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When she first came to them, she was a prisoner. A wild-looking, defensive little thing, a Dalish mage that had somehow ended up at the Conclave and in the middle of this mess. She had been quiet, but attentive, her eyes always on him when he moved through the room or spoke. Cassandra had introduced her as the Herald, but the elf had winced and quietly said that her name was Siiri, from clan Lavellan. Cullen didn’t think she noticed it herself, but she always angled her body in such a way that she was facing him – never showing him her back. Seeing it always made him flex his fingers unknowingly, almost in a nervous habit. He knew that she feared him, even though she hid it well. Her face was always perfectly neutral, but her eyes could not contain the wide array of expressions she tried to cover up. It made him wonder if anything had happened to her, with a Templar or a shemlen as she so often called humans, but he always tucked that wonder away deep inside.
He tried to be careful, to be considerate, but she never seemed to warm up to him. One time she came to talk to him while he was training recruits, asking questions about the Templar order and his life there. There was a certain venom in her voice when she told him that her Keeper had always told her to avoid Templars, asking him if they did anything besides hunting mages, and he felt his fingers moving again, but stilled them before they went to the pommel of his sword. Cullen kept his voice calm and collected, responding to her questions, and when he spoke of his regrets about his treatment of mages it seemed like something shifted in her attitude, almost as if she seemed ashamed. After that, conversations seemed somewhat easier, but he still noticed her tendency to keep her body faced towards him. Eventually, they fell into an awkward silence, and after watching the recruits train for a while she kindly excused herself with a muttered dareth shiral.
After their initial conversation, she seemed a little bit more emboldened, coming to speak to him to ask for his opinion on certain missions or things that had been brought to her attention. Every now and then he found himself distracted by the way her auburn hair always slipped from behind her long, pointed ears, or the way her tattoos glided over her cheeks. One day he suddenly blurted out a question, asking her what the tattoos meant, and she had looked at him with an almost surprised expression on her face before she schooled it back into the neutral that he usually saw.
“The vallaslin are a rite of passage,” she had said softly. “We choose them to honour our gods and ancestors. I chose June.” He had wanted to ask her more about it, but she looked at him with her head tilted slightly sideward, as if she was studying him. His cheeks flushed and Cullen cleared his throat, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck with his hand before he went back to the report they were initially discussing. He could have sworn that he heard her giggle then, but when he looked back up her eyes were intently on the papers and her face showed no trace of a smile.
Leliana had raised an eyebrow when she spotted him taking books from the Chantry library, smiling ever so slightly at the titles. He had tried to hide the Dalish Custom and Culture book underneath the military strategy ones, but the Nightingale was always able to pick up a secret. Cullen read the book late at night, mouthing along the Elvhen words used and wincing at his pronunciation. Siiri had said her tattoos honoured June, which the book told him was the Master of Crafts, and Cullen was still wondering why when he closed his eyes, the book on his nightstand.
He knew why when he found her by the campfire the next day, eyes shining brightly as she carved a little toy for one of the refugees’ children. Her small, lithe fingers seemed to be able to carve such delicate details and he found himself looking on for longer than he expected, smiling crookedly when her eyes trailed up from the child to him. That seemed to surprise her, and she tilted her head sideways again like a little bird, observing.
She looked cute when she did that. Cullen rubbed his neck as he walked on, muttering to himself.
Bit by bit she seemed to open up to him, and he started to notice that her face wasn’t as neutral as he had originally thought. There were so many small signs and twitches in her face, and Cullen found it easier and easier to read them as they spent more time together. The quick, almost invisible frowning when something displeased her, or the way she narrowed her eyes when she was amused. The pursed lips when she really wanted to speak up, or the slight twitch in her ears when she was embarrassed. Instead of Commander she now called him Cullen, with the slightest hint of her Elvhen accent in her voice. He loved the way she said his name, and tried to pronounce hers the way she did, which made her ears twitch. She said that he had an alright start for a shemlen, but that he had much to learn if he wanted to say it correctly.
And then she asked him about his vows, and if he had taken any vows of chastity. Maker’s breath.
It wasn’t until her return from the Storm Coast that he saw the raw side of her, the pain she covered underneath all the quiet questions and soft spoken words. He found her by the lake, knees drawn to her chest and her hair one big mess, and it tugged his heart. She looked so small, so vulnerable as she stifled her sobs and confided in him. They died for me, she said when she managed to get some words past the tears. They died for the Inquisition, and it shouldn’t have happened. She had found the people killed by the Blades of Hessarian, and something about it seemed to hit her harder than usual. It felt like there was more to it, but he did not wish to pry. Cullen moved his hand to rub the back of his neck, but then changed his mind and sat down next to her, carefully putting his hand on the top of her head. That had stopped her sobbing and she had looked up at him, eyes full of questions and sadness and hope before her face crumpled again and the tears started flowing heavier than ever.
