Title: Dispatch
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: We're back for another DARBB, this time for the inimitable janiejanine's fanmix Just a Little Longer.
As in past years, not only is the mix ALL MY FAVORITE THINGS, it also allows me to write something I've always wanted to write. This year, however, there's a twist: it's a love story that doesn't end in tragedy. This is not only fun for me but is also a great relief to my wonderful patient long-suffering beta Quark, without whom again, as usual, I would be lost.
This is the first arc of a longer fic; I'll be updating periodically as I write more.
You can also read the other companion piece for this beautiful mix, "" by the insanely talented tarysande.
"Skyhold is so far away."
Cullen looks away from his papers—which he has been doing more than looking at them—to where the newly minted Inquisitor leans against the wall and peers out the narrow window. The bright white light of the mountains softens as it touches her face, her eyes narrowed as if straining to see the grassy plains beyond the peaks.
"Yes," he says eventually, for lack of anything better to say. "It is—highly defensible."
A smile tugs at one corner of her mouth, though she doesn't look away from the window. "True," she says, "and I'm sure that's no little relief to you."
"Aside from the lack of secret escape routes," he says. "But—"
"—we will not run again," she finishes, and the smile disappears and his stomach sinks. He doesn't mean to be so serious, but part of him still, after weeks of watching her convalesce, feels the immediate terror of watching her walk out the door of Haven's Chantry without knowing if he'd ever see her again. Of course it must weigh even more heavily on her, and he would—make her smile, if he can, but apparently he cannot.
"It's too much effort, anyway," he says, and she looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "Running. In the snow."
"You know," she says, thoughtfully, "I don't think I've ever tried."
Circle mage, he thinks, and the reminder startles him as if for a moment he'd forgotten. He can't forget; as if, perhaps, it truly doesn't matter. He's not sure what that means. (He knows. He doesn't know if the meaning should mean anything—he is talking circles around his own mind, and—)
"We ride tomorrow," she says abruptly, leaning harder against the wall, if such a thing is possible, staring fiercely out the window, biting her lip between sentences. Of course, he thinks, she must long to be traveling again, doing. "For Crestwood, I mean. To meet Hawke's Warden."
"Yes," he says, not sure why she's mentioning it. "Do you need—"
"Will you write me?" she asks, all in a rush, glancing at him for a long hard moment before retreating to the mountains again, lips pressed together.
He reels from the force of her glancing, not sure what she hopes to see, what she hopes he'll—she's asked a question, and he thinks her cheeks are red. Both of these confuse him—inspire him?—but the answer is easy: "Of course," he says. Did she think he wouldn't? She's the Inquisitor—he'll have plenty of reports to make—
"Oh," she says, brightening, and her entire body relaxes such that he hadn't realized she was tense until this moment, until the concentration lifts from her face and leaves a smile in its place. "Good."
9 Guardian
Dear C-ommander Cullen,
We've arrived in Crestwood. It is a dreary place—I thought I had seen what Ferelden had to offer in terms of rain, and yet she continues to plumb new depths of damp and wet and cold. It's almost worse than the Fallow Mire. Almost.
Honestly, what is wrong with the weather in this country? I can count on one hand the number of fair days I've seen since leaving the Hinterlands. Someone ought to have a word with the queen about it.
I'm sorry. You're from Ferelden, aren't you? It's a lovely country. Shame about the weather.
I thought we were here to see about Hawke's Warden, but according to the maps we've put together Harding has placed our forward camp at the exact opposite end of the territory, and why? Something about rumors of a rift, and the Mark—well. There's a rift around here, and from the feel of it, it's massive, so I suppose the Warden shall just have to wait.
10 Guardian
You'll be pleased to know this place is exactly as bad as the Fallow Mire. Yes, there's a rift under the lake, yes, demons are possessing the corpses—because the lake is full of corpses. All drowned during the Blight. An entire town, flooded. I've had enough of waterlogged bodies rising from the mud to last a lifetime.
And of course no one wants to talk to us about it.
It's still raining. Another day of this and I might take back that comment about this being a lovely country.
I can't reach the rift, as it's under the corpse-infested lake. The mayor of New Crestwood has not-so-politely asked us to leave, and I have forgotten what it means to be dry.
