charmcity-jess

[charmcity-jess]

Brianna answered my question about Cullen's original proposal plans!!

Cullen peeps come get your food!!

[charmcity-jess]

i love them so much <3 lady Inquisitor and Cullen

[charmcity-jess]

On the training grounds of Haven 🛡

[charmcity-jess]

A story of romance, politics, and drama, which continues ever on.

Supplemental material for Unwanted. In this post-script, Cullen waits for news from the Temple of Sacred Ashes, of his beloved Trevelyan.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Part 1. Words: 2,938. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: angst, mentions of injuries and death.)

Bonus Chapter: The Temple of Sacred Ashes, Addendum (Part 2)

The Breach imploded. The windows of the war room threatened to shatter. The Council inside, and the Inquisitor who led them, watched in horror.

And then, to work.

There were no troops to send—not with the bulk of the Inquisition’s army yet to return from the Arbor Wilds—but they would muster all the strength they could from Skyhold itself.

The Inquisitor’s inner circle eagerly answered the call, found in preparation before the question had even been asked. But they were not the only ones to lend their aid.

A mage from the tower, skilled enough in combat magic to be of use, bid her loved ones farewell; a night watchman, inexperienced in battle, but who’d seen the explosion from his post, offered his sword; an Arcanist, her entire body laced with contraptions and runes and vials (each one filled with dangers unknown), arrived from the Undercroft, ready to see the Breach up close.

This cobbled-together force gathered at the gates. All was whispers; all was tense. But then the Inquisitor stood, and the voice of Andraste’s own Herald shook the very sky into silence.

Into this, emerged the Commander. Cullen left the armoury in his full regalia, sword sheathed at his hip, shield strung over his back. He marched for the gates, to the army that awaited. Not to serve as its general, but as its footsoldier.

“Cullen, where are you going?”

He did not break his stride, even as Josephine hurried after him. “The Inquisitor needs as many able bodies as we can provide,” he told her.

“But—you can’t!”

He marched on.

“Cullen, think of what you are doing!” she called. “If the Inquisitor should… should fall, then Thedas will look to us. And our army shall need its general!”

Cullen hesitated. A thought entered his mind, the very same one that had entered it the moment he saw the Breach explode. So piercing, that he could not help but speak it aloud:

“Trevelyan is there.”

Josephine faltered. “I know. I know… I understand.” She sighed, and shook her head. “We have a duty. I wish it were possible to forsake it, but... we cannot. I… I am so sorry.”

Cullen bowed his head. He tried to force the images from his mind—images of Trevelyan, broken upon the rubble of the Temple. Bruised. Bloodied. Lifeless. A thousand corpses he had seen, enough to approximate the measure of hers.

“I can’t—” he began to say, before a hand fell upon his shoulder, and saved him from speaking.

“Don’t you worry,” said Dorian, appearing from behind, armoured with leather and bearing a twisting staff upon his back. “We’ll find her. Alive and well, I assure you. If I don’t, well—I shan’t bother coming back.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Varric agreed, joining them. He met Cullen’s eye. “Won’t let you down, Curly. I still owe you for—”

The crowd roared, to signal the conclusion of the Inquisitor’s speech. Cullen gazed one last time at the assembled force, then back to Varric. He gave the nod.

Varric nodded in return. “Hold the fort.”

Dorian clapped Cullen on the back. “Avenge us,” he said, winking, “if need be.”

The pair withdrew, to rally with the rest and prepare their charge. Cullen turned from them, unable to watch a moment longer. If he did, he might not be able to stop himself.

Josephine crept closer, and placed a comforting hand on his arm.

“What do we do?” he asked her.

“Leliana is preparing the birds,” she informed him. “We are to summon as many reinforcements as we can, as quickly as we can. Your help will be needed to organise the march.”

Cullen nodded. “To work,” he said.

Hopefully, it would provide distraction enough.

***

The Inquisitor needn’t send a message for them to know. The Breach was sealed. Celebrations were cautious. It was only with time that they would know truly what victory had been achieved this night.

The wait, for Cullen, was agonising. When work could no longer satiate his troubled mind, he cloistered himself within Skyhold’s meagre chapel. By the light of its candles, he knelt, and prayed.

Hours moved at the pace of ice, shifting along the valley of the Frostbacks. And just as the floes cracked and strained, so did Cullen’s fortitude.

Reciting the words of the Chant was all that could keep him from sinking deeper into misery; yet every ticking moment without news threatened to drag him beneath its waters. He did not know how long it had been, when a messenger finally entered.

“Commander, the Arcanist has returned.”

Cullen broke from the room, barging past the messenger and tearing across the garden, to the Great Hall—though no sooner than he had trespassed its bounds, he was out again, into the courtyard.

From this lofty height could he spy the gates below. People swarmed them, obscuring his view of those survivors of the Breach, who’d at last arrived to the safety of Skyhold. Horses, soldiers, and—

“Trevelyan.”

Cullen cascaded down the stairs, into the maelstrom. Those who knew what was good for them parted on sight. A path carved itself out, and led him directly to her.

She was slumped across the back of a horse, barely conscious. Cuts and bruises marred her face, patches of red crust where the blood had trickled and dried. A blanket had been thrown across her back, to keep her warm through the tears in her clothing. Blood, too, stained them.

Herzt was with her, already dismounted. Her staff was secured to his back—for even that must have been too much for her to bear. He extended an arm to their horse’s saddle, to aid her descent. With a few strides and a look of intent, Cullen took his place.

“Cullen,” she murmured, “there you are.”

Cullen replied, “I’m here.”

He reached for her hand, aching to know more than mere memory of its touch. But the feeling of her fingers, weakly curling around his in a feeble attempt to return the gesture, caused agony within his heart.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“I’m all right.”

“No.”

“It’s exhaustion,” she assured him.

“Then I’ll take you to your room, and send for treatment.” He looked pleadingly to Herzt. “Are you able to help?”

“Yes, Commander,” he answered. He was, by comparison, relatively unscathed—and thank the Maker for that.

“Oh, stop it, you two,” scolded Trevelyan, even as they slipped her from the horse, down to the ground. “I’m fine.”

Yet the moment her feet hit the floor, she hissed, and whined. One leg buckled, and she clutched at her hip. With an arm around her shoulder, Cullen held her upright. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.

At last, she leant on him, and allowed him to guide her limping form away from the crowds. Herzt led the way, and cleared the path.

“Would you prefer I carried you?” Cullen asked, as they reached the stairs.

“I can manage,” Trevelyan said.

But even as she took the first step, she gave a little cry—more pained than the quiet whimpers she had attempted to suppress so far. Cullen gripped her arm, and stopped her from going further.

“Trevelyan,” he pleaded.

She relented, saying only: “Gently.”

He bent down, and slowly, with great tenderness, secured his arms beneath her body, and lifted her from the ground. Though she grimaced at the pain of being touched, it was far lesser than that of her own exertions.

“Commander, do you require assistance?” asked Herzt.

Cullen shook his head. “Go on ahead, Herzt; prepare her room, if you would.”

He did as requested. By the time Cullen had made the ascent, the door was open and waiting. Herzt had placed her staff at the foot of her bed, and laid a down blanket to protect her covers. As if handling most fragile glass, Cullen settled Trevelyan atop them.

With gritted teeth she laid out her legs, and attempted to reach for her boots. Cullen moved for them instead, and began to untie the laces.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“Something to drink,” Trevelyan murmured, the request evident in the hoarseness of her voice, “something for the pain.”

Herzt, on hearing this, immediately set out from the room—yet Cullen called after him:

“Herzt, wait.”

He caught him by the door, and ushered him into the hallway. With but a slim gap left to see where Trevelyan lay, Cullen whispered to Herzt:

“What happened?”

Herzt hesitated. “The Arcanist… attempted to prevent Corypheus from unsealing the Breach.”

Cullen narrowed his eyes. “How, exactly?”

“She sent myself and her retinue to deliver a message to Skyhold, while she remained to distract his dragon.”

“She did what?” Cullen glanced at her resting body, and shook his head. There was little else his mind could do to process the idea of her facing down a dragon. Alone. “That… why would she..?”

“We would not have been able to defeat Corypheus without the Inquisitor. Delay was required. She was advised not to do it, but she disobeyed.”

“Of course she did.” Her retinue often reported having to protect her from herself more than anything else. Dagna was a terrible influence.

“She was able to escape through the mountains, and regroup with the soldiers,” Herzt continued. “Unfortunately, the Breach was detonated before they could attempt to retake the Temple. The Arcanist chose to protect me from the blast. There was no time to protect herself, however. It is because of her sacrifice, that I am alive.”

For if a Tranquil were hit with that much energy from the Fade, the result would not be mere concussion. It was a death sentence.

Cullen softened at the thought. “I’m—I am glad you are still with us, Herzt.”

“It was the most logical course of action. I had been carrying our healing equipment all day.”

And it was this he had used to revive her. A potion, poured delicately into her mouth, that did the work of healing for her, and brought her back from the precipice of death.

“Demons and the forces of Corypheus laid siege to our position. Though she was injured, the Arcanist fought alongside the soldiers. They were able to carve a path through the enemy, so that the Inquisitor would be able to reach the Temple unimpeded.”

And that was when Dorian had found her, exhausted from the hours of combat, beaten and brusied, leaning hard upon her staff.

“She wished to join the Inquisitor’s forces, but Master Pavus told her to return to Skyhold, as you were waiting. He also requested I pass along a statement.”

