The rain that had been threatening all afternoon broke just after sunset. When rain came in the Frostbacks, it stayed for days at a time. Heavy sheets of rain fell against his office windows. Cullen stayed at his desk, not pacing for fear of getting some of the deluge dripping down the broken parts of his ceiling. His bed would be dry. Dry-ish. But the biggest hole in his roof was right over the ladder that led up to his loft.
It hardly mattered. He had a steady fire and a stack of new reports from the Emerald Graves. He had plenty to occupy himself until he was tired enough to finally sleep.
One of his doors banged open and a hunched figure in a hooded red cloak came in. She - short enough, with enough curves visible he was certain - kicked the door closed behind her. He was on his feet, alert, even though he had no memory of moving.
"Sweet Andraste's swollen feet, that's a storm." She pulled her hood back. Ivy grinned at him, red hair wet only in the very front of her face. He realized his mouth was open and shut it with a snap. She carried something with her, under her cloak.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. Which was a lot more brusque than he intended. But she seemed unphased.
"I brought the chess board from the garden. And a bottle of fizzy cider, if you're up for playing," she said. He blinked at her. But he didn't have time to process that before she saw the streams of water falling down near the ladder. "What the hell happened to your roof? Shouldn't you have people to patch that kind of thing?"
"No, I, well, yes. We do. I just don't." God, he sounded as idiotic as he did back when he was a feckless nineteen year old. No wonder she didn't think he was that bright. "Several people have made the offer to patch it. I like it as it is."
"You like a small river pouring into your office?" She came close to his desk. She smelled like rain, and the cinnamon bread they made in the kitchens, and up close she was brilliantly, startlingly real. He found it hard to talk past the inexplicable lump in his throat.
"I like the fresh air," he said. His voice sounded hoarse, for some reason. He cleared his throat. Why did she just keep looking at him with those big gray eyes? Like she could see into his soul? "And the light."
"Oh, that's easy. I have something for that. I don't know if it would work on your roof, though. I'm willing to give it a try," she said. Her smile was open, easy, cheerful. She did not seem to have any comprehension of the tightly controlled world she was barging into.
"What do you suggest?" he sounded so normal. Like he was a reasonable man having a reasonable conversation with an old acquaintance, instead of like he was crashing around screaming inside his head.
"I use this kind of tent spell? If it would be possible to cast it a few feet up from your roof I bet it would keep the rain out but let the air and light in," she said. Her smile was infectious. He felt it tugging at his own lips. Ruthlessly, he rubbed a hand over his mouth, erasing it.
"If you think it could work," he allowed. Normally he didn't let anyone mess with his space. But it would be nice to not have rainwater dripping down in that corner for the next several days. She dumped the things she was carrying on his desk, in the precious clear space, and scampered up the ladder without another word.
That was his bedroom up there.
He followed her. Water splashed down on him, on his head, on his chest. And dammit, he'd have to take this armor off and polish it. He couldn't have it rusting. She didn't even pause when she got to the top, she just pirouetted around and started examining his roof.
Cullen stood by the edge of the loft, just above the ladder, and watched her. Rain dripped down right on his head, but he was already wet. She was soaking, too. In her excitement she'd forgotten to pull her hood up. But she ignored the wet just as he did. Leaning back, so far he was amazed she kept her balance, she spun her hands in the air and then threw them up at the ceiling.
Nothing changed. The broken beams were just where they always were. The faint light from the stormy sky still showed through. But the rain stopped dripping on his head.
Actually, the rain stopped dripping everywhere.
"Did you . . .?" he asked. She straightened, grinning irrepressibly. Her hair plastered to her head, cloak clinging to her arms - she had paid no attention to the water on her way up the ladder.
"That's the stuff! It's sort of a pyramid shape. A magic tent. You said you like the fresh air, so I cast it a couple feet above your roof. It should still keep out most of the rain," she said. She seemed very pleased with herself. It was infectious- he found himself smiling back at her, something giddy bubbling in his chest.
