An awful sound rent the air, like a sawblade drawn across rough metal. Cullen knew what it meant.

An awful stench filled the air, sickly sweet and cloying. It filled him with dread.

The doors to the Harrowing Chamber seemed to pulse with foul magic, energized by the fleshy tendrils that crisscrossed the elaborately carved wood. Cullen knew what waited behind those doors, and he knew he wanted no part of it, but, as ever, his body refused to heed his brain's anguished warnings.

Go back! he cried silently, as his boots mounted the steps.

Stop! he pled uselessly, as his hand reached for the door handle.

No! his mind wailed, as his shoulders pushed through the doorway, and he began his torment again.

Even when it was different, it was somehow always the same. Templars, his brothers, tortured and ruined. Ensorcelled into committing the foulest acts of depravity. Mages, his charges, vengeful and wicked. Delighting in the turn of power, unleashing sadistic desires that he never would have fathomed. And then things would inevitably take a turn for the personal. Careth Amell. Samantha Hawke. More recently, Anya Trevelyan. He never knew whose face the demon would assume, but it was always breathlessly accurate in its ability to horrify him. Those reptilian eyes seemed to stare straight into his soul and extract the very worst parts of him, exploiting them to maximize his self-loathing and humiliation. The demon would use his forbidden desires to arouse and enflame him, and then it would torture him until he was ready to commit any degenerate act, just to escape the pain.

And unlike before, the Chant of Light was no refuge for him. At Kinloch Hold, bolstered by faith and prayer, he had endured, convinced that the Maker would guide him and that Andraste's compassion would protect him. But he couldn't remember the Chant in his dreams, nor did he want the Maker's gaze upon him, and Andraste's grace should be reserved for those who deserved it. In his nightmares, Cullen was befouled, irredeemable, wrong.

He woke with a gasp and stumbled over to his basin. His mornings started this way so frequently now that there was something almost tedious about the whole experience, even though the nausea demanded urgency. His joints ached from the lyrium withdrawal and his head pounded like he'd spent the night in a tavern. With each heave, the pain in his head seemed to double, and it drew pitiful whimpers from him every time he retched. The only thing that didn't hurt was his cock, but the lingering erection so thoroughly shamed him that it was worse than the pain and nausea combined.

Cullen's throat burned from overturning an empty stomach and his tongue felt fuzzy and foul. He rinsed his mouth with water and spat angrily into the pot, furious with himself for his weakness. Dropping to his knees on the packed dirt floor of his tent, pebbles digging painfully into his skin, he bowed his head on his cot and prayed.

"O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked
Make me to rest in the warmest places."

It was hard to choke out the last line. The appalling pervert in him found it rather sexual, and besides – he didn't want rest, and certainly didn't deserve it.

"O Creator, see me kneel:
For I walk only where You would bid me
Stand only in places You have blessed
Sing only the words You place in my throat"

It took a rather creative interpretation of "blessed" for Cullen to apply that word to the paths he had walked, but since he still lived and still served, he supposed they could be true, even for him.

"My Maker, know my heart
Take from me a life of sorrow
Lift me from a world of pain
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride"

He couldn't imagine himself worthy of anyone's pride, much less the Maker's, with his prick still half-hard over disturbing scenarios that would revolt any decent man.

"My Creator, judge me whole:
Find me well within Your grace
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed
Tell me I have sung to Your approval"

Please, Cullen added silently. He desperately wanted to feel clean again, to be purged of the anger and fear and lust that lurked deep within him. The thought that Uldred could have marked him permanently, or that the demon could have somehow imprinted itself on his soul and dirtied him forever haunted his waking thoughts.

"O Maker, hear my cry:
Seat me by Your side in death
Make me one within Your glory
And let the world once more see Your favor

For You are the fire at the heart of the world
And comfort is only Yours to give."

In fact, the prayer had given some comfort – Cullen's stomach had settled, his headache wasn't quite as intense, and his cock was no longer straining against his smalls, so he got to his feet and brushed off his knees. Dawn was still hours away, but he had plenty of work to do. He washed and dressed and then went to the Chantry to review the latest reports from the Inquisition's expedition.

