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The crystal glows brighter and Dorian’s barrage of complaints soon filled the Inquisitor’s quarter. Oh. Former Inquisitor. He’s been mistakenly called the title too much the past week, it’s getting to him.
Dorian must’ve been too over-excited to dump his week’s problem that he hadn’t noticed the crystal hadn’t completely connected magically before he started his complaining. As it stands, Trevelyan only managed to catch: “-ND BLOOD MAGES! Always, with the fucking blood mages! ‘OhHhhH, PeRhApS iF wE uSe ViRgIn BloOd, ThIs TiMe tHe RiTuAl wIlL wOrK!’ Vishante kaffas, fasta vass–”
“Hello, Dorian.” Trevelyan greets him belatedly, while Dorian was busy listing down Tevene curse words reverse alphabetically. He couldn’t help to hide his amusement to slip in his tone.
Hearing him must’ve put enough pause in his rant, because Dorian lets out a rough exhale from his nose, “I can tell you think I am being ridiculous, but I’m willing to forgive you just because hearing your voice had already brightened my night. I have so greatly missed you the past week, Amatus. I can’t believe I agreed to solving this problem when I knew the mountain range their stupid little hideout is would interfere with the crystal’s magic.”
“A week picking off a sub-branch of the Venatori and getting a new land and public support under the Lucerni for your troubles? A nightmare, I’m sure.”
“You’re starting to sound like Mae. Speaking of which, she asked me to send you her love.”
“Ah, my beautiful blonde queen.” Trevelyan sighs dreamily.
“Wax love poetries for her, why don’t you?”
“What’s not to love? I have a type, you know. Gorgeous magisters from Tevinter.”
Dorian lets out an amused snort, “Naturally.”
Trevelyan steps up from his desk’s chair and picks the crystal up carefully, walking over to the fireplace and standing in front of it. “Jokes aside, I imagine it has been a difficult week. I have something that might cheer you up, though. Care for a story of how my week has been?”
Dorian lets out a soft groan, “No offense to your relatively peaceful life, Amatus, but what you consider news lately has been things like how the cook misplaced her batch of turnips.”
“Oh, I assure you, it’s the most exciting thing that has happened in Skyhold all year. You see, I’m housing extinguished guests, and they have, er,” Trevelyan weighs the words. “Made themselves very much at home, very quickly.”
Dorian sucks in a quick gasp, you could hear the smile in his voice when he demands quickly, “Tell me something scandalous happened.”
“Would a magical spat which charred a decorative banner to cinders between the lovers of the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall suffice?”
Dorian lets out a high-pitched giggle full of satisfaction. Trevelyan imagines if he had been lying on the bed he would be kicking his feet like an overjoyed young girl.
“Shall I start from the beginning?” Trevelyan asks, he grins to the fire crackling in the fireplace as he hears Dorian’s harsh whispers tripping over his own words to basically say OF BLOODY COURSE, HURRY AND TELL ME EVERYTHING!
“It started when the Hero of Ferelden came to Skyhold, about a week ago.” He began. “You could imagine my surprise, since he had come with Morrigan and Kieran in tow. I was under the impression when she left she was never coming back.”
“So was I.” Dorian says.
“Anyways, I let them in–”
“Of course you did.”
“Well, what was I supposed to do? Leave them shivering in the cold outside my castle gates?”
“Were they actually shivering?”
“No, they were dressed appropriately and none of them are delicate mages from Tevinter who would fall over dramatically if a stiff winter breeze pass through them.”
“I’ll show you falling dramatically…”
“He had found a promising clue to cure the Calling.” Trevelyan continued his original story, “It would be hidden somewhere in the Frostback Basin. He was hoping if I’d be hospitable enough to house them for some time, considering Skyhold’s location and safety…”
---
“Safety?” Trevelyan quirks an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Warden Cousland, but other than our walls and a handful of guards, Skyhold no longer houses The Inquisition. We’re a far cry from what we once were when Morrigan had stayed here.”
Morrigan, who had looked exactly like she had when she left, scoffed at that, “Quite clearly.” She agreed, her golden eyes scanning the empty courtyard they were in, where previously templars and mages had mingled and bustled about next to merchants in the marketplace. The warden looks at her for a bit, not exactly reprimanding her with said look, but not exactly agreeing with her apparent honesty. Trevelyan’s read that he was a son of a Teyrn, he imagined there was still some semblance of nobility education and manners that still stuck even years later.
