The Cullenites fanpage located on Facebook provided various prompts for potential scenes from Dragon Age: Inquisition. Focused on Cullen, of course. Mine turned out to be a purely angsty bit of story-telling, to boot. Plus it came at the story from some very particular twists in the game that I have personally never charted. Sorry but I'm a wimp and I was never able to have a playthrough where Alistair died. But I managed to tear up a couple times in the writing, so I'm hoping I met the needs of the original prompt. Enjoy, guys!

Note: I was deliberately vague about the time that's passed between various events. Memories simply don't work like that, I don't think.

Prompt from The Cullenites: "Alistair dies, making the ultimate sacrifice. He and Amell were together. She had planned on making the sacrifice. Later, during Inquisition, Cullen and Trevelyan fall in love, and she dies after the last fight, after defeating Corypheus. Amell and Cullen meet again a few years after."

The room was warm enough, for any man who'd grown so accustomed to the climes of the surrounding countryside, at least. And that, despite the snow-covered crags of the mountains that reached up to the skies over the hold. It was summer at Skyhold, but the snow clung tenaciously to the looming mountains and winds whipped down and over the walls of the castle, all the same.

None of it truly bothered Cullen. His soldiers were always quick to laugh, that it was his Fereldan heritage that helped him withstand the cold so much a part of Skyhold. Even If Honnleath seemed so damn far from his experience, now. Or they pointed at his fur-lined mantle, the black hair of the collar that bulged against his neck. Cole still marveled how the fur might be removed, sometimes prodding it at the weirdest moments so that Cullen jumped whenever he suddenly noted the spirit's sudden appearance.

But thoughts of Cole always reminded him of her, too. Because Maegin so adored the spirit, even worked it so that it remained a spirit after she might have made it more human. She only smiled sadly at him when he complained against her choice, telling him, "Ah, Cullen. I'd no more change Cole from what makes him so remarkably unique, than I would ask the grass to become some new color or to make the birds live on the ground instead of flying through the air." He used to wonder if it was the magic trembling deep in her heart, that helped her see things so simply. To find meaning he never was able to wrap his own senses around. He only adored her, rather. And that wasn't enough, either.

So Cullen sighed now and returned his attention to the yawning line of the Eluvian's edge at the far side of the quiet room. Thinking of her hurt so much, anyway. Far simpler to act as guard over the Eluvian, to give his men leave to watch the spectacle outside, rather. This place was more comfortable, much more quiet a place – where he might count the dust motes that drifted through the air, rather than listen to the sounds of the crowd outside, the muffled noise of the people calling and laughing and cheering. What was there to celebrate, for him. But his own failure, his own incapability. To have loved so much, twice over. And both times, to have failed them so utterly.

Cullen sighed, lowered his head and watched the swirling surface of the Eluvian. He ignored the excitement that filled Skyhold. He only watched his reflection, as it moved over the Eluvian's burnished surface of glass. He only watched himself in that copper-colored expanse, the strength in his frame, in every curve of his armor over his chest and arms. Not enough.

Only the sorriest reflections ….

When he caught sight of Catherine that first time.

Of how she laughed, bright bubbles of sound flying up and over her head, peeling out across the library so that the enchanters teaching those excitable youngsters mewled angrily and insisted she quiet herself. "Hush, girl! Make noise enough, and the Templars will think you possessed!" That's what they told her, and he'd mourned her smile that slowly slid from her face, lost in the timid glance she turned towards them where they stood nearby the doorway in all their glittering armors. He missed her smile and her laughter, whenever it was stolen away.

That fear in her eyes was so wrong, made her eyes look so huge in her face. But how her eyes shined at every chance! He had thought her eyes as brilliant golden as the brightest globe of the sun high in the sky, almost barely called brown they were so much light in her face. They were even more beautiful when she smiled, though. They became like droplets of sun-kissed water there at his favorite childhood retreat, nearby his long ago home. His heart raced whenever Catherine smiled, tossing her golden-haired head backwards to send her laughter peeling up towards the sky itself. Because it was one of the only things they couldn't cage of her, she told him once. "My laughter is free, the only thing I can let loose to the whole wide world to know. Unlike me. They'll never really know me, here behind these walls. They won't see me."

