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Chapter Text

Cullen doesn't actually manage to see Evelyn when she and her party ride back into Haven, as he's escorting Enchanter Sorris and a small squad of about five mages down to the ruins of the Temple to set up for the assault on the Breach. Apparently there are certain runes and such that can be put into place to better focus their energies, and Cullen wants to make sure that they arrive there safely. There have been tensions enough between the mages and the rest of Haven, in the last few weeks, that it seemed prudent to make a point of escorting them himself, to ensure they arrived in one piece. There are surprisingly few demons in the immediate vicinity of the Breach, a phenomenon Solas likened to the calm at the eye of the storm, but in these troubled times Cullen is taking no chances.

He leaves them with a full cohort of good soldiers to guard them and returns to Haven as quickly as possible, but it is still late afternoon when he returns. He leaves his horse under the care of one of Dennet's capable assistants, and notices some familiar mounts that are already groomed and returned to their stalls: Cassandra's black mare, the Iron Bull's massive roan, Evelyn's big bay. They've been back for some time, then.

His first thought is to go seek her out immediately, but he realizes that it would seem foolish, overeager. And he does, truly, have work that needs his attention. Cullen reluctantly returns to his tent, glancing about in hopes that he might happen to run across her on the way, but no such luck. Instead he finds himself at his desk writing reports for another couple hours, at least, before he sees the sun sinking low to the mountaintops and decides that enough is enough, for today.

He emerges into the chill evening air, rubbing his hands together briskly, and heads up the walkway towards the heart of town. He'll just make a quick check at her quarters, Cullen tells himself, and then he'll go up to the Chantry to make his report to Leliana. She'll be wanting to hear about getting the mages settled, and to make sure that all is in readiness for Evelyn whenever she is prepared-

"Cullen! Ay, Cullen!"

He turns, and sure enough, it's the woman herself, jogging up the path from the mage encampment. He halts, letting her catch up to him, which she does a moment later, skidding to a halt next to him and giving him a beaming smile. "Hello!"

Cullen laughs softly, her enthusiasm infectious. "Hello," he says, and because she seems so very happy to see him, he admits, "I was just on my way to your quarters to look for you."

"Well, you've found me." Cullen was a bit worried that this meeting would be awkward between them, with the so-personal tone of their letters the last few weeks, but Evelyn's genuine pleasure makes it hard for awkwardness to take hold. "I was looking for you when we got in this morning, but Josephine told me that you were down at the Temple ruins. Sorris is preparing the area?"

"Sorris and a half-dozen hand picked assistants, yes. I admit to a distinct lack of understanding as to what they're doing there, but when I left they all seemed very pleased with their progress."

She makes a face. "Does it make you think less of me if I say I don't understand it, either?" she confesses.

She's making a joke out of it, but it's a hint of real insecurity, one that she likely didn't intend for him to see. Cullen soothes it with an involuntary smile; he was never the most studious of the lads taking the vow, either. "Not in the least. Unless, of course, you think less of me for my inability to ever remember the Canticle of Silence in its entirety?"

"It's a grave lapse, but I think you can be forgiven." Evelyn rolls her eyes and starts walking again, and he falls easily into step beside her. "I've never really been much of a scholar, alas. It's how I ended up under the tutelage of a Knight-Enchanter in the first place - no one else could figure out how to make me sit still long enough."

He can too easily picture Evelyn as a child, all energy and curiosity and knobby knees. "And yet you've quite the skill with a pencil or quill," he says. "In another life, you could have made a living drawing portraits on the streets in Val Royeaux."

"Oh, and what a romantic life it would have been!" She mimes an imaginary swoon. "A small room to call my own on the top floor, gruel for breakfast every morning, silly hats everywhere I turn.. Wait, no, I'm sorry. That was the Circle."

"Mage hats do get a bit silly," he agrees, tongue in cheek. She dimples up at him.

"Truly, though, flatter me as you do, it's nothing special. Merely a hobby."

"You've talent a'plenty for a mere hobby," he says with raised eyebrows. "I refuse to believe that such sprung full-formed into your head. Or do you claim not have practiced, as Sera does with her archery?"

"In Sera's defense, I think she actually doesn't practice much," Evelyn says, "some people are truly gifted that way. But you are right about me, at least. There's only so much even a battlemage-to-be can avoid book learning, much to the dismay of my younger self, and Master William liked to leave me under the watchful eyes of the Circle Tranquil as a punishment when I was acting up. They were the only ones who could get me to behave, probably because because they scared me silly." She glances at him. "You'd know - it's hard not to be frightened of them, when you're young. They seem so cold."

"Yes," Cullen says distantly. "Yes, I know."

"It's different now. Once you're older, you can see how vulnerable they are. Looking back, I think William set me to work under them as much to have someone looking after them as to have them looking after me. Our Circle was a good one, but there's always bad apples."

Yes, Cullen knows that full well. Even on his worst days, he's never had anything but the fullest of sympathy for the Tranquil. Of the many regrets he has of his time in Kirkwall is how many mages got the brand under Meredith's orders, good mages who'd passed their Harrowing and should have been protected under Chantry law. Even at the time he knew something was wrong there, angry not being the same thing as blind, but in the end all he'd been able to do was to arrange things much as her master had, to keep some of the clever or fiercer mages and the kinder templars stationed near them so that none could take advantage.

It wasn't enough. It hadn't ever been enough.

"Cullen?" Evelyn says softly, in a tone that makes him realize it's probably not the first time she's said his name. "Are you all right?"

"...yes," he says, and then, more firmly, "Yes, I'm sorry. Lost in thought, I suppose." He hasn't recovered from his relapse as well as he'd thought, if he's drifting so easily as that. Maker, and they were having such a nice moment, until he ruined it with his weakness.

Evelyn gives a thoughtful hum, seemingly unbothered by his lapse. "Well, it happens to the best of us," she says lightly, "and since it's happened to you I know that to be true."

Sweet Andraste, if she compliments him again like that he'll blush like a schoolboy and then his humiliation will be complete. "Evelyn…" he says warningly.

Teasingly, she waves an imaginary fan at her throat, as if they're in a stuffy ballroom somewhere rather than outside in the brisk winter air. "Maker, listen to that growl. If you keep going like this, Commander, you're going to make me swoon."

It's overtly, absurdly flirtatious, even coming from a woman who's never shied away from teasing him in that manner, and he knows that she's doing it to cheer him up. Worse, it's working. Despite his embarrassment, Cullen can feel the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smile.

"You're too much."

"See, there, I knew you'd admit it eventually," she says triumphantly. "Everyone says that at some point. Except the Tranquil, I suppose. Immunity to frustration makes for some very patient teachers." She stretches out one arm and with the other hand, sketches a quick rune on her sleeve that glows, briefly, before disappearing into nothingness. "See? More than ten years on and I can still do some of the patterns in my sleep. The sketching I did when I was supposed to be taking notes in the library, but the runecrafting gave me a steady hand with the pen. The rest just came with time, I guess."

