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(for you are my fate, my sweet)
The first thing she notices when she comes to isn’t the men pointing swords at her, or the chains on her wrists, or even her dank surroundings. What she notices—what she feels—is a burn. Two burns, really; the first angrily tears at her palm and the second trails along her waist and up the right side of her back. The second is warmer, kinder even, but is still hot enough that it makes her feel like someone has seared her skin with a branding iron.
Two women walk into the cell and she thinks of the tingling heat no more.
...
Elves aren’t born with soulmarks. Neither are dwarves or qunari—humans lay claim to the storybook romance of soul mates and other halves and true loves and one and onlys. Humans are the ones born with pictures imprinted onto their skins, symbols of their soul mates. When they see their lover to be’s mark for the first time, it comes to life before their very eyes. Tales of butterfly soulmarks that flutter between shoulder blades and vine tendrils that curl around ankles are a few of the stories Lavellan has heard.
But Lavellan has never seen. She has never seen a soulmark come to life—how could she?—nor has she even seen a soulmark. Such things are private, shemlen affairs, her Keeper once told her. Lavellan let the topic rest, believing her. She still does.
(She still longs, too, but she keeps silent because it’s what she’s best at. There is a reason she bears Dirthamen’s marks.)
For a long time, Lavellan didn’t think about soulmarks anymore. She thought of other things: how the elvhen lost Halamshiral, how the Keeper moved her staff, how the hunters carved their arrowheads, how the quick footed ones kept coming closer and closer to camp, and how the wails of huntress Ghiata’s baby wrapped around Lavellan the night she left for the Conclave.
They are the same wails that echo in her dreams and startle her awake.
Her surroundings are unfamiliar, but the bed she has been put to rest in is warm and there are fresh clothes folded at its foot. Reluctant as she is to move, lest she disturb the careful peace cocooned in the house’s wooden walls, she still slides out of the bed and changes. She then washes her face in the water basin. When the lingering threads of sleep have finally been snipped away, she turns for the door and then stops short. Her hand is prickling. Steeling herself, she raises it and slowly curls her fingers outwards. A bright green light greets her. She frowns; her hand forms a fist and drops to her side. Then, her back burns. She turns her head and tries to look at her back, but she can’t see much beyond a flash of red.
The door suddenly opens and an elf, much younger than her, promptly drops the things they’re carrying. They stammer out an apology and when they don’t respond to her questioning, Lavellan simply asks if they have a mirror she can borrow.
“Yes, your worship; of course, your worship,” the elf stammers.
They disappear and return within moments, propping a—rather heavy—mirror against the wall. Lavellan nods her head in gratitude, dismissing the little elf.
“Thank you,” she says.
The elf nods quickly. “Your worship—Lady Cassandra, right away she said, she wants to meet you. Right away. If it pleases you.”
“I will, ma serannas,” she replies.
When the elf leaves, Lavellan stares at herself in the mirror for a long moment. She has defined rings around her eyes and she’s paler than normal, but she doesn’t appear to be malnourished; she hasn’t been here long, then. She swallows down a sigh. Her fingers trace the edge of her tunic before she pulls it off and turns around. She looks over her shoulder and promptly loses her breath.
There is a large, lustrous sunshine colored creature embedded into her back. Its tail touches just below her shoulder line, its body twists down her back, looking to leap off her skin. Its head is decorated with a great, auburn mane, and its eyes, gold, piercing, stare back at her in the mirror.
The mark on her palm flares with green light and Lavellan, without thinking, lashes out at the mirror; it falls to the ground and shatters.
Fittingly, Cassandra bursts in moments afterwards to discover a shaken, shirtless Lavellan, breathing heavily.
“What is this?” Lavellan gasps out. “On my back.”
Cassandra’s brows, as they cannot go any higher, now drop low. “You are saying this is not a tattoo of yours?”
“I’ve never seen it before,” Lavellan insists, her voice rising in pitch. “What—what is it even?”
“It is a lion,” Cassandra replies.
“Can I get rid of it?”
“Painstakingly,” Cassandra says. She grimaces. “Unless you care to burn off your skin, I would not recommend it. As it stands, I would say you should leave it be.”
Lavellan grimaces as well, also having guessed that it’s a lost cause. “But—how did it come to be? I don’t...”
“A side effect from the Breach, perhaps? We must ask Leliana, or Solas. They will be able to provide more answers than I. Put your shirt back on; we shall go consult them now.”
Solas and Leliana, as it becomes clear, have only one concrete answer for her, and that is that the mark on her back is not a mark that she should have. It is a mark no elf has ever borne, Solas tells her gently, as though he is delivering news that will cripple her. Leliana does her a little more credit, carving a straight path to the heart of the matter.
“It is a soulmark,” she says.
The truth is, Lavellan had already known what it was, deep inside she knew. But the news—the verification—still comes as a shock and leaves her feeling as though she’s been doused with icy water. Her limbs feels numb while the mark on her back thrums with warmth, as though it is the only thing that keeps her grounded.
“And this... soulmark,” Lavellan says finally, “you think that it was a result of my passing through the Fade?”
“Of all the conclusions we can draw, that is the most reasonable, yes,” Solas says.
“Does this mean that—” Lavellan chokes on the words.
Leliana picks up where she leaves off. “—likely, there is someone out there with a mark that corresponds with your own. If you’d like, I can have agents look into the matter and we can find them. But it will take time.”
“I—I’d rather you didn’t,” Lavellan says. Her head is swimming. “In fact, if we could keep this between the group of us, I’d appreciate that.”
“Of course,” Leliana says, inclining her head in both agreement and farewell. She takes her leave directly thereafter, Cassandra accompanying her after giving her own curt nod of assent.
Lavellan turns to Solas.
“I will not tell a soul,” he assures her. “It is not my secret to share.”
“Secrets are what put me in this position in the first place,” she replies. Her initial smile is laced with bitterness, but the negative emotion gradually slips away and is replaced with resignation.
Solas’ returning smile is wry, lacking humor.
...
She has a moment with the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces on a rainy afternoon. The troops are going through drills, on the tail end of their routine, and he is both barking out orders and ducking into tents to sign documents—of great import, she’s sure. Lavellan, ever the quiet one, a woodland walker, approaches him from his right and waits a moment before she coughs politely and makes her presence known. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch; if he’s at all surprised, he certainly doesn’t show it.
“Herald,” he greets her.
“Commander,” she replies with a nod. “Aren’t you worried all your troops will catch something in this weather?”
“If there are battles to be had, our recruits must be prepared to fight in any kind of condition,” he replies, staring at the troops in question. He waves his hand to one of his lieutenants, who interprets the gesture as an indication that the training should wind down. “Better that they learn to deal with this weather in a relatively controlled environment.”
“Rather than on the battlefield,” Lavellan finishes. “You’re right. I apologize if I came off as critical of your methods.”
“Not at all,” Cullen says, now looking at her with surprise.
She offers him a small smile. “I suppose now would be an appropriate time for me to ask how the recruitment process is going?”
He covers a chuckle with a cough. “Well, much to our surprise. All the recruits have been lively and dedicated. Cassandra and I didn’t think that so many would be willing to take up arms under Inquisition banners. I believe that we have you to thank.”
