Note on the Elven: I used a translator from the website lingojam /ElvenDAI to write the Elven in this story. The song Lúthien sings is from Dragon Age Origins, titled "I am the One." Lúthien's name is from a different universe, that of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion. I do not own any of these aforementioned intellectual properties.


The soothing cackle of a fire snapped Cullen back into a waking state. The soft sounds of a woman screaming in his ear, the gentle touch of a barely warm hand, and the sight of blood whirled in his vision before he could snap back up and gather his senses. His eyes agape and his lungs contracting and expanding with the vigor of a newborn infant, the surroundings were so unfamiliar. Rather than the foliage and lush greenery of the camp they had set, he instead only saw dark and musty walls. The smell of mold lingered in the air, and he could trace lines of silvery spider webs woven into the room's dilapidated corners. "Hello?" he called out, voice raspy and groggy. Cullen instinctively tried to raise his right hand in order to rub the slumber from his eyes, but before he could lift a finger, just the thought shot pain through his arm. He felt some warm liquid seep in the cloth over his shoulder. He looked from underneath him and saw bandages wrapping the injured shoulder. The image of a shadow, the whistling against his ear – it was as if the scene was flashing in his mind once more. He thought of the "guide"... the poor guide! How did he not know of the dangers lurking in the ancient forest?

Footsteps emerged from one end of the room. Cullen noticed that the chamber led out through an opening. It was large, as if it once held gates rather than doors. The moonlight aided the dying fire, and from it Cullen could see murals and barely faded runes etched on the walls. They were in an Elvhen ruin. From the opening, another shadow – a silhouette of a woman – loomed. He tried to raise himself up, wanting to confirm the sneaking suspicion he had before passing out. When the woman stood before his lying figure, almost towering against him, she uttered a phrase he could barely understand, much less comprehend. "Come again?" he blurted out, still lost in a daze.

Cullen saw her body crouch down, lowering herself to her knees. He could see from her legs that her skin was a tint of soft copper, bronze and kissed by the sun. Her dark hair cascaded from her shoulders over to him as her faced hovered over his injury. She smiled, seeing how inquisitive and energized he already was. She repeated what she had said before, "Souver'inan isala hamin."

The lethargic invalid merely shook his head to gesture incomprehension. "I'm afraid I don't speak Elven." He saw that her lips curled into a frown. Perhaps she too was frustrated that neither of them shared a language. He thought hard of the Dalish phrases Lavellan taught him in their years together. Now he absolutely regrets not having pressured her to teach him more. Cullen swallowed, somewhat nervous. "Ma serannas," he managed. In the back of his mind, he hoped he rolled his "r" adequately. That was always Lavellan's criticism for him. Yet he was relieved that he remembered (did he?) the phrase for "Thank you." It was the least he could do if she had indeed been his rescuer.

A gentle laugh emanated from her lips, suggesting she knew he had just spoken all he knew of Elven. Cullen blushed. A mix of nervousness and frustration that he was now faced with a stranger in parts unknown. His eyes lingered over her face, somewhat captivated. Indeed, her face was a perfectly rounded, oval shape. No blemish or scar marred her skin. And something he instantly liked about her, something that he may have guiltily projected onto her, were her almond-shaped eyes. She could have been different in every possible respect, but those kind eyes mirrored a woman he once loved and knew. It was not something many of the Elves shared, but somehow this savior of his had it. Her eyes were small, slanted, and it endeared her to him for having borne a semblance to Lavellan. The stranger's hair was a mass of black waves, gleaming against the light of the embers before them. She had very dark complexion and a small nose. Not to mention, her ears were smaller. Pointed still, but smaller. He wondered why these features were so distinctly different for her. He scanned her face for more clues – friend or foe? Another thing that separated her from other elves: the absence of the markings. Lavellan had called it vallaslin – slave markings, or at least that was what Solas called them in a brutal revelation to the Inquisitor. Cullen remembered the night the Inquisitor came running to his arms, shedding some hardly suppressed tears. She had just returned from a private conversation with Solas, the apostate mage who had just revealed to her the truth behind the vallaslin. A feeling of disgust reeled in him. He never trusted Solas, but he also never distrusted him. In their time in Skyhold, Cullen always noted, with a bit of unconscious jealousy, that the mage's eyes were always glued to the Inquisitor, and that he never held back in his gracious compliments over her decisions and actions. Cullen had also been aware at the time that the mage often dreamt with Lavellan – his lover – in the Fade. That fact was always a sore spot for Cullen, and he never really forgave her for keeping that secret.

As the elf turned to move away, his mind turned to speculation. City elves did not have vallaslin for reasons he knew well, but he could only assume this woman was Dalish. Why else was she here in the arborous Dales? The tattoo indicated a communal identity and their obeisance to the past. If a woman like her only spoke Elven, and if she clung to her past enough that she dwells in their ruins, would she also not honor their markings?

Cullen started to wonder where they were and what his strange savior was doing in the area where they had been attacked. An elf, absent of vallaslin, and unused to the common tongue, had just rescued him from a demon he never before encountered (and he has had many encounters with demons!). She must have noticed how he gawked at her, for her shoulders shook with a suppressed laughter and rouge tinted her cheeks.

The stranger placed a hand on her chest, gesturing him to look at her. She said in a slow and hushed tone, "Lúthien."