"So what you're saying," he teases, "is that you know exactly what Sorris and the others are doing down at the Temple."

"Andraste no, I know sweet bugger all about magical theory," she says. "What I'm saying is that I'm a damned fine draftsman."

"I should have Varric ask some of his mason friends to take you up on that assertion."

"Oh, please don't. I couldn't handle the criticism."

They reach the door of the Chantry, and Cullen realizes that while he hadn't been walking in any particular direction, just walking because he liked walking beside her, he’s still fetched up at his destination nonetheless. "This is my stop," he says, inclining his head to the open doors, "I need to confer with Leliana. Your destination as well?"

"No destination, I actually need to go back to the mage tents," she says, looking a bit shamefaced. "Got a bit caught up talking, I suppose. I originally just came up to say hello, and maybe ask... but it's stupid."

Well, now, he can't possibly ignore an opening such a that. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asks. "Name it, and it's yours."

She shakes her head quickly. "No, I shouldn't have brought it up. You're busy."

Busy, certainly. Too busy for her? He refuses to allow it. "Name it."

Evelyn seems suddenly awkward, glancing away and twisting her fingers together in front of her. "The day after tomorrow," she says, and when she can't continue, just glances to the sky, he suddenly realizes what she means.

"Your attempt on the Breach."

She seems grateful that he's grasped her meaning. "Yes. Leliana was planning to try tomorrow, but I asked for a day to myself first and Cassandra stood up for me, so I have it. I'm going to go up the mountain, sleep under the stars."

"That sounds wonderful," Cullen says, wondering where the favor lies. "I think the weather-augurs have said it will be clear for some days. I envy you the chance, really."

"Oh, that's… good," she says, and bites her lip. "That you think that. Because I was wondering…"

He doesn't entirely realize he's doing it until he edges closer, tucks his head down so that his voice comes lower, more intimate. "What is it?" he asks softly. She is so rarely hesitant in any way.

"I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," Evelyn blurts, and then winces. "You can absolutely say no, I know you must have a thousand things to do, I just really don't want to be by myself and be alone with my thoughts and I could ask someone else but I don't want to be a bother-"

"Yes," he says, cutting off her babble. She blinks up at him in a way Cullen wishes he didn't find so charming.

"Yes?"

"I'd love to," he says. Inwardly, he's frantically trying to figure out all of the things he's going to have to do tonight, all of the shuffling he's going to have to do - Maker, on the very eve of their first big engagement since they've had time to train their forces, what is he thinking - but all he says is, "What time should I meet you tomorrow?"

"...midday?" she hazards, still looking a little dumbstruck that he's agreed. "That way we both have some time to set our affairs in order, and then we could ride up in the afternoon, make camp and then come back early the next morning. I wasn't intending to go far," she assures him, as if suddenly he's going to scold her for being irresponsible. Maker, as if she's the irresponsible one in this scenario. But it's not as if he was ever going to be able to tell her no - and it's not as if he doesn't want to be away from this town, if even for a day, almost as much as she clearly craves it.

And it's not as if he minds the thought of a day at her side, with no one and nothing else to interrupt. Not that he thinks anything will come of it, not like that, but… It would be nice. Just to… be with her. Around her. More than nice.

Maker, he's an idiot.

"That sounds good," he says. There's quite a bit he can do with several hours of candlelight and a free morning, if he has a will and a willingness to actually delegate for a change. "Shall I meet you at your quarters?"

"Where you will likely find me haphazardly shoving things into my pack, as always," she says ruefully. She still seems a little dazed, but a delighted smile is starting to bloom across her face. "I know that sort of thing offends your organized sensibilities, so try not to think too unkindly of me for it."

He scoffs. "As if such a thing is possible."

"Yes… well…" Evelyn clears her throat, tilts her chin up defiantly to meet his gaze. "So. Tomorrow?"

Abruptly Cullen realizes how close he is still standing, and takes a step backwards, trying not to make it look like a retreat. "Until then," he says, and they both bow slightly at each other, Evelyn rolling her eyes at the formality before she turns and heads back down the path with a wave.

Oh Maker, you beautiful idiot, he tells himself. But he can't, in truth, bring himself to feel too badly about his decision, after all.

It takes two full candles' worth of work that evening and a start at dawn the next morning, but Cullen manages to tidy away his remaining tasks well enough that shortly after noon he's knocking on Evelyn's door, his pack slung over his shoulder.

There's no answer, and frowning, he knocks again. Still silence. He considers the possibility that he might have been mistaken as to the time - did she say midday, or just the middle of the day? She could be enjoying her lunch now, and him too early, looking like an overeager lad. Not exactly the impression he wants to make.

Still, he was fairly sure as to the time, and he's halfway considering looping around to the side of the building to check her windows when one of the patrolling guards stops with a respectful bow. "Looking for the Lady Herald, ser?"

"...as it happens," Cullen replies cautiously. "Have you seen her?"

The guard nods. "I'm to tell you that she's gone on down to the stables, and would you please see her there," he recites. "Something about getting an early start."

Cullen releases his breath on a sigh. In spite of himself, he's that relieved. "Thank you for the message," he says. "Carry on."

The guard salutes, and resumes his patrol as Cullen heads back down to the front gates. Evelyn's big bay is saddled and tied to the hitching rail near the front of the stable, with a chestnut forder tied next to it that's clearly meant for him. He slings his pack up behind the chestnut's saddle and straps it into place, noting that hers is already similarly fastened on her mount, with her staff tied to the top. What he doesn’t see is the woman herself.

When he ventures into the stables proper, Cullen hears voices coming from the hayloft: a male voice that he doesn’t recognize, followed by Evelyn’s laughter. About to climb the ladder to fetch her, he hesitates with his boot on the bottom rung, considering. There are only a handful of reasons why a woman might be in the hayloft with a man when she doesn’t actually work in the stables. Perhaps she’s trysting with a lover? The thought galls, for a number of reasons, but the thought of accidentally walking in on them is far worse, so he clears his throat and calls tentatively, “Lady Herald?”

“Cullen!” Evelyn calls back without pause, and even from a distance he can hear the smile in her voice. “Hold just a moment and I’ll be finished.”

She doesn’t sound like she’s in the middle of a tryst, and when a few moments pass and he doesn’t hear movement, Cullen decides that he can probably risk it. “I’m coming up,” he calls, and suits action to word.

He immediately spots her, sitting a ways back from the edge on a stack of bales, Dorian Pavus sitting across from her and a stranger with a large black beard standing nearby, observing. Evelyn and Pavus both have their hands outstretched, hers hovering a few bare inches above his, and soft blue glow pulses rhythmically between their palms. Evelyn tosses Cullen a quick smile when she spots him but otherwise doesn’t waver from whatever spellcraft she’s doing, so he goes over to stand next to the newcomer.

