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WHO: All characters signed up to participate in the Battle of Ghislain
WHAT: The Inquisition regroups and heads home
WHEN: Covers the period immediately post-battle (11.28) through the journey back to Kirkwall (11.29-12.1)
WHERE: North of Montfort, Orlais, and on the road to Val Chevin
NOTES: This is Post #2, covering the immediate aftermath of the battle and the journey back to Kirkwall. It's a free-for-all. Post #1 covers the battle itself. More info on the OOC post.

The Inquisition and Orlesian armies eventually limp to a halt along the Imperial Highway north of Montfort, where wide fields and gentle hills offer clear lines of sight and a sparsely equipped fortress provides some shelter and fortification. It's a soundly strategic location—if Ghislain is lost, Montfort is the last major city between the invaders and Val Royeaux—but among the rank and file there may be too much chaos to appreciate it.

For the remainder of the day and well into the night, the fortress and surrounding land are a frenzy of activity. The wounded who were not left on the field must be triaged and tended to with limited supplies, while many healers and surgeons out of commission themselves and the remainder worked to the bone. Scouts, soldiers, and even support staff in sturdy enough condition to keep working may be tasked with assembling camp from the few remaining supplies, taking reports on known casualties or acquired intelligence, or further fortifying the new location. The Orlesian army sends one of its battered cavalry units toward Ghislain to attempt to provide some warning, and from the Inquisition's number a few patrols are sent back toward the battlefield or toward Ghislain, with stern orders not to re-engage, only to watch for signs of pursuit, and to direct any stragglers.

Those who remain in the fortress are in for a long, miserable night, with meager rations and makeshift bedding, if any of either, while the wind shifts directions and grows colder. By morning a number of the wounded have died, but attempts to build a pyre are hampered by the sudden swell of a storm that starts with freezing rain and then transitions to early and unpredicted thick, heavy snow.

For a few hours that morning the two armies attempt business as normal, but it soon becomes clear that the storm is getting stronger, and they risk being snowed in with more people than they can feed. Many, including the Inquisition's Gallows contingent, are ordered to disperse. Many crowd into wagons, with any transportable wounded receiving further attention en route and neighbors hunching close to preserve heat whether they like one another or not, while those able to do so follow on foot or horseback over the rough, flash-frozen highway toward Montfort and then west toward Val Chevin. The storm doesn't abate until they've nearly reached the city, but once there they're able to stop, eat, and spend a few hours indoors thawing out before proceeding home.

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The camp is the same noissome place that all military encampments become, it is a perpetual feature of the universe, it seems, and Galadriel is oddly thabkful for that. She is not terribly injured but she is sore, exhausted, and unwilling to give in to sleep in such a place. Instead, she sits at a modest campfire, one of many, and stares into the flames. She is left alone, in time, and then is joined by one of the few whose company she truly desires.

Solas speaks and draws her out of her distraction, waking her as though she had been sleeping. Her smile is automatic and comes unbidden, but it is rather tired.

"I am well enough," she answers genially. He has joined her. She reaches for him with her right hand but a twinge in her arm stays the movement.

"Are you well, Melda? I am sorry I did not seek you out. I became...distracted."

He knows her and he does not fault her for her silence or her distraction; this battle has not been easy for any of them and there is a weight that cannot be ignored, not between them. They are older than they appear with the weights of worlds bearing down on their shoulders: there is nothing they can do to ignore that. Solas does not fault her; her welcomes the company she might give him in the wake of the void left by the embers of his trust in Thranduil.

He trusts her still, deeply and surely, his faith lain at her feet. She knows so much and cares for him still. He wants to believe that it makes her real, that the depth of his feelings for her are not a figment of imagination. Solas could certainly fault himself for dreaming someone such as she up in his wildest imaginings.

She is too like the people.

Slowly, he reaches out and brushes his fingers over hers, gently, taking the movement from her and offering his own in response. They are both ailing today, he thinks, his hand and limbs sore, his magic depleted, exhaustion sure.