“What is that?” Cullen asked.

“He said, ‘Quite the fighter, that one’.”

Cullen gave a weak smile. “She is,” he murmured, gazing back into the room.

He expected to see her sleeping off her ordeal, peaceful and quiet. But, no. Dorian’s assessment was all too correct. Instead of rest, Cullen watched her wincing and grunting, attempting to rise from her bed.

“Andraste preserve me,” he muttered. He looked to Herzt. “Get some rest, you need it. Send a runner if you see one—if not, do not worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Herzt went on his way, and Cullen marched into Trevelyan’s room.

“What are you doing?” he questioned, seeing her feet poised over the side of her bed.

“I need my parchment and quill,” she told him. “I need to write down some thoughts.”

Cullen guided her legs back onto the bed, and her head back down to her pillow. “What thoughts?”

“It’s the way the red lyrium infected that darkspawn. It intrigued me. I think the Blight might have something to do with it. How to cure red lyrium.”

Cullen sat beside her. “Rest. This is no time to be working.”

Her face, though scratched and stained, brightened at the opportunity to tease him. “Hypocrite.”

“Do not be so blithe about this,” he told her. “You abandoned your retinue and fought a dragon. What were you thinking?”

“Herzt,” she grumbled, as if identifying the informant would nullify the question. But Cullen would hardly allow her to avoid answering. He stared at her, the same way he might an unruly recruit.

“Someone had to,” she said.

“Must it have been you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“But…” Cullen shut his eyes, and shook his head. “Trevelyan, I… if you had not returned, I don’t know what…”

Words escaped him. Not a single one could accurately describe his fear. But… perhaps he did not need them. Trevelyan’s hand slipped into his regardless, and conveyed her understanding.

“Cullen...”

“I have had nightmares, of… in which I lost you,” he whispered, too afraid to speak it any louder, “but then I wake, and feel you beside me. I do not know that I could withstand it, if one day I did not wake.”

“You are awake,” she reassured him.

He raised her hand to his lips. “Please… never condemn me to that nightmare.”

“Cullen, do you believe that every moment I was fighting, I was not thinking of you?” she asked, tears starting to form—tears that he stroked away. “Every moment I feared, you were in my mind. I would never hope to lose you, either. And I would have killed that dragon before I left you to suffer this world alone.”

There was such conviction in her eyes that he could not help but believe her. But he would have let the world suffer before she faced another dragon alone.

“Trevelyan, I—”

A knock at the door caught him off-guard. Even Herzt was not so efficient that help could have already arrived, surely?

And yet, with the visitor’s announcement came the answer to his query: “Arcanist? The Ambassador sent me, to see to anything you need. May I enter?”

Of course. For, if there was anyone who had Herzt beaten on efficiency, it was Josephine.

“Come in,” Cullen called.

A few well-laden staff entered the room—though two quickly deposited their freight, and left. The last remained, to address Cullen:

“Greetings, Commander. The Ambassador sent food and drink, as well as warm water and a washcloth. Does the Arcanist need assistance washing?”

Trevelyan waved a limp hand. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

“I can assist her,” Cullen reassured them.

The servant nodded. “The apothecary sent a poultice for pain relief as well, though the healers are occupied with the wounded at the gates. I can send one as soon as they are available, or sooner, if the Commander feels it is required.”

“No—that’s not necessary,” Trevelyan insisted.

Cullen disagreed. “Let them tend to the seriously wounded first,” he instructed, “but the Arcanist will need to be examined eventually.” Before Trevelyan could protest this, he ended with, “That will be all, thank you.”

The servant made their exit, and Cullen rose to see to the offerings they had left behind. Trevelyan, however, sighed.

“The healers do not need to be bothered with my little scrapes,” she complained, “I can heal myself.”

“Why haven’t you?” he replied.

“I did. But, as you will no doubt understand, in the eighth hour of battle there is little stamina left for mere cuts and bruises. I conserved it, for fighting.”

Cullen returned to her, eyes catching on a half-healed gash in her leg. She noticed his glare, and made an attempt to cover it with the blanket.

“...You needn’t be so worried about me,” she said, voice shrinking with the guilt of it.

He handed her a goblet, and brushed her hair aside. “You can let me worry about you a little.”

A smile of recognition crossed her face, and she relented. “All right.”

Whilst she sated her scratching thirst, Cullen fetched the washbowl—and the cloth provided with it.

“I suppose you won’t comply if I tell you to hand me that,” Trevelyan predicted.

Quite correct. For, in response, Cullen dampened the cloth, and began to dab the blood and dirt from her skin. “You did this for me, once,” he murmured.

That, too, she appeared to recall. “...I did.”

And with that reminder, she settled into his care. Cullen, with tender caress of the cloth against her skin, wicked away the tarnish of war. The face he knew and loved was, at last, unveiled.

“You’ll need to remove your clothes, at some point,” he muttered.

Trevelyan gave a sleepy little laugh. “Is it truly an appropriate time for that, Commander?”

He appraised her with a scolding stare. “Trevelyan...”

She laughed again, but did not fail to meet his gaze. “You haven’t kissed me yet,” she lamented.

“I didn’t think it…” Cullen set his concerns aside, and took note only of her pleading eyes. He wetted her lips, with a drop of water and the touch of his thumb, and leant in.

Despite what pain it must have caused her, he felt her rise to meet him. He would make the kiss worth it. A long, slow, labouring caress, of his lips against hers. A kiss of affirmation, a kiss of grounding. Of interlinking and tethering oneself to the other, bodily, and in soul.

Even as it ended, he clutched her to his chest, his face yet firm beside hers. A kiss he thought he might never have.

She placed another upon his cheek. “You’re awake,” she reminded him, through gentle whisper.

He let her sink back to the sanctuary of her pillow, but kept her hand in his, and kissed his way along every finger. Another, to her forehead, as he told her:

“So are you”—he smiled—“go to sleep.”

[charmcity-jess]

The Lion of Ferelden : aka Cullen Rutherford’s romance card

[charmcity-jess]

A story of romance, politics, and drama, which continues ever on.

Supplemental material for Unwanted. In this post-script, Trevelyan journeys to the Temple of Sacred Ashes at the worst possible time.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Words: 3,110. Rating: all audiences, bar some swearing.)

Bonus Chapter: The Temple of Sacred Ashes (Part 1)

The Temple of Sacred Ashes lived up to its name in only one aspect: there was plenty of ash.

Trevelyan and Herzt left boot-prints in their wake, as they walked the ruins of the temple. What had once been a grand, mountain-side monument to the glory of the Maker was now little more than a crater of crumbled walls, peppered with towering spikes of red lyrium, clawing their way out of the ground.

It was the latter, of course, they came to see. Well, there wasn’t much else to gawk at—except, perhaps, the glimmering green scar of the Breach, left hanging in the skies above.

“The largest concentrations appear to have formed where organic material is in abundance,” Trevelyan noted to Herzt, as they crept toward a particularly intimidating spike. It had sapped what little life grew around it, nothing but dry, dead grasses left in its wake.

“That is consistent with our previous findings, Arcanist,” added Herzt. “It thrives on the biology of others.”

Trevelyan sighed, and looked out over the crater below. The evidence for this point was laid quite plainly before them, as it was not merely nature that the red lyrium had feasted upon. The corpses of those who’d died to the Breach had been drained to little more than unrecognisable husks.

“Death follows where it goes,” muttered Trevelyan.

She dipped into her satchel, to take a note—but paused. A thumping sound, like the beat of a distant drum, echoed around the mountains.

“Do you hear that?” she asked Herzt.

He nodded. “Strange. I do not recognise it.”

Trevelyan glanced back at their retinue, who had, thus far, been contentedly idling while she researched. Not so now.

At arms, they listened. Somewhere, beyond the crater, cries rang out and weaponry clashed. Unmistakable: the cacophony of battle. It rippled like a wave through the valley, surging ever closer, in concert with the approaching thrum.

A muffled shout reached them. One of the soldiers must have heard, for they repeated it, loud and clear:

“DRAGON!”

All fell to shadow, as the sun was blotted from the sky. Silence perished, ‘neath the dreaded pound of thunderous wings. Trevelyan looked to Herzt.

“Run!”

Darkness shifted; the dragon dove. Trevelyan and Herzt sprinted from the ruins, towards the underpass from which they’d entered. Though no more than a roof that had survived rubbling, it was the best defense they had.

“Come on, come on!” called a soldier from within. Trevelyan and Herzt skidded past the protection of his shield, as a blast of pure energy detonated in the spot they had occupied mere moments ago.

Trevelyan’s eyes widened. “That was—”

That was no primal element. Not flame, not ice, not even lightning—though it burned just as blinding-bright. No, it was unlike any of that.

It was red.

Trevelyan glanced to where the dragon circled, patrolling the skies above. Silhouetted by the dying sun, she glimpsed a rider upon its back.

“Corypheus.”

Though she had not seen the creature before, she knew him by description. And it wasn’t like there were any other red lyrium dragon-riding bastards terrorising the countryside.

But why? Why was he here?

Trevelyan’s eyes caught on the closed-up wound of the Breach, and all became clear.

“Herzt,” she said, looking him in the eye, “you need to run back to camp. Send a bird to Skyhold immediately. Tell them Corypheus is attempting to reopen the Breach.”

Herzt nodded, dutiful as ever, completely placid in the face of death. “Yes, Arcanist.”

