TRIGGER WARNING! Foul language, racist and homophobic name-calling, and implied substance abuse.
Cullen squinted hard. The sunlight was piercing, blinding enough to give him a mild migraine.
He had concluded a long time ago that the sun at this altitude was more ruthless than the sun in the lowlands. Though logically he knew they were one and the same, the sun above the mountains was somehow able to barge into one's mind as nothing else could.
Each throb of the headache was reminiscent of radiating waves he would see after he skipped a stone. A rock disturbing the even surface as it skimmed across a pond. He growled and rolled over to the other side, trying to shield his face underneath an extra cushion.
Shrewd that he was, however, the man was aware of the unavoidable truth that he was not getting any more sleep. Frustrated, he moaned loudly and chucked the cushion. It landed on the sofa by the stairs, on top of the covers the Inquisitor had been sleeping in.
It was fortunate that Tharin wasn't under them, not least because Cullen had no way of contextualizing the surprise assault by the pillow without opening his mouth. The talking would inevitably lead to a heart-to-heart discussion of what had transpired between them the day before. Avoidance, while he understood to be neither healthy nor productive, was his friend.
Lying on his back now, he brought his arms up and folded the hands behind his head. When he sighed and shifted, he felt his left elbow touching something coarse.
There was a note next to the pillow. He saw the impeccable penmanship and recognized right away it was Tharin's. He hastily picked it up and started reading.
Cullen,
My uncle in Ostwick is on his deathbed, and I've decided to go see him one last time. I am leaving without saying farewell because it scares me too much to find out how disappointed you might be of me.
Yesterday I was unnecessarily harsh. I think telling me not to go ahead with the arranged marriage was your way of showing that you care about my happiness, so I should have been grateful, not irate. You are a good friend.
I end up hurting you over and over again, but I do hope you will forgive me. I would be eternally grateful if you do, but the choice is yours.
Anyway, I expect you to get well and be out of my bed by the time I come back. Listen to the healers, and don't go tiring yourself out too soon though. All right?
Take care and see you soon.
Yours, Tharin
His heart was suddenly gripped by the solitudinous bareness of the vast chamber. The false sense of security provided by active avoidance vanished, and the loneliness that normally comforted him with its unwavering certainty now surged to an overpowering crescendo. He felt goosebumps as the alpine draft blew in from the open balcony doors and through the thin fabric of the borrowed shirt.
Cullen bemoaned his frailty. Instead of apologizing to Tharin for his rash words, he pretended to be asleep when the man returned with a supper tray last evening. The dishes sat on the floor by the half-empty mug, food for two resting on them cold and untouched.
In hindsight, it would have been easier to make up than to cloak himself in an ersatz slumber for hours, but he made his choice. As usual, he was cursed to make the wrong choice repeatedly, over and over.
When he tossed his arms on the sheets, his right elbow landed on a wet patch. He realized that having slept on his side, he had drooled all over the silk bedding. He wiped the damp arm on the cover and grumbled, "Damn it… Just perfect."
The Bann looked like a hatchling in a nest.
An extravagant canopy bed with a parapet of silk pillows, and an overly thick blue-gray cover shrouding the ensemble of superfluous layers, it was a small miracle the man could even breathe, let alone show his face to the world. But he was somehow managing exactly that.
It didn't help the matter, however, that the Bann was grayer, frailer than Tharin had remembered him. He could have been mistaken for a cuckoo chick waiting for the unsuspecting mother bird to feed him a wormy supper.
Tharin smelled his uncle's expensive scent filling the air in the room, but it was far thicker than he'd remembered. Sickly, like the dying man. It was enough to nauseate him temporarily.
On the nightstand next to the bed was a potted orchid. It stood out unnervingly, out of place in a room where things were expiring and definitely out of place in the cold and damp Free Marches. It did not help at all that the flowers here were the color of solid cinnabar and gold. The plant's leaves and stalks resembled a praying mantis in color, alive and ready to strike at a moment's notice.
The potted orchid positively screamed verve and vigor. In fact, Tharin was sure it would outlive the Bann by many, many months if not years. But against the brown and grayish interior of a dying man's bedchamber, the orchid was merely pitiful in its gaudiness.
The fresh, delicate aroma that orchids are known for, that would have been the plant's redeeming quality despite its gaudiness, was entirely concealed by the Bann's cloying scent. So, the orchid just looked like an overpriced, meaningless gesture at conspicuous consumption. Like the lives of so many people the Inquisitor had come to know and despise. Like the Bann's life.
A wall of important personages encircled the bed. A sister was chanting some drivel nobody listened to and nobody believed in. It was comical to watch the well-dressed sycophants put on solemn faces and calculate furiously what their best course of action ought to be after the inevitable passing of the giant. He could almost hear their overworked brains turning collectively. Tharin took care to maintain a neutral face, channeling Leliana to his best ability.
