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Quill Lavellan’s sleepless body ached, despite the downy softness of her mattress. Skyhold was grand; it was incredible that Solas knew of such a place. The laypeople of the Inquisition gave her the credit for its discovery, but she and her companions knew it was the apostate who led them there. If anyone deserved such a comfortable sleeping place, it was him. Instead, he humbly claimed the dusty couch in the bare-walled rotunda as his bed.
But even swathed in silk, and warm under her blankets, Quill couldn't sleep. She rolled out from her covers, and stretched as she stood.
A velvety sky full of shimmering stars shone from outside the balcony. Quill thought that they seemed brighter than they did in the Free Marches. Maybe it was the mountain air that let them shine so clearly.
There was so much work to be done. Construction would take months, maybe years, and the Inquisition was expanding every day. Humans from all over Ferelden flocked to their service, and elves too. Seeing fellow Dalish, the colors of the vallaslin on their chiseled faces, always made her homesick. Her ears ached when she heard wisps of her mother tongue in the halls. The melody was unique to the Dales, not quite the old-fashioned way Solas would say “Dareth shiral” purposefully when she left his company.
Quill hoped the rest of the nights she slept here would prove more restful, but she surrendered to the wistfulness that beckoned her outside. She leaned forward onto the railing, letting her cheeks cool in the winter chill. In the moment, Quill was safe and at peace. She was protected, guarded by the will of many, in place where the sky was held back.