A/N: Hello lovies! This is a kinda, sorta, sequel to "Brandy and Remembrance" No smut this go around (sorry), but I am kicking around an idea for a smutty one shot that takes place between "Brandy" and this.
As this is a kinda sorta sequel to "brandy" it obviously takes place after that fic's events and follows the cannon established in my "Glycerine" fic (though it isn't required reading to enjoy this...but by all means, give it a read if you are so inclined).
The inspiration for this piece came from the song "Take Me To Church" by Hozier. I am currently OBSESSED with this man, and I highly recommend you check out his stuff.
I am very proud of this piece, though I don't know why. It's been a long time since I sat down to write something and had the words come to me so effortlessly. I hope you enjoy.
R&R lovies...reviews give me faith.
My church offers no absolution,
she tells me "worship in the bedroom.
The only heaven I'll be sent to
is when I'm alone with you
I was born sick,
but I love it.
Command me to be well
-Take Me To Church by Hozier-
"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created...no one can tear asunder." Cullen stumbled over the last words of the prayer, finding a different and more haunted meaning than he ever had before. What you have created. To anyone else it would have been a comfort, a reminder that the Maker created this world for his children and it would endure no matter what trials came...but to Cullen...he found the words ominous and dark. "What you have created," he whispered once more, clenching his fists tight. He was what had been created...him and countless others. Men and women bound to the templar order by faith and addiction, intertwined together in grim marriage. The Chantry, mouthpiece of the heavenly father, in all it's infallible wisdom had created their very own army, complete with a lifetime of service for it's members. Even if you left...you were never truly gone. Not when your blood cried out for lyrium and your mind fought to tear itself apart when you remembered too much.
"Though all before me is shadow...yet shall the Maker...yet shall..." Try as he might he could not continue. He had come to the small prayer alcove in Skyhold in an effort to find comfort and sanctuary from the trials of the world. His withdrawals were getting worse, coming with a frequency that worried him even as they debilitated. He was even now coming off a fresh round of the abuse, mind hazy and body straining, and so he had come to the one place that, without fail, had always given him strength. Instead he found nothing but questions and bleak memories in the dusty alcove, that an a silent deity who seemed to care little for his struggles. Staring up into the eyes of the stone goddess above him he waited for the sense of peace his faith could always bring. There was nothing. Nothing but a vague sense of queasiness, though that he could lay at the feet of the illness he had been battling for the last two days. A sickness had taken hold of Skyhold's walls, a fever that sweated through the skin and made one's brow run hot. Half the inhabitants were laid up, and Cullen was trying desperately not to be one of them. When he felt the first flush of heat upon the his flesh he should have informed someone, taken to bed like the rest, but there had been too much to do. Elodie was to venture forth into the Arbor Wilds, seeking to outrun Corypheus and claim his prize. Little was known about the forgotten Dalish temple that housed the lost eluvian, and rumors of feral elves claiming the forest as their own seemed to run amok amongst his troops. It was an unknown situation, Cullen's least favorite kind, and as such much needed to be done to plan for every possible outcome. And so he had shrugged the encroaching illness aside, reasoning there would be time to rest later. It appeared now he was paying the price.
A wave of dizziness crashed through his body, causing him to sway upon his genuflected knees. Leaning forward he pressed his fevered brow to the cool marble of Andraste's feet, the stone like ice against his sweat slicked skin. He waited patiently for the dizziness to pass, but it continued to roll through his skull, making him feel untethered and adrift. His ears began to hum quietly, sounding like the chantry choir of his boyhood home, and he swore he could smell the sweet and pungent scent of incense on the air.
"Commander?" he heard Elodie call out from the threshold of the alcove.
"Yes?" he asked weakly, fighting against the spinning that assaulted him. Struggling to push himself upright, he was suddenly racked with a spasm through his limbs, his muscles crying out against being denied lyrium for so long. He let out a gasp and crashed back to his knees, one hand reaching out blindly to steady himself. Glancing up he found his fingers gripped tight to Andraste's hand, the stone warming beneath his touch.
"What's wrong?" Elodie asked as she rushed to his side.
"I'm-" he started before another spasm wracked his body, causing the his equilibrium to shift and black streaks to dance across his vision. It was too much, he knew this now. Illness and addiction were waring for ownership of his body, and he had over taxed himself with too little sleep and too much work.
