The sunlight glimmered against the stones of the sprawling hold walls, making a veritable sheen of golden shimmer that splashed up and over the hard, rough edges of the walls. Right before spilling down over onto and across the green and gold of the ground just behind the hold. Cullen thought it looked like more of a stream or river of gold, brightening Skyhold until it looked like the seat of the sun itself, even. Or like the sun was actually pressing the sweetest kiss to the ground, as if sharing warmth enough for the planting the Inquisitor wanted there.
The very breath of the Maker himself, Cullen thought. Right there for all of them to see. Cullen waved towards the slender figure of Elan Ve'mal, smiling slightly as she stayed kneeling down alongside one the dark brown furrows of tilled soil that dotted the narrow fields they'd prepared so close to Skyhold's walls. She was carefully examining and moving the dirt through her slim, gloved fingers, and periodically directing the routines of several farmers nearby with pointed gestures and waves of her hands, too.
Cullen eyed them all, trying to judge their work and respect of Elan especially. Simple farmers rarely regarded elves very well; but the Inquisition's leader was an elf. Josephine was insistent, that everyone serving the Inquisition would refrain from slandering anyone at Skyhold for the shape of their ears, "Above all else, we must hold true to the honor and respect of our Inquisitor."
Elan's face right then was shining quite as bright and golden as the sunlight against the walls, as if the sun was reaching out to touch her in particular. Cullen suddenly remembered the legends that spoke of Elves visiting these summits to share their magics, their rituals. Maybe their magic lingered, here. Skyhold often felt like that, almost heady and real with promise and hope. As if there was something - in the stones, in the air, in every, single thing that grew here.
Although the arable land so high above the countryside was monumentally brief, too. Which to Cullen's mind only increased its true value, mind you. Reducing Skyhold's dependency on foodstuffs from either Fereldan or Orlais was of tremendous priority, kept them from begging the countries nearby for the many grains they so needed to feed the Inquisition's army.
And of course it was Maikhel who pondered the chance of cutting lines of farmable land against the walls where the sun shined the longest, "There are hardy plants that would benefit from even that much brief warmth. If we plant spelt in late spring, we could bring in a fairly decent grain crop by fall, before the snows become over-fierce." Cullen was always stunned by the sheer knowledge that lay in the Inquisitor's mind, how quickly and widely his thoughts moved. Plants were of particular interest to him, and the farmers among the refugees marveled at his perceptiveness.
But he also seemed keenly knowledgeable about animals, especially horses and other riding beasts. It wasn't even unusual for Cullen to find Maikhel in the stables, watching over and caring for the horses and harts that composed Skyhold's herds. Master Dennet enjoyed their conversations, even: "I'd keep calling the Inquisition a halla-rider – cause he can surely ride them, can rideanything, I'd go thinking – but he knows his horses just as much as he does those beasts, too."
Cullen shifted back and forth, so that the chestplate covering his front eased better along his torso. So it stopped pinching against the curve of his underarm, mostly, but also to settle the sense of discomfort that came from remembering why Maikhel would be so much familiar with horses than most other Dalish elves.
Not many people knew about the friend and clansman Maikhel lost when the Conclave was destroyed; Cullen knew only because Leliana admitted she'd observed the pair of elves as they approached the Temple. Dalish elves were an unusual enough sight, that she'd stopped to observe them, "Apparently even the Dalish avoid sending their mages without a blade to defend them. The other elf was a fighter of some sort, carrying a sword and shield. They were … close friends, I believe. If their banter is anything to judge such things by, at least."
Cullen often wondered what it must have been like for Maikhel - to go back there, to see those lumps of burned flesh and bodies lying in heaps around what was left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Wondering all the while which one was his own clansman, his friend … his lover perhaps; or was the elf only burned away into nothing, even worse. Maikhel certainly didn't speak of him, not as a rule or towards those humans and others that gathered together in the Inquisition.