"I am well," he admits, quiet. "The battle was not as sore for me as it has been for others. Do you need more healing?"

She is glad to hold his hand despite the pain in her arm and her side. To be near him is a gift; he knows her secrets then, what she holds, and it is a relief to be in the presence of someone so well informed.

"I can endure," she assures him and tugs lightly on his hand, urging him closer. It is a gesture for nearness, for the comfort such proximity brings, but this place is very public.

"I am not so proud that I would turn it down, however, if you offered."

Solas had fought for her before, when they had travelled to the Abbey, and he knows how aware she is of that. He had been at her side, her protected her, defended her, not out of obligation but due to affection. He can feel the warmth of it now settling around him, allowing himself to be brought closer to her and drawn to her side despite how public they are. It is getting to the point, he imagines, where there will not be much to do to hide what they are to one another.

He cares too deeply for that and, surely, it must show on his face, an echo of his own thoughts, a desperate need to be close to someone he can trust with all his faith, what little of it may remain.

"I have a little that I might give." Healing is not his strength, not naturally, but he knows a few things that he has gathered over time, enough that he can soothe her hurts if nothing else. The grip he has on her fingers is gentle and he uses that as a conduit to soothe her, a focus on her Anchor to spread that warmth to the rest of her.

"There are no other wounds?"

Galadriel hums as the twinge in her arm fades and forgets the wound along her flank. It is of little importance as they sit here. She leans her head, then, and rests it against his shoulder. It is a liberty, one she takes without thought.

"Thank you, Rafarion in Melda. that is much better."

She stares at the fire a moment, then another before she speaks again.

"I have not been in open war in some time. I did not miss it."

He is kind to her where he might be less so to others - and the reasons are obvious. Solas does not try to hide it, not when rumour will spread no matter what he does. An elf enjoys the company of another elf. No one in the Inquisition will be surprised by that, by the nature of it - only that it was ever something that he might not have done in the first place, especially with his distance from Thranduil becoming more obvious.

"Certainly. It was no trouble."

His fingers brush against hers and he turns his head, leaving a kiss against her brow. It is easier, with her sitting, without the inches between them needing him to stand taller.

"It has been a long time," he agrees, though to a bystander it might appear a general comment. "But this day is over. We rest now."

"Do you know there was a time when I could not imagine sleep," she asks him, drifting into Quenya as she lets her mind wander, comfortable where she sits.

"I still have some trouble with it, with the idea," she continues unbidden as she stares at the fire before them. "You help me greatly with the comfort of it, but it is so very strange."

Her laugh is quiet.

"My life was one long, endless day, ere I came to Thedas. Now, in this place, I can almost feel how time passes, how humans must feel it." she explains gradually. "I do not envy them, nor my quick lived kin."

The switch to Quenya is easy for him; his language skills are not as adept as fluency, but he is getting there slowly. It comes as naturally to him as the language of the People and the common tongue now, developing as he learns more of Qunlat, of Dwarven, languages he might need in the future. He switches to speak alongside her, voice low and soft.

"It is not something that most enjoy," he admits. "I long for sleep, for the journeys it allows me. I can visit the Fade and see what has been taken from the People." His fingers brush over hers, seeking comfort as he offers it. He would spend more time in the Fade, he thinks, were the real world not so important.

Solas speaks to spirits there, but there is too much to do in Thedas, too much for him to prepare for. There is no ignoring that.

"Time is swift for the people now. That is why they have been dubbed shemlen by the Dalish. Too fast, dying too swiftly, with immortality taken from them."

She turns her hand as his fingers skirt hers, allowing for contact fingertip to fingertip, so that she might embrace his hand in turn or weave her fingers through his to still them. He is rarely still--at least, he is rarely still while he is awake--and she does not mind his movement, she savors it, but it is seeking. There is a need in it and one she would comfort.