“Warden Blackwall, I’m guessing?”

The man chuckles and pats his breastplate. “Griffons give it away, I suppose?”

“A bit.” He holds out his hand. “Commander Cullen.”

“Well met,” Blackwall says, and gives it a respectful shake - and then a salute, when Cullen’s hands drop away. He raises an eyebrow, and Blackwall shrugs. “Force of habit.”

“As you say." The Wardens are famous for taking people from all walks of life, and Blackwall would hardly be the first soldier to join their ranks. He sets his shoulder against the wall in a lean and nods to the two mages. "Supervising?"

Blackwall snorts. "I was here first. They heard me moving about and decided to invade."

"I didn't know you were here, all right?" Evelyn says, with the long-suffering tones of a woman who's said it more than once before. "I just wanted a quiet spot to get a quick spot of practice in before I left, and-"

"Careful!" Pavus yelps, as the pulsing light between their hands loses rhythm at her distraction. Evelyn frowns and the light steadies, though it's somewhat brighter than before. "Sweet Maker, Evelyn, pay attention to your craft."

"Shut it and finish the spell," she snaps back good-naturedly. Beside Cullen, Blackwall rolls his eyes.

"They're always bloody like this," he confides. "I thought after the first day or two they'd wear themselves out, but no. They're like those little wind-up toys, the auto-whatsits. Only they never wind down."

Cullen knows from experience that Evelyn is fully ready, willing, and capable of keeping up a steady stream of teasing conversation approximately till the end of days. She's had arguments with Varric that lasted the space of weeks since neither one of them was willing to give up the last word; Cullen can only imagine what she's like with the grandstanding Pavus, on the road with nothing else to hold her attention for hours at a time. He does rather feel for Blackwall. But-

"You get used to it," he says, and keeps his gaze on Evelyn. She doesn't turn to face him, but he knows that she hears him because her lips curl up faintly in a smile.

She and Pavus are bending their attention to their spellcraft in earnest now, however, and even Cullen can see that their casting is reaching a crescendo. The light between their hands pulses faster, steady as a metronome, and the air around them grows noticeably colder, not that it was terribly warm to begin with. Cullen exhales and sees his breath fog out like a plume of smoke, just as Evelyn and Pavus close their eyes in unison, curl their hands into fists, and the light between them winks out.

Over the next few heartbeats, the temperature of the air rises back to normal, and when Evelyn blinks her eyes open a moment later, it's with a faint rime of frost on her eyelashes. "Whoops," she says, chuckling and wiping at her face. "Got a little too into it and pulled heat there at the end. Dorian, you good?"

Pavus opens his eyes somewhat more slowly, but when he does so the most self-satisfied smile Cullen has ever seen spreads across his face. "Oh, I'm excellent," he purrs, and rolls his shoulders in a stretch, graceful in motion even while seated. "Have I mentioned how much I adore being your practice dummy, my dear?"

Cullen shifts, uncomfortable. It's not that he thinks their exchange particularly private or they wouldn't be comfortable with witnesses - well, Evelyn wouldn't, he can't speak for her companion - but Pavus's tone seemed rather unabashedly sexual, at least to Cullen's blushing ears. He feels like he's walked into something he oughtn't.

"What were you doing, anyway?" he asks, and hopes that it sounds casual.

"Trading mana," Evelyn explains, twining her hands in front of her and then reaching as far forward as they can go in a long, bone-popping stretch. "It's a control exercise. Both of us pool raw energy between us and shift it back and forth without casting for a set amount of time."

"And then one of us gets to keep it at the end, which is delightful because it feels amazing," Pavus sighs. "Commander, you should try it yourself. I cannot recommend it enough."

"I'm sure it's a thing best left to mages," he says dismissively, thinking that to be the end of it, but Pavus lights up at his own suggestion.

"No, it works well enough with mundanes as well!"

"We've talked about that word," Evelyn cuts in.

"It's not offensive here, most don't even know what it means!"

"I know."

"Very well." Pavus rolls his eyes and repeats, "It works well enough with non-mages. You can't initiate the transfer, of course, but any mage with training can form a link with a willing partner, mage or no."

"..tThat smacks of blood magic," Cullen can't help but point out, even though he knows better than to pick that fight. Evelyn winces, but Pavus merely shrugs, not at all offended by the implication.

"Energy is energy. Blood magic is the trick of demons, taking the life force of the unwilling in exchange for mana. A transfer that I speak of has to be willing - and it can go both ways." He pauses. "Admittedly, I've rarely seen it used in that direction back home, but it can be done. And I promise you, it truly does feel amazing."

"I'm not interested," Cullen says, likely rather harsher than is entirely necessary, given that Pavus is, in his way, only trying to be polite. "...but thank you for the offer," he adds, on the assumption that a bit of politeness rarely hurts anyone.

"Oh, I wasn't offering," Pavus says with a twinkle. "But I'm sure Evelyn would be more than happy to form a link- hey!" The insinuating smirk on Pavus's face is wiped away as a spark flashes lightning-quick from Evelyn's fingers to the studs in his right ear, and he brings up one be-ringed hand to rub the sting from his lobes. "That was uncalled-for."

"That was absolutely called for, you prat," Evelyn says heatedly. "You have no sense of boundaries whatsoever, do you?"

Pavus grins, still massaging his abused ear. "Boundaries are for peasants with no imagination."

"And on that note, I'm leaving." Evelyn clambers rather awkwardly to her feet, her armor creaking under the strain, and drubs her knuckles across the top of Pavus's styled head. "Try not to get into trouble while I'm gone."

Pavus tilts his head back to scowl up at her, finger-combing his hair back into place. "I shan't miss you if you're in a mood like this."

"Get used to it," she advises, and gives a quick wave to Blackwall. "Sorry about invading your peace and quiet," she says. "Feel free to throw the blighter out bodily, if he won't go."

"As if I'd want to linger around here! It smells of horses, you know."

"I'll hold down the fort," Blackwall says, ignoring Pavus, and she grins at him.

"Sounds good." At last, Evelyn turns to Cullen, and her smile goes unexpectedly sweet around the edges. "Sorry for the circus," she says quietly, to him alone for all that they still have witnesses. "Shall we?"

He chuckles and waves to the ladder. "After you."

It's a beautiful ride up the mountain. The higher they go the thicker the snow gets, as some of its weight has melted off the lower reaches near Haven, but their mounts stay steady as they weave between the trees, and the footing never really gets treacherous. The trees are draped in snowy blankets and sparkling with diamond-like ice, and though Cullen knows Evelyn's artist’s eye is more inclined toward portraits than landscapes, he can’t help but hope that she appreciates the view as well as he does.

