Hello.

The idea for this story came to me gradually while I was playing the Inquisition. It appears to me that even though the romance options in the game are limited, there are still enough scenes that make your thoughts wander in all kinds of directions. I allowed myself to start writing down some ideas of mine, and this is the result.

Edit: it has been a while since I've started writing this, and I need to tell you that the plot I originally had in mind has changed. A lot. This story is dark and writes itself, be prepared for that (I can, however, promise you that the main pairing will not disturbed by any other character).

DA:I belongs to BioWare.

P.S.: Please forgive me for my mistakes. English is not my first language, and I don't have a beta. I still return to every chapter and attempt to make it at least a little better.

He shuddered. Uneasiness descended from the high ceiling of the dimly lit room, slid down the walls and crept towards him like a vicious predator – a little too threatening for his taste. Wrong.

But then again, pretty much everything lately felt wrong. As far as his memory stretched, it started with the rift he had fallen out of, barely conscious and feeling like he'd put his entire left arm into a boiling pot. The pain had been unbearable enough to take him out almost instantly- which he was thankful for, considering the alternative. When he'd come to for the second time, a woman appeared out of nowhere and wouldn't stop yelling at him, demanding answers he hadn't even had time to start thinking about. Not that it would have worked – he had no memories of being inside the rift, nor did he remember how he'd gotten outside or where he'd been before that. He'd only been aware of the severe pain in his hand, obscure green light devouring it hungrily, and dear Maker, can she please just lose her voice already?

He didn't even believe in the Maker that much. Probably the reason his request hadn't been fulfilled.

After way too much time of scaring his poor soul she'd finally taken pity on him and told him that the sky was torn open, bright green light connecting whatever there was inside of it to the ground. Demons and evil spirits were pouring out of the Breach like angry bees from a disturbed hive, attacking everything that came into sight. After briefly describing the situation she'd added that everyone considered him guilty of causing the entire mess.

Seeker Cassandra, the woman who'd yelled at him and thus became the reason of his headache for the rest of the day – that he was sure of – had led him to a rift, and it turned out, miraculously, that his left hand had learned to close such things professionally while he'd been out. That knowledge had come to him in the most sudden manner when an elf by the name Solas grabbed his wrist and raised his hand towards the glowing thing. That action alone had made him extremely surprised, since elves only so rarely showed anything besides fear in the place he'd grown up. He'd been so taken aback he'd torn his hand away as soon as it was possible. Solas had never showed any reaction to that, if he'd even felt something in the first place.

Then there'd been that pride demon that almost killed him when he was trying to close another rift by himself. He'd barely been able to keep his life, falling into blackness again once the fight was over. Before fainting he'd thought that if he'd ever wake up again, he'd do his best to make things right.

First thing he'd done upon waking up was making an elf girl scared, and he hadn't even meant to do that. She'd fallen to her knees and refused to calm down no matter how hard he'd tried to make her believe she was safe. Maybe he hadn't been in such a good condition to make anybody feel safe.

When he'd finally been able to make it outside, he found out that he had suddenly become famous. Apparently, his glory had bloomed from the tale about him killing the pride demon and closing the rift. His whole being twisted in all the wrong ways from a mere thought of it; he didn't want any of that. And by no means was he the Herald of Andraste; the way people looked at him, their eyes full of hope, fear and recognition – all of that only made him desperate to crawl into a dark corner somewhere far, far away and hide until the ruckus died down. His steps wide, eyes glued to the ground – that's how he'd made it to the chantry. Most heroic behavior ever seen in Thedas.

In the chantry he'd almost waved goodbye to his own life again. Whoever was torturing him with those death threats could've shown more goddamn determination or just leave him alone already. He wanted nothing more than to continue his life of a simple swordsman- he wasn't capable of doing more anyway.

"…she's our Spymaster."

"Tactfully put, Cassandra."

Silence dawned upon the room, and it took a while for Maxwell to realize that people who gathered in there were waiting for his response. They eyed him carefully, faces a perfect mix of neutrality, mild curiosity and reluctant friendliness. Only the Seeker stood out of the picture with a permanent scowl on her face and a distrustful stare that bore into Maxwell without any mercy. He could swear she didn't even blink.

"Glad to meet you," he coughed, feeling completely stressed.

