I’ve been thinking of writing a Dragon Age fic from the perspective of Jim the Scout (Cullavellan shippers, you know who I’m talking about–the one who interrupted their first kiss). I’ve been toying with the idea of him doing it on purpose for the past week or so, and I’m pretty excited. Here’s a sneak preview*:
*Warning: hits you right in the feels, helps you up, then spits in your face and laughs. You’ve been warned…
He should have tried harder.
Why? Why had he waited until the commander and Inquisitor Lavellan were about to share their first kiss to intervene? Jim had seen their bond growing steadily over the months they’d been at Skyhold—no, before that. The moment Commander Cullen had returned to their makeshift camp after the attack at Haven, Lavellan’s limp form clutched in his arms, it was as if a match had suddenly lit, its flame flickering and weak amid the darkness and the snow churning in the air. It was uncertain whether that spark, fueled by the shaky promise of hope and hours of unsuccessful searching, ignited by one single, panicked thought—
Oh, Maker, what if she hadn’t made it?
—would sputter and die, suffocated under the mountain of loss which weighed on the shoulders of every soldier and civilian to have gazed upon the Herald’s Maker-given mark. Or would the spark grow stronger, take shape, and eclipse the shadows which had plagued them since the death of Divine Justinia? A passionate and loyal military commander, desiring nothing but the knowledge that—for once—he had chosen the correct side, together with the brave-but-still-hesitant Lavellan, a Dalish nobody who had walked with her head held high toward an inevitable death, the trembling of her left hand the only hint of her terror. She had faced Corypheus willingly, buried herself in an avalanche to save the very people who had held her captive and called her murderer. Without hesitation.
Jim had watched them in camp, and later near the soldiers’ barracks at Skyhold. Lying dormant under their discussions of military stratagem and debates with the other advisors was a mutual curiosity, the intrigue and allure of something new, something so much better than the bleakness which had marked their recent days. When the Herald had turned away to speak privately with Leliana, the commander’s eyes traced the line of her profile, his gaze as light as the caress of a warm breeze. When her lips parted in a smile, his echoed hers in an almost instinctive movement. When he realized what he was doing, he had turned away and covered his face with a gloved hand, imagining but fighting the urge to feel her lips on his.
At least, that was what Jim had imagined it had been like in the beginning. He had only just been named an official scout before they arrived at Skyhold, and consequently spent many weeks away from the fortress after their arrival. Although he was not as good at reading people as he’d have admitted, Jim would’ve had to be blind not to see precisely what thought crossed the commander’s mind when Lavellan walked into his office and leaned casually on the door frame. His cheeks flushed almost imperceptibly and once he even lost track of what he had been saying, right in the middle of a sentence. After that incident, he always refused to look in her direction until after the present soldiers had been dismissed.
Jim knew what Cullen was working up the nerve to do, but after a month passed and nothing changed, he had almost abandoned the thought that his commander was planning to act on his feelings—until the newly-named Inquisitor had taken it upon herself to invite Commander Cullen on a walk of the battlements. Jim knew then that he needed to act.
For the good of the Inquisition.
This had been the only thought on his mind when he had lingered in the doorway of the nearby tower, watching as the Inquisitor and Cullen strolled side-by-side atop the battlements. Lavellan stopped to admire the view—a sight which had always brought solace to Jim—and Cullen stepped closer, finally finding the courage to do the one thing which terrified him the most. He leaned toward her, and Jim stepped out of the shadows, report in hand.
Looking back now, Jim had been foolish to think he could have any effect on the outcome. His commander had done nothing but glower at him until Jim tucked tail and ran, and the inevitable had happened. They had kissed, and in doing so, set themselves on a path which would either prove to strengthen or shatter them.
In the days when happiness were so few and the body count constantly climbing, Jim wished no ill will on his commander, nor the Inquisitor. He admired her a great deal, almost to the point of reverence after everything she had accomplished. He liked his commander and studied him, not in the way the Tevinter mage watched some of the powerful soldiers in the training ring, but in that Jim had seen in Cullen traits he had wished for himself: humility, courage, strength, caring—even to the young men he commanded. But, if their relationship grew too all-consuming, would either truly have the capability to give everything they had to the Inquisition? The Inquisitor was a powerful mage, more willful than any other spell-caster Jim had met, but she was still more at Corypheus’s mercy than anyone else. If she truly fell under his thrall, would Cullen have the strength to deliver the final blow? Would he drive a dagger through his love’s heart to save his world, even if it meant nothing to him without her? And how would the Inquisitor handle the loss of a glorious soldier, kind and loyal, a friend and advisor since the beginning, if he died while fighting on the front line—as he always claimed that’s where a leader should be?