“I haven’t done any recruiting,” Lavellan says, puzzled.
“Perhaps not directly, but your actions have inspired many and spurred them to join our ranks,” he replies.
“I’m certain that for every one I inspire to join us, I make an enemy of two,” she says.
This time he doesn’t bother to cover his chuckle. “I assure you, Herald, that if that is the case, I will train our soldiers to be able to match two enemies each.”
That inspires a smile out of her, which she aims at the ground, quietly amused. Speaking with him is almost easy. But lingering thoughts tug at the back of her mind—there is still one question that she must have him address. Before she can truly let this conversation be easy, be comfortable.
Lavellan takes a breath. “I must ask you: you having been a Templar, and my being a mage—will this be a… an issue?”
“No,” Cullen replies immediately. At her surprised glance, he explains: “I… have seen the suffering magic can inflict, and admit to having treated mages with distrust because of it—sometimes without cause.”
She averts her gaze to stare at the engravings of his chest plate. He notices as much.
“It was unworthy of me,” he continues. “I know that now. And I shall endeavor not to do so here. Not to you or to any mages that join our ranks.”
“Truly?” She asks, looking up at him.
He nods. “I—this is not to say that I don’t wish for there to be safeguards in place, to protect everyone—including mages, from possession. But I will not see them leashed, either.”
“I agree,” Lavellan says. “Thank you, Commander. That brings me great comfort.”
Cullen looks mildly sheepish, raising his hand to rub the back of his neck. He glances off. “There is still much to be done in order to ensure the Inquisition’s safety within Haven, let alone the safety of the refugees in the Hinterlands.”
“Let me know if there is anything I can do to help,” she says.
“You’ve done plenty already. I received reports of your assistance with the refugees, providing them food and comforts. Your efforts saved many people—and helped us locate our weaknesses in communication and procurement lines.”
“I help where I can.”
One of Cullen’s officers comes forward, holding out orders for him to review and sign. Cullen, to his credit, holds back a sigh and instead replaces it with a wry smile.
“As I was saying,” he says.
This earns a laugh from her. Lavellan inclines her head to the orders, a gesture that marks the end of their conversation. He turns to his officer and she turns on her heel, facing the wide lake that lies just beyond the training site. There is plenty of elfroot there and it would take little effort on her behalf to pick it, so she opts to do just that. Its use in healing tonics and other potions is varied and their elfroot stock is always in short supply.
Just as she walks away, Cullen’s voice calls out to her. “Ah—Herald!”
She turns her. He looks utterly embarrassed, his words having come out too loud and attracting a few others’ attention. The pink crawling along his ears is a pleasant sight to behold.
“I just—I wanted to wish you the best of luck in Val Royeaux.”
“Thank you,” she says, dipping her head. “I’ll certainly need it.”
His smile is small, but gratifying.
...
Redcliffe sends her forward in time with a Tevinter mage she barely knows. Better him than anyone else, she reasons, as he has an idea on how to send them back to their original time. They don’t get much time to talk, however, as they moment they land in the future they are set upon by enemies.
The fight is brutal. Both Lavellan and Dorian are mages with little defense against close combat fighters, so they take turns throwing up barriers and electrocuting their foes. They get out of the fight relatively unscathed—but are then caught by surprise by one final swordsman, who slashes his sword across Lavellan’s back. Her armor shields her skin from breaking open but the sword tears apart the armor in exchange. Dorian makes quick work of the swordsman, stabbing him in the gut with the knifed end of his staff.
“Thank you,” she says, staggering back to her feet.
“Of course,” he replies, airily for someone who is wiping sweat off his brow. “I can’t have the infamous Herald of Andraste dying on my watch. That would hardly reflect well on me.”
She lets out a breathless laugh. “A good reputation has its merits, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m glad you understand,” he says. “Now to spare my reputation further, I’m inclined to inform you that the last brute’s sword did a number on your garb and I don’t have a needle and thread to help you stitch it back up.”
“It’s fine,” she replies. “It’s not like we have time to sew it back together, anyway. Can you tie the ends together?”
“I assure you, as a gentleman I shan’t take any undue peeks,” he says breezily.
Lavellan’s lips quirk; she rolls her eyes in amusement. Dorian takes only a moment to tie up the ends. When he finishes he takes a few steps back to admire his handiwork.
“There,” he says. “Good as new. Or—as good as it gets until we get back to our present. I must say, Herald, the ink work on your back is marvelous. But your color choice... well, it’s certainly curious.”
“Oh?”
“Black and grey isn’t the usual palette one chooses for a lion.”
The moment Dorian points it out, Lavellan feelsit. Or perhaps, more precisely, she feels the lack of it. The warmth that had been a persistent presence on her back is gone. It feels as though nothing is there. Yet Dorian says—
Her blood runs cold. A faded soulmark. A lost soulmate. In this future, the human that’s connected to her is dead.
Lavellan recovers very quickly from the shock. This isn’t something she wants Dorian—a man she’s known for less than a day—to know. There are only three aware of her soulmark for now and she’d rather keep it that way.
“What can I say,” she comments lightly. “I wanted to differentiate mine from all the rest.”
“A rebel, are we?”
“How many Dalish do you know that have tattoos other than their vallaslin?”
“Point taken,” Dorian says, chuckling.
She throws him a smile before crouching down and rifling through the dead guards’ pockets. When she finds a key in one of them, she holds it up to him. He plucks it from her fingers and examines it while she finishes going through the bodies. She then straightens and looks at him.
“That key should open the prison door. If it doesn’t, I’ll break the lock,” Lavellan says.
“Brute force, determination—I like it,” Dorian says. His lips quirk up, forming an amused smirk. “I’m beginning to take a shine to you.”
“I’m only this charming in good company,” she replies. She takes the key from him and opens the door. “Let’s go. I’m not keen on our surroundings—or the future, really.”
...
They return from Redcliffe with mages as allies. Outwardly, no one is worse for wear, but there is a haunted look to Lavellan’s eyes and an extra exuberance in Dorian’s movements that leave them all suspicious.
Leliana and Josephine approve of Lavellan’s decision, as does Cassandra when push comes to shove. Cullen initially balks, but a few well-said words from Cassandra result in him admitting that Lavellan had done well and he could hardly fault her for the decision. She had, after all, done as was asked of her.
Later, when she has a moment, Lavellan returns to her cabin to rest. A new mirror has replaced the old one. She stares at her reflection for a while, her gaze tracing jagged lines over her wounds and the dark circles under her eyes. The sight makes her uneasy, so she turns around and takes off her shirt. She looks over her shoulder and a tightness in her chest, one that she hadn’t even known was there, loosens. The lion on her back is a regal gold again. It’s warm to the touch, too.
She exhales, puts her shirt back on, and retires for the night.
...
The moment the Elder One’s dragon swoops over Haven, Lavellan knows they are lost. Their barricades could hardly hold against the red templar swarm, let alone a beast that can breathe fire and inflict more damage with a flick of its wing than one hundred templars corrupted can.
“I—we might not make it out of this,” she says, swiping the sweat away from her brow. She’s allowed a single moment of reprieve inside the chantry’s walls.
