"Their Keeper had a coursing hound. They had run down deer and hares and wolves together when they were young."

Cullen woke to the sound of birds twittering their morning tunes. There was nothing unusual about it—a part of his everyday routine, something that he had grown accustomed to ever since he made the abandoned cabin that he found one venture through the Storm Coast his new home. It didn't seem to matter for these particular birds whether it was raining or not.

What was unusual was the harmonizing melody that was far too soft and familiar, and the smell of yesterday's stew boiling without his initiative.

Cullen woke with a jolt.

"Slept well?"

Cullen recognized her voice immediately—the Inquisitor. Or well, no. Not anymore.

Ellana.

Cullen scrambled around, finding himself lying on the floor. Ellana Lavellan stood by the worn cooking table, pouring hot vegetable soup into two bowls. Her black hair, dry and tousled at places, draped down her shoulders and back, almost reaching her knees. His abrupt reaction earned him a quirked brow and a mildly amused bend to her slightly parted lips. Her violet eyes glimmered, more piercing than ever in the dawn light that spilled in through the opened window shutters.

Ellana looked like a dream.

"What…"

Cullen rubbed his eyes, the fatigue of sleep clinging to him still. A tiny part of him didn't expect her to be there when he looked again. That she was simply too unobtainable. A dream. But Ellana remained once he opened his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he finished.

"Do you not remember?" she parried, her smile widening. "I desperately hope you do not treat all women this way, Cullen. That would explain a lot, however."

Cullen's face came ablaze. "I-I…"

Ellana laughed. The sound filled the whole cabin, brighter and more beautiful than even the most exquisite of silver Chantry bells or famous of Orlesian concert bands. He watched her, transfixed momentarily in awe—once again questioning the validity of her presence. His focus trailed downward. His tunic covered little past her torso, leaving most of her slender legs exposed. His attention lingered longer than he was willing to admit, unable to ignore the comely way her profile curved and sloped. But when Ellana's eyes returned to find his, Cullen was quick to turn his gaze to the gauze wrapped around her thigh.

The cut on her leg. Bandits. A stormy night and blood on the floorboards. A cold, small hand that had used his shoulder briefly as support as a figure settled between him and a snoring Atlas.

Ellana wasn't a dream. The night hadn't been a desperate figment of his imagination, or a lethal encounter in his dream, in the Fade, with a Desire demon.

Ellana was truly there.

"I… I apologize."

Cullen sat up awkwardly, hip and shoulder stiff on the side he had been sleeping on. He grimaced as he stretched out—sleeping on floorboards hadn't felt much better than the outdoors. In fact, he might have actually preferred a bedroll and the wet of dew in the morning to the cold, numb ache currently ailing his limbs. But maybe it was just his age haunting him.

"You should have woken me," he said, adjusting his appearance as much as he dared to without revealing just how self-conscious he felt without his armor. Without the war table between them.

Without a lot of clothes on her.

"Why?"

Ellana cut the bread and placed three slices in one bowl, two in the other. She approached him with a dancer's grace and settled, cross-legged, in front of him. Fortunately, his tunic was long enough to cover her most vital parts. But there was still far too much thigh and cleavage showing for Cullen to remain indifferent.

If Ellana noticed the warmth in his cheeks, she did not voice it. She merely offered him a bowl and began diving into the other, seemingly ravenous with hunger.

"Well?" she prodded.

Cullen blushed harder when he realized that he had been too busy staring to answer her. He glanced down at his bowl, breathing in the steaming stew that was soaking into the bread.

"You're injured and a guest," he said. "When did you rise? Where's Atlas?"

"He wanted to be let out, so I did. He's been patrolling the area for a while."

Ellana looked up from the stew, smiling with a trail of breadcrumbs dotting the corner of her mouth. "He appeared very insistent to do so. I suspect that is your doing."

For a moment, time ceased. Cullen was utterly focused on the breadcrumbs. He wanted to reach out toward her and brush them away. But that would mean touching her and he could not do that. Not without becoming greedy. Not without wanting to ask for more.

And he dared not to do that.

"Ah, well."

