"Status report?" Akira whispered as his eyes adjusted to the darkness once more. The moon once illuminating his path now weakly shone through the browned glass behind him, barely noticeable.
"As far as the rumors go, it's not entirely abandoned. It seems someone might actually be living here?" A familiar voice hushed behind him. "Not many shadows though, nor any living beings so far, either."
"So how'd you get here, Panther?" Akira turned slightly, realizing Panther's position completely obscured them in the shadows beneath the extended windowsill. "And where's Skull?"
"I had to sneak around a bunch, there's so many floors. Sorry for taking so long, but it's definitely not what we were told, that's for sure." The annoyance audible despite as her voice barely being so. "The shadows all got good hearing, although they're not too keen on properly using their eyes."
"Sounds like the average shadow." Akira softly snorted. "And it might be a good sign. An unprotected place never holds good treasure."
"And that sounds like the average Joker." Panther teased him, her finger finding his side with a strong poke. "I haven't heard anything from Skull yet, I thought he'd check in with you after we split as well."
Akira shook his head, leaning back against the wall behind him. "You also.." he realized out loud, before changing tracks. "How did he even get in here in the first place?"
"He just said 'Check this out!' and slipped inside through a crack in the wall. Literally, I might add." Akira could almost hear her roll her eyes and he couldn't stiffle the chuckle, earning him another quick jab. "It was creepy! It just closed up right behind him!"
"I leave you two alone for five minutes and Skull gets swallowed by a wall." Akira says dryly. "When did this become our average Tuesday?"
"It's Friday, if not Saturday already." Panther shot back.
"It for sure is Saturday, then. Just another average Saturday. Do we have any suggestions for completely average plans, while we're at it?"
"Not yet, no." It was Panther's turn to sigh softly. "This place is properly giving me the creeps."
Explicit | Cullen x Trevelyan | Hawke x Treveyan | WC: 450K + (WIP) | DA:I | Epic | Multiship | Slow burn | Fast burn | Complications While Saving the World
Chapter Summary:
When Garrett rides off in pursuit of Carver, Rose is caught between duty to the Inquisition and duty to her beloved.
Fic Summary:
Lady Rose Trevelyan is in over her head.
Her attendance at the Conclave was only meant to distract her from her failures as a daughter. And then it blew a hole in the world. Marked by an unknown magic, armed with only a few relevant skills, Rose fumbles and fights her way across Thedas with a band of shockingly deadly oddballs dedicated to stopping— well, all of it. As apocalyptic forces conspire to break and remake her, Rose is snared between the tentative devotion of the Inquisition’s stalwart commander and the fierce love of legendary warrior Garrett Hawke, two vastly different men both haunted by hindsight.
Excerpt below the cut 👇
I sweep down to the stables, stubborn determination fast becoming a sturdy flame inside me. I’m the only one who could talk him down— if I can reach him, if I can reach him— if I can just catch him— and Juniper is faster— surely he’d stop for me. He can’t be far. Certainly not past the sulfur pits— the bridge isn’t passable yet— and—
Maker.
And then I’m drawing my horse from her stall, tying her off in the aisle to saddle her before anyone can stop me.
“What are you doing?” Cullen, of course, hushed but insistent. I explain into Juniper’s saddle blanket. He looks over me over, tallying the number of reckless oversights.
“Following Garrett. Carver’s gone.”
“I know. I’ve been briefed. I cannot advise it.” Cullen’s argument punches, but the look I flick over my arm cuts like a rapier. He holds firm but I can, too.
“I’m not letting him go out there alone.”
“He’s already gone. You’ll be vulnerable to the quillbacks and Maker knows what or who else—” His words roll off me like rain on stone. “Listen to me, Inquisitor. Please.”
I make a grudging quarter turn.
“I’ll send our fastest riders after him.”
“I have to go after him,” I mutter. A tiny huff of irritation slips out. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Cullen takes me by the shoulders, his focus clear and unbending.
“But I do.”
The ghost of everything that once was, runs feather-like over me, a prickle of awareness stirring on my skin.
“You are too important to lose in this wasteland,” he says. The stone in my throat breaks into the makings of a sob.
“What if he doesn’t come back?”
“He will,” he says. “I’ll make sure of it.”
I let my shoulders slump, playing up capitulation, toying with capitulation. I look over Cullen, searching for some way to mollify him. His hair is an uncharacteristic chaos of curls and a wash of blood darkens his cheeks. His clothes look hastily assembled. The news of a prison break had surely woken him.
“The fastest riders,” I insist. “He’s only a few minutes ahead of me.”
