Once we were
In our peace
With our lives assured
Once we were
Not afraid of the dark
Once we sat in our kingdom
With hope and pride.
Once we ran through…
…
Through... through…
Uh.
"Through the fields with great strides," Varric reminded him helpfully from behind, and Maxwell jumped on his spot, startled.
After having left the camp in Hinterlands several hours ago their small group decided to take a break by a broad river, in a place where rocks and plants were huge enough to put them out of plain sight. Clashes with the rebel mages and the templars hadn't proven to be such a big threat so far, but with mother Giselle under their wing no one wanted to take risks.
Having had a few quick bites, Maxwell excused himself and went to seek some private time: he was still feeling off after trying to get used to the real fighting again, that kind of fighting where his opponents actually wanted to kill him. Practicing his battle skills was usually the best way to keep his mind off things, but Maxwell had enough of that already, so he ended up using the other method, which he considered a good alternative.
He'd been pretty certain he was standing far enough from the others, half hidden behind the trunk of a big tree. Apparently, not anymore. Maxwell grumbled and turned around slowly.
"You all need to stop doing that," he said, involuntarily remembering the time when the Commander had done the same. "What if you scare me to death one day? Just imagine: I'm falling down, senseless –here, on this very spot, a horrible grimace on my face..."
"How much horribleness do you want me to picture exactly?" the dwarf asked, smirking.
"Oh, it would be a horrible, horrible one."
"Double horrible, then. Forever imprinted on my mind, oh mighty Herald."
"You're not helping," Maxwell frowned, hitting the dirt under his feet with a tip of his boot. "I was trying to get used to my new way of life here. You don't see the templars and the mages going berserk all around you every day."
"You were singing," Varric pointed out, making him flinch slightly.
"Thank you very much, I so haven't noticed," Maxwell made a face. There was no denying his dreadful sin now, was there. "It's just something I enjoy doing from time to time. Can play some instruments too."
The dwarf folded his arms, a shadow of curiosity flashing across his face.
"Well, it may not be my business," he started a moment later, "but why are you a warrior, then? And wielding a great sword on top of that. Why not a bard?"
"It's just a hobby," Maxwell shrugged. "I'm a Trevelyan. Parents taught us to understand that we should have many strengths. Besides, as much as I've heard, bards are not that easy."
"Us?"
Ah. I shouldn't have opened my mouth.
"I have two older brothers. Had a sister, too… but that's not really important." Maxwell cleared his throat. "Thing is, each of us developed different skills, all based on our talents or things we liked doing as children."
"And you happened to like fighting and singing?"
Maxwell nodded reluctantly. When Varric put it that way, it really looked kind of incompatible.
"I'm nowhere as good as my brothers, but I'm trying," he finished with a small and uneasy smile, deciding he'd already told way more than he would've liked. "But enough of this. I think we should return to the others. Not sure Cassandra approves of us discussing our evil plans while she's sitting that far."
"Yeah," the dwarf agreed, grinning. "I bet she's thinking about that already." Which seemed most likely, if all the cold glares the Seeker was shooting in their direction was anything to go by. Maxwell smiled innocently at her, taking his first steps back.
"Careful, you're angering the mistress," Varric laughed, which only made Cassandra more dissatisfied.
She wasn't in her best mood these days, though a small improvement was showing since Mother Giselle had come around. They hadn't planned to escort her all the way to Haven at first, as there were enough agents of the Inquisition to do that for them, but in the end opted otherwise.
Mother Giselle pointed at those whom she considered potential allies: people who struck their roots deep into Val Royeaux in their attempts to gain strong positions within the Chantry. Trying to impress them promised to be tricky and possibly dangerous, but it was all they had for the time being, and the opportunity would soon disappear. Any other business in Hinterlands would have to wait, searching for precious horses included.