"You're burning up," Elodie muttered in concern as she pressed a hand to his clammy brow. Cullen shuddered at the touch, the humming in his head growing louder as the voices of the choir rose and fell in harmony. "We have to get you to bed." She sounded so far away...voice echoing and distant as if they were caught on opposite ends of chasm. He tried to focus on her face, to fix his gaze upon her pale skin and golden eyes rimmed in black, but she swam in his vision, fracturing out into pieces.
"Elodie..." he pleaded on a whisper, breaking their unspoken rule. She was only Elodie to him under a set of very specific circumstances, the last of which had been more than three weeks ago. He had come to her that time, needing to wash clean his anger and self loathing with the touch of her hands upon his flesh. Samson had been executed, and Cullen had been the one to wield the blade. It was a hollow sort of victory for him. There had been no closure, no satisfaction, just a sobering mirror held up to the light showing Cullen that had events fallen out differently, it could very well have been him kneeling on the ramparts waiting for the axe to fall. And so he had come to her, had called her Elodie and kissed the very breath from her body with a desperation that bordered on madness. She never questioned, simply saw the pain in his eyes and gave him everything he asked of her, over and over until the sun overtook the sky and he was purged clean of his demons. She was the Inquisitor once more after that, as per their arrangement, and had been ever since...until now. With a fever and withdrawal tearing through his veins he had faltered and let it slip, and a distant part of his brain wondered why.
"Commander?" She demanded in a worried voice, and Cullen struggled to keep his eyes opened. He could feel himself slipping, losing balance, and as he began to fall in earnest, a darkness claimed him, and he could hear Elodie's frantic cry get lost in the humming of the chantry choir that swelled to a dark crescendo and echo through his skull.
"Cullen!"
~oOo~
"Cullen!"
He is sixteen, kneeling on the chantry floor and trying to recite the canticle of transfigurations. It is not going well. He keeps misplacing 1:3 with 1:4 and the Reverend mother is not pleased. She shrieks his name with every mistake, and the other boys snicker behind their hands at his misfortune. He grits his teeth and begins again, but he is so anxious that the starts at 1:2 and earns another scream of disapproval
"You stupid child!" the Reverend mother cries out, her watery gray eyes narrowed in sneering disapproval "You dishonor the Maker and his bride with your constant mistakes. Begin again, and I want to hear not a single error." Cullen hates her. Has hated her since the templars gave into his begging and accepted him for training. The woman is bitter, angry, lacking any sort of warmth. She has a reputation for brutality and cruelty, and everyone knows it, even the templars and her superiors. But they do nothing to stop her. They turn a blind eye.
"I am trying," he grits out, more petulantly than is allowed. The blow falls hard and fast. He barely has time to brace for it.
"Do not sass me, boy." Another blow. Another demand for perfection. Each stumble and mistake earns him another lash. The others are not laughing now, they are quiet, watching his humiliation with anxious eyes. He can see the relief in each one of their faces that it is not them on the receiving end of the cane. Cullen glances up, and finds the effigy of Andraste staring down at him, a stern and disapproving expression on her beautiful face.
He finishes the canticle. He is dismissed No one meets his eyes. The reverend mother calls the next boy to the floor. Cullen winces as he sits.
No one stopped it. It was allowed. It was always allowed.
Later, Samantha, a lay sister in training, tends to him. Presses wet linen upon his weal laden back. He knows that she fancies him, and truth be told he fancies her a bit as well. She has a kind face, a sweetness that reminds him of the shepherdess back home. She gives him succor and gentle hands, words of faith and comfort. He feels at peace with her touch upon his weary flesh, and he sees the tiny statue of Andraste on his bedside table. She is looking at them with a gentle smile, arms held out gratitude.
"Cullen," Samantha sighs in loving mercy as she lays a hand upon his back.
The chantry choir hums and he falls once more.
~oOo~
"Cullen."
He is twenty one. He is a templar. He has a purpose. His faith is stronger than ever, and he believes wholeheartedly in what his order stands for. He will do whatever is asked of him in the Maker's name, and do it proudly.
Even if it means cutting a woman down.
It is his first harrowing. The mage is young, barely an adult, and she is brought to her final test. Cullen can see that she is nervous. Her fingers play along the edges of her midnight blue robe in an endless pattern and she gazes upon the templars with a quiet sort of fear. Knight-Commander Gregoir urges her forward and she takes her place upon the stones, kneeling down with a wince as if in pain.