"How long will it last?" he asked. She made a face.
"No idea! I pretty much put them up for a night and just move on, leaving a little dry patch where I've been. But when it breaks down just tell me. It's no real trouble to do it again." She hooked her hands on her hips and glanced around. He was reminded of why he'd followed her up here.
It wasn't like he had secrets on display. He was a habitually neat man- laundry put away, bed made with military precision. He had few belongings. But he still felt odd knowing she was seeing his private space.
"You, ah, forgot to put your hood up," he pointed out. She grabbed at the wet ends of her hair, her smile turning rueful.
"I'm not very careful. It's frustrating for many of my travel companions. Leliana used to fuss like a mother hen," she admitted. He crossed the floor to one of his trunks. He pulled out a towel and a clean shirt. After a moment, he got a towel and a spare shirt for himself.
"I got a bit caught up in the moment myself. Here." He handed over the things he'd pulled out for her. She took them daintily, with just the tips of her fingers. "We'll hang your wet things by the fire to dry. If you want. If you were. . . planning on staying a moment."
"I brought the chess set," she reminded him. It was good that it was dark up here because he could feel the rising blush creeping up his neck. She was in his bedroom. She brought the chess set. Because she wanted to spend time with him.
"Right. Um, yes." Damnit. He was tripping over his words again. He gave her a little half salute and went to the stairs. Retreated, really. "You can change up here. I need to get this armor dried off as soon as possible."
"Don't you fight in the rain?" she asked. Her teeth flashed in the dim light. She was teasing him?
"Of course. And then afterward, you have to dry your armor off as soon as you can," he said. He fled back down the ladder to his office.
He busied himself getting his cloak and armor off. He changed his wet shirt before he began working on the armor. If she came back down before he had the dry one on, he'd be too embarrassed to change in front of her.
A wet thwap drew his attention back to the ladder. A pile of wet clothes, including her red cloak, lay at the bottom. She must have thrown them down. She quickly followed herself, scampering down the rungs much quicker than he usually did.
Like him, she'd changed into one of his dry shirts.
Unlike him, she hadn't kept her pants on.
His mouth dry, he watched the light flash off her bare legs as she moved. What could have possessed her to do such a thing?
She hit the bottom and gathered up her clothes with carefree cheer. As though she weren't half naked.
Her legs weren't nearly as freckled as her arms.
"Where can I hang these?" she said, holding up the pile of wet clothes. He took them from her wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak without sounding like a fool. She didn't seem to mind. She came to stand next to him near the fire, and began unbraiding her hair. He busied himself with hanging up her clothes where they could dry- quickly.
Her hair was much longer than it looked when she had it up.
It lay wet across her shoulders and halfway down her back, like streams of bloodstone. His shirt was much too big for her- it hit her almost at her knees, and billowed around her. He hadn't realized how much smaller she was. Her presence filled whatever room she entered, and it must make her seem taller than she truly was.
She started to dry her hair with the towel. He realized he was staring, and made himself stop.
He should set up the chess board. Something to do with his hands.
What in the Maker's name was wrong with him? It was like he was a callow youth again, all hands and tripping tongue. The way he was carrying on you'd think he had never been alone in a room with a woman before.
He set the board up on one of his chests, one that held old reports too outdated to be immediately useful but too important to simply burn. He had two low stools, the best he could do, pulled up on either side by the time she was done with her hair. It was still damp, darker than its usual blood red, but probably less wet than before. He assumed.
With the fire behind her, he could see the outline of her body under that shirt.
His palms were sweating.
it wasn't that he'd never seen a woman naked before. He'd had a few bed-friends in Kirkwall, before he became Knight-Captain and his life disappeared into duty. Nothing serious. But he certainly wasn't inexperienced enough to justify the way his heart raced at the sight of her.
