Author's Notes:
Phew. It's done. After all these years. Bittersweet, and sad I didn't finish it in time for my old reviewers, but I'm glad. I haven't ACTUALLY finished Dragon Age Inquisition, I realized. I still have to play Trespasser (something I am remedying now) so I am sorry if some of the details don't align with the Qunari/Solas story-line. Hopefully, once I've finished with the game, I will pick up the sequel, ensuring what happens in the year aligns better with the Trespasser timeline.
Big shout out to Keliandra, who has stuck by me after all this time 3.
Cullen didn't make for the castle immediately. He paced down the baileys, gesturing good mornings with curt nods and breathless greetings to the men and women who manned Skyhold's walls. On occasion, he stopped to chat, rolling through pleasantries with practiced ease.
The day was crisp and cold, but clear. Over the parapets, the cragged mass of the Frostbacks pierced through wispy clouds, their snow-tipped peaks flecked with slate and stone. Cullen admired them in silence, furs drawn close to his neck to keep out the draft.
Below, Skyhold heaved into life as merchants set up shop and guards took to marching. Horse Master Dennet tended to the Inquisitor's collection of Harts, his daughter chatting excitedly by his side. Towards the barracks, Iron Bull ambled across the courtyard. Judging by his loose gait and the entourage of snickering Chargers, Cullen gathered the Qunari was off to bed after a long night. Despite these early signs of movement, the bulk of Skyhold's residents would still be sleeping soundly in their rooms and makeshift tents. The same would be for Alistair and Eleni, no doubt — if they were still here at all.
With that in mind, Cullen made a beeline for the kitchens, hoping to pinch some freshly baked goods from the scullery maids of Skyhold.
As he crept through the keep's underground network of dingy paths (a bid to avoid any unforeseeable interruptions) high pitched pearls of laughter echoed through the vaults, long before the kitchen came into view. The room's heavy oak door was shut, but the Commander could distinguish the dull timbre of conversation; the unrestrained cackle of women as they tittered among themselves.
Cullen opened the door.
Elma, the cook, and her two assistants, Letta and Ariya, were huddled together beside the long preparation table. In front of them, wielding a fresh baguette in his outstretched arm, was Alistair. The girls hadn't even acknowledged his arrival.
Ariya's airy Dalish laugh was sweet and coy. "Is that really what happened, Alistair?" she said, her wonder plain to see. Her delicate hands wrung an old cleaning cloth round a grey, clay mug in useless, inattentive circles.
Alistair stabbed the air with his baguette, his teeth bared in a constant smile.
"Just so, Ariya. It was quite a battle."
Elma clicked her tongue and elbowed Ariya, glowering at the young elf.
"'Where's yer manner, g'erl? He's a knight, address 'im proper," she admonished. The old matron's peppered hair was a mess of curls under her ratty head scarf. Though her graveled voice was tinged with displeasure, the woman's wizened face couldn't erase the joy that roosted there.
"Please," Alistair interceded, placing his loaf on the wide iron baking tray in Letta's outstretched arms. "Alistair's fine."
They tittered nervously, like a couple of Chantry girls at an army parade.
By the door, Cullen cleared his throat.
The room exploded into movement and sound. The girls scrambled from their comfortable positions, knocking heads, arms, elbows, feet as they tried to employ some semblance of decorum. Elma bowed her head; Letta gave a lopsided curtsy. The baked snacks on her tray slipped precariously down one side.
"Ah, Commander Cullen," Alistair beamed, his beard littered with crumbs. "I'm glad to see you. Maker knows how you find anyone in this bloody place." He eyed the ceiling and walls in equal parts amazement and annoyance.
"Forgive me for the intrusion," Cullen answered, his eyes drifting to the egg tarts, bagels, and tarts that lined the table behind them. Alistair gave a knowing look and reached for Letta's tray, plucking a still-hot muffin from her loot.
"Let's take a walk."
