Thank you once again to those of you who continue to read, review, alert and favourite. It really means the world to me.
A huge 'thank-you' to CCBug for her invaluable advice and input into this chapter.
~x~X~x~
Night had fallen over the barley field - Cullen's doing, no doubt. Gabby strolled through the thigh-high stalks, the wind whispering around her as she approached his home. Looking upward, she caught sight of a star cluster that she and Cullen had attempted to name several nights earlier, and smiled at the memory. Since the cluster lacked any discernable shape, they had competed to think of the silliest name for it they could – Cullen's 'the burst tomato' secured him a decisive victory.
She hesitated outside the cottage, and closed her eyes, drawing a steadying breath. Since she had discovered the truth of her situation - that she was pregnant, unwed, and that the father of her child a married man, she had dreaded sharing it with Cullen. The Chantry viewed her as a sinner, pure and simple; and, as Cullen had been raised within the Chantry, she suspected that his reaction may be similar.
Gabby recalled a time when an apprentice had become pregnant, and the response within the Tower had been swift; the girl was sent off to a remote chantry, and the child taken away. From that time on, it was not the apprentice's budding talent as a healer that was remembered, but her 'sinful' and 'scandalous' actions.
Cullen was not at the Tower then, and so Gabby could not predict his reaction, but she had faith in the compassionate and decent man she called friend. Ultimately, she knew he would accept her still.
Why, then, was her stomach twisted into knots?
Cullen clearly retained no memory of being a Templar, but who he was, fundamentally, was still there. He seemed to be the same good man she remembered before his horrific time with Uldred; and, while this comforted Gabby greatly, it also made her suspect that his Chantry-influenced sense of morals was also intact.
She released a shaky breath as she knocked at the door of the cottage, and glanced around as she waited for an answer. The door opened, and Cullen's face dropped for a second, before his eyes widened and a huge grin illuminated his features as he set eyes on her.
"Gabby…I had not expected you…" he said in surprise. "What I mean to say is, well, I haven't seen you for a while…have you been well?" he asked, ushering her into the cottage.
"Oh, yes, quite well, thank you," she replied. "I've just been…busy, that's all," she mumbled, cringing at her pitiful excuse.
"Oh, I see," he said in a non-committal tone. "Have you been getting enough sleep?" he asked.
"I never get enough sleep," she said with a shrug as she looked around the cottage. A huge fireplace dominated the room, in front of which lay Cullen's three canine companions; all far too warm and comfortable to rise and greet Gabby, they instead wagged their tails in acknowledgement. The main room was well-furnished, containing a bench, a table and two chairs, an armoire, a bureau and a large wooden chest. Drapes adorned the windows, and tapestries hung from the walls. In comparison to the bare stone and hard wood of Vigil's Keep, it was luxurious.
"This is beautiful, Cullen," Gabby commented, taking a seat on the bench. "Did you create this?" she asked.
"No," he replied, keeping a respectful distance from her as he sat at the table. "It was already here, as were the dogs." Knowing that Cullen's family had owned three dogs when he was a young boy, Gabby surmised that she sat in an approximation of Cullen's childhood home.
She nodded and straightened her back, taking care not to slouch, as she would do as a guest in anyone's home. As she continued to take in her surroundings, she felt Cullen's eyes on her, and her stomach flipped under his gaze.
"Are-are you all right?" he asked with concern. "It is just that…look, I don't expect you to visit me every night," he said with a nervous laugh, "but, well, I've missed you." The colour suddenly drained from his face and he rose to his feet. "What I mean is, I've come to enjoy your company, and now I can see why we used to be friends," he added in a nervous monotone.
Gabby rose with a sigh and walked over to the table; he waited until she was seated before joining her. She took a deep breath and exhaled before speaking.
"To tell you the truth, Cullen, I've been avoiding seeing you," she admitted.
Cullen drew slightly away from her. "Have-have I done something to offend you?" he asked in dismay.
"Oh, no, of course not!" she reassured him, instinctively reaching for his hand, and then retracting hers before it made contact. "Cullen, what you said, about our being friends? Your friendship means a great deal to me, but, I, um…I have to tell you something, and I'm afraid to," she said. "I fear you will think less of me when I do, and that I shall lose your respect."
