Title: Of Ice Sculptures and Sweetened Doughs
Summary: The first time Cullen meets her, there is an alarming amount of ice sculptures scattered across the library. Cullen/Surana
Genre(s): friendship, humor, and a hint of (awkwardly written) romance.
Warning(s) for: possible inaccuracies of the Dragon Age setting, a (high) probability of poor Cullen characterization, and a whole lot of nonsense.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Dragon Age series. I do, however, own Eliora.
Note(s): I… don't know what to say about this fanfic. I had fun writing it? It's my first attempt at both a romance and a multi-chaptered fic? Either way, I just hope you find some amusement in reading this. Reviews, as always, are much appreciated – and they're pretty much my only source of motivation for quicker updates. What's the point in writing and uploading something that nobody's really interested in, you know?
Edited: August 23, 2012
The first time Cullen meets her, there is an alarming amount of ice sculptures scattered across the library.
All of which are shaped suspiciously like pastries. Specifically cakes. And cookies. And pies. And – wait, is that supposed to be a roasted chicken?
…suffice to say, Cullen is feeling very confused. So, like any good (or unbearably bored) templar with a strong sense of justice (or simply too much free time in their hands), Cullen decides to investigate this strange phenomenon. He begins his search by following the trail that the ice sculpted pastries (and one ice sculpted roasted chicken, Maker, what is up with that) have made.
The trail eventually leads him to a secluded corner of the library. Filling the corner are even more ice sculptures of baked goodies (but thankfully, no more roasted chickens) and several piles of books lay scattered on the ground, some stacked neatly in groups of five and others not so neatly in hazardous clumpings of tens and twenties. The most curious thing about this place, however, might just be the cloaked lump lying slumped over one of the more hazardous looking piles of literature.
Cullen stares at the motionless mass. He doesn't know what kind of protocol this situation calls for. It figures that out of all the things he'd been taught and prepared for in his training as a knight, ice sculptures and cloaked lumps of something would be his first adversary on the job. His mentors hadn't advised him on what to do in situations like these. And really, Cullen can't blame them.
What could they have possibly directed him to do? Slice any ice sculptures you face with your sword in half like it were a particularly dangerous maleficar? Ask the Maker to forgive all cloaked lumps of their sin of slumping atop piles of books in a decidedly sacrilegious manner? Right, like performing either one of those actions would do him any good.
...maybe he should just alert Knight-Commander Greagoir of his findings. If anyone would be able to make sense of this odd scenario, it'd be Knight-Commander Greagoir.
Before he can even attempt to put his plan to action, however, the cloaked lump on the pile of books groans. Cullen pauses. Stops and stares as the lump rises from its rest and tosses the cloak covering itself away to reveal–
An… elf. It's an elf. A female to be precise. A brunette whose hair reaches a little bit past her shoulders. And she's wearing robes. Apprentice robes, if he's not mistaken.
So. A mage, then.
He doesn't know whether or not to be surprised by this revelation. Or what course of action he should be taking now. Should he confront the mage? Should he go seek out Knight-Commander Greagoir? Should he just turn around and leave and pretend nothing's out of the ordinary?
Well, whatever it is he's supposed to do in this case, he's pretty sure it's not what he's doing at the moment – which is staring blankly at the mage as she stretches out her arms overhead and gives out a drawn-out yawn. Cullen wonders, absentmindedly, just how long she'd been napping. And why, out of all the places in the Tower, had she decided to camp out here in the library.
The mage in question seems to finally take notice of his presence after she's finished with her stretch. Wide blue eyes stare at him. Cullen stares helplessly straight back.
An awkward silence passes.
"…so, um." The mage's words, as is her expression, are distinctly uncomfortable, as if she has no idea of what is considered the proper etiquette for this situation. Cullen can sympathize – just what are they supposed to do? "How, ah… How are you doing today, Ser Templar? Fine day for a stroll across the, um, library, I see."
She is looking hopefully at him. Clearly, she wants him to play along and pretend nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Like stumbling upon a cloaked mage sleeping atop a pile of books in a room full of a ludicrous amount of ice sculptures shaped like pastries is normal. Right.
