FACE THE TIGER.

The next bottle of wine she brings him personally.

The next bottle of wine she stowed away in her saddlebag before leaving Skyhold on the Inquisitor’s orders and under the Maker’s ever-guiding hand, and it is in cold and clammy Amarinthine. Cresting the horizon behind her are the outskirts of the city; to her north and thus right of her lies the Waking Sea, rumbling and moaning its usual agitated song. The air is pregnant with the clean, salty tang of the sea. It has rained earlier. She cannot remember ever being here when it does not rain, Cassandra thinks grimly; but it is a fond grimness, a visceral gladness at the cold and discomfort seeping into her bones: This is good country. This is a hard country, and underneath it all, it is holy country. 

The next bottle of wine is still in her saddlebag, and Cassandra makes no move to retrieve it. There will be time for that. The party she rode out with from Skyhold is busy setting up camp all around her; not so the Seeker. She weaves her way through people and horses and half-made tents, her eyes on Fenris’ back as he stands bent over a makeshift table with one of Leliana’s agents by his side.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.” 

Behind her, the spires of the City of Amaranthine rise like silent wardens against the tide of the sea. Against the tide of the disbelievers. It is here, after all, where the song begun, one could say. The thought brings a small, pleased smile to Cassandra’s face. “In their blood the Maker’s will is written.” She steps up to Fenris and holds out her forearm for him to grip. 

    it has been a long month; amaranthine for all its fereldan grit and nerve is still fereldan, and the weather made no move to deny it. long days of the harsh wind beating their backs and sea spray spitting at their faces, he and the forward scouts had been bent over war tables, cartographers plotting and mapping their attack by fenris’s description of the interiors, hauling heavy tarpaulin sheets over wooden frames for protection against the ever-violent weather. 

   still, it’s good work, hard work, and by the time inquisition banners are silhouetted against the distant city a warm wind has blown in from the rivain passages, bringing some comfort to the looming grey sky. as the troops and scouts begin to set up he steals glances over his shoulder, waiting for a familiar face; still, he can’t seem to get away from the work until he hears the verses, face lighting up in recognition. he’s not smiled so wide in some time.

   ❛ seeker, ❜  he greets warmly, clasping her wrist in a firm handshake; taking the opportunity to slide away from the desk as he did so; the agents could wait. there were more important matters.