A soldier stumbled in, from the direction of the valley: “It’ll be a fight. We’ve got forces incoming.”

“Then go with him,” Trevelyan told a handful of soldiers. “That message must be sent.”

“What about you?” their Captain asked.

Trevelyan readied her staff. “Corypheus cannot be allowed to reopen the Breach.”

“No.” The Captain stared her down. “You’re not to come to any danger—Commander’s orders.”

The dragon roared. Trevelyan gathered energy within her focus.

“He’ll forgive me.”

She blinked through the Fade, abandoning the safety of the underpass, and took off running. The Captain called for her to return, but she did not look back. Her eyes were firmly on the skies above, and the dragon that filled them.

“Here, you bastard!” she shouted, sending a fireball off in its direction. “Follow me!”

Though the spell missed its target, it certainly gained its attention. The dragon rounded on her, and pursued.

Nothing could terrify quite like that. To know there was something coming. To hear it close the distance. To feel its breath striking at one’s back. Nothing could terrify like the feeling of being hunted.

Trevelyan had run like this before. She could do it again. Whenever she felt she had mana capable, she slipped through the Fade, got a little further.

But there was no outrunning the blast.

The moment she heard it in the dragon’s throat, she turned. Leapt. Down a level of the crater, back pressed against the stone. Energy quaked the rock above her head, the very wall she clung to.

But the dragon had missed. That was all that mattered.

Little time to celebrate, however. It swung through the sky, readying for a second bombardment. Trevelyan needed to move.

Her only chance was a quirk of the landscape she had noticed during her exploration of it. The valley was not this crater’s only exit: there was another path, a sheer climb, up through the mountains. Yet it was sheltered enough—by cliffs on both sides—that if Trevelyan could make it to the first ladder, she could make it out.

Her eyes locked onto it. Her body readied to run.

The dragon twisted in the sky, and brought its gaze upon her. A roar preceded its next deadly breath. Jaw, open. Teeth, beared. A blast—

—hit the rock behind her, as Trevelyan burst from the wall and Fade-stepped forward. She hit the ground at a pace, dashing across the crater’s centre. A frustrated roar overwhelmed her ears. There was no time to listen. Breathless, desperate, she ran.

But what lay between her and the other side was a wasteland. No walls; just stone, just lyrium. Nowhere to hide.

And there was a screech at her back.

Trevelyan took what Fade energy she had, and threw it out behind her. A wall of fire rocketed up at her command, and obscured her from the dragon’s view. Though its breath blasted clean through the flames—the shot went wide. She survived, again.

Up the crater, and into the cliffs. What would happen beyond them, she did not know. But this was her only chance of escape. Her hand clapped onto the rung of the first ladder. With a glance behind to see the dragon circle, she began to climb.

Hand over hand, she scaled the ladder as fast as she could. A panting dash, to the next. No opportunity to check her vicinity, she listened for wings instead. Not far—but far enough. There was time. Time she would not waste. Up, quickly.

Yet with haste, comes inaccuracy. And for her, the inevitable occurred. As she came within arm’s reach of the summit, Trevelyan’s foot missed a rung.

Her body dropped, stopped only by the sudden reaction of her hands, clinging on with all her might. She dangled, feet slipping as she tried, desperately, to find her footing once more. The wings. She could no longer hear them.

A foot latched on. She glanced out, to locate her doom—but the dragon was nowhere near her. The dragon did not care for her. No, its attention was quite elsewhere.

The call of a bird shrieked across the mountain peaks, as it soared into the sky. Sent from their camp, seeking home. Seeking Skyhold.

The dragon turned on it.

“No!” Trevelyan screamed.

One arm clinging to the ladder, her other drew her staff and thrust it outward. By her will, clouds darkened. Thunder rumbled. Her fear and anger were drawn to her focus, and concentrated into raw power.

Lightning shot down from the sky, aimed at the dragon’s wing.

The beast, jaws wide, was forced to rear back—its momentum halted, its wings furled. Though the lightning streaked past its body, the damage was done. The bird was gone, lost over the range.

Fury shook the sky, as the dragon roared its frustration. Trevelyan was already climbing again. She knew who would be the target of its anger. The next blast was coming. There was no running.

But there was hiding. Upon the mountain plateau, salvation made itself known. An opening, in the peak—dark beyond its entrance, but good enough to evade the wrath of a dragon. With its presence in her periphery, Trevelyan ran.

Each second lasted as if an hour. Each stride felt a marathon. It was as if Trevelyan witnessed the very last moments of her life, in every intricate detail. The whistle of the wind past her ears. The flight of the snow kicked up by her feet. The pain of breaths, slicing at her throat.

She could hear the dragon like a gathering storm.

Her foot hit the threshold of the cavern, and all returned to motion. She threw herself around a corner, pressed her back to the walls—as an almighty burst of raw, red energy ploughed into the entrance.

No speck of stone was spared; the dragon torched it all. Repeatedly. Its roars shook the mountain; its breath caused it to falter. Trevelyan’s entire body tensed, compacting itself against the rock. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that made a difference; she clutched her staff to her chest, begging its protection.

In the darkness of her fear, she heard the shudder of stone. Relentlessly beaten by the dragon’s breath, it cracked and strained. And soon, the sound of the roar was drowned out, by that of avalanching rock.

Trevelyan held her breath, and prayed.

When at last the cavern fell to quiet, a cloud of dust brushed past her face. Her eyes slowly opened, to see the entrance of the cave—mere feet away—no longer extant. Collapsed.

“No!” she cried. She clambered closer, and listened to what lay beyond. Yet, beside the settling rock, she heard nothing. Nothing, except the faint sound of wings, receding from the mountain.

It couldn’t be. Corypheus was returning to the Breach.

Desperate, Trevelyan scrambled back. She aimed her staff at the pile of debris, built its power—and released. A blast of raw, kinetic energy crashed into the rubble. But it did not clear. Instead, it shook. The whole mountain shook. The avalanche began anew.

Trevelyan ran, a wall of falling rock at her heels, a cloud of chasing dust threatening to consume her. Her heart beat as loud as it had for the dragon. A mountain had no concept of mercy either.

But in her haste, the features of the cavern eluded her. A drop appeared before her—a set of stairs she noticed all too late. Trevelyan fell, and fell, and fell.

Her hip smacked into the ground where she landed, and Trevelyan cried out in pain. Though the rockfall had been evaded, it had come at a cost. Wincing, crawling, she found her staff where it had fallen, and by its support, was able to stand.

She hissed from the strain. A hand pressed to her side, and she did her best to heal. All the while, her eyes surveyed.

Though she would rather not have discovered them the way she did, these stairs were important. Stairs were made by mortal hands, not mountains. Someone had been here, once; left paved floors and supporting columns. If only they’d reinforced the exit more.

“There must be another,” Trevelyan muttered to herself.

With a fire in her palm lighting the way, she began her search.

But this place was an inscrutable maze. The dripping of stalagtites was her only company, each droplet that struck the ground driving her further and further to madness. Every second she wasted here was another that Corypheus had to enact his dark will upon the Breach. It cracked and burst in her mind, as if it were already too late. Maker, let it not be too late.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right? I could accompany you.”

Her mind trailed to even deeper anxieties. To the words of Cullen, hours before she had left.

“You need to oversee the return of troops from the Arbor Wilds,” she’d told him, “I’ll be all right. I’ll have Herzt, and the retinue.”

“Be careful, please. The area isn’t safe.”

Oh, the pleading in his eyes as he said those words.

“I promise you, Cullen—I’ll returned unharmed.”

That promise. She would not forsake it. She would find the way out. She would stop Corypheus. If not for her, then for him.

Something echoed in the darkness ahead, and pulled her mind from its recollection. Nothing more than a little scraping sound, that could well have been an errant deepstalker—but Trevelyan could take no chances. She followed.

Down another staircase, round a corner. Into some kind of storage area, stacked at the edges with long-abandoned equipment that was of little interest to Trevelyan. It was the sound she cared for. Not the scraping—a whistling. She could hear a whistling. Constant, but ebbing. Wind through the mountains? It had to be.

But it was silenced by a screech.

Trevelyan conjured a barrier, precisely as a demon of despair—mangled, toothy, and ragged—apparated from the shadows, and blasted her with ice.

Though it pummeled her defenses, they survived the onslaught. And the moment it ceased, she launched a retaliatory fireball in the demon’s direction.

But it leapt away, torn cloak never quite touching the ground. Her fire smattered against the rocks, extinguished. Yet, in the brief flash of its light, Trevelyan realised that it was not merely despair she now faced.

A pair of shades came crawling from the woodwork, their humanoid forms amorphous and hunched: the picture of something attempting personhood, but failing in every aspect.

One lunged.

Trevelyan Fade-stepped back, to give herself room. Their being here spoke of a weakness in the Fade, one she could exploit for power. As they gathered energy, so did she.

Despair shrieked, announcing its next barrage. Trevelyan whirled, focus alight. Flames whipped out—snaking fire sought the demon like a whip, coiling around its limbs, its body, its neck. Trevelyan pulled them taut, and pulled it apart.

Yet the shades took this as opportunity. They shifted through the shadows, little difference between them and darkness, lurking ever closer. Though nothing pierced her skin, hissing claws scraped against Trevelyan’s mind, threating to sink in. The pain worsened with proximity.

