Author's Note:
Wanted to knock out some background/tell-don't-show character stuff and plot development before getting to the mountain pass. But there will be extra soapy fun fluffed up to make up for the delay.
Part I.
Chapter 6.
She was pressed so close to him, nuzzling into his collarbone, her hands on his chest, legs tangled with his. Her breathing was soft and deep. She slept so soundly in his arms. He pulled her deeper into his embrace, inhaling the smell of soap and flowers in the golden curls spilling across his chest and shoulder, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He was careful not to disturb her but also hoped she would wake and give him a sleepy smile, look at him through heavily lidded eyes as the slow dawn filled the tent and brightened her eyes from deep silver to sparkling aqua blue.
"Cullen," she murmured, half awake. She opened her eyes languidly, the light catching the smudges of green-gold around her pupils. That sweet smile crept across her lips, still swollen and red from last night. Her hand slowly came to life and made its way to his hair, ruffling the curls gently, her thumb tracing his jawline near his ear.
"Good morning, lovely," he whispered. "Sleep well?"
She moaned a giggle, stretching just enough that she didn't disturb the blankets piled on them against the cold Haven wind.
"Good morning, Lady Cassandra. Are we prepared to receive the mages?"
What?
He opened his eyes and found himself back in his tent near the practice yard. He was alone, of course, on the standard issue cot he had chosen over the soft feather bed in the Chantry. His arms were wrapped tightly around his pillow, which wasn't nearly as pretty as the woman it had been trying to imitate.
His cold reality snapped into better focus as sharp pain welled up behind his eyes - whether from whatever poison they'd shared the night before or another withdrawal headache, he wasn't sure. Either way, it was a sign of a rough day to come.
A punishment for losing control of his emotions.
They had so much to do and he was wasting time and energy fantasizing about a woman he could never have. He needed to prepare his soldiers for the arrival of the mages, then prepare them all to march through the demons amassing before the Breach so that she could seal the massive rift in the Veil.
... With her hand, so deft with daggers, strong with her sword and shield, gentle on his own...
And then there was the matter of the red lyrium experiments being run on his former brethren at Therinfal. And the question of why a Tevinter Magister was in Fereldan, going on about some Elder One. And the assassination of Empress Celene...
He couldn't distract himself—or her, for that matter, as important as she was to him—them!—she was important to the Inquisition's mission. He shouldn't be wasting her time with some flirtation he couldn't take anywhere...
The reprimands he flung at himself were rote. Cullen had always been a romantic soul.
His whole life he could think of nothing better to do than to protect those in need. The striking figures of the Templars at the Chantry in Honnleath were mesmerizing. He knew as soon as he saw the strong young men and women in their gleaming armor, emblazoned with the image of Andraste's sword, that he would be that hero. He would protect mage and non-mage alike from the devastation of blood magic and demons. He would be the righteous one, standing without faltering before the corrupt and wicked. The dashing knight coming to the rescue of beautiful noblewomen who would grant him their favor (whatever that meant)...
...Reality had set in almost as soon as he arrived at the Chantry barracks, before his voice had stopped cracking. For one, women were nothing like the simpering maidens of his sisters' tales, but more like his sisters themselves. More than one female Initiate knocked him on his arse during his first weeks of sparring practice.
Being the protector, while still his natural instinct, was far more dangerous and much less glamorous than he'd imagined. Demons and abominations and murderous blood mages competed with the cruelty of bigoted Templars and the megalomania of competing nobles to darken his view of the world. Those he trusted turned their backs on him. At best. At worst, they were twisted by demons, red lyrium, or their own darkness of the soul.
Despite all of the horror and pain he'd been through, all of the evil to which he'd turned a blind eye before having the dust shaken from his eyes, the struggle he faced to become a better man—a good man deserving of love, and all of the loss and ugliness life in Thedas in the Dragon Age entailed, he still clung to the ideal of true love. The demons had used that against him in Kinloch and afterward he'd buried that part of himself so deep he thought he'd lost it. He'd looked for it briefly in Kirkwall after a few years, but that had just turned into the venting of lust. Enjoyable, and it certainly exorcised some demons, but it wasn't what he was looking for.
