AN: This work of fiction was completed for the celebration of 1000 pages on the Cullen Discussion Thread on the BioWare Social Network. I am much too late for the celebration because my laptop cord decided to break, but I am eager to show this to my fellow Cullenites. There has never been a finer group of people, and I am proud to know them.

I would like to thank R2s Muse for taking time out of her days to read over my story offering critique, advice, and for being a down-right awesome person. When you have a moment, take a look at her page. She is a wonderful writer, and shares a love for Dragon Age and everyone's favorite Knight Captain Cullen.

Now, onto the story...

Preserve Us

Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.

-Transfigurations

"Ugh, what a shit day."

The Inquisitor had to agree with the dwarf. A routine patrol turned into a nightmare. One moment the pair was gossiping over the actual purpose of Vivienne's headpiece, ("I swear, on my mother's life, Inquisitor," he insisted, "they're antenna! She can sense when an outfit doesn't match! Every Orlesian is born with them. Mustache's and headpieces just cover them up!"), then bandits swooped down declaring an attack. That was a bonus in Orlais – an enemy was polite enough to announce themselves. Varric's amazing crossbow picked off the few hiding up on a cliff's edge, and Trevelyan's spells obliterated those on the ground. When a bandit came too close, she would summon her arcane swords and meet them head-on. Varric thought it was insane a mage could just throw herself in the midst of battle, and never failed to voice his opinion on the matter.

His human companion then pointed out that his horse had run off in the middle of the battle. Trevelyan smirked at him then, daring Varric to dig himself into a deeper hole. Pride did not carry a dwarf thirty miles back home, but schmoozing got him almost anywhere. He only wished his charm worked on the Inquisitor.

"All you have to do is ask, Varric," she smiled, amused.

"Ask? Madam, to just ask insults my very nature."

"So you would rather have me pretend to swoon even though I am dying inside?"

"Well, that's a bit over dramatic don't you think?"

"Varric, I'm actually hurting a great deal so if you could just get your ass up on the horse that would be great."

Varric was not completely used to riding horseback to get around. Sitting with one's legs spread for so long atop an animal is not what nature intended. Plus, he was sure the beasts could sense his apprehension – bucking randomly, and the nickering that followed the dwarf's panic solidified his belief. Trevelyan made it look easy, even as sore and tired as she was from her casting. Luckily a lyrium potion was found in the dwarf's pack to give her a boost, and while it helped, a full gallop back home was out of the question. He caught her wincing now and then trying to shift in the saddle without his notice; times like these made Varric miss Blondie. He would scold a fellow mage for refusing to learn something as vital as healing magic.

"Well, we've missed dinner," Varric sighed.

Trevelyan gazed through the trees, and groaned when she saw that night had fallen.

"Cassandra will be livid," she muttered.

"Hey, maybe she'll be too tired to lecture you!"

The glare she threw made him laugh.

"Okay, maybe not. She'll probably beat the shit out of you."

"Perfect end to a perfect day."

"Do I treat my ladies well or what, Inquisitor?"

Laced thick with sarcasm, the mage replied, "Oh, you are the man of my dreams, Varric."

Varric could not help it. Really, he couldn't. It was not in his nature to let a matter this juicy slide when an opportunity arose.

Plus the development was taking way too long, and Varric decided to push the story forward.

So he smirked, proceeding in a low voice: "Oh, I know who you're dreaming of, Inquisitor."

She turned as far as the saddle would let her, leathers creaking, and quirked a fine red brow. That voice never lead to anything good.

"There is a certain…" Varric slowly spun, "ah, gentleman whom as caught your attention, yes? A fine one, I'm sure. You watch him when you think no one else is looking. It's romantic, really."

"Varric…"

"But also a bit creepy, you might want to tone it down a bit, princess."

"Varric."

"But you should see him look at you! Oho!" he laughed. "It's glorious!"

"Varric!"

"I was thinking of writing an epic romance, tell me what you think: two star-crossed lovers, watching from afar, oblivious, but when they finally come together it is game of naughty mage and stoic templar."

Getting shoved off the horse was worth it.