The Herald of Andraste murmured a hackneyed greeting and bowed. When their gazes met, the Bann's hazel eyes glimmered. He leaned to whisper to his manservant, who promptly herded everyone out of the room except for the Inquisitor. Once the massive oak door to the bedchamber closed with a loud bang, the old man signaled for the young man to approach closer. It was supper time.
"Tharin…"
"Yes, my lord."
The Bann looked pained at this frosty retort, which did not surprise the young man one bit. He recognized that in a small corner of his mind he was extremely delighted to see the mighty man reduced to this pathetic state. At that thought, a wave of fear gradually washed over him. Had he always been like this?
In a hoarse voice, the man begged, "Please indulge this dying man's wish. Please… Call me father. My heir and my wife are cruel and have abandoned me to die alone. My daughters are married off to foreign nobles. And Maxwell is… Maxwell was…" His lips quivered, but he soon continued, "You are the only family I have left now. Please…"
Tharin exhaled meekly and obliged, "…Yes, father." He could not stop himself from scowling at that word. It grated like sand in his mouth.
The old man's shaking hand reached out and clasped Tharin's glowing left hand. When the gnarly fingers grazed over the stumps where the young man's digits used to be, the old man froze.
"What happened?"
The Inquisitor stated nonchalantly, "Haven. I lost them when the Red Templars overwhelmed us." He was surprised to find that he in fact felt nothing as he perfunctorily described what caused the loss.
Hearing the explanation, the old man's face suddenly crumpled. He hiccupped and let go of the hand, turning to face away. "…I'm sorry, Tharin."
"What do you have to be sorry for now?"
"For everything."
Tharin wished to hear the old man confess his sins. "Everything like what?"
After a long pause, the Bann finally looked him in the eyes and whispered dolefully, "For not standing up to Lucilla for you. For abandoning you in the Chantry. I should have kept you here with the family. And… for not helping out you and your mage friend." The glimmer had been extinguished from the aged hazel eyes.
At least the man knew what he had done, though Tharin doubted he understood the full extent of the repercussions of his actions. The young man couldn't help but prod the Bann further. "If you felt so bad, then why have you never once written to me yourself? I was in the Order waiting for years and you sent me no letter, not even a greeting card. You never lifted a quill yourself until you needed something from me."
As he watched the old man tear up, Tharin felt a sadistic sense of satisfaction. And then another, smaller wave of fear hit him. What was happening to him? He tried to ignore it to no avail.
The Bann began to speak cautiously, "Because… Because I knew I had done wrong by you. And I am a coward. I didn't want to find out how angry you are at me."
Must be a family trait, he noted bitterly as the image of Cullen's bristly, gaunt sleeping face flashed in his mind.
"I am not angry. I was never angry," lied the young man. He took a deep breath and continued, "I just want to know." He folded his arms and straightened up. He wanted to stand tall, to be intimidating and strong. He had to be fully grown. "You promised when we first met. You promised you would be my new father and you turned your back as soon as we arrived here. Why?"
Maintaining the cautious tone, the Bann stated cryptically, "I owed the clan. The clan's given me so much and I was duty-bound. I had no choice."
"Sure. But what does that have to do with not allowing me to stay?"
"It's… It's complicated."
Irritation bubbled up and exploded within Tharin like a geyser. "Well, I'm not eleven anymore. Try me."
"T–There was a place for me in the city council."
"And?"
"One of the council members was a Trevelyan. She insisted that I send you away from Ostwick, away from the public eye or she would cast a vote against me. I needed the unanimous vote."
And the other shoe dropped. After a decade of unanswered questions and self-doubts, only now did Tharin realize there was no untold story behind his exile, no magical formula that would erase the anger in him.
In reality, the young man's uneducated guess was close to the truth. Human greed was what dispossessed him of a sanctuary. "Ah. I'm going to take a wild guess and say it was my great aunt?"
The old man looked defeated as he nodded weakly. "It wasn't my fault. Lucilla was in on the plan with the woman from the very beginning. They were both incessant and even recruited distant relations to their cause. Lucilla wouldn't let go until I agreed to the plan. I had no choice, so I accepted their suggestion.
"I thought the Chantry would make a good home for you. I thought that… the estate wouldn't be the kind of home you required. I knew you wouldn't have survived being part of this clan. I knew it. You had to go away for your own good."
The inconsistencies were stark. As he listened to the veritable verbal diarrhea of nonsense, he couldn't determine what his uncle truly believed, whether the man did what he did out of concern or out of self-interest.
"I… honestly don't even know what to say." Tharin felt a headache coming on and massaged his temples. "If you'd just given me a chance… If you'd let me stay with you, I would have loved you like your real son."
"I've always loved you like my real son," said the man with absolute conviction.
