"We've built the siege engines and readied our forces, Inquisitor. Give the word and we march on Adamant."
Cullen's face was stoic. His chin was slightly raised – an expression Solana had noticed he used to project confidence. His gaze was steady. There was nothing in his poise to indicate that he'd come to her the night before and begged her to stay.
Begged was not entirely accurate. He wasn't the kind of man who begged for anything. He'd come to her room and paced across the floor, outlining why he thought it would be better if she waited at Skyhold while the Inquisition sorted out the trouble with the Wardens.
"Adamant Fortress has withstood countless darkspawn attacks without falling," he'd said. "The Grey Wardens defending its walls are legendary warriors."
"So am I."
He'd given her a pained look and then paced back across the room. "You're but one woman."
"I won't be fighting alone."
"Yes, but…" He'd stopped to look at her as if unsure whether to continue. "In Halamshiral… after that spell…"
One healing spell had completely drained her. "This will be different."
"I don't see how."
"I know what I'm up against. I'll have potions, armour."
He'd closed his eyes as if praying for strength. "I could order you to stay."
"You know I'd never forgive you."
"A small price for your life."
He didn't understand her life was forfeit regardless.
"Cullen, I'm a Grey Warden. We stop Blights, that's what we do. I've taken vows to do this."
His nostrils had flared at that, and he'd scowled. "To the Void with your vows. Have you not given enough?"
She'd moved closer while he glared at her, and gently touched his arm. "I'm sorry."
His head had dropped, a gesture she knew as defeat.
They'd stood that way for some time, before he'd finally pulled away and left without saying anything more.
Now they stood at the war table, their army already assembling by the gates.
"Commander," Max said, meeting his gaze. "Go give the order."
Cullen nodded, and swept out of the room. He didn't look at her. She didn't expect him to.
It was the night before they reached the fortress and the entire camp seemed to be holding its breath.
They only had a day's march across the sand left to go, but Cullen had ordered them to make camp. He wanted to reach Adamant in the early evening, when the setting sun was in their favour, rather than as it was dawning. And if they camped any closer, their fires would give away their position.
He'd never been to war like this. He'd directed much smaller battles. This kind of thing, he'd studied in books. Oh, he'd studied it in books for years, but would everything he'd learned have practical application? His palms were sweating. Everything was sweating. It was too darn hot in this desert.
Heat stroke was a very real concern if they marched during the day like he intended to.
Had he thought this through enough?
Even the evening meal was somber. He tried not to show how nervous he was, he knew his men would take their lead from his mood. But how could he not be terrified when she was going straight into the line of fire?
Solana ate very little, possibly as nervous as he was. She drank only water – although some of the men drank to the battle ahead with kegs of ale, as was Ferelden tradition. He saw her take one of the potions he'd given her too – one for anxiety – and that frightened him more.
The fires burned low. Raucous singing turned to snoring. The Inquisitor excused himself to go to sleep. Even The Iron Bull turned in. Solana sat by the fire, the flickering flames moving across her face, her eyes downcast. And then, they were alone.
The desert had cooled. A little heat rose off the baked sand. Overhead the stars glittered brightly.
This could very well be their last night together.
As if she had the same thought, her eyes rose to his. "Big day tomorrow, aren't you going to sleep?"
He poked the fire. "I… I doubt I'll be able to."
Her look said that she understood. She knew what it was like, having the lives of so many in your hands, knowing that one mistake on your part could get them all killed.
"You should rest," he said.
"I'm not tired."
She was probably feeling the same as him. Like a coiled spring.
"We could always…" No, it was stupid. But now she was looking at him expectantly. "I have a pack of cards. We could play a game of Wicked Grace?"
"Oh no, thank you," she said.
Right. Of course. Why would she want to spend her last night playing a Maker-forsaken game with hi-
"We could play chess?" she offered
His heart gave a thud. "I… I'm afraid I didn't think to bring my board."
