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Chapter Text

Maker, but she was tired.

It was the kind of tired that seeped deep into your bones, the kind that settled in your core, the kind that made everything heavier, the kind that lingered long after a long bath and a full nights rest.

It dragged her down in the saddle, hung her head weary, blue eyes fixed on the ever changing landscape moving between her horse's ears, chestnut hair braided but swinging free over her shoulder. Her cowl had blown back, useless like her cloak fluttering behind. Her right hand gripped the reins like a lifeline, but they were loose on the bit, letting the forder lead her. Her attention wandered, fading in and out, only partially aware of the structure looming ahead as the horse pressed on, steady.

She was, however, fully aware of the sharp, pinpricks of pain in her left arm.

Still bloodied, her sleeve ripped and torn, the limb dangled at her side. She extended every effort she had available to her to keep it still, but the movement of the mount as it walked on jostled it constantly and her reward was a stabbing sting, bringing the smallest kiss of salt to her eyes.

For the last hour she had ridden in silence across the frozen mountainscape, bearing the weight of her wound like a mantle. A healing potion had dulled and knitted the skin enough to allow for travel, but bright red drops still traversed the darkening brown rivulets formed earlier, tracing a slow and agonising path.

Without warning, the steady crunch of snow ceased and was replaced with the strike of hoof on stone and the brunette jolted, biting back a scream, forcing her eyes to focus. They rode across the bridge, each step jarring, the pain threatening to unseat her with an ungainly tumble.

She struggled on, pride and foolishness equal partners in keeping her upright.

She could hear shouts and murmurs, words unintelligible to her ears, focus fading out again, darkness pressing in. Gloved hands were helping her dismount, arms were carrying her, cold metal bit into her unwounded arm and she whimpered, apologetic, trying to stand, trying to bring her vision to bear.

Instead, she faded, and her dreams were of Haven; Chantry bells ringing in warning; the crackle of fire and murk of smoke; hands pulling her out of the snow; fur warm against her cheek.

She was slow to wake, assuaged by the rustle of drapes stirred by a spring breeze. Light dappled the floor of the room in a multitude of colours as the mid-morning sun hit stained glass, and her vision converged slowly into something that made sense as she blinked the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes.

Evelyn Trevelyn was in her quarters.

Disconnected fragments of the day before returned as her head cleared the last of the night's fog and she moved to sit up. The sharp stab of pain in her arm caused her to hiss and blue eyes slid down to the bandages covering her left side, shoulder to elbow, clean and white against her skin, and the faint bitter tang of elfroot hung in the air. Using caution this time, she slipped free of her sheets, swinging bare feet onto the floor with her right arm compensating for the left as she raised herself.

She found a healing drought left for her on the desk and downed it without complaint, savoring the tingle it left on her tongue before turned her attention to getting dressed. It was a slow affair, hindered by her reduced range of motion, but eventually she tied the last lace on her boots.

Keeping her stride unhurried, the brunette slipped from her chambers to the war room, avoiding the milling crowd by keeping her eyes fixed at a point a few feet in front of her, shutting out the sound of their voices. She noted absently that Josephine wasn't in her office as she passed, but unsure of the time, didn't linger on the fact, intent in her purpose.

She need not have concerned herself, it turned out, as she pushed open the door to the war room. The three advisers stood around the war table, discussing in low tones, oblivious to her standing in the entry. Evelyn paused for a moment to watch them, then cleared her throat to get their attention.

"I assume our Commander is feeling very smug for telling me I shouldn't go hunting alone?"

It was meant at a joke, but the disquiet was visible on their faces regardless. Cullen shook his head, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. "I do not feel smug at all, Inquisitor. Merely relieved at your return."

Leliana and Josephine echoed his sentiments as she padded over to the table to see what they were working on. "Apparently, I need to keep a better lookout for wolves. Which wouldn't be a problem if we could get a hunt-master," she posited, locking her gaze on Josephine. "Even just one mabari would be an improvement to our kennels."

"We have no kennels," the Antivan responded, then tilted her head with a sigh. "Which is your point, of course."

"How is your arm?" Blue eyes flicked to the spymaster, and Evelyn wilted a little under the observant stare. Tenacious, as always.

"Healing," she waved off the concern with her right arm. "Fortunately wolf bites are easier to deal with than Orlesian nobles." That earned her a smile, a giggle, and a snort of derision from her advisers, and Evelyn leaned forward, resting her hands carefully on the table. Fingers skimmed the edge of the map as she gave them an easy grin, "now, what are we working on?"

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He waited until she was turning to leave, then fell into step beside her. "When you rode up- You could have died out there, for nothing." She cast her gaze down at the ground, waiting until they were through Josephine's office to respond.

"Don't worry, Commander. I'll be sure to die only when it's convenient for the Inquisition."

Amber clashed against blue as they looked at each other, hung in limbo between the main hall and the ambassador's office. Her words were scathing, a jagged bite torn into their fragile friendship. He wanted to yell at her, to tell her that wasn't what he meant, but the feelings and words tumbled in his mind, muddled, and he grunted instead. "Rest up, Inquisitor." Take care of yourself, he wants to add, but she's already slipped away into the throng of people in the hall.

He watched her, affable and carefree, move from person to person, lingering with Varric, then disappear into the rotunda. She will calm and forgive him, return, teasing; he knows this because it is the dance they repeat, day after day. His hands palm the pommel of his sword as he marches briskly, sparing no time or thought to the people around him.

Sometimes, he's the one that snaps at her, the song heavy and prickly in his mind, his anger boiling over, unable to step back from his frustration. Sometimes, like today, she's the one that bites back, rage spilling from a basin of vexation to drown her, incapable of shouldering the weight of the Inquisition. Sometimes it is a fight that shakes the heavens. Today it is a barb, slipping through the cracks, itching to be unleashed into something fierce but resigned to do little more than poke and irritate.

Sometimes, they are quiet, and she drags him aside to spar. Evelyn takes no other partner but him, discards her bow for him alone, and vents her disquiet and resentment on his shield with precise, calculated blows. With her, he unleashes, swings wild and enraged, untempered, unfettered by rules and guidelines and training. Sometimes, he bests her through sheer strength of will and she relents, tired and grateful. Othertimes, he is bested by speed and agility, often brought low by a sweep of the leg, and he conceeds with as much diginity as he can from the floor.

Always, it calms them both, allows them to settle back into their public faces. To be the Inquisitor and the Commander. To be steady. It allows him a release from the withdrawl, a conduit to direct the agony. It allows her to be angry, to be emotional, to unshoulder the heavy weight that is Herald and Worship.

The periods between are long, and he treasures them. They are confidants on those days, sharing stories, memories, chess matches, little moments that wrench his heart and leave him feeling guilty for taking her time. He is reminded of Haven; of leaving her behind; of carrying her frozen and fragile body from the storm; of praying, not for the Herald, but for Evelyn.

Cullen returns to his office, to his duty, and works.

It was such a small thing, and she regretted it. She always regretted it when her temper flared, tried to hard to quash it at every time, and defeat was bitter in her mouth. But her obligations pulled at her, refusing to let her focus on the concerned sweep of his brow, the flex of his hands towards her. She had wanted to apologize then and there but pride had stopped her. Pride had wanted to see if he would make her stay.

Pride, she swore, would not be her downfall.

So, like so many times before, she knocked. He would forgive her even if she didn't come, she knew. But not coming to him, not asking for forgiveness, was unthinkable. She needed to hear him say it. She needed the absolution.

Granting absolution to her was always easy. He never made her beg or plead; he gave it freely, swiftly, willingly, every time.

Today would be no different, he had sworn, but the blue had sung out and obscured, buzzing in his brain, and he barely noticed her approach. "Cullen?" Honey and silk, her voice drew his focus outward, away from the vestiges of the song. Evelyn was a vision in candlelight, brunette braid trailing down her shoulder and kissed with gold from the flames, blue eyes searching his face; dark, like an encroaching storm was about to sweep through.

He stared without seeing for a moment, the voices sneaking back in. Is this what you want? He tried to clear his head with a shake, watching concern etch its way onto her face. "There's nothing to forgive," four words grumbled, a mantra for her visits. Absolution, and she'll leave.

But she doesn't this time, and the voices grow louder. Take it.

Take her, if you want her.

Blue crowded his sight, and he sunk his head into his hands. Leather and oakmoss teased his nose and he sighed, deep, teeth clenching against the whispers.

Tonight is different. Clemency offered and taken, she waited. But the blue was in his head and the lines that kept her tangible - kept her real - were blurring. The demons whispered, and he couldn't block them out.

"You still have a hole in your roof, I see." More honey and silk and he risks a look, not sure if that's pity on her face or something else. Aware she's waiting for a response, trying to start a conversation, he grunted, head slipping back into his hands. He didn't know how to explain that he needed the hole, needed to know that he wasn't trapped by four walls, by barriers pushing down on him, suffocating, drowning in blue- He snarls and punches the desk, dislodging papers, forgetting that Evelyn is there, that she stayed, concern marring her face.

She's by his side in an instant, soothing, reassuring, but the second she reaches out to touch him he recoils, burned by memories. You can have whatever you want. Just say yes, and I'll give it to you. Cullen shuddered, withdrawing into the withdrawal, mind stumbling to find the words to the Chant, something, anything to ground him. He finds nothing but the blue and his hand strays to the desk drawer, body aching for mercy.

Evelyn is there still, calm and patient, anchoring and disconnecting all at once. He pushed away from the desk, away from her, the voices trailing him, hissing dark promises as he paced, frustration and anger building in the haze of blue. You can have what you want, just give in. There's no shame in it. She reaches for him again, honey and silk and fire-kissed and then the anchor flares, sickly green crowding out the blue and he remembers demons, abominations, darkness. Cullen refuses the whispers, stalks away, tells her, tells the voices to leave. Leave him.

He doesn't account for her pride, or her compassion, and she lets him rage. Lets him stride back and forth, muttering under his breath. When he refuses her touch she backs away, willing the anchor to bear, ashamed for her lack of control. She wants to help him, but his struggle is internal and he refuses to acknowledge her presence. Casting her gaze around the room, the discarded papers catch her eye and without thinking she kneels down to clean them up for him, to do one small act of kindness.

The voices whisper on, but he is distracted by the rustle of parchment and he watches as they urge him to take, to claim, wondering why they have to talk; why they wouldn't just make her talk to him, beg, offer, tease. A suspicion starts to grow, and he lets his feet wander closer. Her lines don't waver, but the voices are wailing, promising, swearing. The candlelight catches her shape, throwing shadows and curves in lovely silhouettes, his attention drawn to her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration; drawn to the chestnut hair catching golden as it tumbled over her shoulder; drawn to the concerned crease in her brow.

His hand comes to rest on her head, and the voices fall silent.

She, however, does not. "Andraste's arse!" The shock of the weight caused her to flush, scattering the papers she was trying to rescue. Storm clouded blue eyes stared at him incredulously, offset by the faint tinge of pink on her cheeks, and she huffed, "warn a woman next time, won't you?"

Cullen can't help the slow, lazy smile that spreads, the blue song receding finally. "You're real," is all the explanation he can give. She's real, no figment, no demon's prize, real and here and he kneels with her. "You're real," tumbles from his lips, a prayer for her, for Evelyn, for bringing him out of the descent to madness with just her presence.

His head fell to her lap, exhausted, reverent, repeating his new mantra. He didn't notice her look away, didn't notice her clenching her fists. When finally, sleep overtook him, he didn't notice as she slipped away.

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She knew he was there, watching her pull up into the saddle, arm still stiff after only a few days of rest. She had said little to him, and nothing of his small slip from sanity. Confusion had marred his face the first morning, looking for her to question, to prod and pry. To make some kind of fuss.

Her silence on the matter had made his guilt all but unbearable. To fall so far, to be reduced to less than a man, to claw his way from the edge of the abyss; in front of her, the Inquisitor, the guiding light of the army he commanded. But Evelyn hadn't changed at all, still smiled easy and carefree from across the war table, still teased him when Varric called him Curly, still tried to convince him to drink with Iron Bull and Blackwall.

They had been alone only once in that time; when she had dragged him aside to spar. Her arm had made it hard to push him back and he had been soft, reining in his strength, not letting her exert herself. Every time he tried to open his mouth, to apologise, to broach the topic in some way, she had knocked him down, refusing him the opportunity. She had not come to talk, she told him in no uncertain terms. So they played at fighting, back and forth in their private room, quiet beyond the clank of steel and pants of struggle.

In the end, victorious, she had returned his mantra to him; "There's nothing to forgive." Absolution in four words that never failed to soothe her soul.

He did not believe her.

And now Evelyn was leaving, off to seal a rift or five, lend her aid to those in need, to fight Venatori and Red Templars and darkspawn and Maker knows what else, and he felt like the moment still hung like a divide between them. A divide he wanted to cross, but a divide filled with the blue song that still tried to creep in his blood.

She felt the divide opening, powerless to stop it. She wanted things to be normal, to be easy between them. She wanted the back and forth, of letting him see her break and rebuild. She would not treat him differently for faltering in his quest to be free of his leash; for being human.

But his reverence widened the divide on her end, and she worried she was no longer human to him.

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Two weeks.

Two weeks of reports piled high on his desk. Two weeks of training with recruits. Two weeks of on and off headaches. Two weeks of trying to navigate the hall without talking to any visiting dignitaries. Two weeks of the divide, now an insurmountable ocean with the undercurrent of blue.

Two weeks of changing landscapes. Two weeks of fights, brawls, brutal and bloody. Two weeks of camping under the stars, conversation easy with companions; light and humorous, deep and emotional. Two weeks of the divide, and she was ready to find the other side.

But he's off confiding in Cassandra when they return and she hates herself for the wash of jealousy that comes over her. Something has shifted since that night, witnessing him struggle through a low point. Evelyn almost wishes she could go back, retrace her steps to the moment he reached out for her, and change something, anything. Anything, because the memory of his devotion is haunting her. Something, because she knows she's not worthy of worship, least of all his.

She lets it go, dons the mantle of Inquisitor, and works.

Cassandra is hard and unyielding, understanding but dogmatic. She does not let him waver in his convictions and he slinks away from their conversation like a berated dog, tail between his legs. Platitudes, he thinks, to placate him. But he draws upon her words for strength and squashes the blue back down.

Striding into the hall, he cannot help his gaze from drifting to the throne. It sits upon the dais, imposing and grand. Next to it stands the Inquisitor, and she is everything the throne implies and more. She is bold and courageous, inspiring and stalwart, everything they needed in their figurehead. More than that, she is kind and thoughtful, brazen and bashful in equal measure, affable and warm, and he has to pause, watching. She is talking to a group of Orleasians, animated and bright; skilled at the Game they are playing, giving no quarter. Blue hissed in his mind and resentment flared and he is forced, not for the first time, to remind himself of duty. He swore himself to the Inquisition, to give no less than before, did he not?

And he will not turn from that, because she does not falter. She commands, and his is the sword arm. She speaks, and mountains will be moved. She is the Herald, the Inquisitor; she is above reproach.

She is beyond his feelings.

So he pushes them down again, swallows his heart, wishing there was blue to drown it out.

She craves the distance her bow allows, longs for the hours she doesn't have to wear the Inquisitor's mask.

It does not slip while she wears it, but putting it on gets harder the longer the struggle.

She did not want this, and her head hangs heavy when she is alone.

The anchor flared in the dim light, highlighting the rubble and scaffolding around her. Skyhold still holds plenty for the masons, and she explores their progress with careful steps, eyes fixed on the beam beneath her feet, balance steady. When she braces herself against a support beam, the view is worth it; crumbling walls and fluttering banners, stained glass and warm hearthfires, the fortress spreads out below her.

Here, finally, is a moment that feels like home.

Chapter Text

Cullen keeps to his side of the divide for a while, nightmares thick when he sleeps and bleeding into his waking hours. He is short tempered with everyone in equal measure, a rabid dog snapping at the end of its chain, and he doesn't fault her for keeping away.

She tries, for a while. But he is too unrestrained when they spar, and she yields quickly under the onslaught. He does not focus on the board when she tries chess, and the game is over quicker. He does not smile at her attempts at humour, so she abandons them.

Eventually, she stands for it no longer.

Evelyn snapped under the weight of her anger, annoyed with his behaviour, with his inability to confide in her, and her feet took her to his office. She paused only long enough to demand, "get out." Her voice tinged with force, leaving no room for disobedience, caused the assembled scouts to scurry away. She didn't wait for the door to close before she was striding forward again, glare fixed on Cullen.

"Inquisitor, I was in the middle of a meeting! What could possibly be-"

He wanted to be angry in return. He wanted to shout and bristle and get back to what he had been doing before she so rudely interrupted, but what he wanted fled in an instant, quicker than the men. She hadn't bothered to slow her advance, hadn't cared for obstacles, ignored the gulf of his imposed divide, had vaulted his desk, papers scattering everywhere, and slammed into him, the force of the action causing him to stumble back a few paces. The hand with the anchor flared against his arm as it wrapped around his vambrace and her other slipped behind his head, grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him in. He froze, staring, mouth slightly agape.

She smirked, eyes roving his face, studious, calm. He was vaguely aware she'd placed his hand on her hip.

Then she leant forward, and his breath hitched. Her kiss was at odds with her behaviour, her grip on him firm and unyielding, leaving him no illusion that she wasn't in control, but her mouth soft, sweet. Her actions had implied an urgency that the kiss did not mirror, her anger suggesting that she needed something rough and intense, not this leisurely draw that pulled him in and dulled and heightened his senses in a way lyrium never could.

Cullen didn't realize she'd been pushing him until he hit the wall behind them, the sound of metal on stone breaking him out of his reverie. A small whine escaped her as he pulled away - Andraste preserve me - and he barely had time to take in the shy smile, the flushed cheeks, the imploring gaze before he pushed back, capturing her mouth in his again and it was her turn to gasp.

This time he did not let her linger, did not want to let her take control, trying to convey every thought and emotion he had through his touch. He wanted her to know he wanted - needed, yearned for - this, that he had for a long time, that he thought of her often and only her. He kissed her deep, wanting her to know that he'd never suffer another man doing this, that he'd never let another man so much as think of doing what he was doing now, hands on her hips, forcing her back to the desk. He tried to tell her he was unworthy, that she could do so much better than him, that he was broken and scarred and would only hurt her. He tried to tell her, as he lifted her up to sit on the desk, feeling the curve of her buttocks and growling slightly into the kiss, that this was irresponsible. He tried to tell her, one hand reaching up to tangle in her hair, that this couldn't happen. He tried to tell her, teeth ghosting over her bottom lip, that she was the Herald, the Inquisitor, untouchable and unattainable and that this was wrong, that he would have to atone for the rest of his life for ever entertaining the idea that she might want him.

He tried to tell her she could never leave him again; that he would rather die than let go of her now.

The only word he managed was a question, filled with trepidation, fear, and longing. "...Real?"

She chuckled and he felt it, felt the shake of her chest against his plate, felt the curve of her lips against his, and felt himself almost lose balance, one hand slamming down on his desk to support himself as she suddenly yanked him even closer - Maker but he did not know how they could be closer without undressing - her one leg wrapped around his, buckling his knee. He growled again, irritated that even when they weren't sparring she used that move against him, annoyed that even as he forced her back, down onto the desk, she was clearly maintaining control of the situation.

His reason, however, had fled like the scouts, lost to the grip she had on the back of his neck - he'd never be able to rub it again without feeling the pressure of her fingers - lost to the way she ran her left hand up his arm to graze his jawline - he never wanted that hand to touch anything else, ever again - lost to the way she let him force her back, resisting enough that it was slow and torturous - he really shouldn't be amazed that he strength rivaled his own, but he was and it was frustrating him that she wouldn't just give in...

But it was also what kept him going, pushing against her, trying to find what, if any, limits she'd tolerate him breaking, half wanting her to crash into him with all her force, half wanting her to pull away, spurn him, never return. This, this slow game, refusing to relinquish control but not refusing him confounded him and Maker help me but he wanted more, wanted to drag her down with him to the floor, wanted to make her moan and sigh and her back was so close to hitting the surface of his desk and he was so lost and-

And her other leg was between them, forcing him back up and away, even as she clung to him, not letting him break away until they were both standing again. He snarled in frustration and she smirked, fingertips ghosting across the stubble on his face, down his arms, removing his hands from her waist. He tried to lunge for her, to recapture her mouth, to just touch her, but she was no longer trapped between him and the desk, sidestepping with ease out of his reach, eyes dark and dreamy. "Get back here." His voice was low, husky, pleading and commanding all at once in the same breath and he extended his arm to her.

Evelyn shook her head but took his gloved hand in hers, pulling him in. He tried to lean down and kiss her again, hands roaming to her hips, but she turned his face aside, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek, grip firm but kind as she pushed his hands away. "I have to go." There was a sadness to her tone, and she looked wistful for a moment before she backed towards the east door. "I'm sorry."

Something sharp wrenched in his chest and he stared at her, dumbfounded, hands still reaching towards her. "Don't be sorry, Maker, if you- I-" he fumbled, desperate, worried she regretting coming here, to him, worried something in his response to her affections had been wrong. Worried that she hadn't meant to kiss him at all. Worried that she never would again. Worried that he'd sink back into the blue and not surface. He struggled to find words, any words, but his head was foggy and his skin burned from where she'd touched him.

Evelyn waited, hand resting on the door handle, eyes on him. He squirmed under her gaze, trying to summon his thoughts from his head into a coherent sentence - he almost wished Cole would show up and do it for him - and he brought his hand up to his neck in frustration, only to groan when he remembered how her hand had felt, right there, tugging him down.

The knock on the door leading to the main hall was most assuredly not welcome.

He stared at Evelyn, focusing on the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed - how was she so calm? - trying to ignore it, but it came again. "What?!" he snapped, whirling as the door groaned open.

The runner hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself as small a target as possible as he stood in the doorway, missives in hand. "C-commander, the reports you wanted? A-and, Ser Barris is here." His hands waved behind him and Cullen could see his fellow Templar talking with another scout out on the walkway. The man was acutely aware that he was interrupting... Something. He'd been warned the Inquisitor was in a foul mood by the scouts that had left earlier, and it didn't seem like it had improved. "I- I can come back, ser."

He shuffled his feet, anxious to be away. Cullen looked like he'd love nothing more than to slam the door in his face, and the Inquisitor- "We can continue our discussion later, Commander."

Cullen made a strained noise as he watched her go. The way she said his title had given no indication that she'd recently had her hands on the waistband of his breeches, and her smile, shy and victorious all at once-

He was done for.

Chapter Text

The dance changes after that.

He is weary from the inner fight and she is still furious with him. She offers no explanations, demands no answers. He asks for nothing, offering everything to quiet the blue. For a while, they tiptoe around each other, pretending, then he bites. They crash.

Every time he enrages her, they crash.

She is an unbidden and welcome storm, washing away the blue. He knows she's real; clings to that fact like he clings to her curves.

Evelyn sinks into him, into his warmth. She wants more than she takes from him, but her pride flares as often as her anger and she pushes him away, always. He still lets her come to him.

It becomes a thing, penciled into her notional calendar alongside cookies with Sera; drinking with Varric and the Iron Bull; quiet walks with Cole; tea with Josephine and Vivienne; woodcarving with Blackwall; bookclub with Cassandra; chess with Dorian; angrily make out with Cullen. Ridiculous. Stupid. Irrational.

Neither one cares, and it continues.

Sometimes she comes at night, silent as a wraith, kind and gentle. He pushes for little in those encounters; lets her wrap herself in and around him. Those times are soft touches; quiet whispers; fingers brushing the buckles of his armor, the nape of his neck; kisses deep and lingering. He is always desperate for her reassurance that she's real, and she gives it with silk and honey laughter every time. The blue is always slow to return after.

Sometimes she pounces during the day, a hurricane in motion, pulling him aside to dark corridors, hidden alcoves, places few go. Those times are quick, furtive, hurried; raking nails on any available skin that won't be noticed, yanking him down by the fur mantle, messy and wild. He doesn't want to know if she's real, doesn't care. If the blue is singing, it does nothing to quiet it.

Once, she knocks him back against the war table, scattering the markers in her haste to taste him. They pressed together, seeking shelter, filled with need until she withdrew, fingers trailing a lingering path down his arms as they separated. He was pretty sure he dreamt it.

Other times she is ardent, and lets him push. Those are the times he gets the closest to ruin, shrugging aside his gauntlets to tangle his fingers in her hair, begging and pleading with her to stay as best he can with his mouth. Tender and aggressive in turns they trace a path through his office, but she stays in control and never lets him get close to the ladder leading to his bed, teasing and never consenting. He drinks deep, pulls her close, and curses the ease with which she slips from his grasp when she decides she is done. The blue is relentless after, reminding him he's not worthy, but those are the times he hopes for the most.

He starts to snap on purpose, creating reasons to antagonise her. She catches him, once, encouraging some fop of an Orlesian to send her gifts of gemstones and silk.

That night he gets her to the ladder, rungs biting her back, her legs wrapped around him, arms trapping her on each side and her reflection glinting off his vambraces in the candlelight, Evelyn in hazy triplicate.

They had crashed again, anger spilling off her, unable to articulate the indignation she felt; unable to yell at him with words. Instead she had slammed the door behind her, grabbed him by the ruff, and pulled him in, hungry, backing herself against the bookcase as she kissed him deeply. She had moaned when his hands sought her waist, gripping her hips, and it was swallowed by his mouth, echoing inside him and leaving him yearning for more. Cullen pulled her to him, hands clumsy in their gauntlets, desire smoldering in amber.

She was full of fire and brimstone in return, scorching him with her mouth as she sought to move him but he he stood fast against her assault. She tore at his clothing, fingers straying to the buckles of his armor and away, never letting her hands stay long enough to carry through with the promise of release. Still, he did not relent and her frustration grew until she broke the kiss, glaring through covetous eyes.

His grin was wolfish, and his right hand traced a path up to cup her face, turning her aside. He kissed along her jaw line, letting his stubble press into her skin as he paused to whisper, "stay this time." Heat curled low when she shivered in response, and she leapt into his embrace, wrapping her legs tight around his back, one hand buried in his fur, the other grabbing a fistful of hair.

"Make me," she challenged, and the desire in her voice almost broke him.

It was the most amount of control she'd ever relinquished to him and he took full advantage of it, carrying her swiftly to the ladder, catching her, finally, finally. He could hear the blue start to hiss in warning, and in an attempt to squash it he pressed close, kissing her with reckless abandon. She gasped against him as he rolled his hips into her, her grip on his hair tightening for a moment. With a breathless chuckle, she ground her hips against him in return, an appreciative hum in her throat as he growled out "Maker."

Balancing her weight against the rungs he started to pull his gloves off, his vambraces, the buckles on his chestplate, hands never leaving her for long, metal clanging as various bits of his armor hit the ground. She let him, another first, blue eyes watching every time he pulled away to loosen another knot, to free a catch. Cullen made to remove his mantle and she tsk'd, snagging it before he could add it to the growing pile on the ground around them. Her laugh was intoxicating as she draped it over her own shoulders, leaning forward to catch his mouth with hers again, nipping at his lower lip, at his tongue as the chestplate fell.

He snarled at the sting, yanking her forward off the ladder and back into him, bare hands gripping her by the arse. He groaned as she gasped at the action, hips grinding into him. Her right hand trailed down his chest, touch light as she skimmed the fabric of his undershirt. Evelyn loosened her grip on him then, pushing back to grab onto the ladder for support, feet dropping to the ground to stand under her own power.

The wolfish grin was back and he grabbed the fur of his mantle to pull himself back into her. His kisses were light, his stubble scratching a path behind them as he started with her throat, moving up to her ear. "Stay," he commanded, husky and filled with need.

His breath tickled and she squirmed under him, her hands holding tight to the wood behind her. She wanted, Maker, she wanted to give in, to give him everything but her pride rose it's head again. Her fingers traced the grain in an effort to ground herself but he pressed a line of kisses back down her throat to her collarbone, one hand slipping beneath his cloak to palm her breast through the leather of her blouse, the other at her waist. She swallowed back a moan as he pushed her into the rungs again, feeling his erection as he ground his hips into her.

She let her left hand reach out to him, to tangle in his hair, to pull his face back up to hers, and she kissed him, soft and slow, trying to slip back from the point of no return. He knew her intentions instantly and kept his hold on her waist tight, his other hand pinning hers still on the ladder. "Don't you dare run," Cullen growled, resting his forehead against hers, searching her face.

She met his gaze, flexing her trapped hand to see how serious he was. He didn't yield. "I was thinking more of a sashay, for what it's worth." Amusement sparkled in her eyes but he didn't give her the satisfaction of being witty in this moment.

"It's worth nug shit," he grumbled, "but what's the point? You always leave." He hated how petulant and childish he sounded. She had been giving in, finally, and now the dissonant whispers were creeping back in.

Something passed over her face, an expression he couldn't read, but she relaxed against his grip. Her free hand cupped his jaw, sweeping a finger across his mouth, lingering on his scar. "I leave because you- I need me to," she stressed, not sure if those were really the words she meant.

He grunted, trying not to think about kissing the hand against his face, trying not to lean back into her. She'd only pull away, and he'd break. "Then why even come here in the first place?" His amber eyes slipped closed, not expecting an answer. Not wanting one. The demons were already making themselves known at the fringes of his mind, offering their own reasoning's.

Evelyn sighed, pressing her lips to his forehead. "Why are you only asking that now?" Her fingers teased his hair, the stubble of his cheek; light and chaste touches that sent a shiver down his spine, chasing away the whispers once more.

"Are we actually going to talk?"

He looked so earnest, and she smiled softly as she dropped her head back, hitting the wooden rung behind her. "Do you want to?"

"Yes," no hesitation, just like the memory of an eager little Chantry boy begging to be allowed to join the Templars. A beat. "Unless you want to keep asking each other questions all night."

She chuckled, testing to see if he'd free her arm yet. When he didn't give she lent forward, grazing his lower lip with her teeth before kissing him, brief and sweet; an apology. "You've never stopped me." It wasn't an answer.

He growled, catching her free hand and bringing his weight to bear against her. He raised the newly caught hand above her head, bringing the other to join it, then held them both in place against a rung with one hand, his other slipping to the nape of her neck. She watched him, eyes stormy again, but didn't complain. She only quirked an eyebrow. "The man who would stop you is an idiot," he pointed out, blunt but husky. "And we never talk. Not about this."

"Probably because I don't know what this is." She looked shy, gaze locking on the floor, on the discarded pieces of his armor.

He misunderstood.

He let go of her instantly, pulling back to give her space, suddenly embarrassed of his actions. "I'm sorry, I never meant to-"

She'd read the flash of panic on his face as she rubbed her wrists, and snorted, interrupting him. "To what? Don't tell me you think this would be my first time."

He shook his head uselessly, hand grabbing the back of his neck in comfort. "No, Inquisit-"

That was it, that was the other shoe dropping, the word she'd feared. "Shut up," she hissed, eyes turning to steel. She freed his cloak from her shoulders, letting it fall carelessly as she tensed. Pride was surfacing again, and it bid her run. "I should have known better," her voice wavered, betraying her and she turned to leave.

Cullen reached out to grab her but she shook him off, hating herself for wanting to feel his hands on her again. Hating herself for being foolish. Hating herself for thinking he'd see beyond her titles. Hating herself.

She let the door slam, fighting the urge to scream.

She came undone, finally, too early for anyone to be starting their day, too late to be ending it; few more than the guard on the walls aware of the hour. She knelt alone, bathed in the warm glow of candles in the small chapel, face softened by the light, small and solitary. Defeated. Frail. Vulnerable.

Her voice caught and stumbled as she repeated the words, barely above a whisper, over and over, flawed and broken; a mirror she cannot bear to look at.

Let the blade pass through the flesh

Her sobs were quiet, her body racked by shudders.

Let my blood touch the ground

Her fingers kneaded at the anchor, yearning to scratch and claw it out from under her skin.

Let my cries touch their hearts

Her eyes were a storm, unfocused, unseeing, blinded by the kaleidoscopic refraction of flames in her tears.

Let mine be the last sacrifice

Again, she said the words.

Again.

Unable to face his own, he leaves her be with her demons.

Chapter Text

When the blue receded enough, Cullen went to find Evelyn. He was determined to apologize, to beg forgiveness. Anything she asked for, he'd give. Whatever she had set in motion, he wanted it to continue. And if she refused him, he'd swore he'd find a way to accept it. But she had been called away from Skyhold on important business, and unwilling to trust his penmanship with the task he let his mind dwell on the possibilities; they quickly turned to dark thoughts in her absence.

Three weeks away from Skyhold did little to unsour their relationship. Upon Evelyn's return she was curt and dismissive; he was gruff and unapproachable. The meeting to recount her mission in the war room was blanketed with tension, and Leliana and Josephine are all too happy to end it quickly, telling the Inquisitor to rest; she'd clearly been on the road too long.

Instead of stewing in her own thoughts - she'd spent enough time in the saddle doing that - she tracked down Dorian, wrangling him into the Chantry garden for a game. She sat quietly for a while and he pretended to be disinterested in her mood, chatting merrily on banal topics to fill the silence.

"Alright, spill." She huffed, breaking her terse silence at last.

"Spill what?" Dorian never sounds innocent, though he did his best.

"I know you know." Evelyn sighed, moving one of her pawns across the board. "You always know."

"Know what, Evie?" His smile was jovial and his attention was on the game in front of them, but every now and again his eyes roved over the gardens around them.

She sighed again, waiting for him to move his next piece. "You just want me to say it out loud."

"Trust me, I have no idea what you're on about." The mage took his turn with a flourish, grinning at her. "I'm sure I could come up with a few guesses though, if you press."

She grumbled something that sounded like it had been pithy and rude if it had been audible, and contemplated her next move for a moment, brow furrowed. "And if you had to guess," she murmured, moving another pawn.

Dorian waggled his eyebrows, but before he could speak, Sera dropped off the wall next to them with a cackle. "He'll guess dumb stuff. Littles told me already, though."

Evelyn made a strangled squeak, reaching out to hit her fellow archer. "They did not!"

"It was only a few that saw." Sera rolled her eyes. "Don't get it, but told them to shut it. 'Cos we're friends. Like, actual friends that are nice to each other, yeah? Not like Vivvy-urgh."

"What exactly did they see?" Her expression was a mix of embarrassment and unease as she watched Sera, who started glancing around furtively. She'd clearly been pranking someone and was hiding from them.

She shrugged in response, making a disgusted face. "Little people saw little things. They like you though, yeah? You're not too noble or nothing, not like that lot in the hall, so they don't complain. Just said something for something to say."

Dorian's eyes were starting to sparkle as he listened, enraptured, trying to put together what Sera was talking about.

She continued with another shrug, oblivious to the mage as she kept her lookout, "Not like it's a bad thing, innit? Needs someone over him, anyway. Probably has to be a woman, because positions. I woulda just given 'im peaches though. 'Less he wants bananas. Then I suppose magey here could help." She cackled again, clearly imagining it. "Don't think you share though, Inky!"

"We are not- I am not- " Evelyn sighed, rubbing her forehead, trying not to get mad at her friends. "There's nothing, we're not talking about it." Sera shot her an amused look, abandoning her vigil for a moment.

"And yet here you are, talking about... it," Dorian stressed the word, trying hard not to look to eager for the gossip - for the as yet unmentioned name. He failed in the endeavor, needless to say.

"Just take your turn," Evelyn hissed at him, trying to hit Sera once more, but the elf bounced back a few steps out of reach.

"Maybe you should be doing it, yeah? Your thing, his thing, doing thi- Oh, piss, see you!" She legged it, just before a rather irate looking Cullen stomped into view.

"Inquisitor. Dorian." He nodded to each in turn as he paused by the chess table, glaring in the direction Sera had fled.

If Dorian noticed the tension, he ignored it in favour of pursuing Sera's tantalising gossip. "Maybe you can answer something for us, my dear Commander." Not even Evelyn's warning kick from under the table could stop him. "We were just discussing something that I'd love your input on."

"Perhaps another time, Dorian. I have an elf to strangle."

"Oh, pish, this won't take much of your time!" The mage was already up and dragging over another chair, and indicated that he should sit. Retaking his own seat, Dorian returned his attention to the chess game with a small smirk, making his move before turning to the man next to them as he reluctantly sat down. "Now, I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that our Evie is beautiful." It wasn't a question, and he waved his hand dismissively, not needing an answer. He ignored the pointed look Evelyn was giving him. "I was just wondering what it would take for her to be interested in someone. She never tells me, but one hears rumours. So, thoughts?"

The beating his shin was taking was worth the look on Cullen's face. The Commander flushed, half hating himself for asking, "what rumours?"

"Does it matter? They're rumours, not facts." Her eyes were dark and fixed on Dorian, the game forgotten in front of them. She had been winning.

"Ah, but rumours start somewhere, Evie!" Dorian looked at her smugly, piecing together Sera's cryptic comments slowly. "I'm sure everyone likes to think their dear little Herald is a sweet, pure thing, with nary a carnal thought in her head, but you are a woman after my own heart. I'd heard you liked stable boys." He kept his tone light and teasing, gaze flickering between his two companions.

She quirked an eyebrow at that, her irritation with him lessening. "I did." She shrugged, not caring to elaborate, and snuck a glance at Cullen. He was making a point of staring at the ground.

"And now?" Dorian pushed, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hands, elbows on the table. "You have to admit, our crop of stable hands is a little thin for pickings."

She snorted, most undignified, and shook her head. "No, no more stable boys for me."

Dorian sighed melodramatically, throwing his hands up in the air. "See? Always so stingy with details. Dear Evie, I'm asking what your preferences are. Help me, Commander, perhaps she'll answer if you order her." There was a gleam to his eye that Evelyn did not like, and she squirmed uncomfortably as Cullen's amber eyes sought her own.

"I- I'm not sure I should be party to this conversation. And I still need to track down Sera." He looked awkward, starting to rise from his seat. Dorian sighed, somehow even more melodramatically, not oblivious to the fact that his companions were avoiding each others gaze in turns.

"Sera and whatever prank she pulled on you can wait, I'm sure. We're talking about the most eligible woman in Thedas here, I know you don't get along but surely she's worth your attention." He gestured towards Evelyn with a flourish, managing to stare down his nose at the other man even as he had to look up.

"Perhaps it's more that I'm not worth hers," he muttered, rubbing his neck again. "I'll... See you both later, I'm sure."

Dorian waited just long enough for him to be out of earshot before grinning at his friend, smug as ever. "Shall I guess now?"

She punched him in the shoulder. Hard enough for it to mean something, not hard enough to do any damage. Glowering in silence, she sank back into her seat with a groan.

"So you're not screwing him, but you're not not thinking about it? And here everyone was pretty sure you two hated each other, the amount you yell at him." He noticed her clenching her hands. "Evie... I take it something happened?" His voice was soft, no longer teasing as he took stock of the woman in front of him.

"Nothing happened. Nothing. I was... Stupid." She sighed, shaking her head. "He's going through something of his own. I tried to solve my own problem and made it worse. For both of us."

Dorian reached across the board, pieces scattering as he pulled her hands into his and held them, reassuringly. "Whatever your problems are, you're allowed them. You're also allowed to try to fix them, especially given how hard you try to fix others, hm? I certainly don't fault you for trying to lose yourself in those arms." She laughed softly at that, and he smiled back. "Now, I think you have someone else you need to be talking to, hm? Though I'll be disappointed in you if you only talk..."

She punched him again.

Chapter Text

Evelyn was waiting in his office when he finally gave up his search for Sera. "It's interesting, this." She sat on his desk, fingers tracing the shape of his helm in her lap as if to memorize it, but she was clearly tense, ready to bolt. "No wonder the Orlesians adore you, they're mad for lions," she murmured wistfully, running a thumb over the teeth.

He chuckled wryly, watching her carefully as he approached his desk. "I suppose I only have myself to blame on that front. What what it take to appeal to the Marchers?" He stopped a few paces away, curious. It had been a long time since she'd been in his office without being angry at the start. A longer time since they'd discussed trivial things.

"I suppose it depends on the city," she shrugged, anchored hand burying itself into the fur of the helm, surprised by the softness. "I hear the Prince of Starkhaven is fairly dedicated to the Chantry, so something Andrastian for sure, flames and all. For Ostwick, I'd say horses. I am biased though," she added ruefully.

Cullen nodded for something to do in response, focusing on her hands. There was something oddly possessive about the way Evelyn was caressing the helm and he wasn't yet sure what to make of it. They sunk into silence and he took the opportunity to study her. Despite the calm exterior she was putting forth, it was clear Evelyn was uncomfortable being there. But she was there, which was a start. Her usual braid hung over her shoulder, warm chocolate in the afternoon sunlight from the window and he flexed his hand, wanting to touch it one more time, even if it was the last. He took a breath, steeling himself, but she got there first.

"I think I'm done being mad at you," her voice was quiet and she kept her gaze down, certain if she looked at him she'd falter. "Not that I really was in the first place."

He relaxed, suddenly aware he'd been waiting for her to explode, to shout, something. Cullen moved to lean against the desk next to her, still keeping some distance, and stared ahead. "What, then?"

"It's hard to put into words," she shrugged uselessly, tracing and retracing the lines of the helm. "I've never actually seen you wear it. How is this thing even practical?"

"It's... Not." He chuckled, looking at her. "I'm not sure I can even see properly with it. Probably why I never wear it." He let her avoid the original question for now, empathising with the struggle she was having putting words to her feelings all too well.

She held the helm out to him. "Put it on," it sounded more like an order than she intended, but he graced her with another deep laugh before complying.

"Well, my lady?" He rose and stepped in front of her, offering her a mock bow. He could see, but in battle it would be a hindrance, of that he had no doubt.

A smile tugged at her lips at the sight of him in his full regalia. "Very lion-y," she laughed as she hopped down from the desk, walking around him in appraisal. "I suppose a dog wouldn't have been regal enough, though more fitting for Ferelden."

Cullen followed her path as much as his field of vision would allow and when she returned to his sight he caught her hand. "I don't think anyone's ever described me as regal," he mumbled as he pulled her in, face flushing from more than the weight of the helm. "But I can try, if you want."

"Oh," she breathed. Pink dusted her cheeks in response, and she reached up to pull his head down, planting a kiss on the lion's nose before releasing him. He was being kind, she was sure, but the husky tone of his voice reminded her of the last time she'd been in the tower, when he'd asked her to stay; commanding, honest, full of need. "You know, I came here to apologise, not... this." Evelyn waved a hand, trying to appear nonchalant as she drifted back to the desk.

An eyebrow raised as he removed the helm, smoothing the ruffled hair back down, but he didn't pursue the topic. "Whatever the reason, I think this is the longest conversation we've had in a while."

She smiled, a sad little thing, as she kept her eyes on the lion head held against his hip. No absolution in four easy little words this time. Clenching her fists she looked up and held his gaze, determined not to crash; not into him or apart. "You deserve- I haven't felt myself since I stepped out of the Fade. And I know... You said, about Kinloch, about Kirkwall, and with the withdrawal..." She made a disgusted noise, glancing at the floor as she gripped the edge of the desk. "Words are the worst."

"Makes you wish Cole would lend a hand for once?" He nudged her over, setting back beside on her left and placing the helm down behind him. "He really should work on his timing." He wanted to be serious, to wring the words from her, but experience had taught him that you couldn't force someone to open up. Circumstances may dictate a need, but it was still up to her to decide how much to tell him, and how. So Cullen willed himself to be patient, mirroring what he had needed from her when he'd discussed his refusal of lyrium.

She laughed at that, glad to have a reason to. Glad that for all it's awkwardness, there was an ease to the conversation that she had never expected. "We could go get him? Or Dorian, he's very good with words."

"You get Dorian, and I'll never speak to you again," he half-threatened, laughter already in his eyes. "You can take your time to find the words, Evelyn. So long as you're patient with me, too. I owe you an apology as well."

She shot him a look filled with confusion, chewing on her lower lip for a second. "You owe me nothing. I'm the one that messed everything up. I got... Selfish. I wanted to feel better."

"Well... Did you?" He was trying to find something interesting on the far wall to look at. Anything to avoid looking at her, to avoid thinking of how close she'd let him stand, to avoid noticing how easy it would be to grab her hand. There would, he hoped, be time for that later.

"No. Yes! I mean-" she huffed, bringing up her right hand to fiddle with the end of her braid. Evelyn sunk back into quiet contemplation for a moment, trying to remember the last time he'd said her name out loud. If he'd ever said her name out loud. Certainly never with such sincerity in his tone. "That night, how did you decide I was real? It felt like you- Because after Haven, I thought I was going to die, that I was hallucinating all these things and then... Then you were there. I know it's not the same as what you went through but..." She looked at him, eyes a blue sky after a storm has cleared. "You were definitely real." Her hands begged to bury themselves in the fur around his neck again, to smother herself in the warmth. It had grounded her then, a tiny seed of hope that she would survive. Now, she wondered if her pride would ever let her seek his comfort again.

Cullen ran a hand through his hair and shrugged, ignoring the soaring sensation his stomach was insisting upon. "I don't know. There's a song, to the lyrium. It calls out, sometimes just a buzz in the background, sometimes worse. Especially now. But you manage to quell it." He paused, glancing over at her, a slight warmth to his cheeks. "That sounds so stupid, I'm sorry, I just... Words, like you said."

"Words are... hard." Part of her did want Cole to pop up out of nowhere, to find the feelings and expose them for her; hers and his. Inquisitor and Commander, Evelyn and Cullen. She broke his gaze to look down, suddenly aware that they were side by side, close enough for their hands to touch. She could feel the anchor, tiny pinpricks on her palm reminding her of her duty, and she clenched the fingers into a fist.

"Right. Words. Hard." He swallowed, not oblivious to her discomfort. "If I'm honest, I was selfish too. It helped, but not in the right way." He was nervous again and rubbed the back of his neck. Unbidden, the memory of the first time she'd kissed him flooded back, and he flushed once more. "I let it be an escape, and I shouldn't have," he finished, restless beside her, fingers of his right hand drumming a beat onto the desk.

Evelyn settled back into silence for a moment, not sure how to respond, trying to sort through her own conflicted thoughts. Eventually something coherent slipped into her head, and she grabbed his hand to still it. "I don't mind helping, being real for you, if you're real for me. I just can't be the Inquisitor, the Herald for you, not like that. If I'm real, it has to be me. Does that make- Is that okay?" She felt every inch like a child, far removed from the woman defending Thedas on a daily basis, and she kept her eyes fixed on the door to her right, measuring the distance.

He had frozen at her touch, feeling her warmth even through the thick leather. It was funny, he thought, how she could be vulnerable and still have so much power over him. Evelyn started to tense, mistaking his quiet for refusal, preparing herself to leave, but the action didn't go unnoticed. Slipping his hand free from under hers he reached out, cupping her chin and tipping her face toward him. He hoped she could feel the yes on his lips as he pressed them to hers; he could only assume the hand she brought to bury in the fur of his mantle and the way she shifted closer meant she did.

It was short and sweet, but he didn't pull away when they broke for air, keeping his eyes closed and his forehead resting on hers. "We should try this words thing more often, I think."

She reveled in the content smile on his face, in the feeling of his hand at the nape of her neck, the other a light touch on her waist, in the rise and fall of their chests in tandem. "Perhaps there's something to it," she punctuated each word with another kiss, barely pulling away to utter them. She'd felt it before from him, this feeling that she was the only thing that mattered, but this time it didn't seem so reverent and adoring; so devout. She didn't feel worshiped for the titles she'd acquired for tumbling out of the fade; she didn't feel pandered to for the circumstances of her birth. What she did feel, she was certain, would have Cassandra swooning if she read it in one of her books.

He laughed, unable to think of words. There were still questions and answers that would need to be discussed but for now he was happy, actually, genuinely happy, in a way he hadn't been in years. The knock on the door interrupted his train of thought just as he was leaning in to steal another kiss.

"Do you need to get that?" she teased, fingers smoothing out the furrows they'd dug in his cloak as she pressed her lips to his cheek. He growled a response as he chased her kiss with one of his own, nipping her lower lip gently as he pulled away. Evelyn occupied her hands with the helm, picking it up again as he padded over to the door. Tracing patterns in the fur she watched him talking with the scout who'd interrupted, and couldn't help the smile on her face.

Farm boys, she'd have to remember to tell Dorian. She had a preference for farm boys these days.

Chapter Text

"Absolutely not!" Cullen bristled as he slammed the paper down on Josephine's desk. "This is a massive waste of our resources!"

"Commander, need I remind you that appeasing our esteemed supporters is why we have resources?" The Antivan idly checked off something on the paper before her, unperturbed by Cullen's response to her memo. "Besides, as the Inquisitor pointed out, a hunt is both good for morale and for our food stores."

He turned his glare on Evelyn, relaxing in a chair in front of the fire. "You of all people should hate this idea! There's still so much to do, and you were wounded last time you went out in the mountains!"

She stared back, equally as calm as her ambassador as she shrugged. "I was alone that time. And surely it's fine to take a break every now and again. If we found time to attend the Winter Palace, surely we can find time for Comte..."

"DeBouvier, Inquisitor," Josephine supplied for her, suppressing a chuckle.

"For Comte DeBouvier and his desire to hunt with the Inquisition's finest." She smiled disarmingly as he scuffed the ground with his boot, grumbling.

"Besides, Commander, they are asking for your presence as well, if the Inquisitor's safety is such an issue." Josephine set aside her work, fully expecting to have to convince the man as to why that was a good idea. To her surprise her growled a 'fine' before storming off to the war room, leaving her to raise an eyebrow at Evelyn. "Well, that was... Easier than I expected. It has been rare for the two of you to see eye to eye lately."

Evelyn returned the questioning look as she rose, walking over to the desk. "Who knows? Maybe he's just terrified you'll make him go to another ball if he refuses," she snickered.

The Antivian laughed, gathering up some papers before getting up. "But he does such a good job of looking pretty. You know, I'm still getting offers of marriage for him. I swear Leliana has a drawer full of them somewhere!" She held an arm out, indicating that Evelyn should go ahead. Together, they headed to the war room, still laughing.

A few days later, Cullen rode out with Evelyn and her chosen companions to the Comte's camp in the western foothills of the Frostback Mountains, keeping his grumbling to the bare minimum. And he had plenty to grumble about - Evelyn had insisted her fellow archers join them, and Sera had spent the whole ride making up rude rhymes with Varric and Iron Bull as her sounding board. He had a feeling that some of them were about him, but knew better than to engage Sera, angry though he still was about the incident with the beehive. He still had yet to get his revenge. He still had yet to get Evelyn alone again, as well.

Evelyn, for the most part, kept quiet, but he couldn't help noticing her laugh along with them. He noticed several other things as they rode, observing the Inquisitor away from the Inquisition for the first time in a while. She was more relaxed; more like those moments after they sparred, especially when she won - self-assured and cocky. Free, he realized. The closer they got to the meeting point, the more the mask of Inquisitor slipped into place, and he found himself wishing he could convince her to turn around and ride anywhere else. Not only to avoid having to be around the nobles himself, but also to see more of the unguarded Evelyn her companions were obviously used to on the road.

The sky was darkening into evening as they arrived. The camp was far more intricate than they leaned towards on their excursions; large silk tents and heavy wood furniture, several servants, fenced paddocks for the horses, an actual stove for cooking. Evelyn warned Sera against saying - or doing - anything and instructed them to set up their own camp a little distance away while she greeted DeBouvier and his retinue. When she returned with him and another in tow, they had their tents up by the furthest paddock and Cullen was busying himself with their mounts.

"Comte DeBouvier and his cousin, the Lady Ferhon," she made the introductions before padding over to help with the horses, the two in tow. "I did warn them we will not be joining them for dinner as we are quite exhausted from the road, but we will be looking forward to breakfast before the hunt tomorrow." He wasn't sure if that was for his benefit, or because Sera looked like she was up to something - then again, when didn't she? - but he was thankful. He nodded to the Orlesians as he unsaddled the Forder the elf had been riding.

Bull tended their campfire, and Varric set about scrounging up something for their cook pot. Sera fiddled with her arrows as she kept an eye on the nobles, but remained quiet. Clearly, Evelyn had given her the right kind of incentive to behave for the time being and the horses were far enough away from the tents that she could mutter things for Bull and Varric alone to hear but close enough they could still be party to the conversation if they so desired.

"Lady Inquisitor, which is yours?" The Comte's cousin voice was light and breathless from behind her mask as she wandered over, appraising the mounts before standing entirely too close to Cullen for his comfort. Even here, on a hunting expedition, the woman was wearing a formal dress, and the Comte's attire seemed equally ill suited as he joined her, eyes fixed on the Inquisitor.

Busy unbuckling her saddle Evelyn didn't bother to turn to the other woman, instead patting the bay Forder she so often favoured. "Major here has seen me through many treks. Master Dennet truly outdid himself with this boy," the praise in her tone was evident, and not for the first time Cullen was reminded that this was a woman who knew her horses.

"I am surprised Inquisitor, that you would favour so unrefined a mount as a Forder. Surely you would be happier with a Courser?" Cullen bit back a chuckle as he noticed the scowl pass over Evelyn's face. No one got to speak ill of her beloved horse, not even Dennet dared. It was gone by the time she turned to the Comte, however, ready to answer.

"If I'm honest, my Lord, I'm partial to the Charger if I'm looking to ride for the sake of riding, and I've never had a complaint for my native Ranger. But I've discovered since joining the Inquisition that for hunting or trekking, you can't beat a Ferelden for stamina."

Lady Ferhon tittered into her hand as her gaze swept Cullen up and down, but Evelyn's tone had not suggested she was even aware of the innuendo and she returned he attention to Major, sticking to her task of rubbing him down from their ride. Over by the fire Sera was cackling and Varric had a look that begged for details, but Cullen kept his own eyes on the bridle in his hands.

"Boss, you know that isn't true," Iron Bull was his unlikely savior as he joined the conversation. "You know I can take your pony on, any day."

"I thought you didn't like wearing the saddle any more, Tiny?" Varric called from the campfire.

"For such fine members of the court, I could be persuaded to dust it off." He winked at the Orlesians before sauntering over to help Cullen finish up with the other mounts.

"We have many fine Coursers with us and I am sure," the Comte intoned, ignoring Bull but clearly reading the same thing his cousin had in Evelyn's words, "that we can reach a compromise if needs be." The meaning of his words was a little lost on Cullen, and he was pretty sure he didn't want to know exactly what he was inferring.

"Oh, that's okay. Major won't want to be left behind, but I'll keep him in hand. Even Varric could keep up on foot if we needed." She smiled, that same disarming smile that so often made Cullen lose his train of thought at the war table, and it clearly had the same effect on the Comte. Whatever he thought he was extrapolating from the conversation was forgotten, and he bowed to them.

"Well, I wish you a pleasant night, Inquisitor. I wish we had been able to convince you to share our tents for the night, but we will see you in the morning."

"Bonne nuit, Inquisitor. Commander," his cousin added, curtsying slightly before they linked arms and headed back to their tents.

"Boss, I can't tell if you honestly meant that," Bull chuckled heartily, finished with the rest of the horses.

"Meant what, Bull?" She shrugged, innocence in her face as she left Major to graze with the other mounts. "The Orlesian Courser is fine if you want to prance around and look impressive, provided you don't push it too hard. Give me my Forder any day."

Sera was still cackling as they wandered back to the fire, unable to contain her mirth. "Yeah, but-" she managed to get out between fits of giggles, "Princess Prissy is pretty sure you meant General Grumpypants!"

"I'm with Buttercup, Little Fox," Varric nodded, settling in front of the fire with Bianca.

"Ah, let them have their fun! Nothing wrong with hate sex between friends," Bull guffawed, tending the rapidly boiling pot over the flames.

Evelyn rolled her eyes, but Cullen flushed, offended on her behalf and embarrassed for himself. It didn't matter that it wasn't one hundred percent true. She still hadn't- Well, it didn't matter. "Maker's breath, what did you tell them?" He watched her hopelessly as she settled in next to Sera, gathering dining implements from one of the saddle bags.

"I didn't tell them anything. Bull and Varric are just very observant. And Sera's friends are more places than Leliana's spies, sometimes." She shrugged. "Dorian knows because he's nosy, and Cole is, well, Cole. I don't think the others have noticed though. Vivienne would no doubt be scandalised, same for Josie. Probably start accusing you of corrupting the Herald or something equally stupid," she chuckled, entertained by his discomfort.

"If anyone's corrupting anyone, it's you Little Fox." The dwarf laughed along with her, motioning for Cullen to join them by the fire. "Can we focus for a moment on the fact that the Comte is older than your father, though?"

"And yet hardly the oldest man to court my hand, if you'll recall." She smiled, helping Iron Bull dish out the food onto plates, passing them around the fire. Cullen sat down with them, feeling more than a little out of place as they conversed easily, old friends well practiced at fireside chats.

Varric noticed his silence, and nudged Bull with his boot. "Hey, Curly, anyone tell you that Little Fox was engaged? It's quite the tale."

"I- No, I didn't know." He looked over at her across the fire and she made a face at her fellow rogues as Sera started cackling yet again.

"Oh, yeah! Love that one. Needs more nob bashing, but the tellings always grand. Inky knows how to make you think about the good bits." She flicked a spoonful of food into the dark behind him, off in her own world.

"There are no good bits the way you like, Sera, you know that, right? That was kind of the whole point." Evelyn poked the elf in the side, laughter in her eyes.

"It's still a good tale, Little Fox. One Curly should probably know." She didn't miss the look Varric gave her and she watched Cullen squirm uncomfortably, playing with the food in front of him, unwilling to speak. Not even to dissuade her.

With a sigh she held her hands up in defeat. "My parents made an arrangement with some third son or another of another family, and I wasn't too fond of the idea." She cleared her throat, shrugging. "Apparently, if you hang out at the stables long enough, look at the stable boy in just the right way, people start to talk. They considered the contract null and void within a month and all it cost was my reputation. So it was off to the Chantry after that."

"Eugh!" Sera flopped into Evelyn's lap, shaking her head. "You didn't tell it right! It's supposed to be funnier."

She pushed the elf off her with another shrug. "It's the abridged version."

"Well you should bridge it better next time," Sera huffed, springing up to her feet. "Next story better be more stab stab, less blah blah." She wandered off to her tent after grabbing her bow and a quiver, humming a bawdy tune as she went.

Bull stretched, watching the elf. "Boss, you want a minute?" His tone was nonchalant as he started cleaning up for them, and Varric nodded, moving to help him.

"Go ahead Curly, help Little Fox check the horses before you turn in," he waved them off.

Evelyn waited for him to get up before following, chewing her lower lip in thought. "You really didn't know? I would have thought Leliana would have told you and Josie."

"No. It never came up. I suppose I thought- I don't know." He shook his head, watching her move among the horses. "I'm surprised you can joke about it so easily."

"Sometimes laughing about it is the only way to move past it." She sighed, picking a tuft of grass to feed to Major, free hand stroking his muzzle. "The thing that bothered me the most is that he was quite clearly bedding at least two of his family's maids, and no one cared. But I pretend to be interested in the help, and it's off to the Chantry for me." She made a face, rolling her eyes. When he didn't respond she looked over. He refused to meet her gaze, arms crossed as he watched the horses grazing. "Or maybe I did let the stable boy sweet talk me. Or it was several stable boys. A footman or three," she moved closer to him, expression neutral. "Maybe I didn't do anything at all and I'm still pure as the driven snow." She shrugged, standing in front of him, trying to catch his attention. "Does it matter?"

He looked down at her, swallowing at the lump in his throat. He didn't know why the story bothered him as much as it did. "What's the truth?" What's real, he meant, amber gaze imploring.

Evelyn smiled, a small and sad thing. "The truth is somewhere in between."

She let him mull it over, moving back to the horses. He followed, compelled. "When Dorian said you liked stable boys..."

"I did," the same answer she'd given before. Seeing the look on his face, she continued. "We had a few, and they were always kind to me. I considered them my friends. The one, Alec, always had a deft hand with the horses. I used to pretend I wasn't really a lady, that we could just ride away one day. It... Is a long story that ends in heartbreak, and only tangentially related to my ruining my engagement." She shrugged, lifting a hand but thinking better of it, letting it drop to her side again. "You've never cared for someone you shouldn't?"

His gut flip-flopped as the tangle of emotions he'd been feeling solidified. Of course he had. That story, even without the details, he could understand. Empathise with. That was the exact thing that had helped break him at Kinloch. "I'm- I'm sorry."

"It's alright, I get being curious. I'm honestly just surprised Lel never told you. I'm sure she knows all of it, rumour or otherwise." She patted his arm, moving off to check on another of the horses, methodical as she made sure they were hale and healthy after their trek down the mountains.

He watched her, absorbed in his own thoughts for a while, absently noting the way the rising moon and not too distant firelight combined around her. Her usual braid was dark and light in turn as she tended the five mounts, her eyes bright despite the encroaching dark. She glanced over at him often, but didn't complain about the lack of help.

When she was satisfied she came back over, nudging him with her hip as she stood next to him. "You okay?"

"Yes," he smiled at her, uncrossing his arms to grab her hand. "Just annoyed that Varric was right."

She smiled back but freed her hand, sparing a glance towards the main camp before heading to their smaller one. "I won't tell him."

Confused, he trailed after. "Are you okay?"

"It was a long ride, Commander. I'll be fine once I get some rest, so long as Sera doesn't toss and turn too much. At least you have your own tent," she smiled, but he noted the use of his title with a pang of sadness. Evelyn paused at the fringe of the light off their campfire, glancing up at him before looking back at the horses. When she spoke again, she kept her voice low. "The Comte has one of his servants watching. I'm just not comfortable-" she shrugged, turning back to him. "-I'd hate for him to take offense. The Game is hard enough to play without him having something to use against us."

"Oh," as if he needed one more reason to hate the Orlesians, now he couldn't even do something as simple and chaste as hold Evelyn's hand. "I'll try to- I'll keep that in mind," he mumbled, hand reaching to his neck in frustration.

"Just get some sleep, Cullen. We can lose them in the woods tomorrow if you like," she winked conspiratorially before broaching the firelight, sitting back down with Varric and Bull. He sighed, looking around to try and spot the servant for a moment before giving up. She was right, at least he had his own tent. He really didn't want Varric or Bull teasing him all night.

Not if he couldn't do any of the things they'd tease him about.

Chapter Text

It was some time after midnight when he woke. Though he was far from his desk, he could feel the pull of the blue, and with a groan he rolled over onto his feet, pushing aside the heavy blankets and grabbing his surcoat. Sleep would not be returning, he knew, unaided by the growing whispers. Shuffling out of his tent he stretched, yawning, blinking against the change in light as he slipped on the fur to ward off the nights chill.

He could hear Bull - or Varric - snoring softly over the snap of the fire, could hear the nickering of the horses. As his eyes adjusted he noticed the fire was better tended than he expected for the hour and he padded over, warming his bare hands.

"Couldn't sleep?"

His hands immediately reached for his missing sword before he realized that it was Evelyn, curled up in a blanket across from him. He relaxed. "Nights aren't always easy," he shrugged, crouching down on his side of the fire. "What's your excuse?"

"Skyhold spoils me. It takes a little while to adjust to the bedroll sometimes." She chuckled, adding, "and Sera is a very active sleeper." He was struck for a moment at the way her hair caught the firelight, red hues mixing with the brown like a tree in Harvestmere. He'd seen it a thousand times before but this time seemed different and it took him a little while to realize it wasn't braided anymore, hung over her shoulders wavy and long.

He gave her a sleepy smile. "Why did you bring her?"

"Because if she's here, I can keep an eye on what pranks she wants to pull, rather than have her drive Josie mad at Skyhold. And she is a wonderful archer." She was watching him, and he knew she saw the dark circles under his eyes, the unkempt bed head, the simmering frustration. "Since you're up, there's fresh brewed tea."

He went to refuse, but she was already up and straining him a mug from the kettle, making a second for herself. She padded over to his side, tucking her legs underneath herself as she got comfortable before pushing the warm mug into his hands. Cullen smiled ingenuously as she snuggled back into her blanket beside him, blue eyes reflecting the golden fire as she watched the flames, bringing her own mug up to her lips to blow on it in an attempt to cool the bitter brew.

He'd never wanted to kiss her more.

Her gaze flickered to him, concern etched in her brow. "Does it bother you, the fact that we have to play the Game here?"

"No, it's just... Yes?" He shifted awkwardly, tired brain still registering echoes of the blue as he remembered the way the Comte's cousin had sized him up. He made a disgusted noise as he plopped the ground proper and let his legs stretch out in front of him, nursing the tea.

"It's because it's the same, isn't it? Not knowing which part is real." To his surprise, she leant against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I should have found a reason for you not to come. I can make up an excuse for you not to join us for breakfast, if you want?"

