Across the Waking Sea

"Chapter One"

As the Lady's Grace sailed ever closer to Ostwick's harbor, Evelyn Trevelyan tried not to vomit. While the distress of her lover, Cullen, was an unwelcome but not unexpected result of seasickness, the cause of Evelyn's roiling stomach was harder to determine. Picking her way across the salt-sprayed deck by twining her fingers in the rigging for balance, she managed to reach the chair where the commander sat, ashen-faced, sipping at a cup of tea which seemed to be doing nothing for his nausea.

"We're almost to the docks," she supplied, straining to be heard over the calling seagulls and crewmembers shouting as they scurried across the planks, readying the ship for port.

Cullen's head lolled and a grimace painted itself over his handsome features as the ship turned hard for starboard.

"Thank the Maker. I hate the sea."

"Now, you don't hate the sea, you just hate travelling by it," Evelyn replied, wrapping her shawl tighter around her frame. She loved these mercurial waters – the tang of the salty air, the wind whipping her hair into tangles, the way that the sun could so swiftly hide behind blooming storm clouds - at present, however, she found herself entirely too nervous to enjoy it.

Her family's messenger had arrived at Skyhold nearly a month before, barging into the Inquisitor's chambers with all the finesse of a rabid Druffalo. Even now, Evelyn's cheeks turned pink at the memory; the poor young man had managed to interrupt some….well, Josephine once called them "mid-morning diplomatic negotiations to cement the alliance between Ostwick and Ferelden." In practice, this meant that only Cullen's quick reflexes and the delay posed by a flight of stairs kept the messenger from finding Evelyn flat on her back, with her dress rucked up and legs thrown over the shoulders of the Inquisition's Commander…whose mouth was engaged in some "delicate diplomacy" of his own.

Sometimes the Maker was kind.

Instead, the courier had crested the stairs to see her placidly reading reports on her settee and Cullen in the washroom. If the young man noticed the sweat beading at her forehead or the flush on her throat, he did not say, though the rapidity with which the letter found her hand indicated either that he suspected or that Evelyn's skill at masking irritation was slipping.

As the boy's booted feet clattered down the stairs, Evelyn had broken the wax seal emblazoned with the Trevelyan motto, "Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed," with the silver letter opener on the table.

"Who was it," Cullen had called from the bathroom as Evelyn's eyes scanned the page.

"A Trevelyan messenger, most likely instructed by my mother to give the letter only to me, considering the fear in his eyes," she replied, standing and walking to the desk.

"Is all well?"

"Still reading, but she offers her congratulations on the defeat of Corypheus and my selection of a new Divine…ah, I see."

Only then had Cullen emerged from the washroom, one towel around his neck and the other slung low at his hips. Evelyn's hand on the letter tightened; Maker, all she wanted to do was follow the droplet of water at his throat as it ran down his chest, around the divot of his belly button, down, down, down…

"Evelyn?"

"Yes? Oh, right, well," judging from Cullen's smug expression, he had possessed some idea of the bent of her thoughts, but she squeezed her legs together and began to read aloud.

"Your sister Tatiana has recently become engaged to the third son of Teryn Ricardis. You might remember him; he was present at Cosette's wedding, and you attended their Wintersend ball the year before joining the Chantry. Dark hair, dark eyes, nice jawline. I think they will be well-matched; Carl is twenty months older than Tatiana, a fine horseman, quite kind. More than that, an alliance with the Teryn will serve our family well. The wedding will be this coming Summerday, as befits a family as renowned as Ricardis'." Evelyn rolled her eyes.

"Your sisters will be attending with their husbands, and Cosette will be bringing Emilie and the new baby. We do so hope that you will attend as well. It would be lovely to have the family all together for Tatiana's wedding, don't you think, dear? Do come, and bring your Commander…"

She trailed off in silence for a moment, "Ah, and then Tatiana wrote at the bottom 'if you don't, I will never speak to you again. And she drew a heart- oh."

Cullen's fingers had walked a delicate traipsing pattern over the nape of her neck and, inevitable as gravity, she had found herself in his arms, the letter discarded as they made the sometimes all-too-long journey to the bed.

And that, in short, was how they found themselves booking passage on a ship from Jader to Ostwick a fortnight ago. The Lady's Grace was well appointed, though undeniably a merchant schooner, intended more for the exchange of luxury goods than for a pleasure cruise undertaken by the Inquisitor and her seasick, ex-Templar lover. That said, the Waking Sea had been generally calm, a short squall or two notwithstanding, and Evelyn had found the voyage enjoyable. Certainly it was more diverting than the long, overland journey to the Conclave she had made with five other Chantry novitiates in a stuffy carriage, with Bran snoring and Joanna and Lenore bickering like two magpies. She much preferred the arcing roll of the ship, the rough calls of seabirds, the card games and fiddles in the inky blackness, with Cullen swinging her around in a Fereldan reel as the sailors whooped and clapped.