Undeterred, Trevelyan span her staff. The momentum carried her blade upward, slicing through the jaw of one shade, and exploding it into remnants. The other yet loomed—but Trevelyan ducked from its path as it struck, and brought her staff around. With the clench of her fist, ice sprang from the ground, and consumed the shade whole. Her staff slashed through, and shattered it to pieces.

Though she prepared for further combat, she felt no further presence. Good. She would not be impeded any longer.

The subtle rush of wind grew louder with each stride. It guided her forth, through the last of the cave—and into the invading glare of the setting sun, pouring through an opening like a portal to another world. Though all she could see beyond it was mountains and snow, Trevelyan ran.

She emerged on high, overlooking the mountain-valley below. But Corypheus was nowhere in sight.

Anxious, she looked to the sky. The Breach. It remained, still little more than a scar, streaking through the heavens. He had not succeeded yet.

Though, whether it was her imagination or truth, Trevelyan could not help but feel it glowed brighter. Cracked, snarled. Unopened, perhaps, but not untouched.

Her eyes darted to the slope of the mountain, to see her way down. There were ladders in place, quite fortunately, from whatever group had once shored up this godforsaken mountainside. They led to the bottom of the valley, to...

A large stone bridge. One she recognised. It had been the checkpoint they’d passed through on their way to the Temple. The few soldiers who’d patrolled it then had now multiplied into their dozens. But—why were they here? Why were they not storming the valley?

Urgency took over once more. Trevelyan slid down the rickety ladders that led the way, and scrambled across the last of the snowbanks that separated her and the soldiers. The bridge gate was opened for her, and the watchmen atop hurried her in.

She had hoped to arrive to the clash of steel ringing out, and the calls of soldiers amongst its throng. But the only steel here was that of swords being sharpened, and the only shouts that of the Captain, to his gathered troops.

Trevelyan pushed and parted her way through them, intended for that Captain, but halted. Hidden, within the mass of armour, was one not so soldier-like.

“Herzt!” she cried, rushing up to embrace him. “Are you all right?”

“I am well, Arcanist,” he told her, thank the Maker. “I am relieved to see you are alive. We were able to send the message, as you requested.”

“I saw—but why are you still here? You need to get as far away as possible.”

The Captain interrupted, shouting over: “We can’t go anywhere! He’s got the last of his bloody Red Templars moving in. We need to hold the line.”

Trevelyan marched to face him. “It’s a distraction! While we fight here, Corypheus has unfettered access to the Breach! You need to advance on the Temple!”

“We do that, and we’ll be overwhelmed! We need reinforcements,” the Captain told her, “and we’ll hold until we get them. That’s what the message was for!”

Trevelyan snarled, “We won’t need that message if he reopens the Breach!”

“Arcanist,” said Herzt.

Trevelyan glanced at him, then in the direction he was pointing. Up.

Indeed, they would not need that message. For the Breach began to snap and shriek, crying out as it was bent and broken under the influence of pure malevolence. A beam of green light shot skyward from the Temple, seeking the Breach like an arrow.

“No!” Trevelyan cried. In the split-second she had, she whirled on Herzt, and threw out her arms. A barrier formed. The Breach detonated.

Its blast slammed into Trevelyan’s back. She was catapulted across the bridge, crashing into its wall, body hanging over the parapet.

And there, she lay.

[charmcity-jess]

Here's all the (hopefully) decent quality dragon age photos from game informer's recent article if anyone wants it them

[charmcity-jess]

My main hope for Unwanted was getting back into the habit of writing, so the end of the fic was always going to pose a challenge, because what do I do now?

Anyway here's a WIP I'm working on:

...

The Temple of Sacred Ashes lived up to its name in only one aspect: there was plenty of ash.

Trevelyan and Herzt left boot-prints in their wake, as they walked the ruins of the temple. What had once been a grand, mountain-side monument to the glory of the Maker was now little more than a crater of crumbled walls, peppered with towering spikes of red lyrium, clawing their way out of the ground.

It was the latter, of course, they came to see. Well, there wasn’t much else to gawk at—except, perhaps, the glimmering green scar of the Breach, left hanging in the skies above.

“The largest concentrations appear to have formed where organic material is in abundance,” Trevelyan noted to Herzt, as they crept toward a particularly intimidating spike. It had sapped what little life grew around it, nothing but dry, dead grasses left in its wake.

“That is consistent with our previous findings, Arcanist,” added Herzt. “It thrives on the biology of others.”

Trevelyan sighed, and looked out over the crater below. The evidence for this point was laid quite plainly before them, as it was not merely nature that the red lyrium had feasted upon. The corpses of those who’d died to the Breach had been drained to little more than unrecognisable husks.

“Death follows where it goes,” muttered Trevelyan.

She dipped into her satchel, to take a note—but paused. A thumping sound, like the beat of a distant drum, echoed around the mountains.

“Do you hear that?” she asked Herzt.

He nodded. “Strange. I do not recognise it.”

[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 epilogue, the story ends.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Giles' Epilogue. The Baroness' Epilogue. Erridge's Epilogue. Words: 1,444. Rating: all audiences.)

Epilogue

“Arcanist?”

Trevelyan awoke from her academic stupor. The hubbub of the Undercroft, that she’d long since relegated to the back of her mind, returned to focus. Herzt stood beside her.

“What is it, Herzt?” she asked.

“The Inquisitor and Commander have returned.”

Trevelyan leapt from her seat, and tore the apron from her body. Her papers were loosely tossed in Herzt’s direction, and he received them with a characteristic lack of response. Not because he was Tranquil, but because her reaction was entirely expected.

“Give him my be—”

Trevelyan took off running, slaloming through the maelstrom of machinery they called their place of work. She almost barrelled into Dagna, spinning out of the way at the very last moment.

“Cullen’s back, huh?” Dagna chuckled. “Let me know if they found—!”

Trevelyan did not wait to hear the rest of the statement. “Yes, Arcanist!”

She rounded the door and burst up the stairs, blinking through the Fade to get her there ever-faster. The guards in the Great Hall startled when she appeared. Trevelyan threw an apology over her shoulder.

Out of the doors, into the courtyard, and there they were. Gathered by the gates was an adventuring party, freshly-returned from the road. The Inquisitor, Varric, Dorian, Cassandra—and Cullen.

Maker, he did not look well. The journey to the Shrine of Dumat was always bound to be a harrowing one, given what awaited them there. But Leliana had shared their initial report back, sent ahead on the wings of a bird. Somehow, it was worse than expected.

They had gone in search of Samson, leader of Corypheus’ army of Red Templars. What they had found was his laboratory, purposefully destroyed. Everything. Including his assistant. A man Cullen knew. Maddox. A mage from Kirkwall. Tranquil.

Being so confronted with his past clearly weighed on Cullen, for the slump in his shoulders said as much. He’d let his armour be muddied, his stubble grow long. Trevelyan could hardly bear the sight.

“Cullen!” she cried.

It alerted the attentions of the entire group, but she cared little. For he turned, and saw her, and the grief upon his face evaporated into relief.

“Trevelyan.”

They collided like stars. As if millennia had passed since their last touch. Longing had calcified into agony, its only remedy to be held by the other.

“Are you all right?” Trevelyan whispered. She felt his head shake against her shoulder. “I’m here. It’s fine. I’m here.”

His fists curled around the fabric of her dress. He murmured, “Are you all right?”

“I missed you,” she told him, “that’s all. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“You warned me not to go.”

Trevelyan sighed. This situation was not for gloating. There was no victory in this.

“I was wrong,” she told him. “You would have regretted it, had you not gone.”

“Forgive me,” he said.

“Don’t. This wasn’t your fault. We know the man responsible for this, and he will answer for it. I promise you.” She cradled his face. “All right?”

He softened with her touch. “All right.”

It soothed her soul, to see his pain so alleviated. Healing him was not spells or runes. It was time and patience, of which she had plenty to give. But his party and their pack-horses lingered nearby. Healing would have to wait.

“There is… something else,” Cullen muttered, glancing at them.

“What?”

On cue, Dorian and the Inquisitor approached, the latter bearing a strange wooden lockbox.

“Arcanist!” Dorian greeted. “Still trying to cure the Blight?”

“Apparently so,” said Trevelyan, for her most recent gift from Varric had come in the form of a revelation, thanks to his—ahem—lady friend. The strange magical disease afflicting red lyrium was, apparently, nothing new. In fact, it was old. Old and terrible and supposedly impossible to cure. Supposedly.

But never mind that now—she indicated the box. “What’s that?”

“Maddox’s tools and notes,” said the Inquisitor. “We were hoping you and Dagna could make sense of them, and find a way to destroy Samson’s armour.”

Her eyes flared. If the reports were true, if Samson had indeed been forging with red lyrium—then that box could hold all the knowledge they needed to actually do something about it. Dagna would want this as soon as possible.

Trevelyan accepted the box with a curtsy. “The Undercroft will deliver,” she said, turning to depart.

But she made it no more than a few steps, before there was a call of her name:

“Arcanist—”

She halted. “Cullen?”

He caught her up, and drew her in. His unkempt stubble grazed her skin, as he laid a kiss at the very edge of her cheek, and whispered to her ear:

“Are the stars out tonight?”

She smiled. “Yes, Commander.”

***

Trevelyan hadn’t snuck out to see the stars since Cullen left. There was little point, when she could see them well enough from her window, and he was the loveliest part of the view.

