Chapter Text
Haven is bitterly cold, though the sun has climbed high, and the encampment shines with that particular brilliance belonging only to the months of winter. The whiteness of it bites at him, pushes against his eyes even as he struggles to draw supply routes over Josephine's elegant, thickly inked correspondence routes.
Perhaps he shouldn't have bothered with the charcoal.
He taps his foot against the leg of the wooden table and shrugs deeper into the fur braced round his neck: if he had aught else to do but bark at pink-faced recruits, perhaps he'd be less inclined to morose thoughts. As it stands, he'll chew at this discord between himself and the Herald till his mouth is bloody – twist himself into knots until he can't manage another stifling, early morning meeting trapped in that windowless burrow they've all got the stones to call a war-room.
There is a great deal of pain sewn up together with his bitter thoughts, for if honesty prevails, and he stops for a moment to string all the blunders together, he knows precisely why the Herald looks at him with all the warmth of a creeping winter frost.
The Herald never makes an effort to speak to him, at least not unless driven by necessity. She certainly doesn't touch him, not like she touches the others. To the rest of the War Council she is a font of wild laughter and careless, generously given affection. A grasp of hands, a kiss on the cheek in greeting – something Josephine seeks out with a tenacious efficiency every morning they gather round the little table – and a hug that looks strong enough to crack bones.
She seems to enjoy having conversations by murmuring into ears, head low and her red-bow mouth bent towards eager listeners.
And always smiles: rough, generous smiles wide enough to split her face with a hearty, golden-edged delight.
Her Worship, Lady Trevelyan, ambles around Haven like the great black bear she resembles, all long limbs and broad shoulders knocking into friends and soldiers alike with a bruising, bright simplicity. At all hours anyone can hear her voice echoing through Haven: a rich, drawling lilt that summons allies and friends alike to devotion, to a freely, fiercely given adoration she earns from nearly all who spend time in her esteemed presence.
“Don't worry too much Curly, we're all a little in love with her right now," Varric had laughed, listing ever so slightly on his stool at the bar. “She's fuckin' magnificent, and if you told her so, she'd look at you as if you'd just kissed a nug on the mouth and proclaimed it the fairest Lady at the Gran Tourney. Doesn't care one bit about any of this Herald nonsense. If you asked her what she wanted to do, she'd tell you straight up 'Varric, my friend, I'd like to go home. Back to my castell and my sheep and my people, and spend the rest of my years in peace. No more of this Chosen One horseshit.' That's what she'd say, and she'd mean it.”
Perhaps it was that awkward night spent hunched over a muddy tasting ale with the dwarf who'd seen him at his worst – drowning under the madness of the City of Chains and his own ugly prejudices – that made Cullen take note of just how little he knew of the Herald. Always, he notices just how unflinching, how doggedly reserved she remained in his company. Often it seemed to him as if the longer she spent in his presence the more she began to resemble a finely carven icon, a great stone statue eternally unmoved by the offerings laid at its feet.
He remembers, with a bitter tasting clarity, that absurd conversation with Varric being the first time he'd honestly thought the Herald might genuinely hate him – if not hate, than perhaps a strong dislike. Very strong. He's not proud of it, but he might have sulked into his ale until Varric dragged him off the bench and returned him to his chilly quarters with a gentle, laughing admonishment to 'just talk to the woman, already. Awfully sad thing, Curly, to see a grown man cry into his drink when he thinks no one's looking.'
The Herald gives out her hands and her laughter and her joys to her companions with such an easy, unflinching generosity that it stings something fiercely to have that same enthusiasm absent in his regard.
When she speaks to Leliana it is with an obvious, steadfast respect. An understanding built between two people inured to the weight of secrets, and an awareness of the price, both in blood and mind, to be exacted for their fervent guarding. And Leliana respects her in turn. Though Cullen is willing to admit that part of the rapport between the two women is most likely because the Herald enjoys the ravens, and Leliana's pet nugs, as much as Leliana does.
