Notes: Another one-shot for my Anwen Trevelyan - showing a snapshot from quite early on in her relationship with Cullen.
Leliana's spies would have you believe that one is either born with a natural talent for observation – or not. They claim that the Maker has gifted them with sharper eyesight, granted them the innate ability to see that which is usually unseeable.
Cullen knows this is bullshit.
The skill of observation is, like all skills, simply learned in time. One just needs to apply the proper amount of effort and dedication; expend enough time simply watching and, eventually, all those little things that the average person overlooks suddenly come into startling clarity.
Cullen has spent a lot of time watching.
As a child, Cullen thought that the life of a Templar was all about sword fights and demons, about journeying across the countryside to find wayward apostates and bring them back home. As an adult, he'd learned that the life of a Templar was largely about, well, standing around – and watching.
It's not quite the life he'd imagined – spending hours on end standing at attention, doing nothing except stare at the charges under his care – but Cullen approached his responsibilities at Kinloch Hold like he did all things, with dedication and a single-minded determination to succeed. And even though his duty shifts were often dull, occasionally seeming to stretch into eternity, he never once let his attention waver.
Templar training had taught him what he was supposed to look out for: signs of possession, signs of forbidden magic. But over time he'd learned to notice other things too. He'd learned to recognise the coy, shy smiles between Apprentices getting a little too close; learned to notice the tight, tense eyes of an Enchanter contemplating escape; learned to recognise the pinched frowns of Templars about to snap from frustration. Cullen had watched, and he'd learned, and soon he'd become an expert in reading body-language and expressions.
Cullen could tell more about a person from a single glance than the average person could glean after weeks of acquaintance.
So when a relative stranger suddenly becomes the Herald of Andraste, thrust into a position of immense authority, he can't help but watch her. After all, she is an outsider – unknown, unpredictable – and the success of the Inquisition is too important to be waylaid by one woman.
His fears are quickly relieved – Cassandra returns from their first mission to the Hinterlands with nothing but praise. Anwen performed admirably, Cassandra reports to the War Council once the woman in question has taken her leave, far beyond all expectations. She'd handled Mother Giselle with grace and humility, she'd bargained with Dennet for his horses firmly but fairly. She'd stopped to help refugees wherever possible, she'd thrown herself into battle wherever necessary. Whatever trepidation Cassandra had felt before (and she'd admitted to him in private before departing from Haven that she had many, many concerns about Anwen) now seemed all but vanquished.
And yet Cullen still watches her.
Because there's something just... a little odd about Anwen, a little off.
It's not that he doesn't like her – in fact he finds her perfectly pleasant. She's polite and soft-spoken when he's around, eager to listen but also happy to proffer her opinion when asked. She nods attentively when he speaks, is careful not to talk over him, and when she passes him on the streets around Haven, she always throws him a friendly little wave.
But then he sees her around other people and, well, she's different. So different in fact that she almost appears another person.
He's seen her drinking at the tavern with Varric, telling bawdy jokes and swearing profusely between vulgar snorts of laughter. He's seen her paraded in front of the nobles that Josephine invites to Haven, compliments and commendations dripping, sickly-sweet, from her tongue. And he's seen her at the Chantry, head bowed in prayer as her lips move in silent penance.
She is all things to all people and Cullen knows such a thing to be impossible.
And that is why he cannot stop watching her, observing her, trying to determine what kind of person she truly is. Because while he's seen so many sides to her, he's not sure whether any of them are real. She laughs, she charms, she smiles – always smiling (although his keen eyes notice that the smiles never quite seem to reach her eyes). There are sweet smiles and vulgar smiles, gentle smiles and wicked smiles – but all of them are brittle, all of them fake. Despite how richly expressive her features are, he cannot tell whether any of her emotions are sincere.
She has the remarkable ability to show so much while revealing nothing at all.
He's thinking about her smile as he sits at his desk and works through the mountain of paperwork demanding his attention. He's trying not to think of her, of course – he wants to get through these papers as soon as possible so he can finally get to some long-overdue rest – but she'd been unusually quiet during their last war council meeting, standing still and stiff with an oddly serene smile on her face, and Cullen is still puzzling over just what that smile means.
