#lady trevelyan is never satisfied

[swordbisexual]

WIP Wednesday

Still rushing full tilt into where the Fenella/Cullen brainrot takes me, with no signs of slowing down, so it seems a little redundant to post WIPs when I know I'll probably be yeeting the no-beta-we-die-like-men end result onto AO3 within 24 hours at this rate, but I am just so excited for how horrifically down bad Cullen is for Fen.

He may have abandoned the Templars, but Cullen will never abandon order. He cannot. There is control in order: not over others, not anymore, but control of his immediate sphere, and of himself. He finds peace in such order, and peace in knowing that when all else seems lost, he can still always come back to himself, always careful, always controlled. The problem with order, though, is that try as he might, something will always push up against the bulwark, no matter how staunchly and strongly he’s reinforced it. Lady Trevelyan - Herald, she’s demanded him to call her, and while she approached the subject in her own diplomatic way, she still held the authority of command in her voice, apparently unaware of her own lofty bearing - does her best, at every opportunity, to throw herself against the carefully-constructed ramparts of his sense of order. She is a siege battalion all unto herself, occupying whatever sphere she steps into without even trying, and just when he thinks he knows how to anticipate her next movement, she lobs a surprise into the air. Little blasphemies. A self-satisfied smile at triumphantly announcing her duelling prowess over her brothers. A word or two he’s only heard from the Orlesian retinue of recruits, and all of them coarse, and shocking when they fall from such a well-bred tongue that enunciates everything else so clearly in a softly-refined Marcher noble accent. And just when he thinks he’s adequately barricaded himself against such brazen attacks upon his defenses, she slips around to his unprotected side with even greater surprises: her drawings, her just-this-side of flippant letters, her hair unbound and glowing sunset against the firelight.

Tagging @rowanisawriter @mightymizora @femmeharel @smoreofbabylon and @plethomacademia to share WIPs today, and you, if you're reading this!

[samanthahirr]

HR Complaints Against MI6 Staff Headcanons

The repeated complaints lodged in Q’s personnel file from various members of Q Branch all share a similar theme: harassment outside of work hours. While no malicious intentions have been ascribed to the quartermaster, his lack of respect for his staff’s work-life balance has resulted in Q texting and emailing his team hours after their shift ends—sometimes even in the middle of the night. HR has given the quartermaster a stern admonishment that he is not to contact his subordinates off-duty unless it is an emergency worthy of contacting Mallory first. In the year since this edict, the incidences of after-hours contact have dropped precipitously.

Gareth Mallory is always in a hurry, and finding parking in London has worse odds than roulette. In his first year as director of MI6, Mallory's corporate car was repeatedly ticketed, clamped, and even towed, for double-parking around London. The resulting expenses forced the head of Accounting to make an official note in Mallory’s personnel file: the director of MI6 must no longer have access to a corporate car…unless it also comes with a driver from the motor pool. 

James Bond’s file includes an official HR reprimand for flirting with a female visitor to the executive floor. A visitor who turned out to be the operations manager’s wife. Heh’em. While the lady was far from displeased with the attentions, the manager was very cross indeed, and he lodged a strongly worded complaint with HR about Bond’s harassment of women within the building. Bond felt awkward enough about the misunderstanding to cancel the date he’d made with the man's wife. Knowingly cuckolding someone who coordinates all of his real-time mission support seemed...unwise. 

Only last month, Alec Trevelyan got written up for flashing. His explanation for the event is that he’d been sparring with Bond…and then showering with Bond…and—as implied by the eyebrow waggle—having sex with Bond. And by the time he’d shaved and left the shower, his clothing was missing, along with every towel in the locker room. Even though Alec was ostensibly the victim of a prank, it was deemed unacceptable for him to walk naked through the halls of MI6, loudly demanding the return of his clothing, and showing his bits and bobs to all of the employees on the lower two floors of SIS.

When Bill Tanner was first brought on as M’s secretary, another member of staff accused him of repeatedly stealing her lunch from the fridge. Tanner was instructed by HR to stop the uncivil behavior forthwith. He tried explaining to the employee that he wasn’t the food thief, but the woman wouldn’t believe him. So Tanner took matters into his own hands and, on a day he knew she would be out on leave, he put his own meal in the refrigerator, laced with laxatives. The resulting mess proved the culprit to be the woman’s cubicle mate. Tanner warned the culprit to stop the food thefts or Tanner would expose them to HR, to their victim, and to M. The culprit transferred to a different branch on a separate floor after a few weeks. The complaint in Tanner’s HR file was never expunged, but he feels satisfied with his own self-vindication.

Eve Moneypenny’s first few weeks transitioning from the field to the executive floor as M’s secretary were…rocky. She’d spent the preceding five years on active field duty for various military and SIS divisions. Receiving passive aggressive response emails from the deputy director’s secretary Bethany—or more frequently, having her emails ignored by Bethany—got under her collar a bit. Moneypenny may have caught up to Bethany in the parking garage one evening and given her a piece of her mind. But it’s not like Moneypenny pulled a weapon or laid a hand on the woman! (She made sure all of her threats were only implied!) After the complaint, assignments were realigned so Moneypenny no longer works directly with Bethany; that dubious pleasure falls to Tanner. Despite the black mark in her personnel file, Moneypenny has to think things worked out in her favor. 

Doctor Hall has over two dozen complaints against him in his personnel file, all from disgruntled double-0 agents immediately following their mandatory psychiatric interviews. Field agents don’t like being asked prying questions—no one does!—but Doctor Hall has a diagnostic protocol to follow; it isn’t his fault that they’re already so stressed when they report for their appointments! He fretted over the complaints for a month, until M dismissed them as irrelevant bellyaching. He now considers the complaints an indicator of the agents' psychological stability that they’re threatening him with professional repercussions instead of the guns and knives he knows they’re illegally concealing under their tailored suits and dresses. 

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 55: The Dead Outnumber the Living Part II

Chapter summary:

Rose, Hawke, Blackwall and Varric contend with an undead ambush and then continue onward to dine with the mayor. Their humble dinner in little, seemingly insignificant Crestwood village is tenser than Rose ever imagined it could be.

Fic Summary:

Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke.

Excerpt Below the Jump ⏬

The following morning I delegate most of my companions into crews to accompany scouting missions— one resource gathering mission further to the north consisting of Solas, Vivienne and Cassandra another along the lake shore with Bull, Blackwall, Varric, Sera, and Hawke to further investigate the undead problem. Dorian remains in camp with Harding and I and I assume that Cole is around somewhere in the ether. He didn’t attend our morning meeting but he’s never far. 

“I’ve been meaning to catch you alone,” says Dorian, leaning against my desk where I’m scanning through an update missive from Leliana that Harding has decrypted for me. “How are you?”

“I’m keeping busy,” I say, pitching him a half smile.

“It’s been a week and a half. Have you heard anything from him?”

“You mean beyond his parade of dismally dry requests for signatures and permission to buy toys for our army?” I say. “Why? Do you think he’d send anything different?”

“You both care about each other.”

“I still have a foolish amount of hope inside me, but he drew a clear line. And logically I know I should accept it. Maker knows I’ll be more productive if I do.”

“If he weren’t such a self-flagellating sad sack—”

“ No . I don’t know what he told you, but he’s entitled to feel the way he does. I don’t like it, but I understand. It hurts . But I understand.”

“ Fasta vass , Rose,” Dorian sighs. “You two are infuriating. Whatever happened to talking things out like grown ups? Fighting for one another?”

“I’m sorry if we’ve disappointed you, Dorian. But some things aren’t a matter of fighting,” I tell him. “And clinging to hope is foolish. He made that perfectly clear.”

“Let me see these notes of his,” Dorian says, scanning my desk like he might stumble upon them.

“ Dorian .”

He sighs.

“I just need someone to be happy around here, I suppose,” he says into his folded hands. I reach over and squeeze his upper arm.

“And what about you?”

“ Me ?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been making eyes at Bull these last several weeks. I may have prodded you about it while it was still a fleeting thought, but it’s a little harder to mistake now.”

“Rose, you were an appalling matchmaker then, you’re an appalling matchmaker now,” he says in an obvious deflection. The man never seems to blush, but he scratches his forehead in the sort of tell that satisfies me.

“Then I shall leave your stolen glances be for the moment. No harm in them.”

“Certainly no more numerous than your obvious looks at a certain celebrity hero.”

“Obvious? He’s the second biggest thing here next to Bull. There’s no avoiding looking at him.”

“And now you understand me!”

Read the chapter here Start the fic from the beginning

DAFF Crew Tag List:

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[melisusthewee]

Happy friday Mel! For Quinn/Cassandra, ❝ are you falling asleep? ❞ (after what you shared the other day about quinn's refractory period lmao)

I really liked all three of these prompts so I decided to combine them all together! Thank you @kiastirling @nirikeehan @contreparry I hope this entertains!

Title: Refractory Pairing: Cassandra/Male Trevelyan Rating: M Word Count: 1070 words For @dadrunkwriting

Nights out in the wilderness were very dark.  The Inquisitor always offered to light a lantern, but Cassandra did not need shadowy outlines of the two of them projected onto the canvas walls of the tent for the rest of the party in their camp to see.  He might have very little shame, but she still had her dignity.

Besides, there was something exciting about fumbling around in the dark.  Having to rely almost entirely on other senses gave their lovemaking an edge to it that Cassandra found thrilling.  To hear the Inquisitor's heavy breathing, to feel only the press of fingers and warm skin beaded with sweat and have to imagine the appearance of Quinn Trevelyan with his flushed cheeks and disheveled hair tangled up with her fingers made the experience all the more satisfying.

Everything was louder in the dark too.  She felt hyper aware of every sound she uttered, and try as she might to muffle Quinn's own sounds, he kept playfully wiggling away from her attempts to smother him.  There was a time when she would have been mortified - too distracted by the idea that their companions surely could hear them to focus entirely on the sensation of the Inquisitor between her thighs - but it was a thought that was easily forgotten when he moaned so prettily in her ear.

The air inside the tent was heavy with their exertions by the time they finished, gasping through their releases before drifting slowly back down to earth.  Cassandra always liked this moment most, when Quinn would still for a while, his weight on top of her heavy but warm, comforting, and protective.  She would hold him there for as long as she could, but he would always shift after a few minutes, pulling away and rolling aside with a soft chuckle that she knew was directed more at himself than anyone else.

The rustling of the bedding could be heard in the darkness and Cassandra was left alone with the air of their little hideaway cooling the heat of her skin as the Inquisitor fumbled around in the dark to make himself comfortable.  But then he returned, his breath warm in her ear as he settled next to her, resting his head against her shoulder.

It was nice like this, lying beneath the stars, knowing he was close and listening to the sounds of the wilderness around them.

"I hate sleeping on the ground," Quinn grumbled when Cassandra brought up the peaceful solitude of the night.  To emphasize his point, he groaned as he stretched and she could hear him turn and settle on his back.

Cassandra turned onto her side, not about to let him roll too far away from her.  "Your back did not seem to trouble you earlier."

She could hear the wide smile in his voice when he replied, "For you, dear lady?  Never…"

There was a dreamy softness in his tone towards the end that made Cassandra's heart feel full.  He was more open with his affection when they were like this, no longer concerned about appearing too vulnerable or too needy when neither of them could see anything but the inky blackness around them.  He did not resist when she drew him close to her and lazily draped an arm around her waist, letting out a soft breath that sounded almost like a sigh as he did so.

Cassandra began to trace his outline in the dark, running her hand gently up his arm before slowly tracing her fingers down his side.  Quinn hummed softly, a pleasing little noise that served to encourage her further.  He lay very still, content to let her touch him gently and explore him as she pleased, drawing gentle little patterns across his skin.  She could feel the soft hair on his forearm and the way it tapered up towards barely noticeable peach fuzz midway up his bicep.  She could feel the firm shape of his shoulder blades, and the way his muscles in his back relaxed and relented to the press of her fingers as she followed them down towards his spin.

Aside from a brief brush of his fingers against her rear, the Inquisitor did not reciprocate any of Cassandra’s touch.  She didn’t particularly mind at first, knowing that he likely needed a moment to come down from the bliss he often coasted on after their coupling.  But when he responded with only the vaguest of grunts when her hand fell to his hips and she gave his exposed cheeks an affectionate little squeeze, Cassandra frowned.

The arm around her waist slipped down below her hips as Cassandra propped herself up, resting on her elbow.  She narrowed her eyes, thinking that if she tried hard enough perhaps she could somehow see what he was up to in the dark.  But everything was shadow upon shadow and she could only hear the sounds of the man breathing beside her.

“Are you falling asleep?” she asked.

“Mmmmmno…”

Quinn’s voice was thick and his words a bit muddled despite the simple and straightforward answer.  She waited for a more certain assurance from him, or an apology, or any sign of life.  But he didn’t so much as move, remaining exactly where he was, his breathing soft and even.  With a sigh of her own, Cassandra settled onto her bedroll, turning away in an effort to hide her disappointment.

The stuffiness of the air inside the tent seemed unpleasant now, more easily noticed now that Cassandra was left only with her pillow, the ground, and her own disappointed thoughts.  So when Quinn rolled towards her, pressing his face to the back of her neck and throwing one of his legs across her own, she was tempted to roll him back the other way.  But as she made to do so, Quinn mumbled something that was sleepy and incoherent but sounded… happy.  It made the warmth bloom in her chest again and she instead shifted only slightly in order to be comfortable.  She found it difficult to be cross with him when he wanted to be so close to her in his sleep.  It was the time when someone was most vulnerable and most themselves, and she would hold this secret affection from him close to her chest.  Resting her hand on the thigh he had hooked around her, she stroked his skin gently, soothing him in his dreams.

[tokutenshi]

Aurelia Trevelyan

Art by the lovely @jeannedarcprice

The second eldest child, Aurelia's task in life was to marry a suitable husband that would benefit her family financially or politically. Every encounter required her to be perfect, demure, and charismatic. She gave up the illusion of choice long ago and can only feel free and like herself when riding a horse.

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

Stains of Red

Contribution for Cullen week, the prompt “thirst.” Cullen x Lydia Trevelyan, early relationship. Rated T. @cullensource

She counted time as the intervals between his kisses.

Since their first kiss on the battlements only days ago, since he said yes I will yes, they kissed in their stolen times between. Long kisses, short yet peppering kisses, ones that lingered and ones places on her hand as if he was a knight and she was his lady fair. They tried new patterns, deeper kisses or kisses elsewhere than the lips. They thrilled each other with their experiments, planned more and then things after, though after wasn’t spoken of yet. He always pulled her back for more before she left his office, his gloved hands wrapping themselves around her hips and pulling her back into his frame. That was his promise of after. 

Outside his door with her hand against the knob, she shivered with the thought of his arms. It was evening and her duties and his duties left her a full day without his lips or his embrace. Too, her hands itched to weave through his hair, muss it from the pomade’s hold. What took us so long? she often asked herself since their first kiss. She was already in a drought, desiring for so long without even realizing it. She needed time to make up for what was lost, time stacking both from her early folly and lack of kisses during the day. 

Cullen. Cullen, Cullen, Cullen. She pined. She longed. How was he real? Was that why she kissed with everything, fear he would disappear? So much of her life was marked with temporariness. Cullen defied. He was solid and warm. His eyes spoke of always. My kisses will tribute, she thought still outside his office. They’ll cure our drought.

She put on her reddest stain for the lips in wild moment sitting at her vanity that afternoon, knowing it would stain when she came to him. What would his soldiers think? They lived in a whirlwind since he kissed her and she giggled with the thought of her Commander walking around with stains. He’s mine, the stains would have said. He’s mine and I’m his woman…

By his door with her lips stained she pressed on the door handle, her heart still thumping as if he didn’t tell her he imagined them together yet. He eased when he saw her in the doorway, grinning and beaming and turning from Commander to Cullen. Beautiful man in her arms, holding her face in her hands and kissing her in greeting. He was warmth and home and had artistry in his kiss. He knew when to converse with the barest hint of tongue seeking entrance or when to merely offer slow and sensual press, her bottom lip trapped between his. He knew when to travel downward, have his breath caress her neck before gently nipping. At first he worried the soft beard that grew across his chin and neck chaffed her or was too bothersome in their silent, needy conversations, but her quick assurances afterward eased him. She wasn’t the sort of flower of the mountain that would wilt at the subtlest roughness. She could take him all. I like your beard, she told him. She quivered with the thought of it between her thighs.

(She left that unsaid. For now.)

He must have recalled that conversation. With her fingers twisting through his fur, a prelude to the soft tugs she’d give to his hair, he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She giggled at the pleasant roughness before she met his lips again. It struck her as she he succumbed and lost himself in her how such a fine, powerful man who fought for three days without rest when the breach first opened could so easily come undone with just her lips. This was new to him, he admitted earlier. He kissed before, lusted, but had never fallen quite like this. 

He fell with her.  

“I’ve waited all day,” she said between kisses, he hungrier the more he satisfied. “I want you all the time.”

“I waited so long.”

She cradled his head, his lips fixated on the crook of her exposed neck. “How long?” she asked, curiosity peeked.

“Since I held you in my arms after Haven.” He encompassed her as he wrapped his arms around her. “Since I first saw you.”

He spoke so ardently. He spoke without the barest hint of shame. “So romantic.”

He chuckled. “What’s wrong with that?”

She pressed him closer. “Nothing, nothing. I love it. Please, woo me. With kisses and words.”

“Hold me.”

Hold me he asked, with a sincerity that nearly broke her heart. He wasn’t used to holding. She wasn’t either. Her bits of romance where clandestine kisses in the Circle in secret, not wide and open kisses and embraces in an office with the other door wide open. Maker she could get off from just holding.

She held him like he asked, though the plates of his armor and bulk of the fur around his neck made adjusting difficult. But he wanted to be held. Who before asked without thought or shame that they wanted her arms? “Can you take this off?” she asked still in his arms, gripping the mantle. “I can hold you better.”

“Oh maker you’re face is all red.” 

His was too. She laughed at her somewhat foiled plan, but let them see her too, she thought. Let them all know her Commander kissed by the book. The two in each other’s arms and smeared with red, none moved to wipe the traces away. Like she he wanted to keep her kisses there, not rub them away carelessly. “Can I hold you?” she asked after a moment, after they were done appreciating the smeared lust on lips. 

“Lyd...”

“I’m curious anyway.” She tugged at the fur. “How does this come off?”

Smirking. he showed her. First off came the mantle, Cullen setting it on his desk. The removal already took away bulk, but he still had broad shoulders and standing in front of him made her feel tiny and little. Something rare for her, as she’d always been the tallest. He unlatched his breastplate next, tossing it behind him, then the pauldrons on his shoulders and his gauntlets, leaning against the dress and watching her watch him. He wore an undershirt under his armor, the strings unlaced at the front, offering the barest peek of golden hair. 

Yet before he took off his gloves, his hands reached for her hips, pulling her into his tall frame. “Gloves?” she asked, placing her hand over his. “What of those?”

His cheeks pinkened. “Um...”

