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Skyhold is a place filled to the brim with ancient magic. It is entirely benevolent; a warm, protective presence on the edge of conscious thought, but still there. It soothes the weary and gives hope to all those who make the pilgrimage to Skyhold's walls. The mages feel it more than most; constantly commenting on it as they go about their research in the tower, or assist the surgeon in the infirmary. They draw on it to enhance their magic, using its strength to cast longer, more complicated spells that would be nigh impossible to cast without the incredible power of Skyhold's wards.
Gwyneth can feel it wherever she is in the hold; feels it surround her as she makes her way across the entry bridge and through the gate. She's unsure if it feels the same way to others, but to a mage it's an almost physical presence. It envelopes her every step, though not oppressively so; she doesn't have occasion to think about it very often, and when she's not thinking about it, it fades into the back of her mind.
The magic is the only reason possible that it is so pleasantly warm within the courtyard, despite its location atop one of the highest mountains in the Frostbacks. Dorian persists in complaining, as always, but it's hard to please someone who comes from the north of Tevinter. Josephine is sometimes slightly chill as well, but she's spent more time in Orlais than Dorian has; and Antiva is not known for the swimming, oppressive heat of a Tevinter summer. Having been born and raised in Ostwick, even Gwyneth sometimes finds herself chilly when surrounded by the cool, dry air of the Frostbacks and southern Ferelden, but Skyhold is almost always warm enough to forgo a cloak, and she has yet to see snowfall within its walls—even when there is snow falling right outside the keep.
That does not, however, mean that it doesn't rain. In fact, Skyhold sees plenty of it. Gwyneth supposes that the magic of the keep realizes that all the living things contained inside—both plants and people—cannot survive without the occasional downpour. Several times a month, the sky above Skyhold opens up and cries out its life giving tears, and the children come out of their classrooms and frolic. Any clean vessel that can be spared is employed in the containment of rainwater, soldiers running to and fro to place buckets and casks and troughs in the courtyard. There is a grove outside of Skyhold which seems to be under the same magic despite not being within the walls of the keep, but the water found there is hard and not pleasing to drink; it's mostly used for laundry and bathwater, and sometimes is given to the animals. The water collected during rain becomes drinking water, and there is usually more than enough to go around.
By the time the renovations are underway and the Inquisition has had several weeks to settle into its new home, the system is well engrained. When rain begins to fall in fat, quickening drops, the soldiers are quick to jump to action. The courtyard quickly becomes a swarm of humanity as people rush to place vessels in the courtyard. Just as quickly, the swarm clears—leaving the courtyard nearly empty but for the children splashing in puddles. It's not so very long before dusk, and Gwyneth can feel the thinness of the veil on her skin as keenly as the rainwater. Nobody has thought to look up, and so nobody has noticed the Inquisitor standing on the battlements. She's glad for this. Since being named Inquisitor, she's felt steadily less like a person and more like a concept.
It's a nice night aside from the rain, and Gwyneth has never minded standing in a downpour. The runners won't think to look for her out here, at least not for a little while, and she needs a moment to herself.
Just as she's thinking this, the door to Cullen's chamber opens and she anticipates the hurried tones of one of Leliana's runners, but turning her head reveals the Commander himself. He steps out with his shield held over his head, repurposed for use as an umbrella. It's a thoroughly comical sight—especially considering that no shield has ever been made to double as an umbrella, and the rainwater is sliding over the sides and straight onto his shoulders. But, Gwyneth supposes, it's protecting his hair.
"Maker, it was sunny just an hour ago," Cullen mutters, glancing out from underneath the shield to examine the grey sky. "I'll never understand how weather can change so quickly in Orlais."
"It's just as bad in Ferelden," Gwyneth chuckles. "I spent almost a month in the Hinterlands, so I would know."
"I suppose you're right," Cullen says, wry. "I just…wasn't aware that mountaintops saw so much rain."
"I don't think they do." Gwyneth leans against the wall, looking out into the courtyard, at the water falling steadily into buckets and tureens. "It's the magic in this place. Can't you feel it? It's like nothing I've ever felt before."
"I can," Cullen says. He's coming slowly but steadily closer, and the shield has begun to slip so that one entire shoulder is dampening; Gwyneth can smell wet bearhide from where she stands. It's not the most unpleasant thing she's ever smelled. Far from it. "Whoever created the wards around this place was…immensely powerful. I can only imagine what it feels like to a mage."
"Strong," Gwyneth says. "But kind. It cares about us, I think." She pats the dark granite under her leaning hand like one might a dog's head or a horse's flank. "If what Solas said to me as we made our way here is true, it's…been waiting. For something to fill it. Something important, worth protecting. He seems to think that it would have had the power to hide itself from us if it wanted to, but it didn't. It understands that we're important."
