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Ellana hadn't been able to sleep since she returned from Redcliffe. At this rate, considering the number of life-altering events she'd had the delight of experiencing over the past few months, she might never sleep again. Lying in the dark, she heard the singing of the red lyrium, saw it glowing in Cassandra's eyes, emerging from the Grand Enchanter's chest like a tumor. Leliana, gaunt and bitter. Dorian's bravado hiding terror. The suffocating feel of the spell yanking them through time, clenching down on her ribs like a massive hand. Having to stare Alexius down afterword and pretend she wasn't moments away from utterly falling apart.
The knowing that, without her, this is what would happen.
And all because some human god had maybe decided she was important.
This was stupid. Mad. She was just a Dalish girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught up in a human war with their templars and rebel mages.
Except it wasn't just a human war now. The Inquisition itself was proof of that. Ellana rolled over and planted her face in her pillow. Her head hurt.
By now, gray morning light had begun to creep under her door, and she knew sleep wasn't coming. She climbed out of bed and reached for her clothes -- no. Not those ones, covered in blood from something that hadn't happened yet -- something that would never happen, if she had anything to say about it. She shuddered and moved the sullied clothes aside with a bare foot. She'd burn them later. She dressed in clean shirt and trousers, put her boots on the wrong feet twice before she put them on the right ones, and stumbled outside.
Haven stood still and quiet. Snow fell, soft and powdery, that dusted the ground like sugar. It crunched underfoot, and she stomped her boots more than necessary as she wandered around camp, giggling to herself over the sound. She wasn't sure where she was going, letting her feet guide her as she stared at the sky, at the ugly green tear above. She saw in her mind's eye how the sky had looked then, swallowed entirely by the Breach, roiling, angry, the whole world a hair's breadth from losing itself in the Fade, and was beginning to feel a little sick, when she crashed into someone's back and got a mouthful of fur and a faceful of armor.
"Oof --my apologies, Your Worship. Ah, but might I recommend watching where you're going?"
It was Commander Cullen, and he was amused. He steadied her with a gloved hand at her shoulder as she stumbled and spat out errant hairs from his collar.
"Don't you ever take that off?" she said crossly, and then gasped and put her hands over her mouth. "I am -- I am so sorry, commander. That's not -- I didn't mean -- I'm -- " She wasn't sure why she was so embarrassed. She'd said equally ridiculous things to him before and been utterly shameless. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Or the fact that they were not surrounded by people and required to maintain a semblance of professionalism. Or that this time, the mildly inappropriate comment had been an accident, not made to deliberately fluster him, and she did not feel in control of her brain.
He turned a little pink, but he didn't stutter or swear. His lips twitched and his eyes danced and he said, deadpan, "Which? The cape or the armor?"
"Oh, Creators," she groaned. Her face was so hot it was painful. He was actually playing along. "Just kill me now. It would be kinder."
"I'm sorry," he said, not sorry at all, because he was smiling now. She scowled at him, which only made his smile widen. "Oh, please. Let me enjoy this. So often I'm the one with my foot in my mouth. My curse has temporarily claimed another victim."
She scowled more vigorously from behind her fingers. A blond curl hung loose over his forehead. He hadn't noticed yet, otherwise she was sure he would have slicked it back with the rest.
"And I do, by the way."
"You do what?" He looked lighter. Younger. He really wasn't that much older than she was, a year or two at most, but most of the time he didn't seem so at all. He had the look of a man who'd stared his demons in the face too many times to count. But now the sun had just begun to rise, and he was smiling at her, and his eyes were warm and golden in the light --
"I do take both of them off."
She stared at him, brain slowly processing what he'd just said. He appeared to be having the same reaction, because the longer she stared at him, the pinker his face became.
"Uh," she said, intelligently. Not imagining that. In detail.
He didn't say anything, and for a second, she thought he was going to bolt like a spooked horse. The image was so bizarre -- stoic Commander Cullen, turning tail and fleeing from a little elven mage -- that she began to giggle, and then to laugh somewhat hysterically. She tried to smother the sound with her hands but it was no use, and soon she was gasping for breath. And he was laughing too, somewhat sheepishly, rubbing a hand against the back of his head.
"I'm sorry," she said when she could breathe again. "I'm all out of sorts. I couldn't sleep."
"I thought you were up strangely early. Is everything all right?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Pot, meet kettle. You're up, too."
"Ah, but I'm always awake this time," he said, raising a brow of his own. "You usually don't make an appearance until much later."
