charmcity-jess

[charmcity-jess]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Lady Montilyet has a query for Trevelyan.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,277. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: a swear.)

Chapter 40: The Arcanist

A summons had been sent. Lady Trevelyan was to meet with Lady Montilyet as soon as possible.

Though she could already quite guess exactly what Montilyet wished to discuss—being that they hadn’t spoken since the confrontation prior to her trip away—Trevelyan felt no sense of trepidation, as she made her way to the parlour.

No matter what was said, her plans were already laid. She would enjoy the last of her time here, see off her friends, gather what coin she’d made, and seek out employment. Somewhere she could continue her studies.

(The further from Ostwick, the better.)

But as she entered the Great Hall, this line of thinking was cut short. Varric—looking surprisingly chipper for someone who had quite enjoyed himself at yesterday’s party—happened to be crossing her path. And it was an opportunity not to be wasted.

“Varric!”

He stopped, of course, and smiled at her approach.

“Mornin’,” he said, with a casual wave.

“Good morning,” Trevelyan replied, pulling a wad of sheets from the stack cradled within her arms. “Here, your notes. I thought you might like them back.”

Varric shook his head. “Thanks, but you keep ‘em, bookworm. They’re more of use to you than me.”

“Fair enough—but may I ask you a couple of questions, regarding what you wrote?”

He shrugged. “Eh, sure.”

Not quite the enthusiasm she’d hoped for, but Trevelyan ploughed on. She didn’t particularly wish to bother him, but this was important:

“Do you believe that red lyrium thins the Veil, at all?”

It was clear from his face that it was not the question he’d been expecting—nor one he was particularly prepared to answer.

“Not sure. The Veil’s pretty thin all over Kirkwall.”

True, but: “In your notes, you recounted—at one point—fighting demons close to a node?”

Varric chuckled. “That sorta thing was a daily occurrence,” he said, “but—sure, that could’ve been the red lyrium. Why?”

Trevelyan shuffled the notes back into her papers. “When I was near a vein, I felt as though the Fade was close—but I have been unable to discover some great tragedy which happened in those parts that would be sufficient to thin it alone. It must have been the red lyrium.”

“You think that could be the key?”

“Possibly. It’s something, at least.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m glad I could help. You know, my personal opinions on red lyrium aside, I’m invested. There’s a statue back home that needs taking care of, so if you could figure this shit out, I’d be grateful.”

Trevelyan nodded. The Kirkwall mages, scattered among the Inquisition’s lot, had mentioned to her the fate of their former Knight-Commander. Usually with a great deal of satisfaction.

“Absolutely.”

“There is someone I know who may be able to help,” Varric muttered. “But I’m waiting for the Inquisitor to return before I open that barrel of demons.”

“Well, when you know anything—”

“You’ll know, bookworm.”

Trevelyan smiled. “Thank you, Varric.”

“You know the drill, don’t—”

“—mention it,” she finished. “You have my word.”

Varric waved. “And I’ll keep it, too.”

With that, he continued on his way; with that, Trevelyan continued on hers. Ideas—formerly disparate thoughts—were beginning to form together in her mind.

But they would have to put aside, for now. The Ambassador’s door beckoned; Trevelyan soon found herself stood before it. One last breath, and she permitted the guard to knock.

The call came:

“Enter!”

And Trevelyan passed on through.

Strange to be back in a parlour she’d not seen for days. Though the place was entirely familiar—she knew which seat was best for the fire, and where the rug would rumple and trip—it did not feel as homely as it ought.

Yet the sight of Lady Montilyet—stood behind her desk, all smiles—seemed to change that.

“Lady Trevelyan!”

Montilyet hurried to finish the last of whatever she was writing on the parchment before her, so that she might welcome Trevelyan proper.

“Lady Montilyet.”

“How are you? Would you like to sit, or stand?”

“I’ll sit,” said Trevelyan, taking that chair which she knew to be warmest.

Montilyet chose one herself, and sat forward, hands on her knees. “Would you like anything to eat? Drink? I would have had something prepared, but I assumed you would have just taken your morning tea, and—”

“I am fine, Lady Montilyet. Are you?”

Montilyet smoothed her skirts, and sighed. “I wished to apologise again, Lady Trevelyan. I am so sorry, for my deceit, and to have made such pawns out of you. It was a grave error, and one I should have suffered for, not you. Please, you have my sincerest apologies.”

Trevelyan smiled. There was an intriguing unease in the way Lady Montilyet’s fingers would not settle. Her words did not flow as they usually might. Trevelyan could not help but feel that, for once, Lady Montilyet’s presentation was one-hundred percent her own.

“I forgive you, Lady Montilyet,” she said. “As I have the Commander. It was a terrible series of mistakes and misunderstandings—and though there were moments of ill or improper behaviour… I can see now, that none of it was done with truly malicious intent. You wished to help the Commander, he wished to protect himself—and the Ladies wished to abide by their invitation.”

Lady Montilyet relaxed, somewhat. “That is generous of you, Lady Trevelyan.”

“Though I would appreciate if—in future—you move with honesty, Lady Montilyet.”

Montilyet chuffed. “A fair request.” She sank back into her seat, and asked, “Speaking of which, may I compliment you, your Ladyship?”

“On what, exactly?”

Lady Montilyet smiled. “On having me agree to assist the Ladies with whatever matter presented itself. I see now why you did so—and I have to admire it. Well played, Lady Trevelyan.”

Well played, indeed—for the play had worked beautifully.

Montilyet had apparently been instrumental to the Commander’s schemes. It was she who persuaded Vichy’s transfer to the Inquisition; it was she who kept the Chantry at bay from Val Misrenne—and it was she, it turned out, who had helped the Commander in writing his fateful letter to Lady Orroat.

“I admit, I was glad of the opportunity,” she said. “It has been quite fulfilling, to make amends.”

“Thank you, regardless.”

Montilyet shook her head. “Do not thank me yet—there is so much more to do! Lady Samient’s fiance has a mother in the Montsimmard alienage to whom he would send his pay, yet he will be unable to do so once concealed within Clan Sumara,” she explained, barely pausing for breath, “I shall send a stipend on his behalf. And then there is the Chantry—”

Who couldn’t be trusted not to interfere with Val Misrenne, even if the Inquisition did succeed in aiding its victory. And also the Landsmeet—a concept Trevelyan vaguely recognised—had to be convinced to allow Coldon to reunite, in the wake of Erridge’s engagement to Lady Orroat.

There was barely time to register each of these action items, before Lady Montilyet listed the next. Trevelyan felt almost sorry for her—but Montilyet had brought this upon herself.

Yet the Lady seemed entirely unperturbed by the situation. It was almost as if sport, to her. This appeared to be exactly the sort of circumstance upon which Lady Montilyet thrived.

“Of course, there is another matter of import to attend to,” she said, at last.

“What is that?” Trevelyan asked.

Montilyet smiled. “You.”

“Me?” Trevelyan’s brow furrowed. “What of me?”

Lady Montilyet rose from her chair, and began to wander back towards her desk, explaining all the while:

“Your stay here is almost at an end,” she said, “and you are intended to return home. However, this would be a great loss of talent for the Inquisition. Therefore, there is only one solution. We of the Inquisition would like to offer you the opportunity to remain here. Permanently.”

The words struck Trevelyan like a blow to the face. She stared at Montilyet, eyes fixed wide, mouth agape. “Sorry—what?”

“Your work in the Undercroft has been of great use to us,” Montilyet continued, collecting the parchment she had been scribing upon mere moments ago. “The Inquisition would like to see it continue.”

She wandered back to where Trevelyan sat, document in hand, and waved it in her direction. Cautious, Trevelyan reached up, and took it.

The first words made her breath catch. A contract? For her?

But—she—plans?

“That’s very—very kind of you, your Ladyship,” Trevelyan stammered, “but I had—I’d rather imagined I would find a position elsewhere—not as an assistant.”

Lady Montilyet smiled, knowing and mysterious, and tipped her head toward the document. Suggestion made, she returned to her seat, and left Trevelyan to read on.

It was not long before—

“Arcanist!?” Trevelyan gasped.

“Junior Arcanist,” Lady Montilyet clarified. “But yes. Dagna’s former assistant, Nymira, wishes to return to work soon, so it was necessary to create a new position for you. This way, Dagna can focus on the projects that are required of her—and you on your own.”

Trevelyan’s mouth attempted, repeatedly, to form words. Didn’t work.

“You will have permanent quarters,” Montilyet went on, poorly concealing a smile, “an increased wage, of course—and your own assistant.”

“Wha—who?”

“Dagna says you work best with Herzt Kimwell. We have already consulted with him, and he has agreed to take on the role.”

That did nothing to aid Trevelyan’s stammering. She shook her head. “What? But—” None of this made sense! “Why? We failed—the red lyrium device failed. I don’t understand.”

“Correction,” a voice interjected, “we failed the first test.”

In all her spluttering, Trevelyan had neglected to notice the door to the parlour open, and Dagna’s subsequent entrance.

Grinning like a fool—a traitorous, scheming, wonderful little fool—she came to join them. “I told you before, your Ladyship—things fail until they work. And the Inquistion would kinda like it if this worked!”

“Exactly,” agreed Montilyet, folding her hands over her lap. “And with Dagna’s attention required elsewhere, hiring you ensures the project’s continuation.”

Trevelyan looked between them, still not quite sure if she was actually awake. “Well—I… the issue with that is that… my plans tended in another direction?”

“How so? I should mention: as Junior Arcanist, you would have the ability to pursue whatever project Dagna approves—which is likely to be all of them.”

Dagna grinned. “Can’t deny it!”

“So please, tell us.”

Seeing no reason not to, at this point, Trevelyan straightened, and explained:

“I no longer wish to pursue the destruction of red lyrium. I wish to control it.”

Montilyet’s head tipped to one side. “Mitigation efforts, you mean?”

But Dagna shook hers. “No,” she said, eyes brimming with excitement, “she means magical manipulation.”

Trevelyan nodded. “Having now seen it and after re-familiarising myself with medical notation around inflammation, I believe red lyrium is diseased. I know not what it is—but whatever it is, it appears to be magical, if the thinning of the Veil is any indication. It may be possible to cure it.”

Lady Montilyet glanced to Dagna, who responded to her questioning look with an enthusiastic nod. Perhaps that comment about her approving anything was less of a joke than it first seemed.

Montilyet at least appeared to take it seriously, as she told Trevelyan:

“Well, if that is the case—the Inquisition would certainly be interested. Even when the Red Templars are defeated, red lyrium will continue to plague the landscape unless we remove it.” She smiled. “We would be glad to facilitate such research.”

“So… I can stay?”

“Absolutely.”

Trevelyan beamed, wide and shining. Laughter, precious laughter, escaped her lips.

What a novel idea, to be invited to stay somewhere! After a life, such a life, of being begrudingly accepted, accommodated with displeasure, resented for one’s presence. What a wonderful thing, to now know the opposite. What a wonderful feeling to feel.

And, if nothing else, this quite saved her from having to look for a new job.

“Thank you,” she breathed, “thank you, so much.”

In her gratitude, her eyes found Dagna. Unable to contain herself—though who cared, right now?—she leapt up, and hurried to embrace her.

Dagna stood; readied herself for the collision. She withstood it admirably, and squeezed back just as hard. Into Trevelyan’s shoulder, she murmured:

“I wasn’t going to let you go that easily, Arcanist.”

