Chapter Text
Silvery-brown hair flashed before his eyes, swirling through the air as the owner of the captivating hair twirled under the moonlight. She laughed, the sound light and uplifting, yet the sound made his heart ache. So rarely did she laugh, the sound often muffled so not to disturb scholars in the libraries. As her skirts rose, he caught a flash of slim, tan ankles, and as always was surprised that she managed to have slightly dusky skin even though she had been indoors so much of her life. She was a beautiful young woman...and beyond his reach.
He awoke with tears dampening his cheeks, as they often had in the past few years when he had that dream. With a shuddering sigh, Cullen sat up and buried his face in his hands before raking his fingers through his short curls. Why did she haunt him still? Was it because he had repudiated her, thinking her a desire demon? Because she was his one mistake, a moment of weakness? He hadn't had that dream for a few years now though...almost two whole years.
Now that he was awake, he might as well get dressed and make the rounds before the recruits were up for training. It was best to get as much done as possible before Hawke once again came by to buy wares from the herbalist and to ask to visit her sister. He admired Hawke's determination, but it wore on him at times to deny a friend something so simple as talking to a beloved family member. Today it would be even more wearisome, burdened as he was with resurfaced memories.
She was dead. First she had died to him when he rejected her despite his feelings and had learned at last that mages should be restricted for the populace's protection. Then he had received word that she had died, the Hero of Ferelden, slain while defeating the Archdemon.
And yet still she haunted him.
The Knight-Captain's face was even more tired-looking than usual when he stepped out into the Gallows' courtyard, though his garb was as impeccable as ever. His armour was clean, polished, and the small dents from the training the day before had already been worked out. There were no loose buckles or clasps, and his sword was as carefully tended to as his armour. The way the Knight-Captain cared for his armour and weaponry and carried himself was an example to all the recruits, and even the seasoned Templars. Though he had only been promoted to this position less than a decade ago, he had the respect of his subordinates and the trust of the Knight-Commander, who shared his views of mages. He had learned under Knight-Commander Meredith how to balance firmness with diplomacy, and could muster a smile even when he felt as strained as he did now with the last bout of blood mages.
"I don't remember you looking nearly as worn before, lethallin."
...He couldn't have heard that. He must be hallucinating, a result of sleep deprivation and stress. It was impossible for him to have heard that concerned, light voice, at this early hour or at any hour.
"Do you even sleep?"
Swallowing, Cullen turned, halfway expecting to find nothing. But standing a few feet away, her hands on slim hips, was a diminutive Elf with delicate markings proclaiming her a Dalish, her lightly tanned face framed by silvery-brown hair. "Éimhir..."
"You didn't answer my question, Cullen," she retorted, her voice sterner than it used to be, but it still had the possibility of laughter to it. "Do you ever sleep anymore?"
If this was a hallucination or a dream, it was a strange one, but he didn't want it to end. He didn't realise that he would ever imagine her in the new Warden uniform for mages, or with her hair so short it grazed her jaw. All the same, he drank in the sight, even as he cursed his weakness in longing for her. No matter how much time passed, the Templar couldn't forget how that desire demon tormented him in this woman's form and tried to break him.
Cullen was brought out of his slack-jawed stupor by a concerned hand on his face, the fingers cool against his skin. She...was real? "I-I...I h-heard you were dead..." Not the most brilliant thing for him to say, and it seemed his stutter was back. Maker's breath, but he thought he had gotten over that!
"Rumours of my death were greatly exaggerated," the Elf retorted with some resignation. "I blame Ali--I mean, King Alistair. He seemed to think that people believing I was dead would give me some peace and quiet." Her narrow shoulders shrugged expressively, and her exasperated expression shifted to one of concern. "But what of you, Cullen? I heard Greagoir relieved you of duty for a time..."
"It's Knight-Captain Cullen," he answered somewhat sharply, his stunned relief at seeing her alive replaced with his wariness of mages. She may be a Warden, but she was as vulnerable to demonic seduction as any other mage. Things could never be the same between them, not after what happened at the Tower of Magi in Ferelden, no matter how tempting the Elf was to the Templar. "Indeed, he suggested I take the time to recover from my ordeal, but Knight-Commander Meredith believed my skills could be put to good use here in Kirkwall."