But the route remained familiar, and she was in the garden as soon as night fell. A star-filled sky awaited her—as well as Tenbry, who hurried off the moment she gave him the nod.

���Good evening, your Ladyship.”

That voice made her ears burn. The feeling of his presence singed down her spine.

“Good evening, Commander,” she said in reply.

Cullen came to rest at her side. He was bathed and shaved, looking a little less sorry for himself—in appearance, at least. The same could not be said for his expression.

“Are you well?” she asked. His answer was that of an averted gaze. No. “Well, I thought I should mention—the Grand Enchanter has organised a funeral for the Ostwick delegation.”

“I’ll be there with you,” he promised.

“Thank you,” she said. “I could ask for Maddox’s name to be included, if you’d like.”

But Cullen shook his head. “No, no—that would be too much of an intrusion.”

“Something quieter, then?” Trevelyan rested a hand upon the stone, in offering. “It could be just us.”

Though reluctant, he took it. “...All right.”

The cold had already settled into his skin. She laid her other hand atop it, to save him from its sting.

“Talk to me, Cullen.”

“I…” Whatever he needed to say, it did not come easy. “What happened has dredged up thoughts that I… I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. But, some of them… some of them are about you.”

And that did matter.

“What about me?” she asked.

“I worry that, had we met, back then… that I wouldn’t have known you. That I wouldn’t have cared to.”

Oh, Trevelyan was hardly concerned about that. “You think you would have been able to resist my charms?” she teased.

Cullen shook his head, unaffected. “It’s not that. I worry that I would have disregarded you. Mistrusted you. I could have... hated you.”

Trevelyan smiled. “Oh, you mean like you did when I first arrived at Skyhold? And how did that turn out for you?”

He gave no answer.

“Do you disregard me, or did you not come here with the express purpose of seeing me? Do you hate me, or is that your hand in mine?”

Still no answer.

“I broke you once, Cullen Rutherford,” she threatened, “I could very well do it again.”

A smile cracked his sombre facade. He lifted her hand, and kissed it. “All right.”

Quod erat demonstrandum. There was no mood of his that could not be changed with nothing more than a few sweet, chastising words from her lips.

“Forgive me my worrying.”

“Forgiven,” she told him. “Is that why you held me so tight this morning?”

“That,” he murmured, taking her into his arms, “and I missed you as well.”

He held her no less tightly than the morn. His yearning had not waned, and nor had hers. Every touch was to be savoured; every kiss, reverently adored.

“I hope that being with me… that this is what you want.”

Oh, Cullen. Though she ought to, Trevelyan could hardly chastise him. This fear, she quite sympathised with.

It was unbearable, to love someone. To know them, to be known. To trust them with your entirety. To place your heart in their hands, and hope they did not snuff it out.

But she sought to love him. He was the kindling to her fire. The sky for her stars. Not the air she breathed or the water that would sate her thirst. There was no requirement. Without him, she would survive.

But her life was happier, and warmer, and brighter with him in it. She chose him. She kept him.

He was everything she wanted.

[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 epilogue, Lady Erridge plans a wedding.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Giles' Epilogue. The Baroness' Epilogue. End. Words: 2,221. Rating: all audiences.)

Epilogue: Lady Erridge

“Tam…”

Lady Erridge roused from her slumber at the sound of her Lady Orroat’s voice. A yawn filled her body with life, and the world around her became known once more. The familiar rumble of the carriage beneath them told her that she was still on the road.

“Sorry for waking you,” Orroat whispered, “but I thought you’d like to see Coldon.”

Lady Erridge perked immediately. “Coldon!?”

She jolted up, and stuck her head through the window. True enough, as her lady-love had said, the fields of Coldon unfolded before her.

Each was a different shade of green or yellow. Bushy trees bisected them, marked land where drystone lapsed. Farm buildings punctuated the countryside. Livestock dotted the grass. The familiarity of these sights settled into the chamber of her heart where they belonged.

“Oh, thank you for waking me,” she told Orroat. “I could not have missed this!”

Orroat leant over her shoulder, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. ��Nor would I have kept it to myself.”

Fields gave way, to a sight even more marvellous. At least, it was to Erridge.

Billowing clouds of smoke, rising from forest-shrouded furnaces—the glassmakers of West Coldon. Lady Erridge knew every detail of the production of stained glass. She had recounted it in full to multiple Ladies during her stay at Skyhold. Even if one did not learn from her the methods of glassmaking, they certainly learnt how proud she was of it.

“We must have them make the goblets for our wedding,” she mused, to Lady Orroat. “It should be so lovely if every guest were to have a special glass goblet they could take away and keep as a memento of our marriage.”

Orroat smiled. “Of course—though I do perhaps recall a certain someone saying they wished the goblets to be made of wood, and hand-carved by a local carpenter?”

Erridge cursed herself. “Oh, Maker, I did! Thank Andraste you remember. Perhaps we could have half glass, half wooden?”

“And the glass could come from the West, and the wood from the East.”

“Oh, such a wonderful idea!” Erridge applauded. “What a perfect day it shall be!”

“Week”—Orroat kissed her hand—“you said week.”

Having spent a month in the presence of a man who did not quite care enough to listen, Lady Erridge was rather grateful to have Lady Orroat again. She listened to each and every word Lady Erridge said, and remembered them all with pinpoint accuracy—a feat made all the more impressive by the fact that Lady Erridge liked to speak. A lot.

Yet familiar earthen roads and pretty thatched-roof homes held her in silence. The settlement of West Coldon possessed such an idyllic rurality, one that Orelsian types would sneer at, but which Erridge found to be superbly quaint and dream-like.

All it was missing was a castle. But the Orroats had retained the original keep of Coldon upon the division of the land, and so the Erridge usurpers had constructed their own manor.

Sat upon as much of a hill as West Coldon could provide, the Erridge abode was a homely thing, born of brick, timber, and clay. But the gardens were the best this side of Redcliffe, and the windows provided an incomparable view of the glasshouses, peeking out from amongst the distant woodland.

Their carriage rolled into its courtyard, kicking up dirt and causing stabled horses to whinny. No one hushed them, for the stable-workers were up on the roof, in the midst of repairs. Several hoisted a beam, buoyed mostly by the efforts of a man of portly physique. Yet as soon as he sighted the carriage of Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat, he dropped the beam and ran.

“Oh, my daughter! My dear Tam!” shouted Bann Erridge, huffing after them. His brown, bristly moustache puffed up with every gasp; the rosacea on his cheeks grew redder with every step.

“Dear, no!” cried a woman’s voice. “You mustn’t run!”

Out on a stoop, a Lady of familiar, Erridge-like quality in her plumpness and pinkness sat weaving wicker. But with the Bann’s charge, her canes were abandoned, and a chase begun.

“What of the physician!?” she called.

“That’s my daughter!” yelled the Bann. “Hang the physician!”

Guards nearby began to move—the elder Lady Erridge stared them down. She caught her husband by his arm, as Erridge began to plead from the carriage window:

“Father, do not panic! Do as mother says!”

But he would not be dissuaded. Quite afeared, Lady Orroat cried out, “Stop the carriage!” and brought them to a sudden halt.

Erridge burst from the door before her father’s efforts to keel over proved successful, and ran to his embrace.

“Oh, my sweet little Tam!” he sobbed, scooping her up and twirling her through the air. “I feared we should never see you again!”

“Darling, you’ll get tear-stains on her clothes!” said her mother, plucking a handkerchief from her dress-pocket. The Bann accepted it, and hurriedly went about patting his face.

The elder Lady Erridge took the opportunity to offer a hug of her own—and one to Orroat, too. She hugged her as warmly as one should the fiance of one’s daughter; especially a fiance one had believed to be a fiance for many years prior. “Welcome home,” she told them both. “We missed you terribly.”

“I missed you too,” said Erridge, tearing up. “And Coldon. And hugs!”

Her mother pulled yet another handkerchief from her pocket. Erridge dried her eyes.

“And to think I almost couldn’t get you to leave,” teased Lady Orroat, petting Erridge’s back.

“If only there were two of me!” she whined. “I could be there and here at once.”

Lady Orroat gave no reply except a barely-concealed smirk. Erridge smacked her arm.

“Do not talk of leaving again,” sobbed her father, mercifully oblivious. “I do not know how I shall spare you.”

“But, father,” Erridge asked, “how shall you cope when I am a married woman?”

“A married woman!” her father wailed, burying his face into the handkerchief again. Erridge made a mental reminder to have plenty of spare handkerchiefs sewn for the wedding day. Perhaps some buckets, too. Her father could cry enough to fill a river!

“Let us pray your family are of stronger constitution,” she commented to Lady Orroat, “or else all Coldon shall be flooded!”

Her mother somehow heard this, over the sound of her father’s weeping. “Oh—speaking of Orroats: the Bann and her Lord are on their way. Your brothers, too, Hulnes. Your father’s invited them all to stay. Isn’t that right, dear?”

Through sniffles, he nodded. “We’re to have a banquet, so we can all discuss the, the... w-wedding arrangements...”

“Perfect!” said Erridge. “Hul and I whiled away the journey home thinking of ideas, and—”

“Oh, don’t you worry about any of that!” Her mother patted her hand. “We’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to lift a finger!”

Erridge exchanged a worried glanced with Lady Orroat. “But—”

“Come along, now!” her father said, ushering them towards the manor. “We have planned the perfect day!”

Week. It was supposed to be a week.

