Moments

Moment of Gain

Birds swooped through the white stones of the roof reaching so high into the sky they butted against the breach. I craned my head back to try and spy the tail coloring on a hawk when I heard a gasp from the man beside me. He broke his hold on my hand that he clutched the moment we got off the boat. His eyes only glanced once towards the floating island off the harbor, a hollow shudder shaking him. After that it was straight to Hightown, when we didn't get horribly lost in Darktown, wander into a cave, kick a few spiders the size of nugs, wander into another cave identical looking to the first, and find ourselves on a shore overlooking the waking sea.

"We don't have to go inside," I whispered to him. The massive door was cracked open, letting people in and out at their leisure. A guardsman stood watch, tipping her head and smiling at the people and waving cheery greetings. This felt so far removed from every memory he told me of Kirkwall I feared we got the city wrong.

"No," Cullen shook his head, struggling to lift a smile to his cheeks, "I am fine. And we need to...we can enter. It will be fine."

Pressing my fingers into his palm, I shook our conjoined hands once then pulled him through the door. "Feenhedis," I cursed, overwhelmed by the massive splendor stretched above my head, "this place is three times the size of Skyhold."

"It's not that impressive," Cullen muttered, shifting on his shoes. He glanced around the staircases filled with milling Marchers in various economic states of dress. Even a few elves in familiar alienage garb hovered beside a statue of a bird with its head missing. Someone put a box on its neck and wrote "Caw" on it in bright red paint.

"They've changed the carpeting," Cullen mused to himself before shaking his head. "If he's here, he'll be in the back."

Having a job before him, even if it was one he partially dreaded, drove Cullen forward. Still clinging to my hand like a pair of indecent lovers, he pulled me up those re-carpeted stairs and down a hall. More guards milled to the right, shooting the breeze -- a pair even played Wicked Grace smack dab in the middle of an ante chamber. We never got that relaxed in the Inquisition, I thought. Then again, if it wasn't an archdemon's fire, it was demon armies, or empress assassinations. Much easier to kick back and relax when your biggest concern is a merchant stubbing his toe on the way to your gilded throne.

Cullen drew us up beside another door - this one shut tight while a man kept sentry outside threatening all passerby's with his mighty clipboard. My heart suddenly ached for an Antivan ambassador and her quill of doom.

"State your business," the clipboard said, running his finger along a line of lists.

"We need to see the Viscount," Cullen answered.

"As do most who come here, unless they're trying to find the bathroom. For what purpose?"

"That's private," he said, those golden eyes honing in on the man's weak spots. Too bad bureaucracy had none.

"Bully for you, Sirrah, but that doesn't gain you entrance."

Cullen flipped back to me, but I held up my stump. I probably could have waved it around and pulled out the Inquisitor card, but judging by the abundance of over-importance wafting off the man, I wasn't about to get anywhere. Besides, I wasn't the one who was once the Knight-Commander here.

At that moment, the door cracked open and a familiar sneer poked through the hole. "His eminence requires another set of clippers because he, once again, shattered a pair trying to cut through the crown." Bran glanced up from his man to catch my eye. Somehow his face managed to fall even further than from the clippers incident. "Oh, it's you. I'm assuming you are not expected."