Unwanted is a canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to Skyhold for a month, to compete for Cullen's affections. One of these four women is Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, the protagonist.
The story takes the style of a period romance (when all its characters are playing along) and is presented as a slow burn over the course of the month, which sees Cullen and Trevelyan go from strangers to enemies to friends to pining fools.
For more information about the main characters and world state, see this post! / For more information about the changes made to Skyhold, see this post!
Chapter list
Prologue
Trevelyan's mother has a surprise! It's not a fun surprise.
Prologue - Addendum
Josephine has a surprise! It's also not a fun surprise.
ARC ONE
Lady Trevelyan arrives at Skyhold, meets her competitors and the fortress' residents, and tries to find her place in the Inquisition.
Chapter 1: A Cold Opening
Trevelyan journeys to Skyhold, and meets two of her fellow competitors.
Chapter 2: Girls on Tour
Reeling from last chapter's revelation, Trevelyan meets the final competitor.
Chapter 3: Meeting Your Match
At the welcome gala, Trevelyan and Cullen finally meet. It goes... poorly.
Chapter 4: Skeins and Schemes
Trevelyan and the Ladies discuss the gala, and learn when they'll see Cullen.
Chapter 5: Give Him A Chance
Trevelyan and Cullen go for a walk.
Chapter 6: Hit the Books
Trevelyan visits the library, and makes a new acquaintance.
Chapter 7: Recommending Herself
Trevelyan applies for a job, to everyone's surprise.
Chapter 8: Idle Reports
Trevelyan's first day on the job involves the one thing she is trying to avoid.
Chapter 9: Further Questions
The Commander visits the Undercroft, with questions.
Chapter 10: Posthaste
The Ladies receive letters from friends and family--Trevelyan included.
Chapter 11: Rumour Mill
Trevelyan and Touledy discuss the Commander and the competition.
Chapter 12: Unloading Baggage
Trevelyan and Samient help with a delivery.
Chapter 13: Lesson One
Trevelyan and Cullen go for a walk. Again.
ARC TWO
Trevelyan decides to play her own game, and learns more about the Commander in the process, realising why he is the way he is.
Chapter 14: Checkmate
Trevelyan catches Cullen playing chess.
Chapter 15: Lady Samient's Gambit
Trevelyan tries to set Cullen up with Samient.
Chapter 16: Baroness Touledy's Strategy
Trevelyan tries to set Cullen up with Touledy.
Chapter 17: Lady Erridge's Recipe
Trevelyan tries to set Cullen up with--oh, you get the picture.
Chapter 18: Lady Trevelyan's Folly
Trevelyan witnesses the results of her efforts.
Chapter 19: Lyrium
The Commander is not feeling well.
Chapter 20: Utmost Sympathy
Erridge worries her crumble may have caused the Commander's illness.
Chapter 21: Forgive Me
Trevelyan is called to meet with the Commander.
Chapter 22: Hardly Working
Dagna and Trevelyan test their device, with a surprise visitor's help.
Chapter 23: Meddlesome Women
Lady Erridge has a revelation about the Commander and Trevelyan.
Chapter 24: The Banquet - Part 1
The Ladies prepare for what is surely to be a memorable night.
Chapter 25: The Banquet - Part 2
Absolutely nothing is wrong, and the banquet is going great.
Chapter 26: The Banquet - Part 3
The most successful banquet in the history of Thedas is, finally, over.
ARC THREE
Trevelyan tries to focus on her purpose with the Inquisition, but there is more to all of this than she had expected.
Chapter 27: Part Four
Trevelyan seeks out Cullen, to finish their conversation.
Chapter 28: Barrel of Laughs
Something isn't right here.
Chapter 29: Ostwick's Calling
As if everything weren't enough already, the Baroness wants to talk.
Chapter 30: Lesson Two
Cullen finally confesses to Trevelyan.
Chapter 31: Wickedness and Grace
Josephine has some explaining to do.
Chapter 32: Girls Supporting Girls
The day of the Dales trip has finally arrived.
Chapter 33: Lady Erridge's Recipe (Reprise)
Lady Erridge cooks up trouble.
Chapter 34: Lady Samient's Gambit (Reprise)
Lady Samient makes her play.
Chapter 35: Baroness Touledy's Strategy (Reprise)
Baroness Touledy prepares to fight.
Chapter 36: Lady Trevelyan's Folly (Reprise)
Lady Trevelyan returns to Skyhold.
Chapter 37: Red Lyrium
What happened in the Dales?
Chapter 38: Bride-to-Be
Lady Samient has an announcement Trevelyan isn't ready to hear.
Chapter 39: Duel Purpose
A duel is about to take place! Apparently.
Chapter 40: The Arcanist
Lady Montilyet wishes to meet with Trevelyan.
ARC FOUR
Trevelyan, now knowing the future she wants, fights to make it hers.
Chapter 41: Ladies First
The Ladies prepare for the final ball.
Chapter 42: The Ball
Skyhold, it's time to party!
Chapter 43: Afterparty
One last sleepover for the Ladies.
Chapter 44: Not Over Yet
Trevelyan bids the Ladies farwell--but it's not a happily ever after yet.
Chapter 45: Another Time
Trevelyan sees the Commander, one last time.
Chapter 46: Lesson Three (a.k.a. Go F**k Yourself)
Okay, I'm editing the fic again. Last time, I hadn't left it long enough, and I had a short timeframe to get it finished. So, while most chapters are 99% there, a few suffered for the deadline. I'm going to take my time, edit those on the quiet, and see if it helps.
A story of romance, politics, and drama, which continues ever on.
Supplemental material for Unwanted. In this post-script, Trevelyan has something to ask. 579 words.
Unwanted: Request
The Commander was often to be found within the barracks of Skyhold, sequestered between sleeping cots and polished boots. Goodness knew why he insisted on carrying out inspections himself when he had so much else to do, but he felt it was good to show his face when he could spare a moment.
Such an act of humanity, however, had caused great inconvenience to his dear Trevelyan, who’d been rerouted from both his office and the armoury in search of him, only stumbling into this place after a tedious jaunt around the castle walls.
“Commander, there you are!” she called, the relief evident in her voice. “I’ve had quite the excursion to find you.”
Though Cullen dismissed his soldiers in a business-like manner, there was no concealing the fondness with which he turned to greet her. “You were looking for me?”
“Yes, I have a request.”
“Oh?”
“From Dagna.”
“Oh.”
The gladness in his eyes was extinguished in an instant, and his posture resigned itself to matters of propriety. Trevelyan would have felt guilty about it, if he hadn’t give her such a run-around to find him.
“Dagna requires some… volunteers,” she explained. “She’s cracked an enchantment designed for strengthening armour, but theory can only see her so far.”
Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
Trevelyan whispered, “She needs some poor fools to wear the armour while she swings a battering ram at them.”
“Why does she need them to be in the armour? Can she not test it unworn?”
“She has. Unfortunately, it succeded. However, she needs someone in it to confirm it truly works, and is shielding them from both the pain and force of the blow.”
Cullen shook his head. “She can’t test it on herself?”
Trevelyan stared at him. “You think she hasn’t?”
“Understood.” He glanced around the barracks, and sighed. “Well, if she’d like volunteers, she can ask them herself. I won’t send anyone to her. Not after last time.”
Trevelyan grimaced in remembrance of it—everyone was all-right in the end, though. Mostly. “That’s all she requires, thank you.”
She attempted to depart, but Cullen motioned for her to stay. “Why did she send you?” he asked.
