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partystoragechest · 3 months

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

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

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,683. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 49: Bumpy Ride

“How much silverite do you need?” asked the blacksmith.

The order Trevelyan had put in with the Quartermaster wasn’t due for another three weeks, and she was rather eager to start her work. Thus, she had ventured to the armoury, to entreat the aid of the forge within.

“Two pounds, please,” Trevelyan said.

The smith nodded, and retreated to his stores. Trevelyan, ever-nosy, glanced over the rack of weapons and armour he’d left behind. Though there was nothing quite so unique as the output of the Undercroft’s own forge—such as the resplendent staff holstered upon her back—the Inquisition smiths were competent enough.

There was one piece, however, that did stand out.

A helm, in the shape of a lion’s roar, snarled in her direction. Curious, Trevelyan crept closer, and—with a check to see that the blacksmith was yet occupied—plucked it from the table.

The surface was cold, scuffed, and beaten. She ran her fingers across the engravings, the rounded nose and pitted cheeks. The fanged mouth was like a pin prick, to the touch. Trevelyan brought it level with her face, and bore her teeth in turn. She laughed.

“Arcanist.”

Trevelyan almost dropped the thing. Scrambling, she set it down and whipped around. Cullen stood before her, smiling.

“Cullen!” she gasped. “I—um, I was just admiring it. What is it doing here?”

“My bout with Lady Orroat left a few dents,” he explained. “I sent it for repair.”

“I see.”

“May I ask what you’re doing here?”

Trevelyan brushed a hair out of her face. “Oh, I was, um—running an errand.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t Herzt be doing that?”

She shrugged. “Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

The smith returned with a satchel of silverite; Trevelyan thanked him. Task complete, he turned his attention to Cullen:

“Commander, see you found your helmet. You need anything else, Ser? Sword sharpening?”

Cullen drew his blade with a flash. The amber glow of the nearby forge flickered across its surface, as he twisted it in the air.

“Looks fine,” he told the smith. “Thank you.”

“Yes, Commander.”

The smith slipped away, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal soon resuming its toll.

“Dagna has an enchantment for a self-sharpening blade, you know,” Trevelyan said. “Could be useful.”

Cullen twirled the weapon, bringing it to rest between them. “I prefer it sharpened by hand.”

Trevelyan’s eyes flicked to the blade. “Really?” she said, tracing a finger down its shaft, running to the very tip. “Why’s that?”

Cullen swallowed. “I, ah—it feels I have more control, that way.”

“I see.” She reversed her path, trailing toward the hilt, where his hand quivered. “I wonder… had the conclusion of your duel with Lady Orroat not been predetermined… do you think you might have won?”

He failed to conceal a smile. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Then perhaps… should this son of an Arl my parents spoke of show his face and demand satisfaction—do you believe you would be victorious against him?”

“You assume he would get past the gates.”

He withdrew the blade, and sheathed it at his side. Trevelyan’s teeth dragged over her lower lip.

“May I have my helm?” he asked.

Obliging, Trevelyan hooked a finger within its maw, and dangled it before him. Cullen lifted it from her grasp, and lowered it over his head.

“I was on my way to survey the troops in the valley,” he told her, pulling the straps taut. “If you’re not busy, you could..?”

Trevelyan smiled. “I would love to.”

That was all the encouragment he required. Though his helm concealed the eagerness on his face, it could do nothing to hide the eagerness in his gait. Cullen strode for the door, and held it open.

Trevelyan thanked him as she drifted past, to the courtyard beyond. The day was as lovely as any other; the cloudy skies were bright and cheerful. People hurried by, as always—though the sight of an armoured Commander was enough for them to keep a wide berth.

“Shall you need something to wear?” he asked, as they walked. “Will you be warm enough?”

Fair question, given her attire of shirt and breeches. Hardly so comforting as the thick-furred cape he wore. But that was quite all right—she had alternative means.