Perhaps she's overwhelmed, the burden of her new title finally taking its toll on her, or perhaps she's merely being thoughtful, calculating, keeping her opinions to herself while she considers the judgements of her advisors. He wishes he could read her better; he observes but he still doesn't quite understand.
Cullen is not surprised to hear the knock on his office door – interruptions are common in Haven – but he is surprised when it's Anwen's head that appears around his door after he bids the guest to enter. He'd assumed she would be fed-up with him after such a lengthy war council meeting and he wonders briefly whether she's somehow been summoned by his thoughts, perhaps some magical ability of which he's unaware, but he dismisses that thought as the foolishness that it is. Her arrival is mere coincidence, that's all.
"Am I disturbing you?" she asks, hovering at the threshold.
"Of course not," he lies, his tone a little too clipped to sound genuinely convincing. He takes a quick moment to stare intently at the page in front of him in an attempt to memorise his place before he stands up to address her properly.
"You said that… uh… that I could use your office if I ever wanted to read in peace?" she asks, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant, and it's only then that he notices the dog-eared book clasped in her hands. "I was hoping the offer still stands?"
Ah – yes, he had said that, hadn't he.
He'd once come across her huddled against a wall near the Chantry, body bent around her book and a cloak wrapped around her shoulder in a vain effort to protect her from the chill, and it had seemed the polite thing to do to offer her his office. To be honest, he'd made the offer in the certainty that she wouldn't accept it. Cullen likes his privacy a great deal, particularly in a place such as Haven where solitude is difficult to come by.
But now she's at his door – looking quietly expectant – and Cullen finds he can't really send her away.
"Yes – absolutely," he says as he takes a step forward, skirting around his desk so that he can gesture to the small, crooked chair sitting near the stove in the corner of the room. The chair makes a rather sorry sight, sagging and moth-eaten, but Anwen only nods appreciatively at his invitation, finally stepping across the threshold of the door and into his office.
"I promise I won't say a word," she says as she makes her way toward the chair, "you won't even notice I'm here. I just… I wanted…" she settles into the seat as she tries to muddle through her words, "Haven is just so busy – and I wanted somewhere quiet to read."
"Is your cabin not quiet?" he asks, and he sounds a little more surly than he'd intended. He really doesn't mean to appear unwelcoming; it's just that he's eager to finish his paperwork and he's still a little flummoxed by Anwen's unexpected arrival.
She fidgets in her seat at his question, perhaps picking up on his pointed tone. "It's quiet enough, I suppose," she says, once again looking uncomfortable, "but it's just…" she lets her words trail off for a moment before adding, "it's lonely."
Hmm – he hadn't expected her to stay that. Anwen seemed to have no problem in making friends, ingratiating herself easily within any social circle, from the common soldiers to the nobles and even the Chantry sisters.
"I know it makes no sense – and you'll think me ridiculous – but right now I want to be on my own while… with someone else." She flushes then, somewhat embarrassed by her admission, apparently loath to admit her feelings of loneliness (perhaps afraid that he'll think less of her).
But Cullen thinks that he might understand – understand her desire for solitude but also companionship. It must be terribly isolating, he thinks, to find oneself suddenly thrust into a position of leadership, hailed as the exalted Herald of Andraste (and she's made it clear how much she hates that title). And just because she enjoys the quiet; it doesn't mean she wants to enjoy it alone.
"No," Cullen says quickly, "it's not ridiculous – not at all."
"It's not?" she asks, and he can see her relief in the gentle slope of her eyes, "good."
And then she smiles – broad and lopsided, stretching her cheeks and crinkling her eyes – and there's nothing brittle or fake about it. It's real and it's honest and… beautiful.
Cullen's a little stunned. After all this time thinking about how he can uncover the real side of her, she's just shown herself to him – lonely and vulnerable – without him even having to try. It's just a sliver, of course, just a little hint at the quiet, smiling woman she is below the fake laughter and the forced jokes – but it's a start. And Cullen is dismayed to realise that he's even more intrigued than he was before; now that he's taken this quick peek behind the mask she wears, he just wants to rip it off and see her whole face, honest and bare.
"Well, just m-make yourself comfortable," he stutters before striding back behind his desk and returning to his seat and the awaiting mound of paperwork. She only nods, smiling sweetly, before crossing her legs, tucking them beneath her, and cracking open her book to rest in her lap. He picks up the document he was reading when Anwen had entered and groans internally when he realises that he can't remember how far down the page he'd read. Never mind – the Requisition Officer's handwriting is so cramped he probably would have had to read the report a few times anyway, just to understand what it said.
