- Never Stop -
His hand was warm and calloused, pulling her down and down and down the Tower, until she was certain they were far below the ground. She was surprised to turn and see that they were only halfway down from the Harrowing Chamber, Lake Calenhad glistening orange in the slowly descending sun.
Perhaps it was from the fires upstairs; rogue mages spitting fire at their Templar counterparts. He should have been up there with them.
He had taken off his gauntlets before taking her hand in his, but his grip was so tight she was sure there would be bruises. She could heal them easily. She knew she wouldn't.
Her breath came in sharp gasps, unsteady and afraid.
"Hold on," his equally scared voice called back to her. She held onto him, her one support as he led her further away from destruction.
The metal of his armor clinked together as he untied the boat from the dock, sweat dripping down his forehead to his nose.
"Go away, as far away as you can," he instructed, voice churning and uncertain.
He turned to her and she wanted to weep. Their eyes met, and all she could think about were the suddenly broken promises they whispered to each other in the library, when she was supposed to be studying and he watching her.
"Not without –" The words choked in her throat, closing around itself.
It was not supposed to be this way. They were supposed to leave together. Freedom in Fereldan's open plains, where her magick would be hidden and he would be a mercenary, nothing more.
His cheeks flushed a darker red – this time, not from the mage-fire - fidgeting on his feet, but he did not pull his gaze away from her. Hesitantly he reached for her, his hand tracing the curve of her jaw, cupping her cheek. She nuzzled into his hand, tears pricking her eyes, and he pulled her up to him and he moved his face down, capturing her lips in a kiss that tasted like hope and regret and something so, so sweet.
Their first and last. It was not supposed to be like this.
A bitter smile crossed his lips, "Be free for us, Solona."
He picked her up in his arms, plopping her into the boat and sending her off. She screamed and cried as the waves took her away, far away, and all she wanted to do was curl up into him and stay there. Flames licked the sky, and his silhouette was a mere shadow of her past, before he turned and entered hell.
…
/
The rocks of the shore were cool beneath her face. She laid there for hours, perhaps days. The fires stopped, eventually. Anything else, she knew nothing of. Her throat was sore from crying and screaming the name tattooed against her heart – Cullen, Cullen, Cullen – and her magick bubbled beneath the surface in sporadic waves.
She no longer felt the pull of her phylactery. He probably destroyed it.
The idea tasted sweet on her lips but all she could feel were the tracks of her tears, salty on her tongue. He could not find her now.
She pulled her ripped robes around her. Perhaps she could stay here forever – sit and wait and grow old and wrinkly, if it meant she could see him one more time, trapped behind stone and mortar.
She thought of his sweet smile. He would not want her to stay.
"Damn you," she whispered to the dark. She was his willing slave – her freedom for love.
She stood up, legs wobbly and sore, bottling her magick deep inside. A little bubble of her soul pushed down into her gut. She started walking, the moon above her head and the collapsed tower behind her steps.
…
/
The Blight was over. The world was cruel.
It bit her – chewed her and stomped her out. A wisp of a woman, between the cusp of adulthood and childhood, torn between eating and sleeping and walking.
Fereldan was huge. Where would she go? Where did she fit into the cracks of Denerim or the windmills of Redcliffe? This was not the Tower, she had no schedule to follow and no muscles on her arms to put gold in her pocket. Reading books was no skill she could profit from.
She begged. She thought of hazel-honey eyes and had nightmares about abominations ripping him open and wearing him like a puppet, a beautiful shell that she would willingly give her soul for.
She never did. He would never forgive her.
She slept in alleyways and ravines and trenches, never letting her feet rest, worried they would take her back to her prison and salvation if she were to stop.
She felt her ribs under her skin, under the too-large fabric of her old robes, the skin in her cheeks gaunt and hair limp. She felt hollow and empty.
