#i know i'm seldom writing here but i think she's so neat actually

[serpentembraced]

something something cassiopeia's arc ultimately being one of going from conforming to beauty standards and relying on using the limited power it gave her to becoming powerful in her own right. the transformation, initially seen as a curse, embraced as a blessing instead. she no longer needs to rely on manipulation and bending others to her will, she can exert it on her own. it's not perfect (she still suffers with it, with the things she lost, with the physical toll it takes and the pain she feels), but it's freeing.

[mercurygray]

how to get home, for Cord? 💙

The days feel longer here.

It feels strange to say that, as they move into December and the dark descends before the sun's even had a chance to get her coat on, but wars don't run on business hours, and everyone can pull out their desk lamps and continue calculations well into the wee hours of the evening if that's what conditions demand. And the war demands a lot, always.

The new men coming in think that this is just the way that Thorpe Abbotts has always been - that the ops officers are seldom in the officers club, that that ground crew don't know your name. No one bothers to correct the impression, except perhaps Rosie Rosenthal, who even Colonel Harding will agree is in a class by himself.

Everyone is different after Munster, and none of the old hands want to correct assumptions. Harry Crosby is a loner, Ev Blakely tells fewer jokes, and Cordelia Callaway is an ice queen who's married to her job and never smiles.

Let 'em, Cord thinks to herself, finishing the last touches on the week's accident reports and watching out of the corner of her eye as a few new WACs go by, whispering. Why should it matter? She stands up and stretches, concious, as she has not been for a while, of the tension in her shoulders and the twinge in her jaw.

"Lieutenant Callaway, do you have a minute?" Cord looks up to see Fred Torvaldsen standing in the doorway, her homemade red scarf vivid against the blue of her Red Cross uniform and the gray outside. "I've got - something for you."

It's an odd request - Cord doesn't know the woman over and above a few cups of coffee, a good singing voice, and a heart for stray cats. (Anita spent a whole day talking about spark plugs before it was explained that she meant the Aero Club's new kitten.) A mittened hand holds something out - a letter. "It came to me, but it's - it's for you," Fred explains. "I think they wanted to - get it around the censor. I hope you don't mind I opened it."

The poor-quality paper is crumpled, the handwriting messy and rushed. There's only one person who writes like that. Cord finds herself leaning against the wall. (Fred, she notices, hasn't moved. How many letters like this has she delivered?)

Dear Cord,

I don't know what to say except I'm sorry.

And that's it. That's all there is. Ten words that hit her like a ton of bricks. Sorry, Bucky? You're sorry? What does that even - sorry? Sorry for what? Sorry you're not here? Sorry you're alive and you didn't think it would be important to tell me? Sorry?

It is so maddeningly and frustratingly him that she can hardly think - the wall is holding her up and she wishes it were him. You're a thousand miles away and you're right here in this paper, and I miss you so much, Bucky, your shoulders and your smile and the way you make me laugh…

The words have been struck through, heavily, with a pencil, and as she reads them a fifth and sixth time, she can almost see him, hunched over a table in a chair that is too small for him, struggling with the words and then deciding they're not worth the paper they're written on, striking them out and throwing down the pencil and crumpling up the page. Underneath there are a few more lines, added in a script she knows is Gale's -

Sorry you haven't heard from him sooner. He's started this letter five times and I thought you ought to at least get one.

I think if he missed you less, he'd be able to talk about it more. He hasn't said your name since we got here.

We're all doing okay, and hope you are, too. Say hi to everyone for us. Gale.

That, too, is a new wave of tears - classic Gale. At least he knows how to get home. She hopes for a tearful moment that Marjorie Spencer has gotten the letters that she knows Gale has written like clockwork in his fine, neat hand. And she has ten words. Ten words, struck out for being written, and her name, and 'Dear', and all of that somehow not good enough to actually send. John Egan, if you were here I don't know what I'd do to you. Kiss you, kill you, or never let go of you.

She looks up, wipes her eyes on the back of her hand, and realizes Fred is still standing there, smiling faintly, a handkerchief in her hand. Cord sniffles and takes it, grateful. "There's paper at the club, when you want to write him back."

"No if?" Cord asks, blowing her nose and trying to find the ice queen again behind the hot tears on her cheek.