She tried not to think about the fact that he knew when she got up in the morning. Or that the first thing she did upon waking -- post tea -- was to go down to the training field and talk to him. "Just thinking. Awful noisy up here." She tapped her temple with a wry smile. "Seeing a horrible possible future tends to do that to a person." Her voice wavered.
He started to reach for her, then appeared to think better of it. She almost wished he hadn't. "I understand," he said quietly. "About not being able to sleep. And bad dreams. If you ever need to talk...well. I may not have advice, but I can listen."
"Thank you," she said. She was definitely ignoring the flutter in her stomach that offer had prompted. She cleared her throat. "You don't have to do that."
He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then glanced aside. "I know." Then, with a half smile and an incline of his head, he turned away. "Good morning, Your Worship."
Her heart stumbled in her chest, and it occurred to her that she had something entirely different from saving the world to worry about.
And that if she didn't save the world, there'd be no other thing to worry about.
Templar, templar. The word was a warning, even to a mage who'd never seen the inside of a Circle. Most of them -- even the Inquisition recruits -- grated on her senses like predatory animals. She could feel them looking at her, her skin itchy beneath the weight of their eyes.
But it was not so with the commander.
She'd forgotten he was one. She couldn't reconcile quiet, polite, serious Cullen with the horror stories she'd heard of ruthless mage hunters. She'd trusted him almost from the moment they'd met -- which was high praise, given the fact that she'd been a prisoner at the time and ostensibly one ill-timed sneeze away from execution. He'd been focused and steady and even-handed (and handsome, added an annoying voice in the back of her mind) and he'd spoken kindly to her, even though it would have been just as easy for him to be cruel. It would have been harder not to trust him.
Maybe that had been her mistake.
"Do you have templars in Tevinter?" she asked Dorian at lunch later that afternoon. (They'd made a habit of it since he'd been in Haven: "We've trauma bonded now," Dorian had said, and she agreed.)
He took a sip of his tea and made a face. "Mm. We do, but they aren't like your templars here. They don't cancel spells or hunt down naughty mages, and whatever else. They aren't quite the bogeymen back home that they are here in the south."
"What do you think of them?"
"Honestly? I don't." He winked at her. "I've much better things to occupy my time. But your templars...well, they at least aren't half bad to look at, are they? Seems to be a requirement of the job for them all to be rather dashing. Probably makes the fraternization rules much more difficult to abide by."
"Oh, I'm sure some of them are ugly." She wrinkled her nose and paused for effect. "Though I've yet to see one who is, I'll admit."
He chuckled, eyeing her shrewdly over his teacup. "Thinking of a particular templar, are we?"
Oh, they were not having this conversation. She did not need Dorian and his too-knowing gaze making her confront things she was yet unwilling to admit even to herself. "Aren't you frightened of them?"
He raised his eyebrows, but generously chose not to comment on her obvious avoidance of his question. "My dear Herald, you should know well by now that I am frightened of nothing."
She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Of course. How foolish. Forgive me."
He grinned. "Forgiven."
"But seriously," she pressed. "Don't you feel odd knowing there are people here who can just...turn your magic aside? Whose entire existence revolves around eliminating us if we slip?"
"I trust our good commander to keep his soldiers in line," he said, frowning and placing his cup back on the table. "And besides, I rather think you are the last person who needs to worry about paranoid templars. You are the Herald of Andraste. They idolize you."
"I don't think that makes me feel better."
Dorian patted her hand. "The weight of the world rests on your shoulders," he said somberly, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the twinkle in his eyes. "I think you, too, have better things to occupy your time. And," he continued, leaning back, one ankle coming to rest across the opposite thigh, "if worst should come to worst, I will boldly distract the templars while you run away." He pressed a hand to his heart. "For you, it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."
"How noble," she said, batting her eyes at him. "My hero."
"I know. I'm remarkable."
She laughed, then sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "Thanks, Dorian."
"Any time." He gave her a small, genuine smile. "Now, get out of here and go work a miracle before one of us says something regrettably sappy."
Unfortunately, the change in her mood was only temporary. She couldn't help but notice the tension that continued to hang around the mages. They never went anywhere alone, always traveling in groups of three or four, and always on high alert, glancing over their shoulders at the templars that were never too far away. It seemed wrong that she should feel safe when they did not; she was even more of an outsider than they -- an elven apostate who didn't even have the decency to be Andrastian.
And if she was being entirely honest with herself, it was knowing that the templars were acting on Cullen's orders that bothered her more.
