A/N: Hey, I'm updating more than once a year! Look at me go! Thank you so much for the comments, favorites, and follows. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
CCA: you're the best!
Also the best are my beta, Bain Sidhe, and my friend, cjulina, for giving me much needed feedback on this chapter. Read them all and fav their stuff!
Madame Valerie's gown was almost… scandalous.
Anya had never seen anything like it, not that she was particularly worldly about fashion. But the multitudinous visitors at Skyhold had brought with them their finest frocks, and as Josie's ball drew closer, the attire their guests wore to dinner each evening became more elaborate and expensive. The Orlesians, of course, outdid everyone with their ostentatious trappings, and Anya was grateful beyond measure that no one expected her to carry off one of their ornate gowns. But she wondered, perhaps, if Madame Valerie had veered too far the other way.
The dress Anya wore was almost deceptively simple. Inspired by the Rivaini style, it was made of soft black silk, loose and flowing. An elaborately embroidered belt girded the gown at her waist with a large jeweled buckle fashioned in the shape of the Inquisition's crest. The soft skirts dropped from her hips to the floor in a straight line, though the hem – also delicately embroidered with red thread – flared into a slight train in the back. The front of the dress billowed slightly from waist to throat, where it fastened to a slim black collar. Covering the collar was the true glory of the gown: a beautiful hooded cape, trimmed with the blackest of mink fur. The inside of the cape was lined in deep red silk brocade, providing a dramatic background for the simple silhouette of the inky black dress. The back of the cape was beaded and embroidered in an intricate pattern of red, black, silver and gold, with the Inquisition's heraldry at the center. Anya could barely comprehend the craftsmanship it must have taken to decorate the garment with the thousands of polished obsidian beads that cascaded from her shoulders – much less the time. In fact, the dress was supposed to have been delivered a week ago, but the beadwork had taken longer than expected.
The scandal of the dress was in its back, or rather, its lack of one. From the front, Anya appeared to be covered from her throat to her toes in black silk, and other than the fact that she wore no petticoats under her skirt (actually, she wore no undergarments at all; Madame Valerie said it would "ruin her lines"), the dress actually seemed rather conservative, especially compared to the bosom-baring décolletage favored by the Orlesians. But while the neck of the dress attached to the collar in the front, it left her back entirely bare from her shoulders to her hips. The cloak covered her, but if she turned to the side and flipped the cape back, anyone in the world could see her ribs, her waist, even the slight curve of her breast.
"Do you think it's too much?" Anya asked Josephine, twisting her hips left and right. The dress was lovely, by far the finest thing she'd ever worn, but she had never, ever seen anyone wear a gown that left so much skin exposed. As if that weren't enough, it seemed rather, well, "magey." With the cowl raised – which Madame Valerie insisted was an essential component of the regalia – she looked rather like she belonged in Tevinter. Thankfully the couturier had not fixed any absurd little pointed horns to the hood like Alexius had once worn, but Anya still thought she appeared a bit sinister.
"Mysterious," Leliana corrected, when Anya voiced her concern. "And why should you not dress like a mage? After all, you are one. A beautiful, powerful mage, chosen by Andraste herself to save the world in our hour of peril. You must look the part."
"You make it sound more like a costume than a gown," Anya said doubtfully, and Leliana laughed.
"Perhaps they are not so different."
Josephine shared in Anya' hesitance, particularly about the cut of the dress, but Madame Valerie would not hear it.
"Zee ball is tomorrow!" she cried. "I have no time to create another masterpiece! Besides, zee Inquisitor looks like a goddess!"
Madame de Fer remained mostly silent on the subject of the gown. Had it been anyone else, her reticence would have convinced Anya that she hated it, but Vivienne rarely passed up the chance to criticize the Inquisitor's appearance.
"It's a shame to hide your hair under that hood, darling, but I suppose it can't be helped," she sniffed. "The cape does complete the outfit."
Anya pulled the cloak back and turned to the side in front of the mirror once more, staring dubiously at her exposed flank. "You're sure it's not too much?"
"It's perfect," Leliana said, and then a mischievous smirk crossed her lips. "When you make your appearance, we'd better position someone next to Cullen with a vial of sal volatile."
Anya blushed at that, but she hoped Leliana was right.
…
Cullen stood at attention with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for Anya enter the Great Hall and officially begin the ball. He was already sick of it and wished he could disappear to his office, but Josephine had threatened to kill him if he even considered leaving before midnight.
