Maker's breath, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes upon.
Hair as black as a winter night, she wore it up in a tight bun with a silver clasp to hold it in place. She let it down in the evenings to brush it out. It came down to her waist in gentle waves that shimmered in the candlelight, practically begging him to reach out and touch it. He often watched her brush her hair from his post outside of the apprentice's quarters. Fortunately, his helmet hid his gaze. He felt so guilty, but it was such a little thing. With hair like that, who wouldn't want to watch it be brushed?
What was the name of that fairy tale? Snow White? Well, Snow White had nothing on her.
Bright blue eyes like two crystals set into her pale, pretty face peered at him when her mentor wasn't looking. A slight smile tugged at the edges of her plump pink lips, kept soft and luscious with balm she made from the flowers that grew in the window boxes. She always smelled of lavender when she passed by. She always wished him a good morning. She wished the other Templars a good morning. Some said it back, some ignored her. She was much kinder than the others. His good morning, though, was special. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but she always looked into his eyes, smiling that pretty smile, Maker, she was beautiful, and wished him a good morning as she went about her lessons. He always said good morning back.
Watching her walk was one of his more sinful indulgences, but he couldn't help himself. She would pass by in the halls of the Circle tower, her apprentice robes hugging her form, her hips swaying back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm, her chest bouncing slightly if she was in a hurry. She was delightfully shapely, to put it simply, and he spent far too much time thinking about how well her rear would fit in his hands.
In his defense, it wasn't all horrible sinful thoughts that the Chantry would punish him harshly for. He wanted to trace his finger along her graceful cheekbones. He wanted to hold her slender hands in his own, perhaps sitting by a fire, perhaps in a clumsy dance around a room. She had a small window box she grew flowers in. He wanted to watch her tend to her own garden, and perhaps help. He liked the idea of running off with her, giving her a house off in the middle of nowhere where she could grow a garden and brush her hair in the evenings and hold his hand if she liked. Of course, he knew he could never do that, but it was something to keep his mind entertained during the long night watches at Kinloch Hold.
He was young then, and young men are dreadfully susceptible to puppy love.
He was not the only such man. He often overheard some mages talking about her. Mostly her fellow apprentices, but sometimes full mages as well. Though he wasn't surprised, as she was beautiful, friendly, and quite powerful, it did fill him with a sort of jealous rage that was difficult to quell. He did not like the idea of anyone else looking at her like that. However, he knew he couldn't stop them.
She was talented, there was no doubt about that. She would go through her Harrowing soon. He was chosen to strike the killing blow, should she not make it. He prayed every night that she would. He didn't know if he could do it. He probably could if she became some twisted horror, but if they told him to while she still slept? He didn't want to think about it.
The night before her Harrowing, though she didn't know it, he was on post outside of the apprentice quarters and he could see her sitting by her bunk, preparing to brush her hair. The other apprentices were asleep, so she was illuminated by a single candle sitting on the nightstand beside her. She had her back to him. First, she reached up and unwrapped the silver clasp from her hair, letting it tumble down her back. She took a bottle of water and lavender oil and rubbed some on her hands, then ran her fingers through her hair to get the awkward bumps out. She picked up a simple brush, just plain wood and firm bristles, and began pulling it through her hair. He thought that she deserved a much nicer brush, something hand-carved and decorated like the noblewomen had. She didn't hit many tangles, with her hair having been up all day; the brush simply glided through, leaving her hair silky to the touch. He could almost imagine what it might feel like in his hands if he were to run his fingers through it.
He stiffened when she glanced over her shoulder and into the hall, her eyes meeting his. She couldn't see his face, not through the Templar helmet, but he wondered if she knew he had been staring nonetheless. Of course, the Templars were always watching the mages, but him staring at her was another matter entirely. She got a sly little smile on her face, as if she were keeping a secret, those crystal blue eyes gazing at him. Of course she knew it was him. Even with their helmets, she always knew which Templar was which.
She stood, setting her brush back on the nightstand, and made her way over to the tiny window where her flowerbox was. She took a moment to ponder, and plucked a small flower with rich royal purple petals and a bunch of tiny yellow stamens, he believed it was called hellebore, and held it between her fingers. She looked around at the other apprentices, all of whom were soundly asleep. She approached the doorway, stopping just shy of it, her eyes darting side to side.
He gulped, understanding. He glanced down the hallway, first to the left, then to the right, then gave the tiniest of nods. She passed through the doorway, and he could hear his heart pounding in his chest as she stopped just a few inches from him. He wondered if she could hear it too. She spoke to him in a barely audible whisper. "Cullen," she breathed, "I know you probably can't keep it, but…" her free hand took one of his, and he almost jumped right out of his armor. He could hardly believe this was happening. She was taking a massive risk by just talking to him in such a manner, and so was he, by letting her. She placed the flower in his palm. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to calm his beating heart. "Iris?" He felt his whisper was too loud, but it was the best he could manage in the heat of the moment. Her blue eyes gazing up at him held a question. Had she gone too far? Had she misread him? He curled his fingers delicately around the flower, ensuring he didn't crush it, and whispered, "I will find a way. Thank you." She smiled, relief apparent on her face, and bent down to his hand. She pressed her lips to the fingers of his gauntlet. He could have sworn his heart stopped altogether.
Then there were footsteps down the hall, his hand was back at his side, the flower hidden in his gently curled fingers, and she was gone, back by her bunk in an instant, blowing out her candle and settling herself in for the night.