“I’m under no impression that I’d be asking for the hospitality of the Inquisition, my Lord. I am here, simply hoping your generosity as the Lord of Skyhold could extend for my family for some time.” Cousland said.
Trevelyan thinks he looked simultaneously older and younger than he imagined, he must have been just a young man when the Blight happened. Still a young man when he earned the title of the Hero. And in mere 12 years he had looked like he’s seen most the world had to offer. A hardened past from the way he carries himself. Sharp eyes framed with dark rings under them.
Trevelyan wonders if he had found the real reason just then. Perhaps the Calling had started to call to the warden. Perhaps Skyhold was his attempt to place his family somewhere safe, one last time.
But then the sharp eyes above those rings flickered with something determined and clever, and the warden smiles, “… Although I did hear from a certain songbird that there was still some semblance of what the Inquisition set out to do, within the same walls it used to stand in. A cause that I’d be willing to help with if I could… provided I finish my own affairs first, of course.”
If he still had his left arm, this would be when he would cross his arms. As of now, Trevelyan simply lifts his head slightly, couldn’t help a small smile. Of course the Warden would’ve known. Quite an ally that Leliana had net for them.
“And perhaps more importantly,” The warden adds, he places a hand on Kieran’s head, ruffles his hair slightly. Kieran smiles up at his father, like the world himself had continued to say, “My son so dearly misses your garden.”
Trevelyan lets out a soft surprised chuckle at that. “Well, he’d be happy to know the gardener works hard to keep it as-is.” Trevelyan stands to the side, nods his head to the stairs that lead to the main hall. “If you have no qualms with staying here, then you and your family are welcome to stay for as long as you’d like Warden. Come and warm yourself by the fire while I send for someone to prepare a chamber.”
---
“That’s it?” Dorian interrupted incredulously.
“What do you mean?”
“A vague promise to help, and you let them stay indefinitely? You know nothing of this clue of his?”
“Well, by this point, I didn’t know he even had a clue–”
“You! You are– oh, you are impossible. If you were in Tevinter you would be dead 14 times over.”
“That’s quite a specific number.”
“People would be backstabbing you left, right and center–”
“I thought the entire point of backstabbing is from the–”
“Do not try to outwit me, Amatus.”
“What with the Inquisition disbanded, I have too many empty rooms anyway.” Trevelyan says defensively, “Anyways, they settled in for the night, and the next day I had a proper chat with the Warden about his predicament. It was then he explained about the clue in the Frostback Basin, a bunch of old magical rituals, some mention of dragons here and there, something about thin veils and the Fade… it was quite a lot to be crammed in a single explanation but he had done it quite effortlessly. In any case, he was wondering if I’d be bothered if I was to house another guest, one he was hoping to be his companion for his mission to Frostback.”
“Let me guess, this is where the Champion comes in?”
“Well, yes, and no. Actually, the Warden wanted the Champion’s lover, Anders.”
“Anders?” Dorian asks. Probably frowning now from the sound of it, “This is the same man who blew up the Kirkwall chantry and kickstarted the whole mage-templar war, yes?”
“Yes. Did you know he was a grey warden?”
“I thought that was just a rumor.”
“Well, he was– he is one. Apparently Cousland conscripted him when he was Warden-Commander of Amaranthine, when Anders was about to be taken away for being a runaway apostate.” Trevelyan leaves his previous spot on the rug in front of the fireplace where he had been pacing in tight circles to his table. He pours a glass of water, clearing his throat roughly before he brings the glass to his lips, “You should see them going at it in the library when it was just the two of them. It was like the warden’s version of The Game.”
“Did they have.. that kind of history?” Dorian asks, clearly hoping to fish out more scandal from this story. Trevelyan laughs, takes another sip from his drink.
“No, I don’t think so. See, when Anders and Hawke first arrived…”
---
“Inquisitor,” Hakwe greets him curtly, nodding politely. He stood like he was in a battlefield with weapons at his side instead of simply holding his bags in the main hall where Trevelyan had previously been speaking with Gatsi. The dwarf quickly ducked away from the conversation, returning to his castle chores.
There was a certain lightness in him now, one that Trevelyan hadn’t seen the first time he met the man.
Where previously Hawke made sarcastic remarks and smiled like a grimace, now his grin had a humorous hint to it. His shoulders seemed less hunched over, anger and grief that he wielded dulled by a turn of events that had finally been kinder to him. He looked and talked and moved like the fire-cracking, easygoing hero that plastered Varric's books; and though Trevelyan wasn't exactly close with Hawke, he could still feel a sense of relief that the Champion of Kirkwall has returned to his tendencies again.