True to her word, Anwen does not speak, remaining completely silent save for the soft fwip-fwip of paper as she turns each page. And yet, as unobtrusive as she is, Cullen keeps finding his eyes drawn to her, bizarrely fixated on watching her read. Her whole expression changes as she delves further and further into her book, soft smiles turning to frowns and then to scowls as she turns each page, then some dramatic twist in the tale must provide some consolation because her lips suddenly curl into a beaming smile and her eyes light-up with cheer. It's endearing, really, watching her read – watching her features shift across a full gamut of emotions, her expressions raw and honest for being unaware of her audience.
He makes a mental note to ask her what she's reading.
Despite the diminutive size of his odd, misshapen chair, Anwen looks surprisingly at ease, leaning toward the warmth of the stove with her legs curled snugly beneath her. A contented sigh escapes her lips and when she looks up and catches him staring, she throws him a lazy smile.
"Oh Maker," she murmurs, "the heat is heavenly." Her smile then curls into more of a smirk, playful and teasing, and she waggles her eyebrows jokily as she purrs, "I'm terribly sorry, Commander, but I think I may never leave."
He chuffs an amused puff of air. "I suppose the Frostbacks must be a bit of a shock after the more temperate climes of Tantervale."
"Oh, absolutely. It never gets this cold back home. I'd never even seen snow until I came to Ferelden – not snow like this. Sometimes you'll get the occasional flurry in the Free Marches but… it never really settles." She looks a little wistful, her eyes turning glassy for the briefest of moments before looking at him with a sharp focus once more. "You're from Kirkwall, right?"
He nods awkwardly. "In a way."
"The weather in Tantervale is similar to Kirkwall's, but a little warmer – and we're on the right side of the Vinmarks so we get less rain."
"Sounds nice."
"I know, right?" she says, nodding emphatically, "Why would I ever want to leave?"
"Why did you then?" he asks, and though it's not meant as an accusation, it does somewhat sound like one. But he doesn't mean to sound challenging, he really is just curious. It must have been a dangerous journey, a mage travelling all that distance with the Civil War waging all around her. No one would make such a journey unless they had good reason.
"Oh, you know," she shrugs, "I just really like bland food and the persistent smell of wet dog."
She laughs then at her own joke, a warm chortling interrupted with occasional rough snorts.
"And in truth?" he prods, feeling a little rude for his persistence but not wanting her to use humour to skirt around his question.
She sighs, clearly reluctant to give him an answer to his question but aware that it's unlikely he'll relent until he has one. "I suppose I just wanted to help. My friends and I have been doing whatever we can to help – to get innocent mages to safety. And we've been doing good work, you know? But there's only so much we can do on our own and we thought… we thought that our efforts would have more of an impact if we worked with others."
He nods as she talks; it's a familiar story, one he's heard with only minor alterations from numerous new recruits. He supposes he should feel pleased, that so many people feel compelled to endure difficulties and maybe even death – just to help others. He imagines that there's more, some greater nuance behind her explanation, but he's not exactly sure what questions to ask to make her unveil more.
"To be honest, I was reluctant to come here," she continues when Cullen stays silent. "I knew the Divine was gathering a large force of people around her and, well, I've never been particularly good with other people."
He scoffs at that. "I find that hard to believe. You seem so at ease with everyone. I've seen you talking and smiling with almost every soul in Haven."
Her mouth curves into a tight frown, as if he's said something distasteful. "Oh that? That's just – it's something I do. I'm a mage and I'm an outsider and… I'm just… I'm trying to stop people from hating me." She shrugs, probably aiming for nonchalant, but instead the gesture is stiff and uncomfortable. For a brief moment there's a flash of something in her eyes – discomfort, yes, but also something else. Perhaps it's fear that she's shown her hand, surrendering her previous advantage. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," she mutters with a shake of her head, "but when I was an apostate, I learned… I don't know… I'm good at making people like me, I suppose."
She bows her head, suddenly looking intently at the book in her lap as she worries the edge of the pages with her thumb, and then she looks up at him again, an oddly serene smile plastered on her face, and he's disappointed to see that one of her masks has slipped into place.
