Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.
Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.
Warnings: unbetaed, requires a good amount of Dragon Age lore to understand
STORY WILL BE MOVED TO ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN UNDER TITLE 'PAST THE SHADES WHERE BLIND MEN GROPE' - CHECK THERE FOR FUTURE UPDATES. THERE WILL BE NO FUTURE UPDATES ON FANFICTION.
Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope
Cole
There is a delirious man lying on thin bedding, shrouded from the hurts of broken ribs and pierced organs by a thick haze of witherstalk. He feels no pain. His armor, regulation forest-green hunter outfit, has been stripped off, exposing a bandaged torso and pooling red to the winter wind. He is not cold. The surgeon, harried and exhausted from continuous days of failed treatments, has moved him outside the medical tents to die. He stares blankly at the cloudless sky.
Cole watches the pen in his hand craft a letter on vellum, dictated in flashes of potent love and fatigued acceptance. My darling. Though my only desire is to hold you in my arms one last time before I fade into the Beyond, I am happy that you are not here to witness the horrors that have attacked Haven. I implore you not to cry: I have cried enough for both of us. If only there had been more time. Alas, the Maker has enforced his will. I accept and fear my fate. My sacrifice, I hope, contributed to a greater good. The man's voice quiets. Death is warm flesh turning into wax, a silence that leaves no echo; it lifts no burdens and leaves no corporeal soul. Cole folds the vellum into a small square and places it in the man's limp hand, curling the fingers over the note. Then, he moves on.
Many gather at the small altar by the gardens, framed by Andrastian banners and red candles - one for every dead. Hot red wax drips with emotional pain - they cry, tempering grief with faith. The Fade-sensitives (too close to the rifts - the portals force a second vision if ones stares too long) watch him with eyes and tears: they see earthy tones donned on a gaunt boy and a wide-brimmed hat. Then, they look away.
"He is a spirit," Solas says, his eagerness to share his knowledge as strong as the lock on his secrets. Solas is an elf mage with a shadow of a wolf. Solas is the shedding of self into waves of grief, the realization that there is only one path he would allow himself to take and that the path was lined with bones. Solas is good intentions done badly. "His arrival into our world predates the Breach. I would guess that he's been living among us for months, perhaps even years."
"He is a demon," Vivienne retorts, arms crossed, a thin barrier dances over her wrists. Her magic jumps at his slightest movements. She will not hesitate to strike if he steps too close. Her hostility is motivated by fear. She is right to be worried.
"I don't think I am a demon," Cole tells Amell. "But I am dangerous," he insists as he slowly tilts a cup of water against the parched lips feverish soldier. The drink tastes of an oasis in the Western Approach. Thank you. "You don't know me, but I know you. Rhys's mother and the Left Hand thought about you."
She tilts her head to the side – remembering a lined face, white hair, and stern eyes. In a secret drawer of her desk, there is an old invitation to a funeral wake that she hadn't been able to attend. Thin smoke rose from her lit candles - they were not the ashes of her body, but she pretended that they were."Wynne and Leliana?" She asks as they duck into a medical tent.
"A sacrifice fit for a mother. She hoped that Faith would be enough for she had nothing else to give to a son she doesn't know." Turning around, he kneels down next to a civilian that breaths shallowly from the pain of her recent amputation. The smith is designing a leg of obsidian frame wrapped in velveteen. It will be offered to her when she wakes. "I am in the letters they wrote. I was unwritten."
Her magic curiously probes his back. He hears the song of waves hitting the high basalt column cliffs of the Storm Coast. "Why wouldn't they mention you?" Her hand waves over a bandaged stump that used to be a leg. A blue tendril of magic from her open palm snakes around the wound site, glowing faintly. Though the bleeding stays sluggish, the patient's breaths slow as she descends into a fitful sleep.
"I made them forget." He replies as they move to the next tent. "It's easier to make people forget when they have more important things to say. Empty puppets can be given new vitality. She sends the knowledge out to those she thinks care and can help. But the knowledge does not travel far: the rebellion had already begun." They stand at the foot of a low cot where another man waits. Cole smells a black miasma of rot - the scout's eyes are open but he sees nothing.
