The Clutter Goes Here. Enjoy!

Defanged (The Mandalorian [Din Djarin] x female reader) Rated E for sex pollen and smut. Trigger warnings listed inside

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Late For Life Day (The Mandalorian [Din Djarin] x female reader) Rated M for smut. Trigger warnings listed inside

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Stay Safe (The Mandalorian [Din Djarin] x female reader) Rated M for canon-typical violence and eventual smut. Trigger warnings listed inside

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Stay Safe Part One

Stay Safe Part Two

Stay Safe Part Three

Stay Safe Part Four

Stay Safe Part Five

Stay Safe Part Six

Stay Safe Part Seven

Stay Safe Part Eight

Stay Safe Part Nine

Stay Safe Interlude

Stay Safe Part Ten

Stay Safe Playlist [contains spoilers for Stay Safe]

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Laugh (The Mandalorian [Din Djarin] x female reader)  Drabble. Rated M for suggestive tones

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NSFW Alphabet

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Of Gorgons And Gardens (The Mandalorian [Din Djarin] x Ezra [Prospect 2018] x female bounty hunter!reader) Rated E for sex pollen, canon-typical violence and trio smut. Trigger warnings listed inside

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Of Gorgons And Gardens Part One

Of Gorgons And Gardens Part Two

Of Gorgons And Gardens Part Three  

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Headcanons/Drabbles for the Of Gorgons And Gardens trio: 

Close Calls  💧 ✔️

Permission  🍆 💧 ✔️

Stubble 💧 ✔️

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: For a singular instance of animal abuse, general peril and violence, mentions of drowning, insensitive language, and vague depictions of gore and death. This is mainly set during the first height of the pandemic in North America and as such will briefly mention the virus. Stay safe!]

The summer of 2015 definitely didn't rank highly on your list of great summers, all due to a condensed series of unfortunate events that started with one particular outing.

Mainly it had begun with your 'friends' successfully convincing you to join them and a few boys that they had met on their campus. You remembered everybody piling into someone's Jeep after meeting up in an old dirt parking lot, eventually ending up stuffed between one of your friends and one loud, rambunctious frat boy who seemed to want nothing more than to deafen you.

The night was off to a poor start for you, but the last thing you wanted was to be seen as rude or boring. After all, these were supposed to be the best years of your life, right? You could probably endure a little momentary discomfort.

A fire was built, beers were cracked. The full moon glittered on the lake and you felt a touch more at ease, enough to reluctantly accept a beer. Which you promptly proceeded to forget about, the can slowly sweating and going warm in your hand as you listened to the latest 'scary' story one of the young men was telling.

He was trying his damnedest to make this particular one sound horrifying, going into detail regarding how hideous a certain child had been. "His face was fucked, his teeth and eyes were all uneven, and on top of that he was slow-"

"Man, I hope you never have kids." You remarked dryly, interrupting his tirade about just how revolting the little boy was. "They can't help being born a certain way, you know. People can outgrow their bully phases and their ugly phases, but I guess in your instance that would be asking too much."

"Shit man, I would have drowned him myself! From what I've heard, I'd be doing the world a favor!" His words and laughter were cruel, naked disdain for the different shining through.

"Boy, you are a piece of work." You muttered.

"And the kid was drowned, right in this lake!" He roared over you theatrically, stabbing a finger in the direction of the waterline. "His mom lost it, going on a murder spree to exact her revenge upon the people who let her little boy drown on their watch! And when they finally killed the bitch, the kid came back! As a huge murder zombie, destined to rip anything apart that came near his territory!" He crooked his fingers into claws and scratched at the air, which you thought was a bit idiotic. The boy had turned into a zombie, not a werewolf. "And to this day, he roams these lands, searching for intru--"

One of your friends let out a high, terrified scream that made you flinch, and you were halfway on your feet before you realized that it was just the other boy that had snuck up behind her to give her a fright. The young men started to laugh, both at her and at you for being so jumpy, and you had enough.

You stormed over to the young man who had startled your friend and without pause, poured your warm beer over his head. Then, you turned on the still-laughing storyteller. "Imagine if you were drowned, assface!" You shouted as his snickering died down. "You don't think your mom would go through hell and back to make the people responsible pay? That story wasn't scary, it was fucking sad and it just shows how shitty people can be!" You gestured at the lake, continuing hotly, "if that story is true, if any of that is true, imagine how disrespectful you're being! Imagine how horrible it was to be that little kid, you douchebag!"

You were nearly in tears, fed up with the whole scenario and wanting nothing more than to go home. You should have known better than to believe you would have a good time, what had you been thinking? These things always ended the same way. You should have just stayed at the dorms.

"Hey, calm down, it's only a story." The friend that had gotten spooked tried to smooth things over, but you just shook your head and stomped over to where you had left your jacket.

"I'm going back to my car."

"What, that's like a mile and a half walk!" Your other friend protested.

"I'm not going to sit around and listen to Chucklefuck over here have the time of his life talking about some innocent kid like he deserved to die." You snarled, turning on your heel. "Have a great night. I'll see you guys on Monday."

…

Jason followed you through the trees beside the winding dirt path back to the access road. You were...strange. No one showed sympathy for his early end, too absorbed with their scary stories to think about the real child whose life was cut so tragically short.

Normally, normally, he would have ended you right here. A straggler was always easy to manage. Your friends wouldn't even know you were dead. He would be silent.

"Stupid jerks." You huffed to yourself, startling him out of his reverie. "This whole night was a dumb idea. Should have known better."

Maybe he could just...scare you. Make it so you wouldn't want to ever come back. Jason gripped the machete a little tighter as he pondered what to do. He wasn't used to not killing people, but you had been so angry…

It was like the anger his mother had tried to conceal from him when he was alive. He could vaguely remember her shouting at a man in a grocery store parking lot because the man had mocked her son's lopsided eyes. "Don't listen to him, Jason. Some people are ugly on the inside," his mother had told him later.

"Just imagine being a kid, not knowing what's going on-" You were still talking to yourself, appearing absolutely incensed as you gesticulated wildly. "Being so small and helpless, not knowing how to take care of yourself...shit, college is bad enough!" You pawed at your eyes, and Jason caught the wet blotch of moisture on the sleeve of your jacket. You were crying.

For him?

People cried at him often, begging for mercy, pleading with him not to end their worthless lives. But…

Jason carelessly trod on an old dead branch, the brittle wood snapping as loud as a gunshot in the sleepy silence of the forest. He froze, certain that you would notice. Yet you kept walking, your conversation with yourself clearly drowning out whatever sounds he accidentally made.

"-talking about how weird he looked, kids look weird no matter what! Kids all pick on each other for being weird all the time and it's the dumbest shit. How do you get that old without growing out of being a little brat?!" You were half-yelling at this point, kicking a rock off the trail. "Scary story, my ass!"

This was odd. Jason decided he would stop here, just watching you until you vanished further down the path to the old camp parking lot. He told himself he was giving you a head start, but he knew that was a lie.

…

The awful news reached you on Monday and you were stunned.

The Jeep had apparently been found mangled against a boulder out in the woods by the mouth of the access road, the remains of your friends and those two young men inside.

They had been driving while intoxicated and simply lost control of the vehicle. It was tragic, but a mistake that many young people made every year. Your heart ached for the suffering that their families must be going through, and you made up your mind to bring some flowers to the area after you got out of class.

"Four white roses, please," was your request to the local florist, who gave you a sympathetic look. You were struck by a sudden thought as she went to wrap the stems in a damp paper towel. "Actually…" You dug around in your pocket for another dollar. Wasn’t like you couldn’t eat instant noodles for another day or two! "Make it five, please?"

"I'm sorry hun, all I've got left are pink or red ones. There's been a lot of people in today." The florist apologized, gesturing at the shelves that were normally full of arrangements. "Can I get you anything else? Maybe some lilies? I've got some orange stargazers."

Mulling over the choice, you finally requested, "can I have the nicest pink rose you've got, please?"

…

You came back. Why? This was very confusing.

Jason tilted his head, watching you from the safety of the foliage. There had been too many people around today as-is. He shouldn't have let those bad people get into their car. Because he had followed you first, they had nearly gotten away. But they did themselves in practically without his help, which was very convenient. All he had done was bang on the side of the vehicle and it had sent them into a drunken spiral of panic.

You had flowers and he realized that you must be here for your friends. Vigil, if he was thinking of the right word. You were crying again.

You lingered beside that large rock for a time, your fingers smoothing over the scrapes that the vehicle had made. Jason watched curiously as you placed four of the five flowers you had on the ground alongside the multitude of other arrangements that various people had dropped off during the day, giving them a gentle little pat.

If you had five flowers but only four friends, then who was the fifth one for? Though from your angry muttering the other night, they hadn't seemed like your friends. Why would you be sad about them?

You locked your car and headed to the path. Jason followed you, making certain to keep silent this time. You were still sniffling and snuffling. Did you blame yourself for their deaths? He wished he could tell you not to. They had been bad, bad people, coming into his territory, having sex and drinking until they couldn't see straight. They deserved to be punished.

You reached the shorefront, pausing to peel your shoes and socks off before you waded into the water. You only went in to a little below your knees, but Jason watched you like a hawk.

You put the pink flower down. In the water? Why?

"Hey, I know you can't hear me. I know you probably aren't hanging around here and I got all bent out of shape the other night over nothing." Your voice was shaky from crying. "I lost some people and it's hard. But I'm sorry for what those guys said about you. What happened to you, it was awful." You took a deep breath, staring out at the twilight water. "You must have been so scared."

Jason went even more still than usual, just listening. Were you talking about...him? Who he had been?

"I didn't really know the two girls all that well, we only met last semester. And those boys--" You made this odd, angry-dismissive noise. "But it's always sad when somebody dies. Especially if they're young." Your fingertips trailed through the water. "And you were so young. Ten, according to what came up on Google." Your expression was far away as you repeated, "you must have been so scared."

Scared.

The way the lake had closed over his head with all the finality of a crushing wave of concrete. He had struggled, struggled with what little strength that body had possessed.

Scared. Panic, terror.

It was no good. Water had poured into his lungs, drowning him inches from help, from safety.

His mother had been so sad, so full of grief and love for him…

…

You blinked back more tears as you thought about what you had read online. Every story had just gotten more and more sensationalistic, but all you could think about was that he had been a child, practically a baby to your adult brain. Yet people decided that because he looked or acted different, he deserved to be made into some urban legend. A monster.

"It's not fair!" You shouted abruptly, kicking your foot out beneath the water and nearly losing your balance. "The way that people treated you wasn't fucking fair! You were a kid for fuck's sake! The only thing you should have had to worry about was whether you would get home in time for Leave It To Beaver or whatever the hell was on TV in the fifties!" You growled, "instead of worrying about whether someone is going to hurt you just for looking different! I hate it!"

It had been an emotional day and it felt good for you to get all of that off your chest. But as you stood in the water, fists clenched, the pink rose bobbing forlornly a few feet away, you heard a sound behind you.

…

Jason watched the border collie latch it's jaws onto one of your sneakers and promptly sprint away, leaving you to stare after it flabbergasted.

"Hey, hey! That's my shoe!" You yelled, rushing to the shore and awkwardly shuffling into your remaining sneaker. "Get back here!"

"What'd you find, Chad?" A different voice. A man's voice. Jason straightened up. "Is that a shoe?"

Three men emerged from the treeline, each one carrying a small pack. You stood there, your hands on your hips like a disappointed parent. "Excuse me, but your dog-"

"Wow, you're definitely not what we expected to find!" The first man cut you off with a grin. "We were hoping for a monster."

"Please give me my shoe back." You requested curtly. "I have to get home."

"Whoa, what's the rush?" One of the other men asked, circling lazily around to your right. "We just got here. You not in the mood for company?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Aww, tell Dennis what happened. I'm sure I can make it all better." The man cooed, draping an arm around your shoulders and laughing when you quickly shoved it off. "So uptight! Guess you really aren't in the mood. Hey Brett, toss me the shoe."

The first man who had spoken, apparently Brett, instead pitched the shoe to their third friend. The three men began a game of keep-away with your sneaker, leaving you standing off to the side trying to balance on one foot. "Please, I just really need to leave." You sounded a little shakier now, like you were going to start crying again.

Chad the dog barked and nipped at Brett's hand in an attempt to get the sneaker, and the man rewarded the dog with a violent shove that knocked it onto its back. "Fuck off Chad, Jesus you're annoying," Brett griped. He then rounded on you with a look in his eyes that Jason decided he didn't care for one bit. "I'll tell you what. You want this shoe of yours back, it'll cost you." Brett tapped his cheek playfully. "Right here."

You were staring at the dog currently whining and cowering, then your eyes flicked up to look at Brett. Now that was an expression Jason knew well. It usually meant that his victims were going to make things more difficult than they needed to be, but right now he couldn't really blame you.

Wordlessly, you slipped on your other sock, and approached the braggadocious young man. Brett made a point of tapping his cheek again, obviously requesting something. "Shoe first." You said stiffly. The man obliged you with a bemused expression, his two friends jeering as you bent over to put the sneaker on.

Jason, overly alert due to the man's rough treatment of his dog, relished what happened next. Mainly that you punched Brett right in his cheek where he had been indicating for you to...do what, exactly? Kiss?

You yelled, "that a good enough one for you?!", and then Dennis grabbed you from behind. The man was bigger and stronger than you, hauling you off the ground and pinning your arms at your sides. You struggled and kicked, still shouting furiously at Brett. "You're a piece of trash, you-"

Dennis threw you bodily into the water, the three men laughing as you reemerged from the lake sputtering. "How about you cool off for a minute, princess?" Brett sneered. Jason debated making an appearance, the hilt of his machete digging into his palm from how tightly he was holding it. He didn't want you to be scared of him, as strange as that was to realize, but these men were bullying you.

"How about you three pack it in for the night before this gets ugly?!" You retorted, trying and failing to dodge when the third man grabbed a handful of your wet sweatshirt. He then gave the fabric a sharp yank, pitching you backwards in the shallow water. You went limp.

"Tim, what the fuck man?" Brett sighed, sounding mildly inconvenienced. "Well c'mon, pull them out of the water. You knocked 'em out. Is there a rock there or somethin'?"

"Lake could probably use another victim." Tim snickered, releasing you instead of doing as his friend said. "I thought we were freak hunting anyways. They'll be good bait, right?"

"You're so dumb. Jason doesn't eat his victims." Dennis said, rolling his eyes. "Even if he did, you need to get them out of the water. They'll drown."

"S'like a foot deep!" Tim whined in protest.

Jason had heard enough. If you drowned while he was right here, right here--

He couldn't let that happen to you. He wasn't sure why, but he couldn't.

…

You didn't remember much. How you got out of the water was a mystery. You thought that you heard someone screaming, and then there was this unyielding pressure on your chest for a moment that felt like forever.

You faded back out of consciousness, blinking awake when a warm tongue slobbered on your cheek.

Border collie, you realized, the black nose inches from your eyes. Chad, I think. "Oof, what the hell happened?" You groaned to the dog, who just licked you more. You went to sit up, your head absolutely pounding. "Oh, Jesus. Ow." You mumbled, feeling the left side of your head and grimacing when your fingers contacted broken skin. "Holy shit." Your mouth tasted like lake water. "Did you get me out of there, boy?" You asked Chad, as if he could actually answer you. The dog whined, shoving his nose beneath your arm.

Deep footprints led out of the water, but there were no marks from where someone would have dragged your body. Had those guys carried you onto the shore and then run away?

…

Once Jason had made certain you were breathing by pressing what was left of one battered ear to your sternum, he had gone after those bad men. Normally, he found no real satisfaction in killing. It was a chore, a job that he performed to the fullest of his abilities, but still a job. Tonight, however...

Stalking them through the trees had proved to be an easy method of separating them, and one by one they fell to his blade. The one who had tried to drown you was last, the man screaming and pleading to be spared as Jason raised the machete high and brought it down with a grim air of finality. Pride flooded his body. They wouldn't be able to hurt anyone again. Not the dog, not you, no one.

He paused. Since when had that concerned him? He killed bad people who trespassed on his territory, bad people like the counselors who had let him drown or the bullies who had shoved him into the water.

He didn't protect. He killed because that was what he was supposed to do, what he was compelled to do.

You would have drowned, though. Just like him. He couldn't let that happen.

Not again.

When he made his way back to the shore, he noticed you were on your feet. There was a wound on the side of your head, though. The dog had stayed with you. Good dog! Jason thought, keep them safe.

"You're a good boy," you said, unconsciously echoing Jason's sentiment. "Let's get you back to your owners, okay? Maybe they got you microchipped. Chad, though...that's such a lame name." You wrinkled your nose in disdain. "Those guys were a bunch of pricks, so of course they would name their dog like a prick too."

The dog obediently trotted alongside you all the way back to your car. Jason tailed you, telling himself it was to make certain that you left. Occasionally the dog seemed to catch his scent, the animal pausing and snuffling around while you waited patiently. You had used some soaked tissues in your sweatshirt pocket to stop the bleeding on your head, and Jason was confused to find that he was pleased about that.

The remains of the pink rose sat on his dresser for several weeks, eventually drying up and crumbling into dust when he accidentally disturbed it. It was better that way, he supposed. It reminded him of you, and thinking of what he had done for you made his head hurt.

He had never saved anyone before.

…

You unfortunately weren't able to track down Chad's owners, despite taking him to the vet to scan for a chip, posting on a few local Facebook pages and making up a bunch of flyers.

You woke up one morning with the dog at the foot of your bed and you decided on a whim that he needed a new name. Chad was just too frat-house for your new dog. Yours.

You smiled to yourself, hugging the pup. "Hey boy, what do you think of Montgomery?" The dog had the audacity to yawn at you, making you laugh. "Okay, okay, how about Salem? Sanderson?" You rumpled his fur and the dog excitedly leaped out of the bed, woofing as he anticipated you getting up. "Oh, we could go military! Delta Force dog!" You teased, ruffling his fur until it stuck out funny. "Or we could be dignified, name you Theodore or Edward. Very fancy."

Through the day you kept trying new names, until you finally settled on a keeper.

"Maybe Swayze? You're my dancing fiend, aren't you?" You suggested when the dog bounced around your legs while you prepared a cup of instant noodles. "I think it suits you." Swayze boofed as if in reply, making you laugh. "Alright! Swayze it is, my good boy."

...

2020 was shaping up to be an absolute clusterfuck of a year. At least your job let you work remotely.

A new year, and in the spring you finally moved into a house of your own. Unfortunately it bordered on the 'cursed' land of the former Camp Crystal Lake, but you put no stock in the local myths. You had never witnessed any sort of grisly, paranormal activity, and you and Swayze had visited the lake at least once a month for the past five years!

As far as you were concerned, the story was just that. A story, and a mean-spirited one at that. Bored locals seemed to get a little too caught up in making monsters out of their men, site after site popping up dedicated to the 'Terror of Camp Blood' or 'The Unkillable Shadow'. After your first time researching in 2015, slogging through all the frankly-offensive trash, you had stopped looking up anything to do with the Crystal Lake killings or Jason Voorhees. The whole situation was tragic and you couldn't help but wish that people weren't so persistent or imaginative.

This was hardly the first time a sleepy town had exaggerated and glamorized a terrible event to drum up tourism. You knew that you shouldn't be so hung up on it.

That night always came back to you, though. Who had pulled you out of the water? In a strange way, you almost wanted to think it had been the little boy who drowned. Which was silly, of course! It was far more likely that it had just been those men who were responsible for manhandling you in the first place.

But every year on the anniversary of the event, rain or shine, you were always sure to go to the lakefront with a single flower from the town florist. You would wade into the lake and imagine that you were speaking to the lost little boy, and you thanked him a multitude of times for looking out for you. You would rather thank a long-gone child for their imagined part in your rescue versus thanking the men who may have thought better of their awful behavior after someone was harmed.

This particular day started out like any other. Breakfast in your modest kitchen, lunch tucked into your solar backpack along with a tennis ball and some treats for Swayze. You and the border collie set out a bit before noon, heading into the forest as was usual. During the decent weather days, you opted to work outside as much as possible. You knew once winter came you would be cooped up until at least March, so you tried to get all the sunlight in while you could.

Whether due to how remote it was, or due to the reputation of the camp, you never saw anyone else on your excursions. You didn't mind it though, it was peaceful. At this juncture of the pandemic, it was also essentially required.

The mask you had picked out for today (one patterned all over with little red x designs) sat comfortably in your pocket, in the unlikely event that someone might actually be present at the lake. Better safe than sorry, after all!

...

You were coming around much more often and Jason wasn't sure if he was particularly happy about that. Every day if it didn’t rain. You were the only person he had seen for a while. How long? A while. Time was difficult. He had given up on trying to keep track. It meant nothing to him anyways.

The dog looked good. It clearly loved you, always at your side and playful. And you seemed to treat it kindly, which was important. Why? Well, it just was.

He wasn't sure why today was different. It felt different, he thought stubbornly. Not everything needed an answer. He had been called 'slow' or other, far more unkind things when he had been alive, so he had resigned himself to not being able to know things at an early age.

His mother had always called him her smart boy, and that had been enough for him.

Time had no business escaping from him like it often did.

The familiar sound of your footfalls on the overgrown path alerted him to your presence, and Jason watched as you and your dog sauntered down to the gravelly waterfront. Just like every day, he watched you shake the wrinkles out of your blanket and stretch, watched your dog prance in circles around you before settling in on the blanket.

He hadn't even noticed that he was placing his machete down before the tip dug into the dirt. Jason stared at the ground in confusion, then slowly released the handle of the weapon.

If you reacted poorly when you reacted poorly he could easily kill you without the aid of the implement, he reasoned with himself.

Was this...exciting? Was it interesting? Anxious.

Jason rose back to his full height and shuffled to the edge of the beach, standing awkwardly in the shade of the trees. Should he make some kind of noise? Do something to get your attention? What if you were scared of him?

His fists clenched and Jason scuffed a boot on the gravel, disturbing the stones and making you glance up from your...whatever it was that you were always using.

The dog stirred, looking up as well. It seemed to notice Jason before you did, barking at him and wagging its tail. Jason froze at the sound, and he found himself regretting this course of action even more when you made a noise of distress in your throat.

Bad idea. Bad idea. He went to turn and vanish back into the woods and never attempt something so stupid again. But--

...

"Wait, don't go!" You called. "I've got a mask too, we can stay six feet apart!" You patted the sand next to you. "I'm more partial to the Ducks, but the Canadiens aren't half bad." You continued, taking the cue from the man's mask and trying to put him at ease by yammering about hockey.

He seemed reluctant, just lingering at the treeline.

"I've been working remotely for most of this, I promise I'm safe!" You added, a little self-conscious now as you hooked the loops for your mask over your ears.

The man slowly, slowly shuffled down the beach, and as he drew closer you realized just how gargantuan he was. Instead of being wary or defensive though, Swayze began to wag his tail excitedly.

"I don't see a lot of people out here. That's why I come, especially with everything how it is nowadays." You sighed through your mask. "And I'm not a local, I moved here for college, so I didn't know about the whole...spooky story thing until after I started coming around regularly."

The man had gotten close enough for Swayze to reach him on his leash, and the dog jumped up to place his muddy paws on the man's legs.

"Swayze, sit!" You scolded the dog, "no jumping on people, remember your manners." Giving you a guilty look, the border collie sat obediently at the man's feet instead, his tail still going a mile a minute. "Wow, he really likes you!" You commented, trying hard to make sure that the man felt at ease. Some people mistook Swayze's energy for aggression, and this large man seemed to be holding his breath. He radiated pensive, like he was about to go into flight mode. "You can pet him, if you'd like." You encouraged, a little startled by how fast his hand shot forward to touch the dog. So, not scared of the dog, nervous about the owner.

Swayze lolled his tongue out while he happily accepted the rough petting and one-fingered behind the ear scritches. The man appeared wholly transfixed by the dog and it was weirdly sweet.

"Do you live around here?" You asked in an attempt to make conversation. The man nodded, not looking up at you. "I've only just recently moved closer. The interest rates were good, y'know?" You weren't exactly going to tell this stranger where you lived, but fair was fair. You introduced yourself and Swayze, then asked his name.

The man slowly shook his head, making a garbled noise in his throat. He placed a gloved hand on his collarbone, grunting after a moment.

"You can't talk?" You guessed, and he nodded in reply. "Huh, okay. I know some ASL, if you…?" The man cocked his head to the side. "Sign language?" You clarified, confused when he shook his head again. "How do you usually talk to people?"

A shrug. Well, it was a bit presumptuous of you to demand answers from someone who couldn't speak. You felt a little foolish.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything." You apologized hurriedly. Another shrug, the man petting Swayze. It was difficult to tell in the sun-dappled light, but what little skin you could see at his neck looked incredibly pallid and scarred. "It's just been a while since I've seen another person and I've always been really, really awkward." Your laugh was a little stilted. "If I'm bugging you I can totally leave."

There was a long pause, and then the man shook his head.

"This situation really is something, huh?" You sighed, scuffing your sneakers in the rocky sand. "Seems like every day there's more bad news. I come out here to do my work so at least I'm not trapped inside like a lot of people, or out of a job, or doing a job that puts me at risk, y'know?" You glanced over at the man, smiling under your mask. "Hey, but thanks for doing your part! I'm glad that you understand how important this stuff is."

You watched him interact with Swayze, taking in how stained and ragged his clothes were. You wondered if he was homeless, and even though you had no proof you felt a rush of sympathy. You were scared enough and you had a house, a job that paid well and no extra responsibilities. What would happen to him during the winter?

…

Confused.

Confused confused confused.

You weren't scared of him. The dog seemed to remember him, wagging its tail and huffing happily. Why did you have a mask? You weren't like him, you weren't…wrong-looking.

Jason grimaced beneath his own facial shield. You thanked him for wearing his mask. Did you know...did you know what he looked like? Would you be scared of him if you saw his face?

Most people were scared of him even without seeing his face. You weren't, though. You hadn't been.

A job that puts you at risk...what did that mean? Did you work in a mill before? His mother had told him about people losing fingers or getting caught by their hair and clothes to warn him away from trying to touch the fast-moving parts of her sewing machine. A job like that?

But how did you work out here? Jason pondered for a moment, then realized that you always had that thing with you. He had seen the larger ones, the...computers, that was it, the things with screens that campers had more and more often. They always ended up destroyed, crushed by his hands or waterlogged. Cameras. Telephones. Flash things, or things that let people call for help. He dumped them into the lake, threw them as far as he could.

You just seemed to tap at yours a lot. You would point it at your dog too, laughing as the animal did something silly. Sometimes you had music. Jason liked the music you played, it reminded him of the records his mother had and you kept it quiet.

This was so frustrating, he had so many questions that he couldn't ask! He knew that you had started coming around more frequently since the weather was nice, and you stayed for most of the day. So far you had kept to yourself; you didn't ever bring anyone else aside from the dog.

A few times you had brought another flower and gone into the water, pretending like you were talking to him. Or rather, the little boy he had been. It was confusing. No one had ever mourned Jason aside from his mother, and her sadness had driven her to such a macabre end.

How could you mourn someone you had never known? Jason had no idea, but somewhere along the way he had grown used to your invasions, your...visits. He wasn't lonely, he distrusted people to an obviously unhealthy extent.

But you were kind and good to the dog that bad man had been mean to. He wanted…

He wasn't sure what he wanted. Which had led to him making himself more and more visible in the frail hope that maybe, maybe you were different.

If you weren't, if you made fun of him or tricked him or were actually cruel and bad, well...it would be an easy enough thing to end you.

You didn't seem scared. You let him pet your dog. You talked to him like he was ordinary.

Jason had noticed the lack of intruders this year. Aside from you, he hadn't seen anyone in a while, probably months at this point. He had hoped that it meant his work was finally coming to an end. But no, you were saying things about a virus. The world was sick, and everyone was scared. That was why you had the mask, and he guessed that you assumed he was wearing his for the same reason.

"In case I somehow got infected, you know. I'd hate to pass it along to someone else and get them sick too!" You explained. "Better safe than sorry."

Jason nodded slowly, still not entirely understanding what you meant. Swayze was begging for a belly rub and the large man obliged him, one massive gloved hand tentatively petting the animal's soft stomach. This was the most normal thing he had done in...time was hard for him to keep track of, blurring messily in his head. He settled on ever. How long had it been?

…

You got to your feet, dusting yourself off and grabbing a stick from the ground when you noticed Swayze getting restless. "Ready boy?" You asked, laughing when he hurriedly flopped and flailed upright, barking at you. You drew back your hand and pitched the stick with all your might, sending Swayze off like a shot down the shoreline. "He loves playing fetch," you explained to the man, who just nodded.

He rose as the dog came running back, and you were struck anew by just how large he was. He didn't just tower, he loomed. Swayze dropped the stick at his feet, wagging his whole body and barking happily. The man stared down at the stick for several long seconds, then scooped it up.

"See how far you can chuck it!" You urged, just glad that someone else was here to help give Swayze his exercise.

The man nodded, lazily winding his arm back and sending the stick into orbit. Swayze looked bewildered for a moment, skittering around uncertainly until he caught the sound of the stick hitting the beach about a mile and a half south of your location. Then, he was off again.

You gawked as the stranger rubbed the back of his neck. "Holy shit. Can you come here every day? We could get Swayze back down to a decent weight!" You laughed self-consciously. "I can be a little heavy-handed with the treats, the vet said he was getting too chunky." You sighed after a moment. "I'm probably not the best owner for him, he needs someone with a lot more energy. Like a crossfit trainer." You gave the man a shrug. "But he saved me, so I wanted to return the favor."

The man cocked his head, giving you a quizzical look. You noticed that his eyes were a bit off-center, one placed lower than the other.

"Some guys were harassing me out here and I ended up in the lake. Woke up on the shore with that mutt slobbering all over my face. My slimy hero." You grinned. "And we've been together ever since."

…

After you left for the night (the moon had risen before you departed), Jason indulged in an incredibly rare pastime.

He sat and he thought.

You believed the dog had pulled you out of the water? Jason almost felt insulted for a minute, then his shoulders drooped. Of course, it was better that you didn't remember him wading in after you. He hadn't been very careful at all, more frantic about being in the water than concerned with your comfort.

Plus, he had needed to be quick in order to catch the bad men. No, it was better if you thought the dog did it.

You had mused about how the dog had even managed it, saying that Swayze was fast, but not exactly strong. "He probably thought I was a sheep in trouble or something. Herding instincts kicked in." You had been smiling, Jason could hear it in your voice even if you were wearing a mask.

People had stopped coming when the leaves were still budding, Jason realized. Even though he didn't grasp time well, he had to guess that it had been months. Months since he had killed anyone. Months since he had seen anyone.

Aside from you.

He didn't get lonely, he never had before. Maybe it was boredom. Was he bored? Jason thought back to the murky memories of his childhood. He had never had friends. No one had been able to see past the way he looked.

Were you his friend?

Did he even want a friend?

…

The mystery man showed up a few times after that. Not enough for you to have any sort of routine going, but you grew familiar with his large, here and gone again presence. He always wore his mask and kept his social distance and honestly, you couldn't ask for more than that.

He only emerged from the treeline in the late afternoon, just as the sun was going down. You had almost gotten used to how silent he was, despite his size. Swayze at least gave you a bit of a warning now, the dog quick to bark happily at the individual he associated with playtime and belly rubs.

Through a few one-sided conversations the large man had managed to assure you that no, he wasn't homeless, he had a house (he had drawn a clumsy picture in the dirt with a stick, and then gestured off into the trees). He also never had any interest in the food you offered him, blowing more holes in your admittedly-idealized image of the homeless.

The only thing he ever accepted from you was a small, strawberry-flavored hard candy that had taken up residence in the front pouch of your backpack, and as soon as you got home you immediately ordered more of them online. It was silly, but you were just excited to have discovered something he liked.

You felt a little awkward for assuming that he was homeless just because his clothes were worn and faded. Not everyone wanted to don their North Face parkas or L.L. Bean boots and be a fashion plate every time they went hiking, after all!

It was nice, in an odd way. You would sit and finish up your work for the day while he played fetch with Swayze, doing your best to think up simple yes or no questions that he might be able to answer. He wasn't always keen on engaging with you, which you supposed was understandable. That much interaction for someone who couldn't speak and didn't know sign language was probably exhausting. He must be well-used to the silence.

You wondered how long he had been alone for.

He seemed confused the day that he found you in the water with a handful of wildflowers, and you hesitantly explained your strange tradition to him.

"It's for that little boy, the one who drowned." You said quietly, opening your hands and letting the daisies and black-eyed Susans you had gathered float off. "He...everyone makes up such awful stories and I just get so sad about it. Usually I get a nice flower from the florist, but with everything going on I've been trying to social distance and only go into town for the real essentials, like food and stuff like that." You sighed, straightening back up and looking out at the water. "I hope Jason doesn't mind that this year's flowers are just...ordinary ones."

The man shifted his weight on the shore, leaning over to pet Swayze.

"I know that it's dumb to do this. I know that it's silly of me to care so much." You mumbled. "I've always been like that, though, ready to be a sap at the first chance I get."

A heavy, gloved hand landed on your shoulder and you flinched, startled. The man grunted, pulling his hand away in response and then laying it back on your shoulder even more gingerly than before.

"Sorry, you just surprised me is all." You apologized, a little amused when he timidly patted your shoulder as if to say there, there.

…

You brought him flowers again. Even though you couldn't go to the store because the whole world was sick, you still brought him flowers.

He felt strange. Was he sad? Confused. Frustrated that he couldn't speak, couldn't tell you the flowers were fine, they were perfect, he didn't need special ones.

As long as they came from you, they were special.

Why?

He had yet to find an answer to that particular question.

One of the blossoms floated back up onto the beach, bedraggled and missing petals. All waterlogged and dead, like him. Jason usually tried not to dwell on his existence, it just gave him a headache or made him angry.

You cried so much for being a person who hadn't known him. You must have a soft heart, one that loved easy and could be crushed. Jason had been like you once, fragile and brittle like a bird's bones.

Maybe somewhere deep inside he was still like that. Maybe it was okay to be like that, even for a little while.

He had killed for Mother for so long. Maybe he was just tired. He had never been tired before.

Jason sat down heavily on the shore, gloved hands sifting through the rough gravel beneath him in an absentminded fashion. You eventually came back out of the water and sat down almost next to him. The six feet that you had said you were trying to keep away from other people had shrunk to two, and you hugged your knees and stared out at the water for a long, long time.

"I hope he's okay, you know?" You broke the silence with your soft question. "I hope he's somewhere where he can be with his mom, and he's safe and loved like all kids should be."

Jason couldn't help his little whine of sadness then, jamming his face against his shoulder to muffle the noise. He wanted that too, so badly. To finish his job, to finally be back with his mother.

Safe and loved like all kids should be.

Your hand touched his sleeve and Jason jerked back, raw and wary. "Sorry, sorry! I...are you okay?" You asked softly.

Tired, so tired. Sad. Tired. He shook his head, and you actually got even closer to him, your hand on his arm firmly now.

"I know you can't tell me what's wrong, but I'm here." You said, and Jason did the unthinkable.

He slouched down, resting his masked cheek on the top of your head. Briefly, barely for five seconds. Only long enough to exhale a heavy, rasping sigh.

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore, death, canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of mental and physical duress, and allusions to sexual assault (prior/past). Stay safe!]

When he first laid eyes on her, Cullen had to admit he wasn't certain what exactly he'd been expecting, but it absolutely wasn't her. If anything he'd been expecting a mage, someone distinctly magical. Truthfully he hadn't been so much expecting it as dreading it.

She was slightly shorter than Cassandra (though that was hardly something to be remarked on, the Seeker towered over most women), and her chin-length, mousy-brown hair sported several matted areas. Whether from recently-spilled blood or her stint being questioned, Cullen could not say. Her right eye was swollen shut, bearing a livid bruise on the skin of her temple. 

What surprised him the most was the massive, chipped greatsword she clutched tightly. Blisters on her palms had torn open during whatever altercation she and Cassandra had dealt with, leaving the grip of the blade a rusty hue from her blood. Well-toned muscles flexed and trembled beneath her garment's thin sleeves, displaying a bewildering amount of framework for someone who Cullen had (perhaps wrongfully) assumed was untried in the field. He believed the assumption could be excused however, due to the prisoner's noble ties and privileged upbringing. He had only skimmed her binder; there were much more pressing matters to attend to!

“Do not congratulate me, Commander,” Cassandra was saying wryly, “this is the prisoner's doing.”

“Is it?” Cullen asked, not really expecting an answer before sternly addressing said prisoner, “I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here.”

The woman blanched at his words, her gaze meeting his own. She seemed shaken, and the commander could hardly fault her for it. From what Sister Leliana had mentioned, the prisoner was the youngest of her family. This had been their first public foray into true turmoil, and what an eventful foray it had turned into!

Her eyes were a strange green (or were they merely brown reflecting the Breach?), and even though he had just finished bringing down a terror demon with his troops, Cullen found himself straightening up, projecting that Commander image despite his weariness. The child of the Trevelyans would find no uncertainty in his visage!

“I can't promise anything, but I'll try my best.” Her voice was hoarse, a bit shaky, and for the first time Cullen noted the dried tear streaks running through the filth on her face. 

His mood softened a touch, and he couldn't keep from gentling his tone when he sent her off once more with Lady Cassandra, murmuring, “Maker watch over you, for all our sakes.”

…

It had been a trying few days at the Conclave itself but Etre Trevelyan, last born of the Trevelyan line, had never been one to shy away from hard work! She was honored to be there, even merely as an armed escort. Or at least, she had been. The time she had spent inside the temple had become…muddled to her recollection, as though she pieced together the memories of a stranger. 

There were but a few fleeting whispers left of what she could only assume was the Fade, all liquid chaos and yellow-green as an old bruise. Someone had stood before her, their hand outstretched to pull her up an insurmountable cliff face…Andraste herself? 

Until that day, Trevelyan had hoped with all her heart that she would never have to see a demon in the flesh. Sometimes it was easy to forget that demons were real, not just some Chantry story told to make children behave. 

That day, however, she had seen demons. She had fought demons, experienced the heat of Rage, the rush of Terror, the chill of Despair and the bite of Pride's lightning lash. While they could be killed, it did not necessarily mean that the woman reveled in the process of being close enough to them to do so!

Etre would argue that was a bit much for one person to come to terms with, even one who had allegedly been chosen by Andraste, so her collapse after somehow closing the rift could easily be excused in her mind.

When she came back to consciousness Maker only knew how long after, Etre had a difficult time believing that any of it had happened. Perhaps she would walk out the door of this unfamiliar room and find herself back at the Conclave, perhaps-

A young elven woman shouldered open the door, struggling with a large crate full of glassware. Upon seeing that Etre was awake, she gasped and promptly dropped the crate. “Oh! I didn't know you were awake, I swear!” She apologized all in a rush.

“Don't worry about it.” Etre said blearily, pushing herself upright into a half-sitting position. “I only just-”

The young woman collapsed on her knees, her forehead pressed to the floorboards. Etre blinked a few times, startled. “I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.” The elf pleaded. Noticing Etre glancing around, she continued, “you are back at Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

As if on cue the mark sparked green, a fiery pain skimming through Etre's wrist and fingertips. She grunted, shaking the hand as if to dislodge an insect.

“It's all anyone has talked about for the last three days!” The servant girl continued eagerly.

“Then the danger is over.” Etre sighed, a little relieved. 

“The Breach is still in the sky, but that's what they say!” The servant scrambled back to her feet, the fallen crate forgotten entirely. “I'm certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you've wakened. She said, ‘at once’.”

“And where is she?”

“In the chantry, with the lord chancellor. ‘At once’, she said!” The young woman bolted off, leaving Etre there to slowly attempt to put on her hose and boots. Maker's breath, she was sore. It felt as though every muscle in her body had been torn apart and then put back together in the wrong order.

Come now Trevelyan, we've been stiffer than this after a warm-up! she tried to urge herself to stand, a grimace on her face when her knees protested. A three-day nap was bound to leave her a bit rigid, to say nothing of all the fighting she had done before said nap.

But if she felt this terribly…and what the servant had said…

Etre's fingers dug into the quilt beneath her. It hadn't been a dream, then. And really, the mark on her hand was more than enough of an indicator! Something had transpired at the Conclave, if only she could remember what it was! 

Frustration eventually hauled her to her feet, the woman weaving unsteadily for a moment before the ground seemed to cooperate with her. The chantry, then, she decided. Regardless of whether she actually wished to go there or not, it would seem that her jailer-turned-ally was eagerly awaiting news of her awakening, and it would hardly do to keep Lady Cassandra on tenterhooks. 

Staggering to the door, all Etre could do was hope that the chantry wasn't too far from wherever she was.

…

Regardless of what Chancellor Roderick presumed, regardless of whatever convenience and coincidence the man had tantrumed over, the Breach remained in the sky. And while it did so, Etre could claim to have some sort of utility. For whatever reason, she could seal the smaller rifts, even if it left her weak and drained afterwards. It was the mark on her hand, the one that people claimed was from the Maker.

Herald of Andraste.

An Antivan woman by the name of Josephine Montilyet had taken her aside moments after Roderick's eruption, quizzing Etre on her bloodline and relatives alike. Confused, Etre had done her best to answer her questions, but had finally asked why.

“I am the ambassador for the Inquisition! It is my job to foster relations amongst the people that would aid us.” The woman had explained, a determined expression on her face. She seemed…young, but capable. 

Sister Leliana had shaken her head once Lady Josephine hurried off, laughing quietly. “Even now, she will be writing letters to barter favors with your long-distant relatives. I would expect some annoyed missives from uncles and cousins, were I you.”

That commander that she had met with Lady Cassandra on the mountain, Ser Cullen Rutherford, had quickly departed their war room to secure the declaration of the Inquisition to the door of Haven's chantry with a grim sort of gravity. To be fair, grim seemed to be his usual state of existence, the man existing within Haven's thick swaths of displaced clerics, chantry sisters and pilgrims in a perpetual glower. 

It was incredibly intimidating, but apparently not without cause. According to Cassandra the commander was plagued with terrible headaches, some sort of condition he suffered with, and Etre could only imagine that the prolific incense and bell-ringing brought him nothing short of daily misery. Indeed, at times even she found it grating, and she loved to sing the evening prayers!

As such, once she had deemed herself safely recovered from the first foray at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she sought out Commander Cullen for training and instruction. One thing that she could comprehend amidst all this chaos and mysticism was a proper set of drills, and she had high hopes the commander would be more than happy to put her to work. With any luck, she could craft the bones of her upbringing into something that wouldn't need to be escorted to whatever dangerous locale that called out for aid.

The woman trundled down the steps of Haven to the outer stockade wall, fiddling with her new bracer as she went. It was a bit large, but she hardly expected to find custom-tailored gear in this far-flung place. The large sword she had scavenged on the mountain was strapped to her back, though she hoped to replace it soon. The bevel of it was too brittle to hold much of an edge, and despite her attempts to maintain it patches of rust had still crept down to the crosstrees. She supposed it was to be expected; she had no idea how long it had been sitting abandoned beneath that bridge until she and Lady Cassandra came along, after all!

As she approached the training area, urged eagerly onward by the familiar sounds of metal clashing and padded blows landing, a stern voice rang out over the prolific din. 

“You there! There's a shield in your hand, block with it!” The commander shouted at one of his recruits, his tone sharp. “If this man were your enemy you'd be dead!” A second-in-command of some sort stood alongside him, wearing the armor of a Templar, and as the commander turned to issue instructions to him he straightened up. “Lieutenant, don't hold back! The recruits must prepare for a real fight, not a practice one.”

Etre jumped a little when Commander Cullen appeared to notice her standing awkwardly to the side, but all he did was impatiently wave her over. “We've received a number of recruits, both locals from Haven and some pilgrims. None made quite the entrance you did.” He commented when she had drawn within a more polite earshot.

Etre, confused by the more casual way he was addressing her (wasn't she also a recruit?), simply stated, “I just hope I can help.” It was the truth, of course, but normally folk dressed it up a bit more.

The commander, however, responded sincerely with, “as do we all. It is enough that you would try.” 

His words had a warmth to them that was surprisingly charming. Was she blushing?! Maker, she might be. Etre resisted the customary urge to hide her face, choosing instead to bear the sensation with an iron spine. She couldn't afford to waver in front of the commander of the Inquisition's troops!

“I was recruited to the Inquisition in Kirkwall, myself. I was there during the mage uprising, I saw firsthand the devastation it caused.” Commander Cullen explained, waving to indicate that she should follow him down the line of sparring soldiers. Etre obediently trailed along behind him, listening intently while he continued, “Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the Templars to join her cause.” She caught him shooting a glance at her hand. “Now it seems we face something far worse.”

“I must have this mark for a reason.” Etre tried to sound certain, tried to sound like what she thought the Herald of Andraste would sound like. “It will work. I'm sure of it.” She had wanted to emulate a pious tone, ethereal even, but unfortunately it fell embarrassingly flat. So much for that attempt!

Commander Cullen was gracious enough to ignore her failure, the man nodding in a solemn manner. “Provided we can secure aid, but I'm confident we can. The Chantry lost control of both Templars and mages. Now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition could act when the Chantry cannot. Our followers would be a part of that. There's so much we can–” Commander Cullen paused, seeming a little self-conscious that he had been caught rambling. He then apologized, inclining his head in contrition. “Forgive me, I doubt you came here for a lecture.”

“No, but if you have one prepared, I'd love to hear it!” Etre said eagerly. She had been enjoying the impassioned speech he was regaling her with. His whole countenance had lit up! Clearly he cared deeply for their cause.

The commander chuckled, “another time, perhaps.” Etre found herself smiling at the man, who, oddly enough, actually smiled back at her. Briefly, before looking away and clearing his throat, but it was still a smile! He had a nice smile, she decided. “There's still a lot of work to be done.” He said, sounding weary all of a sudden. He pointed out one of the recruits, their footwork sloppy enough that even Etre could easily identify it. “See that? Poor fool will break his ankle if he-”

Scurrying up alongside Etre came a messenger, chest heaving from the effort of their run. “Commander! Ser Rylen has a report on our supply lines!” The man declared.

“As I was saying,” Commander Cullen continued ruefully, accepting the report. “I can assign you a sparring partner, but if you'd rather you may spar with my lieutenant, Knight-Templar Grist. It may not do for the soldiers to see their Herald train amongst them.”

“I'd rather start at the bottom, if it's all the same?” Etre requested tentatively, watching the way his brow furrowed. “Surely it…it would be better if I familiarize myself with those who I am fighting alongside?” Her voice faltered a little, uncertainty robbing her of her volume. Hopefully the stern man wouldn't think her impudent!

To her relief the commander just nodded, offering her a salute and then barking at one of the recruits to, “get over here, bring a shield and blade-guard and put the Herald through her paces!”

…

Etre Trevelyan's eyes were indeed an odd, shifting green-brown. They had not been that way before the Conclave, according to her they had been ‘cowpat brown’, but Cullen supposed it could be chalked up to the strange mark on her hand. She was lucky in the sense that the change was so minor, though it lent her gaze a certain disturbing quality that brought the Breach to mind.

Not that Cullen had any time to devote to pondering her eyes. Maker no, he was inundated with work from the moment he stirred in the morning to the moment he collapsed into his bedroll at night! He would leave such musings to Solas, the elven mage often spending hours observing Trevelyan as she went about her tasks in Haven or drilled with the soldiers.

“She is a remarkable creature.” Solas said out of the blue one evening, much to Cullen's dismay. 

Steeling himself to endure yet another one of Solas’ circular conversations, the commander straightened up to express ‘polite’ interest. Lady Josephine could hardly be picky about where he got his practice in, after all! “What do you mean?”

Solas’ expression was incredibly distant, for all that he'd started the damn discussion. It was as though he gazed somewhere Cullen could not hope to see, his words thoughtful when he continued, “she is suffering greatly. The mark rends her every day, body and soul, yet on she toils, not a word of complaint.” Those sharp blue eyes were abruptly fixed on Cullen, the elf adopting a tone of annoyance as he said, “Another new logging stand? Really, Commander?” 

The commander sputtered, unwilling to allow the mage to gain that foothold in this apparent argument. “The troops need to know that they are safe with her, and likewise for her! This was what she asked for, and she has performed well thus far. As you said, not a word of complaint.”

“You cannot continue to throw her into your field operations and expect such things to raise her above the rank and file.” Solas seemed troubled now, his brow furrowed. 

“She didn't want to be above the rank and file. To add to that, she is a civilian, albeit with minor weapons training befitting her noble status.” Cullen retorted. “She's as green as every other recruit we've had, and she'll be treated as such until Lady Cassandra or Sister Leliana decide our orders change. That means washing dishes, helping write reports, maintaining the privy and scouting for resources.”

“And when she drops dead in the dishwater because of the burden that mark is putting on her body, what then?” Solas queried haughtily. “What of closing the Breach, Commander?”

“I-!” Truthfully, the commander hadn't devoted much thought to Trevelyan's possible constant suffering. Due to her silence regarding the matter he had just assumed it was the same as his night terrors and withdrawal headaches, something to be lived with, but if one wasn't used to enduring such things… “I shall discuss it with Lady Trevelyan. If we're through here, I really must get these reports back to Sister Leliana.”

“Of course, Commander. Always an enlightening experience.”

Now he knew the mage was laughing at him.

Trevelyan wasn't difficult to find, for all that she seemed to want to be. Quartermaster Threnn pointed him in her direction, warning him that the woman may be a bit touchy. Apparently a cauldron of stew had been left above the fire with nothing but dregs in it, turning the remaining broth and meat into a burnt, hardened coating on the inside of the implement. The quartermaster relayed that Etre had seized the cauldron and hauled it away, muttering to herself the entire time and declining any offers of assistance.

Cullen eventually located Etre slumped against the washbasin tucked behind the mess barracks, her hand still moving sluggishly back and forth in a futile motion while the scouring sand lay dormant in the bottom of the pot. The woman's eyes were closed, the majority of her body draped over the bulk of the large cookware. She was snoring.

“Lady Trevelyan.”

The Herald woke with a startled gasp, the cauldron nearly toppling off the edge of the basin before Cullen caught it by the handle. The commander gracelessly shoved the heavy metal pot back into the water, watching the woman narrowly. She looked exhausted, a feeling he knew all too well. The bone-tired sensation throbbed at the base of his neck even now, urging him to close his eyes and rub his temples until the pain subsided. He ignored the urge, as he often did.

“Knight-Cap–pardon, that is, Commander Cullen, sir.” Etre floundered, the slip letting Cullen know that she had spoken to the Chantry sisters or mages at some point. “I'm sorry, I must have nodded off-”

“You are relieved of duty, Lady Trevelyan.” The commander did his best to maintain his stern demeanor, but watching her quail under his stare was mildly entertaining. “Go get some rest, you'll be on patrol rotation tomorrow morning at dawn.” The Herald abruptly made a sound as though she had been struck and Cullen watched a tremor rush through her whole body, the woman grimacing briefly and flexing her fingers as if to shake something off. “Is it the mark?” He asked before he could think better of it. Of course it's the damned mark, Rutherford!

“Solas says it may abate further if we seal the Breach. It's not nearly so bad as it was before, but…” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I am trying to keep my distance from the others. I'm so tired and if…if something happens-” Etre closed her eyes, gripping down on the edge of the basin until her knuckles whitened. “My dreams have been so strange since that day. I don't want anyone to get hurt, and I am as yet unsure that I am in control when I sleep.” 

Ah, and that was something Cullen could sympathize with. His own night terrors stalked him until dawn, occasionally flitting in the corners of his vision even during waking hours. He could at least blame his tenuous mental state on the lyrium withdrawals, but she had no such luxury. 

“Would you rest easier sleeping alone?” He offered. “Though a separate tent may not contain the same warmth or minor comforts as the bunkhouse, perhaps it would ease your mind…?”

Cullen was startled when she grabbed hold of his forearm with both hands, her desperation evident while she leaned in and stared up at him. “You would do that for me? I don't desire special treatment, but please, please, I…please Commander.” Her eyes were full of tears and, in the shadows of the barracks, Cullen realized that the tears glowed ever so slightly. It discomfited him intensely, the eerie sight bringing to mind the various possessions he had witnessed during his time as a Templar. Those wretched eyes, void, crackling with malignant energy made manifest…

Cullen was suddenly extremely aware of how isolated they were. If something happened to him here, it may be hours before anything was discovered. In that time–

Stop. You are not some frightened child, jumping at every shadow you see. 

She was still speaking, and the commander forced himself to quell the shudder that wanted nothing more than to run the length of his spine. “I have tried not to complain,” Trevelyan seemed fixated on him believing her, the all-too-common woe of a youngest child. “I understand we are all working to the best of our abilities but I confess I am…worn, Commander.”

“It will be done before the evening meal.” With a flash of amusement the commander noted that her hands were sopping wet, dishwater soaking through his sleeve where she had grabbed him. “I advise you to scour Haven for extra furs, however. It will be cold without the bodies of your fellow soldiers.” He warned.

“Oh, I shall! Thank you, though I fear I will not be able to repay your kindness.” Etre said gratefully, her shoulders slumping.

“Close that damned hole in the sky. And unhand my arm before my vambrace rusts.”

…

Rams. 

She'd been sent to the Hinterlands to meet Mother Giselle, to attempt to advocate for their place in the politics of the Chantry and what was their blessed Herald of Andraste doing? 

Hunting rams to feed refugees! 

Cullen gripped the report so tightly he was certain he'd tear a hole in it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leliana's shoulders quiver momentarily. “This is not a laughing matter!” He snapped, thoroughly irritated. “The Herald is traipsing around the Hinterlands, unattended-”

“Hardly, she has Cassandra and Varric. Solas as well, though that may be less comfort to you.” Sister Leliana's eyes sparkled; she was still laughing. 

Cullen threw his hands up, his frustration erupting from him as he exclaimed, “we are not the Chantry, Leliana! Why is she doing this? We can barely sustain our own troops!”

“I believe, Commander, it may have something to do with appealing to the humanity of the masses.” 

“The masses-” That denounce us, that say the Inquisition is a false path, that revile our cause? Those masses? Cullen bit his tongue. He would save his verbal lashing for when the Herald reported to the War Room. Maker, he'd expedite the process by summoning her!

“Try to have a modicum of compassion for Lady Trevelyan, Commander.” Sister Leliana murmured, her tone one of fond chiding. “She is not one of your soldiers, for all that she tries to be.” With that their spymaster dismissed herself, leaving the commander to brood in relative peace. 

“Send in the Herald.” Cullen muttered to the guard who had brought the report. He then scoffed to himself, “‘Compassion’, really.”

Once the Herald entered however, he scarcely had the opportunity to open his mouth before Lady Trevelyan quietly said, “I know.” 

Cullen jerked his eyes away from the map, taking in her appearance. She seemed haggard, but resolute. There was a fair amount of dirt smeared across the knees of her breeches and one of her pauldrons had a fresh dent in it. At some point she had traded that enormous sword for an equally enormous greataxe, the weapon secured haphazardly to her back via a series of worm-eaten leather belts. She looked like a two-bit mercenary, hardly the lauded and divinely-ordained Herald of Andraste.

“Your explanation, then.” The commander said grudgingly, determining that this was an argument he would not win before hearing her out. She had reported to him before even tending to her needs, if the layer of filth on her was to be gauged properly. He could extend some understanding in this situation, provided that her explanation was sufficient. He was not wholly unreasonable, despite what Leliana seemed to assume.

“I…Mother Giselle was tending to the wounded refugees, as you know. Mages, defecting Templars, our own soldiers and civilians. The…they had no food and their huntsmaster couldn't risk venturing forth himself, with all the fighting nearby. I thought…I mean, I believed that I could help.” Her voice wavered at the end. That lack of confidence confirmed Cullen's suspicions that the Herald had acted of her own accord, without input from any of her party.

“You, and no one else?” Cullen queried sharply.

She inclined her head. “Ser.”

Cullen slumped a bit over the table. “Lady Trevelyan, I hardly need to tell you our cause is not exactly popular. You were sent to the Hinterlands for-”

“I know!” The woman cut him off, bristling. “But would you have me ignore the suffering I see? What were a few hours of hunting when compared to the wellbeing of the hungry and wounded? The Maker tells us to be kind to those in need!” 

“Be kind, certainly, but you are worth far more to the Inquisition than any mere refugee!” Cullen retorted. His headache flared with a vengeance; even now he could feel the pressure intensifying behind his eyes. 

To his surprise, the Herald shot back, “I am not, Commander!”, her fists clenched at her sides. “I am no more or less than any of them! It was luck, perhaps divine circumstance, but certainly luck, that allowed me to survive at the Conclave. I was–I am no one. It is through the Maker alone, through His will and His mark upon me, that I am given purpose. Just as you are, or Josephine, or Cassandra!” Lady Trevelyan looked incensed. “I met with Mother Giselle, spoke with her, and she in turn showed me the people and how they suffer. I could not stand idly by.”

The commander wearily put his head in his hands, rubbing his temples in an attempt to ease the throbbing. Perhaps today was a bad time for such a conversation as this, considering how poor the weather had been recently–

“What would you have me do, Commander?” Her voice had softened, and Cullen was mutely grateful for her consideration. “You, who is so very wise to the world, what would you have me do?”

“I cannot say.” Cullen muttered. 

“I was sent to help,” Etre insisted, “it is only right that I do so.”

“From now on,” The commander finally said, his tone one that brooked no argument, “you will attend to your duties as a member of the Inquisition, first and foremost.” He held up a hand to halt the imminent outburst, “after which, you may then assist the surrounding populace. Within reason. The last thing our cause needs is for the common folk to see the Herald of Andraste chasing down some rancher's wayward herd of druffalo.”

Etre suddenly looked so comically perturbed Cullen barely kept from smiling outright, the man settling for giving her a knowing smirk. “In my defense,” Lady Trevelyan began delicately, “I needed information on the horsemaster and that rancher promised he would lead me to him if I helped him collect his beast.”

“I will see to it that Harding has extra scouts assigned to her, then. There is no need for the Herald to personally bandy with the common man in exchange for favors.” Cullen squinted down at the report again. “It also says you…returned some stolen property to a widow?”

Etre went stark white, then flushed a guilty shade of red. “I…yes. A promise band was taken from her husband's body by Templars after they killed him. Without cause. I er, took it back.”

Cullen refrained from smiling once more, though it would have been softer this time. “I imagine she was most grateful to have it safely returned, then.”

“Commander, I…” Etre seemed to be struggling to find the right words, her hands slack at her sides while she made her attempt. “I fear I am ill-suited for these maneuvers in the field,” she finally managed to admit, if a little grudgingly. 

Cullen barely kept from raising an eyebrow. “Regrettably, both for the Inquisition itself and for you personally, we have no other individual who can seal the rifts as you can.” He sighed, leaning heavily on the table as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “I know it is hollow comfort, but you of all people ought to know that the Maker does not usually call us to greater purpose by permitting us to walk an easy path.”

“It feels less like a path and more like a…a wall of some sort that I have to climb.” Etre thumbed at her lower lip in thought. “A slippery one.”

“The Maker also does not call us to greater feats than we are capable of accomplishing,” Cullen added. “Take heart, Herald. You do not walk this path alone! All of us are here alongside you, as well as every hapless beggar in the Hinterlands I'd wager.” He finished wryly.

She laughed at that, and Cullen was certain he wasn't imagining the relief in her eyes when she thanked him before departing. 

Perhaps it wasn't…so terrible to offer compassion to her. As long as he didn't turn it into a habit of kid-glove handling, he supposed. The structure of things must be maintained.

…

Whistling a little tune, Etre climbed the last set of steps before Haven's chantry, the woman balancing a small basket of clean utensils and tankards on her hip. Part of her duties as a member of the Inquisition was scouring clean the troops’ flatware, a less than glamorous task but it needed to be done by someone. It was foolish to foist off a task just because it could be considered ‘beneath you’, at least that's how Etre viewed it. So every morning she was at Haven she would make a special trip around to what had been dubbed the ‘Inner Circle’ and collect whatever bits and bobs needed washing. She viewed it as a way to thank everyone for their hard work, and seeing Josephine or Leliana light up when they realized they didn't need to scour or rinse things themselves that day…that was its own reward!

There appeared to be some sort of crowd in front of the chantry doors, but Etre didn't find that too odd. Ever since the Inquisition had been declared, there was often a small group of braver souls who ventured forth to read the writ Commander Cullen had nailed to the chantry door. What they relayed to their contemporaries was another matter entirely, and one that would doubtless lead to more misunderstandings as the days passed. 

Lady Trevelyan began to make her way through the crowd, abruptly finding herself alongside a bristling Templar who was facing down an equally furious mage. “Your kind killed the Most Holy!” The Templar was saying, the man's eyes all but ablaze with his wrath.

“Lies!” The mage exclaimed, brandishing his staff in a less-than-gentlemanly gesture at the Templar. “Your kind let her die!”

The Templar grasped the hilt of his sword, moving to draw the blade as he shouted, “shut your mouth, mage!” 

Etre slammed a hand down on the Templar's gauntlet, the woman grimly trapping his sword and sword-arm at his side. The Templar thrashed while the mage advanced, and then suddenly Commander Cullen appeared between the two men, arms outstretched to keep them apart. 

“Enough!” The Commander said sternly, not quite a yell, but loud enough that his voice carried over the hubbub.

“Knight-Captain–!” The Templar began to protest, and Etre watched a terrifying change seize the commander's features. The man's thunderous glower could have cowed the staunchest of souls, and it did so now. The Templar's arm went slack in Trevelyan's hold, but she did not release him all the same.

“That is not my title.” Commander Cullen fairly seethed as he addressed the subdued man through his teeth. “We are not Templars any longer.” He then turned to aim a warning finger at the mage who had retreated somewhat, the older man hunching his shoulders as the commander insisted, “we are all part of the Inquisition!”

“And what does that mean, exactly?” Another man's voice rang out and Commander Cullen's expression shifted from fury to an almost comical irritation as a familiar cleric sauntered his way up through the gaggle of Haven's faithful, mages and several Templars.

Etre recalled being warned about this man in particular, something about less than pure motivations? He certainly hadn't endeared himself to her during their previous meeting! Lord-Chancellor Roderick, a stumbling block of Chantry make.

“Back already, Chancellor? Haven't you done enough?” The commander asked flatly.

“I'm curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its ‘Herald’ will restore order as you've promised.” The chancellor said pompously, his tone indicating a total lack of curiosity. He wasn't even so much addressing the commander as he was the crowd, seemingly attempting to whip them into a frenzy.

Ah, Trevelyan realized, he thinks I'm a fraud. 

Commander Cullen's lip curled, pulling at the scar on his mouth as he muttered, “of course you are,” only just loud enough for the chancellor to hear. Then, raising his voice, he dismissed the uneasy crowd. “Back to your duties, all of you!”

The throngs thinned out, folk breaking off in groups and whispering amongst themselves. Etre felt the Templar shudder, the man mumbling a soft apology to her and then easing free of her hold. She watched him go a bit narrowly, but it appeared that he was sufficiently chastised, for he meekly took up a post by the chantry door and attempted to make himself invisible. 

Etre closed her eyes for a moment, praying for strength. “What started that, dare I ask?” She questioned the commander, who had crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet as if he sought to keep the chancellor out of the chantry.

“Mages and Templars were already at war. Now they're blaming each other for the Divine's death.” Commander Cullen responded grimly, still glaring at Roderick.

For whatever reason the older man didn't seem to cotton on to the bold hint the commander was giving him, interjecting his own opinion into the conversation. “Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order.”

“Who, you?” Cullen snapped, his extremely-limited patience obviously coming to an end. “Random clerics who weren't important enough to be at the Conclave?”

“The rebel Inquisition and its so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’? I think not!” The chancellor scoffed, giving Etre an unimpressed look. 

While people being…less-than-awed with her wasn't exactly a new experience (she was the youngest in a line of wildly more interesting and successful siblings, after all!), Etre still felt a bit of a sting at the older man's words. She was suddenly much younger, staring down at the muddy patch on a familiar rug in the family dining hall and willing herself with every fiber of her being not to cry as her mother listed off her latest faults in a dry and sardonic tone.

Without intending to, Etre began chewing her lower lip nervously, then tentatively addressed the chancellor, saying, “So far, you're the only one who's insisted that we can't work together.” 

“We might! If your Inquisition would recognize the Chantry's authority-”

Commander Cullen interrupted what promised to be a long-winded tirade with a blunt, “There is no authority until another Divine is chosen.” 

“In due time.” The chancellor stressed, looking a bit put-out over being cut off. “Andraste will be our guide, not some dazed wanderer on a mountainside.” 

I didn't ask to guide anyone! Trevelyan thought mutinously, certain that her expression betrayed her in that moment. The disrespect that Roderick had displayed, to her directly, was more than enough to raise her hackles. Herald of Andraste or not, there was no need for him to be so blisteringly rude. 

Remembering how her oldest brother would behave with certain…less favorable guests, Etre squared her shoulders and held the basket of cutlery and tankards against her chest, turning herself into a wall. Next, something to unsettle her opponent. “Commander?” The man did her the favor of briefly looking her way, one brow raised. “Remind me why you're allowing the chancellor to stay?” She asked sweetly.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Cullen's mouth, but before he could say anything Roderick once more butted in. “Clearly your Templar knows where to draw the line!” The chancellor huffed smugly.

Commander Cullen's arms tightened across his chest and Etre had to fight every instinct in her body to keep from stepping back. Cullen's glare alone spoke far more plainly than any man would in polite company exactly what he would do with Roderick's line. “He's toothless.” He spat, ignoring the older man's sputtering in reply to his audacity. “There's no point turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth.” Commander Cullen then sighed unhappily, “the chancellor's a good indicator of what to expect in Val Royeaux, however.”

Etre, now trying to get a better grasp of the situation, questioned, “How widespread is the violence between mages and Templars?” In what felt like another lifetime, she had been promised to the Templars. Much too late in life for her to have actually been of use, but her mother had seemed happy for the missive of acceptance. That being said, she hadn't had firsthand experience with the mage rebellion until her maneuvers in the Hinterlands, and if it was that bad here…

“Impossible to say.” Cullen answered curtly.

Chancellor Roderick protested, “Your organization flouting the Chantry's authority will not help matters!”

“With the Conclave destroyed,” Commander Cullen carried on pointedly over Roderick's complaint, “I imagine the war between mages and Templars has renewed. With interest.”