"I can't imagine what could be so terrible that it would cause me to think less of you," he replied. "Did I know of it when we were friends before?" he asked.
"No," she answered, raising her eyes to meet his. "It has only occurred recently."
"Please tell me," Cullen softly pleaded, "if only to unburden yourself; I can see this is causing you pain."
Gabby's gaze turned to the table and she remained silent as her mind raced. Where do I start? She thought frantically. Do I tell him the father of my child is the King? If he asks me directly, am I going to lie? What will I do if he's disgusted, scandalised?
"I'm with child…" she began quietly, still looking at the table. "…and unmarried."
Cullen made no sign of reacting, and Gabby ventured a glance at him; his expression was neutral, unreadable.
"Is the father going to marry you?" he asked.
"No," she replied. "He can't."
"Why not?" he asked with a frown, indignation creeping into his voice. "Why would he not honour you with his name?"
"He has since married another," she said, "although they were not wed at the time I became pregnant," she added desperately, sensing his growing disapproval.
"He should have married you!" Cullen said angrily. "Wait…does he actually know?" he asked.
"Yes, he knows," Gabby answered, "but we both found out too late. He was already married by then."
Cullen rose from the table, crossed over to the fireplace, and crouched down, idly scratching one of the dog's heads in an attempt to distract himself. "Gabby…" he began slowly. "…was this man betrothed to his wife when the two of you were together?" he asked, his words careful and measured, but with a rigid edge to them.
That's it – it's over, she thought, feeling her heart crash down through her stomach.
"Yes," she whispered.
Cullen rose and remained next to the fireplace. "I can't say I approve of that, Gabby," he said tersely, and then released a deep sigh.
"I know," she agreed, her sagging posture reflecting her defeated tone. "Cullen, the situation is very complicated," she said pleadingly.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"My friend…my friend has offered to marry me," she said. "I have accepted, and we hope to wed soon."
Cullen exhaled heavily. "That is an honourable act," he said quietly, turning away from her to face the fireplace. "I am glad the child will not be born out of wedlock."
Sensing his disappointment, Gabby fought desperately to stem the unbidden tears that sprang to her eyes. She rose to her feet and walked over to the door; Cullen still did not look at her.
"Do…do you want me to visit you again?" she asked, afraid of the answer.
After a pause, Cullen finally answered. "I…this has been a shock to me," he explained. "I'm sorry," he said, turning to face her. "Just give me some time…what you have done, it...it goes against everything I believe decent people don't do; this is hard for me to accept."
"I understand," she murmured. "I'll respect your opinion," she said as she opened the door and exited, closing it behind her.
Cullen's hands covered his mouth; he paced back and forth, his unsettled feeling causing him to sit down and immediately stand up again. His harsh judgement, and the pain his words had caused her, suddenly overwhelmed him, and he made for the door.
"Gabby, wait!" he called, scanning the field. "Gabby! I'm sorry! I didn't mean…"
As he stared, wide-eyed, into the gloom, he realised – too late – that she had already left the fade.
~x~X~x~
Knight-Lieutenant Ambrose woke with a start as a gruff voice called to him from outside his tent; it was his turn to take watch.
"I'll be out in a minute," he said in a voice thick with sleep, clearing his throat. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt swollen and furry. Howe had been right; he had not slept well at all.
After Knight-Commander Smyth had appointed him second-in-command at the Tower, Ambrose had learned the identities of the Templars who policed their brethren in the name of the Grand Cleric. It had not sat well with Ambrose that they, rather than Knight-Commander Smyth, had sent him to Vigil's Keep to apprehend Howe, and their reason for suspecting the Warden – that Cullen had been killed with Howe's dagger, which Howe himself had reported missing days before – he found frankly ludicrous.
Ambrose knew that Cullen had been almost universally hated throughout the Tower, and he could understand why, having witnessed one of the deceased Commander's flogging sessions. What he failed to understand was why the Grand Cleric's knights were not questioning the other Templars at the Tower, who appeared to have a greater motive to kill Cullen.