"No one I know cries like that over ifs," Fred replied with a little smile. "Mary's baking shortbread later. We'll save you some."

Later that night, when she has been installed in a comfortable chair with a cup of tea and three of the promised cookies, she finds herself staring at the paper feeling blank. "Well, what would you say if he were here right now?" Mary asks, sitting down with her own cup of tea and gesturing to an empty chair like it will somehow conjure the man.

Cord stares at the empty chair, and then writes down the only words she can think of, picturing him.

You stupid, stupid, stupid man.

The only apology I want is for not writing sooner - and for thinking that I wouldn't want a letter. What kind of woman do you think I am? Jack Kidd was kind enough to give me your jacket - the one I said I hated. It's in my room now. I'll return it to you when you get back - or not. The weather's been getting colder and a girl might need it…

[smutnug]

What Stays and What Fades Away

My first chapter with the amazing @wardsarefunctioning as beta! A thousand thousand thank yous.

Contains awkward flirting and Drunk!Hawke.

Chapter 27: Juliet

It had been a week since Tanner's abrupt departure, and Juliet still felt ill when she thought about the way things had ended. She chafed to be away in Crestwood, where Hawke was doubtless already waiting for them. 

But the Inquisition had become a large organisation, and large organisations seldom moved quickly. While Hawke could travel alone and in relative anonymity, Juliet's expeditions must be scouted, provisioned and planned to the smallest detail. So instead she was stuck here in Skyhold, surrounded by a thousand small reminders of her indiscretion. 

She sat at a table in the hall poring over a pile of documents that never seemed to get smaller: requisitions, reports, requests for the Inquisition's help from all over Southern Thedas. Scout Harding was already on the way to Crestwood, but she had left Juliet a map and pages covered in her small, neat handwriting: the location of the village and fort, a brief history of the place and its flooding during the blight, even a few credible rift sightings. A potential logging site? That would help in rebuilding - 

"Inquisitor?" The messenger gave a quick salute and handed her a roll of paper. "Plans for the mage tower, milady."

The mage tower. She waited until the man was gone before letting out a groan, burying her head in her hands. 

"Pining for your soldier, Freckles?" 

Juliet spun in her chair to glare at Varric. 

"Firstly," she said, "I'm not bloody pining . Secondly, can we pretend just for a minute that I have some kind of private life?" 

The dwarf threw up his hands. "Sorry, Inquisitor," he said, hopping up into the seat next to her. "You're one of the most important figures in Thedas right now. Definitely the most important in Skyhold. Your inner circle has at least three spies, and a mind-reading spirit boy." He patted her on the back. "Keeping secrets is hard."

She stared at him a moment longer, her lips pursed. "Thirdly -" 

"I'll change your names."

"Do not -" 

"And titles."

"Put this -" 

"And location."

"In a book," she finished. "Or I'll throw you to Cassandra."

"Oh, come on Freckles! It's got everything: deception, mistaken identity, star-crossed lovers…"

"I think you're reading a little more into it than actually happened."

"Of course I am. I'm a writer."

Conceding defeat, Juliet looked back to the documents spread out in front of her; the lines on the vellum seemed to blur and dance, Harding's meticulous text reduced to gibberish. She blinked hard, twice, but her eyes refused to cooperate. 

"Why not take a break?" Varric asked and added, too casually, "Take a walk in the garden."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why the garden, Varric?" 

"Why so suspicious, Freckles?" He grinned, hazel eyes glinting with mischief. "It's a beautiful day. The fresh air will do you good. See how your herbs are growing!" 

"I need to plan this…" she protested weakly. 

"Do you trust yourself to make good plans right now?" 

"Fine." She bundled up the documents, shoving them unceremoniously into a nugskin folder. "I'll go to the garden." In response to Varric's waggling eyebrows, she snapped, "but only because I've got no bloody place better to be."

With a smirk he propped his feet up on the table. "Enjoy the scenery, Inquisitor."

"Thin ice, Tethras," she shot back over her shoulder. 

It was close to midday, and she had to admit that the sunlight on her face and the smell of freshly-turned soil did much to clear her head. The air was fragrant with blooming herbs, all of which somehow seemed to thrive here despite the varying climates from which they had been plucked. She wished she could put down roots so easily.