Trevelyan brought her staff forward, and summoned the focus to life. Through its channel she drew the Fade, and crafted for herself an aura of warmth. The chill of the breeze became unnoticeable, and her goose-bumps were reduced to naught.

“That ought to do it,” she told Cullen.

“Ah, of course”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“but… do let me know, if it wears off.”

It was at that moment Trevelyan realised he was possibly angling to offer his cloak to her, in that most heroic and gentlemanly of gestures. She cursed herself for being so desperate to impress that she hadn’t let him do it.

Nevertheless, they arrived at the gates, where a stablehand awaited with Cullen’s dapple-grey mare. It whinnied to him, as if in greeting.

“Thank you,” he told the stablehand, taking the reins. With the aid of a mounting block and a practised swing of his leg, he saddled himself upon the horse’s back. “Would you prepare another mount, for the Arcanist, please?”

The stablehand nodded, about to scurry away—but Trevelyan spoke up:

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” she interrupted, “I can ride with you.”

Cullen stared at her. “Oh, if you want t—”

Trevelyan already had one foot on the mounting block.

Seeing her determination, Cullen reached a hand down. Trevelyan secured hers around it, their forearms interlocking, and let herself be pulled onto the horse, and against his back.

It took a moment, to find comfort, but Trevelyan managed it—her thighs slotted in behind his, her hands finding purchase upon his waist. Cullen shifted, and glanced over his shoulder.

“Are you all right?”

Trevelyan made a satisfied little noise, for words were quite beyond her now. Cullen cleared his throat, and took up the reins once more.

“Hold on.”

With a tap of his foot and click of his tongue, the horse marched on. Hoofsteps changed from dull to echoing, as it found its way from the courtyard to the gatehouse, and the bridge beyond. Trevelyan hardly liked the sensation of leaving Skyhold’s walls again so soon—but she could at least tuck herself into the fur of Cullen’s mantle, and not feel so small in the presence of the mountains.

They trotted along the bridge like this, nothing but quiet. Last time, it had been so awkward to ride in such silence. This time, not so. This time, it was simply peaceful.

“I’d been meaning to ask,” Cullen said, over his shoulder, “did you receive the package, from Sudton?”

Trevelyan took a steadying breath. “I did,” she said. “I began sorting it the moment it arrived. I recognise some things, but—the memories have been difficult.”

“Take your time,” he told her. “If you need someone… with you, I could be there.”

“Thank you”—she meant it, truly—“but I’d like to do it by myself.”

“I understand.” He pulled a little on the reins, to guide his horse clear of the path of a passing cart. “Did you know we’d heard from the Free Marches? Loranil sent a bird.”

Trevelyan perked. “Oh? No. What did he say?”

“The, ah, new recruits were happily reunited, and the Clan welcomed them with open arms. I am certain he’ll be able to say more when he returns.”

And Trevelyan would pester him for it when he did! But, for now, she was simply glad. Glad to know that Giles was with her Vichy once more, and glad to know she was home. Oh, Maker—or perhaps, Creators—let her be happy.

“I had a letter myself, from Lady Erridge,” she told him, in exchange. “Though she misses us all, she was overjoyed to be home. They are already planning the wedding—and it sounds as if, for your involvement, the Bann himself would have you be a guest of honour.”

Cullen chuckled. “It’s good to hear they’re doing well. Have you had anything from the Baroness?”

Funny he should ask. “This morning. She must have the sent the letter hours after she arrived. Thallia is well, as are the other mages. They have not lost as many as she feared, though the losses they did have still pain her, of course. There will be a time of mourning, she said, before the rebuilding efforts begin.”

“She knows she may call on us, if she needs help.”

Trevelyan smiled. “Whether she’ll do it is another problem entirely.”

They arrived at the sloping descent to the valley below. Though Cullen’s horse took the familiar decline with ease, Trevelyan anchored herself against him, as gravity strengthened its pull.

“I understand the Baroness’ difficulty with relying on others,” he said. “It’s… something I have struggled with myself.”

