Chapter Text
“Gods, I’ve never seen it this busy!” Ayliel Lavellan strained to yell loud enough to the mage next to her. Dorian Pavus barely heard her as he navigated through the raucous masses filling Herald’s Rest.
“Well, love, this is what you get when you slay a dragon. People celebrate.” Dorian paused on the packed second-floor landing, assessing the surrounding crowd. He cleared his throat before shouting “If you want to buy our hero a drink, we’ll be on the third floor!” The crowd roared together as if emulating the Gamordan Stormrider that she and Dorian had just taken down, with the Iron Bull and Varric at their sides.
Ayliel questioned the wisdom of their celebrations as they arrived on the third floor to find it was almost just as packed. She was uncomfortable accepting spotlight for simply doing her job, and more so from adoring and drunk refugees and soldiers. Dorian led them to a corner, partially obscured by a support beam and a chimney. after some light flirting with the tipsy ladies occupying a half-drenched table, Dorian convinced the pair to continue their night in a more private location, and they sauntered off into the night to desperately grasp at each other.
Ayliel used her coat to soak up whatever liquid they left behind while Dorian collected the various celebratory drinks sent her way. “I’m certain someone would pay good money for the herald of Andraste’s filthy coat soaked in a mystery liquid.” Dorian looked at the coat with mild disgust.
”I think it would make better kindling once dry than a memento of fake herald.” Ayliel picked at the soaked, stained fabric in her hands.
“Fake or not, everyone loves a hero.” Dorian placed four tankards on the table before grabbing more from the server. “I should have told them to send strapping men, then the night could have gotten underway in style.”
Ayliel rolled her eyes before sipping from one of the mugs. “Is that something you need to locate to properly commemorate the Stormrider? I’m sure we can arrange that”
“Would you darling? My love life is quite similar to that dragon.” Dorian grabbed his own tankard. “Fiery, legendary, and no longer existent.”
Ayliel lifted her mug. “To mages and their dry spells!”
Dorian closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. “Aylie. Dearest. Love of my life. Does your humor have any interest in finding a nice darkspawn to go die next to?
“Not a chance. It’s good for you.” Ayliel clinked her mug against Dorian’s.
The night progressed exactly as it ought for a team celebrating the defeat of a dragon. Iron Bull and Varric eventually found the pair in their secluded corner, and the heroes were inundated with ale, wine, and at one point, a mysterious liquor they suspected was made out of stripweed.
Ayliel’s face felt flush and her lips buzzed with a slight electricity, the telltale sign she was thoroughly in her cups. Her heart swelled as she looked at her friends - she felt oddly safe and loved as the world threatened to fall to rubble around them. She leaned back in her chair, halfway absorbing the animated conversation across the table. She often simply wanted to exist in the same space as those she loved, and Bull, Dorian and Varric certainly counted. She felt incredibly normal with them. She wasn’t a savior, a herald, a holy one - she was just a girl.
Gods, she was sick of being revered as a holy symbol. She leaned further back onto the hind legs of her chair and sighed. When would this war be over? Would she even survive to exist as a normal woman again? At the new angle, she spied a flap of leather on a nearby shelf, tucked away inside a large stained book, in a corner she suspected not many visited. She carefully sat forward and returned her chair to all fours. Always the rogue, she quietly slipped away from her trio of friends unnoticed – they were all too invested in discussing which of the gods would be best at cunnilingus.
Ayliel now realized that the Herald’s Rest was significantly less crowded than when she and Dorian started the evening. She easily slipped through the sparse crowd to find her target: a well-loved and deeply soiled cookbook leaning against a statuette of an owl. The rest of the shelf was covered in dust, but the book and owl seemed to have been recently handled. She opened the cookbook to reveal it had been hollowed out to conceal a leather bound notebook. The journal was a rich brown, with Arbor Blessing carved across the front. A small quill and pot of ink were wrapped in the attached leather strap.
Ayliel carefully unwrapped the notebook and flipped it open. The first few pages were sketches of scenes from Skyhold’s gardens. One portrayed a group of residents together under a tree with the stone fortress in the background. One was of elfroot being tended by a gentle hand. One of a light illuminating the courtyard.
Ayliel flipped ahead to pages filled with an elegant script. The pages detailed everything from a recipe for leek and tomato soup to suggestions for proper masonry techniques. The margins contained a peek into the thoughts of the author – “the soup could use more salt and less tomato, though I suppose the fact I do not like tomatoes may color the validity of this opinion” and “dropped stone on foot. best left to the masonry professionals.”