The rest of the inner circle had largely accepted her decision, even Cassandra, whom she was sure would be angry with her. But Cullen? She'd never seen him so furious. He'd been fully convinced that a mage merely breathing in the same general direction as the Breach would spawn mass possessions -- which, to be fair, so had Vivienne. But that was Vivienne. Vivienne thought any mage other than herself was utterly incompetent (and she might have had a point; Vivienne was, in fact, terrifyingly competent). For Cullen, it had seemed personal. And that gnawed at her. His anger stung more than she wanted to admit. She really didn't want to think about why she cared so much about one human's opinion.
The worst part might have been that he didn't seem angry at her. More like angry at his lack of control over the situation. He still spoke to her quietly and kindly, still blushed when she teased him, but she could see the anxiety rolling off him in waves any time she practiced on the field, learning new forms, tossing motes of flame and countering her partner's (often Dorian, but sometimes just whichever of their rebel mages happened to be at hand when she felt like practicing violence) spells. She needed the practice; it wasn't like she saw much combat before two months ago, when suddenly lots of things began to really want to kill her. And she and her mages had just as much right to train as his stupid templars.
Ellana stewed for the better part of a week.
They were set to repair (or try to repair) the Breach the next day. She had slept maybe four hours total the previous night and may not have been thinking clearly. She'd circled Haven's chantry three times before she'd managed to convince herself to talk to him. If her commander had a problem with her choice of allies, she needed to know about it. And if she was going to maybe possibly probably die closing the rip in the sky, she needed to know if he hated her for it.
Steeling herself, she went to find her commander.
He was at the training field, like he always was (did the man ever take a break?), watching over his soldiers. She leaned against a post and observed for a little while, couldn't stop herself from smiling when he stepped in to correct someone's form, at how all the recruits immediately gave him all their attention with no small amount of devotion. They admired him. Loved him. It seemed an easy thing to do.
As if he felt her looking, he lifted his head and their eyes met. She glanced away, cheeks heating, embarrassed at being caught, but not before she saw him smile. Her stomach performed an undignified flip. It was probably too late to make this seem casual -- and really, how casual were their conversations? -- but she stuck her hands in her pockets and attempted nonchalance as she strolled toward him through the lines of sparring soldiers.
"Taken a liking to mornings, Your Worship?" he called as she approached.
"Against my better judgement," she said, squinting at him through the sunlight that bounced off his armor, half blinding her. His arms were folded across his chest and he stood braced, feet wide, as if he expected to be struck at any moment, but he softened as she came to stand beside him, leaning in to her.
"Are you still having trouble sleeping?" He lowered his voice, and she could feel him examining her. He sounded worried. Was he worried?
She lifted one shoulder in a half- hearted shrug. "Nothing I can't handle."
"Are you sure?"
She glanced at him through her lashes. He was still looking at her, and his eyes were so kind and warm and concerned that she shied away and focused instead on one of the dummies. It had taken a beating: a wide slash cut across its chest, spilling straw into the snow, and one of its arms had been completely lopped off. Cassandra's handiwork, probably. She liked to hit things when she was upset. Ellana could relate. Though she had been banned from using the dummies to express her frustration after she set too many on fire.
"Herald?"
"Do you have a problem with me?" The words tumbled unbidden from her mouth, and the second the were said she wished she could shove them back in. She could feel him stiffen, feel the quality of the air between them change.
"I -- no. Of course not. What brought this on?" His voice was guarded. Cautious. "Have I offended you?"
"Abominations," she said, and cursed her useless tongue. Why was she having so much trouble forming a coherent sentence?
"Abominations," he echoed, nonplussed.
"Yes. Our allies aren't really allies, are they, if we're just biding our time until they snap and become possessed. We are treating them like children, and they are more competent than that. They've survived this long on their own without templar minders." Mythal's mercy. She'd spent days trying to think of the most diplomatic way to phrase her argument and now she was just spitting out the first thing that came into her head. But now that she had started, she couldn't stop.
"I --" He made a frustrated noise. "I do not intend to disparage our allies, or imply that they cannot be trusted. But I will not ignore the possibility of magic gone awry, or possession, or yes, even abominations. To act otherwise would be foolish." He paused, and she felt his gaze on her again. "It's for everyone's safety. The mages. Our soldiers. And yours." Another pause, and then, quietly: "You are taking a great risk, and I would not see you any more endangered."
She floundered, thrown off by the gentleness in his tone. "How safe do you think the mages feel, being constantly watched by your templars?" she demanded. "They thought they'd escaped that life. And now they're once again one mistake away from seeing the wrong end of a sword. Can't be much good for morale."
"I assure you, that is not the case. You offered the rebel mages a full alliance, and I have no intentions of reneging on that agreement." He took a steadying breath. "They are being observed, nothing more."
