❝ of course , my lady , ❞ slender shoulders seem to tighten into something attentive and bird - like almost instantly , though the smile on her lips remains ( albeit tentatively , but sister nightingale had been clear about the importance of appearances in her briefing ) . the last thing she wished was for the inquisitor to think she was taking this lightly ! doe eyes move back to the boy leaned unhappily against the wall , who blushes and looks away .
❝ no , i’m afraid not , ❞ isabeau confesses – sounding a bit annoyed at him , really . she leans forward and positions the fan ( a pretty thing of silk and lace to match her dress ) to cover her lips to outsiders , to look enticing to them too . what could this girl be saying to the inquisitor?
❝ he’s a bit simple . talked for some time about horses . not quite an assassin . ❞
a small laugh , before she fixes her eyes upon mislyn again , an edge of worry to it .
❝ you’re not going to let the empress d i e , then ? i overheard – that is , i wasn’t eavesdropping really , but – ❞ she flushes , rearranges the words and spits them out with precision . ❝ i just know it was . . . discussed . ❞
❛ i don't mind if you were eavesdropping , you know . in the job description , isn't it ? ❜ they are certainly an odd dichotomy , the two of them . beau is playing the game , & doing it so well that mislyn doubts anyone realizes it — she looks deceptively delicate in the soft details of her lovely dress . but lady lavellan is all stiff limbs , wringing her hands over & over ; not because she is worried , or nervous , but to keep them busy ( she nearly electrocuted a marquis on instinct when the man had placed a rather unwanted hand on her shoulder ) .
❛ but yes , it was . ❜ she says simply . it’s not that she doesn’t trust beau , but mislyn is uneasy . too many ears , too many eager eyes . discretion has never been her strong suit . ❛ i’m not … overlyinvested in her well being , isabeau . you understand . ❜ a very kind way of putting it . if she had it her way , she’d see this palace burn down with the empress still inside of it . melt down all of this cruel gold splendor , turn the rest to ashes . but this , of course , wouldn't do anything to help with corypheus . she'll settle for just celene , she supposes .
❛ if you’ve an opinion on the matter , though , i’m all ears . ❜
skyhold , when they first found it , had been a half crumbled ruin . snow & cobwebs & cold stone . now , it is bustling with life : soldiers drilling in the courtyard , a steadily growing garden , & more mages than she can count , free & safe ( there are more elves now too. very few are dalish, but it hardly matters ) . it's good , but it makes tracking down her companions a bit trickier . blanche doesn’t stick out much more than anyone else. or rather , she shouldn’t . in the bright hues of the fire light , the slate grey of the main hall is washed in soft yellows & oranges , the last bit of sunlight barely peaking through the windows high above them . in comparison , blanche is a stark , bold , monochrome contrast , & mislyn spots her easily enough through the rapidly thinning dinner crowd .
when she makes her way forward , there are a few lingering glances . it doesn’t bother her so much anymore , but she doesn’t smile when she meets their gaze ; it isn’t out of coldness or disinterest ( she memorizes each one of their faces & remembers haven ) , it’s simply not in her nature . most don't seem to mind , or they’ve simply come to expect as much .
❛ we’re going to crestwood . ❜ she says without preamble , leans her left side against the hard stone wall . ❛ i was wondering if you care to join us . i know it’s last minute , but scout harding sent a , ah , worrying report . ❜
it was beautiful in the emerald graves . all vibrant shades , & an endless sea of pure verdant life . there were trees she could scarcely see the top of as if they were taller than the highest tower at skyhold , as if they were stretching all the way up to the sun they shaded the rest of them from . in between the cruel sounds of human war , she could hear birds, the far off rush of a waterfall .
that was all outside , of course .
inside the chateau d’onterre , it is cold & dim & silent except for their breathing , their shoes against the smooth stone floor . it’s almost lifeless ; but she has the horrid sensation that they’re being watched nonetheless , a chill making it’s way up the length of her spine . she can feel an unsteady thrum of magic hanging heavy in the air around them , like a thick invisible fog .
there is a body at their feet , repulsive , half rotted , but it had been full of enough residual life to attack them , shuffling towards them in it’s awful way . but it’s dead now . or dead still , she supposes . between that , & cole’s dreadfully ominous itknowswe’rehere , mislyn wishes she would learn to leave well enough alone .
