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johaerys-writes · 4 years

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Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 23: Traitors and Tales

Tristan finally meets Hawke’s Warden contact, the infamous Loghain Mac Tir. Everyone knows him as the Traitor Teyrn, yet he isn’t the only one whose loyalty is in question.

Read here or on AO3!

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“You’re Loghain Mac Tir?” Tristan breathed, blinking in disbelief. “ The Loghain Mac Tir?”

The man before him stood tall and proud in his Grey Warden uniform. The uniform itself had seen better days, worn at the cuffs and its metal buckles dull with time and wear, but one wouldn’t know it by the way the Warden held himself. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, his unflinching gaze fixed on Tristan. He had an imposing presence, seeming to take much more space in the room than a man of his size should, and the look of someone that expected his commands to be obeyed, no matter who he was talking to. And they probably would.

Still. Tristan could not possibly be talking to the Loghain Mac Tir.

“The Traitor Teyrn?” the man said. His brows drew down in a frown, the lines of his forehead deepening. “The very same. I assume you’ve heard all the names. I’ve been a Warden for ten years, yet I’ll never be considered anything else.”

So. It really was him. The man that had risked losing Ferelden and the rest of Thedas to the darkspawn, that had doomed King Cailan and the vast majority of the Grey Wardens to death at the battle of Ostagar. The man that had plotted and schemed to keep himself in power, even when most Banns were against him. The man who had been forced to join an Order he had betrayed, and for all intents and purposes was now about to betray again. That was the man that Hawke had brought him to meet, that would give him answers about the state of the world.

Tristan frowned. They would have a lot to say after this.

“Hawke here tells me that you know why the Grey Wardens have disappeared,” he said, crossing his arms before his chest. “You believe that Corypheus might have something to do with it.”

“That is correct,” Loghain replied, his voice calm and steady. “It is my belief that Corypheus is the key. After Hawke killed him, Weisshaupt was content to forget the entire affair. But if I’ve learnt anything from all those years of being a Warden, it’s that blighted creatures can survive even seemingly mortal wounds. Why not Corypheus?” He turned away, taking a step towards the old desk, where maps and scrolls were laid out. “I began to investigate. I found evidence, but no proof. Soon after, all the Wardens started hearing the Calling.”

“The Calling?” Tristan asked. He didn’t know much about the Grey Wardens, at least not as much as he would like. The Order had a way of keeping their affairs firmly behind the doors of their fortresses, and with the Blight having ended all those years before they had slowly but steadily faded into a state of semi-obscurity. Yet, that “Calling” definitely sounded ominous to him.

He glanced at Hawke, whose face had taken on a sickly pallor.

“So, the Wardens think their time has come,” he said slowly. “That they are being called into the Deep Roads, to make their final stand against the Blight before the Taint takes them. They think they’re… dying.” His fists tightened, and the muscles in his jaw clenched. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t believe it concerned you.” Loghain looked at Hawke over his shoulder, and Tristan thought he saw something akin to compassion flashing in those icy blue eyes, pale like the morning sky on a frosty winter’s day. Hawke’s gaze remained cold. Cold and angry.

A ball of apprehension settled in Tristan’s stomach. From the little he had seen of Hawke, he seemed like a man that was phased by very little. What was it about the Calling that could make him so angry?

Loghain let out a soft sigh as he turned around to face them. “The Calling is a portent, like crows circling the battlefield before the fighting. First, come the dreams. Then the whispers, just at the edge of hearing. That is when the Warden goes to the Deep Roads, to die with honor. But few people, even amongst the Wardens, know that the Calling is simply a sign of the Taint taking over. A Warden that hears the Calling can’t think clearly. All of the Grey Wardens hearing the Calling at once… that’s madness.”

“So, that’s why they’re hiding. They’re all in a panic,” Varric said. He was a little way away, leaning against the wall of the cave, his features obscured by the dancing shadows of the torch above him.

Loghain nodded. “They are.”

“Corypheus is imitating the Calling to scare them. And the Wardens are playing right into his hand.” Tristan shook his head, his frown deepening. “We need the Warden’s help, now more than ever. This is the worst possible time for them to be falling for a trick like that.”

“This is no mere trick, Inquisitor,” Loghain said. “I can hear too, at the back of my mind. Sometimes I catch myself humming it under my breath. I know it’s false, but that doesn’t make it any less real. The Wardens believe it is real, and that is all that matters.”

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his blood pounding at his temples. This was bad. Oh, this was very bad.

“Can you hear it, too, Blackwall?” he asked, turning to the only other Warden in his party.

Blackwall drew himself up, his eyes darting to Loghain and then to him. “I do not fear the Calling. Worrying about it only gives it power.”

Hawke’s gaze snapped momentarily to him, before returning to Loghain. His brows were drawn in a thoughtful frown, his lips pinched in a tight line.

Loghain gave Blackwall a look that coming from any other man would have looked like a glare, but the Warden just seemed... perplexed. He was watching them all carefully. At times, it felt as though not a single movement went unnoticed by his pale blue eyes. It probably didn’t.

Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath, hoping to ease the pressure of the headache that had started taking hold, an iron cinch around his skull. What Loghain was saying was outrageous. If Corypheus did indeed have that much control over the Wardens, they were all probably doomed.

That was… If what Loghain said was true. And Tristan still had little proof of that.

He fixed him with a hard look. Time for more questions, it seemed.

“We met some Grey Wardens just before coming here,” he told Loghain. “They wanted to take you back to Weisshaupt for questioning. Apparently, the Warden-Commander of the Grey Wardens herself has ordered your capture. Why?”

Loghain returned his inquisitive gaze with a calm and composed one of his own. “Warden-Commander Clarel ordered an urgent meeting with all the Warden Commanders after it became known that all Wardens hear the Calling. She insisted, and most Wardens agreed with her, that a new Blight, perhaps the more devastating to date, is close at hand. She proposed a ritual involving blood magic. A desperate measure to prevent further blights. I protested the plan, called it madness. They tried to arrest me.”

Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but Solas was faster. He took a step forward, straightening up to his full height as he came to stand next to Tristan.

“What sort of ritual is this?” he asked Loghain. “What are the Wardens planning to do?” His voice was… not panicked. Not exactly. But there was the sort of urgency that was now gripping Tristan’s breath, too.

Loghain stared at Solas in confusion for a quick moment, then shook his head. “I do not know. Clarel wouldn’t say how she planned to do it, or where she had gotten the idea for it. Even had she said, I am no mage. Any details would be lost on me. But I know that tampering with blood magic is never a good idea. I wasn't the only one to oppose it, but my voice rings the loudest, I suppose.”

Sola’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing more.

“Where are they planning to do this ritual?” Hawke asked. Straight to the heart of the issue.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Loghain said. “I still have some informants in the Wardens, but they’re getting harder and harder to track down. I need time.”

“Time that, unfortunately, we do not have,” Solas replied quietly, and Loghain shot him a sharp look, his lips tightening visibly.

“Solas is right,” Tristan agreed. “If Corypheus is using them, things are infinitely more dire than originally thought. The Wardens cannot fall into Corypheus’ hands. If another Blight breaks out, there will be no one to stop it.”

"I'll do what I can," the grizzled Warden said, his expression stony and unyielding. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, Inquisitor, I have work to do. There's too much at stake to waste time with idle talk. "

*** Tristan was seething by the time they left the dark cave. Almond was chewing on a patch of sad and rain-soaked grass when he approached her. For a moment, he wished he was as untroubled as she was.

“We should water the horses,” he said, running a palm over her neck. “We have been riding them non-stop for hours.”

Blackwall nodded, and untied his own bay gelding’s reins. “I saw a small a creak on our way here. There were no darkspawn that I could see, but we should be wary.”

The brook that Blackwall led them to was narrow and bubbling, running swiftly over flat and slimy rocks. It was at the bottom of a small ravine, and finding a way around the large stones that seemed to sprout from every bit of ground was tricky, but in the end Blackwall was able to spot a path that would lead the horses there safely. By that time, the light drizzle had turned into proper rainfall, pattering on the hood of Tristan’s coat, running in small rivulets down his leather breeches, slithering into his boots and soaking his socks. If there was a place more miserable than this, Tristan didn’t know of it.

Cursing, he took out his flask from his coat pocket. Thankfully, he had remembered to bring it with him this time. The brandy -Antivan, earthy and aromatic- did work somewhat in warming him up. It didn’t do much to calm him down, though.

Loghain’s information had unsettled him to his very core. If everything he had said was true, then Corypheus had full control of one of the biggest military orders in Thedas, and the only one that could stand against a Blight. And if the Wardens were indeed preparing a blood ritual…

That had given Tristan pause. Why did it suddenly seem like everybody and their aunts were doing a blood ritual of some sort?

His fingers tightened around the mouth of his flask until his knuckles went white. Everything was so complicated and convoluted, that no matter how hard he tried to pick the threads apart, they kept getting tangled. If Dorian were there, he might have been able to talk through all this mess with him. He always seemed to have some brilliant insight to offer that Tristan hadn’t even thought of, no matter the subject at hand. And he always did have a way of asking all the right questions. Had he been there during the meeting with Loghain, he would have pressed the old Warden in a way none of the others could, gleaned every bit of information he held.

That was, if Loghain could be trusted. Something that was still very much in doubt.

The smell of burning smoking leaf reached him, and he glanced beside him at its source. Hawke had come to stand next to him, the soft orange glow of his pipe illuminating his face from within the darkness of his cowl. It unnerved Tristan more than he cared to admit that he never heard him walking up to him.

Hawke exhaled a thick, silvery cloud of smoke, then extended the pipe to him. “Want some?”

Tristan wrinkled his nose and looked away. “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Hawke replied with a shrug.

He might have been mistaken, but Tristan thought the rain was falling harder now, making him shiver and retreat further into his cloak. Or perhaps it was Hawke’s presence that was making him uneasy. There was something about him, something nagging at him, like an itch at the back of his brain that he couldn’t scratch. He took another sip of brandy to steel himself.

“How do you know Loghain?”

His question was abrupt, and his tone a tad sharper than he had intended. He felt Hawke stiffen beside him.

“I was looking for a friend when I learnt about the Grey Warden’s disappearance,” Hawke said simply. He brought his pipe up to his lips. Inhaled. Exhaled. The smoke blew past his lips, dispersing in the rain and wind around them. “I contacted Weisshaupt under an assumed name. Loghain happened to be in charge, and asked me to meet him. He already had his doubts about the Order at that time, so when he learnt who I was and what I had done, he offered to help.”

“I… see.” Tristan took another sip of brandy. Hawke’s answer had given rise to more questions, none of which would help enlighten him in the slightest. There was something missing still. Something in Hawke’s tone that he couldn’t put his finger on.

“Does my answer not satisfy you?”

Tristan bristled at his curt tone. He opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking.

“I suppose it comes as a surprise that you would trust someone like him for information,” he said carefully after a short while.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

His gaze met Hawke’s in an unabashed stare. “Was that a serious question?”

“I’m not sure. Was yours?”

Tristan frowned with the challenge in the other man’s voice. He took a deep breath, preparing to go straight for the offensive.“Loghain is known across Thedas as a traitor. He has betrayed country and king, and not just once. Now he’s willing to betray the plans of his own Order, an Order he has betrayed the past. You must be able to see my reservations,” he spat, making sure his words packed as much derision as he could fit into them. He turned to gaze at Almond, calmly drinking water, oblivious to the tension that had settled thick around them. When he threaded his fingers through her thick mane he realised they were trembling slightly, and he quickly shoved his hand back within the folds of his cloak. “You’ll be hard-pressed to find a person in the whole of Thedas that he hasn’t crossed.”

Hawke huffed a laugh. “The same could be said of me. Or you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Every time I hear news of you, you’ve made a new enemy. After your support of the mages, half the Templars and the Chantry would want nothing more than your Inquisition declared a heretical organisation and your head on a pike. Does that mean you can’t be trusted?”

“That’s hardly one and the same,” Tristan retorted, his irritation flaring hot and bright. “I had reasons for doing what I did. I did it to make people’s lives better, the only way I could at the time.”

“Anyone you ask will give you the same answer. I did what I did to make people’s lives better, or so I thought. And so did Loghain, I’m sure.”

Tristan scowled at him. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

Hawke turned around to face him, his expression very serious all of a sudden. “You forget that I’m a Fereldan first, Inquisitor, and then a Marcher. I know very well what he has done, and what his actions have cost the world. Still, he’s the only one that can help us at this point. What he has done in the past is irrelevant, compared to what he is willing to offer now. Sometimes, you have to suspend your disbelief in the face of utter chaos. Especially when you have no other options. Which I’m sure you don’t.”

Tristan gaped at him, his pulse beating madly against his throat. He tore his gaze away when he realised he had been staring, clicking his tongue in disgust. Almond whickered softly when he pulled her away from the creek and placed his foot on the stirrup.

“Let’s go,” he called to the others, deliberately steering his horse around Hawke, as if he were nothing but a tree trunk in his way. “It’s getting dark.”

No one spoke a word as they got on their horses. A deep, pensive silence had fallen over them all, the clop of their horses' hooves one the stony ground and the pattering of the rain the only sounds for a long while. They passed through empty villages and abandoned huts, their thatched roofs rotting on sopping wet beams.

The Grey Wardens they had met were not lying about the darkspawn either. Their eerie, guttural sounds and the hollow clanking of their decrepit armours echoed in the grey darkness that spread around them as the day rolled on. They took care not to venture too close to any of the abandoned settlements, staying clear off the main road. The darkspawn, oddly, left them alone. Soon, Blackwall started talking with Varric, and Hawke joined in their conversation, and it almost - almost - felt like things were back to normal. Only they weren't.

As he swayed rhythmically on his saddle, Tristan's head felt as if it were about to burst.

He let out a soft sigh and rubbed his eyes with his free hand, wishing for a miracle that would somehow end his troubles. The lightning strike that fell just a few feet away, making a sad, leafless tree explode, would have been ideal. Alas, his luck didn’t extend so far.

“We should look for the nearest Inquisition camp,” Varric said, his voice muffled from within his hood. “I’m not staying in this rain for much longer.”

“Ah, how I’ve missed this,” Hawke said with a wide smile. His earlier somberness seemed to have completely disappeared, as though he and Tristan had never exchanged a word.“Still haven’t found your love for the outdoors, old friend?”

Varric huffed a laugh, that was broken up by a shiver. “Don’t think I ever will, Poppy.”

“Poppy?” Blackwall asked. “Where did that come from?”

Varric opened his mouth to speak, when Hawke interjected. "Something that happened many, many years ago. I'm sure Varric will spare us all from hearing it.”

“No way I'm leaving our friends in the dark, Hawke!” Varric chuckled. “It's Captain Poppy, to be exact. Do you want to tell them the story, or shall I?"

Hawke rolled his eyes. “I had hoped we would avoid that, but some things are just too much to hope for, aren’t they?”

“You’re damned right they are!” Varric said cheerfully. “I’ll say it if you don’t want to. I’m a far better narrator anyway.” The dwarf straightened up on his saddle and cleared his throat, taking on a serious expression. “It was a dark and cloudless night in Lothering. Our hero - Hawke- was returning from a night at his favourite pub, The Frisky Minstrel-”

“The Tipsy Minstrel, Varric,” Hawke corrected. “She was tipsy, not frisky.”

“Let the writer embellish his stories in the way he sees fit, will you?” Varric protested. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. It was a dark and cloudless night in the dead of winter when Hawke was approached by a nefarious stranger. “Greetings, young master,” the man said. “I am looking for someone to undertake an important quest.””

“What was the quest?” Blackwall asked. He seemed enthralled in Varric’s story.

“I was just getting there,” Varric said, shooting him a pointed look. He cleared his throat again, making his voice deep and raspy. “”Smuggle five sacks of poppy seeds on a small boat, under cover of darkness, from Lothering to a secret port in Redcliffe,” the stranger said. “That is all you need to do.” Hawke, as you can imagine, was intrigued. The quest was simple. The reward was handsome.”