Thankfully, after the short introduction the discussion of the matter at hand resumed, and he was left trying to bury the uneasy feeling under a pile of raising questions, his glance dropping down to the table with two huge maps on it. Orlais and Ferelden. The thing they were dealing with was unbelievably huge.

There was the Breach in the sky, and now there also was the Inquisition. The establishment of the Inquisition did protect Maxwell's life from the most unwelcomed ending, but it also made the Chantry extremely angry – a problem that was further worsened by the rumor of Maxwell being chosen by Andraste herself. The Chantry turned its back on the Inquisition, calling them a bunch of heretics, and the Herald of Andraste ended up being an abyss that prevented any form of alliance from happening.

As a result, there was a suggestion of siding with the rebel mages – the 'darker' side of the world and the worst enemy of the Chantry. Coming from the Ambassador Josephine and sister Leliana, it was reluctantly supported by Cassandra. Commander Cullen, however, being a former templar himself, wasn't very fond of that idea.

What am I even doing here? Maxwell questioned himself. An Ambassador, a Spymaster, a Commander and a Seeker – just how doI belong here? He hardly had any idea of what was going on in the world besides the huge green gap in the sky. Compared to the library of knowledge these people possessed in their heads, he only had a small shabby book with a couple of pages written in nasty and small handwriting.

…on the other hand, that was clearly an underestimation. He wasn't that bad.

But I don't want to be here, a sharp thought pounded on him, making him fidget.

"…quite the title, isn't it? How do you feel about that?"

"What?"

Maxwell's eyes shot up. Commander Cullen was standing across the table, looking slightly concerned and probably a bit offended by the fact that the Herald of Andraste had somehow managed to lose the train of what was meant to be a serious conversation.

"Your title. Does it bother you?" he repeated.

"Ah. I don't… really know," Maxwell answered, scratching the back of his neck nervously. The bell of uncomfortableness rang every single time anyone called him the Herald of Andraste, the weight of people's hopes as destructive as a direct impact of a giant hammer right into his spine. Maxwell wasn't used to be relied on – a trait that came from being the youngest child in the Trevelyan family. Younger children were the ones who relied on older people, and his family was noble on top of that. But no way was he admitting anything aloud and in front of people he'd only met a few minutes ago.

The Commander nodded, and there was a moment of brief silence between them because neither knew what to add to that part of the conversation.

"There is something you can do," Leliana offered helpfully. "A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak with you. She is not far and knows those involved. Her assistance could be invaluable."

Maxwell frowned and said nothing. As far as he knew, no one from the Chantry would want to deal with a bunch of declared heretics; it instantly felt like a trap.

"I understand she is a reasonable sort," Leliana assured him with a soft smile as if she'd just read his mind. "Perhaps she does not agree with her sisters?"

"…I guess, that needs checking," Maxwell slowly agreed, eyes closing as he struggled to accept the realization of this not being an opportunity to escape. They wouldn't let him go, and even if they did, he'd only find himself in greater danger. "You want me to go there?"

"Yes, and I will be coming with you," Cassandra added, her voice cold and strained. The man could understand her lack of warmth to some extent: Cassandra was a strong woman, a Seeker, a leader, nearly the most important person in the Inquisition. And not even a day ago he'd been a prisoner who fell out of a rift. People still believed he was the sole reason of the entire massacre out there, and after re-establishing the Inquisition and letting him live, after taking such a risk, Cassandra would be stupid to let him wander off alone.

"I was hoping you'd say that," Maxwell lied, and from the way she stared at him for a second and then quickly turned her eyes away, his words seemed to surprise her.

"You will find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe," Leliana said, her finger pointing at near middle of the map of Ferelden. "But I suggest resting for today. You," she looked directly at Maxwell, "must be very tired after what happened. A one night rest is not enough to help you recover, so sleep more and eat as much as you can. Also take a walk outside as soon as you're able: there are people who would like to meet you. I'm sure you would like to meet them as well."

"Of… course," Maxwell nodded, his mind protesting with 'Didn't you say it wasn't far?' in the background. "I'm going to do just that, if you don't mind."

He bowed and hurried outside. As soon as the heavy door closed behind the man, he heard muffled voices rising in the room, arguing, but there was no desire to concentrate on it right now. Maxwell's stomach was empty and displeased, and it was too early for the tavern to close. He couldn't get away from the Inquisition, so at least there was food to soothe some of his anxiety.

