 
###  My Hope

by

### Sabrina Zbasnik

Sequel to

### My Warden

and

### My Templar

##### _  
_

##### _Dragon Age Fanfic_

_  
_

_Cullen thought he lost Lana Amell when she sacrificed herself to remain in the fade, but now the king of Ferelden has her phylactery and insists she's alive somewhere on the other side of thedas. Can he trust this man he barely knows or can stand as they travel through treacherous waters and lands while searching to find the woman he loves? All he has to cling to is his faith and hope.  _           _  
_

# **Contents**

Chapter One - Prologue

Chapter Two - Memorial

Chapter Three - Siren's Echo

Chapter Four - Proposal

Chapter Five - The Fade

Chapter Six - Blindspot

Chapter Seven - Memory-Branding

Chapter Eight - Bathing

Chapter Nine - Faithful

Chapter Ten - Peeling

Chapter Eleven - Memory - Stirring the Pot

Chapter Twelve - Dreams

Chapter Thirteen - Tevinter

Chapter Fourteen - The Wolf

Chapter Fifteen - What's In A Name?

Chapter Sixteen - Rivers & Bathtubs

Chapter Seventeen - Lyrium

Chapter Eighteen - Rain

Chapter Nineteen - Belief

Chapter Twenty - Memory - Stars

Chapter Twenty-One - Scars Beyond Counting

Chapter Twenty-Two - Acceptable

Chapter Twenty-Three - Griffins

Chapter Twenty-Four - Memory - Gold Ring

Chapter Twenty-Five - Tunnels

Chapter Twenty-Six - Bliss

Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Song

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Heartbreak

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Wake Up

Chapter Thirty - Freedom

Chapter Thirty-One - Stayed Safe

Chapter Thirty-Two - Bloom

Chapter Thirty-Three - My Love

Chapter Thirty-Four - Tradition

Chapter Thirty-Five - Epilogue

Chapter Thirty-Six - Extra Part One

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Extra Part Two

Chapter Thirty-Eight - Extra Part Three

Prologue

_9:36 Denerim_

Lanny prodded a spoon into the grey mass attempting to ooze off the table and consume them all. Then, against all common sense or fear of it fighting back, she dug in and brought the traitorous gelatinous mash of dinner to her lips.

"You're balmy, you know that," Alistair said shaking his head as he grabbed the second spoon. Stabbing deep into the middle of the gurgling lump to make sure it stayed dead, he inched off a small section. It tasted like someone dumped sewer water onto the tavern floor then tried to sop it up with rancid flour. "Hm, it's getting better," he remarked returning for seconds.

She smiled brightly but jabbed her own spoon upright into the shared "chef's surprise" her delicate Arlessa sensibilities unable to handle that much food poisoning. In reaching for her clay mug of the second cheapest wine in Denerim, Lanny yanked back her nondescript sleeve.

"Pst," Alistair nodded to her, "you've got some, uh, bandit juice still."

"Oh?" she rolled her eyes and then rolled her sleeve up to her elbow to reveal her arms covered in their day's work. Sliding closer to the table, she dropped her arm down and called to her dog. He woke from his dreams at her feet, and a slobbery tongue lapped up the gore across her skin. Alistair forgot about that vampiric quirk from the days of the blight, and he'd been happier in his ignorance. She must have caught his queasy stare because she offered, "He'd be willing to clean you off too."

"That's all right, I'm good."

The dog finished and flopped back down on the floor. White coated his muzzle like snow across the eaves, but he held up like a demon while they worked through the back alleys. Rolling down her sleeve, Lanny smiled, "You probably have fancy servants devoted to drawing the bath, one for holding the soap, and a last just to wash the king."

"Ha, I mention I plan on stripping off any layer of clothing and the entire palace scatters screaming to warn everyone. Not a soul for miles, which means I'm free to slide down the banisters without anyone yelling at me to stop."

"Buck naked, of course," she said lifting her glass as if in a toast.

"Is there any other way?" Alistair grinned. He was trying to cling to the last hours they had together before all that duty stuff came back. It was an odd tradition, one Eamon threw apoplectic and apocalyptic fits about, but the old Arl couldn't stop it. It was too ingrained now. The 'on a holiday' king of Ferelden lifted his own glass. "To Duncan," he said.

Lanny knocked her mug into his, "And the others lost at Ostagar." They both took a long swig of the swill, Lanny's entire face scrunching up in pain. It'd been too long since she'd last been back in town. She forgot how stomach churning the rot could get here, which was also its charm.

"I almost didn't think you'd make it," Alistair said. He cut off a section of their shared dinner and palmed it. Sliding his hand under the table, he tried to pass it off to the dog.

"It's tradition, can't mess with that." She inspected her nails and found more blood stuck under them. A few of the people whispered rumors of how once a year the king of Ferelden slipped into the streets to walk among them. Then most laughed it off because that idea was idiotic as sin. Why would a king go incognito just to have a day to himself? He didn't really walk among them anyway, he more stabbed those that were preying upon the innocent with a disguised mage at his side. Out of her grey warden armor, Lanny looked like any random woman who could command ice and fire with her will and look gorgeous while doing it. They came together each year - the three survivors of Ostagar - to try and memorialize it, or something. It didn't begin as a cleaning the streets to honor their fallen brethren. In fact, the first year Eamon and Isolde organized some fancy fete. Alistair had been shocked the newest Arlessa showed, her shoulder's knotted and her snarl in place while the judgmental gentry paced around her. Lanny looked about to snap off her own lead and nip people for getting too close. So, while the rest of the nobility got drunk reminiscing about a battle none of them saw, Lanny, Alistair, and her mabari slipped into the streets. At first it was just to get some air, then they ran into a surprisingly organized gang of lyrium smugglers. After that it was stab stab, explode, bite, ice and somehow became tradition.

"I'm glad you came. You've been damn near impossible to reach lately. Always, 'Sorry Alistair, off saving the world' this, and 'Can't right now, have to completely rearrange time. Try again later, assuming there is a later' that."

She snickered at his summation of her life, but the wear returned piece by piece. He did his part to ignore it and try to distract her. Not that she wasn't still as knock dead gorgeous as the first time he'd met her (and just as capable of knocking people dead). But the position she was placed in, the power she was given over others fit on her about as it did him. And that was his doing.

"Life keeps me busy," she responded.

"Oh come on, I'm a member of the same taint club. You can tell me all your dirty, grey warden secrets," he inched closer across the table, his head dropping low.

"You're impossible," she laughed, softly pushing against his sleeveless arm. It hadn't begun the day that way, but bandits never obeyed the laws of couture.

"You already knew that," Alistair smiled back. In this filthy inn, with every muscle in his body exhausted beyond belief and the diseased liver of a bronto gurgling in his stomach he felt at ease. Perhaps it was the return to his old life, if only in brief, or maybe it was getting to share only a sliver of it with her again.

Her sweet and ornery eyes slipped away from him towards the door. They'd claimed the furtherest back table in the hopes no one would bother them, which seemed to be working as no one wanted near someone that ate the chef's special. "Oh dear," Lanny sighed, her fingers running the rim of her glass, "Looks like your cavalcade's arrived." As she threw back the last of her drink, Alistair turned in his seat to catch five palace guards peering through the dark corners of the nearly desolate inn in the hopes to try and find him. Well, good luck, guys. "It's been fun, but I suppose..."

He grabbed onto her hand, getting an arched eyebrow, but she only carefully set her glass down. Whispering, Alistair jerked his head towards the door, "Come on, we can sneak out the back."

"Are you serious? You can't be serious. Those are your men and women. Don't they work for you?" she whispered back even as she inched out of her seat along with him.

"Kinda, sort of in a way that's complicated and..."

"Eamon ordered them to find you," she translated his lack of an excuse.

"Yes, so let's go." He held her hand tight as they both crouched low and moved towards the kitchen door. The barkeep had to see them both but he'd either grown jaded by the claptrap that'd frequent a sticky inn so sight of the king and hero sneaking past barely registered, or this was a common tuesday for him.

"Wait, what about...? Dog," she turned around to her still slumbering pooch. He perked up from his not quite name. "Return to the room," she ordered. Before Lanny could watch to see if he'd obey, Alistair yanked her into the kitchen. He let go of her hand and, in a surprising burst of glee, broke into a run so he could slide across the table in the middle of the room. Lanny chuckled from the smear of flour in his wake and now across his backside, but she followed suit, her own sapphire robes turned nearly chalk white.

"Quick! Out the door!" Alistair shouted as if it was the hounds sent after him instead of a handful of guards who would only sigh at their strange king and ask if he could head home. The top half of the door was left open for airflow in the stifled kitchen, but the bottom remained latched shut. Rather than risk trying to kick it open, Alistair leapt up and, ignoring any possible threat to those crown jewels, he cleared the doorframe. It was the down part he hadn't corrected for, his shoes skidding across an icy patch of ground outside. Waving his arms for balance, somehow the king of Ferelden kept from smashing headfirst into the ice, but he had to hop in the least dignified manner possible.

Spinning around, he watched Lanny standing there with her arms crossed. "Is the show over?"

"I'd like to see you do better," he scoffed.

Whipping her hand out of her sleeve, Lana extended her fingers as if she intended to cast a complicated spell. Then she bent over, unhooked the lock on the door and pushed it open. "Ta da."

"Mine was more dramatic," Alistair grinned.

"Hey! Who's in the kitchen?" a gruff voice echoed from the bar.

"Run!" Lanny snatched up his hand now, fully invested in the game. Despite being nearly thirty, and technically owning the place, the pair of them ran through the streets of Ferelden as if they were a couple kids breaking curfew. A few of the late night denizens paused in their amble, casting a second look back and probably wondering if that really was the king being dragged by a small, dark-skinned mage, or if they'd had too much to drink or not enough.

"Wait," Alistair yanked back on her hand. They'd skirted close to the alienage in their running, the houses shrinking in size and piling on top of each other. The haphazard building provided perfect hiding above. "Take the ladder up."

"Are you certain?" Lanny asked, even as she began the climb. "You better not be looking up my robes."

"What do you take me for, some drooling lecher? Don't answer that." Alistair joked as he waited below until she was almost at the roof, then he followed suit. Ferelden at the best of times stank of dead fish, sewage, and oddly enough, lilacs year round. He couldn't figure out the lilac, though the other two's origins were evident enough. Thanks to the winter winds blowing in hard off the mountains, most of the fish and sewage were frozen in place limiting their smells radius. Without the rush of battle, or the fear of his own guards catching him, warmth drained from his fingers clinging to the frozen wood as he climbed higher into the air.

As he stepped onto the roof, he spotted Lanny circling against the rare flat surface in Denerim. She had a hand on her hip while she stared down at the people still moving through the city despite the night or cold. "They never look like ants, people always say that, but I don't see it. To me I see people."

"Hm," Alistair hopped off the ladder and a full blast of cold air whipped through the tight buildings. His teeth knocking, he chattered, "I don't get close enough to the edge to see, myself." Despite the dipping night, Lanny seemed unaffected, her own disguise a lighter robe atop little more than fancy pajamas. "How are you not cold?"

"I'm a mage, remember?" she smiled while stepping closer to him. In her eyes he spotted the flicker of flames dancing against those even warmer browns. "Here," slipping her fingers out of her sleeves, she touched against his bare arm. _Maker!_ Her touch was hotter than the burning sun of summer. The warmth of her finger enveloped around his body and he felt a sudden urge to press all of her skin against his. Shaking it off the second it rose in his mind, Lanny's fingers vanished away leaving in their wake her old warming spell.

"Forgot about that," Alistair said.

"That I'm a mage? Really? You would have been a terrible templar," she smirked. Without any fanfare, Lanny plopped onto the roof, her legs folded up under her.

"Damn straight," he said while joining her. "Terrible templar, terrible king. So-so warden, I suppose."

"You're not such a terrible king," she sighed, her head tipped back to gaze upon the stars. Even with the drooping laundry lines of Denerim in the way, they could still see a beautiful cross section of the Maker's bounty glittering across the sky. "You haven't had anyone try to overthrow you yet. I'd say that's a good sign."

"Ignoring the fact said king just ran away from his own guards for no good reason," he sighed, his own neck craning back so he could try to trace the stars. "Hey look, Satinalis."

"That's not Satinalis," Lana said.

"Sure it is, with the three stars connecting like a wonky belt..."

"That's Fenrir. Actually, that's half of Fenrir. You have to--"

"No, I'm certain it's Satinalis. Read it in a book once," Alistair continued, his finger trying to trace the constellation in the sky.

Lana snorted, "Well, either the book was wrong or you are in your remembering because you can't even see Satinalis at this time of night during the early winter months. It rises in...what?"

He didn't wipe off the giant grin across his face, "You being all...you know, _you_ about stuff. Having to get it right and thinking everyone else is as clever."

"I don't, I mean, I try to...It's still not Satinalis."

Lanny lapsed into her own brooding silence, a familiar one he came to know over the years. She used to fill it with chatter, an almost terrified prattle of facts when they first met. Though, to be fair, he did the same. Once she grew used to him and got over that whole awkward first stage, hers fell away. Alistair had no excuse beyond needing to escape the void, usually with his foot planted firmly in his mouth.

"How are things in the ol' Arling? Bann...what's-her-name still giving you trouble? I could send a few more tax collectors her way to mess things up."

"Don't be daft," Lanny shook her head. "She'd have them shot on sight. No, things have quieted down for once. There's always darkspawn, of course."

"Of course." The one remaining thing they shared was the taint in their blood. They never talked about it beyond an occasional nod to the never ending hunger or the one night when seriousness wiped away their lighthearted mood and they made a pact together. "So..." Alistair stirred up the frost coating the roof with his finger while also stirring up shit, "how are things between you and that mage guy? What was his name? Rufus? Ruffian? Ruffles?"

"You know his name isn't Ruffles," Lana said, her voice flatter than the roof's edge. Alistair shrugged, well aware of the name but not about to give an inch. Lana returned to gazing at the stars, "Over before they even began, I'm afraid."

"What? Why? He sounded so...is there a nice way to say interesting when you really mean boring?"

"Just because you didn't grasp his theories on the circumstantial output of fade energy when redirected through a crystal focus doesn't mean he was boring."

"He wouldn't have known a joke if it crawled up his backside and danced the remigold," the king of Ferelden moped.

"I regret ever introducing you two," she sighed, but her eyes glittered for a moment as she met his. There didn't seem to be too much love lost for the man.

"So you wised up and broke things off?"

"No, he discovered a new muse who wasn't as 'intimidating' and I found myself grateful for that bolt dodged."

"The man was boring and an idiot, then. Have to be to break things off with you," Alistair joked with a wry grin stretching his cheeks. Lanny paused, her eyes blinking. She stretched up, about to call him on it, but instead she shook her head and slipped back down. It wasn't worth it.

"Now I'm regretting even telling you of his existence," she chose instead, but there was no malice in her words, only a world weary exhaustion. "What about you? How is your wife?"

Alistair scrunched up his face at the mention of his own baggage. No, that was a mean way to think of her. She was more like a millstone Eamon knotted around his neck. If he even thought of slipping away from her, the noose would tighten more dragging him into the mud. "Alive, I assume."

"Come now, I had the opportunity to meet her a few times. She seemed very nice."

"That's just it, that's all there is. Nice in the morning, nice when stepping in dog shit, even nice after catching me ankle deep in the throne's seat with barking dogs all around. It's not normal. I keep waiting for her to crack and scream murder through the halls, but no matter what I do she blinks those squiggy green eyes and smiles like a Tranquil. One day I'm gonna yank on a candle sconce and discover her secret chamber where she bathes in virgin blood or something."

Lanny's warm hand landed upon his and she sighed, shaking her head. So maybe the queen didn't go in for ritual sacrifice, probably didn't, that would make her interesting. "She was your best option, after all."

"Right, best..." he twisted away. It took years for them to reach this point without any pain ringing through their words. Even still, he couldn't fully hide away his regret. It was a dumb choice then, and it was still one now even if there was no other option. "No little princes or princess' yet, though."

"I...I'm sorry."

"The waving I can handle, no problem. Parading up and down the streets shaking babies and kissing hands. I've even figured out which fork to use when eating," he paused from Lanny's wrinkled nose about his still abject failures in dining, "but I can't do that whole siring thing. Well, not again." Lanny hadn't told him much about her run-in with Morrigan beyond it being complicated and that she had a son. He had a son, except he didn't. It was doubtful Morrigan would even tell the kid he had a father - maybe she'd convince him he was born of a dragon. Though, given the grandmother that might be true. Another bastard brought into the world with a royal father doing his damnedest to ignore it all. It bit into Alistair's soul if he stopped to think about how he was following in Marric's footsteps, so he did his best to never try.

"Right now, Eamon and the queen are looking for an acceptable substitute. It's a tiny bit strange to walk in on the look alike tryouts and have copies of your face staring guiltily up at you. Ferelden has more blondes than seems normal. Maybe it's something in the water." He banged his toes against the ground savoring the twang as the pain ratcheted up his leg. It seemed like something he deserved.

"Ali," her soft voice broke through his funk and pulled him towards her, "you're worth more than...your uh--"

"Baby batter?"

"Maker's breath, you're terrible," she snickered shaking her head and trying to bury a laugh.

Stretching his back out across the cold roof, Alistair notched his hands behind his head and gazed up at the stars. "Too bad there's not another bastard of Marric's out there to step up to the plate and get that job done. I mean, maybe there is, given my own ignominious creation. That'd solve a lot of this mess."

"Or," Lana joined him in laying back upon the roof, her body so close her elbow almost knocked into his chest. "Perhaps your father cared for your mother, more than anyone ever realized. It can happen."

He twisted up on his side to look over at her. The edge of her eyes flitted over but she remained facing the stars. "Lanny. Sweet, kind Lanny. Always hoping to find the best in people."

"You make me sound like a naive school girl. I can be as cynical as the next person."

"Oh, sure, right. _Hello mister elf assassin that just tried to kill us. I'm going to give you another chance to aid us and hope you don't try and kill us again_."

"It worked, didn't it? Zevran was vital during the blight," she stuck up for the elf.

" _Hello mister drunk dwarf that vomited on my shoes and whose wife nearly killed us. I'm going to let you join us and hope you don't piss all over the food._ "

"Oghren's not so... all right, that one's still biting me in the ass."

" _Hello giant rock statue that keeps calling me it and loves to talk about skull crushing, will you be my friend?_ "

"Fine, fine," she sat up on her elbows glowering at the rooftops across from them, "so I'm a complete pushover. You've called me out."

"What? No, not a pushover. I've watched you push over people, right off cliffs. Took everything in me to not wet myself," Alistair sat up to join her, but she glared down off the edge upon those ant-people who'd scattered back to their mounds. From the grit in her teeth he realized he struck a nerve he didn't know was there. "You're an optimist, you put your faith in people and then they've got faith invested back in you like some kind of faith scheme which now sounds like I'm describing the chantry. Lanny, I, you're something else."

She lifted up her bloodied hands and gazed through them. The only woman to have ended a blight and survived, the first mage Arlessa in ages counting. Twisting back to him, an ornery grin rose, "No kidding."

"Ha, I'm not the only one who knows it. You wouldn't believe how many damn marriage proposals I get."

"You'd think the gentry would already know you're married."

Alistair scrunched his nose up and shook his head from her taunt. "It's too cold for me to keep up with your wit."

"Maybe you should burn those proposals for warmth then."

"What makes you think I don't? Keeps the palace nice and toasty year round." He wasn't kidding either. After his own marriage status was solved, hundreds of men and some women hoping to get in on an open spot to rise to the status of Arl flooded his desk. They were all superfluous claptrap from little more than charlatans who weren't fit to be in the same room as the Hero of Ferelden much less marry her. All save one, but that came with its own one thousand problems and he'd never drawn up the courage to tell her.

"Why do they bother me?" she asked aloud, her voice whisper soft.

"Because they think 'Ooh, I'm gonna get me some of that tasty tasty power everyone keeps going on about.'" Alistair sagged, aware of what she really meant. "We want to live up to what they want but we can't, no matter how hard we try."

"I am meant to be a grey warden," she said, but there was less conviction as of late, her own eyes dancing around the edges.

"So was I, but now my ass is polishing thrones and I've got to fit a crown on my fat head," he glanced around the rooftops of his city in his country. Maker, what kind of sick joke was He playing at to give him an entire country? Alistair could barely be trusted with a spoon. "It's nice having you here, seeing you again and all."

"I come to Denerim often enough," Lana shook her head. "In fact, I was here less than a fortnight ago."

"No, that was Solona Amell, Warden Commander and terrifying scary lady who'll bite your head off if she doesn't get her way. Or maybe it was the Arlessa who's the same but slightly nicer about it. I forget what business you were on." She snickered from his summation but didn't argue. Alistair nudged his shoulder into hers. "I missed Lanny, it seems like she shows up less and less."

"I miss being her as well, and having Ali around," Lana smiled _that_ smile, the twist of her lips that could knot his own innards into pretty little bows. When she first beamed it upon him he knew he was a goner. Six years and nothing had changed. "King Alistair is a bit too formal at times."

"Me? Formal? The man who dropped pudding onto the Antivan diplomat's head?" Alistair raised his voice and pointed at his chest in shock.

"All right, not formal formal, but you know what I am driving upon. You...we're not us, we're the other us."

"I hate other me," Alistair grumbled in play. "He's so smug with his fancier shoes, and better hair cut, and thinking to wear a cloak outside instead of freezing to death on the roofs."

Sighing, Lana skirted her fingers across his arm, pushing more warmth through his body. "You could have just asked."

Before she pulled her magic away, Alistair snagged her hand which drew her curious eyes upon him. "Lanny, I know you're wardening as best as you can, and doing an amazing job at it. But, if things ever get tough, go bad, get dark, you could always come here for awhile. Become an arcane adviser. That's a thing mages do in other countries. Advise people on how to avoid magic, which shouldn't be that hard when they're not mages themselves, or sit in a high tower and do evil things with crystals, I think."

Her eyes darted across his face. He'd offered it to her numerous times over the years and she'd always turned him down, but for the first time she looked prepared to accept. Then she folded up his hand in hers and pressed it back to his chest. "I don't think that's wise."

"You could call it a vacation. An extended one, where you don't move around much or get to see any pretty sights. Unless the stables counts as scenery. I...think about it anyway. Put it in your maybe pile, which is probably stacked to the moon. In the mean time, I'm thinking we should move this party indoors. I know a great way to sneak into my place and the kitchen staff always leave a pie or two out for me."

"In the middle of the night?" she scoffed.

Alistair shrugged, "If you're gonna be king might as well hold out for a few perks."

Wiping off her legs from the dust, Lanny rose up. She extended a hand to him, and with less grace than her, he staggered up to his feet. "I wish I could, but I'm afraid I need to be off by dawn's light. I'm taking a ship from the harbor to the Free Marches."

That caught his attention and Alistair whipped his head to her. "The Free Marches? Maker's Breath, don't tell me you're heading to Kirkwall?!"

She blinked from the change in him, all flippancy replaced by a frigid terror. "I, why? What does it matter where I intend to set port?"

"Well, on top of them going all lawless after the qunari went a'converting with disembowling, I've been hearing things about their Knight Commander that'd curl a dwarf's beard. Their whole templar order are stuffing elfroot in their ears bonkers."

"What things?" her arms folded tight across her chest, that terrifying warden commander slipping out. "How are you hearing of these?" Lanny's eyes pierced through him, and he forgot to wipe away the guilt across his face. "Andraste's ass, Alistair, are you involved with the mage underground?"

He extended his hand and pinched his thumb and forefinger close together. "A tiny bit."

"For all the...do you have any idea what that could do to Ferelden if the templars found out? If the chantry? What it would reflect back upon the circle if...?" her anger broke and she sagged, an exhaustion crawling up her arms. "Of course you would help them. Even if you accomplish it in the most bone headed way imaginable you have to do what's right."

"I'm not certain if I should be proud or insulted," he said.

"I'm not either," Lanny sighed, wiping at her eyes. "Regardless of the troubles in Kirkwall, I'm a grey warden and long past my harrowing. What could they do to me?"

"Lanny, please, I..." he stomped his feet in the ground to try and bring warmth back to his prickling toes and also find the courage. "The things I'm hearing, the templars are breaking chantry law left, right, sideways. They're turning mages tranquil who survived the whole demon in the head thing for reasons as pitiful as sending love letters. Accusing people of blood magic for any excuse to cut them down. If they..."

Alistair caught both her hands in his, holding the warmth tight in his grip as if he intended to read her palm. He couldn't face her as he peeled back upon the lead shield he kept in place. She told him to stop worrying about her after he'd let her go, but Maker, he swore to do whatever she asked of him but he couldn't do that. "If they caught you, thought they could get away with it, and...and branded you, I..."

"It's all right, Ali," her fingers turned over in his hands and held them tight. "My business is in Ostwick. I have to check in upon a research proposal that's gone dark. The whole order has... I hope it's only darkspawn keeping them busy. I will keep away from Kirkwall unless necessary."

It was foolish beyond measure for him to worry. She regularly fought Maker only knew and things even beyond Him regularly without Alistair's knowledge. But the idea of the templars ripping away the shred of Lanny that made her who she was kicked up a hornet's nest in his heart. Here in Ferelden he could protect her, the chantry kept away for good measure, knew better, but out there... Out where the Grand Cleric turned a blind eye to the blasted templars breaking their own damn laws, he was as toothless as a worm.

Lanny pulled her hands away and dug into the knots along her shoulder, "I should return to my room. Try and catch some semblance of sleep before the voyage."

"Right, sleep's good. Oh and I may have slipped your dog a few bites of our dinner. Just a couple...five or so."

"Maker," she moaned tipping her head back. "Don't think I don't know you did that on purpose. You know what kind of smells he'll make through the night." Her anger slipped away like foam on the sea and she smiled, "It was good seeing you again, Ali."

"You too, Lanny. And promise me that, just tell me you'll come back again...you know, next year."

"Of course I will, it's tradition."

CHAPTER ONE

Memorial

9:44 Skyhold

Peaceful. Someone went to an awful lot of trouble to make this green section away from the swords, the politics, the piles of horse shit, and the manure from their mounts peaceful. Alistair hadn't been to a lot of gardens in his time. Sure, there were the ones in whatever palace Celene pretended to have a conversation with him in. Referring to herself in the plural gave him a headache. He kept having to pinch himself to keep from asking if there was another empress hiding under her dress.

Those were manicured within an inch of their life. If a blade of grass dared to rise above a half an inch, chevaliers would swoop down from the rafters and slice it back in line while calling for its families dishonor. Here there was a rhythm to the plants but no pattern, if that made any sense. It pulsed with a gentle kneading across the brain, not picturesque or orderly but calming and peaceful. He would have enjoyed spending time in Skyhold's garden if it weren't for the shrine near the gazebo.

Bending down, Alistair ran his fingers across the tiny blue flowers vining up the plaque. Brass, very elegant and recently shined up too. It was screwed in below a tasteful relief of a faceless woman with droopy sleeves that'd catch in the wind if ever used in a fight as she squared off against a nameless foe. The relief felt very generic save the pouf of hair around the head. That was her two-hundred and ten percent. She would wind it up in braids or those rows along the side of the head for battle, but when her life took a breath Lanny'd let it out. He'd spot the ebony hair bursting over the back and sides of the chair while she was deep into a book from across the room. A pain stirred in his soul and he bit back on the guilty fear that he'd never see it again. No, the shrine was lovely all save the damn plaque.

"I was informed the king of Ferelden was in Skyhold, but could scarcely believe it."

He didn't turn around to face the owner of that sweet Orlesian accent, he didn't have to. "Never expected you'd to be here either. Or are you going over the books and inspecting the furnishings before you take over?" Now he turned back to find Divine Victoria standing behind him, only her porcelain face visible in that sea of hat most holy. "Check the doorknobs. There's a real market for used screws, so people'll nick half out of every faceplate and no one's the wiser."

Leliana blinked from his suggestion, then she turned back to her two guards and waved them off. They grumbled, neither of them happy about leaving their Divine in the presence of what had to be a mad man raving about doorknobs, but they weren't about to disobey either.

Alistair saluted to them then turned back to the shrine. He ran his finger over the plaque once more, the name etched deep in a solid script. "Solona Amell," he said. There was some more about her being the Hero and sacrificing herself for the world, but that wasn't the part that concerned him.

"It was her given name," Leliana said.

Staggering to his knees, which felt more like work with every passing year, Alistair rose to eye up the Spymaster turned Most Holy. "She hated it, which you knew."

"Perhaps..." Despite being in the pristine white robes of the chantry, the Divine plummeted her own knee into the grass and dropped a few white flowers before the shrine. As she turned them in place, he recognized the petals as andraste's grace. "Perhaps I was hoping it would give cause." Leliana leaned back to rise, with Alistair offering his hand to steady her. "Something to encourage her to...it is foolish. And you have not answered my question."

"I had business with someone here, your Most Hatness," he said sliding back on his heels.

Leliana's crystal eyes cut through him like he was made of cheese, which given his diet was a distinct possibility. "The Inquisitor is not in the... mood to accept visitors at this time."

She was being kind to the man who nearly launched all of southern thedas into a war with the Qunari, then had his hand chopped off, then gave up his Inquisition to the chantry. There were probably a few more thens in there, but Alistair only got the bare minimum from a few of his aides as he ran out the door. He had other problems to solve.

"You think I'm here to enact justice against him because his horned friends interrupted a delightful party my wife was hosting?" Alistair asked.

Her eyes darted down his chosen plebeian wardrobe. Not that the fancy Ferelden armor wasn't a real winner at court and could blind a man at twenty paces, but it also put a big "here's a king" sign on whoever wore it. He'd managed to scrounge together just enough to keep himself decent, warm, and practically incognito. The blue worked lovely with his coloring.

"The Exalted Council has disbanded, a decision made," the Divine's bite shone through in her few words.

"Is it one you agree with?" he asked folding his arms up.

Leliana pursed her lips and she glanced around the gardens to size up the listening ears. Skyhold seemed emptier than the last time he was here, but that was just before a big battle and he hadn't seen much as the advisers tried to throw him out on his rear, the biggest one grumbling for his blood. "There are trying times ahead," she said diplomatically which only caused Alistair to snort.

"When aren't there? In the past ten years it's been blight, civil war, darkspawn attacks, civil war again, mage rebellions, ancient evil magister who wants to be a god, then qunari invasion."

"Nearly qunari invasion. We stopped it," Leliana said, unable to separate herself from her Inquisition.

"I'll be certain to send you an embossed thank you note for it. Are flowers in this year for stationary? No, I'm not here for your Inquisitor, if that's your concern. It's not about the Winter Palace, the Exalted Council, the Qun thinking we'd all look good with horns, or...that other thing we're not supposed to talk about."

The Divine's lips pursed like she'd gnawed into a ginger root from his inelegant way around that thing only the highest of the high knew about. Alistair suspected he was only told because Lanny would have wanted him to know, wanted Ferelden to prepare. She was Leliana's weak spot, but she was his too.

"If it is for none of those reasons, then who are you here for?"

Right on cue, a mabari's bark echoed through the holy ground. A few angry scholars glared up from their studies at the interruption, but the scowls slipped away as they spotted the Commander of their little camp petting the offending dog's head. He looked even more determined than when Alistair left him, which seemed to defy some laws of nature. If he scowled any deeper, his lips would recede into his mouth and never be seen again.

"This would be who I'm waiting for," Alistair said turning away from Leliana.

Whistling for the dog to follow, Cullen stepped towards them. "Most Holy," he said tipping his head in subjugation to her.

"Commander...?" she had a question at the end of her greeting as she didn't but almost tipped her head at Alistair.

"It is difficult to explain."

"We're off on a little adventure," Alistair interrupted, a cheeky grin stretching his face. "Assuming you got permission, of course." Cullen nodded as he scratched at the back of his head, regret already palpable. This was going to go swimmingly.

The Divine blinked, shock twisting up her face. They'd completely obliterated her tight control of the game. "You...and," she pointed at the scowling templar. "Together? Traveling? Are you certain?" Leliana whispered the last part at Cullen who only sighed and shook his head.

"Come now," Alistair batted away their concerns, "we had fun adventuring together once."

"Yes, I suppose so," Leliana said, her posture tightening as she gazed up and down at Alistair. Her little spy brain was trying to dig into him to figure out why he was here and what he had planned. But Alistair learned how to combat that tricky mind of hers by playing the complete idiot. He waved at her and shrugged, giving away nothing. Shaking her head in defeat, she leaned towards Cullen, "Do not trust him with a map, and for the love of the Maker, never let him make stew."

"Understood," the templar said, nodding as if her advice was sacrosanct law.

"Hey! That stew was good. Not bad. Survivable, anyway. No one died from it."

"Commander," the Divine placed a hand along his now armor-less forearm. "Are you certain that this is a wise course?"

"I..." Cullen glanced up and his eyes dug into Alistair trying to find his weaknesses. "I must do this, Your Perfection."

"Then I wish you all the luck in thedas," Leliana said. Her vision drifted down to that little shrine, "and I hope you find her." Both men snapped up at the Divine driving right at what brought them together, but she slipped away towards her guards and whatever needed to be done in the great hall.

"That woman will never stop scaring the piss out of me," Alistair said. "And I once thought she was harmless. Mostly harmless. So...you're here, you asked the big boss if you can go, I'm guessing."

"I did," Cullen said. The templar watched Leliana's wake while his pet dog chewed away at the grass.

"Good, good," Alistair nodded his head. "Do we need to make it official with some bloody handshake or are we fine to set out as is?"

The templar breathed quickly and his voice dropped to a stern timber that made Alistair's legs lock. "Tell me honestly, is this the truth of it? You have Lana's phylactery and it...it is operational? This is not some ploy or, Maker save me, a foolish dream beyond sanity?"

Sighing, Alistair slipped around the leather satchel dangling near his hip. He had to shove aside a few extra tunics and socks to pull out the bottle. It still pulsed a red, even more haunting in the shade of the leafy trees. "You can hate me, fine. That's normal. If I worried about everyone who wanted me dead I'd never... Look, I want Lanny back as much as you do." Cullen snorted at that and folded his arms. "99.999% as much, whatever. Point is, this is real. I didn't do anything to it. No one's touched it in...in years. So, if you believe in her, then believe in this."

The templar broke from his guarded stance and for a moment he reached for the phylactery, only a glance of his finger tracing against the bottle. He had to feel it, the call from her blood echoing across all of thedas. He probably felt it better than what Alistair could get, and just having it near his skin made his heart skip a beat, his head swim like he'd hung upside down too long. It was her, she was somewhere, somewhere reachable and they could bring her back.

Cullen shifted his jaw around a few times like he was grinding apart gravel, then he nodded. "I'm in. What do we do first?"

"We're heading to the Waking Sea," Alistair said as he slipped the phylactery into his safe place. "I know a person who can borrow us a ship as long as we promise to wipe our feet."

The templar sighed again, either unhappy with the idea of a sea voyage or coming to terms with this affair. He ruffled his dog's head, then nodded again. "Very well. I have taken care of my duties as best I could, and I am ready to head out now."

"Really? That quick?" Alistair expected it to take a few days of him doing soldiery things and barking orders in the rain.

"I would prefer to not wait," Cullen said.

"Okay," he shrugged. "I brought a couple horses to help us get down the mountain..." Alistair said as he stepped out of the gardens, but Cullen didn't follow.

The templar paused at the shrine to Lanny. Gently kissing two fingers, he touched them to the relief's face and a whisper of a prayer fell from his lips.

_Great, like this wasn't awkward enough already_ , Alistair thought as he waited for the man to catch up. They still had a lot of thedas to travel around. Here's hoping they'd make it to her without killing each other first.

CHAPTER TWO

Siren's Echo

_9:44 Jader_

Cullen clung tight to Honor's collar both of their eyes widening from the sights and sounds of the port in Jader. Honor's was more so due to the pile of fish carcasses barely inland off the dock, which he'd rather she not roll in. The mabari kept trying to use her beg and whine maneuver to convince him it was a wise idea she envelope her fur in rotting fish scent, but it wasn't taking against his iron will. It had been a trying week traveling up the western side of the frostbacks with the king of Ferelden. He was more talkative than Cullen thought possible, at times striking up a conversation with the mabari because the other human had no intentions of joining in.

Gulls screamed out of reach of the dockworkers aiming to smack them away with poles. When not whacking into the flying vermin, scattering white feathers across the choppy waves, the poles would knock into the bow of a ship to help guide it onto the docks. Nearly ten years in Kirkwall and being near the sea made Cullen's skin itch. Some people took to the water well, barely noticing the stomach churning swells and dips of the waves. He was not so lucky.

Whatever the king's plan was here, he hadn't felt the need to elucidate it beyond the occasional grunt. Leliana's warning bubbled through Cullen's mind each time the man would stop, point in a random direction, and insist they were on the right track. At least north was easy enough to find as they chased the last blush of summer, fall already twisting up the trees in Skyhold and...

He didn't think it would be easy to leave his old life, but it surprised him how not difficult it was. Cullen never considered himself invulnerable and kept his lieutenants tight enough in the loop they picked up the slack immediately. Only a few shot a questioning glance at their commander's sudden need to trek across the continent, but none voiced it. They trusted him. It was the Inquisitor he was uncertain about.

After knocking softly on the Inquisitor's door, Cullen questioned the madness of this plan. He knew nothing of king Alistair beyond a few whispers, rumors elucidated courtesy of Josephine, and a wrath he never thought Lana capable of. For all the man knew, the king was pulling an elaborate prank just because he could. Cullen was about to give up on the entire idea when the Inquisitor invited him inside to his study.

He looked better, thank the Maker. No one wanted to voice their greatest fear of what to do if the Herald fell, if they couldn't solve the anchor's attack and find a way to slow it. He and the Inquisitor never were close by any stretch, but Cullen respected him. For coming from an insular dalish clan, he navigated the shark infested waters better than any noble born could and that deserved accolades all on their own. And now, on the brink of almost losing everything, a grey pallor roamed the Inquisitor's face. It settled in after the qunari invasion began and hadn't lifted yet.

"Ah, Commander," he shifted in his seat at the desk, his fingers splayed out against parchment while his elbow rested upon the pile. "I heard the Divine followed our caravan and will be assisting with any matters in the transfer of power."

"That, uh, that isn't what I've come about." Cullen swallowed through his scratchy throat, struggling to piece together what he needed without revealing why. Despite not seeing eye to eye on some policies throughout their long campaign this was the only matter where they nearly came to a shouting match.

The Inquisitor placed down his quill and sat back in the chair. He'd taken to growing his hair out in the interim years, the strands falling like black curtains to shroud his face. Those cold grey eyes rarely lifted in mirth now and while Cullen knew there could be a dozen good reasons, he suspected that the real one was traveling back to Tevinter permanently. "What is it?" the elf asked. He moved to fold his arms together, but paused as the stump jostled against his forearm.

"I..." Cullen steadied himself and began again, "I would like to request a leave of absence."

"To see your family, of course. Once things are settled here, you can..."

"No, Sir. It would need to be now."

That caught the Inquisitor. The pallor slipped away, and his eyebrows twisted together in thought. "Now? For what purpose?"

"That is a...it is for personal reasons, but the matter must be solved quickly or the window could be lost," Cullen lied. Probably lied. He had no idea if there was an urgency beyond the one driving through his heart needing answers before he lost his tenuous grip.

"I see." The Inquisitor fell back upon his old idiom when he was surveying information. That 'I see' could humble the most powerful of nobility across southern thedas. Despite the pain, he staggered to his feet. He'd been on a strong dose of healing draughts since Solas took his arm and for good reason. Amputation could haunt a person long after the first shock subsided. Cullen tried to stop him, or help him, but he waved off both attempts as he stretched to the windows. Craning his head back, the Inquisitor watched the ribbon of green where the sky was forever scarred, where he saved the world. "Would this have anything to do with the king of Ferelden wandering around the hold?"

"Uh," Cullen knocked his shoe into the leg of the desk, the toe following its indentation. "Yes."

"You've done more for the Inquisition than anyone could have asked. Served faithfully beyond what was requested of you at the outset," the Inquisitor turned away from his vigil over the sky. His grey eyes burned with a longing that struck back at Cullen. He wasn't only in mourning for the loss of his arm. "Take whatever leave you require, Commander. I'm certain you can handle finding replacements to fill in for you, though Josephine would be willing to... No, she is going as well."

"I am uncertain how long it would take, but..." Cullen's sentence fell off. But what? If this succeeded, if they found Lana, then what? Would he return? Would she even want to? She had no place here. He dared not entertain the more obvious outcome to this trip. Cullen was running on a single strand of faith, but he'd cling to it for as long as was possible.

The Inquisitor nodded his head as he shuffled to his mantle. Someone thought to place one of the halla statues from the Winter Palace upon it, someone who'd been at the dance and perhaps thought himself above Orlesian law. His fingers caressed the back of the halla following the smooth divot of the spine. "Take whatever time you need. The Inquisition is...will remain as long as it is necessary."

"Thank you," Cullen said. He bowed deep, deeper than he did to the Empress, to the Exalted Council. After everything the Inquisitor suffered without anyone caring, he deserved it.

With his back still turned, the Inquisitor spoke up, "I know we had our disagreements about it, but..." Now he turned fully, his grey eyes brimming in the weak candle light, "I hope you find what you are looking for and that I was wrong."

The raw words struck Cullen. While the Inquisitor was not without passion, he kept it shielded away save for the rarest of moments. "I...pray so as well."

"Prayer is good, too. Love is worth praying for."

With the blessing of the Inquisitor, the advice of the Divine, and a satchel stuffed with a few changes of clothes as well as some personal possessions, Cullen followed the king of Ferelden to the foulest smelling port in all of thedas. The docks in Kirkwall reeked of baking fish from the moment the sun rose until it set, allowing the night chill to waft the scent of feces through the salt strewn air. But Jader was something else. Perhaps it was the Orlesian way, but rather than have a blocked off area devoted for the fish waiting to be hauled off to market, they let them pile up beside each dock. Animals hunted through the free offerings, hoping to sneak away with dinner if they were quick enough. The howls of cats echoed above the creaking of ships, their eyes hungrily weighing to see how quickly they could slip one over on the incompetent humans.

And of course there was the noise. Cullen went from the peace of the farm known for stretches of quiet punctuated by a squealing or braying animal, to the solemnity of the chantry. His first few weeks in the circle tower proper, he feared he'd go deaf from the voices of mages shouting down stairs, shouting up stairs, screaming around corners, or just generally yelling for attention. The stones of the tower amplified the voices tenfold building upon his headache. Overtime, he learned to adjust to the exuberant apprentices, and also found leaving the helmet off helped greatly. He preferred the quiet when he could find it, yet could live with a few excited screams from time to time. But being upon a dock was like thrusting his head inside a metal drum, giving children a mallet, and letting them have a go at it.

Every manor of race in thedas screamed from one end to the other. Elves scattered about five to a single human, most chattering in a quick code Cullen couldn't track. The dwarven gruff bass line rumbled through the wooden dock rocking below his feet, while the handful of Qunari said nothing, though they continued to drop freight from terrifying heights. All he needed to add to this mess was...

Honor hopped up to her feet and barked deep in that barrel chest.

That. Cullen massaged his head, and in the process lost his grip upon her collar, but the dog wasn't headed towards the pile of fish. She'd spotted her newest friend skirting through the throngs finally returning to them. The king didn't explain beyond gesturing to the waves and saying he had to find someone. Cullen might have felt put out at being dumped by the side like garbage, but honestly it kept him away from the man for a few blissful hours. Now he was returning. Staggering to his feet, Cullen checked his scabbard instinctively and chased after Honor.

Parting the dock workers, most of whom decided shirts were optional, Cullen spotted Alistair fully bent over as both of his hands clawed up and down Honor's belly. Her leg paddled the air and her tongue lolled out as she slipped into dog euphoria. "You're going to spoil her," Cullen shouted to be heard over the throngs.

"Nah," the king waved away his concern, then his voice switched to the talking to babies and/or cute animals timbre, "they just need some love. And treats. And fetch. Love, treats, and fetch. And some bandits to bite into."

Honor rolled to her feet at the mention of bandits and woofed once, her posture ready for orders. Clicking his teeth twice, Cullen gave the release command and she slipped back to happy - a state which never seemed to be far from the dog or the king of Ferelden.

"Sorry that took so long," Alistair said, smoothing dog slobber through his hair. "Who knew there were so many ships?"

"On a port in Jader to the waking sea. It is truly astounding," Cullen tried to not sigh as he fell in behind the king.

"Point being, I found my friend and we're good to go. Her ship's just past the second to the left, or is that port? Sternum? Eh, over there somewhere. And...ah, here she is." Alistair paused in his recitation of what little he knew of maritime terminology and waved his hand furiously in the air. "Captain!"

Cullen spotted the hat first, massive and crimson as spilled blood with a white feather longer than his arm plucked in the brim. As it turned around, so did the familiar brown and salt crusted face of a woman who nearly set all of Kirkwall on fire. "Maker's breath, of course..." he sighed.

Isabela smiled, her white teeth glinting brighter juxtaposed against her sun burnt cheeks. "That's Admiral now, remember. I didn't take on that armada for the fun of it. Mostly not for the fun of it."

Alistair held his hand out to her and she shook it. "This is..."

"I know who it is," Cullen interrupted. "She was the one who had the tome of Koslun."

"I didn't have-have it. Damn thing didn't surface for years," Isabela interrupted.

"And that makes all the difference in thedas," Cullen gritted, his heart sinking. He'd seen Isabela in passing, usually on the Champion's arm or at least in her wake. They were often in Hightown attempting to buy hats together but somehow never succeeding. It became an odd running joke in Kirkwall to spot the pair dipping into every chapeau shop and never purchasing an item. A joke so popular even the shut in Knight-Captain heard it.

The pirate queen folded her arms tight against her dingy corset and she eyed up Cullen then turned to the king. "Well, wasn't expecting the grumpy one to show. From mage to templar, you sure do keep strange friends, Ali."

"Mage?" Cullen interjected, struggling to keep up with this man's jaded history. "I am no longer a templar."

"Don't worry about it," Alistair cut in to the rescue. "He's fine. No chantry involved. Right?"

"Andraste's tears, how would I get the chantry involved? Why would they even...?" Cullen stomped around the dock struggling to find sense where none existed. "I am sorry for being curt, and grumpy," he sighed. This anger had left him. It took work and time, but he'd discovered a peace in the light to the point people would remark upon his quieter nature. No one knew about his turns still taken in the dark when nightmares and his own jaded heart turned against him. Still, it was no reason to turn upon the woman they needed for help.

Nodding once at him, Isabela gestured in the direction of her ship, "She's off this way. A beauty too. Fastest ship in the Waking Sea."

"Second fastest last I heard," Alistair spoke up as they followed the Admiral past the same repeat of boats with their sails trussed up like roasts. Not for the first time, Cullen felt woefully ill prepared. He hated sailing, knew next to nothing about it, and on occasion grew queasy upon the waves. His only saving grace was he knew how to swim and was rather accomplished at it.

Isabela spun to face them but kept walking backwards, dockworkers scattering out of her wake. Her eyes glittered in the same kind of mischief Cullen came to expect from Sera over the years. "It's not the second fastest any longer, I made certain of that."

"You do keep busy," the king remarked shaking his head.

"There she is," pride beamed in every word as the Admiral paused to wave her bangled arms wide, "The Siren's Echo."

It was a ship. Very beautiful as far as ships went, probably - with three masts in the middle, crimson sails dangling limply off the sides in wait to raise up for action. Men, bronzed and burnt across their backs and foreheads, as well as women in slightly more clothing shuffled along the deck. Most were working, but a few had curled up on the wet wood to rattle dice around in a cup. Cullen may not know a thing about ships, but he knew criminals when he saw them. There was no uniform to the outfits scattered across the crew, no seals of port authorities upon the crates stacking the deck, and the flag stretched in the sea air bore no loyalty beyond that to its owner. He froze on the gangplank, Honor coming to a stop beside her master, while Isabela and the king continued on. Either sensing he was alone, or having enough sense to check, Alistair turned back and waved at Cullen to get over beside them.

"You need to get on ships in order to take them," he explained, but Cullen locked his feet in. "Give me a moment, I think someone's not used to this whole traveling by sea thing." Isabela nodded, off to talk to her crew or whatever it was she did before embarking, while Alistair slipped a foot on top of the railing and leaned over to glare at Cullen. "What are you doing? Not the best time to get cold feet."

"These are..." Cullen dropped his voice to a whisper, "they're pirates."

"I think they know they're pirates. You're not catching them off guard."

"By all that is holy, why are we traveling with pirates? Why are _you_ traveling with pirates? Why do you even know pirates?" Cullen tried to keep his voice steady, but it rose in volume with each sentence drawing some attention from said sea mauraders.

"Isabela's trustworthy. She's had my back before. She's obviously worked with the Champion, you seem to be aware of that," Alistair leaned across the gap towards the dock. Whatever the man knew of Isabela's involvement in the qunari attack must either have been told to him second hand by her or he was too dumb to understand the severity of her fault. The king twisted his head to the side then smiled at a pair of pirates sharpening their blades with a hunk of coral.

"You are a king," Cullen said, fearing the man may be unaware of that fact. "Ferelden must have some ships at her disposal. Why are you not using a royal convoy?"

"Oh, that'd go over well. Hey, Tevinter, sorry to bother you, just have to slip past your borders to try and take care of some business. What's that? You're wondering what Ferelden wants here? Much less why a king would bother to come all the way? No, no, not an invasion or declaration of war or anything you should worry your pointy hats about. Just a little quick deal, I need to grab something and I'll be off. You'll barely even notice me," he beamed his impish grin after his little speech, then shook his head at the idiocy. "I go in blaring horns, screaming diplomatic immunity and no one's getting into the Anderfells. Or worse, those magisters learn what I'm after, learn that there might be an easier way into the fade or whatever's brought her back to us and we could have another Corypheus on our hands."

Andraste's flames, he was right. Sneaking in undercover with no one the wiser of what they planned until they succeeded was the wisest course of action. "It seems that crown hasn't cut off all the blood flow to your head," Cullen admitted.

"I get lucky from time to time," Alistair shook off the backhanded compliment without any trace of pain. "Look, I know pirates bad, scary, aargh! But this is the only way to get to her. Taking the mountain path in winter is a big fat no go with corpse-cicles on top."

"You expect me to trust this woman and her cutthroat crew? To risk my own neck upon the ship?" Cullen found his fingers slipping along the grip of his sword.

The king's head flopped forward, his nose burying into his chest as he steadied himself upon the railing. "I'd really rather not pry into your personal business because avoiding any screaming nightmares is preferable to the opposite option, but I'm guessing Lanny never went into much of her past with you."

Cullen reared up, indignant that the man would even inquire about Lana, "That is none of your..."

"Yeah, business. Got it. My point is, I wouldn't even know Isabela if it weren't for Lanny. She trusted her, so I trust her. I guess the question is do you trust Lanny."

_Lana knew her?_ She knew a pirate queen and well enough to entrust her life within Isabela's greedy grasp? How much of her past, her own life, did she keep from him? Cullen's fingers rolled across Honor's head, ruffling up her fur and massaging the back of her ears. "Go on," he gently pushed the back of her head and the mabari ran up the gangplank onto the ship. She'd been eyeing up the pirate's pile of squid carcasses the whole time.

Meeting the king's eye, Cullen asked, "May I see the phylactery?"

"Why?" Alistair reared back, for the first time showing a resistance to him.

"To...personal business," Cullen ended on. He needed to touch it, to feel it in his hands, to remind himself that there was still hope in this fool's errand.

The king tipped his head back and forth, his fingers reaching for the satchel when he paused. "You really think it's smart for me to go flashing around this shiny, priceless bottle on a pirate ship? Our only connection to finding Lanny just dangling beyond their reach?"

"The ship you insisted was safe."

"Dog's going to bite if you slap its nose," Alistair shrugged. "Look, once we're off the docks far away from any fences I'll let you fondle it to your heart's content, okay?"

Cullen growled deeper than Honor, but he acquiesced to the man's demands. "Very well. It seems I have no choice." Going against every rule obeying bone in his body, Cullen stepped onto the pirate ship.

CHAPTER THREE

Proposal

_9:44 Waking Sea_

All things considered it could have gone worse. Probably not by much, seeing as how the templar was still haranguing him about the whole pirate thing but they'd taken sail and were on their way out of Jader without anyone getting tossed overboard. Progress. Only most of thedas remained to scoot around and then it was on to the next stage of his plan. For now, Alistair just had to survive a month or so of Cullen and his cheery demeanor. No problem at all.

"What was that?" the templar called, his hands spread wide as he pinned himself between two support beams while the dog stood guard between his legs. Her stubby tail wagged for the game only she was playing.

"What was what?" Alistair asked. He hated being in the hold, but after helping his mabari down into it, the templar refused to leave. Either the man had a deep fear of water or really loved the sight of wood.

"That sound, it was a creaking or slurping as if the entire boat was about to..."

"Not one for ships, I take it," Alistair chuckled. If there was one thing he picked up on in his wetter travels, sailors of all stripes _hated_ having their ship called a boat. Hang you off a mast and lob lemons at your face kind of hate, and that was the royal navy ones. Maker only knew what pirates would do. "It's all totally normal ship stuff. It creaks, it moans, sometimes it sounds like there's a tentacle monster hiding in the water below you sawing through the planks to drag you down to the depths."

The templar tossed down his gear and glared at him. A tiny part of Alistair almost snapped into a salute from the look. It carried the same weight of centuries of the chantry, passed down from sister to ruler-wielding sister. "Forgive me if I am not ecstatic about traveling by sea."

"You'll get used to it," Alistair assured him. "Though, you're going to want to lose all that armor," he gestured at the glinting chest piece which only earned him another glower. "Fine, wear whatever you wish, but if you're caught in an undertow a body covered in metal's the last thing you want."

"I...shall think upon it," he muttered. "Does it matter which swinging bed we choose?" At Alistair's shrug, the templar slipped under a few of the higher hammocks and stopped at the one that constricted the king's throat. Of course, of all the options scattered through the hold it had to be _that_ one. The templar didn't notice hives breaking out along Alistair's arm from his bed choice. After testing the hammock's springiness, Cullen dug through his satchel to draw out a blanket for the dog. While Honor situated herself in the perfect spot, half on-half off with her backend wedged against a crate, Cullen dropped to a knee. Alistair expected him to scratch along his mabari's back or check for ticks, but instead he brought his palms together in prayer.

The awkwardness climbed to intolerable levels as the man begged for Andraste to guide them on this journey right below the hammock that... Shaking his head to blot away the memories and his own heresy, Alistair mumbled something noncommittal and skedaddled up the ladder. Throwing open the hatch, the sea air struck him first - fresh and untamed. They'd drifted far enough away from Jader the smells of humanity floated away behind leaving only nature and a few drunken pirates urinating over the sides.

Using Isabela's ship made the most sense to him. They needed to be crafty to pull this off, and if anyone was crafty it was Isabela - provided one had enough coin and could dangle the prospect of more in front of her nose. He just never expected it to dredge up all those old memories that stab into his brain like a wily assassin who came armed only with poisoned bird feathers because knives are so passé. Drifting aimlessly along the deck, where only a few of the admiral's pirates worked coiling up rope and trying to shove the excess water off the planks, Alistair found himself leaning against the port side railing. A drop of thirty feet into the black waters waited for him below, but he didn't care about that. His head was craned back staring through the clouds to find the dusting of stars hidden beneath.

"This has been an interesting day," Isabela's dulcet tones drew him away for a moment and he smiled at her. "A templar, or _not a templar_ as he kept shouting, loudly I might add. I don't mind your royal ass as long as it's paying but someone bleeding that much regs can be trouble."

"He'll be fine," Alistair waved his hand in the air dismissing Cullen.

"You seem certain of that. Which is extra interesting as you were never certain of anything, at least not anything she didn't agree with beforehand." Isabela perched upon the railing, her boots crossed at the knee as she stared into his eyes, but Alistair was peering through the stars trying to find it, trying to remember.

"The templar won't give you any grief because he's as invested in this trip as I am. Maybe more." Alistair's fingers dug into his pocket. He kept few things in them out of fear of sticky fingers and because kings rarely needed to carry money - that's what all those foot people were for. There was his worry stone anxiety-ed down to a pebble now, a couple of funny looking coins he'd picked up in his travels, pieces of broken glass he mistook for near rocks, and the portrait. That was what he dug out to fill his palm. The ink lines faded to a brown crimson while the linen itself yellowed to a tan. A few creases folded up the edges and a tear began along the middle, but he'd stopped it before it could do any real damage.

Isabela pulled down his hands to stare at the small drawing. She had to twist her head around to see it properly before she smiled, "Best one I've seen of her. Got the eyes right." He always thought they got the soul right. Isabela slipped her hand under his and she asked, "Are you sure about this? Getting you into Tevinter and through isn't going to be cheap for anybody."

"Trying to weasel more money out of me? We practically drained the coffers the last time we set out," Alistair chuckled to distract her from his pain.

"Hey, after the antivans, the witch and her dragon, and..." Isabela shuddered, "those damn ox men, I think I cut you a deal. Too bad it didn't work out the way you wanted, for either of you."

"Did she ever talk to you about...any of it?"

Isabela had taken off her hat, either in deference to the night or for fear of it falling overboard. Then again, knowing Isabela, she'd kick a few pirates into the water to rescue her hat if it was ever lost to the briny deep. The pirate queen pressed her finger to her lips and then her forehead as she stared down at the tiny portrait. "You know, Hawke I understood. She was a hero, sure, but she stumbled into it, ran from it when it suited her. Wasn't the type to judge for any reason, probably because she'd just thrown an entire piano through the window on a bet. But that one...you first see her and you expect the, you know..."

"Airs?" Alistair suggested.

"Yeah, the 'I'm so above you because I saved the entire world. What have you ever done?' Not her though. She didn't go out of her way to be one of the little people either, she just was."

"That's Lanny, she just was..." he sighed, his finger knocking against the parchment's edge. Maker, he missed her. Blinking back from the rising salt water in his eyes, Alistair sat up. "Is. She is."

"Right, is," Isabela agreed. She'd been less than convinced of his plan to find Lanny, but as long as Alistair had the coin the pirate queen would oblige. Then an opportunity rose for them both, and he couldn't disagree no matter how much danger it might put him in. Lanny would have done it.

"Well, if you're really going out on this plan then you're gonna need this back," Isabela reached behind her back and unearthed Lanny's phylactery. Its crimson light pulsed against the deck casting an unearthly glow along the deck.

"What the..." Alistair snagged it safely from her fingers and every hair in his body twisted around in the direction they weren't headed in.

"Pirates, they love stealing anything shiny and not nailed down. Sometimes things nailed down too if you're quick about it and brought a crowbar. But the second it started glowing, a few of 'em screamed about being cursed by the Maker and gave it up quick. I don't think you need to worry about them stealing it again." Isabela's finger drifted down the glass, but she didn't react to the life inside. Holding it, sometimes just being near the phylactery filled his heart with slips of Lanny. Memories would often surface when he'd be caught unaware, so powerful he'd find himself laughing at their old antics or plummeting deeper into despair from his own stupidity.

"I'd never seen one of them before," she pulled her finger away but continued to stare at the phylactery. "It's prettier than I expected. Who knew templars had an eye for art?"

"Perhaps if you ask nicely the one in the hold would be willing to paint your ship."

Isabela chuckled, her head thrown back as she stared upward, "He'd probably put 'Pirate' in giant letters to warn any port authorities. Look out, the worst of the bunch has come to steal your cargo and smuggle your goods."

"How is the lyrium trade?"

"Could be better. Things have dried up with the college and the chantry fighting over what's legal. It's all a damn mess and I'm staying out of it until I know whose side is what. You know what's big now? Tiny cakes."

"Really?" Alistair slipped the phylactery back in his satchel letting Lanny fade to a dull ache in his heart.

"Yep, seems the ox men have gone mad for the things. So crafty Vints charge triple what they pay to import. If you're willing to put up with the bullshit of the qun, you can make a tidy profit."

"You're dealing with the Qunari?" Alistair asked.

Isabela smiled wide, "Fuck no. What do you take me for? It's probably all some set up by their spies anyway and everyone involved will wake up without heads. No, I keep far away from the northern seas now. So I'm doing you a solid, if you didn't already know that."

"Thank you again. I could say it a few more times if you'd like. I have plenty of accolades to go around," Alistair held his hand wide as if he had any power while they drifted past Nevarra. He barely had any power in Ferelden when it came down to it.

"Keep your thanks until we get inside the empire, though I could do with a bit of land. Maybe be made a, what do they call them in Ferelden, Bann? Or Arl. I'd make a great Arl."

Alistair sighed, bobbing his head at the idea, "You would terrify the breeches off the gentry which would so make it worth it, but I'm afraid I can't grant that kind of power. There'd have to be a marriage or some fancy ceremony involved and..."

"Yeah, you can keep it. Sea's where I belong anyway. If it doesn't list, it isn't home." Isabela slapped him on the shoulder then leapt off the banister to land upon the deck. "Keep your chin up, kingy. And, if you want to kill some time, I've redecorated my cabin..."

He snorted at the innuendo that was subtle for Isabela, but demurred. "It wouldn't be the same without--"

"I get it," she smiled, "we'll make it there. After that, it's up to you." The pirate queen patted him on the bicep, taking a quick moment to squeeze it to see if he was still ripe, then she slipped back to her command occasionally shouting at a few of her crew to stop fucking things up.

Alistair leaned against the railing, his eyes still trying to peer through the clouds, but what few gaps he could see didn't fill him with hope. The stars were off here, this far from Ferelden he couldn't find it. But Lanny, she'd have pointed it out with her haphazard throw of the fingers and the "Oh, you didn't know it was right there? I thought everyone did." He could have fixed it, could have solved all of this years ago. Years and years before the mage's rebelled, before Corypheus popped up from history, even before Kirkwall went kablooey. All he had to do was stifle his damn jealousy streak.

Lanny'd only been Arlessa for a few months at most when the first marriage request rolled in. By a year they were a constant stream of people begging the king to consider them Arl material for the delectable port city of Amaranthine. Oh, of course they were madly in love with the Arlessa's huge tracts of land. How dare the king think otherwise. It had nothing at all to do with the bride being a warden and facing death whenever she turned around. This was true love. He'd chucked them all away, sometimes out the window after folding them into little birds. None of them were good enough, most of them would drive Lanny batty, and she'd probably enact some dark revenge on Alistair for even suggesting such a thing. All except for one.

After her debut at court a year into Arlessing, Alistair returned from a hunting trip to a foot high stack of requests for her hand. Out of ideas, he'd taken to folding them up and cutting out tiny pieces to make snowflakes. The servants all looked on, sighing but prepared to scoop away the mess when he finished. Only one man was willing to brave the king of Ferelden's wrath and ask inquire to what the void he was up to.

"What are you doing, your highness?" Teagan sighed. He'd been named Arl of Redcliffe recently, but still spent time at court to help out with the adjustment and because the new king begged him to. It was nice having Teagan around -- the man was so kind and sweet in the face of abject brutishness it was a wonder bluebirds didn't do his laundry.

"I am going to decorate the walls for Satinalis myself," Alistair said. He unfolded the last flake and held it up to the light. The attempt to describe Solona Amell as a delectable temptress radiated through the back of the scarred vellum. With his knife, Alistair stabbed that sentence out then moved on to the next request.

Teagan reached over to slide a few of the parchment pieces his way. While he read through the lot, Alistair tried dicing little hearts into his, curious to see what pattern would emerge. "These are...requests for the Hero of Ferelden?"

"Yup, all of them."

"Is she aware?" Teagan asked grabbing onto even more and trying to read through his pile before the king obliterated them to confetti.

"I dunno, probably. Maybe. Doubt she'd care one way or another. She's a bit busy," Alistair stuck out his tongue as he worked through the final knotted section and yanked it out. Unfortunately, he forgot to compensate and the entire middle of the parchment tore free leaving a gaping hole which his not-uncle peered through at him.

"I thought that the grey wardens did not marry," Teagan stated.

"Some do, or maybe they did before joining. It never mattered much in the order, wardens don't have land or other dowry things to draw attention from nobility. You denounced everything you owned once you cupped the taint," Alistair explained. He was tired of describing wardens to Eamon. Their "I probably can't have any little sires no matter how many apple cores you stuff under my pillow" discussion was particularly fun. And he was still waking up to rotting fruit under the mattress. Maker take whoever started that folksy superstition. The flies were terrible.

Teagan ran his fingers around the edge of the parchment in his hand as he thought, "Except, Lady Amell now has an entire arling to her name."

"Well..." Alistair paused in his cuts and glanced up at his uncle, "not really, it belongs to the wardens."

"But she is a recognized Arlessa. Sire, how did you see the line of succession in Amaranthine working?"

"I don't know. The wardens will figure something out. They're good at that thinking thing, Lanny in particular."

"Except the chances of the Banns agreeing to that irregular arrangement might not be feasible."

The king tossed his knife and the missives onto the desk and he turned in his chair to face the few people wandering around in the lofty study. "What are you driving at, Teagan?"

In the sharpest of tone the man was capable of, he said, "She may need to marry to maintain her power."

A groaning chuckle rattled in Alistair's throat, but it quickly grew into a hearty laugh until he clutched his sides. "Maker, that's hilarious. Great, great joke. You can't be serious. You're not serious. You want to tell Lanny she has to marry, be my guest. Hope you brought flameproof underpants."

Teagan sighed letting Alistair get through his babble before speaking again. It was one of the reasons the king loved having him around. "It need not be a true marriage. It could be in name only, for the sake of appearances."

"Yeah, I know all about those," Alistair sighed well aware of the court's machinations to get someone, anyone attached to him as fast as possible. It wasn't like he was going to die this second from the taint. "No, Lanny'd never go for it. I mean, who could you see her picking? That Bann who farts every time he stands. Or that other one that's always bringing a sack of potatoes to the Landsmeet. What is up with that anyway? I feel like I should know, but..."

"I would do it," Teagan said, his voice soft. "I am already an Arl, there would not be a danger of unbalanced power. And, I believe Lady Amell does not despise me."

"No, she bloody loves you. Says you're the only person at court she's happy to see," Alistair said, mentally adding 'including me.' "Teagan, you don't need to throw yourself onto a pile of rusty blades for Lanny. She can handle herself when it comes to nobles. Better than most of us."

"I..." the subtlest of blushes rose up Teagan's cheeks and his eyes glanced down at the floor, "I would not consider it a sacrifice on my part."

"Right, okay, everyone else out," Alistair shouted. At first the servants and others wandering through the great study only looked up. Then their king rose off his chair and clapped his hands, "I mean it, begone. Get! Whatever it is kings shout to dismiss people. We need to talk alone." Either it was the fire in his eyes or the fact he'd absently picked up his blade to twirl in his fingers, but now everyone shuffled out of the study. Alistair waited until the door clicked shut and a few more beats as hopefully the last of them slipped away to complain about him in the kitchen. He'd be eating saliva soup for dinner for certain.

Teagan peered through the closed door, those crystal blue eyes watching to see if anyone would come to his rescue. How did Alistair hear them described once? Something about star filled pools or was it a waterfall? Water was involved. Whatever it was, there was a lot of fanning hands and fake fainting in response. Second to clinching the Queenship, a lot of women sniffed around the newest Arl and for good measure too. He was a good man, he could take a joke -- maybe not as quick to give one, but at least knew how to laugh. And he had that whole chivalry thing down to an art. Practically whipped out kerchiefs to drape over puddles in his sleep.

Something dark stirred in Alistar's core as he stared through his sort-of uncle. "Give me your spiel," he said, trying to shake off the thoughts dragging out the primal section of his brain.

"My what?" Teagan blinked facing his king.

"You don't wander in here, catch me chopping up proposals, and off the cuff suddenly think 'Hey, I could get married' like you want to eat a sandwich. So, lay it out."

"I," the Arl's cheeks lit up even brighter in a blush, for the first time looking off put. Even in a chantry with the threat of walking corpses coming to drag away the last of the terrified villagers, Teagan still maintained an air of composure. But here, the man appeared as if he wished to leap off the roof to get away. "Lady Amell..."

"You can call her Lanny. I think she's said it a few dozen times, in fact."

"She is a formidable woman."

"Great opening line there. Hey, I think you're formidable, want to get married?" Alistair folded his arms across his chest, unable to stop from picking apart Teagan.

Rather than sneer or growl, the Arl only waited, his fingers worrying apart one of the marriage requests. "This is a delicate proposal I know, but it would be for her benefit. The gentry are questioning Amaranthine, especially in light of the loss of the city. Some question the fact their Arlessa isn't tied to someone else. If her line were bonded to another accepted house then, I suspect, there will be less accusations against her."

"What kind of accusations?" Alistair glowered. These were the first he'd heard.

"The kind people make against mages," Teagan answered with, either unwilling to say anything like it against Lanny or terrified it'd make Alistair snap. Blood magic. It was always blood magic. The one card the damn chantry held over her. As a grey warden she was safe, they couldn't touch her, but as an Arlessa...

Teagan continued with his speech, "She can handle herself, more than handle herself in most situations but I fear what could happen if enough turn against her."

"It doesn't have to be you," Alistair said. "You've seemed immune to marriage's charms so far. Why give in now?"

Biting into the side of his cheek, Teagan sighed, "I am aware of the precarious nature of this request given your past intentions with Lady Amell."

Intentions, was that it now? How about calling it the truth, the fact Alistair loved her. Had been enthralled with her the first moment they met and couldn't shake it since no matter how hard he tried. He'd noticed the diligence Teagan paid to the other grey warden in Redcliffe, the way they gently bantered while waiting for corpses to walk in and break up the party, but at the time Alistair shoved it aside. Maybe he felt a wee bit defensive of his charming and suave uncle, and then later pulled her up to his lake to show it off, but after awhile he shook it off. He trusted Lanny, trusted Teagan too. And they did seem to get on as friends. Whether she ever bore any interest beyond that Alistair had no idea.

"I cannot deny I have a great respect for her," Teagan said. His eyes slipped shut and he shook his head, "More than respect, it is..."

"Okay, that's uh," Alistair bounced up on his heels. His skin crawled from the way Teagan spoke of Lanny, "that's enough awkward heart wringing now. You want to do things the old royal line way, I get it, but it won't work. Sorry."

Teagan blinked rapidly and faced down the king, "What do you mean?"

"Lanny's as sterile as I am. Maybe worse with her being the whole baby growing side. There wouldn't be any chance of little arls carrying on either line." _Not that I'd ever want to even think of that happening._ The idea of Lanny and Teagan being anywhere near each other to...the darkness clawed up Alistair's throat to grip onto his brain. He needed to stop this fast. "And you really think Eamon'd be happy to have two Arling's faced with a future of no successor? He'd practically crack the earth in two from learning it."

"Oh," Teagan slipped backwards, "I did not realize that, or consider it."

"You can ask Lanny her thoughts, but the baby thing it, well..." Alistair leaned closer to Teagan and whispered, "she doesn't take it too well." Maker, he was being a right ass to Teagan, to her, to everyone but his limping ego. And yet, he couldn't stop. He let her go, gave her up so she could find someone else, and the second that threat rose he bullrushed in to stop it.

Teagan, either accepting Alistair's logic or - more likely - realizing the king wasn't about to back down, nodded his head a few more times. He apologized for wasting his time, and tried to slip out the door.

"Hey, no hard feelings," Alistair shouted to his retreating uncle.

Pausing at the door, for a moment Teagan gritted his teeth showing a strain, but it washed away and he nodded, "Of course not."

Nine years later, tossed about on the deck of a pirate ship while they slopped through the waking sea, Alistair kicked himself for being such an imbecile. If he'd been half the man he thought he was and let Teagan at least approach Lanny, propose his idea to her, then the cursed chantry wouldn't have come after her. She'd have had something beyond her flaky wardens to keep her grounded, and Alistair... He pinched himself in the thigh as he stared at the black waves pounding against the ship. If Lanny'd married Teagan he never would have taken her to Seheron, never would have slept with her and opened up all those old wounds without a second thought.

He wasn't going to let his jealous streak hurt her again, even if it meant having to put up with a pain in the ass.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Fade

_?:?? ?_

The blade sliced off three of the front legs, the spider screaming as only they could in a high pitched chitter approaching a whine. Lana rolled her shoulder back and drove her staff deep through its thorax. Ichor bubbled out of the hole washing across its twitching hairs. The damn things never died easy and this was no exception as it skittered back and forth on its remaining legs, trying to spit poison in her face. But she kept her head thrown back, the spider's venom only dripping across her breastplate.

As the death throes quieted down, Lana yanked her staff out, her foot knocking the spider off the blade. It wasn't the biggest she'd killed but it was a nice enough size for the day. Placing her staff against the ruined wall, she uncorked the pride demon bladder and dumped its contents across the spider's corpse. Acid, gathered out of pools scattered across the fade, hissed as it chewed apart the creature's hair. The scent was atrocious, like vinegar poured into an open wound, but she barely smelled it anymore.

Watching the last of the acid drizzle away what hair it could, Lana closed up her homemade water skin and returned it to dangle with the others off her back. What remained of her robes hung in tatters off her shoulders, pieces scavenged out of the fade from the creatures she tore through or whatever was somehow left behind covering her now. The jet black breastplate, not metallic but made of something thicker than leather, she pried from a corpse found dangling upside down off a cliff. A red hand adorned the middle, but she could not recognize the symbol. More than likely whoever would have known it or used it was dead for ages past. At least the original owners weren't likely to stumble upon her anytime soon.

With the spider's carcass as cleared of hair as she could manage, Lana dug her foot in the dirt clearing a circle around it. With a bit of a break, she drew forth from her mana and wrapped the spider in fire. Hotter than a typical hearth, the spider's chitin cracked and knotted up from the flames licking deep inside its guts. The legs curled deeper inward as she watched it cook.

"Not a bad haul if I do say so myself."

Lana sighed. She knew he'd be near but she hoped for a reprieve. "I expected better," she answered her eyes on the flames. If she didn't control her spell, the spider would char to ash and it would all be for naught.

Jowan dropped down to a knee, his face practically intersecting with the flames as he prodded at the spider. She used to be bothered by him not reacting right to pain, but now it was little more than a nuisance. "Don't go blaming me, I found what I could. You chose to come here," Jowan gestured to the newest part of the fade.

She'd walked for...Lana had no way of knowing. Distance was an illusion. A five day march could put her upside down from where she began. Remaining in one place didn't work either. Some mornings she'd wake to find the entire world itself had shifted, dragging her into crumbling ruins she'd never seen before. At the moment they stood upon the edge of a precipice with a waterfall that traveled upward. It was a bit unsettling if she stopped to think about it, but it did provide fresh water and easier bathing than the norma fetid ponds.

The spider corpse cracked again from the heat, this time its innards popping in half. Lana shrugged away her flames and gently tapped the top of the curled in leg, one of the ones she didn't slice off. Not terribly warm to the touch, she gripped her hand around it and pulled. Chitin shattered at the mid-joint, the leg popping free into her palm. With her fingers, Lana dug into the spider's leg sloughing out the cooked meat inside. When she first began she pretended it was an oversized crab, the spider's meat surprisingly tender with a slight but not overpowering gamey and acidic flavor. Now she didn't care. Food was food.

Moving onto the second leg, she glanced over at Jowan, "Where's the other one?"

"Is it my job to keep track of all your little friends? You do put everything on me, don't you Lana?"

She snorted at that but didn't rise to his bait. They flocked to her whether she liked it or not. Some were dangerous, but others were benign... She paused and glanced over at Jowan, a nuisance to be certain but benign enough. Unimpressed with watching her eat, he prodded his fingers together as if they shouldn't fit. Just like he used to do in the tower back in the real world, before he was hanged for trying to kill the Arl. She knew that as certain as she knew her name, but she couldn't stop thinking of him as Jowan.

"How's the eye?" he asked suddenly.

Lana paused in her dinner and gingerly touched the scar bisecting her right eye. It gored through her eyebrow then down the cheek. "Fine. Damn lucky I didn't lose it."

"Scar's gonna be permanent though," Jowan called in his sing-song voice.

"Right, because that's my biggest concern at the moment," Lana shook him off. He was always doing that.

"Ugly and scarred, who's gonna want that?"

"Nice try, spirit, but you're not getting anything from me without a price."

That shut Jowan up, his arms locking around his midsection as he huffed away. Perched at the edge of the broken waterfall was a lone tree stuffed with apples. Why was an apple tree in the fade? Lana stopped asking long ago. Even if there was an answer it wouldn't make sense. Of course the damn things were poisonous - apples the size of her head and as inedible as the rocks. But when she climbed up the tree and peered off the branch she could look far around the fade. Pockets of varying architecture hung far in the distance. It wasn't so much land shifted by nature's hand but the domain of spirits or demons altered to suit the owners whims. The longer she was in here the harder it was to spot the difference between the two. Every spirit scrabbled for power within their own section of the fade to build up strength and warp it for their ideal. Any spirit who intersected with another erupted into conflict, not in the traditional sense but the land itself churning apart like someone picked up Ferelden and Antiva and smashed them together. It almost felt comforting to see the same noble dance played in the fade.

Having finished with the legs, Lana unearthed her blade - though blade was generous. She'd whittled down the end of a hunk of obsidian, then wrapped it in what had once been her robe's trim for a handle. Jamming it deep into the spider's split thorax, Lana wrapped her fingers through the gap against the warm chitin and pulled. Internal organs gushed free, some useless, some edible, but what she really wanted was the sac just behind its lungs.

"My lady," a new voice spoke from behind her. She didn't jump, she'd been expecting him too. Grabbing onto the venom sac, Lana weighed it in her hand.

"Half empty, damn. I was hoping for more," she sighed. But half was better than none. Plopping onto the chin of Mafarath, the statue buried up to his neck in the dirt, Lana swung back around her pride demon bladder. It was the only thing she'd found that could hold onto the spider's venom without dissolving away. Uncorking it, she placed the venom sac over the top, then pushed it open to pop a small hole through. The venom dribbled down while Lana kept her fingers pulled far away.

"Do you require assistance, Commander?" he continued to talk. Lana's shoulders slumped forward, but she turned to Nathaniel anyway. She'd tried to get away from him, on more than a few occasions was damn certain she'd lost him in the fade, but somehow he kept popping back up.

"I always require assistance, but there's little you can offer."

This wasn't the Nathaniel she knew. Unlike Jowan who kept catching her at times with his almost human like movements, Nathaniel was little more than a tin solider. His hands seemed to be permanently frozen at his side, his shoulders thrown back at attention. All he could do was speak to her and be used as a human shield should the worst come to it.

"We've almost got a full party going on here," Lana sighed, "We just need to find her."

Jowan shuddered, those soppy eyes glaring at the ground, "I don't like her. She's not right."

"You don't like anyone, Jowan. You don't even like me," Lana shook her head. Half of the spider's meat remained ready to be stripped and dried for later but what bit of energy left in her drained away. All she wanted was to curl up on the ground and sleep away what little of the day remained. Rather than fight it, Lana slumped to the ground, her breeches torn past the knee sliding against red dirt.

"Does it bother you that I don't?" Jowan asked, unable to give it up. But that's what he was, he couldn't change it anymore than Lana could stop needing to eat or breathe.

"What do you think?" she said, her eyes skirting around him towards the sky. There was always light, not from a sun or even a smattering of stars. The light hummed off every stone, every poisonous tree, every inch of the fade itself. Trying to escape it was impossible. She had no way of knowing what was day and what was night as there was none. It simply was, an unending amount of time existing. Lana missed the stars terribly. She'd find herself gazing upward hoping to spot a hint or two of the sparkle while she did everything she could to not look upon the city always looming within sight.

"You still owe me," Jowan whined while plopping down in the ground beside her. The others didn't sit like that, but he did. She tried to ask him why a few times, but either he didn't understand the question or he had no intentions of answering it.

"What do I owe you?" Lana began, but Nathaniel interrupted.

"The Commander requires your help, and yet you demand recompense. That is uncivil, Ser."

Jowan glared up at the man standing stock still in place. "Right, because you don't get a thing off her. I brought the spider."

"Which I already paid you for," Lana said.

"Cheaply, that was nothing before. Barely anything. I deserve more. You got your meat and more venom out of it. That's easily a double rate," Jowan bargained, his fingers jabbing into his hand as if he was counting out coins. Maker, that would be much easier for her to part with. "Or, do you wish you hadn't let me have the one before..."

"Fine," Lana sighed, interrupting him before he went on a never ending tangent of asking her what she'd rather do. "I'll let you have one, but only if you finish drying out the meat."

Jowan whipped his head at the cooling corpse, a sneer twisting up his lip. Damn near same one he had when he learned the truth of Lana working with the First Enchanter. "I am not your errand boy. Get the soldier to do it."

Snickering at the idea of Nathaniel attempting it, Lana tipped her head back. Sleep seemed to court her often now, far more than she expected but what was there to do beyond it and surviving? "That's my offer. Take it or leave it, spirit."

She rarely thought of him as an it anymore. Whether that was due to trying to maintain sanity or a growing familiarity Lana was uncertain. For many sleeps she wavered on the question of if she remained in the fade itself or if this was some afterlife. The chantry kept vague on the details of the beyond aside from the Maker sitting in a big chair and Andraste near him. Some people liked the idea of being in the clouds but Lana was never a fan. Having Nathaniel and Jowan walking beside her and talking to her didn't do much to kill her "I'm dead" theory. It was her stomach screaming for sustenance and her exhausted limbs that tipped her off. If the afterlife was more of the same drudgery of existence, then the Maker was a crueler creator than she'd thought.

Jowan's thin lips puckered up from her lack of an offer, but he dipped down and she felt his fingers rifling through her mind like it was a stack of parchment. It wasn't painful, but still unsettling to have the spirit yank out small moments of her life she'd all but forgotten about and then slip them back away. His fingers lingered over a section and Lana shouted out, "Not that."

"But there is so little left, I've taken most of my fill already."

"I don't care, you're not touching that. Anything else."

Sighing, the spirit let her guarded memory fall back into the void and he plucked upon an old one. She wouldn't mind his fumbling around in her head so much if she didn't have to relive every memory with him. With the stone wall pressing against her back, Lana's mind yanked open the file on her life.

Scared. She was so scared because everything was wrong. There wasn't any grass, no baby lambs crying for their mother's milk. It was all stone, hard and mean. The kind that stood up high in the cities far in the distance that they never went to. She hated it and she was alone. Her mummy and daddy, they weren't here either. They should have come, they always came with her. But now...

"Hey," one of the tall men in metal dropped to his knee. She shied away, shrinking deeper into the cloak too long for her. Mummy got mad when it dragged in the mud. "It's okay," he said, his voice echoing like the time her brother shouted into a bucket.

"Get the kid in there already. We have things to move on to," the other one said. She didn't know either of them, but she knew she didn't like that one. He was cold, colder than the ice she wasn't supposed to make, wasn't supposed to dream about. They told her to be a big girl, but she didn't want to be. Not if it meant having to leave everything she knew, everything she cared about. Tears rolled down her cheeks, the sloppy wet ones her dog used to lick away. When would she get to see him again?

The metal man on his knee reached a hand out to her. He didn't grab her arm, just held it extended as he spoke, "I know it's scary to go somewhere new. I don't like it either. Sometimes I need to take a moment before I walk into a place to steady myself. Take a deep breath. They're real nice in the tower, and lots of other children to play with."

She had her hands buried in her pant's pockets, the baggy ones that used to be her brothers her mother hemmed up to fit. After losing her belt, her father tied a string from the sack of grain around her waist and laughed at how many times it went around. She searched for the words to explain why she didn't want to do as told but nothing would come, only her teeth chattered as if she was freezing cold.

Inching closer to her, the metal man dropped lower to meet her small height. "Will this help?" he asked. Pulling his hand away he yanked off his head. She started from the move, stumbling back into the immoveable legs of the mean one, but the man didn't fall down headless. Underneath that metal was a smiling face. He tried to pass the helmet to her, but she was drawn by the palest hair she'd ever seen. Reaching on her tiptoes, she ran her fingers through the straw upon his head softer than the tips of wheat. Laughing, the man tipped his head lower so she could tousle them back.

"I'm Grayson," he pointed at himself. "It's a long name, but yours is even longer. Solona." At that name her nose curled up like she walked past the barn. It was hers but she didn't like it. No one liked it. The man watched her face and chuckled, "I'm guessing that's not what they call you."

"I'mlana," she sputtered, her bottom lip jutting out to cover over the top as she mumbled.

"Sorry, I missed that," he said.

Sighing the way only an impertinent six year old could, she pointed at her chest and said, "Lana. I'm Lana."

"Well, Lana," he held out his hand again. She watched it for a moment and then gingerly placed her own inside of his. It looked like a doll's in his great grip. Closing around her, he shook their hands up and down in a greeting. "I know the tower can seem scary, it's big. Bigger than even I probably know about. But you're going to make lots of friends here and learn things. You could become a great enchanter even."

"No!" she shook her head, "they're bad. Andraste doesn't like them."

He dipped his head down, and she felt shame curling in her gut from something unexplainable in his eyes. So close now without the metal in the way, she could see they were a golden brown just like her puppy's. "Andraste loves us all, whether we're touched by magic or not," he said. The mean one behind her scoffed, earning him a glower from the nice one. "Now, how about we go and introduce you to Miss Abby. She's really nice and sometimes she smell like orange marmalade."

"M'kay," she agreed unable to think of any reason to not go.

"Finally," the mean one stamped his feet into the stone and knocked against the door. "I swear to the Maker, Grayson, you get wetter every trip."

"She's just a kid, barely older than..." he didn't finish his thought, but he smiled down at her and reached into the bag against his back. In his hand he held a stuffed griffin. The toy was made from old burlap and stuffed with straw, but someone took the time to paint each feather along the creature's back. Her eyes followed the toy, drawn to it. "Here," he held it out to her fingers, but she was scared to touch it. "Go on, it's yours."

"Mine?" Nothing was hers. Everything she ever had was either passed down from her brother or something she'd later share with other siblings. It all belonged to the family. With the barest touch, she ran a finger along the griffin's under-stuffed beak. The man smiled and pushed it to her. Unable to take the torment, she wrapped her arms around the toy tugging it tight to her chest.

"You head on in there and they'll get you a warm bath and some food," Grayson gestured to the now open door and another metal man glaring down at them. With one arm wrapped around the toy, she grabbed onto his metal finger. _No, he couldn't go._ "I'm sorry, I have other duties to attend, but don't worry. You'll see a lot of me around here. I promise, Lana."

Gripping tighter to her griffin, she nodded to him and entered the tower for what was supposed to be the rest of her life.

Lost in the fade itself, the older Lana -- the one who'd been scraped raw by life six year old her couldn't imagine -- opened an eye. She spotted Jowan curled up on the ground recuperating from whatever he feasted off her. Her emotions or memories or whatever it was hit them harder. They didn't cry or laugh, the spirits seeming to not have the means to express a range of emotion, only laid on the ground until the rush of it passed. Patting the tuckered spirit on the arm, Lana tipped her head back and found peace in sleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

Blindspot

_9:44 Waking Sea_

"Raise the mains, we're past the worst of it!" the admiral's voice rang out through the ship. A collective groan echoed from every pirate's lips as they released their death grip, arms sagging while water sloshed across their feet. They were bedraggled, sopping wet, but they were alive. Cullen turned back to watch the storm they passed through, the sky not black and cloudy but the horizon up to the ether appeared impenetrable as if a wall of water rose out of the sea to smash them apart.

"First big one?" a bear paw bashed across his shoulder and Cullen winced from his lack of armor to siphon off the blow. Nodding carefully, he turned to catch the bronzed face with a white rose tattoo stretching across the right eye. It must have meant something to the man, but Cullen had no idea. A week on the ship and he'd barely spoken to anyone outside of Honor -- who released her bite on the securing rope and settled at his feet.

"I am not a fan," Cullen answered carefully.

"Shit, ain't no one big into squalls. Lessen you love drowning, I suppose," the pirate said. "You can let go, ya know."

"Of course," Cullen nodded as if he meant to cling for his life even out of danger. Rope, scratched apart from years of use, bit into his exposed forearms. It seemed smart at the time to roll the cuffs up to his elbows when the waves soaked through them. As he unwound his grip off the sidewall rigging, deep red grooves remained coiled around his pale skin, etched deep into his flesh like a crimson snake. Cullen's freed hands ran down his stomach checking to make certain he was yet alive and in one piece. In the process, he pressed his drenched tunic even tighter to his skin. He'd be less soaked if he'd dived overboard before the storm began. Poor Honor fared about as well. She lapped at the seawater, that pink and black tongue scraping along the deck. "Don't, that's bad for you," Cullen called. Her tongue dangled out but frozen, hovering just above another lap of the salty puddle. "I mean it," he chided and now she slipped her tongue away. Suddenly noticing she was wet, Honor twisted the muscles along her back wetting her master and the other pirates standing near. They all reared up from the small addition of water to their drenched backsides, but no one said a cross word. The pirates gave him and his mabari a wide berth and were even damn right respectable at times. It was surprising and made life partially livable, but he had a suspicion he knew why he received the royal treatment.

Sliding down the mast as if the man was born on a ship, the king of Ferelden landed barefoot upon the deck. He'd tossed off his shirt once the threat of storm rang out through the decks. In retrospect, it seemed the wiser move seeing as how he had dry clothes waiting for him down below while Cullen was left bearing what soggy rags he wore. Still, the man strutted about with his chest thrust out and a shit eating grin etched deep across his face. "That was something else, right Abby?" Whoever Abby was called down from the mast in a mix of Rivain and Orlesian. The pirates had their own bastardized language that Cullen could probably pick up on if he cared. A week and a half in and he hadn't mustered the ability to do so yet.

Alistair dug his fingers through the back of his hair, trying to squeeze off the water blasted against him from his perch in the sails. _What kind of king climbs up into the crow's nest in the middle of a blighted storm at sea?_ The mad kind is an easy answer, yet despite how much Cullen wished it so, he seemed to be of sound mind. Not sharp, but sound. The other is the kind of king who dreams of adventure and thinks himself some great hero, but this one had fought in a blight, knew what true battle was. His gleeful strut around the deck helping the pirates secure lines and trade gentle barbs unnerved Cullen even more. The man was enjoying this for reasons he couldn't understand.

"How we doing, Admiral?" Alistair shouted while turning back to the woman at the helm.

For all his misgivings about her, Cullen had to admit Isabela was a competent captain. No, that was unkind. She breathed the ship, kept a tight control of her crew, and had been civil to him. Mostly civil to him.

"We're damn well alive, which calls for celebrating. Get your ass up here and grab some bottles. Oh, and check on our little greenie."

That was him, the green one. He'd thought it a joke about him not having sea legs until they all started making vomit sounds whenever he'd walk past. It was particularly atrocious during mealtime. Cullen hated the sea, hated being on ships, but he didn't get seasick - not easily anyway. His problem was the sound of water slopping against the hull, dredging up an old anxiety he kept thinking he grew beyond, hoped he'd buried. The king, unaware of Cullen's internal struggle over his nickname, slapped him on the shoulder.

"You good?" Alistair asked. In a week's time, he'd already managed a hearty burn across his shoulders, chest, and upon his cheeks. The sun wasn't kind to the king, though it was even crueler to Cullen, which was why he preferred the hold while Alistair traipsed about on deck getting in the way.

"I have survived," Cullen answered. An unsettled turn scurried up his skin and he turned to catch Isabela peering through him with an almost famished look in her eye. "What is it?" he shouted to her.

"Never noticed before how damn similar you two look. Swept up blonde hair, pronounced cheekbones, biceps that could break glass. Somebody could work through a few twin fantasies with you both, assuming _somebody_ didn't already."

Cullen growled, folding his arms over his chest and twisting away from her to scowl at the calming sea. Beside him, Alistair harrumphed as well. That surprised him - to find the king as off-put by Isabela's comment as he was. She'd often make inappropriate remarks about Alistair and insinuate something about borrowing him for the summer, which he'd smile and hand wave away. Cullen assumed Alistair was paying for this trip with more than coin, but now the man blushed brighter than his sunburn and he glared at the deck.

Either unaware of the wound she struck, or not caring, Isabela shouted to her crew various boat orders. They were probably important in keeping them alive, but Cullen didn't care. Far past awkward and needing to escape, he slid towards the hatch door, his feet splashing against the inch deep water that flooded the deck. Honor barreled past him to dive down into the hold. It took a few days before the mabari felt comfortable climbing up the ladder, a week going down. Now she was a damn pro at it. Even his dog was a better sailor.

After blinking his eyes to adjust for the low light, Cullen took the rungs quickly to slide back into the safety of the hold. He stepped around the crates jostled from the ship crashing through waves taller than Skyhold. It felt strange to think, but in some ways the underbelly of the ship was almost comforting. Pressed in tight, with other men and women sharing his quarters, he felt like he was a child back in Denerim training to become a templar. They'd piled the children up ten, sometimes twenty to a room. The only separation was by gender, so all ages shared the same space. It was uncomfortable when you wanted to be alone, but welcoming when you feared being alone.

Dipping down, Cullen picked up his bag and watched water drip off his body in sheets raining across his few belongings. The beads rolled down the canvas to splatter against the floor. Sighing, he moved to pull the shirt off his back. It was so soaked the fabric clung tight to his skin, refusing to slide away. With those glass breaking biceps - whatever that referred to - he tugged and pulled against the force of water, his tunic freeing his chest to the whispering cold. Wadding up the shirt in his hands, Cullen wrung the first inch and a puddle's worth of water splashed onto the deck. His pants were in an even sorrier state, but those were staying on.

"My first storm at sea, they lashed me to the wheel and said I wasn't to move for anything."

Cullen didn't look up at the voice, instead he continued to try and wring out his shirt. Unfortunately, nothing could stop Alistair when he wanted to talk. Even with his back turned, Cullen felt him jauntily lean up against the freight, the king's elbow slipping through the slots as he picked at the lantern.

"Lanny ever tell you about her family?"

Unable to stop himself, Cullen's head snapped up and he turned to face down the man, but Alistair bore that same curious puppy look even Honor was above using. "What of them?" Cullen settled for.

"I was just thinking, after the thing Isabela said about...you know. Awkward." He waved his hand in the air as if that would break apart the tension instead of increase it. Cullen felt even more exposed than his naked chest watching the king of Ferelden loiter around shirtless as if he didn't have a care in the world. He'd been told kings grew doughy after time on the throne, they had little reason to remain in shape so settled for stout, showing the nation that it was a safe and secure time to grow fat on luxury. He'd been grossly lied to.

"Your point," Cullen prompted wishing he had a spare shirt that wasn't sopping wet.

"Just something I heard once. The funny thing about Lanny's family is they run one of two ways. Either that lithe, svelte package like her, or scary hulking muscle like Hawke. That's pretty much it in the Amell line, tiny and terrifying or huge and terrifying. And her father is the former. I swear, the first time I saw him I thought he was a shaved bear that could talk and wear pants. Man crushed my hand in the palm of his massive paw for what was a friendly greeting. I asked Lanny if they had any qunari in their blood."

Cullen tried to keep his face blank as his mind raced. She'd never mentioned any of her family to him beyond a cursory fact they existed. "You met him?"

"Yeah, met them all after..." The king bit down on his lip and then glanced up at the ceiling, "Lanny and I, well, I owed her for something and she needed help. After the blight was done and she settled in as Arlessa she got curious about her family. I couldn't blame her, really, getting back to the roots and all. A few letters were exchanged and then it was off on a boat trip to visit them. But, she asked me to come along."

"When she was an Arlessa," Cullen clarified for himself. She never explicitly went into her timeline with Alistair but he knew they sundered before the blight ended.

"Yeah..." Alistair nodded, then he threw his hands out, "friends and all, so...no messing around or that. Like I said, she did the same for me so I was happy to be there for her. She didn't have anyone else."

That stung Cullen deep in his heart even if he'd been in no state to change that fact while serving in Kirkwall. "Let me guess, the family was either unimpressed and wanted nothing to do with her, or intended to mooch off the hero of Ferelden and her newfound power."

"No, it was weirder than that. They were polite. Stayed there for three days, drank enough lemonade it's a wonder my eyes didn't turn yellow. All 'It's nice to see you again after nearly twenty years, dear. How are your studies?' If they'd screamed for her to get away, or tried to weasel a hundred sovereigns out of her, I doubt Lanny would have minded, but it was the cold and polite distance that struck her as if she was some fancy Duchess that dropped by for a place to stay. They were too afraid to kick out someone who killed an archdemon. Scared shitless of their own daughter because she had power, a different kind of power than when she left. She, uh, she never went back and I don't think they ever tried to contact her again."

"Did you have a point, or..."

"Ah right, I was thinking of her father, like I said huge guy that could crack coconuts with his fist and shoulders that barely fit through the door. Just, kinda funny."

"What is?" Cullen wanted to turn away and hide in his hammock until the man went away, but it would be impolite to do that to a king. He also doubted Alistair would leave him alone.

"They say women tend to go for someone like their father, but..."

Cullen twisted away before the king could see the anger burning in his eyes. People spoke of having a type, sure, that they'd enjoy blondes over brunettes, or voluptuous to slim. He never dwelled long upon what he shared in common with the king of Ferelden, physically or otherwise, until a year after Lana die...was lost in the fade. It was when he walked past a portrait of the man looking constipated while standing in a field that it struck Cullen. For a brief second he feared he was staring in a mirror and not a painting.

"You really enjoy twisting that knife, don't you?"

"What?" the king's haphazard smile slipped away.

Chewing through a thousand painful curses in his brain, Cullen rounded on him to have out what'd been haunting him for two years. "Why bring me along? I cannot understand it. If your endgame is to... why you feel you must drag up your affiliations with Lana every moment to prove you knew her. Yes, I am aware. And if your plan is to, if you want to..." He wanted to shout at him, to thunder that whatever the king's machinations were they would fail. Assuming they found Lana, and assuming she was alive and in a healthy mental state, two years had passed. What were the chances she would have any use for the man who broke her heart? What were the chances she'd have any use for the one she left behind? Cullen's fists folded up at that thought. His string of hope stretched thinner every day; he had no idea what he'd do if it ever snapped.

"Okay," Alistair held both hands up as if afraid Cullen would swing at him, "lot of assumptions in there, I think. My plan, if it could be called that, is to find her. That's it."

Cullen rolled his eyes into a glower at the king. In any other part of thedas it'd put him on execution row, but Alistair only shrunk from it. "You must think I am an easily bamboozled idiot, that you've moved past her and have no ill intentions."

"Can I vote on the idiot part?"

"If you do not care for her," Cullen released his fists and sneered past the king's shoulder, unable to stare into those similar eyes, "then why did you take everything she'd ever owned and lock it away in your palace? As if you had any right to her possessions. They were not yours." _She wasn't yours._

"To keep her belongings safe. Because the idea of some snot faced rich twat with more coin than brains owning one of her staves, or robes, or even a quill off the Hero of Ferelden makes me see red and then yell at a few walls because it gets expensive patching them. I made sure to collect all of Lanny's things in one place, one public place, so they all knew anything sold as a 'genuine relic of the Hero of Ferelden' was full of shit."

"That..." Cullen swallowed hard against the bolus of rage festering in his throat. "I didn't realize."

"And rather than have all her things shoved off in some attic in Fort Drakon, I put it on display so all of Ferelden has a reason to want to do what's best for her. To keep her safe -- her things, I mean -- her memory," Alistair's voice drifted away as he shuffled his bare feet around the deck. A sorrow twisted down that eternal smile and, for the first time since they began this journey, Cullen saw the traces of two years of mourning mar the king's face. "Besides," Alistair shook his head, knocking away the pain, "once we find her, she can have all her stuff back. There are enough books to crush a mountain, by the way."

"You kept everything of hers despite her ordering you out of her life," Cullen spoke softly, unable to let the hurt go.

"Sorry, I was thinking kingly at the time with lots of orders and commands and scepter waving. Figured there needed to be decisions made fast before the grave robbers moved in. Lanny, she..." he shrugged his nude shoulder, "she wasn't the type to kiss and tell much. I had no idea that she'd found someone else until nearly a year ago."

"And I am to believe that?"

Alistair shrugged, unimpressed with the threat in Cullen's voice. "It was Divine Victoria who told me so if you can't believe her, you might as well give up on Andraste herself. Leliana said that, uh," he coughed and spat the next part out quickly, "Lanny was in love with you."

He couldn't know the truth of it. Cullen repeated that a few times to himself to keep from smashing his fist against the king's smug face. Alistair had her love, her whole heart, and he crushed it twice. All she could manage to give Cullen was a possible promise, one she failed to keep. Even after knowing that she didn't love him, knowing she went to her death with a darkness in her mind, Cullen couldn't stop. He sure as hell couldn't move on. Ten years of loving someone didn't vanish in the night.

"She was wrong," Cullen whispered to himself. Alistair blinked a few times from the confession and shook his head, either taking it as humility or denial. "Is that why I am here? Your way to apologize to her?"

"Sure, why not," Alistair threw his arms up and stamped around in a circle, "Maker's breath, you do go on, don't you? _What's your real motivation? I don't believe you! I know you're lying. Swear to me!_ I bet you regularly shout 'I work alone' to your soldiers."

"And you regularly obfuscate with jokes and misdirection."

Alistair reared back from his sloppy impression of Cullen brooding on a rooftop. "That's a big word. Maybe, just maybe I figured I needed help and thought who out of all of thedas could I trust to have Lanny's best interests in heart? How about that templar she was sniffing around."

"I am no longer a templar," Cullen rounded upon him, exhausted from having to defend himself. Three years since he'd been freed of the lyrium, nearly five if one included when he abandoned the order after Kirkwall's circle fell. He was not the man he'd once been.

"But you were not just any templar, either. You wanted all of Kinloch purged, had a real hate for mages. Thought I forgot about it, didn't you? It's all right, most people think I'm an idiot."

"Most people are wise," Cullen muttered while digging his arms across his chest. This was his worst nightmare come true. Lana remembering how he reacted after she saved him in the tower stung his heart; this man doing it mashed his brain into a raging headache.

"And the stories of you out of Kirkwall, burning mage's minds, killing 'em outright, they'd turn some of the chantry sisters grey."

"I..." it was true, all of it. He'd carried such a hatred for mages that no one should have forgiven him, should have trusted him. But Lana did. Against all sense, she listened to his sins and then she absolved him. More than absolved, she told him she understood.

"Lanny, she... She can make her own decisions in life. Love you, not love you, whatever. That's her business, but... Maker does that woman have a blindspot for templars. You'd think a mage would go the opposite way, but not her, and it nearly..." Alistair lapsed into silence and he glared through Cullen as if he could peer into his skull and wiggle out all his secrets. "After Amaranthine fell, some of the chantry weren't happy to have a mage sitting pretty on the Vigil's throne. So, a few of the sisters got themselves a few templars and planned to teach her a lesson."

"They were going to kill her?" She'd spoken of assassins with the same lackadaisical response Lana had to every threat to her person but she never went into detail.

Alistair shook his head, a sneer obliterating his smile now. "No, no, they weren't going to kill her, they were going to do much worse." Rolling his hand into a fist, he pressed it against his forehead and made a sizzling sound. "Leave behind the soulless puppet as a warning or something. But she was in such a state after the city fell, after saving as many as she could but not everyone, I was afraid she'd let them do it out of her Andrastian guilt. Like I said, templars are her blindspot." His slipped his eyes shut and a voice that commanded countries spoke, "Know that if you have any intentions of labeling her a blood mage or...or branding her, you'll have me to answer to."

He hadn't thought of what they might find at the end of this. Cullen was scared to even draw upon the idea of her being alive and safe. But two years in the fade, physically inside of it... What toll would that have upon her? He'd not entertained the notion, but the king had and seemed prepared to fight for whatever piece of Lana remained. Was Cullen?

Nodding his head, Cullen slipped away from the man, "Understood."

CHAPTER SIX

Memory-Branding

_9:33 Denerim_

Denerim hadn't been this fancied up since the last time someone convinced him they needed to have a party or there'd be revolts in the gilded bath houses. Banners of silver and blue decorated the path along the main road; with miniature flags jammed into every windowsill, flower pot, and unclaimed bread roll. He hadn't meant for it to go so overboard, but Alistair wasn't a party planning type and mentioning the idea to Isolde led to a flurry of activity that he ran scared from. He had bigger problems anyway.

"Why am I here?" she asked. Despite the invitation stressing so fancy you'll probably be buried in it attire, Lanny wadded the suggestion up, set it on fire, spat on the ashes, and wore her usual robes. They were clean this time, not even a speck of blood along the sleeves. Either she took the chance to launder them before attending, or the crown's attempts to clear up the roads were working.

"Because this is a party in your honor," Alistair answered. He should have been enjoying the rare moment of her in his arms swaying to the frilly music Isolde chose, even if it was with enough distance between them to let a boat through, but Alistair had other matters on his mind. His eyes kept hunting around the edges of velvet and silk ringing the dance floor searching for the signal. The rest of the dancers were polite enough to move out of the way of the distracted king lest he trample over them. More than a few skirt hems trailed off his boots.

"Why is there a party in my honor?" Lanny tried again. She was growing her hair out, already it was past her shoulders and expanding like a dandelion about to seed.

