"Oh no, no, no," I chant in my head, "this is so not screwing my job up." My. I'm a fat cook and a newbie spy who can't run for the life of her, but I have this griffon statuette and short letter to deliver to my bosses.
I quickly deliberate which Boss I could reach first—Lady Evie in the kitchen, elbows deep in dough, or the Commander in his tower, drowning in endless paperwork. The Spymaster in her rookery, and the noble Ambassador in her cozy office, just scare me, so they're out of the question, and anyway those are too far. The kitchen's near the throne room in the far end of the castle, but the tower is just over there, so it's not a very tough call.
I bang the Commander's door open.
"Ser, Commander, milord," I pant.
And he's not there. He must be training with the soldiers, or having tea with Lady Evie, or at his prayers, he could be anywhere!
So I find myself running towards the main hall, taking a shortcut near the strange elf Solas's study—is that my missing black tea I smell brewing in here?—past Varric, who's probably writing a new chapter for Seeker Cassandra if rumor's to be believed, forgetting my manners when I reach the gossipy nobles near the throne, before I reach my kitchen.
At least two out of the four big bosses are there already. And what a sight it is—Lady Evie covered in flour from head to foot, elbow deep in dough with Ser Cullen, who, even if looking fatigued, has smile on his face.
They must've been sharing a private joke before I arrived. Or even kissing, judging from the flour marks on Ser Cullen's face, hair and torso. Maker's breath, I hate to ruin their fun.
"Milady," I say, trying to catch my breath. I show her the griffon and the letter.
Lady Evie glances at Ser Cullen, suddenly serious. "Commander, assemble the War Council," she commands. She doesn't really need to; the Commander regains his professional mien as quickly as she does. "And Ellie, fetch me a new robe from my suite, quickly."
Weeks pass after Lady Evie rode hard to Val Royeaux with The Iron Bull, Sera, Seeker Cassandra, Commander Cullen, and a contingent of Inquisition soldiers to Val Royeaux. I continue watching the Wardens, as the Spymaster ordered me. There's nothing new with them, really—as voracious with food as they are reluctant to socialize with others. Some of us have tried chatting them up regarding Blackwall, the real one as well as the impostor. No response, really, other than "I don't know." Shame. I want to tell the Spymaster more.
Sister Leliana has asked me to ask our mage scholars what are the usual signs of demonic possession—a topic I'd avoid, but I'm a big girl working for the Inquisition now, and I won't be a good spy if I don't know what I'm looking for. So I head up to Ser Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous, that charming, stylish man who happens to love my velvet cake.
"Oh, my dear sweet chef," he greets me. "The Lady of the Red Velvet."
"You remember, Ser?" I say, grateful he does. It flatters me to know that I make great cakes!
"Of course. If that cake hadn't been divine, I'd have thrown it in my father's face," he chuckles. "Which would have been horribly cliché, but not less than what he deserves."
"Sister Leliana's asked me to ask you—"
"What? Darling Evie hasn't sent you to ask me to make time-warping lunch boxes now?"
Let me clarify this: I haven't bothered Ser Dorian to make time-warping lunch boxes. No, it's been Enchanter Fiona and the other rescued mages I ask for enchanted food packs. But it's Ser Dorian, Lady Evie's companion, that I trust enough to ask about something as serious as possession. Even if I have to endure his teasing.
"Dorian," a melodious voice calls from the stairs near the Tevinter's bookshelves. "Do be a dear, and teach her about signs of possession like those you've seen at Adamant. She's a quick study and would reward you with cake later, won't you, Ellie?"
"Very well," the mage sighs dramatically, "I shall descend to teaching little girls about the evils of blood magic. But only if you spill the beans on Evie and that strapping ex-Templar!"
"Well, Lady Evie does have tea with him always…" I begin.
"Just tea? No whipped cream? Chocolate syrup? Maybe, desserts on a special plate? Or spices that enhance the appetite?" he laments.
I don't want to ask which special plate or enhancing spices Ser Dorian is referring to.
But I do learn about demonic possessions like the ones that happened in Adamant. And nope, I haven't seen any overt signs on the Wardens. Because apparently, being secluded, eating ginormous amounts of food without getting fat, and getting all broody and stuff are not usual signs of demonic possession or strange blood rituals. And I think the Spymaster has got mage observers on the Wardens anyhow.
"Ser Mage," I ask Dorian after discussing possessed Wardens with gleaming eyes and Templars with red crystals growing on their skin, "would you know of anything that causes fatigue, loss of appetite, or insomnia?"
