Hello everybody, long time no see, right?!
I just wanted to let you guys know that Ive come back to this little fanfiction, becase of Veilguard mess and stuff. It left me in pieces, wishing for at least Inquisition level of romance...
Anyways. Buckle up. There finally might be a kiss coming in a few episodes ;)
Cullen stared at the note in his hands, then at the small glass vial beside it. The silvery liquid caught the candlelight, glinting like something out of a dream.
Grace's handwriting was neat, precise, the elegant curve of each letter betraying none of the concern he knew must have lingered behind the words.
I gave Maeve a recipe for a potion that should help with the pain and fever. It is supposed to be used before sleep or any time the pain gets strong. If there are any side effects, please let me know, so I can update the concoction.
Also… Please try at least the one I sent with this note. It will help. I promise.
~G
Cullen exhaled slowly. His fingers tightened around the parchment as if it might somehow anchor him. He should have expected this—Grace had a way of taking matters into her own hands. But it unsettled him how easily she had seen through him. How could he maintain respectable distance, when any interaction between them somehow brought them closer? He longed for her attention, he longed to make her laugh. To somehow make up for all the hardships she's already been through.
Last night had been rough, to say the least. The fever had raged through him in waves, each one more unbearable than the last. The spasms had left him breathless, curling his fingers into the sheets, his body betraying him in more ways than one.
And then there were the dreams.
He dreamt of her of course. Dreamt of roses, soft skin and her soft curves under his hands. He had woken, his erection pressing against his stomach actually so hard it ached. So he reluctantly took care of it yet again, while feeling guilty as he imagined her hands instead of his own… It took him only a few strokes to come undone and it left him panting heavily, even though not fully satisfied on his tousled bed. This had to do. He felt ashamed of himself for using her image in such a way, but the more he thought of her, the worse it got.
What a way to remain professional.
Cullen squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead.
Enough.
He weighed the potion in his hand hesitantly and glanced at the stack of papers on his desk when another sharp pang of pain took a hold of him, so he uncorked the bottle and downed it's contents in one swig.
The effect was near-instant. A cool, tingling sensation spread through his limbs, numbing the aches, easing the fever. Cullen exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Maker's breath… It worked.
Far better than anything Leliana had given him.
His gaze flicked back to the note.
It will help. I promise.
From the past reports, they knew that Grace was a skilled herbalist, but he had no idea the extent of her skills really. He wondered what other surprises might his lady Inquisitor still have in store. She never ceased to amaze it seemed…
Cullen ran a thumb over the ink, tracing the letters, lingering on the last curve of her signature before setting the note down. The relief was a welcome reprieve, but it brought no peace.
If anything, the battlefield in his mind only grew bloodier.
It wasn't the first time he had woken like that, painfully hard and aching with need, her name unspoken on his lips. It had only gotten worse since Haven. Since he found her all but collapsed in the snow, shivering, weak, trusting him to hold her. To carry her to safety. He had never felt more fiercely protective of anything in his life.
And now, here she was, looking out for him.
Cullen clenched his jaw and reached for a fresh piece of parchment. He hesitated for a long moment, then dipped his quill into the inkwell.
No words came to him however. What would he even write, that would appropriately express the way he cherished her and which would not cross the flimsy line they seemed to set between them?
His body was at ease now, but his mind was a battlefield.
And Grace Trevelyan was at the center of it.
The road to Crestwood stretched before them, winding through rugged hills and deep valleys cloaked in mist. They had set out at dawn, their small party moving at a steady pace, the crisp morning air biting at their cheeks. Despite the chill, the journey was far from dreary—especially with this lot.
Sera, riding slightly ahead, twisted 'round in her saddle with a wicked grin aimed straight at Cassandra.
"So, Cass," she started, casual as anything, "what's it like bein' you? All serious-like, clankin' about in your armor, glarin' at people? Bet you practice lookin' scary in a mirror, yeah?"
Cassandra exhaled sharply, her patience already wearing thin. "I do not glare at people."
Sera snorted. "Pfft. Yeah? Tell that to Solas. Or—oh, wait—tell it to him." She jabbed a finger toward Varric, who had been enjoying a rare moment of peace. "Poor sod's practically meltin' under it."
Varric sighed. "Do we have to do this again, Red?" He cast a glance at Cassandra, who, to be fair, was still watching him with that cool, calculating look. "Look, Seeker, if it helps, I accept that you're mad at me. But at this point, you're just wasting energy trying to glare a dwarf into an early grave."
Cassandra scoffed, but Grace caught the flicker of amusement in her eyes.
Not that Sera was done.
She turned back 'round in her saddle, stretching her arms over her head like she had all the time in the world. "Bet it's 'cause he's pretty, yeah? Not that he's my type or anything -bleh, but you look like you'd like a manly-man men, innit? Hard to stay mad at a face like that. Shame 'bout the chest hair, though. Varric, ever think 'bout gettin' that sorted?"
Varric placed a hand over his heart. "Red, if I ever shave my chest, you'll be the first to know."
Grace let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. As much as the banter could be exhausting, she preferred it over the awkward silence that might've taken hold otherwise.
The days passed in a rhythm of travel, stories, and the occasional bickering. Varric, as always, spun his dramatic retellings—some of Kirkwall, others of their own adventures. Sera tossed in her own wildly exaggerated additions, usually turning any remotely dignified tale into something far less noble.
Cassandra, for the most part, remained unimpressed. But by the third night, something shifted.
