Day 11: One Character Is Fixing the Other Character’s Jewelry/Clothing/Etc. – prompt by @kagetsukai
Cullen stares at the closed door. He raises his fist to knock for the fifth time, but lowers it yet again, unable to disturb her. He paces away, scratching absently at Haron’s ear when he whines.
The messenger that comes to remind them of the meeting receives his glare.
“She’ll be there when she’s ready. I’m sure everyone can understand.”
“But, ser–”
He takes in the Fereldan heraldry on the servant and feels rage boil in his gut. If ever there’s been a time he’s ashamed of his homeland, this is it. But snarling and brandishing a blade will not help anyone. He draws himself up and slips into his commander’s voice.
“Considering the Inquisitor’s state, she will do her best to arrive soon. That should be sufficient for your lord to understand.”
The man swallows and nods before hurrying away. He shuts the door just shy of a slam and turns. Sidni is standing in the cracked opening of the door to their bedroom.
Her expression breaks his heart all over again. She’s sickly pale and standing in a way that he hasn’t seen since their first introduction. Everything is curled inward, like she can make herself smaller and unnoticed. Only this time, there’s no defiance in her eyes. They’re red from tears, the dried tracks staining her cheeks. Her lips are pressed tightly together.
And that’s when he notices that her trousers are unlaced, her coat undone, the sash askew. Her hair is an untamed riot. The boots are nowhere to be seen. When she sees the path his gaze has taken, her breaths come in sharp gasps, tears building in her eyes again.
He’s seen her cry more in the past week than in the last several years.
Carefully, he moves toward her. She’s trembling. One wrong move and he’ll break her.
“Do … can I help?”
She sobs out a “please.”
He starts with her trousers, tightening the laces around her thinned waist. Then he smooths her tunic, tucks her necklace against her collarbone, and pulls the red coat closed, fastening it with his own aching fingers. He rights the blue silk across her chest and guides her backward to sit on the bed. She watches as he helps tug the boots up to her knees. He glances at her knives.
“Do you want–”
“No.”
He tries to keep his face blank. But the idea of Sidni without a weapon on her person is wrong.
“Just the boot knife.”
“No.”
He nods and grabs the leather glove, holding it open for her. She slides her arm in and flexes her fingers, staring at them as he moves to her left. He fights back his own trembling as he folds the empty sleeve to just below what remains.
When he looks up, she’s staring at the spot where her arm should be. He swallows tears and combs his fingers through her hair until it lays a little less wild. The kiss he leaves on her forehead goes unnoticed.
After he wipes her cheeks with a damp cloth, he helps her to her feet. She sways slightly. He resists the urge to steady her, to grab hold and never let go. But she takes a deep breath, scoops the Inquisition’s writ under her arm, and lifts her chin.
Right before his eyes, she pulls on a mask. There’s no sign of the fragility he’d witnessed only seconds ago, only a grimly determined and wounded Inquisitor marching forward. He knows what she’s planning, and he knows how it weighs on her heart. And he knows that this pain is just the beginning.
The happiest birthday to Chris Hemsworth, our favourite Australian lizard!
Day 11: One Character Is Fixing the Other Character’s Jewelry/Clothing/Etc. – prompt by @kagetsukai
Cullen stares at the closed door. He raises his fist to knock for the fifth time, but lowers it yet again, unable to disturb her. He paces away, scratching absently at Haron’s ear when he whines.
The messenger that comes to remind them of the meeting receives his glare.
“She’ll be there when she’s ready. I’m sure everyone can understand.”
“But, ser–”
He takes in the Fereldan heraldry on the servant and feels rage boil in his gut. If ever there’s been a time he’s ashamed of his homeland, this is it. But snarling and brandishing a blade will not help anyone. He draws himself up and slips into his commander’s voice.
“Considering the Inquisitor’s state, she will do her best to arrive soon. That should be sufficient for your lord to understand.”
The man swallows and nods before hurrying away. He shuts the door just shy of a slam and turns. Sidni is standing in the cracked opening of the door to their bedroom.
Her expression breaks his heart all over again. She’s sickly pale and standing in a way that he hasn’t seen since their first introduction. Everything is curled inward, like she can make herself smaller and unnoticed. Only this time, there’s no defiance in her eyes. They’re red from tears, the dried tracks staining her cheeks. Her lips are pressed tightly together.
And that’s when he notices that her trousers are unlaced, her coat undone, the sash askew. Her hair is an untamed riot. The boots are nowhere to be seen. When she sees the path his gaze has taken, her breaths come in sharp gasps, tears building in her eyes again.
He’s seen her cry more in the past week than in the last several years.
Carefully, he moves toward her. She’s trembling. One wrong move and he’ll break her.
“Do … can I help?”
She sobs out a “please.”
He starts with her trousers, tightening the laces around her thinned waist. Then he smooths her tunic, tucks her necklace against her collarbone, and pulls the red coat closed, fastening it with his own aching fingers. He rights the blue silk across her chest and guides her backward to sit on the bed. She watches as he helps tug the boots up to her knees. He glances at her knives.
“Do you want–”
“No.”
