#i've already started the next chapter

[mysteriaqueen]

The Traveler's Journal

Day One Part 6 | <Prev • Next> | Word Count: 559 words

The pair cross the bridge, talk to the Knights at the entrance, and finally reach the gates of Mondstadt. There, they met Amber, who welcomed them.

“Let me officially introduce the city of wind, dandelions, and freedom--” Amber said, beaming with pride. “Travelers under the protection of the Knights of Favonius -- Welcome to Mondstadt!”

The traveler and her companion turned to each other.

“Finally, no more having to camp outdoors!” Paimon smiled and then turned back to Amber. “But… the city folk don’t look too cheery.” “Everyone’s been put out of place by Stormterror recently,” Amber explained. “But everything will turn out fine as long as Jean’s with us!” “Jean?” Paimon asked. “Acting grand master of the Knights of Favonius -- Jean, Defender of Mondstadt. With Jean on our side, surely even the vicious Stormterro will be no match for us.”

Jean sounds pretty impressive. I hope one of them knows something about the God of Anemo.

“Before I take you guys to the Knights of Favonius headquarters, I have a present for you, Jaylenth.” “Oh? For me?” “Yes. It’s a reward for helping me clear out that hilichurl camp.” “He-Hey! Why doesn’t Paimon get a reward?”

Jaylenth side-eyed her guide. Hmm, did you help at all Paimon? Despite thinking this at Paimon rather aggressively, Paimon failed to notice the look she was being given.

“Ahh… Because this reward is useless to you, Paimon. But I’ll treat you to a traditional Mondstadt delicacy -- Sticky Honey Roast.”

Hearing the mention of food, Paimon turned to the traveler and celebrated. “Sticky Honey Roast!”

Amber turned back to Jaylenth, addressing her once again. “Come with me, we’ll head to the city’s ahh… high ground.”

The traveler followed Amber through the city of Mondstadt. The trio walked up some stairs, passing an important-looking building with a symbol. Up some more stairs there was a Tavern and restaurant on the left, and what looked to be a souvenir shop on the left.

“This used to be a bustling street… But with so many Stormterror attacks recently, the usual crows are nowhere to be seen.” “Huh.”

The traveler walked over to the lady standing outside the maybe souvenir shop.

“My name is Majorie. Welcome. Every treasure here is unique, so we don’t negotiate on the price, nor do we give refunds.” “Could I browse your items?” The traveler asked. “My, this is unfortunate. The shop’s been undergoing renovations recently.” “I see.” The traveler said, the wind leaving her sails. “Drop by next time. Our products will never disappoint!”

Amber, who had been waiting a bit ahead, continued walking and talking after the pair caught up with them.

“So I take it that all the businesses are struggling then?” Jaylenth asked. “All except for the local tavern near the city wall over there. They haven’t been affected. If anything, their business is better than ever.”

They continued walking and passed a few more stores and took a left at the fountain. As they approached more stairs Jaylenth heard a lady say, “Oh? Are you interested in going on an adventure?” However, as the traveler followed Amber she never saw who said it. As they approached HQ a large man in uniform standing near the doors said “Haha! Welcome to the adventurer’s Guild!” Jaylenth spared a wave at the man and then entered the Knights of Favonius’ Headquarters.

[ohitslen]

BREAKING NEWS 🎉Ch. 5 of The neighbor from 311 is up!🎉

[essektheylyss]

I have FINISHED A CHAPTER and it did NOT take me a month, this is great

[decarbry]

Yabureme 1-3

[malpracticemd]

Y'all have to be patient with fic writers.

We have jobs, lives. We can't be spending every second of every day writing and even if we could, we still don't owe you anything. Fics are updated and chapters are posted when they can be. All you have to do is be patient and not hound the writers about their next update because even if you say you're not being pushy, you kind of are.

[solradguy]

Complete rando here, but I just wanted to pop in and say thank you for your translations. <3 I'm reading through the GG Comic Anthology right now because I cannot sleep and they are delightful and a wonderful bit of comfort.

Thanks for reading them!! Sorry it's been so long between updates on that manga, but it sounds like this is maybe your first readthrough of it so perhaps the gaps between updates hasn't been that bad haha

[elenadoeslife]

it's funny to think this is only about a fifth of the yarn I've collected over the past 5 years 🧶

I'm brutally destashing, throwing out yarn I don't like to work with and only keeping one of every colour of yarn that I occasionally grab for projects.

