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The half-moon shifts and bends, shaped and reshaped against the surface of the sea. On the water, its dance is practiced, smooth, and elegant. The moon conducts the ocean, and the ocean leads its reflection night after night.
On the surface of her freshly brewed tea, however, it trembles and breaks. Josephine is clutching the cup a little too tightly in both hands. She draws it closer to her chest and attempts to find calm in its warmth. The scent is intimately familiar; lavender and chamomile. As insomniac as she is, she has experienced far too many nights like this— out on the balcony of their bedroom with a hot cup of tea to meditate over the sights and sounds of the tides in hopes that it might lull her to sleep.
Awen had brought her the first cup on her first sleepless night home, near a decade ago now. Josephine had managed to pry herself away from the elf who shared her bed, curled up against her form like a cat seeking the warmth of a sunbeam as she so often did. Stepping out of the bedroom, Josephine ventured down to her office and settled back into her work in the hopes of working her mind to the point of exhaustion. Maybe then she could finally find sleep.
It hadn’t taken long, a quarter-hour at most, before her bleary-eyed partner came looking, mug in hand, still half asleep and squinting against the light of the lamp on Josephine’s desk.
One sleepless night became three; became a dozen; became a hundred. Ten years past and Josephine now finds comfort in the routine. Every time, Awen would coax her back to bed with the promise of tea and her favorite company. Sometimes she would stay awake simply in anticipation of such promises. Another one of her beloved’s little acts of devotion that steeped Josephine’s heart in that sickly sweet and syrupy ache of longing.
Awen is not here to bring her a cup of tea tonight, because tonight marks forty days and forty nights since Morrigan appeared on their doorstep. Awen is away resuming the role of Inquisitor, playing mentor to this decade’s new heroes. Awen is away from home, and Josephine’s home has been dragged away to Minrathous.
When she brings the cup to her lips, the tea tastes both exactly and nothing like the tea Awen brews for her.
Josephine’s eyes fall shut and she breathes a long suffering sigh, the aroma of the sea salted air overtaking that of the lavender for just a moment. At least it’s still hot, she thinks almost bitterly as she allows the steam to waft over her face. Its delicate caress across her angled features is shallow in comparison to the sensation of her love’s embrace, but she does take a moment to pretend.
Just then, as a chill breeze compels her to pull her shawl a little more snuggly around her, Josephine is alerted to the sound of light tapping above and behind her. It’s faint, nearly imperceptible were Josephine not so familiar with the usual sounds of the seaside city. Movement along the rooftop tiles, a bit of scrabbling against the stone, and then—
When Josephine whirls around and peers up, the loose braid she keeps her hair in during the night whipping about and coiling around her as she does, she is greeted by a figure cast in shadow vaulting over the edge of the roof. The figure drops down onto the balcony and lands with a quiet grunt of effort on the balls of its feet, hand planted on the floor to keep from falling forward.
The figure rises to stand, emerging from the darkness, shadows clinging to its form like grasping hands before evaporating like mist. Not it, but she, Josephine realizes very quickly. A very familiar she. It’s Josephine’s figure; her beloved.
Awen did always have a knack for commanding shadows, tucking out of sight even in the clearest of sight lines. It wasn’t quite magic as she was no mage, but it wasn’t something entirely mundane either. Vir Banal’ras— the way of shadow— was all the explanation she ever gave, and that was as far as Josephine cared to understand it. Yet, even while silhouetted by the moonlight, the silvery light illuminates her rich copper colored ponytail as it cascades over her shoulder.
And when Awen casts her gaze up, her elven eyes reflecting yellow-green in the darkness just so, she looks just as surprised to see her as Josephine is shocked that she is suddenly here. Her wide-eyed expression is short lived however, swiftly replaced with a soft, fond smile.
“Lady Montilyet,” Awen greets her with a playful little bow as that smile tilts just a degree off center, morphing it into the damnable smirk that Josephine adores so much. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by for a visit.”
Of all the questions on the tip of her tongue— What are you doing? How are you here? Are you well? What is the Veilguard’s status? Why in Andraste’s name did you return via the balcony of all things?— none were so pressing as to suppress the need to just hold her.
Maker, did Josephine miss her terribly.
“Awen? What are you— oh, Awen!” She leaves her cup on the banister, instantly forgotten and rushes the short distance to her side. She allows Awen to lift the strap of the messenger-style bag she has slung across her torso over head and unceremoniously drop it to the floor before wrapping her up in her arms.
“Mind the blades, vhenan,” Awen laughs breathlessly as she is pulled into Josie’s embrace. They are safe and tucked away, all concealed at various somewheres on her person. Josephine knows this well enough, but another warning couldn’t hurt. Awen leans into her regardless, burying her face in the crook of Josephine’s neck, and holds her tightly around the waist with her good arm.