Trevelyan hesitated for a moment, then posed a question that had been on her mind for quite some time. “So the mages and Templars are fighting even though we don't know what really happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“Exactly why all this should be left to a new Divine!” The chancellor insisted. “If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so.”

“Or will be happy to use someone as a scapegoat,” Commander Cullen growled. Truthfully Etre hadn't even thought of that. What if somehow she was deemed guilty? Even if she hadn't committed a crime, who would believe her should she protest? Cassandra hadn't believed her!

“You think nobody cares about the truth?” For a moment, the chancellor genuinely seemed saddened, his voice softening. “We all grieve Justinia's loss.”

Mercilessly the commander retorted, “but you won't grieve if the Herald of Andraste is conveniently swept under a carpet.”

It was rare that anyone ever defended Etre. Her days up until joining the Inquisition were punctuated with being compared to others or being scolded for a lack of ambition, so this warm sensation in her chest was wildly unfamiliar. A frail sort of gratitude, even while the stubborn part of her balked at being grateful at all.

“I'll–I'll make sure they see reason in Val Royeaux.” She promised, attempting a confident smile. Was it a wince? It was probably a wince. Well, the attempt was made.

“I pray you're right.” Commander Cullen replied quietly, still continuing to glare at Roderick.

…

The meeting with the Templars in Val Royeaux had been an absolute mess, but this time at least it seemed to be no fault of the Herald's. Cullen had reread the reports and later missive from Knight-Templar Barris what felt like a hundred times, and questioned Cassandra in equal measure.

Then, he had to consider the words of Grand Enchanter Fiona! Meet us in Redcliffe. More mage trickery, to be certain. Bickering with Sister Leliana hadn't gotten him anywhere either. It was just all so…confusing. Lady Cassandra had been assured that the Lord Seeker would come to their side, but it seemed the man had suffered some sort of crisis of faith that had wholly turned him from the path of the Chantry. Bewildering. Not unheard of, Cullen knew all too well what could happen if one's faith wavered and the Chantry was much too glib with the power they held over their Templars, yet Cassandra seemed personally wounded by the man's dismissal–

This would get him nowhere. 

Perhaps…he could send word back to the Knight-Templar who had reached out. Former Templars had been joining their ranks for weeks, ever since the Conclave, and while Barris didn't strike him as a deserter per-se, it wouldn't hurt to reason with him. What harm was there in sending a polite missive?

If Lady Trevelyan would have her mages, it was his responsibility to ensure the safety of not only the mages, but the Inquisition as a whole. Abominations preyed on fear, chaos and the weak-willed. It would do their forces no good to acquire the assistance of the mages while dooming their cause in the long run.

Barris wrote back with startling speed. Indeed, if Cullen were a betting man he would have wagered that the Templar had been waiting by the door with his traveling satchel in hand.

I will not betray the Order, but I have many concerns I would raise to you were I permitted to attend a negotiation tabling. Our Lord Seeker has not been himself, as I mentioned previously, and I would seek your counsel as a senior member of the Order.

There are also strange tidings from Redcliffe and, by your order, I would discuss them in detail. 

In faith, Knight-Templar Barris. 

…

-Lady Etre strode out of the magister's portal and punched him squarely in the jaw.

Warden Blackwall's reports were always the driest, but they rarely held embellishments or unnecessary details, which was why Cullen valued them so much. This particular report, however, was only one piece of the puzzle, and what a puzzle it was! Trevelyan seemed, frankly, rattled by whatever had happened in Redcliffe, and while their new acquisition Dorian had been a wellspring of information, the whole endeavor was still infinitely confusing to Cullen.

Leliana had accepted Lady Trevelyan's frantic, somewhat-tremulous oral report with enviable ease, the spymaster nodding blithely along as though Tevinter magisters ripped holes in time every other day. Perhaps they did! In Tevinter, where such wild things belonged! To think that Redcliffe had been so close to disaster, if the Herald had not advocated for their mages so intently–

Not for the first time, Cullen wondered at the providence of it all. It grew harder every day for even the most skeptical to deny that there was a strange sense of purpose over the whole of the Inquisition. Some evenings it seemed to hang heavy as cooksmoke in the air, dogging their footsteps with every new choice made. 

“A great and terrible sense of destiny.” Varric had remarked, his wink lacking its usual humor. “I've written enough tragedies to know how this will end.”

Speaking of Varric, Cullen shuffled Blackwall's report to the side in favor of picking up Varric's. The dwarf, though frustratingly verbose, had an eye for inflection and tone that could be extremely valuable in the right circumstances.

-I've known a lot of mages, Curly, but I don't think I've ever wanted to punch any of them quite as much as Alexius. 

Cullen's brow furrowed at Varric's usual nickname for him, the commander sighing to himself. 

-We were received with an insultingly small amount of fanfare, and that magister's scheme was soon undone by his wriggly little son and our new friend Dorian. One moment, the Herald was on one end of the throne room with Dorian, but then Alexius pulled out a weird trinket, Sparkler did some kind of…magic to counter whatever Alexius was trying to do and poof! The Herald was on the other end of the room, punching Alexius in his fool face while Sparkler crowed. 

-I'll admit, the punch seemed a little out of character for Lady Trevelyan, but I gather things are a lot more complicated than, ‘they teleported a few feet and Etre lost her temper with the poncy magister’.

-She says they went forward in time and I guess there, a whole bunch of other things went badly. Real badly. End-of-the-world badly. I died, Leliana died, we all died…that kind of shit. Red lyrium shit. Bad shit, Commander.

Cullen tugged at the ends of his hair as he read and re-read the last paragraph. Red lyrium, something that he had relegated to a sort of bogeyman amongst disgraced Templars and surface-shocked dwarves, appeared to be coming to the forefront of this campaign. What true use it had the commander could not begin to surmise, but he had a suspicion that it would not be a resource of benevolent influence.

And normal lyrium is? that traitorous, hungry voice in his head rasped, its tone and cadence all too similar to the ghost of his past. And in an odd way it ought to be, for Samson's plummeting fall had been ugly, the twisted reminder of what every Templar could become if they hadn't the strength of will to endure their Chantry-instilled cravings. It was either that or go mad from the memories of the atrocities that they had witnessed, and Cullen was still uncertain of which fate was kinder.

To work, then. Sitting here pondering would hardly gain him new ground, he would need to speak to Trevelyan directly once more. This Elder One sounded like trouble.

…

The commander bade her sit across from him in the war room while he remained standing. Due to the sheaf of papers spread out in front of him and the late hour, Etre resigned herself to more questioning. 

“I've already told everything I recall to Leliana,” she began, attempting to save him some time. Josephine had once described Cullen to her as, “the man with a hammer to whom every problem resembles a nail”, and the observation seemed to be ringing true. Commander Cullen waved off Etre's words, his expression customarily grim, and the young woman sighed internally. 

“I know our spymaster has already plied you for what she deems is useful information, and I have also read the reports of you and your companions. I would have your firsthand remarks on a different portion of this…dark future you faced.” Cullen's posture was tense, either an echo of his Templar training or an uncharacteristically open display of the stress that must plague him daily. He tapped a finger down on a page of a report, seeming to highlight a certain paragraph. “Here, you mention the Grand Enchanter being somehow fused to a large growth of red lyrium. How exactly was she–Maker's breath Herald, are you well?”

Etre knew she must have gone pallid, she could nearly feel the blood draining from her face. “Oh, never better.” She said faintly. “The whole debacle in Redcliffe seems to have taken quite the toll on me, unfortunately, so forgive me if my answers are a little…brief.”

“Take the time you need, Lady Trevelyan.” Cullen replied stiffly. 

Etre took a bracing gulp of air, struggling to recall details her mind desperately wished to shy away from. “She was joined to the growth. It–grew out of her. Her eyes were…they had taken on some of the properties of the red lyrium. She–” the woman paused, closing her own eyes as she was flooded with nausea. “She was immobilized from the mass of the red lyrium, but not dead. Death would have been infinitely more kind than that fate, I am sure.” She glanced up at the commander's now-neutral expression. “Have you experienced the red lyrium growths up close, Commander?”

Cullen shook his head. “I was near a blade imbued with it, once.”

“It buzzes, it has this hideous humming crackle to it. It makes you feel like your bones are twitching beneath your skin. Varric said it makes his hair stand on end and mentioned his teeth itching, but that may be creative leeway.” Etre struggled to explain, gesturing with her hands on the table. “Like…like darkspawn. There is an unbearable wrongness to it, the sense that it just should not be.” 

Commander Cullen folded his arms over his chest, his vambraces clicking quietly against his breastplate. “What did Fiona say about this…Elder One?” His voice had quieted, the expression on his face troubled.

“She said he…or perhaps it, really, is more powerful than the Maker. Other than that, nothing.” Etre thought back, squinting at the wall as she tried to recall the smaller details. “The Varric in that dark future told me that the Elder One assassinated the empress and invaded the south with a demon army? Blackwall said much the same, but he added that the Inquisition crumpled and then mentioned something about anyone refusing to convert being killed. I am uncertain if what he meant by convert was ‘seed with red lyrium’. A literal conversion?”

The commander exhaled raggedly. “I have my own terrible suspicions, but no true confirmation of it.” He admitted. “Thank you for your time, Herald. I know that recalling such a trial is not easy, but I assure you the knowledge shall be put to good use.” 

When Etre looked up, Cullen had returned his attention to the reports in front of him. “I…” the woman paused, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes. How had she never noticed them before? “Can I get you something to eat from the canteen, perhaps?” She offered abruptly. “I know where the quartermaster has been stashing her pickled eggs.”

Cullen met her gaze, his confusion evident in the way he raised his eyebrows as if bidding her to continue. 

“You don't look well, Commander.” Etre said bluntly, reaching out to point at his face before she could think better of it.

Cullen grinned without humor, bracing his weight heavily on the table. “I am not well, you are correct, but regrettably that folk cure will do nothing to slake the appetite inside me.” He muttered cryptically. “Suffice it to say, thank you for your concern, but I fear it will become worse before it dares to become better.” Etre, thoroughly baffled, blinked at the commander and awkwardly returned her hand to her lap. “Besides,” Cullen continued on to point out, “it wouldn't do for the men to see their blessed Herald fetching me a bowl of evening stew and preserved eggs like a common camp runner.”

“I am happy to do it, Commander!” Evidently her mouth was getting away from her tonight, but she meant it all the same. “You are doing so much for us, for the mages–allowing them to feel protected without feeling watched-!” 

“Ah, well, that's more to do with our lacking manpower than any true attempt at delicacy on my behalf.” His smirk was tight-lipped. “I am not known to be so subtle. After what transpired in Ferelden-” Cullen halted abruptly, the man seeming irritated with himself. “I should allow you to return to your duties, Herald. Forgive me for once more wasting your time.”

“I'll fetch you a bowl of stew, then. Perhaps some of Flissa's thick-crust bread?” Without waiting for him to finish sputtering out another denial, Etre all but ran from the War Room.

Trevelyan soon returned to the chantry balancing a bowl of stew, a piece of thick bread and two small pickled eggs on a trencher. She cursed herself internally as she struggled to open the chapel door with a combination of two fingers on her right hand and her elbow, why hadn't she maneuvered the tray better! She ought to have put it in the crook of her elbow instead of holding it in her hands–

Vivienne interrupted her mental quandary on her way back to Cullen through the chantry, the mage apologizing for said interruption but soldiering onward rapidly. “If Fiona and her malcontents are joining us as allies, we need to be prepared. Abominations are inevitable.” The woman said softly. “Cullen doesn't have enough Templars to handle incidents. Some of the rank and file need to be trained.”

Malcontents? Etre recalled the dark future with an internal shudder, certain that her expression betrayed her. “The last thing we need are abominations running amok.” She agreed, finally shifting the trencher to the crook of her elbow when the heat of the stew began to burn the heel of her palm.

“I knew you would have a proper grasp of the situation.” Vivienne's smile was tight. “I'll have a word with Cullen. We are reliant on his people absolutely. There has never been a greater threat to mages than the Breach. Until it is closed, no one is safe.”

Etre's agreeable mood began to fade as she realized why Madame de Fer was actually approaching her. And Cullen, not Commander Cullen? Perhaps the mage was better associated with the commander than Etre had realized. It would make sense that they would be on closer terms due to Vivienne's high-ranking position and her familiarity with Templars. Add to that her obvious misgivings about the rebel mages…“You have a low opinion of your fellow mages.” Etre didn't mean for it to sound so rude, perhaps she ought to have thought on the phrasing before saying anything! Clearly tonight was not the night for manners.

Vivienne took a moment to straighten out her skirts primly. “It's not so much an opinion as grasping the obvious.” She replied, as if they were discussing the weather. The sky is blue, the rebel mages are a threat. “Magic is dangerous, just as fire is dangerous. Anyone who forgets this truth gets burned.”

Etre had to acknowledge the other woman's superior experience in this field, if grudgingly. Unfortunately, the Herald had no real insight into actually wielding magic and the trouble that it could bring, aside from witnessing the effects of it after the fact. “You're right, of course, but I feel that Templars are a poor solution.” Trevelyan said carefully, inclining her head. “I must admit to my own shortcomings in this instance, Madame de Fer, as I'm sure you're all too aware. I understand that mages like yourself are the true experts here. I am not a mage, I have never been secured in a Circle, and as such, to me, it seems…unreasonable.”

The mage before her was silent for a moment. Etre wondered if she had offended her with her observations. Vivienne didn't sound upset when next she spoke, but Etre knew that she had barely scratched the surface on the bounds of the iron control the First Enchanter exerted over her entire being. “The Templars are but men, my dear, and all men are flawed. That some fail does not mean that none should try.” She said softly. “The fact remains that there is no cure for an abomination except death. Someone must strike the killing blow.” Vivienne shrugged elegantly. “Who shall lower the blade if not a Templar?” 

“Why not accompany me, if you can spare the time? We will broach this topic with the commander.” Etre nearly sloshed some of the soup out of the bowl with a gesture to indicate Vivienne should come along. The mage did indeed follow after her, though she seemed a little stunned.

“You bring the commander his food? My dear, you are the Herald of Andraste.”

“Oh, how foolish of me! You are right, of course. Andraste never assisted anyone for any reason.” Etre laughed, hoping the jest wasn't too bold. 

“I simply presumed there were more dire matters for you to attend to!” Vivienne protested as Trevelyan shoved open the door to the war room with the toe of her boot. “Forgive me, I did not mean to imply that-”

“Herald! I'd told you–ah, Madame de Fer.” Cullen's outburst was quickly cut short, the man obviously unwilling to berate Etre in front of such illustrious company. Cheerily Etre passed him over the trencher of stew, bread and eggs, then propped herself up on a corner of the table and gave Vivienne an expectant look.

The First Enchanter sighed, once more adjusting her skirts. Commander Cullen for his part straightened up, his shoulders back and hands clasped behind him. Templar.

“I was simply discussing with our dear Herald the necessity of training more Templars, Commander.” Vivienne's tone had changed to a softer, sweeter one. She was wheedling, Etre realized abruptly. Commander Cullen had been a Templar, and there was no doubt that Vivienne knew exactly how to speak to a Templar to secure whatever she desired. It was a touch admirable, even if it made Etre wonder on the terms of their own acquaintance.

Cullen nodded in agreement, the man looking weary. “Believe me, I understand that all too well. I had been considering having Barris begin scouting from our ranks, but I had wished to discuss it with the Herald first. That and I am concerned about our numbers being too low to sustain the bulk of our soldiers. We will need more volunteers, perhaps clerics from the Chantry.”

“Of course, my dear. Whatever you believe is best. We mages must always defer to the judgement of our Templars.” Vivienne agreed, delicately adjusting a cuff on her slender wrist. 

Etre had seen such a move countless times from her peers; it indicated that the person sought to draw attention to how fine-boned she was. Gaze upon my wrist! I am so very fragile and need protecting, I am spun glass and porcelain, Etre could still hear her mother's instructions as the woman fought desperately to pass along such mannerisms to her. Without intending to, Etre furrowed her brow. It only made sense that Madame Vivienne would employ such subtle tactics, her skill in the Game was well known– 

Vivienne laid her hand gently upon Cullen's arm, and then took her leave without another word.

Commander Cullen blinked and shook his head with a heavy sigh once the door had closed behind her. He fairly radiated discomfort. “I take it you do not care for our First Enchanter?” Etre remarked.

Cullen, however, looked surprised. “What? No, whatever gave you that idea?”

“Well, you just…nevermind, perhaps I presume too much.”

“I assure you, I have no quarrel with Madame Vivienne.” The commander insisted staunchly. “She is simply…very traditional. Her views on Templars are refreshing, but it is still disconcerting to not be disliked by a mage on principle.” He explained, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Unfortunately for Madame de Fer, I am not some young pup Templar any longer to be swayed by a lovely Circle mage's fleeting, forbidden touch.”

“Ah, I see.” Etre felt a bit odd about the whole thing. Lovely, forbidden. “Is it that way for all Templars and mages? Are the Circles truly so strict?”

“It is not the Circles,” Cullen stressed. “I may only speak for the Templars, but we are supposed to maintain a certain distance from our charges. If a mage is possessed or uses blood magic, you must act quickly, without hesitation. Your judgement cannot be clouded.” He sounded grave, his tone befitting the topic. “Of course, ignoring one another does nothing to foster understanding, but Templars swear oaths with the knowledge that they may need to strike down the most docile-appearing of mages. It is difficult to maintain even the barest friendliness, knowing such a terrible price may be exacted at a moment’s notice.”

It saddened Etre to think of it. Two groups, locked in such close proximity but never truly intermingling, just rotating around one another in an uneasy dance. She pictured a young Cullen and Vivienne, the two of them exchanging vague pleasantries and fleeting niceties, all the while wondering if today would be the day one would kill the other…

Well, if the commander was in such an expansive mood, who was she to waste the opportunity? “I have heard that Templar vows do not allow for personal gain.” Etre mused, hoping that the man would at least pick at the stew soon. What if it grew cold before he had the opportunity to enjoy it?

“That is correct.” Cullen nodded, absently scooping up one of the pickled eggs and taking the smallest bite out of it imaginable. After he swallowed, he carried on, “Templars are not to seek wealth or acknowledgement. Our lives belong to the Maker and the path we have chosen.”

“What of advancements in rank? Those are not considered acknowledgement?" 

“They are to come naturally through your exemplary deeds in service. Anything else would encourage the temptation of underhanded dealings, or so we are told.” Cullen rolled his eyes. “I cannot say that there is no corruption amongst the Templars, that would be a bald-faced lie. Promotions were wielded just as we were: with intent. To be truthful on the matter, nearly everything in the Order was rife with temptations. From something as foolish as taking coin to smuggle a letter, or something so forbidden as seizing a mage's phylactery without their consent, there was this constant imbalance of power that could be…alluring to certain types.”

“Are Templars supposed to avoid all temptations?” Etre laughed a little. “It must be very difficult to avoid the physical ones, I imagine. So many people in such close proximity, day in and day out! Many folk regard chastity or celibacy to be the utmost in terms of piety, it boggles the mind to consider all these poor souls just trying to avoid eye contact with one another.”

Cullen chuckled ruefully, adjusting his breastplate. “There was no way to ever truly avoid such interactions, but we were always encouraged to keep it to a strictly minimal amount of politeness. Some Templars chose to give up more to prove their devotion, but it is not required.” 

“Did you ever take on an oath such as that?” The commander hesitated and, after a moment, it dawned on Etre what she had asked him. Panicking, she rushed to clarify, “I-I meant in terms of simply giving up more, of course! Did you refuse sweets at dinner when they were presented? Or perhaps you spent your days in prayerful silence?”

Cullen's voice was soft when he answered her, and his answer was…strange. “I have taken no such vows.” The commander seemed to only then remember the stew she had fetched for him, the man scolding her roundly and sending her off to her lone tent.

I have taken no such vows. Did he speak in regards to the things she had suggested, or to the things she had mentioned before? Physical temptations. Etre blew a strand of hair out of her face, thoroughly irritated. Now was hardly the time for her to indulge in such childish antics! Perhaps she had only sought something to distract her from the horror of recalling Redcliffe's castle and what had transpired there. 

There was a hole in the sky for her to worry about. A little focus could do her some good!

…

“Someone needs to stay here and give orders.” 

His excuse, for it could be none other than that, was what secured Cullen his place during their attempt to close the Breach once more. In truth, the presence of so many mages in one condensed location had him in cold sweats. He found himself reaching for tools that he no longer kept on his person multiple times that day, his hand ungracefully fumbling with the hilt of his sword in an effort to mask the motion.

Cassandra at least had taken pity on him, the woman co-signing placing the pavilion he had wished to organize the troops from a fair distance back from the Breach (and the mages). Solas seemed to suspect something, the elf giving him a knowing look that made Cullen long to hide beneath a rock. 

This close to the main wound in the sky the Herald's eyes took on a glassy green sheen, giving her whole face a ghoulish appearance that many of the less-experienced mages found unsettling. That was nothing compared to the discomfort Lady Trevelyan obviously felt due to her proximity to the Breach, her fingers leaving divots in the leather joints of her gambeson as she paced in front of Cullen's stratagem. 

“We will send runners as soon as there is word. Whether success or failure, any word.” The woman informed him firmly. “I know not what will happen. Not even Solas knows what may happen. Not to the Breach, not to me…there will be so much power, I fear my body may not be able to hold itself together.” 

“Do your best to return to us, Herald.” Cullen reminded her solemnly, “This is only the chiefest problem. Lesser rifts continue to plague Thedas, but, Maker willing, this will cut off the head.”

“Small troubles!” She laughed nervously, turning away from him once more. 

Commander Cullen stood with considerable effort to catch her arm on her way by, his armor seeming impossibly heavy every time he moved. “You do yourself a disservice, Herald.” The commander snapped, very nearly losing his patience with her dismissive attitude. That knee-jerk judgement was quickly overcome with sympathy when he noted the glowing tears she was blinking away. The commander paused for a moment to master himself, forcing his hold to loosen to something a bit more casual. In truth, he oughtn't dare lay a hand on her at all! She was the Herald of Andraste, and he…

He was nothing but a former Templar, and not even a useful one at that! Cullen had never felt more like a fool for refusing to take lyrium than in that moment, when the reality of the situation came crashing down upon his shoulders. What could he even offer should things go wrong at the Breach? What precious little knowledge he had drilled into the soldiers…multitudes of functional Templars had joined the Inquisition's ranks since its formation, surely one of them would have stepped into a leadership role! Barris, certainly, the Knight-Templar showed such promise…

Had Cassandra made the wrong choice when she asked him to command the Inquisition's forces? Worse still, had she made the wrong choice to encourage him in his efforts to not take lyrium?

Impossible. Lady Cassandra has never been wrong in her life, the commander thought wryly, giving Lady Trevelyan's arm a gentle squeeze before releasing her. “We are with you, as ever.” He assured her. “Though it may feel as though you walk alone, the Inquisition is with you.” 

Lady Trevelyan looked down, clearly unable to bring herself to meet his gaze. Cullen cleared his throat awkwardly, casting around for some other certainty he could extend to her, something to shore up her evidently-wavering resolve. 

The familiar passage came to mind, the commander recalling those long hours of training, meditating on candle flames and reciting the Chant of Light. It was a strange sort of comfort to have such things memorized, the knowledge only proving its worth in times of strife and chaos. “I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond, for there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light,” Cullen quoted the popular canticle softly, his voice lilting a bit on habit as he spoke, “and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

“I hope you're right.” The Herald breathed, her tone one of resignation. “I fear the Chant has been further from my mind than it ought to be, given my title.” Her smile was weak, but present all the same. “I…thank you for reminding me of my good fortune, Commander.”

Cullen blinked, too stunned to school his expression into something polite. Good fortune?

Lady Trevelyan obviously saw the confused look on his face for she hurried to explain, “because I can do something about what threatens us all! I am not helpless, even though it feels that way sometimes.” She smiled more brightly now, a few glowing tears still squeezing out at the corners of her eyes. “Truthfully, I am lucky to be alive. I am the luckiest woman alive! I can take heart in that knowledge, if nothing else will do.” The Herald of Andraste clasped his vambrace in a soldier's greeting, her unnatural gaze turning to steely surety. “Our runners shall bear good news, Commander. Prepare for it!”

The commander narrowed his eyes and nodded sternly, placing his free hand over her gauntlet. “I expect no less from you, Herald!”

…

The return from the Breach (or where it had once stood) was slow, but triumphant. Etre hadn't noticed how exhausted she was until Sister Leliana meandered over to her, the spymaster slipping an arm beneath her shoulders to effortlessly support her weight. 

“You have done well, Herald. Our commander is no doubt most pleased with the news from our messengers!” The older woman praised, making Etre flush a little.

“I can hardly take the credit!” Trevelyan protested, “without the mages and everyone else working together-”

“A little embellishment could serve you better than humility, especially at court.” 

“Maker!” Etre's throat felt dry as sand when she laughed in incredulity. “You wouldn't release me into that pit of vipers, would you? They'd eat me alive and split my bones for the marrow.”

“Ah, and what a feast it would be!” Leliana's teasing tone heartened her somewhat, but the Herald still made a mental reminder to chant several extra verses in a bid to keep the spymaster's favor. The Great Game held no great allure for her, yet she had to respect the skill of those who played with such fervor!

They rounded the last curve before the bridge and Leliana departed, leaving Trevelyan to continue her way back to Haven amongst the throngs of dazed, weary mages and on-edge Templars. Runners continued up and down the pack, bringing news to the forward ranks and assurance to the rear guard. A feast was being threatened back at Haven, and music as well! Which sounded wonderful but she was so tired–

Her stomach rumbled, making her grimace. Perhaps sleep could wait until after the feast? 

A hand clapped her on her pauldron and she turned, startled. It was Commander Cullen, the normally-severe man practically beaming down at her. Etre felt the flush return to her cheeks with a vengeance. Oh certainly, the commander had always had a handsome visage, but he had been unapproachable, polite without overstepping, no true warmth in his speech except for a rare moment of praise here or there. 

This, however…well, she would simply have to continue producing results in order to secure more enchanting displays of high spirits!

“I could scarce believe it!” The commander was exclaiming. Etre barely registered his words, too taken by the way his brown eyes were warmed to amber as the last rays of sunlight crested the hilltop behind her. “I suppose I should have had faith all the same. After all, you said it would be good news. Forgive my momentary doubt, Lady Trevelyan.” He apologized with a little half bow.

“I fear I may begin to disappoint, now that the largest rift has been sealed.” Etre said in faux-apology, getting a laugh out of him. A real laugh, a genuine one! She wasn't sure why that occurrence felt more miraculous than being able to calm the maelstrom in the sky. Obviously it was a day of firsts. 

“Take the evening, Lady Trevelyan. I'm certain that come morning, more important matters will require our attention once more.” Commander Cullen pressed a healing draught into her grasp, then departed to speak with Knight-Templars Grist and Barris. The passing of the draught seemed almost like a habitual motion, an offhand exchange he had done a thousand times before. Well if he was a Templar, Etre reasoned, closing her fingers around the flask and tucking it into her hip pouch. It stands to reason, since mages need so much lyrium…and Templars, too! Only natural for him to pass a bottle over, regardless of the aid of its contents. She smiled softly to herself, a little entertained by the thought of the commander treating her like one of his mage charges. 

…

The evening's feasting and revelry was well underway when Cullen received the word from a panicked, out-of-breath watchman. 

“An enormous force of troops, making their way towards Haven! They approach from beyond the mountains, and they bear no colors or standard!” The man gasped, wiping some sweat from his face beneath his helm's padding. “My orders, Commander?”

The commander bounded to his feet, nearly overturning the low table in his haste. “Get to the belfry, sound the alarm!” He barked at a gaggle of nearby soldiers, many of them bareheaded and half in their cups. His heart sank at their sluggish response and the commander rushed off with the watchman in tow, resigned to being the one to raise the alarm. 

“Forces approaching! To arms!” The watchguard yelled as they ran through the masses of tipsy men and women. Cullen heard panic begin to build, the commander forcing himself to ignore the heightening noise and distress of the civilians and troops around him.

It felt like far too long had passed before he finally heard the bell ringing out overhead. “To arms, Inquisition, to arms!” Cullen shouted, gesturing at the areas where he needed troops to marshal themselves. “I need three to four mages to every Templar! Templars, see to your charges! Footsoldiers, muster to the sides! Pikemen and shields, the fore!”

“What has happened, Commander?” Lady Cassandra demanded once they met at the gate, Lady Trevelyan following listlessly behind her. The poor Herald's color was high in her cheeks from drink and her eyes were unfocused even now. Josephine came rushing up alongside the commander, her skirts rumpled from the mad dash.

Cullen gestured beyond the gate. “One watchguard reporting. It's a massive force, the bulk over the mountain.”

“Under whose banner?” Ambassador Montilyet demanded, the woman no doubt ready to summon every favor she could to ensure this fracas did not occur. 

“None.” Cullen replied shortly.

“None?!”

A loud bang! at the gate interrupted their exchange, and from outside came a panicked voice which stated, “I can't come in unless you open!” 

Lady Trevelyan was the only one who lurched into action at the voice's words, the woman weaving past one of the guardsmen to jam her shoulder against the crossbar and shove it up a hair, allowing one side of the gate to begin swinging open. Cullen barely caught sight of a towering warrior in Tevinter armor through the slowly-widening gap in the gate before Lady Trevelyan slipped beneath the bar.

Damn it, Trevelyan! Cullen cursed internally, already drawing his sword as the crossbeam clattered to the ground. Josephine cried out in alarm, begging the Herald to turn back, but Lady Trevelyan was assuredly not sober and continued staunchly on, marching towards the enormous brute without so much as a blasted eating knife on her person to defend herself with. 

Cassandra was abruptly at Cullen's side, the woman elbowing open the other gate with barely a grunt of exertion, loosing the two of them on the surrounding grounds of Haven in hot pursuit of their tipsy Herald. “We must stop her, she will be killed!” Cassandra exclaimed.

Wildly the commander cast around for an idea, something to keep Trevelyan where she was (still practically within spitting distance of that lumbering creature). “Halt!” He roared in the stern tone he used on misbehaving recruits. Cullen was torn between gratitude and bemusement when the Herald obeyed immediately, her posture suddenly snapping to attention as she seemed to realize where she was and what was rapidly approaching with a greataxe.

And then the Tevinter warrior toppled with a gurgle, the loss of his large form revealing his killer. Cullen was stunned, for the person holding the blade that had felled that warrior was so waifishly thin it bordered on concerning. Indeed, the boy looked like he had yet to grow into his eyes, they seemed too enormous for his face. But beneath the brim of his truly ridiculous hat, everything looked a bit off-kilter. 

“I'm Cole!” The boy was obviously frantic, his voice cracking when he addressed the Herald. “I came to warn you, to help! People are coming to hurt you!” He paused, glancing down at the several bodies scattered on the ground around him. “You probably already know.”

“What is this, what's going on?” Lady Trevelyan asked, now seeming as though she was coming back to her senses. Clearly the bracing air of the outer wall had done her some good, to say nothing of having the life startled out of her by the Commander's shouted order.

Cole's next words sent a chill down Cullen's spine, both their composition and the certainty he spoke them with putting the commander on his proverbial back foot. “The Templars come to kill you,” the boy said in a dispassionate tone, wiping his dagger off on his breeches.

“Templars?!” Cullen asked sharply, confused and reeling at this news. “Is this the Order's response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

Cole continued to speak to the Herald as though Cullen wasn't even there. “The red templars went to the Elder One. You know him?” Lady Trevelyan shook her head. “He knows you. You took his mages.” Cole pointed off over the nearby rise. “There.”

The Elder One. Andraste preserve me, what the Herald learned in Redcliffe–

To Cullen's horror he recognized the man who stood atop the hill, and for one agonizing moment he feared he was slipping into a lyrium withdrawal hallucination. Why on earth was Samson brandishing Meredith's grim weapon, standing proud and tall alongside some gnarled creature that looked as if it had been shambolically assembled with red lyrium and darkspawn remains? “I know that man,” the commander finally managed to say, “but this…Elder One…” he trailed off, furrowing his brow. 

A demon army, the assassination of Celene and the invasion of the south.

Cole reiterated ominously, “He's very angry that you took his mages.”

“Orders, Commander?” Blackwall! When the blazes had he arrived?! Alongside him were also Dorian and Sera, the Tevinter man and elven archer staring wide-eyed at the slow-moving horde. 

Cullen forced himself to inhale deeply, the cold night air assuring him that no, this was no lyrium-addled madness. This was stark reality, and their men would need instruction. 

At his elbow, Lady Trevelyan pleaded, “Commander, give me a plan, anything!” 

“Perhaps a weapon would be better suited first, my lady.” Blackwall drawled, raising an eyebrow before scooping up the Venatori's discarded greataxe and handing it over to her. “It will have to do, there's no time to retrieve your preferred weapon.”

“This thing feels light as a feather after my maul!” Lady Trevelyan's laugh was near-hysterical, a high, mirthless shriek of a sound. If Cullen didn't think of something quickly, he knew this battle would dissolve into chaos and they would have no hope at all! But the enemy numbers were soul-crushing, the sheer amount of them blackening the moonlit snow with their passage. 

Think, Rutherford! 

“Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle.” He gestured upwards at one of their trebuchets. “Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can!” He turned on his heel, facing the gate once more. There stood the troops in formation, and behind them, his Templars with their mages. “Mages! You-” The words caught in his throat momentarily, the man managing to continue with some difficulty, “you have sanction to engage them! That dark-haired man astride the hill is Samson, he will not make it easy!” The commander brandished his sword, thrusting it towards the sky as he shouted, “Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!” 

Emboldened by his words, their earlier success at the Breach, too much drink or perhaps a combination of all three, the troops marched forward in an orderly manner to meet the approaching tide. Cullen could see the fear in their eyes however, and his heart sank. They simply did not know enough and now the enemy was at their doorstep.

“That trebuchet–no that one!” Sera was dragging at Lady Trevelyan's arm, pulling her in the direction of the other side of Haven. “We sling a boulder at the mountain, yeah? Topple it over on them, bury the cocky shites.”

“Blackwall and I will clear you a path, but if you get yourself killed, don't say I didn't warn you.” Dorian's smile was a little less snide than usual, and the man gave Cullen a light rap on the pauldron as he passed by. “Good of you to let the mages off their leash, Rutherford. I knew I liked you.” 

“Pray that we all live long enough for me to regret such a choice,” Cullen muttered. “Now go!”

…

To think, mere moments before Etre had been asleep in her cups, slumped over on the banquet table with a full stomach. When Lady Cassandra had seized her arm and hauled her upright Etre had simply followed obediently, assuming that she was being dragged into yet another rousing round of capering across the chantry's floor, rubbing at her bleary eyes and trying hard to focus through the haze of drink. 

She still couldn't quite recall how she got outside the walls of Haven, all she could remember was the voice commanding her to halt! striking her like a thunderclap of clarity. It was not, in fact, the voice of the Maker from on high, but Commander Cullen, who had shouted the order so forcefully it jolted Etre to full wakefulness.

Maker's breath, it was cold! The woman looked up and around, bewildered, and before her stood an enormous warrior in Tevinter armor. Instinctively Etre reached back for her maul, but of course she came away empty-handed. It had been a feast, a time of celebration, of what use was her maul at such an event? She was lucky she still wore her armor! She adjusted her stance, still a bit unsteady, raising her arm as a shield and bracing as she prepared for whatever blow would fall.

A blur of details followed. A new ally, a new path forwards, trebuchets, Sera hauling at her shoulder with all her strength in order to get her to obey–

The trebuchet worked as planned, a majority of that terrible army handily buried beneath a slide of rock and snow. Indeed, the troops were still cheering in victory when a fiendish roar echoed across the frozen lake. Perhaps it was only to be expected that an enemy so evidently powerful as this would have more than one method of attack, but none of them could have anticipated a dragon!

At least, the thing that decimated the trebuchet was dragon shaped, what little could be seen in the poor visibility. And it spewed fire, of a sort! Some dragons did that, right?

Blackwall seized her breastplate's shoulder strap, jerking her back from the beast's next gout of flames. “Herald, have a bloody care, would you?!” The man shouted.

“I fear all the celebrating earlier has me in less than fine shape!” Etre retorted, getting a grim chuckle out of the bearded warrior. “We should regroup! The chantry will have to do, it's mostly stone.”

“Aye, with you. Dorian! See to Sera, she's already biting off more than she can chew!”

“Must I?” The mage snarked without malice, already twirling his staff in place for his next attack. 

“Keep those red templars at the wall as long as you can!” Etre yelled, her attention now shifting to the spreading flames. “If it's no longer a viable position, retreat.”

“We'll see, Herald!” Sera grunted, and Etre was struck by a wretched flashback of Leliana's sunken eyes in that dark future when she had said ‘you have as much time as I have arrows.’

“Please,” Etre's voice cracked, and Sera gave her a confused look before nodding slowly. The Herald strode away, catching Iron Bull's attention with a wave. “Chargers, search collapsed buildings for survivors!” She ordered, pushing down her discomfort over actually issuing commands. “We fall back to the chantry! Inquisition, we fall back-”

With a trumpeting bellow, a behemoth formed almost exclusively of red lyrium came lumbering up the hillside, its footsteps dogged by fireballs and arrows to no avail.

“Maker's balls!” Blackwall swore, his frustration evident. “Is there nothing you bastards won't throw into our path? Now you've got the bloody rocks fighting us!”

“My kingdom for my maul!” Etre bemoaned, readying her scavenged greataxe. 

…

Cullen had to force himself not to scan the faces of the red templars he had slain. He knew the knowledge would simply cause him added suffering, and he thought longingly of his bulky shield and helm. At least with that, he could have avoided eye contact for a bit longer, could have fended off the agonizing moments of recognition before his blade inevitably struck true.

The red templars all bore the same stilted movements, as if every step caused them pain. He supposed that would make sense; whatever the red lyrium was, Cullen doubted it was beneficial to one's health. Maker, normal lyrium would burn the mind out of you if you took it long enough! Even with their slowed motions, however, the red templars seemed to possess some monstrous strength. Commander Cullen found their blows limb-deadening if he attempted to parry and so he simply ceased to do so, instead doing his best to move outside their range of attack. 

Red lyrium increases one's physical prowess at the cost of speed, perhaps? In exchange for pain, power. Cullen grimaced. It all sounded like a wretched existence.

And then he spotted it scrambling towards him. Some…some thing, not a demon, not a human, Maker, what was it?! It moved on two legs, it was hunched, back stretched and misshapen in a terrible mixture of broken, pallid skin and crimson crystalline growths– 

Cullen fought down a horrified surge of bile in his throat as he realized the thing had once been human, it still wore a Templar helm perched between the red spikes on its shoulders, Maker no, please! His prayers unanswered as ever, the creature lunged forward with a gurgling wail of agony, one spiked limb raised high in a makeshift club. 

The commander barely managed to deflect the blow in time, his sword arm going dead to the elbow and the blade clattering to the ground when his grip slacked. The…horror, whatever it was, the once-Templar thing, squealed at him in a feral noise of animal rage before a blast of frost halted its motion in place. Solas’ staff struck the middle of the ice, shattering the creature where it stood. “Commander, you have dropped your sword.” The mage observed, his tone one of mild disapproval. There wasn't so much as a blood spatter on his garments, the elf looking fresh as a crystal grace bloom. 

Cullen was suddenly a bit self-conscious, and he wondered at the idea that he even had the mental space to feel that at this moment. 

Solas…well, the only way to really describe his motion was floating, and so off he floated towards a burning building. “The Herald wishes for us to muster at the chantry,” he called over his shoulder to Cullen, then gestured at the building with a wry smile. “Of course, we are also instructed to rescue those that we can from the red templars’ wrath.”

Of course.

Cullen scowled. “At this point, just make them work for it.” Solas nodded sagely in agreement, his own visage smooth as glass. 

Flexing his wrist and shaking out his hand to alleviate some of the numbness, the commander scooped up his sword and continued up the hill towards Haven's chantry. He could barely see the entrance, but there seemed to be too many bodies swirling around it for there to be no opposition involved. 

The boy, Cole, moved with a strange, inexperienced lethality. It was as though his body couldn't keep up with what he wanted it to do, but yet he was keeping three of the red templars at bay. Time and time again when they went to land a killing blow, he simply wasn't there. Cullen couldn't trust his eyes amongst the smoke of the burning pilgrimage and so he put it from his mind, dedicating himself to striking down the enemy before they realized his approach.

“There, his knee is weak,” he heard Cole muttering to himself before the thin young man dropped to a crouch, the pommel of his dagger snapping out to shatter the poleyn of one of the red templars. The warrior stumbled, unbalanced, and Cullen struck with a strange sort of mercy. “He helps in the slaughter, mind screaming, friend or foe, who am I?” Cole's voice remained flat, wholly lacking in any sort of affect. As though he wasn't still trapped between two red templars and the chantry door. 

The commander chose to ignore the strange boy for the time being, instead focusing on eliminating the red templars. With them gone, the door could be opened and they could offer refuge to–

“The red burns in my veins, hot, so hot like a fever, am I dying, I don't want to die, the Elder One said I wouldn't,” Cole continued in a monotone, driving his blade upwards beneath the chin of the red templar's helm and offering them a swift end. Cullen cut down the final warrior and Cole fixed him with a penetrating look. “You don't want to.”

“I will do what needs to be done. As shall we all.” The commander answered curtly, then began hammering on the door. “Let us in, Roderick! The denizens of Haven seek shelter!” He shouted.

“He tried to stop a templar,” Cole warned as the doors creaked outward. “The blade went deep. He is going to die.” His words were proved true as a moment later Chancellor Roderick appeared by the slow-opening door, and the man looked significantly worse for the wear. He clutched at a wound in his stomach, his normally snow-white vestments stained with blood. 

“Maker's breath, Roderick.” The commander said helplessly. For being such a hellion to endure the presence of, Cullen still felt deep pity for him. To devote your life to something, only to have none of it matter in the end–!

“I will be at His side soon enough, and I'll thank you not to rush me.” The older man choked out, then raised his voice. “Keep going, Inquisition! The Chantry is your shelter!”

Cullen spotted a small band coming up the steps as another fiery blast from that infernal dragon rocked the ground, leveling several structures with ease. His heart sank and he rushed forward once more, sword at the ready to ward off pursuit. 

Evidently he needn't have bothered. As Cullen came upon the rear of the group, he watched the Herald bat away a red templar with the flat of that Tevinter greataxe. The woman was covered in blood, her eyes wild as she whirled with the axe like it was weightless and slammed the other combatant to the ground with the deafening creak of abused metal. “You will not touch them!” she yelled fiercely, tearing the blade free from the red templar's chest and then turning it on the next assailant who dared to approach. 

…And Andraste, dressed in cloth of starlight and armored in moonlight, stood before him, and he was afraid.

Certainty struck Cullen anew, Herald of Andraste. Weariness fleeing from his form, the commander bolted to her side. Between his sword and her axe, the task was gruesome but quick. Once their first group had reached Haven's chantry, Lady Trevelyan wordlessly turned and strode back out, hunching slightly over her axe. 

“There will be more.” She said hoarsely, whether to Cullen or herself the man could not be sure. “Everyone gets to the chantry safely. As long as I have breath in my body, everyone.”

“With you, Herald.” The commander said in reply. 

“Thank you, Commander.”

They would all die, surely, and they would make these bastards labor for it. It was a cold comfort, yet worthy enough to suit his needs. 

The commander lost track of the number of Venatori and red templars they slew, the whole affair blurring into a bloody haze in his memory. Sharp armor gleaming in fitful firelight, red crystal shards arcing through the air from the point of impact, Trevelyan at his back and red templars and Tevinters all around…at some point Lady Cassandra joined them, and Cullen was grateful for her shield if nothing else.

Grim work, but he had done worse. Judging from the stoney set of Cassandra's jaw, she thought much the same.

Finally it seemed as though they had shepherded their last gaggle of civilians, and the three of them retreated to the chantry to bolt its doors. Once inside the Herald bent double, bracing her hands on her knees as she coughed and panted for air. The smoke outside had been so thick in certain areas, Cullen was impressed that Trevelyan hadn't succumbed to it. 

“Well fought, Herald.” Cassandra murmured. Trevelyan just nodded, the woman clearly weary. 

After taking another moment to assess their options, the whole affair looked dire to say the least. The commander wracked his mind for some sort of positive, something to bring to Trevelyan that might save them, but he couldn't seem to muster anything up. He said as much to the Herald, carefully picking his words while refusing to soften the reality of their standing. “Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.” 

“I've seen an archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.” Cole offered from Roderick's side. Cullen watched as both Solas and Vivienne shot the strange boy looks of interest and wariness, respectively.

Frankly however, Commander Cullen didn't give a damn. “I don't care what it looks like,” he snarled, “it has cut a path for that army. They'll kill everyone in Haven!”

Cole shook his head, nearly catching Chancellor Roderick with the broad brim of his hat. “The Elder One doesn't care about the village. He only wants the Herald.”

“If it will save these people, he can have me!” Lady Trevelyan said sharply. For some reason Cullen found himself feeling as though he had swallowed a boulder, a terrible weight settling into his stomach. “I know damn well my life isn't worth half this amount of trouble!”

“It won't,” Cole murmured, his voice soft and eyes full of sorrow. “He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he'll crush them–kill them anyway. I don't like him.”

“You don't like-?” Cullen cut himself off in frustration. He would only waste his breath. The man turned his attention back to Trevelyan, “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

“We're overrun. To hit the enemy, we'd bury Haven.” Trevelyan replied bleakly.

Cullen nodded, not shying away from the reality of their situation. “We're dying, but we can decide how. Many don't get that choice.”

“Chancellor Roderick can help!” Cole piped up abruptly. “He wants to say it before he dies.”

Roderick nodded, his breath hitching. “There is a path…you wouldn't know it unless you'd made the summer pilgrimage. As I have.” The mortally-wounded man struggled to rise, Cole supporting his back as he did. “The people can escape. She must have shown me…Andraste must have shown me so I could…t-tell you.”

“What are you on about, Roderick?” the Herald asked impatiently.

Hand outstretched to indicate his sincerity, Roderick continued, “it was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start–it was overgrown. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers…I don't know, Herald.” His chuckle was sad, a small huff of breath. “If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. You could be more.”

Lady Trevelyan chewed on her lower lip, the battered skin parting beneath her teeth. She didn't seem to notice, instead saying firmly, “if that thing is here for me, I'll make him fight for it. Then, I'll smother him with an avalanche.”

“And when the mountain falls? What about you?” Cullen asked worriedly. It was foolish, of course, to posit such a question. There really was only one outcome. He didn't even know why he bothered to ask. 

Outside, the roaring of the dragon (demon?) drew nearer. A heavy blow rocked the ground, causing dust to be shaken loose from the rafters. It seemed that they were out of time.

The Herald's expression hardened and the woman wordlessly shook her head. 

Cullen swallowed hard, that boulder now dedicated to crushing the breath from his lungs. Having such a sharp reaction unnerved him, but if she went to her death with such strength and selflessness, he had no right to sow seeds of doubt in her mind. Encouragement, then. “Perhaps…you will surprise it? Find a way…?” The commander forced out the optimistic words, but he did not believe them. Neither did she, from the look she gave him. Her lower lip quivered and Cullen immediately tore his gaze from hers, instead attempting to muster the forces of their survivors. “Inquisition! Follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry! Move!” He barked, letting Cole and Roderick take the shuffling lead in the endeavor.

Roderick seized Trevelyan's hand on the way by, his words slurred by pain and fatigue. “Herald, if you are meant for this…if the Inquisition is meant for this, I pray for you.” He said earnestly. The Herald simply nodded, seeing him off without another word.

Several foot soldiers darted by, heading for the doors. “They'll load the trebuchets,” Cullen explained to Lady Trevelyan, who at this point seemed on the verge of bolting. Her knees were shaking so badly her armor rattled! “Keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the tree line, and we will loose a signal to ensure you know.” In a final moment of desperation, he grasped her arm, staring at her intently as he ordered, “if we are to have a chance, if you are to have a chance--let that thing hear you.”

Etre nodded grimly and Cullen released her, Blackwall, Cassandra and Vivienne flanking him as they moved to accompany their Herald. The Grey Warden offered him a stern tilt of his head in farewell and Cassandra followed suit, but Vivienne gave him a sad smile and a pat on the arm as she passed. “Take care, my dear,” the woman said softly.

“Maker watch over you,” the commander murmured, then turned to follow after Roderick and the survivors, readying his blade to defend against possible pursuers. 

Iron Bull gave him a curious look, but did not deign to ask whatever question he clearly had, instead telling Krem to muster their men and guard the sides of the group at flanking points. “I'll stay back here with you, if it's all the same.” The Qunari said with a wry smile. 

“Delighted to have you.”

…

The back of her head slammed against the metal plate on the trebuchet crossbeam, causing Etre's consciousness to flicker as she slumped to the ground in a daze. 

The creature that called himself Corypheus stalked forward, moving less like a human and more akin to a cloud of miasma.

Get up. Get up Etre!

“The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling.” He almost sounded sulky. Etre bit back a hysterical laugh. Between his tone and the way he had simply flung her at the trebuchet, it seemed the darkspawn abomination's day had been thoroughly ruined. 

The Herald forced herself upright, one arm clinging to the trebuchet frame for dear life. The other hand grasped a discarded sword, no doubt torn from the clutches of some Inquisition soldier in their last moments. She brandished the blade clumsily in front of her, its trusty steel feeling flimsy after the usual weight of her two-handed weapons. 

Instead of just killing her, however, Corypheus continued to exposit! The towering creature and his terrible draconic (demonic?) beast had effectively blocked her escape route, but the longer she could keep his attention here, the better were the chances of her people. Even now she caught the eye of Lady Cassandra, the warrior watching her helplessly from her place behind the destroyed stockade wall. Etre, using her eyes and a subtle flick of her fingers, begged the Seeker to gather her strength and flee. Lady Cassandra obeyed after a moment, the woman retreating from her vantage point without a sound, but Etre could practically feel the Seeker cursing her name in every tongue she knew.

Trevelyan had decided (bit spur of the moment, if she was being honest!) that her companions ought to be afforded the same flight as everyone else in Haven. After all, they had followed her (nearly) unquestioningly, even Cassandra! It was only right that they be allowed to escape, instead of being trapped in some dead-end battle with…whatever this thing was. At least her people would be safe.

Her people. The thought bolstered her, kept her knees from trembling so wildly. Her people, Cullen and Josephine, Threnn and Adan and Flissa, multitudes more names and faces flooding her mind's eye even now. Every second Corypheus lingered here was precious, and Etre's brow furrowed with determination. She would hold him here as long as possible, then. 

Until we reach the treeline.

Agonizing seconds ticked by, Etre sweating nervously through her doublet as she did her damnedest not to seem impatient, tried to simply waste the creature's time. Frankly she ought to be grateful that Corypheus was in such a talkative mood, even if it came at the cost of him seizing her and then tossing her aside multiple times like a child's rag doll. The…man? towered over her in front of the trebuchet, unnaturally tall, his eyes burning with some sort of driving madness. He was frightening in every aspect of the word, and Etre felt a bit foolish for her previous chiefest fears of lightning strikes and large arachnids. But perhaps she ought to give herself grace; how in the world could she have known that a being like Corypheus existed?!

Maker, her hand hurt. The prolonged activation of the so-called Anchor was beginning to feel as though her fingers would burn to ash, and the heel of her palm ached and twinged terribly. 

Keep him talking, she reminded herself while gritting her teeth. Ignore it, keep him talking. If anything he seemed happy to ramble on in reply to her various shouted questions, as if he humored a small child. None of his answers made a lick of sense, of course, at least not to her, though it hardly mattered. Every ponderous response was another precious minute or two that she gained for the Inquisition's flight.

Suddenly, far, far in the distance behind Corypheus, a fiery arrow darted into the sky above a mountain pass, searing a high arc of light through the air like a comet. The signal, Commander Cullen had promised her a signal! Etre blinked back grateful tears. Even if she perished here, at least they had gotten a safe distance away! The knowledge was an immense comfort, allowing her soul a tremulous form of peace.

“I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.” Corypheus was droning, the abomination advancing on her once more. His draconic companion seemed to rumble in agreement, its heavy footfalls shaking the ground beneath it. 

It appeared that her stalling had finally come to an end. Etre straightened up, clutching the sword tightly enough to leave blood blisters on the inside of her fingers. “You expect me to fight, but that's not why I kept you talking,” she hissed at Corypheus, who had the grace to look annoyed. “Enjoy your victory. Here's your prize!” The woman brought the full weight of that sword down on the stop-key of the trebuchet, knocking the block out entirely and losing her hold on the weapon as the gear's handle wrenched it cleanly from her grip. 

The great trebuchet's arm swung in its ponderous rotation, the massive stone in its sling rocketing upwards towards the mountainside. 

The sound of the impact reached them well after the boulder had connected, an echoing, hollow boom! which heralded a historic avalanche. Corypheus had been distracted by the movement, his attention on the stone's path and Etre seized the opportunity to bolt, the woman scrambling to reach a half-collapsed section of platform she had seen earlier. Behind her, she heard that dragon…thing roar in what sounded like frustration, but it was nearly drowned out by the din of thundering snow and snapping trees as the avalanche careened down the mountain towards Haven. The powder beneath her feet crumpled, throwing Etre off-balance, and the last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was cracking the side of her head on a jutting board when she flung herself beneath the shelter of the broken deck.

…

She awoke to eerie silence, punctuated by soft dripping. The Anchor suddenly flared and Etre couldn't help the pained grunt that escaped her, the battered woman doubling over in agony until the spasm passed. Between the Anchor, her head and the cold, it was a miracle she was conscious at all! Unfortunately she was, and that meant she would have to move soon lest she freeze to death.

The Herald slowly got to her feet. Aside from her throbbing head, aching neck and a deep tear in the flesh of her upper arm, it seemed that she was mostly intact. No doubt she had gone limp when she lost consciousness, which had probably kept her from breaking every bone in her body upon landing. Whether she was covered in black and blue patches of bruising remained to be seen, but she would count her blessings where she could!

The strange cistern she found herself in wasn't as dark as she would have expected. Fitful bluish light filtered down through the snow and broken boards above, and further down the tunnel system she could hear the distant whistling of the wind. Reinforcing arches were peppered here and there, letting her know that this was no natural cave system, but indeed some portion of the chantry long abandoned. Cells for the devout? Or perhaps penitence grounds, to inflict punishments and inspire faith.

Etre lurched forward, holding her wounded arm above the elbow, then paused at the soft clacking of broken glass that issued from her belt pouch.

She flipped the flap open, grimacing as she realized the glass belonged to the healing potion Cullen had given her. At some point during her less-than-legendary scuffle with Corypheus, it must have been shattered. A miracle she hadn't been stabbed by a shard when she landed! 

Ruefully the woman tipped the pouch and shook it, letting the liquid and glass dribble out onto the snow. Suppose it was the thought that counted. 

Commander Cullen had smiled at her. Only hours earlier he had smiled at her. Etre shook her head at her wandering thoughts, then twitched when a shrieking howl echoed down the tunnel. 

But the only way to go was forward, so she pressed on, one foot before the other and a hand on the wall for support. The gauze-covered form of a despair demon came into view as she entered a large antechamber, and the woman cried out in pain when the Anchor crackled suddenly to life once more in her palm. Maker, it hurts! She slumped against the doorway, knowing that there was more than one demon in the room but all but incapacitated by the blasted Anchor wreaking havoc. 

The unnatural cold from the demon raked at her body and in a fit of desperation Etre flailed her arm out to ward the creature off, stunned when a miniature rift sprung to life overhead. Even more perplexing, the demons in the chamber wailed and squealed as they were somehow…sucked into the rift, which then closed itself without so much as a pop! of air. The woman simply stared at the vacant space for a moment, her mouth slightly agape.

“Well,” she finally said, “I er, I suppose there's that.”

Stumbling along as best as she could, a little-light headed after whatever that had been, Etre carried on towards the open doorway to the outside. The winds whipped and howled, swirling past the timeworn gateway while she slumped there, trying to catch her breath again. 

Come on Etre, your legs work just fine, she cajoled herself, squinting into the wind. If she looked hard at the ground ahead, she was halfway convinced that she could spy wagon wheel tracks partially covered in the snow, the trail running alongside this odd cistern outlet. Perhaps if she followed the faint marks, she could connect with the rest of the survivors?

Assuming, of course, that Corypheus hadn't already located them. 

“Either that or freeze here,” Etre reasoned aloud, hauling the collar of her gambeson up around her ears from beneath her gorget. Already the howling blizzard tore at her through her battered armor, promising a miserable shuffle through the snows in pursuit of the Inquisition. But even a miserable effort was better than none at all in the eyes of the Maker.

Hopefully.

Trevelyan walked gingerly along the steep hillside, every step tested before she trusted her full weight to it. Slow progress though it was, it was still progress, and soon she was rewarded by coming across the ashes of a fire. “Recent?” Etre muttered, her knees aching from the cold when she settled onto her haunches to examine the ashes more closely. A toppled tripod laid beside the remains of the fire as well as a small cooking cauldron, and when she placed a hand to the well-worn cast iron, the woman could have sworn it carried the faintest hint of warmth. 

Heartened, the Herald rose and moved onward. 

After a much longer stretch during which the blizzard eased somewhat (truthfully she may have been wandering in circles, she was so very tired at this juncture), Etre came upon a spindly group of firs. Sheltered beneath one of the trees, in a hastily-dug hollow between its roots, Etre found embers from another cookfire. Weak, barely-there, but real. A sign that she was on the right trail!

“Thank the Maker,” the Herald huffed wearily, groaning when she heard a chorus of wolfsong begin to build over the rise to her left. She was barely in shape to walk. She would simply have to hope all the commotion had unnerved the beasts to the point where they would keep their distance.

Her feet felt like blocks of stone, dragging her back half a step with every modicum of ground she gained, but Etre stubbornly continued. The canticle Commander Cullen had recited that morning (had it truly only been hours ago that they had closed the Breach?) returned to her as she staggered up the incline, the deepening snow slowing her already unimpressive pace. 

“I shall not be–left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.” Etre panted, pausing to spit a small globule of blood off to the side while she levered her way up the hill via a flexible tree's limb. “For there is…no darkness,” she continued, grimacing as she felt her lips crack even further under the attack of the bitter wind, “nor death either, in the–in the Maker's Light.”

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

Over and over she mumbled the passage, sometimes mouthing it when she had not the breath to speak the words, but she continued all the same. With every step, every inch she hauled herself forward, she punctuated it with the reminder of the Maker's care. He would not leave her, He would shepherd her to the high places! He would not forsake her, for all that she felt so, so alone on this mountainside.

I shall not be left to wander. 

Etre finally laid eyes upon what looked like the light from multiple fires up ahead, the glow reflecting off the low-lying clouds that threatened to drop more snow. Her path continued onwards between two large windblown cliff faces, and so on she doggedly went. The wind had abated somewhat in the shelter of the jagged rock, but now the snow was to her knees, making every step even more of a chore than the last.

As she drew up alongside the two rock faces her legs failed her, and the woman slumped to the ground. Raising her eyes skyward in a broken moment of desperation, she sobbed out her pain and fear to the Maker, begging without words that He had kept the rest of the survivors safe even while she struggled to rise once more. 

It was agony, agony, her abused knees refusing to bend, blood pooling in the crease of her gorget and every muscle aching from the trials of her pursuit, but after finally mustering up the strength from somewhere to drag herself further up the hill the Herald was blessed with the sight of tents, tents in the distance! They had survived, and as wretched as her journey had been, Etre could not keep from shedding a few more tears, this time ones of gratitude and thanks. She could rest easy now.

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

She collapsed in the snow, senseless.

…

The scouts had reported hearing wolves off over the rise and Cullen was only just returning from extending the patrol border's perimeters when Cassandra had rushed past him towards the rear of the camp, her eyes wild with either hope or fear. “Cullen-!” she gasped his name, and the commander had somehow known.

If Cullen hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he could have hardly believed it. Emerging from the waning blizzard, half-frozen and bearing a truly grisly head wound, but alive, at least for the moment! Trevelyan was alive. She was alive!

“There! It's her!” Commander Cullen shouted, sheathing his sword to run to the Herald's side even as she wavered and then seemed to faint dead away in the snow. She was mere inches from him and he still felt as though he would never reach her in time! The sensation was incredibly odd, as though the windblown snow had turned to a mire of mud around his boots.

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra exulted, the normally-stoic woman teary-eyed as she dropped to her knees beside Trevelyan. “Rest Herald, we have you. Cullen, please, help me to-”

Cullen gathered the Herald into his arms without a word, staggering a bit beneath the weight of her armor before he regained his footing. It had been a rather long day. “The infirmary.” The commander said. Then, “ensure that no one gets in my way.” 

Cassandra nodded, her face grim. Etre moaned fitfully, blood from her hairline smearing his breastplate when she struggled in his hold. 

“Save your strength.” Cullen muttered, his tone more harsh than he'd meant it to be. He wasn't sure why exactly it mattered, it wasn't as though she was even in her right mind at the moment. That wound by her ear was only the most obvious concern, there could be a thousand other–

Those strange eyes barely opened and she jerked in a sudden, painful-looking spasm. A dull crackling sound issued from the hand that hung limp by her side, and the green glow from the mark cast sickly shadows upon the snow. The commander recalled with distressing clarity the time she had told Josephine offhandedly that when the mark flared, it felt like her nerves were set on fire. Cullen did not envy such an experience.

“Easy now, easy.” He whispered, laying her where Cassandra had indicated away from the rest of their wounded. She groaned, weakly shifting her legs as though she would attempt to stand. Cullen carefully but firmly settled her feet back on the cot, the man making a soft, reassuring noise in his throat. It was a sound his own mother had used often in his childhood; even before the lyrium his dreams bore more teeth than they ought. “Hush, it's alright.” He soothed, “You're safe here, Herald.”

One of their healers approached, softly requesting that Trevelyan's ruined armor be removed to ease their examination. It was standard procedure but Cullen still chafed internally at the delay, he and Cassandra fumbling over unfamiliar buckles while the Herald continued to moan and try to speak.

Once her gauntlets and gloves had been removed her hand twitched around on the cot, finally grasping Cullen's own and squeezing tighter than he'd imagined she'd be able to. She was so very cold, her fingers felt like icicles. “Cory…pheus…” Etre gasped out a name, her breath hitching as another shuddering spasm wracked her body.

“Blankets!” Cullen yelled, uncaring of who heard as long as someone acted! He gripped her hand as tightly as she held his, hoping to ground her somewhat with the touch as Cassandra peeled the broken scale mail from her body. “We're here, Herald. You're safe.”

“Cullen-” Etre breathed. 

“Yes, Lady Trevelyan. It's me.” He leaned forward somewhat as her cracked lips parted again, straining to listen lest she speak once more.

“Don't let him–get me, Cullen…” Etre's words were interrupted by a little sob, glowing tears making their way down her cheeks.

Cullen.

“It's alright.” The commander repeated helplessly, smoothing the hair away from her head wound while the healer knelt to examine the area. Cassandra threw a blanket over the shivering woman, drawing the homespun fabric up to her chin. “You saved us all, Herald,” Cullen continued, horrifically embarrassed when his voice trembled with emotion. “We are safe, thanks to you. Rest.”

Etre just squeezed his hand so hard his bones ached, then her body went limp. 

Cassandra called, “Mother Giselle! Please see to the Herald.” Using the thin hem of the blanket, the Seeker quickly blotted away Etre's tears. 

…

Etre was first aware of how sore her fingers were. It felt a bit like someone had taken a large hammer to her hands, no doubt the effect of the extended exposure to the elements. Her head throbbed, reminding her of more details of her…less than exalted exodus.

Even from a distance Cullen's raised voice stabbed into her temple, the blade of it twisting enough to make her grimace. Whatever was happening, from the sound of things it had been going on for a while. His voice was slightly raw as he exclaimed, “what would you have me tell them? This isn't what we asked them to do!”

Evidently he addressed Cassandra, because her voice was next. “We cannot simply ignore this, we must find a way!”

“And who put you in charge? We need a consensus, or we have nothing!”

This? What is ‘this’? Etre struggled to open her eyes. At least she was no longer so bitterly cold! Her doublet was still damp, though that was no doubt a combination of melted snow and sweat. Someone must have taken off her armor at some point; the comforting weight of her breastplate was conspicuously absent. She finally managed to pry her eyes open, wincing as she shifted her weight to sit up somewhat. Her muscles were in knots from all her shivering, and she thought longingly of a bath.

The Inquisition's advisors were closer than she'd thought, the four of them standing around the fire alongside the healers pavilion. They all looked as tired as she felt, and even Josephine's immaculate hosiery was smudged with soot and dirt from their battle and subsequent escape into the mountains. 

The Antivan woman raised her hands as she moved in between Cullen and Cassandra, as if to keep them from being at one another's throats. “Please, we must use reason! Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition, we're hobbled!” she implored with a plaintive expression.

“That can't come from nowhere!” Cullen barked, gesturing around Josephine's hands at Cassandra, who had folded her arms across her chest.

“She didn't say it could!” Leliana retorted, the spymaster visibly bristling.

“Enough!” Cassandra shouted abruptly, “this is getting us nowhere!”

“Well, we're agreed on that much!” Cullen snapped back bitterly.

Mother Giselle made a soft sound in her throat, one of her gentle hands tucking some of Etre's filthy hair behind her ear. “You ought to be resting, dear child.”

The young woman commented blearily, “it sounds like they've been at it for hours.” 

“They have that luxury, thanks to you.” Giselle pointed out solemnly. “The enemy could not follow and with time to doubt, we turn to blame. Infighting may threaten as much as this…Corypheus.” The woman gestured downwards, “if you would, remove your doublet so I may check your bandages and freshen the poultices. While the healers have done what they can with magic, we must also be mindful of what resources we have, so I regret to say we only healed your chiefest wound.”

“I imagine I've got some nice dark cow spots on me.” Etre tried for humor, wincing when she tucked her elbows in to shrug out of her gambeson. Despite Mother Giselle's warning, it seemed that the wound on her arm had been healed to some extent; at least she could now move the limb, if stiffly. The fabric was coated in dried blood, red flakes coming off on her fingertips while she struggled free of her doublet. Evidently she'd had a much too close brush with death, if the bloodstains and bandages criss-crossing over her shoulder were anything to go by. 