"My dear wonderful Chef," he replies in his booming voice, "a great number of ailments could be the culprit behind those. Anything from terminal illness, poisons, or mere malingering and hypochondria."
"The person I'm referring to doesn't seem to be suffering from any terminal illness I know of," I answer, looking through his bookshelves. "And it's really, insanely hard to poison that person, and totally out of character to pretend to be sick to avoid work. Have you heard or read of former alcoholics who are suddenly deprived of alcohol, and get those symptoms instead?"
"Oh, I've seen them, Chef," the mage answers. "Been with them, almost became one of them, even. Withdrawal from something terribly addicting could drive a person mad, if not done properly. Of course, alcohol could kill a person, in very large doses, I'm sure you know that."
"Discipline is not enough to wean a person out of alcohol?" I ask. "And is alcohol the only thing that could be this dangerously addicting?"
"Alcohol, certain herbs, lyrium, all of these can be addicting if not respected," he recites impatiently as he checks his fingernails. "Withdrawal from these can have different effects on different people. Discipline, and support from other people, maybe nausea and headache potions, help wean the mind away from the source of the addiction. But the body is a different matter. I've heard of potions that can replace the former addicting substance, so in effect, you're trading one addicting substance for another. Not everybody can just wean themselves from addiction of any kind. I've met incurable alcoholics and lyrium-addled Templars, and mind you they're not the monstrous ugly red ones too. Is there anything else dear Leliana wants me to teach you, or will you withhold my afternoon tea and cake with more questions?"
"No other questions, Ser Mage," I say, and I proceed to prepare his tea—fragrant and fruity is how he likes it, with some brioche.
"Do I know the person you think is withdrawing from alcohol, Ellie?" Ser Dorian asks, unusually serious now. "You don't need to worry your pretty head for myself, the Chargers, that elf Sera, or any other patron of The Herald's Rest for alcohol addiction. But is there someone…"
"No, ser, my interest is purely academic," I answer, but I know I'm a horrible liar.
"Ooh, that makes it even more delicious," he says, regaining his singsong voice. "I'm going to have fun prying it from Leliana."
"You've asked Dorian about alcohol withdrawal, yes?" the Spymaster asks me after I've reported that the Wardens aren't doing anything crazy as far as I could tell.
"I can't help but notice that Ser Cullen often is tired, sleepless, and barely eats, Sister," I answer. "And Lady Evie's, well, asked me to look out for him."
"What makes you think that the Commander is an alcoholic?" she asks me.
"My former employer, Lord Valois, had a son who was an incurable alcoholic," I answer, gazing into the floor as if I'm a child caught in wrongdoing. "The son drank like a fish, morning day and night. Finally, Lord Valois ordered his son locked in his bedroom, deprived of alcohol and given only food and water. Whenever we servants brought him food, we noticed—I noticed—that he had no appetite despite the very tasty food we served, had lines on his face that aged him a decade, was very shaky and nauseous, and hinted that he couldn't sleep. Some days, he was peaceful, but he could be very troubled at times too. He remained that way until... Lord Valois passed away and I had to find a new situation. Now Ser Cullen had almost no lines on his face back in Haven, and he used to have a healthy appetite then too, and was not very shaky. And some servants now are gossiping about his nausea, even as you try to stop them, Sister."
Sister Leliana looks thoughtful, and remains silent for a while.
Finally, she said, "You are an astute observer, Ellie. Watch him closely when he returns from Val Royeaux, which is any day now. And… continue your kindness. Maybe the Inquisitor, or the Commander himself, will grace you with knowledge, but I will not."
"Yes, Sister," I answer.
"I order you, however, as Seneschal of the Inquisition," she says, "that you will stop the servants from gossiping, and report to me those who do. We cannot have our Commander the laughing stock of our forces."
It's not hard for me to put two and two together to get four. I know that Ser Cullen used to be a Templar, that Templars take lyrium, and this is a heavily guarded Chantry secret. I've seen the Inquisition's Templars imbibe the blue stuff in private, after their meals, when they think they're alone. Even after all this time, they guard this secret jealously, so I decide to respect that.
And if I'm right… Maker, Ser Cullen is an admirable man for what he's doing. I just hope that he can make it.
A/N: Thanks so much to you, reader, for reading! Don't forget to review as well, because the author subsists on feedback and unsweetened tea and coffee. :)
Chef Ellie and Lady Evie would like to give blueberry cheesecakes to AgapeErosPhilia, JayRain, Fates-Love-Queen, my anonymous reviewer, and the wonderful Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers Group on Facebook!
