There was a Very Handsome Man speaking to her, and she was not handling it well.
Another Very Handsome Man had also recently spoken to her, and it was all a little too much to handle when she didn't think a handsome man would ever deign to talk to her in her life, let alone two in one day. The Chantry hadn't been bursting with men to begin with, and even when she'd been poached for the Templars, most of the menfolk had been homely, related to her, or both. Everyone spit where they walked, no one washed their balls, and it was almost enough to make her long for Chantry robes if only because novitiates knew what soap was.
So, save for the commander who spoke to her with a calm reverence she felt she didn't deserve, (especially when the general notion about town was that she might still be executed. Or maybe that was just her notion. Certainly the Nightingale's general disposition didn't put one's fears to bed.) this very nice man with his very nice jaw line was the first to ever give her the time of day. He was talking about some mercenaries, or an unruly cow perhaps, and it was dreadfully hard to pay attention when she was sure her mouth was flapping aimlessly about on her face.
"Why not speak to the Lady Pentaghast about this?" she said, her mind helpfully falling back on redirection.
"It's your opinion we care about," he replied, and oh Maker had he said his name already? She didn't remember, only hearing a call of Herald! behind her and then her heart jittering out the sporadic rhythm that only comes after three days without sleep.
"Right. Of course." Why did everyone want her opinions of everything? Didn't they know she was going to be branded a heretic any day now? "In that case, I'd like to meet you. Him! Your band. You might er…still want to talk to Lady Pentaghast, I don't actually know how to set that up."
"Thank you Your Worship," he said, and offered a small bow. Not even a bow, but a nod of the head, respectful and polite that was so mundane compared to the flamboyant prostrations of the Order. Was that a mercenary custom? It had to be, the graciousness with which he addressed her certainly not something she'd earned.
Something tumbled out of her mouth that was meant to be, no trouble at all, but ended up such a nothing-thing I shan't even repeat it here.
Trevelyan watched the mercenary depart further into camp, too sword-stunned and sleep-drained to realize she was gawking openly in the middle of the training yard. The Grey Warden chuckled. The sound was enough to shake her awake, but looking up she saw that he was still tending to his horse, oblivious of her multitude of blunders as he combed its thick mane.
Well. She really was imagining everyone laughing at her then. It took her several minutes to dislodge herself from where her boots had frozen into the mud.
His name was Krem and she was going to speak to him.
Today. For certain this time. He and the Bull (and the Bull's Chargers) and done good work for the Inquisition, and they'd gotten so popular so fast she'd never worked up the nerve to have a proper conversation with the one she was so obviously keen on. It felt like she didn't have the right to, when she was so plain and never had anything to say that was worth anybody's time.
But now! Now she was Inquisitor, and that had to mean something, didn't it? A title everyone seemed to agree on, with cheering even, and if that didn't give her the confidence to beg Krem's attention for a moment, nothing would.
She even had a topic picked out ahead of time. The Chargers had been instrumental in the capture of Arl Wulff, and she was sure she could milk that for at least six minutes of conversation.
"Hello Lieutenant Aclassi," she practically raved. Great. Good start.
"Hello Inquisitor," he greeted. He wasn't the smiling sort, but the lilt in his voice was equally chipper. "Congratulations on the coronation. First of your name in nearly eight hundred years, hope it's not too much pressure."
Ah! A break in script! Positively wonderful!
She smiled too tightly with a bit too much teeth. "Well, you know me. Easygoing by nature. A little fate of the continent won't phase me."
"I don't know you all that much actually," he admitted. He motioned his head to the back of the tavern. "You should swing by the Rest more often, the boys would love to meet you some time. Learn a bit more about our illustrious leader."
"Oh, there's not much to learn," she said. Trying to make her life sound passably listenable was not a task she was up for at the moment, plans already thrown so wildly off kilter. "Being in the Chantry tends to bleed all the interesting out of you."
"The Chantry?" He quirked a brow. "Didn't know that. Were you a Templar?"
"Yes. No. Sort of." She scratched the back of her neck. "A recruit, but I never ended up taking any vows, not before er…" The non-scratching hand motioned vaguely to the south, where the Breach still sat beyond the wooden crossbeams.