"I'll be okay." She was looking up at him, and smiled gently at his response. Feeling brave, he wrapped his arm around her, not caring if the Comte still had eyes on them. "I'm Ferelden, they'll think it's charming if I'm grouchy, I'm sure." He rested his head on top of hers, letting his eyes close, relishing the closeness.

"You are charming," she chuckled, nuzzling into his chest. She'd been awake for a while already and knew the rest of the camp was fast asleep. "I have to play. I have to smile, to be polite and appreciate the attention. But you don't, if you don't want to. I'd never make you play; you and Sera can go pull pranks if you want, it's very therapeutic."

He flushed, blaming it on the fire as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "But if I'm helping her pull pranks, we won't be able to get lost in the woods together."

She laughed, entertaining the thought of him running around with the elf as she pushed herself back up to a sit. "I'm not sure which I prefer."

"You're supposed to say you'd rather be alone with me," he murmured, amber eyes dangerous in the firelight, smile brazen.

It was her turn to blush and she bit her lower lip, trying hard to ignore the incredibly sinful things her mind wanted her to do. "Forgive me. And if I had said that?" She set her mug aside carefully, not breaking eye contact, daring him to act.

Maker, but she was going to be the death of him. He was less careful with his mug, practically tossing the half-drunk beverage aside as he pulled her in, kissing with a gentle insistence. She squeaked in surprise, but quickly recovered, the blanket falling off her shoulders as she buried her hands - one in fur, one in golden, sleep induced curls - and crawled into his lap. He chuckled against her lips, gathering her hair out of the way with one hand as he deepened the kiss, the other trailing a lazy swirl down her side. Once he reached her hip he reversed direction, fingers ghosting back up.

She nipped his lower lip and chased it with her tongue as she dropped the one hand from his head to his chest, flexing experimentally to see if he'd fall back. He held firm with a low growl and she shivered at the sound, feeling the heat coil low. The warmth from the fire was nothing compared to what she could feel below her hand and again she bit his lower lip, again chasing it with her tongue, a frustrated whine escaping her.

He kept the one hand tangled in her locks at the nape of her neck as he broke the kiss, eyes wicked as he dropped the other to her hip again. Pulling her in, down, Cullen growled again at the pressure it created, hating himself for needing her, wanting her like this. Knowing it couldn't go much further and not caring to stop.

She moaned at the friction he'd created, knowing she should have stopped him before, feeling his self-control waver as he kissed her again, tongue sweeping hers. "Cullen-" she tried, murmuring against his mouth, but he tightened his grip on her hip in response, deepening the kiss, giving no quarter.

It was hard not to give in completely when there was so little in the way already; they'd both shed their armor for sleep and all that separated them were two similar layers of cotton, one of fur, the blanket lost. Evelyn tried to move back, but the action ground her hips against his and his rough moan against her mouth was so perfectly indecent she couldn't bear to leave him.

Cullen untangled his hand from her hair to caress the side of her face, starting another lazy path down her body as he broke their kiss to nuzzle into her neck, nipping lightly before soothing with a kiss, his stubble scratching as he raised his head to whisper in her ear.

"Come to bed with me."

She bit her lower lip, shivering from the words as much as the sensation of his breath on her ear, feeling the knot of heat coil again. His voice was husky, low, the exact pitch that made those sinful thoughts surface again, and she wanted, Andraste preserve me, she wanted him. She could feel his heart hammering in his chest; could feel his arousal. She meant to shake her head, to tell him no, to remind him of the Comte close at hand and their friends even closer, to tell him to go to bed and take care of his needs however he must, but to do so alone.

Instead she rose to her feet at last, hand trailing from his fur as she sauntered a path to his tent.

Cullen stared dumbly for a moment before scrambling to his feet, following like an obedient puppy.

It was a sight he wanted to remember. She sat on his bedroll with her legs crossed, braiding her hair slowly as she watched him enter. Her lower lip caught between her teeth, a smirk on her lips, her undershirt falling off one shoulder, eyes dark even before the flap fell and blocked out most of the firelight. In the self-imposed dusk of the tent he could tell she was still watching him and he quickly shrugged out of his surcoat, tossing it at her feet before removing his undershirt.

Evelyn was sure she was going to draw blood from her lip, watching him strip in the hazy half-light, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. The braid was messy but functional as she forced it into a bun, trapping it in place as best she could with a ribbon. Hands free, she reached for him and he dropped to his knees, trapping her in another kiss all too gladly. She let him have control for a moment, her fingers skimming his chest, his hands at the nape of her neck and tilting her chin up to him.

For a moment, she let him drink his fill.

She pushed him back with a sudden, forceful shove, reversing their positions as easily as if she was knocking his leg out when they sparred, driving him down onto his back with a sultry giggle. A guttural "Maker's breath!" escaped him as she nipped at his collarbone before tracing a line of kisses down his chest, pausing when she reached his waistband to look up at him. Her fingers had followed her path down and perched expectantly on either side as she tilted her head questioningly.

There were so many things he wanted to say that were utterly lost as he stared back at her, breathless, half raised on his elbows. He swallowed at the sight of the cheeky grin on her face, could feel her breath, hot, above his painfully obvious arousal. He was torn between staying in this moment forever, and letting her continue.

His dazed look drew another sultry laugh from her and she kissed a trail along the waistband, nipping his hip as her fingers worked nimbly to untie the laces with slow and deliberate precision. He tried to sit up, to help, to tug at her shirt but she pushed him back down with ease. "Just watch," she hummed, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before resuming her work, sliding his breeches down as a moan tumbled from him.

Her fingers trailed fire up his legs before hooking the band of his smalls and again she paused, eyes dark and irresistible, waiting on the same unspoken agreement from before to come from him. He tried to grab her hands and pull her back up to him but she easily broke his grasp and pinned his arms, tsk'ing and rewarding the effort with another small bite to the crook of his neck.

"Is there some part of watching that's hard for you, Commander?" she teased against his ear, honey and silk in her tone, his title spoken with irrepressible yearning.

Cullen shook his head, catching her mouth with his for another kiss before she pulled away, releasing him and returning her hands to his waist as she sat in his lap. She gave her hips a little twirl and bit her lower lip as he groaned from the pressure, his hands raising to touch her but dropping as he remembered her words, not wanting to stop her again. Evelyn chuckled at his display of willpower and made her way back down to her earlier position, this time not teasing him and instead pulling his smalls aside. She let him finish kicking them off as she took in the sight of him, once more propped up on his elbows and staring at her like a love drunk fool. He could feel his cock twitch, eager.

"You're still dressed," he pointed out, a note of sadness in his voice that was easily overwhelmed by the ardor in his eyes as he took in the curve of her body between his legs, her hands, bare against his hips, the smoldering reverence of her expression as she met his gaze head on.

"Because this isn't about me," she murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh just above his knee and making him gasp. "I can't stay, but I wanted..." Evelyn trailed off, shrugging uselessly before kissing the inside of his other thigh, working her way back up his legs. He felt like an untried boy before her, powerless to stop the starved moan from escaping his throat as she took him in hand and mouth. It was exquisite and too much and he never wanted her to stop.

His arms shook but he wanted - needed - to watch her, amber gaze catching hers whenever she glanced up. She smiled every time she did, and every time he had to bite back a moan. Her one hand set the rhythm at the base of his shaft, her other tracing patterns on his skin. She was slow, almost torturous with her ministrations, but every kiss, every lick, every swallow was air to a drowning man.

She took her time, puzzling out what made him squirm and pant beneath her. She laughed every time he mumbled incomprehensibly, driving him to the edge with dedication and devotion. He watched, as ordered, willing himself to be quiet, trying to commit her to memory, eyes squeezing shut whenever her fingers trailed over his sack, hips twitching with little spasms whenever she ran her tongue down the sensitive underside of his length.

Her grin was wicked when she pulled away, leaving him teetering as she traced a path back up to his mouth. She kissed him deep as she straddled him, letting friction take over what her ministrations had started, one hand helping, the other tracing whorls on his bicep. He collapsed onto his back, his arms giving out while he gave in, letting the high wash over him, fist in mouth as she chuckled above him, unconcerned with the sticky wetness pooling between them. He gazed at her for a long time, part of him ashamed, part of him delirious, all of him utterly and hopelessly lost.

Finally, he convinced his heavy limbs to move and pulled himself up to meet her. The right hand desperately wound its way into her hair, the messy braid spilling out of the bun as he tangled himself up in it. His other hand gripped her waist, keeping her close as he pressed his forehead to hers. "Real?" he begged, breathless, lost either way.

"Real," she nodded, lips ghosting over his, "and yours."

He growled despite himself, fingers clenching as desire ran through him. His breath returned slowly, and he remembered with a jolt that she was still dressed. "I- I feel bad, you didn't..." He trailed off, unsure how to continue.

She chuckled, kissing his cheek. "It's fine. There will just have to be a next time." She paused, suddenly disquieted. "I mean, if- if you want a next time. If you want... Me." She had gotten quiet, shy, and he almost missed the last word.

"Maker, of course I want-" Too eager, Rutherford, he scolded himself. "Of course," he tried again, voice sultry as he pressed a kiss to her forehead in return.

"Oh." She smiled, sweet, a contrast to the devious gleam in her eye. "That's good, because... Words."

It was his turn to chuckle. "Yes. Words."

Chapter Text

He woke alone, dawn already broken. Bull and Sera were sat by the firepit, eating, and the Qunari slapped the ground next to him as Cullen wandered over after dressing.

"Boss said to let you sleep. She sent us breakfast, dragged Varric with her to hobnob." He handed a plate over, and Cullen picked at the food with a nod of thanks, mind still trying to process. He shouldn't have asked her to stay, he reprimanded himself. Should have dropped the matter until they were back at Skyhold, if even then. But she hadn't refused him, despite his fears, and he could still feel her curled up next to him, warm, safe and solid, real. He knew she'd been there when he fell asleep, could remember her fingers playing absentmindedly with his hair, the curve of her body against his. He wasn't surprised she hadn't stayed until morning or woken him, but it still stung. Underneath that sat his shame for what had happened, his anger at himself for letting her sully herself so, his desire to have it happen again.

"Ugh!" Sera drew his attention from his musings as she leapt to her feet, kicking at the ground. "It's so boring when Inky goes all Inquisitory." She stomped about, mumbling to herself, and he caught the odd word here and there. "Maybe bees? Nah... Oil, no, custard! ...butter... Arrows!"

Cullen glanced at Bull who just shrugged. "Best not ask, just let her run herself out. Boss'll keep her in line." The bigger man started sharpening his battle axe. "You going to ride with them? There's not much sport in Halla, thought I'd hold down the fort while the rest are off picking daisies or whatever."

"I don't think they'd approve of me sitting it out, as terrible as I am at hunting," he grumbled, happily accepting a mug of fresh tea from the other.

"Plus you'll like the view, yeah? Inky's not bad from behind, walking or riding," Sera cackled, rejoining them.

Bull laughed with her, slapping his knee. "You ever see her do a back-flip out of the saddle to avoid a projectile? She's got better moves than a Tamassran." Mirth and something else sparked in Sera's eyes as she nodded eagerly in agreement with him, oblivious to Cullen's discomfort.

"While I'm glad you're clearly having fun," Evelyn shot Bull a look as if to say really? but her tone was light, "the Comte would like to ride out soon."

She looked no different than she did any other day, not that Cullen could perceive. The same armor under the same travel cloak, the same braid swung over her shoulder warm in the sunlight, the same leather bracer wrapped tight on her left arm, the same cordovan three fingered glove on her right hand, the same easy smile and sparkling eyes. The glove he now knew covered a hand with archers calluses from where she gripped her bowstring - a grip he'd felt much more intimately than he'd ever dared hope. Hair longer than he had thought when freed, tickling his nose as she nuzzled his chest. A smile he had felt against his skin as she'd trailed fire.

No different, but he knew different, and she knew him differently too.

He watched her move about the camp gathering her bow and quiver, chatting with Sera, smiling and laughing and normal, Evelyn the Inquisitor off on another adventure, but he remembered Evelyn the woman; real and his, she'd said.

Varric broke his reverie this time. "Close your mouth, Curly. You're starting to drool."

He bit back a snarl as the man padded over, hauling himself to his feet with a grunt. "Not a word, dwarf," Cullen grumbled, fetching his sword and heading to the horses with the three rogues. He couldn't wait for the hunt to be over.

Sera behaved, mostly. Varric entertained. The Comte and his cousin flanked Evelyn as they rode and true to her word she was polite and appreciative, flattering them in turn. What Halla they did see fled before anyone could take a shot, and Cullen started to bristle as the day wore on. Lady Ferhon was insistent in his participation in their conversation but he contributed little. Constantly, his thoughts roamed to his tent, to Evelyn - confident until she was shy, demanding even when she was giving. He longed to pull her aside, to pin her against a tree, any tree - they were in the woods for Maker's sake she could take her pick - to forget everything and drown in each other.

And then he felt ashamed for thinking of her like that. She was the Herald and the Inquisitor to so many. It didn't matter that she had initiated everything, part of him still scolded himself for defiling her. And he had, in all ways but one now; he had to look away from the hunting party for a moment, stare at the breach and remind himself that was why they were here. Not so she could blush and chuckle mischievously as she helped him clean up after. Not so she could drag him to the edge of oblivion with such ease.

Back and forth his mood swung. Sera chattered inanely and picked her teeth with an arrow. Varric told his sixteenth absurd tale. DeBouvier and Lady Ferhon tittered behind their masks, monopolising Evelyn's attention. Bird song blended into blue song as they rode back into the camp, bounty-less and weary.

She ordered him to rest as Bull tended the horses, Sera slipping away in the forest to vent her frustrations. Evelyn took Varric with her again to the main camp for dinner, leaving him, sparing him. He knew she could tell that the blue was rising, but instead of feeling thankful for the respite, his anger grew.

Sera and Iron Bull left him alone in the small camp to join the festivities that the Comte provided, and he could hear the music drift in and out, winding around with the song in his head.

Eventually, he tried to sleep, and it was restless, broken, demons slipping through the cracks to scratch at him, whispering. She's using you, his inner demons raged. Just take what you want, the blue hissed.

Cullen jerked up, fully awake, some time later. The blue still coiled around his head and a sheen of sweat coated his body. The air felt clammy, humid, cloying. He needed the stars above him.

Evelyn watched him stumble into the fresh air, saw him heave dryly as he fell to his knees. Of course, he thought bitterly. Of course she'd be awake to witness his weakness again. He grimaced as she padded over to his side, urging him back to his tent, voice soft and low. He couldn't hear the words but fought vainly against her as she lay him back on his bedroll, tucking his blanket back around him, using his mantle as extra padding under his head. She hushed his mutterings of dissent, tying back the flaps of his tent to let the cool night air in and he relaxed finally at the spill of the firelight, the faint twinkle of the stars overhead.

She continued to talk to him as she moved about, fetching cloth and water, wringing the fabric out and laying it cool upon his forehead. She took another piece and slipped it behind his neck, gentle and patient. She slipped back to the fireside, pouring him a mug of tea and aided him in drinking it a few sips at a time once she returned to his side. It pooled, warm and drowsy in his stomach, calling for sleep. All the while she was telling him to hush, to relax. "I'm here," she promised. "You'll get through this."

He heard the footsteps approach, saw the way shadows obscured the firelight for a moment, but Evelyn didn't falter, replacing the cloth on his forehead for a fresh, cooler one. He heard her talking, calm and assured, telling the stranger not to worry. That he'd been sick but didn't want to disappoint the Comte. That it was just a fever and he'd be fine by morning. She lied with a smile on her face and it wrenched something in his stomach. "No," she insisted. "There's no need to concern anyone in your camp. The fever is almost broken, and we'll tend to him. Please don't let the Comte worry."

She squeezed his hand reassuringly once the shadow left, shaking her head. "Varric is going to stay with you," she murmured, bending close as she changed the cloth behind his neck again. "We'll find a reason to cut the hunt short." Fingers ghosted through his hair affectionately and he heard her conversing in low tones just outside the tent.

He faded in and out for a while, lulled by the rhythmic rustle of parchment as pages were turned, by the firewood crackling and popping. Eventually sleep abandoned its tenuous hold on him and his eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the shifting light cast by the campfire. He brought a hand up to pinch his nose against the building headache and wound up swatting away the still damp cloth resting on his forehead.

Varric chuckled, rough and low. "Little Fox wants you to drink that, when you're ready." He indicated the ale skin next to him where he sat in the tent's opening, paging through a book. "Heard her say you had a fever," he shrugged, "she's a very good liar when she wants to be."

Confusion registered for a moment before he grumbled, pulling himself up right. When he made no further moves, Varric tossed him the skin with a grunt.

"You gonna be okay, Curly?"

He took a swig, a little surprised to find it was in fact ale, and spluttered for a moment as he tried to catch his breath. "Fine, Varric," he eventually growled out, taking another gulp. It burned his throat, but chased the last of the blue away.

"She went to bed, but she's worried about you." The dwarf turned his brown eyes on the man, questions evident in his gaze.

Cullen ignored them, playing with the ale skin for a moment before voicing his own. "Why do you call her Little Fox?"

He shut his book slowly, a smile taking over his face. "Because she's crafty. Not like those Fennecs, the cute little buggers. She's a real fox, sly and calculating and she's slow to trust, hard to catch. But once you earn it she's affectionate and loyal. I was thinking Vixen, but it doesn't do her justice. She's got the confidence, sure, but there's a vulnerability too. So she's the Little Fox. Makes as much sense as anything else about this crazy shit."

They sunk into silence as Cullen mulled over the description. The ale was settling well, dulling the headache and bringing the option of sleep back to him as he watched the fire dying down. Varric returned to his book with a shrug, nonplussed by the quiet.

Chapter Text

Dawn broke the same as ever, and Sera grumbled loudly as Evelyn got ready. "Gotta at least let me steal some breeches, yeah?" she slurred sleepily as she rolled to her feet.

"I was thinking rashvine under their saddles," she quipped back, waiting for the elf to get dressed before stepping into the morning air.

"Ooooh," she giggled. "That would be hilarious! Yes!" She skipped past the brunette to fetch her saddlebag, rooting around in it.

Evelyn left her to it, nodding to Varric where he sat, tending the morning fire. He passed her a mug of tea and she wandered over to check on their horses, letting the scalding brew warm her hands. The anchor prickled underneath her skin as Major came up to her, and she let him nuzzle into her hand, the soft velvet of his muzzle soothing. "Morning, boy." She touched her forehead to his nose, breathing deep, trying to surround herself in the scent of sweetgrass and horse hair. Just like childhood.

He whinnied softly and broke away to continue grazing and she sighed, taking a sip of the bitter brew to help wake herself up. They'd break camp after breakfast, she'd decided. DeBouvier was useless as a hunter, scaring all the game away with his incessant chatting, and his cousin wasn't much better. They hadn't even paid attention to the tracks around them, treating the excursion as a reason to unload their problems and wishes upon her directly. Even if Cullen hadn't given her the perfect excuse, she would have been looking for a way out. Two more days of not hunting would not end well - she knew Sera had at least one jar of bees with her. She always had at least one jar.

With a sigh, she glanced over at the silk tents, servants already setting up a table for breakfast. Squaring her shoulders, she downed the last of her tea. Time to break the bad news.

One of the servants was waiting for him, and Cullen did not appreciate the insistent stare as he shrugged his surcoat on. The blue had receded again, fortunately, but it didn't make the trudge up to the breakfast table pleasant. Especially not when the man indicated his seat was next to Lady Ferhon.

She greeted him warmly as he sat, and he couldn't help but notice the rest of their companions were absent. "I do hope you are feeling better, it is such a shame but the Inquisitor has made it quite clear you have to return."

Cullen glanced over at Evelyn, on the opposite end of the table with the Comte. "I informed them that had I know you were still unwell, I would not have let you travel. We'll head back to Skyhold today, and you are under orders to rest. I'll not risk my Commander for a few rabbits." She had that disarming smile on and he nodded in thanks.

"I'm sorry for being selfish, Inquisitor." He tried to look contrite, but mostly felt awkward as the servants bustled around the table, pouring drinks and serving food.

"There's nothing to forgive." Absolution. "We can hunt another time, Commander." He nodded again, embracing the cup of tea in front of him to give his hands something to do.

"That would be most wonderful. We simply must host you again, Inquisitor! I am sure my cousin agrees." Comte DeBouvier raised his glass to toast, patting Evelyn's arm as he did so. When she smiled and put her other hand on top of his, Cullen looked away. The Game, he tried to remind himself.

"Oh yes! I simply must insist you join us then as well, Commander." Lady Ferhon leant into him, and he tensed as she mimicked the Comte's behaviour. "Your presence is most desired."

He almost choked as her hand trailed down far too low to be appropriate and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to put some space between them. "I, er..."

"If his duties allow, I'm sure the Commander will most graciously accept, Lady Ferhon." Evelyn responded for him, one eyebrow raised as she looked at him. He shook his head as subtly as he could, focusing on the plate in front of him.

Breakfast took far too long.

Their return was delayed by bad weather in the mountain passes, but they arrived back at Skyhold two days before they were due as the sun was setting. Josephine practically dragged Evelyn off her horse as soon as they were through the gates, insisting that they had important work that just couldn't wait. When Cullen moved to follow them, the Antivan fixed him with a glare, shooing him with her hands. "I only need the Inquisitor," the clipped words sat heavy in his gut as he remembered Evelyn pointing out the servants watching them at the Comte's camp. He remembered Lady Ferhon's insistent attention. Or worse, if someone had seen...

Dennet grumbled as he grabbed the reins from him, leading the horses back to the stables, and he snapped from his thoughts. Bull and Sera were already heading to the tavern, but Varric was waiting for him.

"Looks like you've got some free time, Curly." He did not trust the sly smile creeping across the dwarf's face, and grunted before moving to head for his office. Rylen and Lysette had been taking care of everything while he was away, but he'd rather relieve them of the duty, rather occupy himself until Evelyn was free to talk to him.

Talk.

Because that was what he wanted to do.

Definitely nothing else.

He unclenched his fists with some effort and cleared his throat, noticing Varric trailing a few steps behind him. "Did you need something?"

Varric shrugged as they started climbing the main steps. "I was just thinking about the next installment of Swords and Shields. The Seeker's been bugging me for it, I was thinking I could get some inspiration around here."

"I'll thank you to leave me out of it," he grumbled, eliciting a rough laugh from the smaller man. Before the dwarf could respond, a scout bumped into them going to their way on the stairs.

"C-Commander, Ser! I didn't see you there!" The man squeaked out, almost dropping the missive he was carrying. As he sought to recover, he quickly shoved it behind his back. "Sorry, ser!"

Cullen raised a brow at the man, staring pointedly at his arms. Varric simply shrugged and made his way past the two men, headed for his usual spot by the hearth. "Something important, scout?"

"N-no, ser! Just delivering a message to the Inquisitor, ser!" The man squirmed, half wondering if he should just throw himself off the side of the steps to avoid the Commander. This wasn't the first time he'd risked the man's wrath.

"I thought Josephine took her to her office? You're going the wrong way." He was surprised, to say the least. The two women had been headed this way, after all. But the scout shook his head emphatically.

"Sister Leliana said to take it to the battlements above the garden, Commander. As soon as we heard the horn signalling the Inquisitor's arrival. I- I had better go, ser."

Cullen grunted, letting the man continue his flight down the steps unimpeded, watching him for a moment before resuming his ascent. It was curious, and added to the list of thoughts he found himself lost in as he made his way back to his tower.

Rylen was thrilled he was back. So thrilled, he insisted on drinks.

When that didn't work, he enlisted Barris to help, and between the two of them they were able to cajole their friend into a round at the Herald's Rest.

It turned into two rounds, then three.

By the fourth, Cullen was wondering why he didn't do this more. He drank slowly compared to his fellow templars, but enjoyed the company. The ale was strong enough to lubricate the conversation, but not enough to make them sloppy, and they laughed as Rylen recounted his last training session; how one of the recruits had tripped over his own feet and stumbled into the weapons rack, knocking everything over. Barris told them about seeing a scout, terrified of running into Leliana, scramble out of her way in the main hall, only to crash into one of the tables, spilling food all over a visiting dignitary. They rolled their eyes at Cullen's telling of Lady Ferhon's unwanted actions, and Rylen slapped him hard across the back.

"Bet you half the women here would do worse if they could." His brogue was thick but unslurred as he chuckled, hand gripped to his almost empty cup. "You should have heard them after you left, 'Oh, Knight-Captain Rylen, when does Commander Cullen get back? He's so dreamy, I just can't concentrate if he's not watching.'"

Barris snorted into his own drink. "They don't concentrate when he is watching."

Cullen fidgeted. He'd noticed stares, of course. But duty came first. Duty, and- He shifted in his seat, distracting himself with another pull of his drink and a nervous laugh.

"You're just mad Lysette doesn't go all doe-eyed at you, Bar." Rylen chuckled again, pushing up off the table to go get another round. Neither man missed the Marcher getting his own stares from some of the recruits in the tavern and they shared a laugh.

"That man is impossible," Barris shook his head. "And yet I'm going to miss him when he goes back to Griffon Wing Keep."

Cullen nodded in agreement. "He's a good man, and he raises an excellent point." He motioned with his drink towards a group of recruits enjoying their evening. "Are you ever actually going to talk to her?" It felt a little hypocritical, but it was also good to be on the other end of the teasing for once.

"Rylen's up his own arse," the templar sighed, glancing over in the proffered direction. Lysette was in the rather merry group, and Barris watched them for a moment. "Besides, we're at war. How can anyone think of pursuing an actual relationship with so much uncertainty? I'm not interested in being someone warm to hold on to." He leant back in his seat, accepting a fresh mug as Rylen rejoined them.

His words resonated far more than Cullen would have liked, but Rylen took command of the conversation again, steering them back towards humour with a tale of another hapless recruit who didn't know how his laces worked.

They were on their next round when he noticed a familiar form enter, traipsing a path through the packed building to where the Chargers sat. He didn't dare think how many rounds they were through, watching her pull an unsteady Bull aside. Rylen continued his story, not noticing his distraction, and he half listened about the midnight raid on the barracks. She looked upset for a moment, a missive crumpled in her hands as she talked, voice much too low to be heard over the din of the patrons and Maryden's lute. Then Bull was pushing a drink into her hand and shooing her away. She downed it and handed him back the mug with a disgusted look, heading for the stairs to the next floor.

She caught his gaze as her foot hit the bottom step and paused, a smile flitting to her face. Maker's breath, but she was beautiful in that second, candle-lit, offering him a shy half wave in acknowledgement, her face relaxing as the grin took over. She looked happy.

And then her brow creased, and she continued her ascent without another glance.

Rylen cleared his throat pointedly, story finished. "Getting along again, I see."

"I'd like to see you stay mad at her," he shot back, quieting the pang in his chest with another pull of his drink. Both templars were well aware of how acrimonious his relationship with the Inquisitor could get as he'd vented to them enough. But their dance had changed, and it had been a while since he'd confided in either man.

The Marcher laughed, clanking his mug to Cullen's. "The Inquisitor gave me a keep, I'll not cross her."

He glanced at his fellow Ferelden, and Barris shrugged. "I owe her my life. She could set me on fire and I'd probably forgive her."

"Doesn't hurt that she'd look damn pretty doing it," Rylen winked. "Maybe you should go for it, forget Lysette. You're both noble."

Cullen bit his tongue at the turn in topic, but Barris shook his head. "If that's all we have going for us, it won't work. Besides, I don't think she cares about that, and I certainly don't." He laughed wryly, taking long gulps until his mug was finished. "I also don't want to have to duel the Commander."

He spluttered, spilling the contents of his mug as he slammed it down on the table. "What?"

Rylen snorted, tried to take a sip of his own drink only to put the empty cup back on the table with a disappointed frown. "You've not heard?" He waited for Cullen to regain his composure with an amused look on his face. "Some guy in the hall earlier wanted to talk nuptials or whatever, just after you got back. Apparently she told him she'd only entertain the offer if he could beat you in armed combat."

"Needless to say, he dropped the subject," Barris laughed, deep and entertained. "I don't blame him, I've never seen you lose."

He laughed with them, shaking his head and offering Rylen the rest of his ale. "The Commander of the Inquisition defending the Inquisitor's hand? It sounds like something Varric would make up to write about. Besides, I've seen her fight one-on-one, she doesn't need me to deter anyone."

The two shrugged, the topic changing again as Rylen happily claimed the drink for his own. Distracted, he thought about the first time she'd knocked him onto his back, claiming victory. They'd sparred numerous times before that, and he'd always won. Evelyn had grinned, joy sparking in her eyes as he yielded to her, a blunted knife at his throat and a knee on his chest. Then she'd jumped back nervously, pink tinging her cheeks as he got back on his feet. At the time, he thought she was flush from the sparring, proud of her win; but in the haze of memory he wondered if it was something else.

He suddenly regretted letting Rylen take his drink.

Chapter Text

Evelyn was kept busy for the next week. She worked diligently through stacks of missives, found time to take court, suffered through a dress fitting to appease Vivienne, and spent far too many hours pouring over the war table. Every time she strayed to Cullen's office, she was interrupted by more work, or he was. It felt like the only thing she could talk to him about was the military operations she sanctioned, lest some scout magically appear.

Watching him train the recruits first thing in the morning was a guilty pleasure she pretended was work; a stack of parchment in her lap as she sat on the ground near the sparring ring. She should be reading, working on some correspondence, but she couldn't stop herself from glancing up, eyes following him move through the recruits, helping them with stances, demonstrating the moves. The early morning light made him shine, and his voice was clear above the clang of metal.

"I'm supervising," she answered the unasked question as a shadow fell across her.

"Supervising his arse, yeah?" Sera flopped down next to her, waving a sheet of paper in the air. "Don't care; need a favour."

Evelyn took the paper, reading it slowly, admiring the doodles in the margins. "Is this a Sera favour, or a Red Jenny favour?"

"Just do it, yeah? Marchy marchy. Dull and effective, no pointy bits." The elf dropped onto her back, bringing a hand up to cover her eyes from the sunlight. "'less you want pointy bits, but little people just need a show."

"I'll see what Cullen can do," she sighed, adding the paper to her pile.

"Thought you'd already know what General Uptight can do," the elf giggled, rolling onto her stomach and looking up at her. "You know, 'cos you and him are all serious like again. Like you got him out your system or whatever. But you're still staring, so maybe not?"

She glanced over warily, finger marking her place on the paper she'd been trying to read. "You have a bet with Dorian, don't you?" Sera rarely looked for gossip without some kind of compensation and if she wanted to talk seriously, Evelyn usually found herself being dragged out on the roof.

"No!" She cackled, springing back up to her feet. "Yes. Two sovereigns. Varric's in for three!" She twirled on the spot, then wandered off with a wave. "Marchy, marchy, Inky! Don't forget!"

Evelyn shook her head and returned to the missive at hand. She managed to get through it before another shadow crossed her path and she looked up with an irritated grunt.

"Inquisitor."

"Commander," she murmured, eyebrow raised, taking in the sight of him up close. He looked tired, and his hands gripped the pommel of his sword like it was keeping him grounded. The withdrawal was clearly not ebbing today. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I didn't mean to interrupt." He looked over his shoulder at the recruits, still engaged in their practice. Turning his amber gaze back to her he continued, "I was just wondering if you had a moment to talk while the recruits are occupied. Alone?"

Gathering up her papers, she nodded, accepting the hand he offered to help her up. "Of course." She dusted herself off and followed him up to the parapets. They walked in silence for a moment, passing only those on watch, the day still early. She snuck glances at him as they strolled, taking in the bags under his eyes, the furrow of his brow, the tight set of his jaw. Clutching her missives in one hand, she let the other reach out to brush his, pulling him to a stop in the shadow of one of the towers. The last guard they'd wandered past was out of earshot and line of sight as she turned to face him. "What did you want to talk about, Cullen?"

If his original intent had been official business, she'd never know. He had her back against the crenelations with a rough shove, his mouth greedy as he tilted her chin up to him. The pitted stone dug into her spine as he held her trapped, his other hand gripping her waist tight. His tongue ghosted her lips before he deepened the kiss and she reached up to stroke his stubbled cheek with an amused hum.

When he pulled away, he looked ashamed and kept his gaze on the ground. "I'm sorry, it's just that we haven't had the chance- I shouldn't have..."

She shook her head, leaning forward into his eye line, hand still cupping his face. "Don't be silly."

He chuckled wryly, reaching up to catch her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "I can't help it, you make it hard to think." To prove his point, he kissed her wrist then pulled her in, capturing her lips again with a smirk. They broke apart and this time he released her, taking a step back as he cleared his throat, hand running over his neck. "I shouldn't keep you."

Evelyn frowned, taking a step forward to match him. "You don't get to lure me out here then leave." Her free hand grabbed his vambrace, pulling him back to her. "Don't make me order you, because I am not above abusing my position."

He made an amused grunt but stayed, pressing his lips to her forehead as he closed his eyes. "We can't have that."

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure it would be fun for a little bit. Before everyone gets mad and chucks me off the battlements, anyway." Evelyn smiled as he chuckled at the joke and reached up to cup his face again, thumb brushing against his scar. She followed it with a light kiss, but he pulled away again. "Is everything alright?"

Concern marred her face and something in his gut clenched as he realized it was for him. Cullen inhaled, letting the air go slowly. He had to look past her; over the walls. Looking at her face, at the emotions there... Her eyes were too bright, too expressive in the early morning light. Too blue. "I haven't been able to sleep. Withdrawal," he shrugged, as if that was all, a small irritation.

She was biting her bottom lip, papers clutched to her chest and he started to pace under her watchful gaze. How exactly could be explain it? She knew the details already, had seen him waver. Twice, she had soothed him. Once, she had dragged him back from the edge.

"I have faith in you."

His feet stilled and he glanced at her. Somehow, she had known exactly what he needed to hear and the words filled the space between them. This was the woman the Inquisition believed in, and she believed in him; broken and scarred, she still believed in him. He tore his gaze away, feeling ashamed and unworthy.

"I care for you, Cullen, you have to know that by now, and I will do whatever I can for you." She put a hand on his arm. "Nothing will change that."

He stared at her hand, her words sinking in and banishing the blue. It had been the longest they'd talked uninterrupted since their return, and he remembered Barris's words in the tavern. "I didn't think it was possible, that you-" He grabbed his neck again, shrugging and turning aside. "You're too good."

Evelyn laughed, that beloved silk and honey to his ears, shaking her head. "I'm just human."

"Funny. That's how I feel when I'm with you." He leant in, intent on thanking her with his lips.

The tower door groaned and creaked as it opened, and the scout blinked nervously as the morning light hit his face, making him squint in the glare. He gripped the missive tight in his hands as he spotted the person he'd been sent to find, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach when he realized who she was with. Not again. He took a deep breath as they turned to face him, exhaling shakily.

"Inquisitor, report for you," he held out the offending paper, focusing on not letting his fingers tremble. It felt like he'd been all over Skyhold this morning trying to find the Inquisitor for the Spymaster and was already tired. Why did he always have the misfortune of running into them together? The last time, a couple of days ago, the Commander had almost thrown something at his head! It wasn't his fault Sister Leliana had so many urgent messages for them.

He looked at the ground as she took the report from him, shuffling his feet as he waited for a reply. At least this time the Commander didn't look too mad. In fact, he wasn't even looking at the scout. Usually he would glare and glower until the scout fled to safety with the response, but this time the man looked as uncomfortable as he felt, rubbing his neck and looking out over the parapets. And was he blushing? Just what had he interrupted?

He stood there, puzzling it out. The Inquisitor added the report to the pile already in her hands, then rifled through a pulled a few more sheets out, handing them over. "Can you deliver these to Josephine for me? And let Leliana know I'll be there shortly to discuss matters."

The scout nodded, rolling the papers into a tube and planning his route to the Ambassador's office. Or should he go to the Spymaster first? No- the Ambassador made the most sense. "O- of course, Inquisitor," he bowed. His feet couldn't move him fast enough away, still expecting the Commander to yell at him for interrupting. But he was still confused as to what they had been doing on the battlements in the first place, and he replayed the scene that had greeted him when he finally found the Inquisitor.

He supposed they had been standing a little close together. And had he seen the Inquisitor's hand on the Commander's arm? Had the Commander been- Surely not, he shook his head. He was losing it. The sun had blinded him. He was still half asleep, even.

There was no way he'd just seen the Commander and Inquisitor kissing.

Evelyn was laughing at him as the scout disappeared. "Poor man," she chuckled, and Cullen didn't know if she was talking about the scout or himself. He grunted in response, glaring in the direction the scout had gone. It never seemed to fail; any time they got close, someone interrupted them. And that scout in particular showed up more than any other.

"I'm going to reassign him to the Wastes," he grumbled.

"And what about the other scouts?" There was a mischievous gleam in her eye as she leant back in, ruffling his hair.

"I'll reassign the whole damn Inquisition if it means I get you alone for more than five minutes, Evelyn." Maker, but he loved it when she blushed at something he said. He waved her hand off, fixing the curls she'd teased out. "What does Leliana want?"

"Hm? Oh, just girl talk." She smiled disarmingly but he noted that it didn't reach her eyes. He was about to press the issue but she tugged his head down with her unburdened hand to plant a kiss on his forehead. "And I had better go before that includes what I was doing up on the battlements this morning," she chuckled lightheartedly before pulling away.

"Can I see you tonight?" He blurted out as she turned to leave. Of course they'd see each other in the war room later, but that wasn't what he meant. He wanted her, alone. He wanted her where they wouldn't be interrupted, where neither one would have get called away to work. More than anything, he wanted to repay her for that night in his tent.

She grinned at him as she glanced back over her shoulder. "Is needing my permission the reason you haven't already?"

Maker's breath.

"It's a lovely dress."

"And it will make lovely rags for the infirmary."

"The letter?"

"I'll- Handle it later." Evelyn looked over her shoulder as Cullen walked into the war room, and she loosened her grip on the table. "Commander."

Her voice was terse and she started to knead the anchor, lapsing into a sullen silence as she stared at the map. Leliana crossed her arms, stoic and unrevealing. Whatever they had been talking about it hushed tones, they clearly weren't interested in discussing it in his presence. He shuffled awkwardly as he looked at the map, idly playing with one of his markers.

"Josephine said she would be in shortly," he broke the silence. Evelyn didn't look away from the map, but Leliana nodded, relaxing slightly.

"Before she arrives, perhaps you'd like to tell me how serious it is." Cullen frowned as he looked between the two women. Leliana's gaze was flint and Evelyn's blue eyes were stormy, fixed on the markers by his hands. She made no indication she knew what Leliana was talking about or to whom she was referring and kept her mouth shut, lips pursed. On instinct he rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat, but finding no words. The redhead sighed, continuing. "Normally, what two consenting adults get up to in private wouldn't be any of my business. Given your positions in the Inquisition, however, and Lady Trevelyn's outside of it-"

She was cut off as Evelyn slammed her palms down on the table and they both jumped in surprise. The anchor flared weakly, a flash of sickening green fade energy coiling then evaporating, and she snatched her hand back, fingers curling into a fist as she held it tight to her chest.

"Spare me, I've heard this speech before," she snapped. "You can sum it up in two words."

The Spymaster nodded slowly, relaxing from the tense battle stance she'd slipped into. It looked to Cullen like she was returning a blade to her sleeve as she stared down the other woman. "End it."

His mouth was open. He knew he was staring, slack-jawed at the petite redhead, mind reeling. Of course she was aware of their fumblings, that had never been in question, but this ultimatum stunned him. Amber eyes slid to Evelyn, equally surprised by her reaction.

She was still clutching her left hand, and her eyes were downcast. "If you think that's best," quiet and defeated the words fell from her lips, and he made a strangled cry.

"You cannot-"

Leliana rounded on him in an instant. "Evelyn is the Inquisitor, and she must be above reproach. This dalliance of yours is over. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. If I had caught it sooner, I could have spared you this moment. As it is," she sighed, eyes kind but unyielding, "it cannot be helped. There are many players on the board that need to be appeased. I hope it won't ruin your friendship."

He exhaled sharply, fists clenched, biting his tongue against the blue that hummed. He wanted to fight, but he wanted Evelyn to fight and she wasn't. She was just standing there, staring at the ground. He didn't know how she could just shelve whatever it was between them when one voiced raised in dissent. He didn't understand what could have changed. Their early morning walk on the battlements felt like a lifetime ago, already fading into hissing whispers that would haunt him at night. "Evelyn, how can you..." Her words hours earlier played in his head, a sharp contrast to what she said next.

She shook her head, eyes cloudy. Freeing her hand, she'd gripped a missive in its place. "Leliana is right. We cannot afford the distraction right now." Pride wouldn't let her crumble. She should have seen this coming, but she had hoped... For all the good that did. "I still-"

The creak of the door stole the rest of the sentiment, and Josephine hurried in, her face pale. Her hands clutched a single scrap of paper. "Ah, I'm sorry for getting held up. We- We've recieved word from Hawke, Inquisitor. He's at Adamant."

Chapter Text

They laid siege to Adamant.

There was no time before the battle. The forced march was grueling, and she had ridden ahead. The coordinating missives back and forth were terse. Official correspondence. He used her name; she stopped responding, and Cassandra's deliberate scrawl answered him instead.

There was no time during the battle. Amber and blue had clashed momentarily when the gates were breached, but whatever words she'd wanted to say had been left unsaid. He channeled his emotions into his fighting, leaving a trail of destruction behind him as he advanced. Her trail was even bloodier.

There was no chance when she fell through the rift. He wore a rut in the ground pacing, fists clenched around sword and shield. I should have protected her. Defeated Wardens and Inquisition soldiers alike avoided him as they struggled to figure out what to do next.

There was no time after. He couldn't even tell her how glad he was that she was alive. Instead he watched, her mask in place, offering her absolution to the Wardens. Then she'd gathered her companions to her and withdrawn.

There was no time at Skyhold. They'd ridden up minutes apart, the main bulk of the army trailing behind. She'd slipped out of the saddle and when Dorian had called to her she'd thrown her bow at him, splinters shattering against the stable wall as she stalked off.

Then, she made time. She went to all of them in turn, winding a path through the keep as she conversed with her companions. Even him. It was the first time they'd been alone since Leliana had confronted them. It was strained and awkward and he wanted to grab her hand and whisper his heart to her but she kept the desk between them. Kept it about Adamant. He still hadn't told her how happy he was to see her again, alive.

That night the blue hissed. He'd been able to push it away and focus on the battle, but now, with nothing else to occupy his thoughts, it was all consuming. He tried to dull it with ale, but Rylen was in the Western Approach and Barris was still a day or two out with the main army. So he sulked alone in a corner of the Herald's Rest, nursing his tankard and his head, watching Bull and Dorian swapping tales with the Chargers, Sera and Blackwall at the bar trying to out-drink Varric. Evelyn was absent. So were Vivienne, Cassandra, and Solas, but that was to be expected, he supposed. And Cole-

It was like he appeared out of thin air, summoned from the third floor to the table by absent thought alone. The spirit lifted his head to look at Cullen from under his hat and he smiled sadly. "I'm supposed to ask. She made me promise to ask if I wanted to know."

He glanced up at the boy, then returned to his tankard, taking a gulp before responding. "What did you want to know?"

"Not you. The blue slips out when it's loud, deafening until fury or absolution takes it away." He looked away, the hat obscuring his face. "She'll be mad. She told me to ask if I wanted to know, but when I ask her now she lies. She pushes the truth deep inside and doesn't let it surface."

"You're talking about the Inquisitor." He grunted, taking another pull of his ale. And another, for good measure. He should have ordered a stronger drink.

"She says it's more honest to talk, even when the emotions don't have words, but if it's honest why is she lying?" Cullen blinked as the spirit pushed a fresh drink over to him. He hadn't even seen him go to the bar.

"You're asking the wrong person," he muttered, draining his first drink and trading the mugs. They lapsed into silence, but Cullen could feel the boy watching him. Even with the brim of the hat covering his face and his body turned away, he could feel it. As Maryden began a new song, he turned to the rogue only to find the seat unoccupied. He grumbled out a sigh, then stiffened as a weight settled behind him. Cullen heard the voice in his mind as much as in his ears.

"She was going to stay."

He couldn't say what possessed him to follow his feet to her door. He was still angry. He was angry with Leliana, Evelyn and himself in equal measure. But Leliana was putting the Inquisition first, so he could forgive that, given time. Evelyn, however...

He'd knocked before he could think about it. What Cole said had settled deep in his gut, swirling around and reminding him of wicked grins and dull eyes. Of fists bloody from pounding the floor. Meredith, appeasing him with an extra philter, stroking his ego, banking his hate. Uldred, smirking. The faint tang of o-zone. How often had he thought about giving up? How many times had he considered making the noble sacrifice?

There was no response, and for a second he wondered if she was elsewhere in the fortress. He had been pretty sure he'd seen light in her windows on his walk from the tavern. He rapped on the wood again. She had said she was fine, had checked on everyone to make sure they were okay, delivered an official report to her advisers. But he couldn't recall seeing her outside of her tour of the grounds. And her actions once she'd gotten back to Skyhold hadn't been entirely rational. Harritt was still grumbling about having to fix her bow, and Dennet had complained that Major had cracked a hoof on the ride back, but he hadn't seen her near the stable except the one time to talk with Blackwall.

He was about to leave, his third attempt at knocking proving futile. He thought to check the Chantry, perhaps, when he heard a dull thud and the gentle tinkling of glass breaking. The door turned out to be unlocked and he moved carefully up the stairs, hand wandering to his sword.

The room was mostly dark. Heavy drapes had been drawn over most of the curtains and they moved reluctantly in the night breeze, whispering velvet across the floor. Both balcony doors were thrown open and the moonlight reflecting off the snow outside cast a pallor on the room. The hearth was cold, but there were candles lit by the desk, flickering over a mountainscape of papers, all but one pile weighted down by random objects. The last pile was starting to disperse onto the ground, the paperweight lost. Wherever it had gone, it had taken a glass with it.

As his eyes adjusted to the inky murk, he looked around for Evelyn. He could make out the shapes of her furniture as he scanned the room, but his eyes were drawn back to the desk. That was where she sat, small and crumpled on the floor in front of the imposing piece of mahogany, knees drawn up to her chest. She was dressed but disheveled, feet bare on the stone slabs like she'd been halfway through undressing and given up. Her head hung in her hands and she hadn't noticed him. He froze, torn between his anger and compassion, blue hissing.

Compassion won, and his boots scuffed the floor as he padded over. Still, she did not stir.

"Evelyn," his voice cracked, noticing the quiver in her shoulders. Still, she did not raise her head.

He dropped a heavy hand on her crown and knelt, lips quirking into a smile as she squeaked in surprise, glancing up. The smile faded as his eyes traced the now-dry rivulets on her face and without thinking he brought his hand to her cheek, gloved thumb brushing against one of the offending trails. How long had she been sitting here, he wondered. Had the other candles burned or blown out, or had she never bothered lighting them? The room was near freezing; when was the last time she'd lit a fire?

She was staring blankly at him, unseeing, and he shifted uncomfortably. He shouldn't be here, he realized. He should have told someone else to come. Send someone to light the fire, make her tea - had she even had dinner? "Is there anyone, anything I can get for you?" he murmured, pulling his hand away. He'd never seen her like this; unkempt and shattered.

Evelyn shook her head. "Don't. Don't be real," she whispered, fragile and raw, head dropping back to her knees. "I can't take it if you're real." A tremor wracked her body, and he heard a strangled sob pass her lips.

He stilled, suspended between thoughts as he looked at her. His heart wrenched as she sobbed again, and he realized he didn't care that she'd pushed him away. She needed him, now, in this moment, Maker and Leliana be damned, he would do what he could to ease her suffering. Cullen pulled her forward into his embrace, one hand a gentle pressure on her shoulder, the other making reassuring circles on her back.

They stayed like that for a while, his chin resting on her head, the occasional shudder passing with a whimper from her. He'd settled back on the stone floor, pulling her up into his lap to keep her off the cold slabs, and he couldn't remember ever finding her so small. Or light, like she was made from gossamer threads, spun together, easily broken with enough force. A world away from the woman who could go toe-to-toe with him, or a Red Templar, or a High Dragon. Or Nightmare.

Nightmare. She hadn't told them much about the encounter in the Fade, but he could imagine. Maker, but he should have come to her sooner, should have realized what she was going through.

When she quieted, he thought maybe she'd fallen asleep. His arse was numb from the unforgiving ground and Cullen shifted as carefully as he could to adjust his sword. She stirred against his chest and he mumbled an apology into her hair, reclaiming his hold on her. But she moved, breaking his grip, hands rising to his shoulders, pulling herself up to look him in the eye, straddling him. He stared for a moment, unable to break her gaze, breath hitched in his throat.

She crashed into him, hungry and haunted, desperate. Her lips pressed to Cullen's, trembling as she pushed herself into him, starved for warmth. His eyes slid closed as he wrapped her in his arms but she squirmed in frustration at the hold, begging for control, unable to wrest it from him; too small, too weak in this moment.

But he was weak too, kissing her back. His one hand trailed up her back, tangling in the birds nest that was her braid and pulling her head back and to the side to expose her neck. She whimpered as he yanked the glove off his free hand with his teeth, tossing it aside and pressing his lips to her jawline, her cheek, the dried tears, then down, moving her jacket off her shoulder to kiss her collar bone through the fabric of her undershirt.

Evelyn exhaled, ragged, shrugging the jacket aside completely, fingers a flurry as she relieved him of his mantle, his chestplate and pauldrons, his belt and scabbard, vambraces. She hissed as she tugged his still gloved hand free from her hair, probably pulling more than a few strands from the mess in her haste, and ripped the gauntlet from him, tossing it aside to join the rest of his clothes. She'd gotten him down to his undershirt, breeches, and boots with surprising ease, like it wasn't the first time she'd stripped someone of their armor, and a growl rumbled in his chest as deft fingers worked on his laces.

Cullen slipped his hands underneath her, re-positioning the both of them before feeling the curve of her buttocks. He gave them a gentle squeeze as she wrapped her legs around him, grinding her hips down to elicit a groan. He delivered, nipping her throat and chasing it with his tongue to be rewarded with a moan in turn before grabbing her thighs, pulling himself up off the floor with her in tow, pushing her against the desk.

Papers dislodged at the impact, further destroying her filing system as he balanced her on the lip of the desktop, kicking off his boots to join the rest of his things and her jacket. He ran his hands up her sides, skimming the curve of her breasts as she mewled, desperate to recapture his mouth in her own. Cullen complied, fingers gripping her waist, growling as she nipped, drawing his lower lip in with a suck that was anything but chaste.

Her fingers returned to their earlier efforts to disrobe him, working her own knots in turn. She shoo'd his hands off her waist, humming appreciatively as one tangled back in her hair. Offering her neck to him again, she gave his breeches a tug, sliding forward off the desk to work her own off her legs, already working on the laces of her blouse, eyes drifting to his arousal.

In all the times she'd come to him, there had been an undercurrent of control to her actions. There's a frantic aspect to her now that he realizes, with a start, he recognises. He's been here before, desperate and aching, needing the release, any release.

He's never been proud of the things he'd done to get that release.

It doesn't help that he's hard, and she's licking her lips, dazed and hungry. It doesn't help that she's guiding his hand down, blouse loose around her shoulders, falling open, giving him more than a glimpse of her breasts - she's not wearing any bindings, he realizes, and has to swallow another growl. It definitely doesn't help when she glances up, catching his gaze, and her eyes are piercing blue.

It wasn't like he'd never thought about it. He'd pictured her - often, Andraste preserve me - in various states of undress. Sometimes they were fuel for the nightmares, twisting into the horrors that had plagued him since Kinloch. But often they helped, much to his shame, in the dark hours of night when frustration gripped and sleep eluded and now, faced with the prospect of the real thing, he knew he had to refuse.

He could only pray she'd understand.

Cullen pulled back to her whine of protest, extracting his hand from her hair and the other from her grip, steadying himself by holding onto her shoulders. Trying hard not to think about how easy it would be to help push aside the thin fabric with its short sleeves; trying to ignore the rather persistent stirring in his smalls. "Inquisitor-" he tried to speak, but her hands flew to his mouth, shaky.

"No," she managed to squeak out, shaking her head. "No." He could see the glint of tears in her eyes.

Her move had dislodged his hands and he noticed as his arms fell back to his sides that she was sporting a wound he hadn't heard about. Jagged and wicked down her left arm it ran, still scabbed, clearly from Adamant. In the dim light it looked raw and fresh, like it would start bleeding again at any moment. He held his breath, tracing the slash mark back up with the pad of his thumb, fingers ghosting the underside of her upper arm. The laceration intersected the pink-red-white reminder of wolf fangs on her upper arm and he traced those too, careful and deliberate.

Evelyn whimpered, bumping back against the desk as she shied away from him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" The words were harsh but their delivery was flat, and he sighed as she slapped his hand away from her arm when he reached out again.

"Inqu- Ev-" he growled, neither title nor name feeling appropriate for what he had to say. She shivered, noticing the cold of the room without the heat pressed between them, and seemed to curl into herself as he continued. "I want you, every exquisite, messed up, inconceivable part of you. Maker's breath, I have for far longer than I should admit to." His hand rubbed the back of his neck, that old familiar tick. "But not like this, Evie, not to chase the nightmares away. It doesn't work, trust me, it only makes them worse."

She worried her lower lip as she stared at him through dark lashes, one hand clutching her blouse closed, the other a fist at her side. Cullen grumbled, shuffling back a step - his breeches were around his ankles, damnit - waiting for her to respond.

She only stared.

He snapped.

Gathering himself - and his breeches - he snarled at her. "You're acting like a child."

Turning away from him, she drew a ragged breath. "It should have been me." She'd spoken so quietly he'd barely heard her over his own breathing.

Cullen was hit with the startling apprehension of Cole's words.

"Maker, no," he practically ran to her as she started sobbing. "Do you have any idea how worried I was when you fell into that rift?" He buried his hand in her hair again, needing the familiar chestnut silk in his fingers as he pulled her into his chest, holding on tight. "If you hadn't come back, I-" He ended with a strangled, guttural noise, unable to articulate.

"But, the Wardens- Hawke and the others-"

He hushed her. "Wardens live a life of sacrifice. You can't blame yourself. It was between all of you or one of you."

She hiccuped out another sob, fingers bunching in his undershirt as if she was trying to crawl into his warmth. "It is my fault though. If I had stayed- If I hadn't-" It was getting hard to breath under the weight of her admission and she crumpled. If Cullen hadn't been holding her, she would have fallen to the floor. "You don't understand, it was my decision," spoken so quietly, punctuated with sobs, fresh tears falling, marking wet spots on his shirt as she clung to him.

"Out of everyone in the Inquisition, I understand." He was calm, reassuring. Shelter from the inner storm. "And I know it wasn't an easy choice; it never is." Solid and steady. "But please don't blame yourself for surviving, because that one small fact is what keeps me going."

He wanted to say more, but it wasn't the time for it. He just stood there, holding her. After she cried herself to sleep in his arms, he carried her to the bed.

Chapter Text

She awoke to the scent of elderflower and oakmoss and the sensation of warmth on her cheek. Stretching slightly as she stirred, she realized she was nestled against Cullen's side, legs entwined, his hold protective around her. She nuzzled back into his chest trying to sink into the warmth, away from the chill air of the room, forgetting for a moment that she can't have this. He chuckled at her movements, and tugged the blanket up for her, making a cozy cocoon. "I'm honestly not sure which one of us gets less sleep."

His voice was rough, tired, but caring. Kind. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. "I don't think that's a competition I want to win," Evelyn uttered blearily, throat still raw from crying, cracking her voice. She had been asleep long enough for the few remaining candles to burn out and the only light was from the open balcony doors spilling frosted moonlight into the gloom of the room. When she opened her eyes again, glancing up to catch his expression, the wan light did nothing to diminish the gold of his gaze and she looked away quickly, ashamed.

He shifted slightly to flex his arms, clearly having been in that position for a while, but he didn't speak. Nor did he alter his hold.

Her senses were coming back to her as the chance to drift off again fled, and it was taking all her concentration not to run her hand down his shirt, to slip her fingers under, trace the lines of his abs, find his battle scars, chase the downy yellow hair down-

"You didn't have to stay," she mumbled into his chest, shutting her eyes against the fantasy. It would be easy, just a wiggle of her hips. A subtle caress of her hand. She's only had him undone the once but-

But she can't, she scolds herself. If she crosses that line she'll never go back. Maker, why couldn't he be less... him. Less attractive. Less adorable and confident all in one. Less humble, less strong, less kind. Maker, make him cruel.

"I didn't really have a choice, you wouldn't let go," he responded, plain and perfunctory. It doesn't quite answer her prayer.

"Oh," little more than an exhale, escaped her. For a moment her hope had sparked, but Cullen's words dashed it. They lay in silence for a while before she murmured an apology into his side, disentangling her legs and rolling away from him, breaking his grip easily. The bed seemed absurdly large as she settled away from his warmth, trying to preserve it by curling up in the blankets.

It felt like laying in ice.

There was a creak as Cullen shifted into a sit, rubbing life back into his limbs. She could picture it clearly, even with her eyes closed, and she curled further inward, drawing the blankets over her head. Still cold. Her teeth don't chatter, and he can't be sure if the shiver is from the temperature or if she's crying again, but he's feeling the chill start to pinch at him anyway and he wandered over to the fire. There were no embers to coax back to life and he swore softly as he gathered kindling and tinder into place to start from scratch.

She's not crying; can't cry, out of tears, spent. She shudders as the mattress gives under the weight of Cullen sitting down next to her, done with the fire. Peeking out from under the covers, all she can see is his back, and it seems fitting.

"I'll not beg." She never thought he would. Even when he asks, it's a command coming from those lips. His hands are clenched in his lap and his hair disheveled; from what little she can see it almost looks like he's praying. "Tell me why you pushed me away."

"I- It's not that simple." Unlike his, her voice cracks and stumbles over the words. He is level, clearheaded, accustomed to functioning with little to no sleep. She is askew, foggy, still not come to terms with Adamant. Filled with regret, fear, and longing, equal partners.

"It can be."

She doesn't respond, just buries her head back under the blankets. She can't stand to look at him - any part of him - not when she knows he can wrest the truth from her.

And she's not ready for that.

She must have drifted off at some point, but she's not sure when. He's gone, of course, but the fire is burning, chasing away the dawn's frigid air. The contents of her desk had been rescued; reorganized. Or, organized, rather. Her jacket slung over the chair neatly. The broken glass swept off the floor. She takes in all the little signs that someone else has been in the room and can't help the ragged sigh that escapes her.

It took her no time at all to dress and right herself and she slipped through the main hall with no issue. It was too early for any sane person to be up; Varric's seat unoccupied, Vivienne's perch unmanned, Solas's rotunda empty, Dorian's usual haunt devoid. Some Inquisition members were at work - already or still, she didn't know - but they greeted her briskly and continued their duties without interrupting her climb.

She slowed as her eyes met Leliana's, the other woman standing by the table that passed for her desk, quill scratching a message on parchment. Despite the hour, or perhaps because of it, there was no one else on the third floor of the tower. She crossed the distance with a casual nod, waiting until the redhead was finished with her task.

"I've been meaning to thank you. For being the bad guy in this, Lel." Evelyn scuffed the floor of the rookery with her boots, eyes trained on the stairs.

Leliana shrugged, unconcerned. "You play the Game far better than you let on."

"It's for the best, isn't it?" She chewed her thumbnail, ignoring the backhanded compliment, needing absolution. Unable to get it. The only sounds were the soft murmur from the library floor below and the rustle of raven feathers. Still, she kept her voice low.

The Spymaster pushed back off her desk, abandoning what work she'd been trying to accomplish. "I don't know. The Hero of Ferelden had a similar choice. Love or duty."

"And?"

"She chose Alistair," the Spymaster shrugged again, smile sad as she remembered. "She loved him too much. He loved her too, refused the crown, continued life as a Warden. They ultimately found a way to do their duty and be together. I think she would have chosen him either way, though. They... I don't hear from them much. But they weren't at Adamant, so I can hope. And you," she continued, shaking the memories away, "asked me to stop you before you could fall in love. Though I wonder if I failed in that particular venture, I'm certain I did on his end." Her gaze was pointed and Evelyn squirmed uncomfortably under it.

Evelyn opened and shut her mouth several times, trying to find words. None came, and she shrugged uselessly in response.

"You can always tell him."

Blue eyes flicked back to Leliana, mildly terrified. "No. You know what he did to Alec."

"I'm aware. He's more than capable of defending himself, Evie. That's why he's our Commander. The man is well versed in battle. And death," she added, returning to her paperwork.

"It's not like he'd be challenged to a duel. He'd send bards, or just straight assassins. Or just bribe someone to slip something into his food. Maker," she ran a hand over her forehead, heaving a sharp intake of air. "Or they'd find a way to get him back on Lyrium and break him that way."

Leliana crossed her arms, quiet for a moment as she let her friend calm down. "You know I wouldn't let that happen. I also happen to think you are giving them much more credit than they deserve, and Cullen not enough."

"I'll not see him hurt by Nathaniel," she muttered, hands fidgeting, clenching and relaxing her fists. "I'm going to figure it out. I will. Cullen is better off not being involved, even if it means he hates me. He- He deserves someone better, anyway. Something simple and uncomplicated," she spat the words, kneading the anchor.

"I think he wants, even enjoys complicated," the redhead retorted, eyes trained on the papers in front of her, expression unfathomable.

Days pass and somehow she avoids him, or at least being alone with him. She is always in the company of a scout or a recruit, a servant, one of her friends, or one of the many visitors Skyhold sees, and even when she has to be in the same room as him, the council room or his office, she sweeps in and out before he can catch her. She seems oddly comfortable around Leliana and he sees them together often, sharing secrets. Leliana doesn't avoid him, but she's wholly unwilling to discuss anything that isn't troop movements or what her spies have found out. She even stops teasing him about his hair.

He kind of misses it, if he's honest.

He tried to get Cole to talk to him, but the spirit wasn't willing to incur the Inquisitor's wrath for spying on her innermost thoughts. He considered asking Sera, or Dorian, - maybe Varric? - but he was pretty sure that even if they knew any of the answers to his questions, they wouldn't tell him. And gossip is beneath him, damnit.

And it's not so bad at first, anyway. He has his duty and the blue - mercifully - rests. There are plenty of things to occupy himself with in the aftermath of Adamant, and he is more than content to be occupied. Cassandra is surprised but willing to spar with him when he needs, but their moves are too similar from their shared base of training, and it doesn't exhaust him like Evelyn. There's a lot less leg sweeping.

But he kind of misses that too.

And then he starts to miss other things. The tangle of fire-kissed chestnut locks in his hand. The honey and silk of her voice when she's being coy or reassuring. (Maker, he didn't know he could get turned on by a compassionate tone, but she managed.) The way she could walk through the main hall, unfazed by everyone's eyes on her. The glint in her eyes when she teased him. The archers calluses on her fingertips, ghosting across every inch of his skin. The wrinkle of her nose before she laughs when someone tells a particularly funny story. The blush on her cheeks when he says something she'd label as charming. The little squeak she makes when he surprises her. The way she'd grinned, knowing full well what he was asking for that day on the battlements.

The way she just fit next to him.

It's wholly distracting, and he knows the recruits are talking about the fact that he stares when she walks past - he's not staring though, just glancing really, if even that - but he can't seem to bring himself to reprimand them. They do get the honour of running extra drills, though.

He tries to be happy for Barris when the man, five drinks in, finally starts talking to Lysette, but internally he's just praying to the Maker it doesn't crash and burn and ruin his friend like it's ruining him. Rylen's bawdy reports from the Approach don't help his mood much either, though he tries to be glad that both men are happy. (Rylen could probably stand to have a little less fun, though.)

He does not take Iron Bull's advice; not about the serving girl, not about taking care of himself. It's said with a suggestive wink. (Is it still a wink if you've only got one eye? He's not drunk enough either way.) He does consider asking the Qunari about her, but the former Ben-Hassrath would see right through whatever flimsy 'official' excuse he'd use, and he doesn't want a heart-to-heart. Doesn't want to be accused of pining.

Still, he watches her every time she's near, and more than once catches her watching him.

Then she leaves, something about Venatori in the Wastes maybe leading to Corypheus's hideout, and this time when the recruits whisper behind his back there are punishments.

Chapter Text

The Man arrives while the Inquisitor is away. There have been other visitors that have raised concerns in the past, but there's always been a reason for someone to dislike them; a misplaced comment, a history of sedition, ties to the Carta, something. The Man doesn't do anything, per se, and that's part of what rankles Cullen. The Man just is. Tall, athletic, dark haired and equally dark eyed, The Man moves around Skyhold haughty and proud and full of demands that are never voiced but clearly expected. Cullen sees Josephine try to avoid The Man in the hall at one point, and that just adds to his dislike. Sera's blatent refuse to run any pranks near The Man makes him bristle further and when he asks, she'd just shrugged, "Quizzy said none while she's away." But there was a flicker of fire in her grey eyes, and a hard set to her mouth that made him think it was more than that. And when The Man watches Cullen training, sparring, gaze taking in everything like The Man is studying him, it makes him uneasy.