Mother Giselle clicked her tongue upon viewing her bare back. Etre grimaced, sure that it wasn't a pretty sight, the woman gingerly hunching over while Giselle prodded at a few areas. Etre raised her eyes, attempting to distract herself by trying to listen in on the continued arguing between her advisors. Unfortunately they had dropped their volume at this point, the four of them still debating a path forward. The fact that they hadn't yet come to blows seemed to be a good sign, though.

Leliana was the first one to notice that Etre was awake and the woman's eyes widened, then she smiled slightly. The Herald furrowed her brow in confusion, watching Leliana dig an elbow into Cullen's side and then use her eyes to indicate towards the healing tent. Cullen, still clearly aggravated, shook off the elbow and glanced up with a snarl firmly on his face, only for it to melt into a look of stunned surprise upon his gaze meeting Etre's.

Trevelyan realized too late that her chemise was on display, the layer of fabric padding normally beneath her gorget and doublet having been removed at some point by either Mother Giselle or one of the other healers. Not that it even mattered, all soldiers saw each other in states of undress in the barracks. She winced as the older woman smeared some sort of chilly poultice on an area by her shoulder blade, and when she looked back up Cassandra and Josephine were striding towards her. Cullen, however, was marching in the opposite direction, his vambrace rattling with the force of his hand rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Forgive us for disturbing your rest, Herald,” Josephine apologized, fidgeting beside the pallet. 

One of her hands reached out hesitantly to touch Etre's good shoulder and the Herald covered it with her own, offering the ambassador a weary smile. “It's alright, Josephine.”

Lady Montilyet wavered, her eyes filling with tears before she took a deep breath and blinked them away. “I am pleased to see you're awake. I was uncertain if…I mean, I hoped, of course, but I could not know for sure.” 

“Our commander will come around, Ambassador. Do not take his rash words to heart.” Cassandra said kindly. “We were all concerned.”

“Of course! I am not so foolish to judge a man's character by words spoken in a moment of uncertainty.” Josephine seemed a little offended that Cassandra was worried at all. “With the return of our Herald, perhaps balance may be restored.”

“You permitted us to flee,” Cassandra addressed Etre gravely. “In doing so however, we nearly lost you. I will not permit such altruism from you in the future.” 

“I had thought…I'm sorry, you're right, of course. I was not thinking clearly.” 

“You are a brave and foolish woman, Herald of Andraste.” Cassandra's expression was fond, despite the harshness of her words. “Blackwall will be arriving soon, I imagine. He seemed…perturbed by our retreat.”

“Indeed, she nearly had to rap me over the head to stop me from pursuing you.” Blackwall admitted gruffly, the man approaching from behind Etre. “Your back bears some impressive welts, Herald! I knew you could take a beating, but I fear that in your efforts to prove as much you may have been a touch overzealous.” 

Etre grinned, but it was immediately wiped from her face when the Grey Warden knelt beside her cot and took her marked hand. His expression was troubled, and he took a while to actually speak again.

“What you did…I cannot say I would have done the same, were I in your place.” The older man's voice was quiet. His thumb pressed lightly down on her knuckles, and he sighed after a moment. “I suppose that's a bit grim to mention, all things considered. Regardless, I am pleased to see you alive.” 

“Warden Blackwall joined the rearguard with Ser Cullen and Iron Bull, to dissuade pursuit.” Lady Josephine explained after Blackwall had bowed stiffly and stalked away. “I believe in the process, he was looking for you.” 

“Well, he certainly has faith in my speed. Did he think I was sprinting behind you all in full armor?” Etre jibed. “You would have heard me before you saw me, were that the case!”

“I am glad that you can be so glib at such a time, Lady Trevelyan.” The Seeker said dryly. What sounded like a cow bell began to clatter nearby and the warrior straightened up. “It would seem that the evening meal is ready.” Cassandra beckoned, not to Etre, but to Mother Giselle. “Would you do us the honor of leading our supplication before the meal, Revered Mother?”

The older woman chuckled softly. “I fear many here will have no patience for it. We are all footsore and weary, dear Seeker. Perhaps a single hymn in its place, lest the people begin to revolt.”

Cassandra inclined her head in acquiescence. “Of course, whatever you believe is best!” A crowd had already begun to gather as news spread that the Herald was conscious, and now all stood at attention, waiting for Mother Giselle to begin the hymn.

Mother Giselle bowed her head, and then started to sing, “Shadows fall, and hope has fled…steel your heart! The dawn will come. The night is long, and the path is dark! Look to the sky, for one day soon…the dawn will come!”

Etre could almost feel the camp coming to life around her, folk emerging from tents and wagons to join in the familiar hymn. Leliana was one of them, and her voice led the next verse. “The shepherd's lost, and his home is far…keep to the stars! The dawn will come!”

Trevelyan spotted Cullen standing amidst a swath of soldiers, but the man's eyes were closed in what seemed to be prayer as he raised his voice with the chorus. “The night is long, and the path is dark! Look to the sky, for one day soon…the dawn will come!”

“Bare your blade, and raise it high!” Mother Giselle sang louder, struggling to be heard over the rest of the crowd. 

Unsheathed blades gleamed in the firelight, a multitude of men and women saluting as the Herald slowly got to her feet and raised her fist overhead. “Stand your ground! The dawn will come!” Etre shouted the latter part of the verse, grinning when they cheered in response. 

The final chorus was thundering in its surety, accompanied by the rattling of spears and the rhythmic hammering of blades on shields. “The night is long, and the path is dark! Look to the sky, for one day soon…the dawn will come!”

“Inquisition! Nourish your bodies, as the Chantry has nourished your souls. Prepare for an early march at speed!” Cullen issued the command, which was met with more muted cheering before the majority of the crowd dispersed to stand in line for their meal.

“An army needs more than an enemy. It needs a cause.” Mother Giselle said softly to Etre, then she too departed to enjoy some of the evening's bounty. Etre's brow furrowed uncertainly. She had thought the cause was closing the terrible wound in the sky, but of course, nothing could be so simple as that!

To Trevelyan's surprise, a multitude of people wished to approach her on her little cot, many asking for blessings or simply to share the meal with her. Etre was unable to manage to point out that she hadn't actually eaten yet before Sister Leliana suddenly appeared before her, the woman extending a trencher to her with an expression that might tentatively be considered benign. “Your meal, Herald.” she intoned, her voice sweet, yet firm. “You must eat in order to regain your strength.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Etre said, gratefully accepting the trencher with a tired smile. 

Now the crowd she had gathered was all apologies, we shall leave you to your food, Herald, and soon it was simply her and Leliana. The woman stood awkwardly for a moment, then sighed and settled herself down on the end of the cot. “Roderick has passed on, Maker rest his soul.” She murmured.

“I pray that he finds his peace.” Etre replied sincerely. For all that the man seemed to have an eternal bone to pick with her, she was still saddened by the news. 

Leliana allowed her a few moments of silence to eat, where Etre displayed the poorest table manners possible. She hadn't realized just how hungry she was! It certainly made sense, given her extended battle and flight afterwards. 

Well, calling it a ‘battle’ might be overly charitable. An exercise in field control? Putting her armor through its paces? The woman grimaced as she recalled the back of her head smacking into the trebuchet frame. “I'm bringing my helmet to the next feast.” 

Leliana chuckled. “A wise choice, Herald. How do you fare?”

“Much better than I thought I would!” Etre replied cheerfully. “I am alive, but I am weary and sore. A night of sleep will do me wonders.”

“That makes good hearing.” Leliana took her empty trencher, promising to scare up something to drink in her travels. She unrolled the pavilion wall behind her, plunging the tent into a reddish half-light. 

Etre, struck by a sudden spell of light-headedness, clung to the edge of the cot and lowered her head. The woman closed her eyes, attempting to breathe through the wave, when the rustle of fabric met her ears. 

“Herald? Sister Leliana asked me to…oh.” Cullen.

“I'm alright, Commander. Just a little dizzy.” Etre assured him from her hunched position. “Perhaps I should not have bolted my dinner so readily. I was simply too hungry to wait.”

“A night on the march will do that to you,” the commander said gruffly. “To say nothing of what happened before the march.”

“Too true!” The dizzy spell finally subsided and Etre cautiously opened her eyes, staring up at the commander. 

He held a tankard gingerly, as though he was afraid of damaging it. The man extended the cup after a moment. “Leliana said you were not afforded a beverage at the first serving.”

“I was not, but I am hardly an exception I'm sure.” Etre accepted the offering of watered-down smallbeer eagerly, wondering at the way Cullen was behaving. He must simply be exhausted, as were the rest of them.

“I…how do you fare, Herald?” The commander asked, his posture utterly stiff. 

Etre, barely remembering to swallow before she replied, offered the man an elegant shrug. “I feel like I was attacked by a particularly-belligerent bronto, or perhaps a bronto and a mule working together.” She rubbed a circle on her aching sternum, wincing. “Somehow I doubt Corypheus would look kindly upon being compared to dumb beasts of burden, but I cannot bring myself to be overly concerned with his feelings regarding the matter.”

“As is your right.” Cullen glowered, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “I am…relieved that you seem to be in such good spirits, Herald. Especially after so harrowing an encounter.”

“We shall see how I feel on the morrow!” Etre laughed wearily. “I am uncertain if I'll be able to move or if I'll have solidified into one enormous bruise.”

“I would offer you a spot in one of the wagons with the rest of the wounded, but that may be a fate worse than death in regards to bruising.” Cullen grimaced, saluting her and then taking his leave.

…

When he caught himself thinking of her as Etre, not Lady Trevelyan or the Herald of Andraste, Cullen put it from his mind immediately. Truthfully it was a miracle he had any time to think about her at all! It didn't matter that her hair was always just-slightly-mussed, it didn't matter that she had three freckles beneath her lower lip, it didn't matter that her laugh was raucous and seemed to take her whole body along with it when it struck her, it didn't matter that she had a lovely voice when she raised it in song to the Maker during the vespers or benedictions in the evenings. He hardly noticed her.

It certainly had no bearing on his position within their organization, and devoting further time to any of it was ill-advised.

“Commander,” she would always call him by his title, deferent, respectful, but not cowed by his experience. She had only ever called him by his first name alone mere hours ago, when she had been half out of her mind from the combination of her head injury and the disorientation that often accompanied cold sickness. And he had not felt any differently when she used his first name in such a familiar and vulnerable way.

Well. Not until later, after he realized she had. Frankly that may have led to him snapping at Cassandra, which had then led to all of them arguing with each other. He may have been a bit frayed over their escape, which may have led to him being wound more tightly. 

Maybe. 

A combination of relief at her survival and her using his name warred inside his already-rattled mind, completely ridding him of his ironclad sense of propriety. That was why he had stared at her, he insisted to himself, not because of her state of undress, but from the sheer weight of his own relief! That was why.

Cullen threw an arm over his eyes, frustrated with his internal turmoil. If I'm going to lie, he thought ruefully, I could at least make it believable.

He ought to be asleep already. Watch rotations had been set. Aside from those few curious wolves, nothing had approached their camp for hours. The day had been so wildly long and full Cullen could scarcely believe when he'd woken that morning, the hole in the sky had been there. It felt like a lifetime ago!

Slowly, barely within earshot, Cullen became aware of voices outside his tent. He would have ignored them, but after the day everyone had…well, enough was enough! It must be well past midnight at this point. If they hoped to make any sort of meaningful progress tomorrow, folk would need to at least be partially rested, not freely roaming the camp!

The commander rolled loose of his bedfurs, intending to give whoever was disturbing the peace a stern talking-to. To his surprise, after he shoved aside the flap of his tent, he realized it was Solas. Not only that, but he was conversing with Etre–Lady Trevelyan. Cullen felt a brief flare of annoyance, swiftly followed by concern. Trevelyan should not even be upright, nevermind wandering the camp this late at night. Or perhaps this early in the morning? 

Was something wrong? 

The commander struggled into his surcoat, belting on his sword as more of an afterthought once he'd tugged his boots on, and then departed his tent. Hugging the shadows alongside the healer's pavilion, the man strained to catch any of the conversation happening a short distance away.

“...orb Corypheus carried, the power he used against you, it is elven.” Solas was saying, and Cullen could only imagine how tense his normally-smooth expression was upon uttering those words. “Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.” There was a deep sigh. “I do not yet know how Corypheus survived…nor am I certain of how people will react when they learn of the orb's origin.”

Cullen shut his eyes, rubbing at his temples. More trouble, of course, always more. Maker's breath, there was no end to it! 

“Alright.” Etre sounded resigned. “What is it, and how do you know about it?”

Solas began prattling on about foci and old memories of older magics and he risks our alliance! Cullen thought longingly of his warm bedfurs. Perhaps he had been foolish to suspect anything amiss going on; it made sense that certain members of the congregated forces would be unable to sleep.

But then Lady Trevelyan spoke again, bringing a touch of clarity to the sleep-deprived commander. “This whole mess is confusing. I can see how elves might be an easy target.”

Ah. So because the magic Corypheus had misused was old elven magic, Solas feared for his people.

“History would agree!” Solas said unhappily, then lowered his voice to the point that Cullen had to strain once more to hear. “...steps we can take to prevent such a distraction. By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it…changed you. Scout to the North. Be their guide.” Cullen's ears pricked up. “There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build–grow, even.” A soft noise interrupted the elf, who suddenly chuckled. “Forgive me, it seems I have roused you from your rest prematurely. Allow me to accompany you back to the healer's tent, Herald. We may speak of this in the morning light.”

“M'sorry, Solas.” That soft noise again, which Cullen now recognized as a yawn. “I'm afraid my weariness has caught up with me.”

Healer's tent. Cullen froze, realizing that they would be walking right past his hiding spot on their way back to the pavilion. As quietly as he could, the man began retreating towards the rear wall of the tent, peering back around it and catching a glimpse of Solas as he went by. The elf met his gaze, giving the former Templar the faintest nod as if to say ‘stay put’. Confused and more than a little guilty, Commander Cullen lingered in the cold for several long minutes until the mage meandered his way back out of the pavilion. 

“A moment of your time, Commander?” The elf requested icily. 

All of Cullen's reservations about mages suddenly surged to the forefront of his mind, making his breath hitch. “Of course.” He managed to get out, turning to follow Solas back to the lit brazier at the outskirts of the camp.

“I suspect you do not trust me, Commander.” The elf pointed out after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the two of them studying each other over the unnatural blue-green flame. “While I understand that it is part of your chosen path to mind mages, I must assure you-” 

“No, I–please, it's not like that,” Cullen desperately tried to explain, “I heard voices, louder than is usually acceptable during quiet hours. I believed to interrupt unwitting recruits attempting to sneak off, but then I realized it was the two of you and I assumed something must be amiss. Lady Trevelyan…I did not anticipate she would wake again after the evening meal, she nearly fell asleep in her tankard.”

Solas’ furrowed brow smoothed itself out. “Forgive me. It seems I have judged you too harshly,” he murmured. “Templars have always looked upon me with fear, or at least discomfort.”

“I am extremely discomfited, I assure you, but I am no longer a Templar.” It felt strange to say aloud, least of all to Solas, an individual so alien from him the elf may as well be some kind of divine being! 

Solas gave him a look that, were the mage anyone else, may have bordered on curious. “How? I had always assumed there was no such thing as a true ‘former Templar’.” Only dead or mad Templars hung unspoken in the frigid air between them.

Cullen shook his head. “Suffice it to say, I am simply no longer part of that life. I have Lady Cassandra keeping a close eye on me, as well.”

“The Seeker? Surely you do not fear so openly that something would happen to you?”

“I do not know what will happen.” Cullen said honestly. “But I trust Lady Cassandra with my life, and with the lives of my men. She will be able to dispose of me if I am a threat, of that I am certain.”

“I wish you luck, then! It is no easy task to free oneself of the shackles of servitude, and even less so when the power they drip-fed you slowly ceases to sing in your veins.” A chill that had nothing to do with the cold gripped Cullen's spine like a vise, making his muscles ache with the effort not to shudder beneath its hold. Solas’ piercing gaze softened slightly and the elf bade him to go get some rest, promising that the morning would bring a glorious sunrise. “Though, I fear it may come a bit sooner than many of us would prefer.”

…

The hard march through the mountains was almost pleasant after the last few weeks she'd had. Etre relished being able to scout ahead of their party, the woman more than happy to take on an ordinary role. 

Since most of Haven's survivors were on foot, the only real considerations she had to take into account were ensuring the paths were wide enough for the brontos and mules pulling their wagons to traverse unhindered. Of course, that also included keeping an eye out for lichen-rich rocks whenever they made camp. As durable as they were, brontos could not survive off of a diet of melted snow, forage and scavenged wildlife like the rest of them.

Solas’ directions were cryptic, but clear enough that Etre didn't feel like too much of a fool for following them. Indeed, it was only a few days before what seemed to be an abandoned road began to take shape beneath the feet of the vanguard. Large flagstones, though broken and scarred with age, paved the way forward, blessing the remnants of the Inquisition's forces with ease of travel. 

Trevelyan still scouted ahead even with the road, ensuring that washouts or collapsed sections of the path would not trouble the troops overmuch. She and her vanguard would report their findings to Commander Cullen and Sister Leliana via missives carried by raven, and their orders would arrive in the same fashion, occasionally with engineers or more men to help shift debris.

A week passed by before their forces rejoined the main party, the vanguard having covered far more ground due to their smaller numbers. One last foray over the rise and, according to Solas, they would be able to set their eyes upon this supposed empty fortress. “Just beyond that hill,” the elf said to her, gesturing with his staff. “You could seek out the view yourself before dinner, were you so inclined.”

Etre was extremely inclined, eagerly pitching herself at the last hill. The climb, while not truly steep enough to impede the wagons, was still a fair distance, and it was nearly an hour before the woman managed to reach the top and stare off through the pass towards the horizon. 

“It was dubbed Skyhold, long ago.” Solas said quietly, the elf coming up alongside her to lean on his staff. 

Etre barely stifled a scream. She hadn't even heard Solas following her, and she wondered if he had been laughing to himself about her less than graceful attempts to scale the broken rocks alongside the flagstones. 

“We shall reach it tomorrow by the evening meal, perhaps earlier if the men see what awaits them. It can be an excellent motivator to have a goal within sight.” Solas continued, then began to point out bits of the path ahead which might be troublesome. 

Etre wrote down his words with only half a mind for them, most of her attention taken by how enormous the fortress was. There was a portcullis! Arrow slits in the stone walls, lofty towers, stained glass windows somehow intact…what a fortress it was. “This is incredible.” She finally murmured, interrupting the mage's droning contemplations on whether they ought to put the wagons on runners instead of wheels for the steep climb back up to Skyhold.

“Indeed!” Solas agreed, not seeming put out in the slightest by her interruption. “It has stood the test of time with flying colors, I would say.” He turned, sniffing the air as he did so. “Ah, dinner is being prepared. Someone has begun brewing the tea.” He wrinkled his nose. “A pity that the stuff is so prolific.”

“The tea? Or…?”

“Yes, the tea. Absolutely wretched.” Solas shuddered all over and Etre snorted inelegantly. 

“Suppose I ought to get back down there and see how I can help. I've had an easy time of it these last few days.” Solas shot her an incredulous look and the woman laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I know, I know. I meant in the sense of camp chores and manual labor!”

“Oh. I suppose, then. I believe I shall stay here a while longer and meditate. Do watch your footing on the way down. The descent is often much quicker than the ascent.”

A fancy way of saying, ‘don't take a tumble and break your seat’, Etre thought privately with a little snicker, the woman heeding the advice regardless and being sure to slow her return to the camp far below.

“What news, Herald?” Cassandra called once she had nearly reached the bottom (slipping and skidding half her way down) and Etre was only too happy to convey the view she had witnessed. Soon enough several other soldiers were attempting to begin the climb, but Cassandra quickly put an end to it by exclaiming, “Hold! We make camp first, and have the meal. If there is still light after the tasks, you may go.”

The troops scurried off, presumably to get the camp work taken care of, and Etre attempted to come along. But it seemed like every time she offered to help or made a move to pick something up, someone was instantly there to brush her off, rest Herald, you already work so hard Herald!

The woman finally grudgingly settled herself in alongside one of the grazing brontos, the animal busily scouring the base of a boulder free of the lichen it had amassed. “I am growing a bit weary of people taking things from my hands and shooing me off. I believe I preferred when folk viewed me as a mystical nuisance!” Etre confessed to the large beast, scratching a patch at the base of one of its many bony protrusions. The bronto rumbled contentedly, munching its dinner whilst it stared off at nothing at all.

That was where Varric found her, the dwarf chuckling quietly. “You too, huh? The rest of them can be so loud.” he remarked, passing her a bowl of watered-down stew. There hadn't been much time to grab supplies when they departed Haven, so much of the march's diet had relied on what fresh game they could find. “Gotta’ say, if I never have to eat stewed fennec again it'll be too soon.”

“It wasn't too bad the first dozen times, but it does grow a bit thin.” Trevelyan agreed. “I am content to eat it though, otherwise we may need to start on Sister Leliana's birds.”

“Andraste preserve me, a fate worse than death. Not only are they mangy-looking, they're gamey as well!” Varric laughed, stirring his stew. “How have things been with the foreguard, everyone treating you alright?”

“Well enough! At least they let me actually work.” Etre sighed.

“Oo, that one was heavy. What's wrong, Herald, not used to the masses worshipping you?” The dwarf teased.

“Well no, of course not. I think Roderick kept everyone's expectations tempered, but since his passing…” Etre trailed off, taking a tentative bite of meat. “Mm, so reliably chewy.” She grimaced.

“You mean to say that being the Herald of Andraste isn't all sunshine and rainbows?” Varric scoffed, shaking his head. “What a disappointment. Here I thought you'd snap your fingers and cure the current crisis without so much as breaking a sweat! More's the fool me, right?”

Etre grinned, “The only crisis I've ever handled reliably is supplying clean flatware. I fear ‘the Maker works in mysterious ways’ will only get me so far.”

“It may get you further than you think! After all, according to some of the bolder members of the party, we're almost to that place. What, uh…‘Skyhold’.”

“That's what Solas calls it, anyway! It's beautiful, Varric, enormous!” 

“And old,” Varric added, his brow furrowed. “Very old. Personally I'd like to know who built the damn thing all the way out here, but Solas keeps sidestepping the question.”

“Have you ever known him to answer anything directly?” Etre asked, making Varric chuckle.

“Well, no. Suppose you're right.”

…

Leader of the Inquisition. Etre's mind whirled. So much had happened so quickly! People cheering for her, what felt like the entire world watching her as she swore an oath, “Wherever you lead us,” Cassandra had said with a humbling amount of confidence. 

And then, then, the Seeker asking the commander whether their forces would follow and him facing the crowd while Etre's heart leaped into her throat. What if they didn't want her? What if they thought she was a sham too, just as Roderick had?

But all voices raised as one, assenting to this choice, this new path forward…

“Will you follow? Will you fight?” Cullen had roared to the troops, grinning broadly at the volume of the response. “Will we triumph?” He then turned back to the stairs, drawing his sword to brandish it in a salute to Etre. “Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!” He announced, cheers and wolf whistles ringing out as Etre Trevelyan blinked back tears of gratitude.

After that came the flurry of congratulations, the swears of fealty and support, what felt like hundreds of people just wishing to speak to her or shake her hand!

Herald, Inquisitor. 

After the ceremony Cassandra tasked her with collecting her advisors, the warrior suggesting that they all meet in the large, empty hall to discuss their next step. While Leliana and Josephine were easy enough to locate (the two of them huddling together to look over what could have been some important documents), Etre had a harder time finding the commander. Everyone she asked seemed to have a different ‘last location' and so Etre resigned herself to combing the grounds for the stern man.

Iron Bull eventually pointed her in the right direction, the Qunari telling her, “you walked right past him, boss! He's over by the stairs. Just follow the scared-looking soldiers, you'll get there.”

The commander was indeed out in the courtyard at the base of the stairs, the man issuing orders to a ragtag cadre of troops currently swirling around a makeshift desk. The desk, insomuch as it could be called one, seemed to be constructed by balancing a mostly-flat plank atop a barrel and a crate that were almost the same height. 

Almost. 

Several overlapping maps were spread out on the desk, pinned down by books and a sturdy magnifying dome used to examine smaller details. “...men to scout the area, we need to know what's out there,” he was directing as Trevelyan approached, and a small contingent of soldiers split off from the group, marching past Etre. A few even saluted her and the woman was torn between laughing and crying, settling for simply returning their salute.

A messenger approached next, weaving skillfully through the masses to deliver his missive. “Commander, soldiers have been assigned temporary quarters,” the man said, clasping his hands behind his back.

The commander nodded in a distracted manner, his attention clearly on the maps before him. “Very good. I'll need an update on the armory as well.” The runner stood there, seeming to be waiting for something more until Cullen barked, “now!”

As the messenger fled, Trevelyan managed to slot herself in where he had stood, the woman finally getting Cullen's attention by passing him a tankard of water from a different runner. “I can see you're busy so I won't take much of your time, but Cassandra wishes for us to muster in the great hall.”

The man, accepting the tankard with a nod, drank until it was empty and then sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck as he placed the tankard down on yet another curling map corner. “We set up as best we could at Haven, but could never prepare for an archdemon or…whatever it was.” Cullen muttered unhappily, “with some warning, we might have–” 

“We were all shaken by what happened.” Etre interrupted, her voice soft. She knew that the exhausted man would be perfectly content to toil until he dropped, while also shouldering every loss with the gravitas it warranted. Such was the temperament of her commander. 

Her commander. What an odd thought, but true in its oddity! Leader of the Inquisition. 

“If Corypheus strikes again we may not be able to withdraw. I wouldn't want to. We must be ready.” Commander Cullen said sternly, his expression fierce while he stared down at the small desk's cluttered surface. “Work on Skyhold is underway, guard rotations established. We should have everything on course within the week.” He turned to look at her. “We will not run from here, Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor. The title sounded weighty coming from him, more real, somehow. Etre was unsure if she liked it, but she supposed it hardly mattered. Likes and dislikes of address were for petty nobles, land-owning barons and those who would marry into higher standing. 

Here and now, however, she only cared about one thing. “How many were lost?” Etre had done her best to steel herself against the hard news she was certain was coming constantly over the course of their journey from Haven, but Cullen didn't look particularly aggrieved. Was he too tired to muster up an emotional response? If so, she could hardly blame him!

“Most of our people made it to Skyhold. It could have been worse.” He informed her, to her immense relief. Then, “morale was low, but it's improved greatly since you accepted the role of Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor. “Give it time, it's barely been half a day! Everyone has so much faith in my leadership,” Etre mumbled, feeling more than a little pensive about the whole thing. “I hope I'm ready.”

“You won't have to carry the Inquisition alone,” Cullen assured, resting his folded hands on his sword's pommel, “although it must feel like it. We needed a leader, and you have proven yourself. Your deeds at Haven in particular, I would wager.”

Gratitude tightened her chest and Etre found herself suddenly emotional. “Thank you, Cullen.” He gave her a brief little smile, the smallest quirk of his lips. Trevelyan hesitated, looking down at the ground as she fidgeted nervously with her hands. “Our escape from Haven…it was close. I'm relieved that you–” The woman stopped short, realizing that the dense audience of soldiers around them all had perfectly functional ears, then carefully amended, “that so many made it out.”

“As am I.” Cullen murmured, and she was almost certain his tired gaze softened slightly.

Well! Now that she had put her foot in her mouth quite roundly, Etre went to depart to the great hall. Better for her to wallow in embarrassment elsewhere, she decided. A hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks, however. She turned back towards Cullen, startled. Normally he didn't touch her at all, his distance ever present, yet professional; a polite sort of abyss yawning between them.

“You stayed behind.” The man said, his voice bearing no judgement, but instead…pain? Concern? “You could have-” His fingers on her arm gripped down momentarily, and released her just as quickly. “I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word.” Cullen promised, his posture stiffening as he too seemed to recall that they were not, in fact, alone. 

Trevelyan could feel her face becoming red and so she rushed to take her leave, scurrying off like the coward she was. 

Maker above, what was that?

…

“They are in the Harrowing Chamber. The sounds coming out from there…oh, Maker–”

Nausea having nothing to do with his empty stomach, cold sweat, heat bearing down upon his armor like noonday sun–

“He's doing something to them, I can feel it. Something horrible.”

–panic screaming against his ribcage, throat dry, mind wavering under the strain of the horror, the eerie sheen of his prison all that separated him from her, the mage, the mage–

Cullen started awake and his head immediately began to throb. The man groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples in an effort to ease the pain.

His sleep interrupted once more by the nightmares in the wee hours of the morning (could he even call them that anymore, he wondered, they were routine at this juncture of his life), he laid there on his back and tried to gain some semblance of control. His breathing got away from him for a moment too long and he felt dangerously light-headed, his mouth dry and sour. The Chant seemed so far removed now, Andraste’s comforting light fading into the gloom. 

Cullen forced himself from his bed, splashing his face with bracingly cold water from his washbasin. Weak light streamed in through the cracks in the ceiling, brighter than false dawn but not quite sunrise yet, and the commander studied his face closely in the looking glass. 

“Sunken,” he muttered critically to his reflection, “you look sunken, Rutherford. Sunken and wan.” He could practically hear his older sister scolding him about the dangers of not getting enough sunlight (especially with his extremely-lacking diet!) and he felt a forlorn smile tug at his lips. Perhaps a tour about the battlements would do him some good this morning.

After donning his clothes and gear the man slowly made his way down the ladder from the upper level, where he was greeted by the unwelcome sight of multiple stacks of paperwork on his desk. Cullen's shoulders sagged in defeat; clearly the only sunlight he'd be getting today was whatever he could glean from the glorified arrow slits of his office. Perhaps he could prop open a door during the noon hours, when the winds didn't blow quite so fitfully.

He hadn’t thought to eat since yesterday afternoon and, when a runner brought him breakfast (no doubt instructed by Lady Josephine), Cullen found he had no appetite, completely forgoing the thick porridge in favor of picking absently at the dried fruits alongside it. He felt more than a twinge of remorse at the waste of food and made sure to hand the warm bowl off to the first soldier who came with news of their post. So many men and women had it worse than him! 

Cullen pored over the papers on his desk for hours, pacing around the room with a quill and scratch-tablet in hand as he tried to make sense of it all. The Inquisitor hadn't returned from the field in weeks, but her reports were always timely as well as rich in information. She was nearly as fastidious as Warden Blackwall in her missives, which Cullen greatly appreciated. 

The latest trial had been dealing with the red templars in Emprise Du Leon, and from all accounts it had been a grisly affair. Learning for certain how such lyrium was created turned Cullen's stomach, to say nothing of the harrowing encounter with the so-called, “spirit of choice.” Solas had taken it upon himself to annotate Etre–the Inquisitor's report, the elf writing in his customary flowing script that Lady Trevelyan had been, “thoroughly unimpressed by offers of power, wealth, or virgins from the spirit known as Imshael.” 

Cullen laughed quietly to himself. Of course she was. 

He had propped the side doors open in his quarters once the noonday meal had passed, and the crossbreeze was doing wonders at keeping him sane, as well as permitting Sister Leliana's people to come and go without truly interrupting the commander's flow of thought. It was almost peaceful, if not for the headache and perpetual, unnatural thirst. Maker, he was tired.

The man took a brief, selfish moment to lean against the doorframe, basking in the warm sunlight of mid-afternoon while the words on the reports from Sahrnia began to blur and swim in front of his weary eyes. Perhaps he would rest them, if only for a moment or two…

“Commander?” Someone eased the sheaf of papers from his hands, and there was a quiet chuckle. “Poor thing, he must be exhausted. Falling asleep standing up!”

Cullen jerked upright out of his slouch far too quickly, the man's hand reaching for his hilt as he turned. The blade was half out of the scabbard before he regained his senses, realizing that Etre was crouching in front of him, his bundle of reports pressed to her chest while she attempted to gather a few sheets that were fluttering across the ground in the wind.

“Maker's breath,” Cullen whispered, horrified with himself. What exactly was he planning to do?! “Inquisitor, I–I must have dozed off,” he apologized. “I was unaware you would be returning.”

“So was I! An impromptu visitation. Varric grew wary of being around so much red lyrium, and I offered to return to Skyhold for a change of the guard.” The woman said cheerily, glancing up at him. “I take it you haven't been sleeping well, Commander?”

“I never do.” Cullen replied, willing his heart to stop racing. She hadn't noticed his reaction; perhaps she was tactfully ignoring it? Upon closer inspection Lady Trevelyan did not appear so hale and hearty herself, and the commander pointed it out.

“I am exhausted,” the Inquisitor admitted with a weary little grin. “The Emprise does not have extensive resources, so the rations have been a bit thin. Of course, we were also on the march at dawn, and despite all of the improvements to infrastructure that we've made, Skyhold is still every inch the impregnable mountain fortress.”

“Take an extra day, Inquisitor.” Cullen was horrified to hear himself urging, “whatever is going on, it's waited this long to be sorted. Get a hot meal from the kitchens, perhaps a bath.” 

The full body stretch that she performed when he suggested a bath had Cullen's heart racing for an entirely different reason. She was shapely even half out of her armor, her arms fully on display due to her having shed her breastplate and gambeson. The white tunic she wore over her underclothes did little to hide her form, and Cullen hoped she didn't notice him watching the shift of muscle in her arms and back as she sorted through the papers she had picked up. 

Maker, she's lovely. He felt filthy all of a sudden, tearing his eyes from her with a surprising amount of effort. 

“Ah, and you wanted to discuss specializations with me!” Lady Trevelyan reminded him, giving him a convenient reason to keep her in Skyhold a moment or two longer. Of course, of course, the specializations! Breaker Thrann had been practically feral over the notion of turning their Inquisitor into a reaver and, while Cullen was less than pleased with the idea, he was infinitely less pleased with the notion that Etre–that the Inquisitor would take up with Ser instead. 

The stern man had been icily polite to him during his stay in Skyhold, but Cullen could feel the lyrium pulsing around him as his own once had. His headaches had worsened due to Ser's regular presence nearby on the battlements, to say nothing of the psychological hunger clawing at him during every waking hour–

His sleep was never uninterrupted, yet it had been quite some time since he'd dreamed distinctly of the Circle. 

Honestly Chancer de Lion was the least offensive of the three, which boded poorly considering how bombastic and temperamental the accomplished chevalier could be.

“...don't see why I can't just train with some members of the guard, but you've already had the specialists come all this way, so I suppose it would be rude of me to not take advantage of what they have to offer.” Lady Trevelyan was saying as she carefully placed his reports down on the desk, the woman shifting a heavy candlestick over to pin them in place.

“Due to your station, it would be…” Cullen struggled to come up with the correct word, finally settling on, “inappropriate, to have a subordinate train you.”

“Inappropriate? Well…what if it was someone like you or Sister Leliana?” 

Someone like you. Cullen gripped down fiercely on the side of the desk concealed from her view, his knuckles no doubt white beneath his gloves from the effort of maintaining his control. “I'm afraid myself and the spymaster are your advisors, and it would be considered a conflict of interest.” He explained, his words somewhat stilted.

Lady Trevelyan sighed, seeming genuinely disappointed. “A shame! Iron Bull mentioned Templars hold their shields a certain way after he saw you drilling the troops, I had hoped to learn the technique.” 

“But…” the commander floundered momentarily. “But you don't use a shield, my lady.”

“At the moment, no. But Warden Blackwall has been showing me the benefits of such a device!” Lady Trevelyan smiled, a real smile. “I had always placed myself firmly between what I was trying to protect and the approaching threat, so perhaps having something between me and that threat would have left me with fewer scars!” She said, tapping the long mark that crossed through her right eyebrow and stopped only just above her eye.

Templar techniques. Cullen swallowed hard. Ser would be happy for such an eager student, his mind supplied traitorously. “Well, if it is only the shield training…” he began reluctantly, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the tension building there. Maker, his mouth was dry.

“Of course! I had wanted to join the Order once, you know.” Trevelyan said nonchalantly, her expression fond as she leaned on his desk and looked up at him. Cullen was too stunned to comment. She continued, “Templars were always so dashing when I was younger!” The commander flushed, feeling the heat of the back of his neck even through his glove. “My family had actually promised me to the Order once they determined I was good for little more than guard duty, but I managed to beg off reporting in until I finished up the Conclave escort job.” Etre shrugged. “For some reason they haven't pursued the matter.”

“They would have–? But you're grown! Well beyond when the Order would normally accept you!” Cullen realized midway through his sentence that she might be offended by such frank speech, but her laughter allayed his fears.

“I think my family hoped I would be killed during a Harrowing! Something tragic and noble, you know.” The woman's smile had turned a bit less fond. “I fear I have been of no use to the Trevelyan clan for quite some time, but I am not so foolhardy that I would pitch myself into the hornet's nest that is the mages and Templars debacle. Especially at my ‘advanced age’,” she teased, making Cullen sputter. “Unfortunately I'd grown up somewhat in the years prior and no amount of gallant armor and daring deeds could have convinced me to join, but for all my scheming I'd only bought myself a small moment of respite! I truly had no plan at all for what would transpire after the Conclave.” The Inquisitor glanced up at him through her hair. “Divine intervention, perhaps?” 

“Oh perhaps,” the commander allowed uncertainly, “the Maker does work in ways far beyond our understanding.”

Etre tapped a tankard full of water that Cullen hadn't noticed on the edge of his desk, her look now a touch more playful. “It seems that someone wishes for you to stay hydrated, Commander. I will take my leave, and heed your advice. A bath and a hot meal sound most agreeable! Should you still be amenable upon my finishing, I would seek your counsel in regards to the specializations.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. I would also like to discuss the red templars, if possible. I shall leave the door unlocked.” Who put that tankard there? It's only been the two of us here! Cullen thought in bewilderment.

“I wouldn't dream of it!” Etre grinned, “you will sup with me, unless it is too inappropriate for the Inquisitor to seek counsel from her advisors over a meal?”

“Somehow I feel that we have more important things to worry about.”

…

Etre caught Cole on her way out, the young man lurking behind the door and then starting guiltily when she took hold of his wrist. Trevelyan didn't say a word, simply tugging him along while she leisurely strolled across the battlements.

“I was helping,” Cole said defensively. “He is thirsty. Water won't help. It's all we have but it won't work, and that's all I could give him.”

“Why won't it work?” Etre asked, curious now. 

All Cole offered in reply was something about it not being blue enough, then slipped free of her grasp and darted away.

Not blue enough? What in the world could that mean? Etre sighed after a moment, shaking her head. She hadn't seen Cole do anything untoward; she would simply have to believe he was attempting a more delicate method of assistance. “You ought to let him remember you!” she called after the young man, seeing his shoulders shoot up to his ears in response before he scampered around a corner and out of sight.

A bath. Bath, then a hot meal. 

Dagna had insisted upon setting up a bathing area in the Undercroft upon their arrival to better serve the Inquisitor, stating that it was probably not appropriate to have the Herald soaping up in the barracks amongst the troops, so off Trevelyan headed to the Undercroft for her much-needed scrub. The tub was modest, but at least it drained by itself! Dagna had rigged a large water tank alongside it as well, the contents continuously refreshed by the thundering waterfall that plumed past the Undercroft opening. “Once we scraped the pigeon droppings off of everything, the place really came to life!” The arcanist had said cheerily, rapping a fist on the side of the salvaged tub. Etre privately believed that the tub had once been used to store some sort of gut rot; its inner coating was almost suspiciously smooth.

Nearly an hour later, feeling a bit more lively and no doubt smelling much better, Etre returned to her quarters and began brushing her damp hair out quickly in front of her small looking glass. Now, her mother had always scolded her for brushing her hair while it was still wet, ‘due to breakage, dear girl, you're ruining its luster’, but Etre had lacked the patience for such fiddly tasks since the day she had been brought into this world. Besides, her hair hadn't been this short since she was a child of five, and it wasn't as though anyone was actually looking at her. Whenever they looked at her, they didn't see her, they saw the Herald of Andraste. They saw the Inquisitor. It was extremely unlikely that anyone would notice a few split ends or flyaways!

Mainly she was eager to get to her dinner, the meal for herself and Cullen expertly spread out across her rarely-used desk by one of the men from the kitchen. Several tender squabs nestled amongst a bed of boiled potatoes and carrots issued steam into the air, and while Etre was uncertain, she was relatively sure that the bread was freshly baked. 

Trevelyan finally gave up the pretense of patience, the woman tossing her brush back onto her dresser with a quiet oath. Securing her light wrapper's belt around her waist, she moved to rummage around in her desk for quill and paper. Certainly whatever she and the commander would discuss bore further study, and it was always best for her to write things down over trusting her own memory.

“Ah, Inquisitor?” Commander Cullen's voice echoed faintly from the base of the stairs, and Etre rushed to lean over the bannister and wave him up. He looked a bit embarrassed, explaining that he had knocked, but believed the door a bit too far away for her to have heard him. “I did not wish to interrupt you in a moment of hard-won peace,” he apologized, a small sheaf of papers held tightly against his chest like a shield. 

“Not at all! Come come, let me-” Etre hoisted a large chair into her arms, shuffling it over in front of the desk and then patting the cushion on it back into form. “Now, sit! We shall discuss these trainings and the maneuvers in the Emprise.” She urged, pouring him a small snifter of mead. “Do you drink, Commander? I've scavenged a fine mead out in the wilds, decadent stuff.”

“I do not make a habit of it, no,” the commander said politely, but still took a sip of the mead. After he watched her drink from her own glass, of course! Was that simply him practicing good etiquette, to allow the host the first taste? Or more ingrained Templar training? He closed his eyes after drinking, seeming to mull over the flavor of the beverage. “That is…quite nice,” he blinked, appearing almost surprised. “Quite nice. Cinnamon?”

“I believe so! Doesn't it pair so well with the honey?” Etre quickly washed her hands in her nearby washbasin and snapped apart a squab, placing the halves on separate plates. Then, she divided up the potatoes and carrots, distributing them evenly to the two trenchers before crowning the affair with two pickled eggs each. “Forgive my forwardness, I often had to entertain guests in the family home so I am quite used to serving others. Which plate would you prefer?” She asked, gesturing downwards. “And do you mind if I tear the bread, or would you rather a proper slice?”

“Oh, er, no, that's alright.” Commander Cullen seemed at a bit of a loss being waited on, but he happily accepted the hunk of bread she offered him. He then slid the plate closest to him over, again waiting for her to take a bite before he set into his own food. 

Trevelyan was ravenous, doing her best to maintain some level of manners but knowing she would no doubt end the meal with grease on her chin. For his part Commander Cullen seemed content to nibble, and he continued to imbibe little sips of mead as he went. 

“Surely you'll eat more than that, Commander?” Etre protested when the man scooted his plate aside. “Ah, or is this your ploy to get to your dessert faster?” Without waiting for an answer, the woman teasingly snatched the rest of the bread off his plate and lifted it to his lips. The commander's mouth opened, as if automatically, and Etre grinned at his put-out expression while he chewed the bite she had given him. “There, see? Not so bad!”

“I'm afraid I haven't had much of an appetite these last few weeks.” Cullen murmured once he swallowed with some difficulty. “My head is…I am not well. The food is good, though.”

“Oh, why didn't you say anything?” The woman now felt foolish for her jest, her face flushing with embarrassment. “I would not have pressed you, forgive me.”

“Quite alright,” Cullen assured her, “I don't mind the bread, or the pickled eggs. If anything, their salt brine makes me so thirsty I remember to drink.”

“Can the healers do nothing for this dilemma? Cassandra had mentioned you warred with terrible headaches.”

The commander fiddled with the bit of bread crust on the edge of his trencher, clearly playing for time. Etre leaned forward in interest, propping her chin up in her hands. “As leader of the Inquisition, you…there's something I must tell you.” He began reluctantly.

Cullen looked exceptionally grave and Etre's heart sank, but she quickly squared her shoulders, stating, “Whatever it is, I'm willing to listen.”

He seemed a bit stunned by her quick reply, the man saying, “Right. Thank you.” Cullen then straightened up in his seat, as though to give an address. “Lyrium grants Templars our abilities, but it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer. Some go mad, others die,” he sighed, twisting a napkin nervously between his fingers. “We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here, but I…no longer take it.” 

Cullen stared down at his hands while Etre reeled internally at this news. “You stopped?” she queried intelligently, feeling like a buffoon moments after the words left her mouth. He just said that, you fool!

The commander nodded. “When I joined the Inquisition. It's been months now.”

“Cullen-” Etre hesitated to say it, but eventually pressed on, “if this can kill you…”

“It hasn't yet. After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn't…I will not be bound to the Order, or that life, any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it. But I would not put the Inquisition at risk.” The commander's posture shifted once more, the man looking up at her again. “I have asked Cassandra to…watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty.”

“Are you in pain?” Etre asked gently after a moment. No wonder he had looked so run-down! Lyrium withdrawals led disgraced Templars to do terrible things; she knew she was far from the only one who had heard the stories of them roaming the streets in Kirkwall.

Cullen's expression flickered between surprise and confusion momentarily before it settled into a weary sort of resignation, the man simply stating, “I can endure it.”

“Thank you for telling me. I respect what you're doing.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.” The commander said sincerely. “The Inquisition's army must always take priority. Should anything happen, I will defer to Cassandra's judgement.” He assured her.

“And there is nothing we can do to ease the symptoms in the meantime?” Etre pressed. “Perhaps rare herbs? Waters from a secret oasis?”

“Aside from time and perseverance, I fear no other things will help.” Cullen suddenly looked haggard, as though he had forgotten to pretend for a moment. “Forgive me, I had hoped this would not interfere, though you have been extremely charitable in regards to my shortcomings thus far. You deserved to know the whole of the matter, but I wager you have more than enough to worry about without concerning yourself on my behalf.” He straightened back up. “We have the red templars and your specializations to consider, Inquisitor. Shall we begin?”

…

To his exhausted eyes, she looked like a vision of beauty. Her dressing gown was loosely tied at the waist, exposing her chemise and a scandalous amount of bare shoulder, and her hair was, charmingly enough, still wet and tousled from her bath. The noble polish had been knocked off of her long ago but she always held herself well amongst the troops, so it was...oddly pleasant to see her in a more relaxed state.

She served him, as though she entertained at her family's estate. Her hands, clean and calloused, distributed the meal with practiced ease, no muss or fuss. Allowing him to pick the plate himself, and a delicious mead as well! Cullen only wished he had the appetite for it all, but at least what he had managed to eat would keep him nourished for a while.

Cullen knew that if he hadn't been struggling so, she would not transfix him like she had. Or at least, he hoped that was true.

Perhaps not, however. He had just confided in her in regards to the lyrium, but did that endear him to her or simply add another worry to her pile? At least she did not judge him. In fact, she had thanked him for his honesty.

Confusing.

After they had discussed the red templars at length and their best path forward in regards to Samson, Etre relaxed back in her chair, a second glass of mead swirling in her grasp as she closely examined the paper documenting Breaker Thrann's regiment suggestions. “It may be foolish of me to voice such a misgiving, being…who I am, but this reaver business sounds a touch dangerous.” She admitted, and Cullen exhaled a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

“I fear Ser may not offer much more in the way of safety,” he said with regret, passing her the next sheet. The woman did not accept the paper at all, simply putting a finger atop it and sliding it off to the side.

“Had I known one of the specialists would be a Templar trainer, I would have told you not to bother wasting his time. As such, I suppose if he wishes to stay, there are more than enough Templars here who I imagine would find his assistance invaluable.” Her expression was unreadable, but at least it wasn't one of blatant disappointment. The relief that flooded Cullen threatened to make him smile, and he only managed to restrain himself from doing so by thinking about who remained for specializations. 

Lord Chancer de Lion. A boisterous man, full of pride over himself and his deeds. It would have been insufferable had he been lying or exaggerating, but as all the stories were verifiable, he was simply annoying. The paper he passed her was lightly fragranced and bore a thick wax seal of authentication at the base, directly above which was a swirling, flourished signature.

“A chevalier of exceptional quality, as he will tell you. Repeatedly.” Cullen warned, surprised when Etre chuckled.

“I will gladly accept boastful camaraderie over transformative dragon blood or the perils of lyrium. He sounds almost normal, dare I say.” She mused, smiling.

Cullen, against his better judgement, settled himself more comfortably into the chair. The only sounds in the room were the crackling fire, the rustle of parchment and the occasional soft snicker from Etre as she carefully read the missive from Lord Chancer. It was much, much too peaceful and the commander struggled against the urge to drift off to sleep once more.

He rubbed at the back of his neck with a stifled groan, leaning forward in the chair as he tried to ease the tension out before everything tightened into yet another blinding headache.

He heard soft rustling and glanced up, seeing the skirt of her dressing gown brush past his leg before his neck protested the quick motion. Cullen winced, digging his fingers into the muscle of his shoulder to try and get the spasm to release.

“May I?” Her voice behind him was soft, but the man still froze. 

After Ferelden, people touching him was…difficult. Some days, he nearly felt normal, but some days…and with the lyrium withdrawals, everything had intensified, perhaps I shouldn't, what if something happens? 

Maker's breath, he was so tired of feeling like this. In the end he simply nodded jerkily, his neck as stiff as if it was composed of hardening mason mortar. It was almost for the best that she was behind him, for all that it meant he couldn't reassure himself that it was her. At least she wouldn't question whatever foolish expression he was sure to pull during this baffling exercise in futility. He was grateful that she even bothered to try, it was so kind of her to–

Etre's palms pressed firmly to the back of his neck and Commander Cullen flinched, trying desperately to obey when she whispered, “relax, Commander. Deep breaths, relax. I won't hurt you.”

Andraste preserve me, Cullen begged internally, fighting back an embarrassing sound as Etre worked at one of the many knots in his shoulder, the muscle finally releasing under the woman's efforts. 

“There we go, there's one.” Trevelyan huffed, seeming satisfied with herself. “Alright, hold still, this may pinch a little-”

The commander bit down on his glove, stifling whatever sound threatened to escape him now while Etre rubbed slow circles at the base of his neck. After a moment, she flattened her thumbs in two different spots and firmly pressed down, down, down-

Tension that Cullen hadn't even realized was there abruptly melted away, and he couldn't keep himself from slumping over slightly with a muffled noise of relief. His glove was marked from the pressure of his teeth bearing down on the leather and he knew his fingers would have indents, but at least he hadn't wholly embarrassed himself. 

“Better?” The Inquisitor asked, circling back around the chair and perching on top of her desk. 

“Very,” Cullen replied, flustered when the word slurred slightly. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“House Trevelyan's warmaster was exceptionally skilled and exceptionally merciless to those who did not warm up properly before our lessons.” Etre grimaced ruefully. “His elbows were incredibly pointy.”

A genuine laugh erupted from Cullen at the look on her face as she recalled whatever teacher she'd had; evidently there was no love lost between them! “I ought to thank the man, I haven't experienced such relief since before…” he paused, guilt strangling his words to a halt.

Not since Ferelden, and well you should, jeered that gravelly voice in his mind. Just think how much more useful you'd be to your blessed Inquisitor if you'd take the bloody lyrium, Rutherford! You could have saved all those wretched souls in Haven, laid Corypheus at her feet within a fortnight, if only you would just–

Commander Cullen bolted upright, his salute to the Inquisitor rigid. “I should be returning to my duties, Inquisitor, if there is nothing further to discuss…?”

“Oh! I apologize, I did not realize how late it had gotten.” Truthfully neither had Cullen, but that was more a convenient excuse than reality. Etre handed him back the paperwork from Chancer, her signature gracing the parchment beneath the man's ornate seal. “Between Dagna's efforts and our own, it will only be a matter of time until we solve the problem of Samson's armor. Thank you for being willing to discuss such matters with me, as well as the specializations, Commander. Your expertise is a boon I do not take for granted,” the woman assured him, clasping his free hand between her own in a gesture of sincerity.

The commander broke out in a cold sweat and wordlessly removed himself from the situation, another salute his only method of farewell before he all but ran down the staircase to flee her quarters. After carefully closing the door behind him, Cullen braced his weight on the balcony railing and glared up at the ceiling. He loathed that even now his heart was hammering in his chest as though he had just escaped some narrow brush with death, instead of a pleasant evening with Etre--the Inquisitor.

“Maker's breath,” he huffed in exasperation, shooing a few birds away from the bannister and then setting out for his quarters.

…

“I fear you are becoming unbearably dull, Commander.” Dorian chided as he set up the pieces on the board once more. “I mean really, the usual gambit again and again? It's not so difficult to beat you.”

Frankly Cullen had no idea how Dorian had talked him into this little diversion, but he had to admit that the mage's quick wit and skill at the game had kept him on his toes. And their banter was playful! For the most part. Dorian mostly seemed pleased to have someone to play against that wasn't Leliana, the man having confided in Cullen that, “your spymaster cheats ferociously.”

“You really ought to try it sometime, since you're so confident,” the commander jabbed back. “Surely just one win under your belt would do your disposition wonders.”

“Don't you trouble yourself with the wins under my belt, Commander!” Dorian laughed, making Cullen groan and shake his head. “Perhaps the wins beneath yours are what we ought to investigate, hmm?”

“I will not be discussing such matters with you, Ser Pavus.”

“See, this is what I mean! Dull,” the mage reiterated with a grin, eliciting a rueful chuckle from the commander.

“Be that as it may, I can assure you there's naught to discuss.” Nothing at all, Cullen thought privately, his smile slipping an inch or two.

Dorian leaned forward on the table, his chin resting atop his hands as he stared intently at Cullen. The commander, while a little unnerved, simply looked back at the mage. Better that the man satisfy whatever curiosity was clearly eating at him. Cullen watched those manicured brows furrow, and then Dorian muttered (only halfway under his breath), “surely not. But then…ah, yes, right. Hmm.” Nodding like he'd come to a conclusion, Dorian pushed forward his first piece. “Templar.”

“Templar…?” Cullen trailed off, confused.

“Yes. You. Templar! I mean not now, I know, I know.”

“How did you-?”

“You hold yourself tight as a drum, man! However, you don't smell the same as the rest of them.” Dorian remarked nonchalantly, as though it was something that everyone knew. “Granted, I was not overly familiar with your sort of Templar, ours are a little different, but even ours have the scent.”

“Is it a…bad smell?” Many of his soldiers already thought it a bit improper how often their commander bathed and groomed himself, but they weren't the ones being thrust into diplomatic situations night and day! Cullen cursed internally; had he been radiating some sort of stench without realizing?!

“Not at all! Your Templars actually have a bit of a spicier kick, perhaps something closer to a…cinnamon, maybe a peppered ginger? Without the lyrium, you just smell a bit more plain.” Dorian made a show of wafting the air in front of him with his hand and Cullen snorted, watching the man's other hand sneakily shuffle his pieces around during the attempted distraction. “You're a touch of anise at best, I fear. An overdone caramel?”

“So…burned.” Cullen said bleakly. “I smell like a ruined dessert. Suppose I ought to be grateful. It could have been carrion.”

“Or what the red templars smell like,” Dorian agreed with a shudder. “Hot iron and hotter vomit from what I have gleaned.”

“Charming.” Cullen picked up one of his pieces, hopping nimbly over Dorian's line of defense.

“Don't be so glum! You'd only notice it if you were a mage, anyway. Besides, I can tell because I am intimately familiar with the scent of the conditioning salve you use to keep the leather in your armor's joints supple. Were I less familiar with it, I imagine I'd think that was your signature fragrance.” Dorian was teasing him openly now, his immaculate mustache curving with his smirk. 

Cullen felt as though he was minding his brother all over again, the mage radiating a special sort of cat-like mischief that promised a broken vase at some point. The two of them traded barbs and moves alike, each one amassing a small group of captured pieces until Cullen finally settled back in his chair, exclaiming, “Gloat all you like, I have this one!”

“Are you…sassing me, Commander?” Dorian asked, seeming utterly flabbergasted. “I didn't know you had it in you!”

“Why do I even-” So intent was Cullen's focus on the game, he didn't even notice Etre approaching through the garden until she was practically on top of the little alcove they had set their board up in. He hadn't known she would be in Skyhold! She had been off on maneuvers last he knew! Had he missed a report at some point?

His piece dropped from his hand and the commander went to stand to greet her, not wanting to be rude, but Dorian butted in with, “leaving, are you? Does this mean I win?” His smug expression gave Cullen pause, the commander hovering awkwardly between rising and sitting back down.

Etre laughed, “please! Don't stop on my account.” She meandered to lean against a pillar to Cullen's left, obviously intending to stay and watch them play.

“Alright, your move.” Cullen addressed Dorian, perhaps a little more sternly than he ought to have. 

Dorian's eyes twinkled with an understanding that made Cullen certain the younger man had sussed him out, but all the mage did was move his piece and then needle, “you need to come to terms with my inevitable victory! You'll feel much better.”

“Really?” Cullen placed his piece down in the opening Dorian had unwittingly made, the commander smirking broadly. “Because I just won, and I feel fine.”

“Don't get smug!” Dorian huffed, moving to stand. “There will be no living with you.” He waved Etre over, sulkily saying, “Do entertain him for me, won't you? He bores me so, and I've many books to read.”

“I should return to my duties as well,” Cullen admitted a little guiltily, watching Dorian saunter off and then immediately duck behind another pillar as Cole wandered past. “Unless you would care for a game?” He offered, gesturing towards Etre and then down at the board. 

He did not anticipate her eager acceptance! She seemed thrilled he had even suggested such a thing. He was a bit stunned and, even while he staged the board and explained his motivations in his youth for learning such a skill (Mia, the smuggest older sister a boy could ask for!), Cullen couldn't help but feel as though he had been set up somehow. 

“You have siblings?” Etre questioned his earlier words. She sounded surprised. Had he really never mentioned…?

Cullen nodded. “Two sisters and a brother.”

“Where are they now?”

“They moved to South Reach after the Blight. I do not write to them as often as I should.” Cullen stared down at the board, realizing belatedly, “ah, I suppose I shall begin.”

“Alright, let's see what you've got. Just be reasonable, it's been quite a while since my games of draughts in my family's drawing room!” Lady Trevelyan said with an easy smile, shuffling a piece forward.

Cullen suddenly found himself uncomfortably reminded of her standing. Not only as leader of the Inquisition, but as an individual of noble birth. Their upbringings were…very different, yet she kept reaching across the gap to him. It flew in the face of most of his prior experiences with nobles, save for a select few. 

You'd only notice it if you were a mage, anyway. Dorian's words returned to him and, thoroughly flustered, Cullen moved a piece he hadn't intended to and then blurted out, “Inquisitor, do I-” She looked up, brows raised, waiting for him to finish. Embarrassed, the commander lowered his voice and then continued, “do I smell a bit different to you?”

“Oh no, did Sera get you too?” Etre asked sympathetically, “I told her the skunk cabbage idea wasn't a good one.” 

Skunk cabbage?! Cullen wanted to disappear into the floor. There was no time however, as the Inquisitor was already leaning forward over the board! Out of habit he kept his eyes trained on the pieces, but Etre didn't seem interested in winning by underhanded tactics, the woman simply inhaling deeply. The sound so close to his ear raised goosebumps all down his arms, and Cullen fought the urge to look up at her. Unfortunately that gave him ample time to observe her chest, the simple cotton tunic that she wore beneath her unbuttoned waistcoat falling open at the neck to reveal–

The man quickly wrenched his eyes away, fixing them firmly on the board once more with an internal plea for temperance.

“Forgive me, I am not as versed in the scents as someone of my ilk is expected to be,” Etre apologized after a pregnant pause. “Elderflower, leather balm, and…oak moss, perhaps? To me, you smell as though you've been in the Hinterlands.”

Cullen settled back in his chair, relieved beyond measure. Perhaps Dorian was right about only mages being able to pick up on the lacking scent of lyrium. “Thank you, Inquisitor. I'd heard about Sera's mischief but I am somewhat noseblind, so I appreciate your honesty in the matter.” Slick, slick as ice! She wouldn't suspect a thing. 

“Oh, of course! Happy to help, Commander.” Etre looked back down at the board, her expression slightly troubled. “This may seem a bit foolish, but could you explain to me the difference between these two pieces? I cannot ever get their utility straight in my mind!”

“Ah yes, see, this piece…” Cullen's fingers brushed her own as he settled his hand down on the piece she had indicated, but Etre didn't appear to be offended by the accidental contact. If anything she nodded along more intently while he patiently showed her the more prominent moves one could engage in with either piece. 

Her knowledge of the game seemed a touch…fragmented, as though she had played numerous akin to it instead. He said as much and Etre slouched down in her chair, the woman clearly embarrassed. “Is it that obvious? I fear I never had the patience for the games that were forced upon me in my youth.” She admitted, “I thought I would get a bit farther before you realized my ineptitude.”

“Not ineptitude! You were doing well. I was merely making conversation. This may be the longest we've gone without discussing the Inquisition…or related matters.” The man stressed, hoping she didn't feel uncomfortable. “To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.”

“We should spend more time together.” Lady Trevelyan said plainly, bluntly, sincerely, and Cullen's heart began to hammer in his chest.

We should spend more time together. 

We should spend more time together. 

We should spend more time together!? 

Over and over her words echoed in his ears. Had she even meant to say such a thing? Perhaps she had misspoken. He had been silent for too long now, it would be awkward, he needed to say something, something-!

“I would…like that.” Cullen finally responded, his excitement muted by the confusion he was currently wrestling with. Surely that could be excused? Leaping out of his seat and running off wasn't exactly an option, that would be horribly rude–

Fool! his mind screamed at him, what a bloodless answer! She offered such honesty and how did you reply? Tepid, dull!

To his surprise Etre was smiling softly, her eyes holding such an unbelievable fondness. That tender gaze made Cullen's chest ache with foreign longing, the man stunned by the strength of his own reaction. “Me too.” Etre said, perhaps accidentally, but reiterating her wishes all the same.

All Cullen could do in response was murmur, “you said that,” the broad grin fixed on his face more of a product of shock than anything else. “W-We should…finish our game, right? My turn?” He stuttered, fumbling yet another move.

His nerves entirely ruining what little sense he still had left in his head, the man fouled through the rest of the game in an extremely lackluster showing of skill. Etre was evidently taking the game seriously, much to his detriment, and Cullen finally found himself conceding defeat in this match. 

“I believe this one is yours. Well played!” He praised her, smiling as he leaned back in his chair. “We shall have to try again sometime!”

“I would like nothing more.” Etre agreed, her eyes bright. 

The board then sat untouched between them for another hour as the two of them spoke at length about her most recent foray into Crestwood in search of Hawke's Grey Warden associate. Cullen was displeased with himself for even broaching the subject in the first place, because it was clearly one that concerned Etre. Something about the Wardens had her on edge, and it wasn't simply their peculiar behavior thus far. 

Etre herself admitted she was unsure why thinking of the Wardens plagued her so. “It's got something to do with the Conclave, I believe, but it's…like the memory of a dream. Every time I reach for more details, they slip through my grasp.” She tried to explain, but it didn't make much sense to Cullen. He did notice the way she kept nervously flexing the fingers of her marked hand, as though the joints threatened to seize up.

She would be leaving with Hawke and Stroud in the morning to investigate the Wardens mustering their forces at that odd tower of Tevinter make in the Approach, something to do with their commander and…

“Blood magic?” Cullen was horrified, and he probably said that a bit too loud as a result. If the Grey Wardens were resorting to actual blood magic, this matter was extremely grave! 

Etre nodded with a grimace, leaning forward over the table so that she could lower her volume to a more discreet level. “Hence the urgency of our departure. Normally I would wait for an available contingent of soldiers, but there's simply no time. I have secured us mounts which will travel much more swiftly in the heat and sand. That is all I can do to ensure our success.”

“I expect a full report upon your return. Whatever information you can glean is always appreciated.” He had leaned in as well, his fingers steepled in front of him and elbows propped on the table. It probably looked as though they were still engrossed in their game to any prying eyes, and thank the Maker for that! The last thing any of the rank and file around Skyhold needed to know was that possibly, possibly, the Grey Wardens had been corrupted. Better that they simply perpetuate idle gossip about the Inquisitor and her commander than that!

“I should be off, I believe. I still need to fetch the travel rations from the kitchen, and I don't doubt that even now Hawke will be brooding about my quarters.” Etre sighed. “I shall have little rest tonight if he has anything to say about it.”

“Whyever for?” Cullen didn't mean to sound so irritated, but the idea of the Champion of Kirkwall and the Inquisitor alone in her quarters was…it sent an odd little jolt down his back. Was he jealous? Maker, he might be. Why? He knew Hawke was both just and fair, regardless of his faults. Surely he could ask no more of the man than that!

“He is…very talkative. Don't misunderstand, of course, I appreciate all of the information he can offer! But my head does not hold as much of it as I would like.” Etre looked down at her hands, fidgeting with her fingers. “Adding to that is the fact that Lady Cassandra told me she had expressly been seeking Hawke to lead the Inquisition and, well…I fear I don't measure up all too well against the Champion of Kirkwall.” She admitted quietly.

“Do not compare yourself to him.” Cullen said, the intensity of his inflection wholly unintended. “You are our leader, Lady Trevelyan. I assure you, I could ask for no finer Inquisitor, and our men agree.” 

Etre looked up at him, her expression torn. “But what if-”

“No.” The commander stated firmly. “You were here when we needed you. You took the oath. You answered the call when you could have simply walked away. You are our Inquisitor, and that is how history shall remember it.”

“I…” The woman's lower lip quivered, but she managed to keep her composure long enough to say, “Thank you, Commander.” Cullen nodded, tugging free his handkerchief and silently offering it to her when the tears started to fall. Etre accepted it gratefully, the woman scrubbing roughly at her cheeks before she crumpled the fabric in her hand. “I'll er, get this back to you at some point.” She said awkwardly, continuing to worry at the handkerchief.

Cullen waved her off. “If you have use for it, keep it. I will not perish for lack of niceties while Lady Josephine is around to supply the Inquisition with all the tiny…things she thinks of.”

“Thank you.” Etre took a bracing breath, then got to her feet. “I'm off, then.”

The commander nodded to acknowledge her departure, but studiously observed the jumbled board instead of watching her walk off. It wouldn't do for anyone to see him gazing after her like some lovelorn fool.