"Because people like to party," Alistair countered with. They were here, he knew it. When the Dark Wolf approached him he thought it was a joke. He remembered Lanny's little forays into larceny as a small joke against the gentry, though she was nimbler with her fingers than he'd have thought. Okay, maybe not as surprising, in retrospect. But the clearly elf-sized man in full armor interrupting his breakfast was not Lanny baring her underworld title. When the Dark Wolf revealed a list of names, Alistair stopped joking about tossing the man to the vengeful granddaughters.

"And we are back to the crux of the argument," Lanny continued. She folded her arms above her head to follow with some dance pattern even Alistair barely knew as the rest of the floor stumbled to mimic. They were quite the pair, like a bird trying to teach a rock how to swim. Neither cared about the steps for the dances, but they both had to fake it. "Why am I here? You could have hosted this for any other reason beyond we have a Hero. I hear cherry blossoms are popular. People would've drank in their honor."

"It's late fall," he turned to her fully now, breaking from his hunt for the conspirators moving through the crowd. Even with her lips pursed in annoyance, her eyes rolling upward at an impressive rate, and a swipe of accidental candle ash for rouge she was the most breathtaking woman in the room.

Lanny shrugged, "All the more reason to toast to them. Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

Maker was that true. He hadn't seen her since she'd begun her work as the Warden Commander. Even then, she'd been less than ecstatic to have him "stop by" and "check up on her" one time. They'd written, especially after the fall of Amaranthine, after months her letters slipping away from the cold distance of politics into her warm cadence as she informed him of her days struggling with things only Alistair would understand. The Arlessa visited Denerim to request aid, but this was the first sighting of Lanny he'd had in over a year and a half. It was good to have her back, and Andraste take pity on anyone who thought to take her away.

"Planning new holidays for Ferelden? I could give you my calendar to spice up," Alistair smiled, his eyes back to digging through the crowd.

"No thank you, I have my own mess to..." Lanny's words faded away and she whipped her head around. "Is that Zevran? By flames, it is. Zevran!" She shouted, waving to the elf who was supposed to be working through the crowds anonymously.

He perked up from within a circle of nobility, his blonde hair shining by the chandelier light, and the assassin slid into the middle of the dancers. "Why you look enchanting as ever, my dear warden. Have you done something with your hair or does the slaughtering of darkspawn make it grow so lush? If so, I may need to accompany you into those deep roads again."

Zevran's compliments splattered against Lanny's wall. She yanked her hands off of Alistair's back and eyed up the elf. "Maker's breath, what are you doing here?"

"Me? What am I..." His eyes only darted to the king for a second before he turned fully to Lanny, staring at her as if she was the only woman in the room - which was true to Alistair. "Why, we Antivans love nothing more than an excuse to celebrate, of course. Wine, women, dancing, sometimes at the same time if you're rather limber and don't mind a bit of drink going up your nose. They're the Antivan pastime. "

"Don't you have _something_ you need to be _doing_ , Zevran?" Alistair failed to fall into the assassin's smooth cover story. His skin itched under the surface where no powder would reach. He needed to do something, anything -- even having Lanny close, knowing they'd have to go through him to catch her still put him off. He'd been a jittering, nervous wreck the hours before this little game began. When he had to put his shoes on for the party, he jammed them on the wrong feet five times. Eventually, a servant took pity and double laced them just in case. It was a wonder they didn't pin mittens to his shirt as well.

"Ah..." Zevran nodded at the king then wrapped his hands around Lanny's. She didn't yank them away but she had _that_ look on her face. The one that said she knew she was being messed with but would wait to see where it was going before things caught on fire. "Forgive me, my dear. The king and I need to discuss a matter first."

"I know you're both up to something," she said.

"Me? Why I am the perfect picture of innocence," Zevran insisted as he batted those massive elven eyes. "King man, if you please..." he gestured his head towards a sidebar and Alistair followed. Lanny stood in the middle of the dance floor uncertain if she should leave as the guest of honor or keep swaying without a partner.

"Tell me you have good news," Alistair whispered near the elf.

"Yes and also not entirely. Oh, do not make that face, you'll grow wrinkles. We moved on the Sister's location. She thought she could conceal it behind a bookcase lever. You Fereldens are so delightfully simple."

"Zevran, the point," Alistair hissed. He didn't have time for the elf to show off, he needed to know she was safe from them.

"My people infiltrated the chamber and confiscated that branding iron of theirs. I'm not sure what the point of it was. If they wanted to drive information from her, you can do much more with splinters of wood hammered under fingernails. All you get off an iron is a fascinating new scar."

The elf whimsically spoke of his own opinion on torture, but Alistair couldn't hear it, didn't care. When the Dark Wolf told him what the conspirators intended to do to Lanny, rage boiled through his soul. He'd only felt the same level bubbling in his blood before, and everyone knew better than to even whisper Loghain's name near him. It wasn't enough that they kill her, oh no, they wanted to send a message to all mages. _If you dare to use your powers to help people, to save them, to make the decisions that others won't... If you do something they don't approve of, then they'll burn away your soul and leave only the empty husk tossed upon the throne ready to obey orders from anyone who gives them._ "Where are they?"

"...And of course the rack provides, uh, what?"

"Where are they? The Sister, her templars, the...the ones who were going to perform the rite?"

Perhaps the elf finally spotted that Alistair was not in his usual hearty mood. A vein he'd been noticing in the morning mirror bulged off his forehead and he clawed at the hem of his garment as if it was made of straw dragging across his skin. Instead of responding with a cheeky bon mot, Zevran tipped his head. "They are taken care of, though the Sister demanded clemency."

"Of course she did," Alistair growled. Despite her being the ringleader behind the whole disgusting idea, he knew she'd cling to her cloth the second things turned on her. He could have ordered the assassins to ignore it. Zevran being religious when it suited him might have argued but he had a soft spot for Lanny as well and could have been talked into it. What stayed Alistair's hand was...he didn't even know. At the moment he wanted to kick the Sister off a mountain.

Zevran waved his hand to cut through the king's red haze, "There is a problem, however. A couple of her templars slipped out of the back while we were embroiled."

"What?!"

"We think they came here to try and finish the job," now Zevran's eyes slipped through the crowd growing even more menacing than before. Alistair wasn't stupid, no one wore those creepy orlesian masks to obscure their faces. But far too many of the nobby ones showed up tonight; hidden somewhere amongst all the gentry in Ferelden were a couple of snakes.

"Andraste's flames," Alistair cursed. "Okay, I'll hunt for them." The assassin eyed him up in disbelief, but Alistair waved it away. "You get out there and dance with Lanny."

"I take it she is still unaware," Zevran spoke carefully. The king bobbed his head back and forth already having the same argument in his head. Yes, telling her would be wiser so she could prepare herself should they fail. It made the most sense to not keep it from her. But Zevran didn't read the guilt in her letters, the grief from her choice in Amaranthine. Lanny was many things, but heartless was far from it. Other people could sleep at night after having to burn the city to save what they could. They'd understand that old idiom about cracking chickens to make breakfast. Lanny however was...he wasn't about to give her the option. She was strong, and Alistair needed to believe in that.

"I'll find the templars," Alistair repeated, then waved his hand towards the woman still standing in the midst of dancers doing her best to look uncomfortable and out of place.

"As if you need to tell me twice." Smooth as a still pond, Zevran slipped through the crowd. His hand cupped around Lanny's waist, while another picked up her arm. "I believe you owe me a dance," he cooed, his eyes only on her.

"Do I now? You know I'll figure out what you two are playing at," Lanny spoke loud enough for Alistair to hear.

Whatever Zevran responded with, and it was probably dirty, faded into the voices of the guests as Alistair merged into the crowd. He should have sent Zevran. People looked past an elf, even one dressed all in green leather and glittering with knives. It was a little harder to disguise the king of Ferelden even without the damn crown on. But Alistair needed to hit something, anything and he was afraid if he didn't take his anger out on the one's coming to hurt Lanny, he'd turn it on some noble bragging about his golden socks which would lead to a headache and possible war down the line.

_Your Majesties_ , and _Highness_ followed in his wake as he shoved through the crowds. Alistair murmured something about the snack tray being good and that people should try the pickles. That got a few confused looks, but he didn't care as they turned in obedience to find these mythical pickles. Everyone already thought their king a fool, might as well cement it. He had to find them before they could get to her, even if his plan was madness. With what felt like half of Ferelden crammed into the great hall, discovering two secret templars was like looking for a well dressed needle in a refined haystack. Whipping his head back and forth, Alistair tried screwing his eyes tight in the hopes it would somehow make the conspirators appear.

A smell drifted above the cloying perfumes and colognes of the lords and ladies crammed into a poorly ventilated dancehall while wearing heavy wool. He shouldn't know it, having never taken the stuff, but sometimes Lanny bore that same right-after-a-lightning-strike scent after she'd been casting up a storm. Lyrium, and someone took a ton of it for the smell to be powerful enough to overcome the cheese tray. Following his nose like a mabari, Alistair sniffed the air towards a dark haired man leaning against the back columns. He wasn't dressed in the templar armor, it'd be asking too much for them to walk about in their full skirts. But his eyes kept skittering around the edges, his arms folded against his chest as he failed to blend into the background, and a sword dangled upon his hip. When those calculating eyes turned away from the woman dancing with an elf, they landed upon the king baring down upon him.

"You...your majesty!" the man struggled to rise up to a salute and Alistair grinned internally.

"Hey, how about you come with me?"

"My lord?" he asked, the eyes drifting back to Lanny.

"I need to get away from the crowd for a second and I could use some backup if," Alistair jerked his head towards the rest, "the nobles get a bit rowdy. You never want to come between an Arl and his shrimp puff. Learned that the hard way."

"I, uh," the man had no excuse that could hold up to the king's request - that was the one good power of the crown. Even still, Alistair grabbed onto his arm and dug in with his fingers. He felt chainmail hidden beneath the emerald finery, cementing that he'd picked right.

"Come on, just a quick slip out the back." Dragging the man, Alistair stepped backwards through the columns into a short hallway that connected to another bustling room laden in smoke, a longer hallway, and finally an empty antechamber.

 The king released his hold on the man but kept an eye on him. "How are you liking the party? Festive enough for you?"

"It is quite grand," the templar said. His fingers twitched as if he ached to reach for his sword, but in the presence of royalty he knew better.

"I guess. We had a grander one a few months ago. Funny thing is, this wasn't even supposed to be fancy. Not like this anyway, with the fountains and shiny lights and ten lutists. Who needs ten lute players? I think we even have one of those turquoise chickens running around."

"Turquoise chi-? You mean the peacock," the templar said, then he grimaced at correcting the king. Alistair waved it away with a chuckle. He was known as a man of the people, someone who didn't shout 'off with his head' for speaking your mind. A real gentle soul.

Only the glimmer of lanterns from the distant party broke through the room far away from the festivities, firelight glancing upon their shoes. A sliver of the templar's eyes were visible in the stricken room, but they were unobtrusive and bored. He'd already written the king off.

Laughing again, Alistair gestured out the window, "Lovely night. You know what happened on this day three years ago?"

"No, sir," the man shook his head, staring out the same window. Stars pocked through the cloudless sky while a nearly full moon rose like the diva amongst a chorus. It was beautiful.

"Not a Maker damn thing," Alistair said. The templar turned towards him, finally sensing something amiss, but the king of the people, the simple one, smashed his fist against the man's jaw. A familiar ache radiated up Alistair's knuckles and a pang of nostalgia lapped over it. The templar's head snapped back from the unexpected blow. He tried to throw a fist in response, but the king easily dodged it. Wrapping a hand around the man's neck, Alistair held him still while he pounded his fist deeper and harder into the man's nose until he felt that old crack. Blood dribbled out of the broken nostrils pooling on the templar's ivory ruffles.

Even through the certain throbbing headache and hazy vision, the templar reached for his sword, but the king yanked it free first. "What are you...?" the templar cried. Then he gagged on his own blood dripping into his mouth.

Still smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world, Alistair inspected the templar's sword. It was a fine blade for a treasonous bastard. He'd had better of course, but there were perks to being a king. Alistair's knee smashed into the man's stomach and he barreled him against the wall, the sword's edge millimeters from the templar's throat. "Do you know why we threw this party? Why all of the Arls and Banns and -- I think even the Teryn is here -- got in their fanciest dancing shoes and trucked out here?"

The templar shook his head carefully, his eyes wide in terror. He went from not striking the king because of treason to realizing he couldn't strike the king because he wasn't good enough.

"We put all this on just for you, for your little conspirators," Alistair smiled watching the man's mouth slacken in shock. He wasn't supposed to know, no one was. They'd been working on it for months, scheming to try and take down the Arlessa of Amaranthine. But they forgot that Lanny had a habit of making friends, allies, people who really didn't want to see her harmed. People who loved her. "You came here to take her away, to..." Alistair shuddered at the idea burning in his soul, "but it's not going to happen. No one in the chantry, in the templars, in all of Ferelden will ever brand Lady Amell. Do you hear me? No one!"

Nodding in fear, the templar accidentally pushed his throat deeper into the sword's edge. He couldn't stop his adam's apple from knocking into the blade as he struggled to find any words to save himself.

"I trust you could tell them of this. Let all the rest of your conspirators know that she's protected beyond your reach."

Screwing up his eyes, the templar nodded again then risked speaking, "Of course, your majes-" He didn't finish his sentence as Alistair drew the blade clean across his throat slicing apart the vocal chords.

"Oh wait, they're already dead," the king stepped back, letting the blood soaked body flop to the floor. Crimson rivulets burst through the gaping wound to expand to a river seeping into the grout and across the stones. It was going to leave a hell of a mess to clean up. Alistair felt bad he didn't do it outside where the rain would help wash it away. Glancing around the room and making a mental note to mention it to Eamon or Teagan so they could send for someone to keep everyone else out, Alistair moved to throw the sword away. He paused and stared at the blade -- the sword of the templars, the chantry, the same one he'd nearly picked up before Duncan saved him. Even in the earliest hours of morn, when his traitorous thoughts kept him pacing through the halls like a forlorn ghost, he knew in his heart he never could have done it. He'd have lasted a week at most in the circle before the first failed harrowing or rite of tranquility sent him running from the tower. To think that Lanny and the rest of them suffered under that constant threat turned his stomach. She deserved better, they deserved better.

Without even wiping the blade off, Alistair stomped through the darkened hallways towards the light of the dance. There was still one more templar remaining and then they could put this behind them. Have a laugh. Maybe some hot cocoa to finish off the night. He barely closed the door when an elf grabbed onto his arm. "Sire, please, you must listen to me," she begged.

"Okay," he said, already planning on it.

"I am with Zevran's company." That drew Alistair's full attention. "There is a problem in the courtyard beyond," her finger pointed through the doors to the garden area where a hundred people stood in the way.

"Where's your boss?" Alistair shouted too loudly. A handful of nobles glanced towards the man, curious from his outburst. Then their aristocratic gaze noticed the glare in his eye, the rise of his shoulders as he panted from a physical struggle, and blood dripping off his knuckles across the hilt of the sword in his hand. In one breath, they widened away from the king who looked like he'd begun his own revolution in the palace.

"I don't know, Sire," the elf bobbed again.

"He was supposed to be guarding..." Alistair drew down his volume and hissed in the assassin's ear, "her."

"She disengaged and ventured into the courtyard when someone called for her attention."

_Oh no._ Alistair didn't realize he began running until he smashed through a side table, dooming a dozen canapés to death. Everyone scattered out of his way, their gilded heels churning through salmon tartar to escape his bullrush. _No_ , Alistair shook his head manically while looking even more like the mad king. _He had to get to her in time. Had to..._

His fingers missed in trying to open the handle onto the veranda, but Alistair's body was on a collision course and there was no stopping him. Throwing his shoulder into the door, the glass popped open without shattering. _Lanny was here, but blighted where?_ Another hundred plus people decided moving outside was a brilliant idea. Despite not being lacking in stature, Alistair couldn't see her around the piles of dead rats and birds shoved in people's hair. He tried hopping up higher, doing a dead jump from his knees and scanning in every direction for her, but there was nothing but more wide dresses and wider lapels. As if by decree of the Maker, for a brief moment all the chattering small talk died away at once. Through that gap he heard it, Lanny's polite chuckle.

Whipping towards the sound and shouldering away frilled up collars and feathered shoulders, he spotted a burst of Lanny's dark hair flanking the sides of a man eclipsing her. He easily loomed over her, his body blocking off Alistair's view of the woman he had to protect. Summoning up his best 'I'm a king, get out of my way,' walk, he sauntered over to them, shoving ladies and gentlemen out of the way with a flick of his stolen sword. Lanny's dulcet voice carried just below the drum of conversation, almost beyond range, but it was hers. He'd know it anywhere. He could still hear it in his dreams.

_No._ A sucked in breath reverberated in the night air -- the sound of someone struggling to breathe from the shock of a blade slipping through ribs, blood pouring down their sides taking life with it. Alistair stopped playing nice. Barreling down with all the force of a man trained to be on the front line, he threw apart the nobles now crowding around Lanny. Like dogs, they sensed something was wrong but were only useful at getting in the damn way. He couldn't see her, she was still eclipsed by the templar come to kill her, the one Alistair should have warned her about so she could save herself. _She was good at that, for Andraste's sake. He should have told her, trusted her. Oh Maker, let there be time. Just let him get to her before he..._

A halo of starlight landed upon the pair of them, Lanny and a brooding, imposing man, standing apart from the rest were flanked only by a ring of stone planters. They looked to be locked in a strange embrace, their hands knotted together beside their stomachs. Blood dribbled down their conjoined chests, pooling at the bottom of their feet like scarlet rain. _Andraste, no. How could he be too late?_ Alistair grabbed onto the templar's shoulders, prepared to slice his throat the same as the other, when the man's body fell limp against him. He slipped to the side and watched the body smack into the ground, the crimson blood blooming across his chest where a gaping hole struck through, the templar's final air wheezing out.

"I take it that was the assassin Zevran was looking for," Lanny said calmly. _She wasn't hurt, by the Maker's grace she was okay._ The templar's own dagger undulated in her fingers while she watched the man who tried to kill her bleed to death at her feet.

"Are you, what happened?" Alistair stammered. He grabbed onto her shoulders as if attempting to calm her down, but it was he who needed it, maybe to be a slapped a few times as well.

"The man asked for my attention. I gave it. He attempted to attack me with this," Lanny extended the dagger also bearing the templar hilt, "but was rather surprised when it bounced against my barrier. Which I've had up all night seeing as how _someone_ didn't want to let me in on the plan."

"You knew..." Alistair swallowed. Steeling himself for the tongue lashing he deserved, Lanny only crinkled up her face and sighed.

"I suspected. There have been murmurs of late and..." she wiped her slick forehead, dabbing it with the dead man's blood. "I think you were right, it's time I collect my phylactery from the chantry," she said.

"Okay," Alistair held her free hand, terrified if he let it go she'd vanish, he'd lose her to the templars or worse, "in the morning we'll go to the Grand Cleric and..."

"No," Lanny interrupted. She grabbed onto the sword he stole off the templar and brought it up to her face along with the dagger. "We do it now, in the middle of the night, templar blood fresh upon us, while brandishing their own assassin's weapons. I'll not be a pawn in the chantry's game any longer."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bathing

_?:?? ?_

Lana's fingers parted through the still pond as she spooned a scoopful of water across her arms, her chest leaning off the edge while her hip dug into the stone ground. Without soap, the best she could do was try and scrape the grime off with her nails. Despite the waterfall thundering upwards in the distance, the pond sat still. A green sheen drifted around the edges, not from any algae lurking under the surface or reflecting the sickly sky waiting for a storm to break that would never come. If she twisted her wet hand she could watch the water shimmer like the scales of a verdant fish. Which would probably be some kind of warning to anyone not in the fade, but she couldn't afford to be picky. After five sleeps and two obliterated spiders she needed the wash.

"Are you going to keep looking at me?" she asked aloud. Having only one change of clothes that everyday marched quicker to their own grave, she never fully undressed. They required a clean as much as she did, so why not kill two pride demons with one fireball? Despite being fully covered and spirits not having a sense of modesty, it unnerved her to feel Jowan's eyes focusing upon her as she wet her skin.

"It's not like I have anything else to do, thanks to you," he pouted. He always pouted. There were some aspects the spirit got wrong about Jowan, but that mealy mouth was dead on.

"You're not getting into my mind," Lana sighed, alighting their old argument. In the distance, Nathaniel stood guard -- not that he could do much beyond shouting for help, but it made him happy. It happy. Maker, she was going balmy in here. It'd been too long since she'd seen the third one. It would be nice to have someone to talk to who wasn't going to salute after every sentence or question her every decision.

Sliding a leg into the water and watching it glisten a green as haunting as the fade rifts, Lana wished she had just a sliver of soap. She'd tried everything, even attempted to make her own with the fat off a pride demon's corpse, but that was the most unholy smell she'd ever suffered. Demon rendered lard wasn't going to be on anyone's menu.

As the water licked up her skin, almost as warm as a person's touch, she shuddered. No, it wasn't really soap she wanted. She leapt both legs into the pond, the water sliding up to her thighs. The pond barely shifted from her weight, whatever magic pressed in on this place held it firm and taut. Trailing her fingers against the glass water, Lana stepped deeper into it while her mind slipped back to where it shouldn't.

She expected to have to knock upon the Commander's door but it was thrown wide open allowing all of his minions free range of the place. One of the soldiers leaned over his desk, adding more papers to a pile threatening to topple onto the floor. The soldier's face glanced up and she lifted an eyebrow at the interloping mage.

"I was looking for Commander Cullen," Lana said shifting up and down on her toes. She felt foolish, the sun barely broke the jagged horizon and she had no viable reason to be visiting him at all, much less this early in the morning.

If the soldier could read her mind, she gave no indication to try and stop her. Instead she gestured upward, "He's in his loft."

"Thank you, uh..."

"Addley," the woman smiled.

"Right. Thank you, Addley," Lana bobbed her head in thanks and began the climb up his ladder. _Maker's breath, when he picked this room was he trying for the most awkward quarters imaginable?_ It was one thing to keep near the heart of action - even her rooms in the Vigil sat over the throne room with a view of the courtyard - but this was preposterous. What if he was injured and couldn't climb the ladder? Would he have to sleep on his desk? Maker, he probably would, and wouldn't even complain about it.

Prodding her head up through the hole, she spied the man's bed rumpled beyond regulations, the duvet trailing onto the ground from a man dragging it off him as he rose. Hm, seemed templars could get away with leaving their beds unmade but mages had to make it tight corners every morning. How unfair. Carefully sliding out of the hole, Lana steadied herself on the sloping floor then turned to find Cullen leaning near a mirror with a blade in his hand.

She'd had two to one odds with Hawke that he never actually shaved. Perhaps some old elvhen blood in his line kept the scruff from ever growing beyond its first quarter inch, but there he was shirtless, yanking down on his top lip to scrape his hair away with the dull edge. Cullen hissed when the blade skittered down his cheek, red dots rising in the wake from terrible razor burn. Screwing his eyes tight, he placed the blade back in its box and grabbed up a cloth to dab away the loose hair and blood. Judging by the way he sneered but didn't flinch this probably happened often.

Lana went from amused to blushing awkward as the time stretched on without him realizing she stood behind. Surely he'd turn around from his mirror and spot her, or he'd catch sight of her in the very mirror. But the commander must have been lost in thought as he never once turned to find her. Maybe she should have waited downstairs with Addley. After finishing with the razor, and stopping the blood, he dipped his cloth into the brass water basin perched on his end table. Water dribbled off his shoulder as he squeezed the cloth against it, rivulets canvassing every delectable curve of the muscles down his back. There were numerous good things to be said about the front of a man, for obvious reasons, but something in the play of shoulder muscle undulating with each move and the long canyon running the length of his spine until it disappeared into his pants and parts there of shut off the thinking center of Lana's brain. Abs were nice, in the right dose, and a chest of course for laying a head upon, but Maker did she love a good backside, perfect for gripping onto and curving the palm of her hand against while the straining muscles played against it. Few were blessed with the right combination, but the commander had it in spades.

Perhaps he finally sensed a presence behind him, or more likely he heard her struggling to keep in a sigh from water highlighting each taut curve of his body. The cloth paused in the basin and Cullen glanced over his shoulder at her. Surprise twisted his tongue giving Lana time to jump in.

"Good morning," she said.

"Uh, morning to you as well. I, were we planning on...? I don't remember if there was an idea to," Cullen stuttered around the confusion.

Smiling, Lana stepped closer to him. He still had his back turned to her, but his neck strained to keep focus upon her until she leaned beside him, her hip brushing against the table. "No, there was no plan. I," absently Lana picked up the abandoned cloth and splashed it in the basin, "I wished to see you."

"Oh," now the blush rose up his cheeks, his lips parting with a soft laugh, "I'm, it's nice to see you, too. Assuming it's nice to see me as well."

After wringing the saturated cloth out, Lana pressed it against the middle of Cullen's back, right in the area he couldn't reach. His eyes slipped closed as she stroked downward tracing the bends of his muscles she wished to follow with her lips instead. "I am surprised at you. The commander of the Inquisition reduced to taking a spitz bath."

He chuckled at her summation of his morning toilet while she soaked up more of the lukewarm water. A part of her was shocked it was even that warm; he struck her as a 'crack the ice off the bucket in the morning and wash with that' type.

"Surely someone of your lofted position can afford a claw footed tub and gallons of piping hot water," Lana continued. She placed one hand upon his chest for balance while the other wiped down his side. Below her fingers, the throb of his heartbeat thumped in an increasing allegro. Despite the morning mountain air, his naked skin was warm and inviting, tempting her to place her entire chest against his.

Cullen glanced down at her hand, but his arms remained dangling at the side, uncertain what to do. Even she had no idea what her endgame was beyond getting him clean. "Someone in my position can ill afford to waste time boiling away in a bathtub," he sighed, but there was no bitterness in his words, as if he had little use for a tub. Instead, he whispered it softly to her, his breath pushing into her hair.

"Come now, given the choice between cold water and a lone washcloth versus a hot bathtub and," she paused in her scrubbing to lean back and catch his eye, "someone to bathe with, would you really pick this?"

"Depends on who I'm sharing it with," he smiled with the curve of his lips that both curled her toes and broke her heart. Cullen was never the light hearted grinner that...others were -- his smiles came at great cost, which made them rarer and more precious. A bit like a butterfly that only lived for a few weeks before the golden wings shattered against the ground. The laugh was one thing, a quick bray that he pushed out for the sake of solidarity or because something caught his fancy. But that grin, that 'you reached my soul and I have no idea how to respond beyond this smile' touched her every time she saw it. A forgotten part of her never wanted it to end.

Releasing the washcloth in the basin, Lana slid around to face him. Her butt gently knocked into the mirror, but he was focused only on the woman placing her hands upon his chest and pushing up on her tiptoes, lips searching for his. She'd been dreaming of these kisses for nights now; when not hearing the archdemon chittering in her brain, at least. How he'd soften his lips from their tight strain whenever she'd press against him. Almost as if his armor melted at her touch, exposing for a brief moment the man beneath it all. That was what she wanted, yearned to have again just like in the Deep Roads.

Cullen's hand cupped her jaw, those strong fingers pressing gently into her cheek. He pulled her closer to deepen the kiss, his other arm wrapping around her back while Lana slid her hands around his neck to steady herself. Then the sound of a door knocking back on its hinges brought them both back to reality. There was all of Skyhold wandering in and out only a ladder's jump away.

He broke the kiss, but didn't slip away. Instead, he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, "There's talk that the Hero of Ferelden will be attending a ball at the Winter Palace."

"Interesting," Lana said. So close she could see the damage he did to his cheek with the razor. She flinched from the specks still welling in a raging scarlet. Softly, her fingers trailed down the razor burn leaving a hint of healing magic in their wake. Nothing near as impressive as curing a broken leg, this was more like a dab of lotion upon a sunburn. "You think she'll show up dressed like a griffin? Or, perhaps she'd roll in on a cart drawn by darkspawn."

Cullen smirked and his fingers caught hers as they finished the spell. Already the welts were vanishing away leaving only poorly scraped stubble behind. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"I know," she said, her vision drifting from his panting lips up to those honey eyes. They rested downward themselves, only a hint of that amber color evident below his concerned brow. "But if it will help..."

"Are you certain you're up to it?" His hands didn't move towards her wound, but she understood.

"I'm as on the mend as I'll ever be. Don't worry, Cullen," she splayed her fingers against his soothed cheek, "I can handle myself." Leaning forward, she cupped her lips around his for another kiss. A curious hint of mint lingered on his tongue that hadn't been there before her spell.

"I know you are more than capable, even when injured." He breathed into her ear, "I only thought you would prefer to gnaw your own leg off than have to face down a room full of orlesian nobility."

Lana threw her head back and laughed, the mirth strong enough to jump to his face. His once doleful eyes sparkled in response as she curled up tighter in his arms. "You're sweet," she said, pecking against his cheek.

"Is that so?" he volleyed back, bearing a quirk to his lips.

"I've always thought it."

"Sweet is the last descriptor I'd have put towards me. As of late, at least," his eyes turned away from her, but she caught his cheek and tried to pull him back.

"Cullen," Lana whispered, "I..." A thousand thoughts rattled in her head. She knew about the rigors of command, how it was easier to harden your flesh to armor than face the unending pain of loss as your people were inevitably struck down. That one could easily lose themselves to the distance and think that all remained was the steel shell. But by the Maker, she did not see that when she looked upon him. He cared, sometimes she feared for how much he did and the toll it carried.

Sighing, she let every thought slip through her fingers. She couldn't find a way to voice it beyond some claptrap about maintaining one's humanity in the face of adversity. Instead, she snuggled her head against his bare chest, his skin radiating against her cheek. "I thought you were sweet in the tower. Remember the, uh, nickname you had?"

"How could I forget?" he sighed but shook his head, a soft chuckle at the end.

"Well," her fingers trailed along his collarbone, following the swoop until it fell into the divot above sternum, "It was I who began it."

"Really?" he started, his eyes trying to pry her off his chest so he could study her for a falsehood, but Lana buried herself deeper, a blush rising up her cheeks. For the Maker's sake it was over ten years ago, but she couldn't stop the giddy embarrassment at getting called out for it, even if she did it to herself. "I'd thought it was one of the other templars trying to prod at me. But it was you all along? If I'd known..."

"Nothing would have changed," Lana whispered to his chest.

"That," despite the chill whispering through his loft, Cullen was an oasis of warmth. He clung tighter to her, his hands meeting behind her back, "that's true, sadly."

"Life's never been a straight line for me, not the way it's supposed to." She didn't mean to sound bitter. All things considered, she was damn lucky she still breathed.

"Lana, I..." he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, pulling her with him as he thought, "Whatever path the Maker's set for me, for you, I'm grateful you stumbled back into my life."

"Me too," she whispered, rising up to kiss him again.

Lana's eyes snapped awake and she smashed both fists through the water, splashing herself in the face. Unable to notice the water dripping in her eyes, her mind burned in rage as she rounded upon the spirit reclining on the water's edge. "You had no right to delve into my memories, Jowan!"

"What, me? What did I do?" he pointed at himself as if he was the wounded party.

"We have an arrangement. One I can easily end with your death," Lana flared her fist in ice and the spirit trembled at the threat.

"Hey, wait, hold on. That wasn't me. Cross my heart and please don't stab it. What could I even get from you and your templar shooting goo goo eyes at each other?"

That was true. There was nothing of his idiom inside that memory, certainly no reason for him to risk their tenuous deal for it. "No one else here reads my mind. Nathaniel only takes the scraps from yours and she doesn't need to bother."

Jowan knocked his slipper into the rock rising around the pond's edge and he sneered at her submerged feet. "Like I'd want a thing off you being with _him_. Don't you know he's the enemy? Same exact type of dead eyed murderers that killed me."

"Because you poisoned an Arl!" Lana shouted at him. "You had every opportunity to fix your mistake, but you just kept running."

"I did what I could to survive. For me, and for the woman I loved. But what would you know of that, Lana the pure, Lana the untouchable? Never crossed a rule, always kept herself in line. Dare not open herself up for fear of any of that dirty heartache stuff throwing off her life. No. And the one time I come to you, beg you to help me, what you do but go right to Irving and rat me out. I needed you and you abandoned me."

"You. Were. A. Blood. Mage!" she screamed, leaping up and down in the pond.

"Which I did because of you, to prove that I could be as good as you. If it weren't for you, I'd still be alive. Do you regret telling Irving?"

The spirit's spell broke over Lana and she shook her head. Massaging her forehead with her wet fingers, she whispered, "You're not really Jowan," a few times to herself. "If I hadn't told Irving about it, they'd still have found you, would have stopped you. But if I'd turned you down that day, then I wouldn't be stuck here in the fade."

"How's that?" Jowan asked, the spirit caught off guard by the sublimation of her anger.

"Duncan never would have recruited me and I'd never have become a grey warden, much less stopped a blight, and I'd never have assisted the Inquisition to wind up in here with you. That's the thing about regrets, sometimes they cut both ways."

Jowan didn't sneer from her jibe, instead he smiled wide, a new dawn rising upon his face. "You're right. I never thought about it that way. Excellent."

_Andraste's holy knickers_ , this was going to drive her mad, assuming she wasn't already. Talking to her dead friends, constantly reliving what pushed them to their limits for his own instinctual needs, and all so she didn't starve while walking the fade. Another thought chewed on the back of her mind. If it wasn't Jowan who plucked at her memory, then what did? They weren't like a daydream, or even a true dream. When the spirits or demons slipped into her head, every moment felt real, her memory almost wiped clean of whatever came after. She could cling to the fact she stood in the fade to keep her grounded but within some of them she didn't even want that, wishing she could fully lose herself to what used to be.

Lana waded through the pond to the shore, her mind churning up thoughts and none of them coming up good. Sensing a change in his food source and potential only friend, Jowan spoke up, "What is it?"

She grabbed up her pack, ignoring the fire where she'd intended to dry herself and her clothes for the not-night. "We need to find the other one. I have to ask her some questions."

"Oh great, because she's just a barrel of fun," Jowan moped, folding his arms in anger.

Lana ignored him. Picking up her staff, she turned to look into the sky. Hanging far too close than she liked was the Black City, always looming over her every step.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Faithful

_9:41 Skyhold_

He watched her thin fingers run the rim of the tea cup. She wouldn't drink it, or even acknowledge it, beyond circling the top as it cooled on his desk. The book Lana swiped off his shelves was proving far more interesting than a royal elfroot blend. Perched upon the edge of his desk with one leg off the ground, she'd been reading through it quietly while he was getting work done. Supposed to be getting work done. Every few lines, Cullen's gaze would travel up the slender arms calmly turning a page, fall into the gentle eyes lost in thought, and hunger for the succulent lips in a calculating pout. He'd accomplished barely a thing since she strolled into his office and he didn't care a whit about it.

Trying to ground himself, he reached for his own mug of tea and picked up the small goblet of milk. Why it was in a goblet was beyond his understanding aside from Josephine explaining, "There is a small dish problem that I am looking into. I suspect Sera is involved but haven't found the proof yet." Slopping a mess across the tray, Cullen managed to get a plop of milk into his mug.

"You're doing it wrong," Lana said, somehow watching him with her eyes still engrossed in the book.

"It's not my fault the glass doesn't have a spout," he said.

"Not that," she closed the book and placed it upon the desk. Spinning around, she placed a hand next to her own cup as she beamed those soulful eyes into him. "The milk. You add it first, then the tea. Everyone knows it."

"Why would I do that? What difference does it make?"

"What difference? All the difference in thedas," she threw her arms wide and hopped off the desk. Grabbing up the book, Lana moved towards the shelf to return it back where she found it. "By adding it first you ensure the perfect distribution of milk to tea, it doesn't sit there in a white blob on the surface."

"A problem which could be solved with a spoon," Cullen said. He stared at the white blob disseminating into the brown liquid in his mug. "What if I wanted to add more milk? I couldn't do it if the tea came after."

Lana pivoted on her hip and eyed him up, "You're over thirty, I'd think by now you'd know your preferred ratio of milk to tea." Her dead serious face didn't crack as she turned back to the shelf, her fingers drawing across his offerings as if hoping it had changed since she last looked.

The offended mug of tea sat idle as Cullen slipped away from his desk. His hands resting upon the sword, he stretched his neck. "Wouldn't adding the milk first scald it?"

"Oh, this old fallacy," she sighed, pinching her nose. "If you are drinking tea that warm, you clearly already despise your tongue and throat, and it doesn't matter what you do. Milk before tea, it's the only proper way to do it."

Running his tongue against his teeth, he gazed up at the ceiling. "This is the hill you intend to die upon, the proper addition of milk."

"I'm afraid so, Commander," she ruefully said, a trace of a smile breaking up her words. "The only solution to this impasse is a duel at dawn. Since you're the offended party, I'll let you have first choice of weapons."

Falling in behind her, Cullen slipped his hands around her waist to clasp tight to her stomach. Lana leaned back into him, her hair cushioning against his chest as she sighed. "I choose my arms," he whispered. To back up his claim, he increased his hug and bent his knees enough he could rest his chin upon her head. Whether it was her natural warmth or the sweet floral oils in her hair, peace curled through Cullen whenever he held her. Any dark or bitter thoughts vanished the moment she slipped into his arms, and when she'd touch his cheek or traipse her fingers through his hair, he'd dare to hope that for once in his life things would go well.

"I love you," he whispered. Contentment. That was what holding her was, like sliding into bliss personified. Happiness. _Maker, how did he find that?_

She twisted her head against him, then turned in his grip. Those deep brown eyes gazed up into his and she smiled. "That's cheating."

"I do what I must for the sake of tea drinkers who add milk later everywhere."

Lana chuckled then rose up on her toes to kiss him. Her lips wrapped around his, pressing them together in a hug of their own. It was an odd way to think about it, but that was her kiss as of late. Not the heated need to drag him off to a bed or blanket on the floor, but a gentle reminder that she was here and she was glad of it. He wished he could do the same for her, assure her that he had no intentions of ever turning away. Then his tongue would trip over itself, his mind would stutter to the usual smattering of un-words and he'd curl in on himself. At least he could kiss her.

Slipping away from him, Lana reached behind to pick up her tea cup. "Here," she tried to push it in his face. Reluctantly, he released his hold on her body and took it from her fingers. "At least try it. To see how much better it is." Taking a small sip, Cullen's face contorted. Lana sneered, "Oh, now you're being difficult."

"It's gone cold, nearly ice cold, in fact," he rushed to defend himself.

"Hm," she dipped her fingers under the porcelain cup and slipped her eyelids closed. He watched them flutter as she dug into the fade, her eyelashes as thick as a paintbrush. A silly part of him wanted to run his fingers over them to feel how soft they had to be. Opening her eyes quickly, Lana grinned, "There, it should be warm now."

Tipping the cup in thanks, Cullen brought it back to his lips.

Lana grabbed onto his wrist and shouted, "No, wait!" But she was too late. It only brushed against his bottom lip, but the burn was instantaneous, pain flaring across his flesh. He yanked the teacup away and less than gently tossed it onto the desk.

"Maker, I should have warned you. I'm so sorry," Lana rushed to apologize. "I...don't control it well, so they overheat and have to wait and... Is it bad? It's bad."

He tried to lick at the wound, but reared back from the attempt. The air itself bit into his burn but he hid away as much of the obvious pain as he could. Lana already felt bad enough from his own stupidity. Her entire face crumbled at the hurt she didn't mean to cause, hadn't planned on. Continuing to apologize, she blew on her thumb and placed it against his bottom lip.

Expecting it to sting, Cullen instinctively leaned back, but a cooling sensation radiated off her skin as if she turned her thumb into a block of ice. Gripping onto the back of her hand, he pressed her thumb tighter and her magic broke the burn.

"Heat I'm bad at, but cold I can handle," Lana explained. "Is that helping or...?"

Cullen nodded appreciatively, the burn already dissipated to little more than an annoyance. Gently, he nipped his lips against her thumb, savoring the chill melting into his mouth. A soft sigh reverberated in Lana's throat as he kissed her thumb. Moving downward, Cullen pressed his lips against every inch of her palm. When he reached her wrist, he grazed the thin skin with his teeth. Lana's body shuddered, her eyes tight as joy twisted up her lips.

"How..." her throaty voice strung against his own lustful heart, "can you still be hungry?" Lana's eyes opened and she chuckled while smiling at him.

Gripping around her waist, he brought his lips next to her ear. His warm breath tingled against her skin and she softly moaned. "It's not difficult when you're around," Cullen whispered.

"Only this morning we...Maker's breath, you're insatiable," she chided with her words while her body molded into his, her own fingers dipping lower to skim across the top of his backside.

_Yes, he was._ He'd kept himself aloof for so long, his libido locked away in his chest for the sake of his promise to chantry. To have it finally set loose like a caged animal turned him into a hormone addled young man all over again. He wasn't about to waste a second of it. Curling his fingers against her cheek, Cullen twisted up a strand of her errant hair and followed it down her buttery skin to rest upon her collarbone and that birthmark. "What of you? I believe it was your idea to 'skip the noon meal.'"

Lana laughed, her head thrown back, her cheeks stretched like apples in joy. She never fanned her flames in laughter, never dampened it down to a quiet smile. There was no pretense with her and he adored it. Still chuckling, she hopped up on her tiptoes and kissed him with that old fervor. Her tongue lapped against his bottom lip, pulling it into hers as she sucked upon it. Cullen's fingers dug into her hair, pulling the strands back the way she liked. Releasing her hold, she smiled into his eyes, "I never said I wasn't insatiable."

A knock broke against the door. Cullen shook his head, his nose crinkling up as the smell of salt and rotting fish rolled through the office. "Come back later," he shouted to the knocker, but it didn't stop them. The rapport continued louder, each beat thudding against his head, through his entire body. How was that even...

"Hey, wakey wakey now. We just struck land." The king of Ferelden filled Cullen's vision, the sight of Alistair's nose peeling from the sunburn inches away almost enough to turn his stomach. Not that the ship wasn't doing a wonderful job of it already.

Memories snapped back at him as he realized where he was and Cullen steadied his hand against the wall beside his hammock. But that was what he'd been in before, not a dream but an old memory. He and Lana had prodded each other about milk, he burned himself on the cup, and then they... Sorrow stirred in his heart from the bitter emptiness left behind after every dream he had about her. They felt so much stronger than his other dreams, sometimes even more so than the bad ones, as if the fade adored torturing him. Unless, Lana's being in the...

Cullen scrubbed his hands across his face, wiping away the thought. He rose carefully off the hammock, making certain to not smack his head on the low beams of the ship. Alistair already scampered off to do whatever he kept up to on the ship. Reaching for his shirt, Cullen slipped out of the hammock and tried to wipe away the last of his dream from his mind and body. _Maker, did the king notice? Would he wonder? Andraste's tears, would he ask?_ That would just add to his mounting misery.

Dressing slowly, and taking the time to scratch Honor's ears, the king's word suddenly broke against Cullen. Snapping up, he shouted through the hold, "What do you mean we struck land?"

By the time he got out of the hold, he could see for himself. The Siren's Echo drifted beside a port side city like none he'd ever seen. Houses with curved roofs and lacelike tiles dripping off the eaves leaked out into the sea, hoisted above the lapping waves on poles. Without a care, denizens would leap off the wooden walkways into the water, or slide down ropes canvassing the area. A good hundred of the houses leered above them, all colorful like stained glass from multi-dyed canvas stretched from one house to the next.

"Where are we?" Cullen whispered to himself. The people sported the same bronzed to dusky skin as the pirates, but despite a willingness to dive headfirst into the waves, they wore longer robes even more colorful than their abodes. Jewels and gold glittered through the braided hair almost as ostentatious as the ones in display at Orlesian estates.

"Welcome to Rivain," Isabela called from her perch next to the wheel. She didn't spin it seeing as how the sails were roped down and the ship tied to the dock, but she seemed in no mood to abandon her post to rush ashore.

"Why have we stopped?" Cullen rounded up the five stairs to the command deck with an ease that'd been foreign to him only a few weeks prior. Grabbing onto the railing, he pulled himself past the first three stairs, jumped on the fourth and landed in front of Isabela. Her eyes drifted across him for a moment, but he'd grown used to that once over as well.

"Same reason anyone stops; re-supply, check the news, get in a bath or bit of fun before hitting the waves again. Don't worry, it won't be more than a day. Right!" she called to her mariners who all grumbled.

"You don't seem excited about staying."

"It's not one of my top favorite places to dock, and we need to hit Tevinter before winter sets in. The northern seas are a favorite for storms," Isabela answered him before facing back to her ship. "By Andraste's tits, if you drop that again I'll hang you off the mast myself!" she shouted to her overworked crew.

Turning away from Isabela, he stared across the worn faces of the pirates. He may not know a thing about sailing or ships, but Cullen honed his sense for measuring the morale of an army years ago. With each passing day it grew more evident that they weren't ecstatic about this trip. Even the admiral would shake her head and mutter something under her breath whenever they passed another potential port, though she gave Kirkwall a wide berth.

"I find myself curious why you're helping him, doing this mission," Cullen said.

"There's a lot of coin in it. Plus, it's good to have a king in your back pocket, just in case." She tried to shrug it off as if the pirate queen had no cares beyond gold, but darkness circled under her eyes.

"It cannot be a matter only of gold."

"There is a lot of gold involved, and he paid upfront. Mostly. Look, I don't know a thing about all this magical fade shit, and I'm quite happy never going near that _place_ again. It was bad enough with Hawke," Isabela glared at the deck and a shudder ran up her shoulders. "But sometimes you owe a thing or two and, maybe I'm doing my Andrastian duty. I don't know, it feels like the least I can offer."

"I..." Cullen bowed his head. In his own solipsistic grief he kept forgetting that Lana touched other's lives, that they too would mourn and miss her. "Forgive me for prying," he retreated back into his cushioned shell. After her death, people from the blight would stumble across him, learn that they served in the same tower or knew each other and they all felt the need to bring up their great story of the Hero of Ferelden. How they watched her ride a flaming horse across the plains to strike down a line of darkspawn. Or that she obliterated an ogre and rescued them. They meant well, he could see that in retrospect, but every tale wiggled that nail in his brain - the one that told him there was so much to her he never learned. So much of Lana's life passed him by, both of them operating alone separated by the breadth of a sea and unable and unwilling to take the first step to close the gap. While her journal gave him peace, it was also a reminder that he wasted so much time only for the sake of punishing himself.

"If you want to find your friend," Isabela spoke up, "he's wandered off to the market."

Cullen frowned at labeling Alistair his friend. They'd spoken a paltry sum of sentences for the past month, keeping abreast of each other while pacing the decks. About the only advice Cullen took from his was to keep a tight watch on any lantern sparks, and that he needed to eat a lime every once in awhile. The rest was water off his back. But, a chance to stretch his legs off the ship and walk amongst actual land that didn't bob and weave with every step sounded tempting. Slapping his leg, he called Honor to follow him down the gangplank and into the heart of Seere.

It was easier to find the king than he expected. In spite of the city in the middle of a typical market day with every manner of ware being peddled up and down the docks to hungry and lonely sailors, the path of Alistair practically glittered in his wake. Even with the burn shifting into a pathetic tan upon his cheeks, the pale skin and yellow haired man stood out in the sea of Rivanians like a speck of sand in rich earth. Cullen stumbled as he realized he probably looked much the same, perhaps even worse as he'd been avoiding the reflecting rays off the water down in the hold. Not to mention the dog walking primly by his side.

Honor was on her best behavior. Despite every version of tempting foodstuffs drifting beside her snout, she'd only twist her head, her tiny tail thumping madly in anticipation. Not once did she launch forward to nab her own samples. Either she was hoping for a treat later or she'd already worked out some plan to sneak treats when Cullen's back was turned. Someone on the ship particularly loved slipping her cheese when he was unaware, leaving him to nearly die of poisoned gas in the night.

The stalls lined along the shore all looked out upon the sea itself. There wasn't the usual fluff he'd expect for someone trying to sell their merchandise as the best in all of thedas. Sailors wandered up to the counter, threw down whatever coins they had, then left. This was the staging area, where you ran out quick when you needed a few supplies and not the unwinding section of the city. Judging by the pink petals painted along the cobblestones leading west away from the sea, Cullen had a pretty good idea where the shoreleavers went. _Maker, at least the king didn't head that way._

No, instead Alistair was leaning against one of the stalls facing away from the glittering waves. Cullen called for Honor to sit and then he approached from behind. He'd been expecting to find an array of weaponry, or fancy foodstuffs, even the possibility of ointments, but this shop offered up nothing but jewelry. The king's fingers rolled around a golden necklace with beads of turquoise and sapphire dripping off it like a waterfall.

"That doesn't strike me as your type," Cullen said.

Rather than grumble or even sneer in embarrassment, Alistair only chuckled. He did that a lot. "Really? I thought I pulled off blues rather well." To show off, he placed the necklace against his skin and smiled wide. The woman at the counter shouted something Cullen couldn't understand, then pointed at Alistair's neck. "See, confirmation," he said, nodding at her.

"You speak Rivanian?" Cullen started. Somedays he was surprised the man could even handle Ferelden much less anything beyond its borders.

The king placed five coins in the woman's hand, then smiled and added another silver. "Not much. Just enough to ask where the bathroom is, how much for this piece of bread, and can I borrow your quill."

"And 'I would like to purchase this necklace,' evidently," Cullen continued, pointing at the jewelry still laying against the counter. "A piece of jewelry which you intend to give to..."

He said something to the shopkeep and she dropped down to a knee, hunting through the back of her stall. "Hm? Oh, it's for the wife. She loves trinkets, and doodads, and other bits and baubly shiny stuff."

"Right," Cullen shifted from jealousy to indignation in the span of a syllable, "you are married."

"Forgot about the Queen? That's got to be grounds for some kind of treason. Maybe one of those 'we chop off your hair' types. Make you wear a shirt made out of itchy wool while whipping noodles at you."

"Only surprised that you could be bothered to remember."

Alistair chuckled mirthlessly. He banged his fingers gently on the counter and tipped his head back to stare at the sky. "So, who are you sitting in judgment of now? Me for being married and still enjoying those extra curricular activities?" He turned to Cullen and an edge ran through this next words, "Or Lanny for that fact not stopping her."

Bunching a fist up tight, Cullen fought down the urge to smack his smug face off. Beside him he felt Honor tighten, her lolling tongue slipping inside as she focused on her master. "You made those vows, not Lana. Her only mistake was in trusting you."

"Ouch, you don't let the crown slow you down," Alistair shrugged and he turned back to the counter. The shopkeep popped up and passed over a small box to slip the necklace into. "At least you don't hold Lanny responsible. Maybe there's some hope for you after all, templar. Chantry has a lot of very concrete thoughts on adultery."

"All of which seemed to pass you right on by," Cullen bit back with. He bounced on his toes wishing he'd stayed on the ship with Isabela. Even if all the pirates ignored him it'd have been better than this humiliating torture. In their little remaining time together, he never asked Lana about Alistair, didn't want to know. Certainly never wanted to think about it, but now the man couldn't stop bringing it up. It seemed to be his favorite pastime after playing pirate.

Cullen's attack didn't sting. The king only shrugged again as he wrapped up the necklace and slipped it into his pocket. Smiling at the woman, he said what was probably thank you. Then she spoke a few words quickly, her finger jabbing at the king and then Cullen. Alistair's eyes opened wide and danced from the woman back to the even more uncomfortable man beside him.

"What?" Cullen pried, "Did she ask you to find the bathroom? Or need to borrow your quill?"

"No, no," he tipped his head down but couldn't wipe away the smile stretching his cheeks. "She asked if she could buy you off of me for one of her daughters."

"What?!" Cullen leapt backwards, falling out of the cheap sandals he'd worn on deck. "That is preposterous, and no, do not look upon me like that. No!" He shook his head violently at the woman.

"That's not helping your case there," Alistair spoke up. "That whole head shaking is more like a nod here for her, and...hang on." He slipped into the tongue that the man knew far better than he let on. Cullen had no idea what he said, but the woman's eyes widened first in shock, then acceptance before finally pity overflowed from them. She waved her fingers together in a heretical sign of Andraste's Eye and thrusted them at Cullen in a blessing.

Smiling at her, and then whatever affianced leper he turned Cullen into, Alistair broke away from the counter and tipped his head to the woman. Without turning back to the man he could have sold off, the king walked down the boardwalk his eyes following the line of soldiers winding out of a small food cart. Whistling for Honor to follow, Cullen pursued him but kept a good pace and a half behind, not out of respect but because he didn't want anyone else to think they were together.

"What did you tell her?" he called.

"Does it matter? It worked. She has nooo interest in you now. Is that often a problem for you? Old ladies trying to scoop you up for their daughters or granddaughters?"

Cullen growled and Honor repeated it, the fur along her back rising. He ran his fingers along it to smooth down the blue-black hair. His dog attacking the king of Ferelden would pretty much banish him from ever seeing his family ever again. _Why was everyone always on him about his romantic life?_ Early on no one cared beyond the occasional titter about how he lacked in whatever aspect made someone an acceptable catch. And in Kirkwall he...did not care himself. Even after the deep roads, it barely changed beyond the few wistful nights when he wished the world would realign itself just for him to be with her. But the moment he signed up with the Inquisition suddenly everyone was on his case about settling down, finding someone, being happy. Happy was overrated.

He didn't realize he'd frozen in his tracks until he looked up and spotted the king further along the sidewalk. Alistair paused as well, his head tossed back to jut out his chin while he thought. "It's not your fault if you've been with someone else."

"What?" Cullen whipped up, but the king didn't turn around. He continued to speak to a ghost in front of him instead of the man he barely knew behind.

"Two years, it's a long time. Add in believing she's dead, and..."

Cullen stomped towards him while hissing, "You have no concept of what I, I've never! And yet you, with..." He snorted, tossing his head to find a balance in his words before continuing. "I am not you. Do not presume to judge."

"Yeah, I caught on to that fact real quick. Are you allergic to laughing or is it a lifestyle choice?" Now the king turned on his heel and it wasn't that smug lording look in his eyes but a misplaced compassion. "Look, I get it. You're a man with all the corresponding urges and...yeah, I'm not finishing that thought. Point is, it's natural to move on, find comfort. Healthy."

"What makes you believe I've been anything but faithful?"

Alistair winced at that, "It's not being unfaithful if...Maker's breath, I was just trying to say that you shouldn't feel guilty for, you know, catching a few eyes and enjoying that."

"There have been no eyes caught here or otherwise," Cullen spat.

"That soldier of yours practically tossing her silk underthings at your feet while she waved goodbye seemed to be giving you the once and twice over."

_Andraste's holy pyre._ Cullen sagged at the mention of Addley. He hadn't meant it to be anything romantic, not at first. Perhaps not even after. She had served under him for years, even in Kirkwall. It may have been the reason why he found himself spending more time with her as he pieced himself back together. They shared a strange history of walking through the same fires and coming out alive. But, he'd never tried anything, never would have, even if on occasion... By the Maker, he hated himself. He hated he wasn't strong enough to have faith in Lana. He'd waited ten years, but he couldn't keep his mind pure for a couple more?

"Okay, that didn't go the way I meant. I'm sorry, uh," Alistair waved his royal fingers near Cullen's broken form without touching him. "All I was driving at was that Lanny's not a romantic like that. She doesn't wish on stars and believe in one true loves."

"What a surprise considering what you did to her," Cullen scoffed from below his hooded brow.

Alistair threw his arms up and buried his fingers in his hair. Even with passing sailors watching, he yanked his head back and forth like a metronome. "This is why I don't try to do anything nice for you. I'd be better off nailing my hand to the wall."

"There's nothing stopping you."

"Ha, that's true. Anyone got a hammer I could borrow?" he rose up on his royal toes to glance around the splintery docks. "You want to have at me, you can. Double points for my lacking hygiene and table manners. I doubt you could do more damage than Morrigan ever managed. She can destroy you with a single glance if she's half a mind."

"Play your games all you want, act as if you're the wounded party," Cullen cursed at him. He staggered back to his feet to face down the king. "I know why you'd engage in this journey, spend Maker knows how much coin to bring her back. You think this grand gesture will win her over."

Alistair blinked a few times in his face and then the softest laugh broke down his throat. It increased in jocularity, a braying punctuated between the laughs until it all crashed to a halt. "Wait? Are you serious? Maker, no wonder you've been like a poker up the backside. Lanny and I, we had our chance. A chance that I, yes, screwed up royally -- pun intended. In the end, we spent more time as friends, good friends. I knew she had my back and I had hers for anything, no matter what. She deserves everything at my disposal."

"You love her," Cullen said. He'd known, it was hard to escape the obvious fact staring him in the face. Someone didn't risk his life, his crown, his kingdom to chase a rumor halfway across thedas unless his heart was involved.

Alistair snapped his teeth in thought, then sighed, "Of course I do, it's Lanny. How do you not love her? But..." He wiggled his fingers through each other, watching them intersect like locking rings, "I'm not _in_ love with her. Not anymore. That's all on you now, so..."

'And I'm to believe that?' hung in Cullen's throat. It made no sense to think the man was beyond her, but the starkness in the king's face, the way he squared his shoulders while taking on the full brunt of Cullen's glare gave him pause. It smelled like the truth. "May I..." Cullen coughed from a bolus catching in his throat, "may I hold the phylactery?"

He expected the king to refuse, almost all requests got an 'it's fine, says she's still west,' but Alistair paused and nodded. Their conversation must have struck back at him, the king's own voice raw, "Of course." Digging into the satchel, he dropped the pulsing bottle into Cullen's cupped hands. "You can keep it until nightfall on the ship. I have a dozen more council members to buy shiny things for and I'd rather we not have to chase down some adorable street urchin who picked it off me."

As Cullen's fingers drifted around the glass, his mind snapped towards the Anderfells and the whisper of her voice carried on the wind. He couldn't make out the words, but it almost sounded like a song she'd hum under her breath. "Thank you," he said, lost in the promise of her life.

CHAPTER NINE

Peeling

_9:44 Waking Sea_

"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm," Cullen's clasped hands trembled -- the skin raw from the tear of salt water, the calluses rising from every grip of striated rope. He kneeled in his corner where on occasion a few pirates watched from across the way. They never joined in, but they didn't call out or interrupt either. No one seemed certain what to do about the man who was neither chantry nor civilian.

Shifting on his exhausted knees, he began again, the drip of words from his brain as reflexive as parrying with his blade. "I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder." Endure. He knew that word far too well. Wore it in every scar upon his skin, screamed it in every nightmare embedded in his mind, feared it in the beat of his heart. Even as everything around him fell, somehow, Cullen endured.

"Who knows me as You do? You have been there since before my first breath. You have seen me when no other would recognize my face..." Cullen paused again, the next words rattling against his abraded nerves. "You," he wet his cracked lips and gazed down at the dog prostrated before him. What Honor got out of his praying was beyond him, but she never left his side. "Maker, You composed the cadence of my heart."

His tenuous grip slipped, Cullen's palms parting as the rest of the prayer faded from his mind. _Why? Why did the Maker have to build his heart to yearn for hers?_ Grief swelled up, devouring the meager strength in his body. He fumbled off his knees to land against a support beam, an unfinished nail swiping at his already tattered shirt. _What was he doing here?_ Bobbing on the middle of the northern sea passage on the way to Tevinter, he -- a once knight-captain of the templars -- risked his life, his position, his sanity for...for what? People didn't come back from the dead. They passed through the fade and on to the Maker's side. Two years, for over 600 hundred days he'd struggled through the grief like a man crawling across broken glass. And, just when he thought he found peace, fate threw him a final foolish chance.

_Peace._ Cullen snickered at himself for the thought. No, it wasn't peace. He'd found monotony, safety in the mundane of moving through the motions of living without risking himself again. He packed his heart away in the sky blue bottle along with her false ashes. _By the Maker, what was he doing here?_ They'd had, what, a few months together, and that was being generous. For all he knew, Lana had no plans to...

His head collapsed onto his chest and he shook it. No, he was trying to stir back up the anger because hating her, hating himself, hate in general felt better than the frozen lake of grief. As strange as it sounded, the idea that the king intended to swipe her out from under him kept him going. It struck against the primal competitive nerve. Before, Cullen didn't worry what would happen if they reached the end of their journey and discovered nothing; how he'd face the empty journey back. His only concern was in beating Alistair. And now... He believed him -- believed that, despite putting so much effort into finding her, he had no intentions beyond possible friendship. Not that Lana will be forgiving and forgetting his transgressions so...

He kept doing that. His mind waffled between past and present tense. Sometimes she was long gone, lost in the fade two years ago, nothing but ash in the wind. Others, occasionally even mid-sentence, he believed as fervent as anything in him that she remained out there, alive and reachable. If the ship didn't kill him, the hope would.

Patting Honor on the head, he rose to his feet. Despite dressing for bed, as much as one did on a pirate ship, Cullen needed to move and walk until his muscles collapsed in exhaustion or his brain would torture him the entire night. "Do you want to go for a walk, girl?" he asked Honor, but the dog huffed from her blanket. He was steady as a rock, but the mabari kept a schedule that couldn't be shattered by a sapper. No one loved her bedtime as much as Honor. "All right, guard the bunk while I'm gone then."

He wasn't concerned about the others swiping his things. To begin, he barely had anything worthy of attention. If that were not enough, the pirates also seemed slightly terrified of the ex-templar, a few of them protecting themselves with the same warding eye whenever he passed. Superstition ran deep on the waves. Cullen was uncertain if a templar on board was good or bad luck, and the pirates appeared just as lost on the matter.

A good three-fourths of the crew slipped into their own rocking beds for the night, an ungodly sound echoing through the maze-like hold as they tried to out snore each other. Cullen ducked low to avoid the higher pirates as he trekked not onto the deck, but deeper towards the stern of the ship. A tempting light flickered from below the generous gap of a closed door on the port side. Curiosity chasing away his dour thoughts, he pulled back on the knotted rag jammed into a hole to create a handle and found himself standing in the kitchen. It was a generous way to describe the room which held a few massive pots, barrels of salted meat, and the turned back of a man chopping his way through potatoes.

Of course, it had to be him. Alistair, the king of Ferelden, sat perched upon a three legged stool, his thumb guiding a dagger along the skin of a potato while whistling under his breath. He let the curling waste lay where it landed creating a potato skin moat around the king. When he finished, his half out-of-tune song paused, and he dropped the tater into the other barrel. The turn was enough for the king to catch Cullen skulking around behind him.

"Come for dinner?" he asked, holding up his sheered vegetable. "Or is it breakfast, now?"

"The sun's yet to rise. That's dinner as far as I am concerned," Cullen answered.

"Everyone gets all hung up on midnight. It is the new day according to these fancy calendars here. How about we call it the new day when we see, I don't know, daylight maybe?"

He could leave him, head to the hatch or return to his hammock and attempt to sleep. But Cullen inched closer into the room. "Why are you doing that?"

"Eating them with the skins on will poison you," Alistair said. He picked up another potato and got to work. "I need something to do, to keep myself busy or my mind's all 'Hey Alistair, now's a great time to talk about all the ways you've screwed up this week. And if we've got time, we'll go over your failures from a month ago as well your poor hygiene and posture.'"

Cullen waved his head at the blather but the man's words bore a semblance of sense. There were no other stools and barely enough breathing room as was, but Cullen inched into the room and hopped up onto one of the lime barrels.

Alistair waved at the pile of potatoes then lifted an eyebrow, "You wanna have a go at 'em too?"

"Why not," he shrugged accepting both potato and paring knife from royalty. For a good three or so they sat in silence, peeling potatoes that a ship full of pirates would eat in the morning. Cullen would look over and watch the king work through his mess like a trained chef. He was able to get an entire skin in one go, the knotted flesh trailing off his blade like a brown ribbon. "You are surprisingly good at this."

"I had a lot of practice," Alistair said. "The trick is to piss enough people off they send you to the kitchens to do this for hours." After chuckling at his own joke, he picked back up a whistle, but it wasn't the song from before. Almost under his breath, he began to recite a templar canticle. It wasn't anything known outside of the order, not for any secretive reasons. It simply held no baring to others.

"How do you know that?" Cullen asked, his own potato's skin dangling forgotten off his thumb.

"Know what?"

"The code, the mnemonic to remember the order of discipline for disrupting mana?"

The king blinked a few times as his eyebrows met in the middle. "Don't you know? I thought everyone knew. Boy, who do you have to kill and take the crown of to get the attention of a town cryer? Me," he patted his chest with his spud, "Alistair: the tale of the man who was a king, before that a grey warden, and before that...a templar."

_A templar?_ Cullen's eyes widened. No. This man was damn near heretical in his thoughts on the chantry, on the order, on... _Templars were her blindspot_ , he said it. Maker take him, he was right.

Alistair didn't notice Cullen's internal monologue. He dumped his fifth potato into the bucket and continued, "And before that a bastard child no one wanted. That old cliché tale." His fingernails dug into his next conquest and he turned to Cullen, "You don't remember me, do you?"

"Remember? I..." Cullen was still stuck on the king of Ferelden, the man who helped end the blight and who stole Lana's heart, being a templar himself. _How had he never heard it?  _

"It's okay. Took my awhile to dredge you up, not that I don't do my best to forget every second in templar training."

"No," Cullen shook his head, struggling to try and pick through hundreds of templars who'd crossed his path over the years. "We never..."

"Yup, you and I grew up in the same order together. Even the same dormitory. Didn't have a thing to do with each other, thank the Maker. You had your little crew of devoted converts and I had..." he stabbed his knife into the potato and lifted it up to his eyes, "these guys."

"I..." he couldn't understand. He refused to understand. The king of Ferelden was in the templar order. He had been there, learned beside him, studied and fought beside him, and Cullen didn't even remember. "Why would you join the order?"

"Well, there's joining and then there's _joining_. I didn't get much say in the joining part. Threw a _royal_ fit over it when at ten they packed me off to the chantry because the Arlessa didn't like having a little bastard running around." He didn't sound bitter over it, only shrugged and plopped his finished work away. Then again, being king now he could have ordered his own revenge upon this Arlessa. "Never did the vows, or the lyrium, which worked out well given my ever changing vocation. I hated it, all of it. I didn't want to hunt mages."

"That wasn't what I wanted either."

Alistair tipped his head, "Wanted as a kid, maybe."

"And now," Cullen bit back. He anticipated a return to their argument, but the king accepted it for once or at least shut up, an even greater miracle.

"You were a few years ahead of me, and a model templar too. Always polishing your armor and what not. Bundled you off to the tower with rose petals in your wake. Me? I wonder what the Grand Cleric had in mind for what to do with a sulking, insubordinate fool. Her exact words. She threw an epic fit when Du- I was recruited into the grey wardens, but I was ecstatic."

A dark thought trailed through Cullen's mind and he couldn't stop a laugh at the idea. The king lifted a shoulder and then rolled his knife to encourage the man to explain. "We could have both been at the tower together. Both have met her..."

"Ah," Alistair nodded, catching on, "never thought of that, but it could have happened. Fate's a funny thing when you play that what if game." Folding his hands up around the naked potato, he held it cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby instead of a vegetable. "First time I met Lanny she, uh, caught me in an argument with a mage. I didn't start it but they got wind of my having been a templar and, oh boy, do mages like to start fights."

"It was one of their top five favorite ways to pass time," Cullen said.

Alistair snickered and nodded, "I'd believe it. She steps up to greet me and I ask her point blank if she's a mage. The color drains from her face, well, not all of it, that would have been terrifying to see. But, you know. Anyway, she asks why I wondered about her magehood and I tell her that I like to know my chances of getting turned into a toad. Then she does that Lanny smile, that quirk of her lips where just half of it lifts and you know she's about to start something on fire." He paused in his re-telling to lift his chest up higher. With his voice pressed out of his nose, he said, "'Well, I do happen to be a mage, but I won't turn you into a toad. They're overrated. I prefer something exotic like a parrot or anteater.' Anteater? Why an anteater? 'I think they're fun.' That. That was the moment I knew I was done for. She could have yelled at me same as that other mage, or sighed in exasperation and stomped off. At least cursed a bit at being saddled with me, but no...that anteater."

Tears watered at the edge of his eyes, the memory overwhelming him as he rocked on his wobbly stool. Alistair kept a tighter hold on the potato while staring back through time, back to when Lana was alive and also his. Blinking away the tears, the king's voice slipped out of its wounded cadence and into his normal effervescent self. "What about you? How'd you meet Lanny?"

"In the tower," Cullen said curtly.

"No, here I assumed she swooped in on her chimera she borrowed from one of the gnomes living in Nevarra to rescue you from a dragon nest. If you don't want to talk, you don't..."

"I first noticed Lana when," Cullen breathed deeply, his own memories washing over him. "She didn't speak to me, I doubt she even noticed me. Mages didn't see the templars."

"Wallpaper," Alistair interrupted. "You're big, metal wallpaper. Sorry, sorry, go on with your story."

"She was running from one class to another, and she paused at the doorframe I stood beside, dropped all her books, and suddenly had to rearrange them."

That drew a hearty laugh from the king, "Maker, she was always doing that. ' _No, no, this has to go after that'_ because whatever reasons were inside her head at the time _._ Save anyone that messed up her books. Whew."

"There was an apprentice once who tried to throw her off. When her back was turned, he rotated around a pair of books nearly the same size and color of binding. No one thought she'd notice, but the moment she lifted them up a cross look broke upon her face."

"Did she let him live?" Alistair asked, getting a nod from Cullen. "She was nicer in the tower. I bet Oghren still limps when it rains. I never understood her system. No, I rarely understood anything she said, but she'd give you this look like 'it's so simple a child can understand it' when you're pretty sure she made up a half dozen words to explain it."

"And the crumbs in her pockets," Cullen smiled from the memory he nearly forgot. "The tranquil would find all manner of dangerous things leftover in mage pockets and pouches while doing the laundry -- to the point they kept a templar or two on hand in case of danger. Lana never had anything that could explode, but there were regularly half eaten biscuits, crackers, once a slice of cake."

The king's laughs echoed with his own as they stared back through time. "During the blight, when we were all more or less homeless she kept leaving signs behind. Not wards, I could recognize those well enough. But after picking up her tent, she'd draw a marker in the dirt as if needing to tell the stars she'd been there. I always wondered why but I never," his head dropped down and he stared through the potato, "I never took the time to ask her." As if realizing he had a peeled potato in his lap, Alistair dropped the spud in the bucket and pinched the top of his nose. The move was enough to revive him and an ornery smile twisted up his lips, "She was a terrible blanket hog. You'd have to nail the damn thing down to stop her."

"I know," Cullen said. The pain dropped in his gut from the memory of discovering it. He'd watched her small body rolled up in their only heat source for far longer than he should have, the cold biting into his exposed skin. But Cullen couldn't stop smiling at the tender calm enveloped around her courtesy of sleep wiping away the strain upon her face. She slumbered so peacefully, so beautifully, it was as if nothing of the past ten years hurt her. He'd yearned to kiss her in that moment, but he needed her blessing first, so she had to rise.

Awkwardness burned between them as Cullen glared at his hands. Alistair whipped his head up and a strain of guilt etched through those Therin features, "And there goes our moment of bonding."

"It...it is a fact," Cullen danced around stating that they'd both been intimate with her, "but it is best if we pretend it isn't." It was as diplomatic as he felt he could be, extending a potential olive branch to the king.

Of course Alistair couldn't help himself, "So no trading tips, then?" Cullen glared which got a small chuckle from the king. "You wouldn't want them anyway, trust me."

"I believe that is the first thing you've said I can whole heartedly endorse," Cullen responded, a hint of a smile lifting his dour lips.

"She mentioned you once, well, said there was a templar. Didn't drop any names but I figured it out in retrospect."

"Oh?" Cullen grimaced. It must have been after they liberated Kinloch. Whatever she had to say about him could not have been kind, and for good reason.

"Lanny kept on about wanting to help in Kirkwall. Needing to assist the people and I didn't get why."

_Kirkwall?_ Her journal alluded to the wish of hers in visiting the city but he'd never thought she'd take it as far as petitioning the crown. Cullen twisted on the barrel, a mix of shame and pride curling in his stomach.

Alistair yanked up one of his peeled potatoes and jabbed the knife into it. "She'd kept out of mage politics and for good reason. If the chantry bastards got any wind of her involvement they'd leap on her, taking down everyone else with 'em." Then the king took a soft bite out of the potato's white, uncooked flesh. Cullen sneered in response to his culinary travesty, but the man didn't notice as he took another bite. "Suddenly, Kirkwall goes explodey and she cares. Maybe she cared before, she just couldn't afford to look like she did. Lanny had a habit of burying all her wants deep inside so no one would see them. Damn near tried every trick at her disposal to get me to agree to let her go, but I wouldn't. A mage walking in Kirkwall after that happened? They'd have strung her up on the spot."

He was right. Even if Cullen would have fallen on his knees to beg for her forgiveness while beyond grateful to see her again, it wasn't wise for the great mage of Ferelden to visit. Cullen himself might have tried to send her away for fear of what the people would do to her. In those months after the attack he had almost no control of anything, not the people, not the templars, not even himself.

"I think she knew it was dangerous, probably why she asked me. It wasn't as if she had to, or ever ran any of her other death defying missions past me. But this one, some part of her wanted to be in Kirkwall and it pissed her off to no end that she knew she shouldn't be." He twisted about the half bitten potato on the end of the knife, his finger running along the toothmarks.

"I'm sorry," Cullen said and he meant it. Not to Alistair, but to Lana. He had assumed she'd gotten wind of Kirkwall and felt nothing but contempt for the templars or for him after he allowed Meredith's rampage. Cullen never once thought to try to contact her for fear of what he'd get in return. He was too much of a coward to face up to that failure.

But the king didn't snicker, didn't wave his potato like some scepter, or even raise his voice. He scrunched his head deep into his chest, his neck almost vanishing, "Duty. All that honor stuff that got drilled into our heads growing up. You owe the world this because when you were ten someone sold you to the chantry. Or because this is the only path you can take to keep from starving in the street. Because your father had a fascination with chambermaids. I..." As if realizing he was eating a raw potato, Alistair yanked the vegetable off his blade and tossed it into the scrap pile. He knocked his fist against the potato barrel in an arrhythmic solo. "The queen is pregnant. No one's supposed to know, not until it's whatever babies do in the womb. That quick kick thing."

Cullen started at the news, "Pregnant? Why are you not with her? Your wife?" He added the last part as if afraid Alistair forgot.

"Well, she did yell at me to get as far away from her as possible. You ever try to argue with a pregnant woman? It's a wonder I have a face left. I figured the Anderfells was distant enough," Alistair sighed, "at least until the little sire's out."

"But this is the birth of your child. You should be there," Cullen harped on the nonchalant man peeling potatoes half way around the world from his family, but the king only rolled an eye at him and snickered.

"Who said the kid was mine?"

Cullen almost fell off his perch from the soft way the king of Ferelden landed that personal heartbreak upon him. "How can you be certain of that?"

That got him a sigh and Alistair ran his hands through his hair. "There are a couple things that need to, well one thing for certain that needs to happen for that baby making stuff to work. Which we've both been more than happy to mutually forgo in this most holy of unions. But even then, it's damn certain seeing as how I'm a..." He threw off whatever he was going to say, a look of guilt crossing his face, "It's not my place to tell you about that and all, so, uh reasons."

The king waved his hand through the air as if that would waft away the personal and also nearly treasonous secret he unloaded on this man he barely knew. But Cullen understood that the meat of the matter had nothing to do with his wife being adulterous and a simple matter of what he was, what Lana was. "She told me. About grey wardens and...I wasn't certain if it affected everyone."

"Maker, thanks for that. Last I needed was Lanny back from the dead whipping my ass for giving away that problem," Alistair sighed. "It gets us all after a time. The no kids thing. I didn't learn about it until a few months after I joined, and Lanny..." He leaned further back on his stool until the back of his head collided with the barrel behind him. Bashing it a few more times, he paused and looked over at Cullen, "I don't know if children is one of your breaking points but please don't hurt her over it."

After she told him, by the harsh light of morning, he'd thought about it, weighed the full severity of her confession. No children of his own seemed a high price but not if it meant losing Lana. She would win over some imaginary future he'd never before pictured for himself every time. "It is not," Cullen said.

"Good, good," Alistair bobbed his head while staring up at the ceiling. "You aren't noble or anything either, right?"

"No," Cullen curtly bit back, but Alistair sighed in relief. "My family are farmers."

"Farmers...? Maker, could you imagine Lanny unleashed on a herd of goats?"

Cullen had no idea what made that funny, but the king couldn't stop giggling at some mental image involving Lana and goats. Perhaps something humorous had happened to her during their blight days involving farm animals, or when she was an Arlessa. It struck him again that this man, the one who'd broken Lana's heart twice over, driven her to court death in the deep roads, knew far more about her than Cullen ever did. He'd watched from afar, getting only brief moments of her life, but Alistair had a decade of a friendship. Sometimes the Maker was particularly cruel.

Rising up, the king reached for another potato. "I probably shouldn't have told you about the baby thing. They wanted to wait to make sure it took and then have a fancy party to tell all the other countries that Ferelden's throne was secure, so no measuring for curtains there Orlais."

"While you're on the other side of thedas?" Cullen prompted.

"I may have left before telling some of my advisers about this trip. Like, all of them. There was so much to get ready it slipped past me. I needed to send a message to Isabela, and there's the packing. No matter how early you pack, you always forget something."

Cullen took the time to ask for permission to leave, but the king of Ferelden up and vanished from his own kingdom without so much as a note, all to find the woman he loves. In the tally of romantic gestures, it seemed Alistair was soundly beating him even with a wife and potential child on the way. "The inability to have children," Cullen spoke up, a cruel part of his brain stripping away their momentary bonding, "is that why you ended things with Lana?"

Sure enough, the king's sunny exterior crumbled, clouds blotting away the typical glimmer in his eyes. "I told her I did it because she shouldn't be thought of as some mistress -- to have that stigma follow her for the rest of her life. She's so much more than the blank blank of a man. She deserved so much more."

Cullen caught the beginning and asked, "Why'd you really do it?"

"Because..." The king of Ferelden, a man who had armies at his disposal and could easily ban Cullen from his home country with a wave of his hand, folded in on himself. Like a broken toy crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, he sighed, "I'm an idiot."

CHAPTER TEN

Memory - Stirring the Pot

_9:39 Antiva - Rialto Bay_

_At least she took the time to move the crates out of the way_ , Alistair thought while struggling to catch a breath. If not, he'd have been battered to the consistency of oatmeal from smuggled cargo smashing into his body after she repeatedly threw him through the air. He moved to wipe the sweat off his brow but found leather and grime stuck to his hand. The grip on his shield was worn almost to the point beyond repair, just like his body after too many years sitting idle on the throne. He thought he'd kept himself in some semblance of shape in between all the fancy pastries, fêtes, salons, and feasts, but she was proving that very wrong.

"Again," Lanny called. She'd shaken off her mage robes for one of Isabela's frilly pirate shirts, a black corset cinching her up. To anyone passing, she looked just like any other sea dog working the decks instead of the mighty savior of the world. An occasional glint of gold shimmered in her shortened locs courtesy of Isabela and a few other pirate friends. _When did she last cut her hair?_

Alistair waved his hand, "How's about we take a break? Maybe try and find wherever you threw my internal organs and stuff 'em back in?"

Lanny pursed her lips, deflating those luscious temptations down to a thin line. _No_ , he shook his head, _that was not the thought to be having._ It'd been eight years since the blight ended and through all that unending time he'd been able to keep himself in check. With Lanny running off to Amaranthine every time a darkspawn sneezed and Eamon skulking in the shadows ready to swoop in if Alistair so much as watched her walk away, it was easy. But here, far from his kingly duties and her from the wardens, with both of them back into the swing of things (her back in the swing of things, Alistair was struggling to not die) it grew harder to remember he wasn't supposed to be in love with her.

"The antivan prison nearly did you in. If it weren't for Varric's crossbow..."

"Bianca," he piped up.

That caught her, the determination to torture him slipping away. Lanny crinkled her nose and asked, "Who names their crossbrow Bianca?"

"Merchant dwarves that are good friends with pirate queens, apparently," Alistair said. Every bone in his body ached. They'd been holed up in the hold for what had to be hours with him waving his stick-sword, while she barely broke a sweat tossing him on his royal ass.

Lanny shook her head again at the absurdity, those golden knots jangling together, then she snapped up, all merriment slipping away. "Right, come at me again."

"How about we have a harshly worded debate instead?" Alistair sighed.

"This was your idea," she crossed her arms, her staff knocking into the low ceiling.

The practice sword, in reality a broken board borrowed for these purposes, nearly slipped out of his sweaty hand. He should have worn gloves, or at least real armor to try and cushion his fall. Maybe a big suit of pillows?

"And you went along with it. One of _my_ ideas. I don't know what you were thinking," he chided, still gasping for air.

Lanny parted her hands and twisted her chin down, "I'm growing addled in my old age. You wanted to practice, and Maker knows you need it. So, let's practice."

It'd seemed smart at the time. After slipping out of Antiva and barely any crows aware, with Isabela piloting the ship and Varric supervising, Alistair thought it best to dust off his old templar skills in case they had to fight Maker only knew. At least he hoped he'd be a bit more useful in a fight than before. But he forgot that sparring against Lanny was like running into a bear's den half naked and coated in honey.

"Fine," Alistair rolled his shoulders forward to get into position.

"Your arm's too high," Lanny gestured to his right hand waving around the threatening piece of wood.

Alistair eyed up his weapon, then turned to her, "Since when do you know anything about swordplay?" he asked, but lowered his arm.

Shrugging with a quirky smile, Lanny parted her hands. She didn't count for him, didn't wave her hands to say when to start, but he felt the mana twist in the air. The veil pulled apart fast from her machinations. Alistair lifted his shield to guard his face as he dipped into that hole inside him. It wasn't easy to explain to anyone. Lanny asked once, purely curious and not in any way planning some mage revolt against all templars. He'd said it was like covering the magic with a blanket to try and smother it away as one would a fire, but that wasn't it. Not really. There was reality and there was _reality-reality_. The hole ran deeper than that, a touch of pure realness that he'd use to choke away the veil. That was also why he never tried to explain it.

The veil sundered deeper, a taste of metal rising in the air as she dug up whatever evil spell knotted in her brain. Even exhausted, Alistair pulled upon the emptiness in him and directed it at Lanny. Her head snapped back from the pressure, her eyes falling closed. Maybe it worked this time. Alistair advanced towards her, a grin rising along his cheeks, when she blasted a force powerful enough to smash the air from his lungs and knock him backwards. Unable to stay upright, Alistair tumbled ass first towards the ground. His back bounced off the bowing deck, while his unarmored head managed to meet with some convenient rope. It cushioned it just enough to be incredibly painful without giving him a concussion so he'd have a handy excuse to stop.

"Uncle!" he called waving his sword limply in the air.

"Maker's sake, Alistair. I barely even felt that," Lanny stormed as if he'd been the one to throw her off her feet.

"Really? Maybe we should trade places then because I sure as shit did. Ouch." He rolled to his knees, grateful he'd kept up with the same pirate uniform as her. Breeches and a linen tunic were the only way to survive a constant wash of sea water across the feet and sprayed in the face. Struggling to rise while in full armor was a workout in and of itself.

"This isn't funny," Lanny stormed as she paced to him. He looked up at her hand dangling in front of his face. For a moment he wondered if it was a trap, but he still took it regardless. She gripped tight and helped to haul him to his feet.

Alistair shrugged, checking to make sure he hadn't broken anything important. "It's a little funny to see me sprawled out on my back."

"I'm serious," she fumed and the self deprecating smile on Alistair's face slipped away. This wasn't the Lanny that shot sarcastic eyes at Isabela whenever Alistair mentioned his plan. Or the one who screamed 'You have to be kidding me!' when she learned why they were in Antiva. He spotted a fear running through her that he hadn't seen in, well, eight years.

Grabbing up her staff, she returned to her sparring spot having not been shifted from it by him the entire time. "Maker only knows what we're going to find during this quest."

"Hopefully, king Marric."

"You know what I mean. Crows are one thing, and I've broken into my share of prisons before..."

Alistair eyed her up, "Since when? Did I get left off your mailing list on accident because I'd love to hear those tales?"

Lanny deftly batted his joke away, "But we're chasing down a witch, a swamp witch. Remember the last time that happened? Turned into a dragon, nearly ate us all."

"Morrigan's bite was worse," Alistair sneered.

She sighed, never having hated the swamp witch the same way he did. They even, against all Maker given sense, became friends. He'd never understand it. "You need to be at your best, okay," Lanny said, her eyes hunting through his while she pleaded for him to listen. Anyone else, Alistair could shrug off with a joke but she stung his soul.

"I'll try," he said bowing his head.

"Good, because I'm not taking your corpse back to Eamon," she smiled, but there was a barb inside. She damn well meant it. Throwing her arms up, Lanny commanded, "Do it again, and this time reverse the mana or drain it, don't do both."

"You can tell the difference?"

"Of course I can," she shrugged. "It's not something one forgets." They used to do it all the time during the blight. She'd thread apart the veil just for Alistair to yank it all away. It was the mage equivalent of pulling a girl's pigtails because you liked her, except in this case the girl kept insisting he "give 'em a good yank." She wanted to know how to fight mana drains, to prepare herself, or - sometimes he deluded himself into thinking - she liked any excuse to spend time with him. Sometimes, she'd even challenge him to dampen her mana during, uh... He rubbed the back of his neck to distract from that thought. It was not the time to be treading down _that_ old memory.

Situating herself, Lanny centered her body and prepared for his worst. _Okay, Alistair, you can do this. Remember all the stuff they taught you, when you weren't scrubbing every pot and pan in the kitchen._ The canticles were supposed to help, but he'd never found a single one that silenced the chatty part of his brain. Instead, he'd recite in his mind a silly little poem from childhood. _The teeny-tiny bronto went chasing down the road. Up from the ground, a thousand darkspawn rose...  _

Raising his head, he met Lanny's challenging stare eye for eye. She grinned while parting the veil, even more fade energy pouring into this world. Whatever she was going to hit him with was going to hurt, bad. The nothingness flowed through him, wrapping around his body like a giant snake or clingy blanket. As the edges of her body glittered from the fade energy racing through her, Lanny lanced her fingers forward to spill it all against him. That's when Alistair struck. Pushing every inch of his being into that nothingness, he coated it around Lanny, around the spell flying off her fingers. Only the barest push bounced into his shield, which he flicked off with a wave of his arm.

Surprised, Lanny gasped at the drain. Then a wicked grin curved up her face and the damn woman dipped back into the veil. Instinct struck Alistair. Dropping his shoulder down, he barreled at the mage preparing another spell to destroy him. Energy crackled through the air thick enough to spark off every nail in the deck. Lanny had her eyes set upon him, but the templar used his other skills to take her down. His shield smacked into her chest and the force of Alistair's run shoved them both backwards until Lanny crashed into the ship's sidewall. Pinned tight, Alistair pushed his wooden sword against her neck.

"You're dead," he said, pride engulfing him.

She blinked a few times, then her lips quirked up, "So are you."

"What?" He began to argue when he felt the hilt of her dagger knocking against his stomach. If she'd twisted it around properly, she'd have driven the blade up through his ribs and probably into his heart. Dead as dead can dead. His head fell down and Alistair threw his shield to the ground like a spoiled child. "Damn it!" He needed to be better, he knew it. He had to return to his old fighting form in order to find...the king. To bring the rightful ruler back to Ferelden instead of his broken and sorry ass.

Lanny sheathed her hidden dagger, and she pushed his sword away from her neck with her pinkie. He expected her to shove him off her, but she let his limp arm crash into the wall beside her head. "It went better that time," she said, that fiery drill instructor banished. Now it was the gentle and calming teacher doing her best to help her most useless student.

"Yeah, I lived for five more seconds before you killed me. Great improvement," Alistair sighed, his breath rattling in his exhausted throat.

"Ali," her voice whispered. He broke from glaring at his shoes to find himself awash in her eyes. In the heat of faux-battle he hadn't realized that they were less than an inch apart, gasping for breath in the same space. With his hands splayed against the wall beside her, and hers resting near but not touching his hip, they'd be damn embarrassed if anyone suddenly walked in on them. They hadn't been this close since...since he broke her heart.

Lanny's eyes that'd been as unbreakable as steel softened to compassion, "You can talk to me. You know that, right?"

"I..." He watched her lips part ever so slightly in concern. Those thick, pillowy lips he'd wake to find himself yearning for. Her full, soft cheek he used to caress while kissing so he didn't accidentally hit her in the nose or something. _Maker..._ His body trembled that had nothing to do with the pain in his backside or the headache rolling across his brain. It grew more impossible to rein himself back in with every passing day on this journey.

Maric. Old pops himself. That was why they were here, why his butt had to be nothing but bruises. In his mind, Alistair could see how this would all work out. Maric would be rescued, huzzah huzzah, the one true king would take up the throne, and -- after warming it for eight years -- Alistair would be free. He could go wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted, be with...

"You're not talking," she whispered, those lush eyelashes fluttering as she eyed him up. "It worries me when you're not talking."

"Really? I thought people loved it when I stopped talking. They throw delightful parades in Denerim whenever it happens. The Grand Cleric dresses in an oversized harlequin outfit to pass candy out to children."

Her dangling hand rose and she held onto his arm. Those delicate fingers dug into his strained bicep - their first touch that had nothing to do with a handshake, a friendly pat on the back, or playing nice to the gentry in years. Alistair tried to look away without making it obvious, terrified that Lanny could read the want across his face. He shouldn't be thinking it, shouldn't be feeling it with his own dagger almost pressed against her stomach.

"When you're not talking, you're thinking, and that never ends well for anyone," Lanny said.

Turning to face her, every smart ass remark died on his lips -- which was sad because he had a good dozen prepped. Perhaps it was the lantern light, or the shadows of the hold but he'd never noticed a small ring of gold circling in the depths of her brown eyes before. Gawking at the woman as if he'd never seen her before, Alistair struggled to form a coherent sentence, then even a word.

"What?" she asked, trying every trick in her arsenal to get him to open up. Her lips lifted in a smile and he was gone. Leaning his head to the right, Alistair bent his knotted knees to catch her luxurious lips in a kiss. For a heartbeat, Lanny stood still, uncertain what to do. In the back of his mind, he knew there was a good chance he'd find himself splayed across the deck again but the risk seemed worth it. He needed to do this, needed to know if there was even a chance.

She didn't crack open the forces at her disposal to banish him with a curt word or broken rib. Her own lips parted in a hungry sigh and she knotted her hands behind his neck, pressing deeper into the kiss. That was his cue to grab her waist and lift her up to him. Eight years faded away to nothing at the taste of her, like licking lightning if it was coated in sugar, and from the floral scent always ensnared across her skin even without any perfume. They melded together in a strange cohesion that shouldn't work, one neither of them seemed to have forgotten. He didn't want it to end, terrified that if he stopped kissing her then they'd have to talk about it, reason away why they shouldn't do it again. And he couldn't go back to before, not again. Not to the furtive glances risked when her back was turned, the almost but not grace of her skin upon his, the sweet smile she'd brandish that he yearned to feel pressed against him. He thought he'd ached for her before; stepping away now would kill him.

Absence made the heart grow fonder and other bits much harder.

Sadly, breathing was something both of them seemed to need and it was Lanny who slipped down, dragging her tempting lips away from his. Her eyes slowly opened and she gazed up at him. He couldn't read her. When she was thinking like that, this enigmatic blanket wrapped around Lanny rendering all obvious emotion down to an unreadable expression. Whether she was happy, or mad, or gassy was impossible to tell until she spoke up.

"Alistair," she whispered, her fingers parting through his scruff on the way to beard-central.

"I know," he said, accepting that this wasn't going to happen. It could never happen. They'd spent so much time and work becoming friends, burying past hurts. To blow it all away now would be a travesty -- one he feared they might never come back from.

But Lanny didn't shove him away. Instead, she raised up on those tiny toes of hers and also pulled his head lower. Her hot breath washed over his ear, pushing the last of his buttons. "Did you lock the door to the hold?"

"I, uh..." he tried to whip his head back at the hatch above them as if that could jog his memory, but she held him tight.

"Never mind, I have it." Waving her fingers, she blasted ice thick enough to coat the hatch sealing them off from the rest of the pirates. "That should give us an hour or more."

"Lanny, are you..."

Her palm pushed against his lips, the chill of the spell clinging to her skin but melting quickly from his own ragged breath. "Shh... that's enough talking."

By all that is good and gooder in the Maker's eyes, Alistair never imagined that he'd feel Lanny again. He'd never taste her, smell her slick skin, roll his fingers across her landscape. She'd been the one to lead all those years ago, patiently offering up directions and keeping him from breaking anything on accident. Now, with her pressing her lips to his, her body against his, he couldn't help himself. Alistair's hands slipped down the curves of her body, flirting with her breasts but not committing, trailing the inner knot of her waist and flaring out at her hips. Her bones undulated below his fingers as she hopped back and forth to keep high enough to reach him.

Maker, but he loved that, the way she'd scramble to cover their height difference that was almost out of reach. The woman never gave up for anything. His fingers dug into her back while his thumbs caressed the sides of her stomach. He used to dribble water across the flat terrain and watch the droplets roll back and forth as she twisted her hips. Extra points if she managed to get a drop into her bellybutton.

Breaking off the kiss, Alistair whispered in her ear, "Hold on tight." Lanny barely had a chance to dig her fingers into the back of his neck before he rolled his palms around her backside and lifted her off the ground. She yelped in excitement, wrapping her legs around his waist for balance. He could write sonnets, and odes, and other frilly poems about her backside. They'd be purpler than dusk and probably not rhyme, but he could do it. Ample was the disinterested way to describe it. Lush, intoxicating, like grabbing onto a pair of firm but comforting pillows, fun beyond compare. He'd probably go for one of those, add in some more adjectivey adverbs, and then find he had to rhyme orange.

She squirmed in his grasp struggling to maintain her upright posture as he pushed her against the wall. Even with her own pirate breeches in the way, he felt the heat from that part of her he wasn't supposed to dream of grinding against his own pelvis, all of it begging for relief. And that was when he realized his mistake.

Lanny's lips kissed along his jaw, her bottom one ruffling up his patchy facial hair as she worked towards his ear. Pausing to catch her breath, she asked, "What now?"

"I think I miscalculated. Usually you're in robes, so... What's with this sudden pants wearing?" He dug his fingers into her generous scoopfuls blocked off from easy access, feeling the line of smallclothes beneath.

Shrugging, she smiled that mischievous grin, "When on a ship, do as the pirates do."

He should put her down, let her adjust herself and then they could figure it out. But, what if in the interim Lanny sobers up, realizes that this was one big mistake and then it's back to throwing him overboard for starting it all up again? To hide the whirring of his mind, Alistair kissed her neck, pushing her body flatter against the ship and also into him. Maker's breath, that borrowed corset lifted her glorious breasts higher than normal. He wanted to bury his face in them and never come out. Smothered to death by cleavage, it seemed a kingly kind of end.

"Anything, yet?" Lanny asked, but her own breathing was raw on the edges, a hungry look in her eye. She seemed to want to get on with it as much as he did.

"Can you make clothing disappear?"

"Yes, but that involves throwing them out the window," she smirked. "Hm..." The woman, the little mage who carried around an entire nation's worth of books, unclasped her legs from his waist. Alistair groaned from the additional stress on his arms, but he took her full weight in his hands. _Maker, he did need to work out more._ Lanny kissed him hard, not some soft petal touch of lips. Her lips outflanked his at every turn, that tasty tongue of hers rolling around with his in ecstasy. While distracting Alistair, her legs climbed up the wall behind her and she pushed off.

After spending an entire day falling on his ass, he took the tumble well, managing to hit nearly every vertebra on the way down before adding another bruise to his ass. What he wouldn't give for her ample cushioning to stick the landing. Lanny tumbled with him, she didn't have much choice as there wasn't time for him to let go. But she had enough presence of mind to flip her feet out and catch herself.

"Andraste's ass, what did you do that for?" he whined even as his hands rolled over her hips and across her waist, lost in those womanly curves.

She slid down to her knees and bent her face to his, that canyon of cleavage darting into his field of vision. "Because now I can do this." With almost no help from the stunned man, Lanny grabbed onto the collar of his shirt and tugged it off. It should have been a bit harder what with him and her body pressing it into the floor, but she made it look effortless. Magic. Whenever she did something he couldn't explain, it was magic.

Laughing at her tossing his tunic to the side without a care, Alistair watched her eyes devour his naked chest. Eight years was a long time -- from barely twenty and now into his near thirties, things had to change. But Lanny didn't seem to notice or care about the squishy parts he should have honed down before starting this journey. Her fingers followed his trail of golden chest hair down and down towards the waistband of his own breeches. Reaching out quickly, Alistair caught her one wrist in his fingers. Those beautiful eyes rolled up to him from the challenge. He squeezed once around her slender wrist extracting a moan from Lanny. That quirk of hers was hard to forget, and damn fun when they first found it together.

He tried to pull her higher up, when he felt the waistband of his breeches fall slack. Damn, she'd managed to untie it with only one hand.

"I still have some of those old skills," she smiled, catching on to his indignant face.

"Do you break into houses to pass the time in Amaranthine or is this just a Satinalis and Feast Day thing?" Alistair joked, but he wasn't about to truly damn her nimble fingers. No, they should be celebrated instead. Have monuments built in their honor, and... "Ah, ha ha ha," his whole body lifted up off the floor as those lock breaking fingers slipped under the loosened waistband. Unable to help herself, she parted her fingers through his pubic hair like she intended to style it. Then she darted right for the main entertainment.

Maker, he could lie back and let her have her way with him so easily. But watching Lanny squirm instead of the other way around was what he'd dreamed about. Mostly. 60:40. "Hey now," he called out, then coughed a few times to bring back his voice. "I refuse to be the only one who's going to freeze to death splayed out on the deck of the ship."

"Is that so?" Lanny challenged. She didn't yank her fingers away, but they stopped doing that circle and rise thing she loved to torture him with. "Well," she positioned herself higher to expose the corset, "I'm curious if you think you can remove it without entangling yourself."

He had to release her wrist as he reached towards her back, rifling up an eternal knot of strings along the cursed thing's seams. If he had a real dagger on him he could make quick work of it, though Isabela might be less than pleased with it being returned to her in that state - especially for her missing out on the fun. Alistair clenched together his underused stomach muscles to rise higher. Even with his lower back on the deck, he nearly met Lanny eye to eye. She smiled at him so close to her lips, but Alistair was too busy trying to solve the riddle of female couture to fall into her kiss trap. He barely understood male clothing for that matter. Wrapping both arms around her, his hands rubbed up and down the back he couldn't see, looking for any kind of opening to appropriate. Lanny was no help, of course. She placed both her elbows upon his shoulders, raising herself higher to shove that distracting cleavage in his eyes. Did she want to be naked or not?

_Ah!_ The end of a string yanked free and continued to unravel without any snags. Alistair was still careful as it slipped free, opening up at the back. Without any fanfare, Lanny grabbed onto it and tossed it to the side along with his tunic. Then she returned her elbows to his shoulders, and raised an eyebrow.

"You've learned."

"I had a good reason to figure it out. Two good reasons," he said, his fingers sliding up under her tunic. He flattened them against her stomach, cupping the same small build of muscle he remembered all those years ago. Of course the Commander of the Grey didn't let herself get fluffy. She had all that darkspawning to do.

"For all the..." Lanny muttered. Taking her elbows off of him, she pulled on the collar of her own blouse and yanked it clean off without any fuss. "You're taking too long," she complained. After tossing her own shirt aside, she turned to let her naked breasts dangle right next to his own less impressive chest. Perfect. He didn't care what was in season or fashion for a woman's form, what the latest it-sculptors thought was right. Lanny's would always be perfect -- even age wouldn't change that fact. Just enough to flow out of his palm. And those freckles, a haphazard speckle of dots up the sides of both her breasts like her own leopard spots. They highlighted her silken skin like beauty marks placed by a renowned artist. He'd so badly wanted to connect them when he was younger, but couldn't work up the courage to ask.

Alistair giggled which caught Lanny. She rolled her eyes from the absolute joy in his face, but there was a smile mixed in there. Carefully reaching out as if he was about to touch the most precious jewel in thedas, he cupped his fingers under her breasts. His thumbs brushed against her freckles as if trying to knock away crumbs, which caused Lanny's nipples to prod even further out for attention. Sliding his body further under her for a better grip, Alistair lifted her breasts higher and proceeded to press his thumb into her nipples as if they were buttons.

"Maker's breath," she laughed a full chortle, bringing her forehead down upon his.

His eyes broke from her chestal game to stare up into hers. She'd shut them tight, her lips parted as she gasped from either pleasure or struggling to keep from laughing. "I've missed you," slipped out of him. He didn't mean to bring all the weight of this down upon them in that very moment, effectively smothering any chance he had, but he meant it. Thought the words often. He missed talking to her, watching her laugh to the point of snorting, kissing her lips, tugging on her hair, parting her legs and hearing her moan. He missed it all and so much more.

"I..." Lanny's dark eyes rolled open and he spotted the same golden halo again. "I've missed you too."

"I dunno," Alistair paused, his one hand slipping off her breasts to massage his back, "sure felt like you got all of me."

"Shut up," she chuckled, play swatting at his chest. He let her get in a few more half hearted slaps before grabbing onto her wrist. She eyed him up, a challenge floating through her face.

"Let's see if you can manage to get my pants off with only one arm."

Lanny smirked and he cuffed his fingers around her delicate wrist, nearly all of them meeting around it. Her free hand grabbed onto the edge of his breeches and began to slide them down. _Surely it couldn't be that easy?_ But even with him laying on the ground, she yanked them down like his skin was coated in butter. _Oh no, that was so not fair._ Sitting up fast, Alistair caught her other wrist and bound them together in his hands.

"Now do it with no hands!" he dared her, changing up the rules. He thought she'd call him on it but that dangerous glint rose in her eye, the one a lot of darkspawn saw just before they exploded.

Slipping onto a knee, Lanny pushed all her weight to her right side. With a flexibility he damn near forgot about, she raised her leg up and snagged the lowered waistband with her toe. After that, it was just a matter of yanking downward. He offered no resistance, too shocked to try and stop her. Now as naked as the day he came screaming into the world, Lanny situated herself above him and smugly smiled down.

"Your turn," she purred. Honest to the Maker purred. She'd never done that before, not without... Oh, she was going to drive him mad. To emphasize his descent, she began to gently rock back and forth right above his exposed dick. At least her own trousers were worn smooth, sliding freely right above him, which was a comforting thought until he felt that node building in the back of his head. _Warning, approaching point of no return!  _

Releasing his hold on her wrists, Alistair grabbed onto her hips to get her to stop. "Hey," she complained, "that's cheat-" Her admonishment died as he undid her breeches in record time, the knot falling away by the grace of the Maker, and he pulled them downward tight across his own hips. _Well, it sort of worked._

Lanny chuckled at the attempt, then delicately rolled out of them, perching on her feet to get one leg free, then kicking the second off. Pants were too complicated. He was going full robe when he got home. Everyone -- that would be the new edict. Everyone had to wear a robe.

Running his fingers up her now exposed outer thighs, he paused at the infernal white strip of fabric draped across all her fun bits. She bent down, her breasts pressing against his chest, as her lips whispered next to his ear, "Now what?"

"Like that's ever stopped me before," Alistair growled, unable to keep the need out of his voice. His fingers shoved aside the last barrier between them and he damn near lost it again at how wet she was. Lanny threw her head back and groaned from the bottom of her chest at his slight circling of her lips. That was certainly new.

Her head fell forward, her lips skimming down against his face as she raised her back half higher to give him better access. He was about to try and ply off the last of her clothing, when she whispered, "I need you, now." There was no coy bumbling from when they were barely adults both trying to figure out the ins and outs of innings and outings. Lanny sat up high and grabbed onto his dick. Alistair's hands fell slack next to his chest as she pushed aside the strip of her smallclothes and guided him inside her.

_Sweet Andraste and other blasphemous things_ \-- this, this was what he missed. Alistair lay upon the ground, his eyes screwed tight as he tried to mentally emboss every single second of him sliding into her. He could die there, happy, as if every inch of him was swaddled tight in a wet, warm hug. Sadly, Lanny had other plans.

Those short thighs of hers raised her body higher and she began to take a few shallow thrusts of her own. Was that what it was called when a woman did it? Parry's maybe? Regardless, Alistair dug his toes in deep, chasing after that blankness inside him to keep going. The strip of her smallclothes rubbed in tantalizing ridges against his dick right before she consumed him inside. _Why didn't he think to try that before?_ Her breasts bounced, the hypnotic jiggle drawing him deeper into the point of no return, as Lanny increased her speed. Thinking he could slow himself, Alistair grabbed onto her breasts, holding them in place, but that didn't really help. Maker, forget death, just let him last a few more minutes. _Was that too much to ask for?_

He only had one more option. Gritting his teeth while pleasure wrapped around him and ground out through his core, Alistair thought of Mafarath. Andraste's husband. Betrayed her. Made for an ugly statue. One that filled the forgotten side of the courtyard, and it looked like someone tried to knock his nose off. Was it him? He couldn't really remember and... A moan rolled through his entire body.