Still, the true enjoyment of the ride isn’t in the scenery, but the company. They are both fairly quiet for the first hour or so, but by the time that the smoke from Haven’s chimneys has faded entirely, they’re deep into conversation about Inquisition forces. He’s been receiving her reports from the field, of course, official and otherwise, but they haven’t had much opportunity for an in-depth discussion on the subject for several weeks at least, and he values the input of an outsider’s eye that’s just as trained as his own.

“-which is why it’s about time to cycle some of your people back through for reassignment,” she’s arguing, as they take a break to allow their horses water from a nearby stream. Cullen's crouched down beside his mare’s nose, filling his waterskin with streamwater for later, but Evelyn's still mounted, and the angle at which he has to crane his neck to meet her gaze is ridiculous. “Conditions are getting better, but it’s still pretty rough. Your seasoned people could use a break back in camp and be put to better use training for the time being, and your newer recruits have a few months of seasoning under their belts and are ready to hold out on their own for a time.”

“I thought you were the one who always liked to tell me not to break up existing units,” he says, mostly to see her response. Her scowl does not disappoint.

“If I remember correctly, I said not to break up existing units without good cause,” she corrects grumpily. “Reassignment is a normal part of service. You want to encourage loyalty to the whole, not just to the man who serves beside you. And it gives you a chance to cycle the soldiers you’re currently using to train back out into existing units as field officers to maintain the chain of command and why am I even bothering to explain this,” she interrupts herself, rolling her eyes, “when I know full well you know this already. You’re just saying it to poke at me.”

“My lady, I would never,” he says, pressing one hand to his breastplate, and she makes a rude noise, gesturing something from the other side of her horse’s withers that he can’t quite see. Probably for the best. He might have to stop smiling long enough to get offended, otherwise.

“My lord, you would always,” she returns, and he gives in and laughs, corking the skin and slinging it back up to his pack. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t want my advice.”

“And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were fishing for compliments,” he returns. He sets his foot in the stirrup and swings back up into the saddle, kicking high over the cantle to avoid disturbing his things. “It’s a good thing that the Herald of Andraste is above such petty vanities.”

“And a good thing her Commander isn’t a complete smartarse,” she shoots back, but she’s hiding a smile very badly. “How did we get to talking about work, anyway? I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”

“Ah, forgive me, if I had but known I would have stopped you when you started discussing battle tactics,” Cullen says, very seriously. “This is an important day for you, and you know I would of course do everything in my power to respect your wishes. Including telling you to shut your face. Repeatedly, if necessary.”

“Such kindness,” Evelyn drawls. She lays the reins against the neck of her bay and they head off back onto the path, his mare falling easily into stride beside her. As they get higher up, the woods will get thicker and they will have to ride single file once more, but for now he can look over and see the rueful amusement on her face. “All right, so I started it. In my defense, I don’t think I have a lot of conversational topics that aren’t related to the Inquisition somehow.”

“I’m just as guilty,” Cullen readily agrees. “I’ve never had much time for anything aside from my duties. All of my friends were always other templars.”

“And mine other soldiers, mostly,” she says. “I suppose it can make for some boring conversation, having such a limited worldview."

"I don't think anyone would ever make the mistake of calling yours limited, with as much as you've seen and done," he says, and when only silence meets his observation he turns with a lifted brow. "What, no comeback?"

Unfathomably, she blushes slightly. "Undone by the compliment, of course," Evelyn says, and it's her usual teasing tone, but it's… more, too. Something he can't quite identify. "I could say the same thing about you, you know. You’ve seen and done more than most will ever claim.”

True, but a sobering thought nonetheless. Not all of what he has seen and done made him a better man; much of it, in fact, did entirely the opposite, for longer than he cares to admit. And his poor decisions had consequences, ones that stretched far beyond himself.

“That may be so,” he says heavily. He knows he’s ruining their light, cheerful banter - as she says, it’s her vacation - but he can’t quite seem to stop himself. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m proud to claim all of it.”

It’s the closest Cullen's ever come to admitting aloud his less savory experiences as a templar, and his belly immediately tightens in fear of her reaction. It’s not the same as it was at the beginning, when he was telling a strange mage who had no reason to think well of him that he served in Kirkwall in the height of the madness. He knows now that she will not judge him harshly on the sake of his former profession. They've already tested those differences against the bedrock of their friendship and found it to be capable of withstanding such quakes. Whatever else might pass between them, he is sure of that, at least.

No, he waits for her response with sickness in his belly because of their friendship, because he fears her disappointment far worse than he once feared her anger. Evelyn's too clever not to take his meaning even from such a curt statement, and he doesn’t want to see those blue eyes turned to him without their usual warmth. Not today.

She doesn’t answer immediately, and the knots in his belly grow larger at her silence, but when he steals a sideways glance she merely looks thoughtful. “I think I’d be surprised if you were,” she says, after a moment. “I have my fair share of regrets too, you know. War is never as clean as they make it out to be in the story books. Man does not need blood magic or demons to commit horrors, especially on the battlefield. I’ve done things I don’t like to remember.”

It’s an unexpected confession, though nothing Cullen couldn’t have assumed for himself. Templars, when all goes right, serve more as caretakers than as soldiers, but he’s taken to the battlefield often enough, and he understands how it is. Decisions made in the heat of the moment can haunt you later, well he knows - and that’s merely when your adversaries are demons and abominations. How much worse must it be when the face on the other side of your shield is as human as your own?

“But I don’t think it’s about that,” Evelyn continues, still in that thoughtful tone. “About right or wrong. Not exactly. What happened, happened, you know? You can’t change the past.”

“You did.”

“Fair enough! Still, it’s an exception that rather proves the rule, I think. Though it was always only the present for me, you know, no matter what year it was. So I suppose I should say that you can’t change your past.”

The thought of it sits like a stone at the bottom of his ribcage. “That’s not the most comforting thought.”

She makes a face at him. “Maybe. But that’s not really the point, is it? It’s about what you do now.”

“You can let it drag you down,” he agrees, going loose with relief. She does understand, after all. “Or you can rise above.”

“Exactly! I mean, you can be angry, and cynical, and look for the worst in people-”

Something I have done all too often, Cullen thinks, but does not interrupt.

“Or you can learn that you’re not the only one that feels pain.” She reaches across the space between their mounts and pats his knee. He does not start at the touch, but only because he’s too busy staring down at her gloved hand. “That’s why I like you so much, you know. You’re kind. Even when you don’t agree with somebody, you can still empathize with them. You’re not… bitter. Just pragmatic.” She favors him with a slightly lopsided smile. “You understand.”

It’s probably the finest compliment he’s ever received, from someone that he respects and admires as much as anybody he’s ever known. And it’s not deserved at all.

He tries twice before he’s able to swallow around the lump in his throat. “You flatter me too much.”