“Soft and kind, tender token of handkerchief to stem the tide, what would it be like, he wonders?” Cullen flinched as Cole flopped into the seat across from him, the young man's gangly legs hanging over one of the arms on the chair. Cole moved a piece on the board curiously. “A table is only a table if it has legs. Without legs, it's just a large plate.” He informed the commander with that vacant expression on his face.

“A pleasure to see you as ever, Cole.” Cullen sighed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

“Maker's breath, I should tell her.” Cole murmured, a soft smile crossing his features momentarily before it dropped into a frown. “The demon in the Circle touched you, but she will never hold you.”

“I'll thank you not to gossip directly in front of me, Cole.” The commander snapped, more than a little uneasy. The demon in the Circle. How does Cole-?

“I don't like her either. What she did to you, to many…it was wrong. A Circle, long broken, shattered and shamed.”

Cullen's breath hitched and it was a long while before he spoke again. In the meantime, Cole absently bumped his heels back against the chair, the soft rapping almost seeming to keep time to a rhythm only the strange young man could hear.

“If it's all the same to you,” the commander said finally, his voice soft. “I would…appreciate no further distractions, Cole.”

Without so much as a glance back, the spindly fellow leaped easily from the chair and left Cullen in supposed peace. Not that the commander would find any blasted peace now, of course! Sighing heavily to himself, Cullen began to place the set's pieces back into their box. He ought to have known better than to spend his afternoon on frivolous diversions. 

Shattered and shamed.

Cullen shook his head, the reality of his past once more rising to the surface. What could he possibly offer the Inquisitor? He was broken, worse than broken in his eyes. It was foolish of him to even dream of such possibilities, and cruel of him to encourage her should she wish it. The woman clearly felt something for him, but many people felt and moved on just as easily. 

No, it would be better this way. Perhaps she would acquire true happiness in the arms of one of her companions, or even through service to the Chantry. There were many such paths to fulfillment in life.

So why did it feel like a lie?

It didn't matter, he supposed. If anything, he ought to be preparing the troops in anticipation for possible maneuvers in the Approach. 

To work.

…

The dusk brought blessed shade, and a display of heat lightning hung low on the distant horizon. Pink and yellow bolts flung themselves from cloud to cloud, never deigning to seek the ground in favor of their lofty heights. 

Cullen watched the sky with vague interest while he donned his armor, feeling the temperature begin its steep drop for the evening. The Western Approach was well-known for its plummeting nighttime climes, but still managed to catch folk unawares with the drastic shift.

It would not be long now. The camp had begun to stir around him, the troops rising from their doldrums for the evening siege. The soft din of armor scraping and quiet conversations was comforting in its familiarity to him. If Cullen shut his eyes, he could be anywhere in the world. 

Well, anywhere that was as breezeless as this Maker-forsaken place!

The Inquisitor had risen before him it would seem, as she had already donned her armor and brought a small stool out of her pavilion to sit on by the time Cullen passed by on his rotation. He noticed that she held an unfamiliar cup, the contents of which steamed in the dry night air. Etre closed her eyes as she sipped the beverage and Cullen idly wondered if it was tea, or warm milk? Something to soothe before their assault on Adamant?

The commander approached quietly, doing his best not to disturb her on his way to scan the horizon. The benefit of their encampment on the small rise was that they could see around them for leagues on all sides, though the sun beat mercilessly down upon anyone present after it rose. 

Maker willing, this maneuver they had planned would be quick. The commander did not wish to be caught out in the heat more than was absolutely necessary.

“Inquisitor, the hour is near.” He mused as he drew up alongside her, his hand resting on his sword's pommel out of habit. “The moon is nearly high enough.”

“Coffee,” Trevelyan explained without him asking, her expression strangely pinched. “Josephine sent it along, she said it would give me energy.”

“Oh? I have heard of Antivan coffee. Is there not customarily alcohol afterwards, in order to mute some of its strong…earthy tastes?” Cullen asked as delicately as he could, watching her face go from pinched to grimace. 

“Suppose that explains why it tastes a bit like burnt clay.” Etre winced, taking another sip. “She would make me drink pottery runoff, that fiend.”

“I'm sure she meant you no harm,” Cullen chuckled, gesturing at her cup. “May I?”

“Please,” the Inquisitor said, eagerly passing it over. The cup was a fragile, porcelain thing, obviously a match to the carafe that still steamed in the sand beside Etre's boot. Even more obviously out of place on the front lines. So a gift from the ambassador, and not a practical one at that. Cullen's brow furrowed.

A farewell present? A frivolous item to instill a creature comfort where normally there are none? 

He found the bitter taste of the coffee oddly familiar, the man lingering for a moment with the cup as he turned the flavor over in his mind. “Once, a long, long time ago in the Circle, one of our…one of the mages that had arrived brought with them some sweets from Antiva. They were spongy, white things, no real flavor to them at all aside from sweet.” Cullen mused, helping himself to another sip. “The secret to enjoying them to their fullest was toasting them over a fire, but only just. If you did it wrong, they would immediately burst into flames and blacken.” He flushed a bit. “I confess, I burned a fair few and developed a taste for the ruined ones, perhaps out of necessity.”

“Thank you.” Etre murmured.

“For what?” The commander enquired, confused. 

“Rescuing me from that terrible beverage!” She laughed, but as she turned her face away from him Cullen caught the familiar glow of tears. 

Carefully, the man took her chin in his hand, gently urging her face back towards him. “It's alright, Inquisitor.” Her eyes welled up anew and the woman got to her feet, throwing her arms around him with an almighty clatter of armor. He felt her fingers bury themselves in the fur of his surcoat, digging in tightly while she hid her face in his chest. 

“I'm terrified,” Etre said thickly. “Everyone is depending on me, Cullen, and I…this is hardly Suledin Keep.”

“I know, Inquisitor. I…I know.” The commander wanted nothing more in that moment than to hang the whole assault, wrap her in his embrace and never let her leave again. But…

She was their Inquisitor, their leader, and they were at war. He had sternly reminded himself of that fact time and again! As painful and as frightful as it might be, all he could do was pray she would return to him–to them, rather. The delicate cup he held in his hand was evidence enough that he was far from the only one who feared for Etre's safety. 

“Our troops will do all that we can to ensure your victory in this campaign, Lady Trevelyan,” the commander said with a calm he did not feel, but still allowed her another moment of reprieve before he reluctantly pulled away. “We shall await you in the stratagem once you have composed yourself.”

She nodded, sniffling a little as she scrubbed the heel of her glove beneath her nose. “Of course, I'll be there shortly. I…thank you, Commander.” 

A bitterness that had nothing to do with the coffee flooded Cullen's mouth, souring it. The man set his jaw against the words that wished to escape, handing her back the small cup and then clenching his fists tightly as he strode away. Once more, we set her before us to shield the Inquisition from the storm. She is but one woman. Andraste preserve me, I do not have the strength to endure this! 

Panic gripped his chest, his breath coming up short and his head swimming with dizziness. Cullen fumbled to seize hold of the edge on one of their camp tables, the disorienting spell eventually passing. As he regained his balance, a nearby pack mule protested sleepily at all the commotion and Cullen absently apologized to the creature on his way past. 

He had simply pushed himself too hard. Those generous sips of coffee were all he'd ingested today; it had been too hot to do anything but toss and turn fitfully on his cot and wait for the sun to set. 

He could not afford to be seen as weak now, of all times! Not with the fortress of Adamant towering over them, her walls possibly full of demons, enthralled Grey Wardens and Venatori…he would find no rest for the moment, of course, but if they failed here?

The assassination of Empress Celene. A demon army marching across all the land, blackening the skies and sullying the earth…

Cullen's eyes narrowed. He would gladly labor to his grave before allowing the faintest echo of that reality to take hold!

“To work, then.” The man said aloud, straightening his mantle and surcoat before setting off towards the stratagem pavilion in search of Lady Cassandra. The trebuchets had already been assembled, but no doubt they would need some calibrating once they were in place and loaded…

…

The beginning of the assault went as most of them did, if even a bit more smoothly, to Cullen's infinite surprise.

The battering ram was accompanied by shielded troops to ward off arrows from the ramparts, siege ladders with agile footsoldiers at the ready to strike, the troops carrying boarding axes like sea raiders from the Storm Coast. 

Bearing Trevelyan's Champion standard aloft amidst a sea of Inquisition banners, skirling pipes raised in a rousing marching tune, the Inquisition forces soon broke through the main gate of Adamant with the battering ram.

A rowdy chorus of cheers arose, swiftly followed by the clash of steel. It seemed that all who awaited them in the courtyard of the keep were strictly Wardens, which was no doubt heartening to the troops. While the Grey Wardens possessed significant combat training, in the end they were one more military group to be reckoned with. They were not demons, not an immortal horde, not darkspawn, but instead simply terrified men and women throwing themselves upon their enemy in an effort to escape a fate they believed inevitable. 

In death, sacrifice, Cullen thought grimly.

In the middle of the courtyard fracas stood the Inquisitor, swinging a greatsword that could only be described as monstrous, some Qunari thing that she had repurposed. The blade was enormous, wickedly sharp and bisected at the tip to allow her to wrench weapons from other combatants’ grip, which Etre did. Often. With extreme prejudice. Despite their impressive training many Wardens dropped in the wake of her assault, the woman back to back with either Iron Bull or Cole at every moment. For his part Cole seemed convinced that the closer he stayed to Etre, the less likely something untoward would happen to him. He was practically inside her armor!

Cullen took the Inquisitor aside once they had cleared and secured the first set of stairs upward through the keep, explaining their next step as a boulder crashed into the battlements across the courtyard. “Alright Inquisitor, you have your way in! We'll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.” Already a few shifting masses had been spotted on the ramparts, it wouldn't be long now. So much for only fighting Wardens!

“I'll be fine!” Etre insisted as Warden Stroud approached from her left. “Just keep the men safe!”

“We'll do what we have to, Inquisitor.” Cullen said sternly, still privately touched by her concern for their troops. “Warden Stroud will guard your back. Hawke and Blackwall are with our vanguard soldiers on the battlements, assisting them until you arrive.” 

From above suddenly rang out Blackwall's customary exasperated oath of, “Maker's balls!” a moment before two bodies tumbled off the ramparts and hit the ground next to the battering ram. Next came two short blasts of his horn, signaling demons spotted on the battlements.

“There's too much resistance on the walls,” Cullen interpreted after glancing upwards, “our men on the ladders can't get a foothold. If you can clear out the enemies on the battlements, we'll cover your rear flank!”

“Bull!” Etre called, and the large warrior immediately turned in her direction. “Take some men and forge a way up through the keep! Blackwall needs reinforcements on the ramparts!”

“On it.” Sera bolted past the Inquisitor before the Qunari could reply, the nimble young woman launching herself at a small foothold high on the courtyard wall. Scrambling spider-like upwards, she quickly vanished over the top of the rampart. 

“I hope you don't expect me to do that,” Iron Bull said, his scarred face wryly amused. “I'd sooner go through the wall than over it.” He then raised his voice, “Cole! With me. Bring the pretty one too, I'm sure we'll need him.” 

“You always need me.” Dorian preened, effortlessly obliterating a greater shade on the ramparts from his vantage point in the courtyard. 

“Madame de Fer!” Etre addressed the first enchanter, wiping the sweat from her brow in the moment of reprieve Dorian had made her. “Stay with your mages, ward the Templars! We'll need them further into the keep!”

“Of course, my dear.” The elegant woman agreed blithely, as though that had been what she intended to do regardless. “Make sure you keep an eye on Dorian, lest he feel the urge to return to his kinsman.”

“And deprive you of the pleasure of my company?” Dorian's bow was a deep, flourishing thing. “Madame Vivienne, you wound me!”

“I can live with that, but do not allow our Inquisitor to be wounded by your ineptitude, boy.” Vivienne sniffed. 

“Perish the thought!”

Solas drifted by once Etre had departed with Stroud, the elf seeming almost distracted if not for the intense way his eyes were narrowed. “Something here is very wrong, Commander.” He said, and the fact that he spoke so plainly raised the hair on the back of Cullen's neck.

“Well yes, no doubt the demons-”

“Not those, though they certainly do not help.” Solas cut him off, waving a hand through the air. As he moved, Cullen was stunned to see the air appear to rip, tiny flickers of light bounding between Solas’ fingers. “It is so fragile here, the smallest spell rends it like damp parchment.” 

“Andraste preserve me,” the commander groaned, “I suppose that explains why I've felt like I was wandering through lukewarm stew for most of the day. What recourse do we have?”

“Caution, as ever. Have your Templars…tend to the mages. Be vigilant.” With that, off went the infuriating apostate. 

Cullen heard Vivienne sigh, the woman seeming put-out anytime the elven mage deigned to speak in her presence. “Oh to have the benefit of inexplicable wisdom.” She remarked snidely. “The Veil is thin, Commander, because the Grey Wardens are trying to summon something. Now, perhaps it is infinitely more interesting to make oneself appear mysterious by not bothering to explain something, but mercifully I do not suffer from such petty motivations.”

At the moment, anyway, Cullen added privately. “I thank you for your plain speech, Madame Vivienne.” The mage smiled graciously at him, self-satisfaction radiating off her entire form. The commander cleared his throat and addressed the next members of his particular party. “Lady Cassandra! Varric! I need the two of you on the ramparts to thin the horde!” He ordered, readying himself to advance the line at the base of the courtyard steps with the mages and Templars. Now that he knew why his head had been throbbing more than usual and every muscle in his body had been tight as a bowstring all day, he almost felt relieved. The enemy you know, he supposed. 

Cassandra, instead of obeying, just urged Varric onward and then returned to the commander. “I will allow the dwarf his moment of glory with Hawke.” Her words were stern, wholly devoid of humor. “Permit me to stay with you, Commander. I fear we will need to split the troops to cover both the ramparts and the inner keep.”

Cullen had barely opened his mouth to respond when a helmetless Grey Warden came running down the stairs to the courtyard, the man stumbling to a halt when he saw the line of bristling mages and grim Templars that awaited him. “Wait, please! The Inquisitor spared us, we surrendered!” He screamed, falling backwards with a resounding clatter of armor as two more Wardens emerged from the keep behind him in similar states. “Warden-Commander Clarel has done something terrible to the mages, please-!” the Warden begged.

“Speak, Warden. It does not behoove you to grovel.” Cassandra's face looked as though it was carved from the same unforgiving stone as Adamant itself. Cullen was grateful to not be on the receiving end of such an expression. 

“It's Clarel, she's gone mad!” Another Warden spoke up, seeming to have difficulty pulling air through her winged helm. “She's–and that Venatori, they've tainted the mages, turned them wrong!”

Knight-Commander Meredith. Cullen felt his heart sink in his chest. How many times must I endure this? The woman's enraged rant returned to him, as clearly as if she stood beside him delivering it in the present. “My own Knight-Captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic! You all have! You're all weak! Allowing the mages to control your minds!” 

Grief he thought long-settled rose to the surface once more at the recollection of that time in his life. Meredith had sought so desperately to save the Templar Order that instead she corrupted it from its purpose. Was that what Warden-Commander Clarel was doing now with their mages? Enslaving demons for an army, fueling their binding rituals with blood magic-!

That Venatori mage, Erimond, had gloated about their plan to the Inquisitor, perhaps unwisely. March to the Deep Roads with a demon army to kill the Old Gods before they wake, or perhaps…to Orlais? 

The first Warden was speaking again, his voice cracking with fear. “When we protested against this path, they turned on us! We–the Inquisitor saved us, she and her men took care of the corrupted Wardens, and she said Commander Cullen would offer us sanctuary.” 

“Of course she did.” Cullen huffed under his breath, hearing Vivienne chuckle grimly in reply to his annoyed comment.

The first enchanter then sighed, addressing the Wardens, “Dear Lady Trevelyan and her incessant need to spare cowards and misfits. None of you appear to be wounded. I wager that means you can either defend yourselves or you're very adept at hiding.”

“The other Wardens stripped us of our weapons, my lady!” The third Warden retorted, displaying his hands as if to illustrate their obvious emptiness. Cullen realized with a start that no member of the group before him bore so much as a buckler, never mind a proper weapon! “We only managed to fend them off with armor alone!”

“Oh? And are you not sworn to defeat darkspawn?” Vivienne sounded bored, examining her nails. “Surely a few hedge witch mages and demons are not enough to dampen the spirits of the fierce and deadly Grey Wardens?”

The fleeing Wardens, who now numbered five, fidgeted and glanced at each other guiltily.

“Will you cower, then? Or will you fight with us?” Cassandra asked sharply. The Seeker cut an imposing figure, one hand on her hip above the pommel of her mace, her shield still dripping blood and ichor on the ground as she waited for the Wardens response. “If not for your corrupted mages, then simply to set things right. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. Is this not the ironclad truth of the Grey Wardens?”

When the woman quoted their oath back at them, all the Wardens straightened up on reflex. One of them began, “Yes ma'am, but we-”

“We will supply you arms if you guide us to Clarel.” Cullen offered abruptly, cutting off whatever excuse that was forthcoming. “Clearly the only way to stop this madness is to reach your leader.”

“Oh, but-” 

“Your Inquisitor was already headed there, Ser Cullen, we directed her to the right path-”

“All the more reason for us to reconvene with her, her force is small for ease of travel. If you do not wish to offer us guidance, we will not stop you from continuing to flee and no harm will come to you from the Inquisition's troops. You shall receive no better offers than this, I'm afraid.” Cullen gestured at the destroyed gate behind him, still half-blocked by their battering ram. “You can either die inside the fortress, fighting against this threat, or outside the fortress. The time for discussion is over.”

It was harsh, but bitterly true. The small band of Wardens would not last long in the Approach without a larger force. Between the raiders, the darkspawn, lack of water and hostile fauna, their options were few.

“So we will perish, but possibly rescue our compatriots from whatever spell they've been put under?” The first Warden shrugged after a moment, then saluted. “Hand me a sword and shield, Commander, and on my honor as a Grey Warden I will carve you a path to Clarel.”

The rest of the Wardens agreed after a few precious seconds of grumbling amongst themselves. Cullen could almost see Cassandra's impatience manifesting itself in a holy glow, the woman clearly eager to rejoin the fray in an effort to keep the fiends away from the Inquisitor. “Every demon you cut down is a Warden that you may save!” The Seeker barked while weapons were distributed. “Arm yourselves, guide us true and you may yet survive this darkest night!”

…

Up, up, up they ran, through sand drifts and over crumbling walls, the party in pursuit of Clarel and Erimond encountering little in the way of resistance after their display in the inner sanctum. 

“My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you!" The mage had shouted giddily as Corypheus’ black dragon swooped down out of the low-lying clouds, the terrible beast leveling several pillars with its lashing tail before opening its maw to issue that wretched red lyrium fire.

However, things seemed to quickly go south for the oh-so-powerful Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium when Clarel intervened, the experienced Warden appearing to interrupt his mental hold on the creature with a single, well-aimed blast of lightning. She had then leveled her next attack at the bristling dragon, firing off another crackling strike. The demon had roared in reply, beginning to lash out indiscriminately, and Erimond fled the scene in a panic. Warden-Commander Clarel was quick to follow, the woman ordering her surviving Wardens to aid the Inquisition before dashing off.

Etre urged her legs to move faster, faster, urgency robbing her of any sense of caution. The dragon, though it had happily dogged their steps in the previous part of their journey, finally seemed to have either lost interest or been sufficiently dissuaded by the remaining Grey Wardens lobbing arrows, pikes, and chunks of masonry from the destroyed walls at it. For all she knew, the accursed thing had simply gotten bored and flown off to find something more amusing to occupy itself with!

“Should Erimond kill Clarel-” Hawke panted, and Etre marveled that he even bothered to try and carry on a conversation while they all dashed along pell-mell. Alongside her she heard Blackwall grunt in annoyance. 

“Not now, Hawke!” Stroud snapped, the man's voice strained. 

The group rounded a corner and suddenly the battlements opened up before them, their crumbling footing hanging in air a truly dizzying height above the Abyss. Clarel was rapidly advancing on the Venatori mage across the uneven ground, his frantic magic fizzling out against the barrier she had summoned.

“You! You've destroyed the Grey Wardens!” she spat in rage, a spell of her own crashing into his body and sending him sprawling closer to the edge of the ramparts. Clarel quickly rounded on him, her staff aimed at his head, but the man issued a breathless chuckle in retort.

“You did that to yourself, you stupid bitch.” He wheezed, rolling to his back. “All I did was dangle a little power before your eyes and you couldn't wait to get your hands bloody!”

Clarel lowered her staff, firing yet another spell off at Erimond and causing the Tevinter man to skid across the battlements.

He laid still for a moment, his entire body smoking slightly, before he curled up into the fetal position. “You could have served a new god,” he whined, rocking back and forth in pain.

“I will never serve the Blight!” Warden-Commander Clarel shouted, the woman clearly incensed at the mere suggestion. 

Without so much as a rustle of air to herald its approach, Corypheus’ archdemon made its triumphant return, the fiendish beast plummeting from the clouds to clamp its jaws firmly around Clarel's body before it took flight once more. The woman's staff shattered under the pressure of the bite, splinters and bits of metal raining down to pelt Erimond.

Etre wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, but it was as though her voice had been stolen. All she could do was watch in horror while the creature landed clumsily on a nearby rampart. It shook Clarel like a terrier with a rat, then flung her aside. The woman hit the ground before the Inquisitor with a terrible clang! of armor and laid motionless, a pool of her own blood beginning to blot the windswept rocks beneath her. 

Etre took a step towards the woman, not even realizing she did, and the dragon slid down from the rampart in response, glistening black claws destroying the stonework with ease as it approached Trevelyan and her party. Its warped bulk cut them off from the main battlements, sending the group of them inching backwards in retreat while it lazily advanced. But in that direction only laid the shattered end of the ramparts, jutting out over the Abyss.

Corypheus’ creature was nothing like a real dragon. Real dragons were magnificent, deadly, beautiful, but this…thing was malice personified, ugly and twisted to some terrible purpose. Everything about it was repugnant, vile–

Wrong. The word echoed in Etre's mind, loud and sure. The sense of wrongness was pervasive, like what Varric described around red lyrium, like what she herself felt around red lyrium. There was nothing left in the beast except the desire to enact its master's will.

The stone beneath her feet rocked and shifted uneasily as the demon stalked forward, but out of the corner of her eye Etre saw Clarel stir. Maker's breath, had the woman survived or was that simply a final spasm of life leaving her body? As if to answer, Clarel rolled over, the older woman grimly pulling herself forward on her stomach with one mangled arm. The other dragged along the ground, bent at an odd angle. 

“In war, victory.” Clarel grunted, the demon nearly over her. The creature began to gather itself, looking like a cat about to pounce as it paced forward. “In peace, vigilance,” the woman continued, painfully rolling to her side, then her back.

Trevelyan heard Stroud's breath hiss out between his teeth, the Warden clearly affected by the wounded state of his order's commander. “Inquisitor,” the man began, the question hardly even needed. 

“Go.” Trevelyan said, an order, and it was done. Stroud lunged forward, Solas and Hawke to either side and Cole skittering back even further while Etre and Blackwall planted their feet and held the line. Mercifully, Etre had recently discovered how to lock her knees so her armor didn't betray how badly they were shaking! Covered in sweat, blood, and the smoke-grime of battle, the Inquisitor and Grey Warden faced down the archdemon. 

“It's been an honor, Lady Trevelyan.” Blackwall muttered, his eyes momentarily meeting hers through the small slits in his helm.

“Likewise, Warden Blackwall.” Etre replied, her smile grim. “May the Maker guide us all to His side.”

Stroud's mad dash for the Warden-Commander was cut short when Clarel raised a hand, a grim smile on her lips. The dragon, having stopped to position itself for its final lunge, had paused with the bulk of its body over her, and that was when the Warden-Commander chose to strike. A blinding ball of lightning erupted beneath the dragon, kicking the beast up into the air to land heavily on the ramparts in the direction of the Abyss. Etre and Blackwall pitched themselves out of its way, only just managing to escape its flailing wings.

The creature clawed desperately at the flagstones as it skidded, trying to find some semblance of purchase before it inevitably careened off the edge of the battlements. With that ultimate shock of its landing however, the unsupported stonework finally began to crumble. “Stroud!” Etre shouted, seeing the warning signs a moment before the ground dropped out from beneath the Warden. He flung himself forward, only just managing to seize upon a more stable bit of masonry, and Blackwall caught his free hand. Cole grabbed Blackwall around the waist, the young man heaving backwards with that startling strength in his wiry frame. Etre leaned forward over the edge to grasp Stroud's gambeson with both hands, jamming her knee against a jutting paver in an effort to keep herself from sliding forward. 

Hawke yelled out something, a warning perhaps, right before the whole world tilted beneath them and the paver shattered under the sudden strain. Etre, abruptly untethered, plummeted past Warden Stroud and into the Abyss. She at least had the sense to release him, hoping in what she assumed were her final moments that the others managed to get themselves to safety. 

She didn't even have the breath to scream, the woman's body tumbling end over end in a dizzying spiral. Disjointed memories wheeled through her mind like a parade of regret and Etre laughed at herself bitterly, glowing tears torn from her eyes by the wind whipping past her. You could have been happy, you know. 

The Anchor sparked faintly, then practically exploded, pain radiating up her arm as Trevelyan seized her wrist to try and prevent her hand from (apparently) severing itself at the joint. Sickly-green energy sizzled and played about her body, the very air around her appearing to rip or rend itself apart. Through those tears, Etre caught glimpses of…something, as though she peered through the Veil to the other side.

The last thing she saw was an enormous rift opening beneath her and, helpless to stop herself, the Inquisitor fell through it into the unknown.

…

Following behind his troops, Cullen arrived at the inner sanctum. As usual, the chaos swirled around them, Wardens and Inquisition forces alike battling against demons and the possessed Grey Warden mages. He was numb to it all, simply moving across the field, deflecting and returning blows as though he were an automaton. He had watched the archdemon swoop down, watched the battlements collapse…

Watched the Herald tumble to her death, catching a glimpse of her limp form spiraling downwards through one of the many collapsed walls as he'd sprinted upwards with his men. Cullen had paused the barest moment, the majority of his troops carrying on around him as he stared in horror through a half-collapsed arrow slit. He clung to fool hope for a breath, perhaps two, but that had been her, he was sure of it. Gruesomely sure of it. He knew her armor too well for him to convince himself it was anyone else.

Nothing felt real. Nothing. 

No one could have survived that fall into the Abyss, his mind reminded him mercilessly. 

Cullen's hold on his blade tightened, and the man beat the flat of it against his shield. “Templars, with me!” He shouted, his throat raw from issuing commands over the campaign's din. No time to mourn now, it was imperative that the skirmishes end to minimize lives lost. 

To work.

Cassandra strode past him with her scavenged contingent of Wardens, the woman seeming content to lead them in the absence of their own commander. They had accumulated several more members while they fought their way through the keep, their number having swelled to a respectable fifteen when last Cullen had counted. It had bolstered his spirits previously; now he didn't have the heart to be glad.

To work.

Mage after mage collapsed in the wake of his troops, lyrium-haze staining the air around the Templars warm white while they worked to enforce reality. Cullen fancied he could taste it on his tongue; familiar, yet foreign, now forbidden and so, so close, Maker he was exhausted, blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just–

But that power was no longer his to wield. In its absence, all he had was the steel in his hand and the guttering faith that lingered in his soul. It had served him before and thus, it would have to continue to do so, even while his heart ached in his chest and his grip on his sword trembled with a combination of exhaustion and grief. 

Doubt dogged his every step. Perhaps if he had just taken the lyrium, he could have prevented all this! He might have been faster, bolder, more of a man, less of this feeble, overextended shell and…and he might have…

She is gone. He wanted to fall to his knees, cry out in anguish to the Maker, beg forgiveness for his weakness. Instead, all he could do was scream orders, beat back the horde of demons and their possessed Wardens, ignore the incessant pounding of his head and the smell of burning flesh that had his empty stomach heaving–

In that instant, in what Cullen Rutherford would consider a moment of true darkness, it seemed as though his faith and perseverance was rewarded anew. 

The enormous rift in the middle of the courtyard tore itself open with a hideous din and Etre bolted through as though pursued by Andraste’s own Mabari! Alongside her were Solas, Blackwall, Cole…everyone who they had presumed had also fallen to their deaths with the Herald! Warden Stroud and Hawke brought up the rear, the two of them looking worse for wear but alive, alive!

Etre skidded to a halt, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of the battlefield in front of her. She raised her hand and the demons across the courtyard wailed and shrieked, collapsing in on themselves while the Inquisitor struggled to force the large rift behind her to close. Finally, they were safe from whatever hulking demonic creature the possessed Wardens had been trying to usher through!

As if waking from a dream, the possessed Wardens slowed to a stop, many of them falling to the ground and some of the rest simply gazing about themselves in a bewildered confusion. 

“The Inquisitor has returned to us!” Cassandra shouted, and the call was taken up by the weary troops. “The Inquisitor returns!”

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen breathed, his vision wavering with relief. If he blinked away a few tears…surely he could be forgiven for such a display of weakness!

Etre dropped to her knees, the woman clearly spent. Stroud toppled beside her onto his back, his chest heaving. The Warden was covered in blood, and Cullen couldn't determine whether any of it was his own at this distance. Blackwall placed a large hand on Trevelyan's shoulder, the bearded man's expression haunted as he gazed off in the direction of the Abyss.

Even Solas looked perturbed, the elven apostate jumpier than Cullen had ever seen them. Cole seemed practically panicked, hanging onto Solas like a limpet and hiding his face in the elf's robes. Hawke, also drenched in blood, leaned heavily on his staff, he and Solas carrying on a conversation in undertones as the skirmishers began to crowd in around them.

One of Leliana's lieutenants approached the Inquisitor, no doubt explaining the situation that greeted her, and the woman nodded wearily. Blackwall offered her a hand up, and Etre accepted it with some difficulty. 

Trevelyan suddenly cried out, “Erimond!”, the sound sharp with a wounded animal's anguish as she dragged her sword from its sheath. “If he still draws breath, he is mine!” 

Herald of Andraste. 

Cullen was certain he was not the only one who felt a chill go down his spine at the blatant fury in her voice. He heard Iron Bull's muffled oath despite the Qunari's obvious attempt to stifle it, the horned warrior shifting back a step as Etre began to move. Her eyes were still alight with the Fade, green trails blurring down her face while she staggered forward. Her greatsword scored a furrow in the ground as she went, sparks leaping from the stone. The troops parted before her like reeds in a windstorm, no man eager to stand against her. “Erimond!” She screamed again, looking around wildly.

Cullen had never been more glad to be the one to gift the news to her that Erimond was, in fact, not only alive but securely in their hold. He got the feeling that the revolting magister would rue this day. “Inquisitor,” he spoke up to get her attention, steeling himself against a flinch when she whirled at the sound of his voice. He approached all the same, informing her, “Erimond is in our custody. We shall transport him to Skyhold, where he will await your judgement.”

“Cullen–” Etre stopped dead, as though she was seeing him for the first time. Bloodstained fingers seized hold of the fur ruff on his surcoat, the woman dragging him closer to her in a startling display of strength. The commander, too stunned to react, simply stared down at her. Trevelyan's face began to crumple, more tears making their way down her cheeks, and her sword dropped from her grasp with a loud clang! of metal. “The Divine, Cullen, it's all my fault.” She began, seeming unable to catch her breath. “I could not save Divine Justinia, she–she died for me at the Conclave, so I could escape the Fade, s-she–”

“Peace, Inquisitor.” The commander breathed, sheathing his sword in favor of wrapping his arms around her while she wept. Hang propriety just this once, hang the carefully-managed space he had struggled so desperately to upkeep between them! “Be still. It is over. Whatever aberrations you witnessed, whatever torments you have endured…it is done. You are safe.” Maker's breath, you are alive, he thought privately, more than a bit guilty at how utterly overjoyed he was with that particular turn of events.

“Are you even real?” Etre sobbed into his overtunic, the uncertainty and blatant fear in her voice wrenching at Cullen's already-battered heart. She seemed delirious at this point; the commander could feel her back shuddering under the force of her emotional outburst. “Is any of this real, Commander? The Anchor was no gift from the Maker, it was Corypheus b-but I tried, I tried, I am so tired, I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond, Maker, please-”

The Canticle of Trials verse that he had recited for her before they closed the Breach! It was heartening to think that she had drawn such comfort from those words, for all that she was on the brink of breakdown while she brought them up! 

Vivienne clicked her tongue gently, the woman raising a hand, then lowering it as she apparently thought better of whatever she had intended to cast. “Speak to her, Commander.” She ordered in a soft voice, her expression inscrutable. “She must know that she is safe. Grant her the boon that she so desperately seeks in you.”

Cullen flushed but nodded obediently, wracking his mind for some sort of comfort he could offer. Unfortunately he doubted that imitating his mother's humming would save him here, but he had often recited portions of Trials to console himself in times of strife so he thought to do so now, hoping to soothe Etre somewhat. Even if she was too distraught to understand the words, it might turn out that just hearing someone speak clearly and calmly would be enough to regain her footing. Perhaps she might even recall the first time he had recited them for her, the morning that she had closed the Breach–

The man used one hand to unbuckle his helm with some difficulty, removing it and letting it fall where it would. Etre continued to cling to him, her back heaving as she struggled to breathe. Cullen cleared his throat, gingerly daring to rest his cheek on the crown of her head in a bid to further ground her. 

“Through blinding mist, I climb.” He knew his voice was painfully soft, the man unused to gentling his speech but determined to do his best in the endeavor. “A sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base, endlessly far beneath my feet. The Maker is the rock to which I cling,” the commander murmured against her hair, feeling a spasm rattle her body as the woman keened painfully for breath through her tears. “I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, in darkness enveloped.”

Cassandra approached when he paused before starting the next verse, the Seeker placing a steadying hand on Trevelyan's shoulder as Cullen continued, “Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.” 

To his surprise, Cole sidled up next, his body still trembling. Yet he somehow managed to recite the next verse in the sequence without stammering, his voice echoing Cullen's as though he sought to mimic the other man's tone and cadence. “I am not alone.” The young man said quietly, his forehead pressed to Etre's temple. “Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here.” Solas nodded along in a serene manner, his own eyes shut as if in solemn meditation on the words.

“Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be forgiven.” Blackwall finished the canticle with Cullen in a gravelly rumble, and the commander wondered briefly at the pained expression that crossed the older man's features.

“We are here, Inquisitor. We are real. Shall I enforce that reality?” Cassandra asked quietly, the hand on Etre's shoulder moving in a careful circle. “I am, after all, a Seeker. The Templars are also here. Let us assure you of reality.”

“Too dark, everything wrong, warped, wicked, I have failed them, I never told him, Maker's breath Maker's breath tearing free of my lungs as we fall, fall, into the yawning Abyss.” Cole whispered against Trevelyan's cheek, the young man's ever-pale face twisted into a mask of panic. 

“Shit,” Varric muttered in sympathy, the dwarf patting Cole on the arm as he moved past the group on his way to Hawke.

Cullen's hold on Etre tightened, the man daring to stroke her hair as her sobs quieted somewhat. To think that she had gone through that and still survived! It defied logic, defied reason to any consideration, but Cullen selfishly continued to find himself relieved at the outcome. 

She abruptly went limp, her full weight slumping against him and making Cullen grunt in surprise as he struggled to maintain his hold on her. Scaled armor was remarkably slippery, even more so when coated with a layer of blood, dirt, and Maker only knew what else. In a rush of fear the commander sought to assure himself that she still drew breath, sighing gratefully when her exhale fogged the metal of his vambrace after a moment or two. She had only lost consciousness, then. 

Maker, he was tired. His head ached, his body ached; he knew he had absorbed more blows than he ought to have, given his distracted state. 

“It was too much to bear. Let her sleep.” Solas murmured, coaxing Cole away from the unconscious woman. “I fear we are all weary from this trial.”

“Too true, that.” Blackwall growled. “I'd rather never walk in the Fade again, if it's all the bloody same to you.” Sera lunged at him, the thin elf wrapping herself around him bodily while scolding him for scaring the absolute piss out of her. The older man chuckled, a gloved hand mussing her short hair. “Good to know that you'd miss me, you little wretch!”

Day 1: Friends, Faith, and Family OR Past, Present, and Future

Artists:

@anora-mac-tired - Cullen + Poetry Collaboration

@kogarashi-art - Friends/Past, Faith/Present, Family/Future

@lyanachaan - The Flowerknight

@magicatemyvanishingdreams - Cullen Requesting a Dance

@ndostairlyrium - Cullen and his Mabari

@sapphirebunnyart - Past, Present, Future, and Love

Authors:

@aetherflowers - Come Out and Play

@carako - Rutherfest day 1!

@devaigh - Rutherfest Day 1 ( Past, Present, and Future)

@disasterdrvid - Dancing on the Ceiling (It's All for You)

@dogot - The Cadence of His Heart

@dragonagedorks - these are the threads that bind us

@fashionablyfyrdraaca - Training to be a Templar

@feminisssssssstreptilian - A long overdue promotion

@independenceofsilence - Faith, Hope, and Devotion

@inquisiorastoria - Pin Feathers

@librivore42 - Cullen + Poetry Collaboration

@lyriumdrinker - Cullen's Great, Terrific, Very Good, Not At All Bad Day

@opal-apparition - Day 1 Prompt (100 Words Challenge)

@shivunin - The Looking-Glass

@somethingthedasrelated - Prayer

@summergreen009 - When I was Younger, Dreams and Devotion (Cullen x Bethany)

@theluckywizard - Decidedly Human

@theriothag - Day 1 Prompt (100 Words Challenge)

@tired-truffle - Wrapped Up in Embers

@woundedsoul12 - Missives on a Former Templar (Day 1)

@yapfester - A journal found on a desk in Skyhold (codex entry)

Editors (gifs, moodboards, and more):

@animezinglife - Canticle of Trials

@bibutterflies - Friends, Faith, and Family

Day 2: Dreams and Devotion OR Demons and Duty

Artists:

@inquisiorastoria - A young templar

@ndostairlyrium - Is he still in the library?/perseverance

Authors:

@aetherflowers - You're All I Have

@bibutterflies - a charm or two or three

@carako - Let Me Worship You

@devaigh - Between Nightmare and Dawn

@disasterdrvid - Codex: You Have My Word

@dogot - A Champion of the Just

@fairytalelagoon - The Rabbit in the Lion's Den

@fashionablyfyrdraaca - Temptations in the Dark

@independenceofsilence - Templar Tango

@kogarashi-art - Dreams and Devotion

@lyriumdrinker - Nightmare

@opal-apparition - Hoarfrost

@somethingthedasrelated - Retribution

@theriothag - Day 2 Prompt (100 Words Challenge)

@tired-truffle - Something's Gotta Give

@woundedsoul12 - Missives on a Former Templar

Editors (gifs, moodboards, etc.):

N.A. for this prompt.

Day 3: Free Day

Artists:

@chanafehs - Cullen x Lavellan

@inquisiorastoria - Cullen with a puppy

@kogarashi-art - Cullen x Lavellan

@ndostairlyrium - Cullen x Alistair

@pinayelf - Cullen x Lavellan

@raflesia65 - Day off (Cullen waking up)

@resvarie - Cullen x Trevelyan

@schwarznummer1 - Cullen x Amell

Authors:

@aetherflowers - You're All That I Have

@captastra - On a Cold Night, Warmth Comforted Us

@carako - A Moment's Respite

@concussed-to-pieces - Glorious Impossibility (Part 1 and 2)

@devaigh - Certainty

@disasterdrvid - Stained Glass and Questions

@dragonagedorks - these are the threads that bind us (part 2)

@dogot - Blade of the Faith

@independenceofsilence - Day 3/Free Day Prompt

@shivunin - An Open Door

@somethingthedasrelated - Love and Other Drugs

@summergreen009 - Conversations (100 Words Challenge)

@the-arcane-archivist - Happier Times Masterlist

@theriothag - Day 3 Prompt (100 Words Challenge)

@tired-truffle - To Have and to Hold

@woundedsoul12 - Missives on a Former Templar

Editors (gifs, moodboards, etc.):

@animezinglife - Worth Fighting For (edit + gifset)

@bibutterflies - Cullen + "Juno" (video)

@dragonageunofficial - Cullen Rutherford Aesthetic

@fairytalelagoon - Cullen vs. Inquisitor (Mage Recruitment, video)

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore, death, canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of mental and physical duress, allusions to sexual assault (prior/past), and sexual acts between two consenting adults. Stay safe!]

Etre allowed herself a long breadth of respite to recover from Adamant. Between the siege, the injuries she had sustained and the prolonged time she had spent in the Fade, the woman knew she would need ample rest. 

If only she could convince her mind of that! Even now she paced in her quarters, reading more orders that Josephine wanted her input on without actually reading them. It was as though the words entirely vanished from her mind the moment she turned the page, and Etre eventually gave up with a noise of frustration. It seemed she would not be able to lose herself in the soothing tedium of paperwork!

Traipsing down the stairs of her quarters, the woman held out a hand to one of the messenger ravens perched up on the bannister and, after studying her for a moment, the bird graciously humored her request with a throaty little croak.

Etre absently petted the bird as she meandered aimlessly through Skyhold's great hall, the raven tilting its head obligingly. “Ah, to be a bird.” Trevelyan muttered to herself. “No mark, no great perils-” The creature fixed her with a disapproving look and Etre laughed, amending her statement. “Pardon, great perils abound for your ilk, but you triumph over them so easily.” The raven fluffed out its feathers, seeming pleased. Etre wondered at the intelligence of Leliana's messenger birds sometimes, but she assumed it was simply coincidence, or perhaps pattern recognition. 

Offering up a few polite nods as she walked through the upper courtyard, Etre decided that she would attempt to observe Cassandra's training. The practiced woman had great skill in a variety of weapons and styles, and if she was lucky, perhaps Iron Bull would want to join in! The two of them sparring together would always draw an interested crowd.

As Etre approached the corner of the courtyard Cassandra normally trained in however, she became aware of the sound of raised voices echoing from the lower forge section of their armory. She also noticed a few soldiers scurrying around trying to look busy, but all of them were craning their heads in an attempt to hear what all the fuss was about.

Sighing and bracing herself to resolve yet another squabble, Etre shuffled the raven from her arm onto one of the long-suffering training dummies in the corner. Then, she headed for the building, peeking cautiously around the door. 

It looked as though the forgemaster and his workers had made themselves scarce, for to her surprise the only two people inside were Cassandra and Cullen. “I expect you to keep your word! It's relentless, I can't–!” Cullen was exclaiming, his hand raised in a frustrated gesture. He looked terrible, his skin stark white and the circles beneath his eyes darkened to the point of appearing bruised. Had he come down with some sort of illness after Adamant? Had he caught something in Adamant? The place hadn't exactly been a bastion of hygiene!

Cassandra remained impassive even as she cut him off, her arms crossed over her chest while she stared the man down. “You give yourself too little credit.” She insisted.

“If I'm unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this!” the commander retorted furiously. “Would you rather save face than to admit–” Cullen stopped abruptly when he spotted Etre in the doorway, his shoulders slumping in defeat. After an awkward moment of silence he just strode past her to depart, muttering, “forgive me,” under his breath.

“And people say I'm stubborn. This is ridiculous.” Cassandra snarked once the commander was out of earshot. Then, she addressed Etre, “Cullen told you that he's no longer taking lyrium?”

“Yes, and I respect his decision.” Etre replied warily. 

Cassandra sighed, seeming relieved. “As do I. Not that he's willing to listen.” She softened visibly. “Cullen has asked that I recommend a replacement for him.” Etre's breath caught in her throat. Was it that bad that Cullen had sought her out? “I refused. It's not necessary.” The taller woman fidgeted, as if trying to think of what to say next. “Besides, it would destroy him. He's come so far.”

“Why didn't he come to me?” Even as Etre asked the question, she already knew the answer. Cassandra had experience with such things and, more importantly, she would not allow simple feelings to cloud her judgement.

“We had an agreement long before you joined us.” Cassandra assured her. “As a Seeker, I could evaluate the dangers. And he wouldn't want to…” she hesitated momentarily, looking uncertain before continuing, “...risk your disappointment.”

“Is there anything we can do to change his mind?” Trevelyan queried, wary of the good or ill such a course of action might do.

Lady Cassandra did not immediately answer, the woman obviously turning over a reply in her mind. Etre's impatience reared its ugly head, the Inquisitor barely refraining from tapping her foot. “If anyone could, it's you.” The Seeker eventually stated firmly. “Mages have made their suffering known, but Templars never have.” She gazed into the forge fire, sounding a touch saddened when next she spoke. “They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash. Cullen has a chance to break that leash, to prove to himself and anyone who would follow suit that it’s possible. He can do this. I knew that when we met in Kirkwall.” She fixed Etre with a stern look, nearly glowering. “Talk to him. Decide if now is the time.”

After excusing herself Etre ran across the courtyard, taking the steps to the stratagem tower's ramparts two at a time. Her heart hammered in her chest as she ran, and unfortunately it had nothing to do with the speed of her movement. Cullen was in such a state when he left, what if he's imbibing the lyrium right now? she thought frantically, nearly tripping on the last step. What if I'm too late? What if–

As Etre opened the side door of the tower she heard Cullen unleash what sounded like a yell of frustration before a small wooden box slammed into the doorframe right by her head, the pieces of it clattering forlornly to the stone floor. The woman froze in the doorway, startled by her close call, and the commander cried out, “Maker's breath, I didn't hear you approaching!” He swayed where he stood by the desk, then clutched at the side of his head. “I…forgive me.” He apologized faintly.

Etre glanced down at the box, heartened beyond reckoning to see that it contained the tools for crafting lyrium draughts. “So long as you weren't aiming for me, I'm sure the box had it coming.” She tried for humor, but it seemed to fall flat.

Cullen shook his head, insisting, “I swear, I didn't know you were-” Abruptly he grabbed the edge of his desk to catch himself, exhaling raggedly as if he were in pain. “I never meant for this to interfere.” He groaned. It was the same thing he had said to her all those weeks ago in her chambers, as if he worried more for the Inquisition's responsibilities than his own mind and body.

Etre dared to creep closer, troubled to see him in such a state but doing her best to temper her concern. It would do her no good to distress him further! “Are you going to be alright?” 

“Yes!” He answered quickly, but then, less confidently, “I…don't know.” The man glanced up at her, his expression one of turmoil. “In Haven, you asked what happened to Ferelden's Circle.” The words came slowly, as though they were dragged from him. 

Etre was seized with the urge to tell him to stop, that it didn't matter, she didn't need to know, if it pained him this much he didn't need to recount it to her! Seeming to chastise her for once prying, her mind recalled the day Cullen was speaking of in nearly perfect clarity. 

Oh, of course she had been all polite curiosity then, wiping the sweat from her face with her tunic as she took a moment between sword drills with several of the other recruits. They had merely been discussing where they had been stationed during the Blight, if at all (she had sought to make idle conversation in an effort to extend her rest period, if she was being wholly honest), and Cullen had given multiple indications that he didn't wish to continue the direction of the conversation, but she had just had to pry!

“The Circle had troubles of its own. I…remained there during the Blight.” Cullen's arms were crossed firmly over his chest, one more indication that the topic ought not to be pursued. Thinking back on it, Etre felt like a fool. At that point however, she hadn't been so familiar with the nuances of the commander's body language; perhaps her blunder could be forgiven. 

“What happened at the Circle Tower?” Etre had queried curiously, handling the endeavor with all the grace of a charging druffalo. 

Cullen's jaw had tensed, his gaze growing flinty. “Few who survived the Blight have fond memories of that time. I would prefer not to speak of it,” was all that he had replied, and honestly it had been more than enough.

Here and now, the commander's hold wavered on his desk while he stared wild-eyed at nothing at all, clearly haunted by what he had experienced. His words came much faster, like stormwater through cracks in a dam. “It was taken over by abominations. The Templars–my friends–were slaughtered. I was…” Cullen hesitated, moving to look out one of the arrow slits aimlessly before he continued at a lower volume, “...tortured. They tried to break my mind, and I–how can you be the same person after that?” The commander asked, his voice trembling just enough to let Etre know he was fighting back tears. 

Etre opened her mouth, then closed it. Her heart was breaking, but she didn't know what to say! Cullen obviously wasn't looking for pity. He didn't seem to be looking for anything at all, just staring vacantly off and nervously shifting in place.

“Still, I wanted to serve,” he carried on doggedly, his back to Etre. “They sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what, hm?” He spat, seeming disgusted. “Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall's Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets.” He glanced over at her, his brow furrowed. “Can't you see why I want nothing to do with that life?” 

Etre tried to respond, “Of course I can! I-”

“Don't!” Cullen cut her off in a harsh tone. “You should be questioning what I've done.” He rounded on her now, desperate, frantic. “I thought this would be better, that I would–regain some control over my life! But these thoughts won't leave me-” The man clawed at his own neck, leaving angry red lines on the pale skin as he stalked back and forth. “How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause! I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry!” Cullen was nearly shouting now, his voice raised to a fever pitch. “I should be taking it!” 

The man suddenly lashed out, his fist slamming into one of his bookcases. The furniture creaked and rocked in response, a few books tumbling off. 

Etre took a step back, warily observing the tremor in Cullen's elbow and the way his entire outstretched arm was shaking. The abrupt burst of energy had obviously taxed him greatly, and it was a long moment before he spoke again, softly repeating, “I should be taking it,” his shoulders hunched in what seemed to be shame or contrition. 

Etre knelt, silently picking up the books that had been dislodged. She then eased past Cullen to replace the tomes on the shelves. The commander was breathing heavily, leaning his full weight on the bookcase. He had gone even more pale somehow, as though he had been dealt a great blow, and the dark circles beneath his eyes appeared a grisly purple-red. He had obviously rubbed at them until he had bruised the delicate skin, either that or he had been weeping so long and hard he had destroyed the integrity of the skin in an alternate manner. Neither option was particularly preferable. 

She knew at that moment that she ought to be terrified. She ought to be scared half to death of being in an enclosed space, alone, with a man who had been trained as a Templar since he was just a boy and was very obviously struggling to rein himself in. Yet all she felt was a bone-deep sorrow for the hurts that had shaped him thus. A weapon of the Chantry, now a weapon of the Inquisition…

…with someone always holding their lyrium leash. 

It was clear that he was suffering, but Cassandra had seemed so certain of her observations! For a moment, Trevelyan warred internally over whether she ought to encourage the commander to take lyrium again. If it would ease his suffering…?

But no, she had never taken lyrium and she never would. What kind of leader would encourage their followers to do something they themselves refused to do? It would have to be his choice and his alone.

“This doesn't have to be about the Inquisition.” Etre said finally, the woman removing his hands from the bookcase and clasping them in her own. Cullen refused to make eye contact with her, clearly ashamed of his outburst. “Is this what you want?” she asked, blunt as could be. No tact whatsoever, but Cullen had never minded her plain speech before.

The commander exhaled sharply, his expression one of honest confusion. Evidently no one had ever asked him such a question, or at least never in such an indelicate way! “No,” he admitted after a long moment. “But…these memories have always haunted me. If they become worse, if I--if I cannot endure this…” He looked to her then, his face drawn with a mixture of grief and weariness.

Etre placed a hand on his breastplate, attempting to radiate a sort of confident reassurance with her gaze. “You give enough, Cullen. I'm not asking you for more.” She said simply. “The Inquisition can be your chance to start over, if you want it to be.”

“I don't know if that's possible.” the commander murmured uncertainly, his shoulders drooping under some invisible burden.

You give enough, Cullen. “It is.” Trevelyan insisted, swearing to herself that she would do everything within her power to make it so. He didn't have to endure this alone, not any longer.

Cullen sighed, “alright,” but whether with relief or resignation she could not say. After a moment he closed his eyes, resting his hand over her own on his chest.

“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.” Etre recited the verse with practised ease, having said it so many times during the flight from Haven that it was all but burned into her mind.

“I ought to remember such things, truly.” Cullen sagged a bit more, his weight pressing down on her, but Etre accepted the extra burden without comment. “I…thank you, Inquisitor.” He said quietly.

“Do you wish to be alone? Or shall I stay and help you clean up the mess?” 

“I would appreciate…yes, I–if you have the time, please stay.” Cullen's plea was soft, as if he barely wished to voice it. “I shall have more than enough hours alone while you are out in the field, risking your life for our cause. And…” he sounded reluctant to continue, but did so anyway, “there is new information on Samson for us to bandy with.”

Etre gave him a gentle touch on his cheek before she pulled away, and he looked briefly startled, his expression softening into something a bit less haggard. “You may have me for as long as I can give you, Commander.” She promised.

The empty lyrium vials that had shattered all over the floor in the doorway would require a broom, and so Cullen departed to request the use of the implement from the kitchen staff. In the meantime Etre used a broken piece of the kit's bottom to attempt to corral the broken glass shards into a neat little pile. 

Maker's breath, how has he managed for so long? He carries so much by himself! The woman wondered at it all, feeling a little foolish for constantly relying upon the support of her advisors. She especially was embarrassed over her emotional outburst at Adamant. Surely she could have mastered herself a bit better, acted befittingly as the Inquisitor, instead of pitching herself at Commander Cullen and dissolving into hysterics. 

An uncomfortable little shudder jolted across her shoulders. How long had Cullen gone without mentioning this to anyone? How had he fought silently with this terrible foe and still managed to arrange their troops in formations that won them victory after victory? How? His determination must be made of steel.

Etre was so distracted by her own internal musings that she did not notice she cut herself on one of the bits of glass, only realizing it when Cullen swooped down to snatch her hand away from another shard. “Oh-!” Etre, the creature of habit, immediately went to apologize, but the commander was having none of it. 

He turned her hand towards the light of the doorway, carefully scrutinizing the wound on the pad of her thumb. “It seems there is no glass in the cut, and those vials were sterile. We can be grateful for that.” He muttered, “come with me to the basin and we shall rinse this.” Cullen tugged lightly on her arm and meekly she followed, permitting him to wash the blood from her hand. He removed his gloves to do so, and it occurred to Etre that he rarely did not wear them. His touch was gentle, but now she could feel the calluses from daily handling of his sword and shield. Was this the first time she had truly felt his touch upon her?

In a now-familiar sensation, the prickle of a flush bloomed up her neck and across her cheeks. She ducked her head, attempting to hide the way her color had risen, but Cullen interpreted it as a flinch. 

“Forgive me the rough touch, my lady. Just a moment more.” He apologized, and Etre bit her lip, loathing herself for how much she enjoyed it when he softened his voice. The poor man was struggling with a terrible burden, and all she could think of was his closeness! For shame! “I pray I have not missed anything in the wound. Shall I bandage it for you?” He asked worriedly, prodding at the superficial injury. 

“I will be just fine, I believe.” Etre smiled at him, “but if it would make you feel better, you may.”

“I…” Cullen paused for a long moment, his eyes trained on her face as he seemed to lose track of what he was saying. Trevelyan shifted from one foot to the other, clearing her throat, and the commander started at the sound, suddenly finding a very interesting bit of her palm to observe instead of her face. “I shall, I think. Hold still, please.” 

Maker's breath, why had he given her such a tender look? It felt like a bird fluttering in her breast every time he turned that gaze upon her, the man radiating concern even as he warred with the symptoms of his Chantry-gifted addiction. 

Etre's heart pounded against her ribs. In that moment, the woman vowed to herself (even as her hands began to tremble in nervous anticipation) that soon she would tell the commander the feelings she held for him. It would be terrifying, but she had to. There was no other recourse for how she felt, and if he didn't reciprocate, then so be it! Even rejection would be more bearable than this infernal waiting!

“I promise, it's nearly over.” Cullen soothed while he wound a bit of linen around her thumb, no doubt feeling the tremors in her hand.

“Oh, I'm just hungry! The morning meal wasn't to my liking.” Etre lied brightly. “I don't much care for gruel for breakfast unless I'm on the march.”

“I fear the lunch is rumored to be vegetable pottage again. You might indeed have better luck on the march.” Cullen warned her, smiling thinly when she groaned in complaint. “At least on the march you know what you've gotten your hands on is fresh!”

“Too true, that.” Etre agreed, her stomach turning at the idea of yet another bowl of gray, soggy vegetables. 

Cullen finished bandaging her up and then immediately set into discussing certain documents that had been found in the Sahrnia mines. He swept up the rest of the glass as he talked, seeming glad for the physical distraction even while he spoke on such grim matters. “The orders mention Maddox, a name I did not expect to hear.” He mused, almost to himself.

“Another voice from your past?” The woman queried, shuffling the waste bin closer to the pile of glass.

“In a way.” Cullen allowed, his brow furrowed. “This is complicated.” He was quiet for a few moments more, carefully depositing the splinters and glass in the rubbish container. He then leaned on his desk again, staring at the surface blankly. “Maddox was a mage in Kirkwall's Circle. Samson smuggled letters between him and his sweetheart. Eventually Samson was caught, that's why he was cast out of the Order.” Cullen looked up at her, his expression once more troubled. “Maddox was made Tranquil, and became a skilled craftsman of magical items. Samson must have…rescued him.”

“I can't believe they made a man Tranquil over a few love letters!” Etre protested, aghast at the notion. 

“The official charge was ‘corrupting the moral integrity of a Templar’. Knight-Commander Meredith wielded the brand for far lesser offenses, believe me.” Cullen replied, his lip curled in disdain.

“If Samson rescued Maddox, surely that means he is not entirely corrupt?” The woman said hopefully, immediately disheartened by the way Cullen's face darkened.

“Or he's shrewd enough to know an extraordinary resource.” The commander muttered. “It seems Maddox built Samson's armor for him, and maintains it still. Tranquil in Kirkwall needed rare and expensive supplies for their enchantments.” Cullen paused, a grim smirk making an appearance. “Supplies we can trace.”

My commander. Etre felt a strange little swell of pride. 

“I can have our men kick down some doors, Inquisitor. Samson's armor might lead us right to his stronghold.”

“I am so grateful to have you.” Trevelyan murmured. Cullen's jaw slacked a bit, the man obviously surprised by her admission. Etre herself was stunned that she'd actually said such a thing aloud! What was it about the commander that negated her hard-won propriety?!

“I live to serve, Inquisitor.” Cullen finally said quietly, his stiff salute the only dismissal Etre needed.

The Herald of Andraste, face burning with embarrassment, rapidly fled the scene in search of a delightful little hole to crawl into and hide in shame. 

…

He folded the paper over and over, increasingly aware of the messenger standing patiently by his elbow. Why were his hands shaking so? It had been several days since his…discussion with Trevelyan, and in a way it almost seemed as though she was avoiding him. No doubt that was just his fancy and wounded vanity talking; the poor woman had more than enough tasks to occupy her in Skyhold even while she attempted to heal! Still, it ate at the commander, and he finally decided to formally request her presence. At her convenience, of course! 

Deciding how to word such a missive was another task entirely. Maker's breath, all he wanted to do was thank her for caring enough to look in on him! He was unsure of what he might have done had she not come to him when she did. A relapse then, so soon after all his doubts at Adamant-! Cullen knew himself too well. It would have been so simple to justify, woefully easy to slide back into the habit of preparing and imbibing the draughts. Perhaps he would have even been happy, at least for a time, but he knew in his heart that such fickle joy would not satisfy him overlong. The clawing hunger that came with the lyrium always took priority over any emotion. 

No, he was glad to be rid of it, regardless of how painful it was to endure the symptoms. 

“To the Inquisitor, please. And make certain she is aware that the matter is not urgent,” Cullen stressed the words, finally passing the messenger the note he had managed to hammer out. 

He leaned heavily on his desk after the runner had departed, staring at the reports before him without actually seeing any of them. More documentation on the trials of Adamant, but surely it would wait a few moments longer. He merely wished to stretch his legs. 

In the days after their assault on Adamant he had been bedridden, half-delirious with what the troops had believed was a fever. The day he had gone to Cassandra had been the first day he had managed to drag himself from his quarters, and in a fit of panic he had requested the replacement. Hearing her denial of his wishes had sent him into an even tighter spiral, and then Etre witnessing his failure to control himself–

Cullen grimaced, shaking his head. Things had evened out in the end, surely, but without her there…

He leaned on the ramparts, staring out across the mountain peaks. His men were closing in on Samson. Several deliveries had already been intercepted or compromised; it wouldn't be long now until Samson grew desperate enough to make a foolish mistake. When that happened, they would be ready to strike.

Whatever comes of it, Cullen thought to himself with a touch of sadness, we will see it through to the end. Certainly, he could offer the other man no less!

It wasn't overly long until Etre found him there, and the commander wished desperately that he had had more time to simply prepare! There was so much he had to be grateful to her for! Even now he knew the look he gave her must border on inappropriately fond; no doubt the soldiers would have more exciting gossip in the barracks by the time the evening meal came.

His carefully thought out speech vanished from his mind like smoke in the breeze, and Cullen was left to flounder at her mercy while she watched on. “I wanted to thank you. When you came to see me…if there's anything–” He rubbed at the back of his neck, then sighed unhappily, “this sounded much better in my head.”

“I trust you're feeling better?” Etre queried, arms tightly folded across her chest. There was a bit of a bite in the mountain air today, but the weather seemed to be holding to mild.

“I…yes.” Cullen murmured. 

“Is it always that bad?” She sounded concerned, her brow furrowed. Maker, he was a fool. Had she been worrying about him this entire time?

She deserved nothing less than his honesty. If he could not even be honest with her, what chance did he have with moving forward? “The pain comes and goes. Sometimes I feel as if I'm back there,” Cullen admitted. “I should not have pushed myself so far during the assault on Adamant, and as such I suffered the repercussions.”

“I'm just glad you're alright.” Etre said, awkwardly shuffling to the side so she could pat his shoulder. 

“I am.” Cullen smiled gratefully, but it soon faded as he recalled why he had invited her here. “I never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden's Circle. I was…” He hesitated, the thought of his behavior still paining him even now. “Not myself after that. I was angry. For years that anger blinded me. I'm not proud of the man that made me.” He smoothed his hands nervously over the ramparts, squinting out at the beautiful view Skyhold afforded him. “Now I can put some distance between myself and everything that happened. It's a start.”

Etre came up alongside him after a brief wait, the two of them observing the landscape for several long moments. Cullen couldn't decide if he enjoyed it or if it was torment to have her so close to him without-

The woman interrupted his thought process, simply saying, “for what it's worth, I like who you are now.”

Surprised, Cullen turned to look at her. She was still gazing outwards, but she had a peculiar expression on her face. “Even after…?”

Trevelyan's eyes met his own, and she reached over to give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Cullen, I care about you. You've done nothing to change that.” She assured him. Her hand was trembling in his own. Was it truly so cold?

Cullen smiled again, clasping her hand between his in a bid to warm her fingers. “What about you?” He asked, now stalling for time in an effort to keep her close. It was selfish, but still! If he could ease some worry she had, some burden weighing on her… “You have troubles of your own. How are you holding up?”

“Honestly? I'm terrified.” Etre confessed bluntly, her eyes widening. “So many people depend on us. On me. Corypheus is still out there.”

“We've made great strides,” Cullen said in an effort to comfort her, patting her hand. “Do not doubt yourself, or the Inquisition just yet. If there's anything I can do, you have only to ask.” He said with a sharp salute. 

“I did have a question for you, actually,” Etre began slowly, seeming a touch embarrassed now. 

Cullen's fool heart leaped in his chest, the man looking at her expectantly. At that moment, something wriggled violently beneath her shirt. The commander blinked, confused and Etre sighed, untucking her tunic and wrestling momentarily with whatever she had.

A dog. A pup? A runt, the smallest puppy that Cullen had ever seen, squalling indignantly at the cold air it was being subjected to. “My family had a Mabari once, but he was elderly before I was born. I…don't suppose you know what they eat, exactly.” Etre quickly tucked the pup back beneath her tunic, against her bare skin. “I have just been trying to keep it warm.”

“That is a Mabari pup?” Cullen asked incredulously, “it's the size of a kitten!” He wanted to hold it immediately, but he kept his hands to himself. It would be inappropriate to thieve it from her, especially since it was stowed beneath her shirt!

“I found it on the Storm Coast yesterday morning, poor thing was abandoned. The Blades didn't wish to take it either, they said the mother must have left it for good reason.” Etre appeared immensely troubled. “I fear it will not make it much longer if I cannot get it to eat, but I haven't the faintest idea what to feed it! I tried some small bits of meat, which it only mouthed over for a moment.” Etre fidgeted in place. “Iron Bull just laughed and said…you might know what to do? Forgive me, I didn't wish to pester you with this so soon after-”

“It's too young to eat meat,” Cullen informed her gently. Here again their differences in upbringing shone through; he had spent countless hours at the fireside in his parents home wrestling with several different Mabari over the years. Proud beasts, quick and strong, loyal to a fault, imprinted on their masters and whipsmart. When one of them had whelped Cullen had solemnly taken on the responsibility of making sure all the pups were fed, occasionally supplementing what they would get normally. “We have goats in Skyhold, I should be able to concoct something to keep it alive. Perhaps one of the pilgrims or traders may have a nug that's still nursing a litter-”

“Show me what to do, please!” Etre exclaimed, catching his arm. She quickly released him, a self-conscious blush rising on her face. “I-I mean, I do not wish to impose yet another responsibility on you, surely you have more than enough to do?” She amended, her voice quiet. “I simply…I could not leave it there. It was just so small, and the ground was so wet and cold.”

“Do not trouble yourself!” Cullen laughed, barely remembering that he should not touch her, his hand hovering awkwardly at her shoulder for a moment before he dropped it to rest upon his pommel. “This simple task will be a welcome change of pace after everything that has transpired.”

“I fear I will continue to be unsuited for field maneuvers.” Etre mumbled, her tone one of dejection while they made their way to Skyhold's barn. 

“Your heart ought not be hardened to such things, Inquisitor! I'll admit to some…juvenile glee upon seeing your companion.” Cullen confessed. “I love dogs.”

The woman chuckled. “Suppose I'll count my blessings, then.”

…

Cautiously Etre tipped the spoon, funneling a little more milk towards the freshly-bathed puppy's mouth. After a moment of nosing, the pup began to weakly lap at the milk and Etre released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. 

Alongside her Cullen chuckled softly, the man running a firm hand down the puppy's back. “Good lad, see? It's not so terrible.”

The pup whimpered when Etre went to refill the spoon and wriggled its little body furiously in her hold. Without her asking Cullen picked up the swaddled runt, the commander soothing the nervous animal with a quiet hum. “You are far better at this than I,” Etre remarked, giving the pup another cautious spoonful. 

