#since orlesian is only spoken as a first tongue in certain parts of orlais i believe

[pentaghast]

i want to know about differences between dalish clans. does vallaslin vary at all between different clans? what about ones that live in wildly different climates? are there dalish clans that don't live primarily in forests, but wander in mountains or deserts?

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

Enchanter Come to Me

When Cullen comes to the Tavern one night, Lydia dances and enchants, hoping he will come to her even if she knows he won’t. She hopes to tell him something, something important, though the night may offer more than she initially thought. 

Cullen x Lydia Trevelyan, about 4,000 words. Smut. NSFW. There is some serious lemonade making in this. The piece also talks about his past in Kirkwall, with some first times, oral sex, and sexually confident, lightly dominant Cullen. (With more in the next chapter.) This is part one of two :)

READ ON A03

He’s here.

The Commander doesn’t often habit the Herald’s Rest, so his presence draws attention from many men and women alike. When Lydia first sees him enter she also sees the rush of soldiers rising from the tables with their mead. So sorry Commander, reporting for duty at once sir, yes sir! Cullen, mildly amused, assures them that they are off duty and it’s alright. He’s off duty himself.

He’s never off-duty, Lydia thinks to herself, but indeed he doesn’t wear his armor or mantle—thank the Maker—but a simple red tunic with breeches. He takes a seat by Captain Rylen, one of the only people who can crack his professional façade and make him laugh. Except, of course, for her. Once. Mildly embroiled with a thing often called jealousy, she watches Cullen laugh at something Rylen says.

Once, he laughed at her ridiculous quips that she always used to offer to Josephine when it came to the visiting Orlesian nobles, and when they played chess not too long ago in the garden, she saw him smiling from the corner of her eye at her concentrated face before eventually giving up and giggling. He was patient with her novice chess skills, and she’s certain he let her win. He may be obstinate, but he is kind. He always used to ask if she’s alright, if she’s holding up. We asked so much of you, he said once. And when never wondered if you were alright. From Haven, he found her in the snow and carried her home.

She knows. He’ll never talk to her again.

She knows that, so she doesn’t bother. So, unbothered, when the band begins to play, she’s nudges Sera next to her for a dance, making sure she’s in his line of sight. To the gentle beat of the drum and lute, their hands linked, they make time to the music. She’s thankful for her choice in outfit, as she wears a blue gathered skirt that dances with her, and as she quickens her pace her sleeves drop from her shoulders and her brown hair falls from it’s bun. She’s painted her lips red as well—a favorite shade of blue-toned red that matches both her vibrant blue eyes and light brown skin. When Sera lets go, tired, she finds herself next to Dorian, and he laughs and they dance together. From one companion to the next—Bull, Krem, Cassandra even with some goading after a noise of disgust—Lydia dances. They clap for her, her people who have given their lives for her cause without truly knowing her, but at least on this night, they know she loves to dance. Indeed, she dances with one after the other learning their names—Bevel, Ophelia, Connor, Falia, all until she’s in the arms of a scout named Jim. He can’t move, he’s blocky and his starstruck attitude prevent the concentration he needs in his footwork, but Lydia laughs it off and promises he’s doing well.

“Your ladyship,” he says, far too excited as Lydia is forced to take the lead, “your hair smells like jasmine.”

“My perfume,” she says, the two of them heading into a corner next to the bar. “Oh…please don’t, you’re going to step on my foot…oh I think you should practice more…”

“Pardon. Allow me.”

Jim says it before Lydia can, “oh, Commander, of course,” and wordlessly Lydia take’s Cullen’s hand—his ungloved hand—and he pulls her into his frame just as Maryden begins to sing “Enchanter.” Before she can think this isn’t happening, as she was convinced he wouldn’t speak to her again, she smells the elderflower and oakmoss from his shirt, (a trick his mother taught him to keep clothes fresh, he confided once.) she knows it’s real. It’s him. He has her in his arms.

“I’m afraid I can’t dance,” he says, self-deprecatingly so, and she lets him pull her closer, to where she can feel his beating heart. He’s somewhat right—he’s unsure of his footwork and where he should take them on the floor, but he holds onto her hand, the other on the small of her back, and he keeps his eyes on her, even as the music changes to a softer, melodic lute.

“You’re not bad,” she compliments, a small offering of peace after his own offering. Of course they’ve been pleasant to one another in the War Room or when she comes to his office to discuss the Red Templars, but not since she spoke to him in the garden have they spoken as acquaintances, friends, more.

He thanks her with the slightest of blushes, and they sway together, his heartbeat never truly easing as Maryden sings, enchanter come to me. She apologized in the war room hours after their confrontation, Leliana of all people inspiring her. (“I know you are frustrated. I am too. But…he has been through so much he’d rather forget. Sometimes I think he looks at me and remembers. He cares for his soldiers, and the Inquisition. I believe now is what matters.”) After her apology, he said it was “forgotten,” if not forgiven before he moved on to the Red Templars. He was too business-like after, too cold, and he must have seen how her heart ached.

But she did it all herself. He had such warmth before when he spoke to her. Smiled at her, rare for him, and he wasn’t beyond light teasing when they played chess together. After she confronted him, he erected an icy wall that only cracked after her apology. Even now as they dance, even as his eyes remain fixated on her lips and her eyes, she knows. He doesn’t want to be hurt again.

But why is he dancing with her? Why did he take her into his arms?

The questions ignite a fire, and she can’t take it anymore. “Cullen,” she says, “May we speak elsewhere?”

She plans on speaking outside the tavern, but it’s crowded with soldiers watching a friendly sparring match and she knows she can’t do it there. Before when she confronted him it was in the garden, and she was fully aware that a crowd gathered to watch the Inquisitor’s tongue lashing at the Commander. Inside the hall, she thinks, , but there are people there as well, visiting nobles from Orlais and Ferelden both that she will not let into her world. With no other option, she suggests, “My room?”

There’s apprehension. “is it proper?” he asks, but she assures she wants private, and when Josephine hired only the master masons for Skyhold’s repairs, she asked the Inquisitor’s chamber be just that, a private oasis.

“It’s practically the size of my old quarters that I used to share in the Circle,” Lydia says. “And there’s a fire going. It’ll be warm.”

Still apprehensive, he none the less agrees and follows her up the stairs and into her room. Once inside, she remembers the decanter of sweet wine she swiped from the kitchens with permission from the cook Emmaline (“You need a treat,” she said, one of the few who ever said such thing to her_ and pours both herself and Cullen a glass in a silver goblet. As she heads over and hands him the wine, she decides to crack the unease by way of light jokes, prattling on about actually seeing him out of his armor and mantle. Not only that, but he isn’t working. Surely now griffons will fly across Skyhold. He smirks. “I saw Cole before coming to the Tavern” he says. “He told me he didn’t know the armor came off.”

“Wasn’t sure if I did either.”

He grins. “Well. As you can see….”

Certainly, she sees. His burgundy shirt is open at the collar, the briefest bit of golden hair peeking through. The mantle and heavy plates have hidden his physic, she sees. His arms, forearms and shoulders are broad, typical of many Ferelden men she has met. However, it is his bare hands that she is drawn to. She’s so used to his brown gloves that his bare hands seem too intimate. They too are broad, and his fingers long. There are scratches here and there, but they only make them look more lived.

She offers him to sit on the throw rug near the fire, and he does as Lydia readjusts her gathered blue skirt, setting her wine down on the stone floor next to the furred rug. “Cozy,” he comments, and she agrees. She tells him there is always a fire in her room when she comes home, curtesy of too many kind people who take care of her in that way.

But as she talks more of her room, the blue curtains and blue bed sheets, the four poster from the Marches, and the majestic view outside the open window, she realizes she’s stalling. She has to say what she wants to say. He deserves it.

“Cullen,” she begins, thinking of that life, what he has done and what he will continue to do, not before, because he’s given her no reason to think otherwise. “I wanted to tell you again.”

