The night was cool and still. Hawke had, in spite of all better judgment, grown accustomed to sleeping in the Gallows. Under the warm blankets and tucked in a secure embrace with Cullen. Here she felt comfortable. Here she felt safe. And here, of all the terrible places in Thedas that Hawke could insert herself, this was the one she felt comfortable calling a home. Not her cold, empty Hightown mansion. Nor the piss-stained Hanged-Man. Not the echoing walls of the Chantry or the bustle of the Lowtown market. It wasn't even the Gallows. No, home was Carver. Home was Cullen.
Under cover of darkness would she slip into his quarters. The same ritual most nights. Quietly allowed in, often only awake and alert enough to assist in the removal of his armor. And once divested of her own gear, they'd curl up together, draped atop one another like exhausted puppies.
On this particular night something felt wrong. Very wrong. There was a shuffle in the darkness, a soft boot scuffing against the hard stone floor. Hawke stirred then, attempting to blink away the sleep in her eyes. All the while she searched for the source of the sound, praying it was merely a small rodent. Or other animal.
"Cullen?" she whispered.
He groaned, shifting slightly. "What's wrong, Ashley?" he asked sleepily, never even cracking an eye open.
She tamped down on the flutter in her chest upon hearing her name. At that lazy, sleep-filled roughness of his voice. Hawke shivered as she tried to force herself to remember why she was waking him up.
"Someone's here," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible even in the stillness of the night.
Cullen groaned again, murmuring in that same sleep filled voice. "It's just the patrol outside."
Hawke frowned then. While the thought hadn't crossed her mind, it had never been an issue before. She'd never heard the patrols before. Not like this. This was too close, too wrong. Panic began to settle in her gut. Fear and worry being trumped by the sheer panic that something was about to go wrong and she could do nothing about it. Not a thing. Hawke had no magic here, not if she wanted to keep her freedom. Her daggers were on the other side of the room. Out of sight and far beyond her meager reach.
"Knight-captain," she hissed. Her temper flared as she began to nudge him, forcefully, in the side under the blanket. His voice was muffled when he responded, apparently he'd seen fit to bury his face against the pillow. Idiot, her mind hissed in frustration.
The sound that had been bothering her seemed to be drawing closer. Further panic was setting in as she tried to curl herself even closer toward him. Making herself small while still trying to rouse her sleepy templar. Maker help me. She pinched his arm, earning an annoyed growl. But when he actually pushed himself up to his elbows, she did a silent cheer of victory.
Hawke curled in close against his chest, practically burying herself beneath him as soon as there was space. Lifting one arm, Cullen rubbed at his eyes followed by his forehead. A disgruntled sound escaped his lips, caught somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Possibly even a growl. Hawke could not tell, nor with the impending sense of dread in her gut did she particularly care.
"Someone's here," she emphasized. This time she could catch his gaze, let him see the clear look of fear and panic in her eyes.
If he caught it, she could not immediately tell. He bowed his head, their foreheads touching as his eyes closed. Hawke was about to protest by way of another pinch - somewhere more painful - when she realized his breathing had stilled. He was listening. He believed her. Thank the fucking Maker!
Cullen's eyes opened and he lifted his head, peering down at her. "Stay out of sight," he warned breathlessly.
Biting her lip in spite of herself, Hawke nodded. She could handle herself, generally speaking, but this was quite the unusual circumstance. What raced through her mind, however, was who was this stranger. And why were they here? Did they somehow know she was here? Was this possible assassin here for her? Or was it for the knight-captain? Hawke was not unaware that the people of Kirkwall bore no love for the templars. But would someone resort to this?
Cullen was moving, rolling off of her and out of the bed to his feet. There was a grunt as he, apparently, collided with something. Or rather someone, Hawke supposed. She did as he asked of her, curling away under the blankets, but peering out to watch all the same. To see what she could. A scuffling met her ears and then quiet, disrupted only by slightly heavier breathing.
Letting the blanket fall back then, Hawke scrambled out of the bed and toward the small fireplace. Grabbing a flintstone from nearby, she started a small fire. Setting the rock back down, she stoked the fire and righted herself.
Light illuminated and danced around the room. Hawke could clearly see Cullen now, standing over a rather rotund dwarf with his sword pointed downward. Andraste's ass! When did he have time to grab that? I didn't even hear him. Trying to swallow her still simmering fears, she walked over to retrieve one of her daggers.
The dwarf on the floor was stammering in an attempt to answer the harsh questions Cullen began posing to him. A brief, very brief, interrogation that revealed Hawke was the target. Her stomach did a flip and she locked eyes with Cullen. A deep, animalistic fear sat behind Hawke's eyes. She could not control it, could not hide it from her lover. He frowned then, looking back down at the dwarf with an agitated glare.
Hawke came up behind Cullen, pushing on his sword arm to direct the weapon away from the dwarf. She crouched down, looking at the glazed over eyes. She swallowed her fear and narrowed her gaze at the clearly disturbed dwarf.
"Who sent you?" she demanded.
The dwarf babbled some more, incoherent words and sentences spewing forth like a filth. She shuddered, about to demand again when he stammered out something about her blood. Or, more specifically, 'the Hawke's blood'. Her jaw tensed and she rammed her dagger into the chest of the dwarf. He spluttered and gurgled until his last breath escaped him.
More fear welled up within her as she staggered back, eventually losing her precarious footing and tumbling back onto her arse. A stifled squeak left her lips. A few tears were also jarred free as her terror began to break her outward demeanor. Cullen, for his part, seemed torn. Unsure of the best course of action. Remove the offending body or merely comfort her.
Hawke watched through tousled hair and periodic tears as Cullen made up his mind, yanking the dagger free of the body and setting it aside. He then dragged it away by the feet. A short few moments later, he'd dragged the body out of the room and into the hallway, calling on a nearby patrol to dispose of it and check the Gallows for any more would-be assassins. By the time the short clean up task had been completed, Hawke had steadied herself. Just a bit, just enough to stop the tears. Her body still shook, worries and fears piling on in her mind. All the what ifs that flew through her mind. What if they went after Carver. What if she hadn't been here? What if she hadn't heard?
Concern laced through Cullen's expression when he finally turned back to her. Yet it went unnoticed, her eyes downcast and staring at the floor. He quietly padded back over to her, scooping up the bundle of terrified Hawke and hoisting her back into the bed. Seating himself, Hawke stayed curled in his lap, fingers curled gently against his chest as she buried her face against his shoulder.
He wiped away some of the sweat that had beaded on her forehead. A moment later, he pressed a gentle kiss against it, murmuring words of encouragement in an attempt to soothe her fears. Yet for all the logic she heard, Hawke could not settle her mind. Could not get past the fact that she or Cullen could have both been killed because of her. That Carver could still be in danger. Because of their blood.
Void take blood mages, she thought bitterly.
"Wh-what about Carver?" she asked, tilting her mouth away from his skin to be heard.
"The night patrol is checking on him," Cullen answered. "And they're sweeping the rest of the Gallows. You're safe."
Safe. Hawke shivered. She wondered if she'd have been safer at home. Able to use her magic, to defend herself. Or if she'd not have woken up. If being in the Gallows, sleeping so lightly, had saved her life. Too many what ifs.
"Thank you, Cullen."
"I will never let anyone bring harm to you, I swear it," he murmured. His voice was barely audible, a whisper in the darkness more akin to a prayer.
Hawke shivered again, but this time around it was the good sort of shiver; the kind that let her tingly and warm all over. A more relaxed, more content sigh escaped her lips as she nestled down with him again in the bed. Happy to stay curled up in his protective embrace until morning came.