With Josephine there is a bubbling affection, and always the Herald's odd, spark-to-tinder laughter. Gentle kisses on soft looking hands or upturned palms in place of formal greetings, and hours whittled away in the Antivan noblewoman's office with only the tinkling of fine china and murmurs of gentle conversation to speak of what goes on behind that closed door. He's come to hate the sight of Josephine's closed door. Hates it as if the door itself were a personal insult to him.
In the presence of her companions the Herald is much the same, save for Dorian. Dorian, it seems, has a much greater portion of the Herald's time, affection and trust than any other soul in Haven. Perhaps because they are both mages, or both the first-born scions of old Houses, or simply because Dorian Pavus is a handsome man who doesn't have to cart around ten years of utterly ruinous choices, and the knowledge that a goodly number of people would merrily line up to watch him hang for the crimes he committed while under the Order's banners, all those years ago in the Circles.
In the company of all her chosen companions and advisors, the Herald is a boisterous, high-spirited woman who takes especial pleasure in the closeness of her relationships.
He is the only exception.
In his presence she wears a stifling, iron-boned caution. Even though he is amassing in her name an army fit to sweep away half the mighty empires of Thedas should she but ask it of him, she holds him distant. Wears no smile in his company. Always it is a cold, implacable reservation that cuts up her words to him into little, carefully divided pieces – as if coming any closer, or speaking aught but the barest of necessities will result in sudden violence.
This knowledge eats at him with a sharpness he does not believe he will have the courage to speak aloud. At least, that is what he believes of himself in this moment.
The next is another matter entirely.
In an hour or so he'll think to blame the cold, or blame the dragging boredom that has left him muddled and sore. Perhaps, if he's feeling particularly hurtful towards himself, he'll blame the lyrium, or lack thereof, for giving him the courage he needs to call out to her as she saunters by, her presence heard more by the jingle of her fine sword making merry, familiar music at her hip than the cries of greeting ringing out in the training yard.
“Herald!”
Andraste preserve him.
Perhaps it is the thick, blindingly white fleece wrapped round her powerful shoulders working in tandem with the heavy, black-banner braids of her hair, but she always seems to hold herself as still and tall as a stone tower. The force of her presence, the searing crackled of her magic, always pushes a sharp stone down his throat.
He'll not think of those supple leather boots that climb up her legs well past her knees. Never mind how the arrow of flesh exposed by the open collar of her jerkin only serves to frame the sweep of her throat and neck; the wind has chapped her honey brown skin red, and he cannot quite drag his eyes away speedily enough to even make a show of courtly decorum.
With her crooked smile firmly in place it only serves to heighten her rough, rakish charm, and he finds it is difficult to order his thoughts well enough to pick up their threads without stuttering like some awkward little squire in oversized armour.
She must know what that sharp-toothed leer does to him, to others, to anyone who spends not ten minutes in her company. Surely, she must be at least somewhat aware?
“Commander?” She drawls, swinging her frame round to move towards the man; Maker give her the strength to be gentle-tongued. The Templar has a wild look about him, as if he's been gripping a fistful of frayed rope for just long enough to have reached desperation. She may not care to learn whatever ails him, for it is not her business, but the thought of the man suffering some quiet malady is less welcome that it should be. Given the circumstances. Whatever he is, whatever he thinks of her, the man is a capable soldier, and an excellent tactician; his loss would serve no-one.
“You look like a man harassed. Have the apprentices been wandering through the training yard? I made it very clear to the Grand Enchanter that you would not appreciate mages,” she pauses, something bitter staining her tongue, “running amok unsupervised.” Her voice rolls in like a great wave, even through the clamour of soldiers and the low, rhythmic music of the blacksmiths at their work. “I know how you feel about such things.”
“No,” Cullen counters, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh, “I do not think you do, Herald.”
“Oh?” She laughs, and the sound is as cutting as the cold edge of a knife.
“You risked your life to close the Breach.” And as if unbidden, his arm sweeps out, gestures to the sky above their heads and the ugly knot laid against sprawling blue. “As did the mages you recruited. I know I have not given you reason to believe that I do not distrust mages, our early conversations will attest to that, but,” a pause invades, stops his tongue, “I am not here to – I am not here to be what I was in Kirkwall. And nor will any other former Templar under my command. The little ones are welcome to go where they please, and I trust that with the guidance of yourself and the Grand Enchanter, the mages under the Inquisition's care are safe and well looked after. I wish, I would prefer. Can we not be civil, at least?” Cullen asks, careful to weed out his hurt at the roots, or at least scrape it clean out of his voice with an unfelt efficiency.