"Lúthien?" he repeated. Her eyes gleamed and she nodded her head with utmost force. Cullen noted her exaggerated movements. She was trying to get him to say her name. He raised his left arm and pointed at her. "Lúthien?" he mimed this time indicating he understood her. Lúthien let out a gasp and her lips formed a widened smile. Cullen smiled back, happy to have at least established that much. He debated with himself about telling her his name. Is that dangerous? He wondered what kind of threat that would pose, if any. It wasn't like he was a high-ranking official. He was a sell sword now, and the only reason why he took up aliases was to shake off the past, not to protect any well-guarded secret.

The injured man sighed and placed his left hand onto his chest, mimicking her movements. "Cullen," he said with a hoarse voice. A smirk crept up, and his scar rose in a sly side smile. The whole situation was hilarious to him. Here he was, rescued by an enigmatic and beautiful young woman, and they were gesturing like babbling idiots for lack of a shared language.

Either out of deference to his actions or some odd sign of courtesy, Lúthien raised her arm and pointed at him. "Cullen," she declared. Cullen nodded his head and rested his back on the cot. He felt another pang of prickling little knives spear through his shoulder. He winced as his left arm immediately shot up to grab hold of the wound. He grinded his teeth, somewhat unused to the pain. Something burned in his arm, searing his skin, poison? Lúthien cast a concerned glance over her shemlem. She quickly took out an herb, a root Cullen did not recognize, and mashed it to little pieces with her knife. She then kneaded it into a paste before hurriedly lifting Cullen's badges and lathing the mixture onto his open wound. Cullen screamed, his body jerking at the tension. He has had similar injuries before from previous battles. Only poison could cause such a lingering and burning pain. When Lúthien applied a second batch of the paste to his shoulder, he felt the burning sensations touch his collarbone. He prayed to the Maker that she knew what was plaguing him.

Lúthien cooed his cries with soothing whispers. The sounds coming from her lips waved in soft intonations – like a song. Sweet to the ear and numbing to the agony burning his skin, Cullen found himself relaxing. He did not even realize in that interval, she had pulled out needle and thread, dexterously stitching together the open wound as she sang her siren's song. It sounded familiar to Cullen somehow, but he knew he never heard it. The words – foreign and beautiful – tapped into a distant memory he somehow shared, maybe in a passing dream.

"Heruamin lotirien..." her voice echoed in the chamber, soaring sonorously through the night. Her tongue sounded out the Elven like soft silk. Cullen could barely understand, could barely grasp the consonances of her language. Some of the words slithered past his ears, escaping memory.

Lúthien's voice hummed out into the distance, "Ame amin... Halai lothi amin... Noamin Heruamin..." Watching her sing to him, a realization sank into Cullen. Despite how youthful she may have looked (he may have been fifteen years her senior) how innocent and milky her skin looked, there was something old – no, ageless, about her and how she sang. Even her eyes, which often met his in between her fiddling with the string weaving around his skin, held some untold sorrow. Like her melody, her gaze could not find translation. There was no translation, just images and emotions long lost to the world of the present. He noticed that her eyes were almost black, barely a hint of brown. It was as if he was actually staring into an abyss that held all the sorrows of the years foretold.

Sleep was creeping up his eyes again. It made Cullen feel listless, drunk in the tranquility of the moment. It was strange that, after years of vagrancy and avoiding all the comforts of his previous lives, he found sanity and peace out in the Arbor Wilds after having almost died. He looked again at Lúthien, clad in the soft leather armor of an agile hunter. So many questions darted back and forth, converging in his throat. He wanted to ask why she saved him, who she really was, and what was her interest in his survival. But he knew the futility of it all. They would not understand each other. They would not even be able to convey anything to each other. Any answers he wanted, he must consign himself to never knowing. He thought instead of his wound. How long would it take to heal? Would the poison leave him eventually? More thoughts of recovering and returning to Ferelden brought back the gnawing sensation from the back of his head. His hunger for Lyrium made his head throb.

As if sensing his distress, Lúthien placed a palm on top of his forehead. Cullen suddenly heard the sweet and quiet sound of a breeze, rolling waves... Her touch made the throbbing disappear. Was it magic? The biting sensation of withdrawal slowly went back into the recesses of his consciousness, and for a while, he saw nothing but a pink sunset off into the horizon. He was by an ocean, standing... where was he? When Lúthien removed her hand, he was brought back to the dark chamber of the ruin. The hearth no longer had a strong flame but embers of a dying light. His elf friend sat next to him, peering at him with impersonal curiosity. Cullen was bewildered by it all. "Are you a mage?" he asked, hoping she understood what it meant. Lúthien, however, was unresponsive. No change occurred in her expression. She stared at him like one would stare at a somewhat obnoxious puppy. Cullen sighed. There was no talking after all.

Again, Lúthien wrinkled her face in a way that showed she somehow could sense his discomfiture. She quickly wrapped up his wound with another bandage. Once her hands were freed, she folded her hands together, titled her head and laid it on her folded hands to gesture sleep. Cullen raised an eyebrow. "You want me to sleep? Sleep?" He mimed her as best as he could, mirroring her movement with his hands but only with one of his able hands. The cheery elf smiled and nodded her head once more in confirmation. But Cullen felt wide-awake. Yes he was tired, but only in the sense that his muscles were sore, and some numbed pain gnawed at him from both his head and shoulder. He closed his eyes nonetheless, showing respect to the woman who rescued him.