"That's quite a turn." He sounded…impressed? No, that wasn't the right word. Intrigued maybe?
"Yup." Well. Now this is why we stick to the plan. Trevelyan stood there, realizing how awkward it was to be right in front of him while he was on a chair and she was just sort of looming, and struggled on how to keep feeding that particular topic. She blurted, "you've probably got a much better tale than me. All the way from Tevinter, eh?"
The corner of his mouth curled down as he took a swig of whiskey. "Yeah. Deserted. Wound up with the Chargers."
Okay, bad topic, but that was alright since she'd just found the opening she needed. "Speaking of the Chargers! I've been meaning to ask, how did Redcliffe go?"
And there, that was something he was plenty happy to talk about, and she was plenty happy to listen. It was nice to have some social interaction where she could just absorb instead of figure out what to say every eight to fifteen seconds.
So focused on watching him talk, in reveling in conversation, she forgot to actually, well…concentrate on what he was saying. It just began to melt away into seeing his mouth move and his eyebrows waggle, charting every quirk of movement to memory. In fact, so focused was she, she began to notice he wasn't fully concentrating either.
As his attention dripped away, tone fading into the structured monotony of a report, his eyes kept drifting to elsewhere in the tavern. It took a few incidents of this to realize he was looking somewhere in particular, and she sneaked a glance over her shoulder to see-
Oh. The bard.
She was crooning gently at the moment, saying how she was the only one to recount what we'd lost or some other such rubbish, and Trevelyan felt her heart sink. Of course the bard, how could anyone not look at her, with her star-stain of freckles and those big pouting lips. Of course.
This whole thing had been…silly. She listened to the rest of Krem's account, but though she still loved hearing him speak, her hear just wasn't in it. She felt the fool, and when he was done, she slinked out the door with barely a word of goodbye, and deaf to the grunt of confusion behind her.
That should have been the end of it. She should have put on her big girl boots and bucked up, her mother's words ghostly like a gentle punch under the chin. But despite demons and Venatori and druffalo that would run her over if she wasn't paying attention, she could never put it from her mind entirely, and she gave up on distractions.
She was still, painfully, smitten. It had taken quite a while to work up the nerve to talk to Krem again, but as long as the Chargers had done something of note recently, she could usually find an excuse. He talked about Tevinter and she didn't talk about her family, and it was almost enough to accept they could have a pleasant if professional relationship.
But then! He went along and told her that story about the shaving and the mirror, and it was all just so damned sad she started getting misty eyed in the middle of the bloody tavern and had to excuse herself. Krem was sad too, and now she was an arse who'd made him bring it up, and she figured well now she had to make it up to him somehow.
Flowers, that was it. Flowers always made her feel better. When she was mood, Sister Loretta had left her fresh flowers near her robes, ones that made her shift smell nice even on days when she couldn't get a washing in. Once, she'd even taken Trevelyan down to the Chantry garden and shown her how to braid marigold stems together, winding them though each other's plaits and in the hair of the less stuffy novitiates. Flowers could make anything less sad. When father had passed, the only thing bearable about going to sleep was the scent of dogwood as she pressed her face into her pillow, dried petals crumbling between her fingers as she hugged tight.
There was one man in all of Skyhold who could somehow acquire flowers on this blighted mountain, and after a bit of stalking (a bit) and a bit of begging (a bit), she had wrangled herself a guide to leader her down an unused Frostback path.
"So," she said as she kicked aside a bit of ice that turned out to be a very unforgiving rock. "Who- ow- who are these flowers for actually?"
Blackwall turned and watched her hobble after him. "I could ask you the same question. Damn near twisted my arm off, I should at least get to hear who all the fuss is about."
She worried her lip. In all honesty, she was having second thoughts about the whole flower business. What if he thought the gift too feminine? She didn't exactly "get" everything he'd told her, but she understood enough to see where he might take offense. She was being stupid, she should just take her very frozen feet and march right back up this hill.
"I asked you first!" she weaseled.
Blackwall chuckled, and kept walking without retort.