She sensed she shouldn’t have asked. “I’m sorry.” She wore a half glove herself on her left hand to keep away prying eyes from her mark. She couldn’t imagine why Cullen would want to hide his hands until he admitted they were rough feeling, perhaps too much so for her.

“Maybe I like it a little rough.”

His cheeks still red, though for a different reason than shame, he half smiled as he let her take one of his hands to peel off the glove. She kissed his palm and every finger. They were big, though his fingers were nimble. They were calloused and well worn, used hands. Lived hands. Rough, but she liked them that way. She wouldn’t have them any other way.

She undid the other, sighed when he used them to cradle her face, brush his thumbs over her slightly parted lips. That was the way she was meant to be held, the way he was meant to hold.

“Always hold me this way,” she asked of him. “I love your hands.”

“I…I know I don’t have much,” he said, still cradling her face, his eyes golden in evening light. “I wish we could have met somewhere else.”

“The Circle?”

“Maker no.” He banished the thought. “I mean, a place where I could woo you properly.”

She threw her arms around his neck, holding her earlier as he asked. He wanted to be held, to be loved, this man left droughted too long from a lack love. He deserved to be dotted on. He deserved her adoration.

And she wouldn’t wanted to have met him anywhere else, to stain him red anywhere else but where they were. She would always be his willing adorer. 

“You’re perfect,” she said. ���Even when you’re all red.”

“I’m still blushing?” he asked with a small chuckle. “Maker.”

“It’s also the lipstick.  Mostly the lipstick. I’m sorry, I—”

“I like it.”

They held and they kissed and they kissed and they held again, not parting till the night with stains of red.

[shadowheartoffaith]

Her hands curl over the headboard, her head falling back against the pillows as a low moan tears its way from her throat. Cullen’s head is buried between her legs, his hands wrapped gently around her thighs, keeping her spread open for him as his tongue passes over her folds in a way that has her swearing she is going to die from pleasure. 

She had woken to his fingers trailing featherlight down the bare skin of her side, the room still warm from the fire and the down of the lavish blankets draped over the bed. The entirety of Chateau Desjardins is stunning and decadently over-the-top with its marble floors and foreign art lining the walls. Elodie had been enraptured despite her exhaustion the night before when they had arrived. Though she is now accustomed to long haul treks through Thedas with Inquisitor Trevelyan and his party, five days of traveling on horseback had left her tired and a bit sore. 

They had arrived late in the evening, the Inquisitor and his Inner Circle and Advisors being led to the formal dining room for a warm meal and then shown to their rooms throughout the winding estate. The soldiers had made camp on the grounds and Leliana’s agents had gone on ahead to Halamshiral to find places to smuggle Inquisition troops into the Winter Palace during Empress Celene’s peace talks.

The evening had been long with talk of dress code and etiquette and protocol. The list of nobles in attendance had been chattered about between Vivienne and Josephine and Leliana. Vivienne had even arranged for gilded carriages to take them to the palace and mercilessly questioned the Inquisitor about the famed Council of Heralds for the majority of the meal, leaving Elodie’s head spinning with the intricacies of the Game. 

Her head spins for another reason now. Her back arches off of the mattress and Cullen’s hands slip higher to pin her hips down. Light dances behind her eyelids, his name escaping her in a sigh and he slows his ministrations but does not stop. Her fingers dig into his curls, urging him closer.

A sharp rap at the door has her eyes flying open. 

She bites down on another moan. A leftover habit from their days in the Circle; she fears being caught. She tugs at Cullen’s hair and he chuckles against her, his nose bumping against her clit. She hisses out a breath at the sensation. 

“They’ll leave,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. 

Another sharp knock sounds before a heavily Orlesian-accented voice informs them that breakfast is being served in the dining room. A heartbeat later her ears twitch at the sound of footsteps receding down the hall. 

“We should go,” she grouses. 

Cullen hums against her, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses up her bare leg. “Do you wish for me to stop?”

His voice is so low, so roughened with lust. She trembles at the thick edge of his Fereldan accent as it creeps into his voice. He lifts his head to look at her. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes are nearly black and she watches as he licks his lips clean of her. 

Her toes curl.

“No,” she breathes and he is back to the pressing task of making her see stars. 

He strokes her leg as he circles a particularly sensitive spot with his wicked tongue and a cry catches in her throat. All of her nerve endings are alight with fire and she feels her muscles coiling tighter and tighter before she falls limp and boneless against the mattress. Another soft kiss is pressed to her hip and then Cullen is hovering over her, those amber eyes tender and amused. “Good morning,” he murmurs, bringing his mouth down to hers.

She cannot speak, she can hardly move, but she returns his kiss. 

An even sharper knock at the door has Cullen growling down into her throat in frustration. He pulls away to call “What?” over his shoulder. 

“If you two are quite finished,” comes Josephine’s haughty voice, “There are preparations to begin! We have much to do!”

Elodie lets out a quiet laugh and Cullen grumbles something about privacy. 

“It is time to greet the day, Commander!” Josephine sing-songs from outside before she proceeds down the hall to break down another door. 

Elodie traces her fingertips from Cullen’s jaw up and over the shell of his ear. He leans into her touch, his stormy expression softening. “Duty calls,” she murmurs. 

He drops his head down to nuzzle at her neck. “I had no idea this party was going to take up so much of our time. Or become an all day event.”

“From what I’ve gathered Orlesian parties are some sort of national pastime.” She strokes the back of his head soothingly. “I may be even less excited than you are,” she admits. “But this is important. And once it’s over we can do this again.”

“I will be holding you to that,” he informs her, his breath warm against her skin. 

She grins.

“Dorian Pavus! Open this door!” comes Josephine’s shout from down the hall.

Elodie shakes her head. “I hope they locked that door or Josephine is about to get an eye full.”

Cullen peers up at her questioningly.

“If you’d ever been camping with Dorian and Bull, you’d understand. Apparently qunari have very lax views on public decency.”

His cheeks flush at her implication. “Have you...have you ever seen-?”

“A time or two, yes.” She tries not to think too long on the few times she had been sitting at the cook fire and Iron Bull had come wandering from his shared tent without a stitch on him, Dorian shouting from inside.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen grumbles, mortified, and pulls himself out of bed. 

She watches him gather up his clothing from the floor and splash water on his face. Something about watching him prepare for the day has always left her somewhat speechless. It is such a domestic and commonplace thing but it is also something so horribly intimate. She had never dared dream that a day would come when she would be the first to see him in the morning. His golden hair curled and bed-tousled before he tames it into submission, his amber eyes soft and still slightly glazed. 

He is lacing up his breeches when he glances back at her, still lounging in bed. He follows her gaze and can’t seem to help glancing down at himself self consciously. “What is it?”

Another smile spreads her lips and she shakes her head. “Nothing, vhen’an. I just cannot seem to move my legs yet, is all. You were very...thorough.”

His ears burn scarlet and he coughs to clear his throat. 

“For Maker’s sake! This is not a circus,” cries Josephine. “Find yourself a decent pair of trousers!”

The day is a flurry of orders and reports and dresses and shoes. 

The Inner Circle flits through the chateau as they prepare, sharing jokes and jabs in passing. Servants come through with trays of figs and roasted nuts and glasses of sparkling wine. 

Elodie is sat in front of a vanity mirror while one of the household servant’s carefully tends to her hair. Her long red tresses are carefully pulled atop her head in a coronet, a few loose strands curled into tight tendrils that frame her face. She has had no one to tend to her hair since Ormaline left the Circle. 

The girl is young, her brow furrowed in concentration as she threads diamond crusted combs into Elodie’s hair. She bobs her head with a satisfied smile which Elodie watches in the mirror’s reflection. “What do you think, my lady?”

“It is very beautiful, thank you,” Elodie tells her.

The girl’s smile widens. “What color is your gown, my lady?”

Vivienne glides into the parlor with Josephine and Cassandra trailing behind her. “You look marvelous, darling!” she praises, motioning with a hand. Two more servants enter, holding aloft the heavy dress boxes from Val Royeaux. Vivienne leaves them to arrange the gowns and comes up to Elodie’s side, studying her. 

“Madame de Fer?”

Vivienne purses her lips before turning to the servant girl. “Her face has such fine angles, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course,” the girl says instantly. 

“I think some rouge along her cheekbones will do well to accentuate that. And perhaps some coal for her eyes, yes?” Vivienne recommends and Elodie feels as if she has become one with the furniture. She has never worn cosmetics on her face. Has only worn a gown two other times in her life. 

She feels frighteningly out of her depth and cannot help but wonder what Cullen will think when he sees her dressed up like some sort of showy bird. 

“Now, now, darling,” tuts Vivienne. “Do not frown! You will thank me.”

Vivienne had been present at all of Elodie’s dress fittings in Val Royeaux, offering her opinion on fabrics and colors she felt would suit Elodie’s skin and hair and eyes. Things that had been entirely lost on the healer. 

She takes a steadying breath and allows the girl to do as Vivienne has instructed, keeping her eyes downcast throughout the process of brightening her cheeks and lining her eyes and coloring her lips. 

There is rustling behind her as Cassandra and Josephine ready themselves. 

Vivienne is humming in approval behind Elodie. “Stunning, dear.”

“You will draw many eyes this evening, my lady,” the servant adds in agreement.

Elodie dares a glance at her reflection and her lips part in surprise. Her grey eyes sparkle like starlight, a thin line of coal smudge beneath to make them even brighter. Her lips are full and pouty and the color of flower petals. And the light rouge sweeping high up on her cheekbones makes her face appear even sharper, a bit more exotic. 

“Fashion is a type of magic as well, my dear,” Vivienne informs her, her tone as gentle as Elodie as ever heard her. “I daresay our dear Commander will be unable to keep his eyes off of you tonight.”

That thought sits warmly in her belly. She wishes this were the sort of party where that sort of thing could be afforded. Where Cullen could simply look his fill and perhaps ask her to dance, sweep her away from the crowd and kiss her soundly. But she knows that these peace talks cannot fail and that Cullen cannot be distracted. Not by her, not by anything. 

The Enchanter excuses herself to dress and Josephine takes up her place when the servant girl moves to retrieve Elodie’s gown. The ambassador is a vision in a soft dandelion yellow, her dark hair swept up into an elaborate updo of curls finished with shimmering ribbon. Long satin gloves cover her arms up to the elbow. 

Cassandra is in a pair of fitted trousers of black velvet, a purple doublet with the Inquisition’s insignia finishing off the look. The Seeker’s boots are polished to perfection and the entire ensemble fits her so perfectly that Elodie smiles. 

“You both look amazing,” she says earnestly. “Masen is not going to know what to do with himself,” she adds to Josephine.

The ambassador waves away the compliment, clearly flustered. “Oh, you flatter me much too much. He will have so much else to occupy his time this evening, I doubt he will even notice.”

Elodie doubts that very much and Cassandra says as much.

“Here we are, my lady.” The servant girl holds up Elodie’s dress and she rises from her seat and stares back at the emerald skirts of her ballgown. 

Now or never, she thinks to herself. She is suddenly nervous she will step on her trailing skirts and rip them. Or that she will trip in front of the nobility. Or-

The heavy fabric pools on the floor and she steps into the puddle of green tulle and satin. She holds out her arms to slip them through the thin cap sleeves that rest below her shoulders. The neckline ends just above her cleavage and the bodice is a masterpiece of embroidered leaves and flowers and the back dips into an elegant V baring her shoulder blades and the first few notches of the bar of her spine. She sucks in a breath as the servant girl laces up the corseting before stepping away to admire her work.

Elodie resists the urge to bite at her lip to avoid smudging the paint there. She sways in an anxious half-twirl, looking to Josephine and Cassandra for validation. “Well?” she asks nervously, bunching her hands in her skirts. “How is it?”

“Madame de Fer is correct,” Josephine says, eyes sparkling. “Cullen will not be able to keep his eyes off you. That is certain.”

“Perhaps it will be enough to distract him from how much he detests these affairs,” Cassandra laughs.

“Pardon me, ladies!” Dorian sing-songs as he strides into the room. “Ah!” He makes a beeline for the vanity, snatching up the stick of coal that had been used to line Elodie’s eyes before repeating the process on himself with practiced efficiency. He catches sight of her in the mirror and spins around. “Elodie?”

She laughs nervously, dipping her head.

The servant softly excuses herself, collecting the dress box and departing. 

Josephine smooths down her skirts before announcing she is off to see to the rest of the party, her concern seeming to center around Sera. Cassandra offers Elodie a nod and follows the ambassador out. 

“Is it so bad that you did not even recognize me?” Elodie teases Dorian once they are alone. 

“You must be joking,” he scoffs, drawing closer. “You are positively stunning.” He takes her hand and leads her into a twirl. “The color suits you. You will draw the eyes of the entire court.”

Elodie rolls her eyes. “Ah, yes. A rabbit in a ballgown. Simply magnificent.”

Dorian waves off her words. “We will look quite the menagerie, I am certain. You will be in good company with a Tevinter Altus, a Qunari spy and whatever Cole happens to be. And that’s not to mention Varric and his fan club and Blackwall’s beard. You just worry about wearing that dress as brilliantly as you are now.”

“Elodie, are you-Maker’s breath.”

She and Dorian turn to see Cullen standing in the doorway, obviously gobsmacked with his mouth hanging open. He stares at her, eyes roving from the diamond combs in her hair down to the embroidery of her bodice, trailing the length of her skirts. He blinks.

“Do you feel better about it now?” Dorian teases her. “I believe our Commander’s reaction says it all.”

“You look...that gown...it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,” Cullen manages to stammer out. 

He paces into the parlor, his fitted coat a deep grey with the adornments afforded to his military position shining against the fabric.  

Dorian smirks. “It does look rather good, doesn’t it?” He gives her another once over, a 

mischievous glint in his eyes. “I do, however, think it would look even better on Cullen’s floor.”

Cullen pauses his advance, seeming to choke on his tongue. “Are you...are you flirting with her for me?”

Dorian shrugs. “I supposed I would get your evening off to as decent a start as your morning.” He holds up a hand before Cullen or Elodie can argue. “This house may be exquisite but the walls are not that thick.” He offers them a salacious wink before sauntering from the room.

Cullen watches him go, at a loss for words. 

“You look very handsome, vhen’an,” Elodie whispers. 

And he does. His coat hugs him perfectly, his trousers well pressed and flattering. And, of course, his boots are as immaculate as Cassandra’s. Thankfully his collar is high enough to hide the love bite she had left him with the night before. 

Cullen turns back to her, holding out a hand.

She takes it, their fingers lacing together as he draws her closer. 

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on,” he whispers reverently. His lips press to the side of her jaw, lingering. 

She trails her fingers over the Inquisition insignia emblazoned on the breast of his coat. “Cullen, I-”

“Come now, everyone!” Josephine calls from the vestibule. “We must be on our way! Has anyone seen Cole?”

Cullen offers Elodie a wry smile. “Duty calls,” he murmurs her earlier words back to her. “Shall we?”  

She takes his arm, feeling as if this is all some sort of fever dream and she will wake alone in her bed in Kinloch Hold. She tightens her grip and draws herself up to her full height as Cullen leads her from the parlor and into the vestibule where the others are already waiting.

[herald-divine-hell]

Lady Alexandra,

Your words are too sweet, but I must admit they make my heart leap and soar. Maybe I'll bring Lady Josephine those little cakes when I am there to to relax some of her ire. Wine as well perhaps. But I save the best for you my dear. Only the finest for the finest woman in Thedas.

And that night as we share drinks, I'll run my hand through your hair gently as I marvel at it's softness.

While the night grows on, I can't wait to taste the wine on your lips, our hands wandering eachother. Layers fall from our bodies as I pull you to the bed and lay you down softly. I'll worship every scar and mark as I listen to your sweet voice turn to song. Once I satisfied, I'll turn over for you so you can make me sing. And on and on into the night we continue to make music together until I can't (because I know I could never keep up with you). And softly we trade kisses until sleep beckons us both.

Yours and forever.

My Charmer,

If it is necessary, I advise you to scavage through my collection, the sweetest with hints of spice shall do our Ambassador some good, I imagine. But my heart warms at the thought that you shall save one of the best for me, even though I assure you that it is no need.

I desire most of all in this world to be in your arms, to hear your breath tickling my ear, with deep sleep in your voice, in the early lights of day. Though we may drift a sleep, my longing for you is too hard to bare, and if given your permission, I shall scour you through the depths of the Fade, like a bird seeking land in the great wide sea, and once there, I shall hold you into my arms, and dance, and sing, and laugh with you. So have I long for you laughter; it is the jewel in the craven of the mountains, where the dark things creep.

I pray this letter finds you well.

Ever yours,

Alexandra Trevelyan.

[fancytrinkets]

Reunion (past Dorian/Rilienus)

scene from Minrathous, Dorian POV fic about his pre-Trespasser visit home

In Dorian’s lap is a very old manuscript, bound together with other documents to form the substance of a book called Philosophies, Miscellaneous and Sundry. It's the sort of rare, unique item that an altus can't acquire without searching for it in private libraries, provided he's got the connections to make that happen. And, as it turns out, Dorian does still have some connections. He hasn't burned every bridge behind him. And of the bridges he did burn — some of them rather spectacularly — a few have been miraculously rebuilt, thanks to his close association with the Inquisition and the power it wields.

The manuscript itself is called A Treatise on the Topic of Slavery and the Moral Imperative of the Banishment Thereof. So, yes. He's here for a month with no Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan around to keep him delightfully occupied in the ars erotica, and instead he's been diving into some fun, light reading.

That's a joke, of course — his own delightfully sardonic sense of humor, at it again. It's dense and terribly boring reading, in fact, but it's necessary. He intends to school himself in the history of Tevinter's several failed anti-slavery movements — the records of which are now mostly lost and destroyed. But it's possible to find a few writings here and there if you're diligent. And Dorian has been diligent. He knows he'll be wise to learn the history if he wants to avoid the mistakes of the past and start an abolition movement that can actually succeed. And that is what he wants. Real change around here. Not more of the same. If he has to start agitating for change from afar — while remaining comfortably ensconced in the south at Trevelyan's side — then that's precisely what he'll do.

This particular volume came to him by way of Rilienus — well, Rilienus' wife, actually. Because he has one of those now, and she's lovely — a clever, forthright woman, who above all else wants a pleasing life for herself and her husband — which means they've been supportive friends to each other, all the while taking lovers of the gender they each prefer. To assuage the rest of their elite social circle, she's been fabricating all sorts of medical excuses for why she hasn't yet fallen pregnant.

"The healers aren't sure what's wrong with me. But we still have hope."

That's how she put it last week, when she and Rilienus ushered him into the beautiful library that used to belong to her parents. She sounded every bit the contrite, beleaguered wife, but she exchanged a knowing smile with her husband, and it was abundantly clear that they'd never touched each other — not in any way that would disgust them both. Good for them, of course — defying a marriage consummation that neither of them wanted — and yet it worried Dorian to hear it.

"Dangerous gambit, if you're caught."

"We couldn't all leave Tevinter to find safety in the south," Rilienus said, looking wistful for a moment, then hiding it away again. "Speaking of which, what's he like, this Inquisitor of yours?"