Cullen cleared his throat, bread stopping halfway up to his mouth. He didn't miss the fact that she had avoided his first question. But he did not want to pry.

Maker knows that he had his share of nightmares throughout the years.

"I suppose I've taught him a trick or two," he said.

"How adorable."

Ellana smiled. A wry, teasing smile that made Cullen forget instantly about the slice of bread he was holding. Lights, all lights, dulled in comparison to her smile. He had forgotten how it felt to behold.

How it felt to be beholden.

Ellana was the only woman who Cullen's heart could not stop racing around no matter how much he tried to recall templar meditation and focusing techniques. No matter how many times he recited Chantry teachings that ought to cleanse his mind from all and everything but order, piety and duty.

Five years, thought Cullen, the stew turning into slosh with each mechanical movement of his jaw. And nothing's changed. My feelings for you remain, as strong and undeniable as before. Does that mean yours also remain? Do you still love him, Ellana? Does the Dreaded Wolf of your Dalish legends still own your heart? Has he devoured it fully?

Or have you finally freed yourself from his clutches?

"Cullen?"

Cullen looked up from his food. He had been unable to find anyplace else to rest his eyes, at risk of peeking involuntarily at the lengths of exposed skin peering through the slits in the sides of the tunic that Ellana wore. At the tiny valley revealed by the wide neckline.

"I apologize," he said quickly, his cheeks warming. "I must be weary still. Would you mind repeating yourself?"

Ellana gave Cullen a sheepish grimace.

"Sorry for barging in as I did," she said, poking around in her half-finished stew. "I did not mean to come at such an ungodly hour."

"But you meant to come?" he asked hesitantly when she would not continue.

Ellana nodded once.

"Yes."

She spoke quietly. Her mirth trickled away like the last patches of snow in the warm bloom of spring, which surprised Cullen. Rarely had he seen Ellana lose her cheer around friends. Or even enemies. The explanation for her visit was not going to be a pleasant one, Cullen could tell. But before he could open his mouth to ask, Ellana continued.

"I know you have questions. A lot of them too, I'm certain. It's been a long time since we've met and there's so much to discuss… but please."

Ellana's piercing violet eyes softened. Resembling flourishing lavender blossom at the height of Ferelden summer rather than shimmering dragon scales reflecting the violent flashes of storm magic.

A school of magic that a certain ex-apostate had excelled in.

It would not surprise me if he used it merely to enhance the shine in her eyes, thought Cullen tersely. If he told her he specialized in thunder and lightning only so he could watch his magic expressed in her eyes. To be the one responsible for such marvelous beauty, even in the heat of battle.

It would be vainglorious. Bordering on narcissistic. Yet, Cullen would not be surprised. Because if he could make Ellana's eyes dance in glimmer and might—in his glimmer and might—I would do the same.

"I need some time. Some… rest."

Cullen opened his mouth but closed it quickly again. He scrutinized Ellana, something he should have perhaps done as soon as he woke up, or when she first showed up outside his cabin, five years absent, resembling a drowned returned walking.

Ellana appeared paler than Cullen remembered. Or perhaps that was just the impression he had been unable to dismiss ever since her tattoos were removed. Vallaslin, he believed she had called them during a conversation with Cole that he had overheard. If Cullen recalled Ellana's words correctly, vallaslin were marks of blood and magic and tradition, in honor of the elven pantheon. Ellana's had belonged to the goddess Andruil—a patron of the hunt and the wild; challenge and terror; sacrifice and luck.

Without her tattoos, Ellana appeared much younger. Or rather, much more her age.

It was not something that Cullen had ever inquired about personally. He found out indirectly, through one of Leliana's early-on reports of Clan Lavellan, before the fall of Haven. He remembered how surprised he had been that the Dalish sent someone so young, barely an adult, on a mission as vital as witnessing the Divine Conclave.

Eight years had done little to whittle that surprise away. Perhaps it was the elven way of aging with grace, but Ellana looked just as youthful as she had when Cullen first laid eyes on her after the brief conflict by the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes. Amidst the smoke and embers and the stench of burning human remains had risen all around him. When he had been almost too absorbed in battle and adrenaline to notice her approach.

