#no cmdr this chapter but there is wlw content so like. swings n roundabouts | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

partystoragechest · 8 months

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A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan tries to set the Commander up with Lady Erridge.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,692. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: brief mentions of childhood bullying, mild injury mention.)

Chapter 17: Lady Erridge's Recipe

With everything that had occurred between her and the Baroness Touledy yesterday, Trevelyan had voided all memory of that afternoon’s conversation with Lady Erridge.

But it came rushing back now—quite literally, in the form of a kitchen maid, hurriedly crossing the Great Hall towards her.

“Your Ladyship, do you perhaps know a Lady Erridge?” begged the maid.

Trevelyan’s eyes widened. “I do; why do you ask?”

“She’s in the kitchen, and she’s ever so upset. It’s not really my place to console her, your Ladyship. Might you be able to?”

The irony of this being the very kitchen maid that had told Trevelyan of the Commander’s sweet tooth—for it was that very information that had led to this situation.

“Lady Trevelyan,” Lady Erridge had said, upon catching Trevelyan outside her room yesterday, “might I ask you for some help with wooing the Commander, like you gave the other Ladies?”

Fresh from the failure of her attempt to bring Touledy to the Commander’s training, Trevelyan was reluctant to agree. But Maker, Lady Erridge had laid it on thick:

“Please! I’m no good at chess, no matter how Lady Samient teaches me—and I can’t fight like the Baroness. I know I am not much of anything really, but perhaps if you could help me, the Commander might look in my direction.”

Trevelyan, still hesitant, requested Erridge list any and all skills she had. Yet even that proved difficult. Nothing she was interested in or good at—sewing, reading romances, the like—was something that they knew the Commander to also be interested in.

And then Trevelyan had recalled his sweet tooth.

“Oh, Lady Orroat says I am a wonderful baker!” Erridge had said, so happily. “Perhaps I might bake him a crumble. I do enjoy making a crumble!”

Trevelyan had said she ought to do just that, only now considering that, perhaps, Lady Orroat’s good opinion of Lady Erridge and her baking might have been a little bit biased.

For when she stumbled upon the scene, ‘wonderful’ was certainly not the word Trevelyan would have used to describe the disaster in the kitchen.

“Lady Erridge, what happened!?”

Her Ladyship was slumped upon the cobbled floor, her face bright red and awash with tears. She was, at once, both surrounded by and covered in flour. The workbench beside her was no better. Butter seeped into its wood grain, and sugar provided a fine layer of stickiness on top. The peels of several apples littered the space. Just about every utensil Skyhold possessed was in use. How was a spatula relevant?

“Lady Trevelyan!” Erridge sobbed. “Oh, it’s all gone terribly!”

Beside her lap lay a small baking dish, filled with a soupy, lumpy, burnt-looking concotion that Trevelyan could only assume was supposed to be an apple crumble.

Trevelyan bent down. “What went wrong, Lady Erridge?”

“I don’t know!” she wailed. “It’s not meant to look like this!”

Trevelyan had already gathered as much. She looked to the maid who’d led her here—the only one remanining in this particular kitchen, as presumably all others had fled—and asked: “Might you have a cloth somewhere, to wipe her Ladyship’s eyes?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

The maid scrambled away, and returned seconds later with a clean little rag. She passed it to Trevelyan, wisely maintaining her distance, and Trevelyan passed it to Lady Erridge.

“Here, now,” she cooed, “accidents happen. Do not feel a fool.”

Erridge took the cloth, and dabbed her eyes. “But it’s such a waste.”

“Not at all. It’s sugar and apples, isn’t it? I’m sure the horses might appreciate it, if we cannot.” Trevelyan turned to the kitchen maid, and said: “Would you take this to the stables?”

The maid was all too glad of an opportunity to leave. “Of course, your Ladyship. We do give them the badly bruised apples, sometimes. This will be a feast, to them.”

She took up the baking dish—with a steady hand so as not to spill its contents—and headed for the door. Trevelyan thanked her as she left, and then returned her focus to Lady Erridge.

