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The clothes were different, Grey Warden armor instead of Circle robes or a desire demon's glittering gold and rich purple silks. The hair was different, jet black but streaked with gray and white, streaming down her shoulders with wild curls, instead of the practical plait of her youth.
The eyes were different, deep brown but red-rimmed with the tiniest glint of singing blue behind the irises, so bright he could almost hear it sing. The skin was different, tanned, rough, and dotted with freckles, no sign of a childhood lived behind impenetrable rock.
But the smile was the same, it always was. Full lips pulled upwards, the corners of her mouth pulled taunt, mocking, her tongue flicking briefly to wet her upper lip.
Cullen clenched his hands and kept them at his side. She would be gone in a few minutes, if he could only control his breathing and his heart rate. If he could remember that she was just another cruel illusion.
'If I could only have a taste-' He squeezed his eyes shut.
Leliana pushed roughly past him. He opened his eyes and watched her fingers twitch at her sides, reaching for a bow and arrow that wasn't there.
"You-" Her usually sweet voice was filled with venom usually reserved for traitors and darkspawn.
"Warden Amell." Josephine swished past Cullen and Leliana. "We had word of your coming, but didn't expect you so soon."
"I knew she would do this." In the breath between when she and Josephine spoke, Leliana seemed to have composed herself. Cullen was having more trouble, he hung back, staring, his armor and cloak suddenly insufferably hot and suffocating, even in the ice cold air of Skyhold in the evening.
It occurred to him that this might all be another hallucination, not just the Hero of Ferelden. But then, his nightmares were usually green and cracked around the edges. His pounding headache was also too real for this to be a dream.
"When I heard the Inquisitor let my favorite Grey Warden sacrifice himself, I knew I had to come as soon as possible." Amell replied. She stepped leaned forward and stood, then reached behind her and picked up her staff from the war table. The staff was long and crooked, and seemed to have been carved out of a single piece of obsidian, or perhaps the blackened bone of some ancient monstrous creature. "I had plans for Warden Loghain." She added, tapping the staff against the floor.
"It was a terrible thing, what happened to the Wardens at Adamant." Josephine said, diplomatic as ever. "How can we help you, Mistress Amell?"
"Warden-Commander Amell." The mage said, her smile thinning. "I won't be here long. My business in the west is much more interesting than- whatever it is you have going on here. But- I brought you some new recruits that I met on my travels. Several warriors from the Anderfels, some good strong horses for the stables, and a necklace that will make Dagna's toes quiver."
She walked slowly away from the war table, crossing the floor to one of the windows that looked out into the mountains, up into the sky to observe the pale yellow cloud-like wisps in the sky, the scar that remained where the breach had been. She turned back towards the trio standing in front of the door, smiling. For a split second, her eyes met Cullen's.
She winked.
"It will take a few hours to prepare quarters for you, Warden-Commander." Josephine said, approaching the fearsome mage. Amell seemed amused by her frilled sleeves.
"Thank you, ambassador." She said graciously, and even gave a slight curtsy, her silverite chain mail clinking as she bent her knees. The warden stepped past Josephine, then paused in front of Leliana.
"You look well." She murmured. Cullen's vision went hazy. If Amell said anything to him, he didn't hear it, didn't even see her walk past him to leave the war room. He stepped forward and leaned his elbows heavily on the war table.
Josephine sent off one of the inquisition soldiers to relay the news that the warden would need sleeping arrangements, then she and Leliana disappeared, presumably to inform the Inquisitor about their visitor, which left Cullen alone with his thoughts.
--
He had often wished that he could remember her as the eager, bright eyed apprentice that he had known at Kinloch Hold. The last time he had spoken to her before everything fell apart, she was happy to have passed her Harrowing, beaming up at him, a tiny bright red cut on her upper lip.
She had been pleasant with him, maybe even liked him, the words she said to him haunted him, and he wondered what would have happened had he not fled from her like a frightened child.
Then she had gone, whisked away with a Grey Warden, a chantry initiate, and an explosion of blood that they had never quite managed to scrub off the walls. Cullen had been away when it happened, and in the weeks that followed he was urged by his superiors and fellow Templars to steel his heart and devote himself to his duty. It was a charge that he had taken on with gusto, especially since his primary distraction had disappeared.
Then, disaster. More blood, more forbidden magic. Screaming, flashes of bright purple light, voices hissing, clawed fingers curling around him, into him, over him. Pain was their chief weapon against him, at first, but when that did not work, when he didn't buckle and beg for death like his friends, the demons and blood mages tried a deeper, more insidious method.
Every demon that had touched him and taken him had worn her face, taunted him and promised him everything he could have ever wanted with her voice. Over and over he had rebuffed her and rejected her. When it became apparent to the desire demons that he wouldn't break that way, either, the pain had come again and again.
