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One - The First Time They Met
The prisoner was very tall for an elf, Cullen noticed as he glanced up to see the man arriving with Cassandra and Solas and Varric. Very tall and older than he expected, with a chiseled jawline, salt and pepper hair, intense silver eyes, and one of those Dalish face tattoos he could never remember the name of. Cullen realized with a start he was staring. Rude? Yes. Embarrassing? Most definitely. But was it his fault he'd never met an elf he didn't have to look down at to meet their eyes, and who was broad enough they nearly made him feel small, and Maker's breath, was he somehow part-Qunari?
Cullen was frozen in place as the party approached the nearby rift which had been sort of locked, ominous and looming, not far from their camp in the valley, but, thankfully, not spitting out demons. It crackled and sparked and then began shifting, rending apart the Veil. It felt wrong, made his heart pound in his chest, stole his breath, caused his head to split open; the pain was nauseating, and he barely managed to suck in his breath before the demons began pouring out.
Before Cullen could form words to warn them what was to come, they fell into fighting stances. The four moved like an elite unit already, Cassandra charging at the fore as the other three maintained their distance. The prisoner flitted about so quickly Cullen could hardly keep his eyes on him unleashing a hail of arrows at speeds which nearly matched Varric's crossbow. It was impressive… but he was armed and fighting demons with them which was confusing, concerning - what had Leliana and Cassandra discovered? The team dispatched the creatures and the rift was mended before his eyes; one moment it was there and the next it was gone. Solas must have discovered something then, or perhaps Cassandra had determined a way to use Templar abilities to close the holes in reality. That was encouraging.
He closed the distance between them before he realized what he was doing. "Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift? Well done."
"Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner's - Banassan's - doing," she answered, glancing up at the taller man.
Banassan. It was difficult to believe this was the man his soldiers had started to call the Herald of Andraste, that he might be the one who delivered them from certain destruction. "Is it?" he asked, eyebrows raising. "I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here."
He could feel the man's eyes sweep over him, but he was unsure if he was being measured and found lacking or if he was receiving a high appraisal. "You're not the only one hoping that." His voice was deep, his accent familiar in the way Marcher accents had become familiar to Cullen from his time in Kirkwall. Banassan shifted on his feet as if slightly uncomfortable, adjusting the quiver which was clearly made to fit someone different, the strap not quite sitting correctly across his broad body. "How are the soldiers holding up?"
Cullen was thrown off-guard by the question and the surprise showed on his face. "As well as can be expected with a hole in the Veil signaling the end of times nearby."
"That well?" Banassan quipped, and Cullen nearly smiled at the dire humor.
"The way to the temple should be nearly clear," he said instead. "We have one final push, and then-"
"Show me," the prisoner requested. He glanced at Cassandra and she nodded grimly, telling Cullen to trust the man before him. He sighed heavily and rubbed at the back of his neck, nodding for Banassan to follow him to the nearby makeshift table where the map of the surrounding area was laid out. His plan - if one could call it that - was hastily contrived, but the only way which he could see to clear the path for them, to keep the prisoner free from danger and sure to reach the temple.
"We're currently here," Cullen said, pointing to a spot on the map, "and we need to get you here, to the Breach."
"Commander? I know how to read a map," Banassan replied softly, his tone warm and amused.
The heat rose to his cheeks, and he suddenly felt as large as a field mouse, because of course, of course he could read a map. He was likely trained as a scout or hunter, since he was an archer and- "R-right," Cullen managed to squeak out. His hand moved to the back of his neck to rub anxiously again.
Banassan stepped close, brows knitting together as he leaned forward, palms planted on the table and studied the markers for troop positions. "You intend to push here and here, to charge the demons and clear a path?"
"Yes," Cullen confirmed. "Once the path is clear, a small team of soldiers will escort you to-"
"No," he interrupted. "I don't need an escort."
"Banassan, lethallen," Solas said calmly from behind him, and Cullen nearly jumped out of his skin; the man moved so silently he put Leliana's scouts to shame. "We must be cautious. If you did not make it to the temple, then all would be lost."
"You let me worry about getting to the Temple, Solas," Banassan replied dismissively. "Speed is of the essence here. The soldiers are weary. They've been fighting days with little rest and fewer supplies. The sooner we make it to the Temple, the sooner I can close this Breach, and the quicker you all can go home. We'll charge with the first battalion."
"That is risky," Cassandra interrupted. "It is much safer if we-"
"Safe for whom? Them? Or me? I'll be fine. Put me at the head of the charge and we can end this in minutes, perhaps an hour at most. If we wait for this push and the path to be cleared, this may drag on for another day. I don't need all of the demons dead to make it," Banassan argued.