Lady Montilyet, the contagious joy causing her to laugh, took a teasing tone, and warned them: “Not quite yet.”

She rose from her seat, and wandered to collect her board and inkwell from the desk.

“Trevelyan will be formally inducted into the Inquistion at the ball tomorrow,” she explained. “What was intended to be your last night, your Ladyship, shall become your first.”

“Perfect,” said Trevelyan.

“Of course, there is the small matter of your parents…”

...Ah, fuck. In all her joy and celebration, Trevelyan had completely forgotten about them. Though she would have preferred them to have remained in the sewerage of her mind for the rest of her life, Montilyet was right.

Bann and Lady Trevelyan needed to be informed. She needed what few things she’d left behind. And they needed not to overreact.

Curing red lyrium would be easier.

“I could inform them on your behalf,” suggested Montilyet, “and request that they send your belongings?”

Trevelyan shook her head. The ordeal and the privilege of it could be no one’s but her own. “I’ll do it,” she told Montilyet.

“Very well,” she replied. “Good luck, and enjoy.”

#how did i miss this chapter?! #i know #its tumblrs fault #i was not informed that my inventory was full! #anyway #unwanted #unwanted fic

[charmcity-jess]

Cullen by Lorandesore

#dragon age inqusition #dragon age #cullen rutherford

[charmcity-jess]

Someone stops the Commander from challenging people at the tavern

…because Cassandra is gonna beat him. She’d also tell everybody he let her win, though. You know, to save his honor :3

#cullen rutherford #cassandra pentaghast #dragon age inquisition #dragon age

[charmcity-jess]

Study / Male front, torso

I kept the sketch underneath, it made all the “forces” involved more evident. This pose is incredibly interesting anatomically speaking (and for other more obvious reasons), so thank you Commander for your kind demonstration ;)

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #cullen rutherford #lemons

[charmcity-jess]

Here’s to The Sketch that @voidtakeyou created for Guarded Love. I like it so much I kept referencing it in all the stories after.

#dragon age #cullen rutherford #dragon age inquisition

[charmcity-jess]

i am drawing him too handsome i think

#melts #cullen rutherford #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #commander cullen

[charmcity-jess]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, read the first line.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,380. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: fighting and blood mentions.)

Chapter 39: Duel Purpose

“The Commander is going to duel Lady Orroat!”

Trevelyan almost spat out her tea.

Lady Samient had burst through the door of the Baroness’ chamber, disrupting the quiet morning conversation being had within. Both women whirled on her, but—before they could query what she had said—Samient was already gone.

Trevelyan locked eyes with the Baroness, their faces equal in confusion. With nary a word spoken between them, they threw down their tea, and gave chase.

They pursued the sound of Lady Samient’s vanishing footsteps along the corridor, and down the stairs—tumbling out into the Great Hall, where they at last managed to catch her.

“What is going on?” asked Trevelyan, to no answer. Samient hurried them out of the door instead, to the courtyard beyond.

Emerging into the glare of the sun, they caught sight of a crowd below, forming around the training ring. Soldiers, servants, visiting nobles: most of Skyhold had turned out for the event. Word, as always, had spread rather quickly.

Yet, within the ring, Trevelyan saw only two individuals of note: a battle-ready Lady Orroat, plated in iridescent obsidian, preparing to fight—and a flailing Lady Erridge, who tugged fruitlessly at her arm.

“Really, Lady Orroat, it is quite all right!” she pleaded, as the Ladies neared. “I suffered no injury from the Commander’s rejection, I assure you!”

Lady Orroat fastened her pauldrons.

“I am completely fine—I swear!” continued Erridge, to seemingly little effect. “I don’t mind at all! This is surely unnecessary!”

Lady Orroat turned. She hooked a finger beneath Lady Erridge’s chin, and tilted her face towards her own. Soft morning light trickled around them, motes of dust dancing through the air. The crowd almost melted away; time appeared to slow. Just their silhouette, in the shape of two lovers.

Gentle as her touch, Lady Orroat spoke:

“My dearest Tam, though you may bear the insult, I cannot. No man shall walk this plane and feel entitled to so callously discard your treasured affection.” Her thumb traced the curve of Erridge’s jaw. “Please, my Lady. Allow me this.”

Trevelyan’s mouth fell open. Lady Samient gripped her arm. The Baroness fanned herself. All those romances Lady Erridge had read, and somehow, she had failed to realise that she was, apparently, living in one.

Naturally quite helpless to do anything but gaze back at Lady Orroat, her eyes—wide and innocent as a doe’s—fluttering rapidly, Lady Erridge assented:

“Oh, well—um, don’t hurt him too much, I suppose?”

Lady Orroat took a step back, and bowed low. “Anything for you, my Lady.”

She strode away, to meet her foe. Lady Erridge listlessly waved her off, before stumbling over to where the Ladies had gathered. She was a mess of giggles and squeaks, unable to say anything that was not in relation to her dear Lady Orroat.

The Baroness took to helping her regain her faculties; Trevelyan and Samient shared a smile at the display. Certain that Erridge would recover from her stupor, they were able to return their attention to the ring.

Lady Orroat—sword drawn—had taken position at its centre, and performed spectacular practice swings, to the adoration of the crowd. Yet, while all eyes were on her, Trevelyan’s drifted, to the other side of the arena—in search, perhaps, of the Lady’s opponent.

Her breath caught.

There he stood. Soldiers flanked his sides, aiding him to prepare. Armour was placed upon his body; leather straps were pulled taut by his iron grip. He tested his breastplate with a beat to the chest; it clanged against the metal of his gauntlet.

His mantle was brought, and draped over his back, amplifying the broadness of his shoulders. His helm was presented—a lion’s roar, frozen in steel—and lowered upon his head, his fearsome glare framed within its maw. His sword was last, offered in its belt and sheath. He strapped it around his hips, good and tight. His fingers curled around the blade’s hilt.

The sword was drawn; he needed no practice. He was the Commander of the Inquisition—and Maker, did he look it, in the entirety of his regalia. Intimidating, unwavering, he stalked towards his opponent.

“Hey.”

Trevelyan startled, quite unaware how how enraptured she had been by the display. She glanced about for the source of the voice, and found Varric beside her, holding up a pouch of coin.

“I’m taking wagers on who’s gonna win. Want in?” he asked.

Lady Samient, whom Trevelyan had definitely not forgotten was beside her, took an interest. “What are the odds?”

“Winning side splits the pot.”

The Baroness tossed a coin to him, which he caught with ease. “One crown on Lady Orroat.”

Lady Erridge applauded. “Oh, good choice!”

Varric noted it down, and moved on to the next group of punters. Trevelyan watched him go, then returned her gaze to the arena. A Captain addressed the combatants; both nodded in agreement. Satisfied, the Captain withdrew, and raised an arm.

Hush fell over the crowd. Anticipation slowed the air around them. A breath spilled from Trevelyan’s lips. The Captain’s arm dropped.

They charged. Swords clashed.

It was the Commander who dominated first. His muscular build and experienced arm were a force to be reckoned with. He struck out with a barrage of blows, each one ferocious as the last. Each one as confident. Each one as precise. He commanded the battlefield, as was his right.

Yet Lady Orroat showed no signs of yielding. She was a fleet-footed fighter, taking each hit and turning it into momentum. Dodges and blocks; no counters. It seemed she was not interested in fighting back—not yet. She was biding her time. She was waiting for something.

Whatever opening this was, the Commander would not give it. He stepped back only to return, with even greater force. Trevelyan admired the arc of his sword through the air, its flash in the sunlight, as he thrust hard toward her abdomen.

Lady Orroat deflected it away. The crowd gasped. The Commander was open.

She delivered a swift slice to his arm, before it could straighten. The Commander’s grip weakened. She moved in, butted her pommel direct into his helm. The Commander stumbled back. A mighty kick to his chest, and he was thrown to the ground.

The crowd roared, the Ladies cheered. The Baroness was going to get that crown back.

Lady Orroat strode to where the Commander lay. Before he could recover, she knocked his helm away, with the tip of her blade—and then held it to his throat.

“Yield.”

The crowd waited, for the reply.

The Commander let his sword fall from his grasp. “I yield.”

The Captain’s arm went up, on Orroat’s side. The crowd began to holler and cheer. Soldiers, trained hard in this same ring, applauded the satisfaction of seeing their Commander humiliated.

Lady Erridge burst out from the masses, running to Lady Orroat’s arms. The Lady dropped her sword, and embraced Erridge entirely, twirling her through the air.

Over the noise of the crowd, one could barely hear what was said between them in that moment. But as their dance ended, and Orroat set Erridge down, she sank onto one knee—and the crowd fell silent once more.

“Lady Tam Erridge, of West Coldon,” said Lady Orroat, loud enough for all to hear. “My dearest friend. My most ardent love. I have been enamoured with you since the day we met; in the years I have known you, my love for you has only grown. I have always cherished our friendship, but I wish to cherish you, as well. Please, I beg—will you marry me?”

The pause afterward felt as though a lifetime. Though no one suffered it as much as Orroat, the Ladies held their breath. They looked to Erridge—as did the entire crowd—and waited.

Erridge, fixed in place, blinked. “Oh, Lady Orroat,” she gasped, “well—of course! I could not think of anything more wonderful in all my life!”

Lady Orroat shot to her feet, and collided with Erridge. The Ladies screamed, joyous and in sheer disbelief. The crowds applauded. At long last, a kiss that had waited for years to exist, finally came to be.

The Ladies rushed the arena, and many more followed. They met and embraced both Erridge and Orroat, smiling, laughing, squealing in delight. The world became nothing but noise and happiness. Congratulations were given, and received with joy. Invitations to a wedding, promised and assured.

Never had Trevelyan seen such mirth, and such festivity. Though very few of Skyhold knew the significance of the event, they celebrated nonetheless. The happiness of others was enough motivation.

And yet, in the crowd, Trevelyan found one face to be missing. As her friends continued their revelry, she continued to sweep their surroundings. Somewhere, in this maelstrom of merriment, surely—

“Your winnings!” came Varric’s voice, not quite the one she’d been looking for. He passed a handful of coins to the Baroness, who tucked them discreetly into a pocket, and told some joke about starting a fund for her wedding attire.

Yet before he moved on, to pass out his next prize, he stopped—for but a moment—beside Trevelyan.

“Armoury,” he said.

Trevelyan looked out, over the heads that surrounded her. The vaguest shape of red wool and silver plate disappeared into the building nearby.

“Thank you,” she said to Varric—but he had already gone. She made her excuses to her friends, instead, and began to find her way through the crowds.

It was difficult, to move against the flow of excitement—but soon enough, she found herself at the edges of the hubbub. The armoury door lingered open, just a crack, in the distance. She hurried over.

Peeking just her head through, Trevelyan took in the space. She’d not been here often. It acted as a second smithy, with forges and furnaces along the back wall, swathing the room in their warmth and light.

Yet, unlike the smithy of the Undercroft, soldiers would frequent this place. Armour and weaponry lined the racks, ready for use in training. A long bench, where they would prepare for exactly this, waited below.

Today, however, it boasted only one occupant.

The Commander had collapsed upon the bench, wrenching the plate from his body. Each piece clattered to the floor as soon as the straps came free. With all outside celebrating, there was no one to attend him.

