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partystoragechest · 4 months

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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 four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan realises what someone is up to.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,476. Rating: most audiences. Warnings: pregnancy mention, death mentions (childbirth), self-concealment.

AN: If you need specific info regarding warnings, please message. No Commander in this, just backstory, so if you need to skip, do so.)

Chapter 28: Barrel of Laughs

“What has she done this time?”

Trevelyan asked this to Wrehn, as they ventured into the bustling kitchens, and the quieter pantry beyond. She referred not to Lady Erridge with this question, but that scoundrel—Sera.

For as they had journeyed here, Wrehn explained to her the issue at hand: Sera had played another prank on her, using her poor plum dress. Trevelyan, sarcastically speaking, could not wait to find out what exactly she had done.

“It’s in there,” said Wrehn, pointing to a barrel, open and inviting. It sat amongst a collection of containers, all of which were—supposedly—empty. “One of the lasses found it, while they was getting the barrels ready for the delivery tomorrow. If they hadn’t, it’d have been sent off to Maker-knows-where!”

Fine joke, Sera! Trevelyan could only wonder at how this one connected to her revenge.

And yet, when she peered into the barrel, her questions only grew.

“Hm.” Trevelyan squinted, the low light of the torches causing her to doubt her own sight. But no, she was sure. “That is… not my dress.”

“What?”

Trevelyan could quite understand the mistake. The dress in this barrel was a similar shade of purple—though cooler, perhaps, and deeper in hue. Yet, in the dim, it might as well look plum to one who was not so familiar with the original. However, it had none of the embroidery, and a different cut—if this were Trevelyan’s dress, then Sera had made sure to restyle it before stuffing it in here.

But Trevelyan did not even think that had happened. Because, to her own amazement:

“I do recognise it.”

Wrehn perked. “You do?”

Purple. Purple gown. Deep purple. Thinking was hard, what with everything else already tumbling around her mind. Trevelyan scooped up the dress, and passed it to Wrehn. “Would you hold this up for me?”

Dutifully, Wrehn nodded, and by the shoulders, held the dress aloft. Though it sagged and slumped without a body to fill it, Trevelyan… recalled the shape.

Tight-fitted gown in deep purple. “This is Lady Samient’s dress!” she cried. “From the gala!”

“Oh, my!” Wrehn quickly passed it back. “Maker’s breath, how did it get here?”

“Oh, I have no doubt Sera was involved,” Trevelyan told her, “though I cannot fathom why. Lady Samient had no involvement in our feud—why would Sera play a trick on her?”

Someone, right behind Trevelyan’s shoulder, interrupted: “What?”

She whirled, to find Sera standing there. Casually. Acting as if she was the surprised one.

“Why did you—?” Trevelyan stopped herself, and pointed an accusative finger. “Why have you done this? I know the rules of your tomfoolery, I learnt them in the Circle—so your revenge on me I understand! But Lady Samient had nothing to do with it!

Unaffected, but very confused, Sera replied: “What are you on about?”

Trevelyan shook the dress at her. “This dress. Did you put it here?”

Sera looked at it. “No.”

“Really?”

“No!”

“It’d be best if you told her Ladyship the truth,” Wrehn advised. “Lady Montilyet won’t be pleased.”

Sera scoffed. “Wasn’t me who put that there!” She crossed her arms. “I’ve never touched that stinking dress! It was probably that woman what did it.”

“Woman?” Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “What woman?”

Sera shrugged. “I dunno, some woman. Weirdo. Seen her ‘round here, being weird.”

Trevelyan exchanged a glance with Wrehn. She ought to doubt this story—but Sera seemed genuine enough in her insistence that Trevelyan could only accept it as truth.

“What does this woman look like?” she asked.

“Fancy, like you, but not like you”—Sera turned to Wrehn, and pointed—“she looked more like you.”

Slighted at the accusation, Wrehn sought to clarify: “What do you mean she looked like me?”

“You know!” Sera replied, as if anything she said were obvious. “Dressed like you!”

Trevelyan tipped her head. Wrehn wore the simple dress and apron of a working woman, reminiscent of Trevelyan’s own smock. Many in these kitchens and laundries wore such an outfit. Hardly distinguishable. Though Trevelyan had seen one suspicious figure dressed in such a way. But…

“That was you,” she told Sera.

“What?” Sera replied, baffled.

“I saw you skulking around here in a laundress’ uniform, when you put my dress in the sugar sack.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did!” Trevelyan insisted.

“I don’t need to dress up to get around here,” Sera argued, to the nods of Wrehn.

But Trevelyan shook her head. “I saw you!” she protested. “I saw your—”

Ears.

That was what had convinced Trevelyan that the disguised person was Sera. In the dark, in the shadow, in the confusion, she had been able to make out only one thing, as the mystery laundress had turned her face away. Pointed ears.