So naturally, when she returns a few days later and he sees her, standing at the dais talking with The Man, he does. Not. Like. It. She's barely been back an hour; even from the other end of the hall he can see she's still covered in a layer of grime and dust from the road, and her shoulders slump in exhaustion even as she stands tall.

Cullen has never enjoyed seeing how close nobles like to stand, how they like to touch and preen, but The Man is different. He is looming. He is touching but there's a force to his grip; it's an ounce too much pressure to be friendly. Evelyn has always been good at disguising her discomfort but he's learned her tells by now, and she clearly wants the conversation to end. If it even is a conversation, he hasn't seen her say a word since he walked in. He thinks to move to her when he feels a touch of his own.

"My dear Commander!"

He quirked an eyebrow at the familiar mask and the hand on his vambrace. "Can I help you, Ser?" Josephine has lectured him more than once about being polite, and he's not in the mood to hear it again any time soon. As much as punching a noble or three appeals right now.

Comte DeBouvier gave an imperceptible shake of his head. "Not at all, I simply had to greet you! You are so rarely available, after all. I should remind you that my dear cousin is looking forward to seeing you again, she hopes to visit Skyhold within the fortnight." He followed Cullen's gaze, and offered a melodramatic sigh. "Ah, yes, it is such a shame, I had so hoped for another chance to catch her eye, but what can one do-" he prattled on, and Cullen tuned him out. Evelyn smiled, but he knew that particular curl of her mouth meant she was not happy. She was kneading the anchor. Whatever was being said was bothering her. Anyone else would probably think she was listening to an interesting story, but he's made quite a habit of watching her the last few months and knows better.

"Oh, yes, it caused quite the stir, but the Lady Trevelyn is quite the prize-" Cullen's fingers grasped his sword hilt, trying to remember why it was important not to beat up visiting dignitaries, as the conversation faded back to his attention. "I suppose she could do worse than a fellow Marcher noble for a husband." The Comte gave a sniff, eyes trailing over the Inquisition's commander, leaving the insult unspoken. It was strange, being reminded he was unworthy of her by another but then, he wasn't. For a brief moment, she'd been willing to choose him. Evelyn had wanted him, until she hadn't.

He had already decided, before she left, that he was going to try to win her back. The Comte's clear disapproval was added fire.

Cullen excused himself quickly, lamely - Josephine could fix any ruffled feathers later - and strode to the head of the hall, occupied with the suggestion that The Man was going to marry the Inquisitor. His Inquisitor; his Evelyn. He tried to appear unhurried but couldn't shake the scowl creeping across his face; at least it kept anyone else from stopping him, drawing him from his thoughts. Thoughts that were very focused on the fact that he wanted the truth because he wanted her. He drew to a halt a few feet from her, suddenly quite unsure of exactly what he hoped to accomplish, but they had already seen his approach.

"Commander." There's a slight upturn to her mouth as she says it, despite her exhaustion, and his heart skips a beat. Up close she is more than a little unkempt from her travels, and he eyes a rip in her leather armor with disapproval and concern. He's pretty sure she has sand in her hair.

He wants to just blurt it out, ask if that stupid poncy nug shit excuse for a human being was, perhaps, mistaken, but he can't. Not when he sees the way The Man is at her side, fingers wrapped around her wrist. Glaring, jaw set, the other hand clenched in a fist. Good. He'd interrupted, encroached. "Inquisitor," he shot back, voice low and gravelly, pitched just the way he knew would make her bite her lower lip. "A word, in private." Gesturing toward the door leading to her chambers, he went ahead, not even bothering to acknowledge The Man.

She does bite her lip, can't help it because that voice gets her every time, then narrows her eyes at him. Frowning lightly, because how dare he do that now. Then frees herself, excuses herself from The Man apologetically, and trails after Cullen. The door shut on the hall behind them a little louder than necessary, making her wince as she glanced over at him.

"What did you need?" She queried once the echo died in the quiet of the passageway. It occurs to him that she's standing in such a way that she can flee if needs be, and there's a heavy weight in his gut at the thought that he'd be what she was fleeing.

"Not here." Not so close to the hall. Not so close to The Man. "Just come upstairs, would you?"

She followed him begrudgingly, steps slow, almost leaden, as much exhaustion as trepidation. When they reached her room she leant back against her desk, arms crossed, scowling openly. He takes a second to appreciate that she's still using his filing system, never mind any system at all, then she wipes the smile off his face. "Well?" Curt and wary, it's like a knife to the throat.

Cullen stalled, the absence of any need for him to be there suddenly apparent. His fingers drifted to the back of his neck, words stuck in his throat and she looked away in exasperation, kicking back off the desk to leave. He reacted out of instinct, grabbing her arm - gently, it's her left arm and even though it's surely healed by now he remembers the ugly laceration - pulling her in. Tilting her head up. Kissing her.

She made that surprised squeak he had quickly gotten fond of. Then she kicked his shin, stepping away with a fluid motion. Out of reach. "You do not get to touch me like that," and her words are snarled but her eyes say different, and there's a shake to her tone.

"No," he stepped forward, but she stepped back, mirroring him. "No one else gets to touch you." He's surprised by the intensity of his feelings on the matter before he remembers the first time she crashed into him. He'd sworn to himself then that he'd never let another man even think of claiming her, not if she chose him, and by Andraste, he'd uphold that vow.

Evelyn laughed, bitter, a hand coming up to rub her temples, still matching him step for step, withdrawing as he advanced, unable to find words to dissuade him. She's defensive and jumpy, exhausted from her journey through the Wastes. She's frayed, he realizes, and his heart aches with the need for her to unburden herself before she unravels.

He backed her into the desk and she made the surprised squeak once more, pink dusting her cheeks as she stared at him, eyes cloudy, hands visibly shaking.

"Talk to me, Evvy." It's a small thing, resting his forehead against her. Something he didn't think would feel good, but it does; those two syllables, her name but his way of saying it and it's silly, she already has so many names and titles and nicknames - Sera has a new one every day it seems like - she doesn't need one more. But her hand is on his cheek, thumb running over his stubble, breath ragged like she'd run a mile.

"It's not- It's complicated." She's replaying his words over and over, a new mantra, no absolution but something sweeter. She liked the way her name tumbled from him, something like a confession, a new spin on an old nickname, wants to pull it from him again. Wants to pull more from him, but her wrist still stings from the grip of another and grounds her in much the same way the pinpricks of the anchor remind her she belongs to the Inquisition.

"I've got nothing but time for you." There's adoration, reverence in his expression, but it's not like before, when it had scared her. It's softer, somehow. Meaningful and personal. Not for the Herald, but for her, his Evvy. She pauses, mouth agape, reading the lines of his face and the fire of his gaze.

Then she tells him. Quietly, she tells him a story he's already heard bits of. She trips over the words, fragmented snatches of the tale tumbling out in a rush. He stands, patiently, piecing together the silences.

She tells him about Alec, the stable boy she'd known since she could walk. How they taught each other things; reading, writing, riding, horse care, tree climbing, fixing a wagon wheel. How he'd been her best friend and was kind more than anything and promised he'd do anything for her. How she'd take late night rides so no one could see their hands touch when she returned the reins to him after. How they'd taught each other things of a more adult nature once they got older. She doesn't tell him how much she loved Alec, but it's clear, and she avoids Cullen's gaze for the next few minutes. She tells him about pretending to flirt with all of the stable boys, how clever she thought she was being, hiding the truth.

She tells him about Nathaniel, about the marriage contract. Nothing specific, just that he knew, somehow. That he knows now, has made it apparent that he knows, and that it scares her. That he has made mention of his options to clear the board of other players.

She confesses that she was going to run away, that they were stupid children, but she couldn't bear her duty any longer. She wanted the tumbles in the hayloft and summer nights laying in the fields, not a life of fealty to a man she knew only enough of to fear.

She confesses that sometimes, she can't stand to be around Blackwall. He smells like the stables and if she's too close to him after a fight it mixes with the blood and ash and then she's back there, late at night, frozen in the doorway, screaming silently.

She doesn't describe it, doesn't say it, but he understands. It hadn't been the first time she'd seen death, and she's seen far more depraved since, but still he can see that it stuck with her, wormed it's way deep. Resurfaced, it's an event that scarred her just like wolf fangs; Cullen knows all too well about that and doesn't push for details, just stands near. Solid and steady.

She tells him about the other stable boys and the animals, broken limbs and glassy eyes. She doesn't, can't tell him about the bruises left every time Nathaniel visited, but she's pretty sure he can guess. She tells him about begging her parents to be sent to the Chantry, not wanting to be near anyone, not to be touched. Especially not by him, not like that, not when it had been perfect, not when Alec- She tells him about their refusal, their insistence on duty.

She tells him about learning the Game, bent on finding something, anything, to help her break the marriage contract. She admits to finding enough to coerce an annulment, that his family insisted she be sent to the Chantry as a condition for breaking it. That it was fine, that it was exactly what she wanted.

"Then the Conclave happened and-" She waved her hands, miming the explosion with a wry snort. It's not a telling that Varric would be proud of. She was babbling, long and rambling, more word vomit than literature, but he understands.

Then she panicked, and told him not to be mad at Leliana. She told him about the letters; the threats, the reinstatement of the marriage arrangement. The need to do her duty. The temptation to have Leliana take care of it discretely and the need to take care of it publicly, properly, leave the Inquisition untarnished. Her fear that something would happen to him. Fear that had driven her to concoct an admittedly flawed plan. Fear made tangible by Nathaniel's presence; The Man Cullen had pulled her away from. Aided by a desire to do the right thing, to be what the people saw her as; to be Herald and Inquisitor, beyond and above.

It was a long story, even half told, and her throat was raw from it. She fidgeted, needing to move, pace, flail, something, but she was still pressed against the desk and he didn't move out of her way. Cullen was outwardly calm, but if he'd been distrustful of The Man before, now he was positively resentful.

When he broke the silence, his voice was low but even. A rare question. "Do you still want me to be real for you?"

She was shy under his gaze, hands nervously tugging at her jacket hem. Finally, Evelyn managed to nod, exhaling sharply. He wiped away a tear that threatened to fall, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Then have me," he murmured the weighted words into her ear, shrugging; as if it were that easy.

She shivered, tried to push him away. "I can't." There are more tears in her eyes, and her voice breaks on the second word. "You have to leave." He doesn't. Won't. He's not sure when he decided it, exactly, but he knows in his core that he'll die before he gives up on her.

"Evvy," it feels even better saying it a second time, Maker's breath, he's never going to stop saying it. "You're facing a Tevinter Magister from before the First Blight who's practically immortal and has a pet dragon. You've walked the Fade, twice. Taken down several High Dragons, because they were there and you're a loon and The Iron Bull probably dared you to. You've stopped countless demons, averted an assassination, and assembled an army. You even sit through dress fittings with more grace and diplomacy than Vivenne deserves. What's one human going to do to you when you can stand against all that?"

Her brow furrowed as if thinking it over, then she sobbed out a laugh. "Well, when you put it that way." But that's exactly it, the other side of the coin. Fear clouded her judgement, and duty pulled her further away. Evelyn shook her head, making a disgruntled noise. "That's the point, though, isn't it? Even if Nathaniel wasn't a factor, I have to stand against all that."

Cullen took a step back finally, to give her room, and she slipped free from the desk to pace in front of the fire.

"I didn't think I'd- With Adamant-" she cut herself off with a frustrated grunt. "Void take me. It wasn't my intention to hurt you, I just thought if we weren't-" Another disgruntled snort escaped her as she clenched her fists, gaze drifting to the fire as she stalked back and forth.

"You could have talked to me, you didn't need to get Leliana to insist on it. The ruse was..." he trailed off, shrugging, unable to find the exact word to encapsulate his feelings on the matter.

"I know," she paused, glancing over at him, glad he couldn't finish the sentence. "I had hoped," she stressed the word, wringing her hands together, "that if I decided to honour my duty, you would understand. Given time, I am sure I can get out of the contract. But your safety is important to me, Cullen. Even if I can't..." It was her turn to shrug uselessly, and she resumed the pacing, feet scuffing the floor.

"I can defend myself; I'd be a pretty useless Commander for your army if that wasn't the case." He chuckled wryly, leaning against her desk.

"But it's not just that," she snapped, blue eyes clashing with his. "You don't know what Nathaniel is like."

"I'd think you'll find me uniquely qualified to understand letting your past horrors haunt you for far too long. I'm not proud of the man it made me. But-" he hushed her before she could interrupt, "-I thank the Maker every day that Cassandra brought me to the Inquisition and gave me a second chance. That you gave me a second chance. The withdrawal is agony at times, but I'm trying to be a better man. And that's why it will take more than thinly veiled threats to keep me from you, Evvy. But you don't need to find a reason to break the contract, or use the Game, or give up and honour it; just break it. You're the Inquisitor, after all. You have more important things to do." He crossed his arms, letting his weight rest against the desk, pragmatic and calm, letting her mull over his words. "The fight is hard enough, and I-"

He paused, suddenly nervous, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

"I need you."

"And it's because I'm the Inquisitor that we can't-" She started, then blinked, surprised. As much by his words as by the sincerity in his gaze, the raw honesty in his voice. Padding over to his side, Evelyn claimed his hand and held it tight to her chest, silent for a while. In the quiet of the room, it was easy to pretend the world wasn't ending, that she hadn't been stupid; that it was just the two of them. "You shouldn't."

Cullen shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I do."

"You're supposed to hate me."

"I could never hate you, Evvy." She knows he can feel her heart beating impossibly fast and wild, and it's impossible for her to meet his imploring amber gaze. But she can't drop his hand either, rooted to the spot.

When she speaks, it's a whisper, "don't be kind. You have to know nothing can change. You're the Commander, and I'm the Inquisitor; we have our duties to do. It's too selfish to think of anything else."

He brought his free hand up to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, frowning as she winced from the display of intimacy. "The Inquisition isn't forever, this will come to an end one day. I don't want to be unsure any longer, even if it is selfish, Evelyn; I want you."

"Don't," she pulled away, resumed the pacing, stopped. Stared at the ground. "I shouldn't have started this. I shouldn't have let it continue. I shouldn't have- I'm sorry, I am. But find someone else." Evelyn refused to look at him, turning to the fire. Half of her longed to throw herself into it.

Cullen tensed, crossing his arms as he watched her, brow furrowed in confusion and hurt. "There won't ever be anyone else. Tell me why I should even bother when I know that."

"Because you deserve better. You deserve someone who isn't broken and bound by duty." She tried to hide the anger, the self-recrimination from slipping into her voice, and clenched her fists. "I can't, you have to stop. You have to go."

"Why?" He pushed, her words an echo of what his might have been, an answer he would no longer tolerate.

"You're infuriatingly stubborn! If it's not Nathaniel, it'll be someone else, Corypheus even, and I'll never forgive myself. I love you too much to see you hurt or used against me."

She doesn't trip over the words like she thought she would, should they ever escape her again since Alec, and she hates that they've escaped her now. She hates the surprise that registers on Cullen's face, the silence they sink into in the wake of the confession. Cullen snuck a glance of his own at Evelyn and traced the furrow of her brow, the flush of her cheeks, her teeth worrying her lower lip. They are quiet, a gulf between them deeper than the ocean.

Then they both speak at once.

"I'm sorry, that was-"

"Maker, I am-"

He paused, waiting for her to resume, apprehensive. Nervous. Giddy. His heart in his mouth. The blue waiting to snap. The words still hanging in the air. When she didn't he steeled himself with a deep breath before making his demand.

"Say it again."

Chapter Text

"Say it again."

Blue eyes stared long and hard at the fire in the hearth, fingers interlacing and locking together as the demand hung in the air. She avoided what she knew was an insistent and hopeful gaze for as long as she could, but the footfalls told her he wouldn't be ignored. Staying behind her he reached out, fingers grazing her left arm, tracing the memorized path. When he would have had time to learn to learn the jagged line, she did not know, but Cullen could clearly picture the scar from Adamant and proved it.

"Evelyn..."

His voice was soft, gentle, kind, a murmur against her ear; pleading.

She had no absolution to offer, no right to beg it in turn.

Evelyn drew a shaky breath, steeling herself against the desire to lean back against him. It was too hard, this truth he'd wrestled from her, a truth she hadn't dared voice, one she'd tried to banish. And there it was now, out and uttered to the one person it would damage the most.

"Don't. You deserve better," she repeated. Frustration was starting to set in the longer he stood close, but she couldn't very well be the one to storm out of her own chambers.

Cullen snorted derisively, turning her with gentle coaxing to face him. "You are far more than I deserve, and all I want. I will do whatever it takes to prove my worth to you, because I-" he took a beat, amber eyes searching her face for any sign of regret, met only with apprehension, a fear that it was too late to turn back. "I love you."

There was a flicker of that fear in her eyes, a tear threatening to spill at his confession and he teetered, a man on the edge. "You're a fool," but there was nothing cruel in her tone, just a depthless sadness. "What if this-" she indicated the pair of them with a wave of her hand "-gets in the way of the Inquisition? I won't be able to let you go."

"Tell me what you want to do, Evvy, because it's heartbreaking enough sending you out there time after time. Not being with you, not being able to make your days brighter, easier, that would destroy me far worse than the withdrawal." There's a stark honesty, a bluntness to the words that he's never been able to conjure before, never wanted before. He cupped her face gently, bringing his forehead to meet hers. "Know that I won't let you go either."

Her eyes slipped closed under the weight of his confession, breath hitching. "You'd let me love you, even if it kills us?"

"Even if it kills us," he affirmed, pressing his lips to hers softly, briefly.

Evelyn glanced away, letting out a frustrated noise. "Nyeugh. I feel like I'm in one of Varric's books, it's so absurd, I'm absurd, this is..." There's a pause and a furrow of her brow as she turned her gaze back to him. "Maker, no, it's worse than one of his stupid books! Nightmare got bored of us and shipped me off to some kooky Fade land to torture me."

Then she's grinning, a little manic, but he can't help chuckling. Humour has always looked good on her. "No, you came back, trust me. I was very relieved to see you fall back out of that rift."

She scrunched up her face, working backwards through her timeline. "Then maybe.. Envy? Still doing weird things in my head?" She tapped a finger against his breastplate, tilting her head at the metallic ping.

"Nope. You definitely came back from Therinfal Redoubt." Cullen caught her hand, twining their fingers together, and it suddenly occurred to him he's never actually held her hand, not really. It fits, just like the rest of her.

"Some sort of weird afterlife thing because I died at the Conclave?" Evelyn glanced at their hands, giving his a small squeeze. He responded in kind, and it draws out a smile from her, honest and genuine.

"Not that. You're a little too alive for that." He chuckled again, bringing her close enough to rest his forehead against hers once more. A murmured assent greeted him for the action, and she shifted a little closer to him.

"Hallucinations because I'm freezing to death after Haven?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Well I doubt it was from when I got thrown out of the saddle into a tree."

"When did you do that and why wasn't I informed? But also no, probably not." He's running out of ways to politely tell her she's being a little bonkers, and a little concerned that maybe she does have some kind of head injury.

"I was seven! My brother spooked my horse while I was trying to jump a fence." She stuck her tongue out at him in a most un-ladylike display of cheek and he raised his free hand in defeat. "Maybe I'm in a coma from the wolf attack."

"Sadly, this is in fact the real world in which we live and you are perfectly healthy." His fingers that aren't entwined with hers caress the ragged rip in her leathers - he can't be sure but it looks like the work of a serrated blade - before trailing over the fabric covering the wolf bite scar. "If not a little worse for wear."

"Varric's secretly a mage and he's trapped me in a book?" She shrugged, burying her own free hand in his fur.

"Incredibly unlikely, given that he's a dwarf. But he has been looking for a new story idea, maybe you should chat with him." They're grinning at each other, the preposterous nature of her suggestions more than enough to lighten the mood, to make it easy again, releasing the weight of their confessed emotions.

"If he sells the rights to a playhouse, they could probably cast Nathaniel to play himself. He already looks like a villain." Unable to find fault in the description, Cullen snorted derisively, setting her off in a fit of giggles. When they subsided - no small feat - she frowned, focusing on their hands, still interlaced. "I am sorry. He just- He scares me, in a way not even Corypheus does. And then there's so much pressure to be perfect and untouchable and beyond reproach. I'm just not sure-"

With a small tug, she's in his arms. Safe and sound, he banishes the fear. "You should be sorry. I think I understand why you wanted to take care of it this way, I do, even though I don't agree. And I was worried, too, for a while. About what people would think. But what matters more to me is what you and I feel. I need you to get sure. So-" he held her at arms length, amber gaze serious but kind "-don't do it again unless you truly mean to end it. Or Andraste forgive me, I will throw you off the battlements myself."

She has had quite enough of a facetious Cullen Rutherford - it is wholly unfair that he is so understanding and forgiving and can joke about it - that it's with a wicked grin she breaks his hold to hook his leg and shove him back. Having caught him by surprise he went down easily with a Maker's breath escaping him, and she took a step, then a knee, perched above him in a straddle, letting him catch his breath. "Do that and I'll take you down with me, Commander."

His laugh makes him wince - the stone slabs of the floor are unforgiving and although his armor and padding helped catch some of the force of the fall, it still caught him off guard - and he reached up to cup her face, fingers brushing past her braid, making no move to get up. "You are an absolute pain, Evvy. Never change."

There's a victorious smirk on her face as he grumbled beneath her and Cullen wants to wipe it off her face with a kiss but he's interrupted by an all too familiar cackle, accompanied by a light tut.

"As adorable as this is, Commander, Evie..."

"Aww, he's smooshy under the hard! Bam and General Uptight goes down, nice one Quizness!"

"...Yes, lovely,Sera. Perhaps they'd like to get up before the rest of the search party arrives, hm?" Dorian rested his elbow on the other arm, tapping a finger to his chin as he regarded the pair on the floor in amusement.

It's with a roll of her eyes that Evelyn regains her footing, holding out a hand to help haul Cullen back to his feet. Dusting himself off, he avoided the mage's gaze as best he could, fixing a glare on the elf as she threw herself onto the bed instead. Sera was unfazed, rolling over to hang her head off the edge, looking at the other three upside down and tossing a golden coin up and down.

"You're just mad we interrupted 'afore the slap-and-tickle so you don't get to win the bet!" She flicked the coin up again with a satisfying ping, giggling to herself.

"Sera," Evelyn sighed. She loved them, she really did, they were wonderful people and without a doubt two of her best friends, but they had atrocious timing. "Why are you two here?"

"Our delightful ambassador was looking for you in a bit of a panic. Something about dinner tonight? We selflessly offered to be the ones check your quarters." Dorian's smug smile was itching for her fist, but Sera distracted her from her irritation.

"There's some nobby gob-shite camped out by your door. Been bugging littles 'n stuff." The blonde rolled back onto her stomach, kicking her feet in the air. "Somethin' wrong with that one, innit."

"I do share your sentiment. It is part of why we're here, and not one of the servants, after all. And, you two have been chatting quite a while." He raised an eyebrow to punctuate the inference, and swept his gaze over the pair. "Maker's breath, Evie, did you even take time to bathe since you've been back?" Fussing over her, he fingered the rip in her leathers, then dusted her head, dislodging a puff of coarse yellow grains. "You are positively filthy, you have sand everywhere! I know the Commander is a strapping man but honestly love, self care first, hm?"

She batted away his attentions, fingers rushing over her braid to smooth it back down, ignoring his crude suggestions. "I would have been in the bath sooner if the only route to my room didn't take me through the Hall. Every time I go through I get stopped a hundred times if I'm not careful."

"Just take a page from Grumpy-breeches here and scowl. Oh, yeah, just like that! Or get a ladder for your balcony. A reallllllly big ladder," Sera giggled, sliding off the bed to rejoin them, waggling her tongue at Cullen's sour face.

"I'll have a bath sent up, and get rid of the, uh, ahem, gob-shite?" Cullen chose to ignore the elf's attempts to rile him and without stopping to think about it, pressed a kiss to Evelyn's cheek before leaving. Andraste preserve me.

Two eager pairs of eyes followed him before turning to the brunette. "Well?" uttered in perfect, eager unison.

Cullen stared, unabashed, across the table. Evelyn had washed and, he assumed from the sparkle in her eye, napped - or at least ingested copious amounts of caffeine, perhaps. Vivienne fawned from her side over the outfit she'd talked the Inquisitor into wearing, less like her warm, practical and simple travelling leathers, clearly a dress Orlesian in influence but muted, fitted but modest, blue and gold and green. She'd turned her usual braid into a crown, loose tendrils framing her face, and sat next to the Enchantress at the head of the table, looking for all the world like the Queen at her throne.

He was pretty sure he wasn't the only one in love with her that evening, watching numerous men and women stumble over themselves to greet her, Josephine at her other side running introductions and moving the throng along when they got too boisterous and distracted the group from their meal. Cullen was grateful that the ambassador had not insisted on a dress code for the rest of them as he had no desire to wear the all too tight uniform from the Winter Palace, though it was clear from Vivienne's disdainful glances at the rest of the table - especially at Sera, Bull, and Varric - that one had been suggested.

But the group didn't seem to mind, laughing and joking with one another, telling tales back and forth, and drinking. Maker, the drinking. It was worse than when they'd played Wicked Grace and - well, the less said about that, the better. He chuckled wryly into his own half drained mug as Cassandra shook her head next to him. "I still do not understand why Josephine insisted we eat together like this."

He shrugged, eyes flicking back up to the head of the table. "To show our guests we're human, or something, I think. Make you all less legend, more... tangible."

The Seeker sighed, her own glare fixed on Varric as he guffawed while informing Solas and Sera about his previous experience with elves in Kirkwall, in particular something crude about Fenris. "Perhaps it is better that some of us aren't."

Dorian interrupted, pushing a fresh glass of wine over to her. "I'm sure the Commander would disagree. I hear tell he's rather fond of finding Evie tangible." His smirk was wide as he sipped from his own glass, taking in Cassandra's shocked expression. Sera's distinct cackle wafted from his left, a slurred Cully-Wully likes Shiny sung into her mug.

"Cullen, is that-"

He cut the Seeker off with a low growl, eyes narrowing at the mage. "None of your concern, Pavus."

Dorian held his hands up in surrender, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially to Bull and leaving Cullen to deal with Cassandra's stare. "Do you truly- I mean, it was clear she'd hoped for something from you, but-"

"What?" he choked into his mug, drawing a few concerned stares from the gathering that he quickly waved off. When he was sure no one was paying attention and struggling to hide his embarrassment, he leaned closer to the Nevarran, keeping his voice low. "Is that- What do you mean?"

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised, skeptical as to the reason behind his curiousity. "I mean, she stares sometimes. When you're sparring with the men. All... Dreamy." Cassandra tilted her head to the side, her voice quiet to match his. "And she didn't refute Dorian when he told her one of them would, erm-" she coloured, clearly thinking of an appropriate way to sanitize what she'd heard "-engage you in amorous congress? So I assumed she was interested in at least pursuing you... Physically. For a while there, anyway. Evie hasn't made mention of it to me since." She made a face, uncomfortable with what she'd just admitted to, the underlying suggestion that she was interested in seeing it come to pass perhaps not as hidden as she'd hoped.

Cullen had learned his lesson and waited for her to finish before taking another sip, glancing back up the table. Evelyn was smiling warmly at something Blackwall was saying, and his heart broke a little as he remembered her admission from earlier, how sometimes she felt the need to avoid the Warden. "When was this, Cassandra?" He hoped he didn't sound like an eager boy, desperate for the news.

She frowned, trying to think back as she picked at her food. "During the trek here after Haven, one night. Evelyn was chatting with everyone, and they decided to play a game to get to know each other better. It involved drinking, a lot of drinking."

That was months ago. Months and months, and she'd thought of him long before she came to him. He let his mind dwell on their conversations at Haven, all the times he thought she'd flirted, all the times he'd sworn he was mistaken, stumbling through. It wasn't an unpleasant train of thought to get lost in.

"Ah, but please, I did not tell you this. Even if you are- I'm not interested in getting involved." Cassandra harrumphed, and Cullen let the matter drop.

This time when his eyes wandered, blue ones met his gaze and he was graced with a disarming smile before her attention was pulled away again.

She slipped her hand into his and pulled him aside as he was leaving the hall, moving with grace and a long stride despite the confines of the skirt about her legs. He followed willingly down the back corridors, quietly trailing a path towards the gardens and wishing he'd taken his gloves off so he could feel her hand in his. Evelyn didn't pause or release him until they reached the little chapel, pushing him inside the empty room and shutting the door behind them.

She leant against the door for a moment, the cool wood biting her back. "Sorry. I told them we had important business to attend to. I just couldn't stand another minute talking to Lord Whatsit about whatever, and you were already leaving..."

Cullen smiled warmly, slipping the leather gauntlets from his hands and tucking them into his belt before pulling her into his arms. "I will gladly be an excuse for you, Evvy." It still feels good against his tongue, though it's not the best thing.

That award goes to her tongue, and he's quick to claim it when it's offered, not at all registering the shame he should be feeling for doing it here, in the chapel. Their kiss is long and deep, a shade away from chaste, silk and honey giggles tripping from her as his hands roam, relishing the feel of soft fabric where he's grown accustomed to leathers. In turn she draws small murmurs of joy from him, her fingers mussing his hair, drawing patterns in his mantle, trailing fire he can feel even through his plate.

It's with much melancholy he pulls away, blushing lightly under the gaze of Andraste's statue. "Did you want to finish our earlier conversation?" Part of him wants her to go right back to kissing him, despite the concerns of the location. Part of him wants to finish whatever was happening before Dorian and Sera interrupted. But the rest of him knows there are still things left unspoken. Things about Kinloch, Kirkwall, the withdrawal. Her duties and his. How public they intend on being. What she plans on doing with Nathaniel, with the other suitors packing the Inquisition's halls.

She made a face at him before nuzzling into his fur - Vivienne's dressmaker was talented, but did not care for practicality, clearly, and the fabric was not as thick as Skyhold demanded. "I'm not sure I know how to do this," her voice muffled.

"Do what?" He tried to get her to look at him, but she stubbornly clung to his mantle, breath fogging his breastplate with every exhale.

"The only real relationship I ever had involved a lot of sneaking around and subterfuge. I've been courted, but... We're a little past that point."

He snorted, undignified, at the understatement. Evelyn tried to kick his shin, but without being able to look down missed her mark, and huffed in annoyance. "I can't say I have much experience myself. I, uh, actually ran away from a girl once, literally ran, when she flirted with me."

She glanced up, rewarded with his flushed cheeks for the effort, and grinned. "You did not!"

Cullen's hand found the back of his neck as he smiled back, shaking his head. She didn't need to know that the girl had often stared in his nightmares since; that was a less amusing tale for another time. "The Chantry doesn't spend a whole lot of time teaching you how to talk to girls. They tend to focus on the fire and damnation aspect of an immoral life more."

"That is... adorable," she muttered, pulling herself up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. "It's hard to imagine you a blushing virgin."

"Yes, well," Cullen chuckled, catching her lips with his. "They weren't meaningful tumbles in a hayloft, but I've learned some things since then." She tensed for a fraction of a moment before returning the kiss, but he caught it. "Is it- Are you okay?"

Evelyn nodded, trailing a hand down his mantle. "It's just..." she trailed off with a huff, pushing away from him. "Those memories are a little tainted."

His heart skipped a beat, knowing exactly how she felt. "We can... Make new ones?"

A wicked grin slipped into place as she regarded him. "Are you suggesting, Commander, that we displace Blackwall for an evening?"

He flushed again, hand reaching to his neck once more under her gaze. Maker, but she was something else. Clearing his throat, he chose his words carefully. "Not now, no. But maybe, at some point, if that's what you want. Maker's breath, do we have to have this conversation here?" He gestured behind him to the statue and she giggled at his discomfort.

"Feeling judged?"

Cullen squirmed uncomfortably, nodding. "A little, if I'm honest." When she laughed again, he grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him, back into the garden, heading for the steps to the battlements. "I also feel that we might want to go back a few paces. I can, um, woo you if you want."

She almost tripped over herself at the notion, thoughts very far from that as they cleared the staircase. With a confused frown, she turned to him. "Wooing a person is all about winning them over, Cullen, and you've more than done that, don't you think?"

"Yes, but... Not everyone knows that, or needs to know that it happened the way it, ahem, did. Don't you think we owe it to ourselves, anyway? And Josephine. Andraste preserve me, I'll not incur her wrath for not pursing you properly." He chuckled wryly, tugging her forward to walk with him, heading towards the main bailey.

"Ohh, Josie, good point." Evelyn wrinkled her nose, the thought of accidentally infuriating the Antivan troubling her. "Well, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition, former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, if it is your intention to court me, you have my permission." She gave him a curtsy with a sultry laugh, pressing a kiss to his hand. "We will, of course, have to inform my parents."

"And your fiancé, Lady Trevelyn. Someone will have to break the bad news to him."

"Bull can do it," she shrugged.

Chapter Text

He hadn't thought her suggestion serious, but Evelyn was barely apart from the Qunari the following day. The Iron Bull trailed after her, waiting patiently outside the war room when she took council with them, always a step behind as she made her rounds of the stronghold, next to her when she took lunch in the hall. Cullen had to begrudgingly admit, he did make an effective bodyguard; not a single noble looked twice in her direction the entire day.

He had noticed Nathaniel watching the morning's training with rapt attention, but hadn't seen the man since. It wasn't an unwanted notion, that perhaps Bull had scared him off, but he knew for Evelyn to be so wary of the man he wouldn't be put off that easily. His own attempt to engage the man the prior day had wound up being fruitless; by the time he left her chambers, Nathaniel had already left. Cullen had briefly entertained the thought that Sera and Dorian had been looking for an excuse to get rid of him, but no, he had offered on his own. Whatever the reason, he was glad not to have forced a confrontation and more for his own peace of mind than anything else, assigned an extra guard to her chambers in addition to those at the throne. Evelyn spoke nothing of it during the council, but Leliana had relaxed around him and Josephine had made it clear she expected a talk with him at some point, making it apparent that the Inquisitor had found the time to tell them... Something about the situation they had found themselves in.

So he tried his best to focus on his duties; working through the ever present mountain of paperwork; dealing with the steady stream of scouts sent to seek him out; handling an issue with a pair of recruits that arose. Avoiding Josephine, because honestly, wooing the Inquisitor was such an idiotic idea, and he didn't know the first place to start. Wouldn't have known even if she wasn't noble-born, wasn't technically his superior, wasn't... Everything that she was.

It certainly didn't have anything to do with the fact that the Antivan scared him ever so slightly, or anything.

Perhaps, if he avoided her long enough, the ridiculous idea could be forgotten.

He was surprised when Evelyn stopped by his office in the mid afternoon, raising his eyebrow as she approached his desk. She mirrored his intrigued expression flawlessly as Bull shut the door after them. "Problem, Commander?"

"Not at all, Inquisitor. Was there a particular reason for this visit?" He shook his head, eyes returning to the hulking form in the doorway behind her.

"Just returning some reports, you were on the way." She handed over the papers, smiling when Cullen's fingers brushed her hand in the taking. He couldn't help smiling at the act himself, accidental though it had been.

"Don't let me keep you," his attention focused on her again, taking in the quirk of her lips at his words. Her braid was still halo'd on her head, though messy. Slept in, in all likelihood. "I like your hair up like that," he added as an afterthought as he turned his gaze back down to the missives and reports cluttering his desk, and she chuckled sweetly, hands moving to smooth some flyaway strands.

"It took Josie too much effort, it'd be a waste to pull it down after just one night. But thank you," she added quickly, pink dusting her cheeks, unused to compliments from her Commander. Bull shifted in the background, but remained quiet. Evelyn made no move to leave, and Cullen stopped trying to return to his paperwork, aware she was waiting on something from him.

"Was there something else?"

She leant forward on the desk, watching him with a bemused expression for a moment. "No... I suppose not."

For the briefest moment, Cullen wondered if she was going to vault his desk and pin him like she had once before, but the thought fled him as she pushed back to stand, crossing her arms. He was momentarily distracted by her tongue flitting across her lower lip and frowned as she turned her back on him, motioning Bull with a tilt of her head. As they made to leave through the door leading back to the rotunda, he cleared his throat, and they both turned back to him.

"Would you, ah, like to play chess later, Evvy?" He ventured, trying to ignore the amused guffaw from the Qunari as his hand wandered to the back of his neck.

Her smile lit up her entire face as she nodded. "I'll see you later for a game, Cullen."

He ran into her, sans Bull-guard, while most of the fortress was at dinner. She was sat cross legged by the archery range with a bow in her lap, running waxed fabric over the string, humming softly to herself as she worked. A few scouts milled about, given the proximity of the range to the Herald's Rest, the armory, and the infirmary, but none bothered the Inquisitor at work. The fading sunlight cast shadows across the courtyard but the range was still drenched in yellow orange beams, and despite the coolness of the hour she'd dressed lightly in a cotton blouse and er usual riding breeches.

It was a sight that gave Cullen pause on his trek to the armory, task forgotten with the realization that Evelyn could make anything captivating. So he waited, watching her test the twang of the string; work oiled hands against the wood; fingers running the limbs to check for cracks; bringing the bow close to her face to check the riser and sight; seeking out the nocking points on the string. There was a reverence to her movements he'd only witnessed from the Chantry clerics handling so-called Divine Relics, or a Templar near desperate for a vial of the blue, and it awed him, this dedication of hers to the weapon she wielded. Seemingly satisfied she raised the bow, half drawing the string, stormy blue eyes finally locking on his golden gaze as he came into her sights.

Dropping the bow at a cant, Evelyn released the string carefully in a mock fire before addressing him. "Commander!" She grinned merrily, rocking to a stand as he closed the distance between them and wiping her hands on her shirt, leaving little smears of the flax oil she'd been using. "I'm almost finished, if you were still looking for that chess game?"

"Far be it for me to distract you from your maintenance," he shook his head, eyes flicking to the freshly oiled bow. "Though I admit I'm not familiar with the practice for archers."

She chuckled, holding the weapon out for his inspection. "It's just one of the practice bows, Harritt would have my head if I worked on mine outside. But I prefer the light out here."

Cullen hadn't realized it wasn't her own, but up close he could see the differences - a rougher, lighter wood making up the longer limbs leaving it taller than she preferred, the grip a red mahogany instead of the dark onyx that contrasted against her pale skin and light leathers. He could smell the fresh oil soaking into the wood, sharp against his nose, and she ran the beeswax cloth over the string again before returning the fabric to her pocket.

She padded back to the weapon racks along the wall, rouge steps light on the packed earth as she slipped into the evening shadows, and set about putting the newly-treated bow away safely, out of the elements. "If you want to help, I like to test the draws every now again," Evelyn called over her shoulder, pulling another bow from the racks. "The lights too faded to start oiling another one, anyway. Torch light leads to missed spots." Her nose wrinkled in annoyance at the thought as she stepped back to him, bow clutched behind her back. "What will it be, Rutherford?"

He chuckled at the enthusiasm on her face, and started to remove his plate and mantle, knowing enough to know they'd be in the way to someone as out of practice as he was. He'd handled a bow once or twice as part of his training, but certainly never mastered the craft. "Well, Trevelyan," he shot back, amused, "you have me at a disadvantage, but I'll try to help."

They traded weapons, and Evelyn set his sword aside carefully before helping him with his stance, muttering things about brace height and draw weight as she busied about him, occasionally grabbing a different bow and switching them out, constantly hushing his attempts to interrupt. Satisfied after a while she'd found the right bow for him, she nudged his feet into position with a few gentle kicks, and instructed him how to hold the bow in a firing position. She was certainly a more patient teacher than he'd ever had as a Templar, and had a vastly different style than his own, but he couldn't bring himself to complain about her hands on approach.

She grabbed a quiver from the racks and rifled through it to find the fletching to indicate a blunted arrow, earning her a curious look. "You want me to fire an arrow?"

"Worried you'll fall short?" Evelyn chuckled, slipping an arrow free and twirling it between her fingers as she padded back to his side. "Come now, Commander. You may not be a prodigy like Sera, but have some faith," light and teasing, she tugged the gauntlet off his right hand, stuffing it in her back pocket. "It's better to feel the string, the slap from the release isn't that hard," she explained against his protestations, and guided him into nocking the arrow.

She adjusted his position again, widening his stance, bringing the bow up a fraction, adjusting his aim for him, all the while asking him if that felt right, if he could see the target through the sight. He stammered through the responses, enjoying for once being the recruit with her to teach him and more than enjoying her proximity as she moved around him. Cullen pulled back on the bowstring as far as instructed, holding his breath as she told him to release, fingers tingling with the snap-back of the string.

It was not a marksman's shot, but Evelyn had aimed him well and the blunted arrowhead embedded into the target face two rings left and a little north of centre.

A smattering of applause and cheerful shouts of congratulations drew his attention from Evelyn's joyous grin to the small gathering of Inquisition members watching from the tavern's entrance, and he scowled, remembering why they had chosen to spar in private when they had started that particular venture. He bristled even further as all but one dispersed in the wake of his irritation.

"Not a bad shot, ser, for one so clearly untrained."

The voice was surprisingly normal, hearing it finally, a hint of Starkhaven brogue softened by a distance he couldn't identify, but he instinctively moved to keep himself between Evelyn and the man that crept forward in the dying light toward them.

Her stomach gave a sickening lurch at his approach. "Nathaniel," Evelyn said, her expression blank, tone devoid of the happiness she'd felt mere moments earlier. She busied herself with retrieving Cullen's sword, trading the weapons back as she kept civil, Inquisitor mask in place. "I thought you intended on returning to Tantervale without delay."

Tantervale. East of Starkhaven, if he remembered the map correctly. Cullen wondered briefly which family the man was from that a third son would feel so emboldened to demand the hand of the Inquisitor in the middle of a war.

"I can see why you'd think that," he smiled, eyes focused on Cullen's hands rebuckling his belt and coming to rest on his sword hilt. "But the Inquisition has been so welcoming, and it's been so lovely to see you again that it's hard to tear myself away. And to see you training your lessers, now that brings back memories."

She faltered for a second, grip tight on the wood in her hands, and Cullen joined the conversation after clearing his throat, ignoring the second jab at his expense with increasing irritation. "The Inquisition is here to help all of Thedas, so I'm glad you've felt welcome. But if you'll excuse us, the Inquisitor has duties to attend-"

"Commander," and for a second it sounds so similar, just like the whispered promises circling his head when the blue bites. But the blue as been calm for a while now, and he doesn't feel the need to snap back as the Marcher's tone resumes it's previous lilt. "It's you who should excuse us, we have personal matters to discuss." Nathaniel's dark eyes are darker in the receding light, fixed on Evelyn. "Unless there's some development I should be aware of, my dear? A rival, perhaps?" His hands clasped behind his back as he laughed lowly, dismissively.

A scowl graced her features at the term of endearment, and she glanced toward the Herald's Rest. Laughter and light spilled from the building, including Bull's own raucous guffaws, and she tensed, the thought to run clearly being entertained. But with her Commander at her back, solid and steady as ever, she shook her head, getting rid of the notion. Cullen's hands didn't leave the pommel of his sword and he kept his gaze steady, prepared to intervene on her behalf, but her voice was level. "As I told you earlier, the contract was declared null, and my parents no longer have the right to make arrangements on my behalf. If it's truly your intent to seek my hand, there's a very long line in the hall you need to join for the honour of a formal refusal."

Nathaniel shrugged off her answer, eyes flicking between the two without pause, evaluating. "The terms were that you join the Chantry. You did not, leaving me free to insist you uphold your end of the agreement." He held his arms out to her, beckoning.

She slapped his hand away, slipping back out of reach with a grace usually reserved for the battlefield. "Technically, the Inquisition is part of the Chantry." Sweet, sweet loophole, she clung to it.

But Nathaniel shook his head, his smile more a leer as he returned his hands behind his back. He'd already considered the argument. "The role of Inquisitor is hardly the same as that of an ordained Sister. Since it leaves you free to pursue romantic entanglements-" his gaze drifted over to Cullen, and the former Templar found himself resisting the urge to punch him "-it is my right to reinstate the contract, regardless of your wishes, or that of your parents. And I will ensure your compliance through any means I must."

"If you are suggesting, ser, that you would harm the Inquisitor-" Cullen growled out, but Nathaniel interrupted him with a derisive snort and a raised hand.

"I'm not suggesting anything. Just reminding Lady Trevelyan what happened last time she tried to refuse me. If she obeys, no harm will come to her. Others," he stared pointedly, "may not be so lucky if she does not. Even with a rip in the sky, I still find things are capable of catching fire."

He was halfway to unsheathing his sword when Evelyn stopped him, fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Don't. If you strike him, even provoked, he's within his rights to demand a boon from me."

"I'm glad time among Ferelden dogs hasn't made you forget the rules, Evelyn." Cullen let the blade slip back into its sheath and she released her grip on him to glower at her fellow Marcher, Inquisitor mask forgotten in her frustration. Maker, but he wanted to punch the man if she'd let him. "Come, now, my dear, we can be civil. It really is a silly thing to get worked up over."

Evelyn snorted softly, testing her grip on the bow still in her left hand. "Silly, that I'd want control over my own life? That I had hoped never to see you again?" Turning back to Cullen, she frowned lightly, searching his face. "Adamant. You swear I made it out of the Fade? This isn't Nightmare doing what Envy did?"

Her voice betrayed her with a slight hitch at the suggestion, and Cullen tried his best to smile reassuringly, giving her the answer she needed; the truth. "You made it out. This is real."

She nodded, scuffing the ground with her boot, a nervous smile flitting to her face as she glanced back at Nathaniel. "So you'll feel this. Good."

"Good?" The Marcher scoffed, but before he could continue there was a resounding crack as his jaw connected with the riser of the bow. In one fluid motion she swung to her knee, using the bow in both hands to sweep his leg out from under him, then stood, the wooden weapon pointed at his throat like a blade, the anchor crackling with ghostly green light as she clenched her fist.

"Good, Nathaniel. I'm no longer a clumsy child you can order around. Remember this, because it is the only time I will stay my hand." The bow clattered to the hard earth as Evelyn dropped it, tone calm and even, Inquisitor and Herald and Lady in one as she stared down at him. "And before you think of threatening anyone else, know that I won't stay the Commander's hand next time, either."

Her stride was steady and purposeful as she headed to the tavern. Unable to suppress a chuckle, Cullen retrieved his mantle and plate then followed, leaving the Marcher to haul himself out of the dust alone.

Chapter Text

With a wave to Krem and a nod to Bull and Dorian, the Inquisitor slipped through the throng of patrons packing the Herald's Rest. Before he could follow her to the bar, the Qunari intercepted Cullen, one large hand steering him over to the Charger's usual corner. Raising a mug in welcome, Varric greeted him warmly with a cheery "Curly!" and slapped him hard across the back. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Our dear Evie's pleasure, I'd wager," Dorian snorted into his glass, eyes twinkling.

He knew. Of course the mage bloody knew about his offer to court Evelyn. Cullen's eyes narrowed slightly as Bull pressed a mug of... something into his hands.

"Boss okay? Take it I'm not needed outside," the Qunari took a deep pull from his own mug, indicating Cullen to catch up to the rest of them.

He took a tentative sniff and set the mug back down on the table, continuing to stand as Bull sank back into his chair with a shrug. "She's... fine." His hand wandered to his neck as he glanced over at the bar, but was unable to catch sight of the brunette.

The Iron Bull snorted softly, taking another sip. "That's guy's a real piece of work. Soft words, but hard hands, nasty look in his eyes. She won't admit it to me, but you can tell what he did."

Dorian sighed, shifting in his seat, expression sad. "And here I thought my homeland had the monopoly on monsters."

Cullen frowned, confused. There had been gaps he'd been unable to fill in her tale, he knew, but if what Bull was suggesting... "What he did?"

"Not our place, Curly." Varric shrugged, leaning back in his seat. "Even if it is true, and I've got no reason to doubt your observation skills-" he nodded at the big man across from him "-that's not something you just up and discuss among friends casually."

"Silk and honey and too rough, it hurts, has to hurt because how else will she learn who she belongs to?"

"Shut up and drink, kid. You know better than to read people, Little Fox will get mad at you again." Varric pushed Cullen's unwanted drink at the spirit, unfazed by his sudden appearance at their table.

"Sera said he isn't people, wrong, but not like me," Cole scowled, swirling the contents of the mug around. The rules always seemed to shift depending on who he was talking to, and it made him uncomfortable. But Varric was his friend, and Varric said drink, so he sipped, surprise on his face. "I can hear the bubbles!"

"You're not wrong," the dwarf sighed, and Dorian slapped the table lightly, draining the last of his wine, motioning for a refill.

"The topic has gotten delightfully maudlin, chaps, and I'm not feeling it. Now, unless you want me to fetch the elf in question for some hijinks, might I suggest a new avenue of discussion?"

Bull laughed heartily, uncorking a fresh bottle of wine for the mage. "You just want to tease Cullen some more."

"It's not my fault his bumbling attempts to bed our dear Evie are so amusing," he huffed, torn between crossing his arms indignantly and taking a sip of his fresh glass.

"I'm not-" trying to bed her, Cullen attempted to say, but Dorian was waving his words away with a smirk. The flush rising to his cheeks certainly didn't help his defense, and he was interrupted by a loud raspberry before he could finish the sentence.

"Sure you are, I know I am. Move over grumpy-guts!" Sera hip-checked him before plonking herself down next to Varric, her grin quickly replaced by a scowl as she looked at Cole. "Ew, it's here. Why is it here?" She swiped the tankard from the spirit, downing it with three swallows, and earning herself an impressed look from Bull.

"Because he's our friend, just like you, Buttercup." The dwarf chuckled, pulling a deck of cards out of his pocket and starting to shuffle them. "Now did you just admit to trying to get into Little Fox's smalls?"

"Nah," she stuck her tongue out, still warily eyeing Cole. "Prefer the top half." As if to demonstrate she ran her hands over her breasts, sticking her chest out to exaggerate. "Bet they'd be good pillows, yeah?"

Cullen wasn't sure he'd ever been more uncomfortable in a conversation as Bull started to lecture Sera on all the fine aspects of a woman's body with Varric's help. Dorian rolled his eyes and slipped free from the table, tugging the Commander aside as the others devolved into a discussion of which barmaid had better assets.

He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or not.

"So, do tell me what your intentions are with Evie. She means a lot to us, you know."

Not. Definitely not.

"I don't have- Maker's breath, Pavus, I am not having this conversation with you."

He raised an eyebrow, but let the matter drop with a casual shrug. "Fine, fine. But the Ambassador isn't the only one who's going to hurt you if you don't do this wooing thing properly, I just wanted to offer my assistance."

Cullen wondered if Nathaniel was still outside, and how terrible an idea it would be if he stormed out there and punched him. Punching Dorian, especially with Evelyn somewhere in the room, would end horrendously for him, of that he was certain. But someone needed to be punched, and his fists were very ready.

As if reading his mind, Dorian shrugged again. "Well, for your sake, I hope whatever Fereldan customs pass for courting will work."

"Don't be rude."

Evelyn reappeared, passing her Commander a mug of what - thank the Maker - looked and smelled like Fereldan ale. Tasted like it too, and he took a grateful gulp of the bitter drink.

"And tell Josie I'll let Sera into her private quarters if she tells you anything else." Grumbling something undoubtedly rude in Tevine, Dorian stalked back to the table as Evelyn turned her gaze on Cullen, looking more than a little sheepish. "Sorry."

"There's nothing to forgive," uttered reflexively, but he meant it. She smiled, absently watching Varric deal the rest of the table a round of Wicked Grace, nursing her own mug in one hand. The left rested on her hip, and he flushed slightly, aware he was staring, and his hand found it's way to his neck only to realize, "you still have my glove."

"Oh!" She giggled, tugging it free from her back pocket and presenting it with a flourish. He traded it momentarily for his drink so he could slip it back on, flexing his hand before reclaiming the mug. The leather was warm, and he couldn't say he minded the sensation. "But I am sorry about Dorian. He's a relentless tease, especially since, well..." She trailed off, hiding a shy smile by taking a sip of her drink.

"Why do I have a feeling it's got something to do with what Cassandra told me?"

She shot him an incredulous look, one that demanded further explanation. When she didn't get it, Evelyn pulled him further from her friends with an insistent tug on his arm. "What exactly has Cass been telling you?"

Cullen chuckled into his mug as he took a pull, a deep and mirthful sound. On a whim, he reached out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear as he leaned in, whispering into the other, "that you've been thinking of being with me since Haven."

His voice was husky, low, and it reverberated in her core as she let out that small surprised squeak he so enjoyed in response. It drew out a hearty chuckle from him and she blushed furiously into her mug, trying to recover her senses. There were too many people in the tavern, surely, and it was too warm. That was the reason. Not because he'd stumbled across a truth she hadn't allowed anyone else to know. Not because his tone was the exact one that made her bite her lip, heat coiling down low. Evelyn cleared her throat and shook her head. "It was cold. We were drunk. Very drunk. Dorian insisted that someone had to fuck the serious out of you." She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could, silently cursing the Nevarran. "I merely pointed out the flaws in his plan."

Oh, he liked her on the defensive. It was an enjoyable change, and he pressed the issue, a half smile on his lips. He'd have to get Cassandra to confide in him more. Or perhaps Josephine could be persuaded, since she'd clearly had no issues spilling to Dorian. Assuming Evelyn told them anything worth knowing, mind. "And what flaws were those?"

Maker, he was far too close, and she took a tentative half step back, eyes locked on his. "He limited your options to himself. I simply convinced him I'd have better luck." Then just like that, she was back in charge, teasing in turn. "Of course, if I was wrong, I'd be happy to fetch him for you..."

"Don't you dare," he growled out, moving back into her personal space. She grinned cheekily up at him in response, and not for the first time he wished they had gone anywhere else except the tavern.

Well, the hall wouldn't have been a great place either, he supposed.

In fact, he couldn't think of a single place in Skyhold that didn't have a constant stream of people through it, except maybe her chambers. And as much as he wanted to be there, it was out of the question.

For now.

Especially now. The Commander dragging the Inquisitor to her room at dusk would not go unnoticed, regardless of how innocent his intentions.

He reached out to fix another misbehaving lock of hair from her braid when his hand was slapped away. "Just what do you think you are doing, Commander?" The Antivan hissed, glaring at him from over her board. "You can't talk to the Inquisitor without an escort, and you certainly cannot touch her!"

Cullen's jaw fell, staring at the smaller woman.

Evelyn burst out laughing, quickly covering her mouth with her free hand and looking away to try and control her mirth. "Josie, it's fine!"

"It is not fine, Inquisitor! You cannot just-" she gestured wildly at the minimal space between the two with an irritated squeak. "It's unheard of! To say you'll court her, then- Your parents will have my head, I am sure! And to say nothing of your fiancé! Do you have any idea of what I just had to deal with? You struck him!" She spoke softly but fiercely, and Evelyn immediately sobered, ditching her drink on the nearest available surface to quickly crush her friend in a hug.

"I'm sorry, Josie, I'm so sorry, I didn't-" Josephine cut her off, pushing the brunette away and holding her at arms length.

"No, he deserved it and more." She took a breath, composing herself. "Fortunately, Leliana and Cassandra were with me, and echoed your sentiment that no one would stay their hand should he press the matter. However," the Antivan smoothed some of Evelyn's flyaways with a quick swipe of her hand, "I would caution you to watch for him. It's clear he has no intention to leave Skyhold without you, in whatever condition that leaves either of you."

Her mood completely soured, the brunette crossed her arms and frowned. "Perhaps it would be better if duty called me away for a few days."

"Not that I think it would solve the issue of Lord Thermon being here, but we have had some requests for your presence in Val Royeaux, and Scout Harding sent you a report following up in the Emerald Graves," Josephine muttered after quickly consulting her board, and Evelyn moved close to her to look at the notes.

"That's ridiculous," Cullen interjected, finally finding his voice again, abandoning his drink on a nearby table. "Evvy is the Inquisitor, she doesn't need to leave just because some lesser noble's been offended. He's the one that should be leaving." He tried to recall if he'd ever heard the name Thermon being bandied about before, but it didn't sound familiar.

Josephine paled. "Some lesser noble?" She repeated, fingers gripping her board. "His family practically runs Tantervale, and as their eldest he commands a great deal of respect."

He grunted, frowning at Evelyn. The name still meant nothing, even after his time in Kirkwall. "I thought you said-"

"He was a third son," her own frown deepening. "I was unaware his brothers had died. But no wonder he's so desperate to find a match."

"They were both tragic accidents, as far as anyone knows." Josephine tapped her board nervously. "Leliana is, of course, looking into it, as this was news to us as well. But do not worry, Evie. Lord Thermon will not harm you again." The two women shared a look that had Cullen bristling again, his thoughts returning to what Bull had referenced.

He sank into silence, letting them talk quietly among themselves, watching Evelyn try to conceal the concern on her face. Eventually he couldn't take it anymore, and grabbed her hand, pulling her through the crowd to the stairs. To Josephine's frustrated complaint as they left, he growled out, "I'm escorting her."

Evelyn let herself be lead through the upper floors of the tavern, out through the still ruined tower, and onto the battlements. Cullen didn't stop until they were halfway across, in the shadows between watch fires, away from the guards.

And then he froze, staring at her hand in his, needing to know for sure but not wanting to ask.

The sun had sunk below the horizon at last and with the dark came the chill, small flurries of snow caught in the wind. He cursed softly, remembering his manners belatedly, remembering that she wasn't dressed for the cold too late, and tried to move back inside but Evelyn refused to move. Defeated, he shrugged off his mantle and threw it around her shoulders, trying hard to think past the other time she'd worn it, pinned against his ladder. Now was most assuredly not the time for thoughts like that.

She smiled sadly as she sunk into the warmth he'd offered, sinking back against the crenelations. Waiting for him to find his voice, she ran her hands through the fur ruff, blue eyes trained on him.

He stared back, hands on the pommel of his sword, and they stood there, breath misting in the air.

"Er, Inquisitor?"

Evelyn tensed ever so slightly as she turned to face the messenger, managing a small smile for the man as she did so. It didn't surprise her that it was the same scout Cullen had entertained thoughts of sending to the Hissing Wastes; Leliana had a knack for making sure coincidences rarely were such. "Yes?"

"Madame de Fer sent me to find you, Your Worship. She was expecting you this evening." He shuffled his feet, nervously glancing between the two. Every bloody time, it seemed like, he managed to interrupt something between them. He wondered exactly how high up this particular section of the battlements was, should the Commander decide that was the best route for him to leave by.

She went wide-eyed at the scouts words as they sunk in. Vivienne did not tolerate tardiness. "Oh... Oh, she's going to kill me, I completely forgot!" She started to jog away before remembering she hadn't excused the scout, and spun back, skidding slightly with the effort. Cullen reached out to steady her, and she laughed, pink colouring her cheeks from more than the cold. "I'm sorry, thank you for coming to get me. James, right?"

The scout stared, open mouthed. The Inquisitor knows my name. She did try to learn most of the scouts names, especially the ones she saw a lot of, so he shouldn't be surprised, but it was a nice feeling regardless. He nodded dumbly before adding, "most everyone calls me Jim though. Um, Your Worship. Commander." He threw in a quick bow, almost slipping himself, but this time the Commander did not offer a hand. Probably for the best, since his one arm was still gripping the Inquisitor's arm, and Jim didn't want to knock them all down with his clumsiness.

Although... What was with that hold he had on her? And wasn't she wearing his surcoat? Why, oh why, did he always get sent to find one of them when they were together?

Her smile was bright as Jim tried to puzzle out the physical contact between them and it took Cullen growling out a terse, "was there something else, man?" to snap him back to attention.

"N-no, ser. Just the message. I'll, um, I'll be going now." He saluted, a much safer option than trying to bow again, and turned on his heel, marching off.

Pressing a kiss to Cullen's cheek when she was sure the scout was out of sight, Evelyn slipped from his grip to hurry back to the hall. He caught her wrist and tugged her to slow, falling into step beside her and lacing her fingers with his. "I thought we had a chess game planned this evening," he tried not to sound too despondent, getting the door to the tower for her, counting the steps. There was another stretch of battlements, then his office, then he'd have no excuse to keep walking with her.

"We did, do," she covered their hands with her free one, squeezing gently to reassure him. "I'd completely forgotten about Vivienne though, she's hosting a salon tomorrow and wanted me to go over some things with her beforehand. It shouldn't take too long?" Evelyn tried not to shiver as they passed out of the tower and back into the night, larger snow flurries in the air as the dark deepened.

Cullen pulled her quickly along the stones, letting the door to his office slam closed behind them. Some kind soul had ensured his fire was well tended in his absence and despite the hole in the roof the room was a warm relief from the growing chill outside. Sparing a glance at his desk - a new stack of papers waited for him - he returned his attention to Evelyn, gaze passing over their hands and up to her face. Her halo braid was growing damp as snow melted into it, and he knew his own hair was curled from the elements even before he tugged his free hand through it in an attempt to tame the blonde locks.

The trepidation and uncertainty that had settled between them earlier snuck back in as he watched her and he let Evelyn's hand drop from his as he stalked over to the fire, needing the heat on his face.

She shifted softly on her feet behind him, shrugging off the mantle and placing it carefully on his desk. Her mouth opened to say something, anything, then shut, no words coming to her that would be capable of breaking the divide settling between them again. He glanced back over his shoulder, surprised that she was still there, knowing that he should say something but more comfortable in the awkward silence than breaking it.

Evelyn stared back for a moment before heading to the door leading to the rotunda, and Cullen turned back to the fire. He jumped a little at the sound of the lock being thrown and glanced back in shock as she slipped to the other two doors, throwing those locks as well. Padding over to the fire to stand next to him she shrugged. "I'm already late, Viv can wait a little longer for us to conclude our important Inquisition business."

He raised an eyebrow at her, torn between amusement and concern. "And what important Inquisition business is that?" She'd never bothered to lock the doors before, had always seemed to know when a scout or recruit wouldn't stop to knock before walking in, and he didn't know what to make of her doing it now.

Her smile was shy but as warm as the fire as she slipped her arms around his neck, lacing her fingers together. "That's up to you."

And it was, for the first time, Evelyn relinquishing all the control she worked so hard to maintain. He could see the hesitation in her eyes as she waited for him to make some kind of move, and pieces started to fall into place, little snippets of her behaviour lining up with the inferences he'd made. Her need to be in complete control, to know she could stop at any moment, made perfect sense if it were true. The way she'd always pulled back from the edge. The way she always knew where the exits were.

He's seen some of that behaviour before, he realizes. In mages, at Kirkwall. Fearful looks shot at certain Templars, shuffled steps to keep a door in sight. Smiles hiding bruises and ripped clothing.

He hates the curiousity that bubbles to the surface, a thousand questions begging to be asked all mixed in with a desire to see Nathaniel loaded onto a trebuchet and thrown from the walls. And one question needing an answer more than any other, words he couldn't bring himself to say.

He slipped his hands around her waist gently, pulling her in and resting his head in the crook of her neck. He tried to express his questions, half started thoughts mumbled into her skin, and Evelyn waited patiently for him to finish one.

"If he- I'll kill him," Cullen gave up trying to make any other sense, voicing the only thought that echoed round and round in his head with a snarl.

It was like she melted against him at his words, and he felt terrible that she was pressed against his plate. Moving carefully, he swept her legs up and set her in the chair by the hearth before tugging the pieces of his armor off with an apologetic smile. Evelyn watched him, wary. "Usually you'd put on armor for a fight to the death, no?" It's a weak attempt at a joke, and the delivery is flat.

"I'll kill him later. Right now, I want to hold you without crushing you," he shot back, tossing his mantle to her as he finished pulling off the breastplate. She sunk her hands into the fur, tilting her head to look at him, the start of an amused smile tugging at her lips.

He wanted to be angry, he truly did. But anger would solve nothing now, not when it was just the two of them, barely skirting around the topic. He still had a thousand questions he didn't know how to ask, if he even should, could, and her blue eyes were fixed on him as he walked back to the chair after tossing his gloves on the desk. Holding out her unmarked hand to him, she let him lace his fingers with hers, tugging her to her feet. She still clutched the fur in her free hand, and tucked her head under his chin, sinking into the embrace.

Cullen held her, unsure of what else he could do.

"We make quite a pair, don't we?" He chuckled at her muffled words, and she nuzzled into his chest with a sigh, pulling her hand from his to rest on his waist. Her thumb traced the curve of his hipbone lazily as they stood there.

It took him a while and several deep breaths, but he pressed his lips to the top of her head before speaking. "It occurs to me that I've been unfair to you. If I'd known... I don't know. Just know that I'm here."