The game trail twisted and turned and split in several places, but Blackwall picked his way well, obviously familiar with their passage. They turned the curl of the mountain and all at once the landscape changed: the vertical plane of smooth white sheets had given way to a more gradual incline, the snowline ending in patches of brown earth. Everywhere that light reached dirt, blooms of crocuses pushed their way through the grass, a splash of new growth against the mountains' conformity.
"Wow," she said, breath hanging in the air. "There's…so many. I've never seen so…And you were going to hog all these to yourself!"
"I wasn't hogging," he said. He knelt, and placed his basket down beside them. "I just didn't want to be responsible for you twisting and ankle on the way down."
"I already twisted my ankle the last time we went to the Fallow Mire," she pointed out.
"Aye, but no one was going two blame me for that."
She laughed, then sat, ground cold as the grave but at least it wouldn't leave her trousers wet. She hadn't brought a basket herself, but the flowers were small, and she fit each one into her palm with delicacy until she had two fistfuls.
"They're beautiful," she sighed. Then, as if it was merely a passing thought, added, "I bet she'll love them."
"I'm sure she will," Blackwall hummed.
"Aha!" Trevelyan declared, jumping (well, tottering) to her feet. "It is a she then. Who is it Blackwall? There's only so many ladies in Skyhold."
Blackwall looked at her with passing amusement. "I didn't realize this had become an investigation. Or an inquisition, as it were."
"Not Madame de Fer, you two can't stand each other." She began to pace, trying to dramatically scratch her chin only to get a face full of purple and white. "Pah- fuff. You wouldn't go chasing Sera, and you respect Lady Pentaghast and Sister Nightingale too much to pursue them…"
"Are you implying I only court women I don't respect?" He raised an eyebrow. "I take offense to that."
"So!" She pointed an accusing finger. "That leaves one person. You're sweet on the Ambassador!"
He rolled his eyes, and stood with basket in hand. "Congratulations Inquisitor, these are indeed for Lady Montilyet. Now, shall we be going before they all wilt?"
She was practically bouncing. "This is just too adorable! The wayward Warden and the charming Antivan…ah! It's like something from the stories." She sidled up close to the warrior's side. "How long have you been sending them? Does she know it's you?"
The twinkle of amusement in Blackwall's eye dulled somewhat. "No, she doesn't."
"Oh, don't worry," she soothed. "You'll work up the nerve eventually. I know, why don't you slip a little token of your affection into the next bouquet? Just something to give her a hint. We've all got to start somewhere."
This was met with a deep sigh, and he turned to face her full. "Inquisitor, she does not know I'm her admirer, and I'd like to keep it that way."
All the buzzy, happy feelings exited the little valley immediately. "What?" Trevelyan gaped. "Why not?"
"Lady Montilyet…has a life, Inquisitor." He sighed, and stared down at her slowly despairing face. "When this is over, I'll be back on the road, and she will either stay here or return to her family. She doesn't need someone like me wearing her down."
"B-but…" That wasn't fair! All that hope suddenly dashed? "So you're never going to tell her your true feelings?"
"I am, in my own way."
Her eyes were getting misty again. "You're just going to keep sending her flowers, pining forever and never get to be with her because she's so much better than you?"
His brow furrowed. "A rather insulting way to put it, but that is the idea."
"That's so…" Her nose was starting to plug up. "That's so….sad!" The last word became a wail, and she fell backwards into the snow, covering up her now sobbing face. "It's so unfaaairrrrr…you should be together and get to hold hands and go on nice walks and *hic* and each cherry pie in the garden and just be happpyyyy…"
There was the distinctive sound of someone crouching by her in the snow. "…Why do I get the feeling this isn't about me and Josephine?"
She peeked an eye out from between her arms. "…Maybe," she sniffled. "But it's still sad."
Blackwall sat beside her, his basket nestling into the snow like it was made to be there, cradled in the damp white. He kindly jostled her elbow. "Come on now, what is it? Boy trouble?"
It took a few moments for her sniffling to die down, but eventually she got a hold of her hiccupping to abashedly admit, "…Krem."
