Chapter Text
Cadash sat on the throne, his hand against his face as he stared at the great hall. The fires had all been extinguished, the tables empty and scrubbed clean. Varric's corner was already beginning to gather dust, as was the balcony that Vivienne once claimed as her own. All he could hear was the slight creaking of the chandeliers above and the soft sounds from the courtyard outside but otherwise, Skyhold was silent.
Empty.
It had been ten months since they returned from the Exalted Council. And in those ten months, the mountain fortress had seen the complete dismantling of what was once one of the most powerful organisations in Southern Thedas. Equipment had been carted out, cupboards and cellars emptied, and the people began to depart, both in smaller and larger groups, until all you could hear as you stood on the battlements was the gentle lilt of the wind. The forge, the courtyard, the stables, they were all silent.
There were a few that remained however. Josephine had pledged to stay to the end, saying that it would only be over when she locked the great gates herself. She spent her days tying up any loose ends in the Inquisition’s connections, as well as finalizing the last few piles of paperwork. Cullen had said the same – personally overseeing the distribution of troops to several interested factions, as well as relieving many many others of their duty.
Of course those were their official reasons for staying, Cadash thought. He had noticed how they would ‘accidentally’ find themselves where he was; either wandering the battlements or staring at the great map in the War Room – now empty of all its markers and knives, leaving only little holes and memories in their place. They would ask him how he was doing, eyes darting to his left arm before returning to his face as he tried his best to look like he was alright. But he knew they saw the tiredness in his eyes, knew he was finding it difficult to sleep at night. Josephine had offered to get him some poultices, but he declined. The mages were gone as well, and to get the materials they used to provide with such convenience would be expensive. And too much of a hassle just for him.
When they finally left him, he would trace the details of the map, reliving the memories of the last three years. The Storm Coast, where he trekked for hours in the rain and mud as he looked for those damned smoke bottles, listening to both Varric and Dorian grumble behind him. The Fallow Mire, where he had fallen right into one of those sickly lakes and breathed in half a pint of the water, causing him to catch that terrible illness. The Western Approach, filled with wyverns and darkspawn and pungent gas that could kill you in seconds as they fought and fought and finally raised the Inquisition’s banner, claiming Griffon’s Wing keep for themselves. And how they did the same in Caer Bronach, in the Suledin Keep, battling Venatori and Red Templars and everything in between.
His fingers would also find the little notes written on the parchment, and he could make out the difference in writing. Josephine’s neat cursive, Cullen’s scrawl, Leliana’s spindly lettering. Occasionally, under the weight of the years, he would also find the occasional squarish word or two, rare yet so utterly precious. Cassandra rarely put down marks on this map, but when she did, it meant something of worth. And once, he noted, in the heart of the Hinterlands, in Lady Shayna’s Valley, she had made a note.
Ferelden Frostback, 23rd Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon.
Dragons, he remembered with a sudden rush. The great fire and ice and electricity-spitting creatures that were as breathtaking as they were deadly. The Ferelden Frostback was the first, and he remembered how she was perched on the rocky outcropping, letting out a screech before swooping in to attack. Bull’s roar had echoed almost as loud as the dragon’s as he charged into battle, and they could barely keep up.
There were so many others after her, from the scorching heat of the Approach, the silent winds of the Wastes, the biting chill of the Emprise, but they all rang the same now in his mind. How they would leap into the air, their wingbeats so strong he could feel them in his chest. How they would paw the ground and sweep their tails and breathe death unto his team and himself until they cut them down. How they had felled them one by one until the streets of Val Royeux themselves whispered of the ‘Inquisitor, the great Dragonslayer’.
Buried in these memories, he would pace the battlements in deep thought, not even looking upwards to greet the guards or to notice the sunset. He’d lost track of how many times he’d circled the perimeter of the fortress, but he was sure he’d worn grooves into the smooth stone. And once his legs had tired, which was much earlier than they normally would these days, he would return indoors and sit on the throne, surrounded once again by silence and memories of what once were.
Which is where he was when Josephine emerged from her office.
“Inquisitor?”
He sighed and nodded at her as she approached. “The Inquisition is no more, Josephine. Please, just call me Cadash.”
She smiled at him sadly. “I apologise… Cadash.”
He waved her apology aside with a smile. “It’s alright. I’m sure it’s going to take some getting used to.”
“That would be an understatement.” Cullen had joined them now, nodding at both Josephine and Cadash. “I’ve just inspected the barracks, and save the last dozen or so soldiers, they’re empty. We’re very much ahead of schedule in terms of distribution of manpower.”
“Which brings me to the reason I came to see you, Inq… Cadash.” Josephine flipped over a piece of parchment on her clipboard. “There is to be a final group of soldiers, those young and eager enough to not leave active service, who wish to be of use. Our Divine Victoria herself has reviewed them personally, ensuring that they are loyal and uncorrupted by Solas’ spies.”
He nodded, noticing how Josephine and Cullen sharing a knowing glance. With a frown, he was about to speak but she continued.
“There is also a quantity of supplies that have yet to be cleared out of the forge. These are mainly standard Inquisition-make weapons; swords, shields, arrows, bows and knives. Cullen has inspected these himself, since our smiths have also taken their leave, and he has deemed them fit for use.”
“All in working order, you’ll find.” Cullen added.
Cadash was looking at the two of them very suspiciously now. “And what am I supposed to do with this information, exactly? I don’t think I’m going to be travelling anywhere soon.”
“You might want to reconsider that statement.” Another shared glance, before Cullen cleared his throat. “We received word from the Hunterhorns last week.”
Cadash sat up straight, his heart in his throat and his mind alight. The Hunterhorns. In northern Orlais. Where the Seekers were rebuilding.
Cassandra.
They had been corresponding regularly of course, but with her duties and the sheer distance the letters had to travel, he had only received one of her very crumpled notes from an equally frazzled raven. It had detailed how they had finally found an adequate spot to set up camp and were drawing up plans for a rudimentary settlement. It was short and rather curt, but at the bottom of the parchment, she had written a handful of lines that he had memorized at this point.
I do hope you are keeping well, Edric. I tell myself not to worry about you, but I cannot help it. Know that if I were there with you, I would hold your hand and let you know that things will be alright, even if they may not seem like it at the moment. We will see each other again, my love. I promise.
That same letter was folded into his belt pouch right now, and his fingers strayed to it as he struggled to keep himself calm.
“What did she say?” His voice was suddenly desperate, holding more emotion than they had in months.
“You know how Cassandra is,” Cullen chuckled. “She manages to sound like she doesn’t need help even when she’s asking for it.”
“Divine Victoria and I promised her a small number of soldiers for her cause if she were to ever need them. Of course, she turned us down months ago, but we would have sent them even if she would not have asked,” Josephine said. They were both smiling at him now, and he wondered if it was because his face had finally broken out of the frozen shell he had been wearing since Cassandra had left all those months ago.
“They depart in three days, Cadash.” Cullen added, his eyes knowing. “Let me know and I’ll ready your hart.”