"But you're an archer!" Cullen protested. "We cannot put an archer at the front of a-"
"Would you prefer I go in with daggers? A sword and shield? A claymore? A battle axe?" he questioned, standing to his full height. "I prefer a bow and arrows, yes, but I've been training the hunters of Clan Lavellan for nearly three decades - possibly longer than you've been alive. I'm comfortable with whatever weapon you want me to use, Commander. What would it take, hmm, for you to be comfortable with me at the front of a charge?"
Cullen flushed, choking on his protest. The man was confident, not cocky or arrogant. Years with other soldiers had taught Cullen the difference. This was no boast, no challenge; Banassan wasn't declaring himself the best fighter present, simply proficient in whatever weapon Cullen decided to hand him. Proficient enough to train an entire Clan's hunters and warriors, proficient enough to lead a charge against a mass of demons. He was quietly confident in a way which Cullen found simultaneously impressive and terrifying.
He swallowed hard. "Your bow and arrow would be fine. I didn't mean to imply-"
Banassan's hand clasped his shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Of course you didn't," he said with a nod, instantly dismissing any offense Cullen may have caused.
"Then we'd best move quickly," Cassandra stated simply, and Cullen was glad for the interruption because his headache was making it suddenly difficult to think of words to say.
He quickly jotted down the change in plans, motioning for a runner. "Take them to the front line of Battalion A, and deliver these to the battalion leaders," he said, handing the letters to him. He felt like he should say something more and hesitated slightly. "Maker watch over you — for all our sakes," he added as a farewell.
Two - The First Time They Talked Alone
"Commander, may I have a moment?"
Cullen froze, eyes wide at the question, unable to get words to form. There was something about the Herald which unnerved him, though Cullen hadn't quite placed what it was, yet. He didn't answer, instead he held back as the meeting room in the back of the Chantry emptied, face flushed, anxiously rubbing the back of his neck. He could only hope the low light was hiding the heat he felt in his face, but given that elves could see better in the dark than humans, he was almost certain it wasn't. The heavy door shut, and there was a moment of silence. Cullen felt like a chastised recruit being held back from lunch which was absolutely ridiculous; he was a grown man, a Commander of an army, and he had no reason to feel as if he were being chastised.
"We leave for the Hinterlands, soon," Banassan said slowly.
"Ah, yes, of course," he agreed, because he knew it was true. Word of what they'd accomplished at the Breach had spread, and Mother Giselle was offering to lend legitimacy to the Inquisition if the Herald would help refugees from the Mage-Templar war. Once he'd awoken, Banassan had not hesitated. The only delay in his leaving had been supplies. They had to gather enough to get their party there and enough to make a difference for the refugees. It had taken time.
"There's no easy way to say this," the elf said, breaking the silence which felt oppressive. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. Did Banassan want him to step down as Commander? Had he done something to offend him? Was it that he was a Templar? Or Andrastian? No. That didn't make sense. Perhaps Cassandra had told him he was no longer taking lyrium. Perhaps Banassan was going to request he take it again. "I need you to teach me to ride."
Cullen exhaled a breath he did not realize he was holding. He felt dizzy. "To ride?" he asked with a laugh, finally forcing his eyes up from the map of Thedas on the table to Banassan's face. "Y-you don't ride? You've never ridden a horse?"
Banassan shrugged sheepishly. "Horses are expensive, and the Dalish aren't exactly able to gather enough cash to afford one - or the proper upkeep of one."
"What about halla? You're a hunter, surely you-"
"If you've seen a halla which could carry me on its back please, point me in its direction," Banassan deadpanned, intense silver eyes meeting his own across the room. The chuckle which escaped him was involuntary, but it was met with a grin from the older man. "I'd appreciate it if you could teach me, Cullen."
"Why me?" he asked. "There are others who know how to ride: Cassandra, Josephine, Leliana… many of our soldiers and the Templars who have joined."
"Cassandra is stuck riding with me from here to the Hinterlands. I might be old Cullen, but I've only got so many amusing stories to tell; she'll tire of them before we get outside of the shadow of the Frostbacks if I ask her to teach me to ride," Banassan teased, but then his expression turned serious. "I don't bite, you know, but if you'd rather me ask someone else-"
"No!" He hadn't meant to raise his voice, but his heart had leapt into his throat, pounding in his chest for a reason he couldn't quite explain. The last thing he wanted was for Banassan to ask someone else. "No," he repeated, volume much lower as he willed his rapid heart beat to slow. "I'd be honored to teach you."
Three - The First Time the Herald Gave Him a Compliment
He hadn't had much time to speak with the Herald and his companions since they'd returned from the Hinterlands. In fact, they'd been back for nearly two days, and other than a glimpse of Banassan as he'd passed through the gates, Cullen hadn't seen the older man at all. They'd written, of course, reports and official correspondence, and Cullen had considered sending him a more personal letter, but he could not bring himself to do it. They were friendly, yes, but… were they friends? He didn't know. He wasn't sure he'd ever actually had a friend in his adult life, other than Cassandra, and even then, sometimes, he questioned if that's what their relationship actually was.