“I am simply more versed in the task, is all!” Cullen protested. He did not make an attempt to pass the pup back to her, and so Etre allowed him to continue holding it while it slowly fed from the spoon. The man already seemed positively attached, it was very sweet. 

“How often do they need to feed?”

“Every hour or so. The first few evenings will be sleepless.” He warned.

Etre groaned, adjusting her hunched posture when her back began to twinge. “I suppose I shouldn't have expected a simple time. It was hardly a simple endeavor we set out for in the first place, this is just one more section in it.”

“Why were you on the Coast, anyway? You are supposed to be recovering from Adamant.” Cullen chastised, the man's brows furrowing. 

The Inquisitor winced, almost wishing she hadn't mentioned it. “I'm…certain you would have found out over the next few days, but there was the possibility of brokering an alliance with the Qunari. Bull wanted me to be present.”

Cullen eased back in the chair, looking stunned. “The Qunari wanted to-?”

“Don't get your hopes up, the deal fell through.” Etre said unhappily. “It came down to a situation where the Bull's Chargers would have needed to be sacrificed to ensure the survival of one dreadnought.”

Cullen sat silently for several moments. Trevelyan simply carried on feeding the puppy, trying not to let her hands shake with nerves. Maker, what if she hadn't made the right choice? Encouraging Bull to pull his men had seemed like the only choice after watching the rapid, complex range of emotions that played out on his face when he realized the situation had been an unwinnable fight. But perhaps Cullen would have done it differently, perhaps–

“We are familiar with the Chargers. We are not as familiar with those who exist more wholly under the Qun and their methods.” The commander reasoned slowly. “It is usually tactically inadvisable to sacrifice a known asset for the vague possibility of gain. At least, I personally believe we have not yet reached such a desperate point in this particular campaign.” He put his hand on her knee, his expression troubled. “You did well, Inquisitor, but I know the cost was high.”

“I only pray it was not too high,” Etre muttered, a smile finding its way to her face unbidden when the pup yawned. “It seems someone is finally full. Bottomless beast.”

“Prepare for that one hundred more times,” Cullen chuckled. “It will be worth it when he imprints on you.”

“On me? Whyever for?”

The commander tilted his head. “Well, you…I mean, you rescued him. He knows your scent now. You've held him to your skin, Inquisitor.” 

Etre protested, “I thought only birds imprinted! There was once a duckling that refused to leave me be-”

Cullen snickered, making a move to stifle the sound and failing miserably. “I regret to inform you, Lady Trevelyan, but yes, Mabari imprint upon their masters.”

“Ah.” The puppy hiccupped and Cullen passed it back over to her, Etre cradling it absently and staring into the fire. “Is it wise for me to keep it? I fear that my life will…is it not cruel to inflict the life I lead now upon such an innocent thing?”

“You need not bring him into the field with you, Inquisitor.” Cullen said quietly. 

“No, I did not mean in that sense! I just…” Etre shrugged helplessly, finding herself now unable to look away from the flames. “If something happens to me, what will happen to him?”

“Nothing will–” Cullen began the sentence forcefully, then paused. “–happen to him. I would see to it that he is tended to for the remainder of his years. And while it is uncommon, it is not unheard of for them to imprint upon a new master.”

Etre knew her smile was a little watery but she couldn't help it, holding the slumbering pup close. She could feel its heart thrumming against her thumb, so fragile, yet willing to fight all the same. “I fear I am attached already! How selfish of me. It makes good hearing to know that he may find comfort with another, should…” The woman struggled briefly to find the right words, her resolve bolstered by Cullen's hand cautiously resting on her shoulder. The man gave her a comforting squeeze, then immediately released her. “...should things come to their end.” She finished simply, wondering at the way Cullen's face changed.

…

Should things come to their end.

Etre eventually dozed off with the puppy in her lap, the perpetual furrow between her brows smoothing as she slumbered. 

Cullen sat with her for a time all the same, even if it did feel a bit odd to do so. His thoughts were all in a knot, ‘a terrible tangle’, Cole would no doubt say. It concerned him to hear her voice such a worry so bluntly, as though there was no other end she could see aside from an inevitable death.

But then again, after Adamant and her walk through the Fade…perhaps she had more insight than an ordinary person would into such a matter. Perhaps those many brushes with death had left her resigned to her fate. In order to remove Corypheus from this world, she would surrender her own life. Cruel and cold, but reality often seemed so. 

What had she seen in the Fade, he wondered? To read Solas’ report, it was mostly a brilliant fantasy realm, all bruised green and floating stone. To read Blackwall's, it was a nightmarish hellscape where not even gravity was applied uniformly and the walls crawled with the shifting faces of the men he had killed. When Cole had been asked for a report, he simply said, “no,” so Maker only knew what he had seen. 

The commander could press neither Stroud nor Hawke for detail, he would not overstep his bounds in such a manner and his title would only carry so much weight outside the Inquisition.

Etre's reports had been…disjointed, to say the least. Though it may have had more to do with the commander's troubled mental state while reading them than anything else. After all, he had been essentially trapped in his quarters after their successful siege on Adamant. But the things she had described had tinted his fitful nightmares with new shades of terror. Not that he had particularly needed any assistance in that area!

Encountering the spirit of the Divine (or something resembling it closely), the return of her fractured memories revealing that the Grey Wardens had killed the Divine while under Corypheus’ control, Corypheus in the Conclave…

A chill wracked his body. His sleepless nature would serve him well tonight. He eased the puppy from her hold when he heard the bells for the changing of the guard, rousing the creature to partake of its next meal. And the Mabari was hungry, squalling impatiently as the commander dipped the spoon into the bowl. Cullen chuckled quietly to himself, tugging his glove off so he could run a finger down the small bridge of the muzzle while the pup furiously licked milk drippings from the spoon. “She will love you so very much,” he promised softly to the inattentive animal. “That is who our Inquisitor is, little one.”

…

Today was the day. Today was the day. 

Etre had decided after an extremely close call with a red templar patrol out in the Hissing Wastes that every moment she continued to spend without telling Cullen how she truly felt was a moment wasted. She had been so certain then as she laid on the ground, her armor coated in blood from the Behemoth's valiant attempts to fell her, coughing up a bit more blood while Blackwall shouted to Dorian for help. The stars overhead had wheeled dizzily and, not for the first time, Etre had wondered if she was dying. Perhaps she ought to have taken the hint at Adamant! There were only so many times she could cheat death before it finally managed to catch her.

Dorian had forced her to drink a potion, the man muttering under his breath the entire time that her eyes, “didn't look well.” Her shattered jaw refused to cooperate, forcing the young man to tilt her head back and massage her throat to get her to swallow at least some of the liquid.

“Be still, you'll scare the poor woman if you keep that up,” Blackwall had chided the mage sharply, who simply replied snarkily that it wasn't his fault Etre was staring through him!

Later that night once they had made the wounded Trevelyan as comfortable as they could in her bedroll, Cole had approached her silently. The young man had stared down at her, then plopped onto the sand with his legs crossed. 

Etre, her jaw still bandaged shut, simply looked up at him wearily, all too familiar with how Cole operated. Indeed, she had nearly drifted to sleep before the young man murmured, “you ought to tell him. Inquisitor, Inquisition, inaction does not suit you or serve you. Even if you falter, fall, fail, at least you flew for a moment.”

After she had limped back to Skyhold, however, the doubts had settled in once more. ‘Flying for a moment’ implied that there would have to be a landing of some sort after the fact, and Etre was unsure of her ability to endure that particular event. 

At least the newly-christened Duck was there to greet her when she returned to her quarters after bathing, the Mabari puppy toddling giddily around her legs as she rummaged through her dresser. “Don't suppose you have any insight on what would make the man take note of me?” Trevelyan asked the dog, laughing when it yipped in reply. “No, of course you're right. The beige will wash me out.” She sat on her bed with a sigh, cuddling the puppy close for a long moment. “It's a bit disheartening to know that something like this terrifies me more than facing down a horde of demons or red templars,” Etre confided in the dog quietly, allowing him to chew on her index finger. 

Eventually she couldn't put it off any longer, the woman resigning herself to pairing her customary dark ramskin breeches with a lovely white blouse that Josephine had gifted to her on her birthday. Vaguely feminine, she supposed, without being wholly out of character. Gently dissuading Duck from engaging in a fierce battle with her boots, the woman donned them with a silent prayer to Andraste for strength, strength, she would need a spine made of silverite to survive this undertaking!

Commander Cullen isn't some wicked brute, she reasoned with herself as she gingerly descended the steps from her quarters, still a bit stiff. Surely if he's not interested, he wouldn't have wanted to spend more time together? The woman then winced internally. Not that we actually have, of course. Things have just piled up one after the other!

Duck, nestled comfortably in the crook of her elbow, pawed at her arm momentarily before settling his chin down. Etre smiled, running her fingers over his back as she meandered past the great hall and through Solas’ mural-laden rotunda. The elf, high above her on some scaffolding as he used charcoal to sketch out his next painting, did not offer comment when she paused to look at the lower section of his latest work. It was always impressive to see his interpretation of the Inquisition's escapades; Etre hoped that he might allow his murals to be reproduced as color plates should someone attempt to write a book on their cause. It would add some visual interest, if nothing else!

She was stalling for time again. 

Trevelyan set her sore jaw, squaring her shoulders and then continuing on through the doors to the short rampart. From there, it was only a few steps to Cullen's quarters, and it felt like too much and too little at the same time. Etre knew in her heart that if she put this off for any longer, she would simply never do it. And that, the idea of not knowing, she could die at any moment in the field and she would just not know, spurred her shakily onward.

The commander, as ever, had several soldiers in his office. They all saluted her when she entered, of course, and Etre returned the gesture, the woman waiting in feigned patience for her turn to speak to the commander. While she waited, she took note of a small, blanket-lined basket that she had never seen before on the floor beside the man's desk, its reed edges frayed in a very particular manner, perhaps as though a teething puppy had endeavored to chew on them. 

Etre bit her lip, well aware that her emotions were already running high. It would do her no good to tear up over thinking of the commander tending to the creature that was currently asleep in her grasp.

Finally, finally Cullen waved her over, the man still dealing with a messenger that wore the Montilyet livery. “Something you need, Inquisitor?” He asked distractedly.

“I thought we could talk.” Etre said quietly. Cullen raised an eyebrow at her, rifling through the reports on his desk to hand the proper one back to the patiently waiting messenger. “Alone?” Etre stressed the word, raising her own brows in an effort to get the point across. Maker help her, she would not make a fool of herself in front of an audience!

Commander Cullen dropped a stack of papers, the man fumbling to seize them all and return them safely to the hands of the runner. “Alone? I mean, of course!” the man replied, his voice just a bit too loud. 

Josephine's messenger was absolutely fighting a losing battle with her giggles while the commander urged Etre to give him a moment, then he would gladly join her on the ramparts! 

“You may leave the dog here, should you wish,” Cullen offered, knocking the side of his boot into the basket by his desk. “He has grown quite used to sleeping through the foot traffic.”

Trevelyan graciously accepted the offer before she fled the scene, taking the opportunity to try and calm herself down, as well as futilely attempt to brush away the dusty pawprints that Duck had left on her sleeve. Perhaps it was a little…bold, to pull the commander away from his duties practically in the middle of the day, but it would hardly matter in the grand scheme of things. She doubted this would take long, whether it went one way or another.

When Cullen strode out to meet her a few moments later, she was disheartened by his stiff posture. The man seemed entirely on edge, rubbing the back of his neck as he commented on (of all things!) the weather. “It's a nice day.” He mused. 

Etre was so stunned by the banal small talk that all she could muster up in reply was, “what?”, staring at him in confusion. He had never resorted to ‘polite conversation starters’ before, maybe this entire idea was a mistake-?

“It's…” Cullen sighed, his shoulders drooping a little. “There was something you wished to discuss?” He prompted her instead of continuing.

The woman took a deep breath, as though she prepared to plunge into frigid waters. It was a bad habit, but an ingrained one all the same. “I find myself thinking of you.” There. After having been unspoken for what felt like a lifetime, finally, the words were out. Loose in the air between them, hanging like a curtain of fog. “More than…well, all the time, really.” Etre continued to confess, her heart tripping over itself. 

Cullen, for his part, remained impassive. There was a flicker of something in his gaze; Etre did not dare to put a name to it. “I can't say I haven't wondered what it would be like.” He admitted, but he sounded pained. 

“What's stopping you?” Etre asked, trying so very hard to keep the desperation out of her voice. The commander drew close, tilting his head downward slightly. Clearly he was about to spare her feelings, attempting to keep his voice down so she could maintain some dignity. She was grateful even as she braced herself for the polite dismissal.

But Cullen's soft voice bore no such promise of rejection. Indeed, he spoke so tenderly that Trevelyan's heart felt as though it would beat out of her chest! “You're the Inquisitor, we're at war, and you…haven't always seen me in the best light.” He remarked, a wistful expression coming over his features.

“And yet I'm still here.” Etre replied, flustered into outright impertinence. Mercifully for her, Cullen had yet to display a care over her often-lacking social graces.

The commander nodded solemnly. “So you are.” He leaned in even closer, crowding her back against the stone ramparts. Etre's senses were a blur, all she could focus on was his slight smile and the fact that his mouth was so very close to her own. Should she be shutting her eyes? Leaning away? Was it too forward to lean into such a thing? Did she even care about being forward right now? Cullen murmured, “It seems too much to ask, but I want to–”

The sound of a door slamming tore Etre from her reverie, the woman realizing in a flash that this could be considered a remarkably compromising position for both of them. Her eyes flew to the messenger approaching from the commander's office, the young man looking a bit put-out that their commander was not at his post. 

“Commander!” He called, “you wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report?”

“What?” Cullen snarled, and Etre noticed that he shifted his weight back a step to permit her to depart should she wish. However she wanted nothing more than to have the chance to continue this…conversation of sorts, and so despite his allowance she chose to spend the unexpected interlude greedily cataloguing the small details of his face as he glared at the scout. 

“Sister Leliana's report! You wanted it delivered ‘without delay’,” the scout said, holding the binder out to Cullen. Etre ducked her face into her hands, trying to conceal how red she knew she had become. Maker, she would hear about this for months. “Or…to your office! Right.” The messenger amended suddenly, hurried footfalls indicating his expedient departure.

Trevelyan dropped her hands and then looked away, hoping against hope that she could conceal her raw, unseemly disappointment at being interrupted. Cullen hadn't moved away at all, but surely the moment was irreparably damaged. She would be returning to her quarters to lick her wounds soon enough, it would appear, and so she began to apologize for taking him from his work. “If you need to-” 

Cullen's hands cradled the back of her head in a flurry of motion and then, without preamble, he gave her a kiss that left her reeling. Etre gasped into his mouth, surprised, and the commander quickly pulled back. “I'm sorry!” He apologized, seeming as though he had surprised himself with the bold act. “That was…um, really nice,” he floundered to add, rubbing the back of his neck. 

With her heart in her throat Etre hurriedly asked, “You don't regret it, do you?” She didn't know what she would do if he did, of course, but she had endured heavier burdens than a simple–

“No! No, not at all.” Cullen assured her, his tone warm and earnest. “May I…would you mind another?”

“I was hoping for at least one more, yes.” 

…

It was several days before they met again publicly, though Etre often slipped away after the evening meal to ask the commander for a goodnight kiss. Cullen was, of course, only too happy to oblige, occasionally to the point of impropriety! His kisses left her mind a blur, full of confusing notions and what-ifs which always faded soon after departing. 

Etre knew that truthfully she ought not let this take so much of her attention, but she had never felt this way about anyone. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, to know that the commander returned her affections with such enthusiasm! Cullen always appeared glad for her visits, his visage brightening noticeably whenever he spotted her entering through the ajar door to his office. And he was always so tender, which was a much-appreciated trait. He never made her feel unsafe, or as if he expected more. He seemed perfectly content with their arrangement, which also eased her conscience somewhat. Surely a man like Cullen, with so much more worldly experience…well, if she was being improper, no doubt he would let her know!

It was nearly a week later when she was striding across the ramparts in broad daylight, on her way to deliver her updated standard ideas to Chancer (she may have purposely taken a shortcut through Cullen's office so she could wave to him), and the commander flagged her down.

“There you are.” He said gladly upon spotting her, and Etre paused with her hand on the door handle, a little surprised. 

“Were you waiting for me?” 

“Yes.” Cullen's expression shifted and he rapidly blurted out, “I mean, no!”

Baffled, Etre offered, “I can…come back later, if you'd prefer?”

“No! Please stay.” Cullen seemed to pull himself together then, the man straightening back up. “We have some dealings in Ferelden, I was hoping you might accompany me. When you can spare the time, of course.”

“Is something wrong?” Etre asked, concerned now. She had dealt with all the rifts in the Hinterlands, to her knowledge, but they still knew so little about them! Had more sprung up in her absence?

“What?” The man replied blankly, then continued in a rush, “no! I-I would rather explain there, if you wish to go.”

Etre rifled briefly through her mental calendar, knowing full-well that her week had been almost suspiciously empty. That was why she had returned to Skyhold in the first place, aside from her pressing injuries; she had simply assumed Josephine must have forgotten to update her on her latest gamut of responsibilities. Not out of any sort of malice, of course! Josephine had more than enough to worry about without also concerning herself with Etre's schedule. “I believe there's time now,” the Inquisitor replied, silently apologizing to Josephine as she did. She had the feeling she may have just thrown several operations out of sequence for her ambassador.

“I will make the necessary arrangements.” Cullen promised, telling her to pack for a few days' journey. 

It wasn't a far ride to their mystery location, only a day or so, the trek significantly eased by their swift and eager mounts. If Etre had thought her own horse grew discontent in Skyhold, then Cullen's Forder seemed positively mad with the desire to have its head and run for leagues. 

“None of that now, you hulking beast.” Cullen chided his jittering mount fondly as they descended from the steep climes of Skyhold's borders. The horse tossed its head defiantly, but soon settled down once the commander urged him into a loping gallop on the neglected stretch of Imperial Highway that wound within the shadow of the Frostbacks. 

In a way, the journey seemed nearly ordinary. The two of them rode along the Highway for a long enough stretch to nearly be past Lake Calenhad's southern expanse, only turning back towards the Frostbacks once they had gone parallel to Redcliffe.

It was well after noon when Cullen began standing in his stirrups every once in a while, the man obviously searching for something as they rode. Even with him doing so, Etre was the one who nearly trotted into what he had been looking for, the woman only stopping because she felt her Courser's hoof sink a little too deep. The piebald horse faltered, nervously whickering while Etre dismounted to lead him back from the unsteady footing. 

“Inquisitor?” Cullen called, the tall rushes hiding her and her horse from view. Etre puffed her hair out of her face, turning her horse and bringing him back to the road proper so she could flag down her commander. 

“Touch swamped over in that direction. Is there any reason we're following deer tracks in the wilds of Honnleath hold, Commander?”

Cullen rose up in his stirrups again instead of replying, his expression turning to one of excitement as he scanned the way ahead. “We've arrived, Inquisitor! It is significantly more overgrown since last I visited, but it has been a fair few years.”

…

The pier, while rotted in a few spots, seemed relatively sound despite the years of neglect. Cullen was almost more pleased that there had been a raised patch of earth for them to pitch their tents and build a fire for the evening alongside the flowing waters. At least they wouldn't be flooded in the event of an unexpected rainstorm! 

He only realized they'd ridden for hours without a meal when Etre vanished for a period of time and returned with a fennec slung over her shoulder, the creature already skinned and cleaned for cooking. Cullen fumbled through the saddlebags on his mount's gear, producing a few bruised apples, a loaf of bread, a jar of pickled eggs and an entire wheel of cheese wrapped in wax-coated paper. 

“Forgive me, I don't ever think to eat, I should have asked if you were-” 

His apology was cut short when Etre just waved some jerky in his direction, the woman swallowing her mouthful before replying, “I'll take a wedge of that cheese, if you're carving!” She then aimed a thumb at her mount, a Courser she had dubbed Lefty. “He'll gladly help himself to an apple should you be willing to spare it.” 

“More than!” Cullen said gladly, rising to give the treat to the horse who sat placidly beside his own Forder. 

The bay-colored Forder, acquired from a previous owner after several failed attempts to adjust it to a more civilian lifestyle, had a proud streak that ran from the tips of his ears to the end of his twitching tail. The idea that an animal so high-spirited would be content to be hitched to a plow spoke more to the audacity of man than anything else! 

Cullen had taken on the responsibility of the flighty creature while on their march to Skyhold, arranging a trade of two hardy mules for the obviously-discontented Ferelden Forder in an effort to keep their forces moving. “His name is Boroughs, not that he answers to the bloody thing,” the pilgrim had told the commander, all bluster while the horse chewed merrily on his boiled-wool cap and refused to haul the wagon another inch. “Boroughs the absolute bell-end, and there's no doubt about that title.”

Boroughs, for all his faults and taste in wool hats, was a sure-footed creature of excellent stock when he could be persuaded into accepting a rider. And Commander Cullen was very persuasive on the road to Skyhold, the man having little else to do on the march except keep pace with the horse and talk to it. After several days of such persistent effort, Boroughs relented and allowed the commander to pet along the white blaze that stretched from his forelock to his nose. Once they reached that point, Boroughs had been docile as a lamb, even if he did grab at the caps of a few of the less-experienced soldiers on their way past him during the evening meal.

Indeed, it got to the point that Cullen trusted the horse to lead him on the march, his headaches from the snowglare so crippling that he often kept his eyes closed and simply placed a hand on the beast's left side to guide him. Boroughs had only walked him into a tree once the entire time!

After a moment of thought, Cullen carefully split the apple down the middle and then offered one half to each horse, chuckling at Boroughs’ disdainful little huff before accepting his share of the treat. “I know, I know, you'll have to forgive me.” 

“My mother would have taken a switch to that horse for ‘disrespect’, caring woman that she is.” Etre half-laughed, but the sound entirely lacked humor. “She certainly took a switch to me for protesting such treatment of the horses.”

“It is a hard thing to put the stewardship of others before your own needs. Man or beast does not factor into it, what matters is that you did so at all.” Cullen assured her gently, his hand grazing her shoulder before he settled down alongside her. “We are all grateful for the fact that you persist in such a manner! I fear the Inquisition would have fared much worse if you did not care in the ways that you do.” Was that too bold to say? Perhaps he ought not have mentioned it, perhaps he overstepped.

Etre sighed, simply continuing to rotate her makeshift spit over the fire. She then pointedly changed the subject, saying, “I fear there is not much meat on this spindly little thing. We will need to forage in the morning, or sustain ourselves on the eggs. Speaking of, I will be stealing a small portion of that brine for this meat once it is done, I imagine the spices will work wonders.”

“Oh certainly, do as you wish.” Cullen hesitated before continuing, “would you walk with me, once we are finished with the meal? There is something I wish to show you.”

“And to think, I'd assumed you brought me out here to do something nefarious!” Etre's laugh was a real one this time. 

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, apologizing for the secrecy. “I feared that you would not come, had I told you what the point of all of this is.” He confessed. “It was more than enough of a task to get Lady Josephine to adjust your schedule to permit me this little diversion.”

“I knew it! I knew that seemed suspicious!” Etre erupted, the woman seeming very satisfied with herself as she smirked over at him. “There's no way I could possibly naturally have nearly a week without anyone needing their hand shaken or baby kissed.”

Cullen grinned, shaking his head. “Forgive me for tearing you from your congregation, Herald.”

“I welcome the peace, I assure you.” Etre paused, shifting her weight and nearly falling on her rear when one of her boots became mired in the mud. “Despite the uncertainty of the footing.” She then shot him a look that was almost sly. “The commander of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste. That will have people talking.” The woman teased, her smirk having softened into a smile.

Cullen sighed, raking a hand through his hair as he did. “You wouldn't believe how quickly gossip spreads through the barracks.” He groused.

“Does it bother you?” Lady Trevelyan asked, and Cullen wondered at how worried she sounded.

“I would rather my-” the man paused, then amended, “-our private affairs remain that way.” After a moment, he reached for her hand, heartened when she allowed him to lace their fingers together. “But if there were nothing here for people to talk about, I would regret it more.” Cullen reasoned.

“The day you kissed me on the battlements…” Etre hesitated, her face flushing. The commander found it wildly charming to know that he of all people could fluster her so. “How long had you wanted to do that?” she finished in a rush, studiously avoiding his gaze.

Cullen chuckled softly, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “Longer than I should admit.” He barely kept himself from laughing outright at the way Etre's face lit up, the woman clearly very pleased at his answer.

“You don't have much patience for nobility. I'm glad my title didn't scare you off!” she remarked happily, her words giving the commander pause. She was indeed correct. He had never had the time of day for nobles, more than content to leave them to wallow in their self-made messes and plots for the Grand Game. But she raised an excellent point. 

“I hadn't considered…I have no title outside the Inquisition.” Cullen's brow furrowed worriedly. “I hope that doesn't–I mean, does it bother you?” He queried awkwardly, wondering if he ought to release her hand. Was it a bit too forward, someone of his standing endeavoring to–

“No.” Etre replied sincerely. “If you care for me, that's all that matters.” She gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Forgive me, I wasn't trying to put you on the spot.”

“I'm not very good at this, am I?” the commander murmured, feeling like a fool. “If I seem unsure, it's because it's been a long time since I've wanted anyone in my life. I wasn't expecting to find that in the Inquisition.” He dared to add quietly, “Or you.”

Etre did not react to his words, not openly anyway, but he noticed the tips of her ears reddening. For all that she had been the one to confess her feelings to him first, it would seem she was just as untried in the field as he was, if not more so!

It did make sense, when he gave it any sort of thought. She was the youngest child of a noble clan, after all, and a woman at that. No doubt there had been certain…expectations put upon her, even from a young age. It made his heart ache strangely, to think of someone like Etre trapped in a life she did not wish to lead. 

“Do you believe-” Cullen hesitated, causing Etre to give him a curious look. “Do you believe you might have been happy? Had the Inquisition not happened, the Veil remained unsullied?”

“I fear not.” Etre's soft expression shifted drastically. “I…do not believe I would have survived overlong.”

Cullen's heart leaped into his throat before he recalled that her parents had promised her to the Templars. “Surely not, the Templars…well, your strength of will would have served you remarkably in the Order.” He said reluctantly.

“Ah, I did not speak of the Templars! Forgive me.” Her laugh sounded restrained, a polite little chirp like something one would hear in a drawing room. “The suitors could be very…I suppose the charitable term is persistent. I myself would label it aggressive, but no one ever thought to ask for my input.” She tapped the scar on her brow, the one that came dangerously close to her eye. “A gift from one such man.”

Cullen exhaled harshly. “What? Why?”

“I had bested him in a friendly sparring match. He did not care for being shown up in such a manner, so he-” Etre's breath hitched and she adjusted her posture, narrowing her eyes at nothing in particular. “I was in the middle of removing my padding from our bout, you see, and he caught me unawares from behind. I believe the intent was to blind me, then shame me.”

“The man sought your hand and yet was so threatened by you he felt the need to resort to such a violent act?” Cullen was beyond baffled, beyond confused. And ‘shame me'? Would the man have fought her after blinding her?

“I suppose I ought to thank him, villain though he was. Had he not…ah, disfigured me so, my parents never would have allowed me to accept the position as a member of the Divine's armed retinue.” 

“You are not disfigured,” Cullen protested, brushing a thumb down the length of the scar over his upper lip. “No more so than I!”

Her laugh was a touch more warm this time. “Tell that to my mother! It's alright for you, of course, scars on men are roguish and daring. On a young lady, however, it apparently signifies your belligerent, disobedient nature. Ladies do not fight back, from what I've gathered. And they assuredly do not bite their assailants.”

“Frankly I'd hope you did more than that, but I suppose it would be best for at least one party to show some restraint.” Cullen grimaced.

“I would speak of less grim things with you, if I may? Reminiscing on unwanted attentions from another lifetime does nothing for me.” Etre said abruptly, and Cullen quickly apologized for causing her to dwell upon such a dark topic.

He then made a conscious effort to steer the conversation to more tame matters, discussing at length the improvements that had been made in regards to Skyhold's forge. Etre was delighted to inform him that a tapisier had come out from Val Royeaux to begin sketches for several wall hangings that Vivienne had commissioned for the great hall. 

Cullen was more caught up by how easily she could pronounce the Orlesian words, his own tongue often making a mess of their rolling, elegant speech. It would make sense that she had at least some familiarity with Orlesian customs and terms, he reasoned with himself, since she had been raised as a noble. He had no such framework, and simply fumbled along as best as he could (as usual). 

Once dinner had been sorted out and ‘enjoyed’ (given the infamous gaminess of the meat, they both welcomed the brine), the two trekked down the road to the riverbank pier. Cullen made his way out onto it first, the man testing his weight on each plank before waving Etre forward eagerly.

“You walk into danger every day. I wanted to take you away from that, if only for a moment.” He admitted quietly as she drew up alongside him, gesturing at the quick-moving current out past the end of the pier. “I grew up not far from here. This place was always quiet.”

Lady Trevelyan queried, “Did you come here often?”

“I loved my siblings, but they were very loud.” Cullen explained with a rueful chuckle. “I would come here to clear my head.” He shrugged, leaning against one of the taller pylons. “Of course, they always found me eventually.”

“You were happy here.” Etre sounded a bit sad, as though she had just come to a sort of understanding about something.

“I was.” Then, slowly, as the feeling permeated his body, he realized, “I still am.” Gazing out at the water rushing by, the commander was pleased beyond reckoning that not everything that brought him peace from before the Templars had fallen prey to the Blight.

The woman drew a bit closer. He could have reached out and touched her, had he wished. Cullen refrained, uncertainty stilling his hand. “It's beautiful.” Etre had a smile on her face, but her tone was wistful. 

That shift alone had Cullen pondering his next move. She seemed to have gone almost melancholic, her eyes distant. Every day she struggled under an immense burden that made his own seem miniscule by comparison; he had hoped to steal her away from such intense concerns, at least for a night!

What he had brought her here for seemed so…silly now, so childish, but the commander still endeavored to carry on.

“The last day I was here was the day I left for Templar training.” Cullen said thoughtfully, staring at the water and toying with the well-worn coin in his pocket before pulling it out to show her. “My brother gave me this. It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for luck.” He furrowed his brow, stressing, “Templars are not supposed to carry such things, little fetishes or trinkets for luck. Our faith should see us through.”

“You broke the Order's rules? I'm shocked.” Etre teased, making him laugh. 

“Until a year or so ago I was very good at following them! Most of the time.” He paused, looking at the coin. Possibly with unwarranted fondness. “This was the only thing I took from Ferelden that the Templars didn't give me.” Then, he looked back to her. “Humor me.” He said softly, taking her hand and placing the coin in her palm. “We don't know what you'll face before the end. This can't hurt.” 

Please take it.

After a moment of staring down at the object in her hand, Etre nodded slowly. “I'll keep it safe,” she promised, curling her fingers protectively around the coin, and Cullen exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. 

“Good.” The commander reached out, his heart aching anew when the woman melted into his chest without any urging. “I know it's foolish but…I'm glad.” He murmured against her hair, happily accepting the shy kiss that she offered to him.

When they returned to Skyhold the following day, Etre’s demeanor seemed a little lighter. Not wholly devoid of weight of course, Maker no, but it appeared he had been momentarily successful in easing the burden she shouldered alone. She even began to sing along the road to their stronghold, her clear voice carrying across the alpine forests as she worked her way through the tune of Once We Were. 

Cullen was glad for the outcome, even if it left him confused by his own feelings. All he could hope for now, he supposed, was that her luck continued to hold.

Maker, please, he prayed silently while he curried Boroughs in Skyhold, the horse occupying himself with attempting to reach over the stall door and snatch a hat from one of the young grooms. 

“Curly! Just the fellow I was looking for.” Varric said gladly, the dwarf giving Boroughs a wide berth when the animal eyed him suspiciously. Varric propped himself up on the lower stall wall, fiddling with one of his gloves while Cullen mentally prepared himself for whatever scheme he was about to be embroiled in. “You ever played Wicked Grace?”

…

The desire demon purred and hummed, more beast than woman, and hands stronger than any human's forced Cullen's shoulders downward. “Pleasure me, Templar, that you may suffer the sweetest pain,” she crooned to him and Cullen desperately wanted to tear away, pull back, something! But it was as if his body was not his own, his hands parting her thighs and bending her knees to shift her legs out of his way. “Don't struggle little Templar, you can touch me where you never touched her.”

“Yes, my love.” Cullen's own voice issued from his mouth without his input, the tone warm and full of adoration. As though he sought to minister tenderly to a lover, instead of this…mockery. The demon giggled at him, the sound melting into a throaty moan when Cullen shifted forward. Her fingers raked through his hair, grasping a handful to drag him even closer.

“Wake up, Cullen.” Her voice had changed, but…not how it usually did. This nightmare had happened a thousand times over and, despite his attempts to fight it, had never deviated before. His torture in the Circle; everyone dying around him, the days without food or water and the desire demon squealing like a piglet while she trawled the deepest recesses of his mind for ways to break him–

Gentle hands caught his chin, raising his eyes to her own.

Etre. 

Cullen felt a rush of embarrassment and shame, darting his eyes away. Suddenly able to move, the man flinched back from her when she raised her hand again. This was unbearable, even the idea that she might see him in such a state was-!

Trevelyan laughed softly, stroking his hair. “Wake up, Cullen.”

The former Templar sat bolt upright, his entire body trembling. Normally, the desire demon would take on the voice and appearance of that Circle mage from his past, the guilt of his youthful fancy plaguing him even now. That soon faded, however, a much more important question seizing his attention.

Where had his clothes gone? He didn't normally sleep nude. How drunk had he gotten? He remembered losing the rights to his armor, and then…

Etre, her arm wrapped around his back as they drunkenly ‘helped’ each other back to her quarters, the woman snickering wildly while they both attempted to keep his surcoat draped around them-

Cullen put his head in his hands in an effort to hide his burning face, groaning, “Maker's breath.” A soft noise from the floor drew his attention and the man only just managed to refrain from unleashing a series of surprised expletives when he realized just who it was on the floor, one of the bed's pillows beneath her head and his heavy surcoat spread over her like a blanket. He was in her bed while she was on the floor with the dog. 

The commander flailed out from beneath the covers, the sheet catching around his leg and tripping him up. He toppled to the ground, horrified when Etre's eyes began to open slightly at all the racket. “Commander?” She yawned sleepily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes while he laid there in a tangled pile of sheets and coverlet. Perhaps if I don't move, she won't notice me. “What are you…oh. Oh! Cullen, where are your clothes?”

“An excellent question.” Cullen sighed, rolling onto his back and attempting to preserve his dignity with the sheet while Duck struggled to climb atop him. “It seems I enjoyed that game of Wicked Grace a little too much.”

“It was such fun though!” Etre protested with a drowsy smile, the woman throwing his surcoat over her shoulders when she rose to stand. She then flopped back down onto her bed. After a moment, Cullen heard her begin to snore, and he couldn't help his soft chuckle while he got to his feet. 

“At least take off your boots, woman,” he chided her slumbering form, tying the sheet around his waist and then rolling her onto her back so he could begin the task of unbuckling her campaign boots. “Honestly, what am I going to do with you?” Cullen murmured fondly once he was through, brushing a few wayward strands of hair back behind her ear. He then eased his surcoat out from beneath her, shivering a little while he secured the heavy material in place. It wasn't terribly cold, but being naked definitely gave the wind a certain bite. 

Eventually, he recovered the rest of his clothes and armor that he had lost to Josephine the evening before, the articles having been gathered into a spare bedsheet and stuffed haphazardly into the corner beside Etre's dresser. Cullen could only guess at how in the world Etre had managed to get the two of them and all his armor up the stairs, considering that he could hardly recall the evening.

The commander lingered in her quarters for a while after he donned his breeches and tunic, unwilling to return to his duties. He could only partially chalk it up to the ribbing he was certain to face if he attempted to make his way through Skyhold after whatever display they had surely made last night. No, the true reason was…he simply didn't wish to leave. And so for once, the commander settled onto the settee in the sunlight, scooped up one of the books stacked alongside it, and indulged. Duck eventually curled up beside him, the Mabari not yet large enough to successfully climb onto the bed on his own. Frankly, the poor thing barely managed the settee! It had been a valiant effort.

Eventually Etre floundered awake once more, and the sleepy smile she gifted him was sweeter than any scavenged mead. She beckoned him to the bed, laying down alongside him and eagerly accepting Duck into her arms when he obliged, but she did not seem to…want anything from him once he was there. Cullen simply continued to read whatever tome he had picked up, feeling so bafflingly content over the whole thing. 

It was…confusing. Cullen settled on the word even as he knew in his heart that it was the wrong one, stubbornly dismissing many, many others that came to mind much too eagerly. 

Confusing.

A servant sent by Lady Josephine showed up a bit later in the day, the man bearing a basket commonly used for picnicking. He didn't so much as bat an eye when Cullen was the one who answered the door of the Inquisitor's private chambers, simply passing over the item with a bow and then departing. Confused and a little wary, Cullen lugged the basket up the stairs to the landing, where he discovered the contents to be a cold packed lunch. 

We shall have to play again sometime!

-J

Cullen grumbled to himself after seeing the note secured to the inner lid, the man barely resisting the urge to crumple it. 

As much as he was loath to do so, he resigned himself to rousing Etre from her peaceful slumber. If he was hungry, she must be ravenous.

Trevelyan did indeed perk up at the sight of the feast Josephine had sent, the woman sprawling sideways in the chair at her desk while she indulged in the various meats and cheeses. Frankly, Cullen was enraptured, and he relished the opportunity to watch her as she truly was: still rumpled from sleep, her hair half in her face, laughing when Duck begged for a nibble of whatever she wished to eat next.

The commander didn't taste a thing that he put in his mouth, an unspeakable hunger gripping him that neither food nor lyrium would ever slake. 

Maker, he wanted her, he realized, torn between shame and this foreign desire for more. He wanted every inch, every scrap, every moment of time like this with her. He wanted to wake up next to her every day, his mind conjuring up gossamer images of domesticity that he had never bothered to ruminate on before. That sort of life…well, it was hardly practical to think about for either of them, all things considered. 

Oh aye Rutherford, that internal voice sneered, she'll save the world, then retire with you to a peaceful little cottage somewhere and…what? Bake bread, push out a brat or two and scratch planting furrows in the bloody dirt? You're a damn joke if you think either of you would be content with such an existence. You're nothing, a dog of the Chantry, remember? And she is of noble birth. 

Cullen was riddled with guilt when he returned to his quarters well after nightfall that evening, troubled beyond reckoning by the dull ache in his chest. Why did leaving her always make him feel as though he had been wounded? The kiss she had given him before he left certainly didn't help matters, his head still spinning from the fond way she had regarded him.

He had never felt this way before about anyone, the man wholly at a loss as to how to proceed. Surely, surely she would not look at him as she did if she did not feel something for him? There could be no other gain for her! What use was it to string along someone who was already loyal to you? So much for his noble attempts of allowing her to find happiness with another! 

Cullen's head began to pound anew and he groaned in frustration, fumbling out of his clothes.

It's to relieve stress, he reasoned desperately as he laid in bed and placed hands upon himself, it has nothing to do with her. Nothing. 

And when he came undone mere moments later, biting back the desire to say her name, he knew deep down that his entire rationale was a sham. 

“What are you doing, Rutherford?” he sighed aloud, throwing his arm over his eyes while his chest heaved. “You're a damn fool.”

…

“Take these to the commander, would you please?” Josephine requested, the woman clearly distracted by several other things while she handed off a small basket to Etre as though the Inquisitor was one of her multitude of messengers.

Etre raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Cookies. We passed Cullen's day of birth and I know he does not wish for a tailored coat.” Josephine sighed heavily. “Much as I wish he would stop living in that armor! It scares the visiting dignitaries to see him bristle so.”

“Well don't tell him that, he'll wear his helm as well to the next meeting.”

Josephine giggled, patting Etre on the arm. “You are correct, of course. I shall not mention it. I appreciate you bringing the cookies. Help yourself to one, should you wish!”

Etre's steps to the commander's office, while originally spritely, slowed as she crossed the ramparts and the reality of the situation hit her. After Cullen had departed the previous evening, giving her a kiss that left her craving more, Etre had worked herself into a proverbial lather. The pillow still smelled of him and she had buried her face in it greedily, rolling her hips down against her palm in a frantic bid to achieve her release. 

How could she possibly look at him today, knowing what she had done last night? Despair descended upon her like a cold, wet blanket. What was she to do?! Such behavior was unseemly, it was–

“Etre–Inquisitor, what troubles you?” Cullen asked, the man standing in the open doorway of his office with a curious expression. Duck surged around his legs, yipping excitedly until the commander relented and bent down to pet him.

“Cookies!” Etre squeaked, pressing the basket into his hands. “Josephine said…for your birthday. Cookies.” She tried to explain, thoroughly tongue-tied. She shouldn't have looked at his mouth, it just reminded her of their kiss and the way his scar had felt against her skin. Maker's breath, she was a disaster!

Cullen peeked into the basket, tugging one of the cookies free. He proceeded to jam it into his mouth, chewing slowly while he stared off into the distance. He looked for all the world like a cow in a field, meditating over their cud. “Very good,” he mumbled around the mouthful. “I shall send her a thank-you.”

Etre had to choke back a hysterical laugh, the woman dissolving into a painful coughing fit. Cullen worriedly patted her on the back, offering her a cookie and, when she declined, a sip of water from his large tankard. 

“I am glad you stopped by, actually. Stay a moment, would you?” The man requested, his voice quietly intense. “I wanted to discuss-”

“Templar!” To Etre's surprise, Cole was the one darkening the commander's doorway, and the normally-mild young man was positively bristling. His sharp tone alone startled her to the point where she momentarily lost her grip on Cullen's tankard, accidentally spilling a little water down the side of her boot.

Cullen caught Etre's arm, the man stepping forward as though on instinct to put his body between her and Cole. “Cole?” The commander questioned cautiously.

The younger man's face crumpled with unfamiliar emotion. He raised his hands to cover his eyes, shoulders trembling. “I need your help to find a Templar.” He mumbled through his fingers, voice hitching. “I n-need your help to keep them from binding me.” 

Cullen visibly relaxed, the man releasing a sigh. “What information do you have on this Templar?”

“I know…” Cole trailed off, then pointed in a random direction. “There. He is there.” 

Cullen blinked and gave Etre a confused look, which she oh-so-helpfully returned. The commander rolled his eyes and turned to his desk, shuffling a few items off to the sides to make room for him to spread out his larger map of the region. Turning the map so that its position would be accurate to their own, he beckoned Cole closer. “Where, Cole?”

“Why is it so important for you to find this Templar, Cole?” Etre asked curiously while the young man slowly slid his index finger across the map. 

“He killed me.” Cole murmured, his tone so nonchalant that the substance of his words didn't register to Etre for a moment. Cullen, however, huffed out a breath as though he had been struck, the man's gaze once more meeting Etre's worriedly. “He's in what he believes is a safe place. A place where mages once were, but they no longer are.” Cole mused, his hand grazing the Hinterlands. “The smell of the lake when it is too hot reminds him of the Spire, so that he never forgets what he did.”

“Redcliffe, then. The stench off the shoreline of Lake Calenhad can become unbearable.” Cullen tapped his finger onto the map. “Here, Cole.” 

“Yes.” Cole said fiercely, his nails digging into the parchment as though to tear the piece out of it. He jerked his head up to stare at Etre, “I need help.” Tears filled his eyes, but he didn't even seem to notice them. “I need help.” Cole repeated, and Etre took his hands in her own. 

“Of course, Cole.” She then looked to Cullen. “Can we discuss what you wished to at another time?”

“It is vital that we ensure Cole remains free.” Cullen assured her, “my news will wait, though not overlong.”

…

It wasn't that he didn't trust Cole, precisely. It was just that Cole often reminded him of a time in his life that he wished to forget. Inadvertently or otherwise (the boy did show remorse when he pushed too far), Cole's odd little statements and observations could be…unsettling.

Cullen stared down at the map, his eyes drawn to Redcliffe time and again without his conscious input. If all had gone well, no doubt the Inquisitor would have arrived there by now. 

He killed me. A shudder ran down Cullen's back. What had happened to Cole? Cassandra had mentioned that Cole may have been the one who killed Lord Seeker Lambert, but what else had occurred within the Spire?

The commander shook his head unhappily, his mood shifting in a moment when he heard Duck whine from the floor. “Don't trouble yourself, little one.” The commander soothed, hoisting the once-runtish puppy up into his arms. “She'll be back soon enough!” He scratched the Mabari's belly absently, his mind wandering once more. 

His news to share with Etre, insomuch as there was any, boded exceptionally well. They had finally cut off the proverbial head of Samson's lyrium supplier, leaving the red templars without a steady source to sustain them. With all their scrambling to secure extra supply lines, they had become sloppy.

A long-abandoned shrine to an old god began to solidify as their base of operations, and Leliana's agents had finally been able to get close enough to confirm that the area had been occupied for months, just taking into account the levels of refuse strewn about the outskirts. “You shall have your man, Commander.” The spymaster had said confidently. “My agents will continue to watch from afar, so as not to startle your wary prey.”

“Ensure their safety above all else. These are no longer rational nor reasonable men, Samson chiefest of all. I would not have you sacrifice your troops for me.” Cullen still recalled the surprise on Sister Leliana's face when he had said that, but she simply smiled a moment later and took her leave.

Night had fallen while he was wasting time thinking of Etre and the possibility of taking down Samson once and for all. Some kind soul had brought him his evening meal hours ago, and Cullen idly fed Duck some of the bits of poultry from the now-cold trencher. The commander chewed slowly on a bite of stale bread, then brightened as he recalled he had the rest of the cookies Josephine had sent to him. He mentally began to draft the thank you he wished to send her in return for the kind gesture, the treats were deliciously buttery and just the right amount of sweet without being cloying. Had she made them herself? Traditional Antivan sweets normally leaned towards stronger flavors, things like their intense coffee paired with those peppered apple cakes. Did Josephine specifically pick a Ferelden recipe in an effort to appeal to him? If so, it truly was a kind gesture, to attempt an unfamiliar recipe just so that he didn't feel forgotten!

The fact that he'd wanted to eat the sweets at all was a miracle in and of itself, he reasoned, he probably shouldn't delve too deeply into such providence. It wasn't as if food had become less of a sticking point for him, but Cullen often caught himself nibbling on things when he was tending to Duck's needs, as though on instinct. Something about minding the growing Mabari encouraged him to take more care when it came to his own upkeep; several times as of late when Etre had been out in the field the only thing that roused him from his bed was Duck's whining at the ladder. Cullen refused to let the beast suffer merely because he was suffering, that would hardly be fair! So to the ladder he would stumble, oftentimes only in his breeches and boots, wrap the pup in his surcoat and slide down the rungs to the stone floor below. 

“Soon enough,” he would warn the dog as it scuttled around his ankles excitedly, “you'll be too large for me to carry you into the loft, so enjoy it while it lasts.”

Cullen smiled to himself, rubbing the puppy behind its ears. Duck snuffled and huffed out a sigh, evidently exhausted from the long hours of chasing the messengers across the ramparts and gnawing on a boiled leather practice shield that Cullen had left on the ground. 

“A busy day, eh boy?” The commander chuckled, finishing the remainder of his fowl and potatoes at a leisurely pace while the puppy snored quietly and drooled on a corner of the map. 

Cullen carried on with his work for a while longer, simply transferring the dog into the basket on the floor by his desk so that he could utilize the entirety of his slightly-damp map. 

The shrine Samson had based himself out of, established hazily on the shared border of Nevarra and Orlais, had apparently once been used to worship Dumat, the purportedly most powerful of the Old Gods. Dumat had also been the first archdemon, either corrupted by darkspawn or the creator of them. Other than that, Cullen's knowledge of such things was limited at best. If it hadn't been so late, he would have summoned Dorian to quiz him on such Tevinter topics, but if there was ever a man who didn't keep to strange hours, it was the primped-and-polished Dorian. 

Though… 

Cullen paused, recalling spotting the mage skulking about more than once during his many sleepless walks. What had Dorian been doing so far from his own quarters at such an hour? Cullen mulled over the topic for a moment or two, thinking back to just where he had seen the man and what state of dress he was in. Late night mage rituals of some sort? But why would he have been leaving Bull's quarters? Perhaps Dorian was helping the Qunari subdue his fears of magic and demons?

You are not this bloody dense, Rutherford. 

Cullen jerked upright, suddenly putting together exactly what Dorian had been doing departing the warrior’s chambers at such an hour. The commander barely kept from bursting into laughter, only just covering his mouth to stifle the sound. No wonder Dorian had been shooting Iron Bull those sweet looks during their game of Wicked Grace! 

But even still, one would think that Bull would permit the poor fellow to stay overnight in his chambers instead of making him depart immediately afterwards. Perhaps it had more to do with Dorian's pride than Bull's allowance, however, the Tevinter man could still be a bit prickly over certain matters. 

How does he even manage to– Cullen shut down that thought immediately. Not your business, nor your interest, he scolded himself. He had to at least give the impression of being above the scuttlebutt of the barracks, despite the entertainment of overhearing such conversations. According to one such rumor, the commander and Etre were endeavoring to elope in the spring, since they already had a babe on the way. 

Honestly, some of the information he had inadvertently gathered was so far removed from reality all he could really do was laugh at it. 

The man sighed heavier than he had meant to, and bent down to scoop Duck into his arms. Draping him over his shoulder like a slumbering child, Cullen carefully made his way up the ladder to the loft, settled the snoring dog into its customary nest of blankets at the end of his bed and then began to strip himself of his gear. No doubt the morning would bring new developments, so it was best that he try to get some sleep.

…

Several days had passed before Etre was able to return from Redcliffe, but at least she hadn't had to fight at all. She would count her blessings! On top of that, it seemed all was well with Cole. 

Or as well as they can be, she thought with a grimace, still stunned that Varric had allowed the young man to even hold Bianca, never mind fire her. Admittedly, she hadn't been loaded, but it was unprecedented all the same!

Confrontation and acceptance, it seemed, had somehow had the unintended side effect of making Cole more…human? More real? He was substantial now, having realized on the road back to Skyhold that he was hungry. 

“A gnawing in the belly, I–am I dying?” He asked Varric in fright, but the dwarf had just chuckled and handed him a trail biscuit. 

“Watch your teeth, kid. Would be a real shame if you ruined that stellar grin of yours on some hardtack.”

Solas had been somewhat sulky during the ride back, the elf glowering at Varric for a few hours before he finally seemed to relent. “I do not know what will happen to Cole now,” he admitted once they had made camp for the evening. “The Rivaini amulet will no longer work on him. Should something go wrong, will you take responsibility, child of the Stone?”

“Sometimes you just gotta’ let kids grow up, Chuckles.” Varric had replied simply, spooning some extra potatoes into Cole's bowl of stew. “Have a little faith in your pet demon, eh? You're hovering like the Iron Lady.”

Solas had muttered something under his breath and then moved to sit at the edge of the camp, ostensibly to eat his meal in peace. 

The rest of the journey was uneventful, which worked out well because Etre was more than eager to return to Skyhold! Cullen had seemed to have something important to tell her before she left, but clearly it hadn't been so important that it couldn't wait. What could it be?

When their party arrived in Skyhold, Etre quickly tended to Lefty and then made a beeline to Cullen's quarters. Several soldiers and scouts approached her as she went, asking for her opinion on various maneuvers they had performed. One even asked for a blessing, which caught her off guard. After what had occurred in Haven, folk asking her for blessings or divining had dried up, as though they were concerned about her depleting some secret wellspring.

“I have no true power, but I will pray with you,” had always been her reply, and it was so now, the woman taking a moment to lay her hands on the soldier's uncovered head whilst the small gaggle around her fell respectfully silent. 

It was not so great a task to give comfort to those who sought it out. It never had been. She prayed with each of them who came to her freely, and they with her. She wasn't a powerful being, or at least she didn't think of herself as one. She was simply Etre, and for them, it was enough.

“Commander Cullen awaits you in his quarters, Lady Trevelyan.” A scout murmured once the impromptu prayer had been ended. 

“Forgive me, I shall take my leave.” Etre apologized, then strode off briskly. If Cullen was summoning her, this news may be more pressing than she'd thought! She had barely even returned!

Belted to her hip by her sash was the dossier from their latest foray, and out of habit the first thing she did upon entering Cullen's office was pass it off to him. No greeting, no pleasantries. If her mother could see her now-!

At least Commander Cullen had no care for her lacking social graces, the man eagerly accepting the binder and opening it before asking her, “What news from Redcliffe, Inquisitor?”

The common opener where she would relay pertinent information relating to what they had (or had not) accomplished in their latest foray. This particular endeavor was a little more difficult to parse effectively, leaving Etre to answer, “a success! I believe, anyway. It was all a bit confusing. Solas is put-out over the whole thing, so hopefully I can smooth that out.” She finished with a sigh.

“Put-out? Whyever for?” 

“Cole chose to…become more human.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow, obviously incredulous. “Are such beings as him even…permitted to do that?”

“Well, Cole certainly seems to be! He ate on the ride home, and even slept a little.” Etre confided, “He's unnerved by it, but other than that he doesn't appear too different? He feels his own pain now, though.”

“He couldn't before?”

“Apparently not, or…well, according to him, other people's pain was always louder.”

Cullen nodded in understanding, his eyes looking sad. “It can be far easier to take on another's troubles versus your own. I do not envy the boy.”

“I hope I made the right choice.” Etre blurted out. “I…I encouraged him to confront the Templar that…well, that left the first Cole to die. Maybe I shouldn't have, though. I just…I'm not like Solas, I can't think of Cole as just a spirit.”

“I cannot say I would have done the same in your position, but you did what you believed was best. Just as you did with Bull's Chargers, and Dorian's father before that.” Cullen reminded her, his tone one of encouragement. “You cannot always second-guess your choices, Inquisitor. The choice has been made. All that is left to do is endure what consequences may come.”

“I fear Vivienne will have a cow.” Etre muttered grimly, the woman thumbing nervously at her bottom lip.

Cullen burst out into laughter, his merriment causing Etre's bleak mood to somewhat dissipate. “Forgive me, I–I do not mean to mock your concern.” He finally sputtered. “Indeed, I often share Madame de Fer's worries, but your terminology was…humorous.”

“Never mind all that, what was it that you wanted to tell me before I left for Redcliffe?” she asked curiously, watching his entire visage brighten.

“We have him, Inquisitor! We've found Samson's lair.” Cullen's grin was blinding, clearly he had been bursting at the seams to let her know the news. He rested one hand on the pommel of his sword, his other one tapping a marker on the map while his expression turned more serious. “My duties usually keep me here, but for Samson? I'll make an exception.”

Etre, while thrilled with the new information, found herself with some reservations. “Samson still has that red lyrium armor.” She pointed out worriedly.

“All the more reason for me to go,” Cullen said intensely, then lowered his volume. “I would…sleep better, if I knew I would be at your side.” Etre blushed, staring intently at the location marked on the map instead of making eye contact with the man. Cullen cleared his throat after a moment, stating, “we'll depart at your leave.”

…

Horrors and abominations met them at the gates to the shrine. Not that Cullen had been expecting any differently! He nearly welcomed the reliability of it all. They had been following the smoke trail for nearly an hour, so he was glad to have the other boot finally drop.

The courtyard was a bit thin on opposition, which concerned the commander. Surely if Samson were still here, he would fling more at them? The man had always hated a fair fight. 

Maker, tell me he hasn't fled.

Etre clearly thought much the same, the woman seeming on edge as the red templars rapidly fell to her maul. She kept glancing around, eyes shielded beneath the visor of her helm questing for any shadow, any undiscovered hiding spot. 

The sun beat down overhead, throwing an intense glare up from the pale stone of the shrine courtyard, and piles of burning refuse littered the ground, choking the air with a gray haze which reduced the visibility significantly. More than once Cullen barely caught a blow before it landed, the red templar abominations making the most out of the limited cover they had. Mercifully, the one time he didn't see the blow coming Blackwall did, the older warrior slamming his tower shield into the red templar and sending them sprawling onto their back. Etre then finished them off with a rapid strike to the head, the woman leaning on her maul after the fact and squinting off across the courtyard. 

“Up the stairs, then.” she muttered seemingly to herself, taking a step forward.

“There's something in there!” Cole cried out, pointing shakily at the temple doors. “Cruel crimson crystal, it sings the hollowed song!”

As if in reply, the doors were flung open and out poured another slew of red templars. Thick smoke billowed from the doorway, masking the true number of their forces. Cullen gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip on his sword. To work. 

In spite of the numbers of opposition, it seemed as though they would win this easily! The red templars were desperate and gaunt, their blows no longer strong enough to cripple if taken to a shield or armor. Cullen was intensely grateful that their supply lines had been interrupted, if only because it meant he didn't have to be so intentional about dodging.

Lumbering into the harsh sunlight, however, came the true threat. Behemoth. Enormous footsteps shaking the earth, the creature bellowed a challenge at the intruders. One massive arm flung Etre aside, the woman crashing through a stone railing to land in a heap amidst the rubble. 

Etre! The commander started forward, then hesitated, realizing if he moved he would leave Blackwall's flank open to attack. Cullen heard Dorian drop that elegant-sounding turn of phrase that qualified as an earblistering oath in Tevinter, the mage causing lightning to strike the opposite side of the behemoth to get its attention off of the Inquisitor. “Now, Blackwall!” The younger man shouted.

Blackwall's grappling hook whipped around the behemoth's shoulder, its barbs lodging firmly between two crystals. The burly man widened his stance, yelling, “Cullen!” 

The commander bolted forward, gloved hands seizing upon the braided steel cable Blackwall held. The two men struggled against the massive creature, getting dragged forward a few steps for their trouble. 

Etre was suddenly in front of them, the woman's gauntlet closing down so tightly on the line that Cullen heard the cable begin to creak in protest. Her other hand grabbed hold of a forward section and with a loud grunt of exertion, Etre whip-cracked the line down by her hip, using her armored thigh to lever her hold on the cable. 

The amount of slack that Cullen suddenly found in his grasp bordered on terrifying. It could be a simple enough thing for him to forget her strength, but perhaps he ought to have a touch more caution!

The behemoth wavered, losing its footing on the stairs and beginning a headlong tumble downwards. 

While Blackwall and Cullen darted to either side in an effort to avoid the toppling beast, Etre planted her feet and readied her maul. “Maker's balls, what's she doing?!” Blackwall swore, but he didn't have to wait long for an answer.

Etre swung the maul up into where the creature's skull would be, the force of her own strength and gravity practically vaporizing the head and a section of shoulder. The behemoth slid down the remainder of the stairs and laid motionless at the bottom, its crystalline husk smoking slightly. Red shards rained down around Etre as she took a step back and shook a few flakes off her maul.

“Maker's breath,” Cullen panted, stunned. 

“Andraste preserve me.” Blackwall muttered, as if in agreement. “What is Chancer feeding her?”

Etre slung the maul over her shoulder, the weapon slotting between her pauldron and gorget. “Shall we knock, Commander? Or do you think we're expected?” Her smile was grim, blood trickling down the side of her unarmored head. Her helmet laid where she had fallen, the side of it caved in and cracked open. 

Cullen silently begged for temperance, knowing that they had an audience who did not need to witness him fussing over her or worrying at her like a mother hen. It was just…this was the second time he had fought alongside her since Haven and it was abundantly clear that she had become a much more skilled warrior even in the span of time between now and Adamant! Perhaps she had been right to raise the question of Samson's armor while they were back in Skyhold. After all, what could he–

“Alright, enough mooning you two,” Blackwall grunted, knocking a gauntlet into Cullen's pauldron. “We're here to solve a problem, right?”

Cullen sputtered out an indignant noise, shaking his head while Dorian snickered to himself and Cole loudly asked, “Etre, is your face always that red?”

“That's the blood, Cole, I am bleeding.” The woman retorted tartly, tugging loose a handkerchief and beginning to daub at the scrape on the side of her head. Cullen's heart gave an odd little leap when he realized it was his handkerchief; Lady Josephine had taken the time to have them monogrammed before she supplied him with them. CSR rested simply in the corner, no elaborate flourishes accompanying it, plain and practical in bold red thread against the white background.

“Yes. Blood.” Cole said uncertainly, now squinting at Cullen, who by this point was studiously ignoring him.

The remainder of the mission was far more subdued, the empty temple echoing eerily with their footsteps as they inched forward past the terrible red lyrium growths. Evidently Samson and his troops had been cultivating it here, the crimson crystals towering well overhead like grim sentries, their red innards seeming to pulse and writhe in some facsimile of a heartbeat.

The hum of it settled into his gut, its phantom ache attempting to turn Cullen aside from his quest. The entire sensation was wrong, as though someone was singing out of tune just within his range of hearing. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and the man made a conscious effort to relax his shoulders, not wishing to be incapacitated by a headache in such a terrible place.

The party eventually came across poor Maddox, who had poisoned himself (freely, he assured ‘Knight-Captain Cullen’), proving that despite it all Samson somehow garnered loyalty from his men. It would be cruel to try and question the Tranquil before he passed, and so Cullen simply knelt before Maddox, propping himself up on one arm. 

Cole crouched beside Cullen next to the Tranquil, taking Maddox's hand and grimacing a little. “He is going to die.” He murmured sorrowfully, “He wants to. I am sorry, I cannot help.”

“Why?” Cullen finally asked Maddox, his voice trembling with emotion. It all seemed like such a waste! Kneeling on the stone floor of a temple to a forgotten god, surrounded by the heinous hallmarks of that which wished to be a new god, it was growing increasingly difficult to see the Maker's plan in all this pain and turmoil.

Maddox raised his head with significant effort to look at Cullen, really look at him, and Cullen found himself wracked with guilt over the Tranquil's fate. If only he had been able to see reason before Meredith had-

“Samson saved me even before he needed me.” Maddox said serenely. “He gave me purpose again. I…” His voice began to fade, eyelids fluttering while his head drooped. “...wanted to help…”

“Rest, Maddox.” Etre said softly. “You've done well.” The Tranquil nodded, and Cullen watched him take his last breath. 

“Poor lad, didn't have a lick of hope for surviving that fiend.” Dorian remarked sadly. “Samson may have been a Templar, but he shares more in common with magisters than he would care to know.”

The commander shook his head unhappily, settling back onto his haunches. “We should check the camp. Maddox might have been in such a rush to light the place ablaze that he missed something important.” He muttered.

Etre instructed Dorian and Cole to remain by the entrance, in case of an ambush or some other unknown threat, then she gestured to indicate that Blackwall ought to comb the other side of the chamber.

Their search turned up a few items, such as a veritable slew of lyrium vials, all bearing the hallmark signs of having been licked clean. “How much red lyrium is Samson taking? His resistance must be extraordinary.” Cullen remarked incredulously, toppling yet another pile of empty bottles with his boot. Bad enough that Samson's bed was surrounded by red lyrium growths, a few of them even encroaching on the headboard!

Next came a rambling letter addressed to Cullen, pinned beneath several more empty bottles and a bleached-white skull on the desk. Samson’s once-orderly script had turned into a haphazard scrawl, and the poor lighting in the room certainly didn't help Cullen to decipher the jumbled words in an expedient manner. He was unnerved that Samson had even bothered; it made his skin crawl to think that the man might have believed Cullen would see where he was coming from.

“‘Drink enough lyrium, and its song reveals the truth. The Chantry used us. You're fighting the wrong battle’.” Cullen couldn't help a snort of disbelief. “‘Corypheus chose me as his general, and his vessel of power’, and other such nonsense.” He glanced over at Etre, “As if I would sympathize!”

The woman shrugged in reply. “Desperate men will try many things.” Then, more quietly, “We can't leave Maddox here. He should be properly laid to rest.”

Cullen nodded. “We shall take care of it. If even Samson did his best for Maddox, we can do no less.” His words seemed to put Trevelyan at ease, though not fully. Clearly Maddox's death weighed heavily on her conscience. Not that it didn't upon his own, of course! If anything, Cullen's guilt plagued him. Maddox had had a hard life even before he was made Tranquil. Perhaps that particular difficulty had made him more prone to accepting whatever deal Samson had offered him.

This entire place felt as though it was pressing down on his shoulders. Red lyrium had a hideous jangle to it that hovered just at the edge of his consciousness. It reminded him too much of being around Meredith and Cullen wondered grimly if his terrible time in Kirkwall had been made infinitely worse by such proximity to his Knight-Commander and her fiendish sword.

Finally, Etre located what seemed to be Maddox's tools, their purpose entirely alien to Cullen. Most of them looked like reworked torture devices, a variety of black metal tongs and pincers. 

“Those are lyrium-forging implements! Of remarkable design. Intact, they'd be worth a fortune.” Dorian piped up from his spot by the staircase. 

“Tranquil often design their own tools. Dagna should be able to make sense of them.” Excitement suddenly gripped Cullen. “If Maddox used these to make Samson's armor, she could use them to unmake it. We have him.” He clenched his fists. “We have him!”

“Oh good, so I can stop digging through the garbage over here like some sort of overambitious crow?” Blackwall asked dryly from his spot at the opposite wall of the chamber, holding up a small object. “The real treasure is this slightly-bent spoon, make no mistake.”

“Let us leave this place.” Etre muttered, “nothing good can come of a prolonged presence here.” She then raised her voice, asking Blackwall to help her lay Maddox out at the top of the stairs. Cullen tore down a banner from the wall so that they could carefully lay the Tranquil upon it, a miserably fitting crimson shroud for someone who had been done so very wrong in life. 

“He thought it was good,” Cole tried to assure Etre as the woman stood in the open doorway, her fists clenched tightly. “He was not afraid to die.”

“Many people believe they do things for the right reasons, Cole. Myself included,” she replied bleakly. “It does not erase our sins, only staves off the guilt for a time. I pray that these tools are worth the cost.” She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and seeming to anchor herself. “I will…stay here, I believe. Dorian, would you be willing to take the tools back to camp? I'm sure we have runners who are more than able to return to Skyhold with haste. Send men back to us as well, so we may transport Maddox respectfully.”

“Consider it done, Inquisitor.” The Tevinter mage promised solemnly, wrapping the tools securely in the sash of his tunic. 

“Blackwall, Cole, go with Dorian. Guard those tools with your lives.” Etre stated, saluting them in dismissal.