But as she looked to Sera’s now—they were greater in point than the ones she had seen. Meaning, the ones she had seen were not Sera’s.

A woman like Trevelyan, in disguise, with elf-blooded ears? No.

She turned to Wrehn, panicked. “Are there any more clothes, things, in any of these containers?”

Wrehn immediately absorbed her urgency, and began to look about herself. “Um, I don’t rightly know, your Ladyship. I came running as soon as they found this one!”

Trevelyan hurried over to the nearest sealed barrel, and tried to force it open. “Check them!” she cried.

Wrehn came to her assistance immediately; and to her surprise, Sera took up barrels of her own. They heaved off the lids. Nothing.

To the next, then. Crates, with empty sacks stuffed inside. No.

As they moved to their third, a lid banged to the floor somewhere behind them. Sera exclaimed: “What? I didn’t do that!”

Trevelyan whirled, and saw her peering into a barrel. “What is it?” she asked, running over.

But Sera had already grabbed whatever was inside, torn it from the bundle of clothes it was wrapped in, and now held it aloft. In the light of the torches that burned down here, it sparkled.

An Orlesian mask.

Lady Samient. But why? Disguising herself as a laundress, hiding all her things in barrels, soon to be sent off to goodness-knows-where. Lying about the Commander, concealing what the Baroness called pain. Why was Samient doing any of this?

Trevelyan’s racing mind collided with the answer.

“Maker,” she whispered under her breath, “she’s going to run.”

“What?” asked Wrehn, but Trevelyan was already backing away.

“Sera, I apologise sincerely for accusing you of this. Wrehn, please keep all of this safe—see if you can find more.” She threw open the door. “I need to speak to the owner!”

Before they could enquire further, Trevelyan was off. She ran through the kitchens—weaving past servants, dodging the boxes and linens and bottles they carried. The maze of Skyhold’s underbelly could not hold her for long.

She burst up the stairs, and out into the Great Hall. There were only so many places Lady Samient could be—though in the hustle and bustle of this space, between soldiers and nobles and staff, Trevelyan could see no sign of her yet.

The Baroness Touledy, however, was here.

“Lady Trevelyan!”

She approached with a wave, jolly for a moment, until Trevelyan’s flustered face caused her brow to furrow.

“Are you quite all right?” she asked.

“I need to see Lady Samient,” Trevelyan replied, so rushed that the words almost melded together. “Do you know where she is?”

The Baroness seemed to parse them regardless. “Her room, I believe.”

“Thank you. Has she told you that she is leaving, tomorrow?”

From the Baroness’ expression, the answer was clear: “She’s leaving tomorrow?”

Trevelyan sighed, and prepared to dart off once more. “Never mind. Thank you!”

But Touledy held out a hand. “Wait, your Ladyship—may we speak, when you have a spare moment?”

“Of course,” Trevelyan called, already hurrying away. “When I am able to!”

Though when that would be, she did not know. Not with this to consider.

Trevelyan took the stairs to the guest suites two at a time. Not a soul impeded her journey; she reached their pinnacle in seconds.

And once in the corridor, she took note. Lady Erridge must have been in her room as well, for her door was slightly ajar, her humming audible even here. Yet Lady Samient’s was closed, as if she were not in.

Trevelyan strode up, and knocked.

“Yes?” called Lady Samient.

“May I come in?” asked Trevelyan.

“Lady Trevelyan? No, I am—it is not a good time.”

Trevelyan tried the handle anyway. Locked.

“Lady Samient, I must come in, urgently,” she pleaded. “I know about the barrels. Please.”

But Samient laughed. “Barrels?” she scoffed. “What are you talking about, Lady Trevelyan?”

Trevelyan glanced down the corridor, to the half-open door of Lady Erridge. She did not wish it to come to this.

“Lady Samient, please let me in,” she begged, “or shall I ask you about your plans to run away loud enough for Lady Erridge to hear?”

Silence. Trevelyan breathed through it.

Then, footsteps. Approaching the door. A key, turning in a lock. A moment of pause. And then, it opened.

Lady Samient stood before her, nothing like the steely woman Trevelyan knew. Her eyes, usually so full of determination, were hollow, and reddened. Hair slumped against her skull. She wore only a plain shirt, and creased breeches. She looked… empty.

Empty as her room. Samient hurried Trevelyan in, shut and locked the door behind them. Not a single possession of her own sat anywhere amongst the space. Just the muddy coat she had once arrived in, hung over the back of a chair. Samient dropped onto it.

“What’s going on?” Trevelyan asked.

Samient sighed. “What do you know?”

