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Maxwell follows his advisors out into the hall, leaving the war table behind when Josephine asks for him to wait.
She leads him to her desk and hands him a neatly bound package. "From Ostwick," she states.
He grins. Maxwell has been waiting for this, to hear back from his family on a specific request he'd made a few weeks ago. "Do you mind?" he asks, gesturing to one of the free armchairs in her office.
"Not at all," she replies, and he drops himself into its warm comfort. He crosses one leg over the other and places the package in his lap. He cuts the string holding it closed with a small knife he keeps in his jacket pocket before unwrapping the discreet paper.
He tucks a box, long and thin, into his jacket without opening it, and smiles at the assortment of Marcher fares he finds inside. His family has sent him teas, dried meats, and several copies of the most recent scandal sheets from Ostwick. All are things he can obtain with ease through his connections, but they soften his heart when sent from home.
His fingers glance over the treats before he turns his attention to a pile of letters tucked at the bottom of the stack. He shuffles through them, pleased to see his mother's handwriting, his father's, elder brother's. He puts them aside for later and tears into the one from his great aunt.
His grin widens when he reads the address, To my favorite nephew.
He skims the rest, eyes flitting over her praise of his ingenious idea, and doesn't resist the urge to bounce his leg.
"Good news, Inquisitor?" Josephine asks, breaking his concentration.
"Hopefully, Ambassador," he replies with a wink and she giggles. "If all goes well, I'm afraid that I'll be making your job a little more interesting."
"Oh?"
He doesn't respond. Instead, he gets to his feet and places his bundle on the armchair. "Josephine, would you have someone bring these to my quarters, when you are able?"
"Of course," she says, surprised that he deflected. He doesn't often push aside her questions. Maxwell, unfortunately, is a bit of a gossip.
He takes the letter from his aunt and strides out of the door. "You're a gem!" he calls as he leaves.
Maxwell makes his way through the great hall, saying brief hellos to Comte This and Marquis That. He completely avoids an eager looking Mother Giselle, who wants Maker only knew what.
He says a quick hello to Scout Harding (Lace Harding, he'd been given the privilege to learn recently) as he enters the tavern, and notes that Bull and Krem are absent.
Maryden gives him a pleasant nod as he passes her to go up the stairs, and he peeks out the window. He spots Bull and Krem out back with Cassandra, running drills. She and Krem are practicing bullrushes against the Qunari, and he's filled with pride when Cassandra knocks Bull clean off his feet. He has half a mind to join them, but there is time for that later.
He continues up the stairs and calls a morning greeting to Sera as he heads to the third floor; he plans to catch up with her later, should the letter from his mother contain the secret Trevelyan cookie recipe he’d requested (from their chefs, not any particular family member, but the recipe has won awards).
He ascends far enough to pop his head up to see the third floor, Cole's typical haunt, completely empty. Maxwell heads back down the stairs to peek into Sera's room.
"Have you seen Cole this morning?" he asks, leaning on the door jamb.
Sera's sitting on the floor of her room, legs splayed out in front of her. Her room's an alcove, really, but she refuses his offers for nicer accommodations. He finds her hunched over a sea of letters with conspicuous red envelopes. She looks up at him and does not pause twirling the feathered end of a quill around her temple.
"Wha? No," she replies with a roll of her eyes. "Why the hell would I know where that creepy git is?"
He frowns and doesn't move from the doorway, and Sera squirms under his scrutiny.
She puts down her quill and straightens her back. "No, no, don't give me that frowny face!"
He frowns more.
"Ugh! Fine!" she says. "I saw him talking to one of those Hellarians or whatever."
Hellarians? "You mean the Blades of Hessarian?" She shrugs. "The people from the Storm Coast?"
"Yeah, that's what I said, innit?" She's looking at him with a challenge, and he breaks. His face cracks into a grin and Sera relaxes.
"Close enough. Thanks, Sera," he says, wrapping his knuckles against the jamb. "Check in with you later?"
"If you like," she says, waving him off. She's looking back down at her letters and he knows she's trying to hide a matching smile. He lets her have the illusion.
For the sake of provoking her a little, he adds, "Pass my love on to your Jennies for me, will you?"
