Chapter Text
Questions, always so many questions. People always wanted to know where Sunnan had gotten his scars, what life with his clan had been like, whether this or that was true about the Dalish, and so on. The worst was when they tried to ask about his vallaslin. So few of them knew the proper term, and those that did couldn’t pronounce it. Though he was more than happy to teach others about his culture when they asked, hearing them butcher what little remained of the elven langauge grated on the Inquisitor’s nerves.
Cullen, never good with words, tripped over the syllables more than most when he asked. It happened on a slow day, or at least as slow as days got for the Inquisition. For once, doom was not immediately impending, so Sunnan had time to chat for a while after asking his general for updates. The two of them sat at Cullen’s desk, reports and other sundry papers pushed to the side for the moment. The commander’s statement started out almost eloquent before swiftly devolving. “Inquisitor, if it’s not rude to inquire, I’d like to know about your vallas...vallasil...vallalsl...your face...tattoo...thing.” When he had finished forcing the sentence out, he added, “Maker, I’m sorry.”
Sunnan wanted to be annoyed, but seeing the sheer embarassment on Cullen’s face, he couldn’t help but chuckle a little. “It’s alright, Cullen.” He tapped the crimson symbol that curled around his left eye. “Each different design represents patronage to a different diety. Mine represents Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper.”
Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Really? You never struck me as the hearthkeeping type.”
“Oh, beleive me, I can keep hearths with the best of them. Besides, Sylaise taught us to use fire, which I am rather fond of,” Sunnan explained, patting the Antivan fire grenades strapped to his belt. Sylaise had also taught the use of herbs for healing, a practice to which Sunnan owed his life a hundred times over, but the Inquisitor decided it might be best to explain one thing at a time.
“And the...markings...are a coming-of-age practice, correct?” Cullen asked.
“Yes,” Sunnan replied, glad the commander knew that much. “Tell me, do humans do anything to mark a person’s coming of age?” During his time with the Inquisition, Sunnan had learned a lot about the world outside his clan in a short period of time, but before that, he had had little contact with humans. Most of what he knew related directly to the conflict between mages and templars, some of it had to do with the Chantry. Beyond that, however, Sunnan had nearly as many questions about them as they did about him.
Cullen scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose it depends on the specific culture. I’ve heard that in Antiva, they have a special celebration when someone reaches adulthood. Mages have the Harrowing, of course, but that’s much less...joyful. Around here, coming of age usually just means your family starts trying to marry you off.”
Sunnan grinned. “Did you never come of age, then?”
Cullen sighed. “Before the Blight, I was awkward, and ever since, I’ve been busy.”
Sunnan noted that the use of the past tense was inaccurate, but he let it slide. Best not to piss Cullen off too much. Just as he was about to point out the plethora of admirers Cullen had among the Inquisition, a soldier stepped into the room.
“Inquisitor, Horsemaster Dennet requests your assistance at the stables.”