"And what about you, Commander, why did you join the Inquisition?" she asks, her tone polite and cold.
He can't help but grimace; now that he's seen a glimpse of the real Anwen, he can't help but resent this façade even more.
"The same as you," he says, because while he's irritated that Anwen has retreated behind her walls, he's still unwilling to appear ungallant by not answering her question, "I wanted to help people." There's a pause as Cullen considers ending his answer there – but then he begins again, more tentatively now, "and to save myself, I suppose."
One of her brows arches sharply, her interest clearly piqued, but Cullen's not sure whether he'll be able to fully satisfy her curiosity. He doesn't like to talk about his past – his time in Kirkwall is too fresh, his time in Kinloch Hold too painful – but Anwen has been surprisingly open with him tonight and it seems only fair for him to reciprocate in kind.
"I was very… angry when I first arrived in Kirkwall," he says, choosing his words cautiously, "and that anger only festered over the years. I'm not… I'm not proud of the man I was in Kirkwall."
"But you're proud of the man you are now?"
"Not yet…" he admits, "but… I'm getting there."
Her fake smile falters, the corners of her mouth curling crookedly as she gifts him with another one of her honest smiles, gentle and sweet. "Then it seems we both have sides of ourselves we hide from others."
Cullen thinks he might understand now, at least a little.
Anwen wears a multitude of masks because she has to – because she's just trying to survive, a mage thrust into a position of impossible responsibility, using charm to hide her real self from the world. She's the revered Herald of Andraste, drowning under an ocean of expectations and just desperate to stay afloat.
There's still so much he doesn't know about Anwen, still so much that makes him wary. But now he can at least see that there's a real woman underneath those strange brittle smiles. And this realisation is – oddly comforting.
Of course he'll keep an eye on her, he probably couldn't stop even if he tried (it's just too engrained in his nature) but he can feel his suspicions begin to lift. Watching this woman curled up awkwardly on his crooked little chair – shoulders hunched, expression open – Cullen can't help but be a little charmed by her.
Now that he's seen this glimpse of the real Anwen; he can't wait to see more.
Anwen prides herself on being an astute observer.
It is a skill learned during her many years on the run as an apostate. Either she learned to observe her surroundings or she ended up dead (or worse, in the Circle). She was always on her guard, always watching, for the sneering smile of the innkeep about to cheat her of her money, for the shadow at the corner of her vision that signalled the Templars' approach.
Now that she finds herself thrust unexpectedly into a role of leadership – the illustrious Herald of Andraste – she must rely on these skills of observation even more.
Haven is full of people, a jostling hubbub of soldiers and sisters, of nobles, pilgrims, farmers and spies. They all stare at her as she passes through the streets, glaring with suspicion or gawking with amazement, whispering under their breaths – sometimes saviour, sometimes traitor.
There are many who don't trust her. And she tries not to blame them (though she resents it all the same) – she is a mage after all, and a relative stranger. So she smiles and she flatters and she indulges in idle chit-chat, showing them with her cheery demeanour just how harmless she is.
And there are others who venerate her, who see her as the Herald rather than a person (and, Maker, does she hate that bloody title). For these people she puts in the effort to learn their names, insists that they call her by hers. She tilts her head when they talk so they know she's listening intently. Sometimes she stumbles when she walks, to show that she's fallible, vulnerable – human.
And then there are those who think her weak, who see her as this small, pretty thing wholly unsuited for the dangerous task ahead of her. And so she drinks them all under the table (Anwen has always been good at handling her liquor) and tells the kind of jokes that make even the most hardened soldier blush.
Anwen is smart – and she has learned over the years how to survive, how to keep the people around her on her side. She watches, sees how they see her, and responds in kind. Do they glower as she walks by, derogatory words hanging unspoken on their snarling lips? Or do they startle when she appears, eyes wide with astonishment at the sight of Andraste's chosen one? She notices every furrowed brow, every dimpled cheek, every crinkled nose, and crafts a careful façade to tackle each one.
It's exhausting work – and she's not sure yet who she can trust, with whom she can stop pretending and just be herself. She has a few friends of course, a few Templars and mages she knows from Tantervale, but they're often busy, training under Commander Cullen or helping Minaeve with her research. And while Anwen likes her new travelling companions well enough, Varric and Solas and their latest recruit, The Iron Bull, she's not entirely sure whether she can trust them yet (and they're clearly still deciding whether they can trust her too).
