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partystoragechest · 1 year

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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 applies for a job.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,718. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 7: Recommending Herself

Trevelyan did not stargaze that night.

Instead, hidden within the covers of her bed, she read by the light of a small fire in her palm—held at a safe distance from the pages, naturally.

“Was your book any good?”

The Baroness Touledy asked this of her the next morning, at the Ladies’ usual tea-based gathering in Montilyet’s parlour. Trevelyan glanced up from her cup—she was actually drinking from it, today—with a quizzical look.

“I saw you reading out in the garden,” explained the Baroness. “What book was it?”

“In the garden…” Trevelyan took a moment to recall. “Oh, at that point I was reading The Tale of the Champion.”

“Varric Tethras, yes. I read The Tale, when it was en vogue. Now the courts are enamoured with his other work, Hard in Hightown.”

Trevelyan was familiar. She’d heard of the book, for starters, even before Skyhold. However, having finally glimpsed a summary of it yesterday, she had found it lacked the sort of knowledge which interested her.

“I’ve read that!” Lady Erridge piped up. “Lady Orroat, my very dear friend, was kind enough to lend me her copy. She even read some of it to me last summer. It was a lovely day. We sat beneath the cherry tree in her garden, for the shade.”

“I only managed a few chapters,” Lady Samient commented. “Not my sort of thing.”

“I admit it wasn’t really mine, either—I’m much more for romances. But I enjoyed it regardless. Oh!” Lady Erridge sat forward in her seat. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all read the same book while we’re here? And then, during teas and lunches, we could discuss it.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Baroness Touledy told her, “though for today, how about we discuss Lady Samient’s meeting with the Commander?”

“Oh, yes!” Erridge clapped her hands. “Let’s!”

Samient set down her tea. “And what is it you would like to know?”

“How did you find him?”

Lady Samient smiled. She crossed one leg over the other, and purred, “Oh, he was utterly charming. A true gentleman.”

There was no hiding the the widening of Lady Trevelyan’s eyes. By the Maker, he had to have a twin. Or an envy demon, trotting about the place and attempting to woo Lady Samient, for some unknowable reason.

Unless the real Commander was the one wooing Lady Samient, and it was the envy demon who was attempting to scare off the other Ladies. Or perhaps… he had already made up his mind? Lady Samient was certainly a beautiful woman. One could definitely fall in love with her upon first sight, if they were so inclined.

But if that were the case, why not just tell them? The rest of them—why not just tell them they were not wanted?

Whilst Trevelyan ruminated upon this conflict, the conversation moved along without her:

“Oh, we spoke of many things,” Samient said in response to a question from Lady Erridge, “the duchy of Samient, the Inquisition, shared interests… I could have spent many hours more speaking, but we had to end at the allotted time, of course.” She began to push her hair behind her ear—but stopped midway, and let it fall aside her face again.

“Perhaps then his mood the day prior was a temporary ill,” the Baroness told Erridge. “Once I have seen him, we shall have a more accurate picture.”

“Yes, of course,” said Erridge. “I hope you find him as agreeable as Lady Samient did.”

Trevelyan, too, hoped the Baroness found him as agreeable as Lady Samient did. Because if Lady Samient was lying, flaunting an exaggerated encounter despite the extinguished look in Lady Erridge’s face, then Lady Trevelyan would not be held accountable for what she would do in response.

“Well,” she said, rising from her seat, “I think I must go. I have someone to see.”

Lady Erridge tipped her head. “Other than the Commander?”

“I believe Lady Trevelyan has been busy making acquaintances,” the Baroness murmured. “Lady Erridge informed me you had met with the mages. It must be pleasant to have such company again, in less dreary surroundings.”

Interesting emphasis. “Yes, though it is not the mages I must see,” Trevelyan said.

“How curious,” noted the Baroness.

“Very!” Erridge agreed. “You must promise to tell us of it when next we meet!”

“Of course,” Trevelyan assured her, “I hope to bring you many fascinating things to talk about, Lady Erridge.”