Cole touched her arm, his brow furrowed. “Are you certain the two of you will be safe?” The young man asked plaintively. “Sadness can crush, creep, collapse us all if we remain in the dark.”

“I merely wish to pray over Maddox, Cole.” Etre said softly, patting the young man's hand. “Cullen and I will be along once the body is seen to, don't fret.”

…

Cullen knelt silently alongside Maddox for a time once he removed his helmet, the man's hands resting on his knees and his eyes closed in what Etre could only assume was prayerful contemplation. For her part, she watched warily as the remainder of her party picked their way across the ruined courtyard to the battered gate, wherein they slipped back through the bars and were off. Only Cole looked back once, the boy offering up a wave before they disappeared from view.

“Maker watch over them,” Etre found herself saying such things more often than she cared to admit these days, but it helped her feel a little less adrift.

She knelt across from Cullen, taking his hands over Maddox's body and simply holding them in her own. After a moment, Cullen's shoulders trembled, the commander unleashing a sob he had clearly been trying to stifle. At the sound of such raw emotion Etre found herself tearing up as well, but she did her best to blink them away. 

“Maker, he didn't deserve this.” Cullen breathed, “He was lovesick and young, taken from all that he knew, corralled into the Tower with the rest of them. I…why didn't I…” He hung his head, falling silent.

“My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.” Etre recited the verses softly, squeezing Cullen's hands in an effort to comfort him as she did. “O Maker, hear my cry: seat me by Your side in death! Make me one within Your glory! And let the world once more see Your favor.”

“For You are the fire at the heart of the world,

And comfort is only Yours to give.” Cullen finished the canticle wearily, the commander seeming drained beyond reckoning by the day's events. “I pray Maddox may rest easily now.”

“I would like to stay with him until the others send troops to assist us with transporting his body back to camp.” Etre offered gently, “You do not have to stay with me, but if it would ease your heart to remain near…”

“I-” Cullen paused, inhaling deeply. “Yes, I think that…would be best. Thank you, Inquisitor. I do not wish to leave him alone in such an abysmal place.” 

Etre and Cullen eventually moved Maddox's body outdoors, Etre's reasoning being that if both of them were there to guard him, surely the carrion birds wouldn't dare to approach. And it was better for all of them to be out in the open air, now that the fires had burned themselves out and the gray haze was being blown away by the mid-afternoon breeze. Better than staying inside and festering alongside that terrible lyrium.

“What next, Commander?” Etre asked once she had settled herself onto the steps of the shrine, futilely dusting off her greaves before doing so. 

The man sighed, raking his hands through his hair. The battle, while not overly long, had been exceptionally dusty, and Cullen's normally-blond hair was now a shade of gray beneath the thick layer of grime. “Dagna. Dagna is our only path forward now.” He replied after a moment of thought, setting himself down alongside her. “If she can discover something in the function of Maddox's tools…” He lightly punched his own palm. “That will be the last nail in Samson's coffin.” He ran his hands through his hair again, tearing at it a little harder now. “I was so certain he would be here.” The commander muttered.

“He was not, but we have found more than enough. Just imagine: if he needed Maddox to maintain that armor…” Etre trailed off as Cullen raised his head, the man's face bearing an expression of surprise.

“Of course, he needed Maddox badly. The armor must require adjustments regularly to keep it from killing him outright or…whatever it is that the red lyrium will do. Cause him to turn into a statue? I cannot say. But Maddox was vital to such things. Now that he has passed, I wonder…” Cullen lapsed into silence, continuing to make a further mess of his hair and forehead.

“There is still hope, even now.” Trevelyan squinted out towards the gates, catching the glint of familiar armor. “The dawn will come, as you and I both know all too well.”

“I pray that it approaches with a bit more haste,” Cullen replied tartly, rising to his feet and offering her a hand up. “To work, Inquisitor.” He paused then, staring at her. Etre blinked, hesitating while she waited to see whether he would say something. Cullen placed a hand on the back of her head and touched his lips to her forehead, the gesture chaste, almost reverent. “Once more, you extend understanding to me when I surely do not deserve it. Thank you, Lady Trevelyan.” The man murmured softly. 

“I imagine you would do the same for me!” Etre protested, feeling a bit warm in the face. 

Instead of replying, Cullen's fingers accidentally prodded at a wound on the back of her head that made her vision go momentarily spotty, the woman jerking away from his touch and yelping. She carefully felt over the back of her head while Cullen hovered, the man hissing out a breath through his teeth at whatever he saw. “Maker, sit back down!” He ordered sharply, his hands already on her shoulders. “Your helmet took something with it when it was damaged. Do not move.” He shouted impatiently at the slow-moving battalion, “is there a healer amongst your ranks?!”

Etre hung her head, the position helping to lessen the throbbing at the base of her skull. “I don't want them to have to carry Maddox and myself.” She complained to Cullen, “this armor is heavy, I don't think the men would forgive me if they had to haul me along in a handbarrow.”

“We can remove your armor, Inquisitor.” Cullen pointed out stiffly. 

“Disrobe? In front of my troops?!” The commander tried unsuccessfully to conceal a chuckle at her mock indignation, his little sideways smirk more than enough reward for the trials Etre had endured today.

“Somehow I feel that we may be able to overcome this new crisis.”

…

“You expect me to learn how to…dance.” Cullen was certain his flat tone bordered on uncouth, but really, what did Ambassador Montilyet expect?!

The woman had the gall to nod and look impatient with him. “Yes, Commander, it is vital that every member of the Inquisitor's attending retinue be vaguely familiar with several different steps. Bare minimum.”

“Lady Montilyet, we will all be in uniform. Surely that is enough to set us apart?” Cullen began to protest. Going to the Winter Palace was bad enough as is, but to be expected to dance on top of it all–

Josephine's mouth twisted into a mischievous little smirk, the ambassador sighing heavily. “You, the commander of the Inquisition, would leave our beloved Inquisitor to dance all night with strangers?”

Cullen faltered, his hand still raised. “I…well, certainly she would have to regardless?” He reasoned weakly. “I doubt my presence would have any bearing on-”

“Think of the rumors we could encourage, were the two of you to dance in front of the court!” Josephine said excitedly, fairly beaming.

“What sort of rumors, Lady Ambassador?” 

She waved him off, “not for you to worry about, Commander. Leave that part to me. It is simply enough that the nobles speculate on that, and thus drown out the folk still debating over if Lady Etre is in the thrall of Corypheus or a darkspawn magister herself.”

Commander Cullen groaned internally, already feeling a headache blossom to life as he grudgingly agreed to attend several private dancing lessons, ‘only enough to keep him from embarrassing himself and the Lady Trevelyan’, Josephine promised. She still wore that odd little grin however, and Cullen had the sneaking suspicion that this entire endeavor would make him want to hide beneath a rock.

Evidently his powers of deduction had become closer to premonition, for the person that greeted him upon his arrival to his first ‘lesson’ was not Josephine, but Leliana. The spymaster seized his hand and dragged him bodily into the War Room before he could make his escape, Cullen sincerely debating for a half a moment on screaming for help like a damsel in a cautionary chantry tale. Unfortunately for him, normally the damsel was rescued by a brave and dashing Templar, and Cullen found the odds of that occurring extremely unlikely unless Barris chose to make a conveniently sudden appearance.

“I suppose it is too late for me to pray to the Maker for mercy?” He jibed wryly, shedding his heavy surcoat. 

“Naturally,” Leliana laughed, “but if you wish to beg, I would not be opposed!”

Cullen sputtered, a touch horrified and more than certain that he was blushing. 

…

Her head hurt. 

Etre tried to lean casually on the balustrade, her eyes wandering the room with what she hoped looked like boredom. As though she did not have enough problems to deal with, this latest one she had been saddled with was outrageous. Navigating intrigues such as this had never been her forté, despite her parents’ strict instruction. At least Josephine had designed their formal attire for a military silhouette! Etre wasn't certain what she would have done, had she been expected to endure this particular operation in traditional Orlesian fashion. 

Gaspard had been far too familiar, and she had found herself gritting her teeth unintentionally while speaking to him. “I am not a man who forgets his friends, Inquisitor,” the grand duke had said, his tone smugly gregarious, “you help me, and I'll help you.”

“Likely story, the pompous ass.” Etre muttered to herself, schooling her expression into something a little more polite as a group of masked attendees migrated past her. 

“We look forward to watching you dance,” Empress Celene had said upon their meeting, her gaze piercing Etre's soul. Even now the Inquisitor shuddered, as if feeling a chill. Somehow she got the feeling the empress hadn't meant in the ballroom. More eyes than Celene's were on her tonight, however. 

The empress’ occult advisor had approached her as well, but mercifully her motivations were laid out far more plainly. “Perhaps you and I hunt the same prey?” Morrigan had suggested, the dark-haired mage's tone somehow sly and playful.

Trevelyan's eyes continued to roam, searching the dance floor and small tangles of guests for her commander. Where…? 

Etre had already done a full circuit of the place, politely-queried her way through multiple tedious conversations, danced with Grand Duchess Florianne and heard all that she had to say…

These Orlesians would be the death of her.

She had then scaled the trellis in the garden, much to the delight of several appropriately-scandalized guests. Knowing that she was, almost certainly, in an area that had not been meant for the public to access, Etre did her best to work quickly and quietly once she had fumbled her way through a secret back door into the Grand Library. Had she meant to find a secret back door? Absolutely not! But it was a golden opportunity to continue to explore before she was missed at the ball, and she would not waste it!

She ended up happening across Cole whilst rifling through documents that had been left out, spotting the young man leaning on the railing of the second-level overlook and staring off vacantly.

Etre brought over a stack of papers, attempting to hand him a few in order to accomplish her task quicker. “Help me look through these, would you? Many hands make light work.” 

Cole didn't even seem to hear her, his body language distraught. His fingers twitched nervously on the bannister, and his eyes followed some unseen target.

Troubled, Etre asked, “What's wrong, Cole? Have you observed anything happening?”

Cole hesitated, then said, “Cullen is afraid. They're hunting him, following fear.” The young man looked concerned, his eyes finally snapping back to her own. “He shouldn't be here.”

“What? Why? Is someone trying to hurt him?” Etre asked sharply, her heart in her throat while she began trying to formulate a plan. Afraid? What in the world could Cullen be afraid of here? Annoyed, perhaps, but afraid?

“Breath too hard to pull, pink all around me, smell of hot sick, don't struggle little Templar, you can touch me where you never touched her.” Cole was trembling as he spoke. The woman's fists clenched without her conscious input. “He is not there, but he thinks he is. I can't help him. He can't hear me when he thinks of…there, and their hands make him think of there.” The young man shook his head. “Do something, please!” 

“Of course.” Etre nodded, then bolted.

Which now led her to her current position at the handrail, combing over the ballroom for her commander. The search did afford her plenty of time to come up with some sort of distraction tactic, but finally, Etre spotted the man surrounded by a sea of courtiers at the far end of the room, his expression one of frozen politeness. 

The woman lunged forward, long strides carrying her swiftly towards Cullen. At least she didn't have to pretend to be concerned!

…

Every time a hand brushed against him Cullen fought the urge to react. Every time some wayward caress landed on his shoulder or the small of his back he gritted his teeth, set his jaw. Leliana had instructed him as such, and this was hardly the first time he'd had to maintain his composure while at attention. The nobility of Orlais fed off reactions, the louder the better; he would fight with every ounce of mental fortitude that he had not to reward such base harassment.

And that was what it was. Harassment. 

He could feel the heat of the room pressing down on him from all angles, like the men and women in flouncy attire that had gathered around him to gawk and preen and fondle. 

Cullen feared he would give himself a spasm in his jaw if he remained so tense, but he refused to so much as twitch in response to this abuse. He simply carried on politely declining dance requests, occasionally easing the clench of his jaw to offer a winning smile. His fists remained tight in his gloves, palms sweaty against the leather while he desperately hoped for an end to this infernal night–

Don't struggle little Templar, you can touch me where you never touched her.

Stop. You are not there, he reminded himself sternly. That creature is long banished. This is only a minor inconvenience. You-

Cullen couldn't keep himself from flinching as someone's fingers grew a little too daring and caught a handful of his rear. He whirled, hand raised to seize whoever thought to be so brazen with him, but he was only met with a sea of smug, coy masks. “Which one of you-!” Cullen began, thoroughly irritated, and was almost immediately cut off by someone grabbing his arm.

“Commander!” Etre, Etre, thank the Maker. She looked extremely troubled, though. Had something happened? Maker, had Celene fallen? “You didn't eat from that last round of canapés, did you?!” Before Cullen could even respond, she drew the attention of one of the elven servants. “Please, I'm so sorry to bother you, but were there raisins on that goat cheese? I fear I may have poisoned my commander.”

“Yes, Lady Trevelyan, the pine nut and goat cheese spread had raisins.” The servant had gone pale. “F-Forgive me, my lady, I did not realize-”

Etre waved her off, looking utterly distressed. Cullen was baffled, attempting to assure her that he had no such allergies, but the woman carried on over him to the servant, “Not your fault! I'm the one who fed it to him, after all. I ought to have been more careful, I thought they were olives. Commander, allow me to escort you to the nearest powder room, I know the attacks come on swiftly so we may not have much time–”

“P-Permit me to direct you to a closer chamber, my lady!” The servant cried, her voice shaking slightly. “If you will just follow me, I…forgive me, I'm so terribly sorry.” She bowed deeply and then turned, winding her way through the guests.

“You may lean on me, should you desire.” Etre offered, louder than she needed to, “I know that your legs may begin to fail you.”

A rescue, Cullen realized abruptly, she was rescuing him.

It suddenly felt as though the stress of the entire evening had come to a head and crashed down over him. Cullen was now all too willing to lean on her; indeed, his legs were wracked with tremors that traveled up his spine. To top it all off his stomach began to protest, the commander's mouth souring regardless of how tightly he clenched his jaw.

“Inquisitor,” the man grated out as they departed from his gaggle of assailants, “I am going to be ill.”

“I know, Commander.” Etre placed a palm on his chest to steady him, her voice much softer. “I am deeply sorry to pull you away from your admirers, but I feared the worst.” 

“At this point, the headache I'm developing is preferable to the company.” 

Cullen's heart had started to race frantically, sweat beading his brow, and the man closed his eyes and attempted to breathe through the burgeoning swell of nausea. He just let himself be led, practically carried, his trust in the woman alongside him so wholly absolute in the face of this strange endeavor that he did not deign to open his eyes again until he heard the servant say, “just off to the left here, my Lady Inquisitor. I shall ensure you are not disturbed.”

“See that you do, my friend. I greatly appreciate your assistance.” Etre murmured, and Cullen found himself being ushered into a small dressing room. The Inquisitor helped him to a flimsy little chaise, then rushed back to the door to close it and shove a bulky, ornate dresser in front of it to ensure no one could push it open. The woman turned to the commander, her expression still one of concern. “Cole said you were…in trouble.” She said delicately, her eyes searching his face.

Cullen blanched, glancing around frantically for a washbasin, a bin, something for him to be sick in. Etre gestured to the sink beneath the mirror and he dragged himself upright once more, stumbling to the porcelain fixture. 

Blessedly all he ended up doing was retching a few times, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes from the pressure of the effort. It had nothing to do with what he had endured. They were simply reflex tears, nothing more. The Inquisitor unbuttoned his uniform collar in the meantime, allowing him a little extra room to breathe, and Cullen was extremely grateful. 

Once it seemed his nausea had subsided he braced his hands on the sink, hanging his head and breathing deeply in an effort to master his body's violent response. Nothing happened, Rutherford! he thought, furious with himself. You knew all they wanted was a reaction, and you still gave it to them!

The tap turned on and there was the sound of running water momentarily. “May I?” Etre asked softly. Cullen nodded wearily, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to but needing to keep his eyes shut to stave off the dissipating queasiness. 

The sick sweat was wiped from his brow, and the woman then daubed at the corners of his mouth with her damp handkerchief, cleaning him up like he was a small child who had fallen in the mud. 

Against his will the tears pooled and began to fall in earnest, and Cullen gritted his teeth so hard his jaw trembled with the effort. He would not allow these fool nobles to rattle him so! Bold words when he was the one who had needed to be rescued from them. That was indeed what Etre had done, rescue him like some bumbling twit from a fable. He would have laughed if he could have stopped sobbing for a moment.

Etre wrapped her arms around him, the woman rubbing circles on his back while he wept and shuddered. “You're safe, Cullen.” She soothed, “I won't let anything happen to you.”

“You can't s-stop it,” Cullen hiccupped through his tears, warring frustration and shame making him want to pull back from her. This was all so much simpler when no one cared! “I couldn't even s-stop it when it was happening, and–and at the time, I was nearly at the peak of my T-Templar form, but I still couldn't–”

Etre pressed her forehead to his, cupping his face. “I know.” Her eyes were full of sincere and honest pain, the depth of which took Cullen by surprise. “I know, Cullen. You feel weak and foolish and dirty, but it is a lie.”

The commander's breath caught in his throat. She knew. How did she know?! Had Cole…?

No, she was the youngest child of a noble family. This sort of…injury was all too common amongst the rich and powerful, so even if it hadn't happened to her, it had clearly happened to someone she knew. He only knew of one such instance where someone had attempted to exert their will over her, but to know that the man had been willing to go to such an extent-! 

“How do you endure it?” Cullen whispered, the burden of his horrible encounter making him want to curl into himself.

Etre sighed, her smile forlorn. “Not well!” she admitted. “You are far stronger than I. This entire evening has made me feel positively sick, the scents are too strong. Cloying even. They remind me of wretched experiences and I have such a terrible headache.”

“Likewise,” the commander agreed whole-heartedly, enfolding her in his arms as his tears finally began to abate. “You always seem to be coming to my aid. I fear I am not much of a man in your eyes,” he attempted to jest, to make light of it all, but Etre pulled away, her expression troubled.

“I would never think of you as less-than for enduring such a terrible hurt, Cullen.” Her voice was soft, yet stern. “You are…extremely important to me, and I will protect you in any way that I can. That is all there is to say.”

Cullen stared at her, noticing in a detached sort of way that his eyes had welled up again. In his mind, to his own reasoning, the assault had been his fault for not being strong enough to entirely withstand the desire demon. But if…

Etre spoke of it as though it had been an actual battle, as if he was plagued by a festering wound acquired in the field. And perhaps it was, of a sort. Perhaps he had railed against it for so long that he only knew how to crush the feeling down and make himself feel worse, because it was better than how helpless and filthy he had felt while the act was taking place. 

“How-” Cullen managed to say. It wasn't a question, not really, but Etre still seemed to understand what he meant by it. 

“Because there is no other choice for me,” she answered simply. “I would proceed no other way. I cannot erase that which hurt you, much as I would love nothing more, so I will simply be with you.” Etre held his hands in her own, the woman pressing a tender kiss to the back of his gloved knuckles. “You are enough for me, no matter what you think.”

“Maker's breath, you would have made an incredible Templar.” Cullen choked out. “Though I must confess, I am pleased that you were spared such a fate all the same.”

“Let me get you put to rights once more, Commander. I fear the night is only just beginning.” 

…

Etre hung slack over the wrought iron railing, the woman wholly exhausted. Morrigan sauntered off, seeming satisfied with the evening's results, and to her relief Cullen was the next person to find her. 

“There you are!” He said, quickly lowering his voice when she waved a hand at him from her slumped position. “Everyone's been looking for you. Things have calmed down for the moment. Are you alright?”

“I'm just worn out.” Etre mumbled. “Tonight has been…very long.”

“For all of us!” Cullen agreed. “I'm glad it's over.”

“Besides, I ought to be asking you that question!” Etre added quickly, jabbing a finger over her shoulder at him as Cullen laid a hand upon the small of her back. The touch, while unexpected, quickly became appreciated when he began to move his hand in circles to soothe the tense muscles beneath her uniform.

“It is…difficult to say.” Cullen admitted. His voice rasped slightly with the words. “I will be eternally grateful to be gone from this place.”

Etre undid the button at her throat, and then a few more down the formal coat for good measure. The epaulet fibers brushed her cheek for the millionth time and, for the millionth time, the woman resisted the urge to tear the fool thing off and pitch it over the railing.

“I know it's foolish, but I was worried for you tonight.” Cullen said softly. A round of applause from inside the ballroom distracted him momentarily, but when he looked back at her she saw his expression shift. “I may never have another chance like this, so I must ask,” He bent at the waist, extending a hand perfectly and giving her a dashing smile. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

Etre snapped upright immediately, sure that the level of shock she was displaying bordered on outright rude. She was just surprised, is all! “Of course!” She replied eagerly, taking his proffered hand. Then, “I didn't know you could dance!”

Cullen tugged her closer, his smirk softening. “For you, I'll try.”

Why was her heart pounding so loudly in her ears? Etre permitted the man to lead her through the popular dance's steps, her attention entirely elsewhere. Mainly on his eyes. She watched him focus his attention somewhere over her shoulder, the commander mouthing the steps to himself as he went through them. His hand in hers was strong, certain, as though he had done this for years.

The music from the hall swelled, now loud enough to discern the piece, and Cullen faltered momentarily before he adjusted his step to fall in with the song's tempo. “Ah, that's better. Now I don't have to keep track in my mind.” He said gratefully.

“I would have hummed!” Etre laughed. “Though my voice is not quite so accomplished, I am certain we could have kept time.”

“Personally I quite enjoy your singing.” Cullen murmured, “regardless of the polish, there is a certain lovely honesty to it.” Trevelyan flushed violently, fixing her gaze on the sash across his chest. A hand slid beneath her chin after a moment and Cullen smiled down at her. “I would daresay there is a lovely honesty to all of you, though that may be a bit bold.” He said softly. “Forgive me if I overstep, my lady.”

“No! N-No, not at all. I am–I am merely overwhelmed by your attention.” Etre admitted shyly, resting both of her hands on his chest. “Are you well, Cullen?”

“Right now?” The man slowed to a halt, tipping her head to the side to place a kiss on the exposed skin of her neck. Etre couldn't help the shiver that ran through her at the touch when she realized she could feel the press of his scar against her thundering pulse. “I believe I am, yes.” Cullen slumped a little, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “Later, however…” he hesitated. “I am unsure.”

“I suppose we will see what comes, as ever.”

…

It took Cullen what felt like a short eternity to regain some sort of equilibrium in his day-to-day. After the Winter Palace, it seemed as though his very soul was on unsteady footing. It had been a very long time since he had felt so unsafe, and his sleep was poorer for it. The first few days back in Skyhold the man twitched at every shadow, much as he tried his best not to. Mercifully through it all Etre was so understanding, so kind with him, the woman never pushing for more than he could give. She even permitted him to watch Duck in the evenings, the man finding the dog's solid presence extremely comforting. Though said dog was growing a bit large to be hoisted up and down the ladder, Cullen still didn't mind doing so for the time being. 

This behavior carried on for a time, Etre tending to more of her responsibilities in the field and Cullen doing his damnedest to slot back into his duties as commander of the Inquisition. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was still the right fit for the job. Someday he knew he would be free from such all-encompassing doubts, but for the moment…

The dull racket of armor startled the commander out of his stupor, the man glancing over to the corner of the courtyard from his spot by the quartermaster's office. He had known that Etre had returned at some point earlier in the day, if only from the din of the footsore soldiers and supply wagons, but she'd had yet to come to him. He could only assume her report had been in the most recent stack delivered to him by the afternoon runners, and perhaps there had been nothing she believed was noteworthy enough to warrant an in-person appearance.

Iron Bull was muscling Etre around in the training area, the burly Qunari easily bowling her over with a shield. Etre tumbled to her back, then rolled through and bolted upright once more. 

“Good!” Bull encouraged, hammering a fist on his shield. “Again!” 

Etre groaned, taking the shield to her breastplate. She performed the move again, then lunged forward at Bull. Bull laughed and caught her with the shield, flinging her back. Lady Trevelyan landed with a grunt of lost breath, then heaved herself to her feet. 

“Bull!” She snarled, darting beneath his elbow and jabbing her gauntleted fingers into the hollow of his underarm.

Iron Bull bellowed indignantly, pitching the shield aside and grappling with Etre hand to hand. “Fighting dirty!” He chastised, then added, “I'm so proud!” 

“We'll see how proud you are once I-!”

“Language, Inquisitor!”

Etre slid down into a crouch, slamming her armored shin into the back of Bull's calf. Cullen grimaced in sympathy; as someone who had taken many similar blows during training sessions, that would leave both parties bruised–

Iron Bull heaved her up by her breastplate, but one of the shoulder straps suddenly snapped. Etre yelped as she was dumped on the ground in a heap, the other belts on the training plate giving way under the added stress. 

Bull stood over her, awkwardly holding the armor piece between two fingers. “Don't suppose you'd be up for another go?”

Etre waved him off with a breathless laugh, the woman finally sitting up after a moment and beginning to struggle loose of her padded gambeson. Beneath that she wore a simple white tunic, which she untucked to wipe the sweat from her face. “I shouldn't have pushed it, I suppose.” she bemoaned, rotating her shoulder. 

“Take five, boss, and then we can see if you'd like to keep going.” 

Etre shook her head, “no no, I'll have to stop for the day. I'm not doing this unless my training gear is sound, too much of a risk of injury.” 

Iron Bull shrugged easily. “Suppose that's fair. Lemme’ know if you change your mind, though! I was almost warmed up.” He joked, giving her a hand up and making a show of dusting off her gear. Catching Cullen watching over the woman's shoulder, the Qunari slyly grinned at the commander, then sauntered off.

Etre didn't seem to have noticed Cullen at all, the woman pausing to stretch her arms over her head before picking up the remains of the practice armor and heading into the armory. The commander followed along after a moment, now burning with curiosity over this new regiment she seemed to be engaging in. If she saw promising results, perhaps he could persuade Bull to instruct a select group of soldiers…

As it was mid-afternoon, the forge was somewhat dim indoors. The blacksmith and their staff were no doubt enjoying their midday meal, and as such the usually-roaring fire had petered out into glowing coals. 

Etre faced one of the equipment racks on the wall, the woman clearly struggling to get her arm out of one of the sleeves of her gambeson. She must not have heard him enter, because when Cullen caught the sleeve to assist her, the woman whirled at the unanticipated touch, causing the sleeve to tear free of the garment altogether. Her eyes were wild and for a moment, Cullen was unsure if she saw him.

“Inquisitor?” he asked slowly, taking a step back. He was abruptly, unhappily reminded of how he had behaved only recently, and wondered if this was how unsettled she had felt when facing him down. Etre was, after all, a seasoned warrior at this point! She had experience in the field, varied training, Chancer's training. He had seen what she did to a Behemoth.

Cullen swallowed with some difficulty. If she decided to attack him in this enclosed space, he was uncertain whether either of them would be able to walk away from the encounter. She stared at him, through him, her posture tense and ready to strike. Instinctively Cullen eased down his shoulder, preparing to redirect whatever blow may be coming.

“Etre,” he said softly, cautiously extending his hands to show that they were empty. This was hardly the commander's first time witnessing the effects of battle-shock, but it didn't become less unnerving for its frequency. A grim suspicion took root in his mind and Cullen felt briefly ill. She had mentioned at the Winter Palace that she understood his pain, claiming that she held her own. What if he had inadvertently reminded her? The unexpected grabbing of the clothing while in a compromised position, the dimly-lit room…

Unbidden, her words from their momentary reprieve in Honnleath came rushing back into his mind, I was in the middle of removing my padding from our bout, you see, and he caught me unawares from behind. I believe the intent was to blind me, then shame me. 

Maker's breath, he was a fool. Not shame her in the sense of losing a duel or sparring match, but instead–

Bile surged upwards in his throat. The man had sought to assault her, and without her sight there would be no way to pin such an attack on him.

Andraste preserve me.

Something seemed to shift all of a sudden and Etre blinked, shaking her head as if to dismiss a troublesome thought. “I…Cullen. Forgive me, I thought…well, it doesn't matter. Can I do anything for you?”

“I merely wished to ask how the training was progressing, the regiment with Bull seems punishing.” Cullen remarked, deciding to tread very lightly. Whether she was truly aware of how she had reacted or not, he doubted he would get anywhere by demanding answers from her.

“It's fine.” Etre said, her tone uncharacteristically curt. “I have much to improve upon, as ever.”

“If you…” Cullen hesitated. Was it even appropriate for him to offer such a thing? “...as you recall, I promised that I would be there if you ever needed anything.”

“What, now you want to push me around with a shield?” Lady Trevelyan groaned. “I'll be as bruised as the last peach in the market crate!”

“No, no, nothing like that.” The commander tried for a laugh, but he knew it sounded wrong, a bit too choppy. His nerves were simply too prevalent for him to force a convincing chuckle. Etre evidently noticed, if the confused look she gave him was any indicator. “I meant in terms of needing someone to speak to.” He rushed to amend, “currently, anyway.”

In an instant, it was as though Etre vanished. Honestly, Cullen found it silently disturbing. Now before him stood The Inquisitor, her eerie gaze neither kind nor cruel, her posture radiating noble poise. Even in her familiar state of post-training disarray, she still managed to look foreign. “Thank you for your concern, but I am fine, Commander.”

Cullen knew a dismissal when he heard it. 

The man took his leave, returning to his quarters without incident, where he proceeded to sit with his head in his hands for much longer than was usually advisable. Especially for someone of his stature, with his level of responsibilities! Her response had just been so…unlike her, it was bewildering.

Oh aye, and you flying into a withdrawal rage after a week-long crying jag wasn't bewildering for her? Face it Rutherford, you'd prefer her convenient and easy to manage, that internal voice jeered. “Maker's breath,” Cullen muttered, a little horrified. Surely not, surely his unease wasn't to do with her also having some wound in her past! It flew in the face of any sort of fairness!

“Commander.” Cullen wasn't proud of the way he jumped. Leliana's messengers were always so quiet; it was hardly the first time one had caught him unawares. The hooded scout gave him an unimpressed look, which the commander did not appreciate, then continued, “the Inquisitor has requested your presence in the War Room for the next series of maneuvers.”

“Naturally,” Cullen sighed, straightening his surcoat. To work.

…

Etre walked her fingers across the map, paused, and then shook her head, retracing the route back to its start.

Across from her, Josephine cleared her throat, then addressed the commander. “I have requests for information on your lineage from a few…interested parties at the Winter Palace.” Etre didn't even have to look up, hearing the bemused smile in the ambassador's voice.

Cullen, however, reacted quite strongly. “Andraste preserve me! Feel free to use those requests as kindling.” He exclaimed crossly. “The absolute gall of that wretched lot, to harass me the whole evening and then send a polite inquiry. Absurd!”

“No, I shall take them.” Etre's brow furrowed at the eager glee in Sister Leliana's tone. “I want to know who pines for our commander.” Trevelyan was unable to help how her shoulders tensed. “We can use this to our advantage.”

“I am not bait!” Cullen protested frantically, his voice rising in pitch. 

“Hush!” Leliana teased, “just look pretty.”

Etre barely kept from slamming her fists on the table. Just look pretty. The woman glared down at the map, seething silently. Just look pretty, a shame about your scar. Put down the blade! It's enough now, Etre, we've humored you for years. If you'll not behave yourself, take the suitors over the sword, we'll send you to the Templars.

Just look pretty.

Trevelyan forced herself to unclench her fists, adjusting her features into something a little less hostile. As far as she knew, neither Leliana nor Josephine were privy to the commander's past, at least not in regards to certain matters. It would be unfair of her to simply assume that both of them were cruel enough to make something so obviously distressing to him into a silly little joke. 

However, Cullen was very clearly voicing his discomfort, and being brushed off for it. While he may not wish to make a scene over such a matter, Etre was more than willing to do so. 

“May I see the requests?” Etre asked Leliana sweetly, her hand already out. The spymaster hesitated, perhaps able to sense Etre's intentions, but obediently relinquished the letters. Making a great show of how poor the lighting was, Etre accidentally brought the papers too close to the table's lone candle and took far too long to move them away while she squinted at the looping flourishes. The woman yelped in feigned surprise when she realised her blunder, flapping the papers back and forth much more forcefully than she needed to in order to extinguish them. “Oh, I'm sorry! Maker, I can be so clumsy.” she apologized, cheerily tossing the remainder of the charred missives into the fireplace. “Ah well, nothing for it I suppose.”

Josephine made a noise of protest and Leliana commented narrowly, “I fear we may need to get you some spectacles, Inquisitor. Your eyesight seems to have grown much more poor.” She sighed after a moment. “Well, I suppose they wouldn't have been too useful, given…the circumstances.”

Etre paused, shooting the spymaster a nervous glance, but the woman was now busily examining a section of the map by the Hissing Wastes. Lady Josephine looked to Etre, confused, and all Etre had in reply for her was a shrug. “V-Very well, er, perhaps the commander and I can discuss securing more supply lines instead?” Josephine tried to salvage the meeting, flipping rapidly through the pages of paperwork on her scribe board. “As you can see Commander, Ser Rylen has requested aid in regards to the water supply, as well as numerous other things in the Approach.”

“He shall have it! Rylen is a good soldier, he would not ask unless it was truly a problem he himself could not solve.” Cullen sounded worried. “I believe he had mentioned a fouled water supply at Griffon Wing? It must be wretched if his men cannot clear it.”

“There is an oasis,” Sister Leliana spoke up, tapping a finger on a tiny blue dot on the map. Evidently it wasn't the Wastes she had been examining, but the Western Approach. “It will be crawling with animals, possibly other things, but should their supply fail, they can run a wagon to this source.”

“Back to the Approach, then?” Etre didn't mind overmuch. She believed she had rested long enough, perhaps too long. 

“Tomorrow.” Cullen said forcefully, then began to rub at the back of his neck as he continued, “permit yourself one last evening of decent sleep, at least!”

Etre, touched by his concern, nodded. “Of course. An extra warm meal won't hurt either!” 

“Will we see you at vespers this evening, Inquisitor?” Leliana asked cordially, the official meeting seeming to be at an end. “I do so enjoy it when you get the chance to cantor for us.”

Trevelyan laughed, waving off the praise. “I will indeed make an appearance, but Mother Giselle does a far better job than I! I believe it is her calling.”

“You ought to come as well, Josie. And of course, Cullen.” 

The commander looked briefly put-out, before he sighed and nodded. “It has been several weeks since I attended. Normally it is enough for me to hear the music in my quarters. I will stay by the door, however. I cannot abide the incense.”

…

He loved to listen to her sing, and he was certain Leliana was all too aware. Her inviting him to the vespers was simply a ploy so that she could tease him further. For being a spymaster in charge of multiple hundreds of lives, she had certain turns of fancy that were utterly juvenile. 

Perhaps it had begun during their flight from Haven. Cullen could still vaguely recall the woman's very pointy elbow jabbing itself into his ribs. 

Etre had saved him from possible months of Leliana's meddling, but whyever for? He had seen the Inquisitor's face moments before she turned her gaze upon the spymaster and it had been decidedly unfriendly. Did Etre believe that Leliana was being deliberately cruel to him? That might explain things a bit more. 

Granted, Leliana had accompanied the Warden when they had stormed the Circle, she had seen him all those years ago, commented on his fragile state, but it was entirely possible that Cullen hadn't stood out much in her no-doubt overworked memory. 

“He's delirious. He's been tortured, and has probably been denied food and water. I can tell.” 

Her words were burned into his mind but to her, he had simply been a hysterical Templar suffering from the effects of battle-shock. It might be easier that way, all things considered. At the time, Cullen had been so fearful that he had warned her off with harsh words, the man uncertain of what he might do. His body had not been under his own control for hours, and it would be just like a demon to permit him to get within arm's reach of someone before striking…

Commander Cullen rotated his neck, kneading at the tight muscles as he leaned against the doorway of Skyhold's great hall with his eyes closed. Here at the outer limits of the hall, the incense was a little more bearable. Better that he turn his mind to more pleasant things, lest he cause himself one more sleepless night. 

The service was nearly at an end. Evening vespers tended to be brief, everyone hungry and tired at the close of the day and eager to be off to their supper and beds. His work would extend well past that point, of course. Even a small band of troops could not be mobilized without hours of logistics making it a reality. Supplies alone would usually take days, were it not for the commander's familiarity with the quartermaster! 

Cullen was so caught up in his musings regarding securing extra stores from the sutler he nearly missed the closing hymn. It would have been a shame if he did, for Etre was the one cantoring it! 

She really did have a lovely voice. In his less-pious musings, Cullen often found himself wondering if Andraste had had such a voice. The Chantry claimed that she had a beautiful voice, of course. They said it had stirred the Maker to urge her to His side, and instead Andraste had entreated The Wellspring of All to forgive His sinful children.

Cullen was still unsure of the result of said entreaties, but if the Maker had truly abandoned His children how could one rationalize the way that Lady Trevelyan had ended up in service to the Inquisition? How on earth had she managed to secure the mages, close the rifts, thwart Corypheus time and again? Much of their success reinforced that this could only be the Maker's will upon them, His hand guiding them.

But then again, Cullen thought grimly, no doubt Corypheus believes his own cause just and divinely ordained.

“Go now in peace, my children. Even though the shadows grow long, let us always walk in the Maker's light.” Mother Giselle raised her hands to dismiss the congregation, and the commander quickly shifted to the alcove beside the door so as to avoid the usual rapid departure of the faithful and soldiers. 

As the masses exited out through the doorway, Cullen remained where he was alongside the large statue in the alcove, the man continuing to lean against the wall and soak up the peace a moment or two longer. That peace was rudely interrupted, however, when he overheard a conversation between two masked nobles. 

“...I tell you, she was gazing at him while she sang! Indecent, decadent, even.” The woman tittered, slapping her companion's arm with her folded fan. 

“Well you clearly did not see him, if you believe the Herald decadent.” The man retorted with an elegant little snicker. “Reclining there with his eyes closed as though basking in her presence, the very image of raw, indulgent masculinity. It reminds me of my youth.”

“You charmer.”

“I would never presume to charm you, my dear.”

Cullen successfully fought the urge to make his presence known, uncertain if the gossiping pair would skitter away in fear or burst out laughing should they catch sight of him. He felt as though his face had turned florid. Was he truly so obvious in his enjoyment? Maker's breath, they probably thought him no better than Krem gawping at the tavern bard! “I'm only standing on the chair so I can better see her…songs,” the younger man had claimed guiltily when Cullen had quizzed him on his unorthodox methods of viewing said bard.

The commander shook his head at himself, a bit disgusted. If he was being so brazen, perhaps it was best that he stay away from the services. It was one thing if there was gossiping about him, but if it unduly affected the Herald as well-!

“Commander?” 

He flinched, startled, and Etre took a step back, the woman still busily rebraiding her hair after having it loose during the service. “Ah, Inquisitor.” Cullen was at a bit of a loss, his mind abruptly full of less-than-chaste thoughts of slipping his fingers through her unbound hair. 

“Sister Leliana said you wished to see me after the service?” Trevelyan prompted gently around the hair ribbon that was held between her teeth. 

The commander scowled fiercely. Once more, the spymaster would plague him with her meddling! “I did not. Sister Leliana simply enjoys ruffling me.”

“So…you did not wish to see me?”

“Well, I always wish to see you, but not–that is, I would see you somewhere a bit more private is all!” Cullen fumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

Etre raised an eyebrow, tying her braid securely and then stepping forward. Cullen took a step back on instinct and his back hit the wall of the alcove, the solid stone somehow both more and less comforting than it ought to be. Add to that the statue of Andraste towering over him, her shield raised and hand on the pommel of her sword, and the man was unsure if he ought to be seeking a blessing or asking for forgiveness. At least the large statue hid them from most prying eyes!

“Private enough for you, Commander?” the woman murmured, placing her hands on his shoulders. 

“I…I suppose.” The man allowed reluctantly, unable to keep a wistful little smile from his face as he looked down at her. “I have missed you.” He confessed, keeping his voice soft. “I wished to thank you for what you did earlier with the letters. You did not have to…come to my defense so readily, but I appreciate that you did so.”

Her fingers grazed his jaw, thumb stroking at the stubble he had overlooked that morning when he shaved. Her eyes studied his own intently. “Perhaps I did not have to. But…I wanted to. Forgive me for my impulsive action, as well as our conversation in the forge. The exchanges simply reminded me too much of an old wound.” Etre tipped his chin up and pressed a kiss right above his gorget, and Cullen couldn't help the shudder that ran through him. “I miss you every time I leave.” Etre whispered, her words tickling across his skin. “I am loath to depart your side, Cullen.”

His name, his name. Cullen swallowed hard, wrapping his arms around her and simply holding her there. “All I can ask is that you continue to return safely to me.” He finally managed to say gruffly, his throat tight with emotion. “That is all anyone could ask for.”

“True enough,” Etre agreed, her face tucked into the junction of his neck and shoulder. “I shall endeavor to continue such a pattern, then. Far be it from me to disrupt your routine!”

Cullen chuckled, kissing the crown of her head and then straightening up. “If you don't hurry along, the evening's roast will be cold when you arrive.”

“Permit me one more moment.” Etre mumbled, the woman all but clinging to him in an unfamiliar manner. “I am feeling selfish, I fear.”

“I could endure such selfishness from you more often,” the commander murmured, tightening his embrace. “If only to justify my own selfishness.”

“What a pair we are.” Etre half-laughed, shaking her head. She then fondly cupped his jaw, pressing her forehead to his own. “If I can, I shall visit tonight before the changing of the guard, as is our usual routine. If I cannot, please be safe while I'm gone.”

“Promise me the same?” Cullen requested softly, barely able to keep from calling her some sweet nothing, some inappropriate little pet name. Beloved rested on the tip of his tongue, beloved, dearest. But who could truly say whether the depth of her affections matched his own? Cullen was not oblivious to the fact that prior to this, his tastes had rested squarely upon that which he believed he could not have. It was far simpler that way, for him to just look from afar and know that whatever it was, it was not for him. He had overcome whatever temptations that he had been confronted by, and had always believed himself a stronger, better man for it (rightly or otherwise).

While that might explain the start of his infatuation (the Herald of Andraste was not a title that applied to the ordinary or approachable), Cullen could not rationalize away the way his eyes sought her out in a crowded room, the way his ears listened for the cadence of her speech, the way she hummed and how it flitted over his skin like an echo of power he'd once channeled. 

She was intoxicating but human, so human, arguing with him to justify hunting rams for refugees, someone he could touch and see and believe was real. She bled, she wept, she laughed. Etre was no goddess, no perfect prophet, no mage to vanish from his grasp like a beautiful but fleeting moonbeam. Etre was both less and more; conduit and champion, warrior and woman. She did not hide her terror nor her satisfaction, and the troops loved her for it.

Cullen loved her for it.

“Whatever I am able to promise, you shall have it.” Etre responded, her smile soft. “I will do everything in my power to return to you.”

…

It was well after the evening meal that Etre turned up in Cullen's quarters. He wasn't precisely certain when she had arrived, only that the next time he glanced up she was hiding in the shadow of the open door. Judging from the nonexistent reaction of the troops around him, none of them had taken note of her arrival either. That boded a bit poorly for their awareness, perhaps he needed to rethink their drills…

“Rylen's men will monitor the situation,” Cullen stated, ignoring Etre for the moment, his brow furrowed as he gestured downwards at the map on his desk.

“Yes, Ser! We'll begin preparations at once!” said the soldier at his elbow, the woman quickly saluting.

“In the meantime we'll send soldiers to…” Cullen trailed off, distracted by Etre smiling at him from her hiding spot. “...assist with the relief effort.” He then dismissed his troops with a curt, “that will be all.”

“Ser!”

The soldiers and scouts filed out of the room and the commander closed the door behind them, leaning his full weight on it as he sighed to the Inquisitor, “there's always something more, isn't there?”

“Long day?” the woman quipped softly.

Cullen chuckled grimly while pacing back to his desk. “I shouldn't complain. This war won't last forever. When it started, I…well, I hadn't considered much beyond our survival. But things are different now.” 

To be entirely honest, his mind hadn't been dedicated to the usual minutiae of troop movements for this most recent operation, knowing full-well that once their forces arrived at Griffon Wing Ser Rylen would give them their proper orders. As such he had had a long stretch of time to think, not even suffering an interruption from Duck since Etre had taken the pup back to her quarters for the evening. 

Things are different now. Maker, what an understatement! He hadn't spared a second thought for what would happen after this campaign until the day that he had kissed Etre on the ramparts, and now it had become a constant in his daydreams. A life after this. Their confrontation in the forge today notwithstanding! If anything such an occurrence spurred him onward with even more determination. Perhaps they could heal together, he reasoned, perhaps there was a way to right the wrongs that had been done to both of them in their lives. But together, together, Maker, let her wish to stay! Let her wish to be his, as he was already hers!

Lady Trevelyan moved from the doorway, slowly approaching his desk. “What do you mean?” she asked curiously.

Cullen inhaled, as if to plunge into frigid waters. “I find myself wondering what will happen after. When this is over, I won't want to move on. Not from you.” He caressed her cheek, smiling when she leaned into the touch, but then remembered what he was attempting to do and pulled away once more. “But I–I don't know what you…that is, if you, ah…” He couldn't look at her a moment longer, turning to shuffle things around on his desk while he struggled to find the right words.

What if she didn't feel the same way about him? What if he was nothing but a convenience, a curiosity or a way to ‘scratch an itch’? He wasn't certain whether his heart could endure such a thing, but it would hardly be the first time someone had pretended to be interested in him in order to see what bedding a Templar would be like. This would simply be the furthest someone had gotten in such an endeavor.

Etre isn't like that! he had insisted to himself, but old wounds spoke to the contrary. It would be up to her, much as he hated to lay one more burden at her feet.

“Cullen,” her tone was fondly exasperated and his heart leaped against his will. “Do you need to ask?” Etre slipped between the man and his desk, tipping her head back to gaze up at him until he was obligated to meet her eyes.

No more hiding, then.

“I suppose not.” Cullen admitted, his heart hammering in his chest. He leaned forward without intending to, planting his palms on the desk on either side of her hips. There was so much more he wished to say, but it was as though the words vanished from his mind even as he thought of them! “I want–” He began strongly, and then Etre accidentally knocked an empty tankard out of the way as she hopped up onto the desk proper, the metal item clattering loudly when it hit the stone floor. 

She gasped, attempting to apologize, but all Cullen could focus on was the sweet flush that had been raised across the bridge of her nose. Wordlessly, the man swept the rest of the wreckage from his desk, clearing the top of it with ease. Then, he laid her back on the flat surface, the commander burying his face in her neck with a soft groan.

“Maker, you are glorious. I do not deserve you.” He breathed, chuckling when she wrinkled her nose. “I know this is…very forward of me, Inquisitor, but I would…that is, if you're willing, I would…” Cullen began to stammer, a bit out of his depth. He knew what he wanted to ask, of course, but was lost on the method. All the rehearsing in the world clearly did him no good!

Lady Trevelyan touched his shoulder, her expression one of concern. “You don't have to do anything if you're not comfortable.” She assured him. Maker, the worry in her eyes…

Cullen hadn't been certain that he could ever feel this way about someone, but that reaction solidified it for him. “If you are willing, I am willing.” 

Etre cupped his jaw, pressing her forehead to his own. “I am willing, I only ask that we go slowly.” Her expression shifted to one of muted embarrassment, and she could no longer meet his eyes. “It has been…a long time.”

He wanted to laugh, even though it would be incredibly inappropriate. “I assure you, we will go at your pace. Even with such precautions, I-” Cullen hesitated, a little mortified as he tried to say what he needed to without being blatantly crass. “I doubt I will be able to–ah, that is, I am not…overly experienced in such things.”

“So we shall both get nothing done this evening!” Etre laughed and Cullen grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps we ought to start by ensuring that the doors are locked, lest we be interrupted in a much more compromised position.”

The commander nodded, pressing a kiss to her neck before he made his rounds to check the doors, relieved to discover that he had indeed locked them already. When he returned to her Etre was in the process of unbuttoning her placket, and Cullen simply watched for a moment. Until her breeches splayed open, of course, displaying her smallclothes. Out of habit, the man averted his eyes, and he heard her giggle softly. 

“Cullen, you can look.” She urged, taking his hand and placing it on her bare hip. 

The man huffed out a breath, rubbing his thumb greedily back and forth across the flesh of her hip. “I do not know whether I dare to,” he admitted. “Andraste preserve me, I am not sure and I do not wish to wound you in my inexperience.”

“You won't.” Etre assured, her voice bafflingly steady. How could she be so certain?!

Cullen felt as though he teetered on the edge of a precipice, and he could not decide whether it was better to plunge into the unknown or slowly follow back down the path he had climbed up. He finally dared to look at her, to make eye contact, and her gaze was so peaceful it was startling. There was no confusion there, no fear, nothing. Just willingness, acceptance of him, of herself. 

He could offer her no less than bravery on his own part, then, if she was willing to be so open for him. How humbling it was to be rendered nude before one's possible coupling, to expose all flaws and shortcomings in order to be judged! “How much of me…I-I mean, what of me would you wish to see?” Cullen asked, trying desperately to keep his voice steady. 

Etre bit her lip and the heat that swept his body in response had Cullen tensing his jaw, the man trying his best to regulate himself. “Your neck?” She finally requested shyly.

“My…? Very well.” Cullen, while a bit confused, obeyed, disconnecting the two halves of his gorget from his breastplate and placing them carefully on the desk. Etre beckoned him close, the woman burying her face in his now-unarmored neck and embracing him tightly. Her lips touched his throat and Cullen felt her smile when he swallowed hard, the vulnerable position utterly foreign to him.

Etre murmured against his skin, “Nothing happens without your permission.”

“I know. I…I know.” Cullen breathed, knowing that his shoulders had tensed without his intent. “It isn't you, I swear it. It's only-”

“It's everything. I know.” 

“I believe you, unfortunately.” Cullen hesitated, then tugged off his gloves and slid loose of his vambraces. He cradled her cheek, feeling her skin on his own, the overwhelming heat of her blush and what he hoped was an eager tremor in her body. “What would you permit, Lady Trevelyan?” he whispered, cupping the back of her head and placing a kiss on her brow. Then, “what does the Inquisitor require of her commander?”

Etre's strange eyes met his own. Maker, he barely recalled the time in his life when he found their hue unnerving! “First, I would ask for your trust.” 

“And you have it.” Surprising even himself with the speed of his reply, but the quickness made it no less true. “If it is mine to give, it is yours.”

“I want you to…I wish for us to be intimate on your desk.” Her voice was so soft, Cullen nearly missed the words. “I want you to have something to think back fondly on, while you put out proverbial fires and move our troops. I want you to think of me.” 

“You want me–” the commander paused, mentally attempting to determine what logistics would be necessary in order to accomplish such a feat. “I assume we would prefer…that is, if we may, I would prefer that we use a position where I may still see your face when we–ah, well, are intimate.”

“I would prefer that as well.” Etre admitted. “I need to know-”

“-that it's you.” Cullen finished her sentence, smiling sadly when she nodded and seemed relieved. “I know.” He placed one palm heavily on her collarbone, easing her down onto her back on his desk. “Should you wish to stop, tell me and we shall.” He promised her. 

As he was helping her situate herself a little more comfortably, Cullen bumped his hand into the side of her breast and was subsequently stunned when it shifted easily. Etre all but fell over herself to assure him that no, she hadn't planned this, she had merely already doffed her chemise for the evening and didn't believe anyone would notice through her loose-fitting blouse. “I had only been coming over to ask for a goodnight kiss!” she promised earnestly, the flush still present across the bridge of her nose one of the sweetest things Cullen had ever seen.

Now all he could do was notice, and Cullen wanted more than anything to touch her beneath her shirt. He prayed for temperance, propping himself up over her and kissing her to distract from that urge.

Etre wrapped her legs around him, tugging his hips down into the cradle of her own, and Cullen panted out a breath when she rutted against him clumsily. As if on instinct her fingers clawed at his back, shoving his mantle out of the way as she did. 

Cullen reached down to unbuckle his belt, the placket of his breeches falling open after a moment. Granted, he did have to awkwardly splay his legs a bit to keep from baring himself entirely, but it was a small price to pay because now he could feel the actual heat of Etre's body through their layers of smallclothes. 

His hand found the hem of Etre's blouse, the man carefully tugging it free of her undone breeches after a moment. “May I…touch you?” He asked softly, smiling as she nodded rapidly, her enthusiasm evident in the eager way she arched her back so he could pull her tunic up a bit further. Cullen spread his fingers on her warm stomach, feeling the hitch of her breath when he did, and his eyes met hers. “Any higher? Or only there?”

Etre laughed, the sound breathless. “Please higher, Cullen.”

“Of course.” Officially out of his element, having never gotten quite so far while in his right mind, the commander floundered uncertainly for a moment. As though she understood, Etre took his hand in her own, sliding it up her stomach and then placing it on her breast.

“Just like that.” She murmured, her other hand stroking his cheek. “Are you well? Is this alright?”

“I am…incredibly well, just inexperienced.” Cullen tried to chuckle, a bit embarrassed when his thumb brushed over her slowly-waking nipple. He fought the urge to apologize, simply rubbing small circles with the digit instead. “I fear it shows. I am at a loss as to how to proceed.”

“I think you know what you want.” Etre said, no judgement in her tone. “If you'd like, you can rub against me.”

“You're certain that's alright?” Cullen queried nervously. “I may…there may be a mess.”

Etre tugged her smallclothes to the side and Cullen caught a glimpse of her cunt. Maker, she was soaked, he could see the shine of it on her skin. “I don't think you need to fear making a mess.” The woman teased, unlacing the side of her smallclothes to shove them aside entirely. The commander averted his eyes, but Etre caught his chin. “I don't mind you looking, Cullen. It's because of you, after all.”

“Forgive me! I don't mean to be such–well, I am simply unused to openly…” Cullen had absently been kneading her breast the entire time, the man suddenly realizing just what he was doing and slowing his hand to a halt. “I am not very good at this.”

“You've not been afforded the chance to practice!” Etre pointed out, smiling. “You may explore me as you see fit. If I dislike something, I shall say so. However-” Her fingers grazed the curve of him through the placket of his breeches and Cullen couldn't ward off his shiver. “-I would like to see you as well, if I may. If you are comfortable exposing yourself.” 

“I am unsure.” The commander admitted. “I have not done so willingly for…it has been a very long time.”

Etre shrugged. “I am grown, Cullen. I shall not wither away for lack of patience. I am content to wait until you are ready.” She hesitated, then asked, “may I continue to touch you over your clothes, then?”

“Yes, Maker, please.” Frankly, he was just glad that she hadn't called him prudish or silly for shying away from the idea of exposing himself. Cullen pushed the arch of his cock against her waiting palm, his eagerness no doubt unbecoming, but she was tender and willing and, frankly, he could not be too upset over this particular turn of events.

“Maker, you're so warm.” Etre sounded a little breathy, but that may have had something to do with Cullen beginning to tease her nipple. The man leaned down for a kiss, closing his eyes and simply allowing the sensations to wash over him. She cried out softly against his lips and Cullen was once more embarrassed by his body's hungry reaction to her, certain that she had felt his cock jump in response to her noise. “Cullen-”

“I know, forgive me.” He panted, “I do not mean to be so wanton.”

“I want you too, Cullen. Please.” 

The commander reached across his chest to his hip, beginning to undo the clasp on his breastplate. Etre, catching on fast, went to work on the buckle on the opposite side. Cullen laughed breathlessly at the way she glared intently at the leather strap as if it had personally offended her, the man quickly turning to unhitch the strap on his shoulder. It was an easy enough piece of gear to slide free of, he had done it countless times alone. But to have Etre help him out of the harness, her hands unfamiliar with his armor…it somehow felt far more intimate than being naked, as the woman appeared eager to explore every strap of the securing leather backplate that stretched over his shoulders and back.

Finally, Cullen shed the armor, placing it off to the side, and Etre hungrily welcomed him sliding back into place over her. Cullen hooked a thumb beneath the hem of her tunic and hauled it upwards until he exposed her breasts fully to the cool air, the woman sighing out as he did. “May I-” Cullen paused, steeling himself while Etre waited patiently. “Would you mind my mouth, here?” He asked, doing his best to keep his tone even. 

“I fear I shall die if you don't,” the woman replied bluntly, making Cullen chuckle. “But only if you wi--ish!” Her voice cracked as the commander clumsily pressed the flat of his tongue against her nipple and Etre bit down hard on her knuckles, her hips bucking up against his own seemingly without her input. “Maker's breath, Cullen, you'll make me scream-” 

“Mm, good.” Cullen hummed, feeling the way her body jumped and shuddered under the assault of his mouth. He did his best to try and hold most of his weight up off of her, but it was becoming a touch difficult to juggle focus while in the middle of things. Her hips kept rolling against his own and Cullen slowly pushed back when she did, feeling that dull warmth in the pit of his stomach. Instinctively he moved with her, rocking his weight more firmly into her and feeling her meet him with equal fervor.

His mouth released her nipple with a sudden, lewd pop! and Etre whimpered in reply, the noise lancing through Cullen to stir something to life inside him. He groaned wordlessly, returning his mouth to worrying the sensitive bud until Etre gifted him another beautiful, beautiful sound of pleasure, the woman moaning his name. The rumble he let out was not wholly voluntary, the man a bit lost now as he stroked and fondled her. 

“Cullen, please-” she begged, but for what he could not say. That is, until she laced her fingers through his own and laid his palm flat on her bare stomach. She was physically strong enough to force him to do whatever she desired, Cullen was well aware. But all she did was press his palm to her lower abdomen and blink up at him in a daze.

“You will have to ask plainly.” Cullen smiled apologetically, still self-conscious. “Forgive me.”

“Would you be willing to–ah, touch me?” Etre mumbled, clearly also self-conscious but doing her best to overcome it.

“I am entirely willing! Show me, please?” The man requested, removing his other hand from her breast so he could prop his weight up once more. 

Shyly, Etre opened her legs a little wider and pressed his hand flat against her, Cullen's eyes half-lidding when he felt her slick coat his fingers. He rubbed down gently, the tip of his index breaching her, and Etre whimpered as he did. 

“Maker, you are drenched.” He hadn't meant to say it aloud. Etre huffed out a hysterical little laugh, her brow furrowing. “I'm sorry, I meant–I know it's not a bad thing. It…ah, well, it means you are enjoying this, right?” Cullen fumbled to assuage what fears she might have, but his own footing was so unsteady he almost certainly just made things worse. Maker, he was hopeless. 

The woman beneath him nodded rapidly, though she did not look at him. Her fingers then laced back through his own and she guided him through the process of gently touching her, her other arm thrown over her eyes as her breath hitched and caught in her throat. 

Cullen, now intently focused on this task, noted a specific motion that made her twitch and endeavored to repeat it, circling his fingers in a certain spot over and again as Etre squirmed and jolted against his touch. The woman suddenly strained upwards, arching and gasping out, so Cullen did his best to meet such fervor, sliding his free hand beneath her back to support her while she bucked into his touch. 

Hardly aware of what was happening, Cullen shoved his smallclothes down and his cock was suddenly free. Wrapping his still-soaked fingers around his cock, the commander gave himself a stroke and shuddered at the unfamiliar sensation. Beneath him Etre moaned, the woman tilting her hips up slightly so she could press her wet cunt to the underside of his cock. 

Cullen gasped out, slamming a hand to the desk to support his weight as he shuddered and fought the urge to just rut against her like an animal. Etre emphatically did not assist in this endeavor, the woman rolling her hips while he slid his cock gingerly over her entrance. “Maker's breath, you'll kill me.” He hissed through gritted teeth, loving her delighted little giggle in reply before she wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him down for a kiss.

…

She had never before had the option to enjoy such a coupling with someone. Before Cullen, the notion that folk would engage in such activities for pleasure seemed like foolishness. 

Etre had never encountered someone like Cullen before, however. A man who was willing to accept her directions, check her reactions and go at her pace, someone who would wait until she was comfortable to move on. It was…distressing when she thought on it for too long, because she knew that he had also suffered at some point just as she had. 

Tears began to roll down her cheeks when she blinked and Etre pressed more kisses to Cullen's jaw and neck while he moved against her instinctively. “Etre,” He groaned her name, arching his back when she dug her fingers into his shoulders and raked them down. She could not say why she did it, just that it felt as though she ought to. Much of this, she was coming to realize, did not have to be painful or fearful. Trevelyan did not have to think, even. For once, there was nothing to her world aside from this beautiful, vulnerable man over her desperately working to achieve release. 

“Thank you, Cullen,” Etre breathed, cupping his face and smiling up at him through her tears.

Cullen suddenly gasped, spilling his seed onto her stomach. Etre stared down at the mess, a little stunned, and he immediately began to apologize, fumbling to reach for something to clean the area with. Etre just tugged him back instead, the woman kissing him hard enough to leave them both breathless. 

“Wh-What?” Cullen mumbled into her mouth, the man obviously confused. When he pulled away, however, his eyes widened. “Oh! Oh no, you–did I hurt you? You're crying,” he pointed out unhappily, wiping at her tear tracks with his thumb. 

“Do not trouble yourself!” Etre assured him with a watery smile. “It is not physical pain. I am aggrieved by former events.”

“You are certain?” Cullen questioned her intently, his brow furrowed. “You listened when I shared my sorrows, it is only just that you share yours.” He gestured helplessly with his hands. “I trust that nothing I did in particular, ah, reminded you of such things?”

“Maker, no, you have been so tender with me!” Her breath shuddered a touch and Cullen caressed her cheek worriedly, his brown eyes dark with concern. “I am just…the past is a difficult creature to fight.” Etre whispered, not entirely certain why. 

Cullen nodded solemnly, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Forgive me if this is uncouth, Inquisitor, but did you…” he trailed off, staring intently at her shoulder while he seemed to struggle to find his words. Etre laid there patiently, relacing her smallclothes and grimacing a little in discomfort at how damp they were. “Did you–ah, I am uncertain of the term for women, forgive me,” the man finally gave up, soldiering on, “did you climax?”

“No, though I have not ever been so close to doing so with someone else.” Etre admitted, seeing no reason to lie.

Cullen flushed, but looked a bit proud of himself as he offered, “do you wish to continue the attempt, Inquisitor? In the loft, of course, which may be a touch more comfortable.” He rushed to add, “there is no obligation, of course! In both senses. We stop when you would like. I simply wish to return the–er, favor, so to speak. It hardly seems fair!”

“It may turn out that I simply cannot tonight at all,” Trevelyan warned him, the determined expression that came over his face giving her pause. “Will you be content with such a lackluster outcome, Cullen?”

“I am content with you. The outcome, insomuch as there is one, does not factor into this at all.” The commander promised, taking her hands in his own as he did so. “I believed myself content to do nothing but gaze upon you from afar, Inquisitor! I had believed for so long that…well, it is as you say. The past is a difficult creature to fight. You have helped me put distance between myself and what has happened to me, though, and I would endeavor to do the same for you if you are willing.” His smile was a gentle one, in stark contrast to his following words. “I would see you come undone for me, Etre.”

Etre sputtered. Stunned to silence by his frank speech, all she could do was nod as she felt her face achieving a shade of red heretofore unseen. It ought to have been crass, crude even, the way he had posited such a thing, but the softness of his voice combined with that tender look in his eyes wholly defanged any ill intent that may have normally been implied. Etre was dangerously close to believing he meant what he said.

She struggled to button her breeches back up, her fingers trembling. When Cullen attempted to assist her they both started laughing, for his hands were shaking almost as much as hers! “It is as you said,” Cullen chuckled, “we shall get nothing done this evening.”

Even climbing up the ladder was a bit of a chore, between Etre's poorly-secured breeches and Cullen having to tote his breastplate up behind him. The two of them managed somehow, both ending up flat on Cullen's bed snickering like two misbehaving youths over the whole affair. 

That didn't last overly long, as Cullen evidently had a goal firmly fixed in his mind. It was scant moments until Etre's breeches were down around her ankles, the man having maneuvered them over her boots with enviable ease, but he got a little tangled in the laces for her smallclothes. Etre eventually succumbed to her own impatience, sliding a hand between her hip and underthings and severing the ties with a sharp yank. “I'll make some new ones,” she promised, blushing when Cullen gingerly tugged the smallclothes out from beneath her.

“Treat yourself with a bit more care,” the man chided softly, placing a kiss on the red divot left behind on her hip. “You may walk into danger every day, but you need not with me, Lady Trevelyan.” 

“Of course, I…forgive me, it is difficult to remember such things.” Etre mumbled, feeling a rush of embarrassment. 

Cullen shook his head, that tender smile back on his face. “Do not apologize! Just know that we are not in the field. For this breath, this rare instance of peace, it is only us.” 

It was strange, but Etre found it almost simple to slip into the headspace he presented her with after the weeks upon weeks of leading from the front and operating in the field. 

There was no Skyhold, no Inquisition, no great evil threatening to tear the world asunder. There was only Cullen, a man who seemed intent on bringing her pleasure. 

Even now he sought to divest her of her blouse, pausing until she nodded and then gently tugging it over her head. His kisses were hungry, yet tender, as though he tried to temper his eagerness for her. It was so honest and so very like him that Etre had to laugh, the woman smiling up at him while he furrowed his brow.

Her laughter quickly turned breathless however, as Cullen sought to continue his actions from earlier. Needing no guidance at this juncture, he put his mouth to her breast and ran his tongue across the skin, coaxing her nipple once more into a raised, aching peak. Etre shuddered and arched in response, whining out when Cullen's warm hand settled on her stomach. “Still alright?” The man breathed, his words skimming over her skin.

Etre nodded rapidly, and Cullen's fingers quested lower still, gently spreading her open. She rocked her hips up against his palm, silently begging for him to touch her where she needed it. After a moment of careful searching, aided by her body's prolific lubrication, Cullen's index finger slipped easily into her. He waited patiently as Etre trembled at the intrusion. His fingers were much thicker than her own, and she worried a bit over whether she would even be able to-

Cullen hummed, the noise rumbling against her breast and sending a hot jolt racing through her body. “How is it?”

“Fine, fine, I am…a-adjusting.” She stammered when he curled his finger inside her, shoving her fist against her mouth in an effort to stifle an embarrassing noise. 

Cullen chuckled low in his throat, then straightened up so he could kiss her. Etre eagerly accepted it, hoping to muffle her sounds. To no avail, the man pulled away again. “And what of this?” He asked, the finger inside her crooking once more, this time with enough pressure to make her hips buck upwards involuntarily. 

