A Lack of Proper Decorum

by TheFemPC

Summary:

Lindiranae of Clan Lavellan had been primed for leadership since the day she became first apprentice, but an unexpected turn of fate sees her don the mantle of authority in a way she never expected. Not only must she guide the Inquisition to victory against Corypheus, but she must also learn to navigate a world that is a stark contrast to the one she knows, and master some of her worst fears in the process.

Cullen Rutherford left behind his life as a Templar, haunted by a bloody past fraught with tragedy and failure. The Inquisition offered a chance to find redemption, but not without cost. Yet despite his own private struggles, he finds a sense of belonging in his new role as Commander of the Inquisition forces.

Although the fate of Thedas hangs in the balance, something wholly unexpected blooms within the strife and conflict. Two stubborn, wilful individuals come together and inadvertently soothe one another's old wounds and open each others minds to their very different worlds, despite a shaky start and a lot of awkwardness.

Chapter 1: The Odd-Eyed Hound

Everything around them was chaos. The luminescence of the jagged, broken sky bathed the burning ruins in a sickly green hue. Only a few hours prior, this place had been teeming with ambassadors and dignitaries, hoping to put an end to a bitter and calamitous war. Now, the Temple of Sacred Ashes was little more than rubble, and almost every would-be peacemaker - including the Divine herself - was dead. 

The moment the sky was torn open, Commander Cullen had resigned himself to the fact that whatever luck had brought him this far felt like it was fast running out. He had survived the fall of the Ferelden circle, and witnessed the horrifying destruction of the Chantry in Kirkwall that had sparked the war in earnest, but this…every facet of his military instinct told him that this was most definitely a dire situation. This close to the Breach, the demons were all but innumerable. His scant amount of fighting men were not. An uphill struggle to reach the central source of the calamity had left most of them dead or injured. There was no line to hold, the last wave of demons scattering those still alive too far from one another to make a further push forward. Sweat beaded on his forehead and mingled with drying blood as he made another sweeping slice through the writhing creature in front of him. It howled furiously, lashing out aimlessly with its ink-black claws. He nearly lost his footing when it threw itself upon his shield, determined to reach past the sturdy steel to rend at his flesh. The strangled cry behind him signaled another fallen soldier, and he managed a quick glance over his shoulder to see two more demons identical to the one currently flailing at him undulating across the uneven terrain towards him. What he wouldn’t have given for a few seasoned Templars to reinforce him, perhaps it would be enough to weaken the Rift only a few feet away and buy them more time. But most of the Templars were dead, along with the mages, and the more prevalent issue of the Breach rendered any hasty theorizing redundant now. The only thing spurring him on now was the hope that he could at least give the others time to retreat. 

As if his final, desperate plea had blessedly been answered, he heard a commotion somewhere nearby, and the renewed sound of a clash. Before he could so much as exhale a sigh of relief, he was knocked back against a ruined chunk of something that had once been a wall as the three demons sought to surround him. The back of his head hit the rock hard, forcing him to drop his shield. He clutched the hilt of his sword and gritted his teeth.Demons had haunted his every step for more than a decade, it seemed like a fitting end, in some maudlin way. If he was going to die here, he would do so with whatever fight was still left in him…

Something large, neither humanoid nor demonic, leapt through the air and landed in the small space between him and the snarling demons. He blinked rapidly, willing away his dizziness so he could identify the currently blurry figure. 

It was a dog. 

Not some lap dog nor mabari, but more akin to a very large wolf. It was big, sleek and lithe, its thick fur a lustrous mix of brown and white. He had only a moment to confusedly take it in before it bellowed out a shrill, rattling growl and launched into his assailants, teeth tearing into their malleable forms. Shaking off his shock, and realizing the strange creature was more interested in the demons, at least for now, he joined in the attack, the odds now vastly improved. 

“Commander!” he heard Cassandra call out.

Thank the Maker, he thought, stabbing the point of his sword into the demon in front of him. It shrieked as it bubbled and dissipated into a pile of black ichor. The Seeker appeared at his side and helped him with the second, as the large canine ripped apart the last one until it was little more than a dark smear on the ground. 

“The Rift..” he began to say, his voice strained from crying out commands to his brethren. He stabbed the point of the blade into the churned up earth and struggled to catch his breath. 

Cassandra glanced sidelong at him and nodded, thankfully taking quick action. She raised her hand, still clasping her weapon. “Shut it now!” she cried out, presumably to whomever she had managed to grab to get this far. 

The hulking dog lifted its head, sniffing the air, its formally white maw soaked in the demon’s blood-like remains. Its eyes were particularly strange; the left was bright gold, the other a vibrant green. It uttered a grumbling growl before, to his utter surprise, it stood upright, and its primal features melted away to reveal the shape of a young woman, slim and armoured in bright green, intricate leathers. He observed, dumbfoundedly, as she raised her hand and some eerie, unfamiliar magic crackled in her palm, producing a powerful ray of green light that shot directly into the heart of the floating Rift. It warped and distorted in seeming protest, and then there was a deafening, thunderous crash and a blinding light in the air not far above his head, the Rift collapsing in on itself, closed, sealed, gone, at last. He exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, reaching down to grab his shield.  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he gave the Seeker a weary nod. “Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift?” He addressed her, his gaze shifting between the members of her rag-tag little group that consisted of herself, Varric, the hermit mage Solas who had inexplicably and rather suspiciously showed up just as the situation kicked off, and this unknown woman with strange abilities. “Well done.”

“Do not congratulate me, Commander” Cassandra replied, wiping the striking edge of her blade on her cuirass. “This is all the prisoners doing.”

The prisoner. It took him a moment to connect things in his head. Yes, there had been a prisoner, hadn’t there? He was vaguely aware that his soldiers had found someone alive within the smoking ruins, seemingly untouched by the impact of the blast. He was too busy rallying what forces he could to deal with the quickly unraveling situation at the top of the hill, however, to have seen them for himself, as many of the workers had done. He had received a hastily given message from one of Leliana’s runners to inform him that they may have found a way to close, or at least weaken, the Breach. Only now did he understand what that plan actually entailed. 

She was an elf, Dalish, he realized. Her skin was lightly tanned, her forehead and cheeks adorned with an intricate, green-inked tattoo that resembled the willowy branches of a blooming tree. Her thick, auburn hair was loose in places, but mostly tied back in a number of thin braids, decorated with small pieces of coloured string, tiny beads and  downy feathers. Her armour was a unique blend of soft leather and light chain, but her feet were bare save for a layer of wrapped leather strips wound around the middle of each and woven up to her knees. The staff she carried more resembled a polearm, with a long, silver-blue blade that curved slightly in the middle, intricate patterns carved into the wood of its lengthy pommel. Everything about her looked foreign and wild, almost feral compared to anything he had seen before

Cullen’s mind was abuzz with a dozen questions, but the post-fight adrenaline still held him firmly. “Was it?” he asked with disinterest, scanning the area for signs of life. “I hope they’re right about you. We lost a lot of good men getting you here.”

Her odd eyes narrowed as she scanned him up and down, her nostrils flaring just as they had when she was in the other shape. She crossed her arms and muttered something under her breath in a language he assumed to be elven, but he clearly made out the word “Templar”, emphasized in a way that made it sound distinctly like an insult. He was entirely too preoccupied with more pressing matters to be offended.

Next to her, Solas offered a reassuring smile. “The plan is a solid one,” he said calmly. “She has the necessary ability, as you’ve just seen.”

“That’s all we can ask for,” he said, hearing the exhaustion in his own words.

He had a very quick exchange with the Seeker, enough time to explain what they had come up against in the last wave and the next phase of the plan, before a tremor that seemed to be both above and below them warned of further danger. 

“Maker watch over you, for all our sakes” he said quickly, warningly, before he called out to his remaining forces to retreat. 

One of his men struggled to keep up with the rest as they quickly ran for one of the few decent vantage points on the slope. He grabbed the man under the shoulders and heaved him upright, helping him along the rest of the way, all the while praying that this woman with the strange powers would be their answer to this calamity, and not the cause of it as many had already decided. 

 

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The Herald of Andraste. That was what the residents of Haven took to calling her. After all, how could someone who could stem the tide of demons pouring from the breach and seal the Rifts be anything but blessed by the Bride of the Maker? 

Despite being a man of reasonably strong faith, Cullen saw the title as more advantageous for the cause than true. It seemed rather inappropriate to title someone with such a reverent name when they themselves were not a part of their faith, and in this case, very adamant about their disdain for the very notion. 

But now, at this particular juncture, with Haven burning down around them and the Red Templars close to victory, Cullen looked at the Dalish elf stood before him, ragged and disheveled from their fruitless struggle against the insurgents at their gates, he realized there were comparisons to be drawn between the Herald and her titled namesake. Despite her clear reluctance to join the Inquisition, she had rather naturally taken charge in numerous ways. Something about her, beyond the mystique of her rumoured connection to Andraste, naturally drew people in. She was careful and considerate with her choices, although she rarely agreed with his suggestions.

Most of all, she was honourable, proven now without a shadow of a doubt by the words that she uttered with pure conviction. “Take the survivors through the tunnels and get as far from the valley as you can,” she said, her odd-eyes scanning over the chantry hall quickly. “I will keep them occupied and try to get to the last trebuchet. When you’re clear from the area, fire a lit arrow high as you can, so I know you’re clear.”

It was the best shot they had at getting out of the situation alive. As soon as the dragon had descended from the sky he had given up on any hope of victory, yet here she was, having witnessed as much of the carnage outside as he did, defying the odds and spitting in the face of inevitability, willing to hold the line alone for the sake of the very people she longed to be away from. One question remained, however, and he found himself afraid of the answer. 

“But what of your escape?”

She stared at him for a long moment, before reaching beneath her scarf and pulling out a small, silver brooch. It was shaped like the profile of one of those strange white deer with curling horns that her people were so fond of, with a small red stone embedded in its neck. It sat nestled in a wreath of silver, interwoven branches. “Ensure this finds its way back to my clan,” she stated firmly. “My brother may yet have need of it.”

Cullen tried in vain to wrack his brain for an alternative, something better than this. “Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way-” He tried to sound hopeful, but it was useless now, and they both knew it. He wanted to implore her not to resign herself to the idea of this all ending with her death. He wanted to tell her how much he respected her unwavering courage at the prospect, and admired her for her leadership when the rest of them had all but given up. The only word that graced his lips was the only one that felt like it mattered right now, laced with heavy regret. “Lin…”

Lindiranae, Lin as she preferred to be known after enough people had mispronounced it,  named for the notorious Emerald Knight who was the last to fall in the Exalted March of the Dales. His understanding of the tale may have painted such a figure as a dangerous apostate, but there was no denying the heroism of standing against an unbeatable tide. Fate seemed twisted and cruel to repeat the circumstances like this. 

Lin simply nodded, gesturing in the direction of the door to the dungeons. “Go on now” she said, firmly but gently, like a mother pressing a child to return to bed when the hour had grown too late for excuses. “Get them out of here.”

She turned on her heels and made for the barricaded chantry door. Cullen hurriedly ushered the remaining civilians down the stone steps to the secret passage the injured Chancellor Roderick had informed them of, pausing in the doorway momentarily. “Herald” he called out to her, as she removed the heavy wooden plank barring her exit. “If we-if you- are to have a chance, Let that thing hear you.”

To anyone else, he would have offered the simple platitude of “Maker go with you”, but he imagined it would be more aggravating to her than comforting or inspiring. She turned to look back at him, and her blood and ash-stained face was set with grim determination, . While he had never before entertained the notion of any divine being but the maker, if her strange Gods were real, he hoped they were benevolent enough to see her return from this. 

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Those who had made the journey up the mountain pass, fearful and beyond exhaustion, gathered to watch in mute shock and awe as their once bustling little stronghold was buried beneath the force of the avalanche in an instant. The dragon had fled, along with its master, the moment the trebuchet’s payload struck the mountainside, sensing the inevitable repercussions. The light of the fires and the speckled glints of torches carried by their attackers was snuffed out, leaving the valley in little but a pool of darkness and an unsettling silence. 

For a long time, what remained of the Inquisition stood in grim silence and acceptance, until the reality of the situation and the relief of escape from the massacre gave way to sorrow and palpable fear. Would there be survivors, clawing their way through the snow to resume their murderous intentions? Would the dragon reemerge from the night sky and set upon them here in this freezing clearing in the mountains? There was no way of knowing, not now, not with the freezing wind bearing down upon them and darkness making it near impossible to see just how far away from civilisation the path had taken them. They could only wait out the night now, and pray that by morning they would still be alive, with some plan to find their feet again.  

They worked in relative silence to assemble a camp with the few supplies they had salvaged. Leliana almost immediately threw herself into coordinating her scouts, observing their comings and goings while she attempted to find a map. Josephine sat on the edge of a now empty cart, a blanket thrown around her shoulders. She gripped it tightly to her chest, her eyes wide with shock that had not yet faded, rendering her somewhat paralyzed for the time being. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks like slow trickling streams. This was a far cry from her area of expertise, and likely the first time she had been in the throes of such chaos and bloodshed, and it showed. While Cullen could understand that fact, he was nonetheless irritated by her inaction. This was not the time to dally, not with so many injured and terrified people relying on them to do something, anything, that would ease their hardship. 

It was his fault, he felt sure of it. He should have anticipated a counterattack of some form after they had taken in the rebel mages. The notion had occurred to him, when he was still reeling from the Herald’s shocking and infuriating decision on the matter, but at most he was prepared for the idea of Chantry opposition, backed up by the Orlesians or perhaps a few breakaway factions of the Order. But the templars that sacked Haven were not his former brothers and sisters in arms. They were changed, corrupted, monstrous and twisted amalgams of something that was even more hideous than abominations. The very recollection of their appearance, jagged red spikes of red lyrium protruding from their skin, piercing through their armour at varying levels of size and severity, made him shudder. They looked like shambling corpses, slowly being eaten up by the corrupted mineral. Meredith’s rapid transformation had gripped him with tremendous fear in Kirkwall, but this…this was beyond anything he could have imagined, even in his worst nightmares. 

It truly seemed that it was an irrefutable fact that corruption followed him wherever he went. He felt like a bad omen, or a disease, something that survived only to infect the next settlement he found himself in. It was an irrational thought, perhaps, and part of him knew it, but right now it felt like the truth. Samson was leading the charge, after all, a face from his past that he had failed to deal with appropriately when it mattered. Failure clung to his skin like a searing brand, but even so, he could not wallow in it now when his own soldiers were struggling to cling to life. He had to do whatever possible to keep them from despair, even if he was questioning his ability to be a leader. 

An hour or two passed, the atmosphere of their hastily assembled camp settling into something less urgent and paranoid. There was little to do but stay warm and lick their wounds, waiting for morning to come. Cullen felt weariness seeping into his bones, but he was too restless to sit quietly by the fire. He knew he was wounded, bruised in places and bleeding from the impact of an arrow grazing his leg, but he applied a tourniquet to stop the worst of the bleeding where it had sheared the flesh. There were enough people needing the attention of physicians who were in far worse states than him. Every step taken as he paced around the makeshift map table at the center of the camp came with an irritating pulse of pain, but he couldn’t stop himself nonetheless. 

It should have been him, he thought again and again, down there in the valley ensuring the safe escape of the Inquisition. He had sworn to serve with the same amount of dedication and diligence that he had as a templar, but in the end, Lin, of all people, had berated him angrily for giving up. 

“These are your people!” she had exclaimed through gritted teeth, jabbing him hard in the chest with her index finger. “You want them to wait down there in the dungeons, like livestock for slaughter? Either find a way out of here and get them to safety, or put a gods-damned weapon in their hands and let them die with some dignity at the very least!”

Even though most of the people she referred to were civilians who had never held a sword in their lives, her point was almost infectiously passionate. Thankfully, it had not come to that, due to Chancellor Roderick’s information about the secret passage. They had gotten to safety, but Lin…

Staring up at the narrow pass they had come through, a little further up the hill, Cullen found himself running his thumb over the brooch in his pocket. Strangely, it somehow made him feel calmer. He found he was suddenly no longer thinking of logistics, or things that were at present beyond his control. He was thinking of the day he had been training his new recruits in the little encampment outside the gates, overlooking the frozen lake, when Lin had been passing by and they had struck up a conversation. He was thinking of the moment he had gotten carried away by the thought of what the Inquisition could achieve, and how he had rambled on like an overly enthusiastic youngster at the prospect. Most of all, he was thinking of the way she looked at him, her expression softened by amusement, her lips curving into an unexpectedly warm smile. 

The world seemed to disappear for just a moment, and all he could see was her. She was absolutely infuriating, stubborn and willful, made his job seem monumentally more difficult in the few months she had spent with the Inquisition, and -maker help him- he had longed for her to look at him again in that way that made his heart stop. 

No, this would not do. For what she had done for them all that night, even if the chances were bleak, they had to search for her. He tucked the brooch back into the bottom of his pocket, next to his lucky coin, grabbed a lit lantern from the table and set a swift pace through the camp. As he passed by one of the campfires, Cassandra, who had been sat there warming her hands, stood up abruptly and regarded him with a weary, inquisitive look. “Where are you going?” 

“To see if the scouts have spotted anything.” he said, not bothering to elaborate. 

Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded. “Round up a few others, I’ll come with you.”

 

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It could have been nothing short of a miracle.

The large hound with the odd-eyes crested over the horizon, just as they had reached the top of the hill only a few meters away. “There!” he called back to the others coming up behind him. “It’s her!”

There she stood, illuminated by only the moonlight, like some sort of wintry mountain specter. Slowly, with more apparent difficulty than usual, she returned to her true form, leaning her forehead against her staff. Her eyes met his, glimmering in the darkness, looking distant and bewildered. As he raced towards her, the radiant light of the lantern illuminated her features, and his stomach lurched. She was injured, badly by the looks of it, barely able to stand with fresh blood streaming down her right cheek, connecting with her swollen, bloodied lower lip and chin. One arm was tucked tightly under her armpit, likely sprained or perhaps broken. 

Cassandra caught up to him and gasped at the sight of her. “Thank the Maker” she said between heavy, laboured breaths. 

Lin didn’t move, simply standing there and watching them with a furrowed brow until they were right in front of her. “Oh, it’s you” she rasped, her head tilting slightly, confusion making it sound more like a question than a statement. 

Before any of them could respond, her eyelids fluttered rapidly, and she sank to her knees, threatening to disappear in the nearly knee-deep snow. Before her shoulder hit the ground, he snapped forward and caught her with one arm, his heart hammering rapidly in his chest as he carefully eased her onto the ground in front of him. Kneeling at her side, he quickly tore off his fur mantle and wrapped it around her shoulders, while the Seeker lightly tapped on her cheeks, her brows knitted together with heavy concern. “Come on, come on!” she repeated over and over again, rolling Lin’s head from side to side. “Herald…Lin! Stay awake, alright? We’ll take you back to the camp, it’s not far.”

Much to their joint relief, her eyes slowly opened. The golden one was badly swollen from bruising, but a small sliver of her iris could still be seen. Cassandra pried the staff from her tight fist and handed it off to one of the scouts. Cullen lifted her into his arms without a thought, worriedly scanning her paling face as he pressed as much of her as possible to his torso, praying he had enough body heat to permeate his chestplate and leech into her freezing flesh. She was shivering, her teeth chattering ever so slightly as she nestled instinctively into the thick fur that engulfed her, her head tucked underneath his chin. He held her close, barely registering his surroundings as he marched through the snowy embankment. All of his senses seemed to solely focus on the woman in his arms; this beautiful, challenging, wild and wilful woman who truly seemed to be invincible.

“Nice to be back” she murmured hoarsely against his neck, with dull, unexpected sarcasm. 

All the anxiety of the night that had been coiling painfully in his chest dissipated in an instant, and he found himself laughing breathlessly. At a time like this, it was wholly inappropriate, but after so much loss, he could only be grateful to snatch up one victory from this disaster. Lin was here, broken and battered, but alive and in his arms.  “Nice to have you back.”

Chapter 2: A Change of Circumstance

Inquisitor Lavellan. 

It sounded odd, no matter how often someone addressed her as such. Lin had been primed for leadership since the day she had come into her magic, but this was a far cry from assuming the mantle of Keeper of her clan someday far from now, and something she was in no hurry to lay claim to. Her mother was a strong leader, and there was much still to learn. Now, she supposed, that plan which she had coordinated her entire life around was all but redundant. 

She had not expected to remain a part of the Inquisition after sealing the breach, let alone become its leader. But after Redcliffe, after Haven, seeing the sheer scale of danger that lay ahead, there was little room for personal choices. Red Templars and Tevinter radicals, both forces united in servitude to some twisted ancient magister, was the worst imaginable combination of threats to her people. 

