Chapter Text
Emelina Trevelyan had never forgotten the first day she had laid eyes on Cullen Rutherford, the first time she’d seen those striking amber eyes, that chiseled, decisive jaw, and that adorable, tousled blonde hair. There he had been, leaning casually with his arms folded against the door that led to Kinloch Hold’s dining room, glancing around alertly in that way she had already come to recognize as being unique to Templars. Maker, he was beautiful, like some sort of ancient Elvhen statue, or one of the paintings of the kings she’d seen so often in her lessons back home. Of course, he hadn’t given her a second glance as she’d walked shyly past him and into the breakfast hall. It wasn’t like she could blame him. After all, she had only been fourteen, a timid, fearful new arrival to the Circle of Magi, more painfully aware of her own inadequacies than any handsome Templar could ever be.
It hadn’t taken long for her to notice the way he looked at the Hero of Ferelden, just Solona Amel back then. She’d watched as his gorgeous amber eyes had followed after her like a puppy dog, seen the nervous way he scratched the back of his neck when he spoke to her, noticed the embarrassed blush that overspread his cheeks when she smiled at him. It made sense that he was in love with her. I mean, who wouldn’t be? She was slender, graceful, beautiful, and talented, all the things the awkward and unwanted Emelina had never been.
Born into the well-connected, wealthy Trevelyan family, Emelina knew she ought to consider herself lucky. No doubt, there were countless children who would have done anything to be in her shoes, minus the realizing she was a mage bit, of course. But it was hard to feel grateful to the Maker for the boons she had been given when she had never received the one thing she really wanted, love.
The night she had been born was meant to have been one of great celebration. After years of failed attempts, Lady Trevelyan had finally conceived, twins the midwife had told her. A true blessing from the Maker after their years of heartache. Bann Trevelyan had been sure that at least one of the twins would be a boy, an heir to carry on the Trevelyan name. Unfortunately, Emelina had been the first of the twins to crown, earning herself the first of many future disapproving glances from her father. She wasn’t a boy, and that was crime enough. Conscious of the disappointment, the midwives had whisked her away and focused on the birth of the second baby, the one on which all the hopes of the Trevelyan family name rested. For the briefest of moments, Bann Trevelyan saw all his hopes realized as the second child crowned, screaming loudly. It was a boy, the one he had spent the last 5 years dreaming of.
His moment of joy, however, was swiftly ruined when he realized in tandem with the midwives that something was very wrong. The baby boy, his future heir, had stopped breathing just as quickly as he had started. Mages rushed in while the doctor whisked the baby off to another room, but try as they might, it had all been for naught. Bann Trevelyan’s future heir had lived only minutes, leaving a useless, healthy baby girl in his wake. To add insult to injury, Lady Trevelyan had been afflicted with childbed fever, and although it didn’t claim her life, it made her future chance of producing an heir impossible. As soon as his son took his last breath, Bann Trevelyan had been determined to hate his daughter. It was her fault, after all. If she hadn’t INSISTED on being born first, she would have been the one to die, not him.
From the moment Emelina had been old enough to understand what was going on around her, and probably even before then, she had known she wasn’t wanted. Her parents had made that painfully clear in every interaction they had with her, infrequent as they were. Her father had told her on more than one occasion when he was too deep in his cups, that he didn’t know what sin he had committed for the Maker to let her brother die instead of her. As for her mother, well, she had done her best to make her daughters life as miserable as hers. It wasn’t just her frequent reminders that if it wasn’t for her, she could have gotten pregnant again and produced another heir. It wasn’t the incessant blame she cast on her for the loss of her husband’s affection now that she was so “useless” as his wife. It wasn’t the constant put downs or insults when she realized her daughter had taken more after her dark haired, dark eyed father than her classically beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed mother. It wasn’t even the beatings she gave her when she did something that upset her increasingly short temper. It was the absolute withholding of her affection.
By 7 years old, Emelina couldn’t even remember receiving a single hug from her mother, much less her father. Truly, she could have born every injustice, every tongue lashing, every beating if only she had been shown some, small crumb of parental affection. But even her nurse maids had been instructed to keep their distance by her mother, who paid them extra to treat her with the same cold indifference she did.