"Sleep," she uttered, emulating the word he himself sounded out just moments before. Cullen appreciated that she was actually trying to learn his words, and then he wondered if he should not reciprocate. It would be helpful in the long run anyway. Closing his eyes, he remembered how Leliana, as their proficient spymaster, could translate and sometimes feign knowing other languages ranging from Qunari to the inflections of Dalish Elven. It served her well for it often fooled even the most cautious of agents. Cullen himself had no political or even professional reasons for learning, but it was important to Lavellan when she had been alive. Perhaps he should carry on the task he never quite accomplished. A yawn escaped his lips, somehow, and he could hear Lúthien shuffle from her spot as she rose. Her footsteps, light and dainty as she walked barefooted, receded into the ends of the chamber with the sounds eventually fading out upon her exit. In a moment, she disappeared, and Cullen was left with the soft red glow of burning ash.

Again in that same dark room. Cullen was sitting nervously on his seat, shifting all the while. His teeth clattered. They never made any noise. He never knew himself to be so nervous that his teeth made their own noise. A loose and golden strand escaped his formerly shaped coif, and with an irritated swipe of his hand, he held it back in place. The red lion's mane wrapped around his metal-encased shoulders started to stifle his breathing. Odd, he was always comfortable in armor. A lot of things started to feel new to him, tightening his skin to the point that he could not breathe.

A door burst open. From it emerged the healers – the blasted healers! Cullen immediately rose to his feet, making a beeline for the midwife among them. "How is she?"

The old woman cast him a nervous look. "She is well," she answered, but Cullen could sense unease. If Lavellan was fine now, she would not be fine in the future. The midwife noted his discerning glare, and so she continued in explanation, "She exerted herself. It makes sense. She's the Inquisitor after all! For the coming months, she will need bed rest, absolutely no movement." The commander nodded. He had never seen a pregnant woman bleed like that – before she was even showing! He swallowed a knot building up in this throat and looked to the room from which the group emerged.

"I will go see her," he announced. Inside the room, his wife was sitting up from her spot on the bed. Blankets and sheets coddled her in soft cotton. Cullen unwittingly smiled and was happy to see her awake and about. She was more than well. She was alive, and that meant more to him than anything. As soon as he approached her bedside, she gazed up at him with sleepless eyes. There was a wrinkle on her forehead, lines of worry that haunted her sleep.

"They said the baby is well," she said trying to be brave for him. "That's all that matters, right?" she said looking up at him.

Cullen knelt and took her hands into his. "You're all that matters. We will do whatever is best for you."

The timid elf sniffed as if stifling a sob. "This is the third time Cullen." They both sat there somewhat silent and dejected. Yet Cullen was still full of hope. It was difficult, yes. Some pregnancies are indeed difficult, but they can be strong and they can hold out. Six more months, and they will be a family. The scars of that day, the bleeding, the fainting, and all the sleepless worrying would be like a forgotten dream. Or at least, he hoped they would be a forgotten dream. Cullen looked at her lower lip, shaking and shuddering as Lavellan looked morosely at her belly. "I don't want to die," she whispered.

Cullen squeezed her hand. "You won't."

She shook her head, disbelieving him. "Solas came to me in my dreams..." The moment he heard the name, Cullen's brows furrowed in anger. Lavellan noticed this and tried to cut him off, "He knows the danger! He can save us."

"Us?!" Cullen retorted in fury. No one had seen the apostate mage since the sealing of the Breach. They were almost too happy to go on without his condescension and lamentations – a disparaging opinion Cullen guiltily bore. "He has no interest in us. He only has interest in you, and he will do anything to-..."

"Please listen!" she pleaded with tears welling in her eyes. He had never seen her so frightened and so emotionally vulnerable. Through all the trials and tribulations Corypheus put them though, Lavellan had stood strong. Many believed her to be the Herald simply because of her decisive courage in a time of chaos. Yet now, at the brink of what she sensed to be her impending doom, she is cowering and looking to the shadows for answers. The commander rose and walked away from her, scoffing at the news. Of course they still spoke in dreams. He felt a little hurt that even after declarations of love and a wedding, Lavellan still kept these secrets from him. It was like she was taking another lover, cuckolding him for qualities he lacked. Yet he also knew that she did not see it that way. She did not see visiting the Fade with her old friend like a lover's tryst to the wary templar. Deep down Cullen knew this too, and so he forgave her for it.

"We have to find him Cullen," she said as gently as she could. "He told me he has a way. It's the anchor... it's corrupting the baby. The magic is fighting the baby!"

Cullen retreated to a corner, his back facing his wife. Inside, he seethed in anger. "How does he even know you're pregnant? Or that you're... we're having trouble?" His words barked at her, as if he was yelling them to her face across the distance widening between them.

Lavellan's skin went white as snow. He had caught her in a web, and so the truth simmered out in their most desperate moments. Her husband realized that she did not frequent the Fade once or twice. She had visited often, and she spent all those nights dreaming with her lost friend – a friend he utterly distrusted and despised for reasons she cannot bring herself to understand. "He can sense it Cullen. He's looked into the Beyond. He saw me die, and he said he can save me."