But they did see her. All of Fereldan saw her, saw her race over the country to gather them all together. All of them, so many of them. Dwarves and men and elves, all of them. They all saw her, watched her. Followed her, their very own Hero sent to save them from the darkspawn with some mere flick of her fingers. Catherine showed all of them, that magic could help, could comfort and soothe. Could protect them all.

Like it saved him, there where he huddled in a heap under the claws of a demon's torment. He ached now, to remember the way her golden gaze turned copper there in her face. No smiles then, not as he snarled at her from his pitiful position at her feet. How he hated the way she found him, there. So he railed against her magic, against her. Her freakishness, he'd called at her. How ashamed he was, of ever caring … of loving her so much. That's what he told her, that the feelings they shared over so many days and months of whispers there in the library of the Circle tower, of briefest glances and soft brushes of their hands together – what dredge he spewed. What lies. To himself, even more than her. Although he knew good and well she believed him, believed he despised her. It hurt even as he said it, even as he watched the words hit her so that her eyes turned numb and distant and she turned away to bury her face into the shoulder another man offered her.

For the comfort and protection Cullen denied her, of course. He once told Maegin how ashamed he was, of that man he became there in the Circle's fall. But the real shame that trembled in every beat of his heart, was that he failed Catherine that badly. "Heroes likely need more love and care than most, rather. They're the ones who stand to take the hardest blows, so they need the warmest embraces, the loudest cheers, the strongest hands." That's what Cullen admitted to Maegin once, as he helped fasten the buckles that secured her armor over the sweet mounds of her breasts, as he prepared her for battle. He had hoped it was enough. The armor, yes. But the words, even more. That she knew how much he prayed for her safety, how much he cared. Because Cullen was so determined, that this time … this time, the woman he loved so much would know it. She wouldn't enter battle with a heart left bruised and battered by his rejection, his betrayal.

No, his Maegin might fight for him – for them all! - when she stormed off to meet Corypheus that last time. But she carried his heart with her when she went, Cullen made sure of it. He made sure she knew it, too, gripped her close during those last dreadful moments of anxious trepidation there under the green glow of the newly torn breach high above their heads. Cullen whispered with his head tucked down close to her ear, whispered to her, "You are not alone in this fight. I love you, you carry me with you in this battle. And you will come back." He gave her what he'd denied Catherine – an embrace, an admission, and a promise of love and care in the aftermath. That when the battle was done, he would be there waiting for her. That when it was all over, she would have someone to hold onto, someone who'd hold her back.

And the Eluvian's cold copper surface shifted now under Cullen's gaze, wavered harshly in the low light of the afternoon's sun coming in through the high windows behind the mirror. Cullen dropped his head, blinking furiously as he remembered that last image of Catherine. Reflections … of his worst failure. Of watching the Hero of Ferelden, the grand and vaunted Hero – how she lay there in a sad, bloody crumbled heap, there on the shattered stones atop Fort Drakon's tower. How she yelled and wailed, how her dirty, blood-riddled hands grappled over the length of sodden, splattered armor that covered her king's broken form splayed there, dead. How she held him, her arms curled around him so desperately, screamed his name loudly to every fire-bright cloud overhead, pleaded, "Maker, please! Don't! Not like this, not alone like this! Alistair!"

Cullen should have gone to her! Of all the men and women there on top of the tower that terrible night, all of them there! It should've been him who went to her, who held her and comforted her and soothed her. Who showed her she was not alone. He should have …

But he didn't. Still too sorry and too broken in himself, Cullen only watched her collapse and break apart, his hand gripping his sword tight as he waited for her grief to break her into an abomination he would have to destroy. Because isn't that what they all did, all of the mages? They all descended into the most desperate darkness when driven past all endurance, they were all so weak and failed, so why would she be any different? Except that she was. She was the Hero and heroes don't fail, they don't give up or give in, not even to the worst of blows. And that's why Cullen's last image of Catherine was her eyes – those golden eyes of hers all sooty and bereft as they raised up to see him standing there, afraid and uncertain of her strength, and how she climbed woodenly to her feet with her lover lying dead on the stones between them as she just turned stoically away from them all. The Hero of Ferelden, and she only barely stumbled as she walked down from that tower, away from him, from all of them. Alone.