Instinct took over. Grabbing onto Lanny's hips, Alistair met her thrust for thrust, increasing in tempo as he was certain he would either finish or his heart would explode. Lanny's eyes were screwed up tight, her chest bouncing from both the sex and her panting - which was also caused by the sex. All of it combined into knocking Alistair ass over end into coming.

"Flames and other fiery things that we curse at," he cried, bucking his hips while losing himself to the ejaculate pumping out of him and into her. In retrospect, maybe his heart exploding would have made less of a mess.

Lanny rolled her head back and forth, coming back from wherever she'd slipped off to in the excitement. He expected her to slide off him, but instead she smiled down at the man panting in total ecstasy. Sweat glistened off her skin, sweat she never broke into the entire time they sparred. Maker's breath, but she really did glow - that sienna skin dewey in the lantern light. Humming as if she'd eaten a great piece of pie, she swallowed a few times, then asked, "Hessarian?"

Of course she'd remember. She'd know. She knew him better than he knew himself. Chuckling, Alistair struggled up to his elbows. "Mafarath actually."

"Oh? What happened to Hessarian? That seemed to work a treat before," she ran those delicate fingers down his chest, tracing the muscles as if playing a game. Maybe she was.

"It did, until they put a new Hessarian statue in the throne room and I realized it was a bit tricky to explain all the unexpected saluting in my trousers whenever I passed it."

That got him a hearty laugh, Lanny curling at her stomach from the image, her hand flying to her mouth to catch herself. "I almost wish I'd been there for that Landsmeet."

"Men fainting in the streets, women uncomfortably glowering. Total nightmare," Alistair threw his arms wide beside his head, smacking them against the wooden floor. "But you...When'd you go all yes ser, no ser in bed?"

"I, uh, don't know," she shrugged. "Rigors of command." He caught the trace of shame riding up her stomach, but Alistair reached upward and cupped her cheek.

"I liked it, but I like being bossed around in bed."

She curled up into his hand pressing her skin tighter, "You like being bossed around everywhere."

Eight years as king and he'd wish anything to have her ordering him around again. Even if they fought, even if she kept telling him to jump in a frozen lake, or smash his own hand, or eat his vegetables, he'd do it. More than that, he'd be happy to do it. He wanted to be free. "Lanny..."

"Hm?"

"Ready for round two?"

She laughed, and wiggled above his deflating staff, "I rather doubt you are."

"Psh," Alistair waved his hand at the logistics, "don't need that bit for what I had in mind." Her body trembled from his offer, and she rolled off of him onto her back, ready to let his tongue have its way with her. Just for fun, Alistair left her smallclothes on to work around.

* * *

Far in the back of the hold, the hammock swung haphazardly in the rocking waves, embedding that diamond pattern deeper into his naked skin. He should have been cold, but his own living blanket stretched across him. At some point Lanny wound up fully naked too, though it took them awhile to reach that stage. Alistair draped one hand across her beautiful ass as if guarding it, and the other kept pushing off the wall to rock the hammock more. She'd sigh with every shove, but didn't raise her head to tell him to stop.

"You know," her lips mumbled beside that weird mole on the left side of his chest, "we're going to have to talk about this."

"Nonsense," he gave another push on the wall, "what's talking ever solved? Nothing is what. The best approach is to not talk about anything, ever. And that will somehow fix everything."

"Alistair..." her voice crackled in exhaustion. By the Maker, she should have passed out long ago but somehow the woman kept going. Lanny tried to lift her head by placing her weight on her elbows, but she couldn't get any traction from the flimsy hammock. "Was this, is it only a one time deal? No bullshit, okay. If it is, that's fine. Whoops on both our parts. We get up, dress, and drink until it's not awkward anymore."

"Only took about three years last time," Alistair grumbled. His free arm gave one final shove against the wall. Satisfied with the rocking, he ran his fingers across Lanny's back. What did they call skin that soft? Taffeta? Seersucker? Some kind of fabric. Whatever it was, Lanny's was that and more, with this almost elegant curve to her lower back joining with her backside. Sometimes it reminded him of fancy table legs swooped out to help support the whole thing. Maybe that was why she was so steady on her feet.

"I'm guessing by your silence that's a yes, then?" she interrupted.

"What? No, it's..." Alistair dug his head deeper back into the hammock, his eyes tracing some misspelled graffiti carved into the wood above as he tried to think. "I love you. I know I'm not supposed to. Should have stopped years ago, but I couldn't. Even when we were being-"

Her fingers smooshed up against his lips, the tip of one accidentally banging into his nose. "I love you too, you idiot," she sighed and a weight lifted off him. Not literally as she didn't move, but the metaphorical one. He wondered as they played friends and occasional confidants thrown together into the shitstorm that was politics if it was ever possible to be more again. To go from what they had to what they didn't and back again. Lanny pulled her hand off his mouth, trailing her fingers down his neck, "But that doesn't change anything."

_Why couldn't it?_ That was the whole point of this mission, to change things. To set right what somehow went wrong years ago, to leap back and put the right ass on the fancy chair. Alistair wasn't meant to be king, Cailan was. Whatever drove Maric to Antiva couldn't be valid once he learned his son, his real son, was killed. He'd be sure to rush to Ferelden to take all that responsibility off his bastard's shoulders.

Alistair's fingers rose up her sides so he could wrap his arms over top of her, snuggle her tighter to him, and protect her. "Lanny, I probably should have asked this before all the pants flying off parts, but, is there someone else in your life?"

She paused for a moment, just enough to make him wonder if he'd stepped onto a creaking bear pit and there'd be duels of honor waiting for him in Amaranthine, when she sighed in resignation, "No. And I don't need to bother asking you as I know the answer."

"Yeah, that's a big scoop of complicated on top of a convoluted pie with some knotty chocolate shavings on the side. And now I am starving."

Instead of leaping off him like any sane woman would after he went into dessert talk, she burrowed deeper into him laying her cheek flat against his sweaty chest. "Some things never change."

But they had. Change was inevitable everyone kept saying, you couldn't fight it. Maybe that was the real problem. People kept giving up against change because they'd rather roll over than fight it. "Is there," he wrinkled up his nose and struggled to find the words to address a fog that'd been around her for some time, even since before they left Ferelden, "is something wrong? I mean aside from donning the velvet hat with an old lover who's trying to find his father to get anyone else but him to sit on the throne."

"It's complicated," she said, not answering his question.

"Lanny... if it's about the wardens you can tell me. If it's about the chantry or mages you can tell me. If it's about me, could you wait until I put pants on?"

That earned him a snicker, but she took her time to rouse her thoughts. With her finger fluffing up and then down his chest hair, she kept puffing up her cheeks then deflating them - either stalling for time, or terrified to dredge up her deepest concerns. "I know I have no right to complain, to even feel this but..."

"Yes you do," Alistair interrupted. "After all the crap, day in and day out you get, I think you can yell at the world every once in awhile."

"Maybe, but I keep coming back alive and whole... unlike the others."

_Ah shit._ He knew this one, felt it himself at times but nowhere near as deep as she did. Lanny tried to explain it once, to give him a hint of how magic wasn't just a matter of knowing the right incantation or waving your fingers. Her skill set came about because of what was primarily inside her; the makeup of her soul was her way of putting it. She called it the darkness - a black fog that'd wrap through her thoughts, deaden her muscles, and drag her down with it. Because of it, she had some innate and nearly terrifying skill with all those entropy hexes - the ones involving horror and death in particular. But they themselves took a toll upon her, needing that darkness inside to work and almost feeding it back upon her with herself. Alistair barely understood then, and probably made some flippant joke after she told him. Now, he still couldn't wrap his mind around it fully, but he got that it was bad. Enveloping her deeper into his arms, he tried to burrow her safely into his chest.

"You want to be free of it?" he asked while also telling. "I get that, I do. I really really do."

Her head rolled up, her chin digging into his sternum so she could catch his eye, "You wanted to be a warden more than anything, Alistair."

"Yeah, a warden, not _the_ warden. Certainly not in charge of anything. Look at me now, got a whole kingdom that keeps asking for attention all the time. I thought that if I kept focused on that, did all those kindly king things one does - rescue chantry babies and kiss orphaned Sisters - that I'd, I don't know, find some peace. I keep looking for it, but all I find is more 'Your highness, you can't do that because it would enrage blah blah blah.' 'Your majesty, you must put our efforts into do de do or else something something end of the world.' I'm tired of being called your. I'm not a you. I'm an I, I think."

"Well, you're no we," Lanny said, chuckling into him.

"Maker, I didn't even think about all the Orlesian shit heaped on top of the usual feces pile that is... This wasn't supposed to be about me, was it? Crap."

"No," she knotted her fingers against him and pushed up. Those beautiful eyes met his, "But I have my answer."

"Lanny, I don't want to go back to the way things were. I didn't want to when the way they were is what they are before they became what they were..." he waved his fingers around to try and track that sentence, "I think."

"You know you come with an awful lot of baggage," she said while leaning towards him. He intercepted her attempts and met her lips with a soft kiss of his own. After their earlier fun, his lips were going to need a recovery period before he could attempt anything harder.

"Says the mage who's technically an apostate but also a grey warden that kinda saved an entire country by stopping a blight. You're sure there's no one else, right? Some burly ex that'll pound me into the ground with one tap of his fist?"

Lanny only rolled her eyes at his insinuation. "When have I ever gone for the burly type?" Sighing, she lay down upon his chest, "This still does not solve anything."

"I know," he held her close for one last hug, then he reached over to push against the wall. With luck, eventually the rocking would drag them both down into some much needed sleep. And after that they'd be one step closer to finding Maric, one step closer to putting him on the throne, and one night more until Alistair could be with her forever.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dreams

_?:?? ?_

Lana dug her staff deeper into the dirt that stopped being stone floor twenty five meters back, and left it free standing. She needed that line against the horizon as her eyes twisted towards the rotating parlor above her head. It hung at not quite a 45 degree angle with the ground and no discernible way to climb up to it. Of course, it was where she was waiting for her.

"I really don't want to see her. She hates me," Jowan whined, throwing off Lana's concentration.

"Fine," she shook her head. "You can both wait here," she said to the two spirits following her.

"As you say, Ser," Nathaniel would have saluted if he could. He didn't turn around or wander off, instead his corporeal form seemed to fade away into the distance as if he shut down.

"Oh no, I'm not leaving you alone with that one. She's up to something," Jowan complained.

"The commander gave you an order," Nathaniel snapped out of his hazy almost existence just to shout at his fellow spirit.

"Last I checked, I'm not her little soldier boy. I was her friend until she went behind my back and..."

Lana waved off their bickering that amounted to nothing. It was one thing when Anders and the real Nathaniel would tear into each other. They had their own platforms, their reasons for fighting. Even if it was pointless squabbling it bore the weight of reality. The way the spirits competed it felt more like a play being poorly acted from a pair of non-actors who had their lines fed to them. It was the lack of interesting curses she missed the most.

Her current concern was in solving the puzzle. That was always what she hid behind: puzzles, games, tricks. A series of three colors lay upon the ground, but each stone had a symbol etched in gold inside it. So, was it the symbol that was important, or the color? Perhaps both. Needing to start somewhere, Lana yanked up her staff and jabbed the end into the green circle with the symbol that looked like an M baring a forked tongue. A sound like a great bell tower bonging out the time echoed through the ground and a single stair rose.

"Okay, this might be easier than I thought," she said aloud and pressed upon the blue color. The lone stair retreated back from where it came and a heart stopping BWAM shattered up her knees. Lana threw her hands over her ears to minimize her hearing loss. Both spirits stopped their bickering to glower at her. "If it's so easy, you do it!" she shouted at them. It took her a few more tries, and a few more BWAMS, before she figured out it was based upon complimentary colors and the runes were just to throw her off. After pairing the blue and orange, the last stair rose and connected with the floating platform.

She took one step onto it when Jowan reached out and snagged her hand. So much time in the fade, and it unnerved her how lifelike he felt. It wasn't just a warmth, but a solidness to him. She believed there was blood pumping through his body, muscles shifting beneath the skin of his fingers. But it didn't seem possible at all. Jowan was dead.

"You're not going alone," he said.

"Why?"

"I'm not about to let her have my meal ticket."

_Of course_ , Lana shook her head. "Here I was thinking you might have developed a latent case of compassion, silly me." She was being silly. This wasn't Jowan. He or it wasn't capable of changing his spots, they didn't do that. Yanking up her staff, Lana hitched her waning belt higher up and began climbing up the stairs. It was in some ways comparable to scaling those hanging metal staircases wound so tight you grow disoriented in the rapid twisting. The fear of falling to your doom was certainly a comparable aspect in both. She had to keep her eyes shut tight or the reorientation as her foot and body moved through space to line up with the stair would catch her and the panic could cause her to fall. Climbing upward twisted her entire frame into the new dimensions until she finally stopped at the top of the platform.

The smell of cleaning soap - the rose scented kind used to scrub Orlesian parlors - wafted over her. A painting hung suspended above a mantle over the fireplace. It was impressive as there was no wall behind the mantle, only gaping space where the green sky of the fade leeched out in its sickly light. The portrait was of a young man dressed in mage robes of a circle, though Lana didn't recognize him. A rosewood table with curves instead of straight legs took up most of the platform, and someone bothered to set out enough plates for three. Chairs composed of varying woods sat around the table, the last little more than a stool with the red paint peeling off the top.

"Hello dear," the woman she came to see spoke. She was turned away from Lana sitting primly in the host seat at the table. Her white hair was pinned up in a bun with a stick running through it that bore a striking resemblance to a sword Lana had forged ages ago - Starfang.

"We need to talk," Lana said.

The woman placed down her teacup which she'd been sipping despite it being empty. Slowly, she turned in her chair and Wynne smiled at her. "Of course you do."

Lana scooped up the ends of her tattered robes and slid into a chair beside Wynne. She regretted not having a chance to clean off her split boots before stepping into the parlor, which was stupid seeing as how there was nowhere to clean them and they were in the damn fade. Manners hardly mattered here.

"You brought him," Wynne mused. Her manicured fingers reached towards a small tray and she scooped them around an invisible biscuit or pastry.

"I didn't have a choice," Lana said. Her eyes darted up to Jowan who stood at the edge of the platform, a glower implanted upon his face. Shaking his head like a wet dog, he stomped back and forth across the stairs unwilling to step any closer.

Wynne paid no heed to Jowan's tantrum, she never did. "Nonsense dear. We all have a choice. Is that not what free will is?"

"That isn't what I've come here to talk to you about," Lana began. Jowan kept throwing her off, either because the spirit on occasion bore such an emotional resemblance to the unstable man or because she desperately needed someone to be real. But in her bones she knew what Wynne was. As much as she'd wish for the woman who helped guide her for years whether it was asked of Wynne or not, this was not her. She bore the same patrician face, had identical genteel gestures, but there was no kindness in her words, no compassion in her deeds. This Wynne cared only for one thing.

"We haven't spoken since you felt the last fade rift close, which was a long time past," Wynne said.

Lana winced. The rifts opening at random throughout the fade had been what she thought was her best opportunity of breaking out of here. The only problem was she had no way to predict when they'd open or where. There was only one she saw within close distance and reachable on foot if she hurried. But demons swarmed around it like moths to a flame and as she began to formulate a plan to hack through them, the rift shuddered away. Either it buckled under its own force, or on the other side the Inquisitor did what he had to. She kept trying, watching the skies of the fade twist and pop, hoping for another opportunity but none ever presented itself. Then, they stopped all together.

"That's not why I'm here," Lana began, but Wynne waved her hand over the invisible treats as if she intended to snatch them all away.

"Do you ever wonder why you sleep?" the spirit twisted into her own ideas of how the conversation could go. That was the danger of talking to her, what should be a minute long question could lead into hours far off topic. It would annoy Lana if she had anywhere to go.

"Because if I don't, I die. Or are we going to debate whether or not this is the afterlife again. A rousing good time until you decided to stab my hand with your letter opener," Lana sneered.

"It did solve the conundrum, did it not?" Wynne shrugged. "At least as far as it is solvable. Can any of us ever know if this is life or merely another illusion?"

"She's trying to break you," Jowan spat up from his vantage point. "That's what she'll do, take you all to herself."

"Do try and quiet your little lamprey. He encroaches upon our fun," she arched an eyebrow but didn't look towards Jowan. She didn't need to. The spirits didn't really see out of their eyes, they sensed in all directions. It took Lana awhile to adjust to that fact and even longer to get over any sense of modesty with her cavalcade always watching.

Lana picked up her plate and slammed it against the table. Porcelain shattered upon the polished wood, splintering into five pieces. Spinning in shock, Wynne pointed at her, "What did you do that for?"

"To see if anything here was real."

Wynne grinned and gently clapped her hands. "Excellent show. Perhaps you should toss the cup at your lamprey's head next. That would solve one of your problems, at least."

"Jowan's not a..." Lana began to stick up for him as if he was her real friend. Then again, what else did she have now? There was no one else to speak to but Jowan. Nathaniel was as good as shouting commands down a well and listening to the echo, while Wynne... That spirit could strip her brain raw without touching a single memory. She didn't need to, didn't want to. "Tell me something, did you dip into my mind? Take out a memory without my permission?"

"Oh, dear," Wynne tutted her tongue then twisted her own mug around in her hands as if inspecting the maker's mark upon the bottom, "I thought you were wiser than that. It's as if you're fresh faced and placing your first steps into our world all over again."

"I am low on patience and even lower on answers," Lana sighed. What she needed was a good night's sleep. Not on the ground surrounded by wards waiting for whatever from beyond the void hungered to finish her off, but curled up on the featheriest mattress one could stuff, with pillows stacked ten high, fur blankets from every animal warming her frozen body, and him... She bit her lip to drag away that thought. It did no one any good, at least not her. So much time, she didn't even know how much, and to think he'd...  Shaking her head again, she turned on Wynne, but the old woman smiled again.

"How are your dreams, dearie? Anything interesting?"

"I don't care about my dreams. They are not important."

"Are you so certain of that? Think of what you can discover in your dreams, what treasure you'd find," the old spirit continued. Unlike the real Wynne, this one wore a ring upon almost every finger except her pointers. Some were simple gold bands, while others far more elaborate and jewel encrusted. One swung open to reveal a hidden chamber to hide poison, while another had a deadly hook on the end to slice into the back of a person's neck. When the spirit was pausing in thought, she'd spin one of her rings around. She twisted the sapphire upon her left hand, as if that meant anything.

"My point, which is why I came, is that someone dug into my memories."

"You let that thing back there have a go at you whenever you're hungry. It was probably that," Wynne waved her hand at Jowan.

"It wasn't him."

"How can you be so certain?"

"He wouldn't care about what was in that memory."

Wynne's fingers paused in their twisting and she smiled her patronizing look upon Lana - as if she was the humble apprentice being schooled all over again. "Excellent. You are correct. So, puzzle the logic out. If it was not the regretful one rifling through your head scouring for his taste of mortality, who was it?"

Lana curled her face up, shaking her head to find sense, "There is no one else. Everywhere I go, the rest of the spirits scamper, leaving behind only Jowan, Nathaniel, and you in your floating fortresses."

"And you've never once wondered with all the spirits in all the fade, why no one else comes for you? Why only the..." she waved her jangling hand towards Jowan, "contrite clings to your skirts. Oh, I'm sorry, you've switched to breeches since I last saw you."

She was right. Lana had walked nearly every day since she entered the fade, struggling to find some way out. Spirits and demons alike haunted on the edges beyond her, but whenever she'd reach them the entire fade would shift molding itself to her life, a disjointed smattering of places she'd visited and known pieced together like broken puzzles. There would be no more spirits or demons, only Jowan, Nathaniel, Wynne, and...

"There's another one," Lana breathed.

"You're finally using your brain, it seems," Wynne breathed.

"Not just any one either. This has to be a powerful one. A spirit that's kept me safe and never revealed itself." Lana rose out of her chair, her legs needing to pace. She found herself twitchy if she rested for too long.

"Or perhaps it did, you simply didn't know what to look for."

"What does this spirit want? What is it?" she leaned her body onto the table, trying to draw Wynne's attention.

The woman shrugged, "What could you glean from me? I seem to be as much in its wake as you, either as a service for you or because it enjoys my company as well. Either way, would you trust me to answer that?"

She was right, of course. That was the curse of talking to her. This spirit would dig claws into you, but you knew every word out of her mouth was somehow the truth. Sometimes Lana missed a good old-fashioned white lie. "You've given me much to think about." Rising off the table, Lana nodded to Jowan who yelped in joy that they were leaving. The woman continued to stare at her teacup as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Perhaps it was to the spirit. Lana left her to it, her mind awhirl with questions as she stepped towards the exit.

"Dear, you forgot something," Wynne spoke up. As Lana turned to her, the spirit heaved her cup against the table where instead of breaking it bounced with enough force to fly into the air and land in Lana's fingers.

"What is it?" Lana asked, twisting the fake cup in her hand.

Wynne spun on her chair and the coldest eyes stared through Lana, "If you are physically in the fade now, where do you go when you dream?"

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tevinter

Cullen's hand absently stroked Honor's sloppy head. She tried to shake it to slough off the sea water, but he pressed her closer to his leg to quiet her down. Every deckhand stood on edge glaring through the shifting fog to see around the rocks puncturing the waves off the coast of the Nocean sea. Stormy skies obliterated the stars rendering them near blind save a few lanterns skimming above the surface of the briny water to try and see further than a few inches past the bow. He had no idea what the plan was, or why they had to navigate the coast by night, but the nervous energy was palpable to grip him. Isabela gritted her teeth from her perch, her right hand man knuckles white to the railing as he shouted her few orders in a whisper.

"Slow the mains, we need to crawl in," he waved his bronzed arm against the grey skies. Cullen stood just below and was able to see him, but he had no idea how any of the pirates could hear or much less understand the order. And yet, they scampered off, tugging down lines and putting others up to align the sails and slack off on their slide towards the rocks. He expected Alistair to get into the fray with them, instead the king stood next to Cullen, his own eyes narrowed to try and peer into the fog.

"What I wouldn't give for a mage right about now," Alistair whispered aloud to himself.

Cullen shook his head, "What good would a mage be? They don't have preternatural sight."

"No, but it'd be nice to have one on hand to mend our broken bodies after they're dashed against the rocks."

"That's a fair point," Cullen admitted while grabbing onto the satchel across his neck. He'd been told to pack and not been given much more information than that. Alistair began to explain when Isabela called all hands to the deck and, after stuffing their meager belongings away, they both came upon the macabre sight.

Even after a month and a half on the waves, Cullen was not a fan of sailing, but the occasional swell and drop of a turquoise wave was perfection compared to this. Fog as grey as a dead man's skin wafted above still waters, the pounding of the sea abated to a gentle glug-glug against the hull. Silence reigned in this land of the beyond. Cullen feared he could hear his own heartbeat shattering through the quiet air disturbing whatever demon waited from the shadows. While sliding deeper into someone's nightmare, every hand watched for a shattering of black rock hidden inside the enveloping haze that would crack apart the Siren's Echo wooden flesh.

"I see land!" someone called from the front of the ship, her arm waving through the fog.

Every hand rose above every eye to try and spot whatever the pirate claimed. Slowly, a smattering of acceptance rang through the deck. "Yes, there was land _."_ Cullen couldn't see it. All that appeared to him was more darkness hidden inside the fog. Their admiral seemed to see what he couldn't. She spun the wheel madly to the left and yanked her free arm down.

"Clew up, get the lines ready. We're doing this as quiet as possible. List her in..."

Without any wind to puff up the dead sails, the Siren's Echo relied upon only the remaining momentum from the waves to gently wash her closer to this imaginary land. It wasn't until they were almost upon it that Cullen realized his mistake. He'd expected another port of call, docks, buildings of multiple stories stuffed with people and goods. But this wasn't an official landing spot for ships, this was a true pirate's cove. The ship drifted deeper inward, sliding past unscalable cliffs slick as wet slate hundreds of meters high above their heads. Cullen glanced upward and spotted some kind of raptor circling through the fog almost keeping pace with them. If he was back home he would probably recognize it, but here he could only spot a tail as black as night fanned out while the brown bird dived towards the trees pocked along the rocks.

"Now!" Isabela yelled, her voice shattering the whisper of before. The noise was so jarring, Cullen jumped a bit and felt Alistair hold onto him. The king shook his head and mouthed 'Not us' before releasing him.

Deckhands burst into violent action like ants pursing a dropped crumb. Lines launched off the ship to embed deep into the walls of the cliff pockmarked from the same holes. With a heave-ho, every man and woman grabbed onto the ropes and spun the ship to align with the coast. As a few waves broke against the _Siren's Echo_ , Isabela gave the order to weigh anchor.

She dusted off her hat and handed it to her right hand man before stepping down towards her two passengers. "That could have gone worse," Alistair piped up.

The pirate queen glared at him for a moment as she wiped off a shake in her hands. Apparently neither of the landlubbers knew how close of a call it was. "You two ready?" she asked instead.

"As we'll ever be," the king spoke for them both. Cullen was about to interrupt to ask what they were supposed to be ready for, but Isabela shook her head.

"Good," raising her voice to her crew she commanded. "Draw the gangplank. If I'm not back in an hour, set sail without me."

"Yes, ma'am!" the crew echoed but no one seemed happy about this possibility. _Maker's breath, what were they doing?_

Isabela eyed up the two of them, "You still have your big sword?"

"Always." Alistair, the king who'd been dressed for the life of a traveling merchant finally put himself in partial armor with a longsword knotted at the waist.

She rolled her eyes, "I know all about yours. I was more concerned about that one." She tipped her head at Cullen, who glanced from the two of them. Despite his suspicions and their constant flirtations, he'd never caught any sign of Alistair and the pirate queen being anything more than friends - the king's nights spent snoring in a hammock suspended above a pickle barrel. It was a complicated kind of friendship of course, but nothing tawdry. It unnerved him more than he expected.

"I am armed," Cullen said, "but would like to know for what reason."

Against the black hole of the stone shore, a golden light broke through drawing everyone's attention. Isabela knotted a checkered rag around her hair and she checked her own daggers, "You're about to find out, regs. Hamish, you have the ship. The captain's going off board."

Isabela took the lead, her weapons sheathed but she kept reaching back for them at the slightest sound breaking over the calm sea air. Behind her walked Alistair, who for the first time Cullen felt a strange urge to guard. Not out of any loyalty to the man, but due to far too many years in the order training him to protect the most valuable in the chantry hierarchy. Sadly, kings were included in that list. Cullen and Honor took up the back as they crept down the quickly retracted gangplank and deeper into the shores of the Imperium. The broken lute string call of the frogs echoed through the warmer fog of the north. It felt strange to be so near winter and not even require a cloak while walking the rocky beach, but he was far from home.

Creeping against the broken ground, Cullen eased his toe in front of him before committing to the step. Even then, the few pieces of armor he strapped on would shift in the blanketed world of the fog, the sound bouncing off the rocks and back into everyone's ears. His heart thrummed at the burgeoning anticipation of battle seeping out of every dark corner, shadows shifting as if filled with eyes and blades. Still, he kept his hand upon his sword's grip but didn't unsheathe it. Reaching out with his spare hand, Cullen stroked along Honor's head. She shook him off, even the mabari knew this was working time.

They slipped further away from the shoreline, tracing after a golden glow that would occasionally part the grey fogs from the distance, then vanish in seconds. At first, Cullen thought it was running away from them and they'd never catch it, but as the fog dissipated revealing gnarled trees stripped dead of all bark and branch, the distance lessened. No voices echoed through the imposing canyon above their heads, only their guarded footsteps scrabbling across rock wearing away to a saw grass followed them. The grass was tanner than what he knew in the south, but it chewed through raw flesh the same. Cullen tried to swipe a path for Honor, but the dog either didn't feel the sting or gritted through it as she stomped onward.

"Come no further!" a voice cried out of the dark and a blinding light landed upon their faces. This wasn't courtesy of any torch, but veilfire bursting off someone's fingers into their darkened eyes. Wonderful, their first meeting was with a Tevinter mage.

Alistair and Cullen froze on the spot, but Isabela waved her hand in her face and shouted, "Knock it off, Darius. I can barely blighted see with that shiny shit in my eyes."

This Darius sighed in relief, and the veil fire vanished. "Thank the Maker. It's Izzy," he shouted to the rest behind him.

"Izzy?" Alistair asked, nudging the pirate queen.

"Try that and you'll be feeding the barnacles on my ship," she hissed back at him before waving her hands wide and stepping up an incline. The two men and one mabari followed behind her cautious and confused. He expected more pirates, perhaps with their own smuggled piles of goods or stolen treasures needing to get out of Tevinter fast, but the reality was the furthest thing Cullen could have imagined. Elves, over a dozen of them, sat curled up on the rocky terrain in the darkness. They ranged in age from a young child up to a withered old man leaning upon a broken branch for support. Each had a shawl tucked over their heads as if to try and hide their faces or ears, while they huddled around where normally a campfire would be. Exhaustion and hunger seemed rampant in the group, their faces grey and lips slack. But their eyes flared up at the intruders and, as one, they slid further away from them.

"Darius, you promised us..." one of the elves spoke, a middle aged woman with the scar from mage fire across half her face.

"Calm yourself, Izzy's with us," Darius was the only one in the group who was human. With a waxed mustache, pointed beard, and his hair swooped high over his forehead, he reminded Cullen more of Dorian than a smuggling pirate. "She's your ride out of Tevinter."

Every elven eye swung to the pirate queen. Isabela didn't offer comfort or even look at them, instead she focused on Darius. "There's a good fifteen here! You told me six at the most."

Darius shrugged his barely covered shoulder, "I had an opportunity to free more and took it."

"Andraste's tits, do you have any idea how hard it is to sneak six onto a ship, much less _all_ of them?" She waved her hand over the elves as if they weren't there or couldn't understand her. Perhaps a few didn't, but the rest clung tighter to each other at her words, terrified of what would happen if the pirate wouldn't take them.

Darius touched Isabela's hand and he smiled, "You'll find a way, you always do."

"You're gonna owe me something big when this is done," she sighed, then rolled her head around to stretch weary muscles. "I hope a few of you don't mind sleeping in shifts," she finally addressed the group.

The elves all shook their heads no, but none of them rose. Instead, they clung tight to the ground as if afraid a giant's hand would crack the clouds to swat them down and drag them back to Tevinter. They chattered for a moment amongst themselves, their eyes darting over the pirate woman picking at her nails, and then the two men standing beside her. "Darius?" the burned woman spoke up. "How can we thank you?"

"Get out of here and live your lives free. That's all the thanks I need," he smiled magnanimously, gripping her offered hand in both of his. Then he finally turned to the lost men behind Isabela. "Which one is which?" he asked, pointing from Alistair to Cullen.

Isabela waved her hand, "I can barely tell most days. If he answers to idiot, it's him."

"I," Darius paused and blinked. He must know that Alistair is a king, otherwise no man would re-think using the word idiot. "We have a slight problem, uh..."

"It's him," Cullen spoke up, jabbing his finger at Alistair.

"Of course, thank you," Darius bowed his head at Cullen then took up counsel with the king, "Your highness."

"Eee, ex-nay on the highness-ay," Alistair interrupted, bouncing on his feet and peering over at the elves. "Incognito here and all."

"Right, naturally," Darius nodded his head, but his eyes darted to Isabela, a burning question asking her if this was really a king and not some lark.

"For the Maker's sake, I don't think a bunch of elven slaves are going to blab about you wearing a crown," she shot back. "Doubtful they could find Ferelden on a map, or read a map for that matter."

Alistair shrugged but he kept peering through the huddled masses as if there was a spy hiding in their midst. Still uncertain how to proceed, Darius watched Isabela while speaking to the king. "We have a situation that must be dealt with promptly. Massimo will be in attendance at the swap."

"Shiiit," Isabela groaned, stretching out the word as she winnowed her head towards the ground. Then she snapped up, "Oh fuck, let me guess, _he's_ going to be there too."

"It seems most likely," Darius nodded his head, catching on to whoever this third unnamed person was. " _He's_ been pursuing Massimo for a few years now. This is the first time anyone can get close to Massimo outside of his fortress, even _him_."

Alistair waved his fingers between the two of them, "I'm guessing this Massimo is bad news..."

"He's a shit eating bastard," Isabela cursed, then tacked on, "present company excluded."

Darius took over for her to explain a bit better, "Due to shifts in the power structure over the years, Massimo is currently the most powerful slave broker in Tevinter."

Chuckling, Isabela spoke up, "By _shifts in power structure_ you mean _someone_ keeps chopping slaver heads off and ripping hearts out?"

"That is the more accurate way to phrase it, yes. _He_ is an agent of chaos but it's served the underground well. Until the power vacuum yerns to be filled, as is their want, and in this case it was by Massimo. Ten years prior he was little more than a bit player running unawares to our operation, but over time, and..." Darius gestured at Isabela plastering her hand against her chest and pretending to rip her own heart out, "that affair, he's grown dangerous."

Alistair bobbed his head, obviously keeping abreast of whatever was going on, "So the deal's changed."

"Not changed, only complicated itself. You can avoid it if you'd like, but I am afraid I will not. I must try to intervene if I can," Darius said, and the king nodded along. Cullen tried to be patient, piecing together their double speak and sideways glances, but he couldn't stand it anymore.

Grabbing onto Alistair's arm, Cullen whipped the king around to face him. Darius blanched at the impolitic move against royalty, while Isabela was busy miming chopping her own head off. "All right, I've put up with much from you on this trip but I think I am owed an explanation as to what in the void is happening here."

The king tipped his head back and forth and smiled, "In order to get out of Tevinter, we're going to pose as a couple of slave traders with Darius here. Originally, we were going to visit the market, slip in with a slave route, infiltrate it, and use that to take us into the Anderfells, but now it looks like..."

"We will assassinate Massimo, travel his route, and destroy all the slavers along the way," Darius finished for him.

Alistair jabbed a finger at him and smiled, "That, more or less. Sounds like we'll have competition on the finishing off Massimo plan though."

Darius groaned, " _He_ is competent, but...brash." Isabela snorted at the assessment, and the hairs along Cullen's neck rose. If she of all people thought this man was brash... _Maker!_ "I fear we may lose him entirely if there is no one to assist."

"So," Alistair turned on Cullen, the last holdout of the group. "Are you up for killing a bunch of slavers or...?" he waved his hand back in the direction of the boat.

Slipping his eyes closed, Cullen gripped tighter to the hilt of his sword. "I'm in."

"That was quick," the king responded, taken aback. "Took you longer to decide what you wanted for dinner, and...fine fine, don't look a gift druffalo in the mouth. Got it."

"It's been a lot of fun and all, but I'm afraid this is where we part ways." Isabela reached her hand out to Cullen and he took it, surprised at the calluses they shared as they shook. Then she turned to Alistair who extended his hand as well. Instead of taking it, Isabela grabbed onto both of his cheeks and pulled him in for a deep kiss. Both Cullen and Darius shuffled uncomfortably and stared off into the distance as the pirate queen macked all over the regular king. Just as the awkwardness was reaching into the huddled elven group, she broke from his lips and Alistair gasped in air. "Do what you need to, and feel free to flag me down if you ever need some pirate assistance."

"I will, uh, think about that," Alistair stuttered, seeming as shocked by her goodbye as the rest of them.

Isabela cupped Darius' fingers once more, then she said, "We'll get 'em out safe, then I'll be back sometime in six months if the weather plays nice."

"Agreed."

"Oh, and if you see _him_ before he's all blood ragey, tell him Isabela says his underthings are...green."

Darius eyed up the pirate queen, confusion knotting his brow, but nodded, "I will do that."

She smiled wide and slapped him once on the shoulder, buckling his fancy feather stylings, "Good on you." Turning to the elves she shouted, "All right, let's get all your asses on the ship before the Tevinter guards come poking about. Daylight is not our friend, so move it! I don't want to leave anyone behind, but we're not waiting either!"

As she rounded up the elves scampering towards the _Siren's Echo_ and freedom, Darius handed a pair of scarves to both the men. "Here, slip these around your heads to try and disguise your, well, Southern coloring."

"Delightful," Cullen sighed, weighing the damask pattern in his hands. "What of my dog? I will not leave her behind."

"Ah, the Ferelden mabari, yes? It may draw a few questions, but we can pass her off as an oddity of yours. She will prove useful in a fight, at least," Darius scampered around Cullen, his eyes drifting towards the dog who only wagged her stump of a tail harder from the attention. Then the mage turned and tried to assist Alistair, who'd managed to knot the scarf around his neck.

After un-choking himself, the king smiled wide, "Nearly got it. This thing's a bit tricky."

"Ah, indeed, sire. I mean, ser," Darius sighed with a weary list to his voice, the same that Cullen felt in his heart every time he stepped near Alistair. What an odd place to find a kindred spirit in a Tevinter magister. "If you will follow me, we have a long way to walk until we reach the city proper."

Killing slavers. Out of all the things Alistair could demand from him to get Lana back, this was the one thing Cullen felt no hesitation for.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Wolf

_9:44 Tevinter_

Despite his life constantly veering to the left, Cullen never expected to find himself in the Tevinter Imperium where blood mages ruled and templars were little more than yappy lap dogs, neutered and chained from effecting any change. The city they traveled to was unlike anything he'd seen before. Where Kirkwall bore the occasional mark of the Imperium under her bones, the Marchers made it their own. Val Royeaux was its own painted up city, a bit like a war horse with ribbons knotted through its mane - power lurking below the glitz. But this city loomed around him overstuffed with architecture built upon even older and ancienter still. A modern building sat next to the crumbling ruins of a columned facade baring the faces of what looked like the old gods. They strolled past an ancient chantry built perhaps before the third blight, its walls made of plain sandstone, unnoticeable save the etchings of Andraste. A lone chanter stood outside speaking the heretical verses of the north. Streets weren't laid out in any plan, but undulated through the city as if someone placed down cobblestones while pursuing a cat. And moving through it all were mages, brash as the bright sun. They bore their staves glittering in jewels and priceless metals as a badge of honor. Robes were the fashion, of course, but even those were more decadent than the typical mage fare in the south.

"And I'd believed Dorian extravagant," Cullen mused to himself watching a man waltz past with pomegranate juice dripping onto his silk slippers embroidered with a family crest in golden thread.

Darius didn't speak much to either of them aside from a few curt suggestions that they voice few words seeing as how they both bore rather obvious accents. Of course, the king smirked and shouted, "I have no idear what you mean." Uncertain how to respond, their guide only nodded along and kept up their march deeper into the city.

"Where are you taking us?" Cullen asked. He walked beside the man while somehow Alistair and Honor slipped into the back. Realizing they'd both been rather quiet for awhile, Cullen turned and found an empty space where king and mabari should be. Wonderful.

Darius, unaware of their new problem, spoke up, "To the center of Asariel. There is an open air market located upon the old Imperium's circus ground, one of the largest."

"A slave market," Cullen spat, needing to dig deeper into that wound. His fingers itched just being near this many mages -- countless could be malifecarum or worse. Would abominations themselves walk freely through the streets?

"Yes," Darius bowed his head, "a slave market. One we will be disrupting, hopefully permanently."

Cullen's eyes trailed a woman with her hair rolled up like plump sausages, each link pinned around her head in a circle. Three elves trailed behind her, they couldn't have been much older than ten or twelve but they didn't behave like children given free run at market day. Their heads hung low out of fear of risking eye contact, while the tallest one held onto his mistress' skirts to keep them out of the dust.

"Are you a magister?" Cullen asked.

Darius chuckled, "You do draw from the south. No, I am not."

"But you're of high standing, a mage in the Imperium. An altus?"

That drew the mage's attention, his baggy eyes twisting towards the southern barbarian who never managed to knot that cursed shawl over his head. "You are aware of our...? Yes, I am an altus, but it is complicated. More complicated than I'd prefer to go into."

Cullen shrugged. "I only wonder what would push someone of the higher class to risk his neck for sl- the elves."

"I wish there was an easy answer to that. Some momentous event when perhaps a slave saved my life and asked only for freedom as recompense. A heartwarming story to appease people uneasy with their higher lot in the life. There are a few in our small group who bare those tales, but I'm afraid mine is not as simple to pin down," Darius slowed and shook both of his hands as if knocking away excess water after washing them. "While some try to enact change within the laws of the Imperium, others prefer a more direct approach. I, without the backing of my sundered family, require the latter."

Cullen suspected as such, or something similar. People didn't break out of their bubble unless they felt they had no other choice. It was a rare person living in a secure position to throw it all away because of the injustice heaped upon someone who wasn't them, who didn't touch their life.

Darius coughed, his steps slowing to a crawl, "If I may be so bold, the, um..."

"King," Cullen threw out.

"He mentioned you being a templar. Is that true?"

"I was a templar, I am no longer. Haven't been for many years, in fact," Cullen sighed. He had no idea what he'd have to do to get the man to stop calling him that, but it'd probably involve a board and rapping it against Alistair's crown.

"Forgive the intrusion, I am only curious of a niggling fact. If you will indulge me, had I been born in the south would I not have been taken from my family and placed forever in one of your circles?"

"The circles no longer exist," Cullen said fearing he knew where this line of questioning was going.

"But they did for hundreds of years, and most of your people - the nobility, the merchants, the fishermen - they would think nothing of the plight of mages. To have people forced against their will to be trapped within a tower or, I even heard, some were held in dungeons."

"Mages could come and go with permission, once they'd proven themselves capable of withstanding the temptation of the fade." He hadn't despised the magister before, but now a sneer crawled up Cullen's face and refused to leave. Out of all the arguments he thought he'd get into on the trip, this was the furthest one he'd feared. Though the day was young, perhaps Alistair would finally pluck up the courage to ask him about his bedroom antics with Lana. It didn't seem beyond the pale now.

"And those who didn't perform properly, didn't appreciate the gifts their masters -- sorry, Chantry -- gave to them, they were punished, yes? Not beaten or chained, but had their link to the fade severed."

"I know what correlation you are driving at, and it is not comparable," Cullen hissed. "Mages can be dangerous, to others, to themselves. The circles protected, were supposed to protect mages as much as restrain them."

Darius nodded that patrician face, his aquiline nose sniffing as if he first smelled the horse shit piling up in the street. "Interesting. If you were to only protect mages then why were children born to mages plucked from their mother's breast before their first cry? Taken by the chantry to never be seen by those who gave them life? All in the name of Andraste and what was best for the people?"

"What is your point other than to antagonize me?"

The mage's thin lips slipped up in not a smile but a ruefully smirk, "When you joined the templars, offered up yourself to them for life, you must have agreed with every tenet of the order, every bad choice made for the sake of the rest?"

"It's not that simple," Cullen growled.

"It never is," Darius smirked again. Cullen found himself missing Dorian. Sure, he could be a pain in the ass and gave him a splitting headache, but at least he wasn't a smug bastard about it. "Hate the Imperium if you must, templar. Despise every inch of it out of fear or misunderstanding, but we see just as much pain and misery in the south as you do in the north."

Now he understood. This wasn't some concerned citizen who stood up one day to fight for the slaves. He must have owned some, his family, or perhaps personally. For years he thought of them as little more than furniture that came with his lifestyle, as disposable as a bangle. Cullen could call him out on it, try and drag out that hypocritical past Darius tried to shy away from, but there seemed little point. He had his own demons to slay, and none of them included a small time Tevinter mage who needed to feel better about his life choices.

Unwilling to retort to Darius' gotcha response because Cullen refused to tell him of his own past with mages the two men glared upon each other. Cullen feared how long the silence would last with denizens curious about the stranger among them, when he was rescued by the king loping up the side with Honor upon his heel. He carried a doughy pastry stretched across the full length of his arm, while the mabari kept lapping up the juices dribbling off Alistair's elbow and down his pants. Maker, she was going to smell terrible later.

"No idea what this is, but it's amazing!" the king crowed. With his fingers, he dug into a section and passed the doughy offering to Cullen.

He weighed it in his hand as some kind of ground meat and boiled vegetable medley spilled out of the wrap. "How can you consume so much food? It is baffling to me," Cullen said. Then he took a soft bite of the meat dough. A sweet spice clung through the savory textures while juices dripped off the vegetables, flat and soft from boiling. It wasn't half bad, all things considered.

Alistair slurped up an entire forearm's worth of the roll in a disgusting bite, then smiled, "It's my taint!"

"Um," Darius bounced back on his heels, wanting to say something to the king, but his tongue held in check by the crown.

Unaware of the uncomfortable pressure put upon their guide, Alistair continued grinning, "Lanny can put it away too when she has half a mind. The lone perk to being a Warden is our impressive taint."

A strange swell of camaraderie rose through Cullen even as Alistair mentioned Lana. He'd often assumed she bore a hollow leg given her preponderance for eating her way through a feast and love for anything doughy and/or tart. During a dinner at Skyhold, she - this tiny woman who barely skimmed above most people's chins - actually reached over to the Iron Bull's plate and asked if he was going to finish something off. Cullen had to excuse himself as fast as possible before he broke into a laughing fit from the look of shock upon the qunari's face. Maker's breath, he missed those little moments.

As if she could read his thoughts, Honor nuzzled against his leg, her flat head bouncing off him until she got the right number of pats. "Good girl," Cullen whispered to her, shaking away the emotion simmering in the air.

"Right, ah," Alistair hopped back and forth on his feet, then offered some of his dish to Darius, "Where are we heading? Are we there yet?"

"Nearly, your, um. Sir, would you mind covering your head?" The mage rolled his fingers around the crown of his head to mimic the scarf.

Alistair crammed the last quarter of his late breakfast into his mouth. Spraying crumbs, he scampered, "Got it," then draped the scarf upon his head as if it was a hood, the ornate ends dangling upon his shoulders.

"I, uh," the poor Tevinter had no idea how to dismiss royalty, so he waved his hand. "It will be sufficient. I pray. Come, the market will open soon and we should arrive quickly before _he_ does."

While Darius led them deeper into the paths of other denizens of Asariel all winnowing towards some great open air amphitheater in the distance, Cullen whispered to the king. "What do you know of this Massimo?"

Never able to be serious, Alistair curled one hand up as if holding a platter, "No idea."

"And this _he_ they keep speaking of."

The king rolled up the other hand in a full shrug, "Also no idea."

"So we're walking blind into what could be a trap placed by the Imperium hoping for royal blood, or a few mages out for whatever vengeance they could find against a southern templar," Cullen summed up.

"You can still turn back if you want. Isabela's ship can't have gotten too far and I assume you can swim," Alistair gestured in the wrong direction towards the Siren's Echo.

Swallowing down the foreign Tevinter dirt, Cullen shook his head, "No, I cannot."

"Hold your tongues," Darius commanded, for the first time raising his voice to the king. "We've arrived."

As Cullen stared around this sky open den of misery his first thought was it should have been raining. An azure sky with only cottony clouds to break up the sunlight belied the torture of people shuffled into caged carts about to be sold off like livestock. The market wasn't grimy and aged with splintered signs poorly painted advertising horrific wares. Crisp linens wafted in the breeze off each ten foot tall pole and stretching from stall to stall of important Tevinter families and businesses. Each stall bore a seal burned into a wooden sign. Some took the time to paint it while others would emboss it in gold. There were no signs indicating whose stall belonged to who, the assumption being everyone in the Imperium knew family seals better than their own language.

Cages lined the rim of the market, or more precisely, a single giant cage that stretched unending in a circle. Each stall was partitioned off by a wall, slotted in place that could be risen up like locks upon a dam from a mechanism dangling above their heads. The gears and most likely magic echoed out of the tevinter dragons flocking the columns ringing the open air theater. In the middle of the entire market stood a dais taller than even the dragon statues. Perched upon it was a throne, golden enough to be ostentatious without gaudy. No one currently occupied it, but Cullen had a good idea who it was meant for. A circus required a ringleader.

"This is despicable," he struggled to bite back his tongue, his fingers drifting towards the sword at his hip. Even the king of Ferelden, who seemed unflappable in the most flappable of situations, looked ill at ease, his peeling face turned down in a glower.

"Your job is not to judge," Darius hissed back at them, then he flipped around to face a woman dashing towards him. Ribbons trailed her like feathers would a molting bird.

"Darius, darling. It's so wonderful to see you," she smiled at him, then kissed his cheek. He returned it without his lips getting anywhere near her skin. "Have you seen the newest stock? It's all skin and bones, I fear. That's the problem with elves, it's impossible to fatten them up and the moment they come down with one of their filthy diseases they're wiped out instantly. Complete waste of your investment. I'd rather invest in the human stock coming next week. Hello," her dithering tone shifted to joy instantly as she turned to the men wandering behind Darius. "You've brought friends. Are they in the market to buy or sell?"

Cullen bit down the urge to slap her gilded hand away, while Darius jumped ahead of them, "They're with me, first time here from Minrathous where they're well known buyers for some of the...I shouldn't say."

"Stars and bodkins," the woman's green eyes lit up in greed, "are you saying they work for..." Whatever mystery patron she thought of, she seemed terrified to mention the name as it could summon a demon. Maker, in this heathen land perhaps it could. Instead, she zipped up her lips and nodded widely. "Well then, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," she stuck out her hand hoping for someone to take it.

Both Cullen and Alistair shared a look, neither willing to throw themselves upon that petard. "Ah," Darius mumbled something so quickly in tevinter Cullen couldn't follow, and then smiled wide. "It's best to remain at a distance in case. They are looking out for you."

"Oh, such darlings. Well, when you're ready to shop you know where to find me," she smiled that turn of her painted lips like a shark tasting blood, then waved again. Scampering off to trounce upon others, the three men side eyed the woman as they slipped into the throngs.

"Fasta vaas, would it kill either of you to maintain cover?" Darius hissed for the first time showing real anger. "If anyone here suspects me, then the entire operation is endangered. I don't know if you're aware what ripple effect that would have but..."

"I am sorry," Cullen interrupted the rage.

"Me too," Alistair added. "We don't mean to mess up your life. Whatever you need from us, we'll do it. Just say the word and point."

Darius' feathered shoulder shuddered for a moment and he turned back to the royalty he reamed out. "Yes, of course, your um-ness. We need to approach this two fold. First, find Massimo and second, find the elf."

"If it's any elf you want, that should be rather easy," Alistair joked waving his hand around the proceedings, then he caught the sight of a woman barely out of girlhood struggling against her wrought iron manacles and his face fell.

Missing out on the forest for the trees, Darius spun around and hissed, "This isn't any elf, it's _the_ elf. We, some call him the wolf, others the mortiferum."

"That sounds spicy," Alistair interrupted. "What's so special about this elf, unlike all the other not-special elves here?"

Darius' eyes flickered around at the layout filling quickly with tevinters looking to buy and browse, then he sighed, "For the past four or so years, he's traveled the Imperium taking down slave traders. Not only him, he's building his own pack of sorts, elves left in all the main cities to liberate others. Though soldiers in his little army fall, no one can obliterate it all. The makeup of the pack is always changing, the only consistency is their leader."

"Do you have any idea what this elf looks like?" Cullen asked.

The mage began to speak when Alistair interrupted him, "Does he have white hair, crazy spiky armor, and glowing tattoos across his body?"

"Yes, how did you know that?" Darius rounded on the king. Lifting both eyebrows, Alistair pointed behind him towards the entrance. Gasping echoed across the sunny grounds as the crowds recognized this wolf first. Scores of people scattered as fast as they could from the man and another dozen or so elves standing behind him. He glowed brighter than a chantry pyre, his skin a white hot blue as he waved a massive greatsword around his head. Something clanged in Cullen's memory but he couldn't quite bring it forward.

"Bring me Massimo!" the elf shouted, his voice deeper than a craggy canyon. The rest of his pack unsheathed their own weapons; a gamut of daggers, swords, bows, and even a few magic users.

"Stop the rats!" someone ordered from beside the dais. Cullen turned to trace the voice and spotted a good thirty guards erupting from behind it. There was no way this small posse could survive that many without help.

"So much for subtle," Darius sighed.

Unsheathing his sword, Cullen spun around fast, catching a thunderstruck guard in the chest. His body collapsed to the ground, coating the well manicured grass in blood. Before the others had time to recognize the new threat, Alistair leaped into the fray, his sword shattering against weaker arms and legs. Catching on that the elves weren't their only problem, two of the guards tried to attack Cullen at once.

He dodged wide of the first attack, cursing not bringing his shield, then met the other with his sword. This stance left him open to a blow by the first guard, her sword drawn back to slice into his exposed side, when Honor's teeth bit down into the guard's thigh. She screamed, not expecting a mabari attack, and was about to slice into his dog, when Honor shook her head pinning her teeth deep into her prey. Then she crunched down harder, splitting the bone.

"This is madness," Cullen screamed, "there should be an order to the attack."

"Okay, go tell them that," Alistair jabbed a hand at the rallying guards, then yanked his sword out of a dead one's spine. "Or them," he added, turning around to wave at the glowing elf. _Maker, that sounded familiar._ He didn't have time to puzzle out that memory as the taste of the fade filtered into the world. Someone was casting magic, and in the Imperium, it was anyone's guess from where.

Dragging deep into the wells of the beyond where he never thought he'd touch again, Cullen dropped to a knee. It used to come so easily to him, to yank away their mana and leave them bereft, but his mind skipped away from the beyond. He couldn't touch the nothing because another heartbeat filled it. Shaking his head, he willed that foolish thought away.

"Any time, templar boy," Alistair called. "Hey, give me that," he yanked away one of the guard's shields then smashed him back in the face with it. Properly slotted on his arm, the king pounded a fist into the man's stomach then slashed his neck with the sword.

Like stepping into a frozen pond, Cullen gritted his teeth and dove fully into the blankness. A wave of dispelling erupted off his body, canceling all spells in every direction. He watched magister's fall back, shock twisting up their painted faces from someone daring to drain away their mana and blot away their spells. In his younger days he could have managed a radius twice that size. For now, he could only hope to take out the handful backing up the guards.

"I'll get the mage first," he shouted, gesturing at one of them carrying a staff covered in manacles. The mage blinked at the threat, then raised his hands as if the mana should be here. Unused to a true templar in their midst, Cullen cut him down before he thought to use his staff, his blood slicking up the grass. Alistair smashed through another guard, the body count piling up quickly, but even as they sliced through the unexpected mass, there was no way they could defeat the reinforcements running towards the commotion.

"Darius?!" Cullen called. The mage looked stricken having been caught in the same blast from Cullen as the rest, but he rallied.

"We need to find Massimo first. This can be dealt with later."

"Any ideas on that, oh wise one?" Alistair called. Blood coated his arms but if it was from himself, he bore no pain, only exhaustion creeping up as another dead guard heaped onto the pile. "Maker, I haven't done this many since the blight. I miss being twenty."

"I..." Darius glanced around as if an idea would present itself, but someone else was way ahead of them.

While the rest of his group handled the guards attacking them, the glowing elf knocked one of the magisters to the ground. Rather than slice his head off, the elf lit up bright and somehow shoved his fist through the magister's chest. "That's gotta sting," Alistair whined, watching the same display. "Can all of whatever he is do that?"

Squeezing inside and past the magister's ribs, the elf grunted, "Tell me where Massimo is."

"Ah! In the staging area, to the east. Please, please!" the magister shrieked, sweat pouring off his brow.

The elf yanked his hand out of the man's chest and sneered, "If you're lying..."

"I'm not, I swear."

"Good." He lobbed off the man's head with one thrust of his giant blade, and took off alone towards the east.

"Let me guess, we chase the fisty, chesty, head chopping guy. Today's been such an adventure so far," Alistair spoke in such a way Cullen couldn't tell if he was sarcastic or serious. Perhaps the king wasn't certain. Darius didn't bother to respond, he was already in pursuit of the elf. Despite his smaller stature and over the top armor, the elf moved through the screaming hordes with ease running towards what must have been the staging area.

Together, the pair of them hoofed it after both, swiping away guards and other magisters trying to stop an inevitable insurrection. "If they release the cages now, all the slaves will be put in greater danger," Cullen shouted, watching as the elf's pack filtered towards the mechanisms, arrows bouncing off the ropes holding the doors in place.

"You can go tell them that if you want, but I don't think they're the listening to humans type. Maybe if you sang it." The king tossed his shield at Cullen -- who caught it despite no warning -- and he rolled his fingers up his side. "Maker, I don't think all this blood is vintage Vint. Uh, go on ahead without me," he pointed towards the retreating pair.

"You expect me to leave the king of Ferelden alone and unprotected in the middle of a slave revolt in Tevinter?" Cullen asked. Hate him or no, he couldn't let the man risk his life so foolishly.

"Hold that thought," Alistair tossed his sword to his right hand, swung around to catch a blade from behind him, and punched his left fist flat against the guard's face. Blood splattered along with the crunch of the nose as the man tumbled back. Kicking him in the side of the leg, the king thrusted his sword deep into the man's chest as he plummeted to the ground. Tugging the blade free, he turned to Cullen. "You were saying?"

"I... As you command, your highness," Cullen bowed. His muscles slotted the shield in place, raising the sword slightly higher while protecting as much of his arm as possible. It wasn't a conscious thought he knew, because his mind was busy echoing the same complaints as Alistair. A few years on the sidelines watching the drills instead of participating were all wearing on him now. _Maker, how embarrassing would it be if he had to stop for breath before reaching this staging area?_

Screams and the scamper of pampered feet were all Cullen had to go on as both the elf and Darius vanished in the distance -- a trail of bloody grass wafting in their wake. Cries out of a massive tent went from ones of shock to pain and agony. He had to be drawing close. Situating his shoulders back, Cullen stepped through the crimson curtains and stumbled into a massacre. Blood splattered off every trampled blade of grass while the few surviving Tevinters groaned, nearly everyone missing a limb, and some without heads. The whirling bringer of death stood stock still as he glared upon the man of the hour.

Cullen expected this feared Massimo to be hulking, with a mass that could be attributed to muscle as easily as fat, from a life of excess; but he was reed thin with gaunt cheeks and a face as clean shaven as the elves he traded in. It was the eyes where the true corrupted heart lay. Burning with contempt at what the elf was instead of what he did, the magister raised his hand about to cast some spell upon his foe. Cullen dipped down to dampen his mana, but there wasn't time.

Fire burst against Massimo's barrier, a few sparks scattering behind to land upon his house banners. Darius waved his fingers, prepared for another attack, but it was enough of an opening for the elf to leap forward. He didn't bother with his gigantic blade. With skin glowing like lyrium veins buried deep inside the deep roads, he smashed his shoulder into Massimo, the pair of them tumbling into the slave dealer's chair, that upended backwards to the ground.

The elf's hand pierced the man's chest and he snarled, "I know what you did to them. What you thought you could do. Never again, mage." A pop as if someone broke open a water skin echoed through the tent and Massimo's body slumped back the life snapped. The elf slipped his hand away, a tremor across his shoulders and down his murderous arm.

"You are the wolf," Darius began, stepping closer to him. Without taking a breath, the elf swung around his clawed fist and closed it around the mage's throat.

"Another one," he hissed, dragging Darius to the ground.

"Stop," Cullen shouted, "this man assisted you."

The elf didn't turn away from his prize as he growled in that bottomless pit of a voice, "He sensed an opening to take down the big fish so he could fill it. That's what they do, let others accomplish their dirty work, then rush in to fill the gaps."

"I..." Darius struggled against the grip, his soft fingers unable to take hold against the elf.

"He's not a slaver, he works for the underground that frees slaves," Cullen tried to slide closer to stop him, but the elf increased his grip, cutting off Darius' air.

"Ha! That's what they all say when they know their time's come."

"By all the..." Cullen leaned back about to smash his shield into the elf's head, when the memory struck. "Fenris." The elf shuddered, his head swiveling back to look at him. "Your name is Fenris, you used to travel with the Champion of Kirkwall."

"Many people know my name," he said, but by the sneer in his lips from the revelation, that didn't seem to be the case.

"I'm, I was Knight-Captain Cullen."

He slackened his grip on Darius' throat and the mage gasped for air. "A templar? What are you doing here?"

"Assisting the underground with destroying Massimo, freeing the slaves. That man, the one you're about to kill, he is friends with Isabela." It was a long shot, but surely they knew each other through the Champion. Whether they were friendly was another story.

Cullen expected Fenris to either glare at him for the insinuation, or break off his attack, instead he pushed both thumbs deeper into the mage's throat. "That's a lie!"

"She..." Darius coughed, his words barely coherent through the narrow gap of his trachea. "She said your underthings are green."

The elf's murderous eyes widened and his sneer fell slack. Both hands slipped off Darius' throat and the mage rolled to the side struggling for air. "You, you know her. Why would you...?" Fenris jabbed a finger at the coughing man, "I have seen him before. He purchases elves often at these _things._ "

"To free," Darius gasped. "I buy the ones I can to free them."

"Admiral Isabela," Cullen continued, "we..." he began to point to the lack of a king behind him. "I arrived here on her ship, the _Siren's Echo_ , and she left with a good dozen elves once under this man's care. She's taking them to the south."

Fenris growled, his strung body pacing through the tent like a caged wolf while he took in the facts. "Then why did you pursue me?"

"I was ordered to kill Massimo," Darius croaked. "They were afraid he would stop you, end you."

The lack of faith in his skills got another snarl, but the elf extended a hand to the man splayed on the ground. Darius watched it for a moment, then he grabbed it. Fenris lifted the man he nearly killed to his feet.

"Turns out the Vints really don't know what to make of a templar's skills and..." Alistair skidded to a halt beside Cullen as he stared around the carnage, "Did I miss the strawberry jam explosion?"

The wolf, bringer of death to the slavers, slapped Darius on the back once and grunted, "I'm sorry."

"It's quite all right, I understand. Sort of," the mage pulled at his collar trying to keep anything away from his bruised neck.

"You look familiar," Fenris said turning to face Alistair.

"Ah, I'm the face of the Little Lord Leapin' soaps. Little Lord'll get your noble ass clean every time," the king threw out with a forced grin on his face.

Cullen groaned at the terrible lie. "We're pursuing a matter, looking for a mage."

"What do you want with this mage?" Fenris asked. He grabbed onto the dead Massimo's silk robes and wiped his blade clean.

"Oh, that is really not something any of us need to think about," Alistair responded getting a sneer as powerful as the elf's off of Cullen.

"We fear there is something that could break apart the veil. The plan had been to travel this Massimo's slave routes to get to the Anderfells." Cullen glared at Alistair and mimed, 'Was that so difficult?'

Fenris didn't react from the information, his fingers carefully tending to his blade. Cullen heard bits and pieces about the man over the years, but after the chantry explosion all of Hawke's companions vanished into the night. His face looked worn, the pores as deep as eroded sandstone, but there was a spark that gifted a preternatural youthful glow to him as if he had much to accomplish before he could grow old. "Cullen, you said your name was. I remember you from the Gallows." The elf glanced from the pair of Ferelden men coated in blood already seeping into their clothing under the armor, to the Tevinter unrolling a silk hankie to dab a spot off his nose. "Ha," Fenris snorted once, "how does it feel mage knowing you were rescued by a templar?"

"I..." Darius glanced over at the man he'd argued with not an hour earlier. "Thankful."

Nodding as if he didn't care about the response, Fenris kicked the heel of his boot into the bottom of Massimo's throne. Scrolls tumbled out, which the elf snatched up to pocket away. "I will help you reach the Anderfells," he said turning to them both, "as long as you agree to put down the slavers found along the way."

Cullen reached out a hand to shake the elf's, but it was Alistair who spoke up. "That was already the plan anyway, so sure, why not. Hey, if you don't mind my asking, how does that whole glowing thing work?"

Both Fenris and Cullen groaned.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

What's In A Name?

_?:?? ?_

Green light warped around her body, distorting the creeping chill inches beyond her consciousness. She could feel it leeching through her shut eyelids but not see it. No, that wasn't right. There was an image, a hint of something lurking in the distance beyond the wobbling light. Lana thought she could make it out if she just screwed her eyes up tight and...

The dream faded away and she snapped awake, her heart pounding against her ribcage as if she'd stabbed the archdemon again. Lana reached for her staff always laying at her right side, but found her hand shaking too violently to obey. Numb and useless, her fingers batted at the staff, unable to pick it up. _Okay, this is not a problem_ , she breathed, trying to steady away the anxiety burning behind her eyes. She merely slept on it funny. Having a rock wedged into her spine would do that. Shaking her hands to bring back feeling, Lana tipped her head back and screwed her eyes tight. She wasn't going to cry, she wasn't going to scream, she was going to hang on to reality, rise, and find food.

Pins and needles rose up her arms as blood flow returned bringing with it dexterity. As she reached for her staff, fingers finally closing around it, her eyes opened. The Black City hung suspended above her, the closest she'd seen it since entering the fade.

"It's a rather tempting sight, isn't it?"

Lana jumped in her seat and spun around to find Wynne perched upon the top of a column. The spirit carefully sanded down her nails without a care, then gestured towards the downfall of man. "You must be curious about it."

"The last people to tread there blighted the world," Lana repeated. Grit stuck to her teeth and she fumbled for her water skin to try and wash it away. Checking twice to make certain it wasn't the poison bladder, she drank the stale water while Wynne watched her.

"All the more reason to want to see it for yourself. Think of the truths you could learn."

"You sound like White," Lana sighed. She dropped her head into her lap, her fingers pulling back at the skin of her cheeks as she tried to calm herself. Waking grew more laborious with each passing day, shattering apart her psyche with an ice pick after each session, and she couldn't understand why. She also didn't understand what Wynne was doing here.

"Where's Jowan?" Lana asked. That was the spirit who waited beside her while she slept, usually with the promise of breakfast and the request for another memory.

Wynne dismissed her request, "Wherever leeches of his type squander off to. Probably flouncing in a puddle. I'm certain he'll be back like any bad copper." She finished sanding down her nails and placed the cheese grater in her pocket. Coy eyes turned to Lana. "You remember it, don't you? Your dreams."

"Except," Lana lightly bit down on her tongue, willing away the horror gurgling in her veins, "they can't be dreams." She'd thought upon the old spirit's words for days. It wasn't as if she had anything else to pass the time. Every morning -- or what passed for her mornings -- when Lana woke, she knew she'd dreamed but couldn't dredge a single image or memory of it to her consciousness. It was as if her eyes were closed and her ears shut, but she felt the dream happening around her, knew time was passing beyond her deaf and blind body.

Wynne crossed her legs at the ankle and placed both hands upon her knees. "Now we come to the crux of the situation. If they are not dreams..."

"What are they? Yes, I am ahead of you on this question," Lana sighed. She used to love this -- quick banter back and forth with mages, scholars, anyone who could catch her curiosity. Now it exhausted her. The spirit never gave anything back, it didn't care about the answers; all it wanted was to pick at the questions like a scab never allowed to heal.

"Well, you must have postulated a theory."

"About my dreams?" Lana rose to her wobbly legs and reached for her belt laid out on the ground. "I am no Rivaini seer. I cannot predict the future from my dreams, the placement of the stars, or what month I was born in. If you're looking for someone to read your palm, you'll have to try elsewhere."

Wynne didn't rear back from her admonishment. The old spirit only waited, primly smoothing down her robes as if she had all the time in thedas. In the fade, Lana corrected herself, all the time in the fade. This wasn't thedas at all.

"Very well," Lana smacked her hand against the broken forearm of an old bird statue, unable to withstand the spirit's withering gaze. "There was a green light, not emanating from an obvious source but surrounding me. And the world beyond it was off, like staring at someone through a water glass. Or...a barrier!" Yes, that was it. Exactly like staring through a heavy barrier. Not the typical fighting one, but a powerful blockade placed so no magic came in or went out. _How had she missed it?_

"Now you're on to it," Wynne snapped her fingers. "Was there anything else?"

"No." Even thinking about the green place exhausted her. She knew she'd slept for at least a good eight to nine hours but her brain felt none of it. Instead, it was as if she stayed up the whole night cramming in chantry history before an exam. "Wait...I do remember something. There was a-"

The ground rumbled below her feet and Lana reached out to catch herself against the statue's stomach horns. _By the void, what?_ In all her time, she'd never experienced an earthquake in the fade. Rocks often shifted off their precarious perches, some of them sliding properly to the ground while others floated up higher into the air. Things like that used to bother her, now it got an at most confused shrug. But there was never a full on earthquake before. At least she had someone to ask questions of here.

"Since when do...?" Lana began, turning towards Wynne, but the spirit turned a literal white - all color vanishing from the once human body as a glowing haze skirted around the edges. Before she could shift her question, the spirit vanished. "Great," Lana dug a line in the sand with her staff for wards and she rolled her shoulders preparing for an attack. The spirits only spooked when a demon approached.

For all the time she'd spent in the fade, there hadn't been many demons to cross paths with. Lana gingerly touched the vibrant scar across her eye. There were enough to keep her ill at ease at all times, but she'd anticipated droves of them stampeding across her the moment the breach closed. Swallowed by the horde should have been her end in either the deep roads or here. Instead, only a handful of demons slipped into her range. The hunger demons were almost her reminder she needed to eat, though she'd never consume them. They tasted of charcoal and spicy peppers. She'd certainly raised her pride demon quota since before the fade, thirteen and counting. But whatever was coming raised the hairs along her body, the air thickening to a paste dampening all sound to a crawl. It was no pride demon. Lana gripped tighter to her staff, worried that it was the one demon she barely scratched the surface of.

Fading out of the air itself, golden light shifted around to lend form to the arriving creature. It looked human, the silhouette almost a painfully thin female without hair or legs. Instead, the torso aimlessly drifted in the air as if the creature was above using legs or wasn't capable. No, the latter couldn't be it. Lana tasted the power rising around her - far more formidable than anything she'd felt before. There was a hint of a face beneath the light but the features were nondescript, only a dark shadow inside the light to give away the nose and mouth.

It floated above her, not spitting fire or lightning, when a voice both smooth as silk and hard as ice flowed through the air. "I thought it long past time for introductions, Lana Amell."

"Am I supposed to be surprised you know my name, demon?"

The creature chuckled, "Demon is what you call those that attack you, and yet I have done nothing of the sort. Do you not recognize me?"

She shut her eyes tight almost terrified of whatever form this one would take. The others came to her as the borrowed faces of her dead friends. Lana never questioned it, assuming they were plucked from her mind the same way they dipped in and out to take whatever else they wanted. "No, I only see light. A lot of light."

"Perhaps it is my failing. I do not tamper in the realm of mortals often."

"Then why are you here?" she shouted, her eyes watering from the strain of staring into this feminine sun.

"Because," the light dampened slightly and the spirit floated downward towards the ground. The torso and head skimmed six feet above the surface almost as if it bore legs. "You drew me to you, as you did the others."

"Another one? Wonderful," Lana groaned. Jowan already had free rein of her memories. What could another pick from the remains?

The spirit chuckled again, a disturbing laugh that began bubbly and sincere until reaching an edge where it shifted into a sarcastic bray. "No, my darling, you misunderstand. I am not new, I have been here the entire time of your banishment. I've always been with you, since you first entered the fade."

Lana shook her head, "No, I'd have felt you. Seen you. At least tried to kill you like I did Nathaniel." He took it rather well, all things considered-- the spirit always popping back up after her attacks and kindly asking for new orders. It was around that point she accepted he probably wasn't a demon. By the time she discovered Wynne, Lana grew used to spirits showing an interest in her.

Something inside the spirit's chest lightened to a rose gold, lines of power streaming out like ribbons through its body. "You have felt me."

"I..." she gulped, her fingers digging into her stomach, "someone, something saved me from the nightmare demon. Healed me before I died and then kept me pinned here while it was sucked deeper into the fade."

"You're welcome, dearest," the spirit purred.

"I'd assumed it was Jowan..."

"Sadly, our little regret cannot handle much beyond himself."

Lana snorted, that sounded just like Jowan. Even then, the real one often needed someone to help him helping himself. "Why help me?" Spirits weren't altruistic unless they were the spirit of giving. They took for the sake of need, and crossing over into want could give rise to a demon. She'd only managed to strike a bargain with Jowan because his nature already skirted the line, and if he ever tipped the wrong way she'd strike him down instantly, which he was vividly aware.

The spirit craned its flat face towards the Black City and sighed, "Because I am nothing without you."

"You were the one who-who snuck into my brain, who stole that memory when I was bathing," Lana riled up from the disturbance, waving her staff in the air.

"I did nothing of the sort. I do not need to violate your memories, you created that thought of your own volition. The idea of you washing your skin reminded you of washing his."

"That," Lana threw her hand up, awkwardness rising through her legs. She did not want to have this discussion with a spirit, "that's not the... You listened in on my memory."

"Of course, we all do," the spirit hummed, its fingers parting through the air as if it was trying to comb the thickening clouds.

"Maker, it's just as I feared..." Lana sighed shaking her head. If the nightmare could easily pull out their greatest fears, then the other spirits and demons had to be browsing all the time as well. She hoped that maybe being here could change it. That her being a mage might protect her from their claws, but every ounce of privacy she once held sacred fled from her the moment she fell into the fade. "Why have you come?" Lana suddenly asked. "If you don't need to talk to me to take whatever it is you are, then why reveal yourself?"

"My dearest is sharp," the spirit hummed and Lana felt both proud and dirty from the tone. "I am here for your sake."

"Mine?" Lana scoffed.

"You need something, a want that's aching from your bones. It's so powerful its drawing the others near, others I've been keeping at bay for your protection."

"I...I didn't know that." No wonder she'd been able to sleep at times, to have quite days, to survive at all. _What was this spirit?_

"You're glowing brighter than usual, your flame attracting more demons from the darkest parts of the fade, and I would like to help."

"To help how?" Lana didn't trust it, didn't trust anyone anymore. She couldn't afford it.

The spirit parted its hands and hung them wide as if it was blessing Lana. "However you require, of course."

Lana touched her forehead, raking her filthy nails across the skin as if that would dredge up the memory of the unexplainable. "Why do I dream?"

"I'm afraid that's not my speciality," the spirit said.

"Then you are no help to me. I need to speak to Wynne to solve this. It's my first possible answer since the breaches closed. I..."

The spirit's hand lashed out and grabbed onto her wrist. While the others felt warm with human skin, this one's temperature altered from a boiling heat to a cold deeper than the most barren tundra. "There is more to this place than what lies beyond. Surely you've noticed by now that you shape this land. It is drawn to you, the only mortal here, twisted by your thoughts, your memories, your soul."

"So I gave myself poisonous apples and that two headed horse creature?" Lana snorted.

"Mortals are surprisingly complicated creatures. If you let me help you, guide you, then you can change things here."

That caught her attention, "You're saying I can alter the fade itself? Maybe even find a way out? Make myself a way to freedom?"

"Anything is possible," the spirit said. She'd had nothing to go on for what had to be months now. Lana lost track of time in this night-less world, but she felt the day of the last breach slipping further and further away from her. After combing through the few books washed up in the fade, and trying her hand at gathering lyrium to burst through, Lana was out of ideas. The worst remaining option hung in the air high above her head, taunting mortals for daring to breach it, and she refused to even contemplate it.

This may be her last hope. "What do you need of me?"

The spirit smiled bright, "Relax, give me your memory."

"Why?"

"To alter the fade, you have to alter your mind, put yourself at peace. I know an easy place to begin. Here, let me." Before Lana could object, the spirit plucked into her head and yanked her back in time.

_9:28 Kinloch Hold_

Pain boiled up through her wrist from the slap against her knuckles and Lana tried to twist away from Aaron's thrust. Or maybe it was a parry. She had no idea what was proper sword fighting terminology, not that they were using swords. Someone thought it a grand idea to teach the apprentices to use wands to channel their mana, which lasted all of five minutes before they broke off into groups and started fighting with them.

"Hey!" Lana shouted from the attack, shaking her wounded fingers. She spotted the beginnings of a bruise across the back of her hand. Slicing through the air like she held a saw instead of a stick, Lana tried to attack Aaron, but at nearly a foot taller he easily swiped her away and then struck her again. The wand scattered from Lana's fingers, flying across the room and clattering off the tower's stones.

"What is going on here?!" their senior enchanter for the day flew into the room, both hands on her hips and a sneer already in place. Every apprentice froze mid-attack and sheepishly lowered their arms. "We are to be using these wands for practice, not amateur swordplay."

"That's practice," one of the mages spoke up, "just not the magical sort."

"Give me your wands!" the senior enchanter hissed extending her hand. Muttering half hearted apologies, each of the apprentices dropped their stick into her bracken fingers and they shuffled out of the room with bent heads hoping someone else would bear the brunt of her wrath. "What about you, Solona? Where's yours?"

Lana frowned at her proper name, then pointed at Aaron. "He..." but the mage snickered and stuck out his tongue at her as he dashed out of the room, avoiding any possibility of punishment. "I-I lost it, senior enchanter," she said.

"Well, you're going to bloody well find it," the woman curled her fist up around the nearly full pile in her fingers. Waving her free hand over the box, the locking mechanism gave and she deposited nearly all of the wands inside. "And you're not to leave this room until all the wands are properly stored away. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Lana sighed, her foot shuffling in the direction she saw it roll towards. Appeased by Lana's placating to her show of power, the senior enchanter sauntered off leaving Lana more or less alone. As alone as a mage ever got in the tower. She knew the whack sent her wand skittering across the floor, but there was no obvious stick resting upon the ground waiting for someone to trod upon it. Sighing, she dropped to her knees and then her stomach, patting the floor to find her errant wand. Nothing remained by the light of the clouded windows. The only possibility was that the wand fell under the bookcase.

Laying her palm flat against the floor, Lana slid her fingers as far as they could reach and skimmed it along the edge but nothing unearthed from below. "Damn it!" she cursed. Rolling around flat on her stomach, with all of her attention upon the case now, she called up a ball of light on the tip of her finger and thrust it under the case. Sure enough, there was her wand resting against the wall far beyond anything she could reach. "Double damn it!" she shouted again, even while jamming her hand back under. No matter how much she scraped up her forearm, there was no way she was reaching the wand.

"Th-this might help," a voice spoke above her. Against all common sense, someone placed a sword in her hand. Not the fake sticks they were playing with, but a real one with sharp edges and bearing the templar symbol on the hilt.

"Uh..." Lana held it limply in her fingers terrified that a knight was going to catch her and chuck her into the dungeon for touching a real sword, but it could probably get at her wand. Taking a few tries, with her one hand still lighting up under the shelf, she managed to wiggle the blade back and forth enough to knock the wand forward. Tossing the sword behind her, Lana reached in. "Got it!" she crowed, yanking the offending thing forward.

Rising to her knees, Lana turned around to watch the templar pick up his sword and stick it back in its holder thingie. Without the typical head obscuring helmet, he was free to reveal the curliest hair she'd ever seen come in such a pale color. His curls were almost as twisted as her own, which she didn't think was possible.

"Thank you," Lana said while scurrying to her feet.

"It-it was...you're welcome," the templar stuttered and then he looked up at her. She didn't know him, but she recognized those eyes in an instant. They had a nickname for him, well, she had a nickname for him that caught like wildfire among the apprentices. Lana never learned his real name, but she wondered often, much to Margie's consternation.

"Uh, um," Lana twisted the wand to her left hand and stuck out her right. "Thank you."

She cursed under her breath for repeating herself like a foolish child but the templar took her fingers and he shook them. Pain lanced up her knuckles and she sucked in a breath. "Maker, are you all right? I didn't, did-did I, uh, hurt you?"

He crumbled so instantly from that faceless walking statue into a stammering heartfelt concern, it threw Lana off more than her knuckle bruise. Shaking her hand like a wet dog, as if that would cure it, she hissed, "No, it was Aaron's attack. Bastard kept wrapping me across the knuckles like he was some chantry sister." That got her a soft chuckle from the holy templar, and she gulped a moment trying to wave away a flush on her cheeks. "It's not fair, I couldn't do anything against him because I'm too small to reach."

"True, a shorter stature can be an issue, but there are ways around it."

"Really?" Now Lana perked up, curiosity covering over the pain in her fingers. "Like what?"

"Form is vital, of course," the templar spoke aloof, his eyes darting above her head as if he read that phrase off a chart. Did templars have books that they studied, too? Ones with pictures of sword fighting?

Lana's nose prickled and she lifted the wand higher, "Is there something wrong with my form?"

"You, uh..." It had to be her imagination that the templar's cheeks flushed bright red. She'd never known one to not be as stoic as an iceberg. Well, there was one, but that was a long time ago. "Not-not that, it's the stance, you're too... Here." Tender fingers cupped her elbow with the barest of touch and pulled it down. "You want to keep your arm low. Too high expends energy and leaves your entire side open for attack." To elucidate his point, he waved his hand down her side between arm and chest, giving a wide berth for the chest part.

"Okay," Lana shifted back and forth on her feet as she lowered her wand sword. "What else?"

"Put your shoulders back, you want to keep your head high."

"Like this?" Lana asked as she stuck out her chest.

"Uh..." the man's eyes flickered and he dug his fingers through the back of his hair for a moment. "Y-yes, that's um, good." Against all common sense, the templar didn't walk away or dismiss her back to her studies. He fished one of the wands out of the box and mimicked her stance. "Go on and attack me."

"Is that wise? I don't want to hurt you."

He grinned and Lana's eyes fell to the ground, a humiliating blush rising up her neck. _Maker, how could he have that adorable of a smile?_ Shaking off the urge to curl her toes and also curl up on the ground in embarrassment, she lifted her arm again, then lowered it to an acceptable height. He nodded his head, "I will do my best to block you, but this is a good way to learn."

"Okay," Lana nodded. She flexed her arms a couple times, then whispered, "Do I count to three or..."

_Maker's breath_ , now he laughed and she was certain she was going to die on the spot. "You can if you'd like, but most foes are not so kind."

"Right, right," Lana nodded, feeling even more foolish, which seemed impossible at this point. With the force of a kitten swatting at string, she lunged for the templar. He easily knocked back her stick, his own wand meeting hers out of nowhere -- as if by magic.

"When you attack, don't go for the wide open swings. They're showy but they also exhaust you faster and leave you vulnerable during the wide stance. What you want is to watch your opponent, learn their pattern, then strike."

Lana nodded her head. "Makes sense. Like chess but with swords."

"Ya-you play chess?" he asked. For a moment his own arm dropped lower, his wand waning down.

"I try," she smiled. Following his advice, she pulled her arm in closer and tapped in rapid succession. One of her attacks glanced against his wrist before he pulled back. "Not well, mind. Not as well as I should, but... I've been trying to build my own board from various pieces found throughout the tower. It's a right mess of different sizes, materials. My black king is actually an old bit of carved brimstone no one wanted."

His wand smacked against hers and she slipped nearer to him, almost tripping, but her feet caught in time. "I'd have, um, thought the mages would own multiple chess sets in the tower."

"Maybe for the senior enchanters, up in the," Lana paused in her attack to wave her wand above her head, "higher echelons, but nothing down here. Which is probably why we fight with wands."

"You're getting the hang of this," he encouraged. Never pressing his own attack, he was playing fully defensive. She doubted she'd last longer than a snowflake in a tea kettle against his real offensive.

"You are..." Lana huffed, exhaustion tearing up her side as she stabbed towards him. Of course, he scattered her attack with a flick of his wrist "...a terrible liar." She laughed at the end of her sentence, joy overcoming the weariness. It felt like ages since they'd moved around in exercise. With spring around the corner, most of the apprentices were going stir crazy. Maybe they'd get out into the garden soon.

"I am surprised that a mage would care about swordplay."

"It's fun, like dancing but with more stabbing," Lana said, then blushed even harder from her idiotic statement. But he smiled at her, either taking pity or partially agreeing. "Sometimes we sit on the balcony and watch the templars sparring in the ring outside."

"You, uh, y-you do?" His arm hung in the air a second too long from the block and Lana stabbed her stick deep into his chest. It skittered a few pathetic sparks from the attack down his armor. She leapt back triumphant at scoring a hit.

As her exuberance faded, she stared up into the templar's shocked face, but it wasn't at the fact she'd managed a point against him. "It's, um, you know," Lana snapped her free fingers, struggling to find words, "exciting, with the swords clanging into each other and, uh..." the men in tight pants and often no shirts flexing sweaty muscle in the bright sun. She hadn't seen him in the ring yet, only having a few spare hours here and there throughout the week to visit the mage's secret viewing spot, but -- she had to admit -- she'd hoped to eventually see him and that he was one of the ones to go bare chested. _Oh Maker, why was it so hot in here?_

Shrugging her shoulders and obliterating her fighting stance, Lana struggled for an escape, "Mages, we get bored a lot, so you know, anything to break up the monotony, and uh..."

"R-right, of, of course," he nodded his head, probably not believing her lie but not wanting to face the truth of it, and Maker she was not telling him the rest of it. Some mages bet on the proceedings, while the girls tended to have their own wagers and lively discussions that had little to do with the actual fighting. Everyone had their favorites for varying reasons.

Lana twisted her stick in the air absently, trying to distract from the blush burning up her skin, and a dribble of ice tumbled off the end. "Andraste's tears, these things are idiotic. Why would anyone use a wand?"

"Is there a difference?" he asked. Falling back to his defensive stance, he had his chest well protected now. Lana wasn't getting back at it. She nodded her head, and began again, meeting stick for stick.

"Staves are common sense. You want something with heft to hold a full spell, or baring that, to whack someone hard in the head. What can you do with this piddly thing? Poke an enemy in the eye?" To enunciate her point, she jabbed at thin air and he chuckled.

"But you could hide a wand better," he said, his mind whirring through the possibilities of war, "like a dagger."

"At least a dagger is sharp. The most this thing can do is give you a good jolt, like putting on a wool coat in winter and touching a metal hinge. Annoying, but it's not going to hurt much. Then you're back to the eye poking."

Lana surged forward, sensing an opening, but the templar twisted his arm around deflecting her. Unfortunately, she forgot to compensate for the weight displacement, and all of Lana tumbled towards the ground. Faster than she thought possible, the templar wrapped an arm around her waist and he rolled, pulling her body with his so both remained upright. His arm was still fully around her waist as she staggered to catch a breath from the whirlwind move. Then her heart beat even faster as those gorgeous eyes sparkled an inch from hers. She gawped to will a word, any word to her tongue.

"Lanny!"

They both sprung apart at the same second, leaping even further away as Marguerite slipped into the room. Lana's friend folded her arms up and sighed, "What are you doing in here? You're missing lunch. Come on, they're making noodles."

"Oh, noodles! With the cheese sauce?" Lana hopped up onto her toes.

"I don't know," Marguerite rolled her eyes, "do I look like the chef? What were you doing in here, anyway?" Now she glanced over from Lana at the templar trying to slide further and further away into the shadows.

"I was, uh, picking up the wands under the Dragon's orders," Lana slapped hers into the box and slammed down the lid.

"Ugh," Marguerite groaned, "we don't all have to learn to use them, do we?" Lana shrugged as she grabbed onto her friend's arm to drag her out of the room. Certain that Marguerite barely even noticed the man trying to merge into the shadows, Lana released her hold outside the door.

"Soooo, was that all my imagination or were you and Honey eyes there...?"

"Shut up!" Lana shouted, whipping her head back to see if he heard the question.

Marguerite smiled wickedly, not dropping her voice, "I take it that's a yes."

"I said shut up!" She whacked her palms against Marguerite's padded arm which only got her more laughs.

"Fine, fine. I suppose you won't care to know what Honey eyes real name is then," Marguerite grinned wickedly with her hard won prize dangling just above Lana's reach but she let it down instantly, unable to keep back her information. "I overheard it from one of the enchanters. Any guesses?"

"Margie!" Lana moaned, deathly aware how hot her cheeks burned now, her eyes whipping back to the room terrified he'd overhear it all.

"Not a bad name, very...sturdy. I suppose." Marguerite grinned wickedly into Lana's stricken eyes, "It's Cullen."

"Cullen," Lana repeated the word rolling the vowels around in her mouth. She tried it out a few more times silently.

"Yup, and the other word is he's got it bad for some mage in the tower," Marguerite knocked her eyebrows high three times and then she gave a long glance towards the senior enchanter stomping out of the library to collect her wands.

"Oh, shut up," Lana shoved her again, unable to beat back the burst of butterflies in her stomach.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rivers & Bathtubs

_9:44 Tevinter_

If he'd jumped head first into a butcher's shop scrap pile then run straight through a dragon's gullet while waving a sword, Alistair wouldn't be anywhere near as gory as he felt after three days traveling with the wolfy elf. Fenris was good on his word of getting them west towards the Anderfells. He also felt it his duty to stop and slit the throat of any mage that looked at him funny, which was a lot considering his very pointy armor and lightning storm haircut.

"We could try stopping," Alistair tried again. "Maybe slipping into a little town's cozy inn that's got bunnies on the wallpaper and serving girls with bosoms the size of your head."

"Humph," Fenris grumped.

Alistair waved his tacky hand in the air from behind their hunched leader and shouted, "One day I'll get more than a solitary syllable out of you."

"Unlikely," Cullen came back with. When Isabela's letters suggested they try the ol' infiltrate a bunch of slave gangs to get through Tevinter routine, Alistair thought - _hey, I can do that_. The hardest part would be picking up his old templar skills from the box in the attic and then it was smooth walking into the Anderfells. But somehow no one mentioned the ambulatory stick in the mud that was their own dark wolf, or whatever he called himself. Glowy McGlowface?

Worst of all, the damn elf and templar got on like a mage on fire. They didn't say more than a grunt here and a nod there, but they already shared a mutual respect between them slowly driving Alistair mad. Killing slavers, sure, he could get behind that. Had on more than a few occasions through import reforms and tax levies as well as literally grabbing a sword and chopping off heads. His regime was one the historians were going to have trouble explaining beyond throwing up their hands and trying to change the subject. But the clear hatred off the elf of anyone with a shred of magical powers kept confusing him. The elf glowed, he could reach inside chests and play a drum solo on people's internal organs. If that wasn't magic, Alistair would eat his crown.

"I knew you'd stick up for the Grouch," Alistair whined at Cullen. "You've managed to dodge out of almost every artery splitting attack."

The templar shrugged, blood caked across his gloves but almost nowhere else. Alistair needed a miracle from the Maker to salvage anything he wore, even his smallclothes felt sticky. "Hey, Honor," he whistled to the dog. She dropped the stick she picked up a few miles back and turned to him, her tail wagging. Trying to roll up his sleeve, and ignore the crunch of dried blood sloughing off, Alistair held his gory arm out. "Go on, lick it off." The dog paused, her eyes widening in canine concern as she glanced towards her owner.

"What are you doing?" Cullen asked, his fingers drifting towards his dog's head as if he needed to pull her away from the mad king.

"I used to know a mabari that'd lick you clean right after battle. He seemed to like it, in fact."

"That's disgusting."

Alistair held both his arms up and whined, "Better or worse than being a walking hemorrhage? I could attend a masquerade as a blood clot. That'd for sure win me the best costume prize."

"What are you even...?" Cullen massaged his head with his fingers then called out through the wolf pack to the leader, "Perhaps it would be in our best interest to stop."

They'd lost half of the members Fenris and the gang started with, not to the sword but helping all the freed slaves back in the market and as they continued their bloody campaign. Only five remained of varying degrees of talkativeness. A few could almost be civil provided the shemlan stayed behind, and all obeyed the word of their leader.

"Why?" Shiny Glow Pants asked.

"Night will fall soon, and..." Cullen sighed, "unless he gets a bath I fear we shall suffer him for hours."

Fenris's piercing green eyes darted from the templar back to the human sized liver. "Very well."

"Oh!" Alistair cried, jumping up and down, "that was two syllables!"

Having given his two word order, the elves scattered to prepare for camp. They were far enough off the road it seemed unlikely anyone would come hunting for them. Keeping through the brambled woods while not easy on the backside did draw the average Tevinter eye away, though at the moment it was farmland stretching in the distance. Rows and rows of wheat danced in the winds, golden brown and ready for whatever one did with wheat. Cullen kept eyeing it up and grumbling, "Should have harvested it by now."

Given magisters, either winter took longer to hit here, or they had some evil plan to sacrifice their crops to raise an evil god to do evily evil things. It was hard to guess. While the party broke down into their goals, Alistair tossed his things in a heap and, with begging eyes, asked, "Would you watch my stuff?"

"I suppose I..." was as far as Cullen got before the king unbuckled his sword, threw down the borrowed shield, and streaked off in the direction of the river.

"Does he know where he's going?" the templar asked aloud.

Fenris shrugged, "Either way our problem is solved."

_Ha, showed what they knew._ Alistair may have sat on the throne for, shit, had it really been 13 years? Whatever, he still knew how to find water and there was a river lopping over Imperium rocks just beyond the trees. It was a strange skill almost unexplainable in someone who wasn't a mage, but it'd served them well during the blight. Before anyone wondered where a water source was, they'd all turn to watch Alistair wander off in a random direction and fall ankle deep into a pond, lake, river, creek, or any other wet area of land.

Bursting out of the tree coverage, he spotted the glistening ribbon rolling below a small drop off. He could take it easy and try to find a deer trail down to the promising bath, or... Alistair jumped off the rocky ledge without a care for broken bones or potential blunt force trauma below. Giving a very kingly whoop, he curled his legs up to his chest and splashed ass first into the river. Freezing cold would have been preferable to the depthless heart of ice crawling up his skin, wetting his clothes, and dragging him deeper into the water. With both hands, Alistair rubbed up and down his arms at first to get a bit of warmth in and then to try and break up the caked on blood. He rolled up his sleeves to find the gore had crawled up his arms and dripped down his back.

"By all the, how did that happen?" Alistair complained while ripping off his shirt. Dropping it into the freezing water, he whipped it at the rocks a few times because that's how he'd seen other people clean their clothes. It probably did something.

"You do not do anything in half measures," Cullen spoke above him, gesturing to the river leap below. He must have watched him in what had to look like a fall to his death.

"Come to watch me bathe?" Alistair cooed. With his shirt, he scooped up water and dumped it over his head. "Oh that was dumb. That was really, really dumb."

"I thought I should keep you from killing yourself. I'm realizing this is more than a one man job."

Alistair snorted. His shirt mostly clear of blood, he wadded up to chuck onto a branch above the waterline. "Feel for my poor bodyguards."

"Believe me, I already do." The templar could have returned to his tight lipped elven friend but he sat down upon a boulder overlooking the river and watched. "That must be cold."

"No, no, no," he shook his head, his lips trembling, "it's as warm as a summer's creek. Really, you s-s-should try it."

"Don't kings prefer hot baths brought by servants?"

"I'd guess anyone with nerves in their body would prefer that to a frozen river." Alistair dug his fingers forward through his hair, giving himself a terrible case of bangs.

Cullen nodded his head to acquiesce Alistair's point, "Yet you don't demand it."

"This is far from my first time bathing in a river," Alistair shouted. He'd either grown used to the cold or the first few layers of his skin died. Either way, it didn't pain him now so he took to splashing palms against the calm surface splattering water against himself. "During the blight it was jumping into creeks real quick while hoping the elf didn't see everything, sponging off in water basins, or...No, there was nothing in the deeproads aside from keeping downwind of everyone until you got out. If anyone ever asks if you ever want to head into the deeproads, you say no."

"Actually, I've already been there before," Cullen said and the way his voice skipped down to a whisper drew Alistair's full attention. In the silence, the templar continued to elaborate, "Lana required my assistance on a matter."

"Lanny took you into the deeproads?" the king whistled, "That must have been before you two, uh, you know." He banged his hands together to try and dredge a euphemism up from his brain then froze at the one he'd created.

Cullen almost jumped up from his perch in shock, "That's...how did you know?"

"She'd never take anyone she cared about into the path of the blight. If she even let you near it, near darkspawn, she must not have been that invested."

"There was little choice," the templar thundered.

"Okay, okay, not judging here. It's just that, in Amaranthine the blight became more virulent because of talking darkspawn something something, I forget exactly. It was bad, people were going ghoul faster than normal. And Lanny, she was the only healing mage for most of it," Alistair picked up a rock smoothed by the river's current and weighed it in his hand. "There's no way to cure it, but people'd cling to hope - think they were the one exception. Too bad even the way out isn't a way out." He chucked the rock further down the stream eyeing it splash, the water rippling against his legs. "I'd bet you ten sovereigns she was watching you for a good week after."

"What?"

"The blight can take a few days, sometimes a week to appear. After that, your only hope is joining the wardens and all the benefits that come with it: nightmares, darkspawn hunting, early death. Oodles of fun." He stirred up the silt with his toe enjoying the way it clouded over his pale/burned legs. "It'd have killed her to sentence someone she cared about to that life, even if it was the only way to save their life. So," Alistair glanced up, a smile back on his face, "good thing you didn't get the blight. It's a pain all around."

He watched the templar massage his thighs while staring through the forest. A grit twitched along the man's jaw even evident from all the way down in Alistair's watery gulch. _Great._ Alistair was trying to be nice this time.

"What was Lana like...?" Cullen spoke up.

"During the blight? Exhausted, scary, tired, jittery, and really ticklish."

"No," Cullen groaned massaging his cheeks, "as an Arlessa? Or, further into it over the years. Was she, did she find happiness in it?"

Swatting at the water instead of bathing, Alistair tried to think. _Why'd he suddenly care about that? It's not as if Lanny'd be heading back to... Oh._ "It's hard to tell with her. I mean, you ask that woman to carry ten bricks up a hill then back down for the good of the people and she'll do it. She'll curse up a storm the whole time and probably set your knickers on fire, but she'll do it. There weren't a lot of good options when it came to Amaranthine. Giving it to the wardens, that seemed easy. Someone had to move in to air out the old furniture and get rid of the traitor smell. But..."

He rolled his fist against his palm, losing himself in the rhythmic tug of knuckles against his calluses. Kings weren't supposed to have calluses, but somehow he kept growing them, which annoyed a few of the softer skinned nobles to no end. "I didn't want Lanny to go there but she wanted to get as far from-- As far from Denerim as she could. Needed a clean break, to reinvent herself. For a time she built a not bad life. I'd hear about friends, the typical adventures and the less typical ones. She once sent me a ten page letter about her attempt at purchasing a cake for one of her warden's birthdays. Needless to say, it ended with demons."

"Doesn't it always?" Cullen responded. His voice almost startled Alistair, who'd nearly forgotten the man was there and lost himself in his memories.

"Lanny had settled in what she thought was possible, tried to find a few lovers - though it never seemed to work. Not my fault, by the way. I always heard after the fact. But..." Alistair stirred his arm through the water like he was afraid the soup would burn.

"She hated it," Cullen filled in.

"I don't think it was ever her. For the ol' sake of duty she wanted it to be, tried to make it be, whittled herself down to fit into the hole." _And you knew she hated it. Knew she was tired of being an Arlessa the same way you were tired of being king. So, what did you do?_ Instead of helping her, giving her the right out, he took advantage of her. Tried to cling to her as leverage for his own freedom. _Look how well that bit you in the ass, Alistair._ "Whatever you're trying to ask without asking, Lanny's never going back to being an Arlessa. Not that it should matter much to you."

Cullen rose up, his voice dropping low enough to rival the glowing elf, "Why?"

"She wouldn't give two golden shits if you were the commonest commoner to ever walk out of the commons. If she loves you, she'd be with you, unless you do something stupid. So, try to avoid that stupid thing, if you can."

"I...that wasn't what I was attempting to ask, but," he patted his thighs now, the sound echoing off the cold trees, "thank you for whatever that was. Advice, I suppose."

"Now that I've made myself feel like warmed over bronto patties, I think I'll finish washing up in this freezing river if it's all the same," Alistair called. The templar said something but Alistar bent over, dragging his hair through the frigid river to try and revive his cold brain.

Regrets weren't just white birds with long legs. He used to tell himself that if he did it over again he'd never have broken Lanny's heart. His young age and inexperience made him put the crown and his duty before his wants, before her. It was a nice lie to help Alistair sleep better at night, right up until he did the same damn thing again. He could have done anything else after they found Maric, asked her to be by his side in Denerim, to share moments when he visited Amaranthine, even sent a letter back to Eamon saying he drowned on a ship and then run away with her, whatever she wanted. But no, all he kept thinking was how he'd failed. Alistair put his own wants ahead of Ferelden's needs and it got him a dead father, also the information that there might be some dragon blood inside of him which sounded far grosser than the awesome it should have. He needed to chastise himself, to feel the proverbial switch, and who was around to do it but Lanny?

Was it any wonder she hated him? All the templar did was order her to kill her friends, called her people abominations to her face. Alistair had crushed her heart in his fist twice. Maker, she deserved better.

"Is it too much to ask that I'll turn around, head out of the river, and it's the year 9:30 all over again?" he shouted to the crisp night. Remembering he hadn't been alone, Alistair twisted up to where Cullen sat but he was gone. What kind of mess did he get himself into where the blight was happier times? Bathing in freezing cold rivers, eating something that approximated lamb stew if you didn't ask too many questions, facing death every minute of every day, falling head over heels in love with the woman at his side, feeling his stomach flip over his tongue whenever she laughed. Maker, he'd give anything to hear that laugh of hers again - loud, brash, and with a snort if you got lucky. People thought the grey warden Solona Amell was too stoic to laugh, joke around, or ever prank someone. They had no idea.

_9:31 Denerim_

Alistair slipped lower into the clawed tub built deep enough it could water a dozen horses if they all packed into the small side room. He'd forgotten to compensate for his own weight before leaping in and the stone floor circling it sparkled in the firelight. Despite not wanting a thing to do with the crown, nobility, and suffering a rash the moment anyone bowed to him, he did enjoy the perks that came with this potential kinghood. At least it meant he didn't have to bathe half frozen in a river while the assassin pretended to not watch.

Bobbing along the surface was the full bar of soap the servants entrusted him with before beating a hasty retreat. No one seemed to know what to make of the man who might be a king but probably shouldn't be. Even though he'd been to Eamon's estate as a child and knew where things were kept, the servants insisted they fetch everything for him. They'd at least been wise enough to leave a mountain of towels behind.

Alistair smacked down on the soap watching it bounce off the bottom of the porcelain tub only to rise up from its depths. "Nothing shall sink the royal Bubblecake! Not even giants from the north. Oh no, what's this?" With the scrubbing brush, or maybe some lady's hairbrush -- he wasn't certain -- Alistair hovered above the unaware sailors upon the Bubblecake. The poor men and women serving aboard had no idea they were about to be set upon by the bristles of doom. His hand slammed down, the brush smacking into the soap and splashing more water over the edge.

Cackling from the unbreakable spirit of the soap once again returning to him, Alistair paused as he heard a sound. The unmistakable noise of a hand lifting the latch to the door outside his room. "Um, this is occupied!" he shouted. Whoever was on the other side must not have heard him as the certain sounds of his door opening, closing, then the lock slotting into place filled the air. _Maker's breath, why didn't he think to lock it before ripping his pants off?_

"I, I'm here. A person is inside the bathroom," Alistair cried, sinking deeper down as if he could vanish through the translucent water, "in the bath. Naked!"

He was so deep only the top of his nose and eyes skimmed the surface, darting to the door of the side room. As that latch lifted, Alistair ran out of coherent words and yelped. Leaping out of the water, he reached for a towel, exposing himself to the cold air from the waist up, when in walked the intruder.

"I know, I heard you the first time." Lanny smiled that wicked grin of hers that meant she had mischief on her mind. His fingers froze in place and his face twisted up in excited relief. _Thank the Maker, it's just her.  _

_Oh shit, it's her!_

"You, uh, you could have said something," Alistair stuttered as he twisted back down into the tub. What did she want? To talk? That had to be it. Anything more in Eamon's estate could, well, it would be... Fun. A lot of fun. They hadn't since, and never here under the Arl's nose because that'd be... How many canticles would he have to recite for that one?

"And then I would have missed the panic upon your face," Lanny grinned, both of her dimples in evidence as she stared deep into the tub and his pale body refracted through the water.

"True, though you could have gotten the same effect if you'd stood outside and shouted 'Archdemon spotted and it's shitting out ogres!'" Alistair said rolling around on his legs to try and shift away the burn that had nothing to do with the piping hot prince stew he sat in.

Her fingers... Maker, he loved those fingers. Loved watching them fold in and out of pages, to grip tight to her staff exposing the taut tendons below as she froze their enemies solid. Especially loved them...uh, suddenly unknotting the belt to her mage robes. _Andraste's tears, what was she doing?_ Lanny shrugged her robe off without a care, the fabric hitting the wet floor, his spilled water seeping into it. "I shall remember that next time," she joked while unhooking that binding tight bit she wore around her midsection. Alistair tried to untie it once and somehow got his own splintmail knotted up in the laces. After that she only came to him after having removed it on her own, or with a spare dagger in her boot.

"What are you...?" The words thudded from his brain as the corset plopped on top of the robe. Dressed in only her shift he could see the shape of her breasts prodding through the thin fabric. Her gorgeous dark nipples crested just below the surface, both drawn out for attention. Or from attention, he wasn't entirely certain how it worked.

"Hm..." Lanny prompted, her voice sweetly naive but that grin - her 'I'm about to suggest we don't need a tent to take off the armor' smile - warned him that she was playing.

"Doing," Alistair stuttered out by turning away and glaring at the ceiling. "What are you doing?" He twisted his head around, now curious about the reliefs etched above him. They almost looked like a pair of people engaged in combat and...no, that was not combat. _Maker's breath, how did he not notice that as a child?  _

Lanny yanked her shift over her head leaving her standing in only that thin strip of fabric along her hips that passed for her smallclothes. "I'd think it's rather evident what I'm doing." Her voice pulled him right back into her seductive trap and all sense of self vanished from Alistair's brain as she leaned over to slip off the last bit of her clothing. Breasts were something the templar initiates had very specific ideas upon -- insisting what was the proper size, proper perkiness, proper nipple shade and placement. This, of course, was laid out in certainty years before they'd ever seen a real pair beyond a few terrible drawings scratched into the back of hymnals. As far as Alistair was concerned, if he was allowed to see them they were perfect. If he got to touch them, he'd probably already died and was on the pyre.