And then she would look at a tree, taller than she ever imagined, or a pinecone, and stow it away in her small pack of belongings, and she would feel the breath of freedom on the wind. The color of his hair in wheat fields and his eyes in the setting sun.
One day, she would give him every little thing she picked up, tell him how each one reminded her of the way he smiled, shy and lovely.
Amaranthine brought with it the smell and salt of the ocean, the vastness of the world. She sat on the shore of the beach, watching the blue and white waves. The sand was heavy beneath her hands.
She cried, cried out towards the world and the horizon, and felt the soreness of her eyes and the puffiness of her cheeks, and cried. Cried for love lost, for the vastness of Fereldan.
Where was she to find him? Where could she look? The world was too big and she was too small.
She slept on the beach, the waves lulling her to the Fade where she dreamt – no nightmares, just dreams – of Cullen laying beside her, his arm around her waist and his breath on her neck.
She woke to a jab on her arm, sharp and biting.
Anders.
"Finally made it out, little Amell?" A cocky smirk, and the glow of blue behind his lids.
"Anders," a familiar face in a sea of indifference. A hug that made her grip him in a vice. A relieved laugh shared between old comrades, mages.
He plopped down beside her on the beach. She spoke of the broken Circle and he spoke of Grey Wardens and Darkspawn blood.
"What do I do now?" They had once been friends, when they were both children and Anders was more worried about lighting books on fire than escaping.
Now he was a master at it. A smirk crossed his features.
"We go on, off into the ocean," his eyes were wistful, "Maybe Ostwick? Or perhaps Antiva, if you fancy."
Panic gripped her heart, a piece left behind at Kinloch Hold, "I can't –"
Anders eyes were not supposed to be blue, but they were, "He would not want to see you wallow, waste yourself away, Solona," his voice was soft, smile suddenly understanding, "A new beginning. That's what you spoke of, yes? Well, let's start."
They left in the evening, when the waves were calm and the sky a misty yellow, and Anders could hold her as she cried over the shrinking of land and oncoming waves of sea.
…
/
Kirkwall was larger than Fereldan, with more people jammed into crooked alleys and houses stacked on top of each other. A cosmopolitan of beggars and nobility piled into a cliff on the edge of the sea, waiting to topple.
Solona felt more alone in the hospice she learned to call home than she ever did on the streets of Denerim, Anders thrown into his work and she, left to ponder and wonder and dream – oh, the dreams.
She had wonderful dreams. Dreams of Cullen in his shining armor, coming to whisk her away. Cullen and her, on a farmstead in Ostwick, her belly heavy with child as he played with a little girl with red hair and his hazel eyes. Cullen and her, sitting by the ocean, swimming and lying in silent content, curling together in the sand. Her magick bubbled in the night, excitement and hope, but she kept it hidden in the little bubble in her gut during the day. Kirkwall was thick with Templars, and she did not feel the luxury of the electricity in her hands when they were so close by.
She and Anders healed. For years she healed the poor and sick, children that looked too much like her dreams, and still she felt a piece of herself missing.
She wondered if he found someone else. A young mage, preparing for her Harrowing or a robust, female Templar, thighs strong and hair thick and blonde.
"Don't worry," Anders scoffed, "He's mad about you. Crazy, even. He'll never stop loving you."
He'll never stop loving you, she repeated the words each night, like a mantra.
…
/
Six years since leaving her home – no, not home, prison – before she saw his face again.
He was older, as she should have imagined. Face gaunt and features severe. He did not look like the sweet Cullen who held her hand in the Circle library – but it was him. She could recognize him from anywhere, was all she could think about.
He stood on a pedestal, the cruel Knight-Commander at his side. She felt Anders at her side glaring holes into Cullen's head.
She was not the only surprised by his new position and the sneer that graced his lips when Meredith spoke of mages – 'the poison damaging Kirkwall's streets'. He glared at the crowd, and her eyes were wide, tears clouding her vision.
Was this Cullen? Her sweet Cullen, her salvation and now execution?
