Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Author's note: Good god, why so hard to get this out? Why? :( And guys? For one of my stories with most hits, I hear surprisingly little from people. Review a girl out, yes?
In this chapter: Yeah, clue to men everywhere. Never hide stuff from women. Especially magic-loaded ones.
xxxXXXxxx
Templars are brave. They struggle through hardships back and forth, battle abominations, demons and such other dangerous things all with a sole word of the Knight-Commander. They are good people. They are strong. They don't flee from magic. And Cullen is a Templar. As such, he is all of those things and he flees from none. He was, in fact, merely avoiding Amell like she was a tainted Magister herself.
In truth, Cullen had been lucky to have lasted that long. A month of secrecy was uncanny in the Tower, even one who had considerably less people than before the event, and he had managed it. Every trace of paperwork had either been burned or sent directly to Greagoir, every pack of baggage slowly shipped off to the destination under the guise of Circle material. It wasn't like he is afraid or anything, it is merely that… who is he kidding? Amell was a scary bitch without the sword; with it, she is the personification of a hurricane composed by broken glass.
It is somewhat odd to presume the mage wouldn't want him to go but he feels safe to assume so. As an Enchanter, her responsibilities had actually turned real. Half the day she spent running back and forth, patting away apprentices and trying not to explode things as Irving gave her permission to experiment. The other half was spent complaining, prodding him for attention or forcing him around as a pack mule.
He preferred when she hated his guts. Being her friend is definitely more tiresome than being her guard.
"Ah. Cullen." Formalities since his attack on her don't exist, never mind that he didn't do it by his own choice. "There you are."
Enchanter or not, Diana is what she had always been as an apprentice. Clad in mage robes – red now replacing mustard yellow – a metal staff peaking above her shoulder, a little lost between the blonde hair which escapes from the tight bun. The main difference resides in how easily she slips unnoticed to the Templar floor, paying little to no attention to those who stare at her as she passes; if only because mages avoid that place like a Templar needs solely an ominous dark corner to grip a blade.
The enchantment is long gone though and he knows the person underneath that blonde hair.
An Archdemon in tanned skin and braids, that's what she is.
The woman is definitely busy, her hands carrying a pile of vellums that seems never-ending, her words mumbled likely because she carries a feather between her teeth. From where he stands, he can see the small tilt of her eyebrow, probably wondering why he's staring at her like she's about to fireball the interior. "Cam I orc ere?"
"For those of us who don't speak your language?"
Tired of waiting for permission, Diana invades his room, spiting the quill onto his desk – he really liked her once? There's definitely no account for his bad taste – before dumping all the vellums and climbing onto his chair. Like the whole place is hers, her legs are crossed, robe barely covering her skin. And he waits, not so patiently, for her to stop the invading and get to explaining while trying very hard not to stare at the hem of her robe that persists in sticking to her knees. At the hem. Just at the hem. Not a peep down, not an inch.
Maker, when did she get that tanned?
"I'm going to work here for a while," the mage informs bluntly, forgoing the need for additional questions or mental arguments. Then again, she's already sitting and taking over, why would she bother with such things? She was always an apologist of the lazier pattern of action. "Irving's getting the new ones introduced to the place and I don't need to sleep any more than absolutely necessary. Have you ever tried working with his voice droning on and on and on. Maker help me, it's mind-numbing. But you wouldn't know. Templars don't work. They stand around and look pretty."
The conversation sounds so innocent, so rambled and normal. Cullen doesn't understand why he's rooted to his spot, skin tingling while he waits for a bomb to explode. Half her words simply don't filter their way in. Only the presence of her staff and the necessity for a Smite tingling at his fingertips.
"Pretty?"
"Shiny armors and skirts, Commander," Diana develops, quill back between her teeth. "Whoever invented that made sure you'll never be taken seriously without Holy Smites being thrown around."