Of course, as luck would have it, she couldn’t even turn out to be a normal human child. Her magic had appeared by the time she was twelve, a realization which put more fear in her than anything she had yet endured. If her parents hated her now, as the seemingly normal child they thought she was, how much more would they hate her when they realized that she had dishonored the family name even further by having the audacity to develop magic. The older she got, however, the closer she came to the precipice of possession. Her dreams in the fade became more vivid, harder to resist, until one night she woke up to a bed on fire. A single, startled scream was all it took for her long held secret to be discovered, and her instinct not to tell her parents about her magic to be proved correct.
In all her years, she had never seen her father so full of rage, never felt as full of fear as she did as she saw his wild eyes burning with rage as he understood the implications of his only child being a mage. She would have to be sent to a circle at once, ending forever their hopes of at least leveraging her name to broker some favorable alliance for their family. No reputable noble would want their son married to a mage. He had dragged her to the dungeon by her hair while she screamed and sobbed and begged for mercy. She had cried for her mother, but Lady Trevelyan had only fixed her icy blue eyes on unwanted child with disgust and said the words that had forever haunted her memory.
“You are no daughter of mine.”
They had left her in the dungeon for days with no food and very little water, left her until she was so starved that she had no idea what was real life and what was the the fade. Eventually, how many days later she had no idea, she had felt rough hands grasping at her arms, carrying her to a carriage. At first, she had vaguely hoped they were the hands of death, here to rescue her from a life so miserable she had wished almost daily it could be ended. But the shock of cold water being splashed onto her face roused her from her fantasy long enough to realize that the hands were not those of death, but Templars. She knew from her studies that mages needed to be afraid of Templars, and she was. But no one, not even a Templar, could be more frightening than her own parents. At least the Templars had fed her and treated her cordially, which was more than she could say for those whom she was expected to call family.
They had brought her to the Circle of Magi at Kinloch Hold, informing the kindly looking mage who received her that her parents had claimed they feared possession. The woman, who had informed Emelina that her name was Wynne, had taken her to a room with a small bed and nightstand, explaining that they would have to determine her risk for possession before they allowed her in with the other mages. It hadn’t taken them long to realize that, although she had no idea how to control her powers, she was under no imminent threat of possession. When they had finally allowed her to move into the dorms with the other young, un-harrowed mages, she had been too shy to make friends, rebuffing any attempts at civility with terse, one-worded answers. At only fourteen, she had already been thoroughly convinced she was entirely unlovable. She couldn’t risk allowing a friendship to form only for those feelings of fondness to be used against her. No, it was much simpler to just keep to herself, practice her magic, and read in silence.
Cullen had been the one bright spot in a world that otherwise seemed dark. Of course, she was under no illusions that a man who looked like that, and a Templar no less, would ever even deign to look upon a gangly, awkward, undesirable girl like her, not when he had women like the stunning, gregarious Solona casting their smiles his way. And at fourteen, she could hardly expect any man to even begin to take her seriously anyway. No, she was content to simply watch him, to bask in the glory of his presence, to enjoy the tender feelings her secret crush gave her. She lived for moments, moments when his eyes accidentally landed on her as he scanned the room, moments when he said a crisp “Good morning!” to her, like he did to all the mages, as she slipped quietly past him into the breakfast room.
Certainly, she felt a twinge of envy when she heard him speaking to another Templar about the brilliant, talented Solona passing her harrowing with flying colors. She tried not to cry herself to sleep when she heard his adorable, awkward replies to Solana’s skillful flirting. It was absurd, really, to feel this way about someone so incredibly out of her reach; she reminded herself of that whenever she felt especially jealous. She was nobody, nothing, just a perfectly average mage with no exceptional talents, dashing looks, or sparkling charisma. Her family name might have been something in her favor, but given how much they hated her, it was really more of a negative than a positive. She would have to spend her life content to enjoy watching others be happy. Perhaps, if she was very lucky, she had decided, she would get to enjoy enough of others’ happiness to feel some of it herself.
And then, Solona had left, shockingly recruited into the Grey Wardens by someone named Duncan. Emelina had watched Cullen closely after that, seen how he had grieved for something that almost was but never could be. He had seemed so, terribly sad that she had almost brought herself to tell him she was sorry Solona was gone, but before she had mustered up the courage, word had come from her father. With the Blight drawing ever nearer, he had decided to remove her from the Circle of Magi to a different circle on the far edges of Ferelden, far enough that her life wouldn’t be in danger.
