Chapter Text
When Cullen first met the Inquisitor, they clashed in heated debates. The Commander was certain that he had never prayed as hard for restraint. Coming directly from Kirkwall, and the nightmares both fresh and revisited hot on his heels, he had not had time to fully come to terms with the mage rebellion. When the world itself split open to pour those nightmares into his waking life once again, the salvation that the Maker ushered out of the Fade was another mage. And she in turn brought the entire mage rebellion to camp among his soldiers. There was not one night in that first year where he slept easy.
They fought bitterly. Or as bitter as it could be. Cullen never broke decorum, but he never let the Inquisitor make a decision without the sharpest critique. And he did his job impeccably, unwilling to give her any reason to doubt his commitment to the cause. Because that is why he stayed — to fix the world and bring a modicum of peace to the terrified masses, not because he believed in her.
There was one moment that did not dampen his critique nor his drive but rather shifted how he approached the issues. The Inquisitor came to the Conclave with a face already marred with deep scars beneath her eyes and bisecting her mouth. She was Dalish, and he had assumed that it was a result of their lifestyle or a hunting accident. He realized his ignorance when she confirmed that it was indeed part of their lifestyle— the part that included Templar torment. She had been physically marred by templars much in the same way that he had been psychically by the mages of the Circle. Cullen felt doused in shame when he allowed himself to realize that she would have never survived in Kirkwall, and he confronted his failures as a protector of the people once again. Very few elven mages made it out alive and outside the Qun. She was a survivor.
While she established a significant presence in the Hinterlands and saved his men in the Fallow Mire, he had failed to see her as anything other than a resemblance to those who would have caused such trauma and pain. She had spat the truth at his feet before leaving to another mission in the South. For weeks, he paced and raged and regretted. When she returned, he apologized in the war room. She would still grit her teeth at his incessant questions and criticism, but she knew that now they came from his sense of responsibility. As more and more elves joined the Inquisition, she would hear of him taking many soldiers to task for the use of slurs. A Dalish elf joined them from the Exalted Plains, and Leliana reminded Cullen of the valuable knowledge and experience that the Dalish provided. He briefly worried that the Inquisitor might show a preference to the Dalish volunteers. Although she did socialize more frequently with her own people, her treatment of the soldiers remained consistent. Again, he chided himself. At that point, it had been two years. He should have known better.
After the fall of Haven, he began to seek her out more often to talk about operations, specialized missions, and to inquire after her own health. Indeed she had grown far stronger than when she first fell from the Breach. But he was aware of the accumulating atrocities both experienced and witnessed. He had prayed sweet relief that her recovery from her first encounter with Corypheus was blessedly expedited by the expertise of Solas. It was not until he feared her dead that he realized how desperately the Inquisition needed her, and not just for the Mark. She united people, and her elven heritage created tidal currents the Inquisition could ride to influence. When she returned, he felt hope burst again into glorious flame.
In truth, he was glad that the Inquisition had attracted the attention of Solas. She spent many hours with him, especially after particularly unusual events, and Cullen credited the elf with staving off the worst symptoms of battle sickness. Not many, himself included, had such a buffer. It was then—seeing her persevere through the shared traumas, checking in with the soldiers, chin up with scars bared to the battlements—that he decided to seriously commit to cutting off his reliance on lyrium.
Entering the situation with the Inquisition, Veren knew she was not only fighting Chantry opposition but also the individual and historical prejudice of shems. The Commander was worthy in his post but it took a year of her stubbornly holding the line for him to relent to her leadership. She had refused to appeal to him beyond anything a shem would have to do. She knew that sometimes he would still stare at her scars when he thought she could not notice. She held her head high, because it shamed him — and she hoped that the story would spread, that the soldiers who resented her for creating an ally of mages, who knelt to her and told tales of honor and valor, would know from whose hands the scars were made. But she was grateful to the Commander, because he kept her trauma private. And without explanation to her, he began to berate his shem soldiers for their behavior to the elven recruits.
She spent more and more time with Solas. Her Keeper had wanted her to be the First, but she was weary of the Dalish fear — they were proud people, but she believed that they were afraid of their past as much as they wanted to preserve it. She had heard of an elf in Kirkwall, a blood mage, who had awakened an old elven artifact. There were rumors that the elf had either been exiled from her clan or had murdered them all. Veren’s belief landed on the side of exile. She had seen bold and daring minds abandoned in the woods. If her people were so proud of their heritage, why keep such secrets? She knew enough to know that being a Keeper meant censorship. And she was tired — so very tired — of exploring almost to the truth but not quite the full way there. Superstitions kept her clan safe, but they kept them rigid, unchanging, and limited. Solas showed her the vast expanses of history and empowerment that she craved. He showed her extraordinary things about her own magic and spirits.
