Evelyn turns her face up into the light shower, the sparkling bits of water turned dazzling by the shafts of sunlight that spear through the clouds. This is the fourth (fifth time, maybe?) that she has ever felt the rain on her skin.
Life in the Circle left little opportunity (absolutely none) for turns out of doors (keep them soft, keep them dependent), and the last few months have been a revelation to her. Fields of golden wheat swaying in a breeze, deafening waterfalls that create the most delicate puffs of foam, the quiet of fresh snow under a purple, golden sunset...
"You got that look again, Sparkles," mutters Varric.
"Hmmm?"
"You know, the one that makes you look like a dwarf that just saw the sky for the first time."
She quirks an eyebrow at that. "I thought you were a surface dwarf."
"I am. But I still recognize that stupid look."
She just smiles and shrugs. "I feel like I've been reborn and everything is new. Nature, magic, people... everything. I know times are dark but sometimes all I can see is the light."
"And that, my dear, is why I call you Sparkles." Varric shifts to shoulder Bianca. "Well, that and the lightning."
Evelyn uses her staff to help push her up the hillside, marveling at how much easier this is now. In the beginning, she would tire on their expeditions, frequently having to call a halt so she could catch her breath and struggled in the high altitude of Skyhold. But now she navigates the grounds of their fortress with ease and rarely finds herself with a stitch in her side no matter how vigorous the fight.
She loves nature.
She hates nature.
The Fallow Mire is an endless bog that can just fuck right off to the Fade as far as she is concerned.
It has taken days to return to Skyhold from that Maker-forsaken place and yet her boots still squelch ridiculously against the floor of the War Room and she is doing quite the successful impression of a drowned nug. Thinking that bog water must be bewitched to never evaporate, Evelyn tries to not shiver against the chill on her skin that has only worsened in the frigid air of the Frostbacks.
She is not successful.
Cullen, as always it seems, is the first to join her. She hasn't spoken to him alone since that morning, having departed for Val Royeaux and then the Fallow Mire immediately after. An entire month sits between that moment and now and Evelyn is struck with two simultaneous thoughts.
One, the Commander is absurdly handsome.
Two, she must look like absolute shite right now.
You should not care. It does not matter what he thinks of you.
But her heart starts to traitorously thud in her chest, immune to her wishes.
The Commander steps closer, his eyes moving from her sodden boots to her warped coat, then up to her damp hair, and looks decidedly displeased.
"Take that off."
"Wh-what?" she stutters, certain she has misheard.
"Your coat," he replies. "It's useless."
She bristles and knows her glare is greatly tempered by the fact that her teeth are chattering. "Skyhold is drafty. It may be wet, but it at least blocks the wind until I can change."
"And in the meantime, it's leeching all of your body heat. Your shivering so much I can barely comprehend you." He fixes her with a look that makes her toes curl. "Take. It. Off."
It's the thrill that runs up her spine that has her shucking out of the wet, heavy leathers and tossing them at a chair across the room.
She can feel his eyes on her as she returns to the table, self-conscious at where her tunic clings to her torso.
Drowned nug indeed.
Her focus is resolutely on the map before her when she feels heavy cloth about her shoulders and the tickle of fur at her cheeks.
His cloak.
When she looks up he is already moving to the other side of the table and Leliana and Josephine have finally arrived.
"Leiliana, this couldn't have waited? The Inquisitor is about to freeze to death to give us her report," he asks, tone far milder than the one he used with her.
The spymaster halts in her steps, glancing from Cullen to Evelyn and then back again. "Of course, Cullen, you are correct. My apologies, Inquisitor."
Evelyn is suddenly grateful for her chill as it prevents what would have otherwise certainly been a blush. Leliana is nothing but observant and Josephine can pick up on social anomalies like a sixth sense.
Maker, let them think this is just a peace offering. The former Templar and the mage playing nice.
But except for a slight raise of the ambassador's brow, there is nothing further said on the matter and Evelyn launches into her report, her teeth considerably more quiet.
Several long minutes later, she takes a deep breath to steel herself for the argument to come.
"I have decided to seek out the mages help instead of the templars."
In truth, she had never really considered the alternative a possibility, but she went to Val Royeaux hoping to be wrong only to have all her beliefs on the order confirmed.
"And I disagree," counters the Commander, "Instead of potentially pouring more power into the Breach, we should suppress it, making it much easier to close."
"And how exactly am I to survive hundreds of simultaneous Righteous Smites, Commander? If I weren't a mage, perhaps it could work, but I am and I really don't see an alternative."
She expects him to argue, spout off several strategies that could keep her away from the templars, and yet still accomplish their goal, but instead, he just declines his chin. "The decision is yours, Inquisitor."
She gives one sharp nod before glancing at the others. "Now if that is all?" she prompts, ready to get clean and dry. They rode hard for the majority of the day but still made it back to Skyhold long after nightfall.
"Yes," says Leliana moving to stand by Cullen's side, "I have a small matter to discuss with the Commander regarding the scouts, but you need not stay for it."