He'd hardly spoken to the Inquisitor since the afternoon they'd spent playing chess in the garden, much to his dismay, but she'd been so busy entertaining their guests that he'd only seen her in passing. She'd even had to skip their dancing lessons, depriving him of the chance to prove he could be a more pleasant partner. Vivienne had received the benefit of his improved attitude alone, which was really a shame since he was quite sure the Imperial Enchanter didn't care one way or another, as long as he didn't tread on her toes.
He was also dismayed – but not surprised – to discover that rumors swirled throughout the barracks that the Commander and the Inquisitor were secretly lovers. Jim's doing, no doubt, but Cullen could hardly castigate the man for his indiscretion when Cullen himself had nearly kissed Anya in public view. He rather wished he'd just gone ahead and done it – if people were going to talk, better that there be something to talk about. But the moment had been spoiled and there had been no time to capture another one. He tried to tell himself it was for the best, and that neither of them had any business getting entangled with each other. The same lines he'd been telling himself since Haven. Nothing had changed. He still had nightmares, he still had days where the pain of his withdrawal nearly crippled him, and he still had doubts about his ability to provide her with the strength and support that she deserved.
But something had changed. His feelings had changed, grown, become more insistent and more difficult to ignore. Anya was special to him, and he longed to be closer to her.
Cullen glanced down the row of people waiting for the Inquisitor's entrance to where Careth stood with Loghain. She was not draped in reams of fabric like most of their guests, but instead wore the simple dress uniform of a Grey Warden mage. It suited her, and she made a pretty foil for her husband, as slight, fair, and sweet-looking as he was tall, dark, and stern. Having them at Skyhold had been a pleasure, and Cullen regretted that they would soon leave with Anya for the Western Approach.
It helped him to better understand his feelings for Anya, in a way, to have Careth near. He realized now that it had all been a harmless infatuation, his interest in her – or it would have been harmless if not for Uldred's rebellion. Cullen was not the first templar to have ever had his head turned by a pretty mage, and had his little crush not been so cruelly used against him, no doubt it would have run its course and never taken a place of such significance in his mind. Careth was a lovely person, but she was very reserved and cautious, very difficult to read. He remembered her in her youth as devout, quiet, and perhaps a bit mysterious, and she'd become a woman who kept most of the world at arm's length. And that was fine; he did not need to be any closer. But she presented a cool and withdrawn contrast to Anya's ebullient warmth, and he realized he'd never felt as connected to Careth as he did to his Harold.
He cast his gaze to the long table, where Sam Hawke was standing with Varric, wine goblet firmly in hand, of course. She was wearing an elegant and distinctly Fereldan gown, and looked every bit as comfortable among Josephine's menagerie of nobles as she did chugging ale with Bull's Chargers in the tavern. He supposed she and Varric were a lot alike in that way. Perhaps that explained their bond.
Hawke caught him staring at her and gave him a flirty little wink and an eyebrow wiggle; Cullen rolled his eyes and looked away, smirking. She was so provocative, always pushing boundaries and testing limits. She used her sexuality like a weapon, something she had in common with another of her compatriots, that shocking pirate, Isabela. The pair of them had made a sight, strutting around Kirkwall like they owned the place, and for a while, it seemed like they did. In those days, Cullen had burned with lewd curiosity about Hawke. It was impossible not to imagine bedding her – she practically demanded it with the clothes she wore and her sultry walk and her teasing, razor-sharp banter. Of course, she'd wanted him to think about her that way to distract him from noticing she was a bloody mage. And it had worked, which was the worst part. He prided himself generally on not thinking with his cock, but she'd really led him on. And somehow, that had only made him want her more.
But now the idea of a dalliance just seemed exhausting. Even one night would involve countless gibes and insults, and a seething sexual competition no longer held much appeal. He was glad Hawke had come to Skyhold, as she certainly livened up the place, but her brash and defiant carnality ceased to fascinate him.
Was it because of the Inquisitor? Would he still long to fuck Hawke against a wall, or to worship at the altar of Careth's body, if he didn't know Anya? He wasn't sure; he'd met each woman at very different points in his life, when he'd had different needs and different priorities. His old desires might never have rekindled anyway, simply as a matter of maturation and experience. But he couldn't say for certain. Perhaps Careth's reserve would still intrigue him, if it weren't for Anya's candor. Perhaps it was Anya's sensitivity that had spoiled the allure of Hawke's nerve.
A faint heat rose to his cheeks as he realized he'd been thinking about three of the most famous living women in Thedas – all of whom were nearby – in frankly sexual terms. He couldn't even manage to kiss Anya in the garden; he had no business imagining more, with anyone!