Her position is such a tentative thing – uncertain and unknowable – and Anwen is scared. What if she fails? What if she is not the Herald they want her to be? What if they decide they no longer wish to tolerate a mage amongst their midst? What will they do to her then – imprisonment? Perhaps death?
And so she conceals even more than usual, hiding behind masks – the only defence mechanism she's ever really mastered (except lightening of course – but there's a time and place for a good electrocution and this probably isn't it).
Things seem to be going well, though, as far as she can tell. Her recent trip to the Storm Coast had proven a success, and she'd returned to Haven with an impressive assortment of both resources and new recruits. And people seem to like her. Some people, like Varric, may soon become actual friends. Even Cassandra, who'd originally done a piss-poor job at hiding her disdain toward Anwen, now seems inclined to support her.
Anwen's talent for observation was seemingly serving her well.
Apart from Commander Cullen – something there was still a bit… off.
When she stares at him, he stares straight back – analysing her with the same penetrating gaze that she uses on other people. It is a little uncomfortable actually, feeling herself so thoroughly unmasked.
And though she takes any opportunity to observe him whenever she's in Haven, she still can't really understand him, can't really consolidate the many contradictions she sees in him. He is honest and open, speaking his opinion plainly and candidly (a little too candidly, sometimes). His face is expressive, easily readable; stern and insistent when arguing his points but patient and attentive when listening to others.
And yet there's so much he conceals.
He rarely talks about his time in Ferelden, stammering out some nonsense answer whenever she makes polite enquiries about his past. And occasionally one of the Kirkwall Templars will slip up and call him Knight-Captain instead of Commander, and though he tries to keep his composure, she can see the way his eyes twitch and jaw tightens and she knows there's something there, something dark and secret.
It's just so peculiar – that someone can be so open and so guarded at the same time, and she finds this contradiction, well, profoundly intriguing.
That sense of intrigue only grows the more time she spends in his office, huddled in the squat chair in the corner with her book in hand. He's different here – different from the man she sees in the War Room or in the Training Yard. He talks to her with greater ease, calls her Anwen rather than Herald or Lady Trevelyan. That he'd invited her into his office in the first place had itself been an unexpected surprise; he seemed the type to value his privacy. But having been given the offer, Anwen was not inclined to refuse it. Haven is too busy, too crowded, and the Commander's office provides a welcome escape.
They always start off talking, sometimes about the Inquisition but usually about anything else – about books or maps or funny stories they'd heard over the years. Sometimes Cullen makes them tea and sometimes Anwen shares some biscuits or sweets she's acquired while on her travels. They always end up in silence – easy and comfortable – Cullen working at his desk while she reads contentedly in the corner.
It reminds her of her childhood, sitting and reading with her sister, both girls quiet – alone but together.
She spends as much time looking at him as she does looking at the pages of her book, watching him sound out words as he pours through his paperwork, observing the little twitch of his brow when he reads something that displeases him, the slight slant of relief that falls across his features when he reads something encouraging. She wants to figure him out, to piece together the disparate parts of him, like parsing through the clues in the trashy mystery novels she likes to read.
Knocking on his door one evening a little later than usual, she's surprised when she hears no response. Her visits to his office have become such a regular occurrence whenever she's in Haven that the Commander now expects them, bidding her enter as soon as she's knocked, a tea kettle already sitting expectantly on the little stove in the corner of the room.
She opens the door cautiously, not wanting to annoy him if her presence really is unwanted but thinking it likely that he simply didn't hear her knock and therefore wouldn't mind the intrusion.
"Commander?" she asks as she cranes her head around the door. She can't see him at first, and his absence is a little perplexing – she's sure she didn't see him in the Training Yard on her way over. But nothing appears amiss, every item in his office in its correct and proper place, and she takes a few tentative steps into the room, shutting the door carefully behind her.
It's then that she spots him, slumped forward on his desk, his face hidden by the furred mantle that rests across his shoulders. She can see the gentle rise and fall of his body, hear the soft susurrus as he breathes drowsily through his nose, and it's rather, well, endearing to see the Commander asleep at his desk, quill still held in his hand, poised above the abandoned paperwork as if he's able to continue working even in sleep.