The other thing that appeared to be a serious problem was Maxwell's mark. It continued to pulse and shine brightly from under the glove from time to time, alerting and unnerving almost everyone around. People weren't used to the ominous 'gift' yet, and Maxwell knew he couldn't let it do the same in Val Royeaux – not if he wanted to gain allies. Unfortunately, he couldn't control it. Solas had told him once that the shining would occur every time a rift was nearby or created, yet after some time they found out it didn't always work that way. Even now, when they were camping with no rifts present and the Breach glowing dully behind the clouds, the mark wouldn't stop pulsing. It wasn't really painful, but it was itching unbearably, and Maxwell believed it wouldn't do him any good if he tried to scratch it. He'd tried sticking a tip of his finger inside once, and it burned for several hours, making him regret.
"What were you two talking about?" Cassandra asked as soon as they approached, and he ignored her completely, sharing one of his coldest glares with the glove.
"Don't ask him, Seeker," Varric answered for him. "He's in the middle of his intense love-hate relationship."
Cassandra groaned, returning to her food.
Something felt off as soon as the group returned to Haven, and it took little time to realize what exactly was happening. The village was almost empty: a lot of people must have moved somewhere while the search for Mother Giselle had been under way. Cassandra quickly took action, directing her steps to the chantry, and the others followed her closely. The more they approached, the better they could hear people arguing.
A big crowd had gathered at the entrance of the chantry and was surrounding two people that were obviously responsible for the entire thing. A templar and a mage on top of that, just what the Inquisition needed most right now.
"Your kind killed the Most Holy!" shouted one.
"Lies! Your kind let her die!" screamed the other.
Great, that's the spirit, Maxwell thought gloomily. I wish you'd aim it into the right direction.
"What's going on here?!" Cassandra thundered, placing her thin and yet strong hand on the hilt of her sword. Startled, both men stepped back instantly.
"There she goes," Varric smiled.
"I demand an answer, NOW," the Seeker announced, and if Maxwell had thought he'd seen her angry before, he'd been terribly mistaken.
"This man, he… he was…" the templar stuttered, all the bravery of a cornered prey in his posture.
"It's all his fault!" The mage found his voice, seeing his opponent falter. "He and his men are all guilty! They are poisoning this place- they are poisoning everything they touch! Why do you even keep templars here when the Chantry clearly told you that you're worthless!"
Silence dawned upon Haven in one sharp, shocking strike. Even Varric stood speechless.
Cassandra's face slowly filled with pure, overwhelming rage.
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, MAGE!" the templar was caught in the overpowering emotion as well and bolted forward, ready to strike.
The Commander appeared between them in less than a second, grabbing the templar by his shoulder and stopping him effectively. The attacker jumped back, shocked, realizing what he had almost done.
"ENOUGH!" Cullen shouted, and while he looked more or less composed, the aura radiating from him was matching Cassandra's perfectly. He threw a glare at the mage, making the man shudder visibly. "We are not templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition!"
"I… I just… I didn't mean to…" the mage started, his voice shivering.
"And what does that mean exactly?" a new voice barged in, and the heated crowd fell back to let the intruder into the circle. Puzzled, Maxwell looked over his shoulder to see who else had enough guts to enter the scene and- Chancellor Roderick. The same man that wanted the Herald dead. Would have achieved his goal, too, if Cassandra hadn't made her firm and doubtlessly timely decision.
"You," Maxwell whispered.
The Chancellor didn't rush and was taking in the perfection of his interference as he dragged his smug feet towards Cullen. The Commander growled under his breath: it was as clear as day that this was the last person he wanted to see.
"Back already, Chancellor?" he growled. "Haven't you done enough?"
Despite getting the plain coldness, the man smirked. "I'm curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its 'Herald' will restore order as you've promised." He ignored both questions and turned to the crowd, pretending to be addressing it to raise more doubts. Maxwell growled under his breath.
"Of course you are…" Cullen muttered, going unnoticed by the man he was talking to. He obviously grasped the Chancellor's intentions and hurried to address the others loudly. "Back to your duties, all of you!"