Thankfully, the herald announced the Harold at that moment, distracting Cullen from his thoughts. She entered the Great Hall, dazzling in a dramatic caped gown, and slowly made her way to the throne, pausing every few steps to acknowledge her guests and receive their admiration. Cullen couldn't take his eyes off her as she approached. She looked splendid – regal and confident in her manner, but enigmatic beneath the fur-trimmed cowl that shadowed her face. It was so strange to see her wearing something other than worn mage robes or training leathers. She almost looked like a completely different person.
When she greeted Hawke, the Champion leaned in and whispered something to her, and Anya threw back her head and laughed, then grimaced sheepishly as she tugged her hood back into place. So, still the Harold, underneath all that glamour. Cullen grinned, and he was still smiling when she reached the throne and placed her hand in his.
"Lady Harold," he said, brushing his lips across the back of her hand. He was a bit surprised she wasn't wearing gloves, but perhaps she wanted to display the power of the mark. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you, Commander!" she said, blushing a bit. "You look very handsome, yourself. That jacket suits you."
Cullen frowned. "It's a bit loose. I need to do more presses."
"Or eat more cake," Anya offered with a cheeky smile.
She moved past him to greet Leliana and Cassandra and when she turned, he caught a glimpse of creamy skin – a lot of skin – before her cape settled back into place. Maker's breath! Where was the rest of her dress?
He pondered that mystery while Anya made a pretty speech welcoming their guests and imploring them to support the Inquisition's efforts. He was determined to secure the first dance with her, and he wondered if there was any way he could shed his gloves before the music started. If the opportunity existed to touch her bare skin while they danced, he wanted to touch it properly. He made up his mind not to even think about all the other people she'd be dancing with – that way lied madness.
But once she finished speaking, Anya descended the stairs and was immediately swarmed by their guests. When the music started, foppish, self-important Bann Franderel led Anya to the ballroom as ostentatiously as possible, wrenching a disappointed growl from Cullen's throat. At least the bann was also wearing gloves.
"Are you married, Commander?" a coquettish voice simpered.
Cullen realized with surprise that a smaller crowd had gathered around him, and they were murmuring praise of his hair, his eyes, his scar, his –
"Did you just… grab my bottom?" he asked the masked noble standing to his left.
"I am a weak man," the fellow said with an oily leer, as Cullen stared at him in disbelief.
Maker, but this would be a long night.
…
Anya's cheeks hurt from the smile she'd plastered on her face all night, and her feet ached from hours of dancing. She sipped sparkling wine, calculating her chances of making it to the Great Hall for a bite of food without being trapped into another waltz.
"Sod it, I'm the Inquisitor. I can do what I like," she muttered, setting down her glass and squaring her shoulders. She was weaving her way through the crowd, politely declining requests to dance with an apologetic smile, when she spotted the one man she couldn't refuse heading directly for her, beaming expectantly.
"Not Franderel," she moaned. She'd already danced with him twice and he'd bored her to tears the entire time, boasting of his antique collection in Denerim. She longed to castigate him for his priorities, for abandoning his lands and his people so he could hoard trinkets in the capital, but of course, she could not. So she'd nodded and smiled and asked the right questions to appeal to his ego, feeling a bit like a trinket herself the whole time.
I am too hungry for this, she thought, but she had little choice, so she mentally prepared a few more bland, fawning questions. Franderel had nearly reached her, when a large, imposing figure stepped between them.
"Lady Inquisitor, may I have this dance?"
"Of course, Warden! I'd be honored!"
Relief flooded through her as she curtseyed before Loghain and accepted his outstretched hand, pointedly not looking at the thwarted bann. From the smirk on the Warden's face, she guessed he was well-aware that he'd performed a timely rescue. Anya was delighted by the undeniable upgrade in dance partners; she'd come to like Warden Loghain very much in the weeks he'd been at Skyhold.
"Bann Franderel seems quite taken with you," he remarked, his clear blue eyes twinkling mischievously.
"He's a valuable ally," Anya said neutrally, "but there is nothing personal to our relationship."
"Ah, the courtship of politics," Loghain said with a wry smile. "I can't say I miss it."
"Do you miss your grand estate, and all the power you once held?" she asked, and then winced. "Sorry, that was a rude question."
Loghain inclined his head. "I don't mind the question. I had a good life in the years between the war and the Blight, and if I had to go back and relive them, I'd change very little. But I don't miss it either. I don't miss all of this." He cast a withering glare about the ballroom.
"Not enjoying the party?" she asked with a teasing smile.