She observes his face. His amber eyes are trailed to her, kind, but they don’t forget.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, words meaningless, but offering them anyway. “When Hawke told me about Kirkwall and the things that happened, I shouldn’t have asked you like I did.”

He sighs. “Inquisitor—”

“I know I already apologized. But things haven’t been the same between us. I thought we were friends. And...” Her cheeks turn hot. “I ruined it didn’t I?”

“No.”

She feels as though he has inched closer to her, his fingers mere centimeters away from hers. “I wanted to tell you. I planned on it—first thing I was going to do when you came back from Crestwood,” he said. “Truly, I wanted to tell you for so long. But I was worried you’d…think less of me.”

She thought about it for a long time after Hawke told her the truth about him in Crestwood, that it took him ten years to see through Meredith, and he thought less of mages during those ten years. But she never saw that when he was with her, when they talked and laugh. She saw a man who worked too hard to keep his men safe, who poured over reports and missives for hours, and who respected her, a mage. He defended her to Roderick in Haven, after he called her mage, infidel. He respected her. Talking with him, she felt her titles strip away until she was only a woman, only Lydia. In turn, he was her Commander, he was Cullen.

The past mattered, but the present mattered the most.

“Inquisitor—”

“Please, call me Lydia,” she says. “You called me Lydia after you found me in the snow and you carried me home, but you haven’t since. Please.”

He looks into her eyes, the fire crackling. So she pleads once more, “forgive me please.” Then, she adds, “I was wrong before in the garden. You’re not a coward. I should have never called you that.”

“But I was once,” he says with a long, defeated sigh. “I couldn’t see. I was blinded by rage. But I should have seen through Meredith sooner, known I was complicit. Lydia…” He looks away from her eyes, toward the fire. “I…I understand if don’t want anything more than friendship, or even if you don’t want that. I shouldn’t have come to the tavern, but I thought…”

“I liked your hands on me Cullen.”

He meets her eyes, though she is the one that inches closer. “Forgive me,” she beseeches again.

She can’t help but notice how he looks at her painted lips. “Forgiven,” he mutters. “But, forgive me. Not for my past. I know you can’t, no one can. But forgive me for not telling you sooner. I was too afraid you wouldn’t…” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t think you would want me.”

That was something that hurt, she realized moments after she called him a coward and saw his face. She did still want, because she knew who he was then. Her commander, Cullen. It took nearly loosing him to find out, and that hurt most of all.

“From now on, tell me everything,” she whispers. “And I’ll do the same.”

“I can’t stop thinking of you.”

She stares, her heart beating quickly. She has a river of thoughts but she cannot speak, and when he mistakes her silence, he rises from the rug, hurt again.

And Maker she doesn’t want him hurt again.

“I should go,” he says. “I’ve taken too much of your time. I—”

“No.”

She rises and grabs his shoulder. He stops. She knows, she tells him. She has known. She senses it every time before when they were together, knew it when he saw his face fall after she called him a coward in the garden. And she keeps her vow, by telling him the same. She can’t stop thinking of him.

“You knew I’d be there tonight,” she says. “You wanted me in your arms. You came for me.”

The enchanter she was, she came to him too.

He nods. Her hand finding his, he pulls it into his. It is her marked hand he holds. She feels as though she should pull away, and yet his amber eyes speak a different tale. He will not harm her, he will not turn away. And then he presses his lips to her palm, against her mark. One, and then another. Desperate kisses, anguished kisses, kisses that say I need you.

They’re in each other’s arms, and fingers twist through his hair, his hands splayed against her back. He kisses with his whole being, pours every ounce of his soul as he captures her bottom lip and she answers in turn. They pull away, but not completely, their foreheads pressed together.

“Don’t go,” she pleads.

“If I stay longer, people will talk.”

“You care about that?”

She feels his smile against her. “No.”

“Then stay.”

“It’s too soon to stay,” he mutters, though she can see that veneer of a blushing gentleman is disappearing with each gentle rock of her hip against his. He’s hard, already.

It’s thrilling.

“Too soon,” he says again. “Lydia…?”

“Why?”

The question flummoxes him. His bare hand caresses her cheek, warm and gentle.

She reminds him of their recent promise.

“I’ve thought of you since I saw you,” he answers, needy, hungrily. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you since I saw you by the rift. But…you’re the Inquisitor. We’re at war, and you haven’t always seen me in the best light.”

“I don’t care. I want us to be together.”

She speaks it with such desperation, but she knows it’s true for him. She can feel his want pressed against her.

“Lydia…”

“We don’t have to. I understand. Maybe it’s too fast or it’s not proper, but—”

Words she means to say fly away. She loses herself in the tangle of arms and lips, and when he says, “fuck what’s proper,” she soars, she dances, she is, and she exists as a nothing but wanted and hungry woman in the arms of her lover until they are standing at the edge of her bed. She’s not the Inquisitor, she’s Cullen’s lover. The word ignites her, lover. Has she thought of herself, what she had needed during this time? Has he? Fuck the world at war. In her room, they can be each other’s.

Indeed, they dance like they did earlier, but with entirely different steps as they touch, kiss, feel as she leads them backwards to her bed. “Fuck what’s proper,” she says, mirroring his words. “Be rough.”

The words alight him, and yet even though he holds her, she can feel a wall between them erecting.

“Are you sure? Now?” he asks.

“Maker, yes,” she replies.

“We don’t have to. We can be slow.”

“We’ve talked as friends, we’ve argued, we’re back again, here. Cullen, Knight-Captain, Commander, when you were in Kirkwall, did you think of what you wanted? Were you selfish?”

He shakes his head. “Be rough,” she says, “be greedy. Tell me what to do and what you want. I have everything to give.”

“Let me give it back.”

Her fingers twist in his shirt. “Do you know what it’s like, to be the Inquisitor? I’m not a woman to these people…I’m not Lydia. I’m a symbol. I don’t want that with you. I want to be wanted, desired, tasted.” She holds him, and whispers in his ear, “I want it from you.”

“I…I’m scarred,” he tells her, as if he’s ashamed. “You’ll see and—"

She holds his face in her hands, kisses his forehead before he can finish. “I don’t care. I want to see.”

“Lydia—”

She unbuttons her shirt, assuring him it’s alright when he asks what she’s doing. It flutters to the floor, and she gulps before she reaches behind her and tugs down at her breast band. With her breasts free, she lets him see. It’s a jagged scar across her chest, pink from where it healed, and barely touching her left breast. He stares with awe, he stares with something else in his eyes.

“A templar.” she says. “When the Circles fell, I tried to go back home. Ironically, I got this when I was trying to go back to the Circle.”

His fingers lightly ghost over the pinkish mark, against the valley between her breasts, but carefully avoiding them, for now. He traces lightly before he places his hands over her bare hips, and he kisses the mark, grazing his lips over her skin. Her hand wraps around his hair, mussing the waves into curls, keeping him there until he rises to kiss her. They fall against the bed, his body pressed flush against hers. He only pauses his ministrations to kick off his boots, and Lydia does the same, tossing off her flat shoes with a dull thud to the floor. She tosses off her skirt, Cullen helping her until the only thing covering her body is her undergarment. He though, is still covered. When her hands reach to remedy that, he helps her.

She wants to see. She rises when his shirt is gone, skimming his hands over his shoulders and the blonde hair on his chest, kissing the reddish burns from fire, the marks from swords, and then finally, the scar across his lip, rough yet smooth underneath her darting tongue. Their lips meet again, and she settles against the pillows, his body acting as her blanket. He mutters words of how sweet her kisses are, how beautiful she is, and then he grows lewder. He never imagined he’d get to feel her, never thought he’d bury himself inside her.

“More,” she urges, enflamed. “Tell me what you want.”

“Put your hands over your head.”