Trevelyan put on an unparalelled display of innocence. “Hm?”
“Why didn’t she send Nymira?” He faced her, arms folded across his chest, and stared her down. “Or Herzt?”
“I’m… well, they’re busy.”
“And you aren’t?”
“Not when she asked this of me, no.”
He continued to glare at her, burrowing through her facade of naivete. It was a weapon of his that the soldiers in that room knew well. Trevelyan shifted.
“Would you have said yes if Nymira or Herzt had asked you?” she wondered.
“That’s what I was considering. She sent you the other day, as well, when she wanted me to agree with her plans for rebuilding the dungeon.”
Trevelyan batted her eyelashes. “Oh, did she?”
“Trevelyan.”
There was little escaping the matter at this point. She was quite decisively caught. “Well,” she said, “you are… far better persuaded, when the requests come from my mouth.”
Cullen grunted, but what began as a growl perished as a sigh. “I… Don’t expect this to work again.”
Trevelyan laughed. “I admire your optimism, Commander.” She gathered up her skirts, and smiled. “Farewell. We’ll do this again tomorrow, shall we?”
“No.”
Still giggling, she trotted out of the room, and he watched her go. The moment the door shut, he smiled to himself, and thought fondly of tomorrow.
A story of romance, politics, and drama, which continues ever on.
Supplemental material for Unwanted. In this post-script, Trevelyan awaits a return.
(Masterpost. Beginning. Words: 1,278. Rating: all audiences.)
Bonus Chapter: The Absence of Adamant
It felt as if it had been more than a year since Trevelyan had seen the Commander.
Though such feeling was a tad dramatic, given that it had actually been weeks at most. And they had written to one another throughout, the Commander replying with astonishing frequency for man attempting to lay siege to a Grey Warden stronghold.
Those letters were the highlight of her mundane days. Despite the comfort of Skyhold, and the satisfaction of her work as Arcanist, wandering the halls was far less lonesome with his words in her hand.
He spoke of the heat of the desert, and how he yearned for the mountain chill. He spoke of the clear night skies, and how she would appreciate them more than he. He spoke of her, and how he wished this had not come between them.
Trevelyan endeavoured to reply, but struggled to conjure the words. She had rewritten each letter a dozen times, yet sent them still unsatisfied, a self-criticism she could not shake. Though as little as she thought of her letters, his ended with the same request every time:
Write back soon.
And so she did, until the very last—for as soon as she had inked her quill and put it to parchment, word arrived. The Inquisition marched home.
Trevelyan’s anticipation was equal only to her dread. Though his return was all she hoped for, she feared her mouth could not pay the debts her written word owed. She had never read a romance that did not have an inadequate sequel.
Too soon, it came; a glimpse of armour through the peaks. Whispers spread, bells rung. Soldiers swarmed the ramparts. Helms and banners crested the slope of Skyhold’s approach, to great cheer and applause. Trevelyan squeezed her way through the crowd, excuses and apologies on her tongue. Pressed against the parapet, surrounded by its mirth, she added her voice to the roar of celebration.
Yet that defeaning clamour faded to silence, upon sight of him.
Though she had expected weariness, or perhaps dishevelment, Cullen rode his mare with the bearing of a true battle-hardened general. Whether truth or facade, it did not matter. That he rode through the gates whatsoever was a solace in itself.
Trevelyan broke from the battlements, for the throng of the courtyard below. Oh, the fervour with which she sought him, weaving past horses and their riders, as if she had somewhere to be! What foolishness it seemed in hindsight. For, as soon as she found him, she balked.
Cullen was dismounted, his mare attended to by a waiting stablehand. Lieutenants and captains surrounded him, keen to report in. Scouts brought news from encampments afar. Messengers competed for a moment of his time.
Trevelyan cursed her lovestruck folly. To think, that he would forgo his duty to see her—and based on such little acquaintance! He was their Commander. There was war, and much of it to do. How presumptive it was, to assign herself such importance! And yet—
“Arcanist?”
The knowledge of her presence was all that he required. He dismissed his soldiers, the work abandoned. That coveted attention was hers after all. In a forgotten spot by the stairs, where the arbor blessing tumbled down the stonework, they met.
Though it would be embarrassing to detail the awkwardness of this reunion, for Trevelyan, blundering through her words, did not acquit herself with glory. She had little explanation for this newfound shyness—except, perhaps, that she had forgotten what it was like. To be in his presence; to hear his voice. He smelt of mud and horses. His hands were rough and warm.
The interruption of some lieutenant came as a relief, for once. Though Cullen himself was reluctant, and the matter they spoke of not urgent, he was needed—and she could spare him.
“I have to meet with the War Council,” he said, “but as soon as my duties are complete, would you visit me, this evening?”
Trevelyan promised.
Little else mattered that day but the setting of the sun, and the journey to his study. Upon her arrival, he was, quite expectedly, at his desk. Documents scattered across its surface held his attention—until her entrance diverted it entirely.
“Oh, Trevelyan, forgive me,” he said, setting quill and ink aside, “I was writing to the families of our soldiers. I lost track of time.”
Trevelyan’s hand lingered upon the door. “If this is not a good moment...”
“Please, stay.” Cullen emerged from behind his desk. “I need time away from it, I think.”
Stood in the glow of the candlelight, she could take measure of him proper. He was washed and clean-shaven—a little gaunt, perhaps, from a soldier’s diet of rations—yet in his expression, he was... weary.
“How do you feel?”
“Tired.” He leant hard against his bookcase; its contents shuddered, though he did not seem to notice. “It’s difficult to acknowledge the victory, when you know what was lost to achieve it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I am. It’s not exactly pleasant conversation.”
Trevelyan came to rest beside him. “It’s worth talking about.”
Strange, how natural this proximity felt. It ought to have been harder, in the wake of her earlier humiliation; yet familiarity took hold, and in its comfort, they spoke as if they had never been apart. His demeanour eased in her presence, and the curve of a smile dared to form. “I am... glad to be back at Skyhold,” he murmured, “with you.”
Warmth flushed her cheeks. “I am rather glad of that as well.”
“Thank you for writing to me. Your letters were a welcome distraction.”
Really? Trevelyan had thought them rather silly. But if they had gotten him through the fighting, the tragedy? Then, as far as she was concerned, the sillier, the better.
“I am sorry that my replies weren’t that... poetic,” he muttered. “I am no good with words. As you know.”
“The exactness of your words mattered little,” she reassured him, “what mattered to me was that you had written them.” Daring, perhaps, she brushed a finger against his hand. Cullen exposed his palm, and hers fit neatly upon it. Their fingers intertwined. “Though words… are not quite the same as this.”
Her closeness and sentiment were interpreted as hoped; stroking a hair from her face, he asked, “May I?”
In truth, this was the promise of their letters. Their longing had not been for conversation, but for the sweetness of a kiss. Such awkwardness in the courtyard, for it was only in privacy that touch and caress could do what words could not.
She wished to be hearth-fire to him, a home-comfort. For him to rest his weary soul upon her lips, so that the battleworn knight might shed his armour, and relinquish the man beneath.
Their kiss only ended so that he could hold her close, her head rested upon his chest. Into its warmth, she whispered, “To think that I feared this.”
Cullen parted from her, concerned. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I had thought that, when you returned, perhaps you might not like me so much.”
Cullen, toying with her hand, quit his play and lifted it instead to his lips. “I wished every day to be here with you,” he murmured.