She gives his knee a squeeze that he can feel even through the layers of his cloak and trousers. “I think I flatter you just enough,” she says, and then withdraws her hand before she can wreck his composure any further.

“I haven’t always, you know,” he says, out of some maniac urge to make her understand that she gives him entirely more credit than he deserves. “Been what you think. I know I’ve said before, but... You wouldn’t have wanted to know me before I left Kirkwall. I-” Honesty, he tells himself. “I wasn’t a very good man.”

If she gives me some trite response I may just turn around and right back down the mountain, he thinks faintly if ridiculously, but in this, as in so many other things, Evelyn does not disappoint. “And I used to be a cocky brat with a chip on my shoulder who thought it was me against the world, and the world didn’t deserve to win,” she says instantly, though she looks away as she says it. There’s shame written in the lines around her mouth. “I’d kill a man in battle and never lose a wink of sleep. It was all just grand fun to me, getting out there and throwing fireballs around, leading men to glorious victory, the whole song and dance routine.”

She falls silent then, and Cullen says nothing, because he knows the look of a woman partway through a speech. A moment later, she continues, her voice smaller, “I never understood why some of the lads would get sick after. Maker, I was the worst to them, poor lads, because I thought they were weak. Boys under my command, who looked up to me and respected me, who didn’t know what war was until it chewed them up and spat them out - and I ruined them, because I thought I knew everything.” She sighs, hunching her shoulders as if to ward off his bad opinion. “It took me a long time to learn how wrong I was. There was someone... Well. I guess what I’m trying to say is you wouldn’t have wanted to know me then, either.”

For a moment Cullen is struck dumb for want of a response. He knows better than most that a bad commander can do more harm to a soldier than any enemy’s blade, and the thought that Evelyn had been one of them... That Evelyn had once looked at men like- like him, damn it, frightened and hurt and doing all the wrong things because of it, and she’d judged them for it… It sends a sudden spike of rage up his spine at the very thought.

And then, as quickly as it comes, his anger fades away. Evelyn is not Meredith, to drive young men to ruin and think it righteous, nor to take advantage of a weakness to suit her own needs. Any mistakes she may have made in her youth were clearly made out of ignorance rather than malice, and whatever follies she may have committed in years past, he has done more and worse out of deliberate blindness.

As well, she’s shown him nothing but the qualities of an excellent commander in the months they have known each other. Was he not just thinking as such? Was he not just seeking her opinion, because he has come to trust it as much as his own? Evelyn looks after her team and cares about the men who follow her banner, even though she has no responsibility to lead them. She is decisive without being thoughtless, steadfast in her decisions once made, and attentive to the needs of the group, often putting them above herself. If she was once as she said, a commander undeserving of the name, she has long since set that aside and risen above it. If anyone can find something admirable in that, it’s him.

Cullen must take too long coming to his answer, because her face falls and she glances away. Her gelding, sensing the sudden tension in his rider’s seat, shifts and starts to prace uneasily, looking about for enemies. Evelyn gives a little half-laugh and soothes him back into a walk with a stroke of his neck, and when she looks up again Cullen is smiling at her.

“It’s a good thing, then,” he says deliberately, “that we met when we did.”

For once in his blighted life, he said exactly the right thing, because her face lights up. “A very good thing indeed,” she agrees, and goes loose and smiling in the saddle, her unhappy tension melted by one right word from him. In that moment, he feels more powerful than he ever did with lyrium in his veins. “I could do without the circumstances, but…”

She trails off, shrugs, but Cullen smiles back, because he knows exactly how she feels.

“I’m still glad I met you, too.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she tells him. And in the moment, he can’t do anything but agree.

They’re quiet for the rest of the ride, but it’s not a bad quiet, just a little worn from the weight of the discussion earlier, both of them retreating back into their own thoughts for a time. Cullen would have expected to find his to be heavy and bitter, the way that they always are when he finds himself dwelling on the past, but to his surprise he spends the next few hours largely thinking of nothing. His mind feels washed clean and clear and oddly bright, like Lowtown streets just after a storm. At peace.

Perhaps this is that 'catharsis' nonsense the healers talked about after Kinloch, he thinks wryly. It took me ten years, but I got there in the end.

Still, the quiet can’t last forever: Evelyn is irrepressible as a rule, and not overly given to brooding. Cullen can’t say the same about himself, but while the silence between them is comfortable, Cullen finds that he prefers the chatter, the movement and noise and friendship that lights up the air between them when they speak. It's a little disconcerting how quickly he's become accustomed to it, considering the relatively brief amount of time they've actually spent physically in the same place. The letters they have exchanged, which have come to feel like the best part of good days and a lifeline on the worst, are no substitute for having her next to him, laughing and making jokes and smiling at him like- like just being around him is something that makes her happy. Like he can make her happy. Whatever responsibilities he is shirking in order to give this day to her, he would do it again and gladly.

Their conversation is back in full swing by the time that they make it up to the little hunting camp Evelyn used on her previous trip up the mountain. They dump their gear and then tie and rub down the horses in the gathering darkness, Evelyn telling him about the shards she's been finding all over, little chips of runestone worked in lyrium that's unlike anything she's ever seen.

"-and Solas thinks they're most likely a key to something, somewhere, but Maker only knows what or where. I'm honestly not sure if I even want to keep looking for the blasted things, they're always a pain to reach and using those skull things give me the willies every time. The shards feel harmless enough, but the oculara… There's dark magic at work there. I don't know how they're made, but I can tell you it's no good."

"But you've found shards in the possession of Venatori before," Cullen points out. She finishes tying the nosebag onto the halter of her mount and comes over to help him finish up the straps on his, her smaller fingers deft and practiced on the buckles. The Trevelyans of Ostwick are noted for their fame as horse breeders, he vaguely remembers. She may have gone to the Circle young, but at least some of the family trade made its way to her. "If agents of this Elder One are after these stones, doesn't it behoove us to try and get there first?"

"Maybe. It hasn't really been very high on my list of priorities, to be honest, but I suppose I can ask Josephine if she knows of any scholars that might be able to help us."

"Can't hurt." Their mounts seen to, Cullen gives his mare a last soothing stroke along her neck before turning his attention to the rest of the campsite. It's tidy enough, a ring of stumps around a makeshift fire pit already lined with stones, but a light dusting of snow covers the ground, and he knows from experience that it will turn to mud as soon as they get a campfire going. As well, the tents need to be set up, and there's very little daylight left. Nights come early this time of year, and they're on the east face of the mountain.

He looks over at Evelyn to see her making the same mental calculations, and quirks an eyebrow in question. "Flip you for who gets the firewood?"

"I'll gather it if you'll light it."

"Oh, but shouldn't that be left to the fire expert?"