"I think Dorian has a travel set. Hold on." She scrambled to her feet and then dashed off between the tents. Cullen was glad of her quick escape, it meant she didn't see him grinning like a fool.
"I must warn you, I'm very good at this," he said as she settled down next to him with the little ivory and mahogany set she'd somehow wrestled from the necromancer.
Her soft lips curved. "We'll see."
As they played, he watched the gentle breeze ruffle her hair, the firelight dance across her exposed collarbone, the moonlight shining off her pale hands. She was sitting across from him with her arms wrapped around her knees, chewing on her bottom lip and all he could think was how badly he wanted her.
Would she stop him if he tipped over the board, leaned forward and kissed her? Would she be opposed to spending these last hours wrapped in one another? He wanted desperately to touch her, to commit every part of her to memory.
And yet something prevented him.
"Your turn." She looked up and held his gaze a little too long.
This was better.
That was the truth of it. The physical sensations would be like getting lost in a dream. He could touch her and taste her but that wouldn't last. The night would slip away too fast. Here, this was real. This was every moment stretched to its full capacity. Watching her contemplate the board, watching her fidget with her nails, the way she cursed when he bested her, the way she sighed when he caught wind of her strategy, the way she laughed when she took one of his pieces. Simply being with her, like this. It was perfect.
"No!" She shouted, suddenly, sending a jolt right through him. She gestured angrily at the board. "I left it wide open for you. Why didn't you take that piece? It's the third time it's happened."
His heart was still skittering. "You were leaving yourself open intentionally?"
"Well yes, I…" Even in the firelight, he could see she'd coloured.
"You're not trying to… let me win?" Annoyance surged in his chest. "You do not need placate me."
"That's not… that's not what I was doing."
"I am perfectly capable of winning on my own."
"So why didn't you move into the spaces I left for you?"
Because he'd seen them, assumed they were unintentional and had ignored them because… because he hadn't wanted the game to end.
They eyed each other. Her lips were parted, the breeze teased at her robes, pulling them against her figure. Maker.
She blinked and her gaze dropped. "I see."
What did she see? Her slender fingers moved to hover over the board again.
"I'm two moves from winning, Commander," she said quietly.
Commander. Her face was cloaked in shadow. How did he read that? What was she saying?
He didn't have to look at the board to know she was telling the truth.
"Will you go to bed if I win?" she asked.
He hesitated before answering. "Do you… want me to?"
"No."
"Then I won't."
"Tomorrow will be a trying day. I don't want to keep you from your - "
"Make your move, Solana."
She did. And as predicted, it took her two moves to put him into checkmate.
Without saying a word, he set up the board again.
Dawn smelled like ice, even all the way out here. The horizon was glowing turquoise and the moon was a yellow orb, hovering just out of reach.
Solana admired Cullen as he contemplated his next move. His elbows were on his knees and his chin rested on his hand. He had the best cheekbones. She'd never noticed that before. She'd always been focused on his mouth. That mouth. The way it curved up at the edges when he spoke to asymmetrical smile.
His cheeks were brushed with morning stubble. It reminded her of another night, another campfire, a dawn when she'd jerked awake to find him herself cradled against him. He had pressed kisses against her forehead and whispered that the watch would be changing soon.
This night wasn't like that night. And yet, in every important way, it was.
He caught her staring and gave her a small smile. "Shouldn't you be watching the board?"
"I don't need to. You moved your knight."
"You've got me all figured out have you?"
It was their fifth game. Or, perhaps, sixth. She'd learned his patterns as well as he'd learned hers.
"You always go in for the –" she glanced at the board and blinked.
He leaned back, folding his arms. "Check mate."
It was the second game he'd won, or perhaps the third. "Congratulations," she said.
She started rearranging the board again. He halted her with a hand on hers.
She knew he was right. The others would be up soon. They had a day of marching and then a night of fighting. There wasn't time for another game.