Though she maintained the rare hope that she had already done so. Her vagueness, in regards to the identity of whom it was she rendezvoused with, ought to have been enough catnip to keep them at play for hours. Better they talk of that than the Commander.

Bidding them farewell, Trevelyan departed for the Great Hall. She found the keep already quite busy at work. No rest for the wicked, nor the Inquisition, it seemed. There were guards at every door, huddled nobles conducting hushed discussions, and a couple of servants, attempting to dust a rather lofty statue. One climbed shakily to the top; the other joked about letting the ladder go.

Into this, a man emerged, from the rotunda door. The flash of red on his jacket and blond in his hair had Trevelyan worried for a moment—but when Varric Tethras caught her eye, he put on an easy smile. He mouthed something in question, hands gesturing as if turning a page:

Good book?

She nodded.

Satisfied, he moved on, and so did she. There was a door, hidden at the back of the hall, that beckoned her. That, she was sure, was the entrance to the Undercroft.

This was all but confirmed by a pair of workers, hefting a cumbersome crate between them, who trudged toward the presumed passage. Trevelyan hurried to open the door on their behalf—receiving a gruff word of thanks in exchange—and pursued them into the gloom beyond.

The steps were dark, dank, and narrow. They curved, somewhat; Trevelyan could not see the bottom. But the smell was enough to guide her. It was exactly that of the storerooms at her Circle. Alchemy, cinders, magic. Though wherever it led was not quite so peaceful and quiet. Hammers clanged against steel, orders were barked loud enough to permeate the stone. A smithy with a taste of something else.

Into the depths, and a torchlit entrance. Trevelyan crept on through, and gasped.

A vast cavern spread out before her, filled—somehow—with daylight. At its farthest edge, raw rock, torn open by the waters that rushed somewhere beneath their feet, had formed into what stalagmites made look like the maw of a beast. It spilled a waterfall into a valley hundreds of feet below, and framed a view of the mountain-brimmed skies beyond.

And yet, despite such wonder, it was the the workshop within that captivated her.

Discerning the forge was easy—it was exactly as one might expect. Blazing furnaces; smiths and anvils; water hissing, as glowing metal plunged its depths. Impressive, but typical. The other side of the room, however...

It was a maze of contraptions, few of which Trevelyan could imagine a use for. Obsidian structures with rib-like framework scraped the very ceiling. Enchanters hunched over benches, tinkering with blades and staves and lyrium. Around and over them, tubes and clamps and vials connected in a spiderweb of iron and glass. They made some intriguing sounds.

A dwarven woman emerged from this nest of machinery, to meet her delivery. Dagna.

Trevelyan faltered on seeing her. But what little did she have to lose? Nothing. She could do this.

Well, she could—if not for the man who blocked her path, that is.

“Welcome,” he said, with a bow. He straightened—and Trevelyan’s eyes latched upon the mark of the sun burnt into his forehead. One of the Tranquil.

He was a pasty fellow, thin on the bone, with brown hair shaved to his scalp. Unlike the mages of the tower, he had not abandoned his Circle robes. “I have not seen you here before,” he said, in an unnervingly calm tone. “I am Herzt Kimwell. Is there something we can do for you?”

“I am Lady Trevelyan, formerly of Ostwick Circle,” she told him. She had not expected this, but that did not mean it was not helpful. Good practice, in fact. “I am here to see the Arcanist, Dagna.”

He nodded. “What business do you have with the Arcanist?”

“I, ah... wished to discuss her work. Regarding red lyrium.”

“Then I will inform her you have arrived. Please wait here.”

Oh. Not so bad. If he thought it was worth bothering the Arcanist, then perhaps Trevelyan need not be so anxious. But such feelings were not bridled by logic.

So Trevelyan attempted to occupy her mind elsewhere, with more observation—and caught sight of a familiar pile of scrap, abandoned nearby. Very familiar. She didn’t need to read the runes to know they’d been half-burnt.

“Arcanist,” came Herzt’s voice, “your visitor.”

