Chapter Seven: Treason

As the weeks pass, Cullen's condition fluctuates, but at least it doesn't seem to be getting any worse for the time being. He's able to sit up in bed, reading reports from his officers. But he depends on Cassandra to bring him news, always asks for her judgment, listens as she processes. It reminds her so much of their first, easy days together that she almost forgets how ill he is. They're talking one day when he reaches over and, without interrupting her, swallows half a packet of powdered elfroot. "My apologies," she says, embarrassed. "I shouldn't talk if you have a headache."

He shakes his head. "It's good to listen to a voice that I know is real."

In his sickness, he lacks the energy to do anything but speak the truth, simply and plainly. It makes him give good counsel. He is the one she tells first about the missing Seekers, and how worried she is about her old order.

"There is so much secrecy within the Seekers that most of us have no choice but to follow blindly," she says. "It should not be that way. There has also been an odd change in Lord Seeker Lucius. He is not the man I knew before." She sighs. "Not everyone can or should lead. Unfortunately, the Seekers are full of people who desire to be leaders."

He regards her thoughtfully. "Are any of us merely followers?"

"Josephine."

"Ah." He thinks for a moment. "How about Leliana?"

She smiles. "A leader who thinks she makes a good follower." That makes him laugh. "Justinia was born to be a leader. She was a terrible rebel in her younger days. The Inquisitor is the same way. She's told me about the fights she used to start with everyone in her Circle. Do you know that she wasn't picked for the Conclave? She was a last minute substitute for a colleague who'd taken ill."

"The Maker's will be done," Cullen says, shaking his head.

"Even in what Leliana tells me was a case of food poisoning under unusual circumstances," Cassandra says, with a straight face.

She can see Cullen filing that away for future reference: as far as possible, do not accept food from the Inquisitor. "What about me?" he asks.

She chooses her words carefully. "A good follower and a good leader," she says. "A rare disposition. But perhaps your true gift resides in strengthening those you follow, empowering them to become better leaders themselves."

"I'll remember that," he says softly.

"What would you say about me?"

He opens his mouth, hesitates. "You are relying on someone else to tell you, when you need to realize it for yourself."

She's speechless for a moment. Shocked at how he has it exactly right.

"Very well," she says finally. "I will give it some more thought."


Cullen is strong enough to return to the field the next time he's called. But there's little cause for celebration. He has been summoned to Val Royeaux to investigate what is to be done about Blackwall. No one at Skyhold was pleased to hear of his disappearance, and or him resurfacing as Thom Rainier, traitor and murderer.

Cassandra accompanies the Inquisitor to the prison, but waits with Cullen while the other woman goes to Blackwall's cell. "Do you know what she's decided?" Cullen asks, in a low voice.

"No," Cassandra says. "But she's very angry that all of us were deceived." She frowns. "Have you spoken to Blackwall?"

"I interrogated him as soon as I got here. It turns out that he was once a respected captain in the Imperial Orlesian army. Before the civil war he was turned, persuaded to assassinate one of Celene's biggest supporters. He led a group of fiercely loyal men on this mission, and told them nothing of it. His men took the fall for him." Cullen pauses. "What would you do?"

Cassandra considers his words. "What he did to the men under his command was unacceptable. He betrayed their trust, betrayed ours. I despise him for it. Yet he fought as a Warden, joined the Inquisition, gave his blood for our cause. I believe he truly wished to become a different man." Her frown deepens. "But restitution is impossible, and atonement difficult to judge. The Inquisition must not be seen to flout justice, much less the Inquisitor herself.

"Justinia always used to say, 'It is never too late to do better, and become more than what you are.'" She hesitates, before continuing in a lower voice. "I sometimes thought, given that she elected so often to preside over the last rites of the condemned, that she…"

Cassandra leaves her sentence unfinished when they hear the Inquisitor coming back up the stairs. She approaches Cullen. "Your view, Commander?"

"We have resources," he says. "If he's released to us, you may pass judgment on him yourself."

The Inquisitor doesn't shown the slightest change of emotion. She speaks decisively. "If we do that, everyone will know the Inquisition is corrupt. It would mean sacrificing everything we've worked for. His punishment is just, and he has accepted it. I will not intercede on his behalf."

"I will inform the captain of the guard of your decision." Cullen sighs. "I am sorry. I know what he meant to you. We may remember him as one who felt it was never too late to set something right."

The Inquisitor nods, and Cassandra follows her out. If the other woman is torn up, she doesn't show it. "By the blue balls of the Maker, maybe this time I'll learn my lesson," the Inquisitor says, as they climb the steps. "Or maybe not. I never have any luck with men."