The speed of the crowd melting away could only be described as unbelievable, but the Chancellor still looked very pleased with himself. He'd picked the right moment to try crushing the spirit of the Inquisition with his heel, and Maxwell wasn't sure he ended up unsuccessful. The last thing the Inquisition needed was doubts, and there seemed to be a lot of doubt floating around now thanks to the whole deal in front of the chantry. The headquarters of the Inquisition. Witnessed by the whole village, no less.
Cassandra stormed past him, invisible fury evaporating from each movement of hers. Maxwell hoped she would say something, show the Chancellor he would regret doing things like this in the future- anything. But she walked past him as well, simply entered the chantry and closed the door behind her with a loud thud.
"That's bad." Varric sounded uneasy. "You don't see her like that often."
"I can imagine," Maxwell nodded. "I feel like she'd kill me if I happened to cross her way."
"She probably would," the dwarf agreed.
"His poison will continue to spread." Solas came to stand beside them, leaning on his staff with a cold expression. "Sometimes one voice is enough to crush the strongest of unities."
"We don't want that," Maxwell scowled. "There has to be a way to deal with the Chancellor..."
He stepped towards the two men at the doors, having no distinct idea of what to say. Despite bearing the title of Andraste's Herald, he still was no more than just a man, not to mention the possible murderer of the Divine. Maxwell wouldn't be surprised if the Chancellor didn't listen to him. But he wanted to change things, to soften the blow at least… somehow. He'd have to try.
"Ah, the honorable Herald of Andraste," Chancellor Roderick greeted him mockingly. "And here we were talking about you and the fine state the Inquisition has found itself in. We are very interested in your opi-"
"Drop it," Maxwell cut him off coldly, quiet disgust feeding his self-confidence. "You know your words lack even the smallest resemblance to respect. I'm grateful for your attempt, though."
The statement must have surprised the Chancellor as he lost his words for a while, giving Maxwell a perfect opportunity to continue with his line if he so desired. Maxwell, however, chose to end the conversation before he failed in this task.
"Commander," he greeted Cullen instead. "I have an important matter I would like to discuss with you and the others, so we should gather immediately. I hope the Chancellor will excuse us, as we have to put off this conversation." He glared at Roderick. "We've lost enough time here."
"I believe the Chancellor has important duties of his own," Cullen agreed sullenly and turned to the doors. "Have a good day."
"By all means…" Varric added, letting out a rough chuckle.
They left the Chancellor outside along with his stunned expression and faint promises of unpleasant claims. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
It was decided that the most effective way to gain new allies for the Inquisition would be letting the clerics of Val Royeaux meet the Herald in person. Maxwell found himself leaving the chantry with a heavy feeling in his chest: he'd just arrived back to Haven, hadn't seen his comfortable bed yet, or his doorstep for that matter, and he'd already have to leave at dawn. Not the Ambassador, not the agents – he.
It's how it is now, and it's not going to change any time soon, the man thought, crispy snow loud under his feet. I will go to Val Royeaux, accompanied by a manly woman, a dwarf with chest hair and a bald elf. That's going to make every cleric of Val Royeaux want to join us.
His forced laugh died quickly. Maxwell wanted out so much, again.
Val Royeaux was not only the capital of entire Orlais, it was also the capital of the Chantry. He would have to meet people that considered him the murderer of the Divine and would probably prefer dying to standing by his side. Without proper training, without any experience in the field of peace talking Maxwell would somehow have to convince them to join.
But what scared him most was knowledge that this meeting would attract the attention of his family. Maxwell's father and elder brother were templars – in fact, all men of the Trevelyan family that were able to hold a sword had eventually accepted the title. Maxwell was the only one who'd rejected this fate, and the price was high: he'd lost the remains of family warmth his parents had shown towards him. He hadn't received a single letter since the events at the Conclave and could only imagine what his family would think when they heard about the meeting.
"You do not need to worry this much."
Looking up sharply, Maxwell found sister Leliana standing in front of him. He'd had no idea he'd been lingering next to her working tent all that time. The Spymaster was watching him with a calm smile on her face, eyes reflecting something he'd never seen in them before.