But he did tell Cullen the story one time, shortly after the Inquisition claimed Skyhold and Maikhel was suddenly being hailed as its leader.
The elf had retreated at one point into a lonely corner of the Herald's Rest, out of earshot of many of the tavern's patrons. But Cabot pointed Cullen towards the Inquisitor's table, before Maikhel's head could plop down onto the narrow wood surface from utter, exhausted inebriety, so that Cullen saved him from a hard knock to the forehead when he caught Maikhel's head. Then he set himself into a chair alongside the drunken Inquisitor.
They sat there together over several long moments, while the Inquisitor babbled drunkenly and murmured to him quietly, "If I couldn't save Dain'yel, how am I going to save the rest of these people, Cullen?"
"The way you did at Haven, Maikhel. Without hesitating, and with all of us standing alongside you. You are not alone in this fight," Cullen told him, leaning close enough to stare into the elf's lavender-hued eyes so swollen with fear and doubt.
It reminded him of that moment in the Chantry's doorway, with Roderick grunting from pain at their feet and the spirit insisting Corypheus only wanted the Herald of Andraste. "Only him, none of you. The rest of you are nothing," Cole said. And Maikhel only looked down, suddenly afraid, with his eyes glimmering through doubt and anxiety.
Not that he might die, or that Corypheus could destroy him. But that he would fail so many of Haven's people, rather. That his own life wouldn't be enough to save them. Cullen had never met a man more willing to shed every single drop of blood in his own body, if only he might save one more life.
Even Hawke sheltered his own before others, put them firstly before he ever considered Kirkwall. The city might have burned to the ground, so long as Hawke saved Carver and that elf, Fenris, and Cullen always knew so much. Cullen didn't even blame him for it. Hawke was a good man, gave of himself more than most men were ever even asked in their entire lifetimes. Cullen was glad he could say he joined him. Later than he should've, but he was honored to say they had fought side by side in the end.
But Maikhel Lavellan? He stepped out those Chantry doors utterly certain he was going to die, and he didn't once complain or cry against it. No, he faced down the horrible visage of Thedas' long-dead nemesis, one of those who had destroyed them all by Blight and fear and the ravages of darkspawn; and he did it all alone, his slender frame unshakable and unbowed. He lifted up that young face, held his head high and straight and called out loudly enough his voice echoed up the hillside, "I'm not afraid of you!" While Corypheus mocked him, laughed, Cullen knew that Maikhel spoke the truth in that moment, too.
Maikhel wasn't afraid of dying, he'd never been afraid to die. He was only afraid of running out of time, strength, and blood enough, that the rest of them did not escape. That truth still made Cullen stiffen with prideful determination, to give him back that much honor.
So when Maikhel looked over at him there in the tavern, leaning drunkenly against the table and muttering so low that no one else was able to hear how much it hurt him that he lost his friend to the explosion at the Conclave – Cullen didn't even hesitate. He vowed to him, "Never again, Maikhel. You will never be on your own again, not in front of him like that."
It's why Cullen snorted straight into Mother Gisselle's face when she muttered to him her concerns over Maikhel's fascination with the Tevinter mage. And it didn't matter how much the Mother was worried Dorian would "lead the Inquisitor astray", Cullen said to her. "If anyone deserves some comfort through this mess, it's the Inquisitor." Maikhel couldn't be alone; he needed companionship and love and care more than just about any of them. He had stood over a sad, burned heap that was once friend enough to follow him to the Conclave – a friend and a warrior, who taught him about horses and showed him the care of animals. Corypheus took that damned much from Maikhel when he ripped through the Veil, and if Dorian could give him peace past that loss … well then, Cullen was pleased enough for him.
But then Dorian proved himself a friend, as well. To all of them. Cullen thought Dorian was a teasing mix of enjoyable interlude and fascinating wellspring of information; he was sharply smart, dapper, and his wit actually rivaled the Inquisitor's. The pair was well-matched, and Cullen enjoyed watching them together.