She obeys with ardor, and his hands skim against her arms, lips following where he touched. He nips her chin and then his warm mouth is over her neck, and even in places where she never thought there should be kisses—underneath her arms, underneath her breasts. He kisses again that scar before he palms her breasts, pinches her nipples lightly and makes her cry out.

“Be loud,” he instructs, husky and low, and slipping her undergarments down. “I have everything to give you.”

He does. He peeks from between her thighs as his tongue darts against her inner thighs. He licks her clit once, and then again before using the pad of his thumb. She could never pleasure herself the way he pleasures her—her hands are too delicate, too unlived. His are strong, and she grabs the other as he slips a finger inside, moves in and out until her thighs quake around him. She shudders with the bliss that his tongue brought, and Maker, he laps her arousal, he kisses her with his arousal still on his lips and tongue.

She could spend the night kissing him, and kissing him only, her hands wrapped around his cheeks, the way he poured his whole being into each press. And yet he rocks against her, and she instinctively allows her hand to travel. He gasps when she caresses his clothed cock, allows her to help him take the off his breeches. He’s warm against the juncture of her thigh, straining as he moves against her thigh to abate himself somewhat.

He looks at her in the eye, breathing heavily and pupils blown wide. She nods. She thinks he meant to be slow, but she’s warm and welcoming from the art of his hands and mouth, and she did tell him, rough. He obeys, as he’s inside all at once, filling her to the brim.

She meant not to cry out, and she succeeded, but her face betrayed her.

“Lydia,” he breathes, exasperated, cradling her face head in his hands, “you’re a virgin.”

A man…Cullen is inside her. That alone thrills. “Not anymore,” she assures.

“I should have known. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says with a smile, moved by his concern. “I wanted you.”

“Does it hurt?”

He’s remained inside her during their dialogue, and though it never truly hurt—it was more an adjustment to the feel of him inside, a slight burn at the stretch. She shakes her head, and she gasps as he moves, holding onto his arms, squeezing the sinews. She throws her head against the pillow and he rewards her with reverent kisses against her neck and collar, and then again to her lips, catching her sighs of delight.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks as he moves, grounds her to the bed, centers her world from the Inquisition to only the two of them.

“I didn’t want you gentle.”

“I’d prefer to make love to you, not fuck. There’s a difference.”

She plants her feet against the bed. “Oh. Have you fucked before then?”

He smirks, a silent, now Lydia, truly? And she knows the answer. It doesn’t matter, she absolves, as they belong to the moment.

The moment continues, her Commander wrapped in a bliss she’s never seen from him before. “Wrap your legs around me,” he asks, and when she does, she angles her hips just so, to where his feel is deeper, more intense. He asks her to touch herself, he won’t last much longer, and she obeys, sticking her hand between them and rubbing her clit before he decides he’d rather his hand there. He stimulates inside and outside, an intoxicating duet, and her second orgasm comes again with fervor and heat, a rush. She falls when he pulls out, mourns the loss of his cock, but the feelings are brief. His earlier action inspires her to slap his hand away, bring him his end with her hand. Flushed, illuminated by the fire, hair in disarray, golden, and at her mercy, his moan as like music, and he spills onto her belly. A moment and a lifetime together, both ended too soon.

And yet she feels deliciously satisfied, and wanted. Loved.

Her heart still races as his hand rummages through the bedside table, finding a cloth. He lays by her side to clean his spent, and she can’t help but blush—though she obviously knows why he pulled out, she never thought of a man’s seed on her skin before. Romance novels often didn’t touch on that, or the sweat, or the moments between when they re-adjusted positions and spoke. Lydia finds she prefers it their way to the novels.

Eventually, their eyes find each other, and his smile is radiant. He leans by her side and that kiss is the sweetest.

“Don’t you dare talk of going now,” she says to him. “Stay.”

Enchanted, spellbound, he says he will. And she asks again, because she finds she must, do you forgive me?

“You ask me after I’ve been inside you?” he asks, holding back a chuckle. “Lydia, dear. Yes.”

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and she tells him that the man she is with now, she likes what she sees in more ways than one. He boyishly admits he’s glad of it, also in more ways than one.

“Golden lion,” she mutters. “Beautiful, radiant man.”

“Lion?” he repeats, amused. “Maker…”

She doesn’t ask if that makes her a lioness. Rather, she calls herself an enchanter, and she casts a spell on him, so the night can stretch longer than the hours it usually lasts.

“It’s not over yet,” he tells her.

“No. But I want you to sleep. I have you now not working, so please sleep while you’re here with me. You deserve it. Darling.”

Darling. She likes calling him that, and indeed he has the softest of smiles on his lips as she wraps a blanket around them, kissing his forehead after. Truly, it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep, and he falls asleep. When he’s asleep, she promises him what she’ll promise come morning: she’ll never hurt him again.

She knows, without a doubt, that the same is true for him.

A/N thanks for reading! If you are familiar with my long fic in Waking Dreams things operate differently there, but I was inspired to explore a different way to write their coming together. thank you for reading!

[aeducanka]

OC Profile Meme

Thanks for the tag to the wonderful @gingerbreton!

I decided to go with my precious darling, Em!

(A part of my birthday present from wonderful Annorelka. Go follow her on deviantArt or Instagram! She is an amazing artist that you need in your life.)

________________________________________________________________

PHYSICAL

Name: Emerald Aeducan.

Nickname: to most people she is either Emerald or Em but when she was a child, her relatives used to call her "Emmie" (even in the Prologue Trian was still using this nickname in a condescending manner). To Sten Emerald is simply "Warden". Alistair, Zevran, Morrigan and Oghren sometimes call her "Princess" and only the context says whether the intention was playful or hurtful.

Age: 23 at the time of her recruitment to the Grey Wardens, had her 24th birthday slightly over a month later.

Species: dwarf (Orzammar).

Morality: (at the time of Prologue) self-proclaimed lawful good, (after the Prologue) self-proclaimed neutral good. It is debatable whether she is truly good or just a neutral with a strong inclination to do good, especially to the people she cares about.

PERSONAL

Religion: officially she believes in the Stone and you cannot prove otherwise.

That being said, she is a chief supporter ONLY of the reformed "church" of the Stone - the foundation stays the same, but the principles are as follows: good people enrich the Stone, assholes weaken it, and your nobility will not save you from the Stone's scrutiny SO YOU BETTER BE NICE.

Sins: greed/gluttony/sloth/lust/PRIDE/~envy~/wrath.

Emerald's greatest fault is her pride. Although the time spent in exile made her, more or less, aware of her shortcomings and able to express genuine humility (or even self-deprecation of sorts), Emerald, deep down, is convinced of her superiority to ALMOST EVERYONE. She knows that she is awesome, she has the papers to prove it, and even if she does not flaunt her superiority in your face, you still ~know~ that she judges you in the categories "If I were you, I would never make any of your mistakes". She goes to great lengths to change it as the Queen.

Virtues: chastity/ CHARITY/ DILLIGENCE/ humility/ KINDNESS/ ~patience~/ ~JUSTICE~.

Ooh, it is a tricky one since Emerald does her best to project an idealized version of herself. That being said, her humility is more often than not depression-induced so it does not really count. Her first marriage was very chaste, but then she did not love her husband and so I would not count is as genuine chastity. She may appear patient but she is still very much struggling with it. She is also very just for someone raised as a spoiled noblewoman, but due to her sheltered life, I feel that she has still a lot to learn.

Known languages: her mother tongue is Common as spoken in Orzammar. 

As Orzammar is a fairly isolationist kingdom, I cannot say how much impact there was on the princess learning foreign languages. A language nerd myself, I like to think that Emerald knows at least a little bit of Orlesian (due to Orlais being Orzammar's best trading partner) and Tevene (due to the dwarven minority living there), but it is purely my speculation. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

For sure Emerald picks up random words and phrases from Leliana, Zevran and Sten - partially because she is a nerd but mostly because she knows that ~being more understood~ would make them happy.