"…fine, thank you," is his inevitable response, deciding to humor the mage a little. What else can he do, really? His options here are really quite limited. He could try to go seek out Knight-Commander Greagoir but chances are that by the time he found his superior and led him back to this area, the mage would've already gotten up and left. And the alternative to that would be to just leave the place and forget about today's odd events but what good would that really accomplish? Other than bring a bit of peace to his mind, that is. Out loud, Cullen says, "There are, uh, a lot of ice sculptures. Here, in this room, that is."
Great conversationalist, he is.
"What? Oh. Oh." The mage turns her head back and forth, looking from ice sculpture to ice sculpture in the area, her mouth forming into a surprised little 'O', as if she's just realizing their presence in the room. She isn't acting as if this is any big shock though – maybe ice sculptures of baked treats are a normal sight for magi? "Oh, you mean those. They're, ah, mine. I mean. I, um, sort of made them?"
Cullen stares. Out of all the things she could have said, this was not what he'd been expecting. He can't help but ask a little incredulously, "You made them?"
She has the decency to look sheepish. "It's a, um, a bit of a hobby of mine. I've always had an affinity for ice spells and well…" She scratches the back of her head and tries a laugh, the sound nervous. "…I found that I just really like to make ice sculptures? They're jolly good fun to pass the time, really. You should try it sometime – though, I suppose it'd be a lot more difficult for you, what with you having no magic and all. Not that that's a bad thing, mind you – I'm sure that you templars can have a good time without magic, even though it's kind of hard for me to imagine any of you guys smiling, what with the majority of you supervising us mages with stern faces twenty-four seven… Oh, um, no offense was meant by that, Ser Templar."
She looks genuinely worried about his upcoming reaction. Her posture looks a great deal tenser than it was before, as if she's… bracing herself for something? Cullen isn't quite so sure what to make of this.
"Ah, no. None taken, you're, ah, probably quite right?" Cullen's certain he sounds like quite a bit of an idiot right now. At least the mage's shoulders have noticeably relaxed. Even if she is looking at him a bit oddly now. He fumbles for a different topic. "You, ah, wouldn't mind explaining why you made ice sculptures of pastries, would you? If it's not too much trouble to ask, I mean."
"Huh? Oh. Oh, right! Those. There's, ah, a perfectly logical explanation for them, really. It's just…" The mage bites her lip, as if she's debating her next course of action. After a brief moment, she turns pleading blue eyes to him. "I know this is going to sound, well, odd but I need you to – could you just…" She lets out a frustrated sigh, tugging at her hair in what seems to be annoyance. Cullen simply stares as she mumbles several things to herself. After a while, she looks back to him and blurts, "Could you just swear to, um, secrecy, for me, please? I'm – I'm not doing anything bad! It's just that what I'm doing needs to be kept a secret because… It's, well, meant to be a bit of a surprise for a friend of mine, really. I don't want him finding out about this – not until it's ready, at least."
Well, that was appropriately vague.
The mage looks positively miserable though, so Cullen decides to take some pity on her. "I, ah, swear to keep quiet on this?" She doesn't look too convinced. Cullen can't blame her. He tries again, "I, ah, swear by the Prophetess Andraste to keep a vow of silence?" The mage, curiously enough, immediately perks up at the mention of the divine bride. Huh. Fancy that.
"Really?" Her enthusiasm is disarming. The smile blossoming across her face, however, has made it somehow difficult for him to speak – his breath, as inane and implausible as it sounds, appears to be stuck in his throat. After a few minutes of trying to scrabble up enough brain cells to allow for him to retake motor control of his vocal chords and produce a semblance of proper speech, Cullen meekly nods. If possible, the mage's smile grows even brighter. "That's – that's great! Really, it is. I mean, wow, you have no idea what a relief this is. For a second there, I thought you were going to – but no, of course not. That was just me being a tad pessimistic and silly, wasn't it? Yes, I suppose it was."
Her train of thought is a bit hard to follow. It's a little overwhelming. Not knowing what else to do, Cullen simply says, "The, uh, ice sculpted pastries?"