And so he continued the task himself, stripping his mantle and laying it over his lap. Arms free, he tugged at his gorget until it came loose; removed it and the breastplate beneath. Just a gambeson, now, and his helm.

He discarded the latter first, his face at last revealed—exhausted, and panting.

Sweat-streaked skin glistened in the glow of the fires. But not mere sweat alone. Trevelyan gasped. Blood. There was blood.

The Commander must have felt it, for he raised his hand to his upper lip, and pulled it away, red. Bloody nose. That strike to the face.

He sighed, and, like the weight of the world was holding him down, leant back against the wall—

“Forward, Commander!” blurted Trevelyan, before she’d even thought of what to say next. “You... need to tilt your head forward.”

His eyes widened at seeing her there, but he followed the instruction regardless. “Thank you.”

Trevelyan watched him a moment, then glanced back to the door. She stepped for it—but, out of the corner of her eye, saw a drop of crimson splash against the floor.

She could not leave him like this.

She let the door shut, and turned back. A hand dipped into her pocket. From within, she produced a small cloth.

“Commander,” she said, creeping closer, “use this.”

Head still forward, the Commander’s hand clumsily found hers. Their fingers overlapped for the briefest of moments—before he took hold of the cloth, and fled with it.

Yet he hesitated, in bringing it to his face. “This is from the banquet,” he muttered.

Surprising that he’d somehow remembered. But he was right. It was the napkin he’d given to her that night, to dry her tears.

“I had it cleaned,” said Trevelyan.

He held it back out. “I... can’t use this.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to stain it.”

Trevelyan sighed. “Commander, you’re bleeding. Please.”

His hand withdrew, and he pressed the napkin to his nose. Trevelyan took a little step back, and watched him. Her hands twisted around each other, unsure of what to do with themselves.

“Commander?” she whispered.

He started to raise his head.

“No, no—keep it forward,” Trevelyan instructed. “Please.”

This order came not only for the benefit of his bloodied nose. She wished his gaze to be upon the floor, instead of her. She could not have him look at her, when she said what she said next. And thank the Maker, he did as asked.

“I’m... so sorry, Commander, for my behaviour, last we spoke,” she murmured, breathing through the words so as not to let them falter. “My response to your situation was entirely unsympathetic, and undeservedly harsh. My temperament at the time was not balanced, and it is you who bore the brunt of that. I am sorry, truly, I am.”

He was quiet for a moment. A terrifying, excruciating moment. Until, that is, he said:

“You needn’t apologise to me.”

Trevelyan blinked. “What?”

“Nothing of what you said to me that day was incorrect or undeserved,” the Commander told her, voice firm. “You had every right to despise me. I treated you all disgracefully.”

He lifted his head, if only for a second, to look at her—despite the pain it seemed to bring.

“It was not your fault, but mine. There is nothing for you to apologise for. I am sorry. For everything I did.”

She waited until his head dipped back down, and moved a little closer. “But even if I were upset, even if I were right, I needn’t have been so wicked in how I addressed you.”

“No. I deserved to know the consequences of my actions, in as clear and difficult terms as possible. I was cruel, and ignorant. I needed to understand the hurt I had caused. Especially to you. And... I am sorry that I did, cause it.”

Trevelyan sank to her knees before him. Gently, she took the napkin from his grasp, and examined his nose.

“The bleeding’s stopped,” she told him.

Unable to meet her eye, he nodded, head still bowed.

“I understand why you did it,” she muttered. “Lady Montilyet explained to me, what the court of Orlais has put you through. Were I faced with the same, I cannot imagine I would have acted differently.”

The Commander’s head shook. “You would. You would never have done what I did to all of you.”

“Oh, come, Commander. You’ve seen my less savoury side, now.” She folded the napkin, so that she made a clean little square. “You should have heard the things I called you the first night we met.”

“Deserved, I’m sure.”

“Stop punishing yourself, Commander.” Trevelyan raised the napkin to his face. “May I?”

He nodded. She placed her fingertips beneath his chin, and tilted his head. The cloth was dabbed upon a small cut, lancing across his cheek.

“Besides,” she said, “I hear you’ve had punishment enough.”

The mere mention was enough to eke a little smirk from his mouth.

“Yes, the Ladies made quite sure of that,” he murmured. “I... ought to have listened to you, and Lady Montilyet. They are good women.”

“Impressive, even?” she suggested.

“Yes.”

Trevelyan smiled. She turned his head, and brushed dirt from his other cheek.

“Their ‘punishments’ were more endearing than I believe was intended,” the Commander confessed. “I quite enjoyed their company.”

“Finally.” Trevelyan withdrew her hand, let him face forward once more. “I told you.”

“You did. Though… I was right about one thing.”

“What is that?”

He smiled, eyes askance. “I still much prefer yours.”

“Oh.”

Trevelyan stared at him. No longer seeking his skin for wounds, she took in his face, closer now than it had ever been. Every prick of stubble was in perfect focus. The exact curve of the scar that marred his lip. Each lash that framed his honey eyes.

She caught their gaze.

“Um…”

“Commander!” came a shout, from just outside the door. As it burst open, Trevelyan scrambled away, to her feet, and hid the napkin in her pocket.

Lady Orroat—half-out of her own armour, as well—strode in, with Lady Erridge hanging upon her arm.

“Oh!” gasped Erridge, eyes wide at seeing Trevelyan. “Lady Trevelyan is here. Um, dearest Hul, perhaps we should leave them, for a moment—”

Lady Orroat, apparently as oblivious in nature as her fiance, continued marching in.

“But we must make certain the Commander is all right,” she begged, heading for where he sat. She winced, upon seeing his face. “Oh, Maker—I am so sorry, Commander.”

“It’s fine,” he said—though Trevelyan could not help but note a tone of confusion in his voice. He mouthed, to Lady Orroat: “Does she know?”

‘She’ referring here to Lady Erridge—who promptly began to giggle.

“I’m afraid I do!” she confessed. “My dear Lady confessed all to me after the duel had ended—though I had suspected it might be a ruse. Dear Hul would never truly be so insistent upon fighting if I objected so!” She took Orroat’s hand, and squeezed it tight. “Oh, it was so terribly romantic. Thank you, Commander. I am ever so sorry that it got you hurt.”

He waved it off. “Perhaps that makes us even.”

Erridge nodded. “I believe it does.” She glanced between Trevelyan and the Commander once more, and tugged at Orroat’s hand. “Come, my love, we’d best be off.”

Orroat finally allowed herself to be led away—but as they left, called out:

“There’s been some kind of impromptu party arranged at the tavern nearby! Do come along!”

“No, no,” said Erridge, hurrying Orroat out of the door, “stay here as long as you like!”

The door swung shut, and silence fell again. Trevelyan looked to the Commander. He had begun to occupy himself with the removal of armour once more, now busy loosening his greaves.

“Is that why you invited Lady Orroat here?” she asked.

He glanced up. “Hm?”

“You conspired with Lady Orroat to stage a duel?”

The Commander released the straps, and straightened up. “Not originally. I invited her because I realised Lady Erridge cared for her. I thought it might be a start, at making amends. I spoke to her privately after she arrived. She told me of how she and Lady Erridge had met—through a duel, between a boy and Lady Orroat.”

Trevelyan nodded. “Lady Erridge told me the same story.”

“I suggested we recreate the circumstances, to provide Lady Orroat an opportunity to reveal her affection. I thought it... might be poetic, in some way.”

He shrugged. Trevelyan smiled. A little warmth gathered in her chest.

She moved closer.

“Will you be attending the party, Commander?”

He shook his head, and continued working off his greave. “I am unsure the loser would be welcome at the celebration.”

“I believe it would a show of humility,” Trevelyan teased. “You do have an arrogant streak.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

The Commander glanced up at her, hand finding the back of his neck. “I, ah…”

Trevelyan giggled. “Here,” she said, offering him the napkin, sullied as it was, “in case you need it. I’d best get to the party, before any rumours begin.”

He took it, and nodded. “Yes, of—of course…”

“Perhaps I will see you,” she said.

“Perhaps.”

She smiled, and bid him farewell, with a curtsy. He bowed as best he could, and watched her go.

Trevelyan had thought, that when she spoke to him again, she would know what she wanted. Whether she wanted to forgive him, whether she wanted to trust him.

She was right, in a way. For when she glanced back, one last time, before slipping through the door—she knew exactly what she wanted.

It was simply not an option she’d expected.

#squeeeeeeeeeee #unwanted fic #unwanted #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan

[charmcity-jess]

Damn.. I've completely changed the original idea :'D Buuut I like it ♥

(sorry for my english, I'm not a native speaker)

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #cullen rutherford

[charmcity-jess]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Lady Samient is engaged to WHO?

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,676. Rating: all audiences, apart from some swearing.)

Chapter 38: Bride-to-Be

The wait for sunrise was peaceful, in the comfort of Trevelyan’s Skyhold bedroom.

Lying awake, having composed herself from the surprises of yesterday, Trevelyan used this spare time to take stock of what she had.

Both Erridge and Samient appeared to have broken their promise to her, which bore inquiry. The Baroness seemingly had not, but had been very unclear on the details of Val Misrenne’s change in fate. Trevelyan could not help but wonder.

Still, she had seen Herzt again. He said he had missed her, which was as heartwarming as it was unusual. Varric waved from afar—he’d been busy with some dwarven woman—so Trevelyan would have to thank him later. Dorian had wanted to hear all the details of what happened, failure or no. His input had been invigorating.

Plus, there was a shit-stain on the Commander’s office window. Well done, Sera.

Hope yet lived, then. Plenty of people whom could help her away, if she so chose.

But as she rose from her bed, Trevelyan felt reluctant to leave the sanctuary of this place one more. Travelling had been enjoyable—enlightening, even—but it was no match to the feeling of safety permanent harbour could afford.

Missy and Cara entered, to do their duty and help her ready for the day ahead. Trevelyan smiled as they chattered away about her brief taste of freedom. Delicious, how unaware they were of her plans—that they were to return home, and she was not.

A knock at the door silenced their prattle. Missy answered it.

“Your Ladyship,” she greeted, curtsying to the person beyond.

Of course, Trevelyan had not spoken to Lady Montilyet yet. No doubt she would wish to do her diplomatic duty, and see that the air was cleared.

And yet, when Trevelyan turned to the door, the Lady Montilyet was not whom she saw.

“Lady Trevelyan,” said Lady Samient, as Missy welcomed her in, “may we talk?”

Small wonder as to what she wished to talk about. The lingering look Samient had given whence Trevelyan fled the scene yesterday had been a clear indication of intent. The only surprise was that it was happening so soon.

Trevelyan nodded, and waved Missy and Cara away. She ensured their exit herself, and shut the door firmly behind. Lady Samient was invited to take a seat.

“What did you wish to speak about?” Trevelyan asked, if only for politeness’ sake.

Lady Samient laid her hands in her lap. “What you saw yesterday, of course.”

She referred to the sight of her, talking and laughing with the Commander. Things she had promised, explicitly, that she would not do. Explanation was, indeed, a welcome concept.

Still, Trevelyan made certain: “You and the Commander?”

“Yes. I know you have spoken with the Baroness—how much has she told you, of what happened while you were away?”

Trevelyan shrugged, and admitted the truth: “Very little.”