The ritual begins. She enters the fade. All is quiet for the longest time. Cullen is tense, prepared, but there is nothing but stillness and the immediacy of waiting for something to happen. An hour ticks by, he begins to sweat. It is summer in Ferelden, and the tower grows oppressively hot as the afternoon drags on. His fellow templars shift in discomfort, armor and leather creaking as they seek to find comfort in standing still.
Then it happens. A twitch, the barest flicker of movement, but everyone tenses. The Knight-Commander sighs in disappointment and motions him forward. Cullen swallows hard and obeys, his gaze trained on the woman who failed what was asked of her. He raises his sword high, waiting for the command. The woman twitches again, more forcibly this time. Gregoir nods, silently ordering him to do his duty. Cullen never wavers, not even when the woman opens her eyes and stares him down in defiance. He thought he would see a demon there, a swirling otherworldly red, but it is just ice blue and white; human, though the woman is gone and the creature has taken her place. His blade never falters, simply falls, and the woman is cut down in a spray of blood. Some of it gets in his mouth and he can taste the copper tang of it on his tongue.
It is over. His fellow templars begin to leave, muttering half-hearted regrets and settling wagers. Betting on harrowings is a popular past time in Kinloch Hold. Gold and silver are weighed against self control, and depending on who's blood runs, profit can be a hefty thing. Cullen stares at the mage's body, lifeless and empty. He wonders who she was, what she wished for herself in the quiet moments of the night. Did she predict this outcome? Did she know she was weak?
"Cullen," Gregoir commands softly from the threshold, urging him to leave the grisly sight behind. He nods and follows his commander, passing through the twin statues of Andraste that guard the threshold. The goddess surveys the damage with blank, unseeing eyes and Cullen cannot help but glance back once more. The mage looks small, broken, and no one grieves over her body. But he turns his back and leaves. This is his duty. This is what his faith asks of him.
Later he patrols and comes across a gathering at midnight. A secret. Mages, ten in all, surround a marble slab in the circle's chantry, their heads bowed and shoulder's shaking with quiet grief. He steps forward to demand they return to their beds; they are not supposed to be up at this hour. But he stops when they slightly part and reveal the body of the dead mage laid out upon the altar. She has been tended to, flowers and silk draped across her still blood splattered form. There are candles, dozens, casting the woman in a soft and ethereal glow. She is beautiful like this. At peace. And those that surround her can see it, and mourn the absence of who she was.
A man falls to his knees at her feet, hands gripping the edge of the altar with a white knuckled grip. He wails his grief to the heavens and is gently shushed by his companions. Shh, they say, the templars will hear. Cullen doesn't know if the man hears them, he sees nothing but the dead woman, and he looks at her as she is his last remaining tie to earth and he is afraid of being cut loose.
"She's so beautiful, even in death. She taunts me with it," the man laments on a broken whisper. His companions offer him touches of comfort, but Cullen can see they do little to ease his pain. He glances upwards, and finds Andraste looming over the body, head bowed in supplication. Her eyes are gentle, understanding, and one stone hand reaches out in sympathy for the plight of her children. Cullen imagines the grieving man reaching up, taking what the Maker's Bride offers. He imagines that the touch would be a balm, a baptism of light and compassion and the man would be washed clean in its essence. But the mage doesn't reach out, he carry barely lift his head the weight of mourning is so great.
"Cullen?" a fellow templar ask from over his shoulder. He whirls around, the chantry choir humming loudly in his ears once more, and as he turns, the darkness turns with him.
~oOo~
"Cullen."
He is twenty three. He is broken. He is angry. And he is about to be left alone. Thais is leaving. She's been conscripted by the Grey Wardens, and worst of all, she thinks to sneak away without saying goodbye.
"Don't make this harder than it is," she orders quietly when he confronts her. She folds and refolds a robe over one trembling arm, refusing to meet his gaze. He can see that she is tired, shattered, aching in a deep, secret place inside her that she once swore never to explore. Maharette took much from her...but it seems that Cullen took more.
"That's all you have to say?" he asks, wanting something, anything, from this woman that he pushed away only hours before.
"I think you've said enough for the two of us to last a lifetime, Chantry Boy."