"What? The – oh, right, you mean those!" She gestures towards one of the replicas of cake shaped from ice. Cullen quickly nods. "Right. Well, you see, my friend's birthday is next month and he's turning eighteen. And it's not every day a person turns eighteen so I wanted to get him something special to commemorate the event, you know? So I decided that I'd make him something. Hand-made gifts are as special as it gets, right? And then I thought why not make him cake? I like cake. He likes cake. Everybody likes cake – well, I'd think so, anyways. I might just be jumping to conclusions here, but I really haven't met anyone who doesn't like cake. Unless you don't happen to like cake. You don't happen to dislike cake, do you?" She tilts her head curiously and stares at him with attentive blue eyes, as if the next thing that comes out of his mouth is going to be monumental and life-changing instead of just a simple why no, I don't dislike cake or why yes, I do. It gives him a strange feeling of importance.
It also leaves him feeling quite baffled, to say the least.
"I, ah… no?" Maker, can he sound any less sure of himself? Internally wincing, Cullen clears his throat. "Ah, I mean no, I don't dislike cake. I, uh, like it just fine." The mage nods approvingly at him, a small smile starting to take place on her face again. He tries to ignore the small fluttering in his stomach. It doesn't work. Wanting to distract himself from it, Cullen quickly says, "So, you, ah, decided to make this friend of yours more than one ice sculpture of the pastry? You've made quite a lot of them."
The mage, curiously enough, looks surprised by his remark. "What? Oh, no. When I said I wanted to make him cake, I meant actual cake. As in baking. These," she taps one of the ice sculptures with her index finger, "were just practice. Well, sort of. Obviously, baking cake is an entirely different thing from shaping ice to look like cake but well…" She shrugs, a carefree gesture. "They helped me understand the basic structure of the pastry more, at the very least. I've also come to the realization that I'm probably not cut out for three-tier cakes. Or two-tier, now that I'm properly thinking about it."
Cullen blinks. He opens his mouth to reply but a memory from earlier suddenly hits him and before he can help himself, he blurts out, "But what about the ice sculpted chicken?"
Maker, how on earth did he forget about that one?
"The – oh, you, ah, saw that?" Cullen is absolutely fascinated by the flush creeping up atop the mage's features. He can't help but notice that the tips of her ears have also been tinted a light pink. If he's being honest with himself, he'd call the sight endearing. "I, um… That is to say – well, you see – it's…"
She looks absolutely mortified. The mage is almost completely flustered now; the tips of her ears have even darkened to red.
Cullen suddenly finds himself torn between wanting to ease her mind and wanting to tease her.
…easing her mind wins. Just barely, though.
"You don't have to tell me. I was just curious," Cullen says, trying for a reassuring smile. He thinks it works; the mage is looking considerably more at ease than from seconds before. Her ears are still tinted with a little bit of color, though.
He tries to not find the sight distracting.
"You… You're very kind, aren't you?" The mage stares at him with something that looks vaguely like… wonderment. As if she's stumbled upon a particularly interesting puzzle. "I... suppose I wouldn't mind telling you. About the, um, chicken, that is."
Cullen blinks. That wasn't what he'd been expecting from his reassurance. A bit puzzled, he asks, "Are you, ah, sure?"
To his surprise, the mage smiles. "I am. I don't think I'd mind you knowing," she states simply, nodding to herself. After a while, she stops the movement and releases a small sigh. "I'm afraid it's nothing terribly interesting, though. It's more…" A wry smile finds its way onto her face. "It's more about me being, quote on quote, 'a silly little mageling who goes gallivanting around the Tower with not a thought to impeding the study of her peers and no care for further enhancement of her own skill and ability' than anything else, really."
Her words are wry. Cullen can't help but wonder who could've made her sound like that.
As if reading his thoughts, she turns to face him and offers a weak smile. "I overheard some of the Senior Enchanters talking and they… well. A few of them don't seem to like me that much, it appears." She looks to the floor. "I'm, ah, the perfect example of wasted potential, so it seems. At first, they were really impressed with my quick understanding and grasp of ice spells and had assumed that I was… well, a prodigy, I guess," she murmurs, shrugging a little. "But then they came to quickly realize that ice spells were the only thing I could do. I'm rubbish at everything else; I can't even manage to create the tiniest sparks of fire." She pauses. And then ever so softly adds, "They sounded so disappointed."