Ellana looked young. But then again, she was still young, by all accounts. She had been younger than everyone in the Inquisition, even Sera. Perhaps also Cole's human form. She was a decade Cullen's junior.

The rise and fall of countless civilizations younger than her beloved.

But Ellana looked far more exhausted than Cullen ever remembered seeing her, even during the busiest hours of the Inquisition's first year. Even after the final battle with Corypheus and she had healed the sky in an unparalleled surge of alien magic. Elven magic.

Even after he had left her. Thus, Cullen decided not to question her.

"All right," he said simply.

Ellana's lips formed a small smile. She put away the empty bowl, scraped clean, and drew the back of her hand absentmindedly across her mouth. The stream of breadcrumbs fell away, and she appeared a touch sheepish again when her eyes found his.

"Thank you, Cullen. It shouldn't be too long before I can satiate your curiosity. Perhaps a day or two."

"Take what time you need, Ellana. You're still wounded and may suffer a cold from yesterday."

"Bah," she uttered, flicking her hand dismissively his way. "I'm Dalish. I've stood watch during blizzards without so much as gloves or boots."

I'm Dalish. Was she that still, even though her tattoos were gone? Even though she had become a symbol of Andrastian faith and invested so much to launch Leliana into the role of Divine Victoria? Even though elves from all corners of Thedas had started to slip away, disappearing off the face of the earth?

Cullen had so many questions. But in the end, he raised a brow.

"And you never caught a cold from doing that?" he asked.

"Plenty of times. But it is a hunter's duty to protect the aravels and the clan."

"Does that mean you are here on the call of duty?" asked Cullen after a long pause.

Ellana pursed her lips.

"Something like that," she murmured, averting her gaze.

Cullen opened his mouth to respond, to say something that might alleviate the pain that suddenly painted Ellana's features. But she was quicker.

"Anyway."

She clasped her hands together and brightened, beaming at Cullen with curiosity. "What have you been up to, my former Commander? Nothing too burdensome, I hope."

The question surprised Cullen. If he knew Leliana half as well as he thought he did after three years of close cooperation, serving the Inquisition as its highest-ranking advisors, he doubted that she let him out of her far reach, even after the disbandment. In fact, Cullen doubted that any previous member of the Inquisitor's inner circle was more than an earshot away from one of the Nightingale's many birds, at all times. Did that mean Ellana had diverged from the path that she, Cassandra and Leliana had set upon treading five years ago?

No, thought Cullen quickly as he studied Ellana's face. She knows. She's heard it from the cold-hearted Divine herself. But she still wants my version, for some reason.

"Well…"

Cullen readjusted the way he sat, leaning over his knee as he filled his spoon with soup. "After Halamshiral, I was granted some land and a fortress by the great grace of Divine Victoria. I created a haven for former templars, aiding anyone willing to wean off lyrium as well as providing a final place of rest for those too far gone."

"Were there many of the latter?" asked Ellana gently.

Cullen nodded solemnly. "Many died. And the withdrawal symptoms proved too challenging for some. But a lot of people also survived." He caught her gaze and gave her a slow smile. "I encountered some of my former comrades from the Order. Both from Kirkwall and the Ferelden Circle. All of them made it through."

Ellana returned his smile. "That's a relief. What happened to them after they had been cured of lyrium addiction?"

The sight of her smile made Cullen lose his thought for a beat, completely forgetting what they had been talking about. Or if they had even been talking at all. But then he caught up to it again, continuing to speak.

"Most retired, too weary from conflict. Those who still wanted to serve either returned to the cities to join the guard or set off toward the Hunterthorn Mountains, endeavoring to join the Seekers. I remained only until I was sure that everything was working, and they no longer had use for me. Staying inside castle walls had become too confining, both for me and Atlas. We set off as soon as I was able to find a replacement."

"Must have taken a while."

"Why would you think that?" asked Cullen, raising a brow.

Ellana's eyes were wide and honest as she responded. "You would be a very difficult man to replace, Cullen. Whoever replaced you have some very large boots to fill. Not only because you have big feet."

As if to prove her point, Ellana slid her foot next to Cullen's. It was smaller than his but hardened and scarred from weather and terrain. From days in the wilds, hunting and foraging for the people she loved so much.