“That was always a possibility,” Cullen replies, sheathing his sword. He looks directly at her. “If we are to fall here, then we shall fall fighting. At least this way we get to choose our fate.”
She nods. The chantry walls shake. Chancellor Roderick speaks. There is an exit, thank Mythal, and the Inquisition’s people can escape through there. The spirit child, Cole, and Roderick can guide them, but they will need time.
Ah. So this is what it means, to choose one’s own fate.
Lavellan’s fingers loosen their stranglehold around her staff. She stares straight at Cullen and says, voice firm: “Lead everyone out.”
Understanding takes little time to dawn in the commander’s eyes. He knows exactly what she is implying. All of them do.
“Herald, you’ll—” Cullen starts.
“I’m choosing this fate to secure all of yours,” she says lightly, cutting him off. “Please, Cullen, rescue everyone you can.”
He hesitates. He cannot afford to hesitate and yet he does. But he knows that she is right and nods stiffly in return, ever bound by duty. This provides more comfort to her than he knows.
“Perhaps you will surprise it,” he offers in parting, “find a way.”
She smiles fractionally, murmuring. “Everyone believes Andraste guides me. With her and Mythal at my side, perhaps I will.”
When she leaves to confront a false-god and his archdemon, she doesn’t look back. The piercing brightness of the flames against the dark night render her blind when the Elder One rips her off the ground by a single limb.
...
Cold. She can feel the chill in her bones. But her hand, her back—they are so hot, they are icy.
She falls forward in the snow. At least they are safe.
...
Lavellan drifts in and out. Once she’s conscious enough to feel fur wrapping around her, a shield against the frost. Another time there is heated water being stroked across her forehead. And another, green light peeks between her eyelashes and she hears Solas’ voice whispering in elven. The time she remembers most is when she shifts, uncomfortable, and flutters her eyes open to see Cullen praying at the side of her bedroll.
“You made it out,” she murmurs.
He startles, but recovers immediately and faces her. His eyes are searching for something on her face; she doesn’t know what.
“Thanks to you,” he replies. His hand hovers close to hers—so close she can feel the heat radiate from it.
“I’m glad,” she says.
She slips back into darkness.
...
They name her Inquisitor. Strangely, this is an easier title to bear. ‘Herald of Andraste’ holds more weight than Inquisitor does.
(For now. One day kings may look to the Inquisition for she, the Inquisitor, will have more power in her palms than all the world does in its kingdoms. But not today.)
Skyhold is beautiful. It is old and crumbling but it holds ancient history—it is the last stronghold, bearing the weight of the heavens. Lavellan spends as much time as she can outside, embracing the sun. In the early days, her advisors and inner circle also meander the long battlements and gardens. It is during this time that she finds an opportunity to speak with Cullen.
“It seems there is always work to be done,” she comments, nodding at the maps he is poring over.
“It never ends,” he agrees. “We’ve established guard rotations and security outposts. This fortress is big, but it is stable and far more defensible than Haven ever was. We’ll have it fully secured by nightfall tomorrow.”
“You work fast.”
He smiles tiredly. “We don’t have any time to waste. And while I don’t believe Corypheus will strike Skyhold immediately, we can’t afford to take any chances.”
Lavellan nods. Then, hesitantly: “Commander, can I ask—how… how many did we lose?”
Cullen straightens, looking at her with an odd ferocity. Lavellan had almost forgotten how tall he is compared to her.
“Our losses were minimal. Your actions at Haven allowed for the majority of our forces to make it out alive.”
“And those who didn’t?”
“We have messengers delivering the news to the families. Josephine is working on securing an artisan who would upkeep a carving with the names of the lost on it, in memory of them.”
“That way they will never be forgotten,” Lavellan murmurs. She sighs.
“Inquisitor,” he says gently. “I know this takes a toll. It never gets easier. But you must remember that our losses, this time, were minimal. We could have lost more, but your—sacrifice saved many lives.”
“At least something good came of it,” she says.
“Much did,” he corrects. “We now know who the hand behind the chaos is. We found Skyhold. The Inquisition rightly has a leader. Our forces grow by the day; Skyhold is becoming a place of pilgrimage.”
Lavellan at this point is looking at the ground, thoughtful. Observing this, Cullen’s brow furrows in concern. His expression eases only when she looks back up at him.
“I’m glad you made it out,” she says. Then, as if realizing what she had said, the tips of her ears flush a dark pink and she stammers: “Just—just as I’m glad everyone else made it out, too.”
Cullen rather looks like someone had pulled a rug out from under him: off-balance. Lavellan rubs at the vallaslin on her cheeks. Thoroughly embarrassed—Cullen’s lack of response only heightening this feeling—Lavellan turns to leave. She only hesitates when she sees Cullen’s shadow follow her, his voice earning her pause.
“You stayed behind. You could have—” He chokes on his own words. “I will not allow the events of Haven to happen again. You have my word.”
She locks eyes with him, her smile gentle.
“I believe you.”
...
Lavellan learns of others’ soulmarks over time. Leliana, in her own way, tells her first, by pointing out a flower, Andraste’s Grace, and commenting on just how beautiful it is when it blooms.
“Is this first-hand testimony I’m hearing?” Lavellan asks.
Leliana smiles, eyes soft. “Yes. I saw it once. It’s a sight I’ll never forget.”
“Where did you see them bloom?”
“On the Hero of Fereldan’s ankle,” she says, and chuckles at Lavellan’s subsequent expression.
Josephine tells her that she doesn’t have one. It doesn’t bother her, she insists, because it gives her some freedom to choose. It makes arranged marriages easier—and it hints that maybe there’s someone else out there for her. Someone who doesn’t have a mark.
Lavellan sees Cassandra’s on one of their trips to the Exalted Plains. They’re sharing a tent, undressing; Cassandra is taking off her gauntlets when Lavellan catches a glimpse of a tiny, flowery dragon on her wrist. The color of it is dull. Cassandra notices her staring.
“My soulmark,” she says plainly. “It is faded now, but once it was gold... and pink.”
“Did you know them?” Lavellan asks quietly.
“I did. His name was Regalyan; he was a mage with whom I adventured when I was young,” she replies. “We had ten years together before he died at the Conclave.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s hardly your fault. Although, I would not mind if you allowed me to strike at Corypheus at least once.”
“Run him through as many times as you’d like, Cassandra,” Lavellan says. “In fact, you can do all the fight with him and I’ll be your support.”
(The grunt Cassandra makes is more amused than annoyed.)
Blackwall also doesn’t have one. He tells her as much when they are brushing the pelts of their horses.
“It’s better that way,” he says roughly. “Love isn’t meant for grey wardens. I feel sorry for the sod who’s fated for one of us.”
Lavellan sees Vivienne’s soulmark fade. Hers is a golden mask on her forearm that pales to a silvery gray as the Duke de Ghislain, Bastien, breathes his last. There is such open sorrow on Vivienne’s face—the moment is too intimate, so Lavellan turns away to give the enchantress breathing space.
The last person she talks to about soulmarks is Dorian. They’ve become close, ever since Redcliffe, but they don’t talk about the marks until after she meets Dorian’s father. Tevinter, she learns, is a society of people who keep their marks close and private. In a world of arranged marriages that seek to breed the purest offspring, predestined loves have no place.