"A Knight, huh?" Cullen chuckled.
The King and Commander were back on the baileys.
Alistair leaned over the parapets and gave a wheeze of discomfort as he stared down the steep, endless abyss of Skyhold's rocky enclave. Cullen watched him sympathetically.
"Don't look down," he offered.
"Andraste's buck teeth, this is high." Alistair took his advice and peered into the infinite mountain range. After a moment, his expression softened.
"Doesn't matter, does it? What I call myself. If they don't know who I am, at least I can have some fun with it." His hand gave an elaborate flurry, his face pulled into a sycophantic simper. "None of that my liege, m'lord, rubbish."
There was a brief pause. Alistair broke it with a low chuckle, looking at his folded hands as if they just shared a good joke. "Eleni calls me that, you know, when she's losing an argument, or wants me to feel bad."
Cullen sighed, pleased Alistair paved a way to broach the subject. He meandered closer to the wall, leaning where the stone was highest.
"Is she still here?"
"Eleni?" Alistair glanced up at him and scoffed. "Oh yes, she is. I made sure of it." Cullen didn't understand what he meant, but as he observed the Warden, he noticed his wan complexion; the angry red capillaries that intensified the white of his eyes. Alistair hadn't slept at all.
"I didn't chain her to the bed," he offered. "Which reminds me: I'm sorry we stole Lady Inquisitor's bedroom. We, erm, didn't know where else to go."
"Please, Lucretia and I are happy you could stay and rest. Yesterday was… something else." He cleared his throat and fought against the sudden flush that crept onto his cheeks. "We had other matters to attend to in the meantime."
Alistair's smile did not betray much, nevertheless, Cullen heart still stammered in his chest.
By the Maker… he doesn't… does he?
As Cullen's thoughts got the better of him, Alistair straightened and turned to face him. His eyes were tired, serious, and betrayed a keen awareness Alistair seldom utilized in normal conversation.
"I want to put that behind us now. If Eleni's here, I need to find a way to keep her without jeopardizing our mission." He began to pace. Cullen took after him, close enough to hear his monologue.
"I'm going on the road with her. At least for a little while."
Cullen nodded wordlessly, last night's concerns pulled, in a painful knot of anxiety and uncertainty, into the present.
"I can't be gone long. The situation is still precarious, and with Anora fighting for sole ownership of the crown, I will need to make sure the people I leave behind have the experience and know-how to… manage a woman of her caliber."
"My Lor—Alistair, if you're asking what I think," Cullen began.
Alistair stopped and waited for Cullen to catch up. His face was appreciative. Kind.
"It's a lot to ask, and if there were any better suited to the role, I would ask them instead. But it is my belief, mine and Eleni's, that our journey will only be possible with you in Denerin."
"That's very kind of you to say, but, I am with the Inquisition. And more importantly, I need to be with the Inquisitor. Where she goes, I go."
Alistair clapped him on his shoulder and graced Cullen with a brilliant smile. For an instant, Cullen understood how the scullery girls felt.
"Maker's Breath, do you think I'd offer this opportunity without accepting that the Inquisitor would come and rule, too? Eleni would see me hung from the castle ramparts by my testicles before she'd let this come between the two of you." He lowered his voice and grew serious. "Consider it, and let me know."
"I will… consult Lucretia and give you my answer, your grace."
"Good man. Now, I am going to trouble Madam Elma for a handful of egg tarts; see if I can wake my love with a good breakfast."
Cullen gave a low bow as Alistair turned to leave. Cullen headed in the opposite direction, back to his offices. From the other side of the baileys, Alistair called his name.
"By the way, Cullen..." As the Commander watched him quizzically, he thought better of it and waved a hand in apology. "Never mind."
Ah, he'll see it later.
Outside the iron wrought gates of Skyhold, a small, makeshift pole poked crookedly out of the dirty path. Across the white breeches, in a scrawl of red paint, the words "Cullen's Cockholder" were scribbled.