With her eyes cast out over the rippling surf, Evelyn jumped when Cullen's broader frame enveloped her own. His fingers slotted so neatly between hers, curving over the railing as the outline of Ostwick slowly materialized on the horizon, the late morning sun glinting harsh and hard on the shining white buildings.

"Are you excited to be home?"

She could feel the rumble of his voice against her spine where his chest pressed near her ribs. His lips made a short sojourn to the curve of her neck and the dark blue shawl she wore fell away to allow him easier access.

"Excited? I don't know. I am looking forward to seeing my family, but nervous is probably a better term for it. I haven't seen them for three years…things are complicated. I don't…" she sighed gently, "well, now is not the time."

One of his strong arms slipped around her waist, and his lips murmured against the shell of her ear.

"Yes, it is. We'll be there soon."

As if his voice were a beacon, Evelyn's eyes rose from their intertwined left hands to the city, nearer now, almost close enough to see the scurrying inkblot figures in the harbor.

"And when we're there, we might not have much time to talk freely. It's your sister's wedding, after all, and your family will want to spend time with you."

Evelyn sighed.

"I suppose you're right, my love. Well, you already know that I am the youngest of four daughters, and that the Trevelyan family is quite large. Some are very powerful, some barely worth noting. My father is the younger son of a younger son, and our branch is neither particularly powerful nor wealthy compared to many nobles in the Free Marches."

She squeezed Cullen's broad fingers within her own.

"In any case, my parents could not afford to marry all of us off to people befitting our station, low among the nobles as it may have been. In Ostwick, the bride's family provides the trousseau, the wedding dress, the celebratory meal…and since my mother is nothing if not wise at the marriage game, she only married her daughters to men at or above their status, which meant that each was quite expensive. Cosette's wedding was planned five years in advance!"

Her head fell back against the solid weight of Cullen's shoulder. "All this to say that my parents decided relatively early, when I was perhaps twelve, that they could not afford to marry me off. Every branch of the Trevelyans from here to Val Royeaux supports the Chantry, and has for years. I think there might even have been a Divine or two who came from the family. Anyway, it is quite normal for a younger son or daughter to enter into the Maker's service. I did at fifteen, though not without anger."

Cullen's arm tightened around her waist.

"You didn't want to go?"

"I wanted to stay at home with my friends and my sisters and my parents. I blamed my parents for not having the money for me to wed, my father for his family's devotion to the Chantry which made my entry possible…I hated my mother for her plotting, my sisters for their futures which were unavailable to me, the nobles for making it so that I could not marry someone below my own status without bringing shame to my family, the Chantry for taking me as a novitiate despite my vocal protests…I was very, very angry."

She turned within his arms, and his hand cupped the curve of her cheek. Cullen's eyes were soft and tender. "Are you still angry at them?"

Evelyn blinked and turned into his warm, callused palm. "No. With time, I realized that my sisters had as little choice in the matter as I did, with Cossette engaged, Marie courting, and Tatiana just a year older than me. My father…well, as you will soon see, he's rather eccentric, more interested in the garden and farming techniques than the machinations of the nobility. He thought the Chantry would give me more freedom, more choice…a choice in who I loved, who I wed, if I desired to at all. And my mother, too, did what she thought was best…"

His thumb swept over her cheekbone, catching up a few drops of stray saltwater from the ocean swells. Evelyn smiled.

"And besides, those choices led me to you. I can imagine no life other than the one I have now, with you."

Their kiss was soft and slow and salty-sweet, her hands gripping his linen shirt and his arms around her waist as the Lady's Grace made its stately entrance into Ostwick's bustling harbor.

The relief on Cullen's face as his booted feet met solid earth was matched in intensity only by Evelyn's growing anxiety.

"Deitrich, my father's steward, is meeting us here with the carriage."

"Lady Trevelyan! Milady! Here!"

And there the grey-haired man was, standing on the footboard of the coach and waving, a wide smile on his ruddy face. Grabbing Cullen's hand, Evelyn pulled him through the crowds and towards the older man, only to be swung up into a bone-crushing hug.

"Oh, Lady Evelyn, if you aren't pretty as a picture!"

"Dietrich! How are you? How is Mathilde? Tristam?"

"Good, good, Tristam's married now, living in Starkhaven. Has a little boy – me! A grandfather! Ah, but don't let me prattle on, is this your man?"

