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johaerys-writes · 3 years ago

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Words Are Futile Devices

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Dorian Pavus/David Trevelyan

Summary:

The last thing Dorian expected when he came to the South was to find love. In fact, he had entirely given up on the notion. Yet, when the gentle, shy and enigmatic Inquisitor Trevelyan came into his life, things started to change.

A (very belated) birthday gift fic for my dear friend @tessa1972 featuring Dorian and her OC David Trevelyan!

Read here or on AO3!

A full, silver moon hung over the Frostback’s snowy peaks. Skyhold, for once, was quiet.

Dorian leaned back in his desk chair, rubbing the inner corners of his eyes between forefinger and thumb. It had been a long day; and an even longer evening, though he had hardly realised where the time had gone. He had spent most of it studying in the library, indexing books and codexes, helping the new apprentices find their way around. They kept streaming into Skyhold from all corners of Ferelden, and sooner or later they all came to him, asking him this and that, about the library and the hold and where everything could be found.

It was troublesome, certainly —Dorian had never sought to become the Skyhold library’s archivist— yet he found himself oddly drawn to the role. It wasn’t too different from what he used to do in the Minrathous library, where throngs of students from the university would follow him around to ask for his help on their research, or his opinion on various manuscripts. He had never admitted it outright, but he’d missed that sort of life; besides, being asked for help was much preferable to being overlooked and sneered at, which had, sadly, been the case for most of his stay in the South.

He tsked softly, letting the book he’d been reading fall closed. That Southerners could hardly appreciate genius even when it hit them straight in the face was no secret to anyone, yet it gave him a tiny bit of satisfaction to see that the tide was shifting, even a little.

The library was thoroughly empty at that hour, and the wick of the oil lamp above his desk was sputtering softly, close to dying out. It was the only sound in the Tower that could be heard, other than the soft cooing of Leliana’s crows overhead. Dorian stood up slowly and lifted his arms over his head, stretched his sore spine. Skyhold’s desk chairs were far less than comfortable, and his back was certainly not thanking him for it.

He was just about to leave when he noticed the bundle of books that he had gathered earlier that day, and left on the plush purple armchair close to the window. His stomach dropped somewhat.

It was Helisma that had informed him that the Inquisitor had been to the library the day before, searching for books on wyverns and dracolisks. He had left before Dorian had even arrived to his desk empty handed and hadn’t said another word to anyone.

When Dorian had teasingly suggested to Helisma that perhaps the poor man had been so confused by her archiving system that he decided never to step foot in a library ever again in his life, the Tranquil had given him one of her blank looks that somehow managed to speak volumes about what she thought of him and his observations.

Dorian sighed. The books were definitely on the heavy side when he picked them up, but he didn’t train every morning for an hour for nothing. He secured them under his arm, and, after putting the oil lamp out, silently walked out of the library.

Every step that took him through the largely quiet throne room, and closer to the Inquisitor’s quarters, made his heart sink deeper, ad deeper into his stomach. By the time he was standing outside his door —a rather plain, wooden one, considering that behind it lay the largest of all rooms in the hold— Dorian thought his heart would slink out of his ribcage and slither into his boots.

He took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Come in,” the Inquisitor’s smooth voice sounded from behind the polished wood.

“Good evening, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian said with a wide smile that little belied his nervousness. If anyone was good at hiding his feelings, then that someone was none other than Dorian Pavus of Minrathous. “Or shall I say good night? It is rather late.”

“That it is.” Inquisitor Trevelyan was sitting behind his large mahogany desk, half hidden behind a high stack of papers and scrolls. A merry fire was going in the hearth, filling the space with warmth and shifting amber light. It caught in the highlights of Trevelyan’s chestnut hair, his soft violet eyes. He seemed more than a little tired, the corners of his eyes tinged with red, but there was a gentle smile on his lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dorian stood at the threshold for a moment, admiring the space. Though he had never found himself in the Inquisitor’s quarters before, he had heard lots about it. The rumours did it no justice. It was wide and spacious, if on the colder side, with plush rugs lining the floor and expensive furniture lining its corners. It was rather obvious that Ambassador Josephine had spared no coin when it came to their leader’s accommodations.

Said leader was certainly a more than impressive man. He was tall and broad of shoulder, with impeccable manners and a gentle disposition. He had stood up from his chair at Dorian’s arrival and was gazing at him calmly. He seemed perfectly at ease, if a little uptight, yet Dorian couldn’t help the feeling that the grandeur of his quarters made him seem a little… out of place.

He wasn’t quite sure why the thought made a wave of sympathy rush through him. Perhaps because he deeply understood the sentiment.

“A little birdie told me that you visited the library yesterday in search of books, yet you walked out mysteriously empty handed.” He confidently strolled into the room, setting the heavy bundle of leather bound tomes on the low coffee table before the hearth. “Naturally, I had to make sure that our humble library did not disappoint you. I would take that as a personal affront, you know.”

Trevelyan blinked at him, a lovely blush creeping up his cheeks. It was bright and rosy and warmed up his features, and when a soft, nervous smile graced his lips, Dorian felt the ghost touch of them against his own.

Maker, it felt like a lifetime ago, when Dorian had last touched those lips. In reality, it couldn’t have been longer than a fortnight.

“I am setting out for the Exalted Plains in a week, and one of Leliana’s scouts reported sightings of dracolisks in the Ferns. I wanted to be prepared, should our party come into contact with them. I searched for an hour but I couldn’t find—” He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his blush getting a deeper, more vibrant red. “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you. If I did, I apologise.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, never you mind all that,” Dorian said with laugh and waved his concerns away, though he wouldn’t have minded letting the man go on for a little while longer, just to watch that flush make its way down to his graceful neck, his pretty ears that were hiding underneath lustrous locks of warm brown. “It only took me a few minutes. I couldn’t well leave our precious Inquisitor walk into the wilderness without detailed knowledge of wyvern mating cycles. You know what they say: a thorough education is the best weapon for any situation.”

The Inquisitor laughed, shaking his head softly. “I believe you are quite right. My father used to tell me something of the sort; though I believe he was referring to an education of a different kind.” He threaded his fingers through his hair, pushing it behind his ear. “I… thank you, Dorian.”

Dorian was momentarily distracted by the sight of those long, slender fingers, the grace of their movements. He suddenly wanted to walk up to him, thread his own fingers through those locks. He could almost remember their smell— lavender and soap, the sweet musk of his skin. He swallowed thickly.

“Whatever for, Inquisitor?” he said with an easy, practiced smile. “It was no bother, I assure you; the whole search was done and over with in a minute.”

“I believe you. Still… you have my thanks. Just for thinking of me.” Trevelyan’s lips widened in that soft, infuriatingly warm smile again, and it was Dorian’s turn to feel a blush creeping up his cheeks. “It is much appreciated.”

The fire crackling in the hearth and the wind sweeping over the Frostbacks' peaks beyond the wide windows were the only sound for a long moment as they both gazed at each other. It seemed as if they were looking at each other across a great gulf; so near, and yet so far.

It was Dorian that tore his eyes away, as always. He wasn’t quite sure what he would be compelled to do, if he continued to stare into the face he had spent days thinking about, dreaming of, longing for.

“I see you are quite busy,” Dorian said, gesturing towards the high stack of documents on the mahogany desk. “I should probably leave you to it.”

He smiled and bowed his head respectfully, turning to leave. The tail of his silk coat fluttered with the motion, the light of the fire catching amidst the folds of the fabric. If there was something that Dorian was good at, then that was a dramatic entrance, and an even more dramatic departure.

His hand was almost on the door handle, when Trevelyan’s smooth voice stopped him.

“Wait.”

Dorian glanced at him over his shoulder. Trevelyan had left his chair and his desk and was standing before the coffee table. He made a small motion when their eyes met, as if wanting to take another step, get closer to him, yet he didn’t.

“Stay, please.” He smiled at him, just a little awkward, never taking his eyes away from Dorian’s. “My work is far from done, and yet… I would appreciate the company.” He shifted just a bit on his feet, then nodded towards the liquor cabinet at the corner of the room. “I was recently sent some Fereldan whiskey. It is said to be very good. I thought, perhaps… you might like to try it.”

The edges of Trevelyan’s lips quirked ever so slightly upwards, and there was something so earnest and childlike about his smile, about the look in his violet eyes, that Dorian’s heart did a painful little thump.

“Whiskey, you say?” He let his hand drop from the handle and took a step closer. He crossed his arms before his chest, cocking his hips slightly to the side in a confident stance— far more confident than he felt. But what was it that people said? ‘Fake it ‘til you make it’? “However can I refuse, when you ask so nicely and bribe me with fancy drinks? You certainly know the way to a man’s heart, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan let out a quiet laugh, a deep and mellow sound that warmed Dorian inside out. “I’ll pour you a glass then, shall I? Oh, and please. Just call me David.” He tilted his head to the side, his gaze growing even softer, if that was possible. “All of my friends do.”

Friends. Dorian couldn’t help but wonder whether they were simply friends, or if there would ever be hope for something… more.

“Very well,” he said with a smile and graceful incline of his head. “David.” He watched the man’s straight and broad back as he turned around and moved towards the cabinet. The smell of the whiskey was strong and aromatic when he pulled the cork out of the bottle and prepared to pour it into glasses. Dorian’s voice stopped him. “Actually, I think I may have a better idea.”

David’s eyes were curious when he looked at him over his shoulder, and Dorian had to bite back a grin.

“I never pegged you for someone who appreciates the great outdoors,” David said with a curious smile, gazing at the vast expanse of glittering snow, jagged peaks and lakes covered in ice. “Quite the opposite in fact, judging from the last time we were outdoors.”

Dorian chuckled softly, leaning against the stone wall of the battlements. A cold wind was blowing, ruffling the fabric of his robes and combing through David’s hair, but the magical bubble that always surrounded Skyhold did not let much of the chill from the mountains pass through. It was tolerable, even for Dorian, and Maker knew his tolerance for the blasted Southern cold was exceptionally low.

He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to bring the Inquisitor -David, he reminded himself- to that quiet corner of the keep. It wasn’t too long ago that he had taken to visiting this place when the walls of his room became stifling, bringing with him a cup of wine or brandy, and simply gazing at the stars. He didn’t know why, but it brought him a strange sense of peace.

The fact that it reminded him of the night that David and he had spent together not too long before was an added, if somewhat confusing, benefit. It was an evening not too different from this one, with a crisp wind blowing and the night sky clear above them, the stars reflecting on the glassy surface of Lake Calenhad. David had accompanied him to the dreaded meeting with his father, and on the way back they had camped there, talking and drinking the night away.

Dorian wasn’t going to fool himself by saying that he hadn’t been attracted to the man the very first moment he laid eyes on him. Still, being attracted to a pretty face, and suddenly finding out that the pretty man not only had a heart and a brain, but enough empathy and understanding to sink a small barge, were two entirely different things. David had surprised him in more ways than one— with his kindness and his honesty, with his wry sense of humour and his sweet, childlike smile, with his steadfastness and his quiet, profound care.

Never before had Dorian bared himself like this to anyone. He had expected judgement and scorn, yet had received none. At first, he couldn’t quite believe it. He had kept searching for the catch, the knife hidden amidst the roses, but more time passed and he could find none. Until…

Dorian swallowed thickly as the memory of the kiss they had shared flashed in his memory. David was watching him patiently now, waiting for his answer that had taken a tad too long.

“I’m full of surprises, as you well know,” Dorian said with a teasing smile. He poured some whiskey into the glasses they had taken with them, and offered one to David. “It’s simply a quiet spot I like to visit sometimes. There are few lovely things the South has to offer, and I believe this view is one of them. It’s quite spectacular, is it not?”

“It is,” David replied, accepting the glass. He was standing in a square of crenelated moonlight, half obscured by the shadows, and his eyes seemed bright like lit up stars when they focused on him. “What are the others?”

“What others?” Dorian sipped distractedly on his whiskey.

“The other lovely things that the South has to offer.”

You, Dorian thought instinctively, and he hated how the thought made his heart flip and jump, his insides tie themselves into impossible loops. “Well, this whiskey, for one,” he replied quickly. “And I’m partial to Fereldan cheese. Much preferable to those smelly Orlesian ones. Tevinter doesn’t have much of a tradition in cheese-making. A pity, if you ask me, but my people tend to avoid consuming anything fermented, unless it can get them blind-drunk.”

David laughed, shaking his head, and the sound warmed Dorian inside out. “You don’t know cheese until you’ve tried the Marcher varieties,” he said. His smile was bright and earnest, and lit up his entire face. “Fereldan cheese is great, don’t get me wrong, but it has nothing on Ostwick’s soft blue goat's cheese, trust me.”

“Blue cheese? My goodness, you Southern barbarians have none of the Maker’s fear in you, do you?” Dorian hid his grin behind the rim of his glass as he watched David laugh even more. “I suppose you made it with your own bare hands back in Ostwick? How terribly bucolic of you.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. It’s a yearly tradition in Ostwick, for the children and women of the household to help in the cheese making on Summer’s day, when the cows’ milk is at its richest. My siblings and I used to have the fun of our lives on that day; we could play with the animals in the farm and get our hands and clothes dirty while milking the cows and hauling the buckets of milk to the dairy workshop, and neither our mother or our father were allowed to tell us off. We would eagerly await that day all year.” He took a sip of his whiskey, looking out over the vast expanse of snow below. “There are moments when I miss those simpler times.”

“I can imagine. Your childhood sounds idyllic indeed,” Dorian said softly, his voice mellowed out even more by the nostalgic smile on the other man’s lips. “You’ve never told me about any of your siblings.”

The smile of David’s lips lost some of its nostalgia, but only a little bit. There was fondness and a shadow of sadness in his eyes when he said, “There used to be more of us than there are now.” He took another sip of whiskey, leaning against the battlements. The wind combed through his hair, bringing a lock of chestnut hair before his brow. “Virgil was the eldest. He died quite young from illness. There was nothing we could do. And Sieden...” He stopped and took a slow breath. “I was born a twin. But my brother, Sieden, did not make it through the labor. He was stillborn. My family still celebrates his birthday every year, along with my own, but it’s different from other celebrations in the family. It is a day for silence and contemplation, and for remembering the brief time he was in the world.”

“I’m… very sorry to hear that,” Dorian said quietly, a lump lodging in his throat. “It must have been very hard for you, not to celebrate your birthday like other children did.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” David replied. His gaze still managed to be warm and friendly when he regarded Dorian, despite the mellow sadness in his voice. “We lit candles, and I got lots of gifts, from my parents, my other siblings and my beloved friends. I also got a kiss from my mother, and a hug from my father. But that stopped after—” He tensed just a little, looking away. His brows gathered in an almost imperceptible frown. “It doesn’t really matter now, I suppose.”

Dorian stayed silent for a moment, wondering whether he should urge David to talk or let the silence linger between them. Yet it wasn’t long after that David turned to him again, and a warm light was flickering in his gaze once more. “My family and I have lost much, but not everything. I still have two sisters who I love dearly, Fae and Leah. The first married when she was quite young and moved out of the house, and the other became a lay-sister. I still write to them both, especially Fae. You could say she is the closest to me, despite our age difference. She is quite lovely. I’m sure the two of you will get along perfectly when you meet. She’s rather eager to see you, actually.”

Dorian’s curiosity was piqued. He tilted his head to the side in question. “Your sister knows about me?”

David gave him a wide- eyed stare. “No! Well, yes. I mean—” He paused abruptly, then let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. It could have been a play of the light, but Dorian thought he could see a blush creeping up his cheeks once more. “We write to each other quite often. She always asks me all sorts of questions, about my daily life and the people I’ve met here and… I suppose… I may have told her a few things about you. Just a few, mind you,” he added quickly, seeing the surprised expression on Dorian’s face.

“You… told your sister about me?” Dorian was sure his heart skipped a beat right at that moment. Something bright and warm, something like hope rose to his throat, and then something like dread twisted his stomach. Had he told his sister about him… about them? About their late night talks, their slightly awkward and nervous banter, their… kiss?

That moment flashed in Dorian’s memory once more, and this time it was much harder to brush away than others. He still remembered it, crystal clear: the moment when David had come to find him in the library, the evening after they had returned from Redcliffe. Dorian remembered how the flickering light the candles had caught in the depths of his violet eyes, how his deep and soothing voice had carried in the empty library. He remembered the concern and the warmth in them, the care. And, most of all, he remembered his clean and warm scent in his nostrils as David had drawn closer, the softness of his lips against his own, the strength of his arms around him.

Maker, it had felt like heaven. Tender and gentle and… so brief, that it sent Dorian’s guts twisting again. They had peeled apart soon after, and each had gone their own way. The tension between them had been sizzling ever since, thick enough to cut with a knife every time they so much as looked at each other. Hundreds of times Dorian had thought to pull him close again, to feel his body against his own, but something always held him back.

What if it was just a one-time thing, never to be repeated? What if David didn’t want anything more, what if he’d simply changed his mind?

Dorian leisurely crossed his arms before his chest, hiding his unease behind a wide smile. “So? What have you told your sister about me, pray tell? I hope you’ve mentioned how dashingly gorgeous, impeccably dressed and impressively smart I am, for starters.”

Dorian had only been half-joking when he said that. He hadn’t exactly expected a serious answer, but David’s reply startled him.

“That goes without saying, Dorian,” he said earnestly, his voice firm and unwavering despite his blush that brightened, distinctly visible even in the moonlight now. “Of course I told her all of those things, it’s only the truth. I also told her… that you’re brave and generous and kind. Actually, you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.” He smiled awkwardly. “I hope it wasn’t terribly forward of me.”

Dorian stared at him for a long moment, his breath catching in his throat. He wracked his brain for something to say, anything at all, but for the first time, perhaps ever, he was totally speechless.

He took in a shaky breath. “Do you truly believe them?” he asked quietly, holding David’s gaze. He couldn’t take his eyes away, even if he’d wanted to. “All those things you told your sister… do you believe them?”

“I do.” The other man’s reply was quick and sure, and his eyes met Dorian’s levelly. “There isn’t a moment that I thought otherwise, Dorian. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while. You are… special. Special to me.”

If Dorian could stop time right there, he probably would have. If the stars and the planets had ceased their constant motion right at that moment, if the wind had stopped blowing and the moon had continued shining above them, silver and iridescent, Dorian would gladly stay in that moment forever and a day. Just so he could hear the fondness in David’s voice, watch that smile tugging at the edges of his lips when he spoke to him, the affection in his eyes when he looked at him.

Those eyes had always told Dorian so much more than David’s words had. And this time, Dorian understood.

He took a step forward, leaning towards him. The moments before their lips met felt like the leap from an impossible height. David’s breath skimmed Dorian’s skin, warm and spicy with the scent of the whiskey. Soft lips parted beneath his own, and Dorian was falling.

His fingers threaded through silky, chestnut hair, and David’s scent filled his lungs: lavender and herbs, that delicate soap he liked to use. Strong arms came around him, pulling him closer, and Dorian sighed softly, deepening the kiss as he let himself be drawn. He was helpless, utterly helpless when it came to David, melting against him, every one of his thoughts and defences melting away. Their kiss was tender and passionate, soft and just a little bit desperate, and everything he’d ever wanted, everything he'd dreamed.

David pulled slightly back, cupping Dorian’s cheek as he did so. He gazed at Dorian’s face through heavy-lidded eyes, his lips glistening. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” he asked quietly, his thumb brushing over Dorian’s skin in a tender caress.

His words washed over Dorian like a wave. He leaned against the other man’s chest, linking his wrists behind his neck. His heart was beating giddy and excited, making his head swim, and he could almost feel David’s heart through his clothes, beating in the same rhythm.

“Thank goodness one of us has a little initiative,” Dorian said teasingly, brushing his nose over David’s. "Let's not wait so long next time, yes?"

David laughed gently, the sound reverberating through Dorian where they touched. He leaned in for another kiss, slow and gentle, and this time Dorian really had no more words left.

"I'll make sure not to," David whispered against his lips, hugging him tightly.

#dorian pavus #dorian x trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #pavelyan #dorian x david trevelyan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #johaerys writes

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dragonswithjetpacks · 4 years ago

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For anyone who was interested in my Cullen/Trevelyan fic, I've got four chapters up, now.

Beautiful War

Summary: Dame Claira Trevelyan is known to be a stubborn and off-putting woman. She was always told she never amounted to anything, that she was never pretty or graceful enough to marry. She believed that for the longest time. But her strength and her compassion managed to catch the eye of someone beyond her what she imagined possible. A man just as stubborn and oblivious to how his feelings for his leader are more than just respect.

Chapter Four: Agree to Disagree

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3

Read here on Ao3.

The requisitions for the journey into the Hinterlands were well underway. Word had not yet arrived how successful the troops were with aiding the refugees. But Claira had suspected the constant warfare in the area had much to do with their letters being intercepted. Or that there may have not been a chance to write at all. With her going to the Hinterlands, it would provide the others in the Inquisition with enough information to proceed further with their plans on the Breach. It was important not just as her first mission, but the Inquisition's as well. She needed to be ready.

"You're sure you don't need more?" Harritt asked as she watched the last of the supplies being loaded onto a cart.

"I'm certain, Harritt. If I take anymore, we'd be low on stock here. I'd hate to put you behind in orders."

"It's no trouble, my Lady. I'm happy to help."

"And I appreciate it every bit of," Claira smiled.

"How about the new setup? Is it fitting well?"

Harrit had known the lady was a warrior but heeded her request to remain flexible. The leathers were hardened but the metal was light, granting her the protection she required but also the movement of a quickened fighter. She looked down to admire her armor, fitted specifically to her measurements. With a smile, she could not recall the last time something was made so well for her.

"Like a glove," she patted her chest piece.

"So glad to hear it," he smiled proudly. "If I don't see you before you set off, make sure you take of yourself!"

"You as well, my friend," Claira waved and began to make her way toward the door into Haven.

The snow was falling lightly on the mountain and the sun was just warm enough to keep the bitterness at bay. It was a good sign. Claira pulled at her gloves, tightening them closer to her fingers. As she reached the stairway to the gate, she turned to observe the soldiers training. They were always loud. But today, they seemed particularly riled up. Their Commander was shouting at them, correcting their stances, and striding through the rows watching carefully. He seemed so focused, his brown lowered and his lips turned down into a stern frown. It suddenly softened as he caught Claira's stare.

"Lady Herald," he called after her, causing her to stop.

He trotted through his crowd of men, but he was in no true hurry. His hair was a bit tousled, no doubt from the exercise throughout the early morning. His cheeks were very red, but if anyone spent a good amount outside they would have the same appearance.

"Do you have a moment?" he asked.

"I do," she obliged him.

"We haven't gotten a chance to truly speak," he placed a foot on the first step and rested his hands on the hilt of his sword. "That's partially my fault. I apologize."

"Not at all," Claira shook her head slightly. "You're a busy man."

"Indeed," he smirked. "Correct me if I'm out of place, but I was wondering your stance regarding the mages and tempalrs?"

