CHAPTER 3
When the Order's business takes Cullen to Hightown, he prefers scheduling it with a midday break, which allows him to attend the noontide Chant. The familiar words sooth him, immersing him in a predictable rhythm as he gazes at the bronze statue of Andraste, memorial candles flickering around her feet. Before he leaves, he always lights a candle and says a prayer for the dead.
One day, late in the spring, Cullen fails to recognize Hawke when she is dressed in Hightown finery, bending forward to light a candle near the Chantry's altar. One minute she is just another wealthy noblewoman saying a prayer. The next, she turns to face him and takes him by surprise. She even sounds like aristocracy when she greets him. It doesn't matter. Hawke is back. Cullen missed her.
Minutes later, he's walking beside her as they step into the sunshine. She does all of the talking and her tales are a whirlwind of fantasy. Stories of ogres and dragons and golems. A Dwarven thaig so old it not only predates the First Blight, but even the Dwarves themselves have forgotten it. Her stories become increasingly more unbelievable. Cullen laughs while trying not to sound incredulous. She doesn't care. Her tales grow even taller and he listens, drunk on the sound of her voice.
She invites him to join her at an Antivan dessert shop. He is on duty, but he goes with her anyway. They sit together under the shade of a canvas canopy, eat scoops of mellon sorbetto, and drink syrupy sweet dessert wine. In the end, Hawke insists on paying. Rather than leave, they linger just outside the shop.
Hawke brings up Templar business. "I never forgot the loan you gave me. I paid interest on it when I saw Macha last week. I gave her ten sovereigns and told her that the money was from the Order. She said Keran is still doing well although she worries about him. She thinks the Order is too harsh on the recruits."
"We have a difficult job."
"You do, but for the recruits the job can be far more difficult." She pauses. "So, how have things been for you since we've last spoken?"
What can he possibly say? Tell her how difficult it is to fill the ranks of the Kirkwall's Order? The ever present lack of trained soldiers who are capable of handling daily threats? Or that Meredith had closed the ranks, disallowing help from outside? That he, as Knight Captain, lacked new ideas on how to police problems far larger than his resources allowed? That the city of Kirkwall itself seemed cursed, although he didn't have a shred of evidence to prove that. So, what can he say? Complain how his job has been difficult and sleep even harder to find? How he feels alone all the time, despite having people around him? He cannot talk about this mid-afternoon in the middle of Hightown. Instead, he asks Hawke about how her family is lending support to the Order.
Hawke laughs. "My mother made a generous contribution."
"Of course," he says. Cullen already knew of their donations to the Circle's library. Some of the money bought textbooks he had recommended: a moral analysis of the life of Andraste and an exegesis on the Chant. The Amell estate now sponsored the cost of training and equipping ten of the newest templar recruits. They had also made substantial donations to Hightown's Chantry, although Cullen never learned how much.
Hawke changes the topic. She tells him of a meeting she had with the Viscount plus a recent adventure visiting the Dalish, and how Varric is halfway through the process of writing a new novel. Just as they are about to part, Hawke stops.
"My mother is hosting a party next month and the affair is quite a who's who of Kirkwall. Surely, as Kirkwall's Knight Captain, you received your invitation?"
He hadn't.
A momentary look of concern crosses her face. "Oh, there must have been a mistake. It's a good thing I had a chance to talk with you." She tells him the date of the party and that she'll hand deliver an invitation, making up for the one that had surely been delayed by accident.
.
.
After the long descent from Hightown, Cullen meanders through the Lowtown market and wanders the maze of crumbling apartment blocks. Men with strong arms and strong Fereldan accents loiter in clusters. They drink ale from bottles as they talk about jobs they might find in the mines or the foundries. Women bustle through the streets carrying knotted string bags full of cabbages and root vegetables that will soon be chopped and stewed.
Cullen passes the entrance to the Hanged Man and wonders if Hawke's dwarven friend is sitting inside. Back in Hightown, Cullen should have asked Hawke if she still gathers with her friends in the Hanged Man. He wouldn't mind seeing her there again, having a drink and talking. He found it easy to talk with her at the Hanged Man. People minded their own business and the words he said there were not repeated back to him the following day by an insubordinate templar or, worse, by his own commanding officer.
He felt safe talking with Hawke. Issues that perplexed him made sense when he was with her. She asked him questions no one else dared to ask. She made him think. Sweet Maker, Cullen scoffs at himself. Hawke is an apostate. A mage. And nothing will ever change that fact. But she has seen things that the Chantry priests and most of the Order have not. She knows what he cannot put into words. So, regardless of what she is, he wants to meet with her again. But not up in Hightown. Someplace comfortable. Someplace where he is safe saying whatever he feels he needs to say.
Cullen turns the corner and walks behind the back of a building. A lady approaches him. Her lips shine with glossy red lip-paint, eyes heavily outlined in kohl.
She opens a small embroidered purse and shows him the purse's empty interior.
"Pardon?" He doesn't understand.
"Fifty bits for a blow. Pay a silver, in you go."
"What? You don't… No— no thank you."
"Oh, listen to your sweet voice! You're a Fereldan boy. No wonder you're down here." The woman takes his arm. "I should have known when I saw you. All you Fereldan boys are so handsome and strapping. Especially you, Ser. Visiting your family for the evening?"
"I— No, I don't have family."
"You don't? I could keep you company."
"Oh, no. I mean—" Cullen carefully twists his arm free. "I need to be somewhere else— I need to go."
"I'm here when you change your mind, Fereldan boy," she calls after him as he hustles away.
