A Grain of Salt
|»| Hey guys! This is my first FanFiction, so I hope you all enjoy it! It will probably be lengthy and go in depth. It's based off of Dragon Age Inquisition, mostly, which I unfortunately do not own, nor do I own any of the characters. Only Breanna! (And possible characters still to come, most of my chapters are in progress). And I don't even own her last name! Ah!
I never knew dreams could hit as hard as an enemy, a sword swung with force and precision beyond a 'normal' person's comprehension. Normal, because most didn't have enemies swinging battle-axes at them, and also because most don't have dreams that shake them from sleep and haunt their days. Most don't, but I suppose I'm not like most. My entire life I'd been told I was different, and once upon a time I'd take it in stride, or as Bull would say, with a grain of salt as he downed a rough drink. Now? Things were different, people were different. I was a million miles between my home, a billion paces from my thoughts and a galaxy away from my heart. My mind and heart had begun playing games with me ever since Haven, since the Winter Palace, since Adamant. My memories often flashed across my eyes as I saw my men, my soldiers being flung from the barracks, their bodies laying limply around me in a pile of blood and bones. No one body recognizable, all morphing and forming to one enormous nightmare that had begun to tear at me day in and day out. It was also usual for me to remember my companions we'd lost at Haven, the souls I couldn't save. Andraste's Hand or not, I was no savior. I was no hero. I'd still fight anyone who'd tell me I was.
Sure, self-preservation kicked in about a thousand of those times, and a thousand times I turned down the blade, a thousand times I backed away from the edge of the barracks. A thousand times I stopped myself from giving up because the people around me needed the inquisition, needed me. What would they do if I died? Sure, I was a symbol of some imaginary thought, but that symbol had driven me—had driven us—this far. That thought made me stop every time. Often I compared myself to Ser Ruth, the Warden. A good person tumbled into hard times and hate, twisted unrecognizably to fit an order forced onto them. Forced to make the tough decisions, only difference is your sentence depending on your rank, and that's what I despised the most. Had Ser Ruth been in my position, would my advisors, would my own people tear me off the throne as desperately as they were willing to decapitate the Warden? A shiver ran down my spine at the thought, my fingers played absently with the auburn locks of my hair, bringing the strands so they wouldn't hang in the middle of my back. My fingertip played with the edge of my tattoo, the raised skin outlining swirls that captured my eye, swirling down to the tip of my nose, spattered in red ink.
I never called myself beautiful, and in these times, the days I thought about how I looked fell few and far between never. Vivienne constantly reminded me to keep up appearances, but I would simply roll my eyes at her nature, her Circle influencing her brain, her Orlesian heart beating in time with the gowns around her. That was if she had a heart. Some days I wondered.
My advisors usually found me sitting in Dorian's chair, reading some book he had handed over with a wink. Some days it was poetry, other days it was history, but most often it was fantasy tales of lands that were perfect, but always had a conflict that arose with some hero or heroine who saved the day, saved the country and kissed her new knight in shining armor at the end. I knew it was foolish to read such stories, ones that teenagers read with no bearings of the world, but a part of me needed it to breathe. A part of me wanted to be that heroine, and Dorian knew how desperate I was to have it.
Dorian understood me more that I cared to admit, often finishing my sentences, casting knowing looks from the corner of his eyes at me, a look I would often share. He'd stay in my room sometimes, and we'd just sit by my fireplace, laughing about our tales, crying about our misfortunes, our pasts. I'd tell him of my dreams and my nightmares, and he'd do the same. He was more of a friend and a confidant than I'd ever had, one I never imagined I would find in a war raging between right and wrong. Some could say he literally fell out of the blue, given how we found him at Haven during Corypheus's attack and all.
I bit my lip, the memory of Corypheus sparking fear and anger in my heart. I no longer knew what I was afraid of, but the list of anger grew with each passing moment Corypheus lived. And that hate grew within the pit of my stomach for the same time. My lip curled into a snarl, each and every single day I fought to reclaim the land lost to his darkness, fighting in the name of an ancient, imaginary and fabled god, and each day I put my sword in my sheathe and unsheathed it for the same reason; to slay Corypheus. To lay his plans to waste. The anger practically took on physical means, my lip still positioned in anger.
"Inquisitor?" I turned, sharply aware now that I had been snarling at a bookshelf, my legs crossed over each other, my brows drawn in deep thought and my hand resting on my knee. I paused realizing how lost in thought I'd truly been. Cullen stood at the alcove of the shelves, forearm resting against books on language and culture. His posture was tired but confident, something only he could pull off at the same time. A smirk was spread over his lips, the white of his scar turned up in amusement.
"Am I interrupting something?" He took a few hesitant steps forward before fingering the leather spiral of an old tome that laid on the table next to my leg.
"No I was reading before, now...I was just lost in thought." I smiled at him, a little more happily than I meant. My days with the commander were enough to fit on my fingers and toes in total, but we always managed to pick up on each others feelings.
"Narratio de Claris a Heros. The Tale of a Lost Hero, an intriguing read. Have you finished it?" I practically laughed at the question, reading in Dorian's nook was my semblance of thought, the way I coped with the war, the way my body recovered and my mind and heart became lost in the pages of each story.