So it was true. She had already heard of Meredith's firmness in dealing with mages, bordering on a phobia of them. If Meredith had taken Cullen under her wing and approved of his stand on mages...was there anything left of the Templar who had once earned the affection of a young Elvhen mage? Was there even a hint of the feelings they had once reciprocated for each other? Éimhir had hoped that time would heal the wounds, that at the very least they could be friends again...but it was looking as if the most they could have was civility and respect between a Warden and a Templar. That stunned, hopeful, disbelieving look when he had first seen her again would probably be the only glimpse of the old Cullen she would ever get again. She was proud that he had matured even more, that he seemed confident again, but she should probably leave, before she indirectly stole that from him again.
"I'm glad that things are looking up for you, lethallin." With a somewhat resigned smile, Éimhir gave Cullen the Warden salute. "I should leave you to your duties and attend to mine. Please be so kind as to inform the Knight-Commander of my presence, Knight-Captain Cullen. I will return again later when she is not busy."
"Very well, Éimhir."
A somewhat chilled smile met this response, and the young woman's eyebrow lifted a little as she bitterly imitated his earlier correction. "It's Warden-Commander now, Knight-Captain Cullen."
"I was a fool."
Glancing up from tending the fire in his room, the blond Elf raised an eyebrow at the angry mage that now paced near the door. "My dear Warden, you are never foolish."
"You calling me 'Warden' seems to indicate you disagree with your own words," she retorted dryly before sighing and settling down next to the other Elf. Slim hands clasped themselves around one knee as she leaned against her companion with a wistful expression. "As always, I was naïve. I had hoped that perhaps...perhaps he had recovered. It has been almost five years now, and yet..."
"Yet he is still a fool, querida," Zevran retorted. Over the past few years, he had first been attracted to Éimhir for her beauty and the...possibilities that lay with having a mage as a lover for a time. Then her devotion to a Templar, one of those who had suppressed her and kept her in a tower for almost all her life, had baffled him and driven him to almost derisive amusement. Eventually, she earned his respect and affection. If that Templar was such a fool as to drive away such a woman, well...he had no qualms about fighting seriously to claim her heart. "Why do you hold on to the memories, querida? If he will not accept the treasure offered to him, why not offer it to someone who can fully appreciate it?"
"You mean to you." Éimhir smiled when Zevran shrugged modestly, and shook her head with a pat on his shoulder. "I know you, Zev. You enjoy the thrill of the hunt, of a challenge. If I were to capitulate, both of us would grow miserable: you from a growing lack of interest, and I from your lack of interest."
"I think not, mi amor." The blond Elf grew serious, frowning a little as he brushed back the Warden's hair and caressed the delicate shell of her ear, making her shiver appreciatively at the sensation. "Perhaps I would before...but I have come to know you, querida. I think you would always fascinate me. Things would certainly never be boring."
She laughed shakily and shrugged, looking away somewhat shyly. "Things do seem to be exciting around us, wherever we go. But...I don't think we are meant to be more than friends, Zev. Not right now." Maybe never. It depended on if she could ever really forget Cullen.
The Templar had been one of a few who felt any sort of rapport or sympathy with the mages, regretting having to keep the mages locked in the Tower for their own protection and the safety of others. Growing up in the Circle after she was nine years old, Éimhir had never been tempted to join in the 'fun' other mages engaged in secretly. While Anders was teasing her about being such a thorny rose, not letting close even those with 'experience' as he would say, the slim Elf was eagerly drinking in any sort of book. From dry tomes on agriculture to military records to spell books to the rare romance novel or book of poetry, Éimhir read them all. Thus she went through the next four years of her life.
Then when she was thirteen, a new group of Templars joined the ranks. Experienced mage hunters, new recruits, transfers from other Circles, they all were taken on a tour of the Tower to learn its structure and get a general idea what the mages there were like. Her silvery-brown hair tied back with one of Anders' ties since once again, she had lost her own, Éimhir had spared the new Templars not more than a passing glance as she chose an armload of books to read at one of the tables while classes went on across the library. It was better to observe the Templars when their actions and words were not suppressed by the Knight-Commander standing right next to them, and besides, it looked as if Irving had coaxed Greagoir into having new books brought in. Eager to read something new, Éimhir had not noticed when someone loomed over her, blissfully unaware of the armoured figure behind her as she pored over the pages with quick eyes.