“Oh.” Funny, how so little needed to be said to put one’s mind to rest. She would listen to its whispers no more, for there were far sweeter things to hear. “And you say you are no good with words.”
“I don’t intend to be poetic,” he admitted. “Merely honest.”
She snuck a kiss onto his cheek, and watched him smile. “That is better than poetry.”
A story of romance, politics, and drama, which continues ever on.
Supplemental material for Unwanted. In this post-script, Skyhold celebrates Satinalia.
(Masterpost. Beginning. Words: 4,941. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: alcohol mention, alcohol consumption - HOWEVER you can interpret the ambiguous drink at the end as spiced mead OR a nice sbiten.)
Bonus Chapter: Feastday
Satinalia at Skyhold was quite different to how the Circle always did it. While, yes, the Templars were allowed to laugh for once, and the food was slightly better than the usual fare, the most precious moments of Ostwick’s Feastday were those of dim candlelight and whispered conversation. Within the privacy of the mages’ dormitories, modest gifts were exchanged. Inexpensive trinkets, handmade goods, hard-to-obtain items. Nothing so loud or extravagant.
Then again, they did have an annual game with the Templars in which they would try to keep Knight-Captain Poller’s helmet hidden until midnight, by which time it had to be secretly returned to his room. If you were caught with it at any point, you lost. Trevelyan once hid it in the stores, between a box of empty vials and a broken crate. Undetectable.
Though Skyhold was more raucous than even that. Practically Antivan, in that the entire week prior was buzzing with both anticipation and preparation!
Trevelyan herself had been quite hard at work, sourcing the perfect gifts for her friends. An enchanted quill for Josephine (able to retain ink for far longer than a standard quill!), a draught of Fereldan beer for Dorian—delivered in secret, to maintain his precious reputation—and, of course, all the presents for the Ladies.
For Lady Erridge, Trevelyan had purchased a couple of pleasantly simple cookbooks as an endorsement of her kitchen pursuits—as well as a romance novel, in which the love interest was a baker, to serve as inspiration. In return, she received pretty silk handkerchiefs, monogrammed with Erridge’s delicate embroidery, and some hand-made flower paper, which was far too nice to ever be written on.
To Giles, Trevelyan had sent two little chess pieces—an emperor and an empress—carved by Blackwall to resemble everything Trevelyan could describe of Giles and Vichy. Despite the odds, they turned out far better than expected, and bore some genuine resemblance to their namesakes. Giles was quite pleased, and sent back a trio of finger-woven bracelets—one for each Lady—plaited with threads of pink, purple, black, and blue. Something to keep them all woven together.
The Baroness had been the trickiest recipient. The woman wanted for nothing—which is why Trevelyan turned her focus instead to Thallia. Books and materials of magical interest were sent, and had reportedly been received with great enthusiasm! So the Baroness, quite naturally, spared no expense in repaying the favour.
The package arrived on Feastday itself, swaddled in dainty, coloured paper, and tied together with a perfect bow. Trevelyan eagerly tore it open, to reveal a fabric beneath—boiled wool, soft as the clouds, in an elegant shade of muted blue. It was a dress, with long sleeves and a flared skirt—somewhat understated in its beauty, but made with elegant practicality, for the winter months.
The note with which it came offered some explanation as to the bestowal of such a treasure: the Baroness had thought Trevelyan in need of something to wear that was perhaps not of her parents’ choosing. And she was, as always, quite right, for Trevelyan already had an event in mind: the feast of Skyhold.
This feast was to be held in the Great Hall—as well as the tavern, and the armoury, and anywhere they could comfortably fit a table, really. Though the Undercroft had been suggested as a location and the idea of lyrium-enchanted cutlery floated, Josephine had been swift to tell Dagna ‘no’, and that the Undercroft staff would be dining in the hall with the rest of them.
Thus, Trevelyan arrived, to find the hall decorated as beautifully as her own self. Banners were unfurled, candles lit, tables set. Branches of fir and pine adorned the walls, scattered with colorful ribbons. Their vibrancy was shared by the guests, many of whom sported fantastical masks. Not the Orlesian kind—these were far stranger, and sillier, and more joyous.
Among them, her dear Cullen stuck out like a sore thumb. Maskless and muted in colour, she caught sight of him, mingling amongst the circus-like troupe of their friends. Yet, the merriment of the day could not long be kept from his face—as he saw her enter, and began to smile.
“Trevelyan,” he greeted, reaching for her hand out of habit, “you are… beautiful.” He pressed a kiss to her curled fingers, and she left hers upon his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said. “As are you.”
“Your dress… I don’t believe I’ve seen it before?”
“Oh, yes—it’s new!” She performed a little twirl, so that he might see her skirt flutter and flare. “Clarisse sent it, as a gift. I thought it was perfect for the banquet.”
“Oh. Have you had many gifts?”
“A few, yes, though far more than I am used to! Oh, you should see it later—it’s in my quarters, and I’m yet to hang it, but—Josephine commissioned a portrait of the Ladies and I together!”
Rather ingeniously, too. To avoid the need for a sitting—given one was quite impossible—she utilised the pictures of the Ladies that had been sent to her whilst she was scouting for suitors. It was not easy by any means, but the artist had created the most lifelike resemblances, even from such meagre reference.
“And Dagna’s gift, Maker… she’s procured a telescope, for the mages’ tower!” Though technically requisitioned for the mages as a whole, Dagna made it clear of whom she thought and intended it for. “When the sun sets, if the skies are clear, I would adore for you to come with me and peer through it.”
“Of course,” said Cullen, “I would be glad to.”
Trevelyan ought to have been happy with such an answer—but the way he said it, it sounded so dour. And the little droop, at the corner of his brows. Something was wrong.
Had she to guess, she would say it was envy. They had agreed some weeks ago not to get one another gifts this day. He himself was plenty and enough—she had no need of material proof of his devotion. But she knew him, and his tendencies. To see others bestow her with such tributes and to give none himself would tug at him, no doubt (despite her asking a thousand times if there was issue with the agreement, and him repeatedly saying no).
Trevelyan cupped his cheek, and watched the smile return to his face. “I’ll be severely disappointed if we do not spend at least the evening together, Cullen,” she warned him, before withdrawing her hand, and sighing. “It is a shame I shan’t be sat with you.”
He looked out across the hall. Though there was a perfectly sizeable table for at least twenty by the dais, it was reserved for none but the Inquisitor’s innermost circle. “I know,” he muttered, reluctant for their hands to part. “But I won’t be far.”
“Everyone!” came a call, from the Inquisitor’s sacred table. Josephine stood before it, hands clasped together. “Please, make your way to your seats, so that our ‘Inquisitor’ may say a few words.”
There was a certain eagerness with which the gathered guests went about following this instruction—for they knew what was to come next. As was Feastday tradition, a fool had been named ruler for the day. Given Skyhold had no true ruler—but it did have an Inquisitor—it came to be that the chosen one was named as the Inquisition’s new (and temporary) leader.
The temporariness was certainly a boon, given the role had been granted to none other than Sera. Sat with her feet up on the table (for no one could tell her otherwise, today) she groaned as Josephine prompted her to speak. This grumpiness was not borne of nothing: several of her inquistorial decrees had already been denied. One, involving the nobles working the kitchen all day and serving the staff of the castle, was shot down quite swiftly by Josephine, with the Inquisitor pointing out that, ‘there is a limit to my power, Sera’.