She immediately turns to leave; it seems oddly intimate to catch him asleep, vulnerable and exposed, and she knows he would not appreciate her intrusion (would likely be embarrassed that she'd caught him looking so undignified). But then she sees the quill in his hand and the open ink-well sitting dangerously close to the edge of his desk, and she decides she should probably intervene before some involuntary movement in sleep causes catastrophic ink-related disaster.
Small fingers carefully pry the quill from his hand (grip surprisingly strong even in sleep) and it's only now that she's close, body curving over him from the other side of his desk, that she can see the grimace on his face, the tension that holds his features taut. Occasionally he mutters under his breath, small snatches of sentences, and though she can't make out what he's saying, it sounds alarmingly like he's pleading.
Whatever dreams he is having, they are clearly not good ones.
She's just thinking that she should perhaps wake him – that his embarrassment at her having found him asleep would surely be preferable to whatever misery is wracking him in his dreams – when suddenly he screams, his whole body convulsing as his eyes snap open, wide and lost and afraid.
She lets out an involuntary cry as she steps back, then watches in alarm as one of his flailing arms sends the open ink-well careening over the side of his desk. There's a light crashing sound as the glass smashes against the floor, followed by a soft tinkling as the shards scatter across the flagstones.
The two of them stand stock-still, Cullen staring at her with confusion and embarrassment and, she notices with surprise, a touch of fear. She'd expected him to be angry with her, angry at having intruded on something that now seems oddly private. But he mainly seems lost, looking at her as if she's a stranger to him, his hand falling to his waist as if in search of a weapon which (she is relieved to see) is not there.
"Anwen?" he asks, breaking the silence, his eyes finally coming into focus. His features begin to soften, some of the fear and tension subsiding, as if he finally recognises her and no longer sees her as a threat. Still neither of them move.
"I'm so, so sorry," she says, "I didn't mean to pry. I just… came to read and saw that you'd fallen asleep and I was – I was just leaving, I swear."
She dips her eyes, partly to avoid his oddly intense stare and partly to inspect the growing puddle of dark indigo pooling across the floor, spindly fingers of ink reaching across the stones as the liquid runs along the grout.
"Oh shit, what a mess" she mutters, falling gingerly to her knees, positioning herself carefully so that the puddle doesn't stain her trousers. She pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket and starts dabbing ineffectually at the dark puddle, a pathetic attempt to tidy up.
It's only then that Cullen seems to register what's going on – Anwen in his office, the broken ink-well on the floor. He'd been working, he remembers that, and then he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew he was in Ferelden's Circle, the coppery tang of blood filling his nostrils and the iridescent sheen of his prison walls filling his vision. There'd been the whispering of demons, and then he'd screamed, and the sound had startled him awake.
There'd been a cry when he'd awoken, he remembers now, not his hoarse, terrified scream but a smaller, soft cry of surprise. Anwen – he realises – he'd scared her.
"No, I'm sorry," Cullen says as he moves around his desk to join Anwen on the floor, suddenly mortified at everything that had happened, everything she'd witnessed. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
She shrugs, not really looking at him, her attention still focused on the ink puddle and her useless mopping. "Nothing to apologise for – you were having a bad dream, that's all. I shouldn't have disturbed you."
Suddenly there's a tart jab at the end of her index finger and Anwen snatches her hand away with a sharp hiss of pain. When she looks at her hand, now stained purple as splodges of ink fan across her palm and curl up her fingers, she can see a thin splinter of glass standing jauntily at attention from the end of one finger.
"Oh, Griffons' bollocks!" she mutters darkly, and she's sure she must imagine it when Cullen's lip twitches with the briefest flicker of a smile at her colourful expletive.
"Let me look at that," he says as he reaches out to her, cradling her hand gently within his two far larger ones, peering at the offending shard of glass with a displeased knot to his brows. His hands are warm, surprisingly soft save for the calluses that line the top of his palm, and Anwen thinks it odd just how intensely she can feel the press of his skin against hers.
With a care and a delicacy she would not have expected from such large hands, Cullen plucks the glass from her finger then gives her a gentle, cautious smile. "Better?"
