Note: The prompt was 'hand holding' and this story features my Anwen Trevelyan and Cullen.

The trees look different.

They used to be carefully manicured; wayward branches hacked down by fastidious gardeners to keep them in neat cubes. It was a fashion brought to Ostwick from Orlais, a little precious perhaps for the Free Marches but Lady Trevelyan had always been a bit fussy in her style. Anwen had liked the trees as a child, they reminded her of the brightly-coloured wooden blocks that she'd hoarded at the back of her wardrobe long after she'd grown too old to play with them.

Now the branches twist haphazardly against a featureless, grey sky; thick, black boughs holding aloft a goldening canopy. They make the castle seem smaller, somehow, these tall, wild chestnuts looming towards the parapets.

Or perhaps Anwen is just taller now.

She had been on the cusp of adulthood when she'd left, a frightened teenager disappearing into the night carrying a bundle of hastily chosen possessions and cloaked in the shame of her newly manifested magic. Now, over a decade later, the prodigal Trevelyan returns, this time cloaked in the green mantle of the Inquisition and accompanied with an entourage that would put royalty to shame.

It had been Josephine's idea of course, her idea that Anwen should reconnect with her estranged family (after all such connections could potentially prove beneficial for the Inquisition), and her idea that Anwen should return home with the full pomp and ceremony befitting someone of her position.

Standing at the foot of the path leading to the castle, flanked on each side by these alien trees, Anwen feels oddly cold. Her body is stiff, feet planted immovably to the cobbled road, and as she peers up at the familiar, grey turrets and spires, she finds herself clenching and unfurling her fists in an attempt to force some warmth into her numb fingers.

Suddenly the air shifts beside her and she doesn't need to turn her head to know that it's Cullen. He is, as always, a steady presence at her side, a constant stalwart, and she finds it an immense relief that he makes no attempt to speak to her, to cheer or encourage. Anwen has always found silence more comforting than empty platitudes.

After a few heartbeats of stillness, she feels a tentative brush of warmth against her fingertips. Slowly, Cullen's fingers entwine with her own, capturing her palm against his, and for the first time since Castle Trevelyan came into view on the horizon, sensation begins to creep back into her extremities.

She smiles, and it's a fragile, brittle thing, but it's the first smile she's managed in a long while and it's good to feel that familiar tug in her cheeks.

"They were going to send me away," she says at last, so quiet that she's not even sure Cullen heard her until she sees his small nod at the edge of her vision. "They were going to send me to the Circle. And I didn't want to go. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life trapped within stone walls."

He gives her hand a small squeeze, a fleeting gesture of reassurance.

"What are you supposed to say to the people who wanted to lock you away for the rest of your life?" she asks, and she hates that she sounds so self-pitying, hates the tremulous quiver that threatens to render her softly-spoken words all but inaudible.

"Why don't you start with… hello," he says, just the barest whisper of humour colouring his words, "and you can figure out the rest from there."

The laugh that bubbles from her throat comes as a surprise to her and when she turns to finally look at Cullen, she's delighted to see his own face crumpled with laughter. Relief washes over her as the final vestiges of anxiety loosen their grip on her limbs, and she curls her body into his, tucking herself into the familiar space beneath his chin. She can feel his gentle chuckling through the bobbing of his chest and for a time they just stand, bodies pressed together, as their laughter mingles in the crisp, Autumnal air.

"So this must be pretty nerve-wracking for you as well," she chimes with a sing-song voice that's partially muffled against his travelling leathers.

"What do you mean?"

"Well you're meeting my parents, Cullen. That's a pretty big deal."

He suddenly goes still, his laughter quelled, and she can feel his limbs stiffen against her. "I never thought of it like that."

She leans back far enough so that she can see his face, and he grimaces with such child-like petulance that she can't help it when her lips spread into a wicked grin. "I mean I must be pretty serious about you."

His smile quickly returns, whatever fear he felt at the prospect of meeting Anwen's family promptly banished. "Good, that's good – because I'm pretty serious about you too."

She has to stretch to her tip-toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips, a sweet, tender kiss proffered as thanks. Thank you for being here. Thank you for making me brave.

When she steps away from him, turning to face the towering castle once more, Anwen feels fortified by a renewed determination. Because though she was alone when she left home all those years ago, she is not alone anymore, and there is something startlingly glorious in such a simple revelation. And as she walks under the dappled canopy of golden chestnuts, Cullen's hand firmly ensconced in her own, Anwen can concede that perhaps the trees are better as they are now, tall and wild and free.