#;Tris Trevelyan | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

partystoragechest · 1 year ago

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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 seeks out the Commander's warmth.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,912. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 27: Part Four

Orders flew across the Undercroft, as preparations began for the second test of the Arcanist’s red lyrium explosive.

This test was to take place not in Skyhold, thank the Maker, but the Dales. There was a vein of the stuff—not too far—that the Inquisition knew of, and would not mind seeing blown to smithereens. Its day of reckoning loomed.

But there was much to be done before that could happen. Not only was the device to be made ready—multiple versions, in the interest of study—but there was a remarkable amount of bureaucracy to tackle. Apparently, one required permission prior to detonating the countryside.

Therefore, whilst Dagna was preoccupied with runecraft and raw lyrium, Trevelyan, as her assistant, was left with the organisation of it all. Reports were to be made, forms of approval submitted. The usual nonsense—including, of course:

“Our escort,” said Dagna, stopping briefly, lyrium chisel still in hand. “The Commander should have it ready. Can you check with him?”

Trevelyan collected her papers, and nodded. “Yes, Arcanist.”

“Great! And be sure to remind him this trip is not for the faint of heart. I can’t have another dropper.”

After clarifying with Herzt what a ‘dropper’ was (one who collapses upon seeing the Arcanist’s more avant-garde work, like a soldier who’d attended her last Fade experiment), Trevelyan smiled.

“I’ll remind him,” she said.

And she was glad to. She needed to see the Commander—not merely for the fact their conversation last night had been interrupted—but for her own self, too. There was much on her mind, this morning. When they had spoken yesterday, he had brought such peace—she hoped that he might do so again now.

The route she took to his office could have been walked in her sleep, so familiar was it. Out of the Undercroft, into the Great Hall, through the rotunda, and over the bridge. Trevelyan stole a downward glance at the training soldiers as she crossed it, but saw no blob of red and fur amongst them. Definitely office, then.

She arrived at the Commander’s door, and left a knock upon the grain. The moment felt all too reminiscent of the last time she had done so, and the miserable spectacle she had discovered beyond. But the sound of his voice reassured her immediately:

“Come in!”

Not weak, not croaking. Good and strong. Commanding, even. She did as requested, and entered.

The scene within was equally promising. Despite the long night, the Commander appeared quite polished and put-together—hair styled, armour shining. He carried himself with great import, whilst regarding the various documents scattered upon his desk. Never had Trevelyan been quite so pleased to see him working.

He glanced up, and caught sight of her. His face, half-lit by the sun’s early rays, turned from stern to smiling.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he greeted, “how are you?”

Trevelyan wandered a little ways into the room, fingers flexing on the papers she held to her chest. “I am… it would be dishonest of me to say I am well,” she admitted, abandoning the lie of politeness. “My mind has not settled since last night.”

“I am sorry to hear it. Is there anything I can do for you? If you wish to talk—?”

Trevelyan smiled, but shook her head. “You have done more than enough for me, Commander. And the issue I speak of is… not what you think.”

Because the thoughts that plagued her now were not of the Comtesse’s comment or Trevelyan’s own misery. Rather, they had been overtaken by Lady Samient’s revelation.

Something wasn’t right about her leaving—and the mystery of it had kept Trevelyan awake until the early hours. But try as she might, she could not place her finger upon the solution.

At least it was an effective distraction.

“Hm.” The Commander shuffled his reports into a pile. “Is… everything all right between yourself and Lady Samient?”

Though she had said nothing of Samient, he knew. But—Samient’s intrusion last night had hardly been secretive. And if Trevelyan had mentioned nothing of concern to him before her arrival, then what ailed her could only have come afterward.

“Very astute,” she told him, “though—yes, all is well between us, but... she revealed to me her departure tomorrow. I suppose I shall miss her, is all.”

The Commander left her gaze, eyes focused upon his own thoughts. Whatever came to mind, he shook it away. “I see. I’m... sorry.”

