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partystoragechest · 5 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, Trevelyan has someone she'd like to impress.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,893. Rating: all audiences, bar a few swears.)

Chapter 42: The Ball

“Pre-senting..!”

The stage was set, the Great Hall adorned in its finest. A band played upon the dais, the floor before them awaiting its dancers. Every candle was lit, every banner unfurled—each one proudly displaying the sigil of the Inquisition.

This was their party. People of all ranks were in attendance. Advisors and dignitaries, to soldiers and mages. All, except for four.

The door thundered open. A chamberlain cried their names:

“Lady Erridge of West Coldon, Lady Samient of Samient, Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne..!”

The Ladies strode in, none finer than they. Lady Erridge wore her pinkest, most ruffliest dress yet; Lady Samient wore her tightest, of dark, snakish leather; the Baroness wore her most glamorous, a gown in passionate red—with mahogany cane to match, of course.

“...and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

Trevelyan emerged, last of all. The ballgown she wore? Unrecognisable.

The black brocade was gone, the lace ripped from its seams with wicked delight. All that remained was perfect canvas of purest navy, onto which it could be painted—with shining, silvery thread.

Her mother would’ve fumed at the very idea. But what good was learning embroidery, if one did not use it in defiance?

Each Lady had taken up a quadrant of her own, yet the stitches they sewed were all the same: dozens upon dozens of tiny, shimmering, stars.

Trevelyan sparkled with every step. Diamonds glittered around her neck, lent eagerly by the Baroness. Every candle’s flame glistened upon her.

Even the night sky could not compare.

Were it not for the band, the room would have been stunned to silence. Whispers of admiration made their circuit. Trevelyan joined the other Ladies, all of them frightfully pleased with their handiwork—and quite rightly, too.

“So this is what you were all up to yesterday?” asked the arriving Lady Orroat—herself in fine doublet and breeches—laying her eyes upon the dress for the very first time. “It’s beautiful!”

A look of panic came over Lady Erridge. “I did those ones!” she blurted, her pointing finger at some collection of stars.

The Baroness laughed at such a display. “Yes, Lady Erridge is indeed a fine seamstress.”

“Oh, certainly,” Orroat agreed, placing a kiss upon her seamstress’ hand, quelling her worry in an instant. “Always has been.”

Amused, Lady Samient whispered to Trevelyan: “Seems her Ladyship has reversed her position on your knowing Lady Orroat.”

Trevelyan giggled. “Good. For I could hardly say we should make such as handsome couple as they.”

The Ladies settled, the partygoers returned to business—yet the music that accompanied their conversation furrowed into quiet. Attention was drawn to the dais from whence it had come, as the ever-elegant Lady Montilyet took her place upon it.

“Friends of the Inquisition!” she called. “Thank you for coming. I do not wish to keep you from your pleasures, so this will not be long—but, if you shall indulge me, I would like to say a fond farewell, to some of our departing guests.”

She raised a glass in the direction of the Ladies, and sang their praises each.

Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat were wished all the best, for the wedding that was to come, and for the future of their Coldon, reunited by love. They took each other’s hands, met one another’s doting gaze, and held tight.

The Baroness was sent hope, for a swift victory in Val Misrenne—but also admiration. She had more than proven why she was capable of defying the Chantry so: a steadfast determination, that they should all aspire to. With a smile, the Baroness bowed.

Lady Samient’s message was subtle. A safe journey home, all she was promised—but those who knew, knew what that meant. Absent-minded, the Lady reached for and toyed with the pendant at her neck, a twisting halla’s horn.

“Of course,” Montilyet continued, “one of our guests is to remain. Gathered friends, may I please introduce to you our new Arcanist”—she held her glass high—“Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick!”

Applause went up, echoing off the walls, filling the room with joy. Trevelyan laughed in delight, and caught glimpses of her friends amongst the rabble. Varric’s arms flew up; somewhere, Dorian hollered; even Sera clapped—though none, it seemed, were as enthusiastic as Dagna herself!

“Tonight, we celebrate!” Montilyet declared. “So please, enjoy!”

The band launched into triumphant fanfare; good humour and good company were the orders of the evening. The Ladies, all aflutter, went about these goals with giddiness and verve.

“Won’t you come dance?” asked Lady Erridge, having already roped her fiancee into it.