"Just for that, you get the wood," she says, and sends him off with a shove. He grumbles to himself - walked right into that one - but complies. As he heads off into the trees, a sudden light flares to life over his shoulder, and when he turns he sees that she's conjured a ball of magelight to hover in the air, throwing silvered light into the shadowed edges of the forest.

"Magic exists to serve man, et cetera," she calls, and he gives her a lazy wave of thanks before starting his search.

By the time he gets back, she's used a large branch of evergreen to brush all of the snow away from the site, strung up a tent out of sturdy oilcloth and stowed their gear safely away underneath, and has already traced a rune of fire onto the ground. He gives her a speaking look, which she returns with interest.

"I suppose it's easier than flint," he admits, and spurred by her smug grin, dumps his first armload of wood directly onto it. The resultant plume of flame nearly takes his eyebrows, but is entirely worth it from the way Evelyn scrambles back with undignified haste from her own spell.

"What the-" She leaps back to her feet with a lithe twist he's seen her use in the sparring ring, then catches him bent over laughing, his hands braced on his knees, and her resulting scowl is magnificent. "You absolute arse," she says, but the grin spreading across her face takes the bite out of the insult. "Is that your way of saying that you want me to help gather the rest?"

"If your ladyship would be so kind," he says, biting back the rest of his chuckles. She narrows her eyes.

"Ten says I get back here first."

"I'm not Varric, you're not going to get me to gamble with you," he tries to say, but she's off before he can even finish the sentence, and despite his best intentions he finds himself racing after her, laughter still bubbling in the back of his throat.

It’s full dark and bitingly cold by the time they make it back to camp, but the campfire is roaring happily and the rune that powers it puts out almost as much heat as the flame itself, so there’s little concern for the chill. Evelyn does beat him back by a matter of minutes, and proceeds to lord it over him as they get dinner out of their packs, teasing him about the ten royals he owes her despite his best efforts to point out that he didn’t agree to her wager. “Mother Matilda would have had me in the kitchens for a month had she caught a templar gambling,” he says, laying out the trenchers of travel bread near the fire to warm. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Ah, but you’re a former templar, remember? No Chantry mother to make you peel potatoes.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but Haven isn’t exactly short on Chantry mothers,” Cullen points out dryly. “Nor would I want to risk the ire of our resident Seeker, either.”

“True enough. A cleric’s tongue might wield guilt with deadly accuracy, but I find a sharp blade rather harder to dodge.”

“I suspect you have experience enough at both,” he says, and startles her into a laugh.

“You’re not wrong, my friend, not wrong one bit.” She produces some dried meat and winter greens and good Fereldan cheese to round out the rest of their meal, then eyes the pile it produces. “I think we may have gone a bit overboard.”

All put together, Cullen has to admit that it’s probably more than the two of them can comfortably eat in a single meal. He’s more active than he used to be, running drills every day, but still, he can’t eat like a lad still growing any longer, and Flissa’s breakfasts tend to stick to the ribs. “Maybe just the one trencher, and the rest for breakfast?” Some distant scrap of manners manages to reassert himself, and he scrambles to add, “Unless you’d rather not share, of course.” Sharing a trencher has connotations among Fereldens. Though perhaps Marchers don’t use them, not in well-bred families like hers, anyway.

Evelyn shoves at his shoulder affectionately. “Don’t be silly, it’s way too much food, else. Besides, sharing the plate makes it easier to share this.” She pulls a hip flask out of her coat pocket and waggles it invitingly. “I scored part of a bottle of Antivan brandy off the good ambassador,” she says proudly. “The good stuff, mind, none of that rotgut the sailors like to claim cures chest colds and what-all else. You should be impressed.”

“I most certainly am,” he assures her, “because I know how fiercely Josephine guards her personal stock. You’d almost believe it’s made of liquid gold, the way she hoards it.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to try it and find out.” She grins up at him and makes a show of holding it out of reach. “Unless you’re too much the faithful Chantry boy to indulge in a few spirits, as well?”

“You know I’m not,” he growls, and uses his superior reach to snag it from her hands. He unscrews the cap and takes a sip before she can snatch it back, letting it roll across his tongue before he swallows.

“Well?”

“Lady Montilyet has a great appreciation for fine things,” he says, and Evelyn grins wide and snags it back out of his hands.

“Excellent. Just the thing for a night under the stars.”

They eat sitting next to each other on the big fallen log, the trencher balanced precariously between them. After the first couple sips the flask goes back into her coat pocket, the salted meat forcing them to drink from the waterskin instead, but after they’ve managed to plow through their supper Evelyn fetches their bedrolls and they make a little nest of blankets and slouch lazily in front of the fire, their shoulders butted together companionably, passing the flask back and forth.

Cullen tips his head back against the big log they’ve appropriated as a backrest and stares up at the night sky, full and sleepy from the good food and better spirits, feeling happier than he has in months. Years, more like. The washed-clean feeling from earlier still lingers, leaving his usually restless thoughts unusually peaceful, and he feels flushed and warm from Evelyn’s trim weight against his side, her low laugh in his ear. It’s a beautiful night, and Cullen has a beautiful woman on his arm and a dear friend at his side, and he's the lucky bastard that those two people are one in the same. The world isn’t ending just yet, and while tomorrow everything will change, for tonight, he has this.

“You know, there was a time in my life I would have given my right hand to do something like this,” Evelyn sighs. He glances over to see her similarly sprawled, looking upwards at the stars rather than at him. “Outside, under the stars…"

"You have a hidden appreciation for astronomy?"

"...handsome templar at my side…"

He just laughs, letting his head loll back against the log with none of his usual awkwardness. He just can't seem to summon it right now. "You used to daydream about spending the night outside with a templar?"

"Well, one templar in particular," she says. He can hear the little grin in her voice. "I used to have the worst crush on one of the recruits. He was always assigned to the libraries, and I think there were a few months where that was the only thing that motivated me to do any actual studying."

Her tone is fond, a little nostalgic, no remembered sorrow in her voice. Still- "I don't think much of his Knight-Commander, if he let it go on so long."

"That implies the poor lad wanted anything to do with me," she says dryly. "I think he actually preferred men, although to be fair, that may have been based on little else but my friend's attempt to salve my teenage ego."

Cullen snorts and lets his weight come to rest a little heavier against her. He should have realized that her youthful forbidden dalliances would not have the same stain of tragedy as his own. A more heart-whole woman he's never met. "Well, you clearly recovered somehow."

"I'm wounded, Cullen. Absolutely wounded. I resent that remark deeply."

"Either my ears deceive me or the drink has gotten the better of your tongue already.” She quirks an enquiring eyebrow and he adds with relish, “I believe you meant to say you resemble that remark."

She makes a noise of outrage and shoves at his shoulder. “Arse!”