“Most don’t ever meet their Marked, let alone marry them. If you even suggested such a thing, you’d be laughed right out of Minrathous,” Dorian says.
Lavellan’s frown says it all.
“It’s hardly fair,” Dorian admits. “I knew it to be sad when I was younger, but seeing how all you Southerners are with the ones that bear your soulmark, how much value is placed on—on love, it’s a pity Tevinter refuses to do the same. Another item to add to the ever-growing list of the Imperium’s failures, I suppose. Ah—I said you Southerners, didn’t I? But the Dalish don’t have soulmarks. My apologies.”
She rubs her forearm, glancing off. After a moment’s hesitation, she says: “Do you remember the lion tattoo you saw on my back, in Redcliffe?”
“How could I forget? It’s extraordinary work, although I still question your color choices.”
“They weren’t my decision,” she says. “The colors changed again, now that we’re in the present.”
“My dearest Lavellan, while I don’t question that you can achieve the impossible, there is no way you could have managed to find time to have your tattoos re-inked.”
“It’s... it’s not a tattoo, Dorian.”
Realization dawns on Dorian’s face. The shock is visible. “You can’t mean—”
Lavellan nods. “The Anchor isn’t the only mark I escaped the Fade with. I ended up with a soulmark, too. Look.”
She steps into the library alcove that Dorian frequents and, after making sure no one is around, unbuttons the top part of her tunic and pulls it down one shoulder to display the rich browns and golds of her lion. She gives him a moment to take it in and then fixes her top.
“I suppose that, somewhere, there’s a human for me,” she says.
Dorian takes a moment to recover from his shock. When he does, he sucks in a breath and then props his leg up on a chair, shucks off his boot and pulls up the leg of his trousers to show her his soulmark: a grey stallion with a shining golden sun behind its head, glowing like a halo. He too gives her a moment before covering his calf again.
“Fair’s fair,” he says, brushing off the intimacy with a casual shrug.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, face naked with honesty. “Dorian—do you want to meet your Marked?”
“I know my father certainly doesn’t want me to. It would only give legitimacy to my defect. I’m sure if he could have used blood magic to change my mark, he would have,” he scoffs. When he sees her expression, he sighs. There’s pain in his eyes. “I haven’t yet thanked you for taking me to meet with my father. It wasn’t what I expected, but it was something. Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”
“I think you’re very brave,” Lavellan says.
“Brave?”
“It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path, Dorian.”
The surprise on his face melts into a small, earnest smile. Dorian ducks his head and turns to look out the window. It takes him a minute to speak again.
“I do,” he says quietly, “want to meet my Marked. Someday. But the thought of meeting him—it’s frightening. It goes against everything I’ve been taught.”
“I’m afraid, too,” Lavellan admits.
“I can imagine. The only elf in the world with a soulmark? That’s a rather terrifying thought,” Dorian says.
“That absolutely doesn’t make me feel any better,” she says, eliciting weak laughs from them both. When they quiet, she says softly: “I hope that you meet your Marked and that he cherishes you, as you well deserve. Truly.”
It takes almost too much time for Dorian to recover from her words. It’s very clear to Lavellan that it has been a long time since anyone has ever said such a thing to him—if ever. But she is nothing if not honest; her words hold only truth in them. At the same time, however, she does not want to risk scaring off Dorian completely—he is her dearest friend here and she does not want to alter that relationship.
“Anyway, before I risk getting too sappy, I think you and I should pay the tavern a visit. I’m still curious to hear this song that Maryden composed about you,” she says.
He clears his throat and says: “Ah yes, ‘The Greatest, Most Charming Altus to Ever Exist’—a lovely ditty, if I’ve ever heard one. She was a little stingy with the positive adjectives, but I’ll give her credit for using convivial—hardly anyone uses that word nowadays, save for our ambassador.”
Lavellan smiles, rolling her eyes. As she walks down the stairs, Dorian waits a moment, watching her back disappear.
I hope that your Marked cherishes you, too, my friend, he thinks.
“Greatest, Most Charming Altus—are you coming?” Lavellan calls.
“Yes, yes,” he calls back. “My word, I’m awfully popular with the fairer sex. The Inquisitor herself can’t go a moment without me.”
Her laughs echo throughout the tower.
...
After they return from their latest campaign in the Emerald Graves, Cassandra tells her of Cullen’s battle to best his lyrium addiction.
“He sincerely believes that he needs to step down as Commander?” Lavellan asks.
“He gives himself too little credit,” Cassandra scoffs. “He is still more than capable of leading the Inquisition’s forces and I stand by my decision to not let him step down. But the man is more stubborn than I; he refuses to listen.”
“Is there anything we can do to change his mind?”
“If anyone can, it’s you.”
“Me?”
The warrior folds her arms across her chest and nods. “For this, he will value your opinion more than he will value mine. He does not want to disappoint you.”
“His decision to stop taking lyrium is admirable, not disappointing,” Lavellan says, her tone helpless.
“I agree. You must tell him that,” Cassandra says, and leaves it at that.
Several hours later, after scouring the highs and lows of Skyhold—she stopped by his office and found shattered bottles of lyrium, sending her into a panic—Lavellan finds Commander Cullen in the war room. He appears frustrated, his brow furrowed with pain, as though he’s fending off an unseen enemy, but otherwise calm. His hands are trembling, gripping the edges of the war table.
The moment she sees him, Lavellan’s panic shifts to relief. The moment he sees her, he adopts her lost panic and staggers backward in an attempt to straighten.
“Inquisitor, I—”
“At ease, Commander,” she says gently, approaching the table. “Are you alright?”
“I—yes. I will endure.” he says.
There’s a certain hopelessness to his voice that causes worry lines to crease around her eyes. He averts his gaze, draws out a sigh, and then rubs his hand across his forehead.
“Cassandra told me that you stopped taking lyrium,” Lavellan says slowly.
“Yes,” he says, voice heavy. “Forgive me. I should have told you sooner. I will understand completely if you wish for me to step down. Cassandra is more than capable of finding a replacement for me.”
“I’m not here to ask you to step down. I’m here to make sure you’re okay—and to tell you that I respect your decision.”
“You shouldn’t,” he snaps. “You should be questioning it. I—I should be taking it. I won’t give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry, I won’t.”
“And you haven’t. Everything the Inquisition asks of you, you give it and more. It will not take this—your freedom of decision—from you.”
“It should, if the decisions I make jeopardize my ability to lead the Inquisition’s armies. I should be taking it.”
“Not once has anything you’ve done made me question your ability as army commander. Not once,” Lavellan’s voice, despite her trembling heart, is impossibly firm. She comes around to stand by him. “Cullen, listen to me. Forget about the Inquisition. Is taking lyrium again what you want?”
For a moment, Cullen forgets how to breathe. The exhale that escapes him when he remembers is shaky.
“No,” he says helplessly. “It’s not.”
“Then you have your answer; and I will stand by your decision.”
Cullen’s gaze settles on the flowery words of the Orlesian side of the war table’s map. “Inquisitor, if this affects my work, if I cannot endure—”
“You will,” she interrupts.