At first glance, this seemed to be a kindness, one many of the worried mages in the tower were jealous of. But to Emelina, there was no mistake. He hadn’t removed her out of any sense of filial affection. No, it had been all about the family name, the family honor. Her training hadn’t been completed, and he couldn’t risk her turning into an abomination. He had sent her to another circle, one far enough away from the Blight that he had no immediate worry about her bringing dishonor to the family name, and promptly never written to or about her ever again. In fact, she had no idea if he had even survived the Blight. Knowing her luck, however, he was probably still alive and healthy as ever.
She had heard the news of the Circle of Magi being overrun with abominations with shock, unable to process that the only human for which she had ever felt any kind of attachment had probably perished at the hands of one of those abominations. Solona had arrived, or so she had heard, to save the few that had been lucky enough to remain alive. Of course, she had turned out to be a hero. Why wouldn’t she? SHE was the kind of girl born to be exceptional, the kind of hero Ferelden certainly would have picked if the choice had been theirs. She did the impossible, saved Ferelden from the Blight, and become the kind of great mage Emelina had always known she would be. Word even had it that she had become King Alistair’s mistress. Could there be a life more charmed?
For Emelina, life had not been quite so magical. It had gone on after that news of Cullen’s probable death, although in that moment, as with so many others before it, she hadn’t wanted it to. She had passed her harrowing, become an official part of the Circles. She’d even been transferred to the Ostwick Circle not long after her harrowing to help train the new mages. She’d learned, eventually, to make friends, although she always felt deep down that they were only her friends out of pity. Her parents had done such a number on her self-confidence that she had never been able to feel she was truly deserving of friendship or affection. Still, she’d had a few romantic relationships, relationships that were as passionate as they were short lived. A girl had needs, but serious relationships, especially if they got the mages thinking about children, were strongly discouraged. No one wanted Circle Mages reproducing.
The mage rebellion had been an unexpected hiccup in the peaceful few years Thedas had been having, and Emelina had been sent with the mage delegation from Ostwick to the peace talks at the Conclave. After that, everything became a bit fuzzy. All she knew was that she had woken up to being interrogated by a Seeker named Cassandra who seemed to think she had torn a rift in the sky and killed the Divine. What a joke. Even in her wildest dreams, she couldn’t imagine being powerful enough of a mage to tear the fade apart. But the Seeker had been convinced, and she had to admit, the fade-green mark on her hand looked and felt more than a little suspicious. So, she had agreed to go with the Seeker and see how she could help. Shockingly, the apostate, elven mage they had met with proved correct in his assumption that she could use her mark to close the rifts, and maybe even the breach. She had tried her best, really, she had. But of course, she hadn’t been exceptional enough to do it. At least that’s what she heard from the elf who was there when she recovered consciousness, if not in so many words. She had almost closed it, but not quite. Typical. Solona would have been able to close it properly. They had needed a Solona Amel, but they had gotten a Emelina Trevelyan. How unlucky for them.
“They’re calling you the Herald of Andraste,” said the frightened looking elf. “Is it true? Are you the Herald of Andraste?”
It was all Emelina could do to hold back her laughter. Her? The Herald of Andraste? If Andraste was going to choose someone, it would be literally anyone but her. There wasn’t a person in Thedas who deserved being Herald of Andraste less.
“No,” she said with a small smile. “I’m not.”
“But if you’re not the Herald of Andraste,” asked the servant, her eyes wide with shock, “How did you close the breach?”
“Right place, right time,” she said with a shrug.
It was clear that the girl didn’t agree, but she wisely refrained from continuing. “Seeker Cassandra wants to speak with you in the Chantry,” she said simply. “She said as soon as possible My Lady.”
My Lady… now there was a title she hadn’t heard in awhile.
“Thank you,” she said simply, smiling at the girl despite the instant, creeping fear that Cassandra would want to have her killed for her failure.
Fastening her coat a bit tighter, she began the short trek from the room she had been sleeping in to the Chantry. To her shock, people were lining the streets of Haven, clearly waiting for her. “The Herald of Andraste,” they whispered reverently as she passed, hands reaching out as if to touch some holy relic. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought this was some sort of twisted dream in the fade, some reminiscence of her childhood fantasy, her desire to be like Solona, to be a hero. This certainly wasn’t the fade, but it couldn’t possibly be real. Maybe she was still unconscious, dreaming of what she wished had happened. In reality, she was probably chained up in some dungeon for failing to close the breach successfully.