Claira paused. The intent was misguided in her mind, she was certain.

"I don't recall having a stance, Commander."

"Yes, with the disputing between us, I don't recall you having a chance to speak on it."

"And so you wish for me to speak on it now?" she looked around to find they were, in fact, alone in their conversation.

"I'm simply asking your opinion, my Lady."

He was doing his best to appear curious, but Claira could see through his hardened gaze that he was seeking an argument. Perhaps he felt he could sway her into siding with the templars, given her family was close with the Chantry. Or did he know of her origin at all? No, he most certainly knew. This was a ploy if she ever knew one.

"I've hardly had a moment to observe our situation. Of course, it will depend on who we are able to reach out to. As of right now, either option looks grim in this war."

"Of course."

"But... since you ask... I'm inclined to agree with Cassandra. The mages could also be of use."

"Is that so?" he shifted, his back straightening as if to form a wall she could not break down. "What of templars?"

"The templars?" Claira tilted her head. "Many of them still follow the Lord Seeker. They've holed themselves away from this. Nulled the Nevarran Accord. It doesn't seem rational, to be honest."

"So you're saying the templars are lost?"

"What? No. No, you've proven that, Commander. But I fear there is no hope for the Order. They will act on their own, now. And it appears they have chosen to turn a blind eye."

Cullen grimaced breaking the eye contact they held. "I'm a bit disappointed to hear you say that."

"Well, I'm not here to please you. Or anyone for that matter."

"Then you won't mind humoring me with your reasoning?"

"Did you question Cassandra or Leliana with their judgment?" Claira crossed her arms against her chest.

"I trust their judgment."

"Oh!" Claira shouted, composing her stature even further. "Is this about trust, then?"

Her voice was louder than she thought, causing a few of the lingering scouts to look in their direction. But they did not stop their altercation in spite of a few curious eyes. In fact, Cullen stepped upward onto the stair his foot was resting on, bringing him closer to the Herald.

"Why wouldn't it be? They're the Hands of the Divine! She trusted them with her life."

"And they agree with my opinion, so what makes it different?"

Claira was not backing down. She matched his move, placing her dominant foot forward and down a stair. There was a respected distance between them, but the tension that rolled within that space was crashing as waves would against a rocky cliff. Many of the soldiers felt uncomfortable nearby and retreated to their tents.

"Because they'll agree with anything you say because you've been labeled the Herald of Andraste," he pointed a finger at her.

"And you'll disagree with it because that would mean things wouldn't go your way. You templars are all the same."

"What do you know of the struggles of templars and mages? The Trevelyans have been catered to for years."

"You know nothing of the Trevelyans."

A nerve was struck, and he knew it quite well. Her voice was deep and cold. Her arms dropped to her sides but her shoulders remained upright. The waves seemed to subside but the cliff remained vigilant. They both stood, their eyes not leaving the other as if to wait for some sort of outburst.

"Perhaps we should end this conversation," she lowered her tone. "I have important things to attend to before nightfall."

**********************************************

A night drinking at the tavern was not going to fix things for her, and she knew that very well. But going back to the Chantry meant packing for the next day. And her mind was far too busy with other things to focus on that. A few drinks would quiet her thoughts. Or so she would have herself believe. She looked down into her drink to find her reflection at the bottom disappointing. She cast it aside, alerting the barkeep of a refill.

"You look stressed," she said.

"I think I need a good rest," Claira muttered, toying with the handle of her mug.

"It might just be me, but I think sleep is the least of your concerns, Lady Herald."

There was no doubt she was right. Claira tapped the bar side, feeling her anxiety rise again. It shot up from her calves to the base of her neck and no matter how long she bounced her legs up on the barstool, it would no go away. Who was he to judge her? Why was he so salty about disagreeing with him? Why did he feel the need to bring her family into the equation? Why was he yelling? Why did he have to get so close? Why was he so pleasing to look at? No... no, no... He had no right. To be that way or to be so-

"Damn it all," Claira sat back in her chair, throwing her mug up as she let the liquid courage flow down her throat.

**********************************************

Cullen was in the wrong. He was just too arrogant to admit it. Still, each time the anxiety rose to rear its ugly head, she felt that slight twinge of guilt with it. Claira was a horrible liar. Even to herself. She knew she needed to apologize. She didn't know what for. Perhaps she was in the wrong for acting harshly. Or for insulting him as a templar. It mattered not. Leaving the argument as it was would cause it to fester with negative thoughts, eventually spreading doubt like a disease. It would not only be a poor way to start their fellowship with the Inquisition but also jeopardize their future of working together. It was the right thing to end the bickering now.

"Commander, the fires have nearly gone out from the cold," a captain complained while still attempting push-ups.

"Then I suppose you should have thought of that before taking a break this morning to eavesdrop."

"Yes, sir," he groaned.

Cullen's pride was often stronger than he'd like to admit. He didn't want to say his stance on the templars was wrong, but he refused to admit there was another way when he was so easily dismissed as if his thoughts and experience had no place at the table. Regardless of the Order, the templars were a part of something he felt compelled to. It was not so easy to let go and if he could do something for them, he would always choose them. There was respect for Cassandra and Leliana, and he would gladly discuss his intentions freely with them if given the chance. But something about Claira made him irritable. He knew nothing about her. And yet he was supposed to take counsel from her? He was confused and suspicious of her actions. There were still many questions he needed to be answered in order to comply with her demands. Where was she during the rebellion? Why does she sympathize with the mages when the rest of her family sent aid to the templars? Why did she feel so strongly about the mages when she had clearly never been around them?

He rubbed his chin in thought as he recalled the fierce expression when she loomed over him on the staircase. She stood against him when many would not. Still, he knew he should not have been so aggressive. A simple talk to get to know her would have sufficed. Instead, he responded with anger like a fool.

"That's enough, soldier," he said, wanting to find peace on his own. "We should get some rest. It's been a day."

Cullen was off toward his tent, too stuck in his own mind to pay attention to the sarcasm across the field. Many of them were joking under their breath about the Herald. She was fearless. And he had to admit, she most certainly was. He entered his tent, shedding his pauldrons along with his cloak and rubbing the back of his neck. A good sleep would do the trick, but he was convinced that the restlessness he felt would not allow that to happen. Claira was leaving the next morning. As much as part of him wanted to say good riddance, the other half wanted to seek her out. With nothing but doubt chasing his thoughts, he grabbed his cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. If sleep would not ease his thinking, then a decent walk would have to do. He set out toward the pond at the edge of the camp.

**********************************************

Claira knew that since the sun had set, she would find Cullen in his tent. This made her even more nervous. It was difficult enough for her to seek him out, but to intrude into his personal space was beyond challenging. She would be out of her element. Then again, it was more important for her to settle things rather than let her own arrogance show. The closer she grew to his tent, the louder her heart banged against her chest. She stood in front of it for a moment, studying the slightly lifted flap. She couldn't hear him inside, even when she called out to him quietly. She lifted the canvas and found there was no one there. There was a candle, barely lit. And his pauldrons rested on a wooden chest. His bed was left messy. And there were garments unfolded but placed neatly on top of a chair next to his desk. He must not use it that often. She blushed upon seeing them, allowing the door into the tent to fall. Turning away, she half expected to return to her quarters.

"He's brooding again," she overheard a couple of scouts walking toward their tent.

"He's always brooding," the other replied.

"Not his usual brooding. This is serious."

"What makes you say that?"

"Didn't you hear? The Herald had a bit of a disagreement with him this morning. He's been sulking ever since."

"Well, who would argue with the Lady Herald?"

"I mean, it's good someone does, right? There should always be someone with a different look on things."

There it was. The guilt again. She couldn't go back to bed, now. For Maker's sake, the troops thought he was sulking of all things. Pulling her tunic tightly against her neck, she made her way to the edge of the camp. The next place she thought of was the training dummies. But as she cleared the tents and saw them lined before her, she was nearly blinded by the sight of the moons. They cast long dark shadows that contrasted the white snow. Just beyond the camp, she could make out the outline of someone walking along the edge of the pond. There was no doubt about it. It was Cullen.

As she approached him, she felt a rush of impatience as if the fingers of anxiety traced her spine. It sent a cold chill down her back. But then she caught the silhouette of the side of his face, his cheekbones and nose standing out against the cold moonlight. The trim of his fur shifted in the wind along the lining of his neck. He wasn't wearing his pauldrons and she caught a glimpse of his tunic hanging loosely from his chest. She caught herself looking and wondered why so suddenly she was thinking of him this way. Surely, it was the ale. But despite his good looks, she pressed on, reminding herself that physical appearance was only a distraction.

"Good evening, Commander," she called out to him as she neared the banks of the pond.

He turned, clearly surprised as she grew nearer.

"If I could have a word?" she requested.

Cullen looked back out toward his men, still buzzing through the camp. They were well occupied. He wanted to go back to them. He wanted to tell her no. He was not interested in what she had to say. But curiosity took the better of him. Though, he took a good long while before answering her. The brightly lit moons made the snow glow around them, reflecting light onto her pale skin. He had noticed her freckles after being so close that morning, but never really looked at them on her face. They traced her cheekbones under her eyes. And along the left side, she had a faint tattoo. It also appeared that her hair was cut by her own doing, being much longer on one side than the other. Her nose was quite prominent but her lips were full. As were her cheekbones. And her eyes were shaped like almonds. For a moment, he lingered on how she was quite beautiful. He also noted she was still in her armor, which meant she never went back to her quarters. Which led him to believe she lied in order to end the conversation.

"Of course," he responded plainly.

Claira was quiet for a time, listening to the sound of their feet crunch through the snow. She thought it would be rude not to appreciate the moons and the setting it had laid before her. The stars were always so clear above them. But for that night, they glistened with magic in the sky. If anything were to go wrong, she hoped she could at least remember that moment.

"I want to apologize for my behavior," she finally began. "I feel terrible for the way I've spoken to you."

Cullen wanted to agree with the statement but quickly shut his mouth. He would not ruin the conversation the second it had begun. If she wanted to speak, he wanted to be welcoming.

"It isn't just me you are disagreeing with. I shouldn't take it so personally," she continued.

Claira stopped after realizing they were closer to camp, now. She did not want the others to hear as much of their conversation as they had before. Cullen gestured toward his tent nearby.

"You were rather defensive from the beginning," he pointed out. "I'm not exactly sure where the conversation took its turn."

Claira reflected upon their previous encounter as they approached Cullen's tent. He lifted the flap for himself but did not bother to appeal to the courtesy of welcoming her into his sleeping quarters. She flinched as it fell upon her, but stepped in, regardless. He was reaching across his shoulder to untie his cloak when she spoke.

"To be fair, you were rather demanding."

He stopped for a few seconds to glare in her direction. Looking slowly back over to his shoulder, he wisked his cloak off with one gesture and lay it across his exposed garments. She was correct in guessing he was not one for sitting but also embarrassed for peering into his tent without his presence.

"No, you're right," he said, squinting at a scroll written in small lettering. "Your interrogation should have ended the moment Cassandra began to trust you."

He put the letter down but has hands pressed against the desk for longer than they should have. He closed his eyes, lower his head deep in thought. Guilt and forgiveness were not emotions he was good at portraying.

"I couldn't have expected everyone to set aside their doubts," she assured him. "You were right. They value my decision-making due to the circumstances. I haven't considered this and have taken that thought lightly. It's just... it still feels so odd. The title hasn't settled with me. I do no understand its weight. I only feel like myself. Like a person."

"You humble me, my Lady," Cullen sighed as he straightened up. "I should not have doubted you, to begin with. I apologize."

"No no, please," she insisted, stepping toward the candlelight. "As a leader, I should reflect on my impact on others as well as listening to opposing opinions. When the time comes, I want you to come forward."

"When the time comes?" he questioned her wording.

"I'm truly not certain of what will happen between the templars and mages. The Hinterlands will be a representation of this war. I know where I stand, but there will be a time for all of us to speak. And I hope you will continue to speak your mind."

"Even if we disagree?"

"In most circumstances, I would ask for you to speak if you disagree," she affirmed. "I find an arguing opinion can leave an open-minded compromise. However, it appears with this specific case, we seem to be... stuck. It's a sensitive subject for us all. But that doesn't mean you should change your mind because no one agrees with you. I won't suppress your choice. I do hope, though, that we can move past this disagreement once the decision is made."

Claira knew her truth would put Cullen at ease. But she owed him nothing. Especially if he was going to be difficult to reason with. In return, Cullen felt the very same. At the very least with their conversation ending in agreeing to disagree, they could tend to the matter more delicately without a bitter taste for the other. They knew in the near future, they would clash once again. And hopefully, when that happened, their understanding would have grown.

#cullen rutherford #cullen fic #cullen x trevelyan #cullen x not a mage #cullen rivals to lovers

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shannaraisles · 4 years ago

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Fidèle de la Cœur - Chapter 2

In Regency era Thedas, the second family of a deceased Bann are forced to uproot themselves and build a new life far from the place they called home. Invited to live in Kirkwall by the Viscount - an old friend of their dead father - the two Lavellan sisters discover two very different paths to understanding the merit of a truly constant heart.

A Sense and Sensibility/Dragon Age mash-up, in which Brandon gets the right girl, and no one gets married before they reach the age of twenty.

Last Chapter - OR - Read on AO3

Chapter Two

There was a soft kind of peace that could only be found in working alone in an otherwise empty room, Eralen had found. Her writing desk was piled with small gifts, each wrapped by her own hand, and now her pen scratched across paper, putting elegantly cursive words of thanks and goodbye to letters she had no idea when she would distribute. Still, it had to be done, and though it had been almost a month since the death of their father, both her mother and Lanise remained locked in their performative grief, leaving only Eralen to do what must be done.

The door opened behind her without ceremony, announcing the arrival of Lanise in the family's private parlor.

"What are you doing, Eralen?" the young woman asked bluntly, coming to stand by the desk. She picked up one of the wrapped boxes curiously.

"Gifts for the servants," Eralen told her absently, signing their names at the bottom of the letter and reaching for her blotting paper. She glanced up at her sister. "What is it?"

"Goldanna has demanded the keys to the household," Lanise informed her, each word a venomous flounce. "No doubt she wants to count the silver."

"You could try to be a little less hostile to her, da'len," Eralen said, folding the letter carefully. "I know she will never be our friend, but she is family, of a sort."

"I do not know how you do it," Lanise replied, her tone almost exasperated but for the fondness in her gaze. "Every other word from that loathsome woman's mouth is an insult or insinuation, and you simply sit there and smile at her. Doesn't anything she says upset you at all?"

Eralen let herself smile just a little at her sister's impatience with societal expectations.

"She is not the most pleasant company, I will agree," she said, "but we must live together for some time, until we find a new home that suits us all. I do not feel the need to antagonize her further."

"But, Eralen, you are even giving up your rooms for this odious brother who is arriving today," Lanise declared, outraged on her sister's behalf. "You should have stood your ground and refused, and yet you simply bowed aside without argument! Have you no pride at all?"

"You know perfectly well that I have pride enough for us all," Eralen said, still focusing on sealing her letter with melted wax. "Has it not occurred to you to be more civil to her? It infuriates her when I do not argue or fight back; she is looking for reasons to cut us off entirely, and I refuse to give her any."

She could feel Lanise staring at her, inwardly pleased with herself for startling her sister with such a petty motivation for calm good manners. They were like the autumn and spring - autumnal Lanise, with her wild winds of passion and occasional violent bouts of emotion, and Eralen, with her quietly growing warmth and slow blossoming of feeling. It was good to know that even the autumn could be surprised by the sudden strength of the spring.

"My goodness, Eralen, you are quite the dark horse," the younger Lavellan said, suddenly sounding much happier with the circumstances of the day. "What can I do to help?"

Eralen could not help a laugh escaping her lips as she finally leaned back in her seat to meet her sister's mischievous gaze.

"Weaponize politeness, da'len," she suggested. "And help me keep Goldanna and Mamae from being alone together. Mamae is liable to attack her with a darning needle if she speaks her mind once too often."

"And you would trust me to prevent that?" Lanise laughed as she spoke, knowing her own temperament well enough.

"I would hope that you could control yourself long enough to avert bloodshed, da'len," Eralen said. "Father may have been the Inquisitor, but we are not soldiers."

"Oh, how I long to be as free as he was during the war," her younger sister yearned. "Not to be so tight-laced as we must be to endure the expectations of society."

"When have you ever bowed to the expectations of society?" Eralen asked her in amusement, rising from her seat to gather her shawl from the back of the chair. "You take delight in passing the bounds of expected behavior."

"And you stay within those lines, resigned to a life lived without passion or desire," Lanise shot back.

Eralen's smile faded at her sister's words, understanding her point of view but stung by it, nonetheless.

"We each do as we must," she said softly, glancing toward the door as a gentle hand knocked. "Come in."

One of the servants, a robust human lad of around twelve, opened the door and nodded to them respectfully.

"Begging your pardon, miss, but Lady Trevelyan wants you both in the blue drawing room," he said, passing on his message in no doubt calmer tones than Goldanna had issued it. "Mr. Theirin has arrived."

"And she wishes to show us off as poor relations, I expect," Lanise sighed.

Eralen gave her sister one censuring look before smiling at the servant.

"Thank you, Tomas, we will be there shortly," she assured him, waiting until the door closed before turning to Lanise once again. "I know you are not happy with the state of affairs, Lanise, but please, for Mamae's sake if not for mine, be civil to Mr. Theirin. He is not his sister."

"He is likely worse than she," Lanise said, determined to dislike a man she had never even heard of before a month ago. She caught sight of Eralen's worried gaze. "Do not worry so, Eralen. You will find I can be quite charming when I set my mind to it."

"Of that, I am very aware." Eralen let her smile show again, sliding her arm into Lanise's as they moved to the door. "I love you with all my heart, da'len, but I do know you as well. Please don't go out of your way to break his heart."

"His heart?" Lanise's laughter preceded them into the hallway. "My darling Eralen, he is thirty years old! Were he to show such an interest in me, I would die of mortification. To think of being courted by such an old man ... it is too dreadful to contemplate!"

"Thirty is not old, Lanise," her sister admonished her, lowering her voice for fear of being overheard. "I think you have been reading too many romances again. Love is not a transaction many people are afforded in life."

"Yet it is the only reason I can see for marriage of any kind," the younger insisted. "I will not bend to society and wed for anything less than a love that matches my own heart."

"You are not the only woman in the world who hopes for love in marriage, da'len," Eralen said softly, squeezing her arm as they walked. "Do not assume passivity on the part of those who wish to find it in the course of their duty."

"Oh, I did not mean to say that you will not be happy in whatever marriage you choose," her sister hurried to assure her, but Eralen was shaking her head, her expression warning against continuing this conversation as they reached the door to the blue drawing room.

They entered quietly together, each nodding to Goldanna politely before taking a seat on the couch. Eralen opened the sewing basket set beside the seat, handing Lanise her embroidery hoop before taking up her own mending, unwilling to simply sit in silence and wait while Goldanna sniffed and judged them over the edge of her teacup. A short while later, their mother also entered, giving the lady of the house a chilly, thin-lipped smile in greeting before taking up a seat and sewing of her own on the opposite side of the room. It was not a comfortable silence, but thankfully, it was also not a long silence, as not more than a few minutes later, Orana entered, curtsying to the tense group of women.

"Mr. Alistair Theirin, ma'am."

The man who entered was tall and handsome, tawny haired, and looked exceedingly uncomfortable in his stiff collar and cravat. He also looked more than a little intimidated by the rising of the four women who awaited him, seemingly offering his expected bow more as an after-thought than anything, prompted only by the sight of four ladies curtsying to him in greeting. Eralen could not imagine how awkward he must be feeling - even if he were a carbon copy of his sister, this was not a comfortable situation to be walking into.

"Alistair, how wonderful to see you," Goldanna said, her voice almost cloying with the syrupy sweet tone she assumed for her brother. "Mrs. Lavellan, Miss Lavellan, Miss Lanise, may I present my brother, Mr. Theirin?"

"A pleasure, Mr. Theirin," Ellana said politely. "You are most welcome to Ostwick."

"My thanks, Mrs. Lavellan," he replied, his voice warm and easy despite his rather stiff presentation.

It was such a promising start. If only her mother had remembered that she was not the lady of the house any longer; but alas, both she and Goldanna invited Alistair to take a seat, resulting in icy glares shot across the room at one another. Eralen glanced worriedly at Lanise, hoping for some assistance in this awkward moment, only for her younger sister to poke at the growing glacier sharply.

"How do you like your view, Mr. Theirin?" the younger Lavellan asked, wielding the words like a blade.

Alistair paused, blinking in surprise.

"Very much, thank you," he said in answer. "Your stables are beautifully kept, Mrs. Lavellan."

The surprise that rippled through the room was unmistakable, the women exchanging fresh glances trimmed with both pleasure and consternation. Goldanna, in particular, was disturbed by his comment.

"Stables?" she echoed. "Alistair, your rooms overlook the gardens."

"Actually, I discovered I had been mistakenly directed to one of the family rooms, Goldanna," Alistair told his sister kindly. "I have corrected the oversight, and am very pleasantly set up in one of the guest rooms."

Despite herself, Eralen felt a smile make itself known on her face, charmed by the simple good manners and skills of observation that had led this man to keep himself from taking her away from the rooms she had lived in since she was a child. Her hopes were raised for liking him in that instant and, given the smiles on both her mother and Lanise's face, they, too, were inclined to like him in spite of his relations. Perhaps this visit would not be so very awful, after all.

#fdlc #dragon age fanfiction #regency au #sense & sensibility crossover #eralen lavellan #lanise lavellan #ellana lavellan #goldanna trevelyan #alistair theirin #sisters being sisters #meeting mr theirin

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morrisficz · 4 years ago

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An ancient KINK MEME REQUEST:

(Tags/warnings: Rated EXPLICIT: Omorashi, cullen/human inquiz, light femdom, dragon age)

UNEDITED AND SIX YEARS OLD, BABY

-------

“Hey, there! Keep those arms up, recruit! You can’t forget about your guard like that in the field!”

Culled sighed internally as the young woman in question hastily readjusted her shield and continued sparring. Although, considering the lack of ability her eager but somewhat soft noble-born partner had with any blade besides a fencing foil, she hadn’t been particularly likely to have been hit anyhow.

Cullen turned his eyes to the setting sun. It had been a long and frankly awful day. He’d been up most of the night with a migraine, which still hadn’t faded by the morning, and he was so tired that he had been running much slower than usual all day. An early meeting with some visiting dignitaries had not only gone poorly, but also had ran late. He’d barely had time to grab some bread and cheese for lunch. He was reminded that he hadn’t been to relieve himself since earlier that morning during the course of the training exercises he was supervising that evening by the increasing pressure in his bladder, and the need had now become rather pressing. But in a few minutes they would wrap up for the day, and Cullen looked forward anxiously to finally being able to take a piss and then at least try to get some rest without being plagued with nightmares or headaches.