Meredith called for the hunting of mages in the streets and Cullen's eyes met hers through the crowd. He blanched, eyes wide and fearful. The threatening tears leaked, and she felt her heart break in her chest. Maybe she was the abomination, wearing the face of Solona that Cullen used to love?
"Are you happy to see your love again?" Anders, tense and angry, his voice hollow and blue, pulled her through the crowd, pushing and shoving until he was as far away from Meredith Stannard as he could get.
She felt the pinpricks of his fingers bruising her arm, and she healed the spots before she could even look upon the purple of them.
The tears ran in rivers down her face and she couldn't seem to make them stop. All she could see was the fear and cold hardness in Cullen's face.
Anders paced across his clinic like a caged animal, waiting to be unleashed, before leaving for Hawke's estate above. Solona shuddered at the implications, the hate clouding Anders's vision.
She curled herself in a corner, a blanket draped over her for protection, her magick bottled up and hurting in her heart. She felt so small, exposed and ripped from her own skin. She no longer had Cullen to surround her, protect her.
Her breath came short, suffocating and claustrophobic.
She left the clinic, wandering Darktown, alleys too small and people hidden in their shadows. Could she disappear in one of those shadowy corners, leave herself there until she was skin and bones? She no longer had to live for Cullen, her mementos weightless in her hands.
The clinking of metal in her ears, too late to run as Anders had taught her. Templar.
Around the corner, and she was faced with hazel eyes.
The breath in her throat caught again, and they were both trapped for a moment, staring at each other.
She was starved for him. Wanted to feel his warm hand in hers.
"Cullen," her voice was small and wispy.
He took a small step back, and she wanted to cry out, ask what she could have done wrong to him.
He reached for her, for her face, and she wanted to lean into his touch.
"What abomination is this?" His voice shook and she flinched away, "Are you… real? Not another demon to torture me?"
"It's me," she whispered, "It's me, Cullen. I – I made it. I'm free for both us," she reached for his hand, and felt her heart race when he didn't move away. She placed it on her cheek, nuzzling close, "I found so many things to show you, I kept them all in case I saw you again. The world is huge and amazing and I… I missed you."
She heard the breath leaving his body in a whoosh, and suddenly he was surrounding her, holding her close.
"Oh Maker Solona, oh Maker did I miss you," she felt the coolness of tears on her shoulder, and burrowed deeper into his chest, as close as she could get to him.
She never wanted to let go. Her magick sang happily, curling under her skin and swirling into her hands. Cullen froze, tensed and ready to smite. She felt it in the air.
"Are you scared of me?" She whispered. The Tower, the destruction must have been hell, and she would be surprised if he was not affected by the demons and abominations roaming its halls.
His hand smoothed down her back, "I am broken."
He'll never stop loving you.
She gripped the front of his armor, pulling him down familiar streets and shadows, "Let me fix you. Please."
His protestations, fear, died on his lips as she kissed him, allowed her magick to flow through his body, heal old and unsealed wounds. The tension was there but something changed. She would not fix him in one day, the lyrium clawing against her invasion.
But he was here. She was here. They had time, they had space. A little space in the vast hate of Kirkwall, behind the back of the Knight-Commander and the possessed mage bent on her destruction. This space could be theirs.
Cullen, Cullen, Cullen, she chanted to the air, into his mouth. It had been too long without seeing his face, feeling his hands. One kiss was never enough and the memory was ashes in her mouth, his tongue and teeth sweet and fresh like mint.
He was beneath her, above her, in her and everywhere and she drowned in him, ate him and savored him and the hairs curling on his neck and the sweat beading his brow. He was large and expansive and everything she ever needed.
Her magick clung to the air, sung to them both as it swirled and bubbled and danced above their heads in greens and blues.
When their limbs were sore and boneless she sat in his lap, his chest to her back, his breath warm on her neck like she imagined, yet so much better. She showed him each piece of Fereldan she picked up, and told him how each reminded her of him.