“Lady Trevelyan,” came the voice of Seeker Cassandra from the steps of the Chantry. Her voice was kinder than Emelina had expected it would be. “I’m glad to see you awake. How are you feeling?”
“Well, thank you,” she said politely, pinching her arm to see if it would help her wake up.
“You’re not dreaming,” said Cassandra, seemingly reading her mind. “You did partially seal the breach. That’s why they’re calling you the Herald of Andraste.”
Emelina giggled, covering her mouth with her hand in apology. “I’m so sorry… it’s just… that’s ridiculous.”
Cassandra frowned. “Is it so impossible that the Maker could have chosen someone to save us?”
“Oh, not at all. It’s just impossible that he would have chosen me.”
Cassandra raised one eyebrow a bit curiously, but decided this line of questioning would have to wait for later. “Come,” she said, motioning her into a room at the far end of the Chantry. There are things we need to discuss, and people you need to meet.”
Emelina followed her into the large room with an impressive oak table in the center and two other women who she introduced as Leliana and Josephine. It was clearly some kind of War planning room, and Cassandra made full use of it, using the table to display one of those huge, oversized Chantry books that Emelina had always found a bit unnecessary. Without taking a breath, she launched on a long tirade about the Divine and something called the Inquisition, only pausing to allow Leliana to get a few words in here and there. They wanted Emelina to stay, to let people believe she was the Herald of Andraste, to help them close the rifts. It was too much… too much to go from being a no one, to a criminal accused of killing the divine, to the Herald of Andraste so quickly.
“I’m sorry… I… I want to help,” she said softly. “This is just, it’s a lot. I’m not sure if I can lie to people like that, it wouldn’t be right.”
“You wouldn’t be lying, not exactly anyway,” said Leliana, smiling down at her kindly. “Can you know for certain that you aren’t the Herald of Andraste?”
Emelina paused, as much as she was 99.9% sure, she supposed that was always that 0.1% chance. “I suppose not,” she muttered.
“Well then, people will say what they want to say, whether you stay or leave. You staying won’t be a statement that you’re the Herald any more than leaving would.”
She knew Leliana was right. What was she going to do anyway? There were no more circles, she couldn’t exactly go back to her family, and wandering the countryside with this green mark was going to draw a lot of attention from the wrong kind of people.
“Ok.” She said, looking up. “I’ll do it, but only because I want to help. And if anyone asks me if I’m the Herald, I’m going to say no.”
Cassandra frowned again, but Josephine cut in before she could say anything. “Then it will be wonderful to have you. I look forward to working together.”
The sound of heavy boots and a knock sounded at the door before she could reply. The ladies all turned to the door expectantly, and in slipped a tall, broad, blond haired, amber eyed man who looked strikingly familiar.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said sheepishly. “There was a report from one of our scouts and then one of the trainees accidentally used a real weapon and slashed someone on the arm and I had to handle it.”
“It’s no trouble,” said Cassandra. “You made it just in time. Lady Trevelyan here has just agreed to stay and help us.” Turning to Emelina she continued, “Lady Trevelyan, allow me to introduce the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, Commander Cullen Rutherford.”
It was all Emelina could do to keep her mouth from falling open. No wonder he had looked so familiar. It was Cullen, HER Cullen. Well, Solona’s Cullen technically, but he was here! He hadn’t died in the Circle of Magi. He looked different, taller, broader, no longer with the body of a young recruit but that of a seasoned, well-worn soldier. His eyes were still warm, but more guarded, a bit wiser. She knew instantly that he had seen things, things no one should have to see. He had a scar now too, just above his lip. She was sure he had many more she couldn’t see, but she wondered where he had gotten this one, what kind of stories he had to tell.
The relief and delight she felt on seeing him, however, couldn’t last long. It was seconds before the reality of her situation hit her. Ten years since she had seen him and the feelings she had were all rushing back in a torrent. She didn’t know how to be around him and not revert to the frightened, shy fourteen-year-old she had been. This was going to be a mess… a horrible, terrible mess.
“Lady Trevelyan?” Inquired Cassandra, breaking through her reverie.
Realizing she had been staring, Emelina blushed and quickly extended her hand. “Commander,” she said, trying not to tremble when he touched her. Maker, she had spent so many nights dreaming of touching him that even their armored gloves couldn’t keep her from blushing. She was lucky the room was dark.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Trevelyan,” said Cullen, smiling warmly at her.