“Commander, a word?” suddenly came a familiar voice beside him.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan, you’re back.” He turned to her, pleased. He hadn’t heard of her return yet that day, probably because he’d been so busy. “How was the trip to Val Royeux?”

“I’ll be frank commander. The situation with Josephine is more serious than I thought. In fact, I just had to dispatch an assassin who was set on her life. Are you able to abandon your trainees for a bit? I wish to discuss this matter of the Montilyet family situation at the war table as soon as possible.”

“Of course. I was almost done anyhow”. Cullen found himself replying immediately, despite his previous desperate wish to turn in for the day. The inquisitor was a stern but kind woman, several years older than him and with an ability to inspire absolute confidence in others, and whenever she was around he caught himself acting differently and doing odd things to impress her. He told himself that it was because she was such a powerful and accomplished warrior, and that he looked up to her for it. Nothing more.

Which now put him in a bit of a predicament. He still clearly remembered the day a few weeks back when he had broken down in doubt about quitting lyrium, and the way she had all but commanded him to continue on the path he’d started. She had been so certain that he could do it that it had made him desperately want to show her that that belief was well-placed. And yet, only last week, Both Ladies Trevelyan and Cassandra had had to give him a duel stern talking-to about taking care of himself, after he’d half-fainted onto the war table during a meeting after forgetting to eat all day.

So it would be infinitely better if he didn’t let her know that he had neglected to attend yet another of his basic needs. He felt embarrassment flutter in his chest at the mere thought of asking her to delay her (vital, important) work so he could take a bathroom break, as if he were a young boy to be waited on. He was better than that. He was a man. She expected him to be either dealing with withdrawal himself or asking her for support, and he had to show her that he was handling himself just fine alone.

As he moved to follow her, however, his armor shifted a bit against his belly, and an unexpected pang of need shot through him. He had to pause for a second, muscles tense, before he could follow. For a second the idea of asking her to wait a moment on him seemed much more plausible, but he steeled himself. He couldn’t show Lady Trevelyan this weakness now. As long as the meeting didn’t take too long, he would be fine, he thought to himself. The tasks at hand, arranging to have Josephine guarded while in the meantime taking the first step towards reinstating her family’s title should be simple enough. 20 minutes, perhaps, at the most. He would be just fine.

Nearly an hour and a half later, Leliana smacked a fist on the table.

“It isn’t worth the risk on your life, Josephine! I have agents that can remove the document far faster than the process of reinstatement could ever be!” “But is it worth the life of another? I will not have anyone be sent on such a dangerous task for my sake when I can handle it peacefully. I’m certain I can manage this, I just need time!”

“But we do not have the time!”

What had begun as a discussion on how to protect Josephine had devolved into a fierce argument over who should be put in the most danger to fix the problem, almost immediately after Leliana had brought up her more ‘direct’ method to end the assassination attempts. The two women had fast become locked in an impasse, neither wanting to accept the other’s proposed risky plans.

Cullen, meanwhile, felt like he was about to die. He had long lost the battle to stand still, had lost the fight to stay active in the discussion even earlier, and he only hoped his silence and now near-constant shifting went unnoticed in the fighting. His bladder was a tight, desperate knot in his belly, and had been for far too long. He could just feel it pressing plaintively against his waistband, absolutely refusing to be ignored any longer, but the other two appeared nowhere close to an agreement. Even worse, no position he could stand in now seemed to offer any relief. His earlier determination had all but evaporated. Cullen mentally cursed his bad judgment, growing more and more frightened that he wouldn’t be able to hold it for the rest of this meeting by the second.

But even as the minutes had dragged torturously long and his need had grown worse, Cullen had felt less and less inclined to say anything. And the fact that now he was seriously doubting his ability to so much as leave the room with dry clothing only made the prospect more terrifying. The very idea of the inquisitor knowing that her commander was trembling in his boots and useless in their negotiations from how badly he needed a piss, because he couldn’t even manage to take care of that by himself, was too humiliating to consider.

But maker, he needed a piss. As discretely as he could, Cullen crossed one foot over the other and leaned on the edge of the table, pressing his thighs together. He realized it was probably a ridiculously poor attempt at looking natural, but at this point carrying himself in any sort of normal way was a non-option. Just a while longer, he told himself shakily as he listened to Leliana and Josephine argue, a few more minutes, but he knew it wasn’t true. Maker, at the rate they were going on they might take another hour, and he had no idea of exactly how long. He hadn’t been since that morning. He hadn’t been all day. And he was now nearing on what? Ten hours without relief? Eleven? He couldn’t even think clearly enough to remember in his current state.

Cullen suppressed a sound of distress at a sudden stab of desperation, and shifted to press his legs together better. He desperately wished to hold himself, or bounce up and down frantically. Anything to control himself another moment. But he had to focus on maintaining his dignity, or the very least on not making a complete fool of himself.

“Expecting the protection of Skyhold to be enough is folly! Don’t you agree, Cullen?!” Leliana slammed her hand on the table again, startling Cullen out of his feverish thoughts. He jumped, and his heart stopped for a second as he briefly lost control and felt a hot trickle of piss wet his smalls.

“Yes, ah, rather dangerous. Wouldn’t trust that.” Cullen heard himself stammer as if from far away, stomach muscles fairly trembling and face scarlet as he fought to control himself. He had no idea what he’d just agreed with. His mind was buzzing with faint panic. He couldn’t do it. That first leak was the beginning of his control breaking, he was sure. He just couldn’t wait any longer than a minute or two now, he couldn’t delude himself otherwise. But there was no escape from this blasted meeting!

He could feel the gaze of the inquisitor boring into him now. Of course she’d noticed him acting so absurdly. Cullen’s face was on fire with mingled shame and exertion. He was sure he was beet-red. He had to get out of this room immediately, but he couldn’t just leave, not now. He was out of options, and, hopelessly, sent a tiny prayer to the maker for salvation.

That salvation would apparently arrive in the form of the inquisitor herself. After giving him one last suspicious look, she spoke, and Cullen’s heart sang at her words.

“Alright, all of you, that’s enough. It was a mistake to try and decide this matter immediately after the event. We’re all tired. No satisfactory conclusion will be reached tonight. I’ll call for you again tomorrow, but in the meantime, go get some rest. And consider that part an order.”

Cullen brief joy was shattered by her next request, however.

“And Cullen, may I have a word with you in private after?”

“Of course.” he stammered, helpless to refuse her, and could only watch in agony as the other two advisors gathered their things and left.

When they’d gone, Trevelyan turned to him, face grave. “You’ve been acting strangely all during this meeting, Commander. And you don’t look well. Is something troubling you?”

“No, no, nothing at all. I’d let you know if the anything was bothering me. It’s fine.” He said quickly, his voice incredibly unconvincing even to his own ears. What could he say to get her to leave him? “I’m just…. tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.” That was true, at least, if not his current problem. He could only pray it was enough.

The inquisitor sighed a bit, but relented. “Of course. I’m sorry, commander. You’ve clearly had a long day, and now I’ve kept you even longer. I’ll let you retire to your quarters. However, perhaps I could join you, and we could play a round or two of chess, if you aren’t totally buried under paperwork?”

She thought his withdrawal was bothering him. She was concerned. But the truth was that he was just a fool who couldn’t even take care of himself, after all. Maker damn him and his stupidity. There was a gentleness in Trevelyan’s voice that he did not often hear, and she was trying so hard to help him. Calling off the meeting, offering her time to go back to a place where he could relax and play a game he enjoyed, where she clearly intended him to feel he was able to discuss whatever she thought was bothering him. And blast it all, he really, really wanted to. There was nothing he wanted more than to spend a quiet night with this miraculous woman. But it was absolutely vital at this point that she instead leave immediately before he humiliated himself and lost all respect she held for him by pissing himself like a boy in front of her, something that was growing more certain by the second.

Say something, damn you!, Cullen thought viciously as the seconds ticked by, but he couldn’t make his mind cooperate. He twisted his feet together more tightly, leaning hard on the war table with both hands curled into fists on its surface as he tried to form a coherent response. He looked ridiculous, he was certain, but he was afraid that if he moved he would lose control completely.

“I can’t.” He ground out finally, his voice small and ashamed even to his own ears.

“You… can’t play chess? Well, that can wait for another night, certainly, but I do expect you to tell me what is so obviously ailing-”

“I can’t move.” Cullen said abruptly. He really couldn’t. If he tried to stand straight he was sure he’d lose control, and soon he felt it wouldn’t matter much either way. Panic bloomed in his stomach at the impossibility of the situation. There was no way to hide it anymore. He was long past his limit.

“Commander?”

Her voice was so concerned, and Cullen was suddenly overwhelmed with shame. He was exhausted and in pain, and he could feel his control slipping. Another dribble leaked out of his desperate cock, despite his best efforts, and he finally gave in and doubled over to press his hands between his legs, eyes welling up with panicked tears.

“Cullen?” She repeated, clearly alarmed. The use of his proper name shocked him out of it a bit.

“I- I need to piss!” he gasped finally, face burning with shame. “I need to so badly, I have all day, and I... I can’t move, or- or I’ll”…he trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Oh.” Trevelyan said, and paused, taken aback. “Why didn’t you just say so?” she asked, at once relieved and chastising.

“I didn’t want to seem as though I couldn’t handle myself.” He said. He gripped himself tighter, squirming half against his will to try and contain the flood within him a few moments longer, painfully aware of the absurd juxtaposition of his words and actions.

“Oh, Cullen.” she said. “That’s not what I expect of you at all. I don’t want you be some sort of automaton with no needs. You shouldn’t be trying to push harder, but instead taking more care with yourself.” She admonished him gently.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want you to know that I hadn’t been.” Cullen gasped. The words sounded ridiculous when he said them out loud, and the tears in his eyes started to spill over against his will. He was a fool. Absolutely pathetic.

“Hey now, don’t cry.” she said, alarmed, and strode over to him. “It’s alright. This just means that you’ll have to accept my help right now then.” She came up behind him and gently turned him away from the table, and before he knew what was happening, cool capable hands were guiding his own out from between his legs.

“Don’t, please! I can’t!” he gasped, but she ignored both his protests and the desperate little spurts leaking out of his cock frequently now that he didn’t have a grip on it, and set about undoing his clothing. She untied his armor and unlaced his trousers calmly, a task that would have been impossible for his shaking hands. Finally, to his utter shock and embarrassment, she pulled his twitching, leaking member out of his drawers like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Alright. Let go. It’s much easier to clean a floor than all that armor.” she said calmly, as if she weren’t asking him to piss on the ground like a helpless imbicile, while she held him no less. Cullen shook his head and tried to whimper a refusal, although he was dripping steadily at this point, and this was clearly about to happen whether he wished it or not. He just couldn’t let go. The shame was too great for him to loosen the knot in his belly voluntarily.

“Come on then, I don’t mind. You’re going to hurt yourself.” she said, and slipped her other hand under his shirt to find the obscene bulge of his bladder. He did whimper then, even at the light touch. “My god, man. You’re set to burst. Just relax.” She chastised him, but Cullen could only shake his head, hands curled into trembling fists at his sides as he fought with himself, everything shrunk to the two points of contact where her hands were and the swollen, painful bladder that he couldn’t bring himself to release.

After a few moments, Trevelyan sighed again, almost fondly. Then, suddenly, the hand on his stomach was pressing down, cool fingers massaging the desperate lump in his belly, and Cullen could barely gasp in shock before he was pissing helplessly all over the floor.

For a second the release was so sharp it actually hurt, but after a second or two the pleasure of relief overcame him, and he collapsed against the inquisitor’s strong frame, panting. Her arms were steady and secure, and he let his head fall against her shoulder even as his eyes closed in shame. The hiss of his emptying bladder seemed deafeningly loud, and seemed to go on forever, but the release was absolutely ecstatic, and he couldn’t hold back a small groan of pleasure of finally letting go. Finally, the stream tapered off into a trickle. The inquisitor rubbed his belly gently until it had completely ended. Then he distantly felt her tucking him back into his trousers and retying his armor, his head drifting around someplace above him.

When she was done, she slapped him gently on the hip. “There. Better?”

“Yes ma’am”, he mumbled, blushing. Now that he wasn’t out of his head with desperation, he felt even more embarrassed, but his terror had faded once it became clear that the inquisitor wasn’t upset or disgusted. That, or his limbs and head still felt too much like warm jelly from his long-awaited release to let him become properly panicked yet.

“Well then, I’ll find a mop while you find your breath, and then perhaps you’ll feel up to that game of chess?” Trevelyan said briskly, stepping away.

Cullen leant heavily on the table, unable to bring himself to look at her as she cleaned up. The shame only increased as he came back to himself. He felt he should do something, but he couldn’t seem to get either his legs or mouth to cooperate with him.

“I. I’m sorry.” He began finally, unsure of what to even say. Her nonchalance was baffling. “That… shouldn’t have happened.”

“I agree. Although it shouldn’t have happened because you felt comfortable enough to ask for help, not because you have a magical ability to push your body past its limits.”

“You... honestly aren’t disgusted?” He asked, unable to believe her acceptance. “You… you don’t think… less of me?”

“Like I said. No one here expects you to be more than human, Cullen.” She smiled wryly as she finished up. “I expect many things from my commander, but an infinite capacity for liquids is certainly not one of them.”

Cullen blushed again. “I’m sorry”, he repeated. “I’ll not ignore my needs like that any longer, I swear.”

“And you won’t hesitate to tell me of anything like this, no matter how trivial it may seem?”

“Yes, ma’am. And, er, yes, also. To the chess, I mean.” Cullen blushed furiously. He beginning to worry that his face would become permanently red at this rate.

“That’s a good man.” she smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be victorious this round.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” he said, managing a faint smile. “I’ve beaten you the last three.”

“We’ll just have to see.” She replied.

“Thank you.” He added awkwardly, feeling it needed to be said. “For helping me. And not being upset.”

“I don’t know how often I need tell you it doesn’t bother me. I’ve seen men go through much worse things in my day. And if you really need know, I think you’re handling this very well.”

She continued as she walked to the door, back to him.

“Besides, you made some awfully cute noises when you reached release, just then.”

Cullen flushed scarlet and stuttered helplessly for a few seconds at that, frozen in place and unable to reply. He finally hurried through the door she was holding open for him, unable to meet her eyes, and mumbled, “Well, I can assure you that those aren’t exactly the same….”

Trevelyan only laughed, and ushered him out of the room.

She stayed close beside him as they walked back to his quarters, a steadfast presence at his side letting him know that she was there. For the first time that day, Cullen felt light as air.

#my writing #kink warning lmao #omorashi

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pathofcomet · 4 years ago

Text

bride of ice (5)

{dragon age: inquisition | g. | female trevelyan/iron bull | 5.9k}

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533642/chapters/61596748

They drink that night, after returning to Haven and getting the Chargers settled. That’s the first rule of negotiations: to break bread at the same table as your new ally, promise made but not entirely true until that moment when the first cup of wine sits on one’s lips, first sip taken, trusting it not to be poisoned. Of course, those are nobles’ fears and superstitions. She has no doubt that given the right reasons, the Iron Bull would simply strike her down: easier to deal with someone, if not necessarily cleaner.

But while she comes up with such scenarios, the Qunari seems entirely at ease, downing cup after cup of ale, laughing next to Krem, turning a bit to the side to glance at her from time to time. She tries to keep her expression levelled, not let the redness at the tip of her ears and across her cheeks to be read as anything but tipsiness. Just because she desperately wants to trust him, doesn’t mean she does so, not quite yet. For as much as she appreciates having him on their side, for now, she fears the time when they might stare at each other across a battlefield. And she knows she has seen only a shadow of what he is capable of: both as a warrior, and a spy, incredibly sharp and smart.

Trevelyan looks around the tables moved together into a corner, to fit all her people, and wonders how on earth did they manage to bring together such a capable, colourful band of experts: Sera shares a joke with Varric, as Cassandra frowns in her ale, suspicious enough to at least imagine that she’s the reason for their laughter. Vivienne looks like she doesn’t belong in here, with her delicate garments, and yet the banter she gets into with Iron Bull feels natural from the first second. Cullen is explaining something to Solas, looking dreadfully serious, all while Krem is caught in an animated conversation with Josephine and a few other Chargers.

Something in her chest booms with pride, that she somehow helped in creating this moment in time, this space for all of them. No one talks to her outright, lost in alcohol, but not forgetting her sainthood, and only the barmaid throws her a wink each time she refills her cup. From the other end of the room, Iron Bull catches her eyes again, and warmed by the fire burning in the fireplace and the drinks, her expression slips for a second, before getting up and retreating for the night. It was a weakness that didn’t feel like one, right then.

Iron Bull accepts the refill, grins at Cassandra just to piss her off, thinks how no one even noticed the Herald’s absence, or said their goodbyes to her as she left. No one questions or challenges her, no one looks after her – even as she’s the one that has to do the same thing for everyone else here. He tries to guess at her age: younger than him, almost too young to be made the symbol that stands between humanity and the end of the world. Yet, ever since they met, he has seen nothing holy in her, only in the gazes of her people.

Sainthood achieved by devotion. Obsession and prayers given as offerings to a reluctant goddess. Martyrdom expected and awaited from nothing but a lost girl. To not allow herself get swept up in all this commotion created by the breach and her Mark, she must either lack serious self-confidence or know herself too well.

Bull downs his drink in one go, shouts for another. The barmaid smiles prettily at him as she passes by.

The cheerful chats go on for much longer in the night, and Trevelyan lays awake in her bed, lulled by the faint sounds of it, but her mind reeling, considering the requests they’ve gone through during the afternoon’s council, thinking of how they can get supplies for the new wave of refugees that are on the way. She thinks they deserve a late start to the day in the morning, feels guilty because it might be a luxury that they cannot afford.

***

Despite falling asleep late, she’s up early, with a stiff neck from a bad night, and she swears when she gets out of her blanket only to be welcomed by the typical freezing cold of Haven. If she were back at home, today she would have gotten ready alongside her mother, being a holiday, and maybe that’s why she ends at the Chantry. Habits are hard to lose, especially ones that your entire family is built upon.

But she doesn’t pray, doesn’t want to anymore, even as the words sit at the tip of her tongue, even as her fingers itch to go and light a candle.

She will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

However, in the middle of a battle, when you’re gasping for air, when you’re sure you’ll be dealt a final blow, or when your vision goes out just as the world turns louder and louder around you – she knows one is actually very afraid, knows one is not praying for light and a place by the Maker’s side, but for more life, for another chance, for more time. One sees their entire life flash before their eyes, and in that second, they want to grasp it all, multiply it tenfold, hold on to it, lay it at the feet of the Maker and say: see, I deserve more. Dying is as desperate and as ugly as it can get, and there’s no god that can make it less of that, even as those left behind pray for it.

No matter how much she prays, no matter how hard she believes, the dead cannot be brought back to life, or, anyway, not in any way that it matters, not in any way that doesn’t involve blood magic or demons or a blight. So then, what’s the point?

She thinks of her brother, and then she’s angry all over again at a supposed Maker that allowed his death to happen, that let so many go like that. She thinks of his belief, of how badly he wanted to do good as a Templar, or how he was the person who taught her her first prayer, and he only had to die to undo all that good she made her believe in. She hates being called the Herald, because there’s nothing more she’d like to do than throw away her religion and her Mark, even as she knows it’s pointless to wish to change the past.

When will she make peace with the fact that the world if unfair, and it hasn’t been this vicious to her just because she’s been a noble until now? When will she accept that her rage is just exhausting, and nothing more?

“Herald,” Vivienne greets from her side, and she startles like a thief caught in the middle of a robbery. “If you’re praying, I can- “

“No.”

Her answer is too immediate, too sharp, and she turns her back to the statue of Andraste, smiles at the mage. Vivienne is as gorgeous as always, and if the night before was in any way more hectic than her parties, she’s not showing it. She looks at the Mark, reaches out with her magic to test it, and it tickles at the tip of her fingertips, makes it hum and glow – a sight fascinating no matter how many times she sees it. For a mediocre fighter to now possess a magical power stronger than a First Enchanter, with no magic manifested ever before, is a miracle in and of itself, though Trevelyan is not willing to attribute it to anything but pure dumb luck.

“Tell me: why were you at the Divine Conclave?”

It’s a question dressed in prettier words, Vivienne’s experience with nobility showing, because Trevelyan knows that what she means is: why you? There were the obvious political interests, and her mother’s choice that designed her at the ambassador of their house’s position. She has a brother on one side of the war, and she feared losing him even as she didn’t know it will hurt this badly to not have him anymore. She has heard the cries in Ostwick, from family of both mages and Templars alike, ever since the Chantry blew up in Kirkwall. She has barely missed being caught in too many fights on the streets, she heard the rumours that their guards were hiding apostates in their homes, that nobles welcomed back their children in their ranks, now that Circles fell around Thedas.

So she was there as a Trevelyan, just a representative of a name. But she knew what her brother was fighting for, behind the closed doors of negotiations, what Divine Justinia was hoping to achieve with the gathering in the first place.

“The war benefits no one. It must end.”

She thinks of their camps in the Hinterlands, now a mixture of those torn apart by war, villagers equally parts traumatized by lirium crazed fighting and spells blowing up everything to pieces. She thinks of all the bodies that they’ve found, burnt beyond recognition, houses abandoned, livelihoods forgotten behind just for a chance at life. She thinks of everyone who stepped in her path, crying and begging for a piece of their past, for a piece of their loved ones.

She doesn’t want to see something like it ever again.

“Mages, Templars, innocent people of all kinds now look to the Inquisition to decide their fate. Failure is a luxury that we cannot afford, my dear.”

Vivienne sounds calm, so she also tries to remain so, though her breathe is hitching in her throat and she’s starting to get dizzy. She doesn’t want someone to word out exactly what she’s fearing, like she doesn’t comprehend the gravity of the situation, like she needs guidance towards realization. She hates that Vivienne might have read her all right from the damn fucking start, and she breathes, slower, forcing herself to calm down because she doesn’t want to throw up all over Vivienne’s expensive heeled shoes, or her new boots that she looted off someone’s body in the Hinterlands.

“For almost a thousand years, the world believed ir was in the hands of the Maker. Now many believe you are the agent of His will. Whatever the truth, that belief gives you power.”

What a bunch of bullshit, she wants to say, but she knows she’s been allowed entry to Val Royeaux because of that belief, she knows she has an army, no matter how badly fed, because of that belief, she is part of the Inquisition at all because of that belief. And in those open doors, in those raised swords, in the allies she found – there’s her power.

She doesn’t want to use it, too scared, but she already did, just by surviving, and she’s now a piece in a chess game she doesn’t know against who they’re playing.

Vivienne is already not paying attention to her, returning to her desk, writing letters, inspecting the reports she’s received from Josephine. So her warning is more murmured, more an omen than an outright warning, though she knows it’ll hit where it matters anyway.