"Heard the rumors, have you?"

"Just a few," Rilienus said, but then he grinned, bold and wolfish, suggesting that yes, in fact, he'd heard quite a lot of them.

And Dorian knew just the sort of answer he was looking for.

"He's a southern mage, so you know what that means — woefully under-educated in advanced theoretical magic. Spectacular with battlemagic, though, I'll give him that. And he spent many years enjoying the company of men in his Circle of Magi — a permissive one, I'm told, for the south. So he knows what he's doing in the bedroom, at least."

"Good for you, then."

"Yes," Dorian said, "it's been very good for both of us."

That was all Rilienus wanted — the answer to the politely-left-unspoken question 'how's the sex?' And Dorian didn't mind telling him enough to satisfy that base curiosity. The rest of it, he kept to himself. It would serve no purpose — except a hurtful one — if he were to talk about the depth of his feelings for Trevelyan — the respect and regard between them, the love and affection. Not to mention Dorian's easy use of that treasured word, 'amatus,' which no altus living in Tevinter would ever dare to speak the way he speaks it: lovingly, one man to another.

As the hour grew late and his wife retired with her lady friend, Rilienus made it clear he wasn't expecting any visitors of his own.

"Can I tempt you to stay the night?"

"No," Dorian said, without giving it a second thought. "Not anymore. But thank you for the offer."

And for the second time that evening, Rilienus looked wistful, though he banished it promptly with a friendly smile.

"Well, you're always welcome to call on me. And so is your Trevelyan if ever he's here with you. I'd love to meet him."

"Yes." Dorian chuckled. "I bet you would."

Before opening the door to go, he turned and reached out to clasp Rilienus' hand, squeezing it once and then letting go.

"Look out for yourself, please," he said. "I don't have enough old friends that I can afford to lose any."

And then he left, taking only the book with him and returning all alone to his fancy rented townhouse, easily paid for by the Inquisition's coffers.

[dragonswithjetpacks]

Beautiful War

-dragonswithjetpacks

Chapter Six: Appealing to Val Reous

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Read here on Ao3

The sun was just setting behind the city of Val Royeaux when they caught its glory at the top of a small hill. Agreeing that approaching the gate at dawn would be a better idea, the group made a small camp while enjoying the view. Orlais was particularly green this time of year. The ladies in the city would be wearing pastels and flowers. Not to mention, showing as much of their breasts as they possibly could get away with. It made Claira smile. She was never found of fashion. But the springtime cakes they made were always so delightful. Though their smell was more satisfying than the taste.

"You've been quiet," Varric implied as they rest.

"I'm always quiet," Claira disagreed.

"It's been an unsettling type of quiet."

"I didn't realize there were different types of quiet," she shaved off a piece of meat roasting over their fire.

"You keep looking at the city. And heaving that big sigh of yours."

"I'm finding it odd that you watch me enough to notice I have a particular sigh," she chuckled to herself before she took a bite of her meal.

"People who are easy to read are always fun to watch."

"I'm not that fun to watch," she said between bites.

"Normally you aren't," he propped his elbow atop his knee. "But you got this particular look growing on your face the closer we get to the city."

"Because I never thought I'd be going back to Orlais," she shrugged. "Let alone Val Royeaux."

"You've been to Val Royeaux before?" Cassandra was suddenly interested.

"My mother is Orlesian, so we visited on a few occasions. But I've lived in Val Royeaux. Twice in what I might consider my adulthood."

"Ah, yes, Lady Helena was from a smaller lesser known nobility," the Seeker recalled.

Claira had not spoken of her mother in so long that it was almost off-putting to hear her name. They had not made contact in some time. And the most recent letter she received was about Jordan's missing persons. There were never any pleasantries with Helena; it was always demanding and berating. The woman needed complete control.

"She hates coming here," Claira added. "I'd like to think it is because it reminds her of how fake she truly is."

"Then it must bring you bad memories," Cassandra empathized.

"Quite the opposite," Claira smiled, looking out longingly to the city. "Orlais was the beginning of my freedom."

"Do go on," Solas joined the fire at last. "I'm sure we've all been waiting for a glimpse of your youth."

"You've been locked up pretty tight, Herald," Varric agreed. "I think it's your turn for storytime."

Claira turned back to her party, all of them watching and waiting with bright eyes. It was the first time she was able to share any sort of personal information regarding herself. On the other hand, she had gotten to know them quite well, even considered them friends. Indeed, being back in Orlais brought up memories, both good and bad. As a child, she never had a chance to speak without being shut down. And as an adult, she realized that she had shut herself down as a defense. But here, in a place that had sparked her new beginning with the people she had learned to trust, she felt safe.

"I was sent to a girl's school when I was young. Around the age of fifteen."

"That late?" Cassandra seemed surprised. "And so far away?"

"I was not a compliant child," Claira laughed. "I had many house mistresses that found me unreasonable. Eventually, I was sent to Starkhaven. But the headmistress stated she couldn't help, either. Even as my wild side was gradually tamed, I was still clumsy, homely, and awkward. It didn't matter how polite or intelligent I was... I was considered a lost cause."

"How absurd," Solas appeared disgusted.

"I was sent to Orlais in hopes I would return a lady. But because of my age, the teachers were harder on me. It was almost torture. Most of them were cruel. But they allowed me to study in peace if it meant not having to deal with me. And the books in Orlais were incredible. I could have been a scholar with all the time I spent in that library."

"Why didn't they just transfer you?" Cassandra inquired.

"My mother was spending a good amount of my father's fortune making sure I didn't come back home until I was guaranteed a husband. I think eventually their goal was to find a nobleman not necessarily suitable for me, but willing to settle. I was never interested in marriage, though. I was set on becoming a warrior at a young age. So I left the school."

"By left, you mean snuck out?" Varric questioned.

"Snuck out would be putting it lightly," Claira laughed. "I planned for weeks to get out of that place. And when I did, I ran until I couldn't see the city anymore. I found a place to lay low. And that's when I met my mentor."

The party was quiet, listening to the campfire crack as she paused.

"Most have just assumed I was a typical Trevelyan Free Marcher. But I was never part of that life or the Chantry. I was never even given the option to become a Sister. Looking back, that's probably what I should have done when I left the school. Instead, I left with a strange man who told me I could achieve my dreams of becoming a warrior. It was stupid of me to trust him. But I'm glad I did. I trained under him for many years while traveling. He brought me back to Val Royeaux to the Academie in hopes I could be knighted, allowing me to live a life I had truly wanted."

"I should have known," Cassandra shook her head. "I imagined with the reputation of the Trevelyans that you were just a natural fighter. But there's no mistaking your stance is Orlesian. I always meant to ask."

"So that means all those nobles from Orlais that come by speaking their language and talking with that snooty tone... you can understand them?" Varric asked.

"Oui," Claira smirked. "Chaque mot. Every single word."

Varric let out a loud burst of laughter.

"This would have been useful information," Cassandra was still in shock.

"I didn't want to ruin the surprise," she shook her head. "Besides, if Josephine knew, she'd have me speak to the nobles more often."

"Isn't she giving you lessons?" Cassandra pressed.

Again, Varric rolled over in a fit of laughter as Claira half shrugged, half nodded. Solas remained silent, although very much enjoying the conversation in itself. And no one stopped Claria from speaking about her adventures in Orlais from that point. They only interrupted her to ask questions, much to her liking. It was the first time she had spoken about it to anyone, not that it was a secret. The more she told of her rebellious childhood and the harsh ways of her mother, the more she realized how much mental abuse she had been through. She couldn't imagine being that cruel to anyone.

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

The gates into Val Royeaux were surprisingly empty. Claira remembered merchants and travelers flooded the archway into the city. Peddlers and pickpockets loved the area, as many people stopped to linger there to admire the stone masonry. Now, only a few people were scattered through the walkway. Claira was not the only one who noticed the lack of others.

"The city still mourns," Cassandra observed.

A couple who had been speaking quietly amongst each other passed by them innocently. However, once they caught sight of Claira, their jaws dropped and their eyes widened behind their mask. They took off in a slight run toward the open gate without daring to glance back.

"Just a guess, Seeker, but I think they all know who we are," Varric jested.

"Your skills of observation never fail to impress me Varric," she retorted.

"My Lady Herald!" a scout greeted them from the city.

"You’re one of Leliana’s people. What have you found?" Cassandra questioned without hesitation.

"The Chantry mothers await you, but… so do a great many templars."

"There are templars here?"

Claira felt her chest grow tight. The intention was to meet with the Chantry, not the templars. They would have eventually attempted an audience with them, but this was too soon. She was unprepared. They continued walking through the entrance as they were informed of the current situation.

"People seem to think the templars will protect them from…" he faltered."...from the Inquisition. They’re gathering on the other side of the market. I think that’s where the templars intend to meet you," the scout continued.

"They wish to protect the people? From us?" the Seeker was still confused.

"We expected this," Claira stated.

"From the Chantry, yes. But I didn't expect the templars to make an appearance."

"The people may just be assuming what the tempalrs will do. I've heard of no concrete plans," the scout confirmed.

"Do you think the Order’s returned to the fold, maybe? To deal with us upstarts?" Varric added his sense to things.

"I know Lord Seeker Lucius," Cassandra explained. "I can’t imagine him coming to the Chantry’s defense, not after all that’s occurred."

"We’re doing all this to get help with the breach. Maybe this is our chance to get the templars on our side," Claira attempted to remain optimistic.

"Perhaps..." Cassandra wasn't convinced. "Return to Haven. Someone will need to inform them if we are… delayed."

"As you say, my lady," he placed a fist over his chest and trotted off to exit the gates.

As they progressed through the walkway, a group of guards began to observe them. They were not quiet about their conversation and there were hints of the Inquisition harboring murderers. It appeared the city was relying on the templars to protect them from their heresy the Chantry was spreading any misinformation they could. It was horrible timing, she had to admit. And it was going to be difficult to proposition both sides while they were standing next to each other. It wouldn't be as simple as uniting under one cause. This was going to be a political battle.

"Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!"

Mother Hevara, one of the Chantry members who was supposed to be greeting the Inquisition shouted on a stage in the center of the market as they approached. Standing next to her were two other sisters. And in front, a wall of templar guards. Many of the citizens had gathered before her. Claira recognized a trap when she saw one. Even if it had no teeth.

"Together, we mourn our Divine. Her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more! Behold, the so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed," the sister preached.

The crowd of people parted as they passed. The plan was to antagonize The Herald to the point of attack. With as many people surrounded her to witness the savagery, the trial would be quick. But Claira was smarter than that. It was almost insulting how stupid they assumed she would be. If they wanted to cause a scene, she would most certainly give them one. Claira was aware of how Orlais truly operated.

"We came to you in peace, only to talk," she spoke loudly, but calmly. "But this is what you choose instead? I implore you: Let us sit down together, to deal with the real threat!"

She turned to the common people who were too intimidated to move, looking many of them in the eyes. They gazed upon her as if she were a mythical being of wonder. It was a mixture of both awe and fear. Claira seized that moment and bolstered her voice.

"Do you know everything the Maker commands? Look up in the sky! I alone survived the Breach ... and I can end it!"

"And this is how you gain favor with Orlesians... with who can put on a bigger show..." Varric muttered under his breath.

"It appears to be working," Solas whispered back.

"It’s true! The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!" the Seeker added, looking to the templars for a reaction.

"It is already too late!" Mother Hevara pointed to the templars who were now taking the stage. "The templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this Inquisition and the people will be safe once more!"

Claira was not prepared for her next act. However, the scene was ended abruptly when a templar approached Mother Hevara. It appeared as though he was going to escort her off stage. Though, she was quite wrong. Instead, he struck the Chantry Mother across the face, sending her to the hard stage floor. She cried out, but no one moved to help her. A templar hesitated, only to be held back as Lord Seeker Lucius entered the stage.

"Still yourself. She is beneath us."

The templar looked unsure but still did nothing. Claira moved forward, but Cassandra quickly grabbed her by the arm. Something seemed very wrong, but there was not enough time to act upon it. There was not enough information to pick a side.

"What's the meaning of this?" she questioned instead.

"Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own," he looked down on her.

"So you're here to deal with the Inquisition?"

"As if there were any reason to."

His ambiguity made Claira's skin boil. Cassandra tightened her grip.

"Lord Seeker Lucius, it's imperative that we speak with-"

"You will not address me," he interrupted his fellow Seeker.

He motioned to the templars and they began to shift as he walked away. Cassandra was taken aback. Her grip loosened on Claira's arm. They exchanged glances at one another, both suddenly very concerned. It was a far reach, but Claira began to hope this was some sort of play they stumbled into.

"Lord Seeker?" Cassandra was still confused.

Lucius stopped, clearly agitated. Looking into his dull eyes made his presence even more heavy and dark. This was not the man her cousins had described, nor the reasonable person Cassandra claimed him to be. Months ago, when Claira was traveling to the Temple with her cousins, she remembered hearing them discuss the discontinuing of the Nevarran Accords. Lucius inherited the role and ideas of his predecessor, but it was commonly accepted that he was more than willing to compromise.

"Creating a heretical movement, raising a puppet as Andraste’s prophet," he finally confronted them. "You should be ashamed. You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages! You are the ones who failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine."

The words were far more dangerous than any threat he could have given. Lucius was now a tyrannical man with a lust for power. He wanted recognition, for whatever reason. Which was fine on its own. However, he wanted to destroy his adversaries so that he may rise from their downfall. The Chantry, the mages, the Inquisition; they were all beneath him.

"If you’re not here to help the Chantry, then you just came to make speeches?" Claira retaliated.

"I came to see what frightens old women so, and to laugh," his voice lowered, making it all the more unsettling.

"You openly refuse the Herald?"

"You have nothing. No influence, no power, and certainly no holy purpose."

His assumptions burned at her like a hot iron. It left marks that made her clench her fists in rage. There was nothing she could do. She could say no more. She could not lash out. She could not even move without risking her good nature. This was not how she intended their meeting to be. She felt like a child once again being beaten by her mother. She felt helpless.

"But Lord Seeker…" the hesitant templar spoke ."What if she was truly sent by the Maker? What if—?"

A higher-ranked office stepped between the templar and the Lord Seeker. "You are called to a higher purpose! Do not question!"

"I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void," Lucius drew attention from the crowd. "We deserve recognition. Independence! You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition… less than nothing."

The Lord Seeker made a point to look fiercely at Claira as if it would weaken her soul. Something was reaching for her behind that stare. But it was not enough to break her. It only added more fuel to her flame. She prayed there would be a time they would cross paths again without any spectators.

"Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!"

The market was still, all but the sound of clanking armor as the templars left Val Royeaux. It wasn't just the Inquisition left stunned, it was quite literally everyone who had witnessed the horrifying affair. As the sound of their marching fainted, whispers began to rise from the people.

"Charming fellow, isn’t he," Varric was the first to break their silence.

"Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?" Cassandra almost shouted in frustration.

"I thought you knew the Lord Seeker?" Claira turned to her, almost angry at the information she had been fed.

"He took over the Seekers of Truth nearly a year ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man, never given to grandstanding. This is very bizarre."

"It doesn't look like he can be reasoned with."

"There must be those in the Order who see what he’s become."

"We can investigate once we return to Haven," Claira assured. "We still have the matter of the Chantry."

Mother Hevara was nearly forgotten. After the templars openly denounced the Chantry in front of everyone, no one bothered to help her off the stage. They only stared, whispering to one another and spreading the rumors even further. But now that Claira was able to get to her without being barred, she was at her side. The Sisters stepped back, still feeling threatened by the Inquisition. Despite the vile glare the Mother gave her, Claira assisted her onto her feet with gentle hands.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Hardly," the Mother replied roughly. "This victory must please you greatly, Seeker Cassandra."

"We came here seeking only to speak with The Mothers. This is not our doing, but yours," Cassandra replied.

"And you had no part in forcing our hand? Do not delude yourself," the Mother's fight had returned. "Now, we have been shown up by our own templars in front of everyone. And my fellow clerics have scattered into the wind, along with their convictions."

"I understand the hardships the Chantry has faced," Claira spoke. "But you'll find no pity here."

"Just..." the Mother sighed. "Tell me one thing: Do you truly believe you are the Maker's Chosen?"

"Whether by the Maker himself or by fate, yes, I believe I was chosen."

"I suppose it is out of our hands, now. We shall see what the Maker plans in the days to come."

"Take care, Mother Hevara," Claira gave a slight nod.

The Mother nodded back, only out of common courtesy. Claira could feel her death stare watching her back as she left the stage. She made her way through the market, Cassandra and others following close behind.

"Well, at least we've been able to calm one side of the three-headed beast," Claira sighed.

"For now," Cassandra replied. "The other clerics are another matter. Either way, we should return to Haven and inform the others."

Claira opened her mouth in response, but the familiar sound of a blade cutting through the air caught her attention. he held her hand out just in time as a whistling sound brushed by her ear. An arrow from a balcony above shot straight into a small spot where the dirt was showing through the stone. There was a letter tied to it with a single red ribbon. It looked like one of the ribbons used for the Inquisition's missives. The party looked upward but saw no one.

"Not just yet," Claira grinned. "It looks like there are others to appeal to in Val Reouyx."

[pathofcomet]

bride of ice (6)

fandom: dragon age: inquisition

pairing: female trevelyan / iron bull

summary: After the war is won, there’s always the next one. He’s seen her bleeding.  In her delirious mutterings, half frozen to death, she was more human than all. (AO3)

It’s unnerving, that some people would turn to worshipping a rift, building a cult around the soft glowing of that hole in the sky, even if no demon is dropping through just yet. Fear can do many things, it can make one believe many impossibilities, but to adore and dedicate yourself to what might as well bring the end of the world is something she will never be able to understand.

“Even if it’s done in the hopes of appeasing it…” she murmurs, mainly to Solas, mostly to herself.

These people are on their knees, praying to the source of her nightmares. It scares her more to stay the night between them than between the wild animals in the mountains. She finds agents for the Inquisition in their rank; purposeless as she imagines she might have been, if their fates were reversed.

She has no way of knowing if, without the Mark bestowed upon her, she would have picked anything different but this place, or the immense grief of those separated from their most loved. Some days, she finds it difficult to move on even when she has the faith of Thedas as incentive.

The Herald closes their rift too, eventually. And their reverent, desperate eyes and pleas turn towards her.

“This will never get any easier, will it?” she asks once away, blissfully happy in the companion of her own party.

“Probably not,” Varric agrees, and she’s grateful it’s the truth even if it’s not what she would have liked to hear.

She closes rifts, yes – but this young woman is doing way more than that, in her days-long walks through the Hinterlands. Really, for someone with a glowing green hand, there’s really not much of it at all, Bull thinks. They gather supplies, return family heirlooms to desperate survivors, hunt so they can feed their ranks.

Even as she is one of the highest standing people in the ranks of the Inquisition, she goes out of her way, time and time again, just so she can help random people that they encounter, or to bring peace to people whose loved ones they just got killed in the middle of a fight. Most are nice and grateful, but there are enough times when she’s met with contempt or outright hate, and yet no matter which one it is, she seems unaffected. She takes it all as it is, and just pushes forward, even if she lets herself slip by her body stiffening, or a tighter hold on her weapons, a strain in her expression. It’s little things, but he has no doubt that he, or Varric even, can pick it up easily enough.

