Chapter Text
“Thank the Maker!”
Those are the last words that Evelyn Trevelyan can remember when she stirs from a dreamless sleep. Finally, she is safe at camp after the battle of her life. The scent of woodsmoke from the fire surrounds her, and a chill in the air whips through the pines, stealing heat from her skin. Her body is weak, and her head is heavy as well as her heart. Haven is lost. But Cassandra’s exclamation still echoes through her mind, drifting her thoughts away from this moment.
Evelyn can vaguely remember being carried. Someone had taken her sword and shield, and then she was lifted out of the snow to be held in the Seeker’s strong, protective arms. Her heart begins to flutter in her chest, and her stomach tightens with nervous excitement. Carried to camp by Cassandra herself… Did that really happen?
Cassandra, the Right Hand, with her powerful manner and striking features, her righteous devotion and fierce determination, and her deep, thickly accented voice, like sweet dripping syrup... The Seeker, the warrior, with a great big sword that rests at her swell of swaying hips, with slender wrists in heavy gauntlets, soulful eyes and tender lips… Nevarran and angry and sexy and holy...
Evelyn is drawn to her so strongly she can hardly stand it.
Then the memory comes back to her, and she’s overwhelmed by a rush of emotion.
Cassandra was here with her, knelt at this very spot.
“What are you doing?” Evelyn had asked, half unconscious.
Cassandra’s voice was strong and rich. “I am cleaning your armor,” she said, straightforward as ever. “Please, you must rest.”
Evelyn recalls the copper smell of all that blood. The Seeker took great care in wiping the mess from her breastplate, methodical and careful in her motions. Even when Evelyn tried to look up in her eyes, Cassandra’s focus did not waver from the cloth in her hand against steel.
The memory makes Evelyn’s heart begin to soar. She’s been dying to feel this warmth in her chest, the joy of being cared for by the woman she admires. Now her eyes drift shut as she envisions Cassandra leaning over her, giving her such personal and intimate attention. Cassandra must care for her... or at the very least, must care for her armor.
Then it comes back to her. Evelyn opens her eyes as though looking for clarity, and her core is all coiled up nerves. The touch of lips…
Yes, Cassandra had kissed her on the forehead, a gentle kiss that lingers even now. Maker, she can hardly believe it. Perhaps it meant nothing, a chaste sort of gesture like kissing a statue in the Chantry. Perhaps a fitting gesture for the Herald of Andraste.
Or perhaps more.
Herald of Andraste is a title that Evelyn willingly took to heart. The youngest of four, she was raised faithful, never stepped out of line, and was allowed to live her teenage years in privilege.
While her brother became a Templar and her sisters donned Chantry robes, Evelyn stayed at her parents’ estate. She practiced fencing and horseback riding, studied the Chant and recited its words before figures of Andraste in flames.
Everything she wanted was easily hers: rich sweets and embroidered clothing imported from Orlais, horses each with names and the finest riding equipment, scented oils for her baths drawn by servants, and smooth honey mead to share with her friends over parlour games and laughter.
It was during those games that she ended up kissing the girl who became her first love. A fellow noble, Anna was sweet, and daring at times. Though Evelyn had always admired the fairer sex, it was in her eighteenth year that she discovered how it felt to act on those feelings. The pair once rode their horses to a secret camp and spent the night together, declaring their devotion to each other.
But Anna took vows when she entered the ranks of the Chantry, and ended their relationship there. In hindsight, Evelyn had to wonder if she should have seen it coming.
Regardless, she was heartbroken.
That was when she begged to join the Order. Though it was unusual to begin formal training so late, the Trevelyans had many connections, and Evelyn was already well-read in history as well as Chantry teachings. With an empty heart and a need to seek purpose, the skills of meditation and focus came to her naturally.
She took her first lyrium at the age of nineteen.
Bound for the Conclave at age twenty-three, her shining armor still felt more symbolic than practical, and her sword skills were not among the strongest. Her shield felt too heavy, as it had while standing guard in the light of stained-glass windows for hours on end.
When the war began, Evelyn had retreated back to the safety of her parents’ estate.
But fighting for the Inquisition-- in the name of Andraste, for the late Divine, and for Cassandra-- had renewed her motivation like never before.
Now here at camp, where she’s tired but giddy at the thought of Cassandra’s kiss, Evelyn’s mind returns to the beginning.
She recalls the way Cassandra slammed the writ against the table, declaring the Inquisition reborn and sending a bolt of excitement straight through her core. Gripped by desire, Evelyn couldn’t help but think, you can slam me down against the table next. And she hated herself for becoming so distracted, but every time Cassandra spoke she was so spellbound by admiration she could hardly think.
Then there was the honor of taking Cassandra’s outstretched hand, sealing their trust, and watching as a smile tugged at the Seeker’s lips. Evelyn longs to see that smile again.
In truth, she has always felt some guilt over her own life of luxury, and to find out that Cassandra was in fact royalty but eschewed that life… it grew the deep respect in Evelyn’s heart.
It seems Cassandra is everything she wants, and wants to be. Evelyn craves her approval. She wants Cassandra to like her, at the least, and maybe admire her a bit, if she’s lucky. Desire her, perhaps, if she might be so blessed…
Evelyn has tried to forget. She has tried to banish the flame of desire from her heart, and pretend that Cassandra doesn’t affect her so. But they fight side by side, all lashing swords and battle cries, and the blood runs hot in Evelyn’s veins. Adrenaline consumes her and fills her head with fantasies of passionate love-making underneath the stars. She imagines being kissed, really kissed, and being whispered to sweetly with Cassandra’s well-trained body weighing on top of her…
Maker forgive her, it’s impossible to forget this desire.
Little does she know, Cassandra harbors secrets all too similar.
The Seeker is upright and respectful and wouldn’t dream of crossing any lines without explicit permission, but her heart has grown a fondness for the young Lady Herald at a remarkable speed.
Even as a prisoner, Cassandra couldn’t help but notice Trevelyan’s simple beauty-- her smooth glowing skin behind the swipes of dust and dirt, her expressive and elegant almond-shaped eyes, pretty pink lips and deep auburn hair-- cropped longer than her own but still short. A fetching but still very practical manner, in Cassandra’s opinion.
Since the beginning, Trevelyan has always been willing to obey whatever Cassandra asks of her. Her devotion is strong. And though she may not yet be terribly well skilled, she’s an eager participant in combat by the Seeker’s side.
All at once, Cassandra has gained such trust and admiration for the young noble girl-- young woman, she should say, or Templar perhaps, but she has to presume that Trevelyan is at least ten years her junior. Perhaps another reason not to act on her attraction.
But oh, she will act, in protection and reverence-- honoring, shielding and guiding her dear Lady Herald in whatever way she can.
While Evelyn wishes so deeply for Cassandra’s admiration, in truth, the Seeker has been pondering exactly how to show it.
To be continued....