It had left him a sobbing mess. The only solace he'd been able to take was in his prayers, and that was where she had found him, on his knees, begging the Maker to spare him, to take him away.
The real Amell, the grey warden travelling with a northern barbarian and an Antivan Crow, wore the face of the apprentice he had known before, but her eyes had been dull, her robes covered in blood, bony fingers wrapped around the grip of a staff tipped with a wickedly sharp viridium crystal.
In a last, desperate attempt, he begged her to kill the remaining mages in the tower. He was glad that she had not listened. He had met so many mages in the Inquisition, good, honest folk who only wanted to do their best to protect their world. Thedas belonged to them as much as him, he knew that now.
He realized that the sky outside had grown dark. He groaned and pushed himself away from the war table, raising a hand to the back of his neck to rub at it. The gesture did very little to alleviate the tension in his neck, but at least his headache had faded away.
"You're still here."
It was Leliana. Cullen turned to face her, smiling sheepishly.
"I was- ah- planning troop movements." He replied. He turned, knocking away one of the little markers on the map with his elbow.
Leliana bent down to pick up the marker, and set it down on the edge of the table. "We will need to have more of these made in the days that come." She said, glancing over the map. "There will be more campaigns, more influence to spread."
"More visiting dignitaries?" Cullen asked dryly. Leliana's expression darkened.
"I was not pleased to see her." She said, turning and leaning against the table, her arms crossing. "The last time I saw her, she set me on fire."
Cullen looked to her with a brief, nervous smile, then realized she was serious. "Maker's breath-" He murmured, "I had heard rumors, of course, but I didn't realize-"
"She is a cold, cruel woman." Leliana continued. "But she is what a Grey Warden should be, utterly devoted to the cause of ending the Blights. The Archdemon was killed, after all, and she survived the battle. The world- whatever she wants to do in the world- it is her's."
Silence fell. Cullen wasn't certain what he could say that would be appropriate. He often had such difficulties.
"She is a blood mage." Leliana added quietly, and Cullen jumped, knocking another marker to the floor.
"What?" He asked, his voice cracking.
"Yes, it's true. Wynne had her suspicions, but we knew it was true when she poisoned Andraste's ashes. The Hero cut her down, too." Leliana's expression softened, her eyes cast down to the floor. "I often wonder why the Maker saved me and not her, she was a good woman."
"How is that possible? How can she be allowed to-?"
"She is the Hero of Ferelden, Cullen." Leliana said sharply, tipping her jaw up. "She has the King in the palm of her hand, she built the Wardens in Amaranthene from the ground up, and she commands an order of knights. Her political power in Ferelden is absolute-" She might have continued, but Cullen was looking ill again.
His stomach was churning, temples pounding, he felt faint, and it was plain on his face.
"Try to get some rest." She said gently, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture of support. "You need not see her again. Josie can handle her. Maker knows I have no desire to spend any time with her, myself."
Cullen nodded. Leliana walked with him out of the war room and to the bottom of the stairs that led to his office, then bid him farewell with another supportive smile.
Cullen climbed the stairs slowly. His boots felt like they were filled with lead. Flashes of blue edged into his vision, pulsing with each throb of his temples. He let out a groan when he came to the ladder that led up to his bedroom.
Once he'd made the climb, Cullen removed his armor and stripped to his waist. Many people had questioned the wisdom of housing the leader of the Inquisition forces in a tower that was missing a corner. But the light of the millions of stars overhead was comforting to him as he laid down in his bed.
Despite his exhaustion, he still found it difficult to fall asleep. He tossed and turned in his bed, recited prayers under his breath and even tried singing to himself. An hour later, he rolled out of bed and tried exhausing himself with a series of push ups. It worked, but he didn't manage to make it back into bed. Instead, he fell asleep with his cheek pressed against the cool wood of his bedroom floor.
Cullen jerked awake and found himself encased in darkness. The black air hugged around him like a thick cloud, stinging his eyes and choking away his air. He bolted to his feet, fleeing tendrils of purple light that reached for him, calling out in her voice.
The faces of his friends from Kinloch Hold appeared in the darkness, their skin broken by bruises and lacerations, blood streaming from their eyes. They cried out to him for justice, screamed at him, accused him of abandoning them.
He sprinted, stumbled, fell and fell again, then tumbled down two sets of stairs. When he was lucid again, his chin was bleeding and his entire body hurt.
Suddenly his thoughts were sharp again. Across the courtyard, up the stairs beside the tavern and through the door to the mage tower. There wouldn't be guards, and the glowing blue chests would just be laying there, for anyone who needed a drink-
Cullen pounded his fists into the dirt at the base of the stairs. His hands sprawled on the ground, then clenched again, ripping grass out of the earth. Tears of frustration pricked at his eyes.