They had made camp in a clearing, the fire crackling, sending sparks up into the dark sky. The scent of damp earth and pine hung heavy in the air, and in the distance, the low hoot of an owl echoed through the trees.
Most of their party had settled down for the night, but Cassandra stayed near the fire, sitting across from Varric. To Grace's surprise, the two of them were speaking in low voices—serious, but not hostile. She couldn't make out what was being said, but the tension between them seemed… less.
And in the morning?
Cassandra actually smirked—just a little—at one of Varric's stories.
Grace didn't comment, but she exchanged a glance with Sera, who waggled her brows in delight.
Maybe the journey had been good for them all.
But despite the camaraderie, Grace found herself more and more distracted. Every time a raven arrived, her heart leapt—only to sink again when it carried no message from Cullen.
Had she misread things? Had she pushed too far that night before their departure? Because their last interactions sucdenly felt like the unexpected wall he decided to put between them after Haven was crumbling. What if he's gotten worse?
She clenched her reins and fixed her gaze on the road ahead. No use dwelling on things she couldn't change.
Still, the memory lingered.
The way he had looked at her.
The way she imagined his lips would feel against hers.
But nothing ever happened, apart from shy glances and fleeting touches...
Was it duty holding him back? Or something else?
Grace exhaled slowly, willing herself to focus on the mission ahead.
Crestwood was only a day away.
And soon, they would meet Hawke's contact.
And then, just like that, they arrived in Crestwood, and her own duties took over once again.
There was no time to linger on personal crises when everything was happening too fast, as always. No time to dissect the look in Cullen's eyes the night she left, no time to wonder if she had imagined the way his fingers lingered on hers, no time for anything like that.
Because there were always more pressing matters.
They retook Caer Bronach. They met Tessa Hawke and her contact, who was actually a Grey Warden named Stroud and the things he told them made her stomach unsettled just thinking about it.
They drained the Crestwood dam. They descended into the caverns beneath the old village, where the air was thick with the scent of damp stone and decay, where the dead lurched and clawed and moaned, where demons surged from the Veil like a festering wound torn open.
For once, Grace was glad to let her emotions out—glad for the rush of lightning sparking at her fingertips, for the way her staff cracked against bone, for the satisfaction of cutting through the chaos with controlled, focused precision.
Just another day in the Inquisitor's office. The only thing that changed was who they were fighting.
And finally—finally—when few impossible days passed, when the village was quiet and the bodies burned, when her armor was scrubbed of filth and her boots were no longer sinking into the mud—there was time.
Time to sit beneath the cover of her tent, listening to the steady patter of rain against canvas.
Time to write.
.
Cullen,
There is always some crisis brewing anywhere we set our feet. The official report for you, Leliana, and Josie is enclosed.
We found the village of Crestwood under siege—undead corpses emerging from the lake nearby. You cannot imagine the stench of the walking drowned. It was the Fallow Mire all over again, and I really wish this was the last time I had to clean partially decomposed entrails off my boots. Ew.
Despite the grosness, I admit it was a welcome way to vent my emotions. Never underestimate hitting and disintegrating some corpses.
We solved the problem, but in doing so, we uncovered an even uglier truth. The Mayor flooded the old village on purpose—a calculated effort to rid himself of blight-infected refugees.
What a brilliant man. A perfect plan. Except for the minor detail of all the innocents caught in the disaster.
We need to bring him to justice. Unfortunately, the damned fool fled before we could snatch him. Sorry about that, by the way. But I'd appreciate it if you could dispatch a search party—he shouldn't get away with this.
Oh, and while I'm making requests—could you send some troops to be stationed at the keep we took? The position is too strategic to be left abandoned. I'll take it as a personal favor.
I hope you're feeling better.
G.
P.S. I am still waiting for your letter…
.
.
Skyhold – Cullen's Office
Cullen sat at his desk, Grace's letter spread open before him, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the parchment.
She was waiting for his letter.
Of course she was. He had meant to write—truly—but every time he sat down, the words failed him. It wasn't just the formalities of their work that held him back; those were easy enough. It was everything else.
Having plenty of time to think, now that she was gone, he had told himself he wouldn't overthink it, but he should have known better. Still, it was a relief to hear from her—to read her sharp observations and wry humor woven through the horrors she faced daily. He could picture her so clearly: sitting in her tent, reports spread out before her, sighing in exasperation at yet another inept leader's mistakes, tapping her quill against her chin as she wrote. How he wished—Maker, he wished—that he could be there.
She worried for him. He could sense it in the way she closed her letter.
Exhaling slowly, he rubbed his hand over his face before reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment. He had kept her waiting long enough.
.
My Lady Inquisitor,
Your request for troops to hold Caer Bronach has been approved. I'll ensure the search for Crestwood's former Mayor is handled swiftly—though I must admit, I am rather disappointed that you didn't get the satisfaction of dragging him back in chains yourself.
Your report was, as always, thorough and efficient—though I can't say I needed the detailed description of partially decomposed entrails. You truly have a gift for imagery.
On a different note, I'm curious how you knew that I was in need of a good chess partner. It seems you've assigned Dorian to keep an eye on me, though I imagine you knew he'd be the only one capable of engaging me in such a way. He is, in fact, quite the strategist… even if his taste in "dramatic flair" is a bit over the top. But, I admit, it is a welcome distraction.
As for your not-so-subtle postscript…
I did receive your note. And I did take the potion.
