Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age, this a nonprofit work of fiction written purely for my own enjoyment though hopefully others will become fond of it as well.
Author's Notes: My inquisitor is a very direct, no-nonsense, kind of gal. See the TV Trope "Good is not Nice" and that's where Evey falls. A lot of the dialogue in inquisition didn't satisfy that personality for me, especially when it came to her romance with Cullen. So writing these snippets is my way of going, "No, no, no. This is how it would have gone." really.
Chapter One: Setting Rank and File
The first time that Cullen lays eyes on Evelyn, she is sundering demons as if it were child's play.
It starts with freezing a Rage Demon that he's just barely holding off. A straight freeze too, not just a blast of cold that makes the thing shudder and recoil. With his years of Templar training, Cullen is able to catch the snap of a stave through the air that precludes the casting of Winter's Grasp; in an instant the monster spitting fire at him is a solid mound of ice. It's surprising to say the least. Even more so is the clipped voice that comes at his back.
"Don't just fucking stand there, smash it!"
He isn't even offended. He's lost too much blood and his head is too needled from Lyrium withdrawal for offense to be taken from sensible advice. So he keeps his shield up and does what needs to be done.
Just as the Rage Demon is dispatched, several Shades appear around him. In the distance, he spies Cassandra along with the Dwarf she dragged along from Kirkwall, the apostate Elf, and his recruits fighting more of them. Admittedly, being out here on his own with an aching head and ever-mounting fatigue are starting to become a worry.
More healing potions. He needs to remember that. But the shape of the bottles just makes the cravings worse; he wants them to be blue, not red.
Fire erupts around him as he narrowly avoids a claw to his neck. For a moment, he thinks that it's another Rage Demon, but then the Shade screams and then air is thick with scent of static. Chain Lightning arcs about him, wrapping around his enemies. The Shades screech and recoil, one practically walking into the blade that appears behind it. More shrieks tear the air and dark ichor spurts as the demon is bisected by a sharp Drakestone edge bursting through its chest. The blade rips upward, the Shade dissolves, and Cullen is face to face with his savior.
If he's being honest with himself, the woman he sees frightens him more than the demons. She's tall, built like whipcord, all lean muscle, sinew, and bone. By the way that she carries herself he could almost believe that she burst from her mother's womb fully armored. Behind her, there is the Breach, churning, pulsing, and burning that unnatural green against the clouds. Her eyes are also green and he could swear that just like the hole in the sky, they glow.
Then she snarls and flings fire at another oncoming Shade. Her attention snaps back to him in an instant and if Cullen were a man who hadn't survived Meredith Stannard, he suspects that he'd wet himself.
"Run or fight, dammit," she growls, slamming her heavy, round staff head into the same Shade she just set on fire. Were it a person, he does not doubt that the skull would be crushed in. "And if you're going with the first, hurry the hell up get out of my way."
That bristles him, but Cullen swallows it down. She isn't wrong. She's hostile and almost painfully blunt, but not wrong.
Bluntness is what he seems to need however. Her words spur him up, rekindle the fire in his belly, and Cullen charges the closest demon, bashing his shield into it with all of the force that he can muster.
The fight takes his focus of course, but he still notices her. He's known few mages that move with melee in mind, fewer still who do so with the competence that she does. Efficient, precise, and brutal, she shifts between slinging spells and polearm defense with fluid grace. Beyond that, she even remains mindful of him; when she casts a barrier, she does so when he's within range as well, keeping cover to his back.
Impressive. He hates that it's impressive because he knows who she is now without a doubt.
When the prisoner, one human, female mage bearing papers from the Ostwick Circle of Magi had stumbled out of the Fade, he was not present. Later on, he did not allow curiosity to goad him down into the dungeons where she slept, fevered and weak. He had not even bothered to inquire about her name; investigations such as that were Leliana's purview, and besides, he had much of his own work to do, trying to calm and lead what was left of the troops. Reports on her glowing hand however, even he had not been able to ignore and he surely cannot miss it when she stands, cooler and calmer than the frozen lakes around them, and snaps the tear in the world shut.
She shakes the hand that bears the eerie mark, as though using it caused her hurt though her face is Tranquil-still.
In the aftermath, the Elven mage is the first to approach. "Sealed. As before. You are becoming quite proficient at this." Cullen doesn't like the sound of his voice; there seems to be admiration melded with the surprise in his voice. Nothing to do with this mess is to be admired.
Though credit where credit is due, the woman was on point in the fight.
Varric seems to share his sentiments. Tugging at his coat sleeves, almost as if he's late for some appointment back in Hightown, he says, "Let's hope it works on the big one."
Yes. Let's hope it does.
Cassandra approaches them and Cullen, grateful for a face that's both familiar and trustworthy, goes to her at once.
"Lady Cassandra." He nods to her and she nods back. "You managed to close the Rift. Well, done."
She knows what he meant but Cassandra is never one to take credit for something her very own hand did not accomplish. She shakes her head and gestures to the other woman. "Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner's doing."
The prisoner says nothing but her eyes have fallen back to him again. A tremor creeps up his spine and along his gut. They're definitely not glowing but they…unsettle him. Sharp, bright, hyper-aware, like an caged animal's. Worse, a cage predator's. He's already seen her rip a throat out, in a sense, maybe not with her teeth but he's got the sinking suspicion that if push ever comes to shove, she'll have no more trouble biting down into his jugular than she would staring him down. Which she does with aplomb.
A niggling little voice at the back of his head whispers that Meredith would have made her Tranquil at once, no Harrowing permitted. Too much fire in the eyes and steel in the spine. Too much control of herself.
And you would have let her. No. No, worse, you would have applauded her…
He doesn't know what scares him more, the monstrous hole in the sky spewing monsters, this woman, or the blood dripping off of his conscious.
Cullen swallows the bile at the back of his throat and braces himself as he looks back to the prisoner. "Is it? I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here."
Nothing changes on her face shifts. No pity sparks in her eyes, not a dash of despair, not a glimmer of fear. "I'm all you've got," she says so matter-of-factly that he could laugh.
He doesn't laugh; he isn't quite so hysterical from withdrawal just yet. Instead, he says, "We'll see soon enough, won't we?" And returns attention to Cassandra because if he meets those eyes for any longer he will shudder. He clears his throat. "The way to the Temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there."
More staunch and stalwart than Cullen could ever hope to be, Cassandra nods once again. "Then we'd best move quickly," she says. The line of her jaw twitches. She is nervous—the sky is aflame with foul magic and demon fire, no one sane is at ease—but the untrained eye would not be able to see any such trace of weakness. "Give us time, Commander."
He almost reaches out to grasp her shoulder but stops himself. Cullen hasn't had many friends these last few years, has not allowed himself the luxury since Ferelden. Cassandra is the first person he has genuinely liked and understood in a very, very, very long time. But if she's facing certain doom with her chin out, he supposes he should as well.
Instead of the comforting gesture, he settles with, "Maker watch over you. For all our sakes."
An ironic thing for him to say, he knows. Cullen has been neglecting his prayers this last year. The Chant tends leaves an unsavory tang in his mouth more often than not. One that tastes of burning cities, betrayal, and his own rotten ignorance and fear.
And she—the prisoner—looks at him as if she can see it.
His men need him, of that there is no doubt. Darren took a nasty hit from one of the many Shades leaking out of the Rift and cannot walk on his own. Helping the other man back through the gates is only a pretense though. Cullen must flee those piercing green eyes before they punch a hole straight through him.