The brief word they had shared about Val Misrenne was all that the Baroness had been able to share. After that, Touledy had had the entire account of the Dales trip—and she bore it admirably.

But such was for the best: she had been reluctant to speak of Val Misrenne herself. With the situation so fragile, she had an acute worry that even saying its name might tip the balance in the enemy’s favour.

And so it had been that Trevelyan had heard very, terribly little of what had gone on in her absence. A fact which, unbeknownst to her, would make the following conversation into a farce:

“Then I will start with the happiest news,” Lady Samient said. “I am engaged.”

“Engaged!?”

Trevelyan was, for a brief, shining moment, overjoyed. How much she had missed! She beamed and squealed and made all sorts of happy gestures.

Until, at last, she realised to whom the engagement was.

“Yes,” Samient replied, not noticing Trevelyan’s face fall, “I can hardly believe it either.”

Oh, good, so the feeling was mutual! Though for Trevelyan, there were exactly two things she couldn’t believe: one, that it had happened, and two, that Samient was telling her about it so gleefully.

Well—to be fair, Trevelyan hadn’t really wanted the Commander’s hand, per se. She’d all but rejected him outright—yet, it still wasn’t fair!

Trevelyan hadn’t even the time to speak to him again, and here Lady Samient was, swooping in and scooping him up! Like it was her right! Ridiculous.

It was just—the consideration might have been nice, that was all. That Lady Samient might have thought first that perhaps Trevelyan might one day be interested in him. Or at least waited, to check if she was. Not that she was. But—Lady Samient promised!

“For how long has this been?” asked Trevelyan, still in disbelief.

“Months—”

“Months!?”

Samient looked a little sheepish, at least. “Well, yes. Since before I arrived.”

Trevelyan stood. She didn’t know where she planned to go or what she was to do next, she simply needed to stand. “Before… all this time?”

So it wasn’t a snatch-and-grab, she’d been at this all along? Both of them had? That made no sense! What point all this suitor nonsense if he was already engaged? Why treat her so abominably if they were? The obvious answer to all of these questions did not enter Trevelyan’s mind.

“I am sorry I did not tell you earlier,” pleaded Samient. “In truth, I did not know it was certain, until a few days ago.”

Trevelyan, halfway through rubbing her temples, froze in utter shock. “While I was away?”

So, that was it! As soon as she was out of the portrait, their love could be! Was the entire Inquisition in on it? Had Dagna invented some magical device not for being rid of Red Templars, but for being rid of Trevelyans?

“It all happened so quickly,” Samient sighed, “I am so sorry you were not here.”

What, so she could have rubbed it in Trevelyan’s face even more?

She scoffed. “You could have—you could have told me before that. Even when it was uncertain, it, it would have been kind to let me know!”

Samient shook her head. “I am sorry, I did not think you would be so upset. Truly, I believed it was impossible until the Commander promised to—”

No, no more of this. Trevelyan would not bear another word. She whirled on Lady Samient.

“Well, I hope that you and the Commander are very happy together!”

Samient stared at her, wide-eyed, unblinking. Trevelyan bore the gaze, but the creeping regret of what she’d said slowly began to sink in. Perhaps she should have allowed for more explanation, as to why—

“The Commander?” Samient said, her voice that of utter confoundment. “No, no—not the Commander!”

Oh, fuck.

“Vichy!” she insisted instead, as if Trevelyan knew what a Vichy was. “Oh, Maker, did I never tell you about Vichy?”

Trevelyan, without bidding it to, shook her head. “Who is Vichy?”

Lady Samient had her answer.

“My betrothed!” she cried.

Trevelyan halted. Her eyes widened. Her face fell into her palms. Oh, please no. Oh, fuck no.

“Lady Trevelyan,” murmured Samient, “I think we might’ve been talking to each other in riddles.”

Through her hands came Trevelyan’s muffled reply:

“Yes, I think we might.” She whipped her head up with an almighty breath, and—hair mussed—looked desperately to Lady Samient. “You are engaged?”

“Yes.”

“To Vichy?”

“Yes.”

“Who is?”

“The stablehand, who taught me chess. I told you that much, did I not?” Samient asked— though she was mostly asking herself.

Trevelyan nodded. “You did,” she whined, “you did! Your father sent him to the frontlines.”

A wave of realisation came over her. A months-long engagement that Samient did not know was certain—because her fiance was supposed to be fighting a war. Of course! Of course. Maker, piss, fuck.

“My father did so because he found out we were betrothed,” Samient added. “I am so sorry, Lady Trevelyan. I have told so many people so many things these past few days—I don’t know who has heard what.”

“No, no!” Trevelyan waved a hand. “I should have listened. I should have listened! Though—Maker, how is the Commander involved!?”

At the mention of his name, the Lady Samient smiled—which had to be a first. She patted the cushion next to her. “I think I’d better start from the beginning.”

Though Trevelyan would rather have run for the hills, screaming all the foolishness out of her body in hopes of never embarrassing herself so thoroughly again, she reluctantly took the seat.

“What happened while I was away?” she breathed. “Lady Orroat is here by the Commander’s invitation, the Commander has caused you to become engaged, somehow, and I have the feeling that I would be right to assume the situation in Val Misrenne is his doing, too.”

Samient shrugged. “Well, you would not be wrong…”

“What happened, Lady Samient?”

Lady Samient, in all her refreshing honesty, began to speak:

“After you left, the Commander wished to see us all. We refused outright, but Lady Erridge had the idea to use this to our advantage, and enact punishment upon him,” she explained. “Turned up at his door with a five-course meal, and forced him to eat it all in front of her whilst she talked endlessly about… well, nothing important, really.”

Somehow, this was even harder to believe than the engagement. “Five?”

“Six, if you count the jar of pickled eggs.”

Trevelyan choked out a laugh, but quickly suppressed it. “He cannot have abided by that.”

“Oh, he did, to her surprise—all our surprises, really. Listened to every word she said, then when she gave in and stopped him eating, asked questions about Lady Orroat.”

Trevelyan smiled. So, even he’d noticed it. “Why did he invite her? For Lady Erridge?”

“Apparently.”

No, that couldn’t be right. The Commander, doing something, for one of them? What in Andraste’s name?

“And he helped you too?” she asked, curious to establish a pattern.

Samient nodded. “After the business with Erridge, I felt she’d been tricked. So I tricked him—into playing chess. I tried not playing properly, to annoy the man, but he started doing the same. Eventually, he told me to admit the truth, so I did. That I was already engaged, to a dead man.”

Trevelyan panicked. “Vichy is dead?”

“No, no! Thank the Maker, no—but I thought he was. He must have been.” Samient placed a hand on her heart, one finger stretching up to toy with her halla-horn pendant. “The Commander believed otherwise. And he found him. He found Vichy. Alive.”

“Does Vichy know you’re—?”

Samient nodded, smiling from ear-to-ear. “Lady Montilyet has done her part. She pulled strings in Orlais; Vichy has been ‘conscripted’ to the Inquisition. He journeys here as we speak.”

The thought of it warmed Trevelyan’s heart. She did not know the man, but still she imagined some amorphous being, wearing armour and a smile, marching along the same roads she’d just travelled. On his way.

“What about your clan?” she asked.

“The Commander has their location, and will send us on with a retinue, disguised as soldiers. The Inquisition’s Dalish agent—Loranil—is to accompany us, and help us meet.”

“Oh,” Trevelyan said, with a contented sigh, “Giles—”

She wrapped her arms around Samient, who returned the hug gratefully. The weight of it all—now lifted from both their shoulders—could no longer impede their embrace.

“You were right,” Samient muttered into it, “I should have asked the Inquisiton sooner.”

“I don’t care that I was right,” Trevelyan replied. “I care that you will be safe and happy.”

Samient parted. “I will be.”

Trevelyan smiled, already so pleased, her self-inflicted humiliation long forgotten. But there remained one facet of this mystery left to query:

“So, going by this trend… the Commander aided Val Misrenne, as well?”

“That is the situation I know least about,” Samient admitted, “given how little the Baroness has said on the matter. All I know is that she woke up the morning after my meeting with the Commander, and announced that she was going to beat the shit out of him.”

Of all the things she’d missed, Trevelyan regretted missing that the most. Not for the fact of the Commander’s impending doom, though that would have been somewhat satisfying—but for the fact of missing the Baroness in all of her furious regalia. What a sight!

“They sparred, as far as I know,” continued Samient, “I watched a little of it, from afar. But he disarmed her, and the two began to talk. When she returned, she was… quiet. The next day, she told us of Val Misrenne’s predicament, but that there was ‘hope’.”

Trevelyan recalled a conversation, one Samient had not been present for. Weeks ago, upon the battlements with him, talking of the explosive. The movement of Red Templars, north of Val Royeaux. A retinue to be called upon, just in case.

He knew. All that time, the Commander knew. Of course he did—it was his job to know. Of course he would have a plan. He was Commander of the Inquisition.

No wonder the Baroness had been stunned to silence.

“But, anyway,” Samient said, “that is why we were speaking with him.”

Trevelyan suddenly remembered what this entire conversation had been intended for. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“I am sorry—I know it must have been a shock, after all we promised before you left. But I wanted you to know why—though you do not have to forgive it. I would understand if not.”

Trevelyan smiled, and shook her head. “I understand. And I am glad that you did speak to him, if it has led to this… curious, yet beneficial, behaviour.

Samient chuckled. “Indeed, I wonder what effected such change in him, so suddenly…”

She gave Trevelyan a knowing look, one which Trevelyan shied away from.

“Perhaps Lady Montilyet said something to him…” she suggested.

Samient laughed again, even harder this time. “I see, I see. Nothing at all to do with your reaction to believing I was engaged to him?”

Trevelyan scoffed, and stood again. She really had to stop doing that. “No! I—nothing. It was, I was—shocked! It would have been a profound betrayal!”

Lady Samient stood with her. “That is true. But I do wonder—given you have had time away from him… how do you feel, about the Commander? And what he did?”

Trevelyan stepped away, wandering over to the looking-glass. She regarded herself in it, thinking, idly swishing her skirts.

The time away had been plenty, and yet she had not spent much of it in contemplation of the Commander, or what he had done.

There was enough else to ruminate upon, of course—but even in the quiet moments, when her mind wandered, there was not some grand battle of opinions waged within her. She had thought of him, naturally. Lady Montilyet, too. All Skyhold, really. But there was never any controversy in their consideration.

Perhaps… she had already made up her mind?

“I’m not certain,” she admitted, at least for now.

Lady Samient walked up behind her, wrapping her arms around Trevelyan’s waist, and resting her chin on Trevelyan’s shoulder. “You don’t have to have an answer,” she told her.

Trevelyan let her head tip against Samient’s. “I think I understand why he did what he did, but… the pain of the discovery still lingers, in some form. I wonder if I can trust him; if I can forgive him. Though—after all you’ve said… I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” She parted from Samient, and breathed deep. “I think—whether or not I can, it’s almost not about that. I think what matters is... whether I want to.”

“Do you?” Samient asked. “Want to?”

Trevelyan glanced back to her reflection, and met her own gaze.

What a question. There was only one way to discover the answer.

#unwanted #unwanted fic #dragon age #dragon age inquisition

[charmcity-jess]

WIP

#Cullen Rutherford #dragon age inqisition #commander cullen #dragon age

[charmcity-jess]

#cullen rutherford #inquisitor trevelyan #cullen x trevelyan #dragon age inquisition

[charmcity-jess]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, time winds back to explore Trevelyan's trip to the Dales.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,173. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 37: Red Lyrium

Only by seeing red lyrium could one truly comprehend its evil. Only by feeling it.