Leliana expected the Harold to return from Val Royeaux soon, and after what happened with the templars, Cullen imagined that it would be nearly impossible to convince her to seek their aid with the Breach. The very thought of the Lord Seeker attacking Anya made him burn with anger, but he knew there must be others in the Order who remembered their duty. With his nightmare so fresh in his mind, the idea of harboring the rebel mages was enough to sour his stomach all over again. The Harold simply didn't understand the danger – she had never experienced the horrors that unchecked magic could unleash, and Cullen would certainly prefer to preserve her innocence on that matter. Maker's breath! Why did Lucius have to threaten her? And on the same day that Grand Enchanter Fiona issued a polite invitation to Redcliffe, as if the Harold might just pop over for a pint and a chat. He groaned and nearly crumpled the report in frustration.

Even if the mages had nothing but good intentions, their potential for possession made their aid entirely too dangerous to accept. Perhaps he should tell Anya about what had happened at Kinloch Hold – perhaps if she knew what he'd endured, she would realize the peril they all faced. But he knew he couldn't bring himself to discuss it with her. He could hardly bear to think of it, much less talk about it, and now that she had begun to feature in his nightmares, he could only imagine how humiliating the conversation would be. Not that he'd have to tell her that part, of course. He was sure she would prefer not to know what his sick, twisted mind forced her to do in his dreams.

"Damn it!" Cullen slammed his fist on the war table, feeling ill again.

It had been ten years – why was he still obsessed with those dark, desperate days? Why couldn't he forget and move on? Since the disaster at Kinloch Hold, Cullen had wrestled with a disquieting fear that the demon had left something behind in him, a sliver of evil that had buried itself in his psyche and taken root. He knew he was not possessed, for he was perfectly in control during his waking hours, with no urges to do horrible things to anyone, much less someone he rather liked. But how, then, could his dreams be so disturbing, so wrong? How could those ideas originate from his own mind, when they were the opposite of everything he valued?

After Uldred's rebellion, Cullen had barely been able to function. He had screamed all night in his bed, keeping the other templars awake, and even the slightest tug on the Veil had sent him reaching for his sword in a panic. What mages remained had been terrified of him, scurrying out of his path like rats when he'd stalked the halls, and the sight of them had made his blood boil with rage. He'd fantasized in those days, almost to the brink of obsession, about rooting out every blood mage in Ferelden and putting them all to the sword – and at that point, the only difference to him between a mage and a maleficar was a matter of time.

It wasn't until the nightmares started to focus almost exclusively on Careth Amell that Cullen began to fear there was something wrong with him. If anyone deserved to escape his wrath, it was Careth. He had never met a gentler, more devout, or more duty-minded mage, and his admiration for her had grown with her accomplishments, both at Kinloch Hold and beyond. She had been Irving's pride and joy as an apprentice, and had passed her Harrowing so quickly he could have blinked and missed it. The circumstances surrounding her conscription to the Grey Wardens had been troubling – and when she began to appear in his nightmares, he had obsessed over that too, trying to convince himself that she deserved to be debased in his dreams – but Irving had made it very clear that Careth had participated in Jowan's scheme at his urging. She was the one who had freed him from Uldred's prison, exterminated the pestilence of demons and maleficarum in the tower, and restored the Circle to order. She'd deserved his gratitude, not his rage. But at night, in his dreams, that foul demon had assumed her fair face and Cullen's body always had reacted the same way, driven by lust and anger and fear and shame, until the very thought of her had made him want to weep, or vomit, or kill something. He'd gone to Greagoir with his fears and the Knight-Commander had assured him that there was nothing wrong with him, that his behavior was the natural reaction of a man exposed to trauma. But it wasn't long after that conversation that he had been transferred to Kirkwall.