"On the contrary! Now that I'm but a lowly Grey Warden, I find this kind of event much more agreeable. Good food, good wine, pleasant dance partners, and I no longer have to pretend to give a damn what any of these puffed up peacocks think of me."
Anya laughed. "Would that I could! But you don't exactly seem the type for pretense under any circumstances."
Loghain's smile shrunk, his gaze growing distant. "When I was Teyrn, the circumstances affected my daughter, and I could not afford to alienate her peers. But now, any social maneuvering I might do on her behalf is more likely to hinder than help, so I am free." He smiled slightly, then added, "Of those bonds, at least."
Anya nodded in sympathy. One could hardly think of a Grey Warden as "free," but she understood his perspective. In some ways, she had been more "free" at the Circle than she was now as Inquisitor, although the idea of going back to that constrained life seemed suffocating. She was glad that Loghain had found happiness in his unexpected change of course.
"Where is Careth?" Anya asked, turning her head to look about the room as they waltzed in a slow circle. "Does she dance?"
"A little, but not well," Loghain replied, "so she will only dance with me. I believe she went to rescue Commander Cullen from his slavering pack of admirers. They are probably standing off in a corner somewhere, commiserating."
"Cullen has admirers?" Anya blurted before she could stop herself.
Loghain glance down at her and smirked. "Quite a few. They seem rather taken with him, although don't worry, he doesn't appear to return the sentiment."
"Why would I worry?" Anya said, looking over his shoulder to avoid his gaze.
The Warden responded with a dubious hum but said nothing more about it, and Anya was glad he didn't seem inclined to tease her about the Commander. She'd heard enough of that from all angles, after those horrid Orlesian gossipmongers had spread word all over Skyhold of their near kiss. She knew her friends, at least, meant no harm with their gentle ribbing, but Anya suffered at their words. For one moment, she had been so close to the connection she had longed for since she'd met Cullen, and then that moment had been broken, perhaps never to be repaired. She'd hardly seen him since then, mostly because her schedule did not permit it, but she couldn't help think that if he really wanted to be with her, he would find a way. Anya had forbid herself from seeking him out; she thought she'd made her feelings clear enough in the many, many months they'd known each other, and she could not bear to hear it if he considered almost kissing her a mistake.
Perhaps he's been too busy with his admirers, she seethed jealously, grinding her teeth.
"Forgive me, Inquisitor, I didn't mean to upset you," Loghain said quietly. Anya realized she'd been rudely scowling and she shook her head, clearing the thunder off her face with an embarrassed laugh.
"You haven't, Warden, and I beg your pardon. I suppose I've been minding my manners so carefully all night with strangers that friends don't receive the benefit of them at all. My apologies."
Loghain smiled. "You have been as charming as ever. I didn't expect my words to trouble you. But since they have, I'm going to completely throw decorum in the rubbish bin." He met her eyes directly, his expression warm but serious. "Take it from someone with many years of experience beyond yours. Commander Cullen cares for you, and he has eyes for no one else. His admirers compete in a fool's tourney, for you have already won."
Anya felt her face immediately grow hot with his words. She desperately hoped they were true, of course, but what good did it do her if Cullen would not allow her to claim him? "I don't know what to say to that."
"Say nothing, except that you forgive me for my imposition. Old age has loosened my tongue."
Anya laughed. "That's a convenient excuse. But of course I forgive you, or rather, there is nothing to forgive. It's just uncomfortable to know my personal life is the subject of conversation, but I suppose that's my own fault."
"There was a crowd of fifty people watching when I first kissed Careth," Loghain said. Anya gasped, startled by such a personal admission, and he smiled. "It's true. To raise coin for the Grey Wardens, we'd begun re-enacting our duel at the Landsmeet as we recruited in villages across Ferelden. During one match, she was angry with me and struck me with a spell I'd asked her not to use. So I got angry in return, and instead of conceding the duel – as I had done at the Landsmeet, obviously – I knocked her on her back and forced her to yield. And then I completely lost my senses and kissed her."
"Oh my," Anya said. If only her duel with Cullen had ended so happily! "That sounds incredibly romantic."
Loghain harrumphed. "It was ridiculous, but the crowd approved. We pretended it was all for show." He chuckled at the memory, shaking his head. "She is stubborn and so am I. It took some time for us to admit our true feelings."
Anya was utterly fascinated by this glimpse into the personal history of the Mac Tirs. It was nearly impossible for her to imagine either Loghain or Careth losing their tempers, cheating at duels, or giving in to furious passion. They both seemed so cool and composed, so impervious to surges of emotion. No wonder the crowd was thrilled to see them kiss!