It was a bitter blow, but this was the best way she could protect Clan Lavellan. Vaharel could take her position as first apprentice. Her brother would be pleased with the elevation, no longer stuck one step behind her even though they were the same age. For all the animosity between them over the years, she loved him still. They had shared a womb, after all, and it was a bond strong enough to weather their unfortunate rivalry. She longed to see him, and hand over her precious antique brooch in person. As painful as it would be to remove it for the last time from its accustomed place on her scarf, it would be nice to see the reverence in his eyes as he felt the skip of a heartbeat as she had the first time her mother had placed it in her palm. Unfortunately, the Clan was far away on the other side of the sea, tucked away somewhere safe in the Free Marches, at least she hoped they were. She could truly feel the distance, and it left a perpetual ache in her chest. 

Skyhold was something of an upgrade from Haven, but that was about as far as she could compliment it. She did not particularly like living behind walls, and Skyhold’s walls felt looming and oppressive. The ground had lost its greenness in the process of construction and the constant comings and goings of all the new arrivals swearing themselves to the cause, leaving the earth churned and muddied in most places. There was a small garden with a few trees that was pleasant enough, but she had allocated that particular area to those affiliated with the Chantry, as a show of fairness to quiet those who were not keen on the idea of a Dalish Inquisitor. There were plenty of outspoken individuals who had evidently voiced their “concerns”, about whether or not she would abuse her authority by outlawing their faith in their Maker, as if she even had such authority. Her own practices of faith were relegated to her private quarters, at the top of the highest tower overlooking the rest of the stronghold. 

In the fortnight since their arrival, no small effort had been put into clearing out the debris scattered all over the keep, and every night when she returned to her quarters, she did a little more to make the space less imposing. Josephine, with Viviene’s adamant input, had requisitioned all manner of pointlessly elaborate and expensive furnishings. Lin, who had spent her life living in the cozy small space of an aravel or a tent, refused the majority of it and replaced it with far more practical options. She still had no idea what a fainting couch was, but it did not sound like something fundamental to one's ability to rest. Although she would have been happy enough in the small chamber she had been recovering in upon their arrival, the one thing she did enjoy was the view from the balcony. She could see for miles on a clear day, and it made her want to fly desperately. But she would have to wait for that, as frustrating as it was. Her arm was still on the mend, and shapeshifting was out of the question for the time being. At any rate, there was work to do. 

 

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Lin glanced down at the Lyrium kit open on the Commander’s desk, furrowing her brow.

She was all too aware of how the substance worked for mages, although it was not something she had ever relied on a great deal. Her kind more often than not traveled in areas where the veil was thin, and its influence soaked into the earth like morning dew, something they had learned to utilize to sustain their abilities for much longer. Her mother kept a good supply on hand for ritualistic purposes and emergencies, and it rarely needed replenishing. She had taken a small dose on occasion, but she was not overly fond of the taste. It was something that was meant to be imbibed and then burned off gradually through the use of spells. She had never considered what effects it could have on those without magical abilities, primarily because it seemed such a stupid notion. 

“Cullen, if this can kill you…” she said slowly,rubbing the knuckle of her index finger against the base of her chin, considering the ramifications carefully. 

“It hasn’t yet.” he said determinedly, though she could see the concern written plainly on his face. “After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn’t. I will not be bound to the Order, or that life, any longer.”

After everything she had learned about the Templar Order and their inner workings over the prior months, it seemed a perplexing concept for someone to simply leave it all behind. The topic was a natural sore spot to the Dalish, but it made her realize that the real driving force behind the atrocities of the past was more likely the Chantry itself, especially if they could treat their own warriors worse than dogs. She still held to her disdain for them, but Cullen…

“Are you in pain?” she asked, frowning.

He nodded. “I can endure it.”

She reigned in the urge to question him more on the matter, given it already appeared to be a difficult topic for him to confide in her. “Thank you for telling me,” she said instead. “I respect what you’re doing.”

He closed the lid of the little kit and opened one of the desk drawers, placing it inside, out of sight and out of mind. “Thank you, Inquisitor” he said, his expression softening somewhat. “The Inquisition's army must always take priority. Should anything happen, I will defer to Cassandra’s judgment.”

Lin left him to his work, heading out onto the ramparts. She paused momentarily at the steps that lead down to the courtyard, drumming her fingers on the stone wall. 

To think the Commander had been quietly enduring such a difficult transition all this time. Now she understood why the scent of Lyrium was so much fainter on him than it was on the other Templars in Skyhold. Although she knew only a little of his history prior to the Inquisition, it was clear that he had suffered immensely during those years. Leaving it all behind could not have been an easy feat, and taking such a weighty risk to do so…

Damn it, she thought with gnawing frustration, it was hard to dislike him, even if he did frustrate her to no end. Even when he was loudly voicing his disagreement with her choices during war meetings, he somehow managed to do so in the politest way possible. He was open and honest, and never seemed to stop working. She could not understand why the soldiers seemed to find him intimidating. His perpetually stern expression reminded her of a puppy trying to behave like a full grown hound. On the occasions that he became flustered, usually by Varric or Sera, and on a few occasions even herself, she couldn’t help but smile, which was…unexpected.

She shook her head, sighing frustratedly. There was a lot to prepare for her journey to the Hissing Wastes, and she was eager to get moving. Cassandra would be accompanying her at any rate, she could consult her more about the situation if there was time.

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Planning for a siege was no small feat, especially the siege of an ancient Grey Warden stronghold in the middle of the desert. The pressure for a successful conquest was not lost on Lin. This was the first opportunity for the Inquisition to show its teeth, both to their enemies and to their allies, and solidify the authority of their cause. Without realizing it, she had fallen into an exhausting routine of war room meetings, consultations, and paperwork that lasted well into the night. And, Creators, she really despised paperwork. Responsibilities before mainly involved practical work and quick solutions. Paperwork meant sitting for long periods of time, and waiting. A lot of waiting. She jumped at every chance to get out into the field. Even trudging through the plague-ridden Fallow Mire seemed a welcome reprieve. 

As with most of her days in Skyhold, she awoke at dawn to begin her mechanical routine of duties. By midday, she was starting to develop a headache from reading reports while walking between appointments, and had inexplicably acquired a hot cup of herbal tea in her hand that she knew she had neither brewed nor picked up herself. Cole was sweet like that. She just wished he would stop making her forget their interactions. The sudden distraction was enough to snap her out of her dull cycle momentarily, and she decided to take a breather in the garden. As it often was at this time on a clear day, the enclosed space was rather packed with a mix of visiting nobles and off-duty guards. There was a small allotment of planters for growing herbs, and it looked as though the seeds she had given to the gardener were faring well. In the opposite corner, the Chantry sisters had set up their prayer area. It was supposed to be a tranquil and comforting place for the faithful, but she could not understand how anyone would feel at one with their deity in such a small and stuffy space. It looked more like a jail cell with a statue in it to her. She closed her eyes as she inhaled the warm vapours of the tea. 

For a brief moment, she felt like she was at home again, surrounded by tents and aravels with the Halla grazing in their pen nearby. At this time of year, most of the females would be in foal, their mates spread out around them, watching vigilantly for signs of predators, even with the wolfhounds patrolling the perimeter. The rich, tart scent of the tea leaves made her think of the drying rack outside the window of the Keepers aravel. The scent of the wilted roots, herbs and flowers would waft through the open hatch above her head, carried in by stronger smell of frying meat and the Haren’s incense. In the morning, she would come out onto the ramp and stretch her arms above her head, and feel the caress of the slightly humid forest air, and then she would sit by the fire and brush out her hair while she waited for breakfast. The elders would be singing under their breath in unison while they prepared the meal, and the children would be helping to stack the dishes so their parents could get dressed in peace. She would sit by the fire and comb out her hair, preparing to braid it on her own, and undoubtedly giving up and asking the nearest cousin for help. Maeyna would usually be around to start the process for her, feigning reluctance at the task but gladly using it as an excuse to talk her ear off about some drama going on between herself and one of the other hunters. Vaharel would probably be hiding under his sheets after a night of overindulgence, or sneaking out of his intended’s bedroll. Her father would be complaining about one thing or another, and woe betide the first person to rub him up the wrong way while his head was pounding from the drink. If her mother was like the morning sun, her father was most certainly the moonless night. Like every day, she would find herself disappointed to see that his once warm smile had still not returned to his face, even after so much time had passed…

“Gloat all you like, I have this one!”

The sound of two familiar voices disrupted her daydreaming. She opened her eyes and sighed, taking a sip of tea as she scanned her surroundings. To her surprise, she spied Dorian and Cullen seated across from one another at a small table in the shade a few feet away. On the table, she was surprised to see the board and pieces of a game that looked oddly familiar. Curious, she leaned against one of the thick stone pillars and watched them for a moment. It was odd to see Dorian outside of the library at this hour. He mostly enjoyed spending the early part of the day with his nose stuck in a book, only venturing downstairs to the great hall when it was relatively empty and hopefully devoid of wary-eyed nobles and chantry affiliates who might bristle at the presence of a Tevinter mage. Although at first she herself felt wary of him, as any elf would she imagined, his charm and dry, sarcastic wit had cooled her suspicions, and they bonded over the Chantry’s equal disdain for both of their cultures. He reclined lazily in his seat, legs crossed, rhythmically drumming his fingers against the armrest.

“Are you…sassing me, Commander?” he asked, sounding simultaneously frustrated and incredulous. “I didn’t know I had it in you.”

It was even odder to see Cullen focusing on something other than military matters for a change. Unlike Dorian, he was hunched over the table, his brow furrowed as he meticulously scanned over each and every piece. Despite his thoughtful, frowning expression, he looked more at ease than she had ever seen him. 

If they were playing the game she thought they were, it appeared that Dorian was currently winning. Cullen’s hand hovered above the smaller pieces at the front of his line as he rendered his choice. He shook his head without looking up, finally lifting one of the pieces from its ivory tile. “Why do I even-” 

As if his honed warrior instincts had suddenly kicked in and he sensed her observing, he looked up and his honey-coloured gaze immediately met hers. He dropped the piece as though it were scalding hot and abruptly sprang to his feet. “Inquisitor!” he exclaimed, his face flushing red in an instant. 

His lips moved silently as he cast a quick glance back down at the board and then back at her. He reminded her so much of a child caught in an act of thievery in that moment, looking so bashful and guilty, as though he were expecting to be reprimanded thoroughly for not being hard at work. A sudden giggle burst from her chest without warning, and she quickly suppressed it with the back of her hand. “Are you two playing nice?” she asked, drawing her lips tight as she folded her arms and cast a scrutinizing glance over both men, doing her best to imitate the way her mother would have assessed her and Vaharel when she sensed mischief was afoot.

Dorian, quick to join the fun, grinned up at her. “I’m always nice,” he said pleasantly, before turning his attention to the poor Commander. “Leaving, are you Cullen? Does this mean I win?”

Still frozen in his awkward half-standing pose, she could see in his eyes that he was warring between the urge to flee, or stay and continue their game. 

The corners of her mouth twitched up into a sly grin. “At ease, Commander.” she said teasingly. “By all means, please continue.”

With clear embarrassment, he gave her a nod of thanks and sat back down, adjusting his mantle. He played the piece previously chosen, moving it forward by two tiles, before hunkering over the board again, steepling his fingertips at face height as though he were already planning his next turn. “Alright, your move” he said, clearing his throat. 

Dorian sighed dramatically as he nudged his opposing white piece into position, plucking up the stone-carved black tower that had been unfortunate to be in its way. He deposited it in the pile of his previously conquered enemies and smiled malevolently at his opponent. “You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory” he said warningly. “You’ll feel much better.”

Like a predator seizing the perfect opportunity to pounce, Cullen’s eyes widened hungrily as he swiftly picked up one of the larger pieces at the back. “Really?” he asked, a smug grin tugging at his scarred lip. Dorian’s own complacent smugness drained from his features as Cullen set down the little crowned carving before its ivory prey. He straightened back in the chair, his palms braced against the table as he stretched like a contented cat after a good rest. “Because I just won, and I feel fine.”

Lin felt her heart skip a beat and pressed the now lukewarm cup against her chest. Victory rather suited the Commander. Dorian, sullen-faced, rose to his feet and tipped his chin upwards as he glowered at Cullen. “Don’t get smug, there’ll be no living with you.”

Ever less than gracious in defeat, the mage stalked off towards the stairs to the library without another word. Cullen sighed, smiling as he reset the pieces. “I should return to my duties as well” he said, before he glanced back up at her with a curious expression. “Unless…you would care for a game?”

Her brows raised at his unexpected invitation. It had been quite a long time since she had last played any sort of game, and the offer was too tempting to refuse. She nodded, sitting down in Dorian’s still warm seat. “Prepare the board, Commander”

As he continued to fill each tile, Lin narrowed her eyes as she looked over each little carving. “Do your kind often play Warband’s then?” she enquired, rubbing her chin as she mentally compared them to the figures she was more familiar with.

Cullen raised a brow. “Warband’s?” he replied. “Is that what you call it?”

She nodded innocently. “Yes?” she said with a little uncertainty. “Does it have another name?”

“We call it chess,” he clarified helpfully. “And I believe it is quite a common pastime, yes. As a child, I used to play this with my sister.”

He paused his organizing for the briefest moment, his smile softening as he fondly recalled aloud. “She used to get this stuck up grin every time she won, which was all the time.” he said with a snort of laughter, shaking his head. “My brother and I practiced for weeks. Oh, the look on her face when I finally won…”

He sighed, his smile faltering ever so slightly as he nudged the final piece into place. “Between serving the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years” he said contemplatively. “I wonder if she still plays”

Lin was surprised by his candidness, and realized that she had never really pictured his life before the Templars and what it might have entailed. As she moved her first piece from the front line, she seized the opportunity his surprisingly relaxed demeanor afforded.“You have siblings?”

He nodded.”Two sisters and a brother” he clarified with a noticeable hint of pride. “They moved to Southreach after the blight. I do not write to them as often as I should..Ah, it’s my turn.”

“Alright, let's see what you’ve got” she said, leaning on her elbows as she began to form a plan of attack in her head.

Her first few moves were woefully abysmal, and two of her pieces were lying sadly on their side next to Cullen’s elbow, taken too soon before they could fulfill their real potential. She recovered quickly when she found her rhythm, picking up momentum as she began to anticipate her opponent’s aggressive tactics. He was not lying when he said he was well practiced. Luckily, so was she. Her mother was a master of this game, and spent much of her rare free time thoroughly trouncing anyone foolish enough to challenge her. Lin fondly recalled the game set that was rarely put back in its chest, and the weathered little wood carvings that had been well loved over many years since their creation. These warband pieces-or chess pieces, as the shemlen apparently titled the game- aligned well with their Dalish counterparts; The Keeper, the Huntmaster, the Hahren, the sentinel, the Aravel, and the front line of hunters in this version were the King, the Queen, the Mother, the Knight and the Castle and the line of pawns. 

“What about you?” Cullen enquired as he concluded his turn. “I remember you mentioned you had a brother?”

She nodded. “A Twin brother, yes.” she amended. “His name is Vaharel. I had an older sister too, but she…died some years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry” Cullen said quietly, his voice soft.

Lin smiled somewhat tightly. She did not wish to elaborate on the circumstances of what had transpired that terrible day, nor did she particularly wish to dampen this rare moment of relaxation. “My mother is a true master of Warbands” she said cheerfully. “There are few in the clan who challenge her these days. I remember once when we traveled by the Waking Sea, we had some trouble with an Avaar tribe in the area. My mother ended up challenging their leader to a game for the right to pass through their territory without issue.”

Cullen chuckled lightly. “She won, I take it?”

“Oh yes, they were rather impressed actually.” she said with amusement, sipping at her now somewhat lukewarm tea. “Even gave the clan a couple of mead barrels as an apology for accosting us in the first place.”

“Impressive diplomacy,” He said with genuine awe. “The Avaar aren’t the type to negotiate usually. The goat they chucked at our walls is clear proof of that.”

She snorted at the memory of the Fallow Mire Avaar tribe’s unusual custom following the death of their leader's son at her hands. “Mother has lead the clan for many years,” she said fondly. “Diplomacy is her strong suit even in the oddest circumstances. She has a rare talent for taking the higher ground.”

Cullen regarded her with an odd look, tilting his head slightly. “Your mother is the Queen of Clan Lavellan?” he asked incredulously. “Forgive me, I never made the connection during our previous dealings with your people.”

Lin stared at him with blatant confusion, wondering if she had heard him right. “Did…” she furrowed her brow, leaning forward in her seat. “Did you just call my mother a…Queen?”

There was a long stretch of silence as Cullen gawked at her, seemingly struggling to find his words, judging by the way his mouth opened and closed a few times. “I thought, is that not,um…” he stammered, rubbing at the back of his neck as he so often did when he was flustered. “Is that not what your leaders are called?”

She tried to answer, but the sudden image of her mother strutting about their camp adorned in a flamboyant dress and a crown flanked by hunters in shining armour and ridiculous heraldry overpowered her words, and a hearty bark of laughter escaped her, spurred on by the Commander’s innocent, bashful expression. She crammed her knuckles against her lips to try to quiet herself, but one look at his reddening cheeks left her a sniggering mess. It was a painfully long time before she found her words again. “Apologies” she said, rather breathlessly. She cleared her throat and drew her lips tightly together before continuing. “No, we don’t have such titles. My mother is known as Keeper.”

“Ah, I see.” Cullen said quietly, focusing particularly hard on his side of the board. Despite his awkwardness, she spied the sheepish smile that tugged at his scarred lips.“I’m afraid you must excuse my lack of knowledge about Dalish customs. As I’m sure you can understand, it was not a topic much studied during my time in the Order.”

She shrugged as she drank down the remainder of her tea, the bitterness of the herbal residue making her grimace. “You are forgiven, Commander” she said lightly, her eyes widening as she spied a vulnerability in his tactics. Emboldened, she maneuvered her Sentinel into position and found herself grinning. “Did you think me a princess then, being the daughter of a Dalish “Queen”?” 

He laughed softly at the jab. “I wouldn’t put it outside the realms of possibility,” he said. “You seem to have a knack for leadership, after all.”

Lin considered pointing out that in her blessedly limited time around daughters of noble birth that most of them were spoiled, lazy and entitled brats who cared more about hats than doing anything credible with their fortunate breeding. However, as she assessed the chess board, the competitive flames were stoked within her as she realized there was now a very distinct path to victory. 

The game continued, and the conversation became light and easy. Although she was focusing intently on her tactics, every question and answer exchanged between them was noted somewhere in her mind, building a more distinct and grounded impression of her military advisor than before. Red was not, in fact, his favourite colour, but rather one he tended to wear out of habit; his actual favourite was green. Like her, he had a disdain for the rich foods served in the dining hall, especially the ridiculously elaborate desserts that used an almost sickening amount of sugar and looked more like they should be on display in a gallery. True to his Ferelden origins, he liked dogs, and took particular interest in her descriptions of the clan's wolfhounds. He told her a little of his life as a Templar, and she divulged a little of the responsibilities of a Keeper’s first apprentice. Much to her surprise, he did not scoff at the notion of the liberal lifestyle of Dalish mages, and expressed quite genuine curiosity about how they managed the threat of demonic influences without the presence of Templars and the Harrowing rite. Although she purposely did not reveal much of the particulars of her rigid training, it made her feel far more at ease to be able to broach the topic without the same wariness she felt in Haven. 

“This may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition, or related matters” Cullen observed with a measure of surprise, glancing around at the almost entirely different array of people now occupying the garden. His smile was uncommonly sweet when his gaze returned to her. “To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.”

Lin tilted her head back and stared up at the weathered ceiling of the gazebo. How long had it been since she had cause to sit and get to know anyone like this? She knew almost everyone in the clan since childhood. Their memories were as much hers, and few new revelations came to light in their close knit society where keeping secrets was nigh impossible. Her growing bond with her Inquisition companions slowly and naturally flourished while travelling and fighting together. But this, whatever this was, it was nice. She sighed contentedly, rolling her neck to ease the strain from stooping over the table for too long. “We should spend more time together.” she said. 

We should play this again sometime. That was what she had meant to say, but those were most definitely not the words that left her mouth. She glanced at Cullen with some reluctance, the last desperate hope that he had perhaps not heard her dying at the sight of his wide-eyed perplexion. “I would like that,” he replied with surprising enthusiasm. 

She blinked, heat blooming on the tips of her ears and the apples of her cheeks. She prayed the complexion of her skin could conceal it from his sight. In a matter of seconds she was suddenly feeling as jittery as she had when she first danced in front of the assembled elders of the Arlathvan. She had to say something, anything, to move on from this. She dropped her gaze to the Huntmaster gripped tightly between her thumb and forefinger as she placed it on the tile, risking a quick glance up at her opponent from beneath her lashes.“Me too.” 

Cullen’s brow raised. There was a very distinct glimmer of -was it pride? Satisfaction? realization?- something in his honey coloured eyes. 

“You said that” he whispered, his smile matching the brightness of his gaze.  

Creators, where had her sensibility suddenly gone, and why was she suddenly bereft of it? They were just playing chess, just a simple game with no ramifications but the possibility of loss. She focused on the white-barked tree behind him, watching the orange leaves swaying in the gentle, cool breeze. Her shoulders were tight as she braced for some comment, some teasing jab, the expected response for such foolish carry on. 