‘ oh , I see how it is ! bringing everyone who’s likeliest to make fun of me if I trip !’ there’s something about feigning offense that he can never get enough of , and it’s how it seems to lift the grimness of the MOODS others bear —- because tristan ( quiet and subdued tristan) , making a FUSS out of simple things ? unheard of , if strange and purposefully uncharacteristic . ( her smiles linger more now , though , like ghosts strangely nostalgic of their haunting . it’s not necessarily a bad thing . )‘ I suppose I’ll just have to convince varric to write in that dramatic collapse in the wastes , then . ’
❛ i asked sera to come before i asked you , to be fair . & she doesn’t do much better with snow , if it helps . ah . perhaps i should reconsider my choice of companions . ❜ he's pushing & she’s pulling & it’s harmless ; a fun little game with an inevitable end . although it seems farther away , like it is just out of reach . she scowls , then . ❛ i did not collapse — i was sitting down . taking a breather , that’s all . we fought a giant , tristan . & besides , varric’s not writing anything . ❜ there is a very matterof fact tone to her voice . she gives a disinterested sniff for good measure.
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𝗠𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗘𝗩𝗔𝗟. tired eyes. coffee stains on the table. listening to the bustle of the city. unmade beds. ponytails. sunlight seeping through the curtains. chapped lips. walking barefoot across the floorboards. dusty dictionaries. black and white reruns. huge sweaters. the ticking of the clock. hearing birds in the morning. fireplaces. falling asleep during class.
𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗔𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘. freckles. the sun rising. watching the sea. taking shots of the city. historical museums. bright eyes.looking up at the clouds. walls covered in artworks.drawing in the middle of lessons. tracing your fingers on the sand. painting for hours. staying in uncrowded coffee-shops. worn paperbacks. messy braids. going to bed with your kneesocks on.
𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗢𝗤𝗨𝗘. dark hair. a little sophisticated. always observing the world around you. intricate designs. high ceilings. extravagant musical pieces. dim lights. colourless photographs. fancy furniture. pale skin. hearing soft footfalls coming from outside the room. mischievous looks. bitten nails. candlelight dinners. dark shades of lipstick.
𝗖𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟. chandeliers. the clinking of a teacup mug. laced clothing. modern architecture. light hair. watching the view from the terrace. hidden birthmarks. drinking tea in the morning. wandering about in an empty building. botanical gardens. old films. ancient marble sculptures. expensive perfume. breakfasts in bed. reading stories about mythology.
𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗖. compassion. short writings on scraps of paper. blushed cheeks. a bouquet of roses. reading collections of poetry late at night. loose hair. carpeted floors. attending operas. faint music playing in the background. staying under the covers until midday. the night sky. streetlights. picking flowers. dancing around in silk dresses. scented candles.
somewhere in the back of her head , she can hear the disapproving tsk of her keeper . sloppy , deshanna would say , reckless , too .& she would be right , if the gash on mislyn’s side is anything to go by . just below the end of her rib cage , & there is a steady trickle of blood , but she’s sure the blade didn’t cut deep enough to hit anything vital .
bull is smearing a poultice over her split open flesh . the swipe of his fingers is quick & careful & thorough . it stings in a way that has her inhaling sharply through her teeth , but she remains still & unflinching . he moves with well practiced deliberation , like he’s done this a hundred times before . it occurs to her that he probably has . she hasn’t asked him about seheron before , not really . she is of the mind that it does the body no good to remember war stories , to recall phantom pains like they are still happening . as for the soul — well . mislyn has not thought very long about the soul . maybe she should . but not right now .
in this light , at this angle , she can see the faint shine of silver woven in to the patch on his face where an eye should be , but isn’t . all there is the rough & uneven & scarred surface of his skin . she hums quietly & turns her gaze down to her side , considering it . the flesh there is raised up & a faint shade of red still , but no longer bleeding . she wonders briefly if it will scar too , thinks that it might , & then thinks she does not care very much either way .
❛ no . it’s fine now . ❜ there is a lingering sensation of hurt , like her mind has not quite caught up with the rapid pace of her body’s healing , but she knows it will fade . ❛ i’m . ah . thank you . ❜
❛ do you think so ? ❜ there is a genuine curiosity in her voice, but just beneath it , if he was listening closely enough , there is also an air of lingering doubt . she isn’t so sure one needed anything at all to endure , except the will . wasn’t that the very nature of endurance ? to carry on , to drag your feet forward for no reason other than you must , because there isn’t any other choice ( except stopping, except dying ) .
mislyn is , if nothing else , a study in relentlessness . it’s tiring , to wear that determination like it’s as much a part of her as her skin or her blood or the anchor sunken into the palm of her hand , but she carries it with her nonetheless . the drive behind it has never occurred to her , but faced with it now , she does not think it is hope . it is anger & severity & perhaps even justice underneath the sharp edges of vengeance .
she thinks of the false calling , settling cruelly in rodric’s head , trying to sing him away . she wonders if hope is what carried him forward when the blight spread like spilled black ink all those years ago , if it’s what’s keeping him here now . ❛ & what do you do when it runs out ? ❜
