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1- The Hinterlands
He’d spoken to Recruit Whittle. Which, Trevelyan had to admit, was far too bizarre for his comfort. He wasn’t yet used to it. People didn’t need him. Or, at least, they hadn’t before. But, here he was, saving them. And in Ferelden of all places.
When Trevelyan had been awoken at dawn that morning, he’d imagined, quite vividly, what horrors would meet him in the dreaded Hinterlands. He expected to find an all-out war. Mages. Templars. And everything in-between. Instead, Trevelyan had found a handful of each, and hundreds of refugees displaced from that same in-between.
He was still saving them. One blanket at a time. Yippee.
“There’s enough to go around,” Trevelyan said, for what felt like the seventh time that afternoon. “Warm rags with me. And grub over there with the squat redhead.”
The squat redhead in question glanced, ever so briefly, in his direction. Hard to say if she’d heard him or not. She’d given her name when Trevelyan had first arrived at the crossroads, but even if he had known it then, he didn’t now. Rosy, maybe? Or Maude?
Maude gave another glance in his direction. No. definitely not Maude.
By the time the crowd had dispersed, most of his people had left the crossroads and returned to the outskirts camp. Trevelyan eyed the twelve or so blankets that remained, and decided to pawn them off on the last of the stragglers. At least one refugee would be warm tonight.
Now, left without cheap cloth to swaddle him, Trevelyan felt the chill of the night upon his skin for the first time. He briefly considered chasing down the blanket hog, but decided better of it. He was above that.
Mostly.
With a dignified, or so he thought, shiver, Trevelyan started the trek up the hill. Or he would have, if the squat woman hadn’t been blocking his path.
“Inquisitor,” not Maude said. “Nights around here will take a toe. Or three. My tip. Bundle up, if you want to keep them.”
“I’ll keep it under advisement, Rosy,” he said with a curt smile.
“Harding,” she corrected. Not angry, but forceful. “Lace Harding.”
“Harding,” he said. Of course. “Right.”
“Here,” she said, and held out a bundled mass. “Thought you could use an extra, um. How’d you put it. Rag.”
“Uh,” he said. “Thanks, I suppose. For my toes.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said, with a noncommittal shrug. “It’s what I’m here for.”
She stepped to the side. An invitation.
“Coming?”
“Not sure where else I’d go,” he said, falling into step beside her.
2- Crestwood
He’d been expecting the rain. And the chill. And that the skin on the soles of his feet would blanch like chalk and shrivel up within his, quite new, thank you for noticing, leather boots. But not the corpses. He hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with the, very much living, dead.
Trevelyan wasn’t here for them. He was here for Hawke. And her alone. That should be enough for him. One battle at a time, after all. Hadn’t he always been an advocate for setting manageable expectations for himself? But, he’d already made up his mind. He was going to save them. And, if Trevelyan was committed to that end, he couldn’t pick and choose who he wanted to save.
A person in need is a person indeed. Which wasn’t how that saying went. Or even what it meant, really. But Trevelyan didn’t much care in that moment. He had a rift to close and some zombies to vanquish. Just another day in the life.
“Inquisitor wait,” a voice said, calling after him.
He turned to see the Harding woman bounding down the path to Crestwood village. At first glance, Trevelyan could tell that she was in a far worse state than he. Blades of grass were plastered to the front of her armor. They formed a matted green shell around her. He wasn’t sure how she’d accomplished it. Perhaps by rolling around on the soggy ground. Or maybe she had simply been in the trenches of Crestwood longer than he.
Maker. Was he doomed to the same fate? Would he too be a soupy pile of algae masquerading as a man? Ah. What he wouldn’t give for a warm bath right about now. For fresh, warm towel. And for an array of scented bathing oils. Not that he could find fresh lavender, or thyme, or his favorite vanilla bourbon at Skyhold. They didn’t have the resources, nor the luxury, Trevelyan had become accustomed to in Ostwick. On days like this, he missed it dearly.
“Inquisitor?” Harding asked, again. Right. He was in Crestwood. Rain. Muck. Grass. “If you are to leave for Crestwood proper. I’ve something for you.”
She outstretched her hand and presented him with a small bottle filled with vibrant yellow liquid. Trevelyan held the bottle up toward the sky, and instantly felt foolish for doing so. Hadn’t he just been lamenting the lack of light?
“What is it?” He asked, pushing down any lingering embarrassment.
