Note:
Cullen recuperates from his wound. There is blushing involved, and an adorable dog!
Cullen felt warm. No longer was the wind whipping at his face, biting at his skin until it burnt. No longer was the icy rain seeping into the cracks between his armour, soaking his tunic and puckering his flesh. No longer were sharp stones digging into his joints, pushing the resilient cold into his limbs. Instead the air was warm, and the scents of lavender and freshly-brewed tea enveloped him.
Cullen felt safe. He could tell from the lightness of his limbs that his Templar armour was gone. And yet he was surprised by how much that fact didn't alarm him. Settled on a bed of soft furs, a woolen blanket tucked primly around him, he could scarcely remember the last time he was so immeasurably comfortable.
Cullen felt… wet? Slanting one eye open, Cullen saw the muzzle of a mabari happily licking his face. He made a soft little grumbling noise as he dragged his thick, hot tongue over Cullen's cheeks, leaving a sloppy trail of saliva from chin to ear. Cullen found himself smiling; there were worse things to wake up to.
"You're awake," came a bright voice from somewhere to his side and he slowly craned his stiff neck to locate its owner. An elf sat in a tumble of pillows on the floor, weaving dried herbs into long plaits then curling them into small, wooden pots. Dark blonde hair was coiled messily atop her head, accentuating her slender neck and delicately pointed ears, and tattoos adorned her temples, dark green tendrils reaching toward her hairline in a facsimile of outstretched branches.
He opened his mouth in an attempt to answer her but no sound came out, his throat ripped raw by the scream wrenched loose when the dagger found its mark in his shoulder. She furrowed her brow in concern at his strangled wheezing, scrambled hastily toward him across the floor of the tent, and cradled his head in her arms as she helped him drink some water. He gulped down the proffered water eagerly, reveling in the feel of cool liquid soothing down his parched throat.
"Better?" she asked.
He nodded. "Better."
"Do you know what happened?"
"Rebel mages… in the woods," he explained, voice strained and rough. "We went to investigate when they… they attacked. Have any of my…?" His voice faltered when he saw her face drop, a clear answer to his unfinished question.
"All dead," she said with a small, apologetic shake of her head.
Dead. Of course.
It disturbed him that their passing invoked only the faintest whisper of grief, only a gentle, dull murmur of sorrow at the back of his skull. There was a time when a single dead Templar had grieved him deeply. Shortly after his arrival in Kinloch Hold, a Templar was killed at a harrowing gone disastrously wrong. Cullen hadn't been close to Ser Warwick, had only spoken to him on a few occasions, but the old Templar had been kind to him, had shown him around the Tower when he was still new and overwhelmed by his new posting. He'd even lent him a book, the kind of gritty thriller that he hadn't expected to find in a mage's circle.
Ser Warwick might have been the first Templar Cullen knew to be lost while on duty but over the years he'd been joined by several of their brethren. Ser Donald became the second, lost at another harrowing, and Ser Damas the third, killed when a young apprentice accidentally summoned a demon to the library. Then Ulrich went mad and Cullen hadn't been able to keep count of the dead. He'd mourned them, deeply, keenly; every single Templar killed in the Ferelden circle had weighed heavily upon him until he thought the burden of their loss would crush him.
In time he learnt to shoulder the burden, to push it to the back of his mind while he focused on his duty to the Order, and by the time the rebel mages ripped apart the Kirkwall Circle with fire and ice, stone and storm, he no longer grieved for his brothers. Each death was only a fleeting burst of sadness, a momentary spark of regret, burning fast and hot then fizzling into a muffled hum that he was largely able to ignore.
"You're lucky that the wound on your shoulder was only a shallow one," said the elf. "You've lost a fair bit of blood but I've wrapped up the injury as best I can. As long as you don't get an infection, it should heal without a problem."
"Thank you. You didn't have to – didn't need to…" He couldn't quite find the right words to express his gratitude for her unexpected kindness. When the mages had attacked, and everything became consumed in fire and screaming, he had thought that his death was inevitable, that whatever force had kept him alive throughout the atrocities of Kinloch Hold and the brutalities of the Gallows had finally decided that his end had come. Lying in the mud as the sounds of battle diminished and the smell of burnt flesh grew stronger, he made his peace with the world and waited for the moment when he would join the Maker's side. Thinking back, he was a little ashamed at how easily, almost willingly, he had just accepted his fate. He had not expected help to find him in the forgotten parts of the Vinmark Mountains.
"Am I with the Dalish?" he asked after a lengthy pause.
