Summary: But little did she know, she was not the only wolf.
She walks, footsteps light and silent. She is the envy of thieves, rogues, assassins. She has long learned to move without sound, to see without being seen. No one sees her moving along the ramparts, walking along the parapet. And she prefers it that way. She has always preferred to be alone, away from the masses. Being in the light now, with everything that has happened, makes her uncomfortable. But she puts on a show, smiles and flashes her teeth. Because that is what's expected of her.
She can hear him before he sees her, and she watches Solas walk past her place in the shadows, his steps just as silent, just as smooth. He stops at a small space in the wall, and he leans against it, staring out into the vast mountainside of their hideaway. His face is pensive, taut. She wonders what sort of thoughts plague him to keep him awake so late.
"You can come out, lethallan." He says, and she feels a small spasm of alarm before her lips quirk up. She doesn't bother to bite back the smile. She steps out from her small hideaway and walks over to him, clasping her hands behind her back.
"You knew that I was here?" She asks, and he nods, once.
"I am always aware of where you are. You are a force that I cannot ignore." The words hold a deeper meaning, and she has to look away, out to the snowy peaks that stand as sentries, lest she give her expression of delight away. It is hard, though, not to show it. His compliments, while not necessarily rare, are always a treasure. He says them with such casual conviction that it means more to her than anything else.
"Do you wish to be alone?" She asks, though she hopes that he doesn't. It makes her nervous, to want to be near someone so much. It is a weakness that she can't afford to have. There is too much at stake.
"You can stay. Sometimes, company is just as comforting as solitude." He spares a glance her way and smiles. "When the company is enjoyable, of course."
"Of course." They are quiet then, and in the silence, he wraps an arm around her, holding her close to him, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. He smells of mint and earth, and she breathes it in deeply.
"Do you often come here alone?" He asks.
"I do. I am not used to so many people pressed together. It is nice to get away from them all"
"And I'm sure that it doesn't help when they are pressed together, staring at you." He is amused, and she nudges him lightly, smiling. He is perceptive. He sees her when no one else does.
"I have never had so many eyes on me at once." She agrees, and he nods, squeezing her hip lightly, gently.
"I suppose that I should be worried if you actually enjoyed it. People that scrap for leadership are often poorly suited for it. The ones that only do it because it is necessary are generally better leaders. They do what they feel is necessary for the betterment of others, not selfish gain."
"...But that doesn't always guarantee success." She says, and suddenly she can sense a tension in his body language at her words. She looks up at him, but he is far away, eyes distant and pained.
"Yes," he replies, and his voice is low. "Sometimes, you can hold all of the good intentions of the world in your hands, and they spill through your fingers. You wake up, and the world is worse off than before." She doesn't know what to say to that, so she wraps her arm around his waist, a silent sign of support. She does not know his secrets, she does not know his past. But she knows his smile, and his wisdom, and his kindness. And it is beautiful to her. She lays her head on his shoulder and looks back out to the vastness of the winter cold that their stone walls hold back, and she wonders what could have ever happened to give him such an expression as the one he holds now.
"...Thank you, lethallan." He finally says, and he pulls away long enough to turn towards her, reaching up to cup her cheeks. His fingertips are cold as they slide over her skin, and she shivers in delight. She looks up at him, and sees eternity in his eyes. She leans into his hands that hold her like she is fragile, like she will break, and closes her eyes to better feel his skin on her skin.
"You see me." She whispers. "When no one else does." She can feel him draw closer to her, and she basks in the fluttering in her stomach. She has never felt this way before, and it is intoxicating.
"Ma vhenan," he whispers back, and her heart stops. "You are the only one that has ever been able to see me. Ma da'fen." She opens her eyes and doesn't fight the smile on her face as he dips his head down to kiss her gently, a silent promise of his love.
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She stands on the battlements and stares out into the bleak and empty mountains. They are sentries still, but instead of protecting them from the outside world, she feels like they keep her trapped, prisoner. Her fingers trace patterns into the cold stone, and she lets out a slow, shaky breath. Memories cling to the keep, cobwebs too sticky to brush away. Each place holds a moment that she wishes to forget.
There is the soft scuffle of feet, the muted sound of leather armor. She half turns her head to catch more sound, and hears a slow, even breath as someone climbs up the steps to the parapet. She doesn't hesitate, and quickly steps into the shadows, blending in with the darkness as easily as breathing. She is darkness; she is night. She is the wolf. When the man reaches her hiding place, he looks over her shadowed nook and sees nothing. Blackwall continues his lone walk, stopping at the break in the wall to rest. His face is somber, and he folds his arms over his chest as he contemplates whatever it is that troubles him.
But he does not call out to her and invite her to watch the night sky with him. He stands for awhile, and she watches him, watches the way that he is completely unaware of her as he thinks about whatever it is that Blackwall thinks of. When he comes to terms with whatever he was wrestling with, he clears his throat and turns, heading back the way that he came, never once sensing her, smelling her, seeing her.
Once he is gone, she steps out of the shadows and walks back to her normal spot, smelling Blackwall's normal scent of the stables, freshly cut wood, and the oils that are rubbed into his weapons. She touches the stone once more and leans against it, staring out, fighting the trembling that starts in her fingertips and moves all the way to her core. She does not blame him for not seeing her anymore than she blames anyone else. She is Lupa, the wolf, the one-that-walks-in-shadows. She is no more visible than any other predator of the night. But it aches to have once been seen, to have once had someone gently touch her face and call her ma da'fen. Their little wolf.
But she was not the only wolf. And it hurt worse than anything to know that while she had been his little wolf, he was her Dread Wolf, and he would always be two steps ahead, laughing.