“Potion of water proofing,” she said. “I sent word to our mages soon as I arrived. Never used the stuff for myself. Too pricy for little ‘ol me. But I figured, with you being the Inquisitor and all. Well, we couldn’t have you catching a cold.”
She finished her explanation with a small smirk. Which was, at the very least, peculiar. Wait. Was she mocking him?
Did this Harding woman think him incapable of caring from himself? Absurd. She hadn’t even asked. If she had, she’d have known Trevelyan had it covered.
“I’m all set, thank you,” Trevelyan said, trying, but failing, to mask his irritation. He pulled out a canister from his pant pocket. A canister he had packed in anticipation of this dreaded place. “Animal fat. Brought it with me from Ostwick. Doesn’t work on flesh. But I’ve already coated my leathers: shoes, gloves, and underclothing. I’ve come prepared, y’know.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said with another smile. Trevelyan could not tell if her smile was kind or downright rude. This woman baffled him.
He thought back to their first meeting in the Hinterlands. She had caught him off guard, sure. But just the once. He didn’t expect to make a habit of it. Trevelyan wasn’t a forgetful man. He didn’t often find himself in a place of need, just as people had not needed help from him.
He didn’t need her to needle him. He already had a mother to do that.
Ah. He paused. Perhaps, she hadn’t been needling. Perhaps, he was overacting, as Trevelyan could admit he was wont to do from time to time. It was possible that Harding was just being kind. Likely even.
Maker. And to think, he was about to jump down this woman’s throat.
“I—Uh,” he said. “There’s no reason I can’t have both. So thanks.”
He plucked the potion of water proofing from her grip.
“Don’t mention it,” she said, with a third, still somewhat irritating smile. “It’s what I’m here for.”
3- Emprise Du Lion
Trevelyan had checked his saddlebag once at Skyhold. Then twice while standing outside the front gate, just to be sure. He checked it, yet again, at the base of the mountain. Only when the others began to catch wind of the sudden fixation did his neuroticism come to an end. No. It would be too hard to explain to them. Better to leave it be.
Trevelyan thought of the Harding woman in place of the saddlebag. Whether she was kind or rude was to be determined. But he would not rely on her aid again. Not like the Hinterlands. Not like Crestwood. Not like The Storm Coast. Nor the dozens of other times she had come to his aid, without want nor need for it. Trevelyan would prove to her, once and for all, that he was entirely capable without her. He was saving them. Her included. Not the other way around.
And that was that on that.
The first rift of the day proved the most difficult rift yet. Trevelyan yelped, not in pain, but in shock as a rather large shade tossed him from one side of the frozen lake to the other. As he skipped along the surface of the lake, ice and snow filled the space at the nape of the neck. It rushed downward, along the path of Trevelyan’s spine, ripping a second yelp from him.
By the time Trevelyan had finally arrived in Sahrnia, he was exhausted. It took more concentration then he’d like to admit not to slip and slide across the icy cobblestone of the village proper. He eventually made it into camp, dignity intact. And ready for a nap.
It wasn’t until an hour later, post-nap, that Trevelyan realized he had indeed arrived in Sahrnia. He had arrived in Sahrnia…with a hole in his saddlebag.
Ah. Sabotaged by a rift in the fade. Nothing unfamiliar about that. At this point, that once sentence pretty much summed up Trevelyan’s entire year.
Trevelyan, maker help him, re-acquainted himself with the bitter sleet and ice. It would be night soon, and if Trevelyan had any hope of retrieving his lost possessions, he’d need to do it before dark fell over the Emprise. He could not wait for next light, for if he did, the overnight snowfall would cover any hope of re-tracing his tracks. No, he needed to do this fast. And he needed to do this now.
“Leaving already, Inquisitor?” A voice asked. And Trevelyan knew then. He just knew it belonged to her.
“I’ll be out for a bit,” he said, and pushed forward past the direction of her voice. “Nothing that should concern you, Harding.”
“You’re not going out alone,” She said. It wasn’t a question. She fell into step beside him. “There’s wolves, you know. Big ones. With sharp teeth and sharper claws. One almost got me, before. Well kind of. Funny story, that one turned out to be a dog. Named him Alfie. But, still. He could have been the end for me.”
“I—what?” Trevelyan asked, baffled. “Never mind. Leave me be.”
“Not to mention that the place is crawling with Red Templars,” she said, paying no heed to his request. “Oddly enough, they have sharp teeth and claws too.”
“I’ll manage,” he said in a huff and picked up his pace.
“Don’t doubt it,” she said. “Not since I’ll be with you.”