Maker, those eyes, that smile were going to be her undoing. “Actually, we’ve met,” she heard herself saying. “I was a mage at Kinloch Hold while you were a Templar there.”
The expression on Cullen’s face made it clear that she should have kept her big, fat mouth shut. Pulling his hand away like she was made of fire, he stammered, “Y… you were?” His face was so pale, she was sure he was going to pass out, making her feel like the absolute idiot that she was.
“Only for a few months,” she said hurriedly, “My parents removed me before the Blight.”
“I’m sorry for forgetting you, then,” said Cullen, attempting to regain his composure. “The Blight was… it was a bad time for everyone.”
“Of course, I’m so sorry Commander,” she said, turning away in embarrassment. She hadn’t really thought he would remember her. After all, who had she been to him? No one. Just another mage in a sea of mages. If she had been Solona, he would have remembered. The tiny thought nagged at her, even when she tried to push it aside. Well, she wasn’t Solona, was she? And she never would be. Even people telling her that she was Herald of Andraste couldn’t change that.
Eager to end to awkward tête-à-tête, Cassandra changed the conversation to the details of their plan of attack, making sure to steer clear of any sensitive topics. The moment the meeting ended, Emelina fled from the room, desperate to escape before anyone could ask any prying questions about her time at the Circle of Magi. But her 5’6 frame couldn’t carry her nearly as fast as the Commander’s much taller one, hadn’t she hadn’t gotten half way across the Chantry before she heard his voice behind her.
“Lady Trevelyan, might I have a word?”
Plastering a polite smile on her face, Emelina turned towards him. “Of course, Commander,” she said, her tone studiously courteous.
“I apologize for how I reacted back there… I…” Cullen sighed. “I just needed you to know that my reaction had nothing to do with you. Some terrible things happened to me when the tower was overrun, and the mere mention of it brings back memories I relive all too frequently.”
“Of course not,” her polite smile didn’t waver. “I completely understand, Commander.”
“Then… you’re not offended?”
“Why would I be offended?” she asked.
“Because I didn’t recognize you,” his amber eyes looked so wonderfully sympathetic and concerned that Emelina just wanted to let herself melt into them. She wanted to tell him just how much it had hurt, even though it had no right to, but she was done making a fool of herself today.
“I would hardly expect you to remember me, Commander,” she said, waving off his words as though she hadn’t even considered them. “I was practically a child at the time, and you had hundreds of mages under your charge.”
“Still,” he said, taking a step towards her, “I should have remembered.”
His proximity, nearly as close as when they had shaken hands, was making Emelina weak in the knees. She needed to get out of here, fast. Maker knew how she was going to work with this man without losing her mind, but she would have to figure out a way. She would keep things strictly professional. No small talk, no friendly pleasantries, just business. That was the only way she could even stand to be in his presence. She knew he could never, would never want someone like her. But he was kind, friendly even, and she couldn’t take it, not without falling even more hopelessly in love than she had been at fourteen. At least back then, he hadn’t looked at her twice. Now, here he was standing so near to her that she could practically reach up her hand up and caress the scar across his lip. He wasn’t looking through her like he had all those years ago, he was looking at her, like she was a real person worth his time and attention. This was bad, very, very bad.
“That’s very kind of you to say, Commander,” she said, still holding her polite smile despite her internal turmoil. She supposed all that pretending to be happy in front of company as a child was getting put to good use after all. “Please, don’t give it another thought. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t had any food for a few days, and I’m afraid if I don’t eat, I’m going to expire.”
“Forgive me for detaining you,” he said quickly, looking apologetic, “Would you like me to show you to the tavern?”
“No!” she said, a bit too quickly. “No, thank you.” She repeated again, hoping she hadn’t been too rude. “I enjoy a bit of exploring.”
“Of course, My Lady,” he said, giving a small bow to hide his crestfallen expression.
Maker’s breath, she had offended him. Great job Emelina.
“Please let me know if I can ever be of service,” he continued.
“Thank you, Commander,” she said, bobbing a small curtsey despite her lack of a dress. Old habits die hard. “I will.”
Except she wouldn’t. She absolutely wouldn’t. There was nothing on heaven or earth that could induce her to go anywhere near Commander Cullen Rutherford.