did not spend the night with the Inquisitor?” Leliana’s question was bold, but no one else was around that would be troublesome if they overheard. Too early for drunken nobles and too late for the pub crowd.

“No. I did not see her at all.”

“Oh.” Clearly, Leliana’s advice went unfollowed. Even though she felt sorry that Theia did not take the chance she felt she should have, she had to at least relinquish herself to the fact that the Inquisitor was deeply conflicted and had more to weigh in her life than one night of tumult.

Still, the defensiveness for her friend rumbled with emotion.

“Josie, if you need anything, you have only to ask,” Leliana said comfortingly. It was very kind, but not potent enough to cure the situation of its sadness.

“Thank you, Leliana, I appreciate the sentiment. I must go to my office now and open the first round of letters. An early start is just what I need to…refocus,” she exhaled as she finished her sentence. There was a nod from both women as they departed each other’s company for their respective duties.

Walking into her dim office space, she looked first at the two chairs surrounding the fire place. She eyed the chair that Theia favored every time she came to visit and tried her best not to linger on it, though the ache in her chest did not play by any rules. The quicker to her desk, her sacrosanct area in this hold, the better.

Making her way around its perimeter, she glossed over the stacks of dispatched reports and letters, some in well-made parchment with formal filigree, others roughly-handled like they had survived the elements. They were all vital to her job, to her purpose, and her efficacy.

All she expected, except for a strange and small square of paper folded and sealed with red wax.

Her brow furrowed as she picked it up, the note small enough to hold secure between her thumb and index finger. The seal was hastily done, only half-legible. But, the slightness of the Inquisition’s eye symbol was salvageable. Her heart sank. Only a few people sent her letters with this seal, and she knew Leliana would not have a reason to.

Theia.

At first, she wanted to toss it in the fireplace and let it suffer a flammable fate. What could she possibly have to say in this piece of scrap paper that she couldn’t say to her face last night? Was it really too much to ask that she own up to the situation and regard her with some dignity and integrity?

The fuming questions silenced themselves immediately when she impulsively ripped it open, and eyed the two, short lines of words—

“My equal, my advisor, my friend, my confidant –

                          I am sorry.

                                                         T”

Oh, no.

Her chest concaved like a ruin of stones, her shoulders hunching over as her face erupted in tears. She gasped at first, quietly, but it was there. Even though her face said she was trying everything to keep it together, the tears fell unabashedly and vigorously from her reddening eyes.

She turned to her bookshelf, approached it with a need for mercy. She leaned up against it head on, eyes closing and creasing as she desperately wished for a way to keep herself together. How dare she? How dare she, for once in her cursed life, say so little? Theia was a chatterbox, she loved metaphors, sarcastic quips, illustrious stories. She was a textbook bullshitter. Why now, with all the seriousness and heartbreaking diction? There were all these questions, but Josephine already knew the answer: because she really meant it.

She pivoted on her hip so as to lean on the bookshelf with her side, a hand holding up the letter to her gaze as she went over the words again and again. What she wouldn’t have given to just have her stand in front of her and say them to her face.

So help me, Maker. So help me, Inquisition. If this is the last thing I will ever have of her…

She remembered the part of her dream where the being who took the face of the woman she loved warned her:

What you risk,

what you fear,

and what you must let go of.

What restless nights these will be.