***

As Cullen buttoned up his jacket, his fingers paused as he took a moment to admire his wife as she dressed. Her cheeks still flushed from their lovemaking, a small smile of on her full lips as her hazel-green eyes sparkled when she caught his stare in the mirror she was stood before. His blood heated again in want of her, and she bit her lip to stifle the growing smile.

"Cullen, we're already terribly late."

"What of it?" He practically growled.

She chuckled. "We promised a celebration today for everyone," she reminded. Turning to him once her overdress was in place, she closed the space between them to help him with the rest of his buttons. The slight hum of the magic imbued within her prosthetic limb—that'd been the combined work of Dorian and Dagna—vibrated through his layers.

He quirked a brow. "I believe it was you and my sisters who promised a celebration. I promised no such thing."

Her lovely eyes flicked up to him, betraying her true feelings in their darkened shade. Even so, she quietly asked, "Would you disappoint your nephews and niece?" She had him there, so he said nothing. No, he would not risk their disappointment for anything. "Tomorrow, I promise, we can spend all day in bed together, if you wish."

"If I wish?" He teased softly. Pulling on the collar of his shirt, she tugged him down to bring her lips to his. It was brief, restrained compared to those they'd shared when tangled together, but laced with promising heat. His voice was husky as he stated, "I'll hold you to it, my lady."

Lacing their fingers together, she pulled him toward the door. "As you say, my lord."

***

"Uncle Cullen!"

Cullen braced himself for the tackle about his legs that came from a few small bodies and the barrage of, "Can we open presents, yet?" He threw a helpless look at Anaia, silently pleading for her help. For a moment, he felt breathless as he caught something unfamiliar in her gaze that was studying him and the children. Something so utterly soft it made his heart stutter in his chest. Then she blinked and the look was gone.

"All right, give your uncle some air," Branson called as he scooped up Cullen's niece in his arms and proceeded to throw her up into the air, a tinkling of giggles in response. "I'm sure he'd love to eat after such a late rise."

Cullen ignored his brother's innuendo as his eldest nephew came to stand before him, hands on his hips. His gold-brown eyes flashed as he stared down his uncle. "You owe me another match. You threw the last one again, didn't you? Auntie Mia says you did."

"Or perhaps you've improved greatly under my instruction?"

His nephew blew a raspberry in response. "Auntie Mia learned from grandfather. Same as you."

"True," Cullen acknowledged, "but Auntie Mia was no commander."

"Says you," Mia chided from her chair at the table, her dark eyes flashing as a teasing smile pulled her lips, "Last I checked, little brother, I was the one keeping this bunch alive and in line while you were gone. And Branson alone is equal to a thousand green recruits, I'd say."

"Amen to that," Branson's wife added as she raised her teacup in salute.

"A thousand? A little hyperbolic, wouldn't you say?" Maudie, Mia, Rosalie, Rylen, Branson's wife, Cullen and Anaia all turned to look at Branson. "What?"

"No, Bran," Mia shook her head, "Not at all."

Branson waved his hand dismissively before giving a devilish grin. Scooping up another of his little ones, he herded them all out to the main living space so the others could finish their meal. Cullen and Ana worked their way around the table laden with the remains of the banquet, filling their plates. Ana slyly pressed her hip into Cullen as he reached for the last of the scones causing him to look at her with a crooked grin. Only too late did he realize his mistake. She'd used it as a distraction to swipe the scone from him before chuckling and hurrying to her seat at the table.

A gentle hand lighted on his arm and he turned to find Maudie setting a fresh tray down in front of him. "Fret not, pup. We won't let you go 'ungry."

In thanks, Cullen pressed a light kiss to her wrinkled cheek. "You're too good to me, Maudie."

"Not just me, pup. An' don't you forget it."