Still, it was beautiful. Like the rest of her.

"See?" She wriggled her toes, her eyes narrowing pointedly on his. "Enormous."

Cullen rolled his eyes, even though her words made him blush.

"I don't have that big of feet," he muttered.

"Yes, you do. But I admit, it is beside the point."

Ellana tilted her head, looking every bit like the birds whose morning songs she had sung along with when Cullen first woke up.

"You've been doing incredible since the Inquisition was dissolved," she said, sounding surprisingly pensive. "Just as I expected."

"I..." he began awkwardly.

"And you've made a home for yourself here."

Ellana swept her arm around, encompassing the cabin. "It's a nice and quaint place. Just the kind of homely abode I wished for you. You've even got yourself a faithful mabari. Only things missing are a wife and children. I…"

Her voice trailed away, muffled by the palms of her hands that suddenly covered her mouth. She curled up into a ball, hiding her face in her knees.

"I'm sorry, Cullen. I'm so sorry. I'm going to ask you something unreasonable. Something you no longer should have to concern yourself with, ever."

"Ellana?" said Cullen carefully, alarmed by her sudden change of demeanor. "What—"

"I'm sorry."

Ellana exhaled deeply before she lowered her hands from her face. The smile she gave him seemed to bear almost a decade of exhaustion, accumulated throughout the years. Almost a decade of sleepless nights, strenuous travel and never-ending pain.

In a sense, she did bear that burden. She always had. Cullen had just not seen it before.

"Give me some time," she said softly. "I will tell you everything, I merely… I merely require some rest first."

Cullen regarded Ellana for a while. But then, he nodded. What else could he do when the woman he loved was hurt?

"Of course," said Cullen. "Take your time, Ellana. You might have a cold. And you've been wounded."

Cullen didn't realize in how many aspects his final phrase could be interpreted. Not until Ellana's smile widened, fragile and much too hurt to appear genuine.

"I am," she said cheerfully.

Time passed. Although Ellana had told Cullen that she might need a day or two at most, two days quickly turned to three, then four, then five—then, a whole week passed without Ellana mentioning even the slightest detail about the purpose of her visit. The uncertainty, the lack of knowing, gnawed away at Cullen. But he didn't truthfully mind.

With Ellana staying at the cabin, he realized for the first time how alone he had felt since the disbandment of the Inquisition. And he realized for not the first time just how strong his feelings toward her were.

He wished Ellana and her smiles and laughter could be his. That he could embrace her every afternoon when she returned with mushrooms, berries, game and other edibles from the forest, Atlas following her heels like an eager puppy. That he could hold her close every night when they retired for the day, Ellana using his bed after her cold had passed and she no longer needed to share body warmth with him and Atlas before the dying fire in the hearth. That he could kiss her every morning when he woke to the sound of elven singsong and the twittering of birds.

That she would reciprocate and love him too.

But that was fool's hope. A moronic fool's hope. Yet, it was to that Cullen clung to when the week turned into plural. Weeks during which Ellana never spoke of her duty or what she had been doing the last five years. Their conversations relied heavily upon what Cullen had been up to, or Atlas, the weather and the cabin and its surroundings.

Cullen's curiosity grew with each passing day. But he didn't ask. Patience—or perhaps cowardice—had become a dear friend of his throughout the years. He knew that Ellana wouldn't stay indefinitely, hurtful as it was to admit.

She walked a fated path. Cullen could but chase after, hoping she might extend a smile toward him whenever she needed a back to rest on during her long journey. He could not do more, even though he wanted to. He could not carry her or mantle the responsibilities in her stead.

Because Cullen knew that the journey, however miserable and painful and agonizing and exhausting, would end. Someday, everything would conclude. A finale.

When that day arrived, Cullen would not be the man Ellana would be expecting at the end of the road. The person who had been waiting for her for perhaps millennia.

It would be her beloved Dreaded Wolf.