He tries to keep his face blank. But the idea of Sidni without a weapon on her person is wrong.
“Just the boot knife.”
“No.”
He nods and grabs the leather glove, holding it open for her. She slides her arm in and flexes her fingers, staring at them as he moves to her left. He fights back his own trembling as he folds the empty sleeve to just below what remains.
When he looks up, she’s staring at the spot where her arm should be. He swallows tears and combs his fingers through her hair until it lays a little less wild. The kiss he leaves on her forehead goes unnoticed.
After he wipes her cheeks with a damp cloth, he helps her to her feet. She sways slightly. He resists the urge to steady her, to grab hold and never let go. But she takes a deep breath, scoops the Inquisition’s writ under her arm, and lifts her chin.
Right before his eyes, she pulls on a mask. There’s no sign of the fragility he’d witnessed only seconds ago, only a grimly determined and wounded Inquisitor marching forward. He knows what she’s planning, and he knows how it weighs on her heart. And he knows that this pain is just the beginning.
Flissa stared with horrified fascination as the Blessed Herald of
Andraste climbed on top of a tavern table and proceeded to sing a
drinking song at the top of his lungs.
As I was a goin’ over the far famed Kerry mountains
I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting
I first produced my pistol and I then produced my rapier
Saying “stand and deliver” for he were a bold deceiver
For the chorus of the song, the entire place chose to join in and they all belted off key:
Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da
Whack for my daddy-o
Whack for my daddy-o
There’s whiskey in the jar
Perhaps such behavior would have been normal of any other patron, but
the Herald was known for his quiet demeanor and few words. To see him
this rowdy, this free with his smiles and his joy, it really warmed her
heart. She didn’t know what kind of alcohol the Qunari and his ragtag
mercenary group dragged into town, but it sure brought a lot of new
experiences within the Inquisition.
Flissa also suspected the hangover the next morning would be of a whole new level as well.
Day 10: Holding Hands/”Can I Hold Your Hand?” – prompt by @kagetsukai and Anonymous
This one got a bit long so I’ll put it behind a ‘Read More.’ Happy Friday everyone!
The incident belongs on his long list of failures.
The cold air is relieving to his fevered withdrawals and Sidni at his side makes the experience all the better. He’s always appreciated the quietness when night falls and Skyhold’s residents retreat to their rooms or the tavern. There is, of course, the occasional voice and metallic movement of the patrolling guards ringing out, but it adds its own charm to the darkness.
They’re on their own as they stroll along the ramparts. Sidni is humming quietly, her head tilted back to stare at the stars. He watches her, the way her curls brush across her cheeks in the breeze, the green of her tattoo peeking through as they move. He wonders what she would do if he tucked her hair behind her ear. Would she give him that new smile, genuine and tentative, as if her lips can’t remember the motion properly? Or would the action crumble their friendship?
He startles as her fingers press against his palm, then slowly move as if she’s going to properly take his hand. He stiffens in surprise even as a thrill rushes down his spine.
But she notices. She notices everything. Before he can recover from the sudden shock, she’s pulling away and shuffling just out of reach. Heat rises in his cheeks. The emptiness of his hold is painful. As if that weren’t enough, the enormity of his seeming rejection to her comes crashing onto his shoulders.
She stares up at the stars, face cast in odd shadows from the twin moons. He yearns to reach out, to retake her show of intimacy and claim it for his own. But her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, shoulders hunched defensively. And he wouldn’t doubt his efforts might earn him a warning stab to his own hand.
His heart twists.
“I should be going. Good night, Commander.”
“Sidni–”
She flashes a smile – brittle and false, not at all like the one he imagined earlier – as she strides in the other direction and disappears into the night. He digs his fingers into the back of his neck, resisting the urge to chase after her.
He’s forgotten that when Inquisitor Cadash does not want to be found, no one can find her. He spends a week unable to find her or unable to catch her after a war council meeting. He throws himself back into his reports to smother the guilt gnawing at his insides.
And when she departs for the Storm Coast once again, he feels the cravings digging their way back in, using his failure as a hold.
“Come along, Cullen. Have a drink with Varric and I.”
“Not tonight, Dorian.”
“I bet that dwarf a silver that I could convince you to come. Do not make me lose my money, good sir.”
He sighs and follows the mage toward the Herald’s Rest. At least their company will take his attention away from the kit whispering his name from his desk drawer.
Seated at a table away from the louder crowds, he shuffles the tankard of ale between his hands. The silence coming from both Varric and Dorian is stifling, bringing with it the realization that they had a purpose in drawing him out. He avoids their gazes and takes a drink.
“So, Commander, is it you our Inquisitor has been hiding from?”
He chokes as Dorian barrels into the subject with as much subtlety as his Tevinter finery. Varric huffs a laugh, clapping Cullen on the back.
“That answers that,” the dwarf says.
“And to think I wondered why she left you two behind,” Cullen mutters.
Dorian chuckles. “I suppose she wanted a break from our incessant questioning.”
“If she hasn’t told you, then that is because it is between her and I.”
They’re both staring at him with disquieting grins. He pushes his chair back and stands, hoping he’s given nothing away. Hoping he hasn’t betrayed her trust once again.