He would never say it out loud, but he still held out hope. In that way he could still be like the heroic knights of legend. For that one woman who would in turn be his protector. His true equal in every regard who would stand by his side and lie in his arms. Somewhere out there, beneath the pale light of Thedas's dual moons, his soulmate existed. Maker will that he could survive long enough to find her.
Only recently had he come to realize that what he felt over a decade ago for Solona was only a shadow of what could be.
He shook himself from his reverie and threw back the blankets, only then realizing he'd fallen asleep in almost full armor, missing only his boots, pauldrons, and cloak.
His cloak! He had insisted she keep it overnight. And now the others were about. There was no way he'd be able to get it back from her without someone noticing something amiss...
It was neatly folded and sitting on a stool, a sprig of elfroot resting on top.
Elfroot is perfect for, among many other things, headaches. He smiled at the thought of her placing the leaves there, knowing she had probably been chewing some herself at the time—especially as she had clearly gotten up early enough to return the cloak unnoticed.
He had once again forgotten to ask her about the herbs she'd sent from the field. He'd been so distracted by her emotional outburst and then the reveal of her tender side again.
What was that all about? He didn't think he'd been so standoffish. In fact, he would have been proud of how relatively steady he'd been around her if he thought about it much.
Not that he thought about her much...
He had successfully fought the urge to run away the way he had as a lad—well into his twenties, really. Sure, he got flustered when Ashara's remarks were especially flirtatious or forward. And the blushing...
She thinks I'm adorable when I blush. Is that a good thing?
But it wasn't like he was cold toward her.
She'd become quite close with the others. But he was the Commander of the Inquisition. It was his duty to protect their movement. He should maintain a professional relationship with her.
Not that he wouldn't prefer something more... personal.
Stop, Rutherford.
He rubbed the back of his neck before pulling the cloak on over his now fully-reassembled armor. The astringent essence of elfroot had blended in with the cloak's familiar non-smell, along with something else—deeper, floral but almost carnal.
Is this what Ashara smells like?
He took a deeper breath through his nose, trying to pick apart the notes of her perfume. Something like oranges, and jasmine or the bitter orange flowers that were strewn throughout the Kirkwall Chantry to mark Summerday. And beneath that a musky-sweet scent, like sea air.
She smells like summer...
Had she slept in the cloak?
The image of her tawny, muscular form wrapped in his cloak, one long leg peeking out between the overlapping cloth, the long fur framing her strong jaw and prominent cheekbones, tickling where he would place gentle kisses...
Stop it!
He squeezed his cold hands into tight fists, as though he could choke off the dueling emotions. He would retain control over this boyish crush on the Herald.
He could make an effort to be more open with her, of course. That would help her feel more comfortable within the Inquisition and make it easier for them to work together.
And maybe there was something to Cassandra's earlier remarks about the Herald's effect on his anxiety and withdrawal symptoms...
He sighed.
You're doomed, man.
He carefully (maybe more carefully than usual) greased and sculpted his sleep-mussed curls into the more serious style. He'd discovered the improved hairstyle with the help of a young Orlesian woman he'd met in Kirkwall shortly before he and Cassandra left the city. He had been mildly embarrassed by his vanity but relieved for the effective taming of his "noodle" hair.
He had to close and reopen his eyes several times to clear his vision and what he knew could not truly be mage-fire burning around him.
The Fade-cursed hallucinations must be beginning...
He lathered his face but found that his hands were shaking too hard to safely shave.
He would prefer to appear more pulled together then he felt, if for nothing more than to marshal the confidence of his forces as they prepared for the inevitable demon battle when they escorted the Herald to the Breach.
Though she hadn't complained about the stubble last night when she... she kissed me! His cheek, yes, and only a chaste peck, but...
Stop it!