Sera lets out a loud groan at his antics, and he straightens and starts to move away from the door, narrowly dodging a decorative pillow she throws at him. It flies past him, hitting the railing and falling to the floor below. He makes his way quickly downstairs before he can be assaulted any further, retrieving the pillow from where it fell and throwing it underhand back up on to the loft outside of Sera's room.
Outside of the tavern, he scans the courtyard for the blue and white of the Blades' uniforms, and feels that this would have been an easier task before they Grey Wardens joined their ranks.
He finds one, eventually, speaking with one of Cullen's agents just inside the great hall. She is an older woman, scarred and hardened, and Cullen's man next to her looks like he might shit his pants by sheer intimidation. She has a dog with her; the mabari sits eagerly at her feet, shaking in gratitude for the idle scratches being applied unconsciously to its snout by its owner. Both agents bow their heads in deference when Maxwell approaches and he inclines his head in return.
"I apologize for interrupting," Maxwell says, and then turns to the Blade, "but I’m hoping you can help me track down one of mine."
"One of yours?" she replies, surprised.
"Yes. Skyhold here can be a little unruly,” he explains, "And the person I'm looking for is a bit slippery than most. You might not remember him, even if you've seen him."
"Ah, do you mean that quiet young man with the odd way of speaking?" She uses her hands to gesture a mimicry of Cole's hat, and the dog whines at the loss of contact. The Blade returns to her scratching without much delay.
"That's absolutely who I'm looking for."
She raises an eyebrow. "Unusual kid, not sure how you thought I'd forget him."
"He has his ways," Maxwell explains with a shrug.
"Either way, he's out in your garden," she points to the entrance to the Skyhold gardens. "My Revka here," she gives the dog an extra pat, "had an unexpected litter of pups on the road. He offered to watch them while I went about my business with your people."
He thinks about it for a moment; he can't say he's ever seen Cole interact with a dog, though he handles the kitchen cats well enough. "I can't think of anyone better," he decides. "Cole is a, well, compassionate young man, he'll keep a close eye on them."
"Good to hear, thank you."
"I should go, but I appreciate your help," he says and leaves them.
"Be well, Lord Inquisitor," she calls before he is out of earshot.
He doesn't immediately see Cole when he enters the gardens, walking down the few steps and into the sunshine. He stops when he feels dirt beneath his boots instead of stone.
He hears the sound of whining puppies before he seems them, and looks down to find Cole cross legged in front a bush large enough to provide some shade, letting some six or seven puppies climb on top of him.
"Hello, Cole," he says on approach.
Cole looks up at him through his thin bangs. "Hello," he replies simply.
"Is it alright if I join you?" Maxwell asks.
He pauses. "I don't believe the ground minds, no."
It's not what he'd meant, but Maxwell tries to sit as gently as possible on the ground to keep it from changing its mind, nonetheless.
"I don't think I knew you liked dogs, Cole."
"I didn't before I met one," he says, and Maxwell supposes that's fair. Cole holds one pup in his hand and pets its nose with one extended finger.
"Do you think you'd want one? The mother's owner said that they were an unexpected litter."
"Squirming, sniffling, sleeping in a pile, warm against their mother's side. They've only known each other." Cole blinks and looks at him. "Yes, I do, but they want each other more. I don't think I'd make a good mabari."
"I don't know Cole; I think you'd make a fine mabari."
"Thank you, but I'm not Fereldan," he responds, and Maxwell vows to keep an eye out for any strays that need a home. A dog could have much worse owners than Cole. Cole tilts his head at Maxwell. "You came here for a reason."
"I did. Did you read it in my mind?"
Cole shakes his head and looks away. "I'm trying not to do that as much, now that I can’t make people forget. It's easier to not say things I'm not supposed to if I do not know them to begin with. The question is in your pocket."
Maxwell huffs a laugh and pulls his aunt's letter from his breast pocket.
"It's more of an offer, really, if you want it." Cole doesn't say anything, just waits, so Maxwell continues. "I wanted to know, Cole, if you had plans for after the inquisition."
"After?"
"We head to the Arbor Wilds soon, to stop Corypheus from gaining power there; we're cornering him."
"Garas quenathra."
Maxwell pauses at Cole's interruption, his tone of voice unexpected, almost distant.
"Sorry, keep going," Cole says quickly.