It was late before the pair set sights on the fortress they called home for the moment. One of many claimed by the Inquisition, this one was nestled in the mountains. The location was unnerving to say the least: travelers must brave narrow paths laden with snow that never melts, while praying to whatever gods they believed in that no rain had fallen to slicken the stone. Then, a long tapered bridge lead to the immense fort, which sat on a smaller mountain – a runt compared to its massive cousins. When the Inquisitor first came upon it, she was stricken by its loneliness and beauty. Now she hated it. Even so, she fleetingly admired the orange aura of life emanating from within the fort, stroking the edge of darkness. The stars above seemed to welcome them home, and for a moment Trevelyan felt content.

The gatekeeper signaled the Inquisitor's return, and aids rushed to them healing wounds and offering casual wear warmed by magical fires that never went out. Armor was taken away to be repaired, soup was sipped, and Cassandra yelled at them for being irresponsible.

"Inquisitor, it is your duty to lead these men, yet you gallivant off on patrol to gossip with the dwarf whenever you please!"

"I have a name, madam!" Varric cried in mock offense.

"This is the second time you have been attacked. You must take more people with you, or leave it to those more prepared! This mission is paramount, Inquisitor." Cassandra huffed. "A responsibility so great it landed on a mage that's barely seen daylight…"

Trevelyan's posture changed just enough for Varric to scoot to the far end of the bench. She stood, eyeing the heavily armored woman sharply. The courtyard had gone silent.

"Cassandra," she said, "while I do appreciate your forthrightness, I do not approve being lectured in front of my men."

She was calm, but there was a bite in her tone that made the Seeker's eyes narrow. They stared each other down, their breath clouding in the crisp air between them like two rams ready to clash. Varric saw the mage's hand flash green.

"U-uh, ladies?" he called.

Feral glares shot to him but Varric just smiled, unfazed as usual.

"Now, now, let's not fight in front of the kiddies, hm?"

"Sure," Trevelyan said. "I am willing to drop it."

Cassandra balked. "How dare-!"

But the woman grabbed her cloak and excused herself in a flourish, slamming the door behind her. The Seeker turned her less-than-amused gaze back to Varric as the normal volume of a busy courtyard returned.

"What?"

"You need to stop coddling her, Varric," she said. "We need a leader in this fight, not a child."

"I figured I would leave the discipline to you."

"Varric."

"Look Seeker, I agree that she's a bit…spoiled. But she has gotten better, you have to admit that."

"She could be so much more, Varric."

"Eh, give her some time," said the dwarf, and returned to his soup.

"We don't have time."

"Seeker…" Varric smirked. "I am sure once she finds the right inspiration, it will be no time at all."

Cassandra knew that voice, and it never lead to anything good.

Inside, servants finished their day's work. Once empty and cold, the mountain fortress now bustled with people. It was a well oiled machine, servants and soldiers working day and night with their various duties. The Inquisitor was in time to see the last of the torches extinguished; only a few would be left alight for the night patrol.

Trevelyan was still sore, and eager to fall into her soft bed – unfortunately, she remembered the debriefing a certain military advisor wished to give her that evening. And she was late. She caught a servant's attention, asking for the advisor's location, which she directed her to a set of stairs the mage swore she had never seen before.

"That's new," she commented.

"Yes, ma'am," said the elven woman. "The armoire that was once there blocked the entrance. The stairs lead down to a rather quaint little Chantry."

"Oh. And what happened to the armoire?"

She blushed, ears drooping slightly in embarrassment. "I am afraid Dorian was…"

Trevelyan rubbed her eyes, "Showing off?"

"Yes, ma'am. It was quite impressive…until the armoire started slamming its doors on his fingers."

"A possessed armoire. Great. I assume he took care of the issue?"

The elven woman said he had, and satisfied, Trevelyan descended the narrow stairway silently cursing the Tevinter mage. She liked that armoire.

Unlike the others in the fortress, this stairway corkscrewed at a steep angle. The descent made her dizzy, and she had to balance herself on the walls. It grew darker and for a moment Trevelyan thought she would have to light her staff to see. Just before she reached for the clasp holding it to her back, her view opened up to a surprising sight. Trevelyan had just stepped inside a Chantry built on the side of the mountain fort. And her military adviser was already here.