When she finally lifted her eyes to meet his, the look of resignation she'd been expecting was absent. Instead, there was only desire, hunger.
The hand that had halted hers didn't move, but the other brushed her hair aside. Her stomach clenched, her breath stopped. He swept the board from the log between them. Dorian's precious ivory pieces scattered into the sand.
Cullen leaned forward and –
"Sir?"
He pulled away. Her heart was still hammering. She ducked to gather up the pieces as the watchman made his report.
Solana squinted at the blur on the horizon. It was, apparently, Adamant. But the heat rising off the sand distorted the air and she couldn't make it out clearly. Cullen's army was moving into formation. She would be riding up front with Hawke, Dorian, Blackwall, Iron Bull and Max. She and Hawke would take turns casting barriers over their party and the siege engine.
Everything was abnormally hushed. With so many surrounding her, she shouldn't have been able to hear the wind.
"How was chess?" Dorian broke the silence. He was looking at his feet and from what she could tell he was trying, in vain, to kick the sand off his boots.
"Good. Thank you." She sensed the eyes of the others on her.
"Chess? Is that a code word?" Bull inquired.
"I am told that the Hero stayed up all night playing 'chess' with the Commander." Dorian's mustache twitched.
"Oh, chess is it?" Blackwall teased.
"Not that any of you will believe me, but yes. That's precisely what we did."
Hawke was leaning against his horse with his arms folded. The horse had its head stuck into a bag and was munching away happily, seemingly unaware of the mage.
"What is the deal with you two? Varric said –"
Someone cleared their throat behind Solana and she spun to find Cullen shifting awkwardly. His hands moved from his sword hilt to his side, to behind his back, to the sword hilt again in a matter of moments.
"Talk of the demon," Hawke said with an eye-roll. "You know I have this theory about Templars and their hearing…"
"Do you have a moment?" Cullen asked Solana, eyes finally focusing on hers.
"Of course."
She heard Bull say something to Dorian that she didn't quite catch as she walked away with Cullen. Bawdy laughter followed.
Cullen was still shifting uneasily.
"I hope I didn't interrupt anything important?" He eventually asked, once they were standing a little apart from the rest of the army.
It was clear he wanted to know what they'd been saying about him, but was too polite to ask. She considered making up something embarrassing just to get a reaction, but looking at how tense he was she decided against it.
"No. I was simply telling them how good you are at chess."
A smile pulled at his mouth and he shook his head. "You won more than half of our games."
"I am the Hero of Ferelden."
"So you keep saying."
"I like reminding you."
"You don't need to remind me."
"Yes, I do." She stepped closer. She wanted to touch him. His eyes were downcast now. How easy it would be to touch his cheek reassuringly, or take his hand. Instead she simply looked into his face. "I'm going to be fine, Cullen. You don't have to worry about me."
She thought she did a good job of projecting confidence she didn't feel.
He sighed, gazing out towards Adamant again. "I… I had a whole speech prepared for this."
She waited for him to find his words, heart pounding harder with every long minute. Eventually he reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver piece. It glinted in the desert sun.
"My brother gave this to me when I joined the Templars. For luck. I don't even think it's anything special. I think he just happened to have it on him."
"I thought the Chantry was against lucky charms?"
"Oh, it is."
His gaze flicked to hers briefly before returning to the site of their enemy, still a few hours' march away. "I don't know what kind of luck it's brought me. Some days I feel cursed. Kinloch, Kirkwall… everything in between." He shook his head. "And yet, somehow I've survived. Perhaps there's something to be said for it."
He passed it to her. "I know it's not much, but it will make me feel better. When you go in there, I won't be with you. I… this is the only way I can… I'm not making any sense."
"You're making perfect sense." She accepted the coin. It was warm from sitting beside his body and her heart skittered. "It's like the blackberries, isn't it?"
His eyes grew wide and then he smiled. "Yes, yes I suppose it is."