Trevelyan smiled, but shook her head. “Later,” she told her. “There’s someone I wish to see, first.”

Lady Samient picked up her slack. “Come, Lady Erridge!” she offered, instead. “I’ll dance with you.”

Appeased, Lady Erridge escorted her away. Trevelyan was left to withdraw from the dancefloor, and wander towards the more stationary attendees. Her eyes flitted from person to person, searching for one in particular.

A hand caught her shoulder. The Baroness, apparently having already procured a drink, leant over, and tilted it forward.

“There,” she whispered.

The crowd parted, as if by her will. True to her word, at the other end of the room, was stood precisely the man Trevelyan had been looking for.

Commander.

Maker, he had only become more handsome the longer she had known him. That rough-hewn jaw of his, a dishevelment of stubble upon it; the subtle waves in his hair, hints of his rebellious curls; those dimples upon his cheeks—the thumb-prints of the divine, left where the Maker’s scultping hand had gone astray.

And his weary eyes, whose gentle gaze found her, and drew her closer.

Trevelyan admired, as she approached, the coincidence of the navy blue doublet that Lady Montilyet had undoubtedly advised him to wear. Hm. She liked him better in red. Suited him more, perhaps.

Though truly, it mattered little. There was nothing that could dull the shine of him; true gold, after all, did never rust.

He straightened to greet her, a little smile pulling at his mouth. And he would have greeted her, perhaps warmly, perhaps sweetly—had a scout, uniformed and on duty, not appeared at his side.

Ah, fuck.

They whispered something to him, below the hubbub that came back into focus. Trevelyan crept nearer, but heard nothing of the Commander’s reply. Yet, when the he looked to her again, his smile was gone.

“Arcanist,” he said, with a bow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. Urgent business.”

Bloody typical.

“Of course,” she told him, magnanimously. “Duty calls.”

“At inconvenient times,” he added.

“No duty is ever convenient.”

That seemed to amuse him, at least. “True. I will try to return soon,” he told her. “I assure you.”

“Yes, Commander.”

She curtsied to him, and allowed him to depart. The scout had lingered by the rotunda door. The Commander followed them through.

Gone.

Trevelyan looked down at her pretty, sparkly skirt, and fluffed it up, pointlessly. Not quite the moment she’d been hoping for.

Oh, well. She would have plenty of time for moments with him in the coming days. If he didn’t get called away by something or other during those, too.

Stowing her frustration, Trevelyan returned to the party. There was plenty more to do, besides.

She watched the Ladies dance, and clapped along. She saw Dagna, who was endlessly excited for the things to come. She met with Lady Montilyet, and spoke of her new quarters (ready tomorrow)! And she found Dorian, who was, as always, terribly good conversation.

Yet still no Commander.

The noise of the band and the chatter and the stomps of the dancing were beginning to blur in her brain. Dorian noted her change in temperament, as she peered out of the door to the garden. No. Too many in attendance; the party had spilled out into it. It was no less busy out there than it was in here.

“Try up there,” Dorian suggested, indicating the mezzanine above. It seemed Sera had been banned from it today, as no there was no skulking to be seen. “It has a balcony, if you need some air.”

“Thank you,” said Trevelyan. She’d had little cause to ever stray up there before—but now seemed as good a reason as any. “I shall see you later.”

Dorian waved, off to see the Baroness. Trevelyan found her way around the dancefloor, and escaped up the stairs.

The moment she reached their peak, already was she calmer. Even mere feet above the maelstrom, the music came quieter, and the conversation mere ambience. Better.

Her attention turned to the mezzanine. It was furnished well for a somewhat hidden space, with a luxurious chaise and portraits of figures Trevelyan did not quite recognise. The candleabrum here were not lit, leaving all illumination to that of the moons, who trickled their glow through a pair of glass doors—beyond which, as promised, was a balcony.

But Trevelyan felt at ease enough to stay inside for now; and indeed, she found the view of the party below to be quite of interest. The dancers, from above, weaved such wonderful patterns. Outfits, in all colours, were arrayed like a painter’s palette. She could watch, as those she knew flitted from one group, to another. An enjoyable pict—

The rotunda door opened, drawing her eye. The Commander. He strode into the party with such determination, it was as if it did not even exist around him. Trevelyan followed his path, as it led him, direct, to the Baroness.