"How did you know?" he asked, then coughed nervously and added, "Besides the fact I'm just standing here without any particular reason."
"You have that look…" she said, her rich orlesian accent smoothing the words. "I recognize that look. She used to wear it when she was feeling down."
That was longing she felt, then. The Spymaster was missing someone. Someone she knew very well and treasured.
"She?" Maxwell asked.
Leliana looked away for a while, possibly deciding if she wanted to tell anything about her or not. Or maybe she was just reliving the events of her past. The expression on her face suggested the latter.
"We used to camp every night." The smile on her face became a little sad. "And sometimes she would sit near the fire, looking exactly like you are right now. Those were difficult times. Even though she never admitted, I knew she was afraid of losing."
"The Hero of Ferelden?" Maxwell tried.
"I would sit next to her and tell her one of my stories each time to cheer her up," Leliana continued, his words going past her. "I'm happy we were able to end the Blight, but I… I really miss those days."
The more Leliana talked about the Warden, the sadder the look on her face became. That made Maxwell remember his first day in the Inquisition, that time when he'd seen Varric and the Spymaster walking past his home together. He wanted to ask her what they had been talking about but was afraid that would only add to the damage. Besides, Maxwell was actually interested in hearing more about the Warden.
However, for some reason sister Leliana stopped talking at the same moment precisely. She cleared her throat awkwardly and smiled at the man. The smile looked warm, yet her eyes somehow didn't.
"As I was saying, there is nothing to worry about," the Spymaster said. "Our best agents will be following you secretly. Should something bad happen, they will do what they must to guide you back safely."
"…thank you," Maxwell said, a bit taken aback.
"You should go," Leliana added. "I will be here if you need me."
She bowed, cutting off any possible continuation, and walked swiftly into her tent. Maxwell sighed in defeat. Maybe he'd ask her about the Warden later when… whenever she'd trust him enough to share.
For now he was left with a small amount of freedom. The air would soon become colder, and the sun would hide behind the mountains, leaving the Breach to be the only source of light in the sky, but there was still enough time for Maxwell to try easing the tension in his bones.
An idea came to him instantly, and Maxwell directed his steps to the practicing grounds. He was almost positive he wouldn't have to fight in Val Royeaux, yet he preferred to be ready for every outcome. Not to mention there were a lot of recruits who needed him as a teacher and enjoyed his company. And there was Cullen…
Except there wasn't. Not yet, at least. A couple of templars were trying their best to teach the recruits while he was absent, but the whole scene lacked something rather important: confidence. What they all had witnessed at the doors of the chantry succeeded at making them uncertain, and the Commander wasn't there to encourage them. However, as soon as people started spotting Maxwell, spirits gained a bit of height. When he approached, many greeted him, and some even smiled.
Maxwell didn't lose any time on pointless pondering and dived straight into a tent to pick a weapon. He'd expected everything to be as it had been the first time - showing off until he attracted enough attention - but as soon as the man emerged back, he found everyone waiting for him.
What were they expecting him to do?
Gradually, after having fought its way through an oppressive wave of anticipant stares, an idea found him.
"Let's make a tournament!" Maxwell announced loudly. "I'm sure the Commander wouldn't mind, given that you have been practicing all day."
The suggestion didn't win support as immediately as he'd expected, and for a few seconds the man simply stood there, blinking at the crowd and feeling like a complete idiot. Fortunately, someone among the crowd managed to find his way out of stupor and let out an enthusiastic shout of approval that infected the others. Maxwell relaxed.
This kind of activity was something these men were able to understand and would definitely enjoy. He was also certain that a little game of friendly rivalry would erase doubts and return not only the recruits but also the templars to the state where they would not regret joining the Inquisition.
"One pair at a time!" Maxwell continued confidently. "Come on, let's make a circle, give the participants space and cheer for them as much as you can!"