You were right—it helped. More than I expected.
I should have written sooner, I apologise, but—Maker, I don't know what to say to you sometimes.—
I keep trying to put it into words, but nothing feels sufficient.
Just—thank you.
For the potion. For your patience. For everything.
Be safe.
Cullen
P.S. If you keep using your magic as a means to "vent your emotions," remind me to assign you a sparring partner when you return. Preferably someone who isn't a corpse.
.
.
.
Cullen,
I thought we were past the apologies by now. (Another official report is attached)
As for Dorian, I'm not responsible for what he chooses to do with his free time (thank the Maker!). Though I might have casually mentioned that I've been concerned about you working a bit too much lately. So if he's been keeping you company, that's on him.
I'm glad to hear the potion worked. It means I'll finally be able to get some proper sleep myself.
As for Hawke's contact, he's a Warden, as I detailed in the report.
No trip back to Skyhold for us just yet though—we'll be heading south tomorrow. More woods, mud and business in Hinterlands… I never imagined I'd be traveling the world, though I suppose it's still exciting, if you overlook the whole 'crazed darkspawn magister and demons' situation.
If you don't mind me asking… How is Mrs. Rutherford handling your absence? That is, if you left someone behind in Kirkwall?
We'll likely be back by the end of the week.
See you soon,
G
.
.
.
My dear Gr- lady,
(something crossed and illegible)
(more crossed words, with "apologizing" standing out under the lines)
I would have written back sooner, but my babysitter is determined to fill up all the little free time I have. Mostly with chess, but tonight he insisted I go to the tavern with him and Bull. (I had to escape—it's late now.)
Remind me never to drink with those two again. And I would highly recommend you do the same. I'm not sure how or where that qunari acquired Seheron liquor, but Maker's breath, it tasted like lamp oil.
I admire your ability to find a silver lining in all this chaos. While I've never been fond of traveling, I think I understand the sentiment. In our line of work, we must grasp at any joy we can find, no matter how fleeting.
And to answer your question… There is no Mrs. Rutherford. Or rather, there never was one.
Safe travels, I (more crossed words)
Cullen
.
.
.
Cullen,
Dorian and Bull are a challenge to keep up with, aren't they? More practice with tavern mingling might help with that, you know? You should join us more often.
Thank you for your words… Yes, it does seem like our joys are too few or very far lately. That's exactly why I try to cherish even the smallest moments. Your letters, by the way, might just be one of them.
We've been delayed a bit, as our detour to the Hinterlands took an unexpected turn…
Varric received a concerning message about Red lyrium being smuggled through there, and I've enclosed the official report again. We dealt with a few shipments of the stuff. Unfortunately, one of the Red lyrium cache is located in—I can't believe I'm actually writing this—a high dragon nesting lair. She is… massive.
From the charred, red lyrium-encrusted corpses, I assume the beast solved our problem of the Templars being there. But the lyrium still remains. And I really don't want to imagine what a Red-lyrium-infected dragon would look like.
Well… to be fair, we already know what one looks like. Even more reason to deal with this one and her spawn.
Please don't let Bull know, though, because I'm afraid he'll set out with the Chargers for a hunting trip as soon as he hears about it and hell be very disappointed when he finds out they're late to the party.
Regards,
G.
P.S. I figured if this makes you mad at me, you'll have some time to process it. Sorry. We will be careful. I promise.
.
Another note from was carried in by panting scout, who apparently changed horses at every possible spot. The script looked hurried and as she figured - profoundly angry in his own clipped way, but also... worried?
.
Inquisitor,
I have to say, I can't quite believe what I'm reading. You and your party actually approached a high dragon? That's beyond reckless. Do you realise that - and I honestly can't believe I have to even remind you - that you, with the Anchor and all, are our only way to succeed in this?
I cannot allow you to take such risks, not with just the four of you. This is not something I can simply overlook. When you return, we will have a serious discussion about this.
Please, stay safe. No more dragons, I mean it.
Cullen
Then another note arrived the next day:
.
My Lady Inquisitor,
I must apologize if my last letter came across too strongly.
It's just… you can't imagine how worried I am. You can be reckless sometimes, and while I admire your bravery, you're too important to be taking those kinds of risks. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you.
That said, I know you can handle yourself, even when I'd rather keep you wrapped in cotton wool. Your letters… well, they've become a highlight of my day too, whether I like to admit it or not.
I'll be looking forward to seeing you soon.
Cullen
.
.
Eluvia was trotting beside Cassandra's horse. They rode in silence for quite a long time already, everybody, even Sera, keeping to themselves, weary from the long and eventful journey.
What Warden Stroud told them made Grace wonder whether they will be able to deal with the situation at all. It looked like there would be very heated debate in Skyhold about what problem to resolve first. Cullen's report about red lyrium Templars was important... Not to mention the Orlais royal ball which was almost upon them. But this? Wardens disappearing? The Calling they all started to hear?
Calling somehow caused by Corypheus and the suspicious inner war amongst the Grey Warden order, it simply sounded ominous…
They encountered more Wardens in Crestwood, the patrol was searching for Warden Stroud, as they were commanded by Warden Clarel. The Warden-Commander Clarel, who was gathering Grey Warden order in the desert of western Orlais which made Grace's bones tingle with unease even harder… Something very wrong was on.
Not to forget there was a huge dragon's head tied to the back of one of the cargo mules. She rubbed her mostly healed thigh and winced as she tried to stretch the limb stiff from the long ride.