Now it was much clearer. Tharin mouthed silently, "You lie." There was no possibility of the accusation being heard by the man surrounded by overly fluffed pillows.
He let an uncomfortable silence pollute the room. He had no intention of making this easier for the Bann.
Trying hard to hide his rage, Tharin intoned stiffly but quietly, "You sent me away for your megalomaniac compulsion to reach the top. Trust me, it was your ambition and not the familial duty or the love for me that pushed you. And need I remind you that truly good fathers don't sell off their sons for kickbacks?"
Modest in temper, bold in deed, the Inquisitor ironically repeated the clan motto in his head. Whatever the reason, it helped him hold back the blistering anger.
The old man once again diverted his gaze. His voice was reduced to a soundless whisper. "Yes, I see that now. Perhaps I've been lying to myself all these years." His breathing was now labored. "You must hate me."
Tharin abhorred knowing that the Bann expected him to shake his head and disagree. The man wanted to be fawned over, to be consoled, for him to say that everything was forgiven. He replied stonily, "I haven't decided yet. I suppose I am disappointed in you."
The Bann looked shocked for a fleeting moment. The expression of confusion and hopelessness provided the young man with another callous glee, another pang of dread.
"I see." With those final words that departed the wrinkled mouth like a sigh, the old man made no more effort to seek forgiveness. He instead asked about Max, his real son. A son he did have and apparently missed a great deal. "You were with Maxwell at the Conclave. Did… What did he say before it… happened? Did he mention his family at all?"
Tharin had come to Ostwick expecting nothing from his uncle, only to unload, but it still hurt when he realized they had reached the limit of the man's willingness to admit his faults. Resolution of their tangled history was no longer possible after this milestone and the milestone was already becoming a miniscule dot in the old man's memory.
The Inquisitor started to speak, too exhausted to care about how he sounded, "Yes, we did talk about the family before we arrived at the Conclave. He said he admired how you helped people of Ostwick as a councilman and that he would like to do the same as a templar." A patent lie, as neither Max nor he brought up the Trevelyans in their many exchanges, but it was the Bann who lied first. He didn't feel guilty, not even a little. "Max was proud of you."
"Thank you, my son."
He was done.
"You are welcome."
The Bann slipped into a coma and died a day later. Tharin did not get a chance for the second audience. Not that he wanted another.
Every minute detail of the funeral had been prearranged, and the Trevelyans were not high up enough in the Theodosian social hierarchy to attract nobles from outside the Free Marches. So, it went ahead three days after the Bann's passing.
To say the funeral was extravagant would have been the understatement of the age. Lady Lucilla Trevelyan the dowager Bann was many things, but unassuming and modest were two things she was not. It was held in the largest chantry and was attended only by the most important of the city's power elites, including the teyrn.
As Tharin watched the important people file in, he amusedly thought that anyone could decapitate the city simply by blowing this building to smithereens right now and leaving it without a functioning government. Like what happened at the Kirkwall Chantry, except worse.
Four braziers were placed in each corner of the chantry nave. Aged cedarwood smoldered in them, its soothing scent filling the air. Native to Tevinter and incredibly pricey in Ostwick, cedar was so exotic that the young man had never encountered it before. He had to flag down a servant passing by to question what the scent was.
The mahogany casket sat on a dais covered by cream-colored silk. The dais stood next to the altar and a stone statue of Andraste festooned with golden taffeta. The usual clumps of half-melted candles on the altar were all gone, replaced by gilded candelabra adorned with tapered red candles that lined the apse.
Every detail was too decadent, too indulgent for such a somber occasion. It was as though the Trevelyans were afraid that the attendees would judge them not grand and rich. There's no accounting for taste, Tharin thought wryly.
Despite being the family member with the most noteworthy title, the Inquisitor was not asked to eulogize. Lucilla's way of snubbing him, he was sure, but he was grateful for the reprieve.
When the time came to offer the final farewell, the young man walked up to the casket and muttered, "I pray I never sacrifice my friends and family for ambition. I pray I don't turn out like you, father."
He had planned to look sufficiently inconsolable for the affair but was rather startled to find he needn't act. He managed to catch himself before shedding the first tear.
After the public cremation ceremony in the city's central plaza, at which priceless things were burned to ashes for no good reason, the family and the attendees all returned to the Trevelyan estate for a grand wake.
The new Bann ambled about, looking exceedingly smug. Clad in colorful silks and precious stones, the man was all smiles and laughs, and none of the sycophants questioned or reprimanded this despicable display.
Tharin did not feel the need to approach and introduce himself. Indeed, he was not in the habit of going out of his way to interact with theatrically villainous stereotypes since they tended to turn their noses up at him anyhow. Half-elven templar runaway? How dreadfully base.