A pine cone, a stone, Andraste's Grace, a piece of leather as red as his Templar uniform.
He kissed her hands and took each one, stuffing them carefully into a pocket of his uniform. His hands smoothed over her skin, her naked form as she helped dress him in the cool metal of his armor. He kissed her sweetly and was gone with the rising of the dawn.
She did not feel whole, but she did not feel so empty.
…
/
It was only a matter of time for Solona, when her lover was a Templar Commander seeking the destruction of mages, and she was a healer seeking solace in Kirkwall's underbelly.
It was only a matter of time that she could be a secret, a moment in Cullen's life when he was not conscripting young men or judging the fate of mages in the Circle.
But he never took her in, and she liked to think that the once anxious-inducing swirling of her magick slowly calmed him, showed him that the greens and oranges of her song circled him in her love, surrounding him and protecting him while he fought the demons in his head.
She only heard his nightmares a handful of times, when he fell asleep by her side, and she curled around him, holding him while the waves crashed over him violently. His screams made her cry but she refused to show him, seeping the healing in her hands into his back until the muscles relaxed beneath her.
It was only a matter of time before Anders found her sneaking the Templar into his clinic when he was gone with Hawke, his Justice kicking her out into the streets and sending her off with the robes on her back and the Amell name.
She did not go to Hawke, the distant cousin whose reputation for anger and retribution could almost match the destruction she saw Anders cause in his quest for righteousness.
She did not go to Fenris or Merrill or Isabela – the distant acquaintances who came to Anders with scraps and wounds, demanding to be healed.
She roamed Darktown, and then Lowtown, afraid to go near the Circle – it felt like betraying the Cullen from Kinloch Hold - the one who told her to escape, run and be free.
It was only a matter of time before she would see him on patrol, roaming Lowtown in all of his glory, Templar armor glistening in the sunlight while she lurked in the shadows, magick low in her gut, phylactery gone and away.
And so it was only a year of secret meetings and stolen kisses before Solona became sloppy, her magick bubbling at the sight of her love, excited and singing, and a Templar grabbed her by the arm, eyes harsh and severe as he stripped her of magick and began dragging her to the Circle. The smite hurt and she gasped, weak and fragile against the grip his gauntlet had on her arm.
Fear bubbled in her chest, for, of course, it was only a matter of time before Varric – Hawke's friend, of course – shot the Templar in the forehead, smirked at her like Anders used to, and beckoned her to the docks of Kirkwall.
"Thank you."
"You should leave soon, before the rest of the Templars come looking for you," he eyed her from the side, "Got a ship you can take, anywhere you like, as long as it's far away from here."
Her heart beat rapidly, sporadic.
"But, Cu –"
"Do you know where you want to go? I'll send him the message."
Her eyes pricked with tears, and she pulled the dwarf into a tight hug.
"Ostwick."
"Got it, kid."
"Thank you."
"You better go; one Templar only means that there will be more. You know how hard it is to get rid of them."
…
/
Her house was made of wood and straw, and it was cozy. Every evening she sat on her porch, the trees surrounding her and the little town she lived by a little prick of light in the distance.
She always made two cups of tea, and sat and waited, until the moon was high in the sky and her head was drowsy with sleep and dreams. The quiet was pleasant, the trees and bright sky a far change from the smoke and lies of Kirkwall.
Sometimes, when the night was warm and her shoulders were slumped, she thought she could hear the laughing of children through the trees – a little boy with blonde, curly hair that hung in his face, hiding bright blue eyes.
She waited. Sometimes she was lonely, but most nights she just felt the longing in her heart, waiting for the day that her knight in shining armor would come and whisk her away – or maybe stay with her, become a farmer. The thought made her giggle but she couldn't hide the appeal of the thought.
She waited. The Circle fell. A Conclave called. An Archdemon returned. He did not come.