All that, and Dorian managed to give them incredible pertinent and valuable insights involving the Imperium, as well. Even hunted down dangerous magisters using the chaos to further their own aims here in the South, shielding the Inquisitor's back and cheering every Inquisition victory. No, Cullen liked Dorian quite enough, if not as much as Maikhel did.
Elan approached Cullen abruptly, her chin held up as she stepped certainly and Cullen lifted his chin in a gesture of welcome to her. She briskly dusted her gloved hands down over the apron that covered her front, smiling up at Cullen as she stopped in front of him, "Thank you, commander. Whatever you said to them, the soldiers weren't anywhere near the fields this morning. The potatoes are grateful, trust me."
Cullen's mouth twisted as he fought back a grin, "I'm glad to hear that. It might help them avoid further discomfort from additional exercises in the proper areas for training, over this next fortnight. Their gratitude may equal that of the potatoes, even."
Elan actually giggled suddenly. It pleased Cullen, to see her at ease enough that she laughed standing in front of the Inquisition's general. Those first days Elan approached the Inquisition after the College of Herbalists directed her to them, she kept her head tilted downward and apologized after every word that passed her lips, it seemed like. Watching her grow into her own confidence was another boon he could lay at the Inquisitor's feet, Cullen thought. Even if Maikhel would only look at him bemusedly if he told him that much.
But Elan only shrugged, smiling, "Well, on behalf of Skyhold's budding potatoes, saved from being trampled by stomping boots and swinging swords … thank you." Cullen lifted his hand into the center of his chest, bowing low with dramatic aplomb as Elan giggled all over again. He was still smiling when they both heard the first calls coming from the walls, "The Inquisitor! The Inquisitor is on the road!"
Cullen lowered his head, already turning away from Elan, "Please let me know if the potatoes require anymore direct intervention, my lady." He finally broke into a grin as he climbed the steps, loosing his sense of humor now that no one was watching. Besides, there was no sense of clamoring alarm in the guards' calls from the walls and Cullen felt relaxed as he ducked back through the doorway leading into the interior of the hold.
Had there been some serious injury during the Inquisitor's foray off the mountain passes into the Exalted Plains, they would have rushed back to Skyhold. And the guards would have shouted for the Hold's preparedness, for healers to attend the gates and soldiers to meet the oncoming riders. But the Inquisitor's return was easy and simple today, and Skyhold only continued its business as he approached.
Cullen met Solas as he approached the top of the steps leading into the main hall, and he nodded at the elven mage slowly. Solas forever seemed to inspire respect and courtesy, as if the wisdom of age and experience simply clung to his every line and angle, every turn of his head and chin. Not that he appeared over-ancient, either. But even the Inquisitor seemed to defer to Solas' sense and knowledge, most often, and the others of the Inquisition tended to fall into the same tendency.
Now Solas inclined his head in that peculiar fashion of his which only seemed so much wizened and smoothly cadenced, "Commander. It seems yet another trophy will adorn the Hold's main hall." Cullen lifted his chin only slightly, sliding his gaze towards the dragon horns and skulls mounted into place so strategically by Josephine and Vivienne, both of whom were determined to – as they put it – "properly awe visitors to Skyhold with immediate evidence of the Inquisition's strength and power".
Cullen frowned in reply, "You disapprove, then? The Inquisitor was asked to respond to the motions of a dragon in that section of the Exalted Plains, after all. Apparently, it was coming too close to some of Celene's lines. I believe the Inquisitor was hoping to soothe some of the more regular Orlesian suspicion in regards his role in the region."
Solas lifted his hand quickly, shaking his head, "You misunderstand me, commander. I would not disparage the politic motions of the Inquisition in such simple maneuvers. I simply wonder at the continued practice of sending the only one of us capable of successfully contending with Corypheus up against the snapping maws of whatever dragon happens across his path, however."