Blackwall let out a short huff. “I bet you five sovereigns there were way more than ten sacks on that boat.”

“Hold on to your gold, Warden,” Hawke said somewhat gruffly, but the amused smirk on his lips hadn’t faded.

Varric made a dramatic pause, eyeing his audience. Even Solas had shifted slightly on his saddle to listen. Pleased, he continued. “Without hesitation, Hawke took up the man’s offer. “Aye, nefarious stranger,” said he. “I’ll do as you ask. I may be young, but I sure am brave.” Thus, our brave, young hero, still wet behind the ears and hanging from his mother’s skirts-”

“Alright, I think that’s quite enough,” Hawke stopped him, laughing. “You’re still as terrible a storyteller as you’ve always been, Varric.”

Varric’s eyes widened dramatically, and he looked at Hawke with an expression of wild affront. “Well, then why don’t you go on more interesting adventures so I don’t have to embellish as much?”

Tristan didn’t realise he had been listening attentively to their conversation, until Hawke turned towards him. “Don’t listen to him, Inquisitor,” he said affably, his smile dripping with barely concealed mockery. “Varric has a way of coming up with the most extravagant tales. You should hear what he says about you when you’re not around.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and looked ahead of him, scowling. How he wanted to wipe that smug grin off Hawke’s face. With his fist, preferably.

“Now, now, I’ve never talked about Blondie behind his back! Well. Perhaps only once or twice. And when my audience asked for it. Quite insistently, I may add,” Varric replied with a laugh. “Even Chuckles here has been known to enjoy my stories from time to time.” His wide smile didn’t falter an inch when Solas snorted derisively.

“It’s fascinating how whatever interest I lack in your stories, you’ll invent for me,” the elf retorted.

Blackwall let out a loud guffaw. “He’s got you there, Varric.”

The sudden din of battle in the distance cut everyone’s laughter short. Tristan pulled on Almond’s reins and glanced around him, trying to locate the source of the sound. A cloud of smoke rose towards the darkened sky, and it did not look like the smoke of a campfire.

“That must be coming from Crestwood village,” Hawke said, drawing his steed next to Tristan’s. “It looks like they’re under attack.”

“From whom?” Tristan asked, and felt foolish for asking.

Hawke gave him a wry, arrogant smile and kicked his stallion forward, its large hooves splashing in the mud as it picked up its pace. “We won’t know until we get there, will we now?”

#dorian pavus #dorian pavus fic #dorian fic #dorian x trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #dorian/inquisitor #dorian/trevelyan #pavelyan #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #dorian x tristan trevelyan #aedan hawke #loghain mac tir #a world with you #johaerys writes

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safe-and-solid · 5 years

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Misconceptions (Modern Cullen x Trevelyan AU)

Zara and Cullen had always been rivals, ever since adolescence. She found him too idealistic and naive; he thought she was insensitive and selfish. Training in the same regiment under Zara’s father only grew their hatred, and when Cullen is deployed to Fereldan at 18, they are glad to see the back of each other.

Twelve years later, they return to each other’s lives in the most unlikely of places; Val Royeaux, the last place they would have expected the other to be. Forced together by fate, will the two of them ever be able to settle their differences? An enemies-to-lovers modern tale of Cullen Rutherford and Zara Trevelyan.

AO3

Chapter One

Crowds of people were huddled together throughout the room, dancing, chatting, cheering. The lights danced, hues changing from pink to purple to blue, and the bass of the music thudded against the walls. Decorations were hung randomly, and any available surface was littered with empty bottles and plastic cups, providing a pungent alcoholic smell.

Zara sat in the corner of the room, observing the party. If anyone she had met that night was around, it was impossible to tell – the coloured lights made recognising faces difficult, even without any alcohol in her system. She could introduce herself to someone new, but she was weary of talking to strangers, so instead, she sipped her wine quietly, watching the party carry on without her.

She could seek out Cassandra – it was Cass who had invited her, after all – but by the rowdy chants from the next room, she was still arm-wrestling various men, egged on after each victory. Not drunk enough for that, Zara decided. Josephine and Leliana were the only two others she really knew, and they had disappeared to find a ‘real party’ a while ago.

She sighed to herself, allowing a moment of loneliness. She had wanted to come tonight and make friends, be someone new, and yet she still found herself sitting on the sidelines, watching others have fun instead. She scanned the room for someone, anyone interesting to talk to, and that was when she spotted him.

* More under the cut. *

Cullen Rutherford. Cullen fucking Rutherford. It had been years since she had last seen him, and he had changed drastically, but his features, his stoic expression was undeniably Cullen. His hair was smoothed, no longer a mess of wanton curls, and he was taller. Or just less lanky? She couldn’t tell. She shook her head in disbelief.

He was standing alone nursing a beer, leaning against a wall. Clearly, he was having as much fun as her at this party. Talking to him wouldn’t be a good idea, she told herself. You hate each other, you’ll only end up getting pissed off.

But she was bored, and her curiosity piqued. Why was he in Orlais, of all places? Who did he know at this party? Besides, the only people she knew were gone or pre-occupied, and despite the few others she had spoken to that night, the only face she recognised was his, and although she despised him, she despised being bored more.

She sauntered over, wearing a smug smile as he noticed her approach. Her smile only grew as he rolled his eyes, groaning, looking decidedly in any direction other than hers. She crossed his path deliberately, forcing him to make eye contact, and sidled against the wall next to him swirling her wine.

She waited for him to speak.

“Trevelyan,” he uttered curtly.

“Rutherford,” she slithered, each syllable a delicate sound. “What a surprise to see you here, of all places. Last I heard you were still serving under Meredith in Kirkwall.”

He glanced at her, straight-faced. “I thought moving to Orlais would place me further away from you. Clearly, I was wrong.”

She feigned a gasp. “How rude! Looks like you’ve grown a backbone, Cullen. Get sick of being her lap dog, did you?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be disappointing your father in Ostwick? Who invited you here?”

“Cassandra. I know Josephine and Leliana from a while ago, so she thought it would be good for me to reacquaint myself, get to know some new people. It’s good to make friends in your new home town, isn’t it?”

“Maker, don’t tell me you’re moving here?” He turned fully towards her then, his face adorned with a look of utter disgust. The fact she had avoided his initial question hadn’t missed him, but this was a much more pressing matter.

“Well, don’t be too excited. I moved in last week.” He groaned in response. “I’m not exactly happy to find you here either, Cullen.”

“Good. You can leave.”

“Ha! When did you learn to talk back?”

Cullen neglected to respond, opting to instead take a long swig of his beer.

“Just when you think you’re rid of someone…” he muttered.

Cassandra came over to them then, a wide grin on her face. The drink had tinged her cheeks pink, and she seemed much merrier than normal.

“Here I was going to introduce you two, but you’ve already found each other!” She gave Cullen an affectionate pat on the arm. “Cullen, this is-

“Zara Trevelyan. Yeah, we’re quite well acquainted, Cass.” The lack of amusement on his face was lost on Cassandra.

“Oh, good! I’ve wanted to introduce you two-”

“Cassandra, you definitely aren’t driving me home in this state. Give me your keys,” Zara interrupted.

“I gave them to Leliana. She didn’t give them to you?” Cassandra frowned.

“No, she didn’t. And now she’s left.”

“Oh, that’s-“

“Cass, I don’t even know my way home!”

Cassandra thought for a moment, then squeezed Cullen’s arms. “You live around the corner from each other! Cullen, you can walk her home, can’t you? Rue des Boulangers, only a minute from yours.”

“I don’t know if that’s-“ Cullen tried to make an excuse, but Cassandra was adamant.

“Thank you, Cullen. And Zara, I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you.” And off she went, returning to a cheering crowd of very athletic looking men.

A moment of silence fell between them, dumbfounded at the turn of events. Zara squinted at Cullen. “There is no way in hell you are walking me home.”

An hour later, Zara was begrudgingly walking alongside Cullen, clutching her arms to her sides for warmth. The middle of the night in Wintermarch was relentlessly cold, even in Orlais, and she had neglected to bring any coat to the party. Between the weather and her current companion, she had not let go of the scowl on her face.

Cullen noticed her shivering and chattering teeth, rolling his eyes. How very Zara to forget such a necessity. He took pity on her, despite himself, and began to shrug his outer layer off.

“Look, take my coat,” he began. “I’ve got four layers on and you’re obviously freezing”

“Absolutely not.”

“Just take the damn coat, Zara.”

She exhaled deeply in defeat. “Fine.” She let him drape his jacket over her and begrudgingly hugged it around herself. “I thought Orlais was supposed to be warmer than Fereldan.”

“It’s Orlais, not Antiva. Winter is still winter. You’re the idiot without a coat.”

“I thought I would be getting a lift home,” she grumbled in response.

Cullen sighed. It was going to be a long walk at this rate.

“Why did you move to Orlais?” he asked.

“Don’t act like you care, Cullen.”

“I don’t. I’m just trying to make the next twenty minutes less miserable.”

“Such a gentleman,” she retorted. “I had to leave my job in Fereldan. Thought this was as good a place as any.”

“You were in Fereldan?” Cullen frowned.

“Yeah, nine years I lived there.”

“I’m surprised your father trusted you enough to let you out of his sight.”

“We can’t all be prized students,” she spat.

“Maybe if you cared about something other than yourself, you would have done better,” he shrugged. Twelve years apart, and it was still the same.

“Oh, piss off, Rutherford. Just because I refuse Chantry indoctrination doesn’t mean I don’t care about anything. You’re just naïve.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Trevelyan.”

“I hate you,” she said.

“I hate you too,” he replied.

#original #misconceptions #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #cullen romance #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x zara #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age #da

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eavangeek · 2 years

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Guns and Roses: Ch. 10 - Carta Bloodlines

Pairing: Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Cadash/Cassandra Pentaghast

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: After the Hero of Fereldan in the Dragon Age, The Champion of Kirkwall during the Blood Age, Thedas has been at peace for most of the Silverite Age. However trouble brews between the New Templar Force and the Enchanter Colleges. Agent of Truth, Seeker Pentaghast, has been sent to the Free Marches city of Ostwick to investigate why they have been unaffected by the rise in violence...

Tags: FtM Cadash, Trans Character, Mob Boss/Secret Agent, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Secret Identity, Minor Character Death, Mild Gore

Total Word Count: 103,884

Chapter Word Count: 2869

Author’s Note: There is a lot of set up for the first ten chapters- but looking back on it, I don’t regret doing this the way I did. I wanted to breathe life into Ostwick when we had no real idea of what Ostwick was like in DA:I. Thanks again to y’all who are reading this. Love a good comment, either here on or Ao3.

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Cassandra’s mind was still reeling from the press release. News had already spread to the streets. As she was walking through the Noble District the air was tense. Most of these people were for Maxwell Jr., the existing Teryn. His father, Maxwell Sr., was the Ostwick Senator in the Free Marches Polis. The two men had gone unrivaled for years, decades in the case of Senior. But for Alex Trevelyan to both denounce her noble connections, and then declare she would be running for office in one meeting was dramatic. Chaotic even.

She found a water taxi to go to the ‘Liquid Rush’. The driver nodded, but his smile dropped at hearing the name of the boat. On the water, Cassandra could see that the ‘Floating Market’ was more concentrated by the inland coast and the western peninsula. She could see some boats were celebrating, but whether it was for the cooler weather, or for the announcement of Alex Trevelyan campaign, it was too soon to say. The water was a deep blue, reminding her of Kallak. His Casteless tattoos, which covered his entire scalp, were the same color. His pattern reminded her of arrowheads, the tip settling between his thick eyebrows.

Her mind wandered to the man himself, how he was unlike anyone she had met. She didn’t think 50 to be an old age, since most people could live to eighty easily, but somehow he looked older than most. His brown goatee streaked with grey, his braided sideburns grey at the temples. His head was shaved close to his scalp, but she knew that most men who were losing their hair would opt for that style. His hands had looked as if he had seen some fights, but his physique would have suggested he was more of a rogue than a warrior. And his ears, with vidirium piercings, were tipped. When she first met Kallak, he had his shirt sleeves rolled up to show off his Vallaslin, thin dark blue lines that weaved around his forearms. The same dark blue on his skull, but the design was as if someone had to modify the Dalish markings for thicker forearms, or perhaps for it be hidden under clothing. Could that mean that Kallak had the same markings under his shirt? Cassandra tried to stop that thought, before it ventured to what Kallak would look like shirtless. He was fit but he could be soft in the middle from age. Those thin blue lines on his arms could weave across slim shoulders, moving around to his back and chest-

“Miss?” The water taxi had stopped next to a boat with a red tarp as sun coverage, its patrons sitting in small tables, quiet conversation compared to the neighbouring boats. Cassandra paid the man and stepped onto the ‘Liquid Rush’. A man in spectacles and a worn cotton coat raised his hand to Cassandra. She passed a couple, who stopped talking until she passed by. The man who waved her down was looking at a menu, his thin hair brushed backwards, hiding his bald spot poorly. He didn’t look like a man who was once part of the Ostwick Guard, or even an informant. He looked like an average librarian; the perfect disguise.

“Seeker Pentaghast, I assume? I would have suggested a more, well, less official look for this meeting. But, I am just a local.” The one waitress on the boat came over, and as Cassandra sat down, handed a single menu to the man.

“I’ll have a cup of Spiced Rum and some Maple Cider as well. Are you hungry, Miss Pentaghast? No? Well, I’ll take cucumber sandwich and some vinegar chips on the side.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have any vinegar chips, is dill okay?”

“It’ll do. Thank you.” He waited until she walked away before introducing himself. “Matthew Cleaver, at your service. Jim told me you had some questions about this lovely city of ours.” He waved his hand at the boat, the red tarp turning everything on the ship shades of crimson.

“In the summer, this boat has such a romantic feeling to it you know. This very tarp causes the tables, chairs, food, even the people to turn shades of rose and pink. Today however the sun is not so playful, so I apologize for this bold color.”

“It is fine.” Cassandra heard the distant sound of a champagne cork popping, followed by various shouts. Matthew poured some water that was given beforehand. He took a sip, his pale eyes never leaving her face.

“Quite a scar you have there.” He made a motion, indicating the long jagged line down the side of Cassandra’s face. It was mostly healed, but it still protrude outward. It would most likely remain that way.

“Do you know why everyone here is so happy?” Cassandra said, ignoring the statement.

“Alex Trevelyan has announced her campaign for Teryn. To be perfectly honest it’s about time that someone challenged the current Teryn. He’s an idiot and he trails around his father like a dog.”

“Quiet the accusation.”

“No, it is fact.” Matthew put down his drink, and the waitress came back with a thermal mug, an open ended thermos and two more thermal mugs, empty. He only started talking again when she left.

“So, Jim was rather sparse about your case, hell he didn’t even tell me what you are doing in the city.” Matthew pushed his glasses back up his hawk nose.

“I can not tell you why I am here in the city.” Cassandra lied. “I am simply looking into a cold case at this point in time. In order to-”

“In order to travel around and get information for your mission. Of course.”

“Do not interrupt me.” Matthew paused, his face grew pale at Cassandra’s words. He got over his fear quickly, however, and reached for the full mug.

“Apologies, it has been a while since I was called on for my knowledge.”

“First, what can you tell me about the relationship between the Trevelyan house and Ostwick.”

“Well, the Trevelyans were not prominent during the majority of the Dragon Age. However, during 9:87, Maxwell the First became Champion of Ostwick when he helped rebuild the city from a mine collapse. The mines, as you might be aware, are not just for lyrium. They started out as silverite mines, but when the mines began to go further we found veridium and sapphires. Ostwick college commemorates our miners through the grey in their colors, and our sailors in the sky blue. We may be sitting in a delta, but Ostwick is a port.