She doesn't sound bitter. Just… sad.
Cullen doesn't quite know what to make of it.
What he does know is this: He wants to offer her comfort. He wants to wipe away that self-decrepitating look from her face and replace it with one of her smiles, warm and genuine.
He doesn't know how to, however, and words escape him.
Before he can find his voice, the mage sighs. "But I'm getting off topic now, aren't I? I was supposed to be talking about something else." She looks up from the floor, shifting her gaze onto him. "That is, if you'd still like to hear the story about it. The ice sculpted chicken, I mean."
She still looks a little sad. Not knowing what else to do, Cullen simply nods, hoping that, at the very least, a small change in topic would distract the mage from her previous train of thought.
"Right then. Back to the chicken." She suddenly bites her lower lip a little, looking almost… nervous. It's not much of a better look than from before. "Right. So, ah, how would you feel, if I said, and this is all very hypothetical, mind you, that that particular ice sculpture you saw was all part of a… well, challenge from a friend of mine, I suppose you could say, with the promise of some form of reward in compensation for successfully completing said challenge, maybe?"
It takes him a minute to decipher her jumbled mess of words.
And when the implications of her babbling finally hit him, Cullen squawks, "It was part of a bet?"
Maker, was that even allowed?
"I, ah, suppose you could call it that too?" She laughs nervously. Cullen just stares at her.
After a while, Cullen asks, "...what was the bet about?"
He finds himself a bit morbidly curious about her response, whatever it may be.
"Right. The, um, bet." She fidgets a little, showing her discomfort. "Well, I, um, have this friend. And he thinks that I'm spending too much time on… well, planning out my other friend's birthday present? And he wants me to take a break from working on my other friend's present, so he… challenged me, I guess? To a battle of wits? But not really? Unless you take out the 'wits' portion of the battle and insert more of 'who can get that mouser of that one templar over there to approach them first willingly', that is."
"A… mouser?" is what he finds himself saying, a bit inanely. The lack of eloquence he is displaying throughout this conversation is rather depressing. He can't help it though; there's something about this mage that leaves him quite speechless. He isn't sure if it's due to some odd fascination of her or just plain bewilderment.
Probably a little mixture of both, truth be told.
"Oh, um, that's what he calls cats? My friend, that is. Oh, but it's not that he calls them mousers all the time!" she says hastily, as if to dispel any misconceptions Cullen might have of her friend. "He only calls them mousers sometimes, really. He mostly calls them kitties, I think, but don't quote me on that, I could be wrong. And it isn't a derogatory term or anything of the sort – if anything it's more of a term of endearment, I would say. The term mousers, I mean. Really, he loves cats. He thinks they're 'fiercely adorable' or 'adorably fierce' or some such – I'm not so sure of the actual wording but, well. The point is he likes cats?"
She looks as if she's confused herself a little with her spiel. Cullen wouldn't be surprised; he's a little lost himself.
It takes him a while to think up of a response, but eventually he comes up with, "Are cats even allowed to be in the Tower?"
He wouldn't think so. He'd think that their presence would be in violation of some of the rules and regulations of the Tower. Which ones? He couldn't precisely say.
"I... don't think so? Not normally, anyways," she says, sounding a bit unsure of herself. "Now this is just some gossip I heard from the other apprentices, but Knight Commander Greagoir wasn't too… well." She pauses, looking deep in thought. "He wasn't too enthusiastic about the cat's presence at first, I heard, but he tolerated it for the sake of one of his templars, Templar Owen, I think his name was? Because Templar Owen needed to…" She frowns. "He needed to get rid of his cat. Because his wife had severe allergies, I believe, and was threatening to feed the poor creature to a den of dragonlings if she had to share the same space with it for a moment longer."
She looks a bit upset at the thought. He can understand; it is rather depressing.
