Callaia Lavellan jolted awake with a gasp as the strange mark on her hand gave a painful twinge and began to burn with eerie phosphorescent light. She could feel it like she could her own magic: a connection to the Fade, the origin of magic... and of the demons that poured through it.

Unlike her magic, however, the mark responded sluggishly or not at all to her willed attempts to quiet it. As she struggled, the light fading in and out like a guttering lamp, it briefly illuminated her strange companions sleeping around the campfire like spokes on a wheel. Varric, the beardless dwarf; Cassandra, the shemlen warrior priest; and Cullen, the former templar. It was strange not to be surrounded by her clan. She missed the gentle snuffles of the halla, the creaking of the aravels; the woodsy smell of ironbark being carved by a master craftsman. But these strangers weren't so bad... she was their Keeper now, of a sort. She smiled despite the constant twinges of her hand. Keeper of a new clan... the strangest clan she'd ever seen.

Afraid that the light from her hand would awaken her companions, she slid out of her camp roll and walked just beyond the tree line. She tried some breathing exercises that the Keeper had shown her as a child just coming into her magic, hoping that would calm the throbbing light. She wasn't used to not knowing her own magic, but this mark was strange to her. It felt almost like she'd woken up with an extra limb that she didn't know how to use.

"Is anything amiss, Inquisitor?" Ser Cullen's quiet voice came from behind her.

She turned, still holding onto her hand. His eyes darted to the brightness visible on her hand even through the scarf she'd wrapped around it.

"It's... annoying me," she admitted but smiled, trying to reassure him. "I'm fine. Go back to sleep."

He took one step forward. "I might be able to help," he said. "My templar abilities—"

Callaia felt a twist of fear unfurl in her stomach, and her eyes darted to her staff, still laying by the fire next to her bed roll.

"N-no," she said, pressing her spine against a tree, mentally going through all the spells she could manage without her staff.

To her relief, Cullen took a step back, raising his hands. "I mean no harm," he said gently. "Also, I doubt I could overwhelm your abilities in contest anyway. I haven't... I haven't had much use for my abilities recently and without lyrium, they fade over time. I only offer because..." He paused as if searching for words. "Well, it's what templars were meant to do. To help mages control their abilities when needed; never to hurt or oppress."

Callaia stayed where she was, the bark of the tree a reassuring steadiness at her back. He seemed sincere.

"Will that be a problem?" she asked after a long minute of silence.

He blinked, looking thrown off balance. "Will what be a problem?"

"The lack of lyrium," she said. "I've heard that templars need it more than a drunkard needs drink."

He half turned away, his face in shadow. "No, I do not need it." A shudder seemed to run through him. "I will probably crave it the rest of my days, but I have not touched a drop in two years and I never intend to do so again. I will not be enslaved," he said this bit as if to himself. "No more. My choice."

Callaia pushed off the tree and walked toward him, extending her hand as she approached.

Cullen glanced at her face for permission before slowly unwinding the scarf around her hand. The mark flared again and she grimaced, but Cullen didn't seem afraid. He gently touched the mark with his fingertips; they were warm against her skin. She'd never been this close to a human man before, let alone a templar, and her heartbeat skittered like a nervous halla, making the mark throb in response.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, watching her face.

"Not to touch," she said, "but it certainly isn't... comfortable when it... does whatever it's doing."

Cullen pressed her hand between his; not hard—she could have pulled her hand free if she wished—but it felt warm there: safe. "I'm going to try something," he said, searching her eyes. "Are you ready?"

She nodded, tensing. He squeezed her hand gently. "It won't hurt, I promise."

It started a second later, a cool wave of power coming from him and extending over their joined hands and gradually up her arms until her whole body felt awash in a tingling wave of energy. It felt almost like the moment one came out of a bath: clean and fresh. Gooseflesh rippled over her skin.

The throbbing of her hand faded at once into a dim pressure in the back of her mind, and she let out an involuntary sigh of relief.

He opened his hands, looking at the mark critically. It was still there but dim rather than blinding. "Better?"

"Yes," she said, removing her hand and curling it against her chest.

"If you fight against it, it won't last very long," he said, "but if you keep relaxed, it should last the rest of the night." He glanced at the sky. "Or whatever's left of it anyway."

She nodded. "Thank you, Ser Cullen."

"Just Cullen," he said with a smile. "I am no longer in the Order."

She frowned. "You are to be the leader of the Inquisitions armies, so I understand from the Seeker. You should have a title: a rank, yes? Humans seem to expect those kinds of things, so your men will too."

He coughed gently, seeming embarrassed. "Well, properly speaking, I have not earned the rank of commander—"

"Commander Cullen it is," Callaia said.

He stared at her. "Just as easy as that, then?"

She shrugged, stepping out past him through the tree line back to the campsite. He fell into step beside her, shortening his stride to keep pace with her.

"I have a feeling the Inquisition will face much bigger problems than the arbitrary handing out of rank," she said in a soft voice, rubbing her thumb across the slumbering mark.

"Indeed."

They were silent for two more steps until Callaia paused, turning to the tall man beside her. "Cullen?"

"Yes?"

She rubbed at the mark again, not looking at him. "May I... if I need to again... will you..."

Cullen stilled her fretful rubbing with a gentle touch. "Of course. Whatever you need, Inquisitor. I am here." He inclined his head in a half bow. That and the generosity of his answer left her momentarily speechless as he headed back to his spot by the fire. She had been raised on tales of shemlen greed and betrayal... the stories had not also mentioned their kindness as well.