Pride, Wolf and Rebellion

Grace

When Fen'Asha returned to Skyhold, she prayed without ceasing.

But Solas did not return from his hiding place. His rotunda sat as ever and it burned her. She felt hollow without him, felt like she'd sleepwalked through the Deep Roads and the celebrations and every moment of her existence since the fall of Corypheus and the loss of that blasted orb.

She tried to think of the orb, sat in her room and tried to concentrate on the pieces. Tried to make herself angry, tried to make herself feel a sense of hope. The world was safe, wasn't it? She'd won, hadn't she?

Fen'Asha had Josephine arrange to transport Solas' belongings to her room. It was for safe-keeping, she told herself. In case he returned. In case someone took his paint supplies or rifled through his notes in the rotunda.

She touched his elfroot soap, remembering the scent and remembering his embrace.

She placed the bar near the golden Fen'Harel and prayed, ensuring to return to his shrine each and every night. She slept with the Solas' sleep aid beneath her pillow, willing her dreams to peace with the unmistakable aroma.

And slowly, she ventured back out of her quarters.

One day, she gathered with her friends for another game of Wicked Grace in the tavern. The drink was flowing, the cards were flying across the table and money was exchanged at a leisurely rate.

"Divine Cassandra," Varric was saying as he put more money into the pot. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

"Having Cassandra on the throne will go a long way to reconciling things," suggested Blackwall.

"If by reconciling, you mean punching shit she doesn't like," said Varric. "Then sure."

"Divine Victoria," mused Dorian as he added his own money to the centre of the table. "Puncher of Heretics."

Sera chuckled and took a swig from her enormous flagon of ale. "Wearer of Huge Hats."

"I can hear you," said Cassandra from the far end of the table.

"Sorry, your worship," said Varric.

"Please," said Cassandra, waving her hand dismissively. "I could use a little action."

"Oh?" said Dorian, raising an eyebrow.

"That's not what I mean," scowled Cassandra. "But Inquisitor, if you should require my sword or my fist, do not hesitate to ask."

Fen'Asha nodded and drank. "Something the matter?"

"The clerics drown me in arrangements for my coronation," said Cassandra. "I must meet with everyone to hear their concerns, which are unending and unimportant. Every complaint is now mine to resolve. And I have to decide the menu. The menu. Can you imagine?"

"Go with soup," said Sera. "Always soup."

Cassandra dealt the cards and exhaled.

"That's going in the book," said Varric. "I think..."

"You think?" asked Sera. "You better be getting this down."

"I don't think anybody would believe it," said Varric. "Plus, work shit."

"Shit," said Sera. "Call it 'This Shit is Weird." Because it is. Just write it. Stuff work."

"You make it sound so simple," said Varric as he looked at his cards.

"It's not?" asked Sera. "You put your pen to the little page thing, you start scribbling, words come out. Writing is easy."

Varric coughed.