Oh, already! Trevelyan was rather hoping it might be at least a few more minutes, if not a day’s travel, for the Arcanist to make it to her. But no, here she was. Oil-stained, unkempt, and smiling.

“It’s you!” she said, face alight with curiosity. “Welcome! You’re… uh oh. You are... Nope! It’s gone. Sorry, I think your name rolled off somewhere around here, ‘cause I can’t find it. You were from Ostwick, though! I know that!”

“I am,” Trevelyan told her. She was hardly offended; to expect Dagna to remember her name after a chance meeting two days ago was a little much. It wasn’t as if it was a quarter hour after meeting her at a party specifically intended for meeting her. “Arcanist Dagna, my name is Lady Trevelyan.”

“That’s it!” Dagna bowed, and, with her thanks, sent Herzt on his way. “So, what can I do for you, your Ladyship? Herzt said something about red lyrium.”

This was it. The big moment. What all three seconds of practice had been for.

“Yes, ah… um...”

Fantastic. The practice had clearly worked.

Trevelyan steeled herself, and tried again: “I had some… ideas.”

“That’s great, I love ideas! What kind of ideas?”

“Just some… basic ramblings regarding that project you were working on the other day. The explosive?”

“Oh!” Dagna jerked her thumb toward the nearby scrapheap. “That one?”

“That one.”

Dagna’s smile grew. “Let’s hear ‘em.”

“Well, I didn’t know what you’d already tried…” Trevelyan dipped a hand into her pocket, and pulled some folded sheets of vellum from within. “So, um…” They were not unfolding well.

Dagna filled her pause. “That was actually attempt number one,” she explained, “so you’re kind of looking at everything I already tried.”

“Oh! Oh. Well, um, then”—the vellum finally came flat—“I did some research into red lyrium yesterday. A witness informed me it exudes a noticeable heat that ordinary lyrium lacks, a fact which was corroborated by Varric Tethras’ account in The Tale of the Champion.”

Trevelyan glanced up from her papers to note Dagna’s expression. She worried it would be boredom, or academic disappointment, that she saw before her—but instead, it beheld a gentle interest. Potentially even… fascination.

“This means,” she continued, “also as noted by Varric Tethras, that the body heat of a Red Templar is much higher than that of other people, and their surroundings. I was wondering if you could possibly... use that?”

“Maybe—how do you mean?”

“Well, for example, I have this here…” She pulled one sheet free, and held it out to Dagna. “It’s a ward, usually utilised in kitchens, to prevent fires. It triggers a cooling effect when the heat reaches a certain temperature. The spellcraft could be repurposed for an enchantment, which, at a specified level of heat, could trigger—”

“The explosion!” Dagna finished. Her eyes, full of wonder, flicked from the paper to Trevelyan’s face. “I was so stuck on the idea of using lyrium against lyrium, I didn’t think about the other properties! Might not be as poetic, but results are what we need. This is perfect!”

An emotion Trevelyan hadn’t felt in a long time was summoned from the depths of her spirit. She stood a little taller.

“Really?” she asked. “You think it could be of use?”

“I think I want to get started on it right away!”

Of all the ways Trevelyan expected this to go, this certainly wasn’t one of them. “Oh! Well, ah, before you do, I did wish to consider one possible sticking point…” She flicked through to a different sheet, confirmed to herself (twice) that it was the right one, and paraphrased the notation upon it: “Red lyrium seems to have an anti-magic presence, say eyewitnesses. I wondered if that might have an effect on enchantments, perhaps even preventing them from triggering?”

“I had thought of that!” Dagna said, apparently delighted by Trevelyan’s mention of it, regardless of it being old news. “I was hoping to work on some kind of amplification as a fall-back for that exact circumstance, but that required me to get the enchantment itself working first. And you already know what happened there!”

Trevelyan laughed. “Yes.”

Dagna handed back the vellum, and tipped her head. “So, you were at Ostwick Circle, right? What did you do there?”

“Oh, I worked in the storerooms—cataloguing, organising, running errands. Nothing so exciting. Bit of study and research, here and there. I was starting to teach creation, too, before… everything.”

