Ulrich watches from a distance as Cullen trains in the lower chambers of Kinloch Hold. His muscles taunt. His brow furrowed. Sweat drips along the back of his neck as he swings his sword against a practice dummy. Ulrich's heart flutters in his chest as he watches those strong arms, muscles rippling in the soft candlelight.
"Hey, Cullen, nice, uh, sword work," he calls out.
Cullen fumbles, glancing over his shoulder at the mage. "R-right, thanks," he mumbles, stuttering cutely.
Blank clears his throat, nerves making his stomach flutter. "So, need a sparring partner?"
Cullen looks around, frowning. "You can preform magic without a senior enchanter nearby," he reminds him.
He shrugs, an easy smile gracing his lips. "Right, I know. I know my way around a practice sword though," Ulrich replies, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
The young templar recruit blushes but nods, pointing toward the row of splintered wooden swords. "Re-ready?"
He grabs a sword, the wood rough beneath his uncalloused fingertips. He takes the only stance he remembers, a beginner's stance, and holds his sword ready. He blocks and parries Cullen's blow in a clumsy manner, but somehow manages to keep up for awhile, until his hair is soaked in sweat.
Suddenly his feet slide from under him and they're both tumbling to the ground, a tangle of limbs. Cullen's lips smack against his own involuntarily. His eyes widen as he pushes himself away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ma-Maker I'm so-sorry," Cullen mutters, kneeling on the ground.
Heat rises through Ulrich's body, and he finds himself hardening under his loose robes. "Uh, right. I didn't actually mind, you know," he admits, the tips of his fingers sliding along the spot Cullen's lips had touched.
Cullen frowns, face hardening as a shadow darkens it. "It wo-won't happen again," he says, voice firm as Blank's heart sinks.
"Right, 'course not."
Amell sighs, taking a long drink from her tankard of water. "You're not going to be able to postpone the Harrowing forever, you know."
Ulrich shrugs, staring at a stain on the wood table. He misses the sky and wind and rain. He misses his clan and his family. An Avvar mage shouldn't be kept in this blasted circle. And they certainly shouldn't be participating in any dumb "Harrowing". He supposes he's lucky to be alive at all, after the templars found him, but this hardly feels like living. He breathes, and eats, and sleeps. He can't even worship his gods here.
"I'll escape before then," he says.
Amell scoffs, lips turning down into a frown. She reminds him of his mother, the way she'd frown at him when he'd done something wrong. "What, like Anders? You'll end up caught again and brought to solitary, if you're lucky."
His eyes turn away from her face as he gazes around the large eating space. They almost immediately find Cullen, and his heart skips a beat. Ulrich licks his lips as he watches Cullen leaning against a wall, firm jaw set in a hard line. His curly hair is combed back neatly, but one stray curl falls in his eyes. Ulrich's fingers itch to touch that curl, push it back from his forehead and press his lips to it.
He shakes himself from his reverie, a sigh falling from his lips. The man he could never have. If there was anything worth coming to this ridiculous circle, it was Cullen.
A hand blocks his view, waving up and down. "Oiy, you're basically drooling here. Who's caught your eye this time?" Amell asks, a playful smile curving her lips.
"Don't worry about it," he replies, pushing away from the table. "I'm going to... take a nap. Or something," he mumbles.
Pain burns up his leg as the wound festers. Blood leaks from the gaping mess. But he's free. Free from Kinloch Hold, free from the templars, free from the Harrowing and their stupid Chantry.
His leg is a small price to pay, in return for that freedom. In time, the wound will heal. He'll find someone who can fashion him a wooden replacement, something to stand on without crutches. It'll make him look more rugged, he figures, and give him an interesting story to tell. He takes a deep breath, pulling in the scent of trees and flowers, fresh air mingled with his own blood. He leans back on the ground, the grass tickling his bare elbows. He closes his eyes against the sunlight, enjoying the warmth on his skin.
If he has one regret, it's that Cullen couldn't, wouldn't, come with him. The templar's face swims in his mind, his hesitant smile and beautiful, golden eyes. The only thing that would make freedom taste sweeter, is having that man beside him.