“You’re back,” Josephine breathes into Awen’s hair, barely a whisper, as if saying it aloud will shatter the reality of it and whisk her away again. She pulls back just enough to take in the full sight of her, shaking hands smoothing up the front of Awen’s coat before cupping both of her cheeks.
“I’m home,” Awen affirms. For now, she lacks the heart to say. She doesn’t have to; Josephine already knows.
But Josie’s heart swells at the notion. Awen would have sooner thrown herself into Corypheus’ embrace before she considered anything other than the forests of the Free Marches her home, once upon a time.
It’s too dark to allow Josephine the indulgence of ogling her, but she can see enough— she has seen her enough to know the woman before her, every perfect detail committed to memory. Symmetrical scarlet branches that reach from the convex bridge of Awen’s nose up to the peaks of her cheekbones, her vallaslin is adorned with a smattering of the freckles that make their leaves. Josephine’s thumbs lightly stroke the lines of the tattoo, as they’ve done countless times before.
The symbol of Mythal. A dedication to the evanuris. Josephine wonders, knowing what they know now, if Awen’s opinion on her vallaslin has changed at all. Perhaps it needn’t be more than pretty bodily adornments, as fetching as she was, and Josephine struggles to imagine her without it anyhow.
A conversation for another time.
Her fingertips glide along the contours of her face, seeking out the familiar landmarks. Everything is as she remembers it to be. Every faded scar is in its place. While the evidence of time that faintly lines the corners of her eyes is a recent development, Josephine loves each new mark just the same. Especially as they grow more prominent when Awen leans into her touch and beams up at her.
Upon reaching the slanted, jagged groove that cuts into Awen’s mouth, off center from chin to cheek, Josephine stills her hands. Of all the scars Awen bears, this is the one Josephine is most familiar with. Even as far back as when they shared their first kiss, she couldn’t help but succumb to the overwhelming sensation— the pure, unadulterated intimacy— of knowing its shape against her own lips.
“Josie,” Awen says carefully for fear of startling her out of her thoughts, “you’re flushing.”
“You’re beautiful,” is Josie’s automatic response, her tongue moving of its own accord.
When Awen blushes it always starts at the tips of her ears before flooding into her cheeks. Her face turns to tiles under their feet and Josephine can feel the fingers on her waist clench at the fabric of her nightgown a little tighter. Bashful, as if they haven’t been at this for ten years. It is as endearing as ever.
“You’re trying to flatter me–”
“Always,” Josephine interjects. A tad rude, perhaps, but if ten years with this woman has taught her anything, it's that Awen appreciates when she allows herself to let go of etiquette every now and then.
Awen glances back up at her with hooded eyes and a charming grin. “– when you should be kissing me.”
The sentence isn’t even so much as punctuated before Josephine is doing exactly that, hooking an arm around Awen’s waist. Awen’s palm slides up the other woman’s front, pausing at her sternum for half a dozen heartbeats before continuing up to find purchase at the back of her neck.
Her left arm, the one currently capped with one of her deadlier prosthetics, is left dangling at her side. A narrow blade is concealed within the underside of its arm, attached via a spring-loaded mechanism. A simple flick of the wrist was all it needed to extend and pierce into the backs of her enemies. A handy little weapon, if a bit crudely made, as it was Dagna’s first attempt at anything like this, and had a tendency to spring without warning at the most inopportune times.
And now, when Josephine’s lips are on hers, the hand at her waist, the one cupping her jaw both pulling her as close as they could be… now would be a very inopportune time.
Josephine bends her back at the hips, leaning into her until they are flush, front to front. She kisses her deeply, slowly. It makes Awen breathe a blissful sigh into her lips. Those lips part, Josephine tilts her head for a better angle, and when they meet again, she is greeted by the delicious sensation of Awen’s tongue sliding along hers. There is an even, rhythmic push and pull between them; a lovely give and take that they’ve done countless times before, yet never grows tiresome.
The hand at Awen’s jaw dips lower, intent on following the line of her neck, but then freezes, and Awen doesn’t have to open her eyes to know why. She feels those lips turn into a subtle frown as the tip of Josephine’s little finger brushes against the edge of the bandage wrapped around her neck.
Josie pulls back, moving the heavy hood of Awen’s coat aside to reveal the bandage in full. Awen expression twists into something like guilt, like a child caught sampling sweets before supper. Josephine is scowling, brows knitted together in concern, breath stalled for a moment as she seeks to gauge the extent of the wound. The bleeding had stopped long enough ago that the blotchy stains discoloring it have faded to brown.