Cullen blinked at him as it finally occurred to him, that he long since stopped thinking of Maikhel Lavellan as even remotely vulnerable. When did that happen? When did Maikhel slip into becoming, at least in Cullen's mind, something indestructible and abiding? Something no longer really … mortal?
Like he wasn't a person anymore. Just some god-like creature, maybe.
Solas' eyes narrowed tellingly then. The elf leaned forward, intent on Cullen suddenly, "I don't believe he would be gratified to know you disregard his sheer mortality, commander. Our young Inquisitor has been very adamant to avoid undue worship and adulation, even as he accepted the role of leadership we've all thrust on him."
"Yes, he has," Cullen easily agreed. Maikhel very regularly waved his hand to dismiss the common assumption he was some sort of divine gift from the Maker himself, snapping his violet-hued eyes into narrow slits as he argued with all of them, "I'm no thing to be raised up and deified, damn me." Now Cullen squirmed as he realized how subtly he had fallen into the same habit as his more zealous soldiers and other followers of the Inquisition: "It's always impressed me, mind you. You would think someone so young would rather enjoy such … recognition. There's power in it, at the very least."
Solas' gaze flickered and he looked away, off towards the far doors on the other side of the hall that lead out into Skyhold's courtyard. Not for the first time, Cullen wondered what shadows lurked behind the mage's studied eyes. But Solas only murmured, "Indeed. He would hardly be the first leader elevated so high, who lauded his own self and exulted in the pleasure of mighty position." Solas looked back at Cullen then, his chin upheld and firm, "But it is a burden, too. Those held up so much in our esteem aren't permitted to fail. Not. Ever."
Cullen hard the rising shouts from the courtyard then, as the Inquisitor's party rode through the gates. He rolled his shoulders backwards, settling his thick mantle into place as he looked down the long hall towards the doors, "Which is why we'll support him in the small things he clings to, to maintain his identity. As his friends and companions, rather than servants and sycophants." Cullen stepped away, just before stopping and glancing back at Solas with his eyebrow slanted upwards, "Speaking of the mundane … Maikhel wanted a greenhouse set against the wall outside the chantry garden. More herbs, he said. For the kitchens, rather than the stillery. I forgot to mention it to Elan."
Solas smiled thinly as he watched the human moving away down the center of the hall then, his golden-haired head canted downwards in apparent thought even as he moved. The mundane would save Maikhel before the thing was done, Solas thought. And then his own head dropped down in thought, too. When did the word da'len become something so real and true to him, then?
Cullen emerged out of the doors and blinked in the bright light of the midmorning sun shining down into the courtyard. Which is the only reason he very nearly crashed into the backsides of two more finely dressed nobles standing there on the rise of the stairs overlooking the yard below. At first glance he assumed they were Orlesians, all bundled into thick coats as they stood there stiffly proper.
Until the man muttered to his female companion in a high-pitched Tevinter accent, "That's the Inquisitor? That little elf is the vaunted Inquisition's oh powerful ruler? Bah!" Cullen pressed his lips tight together, as he considered the fine line he only just considered along with Solas. Fighting back the temptation to tell stories of what strength and power trembled through the young, slender form of elven Inquisitor.
The razor-sharp wit behind those pretty eyes, maybe; the whipping slashes of his judgement whenever he was called upon to use it. The fire that flew from his oh so willowy fingers; the great gouts of flame and scarlet destruction that razed into the air over his sylphlike head and gently pointed ears. Or the keen perception that he twisted against his friends and enemies alike; until you only knew nothing was really hidden from that lavender gaze of his.
Maikhel was real, though. He wasn't a god, didn't want to be made into anyone's god. So Cullen stopped his own ready leap to impress the nobles. He just lingered long enough to wave down at the milling soldiers who'd returned with the Inquisitor, and he murmured, "Inquisitor Lavellan's defeated another dragon, actually. Perhaps he was too small, and the beast couldn't find him in time enough. Not down there under its immense claws, at least."