He gave himself a final once-over in the small mirror before leaving his tent. The exhaustion and tension didn't show as much as he feared. Cassandra had pointed out that spending time with Ashara seemed to benefit him... If only it removed the other symptoms of the deepening lyrium withdrawal.
Ashara was impatient.
"... And I've never been accused of being a very virtuous woman..." ...
Stop it!
She didn't want to wait around doing nothing while they awaited the arrival of the mages and knew there was still much to do to protect the innocents of the Hinterlands.
It would be good for him for her to be away. He could clear his head and focus on planning their assault on the Breach.
As soon as she rode out with her companions, he turned to the task at hand.
By midday, he had a plan. With the help of the small band of ex-Templars, his soldiers would be able to cut a path through the demons and ensure Ashara and the mages would make it to the Breach unscathed. And then she would seal the Breach and the Inquisition could turn its focus to other things: the assassination plot, the red lyrium, the Magister and this Tevinter supremacist cult—the Venatori—that Dorian had told them about.
He briefed Rylen on their plans.
He ran the recruits through their usual training exercises.
Leliana discussed the most recent reports from her scouts throughout Ferelden and Orlais. No sign of an attempt on Celene's life yet, but the spymaster was concerned about disappearances among her network.
Josephine reported that while the nobility were still far from eager to lend the Inquisition any official support, attitudes in Ferelden were improving as the Herald passed through villages and farmlands, sealing rifts, slaying demons, and helping out anyone she could.
It was a normal day. As normal as they got for him, anyway. Just accented with a blinding headache and occasional tricks of light that made him turn his head in a panic only to find nothing.
At sunset, he wandered out to the dock and found that her throwing daggers were still embedded there. The empty bottle had rolled off the dock and landed in a snowdrift on the frozen water. The headache hadn't let up all day and he half-hoped that the stillness of the scene—and maybe the memory of the previous night—might provide some respite.
He had kept her out of his mind as best he could while he worked. Now, after he'd read and addressed every available report and met every obligation of the day, with his head splitting in half and his mind playing tricks on him, it would be okay to relax just a little. The mages would arrive tomorrow according to the most recent reports. He would need to be well rested.
And Ashara would be back to Haven the day after.
The mages' arrival was surprisingly orderly. At least they said nothing to him. It was apparently Cassandra who took the brunt of their ire when the Herald and her party returned to Haven. He was more than happy to let the Seeker deal with their petty complaints.
The trip to the Hinterlands had uncovered more disconcerting news, though. While dealing with bandits harassing refugees along the East King's Road and clearing out a band of mercenaries who had occupied Arl Guerrin's Grand Forest Villa, they had uncovered evidence of a Carta red lyrium smuggling ring that referred to "red Templars". Ashara had found a key into Valammar, which the Carta smugglers were using to access the surface and bring the cursed minerals to their buyers, but she wanted to discuss the discovery with the others and question the ex-Templars who'd recently joined about the reference to "red" Templars.
Undoubtedly, these Templars were the results of Lord Seeker Lucius's experiments, but the way they were discussed in the recovered notes made them sound different from what had happened to Meredith after long-term exposure to the stuff.
Another mystery for the Inquisition to address...
Between concerns about this new development and the bustle about the village, he was unable to find a moment alone with Ashara before their planned march. But all would go as planned, and he would be able to enjoy time with her afterward.
Unlikely. But a man can dream...
The plan actually went off without a hitch. They made it through the valley to the Breach with only minor injuries, no deaths. The mages proved useful, insisting on helping the martial efforts through barrier and healing spells. He had to admit he was grateful for the battle-mages who took on demons directly.
He stood back and watched in awe as she approached the swirling tempest of dark magic. The air shimmered like water as she got closer, her hand sparking. He couldn't help but hold his breath when she lifted her hand and the magic began bending to her will. The few remaining demons fell dead as streams of light and magic coursed through the air, flowing between her marked hand and the Breach. And then—
-A burst of energy felled them all as the rift keeled in on itself and collapsed closed.