"I've read all the books here in the pile. Dorian supplies me daily." The look of shock and awe that passed momentarily over his features was well worth the admission. Usually people wondered why I was so reclusive, why I didn't spend my time gawking over men and following every new fashion from Val Royeux. A part of me wondered the same; at least then I'd be able to be irresponsible and run around doing whatever I wanted, not quite different from Sera. A part of me also knew why; I liked being relied on. It made me exist even when I didn't want to.
"That's impressive. I never took you for being one who knew Tevinter." I smiled and tilted my head to look up at him, his golden eyes shimmering with a quizzical appearance.
"I never took you for one who would read a Tevinter tall tale," I quipped back, eyes alight with confrontation. It felt like the same look when looking at easy prey. His scar was raised again, his row of white teeth showing. It was one of the very rare times I'd ever seen him smile, or show happiness for that matter. Most days he was Commander Cullen of the Inquisition's Soldiers, unhappy and stoic. His face either deadpan, concentrative or angry. Like my beauty, it was rarity, but it made my chest burn with a tingly fire that I didn't feel often. His rage usually sparked rage in myself and his thoughts usually connected with mine, and it made my mind turn with questions. We were nothing alike, and we were supposed to have nothing in common, nothing to share. At least not for an elven mage and a templar, but I had to remind myself he was no longer a templar, yet the thought that old habits die hard still hung over my thoughts like a cloud.
The first time I met him, he feared me, his eyes wide with the unknown and the answers he'd been fed in Kirkwall. The second time we'd spoken, he couldn't stop staring at my ears, the pointed tips jutting off the side of my head. At first I didn't quite like him, his aura too templar and his eyes too judgmental, until I realized he was more man than templar, more human than judgmental. We had talked about our differences, after I went to Redcliffe, the advisors riding with me. He had told me stories of his time as a templar during our ride to the West to meet the Templars, and we had learned to understand who we are, who we were and who we wanted to be, at least, as much as we could between riding and galloping to our quest.
We looked into each other's eyes for several moments, intently gazing without pause. I blinked and Cullen rubbed the back of his neck with his palm, his cheeks blushing crimson. He blew out a harsh breath, his eyes looking anywhere now, except at my own.
"Is there a reason you came so far just to see me, other then my impeccable looks and excellent company?" His eyes snapped back to mine, as if an explosion had gone off.
"I–Uh...You are...Yes, indeed there was. We have a lead on Calpernia, and we need to follow it. A noble in Val Royeux is holding a masquerade ball, and has requested in return for information, that you attend. As...As a Levallan, a noble by name." I snorted, in the most unladylike manner, my hands jumping to my mouth to hold back the laughter that seemed to gush from my mouth. Cullen smirked, again. Sure I was a noble Levallan, an oddity all in itself, but I barely regarded myself as so outside of...Well...Anywhere.
"The last time I went to one of those things, I almost got killed, more than enough times than I'd like in one night. Can we find the information any other way? Maybe hold him hostage? Bribe him? Torture him? Anything?" My hands held onto each other closely, my thumbs rubbing the places between my fingers in a soothing manner. He had danced with me, at the ball in the Winter Palace. He had bowed to me, his similar smirk curling at the tip of his lip. We had danced under the moon, forgetting the war, forgetting Celene and the plot against her, forgetting everything but the feel of each other, the movement. Despite how much he had told me he was a bad dancer, he had led me graciously against the balcony, his hand at the small of my back, burning through the dress Vivienne's seamstress had made. The recollection of him pressing a kiss to my hair as I leaned my head against his shoulder burned in my mind hotter than any pressing iron, and I longed to feel him kiss me again, on my lips, my cheeks, my forehead; everywhere. Dorian knew how I felt, and the memory made my heart beat faster and the blood course hotter through my veins.
"I'm afraid not. We'll have to attend. The other advisors will be there along with me and your selected party." I tried to hide the blush that crawled from my neck to my ears and cheeks, I tried to concentrate on anything but his body and his armor and his handsome face, but all of it was impossible.
"W-When is it?" I managed to stutter out.
"Two days from now, Vivienne and her contact are already working on something for you to wear." I lifted myself out of the seat, but it was no use. My clumsy nature and my weak legs gave out under me, probably because I had been sitting for too long, and before I hit the ground Cullen's arms were around me, and he was everywhere. His cold armor was pressed to my chest, both of his hands holding my arms constrictively, his leg bent between both of mine. I gasped and Cullen's golden eyes widened in surprise.
"Well, this is new." A slightly amused voice piped in, and I recognized Dorian's presence immediately. Mechanically, Cullen straightened me and let go, his hand resuming its position at the back of his neck while I tried to catch my breath–which failed miserably.
"Dorian. Hi." My voice was hoarse, and I cleared it, taking in a deep breath and exhaling, my eyes darting to Cullen's, who hadn't stopped staring at me.
"Cullen, thank you for catching me. And telling me about the plans. Not much choice, eh?" I tried to make light of the situation, but Dorian only quirked a brow and Cullen just sighed, nodding his head.
"Inquisitor." He began to leave, his footsteps light and quick.
"Brea." I stated to his back, annoyance lacing my voice. I hated that god forsaken title.
"Brea." His voice was deep; seductive and sultry all at once as he turned to face me, and I could tell from his aura that he enjoyed the words on his tongue, and I could definitely agree. Hearing my name on his lips gave me more pleasure than I'd admit to anyone, even Dorian. Especially Dorian. Oh I was going to die.