"At any rate," Loghain continued, "I speak of this to reassure you that I know how it feels to live even your private life in the public eye, and to have your feelings on display when you'd much rather keep them hidden. It's not easy, especially in such trying times, but I know from experience that war-forged bonds, though slow to form, are hard to break."
"You and Careth seem very happy," Anya said, squeezing his hand. Loghain returned the gesture.
"We are, and you will be, too, in time." He cleared his throat and grinned crookedly. "I think that's enough overly personal advice from me, wouldn't you say?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Before the waltz ends, should we discuss the many ways that Franderel is intolerable?"
"We won't have time to get through them all," Anya said, "but please let me go first."
…
"Pardon the intrusion, ladies and gentlemen, but I need a word with Commander Cullen. Will you excuse us?"
Cullen was both startled and relieved to see Careth approach and politely extract him from the morass of party guests who seemed determined to dote on his every word. He nodded curtly and then descended the stairs, offering the Warden his arm.
"What do you need, Warden? And thank you, by the way. Those people are insufferable!"
Careth laughed gently. "Indeed, I admit this is all pretense to get you away from them. I feared for your sanity. I imagine you could use a drink, though?"
"By all means," Cullen replied. "You are truly an agent of mercy."
They repaired to the lavishly set tables, where Careth selected a small glass of claret while Cullen helped himself to a generous pour of Antivan whiskey. As he stood with the Warden in awkward silence, he realized he ought to be making small talk. Or really, he should ask her to dance. Blast, he didn't want to do it, but better Careth than one of those Orlesian jackals.
"Would you care to dance with me?" he asked her stiffly.
"Would you be offended if I said no?" she replied with an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid dancing is a skill I've never had the opportunity to properly acquire."
Cullen chuckled, relieved again. "Nor I, though Maker knows I've tried. Madame Vivienne should have invited you to join our lessons."
Careth sniffed dismissively. "Happily, no one expects a Grey Warden to be a master of social graces, least of all Vivienne." She picked up a fan from the table and stirred the air near her face. "It's warm in here. Since we won't be dancing, would you care to step outside?"
He nodded and indicated she should proceed, following her through the corridor to the garden, which had been strung with lanterns. Guests mingled in small groups as servants wove between parties with trays of refreshments. Cullen placed his empty glass on one of them and selected a smaller cup of wine, offering it first to Careth, who declined. He really ought to eat something soon, but the lubricating effect of the alcohol on social interactions was welcome. Perhaps that was why he suddenly took up the one subject he had so strenuously avoided every time he spoke with the Hero of Ferelden.
"Warden, I must offer you a long overdue apology," he said. "I can only imagine how offended you must have felt by my accusations when we last met at Kinloch Hold. I had no cause and no right to speak to you in such a way, and I've regretted it ever since."
Her fair face contorted in a puzzled frown. "At Kinloch Hold? Commander – "
"Cullen," he said, and she smiled briefly.
"Cullen, when we'd last met, you'd been imprisoned and tortured for a week. You cannot think I would nurse a grudge over the desperate words of a man half-mad with pain and fear. Whatever my faults, I assure you I'm more compassionate than that."
Cullen frowned. "I suppose I must apologize twice, then. I didn't imagine a grudge, but rather a justified resentment. You rescued me from torment and certain death, and I repaid you by accusing you of practicing blood magic and harboring demons. I was so afraid to let anyone who had entered that Harrowing Chamber exit alive that I let it poison even my opinion of you. It was nonsensical and unfair."
"It was nonsensical," Careth agreed, "which is why I paid it no consequence. You were not in your right mind then, through no fault of your own. Please don't trouble yourself with these worries any longer. They're entirely unnecessary, I promise."
Cullen dragged his teeth along the scarred edge of his lip. "I also feel awkward about the things I said to you when you first rescued me. I know it was a long time ago, but…"
"It was a very long time ago," Careth said gently. "I can only imagine that whatever feelings you harbored for me once have long since passed."
"Yes," Cullen said, grateful for her understanding. "I suppose it just wasn't the way I'd have ever wanted to voice those thoughts. If I'd ever wanted to voice them at all."
"No, I wouldn't recommend 'torture by demons' to prompt a man to approach a lady he fancies," she teased, then sighed. "I did feel guilty for my role in your pain. I was flattered by your attention back then and I know I encouraged it. It horrified me to discover that the demon used me against you. I'm sorry."
Cullen laughed incredulously. "I hardly think anyone could hold you responsible for that. I certainly don't."