Evelyn felt her cheeks flush at Dietrich's appraising stare as he poked her in the side, grinning.

"Yes, ah, Dietrich this is-"

Cullen cut her off, sticking his hand out where Dietrich grasped it. "Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition," her lover's features twisted into a devilish smirk as he winked, "and her man."

"Wonderful, wonderful," Dietrich grinned, "the house has been all aflutter with the wedding and the family members arriving, but everyone's looking forward to meeting you, ser, and to seeing our Evelyn again. Now, in the carriage, the both of you. I'll get your luggage."

The older man bustled off towards the docks, calling two porters to his side with the promise of coin, and Cullen opened the coach door. Sweeping a deep bow, he smiled.

"Milady."

Evelyn sank into a deep curtsy in reply, though the effect was somewhat marred by her lack of skirts. A curtsy in trousers often just looked like one's leg had gone numb. But she placed her fingertips lightly on Cullen's palm and sighed overly-delicately, "milord," as he helped her into the coach.

The carriage ride through Ostwick was uneventful. The blue sky, the faintest snatches of spices being unloaded from merchant schooners at the swiftly-retreating dock, the calls of vendors hawking their wares, all of these faded as Deitrich maneuvered the two bay chargers through the crowds and past the first of Ostwick's two shining marble walls.

Luckily, the Trevelyan seal on the side of the carriage kept most people from sparing more than a passing glance to the coach. Evelyn was grateful for the light shawl she had packed and now wore over her hair; for all the messengers, alewives and fishmongers knew, she was yet another member of an entirely too large minor family come to see the wedding.

Though not so minor a family anymore, Evelyn thought as her fingertips drifted over the newly refurbished seats, done up in deep garnet Antivan damask.

"Your lady mother had the carriage redone when the betrothal was announced," Deitrich called from his perch, voice rising above the clattering hooves on the cobblestones, "Many people are willing to perform services for the Inquisitor's family, meserre. And the treasures you sent helped, too, of course."

Cullen's hand found hers and squeezed as Deitrich continued enumerating the myriad projects that had been completed on the Trevelyan estate: windowpanes replaced, the marble tub in her parents' bathing chamber refinished, a fancy method of watering the courtyard garden involving subterranean pipes-

"Imported the schematics from Orzammar! They're quite ingenious, the dwarves…it was your father's pet project for the winter…"

The coachman's voice slowly tapered off, and Cullen laced his fingers with hers.

"I hope Mother hasn't promised someone favors we can't deliver on," Evelyn groused, fingertip tracing a leaping stag rendered in golden thread as the carriage rumbled past the second ring of walls and into the city center.

"She might have," Cullen murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple through the curtain of her hair, "but we're here for your sister's marriage, not for politics."

"Oh Cullen," she sighed dramatically, though her lips curved in a smile, "when will you learn? Marriages are politics."

He tucked a stray auburn lock behind her ear, and his eyes were soft. "Not all of them."

Evelyn's heart lurched at the tenderness writ across his features and she murmured, "No, I suppose not all."

Freeing her hand from his she curved her fingers around the back of his skull and brought his perfect, scarred lips to hers. Cullen's mouth was warm, and his hands found her waist despite the lurching of the carriage, and she thought, thank the Maker he is recovered from his seasickness, surely we will find time to-

Dietrich coughed.

"Begging your pardon, milady, ser, but we're approaching the estate and well…" even though the steward was turned away from them, Evelyn could see the flush spreading below his gray hair and down his neck, and she tamped down a groan of frustration while placing her hands back demurely in her lap.

"Yes, Dietrich, thank you."

Cullen's eyes crinkled in mirth.

"More scared of your mother than of Corypheus?"

She rolled her eyes as the carriage continued its journey.

"Soon you will be, too."

The estate looked much the same as when Evelyn had left it, white stone glinting in the warm sun, the tops of the trees in the courtyard just peeking above the roofline. Deitrich pulled the reins and he carriage rolled to a stuttering stop, the horses nickering softly as their bits pulled taut against their lips. Cullen held out a hand to help Evelyn descend.

"You know I've been getting in and out of carriages for five and twenty years, don't you, my love?"

He kissed her knuckles, "true, but it has only been for a few that I have had the privilege of helping."

"Lady Evelyn!"

Charging from the open doorway to the home was a tall and somewhat dour woman, with her greying hair bound in a tight bun.

Cullen stilled at Evelyn's side. "Your mother?"

"No," she whispered, "her lady, Jean."

"Don't you worry," said Dietrich from beside the carriage, "I'll get your bags inside and to your rooms."