“Perhaps I will,” he says. Suddenly she notices the dark rings under his eyes, hears the tiredness in his voice. “But if this—this wound begins to fester, you must replace me.”
“All wounds heal,” Lavellan tries, but the words fall flat, even with all her well-meaning behind them.
“True as that might be, not all wounds heal well,” he replies. “The lyrium, it left a scar. Its mark is always there and always painful. The feeling—the song never goes away. I can’t escape it.”
He heaves a sigh and she wishes she could do something, say something that would make it better. But there is nothing. This is a wound that she cannot mend, however much she means to.
“My apologies, Inquisitor,” he says quietly, running a hand across his face. “I did not mean to trouble you with this. I will let you return to your duties.”
He moves to leave. The walls are back, the stones piling atop each other too quickly for her to scramble over. But maybe, maybe she can still send a message across.
“Commander,” she calls. He stops in the door frame and turns back around. “Scars, they—they show where we have been. They don’t dictate where we are going.”
He swallows thickly, bows his head, and then leaves the room. He takes care to shut the door behind him.
...
Adamant sees Lavellan lost in the Fade and then found again. She comes out of it pale, shaken but alive. And still, despite all the horrors that she’s seen, that will haunt her dreams for weeks to come, she puts on her bravest face when she addresses the remaining Grey Wardens. Stroud’s noble sacrifice left them with no leader, and her friends can see the guilt written plain on her face—they hear it when she shows kindness, almost too much, by offering the Wardens the chance to join the Inquisition. Gratefully, as it well should be, the offer is accepted.
Lavellan gets a moment to herself when the Inquisition’s forces are beginning to clear out of the fortress. She’s hidden herself in a small alcove, leaning against the cold brick wall, trying to control her breathing. When Cullen encounters her, she’s scrubbing at her red-rimmed eyes.
“Inquisitor?” He calls, soft and questioning.
She startles, blinking a few times before recognizing his figure. He holds up his hands and approaches her slowly, not unlike the way she had when she first found him going through lyrium withdrawal.
“Sorry,” she says, drying her face with her sleeve. “I shouldn’t have disappeared without a word. Was—was there something you needed?”
“Confirmation that you’re alright,” he replies.
“Oh. Yes, I’m fine,” Lavellan says. “I’m not really injured. Nothing that a little rest won’t take care of. How are the others? Dorian? Cassandra?”
“Shaken but not wounded,” he says. “They’re worried about you.”
“I’m alright, really,” she says. The insistence in her voice fools neither of them. “I just needed a moment, to—compose myself.”
“I can only imagine travelling through the Fade wasn’t easy,” Cullen says lamely. “If—if you need to talk, I’m here.”
“Ma serannas,” she says. “Thank you. I—maybe I’ll take you up on that offer, just... not now.”
He nods. “Of course.”
The lull in their conversation should be awkward. Instead, it’s heavy with thought; they look at each other but not at each other. Lavellan’s mind wanders, however much she wishes it wouldn’t, back to the green, constricting surroundings of the Fade. Cullen’s own thoughts bring him no comfort—when she wrenches herself away from the memories, she sees his brows are furrowed and his lips downward-turned.
“Commander?” She asks, hesitantly.
He snaps out of it, looking at her with fresh pain. His voice is strained when he says: “Thrice now, I—we have almost lost you.”
“I’m still here,” she says. She puts her hand on his arm, mustering up a small smile. “I suppose it will take more than a walk through the Fade to keep me down.”
The laugh that leaves him sounds somewhat forced, but it’s better than nothing.
“More than an archdemon, too, apparently,” he says.
“If I never have to face that blasted dragon again, I’d actually consider myself to be Maker-blessed,” she says, grimacing. “Bull likes dragons. He can have a go at it instead.”
This garners a more earnest chuckle from him. He places one of his gloved hands over the one she’s placed on his arm. The weight is reassuring.
...
Lavellan has never played Wicked Grace before and by the time the night wanes to an end, she has half a mind to never play it again. The conversation is delightful, her cheeks are pained from all the smiling that has been elicited out of her, but the game is terrible and she’s quite certain she’ll never regain her lost dignity. Hers is, however, more intact than Commander Cullen’s, which lies folded on the floor alongside the clothes he lost to Josephine.
For his part, Cullen deals with the loss graciously. He says not a word, not even biting back at any jibes made, and in exchange he’s given some privacy to run back to his quarters. As Lavellan’s inner circle slowly wander away to their own rooms and Cullen waits for them to leave, Varric chooses the moment to meander with her to the fireplace.
“I’m glad you decided to join us,” he says. “It’s too easy to mistake you for the Inquisitor. At least, it is for me.”
She smiles. “Thank you for inviting me. All things considered, I did enjoy losing money to every single one of you.”
Varric’s laughter is fond. “Should I take that as you won’t be joining us the next time we play?”
“Oh, no, I’ll come back again to have my dignity trampled on,” she says. Then she quickly adds: “That is, if you’ll have me.”
“I’d like nothing more,” Varric says. The warmth of his voice eclipses the fire’s heat and makes her feel very grateful that she can call this man her friend. “Maybe you’ll even win back some of your honor.”
“Not likely,” she says, shaking her head. “If anything, I’ll end up like our poor Commander did.”
She turns her head to glance at Cullen and the moment she does, her smile wavers. He’s turned to the side and is dashing out of the room—but not so quick that she doesn’t catch glimpse of a dark blur on his thigh. As if responding to her gaze, the blur leaps from Cullen’s thigh and spreads its wings. A raven, clear as day and yet dark as night, comes to life before her very eyes and flies to her, circling her upper body twice before brushing its wingtip against her cheek and shimmering out of existence.
Lavellan’s head jerks back so sharply she nearly loses her balance. She looks as though she’s been slapped and the expression doesn’t escape the notice of Varric or Iron Bull—who has yet to leave his seat.
“...okay, Princess?” Varric’s voice is leagues away, and yet he stands right beside her.
“I—excuse me,” she chokes out. “I was—caught unaware.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Varric says slowly.
“Not hard to forget that the Commander’s easy on the eyes when you only see him buried under his work,” Bull chuckles. “Like what you saw, Boss?”
She tries to focus on his words, to formulate a witty response, really she does, but Lavellan’s mind has all but screeched to a halt and refuses to start again. She feels like she should be happy—she’s seen it, she’s finally seen a soulmark come to life—but instead she fancies that she’s about to be ill and burst into tears. At the same time.
“Boss?” Bull tries again.
“I—need to leave,” she says.
Then she flees the room.
...
“Hahren, why are the elvhen the only ones that do not have soulmarks?”
“We are not the only ones, da’len. The dwarves and the qunari have no soulmarks either.”
“Why are the shemlen the only ones who have them?”
“Perhaps it is because their god loves them. Or perhaps it is because their god is angry with them. And where does this fascination with soulmarks come from, hmm?”
“I wish I had one.”
“Soulmarks are a blessing and a curse, da’vhenan. It is for the best that the elvhen do not have them. Let us leave the private matter of soulmarks to the shemlen and direct our energies elsewhere. Shall I tell you of Dirthamen and Falon’din tonight?”