There was a mixed response of 'yes!' and 'let's do that!' as the crowd made a big circle, and Maxwell picked the first pair. He stayed inside the circle with the templars to maintain the order and stop each fight as soon as someone dropped his weapon.
This idea of his turned out to be enormously successful as the mood lifted and lifted, and after some time people were cheering loudly as if nothing bad had ever happened. Chancellor Roderick's poison was left behind and forgotten. Moreover, it was a good way of practicing at new heights - men fought not only to develop their skills, they fought to become victorious. They'd need that in real battles.
I should ask Cullen to allow such tournaments from time to time, Maxwell decided, watching the morale rise together with the general level of fighting skills. The recruits also seemed to admire him more and sought his approval with keen eagerness. They didn't ask Maxwell to participate and never raised any complaints when the opponents were chosen- quite the opposite in fact, the recruits respected each other a lot. Whenever a participant lost his weapon, a winner would shake his hand or help him off the ground. Maxwell wasn't the only one who liked seeing that – the remaining templars were wearing identical satisfied smiles.
Another pair was in the middle of fighting when someone took a careful, yet firm hold of Maxwell's elbow. The man looked over his shoulder and saw the Commander standing behind him, a mixed expression on his face. Cullen appeared to be far from angry, but he looked like he needed an explanation. Or more like a confirmation.
"Did you organize that?" he asked.
"Yes," Maxwell answered, returning his stare to the duel. "I thought it would be a nice distraction after what happened at the chantry. They looked miserable when I came here."
The Commander must have lowered his head a bit closer to the man's ear because his next words sounded a lot clearer.
"I can guess, I was there…" Cullen sighed. "That man… I don't know what to do with him anymore."
"With the Chancellor?" Maxwell took a second to ponder, failed to reach a conclusion and shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. But I think we have a cure for his poison here."
"Yes. We have it," the Commander agreed and fell silent, observing the fight.
Does this mean he likes it? Maxwell wondered.
Yeah… I think, it does.
The fighting continued, men winning and losing and having lots of fun – in other words, the activity hadn't changed. But something else had; at first the shift was scarcely perceptible, yet it grew stronger and stronger as time passed. Maxwell soon determined its source: the fur of the Commander's overcoat kept tickling the back of his neck, making him fidget and desperate to scratch. Cullen was standing too close, and the man turned his head to ask him to move away a little.
"Could you please… uh…"
He trailed off.
"Yes?" The Commander tore his attention from the duel to look at him.
There was a pause. Maxwell struggled to let out the words he'd originally intended to say, but his mouth just wouldn't listen and stayed half open, making him look utterly stupid. His brain disobeyed orders and stayed unnaturally quiet - the same thing had had a habit of happening during his childhood years whenever he sneaked out into the kitchen in dire need of sweets, and his parents or their old servants caught him red handed. This time, however, it didn't work that way.
Thing was, he'd never seen such an expression on anyone before – one that would suggest he did a really good job at something. The Commander was watching him with curiosity in his eyes, but besides that there were a few other emotions. Like… appreciation. Admiration, perhaps.
'You came up with a brilliant idea. I'm proud of you. I'm thankful.'
No one had ever given him that look before. Not even his parents.
Maxwell turned away real quick.
"It's nothing. Sorry I bothered you," he muttered. Cullen probably didn't hear.
There was no movement beside him, indicating that the Commander was still looking. Maybe expecting an explanation- or worse, suspecting something. Maxwell twitched and turned back.
"I met Leliana earlier," he attempted to change the subject, his voice pitch higher than usual. "We talked."
"Did something happen?" Cullen asked.
"No, no," Maxwell assured him, glad he came up with a sufficient distraction. "We just talked. About er… the Hero of Ferelden."
The Commander leaned in again. Maxwell almost jumped on his spot, noticing the movement this time and not at all used to close proximity, but then he saw the uneasy look from before returning to Cullen's face. It effectively pushed the man's previously content expression aside.
"Did she tell you much?" the Commander asked, his voice barely audible behind the loud support of the crowd.