“Please, I no longer have that title when The Inquisition has disbanded.” Trevelyan corrects him, polite but firmly.
“Has it really?” Hawke asks, smirking knowingly. He let the matter go as quickly as he had suggested he knew more than he let on, “May I introduce you to Anders?” He stands aside to reveal the mage.
Trevelyan hadn’t known what to expect of Anders. The first thing he thought to check was the hair which was blond, long and half-tied back. Anders had been called many names, but Varric’s ‘Blondie’ had been the oddest one of all of them, and stuck out like a sore thumb.
“Inquisit– Lord Trevelyan.” Anders corrects himself. “Thank you for having us. I know it’s… not exactly a simple matter to have me as a guest.”
There’s a certain wariness to his voice that Trevelyan hadn’t heard from a mage in the past few years. Ever since Leliana shut down The Circles– and even after Vivienne erected her version of it back up again– mages were free to carry their staffs and walk around freely anywhere. Yet Anders’ coat was unassuming, and with a large hood that had it been worn properly, would have obscured much of his face. He didn’t have a staff with him.
The Chantry used to have a bounty for his head, but since Leliana became Divine Victoria, Anders’ fate was left on the back burner as she considered more important things took priority than a single criminal’s life. Rumors about Anders were far and sparse– most assumed that a particular rumor that he was back in Kirkwall and had set up a humble clinic to be a ridiculous tale. Only a fool would go back to the center of such a horrific crime he committed, hoping to make tiny amends in his own way.
Trevelyan’s not a stranger to foolish decisions and the fools who made them. Maker, The Inquisition boiled down to a bunch of fools trying to do the impossible, led by a false herald running on a ‘I’ll figure it out as we go along’ mindset.
He surprises himself that he feels less contempt for a terrorist who murdered innocents for his belief– and more sympathy of a fellow man trying to do what’s right. He’ll just omit this from his monthly letter to Cassandra... or at least until she wouldn’t stalk down the mountain she's currently holed up in to go kill him immediately.
“If I was still the Inquisitor, maybe. But now? I’m just lord of a castle in a very inconvenient location.”
Whatever Anders had expected him to answer, it was surely not that, and his surprise was visible.
“Inconvenient location? Nice way to say ‘arse-end of nowhere’.” Hawke quipped. Trevelyan could see how he’s Varric’s best friend now.
“Well I was trying to be delicate,” Trevelyan snorts.
“Anders?” A voice comes up behind them and they all whirl to look.
“Warden-Commander!” Anders blurts then, “I mean, Hero, I mean–”
Cousland squints his eyes at Anders, seemingly like he’s trying to figure something out of the mage that is now obviously hiding something. “Long time no see. Did something with your hair?”
“Hah, yep.” Anders says, eyes fixed at the rug on the floor.
The warden opened his mouth again but before he managed to get a word out, Kieran had come out from the door leading to the garden, a bit of a whine as he protested, “Father, mother said you were supposed to be in charge of my training today.”
Cousland holds Kieran’s shoulder tightly as his lips purse, all while Anders and Hawke looked at the child, then at him, then back at the child.
As quick like a candle being snuffed, Anders’ demeanor changed and he folded his arms, a slight smug smirk gracing his features now. “My, father, this really wouldn’t do for a young child’s education. How old are you, boy?”
“Twelve…”
Anders smug smile only grows larger, “Twelve!”
“That’s as old as the blight,” Hawke mumbles, not as quiet as he probably thought he had, counting with his fingers.
“It is, isn’t it?!”
The Hero of Ferelden gives him an annoyed glare, one that reminds Trevelyan a bit of Cullen when he’s being heckled by Josephine or Leliana in the War Room.
He wipes the look from his face considerably quickly, composes himself again, “I’ll talk to you after you settle in, we have much to discuss.”
“Oh, I bet.” Hawke snickers.
---
“Amatus, this is taking forever. Have you been taking storytelling lessons from Varric?” Dorian complains, “When do we get to the fighting?”
“Does Tevinter chantries not teach how patience is a virtue?”
“No, we teach how it’s unwise to lead our love with false promises, lest we face the wrath of the Maker Himself.”
“Horrifying.”
“Very much so. An abridged version to the fighting to avoid such a fate, please.”
Trevelyan makes a show of a bow to his sofa, despite how Dorian couldn’t possibly see him. “Your wish is my command. Long story short? A discussion was held about the clue. A map procured, a route planned, and the four of them went to this old elven temple.”