Blackwall blinked. "That one of Bull's men?"
She nodded, the motion grinding wet snow into the back of her head.
"Well what's the problem?"
"He's just so…strong. All handsome and brave and polite, like all knightly except I've known a lot of knights and none of them were like him." It all came out in a rush, and she let her arms flop to her sides. The crocuses were now a withered mess. "And I'm…well, I feel like we talk about things, but never as much as I want to, and I don't know what to say to make him think of me the way I think of him. I don't think I'll ever be good enough for him."
"Did he say something to make you think that?" Blackwall probed.
"No!" Trevelyan sat straight up. "No, he would never. It's just…I know he's a bit beyond me." A bit. Now that was understating things.
"Trevelyan, you're the bloody Inquisitor." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Half the castle thinks you're literally divine, and the other half would follow you to the black city itself. Scout Harding can't even talk to you without stammering."
She frowned. "Yeah…but I fell that they'd think that regardless of who I am, you know? It's not me they like, just a bunch of things they think I've done." She kicked a mound of snow. So much for keeping her trousers dry. "And…that's not the only thing. There's this…girl. One he's got eyes for."
He hummed something in understanding. "I see."
"She's just so…perfect! She's good in the face and despite it all she can sing, she's got this far off look when you ask her about her music, and to top it all off her tits are all small and cute."
Blackwall drew his head back. "…I hear that last one right?
"Cute tits, Blackwall! Cute tits!" She threw here hands up in the air. "All the comely girls have them, all perky and out of the way. I mean, Lady Josephine's are nice, aren't they? Fill her corset but not too much, so that means they're just the right size, right?"
"If this was some elaborate ploy got get me to comment on our dear Ambassador's bosom, it won't work."
"Some help you are," Trevelyan said with disgust. "No one wants wants a portly little former-sister. I just…wish I could be like that. Sweet. Perfect. All dark eyes and freckled skin."
"I don't know if Krem's got eyes for her, but I'm starting to think you might," Blackwall joked. He stood and offered her his hand. "Come on, broken ankle's nothing to freezing your breeches off."
She still felt like rolling in the snow and crying big sobby tears, but she knew he was right.
As he helper up, he said, "I think you're cutting your own reins before you've even started the race. Why don't you talk to him, actually, about how you feel? Chargers will be heading with us to Crestwood in a fortnight, might be your chance."
She dusted snow off her backside, and scoffed, "talk to him about how you feel. Bah. Your hypocrisy runs deep, my friend."
Blackwall's grin seemed to freeze on his face, much like the mountainside around them. "Why don't we just get back to Skyhold, alright?"
She did not talk to Krem in Crestwood. However, she did get spectacularly drunk.
The village wanted to thank the Inquisition for dealing with the undead, and as with most paltry little towns sitting in forgotten corners of Fereldan, gifts of thanks took the form of non-stop feasting. There was a slaughtered hog roasting over a bonfire, squash and cucumbers pulled in early from harvest, and enough barley beer to flood the Skyhold cellars. Everyone was full on food and drink, and the villagers all had something to say to her, pressing small gifts into her palms before running off into the laughing night.
It wasn't common for Trevelyan to celebrate…well, ever. Not since her family had sent her away. Not when it felt the world was still hanging on the edge, and indulging even the smallest of diversions left her guard down. But, one mug to steel her nerves had turned into two to give her confidence, and soon she had drunk until she was red in the face, and danced until she was sweaty in the face too, laughing as she forgot everything except that she was with people who wanted her here.
The Chargers were more experienced in celebration. Those who had come to represent the Inquisition provided targets for grateful handshakes, but most hung near the beer casks or slipped back to Caer Bronach as the hot summer night grew nearly unbearable with so much fire and so many bodies. But the Chargers…the Chargers knew how to party. Dalish convinced Trevelyan to forgo her shoes and Trevelyan convinced Dalish to weave crowns of flowers in her hair, and soon the two of them spread their new lessons to the rest of the village. Trevelyan couldn't remember being lighter.