He hurries down a short flight of stairs and turns into a hexyard where girls beat wet laundry clean and young children run after each other, taking turns kicking a ball. Somewhere, facing into one of these hexyards, is the apartment where Macha lives.
Cullen looks up, searching for the ledge where the lookout man sat on that windy night last autumn. All of these tenement blocks look the same. Crumbling limestone. Trash heaps in the alleys, sagging laundry lines, tattered banners hanging limp, their color bleached by years of sun and dirtied by foundry smoke.
He'll never find Macha. Even if he saw her, he doesn't know what he would say. 'Sorry about Keran's pay. While there is nothing I can do about his status, surely that ten sovereign helped you?' What garbage! His stomach sours as his diaphragm contracts. He's unable to help and he knows it. He doesn't know what to do to aid Keran and nothing he might say to Macha feels right. He should turn around, walk back to the Hanged Man, and order himself a drink. But then he remembers how the locals looked at him that last time. They stared him down like he was the Chantry Law coming in to start trouble. They're probably protective of that that mage, Anders, who runs the free clinic. Forget it. It's not worth the bother.
Cullen looks for a stairway that will take him down to the docks.
.
.
Even though it is only late spring, the afternoon sun at the Gallows feels as hot as late summer in Ferelden. Cullen must have been half asleep while standing in the courtyard because the moment Hawke says hello to him, he swears he never saw her approach.
"How are you?" she asks.
"Good."
She hands him an envelope stamped with gold leaf and sealed in wax with the Amell family crest. "Here's your invitation. The guest list only has your name right now but you are welcome to bring a guest."
"Oh, no. No. It will just be me."
She smiles at him in a manner that seems just a bit coy. "I have some business with Solivitus. I'll see you later."
Just as she turns he decides to ask. "Wait, Hawke?"
"Yes?"
"Do you… do you still go to the Hanged Man in the evenings?"
"More often than not. I'll be there tonight."
"You will?"
"Are you free?"
"Of course." He knows he sounds far too eager when he says that.
Her gaze flits down the length of his body before returning to his face. "Good," she says. "I'll see you there."
"Yes. See you tonight."
She turns and walks away. After a few steps, she looks over her shoulder and smiles at him before turning back. He watches her walk across the courtyard, over to Solivitus' shop. Even from a distance, Cullen hears Solivitus greet Hawke with the flourish reserved for the highest of the aristocracy. News always travels fast in the Gallows. Everyone knows about the donations that the Amell family has made to the Circle, the Order, and the Chantry. As far as Kirkwall is concerned, Hawke is one of the highly ranked members of the nobility. So long as she keeps herself on the path of the Maker's light, the Order will watch over her from afar.
.
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After the evening Chant, Cullen signs himself out in the Gallows logbook, granting himself a night of leave. When he boards the ferry he is dressed in his only set of non-regulation clothing: heavy trousers, a linen shirt, and a vest, all of it purchased from a tailor in Denerim, years ago.
He arrives at the Hanged Man. Men nod at him. Cullen openly greets them back.
He sees Hawke sitting with Varric, Guard Captain Aveline, and that pirate lady, Isabela, who was involved in a shipwreck. Hawke appears to look past him, but when he waves her expression bursts into joyous wide-eyed surprise. She stands up and beckons him over.
"Hey! Look at you!" she says. "There's a flesh and blood person under all that hardened steel you left behind."
To his surprise, Hawke makes a fist and knocks lightly on the center of his chest as if rapping on his missing armored plate. His breath catches in his throat.
"A man out of uniform is always more fun," the pirate says with a devilish grin.
"Knight Captain?" Aveline motions for him to sit down.
Varric picks up a pitcher and pours Cullen a glass of ale.
Cullen listens to them talk about a ring of criminals that the city guard is tracking and a thinly fictionalized version of the tale that Varric has in draft for his next guard serial. When conversation drifts, Isabela breaks in with a filthy joke and Aveline rolls her eyes. Nevertheless, the joke is funny. Once Cullen stops laughing, Varric invites him to join in on Tuesday night games of diamondback.
After another pitcher of ale, Isabela busies herself with pages from Varric's drafted manuscript. She writes tidy comments in the margins while absentmindedly biting the tip of her tongue. Aveline pours over the pages that Isabela hasn't yet marked.
Hawke pulls Cullen away from the tavern's noise. They sit together at a small table in a dimly lit corner. She asks him how he's been sleeping and how he's managing now that half a year has passed since Wilmod's death. They talk about the new group of recruits he is training and the ways that his current Knight Commander differs from his old Commander back in Ferelden. When Hawke asks if he ever thinks of returning to Ferelden, he turns the question around and asks her the same. They both agree that they plan to stay in Kirkwall. For Hawke, this is her family's home. For Cullen, he goes where the Order sends him although, he is quick to say that he is happy to stay in Kirkwall indefinitely. Hawke smiles as she refills his mug of ale.
.
.
Cullen cannot take leave every evening but over the weeks that follow he finds time any evening that he can. He slips into a comfortable routine of familiar expectations. Tuesdays for diamondback and, on some nights, Cullen is not the only templar to attend. Other evenings are spent with Hawke and her friends. The evening before the party at Hawke's mansion, she asks again if he will be attending.
"Of course," he says.
"Good. I'll keep an eye out for you. Oh, don't forget," she tugs lightly at the side of his vest, "It's formal attire. Mother has something over the top she insists I wear. It's practically Orlesian. No masks, thankfully. Nothing that crazy. Just ornate. Well, you'll see it at the party, assuming you can even recognize me. The shoes alone will kill me before the night is through, much less the rest of that dress. If you can't find me, look for me in the upper balcony above the grand parlor."