Cullen looked to his wife, knowing he never would. Clearing his throat, he joined the others and began shoveling in his food, doing his best to ignore the empty chair beside Rylen that Anaia kept glancing toward every now and again. He kept his focus on the room before him: Rylen and Rosalie trying to hide their entwined hands beneath the table despite how the pink in Rose's cheeks gave them away; the joy emanating off his oldest sister even as she continued to throw friendly barbs at him; Maudie working in the kitchen to prepare the holiday meal they'd all share later on; the sound of Branson and his children in the room nearby playing; Dane at his feet beneath the table.

But above all, his wife.

He still could hardly believe it, despite having been wed for several years now.

This was his family.

His home.

His life.

His mind wandered to his lucky coin that they'd set within the mantle above their main door. Time and again, he should have died. Should never have made it here. Yet here he was. His luck continuing even now. How could he even begin to express his thanks to the Maker?

Ana's fingers entwined with his, calling his focus back to her. Her eyes were intent; the words he knew she would say evident in them. "Will you check on him? Bring him some food?"

"Must I?" She said nothing, only continued to hold his gaze. "Very well."

***

Cullen let out a deep breath as he stood before the door, a plate of food in hand, shoulders forcibly dropping. He glared at the door for a split second before clearing his throat. He pressed his free hand upon the wood, causing the metal hinges to groan. Firelight met his eyes as they took a moment to adjust to the dimmer lighting. A thin figure sat upon the bed, a stiff back facing him. Scraggly, greasy hair hung longer than it had all those years ago, hiding the face it belonged to. Yet despite the brokenness that wafted off Samson, when the man spoke, it held all its usual bravado.

"Your woman pestering you, Dog Lord? Thought the former 'commander' woulda been the one ruling the roost." A snide chuckle slipped from his pale lips as he turned to glare at Cullen. "Seems she's still the one you're taking orders from, 'eh?"

Samson's grey-brown eyes were sad despite the hate he tried to throw at Cullen through them. Cullen kept his temper in check. He placed the plate of food down on a nearby table and leaned against the doorframe as he crossed his arms over his chest. "She's never steered me wrong."

Samson snorted. "Oh, I'm sure she hasn't."

Cullen rolled his eyes at the innuendo lacing his voice. "She noticed your chair was empty despite her invitation."

"Was it an invitation or a command? Thought this program was voluntary?"

"Not for you."

A wry smirk twisted Samson's lips. "'Course not. How could I forget?"

"But the invitation is genuine…and without demand. At least from my wife. I on the other hand do demand your presence."

The haughtiness dropped from Samson's face as he met Cullen's stare. He hesitated a moment before quietly asking, "Why?"

"Because I will not suffer an insult to my wife and because you need to understand that there is more to life than lyrium." Cullen pushed off from the door frame and made to leave.

"You don't think there is," Samson murmured in response, "Not for me, I mean."

Cullen hesitated. The words he knew he needed to say just behind his lips. He pressed them tighter. He did not share his wife's gentle heart that was eager to forgive and award second chances to those she deemed worthy. Samson deserved nothing for what he'd done to the templars under his command. For the mages he'd sold into slavery in Kirkwall for a few sovereigns to buy smuggled lyrium. For how he'd spent his entire life serving nothing but himself.

While their sins were not shared, Cullen could not ignore the truth that he had been no less tainted by his own. And no less self-serving. Even if it had been under the guise of serving the "greater good".

Yet Cassandra had offered him a second chance when she'd found him in the ruins of what he'd allowed to happen.

Anaia had offered him the same when he'd laid the ruins of himself bare.

Both providential tools of the Maker to set him on this course of rebuilding and atonement he still continued to tread.

What if he was to be used in the same way?

But why him, Maker?

Knowing he'd receive no answer, he let out a breath. "Perhaps not," he admitted as he turned to meet Samson's eyes. "But here you are regardless. The Maker has spared you from death despite everything. Just as He did me. Even I cannot deny that there must be a purpose to it. But it is up to you to discover what that purpose is. You cannot do that rotting away in here."