Trevelyan was rather glad of the fact he could not see the grin this confession caused. “It’s nice to hear you admit it.”

Though he chuckled, Cullen went on: “I mean, in regards to the Ladies. You were right about them, in every sense. They would have helped me—from the beginning—had I asked.”

“You didn’t know them, you couldn’t trust them.”

“I should have at least given them a chance.”

Trevelyan shrugged. “In an ideal world, perhaps. But given your past experience with nobility, your reluctance was understandable.”

“Though not the rudeness,” he added.

“No,” she said, with a smile, “not the rudeness.”

The horse’s hooves clattered onto the frozen banks of the river, as they came to the valley base. The icy landscape was peppered with fires and tents and marching soldiers—possibly more than there had been on Trevelyan’s previous visits. New recruits, perhaps? Or a consolidation of the Inquisition’s power?

She felt Cullen straighten, as they rode past the first of these troops. Soldiers ceased all activity at the sight, backs rigid as boards, salutes across their chests. Trevelyan felt herself gain a little of the importance that the Commander carried with him at all times.

Upon a particularly thick patch of ice, Cullen brought his horse to a halt. No more than thirty feet away, a group of soldiers sparred and trained, swords flying and clashing. It was certainly one way to keep warm.

Cullen dismounted first, dropping to the ground with such self-assertion it almost quaked. He offered his arms to Trevelyan, and she braced her hands upon his shoulders. As if it were no effort at all, he lifted her from the horse’s back. Though her feet felt uncertain on the ice below, she found the blade of her staff could pierce it like a pick, and keep her balance steady.

Cullen gestured, to the nearby training session. “This way,” he said.

The closeness of their ride remained in their walk; Trevelyan felt strange when she strayed too far from his side. Comfort came only from being shoulder-to-shoulder, arms brushing with every step.

“I should mention,” Cullen murmured, as they got a little too close for speech any louder, “though it may be too soon to tell, I have had less unwelcome correspondence from Orlais of late.”

“Oh?”

“I believe I know why. One letter—sent rather urgently, given the scrawling hand—did query the fact that I am apparently engaged to a Trevelyan of Ostwick,” he explained, “though they did not seem to know which of the Trevelyans it was.”

Trevelyan was as confused as she was pleased. “I am not sure where they got the idea.”

“Apparently their source was quite accurate”—he stopped, some feet from the soldiers, and turned to her so that they might finish their conversation privately—“the information was overheard at the Val Royeaux villa of Bann and Lady Trevelyan themselves.”

A smug laugh escaped Trevelyan’s lips. So, not only had her parents hired rats to report on her, but they had inadvertently hired rats to report on themselves as well. Ha! Maker, was she glad she had spoken so with such volume at their meeting.

“It was something of a little ruse, I’m afraid,” she confessed to Cullen, “to toy with their emotions and their machinations. I would be sorry it got out—but it sounds as if it has benefitted you as much as it has me.”

“Oh, yes,” Cullen replied. “Though I do recall you saying previously that you didn’t wish to tell them such a thing.”

“Well, at that time, they wished me to be engaged to you. When it became clear that their plans tended towards the opposite… the prospect became rather alluring.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “...Alluring?”

“Shouldn’t you be surveying your soldiers, Commander?”

His eyes lingered upon her, for a moment, before he finally relented.

The soldiers had done an excellent job of pretending they did not see the hushed conversation happening so nearby. They had kept up their fighting, the sound of swords drowning out any words, for all except those who spoke them.

Cullen regained the composure of his command, and strode towards his troops. A lieutenant came to meet him, salute already prepared.

“Commander,” she said.

“Report,” he told her.

Trevelyan hung back, listening as the lieutenant spoke of those aspects of military organisation that Trevelyan found particularly uninteresting. Well, at least when it wasn’t Cullen speaking. But then, she just liked hearing him speak.