The dragon got her good, it was only a matter of luck or Maker's divine intervention, that her artery remained intact. She made a personal note to practice more field healing with Solas, so she could prevent outcomes like this. There will be a notable scar as a reminder anyway.
At least her plan about telling Cullen in advance played through. She knew that he would object, but his last letter was safely in her pocket, close to her heart.
… how worried I am… I admire your bravery… highlight of my day…
Grace sighed. What would she give to actually hear him say those words?
The towers of Skyhold finally emerged from within the mountains and she felt a weird sense of elation. Home. They were home again.
The horn announcing the Inquisitor's return echoed across the valley as Grace's horse set hooves onto the cobbled bridge. The fortress loomed ahead, but her eyes sought something else—someone else. Instinctively, her gaze lifted toward Cullen's tower, anticipation curling warm and low in her belly.
And there he was.
Cullen stood on the bridge before his office, armor gleaming in the midday sun, though it was the warmth in his eyes that sent a different kind of heat through her. He dipped his head in greeting, raising a gloved hand in salute—formal, composed, ever the Commander. Her potion worked then. Good.
But there was something softer in the curve of his lips, something that tightened around her chest in a way she refused to examine too closely.
She waved at him before gesturing toward the main keep. His brows lifted slightly before he raised a hand, fingers spread—five?
Grace nodded and responded with a simple thumbs-up. Five minutes. He nodded briefly as well.
From the corner of her eye, she caught movement. Cassandra stood near the stables, passing her reins to a stable hand while murmuring something to Varric. He only chuckled, shaking his head, before flicking a glance toward Cullen—who had yet to look away from the Inquisitor's retreating form.
"What?" Sera's sharp voice rang through the courtyard, followed by a burst of laughter. "We only just got back, and Inky's already got a date with Commander Uptight?"
Grace smirked. "Oh yes. Not just him—Leliana and Josephine, too. It'll be quite the gathering. You should join us."
Sera scrunched up her nose. "Ugh, no thanks. If I wanted to be bored to death, I'd throw myself at Viv." She waggled her eyebrows. "Besides, I bet Cullen's just itchin' to get ya alone, eh?"
Grace ignored the little jab about Cullen and gave an exaggerated shrug, her smirk unwavering. "Suit yourself."
"Nah, I'm good." Sera cackled, tossing a wave over her shoulder as she wandered toward the tavern.
Grace exhaled, turning her attention to Eluvia. She ran a soothing hand down the mare's neck before passing the reins to a stable boy, whispering small apologies for the long journey.
There was a debriefing to attend, and she made her way swiftly toward the keep, eager to be rid of the dust and exhaustion clinging to her skin.
The underground halls were a welcome reprieve from the bustle of the main hall, where Orlesian nobles no doubt awaited her with smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes. She hummed softly as she half walked half limped, letting the sound echo in the vast stone corridors, a small moment of peace before she was once again the Inquisitor.
She ascended the stairs, and opened the door to the corridor. The war room doors were closed, the dim torchlight casting long shadows across the stone walls In contrast to the sun pouring in through the huge window. Grace exhaled softly, savoring the quiet before the inevitable whirlwind of politics and planning. She glanced over the parchments in her hand, humming absently to herself as she reviewed them.
She barely took three steps forward before she nearly ran into a broad chest.
Warm, amused amber eyes caught hers, and her breath hitched when a familiar scent of citrus, leather and weapon polish hit her.
Cullen.
He stood just ahead, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Please, don't stop on my account," he murmured, the warmth in his voice betraying his amusement.
Heat crept up her neck. Maker's breath. "I—uh, didn't realize you were here."
His smirk deepened. "Clearly."
The warmth in his voice sent a different kind of heat through her, something deeper, something she should not be entertaining. She needed to say something, anything to break the weight of it.
"Hi," she blurted, immediately wanting to throw herself into the Fade.
Cullen let out a quiet chuckle, stepping closer. "Hello, my lady." His gaze flickered over her, unreadable for a moment before settling back on her eyes. "What was the song?" He knew exactly what song that was. It has been etched into his memory as his mother sang it in the kitchen, while preparing their meals. It made his heart ache.
She shifted slightly, suddenly very aware of the slight ache in her leg—the one she had been careful to hide since they arrived. "Oh, just some Fereldan tune a bard played at one of the taverns we visited. Nothing special."
His brows lifted. "A bard, you say? And here I thought you spent your time out there recklessly hunting dragons."
Grace huffed, narrowing her eyes at him. "Reckless? Please. It was a perfectly coordinated effort."
He gave her a pointed look, then glanced down, gaze lingering—just for a second—at the way she shifted her stance, favoring one leg ever so slightly. Too slightly for most to notice. But Cullen noticed everything.
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he met her eyes again, his voice quieter now. "You're back."
Something about the way he said it made her stomach flip. "You look like you're better," she said, softer than intended. "And the fortress didn't crumble without me, I assume?"
He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "No, it didn't. But…" His voice trailed off, as if hesitating, before he met her gaze fully as he held the heavy door open for her and they both entered the war room, walking together towards the map table. "It wasn't quite the same." Cullen admitted and stopped to look at her again.
Grace swallowed. Maker, he was standing so close now. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his fingers twitched at his sides as if resisting the urge to reach for something—her? The thought sent a pleasant shiver up her spine.