In Kirkwall, the nightmares had deescalated, and for a while Cullen had believed he'd found his purpose again. Knight-Commander Meredith's philosophy had suited him perfectly at the time, and he'd believed he was finally serving under someone who truly understood the dangers of magic. But of course Meredith's vision had turned out to be a twisted perversion of the Order's true purpose. And in the meantime, Cullen's troubled mind had found a new mage to obsess over: Samantha Hawke. To say the templars had been shocked when Hawke used magic to subdue the Arishok would have been a grave understatement; Meredith was so livid, she'd wanted to arrest her on the spot, but of course, she couldn't, not after Hawke had just saved the city. The mage was quite the actress – she had sauntered around Kirkwall for years with a bow on her back, cutting the romantic figure of a back alley vigilante with her little band of misfits. Cullen had sometimes felt the Veil stir around her, but he had always assumed it was because she usually travelled with Anders, who didn't even pretend not to be an apostate mage. At the time, the Viscount had convinced Meredith to leave Anders be, as the mage was Darktown's lone healer and his efforts were the only thing standing between the rest of Kirkwall and a sweeping public health crisis. After the Viscount's death, Anders was so firmly under Hawke's wing, so to speak, and her star had risen so quickly, that it had seemed impossible to move against him. Not that Cullen had spared many thoughts for Anders then, unfortunately – he far was too busy thinking about Hawke. It had both intrigued and infuriated him that an apostate had managed to slink around under his nose for so long, and once she'd become the Champion of Kirkwall, she had given up all pretense of being a normal person. She was bold, defiant, saucy, and full of herself, and Cullen knew he wasn't the only man who had wondered what she looked like under her leathers. Not that they'd much to the imagination, anyway.

When the nightmares began to replace Careth with Hawke, at first it had almost been a relief. Careth was sweet, innocent, pious and pristine. Hawke was…not. But it was almost as if something evil within him could sense that the dreams failed to bother him as much as they should have; his already-awful nightmares doubled down on their intensity and perversion, until even the sound of Hawke's voice could send him into a cold sweat. After the debacle at the Gallows, he'd convinced himself that the lyrium idol must have tainted his mind as well as Meredith's, and that getting out of Kirkwall would put him back to rights. And it had – at least, until he'd noticed Anya Trevelyan. And now he was back in torment, unable to push her from his mind during the day, haunted by sickening dreams of her at night. The dreams were more horrific than ever – he'd count himself lucky to suffer the comparatively tame nightmares about Careth now. Maker, why was he like this? Could there be something else within him, something alien and evil and dangerous? The idea of it was enough to make him tremble. If there was even a shadow of a demon in him, he knew he should be put down like a mad dog. Wouldn't that be ironic, after all his years of performing that grim duty for possessed mages, to meet the same end?

If only there were someone he could ask. He had already burdened Cassandra enough, and if he asked Leliana, he knew she would feel compelled to research his "problem" through her network. He hated the thought of a close friend knowing the truth about the monster within him, much less random spies and academics. It had occurred to Cullen more than once that the Inquisition harbored an expert on spirits and the Fade, but… he always balked at the idea of approaching Solas. He and the apostate elf were not exactly on friendly terms, and he couldn't imagine discussing his fears with someone he neither liked nor trusted. Still, if he really believed there was wrong with him, and the elf might be able to help, then he was duty-bound to investigate.

"Maker's breath!" he muttered. He had been chewing on the idea of asking Solas some indirect questions for a while now, but he was so sure the elf would see through him that he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. He hated the idea of humbling himself before the mage and asking for help, but he owed it to the Inquisition…. He was a right hypocrite if he argued against recruiting the rebel mages on the chance that they might become abominations, but refused to scrutinize his own possible possession simply because he didn't like his colleague. Cullen resigned himself to seeking the elf's opinion, and decided to put it off only long enough to approach him at a decent hour.

It was mid-morning before he had time to take a break. He felt incredibly nervous as he walked briskly to Solas' cottage in the village. His biggest fear, of course, was that the elf would agree that Cullen probably had some demonic influence within him, but he was only slightly less anxious about asking for his opinion at all. Cullen had not been particularly welcoming when the apostate had joined the Inquisition, and he had no right to expect kindness now. Standing before Solas' door, he ran his hand through his hair and then knocked.

"Commander?" The elf opened the door with an expression of polite surprise, but made no move to let him enter.

"Solas, forgive the intrusion, but I was hoping to speak to you regarding a personal matter. May I come in?"

"Of course," Solas replied, stepping back to let him through the door. "Do sit down, Commander."

Cullen took a seat at the small table in the corner and Solas joined him.

"Solas, you know more about demons than anyone I've ever met. Have you ever heard of a demon partially possessing someone?"