"We should restore it," she reminds him, or just repeats aloud. It is something she knows he wants, something she agrees is important, but not a topic they have spoken of aloud. "If there is a way, I would see it done, regardless of the cost, but you are wiser in such matters than I."

She draws a deep breath.

"First, we must deal with this war."

The one in Ghislain, the war with Corypheus, she could mean either or both. Mortal conflicts are never quite so fractured as they play at being and she regards them as one in the same.

The gentle intimacy is more than enough for Solas now. He lets himself link their fingers, leaning against her just a little, allowing her to lean on him in turn. It means that they're pressed together with an intimacy that no one can deny, even if their words are soft and gentle. He is tired from the battle, from the strain on his heart, and he seeks the comfort she can give him that no one else might provide.

"There will be a time for that." Solas agrees without pause. "When Corypheus is defeated and power has returned to those that need it." Careful with his words even in another language, even if he doubts that anyone might recognise what they're saying in Quenya. It's not worth the risk.

Softly, he kisses her cheek.

"Corypheus is the most important problem the world faces. Nothing can be done until he is removed as a threat."

Slowly, he brings her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles.

"Would you dream with me tonight?"

She hums in agreement with his assessment, or at least to acquiesce to it, and lifts her head when he kisses her cheek. Her smile is tired but it quirks up as he lifts her hand and kisses it. It is a simple gesture, sweet and easily given, and she adores it.

"Of course, if you like," she replies. "Though you have told me places like these, where the veil is thin, are all the better for dreaming. For seeing what might've been.

"Are you certain you do not wish to explore?"

There are other things to worry about for now: his disagreement with Thranduil, the Inquisition's loss and what it might mean for Corypheus' arrogance, the threat of the Venatori and the loss of alliances across Thedas. Thinking of his own plans for the future is not something Solas can ignore, but he knows how to organise things. Nothing can truly be set in motion until Corypheus is truly dealt with, there is no ignoring that.

"I would like." He admits it gently, calmly. It's an honest sentiment too. He could spend hours walking the Fade here, delving into memories and learning more of this version of the world, one that he had helped shape and mould, but his own memories of the battle are still too fresh. He would rather walk with her tonight, freeing his mind from his own memories.

"I am certain. Your company is preferable, vhenan."

"Then I shall gladly spend my slumber with you," Galadriel tells him and lets out a short, comfortable sigh. It is good to see him, to be with him, and she had not relished the idea of sleeping without his aid. Now it is a variable she shall not need to face and for that she is both relieved and grateful.

"Perhaps we might seek out slumber now, in melda," she suggests and catches herself before she yawns, stifling the motion to a short shifting of her features. "This day is already far longer than it should have been."

He would come to her even if he intended to slip into the Fade to walk dreams and memories, he thinks. The fact that Galadriel might ask for his aid in sleep, that he might do something to comfort her, to offer her support... It would be only right, considering his feelings, considering what she has come to mean to him, considering what she has done for him. He does not have the heart to reject her no more than he has the heart to do anything but offer her his own in return.

"If you wish." Solas' smile is soft and fond for her, already so close there is no disguising her tiredness, her exhaustion. They are both spent: sleep would do them good. "Do you have a tent already?"

"I do," she answers and leans back, just so, to catch her bearings and determine where it is. It takes a moment of staring at the haphazard grey camp but she determines their destination eventually. Her smile takes on just a hint of longsuffering and then apology as she turns it back to him.

"It is a bit of a walk, I fear, but I do enjoy walking with you."

She makes to stand, then, and briefly feels her great age in the stiffness that has settled over her.

Solas' gaze follows her own and he watches, searching out the camp. He thinks that he suspects which one might be hers, but he will allow her to guide him anyway. There's no hesitation to him as he rises to his feet, not concerned with the inches of height she has on him. It has never been an issue, and he can look at her with fondness no matter how much taller she might be.

"I can manage a walk to a tent, vhenan. Lead the way."

Carefully, so as not to insult or make any unkind suggestion, he offers his arm.

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