Part II.

Chapter 17.

He was bathed and dressed, the dust and sweat of the road cleaned away, leaving only the stain of their discovery at Caer Oswin. Despite his full stomach, he couldn't shake the hollow feeling of losing more of the complexities behind a once-thought simple faith.

He groaned almost pleasurably with his sore muscles as he descended from his loft into his office. It was late enough in the day that he shouldn't expect much new business to cross his desk. With luck, he'd be able to get through the week's worth of messages left on his desk. Barris and Josephine should have dealt with most matters, leaving only personal letters and possibly a handful of more sensitive requests for him to deal with.

Maybe an hour of paperwork and then he could go check on Ashara. One of her attendants was to notify him immediately upon her waking from her much-needed rest. According to the surgeon, the Inquisitor had begun to resume something closer to a normal training schedule, though at an intensity level far below the usual. It had been the best news he'd heard in weeks, and he owed Dorian his sincerest gratitude for healing their leader so quickly.

"Commander!"

The young man's voice startled him from his mental checklist, nearly upsetting his footing on the ladder. He stumbled, catching himself in time to avoid tumbling the last two feet to the plank floor.

Blighted Jim.

"What?" he barked irritably. The messenger had an uncanny ability to turn the most routine exchange into an awkward situation.

"Welcome back, ser."

Jim continued to stand in expectant silence, as though waiting to be asked some particular question. Cullen simply stared back at the moon-faced Fereldan, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to explain his presence in the Commander's tower.

The Maker might have returned before the idiot spoke.

"Yes, soldier? Did you have a report for me?"

"Oh! Um, yes. I just… Ah. I wanted to make sure you got this." He nudged the crate beside him with a scuffed boot. "From the um… Marquis of… um… I can't—It's from Orlais. A thank you from one of the nobles."

"All right. Anything else?"

"Um, no, ser."

"Thank you."

Cullen strode to his desk and picked up a stack of papers. Barris had compiled notes on the dozens of field reports that had come in over the week, offering his personal conclusions and interpretations where appropriate. This wouldn't take as much time as he'd expected. Good. Maybe he could even get in a round of chess with Dorian this evening.

He really did owe the mage.

He smiled to himself thinking of the amazing woman Dorian's magic had saved. She had been in rather high spirits before he and Cassandra had gone out to Caer Oswin. After the revelations of that rough trip, it would be wonderful to see her lovely smile again.

He looked up at the sound of someone sniffling and saw Jim still standing there by the Orlesian crate, staring at him.

Oh, for love of the Maker…

"Jim?"

"Yes, ser." The young man stood a little straighter.

"You may go."

"Oh, um. Yes, ser." He turned clumsily, nearly tripping over the crate as he left.

The man had signed up early on, at Haven, when they were still desperate for troops. There was no other reason to have such a fool in their ranks.

Cullen shook his head and leaned back to half sit on his desk, taking in the new information their scouts had dug up on the Red Templars' activities in the Emprise. While their forces would be able to handle some of the more mundane matters Thedosians were bringing to the Inquisition's attention, it seemed it would still be best to have the Inquisitor's core strike force finish the job they'd started in the Emprise. He tossed the sheaf of papers back onto the desk and massaged the knot forming at the base of his neck, cursing rationality and Ashara's martial skill and sharp mind. Of course she would need to return to that Blighted iceberg.

He caught a glimpse of the crate Jim had delivered as he turned from the desk. The thing was suspiciously plain for something out of Orlais. The Marquis of something, eh? Maybe some Chevalier from a noble house? Could it be weapons? Armor? Maybe something that could turn the tide of the battle against Corypheus!

He wedged his dagger under a board and pried it loose, revealing the contents of the package.

"Wine?"

He plucked a letter from between two bottles and scanned it briefly before crumpling it fiercely and tossing it aside. Another proposal for a two-party alliance to be sealed with a kiss.

Completely inappropriate. Ridiculous, even. Who says such things? Not that he necessarily would have minded doing some of the things mentioned in the lewd letters sent from Oralis… Just not with the people sending them.

Ashara would look absolutely stunning dressed in the get-up the letter described, sipping Orlesian red while enjoying the sun on her bare skin…

Damn it, Rutherford. Not now.

Cursed Orlesians. With those thoughts in his head, he would be useless at any serious strategic considerations of the planned raid of Suledin Keep. He plucked a bottle from the crate and set off toward the garden. At this hour, Dorian would surely be there, and the man had been complaining about the lack of "decent options" in the Inquisition's cellars.

Nothing like a game of chess with a friend to get his mind off such inappropriate thoughts.

He really should have known better.

Cullen stared at the pieces inexplicably arranged on the chessboard—clearly Dorian had been cheating whenever Cullen was significantly distracted by Sera and Dorian's rude remarks. His cheeks burned. The ends of his hair were probably blushing.

"Oh, come now, Commander. Surely—"

"That's what I'm saying! He and Quizzy both need to… Come. Now" Sera doubled over at her own weak, ribald joke.