Yet even with a living and breathing jewelry display in the hall, Tharin felt all eyes of Ostwick's best focused on him. Before he could take a refuge in some concealed corner away from the curious stares, Lucilla intercepted him. The young man felt his armpits and palms sweat and hated himself for that.
Like her son, the old woman was plastered from head to toe with expensive fabrics and trinkets. She smelled of at least two different perfumes – frankincense and… rose? –, both of which assaulted Tharin's nose relentlessly. Her eyebrows were apparently shaved off, and on the spot where they were ought to be, there was only more skin. She had drawn two kohl ovals in the middle of her forehead, probably to make her look highbrow.
But only a brash social climber like Lucilla would interpret the term so literally. Marrying into an old family like the Trevelyans must have been the most notable achievement of her miserable life. The entirety of her being offended him and she was most likely not even trying that hard. He tried to sneak furtive looks behind her shoulders, attempting to locate the closest exit.
She beamed beatifically, not quite fooling the young man. "Your worship, I am honored by your presence. I do expect you will visit us more frequently in the future. My dear husband always considered you his son."
He bowed slightly, attempting to hide his scorn. "Thank you, my lady. The Inquisition business keeps me busy, but I shall endeavor to do my best. After all, we are family."
Looking not even a little taken aback at the mention of the family, the dowager continued with a thin smile, "Pardon my imprudence. Of course you are busy. That is to be expected. I implore you to keep in mind that we of House Trevelyan expect great things from you." Tharin replied with an affected smile of his own and turned to leave but was interrupted by the woman.
She spoke louder than before, as though she wanted everyone to hear what she was saying, "Oh, I do have a teensy favor to ask, Inquisitor. As you know our family operates a number of trading posts in Tevinter, and we have the exclusive rights to import and sell Free Marcher grains in their cities. I am wondering if you could use your pull to lower the tariffs on wheat.
"And please do not fret about proper procedures. I shall send an official appeal to Skyhold as soon as possible, naturally."
Was this woman going senile? No southern leader exerted any significant influence over Tevinter.
Not only that, but the Imperium also protected its agricultural sector fiercely. The Magisterium and the Soporati alike were in favor of the grain duties. And they would raise them even higher if they could do it without having to choose between going teetotal or starving to death while sloshed.
There was exactly zero probability of the lower tariffs happening, at least without some sort of divine intervention and quite a bit of blood magic.
But this wasn't some public psychological breakdown, was it? While the Inquisitor had much to learn still, he could identify an éminence grise when he saw one. She wanted to see him discombobulated and embarrassed, and put a dent on the Inquisition's prestige. She knew the tariffs couldn't be lowered and by demonstrating how powerless the Inquisitor was she would get whatever measly gratification she could glean.
And on some off chance he were able to manage this impossible feat – a diplomatic equivalent of doing the splits midair while fighting a chevalier and a magister all by himself –, so much the better: with the lower custom duties, the profit margin would be higher. Either way, she couldn't lose.
He forced a broad smile, as fake as the woman's unctuous demeanor. "My lady, you should know the Inquisition seeks to sustain a friendly relationship with the Imperium in order to combat their extremist elements flowing into the southern realms.
"We are a military organization first and protecting Thedas is our priority. As such, it would be unwise for me to involve myself and my people in a serious diplomatic dispute at this moment. Still, I solemnly promise to confer with Lady Montilyet and come up with a solution for your predicament. For the family."
Lucilla's gloved fingers tapped on one another as her monstrous eyes broadened and her grimace of a smile became even more crooked. "I look forward to the good news, Lord Inquisitor," said the dowager in the sweetest voice.
She must have been suitably satisfied with the trap she had pushed him into. The Inquisitor made a promise to help her and this was as sure as a binding verbal contract, given that his reputation was the only source of legitimacy for his title. One botched attempt at power play and the whole damned institution would crumble.
Tharin hoped his playing dumb was convincing enough. "My sincerest and deepest sympathies on your loss, madam."
The hall had grown quiet as the two conversed, but when they both turned away from each other the prattle went off once more.
For one precious moment, the nobles were too engrossed in discussing what they had just witnessed, and the young man wisely took full advantage of the commotion. He quickly grabbed a bottle of Antivan Sip-Sip from the spread and bolted.
After trotting to the other end of the adjacent marble corridor, he leaned against a stone pillar and took a huge breath. Luckily, no one from the reception was straying from the clump of mouths in the hall. He was finally alone.
Tharin was standing in an alcove-like area separated by pillars on either side. He looked out a large window. Ostwick in Matrinalis was as beautiful as he remembered.
Unlike the rainy autumn and winter months when everything was gray and dreary, the summer was filled with airy lights and a friendly balminess that never overwhelmed but gently swathed instead. They were unfailingly complemented by the wistful smell of temperate vapors infused in the atmosphere. The worst one could expect to encounter in the summer was a spell of sun shower and even then there was always a rainbow to look forward to.
