The night following the luncheon found Cullen with a stiff drink in his hand, and his laptop on his desk before him - opened (in incognito mode) to a very simple, but very damning, search. Evelyn Trevelyan Alistair Theirin photos. He wasn't much eased into it with said research. The first photos to come up were the ones that had started the whole sorry scandal in the first place, likely because those were the exact ones that people wanted to see when they searched for this tripe.
He'd heard about the photos before - despite his best efforts, considering he often shunned anything that so much as resembled celebrity gossip - and he must have glimpsed them on glossy magazine covers in shops, though he couldn't remember them for the life of him, but he'd never really looked at them. Maybe that was why, as he scrolled through the image results with thinned lips, he was distinctly unimpressed. Were they of literally anybody else, they'd be considered random holiday snaps. Perhaps not something you'd show your grandparents if they were particularly uptight, but not worth all of the uproar he remembered them causing at the time. Not by half.
All of them had been taken while the two were aboard a yacht, out off on some tropical coast or another - perhaps hoping that the most diligent of the paparazzi wouldn't have a way of finding them then. After all, only a truly pathetic bottom feeder would go so far as to rent a boat of their own in order to get photographs of two complete strangers enjoying their day. It just so happened that all paparazzi were pathetic bottom feeders, and it seemed the King of Ferelden and the Princess of the Marches learned that a tad too late. Or maybe it was just easy to forget when they were as happy as they appeared in these photos.
The first might've easily been explained away - Evelyn, leaning against the glass rail of the yacht, watching with a bright smile on her face as King Alistair launched himself overboard into the water. But that was nothing, right? Even those from the upper crust had to let loose at some point, and anybody raising eyebrows could be mocked for thinking men and women couldn't spend time together without it meaning more. Yes, that would've been a good argument indeed, were it not for the other photographs.
The next was distinctly, erm, cosier. The two of them reclining on a single sun lounger intended for one - although neither seemed bothered by the lack of space. Evelyn lay sprawled practically atop King Alistair, their legs entangled, her head on his chest and her eyes closed. But his eyes were not, and he stared down at her with what could only be described as plain adoration. That would've been enough to spark controversy, but the next was the kicker - taken a moment later, of the two kissing.
Cullen grimaced, and exited out of the photos, feeling like he was somehow no better than the photographer for gawping at them. His harshness on himself was quelled, though, when the search results brought forth actual magazine covers using the photos - some of which had carefully cropped the princess' strapless bikini and King Alistair's swimming trunks out of the shot to make it appear that the two of them were entirely unclothed.
To think people made a career out of this. So long as the word career was used loosely, he supposed.
Digging further brought up yet more articles - this time by sources a tad more reputable. The sorts dedicated to political discourse, speculating what it might mean if the Marches' only princess was to marry Ferelden's only king. That caused Cullen some confusion. Wasn't the point of a princess to be married off to some foreign power for the wellbeing of political relations? Well, not in this case apparently. The problem lay with the fact that their style of monarchies were distinctly different, and neither of their peoples much liked the thought of the influence that the other might have. Though Alistair had more official power than any of the Trevelyans, he was still at the mercy of his nobles as far as his position was concerned, and Evelyn could hardly risk stirring up more discontent in the Marches towards the monarchy.
The final, and sole, official statement addressing the whole thing was a statement from Evelyn herself, so cool and devoid of feeling that it could've been written for her. It likely was.
Princess Evelyn Trevelyan wishes to announce that she no longer has any private association with King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden. She thanks the people for their love and support, and looks forward to continuing in her efforts with her numerous charities.
Her enthusiasm regarding the statement was displayed in one rather infamous photograph of the princess in the back of a car, having returned to the Marches once the yacht photographs had leaked. This snapshot made it difficult to believe the others had been taken only days prior. She donned a grey black-collared coat dress, her hair pulled back into an uncharacteristically severe bun while she stared straight ahead utterly expressionlessly. But her neck was strained, and her jaw clenched. The hallmark of somebody who was trying very much not to cry. Cullen didn't need any salacious online videos from the so-called experts to tell him that.
Since then, in the two years that had passed since, it had not been mentioned at all by either party. Rather pointedly so. Every now and then they would be thrown together for some event or another, and gossip rags and body language experts alike would have the time of their lives picking apart every minor twitch either of them exhibited. Cullen tried to watch one such video, but closed out of it when the creator of it tried to insist that the tilt of Evelyn's head as she curtsied to King Alistair on one such occasion meant that she was still deeply in love.
Ironically, the whole charade worked wonders for Evelyn's popularity. She'd been well liked enough before, and having met her Cullen could begrudgingly admit that he understood why - although he'd reserve his final opinion for a bit further down the line, this story as the world called it had given the people everything they desired. A salacious romance, a couple doomed to be parted by circumstance, and a princess who ultimately chose her duty over her personal happiness.
An utter load of tripe. It was almost funny, though - he'd never thought he would ever be somebody who might feel sorry for a member of any royal family. He didn't envy their lives, but he always rolled his eyes when one member or another took to the public to whine about their lot in life. Not being able to always do exactly what one wished with one's riches was a laughable complaint when there were people out there who could not eat or find a place to live. Maybe that was what had him feeling guilty. He had not yet heard Evelyn complain about her lot - nor was there any evidence of it online, beyond one almost tearful photograph, which hardly counted. But they'd met once, and there was still time.
Sighing, Cullen downed the last of his drink and closed the tab that contained his search results. He'd seen enough. Then he poured himself another glass, and he opened up his email account. Their tech man, Solas, had gone on and on for what felt like hours about all that went into keeping their emails secure and inaccessible to the outside world. A lot of it had gone over Cullen's hand, the least amount of time he spent staring at a screen the better. All he knew was that it worked like any old email account, and that was all he had to know.
It took a good few minutes of glowering at the empty white text box before he decided that the longer he dithered, the longer he'd have to sit here and think about it. Adding in Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra into the "to" box, he typed out the briefest message he could think of without being accused of acting purposely difficult.
Introductions went well. Princess was friendly and seemed receptive to a small amount of preliminary flirtations, pointing to favourable future results. I can provide more details, if necessary, in person.
- CR
He hit send before he could talk out of it, shut the laptop, and slammed back the contents of the glass. As he stood and made for his bed, he tried his best not to feel like the biggest bastard in all of Thedas. There was nothing to make one feel worse about duping somebody than trawling through all of their prior unhappiness. He just had to hope that the rest of Evelyn's life was as serene as the image she portrayed, for then Cullen could at least convince himself that he wasn't just kicking her while she was down.
But it was for the greater good, and that had to count for something.