"Do you often loan people your clothes?" she asked. She wasn't looking at him, so she missed the confusion on his face.
"Not at all."
"Why do I rate such courtesy, then?" she asked. She didn't sound suspicious, or mean, merely curious.
"Leliana will kill me if you catch cold," he said. But the truth was, he had no idea. He'd just done it.
"Oh, you don't have to worry about that. I used to travel with a healer that taught me how to deal with little things like colds. I can fix up a six-inch gash, a little head cold is nothing," she assured him. He ran his hand through his hair. It was slick with water, but it would dry unruly and curly. Wynne was a healer, wasn't she?
And, according to Leliana, an abomination.
"Leliana mentioned that you traveled with Wynne, from the Circle," he said. She just looked at him, brightly. "And that- that she was actually an abomination."
"Oh." Some of the light left her features. She chewed on her bottom lip. Which was clearly a sign of nervousness but also very distracting. "Are you still an abomination if you are in control of yourself? If you're all yourself, but just something else besides?"
"Yes," he answered. Theological debates aside, that one was simple. "And you can't pretend that control always lasts. I understand from Varric that Anders was a gentle person. He ran a clinic, he fed stray cats- and he murdered dozens of innocent people."
"Oh. Anders." Now her face fell, entirely. "I wouldn't have called him gentle. Funny, though. And helpful. It was actually him that taught me how to cope with a cold."
That was right. In Amaranthine, she'd invoked the right of conscription and made Anders a Gray Warden. It was her doing that he was a free man when he came to Kirkwall.
"It's troubling," he said. He picked up a chess piece and toyed with it but did not begin to play. "I hate to think that abominations could be anywhere. Everywhere. It seems half the mages I hear about had some sort of ostensibly benevolent spirit inside them. I wonder how many I walk past, unknowing."
"I imagine that would be difficult for you. Given your past." Her voice was cooler than it had been just a moment ago. The good cheer was entirely gone from her face. Tension sang in the lines of her body. Was she afraid? She looked almost afraid.
There wasn't anything in this room to be afraid of except for him.
"It's all right," he said, gently. He wasn't sure why her whole demeanor changed. "Past or no past. I don't think less of you for having known Anders. I, too, worked closely with someone who turned out to be monstrous. I'm sure you heard tales of Knight-Commander Meredith."
"Oh yes. But- you. You once told me that you had been chosen to cut me down at my Harrowing. If I failed." Her eyes were steady on his. But her voice was cold. This, then, was the deeper fear behind her sudden shift. "What about now? If I were an abomination, if some spirit had taken up residence inside me, would you cut me down? For the safety of everyone else."
"No," he said. That was simple, too. She blinked at him, but did not otherwise move. Maybe he needed to be more clear. "Perhaps if you turned inside out and became a ravaging beast, like the abominations in the Tower. But there's no cure for that, no going back. It wouldn't be you anymore. If you told me, right now, that you're inhabited by a spirit I wouldn't harm you."
"Why not?" she said. He supposed she had reason to be suspicious. She had, after all, seen him at his absolute worst.
"Because you saved Connor in Redcliff," he said. Now he'd properly surprised her. She sat back, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He pressed on. "And because Anders wrote us letters for years, before the Chantry, and I ignored them. We all did. I had the opportunity to talk to Hawke last year, he was here briefly. And I heard tales of abuses I never saw. I never even asked about them. Magic is absolutely dangerous. And, sometimes, people have to be killed to prevent them from killing others. That applies to everyone, not just mages. But. . . the world is not simple. And I have enough blood on my hands without adding yours."
"Oh." She watched him, wordlessly, for a moment. He was quite content to let her. There was a buzzing in his chest and a lightness in his limbs that he hadn't felt in twelve years. When he was nineteen he called it love. Now that he was older he wasn't sure he knew what to call it.
"You're safe with me, Ivy," he said. He forced a smile, and hoped it looked easy. Not strained and pressed. "And not just because you can probably turn me into an icicle faster than I can blink."