Cullen's eyes snapped open to golden light bathing the dusty room. He just had the strangest dream. It was strange in that it did not feel like a dream. It was not at all a dream. No, it felt like he relived a memory, word for word and action for action... He felt that he really did touch her, that she was alive, and that he was there in that present moment ready to argue against her desperate logic. Strangely enough, he hadn't even thought of or thought to remember that particular instance since it occurred. The months that followed were indeed difficult. He recalled times when they would not speak to each other, when they would let silence fill the nauseating pang tugging at their heart strings. Yet there were also times of hope, Cullen remembered. He remembered watching her belly grow. It was for him proof of a life beyond them. He thought of the times they both fantasized about names, whether or not it would be a boy or a girl, or what features of theirs it would take after. In times when they would bicker or feel bitterness, there would inevitably follow a time when they reconciled without any new words or promises. No poultice necessary. Their wounds would mend, and they knew they were happy together.

He rose up from his cot when he realized the burning sensation on his shoulder was gone, though it hurt the moment he put weight on it. Whatever Lúthien did, she at least healed him of the poison. Perhaps the dream was also her doing? Even his previous time at the Arbor Wilds lacked whatever elements of the fantastical he was experiencing. Granted, he was at war, and there were many other souls for the forest's magic to work itself on.

A growl rang from his gut, knotting painfully in hunger. Yes, he was hungry. Cullen had not eaten since the swig of whiskey he had the night of the attack. He crawled to the pack across from him close to the fire with one arm for support. Cullen noticed, quite gratefully, that his right arm hung in a swing cloth, supporting him so that the shoulder would not have to pivot or hold the weight of his arm too much. Daring rescuer, nurse, and songstress – Lúthien was an inexplicable force of nature. As he rummaged through the sack, finding nothing but a quiver of arrows, twine, some beads, and thread, he thought about what circumstances had brought her to that specific grove in an otherwise limitless forest. He thought of her decision to rescue him, to drag his bleeding and limp body to the ruins wherein he coalesced, and her effort thus far in making sure he healed. It was all too convenient to be mere coincidence. She must have known of his presence in the Dales, stalked him like the huntress she is, and retrieved him the moment she thought his life was actually in danger. But what could she have wanted? As an elf unversed in the common tongue, she would have little to no knowledge of the politics or even of the history of humans. Or at least, he would assume it would be impossible for her to know its details, its stories, and its figures.

His mind wandered to the "guide," whose name regrettably escaped his memory (if he had even known it). He thought of the horrid death that befell the poor man, whose dabbling in the Arbor Wilds did not prepare him for whatever dwelled in its abyss. In a bout of compassion, Cullen sat himself up, straightening his back, and lowered his head. He clenched his left hand into a fist and pressed it against his bowed head. Cullen regretted that the "guide" died undoubtedly because of him. He did not wish it of course, but if he had not showed up in that tavern with the bag of coin, the "guide" may have lived several more years before encountering such a deadly monster in the wilds. It was a grim thought, and Cullen was not so cynical as to altogether disavow his complicity in the loss of a life. "Many are those who wander in sin," his voice shook with the memory of the chant. Since Lavellan's death, he had not prayed, but somehow he found strength in the words – words that were indelibly etched into his soul. "...despairing that they are lost forever." The words flowed from him. It was a verse of honey, delectable and somehow satiating in this hour of loss and injury. He continued the chant word for word, thinking of the few moments he remembered of the guide. He hoped the prayer would guide his soul beyond the Fade and be at peace with the Maker.

As he concluded the chant, he heard light footsteps ascend stony steps. Cullen quickly turned around. He saw Lúthien standing in the tomb's opening. On one hand she carried her longbow, gilded in a limpid metal unlike anything Cullen had seen before. On the other, she held a string tying together dead and bled out fennec. He saw no blood taint her accouterment, neither did she exhibit any signs that she had just spent hours in the wilds, hunting and stalking the treacherous vines.

"Good morning," Cullen said in an unexpectedly tuneful manner. He timidly waved his left hand, hoping to show that he was merely greeting her. She smiled and nodded. Was this to be their fate? To politely smile and nod when no one can understand each other? He had hoped not, but at least she brought food. Cullen resigned himself to being grateful for the small things, however basic to survival they are. Lúthien walked across the room near the fire. There was a large cauldron of water, which she effortlessly lifted (with the rest of her items in tow) atop the fire. While it was boiling, she put her bow down and unsheathed a knife hidden in her waistcloth. Cullen watched her every movement, seeing how natural it was for this otherwise graceful elf to partake in the less delicate matters of life. She set the fennecs down before taking one and held it against a wooden board next to her pack. In one swift movement, she skinned its fur, flaying it until the bloody muscles revealed themselves.

Cullen felt nauseated as soon as the smell hit him. Though he never found the sight of corpses or blood particularly unpleasant, he somehow was too weak to stomach both sight and smell of animal slaughter. He grabbed hold of himself before slowly crawling back to his cot. He did not realize until he hit the soft fabric of his blanket that he was very tired. Though only his shoulder was injured, his legs felt wobbly, and his neck was stiffer than a wooden plank. If the shadow demon did indeed poison him, it must have worked his body to death. He wondered at how Lúthien was able to heal him from it. Looking at her, he admired how swiftly and gracefully she was able to skin four dead animals. All the while, neither blood nor guts tarnished her glowing figure. The scene was bizarre to him, like watching a wood nymph partake in unsavory survival.

"Sleep?"

Cullen's eyes shot up to her. He balked that she would suggest it again, given how much sleep he felt like he already had. Lúthien looked back up at him while maintaining her motions of flaying the carcasses. She smiled, somewhat awkwardly. It was apparent that she actually wanted to convey something else.