She was spared further embarrassment, however. Whatever the Commander was thinking, and whatever conclusions he had drawn from her repeated slip of the tongue, it remained unvoiced. “We should…finish our game, right?” he said shyly. “My turn?”

 

There was at least one silver lining to it all in the end. Cullen seemed far more distracted during his final moves, and Lin had grown fiercely determined to salvage her pride. With a sigh of resignation, Cullen tipped his king forward in defeat at the feet of her Huntmaster. “I believe this one is yours” he acquiesced, slumping back in his seat. “We shall have to try again sometime.”
Focusing on her hard-earned victory, she nodded in agreement. At the very least, the distinct blush on his cheeks and neck, as well as the lopsided smile that had yet to fade, determined that she was not the only victim of that sudden, inexplicable moment of…whatever that was. 

Chapter 3: War Wounds

She was falling, falling amidst the shattered rubble of the broken bridge. Cullen slashed through the oncoming demons before him with nothing but mechanical instinct. All he could truly see was her, too far away to save from plummeting down into the smoke-strewn battle below. 

Maker no, please, no! 

There was nothing he could do, nothing but watch in mute horror, waiting for the terrible inevitability…. 

A flash of green streaked across the empty space below her, and she was gone, not hitting the ground. Simply gone.

He heard nothing save for his own heavy, ragged breathing, and the painfully loud thumping of his heartbeat. The blur of Inquisition soldiers pressing forward all around him barely registered in his mind, even though he was distantly aware that he had shouted the order. The sword, gripped tightly in his hand since they had breached the gates of Adamant,slipped from his grasp, falling to the rubble-strewn ground with a loud clang that jolted him back to his senses. He looked down at his now empty hand, numb and trembling.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Victory in battle always came at a cost. 

Amongst his soldiers, the losses were blessedly minimal, though Cullen felt the weight of each and every one. There would be a list drawn up in the coming days, and letters penned to grieving families offering condolences, just as there had been in Haven. Even after a lifetime of witnessing bloodshed, he had never managed to reach the point of true indifference towards the death of those under his charge. 

The Grey Wardens were suffering from their own plight. As the tide of the battle had turned, and the true extent of their manipulation was revealed, most of their warriors had thrown down their weapons in surrender. Now they were here, blending amongst the weary ranks of the very men they had been fighting against only a few hours before, and Cullen was still unsure of how he felt about the decision to take them in. Like the Templars, they had been subjected to the cruel manipulations of Corypheus, twisted from their noble purpose to become the very thing they fought against. Like the Templars, their long history of service and sacrifice would now be forever stained by their actions in recent months. It was a bitter shame.

The Wardens had yet to choose a representative from amongst their ranks. Most of their seasoned veterans were now dead, including Commander Clarel, and Loghain Mac Tír. Cullen found that he was saddened by the news of the former Teyrn of Gwaren’s sacrifice in the fade. Although he had been deemed a traitor more than a decade prior for his actions, Cullen felt that the nobility of Ferelden had been all too happy to be rid of the old war dog who had once saved the nation from the oppression of Orlais. He had made his share of grave mistakes in handling the Blight, that much was a certainty, but he was not an inherently evil man. Although the grizzled veteran’s time in Skyhold was relatively short, Cullen had felt a rather surprising sense of patriotic pride in being able to discuss military matters with the Hero of the River Dane. 

The sun was beginning to set as the camp finally began to settle. They were stationed in the middle of a vast desert, yet as the light began to wane, so did the oppressive heat. As campfires were kindled and soldiers flocked to the heat source, Cullen instead chose to visit the triage area to check in on the injured. Somehow he felt as though he was both overheating and freezing at the same time. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises, he had not taken any serious injuries at least. 

Soldiers lay on their cots and bedrolls in neat rows, with alchemists and healers weaving between them to attend their various injuries. Amongst the healers, one particular figure stood out immediately. Cullen felt his heart skip a beat. Still dressed in her traditional armour- with the addition of a light metal chestplate embossed with the Inquisition’s heraldry- Lin knelt beside one of the wounded. A streak of soot stained her tanned cheek, and her hands were caked in drying blood. Her brow was furrowed with concentration as she pressed her willowy fingers against the man’s bloodied forehead. Her lips moved silently as a flickering blue light enveloped her hand, slowly moving it over the injury. The poor man let out a sigh of relief as his straining limbs went lax. “Rest now” he heard her murmur, as tenderly as a mother to her babe. “You have fought well this day.”

The man managed a weak smile. “Maker bless you, Inquisitor.” he rasped, as he turned his head against the straw-stuffed pillow and drifted into an easy sleep. 

Any wonder at the capabilities of magic use had long since faded from Cullen’s mind, tarnished by the horrors of his service in the ill-fated circles. Yet he found himself, wholly unexpectedly, transfixed by the subtle and gentleness of the healing abilities Lin possessed. The art was all but unknown to anyone within the circles. It was an ancient practice that hailed from a time before humans, guarded closely and passed down through generations of elves, or rather hoarded greedily, so the Chantry said. Circle mages could create enhanced alchemical concoctions that served well enough, but they paled in comparison. Both Lin and Solas could purge infections and seal a grievous wound in seconds, though it seemed a taxing practice on their part. 

But it was not simply the healing itself that was a point of fascination to him. Lin did not seem to think twice about tending to the soldiers personally. Any other leader would have sooner left such tasks to the rank and file, especially after a hard won battle. Leaders had to keep up appearances, to be above such labours. But not Lin. Lin disregarded such sentiments and focused on saving lives, unafraid to get her hands dirty in the way that mattered most, and whether or not others would bristle at the notion it hardly mattered. Cullen saw the warmth in the tired eyes of his soldiers, knowing their Inquisitor saw their sacrifices. Should they not survive, they would die feeling a sense of peace for it, and if they lived to fight another battle, they would do so with the knowledge that their leader stood beside them, not behind nor above them. 

Lin turned to face him, acknowledging him with a curt nod. “How are the Warden warriors faring?” she enquired, wiping her dirty hands on her leathers.

It was the first time he had seen her since she had returned from her ordeal in the fade. Only now was he finally registering the fact that she was here, in the flesh, alive and breathing still. He  could finally breathe again. He cleared his throat. “They are still sorting things out amongst themselves for the time being,” he said stiffly, all formality. “But so far they’ve given us no trouble.”

She scrutinized him momentarily, her expression unreadable, and then she motioned for him to follow her, walking in the direction of her own tent at the heart of the camp. She pushed aside the canvas flap and he followed her inside. Although it was about as plain and practical as his own temporary quarters, consisting of a single trundle bed and a small desk with a chair, it seemed noticeably homely. The table was strewn with various small tinctures and vials, a small ewer of water, and a softly glowing lantern. “I’d imagine you have opinions about the decision to spare them,” she sighed tiredly. She took a little rectangular box out of her belt pouch and opened it, producing what looked like some sort of long, thin, and intricately carved pipe from within, and began to pack it with dried herbs. “There was no time to make consultations, ir abelas. ”

From context, he assumed the latter words were an apology of some sort. “It was certainly something of a surprise,” he stated truthfully. “But the gap in their ranks gave us a chance to push forward. Lives were spared, that much is clear.”

“Yet some called for their immediate exile, rather than mercy.” she reminded him. She placed the pipe stem in her mouth, raising her fingers to the wider tip, where the little bushel of dry brown herbs waited to be kindled. She paused, glancing at him warily, and instead lowered her head to the lamp, lighting it from the candle. “What are your thoughts?”

He took a moment to consider his answer, and as he did so, he studied the strange pipe dangling loosely from her lips. The burning herbs glowed like a tiny hearth, emitting a looping plume of sweet, flowery smoke. The little chamber that housed them was carved with what looked like a series of animals chasing one another, and the midsection of the pipe itself was wrapped in thin brown leather thronging, a single blue bead peeking out from between the loops and knots. It looked just weathered enough that he imagined it had passed hands more than once. “It is no lie that the Grey Wardens are a necessary fixture in this world. Indeed their actions ten years ago in Ferelden proved as much.” he said thoughtfully. “But what they have done, what they were party to…Had we not stopped them, I do not wish to imagine the consequences they might have unleashed. But if your reports are indeed true, and they played a part in the death of the Divine…”

He trailed off, shaking his head grimly. “While the warriors themselves may not be compromised by Corypheus’ control, there will undoubtedly be consequences for your mercy towards them.”

Lin did not flinch at his bluntness, though he supposed she never did. She turned her head and exhaled a waft of smoke, which rolled and dissipated like a wave crashing against the shoreline. “I don’t doubt it,” she said evenly. She clenched the pipe between her teeth and poured water from the ewer into an empty wooden bowl, then began to wash the excess blood from her hands. “And I thank you for your candidness.”

He braced himself for the oncoming argument, a challenge to his opinions akin to their heated argument at Haven regarding her choice to turn the rebel mages loose amongst their ranks. But she evidently had nothing more to say on the matter, instead focusing her attention on the buckles of her chestplate. Her fingers deftly undid the fastenings, and she wrenched it away from her chest with one hand, studying it momentarily before dropping it carelessly at her side. Cullen suddenly felt a heavy pang of guilt. The light cast by the flickering candle on the desk illuminated her features more clearly than the dying afternoon light outside. He saw the strain in her expression, but more worryingly, he saw what hid behind the exhaustion, something raw and unspoken that was desperate to remain unnoticed. He thought about the report- the one hastily written in her near enough illegible scrawl- which contained a thorough rundown of what had transpired while she was trapped in the fade.

Trapped in the fade. The very thought nearly made him shudder. 

In any case, the report was little more than a summary of vital information; the Nightmare Demon, the truth about the Divine’s death, the warden's involvement, Loghain’s sacrifice. Now he was getting the distinct impression that there were some details of a more personal nature that had been purposely omitted. That was understandable, as was the notion that the experience had left its cruel mark on her. Part of him wanted to voice his sympathy. An even more prevalent part of him knew better than to do so. He understood that better than most. He could only pray that her wounds would heal, not fester as his had. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat, realizing there was at least one thing he could do. “Forgive me,” he said gently. “I think I have put far too much focus on unfounded speculations rather than what matters most. We have achieved a great victory here, Inquisitor, one far surpassing any of our expectations. All of Thedas will soon see the depth of our commitment to ending the threat Corypheus poses, thanks in no small part to your inspiring efforts.”

It was a far cry from what he truly wished to say. I saw you fall. If you only knew just how much fear I felt in that moment. Yet here you are, you wonderful, impossible creature, beating the odds once again.

But those words were too familiar, too honest, needing to be ironed out into something appropriately formal and befitting of an exchange between Commander and Inquisitor. 

Lin smiled faintly at the words that had been audible. “Thank you, Commander” she said. “But I think it is you who should be thanked for this victory. We would not have been able to stop the ritual were it not for your efforts in coordinating the siege.”

Her praise caught him off guard, and he felt the embarrassing heat prickling at his cheeks in response. Earnest praise was a rarity within the Order. Templar’s were not meant to seek reward or praise, after all. But this…this made him feel warm, and for the first time since the Inquisition banner was raised atop the ramparts of Adamant fortress, their victory felt truly real and worth celebrating. “I…well, thank you, Inquisitor” he murmured sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away at nothing in particular. “That is…kind of you to say.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he was all too aware that her smile had grown noticeably softer. He was suddenly reminded of that strange and comfortable day in the garden in Skyhold. We should spend more time together. She had said those words, truly and honestly, and every time he remembered them he saw that lovely, heartwarming curve of her lips that made him forget for a moment that they were in the midst of a tumultuous war. 

“Ah, I…I should let you get some rest,” he said, fearing that he was steadily veering towards saying something foolish. “Goodnight, L-Inquisitor.”

So close. Maker help him.

Cullen swiftly left her tent before he could embarrass himself any further. Yet, strangely, he felt a small flush of pride swell in his chest when he heard her quiet chuckle, followed by the words “Goodnight, Cullander.”

Chapter 4: Old Wounds

It was a scene all too familiar to him. 

Cullen stood on the high platform in the courtyard of the Gallows, his gaze flitting between the assembled figures in the crowd below. A small gathering of Templars, their faces hidden between their featureless steel helms. The mages stood in their assigned place, a respectful distance from their vigilant guards. This was one of the few occasions where they were permitted to gather together. It was customary for them to spend the majority of their time in their cells, to prevent those of a more intemperate nature from consorting and conspiring together. It was impossible not to notice the way they glanced worriedly at one another, huddled together as if it somehow made them less visible. He did not need to glance behind him to know the cause of their fear. The gallows of the Gallows, as he had habitually called it over his many years in this place. Someone would be on their knees, flanked by a pair of Knights, awaiting their sentence; an apostate, most likely, or a maleficar, their crimes too egregious for even the rite of Tranquility. Such was the fate of those who actively and openly sought to tear down the institution of the Circle and the Templar Order, although it was rare for them to be apprehended alive. Those that were, served as an example to those who would follow suit. A grim but necessary task, as Meredith often said, the statement always made without a trace of any real sympathy. Mages sometimes needed reminding that their power did not rival that of the Maker’s chosen. 

The Knight Commander was there too, of course, taking center stage in her gleaming steel armour, greying blonde hair spilling out from beneath her crimson hood. In her hands was the blade, polished and primed, intended to do the deed. 

“Knight-Captain Cullen” she said, all formality and gravitas. She turned to face him, presenting the blade. “It is time.”

He would be the one to carry out the sentence. That was usually the case. Unlike others, more green or soft-hearted, he never wavered at a time of such grave consequence. He did not question the rightness of their actions or who it was that was being judged. They weren’t people, at any rate, and this was necessary. This was the right thing to do. 

So why was it that his hands shook as he reached for the execution weapon? 

Why did the thought sicken him to the core?

He looked to his Knight-Commander, as a child might look to a parent when they needed a sign that what they were doing was correct. Her gaze was as solid and steel-like as her armour. “How the mighty have fallen,” she sighed with heavy disappointment. “You, who were the most stalwart and sure of heart. Now look at you. Straying further and further from the Maker’s light, poisoned by doubt and temptation.”

He blinked, hazy and confused. Meredith placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him to face the kneeling, hooded figure. “But I still have faith in you, lad” she said, with a tone of sympathy, of pity, that felt more like an artificial reconstruction of genuine kindness than the real thing. “It is not too late to do the right thing. It is not too late to exalt His will and cleanse yourself of your doubts.”

She slowly circled the guards flanking the prisoner, watching him intently. “Ask yourself, do your whims supersede the edicts of the Maker?”

In one swift movement, she grabbed the sack cloth hood and wrenched it from the prisoners head. Meredith’s gloved fingers dug into the woman’s scalp, roughly tugging the damp auburn locks so she was forced to look up, and a pair of odd-coloured eyes met his horrified gaze. 

No.

This was wrong.

This was all wrong.

Lin, bruised and bloodied, stared at him with equal horror, nostrils flaring. Defiant to the last. He was paralyzed, gripping the blade in his hands so tight that the sharp edge was biting through the thick leather of his glove. “An apostate- Maleficar!” Meredith hissed. “Liberator of the treacherous mage rebels, daring to take the name of the most Holy Andraste to shield herself from the eyes of the faithful!”

Cullen shook his head, bleary eyed from the panicked tears welling up as he tried to speak. “No,” he managed to rasp, his throat as dry as aged parchment. “No you're wrong, she…she..”

Meredith pointed an accusing finger at him, her face contorted with rage. “She ensorcelled you, boy, with her wiles and wild magic! What more ruin will you allow to be wrought by her hand?” The aging lines on her forehead seemed to crack like rain-bloated gutters, spilling out a sanguine substance that was too solid to be blood. “Kill her,” she said coldly, as her eyes were engulfed in the crimson river. “End this farcical pursuit and return to the purpose you were made for, Knight-Captain.”

“Cullen!” Lin cried out imploringly, the confidence draining from her face as she gazed at the weapon in his hands. “Please…you don't have to do this…you aren’t like them…”

He looked down at her, so earnest and uncharacteristically afraid. Afraid of him, he knew. Of What he might yet do. She had every right to be. His head pounded with such an intense wave of pain that he staggered backwards, a pair of hands catching him before he stepped off the edge of the platform. “Don’t you worry, old friend.” came a sinister but familiar voice from behind him. “Lyrium’ll take the edge off, you won’t have to remember it for long.”

He whirled around fearfully, finding himself face to face with Samson. “You’re just lying to yourself, you know.” his former friend and comrade said invitingly, his smile twisted and malevolent. “Deep down, you know where you belong.”

He gestured to the crowd of Knights below, and Cullen saw them now. Really saw them. Each one barely human, being slowly eaten alive by the Red Lyrium, their armour more jagged mineral than steel. He could hear it, somehow, a droning hum of energy that made the pulsing in his head unbearable. The stench of it clung to the air and invaded his senses like a choking miasma. “Stop it!” he screamed, raising the sword defensively. “This isn’t…I’m not…do not ask this of me!”

“Give in” a garble of voices implored, vibrating in his ears. Meredith’s, Samson’s.

“Don’t do it” others cried. Cassandra’s voice. Lin’s voice. 

His eyes were screwed shut, one hand desperately trying to quieten the overwhelming volume of the assorted voices and that damned, hungering hum, pulling him in every direction. “Leave me!” he shouted, begging more than demanding. “Leave me alone!”

He thrust the blade forward, uncaring for what it struck so long as it quietened the deafening riotous roar of noise. And it did, save for his own ragged, echoing breathing. 

He opened his eyes, slowly, and found the Gallows were gone. He was in the great hall of Skyhold’s keep, alone. 

No, not alone, he realized a moment later. This theater of cruelty, it seemed, had yet to release him.

On her knees still, Lin gazed up at him, her face frozen in terror. “Why?” she keened weakly, her tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

He looked down at the blade embedded in her breast, the blade whose pommel was gripped tightly in his trembling hand. He heard only the gentle rustle of her painted leather armour as she fell to the floor, her green-gold eyes glazing over, her lips parting with one final, shuddering breath. 

He screamed, raw and real and loud enough to jolt him back into the waking world. Only the pain had followed him. The pain, and the fear. 

 

Nightmares were normal, a constant and habitual occurrence that routinely invaded his mind when he slept deeply enough. The ones that evoked memories of the Ferelden circle had grown more palatable over the years. They were morbidly familiar, rarely changing. Others were worse, catching him off-guard and leaving him unsettled for a long time after waking. 

Headaches were a new normal, one he had begun to acclimate to following his departure from Kirkwall. It was fine, it was something he could combat with a potion and a busy routine that left no time to notice the pain. 

That was the beautiful lie that worked, until it didn’t. 

At first, he could deceive himself into thinking it was just a bad night, a bad day, and he would simply have to weather it until it abated. He could hide the discomfort from others, just as he had done in the past. No one would notice if he was a little more withdrawn than usual, or more short-tempered with his charges. Normal occurrences, nothing to warrant scrutiny or concern.

But time passed, days added up and clustered together. Nightmares bled into the light of day and followed him wherever he went, hiding just behind his eyelids, waiting for him to close his eyes. Headaches formed like deep cracks in his temples and spread around his skull and down his neck, untouched by even the strongest concoction. Nausea made every meal a challenge, until he found himself barely able to eat at all. Hunger clawed at him, reminding him of the days he spent in captivity in Kinloch hold, starved and defenseless as he watched his brethren tear one another apart as they succumbed to the influence of their captors. More fuel to feed the nightmares. 

His own body was beginning to betray him too. Every morning he woke soaked in sweat and trembling, both too hot and too cold, finding himself staring at the Lyrium kit on the bedside table with longing and disgust. One night he had come close, far too close, to giving in. He prepared the bottle as he had done a hundred times over, holding it in his palm, staring blankly at the luminous substance until the sun had risen. It would all go away, he knew, if he just stopped resisting. Yet one sip, no matter how much it might help him salvage his sanity in the short-term, would damn him to an inevitable destruction, as it had so many before him. 

It was all falling apart, piece by piece. His carefully constructed facade of control was slipping, and people were noticing more and more. He was slowing down, struggling to lift a sword for more than a few minutes, his joints feeling like cracking glass, worsening every time he tried to work through it. Scouts would bring him reports, and he would find that he was forgetting why he had requested them in the first place. Every confused expression, every hushed whisper and pitying gaze felt like a dagger to his heart. He was the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, he was supposed to be better than this, they needed him to be better than this. So he shut himself away whenever possible, tried to contain the damage. It was nigh impossible though, not when he needed to oversee the drills several times a day, and receive numerous scouts and sign dozens of documents he could barely read with the pain almost blinding him. 

The war room was the worst. 

