A/N 1: Over on AO3, there is now artwork by the fabulous KuraNova to go with this story. You can find it in chapter one.

A/N 2: When I put Claimed on hiatus, I never thought it would a whole year before I got another chapter out. For that I apologize. Tourist season is a chaotic time for me with this year being especially so ... and the chaos hasn't let up yet. While I am back to working on Claimed, I will not be able to return to getting a chapter out every two weeks. My goal is a chapter every two months but that may prove to be unrealistic. Just know that whenever I get spare time, I do try to sit down and bang out more of the story.

A/N 3: This chapter would not have been possible without the support and encouragement of bushviper. Between writer's block like I've never experienced and a severe lack of confidence, she has been an incredible friend and cheerleader. Always gracious with her time and offering feedback for countless versions I cobbled together. You are awesome, BV. I couldn't have done it without you. I also need to acknowledge Miss_ragdoll84 who kindly offered to give the chapter a pre-read. Her feedback and support helped me rediscover my joy in writing in general, and with the story in particular.

~oooo~

"Stop getting underfoot, Evelyn," Cullen snapped. His impatience flared as he turned in his heated pacing, nearly knocking over the nervous mage. "Wait by the equipment until I tell you otherwise." His annoyance spiked anew when she stumbled in her scurried rush to obey his Command. Inwardly cursing, he wished once again that he could have found a way to leave her behind in Kirkwall.

Sula glowered at him, not for the first time since this mess started. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately since he was itching for a fight, she chose to continue holding her tongue. It didn't help his temperament that even Declyn gave him an unfriendly scowl before joining Evelyn by the mound of gear.

Irritation. Seething, boiling exasperation. Gone were the long days of enduring conflicting emotions. No more battling between elation and despair, bleakness vying with optimism, nor agitation clashing with lethargy. Cullen had settled into a pattern of growing frustration that only festered and churned with each breath he took.

He knew the tasks before him, the building of an army from its very foundation and the training of inexperienced youths with more bravado than brains into a force capable of confronting former Templars and desperate mages, would be monumental. There would be challenges to face, setbacks to surmount. And, yes, even outright failures, though he hoped to keep these to a minimum. Yet he thought he would have a moment of tranquility, a day, at the very least, to revel in optimism as he prepared to build a new life for himself and work towards bringing peace to Thedas.

It was his own fault. He couldn't deny it. With the cityscape so tantalizingly close and the lure of finally having solid ground underfoot, he had insisted the ship's captain dock immediately. The man had stood firm about waiting until dawn, easily countering every one of Cullen's arguments. It was only after Cullen had handed over a significant portion of coin from his hefty pouch did the captain become amenable. And as much as he was pleased to finally quit the Maker-forsaken vessel, disembarking in the dead of the night had created unforeseen complications.

A lifetime serving as a Templar had trained him to expect precise efficiency and strict organization. If he had been traveling on Order business, he would have been met at the gangplank by a Templar, no matter how early nor late his arrival. There would have been trustworthy porters to haul off his equipment to a secure location. He'd have been assigned a clean, dry cell for as long as he was in the city. If he had been expecting the competence of the Order, he was sorely disappointed. There was no agent waiting at the end of the gangplank. No porters, reliable or otherwise. And, as far as he knew, no arrangements for a place for his party to rest their heads.

Cullen paced back and forth along the dock, each stride magnifying his annoyance. Finally, he had reached his limit. "Enough is enough!" Behind him he could hear Sula and Declyn rise quickly to attention. "Continued inaction is no solution. I'm wasting no more time waiting for the promised agent," he said as he turned back to address them. "Sula, go find some porters to hire. You'll stay here, Declyn, and guard the equipment." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "And the mage." Any gratitude he had felt for Evelyn's ministrations during his sea sickness had dissipated, leaving only his ever-present resentment at her presence in its wake. "I'll be back as soon as I can arrange rooms and a place to house our supplies."

He stalked back to the pile of equipment to retrieve his sword and shield, pointedly ignoring Evelyn who was sitting atop one of the crates. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her legs while she rested her head against her knees. As he approached, she seemed to draw inward, attempting to appear as small and insubstantial as possible. He understood her trepidation, her fear of drawing his attention. In normal circumstances, he would have felt guilt or flushed with shame for causing such apprehension. Instead her attempt at not annoying him only added fuel to his mounting ire. He fought against the impulse to yell at her. She was too easy of a target and, if he started, he didn't think he could stop until he had let vent all of his frustrations on the reticent mage.