A dagger slips down his sleeve and into his waiting hand. He shifts into the reverse grip, preparing to strike at the neck. Her hand wraps around his wrist; he can feel her pulse - he wonders if she feels the lack of his. "He has only a few hours left. The surgeon cannot do more. It hurts to live. Maker, strike me where I lie."
"Cole." She pulls him back. Compassion still embraces mercy killing. Andraste's flaming sword, I should not be the one to make moral judgment calls. Even so... "Stop."
"I hear his voice," he protests but allows himself to be guided out of the tent. "He wishes for death."
She shakes her head, "You only hear one part of him." The mind is a place of conflict. He can wish and fear death. He can despair and hope. "You said there's still a few hours left. More supplies and escorted professionals are expected at noon. More healers. Wait till then." She looks skyward at the rising sun and then at Cole who shrinks under her gaze. "This world doesn't deal in absolutes - it's not the Fade."
He picks at the bandaged handle of his dagger and asks after a considerable silence, "Is that why spirits turn into demons in this world?" Was it inevitable? Vivienne thinks so. Solas does not. "Do you think I'll be one? I want to stay and help."
Amell thinks of Anders and Justice, of Wynne and Faith, of Desire and Envy and Despair and Pride. In the end, she smiles, tips the brim of his hat back: Not a demon, not yet: and promises,"I'll make sure that won't happen."
Iron Bull
Two serpents and two songs: a middling hand that had the potential to turn into a set of three if he could just somehow entice Sera to give up her card of mercy. An hour into the game and he suspected that the blasted elf had palmed a half of the deck and the Vint had palmed the other. It was times like these where he regretted the lack of casual shirts in his closet. There was a reason why rogues wore sleeves, or, if not sleeves, gloves. Herald's Rest murmured with hushed voices and the crystal clinking of glass and silverware. The rhythmic thumps made by Boss's mabari, a tail hitting against the wooden stool he was perched on, hadn't stopped since Dorian had shuffled and dealt. Boss returned from the bartender with a tankard of honey mead and slid into the space between Dog and Sera, content to watch this round.
The table was full of small pieces of torn vellum with hastily scribbled down favors. "No more bees in the training dummies," Sera's handwriting promised - beneath the words was a small caricature of a man that looked suspiciously like Commander Cullen sprinting away from an angry swarm. Hidden among the slips of paper were Dorian's best razor, Sera's small torsion wrench and S-rake pick, and Bull's best spoon (a strange gift from Boss - she had insisted that it was a maul).
A few minutes later, Sera smirked and flipped the angel of death face-up onto the table. With wary anticipation, the four of them laid out their hand. Iron Bull leaned back into his chair and breathed out, a small grumble of discontent escaped his throat. Nearby patrons glanced up from their drinks in mild alarm before returning back to their conversations. Here is a joke that only Fereldens would understand: a qunari, a Vint, a city elf, and a mabari sit down at the bar and play cards. The mabari wins.
Boss gave a low whistle of appreciation. Groaning, Dorian allowed his head to fall into his hands as Sera cursed a storm of expletives that would've made an Orleisan noble faint. Dog barked happily as he stood on his haunches, leaned across the table, and nosed the entire pot to his side. "You don't wear sleeves either," Iron Bull peered at the mabari, nonplussed, as Dog started sorting through his loot.
"How?" Dorian asked, aghast. "How does..."
"I'll tell you how," Sera muttered darkly. "The mabaris I played with in Denerim always had tells. He's got none, always bloody happy about every bloody hand." Iron Bull rather thought that the Vint's shock came not from how much smarter Dog was compared to other mabaris but from the fundamental fact that mabaris were capable of playing Wicked Grace. For his mistake in humoring their newest player, Dorian lost all of his pocket money save for three coppers and the remaining pieces of his grooming kit. Crossing her arms, Sera glared at their new winner, "Gonna flip this table over if you keep smiling at me like that" Dog angled his head to the side, trying to look congenial. "Arse. What can you even do with a shaving blade and a giant spoon anyways?"
"He'll give them back if you promise him belly rubs and playtimes with his favorite stick." Boss serenely answered as she sipped her drink. She tugged at the cotton scarf wrapped around her neck, loosening it to more of a cowl than a constriction. "At least you didn't bet your clothes. Things would've gone differently." Bull snorted in amusement. The number one unspoken rule of Wicked Grace was that one must never bet clothes unless one was willing to walk the rest of the day feeling the wind on their bits.