The Chantry was humble, barely the size of a farmer's shack. This gave the impression it was added on as an afterthought: out of the way, small, insignificant. It did not have the same grandeur as the rest of the fort that is for certain. The stone was darker, but touching the walls did not leave one's fingers feeling dry. If they were stones of the river from the waterfall flowing just outside, then this Chantry was a quick add-on by its previous owners – perhaps to hinder outbursts from a judgmental aunt. Everything in the room had a sense of not belonging, as if they were borrowed for that aunt's visit and never returned to their home Chantry as promised. The pews took up too much space and the wood was splitting from years without care. A tapestry hanging proudly on the center wall displayed the Maker's symbol in a faded glory. Its hem was frayed, the divine red now a dusty pink; yet somehow, the golden accents still shimmered in the full moon's light pouring through the windows.

Ah, yes. The windows were a surprise.

In the Chantry where the Inquisitor grew up, the windows were absent of color – just square sections of glass broken up by harsh steel. To her, it had felt like a prison looking out through those empty panes. The mage felt patronized when the Circle's sister would sing of the Maker's love when none of it was to be seen. This Chantry's windows, however, were different: every color, any shape, any size was harmonized together in the six lancets. They exuded warmth and beauty, a celebration of wonder in the Maker's world. It was peculiar that so much work was put into them while the rest of the room did not have the same care. Each was an array of color piercing through the grey, cold world.

Att he calm center of the room, kneeling before the worn tapestry was Cullen. He had not heard her approach. If this was the templar's time to pray, she decided the matter could wait until morning. She carefully began her climb back up, her mind already on her warm bed up three flights of stairs.

Trevelyan never made it past the second step.

The song was a whisper past her ear. It was not shy or insecure, just a soft flow of notes barely touching the walls. A voice testing its form after a very long day of talking. Yet after a few moments, the volume grew and the humble Chantry soon echoed with a voice – Cullen's voice. He was a clear, strong tenor. The small space amplified his song, reverberating off the walls giving the illusion of a chorus harmonizing with him. Appropriately, Cullen reached forth with his right hand, and moved it in the familiar form of Andraste's blessing.

It took her many years, but the Inquisitor soon learned that everyone had their own kind of magic. Cullen weaved the Chant so beautifully like a seasoned enchanter. It was nearly effortless. She found herself to be a bit envious of the man's talent; the Inquisitor's magic was a bit more literal…and she was tone-deaf.

Though lately, the green glow which emitted from her left hand caused her great unease. While it was used to draw any Veil Tear closed, the whispers of demons have become more persistent. This power, whatever it was, is a lure to greater evils attempting to draw her away from this world.

"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,
And be Forgiven."

Trevelyan shook off her reverie with in a sudden rush of embarrassment. The last verse of the Trials was at an end. Prayer was normally a solitary practice, and she had just watched a man pour his soul to the Maker. She had to leave before Cullen saw her.

The ever-present staff on her back, however, clanged loudly against the iron brazier at her side when she made for the stairs.

"Shit," she muttered.

"Inquisitor?"

The distinct sound of a sword slipping back into its sheath sent a cold chill up her shoulders. A cold sweat broke on Trevelyan's neck, and she shrunk behind the stone pillar at his approach. What was she afraid of? This was Cullen. He was a gentleman: he offered his hand to help her out of a carriage, he pulled out her chair, he…Varric said Cullen watched her.

"Ma'am?"

Her head shot up, only to find him looking down at the green light emanating from her hand.

He was a templar.

"I…forgive me," muttered Trevelyan. She quickly tucked her hand under her arm.

"Oh. I was only blessing this Chantry for use." Cullen motioned to where he had sat moments ago.

"Isn't that Revered Mother Teresa's job?"

He seemed to resist rolling his eyes, sighing instead.

"She declared it unfit."

Trevelyan frowned, "It's certainly a sight better than most."