On his way to Vigil's Keep, Ambrose had endeavoured to convince himself of Howe's guilt - the duel, the threats, the animosity between the two men – all had influenced his opinion. The fact that Ambrose and his men were threatened and stalled upon their arrival at Vigil's Keep only made it easier for him to think ill of the Grey Wardens. Warden Howe had made little effort to endear himself to Ambrose: sneaking around camp, fooling his men into believing he'd escaped; constantly undermining his authority, and exchanging barbed remarks and inappropriate jokes about Templars and the Chantry with the apostate Wardens.
But did any of those things make him a murderer?
Ambrose was forced to conclude that they did not. He didn't particularly like Howe and his disrespectful attitude, but he had to grudgingly admire him; Howe was intelligent, cunning, resourceful and astute, and seemed to exude an aura of invulnerability.
Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to leave my own dagger at the scene?
Ambrose pushed back his tent flap with a sigh and looked around the camp. One of his subordinates stood nearby, waiting to be relieved, and, over by the main fire, Warden Howe sat cross-legged, skinning rabbits with his dagger.
"He's been hunting, ser," the Templar explained. "We kept an eye on him, but he disappeared for a while. He did return, though. He's skinning some conies. Don't know if he'll share them with us, though," he grumbled.
"Anything else to report?" Ambrose asked blearily, to which the Templar shook his head. "All right, get yourself to bed," Ambrose instructed as he clambered to his feet.
"Thank you, ser," the Templar replied with a bow, and retreated to his tent.
Ambrose stood outside his tent for several moments observing Howe. Although the Warden faced away from him, and was obviously concentrating on his task, Ambrose still felt those cool grey eyes on him, almost as though Howe had a third eye. He knew Ambrose was looking at him. Eventually, the Knight-Lieutenant walked over, if only to rid himself of the feeling he was being watched.
He stood behind Howe, who made no sign that he had noticed his approach. "Good hunt?" the Knight-Lieutenant asked. Howe slowly looked up, fixed Ambrose with those eyes of his, and coolly nodded once, before resuming his task. "How many did you catch?" Ambrose asked.
"Six," the Warden replied without looking up.
"Going into a stew, are they?" Ambrose enquired, beginning to feel foolish for making small talk with someone who clearly didn't want to talk to him.
"What else?" Howe replied quietly, as he pulled off one of the rabbit's skins in one clean stroke, revealing the pink meat beneath, then sliced off its head, and snapped off its feet. Ambrose gulped and looked away for a moment.
"Was there something you wanted?" Howe asked.
"No, not really," Ambrose replied. "I'm, erm…going to do a sweep."
"Don't let me keep you then," the Warden answered.
As Ambrose departed and headed for the perimeter of the camp, Nathaniel finally looked up, allowing a nascence of a smile to grace his lips, before reaching for another coney and slipping his dagger beneath its pelt.
~x~X~x~
Anders meandered his way into the dining hall in a bleary-eyed daze. The sun had just started to rise, and he peered out of a window, watching the changing of the guard. Soon becoming bored of that, he headed across to the kitchen with the intention of raiding the pantry.
Before entering, he glanced around, and, satisfied that the hall was empty, stretched his arms and broke wind with impunity.
"Oh, morning, Anders," an incorporeal voice spoke.
Anders froze; that voice sounded familiar…had they seen him, or heard him?
"Maker's breath, Bridie!" he exclaimed as the cook's head bobbed up from behind the counter. "What are you doing up so early?" he asked the cook, somewhat rattled at her appearance.
"I'm up this early every morning," Bridie replied, "and, unless you have a spell for chopping vegetables and butchering meat, I will continue to be," she added.
"I'm good, but I'm not that good," Anders chuckled to himself as he entered the kitchen.
"Out!" shouted Bridie. "I won't have you and your toxic arse coming in here!"
"But that wasn't me!" Anders protested implausibly. "It must have been a…creaking floor joist or something…" he mumbled.
"Well, you're a better mage than you thought, if you can make stone creak, lad," Bridie said, waving him away dismissively. "Go on – hop it. I've got work to do."