It was her turn to laugh, a soft, shy thing. "And here I thought my capricious nature would scare even the bravest man away." Taking her own deep breath, she pulled back to look him in the eye, hands playing with the fur mantle absentmindedly.

"So I'm brave, now?" He cupped her face in his hands gently, leaning his forehead against hers as he maintained eye contact.

"Or incredibly foolish. Only time will tell," Evelyn teased him, eyes glinting mischievously. She let the mantle drop as she brought her hand up to trace his jawline, the other returning to his hip.

"I hear love makes fools of us all," he teased back, his one hand trailing to the nape of her neck. The other fell to her waist, and he tugged her closer, leaving the final inch to her.

"And here I was worried you wouldn't be any good at this courting thing," she murmured, closing the distance, kissing him softly.

Cullen chuckled wryly against her lips. "Trust me, I'm not. But for you, I'll try."

Chapter Text

The day started easily enough. From the rookery, down the stairs, hang a left, down more stairs, through the door on the right, up a couple of steps, and interrupt Madame de Fer's gathering to deliver a note to the Inquisitor.

Leave, and return to the rookery.

At least, that was the plan. It got complicated when she called him back, and asked him to deliver a new note. One he had to wait for her to write. With Vivienne coldly appraising him the entire time. Andraste preserve me.

It got worse. He had to race back down those couple of steps, slip back through the door, hang a left and go down another flight, jog through the hall, down the big and slippery steps with no safety rail, across the courtyard to the sparring ring. Where he had to interrupt the Commander. In the middle of training. To hand him the Inquisitor's note.

The Commander. Who definitely recognized him. Who probably had a personal vendetta against him at this point. Who was twirling a practice sword with deft aptitude as he read the note. A practice sword that almost fell to the ground as the Commander tossed it to him so he could scratch out a reply.

Returning to Vivienne's balcony was almost preferable to standing near the sparring ring with the recruits laughing as he fumbled the sword. At least until he got back there, and was met with another icy stare as he waited on the Inquisitor. But the Inquisitor smiled at him, so it wasn't all bad.

The Commander did not smile upon receiving her reply, but at least this time there was no sword thrown in his direction.

He went back.

And forth.

And back.

And forth.

And back.

And almost slid on the big and slippery steps with no safety rail, stumbling the last few feet to the sparring ring.

The Commander gave him a look of pity as he skidded to a stop before taking the proffered note.

And he went back again.

This was going to be how he died, he knew it, spending an entire morning running the same route back and forth up and down those accursed steps, ferrying notes between the Inquisitor and Commander. This was worse than interrupting them together, somehow. And the looks from the Enchantress, Maker.

If the steps didn't get him, she would, he was sure of it.

And for what? What hastily scribbled words were worth his life? Couldn't the Inquisitor just yell at the Commander from the balcony, if she didn't want to make the trek herself? Was the Commander also afraid of Vivienne, and so didn't want to disturb the gathering himself? He had to know, had to find out what secrets had him running ragged that morning.

He paused in the safety of the doorway leading to Madame de Fer's balcony, and carefully unfolded the paper, his fingers shaking.

Well, he thought, to the void with them, I'm walking the rest of their notes.

He folded the paper back up and stepped out cautiously, approaching the Inquisitor as carefully as he could, avoiding Vivienne's gaze.

Jim was not risking life and limb and death by magefire for a bloody chess game.

Cullen watched the scout - Jeremy, John, Steve? Maker, there were too many to keep straight - approach slowly, the folded note in his hand as it had been the last dozen times the man had tripped down the steps. Only this time he wasn't tripping, he was walking.

To make matters worse, Evelyn had him in check.

He scowled at the paper, running back through their earlier moves in case he'd made a mistake, but no. She'd seen through his gambit and caught him. If he wasn't careful, she'd win.

That would not do. Grumbling an order to the lieutenant to keep the drills up, he skimmed through the game so far, looking for the best opening. It would be easier with a board in front of him, but Evelyn hadn't been able to avoid Vivienne's wrath the night before, and this had been her compromise for the missed game. Not that he thought Vivienne knew that's what they were doing.

He wondered briefly, very briefly, if the scout was in any danger of immolation or freezing for his constant interruptions. Cullen wouldn't put it past the Enchantress.

Scribbling his move, he handed the paper back to the scout with a nod, frown deepening as the man walked away. Whatever haste had sped his steps before had disappeared, and Cullen found it more than a little irritating. Certainly, it was just a chess game, but what if it was important correspondence? What if they'd found Corypheus, and were organizing troop movements? It wasn't up to the scouts to determine the importance of each missive.

Then again, watching the scout stumble over the steps, maybe the man was just clumsy and had taken a fall, and needed a moment to collect himself. He turned back to the troops with a sigh.

It is, without a doubt, the most awkward and scandalous conversation Evelyn has ever been a party to.

And she loves it.

Even if the main topic of discussion keeps distracting her with well made chess moves. She doesn't even care that he's slipped her check and will probably have her in five or less, shooing the scout - bless him, that Jim works so hard, she'll have to think of a way to reward him - to return to the assortment of ladies on Vivienne's balcony.

Even the esteemed Madame de Fer is appreciating the view for once, though it's hard to tell if she truly means it.

Evelyn sipped her tea demurely, shooting Josephine a smug grin as one of the women commented upon her Commander's form. Another attempted to argue that it was a trick of the angle they were viewing from, and surely the Fereldan was rough at best, completely undisciplined or beastly at worst.

Lady Ferhon raised the issue of stamina, and Evelyn had to hide her giggles by shoving a tiny cake into her mouth.

The look Josephine shot her for that was worth almost asphyxiating on the crumbs for.

She honestly had meant the horse when she'd said it, though she didn't fault the Orlesian for taking it that way. They moved on to Barris for a moment, watching the Templar spar one-on-one with a recruit in demonstration, and Josephine slipped into the seat next to Evelyn, disapproval on her face. "I had no idea Vivienne's party would devolve so rapidly."

The brunette spared her a glance before returning her attention to the gathering. "You can't fault them, Josie. Perhaps we should ask Blackwall to join this morning's exercises so you have something to enjoy too?"

The Antivan blushed prettily, shaking her head. "No, that's quite alright," but she answered far too quickly to be believable.

"Oh, why not? We'll get Bull and Krem, and Rylen's back from Griffon Wing this week too, isn't he? Give them the whole show." She nodded enthusiastically, enjoying the objectification of her troops far, far too much. Even when the crop of highborn ladies stared long and hard at her decidedly not noble paramour.

It was a shame Dorian wasn't here with her, honestly.

Josephine shrank away from the smirk on her friends face, shaking her head. "I don't want to know, do I?"

Evelyn smiled merrily back with a shrug, setting her teacup aside to pick up paper and quill. Poor Jim was going to have a few more messages to run, but she'd be sure to make it up to him.

Rylen had been hoping to get a few minutes rest in the tavern after arriving earlier that morning, but he accepted the summons to the sparring ring with dutiful acquiescence, trailing behind Bull and Krem, Blackwall joining up with them to stare at a very confused Cullen. It hadn't been his orders that they join the training session, but since they were there... He shrugged, indicating the row of blunted weapons for them to use.

Watching from the balcony, Dorian let out a low chuckle. "My dear, you are delightfully devious."

"That's nothing," Evelyn shot back, handing Jim her latest move. She was going to lose the game for sure, but it would be worth it. "Krem's under orders to get Barris to undress as much as possible. Helmet off, at the very least."

"Of course, of course," he nodded, a smirk flitting across his face. "Wouldn't want the poor man overheating. The ladies watching, however..."

Evelyn reclaimed her teacup, the picture of innocence as she sat ramrod straight in her chair, just like she was taught as a young lady. "Surely you won't hold the Inquisitor accountable if there's any swooning?"

Dorian looked over at Josephine, the Antivan having drifted over to the balcony rail with several others to supervise the session below. "Only if I get to ogle too."

"Darling, by all means," Vivienne shoo'd him from his seat to arch an eyebrow at Evelyn. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Quite, Vivienne. The little cakes are delicious." She smiled sweetly, not at all off-put by the elegant manner in which the mage disapproved of her. Her nod of approval, however, surprised her.

"I must admit, it was quite well played of you. I'll be sure to pass along some of the information to your Spymaster afterwards." It was begrudging praise, and Evelyn committed it to memory for the next time she disappointed the Enchantress, knowing full well it wouldn't take long.

Dorian shot a pleased smirk over his shoulder as several ladies tittered into their hands, and excusing herself as politely as she could Evelyn wandered over to him. Krem had done his duty well, it seemed, as Barris was in his undershirt and breeches and clearly panting heavily under the assault. Bull took on several recruits at once, and Evelyn had to blush as the ladies turned their observations to him. Far too many references to riding the Bull for her liking, though Dorian was clearly enjoying himself, egging them on.

She scanned the training ground as the conversation further devolved, noting Blackwall helping a recruit with a shield bash as Rylen talked with Cullen, the rest of the troops running through formations. Josephine was pretending she wasn't paying attention as several ladies commented upon the thickness of the Warden's beard and whether or not it tickled. It was perfect, up until Jim returned.

Evelyn slipped back inside, just missing the end of the argument over who wielded their weapon better, the Warden or the Templar - Maker help me. They'd gone past scandalous to borderline lewd. Reading the note, however, her face fell into a frown.

"...Is this it?"

Jim nodded, mirroring her frown. "Yes, your Worship."

"He didn't say anything else?"

The scout swallowed, choosing his words carefully. He didn't want to give away that he knew they were playing chess. He had let his curiousity get he better of him and violated his sacred duty to deliver missives without peeking, but he'd be damned if anyone ever found out. "The Commander did ask if it looked like you were enjoying yourself up here, your Worship."

"And?" Evelyn stared at Jim, her frown deepening.

He panicked, worried that he'd done something wrong. Something worse than reading their private correspondence. "Well, uhm, I mentioned that you'd had me run a few extra messages that you seemed pretty happy about, and that Master Pavus had joined you... Should I not have? I'm sorry, your Worship!"

"No," she soothed him, shaking her head. "It's fine. Just... Fine."

She read it again, then dismissed the scout, her earlier intention to reward him forgotten as she sank onto one of the plush sofas. A startled squeak escaped her as the note was snatched from her hand and Dorian held her at bay as he scanned its contents, a light snort escaping him.

"You've been playing chess, Evie?"

She huffed, pouting, but unwilling to tackle him and thus draw attention to them. "What's it to you, Dorian?"

"I thought you were trading love notes, surely," he shrugged, then let out an amused sound as he got to the end of their game. "But it appears your strapping young Templar has some moves. He's got you with a checkmate and-"

Evelyn slapped her hand across his mouth, eyes daring him to say another word as she reclaimed the paper. The mage rolled his eyes, extricating himself and tugged her back to the balcony.

"When a man makes that kind of an offer, dear one, you enjoy it," he muttered for her alone to hear, leaning against the railing with an amused smirk. He turned to the woman next to him with a wink, casually pointing towards the Commander and Knight-Captain. "I do believe the men will be taking their turn now."

This was not what she had intended. Not in the slightest.

She wanted to continue enjoying a thinly veiled conversation about the troops below while trading snide comments and laughs with Dorian and Josephine. She wanted to enjoy the tea and little cakes and just relax a little. Not think about Corypheus and the end of the world and the tear in the sky and how she was the only person who could close the rifts. Not think about Nathaniel.

She did not want to know exactly how badly other women wanted to get their hands on her Commander.

The conversation slipped past flirting with lewd and went straight to salacious. Evelyn lost count of how many references to how far the Knight-Captain's tattoos went, how many does the Commander roar like a lion inferences she heard. It wasn't until Lady Ferhon dropped her teacup and the porcelain shattered on the stone slabs of the balcony that she dared look below.

She instantly regretted not looking sooner.

Rylen and Cullen had stripped to their breeches and circled each other warily, swords raised and shields ready. The rest of the assembled recruits had stopped to watch, and dozens more had stopped their morning routines to take in the sight of the Inquisition's Commander and his second duel. Even Cassandra and Varric were outside, the dwarf undoubtedly taking bets.

The men parried and countered each other, and though it was hard to tell from this distance, Evelyn was pretty sure they weren't actually trying yet, just going through the steps they both knew by heart. Putting on a show, just like she'd wanted originally. They broke apart, Rylen attempting a rush that Cullen deflected with his shield, and the commentators speculation on the ranking of best arse in the Inquisition shifted to the Commander's favour.

Dorian whispered something about her knowing if it was worth that ranking, but she ignored him, resting her chin in her hand as she watched Rylen attempt a backhanded sweep that was blocked easily. Cullen got in a hit to the Marcher's side, knocking him off balance. Instead of taking advantage, however, he stepped back, letting him recover. Rylen shook off the hit, and the men resumed trading fierce sounding blows, neither gaining ground on the other but Rylen clearly beginning to tire.

Checkmate.

It's your turn to watch what Ferelden stamina can do against a Free Marcher.

She glanced at the note still clasped in her hand, a light blush colouring her cheeks. It was the unexpectedly bold nature of his words that had surprised her, though really, she knew be could be bold. He'd proven it dozens of times, and not just on the battlefield. And again, she had been talking about Major. Maker's breath, if everyone was going to read innuendo into the things she said...

Still, her gaze returning to the match, it had certainly worked in her favor this time. Her Commander was nothing short of impressive, even if it was just a showcase. They had been going for several minutes now, and he showed no sign of tiring, blocking and evading with practiced skill. She knew what it was like to face him one-on-one when he was determined, and watched carefully as he drew Rylen across the ring in a series of well executed steps.

The turn in conversation back to his assets was less welcome this time, but she let the ladies prattle on, tugging on Dorian's sleeve to get his attention. He turned to her slowly, not wanting to tear himself from the fight. "What, Evie? I believe I was promised ogling."

"That's fine," she muttered, leaning close to him to avoid being overheard. "I just need an interested third party to deliver a message for me."

His eyes sparkled as she whispered to him.

Up close was better than the balcony. Up close came with grunts of exertion, the sheen of sweat, the ripple of muscle, the glint of determination in their eyes and the smirks on their faces. The abs. The curve of their arses. Those poor ladies didn't know what they were missing out on.

Dorian slid next to Varric, a smug grin on his face.

Varric knew better than to let him in on the betting with that look. "Betting's closed."

The mage snorted, waving away the thought. "I'm not here for that." He looked like the cat that ate the canary as he watched the two former Templars spar. "This is all the payment I need."

Chuckling, Varric nodded. "Seems lots of people feel that way. If I'd known getting Curly in the ring was all it took to get people this excited, I'd have found an excuse ages ago."

"I'm sure if you tell him it's an order from the Inquisitor, he'd jump at the chance." He almost oozed smugness, shifting from foot to foot. He would be sure to remember this for later.

"Alright, I'll bite." Varric waited patiently for the mage to give up his clearly juicy secret, but Dorian kept his gaze on the fight. "What do you know, Sparkler?"

"Hm? Oh," he tore his attention away as Cullen pressed the attack. "Evie wanted me to deliver a message for her." Varric crossed his arms with a curious look, silently demanding more information. "A personal message for the Commander, should he win. Which we both know he will." Dorian smirked, turning back to the sparring ring in time for the crowd to erupt in cheers as Rylen yielded from the dust, breath knocked from him with the final blow but grinning madly. It had been a good fight. "See?"

Pulled aside to collect his winnings, the dwarf had to watch as Dorian sauntered over to Cullen, the Commander pulling Rylen back to his feet easily before pulling the shield off his arm.

He was panting, face tinged red from the exertion and sweaty despite the cool mountain air, and he took a long pull of the waterskin before acknowledging the Tevinter mage.

"That was most impressive, my good man." Dorian let his gaze linger a little longer than necessary on the bare chest in front of him before glancing up at the balcony. "I'm sure your admirers enjoyed themselves immensely."

He chuckled despite the scrutiny, taking another long drink before answering flippantly. "I live to serve the Inquisition."

"Ah, I would have thought it's the Inquisitor you want to serve, no?" Dorian smirked, fairly certain Cullen's cheeks had gotten redder. "She has a message for you, if you're interested."

Cullen eyed the mage warily but nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. "And what does our fearless leader have to say?"

Dorian paused as if trying to recall the words, then lent in conspiratorially. "She wanted to thank you for the chess game, and accepts defeat with the demand of a rematch when you can spare the time."

"That's all?" He frowned, moving to reclaim his armor from where it had been piled. The crowd was already dispersing and the troops resuming their daily duties now that training was over, and Cullen leaned against the wooden rails marking the sparring ring as he shrugged his shirt back on.

"Were you expecting something else?" The mage delighted in the embarrassed look on the ex-Templar's face before shrugging, turning to leave. "Evie said it's fine to test your stamina against Rylen, but she's certain you both know she's a far more talented adversary," he called over his shoulder, heading back to the main hall before Cullen could gather his thoughts.

Pausing only long enough to smirk at Varric, Dorian returned to Vivienne's party to find the mood much more subdued than earlier. Gone were the lustful longings, replaced by serious discussions of draperies and fabrics; hat designs and belts; shoe buckles.

Josephine diligently took notes on whatever she felt necessary to commit to paper and Evelyn, his dear friend, was stifling a yawn behind her teacup as two dowager-looking types regalled her with a story about their darling little kitties. He was fairly certain there was no innuendo there. Vivienne was in full force leading a discussion as to the role of mages in the Inquisition, and not wanting to be any more bored than he'd already become, Dorian leant against the railing over the great hall, watching the congregated masses below. Conversation washed over him, uninteresting snippets now that the earlier festivities were concluded, and he watched Blackwall enter and leave the Ambassador's office with a dejected look on his face.

Well, it looked like Cullen wasn't the only one out to woo his woman, Dorain chuckled to himself. Though quite how he intended to court the Inquisitor was anyone's guess. For as long as he'd known her - admittedly not a long time, but still - she'd spurned the usual trinkets and gifts from suitors, never mind the offerings made from those wishing to ingratiate themselves with the Inquisitor. Food was passed out to the needy, clothing made into rags or donated, presents regifted without batting an eye. Flowers were allowed to decorate common spaces, or if they held medicinal properties were sent to the healers. Offers of gold and land were redirected to Josephine for the Inquisition's benefit. Books stuffed the library shelves. Wine and ales overflowed from the stock rooms faster than Cabot could pour at times. Portraits and the like often ended up being used for target practice. The armory was well stocked with practically every weapon and armor under the sun. And Dennet wanted for nothing in the stables.

Maker, but Evelyn had proven hard to shop for.

He was still mulling it over when he noticed a rather distraught looking scout wander towards the guard Cullen had placed on the Inquisitor's door. A rather animated conversation ensued, piquing the mages interest, before the scout stalked off. He snuck a glance at Evelyn, still feigning enjoyment listening to stories about small fluffy animals, before grabbing Josephine's attention.

Certain she was at least somewhat focused on him, despite her quill still hard at work, he spoke softly. "Our Commander has his work cut out for him, doesn't he?"

The Antivan shot him a look, alarm mixed with amusement. "I do not know what he is thinking, truly. I doubt anyone would ever peg Cullen as a romantic."

"Oh, I don't know. If Cassandra can enjoy smutty literature, surely Cullen can have hidden depths." Dorian shrugged, eyes sweeping the hall again. "Perhaps he just needs a few suggestions."

Josephine shook her head, quill stilling it's movements, perched above the parchment. "He is a man who likes to do things his own way, come void or high water. An admirable trait at times, but in this... Who knows. It's not as if the Inquisitor is swayed by the more traditional approach, either."

She drifted off to chat with some Orlesian or another, and Dorian's attention returned to his musings for a while until the scout he'd noticed in the hall came bounding up the steps to the gathering. Without pausing, the young girl raced over to Evelyn, slipped a scrap of paper into her hand, saluted, and fled. She moved so fast, Dorian had to blink a few times to reassure himself that yes, indeed, Evie was clutching a message.

Curiosity sunk in.

She got maybe a few sentences in before she folded the note back up, stifling some kind of a response with a clumsy excuse, removing herself from the group of ladies and escaping to Dorian's side. With her back to the eager women, she finished her reading. He raised an eyebrow at her tight-lipped face and furrowed brow, the pink dusting her cheeks, but before he had a chance to inquire she jammed the note into his willing grasp. Shaking her head, she stormed off the balcony, more than a few intrigued whispers following.

He didn't even wait for her to get out of sight before he started reading.

Evvy,

As I said, I'm not good at this sort of thing. And how can I be, when you already have half of Thedas throwing themselves at your feet? How can one man hope to do what an entire nation cannot?

Andraste preserve me, but I'll not call you beautiful, not when you hear it a thousand times a day. I'll not tell you how radiant you are when you smile, nor how sweet it is to hear your laugh. I'll not tell you you deserve to be given the world and more when you can take it for yourself. I'll not compare you to a flower, or a gemstone, or an animal, because there is no one thing that can capture you. Not even your titles do you justice.

I won't do any of those things, because they are words, and words do not work for us. I hope, then, to prove myself through action.

I intend to not only spend my days by your side as your Commander, but also to devote my nights to the worship you warrant and desire.

Yours, wholly and utterly,

Cullen

He folded the paper carefully before handing it to an equally curious Josephine. He knew exactly which part she was reading when she gasped, a hand flying to cover her mouth, and her blush deepened as she read and re-read the parchment.

Maybe the Commander didn't need any help after all.

Chapter Text

She wanted to go to him. She wanted to pin his undoubtedly smug self to the ground and tell him the whole venture was ridiculous and he probably shouldn't write her any more unofficial letters. She wanted to leave him as breathless as he'd left her, kiss every stupid, perfect inch of his face, run her fingers through his hair, over his stubble, trace that damn scar as it quirked up into that half smile. She wanted.

Maker, but she wanted.

And Solas had interrupted that with a heap of do not want, causing her to stop in the rotunda to talk to him. That blasted elf wanted to discuss the anchor some more; if she felt her second Fade trip had changed anything, if she could sense Corypheus in any way, if the flares had gotten worse or better, if she had noticed rifts from further away.

Needless to say, the topic ruined her want.

His smirk when he finally allowed her to leave made her wonder if he knew he'd interrupted her determined march to her Commander's office. But no, Solas never showed any interest in her personal life. Only the anchor; always the anchor. She was pretty sure he wouldn't bother hindering her attempts to get into Cullen's breeches.

But he had, and time had slipped away from her. Cullen wasn't in his office by the time she traversed the small stretch of battlements, and a quick glance around the room gave her no hints as to how long he'd be away. His desk was a neat as ever, a fire roaring merrily in the hearth. Some scraps of parchment were still visible; kindling not yet exhausted. Evelyn wondered if they were previous drafts to the letter he'd sent - it was so easy to imagine him sitting at his desk, painstakingly ensuring each word was exactly what he meant as he printed his tidy handwriting to the paper.

Resigned, she decided to skip the rotunda and slip past the stables, through the kitchen to return to the hall, slipping through Josephine's office to check the war room just in case. Disappointed to find the room empty, she sighed, heading for her chambers, determined for a least a moment to herself before the morning was over instead.

The guard that Cullen had posted at the door shifted nervously at her approach, blocking the passageway, and she looked at him curiously as he cleared his throat and threw her a salute.

"Has Sera been up there, scout?" Evelyn was not in the mood to be the victim of a prank today.

The man shook his head emphatically before taking a breath. "No, Inquisitor, no one's been past me since you left. But I'm under orders to make you wait here a moment."

Her head tilted to the side as she looked at the man in front of her, barring her from her own rooms. And on orders, no less, that would have to be Cullen's. It begged further clarification that she tried to ask for, but was interrupted by another recruit calling for her attention.

Turning, she only had the chance to blink as the scout shoved something into her hands and raced off again. Evelyn was vaguely aware of her door guard moving aside as she stared down at the posy of delicate white elderflower blossoms she now held.

It kept happening.

There she'd be, minding her own business, running an errand or talking to someone. She'd hear her name, turn, and there the young woman was, shoving another posy into her hand and running off again. Evelyn was rapidly acquiring an entire elderflower bush as the day moved into the afternoon hours, despite her best efforts to find places for them that weren't her hands or her quarters. If this kept up there wouldn't be a single sprig of elderflower left in Skyhold - and she hadn't even known they grew any in the first place.

And at no point had she been greeted by the sight of her Commander. The flowers came with no note, no hint that he was the sender. His office was suspiciously empty when she stopped by, and her calls up to his loft met with silence. None of his troops seemed to know where he was though all continued to work with their usual diligence as if he were still watching them, and even Josephine was tight-lipped about when she might have seen him last. The Antivan had bashfully returned the note to her, though, cautioning that Cullen was determined to hear from her parents before doing anything further. Leliana simply laughed and shrugged, suggesting Evelyn check her own quarters.

She did, just in case, and was more than a little disappointed to find her room empty. Especially after re-reading the letter.

Barris and Rylen shrugged, claiming they had their orders and it didn't matter if they came from Cullen's desk or not, they were still his. None of Skyhold's internal messengers could account for his absence.

She traversed the length and breadth of her fortress more than once in the guise of running errands between her duties, and not once did she manage to locate Cullen.

Nathaniel lurked, any time she was in the hall or the courtyard. Always a respectable distance, but clearly watching, and she felt a twinge of pride every time she caught sight of the ugly bruise marking his face. His presence would have unsettled her more if that damn scout wasn't so talented at distracting her.

And the whispers. If she'd found the conversation that morning titillating, the whispers following her around the keep ran the whole spectrum of chaste to lewd. A great many people seemed to be actively betting on who her current admirer was, from the scout herself trying to sum up the courage to confess, to Duke Gaspard trying to get back into her good graces after his exile; from her unwanted fiancé attempting to convince her he was worthy, to some as yet unknown secret admirer within Skyhold's walls. Some of the troops that had been in the tavern the night before pointed out how close she'd been standing with Cullen, but they all laughed, dismissing the possibility as ludicrous. The man wouldn't know romantic if it shield bashed him, they joked, and he spent half his days annoyed with the Inquisitor, anyway.

In fact at no point did anyone directly suggest her Commander, and although it was tempting to ask why no one thought him capable of sending a woman flowers - never mind constantly sending flowers, Maker it was a good thing she wasn't allergic, and each posy was so carefully put together and small that it was no bother - she refused to acknowledge anyone clearly spreading rumours.

Which was probably why she found herself in the mid afternoon on the roof of the tavern with Sera, eyes trained on Cullen's tower as the elf lobbed cookies at random targets below them. The young scout had caught her on her way into the tavern, and another posy sat between them as Sera recounted her score.

"You didn't recognize her, did you?" Evelyn interrupted the game, her mind still trying to puzzle out the days events.

The elf shrugged, picking her next target. "Nah, not a little I've met, not a Friend. Maybe not even a little? Maybe it's a nob in disguise."

"Don't you start with the crazy theories, please. I've overheard enough of them today!" Sera cackled as her cookie missile found its mark, bouncing off a training dummy, and Evelyn lay back to stare up at the sky, a sigh escaping her with the effort. "Apparently I have a secret lover in the Deep Roads, did you hear?"

"Take that, raisins! Still don't get it, you," the blonde leapt on top of her in a straddle, staring her friend in the eye and punctuating her next words with a few pokes. "But Grumpy-Breeches likes you, Quizzle. Tits and arse and hair and face and squishy bits and pokey bits and the shiny bit; he watches all your bits. Some of the Friends, ones that have been here since Haven, they said he's watched you since he met you. Your weird glowy hand mostly at first, then you." She stressed the last word with a huff, pulling a face. "You watched him too, a bunch. Even I saw that."

Evelyn stuck her tongue out, pushing the slim elf off her and sitting back up. "And why are you discussing that with your Friends? Doesn't really seem relevent to your usual interests."

"'Cause." She pouted, glancing out over Skyhold. "You made me like you. You're all... human and stuff, right? The Inquisitor and Herald thing, that's you, but it's not you, not when you're with us. You're this actual person under all the names people give you and I like that person." Making a disgusted noise, she threw another cookie to the ground below without a second glance. "Even though you're a right stuck-up arse at times."

Evelyn chuckled, moved by the confession and unperturbed by the insult. "I'm very glad you're my friend, Sera."

"Right? You should be, I'm the best." She shot the brunette a lopsided grin before grabbing the posy, fingers working quickly to dismantle it. "He'd better be good. Maker's hairy eyeball, he's doing this stuff, you'd better be good," she cackled, weaving the small white flowers into Evelyn's braid. "I can give you lessons."

Evelyn shook her head carefully, letting the elf work. "I think I'll pass on your relationship expertise, thanks. I've heard the advice you give Blackwall."

Sera laughed again, remembering. "Bet he won't use it like a sword now, though!"

Cassandra let out a disgusted snort, fingers running across the spines of the books on the shelf in front of her before her hand dropped to her side again. "None of these are suitable."

From the comfort of his favourite chair in his nook of the library, Dorian chuckled. "No? Not a one speaks to your inner romantic? I find that hard to believe."

"There is a difference," she huffed, "between enjoying a story for yourself, and using someone else's words to convey your own feelings." The Nevarran moved to the next bookcase, heaving a sigh. "Why do we even have seven copies of this? It is useless Orlesian garbage."

"Probably the same reason we have forty-eight copies of Hard in Hightown." Dorian shrugged, paper rustling as he turned the page of the book he was halfheartedly reading. "You should try three shelves to your left, two down."

She moved to his suggested location, searching the titles, and the mage peered expectantly from behind his book, waiting for her reaction. He was not disappointed.

As soon as she saw the book he had in mind, she flushed, tentatively pulling it free from between its neighbours. "How- What- Who-" she spluttered, fingers tracing the title etched into the leather cover. "This is banned," she hissed.

"To the world's regret, I assure you." He shut his own book with a snap, setting it aside as he rose to join her. "I'm not quite sure how we managed to get a copy, but it is among the more enjoyable finds in these shelves."

"On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath. It carries the scent of honeysuckle, sweet as the lover's kiss," Cassandra quoted, her eyebrows raised as she flipped through a few more pages of the Carmenum di Amatus. "I'd hardly consider this scandalous."

"It's less the topic, more the writer, I think you'll find. Regardless, does it suffice?" Dorian fixed her with a questioning stare, awaiting her approval.

She shrugged, moving to his abandoned nook to hand the book to their as yet silent companion, distracting him from his paperwork. "It has... A certain tone that could be considered moving."

Rising, Cullen accepted the tome and flicked through it, moving to join Dorian in front of the bookcase it came from. "I'm not sure it works. I'm not sure any of these do." Cassandra rejoined them and they crowded together as Dorian tugged another book free from the shelves. "This is a fools errand, isn't it?" He mused, still reading the poetry tome.

"That depends on what your errand is."

All three jumped at the new voice and Cullen slammed the book shut, attempting to casually discard it by throwing it over his shoulder. Instead of the satisying thump of it hitting the ground, however, it landed into waiting hands and he turned slowly to confront the catcher.

"You have got to stop accidentally throwing things at me, it's becoming quite the habit."

Evelyn held the tome out to him, eyes sparkling as she teased, a smile tugging at her lips. Cullen cleared his throat nervously as he took the book back, hand wandering to his neck. "I'm sorry, Inquisitor. You surprised me." Curse her and her light step.

"Seems like that's going around today." She lent back against the circular railing, folding her arms as she looked at the three. "So, what are we up to?"

Dorian chuckled softly as Cassandra waved her arms. "Nothing, Inquisitor! Just... admiring the library." She scowled, then looked bemused as she stared at the woman in front of her. "What happened to your hair?"

"Sera got bored of throwing cookies and decided to try her hand at decorating," the brunette shrugged, running a hand down her usual braid, fingers careful not to disturb the delicate blossoms the elf had woven into it. Her eyes didn't leave Cullen. "I find I'm rather fond of it, even if it is impractical for the day to day. We apparently have an abundance of flowers, I might ask her to do it again."

"You're lucky she didn't use the same rusty butter knife she used on her own hair," the mage quipped. "But it does suit you, Evie, wouldn't you agree?"

It took Dorian elbowing him in the ribs to find the words, and even then Cullen winced as they escaped him. "I like it." It sounded more like a question than a statement, and he shook his head, ashamed of himself.

Dorian snickered, moving to link his arm with Cassandra's and escorting her a distance away. "We'll be over here if you need us, Commander," he threw over his shoulder with a wave, leaving Cullen to scuff his boots against the stone floor as he tried to think of something else to say.

"I do. Like it, that is." His tone was sincere, and the smile she graced him with was warm. Exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding, Cullen shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Pushing off the railing, it took only a few steps to place her in front of her Commander. She reached past him to grab a book off the shelf and started to peruse the pages, glancing up at him every now and again. "I was looking for you earlier, you know."

"I've been... busy," he shrugged, moving the book he held from hand to hand. She was close enough to touch, but he could already sense the curious stares in their direction, interested parties wondering who was courting the Inquisitor with such fervor, wondering why she'd be talking to him of all people. Maker's breath, why had he agreed to this courting thing again?

With a tilt of her head Evelyn stared up at him, exposing the curve of her neck with the action. Cullen swallowed, the memory of his lips upon that skin quite unwelcome as he stared back, and he tried to focus on something, anything else. Anything but the blossoms woven in her hair, the warmth in her eyes. "Busy reading poetry?" Her tone was soft and teasing as she glanced down at the page she was on.

"She walks in beauty, like the night ,

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;"

She read slowly, gaze flickering from paper to him and back again. He couldn't help himself, watching her lips form the words, quirking into a smile as she read. Pink tinged her cheeks and her voice was wistful.

"And all that's best of dark and bright,

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;"

If he could, were they alone, he'd pin her against the bookcase and untie her hair, letting the flowers fall to the floor carelessly as he tangled his hands up in it. He'd kiss her and make her forget to breath, forget how to speak. Make her drop that stupid poetry book and moan against him.

"Thus mellowed to that tender light,

Which heaven to gaudy day denies."

Maker, but he'd let her read all day and night if she did it with that smile on her face.

She glanced up and held his gaze and he prayed she couldn't read his thoughts in it. "I always liked this one. Orlesian poetry tends to skew carnal when dealing with love, but there's always something tender about the Ferelden poets."

"Oh... I'm not familiar." Cullen's hand rubbed the back of his neck as she resumed reading silently, eyes dancing across the page before shutting the book carefully, returning it to the shelf and trading it for another. She flipped through the pages as if searching for something particular to read and he shook his head to clear his thoughts.

Tugging the book from her hands before she could settle on a poem, he discarded it back on the shelf along with the tome he held. She stared up at him curiously, rocking on her heels as she did so.

No words came to him. Not until she opened her mouth to speak, and he stumbled over himself to cut her off. "I- I have to go attend to my duties." It's awkward, he's being awkward, and he rubbed the back of his neck again as he glanced away. "If you'll excuse me."

"Cullen," she grabbed his arm at the elbow, turning him toward her. "Are you avoiding me?"

He shook his head, reaching to cover her hand with his. "No, Inquisitor. Just... busy." It's the second time he's hesitated before saying the word, and she frowned, biting her lower lip and looking away.

"I thought... The flowers," she sighed, pulling her hand back to knead the anchor, doubt in her eyes. "You sent that note this morning."

"I did." He flushed slightly even as he frowned at her change in demeanor, wondering how he was ruining his attempt at romance this time.

"And now you're too busy for me?" She spoke softly, a small hitch in her voice as the words tumbled out.

"No, I-" He growled in irritation, more at himself than anything else, and pulled on her arm to drag her to the doorway leading to Vivienne's balcony and the stairs down, all too aware of people watching. But it was hardly the first time he'd lead her through Skyhold and he tried to maintain a stoic 'on important business' face until the door shut behind them. He lent back against the wooden barricade, tugging her into his embrace as he did so. Cursing his plate, he ran a hand down her cheek then tilted her head up to kiss her.

All too brief, all too chaste.

"I'm busy for you, Evvy." Confusion marred her face and Cullen sighed. "Courting you is hard enough, given that it apparently involves a whole host of things I am woefully ill-equipped to handle. The poetry, for one." He made a face, shaking his head. "I am merely trying to get through it as best I can."

"Oh..." She tugged him down for another kiss, still too brief. "Today has been lovely but you... You don't have to keep it up if you don't want to." It was hard to keep the disappointment from her voice. Extracting herself from his hold, she took a few steps back, distance ever her friend.

He smacked his forehead before running his hands through his hair. "I didn't mean- Evelyn," he growled her name, relishing in the way she stopped short, staring wide-eyed at him. "I want to do this. I wrote to your parents and- This doesn't come easily to me so I'm, well, I suppose I'm treating it like a plan of attack. One where it's easier to focus when I don't see you every five minutes. Maker's breath, do you know how hard it is to follow Josephine's orders and rules regarding courting when all I want to do is drag you aside and kiss you senseless? She made me read a whole book on what I could and could not do, and that is apparently a big no go."

Evelyn's mouth was slightly agape as she stared, dumbfounded for a moment. Then came the laughter, mirth shaking her body and causing her to double over, leaving Cullen to frown, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry, I just," she covered her mouth and wiped a tear from her eye as she pulled herself together, giggles spilling out every few words. "We are the worst at this. There I was starting to worry you regretted the whole venture, and instead you were just trying to avoid the exact thing I've been trying to find you all day for?"

"Yes... Well." He shrugged, loosening the tension in his shoulders that he hadn't realized was building. "I'm glad you find my efforts hilarious. Cassandra was supposed to talk to you about it all, that I needed time to plan. I suppose we got distracted in the library."

Evelyn was back in his arms in less steps than it took to remove herself, insistent hands at the nape of his neck ensuring he had no choice but to accept her lips on his. Much less chaste this time, she bit his lower lip, sliding her tongue into his mouth at his gasp, a hand trailing down his chest to toy with his belt as his own hands rested on her waist. Fingers tapped out a rhythm on the buckle as she pulled back, a sly grin on her face. "I find your efforts charming. Even if I am now drowning in elderflower posies. Which reminds me, why elderflower?"

He shrugged again, a wry chuckle escaping him. "I have no idea what flowers you like, and roses seemed trite. We used to see it all the time near the farm flowering around Bloomingtide when I was a child, and I..." he trailed off, a hand reaching up to caress the small white blooms decorating the braid slung over her left shoulder.

She held her breath as his other hand tightened on her waist to spin her around so she was held against the door in his stead, exhaling slowly as their eyes locked.

"...I always imagined when I grew up the woman I loved would wear a crown of them."

They were quiet for a moment, both lost in thought, his thumb absentmindedly running over the petals with a gentle touch.

It wasn't until heavy footfalls sounded on the steps below that they moved apart, and he mumbled an Inquisitor, scarred lips quirking up into that half smile that left her a little weak at the knees before he tugged her away from the door. He slipped through, letting it shut quietly and left her to her musings.

Chapter Text

Evelyn,

Dear, this isn't what you want to hear, but we cannot help you. Lord Thermon has every right to request your hand. If he doesn't understand a polite refusal, it is up to you to make him understand. Though why you will not marry him, I do not know, he is a fine match for any young lady, and you are no longer as young as most unwed girls.

We tolerated you and your brother running off to Orlais for a few years. We tolerated your underhanded dealings in breaking the contract. We tolerated the need to send you to the Chantry. We will not tolerate you acting a fool now.

We love you, dear girl, even if we do not fully understand the circumstances surrounding your position with the Inquisition. We hope you will come home soon, perhaps then we will be able to sort out the confusion.

Yours,

Lord and Lady Trevelyn

She tossed the letter into the fire behind her, wholly unsurprised by the sentiment contained in the neat, feminine cursive. Her mother had always been the 'do your duty' type. As a child, Evelyn had agreed with her, had done her level best to live up to that standard. Even when duty told her to marry. Until it had been untenable, she had been prepared to do her duty.

She had accepted the consequences of failing in that duty, and by doing so accepted a new duty to the Chantry. And now she was bound to another duty, one that needed her and her alone to fulfill it. The Inquisition.

Sighing, she scanned through the papers on her desk, shoving most aside for the fire, whittling down the piles. Why Josephine insisted she get a copy of everything, she would never know. It was so wasteful.

But it also gave her something to do. A new day had brought no new flowers but whispers abounded, and by late morning Evelyn had retired to her room, tired of the endless questions and theories. Part of her understood why Cullen had not announced his hand in the gesture, was moved by it, even. But the rest of her was frustrated. Their friends knew, he'd written to her parents, Jim probably knew - he'd walked in on them in enough awkward situations, he had to know - Dagna knew - but swore she didn't because she was working on something and oops you didn't hear that excuse me I have things to do I don't know what you're talking about. Cabot had slurred something about ex-Templars always falling for a woman out to save the world when she'd asked him if he'd heard any interesting new rumours. So people knew.

And yet he persisted in keeping it between them for now.

And Josephine had supported the decision, pointing out that they still had yet to resolve the whole engaged issue. An issue that remained thanks to a lackluster response from her parents. The Ambassador had also pointed out that a duel was always an option, but they had no proof Nathaniel would honour a loss. And who would duel him, anyway? There was a risk to anyone that would face him, and she didn't want that. And she certainly didn't want Cullen having to choose between dueling as her Commander or as her paramour - either decision had ramifications for their political dealings.

Heavy hangs the head, her father had always counseled. Hers hung heavy indeed, each decision she had to make wearying her further.

She sighed again, taking a whole pile of papers and dropping it on the floor, exhausted already. The whole notion was selfish but tactical. There was an element to the subterfuge she appreciated, she had to admit. Knowing that the brash and imposing man that headed the Inquisition's forces was capable of sweet, romantic gestures while everyone else was in the dark was enjoyable.

But his imposed distance, even for a woman who craved distance usually, was frustrating. The inability to drag him aside for a stolen moment was frustrating. Her head hit the desk with a groan and her eyes slipped closed as she gave in to the frustration and exhaustion.

She didn't stir at the boots on the stairs. Waving an arm in the vague direction of the person, she grumbled, "the Inquisitor has fallen in the face of too much paperwork, please come back later."

"Ah, paperwork, the mightiest of foes. I know it well." The words were followed by a deep baritone chuckle that saw her head shoot up. "Josephine was concerned you were going to miss lunch." Cullen carefully placed a tray of sandwiches on her desk after clearing some papers out of the way, a broad grin on his face.

"I'm amazed she let you deliver it alone." Evelyn sat back in the chair, running a hand over her forehead as Cullen set about pouring her a mug of tea. It was refreshing, to see him relaxed.

"I can be quite persuasive when I want to be." Of that, she had no doubt. Laughing weakly, she accepted the mug with both hands, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply. "She also thought we should read these together."

Making an irritated noise, she put the tea aside, accepting the letters he held out to her. She recognized the handwriting on the envelopes - the letter she'd finally gotten around to reading from her parents must have been a few days old, that they'd just sent new ones. Ones that were no doubt a reply to whatever Cullen had sent them. He must have used Leliana's ravens, for so swift an answer. Frowning, she held out one in each hand. "Pick which parent will disappoint me first, won't you?"

He chuckled wryly, tapping the envelope that bore her father's crisp, blocky lettering, and she slipped the parchment free, unfolding it and holding it so they could both read.

Evie,

Please write to us, love. Your mother fainted upon reading the last letter we had from the Inquisition about you - not only have you not managed to resolve your issue with the Thermons, you have yourself another suitor? One who requests our approval to court you?

You do understand my incredulity, do you not? As your father of course I am pleased that you might find love, and if this Commander Rutherford is worth your attention then by all means, give him my permission. But know it doesn't matter if I give it or not, you should do what you wish. Your mother will, naturally, disagree. She believes Lord Thermon has a valid argument with his claim that you did not join the Chantry as promised.

Your narrow escape from death at the Conclave, as far as I am concerned, overrules that, and leaves you free to live your life. You know you are my favourite (don't tell you brother) and I wish only for you to be happy, love. I know being forced to abide by that old contract will not bring you joy so if nothing else, ensure that you do not have to. I have done all I can to annul it, and I am sorry it is not enough.

Do write, that I know all is well.

Your doting father

"I'd hope you're far from disappointed with that response," Cullen said, moving to stand beside her as she opened the other envelope.

She snorted lightly. "I suppose not. Though now I am curious as to what you told them that my father would be swayed so easily."

He hummed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I told them that there is no other woman in the world for me but you. That I would spend my days striving to be worthy of you."

"Ah, corny sentiment. My father is a sucker," she laughed, turning to him for a kiss. He obliged, laughing against her lips as she grabbed his ruff, pulling him in closer. It's an awkward angle and he has to break the kiss before too long, gaze flickering to the other letter.

With a sigh and a shake of her head, she held it out to him to do the honours.

Evelyn,

I am shocked and appalled that you did not write to me yourself, that I might have been prepared for the news. Of course that man may not court you, you are  engaged . Do not be foolish, dear girl. No true gentleman would hunt a branded deer.

Even if you do convince Lord Thermon you are not worthy of his affections, this Commander is in no way a good match for you. Should your Inquisition disband tomorrow, he would have nothing to offer you, that much is clear.

I beg of you to think of your future and not to waste it. Do your duty, as I always taught you.

Yours,

Lady Trevelyn

"...Well." He can't say it doesn't sting, the disapproval and reproach clear despite the prim cursive filling the page. Her comparison of Evelyn to livestock certainly doesn't help his mood.

Evelyn grabbed the letter from him, wadding it up and throwing to toward the fire. "I did say they'd disappoint."

"Ah, but I won your father with my corny sentiment. I'll find a way to win your mother over too." Tugging her out of the chair and into his arms, he leant against the desk, resting his chin on her head. "Perhaps I should try a show of force."

She wrapped her arms around him with a soft sigh. "Does it matter, really?" She nuzzled into the bearskin, his stubble tickling the top of her head as she moved. "Duty is all my mother understands, and she has never forgiven me for weaseling out of the agreement in the first place. She'll not give you permission."

He pressed another kiss to the top of her head, grip tightening in an attempt to banish the sadness creeping into her voice."Does that... Bother you?" Trepidation sunk into his words, and he stared at the fire. "She is right, outside of the Inquisition I hold no lands or titles. I'm not even a Templar anymore and-"

"Andraste's arse, hush," she interrupted, pulling back to look him in the eye. Her expression was fierce. "I don't care about that. Why would you even ask?"

Cullen smiled softly, glancing away. "I just... It's been a long time since I wanted anyone in my life. And you are the Herald, it's... imposing, at times. And overwhelming, to think you'd ever come to care for someone like me. I suppose I didn't think it possible."

Reaching up, Evelyn let her fingers ghost over his cheek before ruffling his hair, tugging him down for a kiss, trying to reassure him. When they broke she mirrored his smile, tilting her head to the side. "You'll hate this, but Dorian helped me realize that I wanted someone in my life, too."

"Oh? I hope you aren't expecting me to thank him." He chuckled and she shook her head, hitting him lightly on the shoulder.

"No, I wouldn't go that far, he'll be insufferable. But... I don't know. It's been hard for me to trust anyone for such a long time, and even though you were kind to me at Haven, I just- It was easier to pretend you were like every other man I've ever met. Then Dorian made his stupid joke. And another, and another, and I kept seeing you and I realized you weren't like everyone else, that you needed more... I don't know. I just worry, because I want this, and I haven't wanted anyone since Alec, since..." She shifted, worrying her lower lip and looking away. She sunk into her memories, unable to put words to the question he still hasn't brought himself to ask.

It breaks his heart, the whole thing breaks his heart, and he cupped her face gently in his hands, trying to reassure her with his warm gaze. Their traumas were of a different nature but that anyone could have been so monstrous to her, he could not understand. For his Evvy to have been the victim, for her to be carrying the burden of what happened to her...

For her to be sharing that burden with him, in as many words as she was capable, left him feeling all the more unworthy of her.

"You can trust me," he blurted out, flushing as she started and stared up at him. "I mean... You can. We seem to be a lot alike in this regard so... Whatever you need, I will do." Cullen bent his forehead to hers, remembering her hesitation and shyness that night in his tent, realization sinking in heavy and slow. Like him, she finds it hard to believe that anyone could want her after what happened to her. "Evvy, Maker's breath, how do you not know by now how much I love you, all of you?" He's said it before, in as many words, but maybe words are the problem. "I want to prove it to you, but I don't know how."

She smiled, sad but hopeful, her hands covering his to tug them from her face. "You know more than you think." Closing the distance, she kissed him, long and hard, dropping his hands to wrap her arms around his neck. His hands fell to her waist, the one coming around her lower back to pull her in closer, the other tracing lazy circles on her hipbone.

When they broke she nuzzled back into his fur and he let his cheek rest on top of her head, looking over at the bookshelves next to her desk. "So, did you want me to continue wooing you, or does this mean we're done? Because I have been practicing my poetry, and it is atrocious. It could probably bring Corypheus to his knees, it's so bad."

Evelyn giggled against his chest, shaking her head. "I absolutely insist you share your atrocious poetry with the world! You can't stop now, anyway. Everyone wants to see how my mysterious suitor will top the endless flower deliveries."

"Well, if you insist, Inquisitor," he grinned, voice husky, giving her a quick squeeze before picking her up as he pushed off the desk, depositing her on the surface in his stead. Bowing to her, he pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and held it out, but she shook her head.

"I want you to read it." The brunette smiled, swinging her legs as she watched him.

"I really don't- It's awful." She stared at him expectantly, and Cullen flushed slightly as he cleared his throat. "I mean, terrible. Just, horrendous."

"If you'd rather, I can order you to march downstairs and read it in front of everyone?" She tilted her head to the side, grin mischievous as he shook his head vehemently.

He ran a hand through his hair, nervously clearing his throat again. He kept his eyes trained on the parchment, refusing to look at her as he read. "In daylight you are called holy, at night I can only pray; There are many words, and none that I can say; but to my side I hope you stray." He shifted his weight, crumpling the paper into a ball. "As I said, atrocious. Allow me to dispose of it for you."

Cullen moved to the fire but she was quicker, leaping off the desk to intercept him. Nimble fingers stole the paper from his hands as she pressed a kiss to his cheek, laughter spilling from her. "Don't you dare! I'm keeping this. Besides," she kissed him again before slipping back to the desk. "It's far better than I could do." Tugging open the right hand drawer, she set the paper in it after smoothing it out carefully.

He padded over, stopping behind her to press a kiss to the crook of neck. "Perhaps I should have asked you to write me poetry instead, then we can both be ashamed of our efforts."

"Only if you like nonsensical rhyming couplets. I am much more proficient at reading poetry, I fear." Leaning back against him she kicked the drawer closed, angling her head to look at him. "But you can mark it off your checklist, now, at least?"

Chuckling, Cullen wrapped his arms around her with a shake of his head. "Why do you assume I have a checklist?"

Evelyn looked at him closely, eyes squinting as she took in the crooked grin on his face. "You do, don't you?"

"Well..." He turned her to face him, pushing her back against the desk as he dipped his head to kiss her. "Josephine was very insistent," he murmured before pulling away. "Speaking of our Ambassador, if I keep you any longer, she will no doubt find a thousand more things I must do." His voice was soft and wistful, but he didn't release his hold on her.

Tugging him back in for another kiss, she shook her head. "Stay. Help me slay this mountain of paperwork, least I find myself buried beneath it by the end of the day."

"As much as I would enjoy helping you, I have my own mountain to attend to." Fingers remained tight around her waist, reluctant to pull away. Hesitant to move anywhere else. Evelyn has never been the one to ask for him to stay and as innocent as the question is, his heart skipped a beat.

Grinning up at him, she hopped up to sit on the desk, fingers of her left hand burying into his mantle. "Have it sent over, then. We'll make a whole mountain range to topple," she teased.

The idea of working quietly in her company appealed far more than it should. He had always enjoyed watching her puzzle out her thoughts over the map in the war room, but even there Evelyn tended to hold herself in check. He wanted to see her unguarded, relaxed. An amused grunt escaped him before he responded. "And no one will think twice about the Inquisitor sequestered with her Commander, so soon after being inundated with flowers? There will be gossip."

"We are two very dedicated people. I am sure they will understand that we wanted, nay, needed time together to work, undistracted by personal affairs." She waved her right hand dismissively before letting it rest on his vambrace, gently tugging him closer.

"I somehow doubt," Cullen smiled, his words punctuated by her mouth tracing a path along his jawline, "that you have the attention span for work of any kind right now."

With a hum she nuzzled into the crook of his neck before raising her head to whisper in his ear, "Commander, I am wounded that you think I don't have the focus required for the tasks you'd set me."

Chuckling despite the flush creeping up to his cheeks, his mouth sought hers. He meant to be brief - to release her after - but his hands betrayed him, the one moving to caress her face before tangling in her hair at the nape of her neck. The other moved down to her thigh and responding to his unasked request Evelyn wrapped her legs around him, pulling his hips flush against her own.

Their noses bumped as she adjusted herself, eliciting a string of honeyed giggles. Tugging gently so her head pulled back, Cullen trailed his mouth down her throat, relishing the way she swallowed and her breath hitched as his stubble dug in between her collarbones.

They moved slow against each other, lingering caresses and light kisses, breathless sighs and small moans. But it doesn't take long for hunger to set in and tightening the grip her legs have on him, Evelyn's hands strayed low.

Caught between a growl and a chuckle, he stilled her, pining her hands to her sides on the surface of the desk. Cullen kissed her mouth, her cheek, her jawbone, below her ear lobe. Down, her neck next, her collarbone, her shoulder. Releasing her hands, he lay his under her thighs and bid her loosen her hold. When she let her legs swing free he continued pressing kisses down her arm, hands resting firmly on her hips to keep her on the desk's wooden surface. Something in his gaze kept her from moving any further and she watched him sink to one knee before her.

Once he reached her wrists he paused, amber locked on blue, waiting for her to agree.

Hands reached out tentatively to cup his face, and Cullen pressed kisses to each palm in turn, mumbling words into them. To her questioning gaze he smiled, letting his voice carry. "-tations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places. O Creator, see me kneel."

He pulled her left hand from his face, thumb running over the anchor before he placed her palm back on the desk. "For I walk only where You would bid me."

His voice was husky and low, rumbling in his chest as he prayed. Biting her lip, Evelyn flushed as he placed her right hand back on the desk as well, his hands returning to her hips. They ran down her thighs as he continued; "Stand only in places You have blessed."

His lips followed his hands to her knees, then back again. "Sing only the words You place in my throat." Cullen paused, eyes finally leaving hers as he rested his head against her lower stomach. Leather-bound fingers slipped under the hem of her jacket to give teasing tugs at her undershirt.

"My Maker, know my heart."

She held her breath.

"Take from me a life of sorrow."

He dipped his head, teeth pulling loose the laces of her breeches.

"Lift me from a world of pain."

Transfiguration's twelve quickly became her favourite verse of the Chant as it spilled from reverent lips.

"Judge me worthy of Your endless pride. My Creator, judge me whole."

Insistent hands traced the curve of her buttocks, tugging her right to the edge of the desk.

"Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed."

Fingers followed teeth, finishing what they'd started, and Evelyn whimpered.

"Tell me I have sung to Your approval."

Cullen glanced up to be greeted with the sight of flushed cheeks and parted lips, and a rumbling chuckle accompanied the next few lines.

"O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your glory."

He pushed aside the laces, stilling her hips as she tried to move forward.

"And let the world once more see Your favor."

A gasp escaped her as supple leather slipped underneath the cotton of her smalls, fingers ghosting lazy circles around the small bundle of nerves.

"For You are the fire at the heart of the world."

Cullen stood slowly, unoccupied hand trailing up her arm to tangle in her hair. He pulled her head to the side and buried his head in the crook of her neck, biting down gently on the exposed skin as one, then two fingers slipped inside her and she let out a wanton mewl.

"And comfort is only Yours to give," he growled, fingers flexing. She shivered, anticipating, trying to roll her hips against his hand, a needy whine slipping from her. Never, never would she have imagined this, and the sensation of leather inside her draws a moan as he curled his fingers.

Her hands sought purchase against his chest, shaking fingers failing to work his buckles in desperation. Breathless pleas tumbled as he withdrew and thrust forward again, setting a rhythm in time with his lips pressed to her neck, her jawbone, her lips.

He followed each kiss with light nips, never once straying from the lazy beat he set himself. Growing frustrated, needing more, she pressed against him, panting. It's not until she drops a hand to his hips that he moans with her and emboldened, she slipped her hand between them to find his arousal.

His hips rolled into hers at the pressure, forcing his hand deeper and Evelyn whimpered once more. Her fingers ghosted across the bulge to tug at his laces with a silent demand. In answer, he pushed forward against her as he withdrew, leaving her to whine at the loss.

Torture. He put her through sweet, sweet torture, fingers applying pressure to her bud in slow, lazy circles, then fast, drawing small cries of need from her only to abandon her again. Twice, his fingers slipped through her folds to enter her again, withdrawing when she tried to untie his breeches.

Finally she could take it no more and slipped her hand over his, guiding him the last steps to her release. He kissed her softly, gently as she came, a smirk already tugging at the corners of his mouth as his tongue licked the profanity from her lips.

He'd worship her as she warranted and desired, indeed.

Chapter Text

Dazed.

It's the only word that comes to mind. Dazed.

That, and the Chant of Light.

Which leads her back to dazed.

Images, she has plenty of, however. She's pretty sure she can never attend a service in the chapel again, not with all those people kneeling in prayer. Gloves. Gloves were going to be hard to look at. Or look away from. She isn't sure which yet, and only partially dreads finding out.

And amber eyes, locked on her? Maker, she does not know.

It's a vicious circle she can't escape for the rest of the day, and night comes slowly. Fortunately she had no pressing matters to attend to, so she didn't have to find out if it was written in her face. Dorian alone would have had the words pouring out of her, but she wanted to keep it between the two of them for as long as she could. Dawn comes slower to a room that has always felt too big, too grand. A room that's never felt hers, not really, not until strong hands and wolfish smirks made her feel. And the Chant, Maker. She loves this room, now.

For starting as a rash decision spurned by irritation and a desire to test the limits of the Commander's resolve, it's certainly working out in her favour. She only partly regrets the fights and anger.

Without it, she knows, they would not be here.

And as terrifying as here can be, with the world crashing around their feet, she still wants it. Wants the thing she knows is real. Wants him.

There's a millisecond of silence in the hall as she slips through the door that morning, like a collective breath being held, and Evelyn glanced at the guard on duty. The officer shrugged her salute, head tilting toward the throne.

Roses seemed trite, he'd said. Elderflower had been Cullen's choice; simple and meaningful, a treasured memory shared.

She tells the guard to dispose of the ostentatious bouquet gracing her seat and attends to her duty.

The day drags, with no stolen moments, no tender words. But she finds she can meet his gaze across the war table without blushing or stumbling her words, at least, and takes solace in that. It's the only thing that is good about the meeting - their time is spent revisiting the failure to find Corypheus, the men and women lost to Venatori and Red Templars, newly discovered rifts that will require her attention.

A distraction is needed. But the day brings no posies or poetry, no new surprises. Just the attempts of a lesser man trying to curry favour. Her nose wrinkles in irritation each time she thinks of the multitude of roses adorning the throne and it's a different former Templar than the one she was looking for that offers her a diversion at last.

He wasn't looking for her, per se, but he can't help the smile the creeps up on him when he saw her at the bar. She looked happy, animatedly talking with Cabot and Rylen in turn, a relaxed air to her. He watched as she downed a shot, snorting with laughter as the alcohol burned its way down. Her hand came up to cover her mouth and she turned from the men, something catching her eye.

He catches her eye.

Then Rylen is beckoning him over. There's a spare stool next to Evelyn, but Cullen stayed standing, eyebrow raised at the pair. "Having fun?"

"Immensely!" There's laughter in her voice as she looked up at him, braid swinging free from it's perch on her shoulder. Cabot poured out another shot of something that looks oddly grey in the candlelight, and she regarded it suspiciously. "This looks like old bathwater."

"Dare I ask?" Cullen brought his left had to rest on the pommel of his sword as he looked between the two of them.

The dwarf just shrugged and moved on to another customer while she made her decision. The Knight-Captain lent on the bar-top in anticipation, explaining, "we're finding her drink."

"You aren't just trying to get the Inquisitor drunk, are you?" There's an air of reproach to his voice that he doesn't really mean, mouth tugging into a smile as Evelyn voices her disgust for the last pour. The taste, apparently, is worse than old bathwater.

Rylen met his look with a shrug and a confident smile. "Don't have to try, seen it plenty."

They share a laugh, and for the briefest moment there's a pang in his chest. He knows it's unjustified and hates himself for it, but before it can dwell she's smiling up at him.

"It gets cold at night in the Approach, but Rylen doesn't like to join in the campfire gossip unless there's a drink or five involved." She chuckled as Cabot returned, this time with something dark and slightly viscous, and she rolled the small glass between her hands, gathering her courage.

"Aye, and the lass doesn't tell her best stories until she's three in at least, and she thinks everyone else is too drunk to remember them come morning. It's a fine line to tread, I tell you." Rylen turned to his own mug, taking a long pull to mask his entertainment as this shot, like so many before, is pushed away in revulsion after a sip.

Cabot sighed, muttering something about having enough dishes to do as it was, but dutifully replaced the unwanted shot with a new one, pushing a mug of ale behind it. It's clear the ale is intended for him, and Evelyn pulled the stool between her and Rylen for him, patting the wooden seat. It's a simple act that makes him ashamed for the earlier flash of jealousy, and he claims the spot and tankard with a wry smile. "And for all these fireside chats, you don't have a drink?"

"Oh, I have drinks." She smiled back, disarming and a shade shy of cheeky as she abandoned another glass to the 'no' pile. "Any good lady, naturally, suffers for her wine at an official function. Red more than white, because that's what we're told to enjoy. Cider is the best for dancing. Or mead, especially for an Ostwick ball." Rylen raised his mug to salute her with a cheer, and she nodded at her fellow Marcher. "Ale, for cold nights by the fire. Fereldan or Marcher, but not Dwarven, I value my liver. Rum, to spice your tea at night when you're by the sea. Whatever Bull shoves in your hands after a fight. But there's nothing I drink to enjoy the drink itself."

"So naturally, I availed myself to the task." The Knight-Captain sighed dramatically, holding up his hands. "Alas, I've failed so far."

"The night is young," Evelyn shot back, taking another drink that was promptly followed by a grimace. "I thought we agreed, Cabot! No more Tevinter spirits!"

The dwarf ignored her complaint in favour of dealing with other patrons, and the conversation flowed easily between the three. They talked of home, of happy childhood moments. Of the Rutherford family farm. The Trevelyan estate. Starkhaven's grand walls. They talked about the recruits and Rylen's time at Griffin Wing Keep, Barris and Lysette, the looks Blackwall and Josephine had been sharing.

And piece by piece, they figured out what Evelyn was looking for in her drink. Cullen looked appalled at his second as realization dawned. "You didn't even try it yet?"

Rylen shrugged, wiping his mouth before talking. "It's a common drink. Thought the lass would already know if she liked it or not." And, undoubtedly, he'd been amused with some of Cabot's more unique offerings.

Tipsy giggles graced their argument as Cullen sighed, flagging down Cabot with the order. The stocky man poured them three glasses with a grumble, corking the bottle and leaving it in front of them with a scowl that could only be called surly, as if being forced to work was the worst suffering in the world.

Evelyn accepted the tumbler, giving the amber liquid in it an experimental sniff after swirling the glass. "It matches your eyes, Commander."

There's a flush to her cheeks that she's willing to blame on the various drinks she's suffered the tasting of, but the half sultry laugh she has no excuse for. And it doesn't go unnoticed; Rylen cocked his head to the side and looked at Cullen, amusement crinkling his eyes.

"Aye, ser, I believe she has the right of it," the Marcher teased, taking the other two servings and holding the one up to eye level.

Cullen rolled his eyes, taking the glass from him. "We can always go back to the dirty bathwater one, if you want one to match your eyes."

"Colour of your eyes will do just fine, Cullen," Rylen relented, taking an appreciative sip of his drink in concession.

He watched Evelyn try hers before taking his own sip, the whisky smooth and smoky with a hint of sweet as it went down. There's a burn in the aftertaste, of course, but it's like the snap-back of a bowstring - sharp, then not unpleasant tingles leaving you warm and longing for more.

She stared at him over the rim of her glass for a good minute, rewording the thoughts in her head to not sound like she's flirting. Maker knows she wants to though, and the heady aroma of the whisky doesn't help.

"You certainly know my tastes."

A wry chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. "I take it we've found your drink at long last?"

Evelyn nodded, not quite trusting her tongue. The candlelight and relaxed atmosphere and combination of spirits in her belly has her Commander looking more than attractive and she clutched the glass to her chest.

Rylen picks up the conversation - and the bottle - leaving her content to sit beside them, listening. As ever, the Knight-Captain is full of stories; of Starkhaven; of Kirkwall; of Griffin Wing. It's Kirkwall that grabs her attention though, remembering something they'd discussed as dusk and chill had settled in over the sands of the Approach.

