[ The series of choices that have brought Aedan to this exact moment in time have each been more questionable than the last, but that's a statement that can be largely applied to most of his life. Slowly climbing the stairs to the Inquisitor's chambers, the Hero of Ferelden can't help but wish he had a do-over on some of them.
He's never felt comfortable surrounded by brick and stone, especially when that brick and stone sits on top of a mountain as high as this one. Even at Vigil's Keep, technically his home thanks to yet more questionable decisions, Aedan could never sleep what with being so surrounded by deep granite walls. The mighty slabs that make up Skyhold's ramparts are each thicker and wider than Aedan can reach his arms across and the thought of being trapped by them makes him more homesick for the deep forests of Ferelden than ever before. Give him ancient oakwoods and the black-dense heart of the Brecilian forest any day; here, standing in the stone fortress of the Inquisitor herself, Aedan feels quite nervous.
Not that it shows, not for a second. Aedan is as grinning and confident as ever, accepting the Inquisitor's brimming goblet of ruby red wine with a feigned easy pleasure. The smell of it is heady and rich, reminding him of long nights of feasting in his father's hall at Highever when he was still a young man. He can remember those days with brighter fondness now, ten years removed from the vicious slaughter at the hand of Lord Howe that had robbed him and his brother of so much. ]
My honour isn't worth drinking to much these days, [ he jokes lightly. Honour was something largely forgotten, a distant quality of courtly lords and ladies. It doesn't really apply to the half-wild Warden Commander who slept in a ditch last night. It was no wonder that nobody believed who he was until Leliana arrived to yell at him and hug him with equal force. He'd had twigs in his hair. The Warden Commander of Ferelden shouldn't have twigs in his hair.
Now, verified as the real thing, he lifts the glass in one dirt-lined hand, tilting his head as he considers a toast. ]
To the Inquisition, [ he proclaims after a moment of thought, finishing with a smirk: ] Thank the Maker it's you leading it and not me.
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He's never felt comfortable surrounded by brick and stone, especially when that brick and stone sits on top of a mountain as high as this one. Even at Vigil's Keep, technically his home thanks to yet more questionable decisions, Aedan could never sleep what with being so surrounded by deep granite walls. The mighty slabs that make up Skyhold's ramparts are each thicker and wider than Aedan can reach his arms across and the thought of being trapped by them makes him more homesick for the deep forests of Ferelden than ever before. Give him ancient oakwoods and the black-dense heart of the Brecilian forest any day; here, standing in the stone fortress of the Inquisitor herself, Aedan feels quite nervous.
Not that it shows, not for a second. Aedan is as grinning and confident as ever, accepting the Inquisitor's brimming goblet of ruby red wine with a feigned easy pleasure. The smell of it is heady and rich, reminding him of long nights of feasting in his father's hall at Highever when he was still a young man. He can remember those days with brighter fondness now, ten years removed from the vicious slaughter at the hand of Lord Howe that had robbed him and his brother of so much. ]
My honour isn't worth drinking to much these days, [ he jokes lightly. Honour was something largely forgotten, a distant quality of courtly lords and ladies. It doesn't really apply to the half-wild Warden Commander who slept in a ditch last night. It was no wonder that nobody believed who he was until Leliana arrived to yell at him and hug him with equal force. He'd had twigs in his hair. The Warden Commander of Ferelden shouldn't have twigs in his hair.
Now, verified as the real thing, he lifts the glass in one dirt-lined hand, tilting his head as he considers a toast. ]
To the Inquisition, [ he proclaims after a moment of thought, finishing with a smirk: ] Thank the Maker it's you leading it and not me.