“If no one leads the way, many will be left in darkness.”

And the Herald knows, that as much rage as she is feeling, there is someone out there with more damage done to their families, with more responsibilities on their shoulders, with more grief in their hearts, failed by the world in ways that maybe she cannot even begin to comprehend. And she knows, that if her rage is true, then she has to fight to make sure that as many people as possible are protected from such pain. She hates that Vivienne read her all right from the damn fucking start. She hates that she knew exactly where to shove her, and in which direction – and if Trevelyan makes the Inquisition, then the Inquisition makes her just as much.

***

As she goes around Haven, writing down lists of needed supplies, marking on a map all the places that they need to scout, or where rumours are pointing at, talking with officers and soldiers, upgrading a piece of armour, training with Cullen and discussing best offers for various noble houses with Josephine, she starts noticing The Iron Bull. It’s impossible not to, as he easily towers above everyone else in the Inquisition’s ranks, and almost everyone naturally gets out of his way. When she marks Dane’s stables on her map and question one of the young helpers about the man, the Iron Bull borrows a sharpening stone for his axe from grumpy Harrit, one of the only persons that doesn’t seem at all phased by the presence of a Qunari in their camp. When she leaves a Council meeting in a late evening, Krem is dragging Bull in the tavern, looking outright comic with his arm around the Qunari’s shoulders, their laughter booming in the air.

Then, tentatively, because Bull has done her the favour of directly telling her about his status as a spy, she decides to just talk to him directly as well. Eyes to eye. First comes a morning training, as she goes through the moves with more recent recruits, that still are not familiar with her fighting style, whose moves she cannot guess just because they’ve been trained by Cullen, in a style too similar to her brother’s.

On the other side of the training ground, Cullen and Bull shout their orders to each of their troops, guiding their moves, correcting wrong stances, pushing those showing potential. Sometimes, the missed hits turn into reason for teasing from the others, or a joke is shouted instead of a scream as a soldier lunges for their opponent, and although everyone trains with all their might, there’s an air of comradery between them that makes it not seem much of a chore.

She stops first, head politely nodding at her partner, her skin still sweaty, adrenaline still making her head reel. She starts making her way across the yard, stopping by Bull’s side, waiting patiently for him to finish the drills, ask his lieutenant to take over. She’s staring at all these soldiers making up the Inquisition’s ranks when he turns towards her.

“They’ve got good form. Cullen’s putting his Templar training to good use.”

She crosses her arms, moves her weight so she’s just a tiny bit closer to him.

“Did Cullen tell you he was a Templar? He’s not wearing the armour.”

“He didn’t have to. Might not be a Templar shield, but it’s a Templar holding it. He angles the shield just a bit down. Helps direct fire or acid away, so it doesn’t spray right into your face. Qunari learn the same thing when we train to fight Tevinter mages. Your Templar’s doing good work.”

So that’s what his Ben-Hassrath training is capable of. She noticed the same thing, but it was the familiarity of it that made her notice it at all, and she’s impressed by how sharp he was to catch all those details, and piece together that much of the past behind them, and be so correct. Still, he’s true to his word, and he’s not only telling her his obvious conclusion, but also the thinking process that brought him to it – and she nods her head, looks again at the troops and sees something more this time around.

“I’m impressed by what Cullen has accomplished with the troops.”

Most of the people joined the Inquisition after the explosion at the Conclave, now refugees with a want to do something about this new problem that they’re all facing. Most of the older soldiers died when they closed up the Breach. Yet those standing in front of them are objectively good, and it is all thanks to their commander. It takes time to build a group into a team, but these men gave their loyalty to Cullen, and that’s one important detail when getting ready to fight a religious war.

“Biggest problem for the Inquisition right now isn’t on the front line. It’s at the top. You’ve got no leader. No Inquisitor.”

She turns to stare at him, try and see if he is joking, but Bull looks dead serious, his eye searching her face, memorizing every change in expression – and she knows he’s doing it, and yet she cannot stop herself from looking as incredulous as she feels.

“Cassandra’s been the driving force of this Inquisition. She’s the leader in all but name.”

“Cassandra’s a Seeker. From what I gather, that’s a bit like a Ben-Hassrath.”

The hand – that gives, that takes, that beckons, that strikes. She has hand-picked each person in their ranks, has used the authority of her title and past to create this organization. No one would be here without her, so isn’t that the obvious choice? No matter how terrible their beginning together, no one can deny the fact that the Seeker is an incredibly capable woman.

So then, why not? She frowns up at the Iron Bull, and with him, she doesn’t even have to actually ask the question outright.

“She’s a good hunter and a great fighter, but she doesn’t see the big picture. Too busy searching for answers.”

And Cassandra has searched for answers all her life: about her family’s demise, about the path of a Pentaghast, about her faith, about the heroes of Thedas, about the rightfulness of her actions, about the divinity of her Herald.

“My people don’t pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions… and live with the consequences.”

She doesn’t know enough about all of these people to figure out who would best suit his definition of a leader, barely having started to know them better, to fit in-between their orders and their skills. But as she thinks it over, she thinks it does make sense – especially as in these desperate times of need, so many people need others to make the hard decisions for them. No one wants to be the one having to bear the guilt of a choice, though everyone envies the laurels of praise that might come in good outcomes. But the balance is so delicately held together, and it so many times more tips towards destruction instead of success. The people just want someone to glorify, or someone to crucify. The Inquisition needs someone willing to wear both the glory and the condemnation.

It explains, however, how come he sits at the head of the Chargers. It explains, however, why he’s so proudly wearing his scars and his missing eye and why his people talk so highly of him.

As the silence lingers between the two of them, Bull breaks it.

“Ah, who knows. Maybe you seal the breach, the Chantry gets off its ass, and all those soldiers go home and get fat.”

She bursts out laughing, the 180 degrees switch in her thoughts and in the conversation making absolutely no sense, but pleased at the attempt to lighten up the situation anyway.

“You think?”

“It could happen. It won’t, but it could.”

She’s still laughing, a smile on her face, as she waves him goodbye, a messenger sent to get her for another meeting.

***

Then it’s when Leliana asks her to her tent, after Harding’s recent arrival to let them know of some scouting reports – but the surprising thing is that when she’s done, Harding is still around, sitting by the fire with a few of the soldiers, and Cremisius is next to her. When she’s warm enough, and fed well enough, she’s back on her scout duties, and the Herald takes the moment to occupy what was Harding’s seat just a few minutes ago, trying to smile at Bull’s man. He’s silently passing her a cup of tea, that she’s sincerely grateful for – no matter how much time she spends in the snow, she’ll never get used to the way her fingers go numb if she’s not wearing her gloves, probably forgotten in some meeting room.

She likes him because everything is straight-forward with him. He’s just a really good fighter that is part of a mercenary band that he cares about like no other, and it’s a loyalty and devotion that is obvious even from the way he speaks about them, the tone of his voice turning just a bit softer when he says the name of the people he entrusted his life with, over and over again.

So Trevelyan just goes for it: “I’d like to know more about The Iron Bull.”

“The Chief. First time I met him, he saved my life.”

Well, that’s one unexpected way of describing the Qunari leader of a mercenary group.

“That’s a story definitely worth hearing,” she pushes, sipping from her tea – and Cremisium maybe had figured out that she’s asking out of sincere curiosity, or he is just eager to tell the stories of their adventure together. One doesn’t simply become the most trusted man of a Qunari spy, and it’s not a title that many people can boast.

“I wasn’t a soldier at the time. I was in some trouble and trying to flee Tevinter. A Tribune and his men caught me in a border town tavern. They meant to make an example of me. Bull killed them. Gave up his eye doing it. He patched me up and asked if I was looking for work. I’ve been putting up with his jokes ever since.”

That last sentence grabs a smile out of the Herald, and Krem sits back more comfortably in his seat, pleased.

“That’s how he lost his eye?”

The eye patch is certainly the most unnerving and mysterious thing about Iron Bull. She heard the servants whisper in the tavern about it, and there are as many rumours about the story behind it as there are gossiping mouths in Haven. It probably doesn’t help that he’s a Qunari as well, and he automatically grasps the attention of everyone… well, across Thedas, really.

“Yes. The guards had me on the tavern floor when Bull came inside and yelled for them to stop. The guard had a flail. Bull put himself between me and the blow. Big horned idiot. Didn’t even know me.”

Krem’s voice turns soft, no bite in the offence, lost in the memory of that situation. Trevelyan thinks of the weapon, with its metal, spiked striking end, and how excruciatingly painful it must have been to get a blow in the face, losing an eye in the process. She doesn’t know why, but the fact that he hasn’t lost it in a gruesome battle, or while doing mercenary work, but simply trying to do the good thing and save the life of someone who didn’t deserve death, makes the outline of him in her mind switch.

“And about him being a Qunari, a-”

“A Ben-Hassrath?”

Trevelyan opens her mouth, closes it again, staring at this man defending his leader so fiercely, just by knowing a truth that she thought it should be a secret.

“I didn’t expect he’d tell you all that he was a spy.”

“Not the whole band, but those who’ve been around long enough to trust. He figures most of us would find out sooner or later, and it should come from him. It’s never messed up a job. He just writes letters back home. Lot of the boys write letters back home.”

She sits in silence, sipping at her tea, but no second feeling uncomfortable – her doubt not judged, his answers accepted. They’re just two people that care, in different ways, about the same person: one questioning and one defending. She considers his words and the information that she newly learnt, and how suddenly it makes Bull so much more than just a Qunari spy, or the leader of the Chargers.

If all her selves can exist inside of her, can it not be the same for everyone else around her as well? Cullen is a Templar, as well as just their commander, and a man trying to do right by his past mistakes. Cassandra is a Seeker and a Pentaghast and a warrior. Leliana is a spy master and a deeply religious person and a skilled, Orlais-trained assassin. Varric is a writer, a businessman, a spy and an adventurer. Josephine is the eldest daughter of the Montilyets, an ambassador and a tactician.

She thanks Krem for his time, and he grins at her.

***

It’s rare to eat lunch at all, as supplies are spare, so most of them are just keeping themselves busy until diner time. It’s even rarer to get to eat lunch, and when you do, to have it at the same time as other people. But as Trevelyan makes her way inside the tavern, she’s welcomed by the sight of Bull’s back, the musician tuning her mandolin, and a few of their recruits eating a very late breakfast, having woken up barely in time for their morning drills. It’s part manners and part want that makes her slide into the empty seat across Bull, at the same table.

“Hey Boss,” he says, and before she gets to, he gestures towards Flissa for one more bowl of warm soup, and he shoves the loaf of bread across the table, closer to her. She smiles, and she breaks apart a piece, starts eating it as it is, as she waits for her food. Bull has stopped eating his as well, and he waits as well.

“So, Iron Bull… How did you get the name ‘Iron Bull’?”

“I picked it,” he says simply, leans back a bit to allow space for the barmaid to place the new plate and cup on the table, before he returns, picking up his spoon at the same time as her. “We don’t have names under the Qun, just… I don’t know, job descriptions, I guess. When I came to Orlais, I chose ‘The Iron Bull’ for myself.”

She keeps her spoon between her lips as she pays attention to his words, a bad habit from her teenage years that she wasn’t able to get rid of, and so her question is somewhat muffled, makes her sound younger.

“But why specifically ‘Iron Bull’?

“This may surprise you, but I really like hitting things.”

She snorts in her spoonful of soup, the blow of air making all the contents fly back into her bowl, and she’s laughing hard now, Bull joining her a second later. She’s up on her feet, grabbing one of Flissa’s rags, cleaning up at her chin and shirt, as Bull’s laughter dies out. If her mother could see her now, even she’d swear, but as it is, she’s just enjoying her mishap, and clearly her lunch partner is doing so as well.

“Also, it’s the Iron Bull, technically.” He’s waving his spoon in the air to point at her in tandem with his accent falling on the word the. “I like having an article at the front. It makes it sound like I’m not even a person, just a mindless weapon, an implement of destruction… That really works for me.”

Well, she has seen him in a battle, he is all of those things, but she also knows there’s not a second he’s not aware of his people and how they are doing in a battle. He always jumps where the battle is heaviest and he’s incredibly scary swinging his axe around, a fastness in him that can’t seem possible for someone as large. And she also knows of Krem’s story, and how none of Bull’s actions can possibly be called, at any point, mindless or destructive. Heck, isn’t he here at all, tied to be her bodyguard and protect her in all Inquisition matters, just because he doesn’t want this whole world blown apart? But hearing it that he prefers it the other way around, she wonders what exactly she is supposed to believe at all.

So, she asks him about how he became a Ben-Hassrath instead. She knows parts of Qunari culture, just at a superficial level, nothing much but what every other Free Marcher put together during Arishok’s stay in Kirkwall. It starts at pure curiosity, though. Her world has been so narrow, and now it is getting wider and wider every day, with each piece of land walked, with each new ally that she recruits. She wants to be just to all of them, to thrown away the teachings of her family and the superstitions of her people.

She listens to his explanations, tries to piece it together with the book about the Qun that she asked Leliana to get her, that she found in the wares of the merchants she came across. Off the battlefield, even as he speaks of his people, Iron Bull is a refreshingly reasonable person, listening to everyone’s words with the same level of attention, attentively reading the gestures and expressions of those around him, and he replies in a calm matter that has nothing to do with his way of fighting. So even if he might be annoyed by her inquiries, he doesn’t show it.

They’re down only to the bread, that they’re now each grabbing a piece of as he keeps talking.

“They sent me to Seheron because they needed someone who could fight and hunt down problems. That whole island was a sack of cats. Incursions from Tevinter, Tal-Vashoth, and native rebels fighting both sides… And in the middle, me, trying to wrangle the rebels and restore order.”

If there is a place who can haunt a man for the rest of his life, then that place is Seheron.

“I can’t imagine that was easy.” She lets him take two pieces of the bread in a row.

“One day I woke up and couldn’t think of a damned reason to keep doing my job. Turned myself in to the reeducators. I thought about letting some rebel kill me, but I couldn’t give any of those bastards the satisfaction. The Ben-Hassrath ordered me to go to Orlais, ostensibly as a Tal-Vashoth, and work undercover. That’s how I ended up here.”

Trevelyan looks around, at the shoddy tavern that they’re in, with the food that always seems to have something missing, with their untrained soldiers, and with this one table that they’ve shared over the past half an hour.

“I’m glad you’re alive and; well, here, Bull.” It’s an intentional choice of words, and a one-word declaration: his name, but not its purpose. “If you ever need to talk more about all this, let me know.”

She offers even if she doubts he’ll ever take her up on it. Iron Bull gets up from the table, shouting his thanks to Flissa, before looking down again at this Herald, a young woman that is just extending her kindness to a man that she knows to be a trained spy and killer.

“Nah. It was a long time ago.”

***

And then there’s that time when a few days pass by with her locked in meeting rooms, counting once and twice and thrice and then over again all the supplies that they need for the Hinterlands once again. And the next time that she sees the Iron Bull, is as he sits outside his tent, when she finishes talking with master Harrit about the horses that he wants and the Inquisition desperately needs, and that she’s supposed to get from one of her treks in that damned place. Sometimes just the thought of doing something tires her out enough to make her want to stop, though stopping is a luxury that she cannot afford.

And yet, she takes five minutes to hover by Bull’s side, asking him some more things about Qunari. She cannot even imagine not knowing who her parents are, so much of her life hinges on her relationship with her family, and so much importance is placed by humans on their ancestors and links. Heck, the Trevelyans have an entire tapestry up on the wall in their main hall, showing their entire lineage, decades and decades ago, names that have gone out of fashion and names that have shaped the Free Marches and the Chantry and the Templar Order. And out of all of that, she was born to sit at the last end of all those familial roots: made and raised to be who she is, simply because she was a Trevelyan.

How can she judge him his religion and his loyalty for it, when she herself comes from a long line of believers, when her own version is stifling enough that it makes a holy figure out of a mere woman? There is so much she doesn’t know, or if she knows, she doesn’t understand – so it is with open ears and curious eyes that she listens to his stories and lessons, even if they challenge everything that she thought was supposed to be the natural order of things.

And how can she truly criticize the Qunari rules, when her own parents asked much of the same thing from her? There were always the things that they taught she’d be best at, the roles she was expected to fulfil – and that was the width of her life, with all the classes she was made to take to build her into the best image of a young lady, with all the unwritten and unspoken codes of conduct, with the fragile honour and egos. Life back in Ostwick was simply following a path that has existed for the women of noble houses for centuries, and much like a Qunari, they were all just expected to follow through.

People are just people, everywhere.

She likes him, because in his rebuttal of her beliefs, she understands that, for him, she’s nothing more than a bratty noble, and she wants to both weep and hug the life out of him for not even considering the idea that she might be holy. With all the others, she can feel when their perception shifts: that sometimes they cannot believe her survival or her Mark, so there’s only the heavens to blame; that sometimes they watch her train or they have to explain something to her, and they sigh in relief at her simply humane limitations. But with Iron Bull, she’s always just his boss – and he doesn’t seem to care to make more out of her.

And then, maybe because she’s reminded of her life before all of this, or maybe because Bull pauses to look after a redhead new recruit, or maybe because he has not refused to answer any of her questions yet, she asks him about marriage and love. And hears about sex instead, her face turning redder and redder with each word out of his mouth, and Bull seems like he is enjoying both the topic of the conversation, the memories it’s bringing up, and the prude reactions from her. By the end, there’s a teasing edge in his voice, and Trevelyan is covering half of her face with the pair of gloves she’s holding in her hands, while glaring at him above them.

“You asked, Boss!” he shouts after her, when she comes up with an excuse, stumbling over her words, and she just screams back at him that he better be ready for the Hinterlands from tomorrow onwards.

#dragon age inquisition #female trevelyan #the iron bull #the inquisitor #iron bull x inquisitor #iron bull x trevelyan #dragon age #da: inquisition #da: i #da fanfic #da fic #my writing

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freethemages · 5 years ago

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I am more than happy to answer questions from the perspective of my OC Tristan Trevelyan!

Here are a collection of questions he has been asked in a wonderful server that I am a part of. It is extensive, so I am placing it under the cut.

Is there anything you’d like to know from his point of view? Get to know him a little better!

Here is a link to an introduction post, and you can find more info, and asks pertaining to him under #tristan trevelyan on my blog.

Okay here goes! I hope you enjoy!

Q: How did you and Cullen fall in love?

It was very slow. [chuckles] Cullen wasn’t exactly aware of his... taste for men, at the time. I think the first time either of us realised there might be something, however begrudging, between us, was Satinalia of 9:41 Dragon.

Q: How did you celebrate your first Satinalia together?

Well, we weren’t ‘together’ really, but I think the Satinalia of 9:41 Dragon counts as the first time we celebrated it ‘with’ each other and everyone else in the Inquisition. We got each other gifts, as is customary. He got me some Crystal Grace bulbs. They are my favourite flower, though I don’t think he knew it at the time! I nearly kissed him that night. I was but a terrified baby nug, and so I lost my nerve.

Q: What is your favourite thing about Cullen?

That’s a tough question. I love every part of him. Even the bits others find tough.

Most of all though, it’s the devotion I see in his eyes, and the passion that burns behind them in everything he does. Especially when his smile reaches his eyes. That didn’t happen a lot when we first met. It took him time to learn how to be a person and not just the Commander of the Inquisition. When he looks at me with those honey eyes... I swear in those moments I would do, and be anything for him. Anything.

Q: Have you been with any other members of the Inquisition, in a romantic or sexual way?

I... rode the bull, so to speak. Strictly physical, you understand.

There was also a dalliance with Dorian. We decided we worked best as friends, which was ideal as it was around that time that Cullen and I began to be a little more aware of our feelings for each other.

Q: How would you feel if a secret admirer often left gifts for you?

Truth be told, I have absolutely no idea. It’s a rather strange concept for me to have a secret admirer.

Though Cullen does leave me little gifts on occasion, and I find that very sweet.

I’ve had myriad proposals of sex, courtship, and even marriage since taking up the position of Inquisitor. One lady, who I am sure is totally sane, expressed her desire, nay, her need, to bear the child of the Herald of Andraste. I believe the precise words in her letter were “you simply must allow me the greatest honour of accepting your holy seed into my ready loins, the Maker himself wishes it!” It was... flattering, I suppose? Orlesians, right? [nervous chuckle] ahem. Anyway, that’s my experience with admirers, though none were secret so much as just complete strangers. Thankfully these things have become less common now that people know I am not ‘on the market’, and that people have had time to get over the spectacle of Corypheus’ defeat.

Q: Had you ever been in love before you joined the Inquisition, or at least what you perceived as love?

No, I had not. As much as a hopeless romantic as I am, I never had the pleasure of a romantic partner before Cullen. That’s not to say I didn’t dally. I dallied a lot, in fact.

The closest I got to romance was my crush on a templar in the Ostwick Circle, I suppose. You can imagine how well that would have gone, indeed!

Q: How do you feel about paperwork and things relating to it? There's obviously a lot you have to do as the Inquisitor.

Oh, I absolutely loathe paperwork! Indeed there is much of it to be done. I try to get out of it as much as I can, though as I am sure you suspect, I cannot get out of much at all. Luckily I only have to deal with reports of my own activities and correspondence made directly to me. The bulk is handled by my advisers.

You wouldn’t believe the sheer size of the piles of papers scattered about my quarters since Cullen moved in. He doesn’t seem to mind too much though, he’s rather swift and organised, though it may look like a mess to me. He assures me there is method in the madness, and he’s given me no reason to disbelieve thus far. [chuckles] I will say though that no work is allowed during our down time (my rule), so it is not so overabundant.

Q: Do you have a secret talent or passion?

It’s not really a secret, though I don’t advertise it all that much either. I am rather skilled at knife throwing. The dummy in Cullen’s office has seen an uptake in attacks since we started having competitions. The winner gets to decide what happens that night, of course. Now I like to think I’m rather skilled in that department too, but you would have to ask the dear Commander. [chuckles] no, I’m joking, please don’t ask him that, maker’s breath!

Q: Are you religious? Do you have any superstitions or rituals that you practice?

I am not religious per se, though I’m rather agnostic on the whole Maker’s existence thing. I certainly don’t subscribe to the beliefs of the Andrastian Chantry. [he scoffs] Mother would have my head for saying that...They twist faith and use it to control the masses.

What I do believe, is that Andraste was an Avvar mage, and that she was possessed by a spirit -perhaps of faith- and that it was this which led her to begin her crusade.

Make no mistake, the chant of light was written by mere men, and that we treat such words as irreproachable is the true hubris of man.

I think what lies beyond the fade is a great deal more complicated than any absent father figure. I do not pretend to know what it is, or if anything is there at all, but I do not believe it is the Maker as we have come to revere him.

I have found peace in relying upon my own intellectual study of magic and the fade. Spirits are real, and must be respected and acknowledged, for they can inflict a great deal of harm, or happiness. I cannot say the same for the Maker, so I feel no loss in the potential of his non-existence.

