A/N: Ahem. It's been a while, yes? Haha. As if I could forget about Ser Otto entirely! He's my favorite NPC by far (well, besides Cailan), and I've been running through another game, which always leads to inspiration. So, yes, expect more of this in the days to come. I've already begun planning a post-Awakening story with him in it, so keep an eye out for that whenever I wrap this up in a few chapters! Also, Catherine Amell belongs to SerNature. She and Arella are too cute to let their friendship fall to the wayside just for the sake of story!

One Year Earlier.

It came as no surprise when Cullen found Arella sitting near the very top of the tower.

While she was hesitant to do so, she could nearly sneak past anyone at any time, no matter how alert they were, and he soon discovered that this was one of her favorite places to visit when she needed time to herself. The hallways were quiet this far to the top; they were long-deserted but kept in pristine condition from the tranquils' diligent attentions. But she did not go there for the quiet, though she drank up ever bit of silence she could. She climbed up flight after flight of stairs because there were windows.

She was sitting near one of these windows when he discovered her. Her legs were pulled up against her chest, her toes barely curling around the thatched bottom of her chair, and in her hands was a large book, far larger than any he'd ever taken notice to.

The moment she heard clattering of his armor and his heavy footsteps, she knew it was him. Who else would look for her? Or, better yet, was there a Templar in the Circle who even bothered to look for her when she was absent?

Her eyebrows rose high on her forehead as she turned towards the doorway, the familiar outline of Templar armor pulling a smile at the corner of her mouth. While she didn't say a word, this was her greeting, and he took it as such, more than willing to merely walk over to her.

He felt intrusive – as if he was stepping into a private moment and should turn around and leave. No matter how persuasive the voice telling him to turn around was, his worry over her recent isolation was even louder. So instead of making conversation, he stayed his tongue and stepped up in front of the window, the width of his pauldrons blocking out whatever sun had illuminated her face. And her book.

"I can't read with you standing right there, Cullen," she murmured, eyes squinting as she tried in vain to continue the sentence. The words had just barely left her lips when she heard his armor clanging again as he hurried to step out of the way, turning his back to the sill. "I came up here to study, you know. I hope you aren't up here to distract me."

"I was wondering where you were, is all," he confessed, "I haven't seen very much of you lately."

There was a wariness in his tone that she found odd. He never picked and prodded for words around her anymore. Over the years, he'd gotten confident when in her company, even going so far as to joke and tease with her on occasion, should she be willing. That he would be nervous now seemed unheard of, but this opinion was born out of ignorance alone.

By word from both First Enchanter Irving and Wynne, she'd begun preparing for her Harrowing. The news surprised her; she was quite young still, and whatever trust she had in her skills wavered easily under pressure. When this pressure was hefted upon her shoulders, she forced herself into grueling hours of study. Her lessons suffered due to her lack of sleep, a factor that planted seeds of doubt in everyone who knew what she was up against, but she was unaware of how this would effect her in the coming week.

A few of those same doubtful spores were taking root in her friend. He'd hardly spoken to her in the past week, which was enough for him to realize something was wrong. Her nose was so often buried in a book, she often walked right past him in the hallway without saying a word.

The Harrowing was the single most important moment in a mage's life. That much had been told to them from their first lesson onwards, peppered with tales of what would happen to them if they were not chosen to go through with it. You either went through the Harrowing, became a Tranquil, or were killed. All it took was enough knowledge to know that harrowing meant agonizing, and suddenly everyone was wondering which of the three choices would be worst. Arella was one of those people. To say that she was nervous would have been a complete understatement. But she'd have sooner launched herself from the top of the Hold before admitting it to anyone.

Well, anyone but Cullen. She trusted Cullen; he would listen to her and ease her worries, right? If he said she would be fine, she would be fine... right?

Her shoulders bobbed as she heaved a sigh, her neck lolling backwards until she felt the crown of her head pressed against the back of the chair. "I have three days," she murmured, her palms pressing against the pages, fingers splaying over spells that refused to sink in all the way. "If I don't absorb as much of this as I can, who knows what'll happen to me."