The elf tipped his head and frowned. "I have heard of benevolent spirits forming a symbiotic relationship with a mage. Is that what you mean?"

"No," Cullen sighed. "I mean a demon, definitely. A desire demon, to be more precise. Would it be possible for it to mark a person somehow? Like the Harold's mark, only invisible?"

A faint smile crossed the elf's lips. "Anything is possible, Commander, but it seems highly unlikely to me. Spirits do not usually leave little bits of themselves here and there – either they possess someone, or they do not. Are you afraid you've been marked by a demon?"

"I… yes." Cullen didn't want to reveal the extent of his troubles, but he supposed it would seem ridiculous to deny it. "I had an encounter with one years ago, and I find that it continues to affect me. The nightmares are still so vivid, and they are actually getting worse. I've begun to wonder if there is something within me that is generating them – something demonic. Is there any way to know for sure?"

Solas stroked his chin, considering. "Well, I supposed with enough lyrium – or blood – we could send a mage into the Fade to have a look around, but I think the chances of finding anything useful are so unlikely that it would be a waste of resources."

"Right, no, lyrium isn't a feasible option, and I'll pretend I didn't hear you suggest blood magic!" Cullen frowned. "I understand that you are rather adept at exploring the Fade in your dreams. Would it be possible for you to investigate?"

"Commander, do you really want me to visit you in your nightmares?" the elf asked sharply.

"Maker, no! I thought you could just… but, I suppose that makes sense… no, I don't think either of us wants that." Cullen felt absolutely ill just at the thought of it.

"I suspect not." Solas leaned forward. "When did your dreams begin to intensify?"

"Since the explosion," Cullen sighed. "They were always bad before, but now they happen nearly every night, and they get more violent and disturbing as time goes on."

"It's possible that the Breach is interacting with the lyrium in your blood in strange ways. Do you know if any of the other templars are experiencing similar issues?"

"No but…," Cullen sighed. He did not care to admit to Solas that he no longer took lyrium. He felt a small sense of relief – and also like a bit of an idiot – that he hadn't noticed that the increase in nightmares had coincided with the beginning of his withdrawal. Perhaps these dreams were all just an after-effect of his decision to abstain.

"Commander," Solas said gently. "I wish I could reassure you more thoroughly, but I have no way of knowing for sure if you have any sort of spirit trapped inside you. I will say that if you did, I believe it would manifest itself in your waking life, and not just in the Fade. My guess is that the stress of your position, perhaps combined with the proximity of the Breach, is causing your mind to act out its fears and fantasies while you sleep. As happens with all of us."

"These aren't my fantasies!" Cullen protested. "I would never want these things to happen."

Solas shrugged. "Perhaps not consciously, no. But you're a violent man, Commander. Maybe you have some latent anger that you can't bring yourself to express more directly."

"I'm not a violent man!" Cullen was shocked he would say such a thing. Solas narrowed his eyes at him.

"Of course you're violent. You would not have chosen to become a templar if you weren't. It's not a criticism, it's simply a fact." The elf took a breath and sat back. "That is not to suggest that you are cruel, or that you generally desire to harm others. But you must crave opportunities for combat. Why else would you join the Order?"

"To serve the Maker and keep people safe!" Cullen replied hotly. "Violence is a means of last resort. I certainly do not crave opportunities to hurt people."

"Then why did you not become a cleric, or a merchant, or a farmer?" Solas asked shrewdly. "If you really didn't want to hurt anyone, you would have picked a more peaceful profession."

"Perhaps that's why I have chosen a new path," Cullen said stiffly. He'd hardly expected an apostate to revere the templars, but he also didn't expect to have his career choices thrown in his face, as if they represented a defect in his character. "Well, I suppose you've told me what I needed to know. Thank you for your time."

The elf inclined his head, perhaps a little ironically, and showed Cullen the door. The commander was irritated and offended, but he also felt reassured that his nightmares were more likely caused by lyrium withdrawal than by a leftover bit of demon clinging to his soul. Unfortunately, that meant the impulses in his dreams were entirely his own, which was rather disturbing in its own right. Still, he knew he could control his actions, as long as nothing else was controlling him. He would never hurt Anya, nor would he let his self-control slip even a fraction around her, no matter how thoroughly she tested his patience. He would keep her safe.

