"And I must send you to him," the words resonated in the still air.

Alone in the chapel, the world could end around them (and it very well could end) and completely escape the lovers' notice. Trevelyan pushes her face into the soft feathers of his mantle, seeking out the warmth of him buried within. Feathers brush and tickle against her cheek as she buries her face in his shoulder.

Cullen responds in kind, pulling her deeper into the embrace, unwilling to relinquish his hold. He holds her to him in the fading light of the day, filtering through in shafts illuminating the dust and adding an ethereal glow to the candle. A hand moves to the back of her head, fingers absently tracing patterns in her braids. She could read him well enough by now to know when he was comfortable, stable. Quiet.

He was a new man, the things he'd confided to her about his past opinions of mages came as a confession fraught with guilt, but she had held him through it, soothed his conscience. He was a new man with her, free of Lyrium, finding his redemption in their cause. He was a new man, yes, but that would be too much for him, she knew. She could not lose him.

She is afraid too, not just of the thought of everything she must face before the end – whatever end was in store of them, given the odds – but afraid of losing this. The unknown nature of this otherworldly anchor made anything possible, could anyone really know what its destruction may mean for her? Even if she were to somehow succeed at the cost of her own life, it would crush him. Cole's words echoed in her head: stronger when you hold him.

In search of his skin, the Inquisitor nuzzles closer, soft lips grazing his ear on her quest. She is the only one the Commander forgets himself with; a soft sigh reserved only for her escapes his lips as he relaxes into her. Always so comfortable in each other's arms, her gestures thus far had been reflexive, born of a desire to never let this moment go. But so close to his skin, smelling of cedar, fur and familiarity, her intentions rapidly lose their purity. Seizing the opportunity presented to her, she plants a quick kiss at her favourite defined crook of his jaw. The sound that escapes him was anticipated to be quiet or a sigh at best but comes out much louder than expected. When the low but indisputable moan rumbles in his chest, she can feel his posture begin to correct as the Templar training surfaces.

Everyone had long since retired to the kitchens for a hearty meal. She's the least bit worried, but she recognizes the knee-jerk reaction to his perceived impropriety with her. Sneaking a peek at his face, his eyes are cast to the side, embarrassed and a mouth quirked in concern. His eyes are still so far away, weighed down by his concern for her safety. This will not be their last time together, she will come back, but all the same it would be a shame to not take advantage of every opportunity she has alone with him.

Testing his Templar resolve, she lands another kiss in the same spot, continuing the trail upwards. His bristles rasp lightly at her lips but the soft dusting of blonde hair does little more than tickle. He clears his throat to say something but thinks better of it when her peppered kisses reach the corner of his mouth, smoothing the tip of her tongue flat against the rigid line of his scar. Some sense of propriety was lost then as he turned to capture her lips with his, it is his turn to elicit a sigh from his Lady that echoes into his mouth upon hers. The gentle touch behind her head had since become a grip entwined with a sense of urgency.

"Commander," was her soft mantra each time the kiss broke. A whispered word that spurred and emboldened his actions, urging on the soft press of his lips trailing down her own neck.

Seeing her efforts rewarded, Trevelyan was only dimly aware of the fact that they had been moving at all, but engrossed in a moment of unbridled passion, neither had apparently realized exactly quite how much. That is, until former Templar Knight-Captain – current Commander of the armies of the faithful – backed her square into the statue of Andraste. The noise that escaped the Inquistor was somewhere between the arousal of someone having been backed authoritatively against a wall in the throes of passion and the sound of someone having a not insignificant amount of air compressed from their lungs by a man in plate armor.

Not the she particularly minded.

He was understandably mortified.

"I'm sorry-" he stammered, almost hoarse "that was just, I was…"

His arms had too suddenly gone from holding her to holding her shoulders as if checking her for injury. When he was sufficiently satisfied he hadn't crushed her, he looked up, noting for the first time where they were in a very real way. As if to punctuate his embarrassment, the final rays of the setting sun behind the statue illuminated the stone avatar of their Maker in a most holy way. Trevelyan could almost hear the chant of light in the softly glowing beams. Or was that Mother Giselle in the chantry garden? Frankly, she didn't care, she wished he wouldn't either.

"Oh Maker…" He continued, rubbing the back of his neck in his usual awkward fashion.

"You don't need to be sorry, Cullen." She said suggestively, raising a hand to caress his face, rubbing the pad of her thumb in small comforting circles by his ear. His expression made it very clear she was making this a difficult decision for him and he verbalized as much, something to the extent of "We shouldn't be here, it's the Chantry," a mumble about "how it would be wrong…" as he pulled her closer. The excuses were seemingly endless but lacking in conviction as his hands made their way back to her waist and his face sought to bury itself in the sweetness of her neck once more.

"Anyone could walk-in –"

"But I want to," was his last flimsy attempt before his lips sought hers once more, with renewed but clearly restrained eagerness.

She was the first to break the kiss, seemingly to his surprise.

"No, you're right," was all she whispered against his lips before slipping from his embrace, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the small chapel. Feeling quite stupid. Deeply regretting the life decision of opening his Templar mouth. It felt a little bit like standing in a vacuum, his empty arms hanging uselessly by his side with the woman he wanted to hold walking away from him again. It was never a good time, there was always an obligation or interruption to en their time together too soon.

His hand twitched nervously by his side, a betrayal of his own body reminding him it had been denied two things it desired now: Lyrium and her touch. He may have been happy to do without the former, less so the latter. To quell the tremor, he had to busy his hand, raising it to absently rub the spot she'd kissed below his jaw, a thoughtful caress to retain the fleeting moment. That's when he noticed she had stopped moving. Leaning casually against the doorframe in a gesture he remembered.

"You're right," she coos and he recognizes her reiteration of his own words, a sly smile spreading almost imperceptibly in the soft candlelight of the chantry. Now that she has his full attention, she makes like she has an intention of leaving, crossing to the other side of the door, but a lithe arm shoots out to swing it shut instead. He simply gapes at her as the heavy door creaks across the floor closing with a satisfying thunk.

"Someone could have walked in."