Before he can even deign to comment on the situation or offer some form of comfort, the mage continues with, "So Templar Owen decided to bring his cat here in the Tower. In search of a new home for the animal, I guess. I think he was hoping that one of the other templars would want to adopt it." She nods briefly, as if confirming this to herself. "I also heard that he doesn't want coin for his cat. He just wants to find it a good home, one that doesn't have family members that will threaten to feed it to a bunch of fire-breathing critters." She smiles a little. "And I've been told that, after having a mock debate with First Enchanter Irving, Knight Commander Greagoir granted permission for Templar Owen to have his cat live in the Tower – temporarily, until Templar Owen finds a new home for it, of course, but still. That was a rather kind thing of the Knight Commander to do, nonetheless."
"That's… great," is all Cullen says in return. He doesn't know what else there is to say. He can't help but feel as if he's forgotten something, though…
Oh. Wait.
"But what does that have to do with the ice sculpture, exactly?" he asks, trying to steer the conversation back to his previous concern.
How was it that he always seemed to be forgetting about the ice sculpted chicken? The sight of that sitting in the midst of a dozen ice sculpted pastries seated in a library was not at all common.
…or maybe it was. Here in the Tower, at least. The norm for magi would probably be vastly different from the norm for ordinary civilians, after all. What seemed strange to Cullen might just be part of the average mage's daily routine.
It's somewhat disconcerting, that thought.
"The ice sculpt – oh, right! That. Wow, I'm, ah, getting really off topic today, huh?" She looks a bit embarrassed, if that faint red staining her cheeks is of any indication. Cullen tries to not pay too much attention to the color and opts to nod encouragingly at her to continue. "Right. So. I, um, created that ice sculpture because… cats like birds? And cats like eating birds, I guess? And I couldn't think of anything else to attract its attention to me other than… shaping ice to look like a roasted chicken? It, ah, made perfect sense to me in my head at the time."
Well that's… a much simpler answer than he'd been expecting, actually. Even if it is a little bit silly. Curious, Cullen asks, "Did it work?"
To his utmost surprise, the mage laughs, a joyous sound. "Surprisingly, yes, it did! I was astonished, really – I thought for certain that the cat would ignore me in favor of my friend. He has a natural charm with them, you see. Cats, I mean." She smiles fondly. "Speaking of my friend, he didn't seem too upset about the outcome – he seemed rather amused by it, to be honest. I think I might have caught him laughing a little at my ice sculpture sometime later, actually. I couldn't say that for certain, though."
The look on her face is fond, colored with affection. It's a good look on her, happiness.
Strangely enough, there also appears to be something fluttering in his stomach at the moment, which is not so good in comparison. He tries to ignore the sensation by uttering whatever first thought comes to his mind, "So, uh, what was your prize?" Maker's breath! Could he have phrased that question any more poorly? Wincing, Cullen hastily adds, "I mean, if you don't mind telling me, that is to say."
Sweet Andraste, he is making an absolute fool of himself.
Thankfully, the mage doesn't appear to notice and simply responds with, "Oh, well, he promised to tutor me a little. In healing spells, that is. Which I am absolute rubbish at, as I am with many other spells, so I wouldn't be at all surprised if I don't make much, if any, progress with his help. Even if he is one of the most talented healers I know. Not that I'm doubting his capabilities as a mentor! It's just… I'm not the best of students, is all." She sighs. She doesn't seem to dwell on the thought for too long, though, as she soon says, "Had he won, however, I would have had to take a break from working on my other friend's gift to help him plan and execute a… scheme, I think that's the right word, of his. He might've said something about swimming across the lake and he might've mentioned something else about distractions and scapegoats but my memory's a bit foggy on that point."
Cullen blinks. He doesn't quite know how to respond to that.
It takes him awhile, but he eventually thinks up of the question, "How long ago was this?"
The mage blinks at him. "How long ago was – oh, you mean the bet?" she asks, looking at him curiously. Cullen nods; he should've clarified himself. "Oh, um. Well, it happened a little while before breakfast, I believe, so… a couple of hours ago, six or seven or eight, I think, maybe?"
He's no expert in ice but that amount of time seems terribly off – the lifespan of an ice sculpture couldn't possibly be that long. At the very least, some of the finer details should've melted off the piece. From what he'd remembered seeing, however, that was not the case.