I admit, I really must study Elven and Avvar beliefs in much greater depth before making comment on them.

Q: Do you have any disputes with Cullen? And if yes, how do you two handle the situation?

Oh yes, we definitely have disputes! [chuckles] my darling is a... straight forward man when it comes to addressing situations. I prefer a more nuanced method. And being a mage, that usually involves magic. Cullen has come a long way but he is still... a little wary of such casual use of magic. We argue far less about that than we used to, though.

Truly, if he always had his way, I would be out of the fray and safe in Skyhold at all times. He knows I’m capable and trusts me of course, but I cannot blame him for his protectiveness. Truth be told I feel the same on the occasions he heads out, though I know he is perfectly capable of handling things.

We are both grown men, and are able to move past things rather quickly. I don’t think either of us could tolerate going any period of time staying angry at each other, or maker forbid, not talking. We trust each other implicitly, and so this works for us. Sometimes the more emotionally charged arguments are settled because passion overtakes us. I have to say, Cullen is always a very skilled lover, but those times... are something else entirely.

Q: What is your biggest weakness?

It’s hard to say. Like most people, I am full of flaws. It’s a part of being I suppose.

I strive to see the good in all people, which has led me to trust the wrong ones. That’s probably a contender.

Some have said I am too soft, that the complete absence of executions rent from my judgement displays a lack of strength and will to lead. I disagree. Perhaps that is a weakness, but it is not one I will apologise for.

They may call me the Herald of Andraste, but I am just a man. Anybody could have been in my place. I do not intend to lose myself under such a hefty title, so full of expectations. I can’t.

Oh, and I’m dreadful with a longsword. Cullen has tried many times to help me improve. [chuckles] I am just not a close combat warrior, like my dear Lion.

Q: Have you ever thought about having kids with Cullen?

I’d love to raise a child with my love one day. Though sadly we do not have the correct equipment to create a life ourselves.

I intend to do some research on the uses of magic and conception. Perhaps we will yet have children that possess Cullen’s beautiful blond curls. That is the sweetest sight I could ever dream of.

Q: What did the nightmare demon say to you in the fade?

He told me that the weight of Thedas would crush me. That I, an insignificant human, could never hope to carry the anchor and live.

He also told me that the Commander would always see my magic and sneer. That he could never really love me while I was the very thing he spent most of his life fighting. But our love is strong. Ex-Templar he may be, but he is also a smart, loving, and honest man. I trust him to the black city and beyond.

The nightmare could have wielded nothing that would have made me falter, for these are all things I have told myself and yet carried on.

Q: How was your first kiss with Cullen?

Our first kiss? It was... interesting. We were having an argument, actually. He is very obstinate. He was having a particularly bad time with his lyrium withdrawals and was on the verge of giving in. I argued that he was strong enough to keep going, he argued that he was not, the silly man.

Anyway, it got very heated. I was yelling about how much I looked up to him and how much he meant to me and... bam. His face was on my face. Passion unrivalled. He was scarlet in the face afterwards and apologised profusely. I simply pulled him back to me and kissed him again.

Later on he confided that he had never kissed a man before. He had no idea he even liked men that way. I was only happy to show him just how much one man can love another. That’s also the same day I learned just how soft those blond curls are, when I stroked them as he fell asleep with his head in my lap.

Q: Describe a childhood memory?

Childhood memory? Hmm, let’s see...

ooh okay, I have one. So I was about thirteen, and my friend Artemis and I were playing dares, because what else are you going to do in a cushy prison? Knowing I had recently been making good progress on my fire spells, he dared me to... ensure that the skirts of a certain prickly templar ‘caught alight’.

Well I did it. Only the guy’s beard also caught fire. He’d been growing this beard for longer than I had been there, and boy was he furious.

Artemis was a good friend and took the rap. He had not been there as long as I and they were more likely to believe he did it by mistake. That templar never stood guard on the apprentice dorms while we were still in them, though! That got a cheer.

Q: Who teases the two of you (with love of course) about your relationship?

Oh maker, absolutely everybody. Even the recruits! They always find it amusing that the Commander has a soft side. Of course, it doesn’t bother me a jot. Cullen has less tolerance for it but he’s usually alright.

Dorian, Sera, and Bull are some of the main culprits, which I’m sure surprises nobody. Leliana and Josephine are formidable teases in the war room, too. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. Watching him blush and stammer is always a joy. And I always make sure to... soothe his blood flow when needed, of course.

I’m certain Varric has written a romantic tale that is only half true, but I would also be willing to bet the Skyhold vault that whatever he writes, the truth is infinitely more fantastic.

Q: What is the best/most ideal way to spend time with Cullen?

I get on at him a lot to get his bloody roof fixed [chuckles] but actually some of my favourite little moments with him are lying in his chamber, looking up at the stars over the Frostbacks, in each other’s arms, with nothing between our souls but our skin. We can just be together, two men deeply in love. Not the Inquisitor and the Commander.

We spend most nights in my chambers now, but sometimes we still like to ascend those ladders, when the weather is not too cold. I used to miss home terribly, even the damned Ostwick Circle. But now, home is wherever he is.

Q: The anchor threatening your own existence... How does it affect your relationship with Cullen? Do you believe it to be a long lasting one?

Maker, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I... admit I’m guilty of hiding the true extent of my pain from him. He has enough of his own worries and I know this would take a huge toll on him. The anchor grows more painful every day. It’s like an acid coming from my own veins. The pain has thus far reached my shoulders. I fear that I won’t be around for very much longer, and the idea of leaving him is too much to think about; it is not an option. I simply must fight it with all I have. I will not let my own fucking arm take him away from me. Wherever Solas is, I hope he returns with some answers. He... seems to know more about this magic than he let on.

Q: If you would wear a flower crown, which flowers would it be and why?

Crystal grace. Without a doubt. Perhaps with royal elfroot wrapped around the stem parts.

It’s my favourite flower. I know someone who would also appreciate it... I wonder if I could get him to wear a matching one... hmm. We could even have them made here at Skyhold. An excellent wedding headpiece idea, actually…

[Cullen in the background: Absolutely not.]

... Spoil sport.

Q: How do you feel about blood magic?

I suppose the official answer my advisers would want me to give is that I condemn, abhor, and despise blood magic, blah blah blah. But that is not the case. Blood magic is just magic. Can it be used for ill? Of course! So can any other magic, and any other weapon for that matter.

Like a great many things in life, within blood magic, consent matters. I am not so quick to condemn an entire school of magic based upon the actions of a terrible few.

Honestly, the excuses for the prohibition of blood magic are just another case of stuff and nonsense fed to us by the Chantry to keep us under their thumb.

I do not personally use it, but I have no qualms about it beyond the fact that I developed my fighting style to conserve my health.

Oh Maker, here comes Mother Giselle... I wasn’t here! [He hides behind the tall backed chair he was sitting on]

Q: How do you feel about being at sea?

I am.... less than enthused by the idea of being at sea. The journey over the Waking Sea was not a pleasant one. It was my first time, since I had spent most of my life in the Circle, and my family trips before my magic manifested were mostly in the Marches, and twice, Orlais, which was reachable by land.

There is always the looming threat of being consumed by the untameable ocean, but mostly I just got really, really sea sick.

Q: Describe yourself in three words?

Hmm... magic, romantic, idealistic.

What do you think, love?

[Cullen: chuckles I was going to suggest smart, strong, and very sexy... though that is four words. Hmm.]

[Tristan shakes his head with a fond smile, and a gentle laugh]

Q: What was your first impression of Cullen?

Well, I must admit, when he approached us after I had closed the first breach, I was a little dazed. I couldn’t tell you whether it was from exhaustion or his visage. I did notice he was handsome. And briefly wondered where he got his lip scar. There wasn’t much time to dwell, however.

When I spoke to him later after settling into Haven, that was when I was able to drink him in as it were. Much like myself, he gets flustered quite easily depending on certain subjects, which I found endearing. I tried very hard to not fall down that hole but... well, you can see I failed. And glad I am of it.

Q: What nickname did Varric give you?

He calls me Twirly. Apparently I tend to add ‘unnecessary flourishes’ when casting with my staff. I do not know what he means, however. The flourishes are essential to looking good when casting, you see.

Q: how would you react to fanfiction or fan art of yourself? What about smutty fanfics/art?

Oh, there have been such things, believe me. [laughs] I find it entertaining, personally. Bonus points if it makes me blush.

The Commander, on the other hand, gets very embarrassed about it, even when he is not involved.

I suppose it comes with being painted as a ‘hero’. It’s interesting to see how far people’s imaginations can go.

If I come across it, I will read it, be warned, prospective fanfic writers and artists! [he winks]

Q: If you and your LI could spend two weeks anywhere in Thedas on vacation, where would you go?

Hmm. There are a few possibilities. A break in Southreach might be nice, to visit Cullen’s family. Though two weeks with Branson’s child may be less than relaxing, I grant you! [chuckles] There is also Antiva City. I should love to go during the Satinalia season, but again, I doubt there would be much quiet relaxation going on, and my Lion does prefer places with a tad more… serenity. And privacy. I can get behind that, of course. So my final answer would probably be a nice secluded log cabin in the Frostbacks. Granted it is not far from where we are now, but for a lovely break all I would need is my love, a roaring fire, a nice book, and plenty of cozy blankets. Sighs It would be wonderful to just be Tristan again, and not Inquisitor Trevelyan, just for a while.

Q: Do you and Cullen have any pets?

We don’t as of yet, but I hope we do have some in the near future. The cats that roam Skyhold are lovely, but I would love to have an animal that was just ours. Preferably a Mabari. I may not hail from Ferelden, but I consider it my home now. I like Fereldan culture.

Q: Did you dance with Cullen at the Winter Palace? If so, how was it?

I did! Maker, the glares we got from all of his admirers. If we had danced in the main hall I dare say there would have been a riot! They all seemed to want my handsome man, and I cannot say I blame them.

I loved dancing with him. It was such a peaceful and happy moment after a long and tedious day. He is better at it that he gives himself credit for, too! I am barely any better than him, and I was raised attending balls and other such nonsense until the age of 11.

Q: What are your favourite foods? Least favourite foods?

Three words: Frilly. Little. Cakes.

I love them. I also love a good traditional Fereldan stew. Many Marchers will claim that their food is superior, but don’t listen. Nothing is heartier than what I’ve had since being here. I think I might have been adopted over from Ferelden as a boy, haha!

Least favourite foods… hmm… I was once cajoled into tasting Anders ham as a boy, and believe me, they are not exaggerating when they say it tastes of despair.

Q: How did you feel when you learned how the anchor worked?

When Solas held my hand up to that first rift, I was more than a little bit disturbed. It felt odd. As if the rift was pulling from my hand and feeding from my own mana. And just like that, I could bend it to my will. It was… strange. I am used to it now, but I definitely had nightmares in the beginning. I’ve never felt so intrinsically linked to something so dangerous. Learning to wield the anchor was no small task, either, believe me.

Q:Who are you closest to, other than Cullen?

I would say I am closest to Dorian and Josephine.

Dorian and I had a bit of a fling, but we found we worked best as friends, if flirtatious ones. I trust him with my life and I hope he can say the same of me. He’s a good man. I admire him.

Josephine is just a very lovely lady, and surprisingly fun when she lets her hair down. I also trust her with my life. She is an excellent source of gossip as well, so it is nice to sit down with a cup of tea in her office for a couple of hours and just chat. In the war room, she joins me in teasing Cullen too, which is always fun; especially when I get to make it up to him later.

#tristan trevelyan #oc #dragon age #inquisitor trevelyan #dragon age inquisition #dai #ask my oc #ask the inquisitor #ama #ask me anything #cullen rutherford #I love doing this sort of thing #about #my oc #original character #tristan henry trevelyan #herald of andraste #thedas

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wisteria-lodge · 5 years ago

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Highlighting important Holmes & Watson character beats (1/10)

I got an interesting question the other day, about the moments in the original Sherlock Holmes stories that are more about *character development* and *relationship building* than mystery solving. And honestly, it’s a cool exercise, reading the Conan Doyle stories and watching this one complex little relationship grow.

So here you go. For your reading pleasure: Holmes & Watson, the good stuff

~ A STUDY IN SCARLET ~

[Dr. John Watson is back from the war, his PTSD and $$ situation not looking so good. Watson’s old intern Stamford thinks he’s found him a roommate]

“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. “My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought that I had better bring you together.”

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”

“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I answered.

“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?”

“By no means.”

“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”

I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull pup,” I said, “and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”

“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he asked, anxiously.

“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods—a badly-played one—”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh. “I think we may consider the thing as settled.”

The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavored to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavoring to unravel it.

I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and other favorites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle (...) Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy was more than I could determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favorite airs as a slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.

[Holmes is a detective, Holmes shows off]

“[Your deduction] is simple enough as you explain it,” I said, smiling. “You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe’s Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories.”

Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. “No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,” he observed. “Now, in my opinion, Dupin was an inferior fellow (...) really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine.”

“Have you read Gaboriau’s works?” I asked. “Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?”

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Lecoq was a miserable bungler,” he said (...) “he had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a text-book for detectives to teach them what to avoid.”

I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stood looking out into the busy street. “This fellow may be very clever,” I said to myself, “but he is certainly very conceited.”

[Watson tags along, having “nothing better to do.”]

“You sum up the difficulties of the [case] succinctly and well,” [Holmes] said. “There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up my mind on the main facts. (...) I’m not going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.”

“I shall never do that,” I answered; “you have brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.”

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.

[Holmes explains]

“You see the whole thing is a chain of logical sequences without a break or flaw.”

“It is wonderful!” I cried. “Your merits should be publicly recognized. You should publish an account of the case. If you won’t, I will for you.”

“You may do what you like, Doctor,” he answered.

~ THE SPECKLED BAND ~

It was early in April in the year ‘83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.

“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you.”

“What is it, then—a fire?”

“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.”

“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”

[waiting in the dark for the bad guy to enter]

“The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”

I nodded to show that I had heard.

“We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.”

I nodded again. (...)

“Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair.”

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed beside him.

[all is revealed]

The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day.

“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data.”

~ THE RESIDENT PATIENT ~

It had been a close, rainy day in October. “Unhealthy weather, Watson,” said my friend. “But the evening has brought a breeze with it. What do you say to a ramble though London?”

I was weary of our little sitting room and gladly acquiesced. For three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope of life (...) Holmes’ characteristic talk, with its keen observance of detail and subtle power of inference, held me amused and enthralled.

[this time, their client is a doctor]

“Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?” I asked.

[Dr. Trevelyan’s] pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was known to me.

“I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead,” said he. “My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its sale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?”

~ THE NOBLE BACHELOR ~

I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble correspondent could be.

“Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked as he entered. “Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a tide-waiter.”

“Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,” he answered, smiling, “and the humbler are usually the more interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie.”

[their new client is extremely posh]

“Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Pray take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.”

“A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of society.”

“No, I am descending.”

“I beg pardon.”

“My last client of the sort was a king.”

[everything turns out well]

“Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings.”

~ THE REGIATE SQUIRES ~

On referring to my notes, I see that it was upon the 14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick-room, and was relieved to find that there was nothing formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended over two months, during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch.

Even the triumphant issue of his labors could not save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and that he had outmaneuvered at every point the most accomplished swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his nervous prostration.

Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it was evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the thought of a week of spring time in the country was full of attractions to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend would only come with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality to him also. A little diplomacy was needed, but... [Holmes] fell in with my plans (...)

On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel’s gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter and I looked over his little armory of Eastern weapons.

[Colonel Hayter mentions some suspicious local burglaries]

Holmes grunted from the sofa. “The county police ought to make something of that,” said he; “why, it is surely obvious that—”

But I held up a warning finger.

“You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven’s sake don’t get started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous channels. ~

[and thank you again @niche-pastiche for the excellent idea!]

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samwise-writes · 6 years ago

Text

Surprise

Eloise Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford

Because apparently I’m a sucker for the moment where ‘it’ begins

Eloise returns from Redcliffe with the rebel mages in tow. She just really wants some rest.

~ *Whispers* fluff and blushing commander because that is my weakness ~

No warnings

Number 2 from this prompt list

Her breath pushed past her lips in a drawn-out sigh. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to curl up in the silent solitude that was her cabin.

Eloise had difficulty in the first months, sleeping in such a solid space. At first the walls had felt just as oppressive as the bars on the cell they had kept her in. No breezes brushing across her face, the starlight unable to break through the curtains that were pulled against the window panes. But she had begun to grow accustomed to the quiet that accompanied those walls.

She could accept the stifling closed-off-ness of the cabin if it meant that she got quiet.

She began the dreaded trek from the chantry, keeping her head down, trying to act like the eyes that followed her wherever she went didn’t make her skin crawl.

She counted each of her footsteps, the new dusting of snow that decorated the gravel path making a soft crunching sound with every step gained. Despite the tired droop to her shoulders she walked with determination. Eloise realized with slight surprise, that for the first time, she was happy to have returned to Haven.

She tried to keep her steps measured as her cabin came into sight, she did not want to appear as though she was fleeing from something. She felt her exhaustion settle further into her limbs with every inch she closed between herself and the door.

Once the blessed door was secured behind her she let out another long sigh, this time it was tinged with contentment.

Her eyes swept over the small space. Someone had come and started the fire so that the biting cold that had followed her through the door was soon banished. She made a mental note to mention to Josephine that she greatly appreciated that and hoped it could be something that would continue in the future. There was very little she felt comfortable asking for from the exceedingly kind ambassador and her people, but this was one little luxury she would allow for herself.

She walked over to the bed, dropping down ungracefully, and reaching for the ties on her well-worn boots. Her tired fingers fumbled with them at first, but they were practiced in the actions and she made quick work of them anyway. She toed them off, kicking them to the end of her bed, and began undoing her leather armor. Her jacket slipped off, and her rolled her shoulders a few times, untucking her tunic so that it hung loose about her frame. Next, she undid the braided bun, running her hand through it until it hung in its full length past her shoulders. She sat back down on the bed, and considered her leather leggings for a moment. After short contemplation Eloise decided that it would be too much effort to remove them from her body.

She flopped down so she was sprawled across her bed haphazardly. She let out a contented groan and made the decision to remain there, until the end of her days.

Bugger the Inquisition, they can find a new Herald. She thought sleepily.

A loud repeated banging pulled her out of her cloudy satisfaction. She blinked a few times up at the roof, puzzled at the unfamiliar sound .

It sounded again. Someone was knocking at her door.

“Andraste’s knickers,” she swore quietly.

With a large amount of effort she pulled herself up to a sitting postion, and then to a reletivley wobbly standing position, swearing again she tried to shake the sleep that had just about overtaken her, from her bones.

She moved quickly over to the door, yanking it open.

“Yes?” She said impatiently, before the door had even revealed who had disturbed her blessed alone time.

She was faced with a very stunned looking Commander. She blinked at him a few times as he stood in silence, eyes slightly wider than normal, taking in her appearance.

She let out a huff.

“Not you again…” She mumbled quietly.

She didn’t mean for him to hear her less than kind words, but he snapped back into action at the sound of her voice. He cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes. Me… again. I apologize for disturbing you, Herald, but I was hoping to have a word with you, alone.”

She stared at him, dejected. She watched as some colour spread across his cheeks, and he cleared his throat for a second time. He proceeded to avert his eyes to the ground, suddenly very interested in something by his feet.

She tilted her head to the side, intrigued. She had never seen the Commander as anything but either frustrated, exasperated or, well… Commanding.

“Very well.” She said quietly, moving out of the way so that the tall man could step inside.

He met her eyes again and nodded his thanks as he passed her. She shut the door quickly.

Turning to face him she steeled herself, she squared her shoulders and stood up straighter. She started speaking before he could bulldoze her with his facts and thoughts.

“I understand the you were not pleased with the decision I made in Redcliffe, but I stand by it. I believe I made the best decision I could have in the situation we were in. I am sorry that we could not get the templars as well as the mages, but unfortunately that seems to be the way things will have to go.”

She met his gaze once she finished speaking nodding her head once to punctuate her certainty.

The Commander stood there, mouth slightly open, surprise on his features once again.

He snapped out of it quickly, collecting his thoughts.

“I suppose I was rather… loud with my displeasure at the situation, earlier in the War Room, so I likely did not express all my thoughts clearly.” He paused for a moment, “I think you did an admirable job at Redcliffe, you made a difficult decision that needed to be made. You made a call, and we will all stand behind you in it.”

His stance relaxed slightly as he paused again, letting out a small breath, and running one hand through his hair, in a gesture that spoke volumes of the exhaustion the heavily armored man was likely feeling.

“But that is not why I came. I did not want to argue with you. I came to check on you.”

“Check on me?” She asked dubiously.

“Yes…” Colour spread across his cheeks again, but he continued to meet her gaze, “I wanted to check on you to see how you were doing.”

She felt her stance relax slightly, she was taken off-guard. She wrapped her arms around her body, in a protective gesture, she wasn’t even fully aware of, gazing back at the Commander.

“From your report, as well as the Tevinter mage’s – Dorian’s? – report, what you two experienced in the future you were sent to…” he trailed off. He seemed at a loss for words.

She considered him carefully for a moment. She was confused at his concern for her. She wondered briefly if it were some kind of trap, to get her to show a weakness, so that he could remove what little power she had – but she dismissed the thought immediately. What she knew about the commander was that he was stubborn, and imperious at times when it came to his beliefs about magic, and disagreed with her on mostly everything, but he had little patience for two faced dealings like the ones she had experienced before leaving home. That was confirmed over and over when he would suggest helping the people, rather than ungrateful nobles that would reach out to the leaders, and in the times that he would become exasperated when Leliana would suggest underhanded schemes to gain favour for the fledgling Inquisition.

She decided that she thought of him as a good man, despite how annoying she often found him and his constant arguing.

She licked her lips, trying to find words for the way she felt about that particular experience.

“I’m not sure… that I’ve necessarily processed it just yet.” She spoke finally, turning away from him and moving to sit at the edge of her bed.

He watched her silently, waiting for her to continue.

“I haven’t really had time to think about it – not that I’ve wanted to.” She let out a humourless laugh. “But… I think I will be alright. Everyone is alright. For now. I just need to continue reminding myself of that fact.”

“Have you slept?” He prodded gently, his voice quiet.

She met his gaze again. It wasn’t a question she really wanted to answer.

“I don’t often sleep much on the road, so if I appear tired, that is likely why.”

Eloise was evading the question. They both knew it. She watched concern and disbelief flash across his face. He struggle silently with something for a moment. Eloise held her breath hoping that he would decide not to push the issue.

He didn’t. He didn’t want to scare her off from this delicate trust she seemed to place in him, when he had done nothing to deserve it.

“I suppose,” he began, “I should leave you be then, I seem to have, ah… interrupted your rest.” He swallowed hard and diverted his eyes again, glancing around the cabin.

She watched him, slightly confused again.

