A/N: omg y'all it's been so long since I updated this story, I'm so sorry. If anyone is still reading, thank you-thank you-thank you! This past year has been completely bananas, but I'm really trying to get back into writing again. This chapter is unbeta-ed, so any mistakes are all on me, and honestly, I just wanted to get it posted before I hit the actual 2 year mark between updates so many apologies if it's riddled with errors. Again, thank you so much for reading despite the really long delay.

Cullen paced the breadth of the workshop, listening doubtfully to the excited torrent of magical theory that tumbled forth from Dagna's tongue. As promised before she left on her expedition, Anya had asked the Arcanist to research lyrium withdrawal and find a way to help Cullen's symptoms. Through a bit of trial and error, and several of the lucky leaps of logic that the clever dwarf's mind seemed to make with ease, Dagna had arrived at the notion that the surest way to recover from a lifetime of lyrium use was to increase his contact with magic. Cullen protested, of course.

"That doesn't make sense, Dagna."

"Oh yes, it does!" she said. "Think about it - lyrium is the only known substance to simultaneously exist physically in both this world and the Fade, right? But all humans are connected to the other side, even if only mages can control that connection. Mages use the lyrium that they absorb through the Veil to perform wonderful feats that should be impossible." Cullen raised his eyebrows at that, but the Arcanist was too excited about her theory to notice. "And Templars use the lyrium they ingest to reinforce the Veil, to make sure that the impossible stays impossible and that the laws that bind this reality stay in place - which is also a pretty neat trick, when you think about it!"

Cullen never had thought about it, at least not in those terms. He certainly viewed himself as an enforcer, but of Chantry law, not reality itself. Truthfully, he'd never really considered how lyrium worked within him, as long as it worked. It reflected an alarming lack of curiosity on his part, really, but he now that he was pondering Dagna's ideas, he found that her assumptions didn't match his experiences.

"I don't need lyrium to perform a templar's duties," he argued. "I was trained to fight mages for years before I was given my first dose. And I haven't taken any for many, many months but I could still smite a maleficar if called upon to do so."

"Because you've been taught how." Dagna grinned and rubbed her hands together. "It's your innate connection to the Fade that allows you to reinforce the Veil. Anyone with training could do it - the lyrium just makes you better at it. But…much better at it, right?"

"Yes," he conceded. "So if I've already got this connection, and I'm not taking lyrium anymore, why would I need contact with magic?"

"Okay, we're getting into speculative territory now, but stick with me. I think that taking lyrium thickens the wall between you and the Fade. Like if the way mages use lyrium to pull power from the Fade makes the Veil more porous, the way templars use lyrium to reinforce the Veil hardens it. Neither extreme is good for you. We all know what happens when the Veil is too thin, or completely torn, but I think humans - and elves, of course - need some connection to the Fade, which is why you dream. Templars get sick because the lyrium interferes with that natural link to the other side."

"I still have dreams, though."

"Are they pleasant ones?"

"No. But what difference does it make?"

Dagna scribbled in her journal, chewing on her lip. "Maybe none. As I said, this is speculative. Have you noticed any difference in your dreams since you stopped taking the lyrium?"

"They've gotten worse!" He crossed his arms and frowned. "If your theory is correct, shouldn't they be getting better?"

"I don't know." Dagna shrugged cheerfully. "Do you have more or less contact with magic now than you did when you were taking it? I know you've been spending time with the Inquisitor."

She'd not said it in a sly or insinuating tone, which he appreciated. "Well, certainly less than when I was in Kirkwall. I suppose - I mean, other than when fighting demons - none, really."

"You don't ever go down to the healers' clinic? Aren't you in a lot of pain?" Dagna set down her quill in surprise, clearly not expecting him to say he had no contact with magic whatsoever.

"No, I really don't have time for that. I can live with the symptoms." He knew he ought to tell her why he avoided the clinic, but the words were not forthcoming. To his relief, the dwarf didn't seem interested in uncovering his reasons.

"Excellent!" she crowed. "That makes sense! When you were in Kirkwall, you were taking lyrium, but you were also constantly surrounded by mages. I bet even just the ambient level of magic in the air was pretty intense! Now you're off the lyrium, but you're not getting nearly the level of exposure that you used to. We'll have to change that."