She's right, of course. He has said so much, most of it hurtful. He has scraped and pricked, and beaten down her sense of self, breaking what the two of them had under the weight of his vows. His faith. But she is not innocent, and it has nothing to do with the forbidden magic that runs through her veins. She scraped and pricked back with just as much force, belittling the order he gave his life to and making him question everything he had once held sacrosanct. Thais had done many things, had deconstructed him in the most violating way possible, but Cullen knows that what happened in the Kocari Wilds is not her gravest crime. She made him question his faith, and that is why he is angry. Why he kept her at arms length, damaging them both with his chantry-made pride.
And now she is leaving.
She has finished her preparations, and she brushes by him with a pack slung low across her back and a book clutched tight to her chest. It is a bright indigo, the pages crisp and new. Cullen knows her name is inscribed across the cover in gold script. He knows this because he gave it to her that very day; an offering of selfish friendship and a eulogy of fractured love. A part of him breaks when he sees it, the decaying fallacy of hope that lives inside him struggling to come alive once more. She may be leaving, but she won't be leaving him behind.
Perhaps it would be better for both of them if she did.
"I have to go, Cullen," she tells him numbly, and he reaches out, halting her progress with a hand upon her shoulder.
"Thais," he scrapes out and she turns to him with every emotion she is feeling painted upon her face. She'll stay with him, turn her backs on the wardens and a chance at freedom if he would just tell her he is sorry. He can see it in her violet storm-cloud eyes. All he needs to do is accept her for who she is, blood magic and all, and she will stay with him, will be with him, will share every part of her life with him.
But he can't. He can't accept. He can't forgive. His faith won't allow it.
And while he see's her plainly in that moment, she see's him too, and it destroys them both.
"Cullen," she sighs, and it is bitter, ashes on her tongue, and he feels that last bit of love shared between them shatter. Sharp little pinpricks along his insides, and he is bleeding slowly from a thousand cuts. He wonders if he will ever stop bleeding the memory of her.
She leaves, walking away, passing by a tapestry of Andraste on the battlefield. Cullen's gaze is wrenched to the picture, and the Maker's bride seems to stare straight at him, her eyes hard and angry. Cullen can feel himself fall into that gaze, the darkness seeping along the edges of his vision. The chantry choir begins to hum.
Will they ever stop singing?
~oOo~
"Cullen."
He is twenty four. Twenty eight. Thirty three. Thirty five. He ages with every new memory and the choir sings loud, a haunting backdrop to his misery. Milestones of his life are pieced together like a child's puzzle, the interlocking parts feeling forced and mismatched. It is an endless series of pain, bloodshed, and guilt spinning out a tapestry that is yet to be finished. Through it all Andraste is there, looking over him with her blank stone eyes that see too much. And though she is long gone, though she is nothing but marble carved to cold perfection, she makes her feelings known.
She is there when he goes mad under the care of Gypsy, a desire demon that played his mind like a well tuned mandolin. And she is there when Thais returns to him and says the goodbye that was nine months in coming. The goddess is sweet then, her presence a blanket of mercy in the midst of torture. It is not so when he turns his madness on the mages in his charge. Her disapproval is palpable then, and he can tell she is angry at his harsh treatment. At the time he doesn't care.
She is there when he meets Analeese Hawke, when he finally begins to stitch himself back together into the man he used to be. Analeese is a part of that, the eyes she shares with her cousin both a bandage for his broken heart and a knife that slices open memories anew each time he stares into their depths. Andraste is still and quiet as the two spin a friendship from the chaos of Kirkwall's streets, waiting patiently to see how two broken people will collide. When Analeese not so subtly throws herself at him, when their lips meet in a tentative sort of passion, Andraste is sympathetic, and Cullen hates it. Hates that this remarkable woman has chosen him when he is still incomplete and unworthy of her. The Maker's Bride knows this, and still her sympathy remains. It is agony to turn Analeese away, but he does, and she finds solace in the arms of a ghost, and he becomes little more than a specter himself.
Andraste is there for all of it, carved and painted on walls and pillars, an ever present voyeur for the touchstones of his life. For the triumphs, the passions, and the defeats that seem to cut at him deeper than his fellow templars. At times she is gentle, sweet, looking upon him with a tenderness so vast that it is hard not to fall to his knees in supplication and beg for her favor. Other times she is distant, cold, her disapproval almost suffocating. He begins to see a pattern in her silent emotions, and it does not escape his notice that she is soft when he allows himself to be something other than a templar, and she is stern when he allows the Chantry to hold his leash.