A wheezy little band comprised of a fiddle and two washboards struck up a tune, and it was no bard's song but it may have been the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard. Bull tried to teach her how to dance, but the beat was far too fast for his waltz and his student far too giggly. When they gave up, he twirled her, actually spun around like all those princesses in stories, and she couldn't stop laughing the whole time.
The night was a blur of color, fiddle music, and fire, and when Krem approached the two of them, Bull greeted him with a, "here, take this."
It took Krem saying, "Chief I don't- oof," for Trevelyan to realize 'this' was her. She didn't much care. She hadn't been on her own two feet for a solid minute, and would probably fall over if she started now.
"Let her sleep it off at the mayor's house," Bull said. "He's not using it anymore."
"And why can't you?" Krem griped. "She's your boss."
Bull jerked a thumb over his shoulder at one of the washboard players.
Trevelyan had a nice view of Krem's profile as he frowned. "Right. Redhead."
"Thanks for understanding," Bull said, and slapped Krem on the back, staggering them both. Trevelyan barely noticed, and merely wound her arms around the new neck that had appeared in front of her.
So began the slow drudge to the mayor's house, Trevelyan still humming the band's tune as the heat receded behind them, tossing the shapes of rabbits into thesky. It was then she looked down and realized she was wearing a dress.
"When did I put this on?" she asked. It was white and mostly plain, but it was plenty long as though made for someone a much taller than her. The fiber was thick and itchy, mostly likely spun from the goats she'd seen grazing in the hills, and had a cute version of a deepstalker stitched into the corner. How one could make a deepstalker cute she'd never before conceptualized, but the embroiderer had managed. "I mean, I remember being gifted it—one of those grandmothers gave it when we first got here—but I thought to put it away to bring back home."
Krem shrugged, one she felt it with her whole body by the way he was carrying her. "Dunno. You and Dalish went off somewhere, and you came back wearing…" He cleared his throat suddenly. "…That."
"Oh," she mused. "I really have lost my marbles then."
"If this is you gone crazy," he replied, "I don't mind it. I don't think I've ever seen you this happy."
"I know!" She grinned as wide as she could, even with the thrum in her veins sending her eyelids down. "I can't even remember what I was so sad about!"
Krem hummed in response, but she wasn't about let him go that easy.
"And you're one to talk." She pressed a solid finger into the center of his armor. "I've never seen you happy. Even now. You know-" she said, suddenly remember the morning in the mountains surrounded by purple, "I was even going to bring you some flowers, because I thought you needed some cheering up."
"You…were going to bring me flowers?" She was far too drunk to read the note in his voice, but a more sober Trevelyan might have noted a hint of shyness.
"Mmm hmm," she nodded. "But then I worried you wouldn't like them. Can you imagine that? I can't even remember what being worried is like anymore!" She kicked out her foot, and would have sent one of her shoes sailing if she had been wearing them, and if it had been one of those slippers Leliana liked so instead of her sturdy boots. Speaking of that, she was going to have to find those eventually. And her clothes. Ah, oh well, problem for tomorrow Trevelyan.
A few minutes of silence passed as the mayor's house appeared up the road, set near the top of the hill with a view of the revels below. Krem carried her through the door, and helped her on to the simple bed, which suddenly looked to be about the most cozy thing in the world. She wanted nothing more than to bury her face in the singular pillow, and as she was doing just that, Krem said, "I wouldn't have minded."
"Hm?" she asked, smile mellowed and eyes only half open.
"Flowers, I would have liked them." He scratched the back of his neck. "If they came from you."
"Oh." She thought for a moment, then motioned, "come here."
He set his mouth in confusion, but came closer, kneeling beside the bed. She reached up and picked one of the less ruffled flowers from her crown, a daisy with its petals grown long, and tucked it carefully behind his ear. There was a splash of color in the house that may have been the bonfire reflecting through melting glass, or the reddening of Krem's ears.
"Hey look," she said. "Now we match."
He coughed into his fist. "Thank you Inquisitor."
He might have said something after that, but Trevelyan was just so tired, it all went into a blur, edges fuzzy like smoke clouds. The last thing she remembered was the smell of flowers in her pillow, and someone gently patting the top of her head.