She still refused to look at him, though she could feel his eyes boring a hole in her head. "It isn't fair to treat them like abominations waiting to happen. It's a desperate mage that turns to demons and blood magic."
"And how far from desperate are we?" he countered. "How far would they go to close the Breach?"
"Is that what you think of us?" she said, unable to prevent a tremor in her voice. "Of me?"
"Of y-- no. No, of course not."
"So why am I different? Why don't you have them watch me? I'm a mage, too. Aren't you worried I'll become possessed?" Was she being cruel? This feels cruel. But it had been festering in her mind for too long, and her mouth and her brain seemed to be operating independently.
When he didn't answer, she rounded on him at last, and was not prepared for the raw horror on his face. He hid it quickly, but she had seen, and he knew it, and she felt like she had struck him.
"You are different," he said stiffly. "You're the Herald of Andraste."
Oh, how she was growing to hate that title. It chipped away at her sense of self every time it was used. "And an apostate, and an elf," she retorted. "Don't forget that part."
"That doesn't -- one doesn't negate --Maker's breath --"
She plowed ahead. "I know I'm not different. Any mage who thinks they're immune to possession is an arrogant idiot. And that includes me. We both know that. But I haven't become an abomination yet. And neither will they. Give them space, commander. Please."
They stared at each other, neither backing down. She began to wish she had something to stand on so she could glower at him without breaking her neck in half from craning it so hard to look him in the face. He pressed his lips in a thin line and furrowed his brow, but she could see him considering, softening.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Fine. I'm sure I will regret this, but fine."
"Thank you." She swayed, relief flooding her. "You won't regret it, I promise." She gave him a wicked little smile. "We mages are much more cooperative when we're treated well."
"Yes, well, I'm sure -- that is, rather -- why do you have to say things like that?" he sputtered.
"Like what?" she said, looking at him with faux, wide-eyed innocence. "What did you think I meant, commander?"
"Andraste preserve me," he muttered, looking away, a blush spreading across his face.
Now they were back in familiar territory -- she, flustering him, and he, being flustered. Much safer ground. Not thinking about abominations and losing her mind, and him, facing her, with that same look of horror that she wouldn't even be herself enough to recognize.
"Something's still wrong."
Damn him for his perception.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Liar."
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "You're a templar."
"Ex."
"What?"
"Ex. I'm not a templar any more."
"But it doesn't -- does that change the way you see people? Mages?" Me?
He stared at her for a long minute. She could see him thinking. At last he said, hoarsely, "Are you afraid of me?"
That was not the response she'd been expecting. There was some emotion playing across his face that she couldn't name, and without thinking about it, she took a step toward him, and had to stop herself from reaching out to...to what? Touch him? Put her hand to his cheek, smooth her thumb over his scar, turn his face to hers? Don't go there, don't go there. "I should be."
That wasn't what she meant to say at all.
Creators. She was so bad at this.
A pause.
"But you aren't." He didn't phrase it like a question, but like he hoped he knew what the answer would be.
She didn't say anything. Because it was foolish. Daft. Borderline suicidal. If she did become an abomination, he would strike her down without a second thought. It was what he had been trained to do, and he was not the sort of man who neglected his duty.
It felt like baring her throat to his sword when she said, "No. I'm not."
The tension should have been broken; a conclusion had been reached: she was not afraid of him. But it hadn't. They were both still there. A foot apart. And the air was heavy with intent.
"My lady --"
"If you two are quite finished," a familiar stern voice called, "I need to speak to the Herald."
It was then that Ellana noticed how quiet the training field had become. She broke the staring contest with some effort and glanced around. Cassandra stood a short distance away, arms crossed, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. She'd probably been decapitating training dummies. The recruits that surrounded her were doing their very best to pretend that they had not been listening to every word of what finally occurred to her had been a very public argument.
Cullen cleared his throat, the tips of his ears turning pink.
"I forgot we had an audience," she murmured, feeling twice the fool.
He gave a small, embarrassed chuckle. "So did I."
"Don't think we're living this down any time soon."
"With any luck, Varric will put it in his next book."
"Maybe we'll get a signed copy."
"Your Worship," Cassandra said, more loudly than necessary.
"I should --" She tilted her head in Cassandra's direction.
"You should," he agreed, giving her a half smile. "Even I can't ignore Cassandra."
She started to back away. "We'll talk later?"
"You know where to find me."
As she approached, she could have sworn she saw Cassandra hiding a smile. She spared one last glance over her shoulder at Cullen, and found him still watching her. And he didn't look away.