“There,” she said. “No waste. Now, shall we get cleaned up, a little?”

She held out a hand, and with a deep, but sniffly, breath, Lady Erridge took it. Together, they stood.

But from this height, Erridge could only look better upon the chaos she had wrought. Her eyes became watery once more. “Oh, dear. Oh, no...”

Trevelyan located and took up a broom. “It’s all right,” she said, “we’ll have it cleaned soon enough.”

“But without the crumble, the Commander shall never look twice at me. I shall die an old maid!”

Trevelyan shook her head as she swept. “Lady Erridge, if someone as sweet and beautiful as you dies an old maid, then there shall be no hope for us lesser beings.”

Erridge did her best attempt at a smile, fragile though it was. “It’s true,” she blubbed, “he has barely said two words to me this past week and a half. I shall never take his notice.”

The little sadness with which Lady Erridge spoke those words caused Trevelyan’s soft heart to cave in. Such genuine misery, over the Commander. Such a bright face, dimmed by it all. She could not let this lie.

“Come, now, your Ladyship, do not be so defeatist,” Trevelyan said. “I am sure Skyhold has apples enough for us to make a second attempt.”

Lady Erridge caught her meaning, and sniffed back a few tears. “But… you are so busy.”

“It is a crumble—I daresay it will not take long enough that I shall be missed. What recipe did you use?”

“I did not use a recipe,” Erridge replied, “I did it from memory.”

Trevelyan paused, mid-sweep. Erridge’s face fell once more.

“Oh, Maker, I am such a fool!”

“No, no, no!” Trevelyan hurried over, to quell this new wave of despondence. “It’s all right. I am sure they will have a recipe around here somewhere! We shall try it together!”

Erridge—her mouth pressed closed to stop her sobs—managed only a nod.

“Come, we must clean up first.”

Trevelyan took up her broom once more, and managed to corrall the flour on the floor into some kind of pile. Lady Erridge she gave a damp cloth, which was to be used to wipe down the sugar and butter from the surfaces. To her credit, Erridge completed the task diligently and to a good standard. Trevelyan had a feeling her Ladyship regarded herself to be more inept than she actually was.

Floor swept, worktops clean, they turned to the search for a recipe. The proximity of Skyhold to Ferelden—and the good portion of its residents hailing from the area—made the task rather easy. Because even in a privy kitchen like this one, there was a shelf on which a book of Ferelden puddings was kept.

The Ladies flicked through, until Erridge exclaimed for Trevelyan to stop, and go back. Sure enough, she had spotted the right page: apple crumble.

“Right,” said Trevelyan, placing the book down, “let us gather the ingredients.”

From her first attempt, Lady Erridge already knew where they hid. It was getting the amounts right that was the trouble.

“What does ‘two large apples’ truly mean?” she asked Trevelyan, who was as clueless as she. “How are we to know what constitutes ‘large’?”

Trevelyan hummed. “Short of emptying out every apple in the castle and cataloguing them all by size until we know for certain which are the largest,” she said, “we shall just have to guess. And if we need more, we shall add more.”

Erridge fetched what she thought to be two cooking apples of decent size, and gave them to Trevelyan, who’d just found an appropriate baking dish. Erridge buttered it, whilst Trevelyan chopped.

“You do that ever so well, Lady Trevelyan,” said Erridge.

Trevelyan could hardly agree. She thought her dicing was rather uneven. Regardless, she said, “Thank you. You are doing well yourself.”

And she was. Dish greased, the next port of call for Erridge’s butter was a bowl of flour and sugar. With a stolen glance at the recipe, Erridge began to scoop small chunks into the dry mixture. Yet as she went, her movements slowed. She looked to Trevelyan.

“Might I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I heard—it’s about the Baroness, you see.” Erridge’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Is everything all right with you?”

Maker. “Yes, of course.”

“Oh, good! Because I’d heard you’d had an awful row yesterday morning, and I was terribly worried that you’d fallen out.”

Skyhold’s capability for distributing news once again proved itself to be the best in all of Thedas.