“Creation? What creation?”

“Common glyphs and wards.”

“Oh.” It appeared Dagna had expected more. “Well, the basics can be useful!”

But Trevelyan had more to offer, and her swelling sense of pride demanded that she clarified: “I only said I taught basic glyphs and wards, Arcanist. My study was rather more advanced.”

“That’s great! Show me.”

“What?”

Dagna grinned. “Show me what you can do.”

“Now, here?” Trevelyan asked. Dagna gave several enthusiastic nods in reply. “Oh, well, um…”

Hard to think. Something impressive. Something not every student of creation could do. Something that wouldn’t set any of what appeared to be very volatile surroundings alight.

It wouldn’t be too hard. Perhaps it was the presence of lyrium nearby, or some enchantment being worked upon, but the ambience of the Fade was easier to feel, here. Trevelyan drew as little of it as she dared to take.

From it, she weaved a pattern she remembered well, tracing its arcs and intersections upon the floor. The instant the last lines connected, it sealed, and vanished. Hidden and waiting.

Of course, to demonstrate its effects, a test subject was required. For that, she collected a stone from the ground, no bigger than her palm. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it into the bounds of the glyph—and the moment it breached them, the glyph burst into light.

The rock arrested, exactly where it had permeated the bounds. Anchored. Unmoving. Three feet in the air.

“Glyph of suspension, nice!” Dagna noted. “You don’t see those everyday.”

Trevelyan dispelled it, and the rock dropped harmlessly to the floor.

A sly little smile crossed Dagna’s face. “Seems like you’re pretty useful.”

“Oh! I, I could be—if you’d like me to help.”

“That would be great!” But Dagna’s face fell. “Though, aren’t you kind of supposed to be, uh, you know—the Commander?”

So, even the Arcanist knew. “Well, I am supposed to, but… I have plenty of time otherwise. I know I am only here for the month—but with your assistant away caring for her newborn, that is a temporary gap I could quite neatly fill.”

“Very true! There’s just one more thing I think I need to know first, though”—she pointed at the sheaf of papers in Trevelyan’s hand—“did you do all of that research into red lyrium just because I mentioned it in the tower?”

Oh. Hm. Hindsight was full of revelations, wasn’t it? Spending a full day of reading and note-taking on the subject a stranger had mentioned in passing was indeed perhaps quite… odd. “Yes,” came Trevelyan’s reluctant answer.

Dagna’s eyes shimmered more than the stars in the sky; her beam shone brighter. She stuck out her hand, ready to shake. “Well, then we gottaget you on the payroll!”

***

Trevelyan had never had a real job. She was either too much of a noble, or too much of a mage, to have a real job. Technically, her work in the Circle could be referred to as a job, but she wasn’t really paid, and had little choice in it. It wasn’t like, say, being a baker.

(Oh, being a baker would have been nice.)

Nevertheless, the process felt familiar to the Circle, in the beginning. After their excited chatter had ceased, Dagna decided that it would be best to give Lady Trevelyan a tour of the facilities, during which, some of the mystery of her machinery was explained. And some was made more mysterious.

But Trevelyan at least had an idea of what she would potentially work with. The lyrium tools she wasn’t to touch, but the Tranquil she was introduced to would be happy to carry out any tasks in that direction for her. It seemed her focus would be on assisting Dagna, with research, theories, spellcraft, and general errands. Which was perhaps something like baking, if one looked at it sideways, through a telescope, and from one continent away.

The tour concluded; just one more matter to attend to.

Dagna led Trevelyan up the stairs, talking all the while. Unsurprisingly, there was much to consider in the creation of a magical explosive.

Their conversation hushed as they entered the Great Hall, and passed by the nobles lounging within, and the servants hurrying to and fro. They weren’t to know what was being planned beneath their feet.

There was only one who needed to know, for now. They reached the door of Lady Montilyet’s parlour, but stopped, as its guard held up her palm:

“Just a moment, your Ladyship; Arcanist. The Ambassador is speaking to the Commander.”