"What do you mean?" Cullen asked warily.

"It's simple. Find a mage, get him to cast spells on you, and see what happens." Dagna grinned. "If my theory is correct, you'll actually feel better, not worse. Well, maybe not immediately, depending on the spell."

"Arcanist, with all due respect, I don't see how this is going to improve my condition. I'm sick because lyrium is addictive and I've stopped taking it, not because I haven't been fighting mages recently."

Dagna pursed her lips and tipped her head, studying him. "I never said you had to fight them. I think healing spells would work just as well. The contact is what's important - you need magic to loosen up the Veil for you. You need to get back to where you would have been if you'd never taken it, with a normal connection to the Fade."

"Won't that happen naturally, as a consequence of abstinence?"

"Oh yes, I imagine it will, if you manage to survive the side-effects. But why should you suffer more than you have to?" Dagna sighed, her expression sympathetic. "You're not eager to get blasted with magic, huh? I guess I can't blame you, I'm sure this all sounds crazy. I wish I could better explain how I reached my conclusions, but it's hard to put into words. There is so little documentation describing how lyrium actually works in the body - shockingly little, when you consider how long templars and mages have been using it to augment their powers - and so much of what I'm telling you is based on bits of information gathered here and there during many years of field research. It's like it's coalescing in my mind, creating a feeling I can't ignore!" She paused in her increasingly enthusiastic lecture to take in his dubious expression and sighed. "I get that it's hard for you to trust my intuition, but I know I'm right. I know the key to restoring your health, and any templar's health, is to restore balance within. And for that you need magic."

There was a pleasing symmetry to the theory when she put it that way, even if it was formed more of conjecture than facts. Despite his misgivings, he trusted that Dagna truly believed that magic would help him, and he owed it to his brothers and sisters in the Order to investigate any avenue that might relieve their affliction.

"It sounds as if I need to put myself back on active duty as a templar. I suppose I'll be training Lysas and the other mages after all." He had hoped to leave that task to Rylen, and not only because he was ashamed of his own suboptimal condition. Though he agreed it ought to be done, helping mages learn to fight templars still felt wrong to him, and even if there was no moral difference between ordering it as commander of the forces and doing it himself, he would have preferred not to participate directly with the exercises.

Dagna took no notice of his reluctant tone. "Yes, definitely. And let them patch you up afterwards!"

Cullen grunted noncommittally, trying and failing not to bristle at the notion that he would need patching up in the first place. He knew his sensitivity regarding his physical prowess was ridiculous, bordering on paranoid, but without Cassandra to provide him with an objective assessment, he was terrified that he was misjudging his own abilities and worse, that everyone else could see it but him.

"I'm sure I'll be fine." He adjusted the strap on his leather bracer, averting his face so she wouldn't see his scowl.

"Of course you will, it's just training," she replied sunnily. "But if you do get singed, be sure to have a mage heal you. I want you to get maximum magical exposure."

Cullen's lips twisted into a rueful smile. He wished now that he'd let Anya have her way with him. Testing Dagna's insane theory in the Harold's quarters sounded infinitely preferable to experimenting in the training ring with Lysas. Ah well. Surely these exercises would also help him in that regard. Perhaps by the time Anya returned, he would be over not only his withdrawal, but his phobia of magic, and the barriers between them would fall away. It was certainly worth trying, for her.

...

"Varric, that pole does not go there."

"Relax, Seeker, I know what I'm doing."

"That's not the right angle."

"Back off, Pentaghast! I know how to pitch a tent!"

