Chapter Text
Cullen Rutherford, former knight-captain of the Templar Order, military advisor to to Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan of Ostwick, commander of the forces of the Inquisition and arguably one of the most powerful men in southern Thedas, drops his forehead to his wooden desk and hits it.
Repeatedly.
Then, after cracking open his eyes to make sure that his office is quite empty, he lets out a very soft whimper.
Cullen has survived the fall of the Circle of Kinloch Hold, the mage rebellion in Kirkwall, and an archdemon rampaging across Thedas, tearing the Veil every which way, but he may just have hit his biggest challenge yet. Namely: how to propose to the Inquisitor.
Their relationship has been burning steadily for a few years now, through the chaos of Corypheus and the sealing of the Breach, and through the clean up that followed thereafter (and let's face it: the clean up took far longer than dealing with Corypheus did), a warm flame without a label, and Cullen never thought that they would ever need to put a name and a ceremony to it. But it's a quiet morning when he blinks awake to find the first light of dawn slanting through the hole in his roof, softly illuminating Trevelyan's features as he sleeps, and the realisation crashes over him that he wants to spend forever with Trevelyan. And that he wants to swear his heart and hand to the man on the formality of a vow, in the presence of Andraste and friends as witnesses - to walk the steps of that ancient rite, not as a formality, not for political power, not to satisfy the demands of duty, but as a promise, an expression of everything that Trevelyan is to him.
(It might be something in the intensity of his stare that causes Trevelyan to blink awake, staring fuzzily up at him - the Inquisitor is not exactly a morning person, but he's had years of fighting in the field and waking up to a sudden ambush, and he's sharp enough that he doesn't miss a tick even when half awake. They don't call him the Inquisitor for nothing. Trevelyan's brow furrows - first in confusion, then in suspicion, and Cullen has to kiss him quickly to forestall any questions.
A few minutes later it starts raining, and the moment is lost, the Inquisitor's suspicions safely buried and forgotten under his tirade about how he doesn't care if the builders are interrupting Cullen's work or how much Cullen likes the ambience of having a bleeding hole in the roof, he's going to get someone to patch that hole in the roof right now.)
But back to the present.
In the present, Cullen is flummoxed, frustrated, and frazzled, and probably a lot of other words that begin with the same letter. Sera or the Iron Bull would point out at least one more that shouldn't be repeated in polite company, and while Cullen would not appreciate it, he would have to grudgingly admit that they might be right.
Because Cullen Rutherford is, at his heart of hearts, a traditional man. And tradition dictates, nay, demands that if he were to court the Inquisitor, he should do it properly. The problem is, he's so far out of his depth that he might as well be drowning. Most of the marriages he's familiar with are ones of convenience between the nobility - elaborate, arranged things with expensive and lavish dowries, pomp and circumstance, daggers hidden under linen cloth, political maneuvering and jockeying for power, and that is definitely not him and Trevelyan. His experience is no help at all - the templar order is the furthest thing from a shining example of marital bliss, and having been dedicated to joining the order for as long as he can remember, Cullen never actually thought that he would ever find himself in a situation where he would settle down with someone.
The other problem is that he's proposing to a man. While same-sex relationships are not uncommon in Thedas, and such marriages are not unheard of, they are, statistically, much rarer. There simply hasn't been the numbers required to build up any kind of tradition, or even to provide any helpful guidance for one very lost ex-templar.
He's thought of "putting a ring on it", as some people would call it, but while Trevelyan isn't the Iron Bull, Cullen can't exactly imagine him with flashy jewelry, dripping mud and (someone else's) blood over the floor, returning from a cheerful trek to the Storm Coast. It would, at best, be a slightly trite and unsuitable dowry, and, as with all good gifts, he wants something more personal. Meaningful.