Cullen was belting on his scabbard when Evelyn's head suddenly snapped up, staring worriedly at a point over his shoulder. He turned, finding the scene seemingly unchanged at first. Yet, for the first time since docking, his anger did not flare. If there was one thing he could put trust in, it was Evelyn's hyper awareness of her environs. Little escaped her notice.

"Someone is coming," she tentatively volunteered.

It took him several heartbeats to make out what she had so easily perceived. From one of the many side streets, there was a faint glowing lightness which continued to grow. Soon a figure emerged, a lantern held high as he sprinted towards the party. If Cullen were in a better mood, he might have found the sight comical. The man stumbled several times, seemingly tripping over the cords of his unlaced boots. He was frantically attempting to stuff his shirt tails into his pants but the heavy satchel bouncing off his hip made the task impossible. He finally skidded to a stop in front of Cullen, huffing deeply.

Cullen looked him over, unimpressed with what he saw. The man's boots were on the wrong feet, the laces stuffed haphazardly within the footwear. His shirt was wrinkled and stained while his leather jacket undone. The helmet atop his head sat askew with the faceguard covering his nose and mouth.

"Sorry, ser, I wasn't expecting you till at least midmorning," the man said as righted his helmet and then carefully set the lantern on the ground. "Corbin reported that people were waiting on the docks but I put it down to a drunken hallucination. After all, no one would be barmy enough to dock at night." At Sula's snickering, he hastily added, "But I'm sure you had your reasons, ser. Anyway, Corbin mentioned those waiting were wearing Templar armor. It took me a while to remember I hadn't told anyone you are a Templar. That's when I realized he was telling the truth so I rushed right over."

Cullen crossed his arms, looking down at the man with icy disapproval. "And you are?"

"Oh! Yes! Sorry, ser!" He saluted with an overenthusiastic slam of a fist against his chest. "I'm Jim, ser. Sister Leliana hired me to assist you during the recruitment tour." He frantically patted his jacket, then his pants, before digging through the satchel hanging at his hip. With a flourish, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment and handed it over. "My letter of introduction," he added unnecessarily.

Cullen skimmed the letter, his scowl deepening as he read Leliana's elegant writing. The dispatch clearly stated that the buffoon standing in front of him was, indeed, to serve in Most Holy's army as one of his assistants. Shows potential. Methodical. Dependable. He fought back the impulse to scoff. His impressions of the young man were in direct opposition to Leliana's glowing description. Nevertheless, he was stuck with the man until he could find a more suitable candidate.

"What are your duties?"

Jim's eagerness diminished slightly as he watched the letter of introduction crumple under Cullen's closing fist. "I, ..., um. I'm to travel ahead with a small group to prepare for your arrival. Scouting out possible locations to use for recruitment staging areas, starting initial negotiations with merchants for ongoing contracts, procuring any needed supplies." He brightened suddenly. "Oh, and make arrangements for rooms for you and your officers. I'm sure you're tired after your travels. If you would follow me, I'll bring you to the inn where I've secured some rooms."

Cullen snorted. "Even though you weren't expecting us until mid-morning?"

Jim seemed oblivious to Cullen's derision. "Sea travel being what it is, I didn't want to risk you turning up early and having to pitch tents with the rest of us." He cheerily added, "And I was right. You did arrive sooner than expected." He threw the flap back over the overloaded satchel hanging from his shoulder before picking up the lantern. "I've got some men coming with wagons to haul your supplies to our camp. They'll be here shortly." He glanced back to the alley from where he had first emerged. "And here they are now so we can be on our way."

Cullen's low opinion of his new assistant improved just slightly. He may not know what boot went with which foot, nor smart enough to assign someone to watch for his possible early arrival, but he certainly had rallied more than enough people and handcarts to deal with the equipment haulage. "Declyn."

"You can leave it with me." The young Templar nodded, needing no further instructions. "I'll make sure that the equipment is properly secured. With your permission, I'll bunk down at the camp so I can keep an eye on things."