Cassandra huffed and muttered angrily under her breath as Anya rolled her eyes and dropped her companions' saddlebags on the ground. The Seeker and the merchant had not been able to mend their relationship on the road, though Anya suspected that both secretly wanted to reconcile. She wished more than anything that she could convince them to simply talk to each other, to each admit fault, and to put their differences behind them, but thus far, her entreaties had fallen on stubborn, prideful, unwilling ears. Instead, they spent day and night picking at each other over the most trivial of matters, from Cassandra's penmanship, to Varric's posture in the saddle, to the way each held a knife and fork. It was exhausting, and Anya was sick of it. She eyed the half-erected tent with displeasure as the pair continued to snipe at each other. The campsite would have been set up by now if only they could work together without arguing! Shaking her head, she pulled her cloak around her shoulders and joined Solas and Vivienne on kitchen duty. They greeted her politely as Anya stepped closer to the stones encircling the campfire and warmed her hands over the merry flames. Vivienne glanced up from chopping herbs and parted her shapely lips, clearly preparing to unleash some sort of observation about the Inquisitor. Anya inwardly cringed, expecting elegantly worded but nonetheless brutal criticism of some fault or other, but instead, the mage thoroughly astonished her with unexpected praise.

"I must say, darling, your sword work is really improving. You'll be a proper Knight-Enchanter by the time you return to Skyhold. Commander Helaine will be impressed."

"Thank you, Vivienne!" Anya exhaled, relieved to have escaped censure and genuinely proud of her progress. The Imperial Enchanter had been training her in an unusual battle method, one that was both exciting and terrifying. Using a lyrium-infused hilt as a conduit, she'd learned to summon a spirit-blade from the Fade and fight in close quarters, the way an ordinary swordsman would. Well, if ordinary swordsmen carried ethereal blades unbreakable by any corporeal force, and protected themselves with an all-encompassing shield fortified by the Fade itself. The footwork was similar, anyway.

"One could argue that a 'proper Knight-Enchanter' is rightfully called an Arcane Warrior," Solas interjected. His tone was mild, but Anya clenched her jaw, already disliking the new direction of the conversation. "The skills you so ably employ were originally developed by elves."

"Originally, perhaps," Vivienne sniffed. "But the method has been so improved-upon since that it's hardly recognizable as the same art. More importantly, this technique has been approved by the Chantry."

Solas narrowed his eyes. "Ah yes. The very Chantry that seems determined to erase any contributions elves have made to its dominion."

"I think I'll gather some firewood!" Anya chirped, hastily escaping the brewing argument. Vivienne and Solas seemed to thrive on debate, but Anya found their frequent, heated discussions nearly as stressful as Varric and Cassandra's spats. She had no wish to stand around awkwardly while the two mages provoked each other, especially on such a sensitive topic. Shivering against the wind, she drew her cloak more tightly around herself and raised her hood, following a narrow path down to the sea. The rocky shoreline was littered with driftwood, not all of it wet, and Anya hummed to herself as she gathered the twisted branches, glad to have exchanged the needling of her companions for the pleasant roar of the
waves. She drew up short when she realized she was approaching a pair of figures walking along the strand. Sam and Carver Hawke – and they also appeared to be arguing. Again.

Anya abruptly turned around and headed back towards camp. If Varric and Cassandra's squabbles were tiresome, and Solas and Vivienne's debates unpleasant, the quarrels of the Hawke siblings were absolutely insufferable. It was obvious that there was a serious matter of disagreement between the two, and though they refused to discuss it openly in front of the group, simmering resentment bubbled forth every time they spoke to each other. Anya tried to keep them separated, but there was only so much she could do. Whatever had them at odds seemed to be a private family matter, and Anya took their secrecy as a sign to keep her nose out of their business. She just wished they would offer her similar courtesy and keep their business to themselves! At least the Mac Tirs seemed to get on well. Anya didn't think she could have tolerated marital discord on top of everything else.

She deposited her armload of kindling near the fire, noting with distaste that the camp cooks had now
taken up the subject of the Canticle of Shartan. With an irritated sigh, she wandered toward the edge of the small clearing, where Nathaniel was keeping watch from atop a rocky outcrop.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," he said, and no more. Howe, bless him, was much more inclined to brooding introspection than bickering, a quality Anya very much admired at the moment. They sat back to back in companionable silence, watching for trouble from east and west. When Vivienne called the party to dinner, Anya offered to bring him a plate, but Nate shook his head.

"Hawke will join me. I saw her walking with her brother earlier, and I'm sure she's got a full head of steam to vent."

So Howe was privy to the Hawke family mystery? Interesting. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. Sam and Nate were obviously very close.

"That's kind of you." Anya couldn't keep a sour note from her voice. "I admit I tire of all this fighting. I don't think I could listen to complaints on top of it, especially from one who has power to put it to rest."