Etre moaned before she could stop herself, then she nearly screamed when he rested his thumb gently on her clit. “Maker, Cullen!” She pleaded, not wholly certain whether she begged for mercy or continuation. Cullen tilted his head, brown eyes calculating as he began to rub his thumb back and forth. The woman writhed beneath his touch, tangling her hands in his bedding in an effort to keep from seizing his wrist so she could rut against him. The delicate little strokes he was gifting her were barely a tease, yet her body was responding as though it was being worked into a froth!

“What is it, Etre?” he asked softly, his mouth pressed to her ear. Him using her name was enough to have her stomach in knots and Etre couldn't stifle the noise she made this time, certain that he must have felt the way she throbbed around him. Slowly, slowly, Cullen slid his middle finger into her and Etre threw her head back when both fingers curled upwards to press against a particular spot. “Pain?” Cullen asked, and it took her a moment to remember that he was addressing her. 

Etre shook her head rapidly, making the man over her laugh softly. Her hands reached down for his wrist, but she managed to halt herself at the last moment. “I–can I-?” Etre struggled to think of how to word such a request, her mind entirely wiped clean when Cullen once more stroked upward with the pads of his fingers. The steady pressure alone was already so satisfying, Etre just needed a little more, something– “please, can I hold your wrist?” She begged, and Cullen looked a little confused. 

“Of course, but what is-”

Etre pressed her hand against his own, her fingers encircling his wrist. Then, with a gasp of breath, she thrust upwards against his hand. Cullen grunted, clearly startled, but he also bore down into her, granting her the most incredible pressure and intensifying her pleasurable sensations tenfold. Etre was crying again but she barely noticed, chanting his name as he moved with her intensifying hold on his wrist. The commander had a dazed expression on his face, clearly just watching the way she rutted against his palm without a thought for propriety or appearances, the woman chasing her own release intently.

“Do you think you can…?”

“Maker, I want to so badly,” Etre sobbed, the heat low in her abdomen aching with her desire for completion. 

“I want you to as well,” Cullen murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “Etre, please, please, come undone for me, let me see you,” he implored so sweetly, almost begging, his gaze tender and kind and so, so hungry. 

Etre rolled her hips upwards again, and instead of coming back down she continued to buck against his hand, bracing her feet on the bed as she did. With this new leverage, the ache transformed into a throbbing sensation and she desperately tried to hang onto the new position, that is until Cullen suddenly stroked upwards again with his fingers. She felt the shift of tendons beneath the skin of his wrist, felt the play of muscle in his forearm, and then she went to pieces. 

The woman, rendered nearly insensate by the prolonged session, cried out and Cullen echoed her noise with a low groan, the man hushing her and soothing her trembling body back down against the bed. Etre struggled for breath, her chest heaving while it seemed as though she fell apart. Were it not for the gentleness of Cullen's touch, she feared she might scream. Even now her voice was not her own, continuing to exhale breathy little cries and moans. 

The mark on her hand crackled to life, as if summoned by the intense physical release, and without so much as a flinch Cullen pressed his palm flat against her own, turned her hand over and showered her knuckles with tender kisses. “Are you alright?” He asked, his voice rasping. “Any pain?”

To her utter bewilderment, she was not in pain, aside from the usual dull throbbing in her hand. Etre shook her head, flopping it back on his pillow after a moment. Her hair, which she had braided for sleep before coming over for (presumably!) a goodnight kiss, was thoroughly mussed, the half-curling strands going every which way and tugged free of the braid in multiple spots. 

Cullen sighed in what seemed to be relief, the man easing his fingers out of her. “Good, then?”

“Maker's breath Cullen, you've slaughtered me.” Etre replied weakly. “Now I'll have something to think about in the field as well.”

“Oh?” Cullen propped himself up over her, lowering his face until their noses nearly brushed. “I only wish I could be there to see, to ah, assist with such a task,” he teased lightly, then got to his feet. “Don't move, I'll get you cleaned up.” 

Embarrassment began to chill Etre's body as she watched him fill the basin, the man returning with the clean flannel after a moment. Etre began to protest, “Let me, I can-”

“Please,” Cullen said softly. “Allow me to tend to you, Etre.” He then warned, “I'm sorry, it will be cold.”

Honestly it was more of a boon than anything, the cold helping to soothe her overworked flesh. Etre was stunned even as she watched Cullen work through her fingers, the man's touch on the sensitive area remarkably gentle. It reminded her of when he had bandaged her hand after the incident with the lyrium vial, his economic edge softening in response to her closeness.

He glanced up after a moment, smiling when he caught her watching him through a few gaps in her fingers even as she sought to hide her reddening face. “You are beautiful, Etre. Do not hide from such a thing!”

“Forgive me, I just…no one has ever–”

“It is the same for me,” he assured her. “There is no shame in your inexperience if there is no shame in mine.” 

“I suppose, but-” Etre wriggled a bit, propping herself up on her elbows so she could study his face. “Isn't it odd for you?”

“Why would I find tending to you odd?” Cullen queried, his brow furrowed. 

“Well I…” the woman trailed off, biting her lip. Cullen shifted his body upwards, settling in alongside her and resting his forehead against hers. “I love you. You know that, right?” Etre whispered.

She heard his breath hitch momentarily, the man pulling back to look at her, really look at her. Etre couldn't bear to meet his gaze, focusing instead on his chest rising and falling beneath his rumpled tunic. Why did she always have to ruin everything?! Her fool mouth would persist in the time-honored tradition of getting her into trouble, it would seem.

“Forgive me,” she pleaded anew. “I–please, Cullen, forget that I said such a thing. I don't wish to-”

“Etre,” Maker, she could get used to the way her name sounded when he said it! “I love you too.” 

What? “What?” Trevelyan asked flatly, stunned. 

Cullen laughed, gently knocking their foreheads together. “I love you too, Etre.” He repeated, the words soft and sincere. “I have loved you for quite some time now. Forgive me for making you wait, but the last thing I would ever want is to add a new burden onto you.”

“Th-That is what I feared as well!” Etre stammered, clasping his hands tightly in her own. “I did not wish to give you one more thing to worry about, Cullen, and the fear of you perhaps not feeling the same…”

“Impossible.” Cullen interjected sternly. “I…You are…Maker, I have never felt anything like this.” He whispered, tugging her into his embrace. “You make me feel safe, and cared for as no one ever has. I cannot take such a thing lightly.” He laid a trail of kisses across her collarbone, his smile warming her like the sun when she giggled at the ticklish sensation. “Permit me this evening, Etre. Neither of us know whether we shall have another to share.”

The truth in his words tempered Etre's excitement, mellowing it to something far more resolute. “I shall have something to look forward to upon my return, then?” 

“Every time, if I can stand to allow you to depart.” Cullen said solemnly, the man taking a moment to untie the ribbon still doggedly clinging to what was left of her braid. He then stroked his fingers through her hair, his touch gentle enough to avoid catching any tangles. “You are so…” his eyes searched her own, and eventually he surrendered with a quiet chuckle. “I fear you will come to discover that I am no poet. It will have to be enough that I simply look upon you lovingly and try,” he jibed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It will always be enough for me.” Etre promised, smiling up at him.

“I recall meeting you on that mountaintop all those months ago.” Cullen mused, pressing his lips to her neck. His next words raced across her skin, liquid and heady. “I never would have dreamed that this was even possible, especially for someone like me.”

“And now what do you think?” Etre asked breathlessly as his mouth began to wander lower. 

“I think that among a great many other things, you are a glorious impossibility, and I shall cherish you for as long as I may have you.” Cullen sighed, planting a final kiss on her stomach and then returning to her mouth. “Are such thoughts acceptable to you, Lady Trevelyan?” 

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore, death, canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of mental and physical duress, and allusions to sexual assault (prior/past). Stay safe!]

When he first laid eyes on her, Cullen had to admit he wasn't certain what exactly he'd been expecting, but it absolutely wasn't her. If anything he'd been expecting a mage, someone distinctly magical. Truthfully he hadn't been so much expecting it as dreading it.

She was slightly shorter than Cassandra (though that was hardly something to be remarked on, the Seeker towered over most women), and her chin-length, mousy-brown hair sported several matted areas. Whether from recently-spilled blood or her stint being questioned, Cullen could not say. Her right eye was swollen shut, bearing a livid bruise on the skin of her temple. 

What surprised him the most was the massive, chipped greatsword she clutched tightly. Blisters on her palms had torn open during whatever altercation she and Cassandra had dealt with, leaving the grip of the blade a rusty hue from her blood. Well-toned muscles flexed and trembled beneath her garment's thin sleeves, displaying a bewildering amount of framework for someone who Cullen had (perhaps wrongfully) assumed was untried in the field. He believed the assumption could be excused however, due to the prisoner's noble ties and privileged upbringing. He had only skimmed her binder; there were much more pressing matters to attend to!

“Do not congratulate me, Commander,” Cassandra was saying wryly, “this is the prisoner's doing.”

“Is it?” Cullen asked, not really expecting an answer before sternly addressing said prisoner, “I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here.”

The woman blanched at his words, her gaze meeting his own. She seemed shaken, and the commander could hardly fault her for it. From what Sister Leliana had mentioned, the prisoner was the youngest of her family. This had been their first public foray into true turmoil, and what an eventful foray it had turned into!

Her eyes were a strange green (or were they merely brown reflecting the Breach?), and even though he had just finished bringing down a terror demon with his troops, Cullen found himself straightening up, projecting that Commander image despite his weariness. The child of the Trevelyans would find no uncertainty in his visage!

“I can't promise anything, but I'll try my best.” Her voice was hoarse, a bit shaky, and for the first time Cullen noted the dried tear streaks running through the filth on her face. 

His mood softened a touch, and he couldn't keep from gentling his tone when he sent her off once more with Lady Cassandra, murmuring, “Maker watch over you, for all our sakes.”

…

It had been a trying few days at the Conclave itself but Etre Trevelyan, last born of the Trevelyan line, had never been one to shy away from hard work! She was honored to be there, even merely as an armed escort. Or at least, she had been. The time she had spent inside the temple had become…muddled to her recollection, as though she pieced together the memories of a stranger. 

There were but a few fleeting whispers left of what she could only assume was the Fade, all liquid chaos and yellow-green as an old bruise. Someone had stood before her, their hand outstretched to pull her up an insurmountable cliff face…Andraste herself? 

Until that day, Trevelyan had hoped with all her heart that she would never have to see a demon in the flesh. Sometimes it was easy to forget that demons were real, not just some Chantry story told to make children behave. 

That day, however, she had seen demons. She had fought demons, experienced the heat of Rage, the rush of Terror, the chill of Despair and the bite of Pride's lightning lash. While they could be killed, it did not necessarily mean that the woman reveled in the process of being close enough to them to do so!

Etre would argue that was a bit much for one person to come to terms with, even one who had allegedly been chosen by Andraste, so her collapse after somehow closing the rift could easily be excused in her mind.

When she came back to consciousness Maker only knew how long after, Etre had a difficult time believing that any of it had happened. Perhaps she would walk out the door of this unfamiliar room and find herself back at the Conclave, perhaps-

A young elven woman shouldered open the door, struggling with a large crate full of glassware. Upon seeing that Etre was awake, she gasped and promptly dropped the crate. “Oh! I didn't know you were awake, I swear!” She apologized all in a rush.

“Don't worry about it.” Etre said blearily, pushing herself upright into a half-sitting position. “I only just-”

The young woman collapsed on her knees, her forehead pressed to the floorboards. Etre blinked a few times, startled. “I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.” The elf pleaded. Noticing Etre glancing around, she continued, “you are back at Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

As if on cue the mark sparked green, a fiery pain skimming through Etre's wrist and fingertips. She grunted, shaking the hand as if to dislodge an insect.

“It's all anyone has talked about for the last three days!” The servant girl continued eagerly.

“Then the danger is over.” Etre sighed, a little relieved. 

“The Breach is still in the sky, but that's what they say!” The servant scrambled back to her feet, the fallen crate forgotten entirely. “I'm certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you've wakened. She said, ‘at once’.”

“And where is she?”

“In the chantry, with the lord chancellor. ‘At once’, she said!” The young woman bolted off, leaving Etre there to slowly attempt to put on her hose and boots. Maker's breath, she was sore. It felt as though every muscle in her body had been torn apart and then put back together in the wrong order.

Come now Trevelyan, we've been stiffer than this after a warm-up! she tried to urge herself to stand, a grimace on her face when her knees protested. A three-day nap was bound to leave her a bit rigid, to say nothing of all the fighting she had done before said nap.

But if she felt this terribly…and what the servant had said…

Etre's fingers dug into the quilt beneath her. It hadn't been a dream, then. And really, the mark on her hand was more than enough of an indicator! Something had transpired at the Conclave, if only she could remember what it was! 

Frustration eventually hauled her to her feet, the woman weaving unsteadily for a moment before the ground seemed to cooperate with her. The chantry, then, she decided. Regardless of whether she actually wished to go there or not, it would seem that her jailer-turned-ally was eagerly awaiting news of her awakening, and it would hardly do to keep Lady Cassandra on tenterhooks. 

Staggering to the door, all Etre could do was hope that the chantry wasn't too far from wherever she was.

…

Regardless of what Chancellor Roderick presumed, regardless of whatever convenience and coincidence the man had tantrumed over, the Breach remained in the sky. And while it did so, Etre could claim to have some sort of utility. For whatever reason, she could seal the smaller rifts, even if it left her weak and drained afterwards. It was the mark on her hand, the one that people claimed was from the Maker.

Herald of Andraste.

An Antivan woman by the name of Josephine Montilyet had taken her aside moments after Roderick's eruption, quizzing Etre on her bloodline and relatives alike. Confused, Etre had done her best to answer her questions, but had finally asked why.

“I am the ambassador for the Inquisition! It is my job to foster relations amongst the people that would aid us.” The woman had explained, a determined expression on her face. She seemed…young, but capable. 

Sister Leliana had shaken her head once Lady Josephine hurried off, laughing quietly. “Even now, she will be writing letters to barter favors with your long-distant relatives. I would expect some annoyed missives from uncles and cousins, were I you.”

That commander that she had met with Lady Cassandra on the mountain, Ser Cullen Rutherford, had quickly departed their war room to secure the declaration of the Inquisition to the door of Haven's chantry with a grim sort of gravity. To be fair, grim seemed to be his usual state of existence, the man existing within Haven's thick swaths of displaced clerics, chantry sisters and pilgrims in a perpetual glower. 

It was incredibly intimidating, but apparently not without cause. According to Cassandra the commander was plagued with terrible headaches, some sort of condition he suffered with, and Etre could only imagine that the prolific incense and bell-ringing brought him nothing short of daily misery. Indeed, at times even she found it grating, and she loved to sing the evening prayers!

As such, once she had deemed herself safely recovered from the first foray at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she sought out Commander Cullen for training and instruction. One thing that she could comprehend amidst all this chaos and mysticism was a proper set of drills, and she had high hopes the commander would be more than happy to put her to work. With any luck, she could craft the bones of her upbringing into something that wouldn't need to be escorted to whatever dangerous locale that called out for aid.

The woman trundled down the steps of Haven to the outer stockade wall, fiddling with her new bracer as she went. It was a bit large, but she hardly expected to find custom-tailored gear in this far-flung place. The large sword she had scavenged on the mountain was strapped to her back, though she hoped to replace it soon. The bevel of it was too brittle to hold much of an edge, and despite her attempts to maintain it patches of rust had still crept down to the crosstrees. She supposed it was to be expected; she had no idea how long it had been sitting abandoned beneath that bridge until she and Lady Cassandra came along, after all!

As she approached the training area, urged eagerly onward by the familiar sounds of metal clashing and padded blows landing, a stern voice rang out over the prolific din. 

“You there! There's a shield in your hand, block with it!” The commander shouted at one of his recruits, his tone sharp. “If this man were your enemy you'd be dead!” A second-in-command of some sort stood alongside him, wearing the armor of a Templar, and as the commander turned to issue instructions to him he straightened up. “Lieutenant, don't hold back! The recruits must prepare for a real fight, not a practice one.”

Etre jumped a little when Commander Cullen appeared to notice her standing awkwardly to the side, but all he did was impatiently wave her over. “We've received a number of recruits, both locals from Haven and some pilgrims. None made quite the entrance you did.” He commented when she had drawn within a more polite earshot.

Etre, confused by the more casual way he was addressing her (wasn't she also a recruit?), simply stated, “I just hope I can help.” It was the truth, of course, but normally folk dressed it up a bit more.

The commander, however, responded sincerely with, “as do we all. It is enough that you would try.” 

His words had a warmth to them that was surprisingly charming. Was she blushing?! Maker, she might be. Etre resisted the customary urge to hide her face, choosing instead to bear the sensation with an iron spine. She couldn't afford to waver in front of the commander of the Inquisition's troops!

“I was recruited to the Inquisition in Kirkwall, myself. I was there during the mage uprising, I saw firsthand the devastation it caused.” Commander Cullen explained, waving to indicate that she should follow him down the line of sparring soldiers. Etre obediently trailed along behind him, listening intently while he continued, “Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the Templars to join her cause.” She caught him shooting a glance at her hand. “Now it seems we face something far worse.”

“I must have this mark for a reason.” Etre tried to sound certain, tried to sound like what she thought the Herald of Andraste would sound like. “It will work. I'm sure of it.” She had wanted to emulate a pious tone, ethereal even, but unfortunately it fell embarrassingly flat. So much for that attempt!

Commander Cullen was gracious enough to ignore her failure, the man nodding in a solemn manner. “Provided we can secure aid, but I'm confident we can. The Chantry lost control of both Templars and mages. Now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition could act when the Chantry cannot. Our followers would be a part of that. There's so much we can–” Commander Cullen paused, seeming a little self-conscious that he had been caught rambling. He then apologized, inclining his head in contrition. “Forgive me, I doubt you came here for a lecture.”

“No, but if you have one prepared, I'd love to hear it!” Etre said eagerly. She had been enjoying the impassioned speech he was regaling her with. His whole countenance had lit up! Clearly he cared deeply for their cause.

The commander chuckled, “another time, perhaps.” Etre found herself smiling at the man, who, oddly enough, actually smiled back at her. Briefly, before looking away and clearing his throat, but it was still a smile! He had a nice smile, she decided. “There's still a lot of work to be done.” He said, sounding weary all of a sudden. He pointed out one of the recruits, their footwork sloppy enough that even Etre could easily identify it. “See that? Poor fool will break his ankle if he-”

Scurrying up alongside Etre came a messenger, chest heaving from the effort of their run. “Commander! Ser Rylen has a report on our supply lines!” The man declared.

“As I was saying,” Commander Cullen continued ruefully, accepting the report. “I can assign you a sparring partner, but if you'd rather you may spar with my lieutenant, Knight-Templar Grist. It may not do for the soldiers to see their Herald train amongst them.”

“I'd rather start at the bottom, if it's all the same?” Etre requested tentatively, watching the way his brow furrowed. “Surely it…it would be better if I familiarize myself with those who I am fighting alongside?” Her voice faltered a little, uncertainty robbing her of her volume. Hopefully the stern man wouldn't think her impudent!

To her relief the commander just nodded, offering her a salute and then barking at one of the recruits to, “get over here, bring a shield and blade-guard and put the Herald through her paces!”

…

Etre Trevelyan's eyes were indeed an odd, shifting green-brown. They had not been that way before the Conclave, according to her they had been ‘cowpat brown’, but Cullen supposed it could be chalked up to the strange mark on her hand. She was lucky in the sense that the change was so minor, though it lent her gaze a certain disturbing quality that brought the Breach to mind.

Not that Cullen had any time to devote to pondering her eyes. Maker no, he was inundated with work from the moment he stirred in the morning to the moment he collapsed into his bedroll at night! He would leave such musings to Solas, the elven mage often spending hours observing Trevelyan as she went about her tasks in Haven or drilled with the soldiers.

“She is a remarkable creature.” Solas said out of the blue one evening, much to Cullen's dismay. 

Steeling himself to endure yet another one of Solas’ circular conversations, the commander straightened up to express ‘polite’ interest. Lady Josephine could hardly be picky about where he got his practice in, after all! “What do you mean?”

Solas’ expression was incredibly distant, for all that he'd started the damn discussion. It was as though he gazed somewhere Cullen could not hope to see, his words thoughtful when he continued, “she is suffering greatly. The mark rends her every day, body and soul, yet on she toils, not a word of complaint.” Those sharp blue eyes were abruptly fixed on Cullen, the elf adopting a tone of annoyance as he said, “Another new logging stand? Really, Commander?” 

The commander sputtered, unwilling to allow the mage to gain that foothold in this apparent argument. “The troops need to know that they are safe with her, and likewise for her! This was what she asked for, and she has performed well thus far. As you said, not a word of complaint.”

“You cannot continue to throw her into your field operations and expect such things to raise her above the rank and file.” Solas seemed troubled now, his brow furrowed. 

“She didn't want to be above the rank and file. To add to that, she is a civilian, albeit with minor weapons training befitting her noble status.” Cullen retorted. “She's as green as every other recruit we've had, and she'll be treated as such until Lady Cassandra or Sister Leliana decide our orders change. That means washing dishes, helping write reports, maintaining the privy and scouting for resources.”

“And when she drops dead in the dishwater because of the burden that mark is putting on her body, what then?” Solas queried haughtily. “What of closing the Breach, Commander?”

“I-!” Truthfully, the commander hadn't devoted much thought to Trevelyan's possible constant suffering. Due to her silence regarding the matter he had just assumed it was the same as his night terrors and withdrawal headaches, something to be lived with, but if one wasn't used to enduring such things… “I shall discuss it with Lady Trevelyan. If we're through here, I really must get these reports back to Sister Leliana.”

“Of course, Commander. Always an enlightening experience.”

Now he knew the mage was laughing at him.

Trevelyan wasn't difficult to find, for all that she seemed to want to be. Quartermaster Threnn pointed him in her direction, warning him that the woman may be a bit touchy. Apparently a cauldron of stew had been left above the fire with nothing but dregs in it, turning the remaining broth and meat into a burnt, hardened coating on the inside of the implement. The quartermaster relayed that Etre had seized the cauldron and hauled it away, muttering to herself the entire time and declining any offers of assistance.

Cullen eventually located Etre slumped against the washbasin tucked behind the mess barracks, her hand still moving sluggishly back and forth in a futile motion while the scouring sand lay dormant in the bottom of the pot. The woman's eyes were closed, the majority of her body draped over the bulk of the large cookware. She was snoring.

“Lady Trevelyan.”

The Herald woke with a startled gasp, the cauldron nearly toppling off the edge of the basin before Cullen caught it by the handle. The commander gracelessly shoved the heavy metal pot back into the water, watching the woman narrowly. She looked exhausted, a feeling he knew all too well. The bone-tired sensation throbbed at the base of his neck even now, urging him to close his eyes and rub his temples until the pain subsided. He ignored the urge, as he often did.

“Knight-Cap–pardon, that is, Commander Cullen, sir.” Etre floundered, the slip letting Cullen know that she had spoken to the Chantry sisters or mages at some point. “I'm sorry, I must have nodded off-”

“You are relieved of duty, Lady Trevelyan.” The commander did his best to maintain his stern demeanor, but watching her quail under his stare was mildly entertaining. “Go get some rest, you'll be on patrol rotation tomorrow morning at dawn.” The Herald abruptly made a sound as though she had been struck and Cullen watched a tremor rush through her whole body, the woman grimacing briefly and flexing her fingers as if to shake something off. “Is it the mark?” He asked before he could think better of it. Of course it's the damned mark, Rutherford!

“Solas says it may abate further if we seal the Breach. It's not nearly so bad as it was before, but…” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I am trying to keep my distance from the others. I'm so tired and if…if something happens-” Etre closed her eyes, gripping down on the edge of the basin until her knuckles whitened. “My dreams have been so strange since that day. I don't want anyone to get hurt, and I am as yet unsure that I am in control when I sleep.” 

Ah, and that was something Cullen could sympathize with. His own night terrors stalked him until dawn, occasionally flitting in the corners of his vision even during waking hours. He could at least blame his tenuous mental state on the lyrium withdrawals, but she had no such luxury. 

“Would you rest easier sleeping alone?” He offered. “Though a separate tent may not contain the same warmth or minor comforts as the bunkhouse, perhaps it would ease your mind…?”

Cullen was startled when she grabbed hold of his forearm with both hands, her desperation evident while she leaned in and stared up at him. “You would do that for me? I don't desire special treatment, but please, please, I…please Commander.” Her eyes were full of tears and, in the shadows of the barracks, Cullen realized that the tears glowed ever so slightly. It discomfited him intensely, the eerie sight bringing to mind the various possessions he had witnessed during his time as a Templar. Those wretched eyes, void, crackling with malignant energy made manifest…

Cullen was suddenly extremely aware of how isolated they were. If something happened to him here, it may be hours before anything was discovered. In that time–

Stop. You are not some frightened child, jumping at every shadow you see. 

She was still speaking, and the commander forced himself to quell the shudder that wanted nothing more than to run the length of his spine. “I have tried not to complain,” Trevelyan seemed fixated on him believing her, the all-too-common woe of a youngest child. “I understand we are all working to the best of our abilities but I confess I am…worn, Commander.”

“It will be done before the evening meal.” With a flash of amusement the commander noted that her hands were sopping wet, dishwater soaking through his sleeve where she had grabbed him. “I advise you to scour Haven for extra furs, however. It will be cold without the bodies of your fellow soldiers.” He warned.

“Oh, I shall! Thank you, though I fear I will not be able to repay your kindness.” Etre said gratefully, her shoulders slumping.

“Close that damned hole in the sky. And unhand my arm before my vambrace rusts.”

…

Rams. 

She'd been sent to the Hinterlands to meet Mother Giselle, to attempt to advocate for their place in the politics of the Chantry and what was their blessed Herald of Andraste doing? 

Hunting rams to feed refugees! 

Cullen gripped the report so tightly he was certain he'd tear a hole in it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leliana's shoulders quiver momentarily. “This is not a laughing matter!” He snapped, thoroughly irritated. “The Herald is traipsing around the Hinterlands, unattended-”

“Hardly, she has Cassandra and Varric. Solas as well, though that may be less comfort to you.” Sister Leliana's eyes sparkled; she was still laughing. 

Cullen threw his hands up, his frustration erupting from him as he exclaimed, “we are not the Chantry, Leliana! Why is she doing this? We can barely sustain our own troops!”

“I believe, Commander, it may have something to do with appealing to the humanity of the masses.” 

“The masses-” That denounce us, that say the Inquisition is a false path, that revile our cause? Those masses? Cullen bit his tongue. He would save his verbal lashing for when the Herald reported to the War Room. Maker, he'd expedite the process by summoning her!

“Try to have a modicum of compassion for Lady Trevelyan, Commander.” Sister Leliana murmured, her tone one of fond chiding. “She is not one of your soldiers, for all that she tries to be.” With that their spymaster dismissed herself, leaving the commander to brood in relative peace. 

“Send in the Herald.” Cullen muttered to the guard who had brought the report. He then scoffed to himself, “‘Compassion’, really.”

Once the Herald entered however, he scarcely had the opportunity to open his mouth before Lady Trevelyan quietly said, “I know.” 

Cullen jerked his eyes away from the map, taking in her appearance. She seemed haggard, but resolute. There was a fair amount of dirt smeared across the knees of her breeches and one of her pauldrons had a fresh dent in it. At some point she had traded that enormous sword for an equally enormous greataxe, the weapon secured haphazardly to her back via a series of worm-eaten leather belts. She looked like a two-bit mercenary, hardly the lauded and divinely-ordained Herald of Andraste.

“Your explanation, then.” The commander said grudgingly, determining that this was an argument he would not win before hearing her out. She had reported to him before even tending to her needs, if the layer of filth on her was to be gauged properly. He could extend some understanding in this situation, provided that her explanation was sufficient. He was not wholly unreasonable, despite what Leliana seemed to assume.

“I…Mother Giselle was tending to the wounded refugees, as you know. Mages, defecting Templars, our own soldiers and civilians. The…they had no food and their huntsmaster couldn't risk venturing forth himself, with all the fighting nearby. I thought…I mean, I believed that I could help.” Her voice wavered at the end. That lack of confidence confirmed Cullen's suspicions that the Herald had acted of her own accord, without input from any of her party.

“You, and no one else?” Cullen queried sharply.

She inclined her head. “Ser.”

Cullen slumped a bit over the table. “Lady Trevelyan, I hardly need to tell you our cause is not exactly popular. You were sent to the Hinterlands for-”

“I know!” The woman cut him off, bristling. “But would you have me ignore the suffering I see? What were a few hours of hunting when compared to the wellbeing of the hungry and wounded? The Maker tells us to be kind to those in need!” 

“Be kind, certainly, but you are worth far more to the Inquisition than any mere refugee!” Cullen retorted. His headache flared with a vengeance; even now he could feel the pressure intensifying behind his eyes. 

To his surprise, the Herald shot back, “I am not, Commander!”, her fists clenched at her sides. “I am no more or less than any of them! It was luck, perhaps divine circumstance, but certainly luck, that allowed me to survive at the Conclave. I was–I am no one. It is through the Maker alone, through His will and His mark upon me, that I am given purpose. Just as you are, or Josephine, or Cassandra!” Lady Trevelyan looked incensed. “I met with Mother Giselle, spoke with her, and she in turn showed me the people and how they suffer. I could not stand idly by.”

The commander wearily put his head in his hands, rubbing his temples in an attempt to ease the throbbing. Perhaps today was a bad time for such a conversation as this, considering how poor the weather had been recently–

“What would you have me do, Commander?” Her voice had softened, and Cullen was mutely grateful for her consideration. “You, who is so very wise to the world, what would you have me do?”

“I cannot say.” Cullen muttered. 

“I was sent to help,” Etre insisted, “it is only right that I do so.”

“From now on,” The commander finally said, his tone one that brooked no argument, “you will attend to your duties as a member of the Inquisition, first and foremost.” He held up a hand to halt the imminent outburst, “after which, you may then assist the surrounding populace. Within reason. The last thing our cause needs is for the common folk to see the Herald of Andraste chasing down some rancher's wayward herd of druffalo.”

Etre suddenly looked so comically perturbed Cullen barely kept from smiling outright, the man settling for giving her a knowing smirk. “In my defense,” Lady Trevelyan began delicately, “I needed information on the horsemaster and that rancher promised he would lead me to him if I helped him collect his beast.”

“I will see to it that Harding has extra scouts assigned to her, then. There is no need for the Herald to personally bandy with the common man in exchange for favors.” Cullen squinted down at the report again. “It also says you…returned some stolen property to a widow?”

Etre went stark white, then flushed a guilty shade of red. “I…yes. A promise band was taken from her husband's body by Templars after they killed him. Without cause. I er, took it back.”

Cullen refrained from smiling once more, though it would have been softer this time. “I imagine she was most grateful to have it safely returned, then.”

“Commander, I…” Etre seemed to be struggling to find the right words, her hands slack at her sides while she made her attempt. “I fear I am ill-suited for these maneuvers in the field,” she finally managed to admit, if a little grudgingly. 

Cullen barely kept from raising an eyebrow. “Regrettably, both for the Inquisition itself and for you personally, we have no other individual who can seal the rifts as you can.” He sighed, leaning heavily on the table as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “I know it is hollow comfort, but you of all people ought to know that the Maker does not usually call us to greater purpose by permitting us to walk an easy path.”

“It feels less like a path and more like a…a wall of some sort that I have to climb.” Etre thumbed at her lower lip in thought. “A slippery one.”

“The Maker also does not call us to greater feats than we are capable of accomplishing,” Cullen added. “Take heart, Herald. You do not walk this path alone! All of us are here alongside you, as well as every hapless beggar in the Hinterlands I'd wager.” He finished wryly.

She laughed at that, and Cullen was certain he wasn't imagining the relief in her eyes when she thanked him before departing. 

Perhaps it wasn't…so terrible to offer compassion to her. As long as he didn't turn it into a habit of kid-glove handling, he supposed. The structure of things must be maintained.

…

Whistling a little tune, Etre climbed the last set of steps before Haven's chantry, the woman balancing a small basket of clean utensils and tankards on her hip. Part of her duties as a member of the Inquisition was scouring clean the troops’ flatware, a less than glamorous task but it needed to be done by someone. It was foolish to foist off a task just because it could be considered ‘beneath you’, at least that's how Etre viewed it. So every morning she was at Haven she would make a special trip around to what had been dubbed the ‘Inner Circle’ and collect whatever bits and bobs needed washing. She viewed it as a way to thank everyone for their hard work, and seeing Josephine or Leliana light up when they realized they didn't need to scour or rinse things themselves that day…that was its own reward!

There appeared to be some sort of crowd in front of the chantry doors, but Etre didn't find that too odd. Ever since the Inquisition had been declared, there was often a small group of braver souls who ventured forth to read the writ Commander Cullen had nailed to the chantry door. What they relayed to their contemporaries was another matter entirely, and one that would doubtless lead to more misunderstandings as the days passed. 

Lady Trevelyan began to make her way through the crowd, abruptly finding herself alongside a bristling Templar who was facing down an equally furious mage. “Your kind killed the Most Holy!” The Templar was saying, the man's eyes all but ablaze with his wrath.

“Lies!” The mage exclaimed, brandishing his staff in a less-than-gentlemanly gesture at the Templar. “Your kind let her die!”

The Templar grasped the hilt of his sword, moving to draw the blade as he shouted, “shut your mouth, mage!” 

Etre slammed a hand down on the Templar's gauntlet, the woman grimly trapping his sword and sword-arm at his side. The Templar thrashed while the mage advanced, and then suddenly Commander Cullen appeared between the two men, arms outstretched to keep them apart. 

“Enough!” The Commander said sternly, not quite a yell, but loud enough that his voice carried over the hubbub.

“Knight-Captain–!” The Templar began to protest, and Etre watched a terrifying change seize the commander's features. The man's thunderous glower could have cowed the staunchest of souls, and it did so now. The Templar's arm went slack in Trevelyan's hold, but she did not release him all the same.

“That is not my title.” Commander Cullen fairly seethed as he addressed the subdued man through his teeth. “We are not Templars any longer.” He then turned to aim a warning finger at the mage who had retreated somewhat, the older man hunching his shoulders as the commander insisted, “we are all part of the Inquisition!”

“And what does that mean, exactly?” Another man's voice rang out and Commander Cullen's expression shifted from fury to an almost comical irritation as a familiar cleric sauntered his way up through the gaggle of Haven's faithful, mages and several Templars.

Etre recalled being warned about this man in particular, something about less than pure motivations? He certainly hadn't endeared himself to her during their previous meeting! Lord-Chancellor Roderick, a stumbling block of Chantry make.

“Back already, Chancellor? Haven't you done enough?” The commander asked flatly.

“I'm curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its ‘Herald’ will restore order as you've promised.” The chancellor said pompously, his tone indicating a total lack of curiosity. He wasn't even so much addressing the commander as he was the crowd, seemingly attempting to whip them into a frenzy.

Ah, Trevelyan realized, he thinks I'm a fraud. 

Commander Cullen's lip curled, pulling at the scar on his mouth as he muttered, “of course you are,” only just loud enough for the chancellor to hear. Then, raising his voice, he dismissed the uneasy crowd. “Back to your duties, all of you!”

The throngs thinned out, folk breaking off in groups and whispering amongst themselves. Etre felt the Templar shudder, the man mumbling a soft apology to her and then easing free of her hold. She watched him go a bit narrowly, but it appeared that he was sufficiently chastised, for he meekly took up a post by the chantry door and attempted to make himself invisible. 

Etre closed her eyes for a moment, praying for strength. “What started that, dare I ask?” She questioned the commander, who had crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet as if he sought to keep the chancellor out of the chantry.

“Mages and Templars were already at war. Now they're blaming each other for the Divine's death.” Commander Cullen responded grimly, still glaring at Roderick.

For whatever reason the older man didn't seem to cotton on to the bold hint the commander was giving him, interjecting his own opinion into the conversation. “Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order.”

“Who, you?” Cullen snapped, his extremely-limited patience obviously coming to an end. “Random clerics who weren't important enough to be at the Conclave?”

“The rebel Inquisition and its so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’? I think not!” The chancellor scoffed, giving Etre an unimpressed look. 

While people being…less-than-awed with her wasn't exactly a new experience (she was the youngest in a line of wildly more interesting and successful siblings, after all!), Etre still felt a bit of a sting at the older man's words. She was suddenly much younger, staring down at the muddy patch on a familiar rug in the family dining hall and willing herself with every fiber of her being not to cry as her mother listed off her latest faults in a dry and sardonic tone.

Without intending to, Etre began chewing her lower lip nervously, then tentatively addressed the chancellor, saying, “So far, you're the only one who's insisted that we can't work together.” 

“We might! If your Inquisition would recognize the Chantry's authority-”

Commander Cullen interrupted what promised to be a long-winded tirade with a blunt, “There is no authority until another Divine is chosen.” 

“In due time.” The chancellor stressed, looking a bit put-out over being cut off. “Andraste will be our guide, not some dazed wanderer on a mountainside.” 

I didn't ask to guide anyone! Trevelyan thought mutinously, certain that her expression betrayed her in that moment. The disrespect that Roderick had displayed, to her directly, was more than enough to raise her hackles. Herald of Andraste or not, there was no need for him to be so blisteringly rude. 

Remembering how her oldest brother would behave with certain…less favorable guests, Etre squared her shoulders and held the basket of cutlery and tankards against her chest, turning herself into a wall. Next, something to unsettle her opponent. “Commander?” The man did her the favor of briefly looking her way, one brow raised. “Remind me why you're allowing the chancellor to stay?” She asked sweetly.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Cullen's mouth, but before he could say anything Roderick once more butted in. “Clearly your Templar knows where to draw the line!” The chancellor huffed smugly.

Commander Cullen's arms tightened across his chest and Etre had to fight every instinct in her body to keep from stepping back. Cullen's glare alone spoke far more plainly than any man would in polite company exactly what he would do with Roderick's line. “He's toothless.” He spat, ignoring the older man's sputtering in reply to his audacity. “There's no point turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth.” Commander Cullen then sighed unhappily, “the chancellor's a good indicator of what to expect in Val Royeaux, however.”

Etre, now trying to get a better grasp of the situation, questioned, “How widespread is the violence between mages and Templars?” In what felt like another lifetime, she had been promised to the Templars. Much too late in life for her to have actually been of use, but her mother had seemed happy for the missive of acceptance. That being said, she hadn't had firsthand experience with the mage rebellion until her maneuvers in the Hinterlands, and if it was that bad here…

“Impossible to say.” Cullen answered curtly.

Chancellor Roderick protested, “Your organization flouting the Chantry's authority will not help matters!”

“With the Conclave destroyed,” Commander Cullen carried on pointedly over Roderick's complaint, “I imagine the war between mages and Templars has renewed. With interest.”

Trevelyan hesitated for a moment, then posed a question that had been on her mind for quite some time. “So the mages and Templars are fighting even though we don't know what really happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“Exactly why all this should be left to a new Divine!” The chancellor insisted. “If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so.”

“Or will be happy to use someone as a scapegoat,” Commander Cullen growled. Truthfully Etre hadn't even thought of that. What if somehow she was deemed guilty? Even if she hadn't committed a crime, who would believe her should she protest? Cassandra hadn't believed her!

“You think nobody cares about the truth?” For a moment, the chancellor genuinely seemed saddened, his voice softening. “We all grieve Justinia's loss.”

Mercilessly the commander retorted, “but you won't grieve if the Herald of Andraste is conveniently swept under a carpet.”

It was rare that anyone ever defended Etre. Her days up until joining the Inquisition were punctuated with being compared to others or being scolded for a lack of ambition, so this warm sensation in her chest was wildly unfamiliar. A frail sort of gratitude, even while the stubborn part of her balked at being grateful at all.

“I'll–I'll make sure they see reason in Val Royeaux.” She promised, attempting a confident smile. Was it a wince? It was probably a wince. Well, the attempt was made.

“I pray you're right.” Commander Cullen replied quietly, still continuing to glare at Roderick.

…

The meeting with the Templars in Val Royeaux had been an absolute mess, but this time at least it seemed to be no fault of the Herald's. Cullen had reread the reports and later missive from Knight-Templar Barris what felt like a hundred times, and questioned Cassandra in equal measure.

Then, he had to consider the words of Grand Enchanter Fiona! Meet us in Redcliffe. More mage trickery, to be certain. Bickering with Sister Leliana hadn't gotten him anywhere either. It was just all so…confusing. Lady Cassandra had been assured that the Lord Seeker would come to their side, but it seemed the man had suffered some sort of crisis of faith that had wholly turned him from the path of the Chantry. Bewildering. Not unheard of, Cullen knew all too well what could happen if one's faith wavered and the Chantry was much too glib with the power they held over their Templars, yet Cassandra seemed personally wounded by the man's dismissal–

This would get him nowhere. 

Perhaps…he could send word back to the Knight-Templar who had reached out. Former Templars had been joining their ranks for weeks, ever since the Conclave, and while Barris didn't strike him as a deserter per-se, it wouldn't hurt to reason with him. What harm was there in sending a polite missive?

If Lady Trevelyan would have her mages, it was his responsibility to ensure the safety of not only the mages, but the Inquisition as a whole. Abominations preyed on fear, chaos and the weak-willed. It would do their forces no good to acquire the assistance of the mages while dooming their cause in the long run.

Barris wrote back with startling speed. Indeed, if Cullen were a betting man he would have wagered that the Templar had been waiting by the door with his traveling satchel in hand.

I will not betray the Order, but I have many concerns I would raise to you were I permitted to attend a negotiation tabling. Our Lord Seeker has not been himself, as I mentioned previously, and I would seek your counsel as a senior member of the Order.

There are also strange tidings from Redcliffe and, by your order, I would discuss them in detail. 

In faith, Knight-Templar Barris. 

…

-Lady Etre strode out of the magister's portal and punched him squarely in the jaw.

Warden Blackwall's reports were always the driest, but they rarely held embellishments or unnecessary details, which was why Cullen valued them so much. This particular report, however, was only one piece of the puzzle, and what a puzzle it was! Trevelyan seemed, frankly, rattled by whatever had happened in Redcliffe, and while their new acquisition Dorian had been a wellspring of information, the whole endeavor was still infinitely confusing to Cullen.

Leliana had accepted Lady Trevelyan's frantic, somewhat-tremulous oral report with enviable ease, the spymaster nodding blithely along as though Tevinter magisters ripped holes in time every other day. Perhaps they did! In Tevinter, where such wild things belonged! To think that Redcliffe had been so close to disaster, if the Herald had not advocated for their mages so intently–

Not for the first time, Cullen wondered at the providence of it all. It grew harder every day for even the most skeptical to deny that there was a strange sense of purpose over the whole of the Inquisition. Some evenings it seemed to hang heavy as cooksmoke in the air, dogging their footsteps with every new choice made. 

“A great and terrible sense of destiny.” Varric had remarked, his wink lacking its usual humor. “I've written enough tragedies to know how this will end.”

Speaking of Varric, Cullen shuffled Blackwall's report to the side in favor of picking up Varric's. The dwarf, though frustratingly verbose, had an eye for inflection and tone that could be extremely valuable in the right circumstances.

-I've known a lot of mages, Curly, but I don't think I've ever wanted to punch any of them quite as much as Alexius. 

Cullen's brow furrowed at Varric's usual nickname for him, the commander sighing to himself. 

-We were received with an insultingly small amount of fanfare, and that magister's scheme was soon undone by his wriggly little son and our new friend Dorian. One moment, the Herald was on one end of the throne room with Dorian, but then Alexius pulled out a weird trinket, Sparkler did some kind of…magic to counter whatever Alexius was trying to do and poof! The Herald was on the other end of the room, punching Alexius in his fool face while Sparkler crowed. 

-I'll admit, the punch seemed a little out of character for Lady Trevelyan, but I gather things are a lot more complicated than, ‘they teleported a few feet and Etre lost her temper with the poncy magister’.

-She says they went forward in time and I guess there, a whole bunch of other things went badly. Real badly. End-of-the-world badly. I died, Leliana died, we all died…that kind of shit. Red lyrium shit. Bad shit, Commander.

Cullen tugged at the ends of his hair as he read and re-read the last paragraph. Red lyrium, something that he had relegated to a sort of bogeyman amongst disgraced Templars and surface-shocked dwarves, appeared to be coming to the forefront of this campaign. What true use it had the commander could not begin to surmise, but he had a suspicion that it would not be a resource of benevolent influence.

And normal lyrium is? that traitorous, hungry voice in his head rasped, its tone and cadence all too similar to the ghost of his past. And in an odd way it ought to be, for Samson's plummeting fall had been ugly, the twisted reminder of what every Templar could become if they hadn't the strength of will to endure their Chantry-instilled cravings. It was either that or go mad from the memories of the atrocities that they had witnessed, and Cullen was still uncertain of which fate was kinder.

To work, then. Sitting here pondering would hardly gain him new ground, he would need to speak to Trevelyan directly once more. This Elder One sounded like trouble.

…

The commander bade her sit across from him in the war room while he remained standing. Due to the sheaf of papers spread out in front of him and the late hour, Etre resigned herself to more questioning. 

“I've already told everything I recall to Leliana,” she began, attempting to save him some time. Josephine had once described Cullen to her as, “the man with a hammer to whom every problem resembles a nail”, and the observation seemed to be ringing true. Commander Cullen waved off Etre's words, his expression customarily grim, and the young woman sighed internally. 

“I know our spymaster has already plied you for what she deems is useful information, and I have also read the reports of you and your companions. I would have your firsthand remarks on a different portion of this…dark future you faced.” Cullen's posture was tense, either an echo of his Templar training or an uncharacteristically open display of the stress that must plague him daily. He tapped a finger down on a page of a report, seeming to highlight a certain paragraph. “Here, you mention the Grand Enchanter being somehow fused to a large growth of red lyrium. How exactly was she–Maker's breath Herald, are you well?”

Etre knew she must have gone pallid, she could nearly feel the blood draining from her face. “Oh, never better.” She said faintly. “The whole debacle in Redcliffe seems to have taken quite the toll on me, unfortunately, so forgive me if my answers are a little…brief.”

“Take the time you need, Lady Trevelyan.” Cullen replied stiffly. 

Etre took a bracing gulp of air, struggling to recall details her mind desperately wished to shy away from. “She was joined to the growth. It–grew out of her. Her eyes were…they had taken on some of the properties of the red lyrium. She–” the woman paused, closing her own eyes as she was flooded with nausea. “She was immobilized from the mass of the red lyrium, but not dead. Death would have been infinitely more kind than that fate, I am sure.” She glanced up at the commander's now-neutral expression. “Have you experienced the red lyrium growths up close, Commander?”

Cullen shook his head. “I was near a blade imbued with it, once.”

“It buzzes, it has this hideous humming crackle to it. It makes you feel like your bones are twitching beneath your skin. Varric said it makes his hair stand on end and mentioned his teeth itching, but that may be creative leeway.” Etre struggled to explain, gesturing with her hands on the table. “Like…like darkspawn. There is an unbearable wrongness to it, the sense that it just should not be.” 

Commander Cullen folded his arms over his chest, his vambraces clicking quietly against his breastplate. “What did Fiona say about this…Elder One?” His voice had quieted, the expression on his face troubled.

“She said he…or perhaps it, really, is more powerful than the Maker. Other than that, nothing.” Etre thought back, squinting at the wall as she tried to recall the smaller details. “The Varric in that dark future told me that the Elder One assassinated the empress and invaded the south with a demon army? Blackwall said much the same, but he added that the Inquisition crumpled and then mentioned something about anyone refusing to convert being killed. I am uncertain if what he meant by convert was ‘seed with red lyrium’. A literal conversion?”

The commander exhaled raggedly. “I have my own terrible suspicions, but no true confirmation of it.” He admitted. “Thank you for your time, Herald. I know that recalling such a trial is not easy, but I assure you the knowledge shall be put to good use.” 

When Etre looked up, Cullen had returned his attention to the reports in front of him. “I…” the woman paused, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes. How had she never noticed them before? “Can I get you something to eat from the canteen, perhaps?” She offered abruptly. “I know where the quartermaster has been stashing her pickled eggs.”

Cullen met her gaze, his confusion evident in the way he raised his eyebrows as if bidding her to continue. 

“You don't look well, Commander.” Etre said bluntly, reaching out to point at his face before she could think better of it.

Cullen grinned without humor, bracing his weight heavily on the table. “I am not well, you are correct, but regrettably that folk cure will do nothing to slake the appetite inside me.” He muttered cryptically. “Suffice it to say, thank you for your concern, but I fear it will become worse before it dares to become better.” Etre, thoroughly baffled, blinked at the commander and awkwardly returned her hand to her lap. “Besides,” Cullen continued on to point out, “it wouldn't do for the men to see their blessed Herald fetching me a bowl of evening stew and preserved eggs like a common camp runner.”

“I am happy to do it, Commander!” Evidently her mouth was getting away from her tonight, but she meant it all the same. “You are doing so much for us, for the mages–allowing them to feel protected without feeling watched-!” 

“Ah, well, that's more to do with our lacking manpower than any true attempt at delicacy on my behalf.” His smirk was tight-lipped. “I am not known to be so subtle. After what transpired in Ferelden-” Cullen halted abruptly, the man seeming irritated with himself. “I should allow you to return to your duties, Herald. Forgive me for once more wasting your time.”

“I'll fetch you a bowl of stew, then. Perhaps some of Flissa's thick-crust bread?” Without waiting for him to finish sputtering out another denial, Etre all but ran from the War Room.

Trevelyan soon returned to the chantry balancing a bowl of stew, a piece of thick bread and two small pickled eggs on a trencher. She cursed herself internally as she struggled to open the chapel door with a combination of two fingers on her right hand and her elbow, why hadn't she maneuvered the tray better! She ought to have put it in the crook of her elbow instead of holding it in her hands–

Vivienne interrupted her mental quandary on her way back to Cullen through the chantry, the mage apologizing for said interruption but soldiering onward rapidly. “If Fiona and her malcontents are joining us as allies, we need to be prepared. Abominations are inevitable.” The woman said softly. “Cullen doesn't have enough Templars to handle incidents. Some of the rank and file need to be trained.”

Malcontents? Etre recalled the dark future with an internal shudder, certain that her expression betrayed her. “The last thing we need are abominations running amok.” She agreed, finally shifting the trencher to the crook of her elbow when the heat of the stew began to burn the heel of her palm.

“I knew you would have a proper grasp of the situation.” Vivienne's smile was tight. “I'll have a word with Cullen. We are reliant on his people absolutely. There has never been a greater threat to mages than the Breach. Until it is closed, no one is safe.”

Etre's agreeable mood began to fade as she realized why Madame de Fer was actually approaching her. And Cullen, not Commander Cullen? Perhaps the mage was better associated with the commander than Etre had realized. It would make sense that they would be on closer terms due to Vivienne's high-ranking position and her familiarity with Templars. Add to that her obvious misgivings about the rebel mages…“You have a low opinion of your fellow mages.” Etre didn't mean for it to sound so rude, perhaps she ought to have thought on the phrasing before saying anything! Clearly tonight was not the night for manners.

Vivienne took a moment to straighten out her skirts primly. “It's not so much an opinion as grasping the obvious.” She replied, as if they were discussing the weather. The sky is blue, the rebel mages are a threat. “Magic is dangerous, just as fire is dangerous. Anyone who forgets this truth gets burned.”

Etre had to acknowledge the other woman's superior experience in this field, if grudgingly. Unfortunately, the Herald had no real insight into actually wielding magic and the trouble that it could bring, aside from witnessing the effects of it after the fact. “You're right, of course, but I feel that Templars are a poor solution.” Trevelyan said carefully, inclining her head. “I must admit to my own shortcomings in this instance, Madame de Fer, as I'm sure you're all too aware. I understand that mages like yourself are the true experts here. I am not a mage, I have never been secured in a Circle, and as such, to me, it seems…unreasonable.”

The mage before her was silent for a moment. Etre wondered if she had offended her with her observations. Vivienne didn't sound upset when next she spoke, but Etre knew that she had barely scratched the surface on the bounds of the iron control the First Enchanter exerted over her entire being. “The Templars are but men, my dear, and all men are flawed. That some fail does not mean that none should try.” She said softly. “The fact remains that there is no cure for an abomination except death. Someone must strike the killing blow.” Vivienne shrugged elegantly. “Who shall lower the blade if not a Templar?” 

“Why not accompany me, if you can spare the time? We will broach this topic with the commander.” Etre nearly sloshed some of the soup out of the bowl with a gesture to indicate Vivienne should come along. The mage did indeed follow after her, though she seemed a little stunned.

“You bring the commander his food? My dear, you are the Herald of Andraste.”

“Oh, how foolish of me! You are right, of course. Andraste never assisted anyone for any reason.” Etre laughed, hoping the jest wasn't too bold. 

“I simply presumed there were more dire matters for you to attend to!” Vivienne protested as Trevelyan shoved open the door to the war room with the toe of her boot. “Forgive me, I did not mean to imply that-”

“Herald! I'd told you–ah, Madame de Fer.” Cullen's outburst was quickly cut short, the man obviously unwilling to berate Etre in front of such illustrious company. Cheerily Etre passed him over the trencher of stew, bread and eggs, then propped herself up on a corner of the table and gave Vivienne an expectant look.

The First Enchanter sighed, once more adjusting her skirts. Commander Cullen for his part straightened up, his shoulders back and hands clasped behind him. Templar.

“I was simply discussing with our dear Herald the necessity of training more Templars, Commander.” Vivienne's tone had changed to a softer, sweeter one. She was wheedling, Etre realized abruptly. Commander Cullen had been a Templar, and there was no doubt that Vivienne knew exactly how to speak to a Templar to secure whatever she desired. It was a touch admirable, even if it made Etre wonder on the terms of their own acquaintance.

Cullen nodded in agreement, the man looking weary. “Believe me, I understand that all too well. I had been considering having Barris begin scouting from our ranks, but I had wished to discuss it with the Herald first. That and I am concerned about our numbers being too low to sustain the bulk of our soldiers. We will need more volunteers, perhaps clerics from the Chantry.”

“Of course, my dear. Whatever you believe is best. We mages must always defer to the judgement of our Templars.” Vivienne agreed, delicately adjusting a cuff on her slender wrist. 

Etre had seen such a move countless times from her peers; it indicated that the person sought to draw attention to how fine-boned she was. Gaze upon my wrist! I am so very fragile and need protecting, I am spun glass and porcelain, Etre could still hear her mother's instructions as the woman fought desperately to pass along such mannerisms to her. Without intending to, Etre furrowed her brow. It only made sense that Madame Vivienne would employ such subtle tactics, her skill in the Game was well known– 

Vivienne laid her hand gently upon Cullen's arm, and then took her leave without another word.

Commander Cullen blinked and shook his head with a heavy sigh once the door had closed behind her. He fairly radiated discomfort. “I take it you do not care for our First Enchanter?” Etre remarked.

Cullen, however, looked surprised. “What? No, whatever gave you that idea?”

“Well, you just…nevermind, perhaps I presume too much.”

“I assure you, I have no quarrel with Madame Vivienne.” The commander insisted staunchly. “She is simply…very traditional. Her views on Templars are refreshing, but it is still disconcerting to not be disliked by a mage on principle.” He explained, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Unfortunately for Madame de Fer, I am not some young pup Templar any longer to be swayed by a lovely Circle mage's fleeting, forbidden touch.”

“Ah, I see.” Etre felt a bit odd about the whole thing. Lovely, forbidden. “Is it that way for all Templars and mages? Are the Circles truly so strict?”

“It is not the Circles,” Cullen stressed. “I may only speak for the Templars, but we are supposed to maintain a certain distance from our charges. If a mage is possessed or uses blood magic, you must act quickly, without hesitation. Your judgement cannot be clouded.” He sounded grave, his tone befitting the topic. “Of course, ignoring one another does nothing to foster understanding, but Templars swear oaths with the knowledge that they may need to strike down the most docile-appearing of mages. It is difficult to maintain even the barest friendliness, knowing such a terrible price may be exacted at a moment’s notice.”

It saddened Etre to think of it. Two groups, locked in such close proximity but never truly intermingling, just rotating around one another in an uneasy dance. She pictured a young Cullen and Vivienne, the two of them exchanging vague pleasantries and fleeting niceties, all the while wondering if today would be the day one would kill the other…

Well, if the commander was in such an expansive mood, who was she to waste the opportunity? “I have heard that Templar vows do not allow for personal gain.” Etre mused, hoping that the man would at least pick at the stew soon. What if it grew cold before he had the opportunity to enjoy it?

“That is correct.” Cullen nodded, absently scooping up one of the pickled eggs and taking the smallest bite out of it imaginable. After he swallowed, he carried on, “Templars are not to seek wealth or acknowledgement. Our lives belong to the Maker and the path we have chosen.”

“What of advancements in rank? Those are not considered acknowledgement?" 

“They are to come naturally through your exemplary deeds in service. Anything else would encourage the temptation of underhanded dealings, or so we are told.” Cullen rolled his eyes. “I cannot say that there is no corruption amongst the Templars, that would be a bald-faced lie. Promotions were wielded just as we were: with intent. To be truthful on the matter, nearly everything in the Order was rife with temptations. From something as foolish as taking coin to smuggle a letter, or something so forbidden as seizing a mage's phylactery without their consent, there was this constant imbalance of power that could be…alluring to certain types.”

“Are Templars supposed to avoid all temptations?” Etre laughed a little. “It must be very difficult to avoid the physical ones, I imagine. So many people in such close proximity, day in and day out! Many folk regard chastity or celibacy to be the utmost in terms of piety, it boggles the mind to consider all these poor souls just trying to avoid eye contact with one another.”

Cullen chuckled ruefully, adjusting his breastplate. “There was no way to ever truly avoid such interactions, but we were always encouraged to keep it to a strictly minimal amount of politeness. Some Templars chose to give up more to prove their devotion, but it is not required.” 

“Did you ever take on an oath such as that?” The commander hesitated and, after a moment, it dawned on Etre what she had asked him. Panicking, she rushed to clarify, “I-I meant in terms of simply giving up more, of course! Did you refuse sweets at dinner when they were presented? Or perhaps you spent your days in prayerful silence?”

Cullen's voice was soft when he answered her, and his answer was…strange. “I have taken no such vows.” The commander seemed to only then remember the stew she had fetched for him, the man scolding her roundly and sending her off to her lone tent.

I have taken no such vows. Did he speak in regards to the things she had suggested, or to the things she had mentioned before? Physical temptations. Etre blew a strand of hair out of her face, thoroughly irritated. Now was hardly the time for her to indulge in such childish antics! Perhaps she had only sought something to distract her from the horror of recalling Redcliffe's castle and what had transpired there. 

There was a hole in the sky for her to worry about. A little focus could do her some good!

…

“Someone needs to stay here and give orders.” 

His excuse, for it could be none other than that, was what secured Cullen his place during their attempt to close the Breach once more. In truth, the presence of so many mages in one condensed location had him in cold sweats. He found himself reaching for tools that he no longer kept on his person multiple times that day, his hand ungracefully fumbling with the hilt of his sword in an effort to mask the motion.

Cassandra at least had taken pity on him, the woman co-signing placing the pavilion he had wished to organize the troops from a fair distance back from the Breach (and the mages). Solas seemed to suspect something, the elf giving him a knowing look that made Cullen long to hide beneath a rock. 

This close to the main wound in the sky the Herald's eyes took on a glassy green sheen, giving her whole face a ghoulish appearance that many of the less-experienced mages found unsettling. That was nothing compared to the discomfort Lady Trevelyan obviously felt due to her proximity to the Breach, her fingers leaving divots in the leather joints of her gambeson as she paced in front of Cullen's stratagem. 

“We will send runners as soon as there is word. Whether success or failure, any word.” The woman informed him firmly. “I know not what will happen. Not even Solas knows what may happen. Not to the Breach, not to me…there will be so much power, I fear my body may not be able to hold itself together.” 

“Do your best to return to us, Herald.” Cullen reminded her solemnly, “This is only the chiefest problem. Lesser rifts continue to plague Thedas, but, Maker willing, this will cut off the head.”

“Small troubles!” She laughed nervously, turning away from him once more. 

Commander Cullen stood with considerable effort to catch her arm on her way by, his armor seeming impossibly heavy every time he moved. “You do yourself a disservice, Herald.” The commander snapped, very nearly losing his patience with her dismissive attitude. That knee-jerk judgement was quickly overcome with sympathy when he noted the glowing tears she was blinking away. The commander paused for a moment to master himself, forcing his hold to loosen to something a bit more casual. In truth, he oughtn't dare lay a hand on her at all! She was the Herald of Andraste, and he…

He was nothing but a former Templar, and not even a useful one at that! Cullen had never felt more like a fool for refusing to take lyrium than in that moment, when the reality of the situation came crashing down upon his shoulders. What could he even offer should things go wrong at the Breach? What precious little knowledge he had drilled into the soldiers…multitudes of functional Templars had joined the Inquisition's ranks since its formation, surely one of them would have stepped into a leadership role! Barris, certainly, the Knight-Templar showed such promise…

Had Cassandra made the wrong choice when she asked him to command the Inquisition's forces? Worse still, had she made the wrong choice to encourage him in his efforts to not take lyrium?

Impossible. Lady Cassandra has never been wrong in her life, the commander thought wryly, giving Lady Trevelyan's arm a gentle squeeze before releasing her. “We are with you, as ever.” He assured her. “Though it may feel as though you walk alone, the Inquisition is with you.” 

Lady Trevelyan looked down, clearly unable to bring herself to meet his gaze. Cullen cleared his throat awkwardly, casting around for some other certainty he could extend to her, something to shore up her evidently-wavering resolve. 

The familiar passage came to mind, the commander recalling those long hours of training, meditating on candle flames and reciting the Chant of Light. It was a strange sort of comfort to have such things memorized, the knowledge only proving its worth in times of strife and chaos. “I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond, for there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light,” Cullen quoted the popular canticle softly, his voice lilting a bit on habit as he spoke, “and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

“I hope you're right.” The Herald breathed, her tone one of resignation. “I fear the Chant has been further from my mind than it ought to be, given my title.” Her smile was weak, but present all the same. “I…thank you for reminding me of my good fortune, Commander.”

Cullen blinked, too stunned to school his expression into something polite. Good fortune?

Lady Trevelyan obviously saw the confused look on his face for she hurried to explain, “because I can do something about what threatens us all! I am not helpless, even though it feels that way sometimes.” She smiled more brightly now, a few glowing tears still squeezing out at the corners of her eyes. “Truthfully, I am lucky to be alive. I am the luckiest woman alive! I can take heart in that knowledge, if nothing else will do.” The Herald of Andraste clasped his vambrace in a soldier's greeting, her unnatural gaze turning to steely surety. “Our runners shall bear good news, Commander. Prepare for it!”

The commander narrowed his eyes and nodded sternly, placing his free hand over her gauntlet. “I expect no less from you, Herald!”

…

The return from the Breach (or where it had once stood) was slow, but triumphant. Etre hadn't noticed how exhausted she was until Sister Leliana meandered over to her, the spymaster slipping an arm beneath her shoulders to effortlessly support her weight. 

“You have done well, Herald. Our commander is no doubt most pleased with the news from our messengers!” The older woman praised, making Etre flush a little.

“I can hardly take the credit!” Trevelyan protested, “without the mages and everyone else working together-”

“A little embellishment could serve you better than humility, especially at court.” 

“Maker!” Etre's throat felt dry as sand when she laughed in incredulity. “You wouldn't release me into that pit of vipers, would you? They'd eat me alive and split my bones for the marrow.”

“Ah, and what a feast it would be!” Leliana's teasing tone heartened her somewhat, but the Herald still made a mental reminder to chant several extra verses in a bid to keep the spymaster's favor. The Great Game held no great allure for her, yet she had to respect the skill of those who played with such fervor!

They rounded the last curve before the bridge and Leliana departed, leaving Trevelyan to continue her way back to Haven amongst the throngs of dazed, weary mages and on-edge Templars. Runners continued up and down the pack, bringing news to the forward ranks and assurance to the rear guard. A feast was being threatened back at Haven, and music as well! Which sounded wonderful but she was so tired–

Her stomach rumbled, making her grimace. Perhaps sleep could wait until after the feast? 

A hand clapped her on her pauldron and she turned, startled. It was Commander Cullen, the normally-severe man practically beaming down at her. Etre felt the flush return to her cheeks with a vengeance. Oh certainly, the commander had always had a handsome visage, but he had been unapproachable, polite without overstepping, no true warmth in his speech except for a rare moment of praise here or there. 

This, however…well, she would simply have to continue producing results in order to secure more enchanting displays of high spirits!

“I could scarce believe it!” The commander was exclaiming. Etre barely registered his words, too taken by the way his brown eyes were warmed to amber as the last rays of sunlight crested the hilltop behind her. “I suppose I should have had faith all the same. After all, you said it would be good news. Forgive my momentary doubt, Lady Trevelyan.” He apologized with a little half bow.

“I fear I may begin to disappoint, now that the largest rift has been sealed.” Etre said in faux-apology, getting a laugh out of him. A real laugh, a genuine one! She wasn't sure why that occurrence felt more miraculous than being able to calm the maelstrom in the sky. Obviously it was a day of firsts. 

“Take the evening, Lady Trevelyan. I'm certain that come morning, more important matters will require our attention once more.” Commander Cullen pressed a healing draught into her grasp, then departed to speak with Knight-Templars Grist and Barris. The passing of the draught seemed almost like a habitual motion, an offhand exchange he had done a thousand times before. Well if he was a Templar, Etre reasoned, closing her fingers around the flask and tucking it into her hip pouch. It stands to reason, since mages need so much lyrium…and Templars, too! Only natural for him to pass a bottle over, regardless of the aid of its contents. She smiled softly to herself, a little entertained by the thought of the commander treating her like one of his mage charges. 

…

The evening's feasting and revelry was well underway when Cullen received the word from a panicked, out-of-breath watchman. 

“An enormous force of troops, making their way towards Haven! They approach from beyond the mountains, and they bear no colors or standard!” The man gasped, wiping some sweat from his face beneath his helm's padding. “My orders, Commander?”