"You're speaking from experience." He observed, rubbing his chin and waving a nearby waitress down for more drinks, slipping more than enough coins into her hand. Dog was just about finished sorting his prizes into two piles, lined up in order of value perceived by their previous owners. Dorian gathered the cards and began shuffling the deck.
Boss scratched Dog's ear as she took on a mock-sage air, "The image of Alistair in nothing but his smalls, begging Dog for his pants and armor back, is not one to be easily forgotten." Dog barked in agreement. After pushing one of the two piles before her with his paw, he licked her hand and jumped off his stool, curling his large body around her feet, and fell asleep. After silently counting how many sovereigns she had before her, she raised a bemused eyebrow. "Well, he's certainly feeling generous today." She mused and then rapped her knuckles against the wood of the table, "Deal me in, Dorian. Maybe you can partially recover from your losses."
Maryden sang I am the One by the fireplace, her voice danced across the wooden floors, over people's heads, up the stairs, drifting into the open courtyard of Skyhold. Bull offered a story of valor and heroics where he and his Chargers saved a village by fighting against fifty bandits and being paid in rice. Through the window, he spotted Krem still being debriefed by Scout Harding about their most recent excursion to the northeast sections of the Western Approach. Boss recounted a tale of chasing down nugs around Orzammar and how the Spymaster tried to carry one in her cleavage as their party moved back to base camp.
She still wore the disguise that Bull had lent her: a threadbare scarf, low key mercenary garb, skin-tone powder to cover her facial markings, and a small whispered illusion spell to conceal her grey eyes - with a slight slouch in her stance and an absence of the smooth gait that she usually adopted, she suddenly became a nondescript face among many, so long as no one looked too closely.
He had taken her to parts of the fortress, outdoor gatherings, that were heavily occupied by the lower ranks of the Inquisition: recruits and veterans, common and noble, both proud to serve. They offered to buy drinks for whoever was willing to set aside time for small talk - loose tongues were willing to answer hard questions. Alcohol spilled over glass rims and watered the grass.
Iron Bull was a mercenary-for-hire that had joined the organization solely for financial gain; Boss was a simple tag-along who could barely string two words together.
"Why did you join the Inquisition?"
There were many ways to frame the answer - at first glance, the reasons given varied like apples and oranges. Former Guard-Captain Mira had witnessed the Inquisitor fearlessly confronting the Elder One. Recruit Tanner had seen the recruitment posters that had made their way to Jader. Some had tragic pasts linked to the mage-templar war and were sick of pointless bloodshed. Others had made their way to Haven in hopes of gaining religious enlightenment and meeting the Herald of Andraste in person.
Upon closer inspection and deeper thought, one could summarize all the answers into one sentence: "I want to do good." The Inquisition offered that chance.
The scouts and soldiers departed one by one to their duties, leaving behind farewells and promises to socialize later. Boss stamped at the embers of the fire and ran a trembling hand through her hair as she watched the red coals fade to black. The pair of them pushed through the crowds, brushed shoulders with men and women distracted by their own engagements. Iron Bull gently guided her, a hand on her elbow, to the south side of the tavern where less people milled about.
"That wouldn't have happened if I hadn't looked like this," she later gestured downward, wiping her palms against the green cloths that peaked out of her chain mail, "They always gave the Herald a wide berth - as if it was sin to touch someone so holy without explicit permission." She glanced through the tavern window with a small smile: wistful and melancholic. "An Inquisitor. The Inquisitor," she corrected herself after a beat, "Now they'll probably be terrified to even glance in my direction."
"I'm sure it won't become that extreme, Boss." The tavern emanated a warm, yellow glow. His chargers were piled together on the far table, each too exhausted from their recent mission to walk back to their barracks, each fast asleep in comically uncomfortable positions. "You can always rely on Sera to bring you back down to earth. She'll be happy to help."
"Sera is Andrastian. But yeah, she still treats me normally," she shook her head and cleared her throat, "Alistair would be so proud. He's already sent me letters laughing at my predicament - that I'm essentially a ruler of two arlings." Then, smile sliding off her face like water, she grimaced, "I didn't realize that the religious veneration would be so hard to tolerate."