His breathing slowed, the air around him calmed, and he found himself kneeling in the Skyhold courtyard. He pushed himself back up to his feet and leaned on the sparring pen fence with a sigh. After taking a moment to breathe, he turned back towards his tower, but the sight of it made him want to retch. Instead, he found refuge in the main hall of Skyhold. It was quiet there, and the sight of the soft moonlight filtered through the stained glass windows was soothing.
He took a seat at one of the long tables in the hall, folding his arms and resting his chin on them. He nodded off briefly, but the wooden bench and table weren't exactly comfortable. He was roused from his fitful slumber by a soft hissing sound.
Cullen grunted, disoriented by his surroundings, and he turned in his seat. The sound seemed to be coming from the hall leading to the war room. He kept one hand resting against the stone wall as he walked, stepping over the small pile of rubble in the hall that no one had seemed to have bothered to remove.
He leaned heavily on the door to the war room and it swung open out and away from him. He stumbled forward and careened inside. The door thudded shut behind him the instant he recognized that Amell was there.
Her back was to him, her arms outstretched to either side. Red mist swirled around her splayed fingers and down to the ground, surrounding the war table. She heard his sharp intake of breath and turned her head, then her body, to look at him. The red mist slunk back up her arms and disappeared, leaving only bright red cuts across her wrists behind.
"It's true-" He said, hands reaching instinctively for the sword that wasn't there. When they came away with nothing but air, he pointed an accusing finger at her. "You swore! You swore to Greigor you had nothing to do with it- with any of it!" His voice rose, cracked, then broke completely. his throat and face felt hot, and his head suddenly felt as if it might burst.
She watched him steadily, which only enraged him more, "You are a liar!" He shouted. "Maleficar! I can't stand to look at you-" His next movement was instinctive, he raised his right hand, palm facing out towards her, and reached within himself for the power to banish the magic from her. He could do it, he had the ability, the Marker was with him, empowering him-
Nothing. He felt nothing. Just and empty hollow space where the song of the real world had once been. Cullen fell to his knees with a dry sob, the heels of his hands thudding against the floor.
The war room was silent except for his dry, shuddering breaths. After what felt like an eternity, they were joined by soft footsteps. Amell reached out a hand and tipped Cullen's chin up. He winced, but didn't pull away.
"You've stopped taking lyrium." She murmured. The sconces on the wall flickered over her face, casting odd shadows on her skin. He nodded miserably.
"No wonder you look terrible." Her thumb moved over his cheek, brushing away a tear. Her tongue flicked out again, and she licked her upper lip. "I haven't had a drop in ten years."
Cullen's expression contorted in confusion. "What- are you talking about?" He asked, voice weak, hoarse from his yelling.
"Blood magic." She replied with a vague, unfocused smile, looking at him as though she was looking past him. "The blood provides the power, instead of lyrium. When I call on it, it sings." Her fingertips ghosted over his cheek.
"You dealt with a demon for this power." He replied sharply, and she tugged her hand back quickly, as if she'd been burned.
"I- did." She said, hesitating slightly. "But it isn't what you think. I am not the mage I was- not that you knew her very well at all."
Her words stung, and it showed on his face, but she continued,
"It had been nearly a year, I had seen the undead raze the streets of Redcliffe, I had seen a pack of wolf-men tear people apart, I had been to the Deep Roads-" Her fingers trembled slightly.
"The Circle and the Chantry don't teach us about every dark thing in the world. How could they? They don't know." Her voice trailed off, and she looked away from him. The moonlight from the window beside her cast a bright silver sliver across her scarred cheek, her throat. Slowly, she turned her head and looked at Cullen again, eyes glassy.
"I suppose- in the end- I was like any other mage. I told myself that I needed the power." Cullen's stomach lurched, but in that moment he felt a spark of understanding.
There was silence between them for a long time. Then Amell's forehead tensed.
"If I had listened to my demon during my Harrowing, I could have been a proper abomination." She said, and the corners of her mouth turned upwards again, cruel and mocking. "Killed by a proper Templar."
That finally stirred Cullen to move again. He pushed himself up onto one knee.
"I am not a Templar any longer." He insisted.
"You say that," She replied dryly, "And yet- you reached for a Templar's sword. Your fingers are itching for it."
"And you are still a mage of the Circle!" He snapped, staggering to his feet, one finger thrusting toward her. "Would a true malificar give a damn what a Templar thought about the actions of a Grey Warden?" He let his hands flop limply to his sides.
"You slew the Archdemon and saved us all. I have no right to judge you."