“That your things have been hidden in the barrels due to be taken with the delivery tomorrow”—Trevelyan moved closer—“that said delivery happens to on the day you told me you were leaving”—she took a seat next to Samient—“and that you lied about the other Ladies knowing of your departure. So I wouldn’t tell them myself, I assume.”

Samient wiped at her eye. “You think that means I’m running away?”

“Oh, yes.” Trevelyan leant forward. “You’ll hide yourself amongst the barrels, correct? Travel with them out of Skyhold? I know that plan. I thought of it myself, the day we helped with the delivery. And I believe that’s when you did, too.”

Lady Samient turned. Her eyes focused on the window, at the other side of the room. Yet Trevelyan could tell—she wasn’t really looking at it.

“Lady Samient,” Trevelyan pleaded, “you said last night you see me as a kindred spirit. If that is true, then… whatever this is, please, tell me. You can tell me. I can help.”

Samient’s shoulders sank. Over her leftmost, she said, “Are you sure?”

“I will try.”

Lady Samient sighed once more. “I… I wish to say, first and foremost, that my father is a good and caring man. He always has been. He raised me well, made sure I had everything I needed—but… he is not infallible. He has made mistakes.”

Trevelyan tried to think of what she knew of Duke Samient, but all she had was that which Lady Samient had told her. The knowledge that he was a fine horserider, for example, and had taught Samient too; that he had the same disdain for much of Orlesian pageantry as she did; that he had once dreamt of being a musician, but had only ever performed for his daughter.

Such nice things. Trevelyan wondered now if any of it were true—or, perhaps, if it were, then what was missing from that truth.

“Tell me,” she said to Samient.

Samient nodded. “My father was arranged into marriage with the late Duchess Samient,” she explained. “They were civil, but didn’t care for each other. Therefore, for obvious reasons… they never had an heir. Not together, at least.”

So it was true. Lady Samient was not the child of the Duke and Duchess—yet, as Trevelyan recalled it, the rumour the Baroness had given was that Samient was the natural daughter of the Duchess. Yet, it sounded as if—

“The Duchess did run off with a servant, that much is true,” Samient confirmed. “But I am not her child.”

For soon after the Duchess had begun her affair, and vanished into the night, the Duke’s attempts to find her were paused.

“While she was away, a Dalish clan settled near Samient,” Lady Samient explained. “My father, wanting things to be amicable between his people and the elves, met with their Keeper, and some of the other clan members.”

She pushed back her hair, to reveal a slightly pointed ear.

“Including my mother.”

“Maker,” Trevelyan breathed. Then she had indeed seen Samient, disguised, in the kitchens. Whilst Trevelyan had been searching high and low for her dress, Samient was busy hiding her own.

“My father says it was the happiest year of his life,” she continued. “He told me so many stories of my mother—showing her the gardens, hunting in the woods… they loved one another. He renewed his attempts to find the Duchess, only so that he could properly separate from her. He wished to marry my mother instead.”

Trevelyan steeled herself. For she already knew, that was not the ending to come.

Samient breathed deep. “The Duchess did return, but the Maker never makes things so simple, does he? Her lover had left her, sick and pregnant. And my father—though he ought to have turned her away, would not condemn her child for her mistakes. He allowed her to stay.”

“Oh, no…” Trevelyan murmured, grim predictions forming in her mind.

“Like I say,” Samient said, turning around, to show her face streaked with tears, “he is a good man at heart. But he is not infallible. Though he kept them apart, the Duchess was not best pleased with this ‘elven usurper’. Especially as she was also with child.” Samient shut her eyes, tight. “And in this vulnerable state, the sickness was passed to her. Of all four… I was the only one to survive.”

Trevelyan reached for Lady Samient’s arm, and as Samient had once done for her, squeezed it with all the love and warmth she could muster.

“I’m so sorry, Lady Samient,” Trevelyan whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Giles,” she corrected. “My mother heard the name one day while out with my father, and liked the sound. Regardless of whether I suited it, I was to be called Giles.”

“Would you prefer I called you Giles?”

“It is how I would prefer you to remember me. Once I have left.”

Trevelyan rubbed her arm. “Why leave? What happened, after you were born?”

Lady Samient—or Giles, perhaps—placed her hand over Trevelyan’s. “My father, seeing an opportunity to protect my future inheritance, told the Courts that I was the legitimate daughter of he and the Duchess. He claimed her absence from Samient had been taken to aid her recovery from a ‘long-term illness’, which had sadly, nonetheless, taken her life. He was fortunate that my ears were not too pronounced, though hats and masks and hair were employed, to keep them hidden. The Council of Heralds remains unconvinced, however. Hence why they refuse me my proper title.”

Samient smiled a wicked smile, one that was pained in every facet. Trevelyan pitied her.

“You’ve had to hide who you are for so long,” she muttered. “I cannot fathom it.”

“You can,” Samient said. “Is that not what mages are taught to do?”

