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For the life of her, Amallia despised inspections. Not because she found them tedious or boring or useless. On the contrary, she often learned much during these sessions, revealing insights she never guessed possible.
Except she had not a single clue what she was doing.
And yet, for the third time in as many days, Amallia found herself in the blacksmith’s shop. Cool mountain air drifted through the window, a moment’s reprieve from the sweltering forges of the armory. Though she was to be inspecting any equipment, Amallia examined staff plans, debating materials for a new weapon. The steady clink of hammer on dawnstone ticked away the minutes she lingered there, avoiding the large pile of missives and messages on the desk in her quarters. At least inspections took her elsewhere in the stronghold. And while the sun yet rose, its brilliant glow creeping over the portcullis wall, Skyhold awoke in the dimmest hours of pre-dawn light. And Amallia required a break from the endless stream of parchment.
Thus, she sought the armory for a distraction that might grip her attention unlike the requests for more timber and stone and grain, more soldiers, more wine, more approvals. Maker, should there not be delineation of power in an organization as massive as the Inquisition?
“You’re getting slow, old man.”
The taunt cracked like a whip, breaking the monotonous clink, clink, clink of the weapon smith’s hammer. Through the tiny window she searched, unable to catch a glimpse of the training ring beside the tavern. Though she could see nothing, echoes of sparring rang through the courtyard, steel against steel, bodies colliding in rough grunts and heavy thuds. Like a moth to the flame, Amallia flitted from the armory, distracted.
No. Not distracted. Curious. Who did Cassandra taunt so? Pushing aside the smithy door, brilliant morning sunlight blinded her, and a hand flew to her brow to shield her eyes. With her vision adjusted, she spotted her closest friend in the training ring, circling the Commander of her forces. Bathed in bright yellow light, Cullen stalked Cassandra, scrutinizing her every step.
With a calculated leap, Cullen lunged, training sword thrusting and shield held fast. Cassandra parried him with ease, deflecting the dulled blade to the side with her shield. Plumes of dirt blossomed in their wake, a brief trade of strikes and parries, and settling only to rise again when next they connected.
Maker, how magnificent their muscles and brawn and physical power. Enthralled, Amallia seated herself on a nearby bench, far away enough to go unnoticed but with an uninhibited view of the ring.
With a deft swing of her blade, Cassandra attacked, feinting left and aiming right. Cullen turned her blade aside, countering with a rough shield bash that staggered the woman back a step. Parted, they circled one another again, measuring, weighing, until Cullen attacked again.
They traded their attacks in much the same fashion for several minutes, attack, block, counter. With each bout, their tenacity rose, attacking faster, blocking and countering in lightning succession. Like a dance, they moved as partners, practicing the moves they knew so well.
But it was more than that. More than the physical repetition of swinging a blade and countering it, more than blocking with a shield, and more than their breathless grunts and shouts. Both required an intimate knowledge of the other’s preferences, such as Cassandra favoring her left leg forward with her shield, where Cullen preferred his right side leading with his sword arm. There was an intellectual piece to their training, a battle of wits, even. Without that knowledge, that keen ability to hone in on your opponent’s strategy, no mass of strength could save you.
Swinging swords and rolling shields connected, ringing across the courtyard in successive concussions, Cassandra and Cullen trading endless blows. Gone were their short rests between bouts, the two warriors clashed, attack after block after counter after attack. A blur of shimmering steel and sweat, they spun in their dance until one faltered, Cullen slipping in the dirt.
Cassandra capitalized, bearing down on her mark. But Cullen recovered in the last moment, sacrificing his cover to block high with his shield. And Cassandra adjusted, angling her strike for his sword arm as he swung for her legs, deflecting his blade. Spinning into her block, Cassandra wheeled around as Cullen regained his feet and launched himself inside her reach. High risk, but the utmost reward.
Cassandra’s blade froze an inch from his neck while his dulled sword halted at her gut. Chests heaving and shirts soaked through, the two warriors smiled wide with mouths open, gasping for breath. Held there, with Cassandra bearing over him and Cullen’s legs stretched in his long lunge, the pair looked like a work of art, statues carved from stone and marvelous in the bright morning sun.
Something distracted Cullen in that picturesque moment, drawing his attention over his shoulder. The awkward position tipped his balanced, and he fell to a knee, Cassandra catching him under his shield arm.
“Inquisitor,” he breathed as he stood. “Is there something you needed?”
“Is everything alright?” Cassandra asked, winded as the Commander. “You look… flush.”
In the silence between beats of her hammering heart, reality crashed into Amallia. While inspecting their match, she had crossed the yard without thought, her subconscious carrying her to the edge of the ring. Splinters of wood popped beneath her clawing fingers, heat creeping up her neck as she scrambled to find an excuse for her presence. Her lips parted, words at the ready until heat enveloped her hand.
“What is it, Inquisitor?”
“I–” she stuttered, thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. “I heard you…”
A sweat-slicked hand cupped her cheek, drawing Cullen’s brow into a furious scowl. “Maker’s breath, are you ill? You’ve a fever. Cassandra, go fetch—”
“I’m fine!” Amallia interjected, Cullen’s hand slipping from her face. “It’s… warm today. And I was in the smithy,” she continued, spine straight and shoulders squared. “I heard your match start and thought I should observe.”
“Observe?” Cassandra asked.
“Yes,” Amallia stated. “As the Inquisitor, I should ensure my forces are properly trained, no?”
Cullen nodded in agreement. “Absolutely. Do you approve?”
Approve? Of what? His soaked shirt sticking to his muscled chest? His massive shoulders rolling under the weight of his sword and shield? His mess of blonde locks turned curls? His gasping breath, parted lips, and piercing amber stare?
“Inquisitor,” Cullen muttered under his breath. “You’re staring.”
“Ah–yes. Yes, Commander, I approve,” she recovered, looking him over once more. “I… Andraste preserve me, I approve so very much,” she added, naught but a whisper.
“Cassandra, should we demonstrate again?” Cullen asked.
The other warrior stepped back into her ready stance, sword behind her shield. “For a moment, I thought I’d lost my sparring partner.”
Cullen barked a laugh at that, skipping into his own sparring stance, sword arm forward. “Lose your sparring partner? Lady Pentaghast, you wound me.”
As their next bout began, Amallia leaned into the railing, consuming every move with a studious eye and careful not to miss a single flexing muscle. Maybe she wasn’t so terrible at inspections.
After all, practice makes perfect.