The shove is harder than expected and Cullen lurches a little sideways, flailing his hand to grab at the log and pull himself back up, chuckling. Once there, it seems more comfortable just to leave it, stretched out along the wood behind her shoulders. "Or perhaps I might be the one who's had a bit too much of that brandy."

"There's still half the flask left," she snorts. "Either you're a lightweight, or I may have some apologies to make to Josephine about the quality of Antivan liquor."

"I think it's rather a bit of both, most likely." He tilts his head down to smile at her. She's really quite close, he thinks distantly. "So your crush never went anywhere?"

"Alas! It was not to be." She tips her chin back to look at him and gives him an insinuating smirk that causes warmth to flush down through his belly. "Although I may have found a balm for my broken heart, here and there."

"Somehow I find myself unsurprised.”

Evelyn shrugs, unbothered by his dry tone. “I like nice things. Sometimes nice things like me back. Who's going to complain about that?"

"Only the wrongest of individuals, I'm sure."

"Exactly!" She wriggles into a stretch, arching until her spine gives a great cracking pop so intense he can almost feel it, then going limp in the aftermath. It leaves her with her head lolling further back against the log, resting against his arm, and she blinks up at him. "Anyway, what about you? Any ill-advised affairs you want to confess?"

He laughs, low and rough. Should have known that was going to come back to me, he thinks, but the usual rush of shame and grief doesn't come. "I had a bit of a thing for one of the apprentices at Kinloch Hold," he finds himself confessing. "It didn't go anywhere, of course, but-"

"Cullen!" Evelyn sits almost entirely upright for a moment, the largest grin spreading across her face. "You terrible rule-breaker, you."

"I did not," he huffs, but he's smiling. It's the only time he's smiled thinking of Solona Amell in nearly ten years. "I would never."

"Of course you wouldn't," she says, patting his arm comfortingly. She doesn’t move her hand afterwards, and doesn’t seem to notice the way it lingers in the crook of his elbow when she slouches back against the log. She’s curled a little closer against him, too. "So what was she like?"

A better man likely wouldn't speak of a previous tendre to another woman like this, but their friendship has survived odder challenges, so he takes a moment to consider it. Solona has always been frozen in his memory the way he last saw her before the uprising: her brand-new enchanter's robes fitting her like a second skin, her long hair draped down her back like a wedding veil and that curious, friendly smile on her face that warmed her eyes and made him feel like he was the only person in the world. It's an image that was both comfort and goad for a long time, the place he retreated from the blood mages until even that was corrupted.

But for the first time in a long while, Cullen finds himself thinking of her as he saw her last: her hair chopped up short around her earlobes, her warden's armor streaked with blood and soot. She held her staff like the knight behind her held his sword, and there was a dagger in her belt, scars on her hands, soldier's marks done in dark ink on her cheek. He wouldn't have recognized her, if he hadn't dreamed of her for so long.

Her eyes had been warm then, too: warm, and kind, and oh so terribly pitying.

She was the bloody Hero of Ferelden, he thinks, and for the first time it feels like the truth. He'd always known it in abstract, but he'd never really been able to connect the sweet girl he'd dreamed of with the woman who slew the Archdemon in the middle of Denerim and ended the Blight. But it was always her. She'd not changed, not really. It was only his perception that differed.

"She was… bright," he says. It comes out halting, but Evelyn only nods encouragingly. "Clever, I mean. Easily the most talented mage of her class. And pretty. All the apprentice lads used to trail about after her."

"Oh yeah? But she only had eyes for you?"

Despite himself, Cullen chuckles. "Oh, I don't know about that. She was nice to me, though. Most of the apprentices wouldn't talk to a templar if you paid them, but she…" He shrugs. "She was kind."

"There's worse affections to have," Evelyn says, and he barks a laugh.

"Yes. I suppose there are."

"There, see? That wasn't so painful."

Worse than she could possibly know - but so much easier, as well. So much easier than he ever would have thought. They tell you that time heals all wounds, he thinks wryly, but that always seems like such shit at the time. Maybe there's something to it after all.

"Perhaps it's the company," he says, and she dimples up at him, tucked close in the curve of his arm. She's close enough that he can feel the heat of her body even through his armor, but he doesn't feel the need to move away.

No, he doesn't feel the need to move away at all.

"Well, I'll almost certainly take the credit if you're willing to give it," she says, and it's not his imagination - her voice is definitely lower, now. Almost husky.

"I'm always happy to give credit where it's deserved."

"And your good regard is so difficult to attain, I can take that as nothing less than the highest of compliments."

Cullen smiles down at her, soft and open and almost certainly stupidly obvious with his affection. He can't even help himself. "I save them for the deserving."

"Oh, Maker, Cullen," Evelyn laughs, a little breathless. "You're going to make me blush. Honestly."

"I didn't even think you capable," he teases, and she flails her hands a little.

"Neither did I!"

Her cheeks are pinking up a little. "It's rather fetching on you."

"You-" Her loose, smiling mouth purses into a scowl. “See if you look so fetching without eyebrows.”

He doesn’t quite manage to bite his tongue in time. “So you’re saying I’m fetching?”

She tilts her head back enough to glare at him. “I haven’t had enough brandy that I’m walking into that one.”

Cullen looks down at her, her sturdy body cradled in the curve of his arm, looking up at him with her flushed cheeks and her narrowed eyes and her reluctant smile, and he thinks, I could kiss her right now.

The last time he found himself thinking that, it was with a sense of discovery, a new thing he was learning about himself. This is not a new thing, now. There is only a sense of surety, feeling the truth of it like a sinking weight in the very bones of him. He’s wanted to kiss her for some time now. Has wanted, no matter how he might have mentally dismissed the urge as mere infatuation, a great deal more than that.

“Cullen?” she says, and he realizes that he’s missed his cue, too busy thinking about her lips. He can feel the back of his neck flush hot but his voice is steady and just a touch rueful when he says, “You'll have to forgive me. It seems I’m the one who’s had a bit too much brandy.”

She gives him another quick, assessing glance, but he must have covered well enough because she gives up on her mock-affront in favor of a loose, happy smile. “I think I might owe Josephine an apology for casting aspersions on the quality of Antivan liquor in the past. I have quite learned my lesson, I assure you."

"Yes, I do believe I have been underestimating our good ambassador. No woman who can drink this stuff on a regular basis is anything less than fearsome."

"Alas," Evelyn says. "I believe we've effectively proven I have little head for spirits. I'm afraid I don't qualify, then."

"Oh no, you're fearsome in other ways," Cullen assures her. He can feel his own smile quivering in the corner of his mouth, and has to bite his cheek to keep it from breaking free.

"I hope you mean my wit and charm."

"Your affinity for fire doesn't hurt, either," he says, and laughs when she gives a little growl and shoves him. It's considerably weaker than her earlier effort. One might think that she wasn't trying very hard to push him away.