"Sleep, uh..." She let go of the animal and her knife, and she looked around her for ways to hint to him her meaning. She resumed the same motions she used before to indicate sleeping, but this time she appended melodious humming. Her lips beamed in an exaggerated smile as she feigned what he might have looked like smiling in his sleep. When she was done with the pantomime, she stared at him wide-eyed and waiting for a response.

Cullen let out a chuckle at her ridiculous display. He regretted not having pursued the theatrical arts as a profession for he found himself ill equipped. "You want to know if I slept well?"

Lúthien obviously could not answer the question, and he felt more ridiculous than she for assuming she could guess his meaning from his own garble of sounds. Resuming her silence, she gazed back, doe-eyed and somewhat innocent.

"Yes," he answered finally. He nodded his head to make sure she understood him.

"Yes!" she repeated with gregarious excitement. A giggle rumbled from her lips, pink as a petal. Cullen envied her for her energy, her ability to smile like that. It was her infectious capacity for enjoying life a little.

The middle-aged man couldn't help but to reach for the back of his neck, scratching that tingling sensation whenever he felt flustered or nervous. When his fingers grazed against his cheek, he noted that the stubble, previously prickly and short, was longer. There was a softness that indicated he had not a shadow of facial hair but an incipient beard. Cullen blushed thinking of how haggard he must look. When he was younger, his beard would just be a light brown shade, but at forty-one, he could not help but feel slightly ashamed of the grey whiskers lining his gaunt face. All those long working hours, those days when he stood vigil, and the scars he bore in battle have finally caught up to him as an old and greying man.

"How long did I sleep?" he asked incredulous as his hands felt the length of his new beard.

Lúthien did not answer, but she merely continued to flay the other animal corpses. It seemed she made a point not to answer or respond to any question that she could not possibly understand. Understanding her reasons, Cullen just fell silent. He was not about to commit to the same pantomime act she was more willing to practice. When she flayed the last fur with one swing of her knife, Lúthien stood up and dropped the animals into the boiling cauldron. She produced a wooden spatula from her pack and began to stir, seasoning it occasionally with some herbs and spices she safely stored in her waist belt. The aroma permeated the air, and soon Cullen felt hunger overwhelm him. Had it been days since his last shave? His last meal? The confusion discombobulated him, and he wished someone who spoke his language could just sing to him the answers to his prayers.

After moments of stirring and seasoning, Lúthien left the cauldron alone to simmer in its heat. She left the fire and paced to Cullen, who resumed lying listless in his cot. She laid a hand on his forehead, feeling for his temperature. Cullen noticed that her eyes were intent, focused on her actions. She firmly pressed against his injured shoulder, making him wince and push against her a little, but the elf did not mind. She seemed satisfied and merely nodded. Lúthien caught Cullen's left hand playing with the length of his beard. He was clearly bothered by it. Sitting there, hovering over his face, Cullen could feel her eyes trace the outline of his facial hair. The scar on his lip twitched, feeling nervous as he was put quite blatantly under the younger woman's greedy gaze. It was as if she was drinking up every detail of his expression, his beard, and his blemishes. He did not know what to make of it all, and he merely receded into his cot to cut the tension of their awkwardness. Neither of them said anything.

Lúthien subsequently rose from her spot and jogged out of the tomb without a word. Cullen found her peculiar to say the least. Without words to foster understanding, their gestures came off as eccentricities, baffling and inexplicable. Ages passed, and Cullen was about to give in to his undiminished fatigue and once more close his eyes, feeling somewhat relaxed and unafraid of the dreams that may come. Yet he heard another sound of shuffling feet, and then Lúthien returned to the opening and resumed her spot on their stony stage. She held her knife out, cleaned and damp from having been soaked in a nearby river. On the other, she held a cloth mashed with what looked like elfroot. The paste appeared like pearly foam, soft and bubbly. Cullen sat up startled. He was a little jarred by what he thought she was planning on doing. The elf in her nymph-like esprit scurried towards with him. She had that same widened smile from this morning. It displayed the fullness of her teeth and the two dimples bordering the corners of her mouth. She held out the blade to him as she smothered her other hand with the lather.

"Oh, well I..." He was ready to snatch the blade from her hand and take the lather politely. Shaving was intimate. However naked, injured, or vulnerable he was to her in his unconsciousness, shaving was something he could still do. It had an aesthetic, a certain feel. Cullen could not simply allow someone he never met before decide this for him.

Yet Lúthien proceeded unimpeded. She ungracefully smothered Cullen's beard with the lather, massaging his cheeks and getting it all over his face. Cullen, who was too weak and too slow for her, simply sat helpless in his cot as she hovered over him, nose-to-nose, kneading his face with some foamy concoction.

"Hey now!" he yelled. "I can shave myself. Wait, Lúthien!" His left arm shot up to grab her wrist holding the knife.

"Mana," she protested with a sly chortle.

Cullen himself could not suppress his laughter. Her giggling was as infectious, and he found the whole idea a little too absurd. He found a little bit of the foam fell on her nose, a little button pressed between her rounded cheeks. Looking at her eyes, he still found that muted sadness welling in her iris, but light beamed from it as well. Her skin was less bronze and more golden basking in the sunlight. A slight breeze twirled the waves of her hair around her face, hitting a bit of the foam lathered on both her hands and his cheeks. Like black silk, her hair draped the small frame of her face, making those almond eyes glimmer in the sunlight. She continued laughing while he held on to her. The warrior was unsure of whether or not he could let go without suffering a close shave. Cullen caught the scent of honey suckle when she shifted her thighs to face him. The heat rushed from his stomach, and he was wondering what in the world he was doing with her. Lúthien truly was a wood nymph, those magical creatures of Ferelden bedtime stories. She belonged to the woods, and she lived and breathed its environment. Wayward hunters such as he were merely lost in their song.