I'm planning on filling 3 of these boxes (project bags excluded) and donating/throwing out what's left 👀

[cbk1000]

Hey, so since I’m a lying liar who still hasn’t posted this fic, here’s another preview.

Then there was the dreadful scene with Mrs Brown, who had them out for a look at an elderly horse, in an elderly barn. Those venerable ancients, all three of them, were standing together, with the backs all bent by time or wind, when Merlin turned the truck into the drive, and got out, still taunting Arthur for his superior taste in music; which at least was nothing to do with Gwaine. They got out the kit, put on their wellies, and jogged up to meet her, before she could go limping down the drive, and would have to go limping back up it. She seemed to be in more agony than the horse, who had rearranged his weight to coddle his left front foot, and said, before Merlin had even opened his mouth, thereby breaking some kind of land speed record, “He won’t put his foot down. Do you think there’s anything terribly wrong with it?”

“Well, we’ll just take a look,” Merlin said, and put down the bag, and calling out to the horse, “All right, sir, let’s have a look,” picked up the hoof. He was bent over it only a moment. “It’s thrush.” 

“What’s that? He’s not dying is he, poor dear?” she asked, sounding as if it would have killed her herself.

“Well, if left too long, it can lame a horse, but it won’t kill them. Although if he’s not vaccinated against tetanus, that can get in through a damaged frog.” She gave him a blank look. “Thrush is a bacterial infection that eats away at the tissue of the frog, so if it damages it too severely, it leaves the horse vulnerable to other infections.”

“Oh dear. What’s this business about a frog? Nasty, invasive buggers.”

Merlin’s face looked like Arthur’s felt. “Erm. First horse, I’m guessing?”

“Oh, yes. He was a neighbour’s, and they were going to pack him off to the slaughterhouse, can you believe that, so I said, ‘You will not, I’ve a lovely barn for him right here’ and I talked them round from murdering the poor old chap, and here he is. We’re getting on, the pair of us, a couple of old buggers seeing out our last years together. Just like a big dog he is, lovely, honestly, aren’t you, love?” she asked the horse, who butted his head against her hand. “He’s the most perfect gentleman there ever was, and they were going to murder him without human feeling! I don’t believe this world we’re living in.”

Arthur scratched his nose. He had housed enough horses of other owners to know that people viewed their animals rather like they viewed their children; little respectful darlings who had never gone or spoken awry, because of the simple qualification that they were theirs: and so if they had appeared to have done wrong, it was because of some flawed perception in the mistaken perceiver. If she had called him a dog, it was very likely he was a demon: and they would have to cut the bad tissue out of his hoof, and wash it down with treatment, a practice discouraged by even the most genuinely gentlemanly of equines. He looked sideways at Merlin, who he found was looking sideways at him. They both had that natural perception of accomplished horsemen, and knew looking at the presently placid figure it was shortly to be one of strife. He had let Merlin pick up the hoof without any protest; but whether he would consent to beyond that was still to be seen.

It was Arthur’s job to keep the horse from killing Merlin, which he did by letting the fellow get a good sniff at him, and talking to him in a low voice, in the hopes of earning his esteem; he had handled his share of unruly horses undergoing procedures they did not care to be part of, and decided to start with a neck twitch, after they had led him into his stall, where he would have less room to manoeuver, and Merlin could work, hopefully, in relative safety. He grabbed a roll of loose flesh on the neck, and squeezed it, getting a surprised look in return: but no other sign of upheaval. 

“Maybe you should pick out his hoof,” Merlin said, getting out his instruments, and rolling up his sleeves. “If he kicks you in the head, it won’t make any difference.”

“Oh right, because your head is the one at greater risk.”

Merlin eyed him as he picked up the hoof once more, and tucked the horse’s leg between his own. “If I die, tell your sister I’m sorry I couldn’t be her first victim for the insurance money. It would have been great, up till she killed me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

Then the horse, sensing this was to be a different thing altogether, jerked the hoof in Merlin’s hands, and thrust the whole body straight up, almost a kind of levitation, whilst Merlin clung to the hoof, and Arthur clung to the halter, pushing into the huge body as it tried to swing round on Merlin, and their observer said in abject delight, “Oh, he’s like a young man again! I’ve never seen him move like that.”