She chuckled, some of the tension easing out of her. The look she gave him now wasn't fear at all, but something warm and speculative. Something else he didn't quite know what to call.
"You've really changed. I'm glad. Or, you're more like you were when I first knew you. Before things went wrong. I'm not sure which. But it's good to see," she said. Was she blathering? Was she nervous? Was it possible, even conceivable, that she might be nervous for the same reason he was?
Probably not.
"We should—we should play." He held up his chess piece to illuminate what kind of play he meant. "Since you brought the board."
It was easy, playing chess with her. Easy to fall into a light pattern of meaningless chatter, easy to let himself watch her while she chose her next move. Her hair was frizzy, a faint red halo around her head glinting in the firelight. It seemed impossible that she would be here. After all these years, all the time and distance and with everything that had happened to him since the last time he saw her, how could she be sitting here across from him playing chess?
It was like being drunk, he decided, slowly sipping the cider she'd brought. A little like being drunk and a little like blood loss. He felt light, surreal. And his heart would not stop racing.
"I passed through Orlais on my way here and saw some old friends," she said, sliding a bishop across the board to seize one of his knights. "They told me that you broke more than a few hearts in Halamshiral. Something about a uniform that was too tight? And a steadfast refusal to dance with anyone?"
"Maker's breath," he huffed. "You'd think the attempted coup would be more prevalent in their memories."
"Oh, Cullen, you know a good coup is the lifeblood of Orlais," she said. Now she was laughing at him. He could tell by the way her eyes glinted with mischief. He couldn't bring himself to be irritated, though he did feel his cheeks getting hot. "But a dashing commander who refuses all attention? That's not something you see every day."
"It wouldn't surprise me to learn that Josephine had my suit tailored too tightly on purpose. For her, that wouldn't even be a particularly arcane move in the Game," Cullen complained. He fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest, defensively. This was less embarrassing than his defeat at Wicked Grace, but not by much. "And I'm hardly the sort of turned-out heir those folk should be fawning over. I've no idea why this fancy took any of them at all."
"You may be underestimating your personal attractiveness," she pointed out.
His heart stuttered.
She kept on, talking about Orlais this and the Game that, her hands weaving while she talked as if she were casting a spell and she must be, truly, because she was somehow oblivious to the fact that he was dying.
It took him a few moments to remember to breathe.
"And anyway, why didn't you just dance with some of them? That's how you shake that kind of thing," she said. Her full, pink lips were quirked in a smart-ass little smile. He wanted very badly to kiss the smirk off those lips.
This, this exact madness was why he hadn't wanted to be alone with her. He remembered now. Too late.
"I don't know how to dance," he said, lamely. She seemed to require some sort of response. For some reason, his answer amused her. At least he was making her smile. In a manner of speaking.
He made a move on the board. He didn't even think it through, just shoved a piece. She took one of his rooks without even pausing to think about it. He should have seen that coming.
"I'm sorry if this is an embarrassing topic. I didn't mean to push," she said. He let his breath out on a long sigh. She probably really hadn't meant to push at all. It wasn't her fault that he was crashing and burning and screaming inside his head.
She let him make his next move in silence. He tried to get his head back in the game.
"I guess I'm just curious. And I was leading up to it, but, I did a terrible job of asking what I really want to know," she said. He braced himself, hands on his knees, for whatever she was going to say next. "The rumor is that you keep turning people down because you have a secret paramour. Do you?"
Yes. That was exactly as invasive and ridiculous as he had expected.
"Of course not." Was that really what people thought? As if he'd ever keep such a thing secret. How could he? The barracks gossips probably knew what he had for breakfast each morning. By noon tomorrow this little chess game would be public knowledge. With embellishments. "I keep turning down marriage proposals from strangers because they're strangers."
"Quite sensible of you," she said, with a grin. "I, myself, have always refused marriage offers from strangers. And friends. It's quite liberating."