Thus, she got up with a grumble and the sticking out of her tongue, and addressed the congregation—in the haughtiest, highest faux-noble voice possible:
“Ladies and whatevers, today one may do whichsoever shit one pleases! Use whatever fork, wear any shit you like, and be as loud as you want, or else we shall dunk your feet in pig slop!” She dropped the act, and with her usual brusqueness, shouted: “Now shut up and eat!”
Applause went up, cheers and whoops amongst the din. Cutlery banged against wood with childish enthusiasm, and tankards crashed into each other as toasts were made, to the new—and already quite beloved—Inquisitor. Bull leant over specially, to knock his drink against Sera’s, as she plonked back into her seat.
Chuckling politely, Josephine thanked her, and shared in her sentiments: “Well, I suppose we must do as our Inquisitor says! Please, friends—do ‘shut up’ and eat!”
She descended onto her own seat, as the room descended into cacophonous chatter. Yet the latter was cut short, as Josephine’s arse hit the cushion, and unleashed an almighty parping sound—which echoed to the very rafters.
All looked to her in the silence that followed, as she scrambled to her feet, and ripped away the offending cushion. Aghast, she held aloft that which had been hidden beneath it: a (now deflated) pig’s bladder. The giggles spreading across her table infected the room entirely, and all erupted into uproarious laughter. Yet, there were none so uproarious as Sera herself—whose reaction had her confidently identified as the culprit.
Though most reasonably expected her to scold, Josephine smiled, and shook her head. “It seems Feastday has truly begun!” she joked, to the applause of the attendees—who took the mirth of the moment, and went about their meals with giddiness and grins.
The Undercroft table was an exemplar of this spiritedness. Over bites of beef, and with toasts to health and happiness, gifts were exchanged and jokes were played. Trevelyan herself had agreed with Herzt that, instead of presents—which Herzt had declared no real want for—they would prank one another instead.
To this end, she presented him with a teensy, thin, and shoddily-wrapped parcel. Dagna, sat across from them, took an interest in it, as Herzt peeled away the paper with a practically fawning amount of care, laying it in an organised pile beside his plate. But, once he was done, he held up to the light its former contents: a small, fine-toothed comb.
“For all your bountiful hair,” teased Trevelyan, of the decidedly clean-shaven and hairless Herzt. Dagna snorted.
“Ah,” said Herzt, with a nod of approval. “Well done, Arcanist. That is, indeed, an illogical gift.”
“Why, thank you! I should hope yours is equally as terrible.”
Herzt revealed a single leaf of vellum, and handed it to her. “Here, Arcanist.”
Oh, an interesting move. Trevelyan pored over the writing upon it. It read as if a report on the efficiency of the Undercroft in its red lyrium investigations, but she was sure there would be something erroneous within it. Yet she read it three times as he watched, and found nothing except his typical calibre of infallible accuracy.
With a grin, Dagna asked, “Is the joke that you’re making her work her day off?”
Herzt shook his head. “No. Look, Arcanist.” He pointed to the date, written at the head of the report. “It is dated incorrectly. It says 8:42 Dragon, instead of 9:42.”
Trevelyan chuckled. “It seems the joke is on my abilities of observation!”
“Yes, Arcanist, you should have noticed it.”
“I fear this is why I need your assistance, Herzt,” she told him. “I am only half as useful without you.”
“Do not worry. I shall serve with you as long as I am required,” Herzt replied.
Trevelyan smiled. She folded up the little report, and tucked it aside, to be kept safe. “Forever, then?”
“If it be so.”
Warmed by the notion, Trevelyan returned to her meal. Dagna, it appeared, had done the same—and thus, it was through a mouthful of potato that she said (with worrying enthusiasm), “Next time, we should prank each other!”
Trevelyan laughed. “I dread to think the sort of joke you’d play on me! Will you enchant my clothes with a fluorescent glow, or shall you send my room to the Fade?”
Dagna’s eyes lit up. “Don’t give me ideas! What would you do to me?”
“Hm…” Trevelyan regarded her for a moment, and found the perfect answer. “Give you soap and a cloth.”
“Hey!” Dagna scoffed. “I made sure to clean myself up specially. I won’t let down the Undercroft.”
Trevelyan stuck her fork towards a charcoal-like smear upon Dagna’s neck. “Then what’s that?”
Dagna snatched up a napkin and wiped at the stain—only rubbing it further into her skin. “Well, I might have tried out the new forging mask you got me. In my defence, it fits great! Much comfier than the last one.”
“And much less likely to fall apart at a moment’s notice,” Trevelyan said, recalling how much the previous mask had deteriorated. The leather strap alone had been worn down to a ribbon! Though, such was the intensity of their work. “I’m glad it suits you. What did you test it on?”
That was all the prompting Dagna needed to launch into a detailed description of her latest experiment. Trevelyan and Herzt listened intently, as cups were refilled, and desserts brought. They chattered away until the feast’s end—and Josephine rose to announce that the dancing would finally begin.
But as the feastgoers’ feet hit the floor, they noticed something upon it. Shadows, rippling through the beams of low winter light which streamed from every window. All eyes swung towards the panes—and saw beyond them the remarkable wonder of fresh, falling snow.
“To shit with dancing!” Sera commanded. “We’re off outside!”
This order brooked no objection. The people of Skyhold spilled out into the courtyard. Not just those of the hall; crowds poured from the armoury, the tavern, the towers, and the walls. One might think them mad—for, living in the Frostbacks, they ought to have seen their fair share of snow. But one of the quirks of Skyhold’s warded climate was that it never really snowed. Blizzards came and battered against the buttresses, but the furthest they could breach into the castle was no further than the battlements. Yet, now, to the amazement of all—snow fell in Skyhold.
It did not take long for the games to begin. Children were first to play, quite naturally—but the adults soon followed. Sera shoved snow down the back of Blackwall’s shirt and was chased for it, retaliatory snowball in hand. Krem announced that they ought to use Bull’s ‘tits’ as target practice, while Cassandra landed a shot square on Varric’s exposed chest. It was not long before the entire castle had commenced warfare, in the form of a snowball fight.
Trevelyan skirted the fray, hoping to spot Cullen among the throng. No luck. Flying snow criss-crossed her vision, and made it difficult to pick even the brightly-dressed amongst them out of the mayhem!
So she was fortunate, then, that Dorian announced his presence.
“Arcanist!” he called, drawing her gaze—which quickly snapped to the snowball in his hand. Her eyes flared.
“Dorian, no!”
Too late. The ball was soaring towards her. Trevelyan stumbled out of the way, fortunate that Dorian, unaided by the customary assistance of his magical abilities, was not so skilled with his aim.
“Dorian, don’t! You’ll ruin my dress!”
“It’s you who chose to wear it to this nonsense!”
His cackle heralded the throw of another snowball. Trevelyan broke into a run, fleeing from the battleground. Dorian made an attempt to pursue her, but gave up as she reached the defensible battlement stairs—and as a heroic Varric sent a snowball shattering against his back.
Trevelyan escaped, to the safety of Cullen’s tower. She expected to find it as if a fortress of old—steadfast, yet unoccupied—but noticed, as she neared, a hint of movement beyond the window. Curious, and forming a theory, she pushed open the door.
And she was quite correct. Inside—stood behind his desk, shuffling about his papers—was Cullen. Maker knows how he always got back here so fast, but there was a determination within him to work, which manifested as a kind of magnetism ever towards this damned office.
“Cullen?”
