Chapter Text
Thom leans against the tree trunk and looks up into the sky. If he had hoped that the Breach would get less alien, he has sorely misunderstood the nature of how eldritch this entire situation was. He watches the guard rotation move up the road to the old bridge and then back again on evening rounds, grateful for the predictability of it, the saneness of that routine.
The ale that he had after dinner leeched out of his system hours ago, and the flask of brandy in his chest pocket is a pleasant, reassuring weight. But, too often he has used the bottom of a bottle as a way to understand the world around him and he would have this time be different, if he can. He pats his gambeson, feels the metal press into the linen of his undershirt.
They have been back barely more than a day and he has not seen anything of Dorothea. The first day had not been a surprise: there was business to tend to, of course. But this morning she had walked to the parade ground and he watched her hesitate on the edge of the horse encampment. But, after a moment, she had turned firmly and moved straight into the village and not come back out. He had waited on the edge of the training ring, near the forge, for the rest of the day, hoping she would come back out. The Seeker and the Commander had been hard at work all afternoon in drills and working with runners and workers to erect tents. He had heard from one of the Scouts who had ridden in hard just before dinner that the mages from Redcliffe—the main thrust of the force—were no more than two days out. The village is fit to bursting with anticipation.
He has never had much to do with mages before the last few months. Oh, he’s encountered the occasional hedge witch or wildling, bought his share of clandestine healing potions, but nothing like dealing with Dorothea, or an Apostate like Solas, a Circle Mage like Mme. de Fer, an Altus like Pavus. If he had been placing a bet before they came back from Redcliffe, he would have assumed that the advisors would welcome the help and the chance to pull in the wild force of magic in Thedas. But, the closer their party got back to Haven, the tenser Varric got. Finally, only a day out, Thom had confronted the dwarf, asked him point blank what was going on. Since coming back from the tear in time, Dorothea had been nigh on catatonic and Dorian swung manically from exuberance to sullenness; whatever the dwarf knew, Thom was determined to know it, to protect Dorothea, if he could. The idea that the Seeker and the Commander might try to wrest away control of the Inquisition’s forces, or that they would break away with the army and head in search of the Templars . . . it was a wild tale of possibilities Varric wove. Fantastical, even; except that for an old soldier like Thom he had seen it before when the high command splits and the military takes it into their heads and hands to be the right—as well as the might—in the world.
It was the other reason why Thom had not ventured into the village in search of Dorothea at dinner, choosing to stay close to the army encampment mess tents. He had eaten with a group of soldiers, fresh out of the sparring grounds, who were supping with their captains. He had enjoyed the easy camaraderie of military men and women, taking their ease at the end of a long training day. Some of them seemed aware that the mage alliance had been made, but none appeared to have any indication that they were on the march. It was not an unpromising sign.
Of course, if it was Thom doing the leaving, he would wait until plans were under way to march on the Breach and use that as an opportunity to pack up the military encampment and put it on the move before the Nightingale could articulate a change. But, he also knows that, unlike himself, the Commander is not a complete bastard.
Out of the corner of his eye, Thom sees the man himself come abreast of the little hut next to the forge. He stands there, the light from the windows casting his profile into dimness. His hands are at rest on his sword and he scans the woods. Thom wonders and has his suspicion confirmed when the fair-haired man slides his gaze to the rise he is on, notices Thom, and begins to turn to the trees where Thom sits.
As the Commander begins to climb the rise he calls to the guards down the end of the lane, raising a salutation from the men. Thom shifts and straightens his back against the tree he leans against; his palms begin to lightly sweat and he itches to stand and prepare to draw. But he disciplines himself to remain sitting and wait for the Commander to approach.
The former Templar stops a few feet away, just shy of the crest of the roll of the landscape where Thom sits. It is a courtesy, Thom realizes, as it puts the other man at near eye level instead of looming over him.
“Good evening, Commander,” Thom calls into the night.
“Good evening, Ser Warden,” the younger man calls back respectfully. He can’t be more than 35, Thom muses, so he is at least ten years Thom’s junior; but what Thom may lack in speed in the sparring ring, he makes up for with watchful cunning. They both got that question out of the way the first week Thom was in Haven, and the two have had a cordial relationship since. The Commander had invited Thom to demonstrate many of the feint techniques he had used to their draw. Too many years of watching his back for the hangman’s noose left Thom with wary senses for danger and a strong willingness to fight dirty, always useful things to know on a battlefield.
His senses, though, tell him that caution is unwarranted here: the Commander’s reason to be here is not clear to Thom, but it isn’t to challenge him. “How can I be of service to you, Ser Rutherford?”
The man gestures to the ground near Thom and Thom wordlessly invites with his hand for the other man to take his ease. He does so, saying as he lowers himself to the ground, “If titles are to be used, then just Commander, please, but I would be pleased for you to call me Cullen.”
Thom is taken aback by the informality of his tone, but then he realizes he has never been with the man alone, not out of direct hearing and sight of his army. Here on the hill outcrop, they are quite alone in the dark and wyrd light of the Breach. “Gordon, then, Cullen,” and he holds out his hand to shake it. The Commander slides off his glove from his right hand and returns the gesture. He then turns to look out into the night, holding the glove in his bare hand, rubbing the stitching seam along the knuckles.