“Josie,” Awen attempts placatingly, breathlessly. Her voice is hoarse, still thick with desire.
“What happened?” Josephine demands regardless.
She scoops up one of Josephine’s hands in her own, then the other, directing them away from the bandage. She holds them by the fingers in her one hand as best she can, letting them hang between them. “Nothing worth fretting over, vhenan.”
Josephine squeezes Awen’s hand as the arch in her brow dips even lower. “Awen.” A diplomat’s measured yet firm reprimand; a tone of voice that Awen is all too familiar with.
The once-Inquisitor heaves a relenting sigh that moves through the entirety of her body— her chest, her shoulders, her ponytail bobbing up and down with it. “I lunged for a hurlock at the same moment it fired its bow. I needed to close the distance before it could nock another arrow,” she tells her flatly.
“And its draw was the only time for that?” Josephine asks, a pitch just a touch higher than her usual register.
“It nicked the flesh and flew past, nothing more. It lies dead and I am still here,” reasons Awen with a shrug. After a moment, when Josephine’s expression softens just a fraction, she takes the opportunity to crack the tension further. “What’s another scar for the collection? Besides, I’ve heard pretty ladies appreciate dashing rogues who wear the evidence of their charismatic recklessness on their skin.”
Josephine responds with incredulous laughter. It’s a faint, breathy thing like it’s all she can do to combat that which would do the Inquisitor harm. “Dashing and charismatic, I will grant you, but your recklessness may very well be the death of me,” she sighs.
She turns away from her for just a moment to peer up to what she can see of the roof from here, vines of ivy draping from it. The black sky gives the sharp angles of her profile a stunning backdrop. Awen can’t help the dopey tilt of her head and love struck, lopsided grin at the sight of it. A hand unconsciously raises to comb through a stray lock of Josephine’s hair before tucking it behind her ear.
“But must the dashing rogue use the entrance of least convenience?” Josephine asks, half rhetorical. She captures that hand and brings it to her lips before it can retreat but keeps her face pointed outward. She eyes the elf from her periphery and coyly raises her brow on that side.
“All the doors in this place squeal like a dying halla, you know that. I was trying not to wake you.” Awen turns her hand over so that they may meet palm to palm and weaves their fingers together. “A foolish pipe dream, I now realize.”
A low, unconvinced hum sounds in Josephine’s throat. “Or a thinly veiled excuse to scale the city’s rooftops?”
“My motivations are nothing but selfless, thanks very much,” Awen sniffs, though her attention turns out over the cityscape. Her shoulders slump somewhat as she mindfully observes Antiva City’s horizon. “Although… the view here is much more pleasant than the one where I just came from.”
“And how are things in Treviso?” Josephine is almost too afraid to ask.
There is an appearance of tension in Awen’s neck that Josephine recognizes as the clenching of her jaw. “Blighted,” is all she says. It is all she needs to say. Her expression hardens, a pensive scowl pulling down at the corners of all her features. Josephine offers no response other than to rub her thumb over the back of her hand.
“Josephine?” Awen’s voice is suddenly saturated with that grim sense of duty that had been thrust upon her ever since she took the title of Inquisitor.
Josephine inhales slowly before replying. “Yes?”
“The situation is growing more and more dire back south.”
Awen never intended to stay long. She could not afford to. Josephine knows what’s coming. “Yes,” is all she can think to say.
“We’re going to retake Skyhold within the week. Maybe within a matter of days if we can manage it.”
We as in the scattered remnants of the Inquisition’s forces, of course. Awen would not ask Josephine to join her, not if it meant she would be closer to harm, and that simply would not do.
“The thought of returning does fill me with an odd sense of nostalgia, I will admit.” A not so subtle hint.
Awen’s focus snaps back to her. “Josephine—“
“Save whatever protest you have prepared, mi vida, I won’t hear it,” Josephine interrupts.
“It’s too dangerous—“ The ruddy strands of hair framing Awen’s face sway gently as she starts to shake her head disapprovingly. Josephine takes her chin in her hand to deny her even that.
“It is hardly any safer here.”
“But the fleet—“
“Will function just as it always does with or without my presence in the city, I assure you.”
“Josephine, I will not allow—“
“You have a nasty habit of trying to make my decisions for me, have I ever told you?”
Awen bites her tongue and deflates with a ragged sigh at that. Her shoulders slump first, then the rest of her follows their lead. She drops her forehead to Josephine’s chest, heavy with the weight of her worries, and practically melts into her. Josephine wraps her up in her arms once more, clasping her hands at the small of Awen’s back.