He startled upon noticing her entry into his sanctum of self-sabotage. “Trevelyan! I thought you were with the others.”
“I was, until they launched an attack. I came here for safety. Can I assume the same of you”—she tipped her head towards his reports—“or are you, perhaps, here for another reason?”
“Well, everyone was distracted,” he muttered, “so I thought I might be able to do some work.”
“Cullen…”
He shook his head. “I know what you wish to say. But, though we may be at rest, celebrating—our enemies do not do the same.”
“As if we needed any more proof that they are truly evil.”
Though he smiled, it appeared her humour was not distraction enough, and his eyes wandered back to his desk. Trevelyan rolled hers, and came to his side.
“Walk with me in the snow,” she said, snaking her hands around his arm, and squeezing it tight. “Just for a moment.”
Her touch made him falter in an instant. He could not help the grin which appeared on his face, she could quite tell. He abandoned his papers, and took her hand instead. “All right.”
Well-pleased—with him, and certainly with herself—Trevelyan led him from the room. Though the cold bit as soon as the door was opened and they stepped out onto the bridge beyond, he remained by her side, his warmth more than enough to stave off the chill.
Chaos yet reigned beneath them, the delights of Feastday ever-heightened by the snowfall. It was a few inches deep, now—plenty for restocking one’s ammunition. Trevelyan watched, as Dagna struck the Quartermaster with a deeply-satisfying snowball to the face, and laughed. Even Cullen cracked a smile at the sight.
“It reminds me of winters in Honnleath,” he said. “Playing like this was certainly one way to keep warm.”
Trevelyan settled against the parapet, and welcomed his presence beside her. “Mm. I remember winters like this, too.”
“In Ostwick?”
“Yes—not the Circle, my parents’ house. The first Feastday I can recall, it snowed. We all went outside and played in the snow. Oh, we made such terrible sculptures from it. It is the only time I remember truly feeling like we were a family. No one scowling at me, or telling me what to do.” She sighed. “For that brief moment.”
And yet, it was not the only Feastday that she could recall.
“The next year, I was at the Circle, and it snowed, just like the year before. The Templars let all the young mages go into the courtyard and play. It reminded me of that day, playing with my family. It was the first time at the Circle when I thought, perhaps, everything might be all right…”
Cullen’s hand—stroking along her back—shifted to her side, and drew her closer. “I wonder,” he muttered, kissing her temple, “if you might have had something to do with this snowfall?”
Trevelyan smiled. “We are simply lucky,” she said, before adding, “that Solas wasn’t here to scold me for meddling with the wards. He’d have noticed days ago.”
“How long will it last?”
“Just for today.” She nestled into his form. “Though I must admit, I feel the chill more keenly than when I was a child. Perhaps I had a stronger constitution, then.”
“Or you were too busy playing to notice,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “I… may have something that could help, if—if you’d like.”
“Please.”
Cullen released her, and she cursed the loss of his protection against the tender sting of the cold. But he told her to wait, and that he would only be a moment. Whatever it was, it was inside his office.
In his absence, Trevelyan observed again the rumpus and ruckus below. It seemed, as was only natural, that alliances had been formed and territory had been claimed. Unsurprising, for the denizens of a military stronghold. Yet before she could see who would emerge from this snow-war victorious, Cullen returned—and he bore, in his hands, a bundle of fabric, tied with leather cord.
“Oh, Cullen,” said Trevelyan, “if that’s what I think it is…”
No gifts. They had promised. What, in all of Thedas, could be so important to give her, that he would scythe through such a promise?
“I bought this for you before we said, ah, that we wouldn’t exchange anything.” He, with a hesitation in his hands, offered the bundle to her. “I wasn’t sure whether to give it to you. And after all the things everyone else got for you—well, it’s not quite as lovely as your dress or a telescope…”
Trevelyan smiled, and shook her head. “Which is why we said we shouldn’t do this—the expectation is too much to bear. Why didn’t you tell me when we made the agreement?”
“I, ah…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If I’d told you, then you would’ve felt you had to find me a gift, and as you say—the expectation. I didn’t wish to burden you with that.”
“So you burdened yourself?” She stroked his cheek. “I wouldn’t wish that for you either, Cullen.”
“I know. Forgive me, I couldn’t resist. I... I simply hope you like it.”
Trevelyan accepted the bundle—forgiveness within the very act—and loosed the cord that bound it. The fabric, a sumptuously thick wool dyed deepest green, fell into its true form: that of a cloak. A very nice cloak, for its collar was a luxurious (and most importantly, warm) brown fur, fluffier even than Cullen’s. Trevelyan trailed a hand across it, speechless.
“Do you… like it?” he prompted.
She nodded, capable of little else. “I… it’s beautiful, Cullen. I’ve... never had a cloak so nice. Even my parents didn’t quite bother, in that regard.”
“I know,” he said, palms out in offering. Trevelyan accepted, releasing the cloak into his care, and turned. Eyes shut, she savoured every touch of the gesture, as he wreathed her in its embrace. “I thought,” he murmured, “since you often get cold when we spend our evenings under the stars, that instead of having to borrow mine, you ought to have your own. So we might be able to, ah, spend more time together?”
Trevelyan faced him, smiling. “But I like borrowing yours,” she teased.
“Oh, I know. But, with this… you’ll be warm, even if I’m not with you.”
As if to affirm this notion, he secured the clasp—a fine piece of delicate, carved metal—across her chest. His hands withdrawn, the cloak rested gently upon her body. She surrendered to its warmth, and the simple, beautiful feeling that came with it. The feeling of being loved.
Unable to respond in any other way, Trevelyan bestowed him with a grateful kiss. This thanks, however, seemed to more than satisfy Cullen, who returned it with equal gratitude. His hands sank beneath the very cloak she thanked him for, that now shielded their wanderings from prying eyes. Maker, the caress of his fingertips was so tender, were it not for the cold of the snowfall, the two would have been indistinguishable in touch. Until that touch, as he drew her closer, strengthened to a grip—
A thud sounded, somewhere just beneath their feet. A shout quickly followed, betwixt cheers and laughter:
“Almost!”
Trevelyan broke from Cullen, and whirled upon the source. Far below the bridge stood the Inquisitor’s inner circle—a.k.a. a group of people far more mature than the shenanigans they appeared to be getting up to. There was a splatter of snow across the stone, mere yards below where she and Cullen stood. Taken with the fresh snowballs being rolled into the hands of several of the supposed adults down in the courtyard, there appeared to be something of a competition going on.
“Are you trying to hit us!?” Trevelyan called.
“Doesn’t have to be both of you!” replied Bull, swinging his arm like a trebuchet, to launch an absolute stonker of a snowball at Cullen.
Fortunately, its trajectory provided Trevelyan enough time to act. She threw up a hand in front of Cullen’s face, and conjured a barrier. The snowball burst harmlessly against it.
“Oi! That’s cheating!” shouted Sera.
Trevelyan scoffed. “Well, we can’t be cheating, because we’re not playing!”
Dorian laughed—he, and several others, armed with snowballs regardless. “Oh, you are now!”
Trevelyan squealed as the barrage was fired—about to create another shield—but was pulled below the safety of the parapet, as snowballs spattered upon the stone. Cullen, his body protecting hers, took her hand and said:
“With me.”
He whisked her from the bridge under fire of a second barrage, and ushered her into the door of his office. He slammed it shut behind them, just as a final snowball thudded against the window. The pair waited a moment, regaining their breath, expecting another attack.
Nothing.