…

Leliana's scouts spotted the expedition party on the road about an hour from Haven, and sent word back to the Inquisition of their imminent return. Leliana asked Cullen to join her in the Chantry and sent a runner to collect the travelers as soon as they stepped foot in the village. Both spymaster and commander were anxious to discuss the dramatic events in Val Royeaux. Cullen was rehearsing his argument for re-engaging with the templars in his head, when the doors to the Chantry burst open and Anya, Josephine, and Cassandra marched in, looking dirty, disheveled, and drained.

"It's a shame the templars have abandoned their senses, as well as the capital!" Cullen growled.

"Hello, Commander, nice to see you again," Anya said, sounding a little cranky. He laughed sheepishly.

"Forgive me, Harold. It's good to see you, too – all of you. I admit the news from Val Royeaux has me preoccupied. I cannot believe Lord Seeker Lucius attacked you."

"Nor can I, though I saw it with my own eyes," Cassandra replied grimly. "He is not the man I remember."

"So much for getting help from the templars," Josephine sighed.

"Don't be too hasty to discount them, Lady Montilyet," Cullen said quickly. "I would stake my life on the chance that many among the Order disagree with the Lord Seeker's actions."

Anya tipped her head at him and frowned. "I'm sorry, Commander, but given a choice between the woman who offered the help we need and issued a friendly invitation to discuss arrangements, or the man who promised to exterminate all mages, whose lackey beat up a Revered Mother, and who strangled me with his mind? I'm really more inclined to deal with the former. I know you have strong feelings about the Order and I respect that, but it's asking a lot to put me in the same room with Lord Seeker Lucius again."

The Harold sounded distinctly irritated, and Cullen decided that now was not the time to press his point.

"Of course. I understand. I'm not sure we even have the influence to approach the templars right now, regardless of my preference. It can do no harm to hear what Grand Enchanter Fiona has to say. Just remember that she may no more speak for all the rebel mages than Lucius does for all templars."

Anya smiled, looking relieved. "You and Lady Vivienne are very much of a mind, Commander. I think you'll like her."

Cullen was surprised to hear it, and invited her to explain further. The group retreated to the war room to continue the discussion. The Imperial Enchanter sounded like she would be quite the asset to their organization and Cullen was very pleased to learn that she was a Loyalist through-and-through. The Harold clearly respected the accomplished mage, and he rather hoped that Vivienne would prove to be a good influence on her – as opposed to the odd vigilante elf, Sera, who was almost guaranteed to be the opposite. Cullen exchanged glances with Cassandra as Anya relayed the tale of meeting the strange girl, and the Seeker's expression was quite telling. The Harold was clearly not in the best temper, so Cullen refrained from second-guessing her decision to recruit the elf, but he wondered if she wouldn't prove to be more hindrance than help.

When their meeting adjourned, Cullen returned to the practice yard to spar with a dummy while he worked out a plan to re-open the subject of the templars with the Harold. Lucius was the problem – Anya was absolutely correct that it seemed outrageous to ask her to deal with him again, when a much more attractive offer lay on the table. Perhaps Leliana's people could make contact with more moderate members of the Order? All three of the women had confirmed that at least one of the templars in Val Royeaux seemed uncomfortable with the direction Lucius had set for them, and he was sure that if there was one, there were more. Perhaps if he asked Anya about that templar, he could pass the information along to Leliana and let her agents track him down. If they could deal with someone who hadn't frightened the daylights out of her, the Harold might be more willing to consider the option.

…

When the day's business had been concluded and most in Haven prepared to retire for the night, Cullen decided to pay a visit to the Harold. It was not so late that he expected her to be asleep, although he supposed the fatigue from her journey might have sent her to bed early. But no, the lights were on in her little cottage, so he gently knocked on the door.

"Commander!" she exclaimed in surprise when she opened it. Cullen's eyes widened as he looked her over, and he stepped back. She was clearly fresh from the bath and ready for bed. Her damp hair cascaded in waves across her shoulders, and she wore a white linen nightgown with a buttoned collar and a long hemline. It was quite fetching on her, but certainly nothing she would be wearing if she wished to entertain a visitor.