She gets better every day, though. Maybe because she allows herself a break from it from time to time, in late evenings when they pull their tents out and have a fire warming up. He makes hot chocolate – and blows their socks off, though he thinks Solas will never agree to calling `good` anything coming from a Qunari. He compliments Varric’s books, which he read on too long voyages. Trevelyan, blushing and unable to look at him, asks him all prettily to borrow some volumes to read in the evening, and he has to bite his mouth from inviting her to re-enact some of the… smutty scenes.

He has noticed, though he knows she didn’t quite yet. That whenever she’s overwhelmed, she looks at him for support in a battle. That she checks him out always afterwards, seeking wounds. That something in her eyes changes sometimes, when she catches herself staring at him when she certainly shouldn’t.

Bull doubts a noble from a house with religion as tradition knows how to recognize lust. Which makes it all the more fun to see it bloom all over her, as time passes. He will allow her all the time she needs, he will even let her bad innuendos and terrible attempts at flirting pass. He has messengers to catch behind tents for a quickie, and lost servant ladies showing off their teats for him – all burning with the need and curiosity for someone big and exotic.

He gives in to them, and not to the Herald for one simple reason: he hasn’t yet quite figured out what to give in exchange to her, because he knows with her, the sex is just not it. For her, the sex is just the means, not the purpose – and so he moans and grunts and spills himself in other bodies, teases and bites and licks against other skins, sated and satisfied. And all the while, she ends up more and more wound up, taut like a rope, beautiful and scared, exhausted and giving.

Who gives her… well, anything?

Most people everywhere have a system that works best for them. From what he gathered, even her old system wasn’t really working for her; and now she’s left looking around her, piecing together something new, but not quite whole. He should probably despise her for it, for the aimless conduct of her being, and yet he can’t help but be at least a little bit impressed for the fierceness with which she pushes forward, even if it’s desperate.

Desperate people can achieve many, many things. So he watches, silent.

There are some things that hit her more than others. The note in the Carta hideout makes her dizzy; she has to hold on to the table and urge her head to calm down.

Some rich Marcher they’re claiming was sent by Andraste. Zealous nugshit, if you ask me. Just a brat wanting a new title so she can win the noble pissing match back at home.

She fights almost in hysterics, sticking her daggers in darkspawn, continuing stabbing long after they stop moving, rushing ahead down stairs and already panting and heaving with effort against the enemies by the time the others turn the corner.

She’s not rich; she hasn’t seen a coin since taken by the Inquisition, and she wear a dead man’s breastplate. She’s been refusing the Andraste rumours since she first woke up after the Conclave, and yet each day is just another one of her against divinity. She’s never even been taken serious in the noble politics of her home, and she’s been nothing more than a womb pushed around between houses at her father’s request. And she’s so incredibly hurt that, despite the truth of her life, she’s nothing but what that piece of paper said in the eyes of anyone else but those already by her side.

On the way, she picks up Blackwall, because of course she does, and because Red especially asked. The man is good enough with a sword, and his words are pretty – good enough that the Herald is fooled, but Bull is not so convinced. But she picked Sera this time around, and so there’s no somewhat-spy Varric to confirm it with, and Blackwall joins their ranks.

Trevelyan actually likes him, because he offers her thanks and apologies, and calls her wonderful things and he holds himself with an elegance and self-confidence that she hasn’t seen since Ostwick, mostly because most here has been too young and too exhausted. Blackwall comes with the fame of his order, and the respect and kindness she gives him comes as natural extension of that.

“You didn’t have to, yet you took the time and effort to help me,” he says, and she’s already smiling.

“Anything to further the Inquisition’s power.”

“You are a formidable woman, my lady. I hope to never cross you. Perhaps it’s safer to show admiration from afar.”

She blushes, stares at her shoes unsure of what exactly she should say, hand pushing her hair behind her ear. She cannot even remember the last time someone acknowledged her as a lady; and Blackwall is probably the first person to actually… believe she’s also a good fighter, not just a great symbol, or promising potential. He seems to see her as good enough as she already is, not only as what she can be.

“Leliana makes sure to keep the sordid secrets away from the public eye.”

She only half-jokes. Besides her name, there’s not been much reaching the rumours mill, or anyway, nothing they didn’t want there in the first place.

“Well then. I won’t pry. I prefer to go on believing only good things about you.”

Ah, she thinks, there it is. Just because she’s not an amazing deity-like figure, doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist as someone better than she is inside his head; it’s just that he sees her as a woman, instead of a herald. Even like that, she is lacking and knowing that he can’t notice it makes her feel the so-familiar hole in her stomach, that makes her so uncomfortable when people push to touch her robes in reverence.

Bull notices her pass by, takes in the stiff shoulders and the sour face, and doesn’t stop her.

The next morning, they’re gone again. She manages to secure the horses for their Inquisition quickly enough, doing some good in the meantime as well. She also takes part in the races set up by Dennet’s daughter, and it’s the most alive Trevelyan looked ever since they met.

Sera, next to him, whistles. The Herald’s braid came undone in the middle of the race, and she’s not just smiling, but outright laughing whenever a turn is just an inch close to failure. She’s riding without a saddle, just her thighs tensed against the horse’s strong muscles, and her fingers are tangled in its hair. Her face is flushed with excitement – and he has to admit, her behind looks particularly nice like this, in her leather pants, body bent so low.

“Shit, where did you learn to ride like that?” Sera asks, once all courses are cleared, donations to the Inquisition are secured, and Dennet already started his travel to Haven.

“I’d also like to know that,” Jeanna adds, looking both proud and sad at having her courses defeated.

“Home,” Trevelyan answers, though the word seems foreign on her tongue, and home is a place that no longer serves that purpose, that no longer can offer her the comfort or the lessons. “From my family,” she corrects.

Because horse riding is the one thing she learnt directly from her mother, no teacher involved in the process, none of her father’s comments passed on this topic. Since lady Trevelyan was such a good rider herself, there was no real point in having anyone else pass the skill forward, and it remains one of her favourite things in the whole world.

She didn’t imagine she’d feel the thrill of it again; not like this anyway. Back at home, it was merchants and children and dogs she had to bypass on her rides through the city, and she’s raced with all nobles her age for years on most important celebrations. It’s a far-away memory, and yet it was so precious just a few minutes away.

“You looked really good, Boss,” Bull says, and she smiles.

“Race me back to Haven?”

 *** 

For her, it’s not really a choice she mulls over. She picks the Templars, despite the Val Royeaux incident, in the memory of her brother, following the tradition of her house, because Cullen would approve, because she’s terrified down to her bones to walk in a negotiation with someone she knows nothing about, and so she chooses the over-familiar instead.

She takes Vivienne, because she would be able to handle the Orlesian nobles, in case things go south. She trusts Varric and all he’s seen, and he’s been in the middle of a Templar Order falling apart once before, so he’d be able to at least point out the signs if it comes to that. And she wants Bull with her, simply because she learnt to rely too much on him in the midst of a battle, because she feels like she can’t lose if he has her back.

Her reasoning is almost like a mantra, like a prayer that you mutter even if you know it won’t become reality, because you want hope to trump reality. And she needs this to go right, so she keeps reassuring herself of her picks.

Their nobles are doing a great job though, throwing jabs and threats with the sweetest voice, hidden behind the politest of words. She is lucky they are on their side, because sometimes phrases tied together can make or undo the destiny of the world, and she feels like this point in history where they’re all at, is one of those. Knight-Templar Barris seems to share that belief.

“Win over the Lord Seeker, and every able-bodied knight will help the Inquisition seal the Breach.”

The Herald sighs. “Wish me luck. I have a feeling the Lord Seeker will take some convincing.”

“We’ve been asked to accept much, after that shameful display in Val Royeaux. Our truth changes on the hour.”

“Hey, that sounds familiar,” Varric comments, though Barris has no idea what he is referring to exactly. It’s enough that it makes his own party more apprehensive pushing forward.

The standards rite – she doesn’t want to do it. Already just at the start of it all, and she’s already not succeeding in convincing the Lord Seeker of anything, but asking her to do something that is reserved usually solely to the Templars… It seems unfair and wrong, and there’s no real point or honour in her doing it.

“The Lord Seeker changed everything to meet you. Not the Inquisition – you. By name.”

“Why?” That is certainly strange, because there are many stronger and more capable in the ranks of the Inquisition, so to have this much intended focus directly on her makes her uncomfortable.

She still refuses the rite. She knows there’s no correct answer to it anyway, just a display of who she is and what she values. Which is why it feels so necessary that she doesn’t do it, now that she knows how much the Lord Seeker wants her.

Plus, she already knows the order inside her heart, and she hopes she proves it with every choice she makes, this one included.

However, nothing seems to come easy to the Inquisition. Lord Seeker sends his Knight-Captain instead, and he’s certainly unwell. They fight Templars gone mad, which is more difficult than their usual battles, because these are people trained their whole life to fight, going berserk in closed chambers.

“Like no Templars I’ve ever seen,” Varric remarks, one of his arrows hitting one between the eyes, just as he was about to strike down Vivienne – and he falls.

“Is that really important right now?” Bull grunts, taking a hit in place of Trevelyan.

“If it’s weird and I haven’t seen it, that’s worrying.”

She’d rather agree. This is already tiring and they’ve only just gotten started; when all have fallen, Denam is still alive and breathing, and even if he doesn’t deserve the mercy or the correct judgement, he’ll get them anyway. There’s no honour in killing a mad and already defeated man either.

From the notes and letters they find around the castle; these are Red Templars, but worse than Kirkwall’s ever seen, because they’ve been ingesting the stuff. It makes her skin crawl, and for the first time, she is grateful her brother is dead, if only not to see or experience this horror. If only she won’t have to wonder if he’s one of the tainted or one of the questioning ones in the Order.

Prepare them. Guide them to me.

“Was that the Lord Seeker?” she asks, the voice loud and clear in her ears.

“I haven’t heard anything,” Bull says, and he looks at her somewhat weirdly, maybe because he hates demons, maybe because he thinks she went insane too.

She stops in the middle of the hallway, shivering and trembling, unable to make herself move forward.

Show me what you are. I would know you.

She doesn’t ask this time around, already knows that whatever she’s hearing, she’s the only one hearing it. She wants to ask Vivienne about it, because she would recognize whatever magic’s at play. She wants to hear Varric mocking her over it. She wants to have Bull push gently at her back to get her moving again… But she’s afraid, too afraid that maybe this is really nothing but her mind playing tricks on her.

Fear catching up with her sense. She takes a deep breath, starts running ahead. Forcing her sense to follow her through. And then the Lord Seeker – no, the Envy demon – touches her.

She feels violated in ways she didn’t know were possible, her mind the playground of somebody else, her body sluggish. Her nightmares made real, walking around burning bodies once again, the worst part of her life relived over and over again, with each step.

She knows it doesn’t make any sense, she knows it’s not real. And she tries to stay brave, out of spite if not anything else, yet she can’t stop the shiver running down the spine when, in her mind, Cullen falls dead to the floor.

Do you know what the Inquisition can become? You’ll see.

Images fall and rise before her. The worst one of all is seeing her own face, but hearing a demon’s voice out of its mouth.

Tell me what you think. Tell me what you feel. Tell me what you feel. Tell me what you see.

She dies, betrayed and betraying. She kills, glorious and ruthless and merciless. The Inquisition’s reach widens, the wars grow, the reputation alone strikes fear. She dies, alone and mad.

A future that she doesn’t want, that she knows she doesn’t want – and yet one which is building up right inside her own mind and she’s helpless and can do nothing to stop it. She must see her own body fall, she must hear her own friends and companions throw insults at her, at a version of herself that she tries, hard and painfully, not to become. In her mind, just one word, no, repeated over and over again, like it makes any difference when the fade slips so close to her, when everything around her is seeped green.

Then, another voice, softer this time around.

“Envy is hurting you. Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help. You, not Envy.”

She almost sobbed and crashed when the demon conjured the face of her brother, by her side, two rulers like they were supposed to be from the dawn of time, ever since they were born. But if this was truly something that was meant to be, it wouldn’t have hurt so much to see it.

She trusts Cole because his is the only face that doesn’t pain her, that doesn’t seem to exist to torment her, or to get some truth out of her.

“All right, Cole. If you really want to help, how do I get out?”

“It’s your head. I hoped you’d know how to stop it.”

If she knew her own mind and her own feelings so well, maybe she wouldn’t have been here in the first place. But her head never looked like the wasteland Envy shows her, so it’s all just as new and foreign for her, as it is for Cole. This is not where she belongs anymore, but rather a demon’s playground.

She only has to move forward, that’s easy enough. That’s what she’s been doing for days and weeks, maybe even more, maybe from the very beginning, as a lady in a land that seems too far-away. It doesn’t make it any easier to see all those familiar faces paired with all those terrible words, doomed images.

You will bring blood and ruin and fear!

She does, gods, she does already, doesn’t she, even as the Herald?

“Unless you don’t. You don’t have to. None of this is real unless you let it be,” Cole says, voice close and near, even if his body is not – and she is instantly comforted, less disturbed at what Envy is showing her. She can guard herself better, with more ease, knowing that she is not all alone, knowing that there’s someone (something?) rebuffing all her doubts.

And with each step, the demon’s scenarios seem to make less sense, warped by its own ambitions and seemingly not at all connected with what Trevelyan actually wants. She’s not so afraid anymore, even when guards seal the fates of her advisors, seemingly at her own words – because she trusts the world more than believing it would fall in the hands of a tyrant.

And just because Envy would take her form, that doesn’t mean other demons would just follow its lead – and Orlais means nothing to her, or her forces, their purposes.

“You’re letting the Herald see more to sketch her shapes, but what she sees makes her stronger.”

Does it? It makes her believe less, which might actually be the same thing. Still, walking through a battlefield, in her own mind, followed by the shadows of demons, is the most unnerving thing she’s experienced, and she survived the Conclave. It’s an eerie feeling, like she’s not that much connected to the real world anymore.

“You’re making it hard for Envy to think. It’ll probably come out soon. It’s angry. But that’s okay. So are you.”

Weird, until Cole said it, she didn’t really realize that’s what she was feeling in the first place. But now that she has a word for it, yes, anger it is. She rolls the word around her thoughts, wills it her – as she pushes forward. She’s angry that she has to live through so many scenarios, tired of death and of intrigues. She’s angry that she is in the situation in the first place, because she for sure as hell didn’t agree to a fucking demon slipping inside her head, fucking her up even more.

She embraces the burning rage in her heart, she claims it as hers, the only thing she can have and keep from this whole mess. She nurtures it, with each figure she kills, and she’s heaving with it as she faces the demonic version of herself.

She’s angry even as she’s getting chocked, angry even as the demon promises more pain this time.

“What could you gain from being me?”

It’s the one question that the anger wants the answer to, a why me? hidden in more words, because even in her anger, she cannot comprehend what is so incredible and special about herself, that a demon would go through all of that trying to take over her. And yet she gets only a mocking, and just as little as Envy understands her, she equally as little understands it.

And she’s so fucking tired of this play-pretend inside her mind. She pushes, as hard as she can, against this fake, cheap version of herself.

“Get out of-!”

Her voice is loud – and she comes back to herself, just a breath away from the moment when that hand touched her skin, though she feels several years older and weaker on her feet than before. Bull’s hand at her back grounds her back to this, as she explains what’s been going on.

She’s still so upset, unjustly dragged in this mess as she’s already doing her best to stop the holes in the sky – and everything about her own body and thoughts feels foreign. She doesn’t feel safe inside her own skin anymore. She whimpers a bit, just the lowest of sounds, when they’re made to fight some more.

“Are you good?” Bull asks.

She just shakes her head, but says nothing; unsheathes her daggers instead, as she plans to do exactly what Ser Barris asked her to: show no mercy.

Something inside her snapped while stuck in there with a demon and the dark visions of a future. She fights like she’s fulfilling a personal revenge, calculated and cold and leaving nothing standing between her and her purpose.

I touched so much of you. But you are selfish with your glory. Now I’m no one.

She’s selfish only with herself. If she is to be a figure of so many people, then she wants to belong to herself too. Killing the Envy demon could not come sooner. And just because one threat is gone, doesn’t mean there aren’t many, bigger ones to come.

Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste looks up at the sky, pats the pocket at her breast, knowing it to contain the note about the assassination of the Empress, and decides to call the Templars her allies. If the Inquisition is to close the Breach, then it needs willing people helping them out, risking their lives for the cause. There’s no point in shaming them for their failure, when it was so close to being hers as well.

“If Templars still stand against ruinous magic, this is the moment to fulfil your pledge.”

Were her brother still alive, he would be here next to her, fighting for the same cause. She wants to believe that, from wherever his spirit is now, he is proud of his little sister.

 ***

Her advisors though are not as pleased with her, or her choice. They’re all raising their voices around her, and she hasn’t even been allowed to wash away the grim from the fight and the road back, immediately pulled into the council room by Leliana. Her head hurts and she doesn’t even have it in her to defend herself in front of them. Defeated, she sighs.

“We still need to prepare for them. Regular lyrium.”

For a second, she thinks she’s back inside her mind, haunted by something from before, remains of a demon tied to her head forever. But no, everyone else can also see Cole – and her advisors are back to screaming and fighting again.

Cole’s voice is like cold, soothing water over her aches.

“You help people. You made them safe when they would have died. I want to do that. I can help.”

Trevelyan knows that – he has helped her back at Therinfal Redoubt, help without which she would not have been able to fight off Envy. And he has made her feel safe in the midst of her most terrible nightmares, and she breathes a sigh of relief, knowing that he’s next to her, again.

She wants him here; she knows that with a certainty that she doesn’t always possess. And she’s ready to fight everyone to keep him. She can’t even explain her reasoning, but if Cole was really a monster wanting to hurt the Inquisition, he already had several opportunities to do so.

“Cole saved my life in Therinfal. I couldn’t have defeated Envy without him.”

She remembers how lost she’s felt, when she asked about him after coming back to her own time and place, and yet no one was able to tell her anything. She’s relieved to see him, even if for such a short time. And Cole remains, on their side. Her side, first, she believes, but it’s better than not having him at all.

 ***

First thing she does after the council is check on her people. Well, actually, first she takes a bath and changes her clothes, and only then does she start moving around Haven – questioning, needing the support she didn’t seem to get from her advisors.

Josephine grabs her aside first, to ask about her holiness. She can’t escape it even in the middle of what she is supposed to consider her own home, and she is already tired of it. Cole talks in riddles that she barely understands, scratching at deep thoughts and buried feelings and her skin tingles whenever in his presence, yet his lack of filter is what consoles her most in him. There’s no hiding near Cole, and she wants to drop to the ground with the relief of not having to pretend anymore, not having to hold her back straight anymore. Hell, Cole walked through her mind and came back wanting to help her. It makes her feel worthy of what she is.