"Do you know how Cullen got that scar?" She's pretty sure she does a good job of not appearing overeager, merely casually interested.

Her fellow Marcher shook his head, laughter deep and merry. "Nay, lass. He already had it by the time I met him in Kirkwall. It's a popular discussion among the recruits from what I hear though. Especially the ladies," he added with a wink for Evelyn's benefit.

"Maker's breath," he grumbled out with a sigh. "I've heard some of the rumours. They are... Imaginative, to say the least."

She giggled, patting his leg in a manner she hoped was consoling. "So it wasn't a fist fight with a bear? Or one-on-one armed combat with an Avvar swordsman?" He shook his head, the start of a smirk tugging the aforementioned scar up. "A careless recruit during training? Oh, or," she let her fingers trail over the stubble of his jawline for the briefest of moments, a smirk of her own on her face. "You got clumsy while shaving one day?"

He's a little surprised at the touch and has to shake his head again, clearing his throat before answering with a simple "no." It doesn't escape him that Rylen's watching the whole exchange, entertained and curious.

The whisky has her brave, but not drunk. It is a warriors drink after all, full of the promise of a fight and the lure of victory. Evelyn has a notion of what she'd claim should she win as she points, just below her right knee, leg extended before the two ex-Templars. "If you want an embarrassing scar story, you should see the one my brother gave me. We don't let him handle a crossbow anymore."

Her laugh is light in the face of their amusement. She doesn't have many scars, truth told, even after the last few hard months. She owes some of that to the distance her bow gives her, and more to the dedication of those she fights with. The marks that linger are from her own stubbornness, her pride ensuring that others are treated first. She can take the agony longer than most would expect of her. The one from Adamant is the worst, the largest - but not her most painful, and she does not talk of that one.

Instead, they trade stories of nicks and scrapes, scars avoided and battles hard won, and Cullen's face softens with something akin to concern each time she mentions one of her own. Not once, she notices, does he explain the one marring his lip. As before, it is mostly Rylen talking, and it is comfortable between them.

She jokes about posting someone else to the keep so he can stay in Skyhold with them as they bid each other goodnight and sobered enough by the cold air on the walk from tavern to hall, the Knight-Captain teasingly points out that they'd never get any work done. No, it's for the best they only have his visits, or hers to the Approach, he asserts, or they'd have to rename it the Fun-quisition.

"And then you'll have to get all new heraldry and uniforms, and I'm not going to take the blame for that, lass." He said, Starkhaven brogue thick with laughter. They can't blame him - Josephine is not one to tangle with.

She's a little disappointed when they leave her at her door, no whisky-won victory for her tonight, but can't help smiling as the two ex-Templars continue to joke and argue as they head to the barracks. It's nothing but happy, fond thoughts that lead her to bed.

Evelyn intended to ride the next morning but a late start and no less than three insistent nobles left her pressed for time. Still, she headed to the stables to see Major and make sure Dennett would see to his exercise only to be distracted by a small wicker basket in front of his stall. Suspicion gripped her but investigation allayed it. A thin golden ribbon threaded through the handle, a small scrap of parchment impaled in place by it. The handwriting she knew by heart;

For Major,

Because he's as dear to your heart as you are to mine.

It's cute, it's cheesy, it makes her giggle like a Chantry maid and draws curious stares but she can't bring herself to care. Pressing a kiss to the velvet snout she offered up the apples and sugar cubes contained in the basket to the Forder, letting him snack as desired before duty called her away.

It's not the only surprise the day gives her.

When she stopped by the Herald's Rest to talk to Cabot about maybe not letting Bull help with alcohol requisitions any more because his choice of beverages held the possibility of blinding someone, permanantly, she'd been presented with a bottle of whisky and told to enjoy it anywhere but the tavern. At lunch, one of the cooks had brought out mutton stew served with cider, followed by a Fereldan sponge cake drizzled with honey, all without prompting, all her favourites, all only for her. Answering a summons to the armory, she'd been gifted a field quiver - muted red and gold Inquisition coloured thread braided through the dark and supple leather - without explaination before being summarily dismissed.

And Dagna shyly but excitedly handed over a beautifully engraved leather and silverite archer's bracer lined with soft cream fennec fur, lines of lyrium dancing along the metal - runes of fortitude and defense. Lacing it to her arm, Evelyn was amazed to find it fit perfectly already, as if molded specifically to her skin.

They are small yet large things, all practical and personal.

All pale in comparison to the last surprise of the day.

Skyhold was growing quiet and calm, night enveloping her walls in darkness, watchfires bright spots blazing to ward off chill and danger along the battlements. Cresting the stairs to her room with thoughts only of collapsing into bed and eyes trained down, Evelyn didn't even notice at first. She unlaced and kicked her boots off, stretching in front of the fire, and it takes an amused bark of laughter for her to realize she is not alone.

Cullen shifted forward on the loveseat near her bed, lacing his fingers together as his elbows came to rest on his knees, amber eyes on her. "Busy day?"

Her stomach does a little flutter thing at the thought of him waiting for her, and again when he patted the empty space beside him - a clear invitation.

"All my days are busy. This one, at least, has been enjoyable." There's a smile she can't hide tugging at her lips but she busied herself with various small tasks around the room as Cullen watched her.

"Are they not always so?" There's a hint of concern to the quiet question and she opts for humour to assuage him.

"Well, there is that delightful tear in the sky and an ancient Tevinter magister out to kill us all so... Not really." She tugged out the ribbons holding her braid together and perched on the end of the bed, bare toes curling into the plush rug underfoot as she drew a comb through chestnut locks. "But for some reason the last few days have been lovely," and there's a content sigh to go along with the sentiment.

His scar is tugged up with a smirk as he plays coy. "And what in particular made today lovely?"

Evelyn lets him wait as she twirled the waves into a loose bun, nimble fingers twisting a slim gold ribbon to tie it into place. She knows he recognizes it from Major's basket as he leans forward slightly, but he's already asked the question and awaits her move. Acting like she's mulling it over, she shrugged her jacket off before padding over and easing into the space beside him. It seems silly, to be half dressed when he's still fully dressed, fully armored but he's here, making the too-big room feel like home again; she'll not complain.

"I think Major would say the sugar cubes." Her hands gripped the fabric edge of the loveseat as she pulled forward to look down at her feet, bare, sinking into the ridiculous white fluff that passed for a carpet. Next to his boots they seemed extra small, and she snuck a sideways glance at him, a slight smile playing on her lips. "This might be the best part, though."

He swears she can hear the thump-thump that is his heart, even through all his layers, but her eyes are drawn back down to their feet side-by-side. It takes a moment for his tongue to figure out the words before he can say "there was nothing else lovely between the sugar cubes and now?"

She glanced up at her desk where the quiver and bracer lay, nestled amongst reports and letters, the whisky tucked away in a drawer, and shook her head. "Some unknown stranger sent me some gifts which was nice, I guess."

"Only nice? I suppose he will have to try harder, then." He's teasing, and she lent against him with a chuckle, relishing in the warmth. Idly, her hand tugged at the soft-spun red wool of his surcoat, fingers trailing up to ghost across the fur.

"I worry he's already trying too hard. Someone should probably let him know I'm quite happily unattached - the Inquisition is my life and lover, and all I need."

"Oh, well then." Cullen dropped back against the sofa, dislodging her. Evelyn made an unamused snort as she fell into his lap, shifting to look up at him as she brought her legs up to hang over the armrest. "I suppose if the Inquisition is the only thing you care about, you won't want this."

He pulled a book from under the pillows, showing her the cover. Reaching overhead she brought it in front of her and started flicking through the pages, the soft rustle of parchment filling the quiet between breaths for a moment. "My mysterious suitor should probably be informed I already have this book," she ventured at last.

"I know; it's your copy. Cassandra mentioned you had it up here." He chuckled, stilling her hands. "I may not be any good writing poetry, but perhaps I can gain your level of proficiency at reading it?"

The open book dropped to her chest as she gazed up, half entranced. It takes a moment, finding the words, and in the hush she traced the lines of his face, committing the curve of a soft smile and gentle amber eyes to memory. All too often he looks worn, tired, reminiscent of the waning moon, but tonight-

Tonight he reminds her of the sunrise, and she is blinded.

His one arm rests over the back of the sofa while the other hand tugs chestnut strands free to twirl around fingers more comfortable with steel than silk. But comfort - that's what it is. Both of them, comfortable. Despite the armor he still wears, in this moment they are just two people. No titles, no ranks.

Just human.

There are no words she can find for that, so she wordlessly lifts the book back up, making sure to tilt it so he can see. Cullen's chuckle shakes the both of them as she searched for something worthy of his timbre in the pages, and he has to still her hands again, flipping back.

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Fereldan poetry. It's certainly a weakness, and in his soft Kirkwall-tinged Feredan voice has Evelyn weaker still.

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

Does he know, she has to wonder, what he does to her? Is he aware of the depths of her emotions, the adoration, the love? He's handsome; none would deny that, and certainly it doesn't hurt. But it's not that - it's the vulnerability behind the shield, the understanding of loss and sacrifice. The struggle to be better than the day before.

A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

She followed the words on the page, sinking into the warmth of his lap and his voice. That such a man would want her, her, beyond the mark, beyond the Inquisition, beyond the circumstances of her birth, it's almost too much to comprehend.

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

Andraste preserve her, he could read the cook's shopping list and she'd still be held captive. From her position she can feel the rumble of each word in his chest despite his platemail, and his right hand continued to tease her hair across his thigh.

A Creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

Cassandra knew she loved this poetry tome, it was one they had discussed while waiting for Varric to pen them another chapter of Swords and Shields. They had both agreed that this poem was one of their favourites, and Evelyn had to wonder if her friend had mentioned it specifically, or if her paramour had made a lucky guess.

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

A Traveller between life and death;

Watching Cullen read, it didn't really matter how he'd come to this moment. They had, somehow. Two broken hearts reaching out tentatively to find each other, in the midst of darkness.

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light.

And he was the sun.

She was the Herald, Maker-blessed, divine, some said.

But Cullen was the promise of dawn, of hope where none could be, of victory. Of love.

She closed the book and sat up carefully, turning around to wrap her arms around him. Despite the sheer amount of metal he was warm, the fur around his pauldrons tickling her skin as she nuzzled against his neck. She whispered a thank you; for the poem, for the gifts, for just being there.

He held her close in return, a smile upon the lips he pressed to her head.

Chapter Text

"I think we've had quite enough of this."

Long fingers tapped out a steady beat on the wooden barrier dividing the sparring ring from the rest of the courtyard. Having dismissed the last of the morning recruits, Rylen cast a look back over his shoulder at the speaker. "Oh, aye? And what exactly would this be, that we've had enough of it?"

Dark eyes flicked over him dismissively before turning to the ex-Templar beside him, the blonde busy running a whetstone down his blade. "It's dreadfully noble of you, of course, protecting her." He acted as if Rylen had not spoken, his attention fully fixed on the Commander. "But she is to be my wife, and it would behoove you to ensure she-"

"The Inquisitor is to be no man's wife, if she does not care to be," Cullen interrupted, eyes not leaving his blade. "I would have thought her repeated refusal would have sunk in by now."

Nathaniel grinned, all teeth. All dangerous beast lurking beneath a calm surface. The bruise on his face had faded enough to be little more than a slight discolouration, and he leant on the post, angling himself toward the archery range. Toward where Evelyn, Sera, and Harding stood, talking and taking turns at the targets. "She's always been stubborn, but she knows what's best for her, deep down."

Rylen bristled, hand straying to the blade at his side as he glanced at Cullen. "I'll give you the lass is stubborn, but getting dragged back to the Marches because some git thinks he's owed a woman sure as fuck ain't what's best. Respectfully, ser."

Nathaniel scoffed, shaking his head. "She doesn't have to return with me. I fully understand her role here, and it can be made to suit her other role as my wife."

Sparing a warning look at his second, Cullen set the whetstone aside. Stubborn would know stubborn, he supposed. "I am aware you told Josephine that you would not be talked out of your foolish notion to make the Inquisitor your bride." He followed Nathaniel's gaze to the archery range, taking a moment to relish in the joy on Evelyn's face as Harding lined up her shot, fired, hit the bullseye. The three had not noticed the situation behind them, and he was content to leave it that way. "I am also aware that she has taken on numerous foes of various skill levels in her time with the Inquisition. I wonder where you would fall on the scale, from common bandit to high dragon?"

It's a simple question, one Nathaniel has not yet considered. His dark eyes narrowed as the Lady Trevelyan took her stance, aimed, and split the arrow embedded in the bullseye by the dwarf. Sera's cackles carried in the morning air as Cullen continued.

"My Lord," and despite the snarl on his lips, there's no anger in his tone, "might I suggest you reconsider your steadfastness on the matter?"

The Marcher flexed his hands as he pushed off the post to his full height, staring down the Commander and his second as they walked to the edge of the sparring ring in step with each other. "You're hardly the first man she's wrapped around her finger in an attempt to get out of the contract. I educated her then, and I will do so again. I merely wanted to give you the chance to stand down."

Educate, he says, tone reminiscent of a placid lake with sharp toothed fish below. Stand down, he says, like either man would abandon thier Inquisitor, thier friend. Like Cullen would abandon the woman he loved. He grunted, tapping the heel of his boot with the flat of his blade. At his side, Rylen stood ready, an eager smile tugging at his mouth.

"Is it another bruise you want? Or did you want to find out just how good her aim truly is?" The Starkhaven brogue added a jovial hint to his voice that Rylen didn't really mean. "'Cos the lass can pluck the wings off a horsefly without rustling the horse when she's drunk. And right now, the Inquisitor is stone cold sober."

If Nathaniel is nervous, he doesn't show it. His eyes focused on the sword Cullen still had in his hand before taking in the hard set of the former Templar's faces. "Threats are beneath you, Marcher. I control Tantervale, and I will have what I came here for."

Cullen passed the blade to Rylen with a low snort, hopping the fence with ease despite the fifty odd pounds of silverite armor he wore. "The only thing you'll get, my Lord," the title dripped with sarcasm as he grabbed the noble by the shirt, fist clenching the fabric as he hauled the tall man forward, into his space. "Is the disappointment of knowing you can never have her."

Coolly, Nathaniel looked down at the hand bunched in his shirt before returning his gaze to Cullen's face. Still there was no trace of concern, no hint of fear. His voice was quiet and calm when he spoke. "I'm already well acquainted with Evelyn."

It's Cole that prevents Cullen from punching the tall man. The spirit tugged his fist back with a gentle touch, face hidden behind the brim of his hat as he tilted his head to the side. "Hurting him won't hurt him. Bruises are medals and cuts mean glory." He's breaking his promise, again, but he senses the blue beneath the surface as it bubbles and knows that it causes the most pain to a friend. A pain he cannot help with.

This, he can help with.

Rylen joined them on the other side of the fence, his sword and Cullen's in his hands. "Well lad, I'm open to suggestions to get rid of the tosser, aye?"

"No pain. Only claim. Corrupted and tainted and you'll never be enough. Bear the whip and hang your head. She loves and it's not you. You claim all but you can't have that, so you hurt her because she has to be yours. You-" Cole frowned beneath his hat as Nathaniel sneered, clearly aware of what his words mean. Suddenly angry, Cole shoved Cullen aside with surprising force, backing the taller man into the wooden barricade. "You hurt her. You hurt my friend. You tried to take the good parts away from her."

His blades were in his hands but by his side, head tilted as if listening to a sound only he could hear.

"You know nothing, boy," Nathaniel hissed, shoving the smaller man away. "I merely reminded her-"

Arrows thunked heavily into the wood on either side of him, Harding and Sera standing with bows raised as Evelyn walked over. Her steps were confident and her face was furious, grip tight on her bow and small sparks of green energy spilling from her palm; small emeralds in the morning light that tumbled over the paper molding to the bow grip.

"Are you alright, Cole?" Concern tinged her words despite her angry glare fixed on Nathaniel, and Cole nodded quickly.

"Yes. Green and blue and red and there's a blade-"

"Hidden in his left sleeve? That's where he kept it before." Cole nodded again, a little surprised that she already knew as Rylen moved to disarm the Marcher lord, sheathing his own sword and returning the Commander his blade. Cullen moved to Evelyn's side, but she didn't acknowledge him. "I've told you to leave."

"And I've told you, not without you as my wife." Even frisked, even disarmed of his wicked looking knife, even outnumbered, even with two bows aimed at him, he stayed calm, disaffected.

"Oi, Inkness, want me to take his dangly bits?" Sera cackled, testing the sights of her bow as she aimed low, a devilish grin on her face. Evelyn sighed softly and shook her head, raising a hand to still her friend.

"There's no need. Lord Thermon will be returning to Tantervale with the utmost haste."

The tall man sneered, dark eyes flitting from her to Cullen and back again. "Why would I do that?"

"Two too many. One with steel and one with bile. Fire and flame and sword and pike. No one left. No one to raise the whip. No one to say it isn't right. Educate them like you educated her, but they didn't last. She alone was stronger, and now she's too strong, broken the chains you imposed, shackled by a new duty."

Evelyn laid a hand on Cole's shoulder, not needing him to continue. Not wanting him to finish piecing together the past she shared with Nathaniel. Already aware of what he'd done since. "Leliana just heard back from her scouts. Apparently," she took a deep breath, fingers still tight about the bow grip and parchment. "You are to be taken into custody regarding the deaths of your brothers."

Shock fell across his features. He'd been so careful, so sure, so determined. He was going to have everything; the name, the wife, the gold, the power. And here she was, the one that got away, slipping away again, victory in her grasp and not his. Stubborn. Proud. Even when he'd taken a knife to her and she'd trembled, she had been proud. Borne the weight and shame and still escaped him. He roared his displeasure, leaping for the brunette, intent on tearing her apart with his bare hands.

He caught the flat of one blade to his chest, three others at his neck, an arrow in the boot for the attempt. Sera grumbled that she didn't have a good enough shot for his precious parts as Harding jogged over to admire her hit and reclaim the projectile, and they shared a laugh as Rylen sheathed his blade, calling for guards to help him. "We'll let his Lordship see the work the dungeons need before he travels, lass, don't you worry." His grin was easy as he clapped Cullen on the arm before leading the tall man away, flanked on either side by Inquisition scouts.

The small group watched them go, Sera hurling insult after insult at the Marcher with glee. A hesitant hand came to rest on Evelyn's arm, and she turned to look up at kind, whisky eyes. She huffed a breath with a sheepish smile. "Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive," her absolution, but she shook her head, refused it.

"I lied. We have no proof. All Leliana has at the moment are rumours." She tugged the paper, separating it from the bow to offer to him. "This is just a requisition order from some of our mages."

Cullen shrugged, hand moving to the small of her back, offering a gentle push away from the scene. His eyes flitted briefly over the paper, but he did not reach for it. "His reaction is proof enough. He tried to attack you, Evelyn. I would see him hang for his transgressions against you, if it were punishment enough."

She chuckled weakly, letting him guide her a few steps before shrugging off his hand. Opening her mouth to respond at last, she was interrupted by Rylen jogging back over, Josephine in tow. The Antivan did not look pleased. A quick glance towards the door that lead to the dungeons showed that the men escorting Nathaniel were waiting, watching the ex-Templar and Ambassador.

How she knew what had transpired, they did not know, but her frustration was evident. She always seemed to be tied into whatever political missteps were being made in Skyhold. "Commander, Inquisitor, we can't afford to imprison Lord Thermon." Josephine ignored Cullen's low growl of irritation and tight grip on his sword. "He's insisting on hastiludes, Free Marches style, if we attempt to keep him here."

Evelyn sighed, a harsh rush of air. "He has no right to demand honour, Josie."

Noticing Cullen's confused look at the two women, Rylen piped up. "Wager of battle. Marcher rules are a wee bit unorthodox."

"It's a duel," the Antivan huffed, smoothing her hair nervously, needing to occupy her hands since she was without her board.

"To the death. I won't allow it." Blue eyes glared fiercely at her friend. This was exactly one of the things Evelyn had hoped to avoid in the first place.

Josephine drew herself to her full height, staring down the brunette as best she could. Hesitation crept into her words, but she held firm. "It doesn't matter what you would allow. He has invoked the right."

Her fingers tensed around the wood of the bow, but she relented. "Fine."

"Good. He's insisting that-"

"I'll do it," she interrupted. "He has an hour, then I will face him in the private ring. Single blades, no shields, leather armor. He gets no concessions, Josie, but make sure his foot is healed if needs be."

The Antivan blinked, hands wringing nervously. Evelyn's words were terse, clipped. She avoided the looks the ex-Templars were giving her. Pride, foolish pride. But she was the Inquisitor, the Herald. It was her duty to protect everyone. Her Commander and Ambassador attempted to speak, to dissuade her.

"Inquisitor-"

"Evie-"

"One hour." She turned on her heel, beckoning Sera to her as she left.

How could he not be worried? Even if he didn't care for her, love her - and Andraste preserve him, he loved her more than he had ever loved anything in his life - she was the Inquisitor. The one with the anchor. The sole hope they had to close the Breach.

And she was about to risk her life.

The room containing the private sparring ring was too small for many spectators, and Evelyn had insisted that word not be spread. Nathaniel waited, still flanked by two guards. Leliana stood in the far corner of the room, shrouded in shadows and her hood, and Dorian paced near her, a scowl on his face. Sera leaned against the wall, cleaning dirt from her nails with an arrowhead, disinterested by all appearances. More could have fit, but the room felt stifling enough already. Rylen had been instructed to take care of Cullen's duties, leaving him free to wait, to watch.

He shouldn't have let her do this.

But what choice did he have, really? Evelyn was level-headed and cautious. She always listened to the differing viewpoints her advisers offered. But when something had to be done, she did not waver. When she decided on her path, she took it, consequences be damned.

Which, he supposed, was part of what had brought her crashing into him in the first place. They still hadn't discussed what exactly had gotten into her head to make her think kissing him would solve the friction between them all those weeks ago, but Void take him, he didn't regret it.

He shook his head and checked the time. One hour on the dot, and she strode into the room, calm and battle-clad, the Inquisitor. There's a small swell of pride when he noticed her wearing the bracer he'd had Dagna enchant for her. Pulling her aside, Cullen unsheathed his sword with a wry smile. He'd not trust any other weapon in her hands for this, and he offered it, hilt out to her.

She took it with an appreciative nod, running a finger down the freshly sharpened edge as he leant into her, talking softly. "You don't have to do this."

Her eyes flicked from the sword to his face, then to Nathaniel. Stormy and clouded. Conflicted. "You'll send me against a dozen Red Templars without complaint, but not one man?"

He doesn't miss the bite of hard humour in her tone and he huffed. Words, getting in the way again. He's worried, but not like she thinks. "I complain plenty about that, you choose not to listen to me most of the time. This just seems a waste of your time, Evvy."

She smiled at that, testing the balance of his sword in her hands. It looks good on her, and he has to quash the urge to kiss her.

No, actually. He doesn't.

With a smirk he tugged her forward, slanting his lips against hers. He can practically hear Sera's eye roll for his actions, or Dorian's smug smile as his hands come to rest on her waist. Leliana's brief chuckle is musical next to the derisive snort that has to belong to Nathaniel.

"Of course," the man sighs out like it's an insult, but Evelyn smiled into the kiss, eyes focused on his mouth as she pulled away.

"For luck?" and there's laughter in her tone as she tested the sword's weight again.

Reluctantly letting her go, he shrugged, watching her enter the ring marked by rope on the ground. "To your victory."

She glanced over her shoulder at him as the guards let Nathaniel enter the ring, passing him a sword, and her smile was cocky. Brave. She spun the blade in her hand, offering her opponent a mock curtsy.

Her fellow Marcher declined to bow, a sneer on his face. "So eager to die, darling?" Evelyn responded by raising her blade to him, slipping into a defensive posture. His footwork seemed unaffected from Harding's earlier arrow - either it hadn't penetrated the thick boots or one of their healers had done their job well.

The first few blows are nothing, little feints to test each other. Cullen could tell Nathaniel was looking for tells in Evelyn's style, but he knows from experience she tends to be a tempest - as soon as you find her tempo she shifts. If he expects her to have solely learned Templar tricks, he will be disappointed. It occurred to him that perhaps that was why the Marcher watched his training sessions with the men so intently. Intending to claim his unwilling bride through combat, it would make strategic sense to figure out the fighting styles of the strongest amongst them.

But she is the strongest here, and she is unpredictable.

As for the Marcher's training, it's clear he's used to a lighter blade than the heavy longswords they wield, but not bothered by the lack of a shield. Trained, more so than the average noble whiling away youthful years with adventurous pursuits. Cullen wondered if Evelyn already knew this, before getting distracted by Cole. How long had he been in the room? The strange boy was watching intently, mouth moving soundlessly from across the ring. Dorian had noticed him too, and moved to his side, supportively patting him on the shoulder. The boy ceased speaking, gaze intent on the feet tracing elaborate steps within the confines of the rope circle.

The blades sparked as they hit and Evelyn twisted to the left, grace in motion as she reclaimed the distance between them. Ever the archer. She liked to withdraw and draw her opponent forward so she could use their momentum against them, Cullen knew. His gaze fell on the two guards, taking in their awed expressions with an amused grunt. They'd be the envy of the barracks, talking about this.

They'd also be getting latrine duty if they spoke of what they'd seen before the fight.

Nathaniel was still testing her, looking for openings, and she fell into an easy pattern of feint, withdraw, lunge, drawing him across the floor. A smug grin grew on his face at her next withdrawal and he moved right, ready to catch her lunge. Instead, his blade skipped along her bracer as she used it in place of a shield. The flat of his blade smacked against her shoulder as she turned it aside but she pressed him back before withdrawing again.

Sera cheered from the sidelines, twirling the arrow in her fingers and hurling slurs. Most of which included the words frig and piss. Cullen crossed his arms, keeping his focus on the fight. To the death, she'd said.

But so often she offered absolution, clemency. Even now, she didn't fight like her life was on the line. She fought like she was testing a new recruit, or practicing a move with Cassandra. Drawing him in so she could knock him down. Confident but prepared to yield. Perhaps her faith was well founded. Perhaps Nathaniel would be hesitant to kill her. Perhaps that was why she'd refused to change her mind, insisted that she alone would face him.

Perhaps.

His blade - hers for now - clanged heavily as she pushed into her opponent, metal squealing as she forced forward, the cross-guards taking the brunt of the hit. It looked like she had him, until Nathaniel headbutted her. Hard. It reminded Cullen of the sound the scaffolding had made when a section had collapsed, and his hand strayed to the empty scabbard at his side in frustration.

But she stayed standing, withdrawing again to circle the Marcher. The next time they clashed he kicked the brunette, winding her, and a displeased grunt escaped Cullen. He moved to step forward, complaints on his tongue, but Cole was at his side, tugging on his surcoat. "Free Marcher rules." He growled in irritation but stilled, watching Evelyn flex her grip on his sword. The anchor flared weakly as she clenched her left hand into a fist, then she was slipping to the right to avoid a rush, twisting around to face Nathaniel again.

They were both tiring. Evelyn was good, but she needed distance and speed on her side and in this room she had neither. Both sported scrapes and cuts, all minor.

Cole was mumbling, more to himself than intentionally out loud, but Cullen could hear him. "Remember. Parry. Remember. No sound. Don't let him know it hurts. Feint. Remember. He favors the left still."

He let a heavy hand rest on the boys shoulder, shaking his head as he kept his eyes on the fight. "Evelyn has this."

"I know." Curious eyes glanced up at him before disappearing back under the brim of the hat. "She worries, sometimes. It spills out like your blue, loud, crystal. This is quiet. Control. Always control. I don't understand. I tried asking, but all she said was duty."

He squeezed Cole's shoulder, hoping that it was reassuring. Nathaniel pressed, attempting to trip his opponent but she switched tactics again. Bull was fond of of dragging his adversaries into the dirt, and Evelyn used her smaller size and agility against him. Cullen had knocked her down enough times himself to know you had to pin her there and then, or she'd be up in a heartbeat. It was the same now, letting herself fumble into a roll, bringing the flat of her sword behind her to slam into the back of his knee. He blocked her follow through, though, and she withdrew again, panting, sweat on her brow.

Nathaniel tried to incite her, gulping breath after breath between insults and threats, reminders of ownership, of education. That word again. But she kept her mask on, parried and blocked, small puffs of exertion the only noises to escape her.

The Marchers locked blades again and Cullen tensed as Nathaniel elbowed her jaw to force her back, but Evelyn kept her grip, kept her stance, pushed back. She threw him back and let momentum carry her into a rolling kick, her foot connecting with his nose. Rewarded with a spray of red and the crunch of cartilage, he fell, dazed and from the ground she she spun, bringing the edge of the sword to his neck. A killing blow.

Nathaniel grinned under the weight on his throat, blood dripping from his shattered nose. The blade in her hand shook slightly but did not drop, and stormy eyes did not look away. "Will you yield?"

He spat, turning his head to the side and dragging his skin across the sharpened edge, letting it catch and pull, biting into his flesh and drawing more blood from him, little pinpricks beading on his throat. Cullen watched, hand still tight on Cole, gaze flitting from the two opponents on the ground to the three opposite him. Sera still twirled her arrow, chewing on her lower lip. Leliana remained stock still, but her arms were folded and he knew she had knives hidden in her sleeves. Dorian looked calm, but his fists were clenched. Even without the lyrium in his blood he knew the mage was a step away from a spell, could see the ripple of energy gathering there.

"Marcher rules, my dear. Only one can leave the ring." Smarmy words rung out, taunting. "It's a shame you never learned that lesson."

She lifted the blade, setting the point into the dirt and using it to haul herself to her feet. Wiping her brow, she shook her head. "I learned many things." Evelyn kicked his longsword away, hefting Cullen's over her shoulder. The anchor sparked, Fade energy casting a ghostly light in the room momentarily. "Yield."

Cullen can feel the energy spiking in the anchor as she flexed her left hand. Her face was schooled into her usual mask, impassive, but Cole shuddered under his hand. Softly so as not to be heard over Nathaniel's backtalk, he leant close to the spirit as he spoke. "It's hurting her to use it, isn't it?" It's a fear he's long held, amber eyes observing the flicker of pain in her blue ones long before Haven fell.

One pale eye glanced in his direction as Cole tilted his head, half obscured by the floppy brim of his hat. "Don't tell them. Never tell. Have to be better. It's okay, Cole, I can bear it. Think of the sun, gold and amber. Safe and solid. Warm. Don't show, bite it back. It's alright Cole, don't fuss. This isn't something that needs your help."

The Marcher drew to his feet, spitting again to clear the blood from his lips.

"She carries the weight like you carry yours. Green and blue and heavy, chains wrapped tighter and tighter. Think of the sky, a different blue. Brighter, stronger, surrounding and vast. Impossible to contain in glass."

He rushed her, seeking to tackle her, but as soon as his hands were on her waist she brought the longsword's pommel down between his shoulder blades. He dropped again, but not before her knee connected with his chin, another disturbingly enjoyable crunch of bone accompanying his grunt of pain.

"Yield."

Fists clenched dirt, blood dripping from a broken nose and split lip.

"Gets worse before it's better. Ask, don't poke. Promise me. Promise it's a secret. Make yourself forget you heard that. I didn't, don't understand."

The sword dropped to her side.

"Yield."

He pulled himself up to his knees, dark eyes staring at her face.

"There's truth on your lips but only when you borrow the words. Why can't you find the right ways to tell each other again?"

Cullen caught her gaze, saw the sadness there as Nathaniel refused her clemency again. He stopped paying attention to the spirit, focusing on her. Most of what Cole babbled about escaped him, too torn, too distracted by the outcome of the fight. He didn't want this. He didn't want her there, wasting time and energy. He didn't want her pushed in the direction this was going. She had killed enough; would have to kill more before this was done.

He stepped forward.

Ignoring the confusion and panic in her eyes, he slipped his sword from her hand, running it across the wool of his surcoat before sheathing it. Deliberately standing between the two combatants, he replaced the weight of it in her hand with his own, lacing gloved fingers together as he spoke over his shoulder. "The Inquisitor has beaten you fairly in combat, and chosen to spare you. Accept the judgement and return to Tantervale under guard. Or be left alone in the Frostbacks without supplies or gear, and see how long you survive. I don't particularly care which."

Cullen swept his eyes over her, thankful not for the first time that Harritt was good at his job. The leather had borne the brunt of any blow that had found it's mark without ripping. The seams, the weak parts, had failed in places, a rogue hit here and there scoring her skin, but all the cuts he could see were superficial. Dorian assessed her from behind, coming to the same conclusion, and Leliana and Sera joined him in the ring, the two guards taking up position by the door.

Sera's arrow glinted menacingly as she waved it at where Nathaniel knelt in the dirt still. "Frigging nobby noble, got yours, yeah? Would have done it, but Evie-lev's got no anger like mine." She grinned, all teeth, all bite. "Got Friends in Tantervale, we do. Gonna be sure they know about you. That Jenny's a real crazy."

Cullen snorted, finding it hard to picture a bigger crazy than Sera, and motioned the guards forward to escort Nathaniel. He was tired of seeing the tall man.

Evelyn let him take charge, eyes on Cole as the boy moved around the rope circle, nudging the makeshift barrier with his foot every few steps. Sera and Leliana followed the guards out, Sera cackling and singing off-key. Nathaniel spat out a curse before he was out of earshot.

Dorian swept the brunette up in a hug, twirling her around and causing her to lose her grip on Cullen. She squealed before giggling, returning the hug, and the mage huffed as he set her back on the ground. "I was so worried, Evie, dear, you mustn't ever do that again!"

"Says the man who encourages Bull and me to fight dragons." She stuck her tongue out then winced as he slapped her left shoulder.

"That is different- Maker, are you hurt?" He fussed, tugging at the leathers, trying to examine the skin beneath.

Cullen cleared his throat, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Dorian trying to play nursemaid. "It's probably just bruised from the hit you took to it." He reached out, suddenly desperate to feel her, hold her, and she slipped into his arms with a small smile, the mage huffing again, grumbling in Tevene. Running fingers softly against her jawline and forehead - more bruises to come no doubt - he pressed an even softer kiss to her cheek.

She sighed, tired but happy, sinking into his embrace. "I'm fine, I promise." Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen saw Cole nod in agreement and he relaxed incrementally.

"You should take some time to relax. Josephine and I can cover things for a few hours." He let her go after a reassuring squeeze, a soft smile. Cullen hadn't been concerned for Evelyn, not physically. But she would need time to unwind, decompress.

She nodded gratefully, linking arms with Dorian and leaning against the mage. "Come on, then. We haven't played chess in a while, have we?"

He sniffed, patting her hand as he pulled her from the room. "That we haven't, dearest. Now, let the Commander enjoy the sight of you walking away, hm?"

She chuckled, glancing back as they left. Cullen could only shake his head, hand straying to his neck, that same soft smile on his face. Dorian wasn't wrong, though. It was a sight to enjoy.

Chapter Text

Sunsets were always beautiful in the Frostbacks. Despite the encroaching chill of the air, regardless of season, there was an undeniable sense of warmth from the deepening golden-orange-red light that crept across the fortress, fading only when the light did. Evelyn watched the dying light spill through the stained glass atop her windows, the colours blending and fracturing, sending patterns scattering across her floor. Skyhold quieted, as it always did around this time, and she inhaled deeply, releasing slowly.

It was genuinely and utterly peaceful.

She stretched, wincing slightly as sore muscles protested the movement. Evelyn had pushed herself too hard; been too angry. Close quarters combat always exhausted her regardless of her opponent but her fight with Nathaniel and tired her more than she cared for. Even with lightened duties for the day - a few hours break had turned into 'don't let us see you until tomorrow when you're healed' - and a long, hot soak, she couldn't banish the fatigue sinking into her bones. Fortunately with Skyhold's healers on hand, she'd been able to speed through the healing process. Her shoulder still ached and her jaw felt stiff, but the bruising was fading quickly and all the cuts had closed. It was safe to be seen wandering the halls again as the Inquisitor.

Perhaps best of all, Leliana had personally overseen Nathaniel's removal from Skyhold and assigned two of her agents to shadow him and his armed escort. Without his presence, knowing that he would not be allowed to return...

The evening truly was peaceful.

It wouldn't last, she knew. The breach still shimmered sickly, out of reach. Corypheus stalked her dreams. Her left hand stung, pins and needles dragging her focus to the anchor more than it should. It had flared in the fight and she knew she hadn't hidden the pain etched on her face.

Tied to her, indelibly etched under her skin, it reacted when her anger bubbled over. Solas had little insight, but he had examined it for her, calm and collected. Meditation, he suggested, if it's so connected to emotion. But what use would meditation be on the battlefield? What use would it be when it wasn't just anger that set it off?

It had flared before with fear, with trepidation. It had flared all those weeks ago when she had sought absolution and instead found her Commander gripped by his nightmares. It had flared the first time she'd gone to him with the desire for something more and the fear that he'd reject her, hate her.

Would a similar fear manifest itself against Corypheus, render her useless?

For all the time she dedicated to Solas and his study of the anchor, they only ever came away with more questions. They had scant few answers, and even those were mostly guesses. It was stable; for now. The breach was stable; for now.

The more she talked to the rift mage, the more she thought she saw pity in his eyes.

Still, she shook her head, drawing another deep breath, now was calm. The sun slipped lower, sinking behind the mountain peaks and she wandered to her desk, slipping the whisky free from its drawer.

The daylight was fading fast but the candles over the desk were already flickering as Cullen worked diligently, working his way through troop rosters and reports, missives and mission briefs. The hand that palmed his neck in frustration at the tension building there came forward to sweep over his jawline, taking a moment to scratch absently at the coarse hair there.

He should probably shave soon.

But not right now. Right now was dedicated to the work before him, work to drown out the throb building in the back of his mind. He set aside one of Harding's field reports from the Storm Coast and frowned at the bundle of letters underneath it, several envelopes tied together with twine. Curious, he tugged the twine free, spreading out the envelopes across the surface of his desk. They were varying sizes, varying shades of white, probably bunched together for ease of delivery. Loose envelopes could get lost in a messenger's bag, he well knew.

One clearly bore his sister Mia's elegant script, and he set it aside for the morning. His head already hurt, he didn't need to read about her berating him for failing to respond quicker to her last letter with his mood already fouled.

He looked at the other letters, all addressed to him, one in a cursive he thought he recognized, one he for sure knew.

Commander,

Let me begin by apologising, because I should just come to you in person. However, I fear I have found my knees too weak for the task, for reasons I'm sure you can contemplate. Of course, that means you will get this some time after its writing as I do not trust it to a runner, but I hope you know the sentiment contained within will not have faded.

I have a suspicion that our Spymaster is much too good at her job and since I am sending this officially, I will not put into writing exactly what I feel about our lunch meeting as those thoughts are for us alone. I will, however, blame you for a thorough distraction that has prevented me from accomplishing any work for the rest of the afternoon and, I fear, into the evening hours. I also find my attention wandering to your letter from the other day, further keeping me from my duties. For shame, Commander.

Pressed elderflowers tumbled free as he unfolded the paper to finish reading, and he chuckled, feeling some of the tension lift from his shoulders. Maker, but his love was one of a kind. What other man in Thedas could count himself so blessed? The formal but teasing tone of her letter is one he knows well from notes he and others have received when she is away but this time it is something far more intimate. The cursive swirl of the words on the page evokes her voice as he continued.

With the blame now on your shoulders, I wish to tell you that I adored the flowers, truly. The scout you assigned to the task was remarkably effective at not only finding me, but finding me at the most perfect of times. You do wonderful work training the men and women under your command.

Speaking of command and flowers, though, it occurs to me I never did tell you what I liked. In truth, I like so many, but I remember a Rivani trader that came to Ostwick once. She had these beautiful blooms she called wisteria, and they were such a lovely shade of purple. According to the Court - they assign a language to everything, honestly - they mean devotion, that the giver is yours to command.

I wish I could find some to show you, but I fear we do not have the climate to grow our own. As such you will just have to take my word.

Yours, and yours alone,

Evelyn

He is no stranger to hidden meanings. He much prefers the bluntness of barracks life, but Leliana and Josephine have made him uncomfortably aware of what the Orlesians mean in their letters to him; the suggestions of riding lessons, of long afternoon sword fights, of what, exactly, silk should be used for. Evelyn is not so determined to hide her meaning that he'd need another to point it out, however.

No, in this her meaning is clear.

It brings a smile to his face as he tucked the letter and dried blossoms back into the envelope, setting it next to the one from his sister. While improved, his mood is still at odds with handling her correspondence, and he turned his attention back to the others. One or two are almost certainly from Orlais and he pushed them aside. There's one with blocky lettering, a simple black Commander Rutherford embossed on the cream that almost begs for him to open it, but his attention is drawn from his desk as the door across from him creaks open.

"You work too hard."

The words aren't meant as an admonishment, the tone gentle and fond. Cullen tapped the letter he'd been about to read against the wooden surface in front of him before straightening them all into a pile for later perusal. Hers resting on top. "No sleep for the wicked, isn't that what they say?" He's sure his smile betrays the exhaustion creeping over him, long days bleeding into longer days, despite his efforts.

Despite the woman in front of him offering him the greatest of distractions.

It always catches up to him. "Are you?" He snapped from the reverie he had sunk into as Evelyn spoke, puzzlement on his brow. Her hands came to rest on the desk and she lent forward, tilting her head to the side. Belatedly he noticed the unopened bottle of whisky she had placed between them, the dampness of her hair as it spilled down her back, unbound. The crown of white blossoms resting on her head. "Wicked, I mean."

There's a coy smile tugging at her lips and he shook his head, all too serious for her lighthearted teasing. "Some would say so." Never proud of the steps that brought him to the Inquisition he sighed, mirroring her stance from his side of the desk. Swallowing, Cullen asked "would you?"

He watched her dark lashes flutter down and up as she blinked; the rise and fall of her chest under the confines of her usual light jacket; the tip of her tongue that darted out to wet her lower lip before she responded. Yes, he was wicked. In every sense of the word, feeling a familiar heat rising. His eyes drifted to her letter as she spoke. "I find you quite honourable."

Oh, oh, she had no idea the absolution she offered. His scar tugged up with his lopsided grin, exhaustion fading like the last vestiges of the sun, replaced by something new. Something primal and possessive. "Honourable enough for your devotion?"

The candlelight made her gleam and close as they were, he could see the flickers of gold in her eyes. The rasp in his voice made her shiver, he noted, a brief slip of decorum that she covered with a light scowl. Evelyn had no trace of the morning's fight on her and he ran a hand across her cheek, gentle, awed all over again by her.

His devotion, she had. His heart, she had. His everything, she had.

And she gave in turn.

With a sultry chuckle she pressed her lips to the leather of his glove before withdrawing, fingers teasing a light touch across the lip of the desk. "Is that what my Commander desires, devotion?" She moved, her hand trailing over carefully arranged stacks of paper as she walked around the obstacle between them, stopping when she came to the letters. Her fingers tapped against his name in her script as she looked up at him. "I came to share a drink. But if you have other plans..."

"No plans." The rasp persisted, gravel in his voice as he watched her.

Evelyn smiled, reaching for the bottle, but he grabbed her outstretched hand, tugging her around the corner of the desk and into him. Into his arms, and into his kiss. He didn't know if devotion was what he wanted, what he desired. He didn't want to take control she wasn't prepared to give. But he needed to tell her.

With his mouth on hers, he told her he'd bear the brunt of any blow she could not shoulder herself. With his tongue chasing the delicate curve of her neck, he told her he would be her shield, her protector. With his teeth sinking into her collarbone, he told her he would be her blade, strong and sharp enough for any enemy. With his hands tangling in loose chestnut waves, he told her he was hers, to do with as she wished. With the press of her body against his, he told her he'd do anything to keep her safe.

With his lips, he told her of his love.

It's spoken quietly, softly, reverently. It's a fragile thing, it needs her to keep it safe, but it exists for her and only her. She takes it with a gentle sigh, tucks it safe in her heart, and offers her own.

The dance has changed again. Cullen will find what her devotion means another night, he swears. This night is for holding each other close and whispering secrets and when she leaves him, she sets the wreath of elderflower blossoms on his head, crowning and claiming.

He is hers, utterly and wholly as he promised.

She is his, and only his, she vows.

When she is gone, his eye is drawn back to the letters. The blocky print calls to him again, and he slipped the letter free, scanning the message. It is short, blunt, and summons a pang in his chest.

Evelyn's father does not mince his words. There's no approval but it's not condemnation.

Commander Rutherford,

Married or not, I want Evelyn's happiness. If she feels as you do, to have found such a rare thing as love in the middle of all this mess, then I trust you know how lucky you are. My daughter is stubborn, tempestuous, and proud. She has always done her duty at great detriment to her own well-being. I was unable to help her before and I am unable to help her now. If you speak the truth of your intentions, then I beg of you, keep her safe.

Whatever you do, ser, if nothing else, keep her safe.

Andraste keep you,

Bann Trevelyan

There are unspoken words between the lines, words not meant for him, he knows. Words from a father worried for his daughter. Words of concern. Words he knows well. Words he fears having to voice when next they march.

He can only do as he's bidden, and he will keep her safe. This he pledges.

Chapter Text

Dawn was welcomed with a yawn and a protest, but one does not avoid summons.

Sleepy smiles were met with shrewd glances and Josephine pointedly bringing them large, steaming mugs of honey tea, apologising for the early hour. Breathing deep of the sweetened brew, Evelyn smiled softly. Of the four of them, it's a safe bet she was the only one still asleep. Assuming Leliana or Cullen actually slept in the first place. It's hard to tell with the Spymaster, but her Commander slouches like a man desperate to rest his head when he thinks the others aren't watching him, and his hand strays to rub the tension from his neck often.

Her poor love. She tried to make the meeting easy on him, Josephine ticking off tasks with deadly efficiency as they made their way through the list of lords to appease and missions to undertake. Things that she wishes to debate she tables for later and everything else is handled as swiftly as she can make the necessary decisions.

A second round of tea is called for and delicate, flaky pastries accompany the delivery. Crumbs are spilled over the map, tracing suggested troop movements. But the three of them are good at this, at their respective jobs, and sooner than not everything on Josephine's list has been taken care of and the impromptu breakfast devoured.

Sighing happily and stretching her arms above her head, Evelyn rocked back from the war table. "Morrigan arrives later today, doesn't she?"

"Yes, Inquisitor. Which reminds me..." Josephine shot a worried glance at Cullen before returning her focus to Evelyn. "She is here under orders of the Empress. So naturally we will need to host her properly."

She can almost see the tension building in her Commander as he glared at the Antivan, dreading the next words.

"If it's alright with you, I've taken the liberty of arranging a small soiree for our visiting dignitaries tonight. We do also have to celebrate your lack of engagement, after all."

Voiced marred by a lack of sleep and irritation, Cullen grumbled. "And you thought to mention it only now because?"

"Because at this short notice, it's too late to back out or complain." Evelyn chuckled, appreciating the clever maneuvering of the Ambassador. "Just tell me I don't have to wear that stuffy uniform, though, please." Although the idea of spending her entire evening surrounded by men and women pandering to her and the Inquisition did not appeal, it would appeal less if she were forced to wear the red and gold dress uniform.

Josephine smiled warmly, sharing a look with Leliana. "Actually, since we are holding the event, we thought we would impose upon Vivienne's dress maker."

"It's not often we get to dress up like the ladies we are," the redhead giggled. "I have the most darling shoes I've been looking forward to showing off." The two ignored the grumbles from their left. They'd obviously been planning something like this for a while, and Morrigan's arrival had given them the perfect excuse.

Well, Evelyn couldn't fault them for wanting to relax. And maybe a night of inane drivel would be nice, distract from the gloom and doom that kept sinking back in.

Cullen, however, clearly felt differently.

She watched her three advisers bicker with no small amusement. He was losing against the smaller women, and shot her a pleading look. "I barely survived the Winter Palace! And now you expect me to put up with that behaviour in my own home?"

All she could do was shrug as Leliana teased him. "Oh, just tell a few stories of dashing exploits and look pretty. You don't even have to change out of your armor, if you're so worried about being attacked."

"It would reflect poorly if you didn't at least put in an appearance," Josephine sighed, scribbling something on her board. "I know several families that are only here because they believe in our military might."

Evelyn bit back a laugh as he glared, unwilling to admit his defeat. She should feel bad, she knew. His discomfort in Orlais had been palpable. His discomfort around the visiting nobles was similarly obvious. Slipping around the war table to his side, she took his hand in hers, coaxing it from the fist he clearly wanted to slam into the table. Or the wall. Or something a little more breakable.

"Stay long enough to eat," she soothed, attempting a compromise. "Then seclude yourself away wherever you like. Rylen's still here for a couple of days, so he can talk about all the dashing exploits we might need."

His grumbles subsided, well and truly beat by the three women.

"Fine. But Rylen has to wear the uniform."

Maker's breath, but Josephine is a force of nature. In the time it took Evelyn and Morrigan to discuss matters in private she had the main hall cleaned and redecorated in red and gold, additional tables and chairs brought in, and a band.

A Void damned band.

Cullen narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the room. They had so many other things they could be doing. Important, life or death things. Instead, they were holding a party. And small?

He should have known the Antivan had a vastly different definition of the word.

Cullen grumbled under his breath as he did another head count from the safety of the main door. How were there this many people in Skyhold in the first place? It was an atrocious waste of resources. But, he begrudgingly admitted, it did wonders for morale. In addition to Rylen - who, frustratingly, was enjoying the fit of the hastily tailored uniform - he'd talked several of his more seasoned men into attending. The more attention they got, the less he would be missed, in theory.

Although for now, he was notice free as the Ladies of Skyhold ruled the room. Certainly he cut an impressive enough figure, and Rylen - again, frustratingly - looked more than at ease in the crowd. Dorian owned his own corner, sipping wine nonchalantly and discussing banal trivia with his admirers. Even Blackwall had tidied up to be in attendance, and Varric was showing even more chest hair than usual. But the Ladies, Maker bless them.

They ruled.

And they knew it. Vivienne was resplendent as she held court, all white and dark blue, low cut and hints of long legs, her silver mask hiding her eyes but not the curve of (dis)approval on her mouth. Leliana shone in royal purple, all elegance and hidden secrets as she moved through the room. Josephine sparkled in gold and silver, overseeing everything from the dais with an eager smile and a soft blush. Morrigan slipped through the throngs like a shadow, sparing a nod here and a word there, her skirts sweeping the floor behind her. Cassandra owned her space too, in black and red and practical, a half skirt her compromise to the others as she tried to avoid conversation.

Sera, no doubt, had been banished to the tavern for the night. A wry chuckle escaped him at the thought of the elf dressing up to fit in. He doubted her capable of it, she would probably still be vibrant in plaidweave and haphazardly patched rips and tears. That would not go down well in this discerning crowd.

A crowd that was eagerly awaiting the Inquisitor.

There were rumours she was off with her mysterious suitor. Others, that she regretted turning aside her betrothed and was chasing after Nathaniel. Yet others suggested she was hiding in plain sight behind an Orlesian mask waiting to catch someone's eye, but he knew none of the women here moved the way she did. So, like many others in the hall, his gaze would wander to her door.

That was his excuse for his surprise when Evelyn slipped beside him. He had no idea where she had come from, but it certainly wasn't her chambers, and she shot him a cheeky grin before assessing the room in front of them like a battlefield.

"Leave it to Josie to undersell what she was planning."

Cullen grumbled out an affirmative, taking the opportunity to study her. Dark blue and green cloaked her, all feminine curves and covered skin. It was no Chantry robe but it was modest; a dress worthy of the Herald of Andraste. Still, he had some inkling as to what lay under the soft fabric clinging to her chest and the flared skirt, and that knowledge brought more than a smile to his face.

Her braid was littered with small white blossoms again, and he had to wonder if it was for his sake, or to give the nobles something to talk about. Or perhaps she simply liked the way it looked, independent of any other factors.

He hoped, in part, that it was for him.

Before he could say anything further, the room changed. Her presence had been noticed, a ripple spreading through the crowd as whispers flew once more. Halamshiral on a smaller scale, and he tensed.

At least here he had his sword.

Feeling a nudge, he returned his attention to the woman at his side. A smile slid across her features as she linked her arm in his. "Escort me, Commander. I'd like some time with you before you abandon us to this folly."

He let a low rumble of a chuckle escape him, tugging her forward with him. "Abandon you? That doesn't sound like something an honourable man would do."

Cullen is distinctly aware she's using him as a buffer to avoid conversations as she let him lead her to the dais, but he cannot bring himself to mind when she leans into him ever so slightly. "I wouldn't jest, ser, or I'll order you to stay all night."

Her face is stoic, but her tone betrays the laughter bubbling under the surface, and he can't resist teasing her in turn. "My Lady, surely not all night. How else am I to maintain my charming Fereldan grumpiness if I stay?"

"Surely staying would only serve to increase the severity of your mood? Thereby making you all the more charming to our guests," she shot back, a small smile easing her features.

"Inquisitor, I do hope you aren't suggesting I intentionally be made to suffer for the sake of amusing some nobles." If he tilts his head down and to the left he can whisper in her ear, and he took full advantage of that fact. It takes some effort to keep his face neutral, but at the same time Cullen isn't concerned about rumours. It's not hard, keeping his voice low, to add a growl to the pitch. "After all, I was rather hoping to abscond with you at some point, and I hate to disobey you."

He is impressed that she gives no outwardly obvious reaction, just a sideways glance and a slight tensing of her arm in his. Cullen can tell that Evelyn is trying to come up with a response, something witty perhaps, but his height over hers doesn't afford her the same privacy for her words in the crowded hall. She huffed, a small, disapproving noise, reclaiming her arm from him as she slowed to a stop. There's a twinkle of... something he doesn't quite recognize in her blue eyes as she curtseyed, murmuring a "Commander." It betrays nothing of her thoughts.

He raised an eyebrow, feeling the crowd press close to draw her away, Lords and Ladies clamoring for the Herald, for the Inquisitor. Josephine stood ready for introductions, but for just a moment the two of them had a small circle of calm.

Cullen had read the damn book, cover to cover. It had made him uncomfortable. Not that there were rules - he was a soldier, he lived for the order rules imposed - but that there were so many ways he could go wrong, unintentionally insult her, slight someone else with his efforts. More than that, it hadn't escaped him, much though he'd tried to avoid the conversation, that he had essentially insisted Evelyn consider him for a husband.

Her husband.

Void damned nobles, making everything so much harder than it needed to be. What was wrong with the way they did it back home? Getting to know the person, spending time together, alone, finding out if you fit.

Maker, did she ever fit with him.

No, not his point. The book had made it sound like a contract, a series of steps each party had to take to ensure it was proper and correct and acceptable. The awkward way he had proposed - ugh, no, asked her - if she wanted to be wooed and her subsequent confusion should have given him some notion of what he'd mistakenly said. But Evelyn had seemed comfortable with his ignorance and subsequent refusal to address the end goal of a typical courtship, for which he was thankful. She had even offered him a way out, on more than one occasion, though he'd been too blind to notice it. And she had been happy with his efforts, incorrect though it could be argued they were.

Cullen had done things his way. He was determined to continue doing things his way. Josephine hadn't complained. If anything, the Ambassador had been thrilled that he had kept his interest in their Inquisitor quiet. He knew, on a professional level, that her potential availability for marriage had been a bargaining chip in some of their alliances.

He kept meaning to ask Evelyn, though. If she wanted more, if she needed him to step in. If he needed to be more obvious. Hers was the only opinion he cared to listen to on the matter, regardless of the needs of the Inquisition. But the topic had yet to come up naturally, and she had been content to let him keep what was between them as private as it could be.

A snort almost escaped him at the thought. It had to be a terribly kept secret at this point, surely?

Their moment of calm was almost over, and Cullen's scar tugged up as he smirked, bowing in return to her curtsy. As he did so, he caught her right hand, pressing his lips to the satin covering her knuckles. "To work, My Lady."

Ladies swooned.

Well, almost. They certainly would be when the book came out. A few tweaks here and there and it would be the most romantic and heartbreaking scene in the novel. Two star-crossed lovers, unable to express themselves as they wished because of their positions in the court, sharing a brief moment of connection.

Perfect. Once he made a few edits.

The dress, for starters. It would need to be low-cut; nothing sold like heaving bosoms. A swooshier skirt, for an epic ballroom dance scene. And sheer fabric with lace for the arms. Or maybe bare shoulders and long silk gloves. Little Fox wasn't a prude, he knew that, and she favoured the exact kind of tight leathers his readers enjoyed for her day to day, but every time he'd seen her dress up, it had been too practical. Too proper. Too... Not sensual, not really, not in the conventional sense.

It clearly worked for Curly, mind. And half the court. Maybe it was the suggestion of innocence and purity her dress evoked? She was the Herald of Andraste, so it made sense she would look the part now and again. Well, no matter. Innocence and purity didn't sell novels. The supposed holy figure baring as much skin as scandalously possible would.

Varric scribbled his notes hastily, eyes flickering over the room. Cullen and Cassandra were arguing about something, probably which one of them would get to leave first. Josephine and Evelyn were doing their rounds. That Knight-Captain from the Marches was having a wonderful time with several ladies hanging on his every word.

Hm... Maybe his novel needed a mysterious tattooed man with a captivating accent?

He flipped a page to write that idea down, then flipped back to finish his thoughts there. Soirees like this didn't appeal to him usually - he'd much rather be in the tavern with Bull and Sera - but he'd been curious. The Skyhold rumour mill had been abuzz the last few days, the attention still heavily on the fact that someone had made an impression on the Inquisitor.

Little Fox hadn't helped matters, wearing elderflower in her hair.

But it was good fodder for book ideas, and maybe he'd get some juicy gossip out of it too. Something that would give him an advantage over Dorian, who had been insufferable the last few days. Honestly, Sparkler gets invited to help Curly and the Seeker one time, and he doesn't stop crowing about it.

He glanced up briefly, shaking his head. Thinking about Curly, that armor would have to be changed too. Some kind of dress uniform, probably. Definite no to the fur.

Or yes to the fur, but for a later chapter. He'd have to ask the Seeker for her opinion on that. He couldn't wait to see what shade she would colour at the suggestion.

To work. Work. Only her Commander would think of a party as work.

But, begrudgingly, it sort of was work. Heavy hangs the head, the thought grumbled in her mind as she greeted the assorted guests, Inquisitor mask in place. It figured she wouldn't truly enjoy the gathering, but she had hoped.

Even after her meeting with Morrigan, she had hoped.

She was reminded of her time in the Courts, of standing just so, sipping her drink just so, smiling just so. Duty, do your duty, child. Her mother was never harsh, but always expectant. The time she had spent in Orlais had been worse. Or better. It depended. Certainly better for not having her mother criticising the way she held her knife, but worse for the weight of a mask on her face and the constant attempts at backstabbing. At least she'd had Maxwell.

Her thoughts didn't often wander to her family, to her brother. He hardly ever wrote, and what letters she sent were often short and pithy. He had sacrificed a lot to help her the first time against Nathaniel and she hadn't wanted to draw him into anything dangerous. In turn, he had offered the bare minimum of support to her and the Inquisition, and left it at that.

She hadn't been offended. He had his own life to think about. His own faith, much less shaken than hers. All that had mattered was that he was safe in Ostwick.

Heavy hangs the head, her father's counsel. Duty, her mother's. Be happy, Maxwell had said on the boat back from Orlais. She had tried to balance the three, finding joy in the duty that sent her to the Chantry, finding it not so heavy a burden. It had been harder, being the Herald. The joy had only come when she didn't embrace it, when she spent time not worrying about the burdens of command. It was even harder now, being the Inquisitor.

Or, it had been. Her advisers had become quite proficient at sharing the burdens, as had her companions. What duty relied solely on her - the rifts, Corypheus - she didn't face alone, not truly. And happiness? Happiness was her friends; tea parties and drinking in the tavern and reading smutty books and pushing each other into the river and snowball fights and horse races and fireside chats. Happiness was the flash of silverite across the hall, golden hair and dark fur, a scar tugging a wry smile into something more than handsome.

It was more than she deserved, at times.

He was definitely more than she deserved.

Tomorrow, she would have to talk with them about war. Tomorrow she would have to listen to them arrange for the army to march. Tomorrow -

Tonight she wanted to be happy.

Biting back a sigh she smiled sweetly, murmuring her greetings to yet another Lord.

Chapter Text

It's rude to eavesdrop.

Not something a Lady would do.

Most assuredly not something the Inquisitor should do.

She hushed Dorian regardless, listening to the lilt of the Antivans behind them. Maker bless her parents and upbringing for one thing - in a port town like Ostwick, it's typically a given you know more than one language. Not that anyone needed to know Evelyn spoke anything but Common. It made traversing the Orlesian Court much easier, pretending she didn't know what they were muttering behind their fans.

Leliana obviously spoke Orlesian, Josephine Antivan, but so far the secret had remained hers. Her Rivaini was atrocious, her Qun non-existent despite Bull's tutelage, her Tevene passable enough to understand when Dorian was genuinely angry or just letting off steam. The Elven and Dwarven tongues escaped her, but the Courtly languages, those she knew well.

Leaning in close to her friend, she patted his arm reassuringly.

"I'm beginning to feel ignored, dear," he muttered, pretending to glare at her across the rim of his glass.

"Perish the thought! You'd waste away without attention," Evelyn chuckled, shaking her head. "Sorry. I was just listening to the crowd."

He shot her a curious look, well aware that the most audible conversation near them wasn't in Common. "I wouldn't waste away, I'm much too handsome for that." Tugging a wilted blossom from her hair, the mage examined in his palm for a moment before letting it grace the floor. "I have lost count of how many men have claimed they were responsible for this, you know."

A quiet snort escaped her. "I'm surprised no one has mentioned it to me personally."

"They know your former fiancé was escorted out of Skyhold after a fight that he lost rather spectacularly. Most believe our dashing ex-Templar was your champion - no doubt they don't want to risk you suggesting a tourney. Though after your wonderfully orchestrated display, I doubt many of the women here would mind. I certainly wouldn't," he stressed.

They shared a laugh at the thought and Evelyn smoothed her skirts as she looked out over the crowd again. No, most of the women here probably wouldn't mind. Antivan, Common, Orleasian, there had been a fair few comments about how gallant he was, escorting her in and kissing her hand as he had.

She almost blushed at the thought. At the thought of absconding. Could he not have used a different word?

No, probably not. When her Commander is bold, he is bold indeed.

She still hasn't managed to attend a sermon in the Chantry, come to think of it. Or not. Best not to think of it. The last thing she needs is Dorian knowing about that. The Antivans were tittering again, something about Rylen and tattoos and - no, she didn't need to listen to that.

Softly clearing her throat, she patted Dorian's arm again. "It really is incredible what Josie got away with in such a short amount of time."

"Oh, I know. Harding was in the tavern offering last minute dance lessons just in case." The Tevinter chuckled, savouring another sip of his wine.

"And why, dear Dorian, were you in the tavern today? You usually only go for Wicked Grace." If she didn't know him better, Evelyn would have sworn he stiffened slightly in the face of her curiousity.

"I only- I heard she was." Dorian waved her off nonchalantly, then pointed at her. "Speaking of infrequent visitors, I heard about you with the former Templars the other night. You are the focus of a lot of rumours, my dear Evie. Rylen apparently has great odds in the betting pool."

She snorted, utterly un-ladylike for a moment. She liked her fellow Marcher, for sure, but as a friend. Saying anything, however, is unwise given the crowd around them and their penchant for gossip. So far, she has kept her tongue well in check. "I suppose Varric banned you all from betting?"

"Oh, naturally. Though we've found other things to bet on." The sparkle in his eye is dangerous, and Evelyn does not want to ask exactly what they've been betting on instead. She can guess, and that's bad enough.

There's a flutter of Orlesian patois, thick enough that some of the words escape her understanding, but there's one phrase the brunette knows for sure.

Je veux être sa lionne.

It's easy enough to school her face into amused surprise to find Cullen heading their way, the two Orlesian women fanning themselves as they watched his approach.

"Ah, Commander!" Dorian is all smiles to Cullen's irritated frown, and quick to pull him into their group. There's a distinct sigh from the Orlesians. Or is it the Antivans? Evelyn doesn't care to look. She also refuses to look at Cullen, focusing instead on a group of Fereldan ambassadors. It's taking a little longer than she'd like to set aside certain thoughts, and Dorian continued talking. "So dour, when our dear Evie looks so divine? For shame."

The mage earned a smack to the shoulder and a low chuckle for the comment, and maybe, for just a moment, Evelyn misses the heavy mask she used to wear because there's no hiding the flush on her cheeks when Cullen shrugs, blunt as ever, "the Inquisitor doesn't need me to tell her she's beautiful, Pavus, no doubt she's rather bored of hearing it tonight. Allow me to say you are as captivating as ever, though." He looked at her, amber gaze warm and the hint of a smile, all sincere and, void take him, gallant.