"Well, someone had to come back and make sure you weren't suffering in silence," she teased lightly, trying to ignore the sudden warmth in her chest.
Cullen exhaled, his amusement softening into something more intense. "Oh I am certainly not suffering. Not after your potions. Thank you. And as much as I appreciate your help, someone has to remind you that charging headfirst into dragons is, in fact, not in the Inquisitor's job description."
Grace smirked. "I'm fairly certain it is. It's just in the fine print."
He shook his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. "And here I thought you'd at least pretend to have learned your lesson."
"Where's the fun in that?" she teased, tilting her chin up at him. "Besides, you don't look that upset. If anything, I'd say you're rather—oh, what's the word?—relieved."
Cullen's expression faltered for half a second, as if caught, before he let out a slow breath. "Perhaps," he admitted, voice dropping to something lower, something more dangerous. "Though I would have preferred it if you returned unscathed."
Grace's breath caught, the space between them charged. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, aching to reach for him. But that was a dangerous thought, wasn't it? A dangerous desire. She had to admit to herself though, that she missed him. A lot. And now that he was towering in front of her…
Cullen's gaze flickered, and for one maddening moment, she thought he might step closer, might cross that invisible line they both danced around so carefully.
But then the heavy doors of the war room creaked slowly open.
Grace jerked back slightly, and Cullen straightened, his expression smoothing into something neutral—almost too neutral—as the sound of footsteps filled the chamber.
Josephine entered first, her keen eyes flickering between them with a knowing smile, followed closely by Leliana and Cassandra.
"Ah, Inquisitor, Commander," Josephine greeted smoothly. "I trust your journey was... Ahem… eventful?"
Leliana's sharp gaze lingered on Grace a little too long, and Cassandra crossed her arms, glancing between them as if she had just interrupted something significant.
Grace cleared her throat, forcing an easy smile and a shrug. "Oh, you know. Just another day, another heretic and some monsters. And we just happened to add a dragon to the mix."
Cullen exhaled quietly beside her, running a gloved hand over his face before muttering under his breath, "Maker help me."
If the knowing glance Josephine exchanged with Leliana was anything to go by, Maker wasn't the only one aware of what had just happened.
Grace sighed as she sank onto the plush armchair near her fireplace, her damp hair curling against her shoulders. The warmth of the bath still lingered on her skin, the scent of lavender and rose clinging faintly to her as she pulled her robe tighter around herself. Every inch of her had been scrubbed clean of the dust and grime from the road, but she still felt the weight of the journey in her limbs, a familiar exhaustion tempered by the satisfaction of a mission completed.
The dragon's head was mounted in the courtyard now—a trophy of their victory. And yet, as her fingers absently traced the rim of the goblet in her hand, her thoughts weren't on the beast they had slain. They drifted instead to the Western Approach, to what lay ahead.
It would be a harsh, unrelenting land, even less forgiving than the ones they had traveled through before. The thought of it sent a thrill through her—not fear, exactly, but something close to anticipation. There was so much work to do. So many pieces of the puzzle still shifting, still uncertain. They decided to wait with red Templars, to gain more intel in their moves. Wardens were still a priority though, so their first destination was to be to the desert of Western Approach. And yet, before they could cross the wastes, there was Halamshiral.
Grace exhaled slowly, letting her head fall back against the chair as she stared up at the high wooden beams of her ceiling. Halamshiral. The thought of it made her shoulders tense. She could handle the battlefield, the weight of a staff in her hand, the rush of a fight. But the Game? The masked smiles and veiled threats, the endless scheming—it was an entirely different kind of war.
And she had to dress for it.
Her eyes flickered toward the mannequin standing near her wardrobe, where her ballgown had been pinned and altered in her absence. The fabric gleamed in the dim afternoon light, rich and elegant, entirely unlike the leathers and armor she was accustomed to.
She would have to endure the final fittings tomorrow. Stand still while the seamstresses fussed, while Josephine fretted over every detail, ensuring that Grace looked every inch the noble leader Orlais expected her to be.
A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. Cullen would probably hate it there. The ball, the pomp and ceremony—it wasn't his world any more than it was hers.
Her stomach twisted slightly at the thought of him, of the way he had looked at her earlier in the war room, something more hanging heavy between them yet again. It was reckless to think about it. About him. And yet, alone in the quiet of her chambers, she felt as if the walls around her were closing in.
Distraction.
She desperately needed that. So without hesitation, she grabbed her casual clothes. Simple black tunic, brown leather pants, with an addition of a brown underbust corset and a cozy velvety overcoat in deep blue. She never dwelled on such things, but Grace smirked with satisfaction with Josie's choice for her wardrobe.
Grace yanked on her boots, fastening the laces with more force than necessary. She needed a drink. Something strong, something distracting, and—most importantly—she needed the company of people who wouldn't spend the evening plotting tactics forthe next move.
She stepped out into the cool mountain air, the comforting weight of Skyhold's stone walls surrounding her. The torches flickered in the crisp night, and above her, the stars stretched endlessly over the Frostbacks. Skyhold was home now.
And home meant knowing exactly where to find trouble.
She pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the Herald's Rest, and the noise hit her immediately. Laughter, the clinking of tankards, the low hum of the bard's lute in the corner. The scent of ale and firewood filled the air, warm and familiar.
There they were—exactly as she expected.