On his way to the tavern Maxwell did meet several important people. The crowd that had met him before was already gone, probably back to their duties, but some had to stay outside. Merchants and blacksmiths were freezing out on the road – well, mostly merchants were freezing, since blacksmiths had fire and active work to keep them heated. There were also herbalists that seemed to have no point in wandering outside for long; no plants were growing nearby anyway, the ground was covered in soft snow.

And then there were the merchants again…

Am I going in circles, Maxwell sighed, feeling even colder than before. Shiver went down his spine, and he quickened his pace.

Then there were the blacksmiths…

"I was wondering if you needed help with finding anything," a familiar voice called from somewhere close. "But if you like wandering about, I won't stop you."

Maxwell turned on the spot.

"V-varric!" he exclaimed, memory supplying him with a picture from the previous days, lines faint but distinctive enough. The dwarf had helped Maxwell in his fight against the pride demon, if he recalled correctly. "Y-yeah, I think I'm lost. Have you s-seen a tavern anywhere?"

"Oh yeah," the dwarf answered, nodding to the side with a small smile. "Last time I checked, one was pretty close. Actually, you've passed it twice already, and I was beginning to feel sympathetic. Need a guide? I was about to go there myself anyway."

"O-oh yes, p-please," the man answered with a tight smile. "I really need that."

"Let's not waste any more time freezing here then, shall we?" Varric picked up his crossbow and went ahead. Maxwell followed close.

The tavern was small, and a few windows were open, but somehow the place looked nice and warm and totally inviting. There weren't many people in here – actually, there were none except for the owner and a bard - and that offered a vast variety of seats to choose from. Varric nudged Maxwell towards a table near the fireplace without a single word.

As they were settling for a meal, the bard started a slow, quiet tune that felt surprisingly pleasant to Maxwell's ears, and after a moment he found himself humming along, memorizing it. The innkeeper was at their table on instant, two plates full of steaming, heavenly looking food resting on a round tray she was holding tightly in her hands. Judging by the woman's nervous and yet excited behavior, she knew exactly who her guests were.

Once we were
In our peace
With our lives assured
Once we were
Not afraid of the dark

"So, how is it going, the Herald of Andraste?" the dwarf smirked when the innkeeper left, laying his hands on the table. There was something sly in his eyes, right there, shining like a gem in the very depths of a dark cave. Maxwell was about to ask him not to use the disturbing title anymore but decided against it the last second.

"Why are you asking?" he asked instead, suspicious.

"Why, you think I'm already gathering details for a new story?" Varric's smirk became wider. "I might be thinking about writing a book, yes, but right now I'm just concerned."

"I see…" Maxwell relaxed slightly. "Thank you. Honestly… I'm not entirely sure I'm happy with my new title. It makes me nervous."

"Hm, thought so," Varric nodded. "You'd think a person with a title like that would smile until their face breaks. You look like you're doomed."

"Am I not?"

The innkeeper approached them again, with two heavy mugs this time. Making a single ungraceful movement, she tripped and almost fell but was saved by Varric and his surprisingly remarkable for a dwarf agility. Maxwell sat down again and wondered if she was obliged to bring them anything like that, but then again, it was plain that she wasn't against it. Quite the opposite, in fact, she seemed to be very happy to serve... Probably the Herald of Andraste's doing.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, and without having anything else to distract himself with, Maxwell ended up diving into gloomy thoughts again. He threw a glance at the door and sighed quietly as his confidence in calming food dissipated. The man needed to concentrate on something before stress would be able to hit him harder.

"Varric…" he called hesitantly.

The dwarf looked up. "Yeah?"

Quick, come up with a random topic.

"It's so cold outside, and you're walking with your chest bare. How aren't you cold?"

Great one, Maxwell almost hit his forehead.

Varric eyed him for a second and then grinned.

"Chest hair."

"Chest hair," the man repeated without thinking. "Wait. What?"

"Yeah, and I suggest keeping yours," the dwarf added. "Keeps you warm better than anything."

"Is that a joke…?"

"No."

There was a long moment of mutual staring. Maxwell raised an eyebrow, trying to understand where this conversation just went. He hadn't expected such a turn, not even a little.