Foe as friend, teacher as student—lover as peer. Ellana saw a future beyond what Cullen could see. He noticed it in the way his words would sometimes elude her, her attention ensnared by something far in the distance. The way she sometimes sat quietly outside the cabin, seemingly absorbed in deep contemplation as she maintained her gear. The way Atlas would block Cullen from opening the shut bedroom door some nights when he thought he could hear the elven rogue whimpering and whispering, be it in her sleep or not.

There was nothing Cullen could do to change that. Yet, hope was loathe to leave him. Wishful, naive thinking as well.

As such, when Ellana finally explained why she had sought him out, Cullen was more than ready to return from retirement and lift his sword. He was more than ready to lay his life at her feet for any reason or cause—even for the man he had grown to despise. To hate.

Cullen was ready. But he couldn't hide his surprise once Ellana spoke.

"The Deep Roads?" he echoed. "You're here to descend once more beneath the ground?"

Summer had reached the Storm Coast. Not that it meant any less rain than before—in fact, the weather seemed to have only worsened. Rain hailed the cabin from all sides, accompanied by a biting wind that whipped and howled from sunrise to sundown. Plenty of chopped wood logs crackled inside the hearth but Cullen was shivering where he sat in a chair, right next to the fire.

"Yes."

Ellana sat opposite of Cullen in a chair of her own, reflecting a scene from years past when she had bid him goodbye in the Winter Palace after the Exalted Council. The flames danced in her piercing violet eyes, which remained firmly locked with his, filled with determination and will. Atlas lay sprawled out between them, letting out small noises of contentment in his sleep as Ellana scratched him behind his ear with her toe.

"I…" She hesitated. "There is something I must find."

"And that something is what precisely?" asked Cullen, furrowing his brows.

Ellana smiled stiffly. He could tell that she didn't want to answer him. Guilt was written all over her face, like oil staining a water surface. He knew what her response would be a beat before she finally spoke.

"Red lyrium."

Cullen set his jaw. He scrutinized Ellana's face closely, trying to discern any of her usual ill-suited humor.

There was none.

"Why in the Deep Roads?" he asked. "We worked to destroy most of the deposits during the days of the Inquisition. Divine Victoria continued where we stopped. But Emprise du Lion should still be infested with that wickedness."

"I cannot risk detection, lest he finds out what we're planning." Ellana's lips twitched. "The Deep Roads are dangerous, incredibly so. But that's the only place I can be certain to evade his spies. And according to Scout Harding, there have been new findings of red lyrium relatively near the entrance here at the Storm Coast. It seems that it can still spread."

He. We. She was still working together with Cassandra and Leliana against Fen'Harel, and they had an idea. That was good to hear.

Red lyrium, not so much.

"What do you plan to do?" asked Cullen, frowning deeply in concern. "What good use might red lyrium have?"

"None. Which is why we need it."

Ellana inhaled deeply, her eyelids fluttering shut. When she opened them, she looked as world-weary as someone twice her age.

"Ever since the elves started to withdraw from Thedas five years ago, I've been up day and night to try and figure out what he's planning. Leliana was and still is too busy performing the duties of Divine Victoria while Cassie was rebuilding the Seekers for either of them to be of much an active help in the beginning. As a result, I looked to other contacts and resources. Specifically, in Tevinter."

"Tevinter?" echoed Cullen. "Why there?"

"The imperium is powerful and old. It would do us only good to find allies among the Magisterium that might be able to help us in our cause. And though I'm sure Vivienne would disagree, Tevinter births Thedas most powerful mages. Knowledge of magic and its many secrets is invaluable, especially considering who our foe is. I know," she added when she saw Cullen's rising brows. "They've got evil, cackling blood mages sacrificing kittens and orphans at every chance they get. But I've managed to set up a small but well-functioning network there. Slowly, we've been mounting our influence throughout the years. No news or rumors slip us by."

"But it's Tevinter," said Cullen, eyes narrowed. "They destroyed your people thousands of years ago and still prey upon you, using you for blood magic and slavery. How can you bring yourself to cooperate with them?"

"They are not all monsters, Cullen," said Ellana, cooling considerably. "If I had believed in nothing but the prejudice among my clan, I would never have helped the Inquisition during its early days. I would have considered all humans rapists and pillagers, even the children and elderly. Savages I needed to either flee from or kill to exact vengeance for all the injustice my people have suffered at the hands of yours."