For a moment she stood, nearly bouncing on her feet in frustration. The Mother was proud, capricious, and short-sighted; not to mention, Orlesian. If something went wrong, she would go off on a tangent claiming it was punishment for what the mages have done. If a room was not immaculate she and Vivienne would screech like demons. Preventing Solas and Dorian from sending the Mother through the Veil was difficult because the idea was becoming more appealing. Cassandra, Varric, even Cullen were beginning to side-eye the woman. If a Revered Mother suddenly disappeared on the Inquisition's doorstep, or was dismissed, then it reflected badly on the organization. So, Trevelyan did what she could.

"Well." She jutted out her chin and strode to the center of the Chantry.

"Inquisitor?" inquired Cullen, quirking a brow.

She looked at him over her shoulder and smiled, telling him without words to brace for her odd sense of humor.

"What do you think I should do?" the mage said, turning about and tapping the tip of her nose in mock thought. "Holy water? No…Maybe I should dye her robes clashing colors and blame it on a Prankster demon."

"I doubt such a thing exists," Cullen smiled.

"Perhaps the Litany of Adralla, then."

The man chuckled.

She grinned mischievously. "We should all ask her if Andraste really was a virgin."

An abrupt bark of laughter escaped from him. It startled him as much as Trevelyan, but both of them laughed at the stupid joke for far longer than what may have been necessary. Inquisitor noticed Cullen's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and his golden irises had dropped their stoic wall.

"You are a force." The sentence was spoken with smiling admiration, but when she looked to him, Cullen was already facing away. "U-um, ma'am. Y-you are a force to be reckoned wi-with, ma'am."

The woman smiled, blushing a deep red. Yet her smile faded at the echo of Cassandra's words to her in the courtyard. Cullen called her a force, Cassandra called her a child. Two very contrasting opinions.

"Thank you, Cullen," Trevelyan said, and moved to walk around the room.

He watched her for a moment before he followed, and came beside her before one of the six windows. A faint spectrum fell upon her face, highlighting the curves of her cheekbones, as well as the harsh bend her nose took – perhaps it was broken at some point, and indeed Cullen spotted a small scar running across the bridge. Briefly, he wondered what had happened. Did she miss the final step? Did a staff meet its unfortunate mark in the aim of confidence? Or…perhaps something less innocent. A delicate finger rose and lightly stroked that place on her nose, in thought or nervousness, he did not know.

"I behaved rather poorly today, and Cassandra…well…" the woman sighed. "Everything she said was true and I threw it back in her face."

He nodded slowly, understanding. "She worries about you," Cullen offered.

"As a person or a Seeker, I wonder."

"Both."

She looked at him, confused. Cullen now gazed out the window with his hands clasped behind his back in his "at ease" position. It was a norm for every templar Trevelyan came across, their training breaching everyday life constantly.

"Seeker Cassandra cares for you a great deal, but she takes your training in priority. She wants you to be prepared for what may happen." A careful pause meant he was choosing his next words carefully. "She is also concerned about that wound on your hand, as well as the effect it could have on…one such as you."

"A...mage, you mean."

Cullen sighed, "It is a valid concern. You seem to take it in stride however, so-"

Trevelyan whirled on him. "So what? I'm a monster for trying to embrace something and make the best of it?"

The man stared, surprised by her outburst. He stood straighter, practically towering over the mage.

"Inquisitor," he rumbled, "I do not appreciate my words being twisted. I did not say it, nor do I think it."

She had shrunk back, only for a moment, before she returned fire. "Of course you think it! All of you do! When is she going to succumb? When will she stab me in the back? I bet you and Cassandra have already talked about what to do if I turn into an abomination! I am tired of being treated as a liability and someone to be feared rather than a human being!"

In her rage, she did not feel her fist erupt with green light. It flashed in time with her shouts, growing stronger and illuminating the room around them. They were so focused on each other it went unnoticed until Trevelyan raised her hand to point at Cullen. The mage started to jerk her hand away to control it, but Cullen quickly grabbed her wrist and unleashed a Holy Smite. The pulse shook the room, raising dust and dirt from the floor. The green light from the mage's hand was snuffed out along with her magic.

The Inquisitor wavered on her feet, the absence of the Fade's connection numbing her senses. A familiar voice called from a great distance, attempting to ground her; and strong hands…warm hands…gripped her arms. Their warmth spread uncomfortably to her neck, burning under her thick hair. Breathing became impossible as her chest clenched painfully. They did not halt the memories taking advantage of the mage's weakened state, assaulting her mind and dragging her further away from consciousness.