"What does that mean? Mana?" he asked, finally letting go of her wrist when the pain on his shoulder returned.

Her laughter fizzled in the air with his question. He could tell from her dumbfounded look that she knew what he asked, but perhaps she had trouble finding a way to explain it. She wrinkled her nose and sat further back from him as she pondered a solution to the problem. Cullen used the distraction to whisk the knife away from her, thankful he did not have to suffer a potentially horrendous shave.

Lúthien gave him a chiding look. "Mana!" she protested again. This time, she raised both her arms and crossed them, making an x-shape with her limbs. Then she vigorously shook her head sideways.

"Stop? Does it mean stop?" Cullen asked instinctively.

Lúthien nodded her head, full of pride at his adept guessing. "Yes!" she chimed, her voice soft like a cat's purring. Cullen found it surprising if not sweet that she made so much effort to repeat and remember words he himself was unintentionally teaching her. He found her enthusiasm somewhat magnetic.

"You want me to stop holding you back? You really want to shave my beard?" He knew she probably did not catch any of his meaning, so as he spoke he gestured with his good hand the act of shaving, as if he was holding an invisible knife to his throat.

The nymph-like elf nodded her head with impassioned swaying. "Yes!" her exclamation resounding with triumph.

Cullen shrugged, unsure how not to disappoint her with a refusal. He sat up straight from his cot, wincing slightly at having to adjust his shoulder. Bestowed with a new responsibility, Lúthien licked her lips, biting the bottom one with her teeth to convey full concentration. With so much effort imprinted on her face, Cullen almost forgot that she had just hunted and skinned woodland creatures, and the night before, she took down an amorphous predator with two shots from her bow. She was more than capable of handling a knife to his face. The fact that she knew to make the lather meant she has seen a man shave, or that she herself shaved a man's beard before. The thought dawned on him, and it gave him a knot in his stomach. He couldn't imagine her this close or intimate with another. The thought went further into the back of his mind, unwanted and undesirable. The older man sat there with unshakeable jealousy, stony silent as Lúthien smoothly edged away the foam, revealing a clean-shaven cheek upon one sweep of her knife.

Cullen was so embarrassed of himself. He could not believe the emotions surging in him, this unwarranted jealousy over a potentially non-existent past of hers. More problematically, he could not quite pinpoint what it is that magnetized him to her, or why he was letting her so close to him. Without a shared language, she managed to tear down some of his self-imposed barriers. He told her his real name and shared brief moments of mirth. These were barriers he used to push away his closest and oldest friends. Had he a soft spot for young and dainty Elven women? His cheeks blushed a sanguine red. He thought himself lecherous for it. How could he reduce Lúthien, his intrepid savior and nurse as nothing other than an object of some baseless fetish? To even think of Lavellan in that same way... The shame silenced whatever new words he wanted to share with her.

"Ahn ame del?" she asked, her ears perking up. Although he hadn't said anything, Lúthien seemed keen enough on his body language. She noticed how slouched he was and how the perked corner of his lips curved to a frown. Her brows furrowed from concern as she wiped the edge of the knife across one last strip of foam, thereby completing the shave.

Cullen ignored her question though he had a feeling what she was asking. His left hand felt for his cheeks, feeling slight stubble despite the overall smooth surface. She shaved him clean. He smiled sheepishly as he averted his eyes from hers. The self-defeating thoughts about his own possibly malicious thoughts – perverse and somewhat thrilled by her interest in him – prevented him from saying another word.

Lúthien's sad eyes radiated at that moment, as if she was thankful he had let her get so close, to have let her take care of him in his hour of need. This strange woman, whom he spent very little time with in consciousness, pulled him in with her sad smile. She bit her lip somewhat before exclaiming with more excitement, "Cullen!"

Cullen jumped at hearing his name. In a matter of seconds, she rose in aery flight back to the cauldron. Lúthien squealed in impish delight upon lifting the lid and smelling the aroma of freshly made stew. She hurriedly scooped a bit into one bowl, filling it to the brim, before carefully ambling back to Cullen's side. He noticed that when she walked, she didn't really walk. No, her footsteps were like a dancer's steps. He could see her landing with pointed toes with the ball of her foot always hovering in the air. It looked to be an uncomfortable yet somehow graceful way of walking. The stance reminded him of Orlesian nobles sans pomp and ego. Somehow, her movements were fluid with the stone and the creeping vines.

Lúthien held out the bowl in front of him as she waited for his hand to be ready. Cullen caught her gesture and held out his head, upon which she elegantly placed the bowl with spatula in hand. It seems there were no other utensils, but in his hunger, Cullen eagerly scooped up the soup. He devoured the broth in a daze, indifferent to the heat searing his tongue. The elf laughed as she watched him, bemused by his voracity. Her injured friend noticed that she was without her own bowl of stew. Was she to eat? He paused, holding out the bowl towards her as a sign of sharing, but Lúthien shook her head, looking displeased with the contents. The hungry man did not push further. Without hesitation, he resumed the heady consumption of his meal.