He had no idea what to say to that.
It was too late to salvage the game. She really was a competent player, and he'd made several bad mistakes while she was asking her questions. Her hand hovered over the piece she'd have to move to beat him, her face lit in anticipation.
"You weren't going easy on me?" she asked. He straightened, smiling, and shook his head.
"Not at all. The game is yours. Well done," he said. She slammed her piece down triumphantly, and then stood, hopping around in a little circle and pumping her fists in the air.
"I! Beat! Cullen! Rutherford!" she crowed, punctuating each word with a hop and a punch. She looked like an overexcited rabbit, and he couldn't stop himself from laughing at her. She didn't seem to mind. She stopped her victory dance right in front of him, face flushed, grin bright, and held out her hand.
"Shake the hand of the woman who's beaten you," she commanded. He laughed harder, but he shook it. Her hands were soft, and warm, and only the laughter shaking his belly kept him from doing something foolish. Like kissing the back of her hand. Or pulling her into his lap.
"If I'd known you'd be such a poor winner I might not have taught you any of my moves," he said. She made a face at him, taunting, and skipped away.
"You must have forgotten, Cullen, that I am always going to rise to the top in anything I attempt," she said. Ah, yes. There was that old pride. It reminded him of the moment in the Tower when she'd said that she did not fear abominations- abominations should fear her.
Thinking about that cooled him off considerably.
"Speaking of, I tried my hand at herbalism a while back," she said. She crossed the room to her clothes and felt around in one of the pockets. She brought out a small tin and handed it to him. It was plain iron, stamped with little flowers, and when he opened it the inside was full of herbs. "That, my friend, is a remedy cooked up by yours truly for your nightmares."
He snapped the lid shut.
"How did you know about those?" Who could have told her? Cassandra? Lavellan? He didn't think anyone else knew. They weren't supposed to know. He could see Lavellan mentioning it to her if he truly thought she could help. But would they have told her what the dreams were about? Had he ever described them, to anyone, except to say they were about the horrors he'd witnessed?
"Your local Compassion spirit. Cole. He told me you suffer from nightmares, and I can help," she said. Her glee had drained away. She picked at the nails of one hand with the other. "I thought this was what he meant. It's tea. Just herbs, nothing more."
Cole. Of course.
"Did he tell you anything else?" he asked. She frowned, and shook her head.
"Not really. He said you told him I'm here to help people. Thanks, by the way, for that testimonial. I gather the little guy doesn't usually like Wardens," she said.
"He was at Adamant," Cullen explained. But she didn't look enlightened. Just nervous, and uneasy. And she meant well, didn't she? It was a gift. He shouldn't be so churlish about a gift. Even if it touched on his most secret shames. So he took a deep breath, and he tried to let his defensive irritation blow out with his exhale.
"Thank you. Truly. I am not accustomed to talking about them," he said, by way of apology. Her eyes warmed immediately. "But I'm afraid I've tried all the common sleeping draughts. They just make it all worse."
"Oh, that's not for sleep. It's a very common remedy for older folks whose hearts aren't doing well. It slows things down - I think it thins out the blood, because if you take it too much you can start to bleed excessively from little cuts. I first tried it on some of my support troops at Amaranthine, after the Blight. A lot of them had nightmares after facing all those darkspawn. The theory was that when you're afraid, your heart races. And if you can keep the heart from racing you can cut down on some of the fear," she said. She chewed her bottom lip, thoughtfully. He tried to focus on what she was saying and not what she looked like saying it. "It works. Sometimes. It's better than nothing, anyway. But you have to make sure not to overdo it. One teaspoon of herbs in one cup of tea. Any more and you'll get dizzy. I worry a little about you being dizzy in your morning practices, but I think you have a right to try this. If you want."