An ink bottle is carefully taken from one of her many pockets and placed on the available surface before deft fingers open a nearby vellum. There is a careful handwriting in them, round letters perfectly aligned in the coarse paper. He can't exactly see what is the subject they address but it is likely related to the studies of the taint she is attempting, exchanging notes constantly with some crazy mage to the north which, supposedly, is connected to the Wardens. He doesn't know details and tries not to ask. If he knows too much, he'll feel guilty over not speaking with Greagoir. Don't ask, don't tell, better to keep out of it as much as possible. That's the loyalty he owes her.
To complete the image of complete relaxation, yet another pocket yields a bunch of cookies, haphazardly throw onto the desk's before she proceeds to pay him no attention whatsoever.
As a Templar, Cullen learned how to be quiet and wait around mages. As himself, Diana taught him that waiting is just not possible, especially when she is in his personal private space, acting like every inch belongs to her. He manages to keep silent for a grant total of two minutes before he is forced by the circumstances to act.
Don't sigh, don't sigh, don't you dare sigh. "What are you doing here, Amell?"
"Working. And, in case you didn't notice, it's hard to concentrate with you yapping about. Did you know mathematics can be used to describe magical effects?" A cookie is smashed shamelessly between her lips, little crumbs falling onto his previously immaculate desk. "This Warden is an absolute genius," she mutters, almost to herself. "With very loose morals and I definitely, Maker, definitely wouldn't want to live in his vicinity but I'll be damned, the man's a genius."
"You didn't understand the question." He highly doubts that. "You're in my room. Why?"
"In compensation, you aren't one." The quill taps against her chin rhythmically and he focuses on it. Makes everything easier, especially the part where he's not supposed to stare downwards. "Already told you. Irving babbling. Besides, you are in my Tower."
Cookie falls into her lap, hands slither down, hem gets pulled even more upwards and her legs jump at his eyes and yell 'hello' instead of just waving shyly. If there's a disadvantage with being a Templar and being stuck watching and not touching, he's sure it's sitting on his shoulder and going mwahaha at him.
"Muah." Right, not what he wanted to say. Cullen swallows slowly and opens his mouth again, hoping the knot downstairs has softened. The one in his throat, he means! Not. There. "This isn't your Tower." Good, words have been said. We have progress.
"I'm a mage, it's definitely more mine than yours. You know, Tower of Magi." Her eyes flash up for a second, incredibly green against her tanned face. "Besides, it's not like you're staying."
Strange. A bomb was supposed to make more noise than that. Cullen's mind goes into overdrive, limbs rushing in attempt to force him to search for a shelter right freaking now because Amell seems calm and that's never a good sign. She continues scribbling away, one hand busy with the quill, the other lifting cookies to her lips without the minimum of respect for his carpet.
"How do you know that?" He asks gingerly, leaning just the slightest trace towards the headboard, a very handy barrier. In case of fire. You know.
Amell snorts before replying, a perfect way to mock him and impersonate a pig at the same time. "Irving never cleans up his desk. How do you think Jowan knew he was about to be made Tranquil? All paperwork gets thrown around at some moment in time."
There is nothing else to be said. Silence falls between them, as oppressing as if Greagoir had entered the room and started standing guard to a corner. Cullen truly doesn't know what to say.
"When are you going anyway?" The mage continues, still avoiding his gaze.
"Tomorrow."
The silence. It presses him against the floor. And her calm is an eruption ready to happen, the floor rumbling underneath his feet but steady as the volcano refuses to go off. Cullen decides it's best to poke the dragon with a sharp sword instead of waiting.
"You're not bothered about it?"
The quill bends between her fingers and a sharp sound informs him it's now useless.
Bullseye.
"Why would I be?" Because she's finally looking at him and she's sneering like a perfect noble born. "It's not like I owe you or anything. Or that I'm against it. Or that we're friends. No."
A deep black blot rushes through the vellum as the ink drips, shamelessly covering her previous precise notes. Cullen can almost hear it laughing of her, a sure sign his sanity isn't all there in between his anxiety. He's also a little smug. Diana is a person who causes instability to others, not someone who suffers through it.
And she's going to rip him a new one from head to toe.
Diana takes what seems to be a couple of steadying breaths, gives him a particularly incensed look before settling down. "By the way, you should be guarding the library right about now."