Build: scrawny/bony/slender/fit/ATHLETIC/~curvy~/herculean/pudgy/plus size/average.

A friend of mine saw Queen Emerald take off her shirt in the shower, and she said that Queen Emerald had an eight pack, that Queen Emerald was shredded.

(She seems curvy only to a non-dwarven eye, though. To dwarves her charms are only slightly above average.)

Height: ???

Scars/Birthmarks: information classified! She was lucky enough not to receive any scars that would be difficult to hide with casual clothing, though.

Abilities/Powers:

1. She is a born diplomat and a pacifist who will do her best to resolve a conflict without unnecessary bloodshed.

2. She is well-versed in Orzammar's politics and her unshakable composure attests to it.

3. She makes excellent first impressions and can befriend people easily. 

4. She is a good leader and advisor.

5. She makes for an empathetic friend who can listen to you rant for hours.

6. She is a good tactician and I firmly believe that she could beat Cullen in chess.

7. She is a trained warrior, by Landsmeet physically stronger than Alistair, who relies both on her smarts, her dexterity and strength.

8. She draws fun and happiness from the world's most boring hobbies which surely must be a some kind of witchcraft.

9. She shares Alistair's sense of humour, enough said.

Restrictions:

1. Her reputation of a fratricidal ex-princess makes any negotiations in Orzammar kind of difficult.

2. She speaks very posh which triggers some people's *Oghren, cough, Oghren* bratty princess alert.

3. Despite being well-versed in politics, she is a bit too idealistic, too merciful, and she used to trust her family members blindly.

4. Her composure does not really falter even among friends which gives off an impression that she is keeping distance... which she is, but not to THAT extent.

5. She is an excellent advisor… until she becomes frustrated because her advice is not listened to and her input is ignored.

6. She is good at listening to people for long periods of time, but if it is not important, she may not give the rant her full attention (getting just enough gist not to be accused of ignoring the person and dismissing the most of it when it is no longer useful).

7. She does not step up for a leadership position, despite her qualifications, unless the circumstances literally force her to do so.

8. As much as tactics go, she is miserable with games other than chess because either she will not realize that her opponent is a cheater (Isabella, round 1) or, which is worse, she will not be able to prove that her opponent is cheating (Isabella, round 2).

9. She is smart and well-trained but not very inspired as a warrior. She could be defeated by stronger people, more dexterous people, smarter people, luckier people or people who, like Kallista Tabris, are very dedicated to their craft.

FAVOURITES:

Food: anything that hails from Orzammar! Nothing makes you long for your local cuisine better than a bitter exile. Also, she would not put herself above eating a nug. Sorry, Leliana!

Pizza topping: (modern AU) corn and mushrooms. Emerald is by no means a vegetarian but she is very picky about meat so in most cases - a vegetarian pizza it is!

Colour: her all-time favourite is purple, but, frankly, Emerald is the embodiment of "Do you like the colour of the sky?" meme. Her exile to the surface made her aware of a brand new palette of colours and she loves them all. That being said, early on her "comfort" colours were the subdued earthy colours of Orzammar.

Music genre: she mostly listens to instrumentals, both in the canon and in the modern AU. She is very picky with songs, though I could see her enjoying a band as “low brow” as ABBA. During her exile she develops a soft spot for Fereldan folk songs and Leliana's Orlesian-Fereldan repertoire. 

Movie genre: Emerald is not much of a movie fan. Generally, she does not have time for them. She mostly watches documentaries with some classics/awards nominated movies thrown in for a good measure. She could be persuaded to watch something entirely outside her watching preferences when quality time with friends is the main incentive.

Curse words: Emerald does not cuss, especially not in public, but I think that there are certain dwarven words she says in her thoughts when the situation goes badly.

Scents: Emerald does not like the smell of the rain and she even agrees with Sten about Ferelden smelling like a wet dog, but during her rule there is nothing she misses more.

FUN STUFF:

Bottom or top: that is disgusting. And wrong. I don’t even get- why would- Her Royal Highness has never had sex with anyone, anywhere. It is none of your- you have- the nerve, the audacity, she is the Queen of Orzammar and about to get married. Warden Alistair is her former companion, barely, and he is just awful, humour-wise. And how- how- do I know, frankly, that you are not sleeping with him? Maybe you are. Maybe you are trying to throw me off? Hmm, check and mate.

Sings in the shower: not all all, she is too aware of her lack of singing talent. Sometimes she hums to herself, though.

Likes puns: all kinds of them, with strong preference to Alistair ones, and ability to make almost EXCLUSIVELY the terrible ones.

________________________________________________________________

Phew! It was a long one. Sorry, I have a tendency for writing much more than I should. ^^”

Tagging: @bitchesofostwick, @bluekaddis, @etoilebinaire, @dekudoodle, @lady--revan and @visionmarred (Hi! Reverienne here!), @gingerbreton (Freya? 👀). As always, there is absolutely no pressure!

Tagging back is fine but only at your own risk!

[ms-katonic-of-tamriel]

The Elder Cicero - AoD 82

I don’t normally post my fic to Tumblr but this chapter’s exciting enough to do it. 

As the title suggests, New Cicero Backstory.  Those of you who read Age of the Dragon but maybe stopped or not commented in a while, definitely give this one a read!  Maybe even comment on it.

To sum up the story so far - Jarl Elisif the Dragonborn ended up in Thedas as Herald of Andraste.  King Madanach of the Reach went after her with their daughter and a handful of others to find her, and ended up helping run the Inquisition that’s going to sort Thedas out.

The aftermath of the Halamshiral ball left Briala running Orlais from behind the scenes, with Gaspard de Chalons as Emperor.  With that new power and access, Briala’s been looking into the background of one of the Inquisition, and managed to turn up things even she hadn’t expected.  The trail’s led her and two new associates that she rescued from Red Templars thanks to Inquisition information to Montsimmard Circle, stronghold of the Loyalist mages.  Now read on.

Meanwhile, far away from Skyhold, at Montsimmard Circle, someone else had a visit to make.  Being the Loyalist stronghold, with Vivienne De Fer returning early in the mage rebellion and making it very clear that this Circle stood with the Chantry and the common folk of Thedas, it hadn’t seen the fighting many of the others had.  Those sympathetic to the rebels had left but the Loyalists remained, and had taken in others from other Circles who wanted no part of the rebellion.  Its library and laboratories were intact, its Templar garrison still present, albeit much reduced since Vivienne had taken most of the mages to Skyhold with her.   But it wasn’t uninhabited either, and along with a few Templars to protect the building, a few elven servants to cook and clean, and some Chantry sisters to minister to those remaining, there were a few Circle members left.  A few older mages who hadn’t felt up to making the journey to Skyhold and their young apprentices… and a great many of the Circle’s Tranquil, who were more use here where their tools and supplies all were.

It was one of those Tranquil that interested the visitor… and it had been the elven servants who’d confirmed that yes, he was alive and still here, still a master alchemist despite his advanced years. And so Marquise Briala had come, keen to get answers to a mystery that had bothered her for years.  Official access to a great many files had answered a lot of questions… but left her with more.

Neither the Templars nor the Revered Mother had liked the idea of just letting her in to have access to one of their Tranquil, but they weren’t in a position to stop her either.  Everyone knew who she was now, and her new mask spoke volumes.  The design was a Marquise’s, with elven motifs.  The materials were those only an Empress would use, and all Orlais knew it.

“He’s not in any kind of trouble,” Briala assured the Revered Mother.  “I simply had questions.  About events in his bardic life. We believe he has information that might prove useful to key members of the Inquisition, except they don’t know he has it yet.  I would like to share my own intelligence with them, but I have to be sure it is true first.  For that… I need to speak with him.”