They moved to the side. He whispered something. Urgent business? Oh, no.

But the Baroness smiled. Wider and wider. She asked him something; he nodded. She placed a hand over her heart, and sighed. Trevelyan did the same.

She took a step back, from the barrier. If the news they shared was what she hoped, then she was rather glad she hadn’t kicked up a fuss at his departure. Because if it was what she hoped, then it would be well worth it.

She had to see the Baroness.

And she would have, if not for the feet hurrying up the stairs. The Baroness? No cane. Then—!

The Commander appeared at the landing, startling himself as much as he startled her. Determination abandoning him in an instant, he padded onto the mezzanine, and did his best to bow.

“Arcanist,” he said. “Forgive me, Dorian told me you were here.”

Crafty bastard. Still, she asked, “Is everything all right, Commander? Your urgent business?”

He smiled—such a relieving smile—and nodded. “Yes. The Inquisitor has reported in.” She could hardly believe his next words: “We have victory. Val Misrenne is safe.”

As she’d hoped. Better, even. Trevelyan brought a hand to her mouth, a beaming smile beneath it. She shook her head, out of sheer incredulity. By Andraste. She could not fathom how dear Touledy felt.

“Thank the Maker,” she breathed. “Or, I suppose—thank you, Commander.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think it is the Inquisitor and the Baroness’ forces who should have the credit of it.”

“Very true. Though your involvement is still very much appreciated.”

Compliments did not seem to sit well within him; he kept his gaze askance, mouth struggling to form a reply. Awkwardness prevailed, ‘til his fortune changed, and his eyes chanced upon the balcony doors.

“Forgive me, I didn’t meant to disturb you—her Ladyship, the Baroness, thought you should know. You were… headed outside?”

Trevelyan followed his gaze. She smiled. “Preferably not alone.”

“Oh. I could—”

Trevelyan stepped for the doors; he followed. They opened—a portal—to the tranquil night beyond.

The stars shone in greeting. Trevelyan curtsied; an acknowledgement of their mutual beauty. She found relaxation upon the finely-carved stone of the balcony balustrade, and felt the Commander’s presence, a warmth in the absence of the sun, as he came to rest beside her.

“It’s... a nice night,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, “and a lovely view.”

The entire courtyard was laid out before them, from the tavern—as lively as the party they’d left behind—to the stables—quiet, at this time of day. Moonlit stone, punctuated by glowing torchlight. Beautiful, truly.

Yet it seemed the Commander’s focus was elsewhere, for his hand fumbled within his jacket.

“I, ah, have something,” he told her, “that I believe is yours.”

At last, he seemed to locate it, and freed it from its concealment. White cloth, that flashed in the moonlight. Embroidered, with leaves Trevelyan recognised.

It was far cleaner than the last time she’d seen it.

Trevelyan smiled. The little napkin slipped pleasantly from his fingers, and into her own. She noted the warmth of his proximity, still lingering within the weave, and the sweet, earthy scent that had been left by his possession.

“Technically,” she teased, “I believe it is Lady Montilyet’s.”

“I hardly think she’ll miss it.”

“I certainly hope so.” She tucked it away—safe. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Thank you for the use of it,” he said. “Though, speaking of Lady Montilyet, I had hoped to say—you took the offer... to become Arcanist.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

The Commander stammered, “For you—I mean. I mean, I am glad. That—despite how you came to be here—you have found enough reason to stay.”

Trevelyan laughed a little. It seemed as though he had a mountain to climb whenever they spoke. She appreciated his attempt to scale the peak regardless.

“Plenty of reasons,” she told him. “I know that I ought to have left, and truly have started my life afresh… but that would have been dishonest, to what I truly want.”

“May I ask… what is it?”

“What?”

The Commander almost met her eye. “That you… want?”

She bit back the smile that threatened to betray her. The night air wasn’t cold, but she hid goose-bumps upon her skin. “Well… I suppose there is one thing—”

Feet clattered up the stairs. Trevelyan stopped herself, turning just in time to see, stumbling into the doorway, a giddy Lady Erridge.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called. “Oh, Commander, there you are! I came to see if you wanted to dance!”

The Commander shook his head. “I’m… No, thank you. I don’t really dance.”