"…I'll see what I can do," he finally said and picked his fork. Varric laughed.

"Actually, maybe chest hair works only for me," he continued. "But there's no problem with clothes here. Cassandra would start eating people if she heard someone was freezing. Means someone else doesn't do their work properly."

Maxwell could almost see that happening. Raging around people sounded so like her, especially if he went back to their first meeting. Here it wasn't all that bad, he supposed: at least the Inquisition wouldn't freeze to death.

"But what if there really won't be enough clothes?" He asked.

Varric's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I bet she'll try ripping the fur from the Commander's overcoat. Extra warm material and all. Have you seen it yet? The hairs almost scream 'we want to be free!'. That would be quite a show."

He was obviously joking, and while Maxwell felt a little guilty laughing at the Commander, he couldn't help smiling. The day became a tiny bit brighter.

"Thank you, Varric," he said.

The dwarf smiled back.

It turned out Varric was right: when Maxwell returned to his small wooden house, there was a pile of neatly folded clothes waiting for him patiently on the bed. He was surprised to learn that almost all of them fit him pretty well as if someone had been eyeing him the whole time and picked the correct measurements without asking. Maxwell dropped the clothes into a chest beside his bed and wrapped himself into a blanket that was made of thick fur of a poor wild animal– actually, there may have been more than one: the blanket was so big it almost touched the floor.

"Poor guys," he said quietly, climbing on the bed and hiding his whole body under the warm cloth.

The man lay unmoving for a long while, attempting to relax, and soon the sun slowly began to settle, pressing down against the sharp tips of mountains, bleeding red and orange all across the sky. Maxwell didn't have any certain plans for the evening, though he suspected it was probably a good time to get to know the advisors better. He was tied in all this, after all- or more like stuck, knee deep. So why not?

He shifted upwards, considering the option, and then fell back on the bed, reluctant to abandon the warmth. Come on, a voice in his head said. You're all in this together. Perhaps you can at least try?

"Right," Maxwell sighed and rolled towards the edge. He was still hesitant to go outside since most people recognized him and made him feel uncomfortable as a result, plus he didn't really want to deal with all sorts of reality right now: there were enough events stacked on his shoulders for a lifetime already. Not to mention the weather...

But the man knew it needed to be done. So he put on a new pair of thick boots and went out, covering as much of himself with the blanket as he could.

As soon as Maxwell got out again, strong wind slammed itself right into his face, making him utter rude words under his breath, words he'd be ashamed of if he was still living with his wealthy family. But at least now it was warmer, even if his clothes felt pretty heavy. Especially the blanket he'd sworn not to take off no matter what happened.

Maxwell spotted a target pretty quickly: sister Leliana was walking down the road not so far away, so he wouldn't have any trouble stopping her and trying to begin a conversation. Maxwell was about to call out to her when he noticed she wasn't exactly alone, nor was she looking happy. Varric was walking beside her, listening, and neither of them looked comfortable with what they were talking about. The dwarf was first to notice him and slowly shook his head with a very serious look. It was a warning.

Maxwell stepped back quickly and hid around the corner of the house, trying not to make any noise. The Spymaster and the dwarf walked past and up the stairs, soon disappearing from the view. Maxwell sighed with both relief and disappointment: maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all…

"Are you hiding here?" a voice asked, and he almost jumped out of his skin.

"Who does that!" Maxwell grumbled, turning around.

Apparently, Commander Cullen did. He was standing a few feet away, smiling faintly. How did he even manage to get so close without me noticing? Maxwell wondered. Actually, maybe he should've asked that aloud.

"How did you get so close without making any noise at all?"

"I did make noise," Cullen answered, folding his hands across his chest. "You were too busy hiding to notice. Which returns us to my question: what's going on?"

If only Maxwell knew the answer to that himself... It seemed something important was happening - or something private, why else would Varric ask him to step out of the view? And if that was the case, he probably had to keep it a secret.

"I'm not entirely sure," he said. "I think I was about to disturb something I shouldn't, so I hid and waited until they were gone."

The Commander scowled.

"Who was there?" he asked, suddenly serious, and stepped out to look at the road. There was no one there already.

Maxwell swallowed. He shouldn't have said what he did, should he have. Somehow, that only made things worse even if he didn't know what exactly made the Commander's guard jump up like that.

