Notes: I have finally finished Trespasser after replaying DA:I and couldn't wait to get this story going. In my mind, this is going to be a series of stories - past and present - between Lavellan, Solas, and the Inquisition before and after Corypheus. We'll see where this takes us.
NB: Just to clarify, between Chapter One and the first segment of Two is a series of dream sequences. Each short paragraph are different explorations of the same dream.
I decided against Skyhold and opted for the Seeker's old headquarters instead. It seems there's not that many around, and with Cassandra as Divine (my iteration), it made sense for the smaller Inquisition to hole up here.
I would treasure any insights you have regarding the story thus far. o(≧▽≦)o
- Dagny
Lavellan opened her eyes and adjusted to the twilight. Teetering on the cusp between dreams and waking, she could still hear the pitter-patter of rain; smell the heady aroma of wet earth. She clenched her hand. Instead of brittle leaves and soil, she felt crisp Orlesian sheets snake between the gaps of her fingers. As the details of last night began to dissipate, she clung to the image of the lone black wolf that frequented her dreams, but couldn't—all that remained was an impression, an indistinguishable mesh of shapes, fur, and eyes against a wash of verdant greens.
Tonight, she visited the Emerald Graves. She hiked through Briathos' Steps and bathed in the icy waters of Silver Falls. In the skies above the forest, she saw a Greater Mistral buffet the treetops with languid strokes of its wings, a hail of pine leaves bursting from the canopy as he flew. During the day, she drank halla milk and swapped stories with nameless Dalish elves. At night, she nested beneath the outstretched arms of Mythal, her battered statue smooth with age. As she rested, she fancied she could hear the rhythmic footfall of soldiers. And when she awoke, the Dread Wolf was there, watching with unsettled eyes and wordless approval. Until he wasn't.
As she eased off the bed, the memory of her gentle cries ebbed into silence. She chased. He ran. It was a game of cat and mouse she never won.
Evelyn poured a mug of water from her serving bowl and drank deep. Since she last saw Solas, dreams came as easily to her as breathing. No longer did she skulk through darkness and wade unwittingly through fragmented scenes, or stumble through barren landscapes pieced together by faulty memory. In the long months since the Crossroads, when she slept, the Inquisitor feasted on Bogfisher with the Avvar, scaled the rugged hilltops of the Frostbacks, and bartered with craftsmen in Orzammar. No matter where she was, however, Fen'harel always found her.
She glanced out of the window of her modest accommodation in Val Royeaux. While her room in the Seekers of Truth's headquarters was a far cry from the luxuries afforded at Skyhold, it was comfortable, warm, and kept out the damp. Considering the precarious position of the Inquisition, she could hardly protest the lifestyle she submitted to. Until Haven was fully rebuilt, this was the safest course of action.
Evelyn eased into her official garb, shrugging the material over her missing arm. The fabric dangled uselessly by her side. She pretended not to notice—pretended not to feel the nebulous pulse of the Anchor shoot up her phantom limb—and walked into the corridor, heading for the dining hall. It was still early morning, and the hall would be empty. There would be no cooks darting in and out of the kitchen, no serving girls pouring ladles of heated gruel onto the plates of those who served the Inquisition, or the handful of Seekers that remained here. But Evelyn needed space to walk—space her bedroom didn't have.
The chamber, as she expected, was devoid of company. The tall pillars that held up the fortress' vaulted ceilings were lit by the soft embers of a few iron braziers. The light cast long shadows and shaded quiet alcoves in a blanket of night. A handful of religious portraits glimmered on the walls.
Seated on a long dining bench at the far side of the room, was Cullen. Though his back was turned to her, Evelyn recognized his golden curls and the heavy fur coat thrown across his shoulders—perfect for the frozen wastes of the Frostbacks, but for the temperate climate of Val Royeaux? A slight overkill, even in winter.
"Cullen?"
She hadn't meant to startle him, but she had. With a rustle of papers and breathless apologies, Cullen rumbled to his feet to greet her. He held his hands conspicuously behind him, like a choirboy caught with dirty Chantry limericks.
"Inquisitor," he began, caught between a bow and a nod. She settled him with a wave.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important." Evelyn gestured to his hidden papers.
"Oh, I—these? Just the usual, Inquisitor." He licked his lips and flapped the handful of parchments in her direction before flicking through them mindlessly. "A few reports from Qunari attacks on the Imperium from Lelianna; a notice regarding the changing of the guard for the Divine; the usual complaints from the Ferelden court regarding our budding present in Orlais; an update on construction at Haven." He trailed off. Even in the gloom, the rosy blush of his cheeks was visible.
"I didn't think an angry message from Arl Teagan would get you so flustered."
Cullen laughed amicably and bowed his head.
"I also received a letter from Mia. It seems my younger sister is with child." Cullen tried—and failed—to suppress a proud smile. Evelyn allowed herself to be swept away by his enthusiasm.
"Da'len?" A little one. "That's incredible news, Cullen. Congratulations to you and your family."
In a flit of emotion, she reached out and embraced him. Cullen, to her surprise, returned the hug. Evelyn felt his papers fold into the small of her back with a crackle.
The Commander smelt familiar, comforting—like worn leather, cinnamon, and flowering dragonthorn. He held her close, only releasing his hold when she relinquished hers. She didn't leave him entirely, however, and glanced up at him at arm's length. She passed over his strong jawline, the faded cut above his lip; the warm honeysuckle eyes that bore into hers. Their intensity startled her, and with a polite chuckle, she moved away.
"I suppose you'll be taking leave soon?"
Cullen scoffed, but considered her words with a careful nod. "Soon, perhaps. Early days, yet." An anxious pause wedged itself between them as Cullen glanced down at his papers again. The parchment rasped between his fingers.
"If you're not busy—not that you're ever not busy—but if you're free, you should come with me to visit them. I know my family would love to meet you." He laughed nervously and wrung a hand across his neck. "It may not be the forests of Wycome, but it's close to where you grew up. Perhaps we could pay your homeland a visit, too?"
Lavellan nodded when words eluded her. "I would li—love that, Cullen," she uttered in a breath, still reeling from shock, surprised he even recalled what she told him about her family. "Thank you."
She remembers his hand around her arm. She remembers how tightly he held it.
"At Haven… after the avalanche. I thought I lost you."
Evelyn chased away the memory with a shake of her head. The pink and purple sky glowed bright behind the stained glass windows. Beyond the high walls of the Inquisition's fortress, Val Royeux slowly lurched into life.
"Are you hungry," Cullen asked, pointing in the direction of the door. "I'm not a big lover of Orlesian food, but there's an excellent bakery I know down the road."
Evelyn said nothing. The two walked into the stirring streets of the capital together, their heads bowed as they talked, laughed, and whispered secretive things into each other's chests.
That night, Evelyn dreamed of home. She dreamt of the Free Marches, of things that never were. Of things that never could be.