“Right, it’s a bloody miracle,” Arthur said through his teeth. He was putting his whole weight into his task. He was between Merlin, scraping determinedly at the hoof, and Merlin, smashed to bits on the stall wall. 

“Where are you lads from?” she asked, leaning on the stall door whilst he fended off the horse’s teeth. “I’m from Manchester, myself. I can’t place your accent, young man,” she said, to whom he did not know; and not waiting for the unknown young man to state his origins, began to expound upon hers. The horse tried to rear; and Arthur, holding the halter with everything he was, inserted a strained, “Mm hmm” where she obviously expected one to be; and Merlin, restraining a truly incalculable number of curses, said, “Oh yeah, lovely country up there” whilst he was retrieving the solution, which he did by leaping sideways, to get out of the way of the hoof he had abandoned, flinging himself against the side of the stall as Arthur pushed the horse away from him, and the horse, robbed of his victim, bit Arthur instead.

Fucking fuck fuck cunt, said Arthur’s brain; whilst his mouth was the inviolable stalwart of chivalry. “Lovely, yeah,” it said to the woman, whilst her precious goblin was standing on his foot, and she was asking whether he wasn’t the dearest old dear of existence.

“Now you’ll be coming in for tea; I want to hear all about you,” she said, and left them, after listening to Merlin’s instructions on cleaning the hoof, to gather their equipment and meet her in a sitting room which looked to their exhausted bodies a kind of Promised Land: and into which they heaved themselves, having cleaned themselves as well as they could with a water bottle and bad language. She gave them little frail teacups on saucers, which looked absurd in Merlin’s large battered hand, and laid on the table a startling array of biscuits, saying as she did so, “You eat as much as you like; I’d have you for supper as well, if I didn’t know you two were hard-working young lads who needed to get on with their day. And tell me, how did you meet, and don’t worry, I always vote for the Liberal Democrats, so you don’t need to worry about anything here, I may be old, but I’m not old-fashioned. Lovely, the pair of you.”

“Erm. Well. Arthur runs a breeding farm. My uncle has a veterinarian practice and he’s getting on, so I’ve come down to take over the field work that’s harder on him. We kind of transitioned from client-vet to assistant-vet.”

Arthur had stiffened on the sofa. He did not know how she had spotted what were his seething but subtle feelings; but she had clocked them, and was about to innocently out them.

“Oh, no, that’s not nearly as romantic as I’d hoped--”

“I think we had better get on to Freya’s, hadn’t we?” Arthur asked, something he had never before suggested with such (or any) enthusiasm. Merlin looked at him. Then he looked at Mrs Brown, and went horrifically pale.

“Oh. Oh, no, we’re like, you know--professional partners. Not partners partners. We’re not--yeah. Arthur’s--and I’m not. Interested in that sort of thing. With him. That’s--we’re friends. He’s more like--a brother. You know. Yeah. Erm. It’s--professional. Our. Partnership.”

“Why didn’t you just say, ‘Oh, not that horrid old toe rag’ and be done with it?” Arthur asked as they returned to the truck, not through his teeth, though it might have sounded that way.

“Well, what the hell did you want me to say? She thought we were fucking, for some reason. I can’t have something like that following me round.”

“Right, you wouldn’t want to sully your heretofore impeccable reputation for madness with good taste,” Arthur snapped. He did not slam the door of the truck after he had got in; but he did think about having been reduced to the non-sexual realm of family, and shut it with enthusiasm. “Your brother.”

[eclipseofthehat]

[<–Previous] 040 [Next—>]

[New to the comic? Start here!]

At long last chapter two wraps up not with a BANG but a BITE, well Snatcher, maybe you shouldn’t sass the woman who only remembers one thing and has made it her life mission.

See you in the next chapter! Promise it won’t take almost a year this time.

[kyouka-supremacy]

Not to say one can't consume media they don't 100% agree with (I do the same so like), but you talk a lot about how the core views of TPN vs BSD change your entire way of enjoying these two, and I was wondering what drew you in into BSD if there are so many aspects of it you disagree with?

(Not meant as an attack or as a questioning of you enjoying it, I always am interested in your analysis so this is just out of curiosity, and also I am planning to pick up TPN again sometime this year)

[laugtherhyena]

Wow the universe is really working agaisnt this chapter huh

[partystoragechest]

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 teaches the Commander a lesson.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,201. Rating: all audiences, except for a swear.)

