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partystoragechest · 6 months ago

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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: 3,848. Rating: all audiences, bar a few swears.)

Chapter 42: The Ball

The Great Hall was adorned in its finest, the banners of the Inquisition unfurled. A quartet played upon the dais, the floor before them awaiting its dancers. Attendees of every strata—advisors, digintaries, mages, soldiers—exhibited their most exquisite attire, anticipating the arrival of their guests of honour.

The door thundered open. A herald announced their names:

“Presenting! Lady Erridge of West Coldon, Lady Samient of Samient, Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne, and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

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 deep and passionate red—with a mahogany cane to match, of course.

Trevelyan entered 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 had 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 musicians, the room would have been stunned to silence. Whispers of admiration made their circuit. Trevelyan drank in the praise, striding through the parting crowds. They led her to the foot of the dais, where the Ladies had gathered, and where an elegant figure—clothed in blue and gold—stood tall. With little more than a smile and a gesture, Lady Montilyet brought the room to a hush.

“Friends of the Inquisition!” she proclaimed. “Thank you for attending! If I may, I wish to propose a small toast, to some of our departing guests.”

She raised her glass. “A toast to Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat, to the union of your families and of Coldon! A toast to the Baroness Touledy, for victory in Val Misrenne! And a toast to Lady Samient, for her safe journey home!”

Glasses and steins clinked together, accompanied by a hearty cheer.

“But to Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick,” Montilyet continued, “we do not say farewell. Gathered friends, may I please introduce you, to our new Arcanist!”

Applause went up, echoing off the walls, and filling the room with joy. Trevelyan laughed in delight, and caught glimpses of her friends amongst the crowd. Varric clapped, Dorian hollered, and even Sera cheered—though none were as enthusiastic as Dagna herself!

Still, there was one face she could not quite find.

“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 Erridge, having already recruited Lady Orroat to her cause.

Trevelyan startled, her attention elsewhere. She stumbled and stammered over her excuses. “Oh! Later, perhaps? There’s something, I, um...”

Lady Samient picked up on her meaning, and picked up her slack. “Come, Lady Erridge! I’ll dance with you.”

Appeased, Lady Erridge escorted her away. Trevelyan withdrew from the dancefloor.

She could dance another time. She did not wish to muss her hair or catch her skirt. Her eyes scanned the party. Her fingers trembled. The moment he saw her had to be perfect.

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, there he stood. The man she’d been searching for.

The Commander.

Maker, he had only become more handsome the longer she had known him. That rough-hewn jaw of his, and the 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 it mattered little. There was nothing that could dull the shine of him; true gold, after all, did never rust.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as he straightened to greet her. And he would have done so, perhaps warmly, perhaps sweetly—had a scout, uniformed and on duty, not appeared at his side.

Ah, fuck.

They whispered something to him beneath the hubbub of the ball, which sharpened back into focus. Though Trevelyan heard nothing of the Commander’s reply, when his attention returned to her, his smile was gone.

“Arcanist,” he said, with a bow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. There is urgent business to which I must attend.”

Bloody typical.

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

“At inconvenient times,” he muttered.

“No duty is ever convenient,” she commented. That seemed to amuse him, at least.

“I will return as soon as I am able, I assure you.”

“Yes, Commander.”

She curtsied to him, and allowed him to depart. The scout 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 ample opportunity for such 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 there to distract her, anyway. She watched the Ladies dance together; she enthused with Dagna about their work; she spoke to Lady Montilyet about her new quarters (ready tomorrow!); and she gossiped with Dorian about absolutely nothing of note—though he was, as always, terribly good conversation.

Yet still no Commander.

The noise of the music and the chatter and the stomps of the dancing were beginning to blur in her brain. Dorian noted her change in temperament, as she attempted to peer through the garden door from afar. 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 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 this seemed as good a reason as any. She bid him farewell, and escaped up the stairs.

The moment she reached their peak, her troubled mind calmed. Mere feet above the chaos, the music came quieter, the conversation nothing more than ambience. Thank the Maker.