"My morning practices?" She usually came out after the sun rose, when the bailey was crowded and he'd retreated to higher ground to supervise the drills. Being dizzy might be a problem when he was running through morning conditioning, but surely he'd be able to stand still and shout down commands. Was she blushing?
No. She had to just be flushed from the warmth of the fire.
"Dorian insisted I go out to see you and your men run through your conditioning," she said. And that was all well enough, but why wouldn't she look him in the eye when she said it?
"Why on earth would Dorian think you needed to see that? Does he think you need to join in? I know you camp on your own, often, but I would think magic would be a better defense than any amount of fitness," he said, confused. Now he was certain she was blushing. She made a little negating, shaking motion with her hands and turned away. She busied herself with her clothes. Perhaps they were dry by now.
"I think he wanted to share the visual treat of you all without your shirts on," she said. She shimmied into her pants, but did not take off his shirt. She simply threw her cloak on over it and tucked her own shirt under her arm. "And it is quite the treat. Sorry. I shouldn't have done that without saying anything like some voyeur."
Was she blushing because she'd seen him without his shirt? Was she blushing because she liked what she saw?
With his luck she was probably red in the face from the memory of one of his men.
"I should get back to my rooms. I've bothered you enough for one night," she said, still facing away.
Stop. You're not bothering me. You couldn't bother me.
The words seemed to be stuck in his throat.
She paused, turning back to look at him. She was only a few steps from the door. Her eyes were rueful, now. She looked very different in her red cloak. Like a bandit, almost. It hid her red hair and cast most of her face into shadow.
"I was originally planning to ask you a favor, but I don't think it would be fair to you now. Not since you've changed your views on mages," she admitted. He frowned.
"What was the favor?" he said. If she took off the cloak and smiled at him again he might well agree to anything she asked.
"I've just about talked everyone into trying the ritual with me. Dagna's come up with something to contain the blight that's released. We're testing it on some red lyrium tomorrow. After that, we're going to test it on me," she said.
No. Absolutely not.
"Dorian says it's experimental. Dangerous."
"Yes, well. Everything worth doing is dangerous." She waved her hand dismissively, casually disregarding the threat to her very existence. "I had this idea in my head of a kind of do-over. A second version of my Harrowing. With you watching over me to make sure that if I became some kind of monster I'd be stopped. But you're not in that line of work anymore."
"No, but-" he scrambled for the words. "I won't allow you to be the one to do it. This is reckless. Even for you."
"Allow? Come, now, Cullen, that's the silliest thing you've ever said. It has to be me," she said. A smile tugged at those lips he wanted to kiss so badly. Was he being foolish? Was she right, and he was just too caught up in wanting to touch her to think clearly? "I'm the only real Warden in Skyhold. And if you think I'm going to summon any of my people here just so they can risk dying in my place, you've got another think coming. You wouldn't do that to your men, either."
She was right. He wouldn't.
But he would damn well tell Leliana to write to the southern Wardens. They owed the Inquisition. And summoning them here wouldn't be any different than ordering them to go fight demons. He had absolutely no qualms with that.
"At least wait," he said. She shook her head.
"If there's anything the past few years have taught me it's that if you wait, some catastrophe will steal all your chances," she said. She tilted her head at him, smiling. Her hands clenched on the edges of her cloak. "Just like you and me. If we'd taken our chance to be together back before I got recruited to the Gray Wardens, we would have had that. It would have been brief, but all of those terrible things would have happened anyway. Our caution only kept us from having good memories later."
Wait.
Their chance?
Had she-?
Did she ever-?
Before he could muster enough coherent thought to string any words together she bobbed a little goodbye bow and left. Just, opened the door and plunged out into the rain. Leaving him sitting on the stool, mind racing.
Their chance to be together. Had she wanted to be together? When they were young?
Was his ridiculous infatuation not one-sided?
He had thought she was teasing him. When she offered to go somewhere alone, to talk. But not just to talk. Or, at best, that she was simply flirting with him because she was bored, and a teenager, and he was just someone to practice her wiles on.