And then she is gone, and he is thirty six, and he is naked beside Elodie in her great bed, an arm flung causally over her curves. Cullen glances around, eyes seeking out the goddess, but she is gone, vanished, and he wonders if he at last has been abandoned, just as he abandoned the Chantry many months ago.
Elodie stirs, turning into his body and she breathes his name in her sleep. There is a reverence there, a holiness that startles even as it frightens. He prepares to flee, to slip away and forget the syllables of his name breaking across her tongue like a lullaby. This is not what he is made for, has never been made for. But something gives him pause and he looks at her, looks at the way her hair seems to glow in the moonlight. He can see that she is not made for this either, is not made for closeness and choices that make you face who you are...and yet, in her sleep, he can she that she wants to be made for it...and it makes him realize he wants to be made for it too.
And he doesn't need a goddess to make that clear.
The humming is quieter now and the darkness is gentle; caressing instead of pulling. Cullen embraces it, knowing he is almost done.
~oOo~
He is in the Chantry in Val Royeux, and the faithful have come en masse to pay homage to the god who turned his back upon them. A line of people snakes down the aisle, moving slowly, so slowly, almost as if the parishioners are drugged. Cullen passes them by. They do not turn to look at him. Faithful kneel in prayer in the wooden pews, heads bowed in supplication. Cullen stumbles and falls into one, a man who turns his head to look up at the commander. He stumbles back in horror, and the man simply stares at him with a hollow gaze, two vacant, empty black holes where his eyes should be. Cullen frantically looks around and sees that every one of those who have come to pray bear the same empty sockets, the same unseeing eyes. He runs to the altar, pushing his way through the line until he has reached the massive effigy of Andraste that towers above them all. Her face is blank, an empty canvas bereft of lips, nose, eyes...identity. He whirls about, wanting to ask the Divine what has befallen his once beloved chantry, but it is not Justinia who greets his demands, it is the reverend mother from the templar compound, her eyes hard and vicious. Gregoir stands at her left side, Meredith at her right, both of them dutiful and emotionless.
Cullen is nudged from behind and he turns to find a parishioner motioning politely for him to step aside. He does, watching as the man falls to his knees and turns his empty eyes upwards towards the blank faced Andraste. The reverend mother bears her teeth in what some might call a smile and motions Gregoir and Meredith into action. They comply, and Cullen feels a foreboding wrap along his spine. Gregoir steps behind the kneeling man, pressing his hands against the parishioner's skull and holding him in place. Meredith steps forward, a sunburst brand clenched tightly in her hand. It glows red, bright as a dying star in the dim light of the chantry. Cullen stumbles back. He now knows what is going on. He gazes out into the endless sea of pews, crammed full with empty vessels offering up equally empty prayers. Each is branded, marked with the sign of the chantry. They are tranquil. Mages. Humans. Elves. Dwarves. Each and every one, all compliant and docile as lambs.
The smell of flesh burning under the holy symbol draws his attention, and he watches in sick fascination as the man rises to his feet, the branding still smoking and bloody upon his brow. The man is smiling, unconcerned, and it chills Cullen from the inside out.
The reverend mother slowly turns to face him, finger outstretched and pointing at his heart. Gregoir and Meredith stalk towards him, hands reaching out to restrain and force into subservience. Cullen resists, stumbles away, and soon he is running, running through the oppressive wave of the blindly faithful that pushes against him with a never ending force.
"Cullen."
He can hear his name. It is spoken in beautiful tones, the sound of bells ringing in every syllable. He runs faster, pushes harder, tries to find the source of the soothing voice.
"Cullen."
He is close now, he can see the light of the outside world spider-webbing out into the darkness of the Chantry. It is so bright, almost blinding, and he forces his way through. At last he breaks free, his feet tripping over one another in his haste, and he is greeted with the shadowed outline of a woman standing in the doorway. The light from outside is unbearably bright, and all he can see is blackness made flesh in the shape of curves and long flowing hair. But he can hear his name. This woman has been calling him, and she reaches out, waiting patiently for him to take her hand.
Cullen takes one step forward and suddenly he can see her face. She is Samantha, young and kind. Another step and she is the failed mage, peaceful and filled with forgiveness. Step. Thais, smiling at him with a wicked grin he knows as well as his own. Step. Analeese, laughing gaily and unburdened at last. Step...Elodie, eyes edged in pain and face shining with a compassion she thinks the world can not see.
