#member posts

Soft raven locks were strewn carelessly over her lover’s face, something Josephine would never have tolerated in her waking state. A small smile played at the corner of Leliana’s mouth at the sight of Josie sleeping soundly and in such a state of disarray. She could not blame the ambassador for her heavy sedation. Both women had worked into the early morning hours, burning the candles until they were nothing but wax puddles. And as Leliana glanced out the window to see that the dawn light had not yet begun to peek over the verdant forest below, she knew that it had only been a few hours since the couple had retired. This had not been the first of some such nights, nor the fourth. The pair had worked diligently, and practically restlessly since their arrival in The Emerald Graves.

Rebuilding the Inquisition’s Spy-network had proven more difficult than either of them could have imagined. Many of Leliana’s former assets had gone into hiding, and those she could track down had proven remarkably unwilling to render their services to the cause. Without the prestige of the Inquisition, it seemed, Leliana had lost much of the cache’ she had enjoyed. Her agents had moved on with their lives, had left wartime subterfuge behind them, and like much of Thedas, had dismissed the Inquisitor’s tales of Solas’ plans as the ramblings of a lunatic tyrant, desperately grasping at her last remaining remnants of influence. It was truly a tragedy how willing people were to set aside logic, to ignore the threats that loomed ever-present on the horizon, and to live in blissful, wanton ignorance as the world came crashing down around them. And perhaps more tragic was how much Leliana desperately wished that she could be one of those people.

She had tried, had spent a few quiet months living in a fantasy on her nug-farm, had enjoyed mornings filled with fresh air, and peaceful evenings of reading before the fire, Josephine curled up beside her. But as the rifts had appeared with greater frequency, as people had vanished, and as more and more elves had begun to inexplicably depart for the Emerald Graves, she had lost her ability to pretend. And Josephine. . .Josephine seemed only to have been pretending for her sake.

Placing a gentle kiss to her companion’s forehead, she departed. And though Leliana knew that Josephine could use a few more precious hours of sleep, she knew too that the ambassador was likely to chastise her in the morning for failing to wake her.

The hallways were dark in the Chatteau, and an eerie silence still loomed over the once haunted mansion, especially in the minutes and hours that preceded the dawn. But undeterred by the stillness and the solitude of the early morning, Leliana made her way, candle in hand, down the hall and into the library.

In the daylight it was a beautiful sight to behold: shelf upon shelf of ancient volumes and rare manuscripts. The Onterre family had been renowned throughout Thedas for their collection, which boasted texts on everything from bygone kings, to lost cities, to forgotten magics; and in another lifetime Leliana might have spent hours perusing the dusty volumes, drinking in the words of poets and prophets long dead. But she no longer had time for poetry. For what use were tales of glorious kingdoms and gallant knights, when an ancient god threatened their very existence? And as the candlelight flickered over dark leather bindings and titles embossed in gold and silver, Leliana could not help but think that if Solas’ plans were fulfilled, there might not be anyone left to read those books again.

Leliana was reminded that this was why she had left her life of peace, the life she so desperately had wanted, the life she had tried so hard to build with Josephine. This was why they had both agreed to come here. Because as much as they had wanted to live selfishly, ignoring the pains of the world as it dissolved into chaos, they knew that there might be something yet they could do to prevent its destruction. For art, history, poetry, these muses that moved men to tears, to rapture, and to ruin, they would mean nothing if they ceased to exist. If the world ceased to be, these pearls of humanity would die with it, along with every person who had ever marveled and wondered at their beauty. If there was something, anything, that could be done to obviate this future, it must be done. And no single person’s happiness, no wish, however pure, for peace and contentment, could outweigh this need.

No. She sighed heavily and stared for several moments out the window at the crimson horizon. When she had fought before, at the Warden’s side, for Divine Justinia, for The Inquisition, there had always been some thought of a future, some time when she’d be able to move past all that and find something. . .else. . .But now. . .she was once again called to perform a service for the greater good and she had begun to feel that that foolish hope for the future was lost to her.