"Thank you, Dietrich. Wait, rooms? Plural?"

"Well of course," said Jean, ushering them up the stairs like a fussing hen, "it wouldn't do for you to share, now would it? The town is already all aquiver, and then to have you…cohabiting."

She whispered the last word like someone might whisper "regicide," or "Blight," as she pushed the couple through the vestibule, past the entrance to the receiving parlor, past the hallway to the kitchens, and Evelyn twisted around, glancing back, "Jean, where are we-"

"Your mother thought you might want to freshen up, of course, after your long journey. The commander will be staying in the guest wing-"

"Wait? What! Where is-"

The older woman continued unperturbed. "And you, Lady Evelyn, will be staying in your old bedroom. I've already had a bath drawn, and Dietrich will leave your trunks there. Peter!"

A young boy appeared as if by magic, though his winded breath let Evelyn know that Jean's sudden summonings were of a more practical nature.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Please escort Commander Rutherford to his room in the guest wing."

Evelyn dug her heels into the parquet floor. "Now, wait just a moment, I-"

Cullen smiled and brushed the callused pad of his thumb over her cheek. "It's fine. I'll see you as soon as we've cleaned up."

Jean patted his shoulder like a proud mother. "Quite sensible. Now, off you go."

Peter bowed stiffly and led Cullen down a hallway branching off to the left, and Jean's hand closed on Evelyn's elbow like a vice.

"Lady Evelyn, your bathwater won't stay warm forever."

Much like the estate itself, Evelyn's bedroom had not changed much. The thick Orlesian rug was the same, blemished by a juice stain to the left of the doorway, and her stuffed dragon still kept guard on the bureau. At present, a copper tub sat in the middle of the room, steam twining up from the bathwater which a young woman was currently pouring.

"Iris," snapped Jean, and the girl's bucket clattered to the floor as she hastily stood, "this is Lady Evelyn, the Inquisitor."

Iris's eyes, cornflower blue, widened as she swept a curtsy, managing to kick the empty bucket with a clang.

"Milady! I, um, well, I've been- I mean, it's a pleasure to, um-"

Evelyn smiled, unwrapping the shawl from around her shoulders and hanging it on the hook next to the door. "Hello, Iris. It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for the bath."

Iris's cheeks turned even pinker, and Jean hissed, "Say 'thank you'" from her place beside the Inquisitor.

"Thank you."

Evelyn turned, placing her small satchel on the hook next to her shawl. "That will be all, Jean. Where should Cullen and I meet my parents?"

"I think they are in the parlor. Iris will take you there when you are ready. Welcome home, Lady Evelyn."

Jean shut the door firmly behind her, and Evelyn sighed.

"Once, when Tatiana and I were small, Jean found us playing with my mother's rouge. We begged her not to tattle on us, but of course she did. We weren't allowed dessert for a month."

"She's got a stick bigger than a broadsword up her arse, that one," said Iris, who then clapped her hands hard over her mouth, eyes as wide as dinner plates. She gulped. "…begging your pardon, milady."

The Inquisitor grinned, shucking her boots. "Bigger than that, I think. Maybe a mage's staff."

Newly bathed, with her dark auburn hair curling damply down the slope of her back, Evelyn walked towards the parlor, the skirts of her dress swirling around her feet as she rounded a corner, almost running full-tilt into Cullen. His broad hand shot out to steady her, curling around her waist and, gaze meeting, his golden eyes widened.

"You look lovely," he murmured, gaze flickering over the flush on her cheeks, the pink tint that Iris had skillfully applied to Evelyn's lips.

She grinned, twining a burnished golden curl around a fingertip. "You don't look so bad yourself, Commander. The casual look suits you," she replied, releasing the lock of hair held between her fingers and letting her hand slide down the broad plane of his chest. His eyes were heated and his lips parted, just a hint of his need in the way his arm pressed her closer to the hard lines of his body.

"Cullen, I-" but then his lips were on hers, hands smoothing the fabric of her dress as she sagged against him, her own hands gripping his shoulders.

"Are you recovered from your seasickness?" she asked between feverish kisses.

"Yes, entirely," he replied, and she shuddered.

"Well then, we will have to-"

"Stop snogging in the hallway and come say hello to your family?" said a voice, light with laughter. Cullen leapt away as if Evelyn's skin were a brand, and his cheeks were burning red

"So, Evie, this is your commander? Lucky girl!" exclaimed the young woman leaning up against the windowsill, her dark blonde hair braided and looped over her head and a bright smile on her full lips.

Evelyn grinned. "Indeed, I am. Cullen, this is my sister, Tatiana."

Comments, kudos, constructive criticism always welcome. 3