"It's alright, Cole. But, hopefully we can end Corypheus sooner, rather than later. Have you thought about what you'd like to do afterwards?"
"Can't I stay here?" he asks, and Maxwell's heart pangs at the boy's hesitant voice. He went about this the wrong way; he hadn't intended to make Cole worry.
"You're always welcome, Cole. Never doubt that," he says. "I ask, though, because I wanted to offer you a place in my family."
"Your family?"
Maxwell hums. "Yes," he says, holding up the letter. "I wrote to my great aunt, Elaine – she's the head of the family – asking about it. I received her response this morning, and she approves of the idea."
Cole looks confused. He had been stroking the back of one of the pups squirming in his lap, but his movements stopped. His head is tilted downwards and to the side, like he's trying to hear something far away. Maxwell cannot see his face through the brim of his hat.
"You won't have to do anything you don't want," Maxwell adds, trying to soothe the boy. "You'll just be receiving a stipend to help you do whatever you'd like, and a place to rest, should you need one."
"Smells of cinnamon and apples, colored baubles glinting in the candlelight, sneaking champagne under the table when Aunt Elaine isn't looking. She knows anyways."
Maxwell laughs at the memory, of he and his siblings think they were drunk off of a few sips of champagne as youths. "Yes, I suppose coming to Satinalia is part of being in the family, but I won't force you to come."
"I am not Evelyn," Cole says suddenly, and Maxwell flinches like he's been struck. Cole looks up in alarm. "Oh, no, no, I'm sorry. That was a hurt I cannot help you forget. I did not want it to hurt."
Maxwell shakes his head, smiling sadly. "Don't worry about it, Cole. I'm not offering because of Evelyn."
Maxwell has two siblings: Magnus older and Evelyn younger. Evelyn spent most of her life entwined with the Ostwick Circle, and the three were thick as thieves when she was allowed to be home. He still cannot bear to think of her in the past tense, even after the Conclave.
He rubs his chest, to soothe the ache she leaves.
"This is a pain that's supposed to hurt, isnt it?" Cole asks.
"It is. I wouldn't want you to let me forget, even if you still could," Maxwell confirms. "And besides, I know you're not Evelyn, and I wouldn't want you to be. I want you to be Cole."
"Good. I like being Cole," he says. "I don't know what it is to be a Trevelyan. Is it like being a Pentaghast, or a Tethras?"
"You could ask, if it would help you make a decision." Maxwell thinks about what Cassandra and Varric have said of their families and adds, "Maybe ask about being a Montilyet or a Rutherford, instead. I think that's closer to the experience."
"I think I will, even though I don't need to," Cole says.
"Oh?"
"I like apple cake," Cole says and smiles closed mouth at him. Maxwell returns with a wide grin, clasping Cole's shoulder tightly with happiness.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Maxwell watches Cole keep one of the pups from eating a rock.
After a while, Cole speaks again, "Mirth and smiles, like making crooked Cullen's desk or hiding a waterfall. There's something else, isn't there? Something funny to you. I want to know the joke."
"Ah, well, yes," Maxwell says, rubbing his jaw, scratching at the stubble. "You’re under no obligation to accept it if it’s not what you wish, but you’ve been titled, Cole, and your new rank is not inconsiderable."
He shifts unexpectedly, and in slight alarm comforts the pups he disturbs. "I do not want to wear a mask."
Maxwell has to think about it for a second before Cole's meaning clicks in his mind.
Maxwell holds up his hands, placating. "No, no masks needed. Marchers, even the noble ones, leave that to the Orleisians." He reaches out to pull one of the upset pups from Cole's lap onto his arms, and Cole looks pleased. "They hardly look at Marcher nobles as equals; our games are similar only in that they are played."
"Varric's been teaching me Wicked Grace. I prefer that game."
Maxwell laughs. "Me too, Cole. Maker, me too." Maxwell thinks, not even for the first time today, that he fell into the wrong occupation. "But, your rank. Even if the Orleisian nobility looks down at us as a whole, they must respect us, for the sake of the game. I dare say I've managed to secure you a rank that'll keep Vivienne from calling you demon ever again."