He raised an eyebrow, "You're fine with the changes?" and frowned when she wordlessly shrugged. While every high ranking member of the Inquisition had the weight of responsibility on their backs, her burdens as the leader, the decision maker, and the religious figure were nearly physical. It was a miracle that she was still able to stand straight.
"I'll get used to it, like I get used to everything else, given enough time," she rubbed her face, smearing the face concealer onto her bandages, revealing the faint outline of her tattoos: geometric lines stretched down her cheeks in a mimicry of her family crest. "Everyone else is OK with this. All of you think I'm suited. Even my wardens think I'm suited." She gestured wildly at the space before her, "You know what Nathaniel did when Leliana told him I was alive after Haven? He sent me a care package: a bag of pickled fish from the Waking Sea and fresh dog biscuits - so I 'won't forget the nostalgic smell of home' since I'm 'obviously not going to be returning any time soon.' And then he wished me the best. I think he saw me becoming Inquisitor before I did. Honestly, that man," she rolled her eyes, "at least he's doing well in my absence. The others respect my second-in-command. Nothing has burnt down," she paused, "yet."
Iron Bull inclined his head in thought. Her wardens weren't just nameless subordinates serving underneath her - they were her friends. "Your command over the wardens is different than your rule over the Inquisition," he clarified.
"A bit," she conceded, smoothing down her front, "As Warden-Commander, everything is more personal. Like you and your chargers, I've handpicked my men and women. But here, all these strangers," she waved a hand, encompassing the entire population of Skyhold. Everyday activities for the everyday man - normality eases away wariness like an elfroot balm. "The blind faith and zeal attached to spiritual leaders has always made me uneasy. But I feel better now that I met them and, well," this time, her smile reached her eyes, "what you showed me was nice."
"Just thought I'd help." He opened the tavern door for her; she slipped in and whistled for her mabari. In response, a series of barks originated from the stairs, growing steadily louder. "It's better if you can place faces to the people who believe in you and the people who you save. You're not alone."
"I'll keep that in mind," she said, patting her knee as her dog bounded happily down the stairs and into her open arms, "thanks, Bull."
Varric walked into the tavern almost an hour later and immediately spotted their small group in the corner. Dorian offered a curt nod, a bit mollified now that he won his shaving kit back from Boss - though Bull was willing to bet a good coin that she had let him win them back because she couldn't bear to see his mustache wither from neglect. Sera was preoccupied in haggling for the return of her belongings.
("I'll make cake. The Ferelden ones - with all the butter and sugar," Sera wheedled and cajoled, tugging at the mabari's lone ear. Dog made an inquiring noise. "No cookies.")
Boss gave a casual two-finger salute as the dwarf approached, "Hey Varric, are you ready to go?" She asked as she polished off the last of her drink.
Varric offered a thumbs up, "Straight up to the battlements." He confirmed, "would be better if we avoided the training grounds. I saw Seeker there. I think she's onto me."
"Right," Boss winced in sympathy, "Right. Just let me change into something a bit nicer first," she pushed her stool back, tugging at the scarf, "Pity," she murmured as she made her way to the door, reluctant to part with the anonymity that came from the borrowed clothes, "They were beginning to grow on me."
An awkward stillness began to settle over the table. With Boss gone, Sera and Dog still in the middle of negotiations, the only other available person at the table to talk to was the Vint and as much as Bull wished otherwise, their conversations without a third party buffer haven't evolved past the haltingly given awkward greetings. Between them were two small glasses that the waitress had failed to pick up - and... Well... Good liquor loosened tongues. It was an idea at least. Inwardly shrugging, Iron Bull pulled out his canteen, meant for water, but instead contained Mackay's Epic Single Malt (older than the Maker and smoother than elven baby-butt). He poured a finger into each glass, and silently offered one. Dorian eyed the gift like it was magebane but accepted the token of friendship. "Another round?" Iron Bull gestured at the card deck in the other man's hand.
After a beat, Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and began to shuffle once again.
Hawke
When the first stories of the Hero of Ferelden conquering the Fifth Blight had reached him in Kirkwall, he had pictured someone who vaguely resembled Aveline, standing tall in the face of her enemies. When he had heard from his mother that the Hero of Ferelden was his second cousin, he pictured someone like Bethany, effortlessly taking down hurlocks and genlocks with her magic. When Varric's letters had described the Hero of Ferelden, a woman who bore a likeness to him in looks and action, he envisioned an odd combination of traits: his head on Isabela's body, striking the final blow against the Archdemon.