“I saw him ride out. If nothing else, our men will tail him to make sure he’s safe.”
If I weren’t so stubborn it might have satisfied me. But I’m too nauseated by the possibilities: Garrett perishing out there, picked over by birds, disappearing completely as if pulled through some uncharted rift.
Captured, tortured.
Sacrificed.
“Then I’ll wait for word,” I say.
“I’ll have them bring a bird.”
“Thank you.” I don’t wear deception well, but Cullen seems addled enough he doesn’t notice my tells, carding his curls back into submission, fastening his doublet properly. I clear my throat and straighten. “I’ll be in my chamber.”
I am not in my chamber.
Instead I watch the bailey from the southern colonnade between a stack of grain sacks, waiting for an opening.
Cullen loiters in the lower bailey, conferring with scouts and officers for an agonizingly long time. Hope bubbles up as he strides toward the steps to the command post, and then leaves me in a miserable huff when he doubles back to direct something more. He’s there so long there can only be one conclusion— he has no faith that I won’t hurl myself after Garrett. Imperious prat. I flick hungry weevils from the burlap sacks into the wide void of the bailey below until I accept my captive fate.
I post up on the battlements with a spyglass under a snapping Inquisition banner, scraping the northern horizon for Rosco’s pale mane glowing in the moonlight. Hours are marked by the scouts and soldiers cutting across the flats like dutiful ants, by the arc of Satina and the Great Moon across the dome above, by the slow crawl of nausea. As I dull the tip of my dagger chipping away at the grit of a merlon, the low simmer of my worry heats to a rolling boil.
What kind of a woman lets her beloved run off to die? I’d wanted to trust his prowess and experience, but he’s mine. And there’s only one of him.
Listen, guys. Listen. Taako's last name being a mess is terrible. Like, awful. Have you tried tagging anything with him, ever? Exactly. I hate it. You gotta tag like five different variations and you've still not covered all of them. That's bad. And annoying. And there's little we can do about it.
But why put ourselves through more than we have to? Why bother tagging Lup with the same five variations when there's literally no reason to? Why don't we, as a community, collectively decide against the mess that is Taako's last name and exclusively refer to her as Lup Bluejeans? They probably got married on at least one of the planes in SC, and even if they didn't, it's true love babey!!
I scanned the ballroom, eyes searching for Collier. They found him where he’d been all afternoon, on Hannah Mitterlöwe’s arm. Rory had messaged me about an hour earlier—Jøberg had been collected. They’d wait out the evening in each other's company. All that remained was for me to deliver Collier to them in Quartier des Jouettes. I’d wait, I figured, another hour or so before I broke him the news. In the meantime, the pain was getting worse. I grabbed another glass of champagne, hoping I could put the Wild woman’s whispers down to something as simple as a few too many drinks.
“Aren’t you tired, German?” She demanded. I could feel the fingers at the back of my neck, such a welcome cool under the relentless lights of the bright ballroom.
I closed my eyes and took another long drink, fighting the images she conjured. But they’d been burned deeper down than my physical sight. What Hypatia wanted me to see, I saw. Before I could raise my usual protest, I was interrupted by a voice from over my shoulder.
“Konstantin’s ghost,” he said, “That Emperor’s Medal is polished so brightly, you’d think it were solid plateen.”
I turned to find François Parnaße, smiling behind me. Without bothering to ask, he produced one of his cigarettes, wrapping it in my fingers.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I said as he lit it, “—Someone will notice.”
Parnaße scanned the room, leaning beside me at the rail.
“None of them can stand me, as it is,” he replied. The doctor had turned his studied eye my direction. I could practically hear him, counting blinks, estimating pupil dilation, measuring beats of breaths. “And anyway,” he added, “Don’t you think that yours is the greater risk—being here tonight, in the middle of an episode?”
For a moment, I thought I might tell him about Hypatia, but before I had the chance to be foolish, my own eye for observation intervened. The tie at his neck had been loosened slightly; the cuffs of his shirt bunched unevenly at the sleeves of his jacket. He leaned closer than normal and smiled more freely than was his practice in a crowded room. I slipped my hand into his jacket, producing the nearly empty flask from the inside pocket.
“And is it any wiser,” I wondered, “To stumble through the halls of power with a tongue as sharp as yours? You’re drunk, François.”
“ --- You know, you missed a breathtakingly stellar FF reunion a few months ago. Might even say it was... pretty fantastic. ”
Uh-huh. Yup. TOTALLY hung around Scott too long. He’s kind of rubbed off on her. There IS something about her delivery that somehow makes it much more acceptable than if it he said it, though. Somehow.