Erridge giggled. “I know! I wasn’t asking you, Commander! Come, Lady Trevelyan! The Commander shall have plenty of time to whisper with you when we are gone!”

Though the interruption was not exactly ideal, Trevelyan could not deny the sentiment. She curtsied to the Commander, somewhat apologetically.

“It seems I am summoned away. Urgent business, I believe they call it.”

The corner of his mouth tilted upward; it made her skin tingle. “Another time, then.”

“Of course.”

Trevelyan permitted Lady Erridge to take hold of her hand. The Lady threw a quick farewell to the Commander over her shoulder, and whisked Trevelyan away, tumbling down the stairs. They burst back onto the main floor of the hall, just as the band queued up another jig.

“Come on, come on!” Lady Erridge ordered, pulling Trevelyan into the congregating mass of dancers. Already amongst them were Lady Samient and Lady Orroat, left to partner up by the absent Erridge.

“Over here!” they called, of a little clearing beside them. Trevelyan and Erridge took position, all anticipation. They joined hands—properly now—and waited for the song to start.

And start it did! Strings and wind erupted into a prancing melody of alternating highs and lows. Trevelyan followed her Ladyship’s lead, bouncing around the floor, clapping her hands, kicking her legs into the air. Skirts clashed and flew, an explosion of fabric and colour.

It was a wonder how Lady Samient danced it so well, in a dress so constricting—but dance well she did! As hands parted and partners changed, Trevelyan found herself parading around in the arms of said Lady, each of them smiling up a storm.

As one song ended, so another began. She was to dance with Lady Orroat, too, of course—it was only fair—and then dear Erridge wanted another.

Eventually, quite exhausted, Trevelyan took the next song’s end, and made her exit.

Fortunately, she found the Baroness on the edges of the dancefloor, an audience to their frolicking. She greeted Trevelyan with a smile and an embrace—for which they both knew the reason.

“I am so glad for you,” Trevelyan said, as she recovered her breath. “Are you all right?”

The Baroness nodded. “Relieved. When I leave tomorrow, I know I will be returning to my town at peace. But—this has not come without loss. It is not over, not truly.”

“Of course.”

“But we could have lost so much more. That Val Misrenne and its people still stand is worth celebrating.”

“Absolutely.”

Trevelyan hugged her once more, yet the music’s sudden and effervescent return caused her to jump. With a laugh, she glanced back to the dancers.

“You know, I am surprised Lady Erridge has not called you up for a jig!”

The Baroness chuckled. “No, no, my leg is far too frail for that.”

“Really?” said Trevelyan, glancing to it. “I remember you saying you still dance, once.”

“I do.” She grinned. “But the leg is an excellent excuse.”

Trevelyan caught her meaning. “Lady Erridge’s enthusiasm is quite difficult to match.”

“Indeed. She has the stamina of a demon. Though I’m sure Lady Orroat could find some use for that.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Your Ladyship! Please, I feel so terrible teasing her!”

“Then you should not like to hear what we say about you and him.”

Confused by who ‘him’ was, Trevelyan followed the Baroness’ line of sight, to a nearby throng of guests. Weaving between them, was—she should’ve guessed it—the Commander.

“Oh, Maker…” Trevelyan groaned. “You all have far too—”

She turned back, and realised the Baroness’s mouth was half-open, her cane being raised in the air.

“No, no—!”

“Commander!”

He heard the call. His head whipped round. No stopping it now: he was headed in their direction.

“Baroness!” Trevelyan hissed.

Touledy smiled, gave a suggestive flick of her brow, and said nothing more. Though Trevelyan was almost glad of this—the Commander ought not hear anything she had to say right now.

“Ladies,” he greeted, upon arrival. “Is there something you require?”

“Why, yes,” said Touledy, all too confidently. What was she up to? “Lady Trevelyan here wishes another dance, but I am afraid I am unable to”—she flashed her cane—“would you be able to dance with her Ladyship, in my stead?”

“Oh.” The Commander softened. "Are you all right?”

Trevelyan noted, rather indignantly, that the Commander asked this question with the same sort of gentle voice that he often put on for her. This was a concept which, she suddenly discovered, she did not like. Why, oh why, did she have to make him befriend the other Ladies? Fool.