“I’m sorry,” Awen murmurs, voice muffled. “Of course I would love nothing more than to keep you close. I just…”
Her voice wavers then breaks before it trails off, countless words longing to be said only to scatter to the wind. With fingers splayed, she runs her hand up the length of Josephine’s back, pulling her closer and pressing into her as though she longed for nothing more than to merge their forms into one.
The ambassador is steadfast and sturdy even as Awen leans her weight into her. The Inquisitor bears the weight of the world, after all. Josephine can bear her weight alone, every now and then. She plants a kiss onto the top of her head to tell her as much.
“Solas could take all my limbs and I’d be happy, honored even, if it meant you were well, but I could not live if he took my heart from me.” Awen inclines her head back, chin resting on Josie’s chest to gaze up at her. “Do you understand, ma vhenan?”
Ma vhenan. My heart. Her words are unequal parts lemon and honey. More bitter than sweet. First uttered after Awen had suffered a particularly grievous injury, the then-Inquisitor called out to her as she was being swept away to Skyhold’s infirmary– not Josephine’s name, but ma vhenan. Afterwards, Awen was too shy to translate herself, prompting Josephine to seek out Solas for a translation.
“Either she was so delirious from blood loss that she spoke without thought,” he told her in a light tone that betrayed just how amused he was by the very idea, “or, the more likely case, the Inquisitor cares about you a great deal. Cherish it, Lady Ambassador. It is not a term of endearment our people use lightly.”
And cherish it she does. There is just enough moonlight to see by to see the desperation painted across Awen’s face, in her eyes. It frays at Josephine’s resolve, though just briefly. She steels herself with a slow breath then leans in to kiss her again, this time on her forehead.
“Of course I understand. I have been forced to sit idly by and watch you walk into danger for the benefit of the world time and time again,” Josephine replies with a small, sad smile. Her voice is clear, spoken with unwavering conviction, yet quiet and restrained. “Darling, I fear every goodbye may be our last.”
The elf looks up at her pathetically, like the runt of an abandoned litter of kittens caught out in the rain: small and scruffy, wide and wet eyed. “I’m sorry to do this to you,” Awen mourns, almost a whine. The regret is genuine, but she’s playing it up, reverting to jokes to lighten the mood as is her nature.
Josephine clicks her tongue and tugs on Awen’s long ponytail, lurching her back to stand up straight. Not forceful enough to harm, but firm enough to scold. “Always the theatrics with you. My love for you is not some sacred act of unwitting martyrdom.”
Awen purses her lips and pouts, sweeping her hair back over her shoulder and petting it. “I don’t know; I think I would like to worship Our Lady of Eternal Patience.”
“Oh, please,” Josie rolls her eyes and waves her hand, dismissing the idea that she is holy lest the Maker strike them down for their blasphemy. “Your religious convictions have always been little more than lip service, especially now. You’ve rejected the notion that you are the Herald of Andraste. I would not expect this to be any different.”
“Call me the Herald of Saint Josie, then. My lips are eager to service.” At Awen’s height, nearly a full head shorter than Josephine, she is just the right height to nose at her jawline and trace the column of her neck with her mouth. She leaves behind a blazing trail of kisses.
“Don’t pretend you would suddenly convert to the Chantry for even my sake, you wicked woman…” Saint Josie fondly mutters skyward as her chin rises of its own accord to allow for greater access. The grazing of teeth against her thrumming pulse elicits a faint gasp from her lungs and she feels the lips on her neck pull into a self satisfied little grin.
“I love you. I missed you,” Awen breathes against heated flesh. Her voice has taken on that low, husky tone that makes Josephine bite her lip to keep from squirming.
“I love you and I missed you,” echoes Josephine, eyelashes fluttering shut. The heat of her love pressed into her keeps the chill at bay and stokes the flame in her heart. She relishes in it, indulges in the delicious sensation of Awen’s tongue and teeth at her neck, her fingers digging possessively at her hip. Just before the moment she would lose herself to her lust entirely, Josephine breathes in slowly through her nose, then releases it through her mouth. She pulls herself back to the moment, willing the longing ache to filter through her faculties at a leisurely pace.
“Do not make me say goodbye again so soon, love; I couldn’t bear it,” says Josephine at last without opening her eyes. A plea to her beloved or a prayer to the Maker, she couldn’t quite tell.
Awen retreats from her just enough to gaze up at her. The hand at Josephine’s hip snakes up to cup her cheek, stroking it with her thumb. It guides Josephine’s gaze down to hers. After a moment, she offers a minuscule nod. “Spend the day with me tomorrow. The day after, prepare for travel. I’m sure Morrigan will realize I’m missing and return to drag me— drag us— back through an eluvian by the third day.”
Josephine releases a held breath of relief, of joy, of love. “And tonight?” she asks.
“Let me make you a fresh pot of tea.”