“After having a Champion, the Trevelyan House took a rather active part in the state’s politics. Rebuilding went into the Blood Age, ending around 10:08. Here is where it gets interesting. The Trevelyan House has always had close ties to the Chantry, the first daughter and son of course does not become a part of the Faith, however every other child in their bloodline has become a Chantry clerk or Knight Templar. The same practice was found in Starkhaven, as you know of course. But Maxwell the First was not devout. It was recorded that he was a drunk and it was his wife who held the reins when it came to running Ostwick. It was his wife who was able to bring fame and position to their name after Maxwell the First went back to adventuring and whoremongering.

“Now you have Alexandra, who is the youngest of the current household, being everything people are told about the Champion. Just, fair, dramatic! But! She is more like Kirra, the wife of the Champion, in the sense that she’s actually doing something. So you have this woman showing the traits that Ostwick loves and needs. I would be surprised if people weren’t celebrating this. ”

The waitress came over with the sandwich, which Matthew quickly took a bite out of. He drained his cup, and called for another spiced rum. Cassandra took the two empty mugs and poured what she guessed was cider. It was thicker than she expected, but the steam rising from the drink filled her with warmth. She found herself holding the mug, rather than drinking it.

“And what about House Cadash?” She pretended to take a sip of her drink, noticing the pause in Matthew chewing.

“What do you want to know?” Matthew said, swallowing his last bite and leaning forward

“I know that Moma Cadash was supposed to have brought her family here, but nothing more. I know that some of them are part of the Carta…” Cassandra paused. Matthew waited a beat before taking a deep breath and beginning.

“First off, the Cadash aren’t just part of the Carta. They are the Carta. Moma Cadash made sure that Ostwick became the stranglehold and source of lyrium from the Free Marches. Whoever holds the lyrium, holds the power. It used to be Orzammar, but it was found that if you dig deep enough, you can find lyrium, well, anywhere. The Carta made sure that they had a cut if there was a hint of that stone.

“Moma isn’t just some legend, like Maxwell the First. She died in this Age, and didn’t leave a heir. I guess you heard about her four sisters as well? Yes? They all died long before she did. Each was a Noble Hunter in their heyday, and all had kids. Theirs kids had kids. Half of the dwarves in Ostwick have the last name Cadash, even the boys. If you know anything about Dwarven culture, you know that doesn’t happen unless you can trace your bloodline to a Paragon. Orzammar may not have recognized her, hell Kal Sharok sure as shit isn’t recognizing anyone, but here? In Ostwick? You pray to Moma before you pray to the Stone.”

“What made her so powerful? I get the lyrium, but what else?”

“Her compassion.”

“Bullshit.”

“I honestly wish it was. It would have made things easier back then. Moma outlived two Commissioners and three Knight Commanders. She had the first Commissioner on her payroll, the second she made run around in circles until he caved and stuck to harassing the western peninsula. When she came to Ostwick, the Knight Commander at the time was trying to flush the Carta out before they got a hold of the mines. At the time, it was recently found out that lyrium was there. Moma helped him take out most of the street bosses, in exchange for legal documentation for herself, her sisters, and her nieces. Boat licenses, a bar here, and a brothel there. The cherry on top was Moma’s name on the deed to one of three mines. It just so happened that the other two mines had underlying contracts to the street bosses, and when they died, Moma got their cut. When the Knight Commander found out, Moma had him killed.

“The second Knight Commander stayed away from Moma. Why? Moma didn’t get rid of the street bosses through dirty tricks like poison or rigged fights. She would have one of her sisters saddle up next to their second in command, hear from them their treatment of their thugs and workers. She would then open her doors to the same thugs, offering better pay, better community. A thug all of a sudden had a child and didn’t want them to be starving on the streets? He’d go to work for Moma, who would take the child, feed them, clothe them, and sometimes even teach them. Literacy rose in the lower districts and amongst the dwarves because of Moma Cadash. It wasn’t just the dwarven population either. She was given a rocky plot of land, just beyond the double walls. She set up a sanctuary there for elves, and the Alienage began to grow their own food. Recently exiled dwarves taught the local elven population how to grow food from rocks and poor soil, and once you get a tree planted, it’ll product fruit and nuts as well. If the chantry didn’t want to initiate a marriage, Moma would do it. If an elf didn’t want to go with tradition, Moma gave them a new name and a job; all they had to do was ask. Soon enough, the Alienage District was a safe haven, the Carta ruling it better than the Trevelyans had in Ages. The Mines followed, especially after Moma had her name on the deeds. She owned the mines, she ran the lyrium. Moma Cadash had all of Ostwick in her hand in the first ten years of being here, and held control all the way until her death. The Trevelyans in charge of the upper part of Ostwick were pissed off. Told the Knight Commander to do something. When he didn’t, they fired him.

“Third Knight Commander who came around, the one our dear Alex took out of office? He was on Moma’s payroll. When she died, he pulled a 180 and tried to tear down the little communities she made. First it was Vhenadahl, then the mines, and then the College itself. But Moma built loyalty, if nothing else. The Alienage burned down instead of being turned into an upper class shopping mall. The mines stopped running for three years, and the Nobles had no income to speak of. Fishing stopped, the Floating Market lost the majority of its appeal when the pleasure cruises and brewboats, like this one, got off the water. The Trevelyans may be in office, Seeker. But the Cadash Carta runs this city.”

Cassandra felt her stomach drop at every word Matthew said. If what he said was true, then the only reason that Ostwick was peaceful was because of one woman. A woman who has been dead for thirty years, and who wasn’t a Trevelyan.

“If Moma didn’t leave an heir, then who runs this city?”

“If I had to guess, her grandson.”

“But you said-”

“I know, I know.” Matthew seemed to have forgotten Cassandra’s previous threat, “Moma didn’t have a daughter. She had one son, halfway through the last age. He wasn’t in the spotlight much, she probably treated him like any of the other grunts her sisters or nieces gave her. The boy ran off to Orlais. Rumor has it he fell in love with someone, and they lived happily. That is until the Carta arm in Orlais got mad at Moma for rationing them like they were common thugs. The burned down their little shack in the woods, her son burned with his lover. Moma had the Orliasian brutes killed, of course, but there was only one survivor: an infant.” Cassandra felt a chill go down her spine.

“Well, apparently Moma was overjoyed, named the infant, Lapis. Then the kid turned old enough to say that they were a boy, and they changed their name. Kid was never in any records, but after the young boy came out, he dropped off the grid like his father. Moma still loved the boy, he was her only grandchild. But Dwarves have strict rules. Daughters take after their mother's, sons after their fathers.”

“...How do you tell if a Cadash is part of the Carta? I doubt every Cadash is a criminal.” Cassandra faked another sip of cider. Matthew took off his glasses, to clean them, the lens reflecting the crismon of the tarp.

“Well, a Cadash is marked at birth by six black spots on their left thumb. If they do any work for the Carta, they’ll have a ring above these spots. The color will usually tell you what they do. I don’t know what every color means, but you can usually assume that black is assassin. Blue is either an informant or smuggler. White and Red swaps, white used to just mean a Noble hunter or someone who worked on the pleasure cruises. Red though, that can mean security or a miner. But I heard recently that they don’t mark the workers anymore. Understand however that those colors change, and I can be wrong.”

“And if they had a ring around the bottom, below the black spots?” Matthew stopped moving. Cassandra quirked her eyebrow, not knowing what she said wrong. The man leaned in further, his nose incredibly close to Cassandra cup.

“Please don’t tell me you have a body in the morgue with a tattoo like that.”

“I do not.”

“But you do have a body?”

“...Yes.”

“Does it have its thumb?”

“Which one?”

“Don’t try to be smart, Ms Pentaghast, this is not the time for it.”

Cassandra said nothing. Matthew didn’t move. The boat swayed in the breeze, the couple from before laughing together before they kissed. The two then got up and walked over to a passing boat, one with no tarp and several vendors.

“If that body is missing its left thumb, the peace in Ostwick is about to disappear. If your Doe’s left thumb, regardless of race, has two rings, one above and one below six black spots…” Matthew stood up, grabbing his overcoat and throwing some money on the table.

“Then I would suggest you get out of Ostwick. This city has become a war zone.”

#gnr #volkswritten #trans character #male cadash #kallak cadash #cassandra pentaghast #oc x cassandra pentaghast

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shannaraisles · 6 years

Text

Dear Friend - Chapter 3

My festive project. A Modern AU heavily based on The Shop Around The Corner, in which Cullen Rutherford finds love between Satinalia and First Day. [Read on AO3]

Chapter Three

Tonight was the night. Cullen wasn't sure whether he was hopeful or filled with dread at the prospect of finally putting a face to his Dear Friend. Part of him wanted to take Alys with him, purely to use as some kind of human shield, but Mia had already noticed that flicker in his gaze when he'd dropped his daughter off at her house. He'd been told in no uncertain terms that he should man up by an older sister who couldn't stop laughing at the pure terror reflected in her brother's eyes. She'd then launched into a detailed lecture about how he deserved to be happy, how Dear Friend obviously made him happy, and if he backed out now, he would never forgive himself. At which point Alys had chimed in with a promise never to forgive him either if he didn't go along with the plan.

"And here he is, the new Senior Keeper," Varric announced as Cullen made his way into the break-room.

"Ah, so the low-key announcement in pigeon-holes idea was thrown out, then," Cullen drawled, hanging up his coat as Varric pressed his shiny new badge into his hand. "Just what I always wanted."

Cassandra chuckled, patting him on the shoulder before turning back to her bagel. Meal times were odd at the zoo - this time of day, some people were eating lunch, having been in since four that morning; others were eating breakfast before starting their day. Mila was there, too; Cullen could just imagine how she was seething over losing out on the promotion to him. But she surprised him.

"Congratulations," she offered, with a flicker of something that might almost have been a smile. It must have cost a lot to say that to his face.

"Thank you," he responded, surprised that she had the grace to give in so easily.

"Can I ... talk to you at some point?" she asked in a polite tone, seemingly a little wary of initiating a dialogue. "About the enrichment program?"

Cullen sighed, drawing his hand against his neck. "Can you let me settle into this a bit before you start badgering me?"

He knew as soon as he said it that he was being ungracious himself. Mila's almost friendly expression shut down as she stiffened. "Wouldn't want to give my new boss a headache, would I?" she said, just a little bitterly. "Excuse me."

Before Cullen could open his mouth to apologize to her, she was out of the break-room, and both Varric and Cassandra were glaring at him. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he turned to leave the room himself. Well, that went well, he told himself as he headed for the main office to pick up the shift rota and check it over. You really have to stop treating her like she's an argument waiting to happen every time she opens her mouth. Never mind that previous experience had proved that was exactly what Mila Trevelyan was, he was her superior now. He should be able to rise above it and give her the same time he was going to give everyone else. That didn't mean it was going to be particularly fun, though. But it didn't matter today. Not even Mila Trevelyan could spoil his mood today.

Tonight was the night.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea. What if she doesn't like me?"

Cassandra rolled her eyes at him. She'd agreed to walk Cullen to the restaurant since it was on her own way home, and he was vacillating wildly between going through with the meeting or just going home to hate himself for being a coward all evening. She hadn't admitted that she was also walking him there because she wanted to get a look at his mysterious Dear Friend herself.

"I am sure she will be absolutely charmed by you," she informed her friend firmly. "You are not an unattractive man."

Cullen rubbed at his neck nervously as the restaurant came into view, pushing his hand hard into his pocket once again. "What if I don't like her?"

The noise Cassandra made was all too familiar. "Then you are an idiot who cannot see past the superficial, and even Alys knows that is not true," she told him in a sharp tone, coming to a halt before the steps that lead down to the main door, past windows bordered with snowy frost. "Well now, here you are."

But Cullen was frozen to the spot. He could feel himself sweating, this sudden attack of nerves more acute than anything he had ever experienced before. The restaurant sounded crowded, a cacophony of happy voices laughing and talking that spilled out into the quiet street each time the door opened. She was in there. Dear Friend - the actual person, not the words written on a page - was sitting in there, waiting for him. And he couldn't move.

"See if she's there," he blurted out, panic edging his tone as he met Cassandra's eyes with pleading hope. Please don't go until we've established that I am being an idiot.

"I don't know what she looks like," she pointed out. But that was her only objection, it seemed - the romantic in his friend was enough to make her very eager to be the first person to get a good look at someone who might well become a very serious part of his life. She took a few steps down and crouched to look in through the frosty windows. "What am I looking for?"

"She said she'd be wearing blue," Cullen told her anxiously, hands clenched in his pockets as his feet twitched, trying desperately not to pace in the slush underfoot. "With a copy of Genitivi's Thedas: Myths and Legends on the table with a yellow daisy in it. Like this one." He gestured to the yellow daisy in his buttonhole.

Cassandra raised a brow as she looked over at him. "This would have been easier if you had exchanged phone numbers," she pointed out in amusement, rolling her eyes at his gesture for her to look. "All right, let me see ... Oh, I see a woman in blue. Very pretty ... no book. Hmm ... Oh, wait. Blue dress, book with a yellow daisy ..."

Cullen leaned forward hopefully. "Well?"

"I can't quite see her, the waiter is in the way," Cassandra relayed to him, peering in through the window. "He's moving away ... I can see her ... oh."

She paused, and Cullen could have sworn he saw a smirk flick across her face. What was so funny here? Was Dear Friend a bronto in a dress or something?

"Oh?" he pressed his friend. "Please, Cassandra. Is she ... pretty?"

"Oh, very pretty," Cassandra assured him with a smile.

"And?" He pushed a hand through his hair in frustration at the lack of real information she was giving him. "What does she look like?"

Cassandra hesitated for a moment. "She looks like ... Well, I would say she has something of the coloring of ... Mila Trevelyan."

Reminded of his failure that morning to start as he meant to go on, Cullen grimaced. "Mila?" He groaned, rubbing his neck.

"Come now, Cullen, even you have to admit that Mila is a beautiful woman," his friend pointed out, but he wasn't in the mood to have that woman's finer points detailed to him.

"That's beside the point," he complained. "Why are we talking about Mila Trevelyan?"

"I can tell you right now, if you don't like Mila Trevelyan, you won't like this woman," Cassandra informed him, her lips beginning to quirk into a grin as she glanced up at him.

Cullen paused, thoroughly confused. "What do you mean?"

"Because it is Mila Trevelyan."

"What?"

Shocked, Cullen lurched down the steps to crouch beside his friend, peering in through the uppermost part of the window. Sure enough, Cassandra was right. Easily visible from here, Mila Trevelyan was sitting alone at the table he'd reserved, dressed in blue, with a book marked with a yellow daisy on the table in front of her. He felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. All the day's tension and anticipation crashed into a juddering heap of crushing disappointment.

"Of all the ... she ..." He flailed for the right words for a moment, and abruptly gave up, rising to turn away. "No. No, I'm not doing this."

"You can't just leave her sitting there," Cassandra objected, rising with him. "At least go in and talk to her."

"Me? Talk to her? Have you seen what happens whenever I try that with Mila Trevelyan?"

"Now, Cullen, do not forget that she is the one who wrote you all those letters," his friend pointed out, but he was too agitated for common sense.

"She couldn't have," he insisted vehemently. "And even if she did, she ..." He trailed off, sinking into his disappointment with a rough snort of breath, pulling the daisy from his buttonhole to discard it onto the slush. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "You are not walking away and leaving her sitting there all alone for however long she chooses to wait," she insisted, turning toward the restaurant. "If you won't tell her, I will."

"No, you won't." He was ashamed of it later, but in that moment, the thought of Cassandra telling Mila that he was her Dear Friend and that he'd left rather than break the news was more than enough to spur him into grasping his friend's arm and all but dragging her up onto the street. "Better that she never knows. I'll ... I'll write to her, make something up."

Pulled along, unable to get any traction to pull away thanks to the icy slush underfoot, Cassandra scowled at him. "You are a coward, Cullen Rutherford."

"Better a coward than to have that woman think I'm anything more than an annoyance in her life," he muttered, refusing to release her arm until they were several streets away.