She starts to shrug off the cloak to return it when Cullen glances her way. "Keep it for now," he says offhandedly, his attention already back on the scroll Leliana has given him. "I will retrieve it at a later time."
She starts to reply but he is already engaged in conversation, lifting up representative pieces on the map to slide them to their new locations.
The walk to her quarters is a long one and she is grateful for Cullen's cloak when she passes by an unrepaired wall or under an open ceiling. She is even more grateful when she sees the steaming tub of water and soaps waiting for her, undoubtedly brought in upon word of their arrival. Leaning her staff against the wall and hanging the cloak on her wardrobe, she pulls the tie from her hair and strips before immediately climbing over the copper walls and sinking beneath the water.
She stays submerged until her lungs burn then surfaces to soap up her hair and take in her surroundings. The candle votives along the walls have been lit, giving the room a comforting glow, and her valets were considerate enough to face the tub towards the mountains, lending to a spectacular view. But a sickly green tinge mars the warmth in the room. Lifting her left hand from where it rests on the tub's edge, she traces the anchor with her eyes. The bloody thing hurts, a dull persistent throb, and Evelyn wonders if it'll be the thing that actually kills her in the end. She wonders if she'll be all alone when it happens.
She quickly submerges it to muffle the green light beneath the thick layer of bubbles, and dims the candles in the room to better see the snowfall outside. She is just mustering up the energy to rinse her hair when the door behind her opens and she sits up in a half-turn, her lips parting in shock when she sees the Commander quietly shut the door. She can only stare.
"You're not in your armor," she says finally and immediately feels stupid for stating the obvious.
"It frightens you."
She doesn't know what to say to that and turns her view to the mountains, uncertain and nervous and yet hoping... Her mind is telling her this is dangerous and stupid (she doesn't know him) but already her skin tingles in anticipation. It is with a small jolt that she realizes she hasn't been touched since that night on his desk. Not even a handshake or clap on the back.
"Do you want me to leave?"
Her answer catches in her throat and she is shocked at how hard it is to ask for this, for a moment of human connection. She is half-afraid he is going to leave when she hears him sigh then say, gently, "You have to answer, Evelyn."
It's the first time he has called her by her name instead of by one of her honorifics and it is strange what it does to her, like his voice has struck her right in the chest and burrowed under her skin. She swallows thickly and glances back over her shoulder before shaking her head.
"No. Stay."
Her next intake of breath is serrated as she listens to his footfalls and the drag of a chair. Though she is more fit than ever before (running up and down the hills of the Hinterlands for weeks on end will do that to a girl), she is glad for the dimmed lights and cover the bubbles provide. She is about to ask him what he is going to do when she feels his fingers press into her neck before they start to rub slow circles at the base of her skull.
And Maker, it feels glorious. Her muscles there are knotted from sleeping on a lumpy bedroll for weeks on end and she lets out a contented sigh. The movements halt for a second before continuing, this time pressing in more firmly before moving down.
The soap from her hair has slickened her skin and his hands slide easily to rub at her shoulders until she feels sleepy and boneless.
"Lean back," he demands, his fingers curling against her collarbones. Some of the bubbles have dissipated in the interim and she swallows nervously to see her breasts nearly exposed when she rests against the back of the tub. She is about to cross her arms over herself when there is a press of lips to the skin behind her ear.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmurs against her and she can feel his voice down to her bones.
One hand moves then, a swift slide down her front into the water, his palm rolling over a nipple and she swallows a gasp. There is a sharp sudden inhalation from the man behind her and he does it again, this time thumbing it before cupping her all in his hand.
And try as she might, Evelyn can't stop the small whimper that escapes nor the reflex to push herself up against where he touches her. The chair behind her scrapes the floor as if being kicked away and he moves closer, his front pressing to her back. Then slowly, so slowly, his other hand slides up to wrap around her throat to exert a gentle pressure and hold her to him.
It should worry her, it should feel like a threat.
But it is something else entirely.
Tears spring up under her lids, a strange combination of cathartic pleasure and relief that she can't explain.
At the same moment, he moves to hold her other breast, and the intensity so much more than she thought could be and she comes with a low breathy moan she knows he can feel against his hand.
When it ends, he is still, his breathing heavy and rapid, while the thumb pressed against her neck rubs slow soothing circles until he withdraws to gently nudge her forward. Obeying, she almost jumps when water cascades over her hair, the soap falling from the strands as he rinses it away.
He retrieves her robe from where the valet left it and holds it out, waiting.
"I won't look, you have my word."
It seems a little absurd to her after what just happened but Evelyn is relieved. Her emotions are high and she is not certain she could stand to make herself any more vulnerable.
Gingerly, she stands and steps out the tub, sliding her arms in the proffered garment to wrap it around herself. Cullen hasn't moved except to squeeze her shoulders where his hands rest over the cloth of her robe.
"Goodnight, Evelyn."
And then, taking his cloak, he is gone.