Dorian smirked roguishly and twisted the curl of his mustache. "Subtly put, Sera. As always."

She made a rude gesture in response.

"But, really now, Cullen, she's not entirely off base. Our beloved Lady Trevelyan has been through quite a lot, and I don't think I've ever seen you smile unless we're discussing dear Ashara or trebuchet calibrations. And war does have a nasty habit of creating a lot more painful memories than pleasant moments. Don't waste this time you get together. Make sure she knows how you feel about her." Dorian spoke with a hushed passion, his voice implying the empathy of experience.

Cullen grunted dismissively. "You sound like Cassandra."

"Oh, now things just got really interesting," Dorian drawled, leaning forward and picking up his wine glass. "You've been getting relationship advice from the Seeker? No wonder you're such a mess! What could she possibly know about such affairs of the heart?"

"Pfft!" Sera erupted. "Have you seen those books she reads? If he was taking her advice, Quizzy wouldn't be able to ride her horse!"

The two disintegrated into gleeful giggles.

"Andraste's tits, why do I even bother?" He rose from his chair, shaking his head. "Good night, Dorian."

"Hey! What about me?!"

"Good night, Sera. Don't drink too much," he tossed over his shoulder.

A familiar smell struck him as he turned.

Peonies?

It was late in the season for them, but the cooler mountain weather must have been just right, for there they were, their heavy heads bobbing lazily in the breeze. He took a few steps closer, breathing in the sweet, soapy perfume.

He pulled his dagger from his belt, and cut a few stems, ignoring Sera's howls as he gathered the blossoms into a fragrant bouquet. Ashara would love the flowers.

She was still resting, her face peaceful as she slept. The color was beginning to return to her face. Clearly she wasn't quite yet back to full health, but she looked more like herself.

He settled onto the sofa and took a long pull from a mug of ale.

"She missed you, you know. Asks for you every time she wakes up. She's completely smitten." Jamila perched on the arm of the sofa, a glass of mead in one hand, a copy of Tale of the Champion in the other. "The way you've been there for her over these past months has really meant a lot to her. Sounds like you were the only person not to put pressure on her about the whole Herald of Andraste thing. You were her 'safe place' she said."

"Safe place?"

"Yeah. Her sanctuary." She smiled. "Starting with those training sessions back at Haven. You've been her confidante and supporter. She had no desire to become the leader of a massive, world-changing movement—she's always run from responsibility—and you were the only person in the whole Inquisition who's given her room to be herself. To be weak."

She watched him as though to test his reaction.

"I never intended to… expose her vulnerabilities. I—I simply tried to—to treat her the way any person should be treated."

"Not many people have ever treated Ashara Ceridwyn verch Trevelyan like a person."

He looked up sharply and held her eyes as she continued.

"Ever notice how emotional she gets whenever anyone is nice to her? Like, nice without the expectation of getting something out of her in return? The tears? Crying every time someone is kind or generous or affectionate toward her? How lonely and desperate for companionship she can seem?"

The docks at Haven. Their brief time alone in the mountain pass. The battlements. The night they'd almost made love in her quarters. She surrounded herself with a close band of fiercely loyal fighters, yet was so nakedly vulnerable only with him. He had seen a bit of himself reflected in their interactions. The innocent nervousness and incongruous blend of jaded experience and naivety made sense now. And made him feel even more honored that he was her safe place.

"Her family used her as a pawn to gain higher standing. All the men she was promised to… Mephystus tried to use her to extract ransom then thought he could sell her into slavery. That's why she was so close to Isabela."

"Mephystus?"

"The Tevinter slave trader… You… Didn't… She didn't tell you?"

"She said she ran off with a pirate, that it didn't work out as she'd hoped. But… I wasn't fully aware of the details. I gathered that she had been… mistreated by said pirate, and that Isabela had somehow liberated her?"

Jamila grimaced. "Oh. Sorry." She averted her eyes and chewed her lower lip. "But yes. He pretended to be a Rivaini trader captain and tricked her into coming with him. She was going to be 'given' to the Chantry. She was so naïve and desperate to get out of Ostwick that she fell for it. The bastard sailed a bit too close to Llomeryn on the way back to Tevinter during one of the Raiders' particularly anti-slavery kicks. I'll let 'Shara tell you the rest."

He nodded, staring into the middle distance. It seemed that every bit he learned of her past was sadder than the last.

Giving that woman the happiness she was due is going to be even harder than you thought, Rutherford.

Not that he ever shrank from a challenge…

"Hence my threat when we first spoke. She's had few true friends, and you've seen how much of herself she's willing to give. But everything I've seen of you. And now read…" She raised the book and her eyebrows at the same time.

He groaned at the sight of the book.

"Varric swears it's all true. Sounds like you've been through more hell than I initially thought. And now here you are, saving my girl's life and leading her army."

She patted his knee and rose to leave.

"She'll be awake soon. I'll leave you two alone. She's been looking forward to your return."