***

It was not until at least midnight that Lady Orroat and Lady Erridge were able to retire to their room. The Orroats had arrived in the evening, and discussion of the wedding had been accelerated into the extreme.

There were, fortunately, no arguments to be had over these arrangements. No, indeed, their parents all quite agreed: it was to be the most elaborate, extravagant gala they were capable of putting on. It would outshine even the luxury of Orlais.

There was talk of multiple ceremonies, so that one could be had in the West, and one in the East. But that meant there could not be merely one band, but two—or three. Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat would arrive in a carriage pulled by six—no, eight white horses—and leave in another carriage, pulled by a further four.

It had all—mercifully—ended, when Lady Erridge complained of headache, and Lady Orroat offered to take her to her room. That itself ought to have given away the ruse, for there could be no place worse for a headache than Lady Erridge’s room.

It was, in essence, an explosion of pink and ruffles. The bed was piled high with teddy bears, each one wearing its own bow. Her trunk was nearly full-to-bursting, because nothing could contain that much chiffon and still function. A bookshelf nearby creaked under the weight of what could have possibly been every romance ever printed.

But it was the chaise that they collapsed onto, advantageously placed in front of a warm and soothing fire.

“Maker,” Erridge breathed. “I thought my notions were fanciful, but—Maker…”

Lady Orroat slumped against her. “They’ll calm down. They’re all excitement now, but with time, perhaps…”

“By all appearances, they’ve waited years to plan our wedding,” Erridge sighed. “I hardly think their enthusiasm shall wane.”

“One can only hope.”

The fire crackled on. Lady Erridge groaned. Unable to remain still, she took to the floor, and began to pace. This was no new habit for her: there was a well-trod track on the hearth-rug from spurts of such pacing.

“I wish it were like in the books,” she complained. “The heroines always seem to have such sweet, simple ceremonies. Oh, why can’t it be like that for us?”

“The heroines in those books are often orphans,” Lady Orroat quipped, “that’s why.”

“Let us consider that a last resort.”

Laughing, Orroat stood. “I say we don’t consider it a resort at all.” She caught her pacing bride-to-be, and swaddled her within her arms. “Your frustrations are getting to you. That would suggest it’s time for bed.”

Even with the rest she’d had on the journey, Lady Erridge could not dispute that she was rather tired. And she desperately missed her bed.

“Very well,” she conceded, off to begin deconstructing her teddy-pile.

Orroat watched her with a smile. “I’ll see you in the ‘morrow,” she said.

“Why?” Erridge paused, a stuffed dragon in one hand, and a stuffed lion in the other. “Where are you going?”

“To my room?”

What? That guest chamber was Orroat’s in name only. “But we’ve forever slept in the same room?”

The proof was all around them. There were scratches on the dresser, where they’d carved their names with needles; wax-stain on the floorboards, from a clumsy incident with a candle; pressed flowers stuck to Erridge’s sewing box in giddy, girlish fugue, slowly peeling with age. There was little point in pretending otherwise now.

“That was when we were friends,” Orroat clarified. “Tonight, we are friends and lovers. There’ll be rumours.”

Erridge scoffed. “As if there have never been any rumours about you and I. Half of them started by your own brothers! At least this time they would be accurate.”

Lady Orroat put on her best hero-in-a-romance voice: “Good Lady, you surely cannot be suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”

“I suggest nothing that is not appropriate. For it has always been appropriate, and shall be no less appropriate tonight—unless you decide to be inappropriate with it.”

Orroat drifted over, and placed her hands upon Erridge’s waist. “My Lady, I would never dare such a thing,” she said, ending it with a kiss.

She released Lady Erridge, and set about undressing herself; Lady Erridge did the same. There were no surprises to be had in this process. Lady Erridge quite knew that Lady Orroat slept in breeches and her undershirt—and sometimes not the undershirt. Lady Erridge had always liked it. She hadn’t quite known why until recently.

They found their way beneath the bedsheets, discovering under the pillows an uncomfortable plush unicorn, which had somehow been missed by Erridge’s earlier dissassembly. At Erridge’s behest it was placed gently aside, and they were at last able to rest.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Orroat.

The only light was that of the distant fire; the only sound that of shifting fabric. It really was no different to how they’d talked as teenagers. There was merely a margin’s more hand-holding now.

“All this has me thinking,” Erridge whispered. “I’m not even certain I want a wedding.”

Orroat’s face fell. “What?”

“I should still very much like to be married to you—but I can’t stand all this hullabaloo.”

When it was all a distant prospect, a far-flung possibility, Lady Erridge had cared quite significantly about the particulars of her wedding. Where it would be, who would be there, how the food would taste. But that was because she did not know who would be at the altar. And now she did, all that other stuff paled in importance.

“Unfortunately, we cannot have the one without the other,” Orroat lamented. “A marriage requires a wedding.”

Erridge’s mind ticked over that phrase. “You could have a wedding without a marriage.”

“I suppose,” chuckled Orroat, “but I’m afraid that’s the part we want to keep.”

“And I did promise my friends.”

Orroat nodded, eyes closing. “We cannot forsake the opportunity to see them all.”

“Never.”

And if having a wedding was the only way to see them all again, then a wedding she would have.

“So you’ll marry me?” whispered Orroat.

Erridge smiled. “Yes.”

[charmcity-jess]

Second one done! A Pride and Prejudice inspired Cullen x Inquisitor piece 💕💕

Aaaa I had so much fun with this one!! I hadn’t drawn Cullen in so long! I’m definitely going to draw more of him especially with the da revival going on

Thank you to @ lilac.swallow on instagram for your support! I loved drawing Cullen with your Trevelyan ❤️

[charmcity-jess]

Quick little Cullen

[charmcity-jess]

take her hand!

[charmcity-jess]

i used flycam for the cullen romance yesterday and found out that dorian just fucking sits his ass down on those stairs during the cutscene

[charmcity-jess]

For every Cousland who ever wanted to smooch that man with the soulpatch, I just uploaded a Nathaniel Howe romance scene mod.

You have to be logged in and enable adult content to be able to see the mod :)

[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 epilogue, the Baroness searches for hope.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Giles' Epilogue. Erridge's Epilogue. End. Words: 2,009. Rating: all audiences, apart from one swear.)

Epilogue: The Baroness

History often wrote of hope being found among the desolation of battlefields. But as her carriage neared Val Misrenne, the Baroness believed this to be little more than poetry.

The farmland she knew had been scorched beyond recognition. Trees had been slaughtered where they stood. Homes had been burnt to blackened timber. Homes she knew the occupants of.

The town itself would be no better. The gates approached, and what awaited the Baroness beyond them would be nothing but emptiness, silence, and death.

The last thing she expected was to hear a child’s laughter.

Yet, by the gates of Val Misrenne, a gaggle of them played. They recognised her carriage, and hurried to follow—singing, cheering, giggling; as children ought.

The streets beyond were no less vibrant. A washer-woman hung the day’s laundry. Masons scraped up fresh mortar. A hunter carried a brace of game. A bookseller swept out his porch. Precious vignettes of life.

Perhaps history was a poet, after all.

The Baroness’ little parade saw her escorted to the centre of town, and the grand Orlesian manor that stood there, tall and defiant as ever. Her home. Her hall. The heart of Val Misrenne.

Its gates were quite useless, for they were always open—and today was no different. Her carriage trundled through, halting only for those who criss-crossed the gravel road ahead. And there were many. The gardens of the hall had not seen such a hive of activity since the last fete!

The entire town was at work, it seemed. Logs were chopped, wicker woven, blankets mended. Any skill that could be afforded was given in service of the community.

And now the Baroness would give hers.

She alighted her carriage before the horses even came to a stop. Her call went out, to the first able-bodied workers she saw:

“You there, help unload these supplies! The flour is for the bakeries, and the food is to be distributed amongst those who need it most. Feed the sick, the elderly, and the young!”

Magnetised by her command, plenty complied. The many sacks she’d stuffed her carriage with were hauled up and out, passed along chains, loaded onto barrows for delivery. Apples were already being handed to the children who’d followed.

Within her chest, the lingering pain of impotence began to alleviate its hold. So many had called her ‘Baroness’ during her absence, yet it was not until this moment that she felt she truly deserved the title.

Though it seemed she was not the only one, for someone had to be responsible for all this hubbub. However, Touledy quite suspected she knew who this other might be.

“Clarisse!”

Thallia.

She struck Touledy like an arrow, with a heart-piercing embrace. It took the full support of Touledy’s cane to save them from a fall.

“Thallia,” she breathed, “are you all right?”

“I’m alive,” muttered Thallia. She made a limp gesture at her continued existence. “That is the best I can say.”

“Then that is enough.”

Truly, to see her without wound or mar was all Touledy required. Thallia had a face too fresh and sweet to see war; her blemished brown skin, noticeably short stature, and pouf of unruly curls all made her look remarkably adolescent.

(Or, perhaps, it was simply that Touledy could not bear to admit her dear little sister would ever age.)

But that appearance was deceptive, for Thallia possessed the wisdom and sense of a woman thrice her years—something that Val Misrenne had much reason to be grateful for. The life and activity that filled these gardens would not have manifested without it.

They moved through the crowds, Thallia informing her of what had happened since her departure. The Baroness could not help but note that, though plentiful, those crowds were not complete. She muttered, “A memorial should be held, for the lost.”

“Oh! There is, tomorrow,” Thallia told her. “We’re having it here, on the lawn. Nothing extravagant, though Lommy’s gathered us candles, and Aislee sewed a banner of the Inquisition, to raise in honour of what they did for us.”