With silence heralding peace—or at least, temporary relief—their eyes met, and their patient faces turned to smiles, and laughter.
“I had thought Skyhold safe from siege,” Cullen remarked.
Trevelyan giggled. “Well, at least this seems a defensible enough position.” She wandered towards a candleabrum, and—with the sun resting early in these wintry depths—brought it to burning life.
“You don’t wish to join them?” he asked, poised to bolt the door. “Play, perhaps, like those first Feastdays?”
Trevelyan nodded at his hands, a silent approval, as she strolled towards another candle. “That is my past, and I am at peace with it.” With a wave of her hand, it lit. “I’d rather make new memories.”
He bolted that door—and the next, and the next—as she continued to set wicks alight. The room now flickering with their ambient warmth, she turned, to see him stood over his desk, carefully clearing away his papers and reports. Trevelyan smiled.
“Not sweeping it all off, this time?”
Though the memory put a little smirk on Cullen’s face, he shook his head. “As… enjoyable as that was—it did take some time to re-organise it all.”
She drifted closer, and leant over his workings, to leave a kiss upon his lips. “Watch the snow fall with me?” she whispered.
“Of course.”
Satisfied, she trailed around the desk, and seated herself upon it. Such an arrangement was necessary, for he had only the one chair, and it was currently occupied by whatever he saw fit to leave there. Besides, the view from here was perfect: out of the window, into the valley. Oh, how the snow floated by.
But Cullen was not yet at her side. He fumbled with one of his desk drawers—it opened rather stiffly, and he’d not gotten round to fixing it yet—and pulled a bottle from within.
“Maker, that wouldn’t have lasted a day in our Circle,” Trevelyan joked. “The Templars would’ve found it before lunch.”
“Yet another reason to be thankful we are not in a Circle,” Cullen said, managing to scrounge two cups from the shelf.
“I suppose you’d be quite used to finding contraband.”
He uncorked the bottle, the sweet scent of honey and spice filling the air, and poured out a deliciously dark and syrupy liquid. “Yes, but not from who you think”—he handed her a cup, and perched with his beside her—“the mages were fine. It was Kirkwall’s Templars I kept having to confiscate from.”
“The mages were just better at hiding it.”
“Most likely.” He gestured to their cups. “Would you mind—?”
“Oh, certainly.”
The favourite party trick of any mage in winter. With naught but a drop of magic, Trevelyan roused their drinks to a pleasant heat, until steam curled enticingly from the surface. She cupped hers with both hands, to warm the fingers that had numbed outside. Cullen tested the temperature for himself, with a sip—and a smile.
“Perfect, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
She rested her head upon his shoulder, little snowflakes drifting through her vision. It may have been cold out there, beyond that window—but she could barely feel it. Especially not while swathed in the comfort of her exquisite new cloak.
“I have to get you something in return, you know,” she told him. Cullen laughed.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. This must have cost so much, Cullen.”
He shook his head. “You are worth it.”
“So are you,” she said. “What do you want?”
He caught her hand, to kiss it. “I have everything I want,” he told her.
Trevelyan chuckled, and rolled her eyes at him. “Unhelpful answer.”
“It’s the truth. I haven’t wanted much of anything, for a long time. I find that... all I want now is you, and this.”
His voice was husky and low, the candlelight warm and gentle, the snowfall slow and pretty. She quite understood, how he could want for no more than this. She certainly could think of no thing more fulfilling, more satisfying, or more affirming to one’s existence, than to exist like this, with him, in this moment.
“All right,” she said, sipping her drink. “Tell me another day.”
A story of romance, politics, and drama, which continues ever on.
Supplemental material for Unwanted. A small teaser for what's to come in the next Bonus Chapter, The Night of Ostwick.
(Masterpost. Words: 519. Rating: all audiences. Note: this snippet is a WIP and may change before chapter release.)
Bonus Chapter TEASER
The Undercroft was quiet. Though the sound of water—coursing beneath the cavern and spilling from its maw—echoed against the walls, the usual hustle and bustle was nonexistent.
It was nighttime, far beyond the working hours of most Undercroft staff. The only light was that of torches, for the shine of the moons and stars could not quite penetrate within. Yet, to Trevelyan, this was perfect.
There’d been too much distraction in the afternoon for her to truly concentrate. Not that she didn’t enjoy the ambience of the Undercroft, of course—but, on this day, she wanted for an accompaniment far less bothersome. Silence was exactly that.
Her papers rustled, as she turned to the next section of notes. The sound was enough to mask the creak of the door, so quiet was it. The footsteps that followed were dulled by the waterfall, and it was not until the torches flickered, casting the shadow of a figure upon the walls, that Trevelyan even realised she was not alone.
Her head lifted. A hand stroked across her back, and settled upon her waist.
“Arcanist,” said Cullen, kissing her temple.
Trevelyan smiled. She knew quite well why he was here. “Sorry,” she said. “I needed peace, to work. I didn’t think about stargazing.”
He pulled up a stool, and sat beside her. “It’s all right. I passed one of the mages on my way. She said you were still here.” She offered him a hand, which he took and toyed with. “I can leave you alone, if need be. I… just wanted to see you, first.”
Trevelyan curled her fingers around his. Smiling, she told him, “You can stay.”
“Are you certain?”
“So long as you’re quiet.”
He nodded, and kept his mouth shut.
“Not that quiet.”
He chuckled. “And what volume would you prefer?”
“Talk to me. Just don’t be distracting.”
“Hm. I seem to recall you scolding me the other day because my eyes were distracting you.”
Trevelyan sighed, leafing through her notes. “Well, they were. They were… distractingly pretty.”
“Mm?”
She glanced at him, and found those eyes gazing back, unrelenting. Pretty, pretty, honey brown eyes. Soft and gentle and reflecting the torchlight. She scoffed, and tore hers away.
“This is exactly the issue.”
He smiled, quite clearly pleased with himself. “Then I shall endeavour to have less distracting eyes,” he said, turning them instead to her scattered notes. “Tell me what you’re working on.”
Trevelyan shuffled the papers about. “Wards. The trials of the growth-stunting spell have been promising; the red lyrium sample is taking longer to break its bounds. They could buy us time to search for a cure—if we can deploy them. I was thinking about the Emprise, but I need to strengthen them first. They don’t last… the red lyrium drains them as it does anything else.”
Cullen peered over her schematics, face changing—slowly—from that of curiosity, to one of contemplation. He withdrew. From her, from that room, from his body, even. A chill—wind, from the mountains, it must have been—ran across Trevelyan’s back.
Unwanted is a story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in. And it's finally complete!
But there is more to come! Bonus Chapters, Addendums, and a roughly 10-chapter sequel story, Unwanted: Attention!
I also have plans to start a new Cullen x Trevelyan fic next year. You've heard of Modern Girl in Thedas, now get ready for Girl in Modern Thedas! Wedlocked will be a romcom-style story with a fake relationship, bed sharing, wedding shenanigans, and a weirdly-meta ren faire.
For now, though, I'm taking a hiatus from the internet so I don't burn out (or get spoiled). I'm still going to be writing, and I hope to be back with something worthy of you wonderful people soon <3
A story of romance, drama, and politics which Cullen has accidentally become invested in.
Supplemental material for Unwanted, from the perspective of Cullen. In this addendum, Cullen marches.
(Masterpost. Addendums. Words: 385. Rating: all audiences. Warning: Addendums may contain spoilers for Unwanted and are best read after finishing the story entirely.)