One last step and he is almost there, his hand reaching out to take what is offered. As his fingers brush over her's the woman transforms once more and she is Andraste, simple, perfect, and loving and Cullen cannot help but cry. He understands then, what all of this has meant, and it brings him a peace he was unaware he had been searching for. When he intertwines their hands, linking finger to finger in a sacred grip Andraste smiles at him and nods gently. As she guides him through the threshold he can hear the choir once more, can hear a song of thanks and not one of grief. Andraste leads him into the light and for the first time he chooses to follow rather than obey.
"Cullen."
She says his name, and to him it sounds like home.
~oOo~
"Cullen?"
Cullen came back to consciousness slowly. His body felt heavy, worn out, and wonderfully cleansed of every bad memory he ever carried. His mouth was dry, tongue scraping at the roof of his mouth as he fought hard to swallow. He could feel a softness beneath him, a gentle cradling of feathers and furs, and he realized he was on a bed and not the cold stones of the prayer alcove. Hesitantly he opened his eyes and he found himself staring at the cracked and broken rafters of his bedroom. It was night, and stars peppered the sky with constellations created from the memories of myth and long lost gods.
"Cullen?" Elodie's voice was quiet with worry, and he turned his head towards the sound, wanting to offer her reassurance.
"I am here," he rasped out, blinking as she slowly came into focus. Her eyes were red rimmed, puffy, and shadows hung low in the space above her cheeks. She looked exhausted, and he could tell she had been crying.
"Thank the maker," she breathed in relief before her faced turned hard she she rapped him sharply about the shoulder. "You stupid, pig headed ass! I don't care what is going on, Cullen, when you're sick you take the time to rest! You don't work yourself into the ground until you collapse at the feet of a goddess. There will candles lit, Cullen! You could have burned the place to the ground."
"I know," he agreed, smiling lightly at her tirade, which only served to enrage her further. Cullen didn't care, she was beautiful in that moment and he was enjoying being at peace for the first time in nearly two decades.
"And why didn't you tell me the withdrawals were this bad?" Elodie continued, hitting him upon his chest once more. "There was an agreement, Cullen. Between you and Cassandra. I'd say you pretty much broke that into a thousand tiny pieces. What possessed you to-" Cullen cut her off by reaching out and pulling her down to him, fingers tangled in her long flowing hair. Their lips met in a breath stealing crash, and Cullen could feel the essence of all that was sacred and holy in their embrace. He pulled back from her slowly and watched in amusement as her eyes went from glassy and dazed to confused and focused.
"Cullen...I..."she stammered out but silenced her once again with a kiss, this one quick and gentle.
"I'm not good at this," he whispered, pressing his brow against hers. "I never have been. But I want to be. I'm broken, and haunted and half sane, and probably no one's idea of what a good man should be, but I don't care anymore. I want to be made for this, Elodie...and I think you do too." Elodie stared at him, a thousand fears and desires dancing through her black rimmed eyes. She was scared, he could see that plain as day, and we wanted to promise her that it would be easy, that he would never hurt her or lead her astray. He knew he couldn't do that, to say so would be a lie, but he could try, he could try to be the kind of man she deserved...and the kind of man he deserved to be.
"Okay," she whispered at last, taking the leap headless of where she would fall. As declarations went it was less than romantic, but Cullen had spent his life loving women who didn't know sentiment from a hole in the ground. Elodie was no different, and it made this easier somehow. Cullen smiled and pulled her in for another kiss, yanking her down until she was stretched out beside him on the bed.
"I'm scared," she whispered, and he laid a gentle kiss upon her brow.
"I know. I was too," he answered.
"What made you not?"
Cullen was silent for a long time before answering. He gazed up at the night sky, eyes tracing over the constellations that twinkled down at him. When he at last spied the figure he was looking for he sighed deeply, free and unburdened at last. He knew now that is was not about rules and prayers, or oppression and obedience. With Elodie stretched out beside him he knew it was about connection, kindness, and empathy on a grand scale. With her pressed against his side he knew that this was sacred, reverent...divine. Andraste smiled down at him from the heavens, her body made of starlight and moonbeams, and Cullen knew that was about love, in all it's forms.
"Faith," he answered her at last, pulling her close and holding on to her as if he would never let her go.