As soon as he felt energy surge in his limbs and the warm sensation of a good meal in his stomach, Cullen looked up from his bowl, holding it steady on his lap. He noticed Lúthien watched him as he ate. Her body was still and eyes remained glued on his body. He acted out for her the workings of an entirely different animal. He raised up the bowl to her once more, wondering if she perhaps wanted to experience the same thing, but she merely shook her head. "No?" he said shaking his head too.

"No," she mimed.

"You don't want food?" he continued. "Food?" He wiggled the bowl a little to indicate what the word was referring to.

Lúthien reached out with her hand to push the bowl back to him, letting the clay press against his chest. "No food," she said with determination.

Cullen merely shrugged, wondering how a girl like her could exude all that strength and capacity for survival without eating. He had no words to complain or make strong suggestions, and so it was not his business. They sat there once more silence, he unwilling to consume food while being watched, and she unwilling to consume food at all. In their unintended standstill, Cullen wondered about the events preceding his injury. He wondered why, after rescuing him from the demon, she brought him to these old and forgotten ruins, and why she continued to nurse him through a poison his body could not shake off. A woman like her, an elf who was neither "city elf" nor Dalish, residing in these ancient parts, snaking its path like one of the woodland creatures, chose that day to show herself. If there are many Elves like her, then they have worked hard through a thousand years to keep themselves secret. No excavator, researcher, or military force was able to unearth the existence of other Elves. Just seven years before, the Inquisition thought they had found the last of the Ancient Elves in the Temple of Mythal, but to think there were more that were unbound and free to roam the woods... The odds were striking, and the possibilities would have sent all of Thedas on its heels ready to suppress whatever truths her existence implied.

Somewhat unnerved by his thoughts, Cullen decided it was time for him to test his strength. Using his left arm for support, he did his best to wake his shaky knees. Lúthien saw his struggle and immediately rose to get him to sit still.

Yet Cullen anticipated her reaction and said with steely assurance, "No, don't!" She cocked her head to the side when he blocked her with his hand. "Mana," he added softly. She looked at him dumbfounded before nodding her head and sitting back down. Putting more weight on his legs sent shocks down his muscles, electrocuting and somehow enervating. They felt wobbly, and the pain he felt – like knives slowly prickling into his skin – suggested he was indeed unconscious for more than just a night, perhaps days.

Lúthien pouted as she watched him get up one leg at a time. His bad shoulder hung limp on its sling, and his disheveled hair fell down to his eyes. When he was on both feet, she could see from his face that he felt queasy. His hands hovered in the air, grasping for a semblance of balance. "Ma nadas hamin," she said with a stern look.

Cullen scoffed as he wiped the strands away from his eyes back into his hair. He could feel something warm surge through his wound. Blood. He had opened his wound in the attempt. When the attack happened, the injury seemed like any other blade piercing through armor and skin, but perhaps it was dire to begin with. Either way, the thought that he could have been out of it for days worried him beyond reason. He took the job thinking that a steady supply of lyrium would be its reward. Now he was waylaid beyond all means, without anyone to give him the answers he sought, and he knew it was a matter of time before the real withdrawal symptoms kicked in.

"Cullen stop," Lúthien called out when she saw a deep red seep through the bandage. Stop. Mana. It was all they could tell each other. Cullen's arm shot through the air and grabbed her wrist before she could lay a hand on him. His response startled Lúthien, who looked more concerned than anything. She looked up at him puzzled by his obstinacy, but all she saw in those tired amber eyes was frustration and helplessness. He wanted to leave, and he did not care as to what condition he should be leaving in.

"I want to thank you. I really do," he began in earnestness. His hand remained locked around her wrist, dainty and brittle despite all that he saw her do. "But I can't stay here. There is something I must do."

Lúthien winced, whether from his grip or his terse words, Cullen didn't know. He let go either way. Cullen waited for a reply, but she only stood motionless with a fretful look on her face. Her black eyes – deep and abyssal – pulled him in. It was as if he really was inching closer to her, close enough to feel her breathing. She bit her bottom lip, afraid to reveal something dark and secret. With her round oval face and pleading look, he found her lip biting delectable if not dangerous. It was a temptation that begged him, implored him to lay a hand on her. Cullen felt its urge, to trace her lips with his fingers. Perhaps even do more...

She knew. Cullen had not realized that his hand was right above her face, so close to doing what he had just thought of. His face paled, somewhat flustered and embarrassed that he really was pulled in. He had known enough women who were so aware of their charms that they used it to their every advantage, but he did not expect her to be able to hypnotize him. Resentful of this effect, he limped away from her. His wobbly knees were unsure, and his arm made concentrating on his movements difficult. Cullen did not have a plan past leaving, but he figured action was better than inaction – waiting in the dark for this mysterious woman to slowly unveil her answers.

Moving over to the cot, he noticed that his outer tunic and leather vestments were neatly folded together. His sword lay in its scabbard as it stood against rocky debris piled together over the years. The sigil of the Inquisition shone against the sunlight protruding from the holes scattered all over the ceiling. Cullen grabbed it, noticing that its weight was heavier than what his hand could handle. He wrapped its belt around his waist, readying himself for the next battle. Lúthien remained silent – much to his surprise – and watched him with the same attentiveness as when he ate.