"No… Yeah- er… not really. Told me she used to cheer her up with all kind of stories when things were sad."
"I see." Cullen nodded. "I met her too, actually. The Warden."
There was another pause.
"…you did?" Maxwell asked.
The Commander let out a shaky breath and rubbed his neck absently, smooth leather sliding against warm skin. The man seemed uneasy and reluctant all of a sudden, as if he regretted saying what he'd just said but had to continue anyway.
"Yes, twice," he finally managed. "I wish we'd met… under different circumstances."
Wait. That doesn't sound good.
"Where did it happen?" Maxwell pushed. The Commander groaned.
"You've heard about the Circle Tower of Ferelden, yes…?" he muttered.
The uneasiness between them was spreading rapidly, becoming more forceful and radiant. All the noise along with reality itself went into the background and buzzed there dully and almost absently as Maxwell placed the pieces together.
The Circle Tower of Ferelden.
Of course he knew. His sister died in there.
Maxwell rubbed at his eyelids and kept his hand there.
"The one that was overrun by abominations and demons? I've heard about it," he said simply. "The Hero saved it, didn't she."
"She did," Cullen agreed. There was a spark of warmth in his words, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "I'd never expected she would be the one to save everyone…"
"You knew her before that, then."
"Yes. We first met when she was living within those walls. When it was safe."
"I see."
At that point their conversation walked into a dead end, even though Maxwell thought he'd heard the Commander say something else. Gradually, he returned to observing the tournament, not really interested in it anymore.
They didn't talk, and a few minutes later Maxwell stepped out of the circle and moved towards his home, hidden from eyes by the dark. Cullen didn't follow, but Maxwell suspected that he noticed.
So, he was there when it all happened. Why is it bothering me so much?
Maxwell was lying on his bed, his lower half covered by the big coat and his eyes watching the ceiling. Not much time had passed since he'd left the recruits. It may have been a bad idea to escape the tournament he'd announced himself, but he supposed Cullen would take care of it. His mind wasn't in a very good state, anyway. He would've been unable to handle things.
The Trevelyans weren't exactly a happy family, and Maxwell hated his parents for destroying something he cherished with all his heart. There had been four children in the family once, him and his sister the youngest. They had also been the ones who rioted most, and that kind of behavior never left their parents pleased. They had been forgiven every time except one, one time that made them suffer for the rest of their lives.
His sister, Edolie, had been a few years older than him, and she had been a mage. A pure flower little Maxwell had followed everywhere like stars followed the night. So, naturally, when his father had announced she'd be moving to the Circle in Ostwick, the boy told him without hesitation he would be following her. Maxwell had been clingy and stubborn, and she'd been loving and devoted, so their parents decided to use their connections and sent her to Ferelden instead. He'd been decided to become a templar and stay in Ostwick.
It took a lot of time for Maxwell to realize that they had been teaching him a lesson. It had never been about his sister, it had been about the Chantry. His parents had always cared about the family status more than anything, and if they needed to sacrifice their mage daughter to make the other children see the futility of their desires, they would do so without any doubts. They may have loved her, in a way, but that love was too pathetic to be accepted by the primary needs of the family. And then his sister died, far from home, alone. The idea of becoming a templar became repulsive, something Maxwell would never go with.
Two years after her death the Trevelyans discovered that Maxwell's older brother Oscar was a mage as well. The revelation was accidental, and his brother dropped to his knees right there in the yard and pleaded his parents to allow him to stay at home because he was too scared to go to the Circle. They called him unworthy and deceitful, throwing the fact he'd been hiding his secret all that time into his face. After that Oscar was moved to the Circle of Ostwick against his will and nearly died by the hands of infuriated templars. Their elder brother barely managed to save him. Maxwell wasn't aware of what happened next.
He shook his head and turned to his side, drawing both legs closer to his chest.
His brothers were together somewhere, supported each other. He didn't need to worry about them. His sister, though… He missed her, and there was no way he'd see her ever again.
There was a knock on his door.