Chapter 13: Lesson One

Outfits upon outfits were brought to Trevelyan for decision. With a sigh, she told her ladies’ maids, “Whatever mother thinks best.”

Permission granted, then. Her hair was dragged into place, her cheeks forcibly dabbed with the barest hint of rouge. Like children, they played dress-up with their doll. Her best breeches, her best puff-sleeved shirt. An overdress, in sage green, that laced under the bust. She plastered a fake smile on top, and the facade was complete.

She was ready to meet with the Commander.

“Oh, how sweet you look,” said Lady Montilyet, as she arrived in Trevelyan’s chamber, “and just in time.”

Trevelyan relented to her escort, if only to be away from her maids. The Great Hall was a preferable atmosphere, and even the Commander was a preferable sight. He waited within the arch of the grand siege doors—but with his back turned, and his gaze elsewhere.

Such preoccupation was an opportunity, which Lady Montilyet took. She halted, and whispered, “Lady Trevelyan, are you sure you wish to do this?”

Her insistence was kind, but Trevelyan had not lied—not that she could, in the presence of a bloodhound like Montilyet. “I am,” she promised. “Is he aware of the letter from my parents?”

“No. That would be unnecessary, should this truly be for yourself, and their insistence be nothing more than a prompt.”

Worry not, Ambassador. “My parents sent me to a Circle, as well. I did not wish to go, but I think I made the best of it. This, too.”

Montilyet, though hesitant, accepted this answer. “I believe I understand. If that be the case, then I wish you well. Enjoy your walk.”

Oh, she would. Trevelyan found herself growing rather accustomed to the Commander’s attitude, and had proven quite capable of contending with it. He could be surly all he liked! Or not, should he debase himself enough to demonstrate a shred of decency. Even that would not surprise her.

“Commander!”

His attention was stolen from the courtyard he surveyed, to witness her arrival—which he met with predictably little reaction, and a well-documented expression of suppressed disgruntlement. There was the Commander she knew!

He conceded a bow, at least. “Your Ladyship. Are you well?”

She curtsied. “I am very well, Commander. Glad to be venturing outside”—she briefly admired the sky; though overcast, the clouds were cottony and bright—“the Undercroft can be quite stuffy, after a time.”

“True. Then, where would you like to walk?”

“The battlements, if you please.” She hitched up her skirt. “Though tell me, Commander—are we to take this stroll in silence as well?”

“I, ah… well, I had hoped to ask about your work with Dagna. I’ve not had a report since the first.”

Of course he’d like to talk about work. At least it was a topic Trevelyan found interest in.

“Well, then,” she said, taking the first step, “on we march.”

Throughout their descent, and whilst weaving through the courtyard, she told him her tales of the Undercroft: of plans they had orchestrated, of reports she had delivered, and of the difficulty involved in converting a ward to an enchantment.

But, while Trevelyan had completed the positively thrilling work of scribing runes, the Arcanist was occupied with creating a contraption for the enchantment itself. Yet, before the painstaking process of applying it to such an apparatus could begin, the spell was to be extensively tested.

“Though it will not be the explosive version I test,” Trevelyan explained. By the foot of the castle walls, she took a pause, to stand aside for a soldier descending the stairs. “I shall utilise the original ward to find the correct temperature to trigger at.”

Waiting at her back, the Commander asked discreetly, “Will you need a sample of red lyrium for these tests?”

“Not yet,” Trevelyan whispered in return. “We shall find our floor using body heat—to ensure it does not trigger in the presence of an unafflicted individual’s output. Fire shall suit for the ceiling.”

The stairs clear, Trevelyan started up them; the Commander hesitated. He called after her, “Metaphorically?”

Trevelyan stifled a laugh, and turned to watch him catch her up. “Of course, metaphorically. What else?”

“I am serious”—he reached her stair—“It wouldn’t be the first time Dagna had suggested setting a ceiling on fire.”

“To what end would one set a ceiling on fire?”

The Commander shook his head. “I believe you’re asking the wrong person.”

They arrived atop the battlements, the brisk mountain breeze rushing up to greet them. It was far quieter here than the courtyard, with only soldiers patrolling the parapets, and the odd messenger hurrying by.

