AN: Brain on fire. Oogling Cullen. If you haven't seen the Dragon Age Inquisition game of the year award nomination clip, go do so. Topless Cullen just casually strolling by. Mmmhmmm.
Disclaimer:
I own nothing you recognise. This is all completely un-beta'd and totally fresh off the top of my brain!
The first time he meets her, she is a nigh-dead waif in a cell, apostate hovering over her like a balding crow about a jewel. Her hand drips putrescent vapour. The apostate fusses.
He leaves to march on the hell in the sky long before she recovers.
The second time he meets her is in the heat of battle under a verdant sky. She is sallow and frail, clinging to two knives with hunched shoulders. Her hand continues to drip, drip, drip until she raises it to the rift before them. It beams, connects, whines. The demons howl as they are sucked back, into the fade. The pitch intensifies until she pulls her hand back, snapping the connection between this world and the other.
He turns back to assist his troops, while they continue on.
The third time he meets her, she is once again a nigh-dead waif, though no longer in a cell. She is in a comfortable bed in a tiny healing cottage tucked into a corner of Haven. Her skin is waxen, even though her fever broke yesterday evening. Her tattoo carves down one eyebrow, over the eye (even the eyelid, Maker's breath that must have hurt) and down one high cheekbone. Her face is small, childish, a disarming heart of fragile skin.
He remembers her eyes, when they were open, were a piercing ice blue. He hopes, for all their sake, they open again.
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