Their discussion soon ceased. In his commanderly way, Cullen took to prowling round the recruits, in close observation. Trevelyan followed loosely behind, making observations of her own—though not of the recruits.

“You there,” Cullen called, between the clashes, “be careful how you raise your arm on the downward swing”—he lifted his own, to indicate the padding that lined the gaps of his armour—“you expose yourself to attack on your sword arm.”

The soldier acknowledged the instruction with a nod and shout: “Yes, Commander!”

Trevelyan was hardly surprised they heeded him so easily. Cullen’s voice was rather strong, and echoed off the mountains. She could not imagine refusing any orders from him, either.

Seeming satisfied by his troops’ compliance, Cullen circled back around, to her side.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Trevelyan’s brow furrowed. “Of what?”

“The troops.” He turned his back on them, and whispered to her ear: “I value your opinion.”

“Oh. Indeed, they fight well. Though there is something I am curious about…”

“What?”

“That one,” she said, pointing to a soldier practicing his defence, against a flurry of friendly blows. “Why is the shield angled that way?”

Cullen glanced over his shoulder, and saw the man in question. “To deflect away from the face—if they are hit by projectiles or magic, such as a fireball...”

Trevelyan chuckled. “He has it so low, he needn’t worry about the fireballs aimed at his chest. Should he like to retain his eyebrows, I suggest he raise it higher.”

Cullen smiled, and withdrew from her. He returned to the soldiers at a march.

“Recruit!” he called to the one she’d singled out. “Where do you hold your shield?”

The man stood to attention. “Down, Commander!”

“But not so far down that the enemy can see your face.”

Cullen held out a hand, and beckoned the shield be passed over. The soldier complied. Cullen gripped it tight against his arm, and demonstrated the proper form.

“Here,” he said, keeping the rim of the shield just below his eyeline, “then gently downward. The tilt should barely be visible. Let your enemy think you are unprepared.”

The soldier took the lesson, as did his sparring partner, and all others who had halted their fighting to observe. Cullen noted this audience, and announced to them all:

“Allow me to demonstrate.”

He paced a few feet away from where they watched, and raised the shield once more. His greaves shifted, ground into the ice, as he turned to face Trevelyan.

“Arcanist, if you would.”

She stared back, blank. “What?”

Cullen nodded toward the shield. Trevelyan raised her eyebrows. He nodded again.

She drew her staff up from the ground, and took a ready stance. With a simple swing of her focus through the air, she sent forth a blazing fireball. Amber flared before the wide-eyed soldiers, reflecting a thousand times upon the ice and snow around them. The searing sphere impacted against Cullen’s shield—and burst across the surface, ripples of flame shattering out from it.

And yet, when it at last dissipated, and Cullen lowered the shield… he was unharmed.

“Thank you, Arcanist.”

Trevelyan performed a little curtsy. She could’ve sworn she heard a couple of claps, among the crowd. Green recruits who’d never seen magic with their own eyes, likely—bar the great glowing whack of it in the sky, of course.

Cullen returned to them, and presented the shield to the soldier from whom he’d taken it. The man accepted it with almost holy reverence, tentative of the heat that remained within.

“Do you understand?” Cullen questioned.

“Yes, Ser.” the soldier sputtered.

“Would you like to try?”

“Oh! If—if the Arcanist doesn’t mind.”

Trevelyan did not. It was worth being a trick pony, if she got to give these poor souls a valuable lesson. And if she got to impress Cullen whilst doing it.

“Prepare yourself,” she warned.

Cullen directed the man away from the rest of the recruits—more of a comment on the soldier’s abilities than hers—and instructed him on the proper angle for his shield. The soldier followed his guidance to the letter.

Signal given, Trevelyan raised up her staff. Having expended her focus’ stored energy on the previous spell, she swung it wider, twirling through the air, to sap as much of the Fade as she could. Heat gathered within.

