Work Text:
Opportunities when none of their little group of captains are on watch are few and far between. Ever since they trudged through the snowy valleys outside Haven, the village crumbling in the flames behind them, they’ve been on edge, always looking over their shoulders. But for them, the unease started earlier. Before the Starkhaven Circle burned, when the Montsimmard Circle completely replaced their Conclave delegation. At Kirkwall, at Tantervale. The moment they took their first shift post-vigil. Rylen, Briony, Lysette, they can’t remember the last time they were without the feeling.
So of course, when those moments of temporary relief do come by, they have to make the most of them. With an open sky of stars, a few haggled pints of cider, and a prime spot behind the far end of the barracks wall, it’s the perfect opportunity to unwind and catch up—to feel human for a bit.
And though some of them consider themselves above it, the conversation, as always, returns to gossip. In this case, gossip about their leader himself. They are after all, only human.
“I don’t think it’s a question of whether they’re together,” Rylen adds, punctuating this with a swig of cider. “I think it’s a question of when.”
“And you think you know when?” Briony asks, unable to keep the smile out of her voice.
“Absolutely,” he says. He leans back into the grass, damp and just a bit too cold. “It was clear when the Commander came to visit Griffon Wing.”
Cullen, Rylen has noticed, is not suited to the desert. He sweats and he burns. The skin of his nose is beginning to peel in thin layers, tight and shiny. Only now at night does he seem to have some measure of relief, though he’s sat by the dim lantern light working on a sketch of the keep.
“Cullen,” Rylen drawls. “I don’t think you understand how to have fun.” The man looks up, setting down his pencils. Almost offended, he sits back.
“There’s much left to do, Rylen.”
“No, I understand. But this at least should bring you some sort of relaxation. You’ve got that pen in a chokehold.” He leans closer to the page, which Cullen quickly shifts. Rylen pauses, glancing at the little people he’s added to the bottom edge. “And who is that supposed to be?”
Cullen is quiet.
“Is that supposed to be me?”
“You don’t think it looks like you?”
“It certainly looks like a person.”
“And to think, I felt bad sending you off here.”
“Unless your pity comes with more food requisitions, you can keep it.”
He laughs. “You can thank the Inquisitor for those. I’ve never seen someone so excited over puddings.”
“She has excellent taste. Morale has never been so high. That and she made quick work of those varghests when she was here. No wonder half the camp kept coming up with excuses to trail after her.” He’s two bites into the fruit he’s stolen before he realizes Cullen is staring at him. He hums in question and the man looks back down at his paper.
“Varghests?”
“Those little critters—“
“No, I’m—I’m aware.” He narrows his eyes. “And you are sure the Inquisitor took care of them herself?”
“She went. She came back. No more varghests.” He shrugs. Cullen nods.
“It just doesn’t sound like her.” Rylen notes this with interest.
“That sketch of yours seems a bit too informal for the official schematics.” Cullen is quiet. “Just taking up a new hobby?”
“I certainly could use the practice,” he repeats.
“Cullen,” he says. The man hums. “Why are you really here? As much as I do appreciate the company, I could have sent you the specifications you needed.”
Cullen looks back up at him. Rylen’s known him long enough to understand that he’s weighing some sort of consequence in his mind. It can be like cracking open a clam sometimes, trying to talk to him. In a way he balanced Rylen out, back in Kirkwall. One of them who couldn’t help but speak his mind, the other struggling to speak at all. He seems to come to some sort of decision, though he doesn’t look right at him.
“We cannot let her down,” he says finally. “I gave up on her at Haven. I will not make that mistake again.”
He’s tempted to press, by the Maker, but he stays quiet. If only for the look in Cullen’s eyes, perfectly distant. The fact is he came all the way here for a woman who, Herald or no, is a rogue Marcher mage at the end of the day. No small feat. Rylen’s curiosity burns.
“One day,” he says, “you will tell me the whole of it.”
“Rylen.”
“Consider that the price for me leaving you alone now. Unless you want me to take that letter off you and give it a good read.”
Cullen looks at him, defeated.
“Fair play, Rylen, but everyone knew by then,” Briony pipes up.
“It was Cullen, you know. It was practically a proclamation of undying love. Clandestine letter writing, in the moonlight…”
“Uh huh,” she responds, unconvinced. “But we’re talking about when it all started.”
“And you have some insider knowledge?” She smiles lazily, tilting her head back and forth.
“I overheard something very interesting—“
“I see,” he drawls. “So you were eavesdropping.”