As soon as he regained his footing, he sought her out... There! Still in the Temple, pulling herself to her feet and brushing dirt and ash from her armor.
She had done it.
They had done it.
The Breach was sealed.
The mood in Haven was light for the first time since the Conclave. An impromptu band had formed outside the tavern and played lively music for the soldiers and refugees who danced and celebrated with abandon. While the Inquisition's work was far from over, the immediate threat had been removed and they could remember what it was like to live without imminent danger hanging over their heads.
He watched as she made small talk with the others. She was bombarded by congratulatory hugs and praise. There would be a lot of babies named Ashara next year.
Once things quieted down, he would approach her. In the meantime, he had reports to prepare and requisitions to clear.
"Not joining in the revelry, Commander?"
He looked up at the familiar lilt of her voice. "I - I was just... Well. No, I'm not."
"Not happy with our victory?"
"I'll be happier when we've answered the questions your discovery in the Hinterlands brought up. And the Venatori and Red Templars are dealt with. And the assassination conspiracy is foiled."
Why was he being so brusque? Just moments before he'd been looking forward to questioning her about her mysterious gifts to him and her plans now that the Breach was sealed.
"I hear you..."
Be nice to her, Rutherford!
"I see you're not joining the party either. You're the reason they're celebrating, yet here you are, away from the crowd toasting your name."
She sighed. "I can't help but feel like something is going to go wrong. It all felt too easy." She grimaced. "Back in my swashbuckling days, anything this easy always turned out to be a trap."
"Wise words, Herald."
"Please, Cullen... None of that tonight. I need to hear my actual name." Her tone was almost plaintive.
He felt a burst of warmth and set aside his quill and parchment and stood to be beside her. "Of course, Ashara."
She closed her eyes and inhaled softly. "Thank you," she whispered.
They stood in their comfortable silence for a long moment.
"I... want to apologize for the other night. For being so drunk and acting rather silly. It was inappropriate."
"Don't. You have no reason to apologize."
She scoffed. "I got shit-faced because you disagreed with my decision then accused you of not being my friend like it was a crime against my human dignity. It reminded me of the kind of tantrum my older sister Katlyn used to throw when a suitor danced with another girl at a party."
He offered her a soft chuckle. "Not at all. You're right that I've not been exactly... forthcoming with you. It's not an easy thing for me. But for what it's worth, I..." How does he finish this thought...? "I enjoy your company. Very much."
Is she blushing?! Rutherford, you dog, she might actually like you.
"Thank you, Cullen... I... enjoy your company as well. Very much."
Now she was grinning up at him and he had no idea what to say next. And he couldn't stop smiling.
"How was your head the next morning? I thought I was going to die when I woke up. I must have eaten half an elfroot plant before breakfast."
"I... have had better mornings," he chuckled. "Thank you for the elfroot you left in my tent that morning, by the way. It proved to be very useful."
She looked at her feet and kicked at the snow, the music of her soft laugh just reaching his ears.
"Speaking of... You sent me some odd messages back when you initially went to Redcliffe. I've been meaning to ask..."
She blushed again, and doubled the volume of her laugh. "Yes... Yes, I did. I might have been drinking a bit on that trip as well. Blackwell and Sera are bad influences!"
"Oh, really? I suppose even the Herald of Andraste needs to blow off steam from time to time."
She swatted at him. "Stop calling me that!" Another laugh. "I spent the last decade and a half with Rivainis and their Qunari and Dalish friends. The Chantry is probably right in calling me a heretic."
"Not an Andrastian then?"
"Oh, I don't know. Honestly, Cullen, I don't know what I believe. My family is so closely tied to the Chantry, and I grew up with the Chant and all that, but... The Rivaini are certainly doing something right. And what the Chantry did in Dairsmuid... I was there, you know? ... It was horrible... After that, I don't think I can ever call myself a proponent of the Chantry..."
She had said that she had been doing something else while Isabela was in Kirkwall. Cassandra had mentioned she'd been through more than she'd let on... He could see why she had chosen to side with the mages now.