"Permission granted. I'll want an initial report in the morning about the number of recruits and the supplies already gathered." He turned away, secure in the knowledge that Declyn would oversee things in his stead. Evelyn was still sitting atop one of the crates but now she was quivering, her eyes darting back and forth in an effort to keep track of all the people. His voice brusque, he commanded, "Gather your things and come with me."

Perhaps to make up for his earlier tardiness, Jim sped them through the maze of streets. Cullen felt his annoyance and exasperation begin to melt away with the anticipation of the respite a stay in an inn would offer. He knew it was too late to request a bath be drawn but he was fairly certain he could convince the innkeeper to pour him a pint or three. He would then retreat for a comfortable night's sleep in an actual bed. After spending the entire sea voyage on the deck bunking amongst the supplies, Cullen was most looking forward to stretching out on a bed while he enjoyed the novelty of not being heaved to and fro by crashing waves.

"...mander? Commander?"

It took several heartbeats for Cullen to realize that Jim had been addressing him. "Yes?"

"Sorry for interrupting your thoughts, Commander, but we're here."

Without him realizing it, the party was now standing in front of an inn, complete with a groggy innkeeper standing in the doorway. "Of course we are," Cullen barked, covering up his embarrassment of not paying attention with belligerence.

"If there's nothing else, Commander, I'll see you in the morning. Would the eighth bell be too early? I'm sure you would like to sleep in and enjoy a leisurely breakfast after your long journey."

He nodded absently, more engrossed in the novelty of relaxing than worrying about details. He'd nearly made it through the inn's door when Jim called out.

"Commander! I nearly forgot. This is for you." Jim pulled the strap of the overloaded satchel over his head and held the bag out to him.

"And what exactly is this?"

"Reports, communications from Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Leliana, details about merchants you'll be meeting with. Oh, and some sketches of armor. You'll need to approve one before you get measured for your new armor. Sister Leliana insists the measurements get sent to Haven as soon as possible." He began furiously digging around the stuffed satchel until he gave up with a sheepish grin. "The sketches are in here somewhere."

Cullen took the pack with a heavy sigh and walked into the inn without another word to his hapless assistant. It took but a few moments for the innkeeper to explain how to get to their rooms and hand over the keys before departing for his own bed. Sula, with Evelyn dutifully following behind, immediately headed up the stairs. All too soon, Cullen was standing alone in the common area. He looked sourly at the bag in his hands, wanting nothing more than to ignore its weight, to put aside, even for a few hours, the responsibilities that went with it. He had never been one to shirk his duties, nor one to postpone what needed to be done, and he wouldn't start now.

With yet another heavy sigh, he settled at the table closest to the large open fire pit. There was a resentment in his movements as he flipped open the satchel, finding just what he had been expecting. Missives had been shoved in willy-nilly, with no thought to any sort of organization. He grabbed the topmost set, skimming quickly through each. He continued to search through the mounds of communications, setting aside items that needed immediate attention, attempting to sort the rest into some semblance of proper orderliness.

Eventually Cullen found the sketches. There was no question as to which he would choose. The first three were not worthy of consideration. The last, though. He held it up, studying it in the flickering dim light from the fire. He could see Cassandra's influence in the stark design. Function over embellishment. Simplicity over style. An unassuming armor worthy of his humble Fereldan heritage. He set the sketch aside before snatching another set of parchments from the satchel.

Commander.

He shook his head viscously. The last thing he needed at this moment was the voice of that idiot Jim addressing him floating about in his thoughts. Quickly skimming through the papers, he tried to sort them into logical piles for later review. Supplies. Operations. Equipment. Intelligence. Supplies. Budget. He tried to focus on the task at hand. But ...

Commander.

Cullen couldn't get Jim's voice out of his head. It wasn't as if it was the first time he'd been addressed as such. Leliana and Cassandra had often referred to him by his new title during their many planning sessions in Kirkwall. This was different somehow. It was a subordinate. It was from one of the many soldiers looking to him for leadership and direction.

Commander.