"What gave it away?" she teased, gesturing at her vallaslin while smirking crookedly.
"Do the Dalish… do this a lot?"
"Take in wayward, injured Templars? No" she said with barely contained amusement, "not habitually. There was some… resistance when I requested the Clan's assistance in bringing you home. But they agreed to help in the end."
Cullen was mystified. He'd always heard the Dalish were extremely hostile toward humans, would never have expected that they would come to his assistance. The young elf woman must have read the confusion written across his face because she gave a slight shrug.
"To leave a man to die just because he had the misfortune of being born a shemlen is immensely petty – and my clan is better than that." Her mouth was curled into an easy smile but her eyes were serious and focused, conveying an immense pride in her people.
At his side, the mabari nudged his shoulder and gave a soft, low whine. Looking down, Cullen noticed a jaunty, crimson grin spreading across the woolen blanket pulled up to his neck. The elf followed his gaze and then tutted disapprovingly when she saw the growing patch of blood.
"Sorry," he mumbled, an instinctual response to her pinched brows and displeased noises.
"For what?"
"Um… bleeding?"
She huffed out a warm chuckle, shaking her head in bemusement. "Well, yes, you should feel very sorry for your malicious bleeding. Try to control yourself."
She leant over him, tugging away the blanket and peeling away a neatly-tied bandage from his shoulder to take a look at his wound. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered the long, tapered gash thoughtfully. Then she picked herself from the floor to retrieve a bowl of water and a clean cloth from atop a nearby trunk, returning to his side to perch on the cot. The outside of her thigh pressed against his side on the cramped cot and her scent, of elfroot and bow resin, washed over him. As she carefully cleaned the wound, small hands stroking along bare skin, Cullen was suddenly struck with how very intimate the whole situation seemed. He hoped she was too intensely focused on his shoulder to notice the blush that was spreading slowly but determinedly across his cheeks.
It was oddly therapeutic watching her work, her movements sharp and deft. His eyes followed her fingers as she massaged a poultice onto his wound, mesmerised as she traced a pattern of concentric circles across his skin, and he soon found his eyelids drooping heavily. By the time she picked up a narrow length of cloth to bandage his shoulder, he was too tired to keep his eyes open and he focused instead on the shuddering sensations of soft fabric and warm skin pressed against him. Eventually, sleep claimed him, deep and heavy and mercifully free of dreams.
For several days Cullen drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes only staying awake for brief snatches of time, enough time to wolf down a meal and swig eagerly from a canteen of water. Every time he opened his eyes, the elf was there, Eleri he learnt, with a fresh bandage and a bowl of fruit and nuts. When she wasn't tending to his shoulder, she sat cross-legged on the floor with a book in her lap, made poultices from herbs or bandages from old rags, and sometimes played with her mabari, Melly. She liked to talk, Dalish folk stories or gossip from around the Clan, and he liked to listen, her bright, lilting voice reminding him of home and the cheerful twittering of his sisters.
Occasionally a member of the Clan would appear, seeking an elixir or a bandage for an injury. Usually they hovered hesitantly by the entrance to Eleri's tent and waited for her to spot them. Only a brave few strode in, glowering at him stonily as she saw to their needs.
"And here I thought they were warming to me," he quipped one day as a particularly surly elf glared at him over his shoulder as he left Eleri's tent.
She chuckled warmly as she tidied away her bottles and bandages. Her tent was a mess (cosy, she insisted), a haphazard jumble of clothes, books, carved wooden trinkets and assorted weaponry. But her medical equipment was meticulously organised, arranged in a large, leather-bound trunk with each item returned to its rightful place after use.
"They are warming to you! That they tolerate you at all is evidence of their warmth."
"If this is a warm reception, I would hate to witness a cold one."
"You're right – you would," she replied, her eyes hooded and dark but her smile twisted in the characteristic smirk with which he was fast becoming acquainted.
It had become apparent to Cullen shortly after his arrival that the elves were keen to leave Kirkwall, several aravels having already been packed in preparation for their departure. It seemed his slow recovery was the only thing keeping them here. They wouldn't leave without their healer and Eleri wouldn't leave until Cullen was in a fit enough state to return to the Gallows. And so they waited, and they glared at him as if they could will him to heal through scowls alone.