“All four of them?” Dorian interjected, confused.
“Yes, Morrigan, the Warden, Hawke and Anders.”
“And you’re home, tending to Kieran, I take it.”
“He is a very agreeable child.” Trevelyan says seriously, while Dorian laughs. “No, Dorian, you don’t understand. He’s better company than most nobles I’ve met. And he beat me at chess with a mind-blowing cheat he said his father taught him, said it had won him a bet against a pirate queen.”
Trevelyan sits at the edge of his bed, goes to unlace his shoes.
“When the four of them left, nothing was amiss. They came back earlier than planned, and from what I heard they did find something from the temple. It was hard to know what exactly it had been because the trip have soured the mood, especially between Morrigan and Anders. Which, unfortunately, bled to dinner…”
---
Dinners in Skyhold was often a lonely affair nowadays, so Trevelyan was a touch disappointed that none of his guests– well, except Hawke– looked like they were enjoying themselves. Cousland, for one, seemed very eager to quickly excuse him and Morrigan as soon as the situation allows it.
Alas, the cook had been excited at the prospect of guests and had prepared several courses. During one of the waits for the next course, Kieran was easily dismissed to retire for the night. Trevelyan was relieved that the boy was saved from the dinner, and dismayed that as the head of the table, he wasn’t allowed to dismiss himself as well.
Hawke, for his part, had made pleasant small talks to fill in between the sharp glares Morrigan and Anders had sent each other: about the fantastic whiskey that’s being served, and about Varric’s recent escapades as the Viscount of Kirkwall.
That had led to both Cousland and Trevelyan asking questions about Kirkwall, which led to Ostwick, which led to: Weren’t you from Highever, Hero? which was answered with:
Yes, weren’t you originally from Lothering, Champion? which was pleasantly answered with:
Why, yes, ever been? which led to:
I have, actually, early during the blight. Actually, Morrigan–
Which led to both men to realize they had walked into a trap.
“Speaking of Lothering,” Morrigan swooped into the conversation. “I don’t ever recall ever seeing you there, Champion. Such a shame, to know there was an entire apostate family living so close to me in the Korcari Wilds, unbeknownst because they were hiding.”
Anders’ eye twitched, but he otherwise kept at his meal.
“Well we were not an entire apostate family. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of one of those, actually.” Hawke chuckles, takes a sip from his whiskey. “By the time we left Lothering, the only apostate in the family was my sister Bethany. And by then–” Hawke’s voice grew a tad quieter. A thousand yard, wistful stare. He shakes his head slightly, smiles over the rim of his whiskey, “Old habits die hard.”
The self-assured front must have not fooled Anders, because he speaks up for the first time during the dinner, bringing attention to himself, “The Circle didn’t use to give mages any other choices, it was either learn how to hone your gift but be kept in a cage, or hide as an apostate in fear.”
“Ah, speak for yourself. I for one, never hid.”
“Not all of us had endless swamps to live in.” Anders muttered.
Cousland tilts his head slightly, acknowledging that.
“Not all of us decided to blame our circumstances for it.” Morrigan replied.
Anders might not have noticed but Hawke scrunched his nose at the remark and made a soft ooh noise.
Trevelyan places his fork down and made a move for his glass of wine. He needs more of it, very soon.
“Let us not quarrel again, dear Anders. I was just simply astounded that you still hold onto your belief that Circle Mages know how to do magic properly, along with your backwards Andrastian belief. It makes one truly wonder, how do you feel to be a guest of the Herald of Andraste, with the actions you’ve done?”
The room’s temperature dipped and Trevelyan almost choked on his wine.
He looks over to Anders who slowly lifted his gaze to Morrigan, giving her an icy stare.
“I would have not considered you to be so devout to care about my faith, Morrigan.” He settles on saying.
“Oh, please,” Morrigan scoffed, couldn’t hide her offended tone, “Of course I’m not. The Chantry tells you pretty stories that you take for the truth simply because you don’t know any better.”
“And you do?” Anders snap back.
“Not all, perhaps, but certainly more than what you consider is truth. And I do not need to hear the whisper of the wells for such a low hanging fruit.”
“Morrigan–” Cousland sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Can we not antagonize tonight?”
“Oh, am I antagonizing poor Anders? I’m sorry, I just have little patience to be spent on a man who would rather be a martyr for an idiotic cause.” She hissed.
