Chapter Four: Bruises

They had wanted Hawke to lead the Inquisition. Instead, they got the mysterious lone survivor of the Conclave. A much younger woman. A mage.

It occurs to Cassandra that Cullen, given his history, might be uneasy about her. They are overseeing the soldiers' training one afternoon in the courtyard when she asks him, in a low voice, "How do you find our new leader?"

He considers his answer before he speaks. "She's committed to closing the rifts, plus she's the only one who can. For now, those are qualifications enough."

Cassandra nods but says nothing, letting the silence stretch out. After a minute, Cullen cracks. He asks, quietly, "Do you believe she's the Herald of Andraste?"

Cassandra frowns. "What is the Herald of Andraste?" she asks. "A title born from whispers and rumors, on which people have hung their own idiosyncratic hopes. She was not the one who came up with the idea. She is not even sure what she really saw at the Conclave."

He doesn't let her evasion slip by. "But what do you believe?"

She sets her jaw. "That all things are divinely ordained, and the Maker has a purpose behind them."

He hesitates for a moment, then asks, "Even Justinia's death?"

The question strikes her like a blow. She replies sharply, "Even that. Does that satisfy you?"

Cullen looks grave. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I know you cared for Justinia deeply. I only asked because… Leliana seems to be taking it so hard. I wondered if you had some comfort for her."

"I do not," Cassandra says curtly.

But she thinks about how she and Leliana have barely spoken since the explosion at the Conclave, at the start of all of this. Perhaps that has done more harm than good. "Still," she says, "I will go see her. Thank you for prompting me. At the very least, Leliana will appreciate your concern." That is, if she's not too busy scorning it, Cassandra thinks to herself, as Cullen nods and takes his leave.

Late that night, Leliana is still sitting up in her tent, a haunted look in her eyes. Cassandra doesn't know what to say to her, but she brings a votive candle, and the two of them light it together in silence. The scent of embrium fills the air. By candlelight, they take turns reading some of her favorite passages from the Chant of Light. For a short while, it is almost – almost – as though she is still there with them.

It is the first time either of them has found a way of expressing for their grief. At the end, they even embrace, fleetingly. Strange, Cassandra thinks, that she should finally find solace with Leliana, of all people.

And that Cullen, who barely knows them, might have called it.

"By the way, Cullen asked after you," Cassandra says, curious to see how Leliana will respond.

It's as she imagined – Leliana only sighs, dramatically. "What a good Chantry boy."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Cassandra says with a smirk.

Leliana sniffs. "A word of advice, Cassie." She only uses the nickname because Cassandra hates it so much. "Don't disclose that you need a man to tell you how someone is feeling."


Leliana's comment smarts. But it does make Cassandra think twice about how much she's begun to depend on Cullen, even if it is mutual. He built on the training regime she'd developed for their soldiers. She brings her greater knowledge of Orlais and Nevarra to their discussions of tactical strategies, which mostly begin over the evening meal and sometimes continue on late into the night. Since coming to Haven, Cullen has settled in well. The troops respect him; better yet, she can tell that they like him. He is the mercy to her severity; between them, they get more out of their forces than either of them could do alone.

One afternoon, after dismissing the soldiers, he says to her, "I feel as though I've neglected my own training. It's rather hypocritical of me. Would you be interested in a bout?

She agrees. They face away from each other for a moment, choosing practice swords with blunted edges. When they turn to face each other again, she can't help but let out a snort of laughter. She's donned an extra layer of padded armor, while he's taken off his shirt.

She calls out, "Feeling the heat already?"

He laughs sheepishly. "It was the custom in Kirkwall to fight this way."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh? When Seekers train, we hit as hard as we're able. I suppose that when Templars train, you like to work on your tan?"

"Quite right," he says, not missing a beat. "Enough talk. Hit me as hard as you can. If you can."


He's good – surprisingly good. Naturally those hard, lean muscles didn't come from nowhere, but she wouldn't have expected such a strong fighter, very much in his prime, to have been made an administrator. Either Kirkwall had a poor estimate of his abilities, or he was even better as a leader than he was as a fighter.

He's stronger than she is. He could overpower her through brute force alone, and does for the first few rounds. She's furious when he switches his approach, not willing that he should go easy on her. She sharply increases the tempo of her swings, pushing herself much harder than she ought to just in training – with a full day's work ahead of her still, and having to ride out with the Inquisitor tomorrow – but she's gratified to see him straining, breathing hard, concentrating fully. She wins the next few bouts. It spurs him on to start trying riskier moves, in an attempt to catch her off guard. With fresh determination, she succeeds in knocking his weapon out of his hands, a favorite move of hers that doesn't succeed often.

Instead of trying to retrieve his sword, as she knows Templars are taught to do, he charges at her and kicks her hard in the kneecaps. She staggers, and that's when he slams his full weight into her, knocking her backwards onto the ground.

She still has her sword, but he's in the perfect position to crush her throat. At the last moment, he throws himself to one side, in effect tripping himself up to land awkwardly, heavily, half on top of her. She lets out a choked cry as the wind is knocked out of her.

The next moment he's back on his feet, panting hard and stammering apologies. "I'm so sorry – are you injured?"

"Just bruised," she assures him, knowing she sounds far from convincing winded. "Don't apologize. We were both spoiling for a good fight."