The amount of detail he'd noticed still carved into her collection of ice sculptures (especially that of the roasted chicken) had been quite astounding, really.
Eventually, Cullen asks, "Why haven't any of them melted yet? Your ice sculptures, that is?"
"Um… magic?" is her reply, the look on her face sheepish. Cullen stares at her, not knowing whether or not to take her words seriously. A moment later, the mage says, "In all honesty, though, I have no idea. I do think that it is because of my magic that they've managed to last this long but I could be wrong. You'd probably have better luck asking one of the Senior Enchanters about it – they're much better than I am at explaining things." She pauses suddenly, looking thoughtful. "Now that you've mentioned it, however, I probably should be getting rid of these ice sculptures – it'd be terrible if they all started melting here. The floors and tables would get wet, and quite possibly the books too. That would be bad." She frowns a little. "In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have created so many of them. Sure, they were fun to make and were a great source of practice for my future cake-making at the time but… well. There are an awful lot of them here. It'll take me quite a while to remove them all from the library." She sighs, looking a bit put off by the thought. Nevertheless, she continues on with, "Well, I suppose I could always just try to rope a friend or two into helping me out – a couple of them owe me a favor, anyways. No big deal."
The words are casual but it is evident that she isn't too confident in the idea. Her gaze keeps shifting from ice sculpture to ice sculpture within the area, a small frown gracing her lips. She is right; there are an awful lot of ice sculptures for her to get rid of.
Before he can realize what he is doing, Cullen finds himself saying, "Uh, I could help you out with that, if you want."
He's surprised by his sudden offer. And, considering the look on her face, so is she.
"You would – what?" She looks completely baffled, as if he'd just spoken to her in Orlesian. "You would – really? Are you, um, sure? I mean, you – you really don't have to," she says in a rush, her words jumbling atop one another. "It's – that's a very kind thing of you to offer but – you probably have better things to do! I wouldn't want you to waste your time on me and my – my problems. That's not – it wouldn't be – I'd be taking advantage of you! You don't – the ice sculptures – they – they're my fault. Mine, not, ah, yours."
What she says, though jumbled and incoherent, is true – what she'd done was her fault. It really isn't any of his business on whether or not she manages to remove and dispose of all of the ice sculptures in the library before they begin to melt.
Despite this knowledge, Cullen still finds himself saying, "It's fine. I don't mind. Honestly, I don't have anything else to do at the moment."
Other than performing his duties as a templar, that is. Though, helping her out could also count as supervising her, right? While aiding her with her problem, he'd be able to keep a close watch on her and all of her activities – therefore it'd be rather difficult for her to abuse her magic without him knowing. He'd be standing right beside her, after all. So technically, he'd still be doing his duty.
"You… really?" she inquires, disbelieving. Cullen nods. She stares at him for a moment longer, disbelief still etched into her features, before the look slowly vanishes and a smile begins to grace her lips. "That's – that's, wow, thank you! I owe you for this, really. Honestly, you have no idea how much of a help this is. I just – thank you! Thank you so much, Ser…" she starts to trail off, eyes widening slightly. "I – I don't know your name. Oh, wow. I never introduced myself to you, did I? That was, ah, rather rude of me. Um, would you mind telling me your name, Ser, ah, Templar?"
He blinks. Strangely enough, he hadn't realized that no introductions had been made. Well, it was time to remedy that. He looks at her and replies with, "It's Cullen."
The mage beams happily at him. "Ser Cullen, then. It's a pleasure to meet you!" She's practically bubbly with joy. He has to admit that the sight is somewhat endearing. "You can call me Eliora," is all she says before Cullen soon finds himself trailing after her outside of the library, an ice sculpted cake in hand, as they wander around the Tower searching for a suitable place to dispose of the replica pastries. They receive plenty of strange looks from mage and templar alike as they continue on with their search. Cullen, to his own surprise, finds that he doesn't care all too much about their stares; he's much too engrossed in the mage he is accompanying to heed the others any real attention.
And thus is the start of their, admittedly odd, friendship.