Must you hide that fine smile away every time you speak to me? He wonders sourly, swallowing down his disappointment like a bitter tonic.
You are a brave man, Cullen, when the moment calls for it, do try not to foul this up. Strangely enough, the sharpest voice in his head always sounds ever so slightly like his sister. He should endeavour to listen to her.
“I am aware you care little for my company, but I had hoped we could at least attempt something approaching friendship.”
The Herald's noise of protest snaps him out of his tangled thoughts, and he dares a glance in her direction. If he could be anything other than half terrified she'll throw him out of Haven's sprawling camp for his boldness, he would laugh: the Herald's face is drawn, wan even under the bright noonday sun, and her confusion is so deep she looks as if he's just asked her to put a knife to a dear friend's throat. As if he's just put a knife to her throat.
“I. Well, Commander, I.” She breathes, bewilderment thick on her tongue. “I had not thought.” A grimace sharp enough to look like a wound mars her handsome face, and her hand drops from the gilt pommel of her sword as if burnt. “It would appear I owe you an apology.”
“What?” Cullen barks, his singular exclamation ringing out in the quiet training grounds. “No. Wait, what? I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“You are a Templar.”
Cullen flinches, not quite fast enough to smother his sudden rush of hurt at being called by that title. Again. Of course. How could he think a woman such as the Herald might see him as anything other than a man pretending to be something more than what fifteen years of oaths have made him?
She is a mage, after all.
Worse.
An apostate.
A hedge-mage.
“Ah,” the Herald demurs, regret washing out the steel in her grey eyes. “That was most unkind of me. Forgive me, Commander, it would appear I have been rather awful towards you. Tis not in my nature to be so rough with those who would be friends.”
“I am well aware of that, Herald. Your affectionate nature is now quite legendary amongst your companions.” Immediately he regrets his words, wishes he could snatch them back; somehow dispel the creeping flush that is working its way up his neck with every passing moment.
“Commander,” she continues, squaring her shoulders, “please allow me to apologize. I truly believed keeping my distance from your company was in your best interests.”
“Maker's Breath, why in the Void would you think that, my lady?” He is, in absolute honesty, utterly bewildered by her words.
“I am a mage.” She spreads her hands, long, gloved fingers grasping at the air. “Not even one of those nicely trained mages who actually gives a copper about being temperate in the company of non-magic wielders.”
There is a an ugly breed of sorrow in her voice the likes of which he's never heard before, and its sourness sends a shiver tearing down his spine.
“I am aware that I frighten people, that my magic frightens many in and around Haven. I accept that. I thought,” she sighs, a sharp whistle passing through wolfish teeth, and begins to toss an apple between her hands in quick, nervous motions, “I was told...”
Cullen waits, a prickling barb of fear stuck roughly between his ribs.
Her eyes firmly on the wide bowl of the sky, the Herald speaks in a clipped, cautious tone: “Seeker Cassandra informed me that you have a difficult history with mages.”
Cullen finds his right hand has crept up to rub the back of neck; there is a sharp, burning weight in the pit of his stomach, and for a moment he thinks he might vomit on the Herald's fine boots.
“I may loathe the Circles with all my heart,” she hisses, fire and outrage high on her tongue, “but I am no naive, highborn Lady who has been kept away from the cruelties of this world. Whatever pain lives in your past, that is yours to keep as you will. I will not pry. You have a right observe your own comfort first, Commander. There's no ill will in that.”
Oddly, dizzyingly, he finds there is space in the tightness of his chest to breathe. One little breath after another. Her eyes are very quiet now, their hard light turned to an abiding, gentle patience.
“Hedge mages, apostates, whatever the Chantry deigns to call us, are not held in high regard by Templars. I thought it was a kindness, not forcing you to endure the noisy company of a woman who makes a mockery of the vows you hold. Once held.” She adds lamely, shrugging those fine, broad shoulders of hers in some poorly shaped apology. “And I assumed my presence would upset you, somehow. Also, there were many unpleasant words and accusations between us when I chose to go to Redcliffe.”