Oh, but she'd give anything to wipe that victorious smirk off of Dorian's face. "Now, was that so hard? Every woman should be complimented regularly. Keeps them young and able."

"You know," Cullen rumbled, an order away from his sparring ring tone, deep and commanding, "I thought it was regular exercise that helped with that. I heard Iron Bull mention-"

Dorian spluttered something in Tevene, cutting the blonde off. "He has lots of fanciful notions."

"And I saw-"

"Nothing." It's the fiercest she's ever heard the mage speak, except maybe to his father, and Evelyn shot the pair a questioning look. "You saw nothing," he hissed again, before regaining his composure. "Evie, dear, we will talk later. I fear I must take my leave before someone oversteps himself."

He swept off despite her protests and she put her hands on her hips, a small scowl gracing her face. "You will tell me what that's about, Cullen, or I'm sending you to the Wastes."

She wasn't expecting him to chuckle, low and gravelly, ignoring the threats, hers and Dorian's unspoken one. "I was taking a stroll earlier. You know that one ruined tower the masons still haven't gotten to?" When she nodded, he continued, leaning in conspiratorially and talking quietly. "I know the Iron Bull sleeps there some times, but it was the middle of the day, I didn't think, well." He shrugged with another laugh. "I saw a little too much."

"You saw-" Her eyes narrowed, running it through. "No, there's no way."

"I've been meaning to tell you, but all of this was going on, and you had your meeting with Morrigan." He's grinning and sniggering and it's adorable, even if he is talking about two of her best friends going at each other. In a ruined tower. In the middle of a patrol route. In the middle of the day. Evelyn almost wants to ask for details, but not here, not now.

She managed a disaffected sigh, taking the opportunity to observe him again. He's certainly more well rested than he had been that morning which is a relief, and his momentary amusement has him relaxed.

At least until until there's some unsubtle whispering about arranging a duel and sword training and some such thinly veiled innuendo, and Evelyn recognizes some of the ladies from Vivenne's salon. After a dreadfully uncouth I'd let him storm my coast from an Orleasian Baron, Cullen is back to being the Commander, all gruff, all serious, all frowns. 

"But think about it," Dorian had said. "A man that tense in charge of the army can't be good for morale."

She'd snorted into her cup as Varric had shrugged. "Curly's always been that way, even in Kirkwall."

"Well it's settled then. We have to fuck the serious out of him."

Cassandra had almost choked. Dorian nodded enthusiastically to himself and, drink obscuring her better judgement, Evelyn had laughed. "And you think you're up to the task?"

"Of course. I'm very good at relieving tension."

Oh, Dorian. He'd had her rolling in the snow, crying from laughter and she'd stupidly, drunkenly, boldly told him she would do it if it came to it. It had slipped her mind until they'd gotten to Skyhold, and then the blasted man had given her his word that Haven would not repeat itself.

It had been too late before that, of course.

She had tried to ignore it, because what else could she do? But now, now...

Now Cullen was standing there with a frown on his face, hands resting on his sword hilt, acutely aware of the gossip flying. Well, what little of it was in the Common tongue, at least. That was for the best, really, even though most of it wasn't about him. Evelyn shot him a smile.

"Did Leliana show you her shoes? They're very pretty."

His brow furrowed at her abrupt shift in topic and she rambled on for a few minutes about everything and nothing, casual observations and thoughts. She pointed out Varric, clearly jotting down new ideas for a novel. Josephine, blushing as Blackwall whispered something to her and tugged her away from the crowd. Rylen and his officers, enjoying their evening. Slowly, he untensed.

"You seem to have started your own trend," he chuckled, interjecting as she told him how everyone would be clamouring to have a dress like Vivienne's after this. When Evelyn frowned in confusion he pointed out a group of young ladies, flowers woven into their hair.

Her hand ran down her own braid, playing with the blossoms there as she smiled faintly. "I wonder if they did it simply to appear fashionable." Evelyn twirled an errant strand before dropping her hand again, clasping it in the other before her. Ever the perfect lady.

Cullen had that infuriatingly attractive half smile tugging his scar up, amber eyes fixed on her. "Perhaps. Or they thought it might help them catch the eye of someone special?" He's teasing, trying to get her to fumble, and oh Maker, it's a good look on him.

She gave him her best demure look, all innocence as she gazed up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "They certainly seem to have caught yours, Commander. Do you need an introduction?"

He snorted, equal parts irritation and amusement. "Hardly. Josephine pointed them out to me earlier, she was rather thrilled. Besides, we both know where my attention lies."

Does she ever. "Of course. Your devotion inspires us all." The half smile is back and Evelyn wondered briefly if Leliana or someone else had given him help learning the steps of the Game. A ludicrous notion if ever there was one; her Commander would never stoop so low. "I must admit my curiousity as to why you're still here, speaking of your proclivity for work. I would have thought you'd abandoned us long before now."

"As shocking as it is, I was having a good time with Cassandra and Rylen." Cullen's laugh is a deep and satisfying rumble that draws a true smile to her face.

"Shocking indeed," Evelyn teased. She's not even trying to eavesdrop any more, but Andraste preserve her they're talking loud enough -

¿Ronronea cuando está saciado, crees?

Bloody Antivans.

They're fighting a war come morning, and now all she can think about is that.

Oh, Maker preserve her. Her heart thuds, a hollow boom in her chest.

War replaces all other thoughts.

There's a blush on her cheeks, and he knows he didn't put it there.

That bothers him more than it should.

Evelyn is silent for a moment, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point ahead of her, fingers held tight to her skirts. Then she is composed again, shaking her head and offering a light smile. He knows better than to ask.

He should know better than to ask.

He asks.

"Is everything alright, my Lady?"

It's the wrong thing to have said, he knows. There's a storm in her wide eyes that she's trying to keep contained, and his voice is the damned thunder, heralding it. Her touch is light and burns through his vambrace as she nodded.

He doesn't know what tumultuous thoughts are rushing through her mind, but he's watched her move around the room, avoiding Morrigan and Leliana as best she can. He's watched her laugh and joke her way through the throngs. He's watched her right hand knead into the anchor, her tell.

She's not telling now, but he knows something shifted internally.

"Perhaps you would care to walk with me?" Cullen thinks to get her to the tavern. To Sera and Bull, away from the crowd for a little bit. Some small respite that, selfishly, benefits him too. She hesitates on the cusp of refusal, and he nudges. "I need some air and I want to check on the watch rotations."

Someone calls for her and he can see the start of a scowl form on her face.

"Let me borrow you a moment, Inquisitor."

Those are her words, teasing and carefree, used when she wants to drag him from work to talk, to spar, to play chess. Cullen uses them against her, growled and commanding, insistent.

Evelyn nods once, waving off the person calling for her attention and follows her Commander from the hall.

They don't make it to the tavern.

She dragged him aside, turning for the main gate, the stables, he's not sure if she had a goal in mind before she stopped, staring up at the sky.

"We're fucked."

Her words are succinct and curt, and Cullen snorted out a laugh. Evelyn does not swear. Evelyn is never crass. Evelyn is poised and in control and-

He did the wrong thing again, but this he can fix. He pulled her back to him, cradling her in his arms. Steady and strong, he held her as she shook, clenching and unclenching her marked hand. He rested his chin on top of her head, taking in the scent of elderflower as she tried to fight her tears.

"Is that the official opinion?"

Oh, Maker bless him, she laughed; a strained and choked noise, but a laugh none the less. "They don't have the slightest idea of what's going on. We have to prepare everyone to march and-"

She cut herself off with an exasperated groan, and he hushed her, holding tight. These thoughts he can understand. The frustration of business as usual for the court while they plan how to take on Corypheus, he understands.

"I didn't ask for this." She's glum, pulling away, kneading the anchor. Her voice breaks and she drew a shaky breath as she stared him down. "I can't do this again."

Adamant is still a noose around her neck, waiting for the hangman to throw the lever. These thoughts are dangerous, and he knows that better than most. He glanced skyward, the stars twinkling in nonchalance at the struggles below. "We don't have much choice in the matter."

They are quiet for a moment, breathing the chill night air, listening to the faint sounds of the tavern, the stables, the watch on the walls. A thin strain of music wafts from the main hall, a sour refrain for the distance.

"You'll march with them."

He blinked, amber eyes taking her in. Evelyn is resolute again, her hands at rest, her face schooled into something calm. It wasn't a question, just four simple words shaped into a fact. She already knows he will - he is the Commander, her Commander, and he alone has to lead the army. Her army.

Maker, how did they get here?

"I should- Go back."

She doesn't move.

Chapter Text

Evelyn's not conscious of the steps that brought them here. There had to have been steps, of course. You don't just teleport from one place to the other, it requires movement of one foot in front of the other.

Or being carried, she supposes. But she's still on her feet, the ground solid beneath her. The wood solid behind her back. The metal solid under her hands.

Everything is solid and sharp and frozen in that moment.

She can smell the manure and hay and horsehair and elderflower and leather. The rich aroma of fresh baked bread wafting from the open kitchen door. She can see the pools of light, watch fires on the walls, brightness spilling from doorways and windows, the dimmed lanterns in the stable doors, and them in shadow. She can hear the soft nicker of the horses in their stalls, the shouts of the cooks hard at work, the thin notes of music and joy struggling to be heard. She can feel-

She can feel a lot.

It's cold, small flurries of snow dancing in the air around them. The wood that bites into her back is harsh, retaining no heat. But her lungs are on fire, desperate for air, desperate to drown.

And she doesn't even know why, not when he's unhurried and gentle, alternating between her mouth and her neck. His stubble rasps across smooth skin, trailing heat that coils low and threatens to burn.

He shifts, mumbling something as he catches her wrists, pinning them to the stable wall. She hadn't even realized they'd left the vambraces, gone wandering to dangerous places. The grip he has on her breaks the moment, time unfrozen, moving on again.

It's too dark, where they are, to read his expressions.

It's too public, where they are, for what she wants him to be thinking about.

She's too breathless to find words.

Cullen has all the control, and she can't bring herself to mind.

He mumbles again, small incoherent prayers she can't decipher. Her mind is too fogged, thoughts focused solely on the feeling of him against her. She still can't figure out how they got here.

How they went from discussing war to expressing love.

But she wants it, this, these moments that freeze then tumble into the next. She wants more, and she's never wanted more. His grip is too lax on her wrists, mere suggestion rather than intent, and it's easy to break the hold, to push back, to push away from the wall.

A fist of fur and wool and a fist of golden hair to anchor her, she finds her tongue.

"Real?"

"If you want it to be."

"Stay with me."

They steal each others words as they steal each others breath, and whisky warm eyes lay claim to the rest of her.

"Your desire is my command."

The words are husky, demanding and pleading all at once, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest with them. He knows he has her.

She can officially tell Cassandra she knows what it's like to have her knees go weak.

War is shoved aside, tabled. Corypheus can go roll in nug shit for all she cares. Dawn will come and she'll handle it then. She finds her feet and slips into the light, flushed but grinning. "Come, then." It's a challenge, but she has no intention of knocking him to the ground.

Not yet, anyway.

Cullen follows, obedient and curious as she winds her way, light-footed and teasing. It's a chase of sorts, past puddles of light and through deepening shadows, a chase he knows the end to.

Her quarters are out of the question so she leads him to his office, perches on his desk like a huntress eyeing her prey. She does not hunt as the Dalish do, blending in with mottled greens and browns and sun dappled forest floors. She does not hunt as the nobles do, more concerned with the sport and the trophy. She does not hunt for the hunger in her belly; it's a different hunger that drives her.

He's vaguely aware that he is her prey, and sets about making the kill easy, starting by disarming himself.

He handed over his sword, laying it in her lap with a kiss that leaves her whining for more, and her fingers traced the lines of the hilt as he pulled his armor off, piece by piece. If he stops now he'll never stop. So slow and deliberate, placing it aside carefully, he avoids looking at her until he's done.

When he is, when he does, she's hungry. Blue eyes burn into him, and he distracts himself with a chuckle. Maker preserve him. Her focus slips from him for a moment, and she set the blade aside. He followed her line of sight back to his armor. To the lion helm resting on the stand.

Evelyn smiled shyly, shrugged. "I heard something tonight, about your helm."

"Oh?" He'd heard several things himself. A lot of lion-themed innuendo - at least the Orlesians were creative. But not what he wants to dwell on right now. Taking a finger between his teeth he pulled a glove free, smirking as she bit her lip. He used his mouth to tug the other one free, and was rewarded with a small whine of need.

It's tempting to see how far he can push her, if something that simple prompts a response, but he has needs too. He needs to touch her.

Her skirts brush the ground when she walks and now, sitting on the desk, they hang free. She doesn't stop him, the fabric bunching under his hands as he drags his palms up her thighs, and she whimpered at the friction. "About how it looks on you," she manages to get out despite his insistent mouth on hers.

He paused only long enough to growl out, "you've seen me wear it."

As if capitulating, she fell silent for a moment. The fire in the hearth had been banked and in the low light he could see her swallow. There was still something distracting her, and it wasn't his hands slowly pulling her skirts up. It wasn't his lips on hers, his tongue pulling small moans from her. It wasn't the heat her fingers trailed down his chest, her own gloves discarded.

He growled again. Distractions would not do. "Evelyn-"

"I've not seen you wear it, and only it," she cut him off, hands fisting in his waistband and pulling him between her legs, eliciting a groan from him. Void take him, she moved against him with ease, confidence at the forefront as she slipped her hands free to cup his arousal through the leather of his breeches. Her smile was wicked but her cheeks pink when she whispered into his ear, finishing the thought. "While you take me from behind, Commander."

"Maker's breath, Evvy," he exhaled sharply. If he were a lesser man she'd have undone him with that alone, her breath warm as it ghosted over his skin. His hands shook slightly as he rucked the fabric of her skirts higher, over her knees. She squeezed gently and he moaned into her neck.

There were too many things he wanted to do to her, and that was now on the list.

"Another time," Cullen murmured, hands slipping under her skirts, skin kneading skin as he dragged calloused fingers up her thighs. He wasn't sure if she gasped at the contact or his words, but it didn't really matter. Another time, because he needed to know she wanted it. Another time because he needed this to be about her right now. Another time, because if they did that, he didn't know if he'd be able to stop.

Who was he kidding? He'd never be able to stop anyway.

"Tell me, if you don't want this."

Oh, her glare was precious, utterly undermined by the flush on her face and the desire in her eyes. He chuckled, low and rumbling and his fingers roamed higher, delighting when she squirmed as he applied pressure.

"Cullen-" his name fell from her in a gasp and he caught it with his mouth, swallowed her noises as he tugged her smalls down, off. Evelyn shifted from side to side to help him and they both laughed, breathless. The action is hardly graceful, and it's not a lust-hazed, heat of the moment tearing aside, but it's perfect for its imperfections.

Just like they are to each other.

And he can't help himself, forcing her skirts to pool around her hips, telling her that. She's all the more perfect for the needy whine that escapes her as his hand brushes past dark curls. For the way she shifts and shivers as his stubble drags across her face, accompanied by gentle kisses and sweet little nips soothed by his tongue. For the low moan as his left hand drags blunted nails back down her thigh.

Her touch, more hesitant, burns through the leather and cotton of his clothes. It's like she can't decide, teetering between tracing the lines of his torso and teasing his arousal. Like she doesn't know how far she can push the limits of her control.

His fingers note the slight marr in her skin, below her knee. The constant reminder of a brother's lack of aim, and he smirked against her skin as he thumbed the starburst marking her. Cullen sunk despite her protest and started with the scar, pressing soft kisses as if it would fade with the attention.

Evelyn watched, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her hands supporting her, gripping the edge of his desk.

Paperwork... Might be hard to focus on, after this.

He laughed to himself, mouth following his fingers, intent only on her pleasure. He ached, wanted, needed, but she came first. She would come first. He laughed softly again at his unintended innuendo, not at all bothered when she cuffed him lightly around the ears.

He lifted his head enough to kiss the fabric covering her stomach, smirking when she huffed in annoyance. "Something wrong?"

"You're the one laughing," she muttered, unable to keep the pleading note for more from her voice.

"Would my Lady prefer I pray?"

Evelyn snorted, mirth filling her. Like she needed another reason to avoid Mother Giselle and the chapel. "No, that's not nec-"

All thought fled as she stammered out a curse, and she could feel his wolfish smirk against her as his tongue ran the length of her folds. She gripped the desk tighter, utterly unashamed as she begged for more.

Her curls tickled his nose and he lapped, greedy but slow. She was already wet but Cullen wanted her dripping, shaking, unraveled and undone by his tongue, his mouth, him. Words tumbled from her, blessing and curses, as he dipped further between the slick folds, her one hand moving to fist her hair. The tug of pain at her scalp lent Evelyn some sense, only for her to lose it again with a heated groan.

Andraste, bless his hands.

What his tongue had started, his finger took over, delving deeper. His other hand slipped under her thigh, past the fabric, kneading the soft flesh of her arse as he tugged her closer. Cullen pressed his forehead to her thigh, the scent of her drawing out a moan from him. He could feel her clenching as his finger - no, now fingers, Maker, when did he even - sought out the spot that would make her keen, and he chuckled, glancing up to watch her.

She panted, palming and kneading her breast above him, her one hand still tight on the desk as if anchoring herself. Catching his gaze she smiled, her tongue running over her lower lip. She can see the faint sheen of her arousal on his mouth, and it's all she can do not to pounce on him there and then. Void take her, but his fingers. Herald of fucking Andraste she is not. No Maker-sent woman would be so indecent as to spread her legs and let her lover rest there, making her mewl so.

Cullen doesn't give a nug shit. She's holy enough to redeem him, and he'll praise her whatever way he can.

Her eyes slid closed as his tongue resumed its devotion, flicking over her clit, ripping the air from her. Before she can regain it he sucks, fingers brushing just the right spot to make her shudder. She feels lightheaded and the desk isn't doing its job of steadying her.

Fingers tightened in his hair as he does it again, again, and she moaned, unable to stop her hips from bucking. He growled out something, fingers digging deep into the muscle of her arse like he wanted to pull her off the desk.

It's too much, one more pass of his tongue and she can see the stars as warmth flooded her veins. His name is a prayer as she gasped for air, slouching, limp. If not for him she'd tumble forward, she knows.

"Maker," passes his lips with a pant, and he rained sloppy kisses down her thigh as his fingers withdrew. She laughed, unable to find words, trying to pull him up to her but her fingers won't follow her commands and they catch uselessly against the linen of his shirt. Giving up, she dropped her head to rest on top of his, arms wrapping around his neck.

"I can't decide if I want to know where you learned how to do that or not," she managed to get out once her mind caught up to her.

Cullen's grin is wicked as he sat back, pulling her down from the desk and into his lap. "Templar training."

Evelyn shot him an incredulous look as he shrugged, nuzzling her neck. "Templar training, really?"

"So you do want to know," he chuckled, lightly biting her earlobe before trailing kisses down the soft curve of her neck. She made a disgusted sound even Cassandra would be proud of before kissing him fiercely, her tongue sweeping the taste of her from his lips.

When she broke away she glared, but as before the effect was lost. "Just shut up and put that training to good use, Commander." She made a point of shifting her hips in his lap as she stressed his title, the friction adding to his already strained arousal.

"As the Inquisitor demands," he murmured, grasping her by the waist and rolling her to the ground, pining her hands above her head.

Maker bless her, Void take him, she is perfect, that surprised squeak, her braid mussed, her eyes dark with desire, the skirts pooling over her legs, her chest heaving for air, her tongue then her teeth worrying her lower lip. He needs her, needs this, but needs to know she wants this even more, and his hand stills on her hip.

Evelyn doesn't care for his hesitation and brought her leg up between his, thigh rubbing along his trapped length, eliciting a hiss. "Don't tell me you not only still have that stupid hole in your roof, you don't have a bed up there?"

He growled out a laugh, low and husky. Golden eyes gleamed in the dim light. "There is a bed."

"Then why are we on the floor?" She raised an eyebrow, a sly smile creeping across her face.

Maker, it's a good question.

He's not an animal, for all the lion jokes he's heard bandied about. And she deserves so much more. She deserves to be worshiped at an altar, and instead he takes her against a desk. Twice now, he's given her pleasure against a desk.

Maker, the Void will have him for his blasphemy.

She's offering all of her, the least he can do is offer his bed to her.

The ladder is a problem, mind. He's loath to release her, opting to pull her up and into his arms as he sits back. Evelyn squirmed in his lap, grinding down against him, smug in the face of his needy groan. He swore softly, tipping her back to get to his knees and she laughed, bright and sultry, legs wrapping around him tight. "What are you doing?"

"Putting my training to good use," he shot back, echoing her command as he rose to his feet.

Fuck, but she forgot how strong he was. Or hadn't considered it. Or-

It didn't matter. Her Commander is holding her, and he's strong and steady and-

Fuck. She laughed around her moan as he pinned her to the ladder, lust and need clouding her. He's got one arm around her waist, one hand burying in her hair, and it's all so Void damned wonderful when he growls at her for tightening her thighs.

"You have two choices." Cullen nuzzled her neck, peppering his words with little kisses, little nips, still loath to break contact. "One, you climb, or two, I carry you."

Well, Andraste fucking preserve me, how is that even a choice? "Carry me, Commander." It's meant to be her Inquisitor voice, stern and bold, but there's no hiding the desire in her tone.

He chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest and amusement glinting in his eyes. "Hold on then, Evvy."

She does, Maker does she ever, arms tight around his neck, bodies flush. And she watches him climb, all rippling muscles and a lack of effort, as if she wasn't even there. As flustered as it makes her, as much as it makes her stomach clench and her sex ache, Maker, she wishes they were in her room. Getting to her bed would not have been so hard.

Getting off the ladder presents some awkwardness and he reluctantly lets her slip free. Evelyn takes the room in quickly, her heart thudding in her ears as her gaze comes back to him. Maker, she blasphemes as Cullen reaches behind him to grab the collar of his shirt, pulling it over his head and discarding it, toeing off his boots at the same time. Sure, she's seen this before. Sure, most of Skyhold has seen this before. Still, she reaches out to trace the hard lines of his torso, fingers brushing softly over every silver scar she passes, still.

He's built like a fucking warhorse, a Forder, all broad shoulders and muscle and purpose, and she intends on savouring that fact.

"If you need to stop at any point-"

"Nothing short of Corypheus is going to tear me away now."

Oh. Oh. He laughed again - Andraste's tits never let him stop - and scooped her up, positioning her in his lap as he sat on the bed. His hands tugged her skirts out the way, her bare arse on his breeches. "I'll hold you to that."

She snorted, grinding down on him, feeling his arousal. She's wet again - still, really - and he can feel the heat through the leather, drawing a moan from him. Cullen panted, torn between throwing her on the bed or back on the floor. Or against the wall.

Or over the bed.

Fuck.

Later. Another time. Later.

Evelyn had his laces undone as he warred with his options, and a wry chuckle escaped him as she slipped from his lap. Her fingers in the waistband are both familiar and new, and he rose to help her finish undressing him.

The stars and moonlight do more for him than the hazy half light of the tent and she takes her time, fingers and mouth exploring the hard planes of his body, the soft trail of fine hair leading down, the coarse, darker curls. Even in the dark he's the sun, golden. He jerked as her hands trailed down the V of his hips, and a breathless groan escaped him as she teased a feathered touch along the length of his cock.

"Maker, Ev, I-"

Words are pointless. He lunged for her, hands cradling her face as he kissed her hard, fierce and bruising, a snarl on his lips. He won't last if she keeps that up, and he's not letting her get away that easily. He's going to bloody well worship her.

The back of his knees hit the mattress and Cullen sat back, trying to pull her with him, but she slipped free, dancing out of reach with a shake of her head. Evelyn gave a thoughtful hum, stormy eyes not leaving him.

He held his breath as she loosened the ties on her dress and kicked off her shoes, licking his lips as the soft fabric pooled around her feet. If the moonlight highlights him in gold, it paints her in silver, and he greedily takes in the sight. The blossoms in her hair sparkle, little diamonds in the dark expanse - he can't wait to hold the sky in his hands again.

"Come here."

It's not a request.

She does.

Fuck.

Her knees settle on the mattress to either side of him and up close he can see the blush on her cheeks, the shyness behind the desire in her eyes. There's a small swell of anger, the briefest thought for Nathaniel, but it fades in the face of her beauty. There's not room for anything else. There is no poetry that could capture this moment.

Cullen tugged her forward, slanting his mouth against hers, his tongue sliding across her lower lip. His Evvy, his, he'll go to his grave happy to have held her like this, only to claw back from the brink of death to hold her again.

She's never getting rid of him, in this life or the next.

He takes the sky in hand as his fingers caress her braid, the elderflower filling his lungs as she slipped her breastband free. He tugged the ribbon from her hair, dislodging some of the blooms as the braid started to unravel and it takes every ounce of self-control he has left not to pull her forward, down, to buck against her there and then.

But no, Evelyn, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, Lady, His Evvy, she deserves reverence. She deserves to be in control. "All that the Maker has wrought is in His hand, beloved and precious to Him," Cullen murmured against her collarbone, fingers exploring.

She laughed, pressing closer. "Please, I already can't look at Mother Giselle without blushing. And I'm sure it's blasphemeus, quoting the Chant to me while I'm naked."

"Call me a heretic and a sinner, then." He nipped at her pulse point, marveling at the noise it drew from her. His hand palmed her breast, a perfect handful, and he lowered his head to kiss the other.

Oh, there are things she wants to call him, but his tongue swirled against her nipple and all thought fled. His touch is divine, his skin on hers, and for a moment she would believe it if someone told her she could fly.

It's a sin, that he only has two hands and that he occupies them with her hair and breasts. She needs more, more touching, more kissing, more, more, more. She tells him as much and he laughs, giving her pert nipple a most impudent suck as her nails scratch a path down his arms.

"You," she tries again. "Need more of you."

How can he refuse?

For a rogue, he's finding it incredibly easy to get Evelyn on her back. She bounced as he threw her into the middle of the bed, pouting as he took the long way up. But Maker, he needs her to know everything he's thinking.

Like, kissing her ankle, how she is the most breathtaking thing he's ever seen. Like, running a hand under her calf, how he's going to do everything in his life to prove himself worthy of her. Like, nipping her inner thigh, how he knows it still won't be enough.

She whines when his tongue teases her folds again, when he runs a finger through her arousal. He locks eyes with her, amber on blue, smirking as he cleaned the finger with his mouth.

"Commander," her tone drips with desire and his cock twitches in response to the unspoken order hidden in the word. Still, his smirk doesn't fade as he resumes his path, detouring to find the scars she told him about.

The tiny little nick above her hipbone - ironically her smallest, gifted by the Hivernal - he kisses. There's a scratch, a reminder to dodge when Cassandra says dodge, that he brushes with his thumb. A small line on her right, a Venatori arrow she didn't notice in time, her wolf bite, the Adamant mark, he presses kisses to them all in turn. There's one she hadn't mentioned, below her left breast, curling around to her back, and she pulls his hands away from it when he tries to trace it.

Later. She can tell him about it later.

The friction of the sheets against his cock as he pulled himself up her body sends little jolts of electricity through him, and her hands grab for him, desperate. His name is a curse, a plea upon her lips as he positioned himself.

"I want-"

She gave him no chance to finish the thought, to ask, her hands guiding him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he entered. No ceremony, no taking it slow. She's tired of slow. They gasp and moan together, and Maker, she's tight, and Maker, he stretches her in all the right ways. He's still for a moment, letting her adjust, letting himself adjust because Andraste preserve me it's been too long since it's been anything but his hand and the one taste he's had of her did not prepare him for this.

When he still doesn't move she arched her back, pulled her legs tight, hilting him. Cullen groaned, hot velvet surrounding him, and mercy, he should be better than this, but her laugh is wicked and satisfied as she rolls her hips and. Fuck. He just can't.

Cullen is bruising when he grabs her wrists, forces them over her head. There is fire in his blood, sweeter than lyrium and he bites, kisses, nips, licks, sucks. He makes sure to leave a mark that only she'll see, claiming her with his mouth and every snap of his hips, driving her down into the bed.

He's rough but not unforgiving, small grunts escaping him. She wonders if he's quiet from habit, learned from hurried trysts in Circle corridors, but doesn't dwell on it, working instead on simply getting more from him.

Nothing else matters, and they both mumble of need and love and want and harder.

Her Commander swallowed. She couldn't mean it, surely-

"Harder, Cullen. Please." He can't refuse her anything, not even this. Ever dutiful, ever the soldier, he does as ordered, feeling her tighten, clench around him with every thrust.

He pulled away, hands roaming under her thighs and gripping, holding her. The new angle sends sparks through her as she ground her hips against him, and a louder moan escaped her as his fingers bit into her arse. It felt too good, too right, her hands scrabbling to pull him back to her but he, oh.

Templar training, he said. Maker's balls he learned this in Templar training, his hand slipping between them to tease her clit. It takes two well aimed thrusts in combination with the pressure from his all too talented fingers and Evelyn mumbled his name in a litany of curses, her laughter sharp and bright as reason departed.

Maker, but if he's a sinner, fuck the saints. Bring on the blasphemy.

It doesn't take much more for him, panting above her, her joy translated into tiny shivers as he continues to move, but he can't, won't, not yet. Not like this. Not unless she asks. Firmly but gently he coaxes her legs free, swallowing her complaints with a kiss.

He pulled free, one, two pumps to finish himself in hand, ignoring her curious look. It's not on her to think of consequences, not now, and Cullen shook his head, about to reach for his discarded shirt. Evelyn beat him to it, slipping from the bed and bending low - naked - to pick it up for him, and he couldn't help but notice aside from the one scar reaching around, her back was unmarred. Flowers slipped from her hair, her braid completely undone, and she turned back to him.

Mercy, the Void was going to take him any minute now.

He wiped himself clean as she sat beside him, her head on his shoulder, her hands clasped in her lap. Like she was a demure lady at high tea, only. Naked. Tossing the shirt aside again he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her down with him, delighting in the squeak she made. Cullen would never tire of that sound.

"So, that whole fucking the serious out of me thing with Dorian, before we got to Skyhold," Evelyn laughed, nuzzling into his embrace and he pulled an errant blossom that still clung on from her tresses as he continued. "Was it a bet?"

Resting her head on his chest, legs entwined, her fingers tracing patterns on his skin, she hummed thoughtfully. "No. Why?"

Cullen pressed a kiss to her forehead, hold tight and never planning on letting go. "Shame. He would owe you so much gold for how this night is going to go."

Chapter Text

Okay, no, he's done. Stick a fork in him, throw him off the battlements, drown him in the deep waters.

He.

Is.

Done.

He's going to have to quit after this, leave the Inquisition. His head hit the bar with a solid thunk and he groaned, shame and - oh Maker forgive him - a little bit of arousal filling him. Cabot simply grunted, pushing a mug of warm something or another in his direction.

Go find the Inquisitor, like that's the easiest task in the world. She's missing all the fun.

Well damn, Spymaster, I think not.

He groaned again, taking a hesitant sip of the swill. It does little to help his incredibly conflicted feelings, and the raucous laughter from the second floor just sets his already grated nerves on edge.

Void fuck Jim, for telling anyone who would listen. No one believed him, thinking he'd hit his head too hard tripping down the stairs or something. Because, come on, a woman like that? The Herald. With the Commander? Never going to happen. Especially not on the floor of his office.

He should go back, report... Something. Couldn't find her seems like a good idea, but the Spymaster has an uncanny eye for lies, and he's already screwed for dallying in the tavern. He downed the tankard, his shame eclipsing him.

Put that training to good use.

Thank the fucking Maker that someone had oiled the door and that they'd been... Occupied.

And if luck was with him, maybe it wasn't too late to change his bet.

As the Inquisitor demands.

Oh sweet Andraste. He needs another drink first. And the attention of one of the tavern maids.

He. Was. Worth. The. Void. Damned. Wait.

Evelyn had lost track of the time, lost track of the times as well. Unrepentant sinner that her love is, he had venerated every inch of her with tongue and hand and cock til they were spent. Now they lay entwined, satiated. Bound to the limits of stamina, regardless of how extensive Templar training may be or how fortunate he is to be Fereldan.

It should be cold; they were naked, atop rumpled sheets, with that hole in the ceiling - I need to see the stars, need the open - but Cullen is fire, hot to the touch, even as the sweat cools on him, and she's more than warm enough from it. Shifting, she curled into his embrace, fingers splaying across his chest to trace old scars and new scratches.

His arms are heavy around her as he mumbled sleepily, his laughter shaking the both of them. It's a deep, contented sound, and bloody Antivans, may they never know, but it does sound like a purr.

"You should sleep," she admonished, and he grumbled in response, rolling on his side with her in tow. A soft, sleep addled smile greeted her before Cullen pressed his lips to her forehead, a pleased noise escaping him, amber eyes gazing at her affectionately.

"'M not done with you."

She has two thoughts on that. One, he's adorable, and she resolves to wear him out more often to hear his mumbled Fereldan accent and see his sleepy smiles.

Two, "what more could you possibly want of me?" She laughed, burrowing into his chest. He smells of sex and leather and sweat and musk, and he shivered as Evelyn wrapped her arm around him, her hand resting on the lower curve of his spine, fingers idly running up and down the bone.

"More," came the simple reply. Cullen rolled her onto her back, propping himself up on his arms over her, his half smile both wolfish and drowsy.

Void take her, she has to laugh. More, he wants more, when it's been hours and he's half asleep and she knows, come morning, she will ache in all the best ways? "I concede, my Commander's stamina is unmatched."

He snorted, dipping his head to nuzzle her breasts, and a moan fled her lips at the scratch of his stubble against oversensitive flesh. "I want that in writing," he murmured to her cleavage, apologising with his tongue for the chafing. His hands rested lightly over her ribcage, and his thumbs swept idly at the skin below each breast, at the unknown scar.

Evelyn frowned slightly at the attention, and he trailed a line of kisses to the silver-white mark.

"It was a punishment."

She answers his unspoken curiousity as calloused fingers followed the thin line to where it disappeared into shadow, into skin obscured by the mattress. A sharp blade, wielded by someone dark with steady hands did this to her. Marked her permanently, an unwanted reminder.

"It's-" Ugly. Painful. Unwanted. Disgusting. Vile. She hates it. It's the only scar she doesn't treasure for the lesson it taught.

But she doesn't get to finish the thought, yelping instead as teeth sunk into her side, hard. Cullen soothed the tender skin with a kiss before she pushed him off with an irritated grunt, her fingers flitting over the spot to check for damage.

"Now it's mine."

"You- what?" Evelyn does not understand the logic that might have spurred him to bite her, and he chuckled sheepishly, leaning in to kiss her softly. It may not have been his smartest move, but it certainly distracted her from her memories.

"I claimed it. It's not a punishment anymore, Evvy. It's one more reason why I love you."

She blinked up at him, confusion on her face for a moment. Oh, what a sweet fool he is. Sweet, and sleepy, and unguarded. It's all too easy to flip him to his back, straddling him. Her loose waves tumbled over her shoulders as Evelyn stared down at him, a sly smile on her face. "Does this mean I get to bite you?"

Maker's breath. Cullen chuckled, warm hands cupping her arse and pulling her forward, his cock brushing against her thigh. She made an amused noise at the discovery that he's hard again, unashamed that the knowledge stirs the heat in her belly once again. "Depends on where you try to lay claim to," he grinned, pushing his hips up off the bed, teasing, a little more awake than before. "But if you want to, it would be only fair."

"My Commander is most kind," Evelyn laughed, leaning down to kiss him. Her hips canted down with the new position, sliding his length along her entrance and Cullen groaned. Dragging rough fingers across her hip, he slid the hand between them, searching out her sex.

"It is wholly selfish, I must admit." She raised an eyebrow, opening her mouth to say something, to question him - does he really want her biting him - only to have the words twisted into a moan as he slipped a finger between her folds. Void take him, she was wet, trembling above him.

She pressed another kiss to his mouth, tongue flicking the scar on his lip as she withdrew and sat back. "If you call this being selfish," she stressed with a wiggle of her hips, one hand splayed on his chest - Maker may she never tire of the flex of his muscles and how steady he feels - and the other traveled down between them to grasp his cock. "Then I must be downright rude for neglecting you."

Cullen smirked, leaving his teasing to grasp her hand, squeezing slightly, drawing a moan from himself as her smaller fingers wrapped tighter. "I wanted to do all that for you."

Well. Fuck.

He's perfect.

He's teasing her with a hand on her arse and her hand on his cock and he's still able to be Void damned gallant.

Evelyn is never letting him go.

She guided him inside, hips rolling and walls clenching tight. It's been a long night and he won't last so she's slow, deliberate as she rocks against him. He keeps the one hand on her arse, the other swiping across the claimed scar, the indentation of his teeth, reaching for her breasts as they bounce enticingly. Evelyn swears and blasphemes as he pulled up to a sit, his mouth covering what his hand cannot.

She fisted a hand in his hair, tugging his face off, up to hers. "Too much," she cautioned, the skin too sensitive, aching, the pleasurepain sneaking solely into pain territory. But, Maker, she ground her hips against him again, again, she doesn't want to deny him anything.

Cullen's breath hitched and a groan died in his throat as she placed fluttering kisses along his neck, tongue wicked against his earlobe. The way she moves, Andraste preserve him, they should have started with this. Done this sooner. Done this and only this. Her on top is an angle that fucking works, as much for the sensation of her riding him as the view.

And oh, what a view.

In the end, it's watching her that undoes him. Watching her tilt her head back, her eyes sliding shut as she rolled down on him, her hand running through her hair and bunching it to hold it out of the way, Void. Fucking. Take. Him.

He tried to buck her, refusing still to taint her with his release, but she grabbed his wrists, pushed him back against the mattress, earnest. "It's okay, Cullen. I want you to."

The words tip him over, fire in his veins as he spilled inside her with a strangled growl. She smiled softly, waiting for his frown to relax before cupping his face and kissing him softly. A roll of her hips had him shuddering and she clamped her walls around him with a needy whine, an exhausted chuckle her answer.

"You are..." Cullen trailed off, unable to find words, resorting to an affectionate, tired moan as he kissed her again. Reason is hard to come by; why hadn't he wanted to finish in her before? Maker, all he can think is that he needs to do it again.

Rolling off to lay beside him, Evelyn giggled. His seed mixed with her arousal creeping down her thigh, and she ached, but she didn't care. Cullen managed to free one of the sheets from under them, draping it over their legs before dropping a heavy arm over her, tugging her back to him.

The Fade claimed him shortly after, lips pressed to the crook of her neck, her hand in his.

Sleep does not, cannot come easy. Any other night and he would work himself to the point of exhaustion at his desk, only to lay on the floor beside his bed doing push ups until his arms gave out to ensure some measure of time spent asleep.

But this is not any other night, and this exhaustion is much more pleasurable. Cullen sleeps soundly until he doesn't, jerking awake, and is more than a little disappointed as the fog dissipates and his outstretched arm collides with nothing. Face down in his pillow, one that still carried the scent of elderflower, he patted blindly, finding only cool sheets on either side of him. A low groan sounded as he pushed himself up and he blinked.

It was morning.

But not early morning. Not pre-dawn. Not his usual waking time at all.

The sun had risen and Skyhold was awake before him. He wanted to enjoy the rarity of the situation, but his otherwise empty bed troubled him. Low voices and the thud of boots traipsing through his office stirred him to action, and he scrubbed the remains of sleep from his face with a heavy hand, sparing a glance at the headboard as he clambered from the bed.

Though dried and browning, the elderflower crown she'd left him adorned the bedpost still. Another gentle reminder of her presence in his room, his life, his heart.

To work, Cullen thought glumly, eyeing the thin layer of ice in the ewer before he dumped a hand in, choosing efficiency over ritual as the cool water revived him. He was tugging his boots on over clean breeches when Rylen shouted up to him.

"Oi, Sleepyhead! Some of had a late night but you don't see us taking our sweet time this morning! Hurry up or your breakfast is forfeit!"

Barris' booming laugh overshadowed the chuckle of a scout, and Cullen shook his head with an amused snort. Few would dare talk to him like that, but it's one of the many reasons Rylen makes an excellent second. He swung down the ladder and padded over to his armor stand, cracking his neck before dressing, ignoring the men for a moment.

"'Bout ruddy time, Commander. Can't believe you left us waiting." Rylen huffed, hands on his hip as he watched Cullen pull on his uniform. "Maker, I left a lass to be on time for this meeting."

Barris snorted. "I thought it was two?"

"Oh, aye, but the one was leaving anyway," he shot back.

"Probably because she saw your face in the daylight and instantly regretted it," Cullen laughed, tightening his vambraces. "I am sorry, gentlemen, I guess I overslept and-" The words died in his throat as he looked up.

The scout, he expected, the man's hands filled with reports and requisition orders, his work for the day. Barris and Rylen, he expected, the two men standing to the side of his desk, the Free Marcher eyeing the tray of food that lay on it.

The tray, he had not expected, but welcomed. The smell of bacon had his stomach rumbling and he was desperate for a cup of tea to help him finish waking up.

The woman leaning back in his chair, feet propped on his desk, calmly slicing an apple onto the plate, he did not expect. Back in her leathers and tidy braid, Evelyn regarded him with amusement in her eyes. "It's amazing you slept at all, with how loud the Knight-Captain talks. Never mind how cold it must be up there."

Cullen had been worried, when he hadn't seen her in his bed. With how he ached, he knew it wasn't a dream, though the wilted and bruised blossoms on his floor upstairs were the only trace she'd been there. His stomach had sunk, mind awhirr with possibilities. All bad. Unworthy, the thought had stabbed him.

But this, this was good. She was here. She was smiling. She had brought him breakfast.

He laughed, rubbing the tension from his neck. "A soldier learns to sleep however he can, Inquisitor." He approached slowly, accepting the reports from the scout and sorting them into the relevant piles on his desk as Rylen snagged a piece of bacon from the plate. The scout saluted, practically fleeing from the room after glancing at the Inquisitor, the mans face red.

Curious, but not worth dwelling on.

The Marcher shrugged at Cullen's irritated grunt. "I had a long and busy night. Can't fault a man for being hungry."

"So go get your own food." He tugged the tray away from his fellow former Templar, the Marcher grumbling. Barris and Evelyn shared a laugh at the two as she pushed off the desk to stand.

"He's just mad you got room service," the Templar chuckled, crossing his arms. "Poor Ry-Ry ." The Knight-Captain scowled at the nickname, grunting. Oh, he would have revenge on Barris, a few words to Lysette, that was all he needed.

"Play nice, the Commander has a meeting in the war room once he's done with you two."

"Oh, aye, lass. And if I do, will you bring me breakfast too?" Rylen lent on the desk, a shrewd look replacing the scowl on his face.

She held out the partially sliced apple on the tip of her knife for him, smiling sweetly. "Is there a reason your two conquests didn't feed you, Knight-Captain?"

He chuckled, snatching the apple before she could rescind the offer. "Too busy doing other things. An' the one was a wee bit tied up, if you catch my meaning."

"Maker's breath, Rylen, Evelyn doesn't need to know about your night!" Cullen threw a slice of toast at him and the other man caught it with his free hand, ripping a bite out of it with a wink.

"Says the man who told me about walking in on Bull!" She laughed, making her way to the door. "Just don't spend too much time gossiping about sordid details, alright? Your food is getting cold, and you know how Josie gets when you're late."

No, no, no, that won't do. "Hang on." Barris and Rylen shared a glance, shrugging at each other as she turned back to them. "Go to the kitchen or something. We can go through the orders once you've eaten, I need a minute alone with the Inquisitor."

The two shared another look, Rylen smiling like the cat who ate the canary. Barris clapped him on the shoulder, pushing him past Evelyn to the door leading to the hall. "We'll be back shortly then, Cullen."

"I bloody told you," the Marcher hissed to his brother-in-arms, and Barris' booming laugh echoed as the door shut.

Cullen wasted no time in their absence, crossing the distance and tilting her head up to him. Maker, her eyes, unclouded and blue, looking at him fondly. They should have locked the doors and never left the bed. "Good morning," he murmured against her lips, grinning.

"Morning," she echoed, closing the distance for one, sweet moment, mirroring his smile.

He did not want sweet. He kissed her hard, holding her by the back of her neck, his other hand tugging her waist flush to him. "You should have woken me," he growled, insistent.

"You needed sleep," Evelyn laughed, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, her hands raking through his hair and ruining his hasty attempt to tame the curls.

Her Commander grunted, not willing to concede to her entirely too valid point. The cold bed had stung, no matter which way he looked at it. "And you didn't? I wanted to wake up to you."

Oh, her heart, the way his voice cracked, the furrow of his brow. She kissed his worry away. "You wanted wagging tongues less, I wager, and I needed a change of clothes. And a bath," she chuckled, ruffling his hair again, wrapping a prominent curl around her finger. "For what it's worth, it was very hard to leave you."

"Next time, I'll make it impossible."

Oh, Maker bless him.

"Just eat your breakfast. I'll see you in the war room."

They part, all reluctance, all duty and work. He's finishing up with Barris and Rylen when a messenger stops by with a note for him. Five words leave him rubbing his neck, a telling flush creeping across his skin.

The two share yet another knowing glance between them, but keep their mouths shut.

My Commander's stamina is unmatched.

He's done for.

Chapter Text

The drink goes down dark and bitter, brewed the way all women are taught to and never forget how. She picked the herbs herself while it was still dark, not wanting the looks, the questioning, the understanding. It's an easy choice, compared to the rest she has to make.

Her face speaks volumes to the taste of it, though.

"Honey, sweet. Won't change the result, but makes it better, unbitter. Sugar is a kindness you don't accept."

Evelyn spared a look at Cole as he ran a finger down the side of her mug, face obscured as always by his hat. "The bitterness is the point. Sweetening it makes it too easy to repeat."

"But you don't mean it as a punishment."

"No. Just a reminder."

He nodded, as much to himself as to her words, content with the answer. They sat in quiet comfort in front of the fire, Cole cross-legged on the floor and Evelyn in one of the overstuffed chairs as the brunette finished the brew, not bothering to hide her disgust at the taste from the spirit. Here, sequestered away in the Ambassador's office, it was easy to forget the bustle and urgency beyond the doors.

Easy, until they squeaked open and Josephine slipped in, flustered. Spotting her company, she threw her hands in the air. "Apparently, we are inconveniencing our guests with our preparations! The gall!"

Evelyn shrugged, nestling herself further into the armchair. "If they want to go to the Arbor Wilds, find an ancient Elvhen temple, and defeat Corypheus and his dragon, they are welcome to. I've been meaning to catch up on my reading."

The Antivan huffed, plopping herself into the chair opposite with a soft smile for Cole. "Half those Lords couldn't find their socks in the morning if their servants didn't fetch them, best we not ask them to go." It felt good to laugh, some of the tension lifting from them before Josephine suddenly looked thoughtful. "I wanted to ask you something. About... About the Commander."

If Evelyn paled at all, neither mentioned it. Her fingers gripped tight to the mug in her hands, and she smiled weakly. So much for slipping out early enough to avoid rumours. "What about him?" she managed with an air of nonchalance.

"Is it- Does it-" she cocked her head to the side, frustration marring her brow. "When you- His face-"

The Marcher snorted out a laugh, sympathetic if not confused. "I like his face just fine, Josie."

"That's not what I meant!" She huffed, squirming in the chair. "The scruff, do you-" she made an exasperated sound, wringing her hands, embarrassed.

"She wants to ask if you like it. The scratch. She thinks she does, tempering soft lips with harshness." Josephine flushed the prettiest shade of pink, lips parted in shock. They'd forgotten Cole was still seated on the floor between them, and he looked up, bemused. "Sorry."

Evelyn burst out laughing before she could stop herself, a hand flying to cover her mouth. Whatever she had been expecting the question to be, she certainly hadn't envisioned it being that innocent. "Oh. Yes. Most of the time. I don't think I'd like it that long, though. That would be too scratchy," she shook her head, composing herself. "So when you two disappeared last night-"

How Josephine managed to simultaneously blush harder and yet remain delightfully pink, she did not know. "We took a walk in the garden. He was very sweet, but when he leaned in, those bristles..." She trailed off, wistful and dreamy, clearly not bothered by the scratchiness after all.

"Oi, you talking 'bout beardy?" The door clanged shut as Sera stalked into the room. "He owes me a sovereign, he does. Changed the flag just like he wanted, though maybe his flag post was too busy to notice?" She sniggered, waggling her eyebrows at Josephine and making obscene gestures with her hands. "And you, Ev-bum, wanted your help, I did! You missed out on all the pranks," the elf pouted, crossing her arms as she plopped onto the ground where Cole had been.

Trust Sera to run around Skyhold the night before the army marches pulling pranks. Though, truth be told, had her night not gone the way it had, Evelyn would have been happy to help. So long as the new flag wasn't anyone's underwear. Again.

She held back a laugh, remembering the delightfully ruffly and dainty pair of smalls that had flown overhead for a full day. "Do I want to ask what you got up to, or should I just wait for the shouting to start?"

Sera stuck her tongue out, impudent. "Didn't do nothing mean. All for giggles, yeah? Not even Grumpsalot can complain."

"Grump- Oh, you mean Commander Cullen?" Josephine looked thoughtful before turning to Evelyn. "You know, I'm amazed he stayed as long as he did last night. He was still at the party when Blackwall and I took our walk. Leliana said he only left after talking with you."

Sera had cackled, making her obscene gesture again as she mouthed the word walk. Suddenly she sat upright, gaze fixed on the brunette. "Oi, is that why I couldn't find you?! I was going to put lard on the steps, would've been grand, but if you and Scowly were off squeezin' up on each other I'll be mad!" She pointed an accusatory finger, a scowl on her face.

It took every ounce of self control to not give herself away, and even then she was sure the two women could see her flush. Not that she was ashamed, not for that, not for giving in, not for sinking into warm hands and kind eyes and whispered devotions. But the night was personal, private, between her and Cullen and them alone.

And Sera had the biggest mouth.

"No. We were discussing strategy for a little while, that's all." It's not a complete lie, but her knuckles were white as they gripped the mug. At least, she consoled herself, the contents had been drained, removing that hint to her prior activities.

Sera, despite the confidence of Evelyn's tone, regarded her warily. "Suuuuuure. Bet you're real glad you don't have a door guard anymore to snitch you. S'alright though. Waste of tits, bet he doesn't know how to handle them, but whatever. Maybe Cass is still game, hers are as good as yours!" She made grabby motions with her hands, kneading invisible breasts with a lewd expression, utterly scandalising poor Josephine into silence.

Evvy,

I wanted to

The quill tapped against the desk, a steady beat of despair, words beyond reach. The parchment joined its compatriots on the fire with a defeated sigh. Something, he had to write her something, anything before he left.

It had taken roughly thirty drafts for him to perfect that first letter.

He'd already thrown twice as many sheets of paper to the flames this time.

Probably because, no matter how hard he tried, the letter always came across as a farewell. A read this and think of me when I'm gone letter. A soldier's last words to a love left behind.

When it didn't sound like a goodbye, it was crass and bumbling, idiotic.

He started again.

Red is the colour of life.

Red is the colour of the sunset.

Red is the colour of passion.

Red is the colour of fire.

Red is the colour that courses through his veins.

Red is the colour that cracks and twists and binds.

Red is the hiss of pacification and enragement.

Red is everywhere.

Red is a soundless scream shattering, over and over.

Red is all he sees, favouring the left, blade slipping from his sleeve.

Far away, Cole frowns. His words ring in his skull, tinkling like warning chimes. Green and blue and red and there's a blade-

"It's funny. After Haven, in the storm, all I could think was that it was wrong. I wasn't supposed to go down like that, I wasn't supposed to freeze to death. Fire, fire is how I go. Not anything holy, not on a pyre or anything, just... I always felt it in my bones."

She swung her feet over the edge of the scaffolding, shivering lightly with every gust of wind that buffeted them. These were words she needed to share, thoughts that had been plaguing her.

War plagued her.

"It's odd, isn't it? Thinking you know how your life will end."

The anchor plagued her, the wicked gash on her palm spilling Fade energy when her emotions surged. She was calm now - as calm as she could be - but she could feel the itch, ever present.

Below, her companion shifted on the walkway, glancing up. The only person she trusted right now, with this, and even so the words were hard to give life to.

"I'm afraid."

"We stand on the verge of battle, Inquisitor. Those who are unafraid are fools."

Earlier, Leliana's tenacious stare across the war table had Evelyn focusing on the map, on Morrigan, on the mountains outside the windows. Anything that wasn't her friends, her Commander. The people she cared about and had to ask to fight.

One single, short, stolen moment was all she had been able to take after. One single, short, stolen moment to tell Cullen to be safe - fight well, Commander, scratching the surface of all they meant to tell each other. One single, short, stolen moment to make up for the cold bed - there's nothing to forgive, absolution that sank in her gut heavy as a stone. One single, short, stolen moment before duty and work clamored for attention again.

"I'm not afraid for myself, though."

A sigh and the thud of gloved hands pulling a body up the scaffolding echoed before Cassandra was settling in beside her. "You said the same before Adamant. Your army proved itself capable then; it will do so again. And we, your friends, stand ready."

"Is it enough?"

"It has to be." The warrior patted her hand reassuringly, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "Varric owes us the next chapter of Swords and Shields, after all."

Evelyn snorted, leaning against her friend for the briefest of moments, not pushing the contact past what Cassandra would accept. Each of her companions was important, each had their strengths and flaws. For all her aloofness, Evelyn had come to adore her fellow reluctant noble. "He's been holding that over us for far too long."

"Ugh," the Nevvaran made her trademarked disgusted noise, "that dwarf is insufferable."

They distracted each other from heavier thoughts until there was no escaping the march.

Dorian is more than used to the wary glances sent his way, even after all this time. He is, after all, a reminder of who the enemy is. He is, after all, a dreaded Tevinter mage.

But he is, against all odds, welcome in the Inquisition. Welcomed to the Inquisitor's side, no less, a trusted friend and confidant. She is everything he loves in the world - aside from himself - and he keeps her safe as best he can. It had been a joke, drink and exhaustion the inspiration, but he knew she meant it the second she said she would handle the immutable Commander. He had seen the spark in her eye when she glanced at the stern man, the shy creep of a smile. Talking with Varric later had only confirmed his suspicions - dear Evie had a crush that went back to her early days at Haven.

What he wouldn't have given to be there then, to prod and poke her in the right direction. After all, if Cullen's tastes don't swing his way - more's the pity - then nothing beats making sure his best and only friend in the world is happy.

Instead of embracing it, though, she had set her heart aside. Fireside chats taught him she'd been broken once before; broken, and didn't know how to fix herself. Didn't think herself worthy.

It had sparked something in him, realising the things that bound them together - things that went beyond unquestionable good taste in former Templars.

And now he found himself wishing they could confide in each other, one more fireside talk, moaning about the weather and how cold the South gets, giggling about whatever tawdry serial she's been reading, wheedling small details from her about Cullen. Before, he'd never had anything to offer in return for the tantalising knowledge that yes, the Commander knows how to kiss a woman and take her breath away, or that yes, he's capable of the little showings of affection.

But now, now he wants to ask her how, exactly, they figured themselves out. How it went from her little crush to the anger to now, the flowers and the notes and the gifts and, Maker bless them, the sweet, shy, attempted hidden kisses and touches in various hallways. Oh, they try, but to someone actually watching, they are not subtle.

Dorian would be shouting it from the towers, if it were him. He'd have had Cullen bent over the war table five minutes in, in front of everyone, no hesitation. He wouldn't even have tried to be subtle.

Which was why he struggled now. The thing with Iron Bull had gone well past simple flirting - easy - and afternoon sex - enjoyable - to something different, something more. And it scared him.

He'd never had more before, and now that it looked like he had it, they were off to war.

Maker fucking take him.

Evelyn expected Leliana. It would have made sense for the redhead to corner her, to caution her. To be understanding but serious. To remind her of risk and obligation.

It's not Leliana that corners her.

It's not anyone that corners her.

It's a summons.

Suspicious and confused, she took the offered seat, sinking into opulent Orlesian crushed velvet and terse silence.

"Darling," the woman began, and Evelyn tensed on habit, hands clasped tight in her lap, expecting some new attack on how she's not holding up the image of the Inquisitor like she should. It's more than a surprise when Vivienne handed over a delicate looking glass vial, the liquid inside muddy, the exquisite and precise scrawl on the label Orlesian; les amants dernier souci. "Three drops in the morning and evening will suffice."

The brunette turned the vial over in her hands, fingers playing with the cork stopper. "I was unaware I was ill."

"Let's not play coy, Inquisitor." Vivienne tapped a thoughtful finger to her flawless cheek, expression blank. "You and I both know what that's for."

Her stomach rebelled as she held the mage's gaze, counteracting her earlier point, and a flush crept up her neck. Evelyn squirmed uncomfortably, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "How long have you known that I speak Orlesian?"

"Long enough, dear. And I'm not judging," she waved a hand at the little bottle, all grace and dismissal. "You are an adult, after all."

A lengthy silence hung between them, doing little to set Evelyn at ease. She flexed her left hand before making a fist, studying the movement of muscle and bone under her skin as she avoided the contents of the glass vial.

A heavy sigh drew her attention back up. "There's no shame in it; please don't mistake my intention. I only want you to be careful. You are an important woman, Evelyn, and important women always have men looking to find a weakness. Right now, whatever your hopes for the future may be, you need to be strong." Vivienne looked at her, eye to eye, unwavering and elegant, as if she was simply discussing the latest fashion news out of Val Royeaux.

"I drank the tea," the brunette shot back, challenging. How Vivienne knew what she'd done the night before she did not know, but she was determined to find out one way or another.

"As you should have." A sniff, another dismissive wave. "But if you find yourself on the road, say, or one herb or another is unavailable, that will help. Again, I'm not judging. If anything," she sighed, finally breaking the eye contact to stare out the window. "I'm happy you have found someone to care about."

Her heart broke a little, the image of Vivienne at Bastien's bedside flickering in her mind. She's said the words to him, accidentally, just the once, then a few times breathlessly in the dark of last night, and she tests them here, now. "I love him." Cullen's said it more times than she has, and something sharp stabs her heart. How callous is she, that it's easier to say it now? That it was easier to leave him in the early hours of the morning, rather than wait for daybreak? That it's easier to pretend to everyone else that nothing is happening between them? "I love him," she repeats, shaking her head, closing her eyes tight lest the pinpricks turn into tears. "How am I supposed to do this?"

She wasn't expecting an answer. She wasn't expecting anything. She got a soft hand on her shoulder, offering a reassuring and gentle squeeze. "You will because you must. Your lion de garde believes in you, yes? So do I."

Evvy,

I love you more than there are words to describe. Part of me wishes we had met before, but all of me knows you would not have liked me then. Honestly, I'm surprised you care for me now. I have not always been a good person, despite what I tried to tell myself.

But with you, I know I can be better than before. I have to be, for you. For there to be an us. And I want there to be an us, more than anything. When this is over, whatever else we may have to do, I want to be by your side.

It terrifies me, feeling this way. But it also feels right. I will do everything I can to deserve you.

Keep safe, and know that I will be your shield if you need it in the battle ahead.

Cullen

He slipped the letter into her saddlebag, nestled safely next to a fresh bottle of whisky. There's no telling when she'll notice the addition, but he has faith, more than he's had in a while. Faith, and luck, kept safe in his pocket.

War is hell, isn't that what they say?

Steel and blood and noise and chaos.

But that's the fight, the battle, not the war itself. War is a monster, a creeping inevitability. War is pervasive and invasive and consuming.

War is hell, because there is no clear start or end to it. A battle starts with the clash of swords, the spilling of blood. A battle ends with a victor. In war, a whisper or a shout can stir the flames. In war, everyone can lose.

War is hell, but no one tells you about the silence.

Skyhold does not host it's entire army at any given time. Most of the men live and train and drink in the forward camps. But when those men are mobilized, given purpose, Skyhold notices the absence. The fortress starts to fall quiet.

Pieces on a map like pieces on a chessboard, maneuvers planned from above that need to be put into action.

It's a heavy weight to bear, for one who didn't want it. It's a heavy weight for them all.

The Inquisitor spent her morning moving pieces on the board, and now her afternoon watching the men gather to march. Most of the work has to be done in the forward camps, the supplying, the loading, the final orders. But the men stationed in the fortress still have work to do, and their Commander sees them off.

Every man and woman that steps through the gate, he sees off, until there's just one company remaining. The one he will ride with.

It's her turn to see them off.

War is hell.

The men stand at uneasy attention, nerves and fear shaking their hands. But their Commander, her Commander, strides easy, calm. Armored and armed, silverite lion head at his waist as he inspects them. He'll not wear it for the fight - he didn't at Adamant - but for now, for the march, the Lion of Fereldan stands ready.

Satisfied, he swings up onto his Charger - white, blinding like the snow, because of course - and gives her that half grin before pulling his helm on. "We'll see you on the field, Inquisitor."

She nodded, eyes downcast. Watching him ride with the army is going to be hard enough without saying goodbye. Knowing she has a detour to the Graves before she can join him. Them. The fight.

Andraste preserve him. She needs him whole from this.

Her fists clench as she looks up, strong and determined, digging deep for duty. She's said all the other words he needs to hear, and now all she has is the Chant in her mind. "Commander."

Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,
I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm.
I shall endure.
What you have created, no one can tear asunder.

She blinks, cheeks tinged pink as he holds his hand out to her. "To your victory," he echoes an earlier sentiment, waiting for her to accept the gift. For a moment, eyes locked, they aren't Inquisitor and Commander. For a moment, there is no war, no Breach, no Skyhold, no duty or work or titles or expectations. There's only amber on blue, warm and kind. Loving.

The moment passes, as it must, and he spurs the Charger on across the bridge, leaving her with a sprig of elderflower and the lingering warmth of his hands.

Chapter Text

"I love you."

"And I you. Now sleep."

"How can I, when I finally have you in my arms?"

"Because we have things to do tomorrow. Today," she corrected, sparing a squinted glance at the hole in his ceiling and the not quite dark sky beyond. "Important, serious, life-changing things."

"You are an important, serious, life-changing thing."

Evelyn smiled, pulled herself up to reach his face. Her lips were soft and insistent against his, her hands roaming to his arms to tug him into a roll, reversing their positions. Maker, this man had her heart. She kissed him again, again, lazy but determined, one hand gently stirring him to life.

"I love you. I always have," Cullen murmured, a hitched groan slipping from him as she wrapped a leg around his waist, pulling him down, in. One more time before dawn, Maker, just give him one more time. He prayed silently, desperately. "And I always will."

Rylen would have called him out on his behaviour, he's sure. Dawdling at the camps on the main road, all efficiency at the ones not - Cullen had tried to chance a run in with Evelyn. To what end, he did not know. Letter aside, he had forced himself to be hyper focused on his work and preparations, knowing that if he didn't he would run the risk of losing himself in her all over again. The war table had been one thing - though he was concerned that Leliana could read his thoughts from the way she'd smirked at him, catching his eyes roaming, remembering - but the brief moment away from prying eyes, Maker. Her voice had trembled ever so slightly, she'd been so apologetic, each kiss a heartbreak.

All he had wanted was to drag her back to her room, lock the door, throw her on the bed and-

And something. His mind had ground to a stop, flipping through too many memories at once to make sense of what he wanted beyond simply her in his arms.

Evelyn, loosing her arrows at demons in the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, glib in the face of her fear. Tracking him down with the recruits outside Haven to talk, discuss why he thought the Templars were a better option than the mages without the others countering his every word, voicing her own disagreements carefully and letting him prove her wrong or right. Sitting in the little tavern, smiling with Sera and Iron Bull as the pair argued drunkenly and loudly around her. The first time she'd gotten mad at him, all glares and indignation before apologising, a shy smile for his four words of absolution. Brushing the horses down, humming softly under her breath as she worked in the firelight, sneaking a moment for herself at the end of yet another long day. The reminder of her nobility, watching her daintily sip tea with Vivienne and Josephine, a hard hit to the gut for a man who was getting used to seeing her as a normal person despite the anchor. Dropping off bundles of elfroot to the apothecary, affable and sweet despite Adan's mood. The determined set of her face when she returned with Barris and his men in tow, the flicker of pain on her face as she stabalised the Breach. Brave in the face of certain death where moments before they had all been so happy. Stumbling in the snow, into his arms, the feel of her hair tickling his chin and the startling realisation that, seeing them up close for the first time before they slid closed as exhaustion took over, not only were her eyes blue but they were like the cloudless sky, vast and encompassing, more captivating than the philter of blue lyrium he still held on to.

