Work Text:
Flyn Lavellan stormed back into Skyhold, still wearing the stains of his fallen foes on his leather armor. He had blood streaks on the side of his face, matching his burnt scar on the other. He could have used a bath, or several. The scent of battle fallowed him like a shadow. Dirt, gore and spider ichor blended with the sweet fragrance of residual magic. His arm was still shaking from the last rift he sealed with the anchor.
That arm, whenever he used it now, it felt like his flesh was rotting away around his bones. It wasn’t. The thing looked normal from the outside. Still, his nerves were twitching, his muscles strained. The pain didn’t bother him as much as what was swirling and whispering inside of his mind. The fate of Thedas was a chaotic mess to ponder but that wasn’t what bothered him the most. What he was loosing sleep over was the disappearance of Solas. The one thing he couldn’t do something about; it was driving him mad. And so, as much as a bath sounded delightful and necessary, he couldn’t bring himself to even unbuckle his leather. Not now. What Flyn needed was a buffer zone. Something, somewhere, that could fill up his mind to the brim and bury his thoughts deeper in.
He set his sight on Leliana’s nest. Up there, in the tower, with the gentle croaking of ravens and the hushed words of the spies, he felt at home. After a few moments hunched over a map, listening to one of his best recruit going over her report, Flyn could feel the tension leaving his body gradually. Half an hour more and he might be able to ease up; relax even, for once, when evening would descend over the castle.
Flyn was beginning to notice the stench of his own body and armor, he pitied the woman standing in his close vicinity. Sharis was her name and she was an excellent recruit here at Skyhold. She was tasked to catch, read and summarize everything Leliana deemed unnecessary to share with the Inquisitor herself and that wasn’t strictly for her eyes only. Flyn liked to be well informed; the weight his decisions held deserved his time and dedication. Sharis did her job perfectly, she even bothered to add some of Skyhold rumors to keep Flyn in the loop of the going-ons happening under his roof. Which, Bull definitely helped with when the Inquisitor had time to get a drink at the tavern.
Flyn was lost in thought and nearly missed the last bit of gossip Sharis was sharing with him. It involved the Commander Rutherford and the Warden Commander Surana, the Hero of Ferelden herself, who was currently sitting not too far away from his position.
They had the most difficulties reaching out to her. Thanks to Leliana’s network, they managed to find her and she agreed to join the Inquisition, as another adviser to help smooth things over with the Wardens after what happened at Adamant Fortress. That would spell countless sleepless nights for our dear inquisitor. Flyn was everything but thrilled, his opinion flipped on its head the moment he met Cerys Surana.
He wasn’t expecting the elven girl who appeared at his doorstep. Cute, tiny, plump and ginger, a wild combination of sweetness, spice and allure that she was absolutely unaware of embodying. Her adorable demeanor was hiding the unspeakable horrors she had witnessed in life for being who she was, the Warden who ended the last blight. Flyn recognized that glimmer in her eyes when she addressed him for the first time. He has been seeing it everyday in the mirror since he was entitled Inquisitor. That, however, didn’t bar him from poking fun at her. It was in his natural playful nature to do so; a way to charm his audience and help negotiations run smoothly.
Today wasn’t normal.
When he lifted his gaze toward her, all the tension came back to his body in full force. He was enraged. It was written in the severity of his scowl. He looked at her, the girl he called ‘baby carrot’ in their down time, Cerys, in front of others. She was sitting, feet up, on a large cushioned chair that was swallowing her whole. Her adorable button nose was buried inside reports she insisted on reading herself, to ‘get up to speed’ as she had put it. The scroll she was holding seemed long enough to keep her chained to that chair up until the next age. And yet, she had the focus of the mage that she was when it came to the written words; unlike Flyn who really needed someone like Sharis to shorten sentences to their strict meaning. He much preferred the spoken prose of conversation.