“There was a misunderstanding,” Trevelyan told her. Denying it would only make it more intriguing, more worth poking into. “But we have settled it amiably.”

“I am glad to hear it. I could not bear to imagine there might be a rift between you. And it was impossible to think that the Baroness would be capable of a faux pas! She is ever so good with people.”

Trevelyan slid her apple chunks into a bowl of sugar, and mixed. “We all make mistakes, Lady Erridge. No matter how skilled we might be, even. Mastery is no guarantee of immunity from error.”

“Oh.” Erridge seemed to contemplate this, slowly rubbing together butter and flour. “You know, Lady Trevelyan—you are ever so wise... and you are also terribly beautiful, and kind, and rather good conversation, I do say!” Her words began to wobble, as her eyes welled up once more. “I think the Commander would be a fool not to choose you.”

Trevelyan smiled. “Lady Erridge, if you cry into the crumble, we shall have to make it again.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.”

Erridge took a step back, and sniffled until her tears stopped.

“There,” said Trevelyan. “And thank you, your Ladyship. It is kind of you to say.”

Lady Erridge completed her crumbling, and brought the finished mixture to the baking dish. Trevelyan poured in the shining, sugar-coated apple, and Erridge sprinkled on top her sweet crumb. Already, it looked perfect.

But a trip to the oven was in order. In the alcove, it stood—built of brick, and burning away. Its hearth-fire heated and lit a chamber above, wherein they carefully slid their precious creation.

“Do you know how to cool an oven?” Lady Erridge asked. “I think it may have been too hot before, and I shouldn’t like to burn it again.”

“Oh!” said Trevelyan. “Well, yes, of course.”

She didn’t see the harm in a little magic right now. It was only them in the room, and she could tame a fire in her sleep.

So she knelt before the oven, and peeled back the Veil, just a touch. The energy of the Fade dripped through, and diluted itself within the flames of the fire. Trevelyan caught strands of this force between her fingers, wound them around like reins, and took control.

The fire quietened.

“Oh!” Erridge gasped. “Sorry, I hadn’t meant—well, this is rather efficient, but”—she knelt beside Trevelyan—“I quite expected you to use a poker, or some such.”

“Oh,” said Trevelyan. “Well, to be fair, I think a poker is used to make a fire hotter.”

“Then, I am glad you did this instead.”

Trevelyan smiled.

“You are such a wonderful friend, Lady Trevelyan.”

“Of course—”

She was cut off, by Erridge flinging her arms around her torso. Trevelyan jolted, and felt a thread of the Fade come loose. Flames started kicking up again, licking at the ceiling of their chamber. Really ought to have set up that cooling ward she’d spent so much time staring at!

With a twist of her fingers, Trevelyan snared the flames into her will once more. The blaze calmed, and she focused instead on the squeeze of Lady Erridge around her. The embrace was as warm as the fire itself. Trevelyan—careful not to lose her metaphorical grip—reached up to pat Erridge’s arm.

“You really are wonderful,” Erridge murmured, into Trevelyan’s sleeve.

“No less than you deserve,” Trevelyan replied.

Lady Erridge withdrew, a gentle smile on her face, and the hint of a tear in her eye. “Even if I do not win the Commander, I shall ever be grateful I came here, and met you.”

“I feel the same way about you, Lady Erridge.”

Her smile turning shy, Erridge shuffled to stare at the fire again. Its amber glow lit her rosy cheeks. “You have such excellent control of it,” she complimented.

Trevelyan chuckled to herself. “I always have. You know, they called me ‘Wicky’ in the Circle.”

“Wicky?”

“Mm. Because I was from Ostwick, and because I was so good at starting fires.”

Erridge giggled. “Oh, what a precious name! May I call you ‘Wicky’?”

“If you like.”

“I shall not do it in front of the others—only in secret,” Erridge promised. “But I hope it will be comforting to have someone call you by that name again.”

Trevelyan nodded. She began to toy with the feel of the fire, and made one spark leap over the rest of the flames. Old party tricks.

