A Candle in the Darkness (A Dragon Age: Inquisition fanfiction)

Not Talking about the Inquisition

22 Harvestmere, 9:41

Cullen sopped up the last of the stew in his bowl with his bread and washed it down with the last of his tea. He rolled up the report he had been reading over his dinner and prepared to get up to go back to his office. It was the tail end of the dinner hour, but mostly for him that just meant there would be fewer interruptions—this quiet part of the night was often his most productive.

It seemed to surprise most people that the Inquisition served most of its meals in this buffet-style fashion, where people came and sat and ate at their convenience, rather than formalized meals, but Antonia had specifically set it up that way, so that no one had to miss a meal or drop what they were doing to make a scheduled meal. There were set hours when breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner were served, and there were baskets of fruits and rolls available during off hours. Cullen admired the plan; he thought it encouraged more relaxed meals and showed a lot of consideration for the differing roles and work hours of those who lived in Skyhold.

Just as he was going to take his bowl and cup to the sideboard and stack them with the rest of the dishes, Antonia appeared, balancing a bowl of stew, a cup of tea, and a plate of bread precariously. She breathed an audible sigh of relief when she put them all down without spilling anything, then looked at his empty bowl.

"Oh. You're finished." There was unmistakable disappointment in her voice.

Cullen's heart leaped at the idea that she was disappointed because she'd been looking forward to sitting with him; sternly he told himself that was ridiculous, and that she no doubt had something Inquisition-related to talk about.

"I'm sorry, was there anything you wanted to discuss before I go?" he asked courteously.

"No, nothing in specific." She sat down, the words coming out of her in a rush. "I just thought—we did say it would be nice to spend more time together not talking about the Inquisition, and here I am, and here you are, and I thought what good timing. But," she gestured to his report, "you've got things to do. Don't let me keep you."

"Really?" His voice was soft and full of wonder, and Antonia had to remind herself to breathe at the sound of it. "That is, I ... don't have to go right this moment. I could, um, stay, if you like."

Yes, she liked. She liked very much. But she forced herself to stay casual. "Would you? I hate to eat alone, and it's hard enough to find a time when neither of us is busy."

"Let me just get another cup of tea."

She looked down at the stew, which had an odd greyish color. When he came back, mug of tea in hand, she said, "Can I ask you something? What, exactly, is this I'm eating?"

He chuckled. "That is a Fereldan Saturday night stew—everything left over from the week's meals, with some gravy and peas to thicken it."

"Well, I have to say, that's what it looks like."

"It might be an acquired taste," Cullen admitted. "My mother made it every week ... although I confess the cooks here do a better job. Not that I would ever say that to my mother." He smiled.

Antonia nodded with an answering smile, picking up her bread and dipping the corner in the stew. She took the bite, considering it as she chewed. "Not bad. Could use some salt."

Cullen passed her the little salt cellar. "What type of food do they eat in Ostwick?"

"I wouldn't know; on the estate we had an Orlesian cook, so we ate a lot of Orlesian foods. Chicken, vegetables, complicated sauces. I didn't actually spend a lot of time in Ostwick itself, and the nobility pride themselves on their exotically trained chefs, so the dinners I attended had everything from Qunari raw fish dishes to spicy Antivan delicacies." She eyed the stew again. "I suppose it's not surprising that there were never any Fereldan dishes on the menu."