Cullen shared their frustration; he was not good at convalescing. Always an active man, a dutiful man, Cullen had missed only a few days of service since he'd started his Templar career over ten years ago. Lying in a cot all day doing nothing made his limbs itch, thrumming in un-spent energy. But he found that he enjoyed Eleri's company a great deal. She was a natural storyteller, lively and animated, with an impressive repertoire of tales ranging from the bawdy to the chilling. She laughed at her own jokes, a rich chuckle he found immensely endearing, dark and dirty. He was somewhat taken aback when it occurred to him that there was no one else in Kirkwall with whom he shared such easy conversation.
When Cullen's shoulder was almost healed, he watched curiously from Eleri's tent as the camp erupted with activity. The tents were folded away, their supplies and equipment loaded onto the aravels. Children tore through the camp, screaming and flailing, weaving through legs and earning terse reprimands from the clan elders. He wondered whether he was the first human to ever witness such a sight, such mundane domesticity among the Dalish. Those who considered the Dalish to be barbaric and cruel, lacking in even the most basic of familial feelings, had clearly never witnessed them as he had.
Eleri bustled into her tent, arms laden with a platter of food and a swathe of blue, shimmering fabric.
"What's this?" he asked as she thrust the generous array of food into his lap.
"We feast each time we pack up camp – eat everything that won't travel well. It seemed only fair to bring you something since you're not well enough to come to the party."
He bit into a thick chunk of bread, sweet and dotted with dried fruit, and tried to stifle the pleasured groan he felt bubbling in his throat. "And what's that?" he asked, gesturing at the jewel-blue material draped in her arms.
"This is for me," she announced, eyes twinkling mischievously, "for tonight." Without warning she unlaced the front of her tunic and pulled it over her head. Cullen abruptly averted his gaze, stared pointedly at the ceiling of the tent. The Dalish seemed to have very different attitudes toward decency and Eleri regularly left him blushing by stripping off in front of him. She seemed to find his blustering endearing and, thinking of no good reason why she should be ashamed of her own body, ignored his repeated requests for her to warn him before undressing.
He listened to the rustling of fabric and then, when he thought it was safe, let his eyes drift down from the roof of the tent. But he'd been premature, and a flush burnt a path up the back of his neck when his eyes fell on soft, bronzed skin. She stood with her back to him, swaying her hips from side to side as she shimmied out of her trousers. The sun was low in the sky, only a dim, sputtering light reaching into her tent, but a small lantern hanging in the centre of the room was enough to illuminate the planes of her back. The light danced upon her flexing muscles and Cullen found himself transfixed by the twisting patterns of gold. Once she'd stripped down to only her smallclothes, she slipped the blue material over her head and Cullen fought the urge to vocalise his disappointment as her lean flesh was once again hidden from view.
When she turned to face him once more, a crooked, toothy grin broke across her face and he knew that she'd caught him staring. "What do you think?" she asked, smoothing the front of her dress with her palms.
The dress was far shorter than any Ferelden or Free Marcher design, stopping a fair few inches short of her knees. The fabric was light and gauzy, moving enticingly with every gesture of her body, and the bright shade of blue was startling against her tanned skin. From her smug, satisfied expression he knew he didn't really need to answer but his mother had always told him to respond to questions as honestly and fully as possible.
"You look… beautiful," he answered, his smile soft and skin tinged pink with embarrassment.
Her grin faltered somewhat, taken aback by his earnestness, and her face clouded with an uncharacteristic shyness. Cautiously, she stepped to the cot, bent over him, and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. "Thank you," she murmured against this skin.
She smiled at him as she stepped back, not her usual, teasing smirk but something small and genuine. "Melly will look after you. She'll come get me should you need anything," she said, scratching her faithful mabari behind one pointed ear.
He thought he should say something; another compliment, perhaps, anything to keep her from leaving him. But Cullen couldn't think of the right words and instead watched helplessly as she skipped from her tent and disappeared into the night.
"She's gone," he noted, surprised by how keenly he felt Eleri's absence, how empty the tent seemed without her constant chatter and hearty laughter. Melly slanted her eyes at him, head tilted, and Cullen got the distinct impression that she was judging him for sounding so pathetic.
"You don't have to worry – she'll be back," he said, more a reassurance to himself than to the mabari.
Melly gave a sad whine.
"We don't need her – we have each other, right Melly?"
Melly snorted derisively.
"Fine – be that way. And here I thought we were really making a connection."
Melly looked at him almost piteously.
"Right. I'm talking to a dog. This is mildly embarrassing… And yet I continue…"
It was going to be a long night.
End note: I love the 'accidentally sees someone undressing' cliché – what can I say? I'm unrepentantly trashy like that.