The Revered Mother exchanged a suspicious look with the Knight-Commander, and Briala was near certain she’d have to use force… but she’d chosen her human companions wisely.  Inquisition co-operation with the Imperial Army in clearing the roads of threats had alerted her to the fact the Inquisition were looking for them and that they might be captives of the Red Templars… and so as to save her new allies the effort, Briala had ‘suggested’ to Gaspard that the Imperial Army work with her scouts to rescue them.  At worst they’d wipe out a Red Templar cell.  At best… an Aequitarian mage and his noble-born Templar lady friend were assets Briala could use. And now they were recovered from their captivity, she was doing just that.

Former Knight-Captain Evangeline de Brassard stepped forward in Templar armour repaired and gleaming, and stared down the Knight-Commander.

“For Andraste’s sake, man, we’re not here to interrogate him. The Marquise has questions.  The Inquisition, for whom you are all working by the First Enchanter’s express command, would find the answers of interest.  Now are you going to let us talk to him or do we have to go back and tell Inquisitor Elisif and Sister Nightingale that we might have information but it might be completely worthless because you wouldn't let us talk to the man who might confirm its value?”

The Knight-Commander spluttered at someone who was not only a rank down from him but who was known to have absconded with the mage rebellion talking to him like that… but he glanced at Briala’s mask and the coquin masks on her elven guards and gave in, shoulders sagging.

“Forgive me, it is simply unusual for someone of your… station to come here in person,” he said, deliberately hesitating on the word station.  

“The information is sensitive and these are unusual times,” Briala said, shrugging.  “There are few others I can trust with this… and I felt I needed to see Monsieur LaRose for myself.  His situation is also unusual as I understand it.”

“It is true he came to the Circle late in life and like many in that situation, it was felt we had no choice but to subject him to the Rite of Tranquillity,” the Revered Mother said, guarded. “Mages who are never properly trained by the Circle are at the mercy of their magic, Marquise.  By the time they reach midlife, they are easy prey for any passing demon and often close to madness.  It is kinder all round to give the rite.”

Briala idly wondered if she knew the real reason or was just repeating what she’d been told.  Either way, it didn’t matter. She’d find out soon enough if her sources were true or not.

“That is true,” her other human companion said, stepping forward. Rhys, an Aequitarian with an interest in the spirit world.  “But from what I heard, he was no hedge mage being driven mad by his powers, but a talented bard in his prime.  I don’t think his powers were really the problem, were they.”

“Knight-Captain, tell your mage he’s out of line,” the Knight-Commander snarled, reaching for his sword.  Briala’s guards raised bows, the Revered Mother cried out, Evangeline moved to stand between Briala and Rhys and the oncoming Templars… and Briala raised her voice.

“Knight-Commander!  We’re not here to lay blame on anyone or dig up old grudges.  I just wish to speak with him.  Rhys.  Please. Leave the talking to me.  I know you have your thoughts… but let’s all reserve judgement until we’ve spoken with him, hmm?”

The Knight-Commander put his sword back and motioned for the approaching Templar reinforcements to stand down.

“Fine, Marquise.  But you should know his Tranquillisation was authorised personally by the then Divine.  Due to his, er, circumstances.”

Divine Beatrix, newly crowned in the early Dragon Age, and likely to overreact, still unsure in her authority.   Sadly, the years, rather than giving her an elder’s wisdom, had given her senility instead. Briala could see it happening, and Rhys and Evangeline clearly did too.

“We understand,” Briala said softly.  “May we speak with him?”

The Knight-Commander turned to the Revered Mother, who nodded permission.

“Yes, if he’s willing.  But he’s an old man,” she added. “He’s in good health but too much excitement and he becomes tired.  He gets headaches.  It’s not good for him.”

Briala was absolutely certain being made Tranquil against his will hadn’t been good for him either, but she wasn’t so foolish as to say it.  Still, if what Rhys and Evangeline had told her was true, she might be able to right a wrong yet.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

The Tranquil they were after had a particularly ornate office all to himself, a personal workroom with quarters off to one side, various potions bubbling, alchemy tomes lining the walls along with jars of ingredients, and sitting at the bench in the middle, an old man around seventy was dicing some elfroot.  Despite his age, the precision knifework involved was impressive.  A side effect of tranquillity?  Or a reminder he’d once been a very skilled bard. Briala wasn’t sure and didn’t like to ask.

She’d told the guards to wait in the corridor, but Rhys and Evangeline had accompanied her in, Evangeline standing watch by the door, and Rhys looking with interest at the various potions.

“Do not touch that one,” the Tranquil said, not looking up from his root-slicing and Briala felt her breath catch in her throat as she heard the accent.  The language was smoothly-spoken Thedosian in the Orlesian dialect he no doubt used as his every day tongue… but Briala could hear it in the vowel sounds and the way every hard consonant seemed to expect a vowel after it, despite Orlesian not doing that.  The files on him suspected Tevinter ancestry, but the sound was more flowing than that, slightly elven if anything.

Briala only knew one place in all of the world, all of the great wide world called Nirn, as it turned out, where there were humans speaking a language related to elven tongues.  And only one other person whose accent so closely matched this man’s.

“Cesaire?” the Revered Mother was saying gently.  “Monsieur Cesaire, you have visitors.  Important ones.  This is Marquise Briala.  She is the new Marquise of the Dales and a very important advisor to Emperor Gaspard himself.”

Cesaire looked up at that, as close as a Tranquil ever got to surprised, tilting his head slightly.  His long silver hair was tied back out of his eyes, a bard or fool’s motley exchanged for a mage’s work robes, soft brown eyes staring back at Briala with an intelligence that would once have been deadly for anyone crossing his path… but now leashed by the Chantry to making the Inquisition’s potions.

Oddly, his skin was not far off hers in colour, light-brown not the winter pale she’d expected.  She wondered what colour his hair had been once.

“Yes, Mother, I remember you speaking of her after Empress Celene died,” Cesaire said calmly.  “I believe you called her a jumped-up knife-ear with ideas above her station taking shameless advantage of our beloved Empress’s death.”

No emotion whatsoever on his face or any indication he’d said anything untoward, just motionless eyes and slow-blinking, but Briala could swear that some part of him was taking pleasure in embarrassing his Revered Mother.

“I… I said no such...” she gasped, face turning scarlet as she turned to Briala.  “Please, forgive him, he does not always know what he says.”

“Perhaps I could have a little time alone with the monsieur?” Briala asked, repressing a smile.  She had a feeling Cesaire knew exactly what he was saying… and while he couldn't do much about the institution that had broken him and enslaved him, he might take some pleasure in small victories.

The Revered Mother was only too happy to make her exit, and Briala perched herself on a nearby stool, watching him work.  Once the door had closed, he’d returned to his elfroot preparation as if no one else was there.

Briala waited for him to speak, but he said nothing, and in the awkward silence, she glanced helplessly at Evangeline.  What were the social niceties for talking to a Tranquil?

“Don’t expect him to speak first,” Evangeline said, amused. “He’s a Tranquil.  You’ve got a reason for being here, so he assumes you’ll tell him eventually.  If not, it’s not his problem and you’re free to go elsewhere.  He’s got work to do.”

Cesaire did glance up at that, seeming to approve.

“You are a Templar.  But not one of the usual ones.  But not new either, Cesaire can tell a recruit.  You served in a Circle once. Another one.  An Orlesian one?  This one is the last.  There are no others now.  Cesaire heard the Templars have gone Red and joined Corypheus.  Cesaire is fond of red, but apparently this kind is different.  Enchanter, please step away from the apparatus.”

Rhys stepped away from the still bubbling with something that looked like liquid ice, if ice could boil.

“What is it?” Rhys asked, fascinated. “It looks like some sort of frost enchantment?”

“It is for that elf at Skyhold who likes to coat herself in alchemical concoctions for maximum offensive impact,” Cesaire said, pointing at a stool next to Briala’s for Rhys to sit on. “Apparently another there wishes to learn the art as well.  That Harlequin of the Herald of Andraste’s, Red Cicero.”