Flyn paused on the words the spy fed to his ear. His eyes narrowed as his stare bore into the back of the chair where Cerys was sitting. “Cullen did what?” His voice wasn’t loud, it was murderous. “Cerys.” The girl jumped at the sound of her name, looking like a baby deer frightened by a sudden noise. The Inquisitor expression was alarming. “Is this true?” Flyn asked. The tone wasn’t as frightening as the sight of his pale and stormy eyes underlined by dark circles darkening his stare.
“W-what?” she stammered.
The inquisitor unclenched his jaw for one single word. “Cullen.”
Cerys froze in place for a second, her freckled cheeks flushed with a lovely shade of red that complimented her auburn hair. Her reaction was answer enough already but her words put the final nail in the coffin.
“H-how do you know about that,” she said, voice barely louder than a whisper.
Flyn stormed out of the tower with fury in his stride.
Cerys could tell he was going straight to the Commander and, if his look was any indicator, blood was likely to be spilled. She dashed in pursuit, nearly tripping over the pile of reports laying at her feet. She had so much to read through but no matter, not when the inquisitor was about to murder his own Commander. She arrived on the landing a few seconds after Flyn disappeared downstairs but he had already vanished and was nowhere in sight.
“Where is Cullen’s office again?” she asked herself aloud, looking lost. Skyhold was a massive and labyrinthine structure, Cerys hasn’t had time to memorize its layout yet. She hesitated, letting precious seconds past. “This way!”
She went right. It was left.
Flyn whooshed passed the corner of the library where Dorian and Vivienne were having a chat. Startled, at first, by the Inquisitor brisk pace, they noticed the deadly aura that followed in his wake. They exchanged a knowing look. They new their companion well enough to know that attitude spelled scandal, whether it was good, bad or bloody, it would definitely be hot gossip. They followed suit while Cerys arrived in a poorly lit place that hosted the vault.
She hailed a soldier and, with much embarrassment, asked for direction. The soldier explained the quickest way to find the Commander quarters. Cerys ran to his office as Flyn swung its main door wide open.
The ruckus and sudden appearance of Inquisitor Lavellan startled Cullen. He managed to conceal it pretty well. His efforts, however, worked to his disadvantage. He wasn’t prepared for what was going to befall him. With the added difficulty of wanting to appear poised, he failed to react to Flyn’s attack. The rogue pounced on Cullen like a wild cat. The Commander destabilized, fell over his desk, sending all the documents scattered around the room in a mess of paper. The inkwell toppled over, spilling its content all over the last reports of the day, covering them into dark oblivion.
Of this, Cullen had no view. All he was seeing at the moment, was the inflamed stare of the Inquisitor looking back at him with boiling fury. Flyn was leaning over him on the desk, his face close, his daggers closer. Cullen couldn’t smell the thin layer of poison still coating his blades. These were meant to kill. They had seen blood, just like their wielder. Perhaps, too much blood. Too much death. Flyn realized how second nature it was for him to pin his victim down. He also realized that he wasn’t about to snuff the light out of the Commander. He didn’t lower his weapon, though, he kept them in place. This man needed to learn a lesson.
“Did you think you could disrespect the Warden Commander Surana under my watch?” Flyn growled. “I don’t care about the history you two share. It’s no excuse. I won’t let you play with her feelings. What tragedies you think you faced in Ferelden, she faced them. She faced them ten fold! She deserves more…” he paused, looking at Cullen like he was unworthy, “ more than your mediocre apologies.”
He went on with intensity and ire; his words twisting and turning until Cullen started to notice that, even though in began that way, Flyn wasn’t talking about him and Cerys anymore.
“I should slice up your stomach,” Flyn hissed, leading his blade down the Commander shirt. The fabric tearing clean under the sharp edge of the dagger, right down to his last rib, exposing partially Cullen’s chest. “I should spill your guts over the floor. Elgar’nan be my witness, my hand is ready.” He pressed the blade harder against Cullen’s pale skin. His fingers steady with purpose, eyes gleaming with untamed violence, the kind of which he used too often; out there, on the field where foes laid ambushes at every corner. Shades. Monsters. Apostates. Templars. He had seen all, fought them all with the same commitment to his strike.
That immaculate throat, however, didn’t belong to an enemy.