Was there really no escaping this man? Skyhold was surely large enough.

Hm. Perhaps there was a specific reason for his being here. With a glance towards a window, she discerned that the morning had trailed into afternoon. If she had it right, the Commander ought to have just finished his appointment with the Baroness Touledy. Ah. No question what he might be meeting Lady Montilyet about, then.

Trevelyan thought it was about time she engaged in the sport of nobles. She did her best to filter out the hum of the hall behind her, and listened only to what words slipped from the crack beneath the door.

The Commander was audible first. “You said…” Muffled speech. “And yet!”

“...what I said!” Montilyet had definitely had this door reinforced, or something. Understandable, for not wanting your diplomatic conversations to get out. But annoying. “…have patience.”

“And that’s…” Was that movement? “Fine, but I... the guilt.” His voice was getting louder. Or… closer. “We’ll speak on this tomorrow.”

The door rattled, and was thrown open. The Commander appeared on the other side. In the suspended moment before all composure was regained, Trevelyan made certain to note the scene.

The Commander’s face was like thunder, until he saw her and Dagna—then, it turned to shock. Behind him, a glimpse of Lady Montilyet, stood at her desk, her face the most ferocious Trevelyan had ever witnessed it. Like the Commander’s, it settled the second their eyes connected.

“Excuse me,” muttered the Commander, shuffling past. He made for the library door, and was gone. Thank the Maker.

“Lady Trevelyan, is that you?”

Montilyet’s voice pulled Trevelyan’s gaze back towards the parlour, wherein her Ladyship still stood. There was an airy smile on her face that had not been there seconds ago. “Oh, and Dagna! Please, do come in.”

Dagna grimaced at Trevelyan, but followed the instruction. Together, they strode for the Montilyet’s desk—where the Lady herself was taking a seat, pushing a frayed hair back into its usual perfect place.

“Ambassador, I was hoping for a teensy little favour,” Dagna said. “I’d like to bring Lady Trevelyan on board as my new assistant. Temporarily! While she’s here.”

Lady Montilyet blinked. “What?” She looked to Trevelyan.

“Well, um, I met the Arcanist in the tower the other day, and I was intrigued by her work,” Trevelyan explained. “I wanted to be of help to the Inquisition’s efforts, so I researched the topics involved, and brought my theories to the Undercroft.”

Dagna translated: “She got Dorian and Varric to tell her about red lyrium.”

“Only Dorian,” Trevelyan clarified, “Master Tethras suggested I read his book.”

“She did it in a day! And she’s got some great ideas, things we could really use. With her help, we could make something that would be able to protect encampments, towns, patrols—anyone, from Red Templars.”

Lady Montilyet’s eyes took part in a placid smile, but Trevelyan could quite tell they wanted to widen.

“I see,” she said. “It is wonderful for you to contribute this way, Lady Trevelyan, but… what about the Commander? This may conflict with your ability to spend time with him, as he is on a very specific schedule, and I doubt your work would have you cross paths.”

Lady Montilyet could have said nothing more delightful than that. She ought to have known better than to threaten people with a good time.

“Oh, I care very little about the Commander,” Trevelyan said, honestly and confidently—the most confident she had felt saying anything all day. “I am much more interested in assisting Dagna in developing this project. For the good of the Inquisition, and the people of Thedas.”

Trevelyan thought she had offended Lady Montilyet with this. At first. Yet there was something in her face that Trevelyan had not seen her express before. She could not aptly call it anything. Not anger, not curiosity, not confusion. The closest thing Trevelyan could compare it to was… respect.

“So?” Dagna asked. “Can she?”

Lady Montilyet stood, and smiled. “If this is truly what you wish, then I will not deny you. Lady Trevelyan... welcome to the Inquisition.”

#cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #commander cullen #unwanted #unwanted fic #fic #i kept redoing sections of this chapter even though it's FINE it's FINE as it is i dont need to keep adding paint the picture is DONE #could've had it done three days earlier if not for self doubt #edit 18/09/24: redid loads of description and it ended up LONGER. also added a new magic moment

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