...
Lavellan is quick to come to the conclusion that she does not like Orlesian balls. She has the patience but not the inclination to play the game. She prefers earnest words and honesty to the tiptoeing around truths and predatory movements that the nobles are all so good at. They drown themselves in vagueness; she wants to swim through clear waters.
Although, she reasons, there are some things the nobles are very clear about. Specifically, their distaste of elves. She hasn’t enough fingers or toes to count the times she’s been called knife-ear or rabbit. The taunts are nothing she hasn’t heard before but they sting, they wound.
“Rise above,” she mutters to herself, sifting through papers left on a library table. “You are better than them.”
“Better, stronger, the last of the elvhenan and never again shall I submit. But am I elvhen or am I shemlen?”
Lavellan doesn’t start when Cole appears at her side. Her eyes flicker in his direction and she does her best to offer a smile in greeting. All she manages is a quirk of a lip corner.
“Does it still hurt? The mark?” Cole asks.
“Which one?” She replies.
“The one that glows red and gold, not green,” Cole says.
She hands him the papers that she knows will be useful. He folds them gingerly, doesn’t let them go. He follows her when she walks away and exits the little study.
“It’s... not a physical hurt,” she says eventually.
“But it still hurts,” Cole says. “It shouldn’t hurt. You are still elvhen and you’ve seen the sights you’ve always wanted to see and you know.”
“I know, but he doesn’t,” she says.
“You should tell him,” he replies. “Or should I tell him?”
“Please don’t,” Lavellan says. “I know he deserves to know, but—”
“Unyielding and powerful, Maker’s breath she is more than Andraste ever was,” Cole intones. “He thinks you’re beautiful. He also like the stars in your hair.”
Lavellan’s hand immediately goes up to touch her hair. “These aren’t stars Cole, they’re—”
“—jewels, yes,” says Cole. “I know. He does, too. You should tell him.”
“About the stars?”
“No, about the mark. Then you won’t be sad anymore, and neither will he. He is sad, sometimes, when he thinks of you,” Cole informs her.
“I... soon, Cole,” she sighs out. “I’ll tell him soon. Will that satisfy you?”
“Only if it makes you happy,” he says earnestly.
“That remains to be seen. Let’s go; we’re done enough exploring here. We’ll go to the servants’ quarters next.”
Cole says nothing more, only tightens his grip on the papers and follows her out, not unlike a shadow.
...
Gaspard is sentenced to execution, Briala becomes a member of the court, and Celene remains on the throne. Lavellan should be happy. Orlais has avoided political turmoil and it is in no small part thanks to her, this she knows, but the entire ordeal has left her exhausted.
Imagine. The Inquisitor, exhausted.
She gets only a few breaths alone before the commander of her forces joins her on the balcony. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The silence is easy, comforting even.
“This is much nicer than the masquerade in there,” he says eventually. “Although, now that you’ve rescued Celene and stopped Florianne, most are shedding their figurative masks and are proclaiming their support for the Inquisition.”
“A job well done, then?” She asks.
“A job very well done,” he responds, with a tiny smile that is short-lived. “I... wanted to ask—how are you holding up?”
“Some days I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread,” she replies running her fingers along the stone of the balcony. “Tonight kind of feels like one of those days.”
“It’s been a long day for all of us—you especially,” he says. “I, ah—I know it’s foolish, but... I was worried for you today. I’m glad you’re unharmed.”
Lavellan doesn’t really know what to say to that; it hits her right in the softest, unarmored spots of her heart. She swallows back any words, because there are none that can convey her gratitude well enough. Instead, she shifts closer to him, close enough so their shoulders and arms are pressing against each other. The moment is quiet; there is solace in the silence.
“I don’t know when we might get another chance—or if we ever will—and I don’t want to regret not asking, so...” He steps away, holds out his hand and bows to her with a quirky smile. “May I have this dance?”
“I—don’t actually know how to dance,” she says quietly, but puts her hand in his anyway.
“And I’m a terrible dancer,” he responds, drawing her closer. “We can stumble our way through together.”
They smile at each other. The entire time they dance Cullen’s hold is gentle, and when his hands brush against her lower back, even through the layers of fabric Lavellan feels sparks alight from her mark.
She will tell him. Once they are home.
...
After the events at Halamshiral, Lavellan becomes exceedingly busy. Reports of violent rifts come streaming in, resulting in her traveling constantly. One exceptionally long campaign takes her from the Hinterlands to the Emerald Graves to the Hissing Wastes and then back to the Hinterlands again. While she rotates her party as often as she can, not wanting to wear anyone out, she is always traveling and exhaustion has rooted itself deep into her bones.
She almost weeps with relief when the camp officers report that she’s closed the last of the rifts and can return to Skyhold. She settles instead for running a hand across her face and laughing. Varric pats her arm, grinning up at her.
“About time,” he says. “Can’t wait to get back and have a long drink.”
“It’s well deserved,” she replies.
“Hah, I barely did a thing. You on the other hand—well, you did a damn good job, Princess. Bet that bed of yours is calling your name about now,” he says.
“I think screaming would be the more accurate term,” she says.
He laughs. “You’re probably right.”
The journey back is three days of listening to Varric and Cassandra bicker over little nothings and stifling laughter every time Dorian rolls his eyes. It’s only when Varric is teasingly threatening to never publish the next book in the Swords and Shields series that Dorian has finally had enough and can bear no more of their quibbling—no matter how amusing Cassandra’s stammers are.
“My lovely Inquisitor,” he drawls, spurring his steed closer to Lavellan’s. (He will never understand exactly why it is she chooses to ride a screeching hart rather than a mild-mannered horse. Still, it’s better than a dracolisk.)
“Dorian,” she replies, inclining her head towards him with a smile. “I take it you’re no longer amused by our Seeker and storyteller?”
“If I have to hear one more word about Swords and Shields, I may have to smite one of them,” he says. “Varric, I suppose, would be the unlucky one. He’s the easier target.”
“Cassandra might run you through if you smite him, though. If you get rid of the author, she’ll never be able to finish reading the series,” Lavellan points out.
Dorian grimaces. “Ah. Yes. That. I hadn’t considered. Perhaps it’s best I smite neither of them and instead we give our mounts a little incentive to go faster.”
“And leave our friends in the dust?”
“That is the point, yes.”
Lavellan laughs, garnering a smile from her Tevinter friend. He watches her for a moment, a small smile on his face, before diverting his gaze back to the path in front him. Then, as casually as he can manage, he says:
“So, have you told our dear Commander yet?”
Her brows furrow; she looks at him, puzzled. “Told him what?”
“About your mark.”
“My—what? How—?” Lavellan splutters.
“Both Bull and Varric commented on your startled reaction to seeing Cullen run away the night we played Wicked Grace,” Dorian says. “Both wholeheartedly believe that you are infatuated with the Commander—which is true, don’t try and deny it—but as neither of them know about your soulmark, they thought your reaction either had to do with seeing his glorious form or seeing that he had one and being saddened by it. I, however, know the truth of the matter.”
“That our marks match,” Lavellan says faintly.