Cole smiles, and it's a human smile, one that reaches his eyes in a way that never occurred when he was still more spirit than boy. He lifts one of the sniffling pups up to his face and reacts when it tickles his nose. He lays down and lets the dogs redistribute themselves on his chest. His hat slips off the back of his head and serves as a barrier between Cole's hair and the ground.
A cloud moves while he lets Cole gather his thoughts, and watches as the boy pushes his hair off his forehead and allows the sun to shine on his face; eyes closed and smile wide.
"I think I'll like that," Cole says finally. "Thank you, Maxwell." He thinks it's the first time Cole has called him by his name.
Maxwell puts the puppy he holds in the crook of Cole's arm, and it squirms for a moment before settling. He stands, brushing off the back of his trousers of any dirt or leaves stuck to them. He doesn't check for grass stains; he doesn't wish to know.
"You're most welcome, my lord," Maxwell jokes and gives a quick bow when he sees Cole open his eyes.
"My lord," Cole repeats, rolls it around in his mouth. "A title closer to a mask than a name. You said I didn't have to wear a mask."
"No masks, Cole," Maxwell promises. "I'm sorry for calling you that. I could call you cousin, if you'd be alright with that."
His head tilts as he thinks about it, and his eyes go a little glassy. "The tree grows taller, wider, with new names and new faces, claiming all for its own. A spirit never changes, never belongs, but I'm more than that now." The way he speaks reminds Maxwell of how Cole would when he'd read minds, but he sounds like he's reading no mind but his own. "I like having a branch."
"I'm happy to provide one for you."
-
Later, he is eating dinner in the great hall, sequestered into a corner with Cassandra. She brings him up to speed on the political dealings of the day, the minutia of her work with Cullen on troop movements, but quickly switches to detailing the Knight-Captain's escapades in the latest Swords and Shields. She has had a full cup of wine, and as such allows it when he tangles their hands beneath the table.
He's barely listening to what she's saying, and he should feel bad about that, but Varric was right – Swords and Shields is terrible. Instead, he watches her mouth as she excitedly speaks and leans his chin on his palm, elbow braced against the table. He sighs, blissfully, as she gestures wide enough with her free hand and wine sloshes out of the glass she holds.
She pauses with a frown at the spill and puts down her glass, reclaiming her composure and letting go of his hand – to his most sincere dismay.
He reaches for his own wine when he sees Cole enter the hall from the stairs to the lower courtyards. He's changed his clothes since he last saw him, and Maxwell idly wonders if Cole was bothered by the smell of dog or if he knew others would be.
Vivienne is leaving the hall as Cole is entering it and says something to him that Maxwell can't hear. He sees Cole's face instead and moves to stand.
He need not worry, though – Cole looks first at Varric and then at him before turning to Vivienne's back.
"Madame Vivienne?" he says, and she stops, surprised. This may be the first time Maxwell has seen him address her. She tends to avoid him in Skyhold, and he's never brought them into the field together.
Ever composed, Vivienne turns back with a raised eyebrow. "Yes?"
Cole takes a breath and shuffles back and forth between his feet, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his side. "I am not a demon," he says, "but if it makes you feel better to call me by a mask, Maxwell says I'm Lord Demon, now."
Maxwell has to cough loudly to cover a laugh, and he meets Varric's eyes across the hall – Varric has made no such attempt at politeness.
Cole must sense his approval – and approve he does, greatly – for he continues to make his way to the stairs down to the kitchens without another word.
Vivienne turns to him, still standing, with a more visibly forced smile. "Inquisitor?" she says, the unasked question obvious in her voice.
He feels the eyes of the great hall upon him, not unlike when he sits in judgment. He briefly considers moving this conversation to his throne, but decides any posturing he'd do there can be done where he is, so he sits and gestures wordlessly for her to continue. He then crosses his leg over the other and steeples his fingers in front of him, for flair.
She steps closer. "Please tell me, my dear, that there is a reasonable explanation for what the abomination is saying."
"Of course," he says with a smile and Vivienne relaxes ever so slightly. He adjusts in his seat to get more comfortable; it’s not every day that he gets one over on Madame de Fer. "I've made Cole the viscount of a small city within Ostwick. I received the approval from the magistrate this morning."
He feels Cassandra's curious eyes upon him as Vivienne's brows nearly disappear beneath her hennin.