Cullen refused to let any other woman he loved be alone like that, ever again. It's why he held on so fiercely to Maegin when the time came, when she stumbled back to Skyhold to collapse into his arms. "I did come back, love. I did," Maegin whimpered into his throat, and he almost choked out some small laugh as he held her. Cullen tightened his grip around her waist as he lifted her harder against him, carried her into the holding and up the stairs towards her quarters so quickly, so frantic, "You did promise me, right? We're going to make it all right, make it …"

"No, Cullen. It's not going to be all right for me, not this time."

"Shhh, we have so many mages here, Maegin! You'll see!"

"I already know, though. Love …"

They told him later, that it wasn't the wound. Not really, because the thing wasn't so deep or so bloody that it stole her life. It was more a degradation, the foulness of that terrible beast she fought there in the maelstrom that was once a Temple and still teemed with magical power. That monster's dragon, with its filthy claws that somehow left behind some sickness that slowly leached what fantastic life was in Maegin, wasted her away hour by hour, day by day. Until she was gone. Last goodbyes all spoken, whispered comments and tearful hugs to all of them, and the sweetest caresses there along his brow as she told him her hopes. How much she hoped! That they would all fight even harder, to repair the damage, heal the wounds made to all of the people. "Help them, show them! That there's a way! That they're not alone!" Frantic scribbles onto parchment notes, to allies and friends alike. And to the Heroes so desperately needed right then, with the Inquisition only barely victorious and its leader dying.

But every night, every single blessed night he had with her before she finally breathed out one more time, Maegin would look up at him from under a brow made damp with sweat and fatigue and gnawing pain. And she would tell him, "I won't be here. But it's not because I didn't love you with every beat of my heart. I always … will." Every night, until she wasn't hurting anymore and he was left as alone as he'd once left Catherine. Not that anyone of them blamed him when Cullen cried over her wasted form on the bed, when he held her and cried her name into the sweat-stained covers they'd draped over her at the very end.

Maegin Trevelyan, the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. And she was gone. They placed a single stone there in the garden nearby her favorite place to relax that marked her name in this place she'd made her own. Oh, there were statues erected in those places where she'd fought and battled. But Cullen appreciated that simple stone far more, near where their chess matches unfolded, where she first whispered to him her feelings, her hopes. There was no cheering of her name, no calling out of her deeds and accomplishments that quite matched the understated depth of that rock there in the Skyhold garden. So he remained at the stone, rather, and he waited. The work kept him occupied, kept him from thinking and remembering. It helped, that there was so much to do, so many soldiers to train, so many determined to help, to fight alongside them as they worked to rebuild what Corypheus had broken.

And today at long last Skyhold rang out with cheers and celebration, as they all welcomed their new Inquisitor, their very own Hero all over again. But he was still too much a coward to face her, and he retreated here to hide behind the Eluvian's reflections, rather. Hid alone from his own failure and his own fear …

But Catherine never did allow him to hide from her. Not even from the first. It was Catherine who bravely lifted the faceplate of his helmet away from his face that first night, fought past all of her fears and anxious worries to ask him. Only his name, that time. His brave little mage, her soft voice that trembled against the dark shadows as she stepped closer to him. Like a deer facing a potential hunter in the field and wary, her arms all wrapped around her robed torso as she stepped forward and reached for his faceplate. "Hello … I'm called Catherine. Catherine Amell. What is … your name?" Seeing her for the first time with no barrier to divide them was a stunning thing, and he'd stared at her for the longest time before finally giving her what she asked of him. That's when she smiled again, when she smiled at him for the first time. When she refused to let them be separated by anything so much as a piece of armor and certainly not the titles of mage and Templar. No, she'd just looked up at him, smiling, and she said his name. Said it now and startled him from his preoccupation.

"Cullen."

