27: Heroes (Part III)
"There's none so blind as those who will not listen."
― Neil Gaiman
Cullen's tankard of ale might as well have been filled with sawdust instead. The laughter and teasing were becoming unbearable.
"Where do you ever get your romancing advice? It sounds straight out of Swords and Shields!" Dorian chuckled.
"It says very clearly on the cover that it is a work of fiction!" Varric cautioned. "I had to put the disclaimer there…after Aveline threatened to come rip off my chest hair…"
"Why don't you go apologize already?" Blackwall wondered. "Just take yourself to the Main Hall, knock on her door, and tell her you are sorry for the misunderstanding. It's as simple as that."
"Look at you being all sensible an' stuff," Sera giggled, wiggling her fingers in his face. "That's not bad advice, you know. You're actually a big softie, aren't you? I don't get why you aren't a bigger hit with the ladies," she hiccuped, pushing away her empty tankard. "Unless you're a big softie in the pants," she grimaced.
Blackwall turned to her and caressed his lustrous beard.
"All of this isn't for the faint of heart!" he teased. "It'll take a special lady."
She snorted, drunkenly slapping the table.
"It's not a bad plan, Cullen. This situation is getting to be a bigger deal than it needs to be. Better handle it before it gets out of hand," Varric suggested.
"But—Maker!—I did nothing wrong! She was the one who got jealous! She was the one who misunderstood everything I said! Why do I have to apologize?" Cullen complained, a pained expression in his face.
"Anyone care to take this one?" Varric gestured, appealing to the others.
"You apologize because you regret there was an misunderstanding," Dorian offered.
"Because you were being a sodding arse, that's why," Sera added indignantly.
"Because you love her," Blackwell said simply.
"Because you're never gonna get laid again if you don't," Bull stated.
All of them promptly agreed with that one.
"I would apologize," Cullen began, to which everyone groaned, "but it goes against what I feel the situation warrants. I won't apologize merely to make pretty again. She is the one—"
"You should at least talk to her then," Varric cut him off, dreading another jeremiad on why Evelyn should be the one apologizing.
"Hm," Blackwall approved. "Give her a chance to present her side. Take if from there."
"Come on, let's go!" Dorian pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. "Who's with me! We'll give him moral support until he gets there."
"And make sure he doesn't run away en route…" Varric winked.
"He should go only when he is ready, so I am staying right here," Bull tapped the tabletop.
Dorian grimaced at him.
"That's the kind of strategic miscalculation that exemplifies why the Qunari will never successfully conquer Tevinter," Dorian quipped.
"Miscalculation?… Maybe you are right: I know of at least one Tevinter who is not getting conquered by Qunari tonight." Bull said with annoyance.
"Cullen, my friend, observe carefully: that was a double entendre right there. Did you catch that?" Dorian said flippantly as he made for the entrance.
They marched across the courtyard, with Cullen feeling uneasy about the plan, but left with no option other than going through with it. As they stopped before the doorway to her quarters, guarded by the sentinels, his small entourage stepped back. The sentinels let him breeze through—they were used to seeing him visit the Inquisitor's quarters. He bounded up the staircases until he found himself before Evelyn's bedroom door. He knocked.
He did not even hear her footsteps as she approached, she was so light footed.
"Evelyn!" he said nervously as the door was flung open.
She was in her nightshirt, a faint glow emanating from the fireplace beyond the small set of steps leading to the expansive room. She must have been reading, he realized affectionately. Always studying, learning, perusing reports, treatises. He was craving that calm and peacefulness that emanated from her, how good she smelled as she curled into him in the bed, and how her face lit up anytime she found a passage worth sharing with him. How many times had he been greeted at that same threshold with welcoming arms flung around his neck, a flurry of kisses over his grinning face, her joyful laughter? He wanted to be there, like in those memories, at that moment.
This time her face was somber. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy.
"I didn't expect to see you," she said sullenly.
"I think we should talk," he said, making a herculean effort not to raise his hand to her face and caress her, brush away the stubborn lock of hair that always fell over her cheek when she was lost in concentration.