Josephine, too sweet and kind not to show concern, to not ask after his health. Leliana, too observant, her scrutinizing gaze boring into him, making him wonder if her agents were keeping an eye on him. And the Inquisitor. Maker help him, she was the worst, though not for any fault of her own. He simply could not meet her eyes. Not after the things he had seen in his darkest dreams, when it had been by his hand that she was struck down. Not once, but many times. Sometimes it was a bitter repeat of that first time, slain by his own hand. Sometimes it was on the battlefield, overwhelmed by demons, thanks to an oversight or mistake of his own making. On rare occasions, when he simply lacked the strength to push away his most guilt-ridden thoughts, it was simply the ripple of her auburn hair, the soft curve of her lips, the mirror of his own secret longing in her eyes, drawing him in all the while reminding him of just how wrong it was to think of her in such a way. The shame was unbearable. She was their leader, the strongest link in the chain of command. Now he was a weak link that threatened to undermine and ruin her efforts with his weakness. For all she had done for them thus far, and for what she would undoubtedly continue to do, she deserved a competent commander to lead her forces. The least he could do was give her one. 

One night, as he lay on his side, fighting the sleep that promised yet another ordeal, he stared at the little tincture that lit the darkness. Was it worth fighting it anymore?

The Inquisition would not pay for his decisions anymore, he decided, just as the sun was beginning to rise. He would find Cassandra, inform her that this situation was no longer sustainable, and seek a recommendation for his replacement. Whatever came after that, he could at least tell himself it was all for the best, even if the very idea of it was breaking his heart, for so many reasons he could not bear to admit to himself now.

Chapter 5: A Different Kind of Hunt

It was commonplace in nature's cycle for the scent of a wounded creature to prompt the attention of predators. 

It lingered in the war room just after a meeting, or in the dusty, modest space of the central tower that served as both an office and private quarters. It mingled with the myriad of strange odours brought in by travellers who visited the mountainous stronghold, just for a moment in passing before it dissipated in the cold breeze. The scent of sickness that followed its source like a shadow wherever it walked, and had grown almost impossible to ignore. 

No one paid any heed to the kestrel that soared over Skyhold that night, although it was not the usual time to see such a bird of prey patrolling the skies. Its sharp gaze instinctively snapped to every minute movement, spying the soldiers on patrol making their journey from one side of the ramparts to the other, their paths lit by the flickering torches that sputtered every so often when the wind picked up. The yard was empty, save for the odd patron of the tavern shambling back to their quarters, or servants carrying buckets out to be emptied into the gutters. With the merchant stalls emptied at such a late hour, rats and mice took the opportunity to scuttle about in search of food scraps, unaware of the aerial predator that was struggling to suppress the urge to descend upon them. The bird loved to fly, but it was still unused to its wings, let alone the primal instincts that came with its nature. Tonight was not for practicing the usual hunt, but a hunt of a vastly different nature. 

With some difficulty, it turned its attention back to the spot it intended to land upon. It circled around the tower, hovering with wings outstretched to catch the wind, until the current was favourable enough to make its descent. It was not a perfect landing, but the thick roots of ivy that clung to the wall of the second storey provided easy purchase for sharp talons. The kestrel shook its head, its tawny plumage puffed up and ruffled as it settled in the nest of deep-green leaves that engulfed the partially broken wall, peering down into the almost pitch black room below. The darkness did little to hinder the creature’s sight. It was a modest space filled only by the most basic necessities, devoid of any particular personality or denotations of who might reside there. It was simply a practical room occupied by a practical person, who habitually spent more time in the office below. 

The bird felt a profound sense of guilt as it hunkered down in the broken rafters, despite the knowledge that it would remain unseen. Yet it felt as though there was little choice. 

“Im fine” he said, his voice dull but tinged with a hint of irritation, whenever someone enquired about his wellbeing. 

He was a poor liar.

His irritation only increased when he was pressed further, whether by the well-meaning ambassador, or anyone who believed they knew him well enough to confront him about such a thing. Others could see the paleness of his skin, or the dark shadows beneath his eyes, or the way he snapped from time to time and blamed it on the workload that needed to be attended to. 

Even the strongest of beasts withdrew from the world when they felt their own strength waning, and if cornered, they were quick to strike out in defence. The kestrel looked down at the large double bed, at the figure huddled beneath the covers, shivering with such intensity that the bed frame creaked beneath his weight each time his body shuddered. The scent of sweat and suffering was thick in the room, and though muffled beneath the thick blanket, the voice that muttered was desperate and pleading, devoid of its usual strength and conviction. “Please no…I can’t…I can’t…”

The bird had seen enough. Time was running short, and with one final, grim glance behind it, it launched itself into the sky once more. Carried by a chilling gust of wind, it returned to the highest tower at the heart of the fortress, landing on the balcony with more ease this time. In the blink of an eye, surrounded by a soft blue aura, it returned to its comfortable, natural state, sighing tiredly.

Not simply some passing illness, she concluded, but something deep enough to affect both body and mind, and he was determined to conceal it, no matter how much of a toll it took. 

“You stupid thing” she growled, bracing herself on her elbows as she gazed down at the empty yard from the balcony.

Behind her, sitting cross legged by the fire, Cole shoved the poker into the dying fire of the hearth. “He’s scared” he said simply, in his usual distant way.

Her shoulders sagged, her anger cooling quickly at the boy-spirit’s words. She no longer jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. Cole came and went as he saw fit, and it was not the first time he appeared in her quarters as if carried in by the wind. He meant no harm. He simply wanted to help. 

“I know” she sighed dejectedly, running her fingers through her hair.

Cole looked up at her from beneath the wide brim of his patchwork hat, frowning with great sadness. “I can’t help” he said. “He wouldn’t like it.”

She nodded understandingly, taking a seat on the sofa behind him. Cole’s unique nature left more than a few of Skyhold’s residents unnerved, but Cullen had a particular, unrestrained disdain for him. Cole was too pure in his pursuit of compassion to test his boundaries, and left him be despite his almost puppy-like urge to ease his burdens as he did with so many others. 

She reached out and gently removed the boy’s hat, ruffling his short,choppy hair with the same affection she showed her young cousins when they were upset. He could feel the hurt in people, and hear the words they spoke in their mind that so often were left unsaid. But he kept their secrets too, and she would not press him to reveal the things he heard in Cullen’s mind.  

“You can, though” he said, glancing back at her over his bony shoulder. 

She gave him one more pat on the head before lying back on the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling high above. “Perhaps” she said, with some uncertainty, closing her eyes. 

Chapter 6: Boiling Point

The Seeker refused him.

“You give yourself too little credit” she had said. What credit did he deserve? What reprieve was due after all his years of being ruled by fear, manipulated into doing the bidding of a madwoman until it was too late? People died, too many people died, for his failure to master himself. Would the Red Lyrium even have wormed its way into the ranks of the order if he had the sense to see what Meredith was doing? He could not continue like this, wracked by pain and doubt while one reality bled into another, barely able to remember why he was here. 

And now she knew too. True to her title, Lin had sniffed him out, either intentionally or purely by chance, in the midst of his pleading. Unable to bear the thought of her disappointment, he fled with little more than a murmured apology. 

Back at his office now, he found himself staring at the Lyrium kit once more. It would be so easy, such a simple fix that would dull everything and let him breathe, if only for a moment. He would be chained, but the chains would at least be familiar. Would he even notice the gradual decline that would come in time? Would there even be anything left to lament for when it finally took the last vestiges of his mind?

It would be easy, so very easy, like slipping into a welcome slumber after days of freezing and starvation. Like the split-second final moments that followed the seemingly endless agony of bleeding out from a fatal wound…

“This could be an opportunity to do what the chantry could not, to be a real force of change, and you could be a part of that.” Cassandra's voice, stern but encouraging, words spoken as he pressed his knuckles against the stitches keeping his torn lip together after a brutal skirmish in the streets, the swan-song of his dedication to the Order that had failed in its purpose. He had watched his brethren give in to their bloodthirst, morals thrown to the wind as they cut their way through anyone who stood between them and and the frightened young mages, barely more than children, who simply tried to seek safety from the carnage, including him. 

“You think this Inquisition could be the right way forward?” Rylen, disheveled and exhausted after another day of fighting a losing battle, brightened at the prospect of what he was proposing. “Then you won’t be alone, ser. I’d wager that more than a few among our ranks will feel the same, myself included. “

Hope, for himself and perhaps, far more significantly, for others. No longer trapped in an endless cycle of duty and denial. 

His fingers dug into the edge of the table, the shaking in his hands spreading through his entire body. His breathing was heavy, laboured, making him feel as though he were on the cusp of fainting. 

The box. The damned box that was as malevolent as any demon’s temptation, calling to him with false promises that he knew would bring more harm than good. The painted image of Andraste, the one that faded over the years, feeling now like a fitting representation of his waning dedication. The tempered glass bottle and the glowing contents encased within, mixed in a moment of weakness. The little stopper was made of silver. Silver. Everything had to be so pointlessly elaborate, even this. He hated it, all of it, and could not bear to look at it for a moment longer. 

With a roar of unleashed fury, he grabbed it by the lid and flung it across the room. Only in that moment, as he watched it soar across the air and collide with the door- the open door, which he had apparently forgotten to close in his haste to get away from the prying eyes of Skyhold- did he see that he was not alone. Inquisitor Lavellan, one hand on the door frame, ducked back to avoid the impact of the Lyrium kit. It was a long and painful moment he spent staring in mute shock as the box shattered, the lid disconnecting from its hinges, the ring of metal and glass echoing in his ears. He stumbled, catching himself on the desk with both hands. “Maker’s breath, I didn't hear you enter! I-” He caught himself, realizing that it was utterly pointless to make an excuse now. Instead, he bowed his head in resignation, in defeat. “Forgive me.”

“Cullen…” she said, his name sounding so soft and soothing, as if she were trying to soothe a frightened beast. Apt, he thought bitterly. “If you need to talk-”

“You don’t have t-” he groaned, his jaw tightening as he was hit with the impact of another roiling pulse in his temples, strong enough to very nearly make his knees give out. When she took a step towards him, he immediately waved her away. “I never meant for this to interfere.”

“Are you going to be alright?”

The question was more difficult than she likely realized, yet the words were simultaneously soft-spoken and blunt, capable of steadying him just enough for the haze to clear momentarily. “Yes…”he said, hearing the uncertainty in his voice.“...I don’t know.”

No point hiding it now, he supposed. If Cassandra refused to accept that this was a lost cause, that he was a lost cause, perhaps the Inquisitor would. Deep down, he knew what he wanted most was for someone to make the choice for him, because he lacked the strength to do it himself. 

So he told her, not just about how he was compromised, broken and no longer of use to their cause. Once he began, it all spilled out; Kinloch hold, Kirkwall, his failures in both, the depth of the very things that had almost driven him to pure madness. 

Lin listened, silent and inscrutable, eyes holding no judgement, no pity, not even when he was on the verge of tears, pacing like a madman and quaking with rage at his own ineptitude, nor when the recollection of a decade of torment overwhelmed him and he rammed his fist into the bookshelf so hard that several volumes and tomes crashed onto the floor. She simply waited, still as stone, unflinching, until it was all out in the open. 

And it felt good. Maker, it felt so good to finally let it out. 

Meredith would have chided him harshly for showing such weakness. Even Greagoir, gentler and more forgiving than most, would have made his disappointment known, just as he had when he sent him away to Kirkwall. He braced himself for what came now, unsure what to expect from the Inquisitor. He deserved her anger, and more. To a Templar, his actions were a weakness. To a mage, they were undoubtedly abhorrent.

Whatever he had imagined, it was not the featherlight touch of her hands against his chestplate, and the simplest and least formal words of “Fuck the Inquisition. Is this what you want?”

He opened his eyes, and looked into hers. She stood so close to him now that he caught the scent of her, warm and tart and earthy. The scent of wildness, of freedom, so distinctively hers. 

“No” he finally admitted, glancing momentarily at the Lyrium bottle on the floor, miraculously and maddeningly still intact. “But…these memories have always haunted me. If they become worse…if I cannot endure this…”

She did not tell him to get over it, throw himself into work and make himself useful, nor did she rattle on about keeping faith in the Maker’s guidance. That was the council he had grown accustomed to. With only two words, straight to the point and seemingly factual, she simply said “You can.”

He was stunned, lost for words. This was their leader, his leader, several years younger than him and possessing far less experience with the threats they faced, yet she could say so much by saying so little, churning up the dying roots of hope and encouraging them to bloom anew. She didn’t need the moniker of “Herald of Andraste” to inspire. That skill was clearly  all of her own making.

He sighed, more from relief than acquiescence. Never in his life had he felt more grateful in a moment of defeat. “Alright.” 

She left him then, departing his office through the same door she had entered through. He turned towards the window, his vision blurring from the rising tears, and behind him he heard the distinct crunch and slide of shattering glass as the vial was crushed and smeared underfoot, and the gentle shutting of the door.

Chapter 7: What Was Lost

With a lit pipe in one hand and a wineskin in the other, Lin wandered. Even in the pitch black of night, her eyes could see far into the almost lightless canopies. It was always a bittersweet thing, to traverse the lands that had once belonged to her ancestors. Their traces remained in the form of weathered statues and fragmented ruins, wrapped almost lovingly in the embrace of the roots of the Vallasdahlen, as though the dead still clung protectively to their lost homes. 

Unlike the remnants of her peoples architecture, the statues erected by the Chantry that marked the fall of the Dales were almost pristine, tended in passing by pilgrims who braved the roads to languish in the victory of their Exhalted March; a triumph of their faith, a source of pride for humankind. To the Dalish, they were no more than markers that mapped the genocide of thousands of men, women and children. 

Out of sight of her Companions and the Inquisition scouts in the outpost they had stopped at for the night, Lin abandoned her carefully constructed facade. She ached, body and soul. Sitting by the fireside, listening to Solas sermonise about the poor imitation of Arlathan that the Dales had been, or Sera’s crass commentary about the Dalish obsession with sadness, made her realise just how isolated she had felt since leaving her clan. Although she was perpetually surrounded by people, she never felt more alone since joining the Inquisition.

As she stared up at yet another statue of Andraste, its base embellished with another testament to one Sister Amity and her sermons on the battlefield, her nostrils flared. All at once, she was drawn back to one terrifying moment in the fade, when she had been separated from the others, and mocked from all directions by the sinister voice of the Nightmare Demon. 

 

“They will tire of you” it sneered, echoing in her ears as she gazed down at her own gravestone. “You are a novelty to them, protected by superstition and their collective fear. Even if you succeed, your shield will crumble. Sooner or later, they will come to see the threat you pose to their supremacy. Do you really think the Inquisition will protect you from their wrath? Do you think they will stand beside you when the nations of Thedas come for you? When the Chantry denounces you?”

The shape that leapt from the shadows was clad in shining golden armour, stained with blood and adorned with a helm plumed with long, blue feathers. A gauntlet encased hand took hold of her wrist, twisting it in its vice-like grip, making her cry out in pain as she fought fruitlessly against her attacker. “You are nothing but a lamb awaiting slaughter, just like the rest of your people” it said, its despicable voice taking on a new, familiar and frightening cadence. “And you know well that there are worse fates than death.”

She unleashed a wild and panicked torrent of magic, burning away the conjured entity, screaming out into the seemingly endless void. “Begone, damn you!”

Tears welled up in her eyes, prickling painfully like shards of glass. She could not afford to show weakness. Not here. She placed a hand against her bruising throat and tried to catch her breath, focusing on the pain instead of the sickening feeling of knowing the master of this domain still watched her with callous amusement. 

“Look what they did to me, Lindiranae”

Her blood instantly ran cold. She stared down at the swirling mist that ghosted against her knees, knowing that if she looked up now, she would be lost. 

“Look at me, Lindi!”

Tears began to spill from her eyes, but she refused to look up. The voice called to her like a siren song, tugging at the most private places of her heart. It was so sweet, so familiar, so very, very missed. But it was wrong,too. She had to focus on the wrongness of it.

“How could you stand beside them?” the entity hissed accusingly. “Knowing what evil lies in their black hearts? Father was right to teach you fear. Stop lying to yourself, sister.”

Lin dug her fingers into her scalp, her breathing now rapid and shallow. “You’re not her” she said, the words becoming a chant, uttered over and over again. 

“I can help you,” the sweet voice cooed. She felt cold, ghostly fingers gently graze against her cheeks, making her instinctively shut her eyes as tight as possible. “Let me in. Let me help you.”

“Banal!Ir annala for ros!” 

“Your people are fading, little one. You will never have a place in this world, not unless you teach them to fear you. All you need do is invite me in, and mankind will tremble at the might we wield!”

There was no waking from the Nightmare. She was trapped, physically, in its very dominion, a mouse in the den of the cat, toyed with until it was time to be devoured. Her fingers crackled with magic, unstable, ruled by her raw emotions and the sheer, crushing power of the Fade. To lose control in the waking world invited the attention of demons. To lose control here…it all but guaranteed her end. 

No. That was the past. She was free of that realm, far from the clawing influence of the demons who violated her innermost fears. The veil was thin here, in the depths of the Emerald Graves. She could not afford to be drawn back into that sense of vulnerability. She needed to be strong, for the Inquisition and for her family, and in order to do so, she needed the facade of an iron will to deceive even herself. She had to hold her head high, to be perpetually level-headed, even if her stomach roiled like a pit of decay. Even if she felt like a lost child, wanting nothing more than her mothers soft words and loving embrace. 

When morning came, she found herself waking from a hazy sleep she could not recall falling into, her back resting against the base of the Shemlen monument, which was now little more than a pile of marble rubble. The plaque she had flung into the nearby stream, to be forgotten alongside the many remnants of the place her people once called home. 

 

No one commented on her disappearance the night before. Perhaps they had not even noticed the fact she had not returned until the sun was peeking through the canopies above. No one but the night watch remained awake at any rate, and they were not the sort to question her comings and goings apparently. She was still unused to the seemingly natural subservience of the Inquisition soldiers and staff. Had she left camp alone and without a word while amongst her own kin, there would have been no end of the reprimands and questions about her whereabouts. Amongst this society, however, the people were so reserved and tight-lipped, either through an aggravating sense of decorum or an outright disdain for confrontation. She missed the bluntness that came from knowing the people around her since birth. Even those few that came to them from elsewhere, either alienages or other clans, acclimated quickly to the openness of clan life. 

By the time the sun had reached its apex for the day, Lin had led her travelling party back out into the heart of the wilderness. The others filled the time with much idle chatter, easy-going and lighthearted. She left them to it, more focused on the prevalent scent of Red Lyrium wafting through the air, adding a nauseating and oppressive layer to the damp morning air. In her four-legged form, it was far easier to track her quarry, and gave her a good excuse to avoid scrutiny. Even if she did not always agree with some of their views, she did her best to treat them as she would her own kinsmen. They were good people, each and every one of them, and she was glad to know them, to trust them. But something was missing, nonetheless. Even amidst the friendly atmosphere of their travels and the time spent in between, she still felt too foreign in this world of theirs.

Chapter 8: A Change For The Better

His Name-day came and went, unnoticed and uncelebrated as it always had been since he left home at the age of thirteen. That was one constant that Cullen was glad of, especially this year. He was thirty now, and did not quite know how to feel about that. 

Things were improving, not by much, but it was better than it had been. His bouts of trembling and faintness were becoming less frequent, allowing him to mostly work at the pace he was comfortable with. It was not quite optimism he felt, not yet, but he at least felt more grounded. 

He had never bothered to inform Cassandra that he was no longer intent on leaving, but it did not take her long to figure it out. He was still here, after all. She did not bring it up either. That was good. 

The day following their conversation, Lin announced she was leaving for the Emerald Graves to deal with some important matters. She spoke to him only once, all business, to inform him she would pursue his intel about Red Templar activity while she was there. And then she was gone, without another word. That was good too, but also left him with a gnawing feeling of anxiety. She was supporting his choice, yes, but she knew everything now, about the man he had been before the Inquisition. Perhaps she could trust him as her military adviser, but beyond that? Knowing his previous treatment of mages, he found it hard to believe she wouldn't give him a wide berth outside of relevant duties. He thought about the prospect more than he probably should have in the time she was gone. The idea of it filled him with a sense of dread. 

After a fortnight, as a scout arrived with his morning reports, the documents were accompanied by a rather bulky box, wrapped in a swatch of some sort of worn hessian-like fabric. He raised a brow at the scout, who simply shrugged and stated it had arrived before dawn along with instructions to give it to him. As soon as he was alone, Cullen sat down in the chair and stared worriedly on the box. So many possibilities, some more worrying than others. Best case scenario, it was just something work-related. It could also be full of bees. Sera had a particular fondness for weaponizing bees. But Sera was also not currently in Skyhold, he recalled. Maker, the thought of Mia sending him a gift to commemorate his ageing now that he was no longer bound by Templar customs was somehow just as daunting. He nudged aside the fabric, hoping the box might give some indications of its mysterious sender, but it was just a standard, unpainted container. He groaned, massaging his forehead. It couldn’t be from within Skyhold. No one knew his date of birth, not even Josephine, who tended to know everything about everyone. The worst case scenario of course, was Cole, who habitually lurked around Skyhold looking for ways to “help” people. Cullen had a stack of rumpled pieces of scrap paper hidden away in the bottom drawer of his desk containing a myriad of cryptic but personal messages, and he had yet to work up the nerve to seek him-or rather, it- out to tell him to kindly leave him alone. He did not need this right now.

