Normal-er Times (one-shot)

Title: Normal-er Times
Author: Aldrea Alien
Game: Dragon Age
Characters/pairing: Inquisitor (Maxwell Trevelyan) / Dorian
Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Inquisition and all its characters are the intellectual property of Bioware/EA.






There were times when Maxwell regretted not becoming a templar. As he looked up at the mighty structure before him, that old regret flared to life. The Circle tower looked much like any other fortified building; strong, imposing and, above all, guarded. And it was these armoured men who watched as he neared the gates. Even those in Chantry garb weren't absolved of speculation.

He'd been here before, delivering this or that for the Chantry mothers—mostly books and scrolls—and surreptitiously checking in on his sister. Evelyn had chewed him out the last time, having no doubt made the connection between his last excursion and the removal of the man who'd been responsible for several bruises.

We're not meant to use our contact with the Chantry that way. That was her argument. He didn't care about that. Keeping his little sister was safe was all that mattered and he'd use all the leverage his name possessed to do so. After all, knowing that templars weren't meant to abuse their charges hadn't stopped the man's blows.

But it'd been some time since he'd set foot in the building let alone heard word from his sister. He'd heard a few grumblings in the halls of mages plotting rebellion. It worried the Grand Cleric and that worried him. Evelyn wasn't the quietest of women, but she wasn't much of a fighter. If the current line of thought, a mage uprising, transpired then his dear sister would get caught in the middle.

So here he was, officially unofficially checking on the mood within the Circle walls. Again, with help from his family.

The crowd beyond the gates looked no more haphazard than normal. Men and women in robes walked through the courtyard on their way to lessons or whatever other business mages got up to when they weren't bending the very fabric of nature to their whim. And, always, their movement were watched by the templars. It seemed a constricting life.

He glanced at the archway leading to the Circle's chapel. A few people were making their way through. What he couldn't see was his sister. Had she not gotten his letter? A fine time to ignore me, Evie.

"Steady, m'boy," said a voice at his elbow. "Tugging my arm off won't get you there any faster."

He drew his gaze back from the crowd to the wrinkled face of the woman he was meant to be escorting. "Sorry, Nana," he said, adjusting his gait to the shorter woman's walk. Having seen little of her since leaving the family estate to take up his duties at the Chantry, her presence was a welcome one. As was finding her seemingly as unchanged as ever.

She caressed his arm with the same thin hands that he dimly recalled brandishing a cane at her foes like a sword. "I'm eager to see her too, but not so much as to lose my arm."

"Evie should be here."

"Such a gentle lad." His grandmother patted his left cheek, the tip of her thumb caressing the old scar running down one side of his nose for almost the whole length. She hadn't seen him since he acquired the mark after being thrown from a horse. "You fret so quickly, m'boy. She may be a bit behind. Come." She waved her cane at in the direction of the chapel. "You can tell me all about the last few years whilst we wait."

Maxwell groaned as he obeyed in leading her through the archway. He didn't mind talking about his duties, but they did tend to be on the dull side for those who'd little interest in the pursuit of knowledge. "You already know what I do, Nana."

"All right, all right." She waved his aid aside and ambled into the chapel. "What about outside of your duties? Any strapping young men you're courting that I should know about?"

"Nana!" Maxwell blurted, aghast.

His grandmother gave a wicked chuckle. "You're not still trying to play the fool with me, are you, m'boy?"

"No, Nana." Not anymore. Not now he knew that she knew. Of course, she seemed to have always known. He'd been ten when he told his parents and she seemed to know way back then. He wasn't surprised. His grandmother wasn't stupid and he hadn't exactly been subtle about his dalliances before going serving the Chantry. Much to his mother's chagrin.

"Good, 'cause I've known ever since you were chasing the hounds around the mansion with the stable master's lad … what was his name? Luke? Louie? Gah! It was Lou-something."

He sighed. Was she ever going to let that one go? "Dennis, Nana." He'd been a nice enough boy and they'd maintained close correspondence for a time. Then his friend was accepted into the templar order and began his training—in Markham, he believed. The last words they'd exchanged had been ones of hurt since Maxwell made no plans to follow suit. The silence after that reeked of deliberateness. "His name was Dennis." He hadn't thought about him for some years.

They entered the all-but-empty chapel, his grandmother's cane clacking with every step. "Well … you know how I am with names, m'boy."