With that, Cullen ducked back into the gently falling snow.

***

The rest of the day was spent in holiday festivities. The children unwrapping their gifts before Ana and Cullen exchanged gifts with their friends and family. Holiday carols were sung as Anaia graced them all with her lovely harpsichord playing before the roaring fire. A few dances were shared between he and his wife as well as between he and his sisters. All the while delicious smells wafted from the kitchen as Maudie continued to prepare their holiday dinner.

Cullen had attempted to give Ana her gifts, but she'd insisted they wait until later. A tradition of theirs carried over from Skyhold from when they'd been the first to greet each other at the ringing in of the holiday morn. So instead, at the women's insistence, the men had taken the children old enough outside to have a snowball fight while they all helped Maudie finish up the dinner preparations. Soon Cullen and the others were joined by all the families on the Rutherford land until it was an all-out war. Drenched, cold, and exuberant, the fight broke up as the sun began to set, but not before Cullen's people thanked he and Ana for their generous gifts that'd been delivered in the cover of darkness the night before. He was humble in his response and invited them all to join he and his family for the service at the small chantry on their land that evening.

Returning inside, they all warmed up, put on their dress clothes and bundled up before climbing into the horse-drawn sleighs to be pulled to the chantry as the snow had accumulated quite a bit. Within, the small building was full of its own greenery and candlelight. Hymns and portions of the Chant were sung before the Mother began her sermon.

As she did so, Cullen's ears pricked as he heard the hinges of the chantry door groan. Looking back, he spotted Samson slipping inside. Shock filled Cullen at the sight. Samson had despised the Chantry. So much so that he'd built the Red Templars and served Corypheus to destroy it. For how it'd used him. Used the templars. And had cast both aside.

Sentiments Cullen shared.

But he'd wanted the Chantry to return to the principles upon which it had been founded, not for it to be eliminated altogether.

He could not foresee the future but here on his own lands, in this small chantry—working with former templars who wanted to leave the Order and lyrium behind, working alongside mages who wanted to act as healers to the templars and his people, working his land, caring for his animals, reconnecting with his family and falling ever more in love with his wife—he'd begun to see what he'd hoped for when he finally realized a future outside the Order and the Inquisition was possible. To see that his faith was not owned by the Chantry. That he was not owned.

He was free.

And perhaps, just perhaps, Samson would, too.

Despite his own feelings toward his former brother-in-arms, the thought that such a peace could come about for anyone under his care gave Cullen a sense of purpose as he'd never before known.

He was doing something good.

Truly good.

And by the Maker, by Andraste, he prayed it would be blessed and bless others.

***

"We're so pleased you decided to join us, Sam," Anaia greeted gently as she took Samson's shaking hand. He'd cleaned himself up: clean clothes, washed and combed hair, a shaved face. "Please have a seat and let me serve you."

Fear entered Samson's eyes at this statement. "No-I—"

The others in the room dismissed themselves or quickly busied themselves with other things to draw their focus.

"You're a guest in my home and in Cullen's clinic. It is only right that I show you hospitality."

Samson's jaw clenched. "You've done nothin' but show me kindness since the day I stood before you in chains. After everything I did, you found a way to spare my life and then gave me a chance--even if it was behind bars. Now, you let me be here. Why?"

"We all deserve a second chance—especially those who try."

"If you call nearly destroying the world trying."

Ana looked him straight in the eye. "I call choosing to keep on living—to keep on fighting to live—trying. You could've died. Begged for death. Ran. Anything. Yet you have done everything I have asked you to do. That my husband has asked you to do. You are several years without lyrium, Sam, despite your claim that you needed lyrium to amount to anything. Isn't it time you started living? There are numerous former templars in that building that could learn a thing or two from you, from your story, as they journey their own. Things that Cullen and Rylen cannot impart." Samson studied her face, his own softening slightly as he processed her words. "Not even you can deny your ability to inspire people. You gathered and led an entire army to follow a darkspawn in order to overthrow the Chantry and stand against the Inquisition. Perhaps now you can put such a talent toward something less…chaos-inducing?" Samson gave the barest of smiles at that causing Ana to flash him a brilliant smile and Cullen noticed the subtle straightening of Samson's posture at it. "Give it some thought. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy yourself this evening."