Reluctantly, he opened the box, unconsciously leaning away from it as the contents were revealed.

A single jar, wedged carefully between a swatch of scrunched up cloth to prevent breakage in transit. At first, the contents seemed to resemble dried meat caked in dirt. He scrunched his eyes at the almost illegible scrawl of the instructions. Brecillian Redbark: Take one piece when headaches are prevalent, to be chewed over one hour. If taste is not palatable, boil in sugared water first. Should remedy worst of it, it read. He recognised the terrible handwriting straight away as Lin’s. Short and to the point, as most of her correspondence tended to be. She had long since made it clear that she detested writing up reports.

A warm feeling spread through his chest at the realization. 

He wondered whether it was some sort of Dalish remedy, for he had taken numerous concoctions provided by the seasoned apothecaries of Skyhold, and had never heard mention of Brecilian Redbark. Had Lin given it to him in person, he would have refused the offer, mostly out of habit and, admittedly, pride. But she wasn’t here, and neither was anyone else. Curiosity got the better of him and, aided by the incentive of the pulsing of a growing headache, he took out a piece of the Redbark and popped it in his mouth. At first, he cringed at the sharp sour taste, wondering if he should follow her instructions to douse it in sugar water, but it did not take long for the sharpness to fade, and he found it was actually rather bearable. He closed the box and slid it under his desk, pulling his chair up and rifling through the beginnings of his morning work. After an hour, he was still absent-mindedly rolling the bark around in his cheek as he finished drafting the last requisition report for the Storm Coast outposts. 

 

Another nightmare. This time it was not the Gallows. In some ways, he wished it was. At least there was some semblance of open space of escape. But this was Kinloch Hold, with its dim halls and seemingly endless steps that wound around the tall, circular tower. There were no windows, nothing to inspire its residents to think of what lay beyond the murky waters of the lake. 

There had been a time, however brief, when it almost felt comfortable to him. He had liked the daily routine of his duties, and watching over the mages going about their own business. He had been young then, and in those early days of service, trained and honed for combat and acclimated to Lyrium, he felt almost invincible. He wasn’t afraid to get close to his brothers, nor even his charges. Having been surrounded mostly by other boys throughout his early years of training, he rather enjoyed it when the young apprentices paid him attention. Some of them were sweet, bidding him good morning or kindly asking for assistance to carry their piles of books back to the library, while others were outright flirtatious and made no secret of their interest in coaxing him into some private corner for a quick and rebellious romp. Once or twice, he had seriously considered it, too, as any young man might in the same situation. But although he was confident in the strength of his sword arm or the sharpness of his mind, girls and their antics brought out a crippling shyness in him, even before he had left home. Memories of Mia’s little gang of friends chasing him around the village, mixed with Gregoir’s constant sermons on the dangers and serious consequences of fraternisation had, quite literally, sent him running on more than one occasion. 

Even so, he wished he could relive those innocent, embarrassing times, instead of the vivid and brutal images that came to replace them. He wished he could go back to believing that all people were inherently good, whether mage or mundane, instead of seeing the very essence of sadistic cruelty that burned in Uldred’s eyes as he chipped away at his sanity piece by piece. He wished he could sense the flirtatious gaze of some pretty girl and feel that boyish sense of pride once more, instead of seeing the abominations they became, or the demons that felled them as they ran for safety. He wished, Maker how he wished, that he could have just been a little stronger that day, a little more dignified, instead of the whimpering mess of a boy he had been, flinching at the pain and the death around him and within him. Maybe then he would not keep finding himself back in that moment, feeling everything his younger self felt as though he had been transported back in time. Unable to awaken himself from the Nightmare he was all too aware he was trapped in, Cullen could only witness and endure, unable to change a damned thing, once again. 

But this time, for the very first time, something did change .

It was the same oppressive prison he was bound to, the same jailors bearing down upon him. This time, however, something was also bearing down on them. Luminous eyes flashed in the dark, half-burning corridor; one of green, the other gold. As Ulred and his accomplices raised their hands to unleash another wave of searing, invisible pain upon him, still barking out their twisted laughter, the great beast leapt from the shadows and threw back its head in a rattling howl. The mages’ jeering fell silent as their visages dissipated like sand in the wind.  They were gone, their promises of pain disappearing with them, and the wolf became a woman in the blink of an eye.

Lin’s smile was warm as she raised her hands, the powerful magical prison walls dissolving beneath her willowy fingers like sugar in water. She knelt before him, gently taking him by the chin so that they were gazing into one another's eyes. He felt the warmth of her breath on his own lips as she whispered “Come away now, Cullen. Come away with me.” 

It was not the cruel compulsions of a blood mage, nor the malevolent trickery of a demon, he knew. Somehow, he simply knew.  It was too serene, the way her words seemed to coil around his chest, not invasive or invading, but natural and welcome. Although Cullen seemingly could not find the means to respond, she nodded as though he had, and leaned closer, long lashes sweeping against her cheek as she closed her eyes, and he closed his…

Never before had he been so furious to awaken suddenly from the throes of a nightmare. 

Chapter 9: A Moment of Reflection

For once, it was not the fitful night’s sleep that made him feel especially irritable. 

In truth, he had forgotten the true reason almost as soon as he woke, as was often the case with dreams. Yet every now and then, as he monitored the progress of his new batch of recruits, or mapped out troop movements in the war room, words crept through the back of his mind, come away with me, and his tasks were stalled momentarily as he pondered them, simultaneously remembering and not remembering the meaning. 

It was only when it came time for a meeting of the war council, during which Josephine announced that word had been sent from the Emerald Graves that the Inquisitor was on her way back to Skyhold, that Cullen suddenly recalled the strange turn of his usual nightmares, and the soft, inviting lips that parted ever so slightly as they ghosted against his own. He tensed when Josephine tapped him gently on the shoulder, frowning concernedly. “Are you alright, Commander?” 

“A headache, nothing more” he said, more forcefully than intended. 

Thankfully the rest of the day went by with relative swiftness. Cassandra managed the evening drills, having been rather adamant about practicing some new tactics she had been working on with Bull. He had his doubts about her reasoning, but chose not to question it for once. As the sun began to set, he walked the length of the ramparts and back again. Josephine had prepared a lavish feast in the great hall for a large group of visiting Orlesian dignitaries, but he was in no mood to wade through a sea of nobles just to partake in a meal he would likely not be able to stomach. The tavern was lively with activity, the sound of revelry and music spilling out from every open window. No doubt the personal guards of Skyhold’s visitors were mingling with the off-duty Inquisition soldiers. He might have joined them on a better day, but even the muffled noise he could hear from the high walls was enough to make his head hurt. There was, however, at least one place besides his stuffy office that might offer a moment’s peace.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Chantry chapel in Haven had been a base of operations for the Inquisition, so much so that Cullen found that he barely recognised it as a place of worship at all. There had rarely been a moment where there was any real sense of peace in such a holy place of pilgrimage, and unlike Josephine and Leliana, he slept outside the walls in the cramped mass of tents designated for the soldiers. Yet Skyholds little vestibule, so simple and lacking in the usual splendor of many other places where he had spoken his prayers, felt more welcoming than he expected. Much to his guilt, it was the first time he had stepped inside since the Inquisition had taken up residence in Skyhold. After so many years of bending the knee before the great altar in Kirkwall, repeating the prayers drilled into his mind by the Order, his words felt like just that. Words . Empty gestures that were spoken as part of a standard routine, lacking in any depth of conviction. The blade had become his only real expression of faith over time. But he had come to realise since joining the Inquisition that it was not his faith in the Maker that had left him, but simply his belief in the Chantry itself.

Much to his relief, Mother Giselle and lay-sisters were also attending the feast, leaving him alone in a blessed moment of silence, with only the featureless eyes of the statue of Andraste upon him. On this occasion, it was not a prayer that he had to offer, but confession. Traditionally, such a thing would require the presence of a Revered Mother to bear witness and offer guidance, but right now, what he wished to say could only be for the ears of the Maker and the Holy Andraste. 

He knelt in silence for a time, hands clasped together and head bowed low, trying hard to ignore the thick and somewhat nauseating scent of the lit tallow candles that littered the floor around him. 

“I know I have been lax in my faith as of late,” he began, taking a deep breath. “For that, I ask your forgiveness. I’ve been lost, for far longer than I could admit, and I still am. I have tried, in vain, to conceal the depth of my fears, my weaknesses. I hid behind Chantry edicts, used your word to turn my own fear into a weapon I wielded against those I was sworn to protect. I turned a blind eye to the cruelties of my Knight-Commander, and persecuted innocents while the truly guilty stalked the streets.”

He paused, taking another shuddering breath. “Maker, I beg your forgiveness for my failings, for the lives that have been lost by my inaction. Grant me the strength to weather these pains, to triumph over these fears, so that I might atone for all that was lost. Let me serve the Inquisition with all that I am, wholeheartedly, to stem the tide of darkness that now falls upon the world. Allow me to atone. Allow me to put right some small measure of these wrongs.”

He glanced up at the towering statue. It felt as though there was a pause in the air, as though she were waiting for him to continue. Like a guilty child before their knowing mother, he bowed his head again, sighing deeply. What he said next was spoken only in his mind, for even in this peaceful solitude, he knew that in Skyhold one was rarely ever truly alone. 

“ I confess, as of late I have had thoughts, inappropriate thoughts, about Inquisitor Lavellan. She is our leader, to be looked to respectfully for guidance, not with…selfish longing . I know this, and I have tried, vehemently, to deny such thoughts. Yet truthfully, since that first encounter on the battlefield, she has lived in my mind. Every time she leaves for a mission, I feel as though I cannot breathe until I see her return. I look out of my window on the nights I cannot sleep and sometimes I see her there, on her balcony, gazing up at the sky, and I ache at the thought of the burdens she must bear. I stand across from her at the war table, and I want-”

He shifted uncomfortably, shaking his head to banish the invading vision conjured by his thoughts. It may have been a confession, but surely Andraste and the Maker did not require absolute specifics. “I took neither a vow of abstinence nor chastity, yet nonetheless I swore to abide by the edicts of the Order, and seek no selfish gains. I chastised my subordinates for their indulgences, called it a weakness and truly believed it was. It was easy for me to chastise, when I could not even bear the thought of keeping such intimate company. But now, I-” He was wrenched from his thoughts by the distant, muffled sound of a plate shattering and the startled cry of someone in the main hall. He knelt, frozen and silent for a long moment, until it finally registered that he was still most certainly alone. “I harbour no belief that she would think of me any more than she would the rest of the Inquisition, especially now, nor will I pursue her. It wouldn’t be right to…But sometimes I think of those few moments when we have been alone together, when her smile is uncommonly shy and there is a secretive look in her eyes, and I find myself wondering about the possibilities. I wonder if she ever thinks of me, whether she could ever think of me as…more than simply a colleague. I imagine what it would be like, if I were just a man and she just a woman, undivided by duty or the urgency of war. I’m not sure if I can even truly remember a time when I felt so…”

He frowned deeply, looking up once more. “Is it so wrong?” he asked aloud, albeit in a near silent whisper. 

The statue, understandably, did not respond. The question left him feeling a little foolish, as though he were asking for some sign of consent from the Makers Bride. Even so, he found upon rising to his feet, that he did indeed feel a small sense of ease for his efforts, no longer weighed down by all that had remained unspoken.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When he woke the next day, warmed by morning sunlight streaming through the broken rafters, he basked in the bliss of a rare and wonderful feeling of rest. Resting his hand upon his chest, his fingers splayed across his heart, and he smiled. 

Her healing remedy was a thoughtful gesture, practical yet friendly, but any sentiment beyond that was surely unlikely. Nonetheless, the calm heartbeat beneath his fingers was the best gift he could have hoped for.

Chapter 10: Dawn's Chorus

The hour was late when Lin returned from the Graves.

Just as she reached the door to her quarters, eager to have some time alone, a voice rang out from the corridor leading to the Ambassador’s office. “Inquisitor!” Josephine called out, the heels of her shoes echoing as she emerged into the main hall. “Forgive me, I am sure you are tired from your journey, but I hoped I could have a moment of your time before you retire?”

Lin’s shoulders slumped as she cast one last longing glance at the door. “Of course” she said, smiling tightly as she followed the surprisingly energetic ambassador. 

Despite her perpetually calm demeanor, it was clear that whatever required discussion was more pressing than Josephine was letting on. Yet even so, ever the charming conversationalist, she seemed content to engage in small-talk, even as she shifted almost constantly in her seat. 

“Josie,” Lin interrupted her, her voice calm. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Ah, yes actually” the ambassador admitted, tucking back a loose curl of her ink black hair. “Really, my lady, it is not my wish to trouble you with this. Truly. But…”

She trailed off, looking down at her hands. Lin could see the sparkle of tears welling up in her eyes. Although she often found Josephine a little too idealistic and detached from the harsher realities of the world, the woman was the very definition of kindness, and dealt fairly with everyone no matter their origin. They had very little in common, yet Lin enjoyed the ambassador’s company. She especially seemed to enjoy the collection of tea blends Lin kept by the hearth in her room. With a gentle smile, Lin gestured towards the door. “Come join me upstairs” she said. “I’ll brew some tea”

Josephine sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a purple silk handkerchief pulled from her sleeve. “Yes, I should like that very much. Thank you.”

Silently bidding farewell to the possibility of a rest, Lin led the ambassador up the exceedingly long staircase to her rooms. By the time two pots had been brewed and consumed, and Josephine explained the dire situation her family were currently facing, the morning sky was peeking over the mountainous horizon.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

Lin had grown accustomed to the sounds of Skyhold’s early mornings. 

Birdsong flourished just before the sky began to pale, joined shortly after by the distant sound of creaking doors, and the quiet chatter of guards as they relieved the night’s watch. It would not be long before the entirety of Skyhold would be teeming with the mingled noise of its many inhabitants, and so she decided to take advantage of the short-lived quiet and take a walk. Although the sun was rising, the yard was still very much bathed in darkness thanks to the great height of the stone walls. She made her way to the stables first, where the Horsemaster was already hard at work, heaving a heavy grain sack over his shoulder as he visited each stall to deposit a morning meal for the residents. “There you are, Blossom” he said, patting one of the mares in passing. 

“Good morning, Dennet” Lin said, leaning over the fence of the small, hay-strewn paddock. 

Unlike many other residents of the fortress, the Horsemaster was a refreshingly blunt man who rarely stood on ceremony. “Your worship,” he grunted, wiping his hands on his tunic. 

“How are your charges faring?” she enquired, smiling as her own sandy coloured mare approached the fence. 

“Well enough, ma’am” he said, hands on his hips as he scanned the stalls. “Bit of trouble with the Spymaster’s gelding, but that’s Orlesian breeding for you I reckon. The horse, I mean, not..er, herself.”

Lin snorted. “I believe Leliana is from Ferelden” she observed with a smile.

Dennet shrugged. “Orlesian habits though” he muttered, shovelling sodden hay into a neat pile.

“True enough” she conceded, giving the mare an affectionate pat on the neck. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Up above, in the loft that overlooked the stables, she could hear the rattling snores of Blackwall, who she assumed would not be awake until the morning drills commenced. The rickety table near the stairs was still strewn with wood shavings and tools, as well as the half-constructed rocking horse the warden had been working on for the past month. It was intended to be sent to the refugee camps in the valley below Skyhold, a kind gesture for the many unfortunate children made homeless by Corypheus’ forces. Although every effort had been made to ensure a comfortable living for the masses of refugees, it was an especially considerate gesture on Blackwall’s part to do something to lift the spirits of the most vulnerable residents. 

Lin ascended the steps to the ramparts, and leaned out over the edge of the wall momentarily, observing the sea of tents and the scatterings of recently lit fires. So many people, all of them her responsibility to safeguard. The war was truly a bittersweet equaliser.  

She continued her stroll, running her hands along the sun-warmed stone brickwork. Emerging from the unoccupied eastern tower, she was surprised to find she was not the only one who was taking in the bright red hue that coloured the snowy mountain peaks. She paused her steps, taking a moment to observe her fellow wanderer, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

It had been several weeks since she had left on the expedition. Everything about Cullen seemed a far cry from the alarming state he had been in before her departure. A healthy colour had returned to his previously drawn, pallid skin. Though it was hard to tell with the bulk of his fur mantle, there appeared to be far less tension in his shoulders as well.  He was looking far more like the man she had first met on the battlefield so many months ago, hale and hearty and full of passion for the possibilities made possible by the inquisition. The scent of Lyrium still lingered, but it was now easily overpowered by other things; leather, metal polish, sweat, and the ever so distinct fragrance of Redbark. No clinging sickness, just something…familiar, comforting. 

It took him a moment before he seemingly realised he was no longer alone. When he turned towards her, his smile was warm, restful, just as it had been on that day in the garden. “Ah, Inquisitor” he said rather sheepishly. “I…heard you had returned last night. I did not expect to see you up and about so early.”

Lin smiled. “I had some business to deal with upon my return” she said. “I can afford to miss a night’s sleep from time to time.”

 

Cullen nodded understandingly. “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to thank you,I…when you came to see me…”

He sighed, scratching at the back of his ear, flustered so easily by whatever it was that he was trying to say. “This sounded much better in my head.”

It never ceased to amaze her how this man, who famously maintained a near perpetual stern expression, hid such a truly gentle, almost introverted disposition beneath all of his posturing. She came to his side and leaned her elbows on the stone wall. “I trust you’re feeling better?”

He nodded, still smiling, albeit rather sheepishly. “I…yes”

There was a noticeable brightness in his deep-set, amber eyes. Even as he turned his attention back to the sunset, she found she could not take her eyes off him. The brightness of the early light highlighted the sharpness of his features. Strangely, between his high cheekbones and the well-defined line of his jaw and chin, she found herself wondering if he might have some distant, elven ancestry. Most shemlen had rather doughy, lumpy features so far as she had seen. Cullen very clearly stood out in that respect. 

“Is it always that bad?” she enquired, unconsciously nibbling at the corner of her lip as she quickly turned her gaze back to the darkening horizon. 

“The pain comes and goes,” he said flatly. “Sometimes…it feels as if i'm still back there. I should not have pushed myself so hard that day.”

Although she was unsure of which day in particular he was referring to, given the scale of bad days he had experienced according to their previous discussion, it occurred to her that it seemed to be an intrusive thing that had been hammered into him long ago, to push himself beyond natural limitation for the edicts of service, ever lingering on the cusp of breaking for the sake of others. 

Had no one ever instructed him to tend himself in more than the ways of endurance and swordsmanship? She thought of her own experiences growing up, and the hardships of living a nomadic life. Even in the harshest seasons, when food was scarce and danger was rampant, not even the strongest amongst their ranks would be expected to weather their burdens alone. She sighed, once again mystified by the prevalent coldness of human society. “I’m just glad you’re alright”

“I am” he said assuredly. 

A moment passed in comfortable silence before Cullen spoke again. “I never truly told anyone what happened to me in Ferelden,” he admitted. “I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me. I'm not proud of the man that made me.”

Even without looking up at him, she could feel the change in his expression. “The way I saw mages, i'm not sure I…” he murmured, whatever sentiment he was trying to express trailing off into nothing but a regretful sigh. 

He was ashamed, seeking atonement for the person he became under the yoke of fear. But the bulk of those failures should have rested upon the shoulders of those who should have helped him find his way out of the darkness, and instead twisted his motivations into a weapon. That, in many ways, she could understand. 

She sighed softly. “For what it’s worth, I like who you are now.”

His eyes widened with astonishment. “Even after…”

Lin rolled her eyes. For all of his stubbornness and bluster over matters at the war table, he truly was endearingly humble. “I tried, Cullen,” she said with a dry snort of laughter. “Oh,I think I really did try to dislike you in those early days. Yet you made it quite impossible, truth be told.”

“You…oh,I-” 

The shyness returned, redness creeping up the pale skin of his neck as the words tumbled from his tongue. Were he one of her kinsmen, she might have given his ear a teasing tug and pressed her forehead to his in the customary gesture of familial reassurance. But that, she assumed, was not the human way. Such sentiment was most likely reserved for blood-kin, or lovers. The very notion of the latter brought heat to her cheeks. She curled her fingers into her palm and pinched the skin hard. 

“What about you?” he asked, barely more than a whisper. “You have troubles of your own. How are you holding up?”

The question caught her completely off guard. It felt like an age since someone had last asked her that. It was not for lack of care from those she often travelled with. If she were injured, they would of course ask if she was doing alright. If she had pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion, they would suggest a rest. But Cullen was asking something deeper, a question she had not asked herself in a long time. “Ah…well,” she began, not quite sure what to say. She smiled tiredly, shaking her head. “It can be…complicated.”

“Leadership can be a difficult burden,” he said with sympathy. “I don’t think anyone is ever truly unaffected by it.”

Not wrong, but not entirely right either.  