He could feel Cassandra's disapproval, but he knew she wouldn't tell Mila the truth unless he gave her permission to do so. They'd been friends for too long to jeopardize that relationship over a misunderstanding like this. That didn't mean she was going to let it drop, however. She berated him all the way to her home, trying to convince him to go back and at least talk to Mila, but he wasn't having it. At her door, Cassandra finally sighed heavily, shaking her head.

"I think you are the world's greatest fool, Cullen," she told him gently. "To throw away something that has made you so happy this past year over something so small as this."

"It doesn't matter, Cassandra," he told her in a weary tone. "I can live without it."

"But you shouldn't have to," she pointed out. "And neither should Alys." She watched that sink in, the conflict rising on his face, and reached up to kiss his cheek. "Happy Satinalia, Cullen. Good night."

"Yes ..." He nodded distractedly, glancing back the way they had come. "Oh, Happy Satinalia, Cassandra."

He watched her into the house he wasn't supposed to know she shared with Varric, listening to the dwarf greet her enthusiastically before the door closed with a faint, envious smile. Glancing down at his watch, he frowned. Half past seven. If he went to Mia's now, everyone would know he hadn't gone on the date. Things would be ... awkward and unhappy, and he didn't want to do that to Alys at Satinalia. But he couldn't go back to the restaurant. He wasn't going to sit there and ... it was unthinkable.

He turned to keep walking, to find some way of passing the time, his mind spinning through his disappointment and, yes, his hurt at this evening's discovery. Dear Friend had been a happy dream for so long; warm-hearted, kind, sure of herself, the perfect foil for his mind in a way he had not experienced since Rory's death. He'd had such hopes ... and now they were all dashed on the immovable rock that was Mila Trevelyan. It was a cruel joke, surely, to suggest that she might possibly have written all those letters. She was argumentative, difficult, confrontational, bold, passionate ... beautiful.

Cullen stopped in his tracks, feeling indecision ripple through his form. She was there. She had written all those letters. And now he thought about it, he thought he could see where Mila Trevelyan and his Dear Friend overlapped. Dear Friend was bold and passionate; he'd learned that in her fiery defense of the books she enjoyed, the books she had convinced him to read that he had enjoyed. Mila was warm-hearted and kind; he'd seen for himself the way the animals reacted to her at the zoo, the way she could hold a group of thirty or more children spellbound with stories that were as much educational as they were entertaining. The way her eyes flashed when she was engaged in a debate wasn't confrontational at all ... it was passion, pure and simple, a passion he had never taken the time to acknowledge. The way she had quickly become a favored keeper to the lionesses in their pack wasn't her focus ... it was the quiet strength, the softness she showed them that he had never seen turned toward himself. And there was the problem. He had never let himself look at her, too interested in keeping things the way they had always been, in protecting his status at work, to realize that she was as passionate about the big cats under their care as he was. And there was one more obvious factor.

Alys liked her. His daughter had never understood why he couldn't hold a civil conversation with Mila, when she had taken to the woman easily. He even trusted Mila to supervise his daughter alone, something he surely wouldn't do with someone he truly disliked. He didn't dislike Mila. Truth was ... he liked her a great deal. Their inability to hold a conversation had just frustrated him to the point where he'd given up looking at her.

"Maker's breath," he muttered, raising his head to gaze, unseeing, at the busy road in front of him. "I am an idiot."

Cullen looked down at his watch again. Eight o'clock. She'd been sitting alone in the restaurant for an hour. Perhaps she might still be there. Did she care enough about her Dear Friend to forgive him being so late?

Turning on his heel, he lengthened his stride, hope beginning to push through the disappointment and upset that had churned through him on that first discovery of just who his Dear Friend was. This wasn't as bad a situation as it first seemed. He did like Mila, and perhaps, when she put the letters together with the reality the way he had, she might like him. There might be more to a relationship with her than endless arguments. At the pace he set, he was back at the restaurant before half past eight, and yes, she was still there, tension written over her face each time she glanced up at the door.

She was lovely, he had to admit to himself. He'd never seen her outside work; never seen her out of the green uniform that was so practical and so unflattering to everyone who wore it. Never seen her with her hair unbound, falling about a face that would be breath-taking if she relaxed a little around him. Never seen her wearing anything that skimmed her form the way that dress did.

Looking in through the window, Cullen felt himself smile just a little. This was it. A clean slate. Just two people, meeting for the first time. Forget work, forget the arguments that had gone before. Hold in your heart all those letters, Rutherford, and know that the woman in front of you is the one who wrote them, the one you've been hoping to meet for months.

Bracing himself, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, nodding to the maitre'd as he stepped past toward the table where Mila Trevelyan waited. Saw her anxious eyes rise to look at him. Saw the recognition in her face. Saw her agitation harden into something intense and unfriendly. His step faltered as he reached the table.

"Oh no, what are you doing here?" she demanded, dismayed at the sight of him.

For the life of him, Cullen could never quite put his finger on why he did what he then did. In his most honest moments, he admitted it was because she didn't immediately smile and welcome him, despite not knowing what he knew about their connection. Whatever the reason, however, he definitely knew he only had himself to blame for what came next.

"What a charming greeting," he said, deliberately sitting down in the free chair at her table, in spite of her wordless protest. "Is this how you greet every friend you meet outside work?"

"Friend? What friend do you see here?" she snapped back at him, anxiously looking over his shoulder at the door. "I see an obnoxious, narcissistic know-it-all who is apparently not happy with just making my working life miserable - he has to find me out of hours and ruin my evening, too! I did not say you could sit down. I'm waiting for someone, and you are not him."

"Obnoxious?" Cullen repeated, a little shocked to hear himself referred to as such. "Narcissistic? Me?"

"No, I'm talking about Varric," she growled. "Who the hell do you think you are, just inviting yourself to sit down with me in a public place when you won't even give me two minutes at work - a place where, I might add, you're contractually obliged to interact with me, and yet somehow never manage it. Leave. Now."

"No, I'll keep you company while you wait," he offered, leaning his elbows on the table, perversely interested in seeing whether she could be pushed any further. Alys was going to kill him; he might as well earn it. "Unless this is a date, of course, but I didn't know you were seeing anyone. And what's wrong with me, exactly?"

"This ... it's ..." Mila flailed for a moment, her hands clenching on the sides of the table as she glowered at him. "If it is a date, it's a first date, and you were certainly not invited to it." She hesitated for barely a moment, her eyes narrowing. "You want to know what's wrong with you? You're a clockwork templar. If there was any enticement to look beneath the surface, I know what I would find. Instead of a mind, there'd be a time-sheet; instead of a soul, there'd be regimented task forms; and instead of a heart, all I'd find would be your shiny new promotion badge."

Stung, Cullen frowned back at her, barely noticing how she was wincing at her own words. "You're a piece of work, aren't you? Are you sure your date hasn't taken one look at you and already left in horror?"

The way her face fell was something he never wanted to see again. He was used to seeing Mila Trevelyan angry, irritated, frustrated; Void, he'd even seen her smiling more than once. But he'd never seen her look so instantly defeated as she did the moment his low blow landed. Guilt blossomed in his chest, but she didn't give him any chance to apologize.

"Please just go," she said quietly, shaking her head as she looked away. "We have nothing more to say to each other. Sir."

Still stinging from her insult, and trying to ignore the guilt at how easily she'd given up, Cullen rose silently with a stern nod, and left the restaurant. He made it halfway down the street before his mind caught up with him. What the hell was he doing? Why hadn't he just told her the truth straight out? He knew academically why - she'd been rude from the moment she opened her mouth. It hadn't been necessary to say any of those things to him, yet there they were, out in the open in all her petty, pushy glory. A perfect example of why he'd been right in the first place. He and Mila Trevelyan got on like a house on fire that the firefighters were never going to reach in time to prevent catastrophic damage.

But ... she'd been waiting for an hour and a half. Waiting for him. She was the woman who had confided her hopes and fears in him, who had offered him advice and warmth without judgment. She thought he was worth waiting for. And she was still waiting, because he'd been an ass and kept the truth to himself. He'd sat there and stolen what she thought was time better spent with her Dear Friend, heightened her anxiety about missing him. She'd described it as a first date; she was hoping for more. And instead of seeing someone she trusted, someone she might even care for, he'd presented her with her nemesis from her workplace, the person who never listened to a word she said and who had disregarded politeness in favor of satisfying his own curiosity. The guilt that had blossomed at the sight of her weariness in the face of yet another argument grew in his chest, aching with the knowledge that he'd behaved like a fool and caused someone he cared for pain. He had to set this right, somehow.

Cullen turned back for the second time that night, just in time to see Mila reach the top of the steps onto the street from the restaurant, bundled warm in a smart coat. He saw her stop, look down; saw her crouch to lift something from the slush ... his discarded yellow daisy, thrown away and forgotten in his first initial flare of anger and bad judgment. And he watched as Mila Trevelyan, who never showed weakness if she could possibly help it, fought down an open urge to cry, tucking the daisy into her pocket as she hurried off down the street.

Andraste's flame, he hoped some of the legends around Satinalia had a speck of truth to them. This was going to take a miracle to fix.

#dear friend #modern au #shop around the corner au #cullen rutherford #mila trevelyan #cullen x trevelyan #enemies to friends to lovers #definitely enemies in this one #beware the angst

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rhetoricalrogue · 7 years

Text

Inktober for Writers - 4. Compliment

Prompt list here. I’m jumping around in the AU of the AU that @alittlestarling and I have been cooking up for a while. It all started when we decided that the faked married/relationship with pining trope HAD to be included with Vincent and Roz.

“I hate these blasted suits.”

Rolfe looked up from the mirror, his fingers running through his hair. “Well, I don’t blame you. Not everyone can look as good as I do in formalwear.”

Vincent stopped struggling with the too-ornate clasp at his throat to roll his eyes at him. “I guess modesty isn’t hereditary.”

Rolfe snorted, leaning closer to the mirror to check the line of his coat. “If it is, I more than likely inherited my sense from my mother’s side of the family.” Turning away from the mirror, he went over to Vincent and fixed the clasp he had been fumbling with. “Is everything alright? You’ve been on edge ever since this morning.”

He sighed. “I…” Vincent stared in the mirror as Rolfe made minor adjustments to his jacket. “I hate that we have to dress up and play nice instead of just being direct. This would have gone a lot easier if we could just go to the Empress and tell her what’s going on and that someone is planning to assassinate her, but oh no, that would be too easy.”

Rolfe laughed. “You’ve been spending too much time with Cullen. He’s been grumbling about the same since we crossed over the border. Besides,” he brushed off a bit of lint from Vincent’s shoulder. “This is the Orlesian way. Politics and intrigue are the spice to a boring dinner party.” The last was said in fluent Orlesian, his accent as perfect as a native speaker’s.

“I’d rather be plainspoken.” Vincent switched over to match Rolfe, his words not as fluent, his accent rusty. It had been years since he had spoken the language, and doing so for a long period of time always brought back images of the battlefield where he’d spoken it the most that he’d rather leave behind in the past. “I hate these clothes.”

“You said that already. Honestly, you look good, Vinnie. The color suits you.”

“It’s black.”

“It’s midnight. Very mysterious. And I’m wearing practically the same thing. You haven’t even said how nice I look or asked how many knives I managed to smuggle in.”

“Maker forgive me. You look stunning, Rolfe.”

“That’s more like it.” He raised an eyebrow. “And yet that was a very empty compliment from a very distracted Inquisitor. What’s really bothering you? I know it isn’t the clothes or the threat of death.”

Vincent took a breath. “It’s…” He stared at the mirror and frowned. “I hate my fucking hair.”

“Ah. And something tells me this has to do with the very elegant way that it’s tied back and out of your face.”

Vincent scowled at his reflection, tipping his head so the worst of his scars were visible. “I don’t usually give a damn, but we’ve been to enough dinner parties since getting here to know what these people are going to whisper behind my back in a language they think I don’t understand.” It wasn’t so much what they said about him, but the pitying tone they had when they mentioned how Lady Trevelyan could have done better finding a husband who was better looking that got to him.

They were absolutely right. Had he and Roz not been playing at this whole marriage angle for the sake of politics, he would have wished her happiness with someone handsomer. It didn’t matter how much he truly loved her, Vincent always put her happiness above his.

“They’re idiots, the lot of them. Their vanity doesn’t allow for anything more substantial than vain aesthetics.” Rolfe crossed his arms in front of his chest and planted his feet, his scowl just as fierce as his brother’s. “And the first person who says anything will get a verbal lashing the likes they’ve never heard before.”

That made Vincent’s frown lose some of its edge. “Careful, if Josephine hears you plan on accosting the who’s who of Orlesian nobility, she’ll have a conniption.”

“Not me, Roz. Do you think for one second that she wouldn’t jump to your defense the moment she heard someone insult you?” Rolfe flipped open the wooden box Vincent had set on the vanity and handed him the gold mask inside.

Vincent sneered at it, but took it anyway, fastening it behind his head and wishing it hid more of his scars than it did. “Something tells me that’s what Josephine is warning her against when she and Leliana shooed me out of my own bedroom to help Roz get dressed.” He adjusted the little half-mask. It covered the line across his eyebrow and down the highest part of his cheekbone, but left the deepest gouges on his cheek and chin bare and vulnerable.

“You’re lucky that you have a wife like her to defend your honor.”

He looked away. “Rolfe, we both know that it’s…” He trailed off, not trusting the walls not to have ears. His heart twisted at the memory of the night before, how all the months of careful planning and playing at this pretend marriage and how real it had felt could have been ruined within moments. That morning she’d gotten up before him and was already dressed in the sitting room by the time he’d woken up and what little interaction they’d had during the day had felt stilted and awkward. Regret ate at him, not only had he jeopardized their current situation, but he risked losing the friendship of the one person who mattered the most to him.

“We both know that it’s difficult to have a tiny firebrand as a spouse, am I right?” Somehow sensing Vincent’s change in mood, Rolfe pushed off the vanity he had been leaning a hip against and took a slim flask out of his coat pocket. “Normally I’d be cautioning you to keep a clear head, but it looks like you may need a tiny sip.” Taking the flask back, Rolfe tipped his head back to take a drink of his own. “Whatever is going on, you’ll get through it.”

“One crisis at a time, brother.”

“Brother. That reminds me, how are you planning on announcing me as part of your entourage?”

Vincent tilted his head. “I thought we already went over it? Ser Rolfe Aloysuis Trevelyan, Order of the Sacred Flame, brother to the Inquisitor?”

Surprise flashed in Rolfe’s eyes for a brief moment, but it was gone just as quickly. “I didn’t think that Josephine would approve. You publicly claiming me as your half-brother would throw quite a few sticky wrenches in the works, not to mention what such a claim would do to future family gatherings.”

“Josephine didn’t approve, for those exact reasons.”

“Then why did you insist?”

“Because you are my brother. Why would I hide someone so important to me as if you were a dirty secret?” He flinched at the choice of words, especially when he caught the expression Rolfe wore, as if he’d succeeded in ripping off a bandage to a wound that Rolfe wouldn’t allow to heal. “I want people to know that we’re siblings, not because you’d be the brother to the Inquisitor, but just because you’re my brother, period. But if that makes you uncomfortable, I can tell Josephine to change your announcement.”

Rolfe blinked. “No, no.” He shook his head and that vulnerable look was gone, shielded once more by his usual carefree smirk. “I’m just going to have to brace myself for the screaming letter that Mother is going to send, if she even cares enough to send one at all.”

“Frankly, Rolfe, your mother is a horrible woman.”

“I won’t argue with that. Tonight will be the nice little explosion to blow up an already burnt bridge I won’t mind ever crossing again.” He looked away for a moment before smirking again. “And I like the sound of it: the Brothers Trevelyan, breaking hearts and charming nobles.”

Vincent laughed. “I’ll take surviving the night intact and leaving after a job well done.”