"Just… two ordinary people from here…" he tried to explain. When Cullen's face didn't change, not even a bit, he let it go. "Okay, okay! Fine. It was only Varric and Leliana. Must you be that persuasive…"

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Cullen sighed and finally relaxed.

"And here I thought we were already having problems. You should have told me from the beginning," he said. "There is no visible threat for us now, but we should always be on our guard, or one day we may find ourselves facing things we are not prepared for."

Maxwell opened his mouth and closed it again. How hadn't he thought about it sooner? If this 'something I should not disturb' had seemed to him as something private between two people, the Commander saw it immediately as a possible threat. Of course he did, being the Commander and all.

"I take it, you never had to look out for a lot of people before," Cullen said.

"No," the man admitted. "What happened there, I thought it was… special… you know? So I decided I probably had no right to talk about it."

"Special?" Cullen repeated, sounding unsure. "Special like…" his face lit with sudden realization. "Oh! No. No, it is not like that. At least I don't think so."

"It isn't?"

The Commander chuckled, and Maxwell caught himself enjoying the sound. He shrugged internally at the random thought and dismissed it.

"Such a way to end the day," Cullen glanced at the horizon, a small smile still present on his face. Then he looked back at Maxwell and shook his head. "No, as far as I know, Varric is loyal to his Bianca."

"To…"

"His crossbow."

Maxwell felt his brows rise in surprise.

"Oh…" he dropped his head to watch his feet. This was becoming awkward really fast... Fortunately, the Commander seemed to get a similar thought.

"I think it would be better for you to get some rest now," he said.

Maxwell nodded with a quiet 'yeah' and started walking towards the door. It dawned upon him too late that he should have probably invited the Commander inside instead of staying behind the house in cold snow. But at least the conversation wasn't that bad. Yeah, definitely, he decided.

And stopped on the spot, the door closing behind him with a dull sound.

If there was nothing private happening, then there was a problem. And this problem was serious, if both Varric's and Leliana's looks were anything to go by. Maxwell took the blanket off and dropped it on the bed, wondering if he should have told the Commander about that.

The temperature wasn't as cruel in the morning as it had been during the night. Maxwell even left his house without the blanket, which, he supposed, would only add needless weight on his journey to Redcliffe. Besides, as far as he knew, there were no horses in Haven to carry his stuff for him. The development of the Inquisition had only started, and time would pass before he had his personal steed. Or, at least, that's what Cassandra had told him when she visited him early that morning. Maxwell wasn't fond of the idea of walking all the way to Redcliffe, but he supposed he had no other options.

Cassandra also told him only four people would be going, him and her included, so maybe they would find someone to help them on the road. The other two people turned out to be Varric and Solas, and Maxwell felt relieved when he found out the dwarf would be coming along. He was still concerned with the events of the previous evening and hoped Varric would throw light upon the matter.

White snowflakes were falling from the sky slowly and peacefully, the Breach shining dully behind the clouds and sending rare stripes of green to the ground. Here, so far away from the vortex, with calm wind blowing from the side and snow crunching under his feet, Maxwell felt safe. It was a false feeling, of course, yet he found himself surrendering to it from time to time. If he stopped thinking about the actual danger, he could even find the Breach captivating. Which is a bad thought to have, he told himself each time.

He still had a couple of hours before taking off to Redcliffe as Cassandra had other duties at hand. She suggested (or more like ordered) practicing his skills while she was busy, and as a warrior Maxwell was never against fighting. He also supposed it would be clever to ask Solas about his mark, but that could wait: the elf would be travelling with him anyway. Plenty of time.

He wasn't surprised to find the Commander among the practicing recruits. As far as Maxwell knew, Cullen was their best teacher, and judging by what the man was seeing, he was great at this. The Commander was standing in the middle of his little battleground, surrounded by a dozen of practicing men, another dozen sitting nearby on a pile of planks and having a break. He looked extremely tired for such an early hour, and Maxwell wondered if he'd ever slept last night.

"Commander!" he called, approaching. Cullen looked up and nodded in greeting.

"What brings you here?" he asked when Maxwell got close enough. "I thought you had a serious trip planned for today."