Something snapped with the line and Anders somehow glows blue as he roared and stood up, a magical blue light pushes items on the table and shook the floor. Almost everyone on the table stood up in surprise. Cousland had immediately put a hand over Morrigan protectively by instinct, while Morrigan seemed ready to cast a spell even with her bare hands. Trevelyan had jumped in surprise, hand still clutching his fork, which would not have helped much if it had been a real problem.
Hawke was the only one who stayed seated, like he’s very much used to this. He groans, throws his utensils down so it clatters and pushes his plate away, pouting. “I can’t take you anwyhere.”
“Andraste’s arse, Justice, is that you?” Cousland asks, once he took a better look. He squints his eyes at Anders. “I knew it, I could tell it was you, I just–how–?”
“Warden-Commander, your wife is a flaming bitch!” Anders… Justice? yells.
“Watch your tongue, spirit.” Morrigan hisses, head held high.
Despite everything, Cousland takes his hand back, runs his fingers through his hair, “I see you’ve improved your vocabulary, and she’s not my wife–”
“I can see why.”
Hawke’s previous annoyance quickly slipped away with the spirit’s quip and he lets out a sharp hah!
“What’s going on here?” Trevelyan demanded.
Cousland sighs and explains. “I… have no idea, actually. Back when I was Warden-Commander, we came upon a spirit of Justice who was brought into this world by accident, possessing a body of a dead warden. He decided to serve the wardens as long as he could. Then I was relieved of the role, and last I heard Justice was… gone. Along with most of the people I met when I was stationed there. I just assumed he just went back to the fade.”
“My, my, taking in a spirit of Justice? Perverting it and yourself into a different entity altogether? One might consider you an abomination.”
I miss Cole. Trevelyan thought suddenly and sullenly.
“Oh I’m an abomination by definition, perhaps.” The blue glow subsided, and the voice that came next was one clearly of a human’s. Anders gritted his teeth, “Just as much as you are Mythal’s servant, by definition.”
It’s incredible how within just days Anders and Morrigan had known which buttons to push the other.
“Perhaps riling the woman who can turn into a dragon is not a clever idea.” Trevelyan offered, hoping it would ease the conversation back to a more pleasant route. He had unknowingly poured oil into the fire.
“You can turn into a dragon?” Hawke asked, head snapping so quick to Morrigan.
“Wait, wait,” Cousland says, ignoring Hawke. He frowned, “Was that it, then? The mage-templar war? The chantry’s explosion? That was Justice?”
“No. The moment I took Justice in, we became one. That was my as much as our decision.”
“Well, it’s a pretty shite decision, Anders!” Cousland’s voice raised, his Ferelden accent doubling. “You didn’t think to mention about Justice to me? At all?”
“Oh, I don’t know, you weren’t particularly falling over yourself to tell me that you had a son. A son you knew you had since we first met back in Vigil’s Keep, might I add.”
“Why would I ever need to disclose that to you? ‘Hi Anders, did you clear the darkspawn near the city like I asked you to? Also I have a child who was conceived with an old magical ritual the day before I killed the archdemon’?”
“… Yes, actually, would that be so hard?”
“You can turn into a dragon???” Hawke asks Morrigan again.
“What does Kieran have to do with your fool decision to house a spirit?” Instead of answering Hawke, Morrigan points accusingly at Anders.
“Nothing. He does, however, if we were keeping scores on honesty. And if we were keeping scores on similarity, well, well, well—”
The pun set Morrigan off and she casted fireball.
---
“Fire erupted, lightning everywhere, Cousland was telling Morrigan to calm down and ducking to avoid blasts of ice. Hawke shooed a terrified servant away but grabbed one of the dessert she was bringing over– it was chaos. It only ever halted when a fire licked upon a banner and would’ve set my entire castle ablaze if they had not stopped.”
“Marvelous. Are there marks left from the fight?”
“Of course. The servants are still picking away at the ice blocks on the wall. My ceiling will forever have a burnt mark.” Trevelyan mumbles, yawning.
The few moments of silence must have left the wrong impression on Dorian, because he asks, “Are you upset about their outbursts?”
“No, not exactly. Once the fight was over they considerably settled down and was much more civil afterwards. Reminds me of how Bull used to say all you need to solve a problem is to get hit around for a bit. If anything the dinner just made me felt a little left out. I had my own mage lover too, and I started thinking about how it would’ve been a lot more pleasant if you were on that table with us–”
“There you go again,” Dorian sighs, feigning annoyance and tiredness, “All syrup and honeyed words.”
“–Then I realized you’d probably have escalated the argument much, much, worse, so I figured this was for the best.”
“Give me my syrup and honeyed words back.”