"Sh-shouldn't you be in c-class w-with the others?"
Startled, the young girl yelped, and sparks flew from her fingers to dance over the table, and she ruefully watched as they added to the various pockmarks and charring in the table's surface. "I've already mastered controlling fire," the girl answered the Templar's question as she finally looked up at him. He wasn't anywhere near as hard-faced as Greagoir, nor did he look as overweening as many new Templars looked when dealing with mages. In fact he looked...gentle. A gentle Templar? She hadn't met a nice one since she was nine, and a fatherly Templar rescued her from slavers. "Shouldn't you be with the other Templars?"
"I-It's apparently m-my d-duty today to watch the library," he explained, his hazel eyes fastened on the Elf girl's face earnestly. "M-Maybe you can show me a-around later, when I am off-duty?"
"Certainly, if I don't have class."
His shy smile was possibly the sweetest thing she had ever seen, and it gave her a glow of warmth to have made him smile. "My thanks. I-I am Templar Cullen."
It was easy to smile in response, and she brushed her hair back over her shoulder, a wave of silver against blue silk. "And I am Apprentice Éimhir Surana. Welcome to the Tower of Magi, Templar Cullen."
With a bittersweet smile, Éimhir shook her head at herself, now twenty-one years of age. "I was very impressionable when he and I first met, Zev. I...don't know if I can push him out of my thoughts and heart just yet."
Zevran nodded and lifted the Warden's hand from her knee, turning it over to kiss the pulse point in her slender wrist. "Then I will wait, querida. I am a persistent hunter, you know."
"That I do," she laughed softly. "You are a persistent man in general." The young woman shook her head and smiled wryly as she rose to her feet. "I am going to get some breakfast before engaging in a little practice. Care to join me?"
"Always, querida!"
Sweet Andraste, she tormented him still. Cullen groaned and sat up in his bed, hands raking through his hair as sleep eluded him. Éimhir--no, Warden-Commander Surana--had been in Kirkwall for almost a week, talking with Grand Cleric Elthina and Knight-Commander Meredith. Though the Warden hadn't spoken to him since that first day, he had seen her walking through the Gallows or on his occasional walks through the city, a blond Elf with a deeper tan than the Warden at her side. Cullen was almost certain that the other man glared at him every time they noticed each other, as if the Templar had committed a personal wrong to the man. Éimhir's lover?
"It doesn't matter anymore..." Cullen muttered to himself, shaking his head. The past was dead and gone. If he had given in to his urges, to the little gestures and questioning looks she gave him...but no. He was wiser now, and it was just as well that he hadn't capitulated. Even though he reminded himself of this, he couldn't help but remember her eyes.
Éimhir's eyes had always been the windows to her soul. The first time he saw her, they had been wide and startled, like a playful fawn when interrupted by something new. They had captured his attention with the silver flecks in icy blue irises, which could only be seen up close. Over the years she was in the Tower, he had seen laughter, exhaustion, excitement, humour, playfulness, happiness, contentment, confusion, trust, and bittersweet love. They had both known it wasn't possible for a Templar and a mage to have a relationship, to be married in the eyes of the Maker. If even their fondness for each other had reached Irving or Greagoir's ears, Éimhir could be sentenced to time in the mage prison, and Cullen could be demoted and transferred. Even so, he couldn't resist drinking in the sight of her all the time, the innocent touches he wished he could feel through his armour. It had torn him apart to be chosen as the one to kill her if she failed her Harrowing, but he had steeled himself for it, ready to do his duty. Duty had always come first for him, even then. That day, her eyes had been exhausted, but triumphant before she slumped into a dreamless sleep. She had won against the demon, and passed the test.
Those silvery-blue eyes, so like ice chips against her dusky skin, had changed over the past seven years. They were older now, haunted, and wiser. Yet...they had been hopeful and happy when Eimhir talked to him, until he had closed himself off. Now, looking back, his heart ached sharply at the pain he had ignored in those mesmerising eyes.