Before he had time to process his thoughts beyond naked woman, beautiful naked woman, Lanny already slipped into the opposite side of the tub. Her addition displaced more water out of the tub, thoroughly soaking her robes beyond measure. Those bountiful bosoms drifted just below the surface of the water. As Lanny waved her hands back and forth over the surface of the water, she pressed her cleavage tighter together drawing him like a moth to a flame.

"This thing is huge," she remarked in surprise.

"Why thank you," Alistair grinned. "Oh wait, you meant the tub." Chuckling from his joke, Lanny swatted at the water splashing him in the face. "So that's how you wish to play it," Alistair brought both of his hands together and whipped them towards the surface, drenching Lanny's hair. "Have at ye!"

"You're dead," Lanny swore and the battle ensued. It would never be spoken of in mead halls or by poets who unfortunately owned lutes, but it cost the unfortunate lives of all aboard the ship the Bubblecake as well as soaking the entire floor in water. It was when Lanny rushed forward and pinned his biceps back to the tub wall with her hands that Alistair called uncle. Not because he couldn't break away, but his brain shut down at the view. Her nose butted up against his as she held him tight. With flushed cheeks, her eyes sparkling in mischief, and water glistening off that toned and smooth skin it took every ounce of control inside of him to not leap upon her. To hold down her wrists as she writhed in pleasure while he...that was not helping. Eamon's estate, he repeated a few times. It'd be like doing that in his parents, well not his parents. He didn't have any. Her parents? Except she's a mage, so...

While Alistair's brain tripped around to figure out why he couldn't stop panicking at the idea of a naked woman sharing his bath, Lanny leaned down. Pressing that perfect pair of naked breasts against his chest, she caught his lips in a kiss. Every single excuse he thought of obliterated from her machinations. As her hands slid up from his biceps to his shoulders, Lanny adjusted her stance. Her knees pressed into his thighs so she could straddle him as far as the tub would allow. It should hurt, bone digging into flesh and all, but he was far too love addled to feel the pain. There was an unclothed, naked, gorgeous, funny, and did he mention naked? woman pressing into him. Pain was worth it for that.

One finger curled around his jaw, pausing at the edge of his scruff that was maybe a beard if you were forgiving. She broke from the kiss and twisted her head to the side. Maker, he could wake every day to those comforting eyes - brown and warm like a beef broth. Which would be the absolute worst way to describe it to her, but it was how he thought of them. Lanny was comfort to him, balm for his soul the way a meaty broth cured any ailment. Which again, was not going to hit the top of any poet lists when describing a woman's eyes.

That contagious smile broke from her lips to his and she sighed, "You know you can play with them. You don't always have to ask."

"I like to give them a chance to say hello, maybe get them a drink before..." Alistair stumbled, still thrown off by her. By the very fact she was willing to be near him, to talk to him, much less to strip naked and climb into the bathtub with him. He had to mentally pinch himself whenever Lanny touched him to remember that she actually cared for him. Loved him. Secure in her permission, his palms rose from the briny depths to cup both of her breasts. While he died right on the spot, Lanny's forehead mashed into his and her eyes slipped closed. A soft moan brimmed through the back of her throat as his fingers brushed up against those taunting nipples. Sometimes he wasn't certain who liked it more. No, it was him. By a hair.

How the Maker saw fit to create something so soft but firm, comforting while also terrifying, perfect and, yeah perfect, was beyond him. Probably beyond any chantry clerics he'd ask the question of - when they were finished praying for his soul for wondering. His body was fine for what it needed to do, generally. It tended to not fall down stairs, or smash into walls. The feet remained upon the ground in a proper stance and he'd gotten all the other bodily functions down pat. But Lanny's was like holding onto pure power, a dragon's roar in woman form, and also the softest, cuddliest stuffed animal at the same time. He couldn't explain it, certainly not in anything approaching words or it'd be the broth thing all over again, but he thanked the Maker every moment he could enjoy it.

"I seem to remember the last time we tried this in water there was a lot of screaming, crying, and a wet elf," Alistair said, unable to stop caressing her breasts, probably until he died.

"Zevran's not here," Lanny whispered in his ear. Hunger coated every syllable, somehow stirring him even more erect.

"Oh, you say that now," he joked even while sliding his hands around her waist to palm her hips. She moaned harder as he massaged his fingers against the cushioned skin, gently knocking into those curved bones that could drive him to distraction.

"Maker," Lanny stuttered. Her eyes opened and she pushed more of her weight upon his thighs. This was almost enough to catch Alistair in pain, but as her freed hand drifted down his stomach until the fingers rolled around his cock every bit of his brain shredded apart in pleasure.

A knock broke against the door and the absolute last person he ever wanted to think about or hear from at that moment spoke up in her prissy voice. "Alistair, I think we should speak about current matters facing the contested crown," Anora called crisply from the door.

His fingers froze against Lanny's backside, but he didn't push her away, nor did she begin to rise. In fact, sensing a golden opportunity to get him back for the apple incident, she continued to coax her fingers up and down his shaft. "This isn't helping," he groaned in her ear.

"Feels as if it is," Lanny shot back, her traitorous palm gliding across the head, her thumb knocking against the edge that pushed him near it.

"Alistair. I assume you are inside seeing as the door is locked," Anora continued, her highness not used to being forced to wait.

He curled his toes tight and bit down on his tongue to drag his voice out of an unmanly squeak. "It's not a good time!" Then he tacked on a "Your Majesty" in the hopes it'd be enough.

But Anora was not easily dismissed. "You are aware that all of Ferelden hangs in the balance, yes? That we need to solve this conundrum before more blood is spilled. Or would you prefer to pass every ounce of requirement to your betters? If so, then Eamon's plans are even more ludicrous than I'd previously surmised."

"Andraste's ass," Alistair moaned in Lanny's ear. "She doesn't give up."

"Actually, that's my ass you're holding," Lanny answered back, but her fingers stopped their torturous dance. She seemed as aware as him of the queen's iron will now.

"You're not helping," he mouthed back. "Give me something, anything to get rid of her."

"I don't know, tell her the truth."

"That I'm naked in the bathtub with my fellow grey warden because we were about to mimic whatever's carved on the ceiling above us?" Alistair hissed, his voice growing more erratic as he spoke the truth of it. _How had his life ever come to this?_

Lanny twisted her head around to see the relief. Her finger traced through the air, trying to figure out where leg met leg and which was the arm. As realization dawned upon her, she smiled, "That works fine, but snip out the fellow warden part."

"Right," he nodded, then lifted his voice to a shout, "It's not a good time because I'm currently as naked as the day my bastard ass was born in the bathtub, so unless you feel the need to compare the Therin crown jewels, I think I'd prefer to pass." Lanny choked on a laugh and a growl from his crown jewels joke, but he only shrugged. He'd been working on it for awhile.

"You are an infuriating and idiotic man. Barely a man," Anora fumed from outside his door. "The sight of you naked...if dressing yourself is beyond you then I can send for a handmaid to solve it for you. Perhaps one of them could also teach you how to tie your laces and comb your hair while at it."

Alistair touched his hair and grimaced from her barb, but Lanny fluffed it back up from her splash attack earlier. At least she seemed to like it, and that was all that mattered. "Would it truly kill her highness to wait an hour or so until I've properly bathed and dressed, or will all of Ferelden crack in half from your father in that time?"

"By all the...yes, yes it will kill me. So, fish your wrinkled skin out of the water and open the door. Now!" Anora shrieked, her fist rattling the lock as if she could open it by pure rage.

"If she was a mage, I'd be afraid of her burning the door down," Lanny sighed.

"I'm expecting her to stomp off to a locksmith, or worse, tell Eamon," Alistair sighed. And then Eamon would ask why he didn't just let her in, which would lead to the full of Alistair's extra curricular activities with Lanny, and then it's all hair shirts and whipping himself while walking the streets of Denerim. No longer playing, Alistair pushed Lanny up off him.

"What are you doing?" she shook her head.

"Like the crowned pain in the ass said, answering the door naked and forcing her to talk to me. Which will be even more fun with...oh Maker," he banged the back of his head against the tub and did his best to think of the old prune-skinned brothers in the chantry sucking on candies with their toothless mouths. That usually worked, but having Lanny in the same room tended to wake him up. Her naked, inches away from him, and heaving in a suppressed rage had him more erect than Fort Drakon. Mercifully, she let him unearth himself from the tub, even more water splashing onto the floor as Alistair grabbed a towel off the pile and wrapped it around his waist. It helped but didn't fully hide his throbbing shame, so he tried a couple more.

"What am I supposed to do?" Lanny asked. For the first time her eyes drifted across her soaking wet robes. "If I slip out the window in those I'll freeze to death, or slide off the roof and break something."

Alistair shrugged, "Enjoy the tub, give yourself a good splashy clean." Lanny's eye narrowed further from his nonchalant response. "Maybe even giggle a few times from all the fun you're having."

Now she grinned at what he wanted, "You are good. You're very good."

If Anora wanted to make his life hell, he didn't see any reason to not give it back. Lanny twisted around and settled back into the tub, her head resting upon the rim. Alistair enjoyed one more kiss with her, his eyes sliding down her body, while he assured himself they'd all come together again later. Gently slipping the side room's door closed but not shut, he crossed through the main room leaving wet footprints in his wake. Unlocking the door, he faced down the Queen's wrath when Lanny began to sing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lyrium

_9:30 The Bannorn_

Dangling just beyond her fingertips nestled a bundle of apples greener than the leaves of the tree. Lanny stretched further, lifting one leg up from her boost to reach. She just grazed the smooth skin, knocking against the trio but not sending any cascading to the ground.

"Careful there," her stepping stool said. Alistair's hands curled around her knees keeping her upright inside the branched of the tree. She stood upon those broad shoulders, normally in armor, but for the warm day he'd thrown it all aside. Curling her bare toes into his naked skin, she struggled to keep her balance.

"I can get them," Lanny said. She didn't look down at his warm eyes, afraid she'd forget what she was doing if she caught a glimpse of him half naked and straining from holding her.

"Are you sure, Lanny?" he asked. "You're starting to wobble." The manly ground below her trembled to back up his statement.

"Damn it, Ali," she shouted, but a giggle broke her stern facade. "I am going to get these apples." Grabbing onto a branch for leverage, she reached higher trying to lengthen her spine and will her arms longer. Too bad there wasn't a spell for that.

"I dunno, it could fall apart at any minute. I'm worried you'll lose your balance," he called. Even as he bobbed and weaved below trying to throw her off, his hands adjusted around her legs to keep her steady. One of them rose up to grab onto her lower thigh.

Her fingers brushed under the apple, jiggling it again, when Lanny leaned too much of her body forward. _Uh-oh!_ She tried to grab onto the branches and twigs she'd burst through to reach the fruit, but there was nothing to stop her on the way down. Nothing but the warden who opened up his arms and caught her against his naked chest. His one hand wrapped under her butt, while the other dug tight into her spine. When the shock of the fall wore off she turned in those straining arms to look into his face. Exertion wore it red, but the man had a smile stretching his cheeks wider than seemed possible.

"You," Lanny tried to rise up, but she couldn't get a grip against him, "did that on purpose."

"Me? Let you drop just so I could have a gorgeous woman in my arms? No, I would never ever do anything of the sort to..."

She jammed an apple into his mouth to stop his jabbering. With both hands full of her, his only option was to bite down. Alistair's entire face puckered and he shuddered, the bitten apple scattering to the ground.

"Maker's breath, that's tart," he gasped, lapping his tongue against the air to try and wash it away.

"That's what you get for dropping me," she sulked.

"Where'd that apple even come from?"

Lanny shrugged, her shoulder digging into his pec, then she reached into the top of her bodice and unearthed another small apple snagged on her way up into the tree. Watching him with a raised eyebrow, she took a tender bite of the tart thing and smiled. Alistair laughed at the ingenuity, his mirth overpowering him so, he had to reposition his arms rocking her as if she was on a ship.

"Andraste's tears," he tried to reach the hand around her back forward to grab at her bodice. "What else do you have in there?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Lanny shot back crossing her arms across her chest and glaring at him.

"More than you can possibly imagine." He smiled such an intoxicating grin his sabotaging her fruit harvest was completely forgotten. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Lanny rose up to kiss him, tasting the same apple's tartness upon his lips. "I spent most of my younger years, and not such younger years wondering just what existed within the depths of a woman's, uh, you know."

"Satchel?" Lanny asked, an impish grin belying her serious tone.

"Ah, um, that, uh, that part too," Alistair blushed a brighter red, the crimson embarrassment crawling up his cheeks.

"Do you regularly comb through other women's satchels?"

"Oh Maker," he groaned, her innocent gaze and fluttering eyelashes striking deep into his heart. Maybe she hadn't fully forgiven him after all. "No? Because it'd be impolite to look without asking first? Then it'd end in whacks to the head and a broken nose."

"Even asking might get you hit," she said gently kicking her feet in the air as if she was swimming through it. Alistair held her as if she weighed nothing, his body barely straining from her playing around against him.

"Well," he coughed a few times and tried to drag his voice lower. Pressing his lips to her ear, he asked, "would you hit me if I asked to inspect yours?"

"Hm..." she scratched her chin in exaggerated thought, then lightly tossed her bitten apple up in the air before taking another bite. "No, I don't believe I would."

"Ah, that's uh," he gulped for air, struggling to find anything to look at while his hands slicked up with sweat, "it's good to know that in case of any satchel related emergencies. You know if we required some, uh, extra elfroot, or deep mushrooms."

"Maker's breath, I hope there aren't any mushrooms growing up there," Lanny gasped, feigning shock as she fanned herself with her apple.

"You, I..." he raised her even higher in his arms so he could bury his burning face in her neck. "I love you, even if you've pushed me to the point of thinking terrible thoughts about apples now. I will always love you."

She tossed her own apple to the side and threaded her arms around his neck. Straightening her back, she stared into his eyes. Normally bobbing in his sea of impertinence, now they zeroed in with a focus that made her tremble. "Is that so? What if I were to give all your smallclothes to the dog?"

Alistair laughed, "I think he's way ahead of you already. What's he doing with them?"

Shrugging, Lanny chuckled, "Void if I know. I'm slightly terrified when I find the answer. What if I made you walk back to camp naked?" Her eyes sparkled at that thought and she squirmed from the vision of him, her warden, traipsing into the campfire without a stitch of clothing on. Maker, that idea would have been her undoing only a month ago.

His lips caught hers, all the tartness drained to Alistair's normal sweetness in the kiss. He tasted like clover leaves mashed into honey, all light and airy to match his disposition, and it made her heart sing. "Lanny Amell, there isn't a thing in all of thedas you can do that would make me stop loving you."

_?:?? ?_

"Stop!" Lana pinched her hands deep into her forehead, trying to clog up her memories in the vice grip. The pain abated the visions fitting through her brain, dragging her back into the fade.

"What was the matter? You look peaked, dear. Have you been eating properly?"

Ten sleeps they'd been at this, with Lana barely getting any rest in the interim. It felt as if she'd be freed from a memory only to slip off into a blissful blankness that bore nothing in common with sleep, to then awaken to the spirit hovering over her, waiting to begin again. She dug her palms into her eyes, willing away the burn in her soul. The spirit, whatever it was, seemed to favor two particular subjects. On occasion she'd see her family, looming figures seen through the simple gaze of a child switched over the years to aloof strangers struggling to figure out if she was worthy of a place in their home. Leliana flitted in and out of the visions, as did some of her friends in the tower, the wardens, so many dead because she wasn't there to save them. But that wasn't what fascinated the spirit so, what kept driving it deeper into her mind.

"Why that one?" Lana struggled to push out the words, her tongue knotted as if she'd been stammering through the first kiss so many years ago. "What possible purpose could that memory serve in opening the veil?"

The spirit hovered beyond the crystal pond, its face merging with a pair of peach trees. "Look at how much you've changed," it said extending a tendril hand out around the fade. The pond was the first thing to materialize, except Lana hadn't imagined it, hadn't tried to bring it back. It only appeared when she woke from a stupor, her legs submerged in the water. Without the landmarks of Redcliffe to ground her she didn't notice what it was until she spotted Alistair's tree. There was no reason for her to want that. And the peach trees, they were the same ones Anders scurried up one to try and rescue Ser Pounce-A-Lot, only to realize the cat was hiding in the grass at the base of the trunk. Why would she imagine them? Give them form out of the fade?

"I am uncertain if this is accomplishing anything," Lana gestured between the two of them.

"Little one, you must trust in me. It will take time, of course, all things worth doing do."

Lana snorted at that claptrap. She'd done plenty of things worth doing quickly. Uldred went down in under ten minutes, that sure as shit counted as worthy. Shaking her head, Lana waved at the spirit. "Give me time to rest, recuperate, eat." Her eyes traveled over the peach tree, but something in her soul warned her it wasn't wise. At least there was dried spider meat left.

"And then we will resume..." the spirit hungered for her in a way that made Lana's skin crawl. She knew about the templars who'd prey on mages favoring the quiet ones, the weird ones no one would believe, or the ones without a support group. Most left her be either because she was forgettable or because she was lucky. Only on occasion would she feel that wolf stare glaring below their helmets, following her changing body as she ran after her friends. No mage traveled the tower alone.

"In time, a day or two. This isn't easy," she spat out, hoping her anger would shake the spirit.

The almost orange light faded back to gold and it smiled with its shadows, "Of course, dear. Take whatever time you need. I will await you beyond." Without taking any proper leave, the spirit faded away through the air. They all did that when they'd abandon her, not traveling through the three dimensions of space but almost slipping into a new one. Yet, she suspected the spirits weren't truly gone, and they could still feel her, perhaps hear and see her at all times.

Rolling her fingers through her head once more, Lana dug into her bag repaired with the back of the bottom of her robes. Dried spider meat was never going to become a delicacy, unless the orlesians learned of it, but her stomach knocked around for it, her mouth almost drooling for food off of any animal. When she brought the strip of spider jerky to her mouth, it wasn't the typical bland gamey flavor, but Alistair's lips pressed against her, his tongue prodding into her mouth that overwhelmed her.

"Damn it!" she cursed, about to throw the meat at the ground. Her hunger stopped her hand, and she bit into it, chewing as quickly as possible while trying to banish the memory. One moment it was teenage Lana blushing up a storm because she dared to stand an inch closer to Honey eyes, the next she was going down on Alistair for the first time terrified she'd bite something. Her heart suffered from tonal whiplash, dragged through every awkward and exhilarating moment of her various courtships. If it was just Alistair, they'd sting but it wouldn't bite.

It was when the spirit dug up memories of Cullen that Lana almost broke down. Survival, that was what she needed, what she focused on. If she paused for even a moment, stopped to think about everything waiting for her beyond the veil and what she gave up, she'd never rise again.

Waiting. That was a nice dream in and of itself. He had to believe she was dead, it was the only logical conclusion. No one survives in the fade for this long, no one physically walks here. The chances of getting out and finding Cullen yet in love with her grew dimmer with each passing day. Maybe he lost his misplaced love once he heard her decision to remain behind. She'd barely given him anything before and he'd...he'd offered up his heart. _Maker, why couldn't she love him?_ He'd driven her to fits of stammering since she was seventeen. She couldn't hurt him, never, not even in the deeproads when he'd killed White.

Except she did, when she chose to stay here, to sacrifice her life for Hawke's. Did it matter if she hurt herself in the process? _Andraste, I'd give anything to be able to tell him it wasn't his fault. It, none of it was his. Ever. I..._

Lana started in surprise to find her hands clasped together in prayer. It'd been years since she'd tried getting the prophetess' attention. After Amaranthine burned she felt too dirty to even try. Sleep, what she needed was sleep. That would help some anyway. At least break her away from the unending nightmare of her own making.

"Is it gone?"

_Of blighted course._ Lana staggered up to her feet to find Jowan prodding into a stack of empty books beside the pond. He had to come, she'd been all but calling him there. "Yes, the spirit's fled for now."

"Good, that one's..." Jowan shuddered, his skin undulating off the muscle and bone like a sheet in the wind. Willing her modest dinner to stay down, Lana turned away from the disturbing sight. Body language was new to spirits, he understood trembling but not that it shouldn't look as if the skin was water rippling from a tossed stone. "Don't trust it," he hissed.

"You say that about every spirit I meet."

"Because it's true," Jowan stuck up for himself.

"Which means I shouldn't trust you telling me to not trust it," Lana pointed out the paradox.

"Uh," Jowan only jabbed at the air as if that would somehow solve the conundrum. "I guess that's right, or maybe not. Did you want to trade?"

"Growing hungry, spirit?" The last thing Lana wanted was another creature digging through her brain, sifting apart her thoughts like treats hidden inside flour. She'd fought plenty of blood mages, but they rarely had the chance to pry apart her brain before she literally pried apart theirs. If that was what Cullen suffered, not the controlled reach of spirits, but the clumsy clawing of humans and elves ripping into what they barely understand... She wrapped her hands around herself from the chill coasting off the lake.

"I thought you might be. Not many spiders in the area to feed upon. I can help with that."

"In exchange for what?" Lana asked, too tired to waste time arguing the situation to death. She'd rather he come out and say it.

Jowan's watery eyes drifted around her little refuge. Despite there being a lake with trees and cattails circling around it, a small room perched beside. Not hers from the Vigil, but the one in Denerim, the home away from home as he put it. It was cozier than it should be, with fragments of her life scattered around that she never placed in the palace. Blinking at the grey warden shield upon the wall, Jowan turned to her, "Grayson."

"You're asking for a lot," Lana said.

"You may not be around much longer to give it."

Her eyes narrowed at the stripped way he said that. He could be referring to her plans to escape, but something in his tone caught her. "Where is Wynne?"

"She hates it, more than she hates me, more than I hate it. Won't come near..." his eyes bounced around every corner of the sawed open room, "here. Will you give me Grayson in exchange for two weeks worth of spider meat?"

"You can get that much? How?" She'd barely seen a spider in months outside of Jowan's help.

The spirit cocked his head to the side and stared past her, past the walls she'd created, beyond the rocks. "There are an innumerable amount crawling just beyond."

Lana whipped her head around, trying to spot this but all she saw was what was always there. A warning crawled up the back of her neck. There was more at play here then she'd realized before. "All right, Jowan. You can have it. You can have the last of Grayson."

She didn't have time to sit down before the spirit's fingers dipped into her brain hungering for a pain she never fully understood.

_9:25 Kinloch Hold_

Wadding up the soggy bread into a ball, Lana rolled it through the pudding while Jowan watched her. "What are you doing?"

"This," she smiled and turned every ounce of her mana upon the unwanted dinner. It didn't catch on fire or freeze, that was easy. Instead, a black mold erupted where her fingers touched the crust, coating the bread in its putrid wake.

"Maker's breath. That's disgusting," Jowan stuck his tongue out.

"Wait," Lana giggled as the spell morphed, draining moisture out of the bread and desiccating the ball smaller and smaller in her fist until it exploded into a poof of ash on the wind. "Isn't that fascinating? I can death hex bread."

"Great, you can kill food and my appetite. Congratulations," Jowan whined shoving his own plate around. No one wanted to eat the pudding.

A flurry of robes flailed past the open door, paused, then Marguerite jammed her head in. "Lanny, they're back!"

She leapt up out of her chair, then paused, grabbed her dishes and dumped them into the washing bucket. Jowan grumbled beside her, scraping his own food into the compost heap and moving slower to show his displeasure, but Lana didn't care. Grabbing onto Marguerite's arm, Lana leaned into her to whisper. "Are you certain?"

"There's a whole mess of templars sitting in the atrium, so yeah. Probably back."

"Are there..." Jowan huffed trying to catch up to the girls zipping through the halls. "Any new mages with them?"

"Of course there are," Marguerite rolled her eyes. "That's why they leave and come back, after all."

"Any, uh, cute ones?" Jowan continued. He licked his palm and tried to arrange his hair which only got him a side stare.

"Adorable beyond measure," Marguerite said to Jowan's increasing grin, then she giggled, "and all under the age of ten."

"By the void, then why are we running? Who cares if some snot-nosed kids are being inducted today?"

"It's for..." Marguerite jerked her head at Lana and then giggled into her hands. "Grayson."

Jowan threw his arms up, twisting around in a circle for dramatic effect as begets any sixteen year old, "You have to be kidding me. That's disgusting."

"What? What is?" Lana whipped her head between her two friends.

"You and Grayson," Marguerite grinned. "You want to make-" she smacked her lips against her closed hand to approximate kissing, as if either of them had any idea what it was really like. "-with him," she finished, beaming her bright, ornery eyes.

"No I don't! Maker, don't be stupid. He's old, really old. Like grey hair and stuff old. It's not like that at all, Margie!"

"Sure it isn't, Lanny," she laughed again in that bubbling orlesian accent. The three rambunctious teenagers stepped through the final door onto a level overlooking the atrium. Templars, all wearing the uniform armor and skirt rested upon the scattered benches normally used for First Enchanter meetings. They'd all tossed aside their imposing helmets while chewing through the same maker-awful dinner the apprentices had but with a greater appreciation for warm food under a warmer roof.

"You wouldn't understand," Lana whispered to Marguerite. "He's been a friend of mine ever since I came here."

"A templar?" Jowan cut back. "You can't befriend a templar. Everyone knows that."

"That's just because they don't like you after you flooded the Knight-Commander's water closet," Marguerite rose up, less to Lana's aid and more because Jowan had it coming.

"They never proved it was me," Jowan whined.

"Right, because you standing there with mana still pouring through the veil and water up to your ankles means...the butler did it?"

Lana ignored their never-ending argument as Jowan tried to prove it somehow wasn't his fault. Nothing was ever his fault. They weren't supposed to know the templars in the tower, but of course mages would on occasion talk or even joke with their guards. But these templars were different. They were the hunters who traveled across thedas searching for mages -- either fresh into their power, or hidden apostates -- and brought them back to the tower. Supposedly, they were stationed all over Ferelden in tiny towns or farming villages as much as Denerim and the other big cities. It was rare for them to visit the tower save for drop off days or if it was a big holiday. She never saw Grayson for more than a few days each year, but he always had a big smile for her, tales of his adventures, and a wink that they'd meet again. No one thought anything of the seven or eight year old girl rushing out to hug the grown man around his leg, but as the years passed Lana felt the curious and judgmental stares of both mage and templar wondering what she was doing. At fourteen she knew better than to risk hugging him, but there was nothing wrong with saying hello and talking to him.

"Wait," Lana waved her hand to stop Margie and Jowan arguing, who were now onto his lack of bathing, "I don't see Grayson." Before either could respond, Lana wadded her too long robes in her hands and flitted down the back staircase.

Marguerite nipped at her heels, "Lanny, what are you doing? You know we're not supposed to go down there when--" Her words died away as the two girls stepped onto the ground floor and a dozen templars turned to them. Slowly, the masticating jaws ground down while the steel eyes measured the apprentices up for size. "This was a bad idea," Margie whispered.

"Excuse me, what are you doing here?" a templar walked over to them, his face young and ambitious, but with a gentleness that kept him from waving his sword to chase them off.

"We were leaving," Marguerite said, tugging on Lana's sleeves. "Right?"

_No, she had to know._ Yanking her arm free, Lana approached the templar. She kept her hands clasped together in front to try and show she was no danger. "May I ask you, um, where's Ser Grayson?"

"Ser Grayson? You, you want to know about him?" the man whipped his head around at the others who suddenly grew far more interested in their supper than before. "I, um, I'm uncertain if I can..."

"It's all right, Caroll," an older woman slipped out of the group and almost dropped to a knee to reach Lana's small stature. "Young lady, Grayson has been retired to Denerim."

"Will he come back here?" Lana asked, her eyes darting from the woman to the shrinking man.

"I..." the woman rose up from her lean, her full height looming over the tiny mage, "No. He will remain in Denerim, permanently."

"That can't be right," Lana shook her head. "He promised he'd come back. He always does."

"Ah, perhaps you should discuss this with your, oh, blighted what do they call them?" the woman turned to the man named Caroll.

"Teachers?" he threw out, earning him a scowl.

"Enchanters that advise you in such matters," the woman smiled but there was a strain under it, her eyes darting to the edges as if she was obscuring something. Lana wasn't about to give up so easily with a few platitudes and a pat on the head.

"You're hiding..." she reached out when Jowan grabbed onto her arm, pulling her back towards the stairs.

"What are you doing?" he hissed in her ear. Then apologized to the templars, "So sorry, Ser, and Ma'am, and others. We'll just be going now."

"Of course, apprentice," the woman nodded. Every templar chewed their cud with a somber tone; something dark washed over the proceedings blanketing down every happy tongue.

Jowan locked both hands around Lana and yanked her up into the air. Using his greater height and weight, he shoved her up the stairs, plopping her unresponsive body onto the stair above him and continuing to jab her upward until they were halfway up. She shook both of his hands off her and glared at him while Margie hung back in the distance.

"Knock it off, Jowan! They're hiding something. Grayson wouldn't slip off like that to retirement, he'd have told me. He wasn't like the other templars. Oh Maker, what if he died?!" She'd thought about it sometimes when she'd grown old enough to learn about the wicked blood mages in the world. A lump grew in her throat every time she'd rush to the atrium in fear to find not the aging man greying to match his name, but instead his corpse prepared for the pyre.

"I don't think that's what they mean by retirement," Jowan said. "Look, okay, I overhead some senior enchanters talking."

"You mean you were spying on them," Margie threw in, but she leaned just as close to listen in.

"Whatever, they were talking about templars and the lyrium they take. Seemed one of 'em went odd and almost jumped out a window."

"You mean a mage?" Lana asked, struggling to keep up. They all knew the rules about the barred windows.

"No, a templar. I thought it weird too. What do they have to worry about? Anyway, I guess drinking all that lyrium isn't good for them, so they go funny in the head, real funny in the head. When they get older they're carted off to a sanitarium in Denerim. That's templar retirement."

Lana shook her head madly, "No, that's...I don't believe you. I don't believe you at all. Why would they do that? They take it, they make them take it, or something like that."

"By Andraste's holy knickers, how would I know? Templars are all mad as wet hens."

She threw off Jowan's arms and ran up the stairs two at a time, her legs straining. Her friends could have easily overtaken her but they hung back, uncertain what to do. It didn't make any sense. The templars were the ones in charge, everyone knew that. They told you where to go, when to eat, when to sleep - actually, they told the enchanters who then told the apprentices. But it was templars at the top. Even the First Enchanter answered to Gregoir, sometimes their arguments filtering down to the lower level where apprentices whispered about what changes it meant for them.

Why would they intentionally poison themselves? Lyrium was deadly to a mage if touched, a fact drilled so deep into their heads, Lana cried the first time she saw a philter of it for class. She'd assumed it was different for non-magical people, that they were safe to go near it and that was how templars fought mages. _Oh Maker, Lana. What, did you think they spat it at blood mages?_ It seemed as logical an explanation as any for her. Why drink it?

She'd run up another two staircases, reaching the third level of the tower where she was not supposed to be. Apprentices never left the first without accompaniment and permission. Despite having neither, Lana jumped off the stairs - her slippers catching upon the freshly polished floor. The tranquil washing it looked up for a moment but said nothing as she scrambled to right herself and kept running towards the only answer she could find.

Thanks to Jowan, Lana knew exactly where the First Enchanter's office was. She reached her fist up, about to knock, when the pain wedged on her chest cracked enough for common sense to break through. _What are you doing? What are the chances anyone in there will tell you what you want to hear? It's more likely you'll be punished for wasting their time. Go back downstairs._

Her fist hung in the air as defeat washed over her. It was right. All she'd get here was more obfuscating and being sent on her way. She blinked rapidly, surprised to find her eyes stinging, when the First Enchanter's door swung open and her limp fist collided with the sword of mercy carved into every templar's breastplate.

"Maker, I..." she scampered back from it, knotting her offending hand behind her back, then she glanced up and all blood drained from her face. It wasn't just any templar, it was the Knight-Commander. _Forget ever seeing the sun again, Lana._

His grey eyes gazed down at her, then he turned back to the study, "Irving, looks like you have company."

"Do I?" the First Enchanter's raspy voice chuckled from the depths of his office. "Child?" he rose off his chair and inched closer to her, but Lana was frozen, her head hanging down as she stared at the Knight-Commander's shoes. Her own blotched eyes gazed up at her in the polished reflection. "What brings you to me?"

"I..." Lana rolled her lips up and pinched into her hands behind her back. The Knight-Commander stepped back himself, letting the First Enchanter get a proper look at her. How could she ask Irving about things she wasn't meant to know when Ser Gregoir stood only a breath away?

"Is something wrong? Something I should be informed about?" Irving asked. "Whatever's the matter, we can't fix it unless you tell me."

Chattering her teeth, Lana never felt more foolish than she did at that moment having the two most powerful men in the tower staring down at her like she'd lost her mind. _What could she say? How could she possibly...?_

"Whatever it is Irving, I assume you can handle it." Gregoir said. He reached his hand out to try and push Lana away, a gentle move so he could slip past but something inside of her snapped.

"I wanted to know what happened to Ser Grayson, First Enchanter!" she barked as if commanding Irving in the sparring yard. "And Knight-Commander." Lana's eyes glanced quickly over the man, then back down as she included his name. It seemed rude not to.

"This is a templar, I assume..." Irving turned to Gregoir who stared deep into Lana's skull. Whether he was trying to figure her out or wishing he had the authority to bash it open, she couldn't tell.

Rising higher away from the girl, Gregoir sighed, "He...is. He was retired to the refuge in Denerim four months ago."

"Why?" It couldn't be true, Grayson was her friend. He'd have said goodbye. She knew that in her heart, but there was no reason for the Knight-Commander to lie to her, to the First Enchanter. Lana tipped her head back to stare at Irving and she felt the first tear tumble down her cheek.

Irving turned to Gregoir, an almost cross look in his eye. The two shared a message through body language Lana couldn't follow, but neither seemed happy. When the First Enchanter returned to her, he let his easy smile slide on, shifting to the grandfatherly patron of the tower. "Child, perhaps you are unaware that templars take lyrium and that the lyrium can have deleterious effects upon their bodies and their minds."

"I don't understand," Lana smooshed her arm across her nose, catching most of the snot on her sleeve. The tears were unstoppable now.

"We need it to be able to fight mages," Gregoir spoke up, his words curt. A sneer ended it, not aimed at her but the world in general, as if he almost didn't believe the fact himself.

"But...Grayson he'd, he'd never not say goodbye. We were friends."

She'd watched the Knight-Commander in the years since he'd taken the role from the back with all the other apprentices. While the First Enchanter bore a bonhomie elegance to him, the Knight-Commander was a breathing stand of armor who only brought out his rage when an impenetrable line had been crossed. Keeping herself out of trouble as much as she could, Lana only experienced it second or third hand. Even then, she had trouble seeing the man as a person under his armor with or without the helm.

Now, that uncrossable brow bent, and an almost tremble tripped up his lip. "I am sorry to inform you of this, but the lyrium will often take memories as well. More than likely, due to his...affliction, Ser Grayson didn't remember his promise, or you."

_He's lying!_ She felt the words stirring in her mouth begging to be spat at him, but why would the Knight-Commander say such a thing? _Maker..._ Lana stumbled back, her hand pressed to her mouth as she tried to face, to understand this shift in her life. There'd always been mages and templars in her world, she could remember nothing else from before beyond a few snippets of memory before the magic took her. Mages were her people, the ones who could bend the fade to their will, create amazing tricks and spells to help and heal. They were also the people cursed by the Maker, if not watched closely they would fall into wickedness given the slightest provocation. But templars weren't the opposite. Some were bad and best to keep away from, yet there were others like Grayson who held her hand when she first saw the demon in the fade and snuck in a small bottle of Free Marcher apricot jam just for her. Were they all doomed to spending their last years memoryless, maybe even brainless puttering around in some chantry run sanitarium with no friends? How was any of this right?

Above her, Irving hissed at Gregoir, "Am I to believe this was only a matter of friendship?"

"She's a child, they're prone to fits of overreacting," Gregoir shrugged.

"Despite being short, she is old enough for it to be an issue. You should guard your templars with a better eye."

"I knew Ser Grayson. He was a well liked man with a wife and his own children. He would never jeopardize that for..."

"Which sounds much the same as Ser Templeton," a burning rage spat out of the First Enchanter as he drew up that name.

Lana screwed her eyes up. She knew that man, they all knew that man after...they knew of him even before his arrest, they just didn't talk about it in public. "Grayson didn't touch me, not ever, not like that." Maker, bile climbed up the back of her throat from even having to speak the words. Having to think it. She wanted to know the truth and instead she pointed an accusing finger at him. _Damn it! Why did she keep getting it wrong?_ "He was my friend, I swear," she gasped. Her eyes burned, the tears run dry.

Backing down, Irving nodded his head, "I believe you. I forgot how disturbing news of the lyrium can be for some. Come, girl. You should return to your dormitory and take time to process it. And we will discuss fraternization between templars and their charges again at a later day," Irving shot at Gregoir. The Knight-Commander sighed, but accepted it.

Lana had no idea what to say. Her body felt as if someone slit open her veins and drained every drop onto the floor. The muscles along her shoulders and up her legs screamed in agony as she tried to shuffle away. While stepping gingerly towards the staircase, she reached out to steady herself when a hand grabbed onto hers.

"Careful, Miss. You almost missed," a muffled voice called out of the tin. She started in terror, having completely failed to spot the templar standing right next to the frame. Nodding without answering, Lana stepped downwards leaving some of her naïveté behind.

When she woke she felt the same crushing loss upon her chest. It took her months to get over it, almost as if she'd lost a member of her family to disease or worse. The fact he took the lyrium even knowing the end it would bring chewed her apart. It wasn't until she was older she realized the addictive qualities, how impossible it was for templars to free themselves, that it was the chantry's mission to keep them leashed. _Maker, please let Cullen have been strong enough._ He had to be, she'd never met a will stronger. When he set out to do something he accomplished it.

Lana folded up her hands and prayed. Not from the canticles or any of the later prayers adopted into chantry canon. She begged whoever might be listening that it wasn't her death that broke him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rain

_?:?? ?_

Lana knew the spirit couldn't keep away long. She'd been granted only a day and a half reprieve which was spent either eating what spider meat and questionable but edible squash she found, and sleeping. The green mists haunted her dreams, and an unnatural chill froze her fingers and toes when she awoke. In the distance, beyond whatever barrier her dreams had her trapped inside was a statue. Grey stone, taller than a person, with something like a hand stretched out towards her. She tried to sketch the silhouette of it before the dream faded but all Lana could see in her doodling was a misshapen blob. Wynne was the one she needed to speak with, but that wasn't who warped reality to pop into place.

A miniaturized fountain burbled beside Lana's desk - the exact desk she abandoned in the Vigil. She found some of her old letters crammed in the back of the drawer including one from Alistair and another she never got around to sending. Rather than reminisce about what could have been, Lana flipped both pages over and took to sketching out her wild theories. Exhaustion dogged her every quill scratch, the ink made from boiled spider innards -- runny but useable. Despite the obstacles, she wasn't going to turn tail and roll over now. Fighting was all she had left.

"Good morning, dear," the spirit spoke in its androgynous voice. Genderless but far sweeter than Shale's, the spirit spoke with a creamy voice as light and airy as strawberries on a summer afternoon. "I see you're keeping busy attending to something. Did you locate anything of interest in the interim?"

"No," Lana huffed, putting down the last few words she'd spoken to Wynne. The curiosity spirit spoke in roundabout riddles, but there had to be an answer. For now, Lana needed to find the question. "Why? Was there something for me to find?"

"Of course not, I only thought to inquire about your day. Shall we begin again?"

Waving her hand over the paper to try and dry the spider ink quicker, Lana squared her shoulders. Her chair leaned to the side, the back leg shorter than the others. It was the same one she used for ten years in her classes in the tower. "First, I think it's time you answer a few questions for me."

The spirit's ethereal presence pulsed as a white light in the center strobed for a moment. Then its not mouth smiled slyly, "I'd never keep anything from you, dearest."

"Right. You said that in exchange for my memories you could help me create a way out of here."

"I am helping you," it interrupted, hovering closer towards her. "The best way I know how. You are safe with me."

That didn't answer her question. Without watching, Lana made a notch against the old letter - the one where he first asked her to move to Denerim and become an arcane adviser. "The only changes I've seen so far have been cosmetic, the fade itself is becoming familiar to me, taking pieces of my past to dangle in front, but there is nothing to help me escape."

"Do you not enjoy returning to what you once loved, here around you?" The spirit hovered past the tiny fountain towards a bookshelf crammed not with books but small tokens, old weapons, trinkets excavated from her adventuring life and put on display without any care for their meaning or history.

"What I'd love is a way out of the Fade," Lana cut back with as she made another mark.

"And you shall have it, of course, sweetheart. But in order to accomplish it, we need to work together. I need your help before I can, in turn, help you."

Its fingers of light inched towards her, already pawing through her guarded memories, but Lana snapped the gate closed. Even exhausted, irritated, and suffering from intestines exhausted of processing spider legs she knew how to hold back her mind. Alistair was terrible at leading, but he'd proved an agile teacher when it came to the tricks templars used against blood mages. She didn't have access to them all, but shoring up her mind from any spirit influence came almost like breathing now.

"Before you dive right back in for what you want," Lana said, "I have one more question for you."

The spirit didn't sneer, but its white hot light faded to a dusky orange. "What is it? Dearest," was then tacked on.

Yanking back her chair, Lana rose. Her legs trembled as if the muscles were terrified to exert any exercise, but she ignored it and began to pace back and forth from the half of a bed jammed inside a wall, to the bookshelf. Folding her arms up, Lana leaned against the shelf for support and asked, "Why are the other spirits scared of you?"

Its lights flared for a moment before sliding back into the super sweet voice, "They are afraid of what they do not understand."

Lana snorted at the paltry answer, little more than a dust mote on the wind. People said that when they didn't want to give an answer, didn't want to try and come to any compromise, didn't want to place any blame upon themselves. Plenty of people were afraid of mages because they didn't understand them, but just as many lived in fear of mages because they knew all too well what they were capable of. For every ten Fereldens who'd clap her on the back and thank her for rescuing them all from blight, there was one who eyed her up in terror. She couldn't shake those eyes glittering in the crowd, watching her hands for fear that they'd turn on them, or her wrists to make certain blood didn't pour free. They knew what she was, saw what she and others like her were capable of, and they feared her. It was a rare person to climb back from that instinctual terror and embrace the idea that mages were more than...

She pinched the bridge of her nose, swallowing back the face that rose in her brain. It wasn't the time to be thinking of him, to be wallowing in pity, self or otherwise. "Are you keeping the other spirits away? Wynne in particular?"

It floated close to her desk, but the orange burned away to reveal an almost crisp rose pink rising along its edges. Something changed, something Lana missed. "I have no part in their comings and goings anymore than you do, my dear. If you wish to partake of them again, you will have to find them yourself."

"I will," Lana said, watching the spirit closely. It didn't shift form, or lash out, but the pink rippled for a moment revealing a red hot knot burning in its middle.

Washing it away, the spirit reached another tendril, and then two more into her brain. "For now, do you not think we should continue? We're making such wonderful progress."

Lana gripped tighter to her shelf, she had more questions, ideas to try and drag this spirit out and discern its purpose but her failsafes weren't working. The spirit wrapped deeper into her mind and twanged upon a piece of heart instead. Willing it away with all the force in her mind, Lana sank to a knee, but she was helpless as her mind floated back to Skyhold.

_9:40 Skyhold_

Lana stuffed her mutinous hair back under the cloak's hood, but strands curled beyond recognition twisted out. On the plus side, at least she'd be cushioned by her helm of hair should anyone try to attack her head from the periphery. Rain drizzled across Skyhold for the past two days, rendering nearly every job moot as people scattered for the warmth and dryness of the fireplaces. She could have stayed in her room with Hawke, and been driven up the wall in the process, but she had something better to do. Clinging tight to the parchment pressed to her chest under the wool cloak, she walked along the dripping battlements. Clouds bulging with water drifted over the grey skies, threatening to drop even more upon the soaked world.

While it'd been at barely a drip when she entered the great hall to speak with Josephine, as she walked towards her destination, the rain increased. Drops splattered onto her hood and down her cheeks, the clean water dripping into her mouth. So many people hated the rain, but Lana extended her hand out watching the fall of water splash in her palm. With the world dampened down, she smelled the clover sweet scent of hay drifting far from the stables.

Tugging the hood down further in the hopes to salvage something of her hair, she pulled on the door to her destination. Cullen stood behind his desk, both arms straddling something important as he glared down upon in it with such concentration it looked as if he intended to head butt the document into submission. Careful to not disturb him, Lana softly shut the door, her fingers catching upon the lock. But of course, in this high of humidity, the hinges whined. Yet, the commander didn't look up at the sound; he seemed unaware of anything outside of his body beyond whatever he was looking upon.

Hers wasn't the only hair to abandon hope in the damp. Despite his best efforts, Cullen bore those familiar curls knotting along the front and sides of his head like waves rolling against the shore. She smiled, surprised to find how nostalgic she felt to see them again. His eyes hunted through the parchment, but he didn't move his face, his lips taut in deep concentration. That was when she noticed the red burn along the side of his jawline, as if he was straining to keep his teeth snapped tight.

"Cullen?" she all but whispered, not wanting to interrupt something important.

His body shuddered and it wasn't surprised or even annoyed eyes that snapped up to her. A terror haunted through them that caused Lana to whip her head back to the closed door. She half expected to find an army trying to break it down behind her. He twisted his head madly and lifted off from his desk. Cullen tried to cross his hands but she noticed they were shaking.

"What are you...? I didn't expect anyone to come out here," he said stamping his feet to get warm. It came as little surprise how drafty his tower could be given the decision to never repair the roof. With the rain, the chill seemed almost insurmountable, and Lana was grateful for her cloak.

She undid the first button upon her cloak and removed the protected missives, "Josephine asked me to deliver these to you." Lana extended them out to him. He took a moment as if he needed to pinch himself, then reached over to scoop them away quickly.

"Of course, right, the..." Cullen dropped the vellum to his desk on top of the others, his fingers swirling each piece around. "She mentioned sending these for reasons. No, I was to pick them up after, it doesn't matter."

"Are you...?" Lana stepped towards him. Those bags under his eyes hung distended upon flattened cheeks, the frown lines furrowed deep across his forehead. Something was clearly wrong. Another drop of rain slithered through the gaps in the roof and plopped on the floorboards above. Cullen's matte eyes screwed up tight and he sneered, shaking his head as if he bit into something bitter. _How could she forget?_

Sliding her fingers over top of his, Lana gripped onto his hand. "Is it the rain?"

He leaned back, as if about to remove his hand and deny it, but his lips fell slack and he nodded. "I try to ignore it as best I can, with work and..." Cullen's chin fell down to his chest as if he was confessing a sin to her. "The lyrium helped, before, to block the...um, sound, memories, all of it. But now."

Lana turned his fingers in hers and gripped tighter. Cold seeped off of his clammy hand. How long had he been squirreled away alone in here struggling against it? "I, I understand."

It took a moment before his fractured eyes lifted to hers, "I suppose you do. I don't want anyone else to know, to..."

"To use it against you," she smiled, then frowned from the pain picking behind her own eyes.

"To think lesser of me for it," he confessed, his head hanging low. He was a broken puppet, clinging by a lone string. His only connection to remain upright was through his hand clasping tight to hers.

"I would never..." Lana said, but she wasn't who he meant. He felt he needed to prove himself to the Inquisitor, to the entire Inquisition that he could be strong enough, sturdy enough to survive anything. Cullen bore that burden from every moment he woke until he slipped into a broken sleep whether it was asked of him or not. She ached to give him just a small taste of relief. "Here, I could dampen the sound with a spell-" Lana moved to yank her hand out of his grasp to cast it, but Cullen pinned it in place.

"No, no, it...it's not worth the trouble of you bothering. And I need to learn how to, to move past it."

"Cullen, it'd give you a few minutes of peace," she fought back, uncertain if he hated the idea of needing magic or her help.

"It's doubtful I'm worthy of that," he sighed, that last string cut. Lana caught his drooping chin in her fingers and she lifted him up. It felt as if she held his entire body in the palm of her hand.

"Sitting in here alone isn't going to help. What you need is...I have an idea. Will you come with me?"

His eyes hunted across her face, either trying to find a trick or an excuse to get him out of it. "I, you don't need to do this."

"Yes I do. It will help, I hope. Please. Do you trust me?"

A tender smile crossed his dour cheeks, "Always."

Without responding, Lana tugged him away from his desk. She didn't know Skyhold well and risked finding herself lost in the barracks or the library if not careful, but thanks to Hawke's extracurricular activities she knew how to find her destination easily. Cullen trailed behind her as they both stepped into the rain, his hand still clasped in hers. On occasion, he'd stare up at the wet sky and shake his hair growing curlier with every drop. It wasn't the first door, but the second they passed through when she turned to open the door upon the empty loft above Skyhold's only tavern.

"Why are we here?" Cullen asked. His eyes darted over to the far corner as if he spotted something unwanted there, but Lana guided him down the stairs. A raucous chorus drifted up the entire three levels. Without much to do in the rains, some of Skyhold's livelier characters took up residence in the bar - a few literally on the bar as sitting space was limited.

Heads swiveling in animated conversation were all she could see at first as the pair of them stepped down to the second landing. Below, the resident bard strung her lute absently, either waiting for inspiration to strike or for the Tevinter mage to stop encouraging everyone in a rousing song from his homeland. The fact no one else knew it did little to curb his enthusiasm. For some reason a chicken sat perched upon his head, but no one rushed to remove it.

When Lana reached the second level landing, she felt a few curious eyes wander past her to the discontent commander. A small embarrassment from the attention rolled up her cheeks and she released her grip on his hand. It was standing room only throughout the inn, but she didn't mind. Together they slid further back along the wall, the pair of them leaning against it beside a window. "This is by far the loudest place in Skyhold," Lana explained.

"I was already aware of that fact," Cullen grumbled, folding his arms against his chest.

"It can drown out the sound of the rain," she parted her empty hands.

Cullen smiled at the obvious answer he'd kept ignoring, "So it does. I... it seems as if everyone here had the same thought."

"To get completely drunk, forget the cold, then run around naked in the rain?" Lana said.

"You speak as if from a platform of experience."

"Traveled with Hawke for six months," she said, causing him to break into a sigh and laugh. Maker, it warmed her heart to hear that.

"How can I keep forgetting? Hawke's exploits were legendary even before she became the Champion in Kirkwall."

"Really? She never goes much into it, not much into anything in her past. I prefer to not pry," Lana shuffled her feet as she positioned herself flatter against the wall.

Cullen stood near enough to be with her, but far enough away to leave the reasons vague to anyone looking in. She understood why, but she regretted letting his strong hand slip away. "There were a few tales of giant spiders, dragons, taking down entire gangs of..."

"Oh that," Lana waved her hand, unimpressed at the list, "that's a tuesday for me."

"Waking naked on the chantry altar with a cassocked halla?" Cullen arched an eyebrow, his secret smile splitting across his cheeks.

"Okay, that one is beyond me. Point to my cousin. Was the halla an official chantry clergy member or just in the neighborhood at the time?"

Now Cullen laughed, his hard snort shooting out of his nose as he bent over. "I'm afraid I never heard the full of it, but the rumor kept the templars entertained for weeks."

"Commander!" a voice called through the sea of noise. They both turned to see a young man, barely at the shaving stage, pumping his hand in the air. He sat at one of the coveted tables surrounded by a sea of empty mugs and a pile of caprice coins.

Breaking from the wall, Cullen stepped towards him. "What is it?" the commander asked, all jocularity from before vanishing in the face of duty.

But the young man had no orders or problems the fearsome commander needed to address, "I wondered if you wanted to sit with us. Frank here's leaving."

Probably Frank grunted and half saluted as he swung out of the chair. He paused to steady his wobbly legs, then toddled on towards the stairs, his knuckles skimming near the floor as it was too much strain to stand up higher. "Oh," Cullen's gaze turned back to Lana, "that is kind of you, but I am with someone." She couldn't stop the blush from the implications. They weren't really with-with, right?

"That's no problem," the young man said. "Devney here can sit in my lap." He patted his thigh and a blonde dwarf giggled as she scampered out of her chair to crash upon his legs. "There ya go, two free chairs. Ser!"

Cullen turned back to her, but she could think of no easy excuse beyond setting the tavern on fire. Seeing as that would most likely endanger everyone inside and annoy the Inquisitor, Lana slipped past him and sat on the recently cleared chair. Without any escape, Cullen sighed and plopped into the other free one right beside her. While the polite man, his dwarven friend, and another member of their posse -- who seemed glued to the table -- had a picturesque view of the wall and a sliver of window, Lana could see down at Maryden finally shooing the tevinter mage away. _Maker, what was his name?_ She wanted to say Gray for some reason.

With a rigid back, the commander's eyes darted around at the people of all walks of life curled together in the warm tavern to hide from the rain -- his people. Unfortunately, that made him not one of them, a fact growing more and more evident as no one at the table was certain what to talk about, the awkward silence deafening.

"Ah, forgive me, but I didn't catch your name," Lana said turning towards the young man.

"Sutherland, ma'am," he bobbed his head and smiled with a puppy dog expression. Lana felt an old ache for her mabari long since past the veil for this young man's exuberance. "And this here's Priggy," he jabbed a finger at the inebriated and/or asleep form.

"Priggy?" Cullen scoffed. "That cannot be his real name."

"Don't know, Ser. That's what he told us, and it's written across his smallclothes," Sutherland moved as if about to unearth the band to prove it.

"That's quite all right, I believe you," Cullen threw up both hands to try and quell what was coming.

"So," Deveny stopped her continuous giggle from her perch and pointed a finger from Cullen to the mysterious woman with her hood still drawn up, "how do you two know each other?"

Panic struck Cullen's face and he tried to cover it over with his hand. Smiling politely, Lana tossed back her soaked hood and said, "We're siblings."

"Ah..." both Deveny and Sutherland glanced from the dark haired, dark skinned tiny woman to the pale and blonde strapping man. "Didn't know you have family in the area," Sutherland responded with.

"Neither did I," Cullen said, the edge of his eyes drifting over to Lana. She only shrugged and ran her finger against the grain of the table. There was an odd knot almost in the shape of a snail drawing her attention.

"Well, lady, uh, commander's sister?" Sutherland stuttered to try and find a way to address her, "You're just in time."

"In time for what?" Cullen perked up, almost rising off the chair as if he needed to take down an army single handedly.

Below, Maryden bowed, the final strings of her lute solo fading away and taking with it all the conversations. Every eye in the tavern swiveled towards the hearth where the bard quickly vacated. In her place stepped that qunari, the one Hawke had a strange obsession with. He held his own lute with twice the strings as normal. It was dwarfed by his massive hands, as if the instrument was designed for a child.

"Oh Maker," Cullen groaned.

Coughing and then softly tuning his lute, the qunari twanged his strings, then paused. Bowing his head once to all four corners of the tavern, he raised his hand high and jammed down across every string. If one dumped a gallon of water onto a basket of cats it would approximate the noise screaming out of the lute. Lana turned to Cullen, the pair of them sharing an 'I have no idea what's happening' look. Well, it should provide an excellent distraction from the rain.

"Wait, wait," Sutherland bounced up, tossing around poor Deveny in his lap, "here comes the best part."

The qunari struck another oh, let's call it a chord, and a blonde woman leapt off the second story railing. She landed flat on both her feet and swung a metal drum around off her back. Someone in the audience tossed a bottle at her, and she caught it, lifting it up to match the qunari's strumming. With the bottle, she began to beat a surprisingly even tempo against the drum.

"Maker's breath, not Sera as well," Cullen moaned, his head knocking into the wall.

"Perhaps you could use this noise as some sort of counter measure in a battle," Lana threw out. He snorted at that, then turned to her with a calculating look twisting up his lips. "I was being facetious. That would be a war crime."

Then the unexpected happened. Either by a miracle of Andraste showing pity upon them, or because it'd all been an act, the qunari and elf suddenly got good. Well, good was a reach, they became passable. The beat was solid, the cat scream went from thirty in heat down to a few annoyed you stepped on their tail. Sutherland, along with Deveny, turned fully around in his chair to watch as the elf began to march back and forth with her drum, her legs kicking high in the air.

"This doesn't seem to surprise you," Cullen leaned over towards her to whisper, his voice barely beating above the noise of a song.

"Nor you," Lana volleyed back. She glanced over at the young man and his friends but they were too enraptured in the goings on. Slyly, she dropped her hand down under the table and reached over to pick up Cullen's. For a moment it rested limply in hers, then he gripped back, sealing them together.

"I, uh," Cullen shook his head, trying to will away a creeping blush, "I know them. There is little Sera does that surprises me anymore."

"Stuff like this happened all the time during the blight," Lana said. She rose up in her chair to get a good look as a few of the people around the tavern rose up to dance to the thumping beat.

"Really?"

"When you have a swamp witch, an assassin, a golem, a qunari, a drunken dwarf, and a bard, it'd be more surprising if it didn't. We once got a crocodile stuck up a tree."

"By the Maker, where did you find a crocodile? How did you get it up a tree?"

"The tree part was easy, Zevran tried to scare Oghren with it by hiding it in his bedroll. It sort of worked and the dwarf reacted not by screaming but smashing the crocodile tail with a hammer. Unfortunately, it was off balance and the force threw the entire thing way up into a tree. I think we got it from some wizarding shop. They always have stuffed crocodiles. Though I'm having trouble remembering why."

Cullen's shoulder bounced against hers as he whisper-yelled, "I'm never certain if you're lying for dramatic effect or your life is that bizarre."

Her eyes broke away from the proceedings and she turned fully into his honey gaze. Perhaps it was the theatrics occurring down below, or being somewhere warm, but color returned to his cheeks, the frown lines smoothed down. "You've traveled with me, I lie to tone down most of my tales."

"That," Cullen smiled, his head tipped as he stared at the table, "I would believe that." A thread of silence drifted over them as they both sat enjoying the song bouncing through the rafters. Whenever Lana thought it would be reaching the end the elven woman would pick up a new beat and the qunari would match it. She wondered if this single song would last for the rest of the night, the beat continuing until neither player could stand.

"You cannot get me to dance," Cullen suddenly spoke up.

"All right?" Lana shook her head, struggling to trace where this came from, "I had no inclination to try."

"Oh?" he asked, then gestured to her toes. With her legs crossed, she kept tapping her foot to the beat, almost knocking into him on accident.

"That, uh, that's just getting swept up in the moment. Can happen to anyone," she smiled and squeezed his hand. It was silly, but she felt herself blushing from the innocent hand holding, as if they were two people as young as Sutherland there dipping into courting. Lana laughed at the idea, and Cullen turned to her.

"Yes?"

"Ah, no, it's not anything, that...um, well," she squirmed, her face growing flush at the idea of revealing to him her inner thoughts. Leaning close to his ear, she whispered, "I feel a bit like an apprentice that's snuck off to the stacks with the cutest templar." After finishing her confession, she glanced up to watch Cullen blink in surprise, then smile wide.

"Oh, I," he paused to smile again, "I can understand that feeling and might share it." Those smoldering eyes drifted closer to hers, his lips slightly parting as if he intended to kiss her right in the middle of the tavern where every strain of Skyhold could see.

"Which templar would you sneak off with?" she asked quickly, throwing him off.

Cullen paused and he leaned back from her in thought, "I would need some time to think of an answer, I'm afraid."

"You'd make a terrible apprentice," she smiled.

"I fear what you could do as a templar," he answered truthfully. Taking a deep breath, Cullen turned out of their cozy corner to gaze around the tavern now into full on rapture, bodies undulating to the beat in something approximating dance. "Thank you, for bringing me here. It's...I feel better."

"Cullen," now she ached to kiss him, to run her fingers over that stubble and rough up her palm upon it. "Anytime."

He turned towards her, his gaze falling upon her hair expanded beyond capacity. Gently, he trailed his fingers against it, then down her collar. "Why is this wet? I thought you had your hood up."

"I did when I went from the great hall to your office, room... What do you call it?"

"When you..." he tapped his finger against her wet hair then pulled it down to rest upon the table. Sure, she used the hood to protect the parchment from leaking, but before that she trekked all over Skyhold sometimes splashing in a puddle or two. After a life in the tower, dancing in the rain was a small joy for her.

A doleful smile knotted up Cullen's face, "You like the rain."

Lana leaned into him, her wet hair overflowing off his cheek and down to his chest. "Yes, but...I like you more."

As Lana woke up, she breathed in dirt, her cheek pressed against the final flagstone before the grass moved in. The spirit's tendrils lagged away from her brain now burning from its machinations, while a dead pit sank in her stomach. She knew she should rise, look around at what changes the spirit caused in the fade, jot them down and any other observations, but that seemed impossible. Her hand wobbled on the flagstone, a finger tracing the griffin imprint because it was all she could do.

Despair, depression, the darkness. She never talked about it to anyone. The enchanters, they'd speak of the despair demons - twisted creatures with withered faces that blanketed their victims in ice. It was hard for a twelve year old to not look at her own hand that fired icicles and wonder if that wasn't her future, her curse. The bad turns were...ignored: by her teachers, by the templars, by the wardens, by Lana herself. To wallow in her own misery wouldn't help anyone - who could she save if she couldn't save herself? And yet...

"Something is amiss," the spirit spoke, its form zipping in and out above her head.

She got through this exile in the fade, as horrible as it sounded, by not thinking about him. By convincing herself that Cullen was a distraction, a fun one, a sweet one, but nothing more. She never wanted to hurt him, to hurt anyone -- _yet you kept at it, Lana_. Kept prodding into his affairs, found reasons to visit him, to talk to him, help him, kiss him, love him.

_Maker..._ The throbbing in her chest ached and a slither of tears dripped onto the flagstone, washing away the dirt. She'd wanted to die before, before Alistair and Seheron, before Amaranthine, before she ever left the tower - the darkness overwhelming from the depths of her soul. That shame, that despair would forever taint her, mark her as unworthy, a danger to anyone who dared to draw close, and yet...

"I'm so sorry," Lana whispered, her lips fogging up the freezing cold stone. Her words barely slipped past her mouth.

"What was that, dear?"

She dug deeper into the stone, her fingernails scratching against the griffin relief. Why didn't she realize it before? She went to her death leaving him with only a promise that one day she might care for him. Might love him. _Andraste's tears, how could she be so cruel?_ It was right there, plain as day. If he'd have asked her to give up the wardens she would have. If he'd begged for her to hide away with him away from the politics, from the world powers jockeying for position, every creature and murderer in thedas trying to kill them both, she would have.

Ice rolled off her palm, coating first the flagstone then reaching like spilled water across the ground. The grass itself cracked in half, caught in surprise from the frost. Lana could pretend to be normal, forget she was ever a warden, a hero, an Arlessa, but she'd always be a mage, always be corrupted with magic. _How could he love that? How could anyone?_

"My dear," the spirit whined above her, "what are you doing?"

Lana curled up tight pressing her knees to her chest and gripping hard to try and will away the regret stinging her every thought. What if she hadn't been born a mage? Then could he trust her? Could she trust him?

_Oh, Maker..._ She sat upright as the truth landed square upon her head. Wiping the muddy tears from her cheeks, Lana blinked and stared out at the horizon. Something was wrong. The once calm tan-green skies wobbled, ripples echoing across the horizon like a breaking down barrier. "What is...?" she began, turning to the spirit. Only a whisper of its form remained hovering in the air before the rest of it zipped away leaving her alone.

Parting the air itself, a multitude of spiders marched towards her - an army beyond counting all aiming to kill the lone mortal in the fade. Lana wiped her hands down her robes, snatched up her staff, and prepared to fight.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Belief

_9:44 Tevinter-Anderfells_

Cullen watched as Fenris tried to dodge away from the king's royal hand extended either in friendship or because Alistair was trying to wipe off something on his palm. Eventually, the elf gave in, a bronto like snort huffing out of his nose as Alistair pumped their joined hands up and down like a waterspout.

"This has been an excellent partnership. We are on the way to the Anderfells, right? It's past that bridge you pointed at?"

"Yes," Fenris yanked his hand back and glowered at it. On the plus side, his tattoos didn't light up so maybe even he was growing accustomed to the king's exuberant nature. "Thank you, for your help."

"What's a few dead slavers between friends?" Alistair shrugged. "We ready to head onward?" He turned to Cullen who nodded in return. It'd been a trying march west, but oddly satisfying as well. Even if...their mission did not end well, at least some good came from his visiting Tevinter.

The elf nodded tersely at his remaining crew and as one they circled back into the Imperium leaving king, templar, and mabari alone at the creaking bridge. Spanning across a vast canyon between countries, the bridge was painted in reds and golds with a griffin statue looming over the top crossbeam in the middle of the divide. Beyond wafted grassland that looked much the same to what was behind them, but the landscape itself loomed ever upward, the distant mountains jagged and imposing for anyone without wings.

"Should we draw lots to see who goes first or run it really fast together?" Alistair asked. He'd stripped off most of his armor again, but a well crafted wool cloak hung about his shoulders. The trim was done in gold thread and a mabari emblem graced the back, all but giving away the owner. It was the first sign of royalty the man had shown their entire trip.

"I will take the lead," Cullen said. Rolling his pack and shield to the other side of his shoulder he patted his leg for Honor to follow.

"Ah, I was hoping it'd come down to a game of crosses and naughts. I'm great at it, held almost all my challengers to a standstill."

Cullen snorted at the idea and eased onto the first board. Nothing crashed down around him, no planks scattered to the winding dry creek below, and the bridge itself barely even shifted. It seemed as steady as a rock to cross. He turned around to inform the king, but the man was already behind him smiling wide as he stared down at the drop below. "How far do you think that is?"

"Deep enough you'd have to take a breath in the middle of screaming," Cullen said as he began crossing to the other side.

The king hung off the bridge's guide ropes a moment longer, staring down as if he could judge the distance himself. "What do you think would hurt more, falling from a great height or being crushed by a rock?"

"I..." Cullen paused as he looked up at the griffin guarding the entrance or informing people of who ruled the Anderfells, "depends. How large is the rock?"

"Hm, big enough to crush someone."

"If death is the end point, would pain matter either way?" Beyond the bridge he spotted the beginnings of the Anderfells. It wasn't the fabled steppes that looked like the bones of the earth stripped to their flesh and exposed to the desiccating air of the west - grey and churning, each shoulder of the mountain visible with barely any foliage clinging to life. Here, yellow grass danced in the distance on ground flat as a pancake while a mountainous hill claimed the horizon beyond.

"What about being eaten by a dragon? That one's got to hurt. Or worse. What if she swallows you whole?!" Alistair's chatter continued from behind, his fingers skimming along the rope as he tried to sway the bridge.

"I doubt there are any dragons that could slurp down a grown man without taking a bite."

"You've never met Morrigan's mother," he said, a shudder in his voice.

That caught Cullen's attention and he turned around to find the man with both hands upon the guide ropes, his knees bent deep to walk as if afraid he'd smack his head on the griffin statue above. "I have, well, the Inquisitor did, but Morrigan herself served with us for a few months."

"Ouch, my condolences there, truly," Alistair grabbed at his chest. "Let me guess, she called you a sloven, crass, simpleton, then snapped her head back with a flurry of her serrated hair before trouncing out like she owned the place."

"That, uh..." was disturbingly accurate.

"I had to put up with her for a year. An entire year of that cold hearted, sneering dragon-scum witch...who, for reasons I never understood, Lanny was friends with."

"Lana and Morrigan?"

"Oh yeah, it was weird. Really weird. Like spoons on the ceiling weird," Alistair waved his hands in the air as if his simile made any sense. "I never got it, and the way Morrigan turned her bratty nose up at anything to do with the Circle you'd think they'd have hated each other."

"It's hard for me to picture anyone hating Lana," Cullen answered.

Alistair maintained his crossing the bridge towards him during their conversation, but now he paused and blinked a few times. "You do have it bad. Lanny made plenty of enemies along the way, after the way, kind of around the way too. She ever tell you about the dragon cult we stumbled across in Haven?"

Turning around, Cullen resumed his walk towards the edge, "I heard some tales of its existence before the ashes were found."

The king didn't seem to notice the pause in his voice, "Their leader, what was his name? Started with a K. Kilger? Kreager? Kittens? He was one mustache twirl away from dropping virgins in volcanoes. Drink enough dragon blood and you go a bit funny in the head, says the grey warden who drank darkspawn blood," Alistair was quick to burn himself before anyone else had the chance.

"That must have been difficult," Cullen said, his boot stepping off the bridge and into the grass. Honor barreled past him, the dog needing to stretch her legs in a run or because she saw a rabbit to chase.

"Eh," Alistair waved his hand back and forth, "as long as we were really, really mouse-like quiet, we didn't wake up the high dragon. That came later."

"When Lana broke her arm," Cullen said. He remembered her telling him, the way she ran her finger across the scar on her shoulder and shrugged it away. Then she kissed him, her lithe body tugging him into her bed because she wanted him. That felt far too long ago.

"Yeah, it was a lucky thing Wynne was with us. Turns out mages have trouble healing their own broken arms." A darkness clouded over the jolly king's face and he stood transfixed upon the precipice of bridge meeting land. "She whimpered when it happened. Not a scream, not a cry in rage or pain, just a sickening crunch and then a whimper. That whimper was..." he rubbed his hands over his face vigorously as if trying to scrub the blood off. "In the past. All of it was in the past, and we have a whole lot of grassland to cross."

"According to Fenris we need to head due east to make the first town. After that, it's...." Cullen gestured to the king's satchel dangling off his hip. While the man could leave his socks, shoes, sword, and even pants scattered across any part of their camps throughout Tevinter he always kept the satchel tight to the side. It never left his sight.

"Phylactery time, yeah. Got it," Alistair waved him off. "How are we going to figure out due east?" He pointed forward at the sun. "That's easty eastish, but this far north it's not the most trustworthy of directions."

Cullen tugged at his shoulders and glanced upward. A purple haze drifted around the upper echelons of the sky, waiting for the sun to finish setting so the stars could return. "We find the right claw of Draconis, that points north."

Tipping his own head back as if the stars became visible if he looked really hard, Alistair scoffed, "How do you know that?"

"Templar training," Cullen sputtered out.

"Seriously? Templar training is your answer to the man who was not only raised in the templars but at the same damn abbey as you," Alistair folded up his arms looking as if he was about to scold Cullen. "It was Lanny, right? She was always on about the stars."

Cullen dropped his head, a burn inching up the back of his neck. He tried to wipe it away while he twisted his feet around in the grass to gaze across the miles left on their journey. Sometimes he could almost hear her voice on the wind, her laugh, or when she'd sigh in consternation - which happened often when she was dealing with underlings, rarely him. For two years he woke with his head ringing of memories of Lana. He begged the Maker to lessen them, to free him from the ceaseless pain of her loss. One day, he was reading her journal and he couldn't remember the way she'd roll her r's in her almost vanished Marcher accent. Anger at his mind forgetting and fear that it'd never return pummeled Cullen's heart until a few hours later it slipped back in - her golden voice threading though his brain. He didn't know if it was the lyrium finally catching up to him, or the natural progression of memory decay, but he grew to dread the day he'd wake and not remember Lana at all.

Maybe it wouldn't matter. There was a chance, a probable one, that they'd find her, save her, bring her back into this world. And then what? With each step Cullen found himself wondering what came next. Lana left the word when it was in shambles, both factions of her people scraping by. In the time of her loss, the wardens picked themselves back up in the south while the mages started their own college. Would either of those sound more enticing than the nothing Cullen had to offer? _Or..._ Cullen turned around to stare at the king still trying to track the invisible stars in the daylight sky. Would she find a comfort in the old and familiar to try and overcome two years in the fade?

Sensing eyes upon him, Alistair broke away from his useless vigil and shrugged. "I feel like we should set up camp before all the creepy crawlies come after us."

"What do we have to face here?" Cullen asked, wishing he'd taken the time to study the area before setting out.

Of course, the king shrugged again. "Don't know, it's my first time."

"If I may ask, we are in the Anderfells. Why have you not solicited the grey wardens for assistance?"

Alistair rubbed his shoulder, realized it was covered in the shield, then switched to the other. "I don't know how helpful they'd be with this matter. Or any matter if the wild rumors I'm hearing are true. Regardless, Lanny's not someone they're a big fan of, for reasons that are complicated and super duper warden secrety."

That caused Cullen to pucker his lips together. She'd told him much, about the Calling, about what happened at the Vigil, but Lana never went into what drove a wedge between her and the wardens. He'd assumed it was Clarel's doing with her blood magic, but the way Alistair spoke it seemed deeper and more universal.

Watching the anger play across Cullen's face, Alistair spoke up, "It's one of those secrets that could hurt someone innocent, so Lanny keeps it because she doesn't think it's hers worth telling and I keep it because I'd rather forget it."

"Will it bring about the end of thedas?" Cullen asked meaning it as a joke.

But the king shuddered and he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, "Maker's breath, I hope not. Anyway, camping. Campsites need fiery places which means wood. Mind if I borrow your dog? She's great at carrying sticks."

"She carries one and it's covered in slobber upon your return," Cullen began, but the man only shrugged. "Very well."

"Come on, pretty puppy," Alistair cooed to the dog and they set off together towards a stand of brittle trees leering across the chasm, their roots popping out of the rock like wooden worms. It seemed unlikely they'd find much of anything to get a proper fire going in this barren land. Aside from the grass, little stretched across the horizon -- only the rise and fall of the mountainous cliffs embraced them. To think, once long ago griffins flew in and out of the crevices cracked into the steppe sides with wardens flush upon their backs.

Lana would have...Lana could still love seeing it. She could dig into the old nests scattered around, see if there were any preserved griffin feathers forgotten inside the mountain's cavities. All children loved to hear the tales of the mighty grey wardens swooping through the sky and saving the world from blight while nestled in the feathers of their mounts. It seemed impossible to imagine such a thing ever existing, but in his life he'd watched a knight-commander turn into stone, one of the ancient tevinter magisters who walked in the black city open the fade, and... Cullen shook his head. The Inquisitor believed with a shocking fervor that Solas was this Fen'Harel, the elven god of tricks and mischief. Cullen didn't argue with the man, but he had his doubts. More than doubts -- to even conceive of the idea that Solas lived not just before the ancient Imperium but during the elven times of the world as well? There was something off about Solas -- anyone who talked to him for more than a moment knew that -- but a god, and yet not a god?

They spoke rarely, Solas inquiring on occasion about templars but always keeping civil in his perfunctory way. He seemed less curious about the answer and more wanting to shore up his already laid assumptions. Once, he stumbled across Cullen in prayer at the small chantry in the gardens. Cullen felt that shined bald head twisting in interest while watching him speak through the canticles, but Solas waited patiently until he finished and rose. He had no belief in faith, none in his own people's creators certainly, and scoffed at the idea of Andraste or the Maker existing - and yet...

It was the longest discussion Cullen had with him debating not the existence of faith, but the usefulness of it. Solas propped up his theory that belief or faith were intangible, their very existence relied upon a fervent hope - any concrete proof ran counter to their very existence. But so often simple hope wasn't enough. People felt inadequate when their belief in the unknowable wasn't strong enough, or wavered, and they struggled through the darkness not inside themselves but outside for definitive proof. That search in and of itself could cause damage inflicted by a person on themselves or those deemed unworthy, not to mention what the chantry does to those not fitting within its ideals. But strangest of all, it was Solas who arrived upon the idea that hope was necessary, and with it belief -- perhaps not in some distant gods, but an unknowable force all the same to strike back against the chaos. Whether it was in the form of a Maker, faith, spirits, or justice itself depended upon the mind.

Cullen's own faith waxed and waned. He thought he'd truly believed with all his heart when he was in the abbey, giving as much of himself as he could to the order. Believing he at thirteen had all the answers to the questions of life. After the blood mages in the tower, he found himself bereft, the oarless boat bobbing on a foggy sea. Sinful and far from the Maker for his thoughts of Lana - he felt he had no right to Andraste's forgiveness. He believed in Andraste and the Maker, but he didn't feel worth of them. It was years into Kirkwall, when he'd grown exhausted from the never ending trial of blood mages on one side and Meredith on the other that he found himself not in the smaller chantry in the Gallows but walking through the great one in Hightown.

No... He remembered now, it was after Lana left. Almost two weeks after. He'd tried to cleanse himself as best he could, wipe away the memories, the yearning in his blood for her, for a mage, but she kept rising back to him like a fever that wouldn't break. Trying to sneak in quietly only for a moment, he never meant to draw the Grand Cleric's attention. She smiled at the templar in her midst and slid into the back pew to sit beside him. People passed in and out of the chantry, mothers performed the rites at the altars, even the chanters themselves switched places. The entire time the Grand Cleric sat beside him, not saying a word, her paper thin hands clasped together. When he realized he was due for his duty, the Grand Cleric stood with him. Still, she didn't speak, her lips smiling. Cullen was about to leave when curiosity won over and he had to know why she spent the whole day sitting in the pew beside him when there were a hundred other things more pressing for her attention. Smiling beatifically, the Grand Cleric said the words he'd always remember, "No one deserves to be alone."

A wad of twigs dropped in the middle of the grass, shocking Cullen out of his memory. Alistair danced back and forth on his feet, and apologized, "This was the best I could find."

"Looks as if we're going to be eating a cold dinner tonight," Cullen sighed. Short of a miracle, there was no way to get a fire off the still green brambles the king stripped from the trees. Beside him, Honor gnawed upon her own find, the shards of wood slobbering down her chin.

"Is all of the damn Anderfells like this?" Alistair jerked his head around as if noticing their surroundings for the first time. "Why does anyone live here? I bet it's got something to do with the pie. People always go on about the pie from the west."

Knocking the twigs apart with his foot to see if anything was workable, Cullen sighed, "I hope resupplying in towns was involved in the itinerary, or it will be a lot of undercooked food here on out."

Alistair nodded his head, then shrugged, "Probably, wherever they are. Countries got to have towns otherwise it's not really a country, more like a wild grass plain covered in animals and people who never got around to building cities. More like farm central -- oh I wonder if they have a pig for a mayor in one of 'em? There's a town in Ferelden that elected a donkey after, it's not important. Here, let me check the map."

Yanking his satchel forward, the king dug through a pair of socks, another pair of socks with his name stitched along them. "Damn, I swear it's in here." The socks scattered onto the twig pile, as did a tunic. When he yanked out a pair of smallclothes, a dark rage kicked into Cullen's gut. He whipped his head back and forth. No, it was his imagination. It couldn't be right.

"Hold a moment," Cullen commanded. The king froze, his underwear wadded up in his hand, but that wasn't what Cullen cared about.

"What am I holding for?" Alistair asked when Cullen yanked on the edge of his satchel and peered inside. His heart sank into his knees as Lana's phylactery rolled into sight - the pulsing red replaced with a black as dark as death. _No! No, it wasn't possible! Not again!_ With a faster grasp than he thought possible, Cullen snatched up the dead phylactery and waved it in Alistair's face.

"What is the meaning of this?!" he shouted because he couldn't hear anything over the blood rushing through his ears, the anger drumming tighter in his chest. His lungs inflated against the vice constricting around his heart, pulverizing the useless organ to dust.

The king's guilty eyes danced from the black phylactery back to him, "I-I can explain."

"Explain what?! That she's dead? She's been dead this whole time and you-you, what? Why would you do this? You kept on dragging me across thedas for your own power play?" Cullen's throat tightened, red spots bursting on the sides of his vision. He feared he'd either slip into a fugue state in the burning rage or fully pass out.

"It's not like that, not always black. Look..." Alistair swung the satchel back and reached for the phylactery, but Cullen held it away from him.

"How did you accomplish this? For the Maker's sake, why would you do it?!" No, not after all this, it couldn't be true. But he felt it. There was life in a phylactery, each one hummed in a shared heartbeat with the owner. Holding a dead one was like carrying a corpse, soulless and cold. Cullen blinked furiously, burying his tears of both rage and grief in equal measure.

"It switches sometimes!" Alistair panicked, his eyes darting from his hand to the phylactery, "I don't know why. For hours it'll be her, okay, alive, pulsing. And then, bam, it fades away and goes black..." the king's voice dropped down, grief climbing up his cheeks.

Lies. In all his time as a templar, Cullen never heard of any phylactery doing that. It was that bastard's doing, his demented need to...to fix what he destroyed. Of course, he blamed himself for Lana's death, for pushing her into the Calling, into the fade. The truth crushed Cullen more than any giant rock ever could. His hand fell and the king quickly snatched her dead phylactery away, but it didn't matter. None of it did because she was dead, gone, had been for years.

_Andraste's sake..._ Cullen rubbed his hand vigorously against his eyes, the finality silencing what he had left in his heart. Lana was dead. _Damn it! Damn the king of Ferelden for this charade! Damn the fade for taking her!_ Cullen turned away from the king staring limply at the dead phylactery in his hands. He reached down to gather up his own meager satchel and took a step back towards the bridge. _Damn himself for ever believing in this. People don't come back from the dead._

"What are you doing?" the king shouted as if he had any standing left.

Cullen limply patted his leg to call Honor to his side and walked towards Tevinter, "Leaving. There is nothing for me here."

"That's it?! You'd give up now? You're giving up on her?" the king shouted.

It was fruitless. Cullen began with so little hope this would succeed even with a working phylactery... With the tiny spark snuffed, berating him now would do nothing. He let the man's bitter words wash across his back as he shuffled slowly towards the bridge. A deadly exhaustion climbed up his legs at the despair nesting in his heart, but he knew he couldn't stop - he had to get away before he did something foolhardy or crumbled into misery.

"I thought she meant something to you, the way you'd carry on at any mention of her name, but I see I was mistaken. She gave her everything for your damned Inquisition, turned her back on the people who cared about her, and for what?!" Alistair shook his head like a mad bull, the man pacing back in forth. "You let her die!"

Cullen paused, his back tightening.

"Ten years Lanny was safe in Ferelden, safe where I could protect her, but she spends one month in your watch...and she's gone. Do you even care what you took from her? Did you care then?! And you talk as if you loved her. I doubt you're even capable."

His fist smashed against Alistair's jaw, Cullen's knuckles knocking one by one up the bone, the force enough to split open his dry skin from the brash and poorly planned punch. Reeling back by instinct, Alistair threw an arm across his face shielding it from another blow. But none was coming as Cullen's knees locked, haggard breath snorting from his nose, his shoulders rising and falling with each one. His fist remained hanging where it struck while his brain shut down. _Maker, he punched a king. He punched the king of Ferelden._ The king tenderly grazed the back of his hand across the rising bruise, his eyes flaring as he stared over at the man who hit him. With careful movements, he placed the phylactery into his satchel and pulled the bag off his shoulder, dropping both to the ground.

Cullen steadied himself knowing what was coming and preferring it to a beheading or banishment, but this king punched with the force of a battering ram. Light burst in the back of Cullen's brain as his head snapped back, sound draining from the world while pain bloomed across his cheek as the king yanked back his own bleeding knuckles. At least he didn't break his nose.

They could leave it at that, Cullen returning back to Skyhold empty handed and empty hearted, the king more than likely drafting some declaration of war against the Inquisition if they didn't hand over their commander. A punch for a punch. Cullen's fist knotted up, the fingernails digging deep into the calluses along his palm. "You don't know what I feel," he growled. Leaping forward, Cullen drove one first for Alistair's head, but the man raised his own arm up blocking it. Too bad Cullen expected that, his left fist smashing into the man's exposed stomach. _Maker, it was like punching a wall.  _

Cullen danced away as the king gasped, almost dropping to a knee as he struggled to catch back the air knocked from him. "I..." Alistair choked again, then rolled his tongue around before spitting blood into the dirt, "I know exactly how you feel." He came after Cullen, fists pounding rapidly one after the other, the distance short but the rising multitude hammering against his protective arms. Unable to withstand the assault, Alistair landed a striking blow upon Cullen's cheek and under his jaw.

"You could have saved her!" Alistair shouted through his punches, madness taking him beyond reasonableness. Unable to withstand more of the whirlwind attack, Cullen threw both his arms up to block, grabbed onto the king's head and moved to knee him in the stomach. But Alistair was wilier than expected, and he drove a fist into Cullen's knee. Agony shredded up Cullen's thigh and down his calf as he staggered back. Releasing the king, he hopped back, struggling to stay standing.

"Damn it. Damn you!" Alistair shouted, his finger jabbed in Cullen's face. It was turning blue, most likely dislocated but the man didn't notice the pain, he was running on anger and nothing more - for once they were in perfect agreement. "You had the one person in all of thedas that could rip open the veil and pull her out, but you never even asked!"

Chewing through his tongue to fight off the pain, Cullen placed his foot onto the grass and tried to anchor it. "I wasn't the one who drove her to try and kill herself. I didn't break her heart, break her, until she didn't think she could come back! She gave up because of you!"

Like a cat without depth perception, Alistair leapt at Cullen, his royal head battering into the man's stomach. Together they smashed into the grass, the rocky terrain pulverizing into Cullen's kidneys and spine. He didn't bother to struggle for breath, only grabbed onto Alistair's shirt and tried to hurl him off. It was no longer a fight, just two men throwing punches wildly at the other while screaming into the void. Cullen saw flashes of the man rolling in the ground with him, his vision punctuated with a blinding blackness ringed in red. Every demon that scarred his body, every blood mage that scarred his mind raced to fill the emptiness, mocking him for his failure, for never being good enough for the woman he loved.

Deep inside his heart he felt a snap reverberating up his coiled muscles and into his mind -- the band keeping his sanity held in check obliterated. Shouldering into the king, he drove his knee, elbow, every joint available to him into every surface. Some hit leaving Alistair sputtering for the little air left in either of their lungs. His prey inched along the ground, vulnerable. Cullen knotted up his fists together and raised them above the man's head, prepared to bring them down and end this once and for all. Whipping onto his back, Alistair drew a dagger off his hip and held it pointed up at Cullen's exposed chest. Stalemate.

Watching the oranges of the sunset glitter across the blade, Cullen's chest rose and fell with each labored breath. Something wet dribbled off his cheek and down his jaw. He should wipe it off, but his hands hung suspended above the king's head to strike the killing blow. They didn't fall or end this - unable to risk his life to finish it or break them apart. Blood puddled around Alistair's nose, percolating in airy bubbles with every snort as he struggled to breathe through it. Black swelling stampeded across his cheek from the first blow, the tissue blanketing his left eye. Even through that, he held the dagger steady, a deadly glint in his right eye -- the man was prepared to do whatever was necessary to stay alive. He was a warrior king.

Then his tenacious eyes slipped over to something behind Cullen. "Ah shit, she's got the phylactery!" he sputtered through the blood, snorting it out across his mouth and sandy beard. It could be a trap, Cullen knew, but he turned quickly and spotted Honor with the black bottle in her teeth.

Rolling off the man, Cullen staggered to his feet and shouted for Honor, "No! Give it here! Now!" For a moment his dog's tail wagged as she thought this was a new game, but Cullen growled, his voice sneering through a panic as he crossed the distance to her to hold his hand out. "Drop it!" Her black eyes rolled up and gingerly Honor released the phylactery into his hand. _Maker, that was close. If she'd broken it, they'd have had no way to find..._

The sun's last rays reflected against the black liquid giving it a hopeful orange sheen, but he knew it wasn't real. He couldn't feel the presence calling to him, guiding him further west. He never would again because it was dead, she was dead. Cullen's fingers skimmed along the top of Honor's head as he limped towards the setting sun. The king shouted something, but he couldn't hear it, didn't want to hear it. Two years, he'd grieved for two years, and yet...

By the light of Andraste, he'd held on to some foolish hope that she'd survive. Out of all the people in all of thedas, who else but Lana Amell could travel through the fade for six months, then a year, then two, and come out of it alive, whole? With his knee unable to withstand anymore, Cullen collapsed to the ground. A gentle slope to the bottom the hill waited below, the grasses waving goodnight to the sun. Before him wafted the pinks and oranges of the beginnings of dusk, but he didn't care - his eyes were only upon the phylactery squeezed between both of his palms.

_Lana, please...I can't go it alone anymore. I need-- Maker and his bride Andraste, why? Why did you take her? She was, she could have been... The world needs her, has always needed her.  _

_Please, give her back. Please.  _

_I need her.  _

_I love her._

Cullen repeated that in his head, her dead phylactery pressed against his lips as he prayed for it to give him hope, to spring back to life, to shine its ruby light across the darkening hills. To prove that damned bastard right. How could he go back? What life remained without her?

An old memory stirred in the back of his mind as he pressed the phylactery against his trembling lips. In the depths of the deep roads, he asked her something completely out of a place because he feared he'd never have the chance again. "What was it like finding Andraste's ashes?"

She paused in scraping deepstalker off her staff blade and looked over at him. "It's not an easy thing to answer."

"Oh," Cullen backed down, trying to hide the hurt.

As if sensing the pain, she ran her fingers up his forearm, her touch barely reaching him through the grey warden padding. "People want to hear that it was glorious, soul affirming, a truly holy experience."

"And it wasn't?"

Lana tipped her head back and forth, "It depends. There were tests, challenges to see if I was worthy, as if faith can be proven by answering a trivia challenge and fighting your shadow self. But..." Her chin dipped down and Lana pulled away from him. Staring deeper down the abandoned deeproads, she rubbed her hands up her arms as if she was freezing. "My parents were as devout Andrastians as one can get in the countryside. When I first entered the tower I had no idea why I was there. I didn't understand." Lana snorted and shook her head, "I thought I was being punished for doing something bad. I suppose in a way I was. Mages were bad, I knew that, but I didn't understand it. Those evil tevinter magisters who killed our beloved Andraste revolved in the same realm as bogeymen for me. Then suddenly I'm pulled away from my family, my home, my own country and I...I learn I'm one of those bogeymen."

Rolling her fingers, a ball of ice coalesced in the palm of her hand the water so pure it glittered like crystal. "That self hatred, it doesn't go away overnight. I don't know if it ever really does," Lana sighed, dropping her crystal ball against the ground. It shattered into pieces, the shards blanketing her shoe. "Andraste's the reason I was in the tower, or those who'd invoke her name and speak for her, at least. I should hate her, find her temple to be little more than a farce cooked up by a mad cult with more time than brains on their hands."

Cullen nodded. He heard the same from so many other mages forced to attend chantry services and all but revolting to get out of it. Over time, the enchanters were given leeway to skip services and most preferred avoiding them. The pews filled with templars fulfilling their vows, the initiates, the apprentices forced to be there, and -- strangely enough -- senior enchanters nearing their end of days who'd step back into the lady's light.

But Lana wasn't finished. She nudged her shoe across the broken ice and watched as she tried to piece it together. "And yet, I braved all those trials, the dragon cult, the riddles, spoke to a false Jowan because I believed the ashes would save Arl Eamon. Whether they were hers or not, whether Andraste was real or not, I had to have faith that it would work to even try." Her beguiling brown eyes turned up to his and she spoke, "Is that not what true faith is, belief without proof? Trusting that in your heart there is hope? That's what I got from the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but it's not what people ever want to hear."

_Belief without proof._ He'd thought upon it from time to time, when his own faith wavered like a banner in the wind, when he clung by his fingernails to the hope that there was good in the world, there was righteousness, there was justice. Cullen needed all of those to be as real as Andraste, perhaps even more real.

Tears dribbled down his cheek, washing clean the blood left from the skin split apart in the fight. A single drop, tainted crimson from his own blood, splattered against the black phylactery. He watched the bloody tear wobble against the glass while his hands tried to hold the bottle still. A pinprick of light glinted off the blood drop and Cullen craned his head up to see that the sun finally gave up the sky to let night and a blanket of stars fill the air above him.

"In the long hours of the night, when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains," Cullen repeated the prayer while wiping his blood off Lana's phylactery. A red stain remained behind along with a promise.

He found Alistair where he left him, a water skin pressed to his swollen jaw as he stared dejected across the landscape. Cullen approached with as much noise as he could make, but the king didn't look up. Pausing beyond the man's personal space, Cullen coughed, "I'm sorry I struck you."

"I know I had it coming. Had it coming for years," the king's voice was stripped, as blank as fresh vellum. Cullen had no idea if he meant it or felt he needed to say it to keep him from... _Maker, did he really threaten the life of a king? What would happen to him now?_

"So..." Alistair didn't turn to face him, his eyes gazing out upon the Imperium they left behind. "What now?"

"You lied about this," Cullen stepped around him to thrust the phylactery into his eyes, his fingers gripping tight to the glass.

"Technically you never asked," he shrugged, the sleazy grin of a child trying to escape punishment flashing across his battered face. Screwing his eyes up tight, Alistair pulled the water skin away revealing a cheek swollen to almost pitch black. "I don't know why it does that, but... Andraste's big toe, the first time I found her phylactery glowing I thought it had to be a trick. Someone replaced hers as a joke or, I don't know... I didn't believe it and was too scared to touch it. But it's her, that's all Lanny, nothing else. I felt her, you can't tell me you didn't as well."

Cullen gulped, his vision drawn to the glug of black liquid inside the phylactery. It was true.

"For the first time in two years I thought, I can fix this. I'll find Lanny, wherever she's gone, I'll bring her back. Then, it did that. Faded away in my hands, as if...as if she died in my arms," the king jammed the water skin tight to his left eye hoping that could mask the falling tears, forgetting the same fell from his right. "I get it, with the punching and anger and all, it killed me inside too. Holy Maker, He gave me this once chance and I wasn't fast enough. I couldn't move any mountains or divert the right river to save her. Failed before I even tried. I'd intended to give it all up, and then, clear as day, it burst back into life - ruby red and all, the light begging for someone to save her, to find her."

"Phylacteries do not behave in this manner," Cullen said. His throat constricted from the raw words rising up it, the logic like steel wool scratching its way to his mouth.

"Lanny's not just a mage. Maybe the, I don't know, the taint is messing with it. Or it's breaking down because it wasn't kept in a fancy templar storage crypt for years. Or..." Alistair dug his fingers into the grass, yanking it up in clumps.

Or something was holding Lana in a terrifying limbo - not alive, but not dead either. Cullen met the king's eyes haunted by a memory he couldn't understand, a shudder climbing across the king's broken shoulders. They had to find her. If that was the case, they had to free her.

Fingers pausing in mutilating the grassland, Alistair turned up to face him, his right eye narrowing, the left blocked by the water skin. "What do you intend to do, templar?"

"I..." _What was he going to do? He come to make amends to try and preserve something of the Inquisition's reputation, but-but what now?_ Squaring his shoulders, his chin lifting, Cullen dipped into nearly three years of command at the Inquisition's sword arm. "I will reach the end of this. If Lana is in any sort of danger or..." He gulped as the image of her body, emaciated and broken from two years chained in a lightless dungeon, flashed before him. "I will do everything in my power to save her, if it is possible. But there are conditions. First," Cullen tipped the phylactery side to side, "this will remain upon my person at all times."

He expected the king to argue, but instead the man snickered, "Go ahead. You can feel her die, come back to life, then die again every ten or twelve hours."

"Second, there are no more secrets."

"In general or about the phylactery? Because you know all I do about that and...if you want to know everything about me it's going to take some time. Let's see, I was born on a rainy Tuesday to a scullery maid in--"

Cullen threw a hand up, hoping it would silence the man. "I do not care where you came from, nor if you will return. We are not friends of any shade."

"Yeah, kinda figured that out when you were about to crack my skull open with your fist."

The color drained from Cullen's cheeks, his brain screaming at him that this man was his king. Even with the protection of the Inquisition, Alistair could enact his wrath upon Cullen's family in Honnleath if he wished. "You were quick to brandish your dagger," his tongue rolled out, unable to find any proper excuse for his actions.

Then, the strangest thing happened. With lips split open, his cheek so swollen it knotted up his eye, still wheezing from the pummeling against his ribs, the king of Ferelden broke out into a laugh. A chortle at first, it gained momentum with each gasp for air until he was wiping different tears out of his eyes. "Maker, I bet I look like warmed over cat barf. And you, you're like hitting a brick wall. Do you wear armor under your clothes?"

Throbbing rose up through his knee, the one the king smashed in without a second thought. Shrugging at the inanity of it all, Cullen sat in the grass beside Alistair but not near him. "I never expected royalty to punch with the force of a dragon."

"Ha! You've never pissed off Celene then. Or that king in Antiva. She's a real scrapper. I'd ask why a woman's a king there, but they have too many assassins and I prefer my liver not kebobed for my entertainment."

No one said the word truce, Cullen doubted he'd believe it from the man's lips anyway, but the tension wafted towards the stars as both men fell into silence. Honor flopped down beside him, grateful her two favorite people were no longer at war with each other. Her tongue lapped at the grass stains against Cullen's arms, a clump of mud falling into her gaping maw. It vanished before he had a chance to tell her not to eat it.

Without saying a word, Alistair passed Cullen his water skin. He held it for a moment, not feeling particularly thirsty, when the king jabbed a finger to indicate Cullen's jaw. Tracing his palm along the new beard, pain shattered into his teeth and inside his ear. Cullen held the skin against what was probably already a black and blue bruise, the cooler water oozing some of the sting away.

"We're quite a pair right now," Alistair joked and Cullen found himself agreeing. "What we need is a healer mage." He laughed at the idea and then a terrified look crossed his eyes, "We can never tell Lanny about this."

"Agreed," Cullen said tipping his head. Then he smiled and shifted the water skin to his swollen knee, "She'd be angry at missing it."

"Maker's breath, you are not kidding there. For being a mage, that woman has a real fondness for bloodsport. During the blight we fought in the dwarven, I don't know what they call it, death ring. Why? Was it for gold? Nope. To help get some bearded ass on their throne for our army? No. She just really wanted to fight. That woman scares me sometimes. Most times."

That he knew to be true. While she could easily have spent her days hidden in the library of Skyhold, Lana was often found lingering near the sparring yards. She rarely stayed long, as if she knew she shouldn't be there, yet she kept finding an excuse to drop by as the Inquisition's passable squared off. Cullen thought after Adamant he'd offer to teach her a few sword tricks. His heart constricted at that thought - to watch her eyes light up in joy from learning something new, to kiss her while her lips rose in a smile infecting his own, to hold her close -- her back pinned against him while he guided her hand.

"You said has instead of had," Cullen whispered.

"What was that?"

"When mentioning Lana, you used has and scares - present tense instead of..."

Alistair brushed back his hair, dusting it with the plucked grass, "I guess I did. I need it to be true, the world it's... It's not the same without her, it's not right. It's empty."

The pain in Cullen's knee and face was nothing compared to the shattered glass in his soul -- its tatters he feared could only be cured with Lana's touch. Dropping his head to his chest, he whispered, "I did ask."

"Hm? What's that?"

"After Corypheus was finished, I approached the Inquisitor and asked if he'd be willing to open the fade so we could search for Lana," Cullen screwed his eyes up. It took him days to work up the courage, even knowing the dangers it could inflict upon the world and his own training screaming against such dark magic, he had to try. "He refused after they received a letter from you about Lana's phylactery being black."

The king blinked his un-swollen eye rapidly and touched his forehead, "I never sent any letter about her phylactery, or even... Ah, damn Leliana, and her damn network of spies. She must have had some of them take a peek in and report back without bothering to ask me. They're freaking everywhere too, probably baked into pies and scurrying in mouse holes all over thedas."

After the Inquisitor less than gently refused, Cullen convinced himself that even if they'd sent a contingency of their best into the fade, the chances of finding Lana would have been impossible. The fade was endless and they had no hope to stumble upon a solitary mage among the thousands of demons. "I should have pushed harder," Cullen grumbled, pressing the water skin tightly to his knee. Lifting his head, Cullen spotted the wolf constellation Fenrir, its three stars pointing in the direction of what had to be Draconis' left toenail. All of that meant east, towards whoever or whatever held Lana.

"I should have too," Alistair sighed back. "Thrown that kingly weight around to do something good for once. What are a few demons to save the Hero of Ferelden?"

Pressing his fingers against the glass that gave no sign of life, no hint of hope, Cullen swallowed deep and dropped his head, "She wouldn't have wanted us to risk it. She wouldn't have wanted us to risk even this."

"That's what she gets for not being here."

_Andraste_ , Cullen prayed against the glass of the phylactery, he'd give anything for her to be here now. Above them the light of the Maker glittered, the stars waiting patiently to lead them on to ruin or, perhaps, the salvation he begged for.

CHAPTER NINTEEN

Memory - Stars

_9:30 Kinloch Hold_

He was supposed to be patrolling along the roof following a set pattern worn into the soles of every templar. Their assignments rarely deviated beyond the occasional mage spell gone awry or the even rarer runner. By this time of night, Cullen should have circled past the slanted roof section that bore a resemblance to a nose and slipped down to the lower eaves off the northern edge. Instead, he stood just out of the circle of lantern light while a pair of mages sat upon the frozen roof's tiles. One stared up at the night sky, while the man beside her kept unearthing small bits of gravel to toss off the roof.

"It's freezing out here," he complained. Jowan. Normally, Cullen wouldn't much care about him as he blended into the average rank of troublemakers, but he was always in the range of...

"Then warm yourself. It's an easy enough spell," she flitted her hand towards him but didn't look over. All her attention was upon the stars enveloped in a smattering of clouds. Various books piled across her lap each begging for attention. At such a tiny size, only two could really rest upon her thighs, but she tried to keep a third one balanced anyway. It wasn't going well.

Jowan grumbled from her answer. He didn't want suggestions, he wanted to leave. Ever since they first popped out of the hatch on the roof, he'd been complaining loudly about the cold, the wind, and anything else to get them inside. She waved each grievance away as inconsequential. "I don't know why I came. It's not as if you need me."

"Because you owed me, and you know why you have to be here."

"Yes, yes. _Rules_ ," he slapped his hands against his thighs, watching his stretched out feet knock together. Cullen couldn't see her beyond that halo of curly ebony hair bent downwards, then up, as she kept a tally in her book.

"What's even the point?" Jowan began again, getting a sigh of impertinence in response. "You can't see the thing you're looking for with all these clouds."

"I can make due," she answered, back to scribbling in her notebook. The quill was one of those oversized white feathers yanked off a the tail of a bird from Seheron. A novelty joke, he rarely saw anyone use it in good standing, but she seemed to enjoy it, the cottony ends of the feather wiping over her face.

"This is stupid," Jowan whined. "I could be doing a dozen other things that would be a hundred times more useful than staring up at clouds hoping to find a star."

"Since when?" she volleyed. "Do you have some great meeting to attend to in Denerim I'm unaware of? Going to finally offer your arcane services to king Cailan?"

"Ho ho, aren't we hilarious. It just so happens I do have a meeting, of sorts." He puffed out his sunken chest to match a sudden jut to the weak chin, "Lily's waiting for me and I told her this would only take a minute."

Her quill paused and she turned towards the man acting more like a child with each passing moment. "Wait, are you serious?"

"Of course I am," he flapped his arms like a vengeful chicken. "Don't start that 'she doesn't really exist' thing, again. She's as real as the bitter cold up here."

"I'm fairly certain it was Margie you couldn't convince..."

Jabbing a finger towards her, Jowan scoffed at the mention of the third member of their trio, "I'm perfectly capable of wooing someone, regardless of what Marguerite insinuates and you encourage. Just because you can't bother to find anyone doesn't mean the rest of us have decided to go celibate."

"Well, you agreed to help me first, so... And this research is important. It'll help with navigation for--"

Jowan leapt up to his feet, hands landing upon his hips as if he intended to scold her to death, "Help how? So all of us in the tower can be even better at figuring out which way is north? Oh look, I bet it's along that north wall with the bookcases. Hurray, Lana Amell saved us all from the heartache of getting lost on the way from the privy."

She watched his rant, only her finger bouncing the end of that white feather as it wafted in the breeze. "And yet you were the one who made the promise."

"Then I'm unmaking it, okay. There's more to life than the spells, and books, and showing everyone up when you can."

"I never..." Lana whispered, what looked like an old argument flaring between them.

"Maybe if you yanked your face out of the library every once in awhile you'd have someone waiting in the warmth for you too," Jowan stomped around her pile of research, nearly knocking into the dampened lantern. "I'm heading in. It's not like you're going to jump off the tower, and there's a templar over there anyway to watch you." He pointed his accusing finger into the shadows exposing Cullen's hiding spot. Lana twisted from her place to find him attempting to blend back into the night, but it was a hopeless cause now.

Without bothering to say a goodbye, Jowan yanked open the hatch and slid two rungs at a time down the ladder to his freedom. Lana glared at the slammed door for a minute before speaking up. "Do I have to re-enter as well?"

Cullen had to shake himself to realize she was asking him. "Ah, no, it...you're fine here. I-I can keep watch in case of, um, you know."