11 Guardian
I just want a fire. A nice, dry fire. With dry wood for kindling.
Blackwall keeps pointing out I'm a mage and therefore capable of making my own nice, dry fire, but no amount of magic can make the ground around my nice dry fire less soggy. On the bright side, I couldn't possibly start an accidental wildfire here. Even if there's a break in the rain, the trees keep dripping on us.
There's rumors of a way to drain the lake—a dam. Something about an old stronghold—I've passed the more important information to the scouts. We're waiting to see what they have to say before we make a move, but we may need troops—but you'll read all that in the report.
If you don't hear from us, it's because we've drowned, just like the poor people in the lake.
With great surprise that my ink hasn't completely run all over the page and ruined it,
and with great hope that this letter finds you warm and dry,
Inquisitor Trevelyan
8 Guardian
Inquisitor,
We're receiving recruits in droves—every day more arrive at our forward camp in the Frostbacks, seeking access to Skyhold. So far we've managed to keep the path more or less a secret, but Ambassador Montilyet seems to think it would be an advantage for every noble house from here to Tevinter to know how to ascend to our stronghold at their leisure. This issue will, I suspect, remain in contention until you return to give us your opinion. I hope you will recall that our safety lies in part in our inaccessibility, and judge accordingly.
9 Guardian
I've received reports that your party has arrived in Crestwood. Leliana has informed me that her scouts report the presence of more demons than previously expected. While I have no doubt in your ability to deal with them, if you have need of troops, send word.
11 Guardian
Enclosed please find the latest estimate of our total strength. I have done my best to record not only our strength in numbers but also in terms of total training per unit. Any mistakes are my own.
The cipher is one of Leliana's. She says her scouts should be able to decode it. I pray that she has not taken any liberty with the information in the process of encoding it. Should any confusion arise, I will do my best to clarify as promptly as possible.
Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition's Forces
12 Guardian
Dear Commander,
We can't keep the route to Skyhold a secret forever, you know. But I'll withhold further comment until I hear Josephine's side of the matter.
It is still rainin
.
I apologize for my earlier brevity—our every attempt to rest has been interrupted by corpses or bandits, even though by now you'd think the latter at least would recognize the Inquisition's insignia and turn tail and run, if not surrender outright. It seems a waste to have to kill them all, and between the mud and blood I don't think these robes will ever be clean again.
13 Guardian
Awaiting word on reinforcements before we approach Caer Bronach. I thought this mission was meant to be a quiet one, traversing Ferelden to find a Warden exile, and I planned my companions accordingly. Had I known I was going to be assaulting a stronghold, I would have made them all come along.
Well. Perhaps not Vivienne. I don't think she would consent to submitting any of her shoes to the muck. She's better off helping Josephine with the Court, though I admit I am slightly terrified whenever I consider the two of them conspiring together.
Honestly, though, part of the reason we've retreated for now is so that I can stay in this tent. This tent is waterproof. I can hear the rain pelting the leather, but none of it is pelting me. I cannot express to you how satisfying this is.
14 Guardian
We can expect troops by midweek? My goodness, Commander, but you do work fast. I'm confident it will be more than enough to face whatever the bandits have in their hidey-hole. Ruthless they may be, but I doubt they are prepared for trained soldiers.
I hope it will not be a slaughter, though of course that would make it easier. Maybe they'll run up the white flag. Probably not, but I can hope.
15 Guardian
Nothing to report, other than the overabundance of obsidian and iron in the area. How do I know? The Orlesian scholars want samples, and so, when not guarding the town against corpses, we have been collecting them. Samples, that is. Not corpses. We've been burning those—well, I have, since nobody else can get a fire to stay lit long enough for a pyre.
All those poor people, and not a single proper funeral among them. Did I mention the mayor doesn't want anyone talking to us about it? I can't say I blame him, and yet...there are so many dead.
Enough. All this sitting around is making me maudlin. I apologize, and shall spare you any further musings until I have something new to report. Hopefully the capture of our very own Fereldan fortress.
Bedraggledly yours,
Inquisitor Trevelyan
13 Guardian
Inquisitor,
I've had word of your situation from Leliana's scouts. We have troops on the Storm Coast; I shall make arrangements to send a detachment to Crestwood. If the weather is truly as bad as you claim, they may have slow going. I have confidence, however, they will reach you in a timely manner.
