Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

Author's note: Guys, I need to know something. Is the story getting boring? Perhaps not funny or confusing? I'd just like to know if this is something enjoyable or its purpose is getting lost in the way. I like writing it but. I'd like to know that people like reading it.

In this chapter: Dearest wall, the way to survive isn't through suicidal maneuvers. Do listen since she won't.


008.

There are bad ideas. And then there are bad ideas. And then a third category of extremely bad ideas. Cullen doesn't need to spend much time thinking which one this gets stuck as. Neither. Teaching swordsmanship to a mage – to Amell of all people – ranks high in the stupidly and impossibly moronically bad ideas.

It's necessary. The man had never noticed before but, after Uldred and the blood mages, he was forced to realize that a mage such as she is not fit for the front of battle. Her shields are sound, her glyphs are helpful to a party she wishes to protect, her healing better than many he has seen. And Wynne made it sure to set the standards rather high. Bar one or two fire based spells though, she is close to incapable in offense.

He doesn't want her to die either. Can't explain it, won't even if forced by Gregoir himself. He just doesn't want her to. That makes this necessary and, as a Templar, Cullen always does what is necessary. Even if it means going out of his way and stabbing his duty into oblivion.

In the beginning, the Templar had hoped it was just one of her random ideas. Quick, fleeting, impossible to realize. She is such a small thing, Amell, tall but thin, a human-sized figurine underneath fabric. To handle a staff is complicated enough for most mages. A sword, a greatsword of all things, that is impossible.

Until she grins in that way, raises her hand in a spell never seen before and Cullen finds himself vowing to strike the apostate down as soon as the Warden returns.

"Again." A sigh precedes and follows her exclamation. His own in fact, who doesn't understand how this situation is taking place.

Diana stands in the middle of the Great Hall. The reconstruction hasn't begun but the cleaning has, everything that could remind them of difficult times burnt outside of the Tower. And the space seems sadder this way, it might, it does. Cullen doesn't complain because emptiness is far better than the alternative. The half broken central statue looms over the both of them, Amell's the only smiling face. The rest is either destroyed or, in his case, trying very hard not to find a particularly hard piece of wall to bash his head against.

"Haven't you had enough for today, Amell?"

He had tried to convince her to err on the side of caution and take something lighter, perhaps armor fit for a rogue. He mentioned daggers, faster, easier to hide and interchange with her staff even if that same easiness could lead to a nicely stabbed Templar back. He had tried to make her see reason.

Or, he could just direct his comments to the wall which actually pays attention.

"Not really," she shouts over her armored shoulder, making no effort to hide how much she loves this. The chainmail looks odd against her skin – good Maker, where has she found that – used as he is to see her in light fabrics. Even worse is the large greatsword in her hands, gripped tightly and supported against that same shoulder. Cullen thought this would be too much for the small mage. Instead, she looks thrilled with it. She uses the blade like a battering ram and raids everything in front of her. Moves quickly thanks to whatever that stupid spell does and laughs every time she gets to push a target against the floor.

Cullen isn't eager to explain this to Gregoir.

Amell balances herself on her tiptoes and back again, the huge sword following her movements like some mismatched toy. "I don't have that much time to get this right," or others to order around, sadly. "Irving told us the Warden is getting the dwarves now. Orzammar and back, that's less than three weeks."

"Most people take years to master anything. This is as good as you'll manage for now." The level she should learn and nothing else. Anything more and it is dangerous. Cullen focuses on the loophole. It is a Blight out there and this is a forgotten spell. Both are the reason why he has yet to report to his Commander, nothing else.

"But another round doesn't hurt, right?" Knowing her, it will. "Besides, what do we have to do besides cleaning up?"

Many things. Many many things to repair but Cullen has no will to speak of them. Instead, he raises his own sword into position, watching as she sidesteps carefully into the stance he first taught her and then moves without warning.

He has the upper hand. Whatever strength her magic gives her, Amell lacks the finesse of years using a sword, lacks the instinct to pull back and measure the opponent carefully. But, he realizes as their blades clash, as he pushes a little bit harder like the darkspawn will do, she knows when to pull back. That's good. When to retreat, sidestep to the right, never twice in the same movement, backwards and a wide arc that'd take his arm if he had been on her way, a small body which is harder to hit.

"Maker above, Amell, stop trying to take my head off, hamper instead of going for the kill." Again, the woman lacks finesse. The Templar can think of a hundred ways she could lose her own if she keeps fighting like this.

Another swing which would likely cut his knee cleanly off. "I'm not! I'm just." If it hit. "Maker damnit, you're like a bloody snake." The part of him which isn't focused on getting away from her blade is deeply offended. The other – the Templar who stuttered when speaking – stares at her and feels – stupidly – like smiling.

Amell looks happy. It might be because she has a free pass to try and harm him or just because there's no Jowan. No blood magic, no demons, no broken Circle. There are her eyes, green and wild, that laughter that bubbles from her chest and steals her breath away when she should save it. It makes one feel things are fine and Cullen can't consider her mad then. For that small moment, he understands why fire is the only thing she can master, why healing is her purpose and why moving, dancing around with a sword twice her size makes her laugh. Life. Diana loves life, every hour, every minute, every second. And she doesn't want to die – the day before, the library, her request which was just a polite demand – but Fade if she's not going to milk it out before it ends.