“I was a Keeper’s First. It was something I was trained for long before I joined the Inquisition,” she said flatly, nibbling at the corner of her lip. It felt as though there was little point in putting on airs. “Sometimes, I wonder whether I would still be alive if not for the Anchor. Waking up in that dungeon after what had happened at the Conclave, with no means to defend my innocence, death seemed inevitable. I am ashamed to admit there were more than a few times in Haven where I thought to leave. Surrounded by a small army of Shemlen soldiers under the shadow of the Chantry…it was a terrifying prospect, and one that shook me more than I care to admit.”

She saw the realization dawn on his face, and he frowned worriedly. “I’m sorry you felt that way,” he said. “If I ever gave you reason to feel those fears were justified, I-”

“Mythal enaste,” she exclaimed with a groan, grinning wryly. “You apologise as much as you breathe, Commander. It is unnecessary. You are not to blame for my fears, even if I tried to think otherwise.”

He simply nodded, but a trace of guilt still remained etched into his features. Lin crossed her arms, leaning back against the wall. "When you see the worst in people, it is easier to feel fear and hatred for any who resemble them." she mused. "And yet, to refuse to change that perception when presented with evidence in the contrary is...not a good way to live."

"I understand that now" he said, frowning. "I think perhaps I will always harbour regret for not realising that sooner."

"I was referring more to myself, Commander." she clarified, smiling wryly. "I think you're doing better than you might realise."

For a long moment, they simply gazed at each other, suddenly all too aware of the irony of the situation. Here they were, looking at the manifestation of their individual fears; Lin with her fear of Human soldiers, and Cullen with his fear of unbound mages. She would not have hesitated to kill him had their paths crossed before, and never known of the man that lay beneath the layers of steel and the scent of Lyrium, the man who instilled the soldiers under his charge with a sense of decency and honour, and simply wanted to protect those who could not protect themselves,regardless of race or associations. 

“You are too kind, Inquisitor” Cullen finally said, first to avert his gaze. “If there is ever anything I can do, you need only ask.”

Of all the people she had come to know over the last few months, for all of their disagreements, and more so their differences, Cullen had always been amongst the first to support her when it mattered most. She was glad, in however insignificant a way it felt in comparison, that she had been able to support him in turn. 

Chapter 11: The Fashion Disaster

It was not often Commander Cullen was truly reminded that he was the only male member of the Inquisition high command. Yet it was hard not to be aware of the fact when he was left standing impatiently in Josephine’s office, watching the flurry of activity as Leliana, Josephine and Vivienne unfurled large swathes of colourful fabrics, examining them with almost childlike excitement. “Oh and this one!” the ambassador gasped, running her hand reverently along one particularly decadent looking blue swatch draped across her desk. “Antivan silk. What a lovely dress this would make!”

Unlike the other ladies, the Inquisitor did not appear to share their enthusiasm. Leaning against the bookcase, arms folded across her chest, she reminded him of a prisoner who was resigned to judgement. The others did not seem to pay much heed to the fact that their comments garnered no more than a dull nod in response. 

“A fine quality to be sure” Vivienne said, frowning. “But she can’t possibly wear blue, it would cause an uproar.”

“I agree” Leliana said, rubbing her chin. “My sources tell me Empress Celene intends to wear a blue gown to the ball. Given the current trends, I would say something yellow, perhaps red?”

“Oh yes, red!” Josephine exclaimed, clapping her hands together as she strode over to the crate containing the rest of the fabrics. “I did order some beautiful brocade from Denerim. It is a little heavier than silk, but I think it will do nicely.”

Tapping his foot impatiently, Cullen held up the handful of scrolls in his hand. “Not to interrupt your…important work, but we do have a meeting scheduled. Perhaps this could wait?”

Viviene narrowed her eyes, her smile tight. “Commander, while I’m sure you would like to put all the emphasis on our security contingent, I should remind you that this is the Inquisition’s debut in the Orlesian court, at an event hosted by the royal family no less. It is critical that our leader looks both distinguished and fashionable if she is to secure admiration from the nobility.”

“Yes, do forgive me, First Enchanter” He muttered sarcastically. “Foolish of me to be thinking of security at a time like this.”

“Now don’t be sour, Commander” Vivienne chastised him, her hands on her hips as she looked about the room. “Where are the shoes?”

“Oh, yes I have them here!” Leliana said, sounding shockingly cheerful compared to her usual reserved self. “We have a few options, depending on the Inquisitor’s preferences.”

Lin looked decidedly horrified as the box lid was removed and the contents were revealed. “No” She said firmly, shaking her head. “Absolutely not”

“Just try them, dear” Vivienne said sweetly, as though Lin were a horse on the cusp of bolting. “You surely can’t expect to wear-”

She trailed off, wrinkling her nose disdainfully as she gestured at Lin’s unusual footwear. Lin’s brows raised as she looked down at herself and back at the First Enchanter. “What is wrong with my bootwraps?” she protested, looking to the other women to help and finding none. 

Vivienne looked exasperated. Josephine, ever the mediator, stepped between them. “I’m sure they are very, um, practical, for travelling and other such things, Inquisitor.” She said carefully. “But, I would not wish to see you exposed to the ridicule of the nobles. They are, perhaps, unfairly critical of anything that would seem unusual to their way of life”

Cullen heaved a heavy sigh and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. For the first time in years, he felt like he was back in his childhood home, watching Mia and Rosalie squawk like hens over a piece of ribbon, all the while he jammed his fingers in his ears and hunkered down at the breakfast table, waiting for the noise to end so he could get back to reading. He cast a sympathetic glance at Lin, who leaned her head back against the bookshelf and shut her eyes, as if she too were trying to cancel out the noise of the three women and their discussions of various acceptable fashions for Halamshiral. 

He could understand, to some small extent, how the right attire was necessary for such a formal setting. Even the Order had some emphasis on professional appearance and good grooming. But there was a vast difference between keeping one’s armour in good condition and bathing regularly, and the absurdity of a noble court and its elaborate, ever-changing styles. Orlais was possibly the worst, with its array of masks, shoes and ridiculous hats complimenting dresses and suits that looked almost impossible to walk in. It almost felt naturally offensive to his Ferelden heritage to participate in their frivolous lifestyle even for one evening, but there was no getting out of it when the stakes were so high. 

It was extremely fortunate that the Grand Duke had even extended an invitation to the Inquisition. Few others within the Orlesian upper class were keen on the idea of the Inquisition, especially with the influence of the Chantry so prevalent in Val Royeaux. As much as he respected the decorated reputation of Grand Duke Gaspard, it was clear that he was seeking outside aid to bolster his own claim to the throne. Given his command over the Chevallier’s, and the respect of the majority of the Orlesian military, Cullen was in full support of the idea of standing with him. Leliana and Josephine had other ideas, but he was keen to remind them that it was a military alliance they needed most if they were to take on the bulk of Corypheus’ army. If they needed to wade into the viper’s nest to gain that alliance, and prevent the assassination of the Empress in the process, there was no alternative. An evening of awful small-talk and political backstabbery was a small price to pay to prevent the grim future the Inquisitor glimpsed in Redcliffe. 

The door to Josephine’s office suddenly swung open, and in strode Dorian, with Varric not far behind. “Ladies” Dorian greeted them with a flourished bow. “Oh I do hope you did not intend to do this without my consultation?”

Vivienne looked less than pleased at the Tevinter’s sudden arrival. “No thank you” she said tersely. “But I shall make sure to consult you should we decide we have a need for gaudy ornamentation.”

“Please, dear lady,” Dorian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Minrathous is the very heart of sophistication. You’ll be doomed without my input.”

“Fenhedis!” Lin interjected frustratedly. “I have many other matters to attend today. As you’ve made abundantly clear, this is not my area of expertise so please, choose amongst yourselves if it pleases you. I wish to get on with the day.”

The room fell silent for the briefest moment as the other women looked at Lin, before they resumed their loud discussions, leaving Lin looking even more dejected than before.. Dorian examined the fabrics one by one, already bored of the others. Varric sauntered to Cullen’s side and leaned against the wall. “Not quite what you signed up for, eh Curly?”

Glancing down at the Dwarf, Cullen scowled. He really hated that nickname. “And why exactly are you here?”

Varric shrugged nonchalantly. “I wouldn’t be a good writer if I didn’t observe momentous occasions like this, now would I?”

Cullen raised a brow at him. “I wasn’t aware you were a good writer to begin with.”

“Ouch” Varric winced theatrically. “Someones in a mood.”

“ Someone just wants to get on with work”

“You really need a hobby, Curly” the Dwarf sighed. 

Eventually, Maker be praised, an agreement was made. “A sensible, practical uniform” Lin stipulated firmly. “I don’t care about the colour. I don’t care where the fabric comes from. Just..” she sighed loudly, rubbing her forehead with her knuckles. “Just something sensible that doesn’t take hours to put on. And please, by the Gods, do not feel compelled to consult me unless absolutely necessary.”

Vivienne, Dorian, Leliana and Josephine looked at one another. “Try the shoes” Vivienne said. “Just once, and we will do the rest. You have my word, Inquisitor.”

With her lips drawn tight and nostrils flaring, Lin reluctantly capitulated. “Fine”

With the terms drawn, Lin sat in Josephines plush armchair, and grabbed the shoes by their ridiculously thin straps. They were a fine, silvery colour, catching the light with a slight shimmer. To his pragmatic mind, regardless of their supposed fine quality, they looked terribly ill-fitting and impractical. The heels were even higher than the ones Josephine habitually wore. How was anyone supposed to walk in them? Women were truly strange creatures sometimes.

Lin deftly unlaced her boot-wraps, unhooking the small buckles at the knee and the ankle before pulling them off, exposing her slim, toned calves. Cullen instinctively looked away, although it seemed particularly silly to do so. She was hardly in some scandalous state of undress, after all. 

It took the help of both Leliana and Dorian to put them on correctly, and the two helped her to her feet. “See? Oh they do really suit, don’t they?” Vivienne sighed dreamily, assessing her approvingly. “Go on, give us a walk dear.”

Lin threw her a skeptical look and put her arms out to her side. “Alright” she said uncertainly.

The Inquisitor was good at many things, and had proven as much since joining the Inquisition. She was a very capable fighter, and boasted a discipline in her magical abilities he had only truly seen in far more senior mages. She was a careful and considerate leader, with sharp instincts that had proven detrimental to their success more than once. 

Walking in ridiculous heels, however, much to the apparent despair of the others, was not one of her skills. In fact, the sight of her attempting to take just a few clean steps in them was nothing short of disastrous. And, unfortunately, hilarious. She moved with all the grace of a newborn foal, teetering side to side with her hands braced for a fall, heels scraping on the stone floor. He tried, oh how he tried, to keep his composure. But Varric beside him, red-faced with his hand covering his mouth, made the slightest sound, and he was undone. Like a pair of disruptive students in a silent classroom, both he and the Dwarf erupted into a fit of muffled laughter, turning towards the wall in the vain hope of not being seen. 

At least she didn’t fall. Not that she could have, with Josephine and Dorian quickly taking hold of her arms to guide her forward. “Ah, boots would perhaps be more appropriate” Leliana said disappointedly. 

Vivienne nodded, and blessedly said no more on the matter, though her displeasure was evident. “I shall make arrangements with the tailor in Val Royeaux.” she sighed. “I’m sure we can come up with…something suitable.”

“Fantastic” Lin muttered, slinking out of Dorian and Josephine’s grip and immediately dropping to the floor, with a great deal more grace than her attempt to walk. She quickly got to work unstrapping herself and threw each shoe onto the couch behind her, where they landed with a dull thud against the pillows. 

As Josephine cleared her desk and picked up a small stack of documents, and Leliana fetched the Inquisitor’s preferred footwear, Varric stretched and cleared his throat. “Well, fun as this was, I’ll let you big important people get back to work.” he said casually, striding towards the exit. 

At last, normal business resumed, and soon the meeting that had been scheduled almost an hour prior was underway. Once pressing matters had been attended to and handled, the Ambassador and Spymaster departed from the war room, leaving Cullen alone on the opposite side of the map table to Lin, who thankfully quickly recovered from her wounded pride and was more engrossed in charting her next expidition. 

“My Apologies for, um..for earlier, Inquisitor.” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

Lin glanced up at him, tilting her head slightly. “Oh,” she said, grinning wryly. “Don’t worry about that. I’m just pleased that they saw sense in the end.”

She looked back at the door, her smile widening mischievously as her eyes once again met his. “Truth be told, as horribly uncomfortable as those shoes were, I may have embellished my discomfort somewhat.”

Cullen stared at her, surprised. “Oh,” he said, smiling in turn. “I see.”

She placed a marker down over the Emerald graves and straightened up. “I know they’re worried” she said quietly. “That my manners won’t be refined enough, or I will say or do the wrong thing and shame us all.” she admitted, somewhat reluctantly. “I cannot blame them, all things considered. This is hardly an area I’m familiar with.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Cullen offered. “I’ve had more than a few lectures about conduct and cordiality from Ambassador Montilyet myself since we received this invitation.”

She raised a brow. “You?” 

He nodded. “Apparently I come across as rather standoffish and far too blunt,” he said, citing Josephine's carefully constructed criticism. “Too Ferelden, as she so charmingly put it.”

She chuckled lightly, casting her eyes back down at the map. “The Dalish savage and the Ferelden barbarian” she said colourfully. “I’m sure between us we will utterly dissolve any chance to forge a necessary alliance with Orlais.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought, and Maker, it did feel good to laugh. After a moment of comfortable silence, she looked across at him again, her smile warm. “I’ve never found you to be particularly standoffish,” she said quietly, almost shyly. “Stubborn, certainly. But your bluntness is honestly appreciated. I think sometimes that most people here are too cordial with me, and it can be frustrating.”

Cullen smiled appreciatively, feeling his cheeks redden. He wondered if he would ever get used to her easy praise. And yet when she smiled that wonderfully easy, warm smile of hers, that warmth stayed with him all through the day. If he could only find the words to tell her that, without the crushing fear of losing these precious moments.

Chapter 12: Division of Duty

Lin had only just returned from Val Royeaux, eager to bathe away the fishy stench of the gilded city, when a most unexpected sight greeted her in the main hall. 

Leliana stood by the blazing hearth, conversing with a young woman dressed in painted leathers who, even from behind as she sat in one of the chairs, Lin recognised immediately. Any tiredness she felt upon ascending the steps was immediately washed away by a spark of excitement, followed by a deep, roiling sense of dread. “Tyriah?” she asked, incredulously, dropping her pack to the stone floor. 

At once, the younger woman leapt up from her seat and turned to face her, her expression awash with pure relief. “Gods’ grace, Lindi!” she exclaimed, reaching for her at once and pressing her forehead gently against hers, her breathing ragged.

“Andaran’atishan, cousin” she said, squeezing her trembling hands in response. “What on earth are you doing here? What has happened?”

“I’ve been running for days, Lindi” she said, her voice hushed as she glanced warily at Leliana, who had stepped back respectfully to give them some sense of privacy. “The clan is besieged, I was barely able to get past their lines, and-”

“ Hamin, Tyriah,” Lin implored her, willing her own voice to maintain some sense of calm. “Besieged by whom?”

“Bandits” she said, worrying at her lip. “We thought, initially. But Lindi, they’re far too well organised. The Keeper bid me to find you, and ask-”

Once again she glanced around worriedly. Tyriah was three years her junior and had little exposure to human society, nor did she have any inclination to be better acquainted with it, as was usual for most of the Dalish people. Lin knew she was afraid, although not eager to betray that fact. She had been much the same during her time in Haven. To have come here alone, with what looked like very little rest, made Lin’s heart ache with understanding. 

“I have a letter,” Tyriah said eventually, pulling a sealed scroll from the cylindrical case dangling from her belt. “The Keeper can explain it better than I.”

Lin took it from her and quickly broke the seal, scanning the parchment hastily. The sound of her own heartbeat drowned out the ambient noise of the keep, her vision blurring momentarily. She looked to Leliana, her face grave. The Spymaster nodded knowingly, and summoned one of the guards from his place by the door. “Please call for the Commander and Lady Montilyet, and tell them to meet us in the war room.” she said. “At once.”

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Tyriah stayed at her side throughout their deliberation in the war room, making her discomfort clear in the presence of the others, despite their politeness towards her.

“Banditry has been rife all across the continent, Inquisitor” Josephine reasoned. “It could be that they have been driven to desperation with the Rifts making much of the wilderness unsafe for passage.”

“It is a possibility,” Leliana mused. “But I doubt your clan leader would be seeking aid if the situation were not particularly dire.”

“She would not,” Lin agreed, leaning her palms against the table. “We have dealt with enough attacks in the past to know the difference between roving gangs of highwaymen and something more dire.”

“Their attacks have persisted for weeks” Tyriah said, more to Lin than to the others. “As many as we kill, more fill the gaps in their ranks in the next wave. They are well supplied and well fortified, more akin to soldiers.”

The look she gave Lin was grave and filled with silent meaning, and it sent a shiver down her spine at the insinuation. She tried to speak, but all words seemed stuck behind her tongue. All at once, she felt the shield of her rank and the many years of training for leadership slipping away, overtaken by a surge of paradoxical emotions that fogged her mind entirely. She felt like a child, lost without a mother’s guidance and feeling the sheer enormity of the world around her. She had to intervene, yet she did not know how. Could she return to them, and would it make any difference if the situation was so dire? Could she order the Inquisition to action, without all onlookers accusing her of selfish gain?

“Their weapons,” the Commander suddenly said, speaking for the first time since the meeting commenced, his expression unreadable. “Can you describe them?”

The look Tyriah shot him was full of disdain, but she answered nonetheless. “Fine steel,” she said, tipping her chin up, narrowing her eyes. “Not unlike yours…ser.”

“And their armour?”

“They covered themselves with ratty robes and fraying cloaks” she said. “But underneath they were well fortified, and they wore no sigils or effects to suggest their origins.”

Cullen frowned, his fingers tapping on the pommel of his sheathed blade. “No simple bandits would attack a Dalish clan with such force,” he concluded somberly. He leaned over the map and furrowed his brow, falling silent once more.

“Duke Antoine of Wycome is an ally to the Inquisition” Josephine said. “If there is such a force of bandits within the territory, I’m sure he would be willing to offer mutual aid to your people?”

“I don’t..” Lin began, shaking her head in a vain attempt to gain more clarity. 

“We have no knowledge of where these supposed bandits are coming from, involving others in this matter may prove to increase the danger.” Cullen swiftly retorted. “Inquisitor, I know you are opposed to involving our military in your people’s matters, but I have soldiers stationed within reasonable distance of the region. If your kinswoman here is willing to act as guide, I can have a small contingent ready to leave Skyhold by dawn to rendezvous with them outside the valley.”

Lin looked down at her whitening knuckles as she gripped the wood tighter. Beside her, she could practically feel Tyriah stiffen. She looked to her cousin, and saw she appeared as conflicted as she was. 

She then looked across the table to Cullen. He had once argued the case for sending soldiers to Clan Lavellan to assure them of her wellbeing after she had been imprisoned, stating his wish for the Inquisition’s strength to be made apparent. It was the first time they had rowed in earnest over the war table, for she knew that such an arrogant approach would have ended in violence. 

Yet now, she was caught with no other reasonable alternative; she was all but powerless. She would have to put her faith in her soldiers, as well as her own kinsmen, and pray that the heat of battle would not lead to a disastrous conflict borne of misunderstanding. Moreover, she would have to put her absolute faith in Cullen’s council.

“Do it” she said, nostrils flaring. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Although she had been offered accommodation of her own, Tyriah opted to stay with Lin for the night, for which Lin was admittedly relieved.

Tyriah had sustained her share of injuries in the process of evading the clan’s attackers, though nothing greatly concerning. Lin helped her change the sweat and blood-dampened bandages wrapped around her ribs, and healed up the cuts and scrapes that decorated her bare arms and calves. They bathed and shared a meal of hearty stew, which had been left over on the hearth from the morning. Lin rarely availed of the privilege of rank that allowed her to summon a servant whenever she desired food. Instead, she had the kitchens store the meat from her hunts, and she would take it to her quarters to cook it up herself. 

“I was worried you’d be different now,” Tyriah confessed sheepishly. “Glad you’ve not gotten haughty and spoiled, even if it means I must eat your awful cooking.”

“I’ll not make hearthcakes, then” Lin warned her lightly. 

“I do like your hearthcakes,” Tyriah conceded, tempted by the notion as Lin knew she would be.

They talked for a while about the welfare of the clan, and Lin was beyond relieved to hear that thus far, despite the threat that besieged them, there had not been any deaths, though a few serious injuries. It seemed her choice to stay amongst the Inquisition had been received favourably by the majority of the clan, at least when she had become Inquisitor. There were of course some, the expected few, who felt the opposite. 

“There was an uproar, as you can imagine” Tyriah explained somberly. “Once word reached us about your capture, many of us thought the worst. Many called for Mein’harel , but your mother quelled the worst of the outrage.”