“That’s alright.” She said softly. “I… appreciate you checking in on me.”

His eyes snapped back to hers. He cleared his throat, making a split second decision he hoped he wouldn’t regret later.

“If you ever feel the need to talk about what happened… or about anything… please don’t hesitate to come see me.”

She was once again startled into silence. She gaped at him, and scrambled about in her head for words. He was the last person she would have expected such an offer from.

“Oh… well… I, ah…” She forced herself to stop talking to collect her thoughts, and she noticed he winced at her sudden quiet, one hand had snaked up around to rub the back of his neck, his eyes on the floor.

“I wouldn’t want to disturb you…” She said hesitantly.

She waited for him to look at her.

“That is, you always seem so busy with missives and training the soldiers I would not want to be a bother. You have enough on your plate as it is… no?”

She thought she saw a hopeful gleam to his eyes as he straightened, his hands coming back to rest on the pommel of his sword, as they so often did.

“I would welcome the distraction… and the company.”

She tried to mask her surprise, and after a moment a small smile spread across his face.

She let out a startled laugh, the sound loud in the quiet of her cabin.

“You should do that more often.” She said without thinking.

He raised his eyebrows, “What’s that?”

She realized it was too late to retreat now.

“Smile.” She said simply, standing and walking past him, so she wasn’t looking at him as she continued, “It makes you look rather kind… and handsome.”

She heard a small choking noise from behind her, as she opened the door slowly, waiting a moment before turning back to him.

He had stopped mid turn, and she could see his face was burning.

It was her turn to nearly choke when he turned fully to her again, and smiled at her again, shyly, but wider this time.

“You should do that more often,” He said softly as he came to a stop in front of her.

Her breath caught as she looked up at him, smiling down at her.

“What’s that?” She asked mimicking his earlier question.

He looked hesitant for a moment before reaching out and brushing some of her hair behind her ear, “Wear your hair down. It is quite beautiful.”

Eloise felt her mouth fall open into an ‘O’ and she felt, for the first time that evening, standing there with the cold breeze sweeping through the open door, that her cabin was too warm.

She watched as his smile grew even more, some of the shyness falling away into a quiet confidence.

“Good night, Herald. Feel free to come ‘bother’ me, if you have the want or need.”

With that he nodded to her and turned and walked out of the dim light of her cabin into the dark night.

Eloise watched for a moment, mesmerized by the way the light from the two moons reflected and danced across his armor.

She shook herself awake again, closing the door, and falling against it. She slid down, until she was sitting and staring unseeingly into the center of the room.

What just happened?

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veridium · 6 years ago

Text

Short Story: Solas Helps Theia With Her Anger

Writer’s note: So, I have always wanted to write this depiction of Theia’s and Solas’s friendship, but I haven’t found the right niche for it. I realized that maybe it was a good standalone read, an accent to her main narrative. I know I’ve alluded to their friendship before, but I haven’t yet fleshed it out, so, here is some of that! It also comes with my personal interpretation of Mage abilities and some of it may very well diverge from canon, but, who cares! It’s all about the adventure, right?

Summary: Theia Trevelyan has come to her friend for assistance in a very personal matter. Solas, obliging for his keen and willing ally, instructs her in the process of unlearning some intemperate crutches she has fortified in her powers as a Mage. The ritual unfolds, and Theia learns more about what drives her viscerally to succeed as both a Mage and a leader.

“You are conflating temper with willpower, Inquisitor, and it will get you only so far.” Solas’s calm comment defied the energetic nature of the moment. There she lay, once again on her back on the floor of Solas’s study. While their outdoor sparring ground was useful for most anything, sometimes a curious discourse would provoke both the Mages into demonstrating under a roof.

Theia, panting slightly as she tried to recollect her breath after the latest trip-up to the floor, growled with undirected frustration.

“I swear by the Maker’s greased smallclothes that I am utilizing my willpower and not anger,” she grumbled, before using her legs to jerk herself upright and back onto her feet, rising from the squatted position and picking up her staff along with her.

“Then why am I so successful in countering? You are using your fury as a source of reinforcement. Willpower by nature is collaborative, and does not favor a single source of momentum.”

Theia paced, dragging her feet with a hand on her hip. “Fine, then, you caught me. I’m a ball of furious rage and there’s no hope for me.”

“You are too resigned to your own carnal nature. Being emotionally intuitive and in control are not mutually exclusive. Let us try again.”

Theia chewed on the inside of her cheek. Rolling her shoulders which were exposed after she had taken off her overcoat, leaving only a thick tank-top on her upper body for dexterity, she turned to face her friend once more. She tried hard to hide her disdain for the situation so as to show respect to him and the time he was taking, but they both knew she was growing more impatient by the minute.

“Again,” he commanded simply, folding his arms and taking a few steps back.

Theia took a stiff, though deep breath. Loosening her body deliberately, she held out her staff horizontally in front of her chest, both hands on gripping out at shoulder-width. She closed her eyes, feeling the tension slip out from her shoulders, down to her waist, then through her hips and thighs until it felt as though its slipperiness was like a silken nightdress let slip.

Then, through the darkness of her eyelids, she envisioned a slowly growing and brightening orb of light. It was blue at first, undominated by any one emotion. She felt excited when she saw it -- as if it were only a slight chance it would reappear, even with her tenacious conjuring. Her lips parted as she focused, and that is how Solas knew she could see it, too.

“Good. Now, do not think of it as holding back. Think of it as organization, as cohesive input.”

Theia could feel her willpower and anger being intertwined like vines, a relic of her protective spirit. Her temper, her fury, was her source of power for so long, it felt nearly-impossible to revoke. That is what sparked her consultation with her friend in the first place -- she wanted to be more, be better, than this. Anger, after all, was a secondary emotion: its power was based on its corruption of the root of her nature, a symptom and not a foundation.

She grit her jaw slightly as her mind worked to entice her anger into relenting. It was a strong proclivity, and her temper was feeling entitled to her powers. She wanted to give in, to witness the strength of it. It viscerally thrilled her, but she knew that was what led to its dominion over her.

A low, willful growl emanated from her throat.

“Do not mirror it, counter it. Do not argue, debate.”

She could sense Solas starting his pacing of a half circle around her. Then, hairs around her face began to billow in a self-cultivated momentum of air.

There it was. Her anger, supreme and exalted. The redness, the purple, the kaleidescope of bruising. It was heated, pulsating in her chest.

You deny me what is mine? She could hear her inner voice ask.

Theia could feel the sensation of sweat gather on the side of her forehead. She was being disputed, and ferociously so. Her lips closed, jaw clenching with assurance but not aggression.

Solas’s voice, an echoing thing now, again: “It will utilize what it knows. Redefine the boundary.”

Theia’s eyes strained to remained closed. Her powers were seeking an outlet now, she had conjured and built up the energy in her body like a pressured bottle bomb. Now, it wanted expression, craved its release. Anger was the easiest kindling to use, and had always been.

You know I am inextricable, it hummed again, lurking and waiting for an exposure of spiritually weak flesh in its host body.

“No. I am your hands. I am your mind. I am your protecturate,” Theia said in her mind, teeth slightly gritting with her words.

Detestable, you disrespect me in my own domain.

“I am your domain because you are mine. Let us come to an understanding.”

I have kept you alive and this is how you repay me.

“I am saving you as you have saved me.”

Bullshit, you are nothing without my authority.

“I am everything because I am your authority. Now, a compromise, if you would.”

The quaking in her ribs was unignorable now. Her mana, her willpower, all of it, witnessing a standstill. She wanted to see it, wanted to visualize who she was debating. It had to have embodied something, or someone, to be so potent and dictatorial. She knew it had attached to a crutch in her psyche, but what? Who?

“Show me what you are, so we can debate this like women.”

Then, a chuckle. A familiar one. A crushing one.

You ask for me but you do not address me by name. Insubordinate.

Theia growled now, but tried her best to keep it with as weak of an emotional undertone as possible. She knew exactly, then, who would use such diction. Her closed eyes flickered side to side, up and down, searching for the source of the voice.

Then, feeling a cold breeze encapsulate her shoulders, like a ghost would extend their hands, she held her breath.

“Faustina.”

Then, like a blinking snapshot, her body appeared. The silver-haired woman, the mentor, the teacher, the sparring partner. Her curvatures, her stature. Her curls of hair framing her angular chin and cheekbones. She smiled, as if she had been enjoying a jubilant conversation all this time. It unnerved the Inquisitor, who had encountered one-too-many foes with betraying facades.

My apprentice, you have discovered me. Or, rather, the trace of me in your subconscious.

In the back of her mind, Theia wondered why Solas had grown quiet. Perhaps it was because he knew she had found the epicenter of her struggle, and now it was her battle alone to do.

“Faustina, why have you embedded into my power?”

Another chuckle, deep and warm, though slightly sinister.

My dear, you put me here long ago. You depended upon me to help organize your emotions and your abilities. It was only logical that you should encapsulate me here. Or, my likeness, anyway. I knew once you would become powerful to find me and untangle me from your web, you would.

“So you are the embodiment of my anger, that which has consumed my powers?”

I am one of them. The main source from which the rivers in your soul flood and drought dry. I helped you discover it, after all. Now, you must convince me to release myself from you. You are right, you are the authority.

“Okay. So, how exactly do I accomplish this?”

You must take all that you have learned and re-frame how you hold your memories in yourself. I am anger, that is true. But anger derives itself from injustice, and injustice is unrest and a hunger. Do you still hunger for it?

Theia could feel her shoulders tense, feeling all of the reasons all at once for why she did feel hungry for justice. She had always carried it, like a torch with an intemperate flame, relying upon it when it could only stand certain terrain. Her allies, her friends, her wanderings.

“What if I do? What if I hunger for it, but I also wish to turn my heart towards this new life of mine? Can I do both? Surely you would understand and know how,” Theia’s voice was not enveloped by her sentimentality for her teacher.

My dear, Faustina reached a hand to her, her fingers tucking under her former mentee’s chin, You are powerful, and almighty, but you also allow your body to be a conduit for something you alone cannot muster. Your anger protects you because it feeds off of your recklessness, and depends on your survival for its meals. Is that what you truly want? Mages have said yes before, and will do so long after we are gone.

Theia’s throat hardened as she felt the unfamiliarity of peace within herself. Faustina was giving her a taste of what it was like to unmesh the anger from all the deep caverns of her soul, and leave room for something different. It was tempting in the most melancholic of ways.

“How can someone like me ever allow peace in myself without falling short in my destiny?”

A pause of silence. Faustina withdrew her hand.

Theia, my dear, sweet, protective Theia. Keeper of an ice heart. Your peace sharpens your teeth more than any fury can.

Suddenly, Theia understood. She understood now why Solas was so intent on this process, and why Faustina’s smile seemed to mock her. Her fury was beautiful, ravenous, and powerful, but it was also negligent of the other sides of herself. Her peace, her determination, her resolution, brimmed with possibility.

For what was more menacing and fearsome than an angry Mage woman? One who felt contented in her polarities.

“I see now. I know, I know what I must do now.” She felt the ache of her strong grip on her staff begin to vibrate as the power in her limbs used the staff as an outlet.

Good. Now, follow your friend’s instructions, and convince.

She took a solid breath, feeling the webbing of her rage dance across her skin. She felt the static of it, interpreted via her electric powers. She felt half of her body enveloped in peace, and the other in her temper. It was like she would split apart in two, but she remained whole. Then, as if held in reservoirs, they crashed into one another like waves. She felt the tingling, the rush of adrenaline surging through her veins as she stayed still.

From the outside, Solas witnessed her oscillation, a satisfied grin on his lips as he witnessed his friend’s inner triumph. He did not usually take such a tutorial interest in people, but after months of Theia proving to be a precocious and optimistic individual, he felt more open to instructing her in ways he felt would empower her to be a better Mage and a better leader.

As the glowing dissipated in her skin and her staff weapon, he knew she had come to the necessary conclusion of it all.

Then, as if an invisible weight was released, she jerked forward, coughing as she hunched.

Trying hard to reclaim her breath, she held her staff in one hand.

“Well done, my friend. You have created a treatise within yourself.”

Theia, straightening her posture as she huffed quietly, put a hand to her stomach. “I can’t...believe...was that all real?”

“You know my answer to such a question, so my verbal reply is unnecessary.”

“Solas?”

“Yes, Inquisitor?”

Theia stood fully upright now, inhaling and quieting herself, before the casually switched the staff between her hands.

“Thank you. You have done me a great service.”

Solas, feeling the aplomb derived from a sincere friendship, was internally taken aback by her modesty and stillness. Surely, such a procedure could have easily yielded her manic. But, as she had done what was instructed, she was now able to collaborate her emotions and not hinder them.

“My pleasure, Inquisitor. It brings me satisfaction to know you, of all people, will salvage some form of peace in these days to come.”

#short story #theia trevelyan #solas #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #fanfiction #inquisitor trevelyan

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somevirtualnolife · 7 years ago

Text

The Man Who Loved The Sun

2163 Words

Rating: T Pairing: Mage Trevelyan x Cassandra Summary: Choosing the next Divine is never easy. Previous Chapter: I’ll Touch Every Star In the Sky Author’s Notes: Yayy! It's been awhile since I've updated lovely Reagan and Cassandra properly, so I do hope this one was worth the wait. They've probably had the sweetest and easiest of my romances in the game (and in writing?), but I had to throw a bit of a wrench into their perfect love. I'm a sucker for tsundere tropes, but I'm also a sucker for star-crossed lovers. I've been trying to be a little more descriptive with my writing, but I feel as though it's still coming off a little more explainy... but bear with me while I experiment!Also, I think I may have a thing for handholding? I feel all these two kiddos do is hand hold and play with each other's hands lol.

A spark, a flame, or the sun; it didn’t matter for he was consumed by her beauty.

When Reagan was still in the circle, he had accepted his lot in life, which wasn’t particularly difficult. Unlike a lot of circles, Ostwick was generally fair. The enchanters were knowledgeable and provided great education. The templars weren’t too strict and some were even friendly. Their quarters were comfortable with the food being decent as well. Overall, they were treated fine.

Just fine.

It was fine if he wasn’t allowed children. When he became an enchanter, he oversaw teaching the younger mages, so it wasn’t as though he were missing out on some form of parenting (perhaps a cool uncle more than father figure). It was fine he couldn’t get married. He could still fall in love and he had more than his share fun on the side. Besides, anyone who he would’ve ever considered to run away and get married with were long gone. He didn’t need anything more than that.

It was fine.

“You’re a smart man, Enchanter Trevelyan. With far more talent than you let on,” Senior Enchanter Lydia once told him. “And yet you are somehow the least driven person I’ve ever met. Completely passive in the world around you,”

“Ooof. Well, that’s a fair criticism,”

“And yet, you are a fire mage; one of the most passionate and driven elements”

“Well, just because I don’t ignite passion in others, doesn’t mean that I don’t love seeing it,”

“Heh. The man who is drawn to fire and yet produces none. Or so he says. I really wish you would reconsider the offer, Reagan. You’re a good candidate,”

“I’m fine where I am, Senior Enchanter, but thank you for your concern. Besides, with the way things are going, who’s to say that there will even be a need for that position?”

He meant it as a joke at the time, but it wasn’t long after that mages in the circles decided to votee on whether to join the rebels. Although it was inevitable for Ostwick to no longer stay neutral, Reagan didn’t anticipate for it to fall the way that it did; the murder of the Senior Enchanter at the hands of one of her star pupils.

That’s when he realized that perhaps things weren’t so fine.

Reagan was a man of few regrets. There were only a handful of things he would change in his life. And not speaking, not taking initiative, not taking the lead back then was at the top of the list. Maybe Enchanter Lydia wouldn’t have died.

But the thing about regrets is that you can’t go back and change what you would’ve done. You could only move forward and work for the present and future. It was from then forward that he stepped up and did his best. Perhaps it was all a test to see if he could handle himself as the Inquisitor. And he did. Almost seamlessly.

But it didn’t come without it’s challenges. Making sacrifices at other’s expenses were his least favorite part of leadership.

“These aren’t just a bunch of soldiers we’re talking about Revered Mother; they’re key members of the Inquisition,” Reagan said rather irritably looking at the chantry woman in front of him.

“Which is why Thedas needs them,” the woman responded insistently, unintimidated by the push back she had been getting by both Reagan and Josephine. “We are not saying that you need to make the decision now. But eventually, we’re going to need someone to lead the Chantry, not the Inquisition, regardless of what’s to come next. So, do keep that in mind. We look forward to your answer, Inquisitor,”

Well, if he ever had any doubt that he was a Trevelyan, there was no need to anymore. They always had connections in chantry affairs; if they knew that their youngest son was to have a hand in choosing the next Divine, they would be beside themselves. It might almost offset the whole mage thing. Normally, he would find the whole affair amusing, but this situation was a little different.

“I suppose ‘no’ isn’t an option here, is it?” he crossed his arms, looking over at Josephine who shook her head with a sigh.

“If only it were so easy, milord. But let’s not dwell on that just yet. Even they must realize that taking our greatest assets now would be detrimental to the fight against Corypheus. Get some rest, enjoy your victory. Do not worry. It will be fine,”

Oh, how he wanted to do just that. Normally he was quite good at resting and turning his brain off from duties. But he couldn’t this time. And he knew why he couldn’t. He needed to know more. It was his responsibility to know more.

And thus it was time to speak to the candidates.

Leliana could bring real change; a progressive chantry would be excellent. A chance at finally getting rid of the racial prejudice that plagued it. A chance for truly free mages. There was very little reason for him to not support her as Divine. But Leliana could also be brash and let her ideals blind her. She only just started realizing that death wasn’t the quickest way to deal things. Not to mention that tensions could rise rather than subside, depending on how she was to approach things. Her ideas were great, but he couldn’t figure out her plan to implement them. They could fall hard.

But Leliana wasn’t the only one. While she was not original candidate, Vivienne was an intriguing idea. A mage as Divine? Now that would certainly stir things up. She was clever and more than informed in the workings of politics. An ace at the Game. She was also a Loyalist, so maybe that wouldn’t frighten the people of Thedas too much in terms of mages suddenly gaining power. However, her motives were unclear; and even though there were mages who sided with Corypheus and the Venatori, that didn’t mean that others would see eye to eye with her ideas of what a circle should be. She was quite old in her thinking… and in light of his last quest with her, he could understand why.

And then there was Cassandra…

His green eyes flickered as he sat and watched the Seeker pace his quarters. They’d briefly discussed her candidacy not long after Mother Giselle spoke to her. Cassandra could barely stand the Game. Chantry politics was basically that with uglier hats. No, Cassandra was a warrior, the last of the Seekers of Truth. Would she really be the type to sit down during a meeting and give her unbiased opinion without punching someone? Not to mention the thought of her in one of those of ridiculous chantry robes almost made him want to laugh.

If only it was just that, then he could just quickly write her off. She was more than just a warrior; she was a woman with ideas, conscience, and a heart. Her answers were not quite what Reagan expected, but then again, there were always little surprises about her. Reforming the circles where mages could govern themselves? He had not expected an answer quite like that out of her, especially with so many of them falling to Corypheus and the Venatori. But she was willing to give them another chance. Then she spoke about the Order. And the Seekers. None of it was unrealistic by any means. She had clear and concrete plans for them all, which was something that he had not quite gotten from Either Vivienne or Leliana. She… was a good candidate.

And Reagan wished that he could be less inspired by everything she was saying.

“And here I go again; rambling,” Cassandra let out a slight sigh, seemingly irritated with herself.

“You are. But you know that I love it when you ramble,” he replied with a soft, but amused smile on his face.

Cassandra let out a disgusted noise which only made him laugh.

“You don’t think I’m being sincere?”

“Oh, I know you’re being sincere. But as to why you would be amused by such things is nonsense to me,”

Reagan stretched out his arm, his palm open. Cassandra looked at it for a moment, but then placed her hand into his, interlocking their fingers.

“I love that you care. You put your heart and mind into everything,” he was drawn to fire after all.

“You know that most men would be intimidated by that,”

“Well, you know me. I’m a man of particular tastes,”

“I know. And that’s certainly not a bad thing,”

“Who’s using flattery now?” he grinned.

“I suppose. I’m just not sure these are qualities that a Divine candidate should have,”

His fingers twitched.

His answer as an Inquisitor was a resounding yes. She was a born leader with more than enough influence and experience. For Cassandra to be Divine would bring stability to a land that was on the brink of collapsing.

But then there was him.

Reagan Marcio Trevelyan; the man in love with Cassandra. The mage in love with the seeker. The man who loved fire.

“They are,” he finally said, letting go of her hand. “That’s why you and Leliana were put forth as candidates after all. You don’t make change by being passive and indifferent. I’m sure Divine Justinia would agree,”

Cassandra tilted her head and watched him carefully. It was rare for her to do that (when she knew he was watching anyway). He could feel it; his answer was not clear enough for her. If she wanted cryptic meanings, she’d read a book. But how could he do this in a way that made him impartial?

“Cassandra. I know that, without a doubt, you’d make an amazing Divine,” he said. “You know how the chantry works. Not to mention you’ve inspired me in so many ways and this Inquisition; I can only imagine what you could do if you had to address all of Thedas,”

“It’s nice to hear that I have the blessing of the Inquisitor,” she replied, her tone slightly irate. “But what does Reagan Trevelyan think?”

If there was anything that Cassandra disliked, it was dishonesty, regardless of the circumstance. He was dancing around the issue and she could see it. And yet, it was so hard for him to just answer… flatly.

It was starting to hurt.

“A man fell in love with a flame, but she was, in fact, the sun,” he replied, looking up at the ceiling of the room. “Do you know the story?”

“I do,” she responded suspiciously at first, but then slowly seemed to come upon a realiziation. “I thought you didn’t read poetry,”

“I enjoy it when it’s part of a grander epic. And that one always stood out to me,” he let out a long sigh, continuing to look up at the ceiling. “It was neither death nor indifferent that drove them apart. It’s funny how I always thought that Corypheus was going to be the one to separate us,”

“Reagan...”

He finally looked back at her, a hurt smile on his face. “To steal away the sun or to allow the whole land to bask in her radiance?”

Despite being both Andrastian and the Herald, Reagan never really considered himself to be a ‘devout follower’. On a scale, he would be somewhere between Varric and Cullen. All he wanted to do was just take her hand and run, leave everything that had to with the chantry in Leliana or Vivienne’s hands. Even if he didn’t fully agree with them, that didn’t mean they were incapable. They would make excellent Divines.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to vote.

It was then that he felt the touch of her hand on his cheek. The Seeker knelt down in front of him, her eyes full of concern for the young man. Everything with her used to be so certain. And now, he just didn’t know.

“I want to give you a real answer, Cassandra,” he said, closing his eyes, placing his hand on hers. “But right now, I won’t be able to. A little more time, and I can tell you exactly how I feel. What I’ll do. Will that be alright?”