...Let it be known that his imagination was not one of his better qualities.
He assumed that she must have also been trying to place a face onto a name and title due to the amount of curious intensity in her eyes (grey - just like his). She tilted her head to the side, "you're awfully muscular for a mage," she remarked in a dubious tone, gaze slowly wandering from his face down to his arms.
Hawke blinked. That was not the greeting or tearful reunion he had expected and dreaded in equal amounts. Varric, the ever faithful best friend, was stifling his laughter behind a closed fist. He leaned back against the walls of the parapets and flexed the clawed gauntlet that encased his right hand, "Its the result of a good twenty or so years of chopping firewood and wrestling pigs in Lothering."
"Lothering?" She echoed, both eyebrows raised in surprise, "You lived there before Kirkwall?" She blinked, "...Huh. We might have unknowingly crossed paths then. I stopped by right after the Battle of Ostagar to reach the Imperial Highway." Hawke mimicked her expression of bemusement. Maybe the story that Bethany had told the Hawke family right before they escaped into the Kocari Wilds, how she had stumbled upon a brawl between wardens, Loghain's soldiers, and a Chantry Sister at Dane's Refuge, meant that she had caught a glimpse of her cousin. The thought made him smile. "Varric never told me about your humble farm boy origins."
Flashing a grin at Varric, Hawke blithely explained, "Humble doesn't fit into Varric's literature. Once he writes your story, you'll notice how he tends to embellish certain details," like the fact that his first meeting with the dwarf was not as suave as his biography portrayed it to be. In fact, no one, not Varric, Hawke, or Carver, had managed to catch the thief that had made off with all of their money pouches. (And the first words that Varric had said to him were, "Andraste's sagging tits. I'll get that bastard one day. ...Hey, you. Want to drown your sorrows with me at The Hanged Man?")
"I didn't hear you complain when I sent you my manuscripts," Varric grumbled in good humor, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. Hawke playfully nudged his shoulder.
"Not a complaint - more of an observation," chuckling under his breath, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a well-leafed through copy of Tale of the Champion. "Your manuscripts are lovely." Its edges were frayed and flecked with dirt, the spine was decorated in old blood stains. He had received the gift from a courier a few weeks after fleeing Kirkwall. It could not have come at a better time - after a lifetime of being surrounded by friends and family, loneliness in the Free Marches wilderness had hardened quickly around him like ice, constricting his usual cheer. Varric's book harked back to the bygone days, a little bit of happiness that he could keep at his side.
"Those plot elements work well in his fictional serials like Hard in Hightown. His biography... Yeah, not so much." She mused, drumming her fingers on the stone, eyes bright with jest, "Though I did find the whole groups-of-bandits-falling-out-of-the-sky trope absolutely hilarious."
The author in question rolled his eyes, "Instead of criticizing my writing style, maybe there should be more focus on the reason why I brought you two together." Hawke and Amell exchanged glances and turned towards him in eerie synchronicity. Not in the least bit fazed, he buffed his nails against his tailored coat, muttering, "And you know the world is ending when Varric Tethras has to steer the conversation to the serious matters." He clasped his hands together, "But where are my manners? I haven't even done the introductions yet."
"That's because we don't need them," Hawke pointed out.
Varric dismissed the comment with a careless wave. "It's the principle of the matter." He cleared his throat, putting on obvious airs, "Hawke. Your Inquisitorialness."
She offered a lopsided grin when they shook hands. "Amell is fine too, cousin," she added before launching straight into business.
These days, you just can't trust your enemies to stay dead. Corypheus looked the same as ever, though less deranged and more vindictive. He also has a dragon, which, of course, an evil guy like him would have a dragon, wouldn't he? Varric had written in his most recent letters - handwriting more elegant and compact now that he had an actual escritoire to work on. Try not to get too nervous when you meet her - just be yourself. I think the two of you will get along like a house on fire.
It was very hard to find people in this world who shared his kind of humor, who employed comedy and wit as a palliative against the tragic events that constantly cropped up around him like giant spiders - but she was one of the few. He wondered - What if Aunt Revka had raised her children as apostates? Would she have tried to contact his parents for assistance? Would his second cousins have been childhood friends? It was an interesting thought - pity that the actual family reunion had to occur under such distressing circumstances.
