The style of this turned out rather strange, but I'm vaguely content with it and please just take it away from me so it can stop getting in the way of the Mass Effect stuff I have going- not to mention actual work.
The title is dreadful but it's the best I can come up with at 12:48am.
...
It seemed absurd that he- who was at heart, still a bumbling Fereldan farmboy- was ever to teach her anything. Second born of house Trevelyan and Herald of Andraste to boot; clearly a powerful Mage and a natural, if reluctant, leader. Rank aside, he never would have guessed there was anything she could learn from him. He certainly hadn't planned to add this element to their... Well, he wouldn't exactly call it a 'friendship'.
Trevelyan was away from Haven near constantly- and in the few days she spent there, he saw her almost exclusively at war councils. She would fidget frustratedly, ill at ease under the pressure of her title. The Herald was often prickly and, at times, downright obstinate in the face of her advisors' council. Sometimes she would cut sessions short, vanishing into solitude for a few hours, after which she would reconvene their meeting, usually- though not always- ready with something that could just about be called an apology. Competent? Yes. Decisive? Certainly. But also rather difficult and, he found through their limited interaction, more than a little bewildering.
The latest manifestation of this was her apparent reluctance to resolve the matter of the Hinterlands horse master and the Inquisition's prospective mounts. Her party had made multiple trips to the area since she had accepted his suggestion, often passing close to Redcliffe farm- nevertheless, Master Dennet was yet to be approached.
The Inquisition needed those mounts. Their current horses were few in number and better suited to pulling light carts than any serious use; the sorry creatures simply weren't up to the scale of work demanded of them. She had to be aware of this. So far she had declined a mount and travelled only by foot- presumably because she knew even the best horses they had to offer were more akin to a hindrance than help.
It could not go on.
Cullen found her, of all places, in a corner of the Chantry attic. Doubtless, he would have failed to do so without guidance from Leliana who, naturally, knew all of Trevelyan's hideaways. Startled by the discovery of her sanctuary, she hurriedly stood, closing her book- Varric's infernal Tale of The Champion he noted with an internal sigh. Novice recruits and altered rotations had seen to it that his day had been long and tiresome, so he was perhaps a little sharp when he all but demanded to know why she was yet to visit the horse master. Instantly, she stiffened and looked away from him, pointlessly but pointedly rearranging the crates she had been nestled between. There were, she claimed, other tasks demanding her focus in the area at present. When he tersely pointed out that she had sealed all of the rifts in the Hinterlands and cleared the area of both apostates and Templars, the Herald snapped her head back to him to fix him with a glare, angrily insisting that, whether it suited him to believe it or not, there were many concerns of importance for her to deal with, not just his 'military chest pounding'. Cullen snorted in derision at that and asked how exactly lost livestock, prize winning though they may be, took precedence over their troops.
They stood in silence for a moment, mirroring each other's hard glares and folded arms. At last, she sighed and slumped down onto a crate. The fire behind her eyes was dimmed, though not extinguished- never extinguished. Her sudden dejection took him aback and left him, he noticed with a small amount of annoyance, feeling rather guilty for having snapped at her so. This intensified when she let her head fall into her hands, supported on her knees; there was something more going on here.
Hesitantly, he perched on a crate opposite her and asked, without any particular subtlety, if there was more to her obstinacy than she was letting on. Trevelyan looked up at him briefly, then quickly down at her hands. He didn't catch her next words the first time, when she muttered them down at her lap. Only when she repeated herself through gritted teeth, flushing a little and glaring at the rafters, did he learn the truth; she had never ridden.
He had not been expecting that. His mouth may even have dropped open a little in surprise, but she gave him no time to speak anyway, instantly launching into a whirlwind explanation he suspected she had run through many times in her head, but never aloud. When she was a young child, she explained, she had been frightened of horses. Her family would have eventually insisted ( after all, the Trevelyan crest quite prominently featured a rearing stallion- he smiled a little at that, earning a glare), but she had been taken to the Ostwick circle at seven. Ironically, it had been her fear of horses that had led to her powers first manifesting. Her brothers- one four years her senior and a proficient rider, the other a year younger than her but already promising- had been teasing her about her fear. She had, she said with a sigh, become so upset that she had inadvertently set a tapestry alight. She had been taken by the Templars (Cullen tensed at her obvious contempt for the order) that afternoon and of course had no opportunity, or indeed desire, to ride during her nineteen years in the Circle. Her journey to the Conclave had, thankfully, been by carriage and boat.
Trevelyan fell silent, staring down at her loosely clenched fists. He rubbed his neck awkwardly, not knowing what to say, but she spoke again before he found words.
She knew, she said as she flushed an even deeper pink, it was 'ridiculous' and 'pathetic', - that it couldn't go on, but she had simply been to mortified by the prospect of admitting that The Herald of Andraste, whom so many were pinning their hopes on, was in fact 'incompetent'.
Neither of them spoke for a while, both meditating on her revelation. At last she groaned into her hands and looked up at him. With a sigh she conceded that she understood he would have to reveal her 'absurd shortcoming' to Cassandra and the others.