The dark-haired Tevinter woman glanced back at the Commander with her eyebrow raised up, "Another dragon? I've heard the stories, at least. This would be … what is it, Trevis? Three dragons that the Inquisitor has battled, yes?"
Cullen shook his head, only subtly eyeing the sniffing disdain from Trevis as he stood there looking down at the Inquisitor. Maikhel was only just twisting in his saddle, reaching up to lift his helmet off his head. His black hair was spiked up against the top of his head but shorn finely enough that his pointed ears were obvious even from where the small crowd of onlookers was gathered.
Cullen actually made a mental note to ask Josephine who the bantering aristocrats really were, since Tevinters remained rare visitors to Skyhold. And Tevinter aristocrats were even more rare, although typically mages of some kind. Cullen was grateful to Dorian, that he understood the distinction between the various social classes in the Imperium.
These two were likely Laetans of some kind, mages born into families that hadn't shown magical ability until more recent. Such low-class mages would be more likely sent abroad to see and understand the growing authority of the Inquisition, rather than any member of the more vaunted Altus. Those descended from the dreamers, the ones who spoke to the Old Gods, Dorian told him. Like Dorian himself. Although Dorian shrugged at him laughingly, too, "I myself am a veritable pariah among my fine brethren. Have no doubt of that, mind you."
And really. Where was Dorian, now that Cullen was thinking on him. He frowned as he scanned the yard looking for the mage, muttering aside to the two Tevinters, "Five. This will be fivedragons the Inquisitor has defeated." They both turned to gape at him, and Cullen's lip twisted up slightly at the very corner as he turned to the stairs and prepared to step down. He quipped, "We're running out of room to showcase his prizes."
Cullen moved down the stairs quickly, gamely ignoring the sputtering gasps from the Tevinters as he went to greet the Inquisitor. But Maikhel just vaguely waved towards him before directing one of the soldiers to care for his horse. Cullen frowned with confusion, since Maikhel typically spent the first hour of his return to Skyhold carefully tending to his mount.
This particular horse happened to be one of his favorites, even. A Dalish-bred animal that was gifted to them shortly after they first arrived at Skyhold, when Haven still burned so brightly behind them. The animal was mostly black with a white underside and chest, and Maikhel seemed to love the beast. He named her even, "She's Enasal, my own joy out of loss." So it befuddled Cullen when Maikhel rushed away from his horse, moving towards the side doors that lead through the kitchens into Skyhold's interior.
But then a single voice rose up over the wild din of men and horses: "Are you going to stop long enough to tell me what you were thinking? You weren't thinking, I just know it! That's the only reason you did something so idiotic, only after I was on the way back to Skyhold!"
Cullen sighed, turning to gesture at the soldiers standing there frozen in place. He admonished them to move on, care for the horses, and to retrieve the materials and articles the Inquisition had managed to obtain during the Inquisitor's foray to the Plains. Anything to get their attention off the Inquisitor being scolded by his lover in the middle of the open courtyard.
Maikhel didn't seem over-bothered, though. He even smiled softly as he stood there, while Dorian brushed his hands up and down the elf's shoulders and chest, looking for any sign of injury or bruise even.
But then he held up the large bundle he was clutching against abdomen, and Cullen frowned again as he leaned closer to try and ascertain what the Inquisitor had brought back with him. Another dragon bone, perhaps. Maybe Dagna could use it to create some incredible staff ... Only it wasn't a knuckle torn from the dragon's claws. Something mundane as that? Hardly!
Dorian looked down as Maikhel eased back the cloak he'd covered his prize with, and Cullen marveled at yet another feat the Inquisitor had managed. To leave Dorian Pavus speechless from wonderment. At least for a moment.
Then the Tevinter turned his narrowed gray gaze back to his lover, "An egg? You kept the dragon's egg? Maker take me, Maikhel! Do you even know what baby dragons eat? Keep it away from your ears!"