The estate was surrounded by old pine trees, but its location at the top of a hill meant he had a clear view of everything.
The young man could see the merchant quarter and the walled harbor where little dots were moving about busily. Once upon a time he was there, living among those people, completely clueless of what was to come.
Across the azure waters in the far-off horizon, he could see just a hint of land, a light purple wisp sandwiched between the sky and the sea. As a child, whenever he refused to close his eyes and go to sleep, his mother sat next to his bed under the flickering candlelight and told him grand the tales of pirates in Brandel's Reach. The sight of the island brought to his mind once again her lilting yet soft voice.
In a world where he faced critical eyes at every turn, where every passing acquaintance gave him at best nothing more than total objectivity and at worst nothing but prejudiced subjectivity, his mother was the first person to gift him with inexhaustible love while asking for nothing in return. She was his family, and his family was her.
Perched on the narrow windowsill, Tharin raised the bottle and quietly mumbled, "Here's to you, mum." He swigged a mouthful. The Antivan Sip-Sip, evidently made to be sipped, lived up to its name. It burned badly and he teared up.
He'd lost track of time, and his private moment was disrupted by the hurried shuffling of feet. It stopped on the other side of the pillar, mere inches from him. Some of the liquor traveled down his airway, and he had to stifle the gagging noise.
A screech of the old bitch. Was it too much to expect to get away from Lucilla in this huge manse? "I still can't believe that fucking mongrel is the Herald of Andraste. If anyone's fit to be the Inquisitor, it's my Max. He should've survived the blast, not that… thing." A discontented huff. "I bet that loathsome creature was the one who blew up the Conclave, hoping to be famous."
Another haughty voice. The new Bann. "Mama, it isn't difficult to bring him down. You must've heard the rumor that he favors the company of man. We could use that against him. Send a good-looking boy to be his plaything, then manipulate him through it?" An amused cackle. "His arsehole probably favors elven cocks, so the boy will have to be elven."
Lucilla spat on the floor. "Sick pervert. That's what you get when you mix with knife ears. The sacred Trevelyan legacy just thrown away. His filthy blood will prove to be his downfall, you'll see."
The Bann hummed and concluded, "It may be too common to resort to blackmailing in the first go. We should keep it in our pockets for now. You did give him an impossible assignment, and he'll probably knock himself out soon enough."
After clapping his hands, the man tried to calm his mother. "We will make a good use of him in the meantime, mama. Don't let us get worked up too much."
Tharin put down the bottle and clutched his chest with both hands. He felt an intense pain pass through his torso and could barely stop from crying out. Why was his reaction to them so visceral? It wasn't a surprise Lucilla and the new Bann viewed him as nothing but a pest that just wouldn't die. Yet having heard their tirade, he found it increasingly difficult to breathe.
He gasped for air as his throat constricted. He had to leave immediately, away from… them. House Trevelyan. Everyone.
"Excuse me…" He weakly intoned as he exited the nook.
"Y–your worship," the Bann sputtered and bowed the adorned head deferentially when he was confronted by Tharin. Lucilla merely smirked and said nothing.
As he passed by, the woman called out in a honeyed voice, "Please don't forget about the family's request, your worship."
He gave no reply.
He took the long way around the hall, hoping to avoid any social interaction, either with strangers or with acquaintances. When he reached his guest bedchamber, however, he saw the two Inquisition escorts waiting outside the door. They sprang to attention when they saw the Herald of Andraste drift toward them.
"Your worship?"
"I am going riding."
A moment of quiet before the announcement sunk in. One of the guards matter-of-factly stated,
"Ser, we must accompany you. Sister Leliana left a very specific instruction for us."
But it was evident they were fairly concerned and their caring eyes were fixed on him, torturing him. "No, there's no need. Please stay here and rest. I will be back by the suppertime."
"I still think we should–"
"Really, I am fine. There's no need to trouble yourselves."
"But–"
He felt the anger boil over and barked mercilessly, "Just do as I say!"
Both guards stuttered and saluted, somehow managing to seamlessly synchronize their movements and words, "Y–yes, your worship. Sorry, your worship."
Your worship, your worship, your worship. The never-ending loop of titles and formalities weighed too heavily on his shoulders. Everyone treated him like he was nothing but the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, or a Trevelyan.
Being called a half-breed pervert was actually a refreshing change, but such explicit name-calling hadn't happened since he left Hasmal, and it smarted more than he wanted to admit. His head was pounding, ready to split open unless he left behind his odious relatives and his loyal guards.
He slammed the guestroom door behind him and got to work.
As he exited the room with a full knapsack, he refused to look at the guards. He did murmur an "I am sorry" before disappearing, however.