"Do you always save strangers?" Cullen suddenly asked while lacing together his accouterments. Lúthien merely raised an eyebrow to his question, unsure what to say. The former commander knew he probably would not have gotten an answer, but small talked seemed necessary. It was a subconscious urge. He wanted to somehow say goodbye, to truly thank her. But his suspicions as to who she really was and her intentions prevented any real genuine effort, and so he lunged into interrogation in his uncertainty. "Clearly you don't. You didn't save that guide, at least not in time." He noticed that she bit his lip but more to keep silent rather than to betray any effort to mesmerize. Her brows furrowed with eyes sharpened to a subtle glare. Cullen smirked. So she does understand me.

In spite of his instigations, Lúthien was still glued to her spot. When Cullen finished gathering his things, he turned to her for what he hoped to be the last time he would see her. Yet she remained composed and betrayed no impulse to stop him. The astute warrior grinned, predicting that her feigned aloofness meant she would follow him. He would leave, struggling to find his way in the forest, and she would stalk him like some overly fretful mother. Cullen shot her a stern look, "It would do me no good for you to follow me."

The spritely maintained her composure and spoke in a deep melodious voice, "Ar viren in mar banal'ras." Knowing he did not understand, she rose once more and approached him with caution. She dug her hands into a pouch attached to her waist. From it emerged a crystal phial, pristine and transparent. It held a concoction that glowed a luminous blue, lighter than the sky. Lyrium. Cullen's eyes widened, pupils contracting, honing in on something he sought for so long. He impulsively tried to reach for it, to snatch it from her, but she quickly pulled it back towards her.

"Where did you get that?!" he demanded. The pain from his limbs receded, giving way to a simmering rage that energized his body. When he saw how frightened she was by his reaction, he stilled himself, but he could hardly control the desire. "That's lyrium! You must have contact with the outside world... You..."

"Lyrium?" she repeated hesitantly, "Ahn ma esaya, ma te'elan ema. Ra 'ma." With those words, Lúthien hid the lyrium phial back into her pouch.

Cullen growled in frustration. If he had the strength he would have marched to her and took it for himself. It was not just greed or some vice he indulged in. His life depended on it. More than that, his sanity needed it. It prolonged whatever waking consciousness he had left. "I don't understand you!" he shouted almost pleading.

That same look fell on Lúthien's face once more – the look that she knew more than she was ready to reveal. Before she would respond, she slowly approached him, taking his left hand into both of hers. Cullen wanted to pull away, to not let himself fall into her grasp, but before he could protest, she guided him to the doorway where the sun shone brightly from its zenith. When they reached the outer vestibule, a part Cullen never before witnessed, he understood her hesitation in letting him leave.

Cullen's eyes roamed the vast expanse. They were at the peak of an arborous mountain, littered with trees older and larger than he had seen even in the parts of the Arbor Wilds he had explored. The ruins they were in were part of a stone temple jutting out from the very rocks from which they stood. The climb below was steep. Only a proficient and healthy climber could slide down, perhaps with the help of vines or the rugged exterior of the ancient trunks. Statues with severed limbs and crumbling faces were scattered all around. They looked like spires that had grown with the lush foliage encroaching the ruins. For miles around, Cullen could not recognize any part of the horizon. His heart skipped a beat for he was more uncertain than ever whether or not he could ever return from this venture. The warrior looked at Lúthien in disbelief, wondering how or why she achieved the impossible. It truly was impossible for her to haul him so far and in so little time. Yet... could it be possible? The air felt different, and the ruins hummed with their own pulse – Could it be...

"Where am I?" he demanded, checking the fury seething in his voice. "I know you understand me. If you cannot say the words, try." He rushed out the command. When she looked as if she would turn away from him, he shot out his left hand and grabbed her by the neck. Without strangling her, he violently pushed her against the entryway wall. "Tell me!"

Lúthien shook in his grasp like a helpless damsel. Her sad eyes turned into deep pools of fear, evoking sympathy from the former commander. Yet he remained steadfast in his interrogation. He would not let her win this mind game. Those years he spent in fear of mages as a templar resuscitated anger he long suppressed. There was no compromising when one was in danger.

"Dream... Cullen," she stammered when she felt his left hand tighten its grip. Still he did not strangle her, but she felt the threat like a looming presence. Lúthien had known his look and his force. It was what soldiers did when they were pushed into the desperation of survival.

"Dream?" he repeated. So she did know some words, if not more. "You mean this is a dream?"

Lúthien shook her head violently, trying to squirm her way from his grasp. Her fingers wrapped around his hand, trying to pry his loose. "No dreams. Here, no dreams." Tears were welling in her eyes, unbelieving of his betrayal and thanklessness in harming her.

Cullen tried to make out the words. They were in a place without dreams? He did not loosen his grip, and he seemed to get angrier trying to mull over her words. As he was pondering his next move, Lúthien let go of his hands. "I... sorry, Cullen," she whispered.

He was about to open his mouth to question, but in a flash, she deftly stroke the wound in his shoulder with a blow, clutching at its opening. The warrior let loose his prey at her debilitating touch. He felt her fingers stab through whatever scar she had sown through. Cullen let out a cry of pain, howling in the recesses of the mountains. When he fell to his knees, Lúthien stepped away from him and started to descend the steps down to the mountain. She looked back at him once before she made the decision to hurriedly flee.

"Wait!" Cullen called out the moment he was able to recollect himself from the pain. "Wait!" But the calls echoed out in the mountain, and within a second, the Elvhen rogue disappeared into the umbra of the trees. Like a wisp, she was gone.