But it was as she made her final swing, that Trevelyan noticed the soldier’s eyes. They watched not her, but the motion of the staff. Hm. Not the most brilliant strategy. Perhaps she ought to demonstrate why.

In an instant, invisible to the eye, she summoned the heat to her hand instead, and sent the fireball rocketing from her fist. The soldier jolted when he realised—but held form, and deflected it nonetheless.

Realising his survival, he popped up from behind the shield. “I didn’t think it was gonna come from your hand!” he said.

“I know,” Trevelyan replied. She brought her staff to rest. “When up against a swordfighter, you watch their sword. But a mage’s attacks can come from both the body and the staff. It is an unpredictability that we often use to our advantage. Bear it in mind.”

Another soldier asked: “But how do you fight an unpredictable enemy like that?”

Trevelyan smiled. “You don’t. It’s the same reason Templars tend to carry such big shields. You defend. Though mages are powerful, our connection to the Fade can only draw so much energy at a time. Wait for the lapse.”

Her eyes flicked to Cullen, for his approval. He gazed back, seemingly as enraptured as the rest of his troops. As more eyes found him, their collective pressure jolted him back to focus, and he stood tall once more.

“The Arcanist is right,” he bellowed. “Patience can be an advantage in combat. Don’t act for the sake of acting. Watch and wait. Understood?”

The order was taken with a chorus of, “Yes, Ser!”

“Good work,” he told them. “Carry on.”

Authority was returned to his lieutenant, who did not let the lesson lie, and instructed her soldiers with a new intensity. The fighting reignited, reinvigorated. Well-pleased, Cullen left it behind, to wander back to Trevelyan.

“Thank you for your help,” he told her, softening to say, “your spellcasting was impressive.”

Sweet man, pretending as if he hadn’t seen a fireball before. “Thank you—though I rather hope I didn’t singe you.”

He unfastened his helm, and lifted it from his head. Its animalistic ferocity gave way, to be contrasted entirely by the gentle, smiling face beneath. “How do I look?” he asked.

Trevelyan admired the view. “Perfect,” she said, stroking his fallen hairs back into place.

Though her fingers withdrew, their gazes lingered. The faux war raging in the background became near-silent; the chasm it left lay there, expectant. There was something, perhaps, on the tip of each’s tongue, that could not quite escape their mouths.

“Come,” Cullen muttered, “your, ah, aura must be wearing off. We should return to Skyhold before you get cold.”

Trevelyan hadn’t particularly noticed any cold or chill—rather the opposite—but had no wish to discourage such doting words.

“Thank you,” she said, with a shiver for the pretense, “that would be lovely.”

No mounting-block to aid them, Cullen pulled himself onto his horse by the reins, and Trevelyan onto the horse by himself. She straddled against his back once more, arms seating themselves gladly around his waist. Certain she was secure, he bid the horse trot on.

The ride back to Skyhold was even greater than the departure. Trevelyan felt so at peace, her head nestled into his mantle, the ambience of the encampment in her periphery. Though the bite of the breeze did begin to pierce the fabric of her clothes, there was no end of warmth to be found in Cullen’s proximity.

Through the gates they entered their home, and Trevelyan lamented their journey’s inevitable end with a sigh. If only she could hold on just a little longer.

But Cullen dismounted the steed, and, for a final time, saw her down from it as well. Yet, even as it was lead away, he remained beside her.

“Would you like to, ah, eat?” he asked.

Intriguing question. Trevelyan glanced him up and down. “Eat what?”

“Food—with me?”

“Always,” she said. “Now?”

“Tomorrow evening?” he suggested.

Trevelyan smiled. “Yes.”

For it was the perfect opportunity. A good meal, a good conversation, and then… she would finally tell him.

She would tell him.

She would tell him that she cared for him.

#cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #commander cullen #unwanted fic #unwanted #those of you with good pattern recognition may have already realised what the framing of this chapter would be #this story is a cycle and it happens in threes #anyway time to say hi again #hi murda #hi bunny #the like gang

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