“Precisely. Which, again, begs the question: have you told him?” Dorian asks. His eyes rest on her face, carefully measuring her response.
Lavellan, for her part, sighs and seems to shrink. “Not yet. I meant to tell him after Halamshiral, but Leliana had me off to the Hinterlands the next morning. I haven’t seen him since.”
“You’ll have the chance today, once we return,” Dorian says.
“I know,” she sighs.
Dorian softens, nudging his horse closer to her mount and reaching out with a hand to grip her forearm, giving it a comforting squeeze. “In your case, Lavellan, you have nothing to be afraid of. I promise you.”
“If you say so,” she says.
“I do say so, which therefore makes it true,” he says boldly.
She smiles, just a little. Then her brows furrow. “Did you really figure out that my mark matched Cullen’s just off of Bull’s and Varric’s accounts?”
“I admit to having spoken with Cullen about his soulmark before. And Cole may have let it slip that you had promised him that you would tell Cullen about a mark. But let’s just attribute my knowing to my excellent deductive skills, shall we?” Dorian responds.
“Maybe just this once,” she says, laughter light in her voice.
“Excellent. Now, I’ve noticed that the two behind us have grown suspiciously quiet—either they’ve been eavesdropping on our conversation or one of them murdered the other. If it’s the latter, I’ll bet good coin that Cassandra killed Varric.”
Both Lavellan and Dorian turn around to look and their smiling expressions falter when they see just how far behind their companions have fallen.
Dorian clears his throat. “I take it back, Inquisitor. At the rate we’re going, if you’re to tell the Commander anything, it might have to wait until tomorrow.”
She sighs once before whistling sharply to draw their lagging companions’ attentions.
...
They arrive back at Skyhold faster than Dorian had predicted. The sun is only just setting when they pass their steeds on to the stablehands and go their separate ways. Varric and Dorian chat on their way to the tavern while Cassandra tells Lavellan that she’ll deliver a report to Leliana before retiring for the evening.
“Get some rest,” she tells Lavellan sternly. Then, softer: “You deserve it.”
“You too, Cassandra. Good night,” Lavellan says.
They part ways. Lavellan starts towards the castle’s main hall to head to her quarters, but rethinks her decision when she passes the tavern, and then rethinks her decision a second time when her gaze travels over the stairs that lead to Cullen’s office.
She did say she would tell him.
Lavellan squares her shoulders and marches up the stairs, walking with purpose to Cullen’s office. Only, when she reaches the door, she freezes. Something heavy, something uneasy settles in her stomach.
What if she tells him and he doesn’t believe her? What if she shows him and the mark doesn’t match, after all? What if seeing his mark come to life had all been a trick of the light, of her imagination? What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if he does but she can’t be with him because of station, because she is the Inquisitor and he is the Commander?
What if he can’t see himself being romantically involved with an elf—or worse still, with a mage?
Her legs threaten to give out. She’s a second away from turning around and leaving when the door opens and a scout nearly walks into her. The terrified boy stammers an apology, begging her pardon, before skirting around her and fleeing the scene. Lavellan can’t even imagine being terrifying, not when she’s so terrified herself—
“Inquisitor?” Comes Cullen’s startled voice. “I—please, come in, before it gets cold.”
It’s too late to turn back now. Lavellan irons her hands around her waist and steps into his office, shutting the door behind her with her heel. The room is well-lit with candles and judging by the missives sprawled all over his desk, Cullen had still been working with no intent of stopping.
“I hadn’t been informed that you’d returned,” he says, coming over to her.
“We haven’t been back long,” she says. “It hasn’t even been a half hour since we stepped foot into Skyhold.”
He nods his understanding. “I trust your journey was smooth?”
“We left the Hinterlands in a better state and I got to listen to Cassandra and Varric bicker all the way back home,” Lavellan says, managing a smile. Her heart’s pounding so loudly she can hear it.
“I can only imagine how entertaining that was,” he chuckles.
She nods distractedly. His expression melts into one of concern, brows creasing, mouth thinning. His right hand moves out as though to steady her, but he stops it midway, letting it hover there.
“Inquisitor, is—are you alright?” He asks.
“Mostly,” she says, weakly. “Do you—do you have a moment?”
“Of course,” he says immediately. “Always. Would you—let me get you a seat. Or we could go elsewhere, if that’s more to your comfort.”
“Here is better. I—there’s something I need to tell you. Or, no, this would probably be better if I showed you.”
Her hands go up to her armor and she begins to peel it off. She glances at Cullen only once during this time and, to his credit, he’s stunned into silence, looking as though he doesn’t know what to do, how to process what she’s doing. She can feel her fingers trembling as she unbuttons her overcoat and drops it to the ground, and then when she pulls off her mail, leaving only her plain tunic. The entire time, her mind wars with itself: yes, tell him it insists, and no, don’t do it, it’s not too late to turn away, it begs.
It’s when she starts to undo the buttons to her tunic that Cullen recovers.
“Inquisit—Lavell—” Cullen’s mouth twists with every attempt that doesn’t set right with him. He settles with a helpless: “Ellana, please—”
The way her name falls from his lips knocks the breath right out of her. It makes her want. She wants, she wants in ways she hadn’t known—but she shouldn’t, she can’t. She’s the Inquisitor and he’s her (yes, hers, a little voice inside her hisses triumphantly) Commander. She’s an elf and he’s a human. She’s a mage and he’s Templar-trained. There must be a thousand rules she will be breaking.
And yet, she still wants. And she still needs the confirmation. And he still has a right to know.
“Please,” she echoes back at him, “I need you to see this.”
Any protests die on Cullen’s tongue. Lavellan seizes the moment, turns around and yanks off her top, baring her back to him. She stays completely still, letting silence settle between them. She doesn’t feel anything—doesn’t know if she should—and for a brief moment she fears that she’s made some sort of mistake, that her Keeper’s explanations had been wrong this entire time (it wouldn’t be the first thing her people misunderstood), until she hears Cullen let out a shaky exhale and suddenly feels the chilled tips of his fingers skim the plane between her shoulders where her mark ends.
“It’s you,” he murmurs, tracing the lion’s shape downwards. “I never—I never thought—”
He lifts his eyes to see if he can meet her gaze, to look at her anew. She drops her own gaze to the floor, any expression she had crumpling. (If only she had looked, if only she had seen how beautiful the reverence, the unfettered warmth and wonder in his gaze was. It would have made her want to laugh and cry.)
“I know, I’m an elf and a mage—everything you’ve never wanted—”
“Wait,” Cullen says suddenly, and when she shows no signs of stopping he puts his hands on her arms, turns her around, and repeats, “Ellana, wait. Stop.”
“Cullen—”
“Hold, listen to me,” he says. His voice is firm, his eyes are searching. “You are everything I could have ever wanted. Everything. And you are everything I do want, everything I—I have wanted, soulmark or no. If I’ve made you feel like I didn’t—because you’re Dalish or because of your magic, that I wouldn’t—Maker, I apologize, that wasn’t my intent.”
“What?” She whispers hoarsely.
This prompts the softest, saddest of smiles from him. “I mean it. You are—Maker’s breath, you are everything I don’t deserve. You’re incredible. Truly, you deserve better than me.”