"I have no intentions of killing myself. Jowan on the other hand..." she parted her fingers over her books, her threat hollow. The palpable excitement from when she first rose onto the roof evaporated into the night air. Colder than the previous week's watch, Cullen could see winter sliding ever closer to them as her snorting breath ringed around her head. Lana prodded at whatever she'd been writing on but didn't add another notch to it. Now that his cover was blown, Cullen slid closer into the aura of the lantern. At barely a blue flicker, the light only graced across the top of her cheeks sunken in regret. He was able to make out that it wasn't a journal or even scroll she was writing on but what looked like a series of great circles with dots and lines contained within.

"If you do not mind my asking, what are you working on?"

"Hm..." she shook her head as if to banish away the dour mood and turned to face him.

Once when he spotted her running through the halls in pursuit of some late class or possibly the mage that just abandoned her, the templar he was patrolling with nudged him in the side and said, "That one's gonna be a heartbreaker." They weren't supposed to think of their charges in such terms -- to envision them as anything other than a sexless mage. Not that that rule would stop a dormitory full of young men and women from propagating opinions about who was the most beautiful and/or handsome among the mages. Cullen never understood what it was about Lana that rendered her the 'heartbreaker' as opposed to the 'cheering squad,' 'temptation,' or 'strange one' labels the other mages received. She was breathtaking to be certain, the Maker granting her an easy smile which widened until her luscious lips seemed to strain in joy, and a short frame that made up for her lacking stature with generous curves. While her friends were few, they seemed steadfast, the kind only a childhood bond creates. He on occasion caught her casting spells during classes or practice, and the ease with which she created something out of nothing -- her fine fingers warping reality -- was enchanting. She rarely challenged the other apprentices in skill, and seemed to keep herself aloof from the rising romantic tension between the other young mages. Whatever made her a heartbreaker, he'd never see it. If he had to put a solitary word to her temperament he'd probably call her perfect, which was why Cullen was grateful no one ever asked his opinion. The rumors trailing him were damning enough already.

Those graceful fingers drifted across each of her drawn circles and she traced the lines, "I'm trying to recreate the Star Charts of the Imperium, but for southern thedas."

"Don't we already have one?" Cullen asked, remembering the few he'd seen drawn in blue ink and papered across walls at the training grounds. Then he kicked himself for crushing her spirit again, but Lana didn't retreat into darkness. Instead, she lit up brighter and pointed through her books.

"Yes, but there's this old theory hidden inside of here. So, you know how in the Imperium because it's so much farther north, further north? Eh, anyway, they guide themselves by the right claw of Draconis. Their beacon star, as it were."

He had no idea that was what they did, but Cullen nodded along swept up in her enthusiasm. She all but glowed as she flipped through her books and held up passages for him to read. Bending down closer so he could see the cramped print, for a brief second his fingers danced against hers as he picked up her book. Maker's breath, she was warm -- her skin vibrant in spite of the chill. "Here we use the heart of Satinalis," Cullen said the only thing he knew about the night's sky.

"Right, except, what do you do when Satinalis is covered in clouds?" she extended her hands over the whole sky which looked more like a lumpy grey-blue pudding instead of the stars in her books.

"You wait until morning and track the sun," Cullen said, then grimaced. But Lana smiled and a giggle rumbled through her chest. _By the void_ , Cullen had to stare daggers into the book to keep from leering at a canyon of cleavage jiggling below him. She was so short, it was easy for him to maintain a vigil above her head, but this close and with her sitting below him it was proving nigh on impossible to not leer at that perky form. Peeking out of the gap between skin and robe, he spotted a few more inches of that enticing birthmark across her neck. _How deep did it go down?_

"Assuming you're being chased by hungry wolves who have a hideout in the east," Lana invented her own wild tale, "and you need to head west to avoid them, what else do you do?"

"I admit, I have never had that exact happenstance arise, but my life's been rather sheltered."

That got him even more giggles. Despite glaring at the same sentence with all his focus, from the periphery he could still catch the occasional bounce of her ample assets. A burn more reminiscent of fire than a blush rose up the back of his neck. _What did he get himself into?_

"There's an old theory from before, long before. After the Imperium figured out that their beacon doesn't work here and before they discovered our heart, they used Fenrir. Here, like this," she twisted around her book and her star charts, aligning both up as her finger trailed first one then the other. "See how it lines up with the heart. Now, look at it a month later. The line is different, but it still points towards the heart."

Cullen dipped down to a knee to lean closer to the stars in her lap. "It changes based upon the time of year," he said.

"Exactly!" Lana shouted. Her exuberance took him by surprise and he turned to find her grinning face so close her breath warmed his lips. She didn't catch on, her find far more interesting than the man struggling to not fall off the roof in embarrassment. "So, I've been trying to track it. Of course the Imperium kept their own Fenrir paw prints from ages back, which I've used as a starting point and for when I can't get out of the tower each month to check the alignment. They used to have a wheel to guide them to..." Fingers fluffed up the book's pages and she closed her eyes. Her lips parted in an admonishing sigh as her sentence faded away into the night. "This does seem rather pointless. It is not as if I would have any need to navigate by stars, and the Satinalis heart does a fine enough job. Perhaps Jowan is right."

"I, uh..." Cullen had no idea how to respond. He wanted to tell her that the mage was only trying to wound her for his personal reasons. She was working on something that could have uses for people beyond the tower. But his tongue knotted itself up like twine in the pocket and he stumbled away.

"Finding someone, all the courtship and romance stuff," Lana snorted, speaking to herself despite a templar hovering near, "I've never been adept at that."

"I'd thought, heard that-that you and Jowan were..."

That snapped her out of her quiet funk and an eyebrow shot up her forehead, "Jowan? Maker's breath, I've known him since I was seven. It'd be...ugh!" Lana shivered at the thought and Cullen chided himself for ever entertaining the idea. They did spend an awful lot of time together, the man toddling in her wake, but they also argued often -- though that could be a supposed sign of infatuation, or so people insisted. He was terrible at spotting interest in anyone, that much he was certain of. "He's a brother and anything more is horrifying to think upon. That's it, the crux of the problem. It's too strange to cultivate interest in the tower with all these people I've grown up with. They're family, so... I don't know how one 'finds someone' without looking beyond that. And, Andraste's tears, I'm sorry for bringing this up with you. That, uh, rather. I should stop talking."

"It's all right. I, that is, I-I can, um." Understand. He completely understood. Cullen didn't know when he hit that age where a person was meant to stumble across his great love, woo her, marry her, and begin a family. Instead of waking one day and discovering he finally clinched adulthood, achieving that stage seemed to keep slipping him by. Even after receiving news that his eldest sister married in the spring, he still thought many more years remained before he'd need to figure out how to navigate these treacherous waters.

Lana gathered up her books, tucking her star charts safely away between the covers. She rose to her feet and plucked them into her arms. While struggling to collect them and the lantern, Cullen picked up the third. It felt warm in his hands from the time it rested in her lap. "I've done all I could with the clouds, and-and I'm certain you're tired of talking to me," she laughed while waving at the now starless sky.

"I could talk to you all day," slipped out of his mouth before his brain could reel it back in. Cullen almost smacked himself in the forehead, but that would have made it worse.

She didn't stammer in disgust, or slip away. Didn't scoff and flounce off as if he wounded her. Lana smiled, displaying a pair of deep set dimples marked next to her lips. _How had he never noticed them before?_ Bobbing her head while wearing a goofy grin, she reached for the hatch handle and yanked it up. Lana made it a few rungs into the tower when her head popped up. In a quick gasp, she said, "You're nice to talk to as well...Cullen." Before he responded, she slipped into the tower -- not that he could have responded in his gobsmacked state.

His name. She knew his name. Didn't just know, cared enough to learn it, to say it and... With the sound of her sweet Free Marcher accent speaking his name, he realized why she was called a heartbreaker. He was in love with her without her having to do a damn thing but be herself.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Scars Beyond Counting

_9:44 Anderfells_

Littered across every backroad, forgotten thicket, and dried up riverbed on thedas rested towns of such little note no one bothered to jot them on a map or sometimes even name them. The three of them wandered into such a one hoping to find anywhere to pull back a chair and rest for the night. It proved more difficult than expected, as not only was the barely-a-village home to only a chantry and half tavern - the other half being the chantry itself - but the pair of them did not project the most welcoming of visage. Alistair's cheek swelled until he couldn't see out of his left eye; red dots broke out over the surface of the black bruise giving him the look of a plague carrier. Cullen wasn't in a much better state with his own bruises and constant scowl lengthening his hunched brow. He couldn't sleep after their fight, though the king went down almost instantly - his snoring jagged enough to keep any wild animals far from their uncovered camp.

With Lana's phylactery pressed in his hands, Cullen watched the stars slide through their nightly dance while he tried to recite all of the Chant of Light. He was no chanter himself and had to mumble through a few forgotten passages. By the time the sun rose, he startled from the king's hand on his shoulder, not out of sleep but from an almost hallucinatory state. His frozen fingers ached from how tightly he clung to her bottle willing it to do what the king promised it would, but no red light poured forth, no life returned.

It was Honor, out of all of them, who managed to secure lodging in the home of the Mayor/Guard Captain/Bartender. Diversifying was the only hope most small villages had of surviving. She had every intention to kick the dangerous ingrates out of her little town until she caught sight of the mabari gnawing upon a back leg and the woman melted. While the humans were left at a tight corner table, doing their best to not look at each other, the Mayor dangled all manner of succulent treats in front of Honor's nose. She'd preface each course with "I'm not sure if you'll like this" as if his dog wasn't prone to eating anything put in front of her, including but not limited to rocks, mud, sea urchins, and one pirate's eye patch.

Rolling the full mug around in his hands, the king kept glancing over at Honor lolling about in the floor in pure joy, then returning to his alcohol of some variety that had never before been categorized. He'd been quiet for their entire day's march towards the west, the silence digging a knife into Cullen's gut. Either it was guilt or a fear the king was waiting to retaliate; he couldn't be certain.

"Has it," Alistair began, then dropped his voice down as if the Mayor wasn't distracted singing a song with the mabari, "has it returned?"

Cullen's hand ran down the side of his leg, glancing upon the bulge from the phylactery in his pocket, "No."

The king frowned deeper. He dabbed his sleeve against his watering left eye and risked a full glug of the drink. "It's never taken this long before."

"So you say," Cullen countered with, but there was no victory there. He didn't want to be proven right.

"Maker," the king slopped his head forward on the table, "the suspense is killing me. Lanny better have a...a good reason to be playing around like this." He tried to laugh but it folded into a croak, the man rolling his forehead back and forth across the tabletop while he recited something unintelligible under his breath.

After a night and a day of this, Cullen couldn't stand anymore. Struggling to his feet, he smiled at the Mayor and asked, "Madam, may I head to my room? I could use sleep."

"Uh," she broke from a game of tug with Honor and a dishtowel. "Of course. There's only the one room and..."

"It will be fine," Cullen sighed. After the day, sharing a room with the man seemed the least worst news he could receive.

"Second door on the left, up the stairs," she said pointing in the direction behind her. Honor released her hold on the towel and took point as her master shuffled past.

Cullen waved a hand at her, "No, you can stay and play." Woofing once, Honor's entire backside wagged and she scooped up the towel to shove in the Mayor's hands. Trudging up the stairs one at a time, Cullen clutched his head tight, the pounding increasing through his veins.

Behind him, he heard the Mayor ask the only other person in the room, "Are you and he, um...close?"

Almost sad to have missed the king's stutter or more likely vapid response, Cullen stumbled into the second door on the left. It was pinker than he expected. Not the soft pastel pink of a nug's skin but a blaring and nauseating hue that seemed the shade to induce a homicidal rage if anyone gazed upon it too long. It was the kind of pink you feared to find on the edge of death while staring at the back of your eyes, or fresh blood mixed into white soap. Maker, that was not a fun malifecarum to take down. Sure, he's an evil blood mage who was chopping people up, but his soap makes skin so smooth and silky. It can even wear away wrinkles. It was the first time he'd ever seen Meredith blink in the face of such public scorn.

On the plus side, there were two beds in the room. Cullen slumped onto the first, baring a pink bedspread of course, and his backend sank another foot deeper towards the ground. He could feel the floor skimming not even an inch below him. It didn't matter, it was off the ground, that was the height of luxury for him now. Digging his boots off and placing them under the bed, he twisted around to lay out and discovered he was nearly a foot too tall for it as well.

"Can today go worse? I'm asking in case you had more planned as I'd prefer to get it out of the way now."

Andraste didn't answer his plea, but the whine of the mattress from the Blessed Age did. He massaged his temples, certain there had to be another four wrinkles added to his growing mass. Maker only knew how many more grey hairs snuck in overnight. A chuckle rumbled in Cullen's throat at how he'd look to Lana now -- ragged, aging, drawn, and haggard after two years of commanding armies. She'd probably shriek and run back into the fade.

He meant for it to help, to ignite a lightness in his darkened soul, but everything crashed inside of him. Walking kept him distracted, kept him from thinking about her, about the possibilities. After she fell into the fade, he'd often take meandering constitutionals around Skyhold before bed in the hopes he'd wear himself out so sleep would be instantaneous. By day, it was easy to throw himself into work, a hundred people needing to speak to him, needing to use him for whatever purpose was required of the commander. Night was when it struck him, when he was no longer the commander and only Cullen. When the final report was sealed up to be trundled off to Josephine, Leliana, or the Inquisitor in the morning, he'd lower the lantern light and find himself alone. His room was no longer the almost homey refuge from before, but a desolate prison. Each breath rattled through the thin air, amplified by the lack of feet stomping past his desk, the lack of bodies filling up his space, the lack of anyone breaking apart the endless void. He thought he was alone in Kirkwall, that he'd kept himself beyond the other templars, certainly beyond the mages or any civilians in the city. This was a whole new type of loneliness; the cliched frozen man with his nose pressed against a window pane watching the roaring fireplace and happy family inside.

"Lana," Cullen whispered aloud. His eyes burned from exhaustion and he screwed them up tight. "I wish you were here. I wish you were always here." Digging into his pocket, Cullen's fingers ran over the phylactery but he felt no life stirring inside. That wasn't what he intended for and he kept reaching until he grabbed onto the black crystal wadded below. Laying the pendant upon his chest, Cullen cupped a hand over what had once contained darkspawn blood. He never meant to keep it, she was right to suggest someone look into it, use it for anything to help. Then she fell and he couldn't part with the only piece of her she ever gave him.

When he needed to hear her words, to know she felt even a fragment of what he did for her, Cullen would flip through her journal. But if he needed to connect with her, to give himself a rung of life worth clinging to, he'd wrap his calloused palm around the crystal and squeeze hard enough to leave indentations. Now he rolled it around on his sternum, struggling to find a peace of mind.

"I wish I was better at this," he whispered to the pink room. "Better at talking to you, better at explaining what I'm thinking to you. I know you were in pain, it...Maker, I felt it too. Which isn't to say it was the same, that- Am I screwing it up without you even being here? Naturally. I wonder sometimes, if you'd reached out to me from your Keep, would I have gone to you? Left the order, stood by your side and abandoned the chantry to its own devices? A part of me wishes to believe it, believe I was a better man even then. If I had, if I'd been there for you, even responded to your one letter, for the love of Andraste, told you you weren't alone, I-I..."

He had no answer. In his heart, Cullen wanted to believe that if he'd done something for her she'd never have traveled to Seheron with the king, never fallen into such despair she took the Calling, met Hawke, and lost her wardens in the process. As if he could have shielded her from machinations beyond the both of them by some imaginary power of love. It was ludicrous, but it felt like the proper punishment for him. She tried, opened herself up, risked everything for his sake and what did he give her in return? Backed her into a corner? Made her feel terrible because she couldn't love him, may never love him? Was it such a surprise she chose to stay behind? To leave him?

For the first time in months, he felt the thirst clawing up his tongue - one that couldn't be slaked by any water or mead. It came at his most vulnerable. Even after five years of being free from the chantry and three from its song, the lyrium never left his mind, not fully. One philter and he'd feel whole again, right, not stripped for parts with his veins drained. He could drift away into the certainty that came with it, to have duty drilled into his marrow the way it once did. No more questioning every choice or wondering why. Cullen gripped tight to her pendant, swallowing repeatedly to try and drown out the thirst.

"I will be strong enough, I am strong enough for this. To reach the end of this..." Cullen's mantra drifted away as he wondered what would happen to him if after all this heartache they found nothing, or worse, came too late? Would there even be a reason for him to keep fighting? "Lana, I... Why does he call you Lanny? Why do they both keep on with that one?"

"Because," the king's voice broke from the door and Cullen sat bolt upright, his hand clenching around the protect the pendant. "That's what she told us all to call her. Sorry for listening to that part," he sounded broken himself, his good eye red rimmed as if from too much drink. But the man'd only had a pint. Alistair slid into the room and crumpled onto his bed, "All of us during the blight, we called her Lanny. I asked her once why that one, and not the Lana the mages used. Apparently, someone in the tower called her Lana and she didn't want to think about him."

Cullen narrowed his eyes and laid back, "I do not know who you refer."

"Jowan, it was Jowan. The one who..." Alistair paused, a snort reverberating in his bruised but not broken nose, "broke her heart. Then I went and did the same thing, bad enough to cover over her oldest friend becoming a blood mage and all but leaving her as a sacrifice for the templars. Maker, I'm an ass." He dropped his forehead into his lap, then groaned as his cheek brushed against thigh. "Just, tell me we'll find her, that she'll be right as rain and Lanny'll come waltzing back into our lives as if she never even left. I can't, I know she..."

Even with his head muffled by his lap, Cullen could hear the tears welling up in Alistair's eyes. He screwed his own up tighter to stem any threatening to rise. Barely pausing in his anguish, the king continued, "She was in pain, because of me, because I... For the love of the Maker, I knew all about her bad turns and yet I thought she needed time to herself, to fix it alone without me. You were right, she stayed behind because of what I did."

"No," Cullen's lips moved before his brain could shout at him to stop, "it was me."

Alistair lifted his head, snot dribbling down his nose, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. He let the tears continue unabated. "You? You didn't do anything. She blighted loved you."

He hated this man, hated him beyond reason, beyond a point of no return. They'd only tried to kill each other twenty four hours prior. Alistair didn't deserve to know a single thing about him. "She didn't. I pushed it on her, placed my own feelings upon her head, and she told me she wasn't ready to return them."

"I...uh," Alistair extended a hand out as if he needed to pass Cullen a kerchief or something. "I'm sorry."

"Why? Maybe she couldn't face up to telling me the truth of it, that she'd never feel for me what I did for her, so she remained behind." He'd never said aloud what flitted through his mind at the darkest hours. Cullen needed to blame someone, and he couldn't put it upon Lana - not again- so he turned to the next likely candidate, himself.

He expected the king to shake his head, huff off to sleep, or make some snide joke. Instead, the man slapped both his hands against his thighs, startling Cullen. "That is pure bullshit if I've ever heard it, and I'm surrounded by nobility constantly. I've heard every grade of bovine feces. Lanny, Lana, whatever you call her, she'd never in an age, in two ages, three give up on someone she cares even an iota about. And if Leliana noticed, spotted it enough to try and stick it to me years later, Lana cared deeply. I don't know why she wasn't ready. I assume it was my fault, most things are, but I knew that woman for eleven years."

"I thought you were only together for the blight," Cullen spoke up.

"Exactly, one year as lov...more and ten as friends. I've watched her rain fire down on people who'd so much as look crosseyed at people she'd befriend. She took on the crows for an elf that tried to kill us. Her friends were family, end of story, and she'd fight through anything for them." In the middle of his tirade, Alistair leaned so far forward he was in danger of falling clean off his bed. Suddenly realizing it, he didn't scoot back, but reached a hand down to the floor to anchor himself. "Look, Lanny, she didn't do the romance stuff much. She tried, but things kept getting in the way."

_Things such as a nosy king of Ferelden_ , Cullen thought. Then his traitorous brain threw up a familiar refrain: duty, command, never becoming attached for fear of suffering loss, thinking he didn't deserve it.

Alistair touched his bruised cheek and hissed from the pain. "If she tried with you, even a little bit of letting herself fall, shirking her duties and stopped being aloof, then she was far more gone than you can imagine. And now I'm sick and tired of trying to give a pep talk to the man who blackened half my face. If you don't mind, sleep's all I want to hear now." Without even prying off his boots, Alistair spun around onto his bed, faced the wall, and buried his head into the pillow. His feet hung off the edge, the man not caring a whit -- he was already asleep.

Cullen licked his fingers to dampen the candle. By the light of the moon hovering in the window he watched the smoke dance off the wick. Rolling onto his back, Cullen wrapped his hands around Lana's pendant in prayer and recited the first words to rise in his troubled mind, "I have faced armies with You as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can-can break me...except your absence."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Acceptable

_9:41 Skyhold_

"All right, try it again and maybe get it right for once," Cullen grumbled, pacing back and forth across the grounds. It felt as if half of Skyhold paused in their duties to come watch; cooks, stable hands, even the horses themselves seemed curious to see his soldiers square off against the Hero of Ferelden. It was not going well.

Lana raised her hands for a moment, prepared to begin any of a dozen magical assaults they'd discussed earlier, when she turned to the man orchestrating all of this. "A moment, please." Unknotting the belt knotted around her waist, she slithered out of her sapphire robes revealing only a white corset and shortened pair of breeches beneath. Smiling sweetly, she passed the robe to Cullen. "It's growing rather warm out here."

"Uh huh," he nodded dumbly, watching her saunter back to her position as if unaware how her exposed skin glistened in the sunlight, the swoop of her shoulders cried out for his fingers to caress across them, or the unfathomable canyon dipping below that sweetheart corset instantly captured his gaze. Snapping his head like a bee flew into his ear, Cullen willed back every dirty thought crossing his mind. A few choking noises broke through his ranks, and he turned to find blushes rising upon various green soldier's cheeks. He didn't appear to be the only one struggling. What does one do when the greatest known hero in your lifetime gave you an erection? He had no answer as he was yet coming to terms with that fact.

"Okay," Lana nodded her head and the easy smile vanished, her luscious lips puckering in concentration. Before the soldiers had a chance to recover from their flush of infatuation, a blast of ice burst across their drooping shields. Thankfully, a few bore enough sense to scurry behind their only means of defense when Lana unleashed her second spell. Cullen had no way to know what it was beyond suggesting she avoid the entropy spells until the newest recruits managed primal. If he was back in the circle, every last soldier here would have been chucked back to the chantry with a suggestion they take up the cloth instead of the shield. He was shrugging off both primal and entropic spells before he needed to shave.

Expecting another obvious attack in the form of fire or ice, the recruits huddled together forming an almost decent shield wall - with gaps that'd let a chevalier through, but at least it wasn't pointed at the ground. Mana crackled in the air with enough fade energy to light the entire barn on fire, but Lana stood perfectly still. Nothing born of nature blasted off her fingers. Her radiant eyes were lightly closed while her thick eyelashes fluttered hinting at something working beneath. As both of her hands turned upside down, her eyes snapped open and a wave of magic washed over the recruits.

One by one, their shields drooped to slip from limp fingers;  metal smacking into itself echoed through the Skyhold courtyard as ten soldiers fell dead asleep on their feet. If it weren't for their tight huddle, they'd all have hit the ground themselves. Instead, heads landed upon each other's shoulders forming an upright pile of armor and people. Snoring was the only sound breaking above the sudden quiet.

"You have to be kidding me," Cullen sighed, he reached up to massage his forehead and the growing headache, which caused Lana's robe to smack him in the face. He forgot it was dangling off his arm.

The mage tilted her head watching her subjects dream when they should have been fighting, "I did not expect it to affect all of them."

"It shouldn't have worked on anyone. A sleep spell?!" Cullen paced towards her, his boots kicking apart the few clumps of sod left in the area. "Any first year templar can shrug that off, an initiate with the ability to pinch himself can shake it free. This is embarrassing!"

"They're not templars," she said, a surprising gentleness in her voice. He expected her to show the same anger, perhaps even greater. They were preparing to siege Adamant by using the downtime to train everyone who'd never faced magic before and arming them with every skill possible. But instead of shouting with her own commander voice he knew lurked deep inside, she smiled and her eyes softened, "They look so sweet sleeping, like a pile of puppies."

"Is it too late to recruit mabari pups instead?" Cullen groaned, but turning towards the barely even eighteen year olds all snuggled up on their feet. It was an almost heart warming sight. Maker, how did they look so young? "Can you wake them?" he asked.

"I have no idea. I've never tried to aside from, you know..." she mimed lifting a staff in her hands and bringing the end down into someone's skull.

Snatching up two dropped shields below their feet, Cullen banged them together - the ungodly noise breaking her spell its echoes reverberating against every stone in Skyhold. As each soldier rose from their slumber, they glanced around to find whose head shared their shoulder, then with a solitary horror realized their utter failure. Every eye swung to the commander in guilt. He should reprimand them beyond reproach, perhaps pull out the old "Do you have any idea what you could cost us if you fail?"

Instead, Cullen sighed, "You know what you did wrong?" The recruits bounced their heads like scrounging chickens. "Good. Take a break. I think we all need it." Raising up the shields turned into cymbals, Cullen spotted dents from where he smashed them together. They'd need to be repaired, and in the meantime replaced before they continued with another round. Which is what he should have put the recruits through again. There was no time out in battle, no 'go ahead and catch your breath, I'll wait for you.' Something was making him soft, and he feared it was the same thing making him hard as well.

The side armory held a number of damaged but useable shields. Nodding at the recruits tumbling to the grass, their heavy heads in hands, Cullen yanked open the door. While the true armory held the anvils and a forge, this was little more than a storage closet for excess weapons not worth using but not worth tossing either. At barely enough space for one person to slide through the piles of broken armor, ripped leather, dented shields, and shattered swords, Cullen didn't expect anyone to follow him. Tossing the shields he smashed together in anger onto the ground, he started at the sound of the door closing behind him.

Lana smiled at his questioning eyes and jerked her chin in his direction, "You have my robe."

"Oh, right." He forgot he tossed it over his shoulder, all of Cullen's wrath focused on waking up his recruits. "It, uh..." pulling it off his body, he felt a cold draft ruffle up the sweat pouring down his back, "may be a bit wet now."

Those delicate fingers picked her robe out of his hand and she leaned closer, "I hadn't planned on putting it back on." Without a care, she tossed it behind her, the sapphire wool blanketing out over a pile of empty hilts. Cullen gulped, his mouth running dry from the hunger in her smirking eyes. She slipped closer to him and her breasts skimmed across his own chest, but she didn't reach out to wrap her arms around him, only stood achingly near.

"Wh...What did you intend?" He gazed down past her grinning cheeks, her blooming birthmark, and right into that damning cleavage. Lana was blessed with her fair share which the white corset, by some miracle, added to. Cullen bit down on the wild idea to dip his hands down the front of the straining fabric and free her breasts.

"I..." Lana reached a hand out, placing her elbow upon his shoulder, "noticed you." She added the second to the other side and stretched up on her toes. A moan rattled in the back of his throat, probably in the back of his soul as well. Those enigmatic eyes bore into his, her nose glancing upon his cheek as she tipped her head to the side and brought their lips together. After a few hours drilling in the brutal sun she shouldn't taste so sweet, but Maker, Lana was perfect, the last vestiges of the fade sparking off her lips. He yearned to drink her dry, to lap up every inch of her and then hunger for more.

She slipped away from his lips and rose up to whisper in his ear, "Parading around in that thin shift of yours, it's downright scandalous." Cullen craned his head to meet her eyes and found them ogling his body. Disbelief washed over him from her blatant lust for him. That wasn't possible - there was little for anyone on him to find enticing. For years he accepted his place in the hierarchy of attractiveness, almost grateful for it in Kirkwall as he drew so little attention. Lana's interest in him was baffling, and yet, Sweet Andraste he was so grateful for it.

"I never expected anyone to care what I wore," Cullen whispered in his sonorous tone. His lips brushed against her ear and Lana sighed from the bottom of her chest.

Humming under her breath as her fingers pulsed against his back, she smiled, "Does this mean you intend to wear nothing from now on?"

"Ah..." he chuckled, "your mind is deceptively devious, Lady Amell."

She shrugged, "I only wish to give the people what they want."

"Blindness?" Cullen laughed to beat her to the self deprecation.

Gliding her head closer, Lana caught him in another kiss, her lips puckering against his lagging top lip and then sucking upon the bottom. How he wanted to do the same to hers, to lick both that outflanked his own. She broke away again before he could dare try and leaned back in his arms. _When did he wrap them around her waist?_ Cullen couldn't even remember, the movement as natural to him as sheathing his sword.

"I want you," her husky voice was unflappable, as certain as the sunrise.

"That, uh, um..." Maker, he wanted her too; woke most mornings aching for her, spent his nights wishing for her to appear. "The door doesn't lock," Cullen gestured his head behind her at the armory entrance where his soldiers waited for him to return.

He expected Lana to slide out of his grasp, pick up her robe, and leave him to try and deflate himself before they began drilling again. Instead, she turned a cursory glance over her shoulder, lifted a solitary arm off him, and waved her fingers over the door. Ice exploded off the floor, thickening by four, five, six inches until they'd need an ice pick and a few hours to get through. Smiling at it, Lana turned back to him, "It does now."

"You are..." was as far as he got before he cupped her jaw and pulled her lips to his. No longer teasing, Cullen's fingers dug into her waist, guiding her tighter to him. She had to feel his own engorging reaction pushing against her stomach, it taking all claim upon Cullen's brain. Sliding up higher on her tortured toes, Lana's body rippled against his as if she danced to her own tune. The pressure building up through his loins cried out for relief.

Cullen's fingers canvased the back of her corset, then around the front, searching for the way in. He stumbled across the first knot and moved to untie it, but Lana grabbed onto his hands. "Hm?" he broke from their kiss, confusion knocking through his lustful haze.

She didn't snarl at him, or bat his hands away, only smiled, "I don't think there's time to bother with that."

"I...uh...?" _For the love of the Maker, why are you so tongue tied around her? Why does your mouth dry out and your palms sweat when she smiles with mischief in her lips and tugs you close? It's just sex.  _

_Oh Maker, it's sex!_

Cullen suffered that same momentary panic every time his brain accepted what Lana intended, what he himself wanted. Sometimes he could shake it off without her aware, other times he stumbled around all the placeholder words in existence hoping his mind would wake up and form something coherent. He wished he had enough presence to whisper those fabled sweet nothings in her ear, to tell her how his whole body burned with desire when he rested his palms on her hips, how the sight of her naked back glistening with sweat fresh from him driving her to the brink soothed and excited a part of him he never thought lived. But all that came out was a pitiful squeak like a newborn kitten. _What if he never could tell her?_

Unaware of his internal struggle, Lana's fingers lifted off his frozen in place against her hips and she grabbed onto his sword belt. The woman knew far too well how to unknot it, the blade crashing to the ground with the rest of its broken brethren. When her fingers worked around to the drawstring, Cullen spoke up.

"Wh- What are you doing?"

Smirking, she cupped her fingers down his bulging shaft hidden behind the breeches. "Evening the score."

"Oh?" It took a few heartbeats before his blood-less brain understood -- her mischievous eyes smiling at him. "Oh! I, uh..."

She hopped up onto her toes, trying to catch his lips, but having to settle for kissing his chin. Lips raked across his stubble, her tongue dipping into the divot. _Maker, her tongue._ Her wet, hot, slippery tongue gliding along his jaw. The same one she intended to, to...

A moan rolled off Cullen's own tongue from her palm cupping the shaft of his cock through his pants. Carefully, with a slowness he'd never seen Lana exhibit before, she twisted her fingers around the drawstring. "Hm..."

"What?! What...I mean, what?" he un-smoothly panicked from her pausing.

"It appears to be stuck. Not a problem, I'll use my teeth." Then Lana, the Hero of Ferelden, and some other fancy titles he couldn't remember in his fogged over mind dropped to her knees in front of him. Cullen reached out to grab onto her shoulder, steadying himself for fear that he'd die on his feet in shock or joy. Perhaps both. Unaware of his internal struggle, she unearthed the drawstring and, true to her promise, put her teeth to work unknotting the rope. As it fell apart in her grip, down came his breeches.

He should feel like a fool, bare assed standing in the armory closet while Maker knew how many people waited for them outside, but Cullen was euphoric. She hadn't even done anything and he almost wanted to break out into laughter from the very idea. Things like this didn't happen to him. And yet... Maker end him if it turned out to be a dream.

Lana's nimble fingers hovered a hair's breadth away from his trembling body, as she stared face to face with his cock. Then she turned her head up, her doe eyes reaching his. "You okay?"

Terrified what would happen if he tried to speak, Cullen nodded, his head bobbing adrift. She smiled, "Good." Before he could steady himself, her lips wrapped around the head of his cock. Groaning from ten years of discipline and repression shattering in a second, both of Cullen's hands braced himself upon her shoulders as her mouth slightly opened and her tongue rolled around it.

Not about to be left out of the fun, Lana's fingers gripped at the bottom of his shaft and she rolled them upwards, counter to her tongue's circles. Cullen gasped, dragging breath into his mouth as he feared he might pass out on top of her. His toes dug in deep inside his boots, anchoring him as a white hot pleasure seared through his skin. A flush crawled up his stomach, red and jagged like the silhouette of mountains from his body slipping deeper into the abyss.

Upon pressing her fingers tight to her mouth, Lana's hand broke away along with her mouth but she didn't leave him waiting for long. Starting at the bottom, she licked up his cock like it was a piece of stretched taffy. Whenever she reached the head, she smiled and kissed it tenderly. It was so silly, Cullen nearly giggled, the pressure abating even as she tended to him. She didn't want it over and done with quickly, she was enjoying it - an exquisite torture.

Maker, watching her suck upon him, he wanted to kiss her, to put his lips against all of her. The thought of it pushed through her light hearted strokes and Cullen groaned. Sensing he couldn't take more, Lana's lips opened over his head and she swirled lower and lower with her tongue while her fingers, slick in her saliva, jerked upward to him. Pounding against every rib, Cullen's heart raced while she glided him deeper then shallower down her throat, Lana handling all the thrusting. He bit into his cheek, his head thrown back, as he felt the rising tide swelling up through him about to burst.

Cullen pinched onto her shoulders, trying to warn her what was coming, but Lana didn't slow. She kept the same rhythmic rise and fall, pulling him inside of her until he lost his battle. Lights sparked across the back of his shut eyelids, every ounce of him firing deep into Lana's mouth. Instead of yanking her head away, she remained, taking it all and gently swallowing it, her tongue rolling across his still sputtering cock.

When the final vestiges fell to a drip, she slipped away, wiping off her mouth with her wrist. Cullen bent down to guide a hand under her elbow to help her to her feet. "I...that, I... Lana, you're, I..."

"Yes," she smiled, "You're I and I'm Lana." Leaning forward, she kissed him on the mouth, at first a peck, but he hungered for her lips and pulled her tighter to him. A hint of something foreign lingered in her mouth, biting and salty.

Still pantsless, Cullen wrapped his hands around the small of her back and pulled her tighter to him. "You didn't have to do that."

"I very much wanted to, if you couldn't tell," her warm body folded inside of his. In his euphoric state, he wanted to fully envelop her forever and never let this woman leave his sight for even a moment.

Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he sighed, "That I can, well, I can pretend to understand. But I meant the, um..."

"Swallowing?" she smiled. "The warning was sweet, by the way."

He had no idea if he should but it seemed prudent either way. A few final drops of his sputtered out. He tried to wipe them onto his hand, but Lana slid it out the way as she hugged deeper into him. "What, uh, if you don't mind my asking, what does it taste like?"

Even with her cheek snuggled against his chest, he felt her eyebrows rise in surprise, "You've never tried your own before?"

"It seemed, I didn't think to, uh," Cullen stammered around, knowing the flush of desire ramped back to his usual blush of embarrassment. "No, I never have. Have you tasted yourself?"

"Of course," she shrugged, "how else would I know?" That thought ticked deep into the lustful part of his brain, and for a moment, he felt his cock stir as if it could go for seconds. "To answer your question, semen's a bit like a salty stew that's been overloaded in cooked bitters. Not the most interesting, kind of thick the way a chowder is, until this bite after. Can get a bit numbing too. And I have effectively destroyed the mood." Her voice fell as if he hadn't been the one to ask.

Cullen's fingers skirted along her cheek, brushing the one not pressed against his chest. "You've done nothing of the sort. I am in a state of disbelief which will carry for the rest of the day, two days, perhaps a week, but...you are- I can scarcely believe you find me acceptable."

Her lashes fluttered against his thin shirt as she blinked her eyes rapidly, then Lana pulled her head away to look up at him. "Acceptable? There are women fainting in the street when you approach. Declarations of duels happen on the hour for your hand. I heard talk of a very devoted fan club operating in Skyhold."

"No, that's, you're being facetious," Cullen blushed.

"I believe they called themselves Cullen's Cuties, no Cullenites? Something of that nature. And they meet every Thursday at the tavern," Lana mused to herself. At his scoff she tapped her palm against his chest, "What about the ball? You had dozens of women almost literally hanging off you for the entire dance. That doesn't happen to men that are only deemed acceptable."

"It's not, that was," foolishness enveloped up his legs. How could he explain it to her? From the first moment he saw her, when she was only seventeen, Lana was achingly gorgeous. If she suffered an awkward stage, either it occurred long before, or most likely, she pirouetted through it with grace. "I know intellectually what I appear as now, but there are days when I'm that young man with hair like steel wool and a spotty complexion."

"Cullen," her fingers, one by one, drew across his cheek, down his nose, and along his jaw. "I was smitten with that young man, adored your curls, and cared not a whit for the spots of youth. You were..." Lana swallowed, her pupils wide in the dim light giving her eyes an enigmatic depth. "You've always been adorable. Anyone who says otherwise can soak their head in the lake."

He scooped her up for a kiss, lifting her as high as he could manage until the tips of her toes drifted past the floor. Lana's arms knotted around his neck so she could match his fervor with her lips. Maker, by all that was holy, he didn't deserve her. Knowing what he did, who he was for so many years -- what kind of creator would see fit to give him even a moment of Lana's attention? He wished he didn't have to let her go, but there was a party of recruits hoping to prove themselves outside. Cullen released her back to the floor and bent down to lift up his trousers. After tucking himself back safely, he knotted on the belt and nodded his head.

"We should return to our work."

"Of course," Lana smiled. She turned back to her ice wall that'd barely dripped throughout their moment. Before her hands lifted up, she spun back, pecked him on the lips, then yanked the entire structure apart. It wasn't ice chunks that shattered to the wood floor, but a gallon or two of water splashing across the floor towards their shoes.

"Cullen," she knotted her fingers through his, gripping tight, "you're a good man. I've always had faith in that."

He started from her frank words, but before he could respond, the door cracked open. Lana slipped her hand away and stepped further from him as one of the recruits poked his head inside.

"Commander, and your Hero-ness. We're prepared to try again and fend off the sleep attack."

"That's good, because you won't be fighting a sleep spell," Cullen said. "Lady Amell will be whipping up something new. You have to learn how to think on your feet when fighting a mage. You all do," he lifted his voice so the others huddled around the door would hear.

"Right, right, uh," the soldier bobbed his head trying to not look terrified. Then a queer look twisted up his face and he peered downward, "Why is the floor covered in water?"

"You should be getting in line," Lana interrupted, covering for Cullen's stammering blush. She yanked up her robe and slipped it on quickly while walking back into the yard. After knotting her belt, she turned to him and asked, "Commander, after we are finished for the day, do you think you would have free time later in the evening?"

His eyes lingered over the eager recruits all waving their swords and shields in anticipation. "For, uh, what purpose...Lady Amell?"

Lana turned to face him with a delectable smirk, "To uneven the score."

Cullen awoke with a start, veins throbbing across his entire body as the dream clung tight and refused to let go. He reached over to grip his forehead and steady himself back to the present, when he felt it. Every hair on his body yearned for him to be further west. Digging madly into his pocket, he unearthed the pulsing red phylactery. Touching bare skin to it, visions of green floated through the back of his mind - and a coldness that dug into his core, but none of whatever that was mattered. It was Lana; felt of her, her sight, her mind, everything that was her. Forgetting where he was, Cullen let out a generous whoop! The other man sharing the room rolled over, smacking his lips like a roused dog, then the crimson light of the phylactery struck him. Alistair tried to leap off the bed, but overnight his dangling feet lost all feeling and he misjudged his attempt, smacking chin first to the floor.

Even with his mouth pressing into the wood and dangerously close to Honor's back half, he smiled, "Told you so."

"I...all right, you may have that one." Cullen was happy to give it to him, happy to have even an inch of hope gifted back from the void.

The king pushed up on his hands, turned his face towards Cullen, then whipped it back at the wall, "Guessing you were asleep when it lit back up."

"Yes...?"

"There can be certain, um, a lot of times I'd have memories flood back, you know. Certain kinds of memories that..." He waved his hand vaguely in Cullen's direction without moving his head to look.

"What are...?" Cullen glanced down and the blush stampeded across his cheeks. He raced to throw a blanket over his lap. "I uh, it was--"

"Don't want to know!" Alistair interrupted. "Never ever want to know in any way. I think I'll go see if our friendly Mayor has any breakfast," he said, crabwalking out of the room with his head still craned away from Cullen. "Meet you later to head out. Probably much later."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Griffins

_?:?? ?_

She shouldn't be alive - that fact resonated through her veins, across her aching fingertips, and over every inch of skin coated in spider ichor. The spiders -- or demons pretending to be spiders -- were endless, a bottomless cavalcade marching to destroy the only mortal in their vicinity. Lana refused to go down without a fight, her wards flaring almost the moment they activated, her fire hot enough to scorch back against her mutilated hair. And still, it was a drop in the bucket against the armies forming against her.

_Why was she yet drawing breath?_

Rather than face death by venomous pincher, she dipped beyond her mana ration - a dangerous tactic that on occasion paid off. In this case it didn't, the blood in her ears pooling as her head thundered and oblivion enveloped her. She should have died there, passed out while a continual march of spiders  chewed her apart. When she woke, the spiders were gone, only the corpses of the one's she'd obliterated remained - their legs twitching from the crackling fires fueled by hair across their blistered bodies. Staggering to her hands, Lana stared out at the horizon but it no longer wobbled, as if something or someone patched up the gap that allowed the multitude to attack. This was wrong. She was missing a slot in the puzzle, guessed the riddle wrong, or barely spotted the hidden rune.

While Lana chewed on that thought, she scissored her obsidian blade back and forth across her hair, chopping it back to clear out a knot wound around a spider's ripped off leg. There was no chance she'd get it free without help, as with most of the snarled knots she'd gained over the years she took to chopping them off. Her hair was the least of her problems. What she needed was...

"You have been rather busy," Wynne's voice echoed through the fetid battleground.

Lana finished off sawing through the ends and sat up off the rock she pressed her cheek to. "I need to talk to you. Actually, I thought you'd be the other one."

"Yes, _that_ one. Interesting that it has taken no form. A curious question." Wynne wasn't dressed in her usual robes of the circle, clean and pressed in fabrics that'd tear in the wild. She wore armor crafted for the battlemages of old, metal gleamed off her shoulders, elbows, knees, across her thighs, and down her arms. A sheet of chainmail glinted below the fade touched wool enchanted to shake off a blade better than any leather could. She came dressed for war, the question was against who.

"Where is it?" Lana struggled to her feet. She'd anticipated being exhausted having drained every inch of her magic to slay the spiders, but she'd slept while in her faint. Unable to keep out of the faint, her body chose death in sleep. It should have revived her, even momentarily, but her thoughts drew sluggish across her brain, her limbs aching to drag her back down to the ground. Sleep no longer seemed to work upon her.

"Off somewhere doing whatever it does," Wynne gestured with her sword, the blade sizzling in blue energy. "But that isn't why you called me to you. You have a question."

_Called? Was that what Lana did?_ She knew the spirits popped up at the more inopportune times, but... Jowan was there whenever her heart dug through her past faults, Nathaniel when she roused herself to keep going because it was expected of her, and Wynne when she found a question that needed an answer. Then what inside of her called the other one, the dangerously powerful spirit?

Squaring her shoulders, Lana looked over at Wynne, "Why did I survive?"

"I believe it has to do with the balance of your humors," Wynne answered without answering.

"You know that is not what I... What took down the rest of the spiders? What killed them when I became incapacitated?"

The spirit's shrewd eyes glanced over at the woman nearing the end. She felt it dangling in her heart, something beyond her ken pressed harder and harder against her body, wringing it out until nothing remained. Lana couldn't explain it, but she knew she had little time left.

Wynne smiled, "Is that really the question you are most curious about?"

"Yes, damn it! It's the reason, the answer to...to what? What is going on?"

Without a care for her armor's backside, Wynne plopped down onto the spider. It should have cracked in half, the guts spewing down the crack from her weight, but the spirit hung in the air. "Did you by any chance dream?"

"Not this again!" Lana threw her arms up, rage fueling her body with energy as she paced back and forth. "Yes, the green barrier was there, the cold - bitter as frost in a crypt - and...the hand, that grey hand reaching for me." Her legs paused and she screwed her eyes up, struggling to bring back the dream.

It was almost impossible to make out through the wobble of the air around it. The hand curled, but not towards her, the fingers elongated strangely and pressed together as if stretching towards the sky...

"Oh Maker," Lana's stricken face glanced up to Wynne, "It's not a hand. That's a wing, a wing on the statue of a griffin. I'm dreaming about a Warden fortress."

***

_9:44 Anderfels_

"And you're certain this is it?" Alistair asked, rolling up and down on his heels.

The templar dug out the phylactery that never left his pocket and pressed his palm against it. "Dead certain. If Lana's alive, she's located inside of that..."

Leering, honest to the Maker leering, off a the bitter edge of a cliff to a stained death below rested a fortress. Not the worst thing they could find, and honestly, he almost suspected to come across something like it. Alistair came prepared to make any and all offers of gold, fancy silks, an adorable mabari pup, or all the turnips they could have in exchange for Lanny. Let the crazed Duke, or Bann, or whatever of the fortress come to make demands. If the owner wasn't in a bargaining mood there was always deal by sword. Except, there was one teeny tiny problem -- there was no door. Someone built the fortress' front walls around themselves completely forgetting to add a door and sealing whoever lived there inside it. Now, there was paranoia and preferring solitude, then there was taking the time to build solid walls around yourself with no escape should the stables catch on fire, or you starve from a dwindling food supply inside. Even the nearest water source was a good half a day hike down the twisting paths of the steppes.

A lone vulture circled above the pointed towers, its death caw rumbling a naked flag pole. The roofs themselves bore spikes, as if the inhabitants feared invaders would swoop in out of the sky to try and sneak in. No windows broke through the wall circumscribing a smaller hold buried deeper inside, no banners dangled off the stones to declare who owned it. Dead vines, the color of a bleached skeleton, climbed up the walls. No flowers or leaves graced any of the foliage, only thorns bothered to grow. If stone could reek of death, this would turn a Mortalitasi's stomach.

"What do we do now?" Alistair sighed, digging the heels of his hand into his eyes.

"Do you know what this place is known as?"

"Of course," Alistair bit back, "it's called 'You're Screwed' Castle; part of the 'Fuck Off' estates. Very exclusive." The templar let him chatter his head off; he needed it, needed to think - to try and conjure up an idea while glaring at the vulture. Swooping through the clouds without a care in the world, the vulture landed upon a statue. Able to only see the top crest, Alistair rose up on his toes and danced towards the side until it came into view.

"At least we know one thing about it," Alistair laughed, his finger pointing at the tell tale griffin statue. After recognizing it, he spotted the same reliefs scattered around the area, worn by time and weather, but legible when one knew what to look for, "This used to belong to the grey wardens."

"What?" Cullen placed her phylactery back in his pocket and moved to unsheathe his sword.

"Whoa, easy there. Just you, me, a vulture, and miles of dead plants."

"Corypheus was discovered in a warden prison much like this," Cullen continued, a burn lighting up his taciturn face.

Shutting up his eyes, Alistair listened for the familiar drumbeat of the voices of darkspawn calling in the back of his head, but nothing echoed out. Except...something, a faint whisper that strung against him. He could barely make it out, but he knew it better than he knew himself. "No darkspawn, no voices in my head."

"That's debatable," Cullen sulked, but he removed his hand off his sword.

"But..." Lanny? It could be other wardens, or maybe some darkspawn deep underground he was picking up on. So close now, Alistair's heart pinged in a painful hope.

"But what?" Cullen picked up on his lost thread. The man bore his own black eye with a scowl that made it appear ten times worse. It was no wonder most caravans chased them away when they saw that face coming at them. For being the decorated commander of the Inquisition, he screamed 'terrifying bandit likely to pluck out your kidneys' when angry.

Rubbing his face, Alistair weighed whether it was worth telling him about his darkspawn sense. It'd probably lead to another argument about how he was only imagining what he wanted to, he could be lying, and anyway who says he could feel Lanny anyway? Rather than face that headache, Alistair yanked out their crude map and drew a finger across the nearest town. "But I bet you anything, someone near here knows how to get inside this fortress. People don't grow up near this thing without bored kids daring each other to break in. Nowhere's impenetrable."

The commander nodded his head, "That is...makes some amount of sense. We should head there immediately, the phylactery is fading again." He didn't grimace, his face already pinned into an eternal frown, but Alistair knew he had to feel it. When the phylactery rose back to life it was like a burst of euphoria, hope, whatever you wanted to call it. But when it faded away, every despairing thought washed over him. The templar bore it all without a complaint, which drilled into Alistair's back teeth. He whistled for his dog to put down her latest stick and began the march towards the only living blip on the map.

Drawing nearer to the town, Alistair gestured towards what looked like an inn. He couldn't read the sign, but whenever anyone makes a straw dummy and slaps it over a door it's either an inn, tavern, or the local executioner's house. They'd either find lodging, a drink, or their own pick of head pikes in the morning. Cracking open said door, the braying of drunken laughter and smells of alcoholic urine slapped both in the face. "I think I guessed right," Alistair quipped to himself, getting a sigh from the sullen templar.

Taverns were taverns, you needed only three things to make one work: tables made out of founded wood probably crafted from some hanged men's half used pyre, a bar for the crusty old tender to sop behind, and at least three villainous scums to fill up the back. Extra points if one of them wore an eyepatch. This one bore the tables rotten enough for one to risk a splinter the breadth of a dagger, the bartender - a dwarven woman who cracked a glass on the bar rather than clean it - and eyes glittering in the shadows trying to size up the newest men. It was like finding home on the other side of the world.

"Ten sovereigns says someone's gonna walk through that door and invite everyone on an adventure," Alistair whispered to Cullen.

"Is that not why we are here?" he said, causing Alistair to pale. _Maker, he was right. Well, may as well play the part._

While Cullen kept Honor tight to his side, Alistair moseyed up to the bar and placed his hands upon it. He dare not risk sitting on the stool for fear of suffering hook worm in tender areas. "What's on tap, my dear woman?" he asked in his jolly tone.

"Whatever comes out of the big bucket," she said, throwing her hand back to smack against the giant keg. Alistair swore he heard gurgles crying out in pain from its depths.

"Ah, that's all right. I was hoping for a bit of information."

"Quests are for paying customers only," the barkeep interrupted, then she smashed her fist against a sign proclaiming the same, rattling the chains dangling it off the ceiling.

"It's not a quest, it's about that fortress to the north of here. The grey warden one." Every voice in the tavern dropped as dozens of eyes swung from their drinks to drill into the newcomers. "I was only wondering if anyone here had knowledge about it..." Alistair continued, trying to not gulp in fear. That was as good as waving his red underwear in front of a bullshark.

  The barkeep eyed him up, but a strange pity brimmed in her good eye. "A nice boy like you doesn't want to have a thing to do with Ishonmoq Hold. No one should. It's haunted."

"Haunted?" Cullen leapt into their conversation, the templar's sneer in place. "Do you mean demons roam through it?"

Her eye traveled up to the other man, the not-so-nice-one, and she clammed up. _Great_ , Alistair rolled his eyes. He almost had her opening up, then ray of sunshine there had to rush in and break it up.

"Haunted is haunted. We don't mess in warden business around here."

"Funny you should say that," Alistair began, "because I just happen to be a..." A fist jabbed him in the side, cutting off his words and he turned to the man who'd tenderized the area before. "What are you doing?"

"It seems unwise to go announcing that fact around here," Cullen whispered. "These people don't seem grateful about the wardens." Alistair followed his head jerk to an old griffin shield nailed to the wall, red stains splattered across it and the wall where some of the well inebriated missed with their rotten tomatoes.

"What am I supposed to say then? Tell me how to get into the fortress because I'm a king and this is the commander of the Inquisition?"

"How should I know? It was your plan," Cullen sighed, wanting to maintain his anonymity as much as Alistair.

The barkeep interrupted their whispering session, "I don't know what little lover's quarrel you two are having but unless you're buying, we ain't got room for you."

Swallowing down the assumption that Alistair would ever lower himself to someone of the templar's standards, he smiled at the woman and held up his fingers. "Two of the best in stock."

"That'd be the tap," she said, jerking her head towards it again, then she began to draw from it.

With their shared samples, king and templar flounced off to a table along the wall and glared into their mugs. An oily slick floated along the top of Alistair's beer. He'd had no intentions of drinking it before, but now he was curious. Did they drop lard into their alcohol in the Anderfells? Butter, perhaps?

Unimpressed, Cullen shoved his offering away and smashed his face down onto the table. "I am at a loss," he moaned. "If we had the Inquisition's connections I could tear down that wall in a day."

"That's assuming they even have any trebuchets left." Alistair dipped a finger into his mug. His nail didn't sizzle and fall off, promising.

The commander's head snapped up and he glowered, his eyes all but vanishing in the folds of his anger, "Which would be your doing."

"We're back to this? I liked it better when you hated me for Lanny. Look, you may not want to hear it, but your little army was scaring a lot of easily spooked people. The kind of people who glance down and start to think, oh shit, are they going to start a war? Add in the fact it had connections to Orlais, who a lot of people are not happy with, and the chantry -- ditto -- and thedas was growing a bit tetchy."

"I heard nothing of the sort. We were on good standing with many neighboring countries. Even Tevinter..."

"Smiled at you while circling around the back with a knife. Come on, you're not that stupid," Alistair said, extending his hand towards the broken man. He paused, blinking his eyes with the terrifying realization that he actually knew something about politics. _Shit, when did that happen?_ "And you did almost start a war with the Qun."

"Who never held a treaty with anyone," the templar continued to stick up for his less-heretical group.

"Yet, aside from Tevinter, they left the rest of us alone. Oh, and Kirkwall." Alistair paused in his thoughts, then placed his mug back down before taking a sip. "Andraste's knickers, maybe it's you."

"What?"

"You were in Kirkwall, boom Qunari attack, and then the Inquisition. Maybe their Arishock hates you. Like really, really hates you. Shit, maybe he's trying to protect Lanny. That'd be hilarious."

Cullen smashed his head back against the table, groans erupting from below, "I despise conversing with you."

"An entire invasion because her big, hornless qunari friend doesn't think you're good enough for her," Alistair mused to himself, tickled at the idea. He knew it wasn't possible, Sten wasn't that kind of a softie, though they did hit it off again in Seheron. If it weren't for Lanny's smooth diplomatic skills, the qunari might have finished them all off as something to do between meals.

While Alistair steeled himself to risk a sip of his drink, Cullen complained, "Your blathering gets us no closer to a way into the fortress."

"Begging your pardon, but did I hear you say you're trying to breach Ishonmoq Hold?"

Alistair choked on his beer before any got into his mouth at the hulking qunari standing politely beside their table. She, and it was obviously a she with her extensive lady parts barely covered in strips of fabric crisscrossing her chest, tapped a claw against the wood. Her white hair was buzzed back save a strip knotted around her horns and extending deep down her back. He'd guess she was older, perhaps in her forties, but it was hard to tell with qunari. They didn't seem to get wrinkles, just scars in the place of wrinkles, and she had them by the boat load.

Rising his head off the table, Cullen groaned, "Oh, wonderful. Just what we need, a qunari."

The woman smiled, displaying the sharp teeth of her people. "I'm not qunari. I'm tal-vashoth, a..."

"Mercenary," Alistair interrupted.

"A freed mind," she finished with instead. "My name is Aqun and if you intend to break into Ishonmoq without employing siege weapons you will require my help."

"Why would you know anything about the fortress?"

She smiled again, her grey cheeks rising in a flush, "It has not been opened since the second age. I intend to be the one to crack into it."

"You intend to pillage it for your own gain," the templar harrumphed as if he intended to sabotage their only lead.

"No, I do not care about any valuables. My interests lie in the history, the knowledge that transpired inside the hold. Thousands of years undisturbed, it is remarkable to think upon what past rests within," an electric sheen rolled across her eyes as she spoke those words, which caused a tremble up Alistair's spine. Lanny got that way sometimes, when she was leaping around in excitement over something or another that always led to lots of spiders.

"Are you saying you're a qunari scholar," Alistair sputtered, trying to stifle back a giggle.

"Tal-vashoth," she groaned at him, "and yes. I have studied Ishonmoq for years, probed it for a weakness through the multiple defenses, and I believe I have finally discovered one."

Alistair's curiosity rose, but Cullen leapt in to dampen it, "Then why do you need us? Why have you not taken this yourself?"

"Because," her head drifted between the two men now sitting on the edge of their seats, "it requires a templar to break in."

"How do you...?" Alistair began, but Aqun spoke over him.

"I will give you time to think it over, but there is no other option. Either follow me and together we open Ishonmoq, or remain here for years struggling to find a way in." Having given her ultimatum, Aqun snatched up Alistair's mug, downed it in one go, and slipped out of the door.

"There goes trouble with a capital Q," he mused to himself while watching her also barely covered backside. That had to be a distraction during battle, or maybe they thought the bad guys would only shoot at the barely armored bits. "Well, I'm guessing we take her offer."

Cullen whipped his head, then gestured to the door, "We do not know this woman. A qunari?"

"Tal-vashoth. Maker, I thought you'd know the difference."

"Who could in actuality be a qunari spy," Cullen argued back.

"I thought all their spies were elves and humans to throw people off the scent. The horns are a bit of a dead giveaway," Alistair rubbed his head as if he sported his own set.

The templar growled, "Which seems more likely, a tal-vashoth scholar reclining in a backwater tavern happens to have the only way into the fortress we need to breach, who also seems to be aware one or both of us were templars, or she's a qunari spy being fed all that information from the ben-hassrath?"

Alistair banged his fist on the table, needing to feel something, "It doesn't matter. Evil qunari spy, funny tal-vashoth scholar, either way that's it. That's our way in. Unless you want to wait a couple months out here sending letters you hope people answer, then more months for their sappers to arrive, we have no other option."

Folding his arms across his chest, Cullen sat back in the chair. He tipped his chin down deep as he digested through Alistair's thoughts. Didn't matter how he added the maths, there was one answer and one answer only. "Very well, but know that I do not like this."

Swiping the templar's drink, Alistair took a deep swig. It was butter after all. Wiping off his mouth, he sighed, "For the little it's worth, I don't like it either. Now, let's go find our qunari spy and get this over with."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Memory - Gold Ring

_9:43 Skyhold_

A solitary gold band rotated around Cullen's finger, plucked from the middle of his cherry custard before he bit into it. His eyes narrowed, curious which cook was missing a wedding ring, when a memory snapped back at him. He moved to wrap his fist around the incriminating jewelry, but it was too late, he'd been spotted.

"The commander found it," Josephine cried out, clapping her hands. A few half hearted groans echoed around the great hall and almost everyone turned to the man trying to turtle inside his coat. He didn't need this, not now. Preferably, not ever. "Congratulations," she continued clapping, loving this holiday tradition with each debilitating moment, her joy drilling into his teeth.

Somehow, Cullen staggered to his feet, the hilt of his sword smacking under the table in the endeavor, and he walked stiff legged towards the ambassador. She beamed at him with enough enthusiasm to set curtains on fire. "Madam Ambassador," he struggled to not groan out her name as he extended the palmed ring and tried to quietly hand it to her, "I don't think it's appropriate for one of us to...take away from the festivities. You should pass it on to another. Hide it in their, I don't know, drink or something."

"Nonsense, commander. You are as eligible as any other unmarried man or woman." Her eyes softened as she gazed skyward at the flowers twisted into love knots and dangled off the tapestries to honor the day, "It's all rather romantic to think upon, don't you agree?"

"No," he struggled to swallow, a buzzing rising in the back of his head. Glowering at the ground, he placed the ring in Josephine's hand and stomped out of the great hall. He felt the curious stares, the barely guarded whispers following him, but he was in no mood to answer to any of it - rather doubted he could form a response either beyond a growl.

His head didn't rise from glaring at his feet until he was safe in his office, alone. Cullen followed the same rote moves he made whenever returning from a meal - he checked his in-pile to see if anything new had arrived, scoured over the rosters with a double check for any injured, and... _Why did it have to be him? Out of the hundreds of people serving in Skyhold he had to be the one to find it? What sort of joke of the Maker's was this?_ Or worse. He mentally sneered at the pranksters moving through the ranks of the Inquisition, Sera in particular. _Could one of them have planned it all to get under his skin?_

The day's work fluttered out of his hands and he gripped onto the desk. A dark urge to either rip the top off or smash his forehead into it percolated in his mind, but Cullen planned to do neither. It was tradition -- traditions were meant to be fun, playful. A lark to honor some old chantry holiday on the calendar. Why did so cursed many of them have to involve marriage? Harvest festivals, winter watches, summer days, even some of the feasts devoted to Andraste managed to work romantic love into the celebrations. As if a person who wasn't involved with another surely wanted everyone to devote the holiday browbeating them into a relationship. He wished he could purge the heart from his chest and preserve the beating organ under glass upon his desk. _There, if that is what you are so interested in, have a gander. I am through._

Cullen pulled back the bottom drawer and picked up the blue glass bottle. He frowned at a dab of wax lifting free of its hold on the glass and tried to rub it back down with his finger. At least none of the ashes had shifted out yet. Perhaps it needed to be kept in a more secure place, or he needed to stop manhandling the thing.

A year. Thirteen months since Lana...since she walked into the fade and didn't return. Few knew about them, about their dalliances, and he was happy to maintain the secret. It meant few tried to comfort him, offer a shoulder, a pitying glance, or feel the need to mention how sorry they were in his presence. Only Leliana would stop by on occasion. They wouldn't cry together or anything soppy as such, just sit and be alone together with their thoughts. He found himself missing even that.

Rubbing his finger over the glass, he watched his prints smudge the trail with oil and sweat. Cullen spoke aloud, "You won't believe it, Lana. I found the damn ring again. Twice in my life, no less. It feels as if I'm being punished for something, something I cannot understand. Why do people put such faith in superstitious claptrap anyway? The discovery of jewelry hidden in your food gives no credence to a person finding their one true love in a year than, than running headlong into a wall predicts a short winter. At best it forecasts a certain need for dental work in your future, or that your chef might be a secret jewel thief."

He slumped down in his chair, grief chewing through his sarcasm and leaving exhaustion in the wake. After the war ended, he finally put away the last of his books and relied upon sitting to get through the doldrum days. "I wish you were here. You'd laugh at this small gold band haunting me. Toss it into a well to be rid of it. Or, or..." Or he'd give it to her, as a promise, a token, a... That thought burned away to ash. No, there'd never be anything of the sort because she wasn't here, she'd never be here again.

The first ring he found wasn't in a hall surrounded by people serving under him, wasn't when he was thirty three and showing it with each passing day, wasn't with a heart that weeped alone in the dark abyss of the night. The ring wasn't even gold, but a cheap piece of tin one of the other young templars shoved into a loaf of bread carefully sliced for them all to share before patrols. When Cullen found it, he was a fresh faced eighteen and blushed so bright a healer mage paused to ask if he had a fever. Of course the others jibbed him - asked incessantly when the wedding would be and to whom. He'd passed it off as nonsense, he had his duty to the order, certainly no time for love or the stuff that came with it. Yet, he kept that piece of tin in his pocket for years, secretly hoping to be proven wrong.

Conveniently enough, the day after he found it the tower was celebrating "Nob Day," as the other templars coined it. Nob Day was when all the nobility in the area stopped by the tower to check upon the mages on their land. They thought they were owed their due and, for the sake of transparency, the chantry allowed them minimal access into the tower.

The older templars despised it, having to polish their armor to an ungodly shine and smile politely at Banns for hours instead of fulfilling their vows. The younger ones were ecstatic with the new. "I heard there were going to be two dozen this round. At least half of them have to be girls, right?"

"And not just any girls, the fancy ones with the soft skin white as dandruff from all their carriage riding and glove wearing," Caroll glowed, his eyes skipping around the room never able to land on anything for long.

"Maybe Cullen will finally meet his _one_."

He paused in lacing up his tunic and tried to bury the smile rising to his cheeks, "I will not. That's...we're not supposed to talk to the gentry."

"No, the mages aren't supposed to talk to them. We can flirt all we want, provided the Knight-Captain's not looking."

"You're going to get him into trouble, Frederick."

Frederick shrugged, he was the type who courted trouble when he wasn't sniffing around almost all the female templars and - if rumors were to be believed - a few mages. The idea caused Cullen's stomach to flip. He'd had it drilled into his head since he was thirteen that mages were beyond them. To touch one would be like fondling Andraste, as one older templar liked to drone. That was enough to scare the young and pious Cullen. For three months he refused to even be in the same room as the few mages working in Denerim for fear the Maker would suspect he dared impose ill thoughts upon His bride.

"Let's get down there fast before the best ones are scooped up," Frederick called, waving his fellow Knight-Recruits after him. Cullen was about to reach for his helmet when Freddy chuckled. "Nah, leave it. You need them to see your pretty face. Though, in your case, maybe it's best to stick with the helmet."

A burn inched along his fingers, but Cullen left the helm on his bunk. Less excited than before, he trundled after the rest of the templars down towards the foyer. Overnight, the Tranquil transformed it from bland marble in need of repairs into a gilded dream. Cushioned chairs sat in threes or fours with small tables at the side should anyone need to rest their drinks. Tapestries Cullen had never seen before hung off the columns with banners tacked below those. They bore each Bann's family crest, trying to corral the nobility into easily documented clumps. He recognized the one for Honnleath further inside, but he'd never met the Bann himself. Not that the Bann would have time for some random farmboy turned templar. It was doubtful any of the nobility would look askance at him. The Tranquil, dressed in freshly pressed robes, wandered through the groups carrying mugs of their finest brew.

In all his life, Cullen had never seen such finery in one place. Pearls, sapphires, rubies, a smattering of diamonds glittered off every finger and exposed neck -- and there were plenty. Deep necklines were popular for women, nearly every lady sporting one that either skimmed straight across their bulging chest area, or some that dipped deep down like an arrow pointing to where he shouldn't look. The men wore their own ruffled version, the necklines relaxed but nowhere near as revealing.

Nudging him in the ribs, Frederick yanked Cullen further into the midst of the nobles conversing at a near deafening level. "Don't gawk on the stairs. You want to walk around. Mingle. Use your charm on them." Without a second thought, the raven haired templar spun on his heel and smiled at two women who bore the sophistication of their young twenties juxtaposed to the two gangly templars. They both extended handkerchiefs at Frederick and he in turn waved back with a wiggle of his fingers. That drew a great giggle from the pair. Pleased with his performance, Frederik turned back to his pupil, "See, that easy."

"I..." Cullen knocked his hands together, then felt foolish for drawing so much attention from his actions and dropped both at his side.

"Here, go talk to one of them. I'll take the one on the right, you go for the left," Frederick whispered, dragging him towards his doom. Sliding on a smile like buttering a piece of bread, he leaned towards the women, "Is the chantry missing a couple of beatifications because your beauty should be gilded for eternity."

His wooing attempt bore no sense, causing Cullen to crinkle his nose in confusion, but the women both cooed and waved their whites again as if trying to entice Frederik to charge them. Still smiling, he knocked Cullen in the chest and extended a hand to encourage him.

"Um, hello," Cullen began, uncertain what there was to talk about with two women he'd never met before. "It's a nice weather inside this tower to be having." Sweat dripped down his trembling palms, so Cullen gripped tighter to his greaves as if that would solve the problem.

"Oh, why... I suppose it is, at that," one of the women tried to be kind to the young man bobbing out of his depth.

"My friend here is quite the joker, just loves to tell his little, little jokes," Frederick hissed, the smile stagnating. "As I imagine you noticed, we're both templars."

"We did," the right one smiled. She did bear the blinding white skin the others went on about, but it put Cullen more in the mind of a sick nug than anything to whisper about. Her blonde hair was piled high while the other's sunset-orange shade scattered across her shoulders. That was about the only difference Cullen could spot between them. Maybe they wore different dresses, he was too terrified to glance at their bodies.

"Is it true what they say?" the left one asked. "About templars, I mean?"

"That we're all fiendishly handsome with charm to boot?" Frederick leaned into her and she giggled at his suggestive eyebrows.

"Well..." her eyes darted for a moment at Cullen who felt a thousand stings in that single syllable. _Well, not all of you, obviously. Look upon that one. His cheeks are marked as if he's splashed acid upon his face, and that hair is as matted as a sheep's wooly hide. If he could find a solitary charming word to say, it'd sputter from his lips like drool._

He found himself sliding further away as the woman leaned deeper into Frederick's enticing aura. The left one tried to whisper, "I heard that templars are renowned for their..." her eyes darted from one side to the other, before she added, "stamina."

"Why, my lady, I do believe you have sussed us all out," Frederick gleamed like the cat who got the canary. Without turning back to Cullen, the one he drug into this mess in the first place, Frederick wrapped his arms around each lady and led them towards one of the store rooms. "There is something I simply must show you this way. I think you'll find it fascinating."

Unable to watch the man sneak off to do what both terrified and fascinated Cullen, he turned away to face down the crowd. Trailing through the bubbles of nobility lost in themselves, he skirted around each group impressing upon the templars while his mind questioned everything he'd known. _How could it be that easy for Frederick? It wasn't supposed to be that easy._ There were steps, rules. One didn't fall in love on first sight, certainly not after only a few words were exchanged. There had to be more to it than whatever that was. Digging into his pocket, Cullen stumbled across the tin ring. No wonder they thought it so humorous that he was the one to find it - the Maker would never see fit to give him anyone, much less the one great love that came with this asinine promise.

When he looked up, he realized his musings took him away from the crowds into an antechamber. Normally, it was a storehouse for magical items, but the Tranquil cleared it so the nobility had a place to escape to should they need a rest or fainting area. As the visit had only begun none bothered to visit it yet. Empty seemed about what Cullen deserved in his life. Treading up the stairs slowly, he pinched tighter to the ring, a hollowness filling his heart. Did he even want any of those women the others easily scooped up? He knew the answer was no, but it stung him to accept they'd never want him either. _Was that to be his curse? Forever on the outside looking in?_ In all his life, there was only one girl to ever show him an ounce of interest and he'd had none in her. Another one of the Maker's jokes - to give Cullen a solitary chance with a girl he'd have to settle his heart for. Wonderful laugh there.

"Hey, get a move on, will you?" a male voice echoed through the stairwell, pinched high in the nose as if the owner was eternally peeved.

"For what reason, Jowan?" This new one plucked the very air it touched -- like a lute strummed through the lower register. Her voice bore a whisper of an accent, the r's rolling away from her tongue. Cullen stepped up another few stairs, his curiosity piqued.

"Because they're already here, that's why," this Jowan explained.

"Who's here?" She sounded unconcerned, and also distracted. Cullen risked rising another stair but the second floor lurked beyond him still.

"' _Who's here?'_ You ask that and...do you even live here?" he came back with.

"Sometimes I wish the answer was no," she answered sardonically, causing Cullen to snort. Curiosity winning, he risked being discovered by the two and finished the climb to the second floor. This Jowan stood almost framed by the doorway though he didn't bother to look over at the templar. Barely even a man yet, thin and sloppy hair framed his watery face. His companion was hidden behind a bookcase filling the room. Cullen wished he could hang his head out to see her, but that would only draw attention to him.

"All the nobles are down there right now, doing noble stuff. Come on!" Jowan grabbed onto her arm and tried to pull, but she was immoveable, only the edge of her sleeve visible to Cullen.

"Why do you suddenly care about noble...? Oh Maker, is this about a girl?"

"What? No. Of course not. Not everything in my life is about girls," Jowan sulked, both hands now holding onto her arm but unable to budge her.

"Since when? ' _What about this one? Is she pretty? I think she's pretty. You'll tell me she's pretty, yes?'_ I don't care. I have an entire entropic skill tree to get through today."

She was a mage. Cullen shook his head at his own idiocy. Of course she was, she had to be. He knew all the women in the templars, and they were currently engaged downstairs or off doing the same as Frederick. It shouldn't matter in the slightest that this woman he'd only overheard a few sentences from was a mage, but...he couldn't shake the disappointment.

Jowan, unaware of his audience, pleaded, "That's all you ever care about. Learning how to poof bread to death can wait another day, preferably forever. That was gross." He released his grip upon her, his arms folding across his chest. Somehow that was enough for the girl; she stepped towards her friend and right into Cullen's vision.

His breath gargled in his throat at a beauty he'd never imagined possible in all of thedas. Her sweet face was framed by curly hair as black as night. Something sparkled from within the tempting depths of hair like stars knotted inside the strands. She rolled her eyes at Jowan, brandishing the doest eyes Cullen had ever seen. He'd witnessed skin that dark shade before, but never one that glistened in such radiance as if the owner was some holy creation sent to walk amongst mortals. A great stack of books clutched in her arms obscured her body, only the curve of a hip and her, uh, ample back part visible.

Unaware of the templar asphyxiating on the staircase beyond her, she dropped the stack of books in her arms onto the ground. Annoyed but unsurprised, Jowan tapped his shoe while she reorganized her stacks, placing a blue cover where a brown one had been. Pleased with her choices, she picked the load back up and batted at her hair to stuff a quill behind her ear. "Gross but interesting. One day the mold turned pink, which seems strange. Was it because the bread was a different variety or..."

Jowan threw his hands up to his eyes and made gagging noises. "Please do not describe mold you found on bread. It's bad enough I know you have it." After having begged for mercy, he returned to begging for her attention, "Come on, we won't be breaking any rules. We're just heading up to the landing above to get a good look. Margie's already there."

"Marguerite? What in thedas for?" Her lips puckered in annoyance at him. The most luscious lips Cullen ever dared to witness. He wanted to kiss them, to pull back her hair with his hands, cup his fingers agains her jaw and press his own narrow lips against hers. It had to be like falling onto a pillow.

Sensing an opening, Jowan smiled, "Checking out the men. Plenty of those came too. She kept going on about some Bann with red hair. Name started with a T, I forget what it was. Margie seemed really excited about him. You might like him too, you know. Handsome, she said."

Jealousy reared inside Cullen's gut, the snake wanting to bite off both Jowan's head as well as this supposed Bann. Who was handsome, who could romance anyone as easily as Frederick did. That was how it worked, after all.

The girl shook her head, then glanced up at the ceiling, "I rather doubt it. I have work to do, real studying that doesn't involve...certain unnamed bits. It'll take all my concentration if I'm going to perfect that entropic curse."

"No one in our year's ever gotten it to work right," Jowan sighed.

"Well, I intend to try," she countered him with a smile. Cullen felt his heart stop, unable to keep going in the face of that perfect smile.

"You're the worst, you know that," Jowan huffed. Stomping around in a circle, he headed towards the upper staircase.

The girl shook her head again, then waved at him, "Then why do you suffer me?" In the process of waving at him, she bounced her hand against the stack of books sending a scroll rolling off the floor and bounding right towards Cullen. He dropped down to scoop it up while she chased after it, her hand extended off the massive wobbling stack in her hands. She could barely dip down to reach it before Cullen caught it himself and began to roll the errant scroll up.

"Uh, um," he jabbered around anything to say to her. The sudden activity caused a flush to rise against her cheeks and he felt an urge to place the back of his hand against them to feel the warmth, the softness of her skin, the curve of her smile. "Here," he ended with, dropping the scroll on top of her pile. Terrified his own heart might combust if he stared too long at her face, his eyes drifted down. Like most of the apprentices, she wore a high neckline on her robe, but the hint of a rosy birthmark prodded above it. Cullen's long dormant imagination reared up to try and determine how deep it ran down her silky skin.

"Oh no," she snatched up the scroll he handed her and slotted the nondescript roll of vellum below another that looked the same, "it goes here, for...um, reasons. Thank you."

"You're welcome," his brain automatically threw out, rescuing him. If he'd left his tongue in charge it'd have come out as "You're beautiful!"

She dipped her knees to glance down at the staircase where a few of the guests moved into the antechamber, their voices rising to them. "I don't blame you for avoiding the nobles," she smiled, a gentle laugh punctuating her sentence, and then she moved away from him, lost to the labyrinthian library. Cullen stood frozen in place for nearly a half hour, a dumb grin stretching his cheeks, and a tin band pressed against his palm.

In his move to Kirkwall, he managed to misplace the ring - whether a true accident or his own disjointed mind rescuing him he couldn't say. When he first found it, people chided him for a few weeks then promptly forgot as some other crisis arose in the tower. Cullen was happy to let it die, but secretly, so deep inside his heart he dare never speak it, he hoped that maybe there was something to the old superstitions after all.

Then she left, became a grey warden because of that mage, because Jowan tricked her into his own web as he always did. When news of her loss reached him Cullen tried to accept he'd never see her again, but a selfish dream percolated inside. On occasion wardens came to the tower. That older one had just been there to recruit her, perhaps she'd find a reason, or miss something in her old home. Hope knotted in his heart at the foolish thought, until Uldred. Every filthy finger prodding into him, pulling loose his deepest fears, greatest sorrows and hates, all to push him to madness. He watched helpless as his friends were carted off one by one to feed the demons or entertain them with their deaths. Frederick went quick, his still handsome face ringed in shock as they impaled it on a stake. In the midst of that chaos, Cullen accepted he wouldn't survive. Clinging desperate to any prayer he knew and trying to cleanse his soul for the Maker or Andraste, he prepared himself for the end, when she returned.

No matter how deep he buried her, the blood mages found his secret shame and dangled it in front of his face before finishing him off. He was certain of it, the truth was impossible. Lana back in his life having fought through every manner of demon up numerous levels to cleanse the tower? Even with all her skill as an apprentice it seemed beyond dreams, beyond his foolish hope. She didn't deserve what he said, the way he...made her uncomfortable. All she wished to do was help, but in his state any hand came with a dagger inside.

"I'm sorry, Lana," he whispered to her not-ashes. "I'm sorry I wasn't, couldn't be right for you. Couldn't be enough for you."

A knock broke against his door. Cullen shoved the bottle safely back in its drawer. Out of habit, he wiped the back of his hand against dry eyes. "Yes?" he shouted, his voice steady. A year of burying his grief trained him well in how to recover quickly.

He'd expected one of his aides or a soldier, but the ambassador slid through the door. The candle's flame on her board dipped dangerously close to the edge from the winds whipping around the battlements. Josephine cupped her hand around it to will the flame back in place, then smoothed down her golden attire. "Commander, I came to apologize for the ring incident."

Shaking his head, Cullen rose, "It is no mind."

 "If you had not wished to be involved I could have instructed the chefs to skip your plate. I, forgive me for failing to take your guarded privacy into account."

By some quirk of the Maker, he managed to feel even worse for how he acted. It wasn't as if Josephine knew, no one did aside from Leliana -- who was off being Divine, and Hawke -- who was somewhere in the west. He suspected the Inquisitor grew wise, but other than an occasional knowing glance the man never said a word, for which Cullen was grateful. No one remaining in Skyhold had any reason to think their reclusive commander ever dared to share his heart with anyone, much less the woman who sacrificed herself to save the grey wardens. The ambassador was trying to spice up the doldrum life on the mountain, be lighthearted and fun. Whimsical. And he stomped all over it, as everyone claimed he was wont to do.

"It's not your fault, Josephine. I, I forgot the day myself and if I'd realized it I would have warned you. Or asked to be left out..." Or remained in his room alone while the rest of the happy lovers frolicked around together.

"Commander," Josephine inched closer to him with such certainty in her eyes, Cullen instinctively knotted his knees together. "If you do not mind, there have been a number of requests for your attentions."

"Ah," he threw his head back, scrubbing his cheeks with his fingers as if the answer to his problems resided inside his scruff. "When will the Orlesians find a new toy?"

"They are not all remnants from Halamshiral," she said. "I dare say you might even find a few suitable. Soldiers in their own right, some have great notoriety on the national level for their combat skills as well as leadership, loyalty, and sewing ability."

"Sewing?"

"Orlesians consider a well rounded soldier to be the peak of perfection. If that is not to your pleasing, some other women with more intellectual pursuits have also shown an interest."

Cullen dropped both of his hands and glared out through the open door, "Josephine, it's not..."

"Perhaps if I knew what you find intriguing. A man of your standing must have certain preferences in his, um, companion," she picked up her quill and waited patiently for his answer.

Beguiling, compassionate eyes that when faced with a conundrum would shroud in an impenetrable enigma. Hair wilder than his that looked at home reaching beyond her shoulders or knotted back into braids. Lips that easily slipped into a smile which could brighten the deeproads themselves. Shoulders scarred from trying to carry the weight of the world for too long. Fingers as quick to catch a falling baby bird as slice apart a murderer's throat. And a mind dripping with a thousand thoughts, so far ahead of everyone she'd have to pause to let him catch up.

He could spend all day listing every trait, quirk, and inch of Lana he yearned for: the stout turn to her short thighs, freckles darting across the sides of her breasts, and the birthmark blooming upon her enticing collar. But what he wished for, ached in his soul to have return, was to hear her voice speak to him one more time. To have her sweet alto roll her Free Marcher r's as she quickly whipped through a dozen magical theories he'd never understand.

"Commander?" Josephine spoke, startling him from his gaze into the past. Shaking his head, Cullen reached up to rub his exhausted eyes and found tears streaking across his fingertips. "Is there someone else?" she placed her quill down, her eyes hunting over him. A year he'd kept it quiet, kept anyone else from learning the truth of it for fear of how it would reflect upon him, upon Lana even more. The templar and mage - they'd never broken any rules but people would talk, assume that they'd been more when it wasn't right.

Swallowing, Cullen shut his eyes tight. "There was," he answered for Josephine.

"Was?"

"She, she is gone. I'd prefer to not go into it," he opened his eyes against the burn of a hundred tears struggling to be released.

Josephine gulped against the heartbreaking display, "Naturally, I should not have... I am sorry."

"So am I."

"Forgive me for implying with..." the ambassador scratched off whatever list she'd already begun for his perfect mate, a flush rising off her cheeks. "I am sorry," she added again as if that would somehow fix everything. Her eyes darted towards the ground in embarrassment, exactly the kind Cullen hoped to avoid, as she inched towards the door. Suddenly, she paused and extended her hand, "Here."

He cupped his hand under hers and accepted the gold ring weighing heavily in his palm.

Josephine paused in the doorway and quickly exclaimed, "You should have this, still. You did find it." She escaped away before blushing herself to death.

Glittering by the lamplight, Cullen stared at the ring - the one that mocked him again for thinking he could have happiness, have the life so many others achieved as if breathing. He could sell it, certainly it was worth a pretty sovereign, the madam ambassador would never skimp on such a feast. Put the money back into the Inquisition or perhaps towards the small templar funds springing up around thedas. Cullen folded his fingers up around the ring and, gently, he dropped it back into his pocket.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Tunnels

_9:44 Anderfels_

At least the qunari didn't stab them in the back right away. Cullen felt her ice blue eyes drifting over him and then back across the king while those two squabbled over the nitty gritty of their arrangement.

"So, you're not under the Qun?" Alistair jabbed at the woman towering above him, his head craned back. The man had a blush rising up the back of his neck brighter than the fading sunburn. Cullen had a good idea he knew why judging by the noticeable lack of clothing on this tal-vashoth scholar. She kept her shoulders back and her chest shoved out as if at constant attention. Good for one's posture, less so for the king's attempt at staring up into her eyes.

"I am not. I left many years ago for personal reasons," Aqun said. She bore a staff across her back, not of the mage variety. This was thinner with a spear tip on the end for reaching long distances to impale someone's chest. Cullen could already picture it embedding between one of their ribs.

"It's just, most of the not-qunari qunari I meet tend to be more..." Alistair waved his hand around.

"Mercenaries?"

"Stab people in the gut because someone told them to," he answered with and Cullen groaned. He didn't trust this Aqun but the king didn't need to wave his bare ass around and dare her to spear it. _Maker, don't give him that idea._ Cullen's hand drifted down to try and scratch Honor's head, but he felt a tuft of hair rising up. A line running her entire back rose, her ears pinned back as she didn't growl but beamed a tight focus on the qunari.

"Many who abandon the Qun never leave it," Aqun said. "I have watched my fellows fall to the vices of the south led by any and all who would guide them with a foolish hand, unable to find balance. It is sad."

"Right, very sad," Alistair continued to blather, "just one tiny question I'm wondering. If you're not under the Qun, and not here at the whim of some noble's coin to give a free knife massage to his enemies, who do you work for?"

Aqun paused for the king to catch up, and her taut lips twisted in a smile, "A perceptive question. I am in fact here on leave of the grey wardens." That caught Cullen's attention, and he whipped a question back at maybe not the only warden there - but Alistair shook his head no. Either sensing the argument between them, or anticipating it, Aqun continued, "The wardens often employ those beyond their ranks to assist in delicate matters."

"Delicate matters like letting some outsider break into their secret ancient fortress and ferret out all their secrets? Those same wardens just love sharing information with anyone who wanders by and asks. Or..." Alistair stumbled, "or so I've heard."

"Have you now?" Aqun's icy eyes lingered over him. "The wardens are not as tight eyed as you've been led to believe."

"Tight eyed?" Alistair puzzled through her mixed up idiom, then shook his head, "I suppose it is possible for the wardens to look into a merce- not-mercenary, not-qunari to finish a few tasks for them. Maybe-ish." The king turned his head fully around at Cullen and shrugged, unable to verify the woman's story. Not that it much mattered, if the ben-hassrath needed her background to check out they'd move mountains for it to happen.

"How did you know one of us is a templar?" Cullen spoke up, his voice flat from lack of use. The trip back towards the fortress felt five times as long as the one into town, his feet dragging in the grass.

Aqun turned from her pace ahead of them both and placed a hand upon her hip. "Simple, your gait."

"My gait?" Cullen asked, his feet pausing.

"Templars move with a soft shuffle upon the balls of your feet for fear that a mage could plant ice under you at any moment. It is rather easy to spot when one knows what to look for."

"I don't..." Cullen began when he glanced down at his boots, the ones where the soles always wore out first at the ball instead of the heel. "That was how you- You had not heard of us before?"

"Should I?" Aqun asked, tilting her head in surprise.

"No, nope, just two ordinary guys and a dog willing to team up with a random armed qunari woman to break into a warden fortress. Nothing strange about that at all," Alistair muttered, dragging out the awkwardness among them. Whatever she truly was she had to know something -- whether it was of their full plans or only a hazarded guess -- Cullen would bet his breeches that Aqun knew who the king of Ferelden was, perhaps recognized him as well. Which gave her leverage against them both while she was little more than a puff of smoke on the wind to them.

Cullen's gait slowed as he glowered towards the sun preparing to dip down under the horizon. Soon they'd be walking in the dark to this imaginary entrance courtesy of a potential foe while expecting a knife in the back. It was idiotic beyond measure. There had to be another way, a chance to... His fingers dipped into his pocket to brush against the phylactery. _Lana, I..._

"What is it?" Alistair whispered near him, closer than Cullen felt comfortable. He tried to rear back but the king's eyes darted to the qunari marching further towards the north. "Is it...dark again?"

"No, no, I can feel its life, except..." He gripped his fingers around the glass, thumb circling around to protect it, while Cullen tried to drain every secret and vision into him. "It's fading. I, I can't explain it, but the pull isn't as strong as it was and we're closer than ever."

A moan rattled in Alistair's throat and he rocked back and forth on his heels. Facing the north and the speck of a fortress on the horizon, he said, "Hang on, Lanny. Just a little more and we'll get there."

What if they didn't? What if she slipped through his fingers before they made it back? Before they could climb their way through this supposed secret entrance? What if the qunari turned on them both before they even found her? Cullen folded his hands together, one wrapped tight around the other as if to comfort it, and he pressed both against his forehead. _We could fail you, Lana._ So close, so damn close, and all gone in a heartbeat.

"Uh, look, I..." Alistair spoke up, his hands jangling in his own bottomless pockets, "I know carrying that thing isn't easy, at all. If it's not happy memories, it's the pit of despair when it switches from on to off. Either way, it's the opposite of fun, so..." He unearthed his hand and extended it towards Cullen.

A piece of paper sat inside of the king's palm, but it wasn't until Cullen picked it up to hold closer that realization struck him. Drawn across a tan linen in shadings of intricate ink lines was Lana. She was reclining across a divan, one hand brushing across her forehead while the other steadied her staff beside her. The sash on her robes was unknotted and even the two bottom buttons on her inside vest undone. She needed the freed space to curl her legs up under her in comfort. Beside her sat a cup of tea, filled to the brim, and he'd bet anything ice cold when the portrait was first created.

"After Denerim, they thought there should be an official portrait of the Hero to, I don't know, rub in Orlais' face or something. Everyone wanted a chance to paint her, so they brought in a dozen artists with plans to pick the best. I..." Alistair paused and smiled at a memory, "Lanny was not happy to keep standing still for hours, to put it mildly. Almost all of the final paintings were a fancied version of her stabbing a sword, a spear, or her own hand into the archdemon. They barely even looked like her, you know. They kept drawing her hair straight for some stupid reason. All were wrong except for that one. An old woman spotted Lanny when she was taking a break - her code for hiding in the library - and sat down alone beside her to draw this."

A sob rattled in Cullen's throat as he traced across her preserved face. How long it'd been since he last saw her, this her. Not the fearsome slayer of darkspawn every other painting of the Hero of Ferelden was, but the little mage lost in her enigmatic thoughts. Her lips were slightly pursed as an idea tripped across her mind, one her eyes puzzled out thousands of miles away. It was her, the woman he fell in love with, the woman who held his hand, who melted snow off his hair, who kissed him with such fervor it flipped his stomach.

Swallowing down his own emotions, the king continued to talk, "The others, those are paintings of the Hero of Ferelden, or Lady Amell, or Arlessa Amell -- either way, scary lady in tight robes looking angry. This," he pointed at the small drawing, "this was Lanny, this is what her friends know." Alistair's finger drew across her tiny hand clinging to the staff. Blinking a few times, he lifted his face and smiled, "Keep it."

"What? No, I can't. It's far too..." Precious, perfect, painful. Cullen couldn't find an answer, his eyes lost in hers.

"If all works out, we should be seeing the original soon enough."

"I..." Cullen dipped his head down so the king wouldn't see his tears of gratitude. "Thank you."

Alistair's hand gently tapped against Cullen's shoulder. The two men, whose lives weaved countercurrent to each other yet were somehow bound together by this one woman shared a strange moment of solidarity. "Besides," the king shrugged, "I have the bigger version back at home anyway."

The moment could have been shattered, but even from the king's flimsy brag, Cullen felt the rise of hope stirring in his heart. Maybe they could pull it off after all. Slipping Lana into his pocket to rest beside her phylactery, he followed after Aqun towards the warden fortress.

***

"Well, what's your plan?" Cullen asked the woman. He felt the phylactery slip away to its black state as they stomped up the hill, dousing the hopeful flame inside him. Now in an even more belligerent mood than before, nothing short of the qunari yanking open a secret hidden door in the wall would impress him.

"Templar, surely even you can sense it now," Aqun waved her hand not in the direction of the fortress looming a good dozen feet away but at something hidden in the ground. There was no camouflaged hatch to lift, or secret boulder to shove aside. Cullen shifted his foot over the dirt covered by errant weeds and grass, then he glared at the qunari. "For all the grains of sand, must I do everything?" She pulled her spear off her back, causing both Cullen and Alistair to rear back, but instead of plunging it into them, she dug it into the ground. The clank of metal striking metal rang through the stilling air.

"We have to dig to get at it, but I did not think it would be a problem. Perhaps I am mistaken," Aqun sighed. While the men continued to stare slack jawed, she followed the depth of her spear and dug into the dirt with her claws. Clumps of sod followed quickly, and Honor's tail began to wag at the fun new game.

Sighing, Cullen gestured towards the qunari knee deep in the mud. "Go ahead," barely left his mouth before Honor was beside her, front paws churning faster than anything the qunari or humans could manage. Still... Cullen waved his hand at the other side and said, "Shall we?"

He felt a bit of pride in the grim look on the king's face. It was one thing to plan to breach some ancient fortress' walls using gatlock or whatever he thought the qunari had in mind, but secret tunnels buried underground which required a templar for unspoken reasons, never ended well. As Alistair sunk to his knees, Cullen unearthed an old dagger and sliced deep into the ground. Sandier than he'd expected, the packed dirt scattered as he yanked up clumps of earth to throw aside.

"I'm thinking demons, probably traps, and spiders," Alistair whispered beside him.

Cullen nodded along, those seemed the most likely - particularly the spiders. "Is there anywhere in all of thedas that doesn't suffer from a giant spider problem?"

"Ah..." Alistair raised his muddied hand about to speak, then shut it and shuddered.

"What?" Cullen asked, not wanting the answer but more concerned about what his mind would conjure up.

"Just had the terrifying thought of spiders that could fly, or swim!"

"Please don't let it be a nightmare demon," Cullen begged to himself. "I fear what it would conjure from your brain."

"I'm guessing yours would be all of us arriving on test day in our smalls," Alistair answered, elbows deep into the increasing hole. While the men mostly putzed around, the two females dug a good foot down revealing the scrapings of something flat.

"Aqun?" Cullen asked to distract from how unnervingly right the king was, "How did you discover this supposed secret entrance?"

"How does anyone? Ancient literature, old runic wards carved into rocks to show the way, and listening to the crazy rumors passed down from someone's grandmother. The grandmother tales help the most."

A clang reverberated below them, followed by an "Ow." Alistair pulled up his hand and tried to inspect his dented fist. Mud was burrowed under his nails and across the pale knuckles, not that Cullen was in any better shape. He risked a look over at his dog, then sighed at the baths she would require to get even sort of clean. Even with her natural dark coating, Honor looked as if she'd run through a muddy avalanche then come out wagging her tail. Paws, muzzle, head, back - he wouldn't be surprised if she ate some of the dirt.

"I believe I can open it," Aqun said. Both men stood back, then Cullen waved for Honor to stop digging. She scampered over to his side, then dipped down to chew away at a clod of sod. Digging her spear through a thin seam, Aqun yanked downward on her weapon. The way her muscles bulged out from the effort reminded him of Hawke and the way she'd stomp around Skyhold trying to one-up the Iron Bull in every challenge the Champion thought of.

As if reading his mind, Alistair jerked his thumb over and whispered, "I am not asking her to an arm wresting contest."

Popping like an old cask, wind gushed from the opened seal - bitter and stale with the fetid stench of an infirmary. Cullen tried to waft it away, when he caught the qunari's unimpressed eye travel from him down to the barely dislodged hatch. Right. Dropping down, Cullen and then Alistair both grabbed onto the steel door and -- pulling against the tug of time, dirt, and its own weight -- they slammed it open. Darkness pervaded down the shaft, the eternal kind that could only be found in the dwarfless depths of thedas.

"I don't suppose anyone thought to bring a ladder," Alistair said.

Shaking her head, Aqun yanked out a white crystal he'd never seen before. She cracked it in half with her fingers and a bright light burst from the cleavage. Leaning over the exposed edge, the qunari tossed one end of the glowing crystal down into the depths. It skittered against the walls before splashing in inch thick water. "Not as deep as I feared," Aqun smiled. "Who shall go first?"

On top of bringing their only light source, the qunari also came prepared with ropes, and block and tackle to anchor to the ground above. The humans were able to easily rappel down, Alistair going first. When Cullen landed in the ankle deep water beside him, the king was reaching down to pick up the crystal. At first, he feared the man wanted to keep it as a souvenir, but he held it close to the walls.

"What shall we do about the dog?" Aqun called from above, interrupting Cullen's thoughts.

"Um..." He could tell her to wait. She'd probably do it willingly, her tail thumping in anticipation of his return. But... In the middle of his deciding, Honor took it upon herself to leap head first down the hole. "Oh shit!" Cullen cursed, diving forward to catch his seventy pound mabari hurtling towards him. Even the king turned from his wall inspection to reach out. Cullen took most of Honor's weight in his arms, the momentum crushing him to the ground. While water seeped across his armored back now screaming in pain, his dog lapped her tongue over his cheeks. He shoved her off and staggered to rise, Alistair offering a hand to help him.

Water poured out of the bottom of his backplate while Cullen glared down at his dog, "You were not told to do that. And licking my face will not make up for your disobedience." Honor sat ass down into the flooded cavern, her small tail bobbing below the surface like an excited fish. If she felt bad for nearly pancaking her master, she didn't seem to be capable of showing it.

While Aqun worked her way downward, the king returned to inspecting the walls, his fingers dragging across what looked like black stones. "All right, what is it?" Cullen asked.

"Hm, what? Oh, just...there's nothing here."

"It's an escape tunnel, people don't tend to pepper their underground tunnels in art."

Alistair waved the crystal a few more times, then stroked his bearded chin, "Maybe. Or, eh, it's nothing. Stupid thought. Here, you want to hold the torch?" He moved to pass the crystal to Cullen.

"Or what?" He folded his arms up when Aqun splashed down beside them, the last of their party complete.

She undid the rope around her midsection and craned up high to make certain it was still attached. "Down was easy, but up will be a challenge. Still, alive and onward." Digging out her second crystal, Aqun leaned deeper into the side tunnel that seemed to be in the direction of the fortress. At her great height, she had to stoop; even then the crests of her horns occasionally banged into the ceiling, sprinkling the fetid water with dust. Without bothering to wait for the men to catch up, she walked through the tunnel, her shadows dancing along the black walls.

Extending his own crystal for both of them to see, Alistair said, "I'll tell you later." Then he raised his voice to shout at their guide, "Hey, wait up!"

Built without comfort in mind, the tunnel's ground sagged unevenly, and hidden below dark water it was anyone's guess what would cause a stumble and what would break an ankle. They moved cautiously, their feet sliding over the surface while water crowded through boots, socks, and deep into skin. Cullen felt his toes pruning with every minute. The scenery rarely changed, even the tunnel itself didn't dip or turn to split off in numerous directions. He was thinking of sewage systems designed to connect various houses - but this was built for one purpose only. The question was what that purpose was.

"Aqun," Cullen spoke up, his soft voice echoing against the tight quarters. The qunari didn't turn around to look at him, but she paused in her lead. "Why do you need a templar?"

"Ah," she lifted her crystal higher, "I believe we have reached our first reason." Glittering along every surface of the walls were wards, the runes of magic almost the same as what Cullen knew but the edges were unreadable, the language altered over the centuries. Judging by the blue color probably ice based, but this was ancient magics; it was anyone's guess what they could do. A bone rattling power wafted off of them; these weren't some simple wards a mage placed down to protect themselves in battle. These hummed with the ability to freeze blood solid.

"Well, templar? I believe this is for you," Aqun waved her head in the direction of the wards.

Cullen told Honor to wait, then tried to slide around the qunari. It wasn't easy in the cramped tunnel, but he managed without accidentally touching her and stood before the magic. An easy matter for a young templar, especially one humming with lyrium, Cullen's eyes drifted over every etching flaring in the crystal's light. Did he have enough strength left inside of him? It'd been years since he touched any of those skills, never wanted to delve back into the life for any reason. Digging deep, Cullen closed his eyes tight and pulled on that thread of magic humming in the air. It whipped back at him, refusing to go quietly. In touching it, he tasted the centuries these wards crackled off the walls waiting for someone, anyone, to disturb them. Now, they had their opportunity and weren't about to go quietly. Sweat dripped off his brow and into his screwed up eyes, but he shook it off and kept on tugging against the ice, like undoing an entire sweater in one yank. The wards were more complex than any possible knitting pattern, chunks of magic dripping into the ground with each pull. He tried to scoop them away but he wasn't powerful enough. Ice sparked across the water, but didn't reach them. Instead, small floes bobbed along the water runoff, birthed as he gritted his teeth and by the vestiges of willpower, yanked off the last of the ward.

As his eyes popped open, he found his hands clutched together tight in prayer, the knuckles prodding through his gloves. Aqun touched his shoulder, "Not bad, took longer than expected, but we should keep moving." Without being as cautious as he'd been, she shoved him aside and continued the lead.

It was Alistair who snuck up beside him and whistled, "I can't believe you pulled that one off."

"It should not have been so difficult," Cullen blamed himself, snarling at his own incompetence. In his youth, he'd have stripped it bare in a wave of his hand.

Instead of agreeing with him, the king's eyes widened and he glanced from the empty wards back to Cullen, "That magic tasted bad, old, however you want to look at it. Scary. I'd go with scary, and..." he pursed his lips, something else on his mind.

"What? What concerns you?" Cullen tried again.

Alistair banged his hand into his sword's hilt, knocking it against the walls, "Just, the walls back there. If this was supposed to be an escape tunnel, why aren't there any indentations to lead up? Kinda hard to do any escaping without a ladder."

"That..." Cullen began to argue when Aqun whistled for them to catch up.

Past the broken runes, they found a door sealed tight - an intricate face carved into the wood. He expected to have to solve some ancient puzzle to open it, but the qunari grabbed onto the latch and popped it open without a second thought. If there was a trick to it, it bore no fruit in the face of that abject strength. "Or wrestling in general," Alistair continued, "I'm not challenging her to arm or any other variety."

Obviously overhearing him, Aqun shook her head and stepped through the doorway. Her small white light amplified back to them tenfold through the doorframe. Rendering Aqun and everything inside unseeable, the light must have reflected off the walls or something else inside polished to a blinding shine. A pinprick headache dug into Cullen's brain and he pinched the bridge of his nose to try and draw it forth. In shaking it off, he turned to spot Honor. Her entire back fur spiked high while her lips curled up, a growl trying to escape but nothing breaking free, as if someone or something silenced her.

_Maker's breath!_ He unsheathed his sword and gripped onto the shield. _What did they unleash?_

Forgetting the king, and his mabari, Cullen dashed through the open door alone. White light burned across his eyes, the assault drawing forth even more pain in his brain. The headache bludgeoned against him, thumping hard like a hammer upon the backs of his eyes until he feared his skull would crack from the pressure. Cullen's knees buckled, dragging him towards the wet ground. He tried to blink against it, to pull his vision back from wherever it was banished, when the whiteness spun around and looked upon him. Unable to grip tight to this world, consciousness slipped through his fingers, and he tumbled into the water.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Bliss

_9:44 Skyhold_

Mountain air brushed across his cheek and an eye rolled open. Cullen stared through a half empty bottle perched beside his sleepy face to a bookshelf bowing in the middle from a stack he kept meaning to move before it collapsed. _No. That isn't right._ He snapped up in his chair, the padding worn to fit his backside after two years of service. A line of drool coated missives laid out across his desk, all of them baring the Inquisitor's signature. Skyhold. _How was he back in Skyhold?  _

Pain throbbed at the back of his skull, drumming through the vertebra and across his jaw. It felt as if he smashed the back of his head against the edge of a hewn brick. Gently, he reached back to touch it, causing even more pain to sear behind his eyes. _This was a trick, some, some illusion of..._ Papers were piled along the desk, in the same five stacks he always had. Even the damn mug was the same, with the broken handle he patched up rather than replace. _What was going on?_

The door in front of him blew open. Used to people coming and going to pass through, Cullen didn't bother to look up until a voice chilled his heart.

"Don't tell me, you fell asleep at your desk again." He whipped his head so fast to follow the voice, pain shrieked up his neck. Lana. She stood there -- in his doorway -- alive, with an admonishing sigh upon her lips. "You know you have a perfectly good bed up that ladder. And..." she pointed at his hand gripping to the back of his neck, "it won't strain your shoulders." Chuckling, she closed the door and slid over the edge of his desk. Her fingers glanced across his, and they were warm, soft, with the same calluses he remembered. Cullen's hand froze as she gently picked it away and began to massage his neck.

"How...?" Cullen gulped, fighting down an urge to scurry away from her touch. It felt so real, so familiar, but that was impossible. Wasn't it? She shouldn't be here because, because of a reason slipping away from him. "Why are you here?"

Lana paused in digging into his shoulders, her thumb bouncing against his skin as she spoke, "Where else should I be - the mage quarters? That lasted all of two weeks after I officially joined your Inquisition. As I remember, a certain commander convinced me it was best to free up the bed for someone else and that we..." she leaned closer, luscious lips pressing against his earlobe as her hot breath washed over him, "move in together."

He screwed his eyes up tight as every inch of him awoke from an unending torment he'd barely been aware of -- his heart freed from its two year coma. It wasn't until she ran her slender fingers across his skin, Cullen realized how his soul desiccated on the vine. How badly he needed to feel her touch, hear her voice, smell her scent to revive him back to life. "Lana..." he groaned her name. "That doesn't sound," thoughts danced across his brain, dark ones screaming that it wasn't right, this wasn't right. But, out of everything in his life, every dark, desolate night and rigorous, exhausting day, she was the only thing that was ever right.

"What is it?" she asked.

"You..." Words wafted through his soul, struggling to be heard. Another throb blared at the back of his head, and Cullen reared in pain. He reached up to pinch his eyes only to find them drenched in tears. "You're dead," it rushed back at him, punching through this dream fog he wished he could envelop himself in.