“It is ever so nice to hear about your past,” said Erridge. “I have had so little of it—you are something of an enigma to me, Lady Trevelyan.”

“There is little to tell: the Circle was the Circle.” She looked to Erridge. “Actually, I would like to ask you about yours, if I may. About you and Lady Orroat?”

Erridge seemed to brighten at the mere mention of the name. “Always!”

“Then tell me,” Trevelyan said, voice only a little less quiet than the crackle of the fire, “do you recall when you first met? Did your parents introduce you?”

Lady Erridge wiggled off her knees, to sit entirely on the floor. She looked as a child, ready to tell stories by light of their makeshift bonfire. “That is my favourite tale to share,” she sighed. “Our first meeting was wonderful.”

The Orroats and Erridges did not speak much, back then. For matters of business, yes, but not at any personal level. Pleasantries were exchanged at parties, however—such as the one Lady Erridge began to describe.

It was at the estate of merchant family in the area, and all the high-and-mighty of the Coldons were invited. Including, Erridge told Trevelyan, the son of a carpet merchant, whom she thought to be the prettiest boy she had ever seen.

“I was six,” Erridge clarified, “I hadn’t seen many boys.”

Trevelyan smiled as she listened, visualising the characters in shadows cast by the oven’s flames.

“I had just gotten my first dress,” Erridge continued, “and I was rather proud to be wearing it.”

She thought it perfect, really. She would find a flower in the garden, approach the object of her affection in her pretty, pretty dress, and tell him that she thought he was the prettiest boy she had ever seen.

And yet, when she did just that, his reply was not what she’d hoped.

“You’re the ugliest girl I’ve ever seen!”

Trevelyan gasped. “How rude!”

Erridge laughed. “Well, we were six!”

But of course, time had healed the wound. In the moment it was said to her, Erridge was crushed. She fled the scene, back to the gardens, and concealed herself within a hedge. There, she sobbed and wailed and cried.

“And I hadn’t expected anyone to find me, nor did I want anyone to,” said Erridge, “but then… she appeared.”

The brush had rustled, and another girl clambered inside. Erridge could barely see her in the shade, but she heard her:

“Are you all right?”

“She was a most fascinating creature,” Lady Erridge recalled, with a wistful gaze. “Silky hair, all in a mess; skin all smeared with mud. As were her clothes! She was like… a refined sort of chaos. She’d been playing with the other children in the garden, she told me, and her name was Hulnes Orroat.”

Lady Orroat proceeded to spend the next few minutes attempting to return the smile to young Lady Erridge’s face. With silly jokes and voices, it was not hard.

“She was very funny,” Erridge gladly admitted, “she always has been. She makes me laugh ever so much!”

But there was no laughter when Erridge spoke of what had happened to her. The young Lady Orroat was just as shocked to hear of it as the adult Trevelyan had been. Even more so, perhaps.

Defender of the meek, Lady Orroat took up her (wooden) sword, and marched off to find the carpet merchant’s son. She held her blade (again, wooden) out to his neck, and demanded a duel for Lady Erridge’s honour. He accepted.

“Did she win?” asked Trevelyan, realising she was rather absorbed in the tale.

“Oh, Lady Orroat beat the shit out of him,” Erridge said. “Two scraped knees, a bruised elbow, and a bloody nose!”

But it all came to a rather abrupt end when Lady Orroat pointed her sword (wooden!) directly at his heart, and threatened to kill him. The boy took this rather seriously (he was six) and began to sob.

“Very unpretty,” Lady Erridge commented. “Anyway, everyone’s parents came rushing out, and we all got a good telling-off!”

“But you hadn’t done anything!” Trevelyan protested.

Lady Erridge thought on this for a moment. “Well, no, I hadn’t. To tell you the truth, I don’t recall the aftermath all that well. I believe I was pardoned—and I gave my word in Lady Orroat’s defense too. I have no idea if it helped.”

“You stayed in contact, after that?”

“Oh, yes!”