Hawke knelt over the scattered papers, opened books, and scrolls with a pen in hand. Amell sat cross-legged, muttering under her breath as she skimmed over his account of Corypheus in the Warden's Prison. Varric read over her shoulder, adding his own two coppers of what he could recall of traversing through the tower. Hawke leaned back, groaning as stiff joints creaked and popped; squinting upwards, he hazarded a guess that they've been sitting under the sun for at least three hours consolidating their information. Despite combing through the Vimmark Mountains and his father's journals after his self-imposed exile from Kirkwall, there was no additional facts to offer to the Inquisition - a darkspawn magister, a high priest of Dumat - nothing explaining how he had survived the fight against Hawke and his companions.
"If he had taken Senior Warden Janeka as a host." Amell guessed, rubbing her brows, thumbs pressing against her temples, "then it's not the dragon that has the traits of an Archdemon, it's Corypheus. Fantastic." She shook her head, expression grim, "I knew of an old ritual that could prevent an Archdemon's soul from escaping once its body dies - I don't know how effectively it can be applied here. If Warden-Commander Clarel hadn't gone mad, I would've asked her for assistance," she made a frustrated sound, waving a hand over the strewed material, "A Demon army. Who in their right mind thinks that a demon army is the solution to anything?"
"We'll need to first find the wardens' command post. Stroud would know where." Hawke leafed through a couple sheets of loose vellum, "The good news is that I managed to decipher his code and pin down the general location of his hideout. The bad news is that a couple of our messages were intercepted. If we meet any wardens in Crestwood, I don't think they would be willing to cooperate with the Inquisition, especially if they knew that you intend to challenge Clarel."
Her eyes took on the shade of cold steel, "They dare. I'm not their Commander but I am a Commander," she murmured, flexing her left hand as fade magic leaked through her bandages, "Actually," she tapped a finger on a correspondence between her and Clarel, smiling bitterly, "some of the wardens were my own. They defected to her side after the Calling began to influence the older veterans. Clarel thought that the remaining Old Gods were waking. She wanted to kill them before they even exited the Deep Roads. I thought the quest would end in meaningless deaths. But not all of my people agreed." She slowly stood, dragging her palms over her face, "they thought that I wouldn't be able to save the organization. If I had known what she was planning to do-"
"You hadn't known," Varric insisted, "It's not your fault."
"It hurts," she admitted, voice muffled by her hands, "I know them." Taking a few breaths to regain her composure, she said, "If we meet the wardens in Crestwood and if I try to bring them to heel, we'll run the risk of ruining any chance of cooperation."
For the next few minutes, the three of them silently gathered and organized their notes. Tightly rolling up the last scrolls, Hawke straightened, brushing dirt off the hem of his shirt, "Alright. We don't engage the wardens unless they have Stroud. I trust Carver not to do anything foolish, like suddenly deciding that he can take on the entire organization on his own, just before we manage to find them. He always had the best timing." Then, he froze as something occurred to him. "Oh," He turned towards Amell, "I forgot to mention - Carver is with Stroud. You haven't met Carver yet, have you?"
"Your brother?" She crossed her arms and shook her head, "The few times I met Stroud, he was alone." Curiosity flickered across her features, pushing aside her grief and sorrow, "Stroud didn't tell me that he had a companion. Do you think Stroud told him about us?" She paused, frowning in thought, "Does he even know that we're coming to rescue them?" After a beat, Hawke burst into laughter.
Varric shared the merriment. "Poor Junior," he snickered behind a hand, "A surprise family gathering? He'll be horrified."
"What?" Amell started, eyes widening in consternation, "why?"
Still chortling, Hawke leaned over to squeeze her shoulder, "We're a bit too alike. Carver is," he struggled a bit to find the words, "Carver is the little brother you never wanted but always needed."
"With a chip on his shoulder the size of his mabari tattoo," Varric added, wiping away a tear, still chuckling.
Amell still didn't seem to understand the humor and only looked increasingly confused. "I mean - I'm happy to know that he's out there. Alive. There's at least three of us."