Varric, comfortably leaning back in his chair, spinning a tale for a group of recruits already hanging on his every word. Dorian, draped over his seat like he belonged on a throne, swirling a glass of wine in one hand. The Iron Bull, taking up enough space for three men, loudly accepting a challenge from one of his Chargers.
Grace smirked and strode toward them. Dorian was the first to notice her arrival, his sharp eyes catching hers before he smirked over the rim of his glass.
"Ah, our fearless leader graces us with her presence," he drawled. "Tell me, did Josephine and Vivienne finally tire of forcing you into dresses, or did you simply flee the scene?"
Grace plucked his glass from his hand and took a long sip. "Had to remind myself what real wine tastes like after all that Tevene pomp you stocked me with."
Dorian gasped in mock offense. "That was Antivan red, you barbarian."
Varric chuckled, pulling out a chair for her. "You look like someone who's either about to start a fight or drink half the tavern dry."
Grace sank into the chair with a sigh. "Why not both?"
Bull let out a booming laugh. "Now that's the spirit I like to see, boss."
——
The night wore on in warmth and laughter. Drinks flowed, stories were told, and the weight of the Inquisition's burdens seemed a little lighter.
And then the doors slammed open.
Sera stumbled in, already tipsy, a wild grin on her face. "Oi! You lot! You thought you could drink without me?"
Dorian smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."
She plopped down next to Grace, swiping a tankard from the nearest table. "Also, you owe me money."
Grace blinked. "I what?"
Varric coughed into his drink, while Dorian merely grinned. Bull leaned forward, clearly enjoying whatever was about to unfold.
"Oh yeah," Sera continued, swaying slightly. "We have bets. Big bets."
Grace narrowed her eyes. "What kind of bets?"
Sera's grin widened. "On you an' Ser Uptight. Commander Strutty-pants."
Grace's stomach dropped. "…You bet on me and Cullen?"
Varric smirked, scratching his stubble. "Eeh, Not just Red. Pretty much the whole lot of us."
Dorian nodded, sipping yet another glass of wine. "Blackwall put in a respectable wager, Cassandra claimed it was improper but still placed a bet, and Solas—well, he said something cryptic and handed over his coin too."
Sera cackled. "You should've seen Cass' face when she bet on 'proper courtship' and I bet on shagging in a supply closet."
Grace groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "I hate all of you."
Bull chuckled. "Oh, it gets better."
She peeked up, wary. "How?"
Dorian grinned. "You see, darling, the problem is—"
"—You totally haven't done anything yet," Sera finished gleefully. "And now everyone is annoyed 'cause they lost their bets."
Grace let her head thunk against the table. "Maker take me."
Varric clapped her back. "Come on, Specter. If you play your cards right, maybe we can set up a new bet and count you in."
Grace lifted her head just enough to glare at him. "Don't you dare."
The night spiraled into more teasing, more drinks, and more laughter than she'd had in weeks. And for all the mortification, she had to admit—there was something comforting in knowing that no matter how tangled her feelings were, she wasn't the only one who saw them.
It wasn't but an hour later when Dorian nudged her side tenderly and whispered. "So, Gracie darling, care to really talk about it?
Grace groaned dramatically, but there was apparently no escaping it. The damage was done. The entire inner circle had not only been betting on her and Cullen but was personally invested in the outcome. It was ridiculous. It was infuriating.
And worse—it was hilarious.
She lifted her head just enough to glare at the smirking faces around her and shook her head at Dorian. "So, what exactly were the stakes?"
Dorian, ever the picture of smug delight, steepled his fingers. "Oh, you know. The usual. Coin, favors, the right to gloat—"
"Bragging rights," Varric interjected. "The best kind of currency."
Sera grinned, nudging Grace's arm. "And I won a fresh batch of that fancy Orlesian peaches few weeks ago from Joss. Worth it."
Grace groaned again. "Why would Josephine get involved in this?"
Dorian chuckled. "She didn't really bet, mind you—far too proper for that. But she was very interested in the odds."
"She wanted to know the odds?"
Varric grinned. "Oh yeah. Said it was 'relevant diplomatic intelligence.'"
Grace let her forehead thunk against the table again. "I'm leaving all of you behind next time I go on a mission."
Bull laughed. "You say that, but you like us."
Grace mumbled into the wood, "I'm regretting it."
Sera leaned in closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Sooo… what's the deal, then? You and Strutty? Gonna happen, yeah?"
Grace lifted her head slowly, giving Sera a flat look. "Maker's breath, do you think I know?"
Sera scoffed. "Pfft. Of course you do. You just need a little push."
Dorian raised his glass. "I could arrange that, you know. A little strategic maneuvering, some inconveniently placed mistletoe—"
"—a locked door—" Varric added helpfully.
"—a sudden romantic candlelit training session—"
"You all need hobbies," Grace muttered, rubbing her temples.
Varric shrugged. "You are our hobby."
"Apparently," she huffed, but there was no real venom in it.
Bull grinned, leaning his massive arms on the table. "Alright, boss. Real talk. You into him or what?"
The table went silent.
Grace felt the weight of their stares, the unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air. Of course she was into him...
Her mind flashed to the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, the warmth of his voice when he said her name. The way his smile—his real smile—felt like something stolen, something just for her.
The way she missed him when she was away.
"…I don't know," she muttered, because admitting anything else felt like setting herself on fire.
Sera groaned loudly. "Oh, come on. You so do!"
Dorian smirked. "Darling, that was the most unconvincing lie I've ever heard, and I grew up in Minrathous."