“Of course. That’s all you needed to say. If time is what you need, then it is time you shall get,” she said, placing a feathered kiss on his lips and standing up. “Just please, understand this; my faith guides me to be true to the chantry, but also to those that I love. I won’t go back on the words between us, Reagan,”

Reagan nodded slowly as she then turned around and made her way down the stairs. He let out a frustrated groan, rubbing his temple. No matter how much talking, how much thinking, how much weighing of the options that he was going to do…

He knew what he was going to choose.

#da:i fanfic #cassandra x inquisitor #cassandra x trevelyan #Cassandra Pentaghast #dragon age inquisition

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dragonswithjetpacks · 4 years ago

Text

Short chapter! I forgot to throw it up here. Will probably do another chapter today. Maybe two. The editing is going pretty fast since I had worked on this already months ago.

Beautiful War

-dragonswithjetpacks

Chapter Five: The Stuff of Nightmares

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 (Ao3)

Read here on Ao3.

"Are you sure you're ready to leave, my Lady?"

"I'm never ready for anything anymore, Harding," Claira shouted through the rain. "But I have to report back to Haven.

"Fair enough," she shouted back.

"Let's begin the debriefing, then," Corporal Vale decreed.

The wind was blowing mercilessly, making it very difficult to hear one another inside the meeting point. It was a small hut within the Crossroads. Many of the other buildings there were damaged but it remained one of the few left still standing strong. It was home to one of the villagers who didn't mind standing by while the Inquisition made use of it. Claira withdrew her papers from a satchel at her side. She didn't need to read from them, as she was aware of what the reports mentioned. After all, she was the one who wrote them. She rolled them up neatly, tying them with a red ribbon before slipping them into a wooden tube.

"The Hinterlands remain an unsafe area for further Inquisition occupation," she began with the agreement of the others surrounding her. "During my time here, I have managed to acquire supplies for refugees as well as fellow agents. A cult in the southeast, posing as no threat, has agreed to take in others and aid the camps nearby. A bandit camp to the southwest was also been eliminated, providing more shelter and supplies to the camps."

"We have made no advancements toward the thieve's fortress or the cult castle," Vale reminded Claira. "It's still a bit unsafe. Our troops have made contact, but are assessing the situation further."

"As they should," Claira proclaimed. "Reach out to Scout Harding if you run into trouble. She should be able to provide support. Furthermore, I've been unable to reach Dennet at this time. The conflict between the mages and templars has prevented any sort of contact to and from the northern Hinterlands. We will have to resolve that issue upon return. I would like to follow Mother Giselle back to Haven to ensure her safety."

"With the rogue templars watching the main routes, I think this is our best option," Cassandra thought aloud.

"We've all read and signed the reports, yes?" Claira looked at her peers.

They all nodded.

"Corporal Vale, if there is anything you need-"

"I know where to find you," he assured her.

"Very good. Then we'll take our leave. Harding, would you mind sending this for me?"

"Of course," Harding took the scroll from the Herald's hands.

"Luck be with you, Lady Herald," Corporal Vale brought his fist to his chest.

**********************************************

The entire journey back, Claira thought about how nice it would be to fall into her bed. How warm the bath would feel. How good the food would taste. Unfortunately, Haven had other plans. After bidding farewell to Varric and Solas at the tavern, Claira walked up the stairs toward the Chantry with the intent to deliver research information. She was eager to see the Chantry Sisters chattering with excitement as she arrived. Only it wasn't the usual welcoming party she had expected. Instead, she was greeted by a rather large crowd that had no intention of acknowledging her at all.

"Your kind killed the most holy!" a templar shouted angrily.

"Lies!" a mage retaliated. "Your kind let her die!"

Remaining amid the common people, Claira began to assess the situation. The people around her murmured words across one another in hushed whispers. They would not dare to get involved. She listened closely but could not make out the details of what had gone wrong. Deciding she could assist with a better view, she brushed shoulders with the crowd. If need be, she would intervene.

"Shut your mouth, mage," the templar drew his sword.

With her hand gripping the hilt of her own sword, she stepped forward. But she was not nearly as quick as she needed to be.

"Enough!"

The voice came from absolutely nowhere. He would have been easy to pick out among the others, but she had not spotted him. And he threw himself between them, right in front of both a sharpened sword and glowing staff. His risen arms were a warning that they should remain the distance between his fingertips, although his stare was enough to keep them at bay.

"Knight-Captain," the templar stepped back first, sheathing his sword instantly.

"That is not my title," Cullen said with a glare colder than the ground they were standing on. "We are not templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition."

"And what does that mean, exactly?" an antagonizing voice appeared.

Claira lowered her brow as she felt the irritation growing under her skin the moment he strode in front of the Commander. She wanted to attempt to get closer but did not want to draw attention to herself. There was no doubt she would be harassed and she was his favorite target.

"Back already, Chancellor?" Cullen sneered, and it made her grin. "Haven't you done enough?"

"I'm curious, Commander," he said stepping closer. "As to how your Inquisition and its Herald will restore order as you've promised."

"Of course you are," Cullen growled in response. It almost sounded as if he was being defensive about her. But she would not take it to heart.

"Back to your duties," he said, turning away from the Chancellor. "All of you!"

The crowd began to thin, but she remained, pushing past them to see them clearly. In times like these, Claira was never permitted to speak. She was too blunt and often said the wrong things. Though, the more time she spent with the Inquisition, the more she realized that being straightforward wasn't always a bad thing.

"Mages and templars were already at war. Now they're blaming each other for the Divine's death," Cullen went on.

"Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order."

"Who? You?" she saw Cullen's brow raise. "Random clerics, who weren't important enough to be at the Conclave?"

Claria recognized the sharp blade of his tongue. Only this time, it was turned toward the Chancellor. Between the humility of the fool and Cullen's mocking tone, she was taken over by the adrenaline of watching vicariously and decided now was a good time to catch forward. Cullen had caught sight of her and nodded slightly in somewhat of relief of her being there.

"The rebel Inquisition and its so-called 'Herald of Andraste'? I think not."

Either he didn't know Claira was standing nearby or he didn't care.

"Don't be so disagreeable, Roderick," she chimed in, making him roll his eyes at the sound of her voice. "The Inquisition seems as functional as any young family."

"How many families are on the verge of splitting into open warfare with themselves?"

"Yes," Cullen sarcastically snickered. "Because that would never happen to the Chantry."

Claira bit her bottom lip in an attempt to remain serious on the matter. But between the Chancellor's scowled face and Cullen's smirk, it proved to be quite difficult.

"Centuries of tradition will guide us. We are not an upstart eager to turn over every apple cart."

"Yet here you are," Claira grumbled. "Do we know how widespread the violence is between mages and templars?"

"Impossible to say as of yet," the Commander replied.

"...organization floating the Chantry's authority will not help matters," Roderick kept babbling. But they were not interested in what he had to say as they continued to commute with each other.

"With the Conclave destroyed, I imagine the war between mages and templars is renewed... with interest," he went on.

"As we have witnessed today... The mages and templars are fighting... even though we don't really know what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?" she asked her Commander.

"Exactly why all this should be left to a new Divine," Roderick clasped his hands together at his waist. "If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so."

"Or will be happy to use someone as a scapegoat," Cullen snapped.

"You think nobody cares about the truth? We all grieve Justinia's loss," he spat.

"But you won't grieve if the Herald of Andraste is conveniently swept under a carpet."

Claira could not decide if she was more surprised by the fact that she was still being blamed for the Conclave or that Cullen confirmed he was defending her. With the way they had fought before she left, she had assumed things between them would be awkward for a time. Their exchange of apologies must have truly made a difference, as Cullen was proving to be quite passionate about keeping the Herald from Chantry hands

"Remind me why you are allowing the Chancellor to stay, Commander?" her eyes drifted over to Cullen's face, tireless of the Chancellor's rambling as well.

"Clearly, your templar knows where to draw the line," Roderick's words were meant to be bold, but no one took him seriously.

"He's toothless," Cullen stated, unaffected by the man. "There's no point in turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth. The Chancellor's a good indicator of what to expect in Val Reoux, however."

"Well, let's hope we find a solution there and not a cathedral full of Chancellors," she turned to sarcasm as her savior, as always.

"The stuff of nightmares," he grinned in return.

"Mock if you will," Roderick was appeared offended. "I'm sure the Maker is less..."

But she did not catch the entirety of what he said. She was too busy attempting to stifle her laughter as Cullen directed a humoring brow-raising expression followed by a dramatic eye roll. It would be far too obvious to bring a hand to her mouth. So instead, she continued to bite her lip and looked at her feet. The Chancellor's chatter did not cease but continued until it faded to the minimum. Claira turned Cullen.

"I didn't realize I was gone long enough for the Chantry to prepare a protest," she teased. "I will be gone to Orlais much longer."

"The walls should still be standing when you return... I hope," he shrugged with a teasing glance.

"Chancellor Roderick came to speak with me..." Josephine scolded, tapping her pen against her clipboard as Cullen entered the room. "Could you try not to antagonize him?"

It was unfair the attention was drawn directly toward him the moment he entered the room. He paused to look at them but was altogether completely unphased. Claira caught a glimpse of his gaze before he quickly looked away. It must have been much easier for him to hide his grin than it was for her. She resorted to taking a rather large bite from the apple in her hand lest she showed him just how interested she was in his display of sarcasm.

"If I offend the man so easily, perhaps he should try leaving me alone," he suggested as he took his place.

"Cullen..." Josephine sighed.

"In his defense," Claria swallowed what was left, "Roderick came out of nowhere during an altercation. I just happened to arrive at the same time."

"You are not helping," Josephine leaned forward to point her quill at her. "I'm not going to stand here and chide you both like children for making faces behind the Chancellor's back."

"I wasn't the one making faces," Claira grumbled quietly.

Josephine had her fill of mothering for the day. She turned to Cassandra and Leliana for support, but they were doing their best to hide their laughter as well.

"You two should know better," she shook her head at the Hands. "I'm done trying to get any of you to act mature when speaking to this man."

"Perhaps Cullen is right," Leliana stated calmly. "He should likely try his best not to bother us if he does not want to be further upset."

#cullen rutherford #commander cullen #cullen x trevelyan #rivals to lovers #cullen x claira #claira writing tag #claira trevelyan #cullen x not a mage

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gold3nberry · 7 years ago

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Stand By Me

Cullen Rutherford X Demetra Trevelyan

Cinema!Au

For my last piece for the @cullenappreciationweek , day 6, the AU that nobody asked for! I hope you’ll enjoy it as much I enjoyed writing this little one shot.

“I think I’m in love with you.” Cullen’s heart jumped in his chest, as he fought to keep a surprised expression. The words were right, but the woman in his arms was the wrong one. Sitting at the edge of the room, checking the words with a frown, Demetra Trevelyan was carefully listening. “No, I don’t think I am. I know how I feel,” the woman actually in his bed turned in his embrace, half wrapped in the sheet “I do love you, my Commander.” He was stunned, he was shocked and he was almost annoyed with himself. The Demetra Trevelyan in his arms, the wrong one, told him the words he was carving to hear from the real one and it made them sound false and out of place. Not knowing was it was going on, she smiled, landing a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Cullen pressed his forehead against hers, struggling to put some feeling in his next sentence. He didn’t have the wish to ruin the work of an entire crew just because he had a giant crush on a woman. Even if a special one as Demetra. The real one. He was a professional, graduated from the Denerim Royal Dramatic Academy, Maker’s breath!, and he was perfectly able to do a good job. “I love you as well, my dearest Demetra.” he started, smiling “All that I can offer you, my heart, my body, my soul, is yours for as long as you wish.” She smiled at him, cupping his face, and then the director’s voice shouted “And cut! Well done, guys!”

Cullen’s colleague yawned, quickly disentangled herself from his body, and put on the velvety bathrobe that one of her countless assistants had already ready for her to wear. “Good job, dear,” she said stretching “Even if the words were sappy, you did it well.” “Thanks, Isolde.” he replied with a huff. The woman seemed unable to say an entire kind sentence to anyone without pouring a drop of poison in it. He accepted with a smile his own toweling robe, even if he had already worn a pair of loose trousers through the scene. The young assistant blushed and ran away, leaving him embarrassed. “Aw, look at you! Still not used to all the attention?” Isolde mocked him “Well, I can understand you, dear. These assistants can be really a bother, sometimes.” These assistants are a fundamental part of our team.” he reminded her, trying not to sound too cold “I would hardly define them a bother.” ”If you say so,” she shrugged nonchalantly, checking her lipstick in a pocket mirror “But now let’s talk about important things. Will see you tonight? I have a reservation at...” ”Sorry, as I already told you, I’m busy.” he pointed out, walking away. Isolde huffed soundly “Madame Viviene insists we help to promote this movie more.” ”She’s doing an excellent job, I don’t think that a photo of us dining together in a pretentious restaurant will add anything. Plus, as I said other times, I’m not keen to use such a poor marketing methods. Enjoy your evening, Isolde.” He left her without any other word and pretended not to hear her comment about the Fereldan lack of manners. "Mr. Rutherford?” The hesitant voice made him smile even before he turned to meet a pair of bright azure eyes. ”Good afternoon, Miss Trevelyan.” ”I’d say “good evening”,” she chuckled “you all worked a lot today.” Cullen nodded “Ah, yes, I suppose Varric want to finish this movie as soon as possible. He wants to use to our advantage the interested that the end of Skyhold restoration has lit about the history of the Inquisition.” ”I still can’t believe they’re going to make a movie about what happened one thousand years ago. I bet my ancestor would be delighted to know that such a talented group of people is making a movie about her time as Inquisitor.” ”And what do you think of our work, so far?” He wasn’t searching for compliments. He just wanted to speak to her a little longer. Their days were always so busy that most of the time they barely managed to greet each other. And he didn’t like it. Maker’s breath, Alistair was right: he had a giant, embarrassing crush on that lovely woman. Maker’s breath, after everything that happened in his life, he thought he was well beyond such things. Demetra flashed him a smile that made him long to reciprocate it “I’m just an external consultant, and I think I was called here mostly because it’s a clever marketing move to involve one of the descendants of the Inquisitor in the movie, but I think you all are doing an amazing work. The cast is marvelous and I disagree with your colleague: the words are not sappy at all. I hope my ancestor did have a love story as intense as the chronicles told us.” ”I hope that as well. I can’t imagine how hard it had been for that woman leading Thedas against Corypheus. She deserved to be happy, at the end.” Demetra gently put a hand on his vambrace “Thank you, Mr. Rutherford. You’re truly kind.” He blushed and barely resist the urge to rub his neck “Ah, you... you’re very kind, miss Trevelyan. You would be a perfect Inquisitor for Thedas as well.” He grimaced. Maker, the movie that Rosalie forced him to watch made him cheesy! She expected her to laugh, but she just threw him another captivating smile “Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Rutherford,” she laughed quietly “I hardly doubt I would be a fitting Inquisitor. In every sense.” she gestured with a wink towards her ample body “I’m also too shy and clumsy. I doubt Thedas would follow me!” There wasn’t a request of pity in her words, she was just telling something she believed it was totally true. Cullen spoke before his brain could realize it and paralyze him with his usual shyness. “No, I’m sure you would be a great Inquisitor, Miss Trevelyan!” he protested earnestly “I’m also sure your ancestor was exactly as you are: kind, clever, funny and beautiful. And even if she wasn’t, well, you are and I... I...I mean...I...” This time, he did rub his neck. Maker’s breath, the last thing he needed was to make a fool of himself in front of her. “Well, it’s late and I think I stole enough of your time,” Demetra said, taking her bag and a dangerously swollen notebook from a chair “Have a nice evening, Mr. Rutherford.” “Wait.” Cullen cursed himself. Wait for what? What he was going to tell her? Why his throat felt so dry? Why in the Void wasn’t he able to be relaxed and spontaneous? “Yes, Mr. Rutherford?” “Uh, it’s Cullen, actually.” he croaked “My family and friends call me just Cullen. I would like if you... if you want, that’s it! But I would like if you call me Cullen, as well.” Something passed over her face. It was twitch, fast and bright, and left behind a sudden tenderness that it took away his breath. Oh, he was knee-deep in trouble. “Cullen, then,” she agreed “But only if you stop with the Miss Trevelyan. Anyone calls me Demetra, friends and not!” she winked. He chuckled “Perfect, we have a deal. Uhm... what I was going to say... do you know Helen Hawke?” “The head of the Magical Effects Department? Well, I met her once when I arrived on the set for the first time.” “She invited a little group of us to try the new Nevarran Restaurant in Hero of Ferelden Street. Would you like come with me... us?” She was clearly surprised, but not displeased, Cullen thought, shifting his weight. “I don’t want to impose my presence...” she murmured. He wasn’t sure if she was blushing, she always seemed so comfortable in any situation that was strange thinking she could feel embarrassed. “I’m sure the others will be delighted to see you, Miss... Demetra. It’s a small group of old friends, nothing formal, and I’m sure you already know half of them. Like, Cassandra will come for sure! And Varric too and probably Bull...” He knew she had already met their Head of Technicians, the director and their Quanari trainer for the fighting scenes. As he thought, she nodded enthusiastically “Very well, then. I’d be glad to come. Can you give me the precise address to give to the taxi driver?” “Ah, I’d be happy to offer you a ride. A lift! I have my car here at the Studios.” he stuttered. She accepted gracefully and he couldn’t avoid smiling at her “Let’s go then.” “Uh, Cullen,” she started, pressing her lips together in amusement “I’ll wait for you here while you change your clothes. Maybe they’re a little too informal, for a public place.” Maker’s breath, he forgot he was still wearing a toweling robe and the gym trousers and plus, he was barefoot. But he hadn’t the time to feel embarrassed. He was tasting the way his name sounded on her lips. Nobody had ever pronounced it with that soft accent. With that... care? Okay, he should have definitely stopped to watch Rosalie’s favorite movies, he shook his head, quickly walking towards his dressing room. And yet, he couldn’t restrain the smile on his face. It wasn’t a date, but he was going to spend a couple of hours with Demetra. He just hoped he would be able to make the evening pleasant for her. “Let’s go, Rutherford.” he grinned at his reflection in the mirror. For once, he couldn’t wait to go out for dinner.

#cullen rutherford #demetra trevelyan #plus size inquisitor #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #fragments #stregatadallostregatto

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denvntr-blog · 7 years ago

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Writer’s Block : Varric and Cassandra

A/N : Another fic for the weary hearts. Or for all of you guys. (slight Trevelyan x Cullen pairing)

----------------------------

"YOU want me to do what?"

"Try it out, Seeker. It might land you a couple of friends here and there. Or, maybe not."

Varric stood before a disgruntled Cassandra. Wearing a sour expression, she closed the book that she held out of anger. It was the book that Varric had given to her a few days back, giving the sneak peek to his worst romance serial as a peace offering from their previous feud with one another. She then became not so much of a bother later on, spending every spare time the hour to read the new chapters of the released book. It amused and satisfied him when he basically observed Cassandra devouring the the book, page after page of endless words and sentences that deemed quite useless to him now, yet meant everything to Cassandra.

Cassandra stood up from the stool she sat on, walking towards Varric in a menacing manner.

"Varric, I appreciate you writing down the sequel for me, as per request from the Inquisitor, but to do such--" Cassandra waved her hands about, obviously baffled. "Such inappropriate actions! What kind of woman do you take me for?"

"Look, I know it sounds weird. Heck, even I'm weirded out, but I'm doing us a favor here."

Cassandra's eyebrow rose in confusion. "The both of us?"

Varric nodded. "The both of us."

Cassandra pauses for a moment, her thinking-process expression showing. After a few contemplations, she said, "You are... quite positive of this? That it will possibly remove you from your writer's block?"

"Have I ever lied to you, Seeker?"

Cassandra glared daggers at him. "As a matter of fact,--"

"Forget that thought. But yes, to answer your question, I am positive that it will work out."

She hesitates. After another few seconds of deep contemplation, she gave out a frustrated sigh.

"Tell me everything I need to do before I disagree and cut you down."

"Will do, Seeker."

-----

She moves the other pieces, her face scrunched in disgust as the last one lands into one of Orlais' landmarks.

"Ugh, Orlesians."

Cullen snickers, crossing off a task written on his papers. "I find it endearing that you're slowly getting sick of their affairs, Trevel-- Inquisitor." The small error immediately earned Cullen smug looks from Leliana and Josephine, to which Trevelyan either ignored or did not notice.

"As if that had to be pointed out." She pinpoints the several pieces scattered around Orlais. "Parties, political unrest, a new duchess getting throned or de-throned, written contracts, what more does Orlais have to offer for us to do?"

"Parties with political unrest, with a duchess getting throned or de-throned, accompanied with written contracts. Bonus points for assassins."

"Ah, of course. Remember the Winter Palace?"

"Don't remind me. The headache I've gained during our time there was incomparable to the headache I've been receiving for weeks."

"It's that bad?"

"Very."

Trevelyan places her hand on her chin, deep in thought. She moves one of the other pieces again, but as she places it on top of a landmark located in Ferelden, the door opens. The sudden interruption caused Trevelyan to squeak out a yelp, immediately letting go of the piece she held. The piece rolled until it, unfortunately, landed onto another Orlais landmark. Josephine sighed, mumbling about her encounter with the Orlesians in said landmark. She muttered something under her breath about six packs of cheese wheels with assassins wearing scandalous and preposterous attires, as chosen poorly by their leader. Vivienne and Dorian cringed at the sight, as they proceeded to go to the nearest clothing store to breathe clean air once more.

"Inquisitor." The heavy-accented voice boomed within the War Room, which silenced all three advisors, including Trevelyan. The advisors, whose directions were facing towards the door, looked at the Nevarran with shock. Trevelyan, however, was faced towards the advisors, with the table in between them. The way she called out to her just now was electrifying in a way Trevelyan couldn't explain. She could only rack inside her head if she had done anything to provoke Cassandra for her to storm all the way down here to the war room.

"Ye-Yes, Cassandra...?" Trevelyan slowly turned around, scared that she might have done something wrong. Again. When was the last time the Inquisitor hadn't done something wrong?

There were the pots. The training dummies, and the horses getting loose. Most of it was Cole's ideas, and I wanted to help him help people. In a way.

As Trevelyan's eyes landed on Cassandra's, the first thing she noticed was the lace sitting on top of her head. And then the frilly dress she wore. It was outrageously covered in pink. Trevelyan could have sworn that Cullen cringed, backing one foot away from the war table. Josephine stood, frozen, not believing her eyes. Leliana, however, stared at Cassandra with delightful amusement, but her interest piqued to almost a maximum when she spotted the shoes that Cassandra wore.

"Are those shoes made from Orlais? Val Chevin?" Leliana commented, moving towards Cassandra with a frightful speed, her gaze still not breaking away from the pair of shoes. Cassandra stood her ground, but it was evident from the look on her face that she was positively horrified at Leliana's sudden curiosity.

"I, um, yes. It is."