Shame stained Cullen's mouth. He swallowed vainly in an attempt to remove the taste.

It didn't work.

He knew he could say nothing on the topic of mankind's cruelty on elves from both the cities and the wild. But he refused to believe that Ellana would willingly want to align herself with slavers and the descendants of the mages who had destroyed what the Dalish held so dearly.

"But there still exists blood magic in some capacity," said Cullen hesitantly. "And slavery. Elves die every day in Tevinter, do they not?"

Ellana pursed her lips as she folded her legs to her chest, resting her chin between her knees. Her leg had healed, giving her no trouble as she readjusted.

"I do not like it," she said quietly. "I hate it. I know Leliana agrees. But I cannot let my feelings blind me from the bigger threat. Once that is dealt with, I can try to invoke change. But currently, we do not simply have the time or assets necessary for such an enormous undertaking."

Cullen could feel the hurt in the elven rogue's tone. It ran deep rivers through her voice, despite her best attempts at hiding it, probably out of respect for him.

Fleetingly, Cullen wondered how Ellana would have been as a person if she had believed that all humans were evil. Would she have put an arrow in Cassandra's back and fled the area as soon as the Seeker had freed her from her shackles? Or would she have bided her time, waiting until she could destroy the Inquisition and all the revered goodwill earned from her title as the Herald of Andraste in one, fell swoop? Would she have manipulated the members of the organization and watched them tear it asunder from within?

Would she have been on the Dreaded Wolf's side in this war that was sure to come?

Cullen liked to think that Ellana would have never betrayed the Inquisition, no matter what she had been told growing up. No matter how much hate had been fostered within her. That she, good and wise and strong and curious as she had proven to be, would have opened her eyes eventually and realized the error of her ways and decided to lead the diverse Inquisition wholeheartedly.

But he wondered if she would not have been happier if she had despised everyone in the Inquisition. If she never had developed her comradery within her inner circle; long evenings drinking and playing Wicked Grace with Varric; suggestive but light-hearted commentary when hitting Iron Bull with a stick after a particularly risky mission; a motherly penchant for coming up with ways for Cole to help, which always brightened the spirit's severe mood; exchanging stories of culture and family when sparring with Cassandra; trying to learn woodworking from Blackwall in the stables; playing practical—far too practical jokes—on everyone with Sera; tense but contemplative talks over tea and dessert with Vivienne; training in diplomatic—and honestly quite civilized—ways by Josephine, like wearing socks and boots; training in not so diplomatic—or civilized—ways by Leliana, like deceiving without lying; snorting so hard with laughter that echoed throughout Skyhold whenever she and Dorian spoke, which had been often and at very great lengths.

Cullen wondered if Ellana wouldn't have been happier if she had been alone. If she only had the familiarity of Solas—the elven apostate who possessed more lore about her people than herself. If she tied a relationship to nobody but him so that she wouldn't have been forced to choose between him and them.

Cullen would have preferred that. Even if the price for her happiness was the fall and destruction of his, her companions and advisors' lives—and all of Thedas. If only so that she could be happy.

If only so that Cullen wouldn't have to sense the hollow in her heart that he never would be able to fill no matter how hard he tried to.

"I see," he said finally, realizing how difficult it had been for Ellana to try and seek allegiances among men and women who openly abused her kindred. "But afterward…"

Cullen's voice trailed away. He didn't know if there was going to be something after Ellana had dealt with the Dread Wolf. Not necessarily because he feared she might fail—he believed in her capabilities, strong and strong-willed as she was like no other.

Rather, Cullen feared there might be nothing left of her soon.

"Afterward, I will try to change it."

Ellana gave him a small smile. "Elves have been treated far too unfairly all across Thedas. Other races too. That needs to change."

"I agree," said Cullen truthfully, recalling his memory of the Warden-Commander, the Heroine of Ferelden. An elf as well, Neria had been far more austere and solemn compared to Ellana when she encountered him in Ferelden's Circle Tower. But she had been no less dignified or elegant, even though Cullen had accused her of blood sorcery. She had saved his life when he had doubted and insulted her, and that was something he would never forgive himself for.