“It’s not eavesdropping if the door was open.”
“Did they know you were there?” Lysette asks. Briony hesitates.
“I have my doubts on the ethics of this,” Rylen says flatly. “But by all means, continue.”
“It was right before that tournament…”
Briony jumps back, light on her feet, and sweeps to the side. Across from her, Garner exhales sharply, and she feels a little curl of satisfaction. She’s wearing him down. She circles the edge of the grounds, sizing him up. He’s still favoring his left side after the last expedition, something she has not been afraid to use to her advantage. She takes a deep breath, fakes to the left, and rushes him.
But it seems she’s given something away, because with one misstep, her leg gives out and she falls to the ground of the training ring.
“Haha!” Garner crows, from her left side, coming to stand over her.
She closes her eyes for a moment, pushing down her frustration. Overconfident again.
“Knight-Captain!” She looks up to find one of the scouts bent over the side of the training ring. His uniform is a little too big for him, Briony notes, so he must be a newer recruit. She blinks and then pushes herself up on one elbow.
“What is it?”
“When you get a moment, the Commander would like to speak with you.”
She furrows her brow. Garner sheathes his sword. “Perhaps word has already reached him of this humiliating defeat.”
“Piss off,” she laughs, brushing the dust off of her trousers. Her stomach only flips a little as she packs up her equipment and makes the long hike up to Commander Cullen’s office on the battlements. She’s about to enter, as the door is barely ajar, when she hears voices.
“Cullen.” Briony takes one step back from the door. The Inquisitor’s voice is soft, almost fond. Almost. Her stomach twists like she’s seen something she shouldn’t have. She bites her lip, considering. She glances behind her. No one is watching. She steps to the side and leans a little closer into the space below the window, just shy of pressing her ear to the stone. “You’re sure you don’t want to attend yourself?”
“Absolutely not.”
“It could be a delight! And I hear—” Here, there is a pause, the sound of boots on the stone, “—that all sorts of exciting opportunities arise from these tournaments. Positions as advisors, seneschals. Offers of marriage.”
Quiet.
“Much more than what the Inquisition could offer.” The voice is not quite so teasing. Briony is nearly part of the wall now, so close is she in her struggle to hear. Still quiet, before the commander says slowly:
“I assure you, I am quite happy where I am.”
Another pause. “Well, good.”
Briony’s mind is moving much too fast for her own good at this point. But then—footsteps. Footsteps are heading her way. A small bit of panic unfurls in her chest, and she raps at the door three times, sharp. There comes a muffled oh, just barely a breath, before the door opens, and she is greeted by her Lady Inquisitor.
If she really looked at her, she would wonder if the woman did not seem a little guilty. But Briony does not look that closely, and she certainly does not file the thought away, her own guilt clouding her. Instead she focuses on forgetting nearly all of what she overheard, until she is safe to pick over it without blurting every thought out to Andraste’s vessel.
No pressure.
“Hello, Knight-Captain…” The Inquisitor trails off, her brow furrowing, before she glances toward the Commander. Another thing Briony does not think about. He opens his mouth, but she steps forward.
“Briony,” she supplies. “Ma’am.” The Inquisitor’s face relaxes into a smile.
“Thank you. I am sorry.”
“It’s no worry. There are so many of us.”
“Still. I shall endeavor not to let it happen again.” She clasps her hands together, and Briony cannot help but smile back, compelled by the soft warmth in her eyes. “Well, I shall leave you to it. And good luck!”
With this cryptic remark, she leaves them. The commander is still shuffling some papers on his desk. This time Briony does look closely, enough to see a faint tinge to his ears and a tension to his jaw, both of which dissipate as he lets the forms drop.
“How would you like to fight in a tourney?”
Briony blinks quickly. Before she can think about it the words are out. “I’ve heard they come with some exciting opportunities.”
As long as she lives, she will not forget the look on the Commander’s face.
“If I recall correctly, you placed quite well,” Rylen prods. “How are your spurned suitors?”
“Rylen.”
“Nine offers of marriage, and she did not entertain a single one!”
“Shut it,” she groans, already aware of the hot flush creeping down her throat. She takes a long swig from her mug, just to hide her face, while the rest of them laugh. She feels a slight nudge against her knee, and she’s just about to retort when Lysette speaks.
“He was always looking at her,” she says quietly. “In the beginning.”
“Lysette!” Belinda exclaims, her mouth twisting up. “You, the gossip?” Her eyes are teasing, and the other woman rolls her eyes.