It had been all well and good, playing in a workshop with a tiny sample—but what stood before Trevelyan in the Dales was no tiny sample. A malignant claw of crystallised depravity rose out of the ground, thrumming with a sickening energy.

Many more surrounded it.

The beautiful, mossy landscape of this forest had been warped by their wicked influence. The ancient cliffside they’d broken through had been torn asunder. Gaping red wounds splintered through its facade; a death by a thousand cuts.

No birds sang in the nearby trees; wind rushed through canopy leaves unaccompanied. Even the animals knew.

It almost made Trevelyan sick to her stomach, the mere sight of it. Perhaps it was the crawling feeling, that it sent skittering across her skin. Regardless, she kept her strength, and kept her eyes upon it.

“It’s almost like it’s infected,” she muttered to Dagna, who prepared their device. “All red and angry, like an inflammation.”

“Huh.” Dagna rose up, and stared at it herself. “I kind of think it looks like my dad.”

“Your dad?”

“Yep! That’s the colour his face went when I told him I wanted to go to the surface and study magic.”

Trevelyan managed a smile, but her attention remained upon the crimson mass before her. A halo of lightheadedness crept around the fringes of her mind. They were stood further from it they had ever been the Inquisition’s sample—and yet, it still had effect.

“Are you nearly ready?” asked one of their guard, approaching.

Dagna took one final check of the device, and nodded. “I’ll load it onto the cart.”

Not the cart they had travelled in—a smaller version, just about big enough to carry the device. Of course, they could not haul it anywhere close to the red lyrium themselves: should it work as intended, the carrier would be sacrificed with it.

But Trevelyan had rather insisted against Dagna’s strategy of throwing it, this time. Instead, a rope was attached to the little cart, and the device secured inside.

“Prepare the barrier,” she told Trevelyan, whose responsibility now came into play.

Again, Trevelyan had insisted: she would not, this time, be taken off-guard by an explosion. Dagna was to wait until a barrier was conjured around the red lyrium, and made stable.

“Do you need me to fetch your staff?” asked the guard.

Trevelyan shook her head. “I don’t have one.”

“D’you need one?”

“I’ll be all right. It’s… a simple enough spell.”

“Very well.” The guard crossed an arm over his chest. “We’ll see to it that the perimeter is secure.”

He marched off to where the other guards waited, well clear of the red lyrium. They formed a sort of semi-circle around the area, surveying the woodland for movement; for disturbance. Nothing stirred.

All was in place. Trevelyan reached for the Fade—yet, strangely, it was not far. Its energy rushed up to greet her, and suffused her with its might. Plenty and enough. ‘A simple spell’, she’d called it—words she would soon regret.

No staff nor focus was already a disadvantage; but as she tried to alter the world around this burning crystal, form the Fade into an impermeable barrier—the world refused. Someone, something, pushed back.

Trevelyan tensed her body, eyes narrowing upon the red lyrium. It was like trying to lift a boulder; trying to topple a solid brick wall. The harder she tried, the greater the resistance.

A drum, distant and echoing, entered her mind. It was the dull, rhythmic sound of a mother’s heartbeat, heard from within her womb. Red. Crimson red.

Trevelyan released, breathing heavy.

“Are you okay?” asked Dagna.

Trevelyan wiped the sweat that had accumulated on her brow. “It doesn’t like it,” was all she could say.

“I have more length on the rope—let’s take a step back,” Dagna suggested.

Trevelyan agreed. They gave it a few more feet, and gave the signal to their guard.

“The cleansing rune isn’t helping?” Dagna asked as she prepared, referring to the one she’d ensured that they carry. Just in case.

Trevelyan shook her head. Apparently not. It mattered little.

Time to try again.

She summoned her strength, and in turn, the strength of the Fade. As she bade it form up, form it did. Crackling, struggling—but forming. Green forcefields rose to imprison the lyrium node—yet strained, under the same weight Trevelyan faced.

It had taken a little longer, this time, for the pressure to sink down upon her skull. But as she grew her barrier skyward, that opposing force threatened to pull it back down.

A distant hum droned somewhere in the back of her mind.

“Go,” she told Dagna, everything she had being driven into maintaining that field. The hum continued.

Dagna did not hesitate—she launched the cart away from them, its wheels screaming towards the red lyrium vein. “Firing!” she yelled.

Trevelyan held fast, braced for what was to come—

A second passed. It didn’t come. The hum got louder.

That second turned to seconds, to more, and more, and more. They stared at that little cart, sat idly where it had stopped, right by the red lyrium vein. Guards glanced back, to see why it was so silent.

Through all of her strain, Trevelyan had no answer. Be quiet.

“Good thing we attached that rope!” Dagna joked, quickly reeling the cart back in.

It trundled hurriedly towards them, skipping and bumping over every mound of moss or shard of rock, wheels whistling cheerily as they turned.

The moment it was through Trevelyan’s barrier, she dropped it. Air returned to her lungs as if she’d not breathed. Sweating, shaking. Hunger, ravenous hunger.

It quickly subsided, thank the Maker. Dagna placed a hand upon her arm.

“You okay?”

“I didn’t expect it to be this strong,” muttered Trevelyan.

Dagna nodded. “I didn’t either—but I did prepare, just in case. I think the anti-magic that’s affecting you is affecting the enchantment. We can try the other devices; see if their increased amplification works.”

The words washed over Trevelyan. “It’s so strange—the Veil feels thinner, but the magic is harder.”

Dagna shrugged. “Everything about this is strange. But we’re doing our best!”

The secondary device was brought, and exchanged for the first. Dagna loaded the cart once more, prepared its cargo, took hold of the rope. Trevelyan’s turn.

One might have thought—perhaps even hoped—that the barrier was easier to conjure the second time. That with practice, it would become as simple as any other barrier.

But as Trevelyan began to cast once more, that hope was quickly dashed. The whispers, the humming, the weight, and the heat—they all found her again. Slowly, trickling, one by one. The resistance was the the same, the effort just as agonising.

Yet, the barrier formed.

“Go.”

Deja vu, as Dagna sent the cart hurtling forward. It skittered over the ground, shot through the barrier—and came to rest at the foot of the node.

Nothing.

The cart was retrieved, the barrier dropped. A rest, taken gladly, as the third and final device was brought.

“This is the strongest we’ve got,” said Dagna. Trevelyan already knew that; but the statement was said as almost an affirmation. This one, this time.

No.

Trevelyan dropped her barrier without even waiting for the device to be retrieved. Dagna, panicked, rushed to pull it back in. But Trevelyan, breathing heavy, told her:

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not going to explode.”

Dagna thought for a moment, staring at their creation, the useless thing it was. “Maybe if we try a smaller node?” she suggested. “You take a rest. I’ll find a different one.”

Trevelyan sank to the ground, and watched Dagna walk away. Her eyes cast back to the red lyrium vein. She already knew how this was going to end.

***

Unaccompanied trees remained unaccompanied. Rustling, no birdsong. Rustling, no explosions.

Night had fallen; they’d returned to camp. Tents, stood far from the veins, sat within a clearing, encircling a bonfire that was currently being lit. Bedtime soon; travel back at dawn—they hadn’t the approval to extend their journey.

Not that it would’ve helped. Amplification hadn’t worked. Smaller nodes hadn’t worked. It had to be something wrong with the enchantment itself.

It had to be her own fault.

Trevelyan sat at the edge of camp, staring off into the darkened brush, listening to the trickling of a nearby river. If she closed her eyes, all she could see was runes. Endless runes. Which had been wrong? What had she missed?

“Your Ladyship?” came a call.

She turned, to see their guards all huddled around the bonfire, one ineffectively striking a flint, another looking to her.

“Could you set a fire for us?” asked the woman. “Westie’s no use!”

“It’s wet!” the other guard, ‘Westie’, complained. “I didn’t bloody get it wet, did I?”

If only to cease the bickering, Trevelyan rose. She trudged towards the fire, and waved a hand in its general direction. A fire lit immediately, warm enough for the whole camp, and smokeless for the secrecy.

The guards thanked her, though one more begrudgingly than the others. Trevelyan barely paid attention. Her usefulness exhausted, she sighed, and stepped away.

“At least that worked,” she muttered under her breath, turning back to find her solitary spot.

But when she looked, she found it occupied. Dagna stood in her path.

She raised a lantern—enchanted, to glow—and tipped her head towards the woodland. “I was gonna collect some water. Want to come?”

Trevelyan nodded; there was little to argue.

They ambled off together into the pitch-black, leaving a guard alerted to where they were headed. Their only light was that of Dagna’s lantern—it shone well enough, and Trevelyan hadn’t the motivation to conjure some flame of her own.

The river was best located by sound, anyway, and it was not far. Less than a minute of walking, and they were at its bank.

The light of the lantern sparkled across its surface; it was no more than a small stream—to the calves at its deepest—but it tumbled down from on high, through a delicate little waterfall in which the glow reflected.

“Perfect!” said Dagna, setting the lantern down. She filled a flask with its crystal-clear waters, and splashed a little on her face, too. “You really don’t get this sort of thing in Orzammar.”

The idea made Trevelyan a little more appreciative of it, to be sure. “Not in the Circle, either.”

Dagna rose. “Yeah.” She fell silent, for a moment, then said: “I’m sorry about yours.”

Trevelyan shook her head. “Doomed to fall, eventually.”

“Still hurts, all the same.” She took a sip of the flask, then secured the lid. “I heard from some of the big-shots that something happened, before you came to Skyhold.”

The word was getting out, then. Trevelyan knew the Grand Enchanter to be aware, now; she’d figured the mages had been told, given the looks she got from the Ostwick contingent. They were of two kinds: sympathetic, or disgusted.

Then again, perhaps she was imagining them. Perhaps she saw what she expected to see. Perhaps she saw what she thought of herself.

“Yes,” she confirmed to Dagna, at least, “something did.”

“Are you okay?”

Trevelyan smiled, albeit weakly. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Trevelyan bent down to the river, and dragged a finger through it, toying with the ripples. “It’s all right. It’ll pass.”

Dagna bent down with her. “Is that how you lost your staff?”

“I destroyed it myself,” Trevelyan told her, recalling in her mind a woodland much like this one. “I needed to hide the fact I was a mage. I smashed the focus, and buried the pieces. I burnt the shaft as firewood. The blade, I kept for defence.”

But even that had gone, eventually—something of what she’d sold, to earn her crossing to Ostwick.

“You must feel incomplete without it,” murmured Dagna.

The thought hadn’t occurred to Trevelyan before; but she’d not really had time to think of it. The words, newly arranged within her mind, hit as if a dagger.

A feeling, now recognised, could be described: she was a half a mage without her staff.

“I wonder if things would have been different, if I had it,” she confessed.

“What things?”

“The explosive. If I’d had it—would it not have failed?”

Dagna placed a hand on Trevelyan’s back, and gave her a sympathetic rub. “Don’t take it personally—this happens all the time with my experiments,” she reassured. “Things fail until they work.”

Trevelyan shifted, so that Dagna’s hand fell away. She pushed herself to standing. “I should’ve worked more. I shouldn’t have wasted so much time running around after my friends.”