On their journeys, he would be a constant stream of revelations. He and Varric would interweave entire tapestries of tales about kingdoms, the rise and fall of champions, of myths and legends, and the intimate wonders of their worlds. She and Cassandra would listen, contributing stories of their own but they were no tellers like those two.
When Haven fell, and she had somehow pushed herself through the blind snow of the Frostbacks, she had awoken once again to the firm but gentle healing touch of Solas. They often spoke in private about the plight of elves, and about their individual concerns of having an elf as the Herald. She was overwhelmed with gratitude to have such an ally by her side. When her ears had stuck to the metal in her helmet, and her fingers turned black with frostbite, and her heart all but whimpered in her chest, she felt relief and comfort simply knowing he was by her side. Although, she knew that the massive doses of elfroot greatly contributed.
She does not remember this, but the moment Solas began to soften to her in ways he had yet to feel among these people happened when they were travelling through the Frostbacks—after he told her that the artifact that caused the Breach was of elven origin. The conversation was grave, and her comment sincere, but the weight it held for either of them was different.
She had turned to leave their privacy, and said, “I am glad we do not have to do this alone.”
She gently gripped his shoulder as she said this and walked away.
Initially, Solas scoffed at this. They were not the same, nor were they kith or kin. But as he denied their commonality, she remained in the back of his mind—a sand of grain rolling and scratching, and each evening spent ignoring her added another pearlescent coat of interest.
She lacked the fear he felt was so condemnable of the Dalish. He would frequently frown after he would catch himself swept off in a passionate tangent, her eyes shrewdly taking in the information. She returned fire with astute questions and comments. She challenged him. They found each other wrong in things and learning.
Veren marvelled at Skyhold, commanding respect and renovations that restored its glory. Solas noted that she met places where they were, rather than within her own expectations. She chided him frequently for failing to do so. Solas thought the Dalish were arrogant and ignorant. But she pushed back on him with a sharp wit. He resented her at first. But it boiled over to a passionate curiosity. Indeed, he found himself goading her just to see the flint-eyed intelligence taper to a blade.
She was more reckless when heated by battle rage and had mastered the spirit blade of Knight-Enchanter to assist her when she raged too close to enemy combatants. Although she had regular sessions with her trainer, she sought out Solas to learn the context of ancient elven warriors. She had seen him fight, but he was still her knowledgeable tutor—the clever scholar ever at her side with knowledge, wisdom, and a new perspective. He watched her slay demons and rush to the aid of her party members with valor and vigor. He would cast his barrier and she would glow with his magic, summoning a brilliant blade from her palm to strike down the oppressors.
She marvelled at the shift in him. From thoughtful and rigid to a fluid flurry of power. She felt his magic as a soft intoxication, emboldening her onward into the fray. More than once, she leapt between him and a blade or engulfed him in protective flames.
Once, she fell in battle. It was a simple rift. But she was cornered in a cavern. Cut off from escape by her arrogance and rock. The demon bore down on her, another emerging from the ground below. Both struck her with such speed, she could not reach for aid. Solas felt his fury unleash. Rifts and demons rarely pulled the righteous anger from him that he would direct at templars and bandits. But in that moment, fear spiked harshly into pain and anger.
His one…
In the moment, he could not finish the thought. Just a One. A someone. An important someone.
An unexpected tie to something that felt like home.
They had kissed in the Fade—foolishly, and he dismissed it outright. He regretted his dismissal as he held her limp body.
As Solas’ walls fell, they grew closer, stealing kisses in the moonlight and in secret. Many guessed at their bond, but it was the inner circle that only knew for certain. Although, the entirety of Thedas knew when her Vallaslin disappeared. It was not long before the whisper network reported that she had left and returned with the mysterious elf.
His absence… it was felt throughout the Inquisition, but severely through their leader.
Cullen was quiet when she grieved angrily. He kept his face impassive as furious tears burned her cheeks. He remained stoic when she pushed away the comfort of close friends, as she drank and smashed barrels with Rainier and The Iron Bull. When her storming passed, he stayed where she could find him—behind his desk on the ramparts.
She visited often. They drank and sang, they traded war stories and laughed. Eventually, she trusted. He saw pain that few would recognize. Many are betrayed by lovers. Few of those lovers were bonded through battle. He understood the breach of trust, the many layers through which it tore.
One evening, when they had made a significant dent in a decanter of whiskey over some paperwork and correspondence, she found herself on her knees. Her face was pressed into the Commander’s lion mantle, as he held her sobbing frame.
“He cut me away so swiftly, and then did not say goodbye.”