Anders tutted and sighed. "But I'm bored," he whined.
"Well, the Commander's in her office – go and pester her," she replied.
He glanced toward Gabby's office, and, sure enough, a thin shard of light shone from beneath her door. Frowning, he walked over, and knocked.
When no answer came, he knocked again. "Are you there?" he called. "It's me."
Anders heard a sigh from within. "Come in," Gabby said.
He entered to find her hunched over her desk, writing. "You're up early," she said without looking up.
"What's going on?" he asked. "Are you working late, or early?" he said, narrowing his eyes as he tried to get a good look at her face.
"Early," she replied, as Anders took a seat.
"Gabby…" he said softly. "Have you been crying?"
She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak, but, try as she might, she could not lie to him, and instead shrugged her shoulders.
Anders leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. "Did you see Cullen?" he asked gently, to which she nodded her head. He released a deep sigh, and slumped back in the chair. "Dare I ask how it went?" he ventured cautiously.
"Not well," she answered, and looked up; her eyes were red and puffy, and a fresh film of tears coated them as she blinked rapidly, glancing to the side, unable to look at him. "He was…" she faltered, scrabbling for the right words. "He was…scandalised, just as I feared he would be."
"I don't get it," Anders replied. "He's not a Templar any more…why would he react like that?"
"He doesn't remember being a Templar, true, but he was raised by the Chantry," she said with a lethargic shrug.
"Well then, the Chantry had plenty of time to brainwash him, didn't they?" he huffed. "Was he nasty to you?" he asked pointedly.
She shook her head. "No…he was very calm…he-he just didn't approve of what I told him. I suppose I felt the same way when I found out I was pregnant…the first thing that came into my head was that I was unmarried."
"That's not the point!" Anders said angrily, and then, as a tear slipped down Gabby's cheek, his breath caught and he reached a hand across the desk to clasp hers. "What are you going to do?" he asked sadly.
"I don't know," she said heavily. "I-I'm not sure I can ever face him again," she whispered.
Anders remained silent; as distraught as he was to see her cry, to his shame a small part of him was glad to hear her say that.
Gabby cursed and clutched at her chest as a loud knock sounded at the door. "I'll get it," Anders said, standing up. "You've done nothing to be ashamed of," he reminded her as he reached for the door.
He stepped out, and had a brief conversation with someone outside. "Erm, Gabs," he said hesitantly as he re-entered the room, "a woman has just arrived at the Keep, and she's asking for you."
"At this hour of the day?" she asked in surprise, wiping her eyes. "Does she hail from the arling?"
"No, apparently she's just arrived here under guard," he replied. "She has three young boys with her, and is seeking sanctuary at Vigil's Keep."
"What? Sanctuary?" Gabby exclaimed, rising from her chair. She let her head fall back onto her shoulders and groaned loudly. "Does it never end, Anders?" she asked wearily.
"Look, I'll take care of this, if you like," he offered.
"No…no, I'd better go, it sounds like she's in trouble of some kind," she said with a sigh. "Will you help me?" she asked him. "My reserves of charm and sympathy are just about empty."
"Always," he replied, gesturing for her to precede him.
~x~X~x~
"Your Grace," Alistair said with reverence as he bowed before the Grand Cleric in her office. "Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice."
"I am always at your disposal, Your Majesty," the elderly woman replied as she curtsied.
"Please, be seated," Alistair offered with a gesture of his hand, waiting for the head of the Chantry in Ferelden to sit at her desk before he did.
"Your Grace," he began in a serious tone. "I must bring an unusual matter to your attention. I have just returned from Vigil's Keep, where I heard some disturbing news concerning the Circle Tower."
"Ah, I believe I can save you from speaking further," the Grand Cleric replied, opening one of the drawers in her desk, and retrieving a letter. "I received this only this morning," she informed the King, passing the letter over to him. "It is from the newly-appointed Knight-Commander, Tristan Smyth," she finished as Alistair took the letter and began to read.