Tharin intentionally left the door wide open, knowing that the guards would eventually enter and check when their Herald failed to return for the night. The pair would find a note from him on the bureau. It read: I need some time alone. I will be back.
Even if the Inquisitor could sometimes be capricious and impulsive with his decisions, as young men his age were apt to be, at least he was reliably unimaginative with his movements.
Leliana gave her thanks to the Maker as she stepped up on a porous boulder in the Vimmarks and looked up. She saw a thin pillar of smoke rising steadily from the top of a steep bluff and knew she'd found him. She ordered the three scouts who came along to neutralize the surrounding area of any potential threat while she talked to him.
She approached discreetly, which wasn't too difficult with the gale that was striking the mountainside path ceaselessly. In front of a small den at the summit was a campfire and beside it sat the young man, intently looking at something he was holding in his good hand. Leliana immediately recognized the item.
After clearing her throat loudly, she strolled out of the shrubs. "You gave your escorts quite a scare, slipping away like that."
The surprise on Tharin's face lasted only momentarily, just long enough for him to slip the content in his hand into the trouser pocket. He gave a little grunt and shook his head. "Of course. I should've known."
The Spymaster detected a hint of amusement in his trenchant voice and felt relieved. She replied with a thin smile, rather pleased with her handiwork. "Yes, you should've."
"I wrote I would be in Kirkwall in a week to check in." With a mysterious sough, the young man noted, "It's not like I can stay away longer than a week…" Despite the Inquisitor not finishing his thought, the why of the matter was completely obvious to Leliana anyway.
"The council couldn't risk it. You could've been attacked, and we wouldn't know where you were." She let a pause hold before adding firmly, "Not that you couldn't defend yourself if it came to that."
Tharin merely grinned and nodded. "You don't need to coddle me. I was irresponsible and could've been killed, I see that." He sounded sincere when he said, "I hope you weren't too severe with those two guards. It's not their fault. I intimidated them into staying put at the estate."
Leliana lowered her hood, took a seat next to the young man, and added breezily, "Oh, I know. You are quite clever like that. Besides, their feeling of guilt was punishment enough. The boy was whimpering, and the girl couldn't string together an intelligible sentence without begging the divine Andraste to smite her."
He lowered his face as it reddened. "I am sorry I did that to them."
"Don't be. They'd been given an assignment and they failed." Leliana knew her judgment would make him uneasy, but the tenderhearted warrior sometimes needed to be reminded of the difficult reality of leadership. As she had predicted, Tharin grimaced.
Without missing a beat, she started, "You must come back. To Skyhold."
The divot on his brow deepened. Nevertheless, Tharin assumed insouciance. He calmly tossed in another piece of firewood before answering tersely, "I know."
"We all need you."
"I know."
Time to play the trump card. "Cullen needs you."
A visible wince.
She decided to hone in, as she was wont to do. "You should see how distressed our dear
Commander is. At first he wanted to come himself, but Josie and Cass rightly put a stop to that.
"So, he's been sending me a messenger raven twice every day since I left to find you. I fear he will work all of them to death if you don't show up soon. I prefer to avoid that. I've become quite fond of our feathered friends."
"Is he… okay?"
"Oh, yes. Better than okay. He's already back in the training yard, scaring the new recruits witless."
"Sounds like him."
Aside from her intention to persuade, Leliana realized she was rather reveling in the conversation with Tharin. "He did make one peculiar request… He asked me to take care that no one gossiped about the state of his hair when they carried him in. At least that should quiet the implausible assertion that his hair looks like that on its own."
Tharin beamed warmly even as he purposefully focused his attention on rounding up bits of half-burned cinder that dotted the peripheries of the fire with a stick. "It's not like we didn't know already."
"Correct. But that seems to be the Commander's point of pride."
"Cullen doesn't have a vain bone in his body. If appearing to be effortless with personal grooming means that much to him, then we should respect his wishes and just never discuss it."
A soft chortle escaped her petite mouth. She bowed slightly in assent. "Your wish is my command, my liege. Though if you ask me, you're letting him off too easy."
"I figured you'd say that."
The Spymaster tweeted playfully, "You shouldn't play favorites, you know. Other kids might get envious."
Tharin threw his head back and forcefully bellowed ha. "What, you mean you want to be my favorite?"
Leliana couldn't stop herself from tittering. "Hardly. I was talking specifically of our little rebel mage from the north."
"Dorian? Are you serious?"
In spite of the incredulous response, the young man did not seem at all irked by Leliana's insinuation. This response actually gave her an idea on testing Tharin's readiness. "Perhaps. It doesn't matter what I think. What do you think?" She turned to him with a grave look.
Alarmed by the sudden change in the Spymaster, it took Tharin a long time to respond. The evening wind scattered the embers he had gathered so methodically helter-skelter, but he made no move to retrieve them. When he did answer, the groove appeared on his brow again. "I think… I can't be involved with anyone anymore."