"Smart castle," Cullen chuckles. It's certainly not the response that Gwyneth would have expected from a Templar, ex or no. Then again, Cullen has made a practice of defying her expectations ever since they first met. She doesn't quite know what her first impressions of him were—the circumstances of their meeting were so wrought with violence and danger that she can hardly remember anything from those hours of her life but the smell of blood and the shrieking of demons. But when Cassandra introduced them in Haven, and at every step onward, he's impressed and mystified her with his willingness for liberal thinking when it comes to mages and magic.
"I'd have thought it would make you nervous," Gwyneth says. "To live around so much raw magic."
"It does," Cullen chuckles. "Maker, but it does. I must be hiding it better than I thought, which is…good. But beggars can't be choosers, Your Worship, and the Inquisition was no better off than a tramp in the street after Haven. We needed somewhere to regroup and rebuild, and Skyhold presented itself—either through Solas' navigation skills or through its own devices. It was exactly what we needed when we needed it."
Gwyneth considers his response, staring with furrow-browed consternation down into the courtyard, and murmurs, "Gwyneth."
"Sorry?"
"You can call me Gwyneth, if you want." She leans heavily on the battlements, takes a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. The shield has slipped almost entirely now, more vertical than horizontal. He seems to be paying no attention to that fact that his golden hair is steadily turning a color that more closely resembles bronze. "Maker, I wish someone would. It's all Inquisitor this and Your Worship that. I've almost forgotten what my own name sounds like."
"They simply wish to give you the respect you're due."
"I know," Gwyneth sighs, "and I know you understand…probably better than most, given that you have a title of your own. But at least people tend to put your given name afterwards. Commander Cullen. Nobody's ever called me Inquisitor Gwyneth, and I can count on one hand the number of times someone has called me Inquisitor Trevelyan."
"I think…the higher your position, the less appropriate it is to use your given name. Think about the women who become Divine, taking regnal names and never again being referred to by their Andrastean names."
"You make a good point," Gwyneth says, "but I'm quite enjoying feeling sorry for myself. I think that's what standing alone in the rain is for."
"Oh, Maker forgive me for interrupting," chuckles Cullen, staying put despite his words. He peers again at the grey sky from around his shield, now doing very little but keeping his arm from becoming wet. "I certainly hope it stops soon. The quartermaster found me a tarpaulin to stretch across that hole in my ceiling, but I'm afraid it won't stand up to much more of this weather. I fear I may be sleeping on a soggy mattress."
"There's a hole in your ceiling?"
"Er…well, yes." Cullen scratches the back of his neck, that strangely endearing nervous habit if his. "Forgive me, I thought I'd made mention of it before."
"You certainly haven't." She straightens up from the battlements. "I'll go tell the masons right now; I can't have my commander dying of chest-chill in his own bed."
"Inquisitor—" he drops his shield and reaches out to stall her with a hand wrapped around her arm, firm but not harsh. She turns instinctively into his touch, having been grabbed by Templars before and not wishing for the bruising pain that is typically the result of attempts to pull away. It's an entirely unconscious response, and one that she knows she needn't have with Cullen—and not only because the hellfire of the entire Inquisition would rain down if he hurt her. She knows that he is not that sort of man—but old habits are hard to break.
Cullen's hand immediately falls away. "I'm sorry, I—forgive me, I wasn't thinking. I forget that you're not…one of my soldiers."
"You've said forgive me three times in the past two minutes." Gwyneth picks up his shield and leans it against the wall. When she straightens back up, Cullen has hung his head to look at the ground, and it's comically reminiscent of a scolded dog. "Cullen, it's fine. I know you weren't hurting me. I just—I reacted. It's what people do. You couldn't have known."
"I could have." Cullen raises his eyes—the color of treacle, sad as a puppy's. "I should have. We've both spent most of our lives in Circles. We both know how they're run. I promised myself after Kirkwall, after I watched Meredith become what she did, that I would never be like her. I told myself that I'd been living my life all wrong and that I had to change. That I owed it to my order's good name to be an example of what a Templar should be."
"The Oswtick Circle had its fair share of crooked Templars," Gwyneth says, blinking the water out of her eyes to better look up at his. His hair, usually so carefully combed back, is drooping over his forehead and ears. It takes ten years straight off of him, makes him look more similar to the child he was when he joined the Templars than the Knight-Captain he is now. "But all circles do. And I have the feeling you were never one of them."
Cullen closes his eyes, an expression twisting onto his face as though he's just been punched in the gut. "I wish I could tell you you're right—but I can't."
"Cullen…" Gwyneth rests her hand on his chest. It is dwarfed by the sheer size of his pectorals, by the metal and fabric of his armor. He makes her feel small and it's somehow a secure feeling. No matter what he says, she feels safe with him.
"When I think about anyone putting their hands on you in order to—hurt you, to do you violence, I…" He sighs, moves his hand to cover hers. The leather of his gloves is supple; the hands underneath strong. "But then I realize that I was no better. For so long, I was no better, and I—I thank the Maker for sending me to you when He did, because I don't think I would have understood—appreciated how—truly wonderful you are, even just three years ago. At the same time, I want so badly to find those who did you wrong, and make them atone for hurting you."