Rolfe raised his flask. “I’ll drink to that. Now come on, let’s go check on our respective lovely ladies and get this show on the road.” Fixing his own mask, Rolfe opened the door and made a dramatic sweeping gesture for Vincent to go out before him. “But before we start, let’s get one thing clear. You may be the taller brother, but I’m the brother with the fantastic hair.”

“Of that, there’s no doubt.”

#vincent trevelyan #rolfe trevelyan #rosalind trevelyan #inktober for writers #alittlestarling

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strikinglightning · 7 years

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Title: Tongue Ties and Heart Ribbons Pairing: Finli Summary: Elizabeth “Eli” Trevelyan struggles to confess her affection for Finan Lavellan. Rating: G

Eli paced back and forth across the wood panel floors of Finan’s cabin, nervously thinking to herself. Words raced through her mind, phasing in and out like rapid waters. She couldn't hold onto a single one, and she definitely couldn't begin to formulate a strategy for what she would say to Finan when he returned.

Well, first she would probably have to apologise for sneaking into his cabin while he was out. Yes, that would have to come first. But everything else after that was a blur. Her pulse throbbed frantically while the boots of her armor stomped across the floor.

If her memory was correct, she had about twenty minutes to come up with a plan. Sixty if he actually had anyone to help. Finan was busy doing his daily rounds through Haven, making sure all the people had adequate food and blankets. He was soft like that- generous and kind. It was one of the things that made him so special, so adorable, so endearing…

“Aaugh!” she groaned out into the icy air. Maker damn it! Now was not the time to be thinking about his virtues! It only made her more nervous and uneasy. She fought to suppress similar upcoming thoughts, like his sweet smile and delicate face. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Just at that moment, she heard a disturbance behind her, and when she turned she saw the front door open. Finan came shuffling through the door, clothes coated in white snow. He shook it off with a few grunts, then rose his head to meet Eli’s stare. She was trapped and frozen, unable to think or speak. It was like his ice magic, and yet she knew no spell had been casted. Not literally, at least.

While she was frozen, Finan raised a brow and walked forward, approaching her. Each step matched the loud thumps of her heart. “E-Eli?” he spoke gently. “What are you doing here? Is there something you need?”

Her thoughts stuttered for a bit, then she finally brought out the words, “No, I don’t- not exactly. Um. I'm very sorry for coming in when you weren’t here. I hope you can forgive me. I uh…”

“You are forgiven. We’re friends, remember? I trust you.”

Ouch. It was a double blow that stung deep in Eli’s stomach. Hearing Finan refer to her as a friend, and unknowingly trusting her when she was holding onto this secret, was not good for her confidence. Still, she had to say something. “Thank you. I’m… glad.” Despite those words, she could tell her face was pinched with dread.

Finan blinked a few times, visibly confused, then he tilted his head to the side, watching her expressions with curiosity. It was all too cute: the head tilt, the slight pout of his buttery lips, those big round elven eyes with long lashes. Too cute…

Eli swallowed down her anxiety, rough against her throat. Then with a deep breath, she proceeded. “I came here because I have something to tell you.” It came out clearer than she was expecting.

“Oh?” There was now a smile on those soft lips, and he took a few steps closer. “What is it?”

With him this close, Eli lost more courage and had to bring her gaze down onto the floor. She couldn’t look at his pretty face and also keep her nerve. “I-I uh… I came here to tell you that…”

“Yes?” Finan’s soft voice encouraged.

Her mind was racing, and so she had no choice to speak out the first sentence she could think of. “I care for you, Finan.” It wasn't a bad choice of words, she supposed.

There was a pause between them, and Eli began to fear that he didn't hear her, or worse: he didn't know what to say. She was relieved when she heard him speak again, but the relief did not last long. “And I care for you as well.”

The words came out so casually, she could just tell he didn't understand what she meant. She groaned and held her head with frustration, shaking it back and forth. “Nooo, that's not what I mean! It's more than that!”

With his eyebrows raised in surprise, Finan brought his head up straight again. “Uh, m-more…?”

Eli swore she could see a bit of pink blooming on his cheeks, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. She took in another breath to calm herself. “Yes, I care about you more than a companion, and more than a friend. I care about you in a… r-romantic sense.”

Oh sweet Andraste’s ass, she said it.

And now she could certainly tell it wasn't wishful thinking: the pink was spread all over his face with a noticeable brightness. He turned his gaze shyly to the corner of the room, and he brought his hands together to nervously fidget with his fingers. Whatever he was about to say, he was anxious, and that made Eli more anxious. “I-I uh…” he began before a pause, then he shut his eyes, closing off the blue brilliance from the world. “I feel the same for you, Eli.”

And just like that, all the weight came off her chest, replaced by fluttering lightness. She grinned and dared to step closer, giddy by this news. “You do?” she asked, hoping this was all real. Finan did not retreat when she progressed forward, so she took another step. Now their toes were nearly touching.

Finan nodded his head, allowing himself to open his eyes again and look down at her. “Y-yes, I do. I have for… an embarrassingly long time.”

That part especially surprised Eli. “Really? How long?” she asked.

“U-um…” his voice came out shakier and more anxious than before. A hand was brought up so he could rub the back of his neck. “Well, I’ve admired you since… I first saw you.”

“Oh.” That was a long time. Eli lightly laughed and crossed her arms in a playful scolding. “Then why haven't you told me?”

He turned his head away again, masking his blushing face with his wavy curtain of brown bangs. The shyer he became, the more adorable he was. Eli smiled.

“Well, I’m an elf, and a mage. You’re a human warrior, above me in many aspects. You seemed out of reach. For someone like me to dream of affections from someone like you…” Instead of finishing that sentence, he only shook his head.

Suddenly Eli didn't feel so giddy anymore, and her smile dropped into a concerned frown. She couldn't think of anything to say, so she brushed her hands against his, then took them into her grasp. When Finan returned his eyes to meet her stare, she smiled softly: a gentle encouragement. He smiled back.

“But I suppose I don’t need to dream anymore, do I?” he asked in a timid mumble.

Eli shook her head, then pulled him close into a hug, wrapping her arms around his neck. “No, and you didn't have to in the first place. We’re equals.”

She could feel the calm relief radiating off of him as his head dropped to rest on her shoulder, and his arms snaked a tight hold around her waist. It was the first time she shared a hug with him, and- Maker’s breath, she prayed it would not be the last. It felt absolutely perfect.

And just as soon as the hug had been initiated, she ended it with a quick step back. She could tell by the heat on her face that it must have been all aglow, simmering pink. She masked it with her hands, then began walking towards the front door. “W-well I uh- I have things to get working on but I-... I’ll see you around, right?” How could he be so composed for once, while she was the one flustered? It wasn’t fair.

And it wasn't fair how he smiled his adorable smile towards her, making her heart flutter even more. “Yes,” he answered, “of course.”

Then he bent down to reach her face, and he pressed an innocent kiss “goodbye” into her cheek. With a dopey grin on her lips and a blush over her features, she wandered out of the cabin, heart fluttering in the cage of her chest.

Chronology: (previous) / (next)

#dragon age inquisition #dai #lavellan #trevelyan #lavellan x trevelyan #finan lavellan #finan #eli trevelyan #eli #finli #my writing #doubleherald!au

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cometeclipsewriting · 7 years

Text

Diamond in the Rough

Beautiful artwork is done by @slugette. I still cannot thank you enough!

Chapter 28

Pairing: Cullen x Trevelyan

Rating: SFW

Tags: Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Link: AO3

In Regency Era Thedas, Orlais and Ferelden are at war. As an officer in Ferelden’s army, Cullen is entrusted with an important document, one that he must keep secret and deliver it to the right hands at any cost. He is betrayed, someone leaking his position and he and his men are set upon by Orlesian soldiers. Grievously wounded, Cullen flees into the Orlesian countryside. Elya saves his life, healing his wounds and keeping him hidden. Her manners give her away as more than just a typical country girl. As he grows stronger and they grow closer, he becomes more and more intrigued by the quiet woman and her secrets. Cullen knows that he cannot stay, his duties calling him away.

A world of Thedas retelling of Aladdin, in a Regency Era setting!

The next few days were easily the happiest days of Cullen’s life. The crew was in good spirits from the wedding, seeing Elya and Cullen as passengers who brought adventure and fun. Scamper they accepted with open arms, having a good time pitting the two Mabaris together in races and tug-of-wars. During the day, Cullen would work with the crew on his fighting skills, giving lessons and rebuilding his strength. Elya would work on Scamper’s limp, arthritis the cause. She packed herbs around his elbows, bandaging them in place. She thought for sure the dog would chew them off, but he perfectly understood her warning that if he did, he would get no table scraps for a week. The amusement in his black eyes told her he saw through her lie, but he obeyed her anyways.

They took their meals in the mess room with the crew, but their dinners in the Captain’s cabin, their unexpected friendships growing deeper. Cole would join them sometimes, disappearing and reappearing at random. He still made everyone jump with surprise every time he did, but they had all accepted him. Every now and then Cullen would see him speaking to one of the crew, and the person always seemed to look better afterwards. Whatever the spirit boy was doing, he was living up to what he claimed he was.

Cullen and Elya were never far from each other’s sides, and sometimes slipped away to their cabin in the middle of the day. At night, they held each other as they slept. It was Cullen’s daydream, but on a ship instead of his home estate. He still couldn’t believe his luck, double checking to see that Elya was still there, was still real. Sometimes he would wake and fear it had all been a dream, only to find that his wife was curled into him, her easy breathing calming his frantic pulse. He would kiss her softly on her forehead or shoulder and fall asleep with a relieved sigh.

The day after their wedding, some interesting changes started to occur around the ship. People were sent over the sides on slings; paint cans and brushes their supplies. Around the back, behind the Captain’s quarters, another woman labored. At the figurehead, three people worked away. Curious, he and Elya had wandered around, watching the changes. Everyone was fast, competent, painting the yellow trim which swiftly disappeared beneath dark blue. Once the fresh paint had been allowed to dry, another coat was put over the top. This time the paint was brown, the same faded color as the wood of the boat. When completed, it looked as if the blue paint had been there for years, chipped and flaked with the wearing of work and time.

Then, there was the figurehead. A siren, to match the ship’s name, her arms lifted above her head in a flowing call of seduction to passing sailors. Her tail curved down and around, the fin lifting away from the prow and dripping wooden seaweed. The siren’s slightly alien features were bright, a smirk on her lips. It was a beautiful piece, and as they learned, able to be dismantled.

Carefully, the team of three lifted cleverly pieced layers of wood to reveal pegs. When the pegs were removed, blocks of wood could be slid away and lifted on ropes back to the ship’s deck. The siren’s arms were the first things to go, followed by the fin, then the rest of her tail. Her face was lifted away next, then the front of the bare breasted torso. All these pieces were quickly stored below decks, wrapped in cloth. Then the replacements arrived. The new body was of a woman dressed in a flowing gown with sandals on her feet, the face serene but intelligent. A large tome was open and resting on the woman’s splayed hands, as if she were reading the words from it aloud to an audience.

Isabela sidled up to them as they watched the curiosity avidly. When the last piece was in place, they worked the little wooden coverings over the pegs, and then the figurehead looked as if it had always been in place, as sturdy and solid as the rest of the ship.

“Now we are The Scheherazade.” At Cullen and Elya’s wide eyed looks, she shrugged and sauntered off. “It’s easy to disappear when everyone is looking for a different boat.”

Cullen felt a little off balance. In his entire career as a soldier, he had never seen the like before. Had never even heard of it. Presumably the painter over the back of the boat was replacing the name. If there was someone after the Siren’s call, the differences to the ship would make anyone dismiss them. The design of the ship was common enough; there were probably thousands of its type sailing the waters of Thedas. But no one, ever, changed figureheads like this. Clever, clever woman.

Five days after their wedding, Cullen and Elya were still asleep when a knock on their door sent a heavy weight on his feet up, a scramble as a big animal quickly left the end of the bed. Frowning as he woke, Cullen scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “Yes?” He called out through a yawn. Elya shifted against him, and he smoothed a hand down her bare back, rousing in other ways as well.

“Sir, Madam, the Captain requests your presence at breakfast.” The muffled voice from the other side of the door responded.

Cullen hummed lowly, focusing more on his wife than what the person was saying. “What time is it?” Elya propped herself up enough to rub at her eyes and hide her huge yawn. The dark curtain of her hair was tangled and lovely, and he brushed some away from her face, pulling her down for a slow morning kiss. Creeping heat filled his veins, giving him ideas about what to do for the next hour.

“It is eight forty, sir. The Captain says they will eat at nine.” That brought a groan of frustration out of Cullen. Elya lifted her lips away, silently laughing, her pretty brown eyes twinkling. Twenty minutes and they still needed to dress.

Elya sat up and tossed, “We will be there,” at the door. Cullen propped himself against the wall with a scowl; he was pouting.

Scamp stood and stretched with a large yawn, his theatrics of just now waking up making Cullen cross his arms and glare at him. “Don’t get me started on you, Scamp.” The dog smacked his lips innocently. The fur on the end of the quilt gave him away.

“Fine,” Cullen groaned, rolling out of bed. Elya was already covering her lovely backside with a chemise, humming lightly. He couldn’t help his smile; her humming constantly was a new thing he had learned about her in the past few days. When she was happy, she sang.

Washed and dressed, the three of them presented themselves to the Captain’s room. Dog, looking very morose, was lying next to Hawke’s chair, staring up at her and sighing. As soon as Cullen and Elya sat down, Scamper assumed the same position and tricks. He was learning bad habits.

“Well, my doves,” Isabela grabbed a hot muffin from the spread on the table, “If you look at the lovely foggy weather that is greeting us this morning, you will see that we are shortly to reach Ferelden.”

Halfway into a bite of ham, Cullen startled, looking out the bank of windows. They too had been changed with the ships transformation, boards blocking most of the costly glass. But from the smaller array, he was surprised to see the blue-grey of familiar weather. It was true; they were almost to the coast.

“Within a few hours we should be close enough to anchor,” Hawke reported. “Our… enterprises require darkness and for us to travel further down the coast, but this first port would be a better place for you to disembark.” She slipped a piece of toast to her starving Mabari, gone with one quick gobble.

“Oh,” Elya said quietly, probably feeling just as stunned as he was. Of course they had known that soon they would reach their destination, but the cocoon of happiness they had been basking in had pushed it out of their minds. He reached out and clasped her hand, squeezing gently. Elya looked at the three women around her, sad. “I will miss you all.”

Merrill bound from her chair and hugged her hard. “We will miss you too!” Elya wrapped an arm around her waist, blinking quickly.

“You will see each other again,” Cole’s voice pipped up from where he had appeared on the bed, making them all jump.

After a moment to adjust, Hawke smiled and nodded. “I agree; if not out at sea, then on land. It has been a long time since I traveled in Ferelden. Maybe it will be time soon to visit my home country.” She smiled at her wives, “Maybe as an extended honeymoon.”

Isabela snapped her fingers, “Speaking of honeymoons.” She rose and crossed to a table, carefully collecting up a bundle of papers, and then passed them to Elya. “Here are the documents for your marriage.” He and Elya had signed them during the party, but since they had sprung their marriage on the Captain, she had not had time to finish all the official paperwork beforehand. “When you reach a town large enough, make sure to file that with the right people.”

Elya looked up at Cullen, a hint of confusion in her eyes. He smiled, reading what she was worried about. “I know where to go.” Elya passed him the papers and he tucked it into his jacket. “I will keep them safe.”

“Now, we have just a few hours to enjoy our time together. Let us eat!” Cole snagged a chair and brought it to the table, picking at the fruit lightly. The air in the room had sadness in it, but they ate and talked normally, comfortable with each other. Breakfast was consumed slowly, and they lingered over cups of coffee and tea, each person loathe to break up the party.

Finally Isabela sighed and pushed back from the table. “Well, there is much to be done to prepare for nightfall. And you two will need to pack.”