The commander bounded to his feet, nearly overturning the low table in his haste. “Get to the belfry, sound the alarm!” He barked at a gaggle of nearby soldiers, many of them bareheaded and half in their cups. His heart sank at their sluggish response and the commander rushed off with the watchman in tow, resigned to being the one to raise the alarm. 

“Forces approaching! To arms!” The watchguard yelled as they ran through the masses of tipsy men and women. Cullen heard panic begin to build, the commander forcing himself to ignore the heightening noise and distress of the civilians and troops around him.

It felt like far too long had passed before he finally heard the bell ringing out overhead. “To arms, Inquisition, to arms!” Cullen shouted, gesturing at the areas where he needed troops to marshal themselves. “I need three to four mages to every Templar! Templars, see to your charges! Footsoldiers, muster to the sides! Pikemen and shields, the fore!”

“What has happened, Commander?” Lady Cassandra demanded once they met at the gate, Lady Trevelyan following listlessly behind her. The poor Herald's color was high in her cheeks from drink and her eyes were unfocused even now. Josephine came rushing up alongside the commander, her skirts rumpled from the mad dash.

Cullen gestured beyond the gate. “One watchguard reporting. It's a massive force, the bulk over the mountain.”

“Under whose banner?” Ambassador Montilyet demanded, the woman no doubt ready to summon every favor she could to ensure this fracas did not occur. 

“None.” Cullen replied shortly.

“None?!”

A loud bang! at the gate interrupted their exchange, and from outside came a panicked voice which stated, “I can't come in unless you open!” 

Lady Trevelyan was the only one who lurched into action at the voice's words, the woman weaving past one of the guardsmen to jam her shoulder against the crossbar and shove it up a hair, allowing one side of the gate to begin swinging open. Cullen barely caught sight of a towering warrior in Tevinter armor through the slowly-widening gap in the gate before Lady Trevelyan slipped beneath the bar.

Damn it, Trevelyan! Cullen cursed internally, already drawing his sword as the crossbeam clattered to the ground. Josephine cried out in alarm, begging the Herald to turn back, but Lady Trevelyan was assuredly not sober and continued staunchly on, marching towards the enormous brute without so much as a blasted eating knife on her person to defend herself with. 

Cassandra was abruptly at Cullen's side, the woman elbowing open the other gate with barely a grunt of exertion, loosing the two of them on the surrounding grounds of Haven in hot pursuit of their tipsy Herald. “We must stop her, she will be killed!” Cassandra exclaimed.

Wildly the commander cast around for an idea, something to keep Trevelyan where she was (still practically within spitting distance of that lumbering creature). “Halt!” He roared in the stern tone he used on misbehaving recruits. Cullen was torn between gratitude and bemusement when the Herald obeyed immediately, her posture suddenly snapping to attention as she seemed to realize where she was and what was rapidly approaching with a greataxe.

And then the Tevinter warrior toppled with a gurgle, the loss of his large form revealing his killer. Cullen was stunned, for the person holding the blade that had felled that warrior was so waifishly thin it bordered on concerning. Indeed, the boy looked like he had yet to grow into his eyes, they seemed too enormous for his face. But beneath the brim of his truly ridiculous hat, everything looked a bit off-kilter. 

“I'm Cole!” The boy was obviously frantic, his voice cracking when he addressed the Herald. “I came to warn you, to help! People are coming to hurt you!” He paused, glancing down at the several bodies scattered on the ground around him. “You probably already know.”

“What is this, what's going on?” Lady Trevelyan asked, now seeming as though she was coming back to her senses. Clearly the bracing air of the outer wall had done her some good, to say nothing of having the life startled out of her by the Commander's shouted order.

Cole's next words sent a chill down Cullen's spine, both their composition and the certainty he spoke them with putting the commander on his proverbial back foot. “The Templars come to kill you,” the boy said in a dispassionate tone, wiping his dagger off on his breeches.

“Templars?!” Cullen asked sharply, confused and reeling at this news. “Is this the Order's response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

Cole continued to speak to the Herald as though Cullen wasn't even there. “The red templars went to the Elder One. You know him?” Lady Trevelyan shook her head. “He knows you. You took his mages.” Cole pointed off over the nearby rise. “There.”

The Elder One. Andraste preserve me, what the Herald learned in Redcliffe–

To Cullen's horror he recognized the man who stood atop the hill, and for one agonizing moment he feared he was slipping into a lyrium withdrawal hallucination. Why on earth was Samson brandishing Meredith's grim weapon, standing proud and tall alongside some gnarled creature that looked as if it had been shambolically assembled with red lyrium and darkspawn remains? “I know that man,” the commander finally managed to say, “but this…Elder One…” he trailed off, furrowing his brow. 

A demon army, the assassination of Celene and the invasion of the south.

Cole reiterated ominously, “He's very angry that you took his mages.”

“Orders, Commander?” Blackwall! When the blazes had he arrived?! Alongside him were also Dorian and Sera, the Tevinter man and elven archer staring wide-eyed at the slow-moving horde. 

Cullen forced himself to inhale deeply, the cold night air assuring him that no, this was no lyrium-addled madness. This was stark reality, and their men would need instruction. 

At his elbow, Lady Trevelyan pleaded, “Commander, give me a plan, anything!” 

“Perhaps a weapon would be better suited first, my lady.” Blackwall drawled, raising an eyebrow before scooping up the Venatori's discarded greataxe and handing it over to her. “It will have to do, there's no time to retrieve your preferred weapon.”

“This thing feels light as a feather after my maul!” Lady Trevelyan's laugh was near-hysterical, a high, mirthless shriek of a sound. If Cullen didn't think of something quickly, he knew this battle would dissolve into chaos and they would have no hope at all! But the enemy numbers were soul-crushing, the sheer amount of them blackening the moonlit snow with their passage. 

Think, Rutherford! 

“Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle.” He gestured upwards at one of their trebuchets. “Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can!” He turned on his heel, facing the gate once more. There stood the troops in formation, and behind them, his Templars with their mages. “Mages! You-” The words caught in his throat momentarily, the man managing to continue with some difficulty, “you have sanction to engage them! That dark-haired man astride the hill is Samson, he will not make it easy!” The commander brandished his sword, thrusting it towards the sky as he shouted, “Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!” 

Emboldened by his words, their earlier success at the Breach, too much drink or perhaps a combination of all three, the troops marched forward in an orderly manner to meet the approaching tide. Cullen could see the fear in their eyes however, and his heart sank. They simply did not know enough and now the enemy was at their doorstep.

“That trebuchet–no that one!” Sera was dragging at Lady Trevelyan's arm, pulling her in the direction of the other side of Haven. “We sling a boulder at the mountain, yeah? Topple it over on them, bury the cocky shites.”

“Blackwall and I will clear you a path, but if you get yourself killed, don't say I didn't warn you.” Dorian's smile was a little less snide than usual, and the man gave Cullen a light rap on the pauldron as he passed by. “Good of you to let the mages off their leash, Rutherford. I knew I liked you.” 

“Pray that we all live long enough for me to regret such a choice,” Cullen muttered. “Now go!”

…

To think, mere moments before Etre had been asleep in her cups, slumped over on the banquet table with a full stomach. When Lady Cassandra had seized her arm and hauled her upright Etre had simply followed obediently, assuming that she was being dragged into yet another rousing round of capering across the chantry's floor, rubbing at her bleary eyes and trying hard to focus through the haze of drink. 

She still couldn't quite recall how she got outside the walls of Haven, all she could remember was the voice commanding her to halt! striking her like a thunderclap of clarity. It was not, in fact, the voice of the Maker from on high, but Commander Cullen, who had shouted the order so forcefully it jolted Etre to full wakefulness.

Maker's breath, it was cold! The woman looked up and around, bewildered, and before her stood an enormous warrior in Tevinter armor. Instinctively Etre reached back for her maul, but of course she came away empty-handed. It had been a feast, a time of celebration, of what use was her maul at such an event? She was lucky she still wore her armor! She adjusted her stance, still a bit unsteady, raising her arm as a shield and bracing as she prepared for whatever blow would fall.

A blur of details followed. A new ally, a new path forwards, trebuchets, Sera hauling at her shoulder with all her strength in order to get her to obey–

The trebuchet worked as planned, a majority of that terrible army handily buried beneath a slide of rock and snow. Indeed, the troops were still cheering in victory when a fiendish roar echoed across the frozen lake. Perhaps it was only to be expected that an enemy so evidently powerful as this would have more than one method of attack, but none of them could have anticipated a dragon!

At least, the thing that decimated the trebuchet was dragon shaped, what little could be seen in the poor visibility. And it spewed fire, of a sort! Some dragons did that, right?

Blackwall seized her breastplate's shoulder strap, jerking her back from the beast's next gout of flames. “Herald, have a bloody care, would you?!” The man shouted.

“I fear all the celebrating earlier has me in less than fine shape!” Etre retorted, getting a grim chuckle out of the bearded warrior. “We should regroup! The chantry will have to do, it's mostly stone.”

“Aye, with you. Dorian! See to Sera, she's already biting off more than she can chew!”

“Must I?” The mage snarked without malice, already twirling his staff in place for his next attack. 

“Keep those red templars at the wall as long as you can!” Etre yelled, her attention now shifting to the spreading flames. “If it's no longer a viable position, retreat.”

“We'll see, Herald!” Sera grunted, and Etre was struck by a wretched flashback of Leliana's sunken eyes in that dark future when she had said ‘you have as much time as I have arrows.’

“Please,” Etre's voice cracked, and Sera gave her a confused look before nodding slowly. The Herald strode away, catching Iron Bull's attention with a wave. “Chargers, search collapsed buildings for survivors!” She ordered, pushing down her discomfort over actually issuing commands. “We fall back to the chantry! Inquisition, we fall back-”

With a trumpeting bellow, a behemoth formed almost exclusively of red lyrium came lumbering up the hillside, its footsteps dogged by fireballs and arrows to no avail.

“Maker's balls!” Blackwall swore, his frustration evident. “Is there nothing you bastards won't throw into our path? Now you've got the bloody rocks fighting us!”

“My kingdom for my maul!” Etre bemoaned, readying her scavenged greataxe. 

…

Cullen had to force himself not to scan the faces of the red templars he had slain. He knew the knowledge would simply cause him added suffering, and he thought longingly of his bulky shield and helm. At least with that, he could have avoided eye contact for a bit longer, could have fended off the agonizing moments of recognition before his blade inevitably struck true.

The red templars all bore the same stilted movements, as if every step caused them pain. He supposed that would make sense; whatever the red lyrium was, Cullen doubted it was beneficial to one's health. Maker, normal lyrium would burn the mind out of you if you took it long enough! Even with their slowed motions, however, the red templars seemed to possess some monstrous strength. Commander Cullen found their blows limb-deadening if he attempted to parry and so he simply ceased to do so, instead doing his best to move outside their range of attack. 

Red lyrium increases one's physical prowess at the cost of speed, perhaps? In exchange for pain, power. Cullen grimaced. It all sounded like a wretched existence.

And then he spotted it scrambling towards him. Some…some thing, not a demon, not a human, Maker, what was it?! It moved on two legs, it was hunched, back stretched and misshapen in a terrible mixture of broken, pallid skin and crimson crystalline growths– 

Cullen fought down a horrified surge of bile in his throat as he realized the thing had once been human, it still wore a Templar helm perched between the red spikes on its shoulders, Maker no, please! His prayers unanswered as ever, the creature lunged forward with a gurgling wail of agony, one spiked limb raised high in a makeshift club. 

The commander barely managed to deflect the blow in time, his sword arm going dead to the elbow and the blade clattering to the ground when his grip slacked. The…horror, whatever it was, the once-Templar thing, squealed at him in a feral noise of animal rage before a blast of frost halted its motion in place. Solas’ staff struck the middle of the ice, shattering the creature where it stood. “Commander, you have dropped your sword.” The mage observed, his tone one of mild disapproval. There wasn't so much as a blood spatter on his garments, the elf looking fresh as a crystal grace bloom. 

Cullen was suddenly a bit self-conscious, and he wondered at the idea that he even had the mental space to feel that at this moment. 

Solas…well, the only way to really describe his motion was floating, and so off he floated towards a burning building. “The Herald wishes for us to muster at the chantry,” he called over his shoulder to Cullen, then gestured at the building with a wry smile. “Of course, we are also instructed to rescue those that we can from the red templars’ wrath.”

Of course.

Cullen scowled. “At this point, just make them work for it.” Solas nodded sagely in agreement, his own visage smooth as glass. 

Flexing his wrist and shaking out his hand to alleviate some of the numbness, the commander scooped up his sword and continued up the hill towards Haven's chantry. He could barely see the entrance, but there seemed to be too many bodies swirling around it for there to be no opposition involved. 

The boy, Cole, moved with a strange, inexperienced lethality. It was as though his body couldn't keep up with what he wanted it to do, but yet he was keeping three of the red templars at bay. Time and time again when they went to land a killing blow, he simply wasn't there. Cullen couldn't trust his eyes amongst the smoke of the burning pilgrimage and so he put it from his mind, dedicating himself to striking down the enemy before they realized his approach.

“There, his knee is weak,” he heard Cole muttering to himself before the thin young man dropped to a crouch, the pommel of his dagger snapping out to shatter the poleyn of one of the red templars. The warrior stumbled, unbalanced, and Cullen struck with a strange sort of mercy. “He helps in the slaughter, mind screaming, friend or foe, who am I?” Cole's voice remained flat, wholly lacking in any sort of affect. As though he wasn't still trapped between two red templars and the chantry door. 

The commander chose to ignore the strange boy for the time being, instead focusing on eliminating the red templars. With them gone, the door could be opened and they could offer refuge to–

“The red burns in my veins, hot, so hot like a fever, am I dying, I don't want to die, the Elder One said I wouldn't,” Cole continued in a monotone, driving his blade upwards beneath the chin of the red templar's helm and offering them a swift end. Cullen cut down the final warrior and Cole fixed him with a penetrating look. “You don't want to.”

“I will do what needs to be done. As shall we all.” The commander answered curtly, then began hammering on the door. “Let us in, Roderick! The denizens of Haven seek shelter!” He shouted.

“He tried to stop a templar,” Cole warned as the doors creaked outward. “The blade went deep. He is going to die.” His words were proved true as a moment later Chancellor Roderick appeared by the slow-opening door, and the man looked significantly worse for the wear. He clutched at a wound in his stomach, his normally snow-white vestments stained with blood. 

“Maker's breath, Roderick.” The commander said helplessly. For being such a hellion to endure the presence of, Cullen still felt deep pity for him. To devote your life to something, only to have none of it matter in the end–!

“I will be at His side soon enough, and I'll thank you not to rush me.” The older man choked out, then raised his voice. “Keep going, Inquisition! The Chantry is your shelter!”

Cullen spotted a small band coming up the steps as another fiery blast from that infernal dragon rocked the ground, leveling several structures with ease. His heart sank and he rushed forward once more, sword at the ready to ward off pursuit. 

Evidently he needn't have bothered. As Cullen came upon the rear of the group, he watched the Herald bat away a red templar with the flat of that Tevinter greataxe. The woman was covered in blood, her eyes wild as she whirled with the axe like it was weightless and slammed the other combatant to the ground with the deafening creak of abused metal. “You will not touch them!” she yelled fiercely, tearing the blade free from the red templar's chest and then turning it on the next assailant who dared to approach. 

…And Andraste, dressed in cloth of starlight and armored in moonlight, stood before him, and he was afraid.

Certainty struck Cullen anew, Herald of Andraste. Weariness fleeing from his form, the commander bolted to her side. Between his sword and her axe, the task was gruesome but quick. Once their first group had reached Haven's chantry, Lady Trevelyan wordlessly turned and strode back out, hunching slightly over her axe. 

“There will be more.” She said hoarsely, whether to Cullen or herself the man could not be sure. “Everyone gets to the chantry safely. As long as I have breath in my body, everyone.”

“With you, Herald.” The commander said in reply. 

“Thank you, Commander.”

They would all die, surely, and they would make these bastards labor for it. It was a cold comfort, yet worthy enough to suit his needs. 

The commander lost track of the number of Venatori and red templars they slew, the whole affair blurring into a bloody haze in his memory. Sharp armor gleaming in fitful firelight, red crystal shards arcing through the air from the point of impact, Trevelyan at his back and red templars and Tevinters all around…at some point Lady Cassandra joined them, and Cullen was grateful for her shield if nothing else.

Grim work, but he had done worse. Judging from the stoney set of Cassandra's jaw, she thought much the same.

Finally it seemed as though they had shepherded their last gaggle of civilians, and the three of them retreated to the chantry to bolt its doors. Once inside the Herald bent double, bracing her hands on her knees as she coughed and panted for air. The smoke outside had been so thick in certain areas, Cullen was impressed that Trevelyan hadn't succumbed to it. 

“Well fought, Herald.” Cassandra murmured. Trevelyan just nodded, the woman clearly weary. 

After taking another moment to assess their options, the whole affair looked dire to say the least. The commander wracked his mind for some sort of positive, something to bring to Trevelyan that might save them, but he couldn't seem to muster anything up. He said as much to the Herald, carefully picking his words while refusing to soften the reality of their standing. “Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.” 

“I've seen an archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.” Cole offered from Roderick's side. Cullen watched as both Solas and Vivienne shot the strange boy looks of interest and wariness, respectively.

Frankly however, Commander Cullen didn't give a damn. “I don't care what it looks like,” he snarled, “it has cut a path for that army. They'll kill everyone in Haven!”

Cole shook his head, nearly catching Chancellor Roderick with the broad brim of his hat. “The Elder One doesn't care about the village. He only wants the Herald.”

“If it will save these people, he can have me!” Lady Trevelyan said sharply. For some reason Cullen found himself feeling as though he had swallowed a boulder, a terrible weight settling into his stomach. “I know damn well my life isn't worth half this amount of trouble!”

“It won't,” Cole murmured, his voice soft and eyes full of sorrow. “He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he'll crush them–kill them anyway. I don't like him.”

“You don't like-?” Cullen cut himself off in frustration. He would only waste his breath. The man turned his attention back to Trevelyan, “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

“We're overrun. To hit the enemy, we'd bury Haven.” Trevelyan replied bleakly.

Cullen nodded, not shying away from the reality of their situation. “We're dying, but we can decide how. Many don't get that choice.”

“Chancellor Roderick can help!” Cole piped up abruptly. “He wants to say it before he dies.”

Roderick nodded, his breath hitching. “There is a path…you wouldn't know it unless you'd made the summer pilgrimage. As I have.” The mortally-wounded man struggled to rise, Cole supporting his back as he did. “The people can escape. She must have shown me…Andraste must have shown me so I could…t-tell you.”

“What are you on about, Roderick?” the Herald asked impatiently.

Hand outstretched to indicate his sincerity, Roderick continued, “it was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start–it was overgrown. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers…I don't know, Herald.” His chuckle was sad, a small huff of breath. “If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. You could be more.”

Lady Trevelyan chewed on her lower lip, the battered skin parting beneath her teeth. She didn't seem to notice, instead saying firmly, “if that thing is here for me, I'll make him fight for it. Then, I'll smother him with an avalanche.”

“And when the mountain falls? What about you?” Cullen asked worriedly. It was foolish, of course, to posit such a question. There really was only one outcome. He didn't even know why he bothered to ask. 

Outside, the roaring of the dragon (demon?) drew nearer. A heavy blow rocked the ground, causing dust to be shaken loose from the rafters. It seemed that they were out of time.

The Herald's expression hardened and the woman wordlessly shook her head. 

Cullen swallowed hard, that boulder now dedicated to crushing the breath from his lungs. Having such a sharp reaction unnerved him, but if she went to her death with such strength and selflessness, he had no right to sow seeds of doubt in her mind. Encouragement, then. “Perhaps…you will surprise it? Find a way…?” The commander forced out the optimistic words, but he did not believe them. Neither did she, from the look she gave him. Her lower lip quivered and Cullen immediately tore his gaze from hers, instead attempting to muster the forces of their survivors. “Inquisition! Follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry! Move!” He barked, letting Cole and Roderick take the shuffling lead in the endeavor.

Roderick seized Trevelyan's hand on the way by, his words slurred by pain and fatigue. “Herald, if you are meant for this…if the Inquisition is meant for this, I pray for you.” He said earnestly. The Herald simply nodded, seeing him off without another word.

Several foot soldiers darted by, heading for the doors. “They'll load the trebuchets,” Cullen explained to Lady Trevelyan, who at this point seemed on the verge of bolting. Her knees were shaking so badly her armor rattled! “Keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the tree line, and we will loose a signal to ensure you know.” In a final moment of desperation, he grasped her arm, staring at her intently as he ordered, “if we are to have a chance, if you are to have a chance--let that thing hear you.”

Etre nodded grimly and Cullen released her, Blackwall, Cassandra and Vivienne flanking him as they moved to accompany their Herald. The Grey Warden offered him a stern tilt of his head in farewell and Cassandra followed suit, but Vivienne gave him a sad smile and a pat on the arm as she passed. “Take care, my dear,” the woman said softly.

“Maker watch over you,” the commander murmured, then turned to follow after Roderick and the survivors, readying his blade to defend against possible pursuers. 

Iron Bull gave him a curious look, but did not deign to ask whatever question he clearly had, instead telling Krem to muster their men and guard the sides of the group at flanking points. “I'll stay back here with you, if it's all the same.” The Qunari said with a wry smile. 

“Delighted to have you.”

…

The back of her head slammed against the metal plate on the trebuchet crossbeam, causing Etre's consciousness to flicker as she slumped to the ground in a daze. 

The creature that called himself Corypheus stalked forward, moving less like a human and more akin to a cloud of miasma.

Get up. Get up Etre!

“The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling.” He almost sounded sulky. Etre bit back a hysterical laugh. Between his tone and the way he had simply flung her at the trebuchet, it seemed the darkspawn abomination's day had been thoroughly ruined. 

The Herald forced herself upright, one arm clinging to the trebuchet frame for dear life. The other hand grasped a discarded sword, no doubt torn from the clutches of some Inquisition soldier in their last moments. She brandished the blade clumsily in front of her, its trusty steel feeling flimsy after the usual weight of her two-handed weapons. 

Instead of just killing her, however, Corypheus continued to exposit! The towering creature and his terrible draconic (demonic?) beast had effectively blocked her escape route, but the longer she could keep his attention here, the better were the chances of her people. Even now she caught the eye of Lady Cassandra, the warrior watching her helplessly from her place behind the destroyed stockade wall. Etre, using her eyes and a subtle flick of her fingers, begged the Seeker to gather her strength and flee. Lady Cassandra obeyed after a moment, the woman retreating from her vantage point without a sound, but Etre could practically feel the Seeker cursing her name in every tongue she knew.

Trevelyan had decided (bit spur of the moment, if she was being honest!) that her companions ought to be afforded the same flight as everyone else in Haven. After all, they had followed her (nearly) unquestioningly, even Cassandra! It was only right that they be allowed to escape, instead of being trapped in some dead-end battle with…whatever this thing was. At least her people would be safe.

Her people. The thought bolstered her, kept her knees from trembling so wildly. Her people, Cullen and Josephine, Threnn and Adan and Flissa, multitudes more names and faces flooding her mind's eye even now. Every second Corypheus lingered here was precious, and Etre's brow furrowed with determination. She would hold him here as long as possible, then. 

Until we reach the treeline.

Agonizing seconds ticked by, Etre sweating nervously through her doublet as she did her damnedest not to seem impatient, tried to simply waste the creature's time. Frankly she ought to be grateful that Corypheus was in such a talkative mood, even if it came at the cost of him seizing her and then tossing her aside multiple times like a child's rag doll. The…man? towered over her in front of the trebuchet, unnaturally tall, his eyes burning with some sort of driving madness. He was frightening in every aspect of the word, and Etre felt a bit foolish for her previous chiefest fears of lightning strikes and large arachnids. But perhaps she ought to give herself grace; how in the world could she have known that a being like Corypheus existed?!

Maker, her hand hurt. The prolonged activation of the so-called Anchor was beginning to feel as though her fingers would burn to ash, and the heel of her palm ached and twinged terribly. 

Keep him talking, she reminded herself while gritting her teeth. Ignore it, keep him talking. If anything he seemed happy to ramble on in reply to her various shouted questions, as if he humored a small child. None of his answers made a lick of sense, of course, at least not to her, though it hardly mattered. Every ponderous response was another precious minute or two that she gained for the Inquisition's flight.

Suddenly, far, far in the distance behind Corypheus, a fiery arrow darted into the sky above a mountain pass, searing a high arc of light through the air like a comet. The signal, Commander Cullen had promised her a signal! Etre blinked back grateful tears. Even if she perished here, at least they had gotten a safe distance away! The knowledge was an immense comfort, allowing her soul a tremulous form of peace.

“I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.” Corypheus was droning, the abomination advancing on her once more. His draconic companion seemed to rumble in agreement, its heavy footfalls shaking the ground beneath it. 

It appeared that her stalling had finally come to an end. Etre straightened up, clutching the sword tightly enough to leave blood blisters on the inside of her fingers. “You expect me to fight, but that's not why I kept you talking,” she hissed at Corypheus, who had the grace to look annoyed. “Enjoy your victory. Here's your prize!” The woman brought the full weight of that sword down on the stop-key of the trebuchet, knocking the block out entirely and losing her hold on the weapon as the gear's handle wrenched it cleanly from her grip. 

The great trebuchet's arm swung in its ponderous rotation, the massive stone in its sling rocketing upwards towards the mountainside. 

The sound of the impact reached them well after the boulder had connected, an echoing, hollow boom! which heralded a historic avalanche. Corypheus had been distracted by the movement, his attention on the stone's path and Etre seized the opportunity to bolt, the woman scrambling to reach a half-collapsed section of platform she had seen earlier. Behind her, she heard that dragon…thing roar in what sounded like frustration, but it was nearly drowned out by the din of thundering snow and snapping trees as the avalanche careened down the mountain towards Haven. The powder beneath her feet crumpled, throwing Etre off-balance, and the last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was cracking the side of her head on a jutting board when she flung herself beneath the shelter of the broken deck.

…

She awoke to eerie silence, punctuated by soft dripping. The Anchor suddenly flared and Etre couldn't help the pained grunt that escaped her, the battered woman doubling over in agony until the spasm passed. Between the Anchor, her head and the cold, it was a miracle she was conscious at all! Unfortunately she was, and that meant she would have to move soon lest she freeze to death.

The Herald slowly got to her feet. Aside from her throbbing head, aching neck and a deep tear in the flesh of her upper arm, it seemed that she was mostly intact. No doubt she had gone limp when she lost consciousness, which had probably kept her from breaking every bone in her body upon landing. Whether she was covered in black and blue patches of bruising remained to be seen, but she would count her blessings where she could!

The strange cistern she found herself in wasn't as dark as she would have expected. Fitful bluish light filtered down through the snow and broken boards above, and further down the tunnel system she could hear the distant whistling of the wind. Reinforcing arches were peppered here and there, letting her know that this was no natural cave system, but indeed some portion of the chantry long abandoned. Cells for the devout? Or perhaps penitence grounds, to inflict punishments and inspire faith.

Etre lurched forward, holding her wounded arm above the elbow, then paused at the soft clacking of broken glass that issued from her belt pouch.

She flipped the flap open, grimacing as she realized the glass belonged to the healing potion Cullen had given her. At some point during her less-than-legendary scuffle with Corypheus, it must have been shattered. A miracle she hadn't been stabbed by a shard when she landed! 

Ruefully the woman tipped the pouch and shook it, letting the liquid and glass dribble out onto the snow. Suppose it was the thought that counted. 

Commander Cullen had smiled at her. Only hours earlier he had smiled at her. Etre shook her head at her wandering thoughts, then twitched when a shrieking howl echoed down the tunnel. 

But the only way to go was forward, so she pressed on, one foot before the other and a hand on the wall for support. The gauze-covered form of a despair demon came into view as she entered a large antechamber, and the woman cried out in pain when the Anchor crackled suddenly to life once more in her palm. Maker, it hurts! She slumped against the doorway, knowing that there was more than one demon in the room but all but incapacitated by the blasted Anchor wreaking havoc. 

The unnatural cold from the demon raked at her body and in a fit of desperation Etre flailed her arm out to ward the creature off, stunned when a miniature rift sprung to life overhead. Even more perplexing, the demons in the chamber wailed and squealed as they were somehow…sucked into the rift, which then closed itself without so much as a pop! of air. The woman simply stared at the vacant space for a moment, her mouth slightly agape.

“Well,” she finally said, “I er, I suppose there's that.”

Stumbling along as best as she could, a little-light headed after whatever that had been, Etre carried on towards the open doorway to the outside. The winds whipped and howled, swirling past the timeworn gateway while she slumped there, trying to catch her breath again. 

Come on Etre, your legs work just fine, she cajoled herself, squinting into the wind. If she looked hard at the ground ahead, she was halfway convinced that she could spy wagon wheel tracks partially covered in the snow, the trail running alongside this odd cistern outlet. Perhaps if she followed the faint marks, she could connect with the rest of the survivors?

Assuming, of course, that Corypheus hadn't already located them. 

“Either that or freeze here,” Etre reasoned aloud, hauling the collar of her gambeson up around her ears from beneath her gorget. Already the howling blizzard tore at her through her battered armor, promising a miserable shuffle through the snows in pursuit of the Inquisition. But even a miserable effort was better than none at all in the eyes of the Maker.

Hopefully.

Trevelyan walked gingerly along the steep hillside, every step tested before she trusted her full weight to it. Slow progress though it was, it was still progress, and soon she was rewarded by coming across the ashes of a fire. “Recent?” Etre muttered, her knees aching from the cold when she settled onto her haunches to examine the ashes more closely. A toppled tripod laid beside the remains of the fire as well as a small cooking cauldron, and when she placed a hand to the well-worn cast iron, the woman could have sworn it carried the faintest hint of warmth. 

Heartened, the Herald rose and moved onward. 

After a much longer stretch during which the blizzard eased somewhat (truthfully she may have been wandering in circles, she was so very tired at this juncture), Etre came upon a spindly group of firs. Sheltered beneath one of the trees, in a hastily-dug hollow between its roots, Etre found embers from another cookfire. Weak, barely-there, but real. A sign that she was on the right trail!

“Thank the Maker,” the Herald huffed wearily, groaning when she heard a chorus of wolfsong begin to build over the rise to her left. She was barely in shape to walk. She would simply have to hope all the commotion had unnerved the beasts to the point where they would keep their distance.

Her feet felt like blocks of stone, dragging her back half a step with every modicum of ground she gained, but Etre stubbornly continued. The canticle Commander Cullen had recited that morning (had it truly only been hours ago that they had closed the Breach?) returned to her as she staggered up the incline, the deepening snow slowing her already unimpressive pace. 

“I shall not be–left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.” Etre panted, pausing to spit a small globule of blood off to the side while she levered her way up the hill via a flexible tree's limb. “For there is…no darkness,” she continued, grimacing as she felt her lips crack even further under the attack of the bitter wind, “nor death either, in the–in the Maker's Light.”

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

Over and over she mumbled the passage, sometimes mouthing it when she had not the breath to speak the words, but she continued all the same. With every step, every inch she hauled herself forward, she punctuated it with the reminder of the Maker's care. He would not leave her, He would shepherd her to the high places! He would not forsake her, for all that she felt so, so alone on this mountainside.

I shall not be left to wander. 

Etre finally laid eyes upon what looked like the light from multiple fires up ahead, the glow reflecting off the low-lying clouds that threatened to drop more snow. Her path continued onwards between two large windblown cliff faces, and so on she doggedly went. The wind had abated somewhat in the shelter of the jagged rock, but now the snow was to her knees, making every step even more of a chore than the last.

As she drew up alongside the two rock faces her legs failed her, and the woman slumped to the ground. Raising her eyes skyward in a broken moment of desperation, she sobbed out her pain and fear to the Maker, begging without words that He had kept the rest of the survivors safe even while she struggled to rise once more. 

It was agony, agony, her abused knees refusing to bend, blood pooling in the crease of her gorget and every muscle aching from the trials of her pursuit, but after finally mustering up the strength from somewhere to drag herself further up the hill the Herald was blessed with the sight of tents, tents in the distance! They had survived, and as wretched as her journey had been, Etre could not keep from shedding a few more tears, this time ones of gratitude and thanks. She could rest easy now.

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

She collapsed in the snow, senseless.

…

The scouts had reported hearing wolves off over the rise and Cullen was only just returning from extending the patrol border's perimeters when Cassandra had rushed past him towards the rear of the camp, her eyes wild with either hope or fear. “Cullen-!” she gasped his name, and the commander had somehow known.

If Cullen hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he could have hardly believed it. Emerging from the waning blizzard, half-frozen and bearing a truly grisly head wound, but alive, at least for the moment! Trevelyan was alive. She was alive!

“There! It's her!” Commander Cullen shouted, sheathing his sword to run to the Herald's side even as she wavered and then seemed to faint dead away in the snow. She was mere inches from him and he still felt as though he would never reach her in time! The sensation was incredibly odd, as though the windblown snow had turned to a mire of mud around his boots.

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra exulted, the normally-stoic woman teary-eyed as she dropped to her knees beside Trevelyan. “Rest Herald, we have you. Cullen, please, help me to-”

Cullen gathered the Herald into his arms without a word, staggering a bit beneath the weight of her armor before he regained his footing. It had been a rather long day. “The infirmary.” The commander said. Then, “ensure that no one gets in my way.” 

Cassandra nodded, her face grim. Etre moaned fitfully, blood from her hairline smearing his breastplate when she struggled in his hold. 

“Save your strength.” Cullen muttered, his tone more harsh than he'd meant it to be. He wasn't sure why exactly it mattered, it wasn't as though she was even in her right mind at the moment. That wound by her ear was only the most obvious concern, there could be a thousand other–

Those strange eyes barely opened and she jerked in a sudden, painful-looking spasm. A dull crackling sound issued from the hand that hung limp by her side, and the green glow from the mark cast sickly shadows upon the snow. The commander recalled with distressing clarity the time she had told Josephine offhandedly that when the mark flared, it felt like her nerves were set on fire. Cullen did not envy such an experience.

“Easy now, easy.” He whispered, laying her where Cassandra had indicated away from the rest of their wounded. She groaned, weakly shifting her legs as though she would attempt to stand. Cullen carefully but firmly settled her feet back on the cot, the man making a soft, reassuring noise in his throat. It was a sound his own mother had used often in his childhood; even before the lyrium his dreams bore more teeth than they ought. “Hush, it's alright.” He soothed, “You're safe here, Herald.”

One of their healers approached, softly requesting that Trevelyan's ruined armor be removed to ease their examination. It was standard procedure but Cullen still chafed internally at the delay, he and Cassandra fumbling over unfamiliar buckles while the Herald continued to moan and try to speak.

Once her gauntlets and gloves had been removed her hand twitched around on the cot, finally grasping Cullen's own and squeezing tighter than he'd imagined she'd be able to. She was so very cold, her fingers felt like icicles. “Cory…pheus…” Etre gasped out a name, her breath hitching as another shuddering spasm wracked her body.

“Blankets!” Cullen yelled, uncaring of who heard as long as someone acted! He gripped her hand as tightly as she held his, hoping to ground her somewhat with the touch as Cassandra peeled the broken scale mail from her body. “We're here, Herald. You're safe.”

“Cullen-” Etre breathed. 

“Yes, Lady Trevelyan. It's me.” He leaned forward somewhat as her cracked lips parted again, straining to listen lest she speak once more.

“Don't let him–get me, Cullen…” Etre's words were interrupted by a little sob, glowing tears making their way down her cheeks.

Cullen.

“It's alright.” The commander repeated helplessly, smoothing the hair away from her head wound while the healer knelt to examine the area. Cassandra threw a blanket over the shivering woman, drawing the homespun fabric up to her chin. “You saved us all, Herald,” Cullen continued, horrifically embarrassed when his voice trembled with emotion. “We are safe, thanks to you. Rest.”

Etre just squeezed his hand so hard his bones ached, then her body went limp. 

Cassandra called, “Mother Giselle! Please see to the Herald.” Using the thin hem of the blanket, the Seeker quickly blotted away Etre's tears. 

…

Etre was first aware of how sore her fingers were. It felt a bit like someone had taken a large hammer to her hands, no doubt the effect of the extended exposure to the elements. Her head throbbed, reminding her of more details of her…less than exalted exodus.

Even from a distance Cullen's raised voice stabbed into her temple, the blade of it twisting enough to make her grimace. Whatever was happening, from the sound of things it had been going on for a while. His voice was slightly raw as he exclaimed, “what would you have me tell them? This isn't what we asked them to do!”

Evidently he addressed Cassandra, because her voice was next. “We cannot simply ignore this, we must find a way!”

“And who put you in charge? We need a consensus, or we have nothing!”

This? What is ‘this’? Etre struggled to open her eyes. At least she was no longer so bitterly cold! Her doublet was still damp, though that was no doubt a combination of melted snow and sweat. Someone must have taken off her armor at some point; the comforting weight of her breastplate was conspicuously absent. She finally managed to pry her eyes open, wincing as she shifted her weight to sit up somewhat. Her muscles were in knots from all her shivering, and she thought longingly of a bath.

The Inquisition's advisors were closer than she'd thought, the four of them standing around the fire alongside the healers pavilion. They all looked as tired as she felt, and even Josephine's immaculate hosiery was smudged with soot and dirt from their battle and subsequent escape into the mountains. 

The Antivan woman raised her hands as she moved in between Cullen and Cassandra, as if to keep them from being at one another's throats. “Please, we must use reason! Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition, we're hobbled!” she implored with a plaintive expression.

“That can't come from nowhere!” Cullen barked, gesturing around Josephine's hands at Cassandra, who had folded her arms across her chest.

“She didn't say it could!” Leliana retorted, the spymaster visibly bristling.

“Enough!” Cassandra shouted abruptly, “this is getting us nowhere!”

“Well, we're agreed on that much!” Cullen snapped back bitterly.

Mother Giselle made a soft sound in her throat, one of her gentle hands tucking some of Etre's filthy hair behind her ear. “You ought to be resting, dear child.”

The young woman commented blearily, “it sounds like they've been at it for hours.” 

“They have that luxury, thanks to you.” Giselle pointed out solemnly. “The enemy could not follow and with time to doubt, we turn to blame. Infighting may threaten as much as this…Corypheus.” The woman gestured downwards, “if you would, remove your doublet so I may check your bandages and freshen the poultices. While the healers have done what they can with magic, we must also be mindful of what resources we have, so I regret to say we only healed your chiefest wound.”

“I imagine I've got some nice dark cow spots on me.” Etre tried for humor, wincing when she tucked her elbows in to shrug out of her gambeson. Despite Mother Giselle's warning, it seemed that the wound on her arm had been healed to some extent; at least she could now move the limb, if stiffly. The fabric was coated in dried blood, red flakes coming off on her fingertips while she struggled free of her doublet. Evidently she'd had a much too close brush with death, if the bloodstains and bandages criss-crossing over her shoulder were anything to go by. 

Mother Giselle clicked her tongue upon viewing her bare back. Etre grimaced, sure that it wasn't a pretty sight, the woman gingerly hunching over while Giselle prodded at a few areas. Etre raised her eyes, attempting to distract herself by trying to listen in on the continued arguing between her advisors. Unfortunately they had dropped their volume at this point, the four of them still debating a path forward. The fact that they hadn't yet come to blows seemed to be a good sign, though.

Leliana was the first one to notice that Etre was awake and the woman's eyes widened, then she smiled slightly. The Herald furrowed her brow in confusion, watching Leliana dig an elbow into Cullen's side and then use her eyes to indicate towards the healing tent. Cullen, still clearly aggravated, shook off the elbow and glanced up with a snarl firmly on his face, only for it to melt into a look of stunned surprise upon his gaze meeting Etre's.

Trevelyan realized too late that her chemise was on display, the layer of fabric padding normally beneath her gorget and doublet having been removed at some point by either Mother Giselle or one of the other healers. Not that it even mattered, all soldiers saw each other in states of undress in the barracks. She winced as the older woman smeared some sort of chilly poultice on an area by her shoulder blade, and when she looked back up Cassandra and Josephine were striding towards her. Cullen, however, was marching in the opposite direction, his vambrace rattling with the force of his hand rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Forgive us for disturbing your rest, Herald,” Josephine apologized, fidgeting beside the pallet. 

One of her hands reached out hesitantly to touch Etre's good shoulder and the Herald covered it with her own, offering the ambassador a weary smile. “It's alright, Josephine.”

Lady Montilyet wavered, her eyes filling with tears before she took a deep breath and blinked them away. “I am pleased to see you're awake. I was uncertain if…I mean, I hoped, of course, but I could not know for sure.” 

“Our commander will come around, Ambassador. Do not take his rash words to heart.” Cassandra said kindly. “We were all concerned.”

“Of course! I am not so foolish to judge a man's character by words spoken in a moment of uncertainty.” Josephine seemed a little offended that Cassandra was worried at all. “With the return of our Herald, perhaps balance may be restored.”

“You permitted us to flee,” Cassandra addressed Etre gravely. “In doing so however, we nearly lost you. I will not permit such altruism from you in the future.” 

“I had thought…I'm sorry, you're right, of course. I was not thinking clearly.” 

“You are a brave and foolish woman, Herald of Andraste.” Cassandra's expression was fond, despite the harshness of her words. “Blackwall will be arriving soon, I imagine. He seemed…perturbed by our retreat.”

“Indeed, she nearly had to rap me over the head to stop me from pursuing you.” Blackwall admitted gruffly, the man approaching from behind Etre. “Your back bears some impressive welts, Herald! I knew you could take a beating, but I fear that in your efforts to prove as much you may have been a touch overzealous.” 

Etre grinned, but it was immediately wiped from her face when the Grey Warden knelt beside her cot and took her marked hand. His expression was troubled, and he took a while to actually speak again.

“What you did…I cannot say I would have done the same, were I in your place.” The older man's voice was quiet. His thumb pressed lightly down on her knuckles, and he sighed after a moment. “I suppose that's a bit grim to mention, all things considered. Regardless, I am pleased to see you alive.” 

“Warden Blackwall joined the rearguard with Ser Cullen and Iron Bull, to dissuade pursuit.” Lady Josephine explained after Blackwall had bowed stiffly and stalked away. “I believe in the process, he was looking for you.” 

“Well, he certainly has faith in my speed. Did he think I was sprinting behind you all in full armor?” Etre jibed. “You would have heard me before you saw me, were that the case!”

“I am glad that you can be so glib at such a time, Lady Trevelyan.” The Seeker said dryly. What sounded like a cow bell began to clatter nearby and the warrior straightened up. “It would seem that the evening meal is ready.” Cassandra beckoned, not to Etre, but to Mother Giselle. “Would you do us the honor of leading our supplication before the meal, Revered Mother?”

The older woman chuckled softly. “I fear many here will have no patience for it. We are all footsore and weary, dear Seeker. Perhaps a single hymn in its place, lest the people begin to revolt.”

Cassandra inclined her head in acquiescence. “Of course, whatever you believe is best!” A crowd had already begun to gather as news spread that the Herald was conscious, and now all stood at attention, waiting for Mother Giselle to begin the hymn.

Mother Giselle bowed her head, and then started to sing, “Shadows fall, and hope has fled…steel your heart! The dawn will come. The night is long, and the path is dark! Look to the sky, for one day soon…the dawn will come!”

Etre could almost feel the camp coming to life around her, folk emerging from tents and wagons to join in the familiar hymn. Leliana was one of them, and her voice led the next verse. “The shepherd's lost, and his home is far…keep to the stars! The dawn will come!”

Trevelyan spotted Cullen standing amidst a swath of soldiers, but the man's eyes were closed in what seemed to be prayer as he raised his voice with the chorus. “The night is long, and the path is dark! Look to the sky, for one day soon…the dawn will come!”

“Bare your blade, and raise it high!” Mother Giselle sang louder, struggling to be heard over the rest of the crowd. 

Unsheathed blades gleamed in the firelight, a multitude of men and women saluting as the Herald slowly got to her feet and raised her fist overhead. “Stand your ground! The dawn will come!” Etre shouted the latter part of the verse, grinning when they cheered in response. 

The final chorus was thundering in its surety, accompanied by the rattling of spears and the rhythmic hammering of blades on shields. “The night is long, and the path is dark! Look to the sky, for one day soon…the dawn will come!”

“Inquisition! Nourish your bodies, as the Chantry has nourished your souls. Prepare for an early march at speed!” Cullen issued the command, which was met with more muted cheering before the majority of the crowd dispersed to stand in line for their meal.

“An army needs more than an enemy. It needs a cause.” Mother Giselle said softly to Etre, then she too departed to enjoy some of the evening's bounty. Etre's brow furrowed uncertainly. She had thought the cause was closing the terrible wound in the sky, but of course, nothing could be so simple as that!

To Trevelyan's surprise, a multitude of people wished to approach her on her little cot, many asking for blessings or simply to share the meal with her. Etre was unable to manage to point out that she hadn't actually eaten yet before Sister Leliana suddenly appeared before her, the woman extending a trencher to her with an expression that might tentatively be considered benign. “Your meal, Herald.” she intoned, her voice sweet, yet firm. “You must eat in order to regain your strength.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Etre said, gratefully accepting the trencher with a tired smile. 

Now the crowd she had gathered was all apologies, we shall leave you to your food, Herald, and soon it was simply her and Leliana. The woman stood awkwardly for a moment, then sighed and settled herself down on the end of the cot. “Roderick has passed on, Maker rest his soul.” She murmured.

“I pray that he finds his peace.” Etre replied sincerely. For all that the man seemed to have an eternal bone to pick with her, she was still saddened by the news. 

Leliana allowed her a few moments of silence to eat, where Etre displayed the poorest table manners possible. She hadn't realized just how hungry she was! It certainly made sense, given her extended battle and flight afterwards. 

Well, calling it a ‘battle’ might be overly charitable. An exercise in field control? Putting her armor through its paces? The woman grimaced as she recalled the back of her head smacking into the trebuchet frame. “I'm bringing my helmet to the next feast.” 

Leliana chuckled. “A wise choice, Herald. How do you fare?”

“Much better than I thought I would!” Etre replied cheerfully. “I am alive, but I am weary and sore. A night of sleep will do me wonders.”

“That makes good hearing.” Leliana took her empty trencher, promising to scare up something to drink in her travels. She unrolled the pavilion wall behind her, plunging the tent into a reddish half-light. 

Etre, struck by a sudden spell of light-headedness, clung to the edge of the cot and lowered her head. The woman closed her eyes, attempting to breathe through the wave, when the rustle of fabric met her ears. 

“Herald? Sister Leliana asked me to…oh.” Cullen.

“I'm alright, Commander. Just a little dizzy.” Etre assured him from her hunched position. “Perhaps I should not have bolted my dinner so readily. I was simply too hungry to wait.”

“A night on the march will do that to you,” the commander said gruffly. “To say nothing of what happened before the march.”

“Too true!” The dizzy spell finally subsided and Etre cautiously opened her eyes, staring up at the commander. 

He held a tankard gingerly, as though he was afraid of damaging it. The man extended the cup after a moment. “Leliana said you were not afforded a beverage at the first serving.”

“I was not, but I am hardly an exception I'm sure.” Etre accepted the offering of watered-down smallbeer eagerly, wondering at the way Cullen was behaving. He must simply be exhausted, as were the rest of them.

“I…how do you fare, Herald?” The commander asked, his posture utterly stiff. 

Etre, barely remembering to swallow before she replied, offered the man an elegant shrug. “I feel like I was attacked by a particularly-belligerent bronto, or perhaps a bronto and a mule working together.” She rubbed a circle on her aching sternum, wincing. “Somehow I doubt Corypheus would look kindly upon being compared to dumb beasts of burden, but I cannot bring myself to be overly concerned with his feelings regarding the matter.”

“As is your right.” Cullen glowered, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “I am…relieved that you seem to be in such good spirits, Herald. Especially after so harrowing an encounter.”

“We shall see how I feel on the morrow!” Etre laughed wearily. “I am uncertain if I'll be able to move or if I'll have solidified into one enormous bruise.”

“I would offer you a spot in one of the wagons with the rest of the wounded, but that may be a fate worse than death in regards to bruising.” Cullen grimaced, saluting her and then taking his leave.

…

When he caught himself thinking of her as Etre, not Lady Trevelyan or the Herald of Andraste, Cullen put it from his mind immediately. Truthfully it was a miracle he had any time to think about her at all! It didn't matter that her hair was always just-slightly-mussed, it didn't matter that she had three freckles beneath her lower lip, it didn't matter that her laugh was raucous and seemed to take her whole body along with it when it struck her, it didn't matter that she had a lovely voice when she raised it in song to the Maker during the vespers or benedictions in the evenings. He hardly noticed her.

It certainly had no bearing on his position within their organization, and devoting further time to any of it was ill-advised.

“Commander,” she would always call him by his title, deferent, respectful, but not cowed by his experience. She had only ever called him by his first name alone mere hours ago, when she had been half out of her mind from the combination of her head injury and the disorientation that often accompanied cold sickness. And he had not felt any differently when she used his first name in such a familiar and vulnerable way.

Well. Not until later, after he realized she had. Frankly that may have led to him snapping at Cassandra, which had then led to all of them arguing with each other. He may have been a bit frayed over their escape, which may have led to him being wound more tightly. 

Maybe. 

A combination of relief at her survival and her using his name warred inside his already-rattled mind, completely ridding him of his ironclad sense of propriety. That was why he had stared at her, he insisted to himself, not because of her state of undress, but from the sheer weight of his own relief! That was why.

Cullen threw an arm over his eyes, frustrated with his internal turmoil. If I'm going to lie, he thought ruefully, I could at least make it believable.

He ought to be asleep already. Watch rotations had been set. Aside from those few curious wolves, nothing had approached their camp for hours. The day had been so wildly long and full Cullen could scarcely believe when he'd woken that morning, the hole in the sky had been there. It felt like a lifetime ago!

Slowly, barely within earshot, Cullen became aware of voices outside his tent. He would have ignored them, but after the day everyone had…well, enough was enough! It must be well past midnight at this point. If they hoped to make any sort of meaningful progress tomorrow, folk would need to at least be partially rested, not freely roaming the camp!

The commander rolled loose of his bedfurs, intending to give whoever was disturbing the peace a stern talking-to. To his surprise, after he shoved aside the flap of his tent, he realized it was Solas. Not only that, but he was conversing with Etre–Lady Trevelyan. Cullen felt a brief flare of annoyance, swiftly followed by concern. Trevelyan should not even be upright, nevermind wandering the camp this late at night. Or perhaps this early in the morning? 

Was something wrong? 

The commander struggled into his surcoat, belting on his sword as more of an afterthought once he'd tugged his boots on, and then departed his tent. Hugging the shadows alongside the healer's pavilion, the man strained to catch any of the conversation happening a short distance away.

“...orb Corypheus carried, the power he used against you, it is elven.” Solas was saying, and Cullen could only imagine how tense his normally-smooth expression was upon uttering those words. “Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.” There was a deep sigh. “I do not yet know how Corypheus survived…nor am I certain of how people will react when they learn of the orb's origin.”

Cullen shut his eyes, rubbing at his temples. More trouble, of course, always more. Maker's breath, there was no end to it! 

“Alright.” Etre sounded resigned. “What is it, and how do you know about it?”

Solas began prattling on about foci and old memories of older magics and he risks our alliance! Cullen thought longingly of his warm bedfurs. Perhaps he had been foolish to suspect anything amiss going on; it made sense that certain members of the congregated forces would be unable to sleep.

But then Lady Trevelyan spoke again, bringing a touch of clarity to the sleep-deprived commander. “This whole mess is confusing. I can see how elves might be an easy target.”

Ah. So because the magic Corypheus had misused was old elven magic, Solas feared for his people.

“History would agree!” Solas said unhappily, then lowered his voice to the point that Cullen had to strain once more to hear. “...steps we can take to prevent such a distraction. By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it…changed you. Scout to the North. Be their guide.” Cullen's ears pricked up. “There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build–grow, even.” A soft noise interrupted the elf, who suddenly chuckled. “Forgive me, it seems I have roused you from your rest prematurely. Allow me to accompany you back to the healer's tent, Herald. We may speak of this in the morning light.”

“M'sorry, Solas.” That soft noise again, which Cullen now recognized as a yawn. “I'm afraid my weariness has caught up with me.”

Healer's tent. Cullen froze, realizing that they would be walking right past his hiding spot on their way back to the pavilion. As quietly as he could, the man began retreating towards the rear wall of the tent, peering back around it and catching a glimpse of Solas as he went by. The elf met his gaze, giving the former Templar the faintest nod as if to say ‘stay put’. Confused and more than a little guilty, Commander Cullen lingered in the cold for several long minutes until the mage meandered his way back out of the pavilion. 

“A moment of your time, Commander?” The elf requested icily. 

All of Cullen's reservations about mages suddenly surged to the forefront of his mind, making his breath hitch. “Of course.” He managed to get out, turning to follow Solas back to the lit brazier at the outskirts of the camp.

“I suspect you do not trust me, Commander.” The elf pointed out after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the two of them studying each other over the unnatural blue-green flame. “While I understand that it is part of your chosen path to mind mages, I must assure you-” 

“No, I–please, it's not like that,” Cullen desperately tried to explain, “I heard voices, louder than is usually acceptable during quiet hours. I believed to interrupt unwitting recruits attempting to sneak off, but then I realized it was the two of you and I assumed something must be amiss. Lady Trevelyan…I did not anticipate she would wake again after the evening meal, she nearly fell asleep in her tankard.”

Solas’ furrowed brow smoothed itself out. “Forgive me. It seems I have judged you too harshly,” he murmured. “Templars have always looked upon me with fear, or at least discomfort.”

“I am extremely discomfited, I assure you, but I am no longer a Templar.” It felt strange to say aloud, least of all to Solas, an individual so alien from him the elf may as well be some kind of divine being! 

Solas gave him a look that, were the mage anyone else, may have bordered on curious. “How? I had always assumed there was no such thing as a true ‘former Templar’.” Only dead or mad Templars hung unspoken in the frigid air between them.

Cullen shook his head. “Suffice it to say, I am simply no longer part of that life. I have Lady Cassandra keeping a close eye on me, as well.”

“The Seeker? Surely you do not fear so openly that something would happen to you?”

“I do not know what will happen.” Cullen said honestly. “But I trust Lady Cassandra with my life, and with the lives of my men. She will be able to dispose of me if I am a threat, of that I am certain.”

“I wish you luck, then! It is no easy task to free oneself of the shackles of servitude, and even less so when the power they drip-fed you slowly ceases to sing in your veins.” A chill that had nothing to do with the cold gripped Cullen's spine like a vise, making his muscles ache with the effort not to shudder beneath its hold. Solas’ piercing gaze softened slightly and the elf bade him to go get some rest, promising that the morning would bring a glorious sunrise. “Though, I fear it may come a bit sooner than many of us would prefer.”

…

The hard march through the mountains was almost pleasant after the last few weeks she'd had. Etre relished being able to scout ahead of their party, the woman more than happy to take on an ordinary role. 

Since most of Haven's survivors were on foot, the only real considerations she had to take into account were ensuring the paths were wide enough for the brontos and mules pulling their wagons to traverse unhindered. Of course, that also included keeping an eye out for lichen-rich rocks whenever they made camp. As durable as they were, brontos could not survive off of a diet of melted snow, forage and scavenged wildlife like the rest of them.

Solas’ directions were cryptic, but clear enough that Etre didn't feel like too much of a fool for following them. Indeed, it was only a few days before what seemed to be an abandoned road began to take shape beneath the feet of the vanguard. Large flagstones, though broken and scarred with age, paved the way forward, blessing the remnants of the Inquisition's forces with ease of travel. 

Trevelyan still scouted ahead even with the road, ensuring that washouts or collapsed sections of the path would not trouble the troops overmuch. She and her vanguard would report their findings to Commander Cullen and Sister Leliana via missives carried by raven, and their orders would arrive in the same fashion, occasionally with engineers or more men to help shift debris.

A week passed by before their forces rejoined the main party, the vanguard having covered far more ground due to their smaller numbers. One last foray over the rise and, according to Solas, they would be able to set their eyes upon this supposed empty fortress. “Just beyond that hill,” the elf said to her, gesturing with his staff. “You could seek out the view yourself before dinner, were you so inclined.”

Etre was extremely inclined, eagerly pitching herself at the last hill. The climb, while not truly steep enough to impede the wagons, was still a fair distance, and it was nearly an hour before the woman managed to reach the top and stare off through the pass towards the horizon. 

“It was dubbed Skyhold, long ago.” Solas said quietly, the elf coming up alongside her to lean on his staff. 

Etre barely stifled a scream. She hadn't even heard Solas following her, and she wondered if he had been laughing to himself about her less than graceful attempts to scale the broken rocks alongside the flagstones. 

“We shall reach it tomorrow by the evening meal, perhaps earlier if the men see what awaits them. It can be an excellent motivator to have a goal within sight.” Solas continued, then began to point out bits of the path ahead which might be troublesome. 

Etre wrote down his words with only half a mind for them, most of her attention taken by how enormous the fortress was. There was a portcullis! Arrow slits in the stone walls, lofty towers, stained glass windows somehow intact…what a fortress it was. “This is incredible.” She finally murmured, interrupting the mage's droning contemplations on whether they ought to put the wagons on runners instead of wheels for the steep climb back up to Skyhold.

“Indeed!” Solas agreed, not seeming put out in the slightest by her interruption. “It has stood the test of time with flying colors, I would say.” He turned, sniffing the air as he did so. “Ah, dinner is being prepared. Someone has begun brewing the tea.” He wrinkled his nose. “A pity that the stuff is so prolific.”

“The tea? Or…?”

“Yes, the tea. Absolutely wretched.” Solas shuddered all over and Etre snorted inelegantly. 

“Suppose I ought to get back down there and see how I can help. I've had an easy time of it these last few days.” Solas shot her an incredulous look and the woman laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I know, I know. I meant in the sense of camp chores and manual labor!”

“Oh. I suppose, then. I believe I shall stay here a while longer and meditate. Do watch your footing on the way down. The descent is often much quicker than the ascent.”

A fancy way of saying, ‘don't take a tumble and break your seat’, Etre thought privately with a little snicker, the woman heeding the advice regardless and being sure to slow her return to the camp far below.

“What news, Herald?” Cassandra called once she had nearly reached the bottom (slipping and skidding half her way down) and Etre was only too happy to convey the view she had witnessed. Soon enough several other soldiers were attempting to begin the climb, but Cassandra quickly put an end to it by exclaiming, “Hold! We make camp first, and have the meal. If there is still light after the tasks, you may go.”

The troops scurried off, presumably to get the camp work taken care of, and Etre attempted to come along. But it seemed like every time she offered to help or made a move to pick something up, someone was instantly there to brush her off, rest Herald, you already work so hard Herald!

The woman finally grudgingly settled herself in alongside one of the grazing brontos, the animal busily scouring the base of a boulder free of the lichen it had amassed. “I am growing a bit weary of people taking things from my hands and shooing me off. I believe I preferred when folk viewed me as a mystical nuisance!” Etre confessed to the large beast, scratching a patch at the base of one of its many bony protrusions. The bronto rumbled contentedly, munching its dinner whilst it stared off at nothing at all.

That was where Varric found her, the dwarf chuckling quietly. “You too, huh? The rest of them can be so loud.” he remarked, passing her a bowl of watered-down stew. There hadn't been much time to grab supplies when they departed Haven, so much of the march's diet had relied on what fresh game they could find. “Gotta’ say, if I never have to eat stewed fennec again it'll be too soon.”

“It wasn't too bad the first dozen times, but it does grow a bit thin.” Trevelyan agreed. “I am content to eat it though, otherwise we may need to start on Sister Leliana's birds.”

“Andraste preserve me, a fate worse than death. Not only are they mangy-looking, they're gamey as well!” Varric laughed, stirring his stew. “How have things been with the foreguard, everyone treating you alright?”

“Well enough! At least they let me actually work.” Etre sighed.

“Oo, that one was heavy. What's wrong, Herald, not used to the masses worshipping you?” The dwarf teased.

“Well no, of course not. I think Roderick kept everyone's expectations tempered, but since his passing…” Etre trailed off, taking a tentative bite of meat. “Mm, so reliably chewy.” She grimaced.

“You mean to say that being the Herald of Andraste isn't all sunshine and rainbows?” Varric scoffed, shaking his head. “What a disappointment. Here I thought you'd snap your fingers and cure the current crisis without so much as breaking a sweat! More's the fool me, right?”

Etre grinned, “The only crisis I've ever handled reliably is supplying clean flatware. I fear ‘the Maker works in mysterious ways’ will only get me so far.”

“It may get you further than you think! After all, according to some of the bolder members of the party, we're almost to that place. What, uh…‘Skyhold’.”

“That's what Solas calls it, anyway! It's beautiful, Varric, enormous!” 

“And old,” Varric added, his brow furrowed. “Very old. Personally I'd like to know who built the damn thing all the way out here, but Solas keeps sidestepping the question.”

“Have you ever known him to answer anything directly?” Etre asked, making Varric chuckle.

“Well, no. Suppose you're right.”

…

Leader of the Inquisition. Etre's mind whirled. So much had happened so quickly! People cheering for her, what felt like the entire world watching her as she swore an oath, “Wherever you lead us,” Cassandra had said with a humbling amount of confidence. 

And then, then, the Seeker asking the commander whether their forces would follow and him facing the crowd while Etre's heart leaped into her throat. What if they didn't want her? What if they thought she was a sham too, just as Roderick had?

But all voices raised as one, assenting to this choice, this new path forward…

“Will you follow? Will you fight?” Cullen had roared to the troops, grinning broadly at the volume of the response. “Will we triumph?” He then turned back to the stairs, drawing his sword to brandish it in a salute to Etre. “Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!” He announced, cheers and wolf whistles ringing out as Etre Trevelyan blinked back tears of gratitude.

After that came the flurry of congratulations, the swears of fealty and support, what felt like hundreds of people just wishing to speak to her or shake her hand!

Herald, Inquisitor. 

After the ceremony Cassandra tasked her with collecting her advisors, the warrior suggesting that they all meet in the large, empty hall to discuss their next step. While Leliana and Josephine were easy enough to locate (the two of them huddling together to look over what could have been some important documents), Etre had a harder time finding the commander. Everyone she asked seemed to have a different ‘last location' and so Etre resigned herself to combing the grounds for the stern man.

Iron Bull eventually pointed her in the right direction, the Qunari telling her, “you walked right past him, boss! He's over by the stairs. Just follow the scared-looking soldiers, you'll get there.”

The commander was indeed out in the courtyard at the base of the stairs, the man issuing orders to a ragtag cadre of troops currently swirling around a makeshift desk. The desk, insomuch as it could be called one, seemed to be constructed by balancing a mostly-flat plank atop a barrel and a crate that were almost the same height. 

Almost. 

Several overlapping maps were spread out on the desk, pinned down by books and a sturdy magnifying dome used to examine smaller details. “...men to scout the area, we need to know what's out there,” he was directing as Trevelyan approached, and a small contingent of soldiers split off from the group, marching past Etre. A few even saluted her and the woman was torn between laughing and crying, settling for simply returning their salute.

A messenger approached next, weaving skillfully through the masses to deliver his missive. “Commander, soldiers have been assigned temporary quarters,” the man said, clasping his hands behind his back.

The commander nodded in a distracted manner, his attention clearly on the maps before him. “Very good. I'll need an update on the armory as well.” The runner stood there, seeming to be waiting for something more until Cullen barked, “now!”

As the messenger fled, Trevelyan managed to slot herself in where he had stood, the woman finally getting Cullen's attention by passing him a tankard of water from a different runner. “I can see you're busy so I won't take much of your time, but Cassandra wishes for us to muster in the great hall.”

The man, accepting the tankard with a nod, drank until it was empty and then sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck as he placed the tankard down on yet another curling map corner. “We set up as best we could at Haven, but could never prepare for an archdemon or…whatever it was.” Cullen muttered unhappily, “with some warning, we might have–” 

“We were all shaken by what happened.” Etre interrupted, her voice soft. She knew that the exhausted man would be perfectly content to toil until he dropped, while also shouldering every loss with the gravitas it warranted. Such was the temperament of her commander. 

Her commander. What an odd thought, but true in its oddity! Leader of the Inquisition. 

“If Corypheus strikes again we may not be able to withdraw. I wouldn't want to. We must be ready.” Commander Cullen said sternly, his expression fierce while he stared down at the small desk's cluttered surface. “Work on Skyhold is underway, guard rotations established. We should have everything on course within the week.” He turned to look at her. “We will not run from here, Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor. The title sounded weighty coming from him, more real, somehow. Etre was unsure if she liked it, but she supposed it hardly mattered. Likes and dislikes of address were for petty nobles, land-owning barons and those who would marry into higher standing. 

Here and now, however, she only cared about one thing. “How many were lost?” Etre had done her best to steel herself against the hard news she was certain was coming constantly over the course of their journey from Haven, but Cullen didn't look particularly aggrieved. Was he too tired to muster up an emotional response? If so, she could hardly blame him!

“Most of our people made it to Skyhold. It could have been worse.” He informed her, to her immense relief. Then, “morale was low, but it's improved greatly since you accepted the role of Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor. “Give it time, it's barely been half a day! Everyone has so much faith in my leadership,” Etre mumbled, feeling more than a little pensive about the whole thing. “I hope I'm ready.”

“You won't have to carry the Inquisition alone,” Cullen assured, resting his folded hands on his sword's pommel, “although it must feel like it. We needed a leader, and you have proven yourself. Your deeds at Haven in particular, I would wager.”

Gratitude tightened her chest and Etre found herself suddenly emotional. “Thank you, Cullen.” He gave her a brief little smile, the smallest quirk of his lips. Trevelyan hesitated, looking down at the ground as she fidgeted nervously with her hands. “Our escape from Haven…it was close. I'm relieved that you–” The woman stopped short, realizing that the dense audience of soldiers around them all had perfectly functional ears, then carefully amended, “that so many made it out.”

“As am I.” Cullen murmured, and she was almost certain his tired gaze softened slightly.

Well! Now that she had put her foot in her mouth quite roundly, Etre went to depart to the great hall. Better for her to wallow in embarrassment elsewhere, she decided. A hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks, however. She turned back towards Cullen, startled. Normally he didn't touch her at all, his distance ever present, yet professional; a polite sort of abyss yawning between them.