“It would have been foolish to take such a risk on my account,” Lin sighed, staring down at the remaining liquid in her bowl of stew. “But I cannot imagine how the “Herald of Andraste” matter was recieved. What you all must have thought of me…”

“There were few enough who’d believe you of all people would title yourself as such,” Tyriah scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That the Shemlen would even consider you as such.”

She felt at least some measure of relief at that. “I could scarcely believe it myself,” she said, shaking her head. “But since the battle at Adamant, and what I witnessed in the fade, the Inquisition at least sees the reality of the situation.”

Tyriah tilted her head, expression half curious, half pitying. “Mythal enaste,,” she breathed, placing her empty bowl on the floor. “We only hear snippets of what you’ve been dealing with since leaving, and your letters were so brief. Tell me the truth of things, won’t you?”

It was Lin’s turn to recount her time away, and the two began to slip into old, comfortable habits quickly. Tyriah sat behind her, helping her undo her braids and combing out her hair until it was straight and shining. Half way through the conversation, they switched places. Even though the thrum of anxiety still remained, Lin found herself smiling fondly as she combed out her cousin’s mousey brown locks. For this moment at least, she felt the contentment of a familiar routine she had known since childhood. 

Although Tyriah had many more questions, and Lin longed to bask in their familial closeness for as long as possible, she knew her cousin needed rest before making the journey back. Although her bed was more than large enough to accommodate them both, they instead chose to lay out the thick fur blankets by the fire, so they might sleep in the same manner they did in the past. With the help of a healing brew, it did not take long for Tyriah to slip into a deep slumber. She had travelled non-stop for five days, despite her injuries. Lin lay on her side on the makeshift bedroll beside her, watching her with a troubled expression. Sleep would be impossible for her tonight, she knew. The same question looped around her mind, unceasing in its urgency; who were these assailants, and why were they targeting the clan with such relentlessness?

Another, less rational but equally dire question chased it each and every time. Was this the work of enemies of the Inquisition? 

Regardless of the answers, and whoever these people were, they would find themselves her enemies soon enough. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

The contingent rode out at dawn, accompanied by Lin and Commander Cullen for the first four miles of their journey. 

Tyriah, with her satchel replenished with supplies and her injuries healed, was given the loan of a horse for the journey. She was sure-seated from the years of halla-riding, just as Lin was, though neither of them were particularly fond of horses by comparison. Conversation between them was rushed, both knowing their time was short. Lin could see the apprehension in her cousin’s eyes, and the wary manner with which she viewed the men and women she would be travelling with. “Lieutenant Chambreterre is an honourable woman and an accomplished soldier,” Lin quietly reassured her, inclining her head towards the stocky armoured woman at the head of the party.

She saw Tyriah’s shoulders relax as her eyes fell upon the trio of elven soldiers riding opposite them. “Flat-ear soldiers,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I thought the Shemlen did not allow them to carry weapons?”

“It surprised me too, at first” Lin admitted. “But even before I became Inquisitor, the Inquisition had many elven agents, Dwarves and Quanari as well. It is a shame there was not time to show you more of how things operate, or introduce you to my companions.”

“Do you prefer it to life with us?” Tyriah asked, throwing her a worried look. 

Lin bit down hard on her lower lip, feeling a sudden tremor of emotion. “No” she breathed softly, eyes fixed on the reigns bunched up in her fist. “But the people of the Inquisition are good and trustworthy. I am…glad to know them.”

Tyriah was silent for a moment, but her expression remained troubled. “So long as you remain vigilant” she said. “Their society is a breeding ground for treachery, and they are light with their loyalties.”

Lin nodded mechanically, feeling the enormity of the meaning that lay beneath her cousin’s words. “You sound like father.” she remarked with chilly ire. 

“It was not so long ago you believed the same”

“I know” she sighed, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

The time soon came to part ways, and Lin’s hands trembled as she pulled her cousin into a tight embrace that nearly winded them both. “Send word as soon as you can,” she whispered against Tyriah’s warm cheek, unblinking for fear of the tears that threatened to spill out at any moment. “Be safe. God’s above, I pray you all shall be safe.”

“Thank you, Lindi” Tyriah sniffed, pulling back slightly to give her a watery smile. “I only wish you could come with me.”

“My advisors are right,” she said with difficulty. “I would likely put you in even more danger.”

They pressed their foreheads together and closed their eyes. “ Dareth shiral , little cousin” Lin breathed out. “Take me with you in spirit. If fate is kind, I will find my way home again someday.”

They parted reluctantly, and Lin watched as the small group headed up the mountain valley, until the winding road led them out of sight. Her jaw was tight as she turned her horse, nodding to Cullen and the two remaining guardsmen that it was time to return to Skyhold. They rode back in silence, but when the hooves of their steeds clanked rhythmically against the cobbled bridge, the Commander pulled up alongside her on his stocky roan gelding. Although she could not bring herself to look at him, she could sense his concerned gaze upon her. “I understand how hard this must be, Inquisitor,” he said quietly. “But rest assured, our soldiers will do everything in their power to safeguard your kinsmen.”

“I know, Commander” she said with a tight, painful smile, staring dry-eyed at the rising portcullis that slowly ascended to grant them passage. “It is all very well done.”

She wanted to scream out her frustration. She wanted to throw herself from her horse and take to her lupine form and race across the distance that kept her from her family, Inquisition be damned. She wanted to turn to Cullen and express the depth of her inner pain as he once had with her. But she could do none of that. She could do nothing but maintain a sense of dignity and decorum in the face of such a personal calamity, because she was Inquisitor Lavellan, and the eyes of so many were perpetually upon her, needing to draw strength from her facade of stoicism. 

______________________________________________________________________________

In the privacy of her quarters, Lin poured herself a cup of wine, and drained it in two gulps. With one hand braced against the hearth, she stared into the dying flames, her vision beginning to blur. A numbness spread throughout her, slow and creeping, and the smallest, pitiful sound escaped her throat. The dam finally broke. 

She flung the cup across the room with a furious growl, pressing her forehead against the cold stone as tears flowed freely down her cheeks, accompanied by powerful and violent sobs that  she could not suppress. Sinking to her knees, she felt the weight of it all; The war, the politics, the loneliness, the fear and the responsibility, bearing down upon her like a relentless rain of stones. Bitter resentment twisted in her gut like a knife, towards the Inquisition for keeping her from her clan, and moreso towards herself for the helplessness she felt. 

For a moment, she was not Inquisitor Lavellan. She was simply a child, longing for the comfort of her mother, who was far, far away, her fate and the fate of the entire clan still waiting to be determined.

Chapter 13: Wishful Thinking

 

The candle on the desk had whittled down to nothing. Cullen had worked well into the night to finalise the troop roster for his newly trained recruits. With the rising number of Darkspawn appearing in the Western Approach, Rylen needed to flesh out his ranks and keep the ramparts manned while his more experienced men flushed out the raider’s that presently harried their eastern camps. Despite Gryphon Wing Keep’s remote location, the sprawling dunes were rife with vicious threats, particularly the local fauna, most of which seemed to possess some venomous properties. Yet the keep had become a vital landmark for the Inquisition. Numerous Ventatori outposts had been uncovered and eradicated, but those that remained had burrowed deeper into the canyons, and they needed to ensure that they were routed before they could reestablish their smuggling operations. Although Rylen never complained of his posting, Cullen still wondered if he ought to give the man a commendation for enduring the oppressive heat and dull surroundings. 

Once the orders had been sealed and set to the side, he leaned back in his comfortable chair and looked up at the dusty wooden beams above, yawning tiredly. Only one more letter remained that needed to be addressed, laying open beside his half-filled tankard with the scolding words of his elder sister staring back at him. He knew better than to delay in sending a response. Mia had grown rather relentless since his last disappearance, and if he left it much longer, he feared she would inexplicably arrive at Skyhold to chastise him in person. Even so, he was glad of her persistence, and gladder still to be kept informed that she and the rest were well. He picked up the letter again and gave it another once-over, smiling as his eyes fell upon one particular paragraph that bore some particularly happy news about the new addition to the family. He set it down again and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment dipping the nib of his quill into the ink, pondering his response, when there came a loud knock on the central door of his office that sliced through the pleasant silence, making him flinch. 

“Come in” he called out, brow furrowed irritably. 

Errol, one of the assigned gate guards for the night, strode into the room and offered a respectful salute, and Cullen regarded him with a weary frown. “What is it?”

The man held up a scroll case, bowing his head as he held it aloft. “A message from the Marches, ser” he announced. “From Lieutenant Chambrettere.”

“Maker’s breath, man” Cullen swore, springing abruptly from his seat and snatching the leather case from his outstretched hand. “Just arrived?”

“Aye, ser” the guardsman said, his shaky tone betraying a hint of nervousness. “The messenger arrived with all due haste.”

Cullen nodded swiftly. “See him to the kitchens and ensure he is paid and his horse tended” he instructed, waving the man away.

Whatever tiredness he had been starting to feel gave way to a sharp and fast-growing sense of panic. He pulled frustratedly at the buckle of the leather cylinder until it gave way, allowing him to dig out the sealed scroll within. Without realising it, he found himself mouthing a prayer as the paper was unfurled. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, bracing himself against the desk with his free hand, not yet ready to discover the truth. It had been almost a week since he dispatched his troops to the valley just beyond Wycome. He was rarely lacking in confidence over his decisions in military matters, but this time was a stark contrast from the usual matters he was accustomed to. 

Whatever words lay within this missive would confirm whether his decisive actions had saved the lives of the Lavellan clan, or doomed them with utmost certainty. Already he could feel the perspiration forming on his brow at the thought. 

Would Lin ever trust him, let alone forgive him, if he had miscalculated?

The image of her captivating smile danced behind his eyelids, the sound of her soft, melodic laughter echoing in his ears. He saw her as she was on that day in the gardens, that glimpse of her lovely, curious and passionate nature that was all too often buried beneath the burden of rank. He might never see that light in her eyes again if he was wrong. 

Steeling himself, he opened his eyes and looked down at the missive. 

Before he knew it, he was swiftly exiting his office, fumbling with the heavy keys as he locked the door behind him, racing across the central ramparts towards the keep, his heart pounding urgently in his chest. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Breathless from his ascent up the winding staircase, Cullen hammered insistently on the door to the Inquisitor’s quarters. He held his breath as he waited for a response, belatedly registering the possibility that the Inquisitor might be asleep. No answer came, so he tried again; but still nothing. That worried him. The guards keeping watch over the main hall for the night shift had informed him that she had retired to her quarters not long after they had taken their posts, and had not left since. After a moment’s wait, he felt suddenly anxious. From the ramparts he had seen the open doors of the balcony, light spilling from within. 

Perhaps she was deep asleep, and did not hear him. He looked down at the letters in his hand and considered sliding them under the door, so at least she might see them whenever she roused for the day. Yet just as he bent to do so, there was an almighty crash from the room above, and he was instantly alert. 

“Inquisitor?” he called out in alarm, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. 

Still no answer. Without thinking, he grabbed the doorknob with his free hand and rammed his shoulder into the heavy wooden door at the same time. It had not been locked, leaving him to stumble for a few steps from the unnecessary momentum. His thoughts raced as he ascended the small staircase. An assassin? Maker, he prayed it was not so. 

At the top of the steps he halted, eyes hurriedly scanning the candlelit room. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, but aside from that, neither a sign of the Inquisitor nor an intruder. 

Confused, he cautiously made his way to the center of the room, and it was only then that he spied the tiny little bundle on the floor beside the desk, surrounded by three shattered glass jars of herbs. Upon closer inspection, he realized the bundle was a bird, and instantly sighed with relief as he realized it was the source of the noise. Somehow, the poor creature must have flown in from outside, or was more likely blown in by a harsh gust of wind, and had itself a rough landing. He set the letters on the table and knelt to assess whether it was alive or not. It was not one of Leliana’s birds, but rather it appeared to be a rather small bird of prey, most likely out to hunt the rats that confidently raided the empty trader stalls when the lower yard was empty for the night. Its eyes were closed, but it’s fluffy chest was rising and falling steadily, and aside from a few loose downy feathers lying on the floor, it looked to be nothing more than stunned. With great care, he scooped it up in both hands. “Poor sod,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Doesn’t look too bad, at least.”

His original task was momentarily forgotten as he walked towards the fire. He could not help but smile down at the odd little thing, with it’s striped tawny plumage all ruffled and puffed up. Cradled in his gloved hands, he could feel its tiny fluttering heartbeat, and found it a surprisingly sweet sensation. When the warmth alone did not rouse it, he carefully placed two fingers on its chest, making small, soft circles and applying the most minute amount of pressure he could manage. “Come on, now” he whispered encouragingly. “Up you get, little fella.”

One tiny, twig-like leg slowly unfurled from beneath its wings, followed by the other.  Only when its little head emerged and its large-set eyes cracked open did he realize that something was amiss. While he was not overly familiar with predator birds, he was rather certain that they did not have green and gold eyes. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to fetch a healer?” Cullen called over his shoulder, nervously tapping on the buckle of his vest belt. 

“I am a healer” Lin responded dryly, her voice echoing from the other side of the room.

“Ah, so you are” he said, exasperated, wiping his palm over his unshaven jaw.

He was an idiot, an absolute idiot. What was he thinking, barging into her quarters like that? Fear of danger aside, he ought to have left as soon as he found the room vacant, though he supposed he could hardly be blamed for mistaking a bird to be, well, a bird. 

In truth, before meeting Lin, he had always believed shapeshifting to be a myth, or at the very least a metaphor for the dangerous and cunning nature of apostates. To be able to alter ones physical form so entirely seemed, at least in theory, to be more akin to the work of spirits. Or demons. He was ashamed to admit that there had been a time, however brief, when he had been particularly wary of Lin’s abilities, although he had seen her transform only a handful of times. He most certainly had not expected she could take multiple forms. 

Cullen was still recovering from the shock. One moment he was holding a little bird, one that could fit in both hands, the next, he was holding the Inquisitor aloft under the arms like a fussing toddler, her feet barely touching the floor and her expression both confused and irritated. He had also been bitten for his troubles in the brief time between waking and transforming, though he could hardly be vexed by that, even if that razor-sharp beak had sheared right through his glove and pierced the flesh. It was still bleeding, but at present he was far more concerned about the state of the Inquisitor. No sooner had she returned to her original form had she staggered back from him, looking as bewildered as he had been. Thankfully, he was quick to remember his original purpose for coming, and hastily explained, practically throwing the scroll case at her if only to prevent her from drawing a more criminal conclusion. Her eyes had changed so quickly as she pulled out the papers, seemingly forgetting his presence entirely as she retreated to the other side of the room to read. He recounted the contents of the official report aloud even so, if only to stop the renewed silence of the room from suffocating him. The cuts and scrapes criss-crossing her arms had not escaped his notice, however, and he was keen to discover the cause of her injuries.

The wisest thing to do, he thought, would be to leave her with the good news, but given the nature of the situation, he felt sure she would want to solidify the matter as soon as possible. So he stayed, awkward and fiddling with the hem of his vest, back turned to give her privacy. Curious, he looked about the visible side of the room with more scrutiny than the first time. 

The space was very her.  

It was a large,open room, occupying the entirety of the top floor of the Keep. Unlike his own quarters, there was no segregation between the workspace and living area. A small desk sat in the corner near the balcony with a pair of slim bookshelves behind it, but the desk seemed mostly occupied by various jars of herbs and a few books. The cosy spot around the fireplace seemed to be the most lived-in area, where the low rectangular table held an open box containing various documents, alongside a barely-eaten bowl of cold stew that appeared to have been left ignored for most of the day. Above the mantle, where there would customarily be a portrait or mirror of some sort, there was instead a long rack adorned with dozens of drying sprigs of herbs. A strong, soothing scent of jasmine permeated the room, even with the doors on the balcony wide open. There was certainly an air of homeliness about the place, far moreso than his own quarters. Another talent of hers, he noted. Whether it was a tent in the middle of a military encampment, or here in her residence in Skyhold, she seemed to be able to create a warm, cosy place for herself. Something about that made him smile.

Behind him, he heard Lin tear open the seal of the second, private letter. Cullen wondered what it might have contained, and whether she would divulge its contents, or whether she would simply tuck it away and give him a curt thank-you that signalled it was time to leave her in peace. Such was the delicate balance between work and friendship, although he had to wonder if it could be called that when it came to himself and Lin. Living a life of dedication to duty often made him unsure of when working with someone fully transitioned into true friendship, into something that existed in a separate category rather than simply being the result of repetitious encounters and trust in one anothers abilities. The amount of friends he truly felt he had could be counted on one hand. Was Lin his friend, or simply a particularly hands-on leader who tended her people in the same manner he would attend the calibrations on the Inquisition’s trebuchets; fine-tuning, overseeing repairs, making sure everything was ship-shape for the battles to come? Commendable if so, a sign of a strong hand on the reins. Not what he wanted, however, and deep down, even friendship was not exactly what he desired. That particular sentiment made him feel selfish, but there was little enough point in self-denial about it anymore. 

He risked a subtle glance over his shoulder at her, and could not help but take her in properly, now that the panic had subsided. 

The dim light of candles scattered about the room outlined her slim, lithe form. Divested of her usual manner of attire, she wore only a pair of light brown trousers that were cuffed at the knees and left her calves bare, and a sleeveless undershirt that was cropped high enough to expose her elegantly muscled abdomen. Her dark auburn hair was loose and unadorned, swept over one shoulder and flowing like a shimmering waterfall down her side, ending just above the curve of her hips. 

Maker help him. She transcended the word beautiful. 

“D’you want a drink?” she asked, suddenly breaking the silence, although she still had not looked up from the letter, her brows furrowed with avid concentration. 

“Ah, yes…Thank you.” He said with hesitation, swallowing the bothersome lump in his parched throat.

Still reading, she walked to her desk and felt blindly for the top drawer, pulling out an odd, oval-shaped opaque bottle of what appeared to be water, grabbing two pewter cups from the shelf. There was a loud, deep pop as she pulled out the cork with her teeth, and then the soft trickle of liquid as both receptacles were filled. Finally, with a measure of clear reluctance, she refolded the letter and set it down on the shelf, striding over to him and handing him his drink. 

He murmured his thanks and raised the cup to his lips just as she did, like an odd sort of silent toast. Before he drank, however, he paused, blinking rapidly as the smell of the stuff hit him hard, very nearly making his eyes water. It did not possess the scent of something a human should consume. Rather, it had a powerful smell that resembled a strong metal polish. 

“Dalish Firewine” she informed him, almost proudly, taking a large gulp. “My cousin left it for me before she departed.”

“It is a shame she could not stay longer” he remarked wistfully, if only to afford him more time to steel himself. “Tyriah, was it? You seemed glad of her company, despite the circumstances.”

She nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. “It is best for her to be back with the clan, now that they’re safe.” she said. “Life here is…a hard adjustment, especially for those who haven’t seen much of human society before.”

Sadness was as etched into her words as tiredness was in her features. The dark circles under her eyes were a tell-tale sign of exhaustion and sleepless nights. She had been uncharacteristically withdrawn since the news of her clan’s danger had come to light. Waiting to hear of their fate must have been an agonising ordeal. It had been difficult to see her struggling, unable to offer any further comfort, no matter how much he wished to. Lin was an elusive creature, so refreshingly open and straightforward when she chose to be, but when she did not, it was like trying to hold onto a handful of water. He thought of the cousin, Tyriah, with her suspicious, wary eyes, and the distinctly differing manner in which she conversed with Lin compared to himself and the others. Lin had looked very much the same in Haven, always seemingly on hair-trigger even when she had grown familiar with the new surroundings. She had seemed to loathe the Inquisition at times, even after being exonerated, which made it all the more surprising when she had risked her life to save them all. 

Cullen furrowed his brow, watching her turn her attention momentarily to a small pouch on the desk, preparing her customary pipe with her back to him for a quiet few minutes. He remembered his first year away from home, how much of a shock it had been to experience a life so distinctly different to the quiet, dull life on the tiny little farm outside Honnleath. It had been thrilling in many ways, and frightful in even more. He had found himself missing the smell of his mother’s cooking, and the small room he had shared with Branson, even if his younger brother was constantly making a mess of it. He missed Mia’s teasing and Rosalie’s frequent requests for him to play dolls with her on rainy days. He missed the way his father would pat him fondly on the head with his broad, dirt-covered hand and give him a sip of the cheap wine he always kept in a skin on his belt when they were done toiling in the field. He had missed it all, the good and the bad, enough to make him ache to run home as fast as his feet would carry him. It was only when he befriended the other boys, when he began to understand that he was not alone in his homesickness, that he started to feel some sense of belonging in his new home.

“It must be hard for you too, being away from your kinsmen” he said, nodding sympathetically. 

“It has become easier, over time” she said tiredly, dangling the pipe chamber over a sputtering candle until the contents hissed and crackled softly, taken by the little flame. “Though still, there are times when it feels like a losing battle, trying to belong in the world of humans.”

She glanced down at his yet unsampled cup, furrowing her brow. “I can get you something milder, if you like.” 