But maybe not.
And now? If she knew what he wanted, would she have stayed?
To have good memories later, if nothing else.
And what if she really were the person who did the experiment? What if she died, and all this time thinking he was indifferent to her only cost them what little chance they had?
He sat there in his office for a long, long time. In the end all his racing thoughts only led him to one conclusion. Cole was right- he wished now that he'd picked her the damn flowers.
The Tower was almost dark this time of night. A few sconces, still lit, kept the shadows from taking over. Even now there had to be some kind of patrol. The Templars couldn't be sleeping while mages practiced blood magic right under their noses.
He rounded the corner to the library. It was still well lit, as always. And nearly empty. But she was there. Just as he'd hoped she would be.
Her red hair was loose, flowing down her back. It glinted like fresh blood in the lamplight. He wanted to run his fingers through it so badly he could hardly breathe. But his gloves, armored and scaled, would only hurt her if he were to try that. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her.
When he got closer he saw her shoulders were shaking under her dark green robe.
"Amell?" he asked, softly. She turned and rose in one fluid motion. Her face was streaked with tears. His heart tugged, his arms opened. She went to him, hands on the Templar crest on his breastplate, and laid her head against him. He held her, gently as he could so as not to crush her between gauntlets and breastplate. She did not make much noise, crying.
"Ivy, what's wrong?" he whispered. She pressed against him, harder, her whole body shaking. He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. She smelled like lavender and the ozone left after lightning, like always.
"They heard me talking to Niall about apostates. About leaving the Circle." Her voice was hoarse, shaking. "They're talking about making me Tranquil. I was only talking! It was all just theory! I don't want to leave."
She looked up, her face just below his. Her eyes were wide and dark, her cheeks wet. He gave into impulse and kissed the corners of her eyes, kissing away the salt lingering there. Then he pressed his lips against her forehead. Right on the spot where she would carry the brand.
"They won't do that, sweetheart," he assured her. She gulped, trying to calm herself. He stroked her cheek, gently, unable to feel the warmth of her skin through his gloves. "You passed your Harrowing. They wouldn't."
One moment she was looking up at him, eyes wet and wide, as if willing herself to believe the things he said. The next she was kissing him. Her lips were soft, and warm, and he kissed her back with all the desperate hunger that haunted him every day he spent with her. Her hands were on his face, holding him to her as if he might try to escape. But leaving was the last thing on his mind.
"Oh, for pity's sake."
His blood ran cold. His eyes opened, and he jerked away from Ivy. Meredith was standing on the other side of the library. Knight-Commander Meredith, and her faithful second in command.
The Cullen Rutherford facing him was older, stronger, his armor bearing insignia of rank he'd never hoped to achieve. His face was cold. And the man's eyes were red with the glow of tainted lyrium.
Cullen squeezed Ivy, once, and then put her behind him. He stood between her and Meredith. But he knew it wouldn't do any good.
"The both of you are guilty. And both of you will be punished," Meredith said.
Knight Captain Rutherford strode toward them, his hand on his sword. Cullen knew what would happen next. His heart sinking, he drew his sword. The broadsword he wielded in his youth. Knight Commander Rutherford unsheathed his own sword, and pulled his shield up. A scowl darkened his features. Without a single word, he attacked.
His blows were vicious, punishing. His shield was as much a weapon as his sword. And Cullen, strong but clumsy with his overweight broadsword, was beaten back.
"You think you can change?" Knight Captain Rutherford hit him, hard, with his shield. His whole weight was behind it. And Cullen fell, hard, barely bringing his sword up in time to block the next blow.
He heard a scream, and looked away from his opponent for only a fraction of a second. Meredith was advancing on Ivy. Her sword was bare. And the young mage looked terrified.
And he couldn't get to her.
"You're a disgrace," Knight Captain Rutherford growled. His sword plunged down.