Besides, this mezzanine was well-furnished for a somewhat hidden space, with a luxurious chaise and portraits of figures Trevelyan did not quite recognise. The candelabrum here were not lit, leaving all illumination to that of the moons, whose glow trickled through a pair of glass doors—beyond which, as promised, was a balcony.

But Trevelyan felt enough at ease to stay inside—and she found the view of the party below to be quite of interest. The dancers 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 entered the hall. He strode into the party with such determination, it was as if it did not exist around him. Trevelyan traced his path as it led him, direct, to the Baroness.

They huddled against a wall. He whispered something. Urgent business? Oh, no.

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

If the news they shared was what she hoped, then she was rather glad she hadn’t kicked up a fuss at the Commander’s departure. Because if it was what she hoped, then he could have left all night, and still she would smile.

Maker, 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 sprang onto the landing, startling himself as much as he startled her, determination abandoning him in an instant. “Arcanist!” he stammered, attempting to bow. “Forgive me—Dorian told me you were here.”

That crafty bastard. Trevelyan put his schemes aside, and asked, “Is everything all right, Commander? What was your urgent business?”

Before he’d even said a word, he smiled. That alone brought her relief. “There was a message from the Inquisitor,” he told her. “The battle is won. Val Misrenne is safe.”

Trevelyan could scarcely believe it. She clasped a hand over 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’s party and the guard of Val Misrenne who ought to have the credit of it.”

“Of course, but you may take a little as well, Commander. Your handling of the situation was… impressive, to say the least.”

Such a compliment did not seem to sit well with him, for he stuttered as if he had not the words to form a reply. Awkwardness prevailed, until his fortunes changed, and his eyes chanced upon the balcony doors.

“Forgive me, I didn’t meant to disturb you. Were you… headed outside?”

Trevelyan smiled. She looked at them, then at him. “Preferably not alone.”

“Oh. I could...”

She backed into the doors, her eyes beckoning him to follow. He trailed after her as if in a trance, stepping through, to the tranquil night beyond.

The stars above shone in greeting, illuminating the finely-carved stone of the balcony balustrade. Trevelyan rested herself upon it, gazing out. The Commander’s presence, a warmth in the absence of the sun, settled beside her.

“It’s... a nice night,” he said.

She quite agreed. 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, encircled the fortress, and banished the darkness from its embrace.

“I, ah, have something for you,” he said, hand fumbling within his jacket. “I believe this is yours.”

He managed to locate this ‘something’, and freed it from its concealment. A white cloth, that flashed in the moonlight, embroidered with leaves Trevelyan recognised. It was far more pristine than the last time she’d seen it.

The napkin slipped pleasantly from the Commander’s fingers 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—you, ah, 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 shook her head, and smiled. “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 met her eye. “That you… want?”

She bit back the smile that threatened to betray her. “Well… I suppose there is one thing—”

Feet clattered up the stairs. Trevelyan stopped herself. As if she were summoned by these precise circumstances, Lady Erridge stumbled out onto the mezzanine.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called. “Oh, Commander, there you are! Sorry to disrupt, but I came to see if you should like to dance!”

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

Erridge giggled. “I know! I wasn’t speaking to 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.”

His mouth tilted into a smirk; it made her skin tingle. “Another time, then.”

“Of course.”

Raucous music caught their ears, and Erridge perked. “Come along!” she said, snatching up Trevelyan’s hand. She threw a hasty farewell to the Commander over her shoulder, and whisked Trevelyan away. They tumbled down the stairs together, bursting onto the main floor of the hall—as the band cued a jig.

“Over here!” called Samient and Orroat, from the dancefloor. In the absence of Lady Erridge, they had partnered together—but saved a spot beside them, just in case.

Trevelyan and Erridge squeezed past the other dancers, and hurried to take it. They joined hands—properly, this time—and waited for the song to start, giggling all the while.

Strings and wind erupted into a prancing melody of alternating highs and lows, and caught them quite off-guard. But Lady Erridge sprang to action, and Trevelyan followed her lead. They bounced around the floor with zest and zeal, clapping their hands, kicking their legs into the air. Skirts clashed and flew, an explosion of fabric and colour.