"Yes, I think we should," she said at last.
She stepped back and allowed him to enter.
"Evelyn," he began, standing before the balcony door. "This is all a misunderstanding," he said.
She walked up the steps.
"I am hoping it is. I can't believe you'd be so intentionally cruel, Cullen, " she said, standing before him.
Makers Breath, she is a vision. Her nightshirt hadn't been buttoned to the top, revealing the medallion he'd given her, fashioned into a pendant she never took off. Her hair was fastened in a loose braid that rested over her shoulder so charmingly and her eyes shone alluringly in the firelight. If he bent forward just a little bit, he could touch her lips with his…
"Never, Evelyn…I'd never do something cruel to you…" he murmured, staring longingly into her eyes.
She stepped even closer, a hint of expectation in her demeanor, her hands gingerly clasped behind her back.
"It was you, my love, who misunderstood everything…" Cullen informed her.
Her eyebrows shot up.
"You blew things out of proportion, dearest," he continued, in a tone of light censure.
She gave him a hardened glare.
"You are absolutely right," she said with ill-contained frustration. "I was jealous. And I thought you were talking about something when you probably meant another. All this is my doing," she said.
Those were the words he was hoping to hear, but he didn't quite comprehend why they were delivered in such a tone.
"I'm glad we are in agreement, then," he continued, cautiously.
But she wasn't offering him that charming smile she often gave him, she wasn't reaching for him…
Something is not right, he thought.
"I am glad you got your confession of guilt, Messere, since that appears to be all that matters to you!" she finally exploded. "Are you happy at last?" she cried.
"Evelyn, dearest, why are you so angry?"
"I'm tired of—"
"Then we can go to bed so you can get some rest and gather your wits about—" he began hopefully.
She let out a guttural growl.
"You are unbelievable!"
"What is that supposed to mean? I've been very patient and—"
"And daft! Daft, Cullen! Use your head, that perception, that sharp acumen you seem to possess and apply to everything else except me!" She turned her back to him.
Realization dawned upon him like a clap of thunder and he comprehended, at last, what was the matter. His gaze softened and he began to shake his head.
"Evelyn…I think I understand now. Maker—why didn't I see it before?"
She relented for a moment and glanced back at him. A flash of hope appeared in her eyes before she demurely cast them down.
She is so sweet, he sighed, approaching her tenderly.
He embraced her from behind, pulling her into his chest, nuzzling the nape of her neck. She let him press a kisses over the side of her neck as she grasped his arms tightly around her.
"Forgive me, love," he whispered. "Why didn't see it before! I'm such a fool!…" he said.
She turned around to face him, her arms circling his waist.
He adored her so very much.
"Do you?" she asked optimistically.
"Of course! The reason is perfectly clear to me now…" he smiled understandingly. "You are at that delicate time of the month, aren't you?" he murmured.
Next thing he knew, she had pulled away from him hastily.
"Out," she growled pointing to the door. "Out! Out!" she shouted.
"Just calm down…Perhaps I could make you some tea? We could turn in early?…" he tried hopefully.
She actually let out a strangled scream.
At that, he showed himself out swiftly.
Outside, in the Main Hall, the others awaited him. Dorian and Varric leaned against the wall chatting quietly while Sera and Blackwell sat on the steps leading up to the Inquisitor's throne. Sera wore a boozy, contented expression as she made little braids in Blackwall's dark hair.
He was the first to notice Cullen emerge at the entrance, past the sentinels.
"Thank the Maker—pigtails were next! How did it…" his voice faded as Cullen stomped past them in a huff.
"Curly?" Varric called out into the darkened hall, the echo of heavy footfalls carrying back to them.
They all watched in stupefaction as the Commander disappeared out the arched doorway into the evening.
"Shit," Varric lamented.
"Indeed," Dorian sighed.
"Think he ballsed it up?" Sera wondered.
"Aye," Blackwall replied dourly.
A/N: I echo Varric's sentiment here: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION!
But, Maker, why does a certain exasperating exchange feel so autobiographical?...