“There is nothing to be done,” said Trevelyan, having ruminated upon it enough to know if there were. “If her father calls her home, to home she must go.”

This was the sole resolution Trevelyan had been able to think of. Acceptance.

“I… yes. I’m sorry,” said the Commander, putting on a transparent show of solemnity. Trevelyan could not help but wish it were real. Perhaps it would be, had he tried.

Had he tried, perhaps she would stay.

“Nevertheless,” Trevelyan went on, “these are not the matters I came to discuss.”

“Of course.”

“The Arcanist sent me to ask after our retinue, for the Dales. Have you arranged it yet?”

The Commander’s demeanour changed at once: spine straight, time for business.

“Yes,” he told her. “The soldiers selected are experienced with this kind of operation, and are well-trained, should anything go awry.”

No droppers, then. “Very good. The Arcanist will be pleased.”

The Commander pulled a sheet from his pile, and held it out to Trevelyan. “Here, your Ladyship. This is the list prepared.”

Trevelyan took it, and gave it a once-over, as if she knew to whom any of these names belonged.

“Thank you,” she said regardless. “I’ll take it to the Arcanist.”

She took a step for the door.

“Will you be all right, travelling?”

Trevelyan startled. She glanced back at the Commander, and saw that his dispassionate self was absent once more, replaced instead by relaxed posture and a softened gaze. The gentleness of his countenance was proof that they both knew to what he referred.

“Ah…”

“I promise you, this retinue will serve. Even beyond Skyhold, you remain under protection of the Inquisition.”

Trevelyan gave great effort to suppress a little smile, and failed entirely. “Thank you, Commander. Truthfully, I should be fine. I have travelled since… what happened, by necessity, and have grown accustomed to the feeling”—she thought not of her journey to Skyhold, but the many nights beforehand, spent hidden in the wilderness—“and we shall be travelling well clear of Ferelden.”

“Is that why you came here by the Heartlands?”

How did he know—? The gala. But that was so long ago. “Yes,” she confessed. “My parents intended to send me through Jader, but… it was too close. I requested travel through Orlais instead.”

‘Requested’ here meaning ‘begged through screaming tears’.

“The only other passage we could secure in time was through the Heartlands. Circuitous, but… better.”

The Commander nodded, appearing as if settled by these answers—yet he was not done with his questions. “If I may, do Bann and Lady Trevelyan… know what happened?”

Trevelyan froze; a candle flickered in the corner of her eye. She hoped, desperately, that he did not recall that they had sent her here without informing her of his past. For if he did, then there was no hiding their temperament in her reply.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I have told no one so much as you, but… yes.”

If there was a change in the Commander’s face upon receipt of this, then it was imperceptible. Yet, a hand toyed with the pommel of his sword.

“I see,” he said. “Do you like your home?”

A smile, born of practice, crept across Trevelyan’s face, and stretched her mouth as if pulled. This was one truth she could not tell him—for her own sake. Maker knows, Missy and Cara could always be outside the door.

“Bann and Lady Trevelyan were very kind to re-establish my title and allow me to stay. I have food and shelter, and I am grateful for it.”

The Commander did not share her smile. “I hope Skyhold… I hope you’re comfortable here.”

“Oh, I am.” There was no falsehood this answer, and so eager was she to say it. “One would not expect a fortress in the mountains to be so pleasant nor so comfortable, yet it is. And there is so much to do—I feel as though I have purpose, here.” She caught herself, before she rambled too long. “But of course, the people are quite delightful, too. Present company included.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m glad.”

“Well, now that I have my retinue and you have been flattered, I believe I have done all I am required to do.” Trevelyan stepped toward the leftmost door. “I should be off.”

The Commander watched with interest. “That’s—you have business that way?”

“Should I?”

“You usually leave through that door,” he said, indicating the same one she had arrived through.

True, it was quickest back to the Undercroft—but she planned to take her time.