When his watch was over, he made his way back to the Templars' quarters and went straight for his personal journal, used mostly for detailing the events of his watches; he opened to the first blank page. Hunched over the leather-bound book with his back to the door, he took the flower from his palm and smoothed out the petals against the page. He briefly wondered if he should write her name over it. He decided against it. Perhaps later, once the flower was pressed. Besides, he heard someone coming. He closed the book and put it away, putting another book on top of the journal to press it down in hopes of more effectively pressing the flower. He hoped the colour would preserve.
He stripped off his armor, piece by piece, and replayed the scene in his head. Though exhaustion plagued him, he felt alert and giddy. It hadn't been his imagination. She really did favour him. He knew nothing could ever come of him, but it couldn't hurt to dream, could it? He removed his gauntlet, the same one she had kissed, and stared at his reflection in it. He clearly needed some rest.
He laid down and tried not to think about the fact that her Harrowing was that evening. He could never strike her down now.
It was the quickest, cleanest Harrowing he had ever seen. She was so confident and brave, and now she was a full enchanter. He was so proud of her. He knew he shouldn't have such an attachment, Maker, he knew, but he couldn't help it.
He stood at his post outside of the First Enchanter's quarters, keeping an eye out for anything amiss as usual. She would wake up soon, and would come by to get her enchanter's robes. Instead of the subdued blues and greys of the apprentices, she would be clothed in the gold and purple of the enchanters. He thought it would suit her much better.
She did come by, and she stopped to greet him, as she did every time, except there was a new glow about her. "Good morning, Cullen," her voice, like a river flowing through a forest, was music to his ears. "Good morning, Iris," he wasn't wearing his helmet, so she could see his smile. "I'm glad you made it through your Harrowing. I… They picked me to strike the killing blow if… I-it's nothing personal! I would have felt terrible about it. I serve the Chantry and the Maker, and I have to do as I am commanded." He was making a right mess of himself, but she was laughing. "It's alright, Cullen, I understand. I'm here now, I survived, nothing to worry about. You've done your duty." He let out a breath, trying to calm himself. "Congratulations," he said, trying not to get lost in those beautiful blue eyes peering up at him through long dark lashes.
"I've heard of the consequences of failed Harrowings," he tore his gaze from hers, shifting nervously on his feet. She nodded solemnly. "I am glad it did not come to that." She shook her head, as if shaking away a bad thought. "I must go. The First Enchanter is waiting for me. Perhaps we can talk another time?" He was far too eager to agree. "Yes, another time." He watched her walk away, smiling over her shoulder at him, and had to force himself not to stare for too long.
Perhaps he should have stared a bit longer. It was the last he would see of her for a very long time.
She got involved with a blood mage. Jowan, the bastard's name was, always kind of crafty. She didn't know what he was. The whole situation was… complicated. Jowan and a Chantry sister, Lily, were planning to escape the tower. They enlisted Iris's help to break in to the repository for Jowan's phylactery, so the Templars couldn't track him down. She told the First Enchanter of their plans, which probably spared her life in the end. The First Enchanter wanted to catch them in the act so Lily wouldn't get away with it while Jowan was punished, so he told Iris to help them, and he would be waiting with Knight-Commander Greagoir.
That's exactly what happened, except when they were caught, Jowan revealed himself as a blood mage and escaped at the last second. Lily was sent to Aeonar, the mage prison. Though Irving defended Iris, stating that she was acting under his orders, she had still consorted with a blood mage and had broken into the repository, and thus, had to be punished. However, since she was working under orders, her punishment would not be death or being made tranquil. She was put in solitary confinement. It was supposed to be for six weeks.
Then Uldred happened. The Circle fell apart, and no one even remembered she was there, never mind rescuing her. The Hero of Ferelden, as they would come to call the guarded Dalish woman, came and put it back together again. Even with the First Enchanter's rescue, Cullen's trust was forever shaken, and it wasn't until things had settled down and they began counting bodies that he realized Iris was not among them.
When he and the Knight-Commander went to free her from confinement, she was gone. There wasn't a trace of her left.
Of course, assuming the worst, they sent for her phylactery from Denerim. They received word shortly after that it wasn't there. Greagoir was furious, and Cullen was hurt. Was it possible? Had she been… one of them? A blood mage? Had he really been so blind?
Never again, he vowed. Never again would he be so blind to what was right under his nose. Never again.
He expected her to pop up somewhere. She was always in the back of his mind. But the only news he received that could possibly be related to her was a dark haired mage involved in a Templar raid in Orlais, but this mage had defended the Templars from an ambush, not attacked them. It couldn't possibly be her. Besides, the stories were too vague, just passed along by word-of-mouth. Some Templars were hunting a group of apostates when they walked right into a trap. Blood mages would have slaughtered them if it weren't for a sudden shield that seemed to pop up out of nowhere, protecting the squad of six. The mage revealed herself; she had been following the Templars, and she helped them kill the blood mages. Then she was gone, vanished. Cullen had a suspicion that the Templars let her go after the rescue, if indeed the story was real at all, but stories had a way of embellishing events to make it more interesting.
No, it couldn't be her. If she were a blood mage, why would she help Templars hunt blood mages? So his anger burned on. He was not angry with her, necessarily. He was furious with himself. He felt responsible. He let a blood mage slip away from under his nose.
Then the war started, he joined the Inquisition, and before he knew it, he was in Haven, waiting for the Conclave to bring about a solution, one way or another. It was sunny, though it did nothing to stave off the cold. Still, there was something pretty about the snow on the mountain and the Temple nestled on its side.
Then the mountain was gone, the world shattered around them, and everything changed.
He expected her to pop up somewhere, but where he found her was the last place he would have guessed.