Cullen paused, an idea- potentially ludicrous- forming. Quietly, he told her that he saw no reason for her secret to be spread further, that he could, perhaps, if she wanted- only if she wanted, he stressed as he babbled- teach her. They could practice at night, at a distance from the village and no one would have to know.
He offered a calm gaze that he hoped displayed his sincerity as she scanned his face, seemingly searching for some sign that this was a trick, that he was mocking her. Not for the first time, he wondered quite what had made her so defensive- but then nineteen years in the circle was a long time. When she finally whispered an incredulous "You would do that?" He simply nodded and suggested that they start that night. Trevelyan blinked at him, apparently stunned, and agreed with a silent nod of her own. He asked her to meet him at the stables an hour after dinner was served in the Chantry and excused himself, giving a build up of reports as his reason. Cullen considered adding that he did not think she had any reason to be ashamed and that her situation, though not ideal, was understandable, but his offer already seemed to have knocked her for six. Further kindness, however minor, may well have induced a total lack of consciousness.
He left her there in the attic, already wondering if this had been a terrible idea.
...
A considerable part of him expected the Herald not to turn up. Pride and shame were powerful forces- he knew that all too well. He would wait, he rationalised, half an hour and if she didn't show... Well, he might be slightly irritated, but not surprised.
By now he really should have known better than to try to predict her actions. Trevelyan was already outside the stable, fidgeting with her hair as she paced in the snow. When he cleared his throat to announce his presence, she very nearly jumped in alarm. Even that first day after the explosion, he had never seen her so... Nervous.
He tried to summon a small, but comforting smile but found the muscles of his face protested, simply too long out of practice. She followed him into the stables, but lingered by the door. He thought for a moment as he stroked the nose of a mare that the stable master had assured him- a little confusedly- was the calmest mount they had. She shuffled closer when he turned to her in question, but kept some distance from the horse. He resolved to risk her annoyance and asked, hopefully without sounding judgemental, if she was still uncomfortable around horses. As expected, she bristled and dismissed it as though he had asked if she was scared of a monster under her bed. Cullen apologised and said that she simply seemed out of sorts. She sighed and admitted that, she was perhaps a little... 'Uncertain' around themthem. It took some coaxing, but at last she was comfortable stroking the mare, grooming her and even feeding her by hand. She observed that it was actually quite calming and he agreed, finding a smile came to him surprisingly easily that time. What was more alarming was that it was returned.
After maybe an hour they called it a night, arranging to meet again the following evening. The walk back to the Chantry was more than a little awkward and mostly silent, but the time they spent in the stables had been remarkably relaxed.
They didn't say goodnight, they simply nodded and parted ways and the next day at the war council things were no different between them.
...
The Herald was due to leave for the Storm Coast in a week. It was to be a long journey and to travel on foot would have been ludicrous. The next night when they met again she told him, with that familiar nervous agitation, that she had to be able to ride by then. She seemed surprised when he said that he saw no reason why that wouldn't be possible, apparently expecting him to shut her down. Self-doubt was a strange shade on Trevelyan; usually so assured and confident. He simply tossed her a saddle from a nearby rack (she stumbled a little under the surprise weight) and said they had better get started.
Each night for the next week, they took a horse each from the stables and led them a short distance from the village. Trevelyan took the calm mare each time, apparently having taken a shine to it. It would not be the best mount for long distance travel, but it was progress. When he led his own mount out, she barked a short laugh and rolled her eyes. "A white charger? Seriously, oh brave Ser Knight?" He frowned at her mockery, but found his heart wasn't in it.
Unsurprisingly, she quickly became frustrated when she struggled initially. But if she was quick-tempered, she was every bit as determined. She took a couple of tumbles from the saddle and, more to his bemusement than offence, always resolutely refused his offer of a hand back to her feet. But, on the whole, Trevelyan was no worse than many of the fresh faced recruits he had to deal with. Centuries of noble breeding had gifted her with effortlessly fine posture- though he still had to nag her about bringing her ankles into line with her shoulders.
By the end of the week, they were taking proper rides, even managing to take tentative gallops. The gratitude she expressed the night before her party set out was not necessarily warm, but it was definitely sincere and that was enough to for him.
He was leading a training exercise when she returned with her party and the mercenary company she'd left to seek out. Hair streaming behind her, the Herald rode up to the village as though she had been born in the saddle ( though her ankles were perhaps still a little out of line) . She was laughing heartily at something the large Qunari mercenary leader had said, making Cullen wonder if she was beginning to grow more comfortable in her new life, or she had always been more relaxed when away on missions. He turned back to the training session as a recruit, who seemed to have never even heard of a shield, clattered to the floor. He was reminding the youngster that there was a shield in his hand and he should think about using it, when the Herald led her mare past him with a quiet "Commander" and the hint of a smile.
'Huh,' he mused, shaking his head with his own barely there smile as he turned back to the troops- still bemused that he had taught this proud, capable woman anything... Or perhaps that she had let him.
...