"Harold! Forgive me, you were already in bed. I'll speak with you another time." He felt his cheeks grow hot, embarrassed that he had intruded upon her privacy.

"Actually, Commander, I was just reading and enjoying a glass of wine. I learned in Orlais that it is quite fashionable for noble ladies to entertain guests while in their bedclothes, so if you can tolerate my state of dress, you are welcome to come in. It would be very worldly of us." She grinned at him and opened the door wider, and after a moment's hesitation, he entered.

"They entertain in their bedclothes? How odd!"

He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, and cast his eyes about the room, trying not to look at her. Although the gown covered her from throat to ankle, she was backlit by the light from the fire and he could clearly see her shape through the thin material. It was distracting, to say the least – perhaps it was a mistake to come in! Anya didn't seem to notice his unease, blithely prattling on about the ridiculous habits of Orlesian nobles.

"Yes! In the morning, rather than the evening, but whatever. Apparently, remaining in your bedclothes for a large part of the day is a sign of wealth and prestige in Orlais. Which makes sense, I suppose. Who but the idle rich could afford to do so? Would you care for some wine?"

"Ah… yes, thank you. That sounds nice." She poured a generous glass and handed it to him, then picked up her own and gestured to the table and chairs by the window. Cullen sat down and sipped his wine, staring determinedly at the floor.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Commander?"

"I wanted to ask you about the templar in Val Royeaux who seemed to object to Lucius' actions. I'm hoping Leliana's agents could make contact with him." Now that she was no longer standing before the fire, Cullen dared to look upon her again. Her arms were rather browner than he expected, given the frigid conditions in Haven. She must have taken some sun in Orlais. A light dusting of freckles covered them, matching the freckles on her cheeks.

Anya's lips twisted in amusement. "I thought you gave up on that discussion rather too easily. Planning to bypass the Lord Seeker, then?" She shrugged. "I can't blame you for wanting to salvage any of your brothers who might be worth saving, but I have to admit, Commander, after what happened in Val Royeaux, I'm apprehensive."

Cullen sighed. "You've been fighting templars in the Hinterlands for weeks, and yet you've never had a problem working with them here, Harold. Surely you can't let one bad apple poison the barrel. What about Ser Robart?" What about me?

"It's not just the one bad apple, Cullen," she said heatedly.

His dismay at her answer was muted by his pleasure that she'd used his given name. He had found himself thinking of her more and more as 'Anya,' and it gratified him to realize she also regarded him as Cullen, not just Commander. He repressed a smile and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Well. Ah, do you mean the fellow who attacked the Revered Mother? It's absolutely shocking, but I'm sure he was acting under Lucius' orders. A loyal soldier is but an extension of his general's reach."

Anya frowned and shook her head. "Yes, that man was awful, and yes I agree, it might as well have been done by Lucius himself. It's more like… oh, what did you tell me in your letter once, about there being a range between, I don't know, whatever silly thing I said and the dullest report ever? That's what I fear in the templars. There is a wide range between the people here that I know and trust, and Lord Seeker Lucius. But a good half of that range must contain people that I don't want to deal with. I'm not sure I even want to submit to someone who is borderline in his opinion of mages! If I must surrender my will, I feel it's only reasonable to do so to people who actually have mages' best interests at heart."

Her cheeks had grown pink as she spoke, and she trembled slightly. The passion in her voice was unmistakable, but Cullen was a little confused.

"Who is asking you to submit to anyone? The Circles are null and you are free to do as you wish."

"Am I?" Anya asked with an arched eyebrow. "And just how well do you think that would go over with our templar allies, should they come here? Especially the ones who believe mages are their enemies, not their wards? Besides, even the kindest templar expects a certain amount of obedience from a mage – look how often I submit to you!"

"To me?" Cullen laughed. "You must be joking, Anya. You argue with me every chance you get!"

"Yes, but how often do I win?" Her smile was warm and self-deprecating. She traced a pattern on the table with her fingertip as she considered her next words. "I have always struggled with the mandate to surrender my life, my freedom, and my judgment to the Circle and the templars, and yes, that means that sometimes I argue. Just ask Ser Robart – we've certainly had our rows. But after all this time, all this conditioning, it often feels as natural as breathing to acquiesce to the will of a templar. And when he has my best interests in mind, as you do, it's appropriate. But what if he doesn't?"