…
/
The Inquisition disbanded, by the way. Can you believe they made me Viscount? Shit, Kirkwall is definitely going to be interesting now if you ever want to stop by.
Curly's retired, or so I heard. Off in Fereldan again with a dog and a reserve for Templar castaways. He's completely off lyrium, so I guess he wants to make Thedas a better place.
Maybe you should stop by. Last I talked to him he was asking about you again.
I don't think he's ever stopped loving you. Goodness, all of his gooeyness is rubbing off on me.
Until next time,
V.
…
/
It was very Cullen. It was warm and cozy, and the sun streamed in through every room. On her back was everything she needed – robes, tea, one of Cullen's old tunics she had stolen from beneath his nose, once upon a time.
Ex-Templars chatted and laughed, their merriment reverberating in the fresh, Fereldan air.
It was not hard to find him. He was off in a field, a dog at his side as he threw a stick to his companion. He looked so… fresh. Happy. She had not seen him smile so wide in such a long time, it was amazing. Blinding.
Unbeknownst her magick began to sing, thrumming in her veins and swirling in her heart, prickling and bright.
She could never stay away from him, was drawn to him again and again.
The dog noticed her first, bounding up to her and almost hugging her, just barely shorter than her, covering her face with sloppy kisses. She giggled, the sunlight highlighting Cullen's hair and the brightness in his smile making her heart jump.
Finally, he noticed her. Recognized her. He stared at her, and a lump formed in the bottom of her stomach. Maybe she shouldn't have come? Maybe he did not want to see her?
"Hello," she whispered hesitantly.
"Hello," he took a hesitant step forward. Fear gripped her, she took a step back.
He stopped.
"Maybe I – shouldn't have come," she giggled nervously, "I – you probably don't want to see me, after all this time."
"What?" This time he approached her, moving closer and closer until he was all around her and she felt like she couldn't breath, "What do you mean? Do you think –"
"I just left you, all those years ago, in Kirkwall, so –"
"Solona," her name sounded like a prayer, and she froze.
He hesitated, and she thought for a moment that maybe this could be like ten, twelve years ago. It couldn't, but this Cullen was not afraid or angry or spiteful. He was shy and nervous and oh, she wanted him to kiss her.
He fell to his knees, his hands wrapping around her waist, gripping her tightly.
She was sure he would leave bruises, and she would not heal them.
"I thought you would hate me. I – I was so afraid that you would look at me and see someone who left you, who couldn't protect you. After Varric told me what happened I thought we couldn't be together – we – I – I was so broken, you deserved so much better," he burrowed his face into her legs, holding onto her tightly, "Meredith was – I couldn't leave. I wanted to run away with you, be free, but –"
"All I want is you. I still love you. I've always loved you. I want to be free with you," she held him close.
This lovely Cullen. This Cullen that she loved, always loved.
She sat down, curling herself in his lap, her head tucked under his chin as he burrowed his nose into her hair, clutching her as the dog sat near his ankles.
They sat in silence, soaking the other in, disbelieving and absorbing, all too much and not enough. It was perfection.
Solona felt whole. She felt happy, felt the happiness leaking from her in waves, absorbing the relief and sunshine Cullen gave her. It was so simple, but it was enough.
"I want to marry you," he breathed, "I want to make love to you and make you breakfast and live in a tiny home –"
"By the sea," she reached up and kissed him, tangling her hands in his soft curls, until she ran out of breath and his face was flushed and she couldn't quite catch her breath again.
He smiled and it was so easy and it felt like it made everything worth it.
"Yeah, by the sea."
This felt like freedom.
…
/
His hands wrapped around her stomach, her skin taunt, and he felt a small kick in the palm of his hand.
He kissed her neck, slow and languid, and she melted into his touch.
"Love you," kiss, "love you," kiss.
She moaned, heavenly and sweet.
The ring on her finger felt cool against her warm skin, and she heard the waves lapping against the shore through their bedroom window.