Cullen and Elya rose as well, the air deepening again. Elya gave hugs to the others in the room, Cullen bowing deeply over each ladies hand, ruffling the hat on Cole’s head. Then he and Elya headed to their cabin.

They had little to pack; most of what they brought onto the ship would go with them. The wedding dress had been returned, carefully, and Elya had a new day dress from Merrill. Their wedding mirror was carefully wrapped and stored in one of their bags, surrounded by more clothing. The two candlesticks were wrapped and placed in the other. And then that was it. Everything else they had was borrowed.

Well, not quite everything. As Elya bustled around, tidying, Cullen lifted the mattress and pulled out the wicked list of names. He sat down heavily, staring silently at the packet for a long while.

He had allowed himself to forget. Harper, Harris, Blackwall, Hagman. Young Perkins. Dead, run through by unforgiving steel and left in an unfriendly country, never to be buried properly. While he sat here, somehow married to the woman he loved, and all because of this damned note and his stupidity in not seeing what Samson was. Basking in Elya’s love, he had pushed away the pain of their deaths, forgetting so he wouldn’t have to think of them.

Anguish, self-hatred, guilt, anger. He closed his eyes, jaw clenched against the tightness of his throat. A sheen of moisture threatened his eyes, and he fought to stop himself. He had so much now; how could he be so happy when so many were dead?

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder, Elya coming to stand before him. He heard a rustle of fabric, her hand running down his arm to grasp his forearm, and her lilting voice told him she had knelt between his knees. “Cullen?”

He swallowed hard, fighting against himself. Opening his eyes he looked into her worried face, Elya’s gentle and compassionate nature evident in every line. “My men…” he croaked, not caring that he was being so vulnerable with her. With whom else besides his love would he be able to talk to about this? “I… let myself forget them. It was so painful… and easier to just…”

“Oh my darling,” Elya whispered, instantly standing and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Cullen crushed her against him, burying his face in her sweetness. For long moments they stayed as they were. Elya ran trembling fingers through his hair, silent support he soaked in as he saw their faces behind his tightly closed eyes.

Finally he let out a shuddering sigh, and Elya pressed a kiss to his brow. “Grieve for them, my love. Honor their memories.” She was solemn yet full of calm conviction. “But they would not want you to sink into despair. They know, as I know, you will not stop till you complete your mission and find the one responsible.”

Cullen nodded once. He would. He would deliver the coded list to the Commander, and then he would find the traitor in their midst. And when he was done, he and Elya would retire to a quiet life on their estate. He no longer considered the fact he would die in his tasks; leaving Elya alone would not be an option. He had a new purpose in life: making her happy.

Abruptly he lifted her, her startled cry making him smile a little, and fell onto his back. He turned, rolling so that she was pressed beneath him. Needing her, he kissed her slowly, his lips tender as he traced her shape, tasted the tea she had drunk at breakfast and the salt from his now falling tears. Weary of death and destruction, Cullen let himself cry. Elya brushed them away softly, somehow knowing exactly what he needed.

“When everything is over,” she whispered, “maybe we could go visit their families? I know what unanswered questions do to those left behind; it would mean the world to them.” The shadows of her past still lingered in her eyes, but they were lighter. Sharing her burdens, talking about her parents, had helped her.

How had he gotten so lucky to find her? He owed Cole more than he could say. He nodded and cleared his throat. “I love you,” he whispered. She smiled warmly and whispered the words back to him. They made love, slow and lingering with no words needed. Cullen knew there was danger ahead still, but here in this cabin, he and his wife knew that everything would turn out right.

Want to read more? Master Post of Diamond in the Rough! I love reblogs too!

#cullen x trevelyan #cullen x inquisitor #fanfiction #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #fanfic #cullen #dragon age inquisition #diamond in the rough #regency au #aladdin au #chapter 28

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spokelseskladden · 7 years

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Rules: Answer all questions, then add one question of your own

I was tagged by @evenunevenme thank you! I’ve missed doing tags :’)

YOUR ANSWERS ARE ALMOST IDENTICAL TO MINE STOP BEING SO CREEPILY SIMILAR TO ME

Okay *ahem*

1: Coke or pepsi: I would only drink pepsi if i had gone two days without any form for liquid and even then I’d hesitate. I can say this cause I’ve tried. Pepsi sucks man. Coke is the way to go

2: Disney or Dreamworks: how about both? Both is good, I like both. Both produce great content I enjoy equally. If you put a gun to my head I’d probably go with dreamworks cause they made my favourite movie

3: coffee or tea: again,both. I say both is good.

4: books or movies: I have dyslexia so...movies I guess? If I get the book read out loud to me it’s a different story though. I love being read to.

5: windows or mac: Windows probably.

6: DC or Marvel: I have a closer relationship with Marvel but DC and I are tight.

7: xbox or playstation: neither. I wanna say PC masterrace so bad but I aint no gamer son

8: dragon age or mass effect: aint no gamer son.

9: night owl or early riser: yes

11: chocolate or vanilla: I’m on my period I can’t answer this objectively

12: vans or converse: I owned a pair of converse. Slipped on the ice and broke my arm.

13: lavellan, trevelyan, cadash, or adaar: what r u kids talking about these days..?

14: Fluff or angst: give me all. depends on my mood

15: beach or forest: i hate ____ or ____ questions when the things are things I enjoy equally aaaah I love the aesthetic of the forrest and I love being in itm same with the beach, it’s lovely! But since I live in a cold place we mostly go to the forrest instead of beach, and when we do go to the beach it’s freezing af and often rainy. cause the weather hates us and tries to have us killed regularly.

16: dogs or cats: SNAKES

17: clear skies or rain: my head gets all foggy in the rain but I like the atmosphere of it. Lucky for me we have all the weathers in one day where I live *cries*

18: cooking or eating out: As much as i like to cook im all for takeout my fan

19: spicy food or mild food: SPICY ALL THE WAY *distant cries from my boyfriend*

20: halloween/samhain or solstice/yule/christmas: no

21: would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot (and no the winter coats and AC’s are not an option)?: cold over hot. cause you can live with being cold but being hot = hell

22: if you could have a superpower, what would it be?: The power to controll time and space I guess, like imagine. You’d never have to worry about sleep ever again. Or being late. it would be nice.

23: animation or live action: yes

24: paragon or renegade: what

25: baths or showers: Showers cause i like feeling the hot water peel off all my worries. and I never feel clean after baths. I loved them when I waas a kid though

26: team cap or team ironman: team stop the violence and get over yourself you grown ass babies .

27: fantasy or sci-fi: how about....both

28: do you have three or four favorite quotes, if so what are they? If not do you think you will in future?: I guess I have one I wrote in my selfharm journal “nd if all you can do today is breathe, that’s okay. You’re doing your best now to hell with the rest”

29: youtube or netflix: I just need background noise while I work and i ain’t picky

30: classic disney, disney renaissance, or modern disney?: Classic disney is what I watched as a kid and it’s the only norwegian dubs that doesn’t make me want to kill myself so...yeah.

31: what would you tell your younger self?: Hey, I know things are looking pretty bad right now. I know your friends kinda...do their things without you but you’re gonna meet someone amazing who’ll support you and see the good things in you and be so genuinely impressed by your silly doodles. You’ll meet this person and things will be so much better. All those things you worry about, they’re not gonna matter cause you’’ll be fine.

32: make music or listen to music?: I love both! again!

33: shakespeare’s comedies or tragedies?: neither. I’ve never read shakespeare ever. Or I was Juliet when we read the balcony scene in school once but I couldn’t pronounce the names right.

34: what song do you have stuck in your head right now?: I have no idea and it’s bugging me

35: favorite animal: Spiders or snakes...

36: favorite tv show: Endeavour, Scorpion and my boyfriend got me to watch Shameless and I like it so far

37: what relaxes you the most? The draw

38: musicals or plays? Never seen a real play. Or a musical on stage, only in movies

39: name something on your bucket list/something you’d like to do or see before you die: right now im counting on not dying and since i haven’t died yet no one can prove im not immortal

40. Each person in your current ship asks you to run away with them. Who would you go with? i don’t have a ship now, I’m not really doing fandoms now. don’t have time for it

41. What was your first ship? Hiccup/Astrid from How to Train Your Dragon! They’re just the best ship I’ve ever had, so sweet :’) It’s not the best written romance, but I sure love it either way!

42. What is your absolute favorite fanfic trope and/or kink? i dunno really

43. What is your favorite type of weather? when it snows a git but there’s still blue skies and it’s great

44. Jeans, sweatpants, or some other cool alternative?

i tag @kittyinshadows @unimaginarily @kiss-mybass

#tag

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heartslogos · 7 years

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send the morning [11]

“Don’t touch her!”

Evelyn startles, turning as someone rushes between her and the Seeker. Evelyn’s leg throbs with pain from where she landed, and magic threatens to bloom at her fingers - the bones of her hand ache and her heart races in her chest.

She stares up at the back in front of her - and it can’t be. It’s not possible. What would the chances be of that? Evelyn’s worst subject has always been mathematics, but it wouldn’t take a particularly good student to know that it can’t be -

“Trevelyan,” The Seeker says, eyes narrowing, “She is a mage. She is dangerous.”

“Evelyn is only dangerous to the people who are dangerous to her first,” Maxwell says, “Don’t aim your sword at my cousin.”

“We’ve been through this Trevelyan, we cannot be sure of her innocence,” The Seeker says and Maxwell spreads his arms, stepping closer to Evelyn.

“You can’t, I can,” He turns and Evelyn can’t believe it. It’s really Maxwell. Evelyn can’t help but stare. He holds out his hand to her, brows furrowed, “Evelyn, are you okay? Did she attack you? Evelyn?”

“Maxwell?” Evelyn takes his hand, he pulls her up, taking her by the shoulders and looking at her before nodding.

“It’s been a very long time, cousin,” Maxwell says, squeezing her shoulders, “I wish our long awaited reunion didn’t involve false accusations of murder and such, but you have always been one for drama.”

“I am not,” Evelyn says on reflex and Maxwell flashes a smile before bending down and picking up the staff Evelyn had dropped when the Seeker turned on her. He puts it in her hands, squeezing again once, before turning towards the Seeker.

“I’m going with you,” Maxwell says, “Lead on.”

The Seeker looks between them, then shakes her head and turns around to continue leading the way through the mountains.

Evelyn follows after the two of them, confusion and anxiety gnawing at her chest. She reaches out, partially habit-half-forgotten and need. She curls her fingers into the back of Maxwell’s coat.

“Maxwell,” Evelyn whispers, keeping her voice low, ��I don’t remember what happened. But I don’t think I did this.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Maxwell says, “You’re innocent.”

“But I don’t remember, Maxwell. What if I did do this?”

“But you didn’t, so that isn’t a problem,” Maxwell replies.

“But you don’t know that. I don’t know that.”

“I do know it,” Maxwell says, firmly, “Because you are my cousin, Evelyn. I know you. You aren’t the most devout Andrastian in Thedas, Maker knows, but you didn’t kill the Divine.”

“You don’t know that. It’s been over twenty years since we last saw each other, Maxwell. People change.”

“But we wrote to each other almost every month - sometimes every week - for those twenty years, Evelyn,” Maxwell falls back a step and takes her hand in his. “You are my cousin, Lyn. I know you. You didn’t do this. You may be a mage and you may have a wicked temper but you did not blow up the Conclave. I refuse to believe it.”

“But how can we know for sure?” Evelyn whispers, “Maxwell - we don’t know what happened. No one does.”

“I don’t care,” Evelyn recognizes the stubborn set of his jaw, the one that always had their older relatives groaning in exasperation and sending for a switch, “You’re innocent. I’ll yell it into the face of the Empress of Orlais, the Prince of Starkhaven, the King of Ferelden - whoever I have to go before. You are innocent Evelyn Trevelyan, don’t you dare start doubting yourself now. Andraste’s Flaming Sword - you aren’t that kind of woman, Evelyn. Don’t start giving in to the masses now.”

“This is a waste of our resources,” Leliana says, waving a hand towards the closed door of the war room. “Now that we’re finally on our feet, now that we have our directives and our paths set before us, we can finally begin to think of actually structuring ourselves properly.”

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong,” Cullen replies, “But this is still something we can’t do without asking first. These people are here for their own free will. They aren’t soldiers or recruits, they aren’t hired on the same way.”

“Commander Cullen is right, we cannot just give them tasks like we did at Haven,” Josephine says, setting down her writing board and pen, “I agree with you that we can now start to streamline our resources, start fine tuning them and adjusting them for better results, but these people are not resources. We cannot demand anything from them when what they have already given has been of their own free will and without request.”

“So you’re saying we should waste them?” Leliana replies, “Herah and Malika are both good fighters, and I’m not saying we should stop them from going out with the troops altogether, but look at them. Herah Adaar is one of the best people we have on the ground; when she talks people listen. People even agree. She represents another side of the Thedas we are trying to unite - if anything she’s something new that people would at least give a thought to listening to. And Malika, too. She’s amazing at networking, at getting to understand and know people - not just bartering for goods and swinging that axe of hers. And Mahanon - he’s a Dalish hunter. Do you know how good they have to be? We have him - what? Fetching braces of rabbit and skinning rams? Imagine what we could have him doing. Imagine how quickly he could navigate the terrain, get in and out of places unseen. We have to consider all the ways their talents could be better used.”

“I agree with you,” Cullen says, “I do. But they aren’t Inquisition in the same way our soldiers or scouts or messengers are. We can order them, we can reassign them, we can punish them and promote them. They are signed on. Their names are on paper. We cannot, in fair conscience, demand these things of Adaar and Cadash and Lavellan.”

“Let us talk to them first,” Josephine says, “Just - let us ask them. They’ve been thrown into this whole mess without any real option to say no. Let us give them one now, while there is still a chance for them to say otherwise.”

“What you offer, Josephine, is the illusion of choice,” Leliana rolls her eyes, “We all know that they would say yes. The current situation is no longer about choice. It is about do or do not. And the people we are talking about are not the sort to stand by idle.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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johaerys-writes · 5 years

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Dorian Pavus x Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 12: Fire in the Embers

Where Tristan accompanies Dorian to the Gull and Lantern to meet his father, even though Dorian is still mad at him and they’re barely speaking to each other. WELP

Follows Dorian’s personal quest “Last Resort of Good Men”.

Read here or on AO3!

**********************

“Gaps in the Armor.”

Tristan glared at Heir, the elven woman that Leliana had brought to Skyhold to train him. She was short and lithe, her dark, deep set eyes unabashedly meeting his in a level stare. The long stick she was holding was propped on the ground and she was leaning casually on it.

“We have practiced this attack already” he said.

“That doesn’t mean you did it well” she retorted flatly, not batting an eyelid. “Do it again.”

Tristan pursed his lips. He had never thought that he needed further training -years of sword fighting lessons in Ostwick had given him adequate skills to hold his own in a fight, any fight, or so he thought- but Heir had a mind of her own. She was apparently a master assassin, if anyone could be called that, and infuriatingly thorough in her instruction. She was shorter than a child, but her austere gaze made him feel as if he were ten years old and practicing with his fencing tutor.

With a sharp exhale he lunged forward, moving his dagger as precisely as he could, targeting the vital points that she had shown him. Shoulders, ribs, elbows, knees, any part of the body that could be peeking through plate armour, any place where a tendon could be slashed, incapacitating an opponent swiftly and mercilessly. The sun fell hot and burning on his skin as he flowed through the movements.

Heir avoided his attacks easily, moving only an inch away from the tip of his dagger, her hands holding her stick clasped behind her back. Maker, but she was impossible to catch.

Tristan took a step back, panting with the effort.

She didn’t even wait for a moment before ordering him again. “Mark of Death” she commanded in a low voice.

Clenching his jaws, Tristan obeyed. A half turn, a leap, a quick and flowing slash right for the heart. She evaded it effortlessly, stepping back as if she was lighter than a feather and turning his practice dagger to the side with the end of her stick.