"Yes, Nana," he absently murmured, bowing his head at the chapel's sister as they made their way to the far end of the room. "And I suspect the memory lapse is due to your advance age." She was some eighty or so years old now.

"Such lip!" She slammed her cane on the tiles and swatted his shoulder with her free hand. "One thing I do clearly recall is seeing the pair of you gallivanting about the courtyard. As soon as I saw that I said to myself: Don't be expecting this lad to bring home any girls." His grandmother settled herself onto a bench. "Of course, your father had him sent off to the Chantry quicksmart after you told them." She waggled her finger at him. "I'd be willing to bet good gold he's the reason behind why you didn't fuss when they chose to send you, too."

"Nana, please," he groaned, his cheeks starting to heat. Out the corner of his eye, he spied the sister's ill-concealed smirk. Maker, this wasn't happening. It had to be a bad dream. One he was going to wake up from at any second. He took a deep breath and waited.

Nope.

"I'm a brother of the Chantry, Nana," he said, hoping to stall any more talk on the matter. It had taken years for them to stop gossiping about the time he sent his last lover packing. And some of the older clerics still berated him for the hole his arrow left in the study door. That he was attempting to skewer some bastard who'd cheated on him apparently wasn't a good enough reason.

"Bah!" She poked him with the tip of her cane. "What's that got to do with anything? Still plenty of men kicking about the Chantry, is there not? Got to be one or two who've caught your eye."

There'd been more than 'one or two', especially amongst those destined to become templars. But he had the bad grace of being the wrong gender to be their type. "You know they frown on that sort of fraternizing within Chantry walls, Nana." It seemed best to avoid tangling himself in anything more than friendships or flings. He just couldn't seem to pick the right kind of men for relationships.

"So my favourite grandchild is still single?" She clicked her tongue. "That won't do. Now, I've an old friend of mine who has a grandnephew who's a nice enough fellow and I'm sure if you—"

"Nana, no." The last thing he wanted was to have his grandmother setting him up to meet some man he'd nothing in common with. "Remember the last time?" The supposed 'nice boy' had been two steps from frothing lunatic.

"Tch. You're too picky, m'boy."

"I am not." It wasn't too much to ask for a man who wouldn't fall asleep if he got 'scholarly' on them and also be tolerant of mages, was it? Handsome would be nice, too, but he would settle for a good sense of humour over looks any day. He'd found all that in a person once before. Of course, he also had a library door that could attest to how well that relationship had gone down. Right, better add loyal to that list. Foolish to think such a trait was a given.

"All right, Max," a familiar voice called from the entrance. "I'm here like you wanted, but if you think—"

"Evelyn," his grandmother snapped, banging down her cane in emphasis. "Is that anyway to speak to your brother? I should think not. Now get in here, m'girl, and hug your dear nana."

Maxwell watched as his sister raced across the room to fall into their grandmother's arms. He noted the way her delicate hands clutched at the older woman's clothes, a grip born of silent terror, and the tears that she cried without shedding a single drop. She had not acted this way the last time he'd been here. Were things really that bad?

"Now, now, m'girl," their grandmother said, stroking Evelyn's long brown hair. "You sit and you tell nana everything."

They talked. Frivolous things, mostly. Their grandmother rambled on and on about what various family members had been up to. Faced with such an onslaught, his sister seemed to relax, eventually giggling at the more ridiculous tales. He wasn't sure how their grandmother managed such patience. Surely she was as eager as he to hear the truth from one who was to be the most affected.

After a time, when the Circle's chapel truly sheltered no one but themselves, their grandmother slowly turned their talks to more serious matters.

He'd heard all about the Kirkwall upheaval from within the Chantry. But the mothers made the commotion sound normal. Even Evelyn had admitted in the past that the occasional mage would try to escape or lash out or was dealt to for … reasons she wouldn't divulge. It was these so-called 'other reasons' that upset him. At times, he was certain that many were fabricated.

And yet, to hear from her lips of the rumours stirring within the Circle, of how things hadn't started because of a host of mages going bad but was instead due to one an apostate, that there were grumblings from both templar and mage alike on how everything was being handled.

He didn't like sound of any of it. The very way his sister spoke was careful, almost fearful. He wanted with all his heart to carrying her back to the safety of their family mansion and bolt the gate.

At last, Evelyn stood. "I should get back to the library before they miss me. I told them I was only coming to pray."