The grass was a little overgrown for such usage, but it would have to do. “I should be glad to attend,” Touledy said.

“Yes. It’s fortunate you were able to return in time to do so.”

Not truly. Fortunate would have been returning in time to prevent the requirement for a memorial in the first place.

“What of those in need?” Touledy asked, an attempt to refocus herself. “Are there any without homes?”

“There are,” Thallia confessed. “Some have been taken in by family or neighbours.”

“Then I shall invite those who have not been provided for to stay within the hall until we find them permanent residence.”

There would be no part of her that she would not give to restore her people. Anything to repay the debt of what they had laid down in her absence.

“Oh,” said Thallia, “I already did.”

Touledy stopped, and stared.

“Sorry—we couldn’t wait for your permission,” Thallia explained. “I simply did what I thought you would do.”

“Oh.”

A child ran up. They held out a cup of lukewarm tea, complaining of the temperature. Thallia smiled, and laughed, and waved her hand over the cup with far more flourish than such a spell truthfully demanded. The drink was warm once more, and the grateful child skipped away.

Touledy chuckled. To say that Thallia had acted as she would was nothing more than flattery. For as much credit as Thallia would give her influence, Touledy knew better. Thallia had possessed great compassion and intelligence well before her arrival in Val Misrenne. Had she not, she never would have come.

In all of this, Thallia had not merely acted as she would. Thallia had acted as the Baroness of Val Misrenne would.

That difference mattered.

***

The words to describe the feeling of seeing Val Misrenne standing were difficult to find, but Touledy would simply have to. She would leave no detail of her relief out of her letter to Trevelyan.

She wrote this letter at her desk, in her personal study. The room was characterised by ceiling-high bookshelves, a small fireplace, and a large portrait of the Touledy family above it. All this might have made it stuffy, rather than cosy, if not for the tall, ornate windows that bestowed great light, and allowed such precious views of the town below.

But being as her attention was caught upon these windows, and the view they beheld, the Baroness did not quite notice the presence creeping closer.

“Who are you writing to?” asked Thallia, startling her.

She moved her hand, as if to aid her in turning to face Thallia; yet, it just so happened to hover over the name of the addressee.

“The Inquisition,” Touledy said. “To let them know all is well—for now.”

Thallia hummed. “Didn’t you bring back a bird, for that?”

“I did, but that is for emergencies. Besides, I should like the words, to be able to adequately express my gratitude for their intervention. Val Misrenne should not stand so tall were it not for their efforts.”

Thallia seemed to accept this as answer well enough, and Touledy took to writing again. She renewed her quill with ink, and began to scratch out where she’d left off.

“Who is the Arcanist Trevelyan?” Thallia asked.

With her hand departed to write, the name was laid bare. And Thallia had taken full opportunity to glimpse it. The cheeky thing. Touledy affectionately rolled her eyes.

“A friend within the Inquisition,” she answered.

“Oh?” The raise of her eyebrows could be heard in Thallia’s voice. “A ‘friend’?”

Touledy glanced up, to shoot her a look—and saw that Thallia had come to rest by the mantle, beneath the portrait of the Touledy family. The Baroness found her eyes lingering upon it.

“I wonder if you should not like to join the Inquisition yourself?” she muttered, returning to her writing. “A mage of your ability would have a bright future there, I am certain.”

“What?”

“The Arcanist herself is a formidable mage, and I am certain would accept you as an apprentice should I ask. You could achieve great things there.”

Thallia paused before responding: “Having seen what their Inquisitor is capable of, I am sure. But—why?”

Touledy downed her quill. “What do you mean?”

“Well—do you wish us to go?” wondered Thallia. “The mages, I mean. I would understand. I am sure we would be safer in the Inquisition, and Val Misrenne safer without us. If that is what you wish.”

“No, no—that is not at all what I meant,” she clarified. “I simply wish that you be sure Val Misrenne is your future. The world is great and wide, and has remarkable opportunities for someone like you. I would not want you to stay out of service to anyone—living or dead.”

Her eyes could not help but trail to the portrait once more. To her father, regal and tall. Her mother, soft and wise. Her young self, sweet and bright. And her brother.

Ouen, frozen at the age he left. Perfectly preserved was the mismatch of his round face and fragile body. Those optimistic eyes shone through the paint, wide for the world they sought to change. But if anything, the artist had truly captured his smile. Big and wonky. When she was a toddler, all he would have to do was smile, and she’d laugh.

Touledy hadn’t seen that smile since he departed.

“I understand,” muttered Thallia, her eyes also on the painting, her eyes also glistening. “But I like Val Misrenne. It’s my home. I wouldn’t have fought so hard if it weren’t.” She offered Touledy a smile. “Perhaps I could do great things in the Inquisition—but perhaps I could do great things here, too. I hope I do.”

“So do I,” said Touledy. She gripped her cane, and stood her full height. “Which… is why I wish to name you my heir.”

“What?”

Val Misrenne’s future had seemed so certain, in that family portrait. The Touledys were strong. And now, Baroness Clarisse Touledy was the only one left. That made them vulnerable.

Val Misrenne needed another.

“I am not invincible. This has proven that much. Should I fall, Val Misrenne requires one who will stand. And given I have no spouse and no children, it is only right that I name an heir. You have proven yourself a capable leader; I can think of none more suitable.”

“But—I’m a mage!” Thallia protested. “The Council of Heralds won’t like that.”

“The Council of Heralds can go fuck themselves.”

Her head shook. “I’m—not sure I could do it.”

“You already have.” Touledy gestured to the window: beyond the panes, the gardens bustled with the life that Thallia commanded. “These are the actions of a Baroness of Val Misrenne. You said so yourself.”

“You’d have to teach me everything you know.”

Touledy smiled. “Of course. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. I shall have to occupy the time somehow.”

“And who knows,” Thallia joked, “you may produce a natural heir yet! Though this Commander didn’t turn out so well, there are more to be had. You speak well of that Arcanist, after all… is there not something there?”

Touledy’s eyes dipped away. Small wonder that, of all people, Thallia was the one to notice.

“She is a friend, and cannot be anything more,” murmured Touledy. “Should you wonder who the Commander chose...”

“Oh, dear. Then why not save her from that dullard?”

“Because she is happy, and deserves to be so.”

Thallia frowned. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Hardly.” Touledy snatched up her cane, and marched back to her desk. “Besides, I am not so down on my luck.” She took her seat, and slid across another leaf of vellum, quill poised to write. “Once all is settled here, I intend to visit Val Royeaux. There is an ex-fiance I wish to visit.”

Thallia raised an eyebrow. “Yours?”

“Oh, no,” Touledy laughed. “Someone else’s.”

[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 epilogue, Giles finds her way home.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Touledy's Epilogue. Erridge's Epilogue. End. Words: 2,393. Rating: all audiences.)

Epilogue: Giles

Inquisition troops marched through field and farmland, nothing more than a movement north, bound for the Waking Sea and Free Marches beyond.

That was the story Jader had been told; that was the story Jader had believed. With the assent of its rulers, such movement was permitted. They had no idea that, amongst those simple-looking soldiers, the missing daughter of Samient walked.

The site of her ‘disappearance’ would have been discovered, by now. The Duke’s guard would be crawling all over it, like so many ants upon a fresh carcass. The Inquisition would be all apology, offering whatever help they could—but the blame would ultimately lie with her father. He hadn’t sent her with a guard, the other nobles would say. What could he expect?

Giles felt the guilt of it strongly. Every step she took, she questioned whether this was the right path. But she reminded herself, of what waited at its end. This would be worth it.

“Almost there,” Loranil told her. “If the others have already arrived, then we’ll be meeting at the docks. All right?”

Giles nodded. “Thank you,” she replied. “Thank you for doing this.”

Loranil smiled. “Not the sort of mission I expected when I joined the Inquisition—but I don’t mind it. I think it’s more pleasant than most of the soldiers have had, anyway.”

That much was true. They’d exchanged stories with Giles on their way, usually whilst bedding down for the night. She only believed half of them. No way had Troubridge fought a giant and lived to tell the tale, let alone done so without being raised in rank!

Though it did put her own situation in comparison. There had been no giant-killing on their journey, thank the Maker. In fact, their greatest danger was this. Jader. The last of Orlais she would see, the most likely place for her to be recognised. Best keep the helmet on tight.

But it served its purpose well enough. They walked the streets of the city with no resistance. Guards nodded them through, residents stopped to watch them walk by. A child stared with such wonder, it was as if the Inquisitor was the one striding past instead.

And thus, unhindered, they made it to the docks—a bustling shipyard, adorned with grand vessels, ready to sail the Waking Sea. The abundance of Orlesian heard throughout the city melted away, and left instead was a mixture of tongues, flying between sailors of varying origin.

With a quiet word of confirmation to the dockmaster, the Captain of Giles’ retinue led them where they needed to go. A ship, moored on the third dock to the right. That was where the other Inquisition had gathered.

Giles’ heart pounded against her chest. They rounded a corner, saw a group of soldiers scattered across crates and barrels, leaning and sitting and talking and relaxing. She halted in her tracks. Her eyes scanned the face of each and every single one. Until—

All went quiet. A soldier stood.

“Giles?”

He took the helm from his head, and revealed the man beneath. Vichy. Her Vichy.