If the tone of the letter had not been so grave, the Grand Cleric would have been amused at the range of facial expressions the King was capable of exhibiting. At first, his brow was creased by a frown; then, one of his eyebrows shot up, followed by the other. As he neared the end of the letter, Alistair fairly gawked at her, his mouth hanging open.
"Wh…this…this is unthinkable!" he spluttered. "Do you have no control over your Templars?" he asked accusingly, then took a deep breath to calm himself. "Just how did something like this happen?"
"That is what I intend to find out," the Grand Cleric answered, her voice betraying no emotion as she elegantly rose from her seat; Alistair followed. "I shall depart for Kinloch Hold without further delay. Will His Majesty be accompanying me?" she asked.
"Alas, I am unable, as I have an important matter to attend to at home," he replied. "I shall send a trusted envoy with you, and will grant him discretionary powers to speak and act on my behalf in this matter," Alistair pledged. "Will that suffice, Your Grace?"
"That will more than suffice, Sire," she replied with a small curtsey. "Now, if there is nothing further, I should prepare."
"There is one thing," Alistair said as he headed for the door. "In spite of what he says in his letter, I want you to know that Warden-Commander Surana spoke very highly of Smyth; indeed, she commended him as being a deeply honourable and devout man."
"I am not interested in personalities, Sire," the Grand Cleric said coolly. "To consider such things will only cloud my judgement. All who have sinned shall be dealt with."
Alistair wondered if someone had left a window open somewhere, as he felt a sudden icy draught run down his back. "I trust you will do the right thing, Your Grace," Alistair said firmly, knowing full well that any veiled threats against the Chantry were meaningless. "Good morning to you," he added crisply with a bow. "I wish you a safe journey."
"You're too kind, Sire," the elderly priestess replied, curtseying once more.
Alistair made his way back to the family wing of the Palace, aware that he had broken into a sweat as he neared his destination. He touched his cheeks; they were hot and sticky, and he knew his face must be bright pink.
"No…" he muttered, frantically fanning his face with his hand.
He continued on his way, finally reaching a large oak door. Taking several deep breaths, he rapped upon it.
"Come in!" a cheery female voice called.
Alistair strode in, affecting the most commanding walk and posture he could muster. "Oh…" he mumbled, as he noticed that, instead of one woman being in the room, there were five.
The Queen stood on a plinth, surrounded by three handmaidens and a seamstress; she was being fitted into a new dress. Queen Elissa nodded to her servants, who departed the room quickly, bowing low to the King as they passed him.
Alistair closed the door and walked over to his wife. "My dear," he began, "I am sorry I have not made myself available to you lately - something I intend to remedy immediately."
"Oh, I know how busy you are," Elissa said with a bright smile, "I do miss you at night, though, my lord," she hinted.
Alistair coughed and clasped his hands behind his back to stop himself from wringing them. "Well, erm…that is one of many areas in which I have been remiss in my duties…"
"Then, will you come to my room tonight?" the Queen asked hopefully.
"I will," he answered stoically, feeling his blush deepening.
The Queen moved closer to her handsome husband, placing her hands on his chest. "I am so glad, my lord," she said happily. "If only to stop Eamon harping on about an heir!"
"Oh, of course," Alistair replied, unable to stop himself from breaking into a giggle. "What other reason would there be?" he said with a lopsided smile.
"What, indeed?" Elissa agreed, looking down at her cleavage. "Do you like my dress?" she enquired of her husband.
"Erm, yes…it's very, um…nice, my dear," Alistair babbled. "Very nice, indeed."
"What a pity," the Queen replied with mock sadness. "I shall not be wearing it tonight."
"Erm, yes…no…of course you won't," Alistair mumbled and cleared his throat theatrically. "I, um, I'd better go…erm, Eamon wanted me for something, I think, and I've got to sort out an envoy to go with the Grand Cleric, and…"
"Go, then," Elissa replied with a gentle laugh. Alistair bent down and placed a soft kiss on his wife's cheek, fearing he would set fire to her face as he did so. "Until tonight," she whispered. "I shall be ready for you when you call," she promised.
Alistair smiled and dipped his head, and then turned toward the door. I just hope I will be, he thought anxiously.