“How are you fairing since your return from Redcliffe, Gordon?” The Commander’s tone is soft, but Thom does not fall into a false impression that this is a welfare call. He weighs his words carefully.
“Redcliffe was successful enough. The Nightingale’s people moved into the castle on schedule and supported us as we confronted Alexius. We got out with our lives and we came home with allies and a prisoner: it was a good day, Commander.”
“Ah, yes, Cassandra and I could not have asked for a better outcome. All of our assets worked well together in the field, coordinated their objectives, and came home. I’m sure you’ve heard that our new allies travel to us even now. But,” the Commander clears his throat, “that was not to what I referred. Varric seems impervious to death and destruction—he would have to be since he followed around in Hawke’s wake—” Cullen says in an almost aside, “but Dorian is even now three sheets to the wind in the tavern and taking it all rather hard. I simply wondered how you fared with what you’d seen.”
Thom almost chuckles, but he refrains from displaying the amusement that is in his mind. The Commander is wondering if he is drunk. “My flask is still quite full, Cullen, if you’d like a nightcap . . .” and Thom moves the flask from his pocket, prepares to hand it across.
But Cullen stays the action with a hand in the air. “No, thank you. I certainly hope I have not caused offense in asking,” Thom grunts wordlessly, the smile now playing on his lips to show no hard feelings, as he re-pockets the flask, “I just wanted to seek out your help, if you would be willing,” Cullen finishes.
“If there are things to be done to help the Inquisition, then I would see it done, Commander. I have sworn my life to the Herald’s cause, and I would not renegotiate that vow,” Thom speaks with fervent determination, the sound of the guards along the road the only sound in the distance: the forge has been bedded down for the night and Harritt has called the day for the apprentices.
So it takes Thom by surprise when the Commander says cautiously: “Is that usual for a Grey Warden? To swear allegiances outside defending against the Blight?”
The question is spoken softly, but it is pointed and Thom immediately realizes his mistake.
Shit. Think fast, Rainier, or this will all be fucking done by sunrise.
“No. It isn’t Commander. But there are times when a man cannot simply sit by and watch others defend the weak and do nothing himself. Wardens expect the rest of the world to dance when the Blight sings the tune; but there is no Blight right now, Cullen, just a bloody big hole in the sky and a young, slip of a mage girl who has enough heart to believe she can make the world better for it. I will not sit idly by.”
Thom watches the other man’s expression and feels the moment in the dark when he relaxes. “I would not ask you to, Gordon. In fact, I am hoping you can help the Herald. I just came from retrieving her off the mountainside. She has headed back to her cabin, but I do not think she should be on her own.
“She is in need of a friend. I was hoping you might check in on her and let her talk through it.”
Thom’s head spins with the request. “Are you asking me to make a social call? Isn’t that more the Ambassador’s area than yours?”
Cullen stiffens at the sound of the laughter in Thom’s tone, but he simply says: “She is our head and the face of our Alliance with the mages. I do not think that either the Lady Seeker or myself could manage their cooperation as she has.
“If that were not enough, she is the most important weapon against this Elder One and if those pressures weren’t enough, the fate of Orlais may rely on her ability to negotiate around a civil war 20 years in the making.
“I am the Commander here and I will see to the morale of all of my soldiers. I worry for the resilience of her mind in the face of the strength of her will and the task set for her.” Cullen turns in the night to look at Thom, “Will you help her, Gordon?”
“Why me?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think better of them. He knows why, but he wants someone else—even this soldier—to confirm it before he blunders in.
“Because she cares for you, I think; it has not gone unnoticed by Cassandra or myself.” Cullen pulls his glove back on, focusing his gaze to his hand so he does not have to look Thom in the eye.
“Mmm. Does anyone else know?” Thom asks blithely, the answer strangely important to him.
“I cannot say about Leliana or Josephine; they keep their own counsel. Although, I would be surprised if the Ambassador would ask for the Herald to be publicly matched with you, but you are one of the Inner Circle and, until Dorian’s preferences are more widely known, it is likely people will try to pair her with the Tevinter for the scandal of it. I doubt anyone would expect—” Cullen stops short, the words dying on his tongue.
But Thom knows where he is going, and finishes the thought for him: “that anyone would expect her to take up with an old solider, and a Grey Warden at that. Ha, yes, I imagine that would send Orlais reeling; you might as well pair her with Varric.” Thom chuckles in his chest, amused at the thought of what Ser Chapuis would have made of all of this.
“So will you?” the younger man has waited for an answer and Thom is startled to realize it is necessary for him.
“Of course, Cullen. She is important, as you say, for the reasons you say,” Thom responds as both men start to gain their feet.
“I hope she is important for more than just that, Ser Warden,” a note of caution has entered the Commander’s tone, “I would hate to think anyone sees her as just as a trifle or a trophy.” The Commander’s sword hand rests deceptively calm on his pommel and a watchfulness enters his stance.
Thom recognizes a situation that needs diffusion when he sees it: “Of course,” and he slaps the Commander on the shoulder, “Dorothea is everything, Cullen.” Thom passes the Commander and descends the hill in front of him out into the night.
Redcliffe had been damn odd and unsettling, and Thom Rainier does not do well with odd; but coaxing the worries out of a woman—particularly a pretty woman—that is something Thom Rainier can do.
He heads toward the gates of the village, taking his leave of the Commander at the entrance to the tent city and the parade grounds, leaving the other man looking after him in the gloom.