“Hardly gossip, they were so obvious…”
From her position at the base of the Haven outpost, Lysette can see most of the activity surrounding them. Incoming supply shipments, the incoming trains of pilgrims and refugees, and perhaps most fascinating, the Herald, circling round the templar training camp in wide sweeps. She comes to watch them train at odd hours, no real routine to it. But regularly, to the point she begins to find it odd if she does not make a visit.
Lysette cannot fault her for gravitating to them. Perhaps out of concern, perhaps out of familiarity. She must know that they’re all watching her. Lysette cannot imagine she does not feel the weight of their stares. Does she miss the Circle? With how often she sees the Herald here, she has to wonder. She didn’t seem to have many regrets when they last spoke, but her background seems to suggest she would stay far from the Templar stronghold if given the chance.
And although she is not yet certain how to feel about Andraste’s blessing going to one afflicted with magic, the Herald has proven to exhibit restraint thus far. Perhaps a bit too much, given how little Lysette has been able to glean of her. She has held her tongue whenever Lysette speaks to her, though she sees no reason in being anything but forthcoming. It is not as if she holds any power over the Herald as it stands. Even before all of it, the Herald was chosen as a spokesperson for her Circle, while Lysette was far away in her sleepy outpost.
But really, Lysette thinks, there is no point in speculation. These things are out of her control, and she has no right to the knowledge. And though she has not decided whether she can trust the woman, she has no reason not to yet.
Returning her gaze to the camp, she sees that the Herald has approached Seeker Pentaghast, and the two women are conversing. Both their postures are open, yet cautious. Each time the Seeker steps away to correct a recruit’s form, the Herald trails after her.
And most interestingly, she keeps herself turned away from the Commander, never once sparing him a glance.
Days pass. Lysette keeps watch. The recruits improve. And she nearly does a double take when she sees the Herald has graduated to speaking to Commander Cullen. She approaches him gradually, from the side, like one might approach a guard dog. Once bitten, and all that. He’s almost surprised to see her, starting when she sidles up next to him. Lysette obviously cannot make out the details of the conversation, but it is stilted, she sees that much, the two of them angled neatly away from each other.
She’s not sure what changed, but from this point, the Herald seems to come by nearly every day, finally with some semblance of a routine. Wake up, break the fast, speak to the Commander. A slow and steady approach, a siege of sorts which Lysette witnesses from her vantage. Not without some wariness, given her years in the Circles. She’s seen nearly every play at manipulation in the books.
The Herald talks to Lysette sometimes as well. In those moments, she seems less an icon, less a schemer, just a lost woman. She loves her questions, she hates judgments. Noncommittal to a fault. That’s something, she thinks, something she knows about the woman even if it drives her batty. She has been placed in a position of some importance, carries the blessing of her Lady, and the power seems to be wasted on her. She cannot make sense of it, and neither, it seems, can the Herald.
She’s speaking with the commander now. Lysette watches their bodies angle towards each other. So cold she couldn’t blame them for touching, brushing for the warmth of it. Couldn’t blame them, but she probably would anyway. Anyone would, it’s the world they live in. She hopes to the Maker they’ll be careful about it. For the Commander’s sake.
But it isn’t until that disastrous trip to Redcliffe that Lysette starts to worry. The Herald doesn’t show. Not for one day, not for another. She sees the commander when he thinks no one is looking. He just keeps glancing up toward the Chantry, and she doubts any good can come of it.
“Oh Lysette, always the realist,” Belinda sighs.
“They were welcome to prove me wrong,” she says, leaning back against the wall”They still are.” Of course, this sets off a new wave of argument.
When Cullen stumbles upon the group, he stands back to watch for a moment. It’s good of the captains to take the time for themselves. Practice what he preaches, even if he can’t take his own advice. The inquisitor gets on him for it all the time. Even now if she knew he were up, she’d track him down and coax him to bed. Soft words and hushed promises.
It’s that thought of her in his bed, their bed, that’s still burning in his head when they spot him, and why his ears are burning to boot. And they pounce on this.
“Your ears really are red, Cullen! You know what that means,” Rylen laughs, his eyes bright from the drink. Cullen presses his lips in a firm line, though there’s little he can do when they’re off duty. Maker knows they need the break.
“Now what are you all saying?” he asks, although he feels the dread. They’re loosened by the alcohol, their eyes hungry for gossip, and he already knows he’s gone bright red.
There is no way he is getting out of this unscathed.
.