Chapter Text
Skyhold’s throne room is usually brimming with constant chatter, refugees and merchants alike meeting together to discuss every possible topic under the sun. It is a place of shelter and progress, constantly shifting and building into something greater.
But now it is still. The warm atmosphere has turned cold, the silence oppressive in its deadly calm.
Cullen stands poised on the steps, shoulders straight but hand a hairsbreadth away from his sword. Withdrawal had broken him and left his fortifications little more than crumbling stone. Yet faith had rebuilt it, rebuilt him for a higher purpose he now knows better than any Chantry prayer.
The reason for this sits on a menacing throne. He is the source of hope for nations, legend spun in the cheapest Fereldan taverns to the grandest Orlesian courts. His armor is made of silverite but his eyes are harder than any stone. It speaks of wealth was not taken, but earned.
Judge. Mage. Inquisitor.
The prisoner standing before him is cuffed, two agents positioned on either side of him with blank expressions.
"Marcelle Duchemp of Cumberland," Josephine began, gaze focused on her notes "You have been accused of conspiring with Venatori agents and providing them information about Inquisition strongholds. One such location, Griffon Wing Keep, nearly fell to Venatori onslaught. They knew exactly where to strike in our defenses. As a result, 3 of our soldiers died. Another 10 were injured. What do you say to these claims?"
"You accuse me of informing the Venatori about a keep they previously occupied? We stole it from them and then they attempted to steal it back. I had no hand in it." Marcelle’s lips were pulled back in a snarl, his hate left bare for everyone in the throne room to see. Cullen knew his kind well, deserters that switched hands the second favors tipped.
Josephine cleared her throat and went on. “While that is true, Leliana’s agents did manage to procure a note from a Venatori camp in the Approach. It was signed with your name and contained details about every fortification Commander Cullen had ordered for the ramparts.”
"Right, let’s get this over with," the inquisitor said, finally removing his palm from his cheek, "If I wasted time judging every oily rat that betrayed the inquisition I’d never leave this throne." His voice was a dry drawl and his eyes were at half mast with boredom.
"You have no right to judge anyone," Marcelle spat, "You sit on your throne like some pampered king, thinking you are above the men you push around."
"Oh, that hurts," the inquisitor mocked, wiping away an invisible tear, "Really. Throw him in the dungeons for —"
There is a clink, a clatter, and then Marcelle is gone. The chains binding his hands lay in a small pile where he once stood. An alarmed shout from one of the agents sets everyone else off like a crack of lightning. Cullen has already pulled out his sword before the cuffs even land on the ground, lunging in front of the throne.
Marcelle is fast but Cullen is faster. He pictures daggers sliding into Trevelyan’s sternum, the life draining from his eyes, and his fury burns away into a pinpoint of light.
His gauntlets deflect the slashing motion of Marcelle’s daggers as he breaks out of stealth, knocking the assassin backward long enough to jab his sword forward. It pierces the leather jerkin and Cullen feels the impact of his sword sliding through flesh and bone. Blood spurts freely as he yanks the blade back, Marcelle’s corpse dropping like a weighted stone.
Josephine has turned away from the grisly remains, whimpering despite herself. The inquisitor simply sits still, swallowing when Cullen turns around. There are flecks of blood in his feathered mantle.
Gore in the lion’s mane. Trevelyan would’ve snorted at the thought if there weren’t a hundred others crowding his head.
"Inquisitor, are you alright?" Cullen asked, eyebrows arching in concern. All the predatory grace seems to leave him then, the intensity of his rage tempered as he returns to himself. His shin twitches with the urge to draw nearer and pull Trevelyan into his arms. He forces himself to stand at a respectful distance, expectant but composed.
Trevelyan feels something in the pit of his stomach lurch as he clears his throat. “Well, I’m fine. Our prisoner not as much I suspect.”
Marcelle’s eyes have already glazed over, their light extinguished. Cullen feels his face burn though he does not blush. “I … my apologies, inquisitor,” he said, bowing his head, “My intent wasn't to kill the prisoner, but he —”
"At ease, Commander. You did what you had to do."
Cullen raises his head only then, giving one curt nod. He pulls out a rag from his belt-pouch and wipes the gore off, staring at his reflection in the steel. Not a single thought had crossed his mind when he’d leapt to Trevelyan’s defense. The urge to serve, to protect had become as automatic as breathing, more consuming than the aching hunger of lyrium withdrawal.
Leliana has arrived without a sound, arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t bat an eye at the corpse or the blood smeared on the floor. “I heard the commotion all the way from the loft,” she said, “Well done, Commander, though this shouldn’t of happened in the first place. Has anyone checked Marcelle’s restraints?”
Something glinted on the ground a few blessed feet away from the body. Josephine went over to it and bent down as much as her dress would allow. “There was a hairpin hidden in his sleeve,” she said, picking up the offending accessory, “He knew we’d be using cuffs instead of rope for his restraints. Which means … “
"He intended to be caught," Leliana cut in, lips pursed together gravely. "He had help."
Cullen tries to ignore the cold dread settling in his stomach when Trevelyan finally rises from the throne. The inquisitor is mindful of the blood when he kneels, rifling through the dead assassin’s pockets and cursing under his breath. No letters, not a single note. When he stands again there are already hushed whispers spreading among witnesses, their fevered pitch echoing through the hall.
"Enough," Trevelyan orders. All at once the noise stops. Eyes widen and backs straighten. A long, long time ago, this sort of power would have unnerved him. "Leliana, how many agents can you spare?"
"I have already informed a few of what has transpired. They will bring in every person involved with transporting Marcelle and interrogate them."
"Good." It’s all he can say on the matter; death has nearly claimed him more times than he can care to count. But that was out there, beyond the walls of his fortress. In here he’d wanted to feel untouchable, safe from the chaos of the world outside. It was a foolish idea and he’d nearly paid for it with his life. Again.
Cullen seems to sense his distress as he takes matters into his own hands. “Increase his personal guard. For now, no one enters Skyhold without invitation.”
The inquisitor’s eyes meet his. Cullen’s are burning in the center.
"This will not happen again, my worship. I promise you."
The inquisitor gives a tight nod to mask the subtle shudder of his spine. My worship. Mine. You are my faith and I am your disciple.