She hesitates. “And... if I want you?”
“Then you can have me,” he says. The sadness disappears from the edges of his expression and a bright joy replaces it. “I am yours, my lady.”
“Just Ellana is fine,” she breathes, wondrous, stepping closer. She lifts her hand to brush against his cheek and he closes his eyes at her touch. His chuckle is warm, vibrating against her fingers.
“Ellana,” he murmurs, not once but three times, and then he leans in and closes the distance between them.
Somewhere between his kisses and the heady haze of happiness, Ellana comes to the conclusion that she loves him, she’s loved him all along—and he maybe he has, too.
...
The moon bathes them in cool light through the hole in Cullen’s roof.
It’s strange, being in Cullen’s quarters, now that she has a moment to look around. She doesn’t see all that much, most details are hidden by the darkness, but she sees things in it that are so distinctly Cullen that it makes her feel at ease. And here, tucked under the warm covers of his bed, her legs twined with his, she is happy.
“I didn’t know the Dalish had soulmarks,” Cullen says softly.
“They don’t,” she responds, shifting her back closer to him, relishing the feel of his fingertips sliding across her shoulder blades. “I didn’t have a mark for a long time. Not until I fell out of the Fade at the Conclave.”
“That’s when mine darkened,” Cullen says. “Before, it looked like a scar. I’d thought—that my Marked had passed.”
His Marked. Those are words that inspire certain warmth.
“What did you think when your mark darkened?”
Cullen exhales lowly and moves his hand away from her back to settle on her rib cage. The planes of his chest press against her. His chin nestles between her shoulder and her head.
“At first I thought it was a side-effect of lyrium withdrawal,” he admits. “Then I considered the possibility that they—my Marked—had just been born. The thought was... it didn’t bode well.”
She presses her palm against his knuckles. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“No,” he murmurs. “I don’t.”
He drops a few kisses against the curve of her shoulder. It tickles her, making her shift and break out with a light giggle, which draws out a smile from him. She twists her head around to look back at him, seeing his happiness marked by the crow’s feet around his eyes. How could she have gone so long without seeing this smile?
“Might I ask you something?” He says.
“Of course. Ask away,” she replies.
“I’m aware enough of my... nickname, which was perhaps the inspiration your mark drew from, but the raven—its meaning escapes me,” he admits.
She hums thoughtfully, turning herself around so that their fronts press together and his hands settle on her back, his fingers drawing lines on the surface of her skin. His eyes meet hers.
“Maybe it’s because of my vallaslin,” she says. “The markings on my face, they belong to the god Dirthamen, the Keeper of Secrets. Lore has it that he defeated two ravens, Fear and Deceit, and bound them to his service. The mark on my forehead is one of them.”
His right hand comes to trace the ink pressed deeply into her skin. There is something devout about his touch, his expression mystified.
“My Keeper believes that when the ravens were bound to Dirthamen’s service, because they were working for a liege so beloved by his devotees, they were changed from Fear and Deceit to Courage and Honesty. She told me once that it takes great courage to hold onto the truth and keep it from those who would twist it.”
“Courage and honesty are two words that reflect you well,” Cullen says.
“They’re words that work just as well for you.”
“Perhaps, but I’d argue that you embody the words, while I just wear them.”
“Flatterer.”
He kisses her once, short and sweet. He’s smiling when he pulls away to say: “I’m only being truthful.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she snickers.
He’s smiling still when he kisses her again.
...
Lavellan doesn’t believe in the Maker, not really. Nor does she find comfort in the tiny Chantry within Skyhold, not when a statue of Andraste watches her every move—although she cannot deny an odd connection that she feels with the woman, being her false herald.
But Lavellan does like the moments of silence the stone room provides, the gentle chill that is only barely kept at bay by candlelight, and every now and then she finds the place has become a refuge for her. Strange is the mesmerizing push and pull that she finds herself caught in, over and over again.
It is late afternoon when she ducks into the little haven, hoping for some reprieve from the nauseating movements that have been overtaking Skyhold as of late. Preparations for a final confrontation with Corypheus are being made, nobles are flooding in through the gates to pledge their support, wounded soldiers are slowly trickling back from the campaign in the Arbor Wilds. All around Skyhold is war, and all within it is war as well. This, paired with responsibility and a sense of foreboding, rests heavy on Lavellan’s shoulders. She, hounded by everyone who needs her advice, needs pause.
The room isn’t empty when she slips in. She’s tempted to leave, or maybe just hide in the background, when she recognizes the voice of the man praying.
“For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost,” Cullen sighs heavily, opening his eyes and letting his head hang low. He unlaces his fingers. Instead of dropping hand to his sword hilt as he usually does, however, he places his hand on his thigh. Where his mark is.
“A prayer for you?” Lavellan asks quietly.
“For those we have lost, and those I am afraid to lose,” Cullen replies. He glances up as she comes over, murmuring, “Ellana.”
He says her name with such reverence. As though he is thankful, blessed to be able to say it openly. Her name is a warm word when he says it, a loved word. She hopes he feels similarly when she calls to him.
She holds out her hands to pull him up to her height. He stands tall, taller than her, his hands and his gaze caught in hers. She isn’t certain whose hands are trembling more: hers or his.
“You’re afraid,” she says.
He lets out a humorless laugh, more pained than anything else. “Of course I am. Corypheus possessed that grey warden at Mythal. Hawke killed him once and he came back. We don’t know what Corypheus is capable of—all we know that it’s only a matter of time before he retaliates.”
Lavellan reaches out to settle her palm against his cheek. He presses into the contact; she feels the soft pricks of his stubble against her skin, reassuring her of his presence.
“When the time comes,” he says, quietly this time, “you will be thrown into his path again. And Andraste preserve me, I must send you to him.”
“A final confrontation has always been inevitable,” she says.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he sighs. Then, with sudden intensity, he says: “Ellana, listen to me—whatever happens, you will come back.”
“We don’t know that,” she says, so quiet, voice wavering.
“We do. You will come back,” he insists. “I—the thought of losing you… I can’t.”
Cullen embraces her. There is a desperation in his hold, an urgency. But there is also comfort, a reminder of something a spirit-boy had told her once before: safe and solid, protecting and proud. Stronger when you hold him. Only now, she is stronger when he holds her. In this moment, his arms around her, an impenetrable shield, she could tear down both Corypheus and the heavens.
“What if I lose the mark?” She asks, voice muffled. “It came with the Breach—it might leave with it, too.”
“With or without a mark, you’re the woman I love. Its loss is nothing if it means you come back to me,” he says. His voice is firm.
Lavellan’s fingers find a tight hold on his back. His palms flatten against her waist, sliding up. The very hands that had been shaking earlier now steady her.
“I will come back,” she whispers.
“You will come back,” he agrees, and kisses the raven on her forehead.
...
Corypheus is dead. The Breach is sealed, the threat is nullified, Inquisitor Lavellan emerges victorious. Bards will sing songs of this day, her name will be transcribed in every history book to come; she has transcended from greatness to legend, and yet as the celebrations flourish around her, there is only one thing that matters to her:
The lion that guards her back remains, glowing gold against the receding darkness.
And to him, she will be going home.
end.