It burst apart, into an exchange of dancers. Trevelyan sailed into the arms of Lady Orroat, who cut as fine a form as one could expect.

“So this is what you were all up to yesterday?” she said, of Trevelyan’s dress. “Maker, it’s beautiful!”

Though the compliment was quite routine, a look of panic struck the passing Lady Erridge. “Look, dear Orroat!” she called, loosing a hand from Samient’s, to jab her finger at some collection of stars. “I sewed those ones!”

Dancers parted again, to what must have been Erridge’s utmost relief. Trevelyan swapped Orroat for Samient, the latter of whom smiled as if amused.

“It seems dear Erridge has quite reversed her position on your knowing Lady Orroat,” she whispered.

Trevelyan giggled. “Good, for I could hardly say we should make such a handsome couple as they!”

Nor one so well-suited. It seemed the touch of her dear Orroat’s hand had quelled Lady Erridge’s worry in an instant, and the pair twirled and danced so pleasantly to the eye, it made Trevelyan miss a step. Samient ably accounted for the fumble. It was a wonder how she danced so well, in a dress so constricting. Then again, it was a wonder how this was Trevelyan’s first stumble, in a dress so grand.

Though their jig came to an end, another began—and Lady Erridge would not be satisfied with just the one! Trevelyan was made to dance the next three complete, until—quite exhausted—she formulated an excuse, and made her exit.

The sight of the Baroness at the edge of the dancefloor was quite welcome, as if safety and anchor in a storm. Trevelyan hurried towards her, and greeted her with a smile and an embrace—for which they both knew the reason.

“I’ve heard the news,” she said, as she recovered her breath. “How do you feel?”

The Baroness sighed. “Relieved. When I leave for my home tomorrow, I shall return to find it at peace—but that peace has not come without sacrifice. And yet, I know it could have been so much more. That Val Misrenne and its people still stand is worth celebrating.”

“It is. And I hope that it brings you peace, as well.”

Trevelyan hugged her again—but the music’s sudden and effervescent return caused her to jump. Laughing at herself, Trevelyan glanced back at the dancefloor.

“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?” Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “I remember you saying that you still dance.”

“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.”

The Baroness winked, as if to point. Trevelyan, utterly confused by who ‘him’ was, heeded the suggestion. She turned, laid her eyes upon the man in question, and groaned. Weaving past the dancers was—she ought to have guessed it—the Commander.

“Oh, Maker! You all have far too much—” She halted, realising 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 coming towards them.

“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 was thinking.

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

“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, and I—”

“I could try,” he said.

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

“What?”

“If you would like to.”

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

The Baroness grinned, relishing in her triumph. “Go on, then,” she said, “enjoy.”

Easier said than done. At least Trevelyan had danced 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 musicians 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, 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 so pretty and be so sweet? 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, sensing the warmth that emanated from 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 gentle strings of anticipation harmonised into a symphony. Dancing commenced, and the Commander’s feet shifted. Trevelyan mirrored his steps. 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. Gentler. Warmer. Safer. No pressure for extravagance, or flourish. It almost did not matter if she was dancing well or not. It was only him that mattered.

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

He smiled, softly, and said, “All right.”

Her words must have emboldened him, for his grip around her hand firmed and strengthened, and he drew her closer by its pull. His other hand 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. Her head, laid on his shoulder. The warmth of his chest, felt within her own. That gentle, soothing sway they shared. She let her eyes fall shut, the dancers fall away, and listened only to the beat of his heart. Trevelyan could have stayed like that for an eternity.

But the music slowly, gradually, dulled to quiet. The other dancers reappeared around them, the party audible once more. It was over.

They came to a standstill. Trevelyan’s hand reluctantly left 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.”

“Ah. 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, huddled 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 #edit 23/10/24: i just hate chapters with a lot of transitions i like it to be one solid block of thing but so much went on in this #cont: i've got it to a point where i'm satisfied and i hope one day i return to it and go 'oh this slaps actually'#cont: LOL I WROTE THAT TAG WITHOUT READING MY PREVIOUS I ALREADY SAID THAT #cont: well i guess it didnt come true the first time but seconds the charm #edit 24/10/24: ahhahahahahahhahah

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