"Five," Hawke corrected her, "But you might not want to count Uncle Gamlen. Man's a shameless gambler, drinker, and a regular at The Blooming Rose. His daughter, Charade, is much better company." Charade was the new owner of the Amell estate - what she chose to do with the family fortune was entirely at her discretion. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, "we Hawkes and Amells watch out for one another like family, but being family doesn't stop us from making fun at each other's expense."
She chewed on her bottom lip in thought and then happily beamed. "Oh. Ok," her skin markings shifted with her change in expression. As a circle mage, the concept of familial love must have been completely alien and unattainable. The smallest proof that she had a family that would've unconditionally loved her would have been her most priceless treasure, guarded jealously from the templars who tried to remove any of her connections to a possible life outside the tower. To trust someone so much to give that treasure away...
As a farewell, I had gifted my pendant to a friend whom I hold dear to my heart. Since then, I not sure if he even kept it. Frankly, I'm too scared to ask. The circumstance surrounding us is a bit of a sensitive subject and to bring it up might invite more painful memories. I guess that's why I decided to mark my face in a pattern that resembled the Amell crest - you can't loose something that is embedded in your skin. Make no mistake, I don't regret my decision - I just... He hasn't said anything about it. - She had written in one of her earlier letters.
It wasn't like Hawke was completely ignorant about the relationship between his cousin and former Knight-Captain Cullen : with the rumors circulating Kirkwall about the reasons behind the Ferelden templar's transfer, Varric's stories, Amell's letters, and the man himself - except... It wasn't speculation anymore. It was truth - and Hawke would be lying if he claimed that he didn't develop some degree of protectiveness over her in the little time that they got to know each other - she was about the same age as Carver... And Bethany, if she had still been alive. - After much deliberation, Hawke decided to wait until she had gone on an expedition to the Exalted Plains before searching Skyhold for the Commander of the Inquisition and...
Cullen worked through his assignments with frightening efficiency - missions, orders, soldier movements, training, and requisitions all stacked in neat little piles, determinedly ignoring the other man. Hawke suspected that his regular communications with Aveline via letters dripped with equal amounts of exasperation and inexplicable fondness had transferred some of the Guard Captain's skill of 'Hawke-wrangling.' ("Should you ever meet him, be wary of what piques his interests," she might have warned, "and do not encourage his jokes. If you must follow him into whatever adventure he sets out on, do so with caution. He is fond of force magic. If he likes you, he will be polite enough to warn you two seconds before he casts his fire spells.")
With his boots were propped up on a unused corner of the Commander's workspace, Hawke balanced on two chair legs, hands folded in his lap as he stared at the ceiling. The two men had already exhausted all of their safe conversation topics: the recent news from Kirkwall and... Yeah, that's about it. Hawke would rather have jars of bees dropped on him than delve into any hot water: the Amell family crest and the fact that the Commander's hands had a sort of tremor that he hasn't seen since he had met Samson in Lowtown (whatever that former templar was getting himself into, at least he isn't suffering from lyrium withdrawal) being one of the few untouchable matters at hand.
But he had came to the Commander's office with a purpose and he was not doing himself any favors delaying the inevitable conversation. Well. He scratched his beard. This is going to be spectacularly awkward. Hawke cleared his throat, "So," he dragged out the word as the sound of the pen nib scratching on vellum slowed and stopped, "Isabela once told me that she believed that the reason why Kirkwall templars were so disturbed and paranoid was because of the widespread popularity of taking vows against physical temptations. It's an an unusual trend since it never took hold in the other circles, from what I had heard on my travels."
"One of your acquaintances? The pirate captain? And she believes that she is deeply versed in the relationship intricacies between templars and circle mages?" The Commander sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose, fatigue evident in the deep circles around his eyes, "Are you actually taking her word seriously? That is most certainly not a viable reason as to why the Kirkwall Circle treated their mages poorly."
Hawke leaned forward, a dull thud echoed in the office as he righted himself. "No. It's definitely not. But, her comment got me thinking - that if the Chantry can boldly hand out rules that control a templar's private life, then to what extent can the Chantry influence?" He gave a low whistle, "What do they teach to make someone think that in order to fully accept the Maker, one must swear to be chaste for the rest of his or her life? I'd go mad."