"Then can we agree that we are each blameless and have no cause for offense?" She smiled at him sweetly and held out her hand.
"We can agree," Cullen said, taking her hand and squeezing it lightly. "Thank you, Warden. It was kind of you to allow me to unburden myself, even if you found it unnecessary."
"Careth," she corrected, and he acknowledged her with a smile.
They'd wandered over to the small gazebo with the chess table, where Cullen and Anya had spent their pleasant afternoon together. Careth traced her fingers across one of the pieces.
"Have you spoken often with Bann Franderel?" she asked.
Cullen grimaced. "As little as possible. The man is a braggart and a buffoon."
"He is," she said. "My husband took pity on Her Worship and asked her to dance before she was forced to suffer through yet another waltz with him. I believe it's your turn now." She picked up the chess piece and tapped it on the table, staring at him coolly.
"I intend to dance with her," he said defensively, "but she's very popular."
"So are you. And the entire gala is waiting for that breathless moment when the handsome Commander sweeps in to dance with the lovely Inquisitor. You'll disappoint us all if you don't put on a show. Now go."
"At your command, Warden!" Cullen said, bowing ironically and then draining his cup of wine. He doubted anyone was breathlessly waiting to see them together, but he did want to dance with Anya.
It was immediately clear upon entering the ballroom that the Inquisitor was not there. She would have stood out among all the glittering, gaily dressed people, in her stark black gown. Curiously relieved but also a bit disappointed, he decided to look for her in the Great Hall, when someone caught him by the wrist in a strong grip and whirled him out onto the dance floor.
"I beg your pardon!" he said angrily, and then realized with shock that it was Dorian who had deftly maneuvered him into position and was leading him in a lively reel. "What do you want?"
"I want to dance with you. And to confirm a rumor I heard," the mage said, his grey eyes sparkling. Their feet got tangled as Cullen, who had only been taught by Vivienne to lead, not follow, stepped forward when Dorian expected him to step back. "I'm leading," the Tevinter sniffed. "You don't know what you're doing. Anyway, the rumor."
"Yes?" Cullen said tersely, feeling absolutely ridiculous.
"I heard you and Anya spent an intimate afternoon in the garden – "
"Nothing happened," Cullen interjected angrily.
"Oh, I'm well aware of that, Commander. Believe me, we've all endured about as much of our Lady Inquisitor's dreary mood as we can take. That poor girl needs a shag."
Dorian lifted one eyebrow, staring at Cullen pointedly, while Cullen felt his face flush.
"Maker's breath! How is that any of your – or my – business?" he sputtered. Dorian rolled his eyes.
"Please. There are plenty of men at Skyhold who would be more than happy to oblige – "
"Like you, I suppose," Cullen growled. Dorian blinked and then chuckled dryly, shaking his head.
"Are you really that thick?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "I only sleep with men, you dolt. Everyone knows that."
Cullen was momentarily stunned into silence, his mouth half open. "Well, I didn't. You're always flirting with her."
"Just for fun. Besides, I hoped the threat of competition would goad you into action, but apparently you're timid," Dorian sighed.
"I am not!" Cullen protested. "It's complicated." He stepped on Dorian again, not entirely on accident, and the mage winced. Cullen did not apologize.
"It's really not complicated, though," Dorian said, "unless you're in need of technical instruction? While I do prefer men, I'm sure the mechanics are similar enough."
"Blessed Andraste, make him stop talking," Cullen moaned, his cheeks burning. If he could quit the floor without making a spectacle of himself, he would, but his dance partner had spun them to the center of the room and it would disrupt the entire reel if he tried to escape.
"She really cares for you, you know," Dorian said softly, no longer mocking and wry. "Her heart is set on you and she will have no one else. So please," his tone growing brisk again, "have mercy on the rest of us who must suffer her wretchedness and take her to bed, already."
Cullen stared at him stonily and then looked away, furious and mortified, but he turned the words over and over in his mind. Her heart is set on you, and she will have no one else. Could that be true? He knew Anya was attracted to him, but he'd never supposed she'd formed any sort of enduring attachment. However, he had no doubt that Dorian quite correct on one point: plenty of other men would be happy to fill the space in Anya's life – in her bed – that she'd, perhaps, set aside for Cullen. He couldn't hope she would wait forever, and he knew better than anyone how lonely she was. He did not realize that she was suffering from an acute need for a shag, as Dorian had so tastefully put it, and that notion stirred a powerful hunger within him. Beyond his own fantasies, he'd not really considered Anya's sexuality, her own desire. To think that she wanted him badly enough that it was affecting her mood… he smirked.