Pulling him aside, nervous, asking if he'd keep it between them, wanting to learn better the sword. Her joy the first time she'd knocked him down. Drifting around Skyhold, trying to help where she could with the reconstruction. The time he'd caught her, dressed as a scout, and she'd begged him to play along. The absolute glee on her face when he had - and his dismay when it lead to thankfully short lived rumours that the Commander had a favoured scout for, ahem, extra-curricular activities. Catching himself, thinking of her in his mind not as the Herald, not as the Inquisitor, not even as Lady Trevelyan, but Evelyn - Evelyn that read in the library curled up in one of the chairs when she found time, Evelyn that stole naps in the stables, Evelyn that snuck into the kitchens at night with Sera to bake and make mess, Evelyn that started to prowl his dreams for better or worse despite his best efforts - though if he was honest (and he wouldn't be, not about that) she had been doing that almost since the day they met. Her sheepishness, admitting they had killed a dragon. Or two. Or three. And only told them about it by the fourth because it wasn't a big deal but the locals wanted to say thank you.

The first time he'd seen her as Lady Trevelyan the Inquisitor, bantering with nobles in the newly reconstructed great hall, all poise and grace and neatly clasped hands and everything he knew he couldn't touch. The first time they'd played chess in the garden - he still wasn't sure if she'd won fair and square or if he had been that distracted. Catching her, yet again, dressed as a scout so she could play with some of the children, telling them stories and holding them up on the horses, tilting at pretend Darkspawn and Venatori. He had given her away that time, his headache getting the better of him, and she had been mad, silently glaring when they crossed paths until he apologised for ruining her subterfuge. Her patience, when he had told her of his decision to quit lyrium, her concern, her questions, wanting to understand and support.

Hearing the horn blow, signalling her return, and realizing he was glad she was back but somehow unable to do anything other than admonish her for taking risks, irritating her to the point of contention. The cold twist of fear in his gut any time they received word she'd been hurt and the absolute panic of seeing her, arm drenched in blood, slipping from her saddle. That one time he had been looking for Cassandra and found the two of them, heads together, pink cheeked, huddled conspiratorially over a book that looked suspiciously like a romance serial, whispering to each other. Cursing himself for not being braver as she twirled about the dance floor with Florianne like she belonged there, like all she was missing was the dress. Finding himself wishing she had one instead of their uniform and that he possessed the required skills to sweep her off her feet - not only to stop the court from pawing at the both of them, but so that he could feel her in his arms, selfish and unworthy though those thoughts were.

The split second of panic when she vaulted his desk, the rush of adrenaline when her lips touched his, that first, sweet, life affirming kiss, dooming him and his ill-advised infatuation with the hope that she cared, that she might ever actually love him because Maker knew he loved her and had for far too long. Every kiss since that first, sweet and heart wrenching and gentle and indulgent and stolen and fierce and perfect, each one just perfect because it was her he was kissing. Her, in the tent, braiding her hair, pinning him down, silently asking permission from between his legs, shy after. In the war room, ripping his heart and hope from his chest. Receiving word she and her companions had disappeared into a rift, further destroying him. The sight of her disheveled and desperate, small and weak and human that had made him ashamed for ever treating her differently as the Herald. The fragile weight of her in his arms in the aftermath of Adamant that had him wishing she'd never been gifted the anchor, that she could be a normal person. That she could push past everything that was stopping her and let him love her. And when she had let the words slip, practically shouted them, it had made it worth it in some way he couldn't find the words to describe.

Her hands guiding him through holding the bow, soft but well practiced. Her elegant penmanship suggesting a chess game by messenger, as they were separated by too many steps and obligations. Her in his arms, flowers in her hair, poetry on the mind. Her, swearing profusely against his lips as she showed him what it took to make her quiver and unravel. Her, warm fingers tracing his jawline and not caring who saw. Her, curled up in his lap, reading softly to each other. Her, his sword in hand, proud and resolute. Her, adorned by flowers in a crown like he had always pictured, perfect and real and his. Her, arm linked in his and paying attention only to him for as long as she could. Her, oh Maker, her, on his desk, in his bed, under him, legs entwined and his fingers tangled in her hair, the night sky in his hands and the clear sky of the day in her eyes - all the heaven he'd ever need and more above him.

And him. Learning her contrasts inch by precious inch; soft skin and toned muscle indicative of a life of relative luxury and dedication to the bow; warm hands but cold feet, literally; ticklish with certain touches to specific places; bashful and sweet then demanding and wicked. Him. Taking his time to coax every possible noise from her, to coax the words from her again. Him. She loved him.

Maker, if the lyrium leaves him with only one thing, let it be that. Better it leave him as whole as he can be now, but if it takes anything, he prays it takes only the before and none of her, none of that night.

All that and more rolled through his head and he could not - would not - afford the distraction. He had kissed her the way a soldier kisses their love when he knows he goes to war and might not return -all desperation and longing, fear and finality - tucked his memories away, and focused. It had worked, for a while, but his mind had drifted back to her with every Inquisition member that walked past him at the gate.

So Cullen had put his heart on show - foolishly or bravely, that he did not know either - and now the gossip chain had done its work. The news had, against all odds, traveled faster than his mount, and at every camp there had been whispers and looks, making it harder to focus, easier to dawdle. Even Barris would have called him out on his behaviour, he's sure, and last he saw of the Knight-Commander was the man dragging Lysette aside to his tent.

Rylen probably would have forgiven him for wanting to head back up the mountain when night hit, at least. To find which camp Evelyn had stopped at, spend one more night mapping the hills and valleys of her body. To hold her, comfort himself that they would get through this and survive. To wake with the dawn and find her there, beside him, nestled against him, safe and loved.

Instead all he had to lull him to sleep that night and the ones after was the sight of her, smiling softly, elderflower in hand as she bid him not goodbye, but see you soon, the promise of victory on his shoulders.

"It sounds like you're accusing me of cheating."

"No, Seeker. Just thinking you may have tilted the scales in your favour."

"Varric's right, it's not fair!"

"Piss off magey, you're just mad he didn't take her over the horse. Oh! Would that even work? Nah, too bump bump wham splat, there's the ground, probably."

"You're all missing the point."

"Do enlighten us, Bull."

"'Course I got no point, I'm a girl."

"Maker's breath Sera, do you have to turn everything into a penis joke?"

"Can it beardy, still mad at you for snogging an' not pranking!"

"Guys. The point. Big, bad, tough, gruff Commander Cullen is whipped."

Cackled laughter rang through the air. The whole way down the mountain, it had been the same thread of conversation in one form or another, and Evelyn left them to it, grateful that Solas and Vivienne had remained silent on the topic. She rode with them, letting the others push on ahead. The weather was on their side and the passes clear, and they had made good time. What could take upwards of a week if you were unfortunate they had accomplished in a day and an evening and with the approach of sunset, the Orlesian foothills rolled out in front of them.

They had spent last night in one of the forward camps, trading stories and drink with the men and women around the fires. None of them had failed to notice Evelyn's disappointment that they had missed the Commander - he'd been and gone from that camp already before they got there, working his way down the camps to be at the head of the army when the preparations were finished. She had spent the night crammed in a tent with Sera and Cassandra, avoiding the elf's flailing limbs as best she could and pouring over a novel with the Neverran when it became clear Sera wasn't going to stop kicking them in her sleep.

She took the short straw again this night, and Cassandra shot her an apologetic look as they laid out the tents. Somehow, even when she had to share, Vivienne never found herself in the same tent as Sera. Almost like magic, that.

Still, she didn't mind too much. Squirmy though the elf could be, it was usually safer to be in the tent with her than not. Bees and rashvine rarely frequented her bedroll, though the odd slimy bug made its way in, more often an escapee than deliberate. And it could be worse, no one really enjoyed sharing with Bull; his horns had a tendency to find exposed flesh in the middle of the night. And Varric and Blackwall snored loud enough to scare a druffalo at times. She'd take a foot to the shin any day.

And it was nice, the whole inner circle travelling with her to the Emerald Graves. They had two rifts to contend with and it had been decided, though a little indirect, it was on the way to the Arbor Wilds anyway. The army needed time to get there and this way, if all went to plan, they were slated to arrive at the arranged spot shortly after them. Morrigan had gone ahead, alone, and would meet them there, so for now it was just the ten of them.

Though.

Maybe Iron Bull and Dorian could have traveled separately.

Lace Harding is not afraid of heights, she just has a healthy respect for them. Which is why she's content to watch from the ground as Sera scaled the ruins, Evelyn in tow, both intent on scouting out the Fade Rift from a safe distance before heading off to close it.

As an added bonus, Dorian is more than happy to talk with her, filling her in on all the gossip he knows.

"Good on the Commander! Maybe now he'll stop sending me ravens demanding an update as soon as I see the Inquisitor. I swear, he can be so needy, all 'Harding, when you see the Inquisitor make sure she's well supplied; Harding, make sure the Inquisitor and her party have the latest maps; Harding, try to keep the Inquisitor away from any dragons you find; Harding, let the Inquisitor know we need her back by Tuesday.' Like I don't know my job, or you guys aren't crazy and stumble across the dragons by yourselves anyway."

Dorian laughed, filing that piece of information away for later and impressed with her Cullen impression. "They leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake, of course. Mine included, you know, it's absolutely devastating."

She snorted softly, tilting her head as she looked up at him. "Somehow I think you knew you were never going to win him over to your team, Dorian."

"A man can dream though, can't he? And oh, what dreams I've had," he winked as Iron Bull shook his head.

"Keep talking like that, kadan, and dreams will be all you have."

Harding smiled as the two started bickering like old lovers - well, lovers, certainly. How long that had been going on she couldn't guess though. Too many days spent out exploring Thedas to stay that up to date with everyone's romantic entanglements, sadly. But she was happy for the mage. And for the Inquisitor! Definitely a cute couple, that. Terrible bowman, but maybe the Inquisitor would fix that? The Inquisition could always use a few more good archers, maybe then there would actually be some competition. So far only Varric, Sera, and the Inquisitor herself had proven anything of a challenge.

At the very least, maybe it would help with the deluge of missives the Commander always sent her whenever the Inquisitor came her way. It was sweet though, in it's own way. With her new knowledge the repeated insistences that she not let the Inquisitor ride off any cliffs - it happened one time and it was only a very small one and everyone was fine and it wasn't even her fault anyway, who knew Dorian didn't know how to read a map? - or that she make it abundantly clear beforehand if they were expecting undead - it's really not her fault that Madame de Fer can't stand the stench of corpse gall on her robes, maybe next time she shouldn't explode the walking undead - or that she keep the Inquisitor from getting distracted by herb gathering or animal collecting or shard finding and overstaying on her trips - certainly not her fault that the Inquisitor was so hands on and helpful, geez! - all those little nags were actually, kind of, maybe a little bit sweet of him.

Which was ironic, because that man was one glare away from murdering someone at any given point in time. The last time she had been out to the Wastes, it seemed like half the men posted there had fallen afoul of the Commander.

Well, not her problem. Today she gets to watch the Inquisitor work, this rift too close to the camp site for comfort. Tomorrow, off to help clear the Arbor Wilds. After that, who knows! Depends on how the fight goes for everyone, but she's hoping to head out to the Frostback Basin sooner rather than later.

She shoots the Inquisitor a beaming smile as the woman clambers back down from her perch to gather her chosen compatriots for the rift, the formalities of saluting long since discarded between the two of them. Harding's not comfortable calling her by name but a shoot off behind the tavern after a pint or two is never beyond her when the opportunity arises, the two of them sharing an easy friendship stemming from a shared love of the bow.

If she wasn't already going to see the Commander in the Wilds, she'd think about writing him a report about how the Inquisitor got distracted by all the nugs out in the Emerald Graves and would be running late to the battle, though. He'd probably do that little growly harrumph he does when he's annoyed. Maybe mutter something about nug genocide for the benefit of the Inquisition. In which case - never mind. Best not to tease him now.

Poor, cute little nugs. She'll keep them safe from the Commander's wrath.

The Master promises revenge in exchange for obedience. A purpose for the pain. Red, not blue, and it burns in all the best ways, no mere dust snorted in haste but crystalline perfection, sown underfoot.

Red, as far as the eye can see.

He wears it and he ingests it. He uses it on others, bringing them into the fold, into the Order, such as it stands. Giving them the second chance he was granted.

They march, bolstered by Grey Wardens and Venatori, aided by conscripts, by opportunistic fools. They sweep through the Arbor Wilds with only the Master's purpose in mind; find the Well of Sorrows.

And where they step, they plant the seeds of red among the green.

Chapter Text

He can feel it. Everyone can feel it. The red sings sour around them, louder to those with lyrium in their veins. It's everywhere with a pervasive whine, hemming them in. It drips from the Red Templar corpses they have yet to dispose of, skips across the trees and grasses like it's caught in the breeze, buzzes around heads the same as the gnats, constant and pestilential.

It frays nerves already strung taut, blackens moods, inflames tempers.

But they push on, because how many times has their Inquisitor clashed with Red Templars? How many times has she encountered spires of the stuff and still kept going? Emprise du Lion was carpeted in red lyrium, the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes littered with it, the Storm Coast pocketed with it. She has not balked, no matter what they send at her.

And the Red Templars are not the only enemy they face in the Wilds.

Blue is a melody; choral, it echoes the Chant of Light in a Templar's soul. It is a leash of silken lies.

Red is a dissonant note; grating, it pulls the worst of a person to the fore. It is a shackle of ironclad harshness.

But the army is guided by their Lion; stalwart and true. Whatever he can bear, they bear. He does not falter despite the overwhelming odds or the red lyrium calling. He fells foes and shields from attacks and at the end, when it is easier to give in and collapse, he rallies them together again. The bodies of the Red Templars that they fell must be destroyed, and each one that burns lessens the pull of the song, offers relief.

The fires blaze bright, carving a bitter path through the Wilds.

Not everyone makes it. Not everyone survives, and it's all he can do to ease them into the next world as painlessly as possible. The transformation is horrific every time regardless. It should hurt him, putting his brethren through the change, but it doesn't.

Some of them might have known him before, but once changed, once infected the only thing that matters is the Elder One's will. Whether from Fereldan or Kirkwall, whether they had heard of the so-called Commander they now face or not, it didn't matter. It didn't matter if they had been friends, if they had drunk together, if they had butted heads over disciplinary measures; all that mattered is what Corypheus says.

Corypheus demands they burn, so burn they will.

An inferno, the Red Templars sweep the dense brush, ever onward.

It's easy to catch up to the army. There is no subterfuge, no hiding their tracks. They cut their way through the Arbor Wilds without concern, the Temple the only goal.

They'll see the Inquisitor stand triumphant over the enemy.

The ten of them are forced to ride carefully, the horses shying from still smoldering remains and the tang of blood in the air, the trees still thick and surroundings oppressive despite the clear path ahead. Magic crackles in the air around them, but the army they have amassed has done its job well and they encounter no foe to stop them. The rear of their forces are in view after a half days hard ride and it's with eager smiles they swing down from the saddles and join the men and women.

She doesn't let the smile slip as they give her tallies and names, but adjusts it. Not bright and easy, it's a grim and determined thing, one that understands their pain.

She can do this.

She has to do this.

She will end this.

Adamant was a siege, throwing themselves against defenses and barreling through. This is a race, and she swings back up onto Major's back with grace, a quiver at her back and a quiver at her side, an arrow notched in readiness. Dorian, Cassandra, and Blackwall she calls to her, the others to follow behind, later.

The army stretches out for more than a mile, less than three, and she wants to make it in further before they have to rest. She wants to be closer to the Temple, to the end. Josephine's smile is tight when she raises her hand. Her Commander is at the front, of course, but she has no other word on him. The Spymaster too, stalks the Wilds. As many allies as they could call upon are here.

Against Corypheus and his dragon, though, Evelyn wonders if it's enough.

The Lion tires, as all men must. The enemy is relentless, endless. They swarm across the Arbor Wilds without pause, intent only on finding the Temple, on finding the Well of Sorrows. But he has five words on a scrap of parchment to remind him to keep going, and faith, a solid weight in his pocket. The men whisper, in awe of their Commander, the man that lead the charge at dawn, the man that fought all day before that, the man that took the midnight watch without complaint. Andraste, give me strength like that, they pray.

The Venatori he does not mind. Tevinter cultist mages, he spares them no thought as he cuts them down. The Templars that remain on their side - men and women that still take lyrium - sing their Chant, sing their Silence and it helps as much as it burns. The blue spits and hisses within, begging and pleading, you should be taking it; you should be singing with them. But the Commander made a choice all those months ago, and what little lyrium remains in him now cannot spark, cannot join the harmony. He relies on the men and women of the Order that the Inquisitor saved, he relies on the Templars he brought with him to Haven. And it helps. These enemies are human, no more or less.

The Wardens he minds. Harsh though he was to them, as much as he hates what was done to him, as much as the events still haunt him, he owes his life to Alistair and Elissa. If it weren't for those two Wardens, he would have died at Kinloch. Or worse, shattered, caved, abandoned his tenuous grasp on hope and faith. So he cannot hate the men and women he fights now. He thinks he can understand, knows what it is to hear a song in your blood so overwhelming it commands all else. But his song brought the demons to him, and the Wardens here summoned theirs freely. He finds it hard to fight them, wondering what chance he would stand against the Hero of Fereldan, against the enders of the Fifth Blight, wondering if they are safe and hale and hearty, or if they did what Wardens must when they hear the Calling. Still, he is the Commander, and his blade finds what weaknesses it can in their armor.

The Red Templars he fears. Deep down, he cannot escape the fact that he might once have known these people. He might have trained alongside them, eaten at the same table, drunk at the same taverns, slept in the same barracks, knelt in the same Chantry. Each twisted, terrifying thing that lunges at him could have been a Templar he knew once, a man or woman that dedicated themselves to the same cause he had sworn himself to. Well, the glum thought came, I suppose we all abandoned the Order in our own way. They are the hardest to kill, and not just because the red lyrium is to be avoided, not because they have the thickest defenses, but because of what they once were. The Commander does not like the warped mirror he stares into with each swing of his blade, but he presses on. There is no other choice.

He hated, once, but now there is only red. He longed for, once, but now there is only the bitter buzz.

A purpose for the pain. A second chance. No Chantry yoke around his neck, now Raleigh Samson commands. No longer Knight-Templar but General. Hope, he brings the men, not despair. Red to blot out the echoing hollowness that the blue could leave.

Samson is here because Calpernia is weak. She is to be the Vessel, but there are cracks, and his armor is impenetrable. When she falls - when, there is no doubt of it in his mind - then he will be there to claim the Well for the Master.

For himself, he wonders if he can capture a Lion.

There's another that thinks to claim the Commander's head, but Samson knows the man in a way the other does not. He knows the lies the Chantry told them both, the lies the Knight-Captain swallowed and espoused. He does not blame the man for what happened to him, no, he knows he was responsible for his own actions. He does not hate, because there is no room for hate, just as there is no room for remorse. He offers all the elfroot he can, and deathroot when there is nothing else to do. But never, never does he waver in his convictions.

Sow the red, plant it and reap it.

Devour it, become it.

He hunts the Lion, of two minds and one goal.

The Master seeks the Well, a key to his ascension to Godhood. Calpernia seeks to be useful. The other seeks vengeance. The Templars he turned seek meaning. The Wardens seek life. The Venatori seek the Black City. But Raleigh Samson? What does he seek?

A single sour note for a single word.

Absolution.

She walks in beauty like the night.

They have read countless poems to each other now. Some meaningful, some nonsensical, some bawdy; they traversed the length and breadth of Thedas in verse, all cherished for the mouth the words spill from. None, for him, compare to the first.

Cullen hears the rallying call and knows without seeing that she has entered the fray. He can feel the hum of her bowstring echoing in time to his heartbeat, even though she is still far from sight, out of earshot yet.

A bloody war of attrition has led them to the steps of the Temple Corypheus seeks, and it's there that he holds the line. He plants his feet and raises his shield and for a moment, all is calm. For a moment, he and his men do not hold the attention of the enemy. They show their backs, unconcerned with the two dozen at the Temple gates, something pulling and lurching them from the front line.

Slaughter them all, the words sing in the blood, and he presses the attack, taking advantage, taking every advantage he can. The Red Templar archers focus first to raze their line, but Cullen has faith. Faith and fire bolts and archers of his own.

And his love, who walks in beauty like the night.

Where Blackwall and Cassandra wade in, swords swinging and shields repelling, the Inquisitor takes the high ground, and her arrows find their marks. Well practiced, used to fighting together, she lets her warriors take the field while Dorian bolsters her arrowheads with the stench of death, flinging his spells from the safety of her side.

He is too far still to hear her, but there's a grin on her face as she talks with Dorian, fingers teasing destruction with every pluck of her bowstring, and the mage smiles broadly back. The four are confident, and it raises flagging spirits.

The four are well versed at taking down Red Templars, and it doesn't take long for the field to clear.

He adds the image of her there - atop Elvhen ruins, bow in hand, leather armor muddied, proud and victorious - to the rest that he treasures, tucks it away safe.

And then he hits the ground, hard, knocked from behind. "Commander!" but the shout from his men comes too slow, too late to warn him of the Red Templar Shadow. Cullen is thankful for years spent in heavy plate; it grants him speed now.

He regains his feet and raises his shield in time to block the Shadow's attack, but it staggers him. He lost his grip on his sword when he fell, and he's being pushed further from it with each hit. Out of the corner of his eye he sees more of them, stepping out of stealth to surround the Inquisition forces. Pushing them from the steps, from the supplies they gathered there. A yellow-fletched arrow drives deep into the neck of the Shadow raining blows on his shaking shield, and he offers a silent prayer to Andraste.

But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion.

Faith in his pocket, faith on the high ground, Maker and Inquisitor. Both are watching over him.

Both watch as he is flanked; the Red Templar General on his left and a Horror on his right.

"Knight-Captain," comes the sneer, condescending.

"Commander," comes the Tantervale lilt, challenging.

And all around, a single sharp whine as the Red Templars close in.

Chapter Text

His jaw had cracked. His spine has shattered. His shoulders had ached. His knees had failed, driving him to the ground as he screamed.

Getting away had been easy; too easy, like they wanted him to escape the guard at the port. Getting rid of the spies trailing him had been harder, but achievable. Getting in contact with the supposed enemy had been child's play. Getting transformed had been the most exquisite pain of all, the highest blessing. Better than a steady hand and a sharp blade, carving a line over and over into virgin flesh. He cradled the shards of red that blossomed within, splitting his skin, twisting his easy smirk into something foul and dangerous.

Horror, the others cloaked in red had said.

So Horror he would be.

They had shown him how to summon the lyrium shards into his hand, how to fling them from the pulsing crystals on his back with deadly intent. He had not needed them to show him how to throw punches, but the barrier had it's uses. He cloaked himself in it now, hands painfully but elatedly twisted into fists.

The General had cautioned patience but the red coursing in his veins promised vengeance. The Master, the Elder One, he spoke to him, spoke to all of them through the lyrium, though they had never met. The Master did not care what he did so long as it resulted in death and the Well in his control. Her death, the warriors and mages and rogues she surrounded herself with, the army and allies she brought to her side.

He didn't say kill the Commander specifically, but he didn't say not to either. That was as good as permission, in his book.

His fist hit silverite, the former Templar's shield already raised again. Void, the man moved faster than he looked.

"Long time no see, Knight-Captain." The General's mouth split with something akin to a smirk as he moved his greatsword from hand to hand. A yellow-fletched arrow whirred past Samson's head, embedding itself into a Red Templar engaged in combat behind them, distracting it and giving the scout fighting it a chance to counter.

The Commander still had yet to regain his sword, but the General held him back with his weapon.

"I'll give you a choice. You can join us, if you want."

Shock registered on the mans face, his shield dropping slightly. "You're insane, Samson. You cannot think I would want to be one of those things, give myself over to corruption."

He cackled, hefting his greatsword. "Alright then. Hard way it is."

Nathaniel liked the hard way. He lunged for the former Templar, fists hammering his shield and pushing him back again, again. He didn't mind the pain, relished it, drew his arm back and punched again. Again.

"I can smell it, you know. Naughty, naughty, Knight-Captain. Not taking your ration?" Samson sneered once more, greatsword bouncing harmlessly off the Templar-branded shield. Still yoked by old allegiances.

The Commander withdrew slowly, pushed back and away from the temple steps, from his sword, but Samson's blows were lazy. Judging by the glare from beneath the heavy helm, the former Templar knew he was being toyed with. Just as he knew what the twisted Horror stalking him used to be - who it used to be. The thing has dark eyes and a wicked smile as it summons red lyrium into its hands, tossing them from palm to palm.

"You always did think you were better than the rest of us, always keeping your hands clean." The rest of Samson's rant was lost in a nearby explosion of magefire, dirt and debris raining down on them. It was enough of a distraction to land a shield bash and feint, spinning to the right. If he could just make it ten feet more to the fallen soldier-

Pain lanced through his left shoulder and echoed in his head, a bright and blinding flash of white and red and sourness that had him stumbling the last few steps and he dropped to his knee, gritting his teeth. Reaching behind him he pulled free the errant spike of lyrium that had wedged itself between the joints of his armor, tossing it aside quickly. It hadn't gone deep, thank the Maker, but it had hit with enough force to warp the silverite, adding to the discomfort, making it awkward to raise his shield.

How in Thedas could he ever justify sending his men against these monsters? How could he ever let his Evvy fight these things over and over? They felt nigh unstoppable, and with Samson at the head, what hope did anyone else have? They could turn anyone, if Nathaniel was an indicator. They didn't just take people for fertilizer like they had at Sarnia; they corrupted them into even more troops, wringing out every last drop of usefulness a body could offer.

His hand curled into a fist around the hilt of the longsword, and he wedged it into the ground as a crutch as he hauled himself to his feet once more. All around him, battle raged and blood spilt freely from friend and foe alike. Red Templar Shadows fluttered in and out of combat, Red Templar Knights hammered blow after blow down on Inquisition warriors, but at least the Red Templar Marksmen had all been dealt with. Several sported telltale yellow-fletched arrows, proof the Inquisitor had their backs. Cassandra and Blackwall had their hands full with a Behemoth, taunting it one way and the next as Dorian aided them at chipping away its defenses.

And Evvy, his Evvy; his gaze drifted to the ruined archway where he had seen her before, but there was no one there. Panic set in. When was the last time he'd noticed an arrow, any arrow, yellow fletching or otherwise fly past? His shield drooped, heavy and awkward on his injured shoulder as his thoughts threatened to tumble out of control.

But no. He is no mere soldier. Neither of them are new to the field, and he trusts in her because he loves her; he believes in her and knows, in turn, she has faith in him. If she is no longer on the high ground it is because she found a better spot to rain destruction from. She has never faltered, no matter what demons have stalked her. She has drawn her strength to herself and persevered.

Blessed are they who stand before

The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

Cullen will not falter against a demon of his own making.

The Arbor Wilds cry out with the sharp crackle of elemental magic and the metallic crashes of swords and shields. Battle joined, fierce and fraught.

And hilarious.

Give Shiny her gold fletch (gold, that's what it is, no matter how much she says it's yellow) any day, Sera's arrows are blood red from broadhead to feather, all the darker when they find their mark.

And find their mark they do, with a splat, a hurk, the odd gurgle.

One or two annoying thunks when they go wide or a shield catches them, a few pings when they lack sufficient force to penetrate protective metal layers.

She cackles with each enemy she brings low, with each swing of Bull's heavy axe that decapitates and destroys. She chuckles softly, fear and awe (don't tell them that, they'll get big heads and Eggy is already too much head as it is) for the spells that burn and freeze and maim, cast from fingers and staves. She grumbles with irritation for every shot a crossbow bolt takes before her arrows, for every slicing hit Cole lands that could have been her foot, crushing a throat, stomping a hand.

And then she cackles again as she wreathes herself in fire or ice or lightning or bees, turning the elements into her friends as she skips across the battlefield, following the path so thoughtfully laid out for them.

She walks in fucking beauty like the night.

Except she's running, out of arrows, out of options, bow strapped in place on her back, and she hurtles into him with all the force she can muster. It's enough to knock him from his feet once again and bring his shield arm up, deflecting the blow that would have ended him, could have ended her in his stead. The red blade skipped uselessly across the metal with a screech and he winced at the noise, at the jarring pain in his shoulder. They fell into the shallows, cold water shocking as it soaked into his bones.

Time stopped, Trials in his mind, on his lips unbidden.

I am not alone. Even

As I stumble on the path

With my eyes closed, yet I see

The Light is here.

She lay atop of him, his arms protective and shield covering her back, her blue eyes searching his face for any sign of distress. Him? When she was the one with blood caking the side of her face - when had she been hurt? - muddied and bloodied clothes - how badly was she wounded, to be in such a state? - empty quivers - how many arrows must she have loosed? - and shaking hands - steady, love, be steady - against his plate?

They needed to move, he knew that. They needed to get up, or else Evelyn had only postponed the inevitable and moreover, sacrificed herself. And he could not allow that.

This was his fight.

Without her everything was lost.

He would be lost, and he never wanted that again.

Time moved.

Cullen rolled them to the side, narrowly missing the red blade again. It took effort, too much effort for the two of them to regain their footing - what was she thinking?! - and he pushed her toward the temple, imploring her silently to run, gain the steps, get to the supply cache, find the Well.

Void take her and her stubborn pride and her damned compassion.

Evelyn snatched a discarded quiver that still held some arrows - she didn't stop to look, to think if it had lain beside someone she knew or not - tugged her bow free from her back, notched and loosed.

Notch.

Breath in.

Loose.

Breath out.

She doesn't have the distance on the General, on the lumbering Horror to make an effective hit, and instead focuses on the Shadows, pressing her back to Cullen's, making him her shield. Something dark and sticky starts to seep onto her leathers and she tries not to think about seeing a shard of red lyrium dig into his shoulder.

"You have to go!"

"Not yet," she muttered, counting out how many arrows she had left. It's not enough, and the Shadows draw closer to their men.

"I am ordering you, Evelyn. You have to make the Well before Corypheus or all is lost. I can take Samson." There's a slight shake in his voice that she wants to blame on the wound, but she knows what red lyrium feels like to her. How much worse is it for him, already so attuned to the blue?

And she feels like she should recognise the name. There's something deeply unsettling about how human the Red Templar General still looks, and it's clear that he has history with her Commander. And the Horror, with it's dark eyes, disturbs her further. The two focused solely on Cullen when they took the field, behaviour she's never seen before in an enemy she's become quite well versed with.

Another breath, another arrow.

"Let her stay, Knight-Captain. Maybe when she dies for you, you'll reconsider my offer."

Oh, Void fuck that guy.

Cullen grunted as he blocked again and they separated as he lunged forward, pressing his attack. Evelyn knelt as she lined up another shot, hitting a Knight right in the eye slit with a victorious little grin. Rolling back to her feet she grabbed for another arrow; two left. Looks like she will have to get to the steps sooner rather than later to resupply.

The next arrow breaks the string on her bow, leaving the last one useless until she can restring it. Turning her focus to the battle right behind her, her heart swelled with pride and concern; her Commander is a bulwark like no other even with his shield arm wounded, and he is more than capable of blocking the lyrium shards and greatsword that his two opponents sling at him.

"Go," he snarls without looking, no doubt feeling her hesitate at his back.

Or maybe it's the anchor he feels, flaring to life as the corrupted dragon flies overhead.

They're out of time, it seems.

Her companions have finished with the Behemoth and make for the temple entrance, Dorian waving her on, urging her to join them. It takes too much of her strength to take a step.

"Hold the line, Commander. I'll be back."

He shadows her first few steps, protecting her back before she springs into a dead run, Dorian's barrier snapping into place to replace Cullen's silverite. The steps give her the longed for advantage of distance and her fingers are quick with the restringing, Blackwall and Cassandra their shield as the mage slides fresh arrows in her quivers, stuffing them to the brim. She kisses the arrowhead - for luck, to victory - and takes her stance, drawing the fresh string back with all her might, all her strength.

All her love and determination and stupid pride.

Fire crackles down the length of the shaft as Dorian runs a finger over it and she sets her sights. One last arrow before she goes. The last arrow she had salvaged, yellow fletch; rescued from a fallen Inquisition soldier.

I have faced armies

With You as my shield,

And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing

Can break me except Your absence.

It's not the Maker she prays to.

She lets it fly.

Thrum goes the bowstring. Snap against fingers covered in cordovan.

"See that!"

Her grin is bright, sunshine and Andraste's knickers, not buttercups, no, never fucking shitty buttercups, fuck Varric for ruining little flowers with his stupid prose. Elderflower, maybe she'll steal those from Inky with the same ease she braids them into the chestnut hair. Lithe fingers used to death brightening up the dark tresses with that stupid notion of love. Ugh. No. Fucking shitty elderflower.

No flowers, then. Shite.

Piss on a brick, that irritating curly-haired dolt ruining her happy times. Ruining her Inky time.

Sera loves her Inky, she does. Loves her the way someone who doesn't know what it is to win loves. Loves for the loss. Loves her like a sister and a friend and a mother and a saviour and, fuck, piss, frig, she just fucking loves her, okay? Nothing wrong with that.

Inky is the best thing. End of.

Bits up.

Face down.

Thunk.

"Piss!"

Raisins. This forest is fucking raisins in the cookie of life.

Thwack.

Crack, fucking dwarf, throwing traps about.

Squelch, bloody perfect, that was, Iron Bull hefting his axe from a caved in chest of a once-Venatori. She thinks. Probably. All robe-y bits.

Is Inky having as much fun? Probably. She sees gold (because it's flipping gold, Inkness, you are all proper and posh at times, urgh) fletching here and there and most places, buried deep and deadly.

Love that woman, yeah? Knows her way around a bow the way only killers do. And Sera knows why Inky knows that, knows what drove those posh little fingers to pluck harder and faster. Stupid General Uptight knows too now, ugh. That. Those two. So sickening. All cute and blushing and hand holding under tables. It was better before, all the frenzy and near punches and biting, yeah, she knows Inky can be a biter.

A cackle escapes her. Hurk.

Telling the Littles to shove it had been fun, too. Who gives a toss about two angry people when the world is going to shit? Love though, fuck.

Nah, good for them.

Not going to let the lard go to waste next time, though.

Thwack.

Oh, fuck off Vivi-eurgh, "that was my kill!"

"Darling, do focus, there are plenty for you."

Ugh, no there's not. Too many raisins, not enough stabbity stab.

Sera smashes another flask of fire to her skin, shivering as the flames lick at her. Never say she doesn't get to go anywhere nice, do nice things, see nice things.

And friggin' piss, at least she didn't have to go into the Fade. Fuck that noise, yeah? Andraste's knickers, she can't even - no no nononononnononononnono fuck.

Red Templars ahead. All crack and slam and thunk and thud.

And clang. Well shit.

She knows that clang. Heard it waft through her window enough times. Skipping through the underbrush the elf skidded to a halt, ducking reflexively at the fwoosh overhead. Fucking piss-eating bloody dragons. And Inky takes serious face and beardy and Dor-snore over her and Bull?

Not.

Fair.

Clang.

Huh.

Shiny takes the steps of the temple like a coin hitting the tiles of a fountain. All splash and tink and right where you want it, glinting in the sunlight. Sera loves her Inky and that flashy bracer Dagna made. Oh Widdle, you little minx, mixing lyrium into silverite; straw into stone. Love love love. It's grand, yeah?

Fucking grand.

Clang.

Oh for fucks sake-

Ugh. The fuck you doing, Grumpsalot? Piss and shite and don't just block you numbskull! Maker, the arse is all boody and helm kicked off in the water and tired, yeah? What an idiot.

Gold (not going to tell you again you posh tawt!) fletch and fire streak to his aid, but the Horror thing (frig those guys are the worst) deflects it and it splashes uselessly into the water at Cullen's feet. He's speaking to the human red thing (what the frigging piss nope nope nope) and all clangs and clash and glower.

Shite, but he does a good glower, give 'im that. His scowl is better though.

Does a good Inky too, judging by her stare before they left Skyhold, the blush on her face at the mere suggestion she give him a proper goodbye.

Fucking. Grand.

Didn't tell the others though. That bet was easy money, Sera's playing the long game, big money. Though shite, serious face, boss move with the flowers, that was. And Cass, you do have great tits. Yep, yep.

But okay, serious, one more clang and fuck Starkhaven fish pie is foul. Stenches up the place. How does beardy like that crap? Worse, how does prim and proper stand it? Eurgh, don't people think of others?

Sera thinks of others all. The. Frigging. Time. No matter what the high 'n mighty say, Sera is plenty considerate.

She's thinking of Shiny right now, that's why she notches a blood red arrow, lets it fly. Shiny's long gone with her chosen three, off into the weird elfy temple thing (nope nope no thanks, all yours, too elfy) and where Iron Bull and Solas (egg. head. fucker.) might want to follow after, Sera's content to skip about the battle some more, raining destruction and arrows and bees.

Fuck, bees are shiteing grand.

(And fuck, Scowly, I bloody told you if you block again I'll have you!)

Blood red arrows, three of them. One for attention. (Got it.) One for the foot. (Harding didn't go deep enough, silly cute little dwarf.) One for the dark dark eyes, fuck, she knows those eyes. (Veers left, fucking piss shite it veered left.)

"Oi! Pisshead!" She's all glowers to match Scowlsalot, hands on hips and jars a fingers touch away. "You ain't killed that fucker yet?"

He snarls (yeah, Lion, got that, Maker's hairy arse) but it shakes him out of the deadlock he found himself in. She thinks. Maybe. Who knows (not me, not a friggin' warrior, shite). But Cully-Wully is pushing back and satisfied, she skips off again.

S'all the help he's getting from her, Inky or no Inky. Sera is only so considerate.

His head rings, as much from the smoke and song as the hit to his helm that saw him shrug it off, discarded and useless behind him. His armor has scratches, dents, holes, and his blood spins in the water at his feet.

His shield arm is near useless, numb from the constant barrage, pained from the earlier intrusion of red lyrium. But Sera is a distraction of the highest kind, more tempest that Evelyn will ever be, wild and wicked. It is all he needs to bash Samson back, to bring borrowed sword low and sever tendons on the Horror that was Nathaniel.

The Horror lurches, falling forward in agony, laughing and spitting blood and red lyrium shards in equal measure, clawed hands reaching to gouge marks in his silverite. He roars, because what else can he do, fire in his lungs and pain lancing every inch of his body. He roars, and brings the sword to bear, burying it deep in crystal and skin, slamming a boot down on the remains of a blood red arrow jutting from the Horrors foot. Locked together they tumble, silverite screaming and curses on both their lips.

Samson watches and waits.

"I'll take her again," the Horror spat, voice wet and gurgling. The sword is wedged deep, but not deep enough, and they are on their knees, a twisted pose of devoutness. "I'll tear into her skin again and again until there's no part of her I haven't marked." The claws are deep, trapping them together, teasing past protective layer after layer in search of flesh.

But the Lion knows what the Horror is trying to do, and he does not take the bait. He has seen the mark she bears from Nathaniel and lain claim to it with tongue and teeth. There will be no more like it.

He stands - kneels - firm, trying to drive the blade deeper. "Do you think she'll scream for you when I take a whip to her? Do you think Evelyn will beg and cry?"

No. He does not think she would, between her pride and her strength. Nor would she ever need to; he is her shield, and he will keep the blows from her. Cullen shook his head, barking out a rough and wet laugh of his own. "I think she doesn't give a nugs shit about you." Maker but the blade is too deep to free, the claws dangerously close to rending more than fabric.

Cullen roars again, headbutting Nathaniel before letting go of the sword, falling backwards from the dislodging force. His hands hit water then stone, pebbles digging into the leather gauntlets as he tried to drag himself back through the shallows. There's fire in his chest, on his chest, sour and sharp and far too warm.

Nathaniel is on him in a heartbeat, claws reaching for his neck and this time they dig into flesh from the outset. He doesn't, can't scream, eyes locking on Samson. The Templar stares back, dispassionate and bored. Cullen reaches desperately for something, anything, a rock or a knife or something, hands splashing uselessly in the shallow water. The Void can't have him, he swore to her. He promised.

Even if it kills him.

Something burns his fingertips through the leather and he shies away from it, limbs moving slow and sluggish as oxygen becomes precious.

One night, he had her for one night.

And he had promised her more nights. Promised her everything.

Maker, Andraste, don't make him a liar.

Chapter Text

Samson's face swims at the edge of his vision, hazy. It's not the face he wants to see as he loses conciousness, but Evelyn is gone, out of reach, and he can't picture her. Not now, not in this moment of failure. Not with the Horror that was Nathaniel squeezing the life from his throat.

His fingers brush against fire again, recoiling, bringing sharp focus to the dull throb behind his eyes. Flames, under the water. He wills himself to reach out again and it's there, burning, the tang of magic trapped in wood. Magefire. Dorian's magefire. Evelyn's arrow.

The one that failed to find it's mark.

He ignores the pain because everything right now is pain - what's a little more? - and clenches his hand around the arrow shaft. It stings, lancing through him. Wet and gurgling, Nathaniel laughs above him, still spitting blood.

Trials on his mind, he sings the Chant, soft and low, equally wet. Blood in and on his throat.

When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me

And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then

In the pounding of my heart

I hear the glory of creation.

It's not pretty, it's barely coherent, the next verse escapes him. The rest of the Chant eludes him.

All but two lines.

And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker

Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

When he was young, playing in the fields of Honnleath, he had taken the role of proud Templar, strong and brave and devout. He had rained the Maker's judgement down on his siblings with wooden sword and toy shield, slain abominations and defended Rosalie from any number of foul beasts - most of which had been Branson, covered head to toe in seaweed. Rosalie and Mia would cheer and crown him with wildflowers, clumsily knotted together, their saviour and hero. He had faith then, faith when he walked through the doors of Kinloch the first time. He still had faith when he stared up at the giant chains of Kirkwall's docks, though shaken. He had faith when the Chantry exploded. He even had faith when he had turned against Meredith at last. He had faith when he took Cassandra's offer.

It had wavered with the Breach. It had crumbled with the loss of the Divine. Cracks that had existed way back when - formed while he had knelt and prayed locked in the barrier, unable to do anything but watch as his friends and fellow Templars were slaughtered - had turned into fissures, into gaps so deep even the ocean could not fill them.

He had clung to the Chant, to the words, but denied the lyrium leash. It had weakened and empowered him, but it had not restored his faith. Nothing had, not even knowing that he alone had earned the love of one of Andraste's chosen. And Evelyn was just that, no matter who had helped her escape the Fade, she was Maker blessed and Void take him if he knew why but she loved him.

Even if it killed them.

Well, he was dying now.

He was dying with her name on his lips and her arrow in his hand and a broken promise hammering in the back of his skull.

Stand the line.

There has to be an after this, for him to be by her side.

Stand the line.

There has to be another night, for it to be impossible for her to leave him.

Stand the line.

There has to be another time, for all the things he still had yet to do with, for, to her.

Stand. The. Line.

His head fell to the side, staring blankly at the arrow clenched in his fist. An arrow, touched by magefire, designed and intended to incinerate.

An arrow with green and blue fletching.

Something clicked in his mind, something about the sky. When did that happen, that blue meant the sky and not the bottle of lyrium? The sky, bright and endless, blue eyes and a sweet smile. Green, spilling from a fist like gemstones; the crackle and burn of Fade energy she had learned to twist to her will.

He blinked, struggling to focus. The fletching was yellow.

Dying makes you delirious, apparently.

Stand.

He doesn't want to fail. He doesn't want to die with red lyrium at his throat.

The.

He doesn't want Samson sneering down at him. He doesn't want to drop his shield.

Line.

The fletching catches his eye again, first yellow, then green and blue, the arrow still searing into his palm despite his wavering focus. It feels impossibly heavy in his hand but he pours everything into lifting it. Evelyn meant it to help him, her last shot before she went to face Corypheus.

It saves him now as he roars all his anger, all his rage, driving it as hard and as deep as he can into the laughing mouth of the Horror that hovered above him.

Faith sparks anew, reborn in the fire that consumes Nathaniel's screams and the yellow fletching marking the kill.

One oath kept, his the sword arm and the weapon hers, aided with flames gifted by friendship.

Cole wants to help, but not in the usual way. If he helps that way, if he eases the pain and lets it go, he creates more pain. Pain that he will feel too. Is that what it is to be human? Pain on endless pain, cyclical, pain for pain endlessly, on and on, everything creating more pain until it swallows the world?

It spirals, caught in the wind. He could fetch her, his friend. But it might take too long. She is far ahead, fighting a different battle now. The Iron Bull is close but it's too late for defense and he does not want the other ending the Qunari can offer. Solas, he tugs at, a moth fluttering at the flame. The elf does not respond. Iron could save and he tries to get Vivienne's attention but her hands are full of ice and her mind focused inward, protecting the part of her that is brittle.

Varric and Sera are on the fringes, arguing over who shot first. Neither notice.

Don't go where I can't follow.

He pulls at the thread and it unravels in his hands. Pain already there, created from worry.

Don't go. The sun sinks into the water, all burnished reds and copper tang, life washing away in a slow current. The forest doesn't care; the Arbor Wilds grow silent even as they teem with life and death.

He tugs harder, a broken promise but he wants to understand more than duty. He wants to understand love that means letting go and giving in and trust, there's so much trust. He sobs - her sound, not his - because he's breaking the trust. Later. Ask later. She might not explain, but it will wait.

He lets the thread drop, picks up another.

Seat me by Your side in death.

The Chant sings in multiple hearts, the last vestiges of hope on dying lips all around, men red and men of Red, all equal in the end.

The riverbed is empty and the song echoes with the laughter over the stones, safe and new but flickering and fading. Broken chains and broken promises.

Varric is his friend, he understands the words better than most. He tries again.

Her first instinct is to run back through the Eluvian, but Morrigan pulls the magic from the glass without a word, sealing them back at Skyhold.

Safe.

Whole.

She doesn't wait to argue, flees for the stables. They left an army, friends, Cullen behind by taking the mirror. Trying to convince Morrigan will do her no good; the mage owes no one here her allegience, that much is abundantly clear. Anger flares, deep rooted in fear, and green light bounces off the walls as she runs.

They would have died if they had waited or turned back. Corypheus reborn once again, his goal taken by a mage outside of his control, had only one intent - to see them destroyed, snuffed out like a candle, stomped down like ants. Morrigan saved them by using the Eluvian.

But in doing so the Inquisitor fled the battlefield, left her army behind.

She fled now, down stone steps and dirt paths, ignoring Dennett's confused yelp as she burst into the stables. It's only the startling absence that stops her rampage before it truly started.

There are no horses left, none that could carry her with any haste. No beloved Forder with boundless stamina, no white Charger capable of bearing any burden, not even a Courser, bred to run. Only pack ponies, small and built for the slow climb up and down mountains, useless to her for the purpose she has set herself.

She promised she'd be back.

Piss and raisins. This forest is fucking piss and raisins.

Varric steals her shots, Iron Bull steals her pummels, Vivienne and Solas just plain suck. She's surprised Cole isn't dancing about, slicing throats better suited to an arrowhead. Seems like something he'd do.

Not that she wants him to. Doesn't even want him around. That thing's wrong, innit. Aw fuck though, he tries. All human-y and doing things with Varric. Sometimes she slips, forgets, calls Cole him and not it and then the damned thing gets all weepy-smiley and ugh. So gross.

Gross like centipedes and spiders and nightcrawlers in the bedrolls. Rashvine for the nightshirts. Under the saddles! Oh that had been grand, that one had. Way better than stolen breeches and bees.

Where's Inky? She should remember about the rashvine saddles and-

Oh, right, elfy temple, Cory-shite, blah blah, what?

"What?"

"Blood in the water, setting sun."

"The fuck." It's still afternoon, sun still bright enough to see that there aren't enough blood red arrows in corpses. Wave away, fuck off creepy.

"No one else will listen."

Course they won't. Maker's balls, she doesn't want to be! "Go away! Killing things!"

"Sera. Don't let him go where she can't follow."

Well shite, the bugger never yelled at her before. "You wha?"

But of course Cole can't actually just spit it out. Frigging raisin-like excuse for a human spirit thing. Thingy thing. Fuck. What?

Probably something important, but it's lost to the thwack and thrum. Mm, the bowstring sings pretty.

"SERA," and fuck shit piss damn your mother Maker's hairy balls the FUCK Cole? Grey eyes followed the brim of the floppy hat, the assassin's blade pointing out beyond it back to the stupid elfy temple place.

The fuck is she supposed to do about that? There's a roar, dragon (should have taken her and Bull, we do dragons right), something desperate and angry, so angry, she knows angry, she's angry right now too because that's best for fighting and-

Shite.

Oh, Uptight, you absolute arse.

"Eggy elf-butt!" The arrow gets a little too close to the tip of his ear to be comfortable, but piss because it would have been better if it had hit maybe. Gets his attention though, don't it? Won't risk that with Madame Fancypants though, no, that arrow goes through her line of sight but all respectable distances and whatnot, all proper, bonus for the Venatori it skewers. "Now who's not paying attention, fuckers?"

Iron Bull gets one through the horns, because, you know, horns, have to tell them about that later. Good one.

Get it.

Got it.

Don't let him snuff it.

Sera loves Inky, and Inky loves Cully-Wully, so Sera tolerates. Frigging shite though. Looks bad. Human red thing all blah blah blah, Scowly all hurk.

Bye bye dragon, sadface. Would have loved to poke it with arrows. Wait. If it leaves, where does that leave Inkness? Tits and arse, can't be good. Gonna have to go into the stupid elfy temple thing and find her, right? Ugh. It's going to be so elfy and dumb and wait, wait, no, hang on. Shite. Piss. Inky doesn't know. Inky needs to know, come help.

Fuck. Gonna have to go in for sure. Plus side, bad side, enemy going bye too? Bad side. Wanted to kill more. Good side, easier to find Inky. 'Less she got eaten by the dragon. Serves her right for not taking her and Bull, though.

Aw nuts. He's gonna snuff it.

Varric didn't listen. Sera listened, heard, responded.

An oddity, but her threads tangle up with other threads, loom woven tapestry spilling out at his fingertips. There are no certainties in life. I should have died, too many instances where the thread could have been cut before, hanging on now by one last twisted thread, gold and blue.

Does he see it yet, the sky? Does he remember the first time, after the cage, stumbling into the night? The stars were bright, Judex mighty, but Equinor the clearest, easiest to trace.

Lion even then, drawn to the filly.

That brings a soft, sad smile to life. Sera did well, but it's in the hands of others now. Cole traces the threads, careful, not looking. Just prodding, casting for what's on the surface.

Equinor is on the surface, stars winking and fading and then not stars, but star shaped flowers. No velvet sky but silken hair tangled in clumsy fingers.

That memory isn't for him, and he lets it go, following the thread down, inching closer and closer to the weak point.

It's there, the moment. ...Real? Because he needed to know, couldn't tell. Worried. Wanted. He hadn't seen this one, tied though it was. Evelyn told him to ask, and she hadn't want to share. Kept it hers, held safe like a coin in his pocket.

He moves past threads knotted together, tracing his path through.

Honey cakes are what keep you sweet?

Sweet words where he doesn't deserve them, sweet like the smile that accompanies them. He should have said it, it wasn't stupid. He should have asked, because Cole knows this memory already. She wanted him to tell her the secret to his smile.

He finds the fraying thread, Kirkwall in sharp constrast to the Wilds, fire and smoke and pandemonium. All the what ifs and maybes and could have should have would have and you're to blame too, complicit through inaction.

I should have died, one wrong choice too many, no absolution.

The thread snaps, and he can follow it no more.

Elfroot and blood hang bitter in the air.

Leliana, Josephine, Cullen,

Used the Eluvian to get out. Morrigan sealed it and can't get back. At Skyhold. No horses. Going to find a way back though. Left the fight unwon.

Inquisitor Trevelyan

Evie,

Thank the Maker. Don't leave Skyhold, we are making preparations to return already and there is nothing for you to do here. Corypheus fled the field with his dragon, it must have been when you went through the Eluvian. We were able to capture his general, Samson, but Calpernia eluded us. We will bring him with us for your judgement.

Josephine

E,

J will be returning soon with an advance party. Wait for her. The army will follow.

L.

Seeker,

Maker fuck but don't let Little Fox come. Promise me, alright? I'll give you anything.

Varric

Josephine,

We are fine, but the Inquisitor insists on travelling. I am glad you are safe. You should never have gone, and I was worried.

Blackwall

Blackwall,

I'm sorry to have worried you, but our men kept me quite safe. I was worried about you though, especially when we couldn't find any of you after the battle. Sera insisted the dragon ate you all! I think she meant to be serious, but it helped raise spirits, oddly enough.

Do me one favour, though, please. Don't let Evie leave Skyhold?

Your Josephine

Leliana,

Tell me what happened.

Cassandra

Cassandra,

Later.

L.

Josephine,

I'm flattered you think I could stop her. She's on her way. Sorry.

Blackwall

Blackwall, Cassandra, Dorian,

You had better be with her.

L.

Leliana,

She left without us but we are trying to catch up. What happened?

Dorian

Dorian,

Later.

L.

Bull,

Vishante kaffas, but you will tell me what happened amatus! Leliana just keeps saying later.

Dorian

Kadan,

It's not news you want in a letter. Catch up to Boss. We're coming to you.

I.B.

Varric,

Tell me what happened or I will wring your neck, dwarf.

Cassandra

Seeker,

Curly got hurt, it's not pretty. Don't tell her. Please.

Varric

L,

You should have fucking told me.

E.

"At least that means Seeker is with her?" Varric smiled sheepishly, patting Bianca for comfort in the wake of the Spymaster's glare. "Little Fox was going to find out anyway. Postponing the news won't make it any easier."

Leliana sighed, throwing the parchment on the fire. "We don't need the Inquisitor galloping across Thedas right now. We need to find where Corypheus went, what his next move is. She would have been safe at Skyhold, and we would have been there soon enough."

"Bullshit, Nightingale. She's human behind that anchor, you know." He set the crossbow aside, staring her down.

Leliana dropped her gaze to the forest floor, contrite. "I know. All heros are human once you get to know them."

"Oh yeah? You've been holding out on me. Tell us some stories about the Hero of Fereldan, won't you?" He indicated the group across from them, all sullen and quiet. Varric had run out of stories, but the defenders of Fereldan, the Blight destroyers? That's good material, and from a source like Leliana unlikely to suffer from too much word of mouth.

She gave a thoughtful hum then smiled softly. "Oh, alright. 'Lis had a warhound, Barkspawn, and Morrigan couldn't stand him at first. He used to leave half eaten hares in her unmentionables..."

Chapter Text

"The Spymaster is slipping in her duties, it seems. I thought I wasn't to be disturbed."

A soft snort followed from the darkened depths of the tent. It had taken too long, coming down the mountains, but once in the foothills Evelyn had been able to trade the surefooted and slow pony for a Dalish All-Bred, fleet of foot and heavy of cost. But the price would have been heavier if she hadn't come.

She stayed in the entrance, the heavy green fabric of the tent fisted in her hand. Fire warmed her back. It had taken too long to find the right camp and she had shed her leathers in favour of the scouts uniform, muted green and brown and hair tucked safe beneath the hood. She hadn't wanted anyone to stop her.

They had tried, her friends, wanted to take her back up the mountain, back to Skyhold. But she had promised. You don't break promises just because an ancient magical Elvhen mirror whisks you away. The battle might have been over but her duty was to the men and women that served her. For them to think, even for one moment, that she might have abandoned them was unconscionable. For Cullen to think that-

Receiving word from only two of her advisers had set her on edge. What price had been exacted for Samson's capture? Too much blood had been spilt already. In the Wilds, at Adamant. At the Winter Palace and Therinfal Redoubt and Redcliff and Haven.

She had left her friends on the mountainside after Cassandra got Varric's note. It didn't matter that they were on their way. It didn't matter that they didn't want her to know until they got to Skyhold. None of it mattered.

She dropped the flap behind her, dipping the interior into blackness; near pitch but for the glow of the fire sneaking in where the fabric doesn't quite meet the ground. Pulling the hood down she let her eyes adjust to the darkness, waiting, listening to the laboured breathing.

"You just going to stand there?"

"What would you have me do?"

Another snort, louder than the first, and a shuffle as a body adjusted to a new position. "Put me out of my fucking misery, for one." Chains clanked as he raised his arms, bound together by iron. "But you're just like the Knight-Captain, aren't you? Too good for the rest of us."

"You were a good man, once. That's what the Commander told me." She crossed her arms, staring down at the vanquished general. Divested of his armor he looked like nothing, a mere wisp of a man, haggard and dark circles under his eyes.

A harsh bark of laughter met her ears. "Aye, once maybe. Before I got the blindfold ripped off and saw what the world was. You ever been made to beg, girl? Ever had to grovel at another's feet for scraps, for dust?"

Even in the dark she can see the sneer, feel it in the bite of his words. Samson, once so proud, fallen once more. He prays on her nobility like it's a curse, like it prevents her from knowing the way her supposed lessers live. For all she has seen, she knows, there is more; there is worse. She has never known hunger, want for shelter. Not like the poor, not like the downtrodden. She is and always has been a Lady, for better or worse. Anything else is just playing pretend.

But she has always tried to be compassionate, to be fair. Trevelyan is a name that carries weight so she has carried weight, but never has she swung it. It will never be enough, she knows. Her experiences will always be different to those that know the gutter.

He takes her silence as his answer, spitting a glob of phlegm at her feet. "Bet you like it when others grovel at yours though, huh? All high and mighty Inquisitor, holding the fate of the world in the palm of your fucking hand. Hah, literally!" He barked again, rough and papery. "You took my kin, girl. Stole them from Corypheus like you stole the anchor and turned them to your cause. Do you wield that leash like the Chantry did? Generous the one day and harsh the next, extra rations for your pets? Isn't the Knight-Captain your pet, Inquisitor? Gave him enough power, but he don't smell right no more. Not enough song in his blood. You not happy with him, huh?" He ranted, poking and prodding and looking for an opening to wedge a blade.

But she plays the Game, and words cannot harm her. "The Commander made his choice, and he is no one's pet."

"Could'a fucking fooled me," Samson spat, chains rattling as he tried to pull himself up to a stand. He stumbled, falling back to his knees with a curse.

"They expect me to put you on trial once they get you back to Skyhold."

He ignored her, stretching his legs out as best as his shackles would let him. "All that Lion nonsense. He sleep at the foot of your bed, warm your feet?" His rough voice filled the tent, surrounding her, mocking. "Stupid Fereldan dog. He'd have been better off with us. The red stuff hurts, I ain't denying that, but it's a better purpose than the Chantry. Than whatever the fuck you are doing."

And yet look at you, she wants to spit, the mighty Red Templar General shackled and chained at her feet. Clinging to a master who deserted him and all his forces once it became clear he had lost his quarry. She doesn't though, just watches the dim shadows that fill the tent around them. The air is warm, too warm for the crisp autumnal air outside and the lack of fire inside and even in the low light she can see the lines of sweat on the man's face.

"When was the last time you had your ration?"

Samson made a disgusted noise, mouth twisting into something ugly. "What do you care?" The dull chink of the chains does little to make him threatening, undermines his anger.

Evelyn clenched her fists. Zealots are the hardest to convince of anything, and she counsels herself for patience. "You may be a prisoner, but we aren't without compassion. If you need-"

"Compassion? Fuck me, sure! Let me bend and beg and plead for a drop, shall I?" He cut her off, scathing, yanking hard on the chains. "And what'll it cost me? What information is worth an ounce of blue, huh? And what if I don't need it, what if I need the red stuff? You gonna grow it for me? What'll it take to get you to harvest some of that for me, girl?" He spat, the only information he would offer.

Sighing, she tucked her hair back into the hood and pulled it low. Samson could wait. If he was willing to put himself through withdrawal that was his choice. She slipped from the tent and let the heavy fabric drop with a dull thud, nodding at the guards. They nodded back, already paid for their discretion and accepting of the order not to salute her, not to draw attention.

She shook off the last lingering impression of Samson as best she could, weaving a path at the edges of the firelight. The captured general has been kept to the front of the returning army, housed alongside the injured. Returning them to Skyhold is a priority and they travel at the head of the army as fast as the slowest of them allows. Which is why, nine days later, they camp in the Dales, still out of sight of the Frostbacks. The main body of the Inquisition still scours the Arbor Wilds, seeking out the remnants of Corypheus's forces, Barris at their head.

Information traded for with the men and women that rally under her banner, and not provided by her advisers. Evelyn doesn't take it as a betrayal. She probably would have done the same in their position, in truth. But she hadn't even known Cullen was hurt before she was halfway down the mountain; pride, stubborn pride drove her on regardless.

Between Josephine's diplomatic prowess in obtaining supplies and their mages and healers, though, the wounded are well tended making for some consolation as she moved from tent to tent, offering assistance. All the while avoiding the light, anyone that would recognize her too quickly. It's an old game borrowed from Bull and adapted, but she wants, needs to help. Needs to be useful right now.

So she carts boiling water, grinds elfroot, wraps bandages, cools cloths. The night slips away from her as she roams the lines of cots offering aid until-

"Aren't you tired?"

War doesn't give anything. War takes and takes and takes, bleeds you dry of everything, right down to your soul. War never repays the debt, it just takes more. And when you are spent, done, defeated, war twists the knife a little deeper.

No, war doesn't give; certainly not without cost.

She's heard that question enough but this time, Maker, it's worth more of an answer than a shrug and a smile. Evelyn glanced over at the speaker, wondering what cost this would incur. "You're the one that's supposed to be resting."

He grunted, waving a hand at the dimly visible desk hidden in the recess of his tent as if in answer. As if the heaps of paperwork she could discern the shape of would talk for him.

"As in, not on your feet," she pressed, crossing the distance between the infirmary tent and his.

Another grunt answered her, but he begrudgingly moved back into the tent, leaning on the makeshift furniture. He moves slow, shifting his weight back and forth like he can't get comfortable.

"Stubborn."

"You would know."

He has a point, an infuriating one voiced with a rasp she can't quite place, and she shot him her best unimpressed Inquisitor stare. It's only slightly foiled by the scout hood. "So take my advice and rest. Unless there's something in those piles for me and you're going to find it, I don't want to see you near them."

"Just come here."

Void take him for the heat in his voice. She does, and it's an easy few feet to him, even easier to melt against that broad chest. His heart beats steady and reassuring through the fabric of his shirt and she lets it be the only sound she hears, chasing away the last mocking bark from Samson.

Cullen holds her tentatively, like he's not sure she's really there. Or maybe - maybe, no one would tell her for certain exactly what happened - like his wounds bother him. Ungloved hands trace the curve of her spine under unfamiliar leathers until one settles at the small of her back and the other travels up, tugging at the hood. "Your smile gives you away when you wear this, you know."

Evelyn let him pull it back to reveal her face fully, gracing him with the upward curve of her mouth that he apparently knew by heart. His words answered a question she'd long since stopped trying to puzzle out, the disguise having lost its effectiveness the longer her reign as Inquisitor; the more nobles that needed to meet the Lady Trevelyan; the more duties that required the deft hand of the Herald. It only worked now because she clung to the shadows, to unfamiliar people, saying as little as possible.

But with Cullen, she didn't need it. Especially not if all it took was a smile to dismantle the otherwise carefully crafted impersonation.

His fingers had found their way into her hair like they belonged there, tangling in the loose waves that hung across her back now that they were freed from their confines. Another puzzle piece, one that didn't fit quite yet, but she had time. Maker willing, she had time.

"Do I need to order you to bed, Commander?" She kept her voice light and teasing, kept her heart and sundry thoughts out of it and to herself. It's so late it's early and whatever sleep he gets will be minimal but he's supposed to be healing, not up at all hours going over reports or holding her in an embrace that made her feel like she was the one that had been wounded, and not him. In fact, though the thought made her guilty, she hadn't planned on letting him know she was here. Not that she had planned much at all, in truth, nothing more than ensuring her army was as well as it could be before letting Josephine know she was there.

Oh, Josephine and Leliana were going to murder her, no doubt. But she couldn't bring herself to care, guilt assuaged by warm hands and a warmer timbre. "You can order me to do whatever you want."

Maker take me. Evelyn slipped free from his hold with a huff that was more squeak than irritation, letting her hands fall to her hips. In the wan candlelight she tried to discern what injuries troubled Cullen, but other than the slightly curled edges of a bandage peeking out from his collar there were no obvious signs.

None, if one discounted the shaking of his hands, the shifting of his weight from foot to foot. He had been still with her in his arms but in her absence he fidgeted freely, sweat on his brow. She wasted no time, tugging him away from his makeshift workstation with a gentle hand in his. "Bed, then," came the order, words softened by her smile, by the affection she couldn't disguise.

He settled on the pallet like a weight dropping, a less than subtle grunt escaping him for the effort. Evelyn busied herself with setting the tent to rights, tying the flaps closed and shutting out what remained of the night and when she turned back, he hadn't moved.

"You'll find it more comfortable to sleep if you lie down, you know."

Cullen snorted, waiting for her to drift close before lifting his hands to her. Biting back a laugh at how silly it seemed - her smaller hands cradling his - she pressed them to her heart, watching with concern. She's about to ask if he wants, needs help when he asks, "real?"