“Again.”

Tristan scoffed as he returned to position. He threaded a finger through his matted hair to push it away from his face.

Another attack later and she had knocked his dagger out of his hand, his wrist was lodged firmly under her arm and her stick just a hair away from his face. He thought he saw contempt flashing in her dark eyes before she unhanded him without so much as a word and returned to her position.

Tristan ran his palm over his brow and let out a long sigh. His body was slick with sweat, fat drops arcing lazily down his back. It stung when it reached the sword wound that was still healing on his arm. The one Dorian had helped stitch and wrap.

It had only been a few days before, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Tristan knew he needed to have the stitches removed, but going to the healer to remove them always seemed to slip his mind for some reason.

His gaze drifted as if by instinct to the tall window on the side of the library tower above him. The window looking into Dorian’s study. Some mornings he thought he could sense him looking down into the yard from his spot in the library, watching him. Whenever Tristan looked up, though, there was no one there. Perhaps it was only his imagination.

“Inquisitor” Heir barked.

He jolted and blinked at her. She was staring at him so intently, for a moment he wondered whether he had broken a vase or dragged mud in the house from the garden.

“Knife in The Shadows” she said, flinging him his dagger.

He caught it in the air, and with an agile roll, he moved towards her and lunged, just as she had shown him. She parried his blow easily, but he kept slashing at her, again and again. A thrust close to her sides, and another towards her chest, and one more-

The elf rolled to the side just as he was about to dive in for her belly, landing on soundless feet behind him. The crack of her stick on his shoulder blades echoed across the yard. Pain, white and hot, spread along his limbs.

“Too slow” she said, swinging her stick along her side. “Again.”

Tristan took a deep breath, struggling to keep his composure, and shot her a menacing stare. It was with great difficulty that he resisted the urge to throw his dagger on the ground right there and then and make his way towards the tavern. A good drink would be just what he needed at that moment. He hadn’t had one in days. Ever since returning to Skyhold he had been avoiding going there, in case… Well. In case Dorian was there.

He looked back up towards his window, as if by rote. He wondered idly if Dorian even remembered he existed.

Heir’s voice came like a rude awakening. “I said again.”

Tristan grunted as he returned to position. “I heard you the first time” he grumbled, and leapt towards her.

This time, he managed to get close enough to her to almost touch her sides with the tip of his dagger, before she brought her stick down and cracked it against his wrist.

His dagger flew off his hand, and he growled in pain as he clutched his wrist close to his chest. He turned to her, his teeth bared in a snarl. “I swear to the Maker, if you touch me with that infernal stick again, I’ll-“

“You’re too easily distracted.”

“I’m distracted because you keep hitting me with that thing!”

She smiled, a cold, reserved smile that did not betray an ounce of emotion. “Unless you stop looking up at that window all the time, I’ll continue hitting you. You’re not paying attention. And in a real fight, if you don’t pay attention, you’re dead.”

Tristan grunted, rubbing his wrist, which was red and already starting to swell. “You think I don’t know that?” he spat. “I’ve been in more fights that you probably have!”

Heir scoffed, and the sound of it took Tristan by surprise. He never would have thought that this passionless being was capable of mirth. “You’re strong, Inquisitor. But you’re unruly. You can’t achieve anything unless you’re taught discipline.”

Tristan could feel himself trembling with anger. Biting his tongue, he bent down to pick up his blunt dagger just as a messenger arrived, looking at them both quizzically.

“What is it, Jim?” Tristan asked, pushing his hair away from his face.

The agent bowed his head reverently. “You Worship” he mumbled. “Commander Cullen is expecting you this afternoon in his office to go over the armoury report.”

“Right” Tristan said breathlessly. He glanced at the sun overhead, which was slowly reaching the center of the sky. “I think that’s as good a time as any to excuse myself.”

Heir fixed him with a hard glare. “Our training is not over.”

“Oh, I think it is” Tristan retorted, flinging his dagger on the ground and flashing her a smile that was not at all friendly. He picked up his shirt from the ground and pulled it over his head. “Tell the Commander I’ll come see him as soon as I’m ready.”

Jim bowed his head before leaving. “Of course, Your Worship.”

Tristan didn’t even spare a glance at Heir’s sour expression as he swiftly walked away.

The water from his bath pooled around his feet as Tristan got out of the tub. His muscles still ached from that dreadful journey through the Dales, almost a week after he had gotten back. Training with Heir every day had not done much to lighten his mood, and the bruise from the blow on his wrist was slowly turning purple. He swore to give Leliana a piece of his mind when he saw her again as he patted his sore arms down with a towel.

His clothes were clean and folded on his bed, no doubt by one of the many servants and came in and out of his quarters all day, and he dressed himself with slow, languorous movements. He was in no mood to hurry for his meeting with Cullen. He could allow himself a few moments of peace before having to think of all that.

Several reports were on his desk, signed and folded, as he had left them before going to his training. He took his time melting a little of the wax stick over a candle, and sealing each envelope with his signet. When the seals were dry, he placed the letters carefully in his coat pocket, and, with a soft sigh, got up.

He was halfway across the room when his eyes fell on the books on his coffee table. The books that Dorian had helped him find before they left for Val Royeaux.

Dorian.

Tristan almost wished Heir was there with that blasted stick of hers to chase the intrusive thoughts away. His heart tightened when he remembered that fight they had had, all those days before. Dorian’s face so close to his, the anger flashing in his eyes, the pain in his voice. But most of all, Tristan’s own reaction. Or rather, his lack thereof. He couldn’t help but curse himself every time that particular conversation came to mind. And it did come, often and at the most inopportune times, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.

Things between them had not been the same after it. They had barely exchanged a few words while travelling. The only times they had talked were in the mornings, when Dorian would emerge from his tent to find Tristan sitting by the fire. Even then, their conversations had been so forced and awkward, that even remembering them made Tristan cringe.

A brief talk about their travelling schedule, or a comment on the weather. A polite smile. A momentary glance before they both looked away. Uncomfortable silence.

After that, Dorian would trail behind on his horse, not sparing so much as a glance in his direction. In the evenings, when they set up camp, he rushed through his dinner as if he couldn’t bear to be in Tristan’s vicinity, and then swiftly retired to his tent to read. Tristan could see the lamp light in his tent flickering until the small hours of the morning, hours that he spent sipping from his flask, staring at the fire. If it weren’t for Sylesta and her apprentice, he would have spent the entire journey in silence.

It wasn’t that he didn’t welcome the silence. After all the meetings in Val Royeaux, the months of running around on missions, those few days felt almost… calm. It would have been fine if his heart didn’t want to plummet every time he was met with Dorian’s reticent smile and the view of his back as he turned around and excused himself from his presence.

It had hurt, just as much as he had thought it would -perhaps more-, not talking to him as they used to. Whenever he happened to see him in the corridors in Skyhold, he had nothing but courteous greetings to offer him before hurrying along. As if they were strangers. Casual acquaintances. As if Tristan was simply a high ranking somebody, and greeting him was just a matter of propriety.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

He shook his head stubbornly, willing the thoughts away. He was a fool. He knew that. All his life, he had done one foolish thing after the other. But he knew, with more certainty than ever, that cutting ties with Dorian was the best option at that point. No; it was the only option. For both of them. No matter how many times he ran the incidents of the past few days in his mind, or how many times he fantasised about having done things differently, having responded differently, having said literally anything that wouldn’t have reduced whatever he had had with Dorian to stiff greetings and awkward exchanges, the situation remained the same.

He had let Dorian come closer to him than anyone else had in years. He didn’t know what it was exactly that drew him to him, but whatever it was, it was nothing but a mad fancy on his part. A foolish daydream, that he had to put an end to. Dorian was much better off without Tristan, and Tristan without Dorian. Things didn’t usually go very well for those who found themselves close to him. Distancing himself was, undoubtedly, the right thing to do.

Then, if it was right, why did it feel so wrong?

“Because it is” a voice said behind him.

Tristan jumped, his hands instinctively reaching for daggers that were not hanging from his belt. Cole was sitting on his desk, his legs dangling over its edge. His pale face was obscured by the shadow of his wide brim hat.

“Cole” Tristan breathed, placing his palm over his rapidly beating heart. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

The boy mumbled something barely audible, his fingers pulling nervously at the frayed edges of his shirt. “Golden, gleaming, glittering to gloss a hidden hurt. Makes you laugh, can’t hate him if he shines so brilliantly. Angry words that hurt like stones, walls crumble, only to be erected again.” He hopped off the desk, drawing closer. Tristan almost took a step back when he extended his hand towards him. “He thinks about this sometimes” he said, touching a spot by the edge of Tristan’s mouth. “It makes him sad.”

Tristan gaped at Cole, struggling to make some sense of the torrent of words that was coming out of his mouth. “Wha- Who are you talking about?”

“He wonders why you haven’t gone to him. Home far away from home, searching, silent, seeking. You’re very much alike.” Cole chewed on his lip and turned to look at the fire in the hearth. He paused for a moment, as if trying to listen to something that Tristan’s ears couldn’t pick up. “Staring into darkness, thoughts heavy, spinning, things you couldn’t say but wish you had, things you said but wish you could take back. His voice helps you drown out the noise.” And without another word, he slowly walked away. He almost seemed to melt into the shadows along the staircase as he descended the steps towards the door.

Tristan stood frozen like a statue for several long moments, staring at where Cole had disappeared. Even as he walked out of his quarters, he was still unsure whether the boy had actually been there, or whether he just imagined it all.

He hadn’t properly stepped through the door, when he almost bumped on Mother Giselle. The woman bowed deeply as soon as she saw him.

“Revered Mother” he said through tight lips as he returned her bow with a curt nod, and tried to brush past her.

She smiled expectantly as she stepped before him to bar his way. “May I speak with you for a moment, Inquisitor?”

Tristan bristled, straightening up and fixing her with a hard stare. “I’m afraid I’m quite occupied at the moment” he said, a bit more tartly than he had intended. A chat with a Chantry sister was the last thing he needed that day. “Maybe some other time.”

“It’s regarding one of your companions” she blurted out as he pushed forward, swerving to the side to get away from her. “The… Tevinter.”

Tristan stopped in his tracks. His brows were furrowed when he turned to face her. “He does have a name, you know.”

His grim tone made the woman step back a little. “Of course, Inquisitor. I meant no offense.” She wrung her hands and regarded him seriously. “Are you familiar with Lord Pavus’s family?”

The unexpected question took Tristan aback. “I have heard of them. I know they’re not on good terms. What is this about, Mother Giselle?”

“I… have been in contact with them.” Before Tristan could challenge her on the reason of her being in contact with Dorian’s family, of all families, she continued. “They communicated to me their son’s estrangement, and they pleaded for my aid. They have asked that a meeting is arranged with a family retainer. Discreetly, if possible.” She emphasized the word in a way that made it clear to Tristan what she thought of his usual way of dealing with problems. “Since you appear to be on good terms with the young man-“, she uttered that bit with a slight wince, as if it pained her physically to acknowledge it, “I was hoping you would take him to this meeting.”

Tristan folded his arms before his chest and frowned at her. He had a good mind to really tell her what he thought of Dorian’s family’s laughable plan, and their even more laughable attempt to include both Mother Giselle and him in it. Glancing around the throne room, and catching the visiting nobles’ and Chantrics’ gazes that were already drifting towards them in curiosity, he quickly decided it was not a wise idea.

He let out a huff and ground his teeth in annoyance. “Mother Giselle” he said, lowering his voice to almost a growl, “I’m afraid I’ll have to remind you that it is not my place -or yours- to deal with someone else’s affairs. Not to mention the possibility of it being some kind of Venatori trap.”

“I… understand your caution, Inquisitor. The thought did cross my mind. In that case, you would be better equipped to deal with this than I. But if it is not, and it really is from Lord Pavus’ family” she said pleadingly, “would you stand in the way of parents wanting to reunite with their child?”

Anger flared hot in his chest, half choking him. He swallowed many of the more vulgar curses that came to his mind before speaking through tight lips. “I am not aware of the reasons why Lord Pavus decided to leave his ancestral home, but something tells me his parents had something to do with it. Why should they be given a chance to speak with him? If Dorian wanted to reunite with them, they would have written to him directly, don’t you think?” he hissed.

The woman’s eyes widened just a hair, and she opened her mouth to speak, but her words died away when Tristan waved whatever she was going to say away. “Still, you are correct that you wouldn’t be equipped to deal with a Venatori attack. Give me that blasted letter.” He extended his hand to her, gesturing impatiently. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor” the woman said, evidently relieved. Reaching in the pocket of her robes, she handed him a letter. “I would suggest you read it carefully. Perhaps it will be illuminating as to their intentions.”

The parchment was thick, smooth and clearly quite expensive, and the writing on the back elegant and flowing. Whatever was in that letter, Tristan did not dare open it without Dorian present. He inspected it gingerly as he made his way towards the library, not even glancing at Mother Giselle before walking away. Dorian needed to see this, the meeting over the armoury reports be damned.

Tristan ascended the stairs to the library, where Dorian usually was. With every step that he climbed, his heart felt heavier and heavier, until he thought it would fall down past his ribcage.

What would he say to him? What should he do? Dorian wanted nothing to do with him, and for good reason. Tristan had behaved like an ass and had pushed him away without offering him the slightest explanation. They had avoided each other meticulously for days. And now he would show up at his desk, holding a letter from people that he possibly loathed?

He tried very hard, but he couldn’t come up with a worse scenario for them to get back on good, or at least speaking, terms.

Dorian was sitting on a plush, velvet armchair, sipping tea from a flowery porcelain cup, and flipping the pages of a thick book that lay across his lap. Upon noticing Tristan’s steps, he glanced up, his features tightening visibly. He let the book fall closed before placing it softly on the desk beside him, and stood up, smoothing his palms over his dark red robe.

“Inquisitor,” he said, bowing his head in formal greeting.

Tristan swallowed thickly, in an effort to dislodge the lump that had suddenly found itself in his throat. Dorian’s heady cologne reached his nostrils, chasing away any coherent thought that might have crossed his mind. His stomach was in knots, and the only thing he could think of doing was to turn around and walk back the way he had come. But even he could, he didn’t think he would ever want to turn his back to him.

Even as Dorian greeted him stiffly, almost ceremoniously, even when there was nothing but cool politeness in his steely grey eyes, Tristan didn’t think he possessed the willpower to tear his gaze away from his.

The letter felt cold and stiff in his hands. His voice, when he spoke, was a muffled croak. “There’s something you need to see.”

Dorian blinked at him and leaned forward only slightly, as if he hadn’t heard him. “I beg pardon?”

Tristan felt his face heating up as he cleared his throat. This was getting worse by the second.

“I… There’s a letter you need to see” Tristan said, rather ominously. No reason to dance around the matter. He was only in danger of embarrassing himself even more.

Dorian looked at him curiously under furrowed brows. He crossed his arms before his chest and titled his head. A small, slightly perceptible smile curled his lips. “Under any other circumstances, I would have asked you whether it is a naughty letter. But knowing how serious our Inquisitor tends to be, I’m only going to ask what makes it so important that you had to deliver it personally and not send it with one of the agents that usually do your bidding.”

The scathing comment stung, but Tristan didn’t let any of his hurt show on his face. His lips were only a little tight when he straightened up and glanced at Dorian levelly. “It’s not just any letter. It’s from your family.”

“My family?” The smug expression on Dorian’s face fell visibly. “Show me this letter” he commanded crisply, letting his arms fall. He snatched the paper from Tristan’s fingers and tore the seal open impatiently. His eyes ran swiftly over the page, the colour on his cheeks becoming brighter as he read on.

“A meeting?” he growled. “My father wrote to you to ask you to trick me into a meeting? Oh, this is so typical! To think that he had the gall to involve you in his pathetic schemes….” He huffed in frustration, the letter crumbling up in his fist. He was clutching it so tightly, his knuckles had gone white. “I bet this “family retainer” he wants me to meet will just club me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter!”