"You're going to be f-fine, Rell." She cracked open an eye at him, and he cleared his throat. The quavering in his voice had done the very opposite of what he'd intended. "Cat hardly studied during the week before her Harrowing, and she was through in no more than an hour."

Again, she looked at him, though this time she pulled her face all the way towards his, awarding that ridiculous statement with a raised brow. No matter how much she adored Catherine Amell, she was last on the list of people who she willingly molded herself after. In fact, if she did anything, it was inspire Arella in the opposite direction entirely. Looking back to her book, her index trailed absently over the leaf of an elfroot plant. "All the more reason to study then, hm? Maker knows I'm nowhere near a prodigy."

"I didn't mean it like that," he pressed. "I only meant that all of this studying isn't... completely necessary. You look tired."

Arella wet her lips. Patting down one of the pages, she looked up at him, both brows tilted upwards this time. "You're as persuasive as Owain is charming, you know." She paused, lifting the book to cradle it against her chest as she shifted on the chair. Her legs slipped down, toes pressed against the floor, and she stared directly into his face. "Something's bothering you."

"No-nothing's bothering me, Rell," he muttered, turning towards the window again, as if he was purposely making himself seem more suspicious. He wasn't, but her curiosity wasn't sated. When she opened her mouth to tell him that he was clearly lying, his response made her snap her mouth shut, "I don't want to talk about it. Can't; I can't talk about it."

"Fine," she said as she reached over and grabbed the chair at her side. The legs ground against the floor, and he turned to look over his shoulder as she pulled it up next to her. "Then help me study."

Present Day.

"You have better things to do, I'm sure, than to play nurse to an old Templar."

For the past week, every time Ser Otto said more than a word, Arella glanced up from her book and beamed at him. Whether this was out of genuine gladness that he was alive or pride born of her own skills, he'd never know. Some small part of him enjoyed believing it was due to the former, however. Now that he was very nearly healed and already walking around on his own, she continued reading, even as he spoke, though she did grin at the pages.

Her grin didn't even falter as she flipped to the next story, smoothing her fingers over the worn page as her eyes ran over the one opposite, searching to find what she'd read about next. "You're not," she said, her voice soft, as she wriggled deeper into the cushions.

Despite her protestations, Otto had insisted she find something softer to sit on. He could tell her back was suffering from the poorly cushioned chair in his room, and he didn't need the woman who saved his life in pain due to her own stubbornness. He spoke to Alistair, amused at how passionately Arella insisted it wasn't necessary despite the tightness in her voice when the young warrior set his heavy hand upon her back. Her discomfort was obvious and entirely unnecessary.

"Pardon?" he asked, leaning heavily on his bent elbow as he looked across the room in her direction.

"You're not that old." Glancing up from her book, she leaned over just far enough to run a hand over his forehead. Her thumb massaged at the deep lines between his brows. "You just worry. That's what those are from. I daresay we're all going to have them when the Blight is over."

He smiled at that, a soft turn of his lips. Only a sliver of teeth was bared, but that was enough. She found that even the smallest of smiles were meaningful when they were his. That thought alone was the thing that reminded her of both Cullen and Alistair. They were cut from completely different cloth, but their smiles never failed to bring forth some strong emotional response in her. While the memory of Cullen's smile struck a pang in her chest, Alistair's sent a warmth right through her, causing her pulse to quicken. And Otto's smile made her do the same, except she smiled so wide in response that her cheeks often hurt.

When she pulled her hand away, he settled carefully onto his back. He was healing quickly due in no small part to Arella's constant fretting and her surprising talent. There were moments when he could have sworn she outstripped even Wynne, though the young elf was quick to deny this. His comments often led to her fumbling, her fingers growing clumsy and nervous laughter bubbling out of her as if she couldn't stop herself.