Their walk took them to the eastern wall. Trevelyan placed herself closest to the edge, so that she might see better out over the valley. The vista here was rather different to her usual, for it looked out over the entrance of Skyhold—that long old bridge, and the twisting slope that led up to it.

Beyond that was the frigid river, and the encampments upon encampments upon it. The tents and structures were mere blotches of brown, the fires nothing but little embers, and the people dots that moved between them. Though they were certainly more intimidating when passed through at ground level, only when viewed from on high could one truly comprehend the numbers.

Trevelyan exhaled, her breath turning to fog. “Incredible.”

It was enough to make her forget about the man beside her. Albeit briefly.

“We’ve recently had movements of Red Templars,” he said, entirely out of the blue.

She stared at him. “On Skyhold?”

“North of Val Royeaux. Such explosives could be useful there.”

Oh. No pressure. “Well, then,” Trevelyan said, “I certainly hope we are ready in time to assist.”

The Commander hummed. “We have a retinue we can move into position if called upon.” Maker, why did she need to know all of this? “But in future, preventative measures may be—”

“It strikes me, Commander,” Trevelyan interrupted, “that we are supposed to use this time to get to know one another, and yet you resort to only speaking of work.”

The interruption caught him off-guard, and it took a second for him to recover. “Well, you said yourself you are busy, as am I. It would be pertinent to utilise this time to speak about Inquisition matters.”

Though he may have been a former Templar, he certainly possessed an obstinance equal to some of the practicing Templars she’d known. Yielding was hardly going to do anything.

Oh, fuck it. Let him have it.

“You know, Commander, I believe you make yourself busy, to avoid wooing your suitors,” she accused. Only half-true: she herself had seen evidence of his being quite sufficiently occupied to provide adequate excuse as to his absences. But there was no better way under a stubborn man’s skin than such facetious claims.

He protested, “I do not. Lady Trevelyan, I swear to you, I am quite busy.”

Get him. “Too busy,” she muttered, “to say ‘good evening’?”

No reply.

“Because I am, by your own admission, terribly busy as well, Commander,” she continued, “and I still find the time to say ‘good evening’.”

His response was painted on his face, and Maker, was it quite the picture! Eyes askance, mouth half-open—like he wished to speak, but had nothing to say. His hand sought the back of his neck, rubbing as if to soothe the pain.

“I, ah… well, I am… I am not much in the way of conversation,” he admitted.

Trevelyan smirked. “I apologise for how impolite this may sound, Commander, but I could quite tell. However, I cannot laugh at your misfortune, when I myself am beset by similar woes.” Conspiratorially, she whispered: “I am not much when it comes to conversation, either.”

His gaze ceased its avoidance.

“Despite this,” she said, “I try. Unfortunately, whether I succeed is not for me to decide.”

He cracked a smile at this. “You seem capable, from where I stand.”

“It’s kind of you to lie.”

He laughed. It was a small laugh, more of the nose than mouth, but a laugh nonetheless.

Victory—for that was how to break a Templar.

“You know,” she went on, “I think it’s the Circles that do it. I’ve never met a mage nor Templar who emerged with any kind of conversation. Being around the same people every day, you start to say the same things over and over, I think. All of your vocabulary and sociability wilt like flowers in shade.”

“Or are pulled from the ground entirely,” the Commander added.

Trevelyan laughed. “You know what I mean, then.”

“As you pointed out, I am quite familiar.”

Their path brought them round the corner, to face the mages’ tower ahead. This sight, coupled with their conversation, must have put the Commander in mind—for he asked (quite naturally, by his standards), “How did you find Ostwick Circle?”

What an interesting question with ever such a complicated answer. There were many things Trevelyan could say about Ostwick, and her experience there, and how she felt about losing her only home at her darkest moment in life—regardless of how that home had treated her beforehand.

But instead she sighed, and said, “Fine.”

The Commander nodded with the solemn face of a man who knew what that ‘fine’ meant. “I had heard Ostwick was one of the more… decent places.”

Trevelyan snorted. “I believe ‘decent’ is the perfect descriptor.” She shook her head. “You know, I wasn’t informed you were a Templar before I arrived.”

The Commander’s steps stuttered. He stared at her, mouth once more agape. “Ah… I’m surprised you stayed.”

She could not help the titter that escaped her lips. “Well, I had little choice.”

