It was raining- those fat, cold droplets particular to Ferelden springtime that fell vengefully from the sky. The commander had grown up with it, and despite long years in the comparative warmth of Kirkwall, would forever be accustomed to that freezing rain worming through the breaks in his armor, rolling in icy rivulets down his spine and pooling in his boots. He could, if he so chose, stand under the overhang of the nearby tavern roof. The soldiers would still be able to hear him, and he could catch a little of the warmth spilling through the open door.
Soldiers respected a commander who subjected himself to the same hardships as his men, though, and so Cullen was splattered in just as much mud and misery as the rest of them. Chilled nearly to the bone, he paced behind the line of straw-stuffed practice dummies, eyeing strikes and stances.
"Tighten your grips!" he barked as someone's sword clattered into the mud, likely fallen from numbing fingers. "Corypheus will not stop for the cold, and neither will we. You will be as relentless as the demons, or you will fall. Again!"
Another half hour, Cullen told himself, and they could crowd into Skyhold's little tavern and warm themselves. He'd arranged for hot meals to be ready when the soldiers finished their daily drills, and though he couldn't show it, he was as eager as any of them to get out of the rain. Just another half hour-
A sudden cry went up along the wall, barely audible over the clang of swords and the ceaseless thud of rain but just loud enough to catch his attention. He looked to the watchtowers, in time to see a scout hurrying down the stone steps. She sprinted across the yard, up the stairs into the keep proper. Further away, in the lower courtyard, the heavy iron gate began to rise. He could hear the rattling clank of the chains.
Some dignitary had arrived, then. One of many in an endless parade of ambassadors and minor nobility, come to swear fealty to the Herald of Andraste. Soon enough the yard would be full of some new lord's entourage, the tavern swarmed with a flock of attendants. These nobles never traveled with fewer than fifty attendants. Best to call it a day, get his soldiers fed and dried before it was too late and there was nowhere left to sit.
"Alright, that's good enough for today," Cullen called. As a grateful sigh went up around him, he began to herd the weary fighters towards the tavern. "Wring yourselves out and get something in your bellies."
As the soldiers filed past Cullen lingered a moment near the door, just long enough to let the heat and light soak through his plate. It was a terrible choice, he realized as he turned and started towards Skyhold's entrance. A brief moment's warmth made the cold just that much worse.
He trudged towards the lower courtyard, expecting to see a jumble of wagons and horses and porters collecting at the gate below. What he found instead, when he reached the wall and looked down, was a single mounted figure, hood drawn up against the downpour, plodding towards the stable. A mabari hound trotted close at the horse's heels.
There was a splashing behind him, and he turned to see Josephine and Leliana hurrying past. Rather than her usual candle-bearing board, the ambassador clutched a parasol over her head; the spymaster relied only on her ever-present cowl to keep the rain away.
"Come, commander," Jospehine called over her shoulder as she and Leliana started quickly down the steps. "I think you'll be most interested in our new arrival!"
"I could have continued my drills," he muttered to himself, sighing and trudging after the two women. He couldn't quite bring himself to match their speed or enthusiasm to go dashing through the mud.
The stable was no warmer than the yard, but at least it was dry. Once inside, before giving any attention to their visitor, Cullen peeled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt; flexed cold-stiffened fingers. He slicked wet curls out of his eyes, hoping he might cut a somewhat intimidating figure but suspecting he might have look more the half-drowned nug. Finally, he turned to see what sort of solitary visitor would require all three advisors' attention.
"I must say, we weren't expecting you to arrive so soon," Josephine was saying. Whoever she was addressing was facing away from them, bent and working at the straps of the dripping horse's saddle.
"We weren't expecting you to arrive at all," Leliana amended. "For such an important figure, you're impossible to find."
Dennett hurried over, genially waving away the hooded figure and leading the steed towards a nearby empty stall. The visitor swept their hood back, revealing hair so black it shone nearly blue in the torchlight, coiled into a thick braid and pinned at the crown of her head.
"Come now, Leliana," she said, turning to reveal a glimpse of Grey Warden armor beneath the cloak, stripes of gleaming silverite and blue-tinted leather. Her voice, an echo from another life, stopped Cullen's heart. "You of all people should have known to ask Alistair from the start. He always knows how to find me."
"I did," Leliana said flatly. "We went to him first. He claimed he had no idea."
The Warden snorted. "Of course he did. Loyal to a fault, that man, but even ten years a king and he hasn't the sense the Maker gave a rock."
"Lyanna," Cullen said, half a question.
"Yes, ser... Maker's tits." The curse dropped past of her lips as soon as she saw him, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Her eyes flicked to Leliana, a silent accusation, then back to Cullen.
"I would have told you he was here if you bothered to answer any of my summons," the spymaster said dryly. "But you didn't."
"More the fool me, I suppose," Lyanna murmured. Her eyes narrowed a nearly imperceptible amount, considering her next move.
Shifting uneasily in his armor, at an utter loss for words, Cullen glanced down at the hay and sawdust strewn floor of the stable.
"Warden-Commander Amell," Josephine cut in smoothly, stepping forward. "We were unprepared for your arrival, I'm afraid we have no quarters ready for one of your station."
Finally she pulled her gaze away from Cullen, and offered an easy shrug at Josephine. "I honestly don't care where you put me, sirrah...?"
"Josephine Montilyet," she supplied cheerily. "You may call me Josie, if you wish."
The Warden smiled warmly. "Lovely, Josie. You could put me in the most thread-bare of bunks in an overcrowded barracks, and it would be ten times the bed I've have in the last few months. Andraste's sake, just give me a hot meal and get me out of this damned rain."