Cullen remembers those words quite well:
I would not go to the Templars unless Andraste herself descended from on high and commanded me to do so, on pain of death. I will not put my trust in an Order that has presided over the slaughter of no less than three Circles in the past twenty years! I will not put myself, or any mage who has sought the protection of the Inquisition, within their reach, ever again.
Lady Trevelyan, see reason!
Reason? What reason is there amongst men and women who put their swords to children's throats, and then burn their own prison to the ground to cover over the shame? As if the Maker would not know what sins were committed in His name if He could not have bodies for the accounting.
What? Templars do not kill children, Herald.
The Circle in Ostwick was annulled. The Knight-Commander invoked the Rite. I had come down from Montjuïc in the north, only in Ostwick proper by chance. Saw the smoke from the courtyard tower of my family's city apartments. I was much too late to save anyone, but six apprentices had managed to smuggle the remaining little ones into the dining hall, and barricade themselves in. I think they hoped the smoke would take them before the Templars did. Sixteen mages survived. Ten children with no more than eleven summers between them, and those very desperate junior apprentices. The oldest had no more than nineteen summers to his name. Not a handful of hours before, Ostwick was home to one hundred and thirty six mages.
So that is why your family sent you to the Conclave. To get you away from the remains of the Order in Ostwick. How exceedingly dangerous.
I did not have time to think better of my actions, Leliana. I stumbled out of that tower carrying as many of the smaller children as I could. Some of the apprentices were so exhausted, so wounded, I had to go back for them as well. By that time, some of the citizens had gathered up enough courage to help, but in the end I had to make paths for them through the fire, and so they learned what I was. What I am.
So no, Commander, I will not go to the Templars for aid.
No true templar would ever commit such vile acts! To put innocents to the slaughter is a breach of everything the Order stands for. Do not condemn my brothers and sisters because of the actions of a few. Do not make this choice out of anger. Out of a desire for revenge. That is beneath you, Herald.
And what would you know of me, to speak so? I should have known better than to air the crimes committed against my kind in the presence of a Templar.
I am not a Templar. No soldier under the Inquisition's banner is a Templar.
So you say. But if it speaks like a Templar, if it moves like a Templar, if it thinks like a Templar – I find, more often than not, that it is a Templar.
And what of the horrors mages visit on Templars, Herald? Are we to dismiss those actions too?
What happens to a dog when its master beats it, Commander?
I fail to see what this has to do with the matter at hand, Lady Trevelyan.
The dog learns to be afraid. The dog does not learn kindness. It never receives it, so why would it be looked for in return? So when the dog will not be broken any further, it makes a choice, and bites back.
Then you drive your sword through the beast, because it could not have been a very good dog, or it would not have bit the hand that fed it, sheltered it, gave it a place to rest. You may say 'but the dog had a choice, it chose poorly, that is all', but I say this: only the hand had a choice. The dog's choice, well, that was only an illusion.
“Bugger.” She grouses, tugging at the odd braids hanging down the side of her face; the gold twine she uses to keep her hair tied up flashes in the sunlight like bright coins against a black sea. “I've been an ass. Hardly matters that it's been unintentional.”
Cullen cannot help but wonder what all that fine, thick hair would be like unbound. Would it be cold and soft as silk? Or warm and thick, with the scent of woodsmoke laced through?
Maker's Blood, but these aren't the sort of thoughts he should entertain towards a highborn lady, most especially one who is also a mage. A mage who has just shown him more understanding than most who have called themselves his friends. To receive such an apology, and so quickly, wholly and unreservedly – well, he can hardly believe it. He had not asked for one, had not been searching one out. Why should a woman who has spent her whole life hiding who she is, apologize to a man who has done enough wrong to have others speak his name like a curse? A man whose Order is the root and river of her hiding away.
How does he tell her so, and yet shield himself against the pity that will sweep through her face? If he cannot have her affection, he will not take that in its place.