He's thought of flowers, but flowers wilt. Books? Not exactly romantic. Elaborate tapestries? Trevelyan has those by the crateful. He'll never be able to beat Trevelyan's collection of rare and exotic wines, and he doesn't want to give him something that could be drunk in a night, anyway. Weapons and armour seem to be the wrong kind of symbol for this sort of occasion, and an amulet might work, but Trevelyan's collection of far more useful amulets is, in a word, impressive.
How does he get something for the man who has everything?
He could ask someone for help. However, although he and Trevelyan have never hidden their relationship, they're not exactly public about the details, and he doesn't exactly want to go around broadcasting the fact that he's trying to marry the Herald of Andraste - Josephine would have enough of a fit when she realises the diplomatic ramifications of that - and sooner or later, word would get back to Trevelyan (or worse, Varric). The traditional side of him wants to make sure that the proposal is a secret until it's sprung, because he really wants the memory of seeing Trevelyan's face light up with surprise and hopefully joy (and what do you mean it sounds like something out of Varric's bad romances, no no no, of course not).
(He wishes that there was some kind of magical tome which contained all the knowledge of the world, accessible to all, where scholar and commoner could write within and add to its pages. A collection of wisdom to rival any library, which one could access without cost - ah, but that would surely be a miraculous thing indeed, a force too dangerous to unleash upon the world.)
"You know, you could talk to Josephine," a voice says, and Cullen's head snaps up, his hand reaching for the sword he's not wearing before he realises that it's Leliana. So much for being alone.
He stares for a long moment, and curses his naivety in believing that anything could possibly be a secret in Skyhold. Still, on the tiny off-chance that Leliana is mistaken, he says, very carefully, "I'm not exactly certain what you're talking about, Leliana."
Leliana affixes him with a cool stare that goes on for just a second too long, and Cullen has to fight the urge to squirm. He's faced abominations that were less terrifying. Finally, she sighs and folds herself into one of the chairs by his desk. "Perusing Varric's romances--" she glances at the pile of reference material on his desk, and Cullen blushes a deep red but restrains himself from trying to hide them. "Looking through the library shelves for marriage customs in Thedas, repeatedly wandering around the merchants in Skyhold while trying not to look like you're sussing out their wares, and that recent trip to Val Royeaux? One might reasonably assume that you're hunting for a wedding gift for Trevelyan," she states, deadpan.
Cullen wishes the floor would open up and swallow him.
"I wouldn't have said anything, but your distraction is becoming obvious, of late," Leliana continues, then her expression softens. "It would not be long before the Inquisitor notices. I account you a friend, Cullen. This is not my area of expertise, but I'm certain that Josephine can help. Besides, if you tell her only after you have made the proposal, she might just kill you."
"She'll kill me anyway if she discovers what I'm attempting," Cullen says, though it comes out as more of a groan. He resists the urge to beat his head against the table again - just barely. "The fact that the Inquisitor is not married is a diplomatic advantage for Skyhold, even if he has no intentions of marrying." He swallows back the stab of guilt at how selfish he's being, the doubts that he's been trying to push aside ever since he started on this quest, but they barge in, raining accusations about how he's putting his own wants above the needs of the Inquisition--
--"You may be surprised," Leliana says, her words cutting calmly through the tirade in his head. "The Inquisition is not nobility; we do not hold to bloodline. Marriage to the Inquisitor does not give the spouse a claim to the lands and forces of the Inquisition. Similarly, we are not an institution that is seeking to expand our borders through that means - that is not our mission. But Josephine would be able to advise you better. In this case, it is not better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission."
He can't argue with her logic. "Very well," Cullen sighs. "I will. Was there anything else?"
Leliana glances up at the ladder that leads up to his bedroom. "Trevelyan says to inform you that the builders will be arriving in an hour to patch the roof. You may wish to relocate."
What Trevelyan wants, Trevelyan gets, clearly. Cullen makes to move, notices the pile of half-read romance novels, and yelps when he realises that he has nowhere to hide them. Leliana takes them out of his hands with a promise to be discrete about slipping them back to where they came from, and he can swear that she's hiding a smile as she does so.
tbc.