What? Cullen mentally reviews his previous orders. No, he's pretty sure…
"No, I shouldn't."
Her lips twist, redrawing her ever-present smile line.
"Yes. You definitely should."
Cullen feels he should be starting to fear right about now.
"Amell."
She ignores him.
"Amell."
Again, oh look, he's invisible.
"Diana! What did you do?"
Good Maker, her smile. It is so fake his skin stands on end. "Me? Why would I do anything? It's not my fault you're not where you're supposed to be. It's not my fault either that you didn't pay attention to your shifts or to how easily your rosters are manipulated. Especially Greagoir's handwriting." Her quill begins scratching once more, steady lines drawing defined characters he doesn't understand. "Fire training for the apprentices? In a library and with no guards, no less. Just imagine what will happen."
Oh.
That'd be his heart stopping.
"That's for hiding it from me, you coward," Diana keeps going with pure womanly viciousness, fingers tightly wrapped around her bent quill. The Templar can't help but see the similarity between the woman and Owain even if one is all spiteful anger and another breathes passive sadism. "I would have cared if you had only told me. I thought."
The rest of the sentence dies on her lips as if she has hit a barrier but her eyes never turn away.
"I'm sorry."
Cullen finds that he is. Sorry for leaving, sorry for not protecting her in the maelstrom which overtook the Tower and he is an especially sorry excuse for a Templar for allowing everything to take place. He was the Templar, he was the one who was supposed to be distant, not to blush whenever she walked into the room or allow her to grasp a blade or to mock and be his friend and harm her for leaving without a word.
"Well," the quill snaps again between her fingers while the words are spat through pressed lips like each hurts to give form. "Don't know why you would be. You did nothing wrong, absolutely completely nothing. You're a veritable first child of the Maker." While the vellum underneath her fingertips begins to smoke at the edges and her robe is close enough to catch on fire. Her magic, that one bristles and sparks in the air making his hair stand on end.
"I smell smoke," she informs, effectively closing the discussion. "You should leave."
Only he doesn't want to. Too much lies unsaid and he wants to explain that he might be a little cowardly, that he might want to flee what she turns him into; a person and not a Templar, a good person who wants to keep her safe and. That would be himself smelling smoke and ashes. Greagoir is going to kill him. Ah, to the Fade with everything.
Cullen runs out, barely sparing a look behind him. Diana doesn't follow. And when he comes back – covered in soot, cursing, ears ringing from the Knight-Commander's kind 'what did you think you were doing, you idiot' tone, Amell is gone without a trace and doesn't show herself before his departure.
The man pretends not to feel disappointed.
xxxXXXXxxx
All in all, Cullen thinks when entering Kirkwall, he got out easy. Just a sample of a fire, a firm scolding and he had been able to leave the next day without punishment. He really thinks everything is over and he won't suffer for keeping his personal life secret.
Only he arrives in the Gallows, settles his affairs, reaches for his chest in search of clothes for a well-deserved rest. Instead of Amell, her neat handwriting glares at him from the inside of the wooden item.
'And this is for running away, you weakling.'
He had never known himself to own red satin underwear, the Templar mutters, messing away his baggage in search for the breeches that were supposed to be inside. Nor dresses. Not frilly dresses with bright pink bows and sparkling beads.
"Knight-Captain. What are doing?"
To complete his nightmare, Meredith would have come to welcome him in this precise moment in time. Of course. Cullen slaps the chest's top down, stifling the urge to jump on the offending item or - much more likely - light it on fire before the Knight-Commander forms a whole new opinion of his person. Like someone who has a whole cemetery inside his closet.
He sighs silently, standing rigid and straight, gathering all pieces of his dignity when it seems a more than futile effort.
Alright. Maybe she's upset.
Late at night, when Meredith is more or less convict she might not have done a horrible choice, Cullen returns to his room and learns his purse is very freed of sovereigns, his sweets have faded into nothingness and a book has been included, one which would get him arrested in three different countries.
Screw 'maybe'.