Trevelyan was getting nervous. Dressed in a lavish formal gown with pinned hair to match, she was standing in Denerim Palace's time-honoured throne hall. With her were the Inquisition's inner circle and every soul in Ferelden who held any name, or believed they did. The large congregation was awaiting His Majesty King Alistair and Starkhaven's royal family, the guests of honour at this celebration of two centuries of trade between the two nations.
The hall was decorated in banners, flags and artwork, with guests donning all the latest fashion. Excited chatter echoed around the high stone walls, and everything was set for a splendid ceremony.
Only Cullen was nowhere to be seen.
Trevelyan snuck an uneasy glance around as the first waves of concern coiled in her tummy. What was keeping him- of all people?
She'd never seen the necessity of attending, but Leliana and Josephine had been convinced of the event's importance- to further improve relations and gather intelligence. Her main reason for going, however, had been to see Alistair again, whom they hadn't met since his rather enjoyable visit to Skyhold. Though she didn't care much for formalities, she regretted not being able to stay the night since they had to be at another affair in Kirkwall the next day.
Aware of curious glances around her, she supressed a grin at the memories of Cullen's and her night with the king.
The brass blare of loud fanfares roused her from raunchy nostalgia. Countless pairs of eyes turned towards the ornate double doors at the hall's south end. The regal march of Ferelden's royal guard preceded the procession of foreign guests, and finally the king's entry. At that very moment a side door opened, and she turned to see Cullen rushing towards her just as Alistair strode past them. Trevelyan's head spun from one man to another, her mouth dropping open.
Both were wearing skirts. Woven, knee-long, check-patterned man-skirts. As her commander closed the distance, she stared at him, utterly dumbfounded.
Why were they wearing skirts? And why was this hall suddenly so much warmer?
As he stood beside her, Cullen pressed a fleeting kiss onto her cheek. "My apologies for the delay, Inquisitor." He grinned. "What do you think of the attire?"
Trevelyan inched closer, speaking into his ear so as not to disturb the proceedings. "What in the Maker's name is this? And why are you and the king both wearing it?"
A quiet chuckle at her childlike curiosity accompanied his answer. "This, my Lady Trevelyan, is called a kilt. It's a garment from Starkhaven bearing hundreds of years of tradition. These tartan patterns," he pointed at the green and yellow checks on the dark blue material, "each represent a different clan."
She nodded, embarrassed at her obliviousness. Despite hailing from the Free Marches, in all of her sheltered life there she'd never heard of, let alone seen, any such outfits. Mere tradition, however, didn't quite explain why king and commander, both Fereldan patriots, were wearing them.
As if reading her mind, Cullen elaborated. "I imagine Denerim is keen to honour any ancestry the Theirin family might share with the Vaels. As for myself," another snigger, "Josie managed to trace a rather distant Starkhaven connection in the Rutherford bloodline. It did take some convincing for me to wear this, I'll admit."
Though he'd finished talking, she kept nodding, distracted as her eyes roamed up and down his kilted form. Cullen's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Do you like it?"
Trevelyan managed to turn away, hiding the blossoming flush across her face just as a friendly but assertive glance from their spymaster bade them to shush.
Relief eased through her as she concentrated on the ceremony, no longer having to face her dashing, distracting commander.
But it seemed Cullen wasn't finished as he leaned in once more. She could feel his smirk as warm breath stroked her ear.
"Do you know what's the most important tradition when it comes to these kilts?"
When she looked at him, his grin widened. Leaning even closer, full lips caressed her cheek as he whispered, his tone secretive and important. "One must never wear smallclothes underneath." Then he turned back, leaving her gawking, cheeks aflame from the bold insinuation.
So much for her concentration.
Looking around, Trevelyan did notice the Starkhaven guests and some of the spectators wearing kilts of their own, though not quite to the same effect (on her, that was).
A sense of déjà vu overcame her- this wasn't the first time she'd found herself fighting fluster caused by two certain ex-Templars. She sighed. They were strikingly handsome in their ensembles, though.
Alistair had grown his hair out a little. The tender beginnings of a fiery ginger mane sat in perfect complement to the deep green of his jacket that matched the base colour of his ski-kilt.
The sea blue of Cullen's coat brought out a rosy hue on his sallow skin, a flattering if unnecessary enhancement of his masculine beauty. Pride tingled in her chest at being able to call him her lover. Yet she kept catching herself sneaking glances at his groin, seeking any evidence, however large or small (though this was Cullen) to support his earlier claim.
Swallowing hard, she decided that if she was unable to follow the proceedings she might as well use the time to expand her cultural horizons. Brightened with fresh resolve, her eyes wandered, taking in the details of those stately outfits.
Over the next few minutes, Trevelyan studied the intricate patterns of their exquisite weaves; the elegant regality of the fine leather shoes; the way those woollen socks were turned down at the knee; the playful allusion of how that leather pouch dangled at the crotch.
All of these accessories, however, only served to highlight those long, lean legs, the graceful calves, their shapely bottoms. In particular, that tempting stretch of skin between sock and hem was of curious fascination. The golden shine of Cullen's tiny hairs, the long scar winding around Alistair's leg were daring her eyes, her fingers, her tongue to travel up those luscious thighs.
A strangled sigh escaped her as she squeezed her legs together in a desperate attempt to ignore the beckoning pull, the moist warmth building up between her legs.
What wouldn't she give for a peek, just one, to see if Cullen's words had been truth or jest.
She knew, of course, what was hiding under those precious garments, having seen, felt and pleasured them both. Her hands were only too familiar with those round buttocks, the powerful, yet sensitive thighs, and, naturally… she stifled a groan.
All familiarity aside, the mere idea, the sheer inappropriateness of them being bare underneath, bore an irresistible allure. It stoked her fantasy, her desire, more than she'd have ever expected. Regret gnawed at her for having committed to that blasted Kirkwall event. Her mind embarked on a frantic search for reasons to arrange an overnight stay in Denerim. Soon. With kilts.
For another hour, Trevelyan stood there, trying her utmost not to blush, giggle or be caught staring. It proved to be one of the most daunting challenges in her career as Inquisitor.
When the festivities were finally over, Trevelyan and her advisors met His Majesty for a short audience on a quiet balcony. The outlook onto the tranquil garden with its fresh air did wonders for her heated skin and skipping heart.
In the presence of Leliana and Josephine it was impossible to discuss anything beyond the weather and light politics. Nevertheless it was good to see Alistair again, engage in pleasant chatter and the odd joke.
Trevelyan took another look at the immaculately maintained greens, wishing for a similar view at Skyhold, before focusing back on the men facing her, framed by spymaster and ambassador.
"So," the king grinned, looking at the commander, "what about that Starkhaven heritage of yours, then?"
Cullen opened his mouth but was silenced by a sudden burst of wind crashing into them. The women shrieked in surprise, clutching at their skirts. But their frocks all remained in place, long and heavy enough to withstand the brief gust.
The much lighter kilts, however, never stood a chance. Frail in the Fereldan breeze, they lifted up against finely tailored shirts before their startled bearers yanked them back down, granting the Inquisitor a split second's glance.
And that was all she needed.