Vivienne is the one that understands her reasoning: with the Fade broken and so thin, the obvious choice is to rely on Templars to put some resemblance of order back together. They’re already walking towards a future that no Envy managed to envision, and she’s not sure how many destinies she’s forging with her choices, but it’s good that she has people disapproving and agreeing with her both, because it helps from going insane.

Cullen’s training the Templars, to the best of his abilities, and even if he doesn’t agree with Cole being here, Trevelyan won’t forget that one of the few people the spirit praised was the commander. Cullen’s a better man than most, and if he can somehow lead by example, spark the flame of change in the others, it’s more than she could hope for.

Cassandra deals with everything, continuously. That’s why she likes her so much, because they fulfil pretty much the same role, even if their battlefields tend to be quite a bit different. In time, the Templars will learn to come to terms with the idea that mages are just people, and too many of the Inquisition’s people owe their lives to magic and those wielding it.

“Still, I don’t disapprove. In fact, you did well. You made a decision when it needed to be made,” Cassandra says, looking earnestly at the Herald, like she didn’t just finish arguing over this exact topic just an hour before.

She likes Cassandra. She wishes she would have her determination and her power, both of spirit and body.

“Is that all it takes?”

“Most of the time, yes.”

That’s a depressing thought, hopeful too.

Varric’s been there with her, he knows exactly the kind of shit that they had to deal with out there. The Elder One seemed to take everyone’s worst nightmares and creating something even worse, and somehow their small organization is the one thing standing against his plans. It’s the kind of responsibility and weight that makes it impossible for her to rest properly at night, that brings waves of guilt whenever she’s not in the midst of doing something for someone else.

“Maybe you should relax while you can,” Varric says, passing her a cup of cider. “Things should be calm around here for at least the next hour. Take a moment to enjoy it. If the world’s about to end, I’m sure the Seeker will let us know.”

She laughs at his last sentence, and thanks him. Varric is, after all, a magician in his own sense, and words are his best weapon – and he’s incredibly charming and comforting. She sits next to him, sharing his alcohol and feels better than she’s done the whole entire day. He fills her cup again, over and over again, as they share stories of anything else but red lyrium and battles and the future.

She finds Solas next, when she finds the courage to get up and seek him out, so she leans on the walls of his hut, looks up at the sky, where alongside the dying sun, the gap of the breach is also glowing. Sometimes, the colour is so bright that through her window, she cannot tell if it’s day or night.

“Solas?” she tries, and her voice sounds unsure, but her purpose is nothing like it. She has seen the future, and the future is bleak and terrible and she wants nothing to do with it, but the future is not set in stone just yet.

“Yes, Herald?”

He’s always polite. He never chides her when she recklessly throws herself into a battle, or uses up too much of her energy on closing up a rift, just silently passing her a potion, reaching out with his healing magic. She never thought she’d become familiar so fast with something that she was supposed to fear, but especially Solas’ has become her pillar in a battle as much as Varric’s arrows or Bull’s axe. He’s not upset even as she picked the Templars, even as she brought mage-hunters in the same camp as him. She gulps, thoughts stumbling together in her head – and she feels more in control, drunk and unsure on her feet, than she was just a few hours ago, sober.

“Will it kill me? Closing the Breach, I mean.”

“I am afraid that’s an answer we can know only when it’ll happen. It shouldn’t, but you’re also not a mage, so wielding that much power at once might affect you in ways we simply can’t know, because you’re the first and only one of your kind.”

“That’s… less comforting than I was hoping for.”

She sighs, gathering her jacket closer to her body. She recently followed Cullen’s example and had fur sown on the inside of it, and it warms her up well. It doesn’t stop the chill running up her spine, just from the thought of a timeline in which she’s the one to bring forward an end. Solas is looking at her, alternating between her face and her hand, so she forces herself to smile faintly at him.

“Whatever you saw back in Therinfal, Herald, it hasn’t happened yet, and it says nothing about who you are right now.”

A well-needed reminder. She still has a second drinking session planned in her room later on, part washing away the nightmare, part catching up on years having gone without the comfort of a bottle instead of the dullness of her own thoughts. But she can’t deny she’ll walk towards the tavern with an easier heart.

“Thank you, Solas.”

Bull’s hate towards demons mirrors her own; the disgust and fear and anger too. But she’s drunk, which is why she is fumbling with flirting, asking questions about Seheron and its people – and maybe because she’s drunk, he answers it all and even walks her back to her room afterwards, glaring at any soldier brave enough to look their way.

 ***

The Herald of Andraste closes the Breach – quite easily too, when coupled with the Templar forces. The skies calm and the Inquisition proves that alliances work and forge a better future ahead, or at least work to stop destruction.

But nothing comes easy to Trevelyan. Nothing comes easy to the Inquisition. And just several hours after they close the Breach, Haven is under attack by forces under no banner. Dorian Pavus comes to warn them, and she has no time to mull as to why the name or his face are so familiar, as Cullen’s shouting out orders for the battle.

“Burn all the things you have to burn. Save all the people you have to save, but don’t let them get to us,” he says, the first order he gives her directly.

She mans and fires the trebuchets, and yet whatever time she earns through it all is eaten up by the appearance of a dragon. She tries to help out as many people as she can on her way to the Chantry; asks Bull to smash down walls, sends Cole ahead to aid Minaeve, while she climbs for Segritt, Sera helps Flissa. They fight mages on the way, all the while under the shrieks of a dragon, accompanying each hit of her weapons.

Much of being the Herald is listening to other people argue and fight over what to do. And she knows this Elder One is after her, simply out of ego at having stopped his plans so many times before, but she’s angry at him for existing in the first place, so she has no intention of giving in and dying for him. She cares only about how to stop him.

“Pavus!” she exclaims, just at the same time that the handsome moustached young man claps his hands together and says “Trevelyan!”, in the brief respite that the Chantry brings them.

And then, because Varric is also a dwarf prince from the Free Marches, he clears his throat.

“You can’t throw a nug in a tavern without hitting someone with a bit of Trevelyan in them,” he says from her side, and both her and Dorian snicker at the same time. It’s a funnier saying for those that are not, in fact, having any of the Trevelyan blood in them, but after so long away from their respective families, the two of them find it extremely funny to have found a far-away relative in the midst of an international crisis of gigantic proportions.

He grins and she smiles. The laughter, almost idiotically given the situation, almost bursts out of her, at this simple display of normalcy. According to the records that the noble houses keep on these kind of things, they’re some type of cousins so far removed that it’d be almost forgotten, if each of their houses wouldn’t like boasting the connection so much whenever the other one would achieve something.

“You are the Herald of Andraste?”

“Well, I believe I am a bit more apt than back when I was five, yeah.”

“Then, don’t suppose you want to die so young, no?”

Surprisingly, Roderick proves himself useful. There is a way out; maybe not for her, but for those who survived until now.

“If you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this, I will pray for you.”

She fears she’ll need more than his prayers to survive this time around. And she feels sorrier for her party, that she forces out there with her instead of allowing them a head start at retreat like the rest. But she can’t do this alone.

“I’m sorry,” she says – chocked and afraid. Cole grabs her hand, squeezes hard. She squeezes back.

“Oh, come on. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to get an asshole’s attention,” Varric says, readying his bow.

*** 

She might know less than the Elder One, but she knows and understands more than at the start of this battle. And yet, her last breath, as she falls through cracks, boulders and stone and fire following her, is a sigh of relief.

She wants to cry when she wakes, despite it all. Her head is spinning and her entire body aches. One of her thighs has a spike run through, and her ribs are at least bruised, if not outright broken, because breathing hurts. She wonders if she should lay here until the cold or a wild animal takes her, until life runs out of her body.

It’ll take the Inquisition’s forces probably days to return here safely and scavenge for bodies and survivors, and by then she’ll be dead for sure. It wouldn’t be so bad, to die just like this: a sacrifice done after a great win, balancing out the happiness with pain.

But slowly, she starts moving. She drags at the spike in her body, ripping her shirt apart to tie the material around her wound, though it immediately turns red with her blood. She feels lightheaded, her heart pumping faintly at her wrists, at the sight, her stomach churning finally realizing that she is bleeding out. Panic surges in her throat.

She shouts, the sound echoing around the tunnels, a frustrated, wounded wail, more animal than human. She doesn’t want to keep moving, she doesn’t want to find her way out of here, but she’s buried under rubble and stone and if she’s not getting out, then nobody’ll get in.

And fuck, she wants to live. She doesn’t want to end it here, when she’s done so little of the things she wanted to. She doesn’t want to just die, after decades of biting her tongue and nodding her head. She promised stories to Dorian, a sparring session to Cassandra. She promised herself a new dress and she promised Sera a picnic. She wants the normalcy too, not just the religion or the red lyrium or the cold nights.

She wants to be: more of herself, on more of this world. There are tears running down her face now, sad and desperate, and even if her entire body flares with pain, she starts walking. She’s angry at her fate, for making her go through all of this. She’s angry at herself, for not surviving better.

When she drops out in the snow, she sinks in it up to her knees. The wind howls all around her, carrying the sound of wolves too. Even she can feel the smell of iron coming from her wound, and there’s no doubt the scent will be picked up soon enough. She tries to hurry, though her entire body shivers and she pants with each movement of her legs. She leaves big, dark marks behind her in the snow.

She finds embers, and she believes they’re recent, warm to the touch, though she can’t be sure. There’s sweat on her forehead and she’s started seeing double, fever taking over her body in the cold and she can’t even feel the pain anymore, overwritten by the freezing of her limbs.

The lights at the horizon must be a mirage, then. Just like a man in the dessert sees the oasis of water, a dying woman in a snow storm sees the comfort of fire. She collapses in the snow, face forward.

 *** 

Bull sits somewhat on the side, sharpening his axe, the blood caking on his arms. Krem has the self-preservation not to bother him, even as he positively seems the image of calm and peace. They’ve been helping the refugees evacuate and settle, find each other between the aftermath of that chaos, tending to the wounded, helping carry those left behind, identifying the bodies they could still reach from this side of the mountain, people fallen on the way, from their wounds, exhaustion or famish.

But now, with the fight dying down, the stone settling into its new place, there’s an eerie silence all across the valley, and between the members of the Inquisition. In the midst of their duties, they all seem to sneak glances at the hills of the mountain, looking for someone to prove something to them. It’s unnerving not to have the glow of the Breach above them, too.

Iron Bull throws his tools to the side, sheathing his axe.

“This is ridiculous. We have to go after her.”

And just like that, it’s like the spell is broken; Cullen is shouting for volunteer scouts, Cassandra getting up in an instant and coming by his side. Solas’ magic flares for a brief second at his fingertips, his eyes lost in the sky, where there’s no more gap, no brilliant colour. They put together a group of a couple healers too, and with Cullen opening up their party, they start scouting for Trevelyan.

Or her body, though he doesn’t accept this idea.

 ***

It’s a bit impressive how far she’s come, considering they find her quite close to their camp. It’s Cullen’s voice that raises a cry out of everyone else, and yet no one knows how to properly approach her. Bull shoves forward.

She’s delirious, limbs bent and broken in angles that he doesn’t want to remember a human body can turn to and there’s puddle of blood beneath her body. But, behind her whispered pleas – a prayer. He can’t feel the pity and relief, that at her darkest moments, she still turns to her best known comfort, but she’s still breathing and that’s all that matters. If she’s still alive, that means she can still make it. A potion is shoved down her throat by Cassandra, his hands shake too much to hold it steady against her lips, and she’s not powerful enough to strain against it, even as he imagines it burns against her throat and lungs.

When he picks her up, she screams and shrieks, struggling against his hold even as it makes the pain more blinding, even as her energy deflates with each push against his muscles, even as fresh blood surges from her cuts, even as tears form at the corner of her eyes. It’s instinctual, because in her haze, she cannot make out who he is, or what is happening, the edge of her dreams and reality too blurred, her memories brought forward in her mind, the actual present just a distant figment of her imagination.

Iron Bull knows to recognize the state and not take it personal. There’s a soft, blue glow around her body, as magic pulls together what’s been broken, soothing what’s unbearable. Her cries turn to whimpers, her forehead creasing in pain.

She’s not one for being carried, despite her background. She mutters her brother’s name in Bull’s chest, reverence and despair mingled in one single breath, and she cannot feel the cold of the falling snow, and she cannot see the darkness around the bright lamp that a scout is holding – but wherever her mind is stuck in, she’s just a girl in her teens, picked up by her devious brother to be dunked fully clothed in the water basin in the stables.

“Come on, Boss, you can’t die over this,” he says, hurries his steps, throws ugly stares at the mages accompanying them, their healing magic clearly not working fast enough, as she’s edging between feverish mutterings and unconsciousness. “You are meaner than this.”

Boss? she thinks at the back of her mind, and her memory dissipates, the world re-centres itself around the sound of his voice, around the strangeness of that single nickname in the picture that her brain is trying to have her stuck in. Then, slowly, things start making sense again: the familiar smell of leather, her armour and his strap both, the aching hurt in her hand where her mark still rests, the throbbing pain of her entire body, the taste of iron in her mouth and her unfocused vision, the silent reverence of her companions as she drifts away in and out of consciousness.

She’s muttering nonsense now, fractured names, begging, promises. He hushes her, softly and kindly, unlike she has ever known him, but once aware of her surroundings, she’ll believe it a figment of her imagination too, and not the comfort that it is, at her lowest.

He doesn’t really want to let her go, but the mages are quick in ushering him away once she’s set on a makeshift bed, knife cutting away at her shirt, magic strong in the air all around her body. She cries out in her sleep, struggles against the hands keeping her still at her shoulder – and he can tell the hold is not gentle.

Bull settles just a distance away, leaning on a tent pillar, closing his eyes, seemingly asleep. But he’s aware of the sounds around him, as Trevelyan slowly succumbs to sleep, as the mages finish their job on her, as Mother Giselle takes a sit next to her, as the advisors start arguing.

To wake to their uncertainty and their screams, after all she’s been through; he can’t imagine it’s the most welcoming of sights. They are all tired and defeated.

She wants to take back the good opinion she had on Mother Giselle. She makes mistakes, more often than she’d like to admit, and to rely on this old woman was simply one of them. Because now, as her entire body aches, skin dyed in purple, green and yellow, where her insides have been put back together again through magic not strong enough to leave her without the marks or the pain, the last thing she wants to even think about is how holy she might seem in the eyes of others.

Trying to recover after dying, again, she feels like nothing but one lucky bastard.

“Mother Giselle, I just don’t see how what I believe matters. Lies or not, Corypheus is a real, physical threat. We can’t match that with hope alone.”

And their army has been blown to pieces, their fighters have been wounded and their entire organization blown to pieces, all in just one night. A war that ended just as quickly as it began. She can’t believe others can’t seem to grasp how grave and serious the situation is.

“An army needs more than an enemy. It needs a cause.”

Her chest is still heaving, on the made-up bed holding up together her battle-worn body, as the people start singing her praise, a chorus of chants and unyielding belief.

For anyone just glancing in her direction, it might look like her wounds are still bothering her, and she’s trying to catch her breathe. Iron Bull, sitting in the darkness behind her, knows that the lady Trevelyan is having a panic attack. He is unwelcome by default, his faith in other things and his life somewhere far-away from the Andraste – but she is unequally unwelcome in the midst of those people, a figure so bright and so great that she’s above humans.

He’s seen her bleeding. In her delirious mutterings, half frozen to death, she was more human than all.

The first choked sob surprises even him – a first crack. And then her breathing quickens more and more, and she can’t catch all that air fast enough. She cries and wails, sound covered by the camp celebrating life, and eventually, wincing, she moves her arm enough so she can bite down on the leather of her armour. Silent, suddenly. Her body keeps shacking, until eventually she calms down.

She never seemed to understand the difference between sacrifice and self-slaughter. Until now, bruised and beaten, unheard and spoken over.

The Iron Bull gets close to her because no one else would. He waited, watching, but the Herald of Andraste remained all alone in her corner, with no one checking up on her beyond the state of her body. And yet, she’s been breaking apart for the better part of an hour, and nobody seems to care.

He sits down next to her bed, and she looks at him, surprised but not afraid. Her eyes red with her tears, her lips turned in an upset pout. She looks so much younger, closer to her actual age, now like this. Slowly, her eyes following his movement all along, he raises his arm, resting his hand on top of her, fingers knotting around her wrist, just above where her Mark rests.

Her breath hitches in her throat, and she stares at his much larger hand, holding hers. Just as slow, she moves her other hand, though wincing with the effort, to hold on to his. She keeps crying, tears silently falling down her cheeks, but she keeps holding on, so that something might feel human in the midst of all around her.

“You could have died, eaten by wolves, frozen to death,” he murmurs, and it’s chiding, but spoken so kindly, so low that it doesn’t feel like it.

He moves, ever closer. His other hand wiping her tears away, tangling in her hair once she calms down.

“We would have come for you.”

He sits there even after she falls asleep, so that she can get a bit of a rest without a soldier or zealot interrupting her. He allows Solas, because he knows she would. Whatever healing potions and spells they used, seems to work, because as she walks away with the elf, she’s already looking healthier than just an hour before.

No one sleeps that night, preparing for the trek through the mountains. All the way, she walks at the front of the people, Solas at her side, showing her the path.

“By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it. Changed you. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build… grow…”

She looks at the horizon, stone growing out of clouds.

Skyhold, the one place that holds the skies. Isn’t the Inquisition doing the same?

[rhetoricalrogue]

“things you said when you were drunk” for Vincent/Roz pleeeaaassee

OKAY, so this has sat in my inbox for THREE WHOLE YEARS, but I am finally getting to it.  And while it’s with Roz, Rolfe decided he was going to kick the door in and go “hey there, pretty lady” so now it’s a Roz/Rolfe prompt.

Special guests: the majority of Rolfe’s Super Secret Spy Squad.

As much as Josephine would like for the Great Hall to be the seat of the Inquisitor, the third floor of the Herald’s Rest was Rolfe’s domain.  Instead of the heavy silks and ornate stained glass that took up most of his private quarters - decor he hadn’t had a hand in picking, though he was so rarely there save to sleep and bathe that it didn’t matter to him - it was simply furnished with pieces that had been brought up from the lower floors of the tavern.  A large round table took center stage on one side of the room with smaller tables littered here and there.  Seeing that Cole had taken up residence in the opposite side, Rolfe had offered to furnish him with his own bench and booth, but the spirit had politely declined, happy enough that Rolfe had thought to include him. The decorations amid the candelabras hung on the rafters were a mishmash of styles, which perfectly suited the people who called the uppermost level their home base. 

Those same people were currently crammed around the largest of the tables, laughing uproariously as cards and tankards clacked on the scarred wooden surface.

“And then this one,” Bruno said, pointing over to Martin, who was busy grabbing empty tankards and stacking them on a tray to take downstairs for refills. “Tried to climb out of a window when his cover was blown and managed to plummet like a rock for at least three stories before a tree broke his fall.  Maker knows how he’s still alive.”

Martin rolled his eyes and snatched Bruno’s tankard out of the bigger man’s hands.  “Oi, careful who you tell embarrassing stories about.  I’m the one getting you a new ale.”

