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Despite the harsh sunlight of the Antivan summer, a delightful haze hung over Josephine and her wife, Ariadne. Strawberry wine and rose red blushes as they admired her garden -- their garden now. Mama and Papa had handed over the Montilyet estate to Josephine shortly after the pair of them retired from the Inquisition, and there was finally time for just the two of them. No saving the world, no leading armies. Just spending simple time together, living a life where the small things mattered.
Such as: "Josephine, I bought you a red ink made from rocks on the Wandering Hills."
Or: "Hosting Fulgeno's sycophants was dreadfully boring affair, but we did close the trade deal."
And also: "The Otrantos have finally deigned to visit us. Will I need to hide the sabres, my love?"
It was peaceful to worry about rebuilding the Montilyet fleet and what they would have for breakfast. To watch Ari charm the Antivan nobility and earn debts of gratitude from Crow houses. At least for the time being, there was time to lounge in their gardens without fear and sip strawberry wine stolen from the Rivaini pirates accosting the Montilyet fleets.
Ari's fingers gently rubbed Josephine's scalp, watching as her mabari chased a butterfly. There, among the daisies and dandelions popping up through the clover, a thought struck Josephine's mind. The dark expanse of Ari's thighs was just slightly exposed with how her skirts fell. So, Josie twisted her head to kiss the inside of Ari's knee, then to the bare skin of her thigh. Then she ran her lips along the top of her other thigh, making an extra loud sound over a particularly gnarly scar.
And above her was the laugh of the Herald of Andraste, blessing her now and forever more.