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So. He cannot fight. Not exactly a fact that the advisors like. “I’ll have someone train you to use sword and shield,” Cullen suggests.
“I think not,” Leliana says firmly. “Leave the matter of his training to me.” Cullen shrugs good-naturedly. Josephine smiles.
“Good,” says Cassandra. She glances at Domnall. “You are of no use to us if you are dead.”
“Not really,” Domnall agrees, and her lips actually twist into a half-smile.
(He feels an odd sense of accomplishment, and resolves that he should make her smile again.)
.
And so Leliana takes him under her wing. She has some of the scouts tutor him in archery. The bow may be his favoured weapon, but he is not exactly formidable with it. Another scout – the tall fellow from Rivain – instructs him in the art of duel-wielding daggers, which Domnall picks up fairly well. Leliana is present at these sessions, and though she is usually reading reports and sending orders, her eyes never miss a mistake. She corrects Domnall, explains where he was at fault, and how his mistake may have resulted in injury or perhaps death.
As for hand-to-hand combat, she trains him herself. Where to strike an opponent and what to strike them with. How to kick. How to dislocate and break limbs. How to throw – and more importantly, how to fall and land.
He makes progress quite rapidly.
And Cassandra? She seems to approve of his progress. “Thank the Maker,” she says, after he kills a sellsword with a single shot, “you can actually shoot. Well done, Trevelyan.”
It’s praise. She is praising him.
“Thank you,” he says, rubbing his neck. He does not blush, at least.
(That is what he tells himself, anyway.)
.
Months pass, and some things change. Cassandra is less guarded in his presence. She speaks of her brother with fond words. She misses him, evidently. “You would have liked Anthony,” she tells Domnall. “And he would have liked you.”
“He was a great man. I wish I had known him.”
She looks at him. She seems troubled. “I – I do too,” Cassandra says quietly.
It is hard to find words after her admission. “He would be so proud of you,” Domnall manages to tell Cassandra, and she considers this for a while.
“Thank you,” she says eventually. “It means a lot.”
.
His lessons with Leliana continue. She challenges him more and more. Targets grow smaller – she has him shooting down wooden disks that are thrown into the air, now. That, or she names any of two dozen targets, and he must make the shot as rapidly as possible.
“Cassandra likes roses,” she tells him one day. “Red ones, to be exact. Shoot the bucket.”
His shot is off by a yard, the arrow sailing past the target and clattering against the wall. “I – you – what?”
“Cassandra,” repeats Leliana, “likes roses. Red ones, to be exact.” She looks at him and raises an eyebrow.
He flushes under her gentle scrutiny. “That obvious, am I?” Domnall manages, nocking his next arrow.
“To some. Shoot the dummy in the tree.” This shot is better. He hits the target in its neck. Leliana makes an approving sound. “Cassandra is unaware, however,” she continues.
“Well, thank the Maker for small mercies.” He sighs and lowers his bow. “I don’t – look, I’m a lot younger than she is, and besides, I’m me. A bumbling idiot. She’s – she’s amazing.”
And she is. Cassandra is a force of nature upon the battlefield, unstoppable and relentless. Demons, mercenaries, mages and Templars – none stand a chance against her.
So what chance does he stand, anyway?
Leliana stares at him. “Do not discount yourself so,” she says firmly. “She is quite fond of you, you know.”
“Is she?”
“Find out for yourself. Give her some roses.”
"Alright then," he says. After all, Leliana has never given him bad advice before - though her advice has mostly been based around how not to die and how to kill things. "I'll - I'll try that."
.
So. Roses.
There is a rose garden in Skyhold. He makes his way there after breakfast the next day, and sets about selecting a bouquet of roses. It’s a more painful task than he had expected – the thorns are sharp and plentiful, and they dig into his skin with a vengeance.
Soon, though, he has a bunch of roses. Domnall feels rather pleased.
And then a voice cuts through the air. “Darling, what are you doing?”
“Nothing!” Domnall clutches the bunch of roses to his chest. It is Vivienne, and she seems rather amused by his reaction. He takes a breath. “Madame de Fer, my apologies. You startled me.”
“I did, didn’t I?” She appraises the roses. “Be a darling boy and trim the thorns from the stems.”
“Ah – yes, thank you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you will tell me who they are for?”
“No, Madame de Fer.”
“It matters not. I have a reasonable idea.”
Does everyone know? He despairs inwardly. Domnall edges away. “Yes, well…if you’ll excuse me, I have some roses to…give to…someone.” He coughs. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, darling. And good luck.”
I'll need it, he tells himself.
.
Cassandra is in the training yards, destroying yet another defenceless dummy. Wood splinters and iron bends at her furious onslaught. He watches from a safe distance, the bouquet held in one hand – stems trimmed of thorns, just like Vivienne told him to.
Cassandra notices him, eventually. “Inquisitor,” Cassandra greets, placing her sword on a nearby bench. “Is there something you needed?”
“In a way.” He approaches her. “These,” he says, “are for you.” Domnall hands her the roses and steps back, awaiting her reaction nervously.
“Oh,” Cassandra says, staring down at the bouquet of roses. “Oh.”
He thinks, for a moment, that she may make one of her famous disgusted noises. Perhaps she will throw the bouquet on the ground and stamp it into the dirt. Perhaps she will throw him to the ground and stamp on him too.
But she turns red. Slowly but surely, the blush creeps up her neck, then to her cheeks and the tips of her ears. Her eyes are still intent upon the roses.
“Erm,” he says, rubbing his neck, “I thought you might like them, because you like roses? And those are roses. I picked them myself, you know.” There are still thorns buried beneath the skin of his hands. And Maker, now he’s blushing. “I, uh, I wished to make my intentions known. To you. Do you…do you like them?”
“Domnall,” she says, her voice rather quiet, “they are beautiful.”
“Oh.” He blinks. “That is – that is good?”
She looks at him. Her eyes are gentle.
“Yes,” Cassandra says, and she begins to smile. It spreads across her face, as radiant as the dawning sun. “It is very good. I…appreciate this gesture. Very much.” She bows her head and inhales. “They smell beautiful.”
"That is good, isn't it?" He grins at her. "Imagine if they smelled like a corpse. How would you feel then?"
"Ugh." But she steps towards him, the smile still upon her lips. "Come. Let us talk somewhere nicer."
"How does a walk around the curtain wall sound?"
"Perfect," says Cassandra Pentaghast. "It sounds perfect."
He offers his arm with a bow.
She places her hand upon his arm, and leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," she says.
.
He enters the rookery a few hours later. Leliana turns towards him, raising an eyebrow. “Success?” she asks.
“She – she liked them." He laughs, still slightly incredulous. "We are going to dine in private tonight. And before, we walked around the curtain wall for an hour and talked. You were right."
Leliana smiles. "Of course I was. I'm glad it worked out well."
"Thank you," he says, "thank you for everything. Not just this. Everything. You've been more than a mentor to me. You've been a true friend." He holds out his hand and she clasps it. "Thank you," he repeats.
"It was my pleasure. You two will make each other very happy."