"Really? At this time?" Maxwell asked the visitor, perfectly aware it would be impossible to hear him from outside.
Someone picked the wrong time to find him. Nevertheless, he was the Herald, and the Herald had to respect and fulfill his duties. Maxwell got up from the bed reluctantly, put on his coat and got to the door. He opened it and…
Well, he hadn't expected to see the Commander so soon.
"What's wrong?" he asked, clinging to the door. "Come on in."
"No, I-" Cullen started and came to an abrupt halt. He looked away and after a moment resumed talking with a steadier voice. "I'm not going to keep you away from your bed for long. I just wanted to ask you about something."
"Well... okay," Maxwell nodded, suddenly feeling like a fish that jumped out of water and dived into prickly sand. "What is it?"
The Commander looked back at him. "It's about what happened earlier."
Great. I would love to talk about this.
It was bad; the Commander had really noticed his strange behavior. Maxwell would have to explain it now, and he couldn't, which meant he'd have to lie, and he didn't want to. Not to his maybe first potential friend since forever.
"It's nothing serious. I wasn't feeling very good, so I decided to-"
"No matter what happened," Cullen interrupted him instantly, "you don't have to explain. I understand that you have your secrets. I have mine. They just happened to stumble upon each other."
Maxwell gritted his teeth. Not even a minute had passed, and he was feeling vulnerable already. I ran away and dropped the tournament on your shoulders, yeah. You saw through me, and now you came here to throw it back at me. I deserve it…
In his overwhelming despair, Maxwell hadn't even thought about how Cullen was feeling. He was the Herald of Andraste - a man who was supposed to take care of his people, and most importantly, of those who kept the Inquisition running. Great work.
"I'm sorry," he said hesitantly. He was. He should have done better.
"It's okay," the Commander answered. "The tournament was a success. It kept the recruits happy and raised their battle skills, too. We should do it more often."
"No, I wasn't apologizing for that… though I should, and I will, starting now." Maxwell fidgeted. He wasn't used to this. "I'm sorry about leaving the tournament to you when I was the one to start it. I shouldn't have run away and left you deal with it alone."
"Accepted," Cullen answered light-heartedly. Maxwell bit the inside of his cheek and glued his stare to the floor.
"The thing I apologized for earlier…" This one was more difficult to say out loud. "I'm sorry for leaving my work to you without thinking about you beforehand. I know I hit a sore spot back there, I just… I was way too obsessed with mine to think about it."
"…accepted," the Commander said, and Maxwell looked up. They eyed each other awkwardly for a while, neither of them talking. Then Cullen sighed, and a small smile appeared on his face.
"I wish it was daytime," he said. "It's so inconvenient to ask you to come practice with me."
"Now?" Maxwell grinned, a warm feeling finding its way back to him. "I thought you didn't want to keep me away from my bed for long."
"Ah. That's right…" the Commander muttered, slightly embarrassed. "I guess I'll have to ask you when you return from Val Royeaux, then. Good night."
He turned to leave.
"Commander," Maxwell called. Cullen stopped mid step and looked over his shoulder. "Let me grab my boots."
The day was officially saved.
The following morning started extremely violently when Cassandra opened the front door and let the cold wind in while Maxwell was still sound asleep.
"Wake up," she said simply but loudly, standing at the doorstep and not even bothering to close the door.
Maxwell stirred lazily under the covers and moved them up and over his head. Sadly, that left his feet open, so in the end he still had to bring himself to a more or less conscious state.
"Close the door, please," he groaned, moving to the edge of his bed. To his relief, Cassandra did as he asked without objecting.
It had been an exhausting evening, and Maxwell fell asleep as soon as he reached his bed. It couldn't have been more than five or six hours since he'd done that: Maxwell's inner clock was pretty sharp. He obviously failed at restoring his energy this time.
"Did something happen?" he asked, searching for his clothes below the bed. He really had to do something about that habit of his. And why was Cassandra watching him, anyway?
"We're leaving soon," the Seeker answered. "But before that you will need to speak with Josephine. She has an important matter to discuss with you."