'…as a mage.'

'Nothing but an animal to be leashed when she gets out of hand.'

'Demons whisper…they never stop. You hear them…don't you?'

'Admit it.'

'You are nothing.'

'A weapon.'

The voice grew louder, calling to her to wake up. Trevelyan fought to regain control, and with a jerk she was back in the present. When her sight focused, she realized the voice calling to her was Cullen's. He was standing close to her, his face drawn in worry. He raised a hand to her face, and a fresh swell of panic lurched in her chest.

Trevelyan wrenched herself away and grabbed one of the pews to keep upright. She forced herself to breathe deeply, her hand over her chest to test her heart. It beat rapidly, but was slowly reaching its regular rhythm. She thought of trees, the sky, the crisp pages of a favorite book, and laughter. After an age her slow, deep breaths calmed the buzzing in her ears. Her connection to the Fade slowly reopened, her magic trickling back into her soul like little needles pricking her skin. She breathed in once more, smelling the crisp air now electrified with power. She slowly moved her gaze up, to face the ex-templar at her most vulnerable.

"I'm sorry!" Cullen stammered. "I-I was n-not thinking…"

He took several steps back, granting far more distance than what was between them a moment ago. Trevelyan pushed her red curls from her eyes, and found her cheeks to be wet from tears. She dried them with the edge of her sleeve, and carefully watched the templar standing with his back to her. She expected a reprimand, or even a call for aid. But he looked so bewildered and…so afraid.

At first, she was angry with him for smiting her. She could have controlled it; tucked it under her arm, counted back from ten. She has done it before; but it was never at that scale. An unnerving notion prickled the back of her mind: what if she could not control it? What would have happened if she had touched Cullen? Trevelyan did not want to think about it. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt anybody, and she did a very poor job in proving this.

"Cullen?" she whispered. He turned his head a little, but did not look at her. So, she approached him then, and hesitantly took his armored shoulder under her palm so he could feel her there as she spoke. "It's all right..."

Cullen slowly turned, his brows still furrowed in concern. He did not quite seem to believe her assurance by the desperate clench of his hands Trevelyan caught before he faced her.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked stiffly.

She shook her head. "No."

He nodded, avoiding her gaze. "Please forgive me. I reacted without thinking."

"You were trained to react the way you did." Trevelyan sighed and rubbed her eyes. "What you did…you did the right thing. I was not in control of it, and I do not want to think about what may have happened."

He watched her, silent. That wall was up again, preventing the Inquisitor from gauging what Cullen felt. Trevelyan suddenly wished she had left their conversation with laughter rather than her own self pity, just so she could see Cullen for Cullen.

"You were…you repeated 'no' several times when you blacked out," Cullen said warily.

The concern in his eyes made her look away. She chewed on her lip, reluctant to tell him anything after their disagreement. What if she lost control again? She took a breath, and tightly tucked her hand under her arm.

"Just…bad memories. But I'm getting better!"

She followed with a big smile, proving that she was fine. But Cullen narrowed his eyes in suspicion, and her plastered grin faded.

"I am getting better. It's just…hard, some days," she whispered. She met his eyes reluctantly. "I acted the way I did because not all templars I've known are as…kind as you."

A habitual touch to the scar on her nose answered his earlier question. Cullen closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh. The way she reacted to him reaching out – someone must have raised a hand against her. Such abuses would not have been tolerated at the Circle in Ferelden. He did not tolerate them now. Cullen recalled the first time he met the Inquisitor: he told her the Order was not just meant to protect people from mages but to protect mages first and foremost. He would take responsibility for them, he and his templar brothers whom remain loyal to that code. He also remembered the stiffness in her shoulders melt away, and she had smiled at him.

"That is why I fought in the rebellion," the mage continued. "That is why I was in the Gauntlet that day talking about peace. It's just…" she sighed, running a hand through her hair. A slightly bitter chuckle escaped her. "I am…terrified. I never asked for any of this."