Leliana closed her eyes, breathing in the cool morning air as well as a renewed resolve and strode with purpose towards a wooden table at the far end of the library which was strewn with documents. The dawn light had already begun to shift through the open window and Leliana gently blew out the candle before placing it beside the formidable pile. Letters, missives, inquiries. . many of them would go unanswered and some would be responded to with little to no information of value. Of all the men and women in her former network, only a handful had agreed to assist in the hunt for Solas and they were spread thin throughout Thedas, tracking down any lead, any whisper of Fen’harel.

She glanced down at the pile, knowing what she would find there: the same tedious line scrawled over and over on scroll after scroll, “Nothing to report.” It was all Leliana could do to keep from hurling the missives out the window. Instead she gently collected them all and set them neatly to the side.

The one solid piece of information, the only real lead in months had been the Emerald Graves. The elvhen people were gathering in great numbers all throughout the graves, but for what purpose no one knew. So she and Josephine had picked up their lives, collected their few meager belongings, and departed for the graves. It had not been difficult convincing the remaining members of the Onterre family to sell the abandoned Chateau. (Though the Nightingale had conveniently failed to mention the estate’s recent lack of malevolent spirits when discussing the price). Even so, the small fortune Leliana had inherited from the Duchess after her death was almost entirely depleted from the purchase.

Josephine had tried to make the best of it, had attempted to cheer Leliana with talk of redecorating. Leliana had smiled and joked of new curtains in the gallery, and perhaps a commissioned portrait of Mr. Schmooples The Second above the fireplace. And both women had laughed and sighed, and planned the changes that would never happen in the pretense that there were not far more deadly problems to consider.

Leliana’s fingers scanned lazily over the edges of the paper piled on the corner of her table. Gathering a spare piece of parchment, she idly began folding it, watching the letters disappear in the creases of the paper.

Since their arrival, leads had been decidedly scarce, and the elves that had formed communities in the graves had regarded the Spymaster’s inquiries with suspicion. Leliana was certain that they knew something, that there was something to discover in the camp hidden away beneath the trees, and her instinct told her that it had to do with the Dread Wolf. But with next to no resources, and no assistance, no progress had been made.  So after months of frustrations, Leliana had finally acquiesced to her partner’s insistence that they contact their comrades. From the beginning, she’d been determined not to request assistance from former allies. She and Josephine had given up their lives, their futures, she did not wish to ask her friends to do the same. But with no further options, and at her wit’s end she had reached out to Zevran.

The two had become close during their adventures with the Hero, and had grown even closer after his death. And though she never would have anticipated the occurrence, over the last decade the elvhen assassin had become one of the few people she could trust. Leliana had not as yet heard from the Antivan, but she had received communication from his paramour.

Leliana glanced down at the tidy and carefully penned characters of Cassandra’s letter, a letter that the Seeker had undoubtedly dictated to someone. She gently set down the paper she had been folding and picked up the Seeker’s missive. A smile found its way to the Nightingale’s lips as she glanced through the jarringly straightforward text.

“Curt, as ever, Cassandra,” she murmured  as a mixture of anxiety and relief washed over her. Though she was loathe to tear the Seeker from her duties, her aide would undoubtedly prove as invaluable as Zevran’s, and so she had responded with a far less simple letter detailing their current whereabouts and the state of their network.

As she once again began folding the parchment, Leliana laughed softly to herself, a mischievous thought tickling her mind. It would be intriguing to have the pair with them. She had not as yet seen Cassandra and Zevran together, but the image was an amusing and fascinating one.

Leliana was startled from her musings by a gently cleared throat. She lifted her eyes in alarm, and hurriedly crumpled the little rose that had begun to grow from the paper in her hands. Her eyes softened, however, to find the ambassador standing before her, a cup of steaming tea in hand. As she rose to greet her companion, the Nightingale glanced once more out the window, surprised to find that while she had been reflecting on their circumstances the dawn had come and gone.