“Have a good night,” he says, hurrying from the table.
“She cares, Curly. She wouldn’t be upset otherwise.”
Varric’s voice stops him and he glances over his shoulder to find the dwarf lifting his mug in salute while Dorian glares at Varric. Cullen turns, refusing to acknowledge either of them, and makes his way up past the spirit boy and out onto the battlements.
He might have ruined whatever it was between them, but he’ll be damned if he lets anyone pry into what Sidni holds close to her chest.
The raven comes almost three weeks later. The Inquisitor has been injured in a dragon fight. His heart skips a beat reading the missive. She hadn’t taken any of their mages and they are hurrying back to Skyhold. He imagines all manner of gruesome injuries as he waits.
A guard interrupts their council meeting to inform them when she actually arrives. Leliana and Josephine ask him to go while they finish up the plans for infiltrating some nobleman’s estate. He ignores the spymaster’s smirk and excuses himself.
He’s directed to the surgery, knocking gently on the door they point him to. Her voice calls out and he steps in to find Madame de Fer as well as the surgeon with her. The sight of her bare shoulder with spidering webs of electricity damage on the skin stops him in his tracks. Sidni’s face twists before smoothing out into a tiny smile.
He stays out of the way until they finish and bandage the wound. Both women depart, leaving him and Sidni in an awkward silence. She exhales heavily and winces.
“Are you in pain?” he asks, stepping toward her.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs.
There’s something in her voice. He won’t learn until later that she was afraid, that the magic had wreaked havoc on her body until it wore off. For now, he moves closer, responding to the tremor.
“Can I … ?”
His hand hovers over hers. She glances up at him and then back down into her lap, nodding. He weaves his fingers through hers, enclosing her smaller one in his. She sighs and tilts into him, pressing her face against his shoulder. He squeezes her hand and smiles into her hair.
Day 9: Offering Your Drink/Snack for Sidni and Any Companion – prompt by @out-of-the-embers
Yes, I am finally getting back to this. The good news is I have nothing to interrupt me this time. No more weddings or trips so I should actually be able to finish this month. Thank you for being patient with me. Hopefully this is worth the wait.
And I’m sorry if you’re sick of Sidni and Dorian, but I love them so much that I can’t stop writing about them.
She wants her tent and the sweet oblivion of sleep. She’s sick of these mountains and sick of the snow. Everything aches. Sometimes, as they walk, she swears she can feel ribs grinding together. She’s had worse, certainly, but still. There have never been so many people focusing on her in such a state. It’s unnerving. She knows she looks like she barely survived being trampled by a bronto.
That’s probably more apt than she wants to admit. She certainly doesn’t look like a leader at the moment.
But with a lack of healing potions and Solas having done all he could, she just has to give it more time. And keep up the front. Hopefully she won’t collapse while leading the entire remains of the Inquisition. It almost makes her long for the days when she traveled alone and could find a cave to stop and lick her wounds in.
The lone figure sitting by the fire in the center of her companions’ circle of tents brings her pause. Dorian has his robes drawn tightly around him and his brows are furrowed. She glances at the meager meal in her hands and then back to the mage. Thinking of the warmer climes of Tevinter and the ready luxuries they enjoy, she can imagine this feels like a death sentence to him. He’s not complained once, but …
Biting back a groan as her body protests, she drops onto the crate next to him. He turns, his eyes sweeping over her and lingering on the bruises and cuts.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
She can tell the truth on this at least. “I’ve had worse.”
He frowns, surveying her closer. This unlooked for ally, this outcast, catches on to her more than many of the others have. It’s unnerving, but she likes him, so she lets it pass. Still, she fights back a flush under the scrutiny and holds out the venison someone had thoughtfully put aside when she didn’t attend dinner.
“I know you’re hungry,” she responds to his arched brow.
“Cadash–”
The lie rolls easily off her tongue. “I snatched some extra. Old habits.”
He takes it from her, still hesitant. She brushes her fingers clean and looks to the fire as he nearly devours it after the first bite. Her heart twists for him. And her admiration grows.
He holds out half of the small portion. It’s her turn to raise a brow and hope her face shows her displeasure.
“You took it for yourself. Have some,” he urges.
She breaks off a piece and pushes the rest back. She’s gone longer periods with no food. She’ll survive. He almost looks guilty when he finishes it.
“There’s an extra fur in the crate we’re sitting on. I would hate to find a frozen Vint in the morning. Good night, Dorian.”
His splutter follows her as she crosses to her tent. She catches sight of Cullen, hovering outside his own tent, watching her. There’s an odd expression on his face. Her heart does something strange and causes her breath to catch. She steels her jaw and nods, hurrying to the safety of canvas walls.
The frozen ground is unforgiving against her body, but she curls up and ignores it all. The pain, the hunger, the confusion … it all fades as she lets sleep take her, content that at least Dorian will sleep easier tonight.
“Cullen seems fascinated by my scars. When he traces them … I can almost … it used to make me uncomfortable, but now … don’t tell him, but it steals my breath and sometimes I wish he would never stop.”
Maker's Breath 