“What?” Dagna stood herself. “How much more could you have worked?”

“There’s—there’s just no time to try again. It was this, or nothing—the only reason we cannot stay longer, the only reason we have to go back to Skyhold tomorrow—is because soon enough, I am to be returned to my parents. There’s no time.”

“And your parents don’t like magic?”

Trevelyan chuckled at the notion that they ever would.

“Yeah,” Dagna said, recognising the answer. “I know what that’s like. I mean, when I say my father didn’t want me to leave—Ancestors, he was furious! But I had to do what I wanted to do. I couldn’t live if I wasn’t doing this!” She turned to Trevelyan, urging in her eyes. “Maybe you need to do the same.”

“Do what?”

“Seek out your own path in life, like I did when I came to the surface,” Dagna explained. “Doesn’t have to be with the Inquisition—could be anything. I could even help you find something. The Circles may have fallen, but… there are people out there studying, like us.”

This idea was one that, to Trevelyan, had only ever appeared as a dream. She had always wished that there would be something, somewhere, out in the world, waiting for her. But seeking it out was a risk. A risk she could not afford to take.

“What if I fail?” she asked. “Like with this? Like with the Circle? If I forsake my parents, I will having nothing to return to should everything collapse again.”

Dagna shook her head, smiling. “I’m not sure about that! I mean, that was a pretty big farewell party that came to see you off. Biggest I’ve seen for such a short trip!”

“Well—”

Trevelyan recalled how they’d left Skyhold—those waving people, all lined up, just for her. The Ladies. Herzt. Varric. Dorian, if he could bother to get out of bed. Sera, somewhere. In her mind, their hands changed, from waving her away, to beckoning her back.

Dagna continued, “You know, there was a reason I was always so lax about when you showed up to work—well, two. One was that you work way too much anyway. But the other is that I knew you were making friends, making connections! And you came across to me as someone who needed that.”

Tears welled in Trevelyan’s eyes. Yet Dagna went on:

“I don’t regret how much time you didn’t spend in the Undercroft. I don’t think this would’ve worked even if you had. But if you had, you wouldn’t have those people. And for you to do the work I know you’re capable of, you need those people.”

At long last, Trevelyan smiled. “You are correct as always, Arcanist.”

Dagna giggled. She gave Trevelyan’s arm a loving bump, and told her emphatically: “Have confidence in who you are. I know how scary that is—but you need it, if you’re going to see this through. You know who you are. You know what you’re capable of. Right?”

Trevelyan nodded. She knew who she was:

“I am Trevelyan of Ostwick,” she said, “I am mage, and I am excellent at arcane study.”

“Don’t tell me”—Dagna spread her arms wide—“tell the world!”

Trevelyan turned out to the river, and the forest beyond. She called out: “I am Trevelyan of Ostwick, I am mage, and I am excellent at arcane study!”

“Let it out!”

Trevelyan sucked in a breath, and released it as a scream. The energy of the Fade warped and cracked under the weight of her emotion. Every injustice that she had endured, every barb that stuck, still bleeding, within her skin, was released.

Ice formed at her feet, spreading over the river. It continued with her scream, rapid and clawing, consuming the flowing waters and bringing them to a standstill. It climbed the waterfall with ease—scaling it, as it scaled over.

The sound of the water stopped; the sound of her scream stopped. She withdrew.

Dagna grinned. Nothing but ice before them. A gentle, frosty mist settled in the air. “Perfect.”

The ice cracked and shifted quietly, the only sound. Breath turned cloudy, in its proximity. The lantern’s glow glittered across the surface.

Peace and tranquility, something Trevelyan had longed to feel. The hope that came with a future of possibility.

But it was soon interrupted. Leaves rustled and brush moved; clanking armour came running through.

“Arcanist, your Ladyship!?” called guards, weapons drawn.

Trevelyan and Dagna turned back. Their retinue arrived, mouths falling open at the scene: a frozen river, glimmers in the air, and their two charges—completely unharmed.

“Everything’s fine, thank you!” Dagna told them.

“You sure, Arcanist?” asked a guard.

“Hunky-dory!”

It was fortunate these guards were trained not to ask questions, for they asked none. Instead, they simply sheathed their blades and withdrew into the brush. Though chuntering to each other as they went, they left the area as they’d found it.

Trevelyan nodded gratefully to Dagna, who shrugged cheerily back. The latter bent down to the enbankment, and picked up a sizeable rock.

“We don’t want to flood the plateau,” she said, before hurling the thing at the frozen waterfall. (A trait of hers, it seemed.)

The stone smashed through the ice, cracks arcing outward; under the growing force of the water above, the waterfall burst open, and shards rained down in a shimmering hail.

As water rushed to regain lost time, Trevelyan pushed out a heavy breath. Emotions flowed through her mind, like the river retaking its course. She was exhausted.

“I think I ought to head to bed,” she murmured.

Dagna nodded, pulling a sheaf of paper from the bag at her waist. “Don’t forget to read Varric’s bedtime story,” she said, handing it to Trevelyan.

Trevelyan took it, and stared at it. Her tired mind was barely able to make out the words—and yet, a thought formed within it.

“I know we can’t delay our journey,” she said, “but may we stop by the node again tomorrow, briefly?”

“Sure,” Dagna replied, “why?”

Trevelyan flicked through the pages. “There’s something I want to test.”

#unwanted fic #unwanted #dragon age inqisition

[charmcity-jess]

Lion Commander of the Inquisition.

#cullen rutherford #dragon age #dragon age inquisition

[charmcity-jess]

#dragon age #cullen romance #Cullen Rutherford #dragon age inqisition

[charmcity-jess]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Lady Trevelyan returns to Skyhold.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,725. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 36: Lady Trevelyan's Folly (Reprise)

The Frostback mountains stood vigilant over the road to Skyhold. Low cloud, and its gentle snowfall, obscured the very peaks. But their presence, nonetheless, was felt.

Trevelyan pulled her cloak a little tighter around herself. This cold was far cry from the milder climes of the Dales, from which her cart and retinue now returned.

Though her fingers were already numbing, Trevelyan would not give them respite. She held tightly onto the parchment in her hand, her parting gift from Varric: his very own notes on red lyrium. Through every lump and bump upon the road, she read, over and over and over.

“Anything in there?” asked Dagna, sat beside her.

“I have some theories forming,” Trevelyan muttered in reply. She flicked back to the start again. “I’m not sure, I—”

“Hey—confidence, remember?”

Trevelyan smiled. “Confidence. I’m certain I’ll find something.”

“That’s more like it!” Dagna smiled in turn. “You know, I should find a way of bottling confidence.”

“I think they already have something like that.”

Dagna laughed. “Well, maybe we could use a less intoxicating version.”

“Now, that would be useful. You could name it—”

“Halt!” called the captain of the guard. The cart shuddered to a stop.

Trevelyan and Dagna’s concentration broke at once. “What’s going on?” Dagna asked.

The driver of the cart nodded ahead, to movement at the side of the road. “Traveller in distress, looks like,” he said. “We’ll check it’s legitimate.”

The idea of it not being so chilled Trevelyan even further. She settled down into her seat, and tucked her papers away. Everything would be fine.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced in the direction the driver had indicated. One of their guard had dismounted her steed, to approach the figure ahead.

They stood beside a large riding horse, of black mane and dappled grey coat. With their back turned, and body obscured by a travelling cloak, there was little Trevelyan could divine of them. But the approach of the guard caught their attention, and they looked round.

The glimpse Trevelyan caught of their face made her brow flick upward.

The traveller was feminine in feature, though their fine black hair was cropped and ruffled. Their beige complexion, in this cold light, was earthy in tone, but turned to warm as the sun broke through. Cheeks bunched, as their face came to a smile.

They were not quite what one might expect some kind of bandit or ruffian to be. But then, what better bait, than someone so eye-catching?

“Ah, how lucky I am!” they called. “Are you Inquisition?”

“We are,” replied the guard who’d approached. “May we assist you?”

“Thank you, yes! I am headed to your fortress, serah—but my reins have snapped.” They showed the broken ends. “Must be this cold! If you have any rope to spare, I could fashion something temporary and be on my way!”

The guard nodded, and glanced back to the cart. “Cut some rope, would you?”

“Thank you!”

Trevelyan helped another guard to find it, buried amongst their things. He drew his blade and sliced a segment, that was then handed over.

The traveller accepted it graciously. “Thank you,” they said. “I have not yet reached your hold, but shall already have stories of your kindness to tell back home.”

The guard offered help with the knots, and asked, “Where is your home, traveller?”

“Ferelden.”

“You are of Ferelden, but you travel from Orlais?”

The traveller nodded. “I had business there for my family, the Orroats of East Coldon.”

Trevelyan’s ears pricked. She had previously been listening only out of curiosity; now she listened with purpose.

Another soldier called over, “You do not travel with a guard?”

“Oh! Should I?” The traveller seemed quite genuinely startled by the notion. “I had assumed the Inquisition keeps its roads.”

“We do,” answered the guard assisting them, “but these are unprecedented times. Best to be prepared.”

“True enough! Though if this is proof of anything, it is that I have always been a reckless sort.” The temporary rein was finished, and secured around their horse’s head. “Admittedly, I was so excited by my invitation, that I took very little care in making my preparations.”

The guard nodded, and shook their hand. “Then it is well we came along, ma’am.”

“It is. I thank you.”

With a glance back to the retinue, and signal of approval given, the guard told the traveller: “You are welcome to travel alongside us, though it may prolong your journey—Skyhold is an hour at our pace.”

The traveller still smiled. “I would be a fool to reject such an offer—so long as it is of no mind to you.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Very good.”

The traveller mounted their horse—‘twas not a small beast, yet they were up onto it with ease and no assistance. They were shown their place amongst the retinue, as it began to form up once more. The tension of the air had dissipated; the soldiers once again returned to calm vigilance.

The order was given to march on, and so they did.

But Trevelyan’s gaze lingered upon their new companion. Curious, she moved to the other side of the cart, and leant over the edge.

“Pray, you wouldn’t happen to know—or, perhaps even be—Lady Hul Orroat, would you?” she called.

The traveller looked over, their eyes—a beautiful onyx that reflected the snowlight—widening in surprise.

“Hulnes, if you please,” she said, with a smoothness of voice that caught Trevelyan quite off-guard. “Hul is an atrocious name, and there is but one person in all of Thedas I allow to call me by it.”

Trevelyan grinned. “Lady Erridge?”

If she had not already confirmed herself to be Lady Orroat, her reaction would have done so sufficiently. The Lady beamed at the mere mention of the name.

“Yes,” she said. “Marcher accent… are you Lady Trevelyan, by any chance?”

“I am!”

“A pleasure to meet you!”

Lady Orroat guided her horse closer, but a guard closed rank. He looked to Trevelyan; with her nod, he moved away again. Orroat was permitted to draw in.

Her Ladyship was ever more handsome up close. She stretched out a hand, and Trevelyan took it, expecting to shake. Yet, Lady Orroat drew her hand up, and pressed a small, warming kiss to the knuckles. Trevelyan smiled. She knew someone that Lady Orroat could teach a thing or two.

“Lady Erridge has said so much about you,” Trevelyan told her.

“And you also!” Orroat concurred. “Thank you, for being such a good friend to her. She is such a sweet soul—she struggles, sometimes, with finding people who will respect her, given her wonderful silliness.”