"We can absolutely arrange that, and do you one better than a threadbare soldier's cot. A private room, near the baths?" Josie offered, gesturing vaguely behind her towards the keep proper.
Sighing contentedly, Lyanna nodded. "Perfection," she said.
"You, ah... you ladies seem to have this under control," Cullen cut in, and nearly shriveled into his breastplate when three sets of eyes turned towards him. "I-i-i.. I'll leave you to it," he stammered, backing through the wide stable door and turning on his heel to beat a hasty retreat across the rain-soaked courtyard.
The rain ceased late in the evening, clouds clearing away to reveal the moons hanging low and heavy just above the mountains. Their silver light fell through the narrow window and across the desk in soft contrast to the warmth of the wall sconce. A cool wind drifted through, just enough to make its chill presence known but not so strong as to blow out the fat candles at the edge of the desk.
Cullen was still but for the idle tapping of one gloved finger against the arm of his chair. Chin in hand, fingers curled against his lips, the commander stared unseeing at the reports stacked before him. For most of the evening, he had been able to hurl himself into his duties; missives hastily written and passed off to couriers, reports read and notated for the Inquisitor to read upon her return from the Approach.
Now, though, in the silence that had fallen after the rain and the castle going night-still around him, he had no choice but he think about Lyanna Amell. They had not parted on the best of terms, but that was in a different life, a life he didn't much like to remember. It had been years since he'd given much thought to the woman who became the Hero of Ferelden. When he had known her, many years ago in a far away tower, she had been only a youthful apprentice with whom he had shared a brief and ill-advised infatuation.
Then, not a month prior Varric had appeared in Cullen's office, brandy in hand. The dwarf had teased the story from Cullen with ease, claiming Cassandra needed his memories to better aid her search for the wayward Warden Commander. In retrospect, Cullen had begun to suspect the roguish writer of merely prying to sate his own morbid curiosity. In the weeks since, Cullen frequently found himself idly wondering what had become of her, even once or twice dreaming of her as he had not for quite some time.
And now, as though summoned from the depths of history by the mere mention of her name, Lyanna was at Skyhold. Somewhere in the castle, closer than she had been in more than a decade, she was settling into bed in the best rooms Josie could drum up on short notice. Should he search her out? he wondered, and decided immediately against it. Her reaction to his presence had seemed... less than pleased. All he could manage to do was fidget in the doorway and turn red to his ears, then flee like a terrified boy. Huffing a sigh, Cullen closed his eyes.
He did not open them when the tower door creaked open, accompanied by a light knock.
"Corypheus himself better be at the gates," he grunted, eyebrows knitting in irritation. "It's very late."
"Oh, er... I can come back in the morning."
Of course it was Lyanna. Eyes snapping open, Cullen gracelessly pushed to his feet.
"No, I, ah, no," he said, cleared his throat, tried again, "Sorry, ma'am, please, sit. It's fine."
She pursed her lips. "Ma'am?"
"Maker take it," he breathed, pressing a thumb forefinger into his eyes and inhaling deeply. Twelve years gone and still she turned him into a stammering child. Ridiculous.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said, her voice closer. He guessed she stood just on the other side of the desk. "Leliana told me where I might find you, and I saw the candle still lit in your window. I'd hoped I might catch you before you retired for the evening."
"You're not disturbing me," he replied, lowering his hand to look at her.
No longer was she a cloistered mage, that much was apparent in the sinewy strength of her. There was grey in her dark hair, two wings of it at her temples. Her skin had lost the near-transparent paleness particular to tower mages; her high cheekbones and what he could see of her finely muscled arms bore the telltale reddish tint of one who spent the majority of their time out-of-doors. A thin scar followed the line of her jaw, just below her right ear nearly to her chin.
She was as much a warrior as he was, now. Yet softly lit by the candles, her armor replaced by a simple woolen dress, she was painfully familiar in her demeanor and expression. Still nearly as tall as he was, still slender, though that slimness was fleshed out with new muscle. Her eyes, bright blue, were the same. Her smile and her voice were the same.
"I only..." she started, then stopped, hands going to her hips as she reconsidered her words. "It's been a very long time, Cullen."
"It has," he agreed. For lack of anything else to do with them, he folded his hands at the small of his back.
"I was... surprised... to see you in the stable," she said. "I suppose I assumed you'd remained a Templar all these years, though I sometimes wondered."
That caused something to flicker in his chest, at the hollow of his throat. "I left the order after... when I joined the Inquisition."
The subtle lift of her brow betrayed her curiosity, but she did not pry. A small blessing; he wasn't sure he could tell her anything of his time in Kirkwall just yet. Or ever.
"Well, I won't keep you," she said, glancing down at her fingers, twisting them together. "I just thought we deserved a better greeting."
"Hm," he murmured in reply. His eyes were drawn to her hands, and noticed for the first time that the last two fingers of her left hand ended at the first knuckle. He felt an odd pang of sadness at that, though still her hands were graceful even as they nervously fidgeted near her waist. Maker, nervously? Could she possibly be as off-kilter as he was? He tore his gaze away from the alluring tangle of her fingers, found her watching him.
Color rose high on his cheeks and at the tips of his ears, and he prayed the candlelight was dim enough to hide it. "Er... yes. I..."
"Good night, Cullen," she said, a smile quirking her lips. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes, you too. Good night, I mean."
Lyanna backed up a step, then turned and started for the door. Cullen began to sit, exhausted, but went rigid when he saw her pause at the exit.
"I think," she said, one hand resting on the door frame, "I think I'm glad we've crossed paths again."
Then she was gone, sweeping into the night as though she had never been.