Varric chuckled. "Just saying—you could save us all a lot of time and just kiss him already."
Grace grabbed the nearest empty tankard and chucked it at him. He dodged, laughing.
"I hate you all," she declared.
But she was laughing too.
The night stretched on in a haze of laughter, teasing, and far too much ale. Grace found herself leaning against Bull's arm at some point, her head spinning pleasantly as the warmth of the fire and the buzz of alcohol softened the sharp edges of her thoughts.
They were awful, every last one of them, but damn if she didn't love them for it.
Sera was currently trying to get Blackwall to admit his own past flings—which he staunchly refused to do, much to her frustration. Solas, against all odds, had joined them at some point, sipping his wine with a bemused expression, occasionally tossing in a dry remark that made Varric chuckle. Even Cassandra, who had spent most of the evening pretending she wasn't listening, had cracked a smile more than once.
It was nice. Normal, even. For a little while, Grace let herself forget about everything outside this room. The ball. The war. The fact that her entire group of comrades was apparently invested in her love life.
Unfortunately, Sera wasn't about to let that last one slide.
"Oi," the elf piped up suddenly, nudging Grace hard enough that she nearly tipped over. "What exactly is the bloody holdup?"
Grace blinked at her, sluggish from the drink. "What?"
Sera rolled her eyes. "You and Strutty! Wot's the problem? He's into you. He gets all twitchy when you're around, it's hilarious. Just grab him by the collar and—" she made an obscene kissing sound, complete with exaggerated hand gestures.
Grace groaned. "Sera, it's not that simple."
"It is," Dorian chimed in. "You are just making it difficult."
"Exactly!" Sera jabbed a finger in Grace's direction. "You like him. He likes you. You both get all moony-eyed when you think no one's looking. I bet even Cassandra's noticed, and she doesn't care about anything fun!"
Cassandra scowled. "I care about—" She cut herself off with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Fine. Yes. It is obvious."
Grace stared at her. "You too?"
"Maker's breath, yes! You are insufferable about it!" Cassandra threw up her hands. "It's like watching a badly written Orlesian romance novel!"
Varric grinned. "Speaking of which—should I start working on Hard in Hightown: The Commander's Reckoning?"
Grace almost upended unother drink on his head.
Bull chuckled. "Look, we're just sayin', Boss—if you wanna jump his bones, do it. And if you don't, at least let us know so we can stop betting on when it'll happen."
"So you still have bets running?"
Sera snorted. "Course we do! The pot's huge now! Even Krem put in a guess today!"
Grace groaned, dropping her head onto the table. "You are all awful."
Dorian patted her shoulder. "We're awful because we love you, darling."
She peeked up at him. "Love me less."
"Not a chance."
She sighed, sitting back up, but she couldn't quite smother her smile. They were ridiculous, all of them, but they were hers.
And maybe… maybe they weren't entirely wrong.
Not that she was going to admit it there anytime soon.
"Alright," she said, standing a little unsteadily. "His is it. I need air. And less of you lot."
Sera cackled. "Pfft. You're just gonna go find Strutty, aren't you?"
Grace scowled. "No."
Varric grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Uh-huh. Sure, Specter. You do that."
She flipped him off as she walked out.
The cold night air hit Grace like a welcome slap as she stumbled out of the tavern, the warmth of ale and laughter still buzzing through her veins. Skyhold's courtyard stretched before her, vast and quiet, the contrast making her head spin.
Maker, she was profoundly tipsy.
She swayed slightly as she rubbed her face, her breath curling in the chilly air. The night was crisp, the kind that should clear a person's head—but she wasn't sure anything could untangle the mess of thoughts swirling inside hers.
Because of course her friends had bet on her and Cullen.
The memory of Sera's gleeful cackling, Dorian's smug little smirk, even Cassandra's vague look of guilt—it all made her stomach flip. Not in anger. No, not even close. She was… embarrassed. Warmed by the sheer ridiculousness of it, by the fact that they had all noticed what she tried so hard to ignore.
And what made it worse—so much worse—was that they weren't wrong.
She groaned, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks.
Sera's teasing had been merciless. "Oi, don't go all quiet now, Inky. Just admit it—you wanna climb him like a sodding tree."
Maker's breath, she had choked on her drink at that.
And then there was Varric, leaning back with a knowing grin. "Well, I guess it was only a matter of time. Shame, though—I was hoping to hold onto my winnings a bit longer."
She had laughed it off. Smirked. Played along. But then—then Dorian had given her that look. The one that said he knew far more than she was comfortable with. The one that hinted that maybe, just maybe, Cullen wasn't as indifferent as he pretended to be.
That had been her breaking point.
So she had escaped before anything more could be said—before she could be talked into revealing things she wasn't ready to admit, even to herself.
Another breath. Another step forward.
She wasn't angry with them. How could she be? They cared—in their own chaotic, slightly invasive way. And honestly… the thought that they were all invested in her happiness made something warm settle in her chest.
But Cullen—
She squeezed her eyes shut. No. Not tonight.
She just needed sleep. Tomorrow, she'd deal with whatever knowing looks and teasing remarks came her way. For now, she just needed the safety of her quarters, away from prying eyes and her own traitorous thoughts.
And all the while, from the high window of his tower, a pair of amber eyes watched her go.
Cullen had seen her from his tower.
It had been a long evening of reports, a steady stream of messengers bringing dispatches from the missions. The usual work. But as he was closing the door while the last of them departed and his office finally emptied, his eyes caught on a lone figure standing in the moonlight.