Chapters 50, Addendum
Dawn finally came over Skyhold.
Yet Cullen could have spent all night on the battlements, in the arms of his Trevelyan. She kissed like wildfire, every touch kindling the heat coursing throughout his veins. The chill of the mountain wind was ineffective, in her embrace. Nothing could send shivers down his spine quite like her.
They had talked as well, of course. Of how they felt, how long they had felt it, and what had caused them to realise that they felt such a way. The discussion had been enlightening, and heartwarming, and… brief. Because, if Cullen was truthful with himself, speech had been mere punctuation, to the language of kissing.
It ought to have sent him to the best sleep of his life. Unfortunately, his insomnia prevailed. The knowledge of what was to come when the sun rose pervaded his many attempts to peacefully drift off.
Though at least there was the thought of her, to keep him company through the early hours.
And the thought of her would have to do, for what came next. Cullen sat upon his mount at the zenith of Skyhold’s bridge, the soldiers of the fortress lined up behind him, and the soldiers of the valley marching below. A mass of movement, in the direction of the west. To Adamant.
He was never supposed to be a general, sending people to war. Though if he was supposed to be anything else, Cullen did not know. He did not tend to want. Wanting had only ever brought him pain.
Perhaps that was why he’d been a shell of himself, for so long. No wants, no desires. Nothing to pursue. A listless soul, entirely at the whims and wickedness of his damned life. Cullen had never even been able to fix in his mind exactly what he was fighting for. Thedas? The Inquisition? Himself?
He gazed one last time, at Skyhold. Silhouetted by the rising sun, he saw the shape of a woman on the battlements, watching over him. Cullen smiled.
Perhaps, therein that smile, lay the answer he sought.
He would fight for her. That… that was what he wanted.
A story of romance, drama, and politics which Cullen has accidentally become invested in.
Supplemental material for Unwanted, from the perspective of Cullen. In this addendum, Cullen needs some help, and he isn't going to get it.
(Masterpost. Addendums. Words: 791. Rating: all audiences. Warning: Addendums may contain spoilers for Unwanted and are best read after finishing the story entirely.)
Chapters 48, Addendum
The War Council gathered, summoned by its Inquisitor. Advisors surrounded the war table, to plot the demise of the Venatori incursion at Adamant—should the Champion report it true.
“I have been gathering our troops,” Cullen informed them, “and I will survey their readiness once they have assembled. If the Wardens are truly lost, then they will march on your order, Inquisitor.”
“Good,” said the Inquisitor, “then that will be all.”
The Council dispersed, Inquisitor marching from the room. Leliana followed, her own business to get to, and Josephine attempted the same. Cullen stopped her.
“Josephine, I wondered if I might ask you a favour?” he said.
She prepared herself to hear it, politely inviting him to walk the corridor back to her parlour. “What may I assist you with, Commander?”
“It’s about… Arcanist Trevelyan,” he murmured. “Would you be able to, perhaps, arrange one of our walks, or—maybe something else? I don’t know. But if you could…”
Josephine stopped, and stared at him. “Now you want me to meddle in your personal affairs?”
“Only to ask her—”
“No, Cullen.” Josephine shoved open the door to her parlour, and marched to her desk. Cullen hurried after her. “I am not going to interfere with anyone’s romantic prospects again! Unless, of course, it poses some political advantage to the Inquisition—but, when it comes to my friends, I shall not matchmake.”
“Then… what am I supposed to do? How do I… ask?”
Josephine chuckled. “Really, Commander? Have you never asked someone to spend time with you before?”
“No—yes! Of course, I…”
“Meetings don’t count.”
Cullen sighed. “Well, it’s… it’s been a while,” he said, in strict competition for the understatement of the Age.
“Then allow me to refresh your memory,” said Josephine, with a perky smile. “All you need to do is go up to her, and ask. Simple as that!”
If only it were as simple as that. But Cullen’s palms became sweaty even just thinking of it. He was so skilled at making an absolute fool of himself in front of the Arcanist; he could hardly imagine he would resist the apparent temptation to do it again.
“What if she says no?”
Josephine shook her head. “Then you accept her answer, take it on the chin, and move on.”
The first part was perfectly fine. The second and third were easier said than done. Hard to carry on with his day when his heart was crushed into tiny little pieces.
“Perhaps... if you just do it this once—”
“No!”
“But I’m afraid I’ll do something wrong and ruin it all again.”
Josephine gasped. “Oh, in that case? Still no.” Though biting in her tone, she saw him shrink, and softened. “Cullen, she agreed to walk with you when she despised you. I can think of no reason now, when she holds you in greater regard, that she would not answer in the affirmative.”
Cullen wrung his hands. “She has no reason to pretend to like me any more.”
“Indeed,” said Josephine, tapping a sheaf of documents into a neat pile. “So given that she has not yet set you on fire, I think we can assume she is done pretending.”
Fair point. Especially as she now possessed the arms to do so rather efficiently.
“What time do you think best to ask?”
“Honestly? Right this moment,” Josephine suggested. “She will have been working all morning, and may be glad of the break.”
“All right,” Cullen said. “All right.”
Josephine smiled. “There. Not so hard, is it? Good luck, Cullen.”
Taking her advice, he absconded almost immediately to the Undercroft, hurrying so that his mind had not the time to convince itself how bad an idea this was. He almost stumbled down the stairs—but best to get that sort of thing out now, before he saw the Arcanist.
He emerged into the cavern, that mess of forges and machines. People buzzed about, an absolute distraction to the eyes of he who searched for a particular individual.
Though, somewhat fortunately, Cullen was at least gifted with the curse of being utterly mesmerised by the beauty and vivacity of Arcanist Trevelyan. It was through this afflicition that he saw her, eyes ever-bound to seek her out. She sat at her a workbench near the cavern’s maw, documents and materials littered across it. Herzt hovered at her side, taking instruction and aiding her research.
Cullen did not wish to disrupt them. He was fortunate, then, that Herzt happened to look in his direction. With the meeting of eyes, he seemed to understand, and promptly came to where Cullen stood, tucked by the entrance.
“Commander,” he said, “may I help you?”
“Yes,” Cullen replied. “May I speak to the Arcanist?”
A story of romance, drama, and politics which Cullen has accidentally become invested in.
Supplemental material for Unwanted, from the perspective of Cullen. In this addendum, Cullen hears a report of danger.
(Masterpost. Addendums. Words: 661. Rating: all audiences. Warning: Addendums may contain spoilers for Unwanted and are best read after finishing the story entirely.)
Chapters 44-45, Addendum
It was rather early for anyone to be knocking on the Commander’s door.
He was, of course, already busy at work—though not the usual kind. On this particular morning, Cullen’s desk was not plastered with letters and reports of varying detail and importance, but flowers. As many varieties as the market had—plus some he’d picked wild from around the fortress. He concentrated on them just as intensely as any report.
The knock broke his focus.
“Enter,” he called. The door opened, to reveal Tenbry—the young nightwatchman from the southeastern wall—still in his armour, fresh from the shift.
“Commander!” Tenbry shouted, a little too loudly for the hour. “I have a report of danger on the battlements.”
Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Recruit, you report to your Captain, not to me.”
“Yes, Ser! But I thought you should like to hear of it yourself first, Ser.”
“Why?”
“I know you frequent that part of Skyhold, Ser. I thought it might concern you.”
Cullen could think of only one thing upon that battlement that might concern him. He nodded. “Very well. Report.”