“What do you mean?”

Uh oh. “I found out after I had already stepped foot within Skyhold,” she lied. “I could hardly turn around at that point!”

Not bad—and he bought it. “Do you like Skyhold, at least?” he asked.

Trevelyan gazed at the mountains, with which they walked parallel. Their height intimidated, but felt protective all the same, like a counsel of benevolent deities, in silent observation. She smiled.

“I do. Very much so.”

Continuing that smile, she looked at the Commander. “And with that, I believe congratulations are in order! We have passed at least a minute with no discussion of work. As your reward, we may take the rest of our walk in silence.”

And so they did, for a few moments. Birds flitted past, their chirps carried on the wind. Soldiers clanked by, purposefully ignorant. Retreat was made at the mages’ tower, to return the way they had come; to extend their time on the battlements a little longer. In peace and quiet.

“Have you had chance to read anything from the library?” asked the Commander.

Oh. A question? Talking. Conversation! And not work-related?

Trevelyan stammered over her reply, “Well, erm, yes. A few books, mostly relating to lyrium.”

“The Tale of the Champion?”

“Oh! Yes, but I shouldn’t think you’d like me to bring it up.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, for the briefest of moments. “Thank you, but it’s all right. Varric already informed me you had.”

Oh, no. Varric had told him about her. Maker, what had he said? How could she be a topic of enough note to warrant any kind of dicussion? No, she was deluding herself. It was likely a brief couple of words on the subject, and nothing more.

“Oh, he did?” she said, attempting to sound as casual as possible. For the life of her, she could not tell why she ought be so flustered.

“He did. I believe it’s the reason he’s been calling himself ‘the foremost scholar on red lyrium’.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Dorian will hate that.”

“He does.”

Oh. No question of how she knew Dorian, to be able to mention him so fleetingly. Which meant, perhaps…

“Has Dorian spoken to you about me as well, then?”

The Commander nodded. “He said he had discussed red lyrium with you.”

“Ah!” she said. “My source is revealed.”

For someone who claimed not to be a good conversationalist, Trevelyan ought to have congratulated herself for how well she was, at that moment, concealing her inner panic.

Part of her mind was desperately trying to recall every word spoken during her meetings with Varric and Dorian, and if any of it was something she would not wish the Commander to hear. The other part was scrabbling about in an attempt to maintain her end of the current conversation.

“I suppose it’s only right that I should have other people do my research,” she commented, “since I am only ‘pretending to be working folk.’”

The Commander’s face soured with the recollection of his soldiers’ ineptitude. “I am sorry for their behaviour. Soldiers of the Inquisition ought to know better.”

“Perhaps they need to practice their manners instead of their swing.”

The Commander chuffed. “Their swing isn’t that good either.”

Trevelyan stifled a laugh, though she was sure he wouldn’t have minded. He was funny when he wasn’t so grumpy. “Well, they likely learnt their lesson after a few trips up and down those stairs—I certainly did,” she muttered, feeling an ache in her thigh. “Walking has been quite the bother today.”

The Commander suggested, “Then, shall we stop here?”

“Stop?”

Trevelyan had repeated the word quite without thinking. When cognitive function at last restored itself, she could not help but wonder why she would protest it.

Even more strangely: to her relief, the Commander clarified, “I meant, rest.”

His arm extended towards the nearby parapet, which overlooked the river encampment. Unable to say no for some reason or another, Trevelyan padded towards it—and struggled all the while to figure out where in Andraste’s name this gentleman-like behaviour had sprung from.

Maker, what if Lady Samient had been telling the truth? What if this really were the version of the Commander her Ladyship had known?

But—then, he had barely acknowledged Samient yesterday, by the delivery. Perhaps it was not to let anything slip, in front of Trevelyan. Let her believe that they were little more than strangers, whilst in private they laughed at the others for ever thinking the Commander should be interested in any of them.

No—even if Lady Samient’s confusion was not genuine, the Commander’s disinterest was. Something else, then.

Pity.

Of course, pity. That was what had changed, between their last walk and this one. The Commander knew something of what Trevelyan had suffered before she arrived at Skyhold, and had shown adequate sensitivity to the fact at the time. He was not stone-hearted, that she could well admit; therefore, it was quite probably within him to shed his abraisiveness for a softer touch.