It had a weight and significance that brought the full reality of his new endeavor crashing down upon him. What made him think he had the abilities or temperament to lead Most Holy's army? By the time he had assumed command, Kirkwall's Order numbered not even a score of Templars, overseeing but a handful of Tranquils and Claimed mages. Granted, he had managed to hold the Order together longer than anyone, including himself, thought possible. In spite of his efforts, though, it had still fallen. Those who hadn't deserted had been slaughtered to a man. And he still thought himself capable of leading an army when he couldn't even keep a single Order from descending into bedlam?

Commander.

He wasn't a pessimist by nature and, in this situation, he was more of a realist. Cullen had little faith the Conclave would, or even could, succeed. The people of Thedas might as well wish upon a falling star for all the good it would do. Hatred and distrust had become ingrained in Templar and mage alike. Days, even weeks, of discussion and airing of grievances, would not have the hoped for resolution. Neither side would bend. It would quickly devolve into finger pointing and slur slinging. The only results would be a deepening of animosity and eventual war.

So instead of needing perhaps a hundred or so soldiers to keep the peace at the Conclave, he was looking at possibly thousands eventually under his command. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for such an endeavor. His hand ran along the piles of communications, upsetting his careful organization. For just a moment, he felt inadequate, ready to quit before he had even truly begun. There was so much to do, so much to learn. How could his experience leading Kirkwall's Order translate into the colossal abilities necessary for commanding Divine Justinia's army? He simply wasn't ready.

Yet ... as he continued to idly spread the missives around, he found near the bottom, a map, similar to the one he, Cassandra, and Leliana had poured over in Kirkwall. It laid out the path for the tour, with suggestions of how long he should spend recruiting in each of the various cities and towns along the way with estimates of how many might sign up at the many stopping points. He pulled the map closer, drawing his finger along the surface until it landed on Amarathine. Recruitment estimate - twenty to thirty.

His trepidation eased. He wasn't expected to lead thousands immediately, just a score or a score and a half. That was manageable. That was doable. He had already proved he could lead that number. The army would grow and he could grow with it. He would learn how to manage the rising numbers and growing responsibilities. And he wouldn't be alone with the tasks. Sula was at his side as was Declyn. From the recruits, he would find some with leadership potential, others with prior military experience. He also shouldn't forget those officers who would heed his call once word got out. Rylen of Starkhaven would surely join as well as Alyn of Jainen. Then there were the Banns who might consider providing troops in aid. It was in their interest to prevent war from coming to their lands.

Cullen leaned back, feeling more at ease than he had in a long time. The tasks that laid before him were epic, to be sure, but, with the right approach, attainable. Delegating to capable hands, adapting as the numbers grew, shaping and reshaping the army's divisions as needed. He would need to be flexible, need to be willing to risk new methodologies, untried tactics.

There was little doubt he would have to take a new approach with warfare. Before the Orders fell, Templars were the most feared, most disciplined, best trained forces in all of Thedas. The Templars may have deserted their posts but they hadn't left their skills behind. If Cullen were to use the same tactics that had been drilled into him as a Templar, he would be fighting fire with fire. It would result in a stalemate, or, even worse, utter defeat. No, he would need to fight fire with water. That meant novel ways of thinking, innovative strategies, new approaches to training. He had thrown off the shackles of the Chantry but could he free himself of thinking like a Templar? Was his training too deep-rooted to adjust and change?

And he hadn't even a clue as to how to deal with the mages. He would not shackle his new army with addiction but then he would not have the most effective means to suppress mages, much less Blood mages. Without soldiers who were taking lyrium and who lacked the years of training on how to counter magic, how long could the army stand against them? How many men would he lose to just a lone, desperate mage? How many would die taking a stand against a group of them? Unlike the Templars, perhaps he did need to fight fire with fire when it came to the mages. If he could somehow get word to Hawke or Solana, would some of the mages join at their call? Even several squadrons would stand little chance against a truly powerful mage, but add even one mage to his forces and victory would not be so hard won.

An ironic smile alighted his face. It truly is a mad world if I'm considering actively recruiting mages but this just might work. Perhaps it's not only a change in tactics that's needed but a shift in thinking as well. Mages as equal members of an army rather than kept locked away until dire circumstances like a Blight. Now that is a novel approach.

Feeling more hopeful than he had in years, he gathered up the scattered missives littering the tabletop, stuffing them all back into the satchel. The work could wait until later. For now, he was going to enjoy a respite. It was probably going to be the last one for a very long time.