She reached over to grab both of his hands inside her own. They should have been cold, still as the grave, but her warmth overtook his own crying out to comfort him. "Cullen, oh, sweetheart! Here..." placing one of his hands against her cheek, she leaned into it like a pillow, "feel me. I'm here. I'm real. It was a dream, one of the bad ones."

"You died in the fade," he shook his head, clinging to the razor wire of truth running through his mind. He hated how it sliced him apart, but he knew if he let go he'd be lost forever, "stayed behind so the others could..."

"We all escaped, at Adamant, yes? You remember, tell me you remember." Tears brimmed in Lana's eyes and she cupped his cheek, pulling his forehead to hers. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there to stop them in time."

"Stop what?" he blinked, struggling to keep ahold of the conversation.

She closed her eyes tight and whispered, "The blood mages, the wardens who..." Tipping her head back, Lana tried to catch a few of the tears before they fell down her cheeks. Instinctively, Cullen ran the back of his hand against them, each drop wetting his skin the way any real tear would. "They cornered you, delved into your mind and-and convinced you I'd died. But I didn't, I'm here. You remember, right? How we stormed through the Arbor Wilds together? How we waited with bated breath to hear if the Inquisitor defeated Corypheus?"

"Yes, that-that happened," he flexed his fingers and felt his tenuous grip slipping. It was possible. What if the malifecarum had crawled inside of his mind, stripped away his one happiness to torture him? And she, she didn't stay behind, didn't sacrifice herself for Hawke or anyone else. She was here, with him, had been the entire time. It made sense.

Swallowing down two years of grief, a smile broke across his lips, lifting his heart with it. Grabbing onto her cheek, Cullen pulled the woman he loved beyond reason to his lips for the impossible kiss. She tasted exactly how he remembered, her pillowy lips brushing open as he danced his tongue with hers. It was Lana, body and soul. _How could he forget?_

She broke the kiss, but not before pecking him on the end of the nose, and smiled, "I take it you're feeling better."

"Lana, I..." a panic struck him, and Cullen sat up higher in his chair. "Where's Honor?"

"Where she always is, fast asleep at the foot of your desk," she chuckled waving towards the rug. He rose to his feet to peer over his desk to find the mabari's hind legs twitching in a dream, her tail thumping madly against the floor. Whatever dream it was, it was a good one.

Running a hand through his hair, Cullen tried to will down the erratic beat in his heart. Honor was right where she should be. He was right where he belonged, and Lana... Maker's breath, Lana was here, with him. Breaking from the sight of his sleeping dog, Cullen wrapped both hands around her waist cinched up in the exact same corset she used to wear in the tower. Her hair blossomed off her head, longer than he'd seen in years and softer as well. She even had the time to put a dash of rouge across her cheeks and kohl upon her eyelids. It was Lana at rest, free, as free as he was. Neither of them with an order to obey, vows to honor. They could be together, fully and whole.

Sliding her across the desk, Cullen pulled Lana tight to him. She giggled at first, then wrapped her own arms around his back as she placed her head against his armored chest. "Lana, I-I was so scared I lost you. I thought, I felt as if-as if someone stole the only hope in my life and replaced it with darkness. Unending, unyielding, insurmountable darkness." Brushing his palms across her cheeks, he pushed back her errant hair and sighed, "I love you."

Cullen moved to kiss her, fully give in to her forever, when she whispered, "I love you too." He froze a breath away from her lips. Pain throbbed up his jaw, his teeth clenched tight. _Wrong. It was wrong._

Lana rotated uncomfortably on her hips, "What is it?"

He released his hold on her, his hands slipping back to the frozen air as they thudded alone against his desk. "You never said it," he whispered into the air.

"Never said what?" she laughed, trying to pick his arm up and put it around her. Cullen slid away from her grasp. He didn't yank his arms in rage, only wafted from her like a ghost ship cresting through the foggy waves. Without lifting his broken head, he turned to face the bookshelf and saw it, the blue bottle holding her ashes. Not her ashes, but the ashes pretending to be hers, because this wasn't Lana.

"Cullen," Not-Lana said, concern rising in her voice, "What did I never say? Talk to me, please."

Running a finger across the glass bottle, a warmth hissed against his thumb as if the pyre was just burned. The happiness in his heart drifted away like the ashes he dumped into the wind. Screwing his eyes up tight, his head flopped forward, and he sighed, "'I love you.' Lana, you never said that because you couldn't. You didn't love me, and there wasn't time for you to, before you..." Cullen turned to find her eyes wide, her hand pressed to her mouth, "You died, Lana. You went into the fade and you never came out. It's why I'm here. Out there. Fighting to find you, to try and save you. This isn't real."

"Cullen, please," she hopped off the desk, and tried to grab his hands again, "please, this isn't a good sign. I know, I know memories can be scary, especially the wrong ones, but you need help. I can help you."

"No," he couldn't stop himself from touching her cheek. The pleading was genuine, her eyes brimming in tears, her bottom lip wobbling. That was the Lana he knew, the one that hated seeing him in pain, who wanted to rescue him from every hurt outside and in. But it wasn't her. Tears slopped from his eyes, fat ones streaking down his cheeks as he struggled through two years of grief washing across him in one go. "You can't help me Lana, because I have to help you first."

Pulling his hand away from her soft skin, Cullen turned away and dropped to the floor. He nudged Honor in the head and called to her, "Girl, come on. Wake up, we need to be going." It took a few more tries before her tail stopped thumping in her dream and those sloe black eyes rolled open. She blinked, looking as tattered as he felt, before accepting that her master was here and things would work out. Honor rose to her feet to stand by his side.

"Cullen!" Lana begged. "Whatever you're going to do, it isn't safe. Not in this condition. You could get hurt out there alone. Please, come back to me. Rest. A good sleep will fix everything."

He wished he could look back at her, perhaps the last time he'd ever see her face again, but he couldn't. He wasn't strong enough to pull himself away a second time. Stroking Honor's head, Cullen flopped her ears back and forth before he grabbed onto the door's handle. His voice dropped into his chest and he whispered, "I'm sorry," while opening the door and stepping through.

White light flared up, blinding him again. As the sear faded away, it wasn't Skyhold waiting for him but a grassy meadow. In the distance, rocky hills burst through the ground, the cliffside red as a sunset. Cullen reached down to check on Honor, but his dog seemed to have already adjusted to the change. Turning back around, he spotted the doorframe he stepped through free standing. There was no wall it was bolted to, nothing keeping it up. Only meadow shown through both sides, as cheery as a perfect summer day. In the distance, he heard birds chirping as they dove through tall grasses to catch grasshoppers calling for mates. The susurruss winds caressed his cheek, smelling of wood crackling on a fire pit, fresh cut hay drying in the fields, and the late summer flowers blooming in anticipation of the insects. It felt like home.

Gulping, Cullen checked his sword then a thought crossed his mind. _Would his blade even work in the fade or could someone turn it into a noodle with a thought?_ He never asked what it meant when mages went into the fade. Everyone dreamed, of course, but this felt real, nothing like a dream at all. Cullen gripped tight to his chest as if to stick his churned heart back in place. Too real. Uncertain where to head, he struck out in the direction of the smoke breaking through the bright blue sky. It wasn't until he crossed a hill that Cullen spotted a house. A fence circled it, half torn down, and barely a post matching as if it was ramshackled together from ten other fences.

"Hey!" a petulant voice cried out from the grasses wafting in the breeze. Cullen spun to the east when a boy rose from the ground appearing as if by magic. His skin was a soft brown, reminiscent of Josephine's shade, with a mound of curly black hair flattened at the top of his head. After playing on the ground, mud speckled his cheeks and a blue and silver tunic two sizes too large for the reedy frame.

The boy ran close to Cullen and stuck a hand on his hip, "Never seen you before. Are you new?"

"I..." Cullen's eyes rolled around the area, "I suppose I am. There's some people I'm looking for. A man about my height with blonde hair and a qunari woman."

Shaking his head, the boy giggled. Cullen would guess his age at seven or eight, adventurous enough to be playing alone but not yet obstinate enough to grow tired of adults. "There's no qunari around here. My dad says they're all in the far north. Oh," he snapped his fingers, "you should meet my dad. I bet he'd know whoever you're looking for."

As Cullen glanced over the boy, a fear stirred inside of his heart from the familiar features, but he had no other choice. "Yes, that sounds nice."

"And..." the boy wiped his muddy hands down the front of his tunic and stuck one out, "my name's Duncan."

"Duncan," he repeated, taking the small hand inside his and shaking it. "I'm Cullen."

The boy smiled wide, teeth dazzling against his lips, "Cullen? That's a silly name."

"I, uh..." he was at a loss at how to respond to this imaginary boy denouncing his name. Before he needed to bother, the child spun on his shoes and dashed towards the house. Calling to Honor, Cullen gave chase, his fingers at first holding tight to the hilt of his sword, but as they drew closer he couldn't stop the tempting urge to waft them across the tips of wheat. _They shouldn't be this tall in the summer heat_ , he thought, then shook his head. Nothing here should make sense regardless, that was how the fade worked.

Climbing down the gully sideways to keep from sliding down it, Cullen turned to find the picturesque farmhouse laid out before him. It wasn't a real one, where shutters draped off the sides because there wasn't time or coin to repair them, or bailing wire knotted up anything drooping or broken. It was the picturesque farm in paintings or storybooks, red as a brick with a charming stoop not crowded in muck boots and tools. Three chickens scratched along a gravel path with a single rain barrel brimming in water. A fence circled the area for seemingly no good reason; other than the chickens, no other livestock wandered around. Even the fence itself felt out of place, gleaming white despite the red dirt wafting on the breeze.

In the middle of it all was a man swinging an axe back behind his head to split apart an ever increasing pile of firewood. By the afternoon glare, Cullen could only make out the shadow, but he had a sneaking suspicion he knew who it was. The log clattered in half, both ends crumbling to the ground and the man reached over for another.

"Alistair!" Cullen shouted, his gait slowing until the shadow's glare faded, revealing the man who should be king. He wasn't in his royal armor, nor the pirate garb, or even his traveling splint mail. It was the outfit of every Hinterland man to ever till the earth, the tunic's sleeves rolled past his elbows, breeches patched from old quilting scraps along the knees and calves.

Alistair wiped off his brow with his naked forearm then dropped the axe against his shoulder. "Hey! Who are...?" His sentence fell away dead as the boy jumped up out of the grass to grab onto Alistair's midsection. Chuckling, the king tossed his axe aside and yanked the boy higher in his arms.

"Well, what have we here?" Alistair asked, shifting the boy back and forth. "A spy for Orlais, maybe? A fearsome antivan assassin sent to murder me for a famous Countess? Or are you a dangerous bandit coming to take the farm?!"

The boy giggled with every guess, then sighed, "Da-ad!"

Cullen's foot missed the ground and he stumbled walking closer to them, nearly falling face down into the gravel splattered with chicken shit. Shifting the boy over to the side, Alistair reached out to try and catch him.

"Whoa, careful there," the man was nothing but smiles while Cullen steadied himself and tried to not look at the boy. Alistair gripped tight to Cullen's forearm, as if afraid he'd fall again. "Don't think I've seen you around here before. Let me guess," he licked his thumb and drug it across the boy's cheeks, who tried to bat away his father's grooming, "this little demon led you to us. What did I tell you about picking up strays?"

"To limit it to two a week," Duncan answered.

"Maker," Alistair cupped his hand over his so-, the boy's mouth. "Don't let your mother hear I said that. Neither of us will be able to sit down for a week."

Duncan laughed at the empty threat, then he turned to Cullen, "Can we keep that one?"

"Hm, I don't know. Looks kinda mangy," Alistair snickered, his eyes finally taking in Cullen, when something inside struck a dormant chord. His easy smile wilted and he blinked a few times, as if the memory cried out in the back of his head the same it had to Cullen. _You know it's not real, but you don't want to believe it._

Duncan bounced in his arms, and cried, "Dad!" It was enough to break the worrying truth and Alistair faded back into his happy bliss.

"You're right, besides, you'll have to meet my wife. She'll kill me if I don't invite you in for dinner. Come on," he jerked his head towards the farmhouse, "it's lamb stew."

Without waiting for Cullen to say a word, the man and his...the boy walked towards the farmhouse. Dread settled in Cullen's stomach, the almost prophetic kind whispering what he knew in his soul would be waiting inside that home, but he had to see it through. Lead filled his legs, dragging him slower and slower as he marched up the wooden steps not sagging from over a hundred years of use. Alistair pushed on the sapphire blue door, with hinges in silver, and he swung Duncan inside as the boy dangled in his arms.

"Love," the king shouted through the room, "we're home and brought a guest!"

Following behind him, Cullen stood rooted in the doorway and stared into the house. Cozy in the way only a young family home could be, toys were scattered in front of a rug beside the hearth -- one of them a stuffed griffin made out of burlap. Herbs hung across the lower beams Alistair ducked under as he plopped his son onto a chair at the crooked table. Another child, smaller than Duncan, sat perched on a stool. Her misshapen shoes banged against it as she put quill to parchment, doodling random ink drawings with such ferocity her tongue stuck out between tiny teeth. Alistair placed a kiss against the top of her head, then he flicked one of her pig tails. Dropping the quill immediately, she spun around and wrapped tiny arms around his neck. A noise that could be mistaken for "daddy" or perhaps "happy" slipped from her.

"Dad, dad!" Duncan waved his hands around to snag his father's attention. Upon getting it, he grabbed onto a pair of squash left on the table and held them up to his head.

"Oh no!" Alistair fake cried, his hands splayed out against his cheeks. "This is terrible!"

"What is?"

Cullen screwed his eyes up tight at that voice, the one he knew was in here but prayed wasn't. Gulping air through his mouth, his vision darted up to spot her standing behind the half opened door. Everything about her was softer by the cozy candlelight, her cheeks more rounded, her less toned arms wrapped around a pair of fluffed blankets, her hair folded back by a blue ribbon with the ends trailing down her back. It was her without the stress of command, without the years fighting darkspawn and coming out the worst for it. It was a happy, unbroken Lana.

With eyes only for her, Alistair pointed at Duncan, "A fearsome ogre's come to attack us all."

"Oh no," Lana fake cried, "we need a mighty grey warden to slay it." Under both of his parent's attention, Duncan gave a weak roar and wiggled his squash horns around. As if he had a sword in his hand, the king pretended to stab at his son who gave a very dramatic performance of dying on the table.

"I see we have a guest tonight as well," Lana spoke up in the middle of Duncan's ogre death throes. Cullen shied away from her golden eyes smiling upon him. "Not that _someone_ felt the need to tell me," she turned a soft chastisement on her...the king.

Alistair reached through the partition partially hiding her, slid a hand over her arm, and placed his lips against her cheek. A small part of Cullen withered from the way she leaned into it. "Forgive me, Love, but your ogre-son found him wandering the fields and thought he could use a well-cooked meal."

"And here I thought it was your turn to cook."

"An okay-cooked meal, then," Alistair smiled, his fingers cupping her smiling cheek. Pinching the flesh between his thumb, Cullen willed down the anger trying to rise up inside.

"He's welcome, naturally. Please, take a seat," she spoke to him and waved at the table, but Cullen stood steadfast in the door. "You don't need to prop up the frame, I'm certain it can stand on its own."

"I...I," Cullen twisted his head, trying to dislodge the imaginary family projected before him. "Alistair," he spoke to the man, keeping his eyes away from Lana. "This isn't right."

"I know, you're letting all the flies in. What, were you raised in the kennels?" he smirked.

"You know this is false. A farm is not your life, you belong on the throne of Ferelden," Cullen said, struggling to jar him out of this illusion.

But the king had a skull as thick as a qunari's. Alistair laughed and wiped at his nose with his thumb, "Ha, right. Love, could you picture me on the throne? Ferelden would crumble to dust in a week."

"I imagine king Cailan would be rather put off as well," Lana said.

"King Cailan, but he's..." Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose doing everything he could to keep focused on the only real thing in the room. "You are king Alistair, married to queen Beatrice in..." Maker's breath, he didn't remember the damn year. It didn't touch him as he was in Kirkwall at the time. "That isn't your wife, these aren't your two children."

Alistair blinked a few times, then smiled wider, "Did you hear that Duncan, Duncina? You've got some far better father out there. I bet he gives you biscuits every night and lets you stay up late. Oh, and how could I forget..." He pulled back on the latch for the door below Lana and opened it to reveal her distended belly. Tenderly placing a guarding hand against it, Alistair cooed to her womb, "Number three coming in two months time."

"Three, Alistair," she corrected him while stroking his cheek, "it'll be three months time. You're so bad at counting." Unperturbed by his failed maths, Alistair wrapped Lana in his arms, careful to leave room for her growing belly. A wrathful red haze bundled in the back of Cullen's skull and he turned away, but he couldn't escape the image imprinted on the back of his eyes. Lana, draped in worn grey linen, her body soft and curvy as it filled with new life. _Maker, give me strength. I beg it of you. Please.  _

"How," Cullen gasped, his eyes burrowing into the floorboards. He couldn't look at her, not now, not as _his_. "How can you have children?"

"When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much..." Alistair began, then he waved his hands around and blushed, "Surely someone mentioned it to you before. There might be a couple pigs out back that could demonstrate it for you."

"You met at the battle of Ostagar, yes?" Cullen continued, needing to pull sense back into this senseless man.

Smiling like an idiot, Alistair draped an arm around the back of his imaginary wife and she placed her head upon his chest. "Yup, king Cailan, the grey wardens, and the armies of Ferelden stopped the blight right then and there. It was so romantic."

"You're terrible," Lana giggled as she dug deeper into him.

Cullen wished he could jam rags in his ears so he wouldn't have to hear her voice whisper those words to Alistair, not while she was... "But, you only met because you're both grey wardens, right?" Cullen continued, not about to abandon him now.

Alistair nodded his head, the goofy smile fading lower, "Yes."

Lifting his head, Cullen stared deep into the king's eyes and said the damning evidence, "Grey wardens cannot have children."

"What's he on about?" Lana asked, but Alistair slid away from her, his skin struggling to escape what his mind finally woke up to tell him wasn't real. "Ali...?" she continued, and he turned towards her.

Picking up both of her hands, he kissed one, then the other, "Let me talk to Cullen, Lanny. We'll get it all figured out. You should get the kids ready for bed."

"It'll be light out for hours," she chided.

"Ready for pre-bed. Won't be more than a minute," he ran his thumb against her cheek then he reached over to Cullen and grabbed onto his arm, dragging him into the room. Despite having sparred before, Cullen was surprised at the strength yanking him further away from the young family. "I don't know what game you're playing at here, templar, but you cannot harm her. Do you hear me? I won't let you do that."

"You're not thinking clearly," Cullen hissed in a whisper. The king backed him against a corner. Out of the side of his eye, Cullen caught the glint of a sword hung on the wall now within easy reaching distance of Alistair. "This isn't real. That isn't Lana. It's the fade."

Alistair sneered, teeth gritted as he glowered at him, "Or, or maybe you're a rogue templar sent to find her, to try and take back a free mage because you and your chantry can't handle the idea of her happy. You will not touch her or the children. I will not allow it!"

"For the Maker's sake, man, you know me. I would never hurt Lana."

He swallowed deeper, something percolating in his brain, but it didn't stick. Alistair jabbed a finger at Cullen, "Before today, we had never even met."

"Then how did you know my name? I never spoke it."

"I...I, um," Alistair's eyes darted back towards his wife who was bent over to whisper to her daughter and son, her hand caressing her belly. "No, there was a, I overheard it from somewhere, or guessed right. That's what it was. Pure luck. I can't..." Tears welled up in his eyes; he didn't bother to try and wipe them away or fight them back in. They rolled in streaks down his cheeks as the king crumpled his forehead into his hand. "No, I can't go back to before, to-to abandon what I wished more than ever. The lie is so much more, than..."

Cullen grabbed onto his forearm, digging his fingers deep to try and draw the man back, "We can still save her, the real Lana. If we get out of here, escape from the fade. She needs us."

He glanced over his shoulder at his Lanny, the imaginary one the fade created, the perfect one to trap him the same as it tried to do to Cullen. "I could stay here, be happy, really happy," Alistair whispered. A frown shifted across his face and he pinched his nose. Blinking back the tears, he wiped his cheeks and plastered on a smile.

"Love," Alistair called, his full attention upon Lanny.

"Look at what your daughter's drawn," she said, holding up a sheet of paper.

Slipping away from Cullen, Alistair picked up the parchment and pretended to love it, "It's a perfect representation of me on a dragon," he mumbled barely looking at the drawing before turning to Lana. "I just remembered I left a few things out in the field. And I should bring them in, in case it rains."

"Oh Ali, do you have to do it now? Dinner's almost ready."

He flinched from the fade pulling against him, the demon doing all it could to keep him trapped. Alistair picked up her hand and smiled, "I won't be more than five minutes at most, I promise. Then, when I come back I'll...read to Duncan and-and braid Duncina's hair." Eyes lingering across both imaginary children, he swooped his arms around Lana's waist and pulled her tight to his body. The pair shared a deep kiss goodbye, one that Cullen shielded his eyes from, before Alistair brushed her cheek one last time. "Be back soon."

Faking the smile, he turned to march towards the doorframe and their escape. Cullen followed in behind, Honor on his trail, when Lana called out in the sweetest voice, "What if I made you walk barefoot across a lake of fire?"

Alistair froze, a shudder knotting up every muscle along his back. His head dropped down against his chest and he breathed in slow, ragged gasps for a moment. Screwing his eyes up tight, the king gripped onto the doorframe. Cullen was afraid he'd need to shove the man through to end this, the king's knuckles white from the strain. Alistair clucked his tongue a few times before he whispered in a brittle voice, "There's nothing you can do in all of thedas or beyond to get me to stop loving you."

Releasing his grip on the frame, Alistair slipped out of the house into the blinding white light of the fade. Blinking from the change, Cullen rubbed his eyes until they came upon creaking wood. Flipping to face each direction all he saw was wood wrapped around wood, beams propping up even more wood, boxes of wood. "I think we're on a ship," he said aloud, the roll of the waves knocking him back and forth on his feet.

Alistair stood in front of him, his fist bunched up tight and shoulders scrunched up. He didn't say anything, didn't turn towards him, only dug his fingers deeper into his palm as if bleeding himself could draw the demon's poison from his heart.

"We should find Aqun," Cullen said, "and then the demon who's trapped us here."

"And kill it," Alistair whispered, his voice throaty and raw, the words clawing out through a rage boiling inside him.

"Yes, kill it," Cullen nodded. "Do you think she'll be on deck or...?"

A singing reverberated through the ship, sweet and airy, almost as light as the solos performed during chantry services in Val Royeaux, but Cullen didn't understand any of the language. He set out to follow the voice, then paused. Honor followed by his side, but the king kept remained frozen in place, his eyes glaring through the distance. Uncertain if he should whistle at the man or try and shove him to start, Cullen reached out to steady himself on his sword, causing the sheathe to knock against a cargo crate. The noise drew Alistair's attention and he whipped his head at him the way a vengeful bird would. Streaks of tears hung down his cheeks, but no new rivers fell as if they'd run dry. A soul crushing anger pulsed in his eyes, threatening any who dared to stand before him. For the first time since setting out, Cullen feared what the man would do to him. He'd stolen Alistair's only chance at happiness.

The king swallowed a few times, and then he dug the back of his hand across his eyes. It wasn't the usual effervescent self, but the anger blotted away from Alistair and with a tight, straining jaw he bobbed his head. Cullen patted him on the shoulder, and nodded. He knew the pain, but if this worked then they'd free themselves of it and find her. It was worth it.

Shoving past crates stacked to the ceiling in the hold, Cullen followed the voice picking through the maze. _"Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun."_

The sweet timbre rattled at the final word, eventually fading to a bitter gasp as the woman dropped her head into her lap. Aqun sat upon a barrel, but she looked different. Ribbons knotted up her horns, beads dangling off the ends and even a few bells. She wasn't dressed in the revealing but also imposing strip armor of the qunari, but wore a simple tan dress with brass buttons running the entire length down the front. It looked like the typical outfit for fieldworkers.

"Aqun?" Cullen whispered.

She tossed her head, almost colliding her horns with the ship. More Qunlat rolled off her tongue, the words staggered in her struggles to breathe, the long vowels hopping back and forth. Even if he could speak the language it was doubtful he'd have understood it through her grief. This was wrong. The demon tried to lull both of them into a false happiness, to keep them wrapped up forever in bliss. Why did it draw pain from the qunari?

Her hauntingly blue eyes rolled over at Cullen, and then to the king hovering behind him. "This is not correct," she said in common, her own jaw gritted tight.

"No, it's not. It's the fade, a demon's trapped us, and we have to break out," Cullen nodded. He was grateful he didn't have to try and convince an angry qunari that she couldn't stay in her perfect happiness, but he was curious why she wasn't fighting him. "How can you tell?"

Aqun shifted back on her barrel to reveal another qunari dressed in the same tan dress curled up on the deck, fast asleep. "Because, she shouldn't be alive." Both men watched the woman, barely even that, slumbering peacefully. Her breath bounced an errant strip of white hair in front of her mouth. Aqun shied away from touching her, keeping her feet and arms locked tight against the barrel, but she couldn't stop watching. Almost as if she wanted to reach over and push the tickling hairs away from the woman's face.

"We should go," Aqun said. "Free ourselves before we lose too much to this demon. It is a demon, yes? You, templar, must feel it."

Cullen nodded, it had to be a demon doing this to them. He could only tear himself away from his false Lana because of the hope that she was yet out there, still needed him to save her, to give them both another chance. What kind of willpower did it take for Aqun to slide away so easily?

Hopping off the barrel, Aqun gestured towards a backdoor into what must have been the qunari kitchen. "We can escape through there. We are whole. It will not stand against us. Please, I need to..." she wrapped both her hands around her horns and twisted her head back and forth to try and ground herself, "Leaving is preferential," she said. Happy to oblige, Cullen pulled open the door and moved to step through when the sleeping woman stirred, a soft cry breaking through her dreams. He froze, prepared to turn back and grab onto Aqun to drag her onward, but she stood straight, her eyes staring through the hull of the ship.

"Panahedan, kadan," Aqun whispered before disappearing through the door. Whistling at Honor to follow, Cullen stepped out of the fade and fell back into the real world.

The first thing to welcome him back was water seeping across his skin, and a pain knotting against his already swollen jaw. He cracked open an eye, then another, to find himself level with the fetid runoff. Struggling to not breathe in the water, Cullen rose up, splashing himself in the process, and grabbed onto his throbbing head. Then he remembered the demon, and he leaped to his feet, his fingers searching for his sword's grip.

"You need not bother, templar," Aqun's voice rang out from inside the room. A single halo of light circled around her while she stood like a holy statue, still as the grave. "Whatever demon was here is gone."

Behind him, Cullen heard Alistair shuffling through the water, his feet dragging as if he'd lost the ability to lift them. "That's not possible, demons do not vanish," Cullen said. Unsheathing his sword, he paced into the room. Five pillars ringed it with green crystals embedded into the top, each in the shape of an eye, but none of them glowed the haunting white light. At least not anymore.

"This one appears to have," Aqun shrugged. "Either we will have to face it again or it has fled into the fade."

He tried to find it, twisting his head back and forth for the tell tale smell of sulfur but nothing like that floated through the room. If anything, it almost smelled of cold tea, roses, and the spray of sea water. "I do not like this," Cullen said, keeping his sword extended.

"No one does," Aqun gestured at the king then turned her back on him. "We continue in this direction," she pointed to the only open portal and began to stomp towards it.

Rolling his eyes at her impatience, Cullen turned to Alistair needing to confer with another templar. Instead of standing near, or happily prodding at the walls, the king stumbled into the room and fell to his knees. Stale water splashed against his clothes, welling up the entire bottom half of his pants, but the man didn't seem to notice.

Alistair's eyes stared through the walls, his lips mouthing something in practice before he finally asked, "Are you going to hit me again?"

"Ah," Cullen stumbled, unprepared for that question. "No," he shook his head, "no, I...no."

"Feels like you should," he whimpered, pressing his palm against the cheek Cullen bruised before. Alistair must have been weighing every poor decision he ever made against that perfect moment the demon dangled before him, questioning what he could have done to make it possible in his life. Cullen assumed it, because he was doing the same.

"I hate the fucking fade," Alistair hissed. "First, it's my sister but not my sister, because she wasn't a colossal... Then, my father who kept me, let me grow up as his. With Lanny there beside me as, I don't know, a princess or someone I could be with. And now?" He gasped, digging his palms into his eyes. "I'd have given anything, bled myself dry to, to make the impossible happen." The king of Ferelden swatted his hand against the water with a flat palm hard enough the slap echoed through the room. Even in the dank pit, Cullen could see red welling up from his assault. Staring at his slapped hand, Alistair paused and a cruel quirk twisted up his lips, "Let me guess, yours was just a really, really good sword. Hard to leave and all but..."

"It was Lana," Cullen interrupted. He hated revealing anything about himself, but in this instance he needed to say the words as if speaking them would also banish the touch of her skin, the taste of her lips, the sound of her voice. Obliterate how the demon's vision plucked into his heart and almost kept him forever. "She tried to convince me that she'd survived Adamant. Any memories I had of the-of her death were a blood mage's doing."

"Maker damned demons," Alistair hissed, "they're too smart."

"A simple vision, I know. Nothing like what you..." shame curled up in his stomach. Somehow, Cullen sat smug in the right, knowing that his love was purer than the king's because he'd never broken her heart, never offered up a promise he couldn't keep, because of the reason of it being him. But he hadn't dreamed up an entire family, a life away from everything she hated, perfection for them both. It was just more of the same but with Lana in it. Did he even deserve her?

"A nursery," Alistair whispered, breaking through Cullen's fog.

"What?"

"The queen needed a nursery for, you know, and she decided that it was time we, time I clear out Lanny's room. I kept one for her in the palace so she wouldn't have to keep dealing with thieves at the inns or drunks trying to challenge the Hero of Ferelden to a duel. I hadn't entered it since she'd...since she died. Wasn't strong enough to-to look upon her few things. Not the -- you know -- staves, and books, and other weapons of hers, but the important stuff."

Alistair smiled through a wall of tears, and he sat up higher off his knees, "She had this little gear golem that if you turned the crank would lean down, pick up a boulder, then drop it back in place. Loved that thing like crazy, even if it only worked one out of every hundred tries. Lanny'd say 'Just wait, it'll get it this time' and I'd watch her crank it over and over until the broken thing finally went."

Cullen remembered the bear she kept in her room at Skyhold. He'd been curious about it, especially as he'd seen it in various stages of being complete and then back to a million pieces, but never questioned her on it. His mechanical knowledge was apt for weapons of war, not microscopic screws and gears.

"Her phylactery," Alistair continued, and he jabbed a thumb at Cullen's pocket. Obliging, Cullen unearthed the glass bottle that cast a red glow over them, and placed it in the king's hands. The king smiled through his tears and patted it like a dog's head, "It was in her room too. I couldn't bear to look at it, but I couldn't throw it away either. It was hers, it was _her_. The last bit of her to know when she fell, and..." Alistair turned and stared up at Cullen. On his knees he looked as if he was begging for forgiveness from him, "I only saw that it came to life because the queen told me to throw it away so she could have her nursery. Who knows how long it's been doing this half alive, half dead thing? Maybe it went all alive a year ago, and has been slipping. I don't know, because I was too much of a coward to look, to check, to hope that..."

"It's all right," Cullen whispered.

"No, it isn't," the king whipped his head back in forth in a frothy rage.

"None of us could have expected her to come back."

Alistair snorted, and rolled his eyes, "If it's Lanny, always expect the unexpected. I, of all people, should have learned that."

"You're trying now," Cullen continued attempting to convince himself as much as the king, "we can still save her."

"Yeah, save her," Alistair shuddered and wiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand. Using a hand upon Honor to help him up, Alistair rose to his feet. He passed the phylactery back to Cullen and scrubbed his eyes with his fingers. "We save Lana, and then she can yell at me for taking so long."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Song

_?:?? ?_

She waited, her knees pressed against the chantry floor - harder than she remembered the stones in the circle tower. Andraste stood above her, frozen in veneration with her arms extended, the statue framed by the pea green sky. The Black City floated beyond her head, like a crown of ink dribbling evil in its wake. This was the fade, she was certain of that. It didn't take much to see the obvious fact. She walked into the fade -- well, fell into the fade thanks to the Inquisitor -- and never walked out. That, Lana was also certain of. Except...

Her palms broke and she stared up at the Lady's stone eyes. In the fade nothing was certain.

"I know you are here," she said aloud. "You've always been here -- watching me, waiting, hungering, needing. Hiding will not help either of us."

"You are ready to accept my help, my dear?" it oozed around her, the voice smothering the air around Lana until it snapped back to the spirit rising from the ground to match it.

"Help is a loaded word," Lana answered. She wished she could rise off her knees, but the energy in her body was drained, almost beyond touching. A light breeze could topple her over. "First, we talk, spirit."

"Of course, sweetness. Whatever you need," the spirit floated through the pews as if it didn't see them.

Lana dropped her head, her eyes sliding shut as she gathered her thoughts for this final confrontation. "It took me awhile to figure it out, and you did an amicable job of exhausting me so I couldn't think. Couldn't wonder... Why do I see things when I dream? And not just anything, but something specific, static, in a place I've never been. The fade doesn't work that way, doesn't create new, it only steals and repeated as spirits and demons do. How, how can I see something I've never known? Because...my dreams aren't the fade, they're the real world. The real world where my body is."

The spirit flared a white hot light, but didn't attack her. Instead it hovered aimlessly around in a circle, unable to gather a response to her realization.

"You've kept me trapped here, kept my mind pinned to the fade for, Maker, I have no idea how long. Days? Months? Years? Why?" Lana's eyes flared open and she glared at the floating wisp.

"To protect you, to keep you safe. To guard you from those that would hurt you."

"Why?" Lana repeated.

"For your sake, for your own good. If it weren't for me, the demons would have torn you to shreds, feasted upon you. I sacrificed so much to save you, because-because..."

A cold chuckle rolled through Lana's dry throat, "Demons I understand, their hierarchy -- Pride before Desire, then Despair, Rage, Hunger and so on, but spirits... You have a power that terrifies Jowan, that obliterates Nathaniel, and even sends Wynne packing. And you use it all to keep me here."

"I do it out of love," the spirit shrieked, its face blaring in boiling orange.

"Restraining someone is not love. Holding them against their will, against their choice is not love, spirit."

"You never spoke against it."

Lana slapped her hand against the stone ground, "You never gave me the option!"

Edges of the world faded, the bubble the spirit kept her preserved in wobbling as her brittle emotions surged through it. The spirit extended a finger towards it and clucked, "See what you've done, what you're making me do?" Lana tried to twist to follow but exhaustion tugged on her weary body and she plummeted. Cracking against the stone floor, her head bounced twice, the pain dulled from death creeping through her veins. It wouldn't be long now.

"Sweetheart. Please!" the spirit begged her. "Let me help you. Let me love you. If you untether yourself from me, there will be nothing left. I can't lose you. Not after all this time together."

"What are you talking about?" Lana rolled around, struggling to try and rise but there was nothing remaining in her.

A warm tendril of the spirit caressed her cheek leaving a burn in its wake, her skin tender and enflamed from its touch. "Together we can save you, protect you, rebuild what we had before, before they tried to take you away. Let me help you, let me inside of your mind."

Lana snorted and blood bubbled across the stones. Cold seized up and down her body, her arms and legs drifting away from her as the smell of fossilized air blown from a crypt filled her nostrils. If she screwed her eyes tight she almost saw a strip of green light waiting beyond her. Maybe this was the answer, this was how she had to break out. Let herself die in the fade and then... Except, she'd never heard of it working that way. People escaped the fade, returned to their bodies, they didn't slit their own wrists and wake up fine. Perhaps it was over. She struggled for so long, hoped with every beat of her heart to find a way, but there came a time and place for accepting the inevitable, laying down and letting the others win.

"No!" the spirit shrieked, red light hissing through its ethereal form as if all of its veins caught on fire. "I will not let you go! If you'll not give me what I need, then I'll take it for myself!"

Before Lana had time to throw up her defenses, the spirit dug deep into her brain and unearthed an old memory.

"Alistair, what are you doing?" she folded up her arms and tried to maintain a straight face as the man struggled to balance himself upon a downed tree. Unsatisfied with nearly impaling his body on jagged branches by using both feet to stand on the log, he was now lifting one up.

"I was thinking when all this is over, I could join a circus," he said, promptly slamming his foot down to keep from falling over.

Lanny's cool eye slipped up from his foot to the rest of him, "It'll be the quickest act in thedas."

"Well," he hopped off the log and dropped in front of her, his feet sinking into the mossy forest floor. They were supposed to be hunting for werewolves, but somehow the two grey wardens kept finding any excuse to wander off alone together. It was a true mystery of the Maker. Alistair wrapped one of his sap coated hands around her back to pull her close, then brought the other together to close off the embrace. "If you came with they'd be certain to sign us on the spot. You could throw fire."

"I'd set the audience on fire," she whispered against his cheek. By dusk's light, his hair seemed to glow like the pyre of Andraste - an eternal golden flame.

"That'll just make it a more exciting show," Alistair shifted her over to his side as he waved an arm out, "Come, if you dare, to watch the fire spitting mage. People in the first five rows will lose their eyebrows."

"You are bonkers," Lanny said. Then she grabbed onto his cheek and took him into a kiss. "But you're my kind of bonkers."

"I don't deserve this," Alistair sighed in joy.

"What? Being called bonkers? I'd rather think you do..."

"I meant you," he chided, before wrapping all of him around her, enveloping her body. It was strange how quickly she grew used to the bite of his armor against her chest, even came to enjoy it. "Having you be this amazing you, and with me of all people. I mean, look at you!"

"That's rather difficult to do without a mirror."

"Should I describe every inch of your body? I bet I could, though there might be the danger of drooling in the middle."

She playfully swatted at his armor with a discerning toss of her head but internally Lanny swam in joy. In her nineteen years she'd never felt anything like this, never had a man grab onto her hand and hold it tight while they crossed a bridge just because he missed her. Never had someone whisper every wild idea in his head because he loved watching her laugh. Never had a person give so much of himself without a second thought for what the world expected of them, didn't care about duty or the rules because he was that far gone for her. Alistair held nothing back, even if he took the round about lamppost way of telling her he cared.

"Why the circus?" Lanny asked. "Why not something more interesting, like the Antivan Crows?"

"Sure sure, Zevran makes it look fun what with all of his fancy accents and leather things, but I bet half of the time you're stuck filling out paperwork and polishing your knives."

"Polishing your knife, eh?" She couldn't stop the smirk as Alistair's cheeks lit up bright red.

He stammered against her, struggling to pull in a breath as she clung tighter to him. "That wasn't what I...You know, I didn't... Oh, you are evil. So evil, super evil with an evil sauce drizzled on top."

Shrugging, she placed her head against his chest, the metal a sharp cold against her skin, but she didn't mind. Sometimes she wondered if she could fall asleep like that, held tight in his arms, his steady breathing and warm body gently rocking her away.

Alistair's chin butted against the top of her head as he snuggled into her. In a soft voice, he whispered, "It doesn't matter how evil you are to me, I'll always love you."

"What?" Lanny broke from his hold and stared up into those amused eyes, now slipping to bemused at her, "Did, did you say you love me?"

"I, uh, um," he swallowed a few times, bit down on his lip, and squinched up half his face as if he swallowed a bee. "I guess so?"

Her heart pounded fervently in her chest, terrified and ecstatic, confused and amazed. In her time at the tower, she never thought that anyone would come to her like that with his whole heart extended in hand. They'd only known each other, what, four or five months? And in that time suffered and shared in death and loss on an unimaginable scale. Alistair was the one she turned to, searched for when her heart languished in the bitter depths, and he took her hand, combed her hair back, and held her tight. A lightness enveloped her heart filling a hole she didn't realize was there.

Rising onto her toes, Lanny cupped his cheek in her hand, pulling his bashful eyes to hers. With a certainty that could crack a mountain she told him the truth, "I love you, too."

* * *

_9:44 Anderfels_

Cullen steeled himself for the next test in this gauntlet of horrors, his mind churning through what other possibilities the demons could dredge to tempt and taunt him. Sensing her master's ill ease, Honor growled softly, her head whipping back and forth at any noise. Normally, her snout would be buried in the ground as she ran around chasing anything potentially fun or food, but she ignored the tempting smells buried below the water - maybe dipped down once or twice for a drink, and nothing more. Behind him strode Alistair, the man's cheeks drawn more than normal, his skin a ghastly pallor as he kept digging his fingers into his forehead, trying to claw the memories out.

_It'll never work,_ Cullen thought, shaking his head. He wished it were that simple. Ahead of them waited Aqun, the qunari tapping her foot impatiently as if she didn't have her soul inverted out of her body and rubbed raw with steel wool. Whatever effects the Fade had upon her wore off the moment she left the room of emerald eyes.

"Templar," she called, jerking her spear staff in his direction, "we have a situation."

"What is it?" Cullen struggled to lift his steps higher, shaking off the memories clinging to him like rising dead wrapping putrid hands onto a person's legs. He could let them stain him later, when there was time. A small part of him warned that if they failed, if they didn't find Lana, then those false memories could be his undoing. His only moment of happiness he willingly walked away from.

"Wards," the qunari interrupted his thoughts.

Sheathing his sword, Cullen prepared himself to dispel another batch when he skidded to a halt. They glittered over every surface of the room beyond a small portcullis, but it wasn't ice or fire that would impale whoever trespassed. Red as blood and black as the void, death wards coated the walls and floor. If anyone crossed it, erupted it, they wouldn't have a chance to move before their body hemorrhaged blood from every orifice, every pore.

Alistair stumbled into the back of him and looked up. Then he whistled long and slow, "That's not a good sign."

"You recognize them?" Aqun spoke to Cullen.

He nodded his head before turning to the man who was also once a templar. "That requires powerful magic," Cullen said.

"Yeah, the slit your throat, pour all the blood onto the floor kind," Alistair agreed. He wrapped his fingers around the bars separating them from undeniable death.

"I am uncertain if I can remove them," Cullen said. He'd struggled through the ice ones and persevered, but these were another level entirely. In his old days they would require a full regiment to dispel, every templar taking one.

"You don't need to do them all," Alistair said. "Just make a small path we can walk through. Not too small, but that's what? Three?"

"Four," Aqun answered.

"Maker's breath, you are bad at counting," Cullen mused to himself, then he grimaced at his faux pas. He hadn't meant to dig up Lana's words, never wanted to think about that version of her ever again even as his traitorous mind preserved her voice and pregnant form. "I'm sorry, I didn't wish to..." Cullen caught himself, trying to apologize.

"Yeah, I get it. I mean, it...forget it, I'm fine. Good. But I'm not the one facing down _that_. So, best get templaring fast," Alistair spoke quickly, stuffing his pain away.

Sighing, Cullen chased the void inside of him, shifting reality to try and blot away the stains magic left upon the world. He glared upon the first ward, its mutilating runes daring him to try and defeat them. A headache beat in an arrhythmic pattern against the stem of his brain, but Cullen chewed through it, his hands gripping to the bars as he focused everything inside of him upon it. Clinging by bare knuckles to the blankness, he snapped his eyes tight to struggle against the blowback. Exhaustion rose out of the void, bringing with it the vision of Alistair and the qunari both peering over at him. He didn't notice the sweat across his brow until a fetid breeze blew past, his slick hands sliding down the bars as his grip fell limp. He failed.

"Okay, well, we wait awhile and then you try again," Alistair tried to encourage him. "I can maybe add a bit to it, though I'm far out of practice."

Cullen shook his head, "No." He'd felt the ward staring back, chuckling at him that he'd never wipe it away, never be able to remove the powerful magic some malifecarum infected the world with. "I cannot remove it. I didn't even draw close." Cullen brought his forehead against the bars cold as a gravestone. The thought drove nails into his heart. He failed her too.

"I may have a solution, but..." Alistair reached his fingers into his satchel and rummaged through it. The noise was so cacophonous it drew Cullen's attention, his exhausted face turning to watch as the king extracted a bottle.

_What could he... No!_ Cullen felt it singing in the air before the king opened the amber bottle and a vial of pure lyrium dropped into his hand. "What are you doing with that?" Cullen hissed.

"Originally, I thought we might need it for trade purposes. You know, if you give us the keys to your fortress you can have this shiny blue liquid," the man shrugged, clinging to the lyrium as if it was nothing. "It might be enough for you to be able to clear the wards."

"I..." Cullen shuddered as he found his fingers reaching towards the vial, "I can't. You don't understand what you're asking of me. I cannot, will not. If this is your plan, you take it."

"I, uh," Alistair glanced over at Aqun either made aware of his near templar heritage or already having known it. "I've never had the blue stuff before. And there's just the one vial so, if - when - I screw it up, we don't have a plan B."

He was correct. The first sip of lyrium was that, little more than a drop cut with wine so initiates could build up their resistance to it. That much lyrium would kill him dead. But, no, he couldn't fall back into that endless abyss. Cullen shook his head, the trembling rising in his hands. "No..." he sputtered.

"Look, if there were a bunch of templars singing songs in passing, I'd drag them down here to do it, but--" Alistair tipped his head, "I don't hear any out on a meadow walk, so it's this or..." He swallowed deep, his red eyes brimming in tears, "or we don't reach her."

_Damn him!_ Damn him for even bringing it. For making it an option. "I will not leash myself again!" Cullen shouted. Throwing himself off the bars, he stomped through the flooded, body-less catacombs trying to find an answer when he knew there was none. Lana needed him, he was never more certain of that in his life. Needed him with a greater urgency than when they fought through an army of darkspawn, or when they faced off against the harlequins, or when she...

Watching her scream at the grey warden's corpse while her own blood dripped down her robes into the water chipped away at his soul. He froze, uncertain what to do as the woman who ended a blight, who built an army from nothing, who stormed a tower full of demons, crumbled before him. She'd begged and pleaded with the Maker or anyone else to fix things so her Nathaniel hadn't attacked her, so she hadn't killed him. Cullen had no idea what she needed, so he chose to do what he in that moment did and clung tight to her. As if his body could somehow protect her from the pain of losing a friend, worse than that, the betrayal of someone she cared for, helped to train and grow. It was a foolish thought, and Andraste save him, he had no idea if it kept her with him, convinced her to stem her own bleeding. Holding her while her magic took ages to knit together abused flesh, Cullen made a promise in his heart that no matter what it cost him, he'd do anything he could to keep her safe.

Anything...

_Maker, guide me. Give me the wisdom to decide._ Cullen grabbed onto the crumbling brick with his fingers and in ragged breaths whispered part of a prayer, "Through blinding mist, I climb. A sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base endlessly far beneath my feet..." Panting, Cullen turned his head up to stare at his fingers dug deep into the bones of this vile place. "The Maker is the rock to which I cling."

Releasing his hold, he stepped back from the wall itself and a wash of light burst from his pocket. Red as blood, the light coated the surface in front of him highlighting a small carving low along the wall, as if done by a child. "Lana," Cullen's fingers fumbled for the phylactery, glancing across the surface. He tripped across that tattered picture the king gave him. Gazing at it by the light of her phylactery, his heart constricted into his throat. She was so perfect there, preserved behind ink and vellum, incorruptible, her doe eyes gazing to some great beyond. Bringing the portrait to his lips, Cullen whispered, "Please forgive me."

Alistair looked up at his return while Aqun only glared through him, tired of the delay. Knocking back and forth on his feet, Alistair said, "We can try something else. It doesn't have to be the lyrium if..."

"Give it to me," Cullen said, his hand steady as he held his palm out to the king.

"Are you sure?" Alistair asked. Cullen didn't answer him, only glared, and the king dropped the vial into his hand.

It felt heavier than he remembered. How could such a small bottle of liquid feel as if it was full of lead? Cullen's thumb ran along the edge. The last time he came this close he wanted to obliterate every memory of Lana, purge himself of ever knowing her, ever loving her. Now, he prayed to Andraste that he not lose a second of their time together. It was all he had left.

"I cannot see the path," Cullen recited the next verse of the prayer as he unscrewed the top. "Perhaps there is only abyss." The vial's edge sat against his lips shaking with both fear and anticipation. "Trembling, I step forward...in darkness enveloped." Tipping it back, Cullen lost himself in the cold blue liquid oozing down his throat returning to him a part he forgot he lost. It felt as if he grew another arm or leg, an invisible limb that withered and fell off from his three years of sobriety. Why did he even bother? Energy surged through him, the sweet song of duty blanketing down his anxiety until he felt -- no, he _knew_ what he had to do.

Grabbing onto the bars, Cullen claimed the lyrium snaking through his blood as his own and blasted apart the first ward, then the second, and third. This was easy. So much easier than when he attempted it before. How could he have been so blind to give up this strength when it was needed most? The lunacy of it...

Whether through the phylactery pressing next to him, or his own clinging mind, a vision rose of Lana -- her lip quivering -- as she asked him if he'd begun to lose any memories. She tried to wall away her emotions but he could sense it, read it in her in a way he never could in anyone else. Lana was terrified that one day he'd wake and not remember her.

Tears welled up, burning brighter from the lyrium surging inside his body. He wiped them away, digging his grimy gloves into his eyes because he deserved to feel the pain.

"There's one more," Aqun pointed out, her voice breaking through the hushed silence that fell between the group.

When this was over, no matter what they found, Cullen swore to himself he'd never take lyrium again. Gritting his teeth, he obliterated the last ward, wishing he could will the chantry's poison out of his body with it, but the lyrium remained as it would for a few days. Maker only knew how much of his mind it would drain when it went.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Heartbreak

_?:?? ?_

_Damn it!_ Lana's fingers pinched into her forehead, the thumb screwed tight against her skull as she tried to block her memories from the feasting demon fattening its liver on every flush of her heart. Raising off the ground, she shook her head madly, willing the demon's grasping fingers out of her weeping brain.

"You're growing stronger," it said, as if that was a good thing. Of course she was, with every memory the demon grew indomitable clenching her tighter to this place like a butterfly pinned to a board. "Do not make that face, dearest. I'm helping you. Saving you so we can be together. Isn't that what you want?"

"What I want is to be free!" Lana shrieked, spinning around to glower at the floating form. She knew why Regret transformed itself into Jowan, Duty into Nathaniel, and Curiosity to Wynne -- but it took her ages to determine why this spirit bore no face. There were two logical candidates in the running and yet it chose neither. But then, maybe that was why. This spirit, or demon, was interested in only one thing from her, and to see either face would cause the opposite of what it wanted; heartbreak instead of love. _Was it that simple? It couldn't be that easy? Right?_

The demon's eyes, little more than shadows against the white smoke, darkened as it sensed the change in her. "Your crafty mind has thought of something, hasn't it? I can feel you calling to her, that...what did you call her? Wynne? But she won't be coming. None of them are strong enough to reach you now."

Lana paced back and forth, her mind flitting through her past but not touching it. She needed something beyond a quick burn to strike back at this spirit. Her body was breaking down out there, losing its fight. If she didn't free herself quickly, there...there would be nothing to come back to. Just like Niall in the tower. A sly smile knotted up her panicked face, and Lana smugly turned to the spirit.

"You want to revel in every love to cross my path? Have this."

Camp. Maybe the last one before the end. No one spoke much after they set out from Denerim for Redcliffe. No one needed to. They knew what was at stake, an entire years worth of buildup for the end. An end she never thought they'd reach. She should be happy, or at least grateful to come to a conclusion, but... Lana stood perched upon a log staring deep into the hooded forest. To the handful of soldiers traveling with their strange group it looked as if she was on guard piercing through the darkness for potential danger. To those who knew her...well, at least they hadn't said anything yet.

"Eamon's reporting some sightings of darkspawn near the Hinterlands."

Her back tightened at the voice trying to wedge itself back into her life. "I see," Lana responded, hoping he'd catch on and return to his own royal tent.

But Alistair was always slow. "Lucky thing we'll be there tomorrow."

"Uh huh."

"And there was a bird, or squirrel, or something from Riordan. He's off scouting the darkspawn to figure out where the horde is. I think. I was never very good at deciphering the Grey Warden code. We should get special rings to help with that."

He continued flinging words into the air as if an incessant babble would somehow blind her to what happened after the Landsmeet. Make her forget the choice he made without including her, without even raising the question to her before he decided. Unable to take anymore, Lana interrupted him, "Why are you here?"

That threw Alistair off, his ideas on an official grey warden handshake evaporating into the night air. "To fight darkspawn...?"

"You don't belong with us. You should be with the royal regiment surrounded by guards sworn to protect you, not traipsing through Ferelden's backwaters with a slapped together crew of murderers, witches, sisters, and whatever Oghren is," Lana gestured towards the people who somehow became the friends she could most count upon. Turning around to face him, for the first time to stare into those eyes since he broke her heart, Lana spat out, "Your highness."

"I..." Alistair banged his limp hands together, "I will see this through."

"Oh, you'll see that through, but not--"

"Lanny, is now the time? I, we have to stop this blight. To finish what was started over a year ago, do what wardens do. You can yell at me to your heart's content after. Okay?"

Maker damn him, but he was right. Her skin burned as she oscillated from a tearing-his-limbs-off rage to crumpled-in-a-heap sorrow, but somehow neither appeared on her face. To the rest of the army, she looked stoic, concerned, but prepared to throw herself fully into battle -- which was what they needed. A year, a fucking year they traveled up and down Ferelden knotting together every farmer with a pitchfork, city elf who carved himself a shiv, and branded dwarf willing to risk the surface all to create an army. The army necessary to stop the blight. To let it all fall apart now would...would make every sacrifice moot. She couldn't do that, not after all their work, not when thedas needed her to be strong.

Lana turned back to the woods so he wouldn't see her cry. She'd learned how to silence her sobs years ago in her bed at the tower, to curtail the tremble of her shoulders and the gasping of breath, but those cursed tears always fell. The man didn't deserve to know that he'd gotten to her. Alistair bounced back and forth on his feet, not wanting to leave but also not wanting to stay. Realizing there was nothing there for him, he turned to leave when Lana spoke up.

"When I was in the circle tower, we... Love is a luxury, relationships are a luxury. You can't afford to become invested because there is nothing beyond the few stolen moments. No marriage, no children, no growing old together. I thought I was, I could play the game same as any other mage. Keep my heart locked away, to not get emotionally invested in...a bit of fun. Not two weeks out in the world I meet you, obliterating everything I put in place to protect myself."

"I..." his voice whispered through the howling winds, the solitary word thudding to the ground.

She wrapped her arms around her chest and glared through the shadows, but all her attention was upon the man staring limply at the ground behind her. "Tell me, I... when you, all of it, every touch, every kiss, every- If you were playing with me, then, then I can hate you and move on. If it was your own game, your way of testing the waters, getting your feet wet before settling down, then...then I, I-" She needed to know and yet didn't want to ask, but Lana spent most of her life doing things she didn't want to, "When you told me you loved me, was it a lie?"

The sound of Alistair sucking in his breath broke so strongly above the winds a few of his guards glanced over. It seemed as if she managed to kick the air out of his lungs with only a question. But he had to know she'd suspect it. How easily he swapped her away for the crown with nary a shred of loss on his face as he denounced her. Not even worthy of a single tear. She thought she knew him, thought he was better than that. Believed Alistair wasn't one to toy with her for his own gain.

"No, Lanny. I..." he swallowed again. She could feel his hand hovering just above her shoulder as if he wanted to touch it but was terrified to get near her. "I love you."

He could lie now, but what would be the point? She'd hate him either way, whether for using her like his play thing and discarding her the moment she became inconvenient or for idiotically throwing away something she never thought herself capable of. Love had been beyond her, a pretty ideal in books and songs that intrinsically meant nothing. Pain was life, the tower taught her that, and losing people hurt in varying degrees. If that was all love was, the pain of loss, then who cared? Every person in the circle could be swiped down at a moment's notice. It wasn't the sorrow tearing up her veins and wrapping its tendrils deep into her brain that concerned her. It was the fact that, in spite of him ripping out her heart and crushing it below his crown, she still hated the idea of hurting him. She still loved him.

"That's a pity," Lana whispered to the forest, "because I love you too."

"It wasn't, I..." Alistair struggled to find a word to say, anything to somehow wipe away the fact he drove a hook insider her chest and gutted her clean through. Through a mumbled breath he whispered, "There's nothing you can do."

"No? What if I made you wear frilly trousers with embroidered cats upon them?" Her words were light hearted, but her voice choked through a sob.

"I'd still love you," Alistair gulped behind her.

She shouldn't be dragging this out. He made his choice, his peace, he had a future to look forward to and she had...she had a blight to finish. "What if I filled your bedroll with moldy potatoes? Or if I hid ants in your porridge? Or if I had Oghren spit in your gloves? Or..." Every 'or' grew higher and higher in pitch, her voice panicking as she spoke them. If she could find the right one, the reason he'd give up on her then maybe, maybe she'd find her reason to stop loving him too.

"Lanny," the first man she ever trusted with her heart, ever let not just inside her body but her mind, to know her thoughts, her dreams, grabbed onto her hand. She didn't turn around to face him, couldn't -- just watched as he ran his fingers over her skin. His voice cracked from tears dripping in his words as he whispered, "There's nothing in thedas, the fade, or beyond you could do that would make me stop loving you."

Lana closed her eyes tight, willing away the pain burning behind them. As she pulled her hand away from his to let it dangle in the cold air, she said emotionless, "What if I made you king?"

"AH!" the spirit shrieked in her ear, the voice rattling across every stone below her. Lana opened her eyes against a burn as the tears from so many years ago dribbled free. Her heart crashed the same as it had at that last campsite, the memory pouring all the emotion into her with it, but Lana smiled at the spirit. A grin of malevolence twisted up her cheeks as she gazed out at the demon's domain crashing apart. The statue of Andraste rotted away, the head tumbling backwards into weeds twisting up through the stones of the chantry, dead vines claimed the Lady's body. It was working.

"What's the matter, spirit? Don't enjoy that love as much?" Lana taunted. She struggled to rise from where she landed in a pew, the energy unhappy to flood into her depleting veins. A bone curdling cold swept across her skin, inexplicable in the fade.

"If. You. Do. Not. Stop. You. Will. Die," the demon spat out, clinging to its head as if suffering from a splitting headache.

"So you say, and yet I'm still here," Lana mocked, savoring this narrow victory. She had more, so much more inside of her. An entire lifetime's worth of heartache to throw at this creature. "Give up now, let me go and I'll stop."

The spirit chuckled, "You know I cannot do that. I cannot let you injure yourself the way you dream of, the pictures of how you'd end it flitting through your mind." Lana's victorious smile fell, her throat clutching at the spirit's taunt. "You cling to them sometimes, press them into the pages of your memory in case they're ever needed. But I will not let you accomplish it. I will save you."

"That's not love, demon," anger knocked over any shame, sending Lana barreling towards the creature, "I'd rather face death at the thousands of spiders you keep at bay or live for a brief second in the real world than face eternity with you."

Twisting its head back and forth, form began to take substance across the demon. Not much, only a glimmer of opacity, the creature's head knotting upwards into two streaks almost like horns. "How do you intend to stop me?" the demon asked.

Crossing her arms, Lana tipped her head back and shouted, "Jowan? Get in here, because I'm going to give you the memory you've always wanted."

The last of the smoke curled around the pyre creaking in the winds upon the sands of Seheron. Varric and Isabela both left a few minutes into lightning it but he stood there, his chin pulled to his chest, watching silently as the flames consumed Maric's body. Alistair's only family wafted away like ash on the breeze.

Lana curled her hand inside his, clinging tight. He'd been quiet after they found Maric, the real Maric outside of the fade. Sullen wasn't Alistair's way; when something bothered him he walled it up tight and distracted anyone prying apart the bricks with jokes. But silence was all he could manage while they tried to do right by the one great king of Ferelden, barely a word slipping through his lips.

She tried to shake the fade's memories from her mind -- how easily she'd fallen into its trap, imagined that-that, it didn't matter. None of it was real, nor could it ever be. Maker only knew what havoc it would wreak upon Alistair, had already shattered inside of him. He reached his free hand out towards the ashes which were still blisteringly hot. Lana threw ice around them, struggling to cool it before he burned himself on accident. Barely slowing at the flare of magic, Alistair picked a pinch of the ashes between his fingers - the same amount they'd used to heal Eamon so many years ago. He released his hold on her to cup his father's ashes in both of his hands, staring down at them trying to mourn the man who created him, the one he never knew.

"Alistair," Lana tried to guard him from hurting himself, "it's been a...a long day. We should get some sleep first."

He looked about to agree with her, to return Maric's ashes to the pyre so they could collect them all later, to follow her to the campsite with the qunari, to cry against her shoulder as they figured out their next step. Slipping her hand back into his, Lana tugged upon him to follow, when a sigh groaned through Alistair's body.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's not your fault, you...you had to do it."

"No, Lanny," he opened his hand letting hers hang alone in the air. Straightening up, he turned his empty face towards her. "I am sorry for misplacing your honor, for taking advantage of you."

_No. He couldn't be serious. Not again!_ She snapped her hand back, tears bunching behind her eyes. "Don't you dare," she threatened, jabbing a finger at him.

"It was my mistake, my failure, my weakness," he moaned as if he wanted to be punished, wanted to make himself feel as miserable as possible by taking her down with him. "I think it's best if we-if we return to what we were before."

"You bastard," she stated the fact, glaring coldly through his Maker damned, white knight bullshit. "You spineless, cold hearted, feckless bastard." Alistair flinched with every word, but he shuddered as she threw bastard at him, not because the word hurt but because it struck back at her. If he wasn't a bastard, if he hadn't been some king's hidden son, then he wouldn't be breaking her heart again.

"Lanny..." he began, "I know this isn't--"

"Know? You don't know a Maker given thing, Alistair. You've never known because you don't want to. You run the moment something falters, fails. Tuck your tail between your legs and scamper on home while the rest of us pick up the pieces alone!" She tried to fight down the hurt in her voice, the tears burning her eyes, but she wasn't strong enough. _Damn him! Damn him to the void!_

"I'm doing what's right for--"

"Oh no, don't you dare give me that noble bullshit about how you're sacrificing yourself for the better good, for my sake, for the fucking kingdom. You don't give a nug's ass in winter about the gentry, about any of that shit. You'd have given it all up in a heartbeat if you could," she shouted, gesturing at Maric's pyre. "All you care about, all you've ever cared about is yourself."

His jaw twitched back and forth while he chewed through her rant, choking on her damning words. It was one thing to have strangers call him on his faults, but when she did it every barb dug deep into his flesh. "You think I'm happy about this? About any of this? For Andraste's sake, I wanted to...I hoped to."

"I know what you hoped to do, Alistair. To free yourself of any duty, any requirements placed upon your head. You wanted to run as far from leadership as you could get!" _Just like you were doing_ , she damned herself in her head. The similarity only fueled her anger, reminding her of everything she gave up in her life for him, for his whims. _Damn her too!_ "You...we could have worked together, but no, no it all has to be about you, about your noble sacrifice for someone's cause. I never get any fucking say in it, like I'm, I don't matter. To you, to anyone. I'm just supposed to be happy you even glanced my way!"

"What am I supposed to do, Lanny?" his eyes snapped up from his sulk, anger finally threading away his pout. "What can I do? Tell me. You're good at that. You love telling people what to do, what to think, what to notice, what to eat."

She growled deep into her chest, her shoulders bunching as she burrowed her head deeper into her neck. "You begged me to come along, drug me from the wardens and offered me...gave me a...let me even think that I. I could have-- Ahh!" Lana tipped her head back and screamed, her voice cracking through the muggy Seheron air as she let eight years of pain thunder through her. Eight years of watching from the sidelines as he flirted with the noble ladies auditioning to be his wife or mistress. Eight years of him smiling serenely at her, telling her she was the most amazing woman he knew, and then taking another mage to his bed. Eight years of him giving her hope that maybe, maybe she'd have a chance again.

No more. A cruel laugh gurgled in her throat, and she faced her shoes, snickering at the idiocy of it all. Surrounded by pirates on one side, the other by qunari, all while she cursed at the king of Ferelden. That's what her life led to. From a little girl raised on a farm in the Free Marches, cursed with magic and bundled off to a circle, to whatever demented torture this was. Returning to the circles sounded better with every passing day and even that was no longer an option because of, because she dared to trust someone she never should have.

"Wh...?" Alistair looked spooked, as if he expected her head to snap up and find she'd become possessed by a demon. "What's funny?"

Her soft chuckle grew into a greater laugh, strangling her smoke burned vocal chords as tears traced a path through her soot stained cheeks. "You almost had me, almost convinced me that it was, that you'd changed. I foolishly thought, believed even if Maric was gone you'd-you'd," Lana's laugh died and her lips trembled. She swiped the heels of her palms across her eyes to blot away the tears. "Keep me. But of course not, why would it change? Eight years, eight Maker damned years and it's still the same all over again. Why is it so easy for you to give me up? What do I keep doing to make me worthless?"

"Lanny, I..."

"I know, you're sorry, as if that'll fix everything. Slap a sorry poultice on it, that'll cure a broken heart a treat," she screeched through the pain dropping on her chest and raising her voice higher as the emotion built up. It throbbed inside her brain, heartache threatening to burst from her ears.

Alistair shook his head, and mumbled, "I was going to say I love you."

"I don't care," Lana cut back with, causing the king to whip his head up. He blinked rapidly, and for the first time she saw the start of tears burning in his eyes. It didn't happen the entire time she yelled at him, nor the first time he broke her heart, but somehow her truth was enough to shake a few free. "What you do and do not love has no bearing upon my life any longer, king of Ferelden. You had a chance, two chances, and you-you ruined the only fucking good thing in your life."

She expected him to scoff at that, to come back angrier against it, but Alistair crumbled - whatever backbone he bore slipping away. His eyes drooped downwards, the browns watering to a simpering, pathetic turn. He whispered to the ground, "Tell me what you want, please. I'll do it. I'll always do it."

Lana spun around and snatched up her staff - the only constant companion she had in this world, then turned back to face him. Raising her voice loud enough so all the interlopers with straining ears could hear, she told him the truth, "Stay out of my life. It means so little to you, it should be easy to accomplish." Smoothing down her robes, she turned away from him for what she thought would be the last time. Alistair didn't speak up, didn't try to pull her back or beg for more forgiveness. The only hint that he even heard her was a solitary sob floating on the sea winds, and then silence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Wake Up

The templar should have hit him - smashed apart his jaw, knocked his brains against the floor and put him out of his misery. Damn the fade, damn it and all those damn demons and their damn deamony damning tricks! Alistair lurked at the back of the group, their saucy Qunari leading the pack as if she already knew where to go, while Cullen... Maker, how was he still going? How did he manage to yank himself out of that razor wire trap and not even show a glint of pain across his face? He mooned more over taking the lyrium than whatever the fade did to him.

Alistair gripped tighter to his stomach, trying to pry apart the splint mail with his fingernails as if that would make him feel better. Somehow remove not just the image of Lanny and their children from his brain, but the serenity it filled in his heart. He never realized how much he wanted that until it was gone. But that wasn't a possibility, had never been one, would never be. Why not wish for edible candy clouds and the ability to fly while you're at it, Alistair? It's far more likely you'll sprout wings.

The others eyed up the walls as they continued to climb higher into the fortress. By a small miracle of the Maker, the water finally receded, leaving their ankles sopping but free to dry in the dead air. It stank the further they continued, like dried skin stretched in preparation for the tanner with chunks of gristle still attached, and the sharp bite of magic. Every time he went to lick his teeth, he feared it would spark back at him from the growing hum in the air. The templar had to feel it, especially with his own veins glowing bright, but Cullen didn't respond. He'd barely said a word since dissolving the wards, that sword's edge focus back. It unnerved Alistair how quickly the templar swung from a bubbling panic to honed certainty with a single drink. He'd only brought the one vial as a half hearted joke anyway, as if the Anderfels wouldn't use proper coin for trade. Now he regretted not bringing more, worried how the templar would react when his ration wore off.

Walking under a half broken archway, Alistair screwed his eyes up from a strange green light permeating the room. He blinked a few more times, trying to chase away the white dots across his vision when the truth of the room came into focus. It was grand by tunnel standards, with massive columns propping up a stone dome undulating green energy across it. No, not a dome, there was a big metal ball hanging off the ceiling, dented as if the sculptor couldn't be bothered to smooth it out. That was weird. "Have you ever...?" Alistair began, breaking his silence as he walked towards the others.

Cullen stood deeper in the room, his body rigid as he gazed outward at the wall. With his eyes on the giant hanging ball, Alistair didn't see what fascinated Cullen until he ran into the man's shoulder. The templar whipped back, pure focus across his face, and Alistair's eyes slid away from the slightly scary man to the alcoves dug three feet deep into the walls. It wasn't the multitude of them that startled him, nor the green barrier slapped across each one hissing in magic. No, what nearly sent him scampering out the door was the fact every single one was filled with a dead body. A good thirty bodies circled the room, their skin stretched taut against prodding bones, lips receded away from teeth revealing white gums. Their eyes were shut tight, for which he was grateful. He didn't want to stare into the depthless void of rotted away eyeballs inside those mummified skulls.

Placing a hand against the wall, Alistair leaned closer to the barrier trying to understand who and what this once was. Human, probably, though the ears were shriveled mushrooms on the side of the head. The clothing was the same across every alcove, worn and faded robes without a stitch of any ornamentation. They all looked like monks; ordinary, mummified monks resting almost upright behind the most powerful magic he'd ever tasted. While interesting, this wasn't getting them any closer to Lanny. He began to turn away, when the mummy's paper wasp-nest chest rattled.

"Merciful Andraste!" Alistair shrieked, leaping back, "They're alive!"

"Don't be..." Cullen began, then he caught another body heaving the dust from its leathered skin as it too took in a breath. "Holy Maker, what is this?"

"That's what I was gonna shriek about," Alistair continued.

"How can they be alive? They, this is..." the templar looked freaked, beyond terrified as he whipped his head around at the other mummies that weren't quite dead. The whites of his eyes glowed in the haunting green light as he glared into each alcove, scrounging through the bent and twisted faces.

Alistair shrugged, "You did sense blood magic, and this isn't beyond the pale for them. But..." Why was it bothering the templar? He'd had to have seen this kind of thing before, perhaps worse in Kirkwall and... "Shit. Oh, shitting shit. Where's Lanny?!" He joined in the hunt through the faces, trying to fight down the panic clawing up his throat. No, no, not after all this, after the heartache, the jawache, the miles, the long nights, they were not going to find her turned into one of those- one of those... _Maker, no.  _

"The phylactery," Alistair gestured to Cullen, but the man's broken eyes widened and he shook his head.

"It's gone dark again. I can't get a sense any longer. I, I don't know if, if...what if we're too late?" The taut string he'd been running on snapped and Cullen dropped to his knees, a groan cracking through his lips. Whatever wall he built for himself after the fade, the fight, maybe even from the day he set out must have crumbled, dragging the man with. Honor tried to nudge her head against him, but the man was beyond her, beyond reaching as he crashed deep into the empty void.

_No!_ Alistair stomped his foot like a child; he refused to give up. Even if he had to scour every desiccated face buried behind thick green glass he was going to find Lanny. Digging his fingers into his forehead, Alistair struggled to think, to find an answer, when he heard it gnawing at the back of his head. The song that'd been barely a tickle before was growing stronger, knocking from the base of his skull up through his teeth because... _Oh, Maker._

"These are wardens," he moaned. And every one of them was still tied to the archdemon, to the calling, all of them knotted together in... "Of course!" he slapped himself in the forehead for being an idiot. Alistair dropped a hand to the fallen templar. At first, he batted it away, wanting to wallow in his misery, but Alistair wasn't about to give up. "Come on, I know how we can find her."

"How?" Cullen staggered to his feet, not accepting the hand offered to him.

Alistair tapped his head, "I'm gonna follow my nose." Like all grey wardens, he could kinda tell the difference between wardens and darkspawn - the former a gentle symphony in the distance, the latter like climbing inside the bass drum. He couldn't really tell the variances to associate between different wardens, all save one. "Not here," he barely paid attention to the surroundings as he zipped through a doorway into another room similarly stuffed with the dried out husks of wardens.

Cullen groaned at more of the same, even Aqun sighed in consternation, while Alistair waved his hand around, listening with his mind. "No, not here either. This way..." He could hear it -- it wasn't loud, not the way it should be, but it sang to him, through him, every part of him knew it. Running past another two chambers also circled with the preserved mummies, Alistair chased after what he heard in his heart. With each step the singing grew louder through his soul, driving him further and further towards it, until they stepped into the largest chamber of them all.

While the others were impressive -- your salons, or foyers, or vestibules -- this was where the real shit happened. It was the grand ballroom to the quaint drawing rooms of before. No giant metal balls hung from the ceiling, but a griffin statue stood proud in the middle of all - its wings extended as if it turned to stone mid-flight. Shit, given what ancient magisters were capable of, perhaps that's what happened and it had once been a real griffin. The others gawped at the grandeur of another time pristinely preserved away from grave robbers, while Alistair pried apart his forehead, his lips tasting the song. Spinning on his heels, he raced towards a single alcove directly across from the griffin statue.

He didn't tell Cullen what he felt in his gut, but the templar kept close to him, both men coming to a dead standstill at the end of their quest -- Lanny resting peacefully upon the standing altar. She wasn't a mummy, though her cheeks were sucked in more than he remembered, her hair dull and listless, her body fragile under thick robes, tattered and filthy with black mud. If they'd taken any longer there may have been nothing to find.

"Maker, blessed Maker, I..." Cullen stumbled for words, his hands skimming across the impenetrable barrier.

"She doesn't look good," the words slipped from Alistair's mouth. He didn't want to say them, didn't want to think them, but it was the truth - Lanny looked near death. The templar's ragged eyes turned to him, bloodshot around the edges as if he'd popped a vessel while holding every tear at bay. "What do we do now?"

Bowing his head, Cullen placed both hands against the barrier. His body snapped rigid as he touched it, waves of dispelling emanating off him, but that damn green barrier stayed in place. It didn't even wobble from his attempt, and the templar's power was so great it nearly knocked Alistair backwards. Cullen's eyes opened for a moment and he softened from the view of Lanny asleep on the reclined altar like in those old fairytales. Gritting his teeth, the templar tried again, pouring more of his power and the lyrium into his spell.

"I don't think that's going to..." Alistair tried, waves of nausea washing over him. Andraste's dimpled buttcheeks, whatever he was doing was having an affect on him as well, but not doing a damn thing against the barrier. "Something's not right," Alistair mused, sliding back. "Something we're missing." There were the big glowing balls, which was weird, and could be causing the barriers, but then why weren't any in here? The room was blank save the griffin statue to remind everyone it was full of wardens; stupid, not-dead wardens.

"Do you have any ideas...?" Alistair turned to ask their qunari guide. She'd been quiet, standing stock still as her eyes hunted across the undead wardens, then trailed along the ceiling, as if she knew what to look for. It wasn't her interest in wainscoting that caught Alistair, but the way her hands folded into her sleeves, reaching for something hidden up them. He knew what came after that.

Aqun's eyes zeroed in on the templar with his back fully turned to her, all his concentration on trying to free Lanny. There was little time to plan, only react. Unable to draw his sword, Alistair shouted something incoherent and rushed at Cullen. The man spotted him coming out of the corner of his eye and moved to turn, but not fast enough to see the glint of a dagger Aqun lunged for his kidneys, or liver, or whatever soft spot she'd stab to goo.

Against all sense of self preservation, Alistair knocked into Cullen, throwing the templar back against the wall out of range. He took the slash of the knife across his shoulder and arm. "Maker, damn it!" Alistair screamed, "I just cleaned this!" Blood trickled through the wound across his upper arm, the splintmail doing most of the work to bounce it free.

Roaring, Aqun sliced wide, driving her dagger to finish him off while Alistair fumbled for his sword. Luckily, she forgot about the plucky little mabari that leapt off the ground and dug teeth deep into the qunari's tender hand flesh. Cursing in Qunlat, the blade scattered from Aqun's hand but Honor held tight, shaking her head to pierce her teeth deeper into bleeding skin. Unable to reach another weapon, the qunari kicked wildly against the dog's ribs, the last connecting. Honor whimpered, her teeth releasing in pain, and Aqun whipped her arm sending the mabari flying across the ground.

Her hand looked like moldy venison, blood oozing from a dozen bite marks, but the qunari only glared and moved to unsheathe her spear. Alistair swallowed against those creepy blue eyes sizing him up. He tried to reach for his own sword, but for some reason his hand wouldn't obey. It screamed in agony at the wound still bleeding down his shoulder. While his fingers nudged against the leather hilt, knocking it up and then losing their grip, he faced down death from Aqun's spear driving through his skull. Yanking her arm back, the qunari roared, when a sword smashed towards her side. She rolled to avoid it, almost missing Cullen rising from his shove.

Pressing his attack, the templar slammed his shield towards Aqun's arm, but she dodged quickly away - her spear giving her the greater reach. And yet, even with that she couldn't hope to get past his shield. They found themselves at a strange stalemate.

"Let me guess," Alistair hissed, gritting his teeth as he pressed his hand against his wound to try and stem the blood, "you're ben-ha--"

"I am ben-hassrath," Aqun declared.

"Of fucking course you are," he groaned. He was never going to hear the end of it from the templar now.

The templar didn't back down from his stance, only cast a sidelong glare at Alistair to drive his being right home. Cullen aimed a glower at the turncoat qunari, "What does the Qun care for this place?"

"Why would they even know of it?" Alistair came back with.

"Foolish bas, you know nothing of your own world. Of what you leave waiting in the fringes, like forgotten gatlock barrels to explode when you are caught unawares," Aqun whipped her head from one to the other, her spear following. If he could get his damn hand to work, maybe Alistair could flank her and finish this. But no, it had to get grumpy all of a sudden.

"Do you have any idea who this is?" Alistair tried the one card Lanny'd give him so much shit for playing while gesturing at her body. "The Arishock doesn't just know her, she's his damn kadan. Or does that not mean anything to you?"

Aqun glowered at him, her eyes barely sliding back to Lanny, "I serve the Qun, the Arishock serves the Qun. It does not matter how one bas fits into the picture, this place must be purged."

"Why?" Cullen began.

Chuckling in that mirthless and cold qunari way, Aqun whipped back to the templar - the only real threat. "The Darvaraad found mention of this place when we were in the fade. Forgotten by the bas who created it, another option left available to the elven shokrakar, a threat to the Qun. I am sent to end it before it destroys us. And I will, after I kill you."

"Someone's very certain of themselves," Alistair mused. Yanking his hand away from his wound, he managed to unearth the shield off his back and slide it along his forearm. At least his left hand wanted to work. Aqun whipped back to him, her spear dancing closer to him. "Two on one, qunari," Alistair taunted.

"Three on one," Cullen said, jerking his head towards Honor who'd risen to her feet, the entire stripe of her back fur up as she snarled at Aqun.

"Not sure how you're gonna honor the Qun under those odds," Alistair said, twisting his head to emphasize their greater numbers. But that was the problem with qunari - give them impossible odds, back them into a corner and they didn't do what any right thinking person did. They'd never cut and run, make a deal, back down - no, they had to fight until the last breath was drawn from them regardless how many others they took down with them. He didn't know about the templar, but Alistair wasn't in any mood to die that day.

Moving to lick his teeth, a spark zapped against his tongue, knocking across the roof of his mouth. How could the damn magic be even stronger in here? There weren't any of those giant glowing... _Oh, you cheeky bastards._ That was it, right there, the whole damn time. Alistair raised the shield in front of his face and he tried to whisper at Cullen. "Pst, pst!"

"What?" the templar glared because it was all he could do.

"It's the statue."

Groaning, he glanced over at Alistair, "What is the statue?"

Alistair jerked his head at the griffin in the middle of the room, then circled it around towards every single barrier blocking off the undead wardens. "The stat-ue. Break it and..."

Understanding and certainty glittered in Cullen's eye. He whipped his head towards Aqun, then gazed at the griffin statue just behind her. In her haste to escape their reach, she'd almost butted up against it. _Crap_ , Alistair thought, _he was going to need time_. Oh this was stupid, this was high on the list of stupid shit he was about to do.

"Hey!" Alistair shouted, hopping an inch ahead and then back. Aqun's eye turned towards him for a moment, then darted back to the templar who had to drop his stance. He needed more than time, he needed a full on distraction. "Hello! Scary qunari lady! Come and get me!" Leaping forward and then back, Alistair rattled his shield. "You know you want to, prime king meat here." It worked, but only for a few seconds, Aqun catching on that something was happening, but uncertain what to do. Her spear began to lean towards the man dancing like he had to pee, drawn by his elaborate movements

Gulping, Alistair prayed a bit to Andraste that the templar worked quick. And then he took a full step forward. Aqun whipped her spear to him, her eyes narrowing. He, in turn, did the same, snarling his teeth as he screamed the first word to come to mind. "Marmalade!" echoed through the dead halls - not liable to become a great war cry, but it was enough to focus the qunari fully upon him. Throwing his shoulders down, Alistair ran towards the spear most likely to slide through his innards. One step. Another. Aqun smiled, showing her sharp teeth.

Then the world exploded. Alistair's breathless body dropped to his knees as the full power of Cullen's 'break magic shit' anti-spell cracked against the griffin. He'd thought it would provide a distraction for them, cause Aqun to turn back. Instead, the magic was so unstable it blew apart, taking the entire stone griffin with it. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" he didn't know who was cursing, probably him as sound scattered from his ears. Alistair ducked under his shield, baring the brunt of debris raining against it like vengeful hail.

Even as the beak and tips of the wing shattered against Aqun's arm and stomach, she remained upright. Blood trickled out of her nose, something inside of her broken beyond repair, but she wasn't about to let some internal bleeding and certain death stop her. Pain seared up Alistair's arm, driving right for his gut and he flopped down to a knee. Smiling at the opportunity, the bruised and battered qunari lifted her spear, ready to drive it into him. He tried to huddle all the best parts of him behind his shield, but with the force she was throwing behind it, the damn thing would probably go through his shield and then him.

"Nehraa Qun!" she shouted. Aiming her arm back, those solid grey muscles prepared to bring about his doom, when the tip of a sword prodded through her throat. The spear scattered from her fingers and she reached up with both hands, trying to drive the crimson point free as blood poured from her grey neck. Sneering, Cullen grabbed onto her shoulder and both thrusted his blade deeper while yanking her back into it. A screaming gurgle gushed out of the hole in her throat, the mighty qunari toppling to her knees as the last of life drained away.

Cullen ripped his sword free, half decapitating the qunari, the empty body slumped on its side. He pinched the bridge of his nose to steady himself, swiping it with the qunari's blood, when Honor nudged him in the leg. His sword clattered free, and Cullen dropped to a knee, both hands palpating his dog. "Did she hurt you, girl? Some bruising here, but..."

"I'm fine too," Alistair winced, struggling to rise to his feet. His head buzzed as if he'd hung upside down for too long, probably from the errant magic zipping through the air. "And..." Both men stared at each other before turning back to the woman they loved, the green barrier shattered off her cage.

Reaching her first, Alistair grabbed up her hand and hissed, "Maker, she's ice cold. Lanny. Come on, Lanny. It's all good to go. We're ready to head out now. No more scary qunari going all Qun happy. Lanny? Don't do this. Don't you do this." He rubbed his hand up and down hers, trying to bring some warmth into it. "Don't you dare, don't tell me you're doing this!" Alistair cried, despair and rage competing for his heart.

Calmly, the templar lifted up his bloodied sword and held it against her nose. A puff of fog hazed up the crimson blade. She was breathing. "Sweet Maker, thank You," Cullen gasped, his sword falling from her nose as he brought his hands together in prayer. But that wasn't what they needed right now. They had to wake her, to rouse her from whatever spell she was under, to bring her back. There had to be something to it.

"Lanny...Lanny," Alistair called, jiggling her arm up and down. It was dead weight in his, offering no resistance, her body limp and far too light, "I'll call you Solona, you hate that. But I'll do it if you don't wake up. Please. Wake up. Why isn't she waking up?" Panic rattled in his veins. They'd done it, damn it. They'd crossed the insurmountable, found her, defeated the unexpected villain. That should be the end of it!

"We have to..." Cullen coughed. His hand hung above her frozen cheek as if he was terrified to touch her. "Look around, for whatever's causing this. I may have an idea. I'll, um, I'll go and find it. Shut them down." He began to slide his body away from Lanny, but he kept his hand just within reach as if he couldn't really leave. "Remain with her, watch her to see if-if it works."

"No, wait," Alistair tried to grab onto him, "you should stay here. Be the one to, to wake her up. To be here when she, that's how that works, right? True love's kiss or something like that. In all the stories..."

Cullen slipped away, shaking his head, "I'm the one with lyrium. Only I can, I-you remain. I'll see what I can do. Stay with her, please." Before Alistair could dredge up another argument, the templar vanished into one of the other chambers, Honor limping on his heels.

_Maker's balls, why do you have to do this now? You know, You've pulled a lot of shit over the years, but this?_ To get so close and then... Alistair slapped his own cheek, trying to draw himself out of his misery. He patted Lanny's cold hand, "Hey, it's me. The one you hate, remember? Don't you want to wake up and yell at me? Give me one of your famous tongue lashings. All you have to do is open your eyes. I, I bet it's eating you up to know I'm here, getting involved in your life all over again. Come on, Lanny. Please."

Slipping his arm tighter around her back, Alistair pulled Lanny away from the altar. Maybe that was keeping her asleep, chilling her to death. _Not death, never death, no, just cold, really cold that had nothing whatsoever to do with..._ Without her awake to hold onto him, her body slumped in his, her head lolling back, limp like a straw dummy. "It's not just me here, you know. I brought that templar of yours. All right, he's not really a templar anymore, but you know who I mean. Lanny, you have to wake up to see him. If you wake up then you two can-can run off into the sunset picking daisies. You can have a house crammed full of mabari. Whatever you want. All you have to do is wake up. Please."

Ignoring the pain screaming in his shoulder and digging through his gut, Alistair pulled her limp body to his, hugging her tight. He couldn't fight the tears anymore, but shame and grief caused him to bury his face in her limp shoulder. "He loves you so damn much. You wouldn't believe what he's had to do, to-to, put up with me and, there were... Lanny, please. We need you back. Wake up. I'm begging you. I love you. Just, just wake up."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Freedom

_?:?? ?_

_No._ Lana inched along the hissing ground as water and lava in equal measure bubbled up below it. Cracks burst through every inch of the fade, as if someone was ripping it apart at the seams exposing its internal skeleton to the air. In the distance, the demon's protective bubble shattered revealing an endless march of spiders moving towards her desolate mountaintop. With each heartbreaking memory, more of the land stripped away until only the broken and jagged rock below her remained. She'd given it her all -- every loss, every regret, every deep well of despair that she never thought she'd climb out of -- and it was killing her. The connection to her body, her real body increased, cold dragging down her limbs until she shouldn't stand, couldn't lift her arms. Her eyes barely fluttered from a dreadful exhaustion knotting through her veins. Lana drained her soul for freedom, but it wasn't enough.

"That was an excellent showing, my dear," the demon coughed, beaten but not destroyed by her mental attack. "You are a stout one, aren't you?"

Lana dragged her hand another inch along the ground, reaching for something, anything, when she bumped into Jowan's foot. The regret spirit hovered close to her despite the demon's presence. For once, it was strong, stronger than the real Jowan ever was, from what she fed it. Even Nathaniel appeared from years of duty strangling her heart, his form glowing as if the chest was coated in medals. All that was missing was the final piece of Lana Amell, that ever driving curiosity, that need to understand. But Wynne wasn't needed, because she knew the truth. Out there in the real world she was dying, being drained of life by this spirit she turned into a demon. Her only hope was to pop its protective bubble.

"Give up, please. You're only harming yourself," the spirit continued.

"And what'll happen to me if I do?" Lana hissed through her chattering jaw, the chill trembling her famished skin.

"You'll be here, with me, safe. No more pain, no more misery. Only joy and love. What everyone wants," the spirit was little more than a wisp now, the echo of its form wafting in and out of reality as it spoke.

She needed more, something to push herself beyond the seeming never ending heartache of Alistair. But what was there? No one else ever got close enough to her for their betrayal to mean anything. Even Nathaniel she forgave overtime, understood that he had no choice, that it was her doing that... A chuckle rumbled in Lana's throat, like gravel churned up by a horse's hooves. It had to be that. It had to always be that. How could she be so foolish? The spirit snapped back into form, its black eyes drifting down to her face skimming inches from the muddy ground.

"What everyone wants?" Lana repeated back its words while swiping at her face to clear away the filth. The longer she remained in the fade, the stronger she grew here and the weaker her real body became. "What everyone wants, demon, is freedom."

"There is nothing left inside of you. Every pitiful attack remaining in your mind will have no affect upon me. I know you, I know every beat of your fragile heart, mortal. Face it, you and I are intertwined forever."

She knew what she had to relive, had to fling back into its mind to break its hold upon her. Gritting her teeth, Lana shoved her forehead into the mud and thought back to the darkest day of the blight -- when she returned home.

_9:30 Kinloch Hold  _

Irving weighed more than he looked, his mass dragging Lana downward as they tried to slip out of the harrowing chambers. His bloodied hand skimmed across the walls while she struggled to catch the breath Uldred knocked out of her. Behind her, the others stomped down the stairs, Wynne close as she whispered something to Irving. Lana should have been able to hear it but her ears couldn't stop buzzing, her own blood boiling over with a battle frenzy that had yet to leave.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, a cold certainty chased it all away. "Leliana," she called, waving the red haired sister over. "Could you take the First Enchanter for me?"

"Of course," she smiled sweetly, and slipped Irving's drifting arm over her shoulders. "Right this way, Sir. We only have a few more flights to take. Should be a quick walk."

"Delightful child, but a terrible liar," Irving joked, his voice raspier than normal. Leliana smiled wider as she and Wynne escorted him down to the templars.

Lana turned from them to the man she'd left behind in her race to the harrowing chambers. He was right, with Uldred dead the barrier was gone, but he didn't rise out of it, didn't run. His head bowed, he'd taken to a knee with hands clasped outward while prayer dripped from his lips. Shrugging away the pain burning through her bones, Lana stepped across where the barrier once was and extended her hand to him. For a beat, he didn't react, only continued his prayer, the words of Andraste guarding him from all the evil mages. Embarrassment burned up her legs as her hand hung suspended above the man refusing to look at her, but she'd feel even more foolish yanking it away.

Finally, his caked hands broke apart and burning eyes turned up to her. She never thought those honey eyes could fill with so much hatred, all of it burning through her. But Cullen took her hand and let her help him to his feet. He swayed, exhaustion laying claim quickly. Instinctively, Lana reached out to catch him, but he shook her away, his body sliding back deeper into the prison.

"Don't, do not... I am fine," his fingers dug into his forehead trying to wipe away the pain. "What you have done..." Cullen whispered it, but Lana wasn't about to let it go.

"Was for the good of the tower."

He snorted, nearly all fight kicked out of him from Uldred or maybe the earlier torture. But he bore a fire inside she hadn't recognized until stumbling upon Cullen trapped inside his prison. Broken, beaten, beyond hope, he'd cling by bent fingernail to survive, to endure.

"You have unleashed Maker only knows how many blood mages back into the world. Blood mages who will infect others, turn people against their own wills, make them..."

"I saved people, saved the First Enchanter," Lana hissed. She lifted on her tiptoes to meet his face.

Cullen chuckled a mirthless dirge as he yanked his hands away from his face. Leaning down into her, he was only a breath away as he shouted, "They will harm untold innocents. Every man, every woman, every person they hurt, everyone they kill will be upon your head."

They'd never been this physically close in the years she'd known him, seen him staring in her direction only to twist away in guilt upon being caught. His stale and metallic breath washed across her face. She could see the streaks where tears washed away grime and blood from his cheeks, his pores exposed like craters from the detritus. Something inside of her cracked, something she'd buried deep out of fear anyone would ever find it. Each piece scattered, leaving only a gaping hole in her being. Staring at him -- him of all people -- cursing at her, willing her away, telling her she failed...Lana knew this would never be her home ever again. She'd never be welcome, never belong, never be...wanted.

Squaring her shoulders, she wiped her palms down the midsection of her robes, smudging up the trim of white fur with demon blood. "If I do not stop the blight, then all of Ferelden will be upon my head."

Cullen's sneer wobbled for a micro second and those flaring eyes drifted to the floor. She had no leaders to give her orders, no army to back her up, no Maker-damned hope to pull any of this off to end the blight, but she was going to fucking try.

"Hey, Lanny..."  Turning away from the broken templar, she spotted Alistair knocking his shoes together. At least she had one other grey warden to share in this misery with. That counted for something. "Are you, you okay? This was..." he waved his hands around the blood sacs and ichor dripping off the walls, "one hell of a home coming. In the literal sense, I guess."

"I'm fine," she said, but something in his tender brown eyes snagged her and she elaborated upon her brushoff. "You don't have to worry about me."

"Well, too bad. I already am. It's this thing I'm good at, might be the only thing but there it is. Look, you were there for me with, you know..." He meant Duncan. She wanted to reach over and hold his hand, to squeeze it to comfort him comforting her. "I'm just saying if you want to talk, my tent flap's always open." Her eyebrows shot up at the euphemism and Alistair turned five shades of red as his brain played it back. "That's not what- I mean if it's on the table, I wouldn't be opposed, but..."

A soft smile, the first she felt since entering the tower, lifted up her lips. Patting Alistair on the shoulder, she sighed, "I will take it under advisement, for now we should return to Gregoir before he sends his templars in."

"Good point," Alistair nodded his head. "Biting the hand that saved their asses sounds like the templars. I'll slip past the cavalcade and warn 'em not to stab first."

He began to move towards the room filled with the putrid smell of a dead arcane horror when Lana snagged his hand. She barely clung to it, only a whisper of her fingers knotting through his as she breathed to him, "Thanks for worrying, Ali."

"Anytime, Lanny," his face lit up, the smile stretching his cheeks wide and then he slipped away.

Lana's smile melted in his wake as if Alistair took the last shreds of joy with him. She had a hundred questions waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, and the need for mages fast. Redcliffe waited for them. Would any be ready in time to help? Maker, what if she spent too much time in here, in the fade, and Conner had...?

"What was said earlier," Cullen's gruff voice spoke from the corner he'd sidled into. It hurt her ears to hear it so much raspier from the sweet silk she remembered. "When I...thought you were a trick of the blood mages. It was not meant to be, I was under the delusion of, I should not have..."

"Forget it," she said, all emotion burned from her body. "I have. Come, we should all return to Gregoir. There's nothing left for us here."

Blood gurgled out of her mouth spraying across the dust whipping through the desolate land. Nothing of the green grass, the trees, the stolen rooms, or the lake remained. It was broken, beaten down, shattered the same way she had to crack open her heart and pour every despair into it. Cold. Beyond cold. This was the final chill, the one as death drew upon its victim, icy fingers clawing up the body.

"Look at what you've done!" the demon hissed. It'd been a spirit once, a powerful one of love, but Lana or something else had warped it from the unconditional support to an envious and controlling demon. A small part of her almost felt sorry for it, clinging to what it needed just as the others did -- the rest of her wanted to see it destroyed with every inch of her being.

Lana tried to lift her head, but there was nothing left inside of her. All she could do was roll her eyes towards the unending march of demons breaking through this one's territory, hungering for the mortal in their midst.

"I could have kept you safe, kept you here with me. But now," the spirit drifted in and out of their dimension, only the flicker of light betraying it, "now you will die."

She screwed up her eyes, shutting them against the dirt and dust blowing across the stripped landscape. As desolate as the areas the blight touched, only rot and decay took hold - every inch of life drained away. Her throat was raw from dust and Lana swallowed to try and clear it out. When she opened her lips, a cough echoed up her throat, spraying more blood across the dirt. "I would rather face death and try, than do nothing and live in servitude for eternity."

"So be it," the spirit/demon huffed. It could have finished her off, physically attacked the way the coming spiders would, but perhaps something of what it once was remained. Maybe demons could return to their previous form after all. Drawing back its tendrils, it drove a jagged end through the air. Green light poured out of the gap - strong enough to sear Lana's eyes. She hissed from it, but knew in her heart this was it. This was her final chance, the last hope.

Fading back to where it came, the spirit left her alone. With her ear pressed to the ground, Lana heard the chatter of hundreds of spiders racing up the mountaintop, pinchers thrashing to chew her apart. Willing whatever energy inside of her she could, Lana jammed a hand into the dirt and dug. Her body shifted an inch closer to the green gap in the air. Too bad it remained a good three feet away. Tears sprung behind her eyes from the pain and pressure as she gritted every bone in her body to obey, every muscle to answer her call. Even knowing there was no way she'd made it before the spiders reached her, she wasn't going to give up. Snapping her arm forward, she snagged the ground and inched closer. Two down, only another thirty three left to go.

A cry echoed from the bottom of the hill. Lana couldn't see it, but she heard Wynne shout through the air, "I have them, dear. Go and find your answers!" The noise of blade shattering through spider chitin answered in kind as the spirit took on the demons for her.

Nathaniel's cries of, "For the Warden Commander" echoed from the other side, her best warden not about to abandon her now.

Ignoring unimaginable pain chewing through her body and the chill deadening her limbs, Lana reached further and further. "I am not alone," she prayed. "Even as I stumble on the path..." Her teeth gritted as debris buffeted through the winds, blinding her. It didn't matter, she didn't need her eyes to know the gap remained - its power rippling through the air like the coming of a storm. Digging deep, Lana yanked her body forward, "...with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here."

Chittering erupted beside her. Instinctively she rolled, as if she had any strength inside of her to attack the spider, when its mandibles cracked into the arm of Jowan. He sneered but didn't cry in pain, only watched the spider attempting to dissolve his robe with poison. "What are you waiting for? This is already your biggest regret. You can't give me anymore. Get going."

Nodding, she waved her fingers near the green light. At less than an inch away, all she had to do was-was, what? _What lay beyond it for her? Freedom? Or another trap? Did she have a choice either way?_ Dropping her head down, Lana whispered the end of the prayer - the one that'd trailed her for years. "Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the veil, and the fade, and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand," she shuddered, the breath in her chest knocking wildly as she reached a hand into the green light. "And be forgiven."

Behind her, the sounds of battle faded away, the wind, every noise save the rapid pounding of her heart growing sluggish as it fought against the frozen chill. She fell into the endless expanse of nothing, the air in her lungs pounded out of her body. Her spark of life leeched out of her toes, her legs, her stomach, chest, and shoulders, rising to leave the broken body, until it landed at the tips of her fingertips. There it hung, vibrating as if only an errant breeze would knock it loose, ending her once and for all. Lana zeroed in on it, knowing but not seeing the final vestiges of her life glowing at the tips.

She watched her hands limply extended away from her body, as if she was flying free through the air. How easy it would be to let go, to free herself from the pain, the misery, the eternal despair trailing her every step. All she had to do was wave her fingers and release her soul back across the veil. So simple, anyone could do it, and yet... Lana glared at her hands shifting her willpower into the only spell she knew etched through her soul, the ice that called to her, the chill that trailed her since she was a child. Blocks of ice coated her hands, keeping the life trapped upon her fingers. She wasn't going down without a fight, not even against herself. Swallowing in the airless void, Lana shut her eyes tight.

Then a hand grabbed onto hers. The ice shattered away, warmth seeping into her skin - not just her hand but all of it, her dead limbs rising from the grave, air rushing into her straining lungs. Light pierced through the slit of her eyes, and carefully Lana raised her eyelids. Blinded by the sear against her pupils, her eyes watered, rendering whatever held her body in a strange wash of tears. A bloody thumb wiped the tears off her frozen cheek and he came into focus.

"Ali..." Lana coughed, her voice dust, "Alis-" Willing any saliva to coat down her throat, she finally finished, "Alistair?"

It was him, looking a mess with reddened eyes and someone's blood splattered across his face, but he cracked a massive smile and then scooped her unresponsive body tight to his. "Lanny!" he cried, jiggling her in his arms, "Lanny, I...Maker, you're here. You're...it's really, you, and all of... Oh, right." Alistair raised his voice and shouted through the echoing hall, "She's awake! She's here, she's...!" Through his own shock and tears, he caught her struggle to swallow the dust down her throat and swung around a water skin.

Lana could barely lift her hand to catch it, so he uncorked it and dribbled half the contents into her gaping mouth. Sweet Maker, it was as if she hadn't tasted a drop of water in months, the cool liquid knocking spiderwebs free. "Alistair?" she tried again, the word coming freely now, "What are you... Is this a trick? A trap of the fade again?"

"I have no idea. I don't think so," his eyes darted around the room.

"Tell me something, something I wouldn't know."

He held onto her tight, one arm wrapped around her back while the other gripped onto her hand - the warmth spreading from their joined fingers through her body. His adam's apple drifted higher as he thought, "Uh, Teagan's going bald. He wears this incredibly stupid hat to try and cover it up, but we all know. I keep telling him it'd be better if he just shaved it all off but..."

"Andraste's ass dimples," Lana cried, her fingers digging into his cheeks, feeling the muscles moving below, "It is you! I, I'm...where am I?"

"The Anderfels," he shrugged, "in some grey warden fortress thing. We're not 100% certain what for, but..."

She did it. Maker's breath, she was out, she was free of the fade. There wasn't enough moisture in her body for the tears to roll free, but Lana felt them in her soul, her lips stretching a smile - muscles straining from the lack of movement, the skin stinging. Free. After so long and...

"Ali," she asked, her hand digging into his as her muscles returned to her, "how long was I in the fade?"

He tried to pull her tighter, but her weight finally won out, and she slipped from his grasp, her toes landing against the ground. Pain knocked up her bones and into the knees, but she was standing - she had help, but she was standing. "Lanny, it...it was two years."

"Two years!" No, it couldn't have been that long. Not... She'd feared a year at most, twelve months of her life lost. She could fight to get a year back, but two...?

"Hey, hey, Lanny. It's gonna be..." Alistair swallowed whatever he was going to say and jerked his chin away from her out into the great hall. At first she didn't follow, her mind stewing at her own misfortune, her failure to figure out what was happening to her and break free. What life could wait for her after two years? She'd wasted so much time already, and now...

A soft gasp rattled through the hall and she lifted her weary head. _Maker's breath_ , Lana's bottom lip wobbled, her free hand cupping over her mouth in shock. The sword clattered from Cullen's slack fingers. He didn't even flinch at the noise, his eyes frozen upon her. _How? How was he standing there? How was he...?_ She didn't realize she moved towards him until her knee gave out, sending Lana's unused body towards the floor. Alistair struggled to keep her up by his grip on her hand, but there was no fighting it. She sank to her knees, both of her arms falling to the sides, unable to lift her up. Cullen plummeted to his own knees and slid across the floor to her, his hands curling around her face, fingers pressing into her cold cheeks warming with the flush of joy.

"Holy Andraste, I, thank you. Maker, thank You for bringing her back. I...I cannot, thank you. I needed to, you are..." Tears gushed from his eyes, a waterfall cascading off those honey eyes she'd yearned to gaze into. And now she could. They were here. He was here.

Lana blinked, finding her own eyes answering his in kind, the tears almost blindingly painful from all the salt in her body. But she didn't care, barely noticed it as her hands lifted to hold his shoulders, and then up to wipe across his stained cheeks. "That's what I was going to say," she whispered, unable to pull her eyes away from his. Whatever grace of the Maker brought him here, back into her life, she was grateful from the bottom of her heart.

"Lana, I," Cullen swallowed, his own thumbs trying to stem her happy tears, "I feared that you'd, that I'd..."

She wanted to apologize for everything she put him through, for staying behind, for not being enough. Sliding closer to him, Lana placed her forehead against Cullen's, the heat of his body warming her to the core. With her eyes screwed tight, she whispered her soul to him, "Cullen, I lo-"

A whomp reverberated from behind her, and Lana spun around on her knees to see Alistair prostrated across the ground, his eyes shut tight. With her hands as leverage, Lana scooted across the stone floor to him, crying his name and getting no response. His head lay at a strange angle to his neck, but his chest continued to raise up and down struggling for breath. "What's happened? What...?" She spotted blood dashed across his shoulder, the shirt ripped in response to a wound.

"There was a fight with a qunari," Cullen explained, waving towards the body of one crumpled below some exploded rocks.

"Shit!" Lana lifted one of Alistair's eyelids, getting the response she expected but not the one she wanted. "Poison, they're always using poison. I have to get it out of him, but..." She tried to dip into the veil, to part it, but her body was drained, not even a drop of mana remaining. "Something's wrong, I can't, I can't touch the fade. I, damn it, I can't fix this!" Panic grabbed onto her frayed nerves, sundering them from joy to despair in an instant. _No, not now. Not like this._ There had to be something she could do; a mixture, a compound, a bloody health poultice if it came to it. Lana ran her fingers over Alistair's pouches looking for anything, when Cullen's stiff hand landed upon her shoulder.

He coughed for a moment, then in a broken voice said, "There's lyrium in my veins."

"What?" Lana whipped back at him, but his head lolled down, his face hidden from her. "Why is there lyrium...?"

"Take it, use it to heal him."