Jim shudders and looks to his right, where Cullen crouches, shoulders slumped. The sun beats down hot on the back of his neck, his brow beads with perspiration, but Jim doesn’t leave his former commander’s side. Cullen’s hand floats in the air, grasping nothing. Long grass sways around them, their whisper as they dance in the breeze a light buzz in the background. Neither of the two men hear it as Cullen rests his hand on the rich, dark soil of the freshly filled grave. The Inquisitor has no grave marker, but the nearby pier jutting into the serene blue water of the lake is memory enough. It’s where Cullen had told her of his childhood.
Jim’s chest constricts painfully. This broken man beside him, his head downturned and face hidden, shakes with silent sobs. Tremors rock his body. He no longer wears the shining steel armor with the red eyeball, and his magnificent, glorious lion’s mane cloak has been gone for some time, given to an orphan at its owner’s request. The money from selling this will allow them to eat for a week, Cullen had said as he dropped the cloak in the little boy’s arms, not even having the strength to look at it as he did so. What use have I for it now?
The memory of the Inquisitor’s last night comes in flashes at first. Rain pouring so hard the soldiers could hardly see five feet in front of them. Thunder rumbling. The smells and sounds of death echoing in his ears, warm, coppery blood spraying into Jim’s mouth with every swing of his sword. An inhuman roar filled the ravine where the ambush had caught them, and those still alive after Corypheus’s uprising swelled through the narrow gaps in the stones, appearing to materialize straight out of the cliff face. They were outnumbered three to one, with no hope of victory or escape.
Shortly into the fight, a burst of lightning illuminated the sharp edge of a sword held high overhead. A dark creature sprinted toward Cullen, who was engaged with two others and oblivious to the approaching threat.
The Inquisitor—or, plain old Lavellan after Corypheus’s defeat—had seen it at the same time as Jim, and had had the exact same thought. At the same time, from opposite ends of the small battlefield, Jim and Lavellan sprinted to Cullen. Jim reached him first and, the ground shaking with the creature’s heavy footfalls as it sprinted ever closer, tackled him to the ground. Lavellan lunged forward and blocked the arc of the creature’s sword with her staff, a howl of pure rage escaping her small, graceful form. Cullen struggled out from under Jim, a word of thanks on his lips, but the flash of blinding light as the enchanted ironwood was cleaved in half froze everyone in the field.
Lavellan stood with both halves of the staff raised high above her head, crossed in an X. At the point where the two met, a trunk of lightning focused, then splintered into a thousand electrical arcs, each branching off one another. The ravine was bathed in light, as bright as midday under a cloudless sky. Every creature, three of them for every one accompanying Lavellan and Cullen, vaporized the moment the lightning touched their skin. They disintegrated into a gray dust, the particles illuminated by the light.
Lavellan stood in the center of the column of lightning, the eye of the storm. The most hideous, unnatural scream spilled from her lips, at such a high volume and so soul-crushing in its agony Jim was certain it was involuntary, an outlet for the pain from the thousands of volts of electricity coursing through her veins every second. A moment later, she stopped.
Just like that. Lavellan’s cry silenced. The light disappeared so quickly it left spots floating in Jim’s vision, and residual electrical tingles dances up and down his arms. He was certain his hair stood on end. Cullen had jumped to his feet, shock plain on his face. He trembled, already dreading what he knew was correct.
In the end, there had been nothing to bury but a few rags of singed cloth, their original color indeterminable, but Cullen had insisted on burying them here. His sobs slowly cease, and he wipes at his eyes before reaching into his pocket. He pulls out the lucky coin he had given to Lavellan, the coin which had followed him since he was a boy, through torture and war, and thinks that nothing he has ever done or ever will do will be this hard. He presses the coin to his lips. He kisses it once, and places it gently on top of the grave.
Jim’s stomach knots. He should’ve tried harder. He should’ve tried harder.
Because in the end, he had saved his commander’s life, but he had not saved his heart.