“What,” he said, skittering to a halt. “No. No you won’t.”
“And why not?” she asked, feigning innocence. The nerve of her.
“Because I don’t want you to,” Trevelyan said with more of a bite than he intended. “I want you to remain here. I can do without your help.”
Her face went red, but from what, Trevelyan wasn’t sure. Rage? Embarrassment? The cold? But just as soon as the red arrived, it was gone. Replaced with one of her, ever so irritating, smiles. What was she up to?
“I know that. I’m trying to give you space here, Inquisitor. But I also know I can help you,” she said, slow and determined. She shifted weight from foot to foot, which left uneven imprints in the snow. “I know where your stuff is, Inquisitor. Tilly, a scout of mine, found it a half hour ago while on patrol. She passed it along to me. Figured you’d ask after it come daylight. Didn’t think you’d go after it yourself.”
“Oh,” he said, because what else could he say. “I—oh.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said with an equally uncomfortable expression as the one he was likely wearing. “Let’s get inside.”
With no argument left in him, Trevelyan and Harding returned to the town in silence. Harding, once again, was the victor in their infuriating little game.
Funny enough, she didn’t look happy about it.
4- The Hissing Wastes
One moment, he’d been flying through the desert, eyes upward and mesmerized by the milky glow of the full moon. The next, he’d been cast down, underneath the footfalls of his spotted Hang-Tooth. His body, kicked from the rocky cliffside, descended into the dark. Trevelyan wheezed, his lungs filling with displaced debris, as he hit the cold sand. He continued to roll, further and further from the guiding light of the moon, until Trevelyan found himself cast into a different kind of darkness. His head throbbed, and the night slipped away.
When he came to, Trevelyan didn’t know how much time had passed. He found that the moon still hung overhead, and that the shifting sand remained cool beneath his touch. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours, he decided. With any luck, Trevelyan’s people had long since noticed his disappearance. Perhaps they weren’t far.
Trevelyan stood. His body ached and head screamed as he did, but Trevelyan pushed through the pain. He surveyed the area, which proved quite difficult without a source of light. From what Trevelyan could tell, he’d fallen into some sort of trench. No. Not fallen. He’d been blasted off his dracolisk. The Wastes were expansive and open, and that allowed room for the Venatori to establish a significant presence here. They’d been ambushed, and Trevelyan had been separated.
He needed to return, to find his way back to them. But first, Trevelyan had to determine from which direction he had come. Up seemed to be the safest bet, if his aches were anything to go by. Trevelyan, following his gut, spent the better part of a half hour pulling himself out of the trench.
Once he reached the top, Trevelyan expected the find an indicator for what his next course of action should be. Of course, he found nothing of the sort. No trail. No scorch marks on the stone. Not even dracolisk droppings. Trevelyan had no idea where he was. And worse, he had no idea where he’d come from. In each direction he looked, the landscape was next to identical.
His heart dropped as he realized the truth. He’d not be able to find them. If Trevelyan wanted to get out of here, they’d need to find him.
Oh. Who was he fooling? She’d need to find him.
“Fine. Fine,” he said, admitting defeat. He stood up tall and dusted off the sand that had accumulated on the front of his tunic. “Hey! Harding. Lace. Are you out there? Can you hear me? Because I’m only saying this once.”
He took a deep breath, eyes clenched shut, as he called out into the night.
“I need you,” he said, and swallowed any pride that remained. “This is me, Trevelyan, saying to you, Harding, that I need help. Your help.”
When Harding didn’t suddenly manifest in the night, Trevelyan could hardly be surprised. Of course, it could not have worked. Why would he expect it to? But, in Trevelyan’s defense, he had hit his head in the fall.
Which led him to plan “b”: draw her attention in another manner. Trevelyan surveyed for supplies, which turned out to be dead witherstalk husks. When satisfied with his haul, he retrieved the matchbox from within his tunic and set them ablaze. Trevelyan sat, quite pleased, in front of his growing bonfire.
It wasn’t long before a trail of dust rose above a nearby dune. He recognized the dracolisk, and her rider, red hair illuminated under the moon. She dismounted several feet ahead of him and plopped down into the sand, without so much as a word.
Even with the bump on his head, he was at least 75% certain she was real.
“Harding,” he said, a greeting far too casual for the situation. “Lovely night.”
“Isn’t it,” she said, trying, and failing, to hide her grin. “Fancied a stroll, huh?”
“That I did,” he grinned back. “Should have asked you along. Might have fared better.”