Her reactions were charming, even if they spoke of her naivety when it came to the attentions of a man. His observations caught a very distinct hesitance whenever Alistair was around, as if she was unsure of herself, something that surprised him at first. She'd proven herself to be one of the most capable, strong-willed women he'd ever come into contact with, and he'd been practically raised in the Chantry, where there was no shortage of capable, strong-willed women.

Otto made a quiet, contemplative noise, crossing his hands over his stomach. "Are you nearly finished with that book?" he asked, his eyes shut for the time being. The embrace of the pillows cradling the back of his head was comforting enough to allow him ignorance to the lingering pain in his shoulders and back. "You have been reading it for a week now."

"I've finished it a dozen times over," she chuckled, thumbing over another page.

"Hm? Which is it? Maybe I've heard of it."

Arella leaned against the arm of the small couch, her head resting against the curve of it. "You probably have," she said slowly, "It's called Templars of Our Time." He made another thoughtful sound, and she knew that he had, in fact, heard of it, which wasn't surprising at all, considering he was in the book. She'd only discovered that slender chapter containing his story after she'd spoken to him that first time in the Alienage. At the time, it hadn't been proper to react as she'd so wanted to. The moment was sombre, but she wanted nothing more than to ask him if he was really Ser Otto, the templar who'd chased a band of maleficarum into the Free Marches only to have his sight stolen away.

A hint of a smile touched his cheek, "Ah, yes, I have heard of it. I remember telling Azzo to keep my chapter brief only to find out later that he'd taken me seriously." Rubbing the back of his hand with his palm, he glanced over to her. "He came to me to ask for my story two years after I returned to Ferelden and my sight was already gone."

She knew what he would ask her. Shutting the book, if only for a moment, she pulled herself up from the seat and crossed the short distance to his bed. The comfort that came over her whenever he was near cast aside any wariness she might have had about climbing up with any other man. He was vastly different, and she knew that he did not mind.

Careful in her movements, she crawled over him to sit with her back against the wall, her legs resting over his knees, and she opened the book again. A thin scarlet ribbon held the place where his chapter began. She was thankful for its brevity. She'd been able to read it time and again while he was recovering, so thoroughly that she could have recited it nearly word for word without even flipping a page. But her talents in recitation weren't what was important now. He wanted to hear what Ser Azzo had written about him.

"I have come across many men while researching the stories included in this book," she began, not bothering to tuck the chop of brown hair that fell into her face behind her ear. "But scarce few of them live today. So many of them are long since dead – heroes in their time, yes, but myths in ours."

Otto swallowed thickly, humility already driving him to wonder whether Azzo's prose would not be as straight-forward as he recalled. He remembered reading the first edition when he was little older than twenty years. He remembered the sparse, yet complimentary script, the sweeping scope and brilliant clarity of a man who truly knew what he was doing. He did not deserve flowery prose, nor did he deserve the effusive commendations of a man who knew of so many men better than he.

"When I was first introduced to Ser Otto Albelin of South Reach, I knew that I had come into contact with a living myth, a legend that yet drew breath, and in that moment, I was changed." A smile crept into her voice. The feeling was familiar. "He sacrificed more in one moment of bravery than most of us will sacrifice in our entire lives. The very Maker-given gift that told him where to drive his sword was stolen from him, and yet his blade strikes true, a blessing if I have ever witnessed one."

She paused only for a moment, her breath catching in her throat when she felt Otto's hand on her elbow, his calloused thumb pressing against her skin, a silent appeal for her to continue. So she did.

This was the last moment of true peace she would be awarded for some time. The Landsmeet loomed overhead. The worst of the Blight had yet to reach the gates of Denerim. Both she and Alistair knew something was coming, their insight far greater than a mere feeling or intuition. Their dreams were becoming clearer. Brighter. Bloodier.

While sitting with Otto could have easily been passed off as her watching over him, it was the complete opposite in a sense. Lying feet away from him with her nose in the same tattered book she'd given Cullen all those years ago was comforting in a way nothing else was these days.

Even without saying a word, he gave her the sense of mind she needed to prepare herself for what was coming and to calm her when she feared it.