keep on queerin'

Getting ready—that was funny. She didn’t feel ready. Not for the new title, nor this ceremony. None of it. But she was wearing finer clothes than usual: a halla-leather dress sent by her clan back when the Inquisition had first offered aid to them. The leggings, woven from strips of the same material, hugged her thighs comfortably, and the fine embroidery along the bodice and hem made the ensemble more remarkable than her customary armor or the gowns at Josie’s disposal. This was fortunate, because she was not fond of human dresses with their stays and laces and things. This dress, which seemed almost to glow in the abundance of candlelight, was far more to her liking. 

Everyone was watching. Everyone was waiting. 

Emmaera straightened her back and ascended the few steps to the throne, lonely and stark in the center. It was uncomfortable to sit in; she’d tried it out earlier. But that hardly seemed to matter at the moment, when her hands felt so cold and her heartbeat seemed so thready. Josephine stepped forward, saying…something…her voice ringing against the abundance of stone in the room. The assembly straightened, focused, and then turned their eyes on her. 

Inquisitor Lavellan. 

That’s who she was now; not Mae, as her family called her, or Em, or First, or Herald, but…Inquisitor. 

A flash of light on gold; Cullen, sure as ever, striding forward from the group. They’d discussed this; they’d practiced. She knew what to expect. Emmaera took a slow, shaky breath and shifted slightly forward on the hard seat, holding out her hand to him. 

The Commander was wearing gloves, as always, but when he took her hand she fancied she could feel the warmth of his hands beneath. He regarded her for a moment, his fingers steady under hers, the ring with a seal they’d given her just this morning winking in the movement of the candles. Then, he bowed his head and knelt, the movement far more graceful than it ought to have been for a man wearing so much armor. He knelt before her like he was meant for it, like he’d practiced it at length, like the movement was as natural to him as breathing or swordwork. 

They’d practiced this; she knew what to expect. But at no point in their practicing had she felt like that when he’d told her what would happen. 

Cullen’s thumb traced the edge of the ring, and in a loud, clear voice he spoke:

“By the Maker and Holy Andraste, from whom this Inquisition and its servants derive,” he said, “I will be to Inquisitor Emmaera Lavellan faithful and true, and love all that she loves, and shun all that she shuns, according to the Maker's laws.”

Her lungs felt stuck, somehow, and something was buzzing just under Emmaera’s skin. It was an effort to draw a slow, even breath, but it was no effort at all to keep her eyes fixed on the gold of his bent head, on the edge of his face that she could see past it. 

His eyes were closed, she thought, somewhat faintly. She wasn’t sure why that mattered to her. 

“Never will I, by will nor by force, by word nor by work, do aught that is loathsome to her; on condition that she keep me as I am willing to deserve, and fulfills our compacts as agreed upon when I to her submitted and chose her will.”

The Commander took a breath and went on, his fingers gentle around hers despite the strength of his words. His eyes were fixed on her hand, tracing scars and burns and ink stains she’d accumulated these past weeks. It hadn’t occurred to her to be self-conscious about her hands before, but she couldn’t help thinking about it now, when he peered so closely and intently at her skin.

“I shall not bring it about by deed, word, consent or counsel, that she be placed into dangers of any sort beyond her choosing. I will impede harm to her if I know of it, and will cause harm to be removed from her if I shall be able. Any counsel which she entrusts to me through herself or by envoys or missives, I will keep secret; nor will I knowingly disclose it to anyone to her harm.” 

Cullen hesitated for a moment, and again she thought that must be it; the hall was not warm, but her face felt hot. Her hand had been cold before he’d taken it, but it was sweating now. What was this? Why should she be so affected by a custom her people did not hold? 

“Inquisitor,” he said at last, tilting his head up and meeting her eyes, “My sword is your sword, and my hand is your hand. Let my body act as a shield between you and all ills; let my knowledge and my will protect you when arms cannot. Command me to move, and I will act; command me to be still, and I will remain thus. I am at your disposal, from now to the moment that you dismiss me from your service—if that is your will.” 

She had to speak; there were words she was meant to say. But Emmaera could not seem to drag her eyes away from his face, from the solemn twist of his mouth when he spoke, nor from the warmth of his remarkable eyes. His hand was steady on hers, though, and his thumb moved—the slightest of movements, so slight she might not have noticed if she hadn’t been so transfixed—just barely over the knuckle of her ring finger. 

Cullen bent his head and pressed his mouth to the ring. She would not have thought that this could feel like very much; it was a ring he was kissing, after all, not her hand proper. But it felt like a great deal when his breath skimmed over the fine hairs along the backs of her knuckles, when his lips barely, barely touched the skin surrounding it. 

Only a few words; only a few. She remembered them. She’d practiced them before the mirror earlier. 

Emmaera straightened her back and looked down at him, squeezing his fingers in return. 

“I grant and behold it,” yes; that was what she was meant to say; but there was more coming out of her mouth, against her will. 

“Commander Cullen Rutherford, I witness and hold your oaths,” she said, the words feeling as formal and oddly archaic as the rest of this strange ceremony, “I commend you for your service to the Inquisition and I will hold this vow in good faith, until you are dismissed from service or until you have will to depart.”

And then, the line she knew she shouldn’t be saying even as she spoke it; there would be some stir amongst the humans for bringing Elvhen into this ceremony, and most of them would have no idea what she was saying. But…it felt right to speak these words, too, for she’d practiced them once as the First of her clan:

“Mythal’enaste; ma melava halani, Cullen.”

There was a murmuring in the crowd, a stir at the edge that might have come from Solas. She ignored it, tried to go on acting like this was all something she’d meant to do and say even as her felt her pulse pounding at the base of her throat. Cullen’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if asking her…she didn’t know what, and Emmaera inclined her chin faintly. 

A blessing of Mythal—and her thanks. That was all. 

Or…it would be all, if she hadn’t chosen such a courtly way of saying it. You have spent your days in my aid; a fanciful thing, something the elves of Halamshiral would once have spoken to an Emerald Knight in their service. 

Well. She didn’t care; she’d wanted to say them, so she’d said them, and she’d meant it. 

Cullen didn’t let go of her hand or stop looking at her when he rose, and it took her a moment to realize that she was the one still holding on; that she was the one not allowing him to walk away. She let go at once, turning her eyes to Leliana, who would approach next. 

If she had kept looking, she would have seen the hitch in his step when he walked away, the way he lifted his gloved hand to his lips as soon as he took his place to her right again. Emmaera did not look, and so she saw none of it, nor the color in his cheeks, high on his cheeks against the paleness of his skin. 

But the words of the oath—those she did remember and dwell on, for long, long after the words bound either of them at all.