“Not to this extent.”

Samient shrugged. “I suppose I did not even see the problem in it, until recently. My father had always been good to me, raised me well, as I said. I thought it were simply the price to pay to lead the life I had. But… something happened, and my opinion of him has been changed, I fear.”

“Is this incident the reason you wish to run away?” Trevelyan asked.

Lady Samient nodded. “Our first ever argument,” she revealed. “Honestly, I cannot remember another. It was, as these things are, about a man. You remember that stablehand I mentioned—taught me chess?”

“I do.”

“We did a little more than play chess. My father found out, and… did not like the resemblance to certain historical events.”

Trevelyan recalled the Comtesse’s comment to Samient at the banquet. “Too much like the Duchess?”

“And himself,” Samient added. “This man was elven. From the alienage, in Montsimmard.”

Certainly too close for comfort, then.

“I’m sorry he reacted so badly.”

“I think he was afraid I would repeat his mistakes—or worse, the Duchess’. So, he sent the poor man off to the frontlines, and me, here. My father does not want me to marry the Commander, not truly. It was a message. ‘You want to play with poor men? Go on, play. Get it out of your system.’”

Perhaps it was a good thing, then, that the Commander had no interest in her. Is that why she’d flirted with him (or rather, attempted to)? To annoy her father?

An explanation came swiftly: “I only accepted because it meant an opportunity to run away. I thought it might come from perhaps manipulating the Commander, but he proved immune to my attempts at seduction.” She laughed, at this folly. “So, I made a plan of my own. I acquired a laundress’ uniform, began to hide my things amongst the empty barrels to be sent away with the delivery, and will join them myself tomorrow.”

Trevelyan shook her head. “Where will you go?”

“I want to find my mother’s clan—Sumara—and live with them.”

“Do you know where they are?”

Samient clutched a trinket at her neck—a wooden pendant, twisted into the form of a Halla’s horn. “Ghila’nain will guide me home.”

Trevelyan could not help but be affected by this: her faith, and her pursuit of home. If there were somewhere in the world that Trevelyan knew she belonged, she would not hesitate in running there, either. But… Lady Samient would get nowhere like this.

“Perhaps the Inquisition can help,” she suggested. “Locate your clan, send you on your way?”

Samient withdrew her arm. “No. If they tell my father—”

“They could be persuaded not to—”

“No. They fear the Duke Samient’s power more than they care to help his daughter.”

Trevelyan insisted: “They have taken greater risks than this.”

“Tell me, Lady Trevelyan: would you ask them for help with your parents?”

Though she opened her mouth, Trevelyan stopped herself. She thought of this morning, and the fear that had led her to conceal to the Commander her true feelings about her ‘home’. And she quickly understood.

“That is why I see you as a kindred spirit, Lady Trevelyan,” Samient explained. “After you read that letter from your parents, I realised, we were here for the same reasons. I was being punished for my indiscretion, and you, for the crime of merely existing.”

A sting at Trevelyan’s eye made her realise: she had never heard her situation put into such words before. But they made sense.

“What about my help?” she asked, with a renewed sense of determination. “What if I found where your clan was, and arranged some travel, without alerting any of the Inquisition to the true reason for it all?”

Something in Samient’s usual facade of unswerving composure broke, and Trevelyan recognised it. She was now to Lady Samient as the Commander had been to her. Sharing the burden.

“Could you?” asked Samient.

“Yes, of course. I can try. Though I have a journey to the Dales to prepare for… but, once I am returned—”

Samient shook her head. “That will be too late. We will only have a week left once you are back. This is why I had to act now—we are closer now to going home than we are our arrival.”

This, Trevelyan had not yet realised. The thought struck her like a blow from a sword. She pushed it aside. Not now.

“I know, but I can set things in motion before I leave,” she assured Samient, “I can ask for the clan to be found whilst I am away, and plan how we shall smuggle you out. Departing on the final day may actually work out best—the Inquisition shall suspect less if you leave when you are intended to.”

After a moment, and a deep breath, Lady Samient began to nod. “All right,” she said. “But I assure you, Lady Trevelyan: at the end of this month, I will not go home.”

Trevelyan agreed, those words echoing in her mind all the rest of the day.

At the end of this month, she would not go home.

#unwanted #unwanted fic #since chapter 24 i've really struggled with writing #i was very stressed at the time and then had to scrap a whole chapter #i am fine(?) with how 24 & 25 turned out but 26 & 27 required so many revisions and changes i was left with no confidence in them #but with this chapter it just flowed out of me so naturally #i barely had to make any changes to the first draft #i feel like i'm finally back on form and i'm so glad #i know there's no cullen but i'm writing this for me first and foremost #and i'm happy with it #finally i am happy with a chapter #ceeeelebrate good times cmon

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