There is a word, surely, to describe the exact sensation of a heart jump-starting itself even as the mind grinds to a halt with almost panic. To describe the wrench of pain in her chest tinged with a spark of hope and desperation. He hasn't asked her in so long, Void, the last time the word passed his lips like that had been his tent, the supposed hunt.

There's a notion that it's unfair, somehow. That she been content to think nothing would befall him, her faith in him so great. And he had been the one wounded, enough that her friends had thought it better she simply not know rather than be given the information. But it's her presence that he questions, as if Sera had been correct and Corypheus's dragon had swallowed her whole, making her being here at his side an impossibility.

But it's selfish, to hold the word against him. If nothing else, she knows the battle involved red lyrium, and she cannot imagine the toll that took. Taking a deep breath that does little to steady her - even less to restore her heart to tempo - she sat next to him, staring at the dark fabric in front of her as if studying it would reveal some other as yet untold secret. "Real, Cullen. And still yours."

There's a perceptible shift in his shoulders, some unseen weight lifting as he wrapped an arm around her waist, gently urging her closer. "Sorry, I just..." His voice shakes the same as his hands, and he tilted his head to rest against hers. "I kept thinking you were here, wanted you to be so badly, only to be told I was talking to myself. I was worried I was doing it again." He fell quiet, almost like he was ashamed of the confession. Like she would, could ever think less of him for it.

If anything, it breaks her heart once again for leaving him, the fight. The first coherent thought that comes to mind, however, is not so dour. "So you've been flirting with the air?"

A wry snort escaped him, a poor attempt to cover the rising flush on his face. "I- Yes. I suppose I have been. Maker's breath, what must everyone think of me?"

She pressed a kiss to his heated cheek, barely able to stifle her laughter. "Maybe that you hit your head on top of whatever else happened to you?"

A grunt. "I did, thank you. And it wasn't that bad."

"Liar."

She meant it to be teasing, to continue trading banter back and forth, but Cullen dropped his hand from her waist, moving away ever so slightly. "I'm fine," and the words don't shake but she doesn't believe him.

"Liar," she echoed, more serious this time.

"Evvy-"

"Liar," and her word shakes, she shakes, her hands fisted in her lap. "I was so angry, with myself, with Morrigan, all I could think was getting back because I promised, I said I would but I couldn't, she shut the Eluvian and Void, does that hedgewitch think of anyone but herself?! We left everyone behind and what if Corypheus didn't leave, what if he had turned his dragon on everyone? And it would have been all my fault," the words tumble out and she's not shouting, not yet, but the anger, the fear is there and the anchor wants to react. It itches from within her fist as she continues. "There were no horses and only a few ravens and I didn't even know if it would find anyone anyway, and then the responses came only there wasn't one from you, they didn't even talk about you, Maker, Cullen what was I supposed to think? No one would talk to me, they all wanted me to stay at Skyhold-"

"You should have stayed," and he's about to press the point but she snarled, cutting off his interjection.

"I had to leave everyone behind, not just you. I was worried about everyone. You didn't even factor into my decision to come back until I was already halfway down the bloody mountain and Cass let slip you were hurt! And everyone here has a different story about what happened to you for Andraste's sake! How am I- What else should I have done? Forgotten that I left an entire army in the Wilds? Sat back and twiddled my thumbs until you all got back?" Exasperated, Evelyn stood, unwilling to look him in the eye. "I couldn't do that. I had to come back. I had to be here. For them," her hand swept in an arc, indicating the world outside the increasingly confining tent.

"I'm sorry," and she's not sure which part of her rant Cullen is apologising for, or if it's something else entirely.

"No," she can't quite bring herself to offer absolution, but with the words out she's able to calm herself. "Just rest. Tell me what happened later."

"Will you stay? Please?" The shake is still in his voice, in his hands.

Andraste preserve her, she does.

She's still dressed in her scout leathers, and there's a moment of disconnect between his brain and his eyes when he first wakes. Then it hits him, and even though it's not sunrise bathing her in gentle light as it filters through the hole in his ceiling, or stained glass shifting patterns on her face as dawn appears through her windows, waking up to her at his side in the tent is something so close to perfection that it's rapture.

Evelyn is nestled under the traveling furs that make the bed, her back to him. Her head has claimed his right arm for her pillow and soft waves of chestnut splay between them, her hair unbound and wild. She stirred slightly, grumbling when he attempted to reclaim his arm and he stilled, admitting defeat and suffering the pins and needles stabbing the offending limb for the sake of her comfort; for letting her sleep a little longer.

At least it wasn't his left arm; the shoulder was still giving him trouble. And the shakes have stopped, the better of the good news. He still aches all over, still, hesitant to let the mages do that much still - save their energy, their mana for the men, he's fine, he had insisted, no matter that his voice still rasped - reliant only on healing potions and poultices once he was out of the woods. And now, the warm body curled up at his side.

Maker's breath, but she's perfect there, like she belongs. Like the crook of his arm was made exactly for her, like the curve of his torso was shaped specifically for the curve of her spine to rest against. He can't help himself, turning into her. He gets a mouthful of hair and a reminder that neither of his arms are happy with their current state for the effort but-

But.

Maker.

Take him.

Now.

Evelyn mumbled something, still mostly asleep but responsive to the hand sweeping her hair aside. And all the more to the shift in his position, her arse perfectly aligned with his groin. She stirred again, hips adjusting, grinding ever so slightly back, and-

And.

He thanks the Maker, for His infinite capacity for forgiveness.

He thanks Andraste, for Her sweet mercy.

He thanks Evelyn, his Evvy, for staying. He thanks her the best he can with the conflicting messages his body sends his brain. His hips beg to follow her lead, his arousal begs for the friction that would create, but his arms counsel against it, his chest cautions against bearing her weight, and as much as he wants to press kiss after kiss to the exposed skin of her neck with his lips, his throat is dry and parched, desperate for water more than anything else.

It's almost a relief, then, when his clumsy attempts to tame her hair result in a grumpy "stop it," and she rolls from him and frees his decidedly useless arm.

He'd give anything to be able to pull her back, to pin her down. To slake his thirst between her thighs, not the water pitcher. To do anything but lie there, sleepy grin mirroring sleepy grin, slowly shaking the feeling back into his arm.

But it's perfect, in its own way, and she mumbles a "hello," that has his heart skipping to a different song than it's used to for a minute. She follows it with a "good morning," in the absence of a response from him, sitting up and demurely covering her mouth to hide a yawn.

Is it morning? Cullen hadn't taken notice of the time, only how comfortable he had been for the scant few hours of sleep he had gotten. The light seeping in at the bottom of the canvas confirms her salutation, the grey of pre-dawn accompanied by the sounds of a camp slowly stirring to life. He watched her stretch the last vestiges of sleep from her bones, torn between asking her if she's real again or using what precious little strength remains to him to pull her back under the covers.

As it is, she decides for him, ruffling his curls affectionately and making it clear there's no room for argument, "I'll get you some breakfast, and then we'll talk." Before he can complain - about the breakfast or her leaving him or his hair - she's gone, leaving him to wonder if he really is losing his mind.

But the bed retains her heat and her smell, and no matter what his brain and the withdrawal might be capable of conjuring, they have never been able to properly capture the feeling of her hair between his fingers. That much, he knows, is real.

She does not take her time, either, and he's barely gotten himself to sit up before Evelyn is back with a bowl of questionably watery gruel and a mug of weak, only slightly hotter than tepid tea. "It's all they had right now, and you should eat," she answered his unvoiced complaint, wrinkling her nose with something akin to pity as he took the meager offering. "It's a shame I didn't come here on Major. I had some honeycomb in my pack, it would make the porridge taste... Like something." There are other words, other thoughts on the contents of her pack that she leaves unspoken.

"We brought Major back with us, he's bedded with Galahad at the moment. He has not been happy, but your things are over there," Cullen nodded to the makeshift desk where her saddlebags rested next to his. It had made sense, really, to keep her things with him. Selfish, too, of course, but it's amazing what the mind will let you rationalise as normal and sane behaviour when you want it to.

She didn't question his sanity or why he had the bags, instead digging the honeycomb out in no time, smile as sweet as the promised treat. She unwrapped the wax paper carefully and offered it to him, letting him break off a chunk to stir into the bowl before returning the precious cargo back in her pack. For bettering the tea she produced the bottle of whisky, only slightly touched, pouring him no more than a dram.

Cullen had thought about it, seeing if she still had the bottle. Drinking himself to sleep had appealed more than once during their return to Skyhold, but something had always stayed his hand once he had her saddlebags set by his. Knowing now that Evelyn had partaken of the gift, if even just a little, set him a little more at ease for reasons he wasn't sure he could ever explain.

And Void, did it make the weak tea more palatable.

He was halfway through both before he noticed she hadn't gone to get anything for herself. "Aren't you hungry?"

"A little," she shrugged, "but they didn't have that much ready, and there are others that need it more." Like you, is the unspoken admonishment behind her words, but she relented when he beckoned her to his side again.

"We can share."

She relented again, and while Cullen is sure it's more to shut him up than anything else - it's certainly not an involuntary response to the husky timbre his voice can't escape right now - he can't help but feel... something, when she takes the spoon from him and puts it in her mouth. Oh, it's stupid, he knows. He's had her in his arms, in his bed, seen every wondrous moon and star kissed inch of her body, but, but, this insignificant, intimate act of sharing the same spoon.

It kills him more than any Red Templar blade ever could.

And oh, but he knows she can see it in his face.

Madness.

Sheer, bloody madness.

He has to have died, surely. Or else he has lost his mind completely to the lyrium because who in their right mind gets turned on watching their lover share a spoon? He swallowed roughly, throat only slightly soothed by the whisky and tea.

The scant breakfast and offending spoon are quickly forgotten though, Evelyn foregoing food to appease a different appetite. And she's careful, so damned careful, her kiss soft, her touch light. Too light, a frustrating lack of friction following her fingers as they roam his arms, gentle on his shoulder; the one place she knows for certain he was wounded.

Cullen lets the bowl go, uncaring. The mug, so carefully placed on the ground earlier, does not appreciate the foot it connects with. The contents of both, presumably, mix together on the dirt floor. And he does. Not. Care.

Evvy, his Evvy, she quiets the lyrium. Even the red. The only song in his veins is that of one to her glory, and he wants to sing.

He wants her to sing.

He wants the harmony, his song and her song. Sweeter than lyrium, better than fantasy; he bestows upon her a new title as he convinces her for more. More. And she gives, his Goddess, careful, so careful as he pulled her back down in the furs, careful as he rolled her onto her back, so careful as she deepened the kiss and pulled a moan - the good kind, the best kind - from him.

Maker, but this has to be heaven, the Golden City open to him.

It's not though, because Andraste would never be so cruel as to let Jim in. Not now.

"Commander, I have that report from Lady Montiliyet."

Void take him. Void take the entire damn Inquisition. "Come back later."

"But ser, we're breaking camp in half an hour and-"

"And come. Back. Then." Maker, is there anyone as obtuse as that scout? Cullen glared at the tent flaps, willing the hapless man to feel the weight of it. Beneath him Evelyn attempted to contain her laughter, hands clamped over her mouth. Of course she'd find the humour in being interrupted, once again, by that cursed scout.

"But ser-"

"If I have to tell you one more time to leave me alone you will be permanently sent to the Fallow Mire."

The threat seemed to do the trick as silence fell in the tent again, broken by a low growl when she turned her face aside when he sought to reclaim her lips.

"What?" It's hard to keep the petulance from his voice at being denied.

"You wouldn't," and she's as incredulous as she is amused.

"It's the Fallow Mire," and he pointed to her left. "Or the Hissing Wastes," pointing to her right. "Either way, I don't ever want to see or hear him again."

"Surely there's somewhere less, i don't know, horrid you could send him?"

He thought about it, picturing the map they spent so many hours in front of. "Nowhere in Orlais. Maker knows what he'd let slip about us to them. Maybe the Storm Coast." Based on the rough places he'd pointed out before, he marks the Storm Coast to the left of her head with a flick of his wrist.

"The Storm Coast is wet and grey and miserable and wet," Evelyn countered.

A fact he knows well. Jim deserves no kindness, as far as he's concerned. "Fine. Then... Wycome." Above her, and further left. "He can't do any harm there."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "We don't have an official presence in Wycome."

"Exactly," out of sight, out of mind. It's perfect. And, selfishly, "that means Skyhold will be safe from his tyranny." He tapped her collarbone before frowning slightly. His rough measurements were off and he corrected, resting his hand over her heart. Better.

A smile threatened to overtake her face. "Home is where the heart is?"

"Home is you," and he doesn't stop to think about how ridiculously cheesy that might sound, distracted instead by the fact that her heart is beating faster and that his hand is right above-

"You know, I always wondered what side of the map you'd favor."

Cullen blinked, train of thought derailed once again. "What do you mean?"

Oh, that blush in the early morning light. She stared up at him, tongue slowly passing over her lower lip before she answered. "In the war room. If you could. Would you have me over Fereldan or Orlais?"

Oh.

Maker's breath.

Keep Your Golden City.

Give him the war room.

"Who says I have to choose?" He grinned, wolfish. Outside there is shouting, men and women readying the camp for travel. Soon, they'll be ready to take down his tent and Jim will be back. But right now, right now he has Evvy looking at him expectantly and, sweet Andraste, he has geography to explore. His hand leaves her heart - Skyhold - and trails down her side, drawing a shoreline. "Lake Calenhad is a place I need more good memories of, you know."

His left hand traces the path down the mountain, hitting her shoulder. "And what I wouldn't give to think fondly of the Winter Palace for once."

She whimpered, a soft, small thing almost lost in the sound of her breathing, to the heave of her chest as he pulled her right hand above her head, pinning it in place. "Why limit ourselves? Kirkwall would be made radiant by you, or-" he tugged her hand to the side, following the coastline "-I could take you over Ostwick."

There was no missing the needy whine this time, the shift of her hips against his and he smirked. "Or we can just lose ourselves in the mountains for days if you like," and Maker, she does as he traverses the range south, down. Past the ruins of Haven, tapping against her hip bone to mark Honnleath, down between her thighs. They haven't been there yet but he knows further down sits the Frostback Basin, but that's too far south right now, and he's more concerned with different landmarks.

Evelyn helped him divest her of her leggings, a slightly guilty look on her face as she did so. A look that was not assuaged when he marked the Arbor Wilds on her right knee with a kiss, the Kokari Wilds on her left thigh with a squeeze. Cullen paused, repentant at the altar of his Goddess and when she bit her lip - Maker, how does she not know what she does? - he asked. "May I?"

She nodded once, swallowing whatever complaint might otherwise had left her. Her left hand still marked the Free Marches coastline, her right fisted in the furs near Val Royeaux. Let the Orlesians gossip as much as they like, he is hers.

Wholly, utterly.

And devoted.

He set to proving it, tongue mapping terrain well explored previously, slipping between her folds with slow, greedy laps. She abandoned the coast for his hair, grip tightening every time he let his tongue dip in. Evelyn moaned softly as he hooked an arm under her left thigh, tracing new roads, new shorelines onto her hip with his fingers.

And then he made her whine, pulling away to compliment the paths spun by his fingers with a trail of kisses on her right leg. "Cullen, please," and as pretty as she pleads he doesn't need to be asked twice. Next time. Later.

Maker, he will make her beg another time.

Because there will always be another time with her.

He chuckled, kissing his way back up his trail to her sex, running the broad of his tongue over her once, twice and right as she's squirming in annoyance he adds a finger, slipping between her folds like his tongue had previously. She's wet and it's more intoxicating than any drink he's ever had, more potent than raw lyrium.

It's glory, in his veins and between his Goddess's thighs.

Two fingers, she takes effortlessly, another whimper when he curves them against her inner walls. But it's the wanton mewl, the gut-wrenching moan that echoes in his soul when he takes his tongue to her clit that has him canting his hips into the furs, relying on friction alone to help ease his own arousal.

His map can wait; there's only time for one lesson in cartography right now.

Cullen doesn't stop her when she abandons Val Royeaux to stifle her cries, only tries harder to pull the noises from her with every lick, every suck and nibble and twist of his fingers. He doesn't care if anyone hears; let them know he worships Evelyn at her leisure.

He draws her to the edge, rewriting the borders between Orlais and Fereldan on her skin and lets her tumble over, matching her panted moan with his own, thirst finally slaked there between her legs.

Next time, they're starting with South Reach.

It's not until later, when the camp is well on its way and she's sitting in his lap astride Galahad, his white Charger, half asleep and no longer scout but Inquisitor again, that it occurs to her to ask. "Did Templar training make you good at reading maps too?"

He shook his head with a chuckle. "I had to look at something in the war room to keep myself from staring at you all the damn time."

Chapter Text

Varric scribbled quickly, his notebook precariously perched between his legs and rapidly filling as he watched the pair riding ahead of him. Reasons of morale had been cited when they set out from the Arbor Wilds originally. The Commander had to put on a good face, couldn't appear weak, even if he had been at the gates of the Golden City not nine days ago. So Curly had stubbornly pulled himself up onto his white horse - you could not make up little details like that, every writer's dream - and ridden at the head of the column, keeping an eye on the prisoner as much as their surroundings. At night he had faltered, strength drained and mind clearly on the Inquisitor. It had been worrying, at first, interrupting him, watching his hands shake as much as his head because no, I need to talk to her. But the healers had been steadfast; withdrawal made worse from the presence of red lyrium will fade, wounds will heal. Time is all it takes. And they had been right, of course, but that hadn't made the nights easier.

At least, not until he went to interrupt the conversation and discovered that it wasn't one-sided. Little Fox had snuck in, much to Nightingale's annoyance and, naturally, gravitated towards Curly's side. Varric had smiled to himself and left them to it.

What morale reasons Curly's supposed to be fulfilling when he pulled a sleep addled Inquisitor up beside him in the saddle that morning, the dwarf cannot attest to however. Coin traded hands quickly once they set off, with more than a few unhappy payees. Poor sods, but a bet is a bet. Ruffles takes her share of the winnings gracefully from Hero when they show up, and while they don't share a mount like the more obvious pair of lovers it's clear they'll be sharing something come nightfall. Sparkler and Tiny are equally obvious to the trained eye, and even if he wasn't always looking for the next story it's so damned refreshing to see so much good coming out of all this mess.

And now, judging by the lax grip Little Fox has around Curly's waist and his tight one around hers, she's happily off in the Fade while they slog through the Dales. And Void if he doesn't just eat that shit up, inspiration he happily takes. Seeker grumbles at his side, ostensibly annoyed by the display of affection as much as the constant travelling, but he sees the smile she's trying to hide every time she looks at them.

It's a smile Varric sees echoed on plenty of faces around him and it fills him with confidence. This novel is going to be a bestseller for sure which is good, because the publisher already has his first two chapters. But more than that, he sees Curly smile. And while it shares more than a little in common with his own wry, calculated quirk of his lips Varric can see the joy in it. The, Maker forbid, happiness contained within the lazy shift of the Commander's mouth.

Good for him. For them.

His notes don't stop with the morning ride. By afternoon Little Fox is astride Major, rested enough to be trusted with her own reins. But she stays by Curly's side and every so often their fingers weave together between the mounts.

A pattern emerges.

She helps make camp, helps wherever she is allowed. She takes her meals with everyone, apologies long since given and accepted for the unintentional abandoning, ignoring the lewd comments from Buttercup, the knowing winks and nudges from Tiny. Then she spends her nights convincing Curly to sleep - he's not sure what Little Fox does but he knows what he's going to write their literary counterparts doing - helping with the wounded, taking care of the reports. By morning she is exhausted, and Curly pulls her onto his horse to rest. Not once do they consider letting her take a spot in one of the wagons, and once rested, she takes her own saddle again.

It repeats, and the wounded heal.

"The thread snapped. He was gone and Equinor lead him home."

"That's dumb, innit? Everyone knows you use the Sword for direction."

"But there shouldn't have been a direction. There was nothing, not even a trail of honey."

"Bees don't make honey when they're stressed, yeah? Who cares, all they gotta do is sting."

"I don't understand."

"Makes all of us, weirdy."

Sera and Cole have had some sort of understanding since the fight in the Arbor Wilds that no one else can fathom, tacit and taut, but they leave it alone. Even Solas, though he pays great attention to their conversations, curiousity ever present on his face as the elf and spirit trade words at times faster than her arrows fly.

"You think too fast."

She cackled, ripping open her loaf of bread. It's odd, seeing her enjoy Cole's presence - though perhaps the better word is tolerate, she still keeps him at a distance. A distance she measures in breadcrumbs as she tosses a hunk at the spirit with a grunt, the other half crammed in her mouth. "Whasa matter wif tha?"

Vivienne sniffed, removing herself from the group before Sera's table manners worsened. As if such a thing were possible. Like most of the companions, she has a hard time justifying Sera's presence in the Inquisition, never mind as a valued ally but, like everyone else, she handles it in her own way.

The pair ignore her as much as they ignore everything else around them, wrapped up in yet another cyclical discussion.

"Gold not yellow, fish pie and beards, arrows, too elfy, eggs to bees to rashvine, the bowstring sings but you don't hear the answering hum. You don't notice her sun, too many thoughts, and then you see. You're the only one that sees, so you make the others see. You're the only one that saw. The thread snapped, snuffed it. I don't understand."

Sera ignores the vast majority of his words, focusing on the end. "You know," the elf sung the words, drawing a finger across her neck like a knife to illustrate. "Snuffed it. Buggered off. Hurk. Dead."

"But Equinor lead him home."

"And I'm telling you that doesn't make friggin' sense. Equinor doesn't point anywhere! You need the Northern star."

They continued arguing round and round in circles and Sera continued flinging food, oblivious to the missiles that go off course and splatter everyone else. When Cole eventually gives up - Sera never explains, only tangles the threads up in other threads until the original thought is lost and buried - and disappears, the elf is left alone with Evelyn and a still rumbling stomach.

"What?" she grumbled, stealing a discarded bowl. "Don't like it. But it keeps asking stuff. You're the one all 'don't be rude' yeah?"

The brunette smiled softly, offering up the last of her own bread to her friend. "I think it's nice that you don't mind talking with him. I know Cole gets confusing at times."

"Oh, it's plenty confusing, innit? Don't know half what he means. All that thread and stars and setting suns in the middle of the day 'n crap." She shrugged, snatching the bread to clean out the stolen bowl with a flourish, stew dripping to the ground. "Like one of Varric's stupid books. Too many words, not enough fighting."

"You read Varric's books?" she asked, genuinely curious. She wouldn't have pegged Sera for an a reader of, well, anything, really.

"Yeah, why not? Serious-face has a friggin' bunch she hides under her mattress. Could do with some pictures though, piss. Too many words," she grumbled around a mouthful. Swallowing, she made a face. "He's writing a new one. Keeps askin' about the fight 'n other stuff. Wants sumfing, I 'unno," the rest of her sentence lost as she crammed the last of the loaf into her mouth, shrugging. Clearly, the topic of Varric's new work doesn't appeal to her either.

The sink into an easy silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and Sera's shockingly loud chewing. Back in the safety of the Frostbacks at last, entrenched in an Inquisition forward camp, it's no hardship to leave the Wilds behind. Cole's words niggle in the back of Evelyn's mind though, compounding with conflicting reports from the battle she left behind.

Solas claimed that none of Cullen's wounds were severe, that there was no trace of red lyrium and that Samson essentially gave himself up once they joined the Commander in the fight. Iron Bull said that Samson took three men to restrain him, that Cullen should be proud of his new scars but damn Boss, even I wouldn't cut it that close. Sera's explanation was slightly intelligible, all I 'unno, stuff happened, arrow went 'boom' in gobshite's face, Cully Wully was all 'hurk', Sam-spit was all 'red lyrium rawr' and we was all 'you can fuck off' so we beat him up. Vivienne waved a mildly condescending hand and told her to ask Cullen herself.

And the Commander kept his mouth shut.

Except for when it wasn't, kneeling at her mercy, offering his wordless apologies for ever worrying her morning after morning.

Waking up to her is an addiction he does not mind shackling himself to. Not when she traces the scars he lets her find with a gentleness he never knew he could feel, not when she presses breathless kisses to every inch of skin he bares to her. Not when she nuzzles into his side, sleep not yet banished and leaving her totally, blissfully honest when she tells him I love you.

He remembers flashes, mostly. Little blurs of action surrounded by a lot of nothing, an inky blackness more eclipsing than a starless night. He remembers the arrow searing his hand, though the burn has long healed - one of the first to go. He remembers the weight of red lyrium, pushing on his throat, his chest. Some marks yet remain, and he cannot help the odd rasp to his voice still, but that, too, fades with the healers hands and aftercare. He does not remember it happening, but he remembers seeing Samson, grip tight on his greatsword and a bloody smile on his lips. It had taken a moment to realize that the blade had been slipped through a weak joint of his silverite and rested, painfully, more than a few inches into his torso. There is a new scar there, a faint pink puckering of the skin, but he let the mages, the healers take care of it, too weak to protest at the time, too stubborn to admit after that he had indeed needed the help.

He knows it is one more moment where he should have died, and adds it to his list; Kinloch, Kirkwall, Conclave, Haven, Adamant - Arbor Wilds.

The Maker has a plan for all things under His gaze, but this, Cullen's life, he does not know why he persists, what part he can possibly play in the grand scheme of things.

And then Evelyn shifts, a sleepy mumble on her lips, sweet and caring and forgiving, and he tightens his grip on her, keeping her safe the only way he can right now. How is this not his role, then, to be by her side, to raise his shield and sword and defend her? The mantle of protector is strange, heavy, but not unwanted. He could - should - have done so much more in Kirkwall. He should - could - have taken more time after Kinloch to ease his suspicions and hatred.

But when his Evvy says there's nothing to forgive, when she says words like love and need and want and only you - how can he not believe her, believe once more in Him? How can he not heal, body and soul, finally?

The last morning, their final ascent to Skyhold, she rides alone at the head, tall and proud in the saddle. The Inquisitor, returning home. His heart, his love, his everything.

He rides beside the wagon Samson is shackled to, keeping his past and - Maker please - his future both in sight.

Chapter Text

Idle hands are a demons playthings.

Demons be damned though, messengers both avian and humanoid long for idle hands or wings. They are kept busy, racing back and forth, up and down steps and supply lines, back and forth across battlements and campsites.

Not a single one of them pity Jim, however. Rumours abound as to why and how he landed himself the unenviable task of being Morrigan's personal message runner, though no one is fully certain what he managed to do at last that finally sent the Commander over the edge. Regardless of the truth, whenever something requires the hedgewitch's attention, runners are dispatched to Jim - who has become a near permanent fixture at the Herald's Rest since his return from the Arbor Wilds - and Jim is sent to Morrigan.

As far as everyone else is concerned, it's a wonderful arrangement.

As far as Jim is concerned, it is. The. Worst. Thing. Ever.

Morrigan hates him, because she hates everyone. It's even worse than interrupting Madame de Fer's fancy parties, and he spends his days in fear that each trip to her quarters will be his last. He's learned a few things to keep him safe from random bolts of magefire and has gotten rather good at avoiding ice slicks, so that at least is a plus.

But the downside is a sheer drop off a cliff. Everyone avoids him lest they be caught up in his misfortune, he barely sleeps because for some reason Morrigan gets messages at all hours, and his bar tab, Maker, Cabot has to be gouging him on the prices, there's no way. What precious little coin he won on bets has been largely exhausted already, when he had hoped for it to last a few weeks at least.

And every. Bloody. Time. He goes down those big and slippery steps with no safety rail, he trips, no matter how fast he is going. It almost feels like someone specifically greased the last few steps just for him, and he is pretty sure his knees will forever be a mottled purple.

It's all so terribly, dreadfully unfair. He has to be cursed. Someone is out to get him. The Spymaster is secretly more evil than Corypheus, perhaps? Either way, it simply isn't right.

And for what? He certainly can't think of any reason to stick him with the most dangerous job in the Inquisition. Well, okay, the Inquisitor had the honour of that position really. But Jim's new role as Morrigan's message deliver was certainly top ten!

His head slammed into the bar top once more as he brooded, ignoring Cabot's irritated grumble about him wearing a dent in the wood. It would serve him right for the outrageous prices if he did, petty as the thought was. It takes a moment to realize that he's being hovered over and begrudgingly he rights himself, steeling himself for the announcement that he needs to risk life and limb once more.

Instead, he gets clapped on the back by a stocky hand and a fresh drink held tantalizingly under his nose. "Drink up, pal."

Jim eyes the dwarf warily for a moment before snatching the tankard. He's not entirely certain this isn't a trap, buttering him up before sending him back to the witch's lair, but only a fool turns down a free drink, and surely the Inquisitor's inner circle isn't out to get him. "This is free, right?"

"Yes, all paid for."

He took a grateful gulp. Really, it wasn't Jim's fault. The spymaster had insisted the Inquisitor get her message as soon as possible, and she had already retired to her quarters upon their return to Skyhold. He had knocked and been greeted with silence and assuming her to have gone out or to be asleep, had thought nothing of dropping the scroll on her desk. It had always been allowed in the past! And really! How was he to know that, in a rare acquiescence, the Commander had capitulated to her request he not climb any ladders until the healers tell him it's okay?

How was he supposed to know that the Inquisitor was exhausted and had barely slept a few hours in the last few days? And how was he supposed to know that she had ordered the Commander to stay in her rooms as a way of keeping him off ladders? And how was it his fault that the Spymasters insistence she get this message right away coincided with the Inquisitor finally being unable to resist the pull of sleep?

If anything, it was the Commander's fault! Jim would have left the scroll on the desk and walked away none the wiser, if it hadn't been for him! Jim was on his way out when something moved in the bed, catching his eye and he had frozen, looking up, terrified he had disturbed the Inquisitor's rest. Worse. It had been worse. His eyes locked on the Commander, sitting in her bed.

The shirtless Commander.

The shirtless Commander with an arm wrapped around the sleeping Inquisitor, holding her close to his chest.

He could, to his shame, still picture it quite clearly. The sleep mussed golden curls, how relaxed she looked, the glare that promised a painful, excruciating death, her hand resting above his heart, the book discarded to the side that lay open, spine cracked on the rumpled sheets. If he stopped to really think about what he had seen in the maybe thirty seconds of sheer panic, if he focused, then it might have occurred to him that the sheets were more than just rumpled, that the Commander's hair was more than sleep mussed, and that the Inquisitor was, in fact, wearing the Commander's missing shirt and not a whole lot else.

As it was, Jim, dear sweet Jim, had assumed the most innocent scenario in the thirty-ish seconds he had stared. So when the Commander promptly ordered him on his new assignment Jim could only boggle at how unfair it was.

After all, he hadn't disturbed the Inquisitor's rest! She had stayed asleep! What else would the Commander possibly be annoyed about? It wasn't like them being together, like that, was news. So why, out of all the scouts, out of all the people who said things, would it be Jim that gets singled out?

Varric slapped him on the shoulder a little too hard, knocking him off balance as the stocky man guffawed at Jim's morose retelling. But he bought the poor messenger a fresh drink for the tale, so at least Jim has that going for him.

Not all of his nightmares were bad. Not all of them resulted in him yelling, shooting awake sweaty and panting, looking around desperately. Even the more violent ones in the last few days both on the road and back at Skyhold, had, fortunately, dragged him from sleep in a manner that didn't disturb the other occupant of the bed.

Her exhaustion helped in that regard more than anything else, no doubt.

Cullen had been told, in no uncertain terms, that he would be staying in the Inquisitor's quarters to avoid injuring his shoulder further. Climbing up and down the ladder to his loft would, apparently, put too much strain on him. Cullen had yet to find a healer within Skyhold's walls that disputed that diagnosis, though he hadn't failed to notice the speed at which they came to that conclusion every time.

Someone - and he had his suspicions as to who though no one would confirm it - had clearly informed them what to tell him, and he gave up bothering to ask when he could return to his loft. He hadn't even bothered pushing for a cot in the barracks, not wanting that argument. They had, at least, cleared him for every other duty - including training - so long as he promised to take it easy on himself for a few more days.

And despite the nightmares, the occasional shakes, he couldn't bring himself to mind. Evelyn didn't coddle him, simpy insisting it made more sense for him to have her room while he recovered. Even though they had vastly different schedules it meant he actually saw her throughout the day, too. She had relinquished her desk to him and Cullen was growing fond of watching her sitting cross-legged on the floor across from him as she dug through reports and messages, old tomes and parchment scraps, waiting on Morrigan as patiently as she could. Judging from the near permanent furrow in her brow, it wasn't going well.

He was growing fond of quite a few things though, if he was honest with himself.

Cullen was sleeping better even with the nightmares. Having Evelyn at his side, a warm and comforting presence, made all the difference. Her rooms made work easier as well, without the constant interruptions of the watch making their rounds. And the added privacy certainly didn't hurt. In fact, if he wasn't still sore and achy, if she wasn't working so hard, if there wasn't that whole pesky ancient Magister out to destroy the world, he was pretty sure he wouldn't let her leave the bed.

As it stood, she barely stayed in it long enough for him to try anything. It was like she had taken a page from his book; caving and collapsing into bed only when it became impossible to keep her eyes open, and leaping up in the morning to tackle the next problem regardless of how few hours she had gotten. Three days of this and he wasn't proud of how grumpy it had made him. He was better than this, he was the Commander. He saw Evelyn every day, held her every night, and that should be enough.

He had gone far, far longer without a woman. But he is still a man, and Maker but he needs to give his love everything. He needs to be worthy.

Lost in his own thoughts, Dorian is the last person he would have expected to see coming up the stairs, and it became clear he had been hoping to catch Evelyn rather than Cullen. The mage sighed when he caught sight of the other man, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "If she's under the desk, just shoo me away. Otherwise, I'm open to suggestions as to where to look next."

"Maker's breath, Dorian!" He spluttered, dropping the report he had been trying to make his way though. "How could you even think such a thing?!"

The Tevinter laughed, waving away Cullen's incredulity with his hands and a sly wink. "Oh come now, Commander. We all know what you got up to on the road, is it so hard to think she'd repay the favour?"

"I am not- We are not having this discussion." Cullen ran a hand through his hair, settling at the back of his neck to rub. With a heavy sigh, he pushed past the awkward line of questioning and responded, "if you want the Inquisitor, I believe she went to see Josephine."

Dorian shrugged, leaning against the banister as he took stock of the man in front of him. "Far be it for me to interrupt the girl talk, then. Perhaps you'll find it in you to amuse me with a game?"

Cullen glanced up, making no further headway on the report in front of him. He had already been staring at it for far too long prior to Dorian's interruption, and now... "I have a lot of work to do."

"And you can return to it after a break. Unless you think Corypheus is hiding in that mountain of parchment?" At the surly grunt that answered him Dorian chuckled, moving over to the small table near the fireplace that Evelyn kept her chess set at. "Yes, yes, we all know you are a dedicated man. But I've missed you, sequestered up here as you've been!"

"I'm hardly sequestered." He watched Dorian set up the board, noting with no small amusement that the mage claimed the white pieces as was usual. A break might not be the worst idea, really. He had been stuck reading the same requisition order for the last hour or so, not even sure he knew who the scribbled signature belonged to never mind what the unknown signatory needed with a tub of grease, three cheese wheels, and a dracolisk saddle. On second thoughts, a break would be wonderful. "It's not as if no one knows where to find me, either."

"But all those stairs," Dorian made a pained expression that quickly translated into a smirk as Cullen moved to sit across from him. "Though I hear you've healed just fine, all considering." He raised an eyebrow as he pushed forward one of his pawns. "So I won't blame you for stealing every moment you can with Evie."

It was quite clearly going to be one of those conversations. The kind he hated regardless of who he was talking to. Cullen's private affairs were private; what he did or did not do with Evelyn was between them. He minded the talk, the rumours because he didn't like being discussed in soft whispers behind his back and while the looks he got now were those of awe, approval, joy, jealousy even, he still sometimes felt the eyes on him. Eyes like there had been those last few weeks at Kinloch, like at Kirkwall. It was more than a little unsettling, even now.

He had thought he would get used to it. Being Knight-Captain meant being in charge, meant that others had to look at him. Rumours, idle gossip was part of that and he learned quickly that even if the other Templars didn't know about what happened at Fereldan's circle, they talked regardless. It got worse, naturally, for a time once he took over as Knight-Commander. Whispers dogged his every step in Kirkwall.

Those whispers had a positive effect though, in the end. When Cassandra had come to him, to ask him to oversee troops for the Inquisition, it had been easy then to tell her his one caveat. They could whisper all the wanted; Cullen Rutherford would be bound by lyruim no more at least.

Cullen moved a pawn, mirroring Dorian's opening as he set aside thoughts of before. He hadn't escaped the whispers when he had shed the Knight from his title. And at least now, what they were discussing about him behind his back... Well. If he cared that much, he probably wouldn't have insisted on worshiping between the thighs of his Goddess each dim night-turned-morning on the road, coaxing noises that thick canvas walls could not obscure.

He grunted finally, the only response he cared to give Dorian on the matter. The mage chuckled, moving another pawn. "Don't be surly, Commander. We all like seeing the Inquisitor happy, and I'm thrilled the two of you are enjoying each other so. Especially after the scare you gave us. Evie was rather irritated no one thought to mention that part sooner."

"It-" Cullen grunted again, shaking his head. "It wasn't my decision. By the time I was conscious and they told me you had gone through the Eluvian I agreed; it wasn't worth your time travelling back to the Wilds, or worth worrying you all needlessly with the details of our end of the fight. I was fine."

Dorian sighed dramatically, his eyes focused on the board as Cullen made his move. "You say that, my dear man, but how were we to know? All we knew was that we had quit the field of battle rather spectacularly, leaving the rest of you to sort things out. Evie was struggling with the fact that Corypheus has proven himself essentially immortal, yet again, with leaving her friends to face that monster without her. She takes the weight of the world on her shoulders, and how do you lot repay her? By failing to mention that the man she loves - the man she had to abandon on the field in the middle of battle - was wounded? Even if it had just been a scratch, a mere bruise, she still deserved to know." He moved a knight aggressively, still keeping his eyes down. "You didn't see her after we came through the mirror. She panicked, Cullen. She almost hit Morrigan when the witch refused to reopen the Eluvian. Evie was so determined to get back there, to find some way to jam an arrow so far into Corypheus's face he would stay dead." His captive audience moved a pawn, distracted, and Dorian captured it without hesitation. "My point, in case you were wondering, is that she's dedicating herself body and soul to this. To the point of destruction, her destruction. So it's rather reassuring to think Evie has a reason not to be foolish, not to push herself too hard. But," he glanced up and fixed him with a hard stare, "it goes both ways."

Being berated by Dorian is surprising, to say the least. Of all the Inquisition members to caution him to be careful, it's odd that the Tevinter mage is the one addressing the former Templar. They sunk into silence as Cullen attempted to recover the game, thoughts very clearly not on the board in front of him despite the effort. It's true, he has to concede in the end. It does neither of them any good to be reckless on the battlefield.

He had almost died. Again. Despite his luck, despite his faith. Despite his training.

It would not happen again. He had sworn not to let Haven repeat itself, sworn to protect the Herald, the Inquisitor, his Evvy. For all the grand words, all the posturing, he had failed in every attempt. She had saved herself in the Fade with help from the Divine, she had saved herself from Envy with help from Cole. Her survival at Adamant had been at the cost of Stroud's life, and in the Arbor Wilds it had been Morrigan that had gotten her to safety. She hadn't needed him at the Winter Palace, never needed him as she trekked across Thedas closing rifts and helping others.

For all Cullen wanted to protect her, he wasn't doing a very good job of it. He surrendered the game to Dorian, his mood growing worse the longer he dwelt on it.

Evelyn cleared her throat nervously, pulling Leliana and Josephine's attention from the papers on the Ambassador's desk. "We should discuss what we're going to do with Samson. He's in withdrawal, and Cassandra is helping keep an eye on him but..." She trailed off, shrugging uselessly. Honestly, she was at a loss. Everything felt like it was spiraling out of control.

Every time they had gotten close to Corypheus, every time she had been given a shot at him or his dragon since Haven, she had failed, been pulled away by forces outside of her control.

It was wearing on her, and the cracks in her foundation were widening. Even though they had beaten him at the temple, taken the Well for themselves, she was still plagued by doubt. Was letting Morrigan drink from the Well of Sorrows the right thing to do? How could she celebrate a win, take joy in capturing the enemy general, when it had cost so many lives, left Cullen wounded? Even Leliana sported cuts and bruises and her companions had all been eager to take a few days to rest.

She couldn't relax, teetering on the edge. They had been so close and it still hadn't been enough. Corypheus had come back, taken a corrupted Warden's body for his own and kept going. Evelyn was terrified that nothing they did would be enough.

Leliana broke her reverie. "We have enough lyrium to include him in the rationing. But if he truly needs red lyrium, like he's been suggesting, then there is nothing we can do."

"I agree, Inquisitor. We still know so little about it, and we could not risk spreading it here. Even if Dagna was to assure us she could control the growth the mere fact that it consumes people..." Josephine tried to hide her shudder by fiddling with the papers before her, gathering some up as Leliana indicated that they should keep talking in the war room.

"No, I think-" Evelyn sighed, wandering close behind the other two women. Cullen's description of the Chantry's use of lyrium as a leash, Meredith using extra rations as a form of control rang in her mind. "I don't want to use lyrium as a bargaining chip. He will either tell us what we need, or he won't. If he doesn't ask for lyrium, he doesn't get any. If he asks... Then he will have to make do with normal lyrium. I won't risk having any of the red here."

The two shared a look before Leliana nodded with a thoughtful hum. "That can be arranged, and seems more than fair. At the moment, Samson is willing to talk but only at his own leisure, on topics he deems worth his time to rant about. He ignores our questions, even when we have one of the senior Templar's talk to him."

"If he's not adverse to it, it might be more worthwhile to have the Commander talk to him?" Josephine took her usual spot across the table, setting down the gathered papers and organising them into piles for something to do. "They did serve together, after all."

"Assuming you think he's rested enough, of course," Leliana teased.

Evelyn frowned, shaking her head to avoid the amusement on her Spymaster's face. "That's a good idea, we can ask Cullen about it. The healers said he's recovered just fine, so it's up to him."

"How is he doing, if you don't mind my asking? He seems fine, but it is hard to tell with him," Josephine stilled her hands, eyes bright with curiousity.

"I think he's okay? He deflects my questions about the battle, though, and honestly it's getting frustrating. I don't see what's so wrong with telling me the exact extent of his injuries."

"I'm sure he just doesn't want to worry you, now that it's all over," Leliana murmured, glancing at her friend. She shifted her weight, drawing Evelyn's attention.

Sighing, she shrugged. "Perhaps. Though that doesn't actually help me worry less. There's no point dwelling on what-if's, I know, and whatever happened lead to Samson's capture, but..."

"But you feel as though he's hiding something?" Shrewd as ever; Evelyn nodded in response to Leliana's question. "I would not want to guess his state of mind but Evie, it came to my attention that Nathaniel escaped our watch some time after he fled the Amaranthine port. We know he made contact with the Venatori and through them, the Red Templars. Cullen and a few others agree - the Horror that was with Samson in the field was Nathaniel. If he is keeping anything from you, I would wager it is little more than that. We have wondered if it was worth telling you, but..." she glanced at Josephine, inclining her head to the side. "I hope it helps, to know that he will no longer trouble us."

Evelyn frowned, chewing on her lower lip. She had been preoccupied enough with preparations for the Arbor Wilds that thoughts of her former husband-to-be had been so few and far in-between as to have been absent. "You're certain?"

"As much as we can be. We destroyed the remains with the rest of them. I..." Leliana looked her in the eye, unwavering. "I should have told you sooner that we lost track of him, I know."

"No... It's fine. I think that would have just distracted me, and you found his trail again anyway. I appreciate that you are telling me now." It was an odd thing, the way she felt from the news. It was almost as if someone else had heard the words Leliana had said. There was no impact, no lifting of an invisible burden, no relief. It just... Was.

Nathaniel was gone. Forever.

She had felt relief the first time, knowing, believing that the Chantry would be a safe haven for her. She didn't have to think or worry about him. She had felt free. This time she felt... Empty.

Leliana and Josephine shared another glance, speaking volumes in the silence. "If you want to talk about it..."

"I don't, Leliana. But thank you." She sighed, lacing her fingers together, trying to bring her thoughts to bear. "I just want this to be over. Do we have any further leads on where Corypheus fled?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid. The army anticipates it being another five or six weeks until they are all back, but the Arbor Wilds have gone quiet. The last of Corypheus's forces have either withdrawn or been dealt with. Without Samson or Calpernia, we can only hope they are in such disarray that they won't have time to regroup before we can track them down."

"Corypheus is strong enough without them. He- That Warden that he possessed, I- Maker," Evelyn shook her head, trying not to dwell on it, on the fear. They theorised that he could only possess Wardens, that he needed the tainted blood but what if he could take any body, take any corpse? Someone she knew, someone she- She shook her head again quickly. It didn't do to enterain the what-ifs. "We have to find him. Morrigan has to be ready to face his dragon. This needs to be over."

"We agree with you, for what it's worth. But there's nothing we can do at present." Leliana came around the table to pat her on the shoulder supportively. "I know counselling patience is the last thing you want but..."

"No, it's fine." Evelyn sighed once more, feeling tired and frustrated. "We'll get there. What else do we have to deal with in the meantime?"

Chapter Text

Sunset painted Skyhold in oranges and reds, fading fast to the deep blues and blacks of night. Another day gone with no sign of the enemy, no clue to his movements, nothing to do but hurry up and wait.

Waiting was dull no matter how quickly she did it, though and Evelyn paced back and forth. She had already been forcefully ejected from the tavern - too moody for the patrons - and the stables - too agitated, it's bad for the horses - and even the watch had told her to stay off the walls after one too many poorly timed attempts at door openings had resulted in a bloody nose. Dejected and wanting to avoid the lecture from Josephine for pacing in the great hall in full view of the nobles - or worse, irritating Dorian or Solas by taking her restless feet on a tour of the library - she resigned herself to the small anteroom outside the dilapidated dungeon. On the upside, her leather feet slapping on the flagstone floors helped obscure the occasionally heated discussion from the cells, preventing all but the loudest complaints from reaching the ears of the guards stationed outside.

She felt a little bit sorry for the guards posted inside, subject as they are to the full brunt of their Commander's flares of rage. Samson was seemingly content to enjoy the Inquisition's hospitality with nothing to offer but snide comments and repeated diatribes against the Chantry. He offered no information, no matter if he were given honey or vinegar. Whatever remained of the man Cullen had known in Kirkwall, it evidently wasn't his compassion or rationality.

So waiting it was, and it was dull. Repetitive.

Frustrating.

She could find nothing at all to help on the Corypheus front, and less worth her attention in other matters. Josephine had more than proven her worth as the Inquisition's ambassador a thousand times over, seen to it that Skyhold ran as efficiently as possible without input needed from the Inquisitor. Leliana too had no cause for complaint to be brought against her - so long as the topic wasn't Corypheus' location. With so little to actually occupy her time it left her feeling vexed and twitchy. Evelyn knew she should talk to someone, try to put a voice to all the feelings swirling around but... Words were hard. And asking Cole felt a little like cheating.

Eventually, she had to give in to her sore feet, heeding their call for rest. Below her, the voices still carried into the night, and she felt a pang of irritation over how stubborn Samson was proving to be. It was still written on her face when she passed by Leliana in the hall, and the redhead was quick to fall in step beside her, her own face inscrutable as she followed Evelyn to her quarters in silence. The hall was, after all, a wonderful place to be overheard.

Having mounted the steps, Evelyn threw herself face down into her bed with a groan, dislodging the pile of books she had been curating there. They slipped to the ground without ceremony, and Leliana laughed softly as she started to gather them up. "I haven't heard a sound like that since Barkspawn got caught stealing from Alistair's cheese supply."

Evelyn raised her head to glance over, trying and failing to hide a smile. "You don't talk about them much. Or the Blight, or any of it, really."

"Everyone knows the important parts of that story - and my focus is on the future." The redhead shrugged as she rescued the tomes from the floor, stacking them in a newly precarious position on the small sofa instead. "It's a fine, grand adventure from a distance, but when you are living it, when you are standing there in the ruined city choking on ash and smoke and covered in blood, utterly unsure if you just witnessed your greatest friend throw her life away for thousands of people who she doesn't even know, some of whom had called for her head barely a week before..." A sadness flickered in her eyes, and she coughed as if she had to clear her throat. "It's better to think about the little, happy moments you've shared and all the ones you can still make."

Evelyn rolled over and pulled herself into a sitting position before sliding off the bed, crossing the few steps to the spymaster and encircling her in a hug. "I hope we've given you plenty such moments, Leliana."

"You have," she smiled, returning the embrace easily. "You've been a handful at times, too, of course," she laughed, a bright and hopeful sound, before pulling away to investigate the papers stacked on the desk. "But knowing I can count you as a friend is reassuring. No matter what tomorrow brings, we all stand together."

"Of course we do," the Antivan lilt was a welcome addition as Josephine appeared, arms full not just with her customary board but also a covered basket, the aroma of which promised fresh and delicious pastries. And, it occurred to Evelyn suddenly, it had been a while since she had eaten. Was there anything these two women didn't know between them?

The darkness outside her windows was easy to ignore as they settled in for an impromptu picnic in front of the fire and for a while, there was peace.

For a while, they weren't waiting.

Night had drawn in fully and the fire was the only light source left to them as the three women shared another laugh. A soft knock on the banister and a light cough alerted them finally to the presence of another.

"A moment of your time, Inquisitor? Alone, if you don't mind."

Her eyes were drawn instantly to his waist, to the fur and metal perched against his hipbone where his sword usually rested. It's the only piece of his armor he had with him, the rest of his silverite still with Dagna and Harritt for repairs. Seeing it now stirred something not at all unpleasant, clad as he was in simple linen and leather.

Evelyn swallowed, half afraid it had been an audible gulp, half... all excited. A certain promise echoed in her mind as she watched him. Leliana and Josephine shared a confused look as Cullen waited at the top of the stairs. The ambassador, ever diplomatic, was the one to get the message first and giggled, tugging the redhead behind her. "We can pick this up later, Evie."

The two left, Leliana giving her a supportive wink as she disappeared from view. Leaving Evelyn with her Commander, alone, in her bedroom. The sound of the door shutting below echoed far too loudly for her liking.

Andraste preserve me, she has a notion but still asks.

"What did you need?"

"You."

She snorted softly, leaning back against the desk. From the floor he towered over her, but she found she didn't mind looking up at him. "Well you have me. What now?"

"That's up to you," he shrugged, tossing her the engraved helm, keeping a respectful distance. "Your Commander awaits your orders."

Oh.

Oh.

Varric would kill for that line.

She's not going to share it with the dwarf, but Void take her, it's perfect. Evelyn ran her fingers over the snout, splitting her attention between the helmet and Cullen. "We aren't exactly in private." Sure, these are her personal quarters. Sure, those are heavy wood doors with an empty hallway between them and another heavy door. And steps, countless steps. Sure, this room isn't frequented by anyone that wasn't her or him or a few of the staff outside of the daytime. But the thought of Josephine and Leliana thinking, never mind knowing, and Maker forbid someone need something, someone always needs something...

"Where else would you issue me orders, the war room?" he asked, an amused smirk and raised eyebrows daring her to refute him. Maker take him.

Fingers traced the shape of the lion's eyes, the indentations to denote whiskers, the nose. It's an exquisite piece of workmanship, and he's magnificent, even with his new scars. "You're off bedrest, then?" She chose the words carefully, ignoring his entirely valid point, walking a thin line between teasing and need. It's always been too easy to give in to him. The whole ride back to Skyhold, she'd given in to him, freely and wholly, too relieved at their victories to dwell on darker thoughts.

Cullen took a step forward, one, then another until he was in front of her, sinking to his knees to look her in the eye. "That's up to you, isn't it?"

His smirk was infuriating to her and she swiped at his nose to distract him as she made a thoughtful hum. "I have no idea what you're implying."

He laughed in response, catching her hand before she could take another pass. A gentle tug pulled her forward and thrown off balance by the helm in her free hand she landed in his lap with an annoyed grunt, a pout sliding into place on her face and drawing another laugh from him. "You're a terrible liar."

"And you're a terrible patient," she grumbled back, unceremoniously pushing the lion's head between them. "Don't you have someone else to be questioning?"

"Would you rather I keep wasting my time, or spend it with you?" The smallest of frowns threatened to take over Cullen's face, not having anticipated having to play question for a question. "I know that we are-"

Evelyn cut him off, the helm clanging to the floor beside them as she kissed the worry away. "Me. I definitely prefer you here with me," she mumbled against his lips, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I know that's selfish."

"I hear it's alright to be selfish from time to time," he laughed, deep and throaty, the sound reverberating between them. She smiled back as he pulled them both to their feet, tender and sweet with his touches like new lovers, shy as they charted new territory. But they aren't new to this or each other, and with a growl worthy of his appellation he pushed Evelyn back step by stumbling step until she hit her desk. The initial impact didn't dislodge anything but parchment was quickly relocated to the floor as she hopped up onto the surface of the wooden behemoth, her fingers quick to find the buckle of his belt and undo it. Cullen's smirk resurfaced as she shifted her focus to his shirt, hands fisting in the linen as she yanked it up and over his head before discarding it with the papers. "I was starting to think you had forgotten how to do that."

It's hard to miss the tinge of sadness behind the teasing tone, even as he moved to mirror her actions with less haste. He's done nothing but give since the Wilds and she's repaid him in distance, sinking into work and frustration without concern for the toll it takes, and that's not the kind of selfish she longs to be. Not now. Not with him. Not when he's slowly tugging her shirt up inch by inch, the battle-hardened skin of his hands tracing a path along the newly exposed silk of hers. No, she wants to be the kind of selfish that leaves him breathless and satisfied, the kind of selfish that has him mumbling things in the dead of night he could never bring himself to say otherwise, the kind of selfish that doesn't keep him on his knees. She wants to be selflessly selfish with him, to take this night and any others they can get. Only she doesn't know how to tell him that.

She doesn't know how they keep ending up against one desk or the other, either, but it's hard to complain about that fact when he added her blouse to the pile accumulating on the floor. He made his focus on the singular purpose of her worship, and instead of words she let her hands steady and guide because that, that was easy to communicate. And her Commander, he has always taken instruction well.

Evelyn helped him divest her of her breeches and bindings, of the layers that kept her safe and protected outside of these chambers - with him to hold her, she doesn't need them. She tugged at his waistband with a sly grin that even a fox would fear, determined not to be the only one without clothing. "I remember a lot of things. In particular I remember what you said about that helm." There's no pink on her cheeks this time, just a smile that promised the Void and beyond, and all a man would ever need.

Cullen laughed, because what other response could there be? He remembered. He remembered promising another time, promising more, promising later. Too many promises with no way to ensure he could fulfill them but made regardless because if all else failed, his intent was true. If all else failed - he was true. He had not forgotten her teasing the night of Josephine's impromptu party. Even as he freed himself of his breeches he hooked the lion helm with his foot, bringing it within his reach so he could pick it up with his left hand without letting her go. His right lay on her waist, his grin wolfish as he tugged her from her perch and turned her aside, ignoring the raised eyebrow and questioning look she shot him. From behind, he wrapped his arms around her, setting the helm on the desk where she could see it before pressing a trail of kisses along the back of her neck, sweeping aside her braid as it threatened to get in his way. "As I said, Evvy, I am yours to command."

There were a thousand options to choose from and not a one she could voice while standing there, lost in the sensation of his skin pressed to hers, his warmth constant despite their distance from the fire. It took all her concentration just to take his hands in hers, pull him flush. Cullen dropped his head to her shoulder, nuzzling into the side of her neck with more soft kisses, his left hand mapping the outline of her curves and she could feel every motion, every twitch of muscle in his broad chest. She bit her lower lip, tilting her head to his, still unable to find words as his amber gaze locked on her. A thousand commands left unspoken, Evelyn used her body where her tongue failed her, her hips pushing back against his. His eyes fluttered closed, distracted by the action, and she brought her left hand up, following his until she could reach back, her fingers gaining a grip on the back of his neck. "Aren't you forgetting something?" she finally managed, anchoring her focus on the lion's head in front of her.

He hadn't thought so, rid of all the fabric between them and hearing the breathless whine in her voice. Cullen shrugged, planting a kiss on her cheek before leaning in to whisper in her ear, "I would rather you hold on to it. But if the Inquisitor desires..."

Her right hand stopped his as it reached out, laughter bubbling from them both as they looked at the metal and fur gracing the desk in front of them. "It probably wouldn't be very comfortable, would it? Orlesians have the strangest ideas."

"I get the impression it would hinder my ability to do this," he rumbled, nipping gently at her earlobe. "Or this," accompanied the press of his lips to hers.

"Consider me convinced," Evelyn mumbled breathlessly as he found purchase on her hips, each touch causing little ripples of electricity to jolt through her. She can forgive him anything, even amending the terms of this commitment. She can forgive him for the hard, unforgiving and cold surface of the desk when he's warm at her back. She can forgive him for taking so long to knock her walls down when his were as high, as strong. She can forgive him for the sleepless nights of worry, when he makes up for it with sleepless nights like this instead.

He's not rough with her, though it's easy to make this rough. It's easy to make this fast and impersonal but this, he may be initiating it now but it was her notion in the first place, it's her wicked grin that's set this in motion and he won't, can't be rough about it. Not when she settled herself on the cold, hard, and unforgiving surface of the desk, glancing back at him over her shoulder, that same grin teasing him, her weight on her forearms and her rear resting against his more than willing arousal. It's an absurd picture, one he has no intention of painting for anyone else but his own memory, but Maker, the things the Herald of Andraste does to and for him. So he's not rough with her, choking on the moan he can't hold back when he entered her. He's had women like this before, but not at all like this, no, never anything or anyone like this.

Evelyn tried to watch him as long as she could, caught in the way he moved, the way his fingers tensed against her hipbones with each press of his body back to hers. But the sight of him, tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he groaned with pleasure, it's too much. With a laugh she dropped her head to the veneer of her desk, her own moan wanton as he rocked against her. His hands ran up her back, slipping under to cup her breast, to turn her head back to him as he leant forward. It's divinely impious, this animalistic position, sends shivers through her that translate into bursts of light under his skin as he catches her mouth with his. And it's glory, all of it; in his veins the only song is one syncopated to her panted breathing, her eyes the only blue he craves, the fire that burns within banked under the weight of her smile, the curve of her tongue against his. Part of him wished he could go back, shackle himself to her and not the lyrium, but the boy he had been then would never, could never have caught her. That boy would never have known what to do with a woman, never mind a woman like this - one who tugged his hand down to where they were joined, one who bit his lower lip even as she begged for more, one who met his amber gaze head on without blinking and smiled as she tested the limits of his resolve.

That boy would have died in the Blight, no salvation gifted by the grey and blue and drenched in the blood of men who thought they knew best. That boy certainly would have died in Kirkwall, unable to find the light in his convictions, the purity of his determination in the face of overwhelming, catastrophic odds. That boy, had he survived, would not have known what to do as the Temple of Ashes crashed down around him and the demons swarmed. That boy would never have made it through one conversation with the Lady Trevelyan, with the Herald, with the Inquisitor. That boy would never have been able to fathom this life, never mind this moment.

That boy belongs to the past, one he had put aside time and time again because this world needed him to be better, to be more, to have been worthy of being saved at Kinloch, spared in Kirkwall, lucky at the Conclave, loved by his Evvy. He puts the boy aside again, because the past cannot be changed, and this moment, this future that sits on the horizon, that's all that matters. She's all that matters, and he makes her whimper with the thought.

He tastes the salt of her back like a parched man at an oasis, lets teeth and tongue and stubble etch marks no one else will chance to see before they fade. His fingers graze both her jawline and her thigh in turns, gentle touches filled with need that should be at odds with the snap of his hips that force her against the unyielding wood but somehow aren't, somehow fit perfectly with each shuddered breath and gasping plead. She's too much, always too much, but she doesn't let him go, her back arching up when he tried to withdraw, her hands snaking behind his neck again to keep him there, connected. The shift in angle undoes him, her breathy laugh and bare skin on his, her neck bared for his head to rest, fingers wending into sweat-curled blonde hair at the nape of his neck. She has him and knows it, takes joy in the guttural groan and shudder he can't suppress, the bite of his teeth on her collarbone and the way he can't resist bringing his hands up her torso to cover her breasts, still gentle but insistent nonetheless. There's still the matter of her to address, after all, once he can retain thought and convince himself to move.

The desk is spared further ignominy - the poor, abused thing - once he finds some sense. Cullen doesn't even bother to withdraw or re-position either of them, one insistent hand on a new path all he takes to bring her into the aftermath with him, surprised to find she had been teetering on the edge for so long without complaint or satisfaction. So much patience, bottled behind a mewl that has him stirring all over again despite the protest from his knees. Disentangling created more protests from muscles happily sore from use and he had to laugh all over again as his helm stared expressionlessly back at them in silent judgement of what had just occurred in it's presence.

Naked, sweaty, marked and marred and hair in disarray and his, all his, she stood on shaky legs. There's no protest beyond a muffled squeak when he picked her up, his favourite sound all the sweeter when it repeated and shifted into a moan at the press of his lips to hers. He took her to the bed with a steady stride, her Fereldan Forder, stamina unmatched even now, and she laughed against his chest as they collapsed together into the soft confines of the downy comforter and overstuffed pillows that Vivienne and Josephine insisted were utterly necessary for her bed.

"Any other orders, Inquisitor?" It's a tease but tinged with the need for an answer, a real answer, the need to know all that he can do to and for her.

Evelyn could only shake her head, inching as close as she can to entwine herself around him and all the warmth he provides. There's nothing she needs in this moment or the next but for him to be there by her side. It's enough. He's enough.

They drift in and out for a while, content until the fire is close to dead and even the thick covers can't keep the remaining heat in. She shivered against him, and he's all too happy to see to her needs, mundane as this one is. It gives him the opportunity to tidy away the cast off papers, to place their clothes in a more strategic position, to admire the way even half asleep, she's glued to him, eyes watching him move in the muted darkness of the room. He found the gold token in his hand without meaning to, held for so long safe in his pocket, faith and hope held within the worn etching of Andraste's benevolence even when everything else had been broken and lost. It's been enough for so long that it has to be enough now, and he handed it over to Evelyn despite her lack of pockets, grinning at her confusion.

"Should I be offended?"

Cullen laughed, slipping back under the covers beside her, marveling at her wonder as she turned the coin over to inspect the dulled edges of the Maker's Bride's countenance. "My brother gave it to me as a good luck charm when we were children. You could argue it's been more a magnet for bad luck, but either way, I want you to have it. I know it's foolish, but you throw yourself head first into danger so often that I-" He broke off, the thought lost as she clambered on top of him with a smile.

"I'll keep it safe for you if that's what you want, Cullen. But if you feel your luck slipping, you take it back."

He slipped a hand around the back of her head, tangling in her hair and pulling her in for a kiss. "I don't need it. I have you."

The morning quiet was shattered by the blare of horns and from the war room they could see instantly the cause of it, even as the anchor flared in response behind them. Evelyn wasted no time waiting for permission from her advisers, quick to grab her bow and quiver and call her comrades to her side. She wouldn't have stopped, he knew. She would have raced right out the gate on foot with a determined look on her face.

Instead, she found him waiting, her Commander in full regalia, reins in hand as Dennet wrangled the mounts for everyone else.

"I have to go."

"I know." Painfully aware that everyone was watching their interaction he held out Major's reins to her, the horse stamping a hoof in impatience when she didn't take them right away. "I've met the Hero of Fereldan. You know I'm well acquainted with Hawke. Right now, you have the same fire in your eyes that they did."

Overhead, the sky twisted and churned as the breach swelled, drawing her attention away from him. "I have to," she repeated, finally taking the reins and swinging up into the saddle with ease. For a moment she sat tall and proud, their noble Inquisitor off to war once more. Major stamped and huffed, eager to spring forward and away with the lightest touch from her. She glanced past him to the people gathering, curiosity and fear on their faces. The weight of their expectations and hope on her shoulders. It's heavy, almost unbearable, but she has one thing that's all hers and she leant over in the saddle, reaching for it.

He smiled as she rested her forehead against his, her eyes slipping closed at the touch. "Keep them safe here."

"You have my word." Cullen kissed her, but not as a goodbye. Never goodbye, but to victory. She has his coin, his luck tucked safe in her pocket. She has her bracer, snug on her arm, lyrium runes winking softly in the sunlight. And she has his heart, all of it. "Come back, Evvy," it's a command, but spoken like a request.

Evelyn smiled softly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw as if to imprint the memory of it into her skin. "I'll see you soon."