A small bead of blood starts to grow at the end of her finger and Anwen quickly brings it to her mouth, sucking at her fingertip to staunch the bleeding. When her eyes flick up to Cullen's face, she sees that he's watching her intently, eyes fixed on her lips as she sucks gently on her fingertip. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly.
Hmm… now that's new. She's caught the Commander watching her before, of course, seen the way he stares at her, trying to figure her out, trying to see behind her carefully maintained walls. But he has never looked at her this way – interested, perhaps, but also a little… thrilled? She's not sure exactly what this all means but she can feel the slightest warmth of a blush crawling up her neck and into her cheeks.
Suddenly he clears his throat, and she notices that he's blushing too, and when he stands up from his crouch, he takes a few steps back as if eager to put some space between them.
"Thank you for your assistance but…" he looks around him as if searching for the right words amongst the careful orderliness of his office, "let me tidy up this mess. I'm the one who caused it after all. And I don't want you to be hurt any further."
"It's only a scratch," she counters, waggling her index finger at him to show that no serious harm has come to her.
"Still, I…" his words trail off, and Anwen knows that he's just trying to think of a polite way to ask her to leave.
"Right, I should leave," she says, rising to her feet before awkwardly stepping around him, the room so cramped that she has to brush passed him to reach the door. "I understand."
"No!" he suddenly shouts, and the abrupt exclamation causes her to stop, her body still tantalisingly close to his as she tries to step around him. "I don't think you do."
They're standing so close together that she can feel the air between them shift when he takes a deep, steadying breath. Something shifts behind his eyes – something vulnerable and maybe a little nervous – and she's not sure what he's about to say but she can tell that it's important somehow.
"I have bad dreams," he says, and though it seems such a simple admission, it's clear from the tightness in his expression that it's a difficult one, "about my time in Ferelden, at Kinloch Hold. Bad things… bad things happened there… to me… and others, and… and that's why I left for Kirkwall."
She nods, uncertain how best to respond. She knows bad things happened at Kinloch Hold during the Blight – everyone knows. She's heard so many stories – dark tales told in hushed tones around the smouldering hearths of dingy taverns. Most of the stories she'd dismissed out of hand; tales of demons so vast they were as tall as the tower itself, mages so deranged they'd resorted to cannibalism. But some of the stories she believes, as much as she desperately wishes them to be falsehoods; mages rending their own flesh in a wretched attempt for more power, tortured Templars clawing at the ground with nerveless fingers, stone floors left slick with blood.
"You don't have to tell me this," she says, even though she is intensely curious. Because it's clear that talking of Kinloch Hold is greatly discomfiting to Cullen and Anwen, perhaps remarkably, finds herself caring more for his comfort than her own satiated curiosity. "I don't need to know what you're not willing to share."
He smiles then, small but pleased. "Thank you," he says, then pauses before adding, "but I wanted you to know – I am sorry, for startling you, and you're still welcome here any time you need somewhere quiet to read."
She nods, smiling softly in return. "Thanks." As she cranes her head back to look up at him, Anwen is suddenly aware of just how close they still are, pushed together by the room's tightly-packed furnishings. She suddenly feels awkward, like a young girl only now realising she has a crush on an old childhood friend (which is ridiculous, of course, because Anwen does not have a crush on her Commander).
"I better… go," she mumbles, "I need to – to clean up." She holds up her hands, wriggling her fingers to show off the tendrils of ink webbed across her skin. She looks like an unruly child who's been left unattended with their paintbox, not an exalted quasi-religious leader, and she can't help but giggle at what a mess she looks. Cullen chuckles softly in response and after the tenseness of their previous conversation, it's an immense relief to hear him laugh again – she's always liked to hear him laugh. It's a gentle sound, warm and inviting, all the more valuable because of how rare it is.
When she finally manages to circle around him and scurry from his office, she can still hear his laughter in her ears, still see the cautious smile on his face and the painfully raw honesty in his eyes when he'd spoken of the Ferelden circle.
It'd been an… enlightening evening; a few more puzzle pieces clicking into place. And Anwen can't help but feel like Cullen has gifted her with something rather special. He's shared a part of him that she imagines few others ever get to see, a glimpse into a past that she never would have been able to decipher through mere observation alone.
She'll keep it safe, this small gem of insight, keep it close – just as he'd want – and hopefully, he'll share more with her in time.