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The Inquisitor was upset. Not entirely so with what you might think, however. Having just regained his lost memories, walking through the fade itself, stopping Fear and his demon army, losing Hawke, and banishing the Grey Wardens from Orlais, Trevelyan had much to be upset over. But none of that was on the forefront of his mind, not for now anyway. No, what made the Inquisitor upset now was the gash on his head, running from just above the corner of his brow to the top of his cheek. The gash was deep and red, likely not to heal properly unless addressed soon with magic and salve. Trevelyan had neither of those. The mages were either injured themselves or tending to patients in much more dire need of healing.
"Bloody Maker, there has to be some mage that’s not busy!" Trevelyan yelled, kicking over the water basin some kind soldiers had brought him to wash off the blood in frustration. The toppling basin started a domino effect, knocking over his armor stand into his broadsword into his— "Commander!"
"Inquisitor…?" the man in the entryway to the tent said, stepping back so the broadsword clamoured to the ground. Cullen was a large man, blocking most if not all the view outside the tent. Not to say he was large large, not large like Bull, and certainly not large in the gut. But he was larger than Trevelyan, and Maker did Trevelyan notice. "I’d like to think my company isn't so unwanted to warrant such a fuss. A simple ‘not now’ would have suffice."
"No- It’s not that- I-" Trevelyan took a breath, "My apologies Cullen, my emotion got the better of me. It wont happen again I assure you." He turned his head away from the Commander, hiding his gash. "Can I help you?"
"Well I had heard you were injured, I was hoping I could provide some aid," Cullen’s voice was soft, warm and caring. It made Trevelyan feel guilty. Guilty that this man was worried about him, and all he could think about was how his laceration would heal properly. Cullen had stepped completely into the tent and closed the flap behind him. The Inquisitor turned further from the Commander.
"I am fine. I am not so much of a greenhorne a few wounds would rattle me." Trevelyan gingerly reached to his gash, looking up into the mirror in front of him to reassess the damage. He noticed Cullen looking back at him. His face was hard to read, concern, confusion, pity? Trevelyan looked away.
"Let me treat that for you, I can't have you running the Inquisition with an infection and fever," Cullen said, stepping closer to the Inquisitor. Instinctively Trevelyan turned to face the ex-templar and stepped back, bumping the mirror. Cullen stopped, his face turned to unmistakable concern. "Did I do something wrong?"
Trevelyan’s eyes shifted around the tent, refusing to rest on the Commander’s face. “P-Please, I’m sorry- I- I was taught, told, since I was small, if I were to injure my face only to let the surgeons touch it,” Trevelyan stammered out, his eyes finally settling on Cullen’s fur collar. It looked warm. He had forgotten how cold he was in all his fret over the gash. “Lest it scar. Scars are terrible.”
"Well…" Cullen sighed. The Inquisitor willed himself to look further up, at Cullen’s face. It looked sad. Why did he look sad? His head was slightly tilted to the right and Trevelyan noticed. Cullen’s scar. From his upper lip up and outward, just as it'd always been. Maker he was an idiot.
"That’s-! No, I mean! I like your scar Cullen! Maker…" he blabbered on like an idiot. He hardly noticed Cullen’s scar most of the time. It only ever grabbed his attention when Cullen smiled, or laughed, or now after Trevelyan had made a fool of himself. "I didn't mean to offend. I’m a noble, a youngest son of house Trevelyan. My elder brother will inherit. My younger sister will marry off. All I have, all I’m good for is a pretty face to charm people at balls. If it’s scarred I’m- I’m- I’m useless." Trevelyan collapsed onto his bed roll, tears starting to stream down his cheeks.
The Inquisitor heard Cullen sigh heavily, and a cloak flutter to the ground. Then armor. He felt a weight land next to him, large and warm. A calloused hand came to rest on his, gentle but still strong. Trevelyan looked up wearily, drinking in the sight of the Commander of the Inquisition sitting there in just his leathers. The Inquisitor suddenly felt flush. Cullen pulled the Inquisitor’s hand up to his face and smiled, that smile that made his scar curve. He moved Trevelyan’s finger over the scar, cradling his own face with the glowing hand of the Herald of Andraste.
Trevelyan stifled a gasp when Cullen moved his hand back to his own lips and kissed it. Soft and gentle, warm and fleeting. Before now he'd thought his flirtatious talk and schoolboy crush had gone unnoticed by his Commander. Clearly he'd been ludicrously mistaken, as he now watched Cullen remove his leather and small shirt. Had he thought himself red in the face earlier, he was surely red as a beet now.
"I-I don't know if this is- Maybe we should talk more first or-"
The Inquisitor was cut off by the soft awkward chuckling of Cullen, as if he'd just realized what he'd done for the first time. “No no no! I don't intend to- not unless you gave me explicit permission.” Cullen put his hands on Trevelyan’s shoulders and brought him to his feet, “I want to show you something.”
Trevelyan thought this strange. If they were going to leave the tent why remove your shirt, Cullen didn't make any motion to leave. He turned to face away from the Inquisitor and moved his hand to one of Trevelyan’s wrists. Lightly he guided the hand to a spot just below the left shoulder blade. Trevelyan felt the skin, warm and wind beaten, but there was a small starburst shaped raise to the skin he could feel. A scar about an inch in diameter. He caught his breath and Cullen moved his hand again, to another scar, and again, and again. In total some 15 scars littered Cullen’s back. “Cullen I don't understand.”
Cullen turned to face the Inquisitor now, not letting go of his wrist, his broad chest and shoulders just about eye-level with Trevelyan. The Commander smiled and his scar rippled. He moved Trevelyan’s wrist again, to a scar across his collarbone. “Scars are badges. A mark filled with a story. A divot or raise to serve as remembrance. A warrior should bare them with pride, even one of noble birth,” he said, smiling down at him. “And many find them quite fetching I might add.”
Trevelyan averted his gaze again. “Women find them fetching,” he spat the word women like it might the name Corypheus, “and I do not fancy women.” He knew he must look pitiful and spiteful, but he was tired of leaving that as a lingering question in the air everywhere he went.
“I find them quite fetching,” Cullen said. He leaned down and kissed Trevelyan on the forehead. “I am no woman, but I do fancy you.”
Inquisitor Trevelyan’s face lit up bright red at that. He could feel the heat rising from his core. Cullen chuckled and planted another kiss on his forehead, on the edge of the gash. It should have hurt, but it didn’t. It was warm and soothing. “Now might I tend to your wound?”
Trevelyan nodded sheepishly, and the Commander set to work.