"Like I mentioned, you can still live the life you want. It's up to you."
A weary sigh seemed to scrunch the man's girthy frame. "I don't think so."
The answer satisfied her. It wouldn't be advisable to test the resilience of the alliance until Corypheus was well and truly defeated. Until then, he must play the part and be a devoted fiancée and husband to the Orlesian, at least in public. The Inquisitor was ready, if not content.
But happiness, or any other permutation of it also known popularly as satisfaction or pleasure, was ephemeral – hence valueless. Winning the Grand Game was permanent, thus valuable. "I'm glad you think that way. Because you need to remember that you are not just one man. You are not just the Inquisitor, you are the Inquisition. The world looks to you for guidance."
"I never asked for any of this."
The resentment in his voice was so thick it was almost tangible. Leliana allowed herself to feel sorry for a moment but snapped back.
"You're right. You never did. But that is nonetheless what's happened, and I am glad you got the Anchor. No one could have made a better leader than you. You appeared to us when we needed someone like you the most." She was being more honest with the young man than with anyone else since the Warden and hoped her candor carried through.
"Plus, think about it. If not for the Anchor, you'd never have met Cullen."
He threw a sharp glance. "Punching below the belt, I see."
She responded with a sweet smile, "Or me, your most humble spymistress."
Tharin's expression relented until he was smiling. He extended his right hand and squeezed
Leliana's shoulder. She was suddenly struck with a dulcet memory of fireside chats with the Warden and felt an intolerable pain in her chest. She was grateful he had his gaze fixed on the flame and not on her.
The young man lamented, "I oftentimes wish I didn't care. It would be so much easier for me if I just acted like any other power-mad tyrant, not worrying about the fate of the world or how my actions would affect the regular folks."
Leliana gently embraced the man's hand on her shoulder with her own. It was burning, though she soon gathered that it was because hers was uncannily cold. "You know and I know. You don't have it in you."
"No, I suppose not."
They sat side by side, hand in hand, listening to the fire crackle. His path, like hers, was obvious and predestined.
"Come home, Tharin. We need you."
To this, the young man nodded, not entirely reluctantly.
But was the Inquisition home for Tharin? Leliana felt an anxiety, the root of which she couldn't positively place. It surged as a sudden gale blew among the trees, and she shivered despite herself.
On their first night on the road back to Skyhold, Tharin volunteered to take the first watch. Leliana did not let on, but was quite happy with this development, because she had taken upon herself to check his luggage.
After she was reasonably sure Tharin was on a patrol far away from the main tent, Leliana quickly hauled his knapsack toward her. She untied the leather string that held the top closed and pushed her hand through. Nothing, other than the mundane everyday objects. Tunics, trousers, rations, a folded parchment of some sort, et cetera.
But she realized that the knapsack was sitting atop the pocketed shoulder belt the man had left behind. The belt was literally attached to Tharin while they were traveling, hidden beneath the large cloak, and she had no way of examining it before.
The belt was devoid of any potions or small weapons it could hold. When she brought it near her face to investigate closely, however, she was instantly met with a cloud of a familiar metallic tang. She found what she had been looking for.
Leliana exhaled deeply with relief. Now she could rest.
After crossing the Waking Sea, the two procured fast mounts.
They rode through the lush countryside mostly in silence. Leliana seemed to be content that he was returning with her unharmed and was not grilling him for any more details on the impromptu getaway. He, on the other hand, was starting to feel paranoid that she was keeping him at an arm's length. Not that he had any concrete evidence to that effect, but recalling their interactions in the past month, he was no longer certain whether he could trust her.
They took a short rest by a peach orchard. The horses grazed on the weed growing by the side of the road while the humans separated into their respective corners.
The shade was a welcome respite from the scorching sun that effortlessly trailed them as they headed south. The grove was all the more pleasing from the sweet, creamy smell of ripened peaches that filled the air. Tharin breathed it in deeply as he admired the rows of tidily groomed trees.
As he wandered away from the Spymaster, he came upon an ancient tree and took advantage to further obscure himself. He quickly opened a pouch strapped to his shoulder belt and took out a tiny vial. Without taking a breath, he drank its content, tossed it on the ground, and ground the empty vessel into microscopic shards with his shoe.
When he emerged from behind the trunk, taking care to pretend nonchalance, he saw Leliana leaning against another tree, taking a bite out of a peach. When he gave a curious look, she impassively stated, "It was on the ground." He sniffed and turned away, sitting down cross-legged under a sapling and took a book out from his pocket. In no time he was immersed.
Nevertheless, only a page in he was roughly pulled back into the conscious world by an angry grunt. "Ugh, disgusting." Leliana retched. A mushed piece of the fruit tumbled out of her lightless chasm. "There's a worm in my peach."