He can't just lean in and kiss her. He knows he can't, and yet the ache of wanting it is almost physical, a tightness in his throat and a lodestone in his belly. The want of it makes his voice unusually rough when he says, "You're delightful." He clears his throat. "Don't mind me."

"I never-" she says, and is abruptly cut off by a yawn. Her hand flashes up to her mouth to cover it, and she half-laughs as she finishes, shaking her head as if to clear it. "-do," she finishes, and snorts. "Maker. Apparently I have even less of a head for liquor than I thought."

"Ah, then you're in good company," he says lightly. Still, it's a signal he can't ignore, and he shifts slightly, prepared to rise. "We should seek our beds, however. We've a rise before dawn tomorrow, and a long ride down."

"I know," she says, and doesn't move. She has her head tipped back, looking up at the stars once more, and he can't entirely help the way that he stares at her profile, the beautiful strong line of her jaw, the sharp cut of her cheekbone, the way her long dark lashes fan against her cheek when she blinks. "In a minute. I… just give me a few moments more."

"Have as many as you need," Cullen says, and resettles himself once more. His arm slides down from the movement, his hand resting on her opposite shoulder, nearly encircling her in an embrace. He prepares to shift away, not wanting to imply… but she only moves closer, her body a long line of heat against his side.

Cullen swallows hard and tips his head back, looking up at the clear expanse of the night sky. "It is a beautiful night."

"Yeah." There's a long hesitant moment, and then Evelyn tips her head sideways, letting it come to rest on his shoulder. When Cullen doesn't move to stop her, she gives a little noise of satisfaction that he feels all the way down to his toes and goes limp against him. "It is."

Heart tender and full in his chest, Cullen wraps his arm tighter around her shoulders and says nothing at all.

The next morning is less awkward than Cullen would have expected, given that they never did manage to rouse themselves enough to seek their beds. There just doesn't seem to be room for awkwardness in the hushed predawn quiet, the pair of them shivering and hunched into their cloaks as they bundle up their packs.

Even with the sharp bite of the frigid winter air coming down the mountain, Cullen still feels the phantom warmth of her along his side as he works. He'll likely hold the memory of her sleeping face pressed against his shoulder, lit up by the warm glow of the dying fire, for weeks and months to come. As much as he wished he'd the courage to kiss her and damn the consequences, he finds that for this morning, at least, he has no regrets. Her affection, and her trust, is a gift he would not willingly relinquish for any price.

They finish packing and load up the horses in silence, Evelyn finishing first and breaking away to stamp out the remaining coals. Cullen gets out the remaining trencher of bread and tears it in two while she sets the fire pit for the next enterprising soul that ventures this far up the slope, and when she comes back he offers her half.

"I believe I promised you breakfast in the morning," he says, and his voice comes out rusty. It's the first thing either of them have said since she woke enough to give him a silvery-sweet smile and shed their blankets as she rose to start the day.

"And you are a man of your word." Evelyn shoves the hunk of bread precariously atop her pack - his own is already stashed away, to be eaten on the ride down - and when she turns back, there's a shy smile on her face. "Thanks."

Cullen rests his hands on the hilt of his sword, the better to keep from rubbing the back of his neck, a tell even he knows is obvious. "It was simple enough."

"No, I mean... Thanks." She looks down, then makes a frustrated noise and looks back up, meeting his eyes directly. Maker, he forgets sometimes just how bright her eyes are; even in the predawn twilight, they almost seem to glow. "For this. All of this. I have an idea what it must have meant for you to take the time for this, and I appreciate it. It means more to me than you can know."

Perhaps. Probably, even. But it meant more to him than she knows, as well, and Cullen lets that show on his face when he gives her a smile, slow and sure. "You're welcome."

Evelyn smiles back, a little shy, and it stirs something in his chest. He thinks back to Solona, to being a lad in love with the idea of a girl: the way he'd dream of her, the way he'd feel sick just looking at her, the way he'd longed for her smiles and yet felt terrified of getting one. Despite his best efforts to forget that time in his life, Cullen's always thought that maybe that was what affection was supposed to be.

But Cullen's dreams are of darker things, these days, and he prefers the waking world. He doesn't find himself longing for Evelyn's smiles because she gives them to him freely, and she wrings them easily from him in return. He doesn't feel sick looking at her, but warm, and settled. Strong. Like he's more than a collection of scrap metal and rust with barely the will to hold it together.

He isn't in love with the idea of Evelyn, but he cares deeply for the truth of her, the awkwardness and rough edges and regret, and more still the deep well of kindness that she covers with a quip. Cullen joined the Inquisition because he needed a purpose, and he has that. He would have that even had Evelyn never stumbled out of the Fade. But he wouldn't have found someone that could understand him so well, that could give him so exactly what he needed without even seeming to know why. He wouldn't have found a friend.

And though the lush curve of her lower lip sings a siren song in the bottom of his chest, he'd not trade a thousand kisses for one moment of her good regard.

On impulse - the same impulse, in point of fact, that drove him that first morning in Haven, watching her walk to the Chantry looking much too overwhelmed to be a hero - Cullen puts his fist to his heart and bows low. "Lady Herald," he murmurs, and when he straightens, Evelyn doesn't have the slightly sick long that the title usually elicits. Instead, her little smile grows wider, the way it always does when he manages to say the right thing.

"Lord Commander," she says gravely, and returns both the salute and the bow, to precisely the same degree as his. When she straightens, it's with a dimpled smile and a gesture towards the trail ahead. "Shall we?"

"After you," he says, and she laughs as she puts her foot in the stirrup and swings up into the saddle.

As they pick their way down the patch, Cullen finds himself watching the familiar steady line of her sturdy shoulders, her furred collar dusted with snow and the ball of magelight that paints strands of pure silver into her ravenswing hair. My lady, he thinks, and: I would follow her into the gates of the Void itself.

It's strangely comforting, to know so clearly where his fate lies. He doesn't know what this day will bring, but he knows that he will follow her gladly whatever the path. He trusts her, deep down in the bones of him, and he knows that she will not lead him astray.

And if sometimes he thinks that she might think of him the same, that she might look at him with a needfulness of her own... well. He has faith that they will come to figure that out, too, in time. Evelyn might not be so sure, but Cullen cannot find it in himself to believe that she will fail to close the Breach this day, that once her iron will has been set against its might she will emerge anything but triumphant. And he has given his faith to far less deserving causes than she.

Evelyn's sharp whistle cuts through his thoughts, and he looks up to see that she's gotten a bit ahead of him down the path. She twists around in the saddle to grin at him. "Come on, Cullen, stop dawdling. We've got a world to save, you know."

"Mustn't keep the people waiting," he calls back, and spurs his horse after her. "Time to go be heroes."

Yes, he thinks, as the first blush of dawn sends fingers across the sky. They'll have time. After the Breach, they'll have all the time in the world.