“Bless the barkeep for letting you brew fresh stock, Boss,” Gerard told Rolfe, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and covering a belch.  “The watered down piss they were selling was downright tragic.”

Roz, who had been silently absorbing all the different conversations, let out the tiniest of giggles.  “He actually let you get behind the bar?”  

Rolfe, seated close to her, looked down at Roz and grinned.  “I’ll have you know that I can be very persuasive.  After the first batch met his approval, we worked out a deal: I spend as much time as I have available brewing with all profits going to his establishment and my people get to drink anything he stocks for free.”

Roz finished up her glass of mead, nodding as Martin took it from her with a flourish.  Leaning against Rolfe, she reached out to run a finger over the knee pressed against her leg.  “You certainly can be persuasive.”  

Rolfe’s grin turned into a genuine smile, his eyes crinkling as he leaned back on her.  Roz let out a satisfied hum when he dropped a quick kiss to the crown of her head and wrapped his arm around her to press her more securely against his side. 

“Aren’t we cozy,” Anamaria teased, propping both elbows on the table and batting her eyelashes at them.

“Leave off,” Bruno said, nudging the teen with his elbow.  “It isn’t often we get to see the boss look so content.”

“And I have every right to be,” Rolfe replied, giving Roz another squeeze.  “Between fighting all our enemies, dodging bootlicking nobles, and keeping up with political intrigue, I think I deserve to enjoy an evening with some of my favorite people.”

Gerard laughed.  “Appreciate the compliment, Trevelyan, but I reckon Bruno was talking about the lovely lady you’ve got at your side.  It’s been too long since that seat’s been taken.”

“I don’t think it’s ever been taken,” Anamaria mused.  “You know, I didn’t know what to make of you when I first showed up, Roz, but I have to say, you’re good for him.”

Roz looked up from where she had rested her head on Rolfe’s shoulder.  “I think he’s good for me too.”

Rolfe, who had been relaxed and loose by her, suddenly froze.  It wasn’t much, and had Roz not been all but pressed against him, she wouldn’t have noticed.  “And when we start getting to the sentimental portion of the evening, I know we’ve all had too much to drink.”  Standing, he offered a hand to Roz.  “Care to take a turn outside for some air?”

Roz blinked up at him, but put her hand in his, enjoying the way his thumb rubbed against the back of her knuckles.  “Something bothering you?”

He shook his head.  “No, just thought that it was getting a little too warm in there.”

She tipped her head to the side.  “Warm as in temperature or warm as in sentiments?”

“Both?”

She laced her fingers with his as they walked along the ramparts and down the stairs into the courtyard.  It was late enough in the evening that there weren’t many people milling about, and Rolfe nodded to those who acknowledged them.  “Your people care about you a great deal.”

He nodded.  “And I care about them.  We’ve been through a lot, they’ve been my personal squad of spies, pickpockets, and information gatherers for nearly two decades.”  His fingers tightened around hers. “At this point, they’re more family than anything.”

“And they show it by teasing you about...this? Us?”

“I hope you don’t mind.”  They climbed the steps to the keep, skirting around the main hall to one of the side hallways that Roz knew would lead them to the gardens.  They were still mostly empty planting beds, but Roz had spent a lot of time and energy - not to mention late nights when sleep proved elusive - to turn hard packed dirt into soil fit for plants to thrive in.  Her efforts were starting to take root too, if the multiple rows of healing potion ingredients that were beginning to flourish were anything to go by.

“Why would I mind?”

He shrugged.  “What we have, it’s still so…” he searched for a word.  “New.  I didn’t want to presume anything, or step over boundaries.  The last thing I would want to do was scare you away.”

“Rolfe.”  She stopped walking so that he would look at her.  “I don’t scare easily.”

He let out a huff of laughter.  “No, I guess you don’t.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

Rolfe opened his mouth to say something, but shut it.  “Absolutely nothing.”  It was a lie and Roz saw through it, but before she could argue, a cool breeze hit her face and sent her swaying backwards, reminding her that she had been matching the rest of the people at the table drink for drink.

Roz’s spine may be made of steel, but for someone who rarely got to imbibe but the weakest of watered down wine on special occasions in the Circle, her tolerance was nowhere near the others.

“Do you know,” she started, staring up at Rolfe with a soft smile on her lips.  “Do you know how handsome you are?”  Roz sighed as she snuggled closer to him as they resumed walking through the gardens, Rolfe leading them up another flight of stairs towards the little room she had taken as her own.  “You’re the prettiest man I’ve ever known.”

His eyebrow rose.  “Why Mistress Marlowe,” he teased.  “While I am acutely aware of how pretty I am, I never thought you would think the same.”

Roz made a face.  “You’re making fun of me!”

“Never.”

She reached out and traced his chin with a finger, her touch light as it slid around to his jaw and up his cheek.  “You make jokes when people give you compliments.  Why?”

He circled her wrist with his hand and brought it to his mouth to press a kiss against the fluttering pulse there.  “I don’t know.  Perhaps I’m not used to receiving genuine ones.”

She made a little harumph noise.  “Then you’d better get used to it, because you have a beautiful face.  I’m very fond of it.”  She wiggled her hand out of his grasp and carded her fingers through his hair.  “I would like it to be closer though.”

“Oh?  And just how close would you like it?”  Steering them towards her room, he crowded her up against the wall right outside her door. “This close?”

Her hands grabbed onto the lapels of his jacket.  “Closer.”

He pressed his hands on the wall at either side of her head, his nose brushing against hers.  “This close?”

“You’re getting warmer.”  She went up on the balls of her feet and closed the distance between them, savoring the way Rolfe curved into her, his hands leaving the wall to tangle in her hair and press against her cheeks.  She was giddy, both from the honeyed wine from before, but mostly at the fact that running her tongue over the seam of his lips could make him groan and deepen the kiss, shivers running down his spine when she wrapped her arms around him and splayed her palms across his back. 

Eventually, the strain on her calves from standing on the tips of her toes for so long made her sink back to the ground.  “But why you had to be so tall and handsome is beyond me.”

Rolfe laughed, reaching behind her to open the door.  “I can’t help being blessed with so many appealing attributes.”  He sighed as he closed the door, moving out of her range as she reached for her.  “And as much as I would love to continue this, you, my dear lady, are drunk.”

She frowned.  “You mean, you don’t want me?”

He held up his hands.  “I didn’t say that.  I just said that you are in no position to tell me yes or no to continuing this with a clear head.”  He reached out and held onto one of her hands, bringing it up for another kiss.  “And as much as I would love to continue this tonight, I would rather have you remember it.”

“You know, you have a reputation for being a scoundrel,” Roz grumped.  “And here I thought I could seduce you.”

Rolfe pulled her close.  “Oh, my Rosebud,” he breathed, bending his head to nudge his nose along hers.  “You have seduced me completely.  I don’t think you quite know the power you hold over me, or the things I would do for you if you merely wished me to.”  Bringing his hands up to her shoulders, he gave her lips a quick peck before slowly turning her around.  “Now, let’s get you out of at least one layer of clothes so you can sleep peacefully.  I may be a bit tipsy, but I think I can work my way around a few laces.”

Roz hummed contentedly as Rolfe made quick work of the outer layer of her dress, hands slowly pulling cloth down until it pooled at her feet, before working on the laces to her stays.

“Better?”

She backed up until her knees hit her bed and sat down.  “Much, thank you.”

“Have I ever told you how much I admire your ankles?” Rolfe asked, sinking to his knees in front of her to carefully pull off her shoes.

She bit back a sigh as his thumbs found a tight spot at the arch of her foot.  “My ankles?”

“Well, to be fair, they are connected to your legs, and I have an immense fondness for them.”  He continued to talk while slowly rucking her shift up and over her knees as he rolled her stockings down and off her legs.

“Are there any other parts of me you admire?”  She leaned back on her hands and gave him a come hither stare.  Or at least she hoped it came across as a come hither stare.

Rolfe moved up her body, hands ghosting over her hips and sides before grazing over the outer curve of her breast - far too quickly for her liking, but enough to make her bite back a quiet moan - before reaching up to grab hold of the decorative pins she used to keep her hair up, sending the long, crimson mass of it tumbling heavily down her shoulders and nearly into her lap.  “Oh, many, many other parts,” he told her, smirking against her throat before placing a warm kiss there, then nibbling at her jaw, his hands braced on the mattress on either side of her.  “And I’ll be glad to give each and every part of you the attention it deserves.”

His lips hovered over hers.  “On another night.”

She flopped back against the pillows.  “You’re a tease, Rolfe Trevelyan.”

He grinned before moving away from her.  “You knew that coming into this, my dear lady.”  His eyes darkened as he reached out to run his thumb along her bottom lip.  “But I’ll have you know that you’re not the only one affected.  I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight, I’ll be too busy thinking of you.”

“Good.”  She rolled over to her side, her arms snuggling into her pillows.  “At least I know I won’t be the only one awake.”

It would have been more believable, had she not yawned and nearly immediately fallen asleep.  Rolfe gave her a fond smile before rolling off the mattress as carefully and quietly as he could.  “Rest easy,” he murmured, leaning over to press the lightest of kisses against her forehead. He moved stealthily through her room before closing her door behind him, the latch not making the slightest of noises to disturb her.  It wasn’t until he was well enough away from her rooms that he let himself lean against the stone wall, the chill of the night air and a sudden realization sobering him up quicker than anything else ever did.

He was in love.

[antivan-beau]

Black Emporium 2020 Fic Recs

A smattering of fics I’ve especially enjoyed so far from this year’s Black Emporium 2020 pieces! Now with authors’ names!

Late, Late Nights and Early Starts - @h1bernate Vivienne/Leliana (M, 5400 words)

A subtle and beautifully bittersweet fic of two complex women letting themselves appreciate something fleeting.

False Steps - too-many​-seeds Fairbanks/Female Trevelyan (T, 4800 words)

It’s got clever politics, miscommunications, and trust broken and mended again. A very fun and satisfying story.

there’s no place like home - CoaxionUnlimited Female Aeducan/Female Brosca (T, 6000 words)

A worldstate where neither dwarf becomes the Warden, but they still meet up. A really well-paced and exciting fic with a great story and great character dynamics.

The Chemistry Between Us - cullenlovesmen Isabela/Bethany (M, 1800 words)

There’s something so sweet about Warden Bethany meeting Isabela again after years spent apart, where they find themselves equals (with a surprising amount in common!) 

Before the Forge Goes Cold - @jarakrisafis Branka/Hespith (G, 400 words)

Somehow this ship never occurred to me before, but this short fic really got the wheels in my brain spinning. (Pairs well with this lovely Branka/Hespith art - An Afternoon of Quiet Research.)

A Worthy Ally - Sheeana Anders/Male Hawke/Justice (T, 1700 words)

I like reading polyamory negotiations and anything with Justice is bound to be an unusual riff on that theme. Really enjoyed the character voice of the Purple Hawke at the center of this one.

A Crown of Gold - Toshi_Nama Ser Cauthrien/Anora Mac Tir (T, 1000 words)

I am gay and I love a lady knight pining after a queen-to-be. I do not need any further justification for how much I enjoyed this.

Hero - @kauriart Male Cousland/Loghain Mac Tir (E, 4600 words)

I’m kind of losing my mind over what an excellent fic this is. Showing my ass a bit with this rec, but we simply love a thoughtful tragedy-with-a-glimmer-of-hope character study, plus angsty sex. Mind the tags.

[pastellarts]

To the edge of your sky - Chapter 1: The man with the glowing hand

Summary: A terrible explosion brings together a blunt self-righteous Seeker with a passionate nature and a gracious but skeptical rebel mage. As they fight with their allies in the Inquisition to save the world, they will embrace new dreams and discover that where the sky begins, sorrow ends.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742424

Chapter music: https://youtu.be/uDFpcSc7IcY

----------

Chaos and despair.

Every step she took on the path towards the destroyed Temple of Sacred Ashes made Lady Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast lose her mind bit by bit.

What had happened? Who was behind it?

Why?

Those were all valid and important questions, demanding answers that she would unleash a hunt for. But as her stride brought her closer to the theater of disaster, the smell of burning flesh and debris overwhelmed her senses.

Her eyes moved frantically from the red and black flames to the vast green swirl that lit up the sky, oozing strange magic and terror. A wound so big that tore the heavens apart and shook the ground by touching it with veins of strange energy.

The thick smoke was making her cough. Cassandra covered her mouth and nostrils with a handkerchief to help herself breathe.

Justinia, I got to find her… And Galyan… Oh Maker, was he in the Temple or not?

She had heard nothing so far, not even a single plea for help or a scream. Only the echoes of the footsteps of the soldiers that joined her to scout the area. The all-consuming fire and the shuddering Breach cracklings were crashing her hopes about finding survivors.

A loud crack nearby broke her reverie and she felt a strong arm dragging her with haste as some burning debris collapsed where she had been standing.

"We can't go closer to the Temple, it will fall apart!" Cullen tugged her further away as he tried to catch his own breath. "We stay here and we die as well, come on!"

Justinia. Templars. Mages. All dead.

"Secure a perimeter to the Temple! Take cover! Make sure nobody approaches, it's too dangerous!" Cullen issued his orders to the soldiers and turned to her.

"Cassandra, I fear…" Cullen offered her a flask and she raised it to her lips without question. Whiskey, to clear the smoke in her throat and her mind. "I don't think anyone survived the explosion", he took the flask from her and drank as well.

Justinia. Templars. Mages. Galyan?

They were dead. The whole Conclave was dead.

The last effort to bring peace to Thedas was sabotaged and all she could do was stare at the tragedy and hear the wind howling as it dispersed hope and ashes around them.

A green explosion startled them, followed by a rift opening. By the time they had drawn their weapons, a Terror had already impaled an unlucky archer that stood closer to it.

"Demons! Formation behind me!" Cullen took a defensive stance as a Shade moved towards him. Cassandra snarled and lunged towards the Terror on her own, only to see it phase into the ground. She kept her guard by pivoting in her position. Moments later she heard a shriek and the Terror crystallized out of thin air, pouncing upon her before she could even blink.

"Die, you demon!" Cassandra kept deflecting its hits with her shield until it disappeared once more. Experience kicking in, she let out a powerful shout the moment it reappeared, hoping to taunt the Terror.

"Ugh, die already!"

She charged like a raging bronto, her longsword hitting the legs and torso of the demon, causing it to dissolve back into the rift, which seemed to calm down.

"This is bad. These rifts are all over the valley. We need to keep men here to fight demons as they appear!" Cullen still held his sword as he assessed the situation.

They stared at each other, sharing the unspoken unavoidable conclusion; more people would die to protect the survivors from the demons and anything else those rifts might bring.

There was no time to lose.

"I need to speak to Leliana at once."

And find Galyan

"I will dispatch soldiers at your disposal for dealing with the demons. Update me if you find anything," Cassandra started her jog down to the village. "And Cullen, please be careful, all of you" she addressed the soldiers and the Commander as she turned towards them. "We have no idea who and what we are up against."

She was Cassandra Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine, Seeker of Truth and the Hero of Orlais, and she would bring anyone who was responsible for this disaster to justice. She would behead them herself for crushing Justinia's crusade for peace and reforms, consequences be damned.

Maker help her, she hoped she had the strength to overcome this challenge.

~oOo~

Alexander Trevelyan had not imagined such an outcome when he joined the delegation of the mages as part of the former Circle of Ostwick to the Chantry Conclave. Nobody in Thedas could have imagined it.

Clad in borrowed scout armor with a random staff in hand and afflicted with a headache and various muscle strains, he followed the tenacious Seeker on the snow-covered mountain path that led to the Temple. The two of them along with Solas and Varric had just bid farewell to the missing scouts who had thanked her for their rescue.

"Thank our prisoner, lieutenant. He insisted we come this way."

Prisoner. He had been requested to resolve the dilemma between choosing the mountain path or attacking at the temple, he got the credit for the rescue of the scouts, but he was still her fucking prisoner. Perhaps a distinguished one, since he was allowed to carry a staff. He would play along for now, like he had agreed to do, following her lead and using his magic against rifts and demons. Until his judgment for a crime he had no memory of.

"There will be a trial, I can promise no more."

The Seeker navigated them, warning about slippery parts and falling ice stalactites, offering a helping hand to prevent missteps. And, Andraste preserve him, that bickering of hers with Varric about everything was making his headache worse. Ostensibly the dwarf had been also her prisoner; neither had kept their squabble a secret.

Was it a habit of hers, taking people as prisoners and interrogating them, just to satisfy her insatiable need for justice and penance? The last thing Alexander could recall from his memories before all went black was walking in the Temple. And then things chasing him and a woman in a mysterious form. When he regained his senses, another woman, tall, fierce, unyielding, with her hand on her sword, approaching him like her prey, threatening to kill him if he didn't give her the answers she was looking for.

But his answers had not been good enough for either of them. He had no recollection of how and why a strange green mark had suddenly appeared on his left hand or if it had caused the explosion that killed all those people.

Unable to get any explanations from him in shackles, the Seeker had released him from the heavy chains, pulled him on his feet and dragged him outside through the angry crowd of the people of Haven.

If by any chance they let him live, he would never forget the first time he saw the blinding light of the Breach that expanded till the edge of the sky. Even the worst curses he had heard from the witnesses of his exit from the holding cells could not taint that vision of green doom from his memory.

"They have decided your guilt."

Still, the reactions of the villagers were nothing like the voiceless shrieks from the dead bodies that laid before the gate to the valley. The screams and pleads to the Maker from soldiers that were running to save themselves. His own howls at every strong pulse from that green mark. The rapid explosions that could bring down a bridge and dozen more soldiers in the blink of an eye.

It was so bad that the Seeker had agreed to let him carry a staff not long after his interrogation had ended.

He could not blame her for being in a hurry to face this disaster. From what he gathered so far, she was the only one realizing what was at stake, reacting seriously and swiftly to the situation, unlike Chancellor Roderick who only wished for his execution in Val Royeaux. Her and Sister Leliana.

He could also see the strain on her face. Without question, the explosion did hurt her. She had lost the Divine, colleagues and perhaps friends. And now she had to tolerate the bitter presence of the lone survivor of that tragedy and protect him because his mark could close the rifts. Couldn't blame her, really.

"We need to keep moving." Cassandra urged them on.

His whole body was heaving from the exhaustion, despite the adrenaline rush. The interrogation, the three rifts, the strain and paralyzing pulses from the green mark – things kept happening so fast, taking a heavy toll on his body and mind. He was able to stand more than a fighting chance, but not today.

And he was hungry, so fucking hungry, but like hell he would admit a weakness to her.

"Down the ladder. That's the way to the temple." Cassandra descended and he prayed he could make it down there without collapsing.

"The Temple of Sacred Ashes." Solas commented.

"What's left of it." Varric whispered full of dread.

Maker! He could only gape at the sight before him. Maker help them all…

How did he even emerge from this catastrophe in one piece?!