Prejudice was hard to rectify. Injustice, too. But if Neria had managed to change his views on mages and elves with but an act, Cullen had no doubt Ellana could do it too and on a far greater scale.

"I see."

Ellana sighed and relaxed, letting her feet to the floorboards once more. Atlas nuzzled against her ankle before he fell asleep again, snoring breathily into her foot.

"What's your plan for the red lyrium?" asked Cullen tentatively, knowing that she was intentionally avoiding the subject.

The muscles around Ellana's jaw tensed. Her gaze fell through a darkness where Cullen could not follow, her fingers digging into the rough armrests of the chair. She was as taut as the bows she so loved to draw, a step away from launching a lethal projectile through the air. When she finally spoke, her usually so cheerful and bright voice sounded as brittle and easy to snap as the twigs that accumulated on the forest floor in autumn.

"We cannot hope to defeat him in battle," she whispered. "He is far too powerful. We need something to neutralize his magic."

"I remember reports during the Inquisition's first initiative into Emprise du Lion," said Cullen, mind whirling with thoughts. "Red lyrium does seem to possess some quality of resistance against magic. But it's poisonous, lethal—and it drives people mad. You cannot hope to build some manner of magic-resistant armor or weapon with it, Ellana. Not without forfeiting your sanity and body alike. You remember Samson."

"The inventor who constructed this—" Ellana raised her left arm, "—thinks he can design some useful tools using red lyrium. Potentially also an alternative equally effective to tranquillity, without destroying the person's humanity."

It took him a moment. But when Cullen realized the true meaning of Ellana's words, his jaw nearly fell open.

"You cannot mean this," he began. "Experimenting with red lyrium, talking about tranquillity—"

"I do."

Ellana swallowed. She stared down at her lap, her arms wrapped around her torso, seemingly attempting to contain herself.

"It's not something I want," she whispered. "I don't want to see red lyrium ever again. I don't want to take away something so essential as magic is to a mage. Especially not from him. But we don't have any other choice. He has to be stopped. He cannot destroy the world."

"But Ellana-"

"I cannot let him become a monster."

Ellana's voice quivered, vibrating like the final note of an Orlesian opera. If it was in hurt or fear or both, he did not know. But it pained Cullen to hear.

Almost as much as it pained him to hear what she said next.

"Cullen."

When Ellana looked up, she wore a smile. It was her regular smile, the one that caused his heart to race and his face to warm.

That's what made it so much more horrifying to hear her continuation.

"We agreed that I was the only person suitable to descend into the Deep Roads on my own. We did not agree that I should dally and stay with you for as long as I have. I'm sure Leliana has a thing or two to tell me right now, but it wasn't planned—I had intended to move along as soon as I had recovered."

"Without telling me anything," mumbled Cullen, unable to hide his dismay.

Ellana's smile widened. "Without telling you anything. But I couldn't do that. Partly because you deserve more than to wake up with nothing but questions and an empty cot. Partly because I have something I wish to ask of you."

Trepidation settled in Cullen's stomach. Venomous like a snake's bite and just as unpleasant.

"And that is?" he asked.

"Would you be willing to accompany me into the Deep Roads?"

Cullen almost laughed. Both in relief and in happiness.

"Of course," he blurted.

I'd follow you anywhere, he blurted not.

Relief settled like a blanket over Ellana. However, she wasn't fully relaxed, her smile a touch too strained still. Cullen dismissed it as the same weariness he had caught on her face on more than one occasion. The kind of fatigue that had nothing to do with aging, but rather with emotional distress. He recognized it from when he first had tried to rid himself of his lyrium addiction.

Something poisoned her from within.

"When do we depart?" he asked quietly.

"As soon as possible."

"Tomorrow?"

Ellana hesitated for a beat.

"Tomorrow. Be prepared to leave at dawn."

"Yes, inquisitor."

It happened instinctively. Cullen felt foolish, but the amusement in Ellana's piercing violet eyes was worth any embarrassment. He opened his mouth to correct himself when she rose and caressed his cheek briefly.

"Thank you, commander," she said before disappearing into the bedroom.