Cesaire’s tongue tripped on the name, and he paused, placing his tools down, hand actually shaking.

“Forgive me, I get these tremors lately,” Cesaire said quietly. “I don’t know why.  The work normally is enough to calm me.  The healers say my body is healthy, but… if I could still worry, I would.  But if I could still worry, worry would not be the first emotion on my mind.”

He turned around to face Briala and Rhys, head tilted, expression strangely curious.  Curiosity with no desire.  He wanted to know why they were here but didn’t really want to.

No wonder people thought Tranquil were weird, and no wonder her guards had been all too relieved to wait outside.  Some of them had been cooks and cleaners in Circles before.

“Marquise Briala is a very important person, so I am told.  Humble Cesaire did not know his fame as an alchemist had reached even the Winter Palace.  You did not need to come all this way in person, madame.  You could have placed an order with the Senior Enchanter. Most do.”

“I wasn’t here for a potion,” Briala said softly, reaching up to remove her mask.  “I wanted to see you in person.  To see if my suspicions were correct.”

The ribbons came loose and the gold and diamond monstrosity finally came free of her face.  It was a relief really.  

Cesaire grasped the symbolism, and Tranquil he might be, but his bard’s instincts hadn’t gone away.

“Marquise?” Cesaire asked, expression shifting subtly.  “I regret to inform you alchemy is the only service I can provide, I do not think I am worth much as a paramour.”

“You weren’t always an alchemist, were you,” Briala said quietly.  “My sources were reliable and the documents in the classified Orlesian archives also have much information.  I know your past.  You were a bard once, one of the best in the Empire.”

Cesaire barely reacted, but his lips twitched in an unconscious mannerism, giving away… something.  Something in that ambiguity was raising the ghost of amusement.  Which Empire?  Which indeed.

“Alas, those days ended,” Cesaire said, hands resting in his lap. For some reason, his eyes dropped to look at them.  “I used my magic to save a brother bard’s life… and instead of gratitude, he looked at me as if I was some sort of monster.  I did not understand, for he had never been the religious type.  Days later the Templars came and my employer could not protect me.  Apparently discreetly stabbing people and going through their belongings is morally acceptable but using healing magic to save the life of your injured colleague is not.  I do not understand this place sometimes.  That was my undoing.”

“You were a healer?” Rhys asked, intrigued.  Cesaire shrugged.

“Not exactly.  Raistarazione magic was a… something I was required to learn.  It is useful, no doubt… but my specialty was Ahltaira- forgive me.  My specialty was manipulating inanimate objects.  I was always nimble and agile, make no mistake… but it is easier to Not Be There when a sword is coming at you if your mind can shift its direction.  Or deflect an arrow a little.  Everyone always thinks fireballs when they think of magic, or demons and blood pacts. They never think of the man who gets shot at plenty of times but mysteriously is never hit by anything.  It was a source of great satisfaction and amusement to me once.  But those days are over, Enchanter, Knight-Sister, Marquise.  This was nearly forty years ago. You will forgive humble Cesaire if he believes the intrigues he was involved in then cannot possibly be relevant now.”

“That is true,” Briala said, taking her time, raking her gaze over every part of this man’s features, every part of this man’s face, and seeing cheekbones she’d seen before, entire facial structure she already knew… because she’d seen it before, at the Winter Palace, in the face of a dying, bleeding man she’d saved from a Harlequin, only to see him healed by the Reach-King minutes later.  A man who’d showed only relief and gratitude to a mage, not suspicion and revulsion, and who would not have understood why anyone would object to being healed from certain death.  Just like his kinsman, who’d learnt to pretend to be an Andrastian Thedosian but who never would really get them.

Cicero the Younger had the Herald of Andraste’s backing and a mage rebellion destroying the Circles for him.  Cicero the Elder had had none of that.

“They aren’t why I’m here, Cicero,” Briala said, not taking her eyes off a face that barely moved… but the eyebrows flickered slightly.

A man with no emotions but an assassin’s training might do many things, and Briala became uncomfortably aware that there were a lot of sharp tools and glass in this workroom, not to mention all the toxic reagents.

Fortunately, Cicero the Elder glanced at Rhys, then over his shoulder at Evangeline, at Evangeline’s sword in particular, then back to Briala.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Cesaire/Cicero said calmly.  “I am a master Formari alchemist and my name is Cesaire LaRose.  Nothing more, madame.”

“Don’t give me that!” Briala cried, wishing her own emotions could be shut off so easily.  “I know who – what you are!  What you really are!  I’m actually trying to help you!  I – mere d’Andraste, I know why they really Tranquillised you.  A bard apostate who’d clearly been well trained in both arts and no one knew who’d trained you – the Emperor’s court were involved, Cicero.  They thought you were a Tevinter spy, even though Tevinter denied knowing who you were.  And you wouldn’t talk, you refused to give them anything.  So eventually the Divine ended up making the decision, seeing as Emperor Florian didn’t seem to care, and Grand Duchess Melisande was keen to wash her hands of the whole mess.  And she had you made Tranquil on the grounds you could do no harm as one of them.  No one ever did find out where you were really from.  Until I finally put the pieces together after reading about all this.  You were definitely a spy… just not from Tevinter.”

Cicero was saying nothing, just staring at her levelly.

“You have done a lot of research into me,” he said, still with that eerie almost-monotone, hands twitching in his lap.  Hissing, he glanced at them.

“My pardon, the tremors again,” Cicero said, deliberately flexing his fingers.  “Also the headaches.  They are worse when I have visitors and cannot distract myself with work.”

“Marquise, do you think we should go-” Rhys began, but Briala shook her head, suddenly realising what they really were.

“You’re from a culture where it’s normal to move your hands while talking,” Briala realised, remembering Cicero of the Inquisition fidgeting constantly in formal situations and only when he could finally relax and move his hands while talking did he finally look comfortable.  But the hand movements followed emotions and a Tranquil without them…

“The tremors are your body wanting to move your hands but the emotions aren’t there any more,” Briala guessed.  “Likewise the headaches, you want to feel something but can’t.  This is bothering you, but you can’t feel or express it any more.  Is that right?”

Cicero sat upright, eyebrows flicking up, new information being digested.

“Yes!” Cicero said, and almost-pleasure was there again.  “You might be right!  Madame la Marquise is very clever!  Alas, without a cure for Tranquillity, I suppose the tremors and headaches are there for good.  That is probably for the best.  I think I would be very angry if I was cured.  But if I take painkilling remedies and remember the breathing exercises, all will be well.  I have my work. It is enough.”

“It’s not,” Rhys whispered, appalled.  “Marquise, this isn’t right.  It’s bad enough with the Chantry tranquillising dangerous mages, but as part of the Game??  His magic was under control, and he used it to help someone!  Marquise, I… what we spoke of before… I think I could do it.  With the right facilities, and Montsimmard must have them.”

“In good time,” Briala said, touching Rhys’s arm.  The Tranquil cure wasn’t widely known outside the mage rebellion itself and high-level Chantry circles, but Briala had a way of finding things out.  When she’d heard the mage who’d discovered it and his Templar companion were captives of Corypheus… she’d had to intervene.  Far too valuable as assets to waste, and here they were, with her now, being assets.

“But if he was definitely a spy for someone… who?” Evangeline demanded.  “I know he’s an old man, but… we can’t just let a foreign agent go.”

“An excellent question from the clearly very bright Templar, and there are not many of those,” Cicero said, turning round to return to his work.  “And one I am not going to answer.  Good day.”

Briala rolled her eyes and motioned for Rhys to pick her bag up. Taking a book out of it, she tossed it on to Cicero’s desk.

“I know, Cicero,” Briala told him.  “You don’t need to protect your Empire any more.  It can protect itself now, and its existence will be public knowledge soon enough.  Rhys, Evangeline, this information cannot leave this room until that day comes.”