He motioned to his head, which he’d halfheartedly bandaged after the bonfire no longer needed him. Blood, thick and warm, had already begun to seep out from underneath the gauze.
“Might have,” she said, with a pause. “Wouldn’t have accepted, though. If you’d asked.”
Huh. Now that caught him off guard.
“Oh? Is that right?” He asked. “And any reason as to why not. I can be charming, when I want to be.”
“As if that’s not obvious enough,” she said and laughed. It was a nice laugh. A private laugh. A laugh just for her. “Charming, but only when you want to be. You don’t seem to appreciate my company much, Inquisitor. If I can be that bold.”
“That’s not—” he said, and interrupted himself. He could call a spade a spade. No need to lie. “No, you’re not wrong on that account.”
“When we first met, I thought that I could make myself helpful,” she said, and stared upward into the empty night. “You were such an ass. But, if I could do one thing for you, even a small thing, It’d make the job you had ahead that much easier. My small part in all of this chaos.”
She laughed again. Huh. Trevelyan typically despised being the cause of that laughter. But in the moment, the thought didn’t bother him as it once had. He didn’t mind that he had made her laugh. In fact, he rather liked it.
“Should have realized it earlier,” she said with a playful eye roll. “You wanted your space. And by keeping my distance, I could help with that at least. You and I are not friends. That much is obvious. Can’t say I understand why. I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t curious. Most don’t hate me on sight.”
Oh. Was that what she thought?
“I don’t hate you,” Trevelyan said. He blurted it out, but that didn’t make it untrue. He didn’t. Not really. And that wasn’t just the head wound talking.
“You don’t like me though,” she said, and again, it wasn’t a question.
“Not much, no,” he said, earnest. “You’re…a lot. You…needle.”
“Needle?” She asked, incredulous. “I don’t needle. I—I—I, what does that even mean?”
“You’re nosy,” he said, feeling his frustrations mounting. How could she not know? Hadn’t she started their little game? “Controlling. You’re always assuming that I need your help. You can’t see when I don’t need it. Always discounting me.”
“You realize where we are, right?” She asked, venomous. “You were quite literally blasted off your steed, Inquisitor. You’ve hit your head. And you’ve stranded yourself in the Wastes.”
“Wait a moment,” he said, realizing this conversation wasn’t going anywhere useful. Harding bounded forward, ignoring his call for reprieve.
“My deepest apologies, she huffed, and stood up to her full height. Which, since she was a dwarf, wasn’t much compared to his seated position. “Look at me, forcing my help on you. When you so obviously don’t need it. I’ll just be going then.”
“Wait,” Trevelyan said again. And, against the voice of reason within himself, he reached out to touch the fuming scout. “Don’t go. Just sit. Please.”
She eyed him warily, but did as he asked. When she was seated again, Harding motioned to the grip Trevelyan still had on her wrist. He let go instantly, apologizing in turn for invading her space in a whispered whirlwind.
“You’re right. I do need help,” he said. “Because honestly, I have no idea where I am. I’m cold. And hungry. And I just want to go to sleep. But, I can’t do that. Because I’m pretty sure I have a concussion. I’m afraid what’ll happen if I tried to rest.”
“You kind of sound like a mess,” she said, tone no longer murderous. Which was good for him. There were no witnesses out here. And he was in no shape to fight. It’d be quick and easy for her, if she fancied.
“I am. I am a mess, Harding,” he said, no shame admitting it. “And I can’t make it better. Not this time. Not on my own.”
“Okay,” she agreed, shaking her head and clasping her palms.
“Okay? So, you’ll help me,” he asked, hopeful.
“Okay, I can be controlling,” she said, in a whisper. “And some, not all but some, might consider me ‘nosy’. But I didn’t mean for—I didn’t want to hate you, Inquisitor.”
“Then don’t,” he said, taking the opportunity that he saw. “I’ll be less of an ass. And admit that maybe, just maybe, I can’t do it all on my own. That it might be nice to have, erm, help from time to time. If…”
“…if I admit that you aren’t completely useless on your own,” she said, finishing his thought, even if he’d have said it differently. “And accept that if you need my help, you’ll ask for it.”
“Those terms seem amenable,” he said, hand outstretched. “You have yourself a deal Harding.”
The two of them shook hands and shared an uncomfortable laugh at the contact. Huh. Maybe having her around wouldn’t be too bad. And, if she could get him back to camp alive, they might even be friends.