Our numbers continue to swell. The plateau below Skyhold will not be able to hold all our troops, even with the ones already assigned elsewhere. I am composing a plan to rotate troops between our various outposts. Josephine says I must be careful not to assign too many troops to any one area, as it might make the lords of the land "nervous." Perhaps if the Orlesians would pay more attention to securing their own land than to sending their troops into a fruitless civil war, they would be less concerned. Ferelden's forces are simply spread too thin.
If you desire any input into the placement of your troops, I would welcome it.
14 Guardian
We've had to form three new regiments to accommodate all our new troops. Many of them are untrained. More and more, however, we are receiving what I suspect are deserters from the Orlesian armies. No cheveliers, simply ordinary men tired of fighting pointless battles. I can't say I blame them, but I do plan on deploying them as near to their original assignments as possible.
Leliana has snatched some of them—hunters, mostly—to assist her scouts. They would be invaluable as a contingent of archers, which we are currently lacking most, but she refuses to release any of them.
We had grown accustomed to having you here to settle our disputes.
16 Guardian
At the time of writing this I believe our soldiers should have reached Crestwood. I look forward to hearing news of the engagement soon.
Maker watch over you.
Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition's Forces
"May I make a suggestion?" Leliana says. She stands in the doorway with a raven perched on her arm, an oiled leather tube on its back.
"You may," Cullen says, wary, afraid she's going to return to the subject of recruiting Dalish archers. His first attempts were rebuffed, and when Josephine discovered he had sent messages on his own, he'd received a lecture about not overstepping the boundaries of his position. He'd wanted to retort that her courtly connections surely did not extend to wandering nomads, but the way she'd brandished her writing board at him had silenced him.
She does not mention the elves. Instead, she removes the cap on the tube and slips out a rolled-up parchment. He reaches for it, but she holds it just beyond his grasp. "She already receives our daily missives concerning the machinery of the Inquisition," she says, toying with a smile. "You do not need to repeat yourself in your letters."
"You—" he starts, torn between outrage and a desire to crawl beneath his desk and wait until she has disappeared.
"Only out of idle curiosity," she admits. "If you give me your word you'll try, then I will stop."
"Why—"
"She's a dear child," Leliana says, as if she herself were not younger when she fought at the Warden's side. "We have precious few opportunities for rest, Commander. Do not deprive yourself of this simply because you cannot figure out how to write a letter to a pretty girl."
"I—"
"Your word?" she asks, still dangling the letter from her fingers.
His entire face is burning, voices in his head clamoring for revenge and insisting this is none of her business and entirely avoiding the uncomfortable fact that she's right, that he doesn't know what he's doing or how to accomplish it and has been failing miserably in his attempts to compensate. "Fine," he says. "I'll try."
"Good," she says, handing him the letter. "Some advice?"
"No—"
"You are continuing a conversation until such time as you can converse again in person," she says, and now she is openly grinning at him. In all his time with the Inquisition he has not seen the Nightingale's eyes sparkle with such mirth or delight, and he is surprised by how it suits her. "It does not have to be serious."
"All right," he says, stepping towards her so that she steps backward, out of his tower. "Not serious."
"I—"
"I can write a letter," he says, sour and serious, and she laughs at him.
"Of course you can," she says, playful and light. "I have the utmost confidence in you. Good day, Commander."
"Good day," he says, and swings the door shut behind her.
18 Guardian
Dear Commander,
As I'm sure you've heard, we took Caer Bronach this morning. Or possibly last night. It's so dark with all this dratted rain that our plan to wait until dawn was...compromised, and so we decided to charge ahead and hope for the best.
Did you know, this place has an entire series of caves beneath it? Excellent for infiltration, which bodes poorly for us now that we occupy the place, I suppose. Oh, and they're all half-flooded and full of spiders. Marvelous.
I'm sorry. I meant to address the issues you raised in your last batch of letters. We've been busy planning the next few days, deciding how to clear the place out. I'm not touching the issues you raised with Leliana or Josephine as I can assure you I've heard from them as well. We'll probably be making a trip to Skyhold soon; I'd hoped to find Hawke's Warden first, but sorting out this mess with the lake—well, with what used to be a lake—is turning into too big an ordeal to finish properly from here. And I've received a very confusing missive from Amund concerning his fellow Avvar and—anyway.