Lady Erridge had begged and begged her parents to allow her to write to her saviour. They eventually capitulated—after some performative crying and stamping of the feet—and Lady Erridge was provided with a sheet of paper, an inkwell, and a quill. It was a good way to get her to practice her words.

That first letter—though she couldn’t exactly recall the contents—thanked Lady Orroat for her actions. A reply soon came, in which Lady Orroat said it was worth it, and told Lady Erridge that, for posterity:

“I was the prettiest girl she’d ever seen.”

Trevelyan hid her smile.

From there, it continued. The two became pen pals, until they were old enough to sleep over. Their parents formed a begruding friendship, that soon turned to a genuine one.

“Her mother and father are so delightful,” said Erridge. “Her younger brothers, too—and, oh, her Great Aunt! She was a wondrous woman. Hul spurned dresses, so the late Aunt Orroat bequeathed all of them to me, instead.”

Once they were old enough to visit of their own accord, the Ladies would do so with astonishing regularity.

“Hul is forever riding over. She brings me gifts, and takes me on walks and to plays!”

“How lovely!” said Trevelyan, privately pitying Lady Orroat, for her displays of affection being so missed. She wondered, “Do you perhaps wish this crumble were for her, and not the Commander?”

Lady Erridge’s bright smile fell, and she looked to the ground. “Oh,” she muttered. “I have to admit, I had clean forgot about the Commander. Is that terrible of me?”

Trevelyan shook her head. “Not at all. I think it’s natural to miss someone so dear to you.”

Erridge’s smile returned. “She is so dear. I suppose I do wish this was for her. She certainly deserves such treats.”

“It definitely sounds that way.” Trevelyan loosed a hand, to pat Lady Erridge on her shoulder. “Next time, we shall make one for her.”

Erridge clapped. “Oh, yes! I should love for you to meet her. Perhaps, your crumble for her could be as mine is to the Commander, for I still wish to introduce you! You would make such a lovely match, and you would be able to rule over all of East Coldon!”

“Wouldn’t you like to rule over all of East Coldon?” Trevelyan suggested.

Erridge sat bolt upright, as if the thought was striking upon her for the first time. “Oh, now wouldn’t that be jolly? We could reunite Coldon! How lovely! And we would rule over it together, as the very best of friends!”

Internally, Trevelyan squirmed. One could very well lead a horse to water, it seemed, but one could not make it drink.

Nevertheless, the crumble finally cooked. Trevelyan released her control of the fire, and let it die back. With thick cloth, they retrieved the baking dish, and marvelled at their creation.

A golden, sugary crumble, topping a glistening syrup of soft apple. Little trails of juice had dripped and crisped on the sides, enticing the viewer in. Perfect.

Trevelyan had noted an increase of activity in the nearby kitchens towards the end of their cooking time; luncheon was almost served.

“Let us send it off with the rest of the food,” she told Erridge, “it can be his dessert.”

Erridge agreed. “How wonderful!”

Trevelyan called the kitchen maid from earlier—who brightened Erridge’s mood further with a compliment for their success—and asked her kindly to take the crumble to the Commander.

“And say it is from Lady Erridge and Lady Trevelyan,” Erridge instructed.

“No, no,” Trevelyan interrupted. “Lady Erridge, this was your idea. You should have the credit.”

“But you helped so greatly! It would not exist without you.”

“Lady Erridge, we may argue on this until the crumble goes cold, but as I would rather that did not happen, then I must put my foot down.” Trevelyan turned to the kitchen maid: “Say it is from Lady Erridge alone, please.”

Unwilling to insert herself into the argument, the maid nodded, and curtsied, and was soon on her way. Erridge watched her go, and then gave Lady Trevelyan one final surprise embrace.

“Thank you, Wicky,” she said. “My only wish now is that I could know how he likes it.”

“Worry not,” Trevelyan told her, with a wink. “I am sure I will have to deliver something to his office later.”

#unwanted #unwanted fic #no cmdr this chapter but there is wlw content so like. swings n roundabouts #dont worry he'll be back next chap #(and i have already written draft 1)

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