Erm. Maybe that was asking a bit much. Trevelyan supposed allies would be a good place to start.
+1- The Frostback Basin
Trevelyan rather liked the Basin. The fog could be considered unsettling. And, Bram, their resident professor, was a bit of a knob. As were the local Avvar. They weren’t the friendliest of people, though, neither was Trevelyan, he supposed.
Trevelyan had seen much of Thedas in his time with the Inquisition, and nowhere was quite as wild and unruly as the Frostback Basin. It was overgrown. And feral. So unlike Ostwick in so many ways, which is perhaps why Trevelyan was drawn to it. The Basin intrigued him.
And he wasn’t the only one. Lace, too, was enamored with this place. Ah. Well, that might explain it then. Her sense of wonder was contagious, Trevelyan could hardly ignore it.
Lace and he had come a long way since their dreadful initial introduction. Ah, had he really called her Rosy!? That seemed like a lifetime ago. They’d gotten even closer since Trevelyan, and the rest of the Inquisition, bested Corypheus. In the end, he hadn’t needed to do it alone. Which, yeah. Hindsight is 20/20 on that one. But he couldn’t give himself too much grief. The world was ending. And, his heart had been in the right place. In the end, he did save them. In the end, he saved them with just a little, or maybe a lot, of help.
Accepting help from her wasn’t the bane it had once been. In fact, Trevelyan found that he rather liked having Lace around. She was funny. And smart. Nobody had hair quite as red as hers. And her laugh. Well, it was as infectious now as it was that first night in the Hissing Wastes. Trevelyan remembered that night fondly, or he tried to. Really, he couldn’t remember the specifics of that night. He’d gotten a pretty serious concussion. Most of what he recalled had come from Lace’s retelling of events.
Apparently, he’d made an ass out of himself. And he’d apologized. Which, yeah. Sounded about right. If he remembered it, or not, Trevelyan was glad that it had happened. He couldn’t imagine a time before Lace. Well, of course, he could. It had only been a year. But Trevelyan didn’t want to.
“Inquisitor!” Lace called from somewhere behind him.
Trevelyan turned away from the cliff that ran adjacent to the Basin floor camp. He caught sight of Lace, making her way up the hill that led from Bram’s research outpost.
“Lace,” he said, in greeting. He couldn’t help the smile that pulled on either side of his lips.
She didn’t pay much mind to his dopey smile. Good. She was too busy with her nose deep into parchment of some kind. From where Trevelyan was standing, she appeared to be holding a schematic.
“So, about the new camps,” she started, still not looking up. “Bram tells me we’re planning in putting them in the trees. And, if I get to weigh in. I think that idea is bull—”
Trevelyan saw what was about to happen the moment before it did. A fresh pile of bogfisher poo lay, untouched, just as the overlook tapered off. Trevelyan had avoided it before. But Lace, fretting about the really rad treehouse plan, hadn’t seen it.
Without thinking, Trevelyan leapt into action. So, when Lace’s boot slipped on the poo, she fell forward into his arms and did not hit her head on the tough jungle floor. Well good. Only one of them deserved a second concussion. And of the two of them, it wasn’t Lace.
“Ope,” she said, as Trevelyan wound his fingers around her waist for extra support. “Thanks for that. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
When Lace sturdied herself, she looked up at him. Trevelyan was ecstatic to see that she had a wide grin. He created one to match, though, his could hardly be as lovely as Lace’s.
“Fall face first into bogfisher poo,” he said with a shrug. “Probably.”
“A fate worse than death if you ask me,” she said, grin not disappearing. She eyed his hands, which had not yet let go of her waist. Oops. “I’m good now. You can let go. Um. If you want.”
“And if I don’t want to?” Trevelyan asked honestly.
Because, in fact, letting go of the woman between his arms was the last thing he wanted in that moment. Or ever. Even if Lace had bogfisher poo plastered on the bottom of her boot. He still wanted to hold on.
“Then I don’t want you to either,” she said, eyes flicking downward between them.
And, yep. There it was again. The red was back, pooling into her cheeks and across her forehead. Too lovely.
He kissed her then. It wasn’t the first time. And it wouldn’t be the last. Because, after all this time, Trevelyan knew what that red meant. It wasn’t rage. Or embarrassment. Or the heat. For Lace, the red meant, ‘you’re an idiot’. And ‘I don’t know why I put up with you’. And best of all ‘I like you’.
Which was good, because Trevelyan liked her too. And that was something that both Trevelyan and Lace could agree on.