She reached a hand out to his face again. He stared at her, resigned to end his days in misery. He resented his head for being so clear. One of his pounding headaches would have made it impossible to focus on her. Her thumb traced the scar on his face from his cheek to just above his lip.
"This conversation is pointless." He muttered, and raised a hand, wrapping it firmly around her wrist. He tugged her hand away from his face and held it between them. He glanced down briefly, and saw that in doing so he had smeared blood from one of her cuts onto his palm.
His free hand went to her waist and he tugged her roughly to him. It was madness, but it was a choice. There had been so many things in his life he had not been able to choose, but this could be one. He kissed her hard on the mouth and felt her buckle against him.
There was a dull thud as she quickly shed her heavy cloak, then wrapped her arms around his neck. She yanked him back until her legs connected with the war table. He bent forward to push her onto it, but she pushed a leg against his side and whipped him around, thrusting him backwards.
He let out a grunt as his back connected with the table- thankfully none of the little markers were caught under his bare skin- and then she was on top of him, straddling him, kissing him with her lips parted, her fingers curling in his hair.
Her black hair fell around his face, sticking to the sweat on his brow. He shifted one arm and set a half dozen metal markers clattering to the floor. She raked her nails down his chest and he hissed against her lips, then kissed her again.
His hands fumbled at the belt around her waist, then she sat back, pulling the mail and tunic off, up and over her head. His hands splayed over her bare chest. Her skin was starkly pale and covered in scarred patches. The scars were thin and pink and far too similar in size and evenly space to have been accidental. More evidence of her blood magic, but it didn't matter now.
She was also preoccupied with inspecting his body. Her fingers ghosted up his chest to his neck, and then his shoulder where he had a scar of his own, a slash of scar tissue where a spear had nearly impaled him.
She didn't speak, instead she bowed her head, kissing the scar lightly, then turned her head and kissed the crook of his neck.
To say that he enjoyed sex with her would be inaccurate. The experience was more like being drawn into the open waters of the waking sea by a rip tide. Rough and wild and there were moments when he could scarcely breathe.
Would the young Templar who had begged for the chance to stand guard in the Circle library have suspected that he would have ever done such a thing? That the mage he was besotted with would take him in an icy cold room with blood dripping down her forearms? No, his shameful fantasies had been soft and sweet and loving.
There was no love between them. Passion, yes, triumph, yes, a desperate clinging to something familiar, yes. Her riding him and laughing, crowing to the ceiling, her arms raised over her head, his hands on her hips to steady her. Her clawing his shoulders and chest, him pinning her under his body and thrusting like each one was a gasp of air.
When they separated, they were both covered in sweat, and they lay on their backs on the war table, chest heaving. After their breath slowed, he turned his head to see her grinning at the ceiling.
"Where did you learn that?" He asked, and she squeezed her eyes shut, laughing.
"Learn what?" She asked.
"That. All of that." He said, looking back to the ceiling. She giggled for a moment, then seemed to compose herself.
"Would you believe, the King of Ferelden?"
"Truly?" He asked,
"In another life." The war table creaked as she sat up, and then again as she stepped off of it onto the floor. Cullen sat up as well, and watched her as she collected her clothes and dressed.
There was a mark on her shoulder where he had bitten her, a bright red half-moon shape. It made him blush to look at it, and soon it was covered by her tunic and mail, and then the heavy black cloak.
She turned back to him and reached out a hand, smoothing back his hair. She leaned in and pressed a light kiss to his lips.
"You are beautiful." He murmured, and her expression softened.
"You make a better man than you did a Templar." She replied, and took her hands away from him. She stepped back, then turned, and was gone in a swish of dark robes. He found himself alone, naked, and covered in sweat. He looked down and saw smears of blood on his chest and stomach.
He did his best to rub it away with his fingertips, then climbed down off of the war table. He felt a sharp pain as he stepped onto one of the metal markers with his bare foot, and he let out a string of curses, hopping on one foot until he managed to pull on his trousers.
He winced when he saw the state that the war table was in. Not a single marker remained in place, not even the one that had marked far-off Serault. The map itself was dotted with drops of blood and patches of sweat.
Cullen placed his hands on his hips and hung his head, then crossed the war room to one of the windows on the far wall. He grunted and heaved the enormous glass panel open, immediately darting away when the icy cold wind bit at his chest. He backed towards the door and watched as the wind did its work, whirling around the room and sweeping the map up.
He darted out the door and shut it behind him. He pressed his back to the door and listened as the wind whistled and whipped around the war room. There was a distinct sound of ripping parchment, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
It was not an entirely disastrous act- there were inquisition agents who kept track of the placement of the markers, and they had maps to spare. He could chastise himself later for the inconvenience he had caused. For now, he had to go back to bed.