"Yeah, I have one planned," Maxwell agreed. "Cassandra has things to take care of first, so I came here to test my skills," he fell quiet for a couple of seconds and then pointed at the direction of the practicing men with his thumb. "Looks like our recruits got themselves a great teacher."

"I just had a lot of practice. And there are a few people helping me from time to time," Cullen simply answered, although the pleased glint in his eyes betrayed him instantly. It looked like the Commander wasn't used to hearing kind words to his address.

"It certainly takes more than that to have them all reach this level in such a small period of time," Maxwell shook his head. The words made Cullen smile more openly, yet he still chose to deny the praise verbally. He probably knew it was completely pointless.

"No, I uh…" he looked away. "If you're looking for practice, you're most welcome."

"Thank you," Maxwell said.

He went into a tent to pick a weapon, leaving the Commander mildly embarrassed and undoubtedly awkward. That, however, was a far better look on him than the one he'd had a couple of minutes ago. Maxwell could proudly pat himself on the shoulder.

The tent looked bigger on the inside than on the outside, with several wooden racks full of weapons that were waiting to be picked. Maxwell walked about for several minutes, trying to choose one. The Trevelyan family had hired a teacher for him when he was a clumsy child. Maxwell had had no fighting experience back then, so a lot of his lessons ended with scratches and bruises, most of which he inflicted himself by accident. Sometimes they had hurt so bad he wanted to stop, lying in his small bed in the corner of a dark room, crying. That wish of his had never left the four walls: a Trevelyan had no right to show his weaknesses in front of other people. Besides, with time he'd learned to ignore pain and actually had lots of fun. Years passed, and Maxwell had grown into a skilled fighter – or, at least, that's what people had used to tell him. He personally always saw little things here and there that he needed to improve.

Upon stepping out from the tent, holding a sword and a shield (the mark on his hand pulsed with disagreement), the man easily found a bunch of opponents as several of the recruits recognized who he was and asked him for a fight. Maxwell had a number of quick matches, during all of which he had to hold himself back. Cullen was a good teacher, as were the ones helping him, but Maxwell had been practicing for all his life, and these recruits were next to new in the whole fighting thing. Some of them were better than others, but still not good enough, and in the end Maxwell was teaching others more than practicing himself. And he liked it.

The Commander noticed his eagerness to teach and stepped away to rest among the recruits, finally having his moment of peace. However, contrary to expectations, the more Maxwell fought, the less comfortable Cullen became until he finally wasn't able to sit quietly anymore and stood up.

"Hold it!" he ordered, and the recruit whom Maxwell was teaching froze mid-attack.

The Commander approached them quickly, looking unsettled and somewhat excited.

"I want to fight you," he stated bluntly, and men stopped their fighting to stare at them.

"To practice?" Maxwell asked, smiling. Apparently, the Commander liked his battle skills enough to want to test them himself.

"No. Yes…" Cullen stopped talking for a moment. "I want you to show me your full strength."

Maxwell's smile evolved into a proud grin. This was getting interesting, and he was up for a challenge. It was like both he and the Commander suddenly felt the same desire, a desire to battle against a worthy opponent. To see who was better.

"Of course, Commander, I'll do it with pleasure," he answered, bowing slightly. Cullen smirked and raised his sword.

The recruits forgot about their practice as soon as the Herald of Andraste and the Commander clashed in a duel. Most of them stepped back just in case because both of them looked like there was nothing real beyond their fight.

It'd been a long while since Maxwell last fought an opponent like this. He wasn't even sure he'd ever met somebody as strong as the Commander. Where he attacked, Cullen would block without any difficulty; where Cullen stroke, he'd dodge and strike right back only to be blocked again. And the more his attacks were blocked, the more excited Maxwell became, his movements getting sharper and faster with each lunge. He realized he was grinning, and so was the Commander, and from the frequent and enthusiastic glances the man kept shooting him Maxwell understood that this was exactly what he wanted. No matter what had happened to make the Commander stay awake at night, this was his cure. Maxwell decided he only had one thing to add.

In the middle of a dodge he deliberately slipped and fell back clumsily, letting go of his sword. The sharp tip of a blade instantly pressed to his chest, ending the fight. Above him the Commander was laughing light-heartedly.