Doubt had settled into his stomach, like a stone, hard and worrisome, and he nursed it there. They had an easy rapport when he'd given Banassan his riding lessons - the man was easy to speak with - but did that mean… anything? Perhaps he was reading too much into it. And anyway, they had duties to focus on. Banassan was the Herald of Andraste, and he the Commander of the Inquisition's forces; they had a Breach to seal, a world to save.
And thus, he was utterly unprepared to find Banassan waiting for him outside of his tent with a mug of hot cider on the morning of the third day just as his soldiers were arriving for their training. He tried to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat and his palms grew sweaty at the sight of the man's silhouette. He crossed to Banassan, hoping beyond hope the man was actually there to see him, and wasn't disappointed when he held out the mug of cider for Cullen to take. "Thank you," he murmured softly.
A companionable silence fell between them as they watched the men begin to arrive, individual units falling into formation and beginning training without having to be told. They were starting to look and behave like a real army, the cogs falling into place and just doing what they were supposed to. "How did the riding go?" he asked to break the silence.
"I haven't felt my arse in over a month," Banassan quipped, "but I didn't fall off the horse, so I guess that's a testament to your teaching. Good thing, too, I'm too old to fall like that… I'd probably break a hip."
He snorted - not something one exactly wanted to do while sipping hot cider - and nearly choked. He managed to swallow, though, and blinked back tears as Banassan chuckled at his expense. "You're not that old," he argued.
"Old enough to be a grandfather," Banassan retorted. "Well, nearly. Aravas wrote, it was a false alarm. Soon, I hope."
Cullen still couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea that Banassan had an adult daughter… a married adult daughter who was soon to be with child. It was too much to take in, and he couldn't reconcile it with the vision of the Herald he had in his head. "I hope so," he said sincerely. The way Banassan's face lit up at the prospect of grandchildren warmed Cullen, and he genuinely hoped he'd not only have a few, but that he'd get to return to his Clan before they were born, even though there was some part of him which had begun to dread the prospect of never seeing the man again.
"You've done well with them," Banassan said suddenly.
Cullen felt his face flush, his heart rate pick up, his stomach flop in a bizarre way. "Pardon?"
"The soldiers. They're actually acting like soldiers, and their skills have improved dramatically. That's the recruit who kept dropping his shield, right?" Banassan asked. Cullen nodded. "It hasn't fallen once since they started drilling."
"I can't take all the credit," Cullen argued, and he couldn't. He wasn't the only one training them, and even if he had been, they were hard workers, volunteers who believed in what the Inquisition stood for.
"This is your first command, isn't it?" Banassan asked, smirking a bit. "Your first official one, I mean. Keeping Kirkwall together after it all went to shit hardly counts." Banassan exhaled and pushed onward quickly, "when someone compliments your men and your work with them, take the credit. They're a reflection of you, and from where I'm standing that reflection looks good." Cullen's brain skidded to a halt, unable to process what he was hearing as Banassan clasped his hand on his shoulder. "Cassandra picked the right man to lead the Inquisition's army," he said, giving it a squeeze, before letting his hand fall away.
Cullen couldn't breathe, couldn't think, all he could feel was the weight of Banassan's hand on his shoulder, the gentle squeeze where his pauldrons should be. He grasped at straws, partial words and responses barely registering as they slid through his mind. "By the way, strategy meeting in the Chantry in an hour," Banassan added with a grin, before turning on his heel.
"T-thank you," he managed to exhale, his brain finally locking on words that made sense.
Four - The First Time He Realized
He couldn't sleep. He'd spent days unable to look the Herald in the eye, unable to say a word to him without stammering, blushing, turning into a bashful teen. He couldn't figure out why. Of course, Banassan was right. He'd never had a command before, not a real, earned one. He'd gone straight from one disaster to another with barely enough time to recover. He was hardly human when he'd arrived in Kirkwall and Meredith had twisted that to her advantage.
To hear he was doing well, that Cassandra had made the right choice in choosing him, had sent him for a loop. It was one thing to hear from Cassandra or Leliana or Josephine they had confidence in him and another entirely to hear it from the Herald. From Banassan.
But that didn't explain why thinking the man's name had him replaying everything he'd ever said, never said, wanted to say; why he couldn't look him in the eye in person, but couldn't stop thinking about his intense silver eyes, the way his plump lips turned up into a smile, the way his hand felt on his shoulder. He wondered if Banassan's bottom lip felt different where the vallaslin ran across it; would it be more sensitive if he ran his thumb down the center line? What if it were his tongue-
Maker's breath!
What was wrong with him? Just a compliment from the man had him stuttering, blushing, thinking… thinking of kissing him? He hadn't been this foolish since Kin-
Oh no. No. No. No. He didn't. He couldn't.
He absolutely could not have a crush on The Herald.
Could he?