Grace.
Even from this distance, he could tell she had been headed from the tavern. She swayed slightly where she stood, wrapped in her blue coat, her arms crossed as if she were trying to hold onto some stray thought before it slipped away.
Cullen exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. He should go back inside. He should ignore the way his chest tightened at the sight of her, ignore the way he had spent too much of the evening wondering where she had gone after the war room meeting. He should turn away.
But instead, he watched.
From his perch, he saw her shift, muttering something under her breath before rubbing a hand over her face. Then, without warning, she turned on her heel and marched—no, walked unsteadily—toward the main hall.
Cullen sighed. That was enough of that.
By the time he made his way down, she was nowhere to be seen, presumably tucked away in her quarters for the night. Still, he hesitated at the threshold of the keep, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
He had no right to seek her out. No right to whatever had stirred in his chest at seeing her out there alone.
And yet, as he turned back toward his own tower, the thought of her lingered.
The way she had frowned at the ground, deep in thought.
The way she had looked up at the stars like they might hold some answer…
He never noticed a certain Tevene mage watching the scene unravel from the corner of the courtyard. Little did he knew, that Dorian had plans of his own...
Next noon, the crisp mountain air carried the scent of wildflowers and pine as the sun peeked from behind the peaks. In Skyhold's garden, between the ivy-clad stone walls and under the soft everglow of lanterns, a wooden table stood with an orderly chessboard between two very different men. They have been playing for some time already...
Cullen sat rigidly, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the board, fingers tapping absently against the side of a knight. Across from him, Dorian was the picture of relaxation, reclining lazily on the bench with a goblet of wine in hand, eyes flicking between the pieces and Cullen's increasingly brooding expression.
"I must say, Commander," Dorian drawled, idly swirling his wine, "your brooding levels have reached new heights. Very brooding. Devastatingly brooding, even. One might suspect a certain Inquisitor is to blame. But she is back! So that makes even less sense."
Cullen's fingers twitched where they rested on the board. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Dorian scoffed, mischief clear on his face. "Oh, please. I've seen you watching her." He moved a pawn forward with an elegant flick of his wrist, then steepled his fingers. "The way your eyes linger just a little too long, the way you straighten up when she walks by, like some knight in shining armor—oh wait, you are a knight in shining armor. How very convenient."
Cullen exhaled sharply, moving a bishop with far more force than necessary. "She deserves better."
Dorian blinked, then let out a long, suffering sigh. "Ah, of course. The noble self-sacrifice. How utterly predictable. Indulge me. Better than what exactly?"
Cullen exhaled slowly. "Better than… this." He gestured vaguely to himself, to his armor, to the scars lining his hands. "She's the Inquisitor. She could have anyone—someone whole. Someone who hasn't…" He trailed off, jaw tightening.
Dorian scoffed and adjusted his cuffs before dropping his voice to something softer. "You do realize that Grace is more than capable of deciding what she wants, don't you?"
Cullen did not reply, he just dropped his gaze to the chest board.
Dorian regarded him for a long moment before leaning forward. "You think that at this point she has no idea who you are? What you have been through?" He shook his head. "Grace isn't some delicate flower looking for the perfect suitor. She sees people as they are. She gets the work done. And yet, despite all your brooding and self-flagellation, she still looks at you the way she does."
Cullen swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the fallen chess piece. He felt that Dorian was at least partially right, because things have rapidly escalated between him and Grace, but a part of him refused to acknowledge that.
Cullen's jaw tightened. "She's the Inquisitor," he muttered. "She carries the weight of Thedas on her shoulders. She shouldn't have to—"
"To concern herself with you?" Dorian interrupted, arching a brow. "Funny, I seem to recall her being rather fond of you. Quite a lot of fondness, actually." He smirked as Cullen's shoulders stiffened. "She talks about you, you know."
That caught Cullen off guard. He looked up, frowning slightly. "She does?"
"Oh, endlessly. Usually with exasperation, but there's a certain warmth to it. Very tragic, very pining." Dorian rested his chin in his hand, watching Cullen carefully. "She likes you, Cullen. But if you keep standing around feeling unworthy, she might not be waiting for you to man up forever."
Cullen exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. He wanted to deny it, to dismiss the thought entirely—but it was too late. Dorian had planted the seed, and now it was taking root.
Silence settled between them for a moment before Dorian sighed and moved his queen. "Well, if nothing else, at least this has been entertaining."
Cullen stared at the board, then—without hesitation—moved his knight. "Checkmate."
Dorian froze, eyes flicking between the pieces, then let out a dramatic groan. "Maker's breath, you're insufferable."
A rare, small smile tugged at the corner of Cullen's lips as he leaned back. "You were too focused on distracting me."
Dorian sighed, pushing back from the table with a stretch. "You're a man of duty, Cullen, I'll give you that. But duty and happiness aren't mutually exclusive. And for someone so obsessed with protecting her, you seem awfully determined to ignore the one thing that might make her happy."
Cullen said nothing.
Dorian chuckled, lifting his goblet again. "Just something to think about, Commander. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have a date with a bottle of red to cure my hangover." As he reached the garden path, he tossed one last remark over his shoulder.
"Oh, and do let me know when you're ready to lose again."
Dorian's laughter echoed as he disappeared into the halls, leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts.
Maker help him.
The Tevinter might actually have a point.