"Then you will not submit. No one can force you. And surely you can't believe I would let someone here abuse you. Don't forget, Anya, I left the Order behind. I'm loyal to the Inquisition now, and that includes you." Cullen stared at her searchingly and was relieved to see her posture soften.

"No, I know you would intervene if someone tried to misuse me. But as to your assertion that no one can force me, well!" She huffed and crossed her arms. "Two months ago I would have agreed with you, but between Ser Gelvin's misfired smite and the Lord Seeker's death grip, I have revised my opinion on that matter considerably."

"Harold, no one is going to come to Haven on our invitation and smite you! At least not with ill-intent," he amended. "I understand that Lucius frightened you, but your fears seem disproportionate to the likely reality. As the only one who can close the Breach, you are a vital member of this organization. Do you really think any of us would allow you to come to harm?"

Anya sighed. "It's not that, exactly. Oh bother, I don't know how to explain it and I'm making myself sound irrational. And perhaps I am. I've just never had cause to fear templars before, and now I do. It's extremely unsettling. It's one thing to fight them on the field, and another to imagine working with them."

"Do you fear me?" he asked quietly.

"Maker, no!" Anya replied quickly. "Even if you hadn't left the Order, I wouldn't be afraid of you. I know you would never hurt me." She smiled and tipped her head. "Well, not maliciously anyway. You did beat me black and blue on one occasion, but I have come to appreciate the point you were trying to make."

Cullen was caught a little breathless by her quick and resolute declaration of trust. It made him want to rip Lucius apart, to know that he had attacked her and betrayed her innocent confidence in the Order. Anya was smiling teasingly at him, inviting him to rib her for losing their duel, but Cullen was feeling protective of her.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Anya, and I took no pleasure in it." Except in his nightmares. Maker, he wished he could purge those awful dreams.

"Oh, Cullen. I know that!" She reached across the table and squeezed his gloved hand. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad for it. I earned every one of those bruises."

"You certainly took more hits than I expected you to," he admitted. "You're tougher than you look."

Anya laughed delightedly, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. "Why, thank you! …I think. I mean, I suppose I should want to look tough, too."

He shrugged. "You're lovely as you are, and it never hurts for your foes to underestimate you." He couldn't resist paying her the compliment, as she appeared not at all tough, but quite pretty at the moment. She released his hand and sat back.

"Aren't you the charmer tonight!" Her wide smile filled him with warmth, and he decided that if honeyed words would earn him looks like that, he really should use them more often. "All right, smooth-talker, since you're flattering me, I'll give you what you want."

Cullen was startled. What he wanted was to win a few more of her pretty smiles, but he couldn't imagine that's what she meant. "And what is that?" he asked hesitantly.

"A description of the ambivalent templar, right? Isn't that why you stopped by?"

"Oh, yes." He shook his head and laughed at himself, pulling a roll of parchment from his pocket. "Might I borrow your quill?"

When she crossed the room to fetch a pen and ink, he took the opportunity to admire her in her nightgown. From where she stood, the light was no longer positioned to leave it so accidentally revealing, and in fact it was quite modest, but there was something intimate and sweet about the sight of her pretty bare feet and trim ankles, and the cascade of rich brown tresses down her back. She pulled her hair over one shoulder and twisted it absently as she bent over the desk, and Cullen's eyes moved across her slim shoulders and the lovely curve of her spine.

Stop it! He clenched his fists and forced his eyes back to the table. The last thing he needed was to fuel to his nightmares with lustful thoughts during his waking hours. He had no business thinking of the Harold in such a way.

"Here you are, Commander." Anya handed him the quill and inkwell, and dropped back into her chair. "What would you like to know?"

"Everything you can tell me – what he looked like, what he said, how he behaved." He dipped the pen in the ink and paused above the parchment.

"Let's see… he was really rather handsome, to be perfectly honest. Gorgeous brown skin, full lips, amazing cheek bones, and green eyes like Rivaini glass. He was dressed in traditional templar armor – without his helm, obviously – and hair was very short, almost shaved. He seemed to be assigned to guard the Revered Mother. He looked quite upset when she was attacked, but didn't intervene, and he obeyed when the Lord Seeker told him to stand down. Later, he questioned whether I might really be sent by the Maker – oh! And his accent sounded Fereldan. But he got back in line when ordered to and left with Lucius when he called them to march. That's really all I know about him."