Though the sun had dropped below the edge of the sea, she could still make out the white flash of Nathaniel's teeth when he grinned. "She always finds a way to make it up to me."

Anya was glad that it was too dark to see her cheeks flush! The sounds that erupted each night from the tent that Hawke and Howe shared left very little doubt what he meant.

"Right. Well. Thanks for keeping watch." She hastily scrambled down the steep embankment and joined the others around the campfire, where thankfully, the group seemed to have recovered their manners and were all engaging in friendly conversation.

After dinner, once everything had been packed up and secured, Anya retired to the tent she shared with Cassandra. A scout had met them in Lac d'Argent with a bundle of correspondence, but Anya had only time to read the most urgent of messages on the road – which excluded the missive she was most eager to open, a letter addressed to her in Cullen's hand and marked Personal. With the Seeker on patrol with Carver, Anya took advantage of the rare moment of privacy to devour his words.

Dear Anya,

I miss you. I've tried for the better part of an hour to come up with a more eloquent introduction to this letter, but my hand refuses to scribble anything but the naked truth. It feels so different to be apart from you now that my feelings for you are so clear, and so wonderfully reciprocated. I find myself wandering past the door to your quarters in the late hours of the evening, wishing there were a reason to go up. It's painful to acknowledge that our separation will grow before it shrinks, that every step takes you farther from me and widens the distance between us – but there it is. And of course, I'm proud of you, and aware of how necessary and important your missions are, and I would never be so selfish as to keep you at Skyhold when you are needed elsewhere, so… enough complaining. But I do miss you. Quite a lot.

Anya smiled fondly, her heart squeezing with emotion at the thought of Cullen loitering about the Great Hall, casting wistful glances at her door. She loved that he'd become so open with his feelings for her, and despite the damnable distance between them, his letters made her feel closer to him than ever before.

The rest of his correspondence was filled with news of Skyhold and its denizens, the training of the mage forces - of which he was taking a much more active part than she'd anticipated - and even more surprising, his growing friendship with Dorian.

You'll be pleased (I hope) to learn that I've somewhat revised my opinion of "The Vint," as Iron Bull calls him. He's not quite the preening dandy I took him for at first glance, I must admit. Once past his flippant facade, there is a thoughtful and sincere gentleman lurking beneath that suave surface. Of course, it doesn't hurt that he is very fond of you, and while I now feel foolish for mistaking his affection for romantic intent, I find his warm regard for you quite endearing. We've taken to playing chess together in the garden when time allows, and we speak of you often, among many other subjects. We have more in common than I ever would have suspected, and I would even go so far as to say I consider him a friend. On one point, however, my initial judgment was quite sound. The man is utterly untrustworthy, at least when it comes to chess - he cheats!

Well, my dear Harold, the evening is drawing to a close, and so must this letter. I hope you'll have a chance to reply when you reach Val Royeaux. I pray daily for your safety and that of your comrades, and I look forward to news of your travels. You are always on my mind and in my heart, Anya, every second of every hour, waking and sleeping. Stay on your toes, and may the Maker guide your steps.

With warmest affection,

Cullen

Anya smiled as she folded the letter and tucked it beneath her pillow. Her heart ached to be so far from him, but there was also a serenity and strength in the connection between them that felt like nothing she'd ever known. As much as she wanted to speak with him, to touch him, to see his smile, the distance between them didn't frighten her. She knew that he would be there for her when she returned.

Provided, of course, that the Maker didn't take him from her, as He had taken every other person she'd ever cared for, one way or another.

The thought was so hideous and so instantly terrifying that Anya squeezed her eyes shut and banished it, not even allowing herself a prayer for Cullen's safety. Instead, she began mentally composing her reply to his letter, and let the loving words she intended to write carry her off to her dreams.

...

Mother Gisele led a small group of worshipers in prayer in the garden, the drone of the Chant a comforting backdrop, unobtrusive to Cullen's muddled thoughts. Dorian's complaint, however, cut through his abstraction.

"If you're not even going to try to win, we might as well skip to the part where you buy me a drink. I'm parched, and now I'm bored." When Cullen didn't reply, the mage leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the stone table. "What's on your mind, Commander?"