"Alright," Maxwell agreed, his hand finally finding what he needed. "Did she tell you what that matter is?"
"Your family," Cassandra answered, and he froze.
He supposed he should have been ready for that. Josephine was a very capable ambassador, so his origins had had no chance of staying hidden from her for long. She had to be thinking about asking him to find out if his family would care to join the Inquisition or help them in Val Royeaux. He'd do that himself on her place.
"I see," the man said, straightening up. "I'll talk to her as soon as possible. You can leave me now if there's nothing else to talk about."
The Seeker remained standing, and Maxwell looked up at her to see if maybe there really was something else. Turned out there was.
"The Commander told me about the tournament," she said, folding her hands across her chest. "It was your idea."
"It was," he nodded, suddenly uptight. "Is there anything wrong with it?"
The Seeker shook her head.
"No," she answered. "It was a good idea."
Did he just walk into another dimension again, or was she praising him? Maxwell sat there, staring at her, and Cassandra tensed visibly, avoiding his eyes. At that moment he could bet she was thinking about escaping this place before he said something. Which, of course, made him very determined to do just that.
"You're praising me," he beamed.
"Maybe," she answered, and his determination faltered.
Maxwell shouldn't have pushed with his statement. He shouldn't have done it because it just hit him right back. He hadn't expected her to actually agree, not after being so cold to him almost all the time they'd known each other.
"I should check our supplies," the Seeker said. "Come find me when you finish talking about your family."
She turned to leave, her firm hand grabbing the door handle.
"Thank you, Cassandra," Maxwell said quietly, and the Seeker stopped for a second. Then she opened the door and exited, leaving him alone and confused.
The Chantry was mostly empty when Maxwell entered; he supposed it was still very early. As soon as he reached the door he was looking for, he heard muffled voices from inside. It would probably be good to knock first, but when the man raised his hand to do that, the door opened itself, and he saw sister Leliana on the doorstep. The Spymaster blinked, puzzled, and then smiled.
"Good morning," she said. "Josephine is waiting for you."
Maxwell nodded and was about to say something, but the woman was already moving away, her steps oddly stiff.
This is weird. I wonder what's happening.
But weird or no, Maxwell still needed to talk to Josephine, so he pushed his concern aside and entered the room. The Ambassador was sitting at her table, warm light from several candles falling onto her cheeks and the sleeves of her fancy dress. She was reading a paper.
"Good morning," Maxwell greeted her in a pinched voice.
"Good morning," the woman said, glancing up. Her face was serious, and Maxwell knew it wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation. "I'd like to discuss your parents."
"I'm ready," he lied. "What is it about them?"
Josephine put the paper aside.
"I'd like to dispatch a courier asking the Banns of House Trevelyan to align themselves with us," she went straight to the matter. "What are your thoughts?"
It was rather difficult to read her expression, but Maxwell noticed something odd. It almost seemed like she was… waiting for his refusal.
Of course, he quickly realized. She isn't stupid. She must've found out everything she could about my family by this time.
"Something tells me you already know my answer," Maxwell said. There was no point in playing dumb. She knew.
"I suspect I do…" Josephine agreed. "But it is most important to have all the advantages we can gain. As the Ambassador of the Inquisition, I had to ask. I hope you are not offended."
"I'm not." That was understandable. "I will try to contact my family, if you think that will help. We're not on the best of terms, and all they care about is their status. If we don't have anything useful to offer them, they won't listen… but I will try."
"Thank you," the woman sighed. "And… I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's okay," Maxwell said, his chest feeling too tight for his insides. "Can I go now, if there's nothing else? We should be moving out to Val Royeaux soon. I'll write on my way."
"Of course," she nodded. "Have a safe journey."
Maxwell bowed slightly and left the Ambassador's chamber in a calm manner. However, as soon as he made sure the door behind him was closed, the remains of his calmness vanished. Maxwell dashed to the exit, desperate for fresh air, and nearly ran flat into the Commander.