“That is a shame, she’s one of the kindest people I know.”

“Indeed, I can gladly say the same,” Lady Orroat agreed, with exactly the smile Trevelyan had expected.

“Was it she who invited you?” she asked.

Orroat shook her head. “No, it was the Commander, curiously. Said he wished to meet me, and for Lady Erridge to see her dear friend again.”

Trevelyan blinked. Firstly, how in all of Thedas did the Commander know who Lady Orroat was? Secondly, why in the name of the Maker was he inviting her to Skyhold?

“The Commander?” she questioned.

“I was as baffled as you are, your Ladyship!” said Orroat. “Though he seemed quite eager to meet me.”

Trevelyan suppressed a look of confusion.

“Anyway, would you kindly introduce to me your companion, there?” Lady Orroat asked, nodding toward Dagna.

Trevelyan remembered herself, and introduced her. She was treated to the same gesture Trevelyan had been, which she certainly did not seem to mind. Talk continued, of Skyhold, of Lady Erridge—Orroat was, in particular, keen to hear of her time there—and of the journey ahead.

But all the way, in the back of Trevelyan’s mind, she was attempting to square the circle. Why had the Commander invited Lady Orroat? What had happened, in her absence, to cause such an event?

She was soon to find out, as they travelled slowly down the mountainside, and the great grey shadow of Skyhold began to loom. Stubborn and magnificent as she’d left it.

Trevelyan’s eyes drifted from the castle to Lady Orroat, whose mouth had fallen open in awe. She watched this reaction with something like pride, strangely glad that Orroat found the place as impressive as she ought to.

They trundled along through the riverbank encampment—which Trevelyan attempted to ignore the sight of—and up the winding slope that led to Skyhold proper.

“One would never expect to find such a place as this in the mountains,” Lady Orroat murmured, as they came upon the fortress’ facade.

Trevelyan smiled. “And yet it stands.”

There were calls and orders on the battlements, as they crossed the bridge. With a rhythmic clanking, the portcullis raised and locked into position. The warmth of the lush and lively courtyard beyond was as a siren’s call.

The retinue entered, breaking apart as it did, each rider finding their way to a waiting stablehand. The cart halted, and the driver jumped down, a hand up and ready to help his passengers.

Trevelyan took it, finding her way to the ground. She almost stumbled as she did, for her eyes were on the structure around them. Back in the embrace of the keep and its walls, she felt a comfort that had been lacking on the road. That hum of magic that always maintained the place brought her into its equilibrium, and she felt a tranquility suffuse her.

The Lady Orroat rode alongside, and dropped to the ground. She laid her cloak over the back of her horse, the latter of which a stablehand arrived to guide away. Orroat thanked them.

Trevelyan was finally able to take her in, properly. Lady Orroat, besides her refined features and somehow perfectly-mussed hair, wore a tight-fitting outfit reminiscent of a huntress. A bodice and trousers in dark leather, with a sheathed dagger at the waist. Maker.

Trevelyan’s confusion only grew at the sight—though this time, it was sheer wonderment at how Lady Erridge had not contented herself with her prospects in Coldon.

“Lady Orroat!” came a cry. Speak of the demon.

Trevelyan glanced to its source, and saw stood upon the landing outside the keep, one beaming Lady Erridge. She immediately broke into a run, hurrying down the stairs.

“Lady Erridge!

Orroat raced to meet her. They collided at the bottom of the stair, Erridge leaping into Orroat’s arms, Orroat spinning her through the air. When they slowed, and Orroat set Lady Erridge’s feet upon the ground once more, their foreheads came to touch.

“Oh, my dear Lady Orroat, how I have missed you,” Erridge breathed.

“And I you,” Orroat replied, brushing a curl behind Erridge’s ear. “My heart has hurt every day without you, my dear Lady Erridge. I have not known warmth since you left.”

“Oh, Hul…”

It was at this point Dagna came up alongside Trevelyan, and commented, “They seem like very good friends.”

Trevelyan concealed a smirk.

The pair finally broke apart, and Lady Erridge at last noticed Trevelyan was even there. Her face lit up.

“Lady Trevelyan! How good to see you!” she said, hurrying over for a hug. Trevelyan gladly gave it. “Oh, have you already met my dear Hul?”

“I have,” Trevelyan confessed. “I am sorry, I know you wished to introduce us.”

Erridge giggled. “Oh, I am far too happy to be sad about that! That you have met at all is enough for me”—she looked to Orroat—“and Lady Trevelyan is quite lovely, is she not?”

Orroat, hovering close to Erridge, nodded. “Very lovely.”

“And fine marriage material, I think you’d agree.”

Trevelyan’s brow flew up; Lady Orroat’s contorted downward.

“Um, of course!” she said, politely.

“Lady Erridge,” Trevelyan interjected, “you should introduce the good Lady Orroat to the other Ladies! Oh, er, Samient and Montilyet, I mean. I am sure they are excited to see her.”

Lady Erridge clapped her hands, thankfully distracted. “Oh, yes, yes! Let us go see them!”

She grabbed Lady Orroat—still somewhat bewildered—by the hand, and began to lead her off, up the stairs. Trevelyan turned back to Dagna.

“I should go and see them as well.”

Dagna waved her off. “Heh. You know what I think. I need to write up the report, anyway. See you in the Undercroft later!”

“Absolutely!”

Trevelyan waved, and hurried off to follow the Ladies Erridge and Orroat, who were already charging far ahead. She caught them on the stairs to the Great Hall, and entered just behind.

The Great Hall swallowed her up, and drowned her in familiarity. The smell—of the citrus and herbs used to clean the statues, mixed with the burning logs of the open fire—put an arm around her shoulder, and welcomed her in as if family. The ambient noise, the hustle and bustle, seeing the servants and soldiers to and fro—it all felt so right.

“I left Lady Samient in the garden,” said Erridge, marching off in its direction.

“I take it, then, that this is the way,” teased Orroat, in tow.

Trevelyan laughed to see it, and followed them along. Lady Erridge shoved open the door, and headed on through. Orroat came after, then Trevelyan—who was quite excited to see the place again, and the Lady Samient that was promised within.

Her face fell.

The garden was there, sure enough. Lady Samient was there, sure enough. But she was not alone.

The Commander—

Lady Samient stood beside him, laughing and talking. Laughing. Talking. But they’d said—they said they wouldn’t—

Why was she—?

Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat continued on without her, finding their way over the garden path to join the conversation. But Erridge had said—

There was no awkwardness, in their meeting. They joined together seamlessly. Erridge’s giddy little voice echoed around the place, and Samient’s Orlesian tones came in turn.

But Trevelyan stared at the Commander.

And as he shook Lady Orroat’s hand, his gaze left her. It shifted across the garden. And it caught upon Trevelyan.

His hand fell limp, and withdrew. His stance changed. His mouth fell a little ways open, as if he was to speak.

He began to back away from the group, but Lady Erridge called out, “Commander, where are you going? There is still so much to discuss.”

The Commander muttered something in response, and with one final glance at Trevelyan, he escaped, striding for the battlement stairs.

Lady Samient followed the direction of his last look, however, and finally spotted Trevelyan. Though her face lit on first notice, it quickly dimmed. She took a step. Trevelyan turned.

She didn’t need this right now.

She returned through the door with haste, closing it before Samient could follow. The smell, the noise, they hit her again, and scrambled her already-muddled mind.

Trevelyan did her best to hide from it all, as she crossed the space, and went for the opposite door. To the guest chambers, she fled.

The stairs she did not even have to look at, by now. She knew her way up them. As her hands began to shake and tears clouded her vision, she made her way with nary a stumble.

The corridor she entered, eager to find her quarters. But as she went for the door, her movements attracted attention. A shape, emerging from one of the bedrooms, manifested within the hall.

“Lady Trevelyan?” said Baroness Touledy.

Trevelyan looked to her in disbelief. She dried her eyes, if only to ensure this was no hallucination. But it wasn’t. The Baroness stood before her, alive, and glamorous as always.

Trevelyan collapsed into her arms, and held her tight. “You’re still here,” she murmured, into the Baroness’ dress.

The Baroness stroked her hair. “I am. Val Misrenne still stands, for now. The tide of battle has turned. I wait in hope of victory.”

Trevelyan clutched tighter, hopeful of the same.

“What of you?” the Baroness asked, guiding her to part. She took Trevelyan’s hands, and ran her thumb in circles over them. “Was your trip a success?”

Trevelyan smiled, as her tears began to fall again. Slowly, but surely, her head began to shake.

“We failed,” she cried. “We failed.”

#i am very intrigued by Lady Orroat. #i neeeed mooooooore #so good #fan fic #unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #trevelyan x cullen

[charmcity-jess]

« I can give no more to the Templar Order, nor it to me. The Maker has shown me a new path; I must take it. »

Cullen's story is truly impressive! The path he took from a young templar traumatized by the terrible events in the Ferelden Circle to the Commander of the Inquisition army. I'm inspired by his example.

For the symbolism, I chose the Kinloch Hold, surrounded by water and shrouded in flames. It's destroyed just like Cullen's sword, symbolizing his state of mind. Lyrium flows behind him, a problem he has yet to face. And I really like the “lion” aesthetic in his armor, it’s a wonderful image that shows us his inner strength. And just look at these wonderful cat eyebrows! ^_^

#cullen rutherford #dragon age #tarot #dragon age inquisition #dragon age 2

[charmcity-jess]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, the Baroness causes conflict with the Commander.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,630. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: discussion of war and grief, death mentions.)

Chapter 35: Baroness Touledy's Strategy (Reprise)

Soldiers pushed and parted as a woman, armed and armoured, marched through their training grounds. The Baroness Touledy held her cane in one hand, and her sword—sharp—in the other.

The girls had done their best. Tried playing with the man. But he was more accustomed to the Game than he pretended not to be. And that made what the Commander had done to Lady Trevelyan all the more disgusting.

He knew what he was doing when he used them. He knew what he was doing when he invited Lady Erridge’s friend. And he knew what he was doing when he promised Samient help.

Every part of it, done for his benefit.

No fucking more.

“Commander,” said a lieutenant in warning, eyes widening as she saw the Baroness approach. The Commander, beside her, turned.

“Baroness,” he greeted, bowing.

“Good morning, Commander,” Touledy replied. She flourished her sword, blade glinting in the sunlight. “I thought I might invite you to spar. Since we did not quite have chance on my previous visit.”

The last two words were said with a venom. Yet the Commander appeared immune; he nodded, and handed his mantle off to the lieutenant. “Very well.”

The Baroness smiled. This was the beauty of her plan—for whether he accepted or refused, she would achieve her goal.

That goal was very simple. It was one laid out by Lady Trevelyan herself. The other Ladies had not been there, that day, when her Ladyship had pointed out the Commander’s weakness. That was why they had made the mistake of confronting him privately. But if they wanted to best him, they needed a crowd.

Public humiliation required it.

A space was quickly cleared for the conflict to come; eagerly, too. Soldiers gathered ‘round, whispering and waiting—but were sent away again by the lieutenant. Back to training! Sidelong glances would have to do.

The Baroness welcomed them. She circled into position, facing the Commander. Her greaves ground into the dirt, finding purchase. One hand rested on her cane, the other brandished her blade. She was a mesmerizing sight, and she knew it.