Ayliel couldn’t help but smile. Her cheeks burned with affection for the mysterious owner of this journal. A soul that was observant and creative.
She also found poetry.
We are a world of two blights
The first: a tangible horror
the reaper of life and livelihood
It spares our honor but steals our hope
the second: the elusive and subtle
the corruption of those who lead a war-torn world
They spare our hope but steal our honor
She felt a profound sense of loneliness from the owner of this journal. She stole a glance over at her companions, who were wildly throwing their hands up in some sort of measuring contest. She flipped ahead in the journal to a blank page and unraveled the ink and quill.
Dear artist,
I hope you don’t mind that I took a page from your beautiful journal to write to you. You were tucked away so nicely in a lonely corner of Herald’s Rest. It may have been the copious amounts of alcohol, but I couldn’t help flipping through the pages. Now that I have seen what you have created, I feel like I have been blessed with a secret gift. I greatly admire your art - your sketches, your poetry - and I simply wanted you to encourage to continue.
“Ayliel, darling! Where have you run off to?” Dorian’s voice carried above what was left of the Harald’s Rest patrons. Ayliel signed her note quickly with Sincerely, A Fan, secured the leather strap in the page with her note and quickly wound the ink and quill back up, and placed the book back in its hiding spot.
In the early evenings, before the bar filled with rowdy bands of drinking companions and heartbroken lonely souls crying into their mugs, Herald’s Rest was quite the peaceful location. Each of her three stories left plenty of room for the midday patrons to nurse an ale in relative privacy – some aiming to finish work away from their office, others looking for a change of scenery and a quiet escape.
One of the Rest’s frequent daytime visitors was the commander of the Inquisition: Cullen Rutherford. He often needed a break from the piles of paperwork that demanded his attention or a distraction from his splitting lyrium withdrawal headaches.
Today Cullen found himself in his typical northwest corner of the third floor, nursing a glass of whiskey. It was a special occasion that called for special alcohol - the Inquisition had slayed their first dragon. Cullen noted it as an important win for morale more than anything else. It certainly made his job a little easier with the heightened mood of his soldiers. He understood the need for celebration completely. The team that took down the dragon - Bull, Varric, Ayliel and Dorian - was damn impressive.
Cullen was incredibly proud of everything they had built in the Inquisition, and knew the weight of the world was riding on his shoulders. It was a weight he was not worthy of carrying. Nonetheless, it was his responsibility to make sure his soldiers and the Inquisition stood their best chance of victory.
There were times he wished everything would disappear. Times when he longed for a simple life where he could dream and write and take in the beauty of the world, instead of fighting against the evil of it.
Those were the times he came to Herald’s Rest when he knew he could be alone. He finished off his whiskey and reached for the hollowed-out book that contained his notebook. It was a secret he hid from everyone. So secret, he didn’t dare keep it in his office lest the commander of the Inquisition be found out and identified as a weak fool.
Odd, he thought as he grabbed the leather binding. I never wrap it like this. Perhaps I was feeling the withdrawal deeper than I thought last time.
Cullen flipped open his journal to find…a note? His eyebrows furrowed as his eyes scanned over the words of a stranger who had trespassed into his sacred space.
I greatly admire your art - your sketches, your poetry - and I simply wanted you to encourage to continue.
He read the script again and a third time. Cullen wasn’t sure what to feel. Naked, surely, and completely vulnerable. Anger and embarrassment were creeping up his neck, too. This notebook had been secret for months and now he had been found out. But…surely this stranger didn’t know who the author was. They suggested as much in their note.
He stared at the writing for several minutes, considering his course of action. He could take the notebook and rehome it to his quarters. He could simply throw the book and any evidence that he was its author into the mountains, never to be seen again.
He eventually came to the conclusion that he needed this outlet. And he didn’t even know if the stranger would return.
Cullen took out his quill and ink and started writing.
Dear Stranger,
Your note brought me many emotions. Shock upon reading it. Embarrassment at my secret being found out. Anger at the invasion of privacy. I mulled over several options, including removing my notebook from Herald’s Rest.
More than anything I am curious at your intentions. If you intend to make a repeat visit, I shall consider sharing my art if you prove yourself to be a trustworthy stranger.
Sincerely,
Artist
Cullen had spent too much time contemplating what to do about this unexpected visitor that he did not have any more to write or sketch. He needed to get back to his office and prepare for the next war meeting. He carefully wrapped his notebook, quill, and ink back into place and repositioned the cookbook on the shelf, hiding his secret. A secret he now shared with a stranger.