"Don't look smug," Dorian said, as the reel wound down and they made their way to the edge of the room. "You still have to seal the deal, Commander."
"Not your concern, mage," Cullen said sternly.
"Ooh, tough templar talk, that's the spirit! Order your naughty mage to bed, she'll love it." Dorian purred the instruction rapturously and Cullen once again rolled his eyes, although the idea of ordering Anya to bed was rather enticing.
"So anyway, that rumor," Dorian began again.
"I am not discussing this any further," Cullen said.
"Not that one. I heard you're a decent chess player," the mage continued, "and I admit, I'm intrigued. Leliana is the only one in Skyhold who can pose a challenge for me, but she rarely agrees to a match. She works too hard, poor thing."
Cullen lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "I can hold my own, but I'm busy, too."
"Excellent," Dorian said, ignoring Cullen's protest. "I imagine we'll all have headaches tomorrow, so let's try for Monday. I'll meet you in the garden after lunch. Now, speaking of headaches," he leaned in, lowering his voice, "I happen to know that Hawke and Sera have the Inquisitor sequestered in a storeroom downstairs with a bottle of whiskey, 'protecting' her from Franderel. If you want her sober enough to be worth a damn for the rest of the evening, you'd better go rescue her."
He delivered a smart slap to Cullen's arse and pointed towards the door.
"Maker's breath!" Cullen snarled, but he headed for the cellar.
…
"Let's do a shot!" Hawke suggested.
Sera giggled and held out her glass, and Hawke sloshed some whiskey into it, then into her own.
"Oh no," Anya moaned. "Not happening."
"C'mon, Inky," Sera said. "You need the hard stuff to deal with those arse-biscuits upstairs."
"I need to be sober to deal with the arse-biscuits upstairs," Anya protested, but Hawke filled her glass and then clinked her own against it, and Anya ignored her better judgment and downed the drink. The whiskey rushed through her like wildfire and she coughed.
"So what's up with you and Curly?" Hawke asked.
"Who?"
"You know," Sera said. "Your jackboot boyfriend. Cullen. Cullen-wullen. Cully-wully." She snickered.
"Curly-wurly!" Hawke offered, and they cackled as she poured another round. Anya resolutely set her glass down, already feeling quite fuzzy in the head.
"There's nothing going on between us," Anya said glumly. She was just drunk enough to add, "He's not interested in me."
Sera snorted and Hawke rolled her eyes.
"Riiiiiiiight," the Champion drawled. She leaned in, shifting her eyes from Sera to Anya. "Between us girls, I think he's one of those templars who joined the Order because he's got a hard-on for mages."
"Ugh!" Sera said, holding out her glass for a refill. Anya wasn't sure if she was disgusted by hard-ons, or mages. Probably both.
"What makes you say that?" Anya asked in spite of herself. It was hard to resist such provocative information.
"Well, you know he had a thing for Careth, right?" Hawke sipped her liquor, fixing Anya with a steady gaze.
Anya did not know that, and she knew that Hawke knew she didn't know. She felt as if the Champion was teasing her, or perhaps testing her, and it made her uncomfortable.
"He never mentioned it to me," she said stiffly.
"He didn't mention it to me, either," Hawke said, "but she told me about it. Sounded like no big deal, just kid stuff. But he was definitely into her."
"In to her, into her?" Sera asked. "Like, in?" She let out a few huffing giggles.
Hawke scoffed. "He wished."
Anya wasn't sure if she was jealous he'd once fancied Careth, or pleased that he was capable of fancying a mage. She chewed her lip, embarrassed by the conversation but also titillated.
"And he always used to check out my arse in Kirkwall," Hawke continued.
"Why are you telling me this?" Anya asked, starting to feel a bit threatened. Hawke grinned.
"Don't get shirty. Nothing happened between us either. I'm just saying, he has a type."
Anya couldn't help but take the bait. "Mages?"
"Hot, bad-arse mages who get shit done," Hawke clarified. "Like us. Cheers!"
She clinked glasses with Anya again, while Sera made a series of remarkably accurate fart noises at their self-congratulatory toast. Anya sipped the whiskey, wondering if Cullen really saw her as "hot" and "bad-arse." The idea had certainly never occurred to her.
"Although to be fair," Hawke mused, considering her refilled glass, "Cullen was giving me the sex eyes before he even knew I was a mage."
Anya goggled at her. "He didn't know you were a mage?"