"Cullen, no, that's-it's incredibly painful," she said, the panic rising inside of her, "dangerous. Beyond. I-I can't."

A broken smile twisted up his lips and he rolled his head, "Save him. I will endure."

She didn't want to, to never, but there was no other choice. Waving one hand over Alistair's shoulders, Lana ordered him, "Don't you dare die on me." She reached behind to grip onto Cullen's hand to begin the transfer, when she rubbed her thumb over the back of it to add, "And don't you die either."

Rolling her eyes back, Lana tugged upon the lyrium floating inside Cullen's veins rich with the raw power of the fade she could tap and alter into whatever she wanted. He let down his defenses, giving her full access as no right thinking templar ever would. As the first drops leeched from him, his hand clamped tighter around hers, but he didn't cry out, only groaned low in his throat. Maker, it bit deep into her to have to hurt him, but she didn't have time to worry about that. Reaching for that healer inside of her, the one that cared too much at times, she traced across Alistair's clammy skin. Cullen's body stiffened behind her as she drained more and more of the lyrium from him, she had to clear the poison, at least enough to ensure they didn't need to do it again. But, Maker, it had to be agony for him to have it boiled free so fast. Pressing one last spell against Alistair, Lana released her magic hold on Cullen - leaving a few drops in his veins. Consciousness snapped back into Alistair, his eyes springing wide awake, and he rolled to his side. The retching began immediately, all the poison purging from his shaking body. Lana rubbed her hand against his back, trying to soothe him without any magic, while she clung tight to Cullen's hand. "I have you," she whispered to the both of them.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Stayed Safe

_9:44 Anderfels_

Splashing echoed off the few trees providing a modicum of modesty. The king lay stretched out upon his bedroll, his skin clammy and yellow but looking far better than he had inside the fortress. He had explicit orders to remain seated at all times or... Neither of them knew what came after the or, but they didn't want to ask either.

Cullen sat perched upon the ground, his back turned to the woman trying to bathe two years worth of the fade off her skin. He kept close to hear her in case she slipped or needed help, and because she didn't want to be alone. They set up the camp near the edge of the river for that very reason. They, ha. As the only one capable of walking without assistance Cullen did most of it, having to help first Alistair, then...then her, and finally Honor out of the hole and to daylight. A warm sunset hugged the horizon, threatening to dip down into a chilly night, but for now they had a rosy glow to match a massive question hanging over their heads.

"How are you getting on?" Alistair shouted, his hands cupped over his mouth while he gazed up at the sky.

"Are you talking to me?" Lana called back, her voice strained but growing stronger with each passing moment. She'd drank both of their water skins dry and it still wasn't enough to refill her dehydrated body. _Maker only knew how long it'd been since she'd had a real drink, a real meal, a real...anything._

"Who else would I be asking? Captain Sullen over here?" Alistair called.

"That's Commander Sullen," he shot back, trying to keep up with the ease with which the old...whatever they were fell into conversation.

It had to be his ears knocking against his heart, but he thought he heard a snicker from Lana before she smacked her fist against the water. "Going pretty good. Got at least an inch of the grime off, only another five more to go. And this is delicious!" Chewing sounds followed her statement, as she was probably finishing off the last of their rations. After holding her brittle frame, his fingers tugging against her gaunt cheeks, they were both happy to watch it all vanish into Lana's malnourished stomach.

Cullen shook his head and he raised his voice, "All that time and your first meal out of the fade is hardtack. Seems particularly cruel."

"Actually," Alistair rolled over to the side to look at him but didn't raise his head off the ground, "she loves that stuff."

"You must be kidding," Cullen grimaced. Hardtack was what you ate because it was preferable to starving. Durable, long lasting, tough as shoe leather but somehow tasteless. No one bothered to add any spice to it, because no one wanted to face the dangerous reality of one day needing to eat it. Armies marched to get away from hardtack.

"Ate her damn weight in it during the blight," the man who knew her inside and out said before shrugging his shoulders and dropping back down to the ground.

"I know you two are talking about me," Lana shouted from her private grotto. "This is rather idiotic all around. It's not as if you haven't seen me naked before."

Cullen pinched his hand to try and compete with the cauldron of emotions rampaging through his system. He wasn't certain if he should be ecstatic, scared, lost, or grateful so he tried for all at once.

"All right," Alistair cut through his mental turmoil, "what's your theory?"

"My what?" Lana asked, more chewing sounds punctuating her question.

"We've been out of the fortress for a few hours now, and I know you swiped some of their literature. You've got to have figured out what that Iquo whatever was built for, how it failed, and if we're about to have some world ending catastrophe on our hands. I hope it's something new, like gigantic baby nugs that can crush cities under their creepy feet."

He couldn't be right. After the fire in Cullen's veins cooled, he did his best to help Lana out of the first room, then returned for the king who swore he got the last of the poison out of his stomach. With the barrier's down, they kept an eye on the not dead and now freed wardens. Mercifully, none rose from their tombs to attack, and Cullen worked quickly to get everyone to safety. There was hardly time for the woman whose atrophied limbs barely worked to swipe a book or inspect the walls.

But she spoke up, proving how little Cullen knew her, "I've got a suspicion, based upon what was in there, what I've read, and what you mentioned. I mean, it's not concrete by any means. People don't tend to leave 'Hello, We're Doing This Evil Thing Here' signs around."

"It'd make our lives easier if they did," Alistair answered, then he crossed his eyes, "What do you mean 'what you read?' Lanny, are you eating, washing, and reading at the same time?"

"What? No, don't be absurd, I would never, um..." the sound of a book smashing against the ground echoed through the dampening air, cushioned by grass. "Most of the language in the text we found is ancient. I can recognize some old Tevinter dialect but not as much as I should. The long and short of it is..." the sound of dribbling water paused while Lana did, as if she needed to shore herself up to continue, "I think that was originally where wardens went for their calling. As they, you know, succumbed to the taint, they didn't go into the deeproads but were locked away from the rest of the world."

Cullen glanced over at the other grey warden who was struggling up to his elbows at the news. A memory struck him, and he responded to Lana, "That would be why there are no footholds to escape out of the emergency exit."

"Exactly," he heard Lana grin in her sentence, as if proud of him. But he wasn't the one to notice, he'd barely paid any attention at all, his cloudy mind sharpened to a single task. It was all the king who'd kept up a vigil even as, even as everything fell down around them. "The fortress was built not to keep people out, but to keep wardens in."

"Okay," Alistair interrupted, "interesting idea, certain to give me lots of nightmares if I think about it. But, how did you wind up in there? What was with all the mummies?"

Silence fell as they heard Lana slide out of the water. Her movements sounded laborious while she climbed out of the river. Cullen risked a glance in her direction to make certain she was all right. He could only spot her silhouette crumpled on the edge of the bank, scrounging through clothing. Indecency struck at him and he turned away, certain that she could dress herself or she'd ask for help.

"You remember the talking darkspawn from after the blight?" Lana said. He had no idea, but the king nodded along, apparently this was old news. "I've often wondered if he maybe didn't have some tie to..." Whatever she meant, she shook it off and restarted. "I, I don't think the wardens facing there lives tossed into a pit and locked away from the world went gracefully. I don't think they stopped being wardens either even as they, you know..."

No, he didn't know. Somehow everyone kept skipping over exactly what happened to grey wardens when this taint consumed them. At first, Cullen assumed that it killed them, like a slow illness, but from the shrouded eyes of the king and Lana's vague words he suspected there was a far more painful answer. He should ask, it might be important to... Shaking his head, Cullen slumped deeper into his chest, his body rigid save his fingers curling up Honor's fur as she lapped up a puddle of water beside his feet.

"The text was vague but based upon the level of magic, the counter spells in place, and what I'd do in that situation, I'm guessing the wardens created the spells to rip apart the veil so they could physically walk into the fade."

"Why? To try and escape?" Cullen spoke up.

"No," Lana whispered so softly he barely heard it.

"To cure themselves?" Alistair asked in a broken voice, the bags under his eyes lengthening by the vanishing sunlight.

"I..." Lana limped into the clearing, her gnarled fingers clinging tightly to Aqun's spear. It was the only thing they had to offer as a cane, but she said she didn't mind the blood. Cullen broke from his sulk to glance over at her, and he felt his heart constrict at what remained. He'd hoped that somehow by washing away the mud of the fade, the dust of time itself, that the bloom would return to her waning cheeks, but her skin was still sallow barely clinging to the sharp bones he never associated with Lana. Without any extra clothes of her own, she borrowed a tunic from both of them. The king's bright blue swallowed her gaunt form; the breeches were knotted at her hips to try and keep them up even with the assistance of a belt. Cullen couldn't see the shirt he offered to her, perhaps she missed it in the pile or didn't want it and didn't have the strength to gather it up.

Gingerly, Lana parted her fingers through the fade, drawing more energy to wrap around her legs. The power was enough to give her the strength to hobble into the site, her campfire reaching to embrace her as she flopped onto the grass in between both men. "Maker," she screwed her eyes up tight, then wiped at them, "I am so glad you recognized the nodes." Smiling with a haggard breath, she turned to Cullen. "Being without mana for so long, I-I was starting to panic."

He thought they were what had her trapped, the same old metal nodes left in the deeproads that Lana used to snare White. Something of both dwarven and elven make that could drain all mana from an area without needing a templar, surely that had to have something to do with whatever kept her from waking. Cullen should have been panicking, been trapped in a perpetual heartache, balled up his fists and cursed to the Maker - but no, he felt only distant certainty in his veins as he left Alistair to tend to her. It was logical, he recognized the nodes, he had some knowledge of how to dissipate them. It had to be him.

When Alistair shouted for him, Cullen couldn't make out the words, only that something had agitated the king. He was in the middle of breaking the first node when the cry rang out through every deathly silent antechamber. At first hope sprang in his chest, and Cullen turned from his work, rushing back with Honor close on his heels. He made it five steps before despair strangled out the optimism inside his soul. He'd only begun his work when Alistair called for him. There was no reason for the king to disturb him, unless... Unless they were too late, unless they failed and-and...

As he walked back into the grand chamber, stepping past Aqun's bloodless corpse, he spotted Lana's still body clutched in Alistair's hands. With her head hung downward and her eyes gazing at nothing, Cullen's heart shattered apart. Dead. She was here, but she was gone. He'd failed, after everything, every step, every fight, every prayer - none of it mattered. They couldn't save her. They were too late.

Struggling to keep from screaming in rage and wailing in despair, only a soft gasp escaped from him. Then, a miracle from Andraste herself. Lana lifted her drooping head, her beautiful eyes focusing upon him. A light rose inside of him burning every sorrow, every pain as if-as if none of the past two years ever happened. He didn't remember falling to her, holding her, speaking whatever tumbled off his bumbling tongue - all he could remember was his heart screaming that she was alive. She was herself and she came back to him. It was the happiest moment of his life.

And then it had to come crashing apart. While Lana healed Alistair, soothed him as he vomited up all he'd eaten and the poison, Cullen thought over every argument with the man, their physical fight, how he acted the belligerent child to the king's certainty that they'd find her. Alistair never gave up, never stopped believing, but Cullen...he threatened to turn around every time the boat rocked. He didn't deserve Lana, he didn't deserve anyone. The pain burning through his veins, the unquenchable thirst clinging to his tongue seemed little to the bottomless void dangling where his heart was. He could barely look at Lana, afraid to watch when she'd realize the truth of him.

"Those giant metal balls, they were made by the mages to disrupt magic? Seems rather stupid all around," Alistair spoke, struggling to keep up with the subject.

"No," Lana shuddered, her hands knotted around her sharp shoulders. "I'm guessing those were put in place to keep the grey warden mages from escaping their prison. They must not have known about..."

He felt her eyes glancing over him, almost as if she was trying to will the memories back. "Blood magic," Cullen responded. It was how White broke through the magic, how he overpowered them before Lana countered it, which was what the grey wardens did as well. It was always blood magic.

"Every time someone says that phrase I get a chill up my spine. Like I spat on my own pyre. Ugh," the king groaned, rolling around on his back.

"Should we," Cullen spoke softly, "the wardens remaining in the hold. Help them?"

Lana turned fully to him, her bottom lip hanging slack as her eyes stared past the world itself. "They are most likely trapped, as I was. In a demon's web centuries old. Even if we could free them, they would have nowhere to return to. Their bodies are...they are beyond help. I'm afraid." Her last sentence ended in a whimper and she glared into the firelight. It was enough to drag Cullen out of his sulk and he watched her chatter her teeth silently, her fears playing through her mind. If it'd been any longer, if they'd delayed...

"So..." Alistair waved his hand in the air, interrupting the dour turn. "The wardens, the fade, how'd you wind up back in the real world? We're all on the edge of our seats here."

Lana pursed her lips and pointed at the man almost sitting up. He rolled his eyes, but flounced back down on his back. For a moment she glanced over at Cullen, her thoughts enigmatic before she returned to the campfire, "I think, and it's only a theory because this is a lot of conjecture, that the wardens went into the fade to try and clear it of the blight."

"They walked in the Black City?" Alistair marveled. "Did they miss what happened the first time that happened? Blight, tainting the world, lots of no fun. Kinda gave all the wardens a job."

"Or, maybe blight used to be all over the fade. Maybe they cleaned it up, I don't know. Hence con-ject-ure. Perhaps they were trying to find a cure in the fade. It's possible. Regardless, in order to accomplish their task they created a very complicated spell to pull their physical bodies out of the fade while also keeping it in stasis so-so they wouldn't hurt anyone. That was what caught me, whatever ongoing blood magic they designed to find anyone with taint in their system in the fade and pull them back to the fortress."

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to digest all of this. "If that's true, then why were all the bodies, wardens, still alive trapped behind the barrier?"

"Shit!" Alistair suddenly exclaimed. "The taint was what kept them alive!"

Lana nodded, "Probably what saved me too, though it isn't as thick in my veins so I, I don't think I had long." She shook her head and plowed through her thoughts. Pivoting in her seat, she turned to Cullen, "Unfortunately, all that movement in and out of the fade attracts spirits and, if it's anything to go off of my experience, I'm guessing every warden thinks they're physically trapped in the fade right now. Or worse, perhaps the demon or spirit convinced them that they're out, living their life free of the blight right now, while it feasts upon them."

"Maker!" Cullen reached out and grabbed her hand, instinctively trying to protect her from what already happened. She bobbed her head a few times and wiped at the tears dripping across her cheeks, but she didn't pull her hand away. Instead, Lana knotted her thumb around his, tugging him nearer to her. _No, it wasn't right_. She didn't know the truth, but she deserved to. Chastising himself, Cullen removed his hand and resumed petting Honor.

"Ugh," the king groaned, flopping over on his side, "not to be a whiner, but I think it's oozing again. Are they supposed to ooze?"

Lana swiped the sleeve of Alistair's borrowed tunic across her nose and staggered to her feet, "Yes, that's a good sign. But, I should have a look anyway. Make certain you didn't scratch it and undo all my work."

"I swear I didn't!" he raised both hands in his defense but Lana only glared down at him before she sighed and shook her head.

While she tended to the king's wound, her gentle hands caressing his shoulder, Cullen staggered to his legs. He didn't know what he wanted, not then, perhaps not ever, but he knew he needed to be alone to think. "I'll go and, and check the perimeter," he whispered to them before walking away from the warm fire. He doubted either of them cared enough to listen.

***

After peeling off the bandage, Lana scoffed at Alistair's barely oozing wound, "You complained about this?" She gestured at the gash whose weep barely reached the inner-binding. "There isn't even any puss. You know I don't bother unless there's puss."

He struggled to look over at his own shoulder, but grimaced at the small cut that were it not for the poison would have been a grade one injury. They'd called it the "chew some elfroot and walk it off" kind during the blight.

"You know my delicate constitution can't handle the sight of..." Alistair gulped, "blood."

"Oh shut up," she laughed, unwinding the barely used bandages. Free of the nodes, mana surged through her body, practically sparking as it continually raced to fill the hole inside - one she kept emptying into both Alistair and herself - just to have it top back off. Lana ran her fingers above Alistair's exposed skin and dropped a bit more of her healing magic into it. Not enough to fully suture up the wound, but it'd keep the blood from weeping free.

The small expenditure was enough, and exhaustion reared up like a vengeful dragon. Gripping onto his arm for leverage, Lana stumbled to the ground beside Alistair's bedroll. His ornery eyes inspected the wound, then darted over to watch her cross her legs as she tried to steady her wilting body. Cold seeped up off the wintery grass, and Lana tried to tug the blue tunic further down her arms to cover her hands. Closer to her skin was the tan one from Cullen -- his earthy scent comforting her. After the toll her body took, she needed nearly all the clothing at her disposal to keep warm even with the fire.

In her fumbling, she spotted her once mighty staff, now broken in three pieces. Lana prodded it with her covered fingers and sighed. "Ten years, a blight, qunari attacks, talking darkspawn, that harvester creature, whatever the dalish thing was, and it's coming out of the fade that finally does it in."

Alistair ran a single finger down her staff covered in the names of everyone who didn't go home, who crossed the veil before her. "Maybe we could fix it. I hear they can do amazing things with duck glue."

"Duck glue?" Lana arched an eyebrow at him and chuckled. She was grateful to Cullen for taking the time to gather up the pieces, but there was no point. It was beyond repair. "Maybe it's time I let it go," she whispered to herself.

"Lanny," Alistair said, his voice dropping low as he reached over to pat her knee, "I don't know what you went through in there, but I'm damn glad you came back."

"What would you do without me?" she smiled through the pain. Sifting through the loss of so much time would take even more of it. She had no idea when the fortress plucked her out of the fade, but she knew she'd walked there physically alone for long enough her robes were tattered, she'd fashioned the pride demon bladders into water skins dangling off her back, and her hair was a brittle mess. After so long with no one but the spirits to keep her company and, regardless of how angry she'd once been at Alistair, she didn't want to be left alone.

He rolled his head and shrugged, "Up shit creek without a paddle. It was not fun without you. Which you probably already know. You know better than anyone how useless I am at everything. The only reason I'm not dead is because of you, again. It's a wonder I don't slit my own throat shaving in the morning."

"How long's it been since you've tried?" she asked gesturing to the full on beard sprouting off his chin. Maybe it was his blonde hair, or some hairless ancestor, but somehow Alistair could never grow any stubble along his cheeks or jaw. It confined itself to his chin and upper lip exclusively.

Trying to strike a pose and jutting out the wad of facial fuzz, he smiled, "You like it? I'm thinking I should have all my official portraits painted with a beard."

"Leave a few youths alone with a paintbrush in the gallery and you'll get your wish," she sighed.

Alistair smiled, his lips cockeyed as he tried to roll on his side to look over at her without straining his neck. Something in her appearance must have caught him, because the cheeky grin wafted away. In a stricken voice, he whispered, "Two years."

How could it have been that long? She was still struggling to come to terms with the fact this wasn't the fade or some terrible final trick by the spirit. Facing that she'd lost two years of her life, two years of thedas shifting beneath her, two years of...of people moving on. How could she come back? "Yeah," Lana answered, "two years. So, what all did I miss?"

"Hm," Alistair wadded his fingers through his chin hairs in feigned thought and Lana understood why he hadn't bothered to shave it yet. "Well, Teagan got married."

"I knew that already."

"You did?"

"It happened like...five years ago," she paused to append two years to the date. That was going to take time as well. "You're a terrible not-nephew, forgetting his anniversary like that."

"Uh, Orlais continues to be a fickle pain in the ass," Alistair struggled to think of a way to answer her question, "oh and there was nearly a qunari invasion into the south. Found barrels of gatlock hiding along with the wine in my cellar. Great fun. Though the wine was piss poor anyway, so not a huge loss."

"What? No," Lana shook her head. "Sten, Arishock would never..."

Alistair bobbed his head, his eyes widening, "He certainly would ever, did in fact. Calls you kadan one minute, then plans to blow your house sky high the next."

"At least you caught it in time." She pinned her frozen fingers against her forehead, trying to file away the potential for a qunari war in the future.

"Actually, it was the Inquisition that did. Which only seems fair seeing as how they were the cause of the qunari invasion."

Lana waved her hand out, "Hold a moment, the qunari invaded because of the Inquisition - which is still in power after, I assume, Corypheus was defeated."

"Oh yeah, he went all smoosh or something in 9:42. We had a big party to celebrate the lack of a new god. But the Inquisition is actually working for Leliana now."

"What happened to the Inquisitor?" They may have not got on but she certainly wouldn't have wished the man any ill. She knew all too well the toll one suffered in the aftermath.

Alistair smacked his forehead, then he grinned, "You're gonna love this. The Inquisitor's fine, survived taking down the evil ancient darkspawn would-be god. He works for Leliana now because...are you ready? Leliana's the new Divine."

"No! Leliana, my Leliana? The Divine?" Lana couldn't hide the total shock in her voice as her hands froze an inch off her forehead.

"Who'd have thought it, huh? The little red haired girl we found in a tavern willing to take on a bunch of Loghain's thugs got the big hat and is in charge of salvaging all the souls of southern thedas."

Lana wadded her hands up watching the thrum of her bones from below the gaunt skin. It seemed impossible, particularly impossible given the things she knew of her good friend. Divine? "Next you will tell me Zevran is king of Nevarra."

"No, haven't heard from him in awhile. Not a lot of assassinating needed as of late. Morrigan did something sneaky, then sneaked off to do other sneaky witch things, I guess. Uh, I think that's about it," Alistair glanced around, his voice dragging the 't' out enough to draw Lana's full attention. He didn't look at her as he quickly spat out, "Oh, and the queen's pregnant so there will be a little butt to sit in the throne soon enough when mine finally keels over. It's not my kid, obviously, so not really sure how much an effect it has on my life in the end, but it's something fun to add to the Satinalia newsletter and all."

"Alistair," Lana folded her arms across her chest, glaring at the man who still wouldn't look at her. "Do not tell me you traveled across thedas, risked your life, did Maker knows what else to rescue me from the fade all so I could tell you what you already know."

"Uh, um, maybe?" he knotted his lips up, the fear evident in his eyes.

Lana leaned forward to clap him on his unhurt shoulder, "You will be a wonderful father. You know that."

"Even if...?"

"It won't matter who...made the child, because you'll take one look at that little face cracking its first smile and you'll fall head over heels for your baby prince or princess. Ten sovereigns says it happens in the first week."

He dug his fingers into the grass, threading each one as if he intended to weave it, "I keep thinking how easy it was for Maric to, you know, and well... What if like father like son?"

"You're not your father," she smiled. "It's not a traditional arrangement true, but that's no reason for you to not love 'em, which I'm sure you will. You love easy, care greatly, that much is obvious. Besides, you're about 85% child anyway."

He laughed at her assessment, then nodded softly, "Thanks, Lanny. I guess I just needed to hear it from someone I trusted, who I knew wouldn't blow smoke up my ass."

"They charge extra for that at the Pearl," she cracked, before patting him one last time on the shoulder. "You're a good man."

Alistair shifted his jaw around, his eyes darting past her towards the stand of weak trees. "The templar, I know he's not really a templar, but... He's a good man too. I mean, you can do better of course, but if you had to settle for a templar, he-" Alistair rose up from the ground to sit up. His eyes bored into hers as he defended the last person she'd ever have expected him to. "He put up with a lot to get to you, more than I'd have expected anyone to make it through."

"What did you do to him?" Lana asked, turning her head back to the shadows Cullen disappeared into.

"Me? Nothing. Not, entirely nothing, there were a few things that aren't even worth mentioning, really. Look, I know I don't trust templars -- especially near you -- but he's not so bad. Cares anyway. Got a hell of a right hook too."

Lana blinked from trying to peer through the darkness to whip back at Alistair. "Right hook? Did you two...fight? You brawled? And I missed it!"

Alistair gawped, his mouth dangling open to let flies in before he jammed it shut, "I am not at liberty to divulge that sensitive information. Upon pain of more black eyes."

"You know I'll get it from one of you," she said, waving a finger in Alistair's face, but he clasped a hand over his mouth, the edges of a smile peeking off the sides. _They really fought? Maker's breath. What else happened to them?_ There were a lot of dangling conversations she needed to have with Cullen. Maybe it was finally time to yank off that bandage and see if there was any hope of healing. Lana staggered to her feet, her makeshift cane bowing from her weight. She was going to have to find a real one soon.

While she turned away, Alistair reached over to snag her hand. He placed both of his overtop hers, pinning her in place as his pleading eyes beamed up at her. "Lanny Amell...?"

"Hm?" she turned to him, feeling awkward at him sliding up to his knees to reach her.

"Will you," he wiggled back and forth as if struggling to draw forth the question weighing on his heart, "will you be my friend again?"

Lana chuckled at the pure sincerity in his plea, like a child asking if another would come out to play. "I will have to think about it."

"All things considered," Alistair sighed, "that's the best I could hope for." He released her hands and slumped back to his bedroll.

Willing more mana into her limbs, Lana staggered towards the direction of Cullen. She made it past the eclipse of the firelight before turning back to Alistair and saying, "But I probably will." His grin cracked from ear to ear, infectious enough to jump to her strained lips. Turning away from her once and future friend, Lana limped into the darkness.

With eyes closed, and his head tipped back to let the breeze wash over his face, Cullen looked almost at peace as he sat upon the grasslands. Below him, a valley drifted into the shadows of the setting sun - the tan grass a vibrant orange as if it erupted in flames. One of Cullen's hands rested in his lap while the other knocked around his dog's ears. Honor leaned into it, savoring the scratch until spotting the mage limping towards them.

Her entire back end wagging, Honor leapt away from Cullen to bowl into Lana's legs. He spun around and tried to shout her down before doing any damage, but Lana only laughed at the ecstatic dog. Rubbing madly, she massaged the mabari's stomach getting a shaking leg for her troubles as well as a free lolling tongue.

"Honor," Cullen sighed, his voice weary, "here." He patted his side to enunciate the command. Rolling to her feet, Honor glanced up at Lana, but she waved her hands that obeying seemed the best choice. "She can be over exuberant at the best of times."

"It's all right," Lana smiled, unable to stop patting the happy mabari's head. It'd been years since hers had passed, and despite so many insisting she get a new one to replace him, it never felt right. "I like dogs. May I join you?"

Guarded eyes turned to her but he shrugged his shoulders and patted the ground. This only encouraged Honor to scoot over towards his hand which got another eye roll from Cullen. "You are a silly one," he sighed, grabbing onto his dog and trying to manhandle her to his other side. Carefully, Lana lowered herself to the ground. Not an easy task, but she couldn't stand for longer than a few minutes. Either way she was hitting the ground; she'd figure out how to rise later.

"How is he?" Cullen asked, gesturing to the king.

"Fine. If it weren't for the poison the knife wound would be little more than a scratch." Lana watched him knot his hands in his lap, uncertain where they belonged. "What about you?" she asked.

"What of me?" In the setting sun she couldn't see his amber irises, only a darkness across his eyes.

"Withdrawals from the lyrium..."

Cullen sat rigid, both hands slapping into the ground, "I can explain why I had it--"

"It's all right," Lana wanted to touch his arm, to hold his hand in between hers. Instead she plucked at the tie against her borrowed breeches. "Alistair told me."

Cullen's head bowed down as if someone placed another brick atop his heavy crown. "He had to talk me into it."

"I wish he hadn't at all," Lana mused, pinching her lips together.

"Why?" Stricken cheeks pulled back in confusion, his brow a furrow of deep rows. "It worked, it-we...saved you. Found you."

"And it could have killed you!" Lana tried to strangle back the tremble in her voice. She'd drug it out of Alistair the second he was conscious enough to talk, not happy then and growing more unhappy with each moment neither of them spoke of it. "Or worse, for that matter still, it could... I, it must hurt you." Cullen waved off her concern like an errant fly, but she knew he had to be suffering while having to do it in silence, as so many others thought they deserved. "Please, I could help. Heal the pain, maybe take away some of the thirst. I have a few ideas on how to..."

Her pleading fingers glanced over his and a shudder knocked through his body. Instead of yanking his hand away from hers, he gaped at it as if it was the final oasis in a never ending desert. "No, I-I will be fine."

"For the Maker's sake Cullen, why won't you let me help you? Is it my magic? Are you worried I'll, I don't know, raise a demon to do it?" Her voice slipped higher in her anger, the raw edge scratching up her underused throat.

His lips parted for a moment, a certainty gripping him, but then it all flooded away. The stoic warrior sunk back in on himself, his head drooping as he glowered at the ground. "I don't deserve you," he whispered. "You don't know, don't understand what... He, he was the one to plan all of this. The reason either of us are here, the one to keep pushing us to find you," Cullen kept jabbing in Alistair's direction, who had to overhear them but was thankfully pretending he didn't. Lana cast a glance back at her patient, then tried to catch Cullen's eye, but it fell to the ground once more. "I, I nearly didn't come. I tried to abandon this-you, abandon you because... It doesn't matter. My belief wasn't strong enough. I didn't have hope to...I failed."

Lana's heart cracked in half as she cupped his cheeks with her hands. She barely had the strength to lift his head from his dour turn, tears dripping across her fingers as she struggled to catch his eye. "Cullen, oh Maker. No. You didn't fail anything. You're so much more than... Blind faith isn't what I, one grand romantic gesture means nothing. It doesn't make up for-for years of, or what we..." Lifting his hand in her own, it felt heavy as lead, Lana carefully cupped his chin. "Even if you weren't here, if it was just him and some hired mercenaries -- Cullen, you would have been the first person I hunted for, I found after being released."

"Why?" he struggled through a knot twisting up his features, pain etched across every well worn line. All she wanted was to wash them away, if not with her magic then with her words. "I am no romantic, I know this. It has...I am never good enough for it, for any chance of..."

Gently, Lana twisted his hand in hers. "You're better than you know. You held me so tight after I had to-to end Nathaniel." She rolled up the first of his fingers into his palm. "You defended me, not just against harlequins or demons, but anyone who thought I was a danger." Another finger down. "You've been the constant shield at my side, even in the face of...of things beyond belief, when doubt is in question you are still there, still trying." As she closed another finger, her other hand cupped his cheek. Those amber eyes remained shut tight, but he leaned into her palm, his lips dancing close to touching. "I don't need the fancy poetry, the dancing, the whatever else makes up courting. You'd, you listen to my ramblings, my wild theories, not because you had to but-but because you wanted to." After rolling up the last finger, Lana lifted up his fist closed tight around her own fingers.

"One large gesture cannot compare to a lifetime of small ones. Love's so much more than making one move, saying the right thing at the right time, winning the war after losing every battle."

His eyes opened, hope bobbing in the depths as he focused on her. Licking his lips, Cullen whispered - his cheek rising against her hand, "Love?"

"Ah," Lana dug into her forehead with her fingers, trying to cover up the obvious flush rising to her cheeks. "I didn't want to- I had a speech planned and it was pretty good. I could start over, but there's not... Sorry, I'm-right. Okay."

Now it was her turn to focus on the ground, digging in a steadying breath, "Cullen, I am so sorry for what I did to you. For leaving you without an answer, an answer you deserved. I was scared, of myself, of how badly I could mess everything up. Did mess everything up."

Warm fingers ran down her upper arm, gently patting her, "Lana, I-" He turned in on himself, struggling to raise the words clinging to his tongue, "why did you stay behind? Was it...?" he gestured at Alistair, then his head dropped down and he pointed the accusing finger at himself.

"No, Andraste no, it wasn't you. It wasn't even..." Absently, she wiped at the tears percolating in her eyes. "I was wounded in the last fight, badly. Beyond badly, it was fatal. And with my mana drained, I knew that I wasn't going to survive more than a few minutes. I just kept thinking if I went with the Inquisitor, if Hawke remained behind then she'd die in the fade and I'd-I'd bleed out on the floors of Adamant. Possibly at your feet. I couldn't, I couldn't take two lives, not like that."

"I don't understand. The Inquisitor, Hawke, neither mentioned you being injured."

"They didn't know. There wasn't time to tell them, and, you know Hawke. She'd probably have spat on the wound and thought that would close it," Lana struggled to smile through the tears washing her cheeks.

Cullen gripped tight to both of her shoulders, his body hanging off her for support, "How did you...?"

"Survive? A spirit rescued me, healed me. I should have died in the fade, the way everyone thought, but I didn't. I held on, every day, every hour, every minute clinging to life because-because I had to find you, to tell you the truth." She lifted her weary head, Cullen barely visible through her tears. Lana swallowed deep and steadied her breath. "I love you. I've loved you for, Maker, I don't know. So long. Too long, but I was so scared and-and wrong." Unable to explain it verbally, Lana lifted up her hand, a spark of fire raising off her fingers. It burned an otherworldly purple between them before she extinguished it. "I should have realized back at Skyhold, or before, but I wanted to run and hide, to keep myself chained away so I didn't..."

Lana tipped her head back, unable to speak coherently through her wobbling lips. Screwing her eyes up tight, she willed the tears back, at least for a moment. Taking a calming breath, she looked into his inscrutable eyes, "I never wanted to hurt you." His thumbs massaged into her muscles, tenderly rubbing the tunic closer to her skin as his eyes drifted off a thousand miles. Thoughts churned through his brain, all of them cut off from her as Cullen drifted deeper inside himself.

_That was the easy part_ , Lana thought. Now...now to face up to what she suspected would be her undoing. Knocking her teeth together for a moment, Lana searched for that mysterious and mythical courage to damn herself. "I don't want to hurt you now either. Cullen, I...Maker's breath, I was dead and, gone, and-- Two years is such a long time. If you've--"

Before she could continue, he pulled her across the gap between them and pressed his lips against hers, all of the man she loved poured into that one kiss. Both of their lips were salty from the tears but Lana didn't care. She cupped his cheek, trying to dive deeper into his kiss - to never surface. Two years she walked the plains of the fade with only the spirits to keep her company. Despite shoring up her heart behind a wall of stone, lying to herself about what hid deep inside her soul, every sleep she whimpered to taste his kiss one more time.

Cullen broke first, but not far, his lips opening a breath from hers as he panted for air. "Lana, two years is nothing for you."

"You," she gasped, her mind struggling to understand. The way he'd kept himself aloof, distant, disjointed from her, she assumed he'd moved on - perhaps more than moved on this time and closed his heart to her. "You want me?"

"More than anything in thedas," he whispered, his heart clutched in every syllable.

"I-I want you too," she said. "For so much longer than, I never dared... But," her forehead slid away from his as she struggled to place a hand on the ground - her meager energy draining away. "To the wardens I'm dead, to the circle I'm long gone, even as far as Amaranthine is concerned I'm nothing - the line of succession long since passing me by."

"What is it?" his strong and callused palms rolled across her cheeks, Cullen's concern etched in his lifelines.

"I," Lana bit her bottom lip and turned her full gaze upon him, "I'll always be a mage. It's more than a part of me, it is me. It took me a long time to accept it and, and if you can't, then..."

"Oh, Lana. I," he lifted up her fingers that sparked tinder with a snap and brought the death of winter with a wave. Gently he kissed one, his cracked and bruised lips pressing warmth against her skin, "I know you're a mage."

"It's not that, it's... Can you trust me? Can you trust my magic?"

Cullen paused in kissing her other hand so tenderly as if he was tending to a cut. "I do. I..." he sighed in agony, "I've given you nothing but pause, reason to doubt me, but I do trust you with it, Lana."

"Then why won't you let me help you? Let me heal you?" she pleaded, her fingers curling up into fists even as he held her wrists.

Furrowing his brow, Cullen cursed under his breath at himself, "It's not you, it's... I'm scared too, scared of growing dependent upon you to wipe away the scars in my mind or my body, just as I did the chantry, only to... Only to have it all get taken away. Losing you nearly, it-I couldn't survive having all of that, everything lost. I never wanted to reject you or your magic, I'm so sorry."

To defeat the demon she had to chip away at the barrier using every heartache inside of her. While Alistair's wore it down, it was the one of Cullen that freed her because it cut so deep to the bone. Intellectually, she forgave him, she understood the horrible stress he was placed under, his reasons for lashing out. But in that animalistic part of her brain, the brash section of her heart she guarded closely, she feared she could never be all of herself with him. That she could never fully trust him to not cut her down, to grow distant because of what she was, to turn from her with every spell she cast. Now, a small chip of that fear knocked away. It'd take time to break it down, time to be her full self with him, but it was a start.

"I love you," Lana whispered, placing her lips against his forehead.

He shivered at her touch before tugging her down for another kiss, softer than before. "I love you too," Cullen answered. He wiped away her tears and she did the same to him.

"I feared that you'd grow angry at me, for the fade, or because I couldn't..." she stammered, terrified that this was all some dream. It didn't seem possible by any stretch.

"Never," he sighed, cupping his lips against hers for another kiss, "I can never be angry at you."

Lana chuckled, "I'll hold you to that one day."

"Losing you, it-it wasn't easy, but I..." he rolled over on his side to reach into his pocket. After yanking free a small book, he left it in her confused hands. "I'd read your journal to give myself a peace of mind, to hear your words."

Ripe with the warmth of his body, Lana rifled through the book's pages, a smile knotting up her stomach. She forgot about leaving it behind. "Did you find anything good in there?" she asked mischievously.

"Proof that I was a fool for ever questioning if you cared," he ran the back of his fingers across her cheek and she turned to plant a kiss against them. They needed to talk but Lana couldn't stop kissing his skin to remind herself this was real. He was real and so was she. "I read some of your book recommendations too."

"Oh? The adventure stories?"

"And the mage tomes as well," he rested his hand upon her lower thigh, squeezing the muscle back to life.

"Really?"

"I suppose the key phrase is tried to read. Most were beyond me, all save one about Nullification of Magic..."

"You understood the Null Theory of Magic and Its Adverse Affects Upon the Veil?" Lana sat up higher, her eyes glowing in excitement.

"Uh, I believe so," Cullen glanced briefly to the side, his lips twisting as if fearing this was all a trick of the Maker's.

"Only a handful of mages can wrap their minds around the idea of a null magic, an anti-magic as some call it. But then, perhaps your templar abilities give you greater insight into..." She laughed at her own idiocy and bit her lip. A dozen questions flitted through her mind to ask him about a magical theory that bore no semblance to their problem at hand. "I had the sudden urge to deluge you in questions about the null phenomenon. And you thought you were the terrible romantic."

His hands brushed back the gnarled hair off her cheek and he pulled her close for a series of quick kisses, a gentle laugh punctuating each one. "Maker, I've-I've waited so long to hear you do that. Spin your theories at me, and...You're here, you're really here, in my arms." Cullen wrapped his caressing fingers around her back, drawing her tight into his chest. How did she spend two years away from him? Away from his bittersweet smile, from those honeyed eyes, from his full embraces, from his gentle stutter. Fourteen years, Lana Amell walked the lands of thedas struggling to stop the blight, to put an end to darkspawn, to save people and protect it. She'd sealed her own wants, her own needs behind glass because it was the only way to keep going. Now what?

With her lips buried against his chest, the heat of his body overwhelmed her trying to drag her to sleep, but she clung tight to the waking world - never wanting to miss another moment of him. Gently, Cullen's fingers brushed back her hair exposing her neck and her birthmark. He didn't race to kiss it, but his thumb tapped against the edge along her collarbone, as if grounding himself.

"Lana, I..." his waning chin raised up as he paused for a moment. "I should, you deserve to know that in your absence the wardens of the south have rebuilt, though their leadership was devastated in the wake of Adamant and is still waning. And Grand Enchanter Fiona created a college for mages near the Waking Sea."

She parted her fingers down his chest, pushing the lesser of his soft shirts against the outline of the muscles. Without any evident armor, she was able to feel him below - his body folding into her touch. "There are many options. I could resume killing darkspawn, I was rather good at it. Or, return to the circles for study and research. Put all my half thought ideas to some use."

Cullen didn't respond, instead he locked his arms tighter around her, his chin resting on the top of her head. Matching him in kind, Lana circled her own hands around his back, snuggling deeper into him. "Or, there's Leliana. As Divine, I'm certain she'd love having me around. I could play the good mage example, an advisor, or council member, or whatever they call it in the chantry hierarchy when you're not really in the chantry."

Releasing her hold, Lana tugged down upon the back of Cullen's head, aiming his focus to her. He resisted at first, redness welling around the sides of his eyes, but eventually he gave in. Lana caressed her fingers across his warm cheek. "For the first time in my life, I don't care what I do..." she pulled herself up higher to place her forehead against his, "as long as it's with you."

A whispered sigh broke from Cullen's lips, raising in a tepid smile. "Are you...?"

"Kinloch, Kirkwall, Skyhold, I've put my duty ahead of my heart, ahead of you for far too long. I-I can't do it anymore. Every time I've given you up because I thought I had no choice, because it was the right thing to do. I'm, I'm not strong enough to walk away again."

Chuckling in relief, he swooped her up for a kiss - at first as gentle as before with lips soft and sweet. But as she pressed her chest against him, the smoldering fire between them lit brighter. Cullen's hands cupped against her waist, tugging the wide collar of both tunics further down to reveal more of her birthmark and her straining cleavage. With her arms wrapped around his neck to anchor herself, Lana teased his tongue with her own, tasting all of him - the earthy undertones of her stoic templar.

Heat rolled across her body, and she blinked rapidly realizing it didn't come from her desire rising up from the dead, but the campfire sputtering into a small inferno. In her excitement, she'd dumped enough mana to take out a small nest of deepstalkers. A grimace knotted up her face as she tried to wave it back down, but Cullen caught her flinching cheek - angry at herself for losing control - and he pulled her eyes to his. "I trust you," he said kissing her and nearly restarting the fire she dampened down.

Lana moved to kiss him harder, when Alistair's voice rose through the night air, "So, uh, totally unrelated to anything happening off in that direction, but I'm suddenly going to talk a walk far away over there. Does the doggy want to come with? You want to come with, trust me."

Rising off the ground from her nap, Honor quirked her head at Cullen, who sighed. "Yes, you best go with to keep him safe."

"Hey, I'm the one who saved you from a back stabbing, remember," Alistair complained as he staggered up to his legs. "And all I got for it was a lovely qunari souvenir." Running his fingers over Honor's head, Alistair began to stagger away from the campfire and what they probably shouldn't have shared so close to him.

Lana knotted her lips up from the faux pas, then she turned her head to shout, "You better not tear any stitches because I'm not fixing them."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he complained, his voice already drifting away in the darkness.

With a strange but welcome certainty in life warming her bones, Lana turned to Cullen and saw him anew. Her fingers rolled across his hair and she smiled, "You're back to the curls."

"Oh, yes," he reached up to touch his hair and found her hand instead. "With the sea water, killing slavers, and qunari problems, there wasn't time to-to straighten it. Is that a...um, is it a problem?"

"No," she sighed, his knotted hair twisting around her finger, "I've always loved your curly hair. In truth, I was a little sad to see it gone."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Lana shrugged, "It didn't seem my place. And wavy hair, curly, bald..."

"Grey," he threw out.

By the dim light she could barely tell if there was any white mixed in with his sandy blonde. Maker only knew how much snow moved in through her ebony. "It doesn't matter, Cullen." Her fingers splayed out across his whiskered cheek, the same one she'd watch rise in discerning smiles and even, on occasion, full laughs. Those deep, golden eyes that'd wash over her in concern and hunger. His tender lips that'd ignite her body and soothe her soul. "You'll always be the handsomest man to me." Perhaps it was a little of the Jowan's spirit remaining in her mind, but Lana tenderly touched the scar splitting apart her face and felt a pang of regret at her own marring.

Cullen caught her hand and pulled it away so he could look at her fully. Their palms pressed together, fingertip to fingertip, as he gazed over her, "Lana, I-I've tried to, to think of a way to describe your...um. There's no woman in all of thedas like you. I love you, all of you."

"I love you too, Cullen Rutherford." His full name drew a great smile to his lips, so great she blinked in surprise, "What?"

"Your r's, the way you...Maker's breath, but I love hearing your voice again." Enveloping her into his embrace, he peppered the top of her head in kisses while Lana struggled to remain awake. Unable to sneak anything past him, Cullen's warm fingers pushed back her hair as he whispered, "You're probably exhausted. Beyond. You, if you want-need to sleep I, don't let me stop you."

Lana threaded her arms around his back and gripped her fingers against those straining biceps - the ones that could cut down a qunari warrior now holding her secure. She didn't realize she was crying until she spoke, tears threaded in her words, "No, I...I am tired but, the thought of. I'm-I'm...scared, terrified about returning to the Fade again and...and not coming back."

Agony washed over his face as he slumped down to press his forehead to hers. "Oh, Lana. I'm so..."

"Be here, with me. Ground me. Keep me...here. I'm sure I'll pass out eventually, but I-I don't want to wake alone. Okay?"

Cullen, the awkward templar baptized by trauma into a vengeful protector, rescued from his own hubris and transformed into the compassionate man before her, rolled his thumbs against her tears. He whispered with certainty, "You won't have to, ever again."

_Maker, whether you're real or not, thank You for this moment._ For every bad day in her life, at least there was this. Lana's head snuggled onto his shoulder, the warmth of his body and the cushion of his chest doing most of the work to drag her back to sleep. A chuckle rumbled in her throat as she drifted back to the other time he held her until she slept.

"What is it?" Cullen asked.

"You made it. You got to the Anderfels," she smiled, dredging up their conversation as she struggled to heal from Nathaniel's wound. "Did you try the dumpling I mentioned?"

"I did," he said. "It was spicier than I expected."

"Ferelden boy," Lana snickered, savoring every inch of this man from Ferelden wrapped around her.

Cullen laughed as well, his warm breath caressing her forehead, his lips almost dancing across her skin as he spoke, "And, I also stopped in Rivain."

"Really?" now she struggled to rise up, a final shot of adrenaline waking her up. "What was it like? Did you see the fabled towers of Kont-arr?"

"No, I'm afraid it was only a stop at a port before we resumed sail on the pirate ship."

"Pirate ship?"

Massaging up and down her exhausted arms, Cullen worked his own magic to comfort her. "Yes. A friend of the king by the name of..."

"Isabela," Lana answered, then her eyes widened as she glanced around the area. "She didn't uh, mention anything about her past and any um, with, uh, people who might be wardens?"

"No..." those golden eyes narrowed down, "though I am curious now."

"That uh," she snickered at memories of her less than discretionary youth, "that will take some time, but I promise I'll tell it in full." She thought back to who shared in the moment and amended, "Mostly in full."

"Very well," he didn't sound fully convinced, but he let it go. "Perhaps we could visit Rivain again, together."

That sounded perfect, maybe he'd even find something of interest in her own scholarly quests - or he could play with Honor while Lana buried herself in books. It would be wonderful to walk the streets of...her legs whined in a pain deep to the bone, not the kind she feared would heal in a day or two. "Someday," Lana smiled, promising it to herself, "we will go. Will be together."

"As long as we can," he answered.

The whippoorwill of a bird dashing through the grasses drew Lana's attention up into the... _Maker, the night's sky._ She forgot how beautiful it looked, blues and blacks comforting the world in an evensong blanket glittering with Andraste's tears. "The stars," she gulped, her fingers digging into Cullen to remind herself this was real. "I forgot what they looked like."

A shuddering breath broke from Cullen's throat, but he powered through it, kissing the top of Lana's head as he pointed above them. "That's Draconis."

She smiled, "You're right. And over there's Fenrir... Cullen," Lana raised her head with the last of her energy - she knew sleep would take her soon, but she had to get this out. He caught her waning jaw and lifted it so their eyes would meet. Smiling wide, she whispered, "You stayed safe."

Blinking through his own tears of joy, he beamed at her, "So did you."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Bloom

_9:44 Orlais-Nevarra border_

"Welp, that looks like the dreaded crossroads," Alistair called from his perch on a borrowed horse. He directed the bay further across the road to glare down at the jointing of two different highways. "How many undead do you think are buried under there?"

Lana urged their horse to follow the errant king, her thighs digging into the shared saddle. She slid from the moisture hanging in the wintry air, but Cullen reached out from behind her to offer a steadying hand. "I suppose this is where we part ways," Lana said to Alistair.

Her voice snapped him out of his attempt to glare into the ground and hunt for any skeletons waiting to pop out. He'd healed rather quickly from the poison, only a day down - she was proving less resilient. "Guess so," Alistair tugged on his reins until his horse butted up against Lana's. "I know you're going underground and all, but you'll be sending me letters, right? I'll go mad if I don't learn who the Countess wound up marrying."

"You could always read the book yourself," Cullen interrupted. Travel was slow, even with the horses, and somehow Lana found herself retelling nearly the entire plot of an old epic tale to Alistair to pass the time. She had no idea Cullen even listened until he'd fill in the occasional missed detail for Alistair.

Scrunching his royal nose up, he turned to Cullen, "You're going to miss me, templar. I just know it."

"And the sky could split in half and all the demons of the fade would fall from it," Cullen answered, his words light.

"Or an archdemon would crawl out of the depths of the deeproads and plunge all of us into a blight," Lana spoke up.

Alistair scratched the back of his head, "Or, or, someone could destroy the veil and plunge all of us into a magic infested world of...eh, I've got nothing. Lanny, get better, eat all the tiny cakes in Orlais, spend a month in their bath houses, and I'm serious about the Countess. She'd better not have wound up with that brutish Duke or so help me."

He reached across to pick up her hand, gently shaking it. The warmth of his skin washed over hers that were always trapped in cold now. Gloves seemed to be an inevitability in her future. Dropping her hand, Alistair turned to Cullen, "Can't say it's been fun, but...it worked out. For your sake you better treat her right, or--"

"Or you'll come after me and finish what you started?" Cullen asked. Lana wished she could spin around to see his face because his tone gave nothing away.

Alistair snorted, "Me? I was warning you. You're both off to visit with Her Hatness. She gets even a whiff of you not being, you know, up to snuff... Maker, I don't want to imagine what she'll dream up." Rolling his head, he turned his horse and began down the road towards Ferelden. "So long," he called, waving his hand while trotting away.

"For now!" Lana shouted out, struggling to rise up in the stirrups so he'd hear. As she slumped back, Cullen's hands enveloped around her stomach and she leaned against his steadying chest.

"How are you feeling? If it's too much we could rest," he said, his fingers sliding down her thighs to dig blood back into them.

Lana shook her head against his chest, almost lulled into agreeing by the warm musk radiating off him. "We have a long way yet to go. And I'm, I'm good."

His hands broke from the massage to wrap around her shoulders in a one sided hug. "Lana, you do not need to push yourself. Val Royeaux will remain even if we take another day or two to arrive."

"I know," she gripped the rather patient horse's reins in one hand to hold onto his crossed arms with the other. "Now that Alistair's gone, we could always, uh, enjoy our alone time."

"You can barely stand," Cullen started in surprise, as if she didn't regularly feel him erect, pushing against her as they slept, or when he pulled her into his lap.

"Last I checked, there were a few positions that didn't require standing. Rather a lot of them, in fact."

He snickered from behind her and placed his lips against the back of her neck. The hot breath warming her frozen skin sent shivers down her spine. Goosepimples answered in kind. "Maker, but you are a challenge," he sighed, locking his arms tighter around her. She knew that to be true beyond measure and yet he came for her. Not like that, well, okay he had done that as well, but to have him forsake the Inquisition to save her. To risk his life when there seemed no chance to find her. She pinched herself to remember this was real, all of it.

Cullen whispered to himself, "I never want to hurt you."

And he'd forsake sex for her, for fear of pushing her past her limits, for her comfort. Lana wished she could spin in the saddle to kiss him, but the best she managed was pressing her lips to his hand. Happy tears in her eyes, she asked aloud, "How in the past two years did no other woman swoop in and take you?"

"Because," Alistair waved his hand, drawing their attention as he'd gotten a bit further down the road but not far enough away to miss their conversation. "Swooping is bad!" he finished with before kicking his horse into a gallop, the dirt misting in their wake.

"That man is..." Cullen sighed, shaking off whatever he was going to denigrate Alistair with. Instead, he pressed his lips to Lana's ear and whispered, "I was thinking, when we arrive in Val Royeaux, there's no reason we couldn't stop by the White Spire."

Lana smiled wide as she steered their horse towards Orlais. "I love you."

***

Careful to roll up the drooping sleeve of her robe, Leliana lifted the match higher as she dropped it against every white wick crying out for light. It was a trivial matter, beyond the Divine's attention, but she enjoyed the tranquility in watching each virgin candle burst alive with its first flame. That spark that would carry it throughout its brief life to warm the chantry and bring light to the darkness of all who gazed upon it.

"Your Perfection," a clerk's voice called from behind her. She didn't recognize this one, her preferred personal attendant on leave to visit her family. A few clerks took over her duties, none of them as quick witted or sharp tongued as Leliana's favorite.

"I assume you have compiled my agenda for the day," Leliana said, reaching the second row of candles.

"Uh," the clerk stumbled, unused to the perceptive Divine. Many glossed over her previous life as a Spymaster, even if it was only two years ago. "Yes, we've slotted in a few meetings before the first services of the day."

"Wonderful," Leliana sighed. She'd prefer to have a few moments peace to herself before diving headlong into the never ending arguments, but if she wanted that to be her true lot in life she'd never have put on the hat. "Who is first on the list?"

"Duke de Comfot." The clerk rolled open a scroll to read through it, "He wishes to discuss..."

"The chantry's levying of his lands nearly one hundred years ago to aid in a matter. Yes, I know. And will hear it repeated until the day I am on the pyre...or he is." She meant it in jest, but it was tempting to solve some of her problems with the employ of an assassin. The Maker knew she yet had access to them, but that wasn't the reign Leliana wanted to leave behind. She was better than that. "Who else?"

"The Grand Enchanter is..."

"Ugh," she refused to hide the groan at the mention of Vivienne's name. The woman never came herself, only sent toadies in her stead to sow chaos about the 'mage situation' in thedas. Their particular scuttlebutt of late was to try and scoop up the few templars remaining in the Inquisition's possession. Some they'd already wormed away with the promise of more lyrium in their ration. "And I'd been hoping today would be a lovely one," Leliana sighed, the final candle alighting. Smiling from her work, she laid the matchstick on the altar and turned to face the clerk. "Anything else of import?"

"No, not much..." the young woman flipped through her scroll, probably mentally jotting down a note to never mention Vivienne again. Her finger paused and she glanced up, "Oh, the commander of the Inquisition is here."

Leliana snapped her head up, her eyes winnowing down to their old crystal glare. "Commander Cullen? He is here, in Val Royeaux? And you're only now telling me?!" Striding past the harried clerk, Leliana clipped quickly down the aisles of the Grand Chantry, her heels echoing off every stained glass window and marble statue. A few heads swung over to demure to the Divine, but she paid them no heed, only kept shouting questions at the clerk trailing her.

"Where is he?"

"In your outer office, with the others waiting to speak to you," the clerk huffed beside her. Divines were supposed to be ancient, with slow laborious movements. Normally, Leliana obliged this assumption, taking her time to pause a moment after each step, but now she flew through the halls up the grand staircase towards her numerous antechambers.

"Did he come alone?" she shouted at the clerk behind her.

"I'm uncertain," the woman rattled her scrolls as if there was an answer there.

The Divine snapped to a halt, and she spun on her heels. It wasn't the beatific voice of Andraste who glowered death at the clerk, but the once bard turned Spymaster for a heretical Inquisition. "Was there someone with him?"

"I don't know!" the clerk squeaked.

"You do not know?"

"There were a lot of people in there this morning. And I didn't check to see who was with who and...I, I don't know!" she cried but Leliana spun back on her heel, practically running towards her office now. The clerk kept begging for forgiveness and also understanding, but she ignored it all. Blood rushed through her veins, dredging up both fear and hope in equal measure. Pausing outside the door, Leliana whispered a prayer to the Maker to do the impossible, to bloom on the dead rose bush once more. Using every skill available to her, she wiped away the panic in her face, steadied her trembling hands, and she slipped into her office.

A dozen faces lining along the benches of the lavish chambers turned to her, preparing to snag the Divine's attention. Leliana wafted past each of them, all her sights upon the blonde man with his back to her. He twisted his head, catching on to the rising excitement whispered around the room, and rose. Sure enough, it was Commander Cullen - even without his trademark armor none could match the man's taciturn cheeks and hollowed eyes. Something in his weathered face struck her, dragging the panic back from its banished depths. If he had succeeded at all, then...

The commander bent over and offered his arm to help lift up someone with a hood drawn over her face. Leliana gasped, her hand slapping over her mouth as she drew across the gap between them. A few concerned people begging for her attention tried to stop her, but her eyes were only on the woman inching back her hood. "Blessed Andraste!" Leliana cried, her heart blooming in joy as she wrapped her arms around the friend she'd lost those two years ago.

"It's good to see you too, Leliana," Lana whispered, gripping back.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

My Love

_9:44 The Dales_

Rubbing sleep out of his eye, Cullen tried to sneak down the stairs but every slip of his cautious foot caused a creak to moan through the entire hunting lodge. He couldn't remember who it technically belonged to, and the Divine waved his questions away with her enigmatic smile. Regardless, it seemed unlikely there'd be any unexpected visitors soon judging by the rain sleeting down the windows. Someone must have sunk almost all their coin into insulating the lodge as he couldn't hear a single drip of the water against the roof and panes of glass.

Sliding down the last of the stairs, he ignored the multitude of trophy heads glassily staring off the wall - Cullen only had eyes for the woman haphazardly strewn across the chair. Fire roared out of the hearth despite the rain slicking down the chimney, probably because the flames were blue. Ever since the fade, she hadn't been able to sleep without some light in the room and relied on veilfire throughout the night. She was never far from the blue and teal flame, the light washing over her and the chair like reflections off the sea. The chair itself was one of those monstrous things favored by Dukes and Counts of a certain disposition. With a high back carved to mimic a deer's antlers gouging off the sides, it imposed in the impractical way, trying to start up a conversation no one wanted to have. Rather than sit properly in it, she rested sideways, both of her elbows upon one arm while her knees dangled off the other. Legs bare despite the rain's chill, her feet kicked up and down displaying the toes painted in every color of the rainbow.

It was a new experience for him watching her Most Holy, the Divine squeal while painting twenty toes in all the options available to the two women. After weeks, chips of paint cracked off most of the nails from their travels, but she didn't mind. She said spotting the remaining colors brightened her up.

"I thought you were going to wake me from my nap," Cullen spoke while trying to comb his curls out of their wadded knot.

Lana slipped a finger in her book and turned in the chair to find him. A sweet smile twisted up her lips as well as his stomach. Maker, he'd do anything to see that smile every day for the rest of his life. "I couldn't. You were so exhausted when we arrived and...adorable when you sleep. There is warm tea if you'd like." She waved her hand towards a kettle resting on the end table beside her elbows.

Shaking his head, Cullen placed a hand against the metal anticipating what he'd find. "Cold," he chuckled.

"Oh dear, I forgot to return it after I..." she turned to her cup, nearly full, and probably just as cold.

Pulling up the kettle, Cullen placed it upon the hearth to warm up, "You have a terrible condition when it comes to tea."

"I know. I always think it'd be nice to sip some while reading, then I become engrossed and completely forget about it," she watched him prod at the logs not being consumed by the veilfire. Maybe he should try a real one. The blue light was useful, but true fire put out more heat. A soft sigh broke from her, and Cullen glanced over his shoulder to find her eyes, thick with hunger, traveling down his back.

"Hand me your cup as well?" he asked, breaking his spell over her. Reaching blindly behind her, she scooted the saucer and cup towards him then settled back into the chair.

"I'm afraid I'm bollocks at multi-tasking," Lana continued to list her faults, "unless it's on the battlefield."

Cullen smiled impishly, "Or in bed."

"That, uh," she tugged on the collar gaping around her neck, "I suppose there as well." Instead of her usual tunics or robes, she wore a wool sweater that could easily fit another one of her. The loose neck drooped down exposing her shoulder while the bottom hem reached past her upper thighs.

"Is that my sweater?" Cullen pouted, crossing his arms. "The one my sister knitted for me?" Which never fit because Mia seemed to be under the assumption he should be another fifty pounds heavier. Lana picked up the hem as if she'd never seen it before, exposing more of her tempting thigh. The cream color offset her skin so beautifully she looked both cozy as home and also ethereal beyond imagination.

"Perhaps," she said, laying the hem flat against her silky skin, "besides, I thought you were a true Ferelden man. They don't wear sweaters, they run out into the dead of winter bare chested with their fearsome mabari." Lana gestured at his fearsome mabari huffing in sleep on the rug beside the hearth. Even dogs grew weary during long trips.

"We Fereldens get cold," Cullen leaned down closer to her until those sweet eyes beamed into his, "it's why we have someone warm to share a bed with." His lips glanced across hers, intending only a soft kiss, but Lana lifted up her chin drawing him deeper into her web. Her fingers drifted down his shoulder and across the resting arms to squeeze his bicep.

"Mmm, I love when you sleep shirtless."

"Even if it leaves me cold and shivering in an empty bed?" he whispered to her ear.

"Perhaps I'd have stayed if you also slept pantsless," her fingers drew down his chest struggling to reach towards his stomach while her voice purred in anticipation.

Cullen laughed, "It'll never happen." After so many years fearing an invasion marching through his door at any moment, Cullen couldn't sleep without at least a pair of breeches on.

But Lana was not so easily persuaded, "Give me time, I've changed stubborner minds."

"That I would believe," he pressed his lips to her forehead and staggered back up to stand. His back screamed at him for even trying to stoop down to her for so long, but Cullen ignored it. A little pain was worth it to kiss her, to touch her, to skim his fingers across her warm skin and remind himself it was real. He gestured to her hands and asked, "Good book?"

"Ah," Lana flipped it around as if realizing it was yet in her clutches, "depends upon your definition of good." She displayed the cover _All This Shit's Weird_ by Varric Tethras. Cullen tried to bite back a groan while Lana shrugged, "I thought I'd try and catch up on what I missed. Seems he had very definite thoughts on a certain Commander of the Inquisition."

"The dwarf was maddening in every sense of the word," Cullen grumbled. "How bad is it?"

"Oh, the prose is purpler than my pinkie toes, and he seems to employ punctuation like a hammer, but the plot trucks around without getting bogged down in..." Lana smiled at him, "You mean how do you come off? Quite well. Stern, appropriating, grumpy, a killjoy of all fun - dead on really." She chuckled at him and Cullen couldn't maintain his growl. Hearing her laugh even at his expense lightened him beyond reason, he felt he could float through the air each time. "There was a section about you and your multitude of admirers at the Winter Palace Ball. He seemed to find that occurrence hilarious enough to include it three times."

Cullen ran his hands across the back of his neck, struggling to work out the kinks from a day sleeping on a foreign bed. What he needed was to sit for awhile, let his bunions rest before they renewed their trek east in a few days time. Smirking, he turned to Lana who was still flipping through the dwarf's book trying to find other passages to damn him. Her eyes lifted from the pages as he dropped down, placed one hand under her knees, another under her back, and scooped her into his arms.

"What are you doing?" she laughed, wiggling her feet in the air as he took all her body in his hands. Thank the Maker, she felt solid in his arms, no longer the paper thin muscles dangling off brittle bones from before. Time and more than a few hearty chantry dinners placed weight back upon her, weight he almost teared up in joy to hold onto again. She felt whole.

Twisting around while clinging to the woman he loved more than seemed possible, Cullen sat down in her chair. He released his hold on her legs, but kept the one around her back to hold her steady in his lap. Lana laughed a full one, her head dangling back off the chair's armrest. With his sweater smoothed out across her chest, Cullen spotted the dark hints of her nipples below the cream wool cupping against her temping breasts. He ran a hand up and down her legs, her calf muscles drawn out from where they'd faded away like knotted rope before. She was coming back to him.

"This is silly, you know. I'm over thirty, that's old maid territory. Spinsters don't sit in a gorgeous man's lap."

"Well, madam," Cullen helped her to curl up towards him so he could peck a kiss upon her lips, "you are the most beautiful matron I've ever had the pleasure to hold in my arms."

Her hand burrowed into the back of his shoulder as Lana rested her head against his chest. Through the sprouting of her returning hair, he felt the warmth of her cheek pressing against his own naked flesh. Maker, there weren't enough proper thank you's he could give to have Lana returned to him, to wrap his arms around this woman -- the only one to ever fill his heart -- and hold her tightly to his chest. She was his, he was hers, and it seemed almost impossible to imagine.

Those thick lashes fluttered against his skin. It felt as if she was painting his chest, the brush strokes erratic but lovely. Then her lips pressed against him, following the line of his pec as it dipped downward. Each hot breath after the kiss warmed him against the freezing rain sheeting across the windows. Gently, Cullen's hand massaged up and down her legs -- the same way he did when she first returned to him from the fade. Before, it was to bring blood back to her depleted and underused limbs, now it was to feel the pulse of her muscles as she curled her toes up. Lana was real, he reminded himself as he did every time he woke up and found her tiny body slumbering beside him.

His fingers slid higher up her thigh and he wondered aloud, "No breeches, but does the matron of the house dare to lounge around without any smalls on?" He skirted under the hem of the sweater, his fingertips skimming the top of her thigh and almost reaching above to test his theory for himself.

Lana sighed in pleasure, and she paused in her kisses to grin. "Wouldn't you like to find out?"

It was Cullen's turn to moan, anticipation stirring him even harder than having her in his lap did. Before he reached above her thighs, Lana locked both arms around his neck and pulled herself higher. Her nose bumped across his and he lost himself in her eyes, the golden ring around her pupils amplified in her mischief. She twirled a finger around his curly locks, trying to encourage them to curl more for her, then she dipped down. Lips parted for a scorching kiss, she danced her tongue deeper into his mouth, her flesh hungering for his. Cullen melted into her machinations, his exploring hand forgotten as he lifted it up to cup her cheek, pulling himself further into the kiss.

Lana broke away for a breath then pecked a few more kisses against his burning lips. "I love you," she whispered, leaning her head back to expose her neck. Cullen needed no more invitation to draw first his fingers, then his mouth down the side of her tiny neck. Soft, sweet kisses that'd leave no imprint pressed against her, trailing deeper towards her birthmark. Nearly sixteen years, and touching it, tasting her skin, running a finger across the drooping petals pushed every button inside of him. He wrapped his arms around the small of her back and leaned forward, trying to get a better taste - which caused Lana to giggle at his ferocity.

"I've missed you more than I can ever..." Tears stung her words, and Cullen's lust addled brain broke. He swept his fingers across her cheek, against the scar running down it, to mop up the fall of sorrow and regret.

"I know, because I've missed you just as much," he whispered.

"I wish I'd-"

"Lana," he placed his forehead against hers as his thumbs wiped away her fall of tears, "you're here now. That's all I need."

Light flashed from outside the windows, drawing both of them away. Cullen counted, waiting for the roll of thunder, but none came. Instead, the lodge's fixtures rattled in their hinges without a single sound booming across the rainy land. He turned a confused glance at Lana.

She smiled and waved her fingers, "Dampening spell. When you were sleeping, I didn't want the sound of the rain to wake you or worse so I, um... Is that all right?"

She did it because she was worried about him, because she wanted to protect him, hoped to help him, because she loved him. Cullen wrapped her tight against his chest, "It's sweet. Thank you."

"I love you."

"You already said that," he chuckled, trying to thread apart her short hair. Lana hated how it was growing in pieces from her self imposed cuts, so he'd often smooth down whatever errant section he found.

"I know, but...I want to make up for all the lost time."

"We do have a lot of it." He meant to play it off light, but the severity of the words struck them both. At the age of eighteen, he fell harder than he thought possible for that little mage - the one with the piles of curly hair and smart ideas. Twenty six and the one that slipped away returned to him, chose him, took him to her, only for both of them to give it up for duty. Then at thirty one, when the impossible happened, there she was again - needing him in a way he tried to understand. Now, by some will of the Maker, at thirty four he had her in his arms professing her love as easily as she'd ask for a cup of tea. It was like breathing to her, the way it had been for him for 16 years.

He moved to kiss her, when his wrist banged into the book in her fingers, "You're still holding that?"

She rotated it up to her face and smiled, "I intended to read it, until I was so handsomely interrupted."

"You know, I've never actually read it. How does the Hero of Ferelden come off in Master Tethras' mind?"

Lana smiled, "Shall I read you some?" Flipping open the book, pages riffled past until she landed on a certain passage. Coughing in her fist, Lana read, "'The Inquisitor stepped into the smuggler's cave expecting ambush, but he never could have prepared himself for the icy fists of winter.'"

"Icy fists of winter? I've never heard of a spell like that," Cullen interrupted.

"An author's liberties I suppose," Lana sighed. "'An ice spear flung off her palm, the blue crystal embedding a foot deep into the rock wall. As we blessed our asses that it didn't go through our skulls, the attacker stepped into the light. Eyes blazing like the frozen wastes of the Kokari wilds, with hair blacker than the deep roads, she raised her fists at us and shouted, "Who dares to disturb the Hero of Ferelden?'"

"I am assuming none of that happened."

"Varric does like to go on in a direction perpendicular to reality. Later he describes me as vengeance incarnate when I obliterated half of the grey warden army by myself. With...give me a moment. 'Fire trickling from her eyes, she drew forth from the places of mages and shattered lightning through the air. The beak of a griffin statue collapsed from her attack, tumbling through the air to scissor a pride demon in half.'" Lana snorted, "I wish it were that easy."

"Didn't he know you before?" Cullen asked, dimly aware that the dwarf knew the pirate, who also knew the king - which sounded like a bad hand in Wicked Grace.

Lana shrugged, "I'm guessing the truth of a person is more of a guideline for him. But I can be a bit intimidating at times, I have to give him that."

Snuggling her tighter to his chest, Cullen ran a finger across the book's back cover. "You are intimidatingly sweet, bone achingly beautiful, torturously kind, and on occasion - affectionately terrifying." She laughed at his assessment as she pressed her lips against his chin. Struggling back a moan, Cullen asked, "How about we forget the book and head upstairs?"

With a flick of her wrist, Lana chucked it onto the rug almost startling Honor awake. Cullen wrapped her tight in his arms, rose to his feet, and carried her up the stairs while she kissed those tempting lips across his skin. Lost in her plying kisses, he ran shin first into the bed's baseboard. Pain burst up his leg, but Lana parted the veil and drew forth a numbing from the fade to wash it away as soon as it came. Bending over, Cullen placed her on the bed - her small form sinking deep into the folds of the furry duvet - and he gathered up her hands, kissing them both.

She raised an eyebrow at how he stopped her spell, but he whispered into her ear, "You might want to reserve your mana." Quivering from either his warm breath, or the promise, Lana's trembling hands rolled up his back. She dug her fingers in on the way up, pulling him down on top of her as she laid back - the two of them melding together on the rickety bed thick with trophies of someone else's life.

Cullen gently swooped his hand against her cheek, her skin entrancing him as his fingers trailed down across her neck to the birthmark. Lana's own exploring hands paused in their reach to try and sculpt his backside and she turned up at him, raising her chin to give him better access. But he didn't pause at those drooping petals of her birthmark, instead he drifted each step of his hand down under the sweater. Parting her lips, Lana's eyes slipped closed and her head lolled back, a moan rising through her chest as he cupped along the swell of her breast. Uncomfortableness rose up from his groin as he realized he'd trapped his rising erection tight against his pant leg. Watching her sigh in ecstasy as he teased her breast only exacerbated his hard rock and a tight place.

"Maker," she panted as Cullen freed his hands out from under the sweater so he could rise up and adjust himself. Her beguiling eyes popped open and she staggered up on her elbows to meet his retreating face. Lana snagged the back of his head, her lips pulling the breath from him as she kissed with fury, trying to drag him back down with her. Cullen caught himself with one hand, his arms straining against the dipping mattress while nearly all of her wrapped around him. Lithe legs enveloped his stomach, her heels knocking against his ass as she ground against him.

It was his turn to blaspheme, "Andraste's pyre!" tumbled out of him before he could try and regain his composure. "You are a trial by fire," he chuckled at the woman who'd rip off his clothes and ride him in that instant if she had her way.

Hot lips pressed against his jaw, her luscious bottom one nibbling against the stubble as she cooed, "As if you'd have it any other way."

No, he wouldn't. Against his better judgement, and the screaming for more from his cock, Cullen unknotted her crossed legs, letting her fall the inch or so back to the bed. Chuckling, Lana smiled while her arms tumbled back beside her head. Her eyes traversed over his chest, the ache for him evident, while she bit down on her thumb. The image of her coyly nipping herself in anticipation nearly pushed Cullen to climb on top of her right then and there. Sliding his fingers under the hem of his sweater, he began to lift the stolen garment off her body. Lana squirmed, as if she expected it to take time, but he couldn't hold himself back. Yanking quickly, she laughed whole heartedly as Cullen rolled the sweater across her chest and arms.

_Maker's breath..._ He had to pinch himself every time he saw her, all of her like this. Laying back, her breasts slipped to the side, playfully heading in opposite directions - both of them swelling to full as she regained her lost weight. Those gorgeous freckles called to him, begging for his hand to stroke each one. Under the entertained eye of the beautiful woman, he ran his fingers up the curve of her waist - the beginnings of her soft stomach returning, bringing with it those glorious hips that'd hypnotized him since he was 18. Cullen's palm drifted across her upper thigh, when Lana gurgled in a dangerous chortle. Blinking, he broke away from watching her breasts jiggle with her laughter to her face. She found something hilarious for certain, but he had no idea...

"How in the Maker's seat did you manage that?" he exclaimed. Cut into her pubic hair was the emblem of the templars, the flames licking up the side beside her thighs while the sword's hilt broke off at that hypnotizing separation of her lower lips.

Lana tipped her head, "With a razor, a mirror, and some artistic focus."

Unable to withstand the temptation, Cullen climbed on top of her, kissing with every ounce of heat in his body as Lana met him with her own fervor. Freed of the trap, his cock prodded against her soft stomach with only his pants separating them. Maker, sometimes they made for the best chaperone between the two. Dangling her hands behind her head, Lana matched his kisses as she asked, "Do you like it?"

"It's impressive," he admitted, "but the sword's upside down."

Chuckling at first, Lana sighed, "Everyone's a critic." As she tossed her head back, Cullen pressed his lips down her neck, for once taking the birthmarkless path. The change caused her to squirm below him, knocking against his already straining trousers. Wrapping his hands around one breast, then the other, he gently squeezed each, eliciting a moan from deep in Lana's chest. When he drifted his fingers across one plum colored nipple, drawing it further out, she arced her back. Going after the second, Lana lifted her entire back off the bed, her head rolling under her for leverage.

"Oh, Maker, do it," she moaned, begging as his tongue licked circles around her breast. Slowly antagonizing her, he drew her full breast into his mouth, breathing against her skin before sucking tenderly on her nipple. She rolled her head back and forth, humming under her breath, when he gently scraped his teeth across the tip of it. "Holy sweet Andraste!" she gasped, her hand slapping against the fur blanket below.

_Hm..._ Cullen reached out to snatch her hand up. Her eyes lifted slowly to watch him grab her other hand. Scooting forward, he pinned both back above her head, savoring the stretch to her beautiful body. Using the sleeve of his borrowed sweater, he knotted the wool tight against one of her wrists and then the other. Lana squirmed below him, the ecstasy palpable, before she glanced up and concern broke through her bliss. "Is this okay?" she asked, trying to gesture to his half hearted attempts at tying her down.

No revulsion crawled through his skin at the sight of her tied up in his sweater, only a burning desire to drive her to the brink and back for more. Lowering down to her, he whispered against her ear, "It is. I've never wanted you more."

Shuddering in a breath, she cried, "Then blighted take me."

He damn well intended to. His mouth traversed down her body, his fingers leading the charge to tantalize the skin before licking and sucking upon her. Each kiss caused Lana to squirm below him, gasps of pleasure and annoyance in equal measure as he took his time tasting her, teasing her. Gently, his fingers caressed down the shaved blade until he paused at the hilt begging for his attention. Cullen licked every flame, his tongue tracing the pattern of each before sliding down the sword to paradise. Moaning in anticipation, Lana wrapped her legs around the back of his head as his lips kissed against her lower ones. Digging into her inner thighs, he spread her open to lap up her excitement. The scent of her arousal, wet and warm, broke through every barrier Cullen threw up. He dove tongue first into her, licking and sucking first against her labia, then to her clit.

Lana's legs clenched tight against his head, muffling his ears, but he could feel her moans through her body. A few slow licks earned him a soft sigh, and a rapid thrumming of his tongue caused her to lift her lower half high off the bed, screaming for him to get closer. Slick with her arousal, Cullen drew his finger across her inner lips before plunging it inside. Those sumptuous inner muscles pulsed, straining to clench against first one finger then a second.

Raising away from his tempting work, Cullen whispered, his voice throaty with desire, "Do the spell."

"Really?" Lana squeaked, her eyelids flying open as she tried to look down at him. He only smiled wide and returned to work, chasing that perfect rhythm against her. Unable to taste anything but Lana, he could only feel the hair on his arms lift at the veil parting into their world. He didn't know what she was preparing on her hands knotted tight above her head, but judging by the building mana it was powerful. _Maker, what did he get himself into?_

Her clit throbbed under his tongue's lavish attentions as he drove his fingers inside of her - shallow at first, but reaching deeper and deeper. Even while she put her mental focus on casting a spell, Lana panted - her body trembling as she squirmed to try and thrust with him. It wasn't long now. Her vagina clamped tighter against him, trying to draw his fingers deeper in. Cullen kept the same lick, twist, suck motion up while he dipped down into the nothing of templars.

"M-m-m-maker," Lana moaned, her thighs straining beside his head as she walked ever closer to the end. Thrusting as deep inside as he could reach, Cullen blanketed her in a mana cleanse, wiping away the spell. The hit was instantaneous, something in it pushing her right off the cliff. Her entire body snapped rigid, only the pulses of her ecstatic vagina responding as she rode it out as long as possible. When Lana's legs fell slack off his neck, Cullen drew his tongue back from her. "Sweet, damn, holy..." her words trembled in time with her body.

Sliding off his trousers, he climbed over top of her. Lana lay in rapture, her eyes slipped shut and a grin etched upon her face.   He wished he could imprint that picture of her in euphoria onto his heart. Sensing the man hovering above, her eyes rolled open - a blissful sheen across them - and she smiled, "That was, holy beyond the void of...um, perfect."

Cullen squared his knees beside her hips and bent down, his fingers tracing her cheek, "I'm not finished yet."

With her hands still knotted in the sweater, Lana threw them behind his head, dragging his face towards her for a never ending kiss. While their lips mashed and sucked, he shifted his weight to be able to cup her breast, pinching her nipple between his fingers. Lana gasped, her bound hands digging into his skin in surprise. Quickly, she wrapped one leg then the other around his stomach, pulsing the hilt of her sword right above his own. Instinctively, he thrusted forward, his cock slipping right on up across her lips.

She paused in her kissing to shrug, "It's all on you. I'm afraid I'm tied up at the moment."

"You are," Cullen growled in hunger from the depths of his soul. With almost all of her hanging off him, he shifted his weight to the side to grab onto himself and guide the head of his cock inside her. Lana bore down, her wetness driving him deep through her. "Holy Maker!" he gasped, his hand flying out to the bed to catch himself.

"I'm the holy Maker?" Lana smirked. He froze above her while she drug her heels up and down his back, those mischievous eyes taunting him.

Cullen placed his forehead against hers, trying to ground himself, "In this moment, yes." Slowly, he drew himself out, savoring the cushion of every bump and turn inside of her. Lana groaned, her legs lifting higher as she tried to encourage him to bore out all of her, but he kept the thrusts shallow. Beads of sweat percolated off her collarbone, the shine drawing his lips to that birthmark. The moment he kissed it, tasted the petals of her sweet skin, he drove his cock deep.

Incoherent cries of pleasure erupted from Lana, her back arcing as she tried to push him further in while also exposing her neck. Maker, the woman was a challenge. Each touch of his lips was met with a thrust, the rhythm languid but gaining in speed while the woman he loved clenched with each one. She adored torturing him, watching him squirm above and below her.

"Ah ha," he paused, feeling sweat drip across his shoulders and down straining biceps. Swallowing back the urge to drive himself to the brink, Cullen slid out of her - the head of his cock bouncing against the warm perfection it yearned for.

Lana bunched up her lips in consternation, then her eyes traveled up to his. Yanking her hands off from behind his head, she sat up, Cullen following her for fear she might head-butt him off the bed. While perched on his knees near the edge of the bed, he watched slightly confused as Lana kissed him. Her lips ambushing his for a heated kiss, then she bent over. He caught on to her plans the breath before her tongue danced across his quivering cock.

"By all the..." Cullen groaned from the depths of his balls while she plied him with every trick she knew - her bound hand managing to slide up and down his shaft to trail that tantalizing tongue. Her fingers reached lower to cup his balls, gently rotating them in her palm before she pushed a finger against the skin directly behind them. Bending her finger over, she massaged his taint, the combo of tongue and digit stimulation drawing all discipline from Cullen's body. He couldn't stop her if he tried, but it was Lana who lifted her head, removed her fingers and smiled at him.

Wet with the juices from both her lips, Cullen shuddered to drag himself back from the explosion. In his state he barely noticed the smell of magic rising in the air until Lana tapped her fingers together and then touched herself. Watching her add that vibration spell to her own clitoris pushed him to the limits of desire. "I need you," he groaned, reaching out to cup her breast.

Lana lifted her eyebrows, rolled that captivating tongue in her cheek and shrugged, "Wanna go for mabari?"

"Are you, can you remain up long enough?"

She spun around the bed to place her hands before her. Lifting her voluptuous ass towards him she smiled, "That's what I was going to ask you."

"What am I...?" his train of thought evaporated as he curved his palm against her delectable asscheeks. Rising up on his own knees to match her, Cullen bit down on a hungry growl from the vision before him of Lana's breasts skimming the bed while on all fours. Gripping tight to himself to try and calm the blood, he guided his cock into her. Maker, against all laws of nature, somehow this was even tighter. Lana began to pant instantly, her head tossed back as she begged for something. He couldn't make it out through the blood rushing out of his ears. In that moment he was nothing but his cock slipping deeper and deeper inside of her, drawing even more moaning as she pushed back.

He'd tried going slow, but there was nothing left now. He needed to fill all of her. Grabbing onto her hips, Cullen situated his knees, about to begin thrusting faster when Lana unleashed her spell. He could feel the vibrations rolling up from her clitoris, causing her to pant even more, her vagina clenching tighter into him. But another stronger vibration rolled up through his balls, the shaft of his cock, and the entirety of his lower body. Driving on pure instinct, he pumped into her, the back of his tongue falling numb as every nerve in his lower body screamed out in ecstasy. Lana clenched tighter around him, her head dropping to the bed as she cried out incoherently, and her orgasm finally let him tip over the edge.

His legs began to shake, trembling to match his cock spraying what felt like a month's worth inside her. _Maker's breath!_ Lana collapsed onto the bed, her energy beyond spent, and he followed with, laying on top of her like a blanket. His body was spinning around, his skin sensitive to the slightest touch from the internal explosion, while Lana's warm body below draped pure bliss over him. He was at war with himself to leap up in joy or curl up in sleep.

Cullen settled for leaning close to her ear, "I didn't realize you slipped one of those onto me."

He felt her smile into the mattress, "Thought you might like it."

"Maker, beyond, it was. As if everything inside..." without words to explain he pressed his lips to the back of her neck, "There are definite perks to sleeping with a mage."

"And a templar," Lana added. Her hands remained bound up in his sweater below her, but he knew that wasn't what she meant.

"I'd never have thought a mana drain could cause such an impact," he said sliding back her hair and caressing her shoulders.

"It doesn't have that effect all the time," she lifted up on her hands and began to twist around. Regretfully, Cullen pulled himself out of her, and she flipped around to face him. At least he could get lost in her beautiful face. "Just, you know, during sex. Maker, be right embarrassing if it happened during a fight. Uh sorry, I know you're trying to kill me and all but I suddenly need to change my smalls."

Two years he'd grieved, blamed himself, blamed her, blamed Hawke, blamed the Inquisitor, blamed the Maker for taking her away. He never dreamed he could touch her skin again. Feel the rise and fall of her ample chest against his, watch her lips glisten as she wet them in anticipation, hear her sighs as she pulled herself back from euphoria. For the first time in his life, Cullen felt that everything was finally right, happiness a true possibility.

Lana reached up to run her bound hands down his chest, "You look a hundred miles away. What are you thinking?"

"How much I love you," he answered truthfully. He worried that he didn't have the right words to convince Lana he cared, how she rested deep in his heart and always would. From the way she looked at him, the way she smiled whenever he told her the stark truth, Cullen realized he didn't need to find the perfect answer - the fact it was his truth was enough.

"I love you too," she smiled, then her ornery eyes drifted lower, "and I especially love what you can do." Lana moved to lift her arms but they dropped against the bed, exhaustion evident. Cullen slid to her side to tenderly unknot his sweater off her.

"Too much?" he asked, concerned as always. She had a long road to walk to becoming her old self, if she ever reached it.

"No," Lana shook her head, her freed hands wrapping around his cheeks, "Just right." Kissing him, she managed a few more seconds before a yawn broke them apart. Lana flopped back onto the bed, her eyelids drooping. "Sleep sounds delightful right now."

Cullen lifted her body in his arms so he could pull back the blanket and drape it over her. With it tucked below her arms, he was drawn to the beautiful scoop of her shoulders, dewey with sweat. Lana yawned again and flipped onto her side, prepared to make good on her promise. Pulling up the edge of the blanket, Cullen slid in beside her, his hand gripping tight to her stomach.

"What are you doing?" Lana asked, struggling against the allure of sleep. "You can't be tired. You just rose from a nap."

"I'm not, but," he drew his body around hers, fitting tightly as if they were made for each other, "you shouldn't have to wake up alone."

A small sigh overlaid with a shudder escaped from her, he'd lay beside her as long as she needed it. Lana gripped onto his fingers and leaned back against him. Tears clinging to her words, she whispered, "I love you, my templar."

"And I you, my mage."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Tradition

_9:44 Denerim_

Wailing, the kind fabled banshees bleated outside someone's door before the home owner leapt onto the pyre the next morning echoed through every stone in the castle. Roused from his half sleep, Alistair stumbled shirtless down the corridors in pursuit of the noise. He moved to wipe the sand out of his eyes and nearly bashed a sword's hilt into his nose. When did he grab the damn thing? After too many years spent sleeping on the ground waiting for any manner of creepy evil thing to come and cleave his head off, he defaulted to "shit's about to go pear" without thinking.

An even louder shriek broke the normally quiet castle air. While pursuing it, he'd catch a few harried glances of servants all poking heads into the hall, the bags under their eyes lengthening to match their scowl - until spotting their king hoofing it. Then it was an immediate snap to attention, but he waved each off, mouthing that he was going to get to the bottom of it. Past the coat of arms and the creepy paintings of his ancestors whose eyes rolled whenever he walked near he paused outside the door. Judging by the high range of squeals and shrieks there had to be some horrible murder happening right inside. Steadying himself to his kingliest pose, Alistair threw open the door.

The servants kept the fire down to almost nothing, only the light of the full moon and a few stars reflected upon a woman bent over the newest piece of furniture in the castle. Curtains wafted in the spring air to frame the cradle while its lone owner took a breath before resuming her blood curdling wail. The wet nurse glanced over at Alistair, turned back to the baby clearly unhappy with her services, then whipped back at him. "Your majesty," growled out of her throat.

"That's me, all majestic majesty over here. Like a short mountain," he pinched the bridge of his nose to try and steady himself through the never ending howls. "Not going so well, I take it Marn?"

"It...it is of no concern," Marn answered, folding her arms across her coveted bosom. The queen weighed the potential candidates for weeks before deciding on the woman who'd nursed a good fifteen kids to strapping height. Marn also looked like she could flatten an ogre.

"Here," he inched closer to the cradle and held out a hand, "let me hold her."

"You're carrying a sword," Marn snipped, jerking her chin at him while she kept rocking the cradle back and forth, though the owner was having none of that while maintaining her howl.

Tossing the sword against the wall, Alistair turned back to her and smiled, "Now I'm not. So...baby?"

The nursemaid glowered down at him, "I do not think this is a wise idea...Your Highness."

"Come on, she's been screaming for a half hour. What's the worst you think I'll do, drop the only heir down a well?"

"Anything is possible," Marn was not one easily swayed by fancy titles or threats of beheadings. He rather doubted an axe could get through her thick neck anyway.

Throughout their standoff, the little princess made her unhappiness evident, the wails digging into his teeth. He was about to shoulder past the nursemaid and pick her up himself - which would probably end in Marn laying him flat out - when the queen appeared. She was draped in thick quilted robes, her face still wan from giving birth and skin almost an ethereal blue by the moonlight.

"It's all right," she said, her fingers landing across the nursemaid's bulging forearms. "He can try," Beatrice nodded to her technical husband.

Alistair bobbed a grateful head to his technical wife, "Thank you." Sliding past Marn, he peeked in on the newest mouth to come screaming into the world and planning on keeping it that way. In her first few days of existence, Alistair was terrified of her wonky head and splotchy skin tone. While everyone else remarked upon what a beautiful baby it was, he ached to ask any of the healers if she was suffering from some terrible disease to make her look both purple and red at the same time. Her toothless mouth stretched wide as she screamed for something no one in the palace could understand. It was damn impressive how loud their newborn could get - a good sign of health Eamon declared. Yeah, maybe in the first few days it was welcomed, now those healthy lungs were assaulting everyone.

Gently, he scooped his hands under her swaddled body. _Maker, how did anyone start out so tiny?_ She fit along the length of his forearm, her screams halting for a moment at the sudden change in her life as she rose through the air into his arms. In her fit, she'd managed to shake off one of the mittens someone knitted for her, leaving her dagger nails out to slice apart anyone else who drew too close.

"You tuck your arm under..." Marn began, but Alistair glared at her.

"I get it, hold baby, don't drop. It's not that hard," with one hand cradling her head, he placed her against his chest, her little mouth noshing against his skin as she continued to wail. Drool dribbled down his skin heading towards dark places.

"Very well," Marn huffed, sliding back to her mistress, "Maker knows we've run out of options."

The princess' tiny fists thudded against him, and instinctively Alistair bounced her up and down, bending his knees to an erratic beat. Her wails paused again, and he glanced towards the women. "Mind if we go for a walk?"

"What? No!" Marn shouted, but the queen guided her back.

"Go ahead." Beatrice smiled at him, and began to return to her bed. Torn between protecting the baby from her would-be father and also worrying about her mistress, Marn wrapped a hand around Beatrice's forearm but took the time to glower at Alistair.

He ruffled his fingers against the baby's fine hair. It wasn't really hair, they said, at least not the normal kind, but something that'd fall off over time. Which was good, because when he first saw it, he thought the kid was going to have stark white hair her whole life. Her mouth opened wide against his chest, and Alistair steeled himself for another scream, but her tiny nose wrinkled up and she began to gum him.

"I bet you're just tired of these drab surroundings. Looks like someone died in here," he whispered to her. "Let's go see what there is to find in the castle." Bouncing gently in his arms, he stepped into the hall. It all seemed quiet -- as if everyone grateful for the screaming reprieve vanished off to sleep -- until he'd turn back around and catch heads watching from their rooms. No one trusted him with their only hope for succession.

Only the baby seemed unconcerned with the future in his hands, her wails halted as she fell to sleep against his skin. "How is that comfortable?" Alistair whispered down to her, his finger caressing her pudgy cheek. "Well, you know how to baby best." Uncertain where to take her while everyone watched from the shadows, Alistair headed to his room on the other wing of the castle. Along the way he pointed out various paintings creating heretical backstories to match each one. The princess remained unamused, her drool endlessly dripping down his chest.

A strong fire greeted him as he shouldered open his door, one he didn't remember starting. "Give it time," he whispered to her, "they'll get used to there being a baby around and then it'll be 'Oh, you wanted a fire?  What, is your crown broken? Get it your damn self.'"

Like a baby bird squeaking in its nest, the princess roused from her sudden nap. Alistair wrapped his arm around her back and pulled her in front of his eyes. She yawned her toothless mouth, and her eyes opened to reveal a deep emerald to match her mother's. Sniffling at first, the princess waved her hands about as far as her developing muscles could manage.

"Hey, come on. We're in this together. Don't start crying again or they'll run in here and whisk you back to the creepy room."

Perhaps something in his tone reached her, or the fact he began to dance and weave to try and lull her back to sleep did, but the burgeoning scream faded away and she tested out her eyelids in sleep. Everyone had chased the supposed father as far from the baby as they could. Sure, he could gaze once at the screaming thing freshly scrubbed of blood from the birthing process to prove "Look, an heir," but ever since then it was all "Hey, your majesty, you don't need to be bothering with that. The women have this. It's none of your concern until she's, I don't know, eighteen or something. Then you can get involved in your daughter's life." Maybe they were trying to all deal with the delicate matter of her creation, or - most likely - everyone was terrified Alistair would try and feed the baby dog food or juggle her with swords.

While it'd be fun to terrify the people hounding the new princess by pretending to do those things, Alistair didn't want to. A foreign calm wrapped around him like goose down pillows as he watched this tiny human with splotchy skin and vibrant green eyes sleep in his arms. "Did you know we share something in common? Not blood I'm afraid, but we're both bastards. Maybe I shouldn't be teaching you that word now. Cool uncles are supposed to teach you all the good curse words." He paused at the thought of Teagan even saying one much less sharing it with a child. "Being a bastard is, it's like a secret club for people who get punished for their parent's choices. Very exclusive, you have to be born into it. I, I guess it's not so bad. At the very least you're wanted, which is a step up from me.

"Everyone's so happy you're here, you know. Gonna be celebrating for months if Isolde has her way. We were getting a little worried there. You were in your mother for a long time. So long they brought in every healing mage and surgeon in Ferelden. I almost sent a letter to..."

Her itty bitty mouth gaped open as a mighty yawn raised up the fragile ribcage of this tiny baby in his arms. All thought drained from Alistair while he watched this simple, everyday occurrence as if he'd never seen it before. Smiling like an idiot from a yawn, he shifted her higher up in his arms to plant a gentle kiss against that squishy baby forehead. "So that's what new baby smells like," he mused, blinking through a mist.

"Anyway, uh, right..." his eyes drew away from her to a burst of red pulsing on the desk beside his bed. Snuggling the baby deeper into his warm chest, Alistair fumbled for the phylactery. As his fingers grazed the glass, he knew exactly where Lanny was - safe, alive, probably happy or that templar was going to be hearing things. Why she gave it to him was surprising, but like all things with Lanny she had her own logic. Her templar had little need for it while at her side, and Alistair did have an army at his disposal should she ever require finding or helping. Perhaps it was her way of showing confidence in him, the kind he never have in himself. Bundling the phylactery below the baby, he trucked both over to the chair by the fireplace.

Well seated, he lifted her up higher as if she could care about the phylactery of a woman countries away. "Do you know who this belongs to? The mighty Hero of Ferelden. You're named after her, well, one of your names. You've got enough names attached to you people are likely to pass out from lack of air while trying to recite the whole thing." It'd been Beatrice's suggestion with a gentle nodding from the others that it was a good way to honor their fallen Hero of Ferelden. Only Alistair, and one other special Arl, knew the truth - to the rest of the world Solona Amell gave her life saving the world. To her few closest friends, Lanny (or Lana) lived on.

The princess smacked her petal pink lips in sleep. He smiled even brighter at that. "You don't match your name at all, far too pompous for someone so little. You're more like a... like a potato with your round head and chubby cheeks." Weighing the baby in his arms, he chuckled, a nickname falling into his head. "My spud," he whispered to her. _Maker, everyone was going to hate it._ Alistair grinned even wider at the idea, Spud cementing in his mind.

"Where do I begin to tell you about the Hero of Ferelden?" he said while rocking his chest back and forth on the stationary chair. Spud seemed to enjoy that, her eyes fluttering open for a moment and a nug-like squeal escaping her lips. "Lanny's, well, she's something else. Always has been, always will be. She's put up with me for far too long. I hope," Alistair raised his little Spud higher in his arms, his head dropping low so he could whisper over her, "I hope she's found her peace. Maker knows Lanny deserves it."

His pinkie caressed little Spud's cheek, the baby's skin soft as silk and so warm. _Huh..._ Alistair chuckled under his breath. Leaning closer to his daughter he pressed his lips against her forehead and whispered, "I owe her ten sovereigns too." Regardless of all the nitty gritty parts, she was his child without question in his heart, in his soul. A gentle coo echoed in Spud's tiny throat. "Maybe I should make it twenty," he said, his heart threatening to burst from the abundance of love this little baby grew.

"Where to begin? How about the beginning? I was a grey warden once. Grey wardens are very stylish warriors who everyone looks up to for our great hair. I met Lanny while I was in the middle of arguing with this grumpy mage..."

Spud curled tighter to him, her fist burrowing into his chest hair, the little mouth dribbling against him, while Alistair told his daughter everything in his heart.

#

_9:45 Denerim_

Plumper in the middle than either ends and a disquieting purple color, the sausage rolled around on Lana's plate as she glared at it.

"I told you," Alistair hummed, his chosen slop dribbling down his chin.

She shrugged, "How does one mess up a sausage? Seems like you'd have to be actively trying to get it that color."

Reaching over the table, he jabbed at her meat with his spoon and a squelching sound erupted from the casing. They both grimaced at it, sharing a 'that's not normal' look. "Your funeral if you eat it."

"I'm not twenty any longer, and that dare never worked on me anyway," Lana countered with. She slid the plate away from her, not really hungry. They only stopped in the old gnarled tavern because it was tradition. And knowing its traditional food, they also snatched up some fresh pastries off a cart in the main thoroughfare before stopping for dinner. Not that a stomach full of doughy treats did anything to slow the king of Ferelden slopping gruel down his gullet.

"You ever wonder why they don't make the food better?" Alistair asked, jabbing his spoon at the menu board. "Get a real chef, or someone who's not trying to commit heinous crimes against culinarity."

Lana ran a finger along her cheek, absently tracing her scar, "I suspect that would break the laws of reality. A backdoor tavern full of villainous scum and slumming heroes possessing grand cuisine? Could you imagine families sitting around these plague ridden tables talking about how exquisite the amuse-bouche is here?"

"What is that amused bush? First time I heard it, I thought someone was talking about a hilarious shrubbery."

Laughing to the point of snorting, Lana threw her head back at the image, "Maker, yes, I'd much rather find a laughing plant on a silver platter hoisted up by snooty elves."

"As long as it's not a rhyming tree."

"Agreed," she nodded at the king who spent the marked day at her side, then her eyes trailed away to the tavern's door swinging open. Smiling wide at the gorgeous man trying to navigate around the darkened tables and hunched diners, Lana watched him for a moment before raising her hand to catch Cullen's attention.

Alistair spotted it and turned in his seat, probably expecting guards come to snag him. To his credit, he also smiled at the man approaching their table. "Maker's breath," Cullen huffed beside them, "how can you see beyond your nose in here?"

"You can't," Alistair answered, "it helps with the ambience."

"And to disguise the food," Lana snickered, lifting up her sausage. She slid up from her seat to peck a kiss upon Cullen's lips before asking, "How did your little meet and greet go?"

"Good, I hope," he ruffled his hand through his hair, knotting his curls up tighter. She flexed her fingers in anticipation of grabbing onto them later. "The grand cleric gave me an audience and I, there was a lot to discuss at the sanitarium. Some of the templars who haven't even fallen to lyrium poisoning wound up there without anywhere to go. They're interested to be certain." For this important overture, he'd forgone the armor and put on the fanciest shirt they could find - a brilliant emerald in layers of silk offset with brass buttons. She couldn't talk him into the ruffs no matter how much she insisted they were the it fashion. Not that it mattered, the man had to have whispers from behind lady's hands following his every step - he cleaned up very well. And Lana had every intention of dirtying him later.

Cullen's hand drifted away from his neck and he pointed at Lana, "How did your, uh, tradition go?"

"Very well," she answered, "barely anyone seemed to be out today doing any law breaking. A strange curiosity..." she glanced over at Alistair nose deep into his mug. At her perched eyebrow, he started, bubbles sloshing mead over his mug's lip.

"What?" he wiped at his chin. "You think I had something to do with that?"

"We ran into, what? Four bandits, two of which had terrible head colds, and instead spent most of the day sitting beneath the trees watching the merchants work."

Alistair shrugged, "Don't go giving me that eye. Bandits don't tend to follow rules from on high, rather known for it. You think I ran around the day before rounding 'em all up and promised them a shiny silver if they were good boys and girls tomorrow? Put on a little play of fake dying for the mage? I have better things to do with my time, more or less. Maybe they all finally wised up and realized this day was best for staying indoors."

"You're saying you had no troubles?" Cullen interrupted. He didn't sit, but hovered near her, his body leaning into a hand upon the table.

"Don't go gettin' your smalls in a knot, templar," Alistair interrupted. "She's still got all her tricks up her sleeve, even if it takes her longer to limp there." Lana's boot knocked into her cane below the table. She went through many iterations over the year, trying to find one that could double as a staff in an emergency. One day she stumbled out of their current lodging to find Cullen bent over a workbench, wood shavings tumbling from the sides. He gleamed as he presented his first attempt to her. It took a few more tries, a couple cracking from her heavy use, but eventually she carried a simple but elegant cane painted a threatening midnight with speckles of silver dusting like stars. Under the handle, so her fingers would drag across them every time she walked, he carved the words "Stay Safe." Maker, she had every intention of it.

Rubbing her fingers up and down her worrywart's arm, Lana smiled at him. Then she gestured to the other denizen below the table, "Besides, we had Honor with us as well. She's been coming along wonderfully for taking down bandits. Goes right for the jugular without a second thought."

Cullen cupped her fingers, his bittersweet smile beaming on her, before he dipped down to ruffle up the exhausted dog's ears. "You did good, girl."

"Nothing to worry about whatsoever," Alistair crowed. Against his own common sense, he jabbed a knife into the purple sausage and drifted it close to his teeth. Lana hissed, slapping a hand over her mouth and potentially one over her eyes as well.

"Don't, do not eat that. Maker's sake, you have no idea where it's been," she chastised.

"On your plate for an hour," he scoffed back. "If you're not gonna eat it, I see no reason for it to go to waste," and then he snickered, dropping the stabbed meat product down against the table.

Shaking her head and willing away the disgust from the very idea, Lana turned to Cullen, her voice softening as she knotted her fingers over top his on the table. "What's next then?"

He blinked, his eyes snapping back from wherever he drifted off to while gazing at her, "Oh, uh, with the Grand Cleric's blessing and some backing from the Inquisition, we have to petition the crown for land..."

"Sure," Alistair interrupted, "take whatever you need. Want an Arling? Nah, that's probably a bit much. You think you want all that space at first, and then you remember how much damn dusting you have to do. Always with the dusting. And I don't even remember getting that stupid curio."

"What?" Cullen started, his hand slipping out from under hers as he turned to the king whacking his spoon against the sausage to see what would happen. "That, I assumed I would need to... Are there not procedures necessary? Precedent to follow?"

"Probably," Alistair shrugged. "Look, if you want to scurry into the throne room, doff your hat, get to a knee, and say your spiel be my guest. No one's gonna argue with what you're asking."

"No one?" Lana asked, well aware of how politics worked.

"All right," he threw up both hands, "someone will argue because, I don't know, he wasn't hugged enough as a child. But come on, who's gonna say no to the Hero of Ferelden?"

"Who's dead, remember," Lana said, her eyes darting around the tavern. She figured if she kept herself cloaked and away from the nobility sections of Denerim she'd be safe.

"Yeah yeah, I know. Still, you should swing by the palace. We've rearranged all the tapestries in alphabetical and most poncy order. And then you can meet Spud."

"Alistair, you know I can't. Someone's liable to see me," they'd had that same argument all day.

The king seemed to finally accept she wasn't about to budge when out of nowhere he'd invent another excuse for why she must sneak into the palace. They'd gone from pies, windows, the wainscoting on the trellises, to a portrait in the attic that he swore kept getting younger. Alistair snapped his fingers and sat up, "What if I arrange a little jaunt out in the streets with Spud and you just happen to swing on by? No one'd be the wiser."

"Won't you be busy that day holding court for...reasons?" Lana jerked her head in the direction of Cullen who silently watched them not-argue.

Alistair glanced from her, to Cullen, and then back again, "I officially give you, Cullen...shit, what's your last name? Eh, doesn't matter, that's what clerks are for. All the land you're asking for. You need somewhere nice too. How about the Hinterlands? Put you near the old tower, and you'd be under Teagan, so..."

"That, uh," Cullen's eyes bulged in surprise. He'd fretted for weeks about his plans all falling apart before they even began. Having rarely dealt with politics during peacetime, the wheelings and dealings wafted him by. Cullen was unlikely to ever become a diplomat even in his retirement. So many of their nights in bed were lost to Lana assuring him they'd find a way to make it work, and Cullen unraveling every thread she darned up.

Cupping his hand in hers, Lana smiled at him, then nodded at Alistair, "We accept."

"Great! I'll put in the, tell someone to put in whatever does the thing. I think there's an old abbey in the woods near Lake Calenhad. Pretty land, in disrepair, but pretty. Someone'll tell you where it is."

"Thank you," Cullen bowed his head, his eyes slipping closed. She anticipated a 'Your majesty' or 'highness' to slip out, but he smiled almost serenely and said, "Alistair."

The clatter of armored boots trampling through the front door drew all three's attention. Lana smiled, "Looks like your cavalcade's arrived."