He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to stay far away from her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to clap her in magic-nullifying shackles and ship her back to the Ferelden Circle. He wanted her to stay. He wanted her to go away and never come back, leaving him to his misery and his duty to the Order. He needed to stay firm, for himself, Kirkwall, and the mages in the Gallows. It was for everyone's safety. There was no room in his life for a mage, either one in the Circle, a Warden, or an apostate.
"Leave me in peace..." Cullen groaned, bowing over his knees in sorrow and anger. "Haven't you tormented me enough, my love?"
He always had terrible timing. Either that, or she was exceptionally skilled in her own, for this was the second time this had happened.
Once again, Éimhir had slipped out in the night, like a shooting star through the inky darkness, just when he was going to see her. Again, he was denied the chance to say goodbye.
It was oddly hushed in the training yard and in the Gallows, the recruits tiptoeing around the Knight-Captain. After a week of his being distracted and more weary than usual, he was now harder than ever before. His shadowed eyes watched for mistakes, and he barked out orders and corrections sharply. There were mutters about Knight-Captain Cullen having woman problems, which were quickly quelled by a glare from the man in question. Some of the recruits and even some of the more experienced Templars were having betting pools on what ailed the Knight-Captain: a woman, and if so, who, or more pestering from Hawke (who was also an option for the "woman problems"). Never mind that it was against their vows to gamble, it was simply so intriguing to see their capable leader, Meredith's representative to the lower ranks, so flustered.
"Yes, Hawke?" Cullen snapped when the curvy redhead sauntered up, the apostate Warden Anders, the ex-slave Elf Fenris, and the Merchant Guild dwarf Varric following her as usual. He enjoyed talking to Hawke when she didn't bring up her occasional wish to see her sister, but he simply was not in the mood today. Having everyone a safe distance away let him brood and seethe in peace.
Bright blue eyes blinked up at him, nonplussed, and the apostate beside the redhead glared at the Templar for his sharpness. "I've been busy for a while, so I haven't been able to come talk to you. I thought it might be nice to catch up on what has been happening in the Gallows...but it appears not."
Sighing, the Knight-Captain pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "I apologise, my friend. But...it has been a trying week..."
"I can imagine. Having a former Crow in the city can hardly be restful," Hawke agreed. She drummed her fingers against her leg with an exasperated expression. Hawke had a very open face, and was prone to joking to cover things up instead of outright lying. It was nice to have someone to talk to who didn't lie to your face on a regular basis, but he preferred talking to a certain woman with captivating windows to her soul...
"Not to mention an old friend," Anders commented, and when Cullen met the mage's gaze, he saw that it was a deliberate jab. This...apostate...had been in the Circle with Cullen and Surana, and had even been a Warden under the Elf's command. He knew Éimhir...and no doubt had noticed her eyes. What had her eyes told this man?
"Yes. Regrettably, my duties and her schedule made it difficult to renew our acquaintance," Cullen retorted somewhat stiffly, shifting into a straighter stance.
"Pity," the redhead commented before Anders could say anything to provoke the Templar. "She regretted the schedule clash, and told us to wish you well when she found out I was coming here as the Wardens headed out. They're returning to Ferelden once they check on some Wardens who recently came here to investigate the Deep Roads in the area."
A twinge of guilt and pain lanced through the Templar's chest, and it was with some difficulty that he maintained his stiff expression as he bowed slightly to Hawke. "You have my thanks, Hawke, for the message. Was there anything you wanted, besides talking?"
She shrugged and brushed her curls back over her shoulder, more forcefully and less gracefully than Eimhir would have years ago. "No, not really, except to offer some friendly advice. You really should sleep, Cullen. As in, laying down, closing your eyes, and letting your mind and body shut down for more than thirty minutes."
"I thank you for your concern, but I have too many duties in this stressful time to get much sleep, I'm afraid," Cullen responded with a wry chuckle. "Duties that I should return to, as a matter of fact."
"As you will, Cullen."
It seemed that Éimhir would haunt him still and deny him closure, he mused as he watched the small band exit the Gallows. Silently, he prayed to the Maker for patience and endurance, so he could once again push to the side the torment that memories of his wrongful love brought to him.