“Well, Ser, after you left, four women arrived.”
Cullen smiled. “Doesn’t sound especially dangerous.”
“One of them was a mage, Ser. She was shooting fire off the side of the fortress.”
“I see. But not at anyone, correct?”
“Oh, certainly not, Ser! Only into the sky.” Tenbry’s eyes glistened with the memory. “It was amazing. Different colours and all! Or, I mean… dangerous, Ser. Very dangerous! It could alert the enemy to our location.”
Cullen chucked to himself. Pretty much all of Thedas knew their location; a few fireballs would hardly be a revelation. But still he played along, quite happily. “You didn’t happen to identify the perpetrator?”
Tenbry shook his head. “Oh—no, Ser! Not at all. Too dark, Ser.”
“Even with the illumination of the fire?”
“Oh, er… yes, Ser. Still too dark.”
Maker, he was a terrible liar. Though at least he was consistent about it—for even if the lies were poor, the truth remained concealed. Cullen assumed that was the only reason why the details of his encounters with Lady Trevelyan had not made their way around the barracks thrice already.
“Thank you, Tenbry. You were right to bring this to me.” Cullen smiled. “I’ll handle the matter myself.”
And he’d take great pleasure in it. Oh, he could spend a delightful few hours thinking of how best to tease her over this.
“Was there anything else?” Cullen asked, sounding rather plain, despite a keen hope that there was, indeed, more.
But Tenbry shook his head. “No, Ser.”
Oh, well. “Then that will be all. Dismissed.”
Tenbry crossed an arm over his chest, and turned to leave—but paused. His eyes caught upon Cullen’s desk, and, a little hesitantly, he pointed to it. “Are those flowers for someone, Ser?”
Cullen did not wish to imply he was spending his time frivolously redecorating, and so confessed the truth: “Yes.”
“Then you’ll want to remove the black brigandeers, Ser,” Tenbry said, indicating a delicate white flower, with cute rounded petals and a black capitulum. “They’re typically used for mourning, or to wish someone death.”
Cullen stared at him.
“My mam used to sell flowers down at the local market.”
Far more an expert than he was, then. Cullen removed the flowers from the collection, and asked earnestly, “What of the others?”
Tenbry shrugged. “That’s all I know. But mam always said what matters most is the gesture. I think her Ladyship’ll like them.”
Cullen’s head whipped up, eyes wide—which then narrowed, into a glare that made young Tenbry gulp.
“Sorry, Commander,” he said, saluting. “Didn’t meant to imply—um, I’ll be on my way, Ser.”
Tenbry practically ran from the room. Cullen shook his head, and sighed. He made a mental note to transfer Tenbry to another watch.
But, then he remembered how much nosier his other soldiers were, and abruptly changed his mind.
A story of romance, drama, and politics which Cullen has accidentally become invested in.
Supplemental material for Unwanted, from the perspective of Cullen. In this addendum, Cullen tries not to ruin it.
(Masterpost. Addendums. Words: 910. Rating: all audiences. Warning: Addendums may contain spoilers for Unwanted and are best read after finishing the story entirely.)
Chapters 39, Addendum
The Herald’s Rest was remarkably lively for what was, by all intents and purposes, noon.
The impromptu engagement celebration being held for the Ladies Erridge and Orroat had spilled out of the tavern, into the surrounding area. The training ring—which had only recently hosted the very duel that was being celebrated—now boasted revellers, perched upon the fence or leant heavily against it, talking and laughing and sharing drinks.
A particularly merry soldier almost fell off it, sparking a round of cackles amongst his friends—which soon fell to silence, when they realised what had caused the accident.
Their Commander strode past.
If only they knew that Cullen did not much mind. Sure, they would have been better off training or on patrols, but such merriment was good for morale, and he had no intention of disrupting it. In fact, he came to join it.
He’d taken the time to get cleaned up proper, though Lady Trevelyan had done a fine enough job of it herself, with nothing more than a napkin. His mind drifted back to that experience, unable to resist its pull. The warmth of her touch still lingered on his cheek. He recalled glimmer of the forge in her eyes when she—
Cullen walked directly into the door frame of the Herald’s Rest. It seemed his face would have no relief today, as the injury he had already received from Lady Orroat began to smart again.
“You been on the ale, Commander?” asked one of the nearby soldiers. “You alright?”
“Fine, thank you,” he grumbled, pinching his nose. “I… hadn’t watched where I was going.”
“You weren’t far off, Ser!”
Though the joke earnt the soldier a few laughs from their compatriots, Cullen remained stoic out of embarrassment, and even considered turning around right there. But he reasoned that it would look more embarrassing if he didn’t even enter the place he’d just bumped into, so enter he did.
His mischeivous mind at least attempted to settle him by noting that Lady Trevelyan would likely be willing to administer some of that tender touch of hers again, should his injury be so bad. However, he would have to find her first.
And the tavern was absolute chaos. Filled with almost every attendee of the duel, the place was crowded from top to bottom. A bard played over constant chatter, barmen and maids weaved through with trays of orders, and the chance of finding even a dragon in this mess seemed an impossible ask.
But then he heard her laughter, echoing through the air. The sound alone made him smile.
Cullen prowled the edges of the room, concealed by the shadows of the other patrons. He caught a glimpse, between their shoulders, of her table. Lady Trevelyan sat with the other Ladies, smiling and giggling, shining like the sun. Every candle in the room seemed to glow in her direction. The chaos seemed like silence in the sight of her.
She was surrounded by friends, for it seemed Cullen was not the only one she’d attracted to attend. Varric and Sera lounged upon the table, having a loud conversation. Dorian had his hands cupped around the Baroness’ ear, whispering something that made her smirk. Dagna, too, had arrived, and was telling a joke that had the other Ladies in fits of laughter.
Cullen observed it a moment. There was more than enough mirth to be had between them. More than enough without him.
He did not wish to ruin it.
Unnoticed, he withdrew. Back through the crowd, back out of the door—and, he intended, back to his office.
“Commander?”
But he managed only three of the battlement stairs, before the call of his name stopped him in his tracks. Yet it wasn’t Lady Trevelyan’s voice.
“Leaving already?” asked the Baroness Touledy, stood at the foot of the stair, both hands upon her cane. She regarded him with something like curiosity, though there was a sharpness to her stare.
“I am,” he said, over the bannister. “I didn’t wish to disturb you all.”
“Really? And has she told you that she does not desire your presence?”
He cleared his throat. “No, but—”
“Then why leave?”
Because he did not wish to ruin it. Not just their gathering, but all that had come before. Though she had shown him kindness in the armoury, he felt lucky that it had gone unspoilt by some error or misstep of his. It was as if he wished to preserve it, as it was, and not cause it damage in retrospect. Let it remain perfection.
“I am… I have work to do,” he lied. Well, not really a lie. He did have work to do. But not urgently. He could have spared the time.
The Baroness knew that very well already, if the quirk of her eyebrow was anything to go by. “She’ll be disappointed you weren’t there.”
“I hardly think—”
“She will.”
He hesitated. “I—I can’t. Not yet.”
This wasn’t some irrational fear. He’d come so close to ruining it before. Time was needed, for her to trust him, and for Cullen to trust himself. And that meant, in the interim, that he would rather she be disappointed by his absence, than injured by his presence.
The Baroness sighed. “A shame.”
“I know.”
“You’re terrible at this.”
“I know.”
She nodded, and turned to go. “Improve, Commander,” she told him, striding away, “and quickly.”