"Thank you…Lady."

"Who's taking orders now?" Cullen chided once Ana was out of earshot.

Samson shot him a glare. "Shut it, Dog Lord."

Cullen chortled as he took his seat, noticing that Samson's words carried less bite.

***

After they'd said goodbye to everyone, the evening's festivities done, Anaia took Cullen's hand and pulled him toward the stairs. He'd caught her eyes on him numerous times throughout the day, holding that steady flame of want in her gaze. His own desire had been building as well. But instead of leading him to the bedroom, she traveled past their door to one of the bedrooms down the hall.

"Ana?"

Instead of answering, she pressed the door open. Cullen found himself confused as she led him inside. The room was full of items for a baby. A crib, rocking chair, chest of drawers and a rocker in the shape of a mabari carved in by a familiar hand. Toys and blankets that ranged from extravagant to handmade. Clear indications that their Inquisition family had sent them gifts to furnish their child's room. Sat upon the chest of drawers was a card addressed to him:

My dear husband,

It has been so hard to keep this a surprise for you. I've been bursting to tell you every moment since I'd realized and one of the midwives confirmed it.

We're going to have a baby.

You're going to be a father.

I know—

Cullen didn't finish the card before he dropped it--though he did notice the signatures of their friends at the bottom--and turned to wrap his wife in an embrace. Pulling away, he buried his hands in her hair before kissing her deeply. Breaking, he noticed the tears in her eyes and the gentle smile on her face. A mirror of himself.

Hesitantly, he placed a hand over where their child now grew.

A baby.

They were going to have a baby.

He was going to be a father.

And he was going to watch his wife be a mother.

Ana's hand came to cover his own. He'd thought he'd be afraid, feel unprepared, overwhelmed and worried he'd believe he had no business being a father if such news ever did come. Yet in the moment, their hands layered over their child as they stood within the room lovingly prepared for their little one, he felt nothing but joy. He met his wife's eyes, shining with love and joy as she looked at him.

In the distance, they heard bells ringing.

"Is this a good gift?" Ana whispered, her voice thick.

"It's perfect," Cullen murmured back before cradling her face and ringing in the holiday with a deep kiss.

x x x

A creeping sense of unease filled his chest before he even understood what he was feeling apprehensive about. His fingers twitched. A sixth sense, so to speak. Is that…?

Slack, his hand fell to the side. The tent flap, which he had already begun to push aside to retrieve the documents that Rylen needed to sign, plunged shut. None of it signified. He faced his whole body east, breath caught in his throat. His tongue curled behind the bottom row of his gnashed teeth, jaw clenched, nostrils flared. 

He strained his eyes to see through the light snowfall.

It's her. The thought seized Cullen as he made a half-step forward, boots kicking up a spray of snow. He caught himself and came to a jerky halt, sweat pouring down his back. 

She's here. 

For four years, Mary Amell lived apart from him, but her ghost had never truly strayed far from his mind’s eye. She was a constant figure haunting his thoughts, a pale, emaciated symbol of his biggest failures — in Kinloch, and then in Kirkwall. 

This time, though, her gray silhouette did not vanish into thin air. Indeed, the longer he tracked her movements through the snowy road, the clearer it became that she was corporeal and not a figment of tortured imagination. Not a specter manufactured by his withdrawals. 

It was as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over his head. 

Sweet Andraste. Maker’s mercy. He hadn't counted on seeing her. 