Cullen sucked his upper lip between his teeth, scraping the ragged edge of his scar. He knew exactly what he wished to speak of, but he had no idea where to begin. Every word he imagined sounded absurd, humiliating.

He'd done as Dagna had asked and begun participating fully in training the mages to fight red templars. They were making good progress, and as a result, Cullen was suffering more frequent injuries. Though none of them were ever serious, they usually required a bit of first aid, and he was trying his best to comply with the Arcanist's instructions and allow the mage medics to heal him. But Maker's bollocks, it was torture! Even more so than the violent spells fired in the scrimmage, healing magic seemed to ignite an irrational wildfire of panic in his breast. To stand still and allow mages to come close, to permit them to cast lingering charms upon his body - it was all he could do not to scream as the swirling, tingling tendrils of magic caressed his skin and worked their way into his flesh. It mattered not that the spells were painless, and even sometimes pleasant. The entire business filled him with gut-wrenching dread. He was beginning to despair that he would never conquer his fear of magic, until it occurred to him to enlist Dorian's assistance. But to contemplate the request was one matter, and to actually make it was entirely another.

Cullen spent so long in indecision, staring sightlessly at the tidy little herb garden, that Dorian grew fed up and rose to his feet.

"I've better things to do than play chess with a golem," he grumbled. Cullen shook his head to clear the cobwebs and also stood.

"Would you come to my office? I wish to speak on a personal matter."

"You forfeit? Consider my curiosity piqued." Dorian smiled and indicated for Cullen to proceed. They walked in silence through the corridor and up the long staircase to the ramparts, offering greetings to those they passed along the wall but saying nothing to each other. When they entered Cullen's office, Dorian took a seat near the desk, but Cullen found himself unable to settle, instead pacing back and forth in the center of the room.

"Is this to be an exercise in mind-reading?" Dorian's dry tone betrayed his impatience. "May I have a hint, Commander? Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

"Animal," Cullen replied with a self-deprecating snort. "Definitely animal. Dorian, has Anya ever spoken to you of the troubles between us?"

The mage looked startled. "No, not at all, not since Josephine's soiree. I was under the impression that everything was going quite well between the two of you."

"It is! And I don't mean to give the impression that it isn't, but we have had some...hurdles, I suppose. Has she ever talked to you about our...well, our intimate relationship?"

Dorian shook his head, his reply rather tart. "You really think her so indiscreet? You give her too little credit."

"I meant no offense, nor to suggest that Anya would say anything to you that she ought no to. It's just that I know you're very close, and I just wondered if she might have said something to you, mage-to-mage… but clearly she didn't, so I will." Cullen laughed and shrugged helplessly. "If I can make myself say the words. I have no wish to embarrass either of us, but I'm in need of your aid."

Dorian crossed his ankle over his knee and steepled his fingers together, but said nothing. A beam of light through the small window crossed his torso, the tawny skin of his exposed shoulder burnished to bronze in the late afternoon glow. The Tevinter mage was a beautiful man by any measure, and Cullen felt a nauseating squirm of nervous indecision as he considered his comely friend. Was he mad to enlist Dorian's help? Wrong, even? It might change things between them, or between either of them and Anya, in ways he couldn't possible predict. He nearly talked himself into dropping the matter at once and telling the mage to forget about it, but Dorian's steady, serious gaze suggested that he wouldn't let Cullen off the hook so easily. And if he did, Cullen's problem would remain unresolved.

"Dorian, when you're with someone, intimately, I mean - do you always use magic?"

"Yes…?" He drew out the word slowly, his expression thoroughly befuddled. "Why wouldn't I? It's half the fun of being a mage! And fucking one, for that matter." He sat back and wrinkled his brow, an expression of disgust crawling across his face. "Do you mean to say that your templar sensibilities prohibit magic in bed? Oh please tell me you're really not that boring, Commander!"

Cullen clenched his jaw, feeling instantly defensive, though he knew Dorian would likely regret his words once he learned of the abuse he'd suffered at Kinloch Hold. He spit out the story quickly, with as little emotion and few details as possible. To his credit, the mage promptly apologized for his assumption and expressed an appropriate amount of horror for Cullen's past trials.