Gwyneth reaches up, presses her hand to his cheek. His skin is rough; she always assumed it would be. He is not a nobleman. He was not raised in drawing rooms with gossamer curtains and carefully-shaded gardens. Much of his life has been spent in the sun, on the training field. These cheeks have been reddened over and over by the unforgiving rays of a sky that both gives and takes life. The feeling of rough skin and bristly stubble against her softer palm is distinctly masculine in a way that swirls underneath her navel. She wants to trace her thumb over traces of the mustache that is constantly threatening to grow on his upper lip; she wants to kiss him and feel it draw across her own mouth.
She says, "You may not have always been worthy. You may have done things you regret—but no person comes to be at this point of their life without at least a few regrets to haunt them. What matters is that you changed. You became a better person. I'll never know Cullen before the Inquisition—and I don't care to. The only Cullen I care about is the one standing in front of me, at this moment. You've become a man who can stand in what's essentially a magical castle full of mages, and show no fear. You've become a man whom I trust without hesitation and without doubt. That's what matters to me."
Just then, the wind changes direction and hits her at just the right angle to set off a full-body shudder.
"You worry about me catching chest-chill, but it'll be you who gets it if you continue standing in the rain without a cloak or hood." Before she has the chance to respond, he's already removing his bearhide and draping it over her shoulders. The outer layers are thoroughly drenched, but it's surprisingly dry underneath. It's too big for her, however, and she has to grasp at its ends to prevent its own weight from dragging it straight off her shoulders and onto the ground.
"Well, now I look ridiculous," she says, only half joking. She imagines herself looking like a little girl wearing her father's armor.
"But warm," Cullen says. He tilts his head and hesitantly reaches out to tuck a strand of sodden hair that has managed to escape her braid behind her ear. He says, "Indulge me and wear it until someone has the good sense to find you a proper cloak. Maker knows you're too stubborn to find one yourself." His hands perhaps linger slightly too long on her cheek, but she doesn't mind.
"You really want me to go talk to the masons looking like a game of dress-up gone horribly wrong?"
He shakes his head. "Don't go talk to the masons. The hole is…nothing I can't tolerate. I've had much worse accommodations, and there are so many more important things for them to worry about. Parts of this fortress are literally falling apart—they have to work on stabilizing essential areas before they can worry about the cosmetics of the place."
"I understand, but the Commander of the Inquisition shouldn't have to sleep in a soggy bed."
"If that becomes the case, I'll find other lodging, either in the tents with the refugees or in the barracks with the soldiers. It might even do them good, to see that their commander is just a mortal person like the rest of them."
"You can sleep in my bed," Gwyneth says, without thinking. It only takes a second for her to realize how deeply that statement could be misconstrued, and for a deep blush to darken her cheeks. "I mean…that is, not with me in it. You can—I'll sleep elsewhere, and you can use the—I have couches. Several. They're Orlesian and when you—when you push them together they create a—it's called a daybed, and I can use—"
A smile stretches across Cullen's face—amused at her stuttering, but not mean. "Thank you, Lady Trevelyan, but it may be thought inappropriate if any…witnesses should see me leaving your quarters in the morning. False conclusions would be drawn. You know how easily gossip spreads, especially when so many people are pushed into one place."
"What if I didn't care?" she asks.
It's Cullen's turn to blush. "I—"
The footsteps of a runner are heard coming up the stairs from the upper courtyard; she turns to see one of Leliana's people—Peirce, she thinks his name might be—approaching. She feels more than sees Cullen straighten up at her side, automatically taking on the stance of a commander rather than the stance of a friend.
"Your Worship," says the scout, bowing slightly at the hips. She doesn't think she'll ever get used to everyone bowing to her; especially not after a lifetime spent as a circle mage, where everyone you met had the potential to spit in your face. "A raven has just arrived with news from Scout Harding in Crestwood. The information is…troubling. Sister Leliana would speak with you at your earliest convenience."
"I'll go speak with her now," Gwyneth says. The scout salutes with a fist to the chest and leaves in the same direction he game. Gwyneth turns back to Cullen. "I'll request extra blankets and pillows just in case."
Cullen smiles in a very indulgent way, as though agreeing just to placate her, but he nods and says, "Thank you, Gwyneth."
"No trouble," she says, and takes her leave to find Leliana.
Cullen does not accept her offer, as she suspected he wouldn't—but she realizes, halfway through her meeting with Leliana, that the reason Leliana keeps shooting her strange, considering glances is because she still has Cullen's bearhide draped over her shoulders. When she retires to her quarters for the night, well past the time almost everyone else in the keep has gone to sleep, she rests it in front of the fire and leaves it to dry overnight.
She returns it to Cullen in the morning, still warm. The smell of him will hang in her chamber for days.