Politeness, born of pity.

At least it was something.

“It’s a… nice view,” the Commander stuttered, causing her to realise she hadn’t said a word in some time. Trevelyan grounded herself, through the feel of the cold, rough stone beneath her fingers, and the radiance of a few breakthrough rays of light, which fluttered down from the heavens, onto the valley below.

“Yes,” she told him, “I wish I could spend more time here.”

“You are often on the battlements in the evening,” he noted.

“When I am able, yes; I enjoy looking at the stars. You seem to be there often, as well.”

The Commander explained: “There is a path from my office, through the keep, that loops back on itself.” He pointed to his tower, and let his hand trace an invisible route, around Skyhold, and back again. “I like to walk it in the evening.”

“Keeping an eye on the night watch?” she teased.

The Commander chuckled as he said, “I’m sure they feel that way.”

Hm. Another minute of conversation—possibly more. Trevelyan could hardly tell the time, for her mind had forgotten to keep count.

She said, with a smile, “Weren’t we talking about Ser Tethras’ book before all of this?”

“Yes,” the Commander admitted, again rubbing the back of his neck. “Was there anything you wished to ask? I don’t mind answering.”

Outside of her questions about red lyrium—questions neither the book nor anyone else was truly capable of answering—Trevelyan wondered one thing: “Was it all really that beige?”

The Commander seemed amused, and a little relieved, by the question. “Well, there were other colours, too. It was very orange, sometimes—though that was dependent on whether someone had set something alight that day.”

Trevelyan choked on a laugh, caught quite off-guard by it. “I see. And any ceilings caught in the blaze?”

Though his face appeared blank for a moment, realisation struck it like lightning. The confusion resolved into a chuckle and a smile. Trevelyan congratulated herself on a joke well made, and cursed herself, too.

It was far easier to dislike him when he wasn’t so charming.

***

When Trevelyan went to stargaze that night, her hands met the parapets with a sense of familiarity—sinking, as before, onto the cold, moonlit stone. From the mountain deities, her gaze drifted to the skies.

Clear at last, they sparkled.

Her mind wandered—and she let it—to the many things she had to think of. Work, the Commander… two things, then.

But it was the latter she thought of more, for quite obvious reasons. That pleasant walk, that pleasant man. This, then, was the side of him that everyone had been so eager to praise. And she was seeing it because… he pitied her. Not exactly an ideal start for any kind of relationship—

“Good evening, Lady Trevelyan.”

Trevelyan jolted and whipped around, to find the Commander stood behind her.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, it’s all right.” She could have made a sarcastic comment about being surprised by the fact he was finally acknowledging her, but… no. “Good evening to you as well. How is your walk?”

“Good, thank you. The stars?”

“Oh, wonderful as always.”

“Good. Um…”

He was struggling. Bless him. Trevelyan took up the reigns of the conversation: “Thank you, Commander. I shall return to them, before the clouds draw in again. Have a lovely night.”

“Yes. And you, your Ladyship.”

With a little bow, he departed. Trevelyan watched him go, smiling to herself.

But as soon as he was gone, her smile dropped, and she shot a look at the guard who was always posted nearby. He shrugged back. I didn’t see him, he mouthed.

Unreliable warning system!

Though… not that she’d minded too terribly tonight. For the interaction had shown her something important: the Commander could be taught. He could be made acceptable, he could even be made to like her. All of that seemed very much possible.

There was just one problem: she would have to like him, too.

And as polite and kind as he had been, there were still things that troubled her about him. A former Templar. The argument with Lady Montilyet. The contradiction between his rudeness and charm. Though she might well befriend the Commander…

Could she love him?

[astro-b-o-y-d]

Got another VERY sweet comment on Ao3, so naturally this will fuel me through my weekend editing

[decarbry]

Yabureme 4-1 is up <3

[buttercupshands]

haha guess who read the spoilers?

[xilianx]

Sometimes it's blessing and a curse that music/soundtracks fuel my writing motivation and scene planning, because either I got no fuggin music I need for days if not WEEKS on end to get the creative juices going or I got the same damn song replaying over and over as imagine multiple scenes down to the fine details and start going feral work because I need to write.

And sometimes it's a track from the Dinosaur (2000) movie OST because nostalgia comes knocking on my Spotify playlists like a mf that I owe money too and I forgot about for years.