"Thank you. I thought I'd put it all behind me, but then I met Anya and...well, I haven't said as much to her yet, but it seems rather obvious at this point that I'm in love with her." Dorian responded with a roll of his eyes and a small huff of laughter.

"Glad you finally caught up."

Cullen ignored him and continued on, his heart pounding as he tried to drum up the courage to explain his proposition. "So, yes. I love Anya - all of her - and I want to be wholly herself with me, especially in our most intimate moments. I don't want her magic to be something I simply tolerate for her sake. But I'm not there yet, and I don't think I can get there on my own."

Dorian uncrossed his legs and sat up straighter in his chair. "What exactly are you asking of me, Cullen?"

"Maker, this is going to sound ridiculous," Cullen grumbled, worrying at his scar with his teeth once again. "All right, I'll just be out with it, but let me preface by saying if you are unwilling or uncomfortable in any way, I completely understand! After I beg your forgiveness for trespassing too far upon our new friendship, we will never speak of it again. I mean that quite sincerely."

"At the moment, my only discomfort is a nearly unbearable state of curiosity, but duly noted. What is your request?"

"Yes. Well. I suppose it's this: I'm asking you to touch me - not in a sexual way! Strictly above the waist! But otherwise, you know, somewhat like you would in bed with a lover. But not exactly like that." Cullen's cheeks were burning so intensely, it was a wonder his hair didn't catch fire. Andraste have mercy, this is so awkward! "I think it will help me get used to the sensation, so when Anya returns, I can be with her as she deserves and not waste what little time we have together feeling panicked about her magic."

Dorian's expression hovered somewhere between surprise and consternation, and the anxiety in Cullen's breast increased as he tried to gauge if he'd gone too far. "Believe me, Dorian, I realize this is a huge imposition and quite a lot to ask of you, so you must refuse if you feel reluctant in the slightest. And I also want to acknowledge..." Cullen paused, considering his next words carefully. "I know that you prefer the company of other men, and I should be clear that I'm not asking for or offering that kind of relationship. But I am asking for a very strange and complicated gesture of friendship, and I don't want to be insensitive to your feelings. You can say no. In fact, please say no, if that's at all your inclination."

The mage stood up and tipped his head, examining Cullen thoughtfully. "I must say, Commander, for such an upright little Chantry boy, you are charmingly unpredictable at times. I wouldn't have foreseen this request in a thousand Ages. I'm so astonished, I believe I need a drink." Without pausing for permission, he crossed the room to Cullen's cabinet and withdrew the bottle of Fereldan whiskey and two glasses. "Frankly, I'm amazed you didn't break out the liquor before you propositioned me."

Cullen narrowed his eyes at his teasing. "It probably would have been smarter to get you drunk first."

Dorian laughed. "It never hurts!" He poured generously in each glass and handed one to Cullen. "To the evolution of our friendship."

"So that's a yes?" Cullen clinked his glass against Dorian's and took a healthy swallow of the burning liquid, teetering on the edge of relief.

"It's a yes." Dorian downed his drink and poured another. "But you owe me one."

Cullen nodded seriously. "Absolutely I do, without question. Thank you, Dorian. You're a good man, and a good friend. To me and to Anya."

The mage responded with a wry smile. "Aren't I, though? Truly, I consider myself Tevinter's finest export." He took another sip of his drink and frowned. "Though this place would certainly be improved by a few others. I swear, I haven't found decent liquor south of Vol Dorma. It's sad."

Cullen snorted. "Quite tragic. If I were to retrieve your favorite brand of rotgut from Minrathous, would you call us even?" At the bright gleam in Dorian's eye, he immediately backtracked. "That was a joke!"

"I can just imagine you in Minrathous, my friend. Marching down the street like you've got your sword lodged up your arse, lecturing all and sundry about the dangers of abominations, startling at every mundane cast of magic…"

The caricature felt a bit mean, but Cullen tried receive it with good humor. "Perhaps not the last one, with your assistance."

Dorian set his glass down and nodded, no longer smirking. "Indeed, I truly hope I can help." He began rolling up the one sleeve of his robe, his movements suddenly brisk and focused.

"Well? Shall we begin?"