“Rise of the Dragonborn,” Rhys read, scanning the title.  “The new Tethras novel?  Is that the one everyone says is based on the Herald and set in some fictitious mountain Avvar kingdom.”

“Yes,” Briala said, watching Cicero closely.  “Except it’s not exactly fictitious is it?  Skyrim’s real, isn’t it, Cicero. So is the Tamrielic Empire, and it’s becoming very obvious they’ve had spies here for a very long time.”

“Seriously??” Evangeline practically exploded.  “The Tamrielic Empire’s real??  And they’ve been spying on us since… since before I was born?”

“Yes, and we Tranquillised one of their agents,” Briala said, staring at Cicero who was staring at the garish front cover of Alayna the Dragonborn staring at the reader with one foot on a dead dragon and the other hidden behind the shield with the diamond dragon on it. A shield that Cicero was tracing the outline of, almost in shock.

“I do not normally read fiction any more, it is difficult to get any enjoyment out of it now,” Cicero said, picking the book up and turning it over to read the blurb on the back.  “But… I think this one might interest me.  May I… borrow this?”

“Yes, Sieur Di Rosso, you may borrow it,” Briala said, inclining her head.  “It was what I came here to tell you.  You could go home.  To… it’s Cyrodiil you come from, isn’t it?  The big city?”

“The Imperial City,” Cicero said, without thinking.  “I… before they… while I was a prisoner in Val Royeaux… the thought of home kept me from breaking.  Were I not like this, I believe I would wish to see it again.  I had family there once.”

Briala just bet he had.

“Who?  A wife?  Children?”

“Not there, no,” Cicero said, shaking his head.  “My sister. Stelmaria.  And her little boy.  Also called Cicero.  Like me.  He would be a grown man now.  I have not seen him these last few decades.  He was eight, nearly nine, on my last visit home.  I wonder if he still remembers me.”

Slowly, Cicero the Elder sat up, wincing as joints creaked as he turned back to Marquise Briala.

“Marquise.  You knew my name.  My real name.  Because my nephew shares it… and you know him, don’t you.  He followed in my footsteps, didn’t he, and he works for the Inquisition.”

Briala nodded, a lump in her throat as she recalled Morio Sicarius, the brave if demented assassin who Tethras had made pop right off the page, and when she’d met the man behind the motley, she’d realised he’d only embellished a little.  Cicero Di Rosso, one of the few humans she’d ever cared about.  And here was his uncle.  A Tranquil, imprisoned by the Chantry.

“Yes,” Briala said softly.  “I’ve met him.  He’s good at what he does.  He’s a lot like you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Cicero said.  “I would be proud of him, I think.  I… I have heard of the Tranquil cure.  I don’t know the details, but it appears the Enchanter here does.  I do not wish the cure right now.  I would be angry.  And upset.  But… if <i>il dolcetto</i> is here and remembers me… if he wishes to see me… I will risk that so he does not see me like this.   If he does not wish to see me… then leave me this way. Easier not to feel anything.”

Briala hoped for his sake that the younger Cicero did remember his uncle.  As it was though, she had one other piece of information to share.  Now that she knew Cicero the Elder hadn’t had a woman in each port so to speak, and that the younger one was a nephew not a son, she felt better airing it.

“There’s something else.  I know about your wife, Oisine. Looking into her was what set me on your trail in fact, all the other things came out of that.  I wasn’t looking for a Tamrielic agent. I was after the man who fathered the child of Oisine, an elven servant in the Vasseur household many years ago.  I suspected a noble who’d taken advantage, and when I found her linked to one of Lady Cecilie’s bards, I had no reason to doubt that… until one of my agents turned up a marriage certificate.  A secret ceremony but a legitimate one, between Oisine and Cesaire LaRose.  I looked into that name and realised you were arrested by Templars not that long after the wedding.  Did you know she’d been pregnant at the time?”

Cicero was silent, but he did nod.

“Yes.  We had names picked out and everything.  Oisine wasn’t sure about a son being called Septimo but she adored Leliana as a girl’s name.  It was my mother’s name, you see.  I still don’t know what happened to the child.  Or Oisine.  I suppose they told her I’d died.”

“I suppose they did,” Briala said, heavy in her heart and just glad he wouldn’t feel the full force of emotion over this.  “I’m sorry.  She died years ago.  But little Leliana’s alive and well and thriving.  She doesn’t know about you though.  Should I… tell her?”

A pause.  A hesitation.  And then a shake of the head.

“No.  Not yet.  Give me time to think on this.  I should read this too.  It is fiction but not all of it, I think.  You will leave me a means of reaching you, yes?

“I will do that,” Briala promised.  “Come on.  We’ve taken enough of this poor man’s time.  I’m sure he has work to do.”

Cicero Di Rosso the Elder nodded as they saw themselves out, before ringing the bell on his desk and reaching for the talking crystal.

“Hello to the kitchen staff.  Master Di R- Master LaRose speaking. Could I have some elfroot tea please?  And some of the willowbark pills please.  The headaches are going to be particularly bad today. I can already tell.”

How a man was supposed to get any work done around here, he was sure he had no idea.  He hoped no one needed any important potions today. Best to focus on the healing mist.  If Madame Sera of Skyhold got in a fight, she’d have to manage without setting herself on fire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

Briala led both Rhys and Evangeline into an empty lecture room, had her guards wait outside and then perched herself on one of the desks, feet on the chair in front of it.  She never had been good at sitting in human chairs properly.

Rhys and Evangeline were still standing, and Briala belatedly recalled she was de facto ruler of Orlais now, people weren’t allowed to sit in her presence until she gave them permission.

“Sit down, the pair of you,” Briala sighed.  “I suppose you have questions.”

Rhys sat down first.  While his injuries from Red Templar activity were mostly healed, he still tired easily.  Not remotely ready for active service yet, and Briala had had reservations about bringing him… but she was glad he was here.  It seemed he was on side already.

Sadly, the same could not be said for his Templar friend.

“Tamriel is real, not just a story, and they’ve been spying on us for years?” Evangeline demanded.  “How long have you known this? What do they want?  Are we safe?  Is Corypheus working for them? Marquise, if this gets out…!”

“Then help make sure it doesn’t,” Briala snapped.  “Evangeline. I’ve known of Tamriel for a few months now, there were stories circulating in the mage rebellion before the book came out.  I didn’t know about the spies until I started looking into Cesaire, and I didn’t know for sure until I spoke to him.  He looks exactly like an older, darker-skinned version of Red Cicero of the Inquisition. The accent’s the same, the speech patterns – if he wasn’t Tranquil, he’d doubtless be fluttering his hands every other word like the other one does.  There’s stories of the other Cicero using magic too.  Something about a demon horse, and I rather think he’s using the same tricks his uncle used to.  Too many stories of him pulling off the impossible.  As for what they want – that’s for me to worry about.  But I don’t think they’re enemies – at least, they don’t have to be.  And as for Corypheus… you’ve read the book.  You must have worked out Alayna and Maranil are based on the Herald and her husband.”

“I know but… it can’t be real, surely?” Evangeline whispered, shaking her head.  “Tethras wouldn’t just… where would he get his information form?  He’s not a Tamrielic spy as well, is he?”

“No,” Briala said, shaking her head.  “He’s their publicist. Alayna is really Elisif and she got Varric Tethras to write her story.  While I’m sure he’s embellished and added things, I’d be surprised if she didn’t approve the final draft.  How she got to Thedas is anyone’s guess.  Maybe Andraste really did hand her out of the Fade to save us.  It makes as much sense as any other theory at this point.  But she’s Dragonborn, High Queen of Skyrim, and heir apparent to the Imperial Throne of Tamriel, and she’s leading the fight against Corypheus.  Who, I might remind you, claims to be a resurrected Tevinter magister.  He is an all too Thedosian phenomenon.”

“Tamriel’s had spies for forty years or more… and they never revealed themselves or did anything,” Rhys whispered.