Tharin felt an excessive elation at the woman's misfortune, but he was only partially aware of it himself. Trying not to let his pleasure seep through too blatantly in his visage, he mumbled unhelpfully, "I hear peach worms are good for your complexion. You should finish it."
"I think I will pass." Wiping her mouth on a sleeve, the Spymaster glared. She then proceeded to pitch the offending peach as far away as possible. It landed on a weed patch next to the horses with a faint plop. The animals lifted their heads to stare at it momentarily before returning to their grazing like nothing had happened.
As the two readied to depart after the rest, Tharin walked closely by Leliana's peach. He thought he could see something white wiggling around. He snorted, rather amused.
The Spymaster and her Inquisitor soon rode off, leaving behind them broken pieces of a glass vial and a half-eaten peach. From the glass vial would the bitter fruit come. Shiny and appealing, but devoid of any pleasant sweetness within, it was growing under the summer sun, waiting for the final harvest. Worms would be the least of Leliana and Tharin's worry when that time came.
After two more days of nearly nonstop riding, they arrived at the summit overlooking Skyhold. They waited until a late hour around midnight and entered the imposing gate.
Leliana had kept their arrival secret. As they crept in the dark, Cullen opened the portcullises and the only other person at the barbican to greet them was Josephine. Tharin was grateful for the low-key entrance, but he was sure she had not done it for his benefit.
Josephine was fussing over Tharin and excitedly peppering Leliana with questions when the Commander pounced. The man flew out of the gate control and put his arms on the young man's shoulders, examining thoroughly. Up and down, up and down, as if he were searching for something seriously wrong, a gaping wound to the side from a vicious bear attack perhaps. "Inquisitor! Are you all right? You aren't hurt?"
Tharin couldn't help but chuckle. It was rather strange to think he'd forgotten how much he missed Cullen until he was back in Skyhold. He figured it was his mind's defense mechanism and brushed it aside. "No, Commander. I am fine, I promise."
The panic and uncontained excitement in the man's demeanor melted away until he let go and intoned shyly, "Good… Good…"
After a little pause, Cullen reached and patted his shoulder. "I am so sorry about your…" He halted and massaged the back of his neck. Even in the dimly lit passageway, Tharin could see the blush spreading on his stubbly cheeks. "…The Bann passing away."
"You know what, surprisingly enough I am too." Along with Maxwell, the late Bann was one of the last connections he had to the Trevelyan clan. He had not foreseen this, but apparently some overlooked part of him still wanted to belong somewhere, even if that meant being a black sheep of a provincial noble family.
Now it struck the young man hard that he was unmoored, truly alone and detached from this world. As he had wished in the heart of alpine wilderness, Haretharin was now less than a nobody.
It was as though the Maker was sending a message: forget about personal connections, personal desires. His mission was to vanquish Corypheus and bring peace to this world. That was it. It was time to accept his role in the material universe and get on with the work. And a little bit of elbow grease, some glum Free Marcher work ethic, and some Fereldan stiff upper lip would go a long way.
As the advisors began to stroll slowly toward the courtyard, Tharin spoke clearly, "Everyone, I must apologize for my behavior these past few weeks. It was immature and unfit for someone with this kind of responsibility. I will work hard to make up for the lost days and I hope you will forgive me."
All three smiled their kind smiles. Ambassador Montilyet said without flourishes, "We are just glad to have you back with us." Commander Rutherford nodded enthusiastically and approached to sling his arm around Tharin's shoulder. In his soft, resonant voice he crooned close to the young man's ear, "Welcome home."
Their sympathetic words conveyed to him the realization that the Inquisition was his only kin, if not exactly his family. An eclectic collection of strange strangers and a lofty purpose had grown to be his life.
And… Cullen…
Cullen.
It had to be enough. And it required of him his absolute loyalty, which he was now ready to give.
The next day, Tharin stopped by the Herald's Rest to leave heartfelt notes of apology along with a several gold pieces for his long-suffering guards. Cabot was none too pleased with extra work, but grumpily accepted them.
End Notes:
I hope you've enjoyed the fic so far! This marks the end of Part II: Summer. Phew! Halfway done! Part III: Autumn begins with the next chapter, which will be posted six weeks from today on Sunday, May 16. Please pardon the long hiatus. My beta and I are doing our best to keep to the weekly posting schedule, and the hiatus allows us some time to work on future chapters.
In the meantime, Where the Waves Crest (波が上り詰める所), the Tharin/Cullen AU fic set in contemporary Japan is coming on Sunday, May 2! A teaser fic for the Waves and my first entry to the 2021 #cullenweek, An Ace Up His Sleeve (彼の切り札), has been posted today as well. Please check it out.
Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!