Cullen's breath caught, his eyes narrowed softly as he caught sight of her reflection there in the Eluvian behind him, and he sighed as he shifted. He would have turned to meet her, except Catherine stepped up to stand alongside him. Here, in the rooms of Skyhold where she'd come to take on the title of Inquisitor, where they'd finally managed to wash from her whatever once marked her as Grey Warden – here she wasn't so wary as that long ago night, she didn't shake and she didn't tremble. She was bold and honest, her shoulder only barely brushing against the furred lining of his mantle as she stepped forward to stand next to him and stare at the Eluvian as he did. Watching her from the corner of his eye, Cullen could see nothing that reminded him of the shattered girl-woman who lost her lover to an Archdemon's terrible magic. He only saw the strength that made them all call her Hero.

Then Catherine moved again and he could see the long line of her back as she continued watching the Eluvian. The thick armored pieces covering her were far different from the robes she wore to battle an Archdemon. These were more fluid, designed to allow her more mobility. Her legs were covered in trousered lengths of leather that ended in thick-soled boots fronted with toughest onyx. Onyx composed the plate that covered her chest, too. And circled both her forearms. Everything was marked with the symbols of the Inquisition, with flames and a fiery-backed sword there on Catherine's chestplate. All golden and gleaming, like the fall of her thick, golden-blonde braid that descended down the center of her back. Catherine reached out suddenly, with a single gloved finger to stroke along the edge of the Eluvian, "I remember this. I'm surprised Morrigan would leave it behind, actually. I barely discovered her in time as I recall, she was so intent on retrieving the thing. And she fled through it so quickly, too."

Cullen frowned, "I didn't know you were familiar with Morrigan, actually."

Catherine glanced at him from over her shoulder. There was only some small hint of amusement on her face, her eyes even twinkled so softly with the memories. "She would argue terribly with Leliana and Alistair, until she finally took up the habit of setting her tent as far from our camp as she might without outright making her own. Morrigan told me once, that she didn't know any real way to be someone's friend. She snarled at me when I called it fearfulness, that she kept people at a distance to keep from being disappointed somehow." She turned around to face him again, her entire form framed by the breadth and power of the Eluvian behind her. And Cullen felt his breath catch, as the dull light of the late afternoon caught against Catherine's blonde tresses and brought her to a brilliant, gleaming gold shimmer. She looked right then like some goddess descended from a heavenly place, born out of the Fade and the Eluvian's place, even, something magical and extraordinary.

But Catherine only gazed at him with sad brown eyes, the pale blonde of her head leaned sideways as she studied him. "We were once friends, at the least. Do you remember, Cullen? I sometimes think it's halfway gone, like a dream I had once upon a time and hardly even real. But still. When they told me you were here … They told me how sad you've been, and why. I'm sorry, Cullen. So sorry." Catherine's breath hitched there in her throat and she dropped her gaze down towards the floor. She paused, seeming to gather herself. "Do you think we can … well, we should be able to work together, I suppose."

Cullen inhaled slowly, regretful all over again as he missed the brave girl who once reached for his faceplate. To prove to herself there was a real man under all the Templar armor, of course. To face her greatest fear in that moment. That he'd lost her, that she was so uncertain standing there in front of him now – Cullen felt his chest tighten with fear at the thought. But he wasn't that fumbling Templar anymore. He was no boy-man trying to learn what it meant, to be a Knight and a hero. Not anymore. So Cullen lifted his chin, straightened his shoulders so that his chest went higher and his armor gleamed even brighter there in the low light of the sun setting outside. He reached his hands out, cupping her shoulders between the spread of his gloved fingers, and he watched her eyes widen there in her face, her lips part with startled surprise. And he told her, "You are not alone in this world, Catherine Amell. You haven't been since the first time you really saw me."

There it was, Cullen thought. He watched as the smile moved from her eyes to her mouth, watched her lips part and spread with that peculiar hint of magical laughter that was so much her, and then she stepped close enough to lay her forehead against the cold chestplate that covered him in the front. Catherine's arms stretched out, then, and they waited there together. They only held onto each other. Just waiting. Just patient and calm, at the last. Two people, who lost their way, stumbled down dark ways and paths and battles beyond number. Until they stopped together in a room so far from where they'd started.