Alexander observed the strange rock formations that surrounded the ruins. The discussion between Varric and Solas about the circumstances of the explosion caught his ear. If he were to survive this mission, he would like a chance to converse with the mysterious elven apostate in detail about his informed and rather fitting explanations.

"That is where you walked out of the Fade and our soldiers found you." Cassandra approached him. "They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was."

The corpses of the victims were still burning, condemned in an endless torture for their sins, for their hopes for peace between mages and templars. They didn't deserve this fate, no.

"You're here! Thank the Maker." Leliana approached from behind with some soldiers.

"Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple." Cassandra issued her commands. "This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?"

"I'm not sure how to even start getting up to that thing." Alexander looked up to the rift, unable to form an effective strategy.

"No. This rift was the first and is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach." Solas insisted.

"Then let's find a way down", Cassandra's gaze locked with his. "And be careful."

They moved further inside, walking through red lyrium, hearing echoes from the fade. A deep intimidating voice mentioning a sacrifice and then a female voice yelling for help.

"That is Divine Justinia's voice!" yelled Cassandra.

"What's going on here?"

"That was your voice. Most Holy called out to you. But…" Cassandra's desperate plea for answers was interrupted by more intense ghostly echoes of the Divine engulfed in red energy and a looming dark figure with glowing red eyes. A flash of white and the echoes disappeared.

"You were there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?" Cassandra snarled at him in vain.

"I don't remember!"

Maker, it was futile to prove he was not behind this tragedy. Cassandra could go on accusing him and he could go on responding in every possible manner that he had no memory of any of it.

"Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place." Solas quickly reminded them what was at stake as the soldiers stood around them with their weapons drawn.

"This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side."

"That means demons. Stand ready!" Cassandra unsheathed her sword and took a battle stance by his side. Of course, her primary task would be to protect the prisoner with the glowing hand long enough to close the rift and then throw him away like a rag for his trial.

Damn the Seeker and the Chantry and their modus operandi against mages. Right now, the only thing that mattered was to fight that Pride demon and close the rift. However, if he made it out of this battle alive, he would fight for his freedom and his rights, for justice for the mages. That was a promise.

 ~3 days later~

He didn't mean to scare the elven servant, but he had woken up with a headache and a soreness in most of his body parts. He poured himself some water and grabbed some bites from the food tray nearby. He wasn't really hungry, but his inner mouth felt like stale bread and he wanted all of his senses back up and running at once.

"I'm sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you've wakened. She said 'at once'!"

"And where is she?"

"In the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor. 'At once,' she said!"

The scared servant had run off, probably to alert the Seeker that he was awake. He stretched his limps and tested his walk as he got off the bed after 3 days, if the elf was telling him the truth. Running his hands through his hair, he realized with wonder that they were clean and free of whatever shit had landed on him during the battle with the Pride demon.

Alexander found his armor clean and draped over the back of a chair. Perhaps he could ask what had happened to his robes, if he got a chance. The basin with clean water and a cloth on the desk were another welcome surprise.

Huh.

He picked a note that lied on the desk.

'Patient Observations

 Vain hope: Someone better at this than me takes over before the survivor expires. Notes in case.

—Day One—

 Clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse over-fast. Not responsive. Pupils dilated.

 Mage says his/her scarring "mark" is thrumming with unknown magic.

 Wish we could station a templar in here, just in case.'

Of course they would wish for a templar to keep an eye on the dangerous mage.

Alexander put on the armor. Time to meet Seeker Pentaghast and get some answers. The Circles were no more and like hell he would put up with a glorified templar ordering him around like a puppet.

He opened the cabin door. Twenty Fereldan soldiers were lining the path starting from the cabin, saluting him with their fists on their chests, surrounded by a small crowd of people.

"That's him, that's the Herald of Andraste!"

"Why did Lady Cassandra have him in chains? Andraste herself blessed him!"

The people of Haven stood in attention, bowing their heads in respect and offering him their blessings as he made his way through the crowd to the Chantry.

"Blessings upon you, Herald of Andraste!"

 Herald of… Andraste?

He kept walking in awe as people commented on his deeds and showered him with words of encouragement, instead of yells and spit. The revered mothers and clerics stood before the Chantry entrance, arguing about Chancellor Roderick and their lack of leadership. A flock of babbling hens, if you asked him, who were foolishly ignoring the imminent danger that was more than visible and were focusing on who would sign their chantry appointments. Barely a week since Justinia and all those Conclave attendants had perished.

Alexander raised his eyes to the sky where the Breach moved like it was about to shallow everything. The images of the devastation in the Temple and the echoes from the Fade were enough to motivate him do his part. He would not ignore this threat. He could not. If it grew, it would literally end Thedas and they were all doomed, mages and templars, soldiers and farmers, humans, dwarves and elves, commoners and nobles alike.

The doors closed behind him as he entered the Chantry and Alexander inhaled long and deep. He would help the Seeker against this threat with every bit of himself, but he would demand respect and fair treatment. And freedom. He was a Senior Enchanter of the former Circle of Ostwick, not some prisoner to be flaunted around from the leftovers of the Chantry. As long as he was the key to closing those rifts, he would be their equal.

After all, he was 'the man with the glowing hand', as Varric had put it and nobody would ignore his only leverage.

The closer he got to the end of the hall of the Chantry, the louder Seeker's voice was booming from inside the room, steady and passionate. So were the Chancellor's yells as well.

"Have you gone completely mad? He should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine."

"I do not believe he is guilty."

Cassandra was facing off with Chancellor Roderick about… him?

"The prisoner failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, he intended it this way."

"I do not believe that."

"That is not for you to decide. Your duty is to the serve the Chantry."

"My duty is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is yours."

And she believed him to be… innocent?

 Huh.

Time to join this meeting himself and see what had changed during his long sleep.

~oOo~

Cassandra entered the Singing Maiden and headed for the table with the big comfortable chairs near the fireplace that was thankfully empty. She could use the heat right now. And some warm food. And a good drink. Or two.

Earlier that day, the Inquisition was founded again by her and Leliana, with support from Ambassador Montilyet, Commander Cullen Rutherford and of course the Herald of Andraste. Using the authority granted to her and Leliana by Justinia's writ. Maker help her, she hoped she was doing the right thing.

No. They were doing the right thing. At least they were acting. Because if they didn't, it would be too late. She had no doubt of the latter. No matter what it took.

"Good evening Lady Pentaghast, can I get you anything?" Flissa smiled nervously at her as she approached.

It had been a very, very long day.

 Wine, I should drink wine

"Is there wine?"

Flissa bit her lower lip. "Spiced w-wine only."

"It'll do. And whatever warm food you have."

"Got Fereldan stew and-"

"Stew will do, thank you Flissa" Cassandra nodded.

"Be right b-back with your food and wine, Lady Pentaghast." Flissa hurried back to her post.

Cassandra took off her gloves and leaned back at her seat, taking in the people in the tavern. Recruits, soldiers, a couple of scouts and few villagers were unwinding, unaware of the long way they had ahead of them, of what the Inquisition meant.

A recruit entered the tavern in a hurry and conversed with Flissa. She hoped it would not take long. She had eaten nothing since morning.

Right then, Trevelyan opened the door. He nodded at her and went also to talk to Flissa. Flissa smiled nervously at him and went on rambling about something, delaying further the serving of her meal. Then he replied and Flissa giggled.

Cassandra was starving and those two were flirting with each other.

Maker help her, she wanted to punch something. Or someone.

Their chit chat ended, and the Herald scanned the tavern, looking everywhere and lastly to her. Apparently having a dinner and some wine alone was a privilege. So be it.

"May I sit?" Trevelyan asked in a cordial tone.

Cassandra gestured impassively and braced herself for awkward silence.

"Here is your stew and wine, Lady Pentaghast." Flissa served her and placed an ale in front of Trevelyan as well. "Would you like some food, Lord Herald?"

"Yes please, stew and any roasted meat, if there is any." Trevelyan drank half of his ale at a gulp and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. Despite her treating him like a mass murderer until few days ago, he had been hesitant but considerate the whole day.

"It is a good idea to eat a large meal, you will need your strength the following days as we travel through the Hinterlands." Cassandra said between swallowing spoonfuls of stew.

"I have been a rebel battlemage for quite some time, Lady Seeker. I can survive in the wilderness. Have some faith." Trevelyan regarded her curiously.

The arrival of his meal halted momentarily any reply she could have given him and they dined in silence, accompanied by the chatter around them and the bard's song.

Cassandra leaned back in her chair and studied the Herald. By every standard, he was a good-looking man, with greenish eyes and rich dark blond hair at mid neck length, held back in a half ponytail. He had a beard and his hands were calloused with chilblains. She made a mental note to urge him to find some gloves. No harm should happen to him, his mark was the most important weapon.

Trevelyan finished his ale and turned to ask Flissa for another. Cassandra also raised her glass signaling for a refill.

"Could you explain something to me, Lady Pentaghast?" Trevelyan seemed to ponder on his words, even after her curt acknowledgement of his request. "What made you change your mind about me?"

"What I told you this morning, Herald. Perhaps I am mistaken again. Your actions will show what you truly are. But right now, you are the person we need, that this world needs to close the Breach and restore order."

Trevelyan tilted his head slightly to his left and locked his gaze to hers. He was careful, perhaps too careful, calculating even. She had to pay close attention to everything he would say.

"And I agreed to help you fix this." He lifted his left palm. "You need this, the world needs it."

Their drinks arrived and this time Trevelyan did not devour his ale fast. Perceptive, that one. Patient when he chose to be.

The urge to punch something started to grow inside her again.

"Spit it out Herald, I don't have all night for your musings." Cassandra squinted her eyes.

"The Circles are no more. I take no orders from Templars or Seekers." The Herald leaned forward, pinning her in her place with those fiery green eyes of his. "I will respect any tactical decisions as your equal and will follow you in battle and fight with you and the Inquisition for now, until we close the Breach and find who is behind this. Because you are the only ones that intend to deal with it and I will do whatever I can, you have my word. But after that, I'm gone." He snapped his fingers and relaxed his posture, sipping his ale.

Cassandra had to hand it to him. Few people had the gall to address her with an attitude stripped of fear.

"I hope you keep that bravado for the demons we will encounter the next days, Herald, you will need it." Cassandra finished her wine and got up from her chair. "I gave you my word and sealed our agreement with a handshake and I take my promises seriously."

"I am aware of that and appreciate it. You need to understand Lady Seeker, during the mage-templar war a promise meant nothing, so the past years have made me rightfully wary. But I hope I will be pleasantly surprised for a change." Trevelyan declared.

"Nothing surprises me in the world anymore. Goodnight, Herald." Cassandra said.

"Lady Pentaghast." Trevelyan raised his mug with a tight smile and released her from his glare.

Cassandra left the tavern with a belly full of food and a feeling of terror unbeknownst to her. There was something about Trevelyan that made her fear him since the moment she laid eyes on him. Only a handful of people had managed to flare up that dreadful reaction inside her and she didn't like it at all, no.

After she undressed in the room that she and Leliana shared, she did the only thing she could. She fell to her knees and prayed to the Maker for guidance, for a clear mind, for a heart that would neither harm a man that seemed to be innocent nor fall for any of his tricks and games.

Andraste preserve her, the war they had declared against chaos and despair would be a long one.

[chipfics]

Not Alone

based on a tumblr prompt setting: Trevelyan siblings au, but centers on Lavellan companion and Cassandra. Summary: Cassandra spends a late night with a bottle and her thoughts, but is interrupted by a visitor. 1200 words.

“I know I'm not the person you want, but I'm here.”

Cassandra looked away from the bottle of brandy in her hand and straightened from where she was leaned against a wall, looking over the dark village of Haven.

The person who had spoken was the Dalish elf, the friend of the Trevelyan siblings...what was his name...Allain.

Cassandra had not interacted with him much directly outside of work. He had offered his services to Leliana and was working with the scouts and with the Trevelyans. He had been back and forth from the Hinterlands for weeks. Usually if he wasn't working, Cassandra saw him with Tristan and Alyssa, or curled up by a window somewhere with a book of poetry or a journal he was always scribbling in.

“I don't know what you mean,” Cassandra said plainly, and looked back over the village. The only lights were outdoor braziers that marked pathways and a few campfires outside the walls where the soldiers were set up in tents.

“You're lonely,” Allain said softly, and Cassandra released a sharp breath through her nose.

What she had seen of Allain, he was open and easy and silvertongued. Always ready with a compliment or a one liner, never shying away from questions...but not quite always answering them either. She had thought him honest at first, but the more she observed the more she realized he never more than half answered any query about his personal life or past. He gave just enough to satisfy, but not enough for anybody to truly know him. As she sipped her brandy some more, she decided that must have been what Leliana thought would make him a good scout. That, and his reportedly keen skill with a bow.

It was dark, so observing him from the corner of her eye was a bit difficult, but she could make out the features she had noticed in daylight hours well enough. His hair was mussed and chin length, swept to one side with a small braided portion tucked behind one ear. His build was lithe but strong, especially in the arms and shoulders, his skin pallid. His eyes were very blue, like a summer sky, which made the directness of his gaze unnerving at times. And over the left one there was a deep and painful looking scar.

Long eyelashes though, and a gracefully curved mouth...he was a pretty man, to be sure. But Cassandra turned her gaze forward again. Lonely.

Allain wasn't wrong, but Cassandra wasn't sure she liked that he had noticed. She stayed quiet, and it wasn't long before Allain decided to elaborate of his own volition.

“Alyssa tells me you were the right hand of the Divine,” He said, “That the two of you were even friends.”

Cassandra took a swig from her bottle. Allain looked out over the village and the laughter that had seemed always present in his eyes before faded to a cool, sorrowful gaze.

“Everyone here is hurting,” He said, “Old wounds, raw wounds, wounds so fresh the sting of tears has yet to stop. It all gathers into one big hurt, like a fog over the village. It's a choking, blinding sort of thing and it makes it hard to know who needs what help.”

“Supply lines have become more stable,” Cassandra replied, “We have plenty of elfroot.”

“For the cuts and burns, yes.” Allain said, “But you know I wasn't talking about that.”

“If you are so concerned about aching hearts,” Cassandra told him, “There are better places your effort could be spent.”

With the recruits missing home, Cassandra thought. With the wounded soldiers trying to fight off nigthmares of the battles they had been injured in. Healers who had lost patients. There were plenty of places Allain could go if he wanted to offer company to someone who was hurting. Cassandra had always done fine on her own- why should she need a shoulder now?

“I'm right where I want to be,” Allain replied easily. Cassandra gripped her bottle a little tighter.

Allain did not move, so she sighed an relented.

“Divine Justinia was a dear friend, yes.” She admitted quietly, “Her loss is...difficult to accept. I have precious few friends. Now there is one less.”

Silence for a moment, and then Allain spoke.

“You know,” He said, “I am an orphan. My parents died when I was but a wee thing.”

“I was passed round from one person to another in my clan growing up, never really part of any family. By the time I was an adult, I was so used to it that I hadn't ever managed to make any close friends, even in my age group. I wasn't on bad terms with the clan, and I did my work as a hunter diligently, but I wasn't at home there.”

“That is why you left,” Cassandra concluded.

“Aye,” Allain said, “The Keeper...when Alyssa showed up near our camp she was sick, starved, half dead. She took pity and let her stay just long enough to recover. I was posted as her guard. It was the first time anyone had put so much effort into finding out about me.”

Allain continued. “Now that I'm with the Inquisition I'm surrounded by people who are always asking me questions. About the Dalish, about hunting, about my likes or dislikes...it's made me realize that while perhaps my clan never reached out to me much, I never tried to reach out very much either.”

With that, he looked at Cassandra. “I get that same feeling from you, Lady Seeker, that you don't know how to reach out to others.”

The words had a weight to them that settled on Cassandra immediately. They hit the nail on the head. Cassandra could lead soldiers, interrogate prisoners, fight outlaws- but she had never learned how to offer any of herself to anyone. Justinia had reached out to her. Accepting  that extended hand had not been easy, either. At all's end, Cassandra just did not know how to connect with people.

“And is that why you are here, then?” She finally asked, looking pointedly at her bottle.

“I suppose it is, yes.” Allain said gently, “Our demeanors differ greatly, but our shortfalls are not so different. I see a kindred spirit in pain when I look at you.”

He reached a hand out and squeezed Cassandra's shoulder. When she met his eyes, they were full of something warm, something gentle, something like a hand reaching out to take hers.

“I may not be able to bring your friends back,” Allain told her, “But I hope it is not so late that I cannot offer myself as a new one. We both deserve better than loneliness.”

Cassandra held his gaze for a long moment. Perhaps it was the brandy starting to get to her, but she decided she rather liked Allain’s eyes. So light and blue and airy looking, and so perceptive. Finally, she found a reply.

“Do you drink brandy, Allain?” She held up her bottle and offered an awkward half smile.

Allain laughed softly out his nose. “Let us find some glasses, shall we?” He said.

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus x Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 8: Earning Favor

After word has spread that the Inquisitor was almost killed by a rogue Venatori party, Lady Josephine does her best to restore their noble supporters’ faith in the Inquisition. One tiny problem: the Inquisitor hates nobles. Like, a lot.

Also, it doesn’t really help that Dorian has been avoiding him for some reason.

Read here or on AO3!

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

Tristan’s dagger tore through the top of the envelope with a satisfying hiss. It was a letter from Comtesse Lucienne, who had visited Skyhold about a month back. Her thanks for her stay, as well as her wishes for his swift recovery were written in elegant, flowery letters. Even the vellum she had written on gave off a heavy flowery scent. Those Orlesians certainly knew had to make an impression.

He idly fingered the scar on his neck where that Venatori blade had cut him. Word of the Venatori almost killing him had quickly spread across Thedas, and the well-wishing letters were coming in a steady, incessant flow. Replying to them was tedious and time consuming, but he was sure Lady Josephine would have his hide if he didn’t reply in a timely, and most importantly respectable fashion. The Ambassador was polite and patient enough to rile a mule, but a stickler for formalities. It irked Tristan to no end.

He let out a heavy sigh as he took a scone from his plate and dropped a generous helping of the raspberry jam the cook had sent up to him for his breakfast. Admittedly, it was quite good. He licked his fingers and sifted through the letters while he chewed. Most were from Fereldan and Orlesian houses, a few from the Free Marches and some minor families in Denerim. He was indifferently scanning their sigils, when he suddenly froze.

It was a long and thin envelope, of the finest cream coloured vellum he had seen in a while. The sigil on it was one that he knew like the back of his hand. The stark and steady penmanship on the back of the paper sent icy tendrils down his back.

He tore the top of it open and snatched the letter out. His vision went blurry as he read the first few lines.

My dear Tristan,

It has been far too long since we have spoken. I have written repeatedly to your Ambassador to congratulate you for your appointment as the leader of the Inquisition. It was with great regret that I learnt of the recent attack to your person. I….

The letters were jumping in front of his eyes. He blinked furiously, trying to keep his head about him, but it was no use. Reading that letter was like hearing his mother’s voice inside his head, and that froze him to his very core.

He remembered all too well the last time he had heard her voice.