Male laughter caught her attention; the voice was familiar, if not the sound. Beneath the gazebo a small table and two chairs were set up. Dorian faced the Commander over a chess board, hexagonal in the Northern style. The two men were too engrossed in the game to notice her approach and she took a moment to appreciate Cullen's relaxed posture, his easy demeanour as he rolled his eyes in response to Dorian's gentle ribbing. 

"Why do I even…" He finally saw her and broke off mid-sentence, half rising out of his chair. "Inquisitor."

Dorian flashed a charming smile in her direction before turning his attention back to Cullen. "Leaving, are you?" The mage's voice, much like his skin, was smooth as honey. "Does this mean I win?" 

It was jarring to see the Commander so comfortable in the presence of Dorian, of all people. Despite his wit and charm, or perhaps because of it, he didn't always rub people the right way. Plus he was a Tevinter, and an unapologetic mage. Was there some other reason than magic, then, for Cullen's reticence with her? 

Wary of spoiling the mood, she motioned Cullen to sit and tried to match Dorian's light tone. "Are you two playing nice?" 

"I'm always nice," Dorian lied without skipping a beat. He put his tower down with a decisive thunk and crossed his arms; impressively muscled for a mage, Juliet could never help but notice. If he'd been differently inclined, she was sure she could have put those muscles to good use. "You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory," he declared to Cullen. "You'll feel much better."

"Really?" Cullen pounced, shifting his tower from a black square to a white. "Because I just won," he said with a low chuckle, "and I feel fine."

Dorian raised one perfect eyebrow and smiled, impeccably gracious in defeat. "Don't get smug." He rose from his chair with the fluidity of a cat. "There will be no living with you."

Juliet shifted to let him pass and as she did so, his silken voice reached her in a pitch too low for Cullen to catch. 

"He's all yours, Inquisitor," he purred. "You lucky thing."

She felt her ears burn crimson, unfortunately catching Cullen's eye at the same time. Embarrassment painted a foolish smile across her face and the Commander looked at her with some confusion. 

"I should return to my duties as well…" he said, adding hesitantly, "unless you would care for a game?" 

Me? she nearly said. Did everyone else in Thedas die and nobody told me? Then she remembered the hand that had lingered on hers a moment too long after he helped her onto her horse, and a heat swept through her that had nothing at all to do with embarrassment. 

She maintained her composure enough to give him a tight smile. "Prepare the board, Commander."

Oblivious to the fire that raged inside the woman opposite him, Cullen was conversational as he laid out the carved pieces. "As a child, I played this with my sister. She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won, which was all the time." He glanced up at her, a rarely seen flash of mischief in his eyes. "My brother and I practiced together for weeks…the look on her facethe day I finally won…" 

Juliet caught a glimpse of the boy he had been in his smirk, before a little frown marred his features. 

"Between serving the templars and the inquisition, I haven't seen them in years," he said regretfully. "I wonder if she still plays."

It was easy to forget that Templars, too, could become separated from their families. She doubted Michael had ever recounted such fond memories of her. But she felt a pang when she thought of Lavinia, and of Alec, whose child must have been born by now. 

"You have siblings?" 

He seemed surprised by her enthusiasm. "Two sisters, and a brother."

"We're the same!" Juliet paused. "I mean, my family. Two boys, and two girls." She shifted, nudging Cullen's foot beneath the table. It went unacknowledged by both of them as they adjusted their postures, but she was aware now of his proximity; she could swear she felt the heat of his knee close to her own. 

"Really?" Leaning forward on his elbows, he graced her with a warm smile. "Michael I know, but…"

Juliet couldn't suppress an eye roll at the mention of her Templar brother. "Alec is the eldest. He's…well, he's unlike Michael. And Lavinia is between Michael and I in age. Terribly frivolous and always has her foot in her mouth, but she means well." Unexpected tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of them; on waking in Haven to the news that she'd been publicly disowned, she hadn't dared to contact them. "Tell me about yours," she said with forced cheerfulness. 

"Mia," he replied with a smile, "is the one I told you of. Branson is my brother, and the youngest is Rosalie."

She wished suddenly, fiercely, that she might some day meet them. "Where are they now?"

"They moved to South Reach after the Blight…" A flash of pain reached Cullen's amber eyes. "I do not write to them as often as I should." Staring at the board, his gaze seemed to come back into focus. "Ah, it's my turn."