He stayed with her breathing returned to normal, quietly stroking her hair and letting her cry out. Afterwards, he walked her back to her cabin and made sure she was alright before he left, standing in front of the door pondering for a while before he walked back to his own tent.
Later she sided with the mages in Redcliffe, and Cullen nearly lost his temper with her after what had happened with Alexius. She was using that face, the neutral one where she schooled all of her emotions, and suddenly it hit him how much of this anger he was putting in this conversation was actually fear. Fear of her getting hurt, the thought of her being in that future without him to help her. “I am not helpless,” she had said, almost feral as she stood toe to toe with him. “I am not weak. I can hold my own, Commander, and I –“ Hearing her use that name after being Cullen for so long hit him like a slap in the face, and something in his face must have given him away. Siiri had suddenly stopped talking and looked at him, colour flushing her cheeks. “Ir Abelas,” she had said breathily before moving away swiftly, eyes locked to the floor.
She told him that evening that she had seen his body, encased in red Lyrium, most of it already eaten away by the crystals. He could hear the maddening song when she told him that in a toneless voice, could feel the itch on the back of his neck and the sudden need to take it, but then she put her small hand on his arm. That did make me weak, Cullen, she had said. Her eyes were turned away, but he could see the tears beading in them. Cullen put his hand on hers, silently squeezing her fingers. They sat together for a while, but did not speak, did not mention their holding hands. The thirst he had felt earlier ebbed away, and when she finally got up to go to sleep he no longer remembered wanting the lyrium.
They were preparing to move for the Breach. The mages were ready, he had told her that morning, and Siiri had seemed almost sad. When he looked at her, she opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but didn’t get up the courage. Her gaze fell on the book about Dalish customs on his nightstand, and suddenly she did that bird-like thing again, watching him with her tilted head. Cullen felt his cheeks flood with heat and mumbled something that was supposed to be an explanation, but the corner of her mouth pulled the slightest bit upwards and he could do nothing but stare as she turned on her heels and walked out of the tent, hips swaying.
He dreamt of her that night, sweet words and soft touches turning into a dark dream where her eyes had lost all of that light and life. Cullen woke in a cold sweat, chest heaving as he tried to banish the sight of her glazed eyes from his mind.
They made their move on the Breach two days later. It felt like he couldn’t breathe when she fought the pride demon, but she emerged victorious, her small form offset by the bright green light in the heavens. Maker watch over you, he had thought over and over, and your Creators too, if it will help. The sky was healed, and she looked tired but alive, and he could breathe again.
All this time, and he still hadn’t seen her smile. He had hoped that he could coax one out of her at the party, but when that resolution got firmly ended by the Red Templars attacking, he needed all his attention to be on the defence. He saw her out there, twirling her staff gracefully and commanding the forces of Nature as if she had never done anything else. She was unapologetic about her magic, and he found that he liked her that way, that it no longer unsettled him.
And then the dragon came.
Cullen had tried to think of plans, had tried to get something out of his mind that would save everyone. He couldn’t. It felt like a personal failure when he had to tell her that there were no tactics to get out of this alive. He could not keep them, keep her safe. Somewhere he registered that he was talking about trebuchets, one last avalanche, but inside he felt numb. The song of lyrium was more powerful than ever, luring him in with promises. If only he would have taken it, it sang to him. We can be so strong if you just take it. You could have saved everyone. Roderick’s words snapped him out of it, but as he looked at Siiri and asked her how she would escape, he know that she had already decided. His heart clenched and he frowned, unwilling to accept the option. She seemed to notice that he was going to try and dissuade her from it and gently put her hand on his vambrace, looking at him with almost pleading eyes. “Perhaps you will surprise it,” he said softly, “find a way.” They both knew she would not. He looked at her and knew that she was aware that she would die. “Dareth shiral,” he said in an attempt to give her one last thing before she left, stumbling over the words and sounding distinctly Ferelden saying it.
And then he saw it.
Her entire face seemed to light up, starting at her eyes and diffusing out. There was so much joy in her face in that moment, twined together with fear and sadness, and it made her look utterly divine. The lines on her face followed as she smiled, brilliantly and wide, her nose all scrunched up as she let out a soft giggle. He looked at her breathlessly and she put a hand on his cheek, the big grin softening into a smile, almost as if they shared a secret. “Ir abelas, Cullen,” she said softly, “but that was terrible, even for a shemlen. I will have to teach you the correct pronunciation when I come back.” Before he could put his hand on hers, she turned away, calling out her teammates for the final push to the trebuchets. He stood there, waiting for her to turn back, and she did – throwing him a big smile, and a slight wave. “Stay safe,” she said softly, “for me.” The doors closed, and he stood there for a moment, trying to cope with everything that had happened. A scout touched his arm and he jumped up, immediately snapping back to attention and starting the evacuation of the Chantry, but even then his mind was elsewhere. Her smile, her hand as she had laid it on his cheek, the way she had said his name that one last time.
She would come back.
She had to teach him some proper Elvhen, after all.