Cullen wasn't so sure he liked her describing the mystery templar's looks so enthusiastically, but he supposed he had asked for it. "Can you think of any other details?"

Anya shook her head. "I'm sorry, everything happened so fast. That's all I remember."

"Very well." He stood up to take his leave. "Thank you for the wine and the company, Harold. I appreciate your willingness to help me."

"Don't go yet, Cullen. There is a favor I'd ask of you in return." She stood and moved around the table to stand before him, and he could smell the clean, soapy scent of her hair. "My brother is a templar. He was stationed at the Elmswood Chantry, but if the Lord Seeker is recalling the Order, I have no doubt he would obey. I also know he would never take up arms against mages unless given good reason – he would be among the sensible templars you seek. If you can, will you also search him out? I'd like to have him here, if he'll come."

"Of course, Anya," he said. He was glad to hear of her brother – he could be a huge bargaining chip when it came time to advocate for allying with the templars. "What's his name?"

"He goes by Nicky, but his actual name of record is Nicodemico Trevelyan."

Cullen smiled. "That's a mouthful."

Anya laughed. "My parents favor overwrought names."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Anya seems simple enough."

She wrinkled her nose and made an adorable face. "It's short for Anastalloria. Ridiculous, right?"

He laughed. "It's… um, I'll just say that Anya suits you very well."

"Thank you. And Cullen?" She stepped even closer and put her hand on his arm, and his breath caught in his throat as she looked up at him through her lashes. "Thank you for looking for Nicky. I've been worried about him, and this will put my mind at ease. And thank you as well for listening to me tonight. I know I didn't manage to make much sense, but I appreciate the opportunity to speak my mind, confused though it may be at the moment."

Her hand stroked his arm gently, and he could have so easily reached out and pulled her closer, or caressed her silky hair, or tipped her chin up and brought his mouth to hers. Her lips looked so full and soft, and her slightly too-large teeth kept them perpetually parted in a way that gave him ideas from across a room, much less mere inches away. She was right there, and he was not so muddle-brained about women that he misunderstood her invitation. Anya was interested, all right. Very interested. But Cullen couldn't do it.

"It was nothing," he said stiffly, desperately needing to move away from her, before he kissed her in spite of himself. A crease appeared between her eyebrows and she stepped back.

"Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. I believe I'll take my leave. Good night, Harold." He nodded curtly and reached for the door.

"Cullen, wait!" Anya laid her hand on his arm. "Have I offended you?"

"Of course not," he said over his shoulder, his hand still on the door handle. "It's late, Harold."

"I thought… well, you might want to stay? Finish your wine?"

Maker's breath, she wasn't going to give up, was she? His stomach clenched as he realized he needed to make her think he wasn't interested. It wasn't fair to let her issue invitations he had no intention of accepting. He reluctantly turned around to face her.

"I don't think that would be appropriate, Harold," he said sternly. He realized he sounded like a massive prick, but he didn't want to leave any room for confusion. "I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression, but I have so many responsibilities and… while I hope to continue our friendship, I cannot offer you more."

"Oh! Oh, I see." Her face flushed crimson and she looked absolutely crushed. "Well, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I beg your pardon."

"Not at all. Let's just forget about it. Good night, Harold."

Cullen let himself out, relieved to feel the cold evening air on his burning face.

Well, that was excruciating.

Cullen felt wretched: embarrassed, guilty, and disappointed all at once. He was sorry to reject Anya's advances – Maker, was he ever! – especially since he clearly mortified her in the process. But he knew that the closer he grew to her in this world, the more awful his experiences would be in the Fade. He couldn't stand it, and he wouldn't allow it. What if his control slipped? What if the dark turns of his dreaming mind broke through in a moment of passion and he hurt her? He would rather die. Better to let her think him not interested, better perhaps to find this "really rather handsome" templar and push her into his arms, than to hurt her. She trusted him, and he would make damn sure he never gave her a reason not to, even if it meant keeping her at arm's length.

Maker, it was unfair, though. He wished things could be different.