The Commander looked into his stormy eyes and saw distress spilling over his anger. If he didn’t know Flyn he would almost believe he was about to cry. “Inquisitor…” he said with concern, a crease appearing between his brows. “Flyn… Are you alright?”
No. The answer was ‘no’. Yet, Flyn couldn’t voice it. The question shattered the tension in his hands. Cullen could feel it. The blades were still in place but their weight on his body had lifted.
Flyn caught himself up. “We’re not talking about me, Cullen. We’re talking about you.” But suddenly, his resolve crumbled as he peered into Cullen’s eyes. The concern and the gentleness reflected back to him pulled at his heart string and brought him back form the edge of madness. He saw his friend. He could scarcely believe what he was about to do, how stupid he was. But the rage… the rage was real. Tangible even. It was like it almost manifested at the tip of his fingers like an extension of his being. It was hurting him as badly as the anchor buried in his palm.
He tightened his grip around the hilt of his daggers, afraid he might have used them. His anger wasn’t directed at poor sweet Cullen. It was another who fueled out his wrath. Another close friend. One that broke down Flyn’s trust: Solas. It was his disappearance, the weight of command of the inquisition, the senseless fights and the river of blood that he already spilled that shattered Flyn’s usual composure. That color red that tainted his every dreams into nightmares. He longed for a friendly face, one he could finally abandon his sorrows to. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the one he was contemplating.
He couldn’t let his guard down. Not again. Not ever.
Sorrows soon replaced ire. And all of a sudden, Flyn felt utterly distraught even though, none of it showed on his face. It didn’t help matters that Cullen’s chiseled face was so damned attractive, especially with that look in his eyes. Flyn could see, clear as day, how much he meant to the Commander. “We’re talking about you,” he repeated, not a trace of menace left in his speech. “You! With your… templar attitude and aloof demeanor.” He fumbled on his words. Something far removed from anger was soon rising in its place inside the rogue’s chest. Tripping over his tongue like a lovestruck kid, he who was usually so eloquent was rendered a blabbering mess, all of a sudden. “And your… em… broad chest…” that he was perched over… “and shoulders…” where poison threatened to drip and stain his shirt… “and slicked back blond curls…” tousled over his desk with that mess of ink and paper… “amber eyes,” he whispered.
Cullen cheeks were now dusted with a slight pinkish hue that was delicious to look at from this vantage point. Was it the words or the daggers still pressing on his pale skin? Flyn couldn’t determine which. And he wouldn’t have the luxury of figuring it out, as Cerys arrived into the office, passing Vivienne and Dorian with a judging look over her scrunched up and flushed face. She mumbled about that damned castle being too big and her legs being too short.
What she heard upon pushing open the door ignited her reaction so fast, words of indignation sprung out of her tiny frame with booming force. “Andraste’s ass!”
Surprised by the sound, the two men almost snapped their neck in her direction. She was staring them down with the might of a battle mage who has brought death upon her enemies, fists buried in her hips, brows knitted with vexation. Both of the two highest ranking officers of the Inquisition were taken by the disarming charm of her huffy face.
“Are you trying to stick up for ME, or get into HIS pants?” she challenged Flyn. “You can’t have it both ways!”
The Inquisitor glanced in Cullen’s direction with a smirk hidden at the edge of his lips, as he unsaddled from his position. He twirled his daggers back into their scabbards with swift and trained motion that always looked more impressive than it was difficult. “Well,” he answered, voice smooth as silk and eyes mischievous, “I’m all about efficiency. Two birds, one stone, you know.” He flashed a devilish smile that earned him a few poems and wild love confession, none that he took particularly seriously.
Cullen straightened himself up, still embarrassed by the whole ordeal. “Maker preserve me...”
Flyn glanced out of the room to see Dorian, hunched over in laughter. “My dear Inquisitor,” he said, “with such silky retort you’ll catch so much fly we’ll need to ward your chambers.”
“You can ward my chambers whenever you like, Dorian.” Flyn winked in his direction, taking advantage of the general consternation it provoked on the little gathering to flee the scene with the stealth of a trained assassin.