He holds out his hand to her and, unthinkingly, she takes it. She regrets it as soon as he pulls her straight up to her feet, far too quickly. Her vision constricts, and black spots flash into view. The world topples over sideways. She doesn't even realize she's falling until she feels him catch her.

"Easy," he says, his voice low and serious.

She struggles out of instinct. "I can stand."

"I believe you," he says. "But sit for a minute. For me."

He settles onto the ground beside her, mercifully giving her space. Her vision is already normal and the brief dizziness has passed, but both of them welcome a chance to get their breath back.

"When I was five or six," she says after a moment, "I was out with my brother Anthony – watching the clouds, or something like that. When it was time to go home, I stood up too quickly and tumbled down a hill into a huge pile of horse shit. Anthony laughed about it for days."

Cullen smiles. "He sounds like a good man."

"He was." He notices the catch in her voice that she still can't hold back when she talks about Anthony, all these years later. "I would prefer not to speak of him now. Perhaps another time."

Cullen nods. As they walk back, he says, "Your form was impeccable."

"As yours was unorthodox."

He smiles. "I'm not a Templar anymore."

"Maker help us all."

Emboldened, he ventures, "Would you like to do this again? Same time tomorrow?"

"Same time tomorrow," she says, and his smile widens.

Back in her room, she sits down and puts her head in her hands. This time, the lightheadedness and the fluttering in her chest don't go away.


Even after the Inquisition moves to Skyhold, and their forces double, Cassandra and Cullen keep up their sparring sessions as often as they're able. They test each other's strength, striking at each other's weaknesses punishingly hard. Her technique improves. At least that's what she tells herself when she sets out time and time with the Inquisitor, aching and bruised.

In time, Cullen tells her about his family in rural Honnleath, the pranks he and his siblings played on one another, and how shocked his parents had been when he'd told them he wanted to be a Templar instead of a farmer. She tells him about Anthony, about Nevarra, and what it was like being raised by an uncle who kept corpses under the cellar stairs. The difference in their backgrounds couldn't be starker, yet they have somehow led them to see eye to eye today. They talk about everything.

"I miss reading," he says one evening. "One good thing about Kirkwall was that it had excellent libraries."

"I have a few books I could lend to you," she offers.

He takes her up on it readily. They go up to her room, and he heads straight over to her selection of books, small but carefully collected. "Hmm. Swords and Shields." He tilts his head to one side. "By Varric Tethras. The one and the same?"

She blushes. "It's terrible."

He chuckles. "Is that an unbiased opinion? Perhaps I should see for myself."

"No! I – haven't finished it yet," she lies. "Would you like to borrow some poetry instead?"

What a stupid thing to say. But to her surprise, his eyes light up. "I'd love to borrow some poetry."

He examines another title. "Carmenum di Amatus?"

She feels her face grow even hotter. But Cullen only says mildly, "I've never heard of that one. I'm not as well-read as you, I'm afraid."

He touches the spine of the book beneath it. "I have wanted to read Sonnets from the Nevarran for some time."

"Feel free to borrow it for as long as you need," she says, and he slips it out of the stack. Holding her book, he pauses.

"What?" she asks.

"You keep your books on a stool."

"So?"

"You only have the one stool. Where do you sit?" He looks around the room. "Maker, Cassandra, where do you sleep?" He eyes the bedroll folded up in one corner in disbelief.

"You don't have a roof," she retorts.

"You don't have a door. Or walls."

"You don't have stairs. You climb up to your quarters through a hole in the floor!"

"And it's so difficult to use a ladder," he says dryly. "Cassandra, you allocated yourself the poorest living conditions in Skyhold and you know it. Don't the smiths wake you up with their hammering?"

"I am awake before they come in," she says, and he groans.

That evening, she finds him trying to get a bed through the narrow door of the smithy. She protests. "Four nights out of five I'm not even here."

"Knowing you're more comfortable one night out of five is enough for me."

She looks it over. It's the same make as the one she had installed in his quarters when he arrived, a narrow single bed. "Fine," she says.

He grunts. "Don't just say 'fine,'" he says. "Help me get it up the stairs."

Leliana doesn't hesitate to offer her opinion. Cassandra finds her in her room later that night, lying on the bed. "This is a nice gift from Cullen," she said, running her hand across the sheets. "Someone knows better than to waste time with subtlety when it comes to you."

Cassandra tells herself that Leliana would say anything just to get a rise out of her, that there's no point in wondering if what she's saying has any truth to it. She turns her back on the other woman, wishing for the first time that she had more in her room so she could busy herself with it now.

After a minute, Leliana's voice comes floating up again, like a voice in her head. "By the Maker and Andraste, Cassie, just sleep with him and get it out of your system. Let the fever run its course."

"Stop it," Cassandra snaps, irritated that Leliana has gotten the better of her again, like she always does. "It's not like that."

"Aha!" Leliana says at once, bouncing up and grinning. "What is it like, then? Is it serious?"

"It isn't anything."

"Ooh," Leliana says. "It is serious."

"Get out." Cassandra crosses her arms tightly. This has gone on for long enough. "Don't you have more important things to do?"

Apparently satisfied, Leliana finally stands up and saunters out. At the top of the stairs, she pauses for a parting shot. "Sweet dreams, Cassie," she says, and slips out before Cassandra can throw something at her, like an ogre, or some other senseless creature who can so easily be taunted into violence. It wouldn't be the first time with Leliana, Cassandra thinks bitterly. And it probably won't be the last.


A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Always happy to hear from you, it makes my day!