Maxwell followed her to the doorway. "Evie, you know that, no matter what, I will always protect you."

Her dark blue eyes widened and she shook her head. "You can't. You shouldn't. This is bigger than you."

It may very well be true, but he wasn't ready to admit that until it happened. Maxwell pulled her close, wrapping his arms about her slender frame. "Nothing is too big for your brother. If things get bad, I'm getting you out of here."

"But—"

"I will. Nothing is going to stop me, you hear?"

She bit her bottom lip. At first he thought she'd argue some more, then she nodded and left. He frowned as she disappeared around a corner. Things had to be bad, really bad, for her to comply so quickly.

Beside him, his grandmother hummed. "You still have your bow, m'boy?"

He grunted his affirmation, unable to tear his gaze from the empty space his sister had left in the doorway. The mothers had fussed at first with him keeping it nearby, but it'd been a gift from his brother, he wasn't about to give it up for anything.

"I hope you're keeping it close."

"Yes, nana." He'd be carrying the damn thing through every waking moment if he thought he could get away with it. Whatever it took to keep his sister safe...

***

"Max? Max!"

He swung about at the second cry. After all this time, he expected a messenger with news of their enemy's movements. It was a bit of relief to find his lover standing in the balcony doorway instead. That feeling drained as he took in the blatant concern stamped across Dorian's face. "I'm sorry. What were we talking about?"

Dorian's gaze dropped to the paper fluttering pitifully in Maxwell's hand. "You've been staring at that for ages. Is something wrong?"

"I have?" He fingered the letter, staring at its pitiful attempts to leave his grasp. Just a short missive, the answer to a question he'd been searching for since the Circles had rebelled. Now that he knew, he regretted ever asking.

He hadn't been able to find his sister when the Ostwick Circle erupted into chaos. Through the scattered reports of those he helped escape the templars, Maxwell knew she survived the initial upheaval. He'd devoted much his time after that in trying to find her, to bring her back home where she'd be safe. What he hadn't expected was for her to be one of the mages at the Conclave.

Dorian joined him on the balcony. "Are you all right?"

Not really. He released the letter with its irrefutable declaration of his sister's death. Maxwell watched the paper float onto the wall where the mountain breeze swept it off the stone and carried it into the sky. This whole time, through all the chaos he'd seen, he had hoped the Inquisition could find her. All for naught.

He was the only one at his sister's side when her magic manifested. She'd been five years old and he barely nine. The guards who'd found them afterwards said they'd been set upon by mercenaries. He couldn't remember much beyond the flash of a sword and blinding heat. It was how he'd gained the scar on his left temple, a memento from trying to deflect a sword. He'd been doted on for months after for his bravery, but he'd always been ready to give up his life to protect her and now…

"I'm fine," he said. Even as the words left his mouth, he felt the subtle trickle of a tear making its way down his face. Shit. He turned his back on Dorian and scrubbed at his face. Not now. If he started crying, he wasn't likely to stop for a long time. He didn't want anyone seeing him like that.

A hand grasped his shoulder, turning him. The face that greeted him didn't look convinced.

"I am, really."

The expression grew even more sceptical. He didn't blame him.

"My sister," he blurted. "She was—" The words fell away as a fresh, and just as terrible, thought came to mind. "My parents…" Did they yet know? They had to be looking for her, but he'd the greater resources. "I … I need to write them."

The hand on his shoulder tightened. "Oh, no you don't." Before he knew what was happening, Maxwell found himself directed towards the stairs. "Come, we'll raid that stash of vinegar your steward dares to call wine. Then we'll have Josephine scribe a letter to your family for you."

"I don't need to get drunk, Dorian," he mumbled over his shoulder as they left his quarters and made their way down the tower.

Dorian's deep chuckle resounded off the stone walls. "You say that now, but you will sooner or later. I'd rather not wake to find you've done something stupid."

Bypassing the door that opened into the main hall, they carried on down the newer flight of stairs that lead to the castle's underbelly. They meandered through the corridors and vacant rooms, their footsteps the only sounds to be had.

Alone. On the one hand, that was a good thing. There'd be no one except Dorian to witness him breaking down. On the other hand … he didn’t want to drag the mage into his problems. "Maybe I could do with a small drink before I face Josie." If anyone knew exactly how to handle this situation, it was his dear ambassador. "Just one, mind you."

"As you say, amatus. As you say."