"Maker forsaken damnit, would you stand still?" Like the apprentice he once watched, just slightly more murderous. "I wish I could stonefist you."

"You can't," his useless reply, not humorous, never amused. Another sidestep from something with the bluntness of a bronto. "The darkspawn won't obey you anymore than I will."

He almost respects her.

Right until the moment Amell casts something, one hand moving quickly, her words intelligible under her breath, before slamming headfirst into his stomach. Armored stomach. Why is he even trying? There's no need for him to try, she'll just kill herself against the first wall she finds if the only tactic she can think of is headbutting opponents to submission.

Cullen sighs, opening his mouth to tell her, again, how stupid she is and taking absolutely no pleasure in it, of course not when he notices something special. Like how his feet cannot move, his hands are stuck in place and his sword is clanging noisily against the floor. A glyph. She trapped him in a glyph.

"Yes! I won! Ah Fade, lower, Diana, lower." The mage crouches to floor, holding her head after something that'd get her killed and laughs. Dear Maker. He has no words for this. "You and your moronic armors. Maker. Ah right, healing." She keeps snickering as if her tactic wasn't pure suicide, lighting like fireworks as she heals herself first and dispels the temporary prison far after.

His mouth closes. Wall, you are going to die if you try this with darkspawn. Fair warning.

By common accord, they both slump against the floor. He because of memories – why that spell of all things – and she because she is finally tired, the last traces of adrenaline fading. Back to back, heavy breathing, blades resting on their knees in the exact same way. They move little for quite a while. Well, five minutes. It's much more than what she manages on a daily basis.

"Commander?" Cullen forgoes correcting her. Again, one of those useless things to do. He is Commander to her and she is Amell to him, nothing more. A non-committable grunt is enough to tell her he is listening. "What will you do when I'm gone?"

Gone gone or gone north? Both meanings can be used. Another sound that's neither here nor there as a reply. He's a Templar. Templars guard. Just because she's not there, he won't be changing.

"Bet you'll miss me," Amell continues without missing a break and, even with his back to her, he can see her smile. Her head turned to the ceiling, beating uncomfortably against the back of his armor. "Bet you'll get up in the night and go 'hey, wonder if that wonderful amazing incredible mage is ripping apart hordes and hordes of darkspawn for me. Keeping me all safe and cozy in my little bed'."

"You would lose that bet."

She lets out a snort worthy of the rowdiest dwarf of Orzammar. "Bull."

"I will be wondering when you'll get yourself killed. Headfirst, Amell?"

"My hands were busy." Yes, exactly why he advised daggers. She's facing a battlefield, not some bar fight. She can die out there. "At least I won't be taken by a demon and forced to do unspeakable things to proper little boys or dragonlings. Or spiders." Amell cuts herself off, shrugging against his armor. He can hear where it rustles against hers. "Though, if anxiety was gold, we'd be able to raid the weaponmaster downstairs. He has this awesome staff that'd cost me an arm and a leg. Can I say something?"

No. The last time she did so, he ended up roped into this inanity. No, because all her ideas usually make him act bizarrely. Yes. Since she might not be there soon.

Amell takes his silence as approval, as usual.

"I lied. When you asked me about Jowan. Not that I didn't want to help him or anything, I did. But it wasn't just because he had always been there. I was angry at him." Head against his back, they're not friends, they're nothing of the sort and she doesn't explain the why of that anger, just that existed. "But none of you understands. You're Templars, you get to live using this thing, you get to die using it. It is so much better than turning into Owain." She is harrowed, she would nev— "Don't tell anyone, will you, Commander? I might just have to kill you when I get back and that'd make a lousy victory celebration."

This seems uncomfortably like companionship, whispers that voice in the back of his head, the one that is suspiciously similar to Gregoir's. This is too close to a mage. It will make your blade dull, it will make you hesitate. It will. Bring that thing back.

"I also like your sword, can I have it?"

Oh. Maker.

Something takes residence on his throat right then, taking the perfect path if its will is to keep him from breathing. Did she? What? Huh? Maker, it is the desire demon. He does not think these things. He doesn't. He.

"Knew you had a dirty mind," Amell comments blandly over his coughing. "I had a betting pool with Jowan. He owes me five."

She is a demon. She doesn't need to be possessed, she is one. And anything that tries to kill her will die first because she'll find their injury and press like there's no tomorrow.

Companionship? Companionship where?

"Just get up, Amell. Stop idling around." Cullen gives the example, brandishing the sword like it's part of his arm, staring at her eyes – green, green and amused – until she understands his meaning – and they turn bright, like fire and adrenaline before a fight. "Again."

The Templar forgets her words quickly, both personal and improper ones, taking them as the metaphor he truly would never ever think of.

He shouldn't have.

His greatsword does go missing on the exact day Amell leaves.