"...I didn't say it the other night, but that's part of why I made the choice I did... And why I was so upset by your reaction."
"I... I'm so sorry, Ashara..."
She stood there silently for a moment.
Way to kill the mood, Rutherford.
"But I want you to know that I don't hold the Chantry's actions in Dairsmuid against the Templars, or... you."
Her eyes were shiny and earnest when they connected with his. It took all of his Templar discipline not to reach out and caress her cheek, offer her the comfort of a tender touch.
"Anyway. Tonight is supposed to be a celebration, and I was going to tell you about my inept attempt to seduce you with herbs."
He choked and felt his face grow hot. "Wha- what?!"
The laughter had returned to her voice. "Those little messages."
"Um. Yes... I... What - Why did you send those?"
She grinned and looked away before continuing. "Well... Wow, this is harder than it should be. Fade take you, Cullen... You affect me, you know that?"
SHE LIKES YOU!
"I sent the elfroot because... Oh, Maker, this is embarrassing."
"You don't have to explain..."
Please! Please explain!
She took a heavy breath. "Elfroot is good for pain, and it seems like..." Another sigh. "It's so presumptuous of me... But... well, when we spoke before I left to meet with the mages in Redcliffe, it seemed like there was a pain in your... ugh, I have to say this... it seemed like your heart hurt. I won't ask why unless you want to share, and I'm sure it's why you're not as open as I wish you were, but there it is. I wanted to send you a little comfort because I'm awkward and weird and... Can I stop talking about the elfroot now?"
He fought the smug grin as long as he could. "You... don't have to say anymore about the elfroot." Something playful kicked up inside him, eager to hear more. "But what about the blood lotus and embrium? Did you think I needed alchemy ingredients or were you suggesting I needed a bath?"
She guffawed at his joke.
YOU MADE HER LAUGH!
"No... I'm afraid it's just as corny. Oh, Andraste's flaming hair, this is embarrassing." But she was smiling. "The blood lotus... There was a storyteller in Redcliffe who mentioned a folktale about a spirit in a nearby pond that young women offer flowers to for blessings in love. But, the storyteller said, it was a spirit of valor, not love, and would only respond to offerings of blood lotus flowers. And that made me think of you. You're a brave man, Cullen. I admire your sense of valor. You're like a knight from a fairy tale based on some of the stories Varric and Cassandra have told me." Her voice grew softer as she spoke, then trailed off.
He would have to be more patient with the dwarf in the future if this is what his storytelling led to... That was twice now she'd said she admired him.
"And," she cleared her throat, "turns out there was something to the tale. I put a couple of blood lotus blossoms in the basket the girls use for their little prayers, and this guy actually rose up out of the water." She pulled her blade from its scabbard. "Not bad, yeah? Better than the glorified dagger I'd been using!"
That last bit made him uncomfortable. Strange "spirits" lying in ponds distributing swords was no basis for stocking their armory. She shouldn't be wielding a sword just because some watery "spirit" threw it at her... He cleared his throat.
"And what about the embrium?" he murmured, hardly able to speak.
"Ha! Now that... Varric was teasing me about you. Not that I've said anything, and no one should have even seen me send those ravens. But it made me blush. Which made me think of you. You're unbelievably adorable when you blush. You turn redder than an embrium bloom!"
His heart stopped beating. She had just called him adorable again. And brave. And...
A steady trail of torches was streaming down the mountain. A watch guard approached at a full sprint.
"Ser!" she called, out of breath. "A massive force is approaching! The bulk of them have come over the mountain!"
"Under what banner?"
"None."
"None?!" Ashara gasped.
They were under attack.
"Forces approaching," he shouted to his soldiers. "TO ARMS!"
I just had to put in the Monty Python reference. The DAI writers make plenty of Python jokes about the Inquisition in the game, and The Constitutional Peasant sketch is one of the most genius comedy routines of all time. (And, also, my stylist did my own hair based on a reference to the Lady of the Lake. Watery tart!)