"I won," he declared, lowering his weapon and reaching his free hand out to offer Maxwell help. His help was quickly accepted, the Herald's fingers clasping around his wrist confidently. The gesture didn't seem to confuse Cullen even a bit, and a moment later Maxwell was standing on his feet, shaking off the snow.

"I let you win," he corrected, even though he was sure he made his loss look pretty natural. He just wanted to keep some dignity.

"I am aware of that," Cullen agreed, confusing him completely. Maxwell froze, looking up again.

"You… are?" he asked reluctantly. "How did you understand?"

"Well," Cullen sheathed his sword, his chest heaving. "Our fight wasn't exactly short, and such a mistake looked too convenient to be unintentional. You weren't tired. You never lost your guard or your balance."

Maxwell took his answer in, looking mildly surprised. Then, after a brief moment, he offered a small smile.

"You're okay with that?" he asked.

"No," the Commander answered, mirroring the expression. "Any other day I would be very disappointed. But… I understand that today you had your reasons to end our fight in such a way."

…did he see right through me or something? Maxwell wondered.

There was a moment of silence, during which they both seemed to realize they were still standing in the middle of the training ground, surrounded by shocked recruits and other people they had attracted with their fighting. Not to mention they were looking at each other and smiling without any particular reason. There was a reason, but Maxwell doubted anybody would understand.

The Commander coughed and hid his smile carefully, returning to his old self-composed state. But even as he did that, his eyes never lost their glint entirely, and Maxwell was happy he'd managed to be of help. The next time Cullen addressed his recruits, he sounded way more optimistic, which seemed to charge his men as well.

"Come take a break with me," the Commander called Maxwell after a while. "I need to talk to you."

Cullen led him to a pile of planks covered with several thick pieces of old, faded red cloth. All recruits were practicing now, so there was a lot of free space for both men. They sat down on the highest plank, their feet hardly touching the ground. Maxwell noticed that neither he, nor the Commander minded.

Having not much else to do, he picked a green apple from a nearby bowl and sank his teeth into it. Sour juice filled his mouth instantly.

"You fought well," the Commander said. "I really enjoyed it. To tell the truth, I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a fight that much. I'm not even sure that ever happened."

"I know," Maxwell answered, and then he suddenly couldn't stop talking. "I feel the same way exactly. Been a while since I enjoyed a fight at all... Especially since the day my family decided to make me a templar. I loved fighting when I was a kid, so I was quite successful in it, practicing day and night like a fanatic. Child's passion, you know?" He frowned, observing the practicing recruits. "After their decision it all became something I had to do. Things that you like stop being your favorite when they're forced upon you. Funny, because I never actually made it to the Chantry."

There was no response for a while, and Maxwell bit his lip, wondering if his sudden burst of speech startled the Commander into shock or irritation. It was just that he knew now that they shared the fighting passion, and it kind of made him forget about all his worries... The man threw what he expected to be a quick glance at Cullen, ending up watching him closely instead. There was something written on that face, but the letters were twisted, and he couldn't read them.

"You didn't want to become one, then," Cullen said, his eyes locked on the ground and voice quiet.

"Not really, no," Maxwell agreed. "I wasn't the only child in the family, and I thought the Chantry would only limit my freedom. Not to mention I didn't believe in the Maker."

"Do you now?"

"Do I what? Still think that or believe in the Maker?"

"Both."

"Well… " Maxwell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I think I'd be trapped in endless duties, yes. But now it's not only about that, I guess. The war and all. As for the Maker," he bit the apple again, thoughtful, "I don't know. There's the Breach, life, magic, real demons and such, so there should be something that gave birth to all of that. Which is kind of mortifying, I mean, imagine that there's some force that makes all of this come into motion, and beyond it there's nothing. People in the Chantry talk about the Maker like he's a person, a father. That's just one man, it's scary. I don't want to believe in that."

"I see," Cullen nodded and fell silent.

"Did you want to become a templar?" Maxwell asked a moment later, not quite sure if he picked the right time to ask about that; still, the silence was making him nervous. He felt like things would go completely terrible if he kept sitting there with his mouth shut.

"Yes," the Commander answered, looking up and at him hesitantly. "I was eager, actually; wanted to protect those in need. I used to beg the templars at our local chantry to teach me and must've shown promise, because the knight-captain asked my parents to let me learn. I was thirteen at the time."