For a moment she thought she said something wrong. Cullen's eyes were far away, the warmth in them dampened to make way for something else…something haunted. He refused to look in her eyes, but in their close proximity, it was a difficult task.

"No one asks for pain," Cullen whispered. "They ask for peace, a decent meal, or a good night's rest. Most in these times ask for just one more day. The Maker gives us what we need…not what we want."

"And what," ventured the woman, "would you ask the Maker, Ser Cullen?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know. I don't do much…praying, these days. I bless run-down Chantries, though."

Trevelyan chuckled, "Then you aren't a man to break promises easily, I wager."

"No, I'm not."

"You show integrity. A good, rare thing."

She caught his cheeks blush, and the mage had to fight down a chuckle. Was he so easily embarrassed?

"Thank you, ma'am," Cullen smiled. He took a step back, and cleared his throat. "Seeing how late it is, I must…retire for the evening." He paused, looking at her. "That is if you are alright. I will stay, if you command."

Trevelyan smiled. "No, I am feeling better now. I will stay here for a moment."

"Very well…good night, ma'am."

She bid him goodnight, and listened to his fading footsteps until the echo finally ceased.

From outside a wind trilled, casting the snow into the wind in tight swirls. It was then the Inquisitor realized the small Chantry was not well protected from the elements as snow trickled in through the cracks of the walls and ceiling. She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders tighter, and slid into one of the worn pews. Her staff, made of steel and tipped with the maw of a dragon open wide, was laid gently at her feet. Her blue eyes aimlessly surveyed the room, and occasionally watched the snow cluster in random small piles around the room. The worn banister gently rolled in the wind. So worn, yet still catching to wondering eyes.

A part of her wanted to burn the thing down.

"Inquisitor?"

She jumped, and stared up at the tall man standing beside her.

"Ser Cullen! I thought you had-"

"May I?" he said, motioning to the space beside her.

"Um, y-yes, of course."

Trevelyan lifted her cloak away from the space and Cullen sat beside her, closer than she thought he would. His arm brushed up against her own, and she briefly marveled at the well-toned feel of his bicep. Warmth radiated from him, a welcome relief from the dropping temperature in the Chantry.

They sat in silence, their body heat building between them, letting them know just how far away and how close they were to each other. But it was not uncomfortable like the woman thought it would be. Cullen seemed calm, if mulling something over. Trevelyan suddenly wanted to smooth that furrow between his brows.

"Do you know what I would ask the Maker, Inquisitor?" he quietly began.

She shook her head.

"I would ask…why He burdened the mages so."

She looked askance at him. "Burdened?"

"Why," he continued, "have their protectors long since not been their protectors? Why do mages feel like they have to turn to terrors to find help? Why," Cullen slowly reached up and cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb over the scar on her nose, "have we continued so long abusing His children so?"

Trevelyan clamped her eyes shut against his touch, swallowing. His fingers were calloused, hard from handling a sword; yet he was so gentle as he cupped her cheek and traced the blemish on her nose.

"Cullen…I…"

When she opened her eyes, her heart leapt in her throat to see that Cullen had moved closer. The heat between them was near unbearable, it nearly scorched her. Trevelyan stilled, unsure and a little afraid. Her breath caught as he pressed a tender kiss on the scar.

She giggled, and Cullen quickly drew back.

"Sorry," the Inquisitor smiled apologetically. She scratched her nose. "The fur cloak you wear…it tickled my nose."

The man stared at her a moment, stunned. For the second time that night, he laughed, drawing her in with him. His eyes crinkled, her cheek dimpled, and their hearts were a little bit lighter.

"My apologies," Cullen said, and moved to unlatch the cloak from his shoulders.

Trevelyan laid a hand over his, smiling. "Leave it," she requested.

This time she leaned up and kissed his cheek, leaving him red to the tips of his ears. The Inquisitor laid her head on his shoulder, nuzzling into the soft grey fur.

"It's soft, and you're warm."

The templar chuckled and, with only a second's hesitation, wrapped his cloak around her shoulder.

"As you wish."

Though stung with a hundred arrows,
Though suffering from ailments both great and small,
His Heart was strong, and he moved on.

-Unknown