I do very much like your idea of rotating the troops around. Bring them to Skyhold for their initial training, and then return them to the areas they're most familiar with? Though that might run the risk of creating...pockets of people, instead of a unified force. But I don't like the idea of keeping soldiers away from their families for too long, if we can help it. Not that all of them have families, or families still living, I know. Beyond that, I leave it to your discretion.
Finally, I wanted to apologize. I think I perhaps misunderstood the nature of our correspondence. I'm sorry for bothering you with my babbling when you were looking for something a little more...structured, perhaps? In any case, I promise that in the future I shall attempt to keep to the official channels of information and not flood your office with more unnecessary paperwork.
Sincerely,
Inquisitor Trevelyan
His breath comes hard, harder than it ought, given his physical condition, but he hasn't scaled stairs like the ones in the library tower since...Kinloch Hold, and he's forgotten the nature of the exertion. Aside from dreams of endless running, running up stairs, running down stairs, rounding the bends to find demons at every—
"Can I help you?" Leliana asks, raising an eyebrow from where she sits at her table, petting a raven.
She knows exactly why he is here. He can feel it, and so he simply says, "Have you sent the Inquisitor's bird?"
"No," she says, and indicates the bird beside her. "I was about to, but I had a feeling..."
"Just this," he says, offering a folded half-sheet, edges jagged, corners not quite aligned.
She takes it and, without bothering to tease him, slides it into the tube on the bird's back. She rises from the table and carries the bird to the nearest window; after petting it and whispering in its unseen ear, she tosses it into the sky, and the beating of its wings stirs her hair after its caw has faded from the air.
"You're trying?" she says, still looking out the window.
"I gave my word," he says.
She half-turns her head, and half-smiles, and says, entirely pleased: "Good."
o~o
The relief of sleeping on a real bed instead of an oiled tarp atop the wet ground, even if it's really just the bed frame with her bedroll atop it, is a pleasure too precious for words. Isabelle savors it, lying abed far longer than she probably should, but she can always blame the fact that she's still black and blue from fighting atop slick stone in the rain. She's fairly certain her ribs are bruised, and in any case she aches too much to search out any healing potions for the present.
Someone knocks at the door, and she braces herself for either an overly concerned Cassandra or an overly disapproving Cassandra, and calls, "Come in."
One of the scouts—a newer one, come in with Cullen's troops—opens the door, and she winces against the sudden bright light from outside. And then she sits up straight—bright light?
"The morning's missives, milady," the scout says nervously, holding out an enormous stack of papers—of course, because now that they've captured an outpost there's questions of personnel and expanding the spy network and not angering the local bann—and she gets to her protesting feet and accepts them with a smile that turns the scout red from head to—well, his toes are hidden, but she can guess.
He stays behind her as she steps onto the walkway beyond the room. No sunshine as she'd hoped, but at least the rain has stopped and the clouds are a little less. The view beyond is the rotted remains of a drowned village, under which lurks a Fade rift still waiting to be sealed, but it's too early to dwell on such things. And so she turns her attention to her mail, trying to sift through the letters (Josephine, Josephine, Vivienne, Josephine) and the packets (all Leliana) and what appears to be several charts of numbers (the commander) and the scraps with Sera's doodles—she pauses, tilts her head, and decides she doesn't want to know.
Her heart is sinking within her chest and she is busy scolding herself for it when a hastily folded note catches her eye catches her heart with hope, and honestly, Isabelle, it'd be hardly like him—
But it is him, and by the time she's done reading the scant lines once (twice, three times) she's beaming like the sun in a clear blue sky.
Inquisitor—
No—don't stop. Please.
I am the one who should apologize. You misunderstood nothing—I misunderstood—I am sorry. It has been—never mind. I am out of the practice of writing, but not out of the desire of it. I shall endeavor to improve until the writing matches the desire. Or—
Maker's breath. Conversational. It never rains at Skyhold—I'm sorry, I don't have time—
I read your letters last of all my correspondence. They make candles burn brighter, and the shadows a little less dark.
Andraste guide you,
Cullen