"Alright," she said with a grin, "let's see what you've got."

He paused, looking at her for the longest time before shaking his head. Leaning in to make his move, he said softly, "You always seem as if you're laughing at a joke nobody else understands."

"I thought everybody understood," she said lightly. "I'm the joke."

"No." His stare, however glancing, pierced her to the core. "You are far from a joke. You're the reason we are all here."

"And who am I?" she countered. "Someone else would have led. Hawke, if Cassandra could have found her."

"Hawke." His wry smile made a mockery of the idea. 

"Nobody should take themselves too seriously." Pondering a moment, she moved a pawn into the path of his mage. "The more power you have, the lessseriously you should take yourself."

Cullen's gaze raked her. Surely, she thought, he must sense the shifting restlessness his mere proximity woke in her. Finally he shook his head. "Are you sure that doesn't do a disservice to those who choose to follow you?" 

"The opposite." She countered his move. "Power without humility lead to tyranny."

For a moment he looked startled. Then he laughed, shaking his head. "Of all people, I should know that." 

"So you and Dorian…" she began tentatively. 

"Dorian and I…?" Cullen's eyebrows shot up. "I assure you, there's nothing of that sort -" 

"Oh no, I just meant…you seemed to be getting along so well! It's not a friendship I would have expected."

"I ran into him in the library. Varric asked me to find a book for him." At her quizzical look, he chuckled. "I think he's trying to avoid Cassandra."

"I can't say I've ever seen Cassandra in the library."

"No point in taking chances, were his words. Anyway, Dorian…" Considering his next move, he twirled a stone piece in his fingers. Such long, clever fingers…he caught her eyes suddenly and she shut her mouth with a painfully audible snap . "He just seems lost, you know. He's a long way from home."

"Don't let him think you pity him," Juliet advised. "He won't thank you for it."

"It's not pity," he said, surprised. "Sympathy, yes, but I do enjoy his company." He caught her look of puzzlement. "Is that so unusual?" 

"Only," she floundered, searching about for the right words, "because of, you know, what he is."

"What he is?" Cullen's voice held faint disapproval. "I'm not sure I take your meaning."

Oh, Maker, now she'd offended him. "Only that I thought it might make you feel uncomfortable. Threatened, even."

"Threatened?" Cullen sat back in his chair, arms folded as he studied her face. "Why should I feel threatened?" 

Could we build a lesser amulet? she thought desperately.One that would take me back to before this line of conversation began. "You wouldn't be the only one. I know several people are concerned with his presence…" Biting her lip, she trailed off as Cullen drummed his fingers on the chair arm with evident annoyance. 

"I know that some people harbour foolish prejudices," he began, "but I certainly didn't think you would be amongst them, Inquisitor."

"Me?" she answered indignantly. "Why in Thedas would I be prejudiced against Dorian? I'm the same as he is!" 

Cullen gaped. "You are?" 

She couldn't understand his reaction; this was by no means new information for the Commander. "Well, yes. I mean I'm not from Tevinter, but essentially…"

They realised their mistake at the same time. Juliet groaned, covering her face; Cullen rubbed the back of his neck as he grinned sheepishly. "You meant…"

"Yes. And you thought…"

"I did." His grin slipped. "But you're wrong to think Dorian's magic should make me uncomfortable. I mean, you're a mage and I'm not uncomfortable with you."

"You're not?" 

She must have sounded a touch too incredulous, because Cullen looked at her sharply. Then he smiled, staring down at his hands. "I don't know if you've noticed, Inquisitor, but I can be somewhat…awkward…at times."

"No," she answered, laughing. "Really? It had completely escaped my notice."

"If I seem that way around you, please know that it's not because of the fact that you're a mage. It's because, well…"

Juliet's mouth went dry. "Yes?" 

"It's just the way I am," he finished quickly. 

Hope gave way to sharp disappointment. Surprised by the intensity of her reaction, she hid her feelings in contemplating the next move. "Your turn," she said finally. His pawn joined the small crowd of pieces on the tabletop. 

He studied the board, frowning. "You're no stranger to this game."

"My mentor in the Circle, Lydia," she swallowed hard at the memory, "didn't believe in idle hands. Or minds. When the study of magic didn't take up our time she had us learn history, geography, strategy, mathematics…" An opening became apparent and she swiftly dispatched one of his mages. "Chess."