“I thought I might walk through the courtyard,” she told him, pressing her back against the wood-grain, “before I am relegated to the Undercroft all the rest of the day.” Her weight cracked it open, and let gleaming rays of sunlight peek through. The Commander gazed at it.

“That sounds... nice.”

The longing in his voice was deeply miserable. A few minutes out of his office wouldn’t harm him. Would probably do him some good, if anything. Trevelyan grinned. “You may join me, if you like.”

He blinked. “What? Now?”

“Of course. You cannot be trapped in here all day, either.”

A faint smile creased his lips. His posture shifted taller. And then he caught sight of the document pile, still lingering on his desk, and his countenance fell.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I have to, ah…”

His words trailed away. Trevelyan kept up her smile. There was little else she could have expected—but the offer may yet have been more important than the experience.

“That’s all right,” she replied. “Another time, perhaps.”

“We have time together tomorrow.”

Oh. In all the havoc of preparation, that had slipped Trevelyan’s mind entirely. With the Commander’s strength returned, their pesky ‘competition’ was restarted. The Ladies would meet with him once more. And as she had already forgotten, Lady Montilyet had arranged for her to spend time with him tomorrow.

“I am afraid—with so much to do before our journey—it is unlikely I will have the time to see you, tomorrow.” When she saw his face fall, she added: “I’m sorry.”

“It’s�� all right. I understand.”

He did not appear as if he understood. He appeared as if a pup denied its playtime.

“I’ll… we shall see, I suppose. I bid you farewell for now, Commander.”

“Farewell.”

With a shove, Trevelyan heaved the door open. The light broke in at last, spilling past her, to illuminate the downtrodden face of the Commander. She kept her eyes on him even as she slipped from the room.

‘Twas a shame, truly. But she would endeavour to enjoy her walk, regardless: it was bright and breezy up on the battlements of Skyhold, and the mere sight of such sunshine made her smile.

She took a moment, to step to the parapet, and look out over the valley below. Beautiful as ever, the low sun coursed its way along the frozen river, casting sparkles upon every facet of its rippled surface. Oh, Trevelyan liked Skyhold indeed.

Retreating from the battlement, she went for the stairs. A long flight, which would take her to the stables. She took her first step upon it—

—and heard the swing of a creaky door, with footsteps hurrying out. She glanced behind, to see what approached. Some runner on an urgent mission, perhaps, or a deeply-focused servant in the midst of their work—

Her jaw dropped. The Commander. Emerging from his office. Jogging over?

Surely, then, it was he who was on an urgent mission, yet—he slowed, and fell in step with her.

“The healers said I should get more air,” he explained, “if you don’t mind my accompanying you.”

Trevelyan closed her mouth, and let it form to a smile. “Well, I did invite you.”

Quite pleased with this response (were the expression on his face anything to go by) the Commander took it upon himself to gesture towards the stairs. His own little invitation. Trevelyan accepted, and, together, they made the descent.

“Shall this be an excuse to speak more of work?” Trevelyan asked, between the sounds of birdsong above, and the chatter of people below. “Or is there something else you wished to discuss?”

“Well, I—”

“We could always choose your favourite option, I believe: silence.”

He chuckled. “Whichever you prefer.”

“I think I should like to ask you about the novel you were reading,” said Trevelyan. “The romance. Have you had any chance to read more?”

Though clearly not quite at ease with the line of questioning, given the rub of his neck, the Commander endeavoured to answer her, regardless: “While I was recovering, yes. It’s… not very good.”

They reached the bottom of the stair, and Trevelyan turned to face him. “You said someone had recommended it to you? Who in Thedas inflicted such punishment upon you, Commander?”

He laughed, and shook his head. “You won’t be surprised by the name. It was Dorian.”

Trevelyan’s brow flicked upward. “Indeed, I am surprised”—they began to wander a meandering trail, winding through the stables—“I would not think Dorian the sort to read such trifles.”