The anger in his voice tore at Tristan. He took a step forward before he could stop himself. “They can’t make you do anything against your will, Dorian. Not while I’m there.”

Dorian gaped at him. His eyes had gone impossibly wide, and for the first time in days, Tristan felt like he was really looking at him, and not through him, as if he had suddenly materialized before him. “You will… come with me?”

Tristan couldn’t tell why his heart thumped so wildly in his chest at the breathiness of his voice. The rotunda was buzzing with activity, but it felt like there was no one there but them. Any and all reservations flew out of his mind as he and Dorian looked at each other, holding their breaths.

“Of course I will,” he whispered, holding his gaze. “We can leave now, today, if you wish.”

Dorian glanced at the letter in his hand. His shoulders relaxed as he let out a sigh. “Thank you,” he whispered. There was some of the familiar warmth in his gaze when he raised his gaze to Tristan’s face. “Meet you at the gates in an hour?

Their journey to Redcliffe village was swift and mostly in silence. Dorian kept his eyes on the road for the most part, looking quite grim and taciturn as he swayed on his saddle. Their horses were both sweating and their mouths frothing by the time they handed the reigns to the stable boy of the Gull and Lantern, the inn Dorian’s father had indicated in the letter.

They ascended the stairs to the room the meeting was to be held, not saying as much as a word to each other. Outside the door, Dorian paused. Producing a small comb from his pouch, he combed his dark curls in place, then smoothed his palms over his dark brown coat.

“Now I’m ready,” he whispered as if to himself, and took a deep breath. He knocked on the door and waited.

The man that opened the door was older than Tristan expected. And his clothes looked much too expensive for a retainer.

“Father” Dorian growled.

The man returned Dorian’s angry look with a calm and composed one of his own. “Dorian” he said. He was well in his late-fifties from what Tristan could tell, but his thick mane was just as dark and glossy as Dorian’s.

His dark eyes fell on Tristan, and he bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Inquisitor. I am Magister Halward Pavus, Dorian’s father.”

Before Tristan could open his mouth to respond, Dorian took a small step forward. “Can we skip the pleasantries and get to the point?” he snapped. “This whole story about the retainer was a smokescreen, wasn’t it? You knew I would never agree to come if I knew it were you from the start. And bringing the Inquisitor into this… Quite the elaborate plan, don’t you think?”

“Dorian” the man pleaded, in an effort to appease him. “I never intended for the Inquisitor to get involved. I only wanted-“

“Why am I not surprised?” Dorian said, cutting him short. “Magister Pavus couldn’t well come to Skyhold himself and be seen with the dread Inquisitor. It would cause quite the stir, I’m sure. So you preferred to lie once again and lure me here. What exactly is it you want, father?”

Magister Pavus gave Tristan a sharp look, then straightened his back before speaking. “Why don’t you come inside?” he offered, gesturing towards his room. “I can explain everything there.”

“I’m quite fine where I am, thank you,” Dorian replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

The two men stood at the opening of the door, glaring at each other. Dorian had no intention of backing down, and from his father’s sombre expression, it didn’t seem like he was any less stubborn.

Clearing his throat, Tristan took a step back. “Perhaps I should leave you to speak with each other in private.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Inquisitor!” Dorian said with a toothy grin, that made him look menacing rather than cheerful. “We’re a warm, happy family. Everyone’s welcome here. Isn’t that right, father?”

Magister Pavus let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “This is how it has always been. I only want to talk to you, Dorian, I’m not here to fight.”

“Talk, then! Tell me how mystified you are by my anger. Of course, you would know nothing about that, since it’s through no fault of your own, yes? Why don’t you tell the Inquisitor what your problem is, so we can have everything out in the open?”

When his father simply stared at him, his lips pinched tight, Dorian turned to face Tristan, uncrossing his arms. “Since my father appears to have lost his tongue all of a sudden, let me tell you what his problem is with me, Inquisitor, and why I left Tevinter, never to return.” He took a sharp breath, and fixed his father with a glare. “I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves.”

Tristan glanced at Dorian, then at his father, whose face was a couple shades paler than a few moments before. A couple that happened to walk down the corridor looked at them curiously as they passed them by.

“I…see,” Tristan said slowly. Magister Pavus’ gaze was on him now, intent and examining. He was no doubt trying to puzzle out Dorian’s relationship to him. Apprehension mixed with anger rushed through him as he returned the man’s scrutinizing stare. Tristan knew that sort of stare very well. It had followed him most of his life, and unless he backed away right that moment, it would be him exchanging harsh words with Magister Pavus instead of Dorian.

He cleared his throat and took a careful step back. “Really, I should probably leave you to-“

Dorian clicked his tongue in irritation. “Let’s just go,” he said and brushed past Tristan, stalking towards the stairwell.

He ignored his father’s plea to stay as he descended the stairs and walked briskly towards the inn’s exit, Tristan at his heel. It was only after they were outside, the golden light of the waning sun catching in his glossy black waves, that he turned around, huffing in exasperation.

“Can you believe him?” he said in a voice trembling with anger. “That’s what he’s always done. Lying, scheming, involving everyone he knows in his pathetic little plans. One would think that with time he might have gotten wiser. But this! This is… It’s just…”

He let his words trail away, rubbing his temples. Tristan watched him as he muttered under his breath, as the line between his eyebrows got deeper. He couldn’t say that he didn’t understand his frustration. Memories of his own quarrels with his mother, and her cold glare that could bore holes through him flashed in his mind. Admittedly, Dorian was taking the whole thing quite well. If it was Tristan in his stead, he didn’t know if he would have been able to keep his composure for so long.

“Dorian” he said softly, touching his elbow. “If you want us to leave, just say the word.”

Dorian’s eyes shone oddly in the dusk. He shot a glance towards the inn. “I…” he started, then stopped. He wrung his hands before looking at Tristan. “Perhaps we should.”

The pain in his features felt like a punch in the gut. Dorian looked crushed, hurt, helpless. It was all he could do not to pull him in his arms and hold him close, and then have their horses bridled and saddled and ride back to Skyhold at dead speed. He knew that if it had been his mother up there, he would have wanted nothing more than to run away, as fast as he could.

Yet, it wasn’t his mother. And giving Dorian advice based on his own experience with his family would likely make a much bigger mess of things than there already was.

When he spoke, his voice was half chocked with the effort of keeping it level. “I think you should go back up there and speak with him.”

“What?”

Tristan tried to ignore his blazing stare before he spoke. “Don’t leave it like this. You might regret it later.”

“I have… nothing to say to him” Dorian replied with effort, shaking his head.

“Let him do the talking. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be right here, waiting for you.”

Several slow, awkward moments passed before Dorian nodded reluctantly in agreement. With a deep sigh, he turned around and walked back inside the inn. Tristan watched him go up the stairs before he found an empty seat near the bar, and ordered a glass of brandy. “Make it double,” he told the bartender.

The man turned to leave, but stopped short when Tristan called him back. “Actually, you know what? Just bring the whole bottle.”

The innkeeper shot him an appraising look, but it just slid off Tristan like water off oiled leather. It was going to be a long evening, and he needed something to calm his nerves.

It was about half an hour later that Dorian’s father descended the stairs. Tristan sat up in his chair and watched him, a silent question in his gaze, but the man only nodded his farewell and walked swiftly out the door. Dorian, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. Tristan sank back in his seat, and waited.

An hour later, the inn’s common room was slowly emptying, and Dorian still hadn’t appeared. Tristan was contemplating going up to the room to check whether he was still alive, when he saw him coming down the stairs. He looked worse for wear, his red-rimmed eyes downcast. His face lit up slightly when he saw Tristan watching him from across the room.

“You’re still here” he said softly as he took the seat next to him. “I thought you would have left.”

“And go where?” Tristan replied, his lips widening in a reserved smile. “I came here with you.”

Dorian let out a quiet laugh and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. Tristan pushed an empty glass towards him, and filled it with brandy. Dorian picked it up, bringing the rim close to his nose and breathing deeply. “Now, that’s just the thing I needed.”

“I would have needed ten of those if I were to meet my mother” Tristan said, refilling his own glass.

Dorian harrumphed as he took a sip. “Is she as terrifying as my own father?”

“Perhaps a little more” Tristan said, nodding thoughtfully. “At least your father had the patience to talk with you. If I didn’t have an entire Inquisition behind me, she wouldn’t hesitate clubbing me on the head and dragging me back to Ostwick. Even so, I have my doubts about whether the Inquisition can actually stop her.”

“She definitely sounds intriguing.”

“That’s… one way to put it.”

Dorian laughed and took a sip from his drink, wincing as he swallowed.

Tristan watched him quietly, marking the tightness in his features, the long, elegant fingers tapping on the sides of his glass. He looked terribly strung out.

“Are you alright?”

A soft sigh left his lips. “Not really. But thanks for asking, anyway.” He gulped down the rest of his drink, and stretched for the bottle again. He spoke so softly, Tristan had to strain his ears to hear him over the gurgling sound of the brandy hitting the bottom of the glass. “He says we are alike. Too much pride. Once, I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now, I’m not so certain.”

He took a long draught, then wiped his mouth with his knuckle. “He… asked me to forgive him. I don’t know if I can do it.”

Tristan looked at him, compassion and affection mingling in his chest. He knew what it was like to be unwanted, considered a failure by one’s family. When his own mother had found out that he was not in the least interested in marrying a young girl from a rich, noble family, she had regarded him with cold indifference and thinly veiled contempt. But then again, when did Esme Trevelyan have anything but contempt for everyone around her? From a very young age, he had almost convinced himself that he didn’t care. Almost.

He sipped on his brandy, a question still gnawing at him. “I know this is between you and your father… but what did he do, exactly?”

Dorian stared at the bottom of his glass, his eyes following the amber liquid swirling inside it as he moved it in his hand. “He was the one who taught me to hate blood magic. “The resort of the weak-minded” he would say. Yet when I refused to do what he asked of me, he tried to… change me,” he said, choking on the last word. “He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… acceptable. I found out. I left.”

The horror that seeped through Tristan made his stomach lurch. He glanced at Dorian, trying as hard as he could to keep his eyes from widening. It had been painfully evident that there was bad blood between them, but he imagined it would have been an argument, some harsh words and lots of resentment from both sides, but this… This surpassed any and all of his expectations.

He struggled for words, but they all felt stiff and bitter in his mouth. In the end, he settled for the only ones that he could whisper through the impossible tightness in his throat. “I… don’t know what to say.”

Dorian chuckled weakly. “I guess there’s not much to say, is there?” A small smile was painted just on the edges of his lips, as if forgotten from a time when there was a reason for it to be there. He let out a sigh, and it came out sharp and heavy, finally freed from its constraints. “I tried so hard to be perfect. Perfect son, perfect mind, perfect mage. Anything for him. Anything to make him proud. I wouldn’t even try things that I might have been bad at just out of fear of disappointing him. And to think that he would risk a ritual that could have left me a drooling vegetable… it crushed me.”

He paused and glanced at Tristan. It was only a brief movement, a twitch of the eye. He downed the contents of his glass in one gulp and set it back down on the table.

“It’s funny, you know,” he said, picking up the bottle and tipping its mouth over his glass once more. “People always talk about choice. That you can choose how to live your life, how you want to be. Even I believed that. I hated that I couldn’t just go along with what everyone wanted of me. That I couldn’t pull myself together and show the world the face it wanted to see, marry the girl, keep everything unsavoury private and locked away. I often wondered; how bad could my life possibly be? Compared to others, I had pretty much everything. Many would kill to have the opportunities I had. I could have just obeyed my father and lived the rest of my life in luxurious despair. It might have been hard at first. I would have betrayed my ideals, my desires, everything I stood for, but in the end, with time, I would have gotten used to it, no? Isn’t that what life is, after all? Making choices and living with the consequences?”

He fell silent for a long moment. Tristan didn’t think he had ever listened so intently, so attentively to anyone before. In the few moments of quiet, he thought he was able to hear his heart, beating through his chest, through his clothes, through the air between them.

“It was never a matter of choice for me” Dorian said quietly, his fingers tightening imperceptibly about his glass. “If I did all that, it would have been worse than betraying myself. I would have tied the noose around my neck myself, and I wouldn’t even know it.”

Silence stretched long and heavy between them. The common room was now all but empty, the fire in the hearth reduced to glowing embers, their pulsing light peeking through the small mountain of ashes and the blackened logs. It was odd, really, how brightly they shone amidst the darkness that surrounded them. Tristan gazed at their amber glow for a long while, willing the lump in his throat and the impossible tightness in his heart to a faint, if insistent, irritation. He wondered that he hadn’t noticed it before. At that very moment, as the weak warmth emanating from the fire seeped into his bones and the liquid in his glass reached the bottom, it felt as if it had been there forever.

Dorian gazed at his drink with unseeing eyes, oblivious to everything around him. His shoulders were slumped, his head low. Tristan did not remember ever seeing him so utterly, so devastatingly silent.

His hand moved as if on its own, stretching tentatively towards him, the few inches between them seemingly endless. He hesitated only for half a breath before placing it gently it on his shoulder.

He thought he felt a small shiver pass through Dorian under his fingertips. Dorian looked at him then, really looked at him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I’m so sorry, Dorian.”

The words left his mouth before he could think to stop them, before he could rightly say what they really meant. He didn’t even know whether he was apologising, or sympathising. At that moment, he only knew that these were the words he needed to say to him the most.

Dorian blinked at him, his eyes gliding slowly over Tristan's features. He opened his mouth and closed it again. When he spoke, it was soft and gentle, as if he were speaking to himself. "Don't be. What's done is done. We can only try our best to accept it and move on."

Tristan couldn't tell why his sombre words made his heart thrum with painful longing in his chest. Before he could respond, the innkeeper approached them and bid them goodnight, leaving a bottle of expensive malt whisky at their table, “courtesy of Magister Pavus”.

Gingerly, he let his hand fall from Dorian’s shoulder. Straightening up, Dorian picked up the bottle, examining its label before pulling the cork.

“At least we got something good out of this debacle. It’s no Aggregio Pavalli, but it will have to do” he said with a bitter smile as he filled their glasses. The whisky was aromatic, and surprisingly strong. Tristan thought his tongue was on fire as he drank it down.

The light from the embers in the hearth danced in Dorian’s glass as he swirled his drink. “Maker knows what you must think of me after that whole display.”

“I don’t think less of you” Tristan said simply. He was already feeling the effect of the brandy and the whisky he had drunk, but he made no effort to stop himself. He took a sharp breath, and for once he wasn’t feeling as if his tongue was in knots. “More, if possible. Standing up for yourself, walking away from everything you knew, fighting for what’s in your heart… It takes a lot of courage. If that’s not admirable, then I don’t know what is.”

He noticed a strange flicker in Dorian’s eyes when he turned to look at him. His bottom lip was glistening with the remains of his whisky. His hair was only a little out of place, his cheeks slightly flushed.

Memories of a kiss, drunken and ill-timed, but still the softest he had ever received floated in his mind. The feel of velvet, pliant lips retreating under his own, the taste of brandy on his tongue, Dorian’s face so close to his. The sadness in his gaze, the smile to gloss over the hurt. They gazed at each other for what felt like aeons, the vice around Tristan’s heart tightening until he could barely breathe.

With a soft sigh, Dorian tore his eyes away. He picked up the bottle, its glass neck clinking against the rim of his glass. “In any case, let’s drink ourselves into a stupor, shall we? It’s that sort of night,” he said in a cheerful tone that felt much too forced, and filled Tristan’s glass as well. “And I promise I won’t try to kiss you this time.”

Tristan huffed a laugh, but it felt hollow.

#cw: alcohol #dorian pavus #dorian pavus fic #dorian x trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #dorian/trevelyan #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #dorian x tristan trevelyan #dorian x tristan #a world with you #johaerys writes

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