The Inquisitor's party travels back to Skyhold, and Cullen catches up to them after a day, having stayed back briefly in Val Royeaux to sort out some other affairs. Whenever they make camp, Cassandra stays up, writing by the fire. "Writing in your diary?" Cullen says on the third night, as he settles down beside her.

She resists the urge to cover the pages with her hand. "It is a tribute for Regalyan. What you said about Blackwall made me realize it is time that I tried to give him and the other mages proper credit for their part in saving Divine Beatrix. It is far too late for him, but it may yet help in changing public opinion of mages."

"A worthy undertaking," Cullen says. "I look forward to reading it."

She hesitates. "It will be public, won't it?" he asks gently.

"Yes." She sighs. "It was my fault. All those years ago."

"What?"

When she finally gives the account how she was the one who'd suppressed news of Regalyan's contributions, it feels like a weight is being lifted off her chest. It is relief to tell someone the whole truth. She sets down her quill. "Here. It will be good to have another reader. Tell me if it is clear that I want to take responsibility for that lapse."

As she passes the pages over, she's nervous. "I leave out the part about being his jilted, vindictive lover," she tries to say lightly.

"That's just as well," he says. "It would reflect poorly on him."

"And worse on me," Cassandra says, with a wry smile, but Cullen appears not hear as he inclines his head to the page, frowning in concentration, and begins to read.

She isn't entirely sure if she's just imagining it, but his attitude seems to have cooled towards her lately.

He's still reading when she gets up and goes into her tent for the night.


Back at Skyhold, Cullen is well enough to resume work at his desk. He doesn't need her to fill in for him as much these days. She should be glad he's getting better, she knows. But the stronger he becomes, the more distant he seems.

He must be embarrassed to have revealed so much to her in his delirium. As he said, he never intended to ask so much of her.

Still, it hurts to feel as though he's pushing her away.

When he even tries to give her books back to her one evening, she objects. "They're yours," he says, perplexed.

"But you have a shelf for them," she says, pathetically. She loaned all of her to him when he was sick. He housed them in a handsome wooden bookcase in his office, within easy reach of his desk.

"You can have the shelf."

"Your forces are on the way to Adamant," she snaps. "This is hardly the time to think about moving furniture."

He rubs his brow. "Fine. I won't argue with you, Cassandra."

It was a worthless argument, anyway.

They're both silent for a moment. Then Cullen says, "I've noticed something about your books. They are all romances. Love stories."

She searches his face. But there's not a trace left of the way he used to look at her. There's no spark in his eyes, no teasing smile on his lips, just cool, neutral regard.

So she has her wish. They are back to being friends, if that.

It's one last blow to her sense of self – that he should get over her so easily.

With a heavy heart, she says, "I suppose they are."

"I didn't mean to sound negative about your books," he says. "I've been greatly looking forward to rereading them, actually. Except maybe Varric's."

She blanches, and he says quickly, "Oh. I'm sorry. Did you like that one too?"

But she notices that he can't keep an expression of incredulity from his face.

"Against my better judgment," she admits. Her face grows warm when she thinks about a scene she's reread so often she knows the book falls open to that well-worn page: the hero laying out candles and rose petals in a grove by night, reading his lady poetry, and – Maker preserve her – consummating their love on a blanket out under the open sky.

"It is a fantasy, nothing more," she says. The man woos, the woman succumbs, and they live happily ever after. "The stories we love have power over us. I should be more discriminating."

"There are worse ones than that."

"But there are better ones, too." She takes down the first volume of an epic poem about the Maker and Andraste. "Andraste lived out the very ideal of love. She served the Maker in all things, even in her suffering. For that we celebrate her as His true bride. I admire her story more than any other."

He studies her closely. "It's the only book you own that doesn't have a happy ending."

She hadn't realized that before. "All the more reason why I should be more discriminating."

She glances out at the darkness. "You seem tired. You should rest," she says, putting as much detachment into her voice as she can.

He sighs. "As should you. You have a long journey tomorrow."

Hesitantly, she asks, "Will you be all right?"

"Of course," he says brusquely.

Then he looks her squarely in the eye. He's heard enough from her about Caer Oswin to know how much she dreads what she'll find there. "Will you?"

"Don't worry about me," she says, in a hard voice.

As she leaves, she thinks, Don't worry. He won't.


A/N: More angst to go, but less lyrium withdrawal after this, I promise!

Thanks ever so much for reading and reviewing, I'm so glad you're here!