Author's Notes: Hello friends! It has been a while since I really updated anything. My obsessions change so frequently, but when they do, boy do I get OBSESSED. So I have started a new fic.
Just to give you a bit of back-story on this one - I played as a male Qunari Inquisitor, so I wanted to write something about the Amell Warden Commander since she occasionally comes up in conversation with Cullen and other characters. I pictured them exchanging formal letters for aid, until eventually it descends into more personal letters about things they wanted to say years ago, but never get the chance to.
I have an M rating for this, but please note that there will be rare moments for it. The rating is there as a warning for intimate feelings and the like, I haven't decided if I should include something a bit more explicit.
The evening light pooled on the War Table; Cullen shifted his edicts to one side and grumbled, exhausted by the day. The clutter on the map was evident enough that their growing forces would quickly become a growing problem if they didn't manage it correctly; that meant more time in the War Room, more time debating, managing, signing and stamping, agreeing and disagreeing.
"With the Grey Wardens allied with us, we will need to inform the Commander of these recent developments," Leliana said, brandishing the letter at him, it's thin red wax seal bearing the Grey Warden insignia broken by a jagged line, "I'll need you to contact her, asking for a formal agreement of her support. Even if her soldiers agree to our terms, it would be better to have it in writing to avoid an argument later. It would also help if you could request a thorough breakdown of agreed terms, so we know exactly what we are getting when we take the Warden's aid."
Cullen took the letter solemnly, grasping the thick parchment between his thumb and palm, knowing it was the one piece of information about The Warden Commander they had, and nothing else but the vague words of a few of her closest.
Much had changed since Alistair had given them an idea of her whereabouts; he hoped at least that hadn't changed much since she sent her first correspondence, otherwise his letter would probably go unanswered.
They broke, puffing out candles and shuffling wearily out into the castle halls, Josephine with her towering stack of scrolls - he with his lists, rotas and letters to peruse before bed. Leliana lagged behind to secure the doors, waving goodnight to him as she swept by.
As he dumped the ever-growing pile of papers onto his desk, he cracked his neck, his muscles aching, head swimming, but he would get through the mess on the table before eventually he climbed up the ladder to his chambers. It was easier to sleep that way, occasionally it staved off the night terrors.
The candles burned low in their holders by the time he finally got around to writing the letter to the Warden Commander; he tried to pretend not to notice that he left it until the very last, even going so far as to sort out the rotas for the next month – a job he specifically appointed to Rylen because of how mind-numbingly boring Cullen found it – until eventually that parchment was the only thing sitting innocently on his desk, embossed with that griffon-filled crest.
Cullen hesitated – briefly – before taking the letter and flipping it open, leaning back in his chair, squinting through weary eyes to read the curt, purposeful rejection for help, written in unfussy, tidy handwriting. Her objective – as her whereabouts – were equally as vague and nonchalant; the focus instead on reassurance that she was in good health, that she wished she could return to offer more information on Corypheus, and that instead she sent some gifts – more likely a peace offering – for the Inquisitor's use. It was only after seeing her vow to end the Calling and her intricate signature did the Commander realise that his hands were shaking and his face was, for all intents and purposes, flaming like a choir-boy who just got a look down a lay-sister's gowns.
Maker he thought he was over this. Surely ten years was a long enough time to get over what was a very youthful, very naïve crush.
A very, very long time ago.
And yet... yet he sat there with his blushing cheeks and his frown like the letter had wronged him in a way, and felt like he was still that young man, shakily handing a dropped scroll to the young, silvery-haired Mage outside the library, looking up with glittering, unfathomably deep, inky blue eyes so indescribably beautiful that the words in his mouth turned to garbled nonsense.
"Th-this... I-I... found it. It's yours I think - I-I mean, it has your name on it- not-not that I read it or anything! It's just that I had to make sure it was, you know, before I..."
Before I make an even bigger fool of myself, the calm voice in his head chided. Mage Amell, so young and sweet, gently took the scroll from his outstretched grip - the gauntlet looked hilariously large in comparison to her small hand – and thanked him, quietly, before returning to her studies in the expansive hall of the library.
He had read it. It was a long, complex series of notes and diagrams – some assignment or other, with that intricate signature at the bottom. He spent more time observing her work than he would later admit, equal parts fascinated by the magic and by the author.
She had been so young then, only fourteen, and he was only fresh from White Spire at the tender age of twenty-two. The only contact he had with women were the lay-sisters and raw recruits, training for their Templar duties. But Mage Amell had this youthful softness and, despite her young age, an air of maturity and intelligence that he'd never encountered before. That along with her being a Mage only added to her mysterious aura.
When he thought of Mage Amell now, it was always that same embarrassing memory of his foolish attempt at speaking to her. Those eyes just... turned the words in his mouth to cake; a sodden, crumbling mess. Even in his thirties, he could still feel his tongue sticking to his palate in the effort to seem sophisticated and interesting around someone so... powerful. So haunting and smart.