“Yes, thank you,” the Baroness answered. “But her Ladyship must have a dance.”

Trevelyan rolled her eyes. “But Baroness, the Commander does not like to dance.”

“I could try,” he said.

Trevelyan stared at him. There were a thousand questions she thought of in response to his saying this. But somehow, the only one she could quite manage was:

“What?”

He repeated the sentiment: “If you would like to.”

“Oh.” Well, there was little chance of her saying anything other than: “Yes.”

The Baroness smiled, clearly relishing in the success. “Go on, then,” she said, “enjoy.”

Easier said. At least Trevelyan had done enough jigs with Lady Erridge to know what she was to do with them, now. In her mind, as they walked to the floor, she went over the steps. Left, left, kick, clap. Switch. Then to the right? But—

The music grew in volume. Yet it sounded like no jig she’d ever heard. Trevelyan realised that the band had betrayed her. Not a jig. Not at all.

Sweet, slow strings floated across the hall. A… romantic melody, that had couples approaching the floor. Dear Maker fucking Andraste shitting Void.

People linked hands and put them on waists and Trevelyan realised that she was in the midst of it now, surrounded, and there was no escape, and she would have to do those things herself.

She faced the Commander. Maker, why did he have to look like that and be like this? This sort of thing was far simpler with unimportant suitors that one could so easily discard after, even if one did step on their toes.

He offered a hand. Trevelyan’s shook.

But still, they met.

Her fingers slid into his palm, felt the warmth that emanated beneath the leather of his glove. The feeling of his skin, however rugged or tender, was cruelly left to the imagination. She savoured it regardless.

Her other hand gathered up her skirts, like the rest of the dress-wearers were doing. Almost in position. There was simply one last thing to emulate—

The Commander’s hand moved for her waist, hesitant in its approach. The first touches of his fingertips—gentler even than that of cotton or down—caused her body to tense. She did not know how she was to bear his entire hand.

But his hand stopped short. It instead hovered over the fabric of her dress, as if afraid to press any further.

Disappointing.

Nevertheless—the music began in earnest. The dancers began to move. The Commander took a step, and Trevelyan followed. Her nerves hit a peak.

And then, began to fade.

Because dancing with him was unlike dancing with anyone she had danced with before. It felt different. Better. Warmer. Safer. It almost did not matter if she was dancing well or not. It was only him that mattered.

There was no need for extravagant moves, or flourishes of the hand. This was enough. Sweet, simple, swaying in one another’s arms. More than enough.

“You should dance more often,” she whispered to him. “You do it well.”

He smiled, soft, and simply said, “All right.”

Her words must have bolstered his resolve, for his shoulders relaxed, and his grip around her hand firmed and strengthened. Its pull drew her closer; his other slipped around her back, fitting perfectly into the mold of her body. The gap between them was more indistinct than ever.

Yet in that closeness was comfort. She could have stayed like that for an eternity.

But the music slowly, gradually, dulled away. Other dancers reappeared around them, the party audible once more. It was over.

They came to a standstill. Trevelyan’s hand fell reluctantly from his grasp; his trailed away from her waist. Yet still she smiled, for nothing could take it from her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied.

“I shan’t make you dance another.”

“That’s… all right.” He rubbed his neck. “Will you, ah, be stargazing tonight?”

She played with her dress. “Most likely.”

“Good.”

She curtsied, he bowed. He left, she stayed. Her feet still wobbled, a little.

But she would have to recover quickly. For she turned to her side, and saw complete what had, until now, been only a disruption in her periphery: the Ladies, gathered together, in keen observance.

Trevelyan shook her head, and, before they could open their mouths, told them firm:

“Not one word.”

#unwanted fic #unwanted #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #commander cullen #we're back in the tag baby!#hoping to have next chapter ready for tues-weds #and then the chapter after for fri-sat #this was the longest and hardest to edit of the three #when they take ages to edit i have to be able to step away for a while before i can enjoy the chapter as it is #because brain continues to be in editing mode #definitely one i feel like i'll come back to and be like 'wait no this slapped actually'#EDIT: 7/5 i've been continuing to tinker with this #CONT: i feel i may have released it a tad earlier than i should as it was good!! but it wasn't great #CONT: i have added some connective tissue and embellished some key moments that i felt were lacking

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