She had feared this moment greatly. That the war might’ve changed him, that he might be beyond recognition. But every fear fell away, when she saw him.

It was the smiling face she knew; the deep brown skin and muscled arms; the same rich black hair—though his curls and coils had been cut shorter than she recalled. It didn’t matter. It was him.

“Vichy,” she breathed.

Her feet took off running before she had even realised it. He was ready for her, arms open. She collided with him, embrace so powerful that her helm was knocked from her head, to skitter across the ground.

It didn’t matter. It was him.

“I’m so sorry,” she wept, clutching him tighter than she ever had before. “This was my fault.”

“Don’t you worry,” he whispered, “it’s my fault, really.”

“How? How could any of this be your fault?”

“Well, a bastard son of an elf can’t really meddle with the Duke’s daughter and expect to get away with it, can he? You’re trouble, Giles. Beautiful trouble.”

She smiled. If there was any greater proof that this was her Vichy, it was this—for he never could take a single situation seriously. She was glad that that had not been taken from him. It was that very attitude that had her broken in the first place.

“My father should never have done this to you,” she told him. For, as much as she adored it, this was no time for his jokes.

“I chose to go,” he replied, kissing the tears from her cheek. “Besides, with what the Inquisition lot have told me about the Commander, I think you got the worse end of the deal. I have every respect for the man, given what he’s done for us—but Creators, he sounds boring.”

Giles chuckled. “His presence made me miss yours all the more. We should have run.”

He held her close, serious for the first time in his life: “No. I would have agreed to anything your father offered, to keep you safe.”

“But every moment without you I have been in danger of myself.”

She felt Vichy’s head shake, against hers. “Come now, none of that. I’m here. I’m here.”

He was. If only to prove it, if only to know it was real, if only to make it complete—she kissed him. Any lingering doubts fled, in the wake of that kiss. She had made the right decision.

An unfortunately public one, for a cheer went up—a few of the soldiers, who were swiftly reprimanded by their Captain—and Giles was suddenly reminded that they were not alone.

Vichy laughed at them. “All right, pay up!” he called. “Whoever said she wouldn’t show, you owe me a crown!”

Giles chuckled. With the distraction, she could part to find her helm—though she did not have to look for long. It was already discovered, in the hands of Loranil, who’d prevented it from rolling away.

“Best get this back on,” he said, handing it over, “we’re not in the Free Marches yet.”

***

They arrived in the Marches days later, to rendezvous with the Inquisition base in Kirkwall. The majority of the retinue would sequester themselves within; few were permitted to travel on to Sumara.

The Clan was last traced to Planascene Forest, where it had shrouded itself since the troubles of the Breach. Inquisition scouts had confirmed its location, and offered warning: more Inquisition were bound, to return a lost daughter.

The Clan had given no reply—except to say that they were waiting.

That sense of anticipation was felt throughout Planascene. Ancient trees shadowed the path, so that daylight could barely break through. Swaying leaves atop the canopy never quite settled into silence.

Giles felt watched. As if the Creators themselves now weighed her worth. What if they rejected her?

Such concern was halted, by the touch of a hand slipping into her own. Vichy.

“Chanter to E-4,” he whispered, with a smile.

Oh. Not a valid opening move. Unless…

“Are you referring to our game from the boat?” asked Giles.

They’d had to pass the time over the Waking Sea somehow, and they always did their best talking over a game of chess. Lucky for them, the skipper had a board.

“I am,” said Vichy. “I was about to win, and the fact of our journey’s end was quite convenient for you, I’d say.”

“Empress to E-4, capture,” Giles replied, quite in disagreement.

Vichy chuckled anyway. Giles did not truly think that he had restarted the game for his own glory. No, it made for a perfect distraction, and she was grateful for it.

It also served as a reminder. No matter what happened in the next few hours, she had him. They had each other. That was enough. That was more than enough.

Trees gave way to boulder-like stone, too purposefully-carved to be merely natural—likely some kind of ruins. The largest of its old columns towered over them, defiant in its continued existence. Loranil, treading carefully, raised his hands. To the stones, he called out, in Elven:

“Hold! We are friends!”

Movement, atop the ruins. A pair of elves, dressed in the leather of hunters, and carrying bows as tall as their bodies, made themselves known.

They asked something of Loranil, to which he gave a hasty answer. Though they seemed unsure, one withdrew, and disappeared beyond the ruins.

“I’ve asked for their Keeper,” Loranil explained to Giles. His eyes passed to the soldiers behind her. “Keep your weapons sheathed,” he warned.

The soldiers nodded, even stepping a pace back. The hunter who’d remained watched them, carefully.

It was some time—a half-hour at least—before the other finally returned, to their perch. Yet, more movement came with them. Out, from betwixt the ruins, emerged an elven man. He was of middle age, at least, with pale skin and paler hair. The robes he wore were unmistakably elaborate, the staff he bore thrumming with magic. The attire of a Keeper.

Though Giles did not understand it, he asked something of her. Loranil stepped in:

“Yes, this is the woman. Her mother was of your Clan.”

The Keeper switched to common tongue. “And what is your name?” he asked.

“Giles. Giles Samient,” she told him. “It was my mother’s wish that I would one day return to her Clan.”

“Have you any proof?”

Giles stammmered, “What?”

The Keeper gestured to his hunters. “I understand your hopes—but I must exercise caution. I cannot allow outsiders into the Clan without proof that you are, indeed, of Sumara.”

Giles hurried to unclasp the pendant from her neck. “This,” she said, holding the halla-horn out, “this was my mother’s.”

The Keeper, with a nod, permitted Loranil to retrieve the pendant from her—though he seemed as reluctant to take it as she was to let it go. Every step it retreated from her felt like another claw piercing her heart, threatening to tear it out.

But the pendant was safely delivered, and the Keeper regarded it with a curious eye.

“I was First to our previous Keeper, when we settled near Samient. Both your mother and father were friends of mine,” he revealed, meeting Giles’ gaze, “but I do not recognise this trinket.”

Panic struck her face—yet he went on:

“However, there is one who may. Excuse me for a moment.”

The Keeper withdrew into the ruins. The hunters remained, watching. The wait, this time, was even longer. Vichy and Loranil did their best to console Giles’ worry, but with every passing minute, it grew. It felt as though the longer they waited, the lesser her chances became—

Rustling, beyond the ruins. The crack of a twig, underfoot. Someone was coming.

The Keeper re-emerged, accompanied by another. An older woman. Her skin was tan, a little lighter than Samient’s—but her hair was the same shade of reddish-brown, greying at the scalp.

The pendant was in her hand, now, the chain dangling from her tightly-curled fingers. Her frail eyes darted between the gathered visitors—until they settled on Giles.

A string of Elven spilled from the woman’s mouth, as she stumbled forward. There was only one word Giles recognised.

“Terana.”

Giles’ breath caught. Her father had spoken her mother’s name only three times her whole life—each time more pained than the last. But this woman’s single utterance bore more pain than all his put together.

The woman came face-to-face with her, eyes searching Giles’. More words she didn’t understand. Giles called to Loranil:

“What did she say?”

Almost speechless, Loranil answered: “She asks if you are Terana. Her daughter.”

Her—? Giles shook her head. “What do you mean?”

Tears welled in the woman’s eyes, as she raised her hands to cradle Giles’ face.

“I think,” Loranil breathed, “this is your grandmother.”

The woman rubbed her thumbs over Giles’ pointed ears, and turned back to the Keeper. She said something; sobbed it, screamed it.

“Your companion is correct,” the Keeper said to Giles, a smile forming across his face. “This is Terana’s mother. And she says you are her granddaughter.”

Giles met her grandmother’s gaze. Words she had never expected. Her grandmother.

She saw, in her face, a reflection of her own. In every curve and feature, there was something of her that they shared. She was so beautiful. Even their tears fell the same.

“My granddaughter,” she whispered, “at last, Ghila’nain has guided you home.”

Her hands withdrew, and she threaded the necklace around Giles’ neck, sealing the clasp herself.

“I gave this to your mother, so that one day, she could come home. That is the last you have of her,” she said, wiping a tear from Giles’ cheek, “and you are the last I have of her.”

Crumbling, collapsing, Giles fell into her embrace. She hoped it was something like holding her mother would have been. She hoped her mother knew. She hoped she could feel it too.

But her grandmother noted Vichy beside them, and curiosity drew her to part. She asked of Giles:

“Who is this?”

“This is Vichy,” Giles explained, “we are betrothed.”

Her grandmother took his hands, and squeezed them. “You brought her home. Which Clan are you from?”

“None, I’m afraid,” answered Vichy. “An alienage. But my mother—she was born in a Clan.”

“Good. Good, strong boy.” She patted his hand. “Then you are home.”

“Ma serannas,” he said, before adding to Giles: “I think she likes me.”

Giles gave a little laugh. “Good.”

Her grandmother took her hand once more, and led her toward the Keeper. The hunters above relaxed their bows, standing to attention, rather than to guard.

“I present my granddaughter,” she said.

The Keeper nodded. “Andaran atish’an, Giles. Welcome to your Clan. In fact”—he looked to Vichy, and Loranil, and their little retinue—“let me extend my welcome to you all. You have returned to us a daughter of Sumara. We must celebrate.”

He extended an arm towards the gap in the ruins. The hunters drew back; Loranil and the soldiers took the invitation. Giles, one hand taken by her grandmother, threaded her other through Vichy’s.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Giles smiled. “Better. I am home.”