"You've made the abomination a viscount?" she asks, incredulous, the most unmoored he's ever seen her.
He holds up a hand. "Oh, of course not," he says, a purposeful misdirection. "He is a boy, Vivienne. A boy with an extremely effective seneschal."
She is speechless.
"Small mercies for that, then," she says finally, before giving a curt nod of her head and departing.
He takes a sip of his wine with forced casualness, and toasts Varric when he sees him raise his glass across the hall.
Cassandra is leaning towards him, resting her on the arm of her chair, when he turns back to her. "I hope you will not be so glib with me," she remarks and he laughs.
He catches her hand in his and brings her knuckles to his lips. "Glib, with you? Never," he says as he watches color invade her cheeks.
She fixes him a look but does not remove her hand. "Why?" she asks.
He covers their hands with his free one and sighs. "He is more human now, and it's my fault." She goes to interrupt, but he speaks instead. "Allow me to rephrase; my choices have led to him becoming more human than spirit. I wanted to give him a place within the Trevelyans, so he'd always know comfort and security."
She softens and her free hand joins the pile he's created, her thumb stokes the top of one of his hands.
"You could have done that without making him a viscount."
"Oh, undoubtedly," he replies. "But this really was to solve more than one issue. My great aunt has been trying to figure out a way to keep my terrible cousin Andrew from inheriting the viscounty for months. She'd have named the seneschal to the position long ago, but he's been refusing. Cole will never have to take up politics, if it's not his wish."
Cassandra sits with this information for a long moment before squeezing his hands.
"That is remarkably kind of you," she says. Her face is completely open, and it makes him recall the first time he remembers her complimenting him.
(He holds the moment dear to his heart; it was after the disaster at Redcliffe. She'd been berating him for offering an alliance with the mages. When he defended himself, still just an agent of the inquisition, she'd had this same look on her face when she told him he'd, in fact, done well.)
He smiles, always pleased to have her approval, but shrugs with false modesty. "Maybe so," he says and she sighs, annoyed, catching onto him. He continues, "The letter from my aunt was not the only thing I received from my family today. I have a gift for you."
He squeezes their joined hands one more time before extracting himself, reaching for the long box in his pocket. He pulls it out and places it gently on the table in front of her.
She makes a show of eyeing it warily before picking it up, opening the box. Inside she sees a simple but elegant silverite chain with an oval-shaped pendant, bearing a black opal.
She holds it up and says, "Inquisitor, you know I am not one for jewelry."
"No, but you are one for sentiment," he says quietly. He understands firmly that he will be murdered once the sky is healed if that got out. "It's my grandmother's. My grandfather bought it for her the day he realized he loved her."
Her smile is small but genuine as she looks at the stone with new eyes.
"I asked for it a while ago," he continues, "but they needed to get it out of the vault and polish it before they could send it over."
She hands it back to him before turning away. He's unsure of what she wants – she doesn't get up or say anything else, so he doesn't move. She turns her head back to him for a moment to demand, "Put it on me."
He rushes to do so, fingers fiddling with the clasps and grinning like a madman. He lets his fingertips run along her collarbones and shoulders as he fastens it behind her neck – she's still wearing her armor and likely can't feel it well, but she'll know he's doing it.
He props his head up on his fist when she turns back, holding the pendant in the palm of her hand, smiling softly at it. He drinks in the sight of her until he's sated for the moment, and moves to refill their wine glasses.
He hands hers to her before taking a sip himself. "Now, with that settled, where did we leave off with the Knight-Captain?" he asks.
She gently lets the pendant rest against the plate of her armor and takes the glass. She doesn't drink from it and instead stands. She leans forward until her lips ghost his ear and says, "I think it would perhaps be easier to show you."
"Cassandra," he whispers, scandalized. These are Varric's books.
She straightens. "You do not have to join me if you do not wish."
Cassandra takes her glass and saunters enticingly away towards his tower.
He coughs and sits there for a moment, finding his bearings and breathing out, "Maker." He doesn't for long, however, and quickly scoops up his glass and the nearly empty bottle before following her. She is not racing and he easily outpaces her strides; she smirks when he passes her. He gets in front of her just in time to open the door up to his quarters with a slight bow and an exaggerated wag of his eyebrows.