We were completely different, Maxwell thought. While he was aware of many people wanting to become templars, he never entirely understood it. A person didn't need to become a templar in order to save people, and he saw the Chantry more as a society of religious people who wanted to have a direction. A purpose. They didn't want to believe they were alone in the world, so they chose to worship something they'd never even seen before. And if he started digging deeper, thinking about them and the mages, it stopped making sense at all.

"In the end, aren't you protecting everyone from the Maker himself?" he asked.

Cullen didn't answer, and after a while Maxwell decided not to push any further. He took another apple from the bowl, a red one, and offered it to the Commander. The man eyed it thoughtfully for a couple of seconds and then took it, nodding in a quiet sign of gratitude.

Cassandra found them sitting there, eating in silence. She hadn't forgotten to put on her permanent scowl, but Maxwell was already used to that. He caught himself thinking he'd become worried if it disappeared.

"Commander," she greeted Cullen and turned to Maxwell, her face becoming even colder, "…and you. Everything is ready. We should head out."

"Of course," Maxwell answered without getting much offended. He understood her lack of trust, even if it made him tense all the time. Bless their first meeting. "I've been ready all morning."

"Good," she said, watching him hop off the pile of planks, an unfinished apple still in hand.

"Be safe there," the Commander stood up, his face perfectly neutral. "I shall return to the recruits. And thank you for helping me earlier."

"My pleasure," Maxwell smiled. "I'd love to practice here more often, if you don't mind."

He was surprised to see how the Commander changed as soon as Cassandra came. There was no sign of his sad thoughtfulness anymore, no more hesitation or uncertainty. There was only a man who had his duties and nothing else. That made Maxwell's smile falter a little: he'd thought the advisors were closer than that. Cassandra, however, didn't seem or care to notice.

"Of course," Cullen said. "You are always welcome."

Upon saying their hasty goodbyes, Cassandra took Maxwell to the gates. The latter felt rather reluctant to leave the practicing ground, and the air became even tenser now when he remembered what was lying ahead of them.

"You helped our Commander?" Cassandra asked, interrupting his line of thought.

"A little," Maxwell answered. "I think I've found my place in Haven. Something I can help you with."

"That is a good thing to hear," the Seeker noted. She didn't bother to look at him, but he could swear her voice sounded lighter. "I have witnessed you in battle, and I must admit I am very impressed."

Maxwell stumbled upon a small rock and almost fell down.

"Really?" He asked, suspicious. That was the first time Cassandra ever approved of him… or anything to that matter. He must've wandered into another dimension just now.

"The Inquisition is still young," the Seeker said. "The only man capable of teaching the recruits is our Commander. And he has a lot on him even without that. Your help is much appreciated."

She spared him a glance that lacked its usual mistrust, and Maxwell took it as a small victory. He smiled in return, which made Cassandra look away swiftly, her lips pursed in a thin line. I thought you didn't trust me, he wanted to say, but there was a huge chance she'd agree with that.

"Thank you," he said instead. No answer came back, and the man decided he'd let it go; he'd gotten his 'almost praise' anyway.

The gates came into his view soon after, Varric and Solas standing by it and looking all set and excited- though in case of Solas it was more calm and curious. The elf probably had as many questions about the mark as Maxwell did, and the man wouldn't be taken aback if it turned out little bothered Solas beyond that. Still, he wouldn't call that a bad thing since the elf seemed to know more than anyone around, and while the episode at the Conclave had made Maxwell jump on his spot, now he was rather happy to have Solas by his side.

He was glad to see Varric as well; the dwarf would be a welcome distraction from the tough reality. Storytellers had it in them, that spark of light that brightened even the darkest of times. And honestly speaking, Maxwell suspected he'd go mad without a happy face nearby.

…he still thought he'd go mad after walking all the way to Redcliffe on foot.

"Let's go," Cassandra strode past them, not even looking back to see if they followed.

Maxwell stared at Varric, and the dwarf shook his head, smiling.

"This is going to be a long day," he said, patting his crossbow. "I hope you're prepared for it. Believe this humble dwarf, I spent quite a lot of time with our Seeker. She doesn't get very happy when things go wrong."

"I can imagine," Maxwell agreed. His mark pulsed slightly, and he bent his fingers to touch it.