“Yes, quite. I am beginning to think he was asked to read it by someone else, and deferred the task to me.”

Trevelyan giggled. “Now that sounds more like him.”

A hart took interest in their nearing, and leant its face over the stable door. Trevelyan paused, reaching her free hand up, to stroke its snout. The Commander offered to take her papers, so that she might use both.

“Thank you,” she said, giving the animal’s fur a good rub. “You know, if you’d like a recommendation for something better, Lady Erridge is quite the expert on romances.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have time to read another.”

“Not minutes ago, you didn’t have time to walk with me. And now look at you.”

The hart withdrew, having had its fill. An equally-satisfied Trevelyan took back her papers. The Commander smiled.

“You always know what to say.”

“Hardly! I knew nothing of what to say when I saw you emerging from your office just now.”

“Those were… extraordinary circumstances.”

“Extraordinary indeed,” she teased, quietening to say, “though I am glad you joined me.”

“Ah…” He avoided her gaze. “Good.”

They slowed to a stop. Their path had come to an end, their walk threatening to end with it. But Trevelyan, as if suggestion, threw a smile and a glance in the direction of the stores. Despite his shyness, the Commander obliged.

Side-by-side, they strolled, trundling past swarms of staff as preparations commenced for tomorrow’s delivery. Maids and pantlers alike kept a wide berth, from the approaching Commander and his... companion.

“After last night, I could hardly say your company is not welcome,” Trevelyan told him. “I am eternally grateful for your kindness to me, Commander. I shall not soon forget it. Thank you—if I haven’t said it enough.”

“It’s… it was the least I could do,” he mumbled, adding, “I did think that Lady Erridge was, ah, very helpful herself.”

Trevelyan thought this an understatement. Lady Erridge had been Maker-sent last night, and was fifty percent of the reason Trevelyan felt the strength to get out of bed this morning.

(The other fifty percent was the man currently speaking to her.)

“She is a very good woman,” Trevelyan agreed. “As I have tried to convey previously, Commander, the other Ladies are quite excellent people. Lovely, all of them.”

The Commander hummed. “They are… more naturally your friends than mine.”

Only her appreciation for the Commander’s actions prevented Trevelyan from peforming an eyeroll so powerful it could have obliterated half of Skyhold. One tends to become friends with those they try to befriend, Commander! Such excuses!

But there was little time for her to express this frustration in some sarcastic comment or another, as a servant finally dared to approach. Running. In a state of panic.

“Lady Trevelyan!” called the maid, whom Trevelyan recognised from the previous delivery she’d attended, and from Lady Erridge’s kitchen ‘incident’. (Of course, Trevelyan had since discovered her name was not this string of events, but was, in fact, ‘Wrehn’.)

“Are you all right?” Trevelyan asked.

“Sorry, your Ladyship; sorry, Commander,” Wrehn said, eyes wide, “but if I could beg your Ladyship’s assistance? I’m ‘fraid it’s a matter only you could help us with.”

“Is everything all right?” the Commander interrupted, glancing between them.

Wrehn repeated herself: “It’s only a matter her Ladyship could help with, Ser.”

Trevelyan could well imagine what. “I suppose I shall see you later, Commander. Thank you for the walk.”

He bowed. “Thank you, your Ladyship.”

With one, last, quizzical look, he accepted that this was, frankly, none of his business, and left them to it.

And once he had disappeared, Trevelyan turned to Wrehn:

“What has Lady Erridge done now?”

“It’s not Lady Erridge,” Wrehn answered, “it’s—well, you’d best come see!”

#unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen x trevelyan #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #edit 18/01/24: changed again +58 words this may be its final form #edit 15/01/24: changed the chapter for pacing and flow (+51 words overall) may edit again in future #original tags follow:#been struggling with perfectionism #tried to let this chapter flow more #my schedule isn't back to normal for another week so please continue to bear with me for updates #anyway enjoy some proper cullen nice times

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