Rubbing his eyes, Cullen dismissed the memory and flattened out the parchment, pulling a thick sheaf of vellum out of his desk-drawer and licking the tip of his quill before dipping it in the little glass pot of ink. Although the action of the ritual came fluidly to him, actioning the letter was something else entirely. Cullen found, when writing what should have been a formal letter seeking confirmation of aid to Constance Amell, Ferelden Commander of the Grey, Hero of Ferelden, Champion of Redcliffe, Arl of Amaranthine and Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, his quill paused to the point where the ink on the tip dropped and smudged everywhere.
"Oh Maker's balls," he swore under his breath, tossing the page aside and selecting another sheet with an irritated flourish. Josephine would murder him if she found him wasting the good vellum in such a manner – he made a note in-aside to burn that particular sheet lest she find it and unleash her Antivan wrath upon him.
Still... how did one write to the Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey, Hero of Ferelden, etcetera, etcetera...? Cullen found himself at a total loss, stuck, stuttering like all those years ago holed up in the Ferelden Circle in front of the woman who made his cheeks burn hot. His cheeks were burning now in fact; he rubbed them vigorously after shoving the quill into the ink pot in irritation. He was not that man anymore and it was foolish to think otherwise.
He supposed he was just... scared of writing something that sounded... unworthy.
Constance Amell was the kind of Mage that all Mages in the Circle dreamed of being; focused, intelligent, forward-thinking, even revolutionary from a young age. Magic came easily to her and already by her early teens she was making ripples in the magical community with her skills. Then she was recruited in the Wardens, has since earned herself an impressive string of titles, the respect and regard of powerful warriors and Wardens, the love and worship of a nation-
… Next to all that, he was just one man.
One man who couldn't look her in the eye without falling all over himself.
Sighing deeply through his nose, Cullen pushed the thoughts away again, more firmly this time, and picked up the quill with a steadier grip, breathing deeply.
Yes, he was just one man, and he was given a task – to request a formal confirmation of aid from the Wardens and their absentee Commander. He needed it because he needed to absolve the Wardens loyal to the Inquisition and allow them, without fear of reprisal, into their ranks. Only then would they, and by proxy he, be able to sleep easier knowing that here would be no argument against the Inquisitions' use of their abilities and manpower, and even though their Commander was not present, that their orders could be issued via the Inquisition provided their goals coincided.
Big words... for just one man.
So Cullen began to write, not hastily or harshly or for fear of an emotional outburst, but because people were depending on him, and he wanted to make their work a little easier, their sleep a little more restful, even if that meant he didn't get much himself.
Signing it, sanding it and waiting a moment for the ink to dry, he looked into the lights of the low-burning candles and saw the sky outside the window start to turn the barest shade of blue. It was nearing dawn – he'd worked through the night, again.
With a wide, weary yawn, he shook the sand from the page and folded it, pouring a drop of sealing wax where the lip of the paper met the side, stamping down the Inquisition insignia, formally sealing it for Constance Amell's perusal only. That lone eye glared up at him – he wondered briefly how much Mage Amell knew of the Inquisition...
Cullen stood on shaking legs; when he was exhausted, the shakes just got that little bit worse – and made his way up to his quarters. All things considered, he thought as he divested his armour, he was happy he finished the work, even the rotas he so despised, if it meant that some soldier down the line was given an extra few minutes to themselves. He preferred to organise all of it himself, not only because it helped put him to sleep, but because it took the load from someone else.
Climbing into bed, he knew he would only get a few solid hours – if by solid, he meant nightmarish – of sleep before first light, and as his eyes fluttered closed at last, he could still distinctly remember how he'd asked young Mage Amell if she need to talk – about anything – with him, him specifically, and fell into a blushing sleep with his hand over his eyes.
Warden Commander Amell,
We have received your gifts to the Inquisitor with much regard,
Circumstances have changed since your last correspondence. Upon hearing of your whereabouts from Warden Alistair, our Inquisitor travelled with him and the Champion of Kirkwall to the Western Approach to engage in conflict at Adamant Fortress. I do not know of how much you are aware of, but Warden Commander Clarel has died, along with many of the Wardens loyal to her, after a Venatori agent was discovered spreading Blood-Magic and Demon summoning among their ranks.
Many of the Orlesian Wardens are now dead, including their Commander. The Champion of Kirkwall, Ulysses Hawke, also died in the battle on Adamant. Those remaining have pledged their allegiance to the Inquisition, allowing them to aid in in the fight against Corypheus.
It has become apparent over the recent weeks that some of these Wardens are from the Ferelden branch, directly under your command. I am writing to request formal confirmation that any Ferelden Wardens wishing to join the Inquisition's forces in the fight against Corypheus be allowed to; open terms pending between the Ferelden Wardens and the Inquisition.
It is understood that, as Corypheus is leading Darkspawn and is in command of an Archdemon, many of the Wardens among our ranks have expressed interest in defeating him.
Awaiting your response,
Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford
Skyhold Inquisition Commander of Forces
Author's Notes: Thanks for reading! Drop me a line, yeah?