"No, can you believe it?" Hawke laughed. "It took him years to catch on. One time he even said straight to my face, 'Mages can't be treated like people. They're not like you and me!'" She imitated him in a stuffy, uptight caricature, then laughed merrily and tossed back her drink. "I totally had him snowed."
Hawke obviously thought it an amusing anecdote, but Anya felt as if she'd just been punched in the gut. "He said that?" she whispered.
"Oh no, stepped in it," Sera muttered.
Hawke pulled a face and waved her hand dismissively. "It was years ago. Every templar in Kirkwall was a right twat back then." She peered at Anya and frowned. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. He was just popping off at the mouth, it doesn't mean anything."
Easy for you to say, Anya thought resentfully. Perhaps Hawke wasn't bothered by such comments because she'd never been in the Circle, never known how it felt to live at the mercy of the Order.
Or perhaps it's because she's not crazy about Cullen, like I am.
The idea that he could think such a thing about her filled her with misery. No wonder he kept his distance. She'd always suspected that if she weren't a mage, the Commander would be more open to a relationship with her, and now she had proof. He didn't even think of her as a person.
"Andraste's tits, you're going to sulk about this all night, aren't you?" Hawke sighed.
"That's a sad pup face if I ever saw one," Sera said. She widened her eyes and stuck her lip out, quivering her chin a little. Anya frowned.
"I'd better go back to the party," she said coldly. "Thanks for the drinks, ladies. See you later."
She opened the door and drew up in surprise, startled to find Cullen just on the other side of it, his fist raised to knock.
"Inquisitor!" he said. "What timing. Your presence is sorely missed upstairs. Will you come dance with me?"
He smiled at her expectantly, and Anya felt her stomach lurch. How could she do this to herself? How could she allow herself to nurse feelings for a man who thought her to be no better than an animal, or worse, a demon? And of course, he had the nerve to look so handsome, and like he very much wanted her company. But now Anya knew better. She sneered.
"No, I don't care to dance. Excuse me."
She pushed past him, ignoring him when he called her back. She knew she ought to attend to their guests, but she wasn't capable of checking her emotions at the moment. She veered left, weaving through the crowded kitchen, and escaped into the blessedly cool air of the lower courtyard. As the tears began to slip down her cheeks, she dashed across the yard and up the steps to the battlements.
…
Cullen felt as if he'd just been slapped.
Anya had never treated him so coldly, not even when she was furious with him for challenging her decisions. He couldn't imagine what he'd done to offend her, when she'd seemed perfectly happy to see him at the start of the ball. Perhaps he'd waited too long to ask her to dance?
His face flushed as he glanced at Hawke and Sera. The elf took a pull straight from the liquor bottle and made an exaggerated show of looking everywhere except at Cullen, while Hawke had a distinctly guilty expression on her face.
"What?" he snarled.
"So, Cullen. Curly. Curly-wurly."
"What?"
Hawke took in a deep breath and then exhaled noisily. "Through no fault of my own, I may have accidentally led the Inquisitor to believe that you hold mages in extreme prejudice, which is actually the exact opposite of the point I was making, but between you and me, I believe she's a bit sauced and not thinking clearly."
"And whose fault is that?" Cullen asked, looking pointedly at the half-empty bottle in Sera's hand.
"I'm sure there's blame to go around," Hawke shrugged. "But you'd better go after her."
"What did you say to her?" he asked.
"Itoldheryouoncesaidmagesaren'tpeople." She mumbled it all in a rush, so Cullen had listen carefully to parse it out. A sick feeling came over him when the full import of her words hit him.
"I never said that!"
"Well, actually you did," Hawke replied, "or something very nearly like it. But I know you didn't mean it! I also told her it was ages ago and she shouldn't get balled up about it but…" Hawke widened her eyes and held up one hand, extending her thumb and her little finger, and then tipped it towards her mouth a few times.
"Maker's breath, Hawke! Why would you say something like that to her?"
"She was having a bit of a brag," Sera said, and Hawke scowled at her.
"I thought she'd find it funny that you didn't know I was a mage for a while," the Champion explained. "I mean, I'd already told her you've got a stiff one for magic, especially hers, so it's not like that was the main thrust of my message."
"Huh-huh, thrust," Sera chuckled.
"You two are idiots," Cullen growled. "Thanks a lot, Hawke."
He turned on his heel, stomping through the kitchen and out into the courtyard, squinting in the darkness for any sign of his Harold.
"What a fucking night," he muttered.
At least all of the trying conversations throughout the evening had imparted upon him a certain amount of clarity. If he could just find Anya, and get her to talk to him, he knew exactly how to make things right.