She wept into his shoulder until she could not breathe. He held her through the night.
She returned to his bed frequently, only to be held. They slept in each other’s arms.
Veren told Cullen how Solas would guard her dreams. How he would lay his head next to hers. How he would wrap his arms and magic around her to stave off the nightmares. She whispered this into the crook of Cullen’s elbow. He held her tighter.
She heard his sleep talk. Deep in the night, when his fretful sleep would wake her, she would kiss his forehead with a touch of magic. She had learned to dispel from her elven friend, and used it then on the Commander. They slept easier next to each other.
At first, it was companionship, shared hurt. Then, it was vulnerable, and they wordlessly came to an understanding.
Cullen grew to love Veren deeply. He did not resent that her heart still belonged to the far-off elf. He knew that Veren cherished him, and he knew that what they had was not romance, but comfort.
Trembling, she had whispered, “Fen’harel.”
The name of the elf that stood by her side, healed her, defended them all, aided their efforts. The trickster, unlucky god of Dalish lore. Before them for years.
He watched her fracture all over again. But her pain was tempered to a focal point aimed at the heart of Fen’harel. She vowed to find him. Stop him. But Cullen knew she would not kill him. And if she did, it would be the end of both elves.
To spite the Dread Wolf, Veren disbanded the Inquisition. If Fen’harel wanted information, she would make it as difficult to obtain as possible. She took to heart the advice of Leliana—that sometimes it is worth the sacrifice of clout to find access through the shadows.
For a while, she came to Cullen as a lover. For them both, it was an affirmation—of life, of beginnings, of rising yet again from ashes to find a new form of faith. When it came time for Veren to pursue Fen’harel, they went their separate ways with a strong love and a deep friendship. She dreamt of wolves that circled her out of reach, but some nights there was still a mabari at her side.
Cullen, weary after years of command, accepted the land from the Divine. He helped former Templars disconnect themselves from lyrium and from the chantry. He opened the door to his home one day to find a stubborn woman with a pack and a sleeping roll. She told him she was there to help. She said that she had broken from lyrium on her own and that now she wanted to help others. There was not much that he could say—or even wanted to say—that would dissuade her from dropping her things in the entrance.
Austana had a proud stance. She had a chin that challenged the audacity of those around her. She had scars, and Cullen told her about those of the Inquisitor. He spoke about the strength and resilience that they conveyed. Over that first year of her stay, they spoke of their pasts, and Cullen learned of her escape from corruption. Austana tried to find the Grey Wardens to give herself to them but succumbed to sickness and poverty long before she learned of their fate. While the world warred around her, she moved from fix to fix to stay alive. She ended up in the Deep Roads, on the bottom rung of a morally questionable mercenary group, hiding and hoarding shreds of precious blue lyrium to stay alive and with a sense of self.
The group abandoned her for dead. She had a seizure from withdrawl, and the mercenaries left her body in a ditch, not wanting the responsibility of her survival or death. She credits the Maker’s poor sense of humor for her survival and eventual recovery.
She kept her straight hair in a short cut at her shoulders, which grew ever stronger with health as she worked alongside Cullen at the sanctuary. Austana became an essential part of both the institution and his life. Upon reflection, it was difficult for him to pin down the exact time she moved from the boarding house into his own cottage. And from there to his bed.
Each night, he kissed her shoulders and the top of her head. Austana knew about the former Inquisitor. Cullen kept no secrets from her—a vow that he repeated privately on their wedding day. When a raven appeared one day to notify them of Veren’s imminent arrival, Austana’s stomach fluttered in anticipation.
The elf was more than Austana could have imagined. With silver hair and dark lips, the arm that once held the legendary mark now gone, Veren Lavellan was a veteran vision to behold. She sat astride an Avvar war nug, something Cullen could not help but laugh at in disbelief. Austana was mortified at his familiarity with someone as mythic as the Lavellan, but quickly realized her own foolish assumptions. They were companions. The layers of rumor and mystic never reached between them.
Veren and Austana became fast friends. She had come to check in with her old Commander, to see if his blade was still sharp and ready to aid. But instead, she found a family that she could not in any good conscience ask her friend to sacrifice. Veren adored how Cullen’s arm draped around Austana, how they spoke about the babe they expected. Instead of conscription, Veren pledged the help of her clan in the birth. Although she left her dear Commander to a quiet life, many rehabilitated members of the sanctuary followed her cause north to Tevinter.
Austana sent thanks once the Dalish had arrived with blessings and aide. What happened to the former Inquisitor and her god-love would remain to be seen. At the very least, she had at her back the prayers of one faithful family and a warm welcome home, if she made it through.