He was in the grand ballroom of the Trevelyan mansion, more than two years back. It was crawling with people, all the esteemed members of the Chantry and the Ostwick nobility, dressed in their finest funeral outfits. They had come to pay their last respects and wax lyrical about the dearly departed, perfumed handkerchiefs at hand to wipe tears that were not there. It was an affliction of the worst kind, surely, for the daughter of a distinguished family to meet such a tragic ending.

“May the Maker take pity on her soul” they would whisper, already eyeing the closest trays with smoked salmon and fine Antivan wine.

From his corner in the ballroom, Tristan downed glass after glass of wine, his resentment increasing along with his inebriation.

Vultures. Scavengers. Pitiful excuses for human beings, the lot of them.

He had watched his mother converse with them, no doubt arranging new deals and alliances. No better time to get people to support you than at your time of need. At least she had the decency to look sombre and grim underneath her dark veil. It wouldn’t be proper, after all, to be smiling given the circumstances.

How her eyes had narrowed and her nostrils flared as she watched the empty wine glasses gather around him. She had glided to his side, all polite bows and fake smiles for those she passed by. “Our family has been disgraced enough” she had hissed under her breath once certain she was out of earshot. “Is it too much to ask that you at least try to look mournful and spare everyone your drunken antics for one day?”

It had been such a violent shock, and oh, so painfully predictable. He had done his best and failed to stifle a bitter laugh as his eyes fell to his hands, to the everite band that circled his finger. The only thing keeping him sane in a world of madness. “Forgive me, mother” he had whispered, fixing his gaze on her dark blue eyes, that were so much like his own. So much like Tilly’s. “Forgive me for being the one that’s still alive.”

The memory settled on him, like a dark and heavy blanket. His breakfast scone now tasted like ash in his mouth.

He tore the letter to pieces and flung it in the fire. He didn’t wait to see it being consumed by the flames before he stood up and walked to the tray where he kept his drinks. He pulled the cork out of a bottle of… something -he couldn’t really bring himself to care what it was, as long as it was strong- and poured some in a glass. It burned his insides when he downed it in one gulp, his heartbeat steadying slightly. Another one, and his fingers blissfully stopped trembling.

That was better.

“Inquisitor?”

He jolted and spun around, spilling half his drink in the process. The agent that had walked in was looking at him with wide eyes. Tristan hadn’t even heard her knocking. “F-forgive me, my lord, I didn’t mean to intrude.” She blinked awkwardly for a moment and looked around. Then, as if remembering herself, she stood at attention and knuckled her forehead. “Sister Leliana has asked me to remind you of the war council meeting today, sir.”

“Right” Tristan said breathlessly, smoothing a palm over his white shirt. He would have to change it now. “What time is the meeting?”

The woman gulped nervously and fixed her eyes on the wall behind Tristan. “They are already waiting for you at the war room, sir.”

Damn it.

“Very well” he sighed. “Tell the sister I’ll be there presently.”

“Yes, sir.”

She knuckled her forehead again and turned on her heel. Tristan muttered curses under his breath as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed in on his bed. The one he slipped into was thinner and stretched across his chest, but it would have to do. He doubted Leliana would wait another moment before sending another agent to drag him to the war room by his ear.

Oh, being the Inquisitor truly was a blessing.

**

Leliana sifted through the reports at the table in front of her. Her hawk-like eyes scanned the lines of dense writing in what seemed like seconds. Tristan, Cullen and Josephine stood silent as the small crease between Leliana’s brows deepened while she read. Finally, she set the piece of paper on the war table and glanced up at Tristan. “News of your near death has spread to the furthest reaches of Thedas. This is not good.”

“I know. I have been getting mountains of letters every day. It takes me ages to get through them all. Don’t these people have anything better to do?” Tristan said, his voice edging with annoyance. He tried not to think of his mother’s letter as he twisted the ring on his finger.

“Yes, that can… be a problem” Josephine said, shooting him a sidelong glance. “But, unfortunately, it’s not the only one. I have received several letters from our noble supporters as well. Letters of concern and wishes for a full recovery, mostly, but there are those that have expressed their concerns that the Venatori managed to get so close. Many believe that they are becoming more and more aggressive, and that the Inquisition is not cutting them down as… swiftly as we should. Widespread doubt about our forces does not add much to our claim of being the only power able to withstand the forces of Corypheus.”

Cullen shook his head, his jaw clenched tightly. “It hardly matters what some primped up nobles think. If they have doubts about our power, a walk through our battlements will prove them wrong. The important thing is that the Inquisitor is safe and sound. Anything else is irrelevant.”

Tristan could only barely bring himself to care about what the nobility said about him, but the fact that he had almost died under the hands of Venatori was indeed troubling. That he had only himself to blame for them getting so close did not make things any better. He let out a short huff. “I agree that the Venatori are very dangerous. We should double up our efforts in rooting them out. Lord Pavus has been very kind as to use former acquaintances of his to find information about their camps, but it’s not enough. We need to find as many as we can, as quickly as we can. And, Lady Josephine” he added decisively, “if there is any discontent about my actions, I would like you to forward those letters to me. I will be responding to them personally.”

We’ll see if they will be talking so openly after I’m done with them, he thought mirthfully, but kept that bit to himself.

Josephine’s brows furrowed for only a moment, before she gave him a polite smile. “I… would rather keep answering the letters myself, if you don’t mind. Surely you have more than enough to busy yourself with these days.”

Leliana glanced at Tristan, then at Josephine. Tristan thought he saw a small smile widening her lips, but he couldn’t be sure. He could never be sure with Leliana. “In any case, we should indeed renew our efforts in finding Corypheus’s agents. I’ll put my agents to it straight away.”

“So will I” Cullen added. “We should increase the number of soldiers at our outposts, and have them thoroughly comb the areas they are covering. Should they find any evidence of Venatori activity, they will forward it to us immediately.”

“Good” Tristan agreed. “Crushing a few more of their parties should be enough to restore the public’s faith in us. They seem to be occupied with little else these days, after all.”

“Indeed” Josephine chimed in. “It can be a hindrance, but also an opportunity. I think we could use the public’s attention to us to our advantage.”

Tristan regarded her coolly, with reserved curiosity. “How so?”

“Since your appointment as leader of the Inquisition, it’s only natural that there is increased attention drawn to our affairs. There are many people that are expecting our response regarding the war between the mages and the templars. Shifting the attention from the attempt on your life to a public announcement about the war could serve us well.”

“The Mage-Templar war ended when the Inquisition allied itself with the free mages” Tristan replied flatly. “What else is there for people to know?”

“There is still the question of what is to happen with the mages. As you surely know, there are those that believe that the mages should return to the Circles and that order should be restored as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.” Tristan crossed his arms in front of his chest and frowned at his advisors. “If I’m not mistaken, the three of you seemed to be of the same opinion not a very long time ago.”

Leliana shot him an icy frown, while Cullen clenched his jaw. Josephine looked startled for only a heartbeat before giving him a polite smile. It never reached her eyes. “What we believe is of no consequence, Your Worship. I merely wanted to make you aware of the sentiment among the people and our allies. Whatever we, or rather, you decide” she said, stressing every word, “it is crucial that we have the support of the nobility of Thedas. If I may speak bluntly, we require every alliance, and every bit of coin that we can get. The Inquisition is in dire need of both.”

Ah, yes. Gold. It always came down to that. He let out a soft sigh and allowed his hands to fall by his sides. “You’re right, as always, Lady Josephine. What do you suggest we do?”

“The decision on what is going to happen with the mages is up to you. However, I have taken the liberty of arranging a few meetings for you with esteemed members of the Orlesian nobility, to garner as much support from them as possible. You are to travel to Val Royeaux in a week with a small group of our finest negotiators to aid in the discussions.”

“I… see.” Tristan twisted the ring on his finger thoughtfully. “Do you think that the nobility will aid our cause? We are still a rebel organisation, as far as the Chantry is concerned.”

“There are those that are opposed to the Chantry, and condemn their involvement in the Mage-Templar war” Leliana said calmly. “I would suggest that you go to those meetings with an open mind, Inquisitor. Our prospective allies might pleasantly surprise you.”

**

Leaving the war room, Tristan’s head felt as heavy as a ripe watermelon. Lengthy meetings with his advisors usually had that effect on him. He wasn’t sure what it was about them; the sheer multitude of tasks that always needed to be done and never seemed to lessen in the slightest no matter how many were tackled in each meeting, or the fact that decisions that could affect the lives of actual, real people fell squarely on his shoulders? He couldn’t rightly say.

He crossed the long corridor leading to the throne room lost in thoughts. The Venatori truly were a pain, but they didn’t annoy him half as much as the nobles did. And he would have to spend Maker knew how many hours conversing with them, all while being sober as a judge, as Lady Josephine had expressly demanded. Tristan was quite good a bartering, truth be told, but negotiating was an entirely different story.

He was not going to enjoy this trip. Not one bit.

Walking out in to the crowded throne room, Tristan saw Dorian coming out of the rotunda from the corner of his eye. Their gazes met momentarily. The smallest of smiles curled Dorian’s lips. A twitch, really. Tristan quickened his step to catch up with him, but he turned away and hurried towards the yard.

Tristan stopped dead in his tracks. That was odd. Since his accident in the Hinterlands, he had the distinct feeling that Dorian was somewhat… distant. As if he was avoiding him for some reason. Of course, that wouldn’t make any sense. Nothing had happened between them that should warrant such a reaction. Not as far as Tristan remembered, at the very least.

He rummaged in his brain for something that he might have said to upset him during his drug induced haze, but could find nothing. There was that brief moment they had shared in the tent, though. The memories were now quite fuzzy, but he did remember reaching out to him. He also remembered Dorian pulling away from him as if he had been scorched.

The thought brought an icy chill to his stomach. Swiftly, he brushed it away. He was probably overreacting. Perhaps Dorian hadn’t even seen him approaching. Yes, he told himself, that must be it.

With a sigh, he pushed the door to the undercroft open. Harrit, the blacksmith, had sent him word that the new dagger he had commissioned was ready.

The din of hammers on the anvil echoed through the wide room. Harritt lifted his eyes from his work as soon as he heard the door open, and nodded sharply. “Inquisitor.”

Tristan stood at the stair landing for a moment, glancing about the room. Every time he came to the wide workshop, there seemed to be more and more unusual and complicated contraptions filling every corner.

Harritt gestured at one of his assistants, and the man walked swiftly towards a low table where an array of weapons were laid out. “Those gems you brought this time were very fine” the blacksmith said, turning to Tristan. “The dagger turned out excellent, if I may say so myself.”

“It’s good to know that those Venatori did something well, at least.”

“Yes, well, they seem to have done a lot of things right” Harrit said, glancing at the scar on his neck.

Tristan bristled for a heartbeat, and felt his back straightening as if by instinct. There really wasn’t one person in Thedas that wasn’t talking about him and those Venatori. He resisted the urge to run his fingers over the scar on his neck.

The man returned holding the dagger. He presented it to Tristan as if it was a rare and holy treasure. He picked it up carefully, turning it around in his hand to inspect it. The gems embedded in the hilt glittered beautiful in the light. Drawing out the blade, he was satisfied to see that its sharpened edge gleamed cleanly. He placed the dagger back in its scabbard, giving Harrit a nod. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me” Harrit replied. “Nhudem here made it all by himself. He said he needed to repay you for something.”

Tristan glanced at the young man before him. He was of medium height and well built, with dark hair and a bushy black beard. A jagged scar ran from his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, and his smile was the widest Tristan had seen in a while.

“You” Tristan breathed. “I remember you! You were in that burning hut in Haven!”

He nodded eagerly. “Yes, my lord. You saved my life then.”

Memories of Haven surged in Tristan’s mind. Memories of ash and dust, the sickly glow of red lyrium in the Venatori’s eyes, people screaming and begging for mercy as they bled out on the fresh snow. For a moment, he could smell the smoke from the burning buildings and the thick scent of blood all around him.

He swallowed thickly, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they were and forcing a reserved smile on his face. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

“Thank you, Your Worship” he said, a tad breathlessly. “I’ve made it my life’s purpose to serve you, my lord. To serve Andraste’s will.”

“You are doing quite well then, I think” Tristan said. “This dagger is very well made.”

The man shook his head, as if Tristan had misunderstood. “I want to help protect you, sire” he pressed. “To become a member of Skyhold’s guard.”

“He has been going on and on about you ever since Haven” Harritt said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You might as well give him a chance, or he’ll give me no peace.”

“Right. I see” Tristan said reluctantly. The man was looking up at him with glittering eyes. What harm could there be if he asked to become a guard? Cassandra and Cullen trained hundreds of recruits every day. One more would hardly make a difference. “Very well” he said finally. “Go to Commander Cullen and ask him to start training. Tell him I sent you.”

Nhudem’s smile was so wide, it seemed as if it would split his face in half. “Thank you, my lord. Andraste preserve you.”

Tristan nodded sharply and turned to leave, when Nhudem took his hand in his and lowered his head. “I humbly ask for you blessing, my lord.”

Tristan stood still as if stunned. He glanced at Harritt, who shrugged indifferently. Maker, he never knew what to say in these situations. He ground his teeth as he wondered whose bright idea it had been to call him the Herald of Andraste.

He looked at the man, who was still reverently holding his hand. “Uhmm…” he hesitated. “Bless you?”

Nhudem beamed at him, just as Harritt rolled his eyes. The blacksmith let out an impatient huff and turned around. “Excellent. Now that’s done, I’d like to get back to my work.”

Tristan did not exactly sprint out of the undercroft, but it was close. He went straight to his quarters, clutching his jewel encrusted dagger close to his chest. If anyone else asked for his blessing ever again, he might as well scream.

********

Lying on the spacious sofa in his quarters, Tristan tapped his finger on the glass in his hand. It was way past midnight, and the bottle of Orlesian red was almost finished. He let his head fall back as he stared at the ceiling.

Another night that he had no sleep.

He stifled a big yawn. The book on the Fereldan Circles of Magi he had found in his library was open on his lap, but he had long before stopped reading it. It was outdated anyway. If he had to brush up on his knowledge of the Circles, and how they worked, he would need something much more useful than that. The future of the mages of Thedas, at least of some of them, lay squarely on his shoulders after all.

He tipped the last remaining contents of his drink over his lips and set the glass down on the low table. At that time, no one should be in the tower library, so no risk of anyone seeing him. He let the book close and set it aside before climbing down the stairs.

The throne room was blissfully empty, and so was the rotunda. Even Solas had apparently retired to his room for the night. The quiet rang oddly in that vast keep, but Tristan welcomed it for a change. He walked up to the library, satisfied that there would be nobody to trouble him as he perused the shelves.

The trembling light of a candle greeted him as soon as he turned the corner. Dorian was sitting at his desk, a multitude of papers and books strewn around him. He turned around as soon as he heard Tristan’s footsteps. A tentative smile spread on his lips, and he set his pen back in its fountain.

“Inquisitor” he said, standing up. “Fancy meeting you here.”

The cream coloured coat he was wearing was freshly pressed, and fitted him snugly around the shoulders and waist. The shiny silver buckles on it reflected the light as if they had only been polished that morning. And they probably had been. Dorian took great care in looking presentable at all times. After returning from the Hinterlands, Tristan had noticed that his clothes were just that little bit flashier than before. He had only been able to appreciate them from afar, most days, but it felt as if Dorian was trying to make even more of an impression than he usually did.

“Fancy indeed” Tristan replied. “I thought that everyone would be asleep at this time of night. How come you’re up so late?”

“Well, you’re up too, aren’t you?” he said, folding his arms casually in front of his chest. “I’ve been working on my research.”

“Oh.” Tristan glanced at the desk, the wood almost entirely obscured by the papers. Even had he known anything about magic, he doubted he would have been able to make out even a fifth of the shapes and equations on them. “I’ve distracted you. I should probably leave.”

Dorian hesitated only for a moment before waving his hand in a placating gesture. “Nonsense!” he said cheerily. “I was about to retire anyway. Was there something you needed?”

“Oh, nothing to concern yourself with. I was just looking for some books on the Circles of Magi and their history.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up. “Interested in joining, I take it?”

“What? No, it’s not that. It’s just… Well. I have some important decisions to make. I thought it would only be fair to educate myself. Just so I know precisely what I’m up against.”

“Ah. A scholar after my own heart.”

Tristan gave his ring a small twist as he watched Dorian gather his papers. His back was almost entirely turned towards him, but he couldn’t help but notice a certain tenseness about his movements.

“Is… everything alright, Dorian?” he heard himself asking.

The mage shot him a sidelong glance over his shoulder. “Of course, Inquisitor.” He straightened up, his work tucked safely under his arm. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing, I just… I thought…” He swallowed nervously. Dorian’s gaze on him felt very heavy all of a sudden. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Nevermind.”

Dorian waited for a heartbeat. When Tristan didn’t say anything more, he took a step back. “Well, in that case, goodnight to you, Inquisitor.” He gave him a small smile before he turned to leave. It was polite, as it always was, but considerably reserved. Not an ounce of the warmth he had seen other times permeated its edges. It was… aloof. Uneasy. Tristan could use a lot of words to describe Dorian, but uneasy had never been one of them.

Maker, he was definitely avoiding him.

Before he could stop himself, he reached out and caught Dorian’s arm. Dorian’s eyes darted about the empty rotunda, as if by instinct, before fixing themselves on Tristan. An unspoken question lingered in his gaze, but he seemed too startled to even voice it.

Tristan gulped. “I, uh…” His mind spun like mad, but he could not make anything come out of his mouth. Dorian’s brows drew closer and closer as the seconds drawled on impossibly slow, watching him with increasing curiosity.

Damn him, he had to say something. Anything!

“Do you want to come to Val Royeaux with me?”

Perfect.

Tristan was certain all of his blood left his body to gather on his cheeks. Of all the things he could have said, this was possibly the last one he should have said. Dorian was evidently doing his best to stay out of his way, no doubt because of some ridiculous thing or other he had done and hadn’t even realised. And now there he was, asking him to go to Val Royeaux. Just the two of them. If the earth under his feet suddenly split in half and engulfed him, he should die a happy man.

Confusion passed over Dorian’s features, then his eyes widened as understanding slowly dawned on him. He twisted his body slightly so he was facing him. Tristan realised his fingers were still closed around Dorian’s arm, and he swiftly let go.

Dorian looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Are you asking me out on a trip, Inquisitor?”

Tristan gaped at him. “No! Well, yes. I mean…” Hoping he wasn’t blushing as furiously as he thought he was, he straightened his back and cleared his throat. “I will be occupied for most of the day, but I plan on doing some research during my free time. I would appreciate the company. And your insight. That is, if you want to come, it’s certainly not obligatory, I just-“

“I’d love to.”

Tristan blinked at Dorian’s sudden response. Something akin to satisfaction flashed in the mage’s eyes, and curled the edges of his lips. He actually enjoys seeing me flustered, Tristan realised with some irritation. Even though he had been more than eager to get away from him a moment earlier, he couldn’t resist teasing him just a little, it seemed.

A wide smile bloomed on his face before he could stop it. Tristan hadn’t looked forward to something so much in a very long time.