Chapter Text
Cullen nurses his ale, wetting his lips from time to time, but not drinking. He was wholly uncertain about this Tevinter Altus, but his concern for a subtle spy seems unwarranted. For the last three hours the mage has been getting drunker and drunker on the “Southern Swill” that he can’t seem to stop himself from imbibing.
The mage had also been taking comers for games of chess and—oddly—the man’s game improved the drunker he became.
Sighing at the late hour, Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose, willing away the exhaustion hovering behind his eyes. It is late, and he has people for this.
Cullen stands and whispers a word to Jonas who has been sitting on the other side of the room, also nursing an ale. Jonas came up from South Reach sent by Arl Bryland before the Conclave to show support for the Divine. Cullen knows the boy wonders if he will ever see home, see his sister, again. Cullen feels as protective of Jonas’s hopes as if they are Cullen’s own, and it was a natural thing to accept Cassandra’s suggestion that Jonas serve as his adjutant.
Looking around the room, the Commander feels the distrust of some of the civilians each time the mage gets a little too loud. Jonas will stay to watch Altus Pavus and ensure the mage makes it to his lodgings unhindered. For the Herald’s sake, Cullen would see no harm come of the man who witnessed what she did in the other Redcliffe.
Cullen steps out into the hush of the darkness. After the sounds of the singing and laughing, his ears ring in the silence. He thinks longingly of his bedroll and a cup of mint elfroot tea to dampen the headache that has been building behind his eyes since word came that the mages were on their way to Haven. But, he reflects, Dorian appears to be in rare form and the man may still have hours in front of him if left to his own devices. It is likely that those who will stay as the evening wears will be those who would like a private “word” with a Tevinter.
He stands just outside the light from the tavern’s windows, his hand rasping the stubble of his chin and cheek as he thinks. He can spare Jonas in the morning from drills, but he’d rather not: he needs as many as possible to run through the wilderness exercise he and Rylen have planned.
Absently his gaze drifts and he sees a fire pit in the distance and a shadow move. He realizes it is Varric. The dwarf had travelled with the Herald to Redcliffe; long hours on the road had made the dwarf and the Tevinter more comfortable in each other’s company.
Cullen deliberates; that might work.
He walks toward Varric’s fire. The dwarf sits in the light of the flames, taking Bianca apart and laying out various gears on a linen cloth on the ground. The weapon is down to its stock and Varric is beginning to oil and clean gears as Cullen approaches.
“Good evening, Curly,” Varric calls over his shoulder, not looking away from the task of his hands.
“Varric,” Cullen responds and crosses around the fire, his back to the tent, able to look out at the steps and the main gate. He does not bother to question Varric how the dwarf knew it was him. Cullen knows one doesn’t last around the Charta without remarkable survival skills.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Varric asks, reaching for the wooden stock and a jar of sheep’s lanolin.
Cullen sits for a moment, determining how to proceed, then decides openness best serves here.
“Dorian. In the tavern; he’s . . . “
“Drunk as a skunk?” Varric supplies when Cullen trails off. Varric takes Cullen’s quiet as consent: “Yeah, can’t say that surprises me.”
Intrigued, despite the task he set for himself, Cullen asks, “What do you mean?”
“Well, when he and the Herald just popped back into existence in the castle, it was all good times, let’s destroy the Magister and save the day bullshit. Everything was normal as if they hadn’t just disappeared into . . . nothing . . . and then re-appeared covered in demon gore and Red Lyrium, slick as you please.” Varric pauses as he begins to reassemble the metal aiming arm to the wood stock and looks up at Cullen. “We’ve seen some weird shit, you and I, Curly, but I’d defy you to get weirder than that.”
“What did the Herald say happened?”
“Honestly, she was barely more than catatonic. Don’t get me wrong, in public you couldn’t see it. Well, not until you looked at her eyes. It was like her mouth was saying one thing, but her eyes . . . her eyes were someplace else. Which, I guess with the stories they brought back; shit, maybe they were. All I know is the first time she looked at me – ”
“ – like you were already dead,” Cullen absently interjects, remembering when the Herald dismounted in camp.
“Yeah.” Varric returns to fitting together gears, “But then the next moment she remembers when we are and she’s so damned relieved,” Varric puffs out a breath, “so it doesn’t really surprise me that Dorian’s drunk. Hell, Curly, I say let’s all get drunk and wait for the end of the world, it might go down a treat easier.”
Absently Cullen picks up one of Varric’s bolts and weighs it in his hand, considering. “Can we trust Dorian?” Cullen whispers into the night, not wanting a passing ear to overhear. “You were there; why is he willing to sever all his allegiances and take up with the Inquisition?”
At that Varric stops what he is doing and looks Cullen full in the face: “You mean why would he turn from the only home he’s ever known—the family he’s claimed—and, in the face of ultimate betrayal, why would he sever all allegiance and ties to fight some Maker-damned hole in the sky that spews demons? Shit, Curly, I don’t know; why would people do that?” Cullen blinks and shifts uncomfortably under Varric’s stare. The rogue snorts in amusement and resumes fitting gears onto the crossbow. “Yeah, Commander, I think you can trust him.”
Silence descends as Varric finishes fitting parts to Bianca.
“So, you need someone to keep an eye on him?” Varric asks casually, not looking up from his work.
“Jonas is already there,” Cullen answers, grateful that Varric has hit on his purpose, “But it is late, and they both need their beds. I was hoping you could persuade Dorian to call it a night.”
“Curly, I’m not sure dwarfs are his thing.”
Cullen startles at Varric’s inference and begins to stammer. But Varric just laughs at Cullen’s reaction and moves to get up. “I’ll see if I can drink him under the table—”
At that they hear a door slam in the lower courtyard and a clamor of voices. The guard Cullen set outside the Herald’s quarters tries to quell the noise. As both men watch, they see the Herald slip beyond the crowd, hurrying away. Both men follow the slight, retreating figure with their eyes.
“I’ll get Dorian, Commander, if you get the Herald.”
Instinctively each of them reaches out a hand to the other, shakes on it, and then parts.