“Oh no, it's fine” he said, compelled by pride to conceal his wariness. He had consumed Lyrium for over a decade, and like all Templars, it had given him a very handy tolerance that very nearly rivalled that of a Dwarf. Surely it couldn’t do him too much harm?

It did.

Makers breath, one small, tentative sup was like being caught up in a bright explosion. Though he had only lost his vision to a haze of white light for a very brief second, the aftershock lingered. Then came the coughing fit, which lasted much longer, much to his great embarrassment. Firewine indeed! It felt as though he had just traipsed through a burning building. After smacking his palm against his hard steel breastplate a few times, he finally began to recover, and gather the splintered remains of his decorum. “It’s very…’s very…” he smacked his lips together a few times as he tried to summon up the right word. “It’s something.”

Lin chuckled dryly. “It is deathly stuff, I know.” she said, sloshing the liquid around in her cup distractedly. “Sometimes we use it to strip paint off the aravels. But, I have fond memories of drinking it with my clanmates. I can fetch something less intense if you’d prefer, though.”

“Oh no, it's…not so bad after the initial shock” he said, smiling reassuredly, despite the reluctance to attempt another sip. His eyes fell upon the scratches on her bare arms. “Inquisitor…may I ask how that happened?”

Lin glanced down at her arm as she blew out a plume of sweet-smelling smoke. “It’s nothing” she said dismissively, shrugging with indifference. “Once my mana regenerates, I’ll clean them up.”

She looked at him then, frowning concernedly. “I apologize for startling you. I was not expecting company.”

“It was…a shock, to be sure, but no harm done” he assured her earnestly. “To be honest, your magic is quite unlike any I’ve seen before. I wasn’t aware you could take multiple forms.”

“It is a complex art, wild-shaping” she said, somewhat sheepishly. “And harder to learn to fly than to walk on four legs, admittedly. ”

Although Cullen never took much interest in the particulars of magic, even before the incident in the Ferelden Circle, he could not deny the curiosity he felt about her capabilities. How could one change with such apparent ease between such drastically different forms? Was it merely a powerful illusion, or a true change of ones entire being? He recalled their first encounter, in the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes; The great hulking beast that leapt into the fray and tore into the demons, black ichor dripping from large fangs and odd-eyes alert and hungry, magnificent and frightening as it turned to face him, ears pinned back flat as though it were yet unsure if he was enemy or ally. A true beast would not have hesitated. It was clear she possessed extraordinary self-control, if there needed to be any more evidence of that fact. 

“You’re bleeding” she said suddenly, jarring him from his thoughts. 

Cullen looked down at his clenched fist and raised a quizzical brow. He wondered how she could possibly know that, given that he had contained the blood to his palm. He looked back up at her, about to once again insist he was fine, but she seemed to anticipate his intentions. “Enhanced senses” she said, tapping the bridge of her nose twice. “I believe I may have lashed out when I regained consciousness, did I not?”

“Perhaps a little”

She nodded. “I am sorry for that,” she said earnestly. “Take off your glove.”

His brow raised with surprise. “Oh, you needn’t-”

“I must insist” she interjected, firmly but kindly, setting down her pipe for a moment as she went to the desk. 

He felt a strange thrum of giddiness in his chest and belly, partially for the kindness of her for caring about such a small trifle of a cut, and partially from a deeper, more primal fear that she might intend to use magic. He glanced down at the crescent-shaped slice across his fingertip. A thin sliver of cut flesh winked at him from the gap in the leather, inciting two words to come to mind simultaneously. Blood. Magic. The two were not mutually exclusive, he knew, but that damaged part of him drew conclusions that his rational mind had to often suppress. It was not for lack of trust in her, but moreso in himself. 

Thankfully, she turned back towards him and the jar in her hand put that distant worry to rest. As instructed, he peeled off the glove of the blood-dampened hand. The cut was small but deep, and tingled with dull, wet pain.He had sustained far worse wounds in his lifetime, and so the extent of his discomfort was minimal by comparison, though the awkward shape and depth of it meant it would certainly continue to bleed even when held with pressure, an annoyance more than anything. Lin sat on the opposite end of the sofa and uncorked the little bottle. The contents were thick and pasty with a milky green colour. “Just a little elfroot paste mixed with flour” she said as she rubbed a small knob of it between her thumb and index finger to warm it up. “It’ll bond the skin good and fast, no magic needed. Should be right as rain by tomorrow.”

No magic needed. She certainly had good bedside manner. She held out her other hand to him, and he did the same. He couldn’t help but smile. Such a simple gesture, not one that would normally warrant any particular consideration, yet he felt his heart beat faster, deeper, as her willowy fingers closed gently around his knuckles, and she carefully began to apply the paste to the offending finger. It only took a moment, but even so, he felt rather awkward, unsure of where to look or whether to make conversation. There was a strange sort of heaviness in the air, not particularly unpleasant, but rather more akin to anticipation, as if expecting something to happen without really knowing what that something was. She first swept her fingers over the drying red blood, and then smoothed the paste over the area and pressed her thumb and forefinger over it, waiting for it to take effect. He risked a glance at her face while she was preoccupied, and was surprised to find that her tired features had softened and relaxed somewhat. 

“You like healing” he said, more a statement than a question.

She nodded. “Would that I were better at it,” she said softly.”I have a long ways to go before I can come close to what my mother can do.”

“It's more than any mage I’ve ever known,” he mused. “Most mages tend to prefer fireballs and wards in my experience.”

“Most mages spend time behind walls and doors” she shrugged. “The Old Magics cannot thrive and flourish in such places. Our magic is drawn from the land as much as from the fade.”

“Oh” he murmured, and said nothing more on the subject, lest the atmosphere turn sour at the reminder of their contradicting origins. Healing did, however, seem like it would have been a more effective school of magic for circle mages, and far less dangerous. A shame, he thought, though he supposed it was too late for such progressive thinking now, when the damage was already done, and as she said, it would not have been effective in such confines. 

She, at least, could keep a conversation going without missing a beat, unlike him. “How are your family faring, Commander?” she enquired with interest. “Has the war affected them much?”

He smiled fondly, glad to be able to share his family’s recent good news, gladder still to share it with her. He informed her of Mia’s recent letter, and the new addition to the Rutherford family, and her eyes widened, her smile heart-wrenchingly tender in a way that made him feel all the warmer for seeing it. She squeezed his hand tightly with both of hers. “Oh Cullen,” she breathed, tilting her head at him. “That is wonderful news. I am very happy for you, and for your kin. A child is a true blessing, especially in such hard times”

He could feel the gentle indent of callouses on the pads of her fingers; hands more like those of a warrior than a mage, more like his hands in some ways, he thought distantly, though her skin seemed so soft and warm by comparison. He could not quite bring himself to look her in the eye, wary that she might glimpse something he was struggling at present to suppress. “It is…odd, to think that my brother is a father now.” he said, staring at the embroidered upholstery of one of the plump sofa cushions instead. “Especially when the last time I saw him he was just a child himself. Even stranger to think I am an uncle now, I suppose.”

“Do you intend to visit them soon then?”

His jaw tightened. It was a far more loaded question than she likely realised. Not since before the Blight had he had any such inclination to see his siblings. A mix of pride and shame had shut away the very notion of it for many years, as it had shut away many parts of himself in turn. But since Haven, having set foot in his homeland for the first time in almost a decade, he had grown uncharacteristically nostalgic. Mia’s bombardment of letters had been a helping factor too, of course. It was strange that annoyance at her pestering had reignited that little spark of his childhood self. Even so, he was not ready yet, not ready to see the change in them and be reminded of the many changes in him. And his parents would not be there; He was yet unsure of how that fact would feel when he was faced with it. “I’m afraid a reunion must wait until this war is ended” he said, not quite a lie but at least a half-truth. “I can do more to safeguard them here for the time being, until things are resolved.”

A flicker of mutual understanding passed between them, silent but full of conviction, as their eyes met. “ Halam’shivanas” she said quietly in her native tongue. 

 “What does that mean?” he asked, curious.

“The sweet sacrifice of duty” she said, soberly and with great conviction. “To be parted from the ones we love, knowing it is the best way to safeguard them…even if it hurts.”

Even if it hurts. Her words echoed; once, twice, three times in his mind, and each time he heard the hurt buried in them. Her eyes dry, but wide with unsuppressed vulnerability, if only for the briefest moment, the tiniest flicker. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed hers, no longer a clinical and healing touch; something gentler, something soft and unfamiliar, but so very welcome. So very needed, for both of them it seemed. 

“I am glad,” she murmured, peering at him from beneath her thick, dark lashes. Her green and gold eyes reminded him of a forest canopy beneath a cloudless summer sky; warm, full of life and a distinct sense of mystery hidden within their depths. “That I had the sense to trust in your judgement, Cullen. You have protected my people, and that…there are no words to express how much it means to me.”

“I…” he spoke before he had thought of something to say to that, leaving a prolonged silence hanging between them as he scrambled for words. “I can take little credit for it, Inquisitor. Our soldiers were eager to volunteer for the task, truth be told.”

“They were?” she asked, incredulous. 

He smiled encouragingly. “Of course. Your efforts for our forces have not gone unnoticed, my lady” he said, rather surprised that such a thing was not as clear to her as it was to himself. “You have gone above and beyond for so many of our people, myself included. It is a grave task we have all committed to in fighting this war, and such efforts mean a great deal. ”

She blinked, furrowing her brow with a look of disbelief. “Such things are the duties of a leader.”

Perhaps in a way she was correct, yet he had never known another leader who did not look upon those they lead as resources first and foremost. As Knight-Captain within the order, he had cared about the welfare of his subordinates, but it had always seemed a necessary thing to maintain a professional, unbiased distance for the sake of duty, to wall himself off from others in order to keep his mind unpolluted by personal matters. It was harder to scrutinise someone for treachery or misconduct if you knew them, knew what they had to lose, at least in his experience. 

It was not the same for Lin it seemed. On the contrary, she seemed to steer in the opposite direction. Perhaps leadership truly meant something different to her people, or perhaps not. “I think it is more than that, Inquisitor” he said softly. “I think it is simply a testament to your own sense of compassion.”

Her cheeks had darkened, he noticed. She was blushing. He had made her blush. His pulse quicked into a rapid rhythm. She had blushed before, he recalled, during their chess game many months ago, when he had first glimpsed that playful, shy and unguarded version of herself. 

Cullen’s gaze fell upon his hand, still cradled between both of hers, in that small space between them. The green paste had seeped beneath the loose flap of hard skin and done its work. That strange heaviness in the air had grown more intense, almost vibrating around them. 

“Cullen please, just call me Lin,” she said, so quietly he was unsure if he had heard her correctly, prompting him to look up again. She was smiling, in that weary manner that did not meet her eyes. “It would be nice, once in a while, to just be Lin.”

“Of course…Lin.” he acquiesced, savouring the way her short-handed name felt on his tongue. He had always addressed her as either Herald or Inquisitor, and on one occasion Lavellan during a heated meeting in Haven when he had, admittedly, forgotten his manners for a moment. Only once to his memory had he called her by her name, when Haven was burning around them and propriety seemed rather pointless.

With that layer of formality stripped away, it was as though he could see things with far greater clarity, and connect the little details of the moment that he had apparently not allowed himself to see before. The glow of firelight and a scant few lit candles bathed the room in a cosy softness, making the space seem far more intimate than its distant walls seemed capable of allowing. One the other side of the room there was a sturdy four-poster bed. Rich red curtains draped from its beams, but through a small, triangular gap between there was a fur blanket, the right hand corner pulled back, almost invitingly , he thought. No sounds but the gentle crackling of blackened log cuts in the fire, and the drumming of his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Skyhold was filled to the brim with all manner of people, yet here in the highest room of the keep, it was just the two of them, alone, far away from everything but the night sky and the full moon. Just the two of them, seated on the sofa, knees almost touching, hands still touching. He felt dizzy, in a way he knew had little to do with the barely touched cup of fiery liquid. 

If he leaned forward, just a little bit, what might happen? Without thinking, he found himself staring at her dark, rosy lips, parted as though preparing to speak, though no words were spoken. He felt her own gaze studying him, curious, as though noticing something of particular interest. He swallowed hard. Something was happening, he thought dizzily, something wonderful and full of promise and all he had to do was move just a little closer…

But he didn’t. 

That damned niggling voice of reason and logic flooded out his longing, reminding him that he was staring at the Inquisitor, his leader, his superior, who was in a distinctly vulnerable state after the attack on her people. He should not have barged into her room, nor should he have stayed for this long. What on earth would people think if they knew he was alone with her here at this hour? What kind of rumours might the guards he had passed in the main hall spread in a drunken gossip session in the tavern? Reputations could be ruined for far less.

They both separated simultaneously, simultaneously snapping back to reality it seemed. His hand detached from her grip as she withdrew both of hers, placing them instead on her lap. He quickly sprang to his feet, stretching his arms at his sides in a vain attempt to play off the rapidly growing panic accumulating in his belly. “Ah, forgive me. I had not realized it had grown so late,” he lied, glancing through the open balcony doors at the silvery moonlight pooling on the stones. “I should leave you to your rest, Inquisitor. I’d be happy to discuss the situation in the free marches further tomorrow after the war council if it pleases you.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, clearing her throat as she stood up as well. “And…thank you again, Commander.”

Only awkwardness seemed to linger in the air now, as they stood at a respectable distance from one another, once again Inquisitor and Commander. That was good. Titles were safe. Titles were distinct in their meaning and left little room for wondering, even if wondering felt thrilling. “Ah…yes, well…” he rubbed at his neck, glancing over his shoulder at the stairs that lead to the exit. “Goodnight then, Inquisitor.”

Bowing his head, he turned on his heel and made for the stairs. 

“It was an owl” 

He paused with his hand on the top of the railing, looking back at her with confusion. “Pardon?”

Sheepishly, Lin rubbed at her elbow, her lips drawn tight. “I got attacked by an owl while I was practicing flight.” she said stiffly. “The damned thing swooped down out of nowhere. I managed to give it the slip but…ah, well you know…the wind is strong here in the mountains. Couldn’t quite control the landing.”

“Oh” he murmured, trying to maintain a serious look. Yet remembering the diminutive size of her in her avian form, it was hard not to picture a rather humorous altercation in the sky with a larger arial predator. “Well…shall I let the guards know to watch out for the would-be assassin?”

She cocked her head to one side as if trying to discern whether he was serious or not, and then she laughed, a sweet and unexpected sound, and he laughed too. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Cullen was still smiling by the time he got back to his office, and it lingered all the while he stripped off his armour and washed away a day's worth of sweat with the cold water from the basin by his bed. It had been an exhausting day overall, between dealing with a battalion of entirely green recruits who barely knew how to hold a weapon, the mound of administrative headaches that had managed to crop up all at once. Yet as he lay on his back in bed, he felt bizarrely both sated and dissatisfied all at once. That was the effect Lin perpetually had on him, for as long as he had known her. Each time they shared a moment alone, it only seemed to become all the more distracting. He tried, in vain, to convince himself it was just a cherished friendship; something he had not had for a long time, distinct from the friendly but clinical interactions he had with most of his associates in Skyhold. Friendship was good, he told himself. Friendship was a nice and comforting thing to have. Friendship wasn’t too much to ask. Yet just the word “friendship” did not sit right, nor feel right. He held his finger at eye level and examined the small green stain that still persisted even through a wash. Closing his eyes, he imaged being back in her quarters, thinking of them on the sofa, hands entwined in a moment that froze in his mind like a framed painting. Only this time he did not lose his nerve and hurry to be away from her. This time, in his imagined recollection, he had been brave enough to take her in his arms and kiss her, and know the softness of her lips and the silkiness of her hair. He would have the resolve to seek the answer to the question he did not dare to ask; did she feel the same? Were those secretive smiles and blushing cheeks real, or just the wishful thinking of his own imagination?

He wanted more. Maker help him, he needed more. 

Chapter 14: Intrusive blooms

Summary:

I'm back babbbbyyy!
Busy few months have prevented me from committing to a proper writing session, but I'll be getting back to writing on a more regular basis for the foreseeable future.
Enjoy :)

Humans did not have souls.

That was the irrefutable truth that Lin had believed for as long as she could remember. Like demons, they were a corrupt and immoral people, with holes in their hearts that nothing could fill. What they could not assimilate they simply destroyed, for power, for wealth, or simply to satiate their need for supremacy over every living thing in Thedas…and when they could not turn their cruelty on others, they simply tore into each other instead. Lin had never known it to be otherwise, not before joining the Inquisition. 

Early in her childhood, her Clan had made pilgrimage to the Emerald Graves to tend the weathered memorial stones, as was customary for each clan that travelled close to the region, to leave their mark so the dead would know that the Dalish lived on, and honour those that long ago ensured their survival with their great sacrifice. It was there she first glimpsed the murals; a tiny child of four years old, clinging to her mother’s robes. She had stared up at the painted images that outlived even the great carved statues of their homeland, so distinctly elven in their style; warriors riding their halla, bows drawn and knocked, fleeing wicked pursuers cloaked in blood, fire and steel. The Elven people had no word for Templars, her mother had told her in that moment. They were new then, when their armies had breached the Dales, and thus they had no name to the People. Instead, to those few who survived the onslaught, they were known for the longest time as the Steel Revenants. Her mother spoke with all the calmness of a still pond, yet still her grip was tight around Lin’s small frame, as though protecting her from the very memory of it all. Steel Revenants they remained in Lin’s mind for a long time, for often she would dream of them, those silvery suits of armour with only blackness for eyes, as though inhabited only by formless demons. Soulless. They had to have no soul to commit such horrors. 

Time and experience hardened the nightmares into something far more real, far more threatening and present. Templars were just the symptom of a greater disease; humanity. Every bandit raid, every village mob or roaming chantry missionary felt like a justification for the fear, the furious hatred. Every death or atrocity at their hands pushed her closer to the verge of snapping. She had not seen how much it had begun to consume her, but her mother had. It was why she was sent away in the end. To learn, to observe, to conquer her fear. “You cannot lead if you choose to see only one side of the world beyond this clan,” her mother had said, unmoved by her pleas and passionate protests otherwise. “Da’len, I do not seek to punish you, whatever you may think. Only through experience will you heal this pain in your soul, before it consumes you entirely.”

The words of both a leader and a weary mother. Lin had no choice but to obey, tears of frustration and shame burning her cheeks. Even her father could not oppose the order. As she stood at the threshold of the camp the next day, saying her farewells and receiving the blessing of her elders, he was conspicuously absent, gone away deeper into the forest to hunt without so much as a goodbye. Despite her mother’s reassurances, it nonetheless felt like a punishment, an exile of sorts; she could return, once she had mastered herself. To Lin it felt like failure, like shame, even though her mother had always dealt with her with transparency.

Over time, she had begun to understand. The lesson had seemed cruel to her once, and in her stubbornness she had resisted it to the last. Even when the Inquisition had placed its trust in her, protected her, stood with her, she felt the urge to run. They made her their leader, and still she woke each morning with a sense of dread, wondering when they would turn on her. With each ruling and decision made, she wondered whether their support was earnest, or if it was simply a facade. Some days she worried she was wading further and further into treacherous waters. Even when such days lessened and she was lulled by the new routine of things, the faces that had grown almost as familiar as the ones she had known before, the thought still lingered somewhere in the back of her mind, ever present, dark and foreboding like a malevolent heartbeat.

The night the letter arrived was the night Lin truly realized the lesson was learned. This time the words of her mother were not spoken but neatly penned, and yet still she could hear her voice as distinctly as if she were standing in the same room. 

 

Da’len,

Your soldiers will have informed you of what has transpired. Words cannot express my pride in how far you have come. That your soldiers show such honour and respect in coming to our aid speaks much of the Inquisition, and moreso it has never been more apparent that you have come to understand all that I hoped you would. It has been a difficult path you have traversed since you left us, and I have feared for you each and every day. A mother’s fear. Yet the burden of leadership must be tempered with patience and consideration. This you now know, I am sure, since assuming that burden yourself. 

It is my greatest wish to speak of all of this in person, and offer my council in these difficult times, but for now your duties must come first. The clan is safe and well for the time being, pray gods we remain as such.

Dareth Shiral, Da’len

Your Mother

 

In the days that followed, Lin read the letter each night before she fell asleep, letting the words soothe her disquieted mind. Her family was safe, at least for now, and rest came far easier with that knowledge. Yet even so, something gnawed intrusively at the back of her mind even as her eyelids drooped. 

The lesson was learned, it was true, at least enough for her to trust the Inquisition, to consider them friends and allies. Yet something else had intertwined with that newfound trust, something she once would have thought beyond impossible. Something frightening in it's foreignness, yet undeniably exhilarating. A secret, blooming like a hardy wildflower, no matter how much she had tried in vain to deny its growth. It wormed its way into her thoughts, provoked by a smile or a particular signature on a scroll, or the lingering scent of oak moss and metal polish. Sometimes it needed no provocation at all. It was simply there, a part of the new routine of things that refused to dissipate; frustrating, intrusive, and sweet as sin.