"Maybe so - the sermons in Kirkwall did put particular emphasis on resisting physical temptations," Cullen shuffled some papers, "But it's not as common as you would think. I never made those vows." And then he froze, suddenly realizing that he had said that last sentence out loud to someone who would capitulate on his admission.
Hawke tapped his fingers together, "And if I may ask why you didn't?"
"I knew an Amell once. She was a special woman. Never met her like again."
The other man's ears started to flush at the tips. "We," Cullen said wearily, eyes resolutely trained on the missives lying before him as he refilled his pen reservoir, "are not discussing this any further."
"You weren't one of the templar regulars at The Blooming Rose - Isabela would've seen you." Hawke continued as if the other man hadn't spoken, "Did you hope eventually for a happier life with a lover to greet you in bed every night?" Cullen resolutely looked down at his papers, refusing to answer. Still, with every verbal push, the man stiffened further, growing more taut, teeth clenched together so hard that a pulse jumped at his jawline, "A warm body under you? A warm body over you? A sweet mouth? Shapely curves? Soft hands?" He spread out his hands, "You're a man with needs, after all. Or," Hawke tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, "Or is it one woman in particular that you desire?"
To his credit, he did not jump when the inkwell shattered in Cullen's hand, stained glass falling onto the desk and ground, black following soon after, dripping between the gloved fingers and onto the reports. Cursing softly under his breath, Cullen stood, head bent down and away from the light, trying in vain to prevent the spill from spreading further.
Hawke silently looked down at the ink slowly seeping through the floor boards and then back up at the Commander who was blankly staring at the mess. He hadn't expected such an outburst: some blushing and stammering at most - perhaps he had grossly miscalculated the amount of tension in the air. "Do you need a private moment?"
"What do you want me to say, Hawke?" Cullen snarled, hands gripping at the edges of the desk, hard enough that the wood was beginning to loudly protest under the pressure, "It's obvious that you already know. Would it please you if I bare my heart and admit it out loud?" His fist impacted the desk, causing nearby papers to fly, "Yes, Amell is the reason why I never took the vows. Yes, I want her."
Hawke raised an eyebrow, his gaze taking on a more curious tone, "You are awfully tetchy today, Commander" He observed, allowing some amusement to leak into his voice.
"You just-" Cullen faltered, his previous rush of anger dissipating as quickly as it had risen, exhaustion again filling the void. "Of course you would. You're Hawke." He sank back into his chair, a hand running through his hair as he struggled to regain his composure. "Please excuse me. My behavior was not acceptable," he apologized through gritted teeth, "it is due to" lyrium "stress."
"My fault for giving you the run around." Hawke conceded, "I'll get to the point," he blew out a long breath and shrugged, "I know my cousin had forgiven whatever unpleasantness has happened between you and her at the Ferelden Circle - you were in shock, you were traumatized, you needed time to heal. Fine." He crossed his arms, one finger running over his sigil marked on his upper left arm, "But she didn't see you in Kirkwall. I did. And whether you were still recovering or not, you were part of the mess. Though you questioned the Annulment and eventually helped me stop Meredith, I remember your stance in the mage-templar debate and what you had said."
"Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me. They are weapons. They have the power to light the city on fire in a fit of pique."
After pulling off his gloves, Cullen buried his face in his hands. "I was wrong," he said after a few moments of strained silence, "I was drowning in my own vitriol and hate and I believed that I was doing right. I shadowed Meredith's footsteps - executing her policies because they seemed to be the only thing that kept the peace. But slowly, she had changed - or maybe she always had been mad but I was too blind to see." He leaned back in his chair, wiping a trembling hand across his brow, "her actions made me realize how cruel my own stance had become - it was not me - I thought I had become a monster like the abominations that took over the Ferelden Circle."
"And her?" Hawke gently prodded.
He laughed, bitter and wistful. "My last words to her in Kinloch Hold were aimed to inflict pain. I can only wonder why she decided to give me this second chance. I know how hard-earned and fragile her trust is," he rubbed the back of his neck, "I don't know what she sees in me. I swear I won't make the same mistake again. Or any. I'll take whatever she gives me."
Hawke sighed, fingers pressing into his temples, allowing the silence to hover between them for a good minute, "I don't have much family left. If you harm her, you will answer to me."
Cullen slowly blinked, "If I hurt her," he whispered, barely audible in the office, "I will do worse to myself than you possibly can."