An awkward silence descends like a clap of thunder; Cullen feels set adrift in a sudden storm, furiously tearing through the few recollections of his time spent in her presence that might have led the Inquisitor to believe such nonsense about him. Despite their harsh words on the eve of her choice for Redcliffe over Therinfal Redoubt, he had thought he'd managed to cut out the old, bone deep habits of a life shaped by the Order and its strictures with something resembling savage efficiency.
He searches, and is rewarded, or perhaps rewarded is the wrong word entirely, with his blunder: the memory of that first genuine meeting round the war-table. Cassandra had dragged the Herald in with rope burns still fresh upon her wrists, and he'd clapped a hand over the sword at his side the moment her magic had washed over his skin. He might even have stepped away, calculating the distance he'd need to put between them if she chose to attack.
One can call themselves a dragon, or a halla, or the Empress of Orlais, but actions are a louder song than words.
Cullen, you ignorant fool, he thinks.
“Commander, might I ask – what gave me away?”
“You never touch me.” The words fly out of his mouth before he can snap his teeth over their traitorous, rather naked honesty.
The Herald does an admirable impression of a woman choking on her own tongue.
Cullen wishes desperately, prays like a man prostrate before the stones of the Maker's altar, for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.
“I, I mean simply that you are so f-friendly with the other members of your council. I thought per-perhaps I had done something to earn your ire. I have,” he pauses, making a great effort to pluck the thorns from his mouth, “I have worked hard to be better than the man I used to be. Mages are not my enemy. Perhaps I have not been vocal enough in that regard, and for that mistake I apologize. Above all else, please understand that I do not see you thusly.”
At this, a smile blooms on the Herald's face. “Templar no more, Commander?”
“No. Never again.” His cheeks are aflame, and that damnable stutter has returned, but at least she is not looking at him as if he has sprouted two heads and begun to shout tired old lines about mages and their tendency to bring chaos and destruction with the snap of their fingers.
Progress, or something that might called be its distant cousin.
Her laughter rings out, sudden and clean as a summer's rain: a rich, good as black earth sound that settles under his skin with disturbing ease. Tucking her half eaten apple into a pocket, the Herald leans close, closer than she's ever been wont to do before.
Cullen can almost taste the apple on her breath.
“Commander, are you entirely sure you wish for me to touch you? That is a dangerous thing to ask of me. Who knows what liberties I shall take with you, now that you've given me leave to do so.”
Cullen sucks in a great breath, his lungs seizing round the heat seeping out of her body; he's never noticed just how much taller she is when stood beside him. The top of his head only just brushes beneath her chin. She smells of oranges and campfire smoke. Leather and salt.
Andraste preserve me, he pleads; his thoughts have fallen to pieces, and for the first time in many long months he cannot manage the will to crush them back together.
“Have you given me leave to do so?”
“Yes.” The affirmation falls off the tip of his tongue with a hush that speaks of need. Worse still, he knows he should be ashamed, would have been ashamed aught but a handful of years ago. But that man is dead and buried, and he'll no more be permitted to drag his poison through Cullen's life as if it were a cudgel meant to bludgeon flat any happiness that might be scraped together.
When he looks up at the Inquisitor, Cullen watches something that might be hunger pass swiftly over her proud, knife-sharp face. But whatever it is, it is gone with such speed it leaves him reeling, quietly at a loss. Leaves him trembling and unsure, and feeling as if knocked about the head by a great, bloody-minded bear.
Perhaps it has never been hate. Perhaps it is something else entirely.
He's not sure which thought is more terrifying.
Perhaps he's only being a fool, searching for the impossible in a woman who will no doubt give such passion to someone far more deserving. Someone who is far less a wreck of a man than he is.
The bell that signals noonday meal rings out, and suddenly her hand is on his elbow; her fingers are as strong as iron even through the thick leather between the joints of his armour. Her quiet smile is a gentle bulwark against his refusal.
“Come then, Commander, if it pleases you to do so. I find a shared meal is often a good way to start. Or should I say, start again?”
He's not sure who laughs first, but the sound is intolerably bright. Somewhere in the mess of his chest, something red and soft in him hurts, and he is glad for the sharpness.
Glad for this, whatever it might be.