At the mention of her Circle, Cullen's expression became shuttered. "It seems that was time well spent," he said stiffly. "I wish…" He shook his head, apparently clearing some stray thought. "Your move, Inquisitor."

Always Inquisitor. What was it about him - or about her - that drove her to keep needling him? He was too proper, too authoritative. It made her keep trying to crack open that facade of stiff professionalism, even if she felt like a bird hopelessly battering its wings against a window pane. It made her blurt out, even as her rational mind told her it was a terrible idea, "So…tell me about you and Hawke."

Cullen's smile vanished. "How do you…? Never mind," he said, somewhat curtly. "I would rather not." With exaggerated carefulness he finished his move, putting his knight down with the barest tap of stone on stone. Without meeting her eyes, he elaborated, "It was a mistake."

"Oh." A mistake. Her chest suddenly tight, she attempted what she hoped was a smile. "You have regrets?" 

Cullen's answering smile was more of a grimace. "I regret the entire thing. Now, really…I'd prefer if we moved on."

"I'm sorry," she said with forced cheerfulness. "It seems my sister's not the only one capable of putting her foot in it." She saw the opportunity to take his queen, and considered letting it pass; then, with an apologetic smile and a half-shrug, she toppled the piece with her mage. 

"There," Cullen said. "That's Mia's look."

Juliet laughed. "I wasn't aiming for stuck-up, but I suppose I've earned the right to gloat a little."

"It's not over yet," he countered. Thoughtful, he glanced at her through sandy eyelashes. "This may be the longest we've gone without discussing the Inquisition - or related matters. To be honest, I appreciate the distraction."

"I aim to please." Impulsively, she added, "We should spend more time together."

Another misstep in a conversation littered with them. Wasn't Cullen supposed to be the awkward one? But there was no awkwardness in his heavy-lidded gaze. "I would… like that," he said, and his low voice sent a pleasant shiver through her body. She could only smile back inanely, until he shook himself and turned his attention back to the board. 

"We should…finish our game," he stammered. "Right. My turn?" 

They sat in companionable silence. Stone tapped against stone, and the low hum of insects and murmured conversations played around them. Finally Cullen played the only move that was open to him, and it was checkmate. He smiled wryly. 

"I believe this one is yours. Well played." He leaned back, rolling his shoulders in a way that distracted Juliet entirely from her victory. "We shall have to try again some time." Standing, he offered her a small bow. "Inquisitor."

"Juliet," she said. "Please."

"Juliet." It was only her imagination, adding that low, husky timbre to his voice, the flash in his molten gold eyes. It was just her name; there was no reason for it to feel like a caress. 

And yet long after he had taken his leave she sat, fingers playing around her lips as if the memory of a kiss lingered there. 

"Still here?" Dorian startled her from her reverie. He ensconced himself in the chair opposite, fingers steepled and a knowing gleam in his eye. "Do I sense a romance blooming? I would so love to attend a provincial wedding."

"Did you and Varric orchestrate this?" she demanded. 

"Varric?" he said, affronted. "Perish the thought, dear cousin. Our Commander wandered into my library and I took pity on him. He seemed so…" The mage twirled his hand theatricality. "Lost."

"How terribly kind of you to keep him entertained."

"Obviously, darling Juliet, I resent the implication to my very core." Dorian plucked an imaginary piece of lint from his trouser leg, examining it between thumb and forefinger. "But I did rather enjoy the game…and the view."

"You don't find our little garden too provincial?"

"Now, now," he chastised her. "We both know I wasn't talking about the garden. My question remains: are you two delightful creatures going to give all of us, your proud and loving family, the news we wait so impatiently to hear? Or must Varric's prize pool grow ever larger?" 

"Bloody Varric," she muttered. 

"Well?" Dorian crossed an elegant ankle over his leg. 

"I'm going to have to disappoint you."

"Oh." Dorian did, indeed, sound disappointed. "Tell cousin Dorian absolutely everything."

Juliet sighed. I regret the entire thing. Somewhere in the Hinterlands, Tanner would be thinking the same about her. "There's really nothing to tell." She turned her hand palm up; the Anchor pulsed faintly green. "I just don't want to be anyone else's mistake."