The Commander, less so. His sword had been unsheathed in a draw that was typical of him. No flash, no flair. All seriousness. All bore. A helm was offered to him by a solider, but rejected. He took his stance opposite the Baroness, and raised his sword.

Hers met it—slowly, in acknowledgment. A look of understanding passed between them. Their swords withdrew.

And then, they clashed.

Touledy’s blade sailed into the Commander’s, clanging with the force of the hit. He, stalwart, withstood the blow. The ricochet of his blade was used to his advantage, momentum carried into a downward swing.

The Baroness blocked it. She jabbed for his side. The Commander jolted away. Nearby soldiers gasped at the close call.

Stalemate reached, the fighting paused. Each backed off, to readjust. Stances changed, blades twirled. Premeditated unpredictability.

“I have heard what you have done for my fellow Ladies, Commander,” the Baroness muttered, taking a shallow step forward.

He took a step back. “Mm?”

“I wished to give you my thanks in person—and to query why. What could have affected this change of heart, given your earlier purpose in bringing us here?”

“It was the right thing to do.”

He lunged for her, blade swiping down to her right shoulder. The Baroness’ sword came across, and batted it away. He was left open; she capitalised.

“So you acknowledge that your previous intentions were the wrong thing?” she questioned, stabbing towards his gut.

The Commander sidestepped it. “Freely.”

“Interesting. Then one wonders why you had them in the first place?”

“I misled myself.”

Touledy laughed, spinning her blade. “And how exactly does one mislead oneself?”

“We all are prone to suffering a lack of good judgement, on occasion,” said the Commander, “though I take it yours is infallible.”

“Hardly. Though it is devastatingly precise, when required.”

As if to prove it, she pounced, a lancing blow slipping past his attempt at defence, and striking against his armoured side.

“Hit,” he said. They withdrew, to begin again.

The Baroness prepared her stance. “I would say our dear Lady Trevelyan suffered a lack of good judgement, in trusting you, perhaps.”

The Commander’s grip tightened around his blade. “Perhaps.”

“Though I am sure you never intended to hurt our dear Lady.”

The Baroness shot forth, like a snake, striking. Her sword went for his stomach; his sword smacked it away.

“I never intended to hurt anyone.”

“That seems at odds with your methods.” Their swords met, in a series of blows. Through them, the Baroness grunted: “You wished to do harm to us without doing any harm?”

The Commander did not falter with her question; he kept up the onslaught, until an opportunity presented itself. He came up on her left; she defended right. His blade struck the very edge of her chestplate.

“Like I said,” he told her, “my judgement was poor.”

“Hit,” she muttered.

They reset.

“Is that poor judgement the reason you failed to, at any point, tell Lady Trevelyan why she was truly here?” The Baroness raised her sword. “Before you knew such knowledge would break her heart?”

The Commander’s face changed, but he did not respond. Touledy strode forward.

“How long did you intend to keep the truth from her?” She thrust her sword at his abdomen; he stumbled back. “How long would you have lied?”

He tried to counter, but the Baroness slammed his blade to the side.

“Did you consider her feelings!? Or were yours the centre of your concern?”

She sent a cleaving blow sailing towards his shoulder. He deflected it with the back of his blade.

“Do you seek our favour to win back her affection? Do you only do for others that which benefits you!?”

Another strike; denied, again. The Commander readied to defend, and stared her down.

“Baroness Touledy,” he grunted, “how many mages are in Val Misrenne?”

Touledy froze. “What?”

The Commander lunged, twisting his sword around hers, and wrenching it from her grasp. The tip of his own he raised to her neck, and held her there.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.

“The Red Templars seem to think you have a small army.”

The Baroness clenched her fist, and backed away. The Commander lowered his sword. She watched as he bent down, to collect hers, and offered it to her.

She took it; but sheathed it.

“You know the business of Red Templars?” she asked.

The Commander nodded. “Of course. The safety of the Inquisition and the people of Thedas depends on it.”

“I see. I have no idea to what you refer. If you are aware of the Red Templars’ attack on Val Misrenne, then you know it to be a senseless act of violence.”

The Commander sheathed his blade, and stepped closer. “I do. But that does not negate the fact that they attack for what they believe to be some kind of reason.” He regarded her with a gaze that she did not allow to intimidate her. “I cannot believe it would be more than ten.”

Touledy sighed. She had a feeling, one way or another, whatever she told him, that he would find out the truth anyway. And so, instead, she simply told him the truth:

“Six,” she confessed. “There are six.”

The Commander nodded, and glanced about them. Though quiet enough to be naught more than mumbles to his soldiers, he gestured for the Baroness to walk with him, away. She drew her cane up from the ground, and walked.

“They arrived some time after the Circles fell. A group of eight,” she explained, as they distanced themselves from the training grounds, “though one left to find home, and another passed of old age. They were led by a young woman, who knew my brother—he was a Templar at her Circle.”

“Your brother?”

“Ser Ouen Touledy. She was a but a child when he met her, and very reminiscent of his beloved baby sister. He protected her, like an elder brother would. So much so that, when it came to her Harrowing, he refused the killing blow.”

The Commander glanced to the floor, knowing perfectly well what that meant. “Ah.”

“She survived the Harrowing. Yet, as you can imagine, Ouen was discharged for what he did, and passed at our home, from lyrium withdrawal.”

“I am sorry,” murmured the Commander. “That should never have happened.”

“It is done, and cannot be helped,” Touledy lamented. “But she could be. She arrived at my door, with her small group, to see my brother, and thank him for what he had done. She did not know he was gone.”

Touledy thought of that moment. It had been an ordinary day, despite all that was happening outside the confines of their town. Strange visitors had arrived, her staff told her, but they knew Ouen. So Touledy had to see them.

When she entered the parlour, her world changed. She saw the face her brother had died for, and she understood. The Baroness could have believed she was staring into a mirror, held up from just a few years ago.

The girl was so kind, and so sweet, and so grateful. Oh, how she had cried when Touledy had told her.

“I know this is nothing, compared to your pain,” she’d wept, “but he was as a brother to me. I cannot remember the family I had before. He was the closest I had.”

The Baroness took her hand, in that moment. And she told her, “Then we are sisters.”

She closed her eyes now, to stop the tears of that day from falling anew. “Thallia, is her name,” Touledy told the Commander. “She wanted to repay the debt she saw herself as owing my brother, and volunteered to stay in Val Misrenne, as a healer. I said she owed nothing—but she was welcome to stay, they all were. She is the last I have of Ouen; to turn her away would be to dishonour his memory and sacrifice.”

“I understand,” said the Commander. A gentle tip of his head suggested a different direction, to keep them on a steady path. “People have fought for less.”

“Much less,” agreed Touledy. “She has delivered babies, healed the sick and injured. One of her compatriots is an herbalist, who discovered a source of disease in our crops and eradicated it. When the Breach opened, a rift formed in Val Misrenne. With the last of my brother’s lyrium, they were able to seal it. If not for them—I cannot imagine…”

The mages had been celebrated, after that rift. Those who were cautious before were finally convinced. Parties were held across the town. No demons allowed in Val Misrenne!

Until the Red Templars arrived.

“It was a small band who first came,” Touledy explained. “They knew of my dislike of the Chantry, and thought perhaps we might ally against our common enemy. They wanted supplies, safe shelter if need be, and access to other nobility.”

The Baroness’ reply was predictably derisive.

“One of them was from my brother’s Circle. Tried to claim some kind of friendship, with him.” The Baroness chuckled. “Unlikely. But—he saw Thallia. He recognised her. He whispered to his fellows, and they left.”

“And then they staged their first attack?” asked the Commander.

“Yes,” Touledy confirmed. “They wanted the mages. Val Misrenne refused to capitulate.”

“I cannot imagine they liked their defeat.”

Touledy smiled. What a bittersweet victory it had been. “No. I do not know if they return simply to punish, or if they truly believe that, because we fought so hard to defend our people, that there must be something grander and more insidious going on. I think I do not care either way.”

The Commander sighed. “I doubt they do either.”

As they neared a small wall, the Baroness announced a sense of fatigue. The Commander understood, and rerouted, so that she might take a seat.

She rested her cane against the stone. “I will not bore you with details of the siege, as I assume that, if you have done your job correctly, you are already well-aware of them. However, I can tell you that the mages plan to do the unthinkable.”

“What?”

“They wish to hand themselves over.”

The Commander shook his head. “The Red Templars will continue their attack regardless.”

“I know. I have tried to persuade them, but as the situation worsens, they become harder to convince.” She bowed her head. “I had wished to stay until Lady Trevelyan’s return… but Val Misrenne needs me.”

The Commander’s feet, all she could see of him, shifted. “And what of my troops?”

The Baroness raised her head. “What of your troops?”

“I have a force arriving to the west of Val Misrenne.” He folded his hands behind his back, spine straight, silhouetted by the rising sun. “They wait on your command.”

“What?”

“I had thought you would ask earlier, but I understand your hesitation—the association of the Inquisition with the Chantry is not ideal for Val Misrenne,” he went on, “but the Ambassador is seeing to it that the clerics hoping to leverage this situation are kept subdued, for now.”

Touledy stared up at him, bewildered—as bewildered as she imagined the other Ladies had been, in their encounters. “Your troops cannot be sizeable, if the Red Templars have not discovered them?”

“They are a small party, returning from the Western Approach.”

She shook her head. “A small force will do nothing but delay the inevitable.”

“No, but as I have told you before, Inquisition troops know how to defeat a Red Templar.”

She insisted: “And as I have told you, they are not to be trifled with. Even trained soldiers shall struggle against their numbers.”

The Commander smiled. “The Inquisitor has proven quite capable of dealing with greater numbers than this before.”

The Baroness repeated the sentence in her mind, to ensure she had heard it correctly: “The Inquisitor?”

“The Inquisitor’s party happens to be travelling that way,” the Commander murmured, ridiculously coy, “and would be glad of a diversion, should Val Misrenne open its doors.”

Touledy rose, steadying herself upon her cane. “I cannot put the Inquisitor in danger.”

He reassured her: “The Inquisitor is always in danger.”

The Baroness shook her head—but not to refuse. She could never refuse. Yet she knew the betrayal she committed against Lady Trevelyan by accepting.

Lady Trevelyan would understand. She had no choice but to accept.

“Do it,” she told the Commander. “Please.”

“I’ll send word now,” he said, already moving away. But Touledy called out to him:

“Wait.”

He stopped, and waited. She came to face him.

“Commander, while I am thankful for this, whatever the outcome; while I am thankful for what you have done for all the Ladies—this will not heal the rift between yourself and Lady Trevelyan.”

The Commander avoided her gaze, yet nodded.

“Lady Trevelyan claims insult on our behalf, yet the greatest injury this has caused is hers, and hers alone. She has never had a home, Commander. Never known that comfort, nor safety. Her parents do not want her, it seems, and the only other place she belonged to is destroyed.” Touledy sighed. “She believed she had found home, here. You have shattered that illusion.”

In mournful tones, he replied: “I know.”

“Then you know what you must do.”

“I do. I will try.”

The Baroness straightened, her usual composure finally returned. “I would wish you luck,” she said, “but despite our conversation, I do not want you to succeed.”

“Fair,” said the Commander.

“Let me know, as soon as you know anything.”

The Commander stepped away. “I will.”

#unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen rutherford