“Not that we’re aware,” Briala admitted.  “But there’s so much we don’t know – Cesaire was just the one who got caught. There may be many others living rather quieter lives.  Still.  The time of Tamrielic secrecy is coming to an end.  Queen Elisif, who is our Herald of Andraste, had this published, and I am fairly certain it was so when Tamriel announces itself, we don’t all panic.  Oh, it’s possible she might just go quietly home after all this is done… but she’s the future Empress.  She knows we exist now. We’ve all heard of her.  She has ties here, favours owed, rulers in her debt, her Inquisition both enabling my rise to power and Queen Anora being able to set up her own Chantry unmolested.  There’s even Orlesian and Fereldan peace talks coming up with Josephine Montilyet facilitating them.  Elisif’s written to both Gaspard and myself hoping we can reach an accord with Anora – I imagine Anora’s had the same.  No ruler in her right mind is just going to go home to Tamriel and leave all this behind her.  Our links to the Inquisition are going to end up turning into treaties with Tamriel, I am sure. I… am actually not displeased by this.  Mages aren’t penned up in Circles.  They don’t share our faith but they aren’t interested in enforcing theirs.  They’re a human Empire but their non-human citizens are treated a lot better than elves are here.  I’m looking forward to working with them.  At least, I was until I realised we have Tranquillised a relative of someone high up in the future Empress’s court!  Now do you see why this is important?  Now do you realise why you’re both here??”

Evangeline had gone very quiet as she remembered Morio Sicarius’s backstory.

“Red Cicero is Morio Sicarius,” she whispered.  Briala nodded.

“I’m afraid so.  And you remember in the book he lost his only relative, his beloved mother, to the Great War, and that trauma sent him into the Brotherhood’s arms, and it was only the promise of a new family with the Reachfolk that got him out of there and made him into a better person.”

Evangeline nodded, remembering.

“But if his uncle is alive, was here all along… if the timelines are right, the war took place after he was made Tranquil.”

“Yes,” Briala said grimly.  “If Cicero the Elder hadn’t been captured, if he’d still been a serving bard, do you think they might have recalled him during the war?  Or he might have returned home anyway if he heard the Imperial City had fallen.  He couldn’t have saved his sister, but he might have been able to find his nephew and save him.  Cicero’s spent his entire adult life thinking he was alone in the world with no blood kin and reaching for family wherever he could.  How do you think he’s going to react when he finds his uncle is alive but the Chantry made sure that uncle could never be there for him.”

Not well, and neither Rhys nor Evangeline needed reminding Red Cicero was a trained assassin.

“Anyone in a Chantry robe could get murdered,” Rhys whispered. “Maker, what do we do?”

“Or he goes to Elisif and she gets the Chantry disbanded entirely,” Evangeline said, sinking into a chair, hands in her hair.  “Andraste have mercy.”

“It need not come to that,” Briala said.  “I know Elisif. She’s not without compassion.  But this needs careful handling. Because it’s not just Cicero.  You recall he had an unborn child, a girl called Leliana.”

“Yes,” Rhys said, eyes widening as the truth dawned on him. “Isn’t the Inquisition spymaster called that.  The Divine’s former Left Hand.  I met her, you know.  She’s got red hair too. She’s got paler skin and blue eyes not brown but… the face is very similar.”

“We didn’t just make a Tamrielic agent Tranquil but Sister Nightingale’s father too??” Evangeline gasped.  “Can this get worse?? She’s a candidate for Divine, if she finds this out…!”

“I know, which is why she needs to find out before she takes the Sunburst Throne,” Briala said.  “I don’t know how she’ll react but… He’s an old man.  I don’t know how long he has left. I’d like to reunite them if I can.  A show of goodwill and all that.  And if he’s willing, I’d like him cured of Tranquillity. That will be a delicate undertaking and I’ll need the Inquisitor on side to help deal with the consequences.  She’s a compassionate type and Cicero and Leliana both respect her.  If anyone can help Cesaire post-cure, it’s her.  But in the meantime… I have people of my own infiltrating this Circle but I’m concerned my visit will arouse suspicion.  Especially if our friend here keeps needling the Revered Mother.  He doesn’t feel emotions any more, but he clearly still remembers how to manipulate other people’s.  I think he might need protecting.”

“Then we’ll stay and protect him,” Evangeline promised. “Andraste, Marquise, the only reason he’s lasted this long is because everyone thinks a Tranquil is harmless and he had no kin of consequence.  He’ll need guarding, and I know how to protect mages. Including from other Templars.”

“And he’ll need company,” Rhys added.  “I can help with the apprentices here, and be someone for Cesaire to talk to.  And if he changes his mind about the cure… if need be, it can happen here, although personally I think you’re right in that maybe the Herald should be involved.”

Exactly what Briala had been hoping for.  It was always nice when people volunteered for the thing she was going to order them to do anyway.

“I’ll speak to the Revered Mother,” Briala told them, getting up.  “Thank you, both of you.  I appreciate this more than you know.  I can ensure you’re both well compensated for this – in fact,

I believe I might even be able to obtain the Brassard-Manot estate from its current owners.  It should go back to the family who deserve it, don’t you think?  And you and Rhys will need somewhere to live after all this.”

Evangeline could barely speak, but Rhys took her hand and thanked Briala fervently.  

It was rather gratifying to have two humans just treating her like a person, and an important one at that.  Briala still wasn’t used to this.  Particularly when the Revered Mother and Knight-Commander both still seemed suspicious despite the surface politeness.  She hoped Rhys and Evangeline would be all right here.  She suspected they’d be fine but even so, two veterans of the mage rebellion at the Loyalist stronghold might well cause tension.

Stepping outside the Circle tower with her guards in tow, she was surprised to run straight into a small patrol of the Orlesian Army. Gaspard’s men, and high-ranking ones at that.

“Marquise,” the chevalier in charge called, dismounting.  “There has been a… situation.  The Emperor requires your advice.  Here.”

Despite Inquisition protection, Briala could never be sure that each Orlesian battalion wasn’t the one that was going to piss on that and arrest her anyway… or worse.  Thankfully, it wasn’t this one, it seemed.  Reading the letter, her eyes widened as she read of the capture of Thom Rainier by the Inquisition… and Elisif’s request to have them carry out judgement via trial by combat.  Versus darkspawn.

“Is this… serious?” Briala gasped.  “And His Majesty’s opinion on this?  He must have one.  The massacre was done in his name even if he disavowed it.”

“His Majesty is… undecided.  I believe he feels the gallows a kinder fate, as do we all… but many of us also think we should let the Herald have her way for that very reason.  But… none of us are easy with sending a man to the Blight.”

Nor was Briala, but it seemed the decision was to be left to her. Well, she had asked for this.

“Don’t we have one of the participants in custody ourselves.  And there’s more on the run, aren’t there.  We never caught them all.”

“His Majesty seems to think that Rainier having been caught and confessing to having given the order and lying to his men about who they were attacking and why absolves them,” the chevalier said, masked helmet hiding his expression.  Briala could see the reasoning, and it did save the Empire resources… even if the just following orders defence rankled.

“They could have stopped the moment they saw children in that carriage,” Briala said firmly.  “Blood is on their hands too… but I suppose someone who can reliably identify Rainier may be useful.  Go back to His Majesty and tell him this.  I will go to Skyhold myself and meet with the Herald.  I had business there anyway, I will raise this in person and let him know the outcome.  I want the man in custody, Mornay is it?  Transfer him to Skyhold too, I want him to identify Rainier for me.  If he co-operates, I’ll consider releasing him.  Don’t tell Mornay that.  As for the others… the Orlesian Empire has bigger concerns.  Don’t waste resources looking for them.  We’ll see how things are after this situation is resolved.”

It never rained but it poured.  Still, hadn’t Briala intended Skyhold to be her next port of call anyway?  Now seemed like a most opportune time indeed.