"Buggers," Alistair cursed, "is it that late already? I owe someone a bedtime story." He finished off his mead and wiped the runoff from his chin.

"A bedtime story? She's not even a year yet," Lana said, shaking her head.

"Got to start them early." He grinned wide and rose out of his seat to peck a kiss against Lana's cheek. "Lanny, I'll be seeing you next year?"

"It's tradition," she said.

Sliding out of the booth, Alistair paused to pat slumbering Honor on the head, then he extended a hand to Cullen. They both shook, an acceptance wafting between them. She never thought she'd live to see the day. Bowing his head to the templar, Alistair crossed the creaking inn floor to throw his arms around his guard's shoulders. "Boys, and girls, hope it's a straight shot to the palace. I need to get a few chapters in with Spud before it's lights out. I was thinking tonight I finally tell her about the fearsome archdemon I helped slay..."

His voice faded out the door along with the king's personal guard. Cullen watched silently for a few minutes, before he leaned down to Lana, "Spud?"

She snickered, "That's his nickname for his daughter. I don't think I've ever heard him use her given one, actually."

"Huh..." Cullen stared in the king's path, his own thoughts churning. Then he turned to Lana, "You're smiling."

"I, I'm happy for him," she dipped her head down, a warmth enveloping her cheeks. "He finally got that family he wanted."

Cullen's hand caressed over hers, his fingers massaging her weary hand that knotted up sometimes when she had to rely upon her cane for too long. Some days it bothered her, accepting that she'd never be what she once was, having to face up to how much the fade took from her. But then she'd catch a glimpse of Cullen shirtless as he carted wood in for the fire, or savor his fingers digging into her calves and feet. Sighing in the back of her throat, Lana smiled even wider as she reached for him. He obliged by dipping lower, her fingers knotting behind his neck. "And I got you," she kissed his lips that tasted of Denerim soot, boiled elfroot tea, and the man she loved.

Bumping her nose against his cheek, Lana whispered, "Let's go to bed."

"With pleasure," Cullen grinned. He wrapped his hands around her bottom and yanked her up into his arms, Lana clinging tight to his neck. She couldn't stop the giggle as he huffed for a moment to adjust her, then risked a quick kiss. Together they wandered off to the back where there was going to be little sleeping.

"Honor," Lana called behind her, "bring my cane."

Epilogue

_9:46 Hinterlands_

Lana threw in the literal towel stained an unholy green along with her fingers. The distillery itself huffed from the final drops percolating through her glassware, steam drifting out the window, and otherwise looming in its heretical fashion. Snatching up her cane, she slammed the door and stepped away from her potion room; normally a refuge of exciting possibilities, now it only stirred her anger and stained her skin. With a hand along the banister, she limped down the winding staircase of the open air abbey. Made up of a dozen small cells ringed around a giant courtyard, it was a real gem hidden under a massive pile of debris. Abandoned before the blight, trashed even worse after that, and then home to runaways during the mage rebellions, it took them what felt like a year to get their land cleaned out. For a month they had to sleep in the barn because what rooms they could clear out either had gaps in the roof, the walls, or were filled with arriving patients.

By the time they moved into their room, the old abbess' overlooking the courtyard, Cullen swore he'd build a proper bed with a headboard and posts. She was just grateful to be off of straw. Maker, no one deserved to sleep in that stuff. Lana smiled as the man of the hour swept towards her across the courtyard dotted with lit lanterns in preparation of the coming night. He wore his work gear, stained leather scraps tossed over a ratty shirt and pants with just enough patches to cover the holes. Not that she was in much better shape, the apron from the distillery still knotted around her bearing stains in all the hues of the rainbow along with the vomit from Ser Henric. Clinging to his arm was the local Sister, their area far too remote to afford even a Mother. She was maybe twenty-two with massive eyes and a tendency to giggle when panicking, which occurred often.

"Hello, honey," Lana called. He swept an arm against her waist and pulled her close for a kiss. She began to reach up to touch his cheek when his eyes widened at the verdant hue of her fingers.

"Not a good day?" Cullen asked. Then he kissed her so sweetly she almost didn't care about the bad luck.

"No, the newest formula is not stable. I'm going to need more embrium if I hope to make an effective potion that doesn't have to be administered every half hour."

Sister Kelsa giggled, "Maker, the way you go on about all that fancy potion and bottle stuff you almost sound like a mage."

"Er, uh," Lana glanced over guilty at Cullen, then smiled at the Sister, "funny that."

"So..." Kelsa patted Cullen's hand in a grandmotherly way, the age difference making it comical, but she meant well. She blushed up a storm the first time the fabled commander of the Inquisition visited her little chantry for services, but over the year Kelsa grew used to him. At least she moved passed her stammering and nearly passing out stage. The Sister often visited them to administer any last rights, provide succor of the faith, or simply talk with the misplaced templars. Despite her young age and insecurities she believed in what she was doing with a passion. Now she was arcing an eyebrow and looking at the two of them as if she had a big surprise in store.

"So?" Lana asked first.

"So, are you nervous about the big day?" Kelsa smiled wider, her hat wafting in the wind as she whipped her head from Cullen to Lana.

"Big day...? Oh," Lana groaned at herself, "Maker, with the mixture and I, right, right, the big day. Nervous? Me? No, no. What about you?" She turned on Cullen, who looked as equally perplexed.

"What do we have to do tomor-? Oh! Yes, I complet-"

Kelsa interrupted him, "I've found it's often the woman with certainty in her step and the man with feet of ice." She patted Cullen's hand again missing the grimace passed between the two love birds. The Sister's eyes skipped past them and her knowing smile vanished to a stammer, her finger pointing in the distance, "Is that Arl Teagan?" She spun on a dime, watching the Arl marching through the courtyard with a certain destination on his mind. "Blessed Andraste," a blush curled up her cheeks, "you do gather some fine company, don't you Commander?"

"I, uh," he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, then gestured at the Arl who wasn't there for him. "Why don't you go and greet him. I'm certain he'd love to hear from you. Hear how the chantry's getting on." Kelsa blushed brighter, but nodded her head. She made it a few steps towards Teagan before snatching up a wine bottle someone left out, pouring herself a generous glass and downing it all.

Cullen cupped his hand around Lana's waist and dropped his head to her shoulder. As the pair watched Kelsa giggling like mad while speaking with the Arl, he whispered in Lana's ear, "You forgot."

"I don't seem to be the only one," she answered back, an ornery twist to her lips.

"How did time fly past so quickly?" he sighed, wrapping his other arm around to pull her into a full hug. Lana rested her weary head against his chest, grateful for the breathing pillow for a moment.

"It has a nasty habit of doing that." She knew there were a dozen matters, no -- given the day tomorrow -- a good hundred that required her attention. But at the moment, all she wanted was to stand in their abbey wrapped up in his soothing embrace.

A squeal reverberated through the courtyard, drawing not only Lana and Cullen's attention but the Sister and Arl as well. Leaping like a man with a poker shoved up his backside was the king of Ferelden. A hooded figure clung to his back, her squeals shattering through the resting air as she dug in tighter. Even as he twisted like a bucking horse, Alistair kept his hands wrapped around behind himself to pin her tight. Still, more than a few servants watched like hawks from the periphery, ready to snatch the girl away should anything befall her.

"Lanny!" Alistair shouted, leaping towards them at an impressive speed.

"When did you arrive?" she asked, struggling to remember who was supposed to even be here. The roster was in constant flux, even more so now.

"Oh, a few hours ago. You were involved with some secret incantation magic, save the world stuff so I thought it was a good time to run around and stretch my legs," he beamed at her, then cast a glance over at Cullen, "Templar."

"King."

"Da-a-ddy!" squeaked from behind Alistair.

Rather than answer his summons, Alistair threw his head back and pinned a hand to his ear, "Did anyone else hear that? Sounded like a strange call, perhaps from some dangerous wildlife in the area." She tried again, her 'daddy' increasing in volume and pitch. "Definitely either a bronto, a dragon, or a nug," Alistair continued to theorize, even pausing to scratch his beard. He was serious about keeping it. "Wait a second," he snapped his fingers. "Is there something on my back? I feel like someone stuck a little..." he slid the princess around his hips into his arms, "spud there." Still squealing in eternal joy, his daughter hung in his right arm, squished up against his side, her hands skimming across the grass. The hood of her cloak flopped back and forth revealing flashes of dark hair and rosy cheeks.

"She's quite an armful," Alistair huffed, struggling to keep her upright while she waved her limbs as if swimming through the air. "Maker, when did you get so big? Are they feeding you twice for dinner? Come over here and say hi to your auntie Lanny." He rolled her around so she hung in front of him, a hand extended in greeting.

"I'm not really your, all right, I am an aunt. Sort of," Lana smiled, grabbing onto one of the girl's hands and giving it a soft shake.

"Mmblimp terpintm lint!" mumbled from the little girl's mouth.

"What was that?" Lana glanced in surprise, scared she'd done something wrong. She'd never spent much time around children.

"Mbltipies!" the girl cried again, not in any distress but very clearly needing her father to understand.

"Oh, all right," he dropped her to ground and her chubby legs took off instantly, far steadier than what Lana remembered the last time she saw the child. "She was asking to go see the 'mari' puppy. We've got a new litter now in the stables, and if you're looking for Spud she'll be rolling around on the straw with all of 'em."

"And you right beside her," Lana smiled watching the girl approach Honor. She extended the same hand Lana shook towards the dog, who spun around from the grass she was chewing. Gently, the mabari stuck out her snout and gave the hand a good long sniff, then blew snot across the princess. That got the dog a giant belly laugh, the girl finding it hilarious. The princess of Ferelden, covered in mabari snot, threw her arms around the dog's neck making a lifelong friend.

Cullen lifted up his chin and ordered, "Honor, guard." His dog barked once to acknowledge the command, then wagged her tail as she slobbered along the girl's cheek.

"'Honor guard,'" Alistair snickered, "you've been waiting to use that one. So, big day. Anyone getting cold feet, panicking, thinking about making a break for Rivain, or planning on walking down the aisle completely pissed?"

"No," Cullen cut back, folding his arms across his chest.

"That's too bad," Alistair was still as jolly as before, unaware he stepped into any offense, "I was a good five bottles in for mine. They had to pick me up and drop me in place. I tried to marry a decorative fern and then fell asleep standing behind a statue of Hessarian."

"I remember," Lana sighed. She'd been the one to give away his secret position to the Arl.

"Right, you were there along with all the pink brontos." He smiled wider, then picked up her hand, "You'll be beautiful as always, Lanny." After giving it a good shake, he turned to Cullen, "I'm sure you'll be fine as well. Now," he slapped his hands together to rub them, "what I could go for is some real food. Home cooked by sweet ol' templars."

"Sweet Maker!" Kelsa's voice echoed across the courtyard, her panicking giggles increasing in vibrato, "Are you, um, the-the king of-of a, Ferelden?"

"The one and only, for now," Alistair smirked, but his smile faded at the shocking pallor chasing across the Sister's face. "You okay? Do you need a lie down or...?"

"Your Majes-ness! I, uh..." She turned to the confused couple, "You are friends with the King of...of the place we live? No, of course, the commander of the Inquisition. It is understandable, the connections to, um... Many very important people all here to watch and, oh dear. Will there be anymore surprises attending?" she squeaked out.

Lana had hoped to sort of sneak this one in under the radar but judging by the panic knotting up Kelsa's face over Alistair, she needed to hear this or risk a stroke on the day of. "There, um, forgive me for not mentioning this before Sister, but my witness will be, um...?" Lana turned to Cullen, unable to finish the truth.

"Divine Victoria," he said.

"D-d-divine, the Divine will be here? Not just here, she'll be standing right, right there," the trembling woman gestured in the area of the stables nowhere near where they'd planned the ceremony. "Where I'll be, be, performing the... Maker, in my hour of darkness I beg of you!" She collapsed at the knees, her hands clasped in prayer.

It was Teagan who swept her up in his arms, helping the poor woman to remain upright, "Do not worry about the Divine, she is a kind and loving woman." The three who knew Leliana all struggled back a snort at that summation of her. "She's certain to approve of your ceremony." A horrified squeak rattled in the poor Sister's throat at the idea of the most Holy watching her perform the marriage ceremony for Leliana's best friend. And that was why Lana hoped to never tell Kelsa the truth. Leliana was supposed to be here days ago to help and slip incognito through the ranks but chantry business kept her delayed. "Perhaps a bit of sherry will help calm your nerves?" Teagan offered.

Kelsa bobbed her head, her hands still clasped in prayer as if the Maker would see fit to rescue her from this duty. Kindly, Teagan guided her away while her trembling lips mouthed the chant backwards.

"So far so good," Lana sighed, tossing her head back to glower at the sky. Her dark mood lightened as Cullen's fingers dug into her shoulder, pulling her back to reality. She couldn't fight the smile as she reached a hand over to half hug him. It didn't matter if the Sister forgot all the words and fled in a shriek leaving Honor to finish the ceremony, Lana had all she wanted right here.

"I am surprised the Queen would allow you to travel so far with your daughter?" Cullen said, trying to distract from the Sister's panic attack.

Alistair laughed then scrubbed at his cheeks, "Well, don't tell anyone but she's in the, uh," he curved his hand over his belly, "and doesn't want me anywhere near her again. I hear Orlais' lovely this time of year. All the, ugh, snails one can eat."

"You take that order well," Cullen responded. His massage ended, he gripped onto Lana's waist, taking some of her exhausted weight upon him.

Shrugging, Alistair smiled, "I rather like her when she's knocked up. Angry, flushed cheek, curt - it's like she's a person instead of that doormat the rest of the time. Still keep myself moored far away though lest she make good on her castration threats. Which means for the time being my little tater tot and I are..." he turned back to look at his daughter who was knees down in the mud and scooping something towards her gaping mouth. "AH!" Alistair shouted, trying to get her attention.

Instead of listening, the princess had one hand glued to Honor's collar, while the other weighed the dirt clump in her hand. Her eyes gazed over at her father, her hand frozen near her mouth but she didn't drop the clod. The king raced over to scoop up his daughter before she jammed the dirt into her mouth. "That's yucky! We don't eat yucky! Unless it's snails and we have to pretend we like yucky," Alistair ordered, his daughter nodding along. She looked almost penitent save the smirk across her lips. _Maker, she was his child._ "Sorry, we're at that 'we put everything we find in our mouth' stage. Come on, let's get some real dinner before you wither away in my hands." He tossed her over his shoulder, the girl giggling and waving for Honor to follow, and marched towards the kitchens. The Maker gave Alistair few talents, but the ability to find food was a powerful one.

Cullen watched them both walk away, then whispered to Lana, "Now when he says 'we're'..."

She snickered at the implication and shrugged her shoulders, "Grey Wardens do eat a lot, sometimes you have to make due." Her fingers curled up his arm as she whispered, "You didn't have to invite him."

"Perhaps not," Cullen shrugged, "but he is king and did help us, in many ways. It seemed impolite not to. However, if he makes any reference to droit de seigneur..."

"I'll kill him myself," Lana interrupted, earning a chuckle from him.

Knotting his hands around her waist, Cullen pulled her higher to press a tender kiss against her lips. Lana swooped her green fingers through his curly hair, dragging him deeper. As he broke away, he held her up close to whisper, "Sweet Andraste, how did I forget it was tomorrow?"

"Perhaps the same way I did," Lana waved her hands around at the dozens of wedding preparations tossed aside in favor of an unexpected troop of templars needing ministrations.

Cullen nuzzled against her neck, his chin resting against the bones of her shoulder as he kissed her, "At least I have you to forget with me."

"By the Maker, how did either of us ever plan and organize an army to save thedas? We can't even figure out a wedding," she laughed at the idea.

"If you want a standing army, I could probably whip one up in a month for you," he shrugged, those worked to the bone fingers trailing across her hips in all the right ways.

"I want you right here, with me, where we can do the most damage together."

"Ah, um," he rose up, breaking contact, "speaking of damage. I received a message a day ago. I kept meaning to inform you but we became so enraptured in the abbey, I'm afraid I forgot."

"What is it?" Lana started, for once actually concerned.

Cullen dug into his piles of pockets, most of which clanked with various medicines, and delivered a piece of parchment into her hands. "It's from Leliana. It seems her caravan is at least a day out, perhaps more due to inclement weather."

"Oh no," Lana groaned, clutching her friend's writing to her chest. "We can get married without any fancy flowers, without the clothes from Val Royeaux, even without any food, but I say one vow without Leliana here to watch and she will flay me alive."

Cullen's eyes narrowed, but he tried to play the diplomatic one, "Come now, she's not that..." Lana eyed him up and then slowly crossed her arms. "That is, uh, what do we do?"

"Keep everyone well liquored up and hope they don't notice it's been a few days since any wedding happened?"

Sighing, he wrapped his arms tighter around her and gazed at the handful of guests already moving through their new home with a promise of more on the way. "Are any of your tonics alcoholic?"

"A few, but they'd probably give the drinker terrible bloat and also nightmares," Lana admitted. They'd been planning it for awhile, all of the for some reason important Orlesian details being handled by an ecstatic Leliana, while Cullen and Lana muddled through the rest.

_Where should we get married?_ Oh, let's just do it at home. We know the property, we know how many it can comfortably fit, and we know how to fortify it. The last was Cullen's concern of course, as if they hadn't both fallen long out of combat practice in the year devoted to cleaning up the abbey.

She'd begun to chuckle from the never ending sight of rotten debris tossed on a massive pyre. It seemed as if they'd never reach the bottom and burn it all away but they had, and their still nameless refuge was in business. Their first challenge was from the Bann. Not a fear that he'd dispute their operation. He was loyal to the crown and a devoted Andrastian. No, the concern was if he'd recognize Lana for who she really was.

Luckily, the man was nearsighted the first few times she met him after the blight, and grew more so over the years. He'd called her a scullery maid and dismissed her outright, peppering the decorated commander with more questions of the Inquisition. More than likely the Bann choice was a gift from Arl Teagan who was always generous to the abbey for mysterious reasons. With the Bann, the chantry, and the crown's blessing, they were finally secure, a certainty in her life she'd never imagined possible. She didn't know what spurned her to raise the question. Maker knew they didn't need any official ceremony, but it knocked her over how quickly Cullen agreed - almost as if he'd been working up the nerve but never found the opportunity. Now, they just had to find a way to pull it off.

"Cousin!"

_Oh Maker_ , Lana broke away from her fiancé to spot a giant of a woman running past the scattered wine barrels, her arms thrown open wide. Hawke didn't slow even at the eyes of the rest of the people working in the abbey shooting over to her. A few tried to shush the Champion, but nothing short of knocking her cold could contain the monumental Hawke enthusiasm. Lana steeled herself for what she knew was coming as Hawke closed the gap. But crushing hands didn't wrap around her body and lift her into the sky.

No, they took Cullen instead. His eyes widened in shock as Hawke hugged him tight, raising the full grown man a few inches off the ground. "W-w-what?" he stuttered, both arms pinned tight.

"You're family now!" Hawke cried, pushing her cheek against his chest with her hug, "Will be family..." She glared a beady eye at him, "You're not thinking about skipping out, are you?"

"N-no, of course not," Cullen struggled to answer, his lungs constricting.

"Hawke," Lana ran her fingers over her cousin's arm, "I think you can put him down."

"Right, sorry." He dropped to the ground, not much worse for the wear, "Forget my own, you know how it is." And then she slugged Cullen in the arm. He took it like a champ, but couldn't quite wipe away the cross look. Sadly, Hawke didn't notice, she was too busy turning back to look behind her.

"I didn't want to bring, you know, because, well, you know, so my date's this scruffy politician I found floating in the harbor," Hawke guffawed, revealing the well fluffed chest hair of one Varric Tethras.

He bowed his head at Hawke, then turned to the happy couple, "Snowflake, glad to see you were only mostly dead."

"I got better," Lana shrugged. The first time she met up with Hawke, the woman wouldn't stop hugging her for two days. It was a wonder she didn't pop a rib.

The Viscount glanced over at Cullen and he gasped in surprise, "In all my life, I never thought I'd live to see the day that Curly got...out of armor."

"Ha," Cullen scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well," an impish grin knotted up the dwarf's cheeks, "not unless Wicked Grace and Josephine were involved."

"Don't you, that's not...!" Cullen rose up, trying to intimidate the dwarf with his stutter.

"Wicked Grace?" Lana watched a blush charring up the back of Cullen's neck, then she turned to the bonhomie dwarf. "What did I miss?"

"You didn't tell the missus?" Varric cried in feigned shock, "I'm sure she'll love to hear all about when we got a gander at the commander's..."

"I'll, I-uh-will tell you later," Cullen picked up her hands, his adam's apple shaking from his concentration. He looked too achingly adorable; she didn't care whatever Varric was speaking of. Steadying herself on his shoulder, she kissed him, his panic fading away below her lips.

"Shouldn't you two be saving that for the honeymoon?" Hawke grumbled, her hands over her eyes while she peeked through the gap. "Which had better be somewhere fun."

"We, uh," Lana broke away from him, but didn't release her grip on his hand, "we have too much to do here. Perhaps one year."

"When the world doesn't need us?" Cullen smiled down at her, well aware of the chances with the pair of them. There would always be some crisis that kept them tethered, some problem that they'd have to solve. At least now they could do it together.

"Ah, right," Varric yanked out a small book and pressed it into Lana's hand, "A wedding present from Rivaini. Said she's been working on it for some time. Had to get the 'dimensions' just right."

"Rivaini?" Cullen asked.

"Isabela," Lana interpreted for him. The book was bound in nug skin, a blushing pink with no title emblazoned on the front. She spun it around in her hands and absently flipped open a random page to read,  _'Distraught, the templar hurled a vase beside the king's head. Barely flinching, Alistair - his naked, oiled chest muscles rippling - yanked onto Cullen's hair to capture his meaty lips in a scorching kiss...'_ Lana slammed the book shut, aware of the blush burning up her cheeks. "Oh! It's that kind of a, uh, story. Give Isabela my thanks, I think, I uh, um..."

Cullen's hand cupped under hers, but she pulled the book away as far from his grasp as she could. He gave her a questioning look and Lana gulped, "I'll tell you later. Probably much later."

Chuckling under his breath, Varric whispered, "She asked me to proofread it. Girl loves her adverbs, but you've got to admire her tenacity."

"It, uh, I'm certain," Lana struggled to shove the book deep into her apron's pocket far from any virginal eyes, which knowing Isabela would be everyone here. "Varric, how are politics in Kirkwall and other distracting things?"

"Boring, and Bran's always on my case to sign this, answer that, solve whatever," the Viscount waved her misdirection away. Did the dwarf expect her to hold a reading at that very moment?

"Shit!" Hawke suddenly snapped her fingers.

"What?" Cullen rose up, his eyes hunting through the shadows as if he feared an invasion.

Hawke cracked a huge grin, then slugged Varric in the back, "We forgot Bran at the last rest stop."

"How about that," Varric grinned, as sly as the fox in the hen house. "Anyway, we should let the two love birds here get all shaky and terrified alone, Hawke. I heard talk of there being an entire keg somewhere..."

"It's in the back of the kitchen. You'll spot a king, a princess, an Arl, and a Sister there," Lana answered.

Varric began to turn away with Hawke and got a few steps before shouting, "I once lost with that very hand at Wicked Grace."

"Maker's breath," Lana sighed as the two vanished, her hands digging across her cheeks. She cracked a smile and peered through her spread fingers at Cullen, "Welcome to the family."

He parted his lips and glanced towards the kitchen door thrown open wide by Hawke. A word formed in his mouth when a massive shriek echoed from the kitchen. Both mage and templar snapped into battle mode, when Sister Kelsa's more lubricated voice shouted, "Are you the Champion of Kirkwall?!" Some muffled response came, and Kelsa renewed her cries, "And the Viscount?!"

Sharing a look, Cullen and Lana brought their foreheads together, trying to will strength from one to the other as if they weren't in the same sinking ship together. "Poor Sister Kelsa," Lana snorted.

"Under the illusion it would be a simple country wedding, with only a handful of attendants and a few ill templars," Cullen answered with.

"She never could have anticipated the draw of our friends or..." Lana shrugged, "family." It felt strange to say that word. Cullen asked once if she wished to extend an invitation to her parents, but given that Lady Amell perished four years ago, it didn't seem prudent to raise the question. Besides... Lana smiled, gazing into the warm glow of the kitchen rising in raucous laughter -- the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. They were her family, and often just as trying as the kind born into.

Cullen pressed a kiss to her forehead, his comforting hands smoothing down her shoulders. "Speaking of family..." he began.

"Oh, how are yours? They came early, right? With the planting finished I thought..."

"Yes, yes," he ruffled his fingers through her short hair, the curls bunched tight against her scalp. "We had supper with them last night, remember? All of them. You and Mia got into a discussion about goats for some reason."

"Maker, that was last night?" Her day'd been so long it felt weeks ago. Cullen's siblings would often stop by for a few weeks, usually during the dark winter or summer high months. Or Lana and Cullen would take time during harvest and planting season to help. Well, she'd sit and supervise while Cullen, shirtless and glistening in the sun, dug hands deep into the fertile ground. Nowhere near as fast as his siblings, he gave his all and Lana savored every long moment she spent scrubbing the dirt from his body after.

"Lana," Cullen interrupted her musing, "I realized that I could not in good conscious pick one of my siblings above the others for my witness."

"All right?" she nodded, uncertain why he wrapped her hands in his and kept staring daggers at them.

"So, I asked, inquired if, um, Cassandra would be willing?"

"Oh no," Lana giggled, her eyes darting back to where the Sister's shrieks ran out. "Do you realize what this means?"

"It seemed the most prudent choice given..." Cullen paused in his well reasoned explanation and turned towards her, "N-no?"

"We'll have the Left and Right Hand standing at the left and right hand of us," she couldn't stop snorting at the pun so terrible it had to be formed by the Maker.

"That," he didn't find it quite so humorous as Lana, but his dour frown twitched up for a moment, "that's true, and..."

A brash voice echoed from the second level of the abbey, loud enough to cover over the stamp of horses, "No, these will not do." Cassandra, still in armor, stomped out of one of the healing rooms turned into lodging for the wedding's duration. She waved a bundle of stems in her fist while a woman followed behind. Despite being much smaller in stature and breadth to the Seeker, the woman wasn't about to back down.

"Daisies are perfectly acceptable in a bouquet, and they're overabundant here." It was Mia, the clear leader of family Rutherford whose opinions were often taken as fact because arguing with her was unwise. Lana's eyes glanced over to Cullen's and both gulped. Cassandra versus Mia was the proverbial rock meeting its hard place. No one was walking away from that.

"For a proper wedding bouquet you need a red chrysanthemum for love," Cassandra paused on the stairs, rolling up each of her armored fingers to enunciate her facts, "edelweiss for purity, a magnolia for nobility, and a sprig of elfroot for health."

Lana gripped onto Cullen's shoulder to inch close to his ear, "Maker's breath, the woman is passionate."

He shook his head slowly, "I had no idea she was so invested. I'd only thought, you know..."

"Tradition, and strong sword arm," Lana agreed. The witnesses were mostly ceremonial unless one was the only heir to a noble house who snuck out with the stable boy, then it got a bit dicier -- sometimes literally.

Mia snorted, which caused Cullen to involuntarily rear back. Even Lana cowered a moment, having never fully faced down Mia's wrath, but bearing witness a few times. But the Seeker didn't even finch as the short woman jabbed a finger at her, "All of which is complete and utter bollocks. We have daisies, which are pretty. They _will_ do."

Sneering, Cassandra waved her own cobbled together bouquet like a mace as if she intended to clobber the groom's sister with it. "Very well, but in exchange I shall not wear that monstrous gathering of fabric you call a dress."

Mia rounded on her anew, "You speak of tradition but ignore the most important one to keep demons at bay? All parties in the same attire, it's the only proper way to have a wedding."

"Wait, what?" Lana whipped her head at Cullen who was trying to slide back further from the two women about to come to blows.

"Andraste preserve me," Cullen moaned. "I hadn't told Mia to do any of that. She took it upon herself to dress the party and I-I maybe found out a few days ago. I only assumed that she was talking about her family not blighted everyone."

Lana snorted, folding her hands up, "Wait until they find out Leliana already picked it for us." She hadn't expected Cassandra to be chosen, but Leliana had selected both a skirt and trousers as an option. The woman was very flexible and well prepared.

With neither the flower situation nor the clothing settled, the Seeker and Mia picked up something else to bicker about. Lana wasn't certain exactly what as she'd never heard of it being important. In truth, there was much about the wedding she had to guess along the way. Aside from Alistair's, she'd never really attended one before, not with the fancy clothes in a chantry type. Mages did things differently. Lana turned away from the women to catch Cullen sliding further into the shadows.

She reached over to pick up his hands, and he paused, but a moan rolled through his throat. "Why must this be so complicated?"

"Because they're trying to help, to do what's best for us," Lana said as much to convince herself. She was fully on Cullen's side for the moment.

His narrowed eyes whipped around the barely decorated abbey. Someone began dangling bunting off a few of the banisters, but then it switched midway from a silver and blue motif to the red and yellow banner of Ferelden. Digging his free hand through the back of his hair, Cullen glared up at the darkening sky. "All I want is...is you," he smiled limply at her, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. Scurrying onto her toes, her fingers grazed his scruffy cheek -- despite being ordered to shave it by Mia, he somehow kept forgetting.

Maker, how many times did she wake from the fade with her heart begging for him, her mind spinning horrors of how she was still trapped so far beyond him? Then his warm arm would wrap around her stomach, smooth down her blanket, and even in the midst of sleep he'd whisper, "I'm still here."

"I want you too," Lana whispered, her eyes sliding past him out the door where no family waited to embarrass them, no friends to heap onto their troubles, and no ceremonies to plan for. "Come on," she gripped tight to her cane and began to drag Cullen towards freedom.

"Wh- where are we going? We can't leave everyone."

"They'll be fine for a little while. Considering the makeup of our friends, I'd be more concerned about anyone who'd choose now to attack the abbey." Cullen kept voicing a few of his dutiful regrets, but he willingly slipped beside her, walking down the crunching dirt-packed road. For a time Lana followed it, until she veered off onto little more than a deer trail, all while Cullen kept a tight hold to her hand. Passing through knots of trees, then overgrown clusters, she shrugged off the familiar rising pain in her weary legs with a single destination in mind.

"Maker's breath," Lana huffed, complaining to herself, "I used to walk hundreds of miles a week and now I can't even handle a small jaunt out into the forest."

Cullen paused and draped her arm around his shoulders. "Go ahead and heal yourself. There must be time from whatever you have planned." He didn't balk at the magic always a dip or two away from her fingertips, even grew to expect the veilfire percolating behind doors and the smell of lightning wrapped around her body. After shoring up her legs, Lana barely needed her cane for the last hike up a hill to gaze across the beauty of the hinterlands.

Bathed in the pale blue light of the night's sky, a serene hush bobbed against swaying trees blanketing the forest below. With a gentle breeze, the treetops swayed as if dancing to a slow waltz. No fires broke below, the area long given to the march of the forest, allowing the fullness of the stars to pocket the sky like sugar dusted across navy velvet. "This is lovely," Cullen breathed, both of them staring out across the scenery, "but I'm not certain why you needed to show it to me now."

Lana placed her cane against the fallen tree beside her and lit veilfire upon a stump. Grabbing both of his hands, she slipped into those honey eyes. "Forget the infighting, the problems, the everything going wrong - let's do it now. Let's get married here, alone, just the two of us and..." she waved her hand out towards the bounty below - the perfect countryside at peace because of them, "...and the Maker. We don't need anyone else."

"I, I don't know if that's legally binding," Cullen's eyes darted through the trees for a moment.

"So? We can do the andrastian one tomorrow, or the next day, or in a week, or a month. Whenever we finally get all that mess right. Cullen, I..." Her chin dropped and she tried to scramble to bite back the tears. This was supposed to be a happy moment, not to have their past crushing against her. "I'm tired of waiting. It's always been our curse."

His hand cupped her chin and he lifted her face so she found his heartwarming smile. "You're right. You're always right. I wouldn't lose another day without you as my wife."

Digging her fingers into the back of his hair, Lana pulled him down for a kiss. As he broke away, he whispered, "I thought that part came at the end." She chuckled at that, then kissed him again, never one for following standards. "I'm not certain what we should do, precisely," he said, the worry threading through his words.

Lana pulled her hands away from him and dug into her pockets to unearth two kerchiefs - one in a crimson and navy, the other a cobalt blue. The first she knotted around Cullen's right wrist, letting the end dangle free. "In the tower, we weren't allowed to - you know," she spoke while managing to knot the cobalt kerchief around her left wrist with her teeth, "but mages found a way to have our own weddings, make our own traditions, I suppose. There weren't any dresses, or flowers, or fancy words to recite before the clerics, so we'd do this."

"Very well," he sounded skeptical, watching his scarf dangle in the wind, but willing to keep pushing on, "now what?"

"I take your hands, like this," she pressed her palms against his and knotted their fingers together - hers resting on top. "And, then we promise each other. I suppose it's near on the same as vows. Tell each other what we mean in our hearts."

A gasp escaped from his lips, "I don't know if I can, um..."

Lana chuckled as her stoic commander glanced up at the sky and tried to will back a blush. "I'll go first." His eyes beamed such gratitude upon her she had to pinch back the urge to kiss him again. He was right, that part did come at the end.

"Cullen...our path has not been an easy one. Twisted, pitted, sometimes broken to the point I-I feared we'd never find each other again. And yet," she swallowed a shudder in her voice, "the Maker keeps bringing you back to me." Pausing for a moment, Lana squeezed both of his hands tight. "You've come for me in some of my darkest hours, when-when I thought I was, that we were beyond hope, beyond thinking what we had could ever be more than a first blush. And yet I...I love you. I feared love, ran from it for so long but you, my rock, my secure arm, my sweet honey eyes, you made it easy for me to risk it. To, to love you with everything inside of me. To... "

Lana bit on her lip as a hundred different words crashed against her brain. She'd practiced this speech, even written it down a few times, but passages kept overlapping with themselves, knotting together in a ball of confusion. "By Andraste's Grace, I know I can live without you, that if it was required of me I would rise each morning and carry on alone, but-but I never want to. I never want to wake without knowing you slept beside me, never want to eat a meal without you sharing it, never want to-to scrub down the stables without you manning the pitchfork." He laughed at her last one, the pair of them often making a game to see who could finish first while trying to sabotage the other. "We both know how much time we lost, and..." her eyes drifted down along with her voice, "and how little there could be remaining, so to you I give my days, my heart, my hand. Will you be mine?"

"Yes," he smiled, his eyes watering by the teal veilfire. Tipping down, Cullen kissed her as sweetly as that first time in the deeproads, his lips softer than a whisper against her skin. He broke only a breath from her face and asked, "Was, was that the right response?"

"Only if you meant it," she smiled at him. Her eyelids fluttered and she felt tears drip down her cheeks, drops overflowing with every joy and pang in her heart.

"Of course I do, I..." he shuddered, rising back to his full height to stare down at her, "I suppose it's my turn. Lana, I..." More breath blew out of his mouth as if he had to gird himself to leap into a frozen lake. "You know I'm not very good at this. I, I should have, wish I'd--"

Lana's right hand broke from their shared grip so she could cup his cheek and pull his eyes to hers, "It's only me here, no family, no friends, no chantry. Your words don't need to be perfect, only true. Okay?" He smiled below her hand, his cheek filling her palm.

"Okay..." Cullen stepped closer to her, his eyes falling closed as he pressed his forehead against hers. Slowly his lungs filled with air, each breath taking its time to return out through his nose. "Lana, you are..." His hand slid away from hers to reach into a pocket. She waited, curious but patient, as he dug out a solitary copper and placed it in her palm before covering it with his own hand. "I've often thought of us as, like this copper, two sides of the same coin. Mage," he tipped his head to her, "and templar, destined to be forever opposed like-like the flip of a coin. But, it's more than that, it's..."

Pausing again, he slipped his eyes closed to steady himself. "We both gave of ourselves for others, we-" Cullen snorted as he glanced back towards their abbey, "-we still do. For every difference we have, we approach them the same, with a... Lana, I've loved you since I was barely eighteen and barely aware of what love is. I thought, feared that the part of me capable of it withered because of-of Uldred. The way I..." Tears slipped from his closed eyes, fanning off his eyelashes to drip down his cheek. "I feared I'd never see you again, that you'd have no reason to forgive me, to understand, to-to love me. The coin, two sides, you-when you found me in Kirkwall I was closed off, empty inside, unreachable."

"So was I..." she whispered, biting on her lip to keep her own tears at bay.

"We needed each other," Cullen continued, "we wanted each other, to-to... I know what it is to lose you, to have you in my arms and feel you slip away. Never, never again." His eyes shot open, determination bobbing below the surface of a sea of tears. "Without you, I'm half a coin. Useless, blank, empty. I-I love you for your sharp mind, your cunning jokes, your breathtaking smile, your open heart, and even your incessant need to forget tea." She laughed openly at that fact. Even the other templars at their refuge began to gather up her orphaned cups.

"I love you for every bit, every dent, every-" He cupped her chin and his thumb gently caressed her cheek, "every scar. You complete me, my other side. And I, I never want to walk this world without you."

Maker, she couldn't hold back the happy tears now drenching his thumb. Cullen didn't bother to wipe them off, instead he pulled her close for a kiss - both of their joys and sorrows commingling. As she pulled back and stared up at him expectantly, he coughed, and then glanced around. "I'm, um, I think that's all I have..."

"You need to ask if I'll be yours," Lana instructed.

"Oh, right," the blush broke across his cheeks as he glanced up at her from his dropped head, "Lana, will you be mi-?"

"Maker, yes! A hundred, thousand times, yes!" she cried, throwing a hand around the back of his neck and plunging deep into a kiss. Cullen answered in kind, both of them melding together through lips and a little tongue - it wasn't as if any chantry clerics were watching. Clutched in her hand behind his head was the copper, the one she'd never forget. He slipped his freed hand around her waist, pulling her body tighter. Releasing his kerchiefed hand, Cullen moved to grab the back of her head, but found her own hand dragging with it.

"By all the," he paused, his eyes darting down to their kerchiefs now joined together by a knot. "How did that happen?"

"We did it," she smiled, "that's how mages get married. Whispered words of love and tying a knot."

Smiling wider at the simple answer, he gripped onto her hand bound with his, "Lana Amell, I love you beyond reason."

"Every day," she cupped her hand against his cheek and inched up on her tiptoes. Barely able to handle the strain from her drained limbs, her body pressed against Cullen. He bore her weight gallantly, as he always had. "Every moment, every breath with you has been..." More than she could have imagined, trying as they struggled to overcome their own fears, delightful as they found a strength beyond themselves in each other. Lana pressed her lips against his, her eyes softly shut, as she whispered against him, "perfect."

Her husband. Maker, how was that possible? How was any of this possible? Cullen brushed his thumb against her cheek and he beamed that same grateful, bittersweet, hopeful smile she fell head over heels for in the tower. Forgetting their bond, he swept both arms back around her into a hug, but Lana's hand trailed with, her head resting against his chest. The best was yet to come.

"Hey," Cullen spoke, his hand gesturing out to the stars glittering above the silent valley. "I think that's Fenrir."

She didn't look, only nuzzled deeper into him and answered, "I think you're right."

***

It felt as if only a minute passed after Lana tugged him out to the valley and they-they... Cullen couldn't fight the grin infecting him, his bound hand still clasped inside hers as they returned slowly to their home. Theirs. Wife. His wife. Blessed Andraste, it-it was beyond impossible to ever imagine that She'd grant him such a, such hope. Peace. Serenity.

A few feet outside of the gates, Lana paused, leaning deeper into her cane. Cullen slowed as well, "In pain?"

She nodded softly, but smiled through it. "I'll get on by. I've been through w-..." Her doe eyes softened as she wrapped her fingers against his cheek, her thumb carefully knocking up each strand of his scruff. "I have you. I'll get by because of you."

Turning, he pressed his lips against her caressing palm when an idea struck him. Glancing from the abbey resting a good hundred feet away, back to her, he smiled. "Yes, you do." Cullen dropped down to a knee, his free hand scooping up her legs.

"What are you doing?" Lana gasped as he pulled her into his arms. She kept a grip upon his bound fingers even as they held up her back.

"I believe I am carrying you home," Cullen answered as if it wasn't a preposterous idea. He forgot what it felt like to grip onto the strain of her muscles, indulge in the heat from all of her pressed against his chest. It'd been far too long since he'd had a reason.

Lana giggled, "This is silly. People will see."

"I don't care," he marched through the gate aware of a few eyes drifting from their duties to watch them both. "I have my wife in my arms. I couldn't be happier."

She snuggled her beautiful face into the crook of his arm, but he knew the smile burgeoning up her cheek - it meant mischief on her mind, "What if you had your wife under you instead?"

Cullen didn't falter in his steps, didn't gasp, didn't even blush. He only leaned down to whisper, "Or on top."

Lana sighed, her wicked brain spilling every position she'd want him in, while Cullen tried to walk stiff legged up the stairs. By a miracle of the Maker, they made it undisturbed to the second level, their room on the last six stairs in the middle of the hall. Not much more to go before he could act out every one of her erotic ideas she whispered in his ear.

"Commander!" _Oh no._ Cullen froze at Cassandra's voice cutting through the starry night. "Commander we need to speak about...are you busy?" She finally caught up to them, either just noticing Lana in his arms or figuring she'd give him the illusion of a choice.

"Can it wait until tomorrow, Cassandra?" he asked.

The Seeker's eyes darted back towards her room, and she sneered, "No, it cannot."

Lana was the one to shrug. "My legs are done for the day. I should head to our room," she answered for him. He didn't really want to let her go, but Cullen helped her to the ground, holding her tight until she nodded her head that she had her weight. She began to walk away, when their knotted kerchiefs tugged, keeping them tethered. "Oh," Lana smiled, "forgot about that." He didn't taste her cast a spell, but the knot fell off instantly, freeing Cullen's hand from hers. It was symbolic, he knew, but he regretted that freedom wishing their bond could have lasted for the whole night.

"Good evening, Cassandra," Lana said limping towards their room.

"And to you as well, Lady Am-...Lady," Cassandra bowed, still stiff around the Hero of Ferelden. The Seeker waited until Lana disappeared into their shared room to turn a single raised eyebrow at Cullen. "The binding knot?"

"It was, uh, some mage thing she wanted to show me," he blushed, reaching back to massage his neck, causing the kerchief to bounce against his skin. It was yet warm from their clasped hands. "You had some dire information you needed from me? Something that couldn't wait?"

"Yes," Cassandra's smirk of knowing what even he didn't before tonight fell away. All business, she jerked her head towards her room, "There are many problems that must be addressed now before the ceremony. Follow me."

He made it through five of her complaints, followed by three from Mia, who caught on to what the Seeker was up to, before Cullen shouted for both of them to solve it themselves. "It's just a wedding, we aren't invading Tevinter, for the Maker's sake! Fix it yourselves!" Something in his tone caused both women to sputter in their complaints, sharing a similar glance that they feared the groom was about to go spare on either. Having issued his ultimatum, Cullen stormed up the stairs towards his, their room.

The moment his fingers brushed against the cool steel of the latch, all his perturbations vanished. He didn't care whether Cassandra wore Mia's chosen dress or ripped it in half on the spot, had no opinion on who would light the candles whether in the Ferelden or Free Marcher orientation, or even if it would be held tomorrow. A smile bloomed in Cullen's heart as he realized that was Lana's plan all along - to blot away his worry by cutting it off at the pass. He had her, his wife, nothing else mattered.

As Cullen stepped into his room, he started at the heart racing silhouette of a woman facing the windows. Only a solitary candle sputtered on their desk, barely casting any light. Instead, it was the ethereal glow of the moon highlighting her silken skin as she folded her arms to stare into the distance. The moment forever etched deep in his mind flared back - ten years ago the same woman approached him, found him, recruited him, wanted him. She'd stood silhouetted by the glow off the Waking Sea, her body cloaked in duty and loss, the same as his. And now, now she was stripped bare, her heart willingly entrusted to him.

Sensing the eyes on her, Lana turned from her vigil. The candle light glanced across her naked breasts to glint against a single copper coin dangling across her cleavage. She absently tugged on the string knotted around her neck, holding the coin he gave her. "What is it?" Lana asked, her voice husky with desire, but with a twinge of concern for the man fallen dumbstruck in his own doorway.

"I," Maker... He re-memorized every inch of her body as if he'd never seen it before, as if he was once again the disgruntled and broken Knight-Captain who stumbled across a cloaked woman in his quarters. Every scar, she'd told him the stories behind them -- the ones she could remember -- and he'd often trace them, kiss them, massage and soothe them. Every freckle he'd fondle, every curve he'd lose himself in. Why couldn't he stop staring slack jawed at her?

Swallowing again, he curled his toes inside the work boots he should have left outside. He wasn't that brash, certain 26 year old templar. No, deep inside he was 18 all over again watching the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen caress his helpful fingers and smile at him. So many years, the both of them changing, warping due to the hammer of life, chipping apart by duty and loss, but winding back together as the pieces who fit with only each other.

"I was thinking how much I love you. How I, how happy I am that you're here, with me. My wife. I..."

Lana gasped, her hand rubbing up her cheek, "Stop, you'll make me cry." She laughed at herself, at her own heartfelt tears staining her fingers. "Cullen," she beamed her easy smile that'd lifted his heart through so many dark turns, "you're my husband."

"I am," he smiled, his focus on his toes knocking into each other. He doubted he'd ever understand why someone like her would take him, choose him, want him, but he had every intention of living up to that lofty position for the rest of their days.

Lana's fingers crested over the copper, two sides made whole, and placed a hand on her hip, "Then close that door and get over here. We have a wedding night to get to."

_Blessed Andraste, bride of the Maker, to you I offer my eternal gratitude for giving me the love of this woman._ Kicking his boots off, Cullen did just as his wife asked - falling in love with her all over again.

THE END

Extra Part One

_In writing My Hope, I had a few extra memory scenes that never made the final cut. I didn't want to bog down the plot more by cutting back, or they expanded upon something I'd already touched on and seemed superfluous. But then I thought, eh why not share them._

_They're not important to the overall story, but here are a few more scenes with Lana, Cullen, and Alistair._

_9:33 Denerim_

"Lady Amell!"

Her rouged cheeks lifted in a forced smile, as Lana turned to find a familiar Bann and her husband rounding upon her from across the full to bursting hall. The name slipped past her grasp, though she suspected it was someone from the south. The Bann, an older lady with a ruddy complexion to match her exuberance, grabbed onto Lana's empty hand and pumped it up and down three times.

"I never imagined the Hero of Ferelden would grace us."

"Yes," Lana tried to remove her hand, but the woman had the vice-like grip of a constrictor. She'd need a plate of butter to loosen it free. "The Hero of Ferelden wasn't thinking she would either."

"Ha!" the Bann chuckled, still pumping her hand as if she expected water to dribble out of Lana's mouth. It was going to be a long night. _Why did she even agree to this?_

Nearly all of Ferelden's gentry was in attendance for the celebration, dressed in their own ruffled finery as they circled around each other trying to peck their lessers into place. It was going about how she suspected it would. Few paid much attention to the short woman slipping around the back and making eye contact with no one, not until the nameless Bann shouted hers across every marbled floor. A cacophony of curious onlookers flocked towards the unmistakable Hero of Ferelden who at least had her hand returned to her.

Voices perked up, mumblings curious about what would bring the reclusive Savior of the Blight out of her fortress. She'd damn near skipped almost every holiday the court held for the past year.

_No, year and a half.  _

_My stars.  _

_Rather bold of an Arlessa to do such a thing._

_  But then again, she did have special recompense from his majesty, wherever in the blighted void he got off to._

Lana smiled and bobbed her head through it all, not hearing a lick of it. A few of her wardens had offered to come as backup but at the time she thought it silly. She was attending a party at the palace in Denerim, not storming a broodmother's lair. In retrospect, the broodmothers were less treacherous.

"My Lady," a voice oozed and she recognized this one, regretfully. It was the wife of Bann Loren, a pinched woman who reminded her of a belligerent and vengeful goose. She kept her grey hair short and slicked back the better to highlight her clifflike cheekbones. Rather than try to soften her icy exterior, this woman embraced it as one would a truncheon. "What an absolute pleasure to see you here in attendance. I assume you brought a gift."

"Yes," Lana smiled. _Myself_ , and he was damn well lucky to get that much.

The goose woman clucked her beak. Swirling her drink in thoughtful repose, she eyed up Lana's attire, clucked her tongue again, then asked, "And who would be your escort for the evening," before taking a long sip.

"Uh..." Lana stumbled back as every damn noble's eye turned to her, sizing her up as they always did.

"That would be me," a supple voice broke through the crowd and everyone turned to find it.

"Arl Teagan," the goose woman was taken aback by both his appearance and interruption in her game. "She's your...date?" Tipping his head politely to the woman Lana wanted to strangle, Teagan slipped over to Lana and softly picked up her slack hand.

"I believe technically I am hers," he beamed, nary a faltered step as he raced to rescue her from the vipers. "For which I am grateful."

The Bann sniffed, unimpressed that she'd lost her fun. Waving a bony finger in the air, she directed her entourage to find some other low ranking sap to drain the life from. And people thought Lana was a blood mage; malifecarum had nothing on the blood curdling powers of nobility.

Even as the audience cleared away, Teagen kept ahold of her hands, both of them folded inside of his. "Thank you," she whispered towards his ear.

A soft smile turned up his cheek and he faced her fully, his tall stature blocking Lana off from view of the rest of the ballroom. "There is no thanks necessary."

"Do...are escorts required for this? There was nothing mentioned on the invitation," Lana panicked. Technically, it was her first real court party. Before, they were little more than drunken celebrations, everyone ripping into casks while singing about how grateful they were for surviving the blight and dancing around the archdemon's carcass. Her few attendances to court were brief and always on Warden business. She had no idea what was proper protocol and felt a foolish shame circling her legs.

Teagan rolled his crystal blue eyes, "No, they are not. I imagine the Bann and her people were hoping to unearth a piece of juicy gossip. Little is heard of the Arlessa of Amaranthine beyond her generous works, of course." A sigh broke from Lana, grateful she hadn't done anything wrong that'd reflect badly on her Arling. It was a small miracle.

That soft Guerrin smile broke across both of Teagan's cheeks. He had to bend down a bit to be heard over the rising music, "What brings the reclusive Hero of Ferelden to Denerim?"

Lana tried to not roll her eyes, "His royal pain in the ass."

"Ah," Teagan seemed to realize he was still holding her hands and he dropped them. "Business or...?"

"I have no blighted idea. He said he needed to show me something important, and I agreed to come," Lana glanced around at the spectacle that had so little to do with her life, "though I must have been out of my mind when I did. But," she turned up to smile at the Arl. "I am grateful to see you again."

"And I you," Teagan revived from his static niceness to a real kindness he only showered on those he found worthy.

"You must be keeping busy out in Redcliffe. How are things?" Lana asked, then she winced as the band struck up another song, somehow louder than before. Wrapping her arm around Teagan's, she gripped onto the top of his hand and began to pull the two of them towards the back balconies away from the crowd.

"They are improving, which is more than I can hope. I regret that I cannot be there as often as I wish."

Lana paused in her walk and twisted her head to the man, "Alistair?"

"He has specific needs that it seems only I can meet," Teagan very kindly skipped around calling the man an idiot.

"You know, you can tell him no. It's rather easy," she said, sliding her back against the glass door. The crisp night air cooled down the exposed skin of her shoulders and upper back, breaking away the impenetrable heat from the party. Teagan knotted his hands together in front of him, as if he was uncertain where they should go, and he stood as statesmen-like as possible.

"It is not so bad," Teagan, ever the diplomat, "he has a good heart."

"And a fat head," Lana tossed off. She meant it more to herself, but the Arl snickered, his head dipping lower so they could hear each other. His cheek almost glanced across her forehead, the cacophony wrapping them up in their own bubble. Waving away the rest of the world, Lana said, "Enough about the birthday boy, I'd rather hear about you."

"Me? Why, you do me too much honor, my Lady."

"Come now, Teagan. I think you can call me Lana. You more than earned that right at Redcliffe."

"When I remained shut up tight in the chantry while you risked your life to save the village," he whispered, those crisp, waterfall eyes hunting across hers.

Lana patted him on the shoulder, "And then you charged by yourself to the castle to try and save your nephew and brother. Which is very brave, no matter how you glean it."

"I," he swallowed, the flush of the hot floor climbing up his cheeks, "thank you. You are, we are lucky to have someone as noble as you for our Hero."

She tried to not roll her eyes at the sentiment. Maker knew she didn't feel noble, much less heroic. Anyone else and she would have, but there was such a sincerity to Teagan it was hard to not almost believe it. "So, Arl, that's a big promotion."

"It is indeed," he smiled.

"Have you begun the search for your Arlessa?"

Sputtering, Teagan's eyes darted out to the dance floor, then back to hers. "What do...? Why are you asking?"

Lana shrugged, "Seems to be how it goes. With power comes the," she lifted up her naked left hand and pointed at her finger, "ring."

"Ah," he bobbed his head, the gentle smile returning, "no, I have not. There is much to do to repair and revitalize Redcliffe. And that deserves my attention more than, uh... What of you?"

"What of me?" she asked, wrapping her arms across her chest. For a second Teagan's eyes followed her movement before they darted away, almost as if terrified of what they saw, or for being caught looking.

"Amaranthine, it must keep you busy."

"Beyond belief. We've finally, finally scrubbed away most of the darkspawn holes. There's still a gaping chasm but no sign of the blighted things in weeks. I'm trying to get in contact with Orzammar, hoping that they'd show enough interest in the thaig to maybe close the damn thing up." She had so much left to do having literally run out the door in the middle of passing judgement to make the caravan to Denerim. _Why did she come here?  _

Teagan rubbed her naked shoulder in a friendly manner, drawing her out of her reverie, "Sounds exhausting."

"Very much so," Lana agreed, patting his hand. "I suppose I thought a break to Denerim would be nice, help me cool off a bit, but..." She extended a hand to the multitude of gentry who were far more exhausting than anything the darkspawn could manage, "I fear I miscalculated."

"Perhaps, if you're in town for longer, we could meet up and," he shuffled on his feet, "relax together, later."

"I'd like that," Lana smiled. To her, Teagan wasn't noble, he was far too kind, far too sweet to have anything to do with the gentry always picking and clawing at each other. Was it any wonder the people of Redcliffe adored the man? How was he not married? It was amazing he hadn't been when she first met him, but now? Someone was certain to remedy that soon enough.

Teagan nodded, excited at the prospect, then he turned towards the action out on the floor, "Would you care for something to drink? I can fetch it for us."

"Ah," she watched the servants shuffling about with trays, "you know, that's a good idea. Maker knows how long this'll take."

"Right, of course. I'll be back in a moment," the Arl smiled at her, beaming the full force of his generous gaze before slipping towards the bar.

Alone, at the back of the procession, Lana blended in as she always did. It seemed a strange thing, the dark skinned woman barely being noticed in the sea of pale but it was her speciality. Whether it was due to her lacking height, or her plain features she couldn't say; when she didn't want to be noticed, she wasn't. Sadly, that only seemed to work in social situations and not on the battlefield. Teagan vanished into the flurry of activity, only snippets of his red hair visible to her as he dodged in and out probably looking for the best wine.

"Did you see what the Hero of Ferelden is wearing?"

Lana froze at the voice drifting almost clear as a bell towards her. With only the tiniest flick of her eyes, she followed the voice to a circle of nobles.

"Cut to expose her shoulders like that, it's scandalous."

She'd not had much time after Alistair's quick request, but thought her find was a treasure. Blue wool with a thin sheath of silver silk over top all cut in a sweetheart shape for the bodice. It reminded her of a night's sky in someways, or at least the warden colors which she never got far from. As long as she didn't have to get into a fight, she shouldn't have to worry about popping out of the low cut.

"You know why she did it, to flaunt those hideous scars. Remind us all of what we owe her."

_Hideous?_ Her fingers darted over the few jagged edges remaining across her skin, most faded to a soft tan from the years. She never thought of them much, didn't have time with work and the wardens. Were they that terrible?

"The blight was finished nearly three years ago. You'd think she could move on from that. Let it go."

"And what has she done for us lately?"

"Let Amaranthine burn, for starters."

"Don't get me started on that mess. You know the only reason the king doesn't march on the Vigil and take it back from her."

"Mm-hm," the others in the group agreed, none of them willing to voice whatever reason they all knew.

She wanted to run over there, stomp her foot, and demand they tell her just what kept Alistair from marching on warden territory. Hm? Did they think she was some filthy blood mage who had him under her spell? Or that he still bore a misplaced sense of honor to the wardens? Or was it what it always was, the assumption she was still sleeping with him to get what she wanted? Grabbing onto the door's handle, Lana twisted it down. Something cracked inside, and it wasn't until she let up she realized it'd been locked. In her rage, she'd poured enough fade energy into her hand to break it.

Blinking rapidly and glancing to see if anyone noticed, she pushed open the door and slipped out onto the empty balcony. The door breathlessly fell almost shut behind her, unable to latch because of her machinations. A summer night's sky hung above her, stars sparkling through the blacks and deep blues. Let them stew, let all the nobles sip their wine and speak ill of her. She didn't care. None of them mattered in the slightest. When she needed people to end the blight, she didn't go for the Banns or the Arls. She found dwarves, elves, anyone willing to grab a weapon and defend their home. Let the better-off guard their gilded chamber pots, the true heroes rarely had two coppers to rub together.

A chill danced through the warm air, and Lana went to massage her exposed shoulders. Her fingers lingered for a moment over the scar that hooked across her skin like a loopy x. The dragon cult, one of the assassins caught them off guard and pinned her down. He sliced twice in rapid succession across her shoulder before...before Alistair threw him off. If she hadn't have been there in Haven, hadn't put her life on the line, then they'd never have saved Arl Eamon. But does anyone in there care? Of course not. For them the blight's something in the past, rarely thought of. Certainly not screamed about in their dreams, horrified beyond thought in the darkest of times, their hands shaking as they try to stuff all the memories back into a box.

The past... Lana tipped her head back and spotted the constellation of Draconis, its tail looping towards Fort Drakon. That seemed apropos, she smiled to herself. Biting on her tongue, and closing one eye, she tried to trace the path of the constellation congruent to the moon skirting behind it. She almost had it when a woman's chuckle broke through the empty night air. Turning from the sky above her, Lana hunted around the other balconies scattered beside, above, and below her. All sat dark, save one to the east. It was far enough she couldn't overhear what was being said, but close enough she could make out the people standing on it. A lantern illuminated the silhouette of a woman, a well endowed one to be certain, with her hands planted on the railing as she gazed across the courtyard. She bore hair almost as red as Teagan's, a distinct shade that was stick pin straight. Absently, Lana tried to tug at her own spiral curls barely tamed for the night.

The woman turned from her survey to someone stepping out onto the balcony with her. Judging by the size of the shadow, it was a man, broad shouldered, tall, fitter than the average noble stuffing themselves with the cheese tray options. Perhaps a soldier or a templar who snuck away from the party. He tried to softly close the door, only to have his foot snag on the curtains. While shaking his foot like a rabid dog, the woman chuckled again. Lana knew that laugh, it was the 'I'm pretending everything you do is charming because I want to get into your breeches' chuckle. It seemed to be working on the man, because he found it even harder to disentangle himself from the illusive curtain. Lana couldn't hide her own widening cheeks at the courting dance occurring.

A solitary cry of success erupted through the night air, as the man finally defeated his villain and stepped onto the balcony and into the light. Lana's smile dropped immediately as she recognized the blonde hair, the cheeky self deprecating grin, the tight cheeks, the deep brown eyes she'd lost herself in. The strong arms that wrapped around her as they sat together at the campfire watching logs crackle and pop, betting which would go next.

_No._ She shouldn't be watching this. A blush erupted over her cheeks, her shame trying to drag her away, but she couldn't stop. The man, the...king slipped an arm around the woman's narrow waist and pulled her close to him. Her contagious laugh echoed through the courtyard. Lana clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from making a sound as he twisted the woman around, ran his fingers through her straight hair, and kissed her. Unaware of the audience, the pair dove into each other, Alistair having no qualms with traversing that woman's hills.

_Oh Maker._ Lana grabbed both her hands onto the railing, the freezing stone barely reaching her brain while she dug in tighter. Pain dropped dead into her gut, as if she'd eaten a massive burr, every sharp point of it piercing into her stomach, knotting up her guts into a bow. _No, no this wasn't right._ They weren't anything anymore. Certainly not...not that, not ever that again. He'd made that abundantly clear after the landsmeet. Alistair was king and he needed the proper person at his arm -- not some tiny, filthy magicker covered in hideous scars. What he wanted was a woman who smelled of roses not darkspawn, whose skin was soft as petals not callused and scarred, who spoke of sweet nothings and not battle plans. It was what he deserved.

"Here's where you are," Teagan's jolly voice echoed behind her as he bumped his elbow into the door, causing it to swing open against the wall. Lana wiped at her face, trying to clean up the tears that'd already streaked away whatever makeup she'd managed. "I feared you ran off..."

"Ah," Lana threw up a false smile and turned to him, "No, it was growing stuffy in there and I needed a break." He extended one of his two wine glasses to her. She picked it out of his fingers and thought about downing it all in a quick drink, but then her stomach roiled in anger, deceit, depression. Adding any liquor to it would only cause her to turn ill. Lana was one of the unlucky ones; she couldn't drink her problems away.

As if sensing something amiss, Teagen slid closer to her. He placed his own glass on the railing and reached a hand to her when the woman giggled again, even louder than before. Lana couldn't bury the shudder in time, causing the Arl's eyes to dart in the direction of Alistair and his mystery woman wrapped up in each other. "Andraste's grace," Teagan cried loud enough to disturb the pair. It seemed unlikely they could see much less make out either Teagan or Lana shadowed upon the upper balcony, but they slipped apart, the woman sliding back inside after adjusting her dress. Alistair remained outside longer, trying to squint through the darkness before he too joined his...partner inside.

As the door closed behind the king, Teagan's voice rose, "Would it have killed him to try and, is it too much to ask for a little decorum in the face of...?" She'd never seen him so agitated before, not even as they faced a clearly lying Isolde and a castle full of walking undead. Lana's fingers laced across his arm, drawing him out of his fervor.

Blinking his eyes as if trying to remove dust, Teagan rolled down his shoulders and turned to her, "Are you...? That could not have been, um, I'm not certain what to say."

She shrugged. The burr sat in her stomach, but the fiery pain behind her eyes abated, "Neither do I. It's all complicated. Very, very complicated and..."

"We could return inside," Teagan suggested, pointing towards the flocks of judgmental gentry ready to tear her apart at a moment's notice.

Instinctively, her fingers wrapped around her shoulders, trying to shelter them from prying eyes, but Teagen interpreted it another way. "The air is chillier than one would expect this time of year." Lana didn't respond, only dug her fingers deeper into her skin as she glared through the air. "Or, was there something else that drove you out here?"

She was acting petulant. Let them talk, let them assume. This wasn't her life, they weren't her concern anymore. Lana belonged to the wardens, no one else. The life may not be simple, but at least no one cared about the state of her shoulders. Smiling, she took up Teagan's arm - both glasses of wine forgotten - and pulled him back into the ballroom. He gave into her tactics easily, almost as if he wanted to spend the night tethered to her dilapidated skirt. The man was too sweet for his own good sometimes, a fact many could take advantage of. While she could cling tight to him, giving the others something to talk about, Lana released his arm.

"I understand if you do not wish to remain for the festivities," Teagan whispered near her, his spine rigid as he watched through the hordes of people - probably looking for the nephew he spotted getting his tonsils examined.

Lana shook her head, "No, I made a promise. And, it's all right. I, it was bound to happen eventually, and I'm rather glad I didn't need to face it alone."

Smiling to match hers, Teagan grabbed up her hands and said, "Come, dance with me."

"I don't know if that's a wise idea," she tried to drag her feet, but the Arl had a pull to him beyond his straining forearms. He stopped at the outer ring of the couples twirling to their heart's content. "We never had any dances in the tower. I've only, uh, done it once or twice before and usually with disastrous results," Lana kept trying to discourage him, but he only smiled.

Placing one hand on her hip, he extended her left hand to the side. She tried to reach to place her arm on his shoulder, but could only graze it. That must be why the women all wore heels to these things. Chuckling, Teagan switched it around so her hand rested on his back and he held her shoulder. He didn't flinch from the raised skin beneath his fingers, only lightly brushed her scars without a care. "Do not worry, my lady. I can lead you for once."

"You know, you don't need to call me...whoa!"

They danced for one song, Lana struggling to keep up while Teagan gently led her through the steps. He maintained a conversation even as she stared daggers at her toes, the Arl asking about the wardens and the small minutiae of her life. By the second song, she thought she was getting the hang of it and risked looking up into his beaming face -- only to trod all over his toes thrice. He didn't even grimace at her stumble, only shuffled his feet out of her deadly step.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered, racing to catch up.

"It's all right, you're rather light," he whispered, bending low to her ear. "Now, you were saying something about a yellow deer."

"Maker, the locals were convinced it was a golden hind of all things. I knew it couldn't be that, but something told me it was worth investigating..."

They made it through another song, Lana finally feeling gleeful enough to risk a twirl here or there as the Arl obliged her. She was beginning to understand what made this dancing stuff fun when the music broke. "You're far better at that than you give yourself credit for, my lady," Teagan said as they stepped off the dance floor.

"Beginner's luck, I assure you," Lana smiled, for the first time feeling lighter for having attended this party. That was Teagan's power, somehow he made even the darkest night seem survivable.

The cacophony of small talk rose and Teagan bent low, drawing her eyes to him, "We shall have to see if it holds up."

"Lanny! You made it!" the king's voice boomed over the crowd, the music, the stamp of feet - almost as if they all broke just for him. She rose straight, trying to jam all her bubbling emotions deeper into her stomach as Alistair crossed the floor towards her. At least he took the time to dress himself in the favored finery of the day. Or, someone did anyway.

"I was worried the message wouldn't get to you in time, or you'd be in the deeproads, or off on some grand adventure in..." His babble fell away as he turned to his uncle rising away from her. "Teagan."

"An adventure in Teagan?" Lana interrupted. She couldn't miss the spark of anger between them, but she had no idea why. Knowing Alistair he probably did something particularly idiotic to cause it.

"What?" Alistair blinked. "No, no, uh, what was I saying?"

"I have no idea, your majesty," Lana curtsied deep which earned her a scowl from Alistair at first, then she felt his eyes darting down her plunging neckline. _Maker, damn it._ She didn't mean to do that. A blush charred against her cheeks, embarrassment and a host of conflicting pain burning behind it. The king rebounded quickly at least, coughing in the back of his throat and making a fool of himself as he turned back around away from her.

He waved at a person in the crowd, then said to Lana, "There's someone you have to meet."

This must be whatever reason she simply had to attend. At least they could get it out of the way early. After trying to yank up her bodice without drawing any attention to it, Lana looked up and her heart dropped into her stomach. The red haired woman parted through the crowd. She barely breathed inside an emerald dress revealing her own cream colored shoulders, back, and strategic cuts into the bodice around her hips - nary a scar in sight against that porcelain skin. With a sweetheart face to match her statuesque proportions, she was exactly the kind of woman one would expect to be on a king's arm. Lana dug both of her fingers into her palms, squeezing tight so she didn't scream aloud.

Unaware of anything amiss, Alistair almost placed a hand on the woman's arm before he realized what he was doing then yanked it back to ruffle his hair. "Lanny, this is Amada. She's our new...what do they call it?"

Amada beamed at the man she'd been snogging only a half hour earlier, then in a polished voice she said, "Arcane advisor."

Rage struck the back of Lana's head, its tendrils digging through her clenched jaw and into her burning eyes as they turned to Alistair who smiled awe-shucks and glanced down at his shoes, "Right, fancy titles aren't much of my forte."

"You have other skills," Amada purred and Lana couldn't bury the snarl along her lips. On a silver, the woman turned back to her and smiled, "I was hoping to have a chance to meet up with you again, Solona. It's been too long since the tower."

Lana blinked, thrown off by the familiarity in her tone. She didn't know this woman, couldn't place her face, but, but she must have bumped into her as an apprentice, if she was a-- was a...

Gripping his hands around the shoulders of his newest plaything, Alistair beamed, "Amada's been wanting to catch up with you. All kinds of wild mage things I don't understand."

"Damn you," Lana hissed through her nose, the curse barely evident through the crush of people resuming the festivities. Amada probably didn't even hear it, but Alistair's grin faltered and he turned his head to the side like a dog trying to understand a confusing command. Lana could let it go, walk out of there without saying a word, be the bigger person. She unclenched her fist and spotted a small trickle of blood dashed against her palm.

Snapping her head up, the tiny mage roared into Alistair's face, "You dare to invite me here, to drag me from my work, from the wardens, from doing what I was created for like-- As if I'm some puppet, a little dog that'll come calling whenever you want? And why? All to entertain and impress your..." the tens of denigrating terms died on her lips as her wrathful gaze glanced once over the newest mistress. Whipping back, Lana jabbed a finger into Alistair's face, "Never again."

Before he had a chance to respond, she gathered up her skirts and stomped away, her gait as elongated as it could be due to her short legs. She wasn't going to cry, no, and she wasn't going to run bawling out of the party while all of Ferelden's gentry watched. But she couldn't stay, not to play as a dancing bauble to entertain his mistress.

"Lanny?" she heard his confused voice stumble out of him, before he turned and tried to race after her. "Lanny, wait! That wasn't what... I don't know what you think, but..."

What she thought? There was no doubt about what she thought. A mage, a fucking mage. Out of every Maker damn person in thedas, he had to take a mage to his bed. She made it to the foyer when the tears began to tremble, water threatening to rain down her cheeks. Biting into her tongue to stop the flow, she broke into a run down the stairs. It didn't matter who saw her, didn't matter what anyone said behind her back, she had to get away from him, away from all of it. Too bad the bastard kept up on her heels begging her to stop. She thought she heard his mage crying in the distance for him to stop, but the mistress couldn't keep up with either of them, her own heels hobbling her.

"My la-" was as far as the footman got before Lana rushed through the door, yanking it open herself.

He couldn't have her, couldn't keep her as his while being king. She understood, convinced herself she understood because they'd look down on a mage being so close to power. Might even call her a blood mage. Well, what did it fucking matter? _The gentry already bandied about malifecarium in the same breath as Amell, and the bastard keeps his own red headed mage in his stable to mount whenever..._

"Lanny, stop!" a hand landed on her shoulders, and she spun away from it, reviled both that he touched her and that he had to suffer touching her. "It's, I don't know what's got you upset. Okay. I'm lost here."

"What's got me upset? What do you blighted think has me...?" her eyes whipped away from him to the woman standing eclipsed in the doorway at the top of the stairs. Snarling, Lana burst a wall of ice across it, sealing the woman off from them. _If she's such a powerful enchanter, let's see her break through that._

Alistair watched, his lips pursed but he didn't break off her spell. He only whispered, "Not a fan I take it."

Yanking back on her grip to the veil, she sneered up at him, then resumed her march away from the palace. In her state, she'd walk the entire two week trek back to Amaranthine in her revealing dress and tight shoes, her feet bloodied and broken, her shoulders scratched and bitten from the march.

"What's going on?" Alistair continued hounding her, refusing to give up. She could shove him off, knock him unconscious, or even encase his feet in ice. Let his little pet thaw him out, no doubt she was in the middle of that right now. A dangerous exhaustion trembled through her and Lana's foot skidded against the cobblestones. While she didn't fall, it was enough to throw her off balance, her resolve crumbling with it.

Dropping her skirts, she ran her nail dug palms down her stomach, trying to calm the rage, "You brought me here because of the whims of your...of her...the arcane advisor," Lana spat out, unable to say the word.

"What?" Alistair turned back to the ice wall that had barely melted, "No. I, that wasn't it at all. She saw you here and mentioned knowing you, so I thought that..." He had to know she knew what the woman was to him, even he couldn't be that dumb. But still, Alistair kept playing the fool, acting as if a random mage wanting to meet the Hero of Ferelden was completely expected.

Lana yearned to call him on it, to throw every self hating curse she felt back at him for what he did to her. But there was no point. It was over, done. _Accept that you'll never be enough, Lana. It's what the Maker always expected out of you._

Through her tears, she asked, "Then why?"

"Well, I didn't want to do it in front of an audience, though you made sure there isn't one, and..." his blather paused at her glare. "It's Morrigan."

Lana snapped her head up at him, her anguish stemmed. "What about her?"

"Seems someone's spotted her recently, and I thought, given the fact you two got on for some reason, you'd want to find her. Talk to her," Alistair rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the stars, "see if she's got any two year olds with her."

"I..." She was a fool. He didn't care if she found out about his mistress, didn't want to dangle it in her face. Only needed her to investigate Morrigan and, and the problem she forced him to create. Damn her weak heart. "I'll look into it."

"Lanny," Alistair turned back to the melting ice wall where a host of guests were almost visible behind the solid water, "is there something wrong?"

"No," In the crisp summer night, she closed off her heart to him as she should have done years ago. "Nothing wrong at all. I will speak with you in the morning about the witch problem." Lana wiped the snot off her nose, then waved her fingers against the ice wall. It splattered apart instantly, leaving an entire mess of people wiggling fire and torches at nothing. "I am tired, and it's been a long enough night."

"Lanny..." he tried to grab onto her shoulders, but she ducked away, sliding further from him.

"Good night, Alistair," Lana picked up her skirts and began the slow climb down the second staircase. Behind her she heard the others race to rescue their king from the mad mage. "Oh," she paused before the horde reached him to add, "and happy birthday."

Extra Part Two

_9:34 Kirkwall_

Lana's fingers raked across the grey skin of one of their Antams, fire bursting in their wake. The qunari stumbled back, shrieking about her being a sarabass as his skin enveloped in flames. The smell was best not spoken of in polite company. Their visit to Kirkwall began so well she forgot to check the forecast for chances of qunari invasions.

"Commander!" one of the wardens shouted, waving a hand at her. "We should find Stroud."

"Where is he?" Lana called back. They began surrounded by qunari but made quick work breaking their masses down one by one. The qunari expected an easy win, rushing down the stairs to face unarmed men, women, and children huddled in fear. They didn't anticipate an entire warden regiment meeting them head on.

"He's in Lowtown," the second warden answered. She'd only met them the day before, all part of the Free Marches order, all as nameless as the wind to her. _You need to get better at remembering names, Lana._

"And where are we?"

"Darktown."

"For the love of the Maker," Lana shouted, firing an ice bolt at a qunari rushing towards them, "was the mapmaker in Kirkwall an imbecilic drunk? Who names part of their city 'insert-word' town?"

"Don't have an answer for that, Ser," the first one, the one with the red beard but no hair saluted at her. He'd been doing that all morning, and into the afternoon.

"How do we get to Lowtown?" Lana asked, shaking her head. Why couldn't this be easier? This should be easy, the hard part was yet to come.

"Um," the red beard pointed in the direction up the stairs where flames danced across the steps and more qunari slashed their way through Kirkwall's people.

"Please tell me there's another answer," Lana sighed. She itched to put a stop to this madness, but getting involved again would have her sanctioned even worse than before. Sure you stopped a blight, but did you have to put Alistair on the throne to do it? As if she had any say in what he did. _You take the crown, I'll take the blame._

"I believe I have one, Ser," the young one said. He was eerily young, looked at best sixteen but spoke as if he was forty five. She'd assume elf if it weren't for the round ears. "Follow me," he ran them away from the steps up and further into this Darktown. Terrified citizens, innocents caught in the crossfires, shrieked past them, all begging for help. She wished she could grant it; burns, scrapes, and worse across the skin of the people trampling each other to escape. But healing these people would take time, would be a distraction, would put her and her party in danger. Lana turned away from them and hitched up her robes.

The young one turned the rest of their party to the right and deeper down a decrepit tunnel. Lana spun to follow when she heard a crack reverberating through the ceiling not near them, but above entire families scurrying to escape. Instinct took over and she parted the veil in record time, catching the falling beams -- thicker than a man -- in her fade fist. Debris and dust rained down on the fleeing people who all collapsed in terror at what they thought was their end. One by one, each glanced up, spotted the broken beams hanging above their heads as if by magic, and began to run away.

"My lady," a hand landed on her shoulder almost disrupting her spell. Lana dug in deep, biting on her lip to raise the beam. She needed to practice more on her lifting spells. "We should keep moving."

"I know," she grunted, struggling to set the beam carefully down when another broke from the crumbling ceiling. Dropping the first caused the ground to rumble below her feet, and Lana threw both hands up to pin the remaining ceiling above her. If she let it go, it'd kill Maker only knew how many people screaming in panic for someone to help them.

She kept one eye on the ceiling, buckling from her holding it in place, and another on the people. _Go faster. Maker, go faster. I can't hold this forever._

Gritting into everything inside of her, Lana lifted the debris higher flattening the spell out to catch any falling bricks. _Oh no._ Her tongue ran dry as a templar fully clad in their skirt armor stepped towards her display and looked up. He pointed at it, and his head whipped around to find the mage responsible.

_No, please. You can't be that stupid. Don't be that stupid._

By the grace of the Maker, and her lacking height, he couldn't spot her through the rampaging masses, but she felt him tugging against any mana in the area, trying to dampen down the only thing keeping them all alive. _Why were they so stupid?!_

When his feeble attempts at draining her failed, the templar lifted a hand to his mouth. She shouldn't have heard it over the screams of pain, the cries of terror, and the cracking of the ceiling about to crush them all. Something caused the cacophony to fade and clear as a bell, the man shouted, "Knight-Captain Cullen!"

Her head snapped from the warden tugging at her to give up and the fleeing refugees, to the templar jogging down the stairs. Blood stained the front of the Knight-Captain's armor, turning it a glittering crimson. He was coated in qunari gore, some of it streaked through his blonde curls and into exhaustion lines carved across his face. It _was_ him. After all these years, to find him here of all places in the middle of this chaos. She hadn't spoken a word to him since the tower, since he... Lana felt herself slide back a step and the ceiling wobbled. Shaking off the panic in her heart, she lifted her hands higher and doubled the spell. No one was dying on her watch.

With a sword extended, Cullen paced through the crowd as another four templars joined him. He moved with a certainty she didn't remember from that awkward young man in the tower; this one knew his place in the world, reveled in it, and that scared her even more. First he glanced up at her work, then he whipped his head at the innocents still fleeing.

"Help these people," he said, "I'll find the apostate."

"Ser?" the first templar asked. They didn't care about the injured, they only hungered for mage flesh.

"Do as I said. Who knows how long that will remain," he jerked his head up towards the ceiling, and then he moved like a shark in the weeds hunting through the masses. Lana slid back further, trying to blend in while also keeping her hold. She had to stay in visual range or it'd all be lost.

"Commander," the young warden hissed, "we need to head into this escape hatch." He jerked his chin at some trap door on the floor where the last of the wardens scurried inside.

"You go, I'll handle this," she said. The Knight-Captain wasn't projecting mana clashes through the crowd -- he was being careful, searching every face for obvious strain, every lifted hand for exactly what she was doing.

The young man shook his head, "I'll not leave you alone, ma'am."

"Very well," she wasn't about to argue, her plan was barely that. "Back up slowly, and keep a watch on the templar."

She needn't have instructed the last part, Lana couldn't keep her eyes off him. What she remembered was a soft spoken man with bristly hair that stuttered around her. His honey eyes would melt whenever she laughed, which in turn made her melt. What she saw was a predator carefully prodding through the underbrush for its victim. She didn't expect mercy in the middle of this qunari invasion, but the evident hatred turned her stomach. _What did they do to him?  _

_What did she do to him?_

Lana backed up into a railing and her hands drooped, causing the ceiling to shake. At this distance, the slightest disturbance could send it all tumbling down. Screwing her eyes up tight, Lana glanced behind her to find the Waking Sea churning below. Home was just across it, safety, where she didn't need to fear the templars cutting her down. Not the time to be getting homesick. Nodding at the water below, she ordered the young man, "Can you get down there? Swipe a boat?"

"Of course, Ser, but..."

"Do it!" Lana ordered. He slotted his daggers upon his back and leapt over the banister to scurry down it as if he was a spider. If not an elf, then perhaps the kid bore goat in his blood. The crowds were her safety, but pinned tight to the edge she had nowhere to escape to when they thinned. Slowly, the Knight-Captain worked through every escaping face, tipping back hoods and inspecting hands to find her.

Sweat dripped off her brow, not from the magic straining her, but an inexplicable fear climbing up her legs. She'd never been afraid of the templars, knowing that if they were challenging her then they were dangerous, rogue. _But what if he ordered her to stop? What if he threatened to cut her down if she didn't desist her magic? What if he killed her without a word?_ She couldn't attack him. No, of that Lana was certain.

Her eye rolled up to the ceiling and she spotted the templars ushering the last of the people across the gap. As the final heel slipped to the stair, Lana yanked back her magic. The blue light faded from the ceiling and a ton of rock and rotted wood smashed into the empty passageway. _They were safe_ , she breathed as she dropped her hands.

A gasp echoed through the malestrom, and she glanced up from the backs of heads all craning to see the destruction she just saved them from. Cullen, framed by Darktown's refugees, stood dumbstruck watching her, his sword extended but the muscle limp, the wrist languid. His mouth opened and closed a few times in disbelief. She only met his eye for a heartbeat before leaning over the railing and falling towards the sea below. It'd have been an impressive splash if she didn't catch her own body on the way down with magic, slowing it to a gentle speed. The young warden had enough sense to hold the boat below her drop. Lana's legs jammed onto a wooden bench and she clattered backwards into the boat. Far above her, she watched as Cullen stuck his head over the railing to find her. He didn't curse at losing his target, or shake a fist in rage, only gripped tight to the banister and watched as they paddled the boat further away.

Maybe there was something of what she knew yet remaining.

"Ser, that was unwise," the young man spoke up, his arms straining as he clipped through the water with both oars. Lana scrabbled over the bench to sit beside him and grab the other.

"Perhaps, but I wasn't going to let people die right in front of me. Grey Warden code or no."

"The templars, they don't take kindly to apostates or any mages outside the circle," the man explained to a mage who'd been outside of one for four years and inside one for fifteen. "If he'd caught you, he could have killed you."

"I don't think so," Lana shook her head. She couldn't wipe away the image of those honey eyes stricken in shock, "He knew me. And I, I know him."

Extra Part Three

_9:36 Deeproads_

Struggling for a breath in the never ending heat of the deep roads, Lana broke away from the man below her. The man, the templar, the one she just rode like a wild bronto twice without question. _What are you doing, Lana? You know what he is, what he could do to you with barely any probable cause._ She berated herself, her eyes slipped shut tight. Lana's hands tried to slick off the sweat coating her chest, when a sweet moan broke below her.

_Sweet Andraste._ Cullen stretched out upon the abused bedroll, arms flexing behind his head to drag out every delicious muscle she wanted to lap her tongue over. There was no cockiness to his movements, no proud grin or sleazy eyes. A gratefulness washed across his face, the sweetest smile she'd ever seen knotting up his lips while his honey eyes focused on hers.

"You're probably exhausted," she said, struggling to drag her voice up out of its husky depths. "More than exhausted after, um, uh..." Lana broke into an exasperated grin at her own involvement when Cullen's fingers trailed up her hip. _Maker_ , she'd missed masculine hands rolling across her skin, his own heat overpowering hers while those powerful palms massaged her old scars. He could have shaken her off, turned aside, certainly passed out after facing down so many darkspawn, on top of... But no, Cullen kept staring up at her in awe, his eyes rarely blinking as if he was scared she'd vanish the moment his lids slipped shut.

She'd feel foolish and put off by the near hero worship wafting across his face if she didn't feel the same, craving every inch of him in a way she hadn't for anyone in years. _Why did he kiss her?_ Cullen knew she was a mage, had known for nearly a decade now. He had no reason to feel anything but contempt for her after what happened in Ferelden. And now she got him stuck in the deeproads, giving him an even greater reason to wish to have nothing to do with her. It seemed idiotic, impractical for this man who devoted his life to the order to impress himself upon a mage.

But by the Maker, she was so grateful he did. A few furtive glances risked when his vision was turned were all she thought she could afford on this trip - the same she'd dare back in the tower. Now, he lay fully naked below her, his strong hands kneading her curves with a gentleness she'd always seen in him. Cullen smiled, his thoughts turned internally, as his eyes drifted miles away.

_He's a templar. You know that, Lana. You know his thoughts on mages in particular. Whatever you do, do not get attached._ People outside the tower would hear stories of the hedonistic mages and often assume that sex was traded like sweet treats in circles. While it was nowhere near the eternal bacchanalias most non-mages assumed, Lana was a bit of an outlier. The others could enjoy experimenting with nearly no-strings attached sex and keep their hearts out of it, but not her. At first she'd assumed it was a young age or inexperience that kept her knotted up in this dream of love. Six years as the Warden Commander, knowing it would be improper for her to romance anyone who served below her she tried for the emotionless affair, but each one failed more spectacularly than the previous. She accepted she'd always need to find that connection beyond the physical. It seemed her curse that she was given the life a person with a carefree heart would love and yet she couldn't bring herself to want it, to enjoy it.

So why, Lana Amell - the cold one, the distant one, the studious one, the broken one - did you leap onto the first templar you found? Maybe it was the armor, the deeproads, how long it'd been since she'd touched a man aside from the hearty pat on the back. _You know why_ , the tiny voice in the back of her head spoke up, trying to raise a thread she'd buried deep in her heart ages ago. _No, that was foolish, beyond foolish. And it didn't matter either way._ Nothing could come of this, nothing would grow of this beyond their time in the deeproads. She knew it in her soul, but Maker -- Lana traced her fingers along Cullen's stomach, the muscles fluttering as he sighed at the contact -- she didn't want to let him go.

"I should let you get some rest, for real this time," she said, her eyes bouncing away down the road as she tried to wad her hair back in her hands away from her damp neck.

"Lana..." Maker, the way he said her name, whispered it as if he breathed it a hundred times behind closed doors so no one knew, as if he had it tattooed upon his heart. She slid down to him, her hands rolling across the filthy stones of the roads to steady her face beside his. Tenderly, Cullen graced the back of his fingers across her cheek and she turned to it, a melodious sigh rolling out of her throat. He grabbed onto the back of her head, his hand burrowing into her hair, and he pulled her down for a kiss.

They'd tried almost every kind of kissing before: terrified and tentative, hot and wet begging for more, tender pecks, mouths smashing into skin to cover moans of pleasure escaping through their bodies. This was none of them. Parting his lips, Cullen's amber eyes screwed up so tight while he cupped his mouth around hers, as if he was trying to whisper his every thought, every hope, every dream, his soul through a kiss. Lana matched him in kind, her own lips softening with each press of his, welcoming him, needing him, wanting him - not just his body, but everything that he was.

Sighing, Cullen broke from her, the back of his head bouncing against the bedroll. The sting of his retreating stubble bit into her top lip. Absently, Lana ran her tongue over it causing him to smile wider. "Is there much work ahead remaining for us?" he asked.

"I, I am uncertain," she said, blinking rapidly to wipe away the emotion brimming in her veins. Business. They were here on a job, an important one to fix her mistake. And you bedded him, Lana. _Why?_ "If we're lucky we'll catch White soon," she assured the naked man still pinned below her thighs.

"Ah," he swallowed, his delectable adam's apple bobbing, but no emotion crossed his face. "Do you require me to help protect against any, um, things in the deeproads?"

She smiled at the offer, and couldn't stop herself from parting her fingers across his forehead. Sticky with sweat and the grime of the roads, she didn't care. Somehow it made him even more handsome; he bore it because of her, to help her when he didn't have to. "I can handle it myself, I assure you. If there are any darkspawn attacks, I promise I will rouse you."

Cullen's flushed lips broke as if he was about to argue, when he sighed and bobbed his head. "You are the warden here. I'll attempt to rest for a few hours before we resume."

"Good," Lana agreed. A part of her, the section of her soul she thought withered away after the landsmeet, wanted her to stay straddling Cullen until, until she was physically unable to. She didn't want to leave his warmth, his toned and tempting body. But the rest of her knew her place and her duty. Sliding over to her exhausted thigh, Lana broke away from him to land naked ass first into the dirt.

"Lana, I..." Cullen struggled up to his elbows. He reached over to caress her knee as she sat up reaching for her abandoned clothing.

While unknotting her robe's belt, she turned to him, expectant. "Yes?"

"I've never, I mean, I-I, uh, don't know what to say in this situation."

"Neither do I," she said, "it's new territory for me as well. Rest and...just rest."

Satisfied that he'd done his chivalrous duty, the templar dressed quickly in his underarmor and curled up on the bedroll. Lana watched him slumber, his hands pressed together as if in prayer under his head, while those sandy curls plastered to his sweaty forehead. She couldn't stop swiping them away from his skin to fluff back up, her fingers rolling through his coiled hair. By the Maker, when he stirred in his innocent sleep something inside of her did as well. Not the mindless lust of before, but something far more terrifying in her heart.

If she didn't get away from him and the Free Marches soon, she may not be able to give him up at all.

#

_9:41 Skyhold_

"It was Findle," her voice called from his bed, the sound rolling over along with her body.

Cullen couldn't see her as he was too busy trying to dress for the day that began nearly an hour ago. _Something_ kept distracting him. "No, it wasn't," he answered her, reaching for his scabbard.

"You're remembering it wrong," Lana insisted, a scuffle breaking up her words. "Damn it!" He turned around to find her half off the bed, her hands crawling across the floor as she reached for a stack of books.

"Do you need help?" Cullen asked even as he stepped towards the woman with almost her entire torso off the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hung in the air, the toes pointed and arched to aid in her reach.

"Nope, I've got it," Lana crowed as she unearthed a book out of a stack and began the laborious challenge of crawling backwards up into bed.

Chuckling at her ingenuity, Cullen cupped his hands around her feet, softly kneading his fingers into them. As he sat down beside her lower half, he dug his arms under her legs, gripping to her straining thighs to help pull her to him. Still clutching to her hard won prize, Lana slipped stomach first across his scattered blankets, until she rested fully upon the bed. Then her naked legs twisted around, bringing the rest of her with until she could sit up to look him in the eye.

He couldn't remember why she wore one of his tunics, even baggier than the grey warden one she borrowed, and yet decided to forgo any trousers. But, by the Maker, he adored it. Lana looked so cozy, happy, at peace in only his shirt, her hair matted in the back, and some newly tried plum lipstick smeared across her face. It had been across his as well before he took the time to wash while she watched and then got into their current argument.

Sliding her stout legs under her, Lana struggled to rise up on her knees against the waning mattress. Cullen moved to wrap his arms around her, but she foisted the book into his hands instead. "Page hundred and fifty something. Go on, look." She wasn't about to let it go, so dutifully he flipped through the book scanning to see who was right.

As his face fell, she slapped her thigh, "See, I told you. It was Fingle who sold the farm for a stack of runes. Findle tried to buy it back using the golden chicken."

"How many times have you read this one?" Cullen asked, closing the book and placing it behind him on the bed. With his hands empty, he was now free to fill them with her. Curling his palms tight across her waist, he watched the baggy tunic pull taut against her breasts. It was a shame he was already dressed, and late.

After sliding her arms over his shoulder, Lana pressed her lips to his ear, and she chuckled, "I have absolutely no idea. It was one of my favorites growing up. One of the ones that didn't involve transmutation of entropic energies into...eh," she waved her hand, "it's not important."

Unable to help himself, Cullen kissed her. He meant for it to be a gentle peck, but Lana's exuberance stirred him awake, and his lips parted daring her to the challenge. Never one to back down, the mighty Hero of Ferelden met him tongue for tongue. "Maker, you are adorable," he sighed into her cheek.

"Oh? Is that all. I was expecting something more like pedantic, solipsistic, fussy, uh..."

Cullen laughed at her list, which caused her to join in. "A few of those at times as well, but mostly adorable." Her eyes sparkled against the dewey skin no woman who spent half the night awake should possess. He woke looking like what a mabari would vomit up after scrounging through the garbage, but not Lana. No, she was achingly beautiful, even as she had to correct him on his own books.

"I wish I could pull you back into bed," he sighed, watching a ringlet of her hair escape from the more pronounced coils.

"Technically, I never left," Lana smirked.

Despite being fully dressed and armed, with all of Skyhold rising to tramp in and out of his office, he yearned to do just that. How easy it would be to tug his shirt off her, to kiss and caress every inch of her skin while she repeated back other plot points in his library. A realization struck through Cullen's rosy fog, "Does um, will Hawke come searching for you?" He could talk anyone out of his office given a stern glance and sterner grumble, all save the Champion of Kirkwall, especially when she was in protector mode. Cullen was man enough to admit that woman scared him.

Lana smiled wide, her teeth even whiter against her smudged lipstick, "Don't worry, I told her I was spending the night with you. More than likely she's knees up in the Herald's Rest anyway."

"Right, Hawke knows about us," Cullen bowed his head.

"And she probably told her dwarf too, because there isn't anything Hawke doesn't tell Varric. Hopefully, that's it though."

"You don't want anyone else to know?" They'd never mentioned it, but Cullen caught on that Lana acted even more secretive about their dalliances than he did - almost as if she was ashamed.

"It's not that I wouldn't love to run around telling anyone who asked. Shout it off a rooftop or two, 'that one's mine! Mwhahaha!'" she said, her fingers parting through his barely shaved cheek. "I-I never had good luck with rumors and talk. People tended to assume a lot about me, dark things, whether it was accurate or not so..."

He caught her hand and pressed the palm of it to his lips. "I understand. I'd rather people not know my personal business." Softly, his lips trailed down her hand, pressing kisses against one wrist then the other. Lana sighed at the touch, her eyelids drooping as she smiled serenely to herself.

"Forget breakfast," she said, as if they hadn't missed it by an hour.

"I'm already dressed," Cullen pointed out, even while he tried to mentally talk himself into her wishes.

Lana cracked open an eye and smirked, "As if that's ever stopped me before." Unable to contain himself, Cullen dove to kiss her, pressing Lana back against the bed. She squeaked in surprise, and chuckled below his lips before returning it with as much fervor. Her sneaky fingers worked across his back, digging below the surcoat as if she could peel each layer off with her bare hands in one yank. When she reached for his belt to make good on her promise, the door below them opened, hinges rattling on the wind.

"Perhaps they'll leave a note on your desk," Lana whispered to him.

"Commander? Are you in?" the Spymaster's voice echoed strong from below, almost as if she stood next to the ladder already aware of where he was. "We should speak."

"Or maybe not," Lana slumped back releasing her hold. Anyone else and she'd have pulled him deeper into her embrace and waved the distraction away -- that was the sway Leliana had over her.  Cullen moved to rise off her, when she wrapped her hands around his head and kissed him once, "Come back soon."

Trying to wipe the smile off his face, he began the slow descent out of his loft. The Spymaster stood crisply at the base, her cool eyes searching over his desk. He'd barely struck the ground before she spoke up, "Walk with me."

"Ah, what is...?" Cullen reoriented himself, trying to not ruffle up his hair - an obvious tell that he was nervous. Leliana didn't wait for him to respond as she'd already stepped out of his door and onto the battlements alone. Scrabbling, Cullen raced after her, feeling like he was an initiate all over again about to be disciplined for tardiness or some other forgotten misstep. The Spymaster had her arms wrapped around herself as she briskly walked them through two abandoned towers, not speaking a word. After passing through the third, Cullen thought he should try and break the silence, when Leliana halted them. A light breeze for Skyhold drifted through the bricks, slicking back his hair. Nary a soul moved across any part of the wall, which was strange. Someone should be on patrol at all times.

Cullen was about to make a mental note of that, when the Spymaster turned to face him. He'd known of her history as a bard, as well as her work as the Left Hand - though some of the rumors seemed inflated. Leliana, while distant at times, was hardly the viper Cassandra's tales made her out to be. As her acerbic eyes sliced through him he realized not only how wrong he was, but that the stories didn't do the woman justice.

"We may not see eye to eye on every matter concerning the Inquisition," Leliana began, carefully folding one hand on top of the other, "but I like to consider us colleagues and perhaps friends."

"Ah, um," he gulped, completely lost to what she wanted. This seemed a trivial matter, to the point the Spymaster wouldn't even bother with it. "I think so as well?"

A whisper of a smile turned up her snowy cheek, displaying the edge of her canine tooth. "Good. Then I hope you also know that what I am about to tell you has nothing to do with that relationship."

Despite being hopelessly lost, deep in his gut, Cullen got the feeling he needed to be protecting all of his vital organs and quickly. Without a shield, he shifted back on his heels trying to get himself out of dagger range.

"It is quite simple," Leliana smiled, "if you hurt Lanny in any way, I shall use every power at my disposal to make your life utterly miserable. Inquisition be damned."

"Ah..." he squeaked as her eyes went straight for his jugular, the Spymaster who knew every little secret whispered behind every hand across thedas dangling the full force of her power above his head. Cullen's tongue ran dry as he tried to pry it off the top of his mouth, not that there were any words available to him beyond um and uh. Luckily, Leliana wasn't finished.

"While I have faith in Lanny's skill in magic and the field, I fear that she is rather naive in matters of the heart. It has cost her before, in some ways dearly," Leliana gazed past him for a moment, her fingers knotting together as if she was strangling a goose. Then those calculating eyes narrowed back on him. "I will not watch her suffer so again."

"I," Cullen coughed, bitterly aware of the sweat beading into his eyes. "I would never want to hurt her."

"So you say, but battle, war, has a way of heightening emotions and thoughts that can sometimes damn a person later. Promises made in the heat of the moment that are retracted upon survival in the morning."

_Maker's breath, was that what she thought?_ That he was under some heady battle rush and had no intentions for Lana beyond their stopping Corypheus? "Spymaster, you--"

"Lanny, has," she interrupted him, "I have not seen her act this way around someone in...in a long time. And if it turns out to have been a farce..." He didn't even see her draw the dagger only the glint of metal catching the morning rays rotating in her fingers that came from nowhere.

Placing his hands together as if in prayer, Cullen bowed his head. "I am guessing my assurance that I'd never want to hurt her will mean little."

"You're an honorable man, with little romantic history to base a judgment upon," Leliana answered quickly, catching Cullen by surprise. _What did she know of his romantic history? How did she know anything of it?_ "But that's been her downfall in the past."

Oh. The Spymaster didn't mention her royal history, and Maker knew Lana never brought a hint of it up, but he'd gleaned enough of it over the years. Rumors were rampant, of course, that a mage was seducing the king of Ferelden to her whims. They grew to such a fervor even Meredith put some stock in them, unaware that her own Knight-Captain had sussed out the situation himself -- a few times to be certain. Even after the deeproads, he never brought up king Alistair, wasn't certain how she'd respond, but Cullen believed whole heartedly that they were long since over. Whether the pain of it had vanished was another matter, apparently.

"Leliana," Cullen said, parting his hands and letting them dangle limply at his side, "if I ever do something to break Lana's heart, to harm her in any way...I'd hope you'd put me out of my misery."

The Spymaster turned her head, her eyes glaring below the shadows of her hood, unable or unwilling to believe him.

"I," Maker, he shouldn't be telling this to her first, but it may be the only way he could escape with his liver intact. "I love her. I have for..." Cullen slid away from the glaring spy to grip onto the battlement walls. He whispered to himself, but she had to hear, "Since the tower, since she was-we were both so young. I know I hurt her then, after Uldred's attack, and it ate me up inside for years thinking that I'd, I don't know, struck back at her when I was flailing at anything in my path. Never again, I never want to hurt her like that. I swear."

When he turned back, the dagger was gone, Leliana's hands layered back overtop each other as if nothing happened. She didn't look pleased with his confession, but she didn't openly attack him either. Instead, she judged him dissecting his words, his body language, trying to find where he'd hid any falsehood by using years of Game training at her disposal. After what felt an age, Leliana spoke, "She's not an easy person to love."

That drew a chuckle from Cullen, "I am aware, and...I fear I am the same. Assuming she even, we haven't, um..."

Nodding her head at him, Leliana's eyes darted from him back in the direction of his office as if she could see through the wood and stone to Lana reclining in his bed. She had to know she was there, the Spymaster knew everything. "Lanny's her own woman, who's free to make her own decisions."

"One you don't approve of," Cullen added.

He expected her to nod in agreement, but the Spymaster puckered up her lips and her eyes grazed across him. "I'm uncertain. You were a templar, and there are other...mitigating circumstances, but Lanny could do far worse. I only hope for what's best for her."

Cullen knotted his fingers together, watching each one intersect, "So do I." Whether that was him or not he wasn't certain. He'd never been the romantic type, certainly couldn't rhapsodize her beauty on command, recite poetry, or owned any candles beyond the few necessary for work. Maybe she deserved better, a man she could splash around in the rain with, one she needn't worry about being thrashed by an errant elbow from a bad dream. One who wasn't always looking at life through dour lenses, expecting the worst in people and planning for it.

A hand landed upon his shoulder, drawing him from his foul turn. "She'll make her affections evident, even if it's not in the most traditional of ways." He blinked rapidly, struggling to understand what the Spymaster meant. _What was the traditional way? Maker, did everyone receive a book on this that he someone missed out on?_ "Thank you for the talk, Commander. It was enlightening."

Snorting, he tried to not roll his eyes at her doublespeak, when Leliana handed a kerchief to him. "What is this for?" he asked, accepting it.

Her eyes darted from his down to his lips. "Plum isn't your color," the Spymaster said, turning away as he tried to furiously wipe away the last of Lana's lipstick.

When he returned to his room, he expected to find Lana either gone or asleep in his bed -- she was neither. Barelegged and bent over, with the bottom curve of her voluptuous cheeks sticking out from below the hem of his shirt, she was rearranging his stacks of books. He watched silently for a moment as she weighed two tomes in her hand, struggling to decide which went where seeing as how they were identical copies he kept meaning to return to the library proper. With the tip of her tongue between her teeth and her eyes blazing with concentration and a million thoughts running behind them, she was breathtaking to him. It wasn't some Arlessa he fell for, not the great Hero, not even a lauded grey warden. Cullen gave up his heart to the woman with an overfilled mind who sparkled around anything she found fascinating.

"Oh, you're back," she started, shaking him out of his reverie. Giving up on the books, Lana tossed both on the bed. "I was arranging your stacks in easy reach order."

"Which is...?" he asked, for some reason frozen in spot.

"Ah, based upon the tactical decisions in each one ranging from entire wars down to..." she gestured at a golden spine at the bottom, "a water fight between two nymphs. I thought you'd need them for references and probably wanted to keep the nymph one hidden if the Inquisitor popped on by."

Cullen's heart stirred at the way she smiled up at him, proud of her little addition for him. Blessed Andraste, what had he done to deserve her back in his life? A cruel knot in the back of his brain told him that he'd done nothing. He'd have to keep paying for years to live up to the joy of the woman he'd loved his entire adult life coming to him, wanting him.

"Well..." Lana interrupted him again, her hand gesturing over the stacks. As she stepped away he realized she'd had a go at more than the small pile on the floor. There were another five now all in her order waiting to be returned to the bookshelf.

"You, you accomplished all that in the..." Cullen glanced down the ladder. "How long was I out?"

She chuckled at the obvious concern on his face. Shuffling around her stacks, Lana slid one arm then another below his surcoat, her fingers knocking against the metal encasing him. "It's my speciality, I fear. Leave me alone too long in a library and I'll have the entire thing turned upside down before morning."

Wrapping himself around her, his arms to guard her shoulders, his chin dropping on top of her head as if he could keep her safe from the wardens, Corypheus, anything else that would dare harm her. Unbeknownst to her, he was often inquiring about whetting her staff blade, and inspecting the durability of the mail to her armored robes. Often enough to the point Harret grew weary of seeing him near the smithy. He knew he couldn't always be at her side, always shield her from whatever errant arrows came for her, but at least he could stress about her being properly armed. It gave him a small sliver of peace against the chaos. His way to try and tell her how he felt, without worrying about his tongue tripping all over himself.

"What did Leliana want?" she asked, burrowing deeper into him.

"Hm..." Cullen blinked, "Oh, a small matter. Not important."

She leaned far enough away from him to catch his eye, her own sparkling as she drew her tongue across her teeth. He could read the rising questions already. _If it wasn't important, why did she whisk you away? Because it had something to do with me?_ Lana didn't voice any of the questions percolating behind her eyes, as if she didn't want to dig into a possible wound of his. Instead, she lifted up high on her toes and draped her arms around his shoulders. That dangerous plum lipstick came for him, but he didn't care. Facing the possible wrath of the Spymaster and certain snickers from his lieutenants, Cullen kissed her without any doubt in his heart. He'd carried so many doubts like bricks stacked across his back for so many years, but when it came to Lana all his concerns and trepidation vanished. All he wanted was her.

Breaking the kiss, Lana slid down off her stretch and stepped back. As she broke away, his scabbard clattered to the floor. He whipped his head down at the opened belt, then turned back to the woman waving her fingers and smiling with mischief. "How did you...?"

"A mage never reveals her secrets," she laughed. In one fell swoop, Cullen picked her up in his arms and took her back to bed.