Though she wore a thick, gray, and fur-lined cloak, the bulk of which obscured just about all of her silhouette, and her dark hair was braided into a thick rope over her back, longer than it had ever been in memory, Cullen knew that it was her. 

It could be no other, he thought with conviction. He would know Mary Amell in any iteration.

She carried a small package bound with parchment and twine under her arm, trudging through the thick snow, occasionally bouncing forward with a laugh that Cullen was too far away to hear but rang clearly in his mind anyways, the sound well-known and dear. Her head was bowed in conversation with another woman in different but similarly shapeless robes — a fellow mage, Cullen cataloged. 

Popular and gregarious as ever, Mary. The years, despite the Templar-Mage conflict, seemed to have been kind to her. From afar, it was as if she hadn't aged a day, though it could be just that she was preserved in memory. The hollow gauntness that the Kirkwall Circle had carved into her flesh was gone.  

That she was well despite the dissolution of the Circle of Magi, or the fact that she had gone to ground, loosened a knot of tension in Cullen’s chest. In the back of his mind, he had always worried.

That, and the steely jut of her back, the imperious way she lifted her chin, even the gesture she made with a poised hand. Everything about her jumped out at him, familiar but still as magnetic as the day he—

He let out an unsteady breath, the air fogging before him. He left that thought unfinished. 

Vein pulsing in his temple, he rubbed his jaw. Stubble rasped at his gloves. 

Damn it all to hell. He should have anticipated this. 

In Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall, Mary had only called herself “nosy”. A complete understatement. She took a vested interest in current affairs, had an eerie sense for when, in her words, “shit was about to go down”. Cassandra’s request and everything that came with it was a welcome distraction and took up so much of his attention, or it would have occurred to him sooner. 

Mary would never have passed up the opportunity to participate in the Divine’s Conclave. She liked to have her finger on the pulse of the world, especially since this involved what would become of the mages going forward. 

She did not turn to look in his direction again despite the fact that every cell in his body was screaming her name. She must not have seen him through the snowfall and the throng of knights and agents passing in and out of the tents. 

But she had looked, pointed her fair face towards his direction, and he was looking back. If he were being honest with himself, he had never actually succeeded in looking away, even when he had convinced himself he had.  

Did she wonder if he was there?

I am sorry, Cullen: her final words to him. Twice she had lowered her head and placed her heart in his hands; twice that he had shattered it to pieces. I wish you well.

He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. He wouldn’t be surprised if she did everything in her power to forget about him.  

Ignorant, she continued walking towards the bathhouse alongside her companion. Soon after, she disappeared into the squat building.

Cullen inhaled sharply, not even realizing that he had unconsciously held it until frigid air was rushing back into his lungs. 

“Cullen?” Knight-Captain Rylen repeated his name. It sounded as if he had been trying to get Cullen’s attention for some time now. 

When Cullen faced him, Rylen looked concerned. Blinking, he asked again, “Are ye weel, min?” 

He followed Cullen’s line of sight and only saw the busy road, bustling with activity. “Whit’s it?” 

Cullen snapped out of his stupor. “Maker’s breath,” he swore, shaking his head.

There were many things he wanted to tell Mary, but now that it was not a pipe dream of a lout in the throes of delirious misery, Cullen realized that he did not know where to begin… or even how to approach her. There were bridges that could not be mended, even if, he liked to think, he had grown from the furious arsehole who had broken her heart. 

“It’s nothing,” Cullen said to Rylen, turning away from the street. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. 

A lump formed in his throat. Already, he felt that familiar cloud rising in his breast, threatening to choke him. His thoughts would grow dark if he dwelled on it further. 

And his thoughts did dwell. 

He gritted his teeth, pulling a muscle in his neck. The Maker was putting him to the test. 

Heart pounding against his ribs, he forced his fists to unclench and collected his composure. This was his chance to make up for his past mistakes. He could not allow himself to be distracted or swayed. Not again.

For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light. And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.