"Is this... the same pair of shoes that were delivered here to the Inquisition's storages, as request from an anonymous sender?" Josephine added.

Cassandra shamefully nodded, which would mean that she was the anonymous sender.

"Inquisitor, would you care for a poem?" Cassandra said, her teeth grinding. Trevelyan could tell that she didn't want to do this, but it only deepened her confusion she was doing this. On her own accord. Trevelyan looks at her advisors, who gave her a concerning and sympathetic look.

"Um. Sure?"

Herald of Andraste

You are the nicest compadre

My heart swoons over your heroic deeds

How shall you fare, when I tell you of my sinful seeds?

(Cullen : What?)

(Leliana : *tries not to snort, but a small smile escapes* Shush. Let her speak.) (Josephine : I certainly do not know what is going on.)

Might you fancy a cup of tea with me,

Or will a bloody, sweaty, and heart-racing battle satisfy thee?

You may not look that nice on a nutcracker wannabe vest,

But you'd look great and ravishing, on Cullen's sturdy desk.

(Cullen : *suddenly choking on air, grasping and reaching for the war table's edges. The pieces that Trevelyan worked so hard on to place have now been ruined and rolled over to either side of the map.*)

You use your hand to close these rifts,

But would you like for a spin, on a summer's day feast?

(Trevelyan : Yes.)

Orlesians give us much of a headache,

But you'd be fine with the pain anyway

Not when our commander perfectly handles the situation at bay.

(Cullen : Andraste be my guide, preserve my soul.)

Now, I must conclude this short-lengthed poem

(Cullen : *heaves out a sigh of relief* Thank the Maker.)

(Leliana and Josephine : *lets out a huff of slight disappointment*)

With you managing the troops, the council, and the nation, your time will not be stolen

Adieu, Inquisitor

May you strive for a more higher position.

Cassandra did a graceful yet forced bow, her head dipping really low onto the ground. Trevelyan noticed Cassandra's ears going red from sheer embarrassment, and felt her regret just from standing a few feet away. The last time Trevelyan ever did anything horrendous or as embarrassing was when she tried to do the "Orlesian Dip" with Cullen. It did not go well for them, resulting to Cullen having to lock himself away inside his office, just because he was that ashamed of himself.

With the swift movement of a Seeker, she bolted right out of the room in a blaze, her shoes producing a loud clack, clack, clack upon the floor. After her figure has gone out of sight, a messenger appears right out of the blue, scaring Cullen.

"Ser, sister Leliana's report--"

"Yes, I'm aware of that." Culen snatches the report away fro the scout, giving him a frustrated look. The scout places his fist against his armored chest, and walks away.

"Maker, I swear that messenger has been stalking my movements for how long."

Leliana chuckles.

"Especially right outside your office?"

"What--" Cullen stops, suddenly remembering his momentary talk with Trevelyan during that time, which the scout had rudely disrupted. He blushes, his hand now placed on the side of his neck in a sheepish manner.

"I--You--Thatiscompletelynotinyourlineofwork, Leliana."

"Oh, but it is. I know everything. Mostly everything."

"Even the--" Cullen stammered for a bit, when went near Leliana. "Even the thing we did...?"

"The "Orlesian Dip"? Yes." Leliana smirks at Cullen. "It'll be alright, Cullen. If it brings you some small reassurance, both of you lacked the skills to perform such a feat--"

"Okay. I've heard enough." Cullen stated, his face now flushing, as he slowly makes his way to exit out of the war room. Trevelyan looked at Leliana with much more horror, stepping back for only a few inches.

"I still have no idea what just happened." Josephine stated.

--------

"I will kill you, Varric." Cassandra said, as amshe finally wore into her other pair of boots, tightening the grip around the legs to prevent from becoming anymore loose.

Varric sat upon a wooden chair, his eyes focused onto the paper he held, scribbling away the words that kept popping inside his head. Ever since Cassandra started her 'performance', Varric had already occupied and written three papers. He was on his sisxteenth page now.

He chuckled, still writing down his thoughts. "You did a pretty solid role, Seeker. I swear I could have applauded for you once you were finished right after, but then they'd spot me and it'd ruin my writing-process."

Cassandra opened her mouth to fight back, but closed it. She sighed heavily, dumping the frilly, pink dress somewhere nearby.

"You are certain that the trilogy will be released very soon?"

Varric smirked.

"I'll let you cut my head off if this doesn't come out in stores in a matter of weeks, Cassandra."

#cassandra pentaghast #varric tethras #cullen rutherford #inquisitor trevelyan #female trevelyan #dragon age inquisition #Inquisition #cassandra and varric #leliana inquisition #josephine montilyet #dai #dragon age #da3 #myfic #myprompt #i do not own the characters #cullen x trevelyan

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ripplesofaqua · 5 years ago

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2019 Black Emporium Exchange Letter

Dear Author/Artist

I cannot wait to see what you create! Please write/draw whatever you are most comfortable with, and feel free to follow your own ideas. Thank you so much for creating something for me!

DNWs: major character death, underage, incest, non/dub-con, depictions of abuse/homophobia/racism/transphobia/etc, whitewashing or straightwashing, excessive gore/torture/violence, serious illness, body horror, A/B/O, hardcore bdsm/kink, bestiality, infidelity, angst without at least a hopeful ending

Feel free to write whatever rating you're comfortable with. If you do write smut, I tend to prefer it on the slightly less graphic side, and always with clear communication and lots of feels

Things I enjoy: strong ladies and admiration between them, fluff, banter, angst with a hopeful ending, humor, balanced and respectful relationships, mutual pining, slow burn, (rivals to) friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, oh no there's only one bed, huddling for warmth, secret admirer, long awaited reunions

From my prompts, you can also probably tell that I really love the Avvar women we meet in DAI! I’d love get to know them, and the rest of Stone-Bear Hold, better! What are some moments from their everyday lives, or how might they work together to solve a problem or defeat an enemy? Some general ideas include hunting or fighting together, sparring, rock climbing races, swimming, and telling stories and history around a campfire. They also have the warmest looking hoods, which might lend itself to huddling for warmth situations! Also, bonus points if you include Storvacker! Here are some screenshots if you need visuals: [x] [x]

1. Cassandra Pentaghast/Svarah Sun-Hair, Female Cadash/Svarah Sun-Hair, Lace Harding/Svarah Sun-Hair, Original Female Avvar/Svarah Sun-Hair

I absolutely adore Svarah! She’s so capable, confident, intelligent, wise, strong, an incredible leader with a good sense of humor... I could go on forever! I just really want to see her being the badass woman she is, and falling in love with another badass woman!

What would happen if Cass, Harding, or Cadash lived with the Hold for a time? Maybe they’re there to help open up trading or to deal with the Jaws of Hakkon. Maybe they get injured and have to spend time there recuperating. I’d love to see the slow development of mutual respect and understanding as they work, live, and fight side by side - and especially to see Cassandra/Harding/Cadash deal with some of their prejudices and come to respect Avvar culture.

Alternatively, what sort of woman might Svarah fall for? The best friend she’s had from childhood, her second-in-command who’s not afraid to challenge her judgment, the Thane of a rival Hold with whom she must learn to work together to reach a common goal?

For art: Svarah really knows how to sit on that throne of hers! Also daily Avvar life, warm hoods, bears, rock climbing, fighting side by side, arm wrestling, sunsets over the lake, blizzards, Svarah fighting with her hair on fire

2. Fullna Hethsdotten/Gyda Myrdotten

“We are not the largest hold, but our warriors are strong and our singers are pretty.” - Svarah Sun-Hair

Fullna is the Hold’s skald (vaguely like a bard), and responsible for keeping their stories and history alive. She’s only had the position a few years and hasn’t yet earned her legend-mark. Gyda is responsible for the Hold’s funerary rights. Would they nerd out together over lore, histories, and nature? They��re both fairly young and new to their positions - how might they support each other? Would they have an adventure (or perhaps something less grand!) that earns them their legend-marks? Would Fullna woo Gyda with a song?

For art: campfire stories, wooing with song, stargazing, gathering items from nature

3. Female Trevelyan/Sigrid Guldsdotten

Mage Trevelyan meets Sigrid while exploring Frostback Basin - how would each react given their backgrounds with magic? Perhaps Trevelyan chooses to recruit Sigrid, would they bond when Sigrid joins the Inquisition? If she’s sent to give lectures, Josie receives a letter that says “Sigrid Guldsdotten was a delight! Such a fresh perspective... she brought down the house during a practical demonstration of spheric-energy projections! (Both figuratively and very nearly literally. Quite invigorating!) I cannot tell you how gratifying it was to see all the old goats from the Fereldan Circles outdone by an Avvar. We must have her back. Also, I believe Verixsus invited her to his summer villa.” So perhaps some lecture circuit, Skyhold, or summer villa shenanigans and bonding - or would Sigrid and Trevelyan try to outdo each other with explosive results?

For art: something from one of the ideas above, maybe

4. Linna & Runa

In Up and Away, Linna, a fisher, cannot find her cousin Runa, who got lost climbing. Perhaps you could show that quest from either of their povs? What is the relationship between these cousins like? Did they often get lost and cause lots of trouble sneaking out to climb together while they were kids?

For art: something from one of the ideas above, maybe

5. The Lady of the Skies/Tyrdda Bright-Axe

Something based on the Saga of Tyrdda Bright-Axe [x] please! It could be a brief tender moment, something adventurous, or something angsty after the Lady of the Skies leaves - but ideally with at least a little hope at the end: “Skyward, one last trek she made, / To her lover, dream-delivered, / Raven-feathered, reunited, / Hearts both whole, now neither aching.“

For art: Hinterlands scenery, tender moments or something angsty, perhaps like this [x] momument

6. Cassandra Pentaghast/Original Female Seeker

Was there someone who Cassandra had feelings for in the past, but didn’t realize until they meet again post-Inquisition? Or perhaps meets someone new while looking for recruits. Would they rebuild the Seekers together off in the middle of nowhere? Or would they send letters from afar? Or maybe some only-one bed, huddling for warmth, mutual pining, or other tropes might fit?

For art: something from one of the ideas above, maybe

7. Leliana/Cassandra Pentaghast, Josephine Montilyet/Cassandra Pentaghast, Leliana/Josephine Montilyet

I love them all, so much, in any and all combinations. They’re so different, but they work together SO WELL and are all so skilled at what they do. Feel free to have tropey fun with them. Or maybe think about what their relationships are like before and after Inquisition. How did they meet? Did they have early feelings, which they pushed away in order to work together? Did they get involved in palace intrigue? What happens after they all go their own separate ways? Do they reconnect and confess feelings when they’re older, long after the events of Inquisition? Does one of them become Divine? Though please, not TOO much Divine Cassandra angst, if you go that route! Or maybe switch things up with a Victorian AU!

For art: I especially love rich, romantic colors and scenes for these three. Intrigue, reading novels, the theater, gardens, hiding feelings behind a fan - or a *disgusted noise* if you’re Cassandra

8. Female Hawke/Cassandra Pentaghast, Female Cadash/Cassandra Pentaghast

Feel free to throw all the tropes at these pairings! Disaster!Hawke, awkward flirting, banter, meeting heroes, smutty romance novels, secret admirer, Victorian AU - have fun!

For art: same as above!

9. Lace Harding/Leliana

“Sister Leliana glanced at me today. I think she’s going to have me killed.” But what if there were another reason Leliana took notice of her newest scout?

How would Harding’s optimism and romantic heart affect a softening Leliana? Would they banter? Would Leliana show up to Harding’s dance classes? Help Harding with her fear of heights (she mentions she hates those Frostback Basin treehouses). How does Harding become one of Leliana’s most skilled and trusted agents? You could even explore what might happen after DA:I with a Divine Leliana and Harding continuing on as an agent. Or a non-Divine Leliana and Harding dealing with what’s left of the Inquisition post-Trespasser.

For art: glances from afar, hesitantly touching hands, working late together, Harding’s dance classes and fear of heights, Leliana’s birds

#exchange letter #black emporium 2019

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thereluctantinquisitor · 8 years ago

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Baewatch

DORIANMANCE WEEK -::- DAY 5 -::- BAYWATCH AU

Rushing this out because it’s still day 5 somewhere in the world, right???

A gift for the illustrious @trashwarden. Thank you for providing us all with this lovely event and for encouraging so many content creators with such brightness and enthusiasm!

Pavelyan. Dorian Pavus x Vaxus Trevelyan (belongs to @trashwarden). Approx 2000 words, most under the cut <3

“Dorian… Hey, are you even listening to me?”

Dorian blinked, waking from his trance with a slight shiver. Sharply, he glanced across as Felix, who stood with his arm crossed, frowning.

“Oh don’t go giving me that look,” Dorian chided, rolling his eyes. “You know perfectly well the nature of my… distraction.”

Felix sighed deeply but turned anyway, scanning the beach. People rushed back and forth across the golden sand, kicking it up in fountains of fine powder as they shrieked and laughed beneath the midday sun. The water was packed with people, bobbing up and down like corks in the rolling waves.

“I… don’t see him,” Felix said after a long moment, squinting against the glare. “Is he even—”

“Here?” Dorian finished for him, then let out a bark of laughter. “Of course he’s here! Why, whatever would the people do without their dashing hero, waiting to pluck them from the throes of despair?”

“I don’t know… maybe wait for another lifeguard to do it?”

“Nonsense,” Dorian replied with a dismissive wave of the hand. “He’s over there. By the large striped umbrella. I’d know that back anywhere.”

Felix, snorting, shook his head, a smile spreading across his face. “Of course you would, Dorian. Are you ever going to go and introduce yourself to him, or should I just trip you over next time he walks past so that he stops to help?”

To Felix’s doubtless surprise, Dorian actually seemed to consider his offer for a moment. But he eventually just shook his head, a cunning gleam bright in his grey eyes. “No need for that, my friend. I have just the thing…” Without further preamble, Dorian reached down and began tugging his shirt up over his head. Felix watched, amused, as Dorian wriggled free of the clothing and held it out expectantly.

“I hope you didn’t just invite me along to be your coat-rack, Dorian,” Felix noted, but took the shirt anyway, slinging it over his shoulder. “That might just hurt my feelings.”

Flashing him a bright grin, Dorian reached out and clapped him on the back good-naturedly. “Felix, I request your company because I enjoy it. I only request your coat-rack services because, in this rare instance, I need it.”

“What exactly are you planning, Dorian?”

Dorian’s grin widened. “Tell me, have you ever heard of strategic drowning?”

Felix stared blankly for a moment, then frowned. “... No?”

Dorian winked. “Good. Now watch closely…” he turned slightly, casting his gaze out towards the open water. “I am about to coin the term.”

Vaxus sighed gustily and reached up, stretching his arms high above his head, groaning pleasantly at the way the muscles in his stomach and shoulders eased slightly with the movement. People could call it what they wanted, but lifeguard work was hard. Running along the sand every day, throwing yourself into the surf, swimming out to people who were in trouble… it took its toll. Sure, Vax was fit, but even he could use a break sometimes. Even he got sore from long days spent out beneath a burning sun.

Yet, despite it all, he smiled.

As he lowered his arms, Vax opened his eyes and cast his gaze out across the sea of swimmers, aware of the expression on his face even though he hadn’t consciously decided to wear it. In a way, he couldn’t help it. Smiling was just… who he was. It felt right, even when his body ached and he couldn’t stop sweating from the heat of the day. Even when he literally had sand in his…

Something caught his eye. Gaze locked on the water, he fumbled around his neck for his binoculars and raised them with an unsteady hand, heart beating oddly fast in his chest. It was…

… it was him.

Vax’s smile deepened as he watched the swimming man through the binoculars, enjoying the way his arms pulled him so effortlessly through the water. A part of Vax – admittedly a large part – wanted nothing more than to know his name. To know him. Even though Vax saw him on the beach fairly often lately, they’d never actually had the chance to speak. It was, of course, partly Vax’s fault. Sometimes he just couldn’t get away from duty long enough to even consider starting a conversation. There just… wouldn’t be enough time to do it justice. But other times, well, his nerves got the better of him. Vax built up the courage to wink once, but it was possible the man had missed it as he ran past on his patrol.

But he’s always with someone, Vax thought solemnly, managing to tear his gaze from the swimming man just long enough to quickly scan the beach. Sure enough, his usual companion was there, a shirt draped over his shoulder, standing in the shade of the one of the many beach umbrellas that dotted the sand. I wonder if they’re together. Maybe I should ask. Or maybe I…

From the water, someone cried out. It was a woman’s voice, shrill and panicked. Wheeling around, Vax felt a familiar surge of adrenaline as he frantically threw his gaze out across the water, hunting for the anomaly. Searching for the…

A woman was waving, her eyes wide with panic. For a second, Vax was certain she needed his help. However, once she noticed she had his attention, she turned and started frantically pointing out towards the deeper water.

Pointing at where he had once been.

Eyes going wide, Vax reached out and grabbed his radio, calling in the rescue, telling the others to cover his watch. He did not even wait for a reply.

Board under his arm, he took off at a sprint towards the crashing surf.

… sixteen… seventeen… eighteen… nineteen… twenty…

Dorian would have sighed, but unfortunately he was underwater and such a thing would prove rather detrimental to his health. Well, moreso than the fact that he was, indeed, underwater.

How long does the average lifeguard take to reach a drowning swimmer? He wondered absently, allowing his thoughts to help him pass the time beneath the rolling waves, that heavy silence pressing in on all sides. Then again, given his previous endeavours, I doubt it would be fair to refer to him as average by any means…

Lungs starting to burn, Dorian made the executive decision to breach the surface in an artful mass of flailing limbs and take a breath. He kicked up towards where the sun filtered down through the water and delivered what he believed was a marvellous performance, gulping in a lungful of air, his arms splashing water about with just the right amount of gusto. I should consider a career in this, he mused, blinking rapidly, trying to clear the water from his stinging eyes. Apparently I’m quite the capable actor.

Kicking, Dorian stayed up for a little longer, managing to finally chase away the last of the water from his eyes and look out towards the shore.

The rather distant shore.

Well… that was going to be a problem.

With a slight spike of panic, Dorian decided that submerging himself again would not be wise, and instead cast his mind back through years and years of books and articles. Swim horizontal to the shore, his mind recited as his body moved to comply. Once you are free of the current, begin swimming in.

Well, that would be much easier if he was a strong swimmer. As it was, he was average at best. Regardless, he started following his own advice, but was all too aware of the pull of the water, the undulating of the waves, the sting of the salt in his mouth and eyes. It dawned on him that his strategic drowning plan might require an amended title. There was nothing overly strategic about any of this.

“Hey! Are you all right?”

Dorian baulked and turned in the water just in time to see a figure approaching on a board, paddling with strong, muscular arms towards him. Never mind, Dorian thought hastily, reaching up to wave a hand at the approaching lifeguard, whose face was the picture of honest concern. This is going just fine after all. I remain, rightfully, a genius.

At least, that was what he intended to tell himself for just a little longer as his hairy-chested saviour approached like the divine descended, majestic as he rode upon the tops of the waves.

“Been better, I’d like to think,” Dorian replied, and was surprised by how breathless he was. The very same flash of realisation also pointed out the fact that his arms and legs were burning from fighting the current. “I ah... don’t suppose you’re here to lend a hand, are you?”

To Dorian’s surprise, the lifeguard laughed and grinned, clearly sensing the situation was not as dire as it had initially appeared. “Of course,” he said, paddling closer, lining the board up beside Dorian before slipping off into the water. “Here, hold on to this. I’ll get us back, don’t worry. Just rest.”

Gratefully, Dorian wrapped his arms over the board and sighed, leaning against it heavily. Not the most elegant of manoeuvres, but he was, frankly, exhausted. “Me? Worry? With a dashing lifeguard like you at my side? That seems hardly necessary.”

Again, the man laughed, his body beside the board, expertly guiding them towards land. “You’d be surprised how much people can panic out here. But you’re in good hands. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done this.”

Dorian felt his mouth curve into a dreamy smile as he watched his saviour, who's piercing blue eyes were intent on the shore. Occasionally, he pushed the board, angling it slightly in a different direction. How he knew to do that was beyond Dorian, but he simply enjoyed it for what it was. Finally, some time alone. It occurred to him that he should at least try to make something of it.

“Dorian Pavus,” he said suddenly, drawing the man’s attention. “My name, that is.”

Breathing a little harder than before, the lifeguard grinned. He had such a dazzling smile…

“Vaxus Trevelyan, but my friends just call me Vax.”

“A good name, that,” Dorian noted, eyeing him approvingly. “I’d rather like to say it again some time. Perhaps when I ask you to dinner once we reach solid land?”

Vaxus’ otherwise consistent kicking suddenly faltered, his eyes going wide for a few brief moments as he turned and stared, clearly taken aback. For a second, Dorian felt a familiar sinking feeling in his stomach. Too forward, I suppose. Kaffas…

“I… I mean, that uh…” Vax stammered, but Dorian raised a hand, releasing a gentle breath.

“Ah, forget I mentioned it. Half-drowned and what-have-you, remember? It appears I neglected to consult my brain before engaging my mouth.”

They continued on in silence for a moment, the water washing around them, the sounds of the swimmers and beachgoers steadily growing louder as they made their way in. Well, there you have it, Dorian thought bitterly. A fair plan, if you weren’t such a hasty fool about it. You always have to push things, don’t you…

“Ah… Dorian?”

“Yes?”

Vaxus slowed their speed down to a gentle paddle, drawing himself closer to the board, relying on it more for support as he began to tire. Panting, he glanced over and met Dorian’s gaze. “If you were to ask me out to dinner… I’d say yes.”

Dorian raised his brows in surprise. “I… you would?”

Vaxus nodded, that grin once again spreading across his handsome face, hair wet and plastered to his head. “Sure! I mean, if you didn’t, I’d just have to ask you anyway.”

Rendered momentarily speechless, all Dorian could think to do was laugh. But it was a bright, genuine laugh, carrying with it a certain measure of relief. What a fascinating man he is, Dorian mused, now recovered enough to help Vax swim them both back to shore. Certainly, this didn’t go entirely to plan… but it also did not go poorly.

As they finally got close enough to touch the tips of their toes to the sand, Dorian paused, his sudden hesitation drawing his new friend’s attention. Their eyes met, and Dorian caught a piece of Vax’s smile and shone it back.

“So… this is close enough to shore, yes?” Dorian cleared his throat exaggeratedly. “Dinner tonight, Vax?”

Vaxus laughed at that, reaching up to sweep the stray strands of hair off his face. His voice was nothing but warm as he replied.

“Absolutely.”

#dorianmance week #pavelyan #dorian pavus #vaxus trevelyan #dorxus #felix alexius #trashwarden #other people's ocs #i apologise in advance if this is typo-city #i wanted to get it done before all my guests came over this afternoon!#i'll probably end up doing a second edit tonight >.>#baywatch au #dragon age fanfiction #<3<3 thank you for being such a gem #and i hope you feel better soon!

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