Tharin stepped out of the rift and snapped his hand. The humming noise of the Fade gave way to an earsplitting blast. As the green of the rift disappeared and the connection between his Anchor and the Fade weakened once more, Tharin gulped the wet, foggy air and collapsed. His face was on the ground, and he smelled the vaporous odor of the dirt. It was comforting.
He heard a man proclaim in a distinctly Fereldan accent, "Andraste's tits, it's the Inquisitor!" The same accent as Cullen's, just less reverent toward the holy. Tharin would have laughed if he had the energy.
"Water…" he emitted weakly as he barely managed to turn around and spreadeagle.
An Inquisition soldier hurriedly came to his side and knelt with a water canteen. She smelled of leather and sweat. The smell of a living being. She lifted Tharin's head and susurrated, "Here you go, your worship." In an even softer voice, she ordered to her fellow soldier, "Go get a healing potion." The other soldier nodded vigorously and scampered away.
The water was delightfully cold, enough to send a wave of shock through Tharin's system. It tasted sweeter than anything that had ever touched his tongue. With that, Tharin thought he did not even mind the vociferous your worship. He drank and drank, grabbing the canteen and not letting go until his thirst abated.
As soon as he felt like he had stepped away from the teetering edge of death, Tharin turned to the soldier and asked, "What day is it?"
The soldier gave an immediate reply, "It is the twenty-fifth of Cloudreach, ser. It's been a month and a half since Adamant."
At her exuberant words, Tharin turned and properly saw the incredible verdure of the forest. Everything was alive and green, and birds sang their sweet, lilting songs that spread throughout the ethereal atmosphere. The world had not ended. Corypheus had not won.
Spring had come. Yet again.
In the Arbor Wilds, the Inquisition found the Temple of Mythal and its too many surprises. For one, they saw Corypheus walk into his demise from an arcane explosion only to be reborn in the body of a Grey Warden. Cullen, Cassandra, Sera, Dorian, and Morrigan had no wherewithal other than to seek refuge in the enclosed temple grounds. An Archdemon Corypheus certainly was, and there was no reason to doubt it anymore.
The temple grounds were littered with puzzles Cullen did not comprehend the meanings of. Morrigan insisted the Inquisition let her solve the puzzles and complete the elven rituals. Not that they had much time with Corypheus on their trail, but Cullen nonetheless obliged with a condition that she explain the meanings behind them. In the process, Dorian was stunned to learn that Tevinter Imperium was built on nothing but the decaying remnants of Elvhenan. And Cullen learned more about the elven mythology and culture than he had in all his life. Even that, only tangentially related to Tharin in the way of his descent, made Cullen think of him. It was accompanied by a stinging pain in his core. He wondered whether it was an encouraging sign that he no longer felt like crying out.
When they reached the grand chamber, ancient Sentinel elves, the last devotees of Mythal, finally confronted them. They managed to hide themselves from even Leliana's best scouts. These elves seemed aloof but not hostile, the leader of whom evidently took a liking to the fact that Sera was with Cullen. The leader, a man named Abelas, spoke of the vir'abelasan, the Well of Sorrows, and how its knowledge must be destroyed before outsiders could get their hands on it. At that moment, Morrigan's voice pierced through the air with a resounding "No!" and she turned into a raven to chase after a retreating Abelas.
Surprises upon surprises.
The final surprise turned out to be Raleigh Samson, the one stray templar from Kirkwall who turned himself into Corypheus's lieutenant and twisted so many of his fellow templars into red lyrium monsters. The specter of death Cullen saw on a bluff overlooking Haven before the Inquisition lost that town. The Inquisition had been chasing his shadow for too long with limited success. Leliana was getting closer to his location until she left with Tharin to Valence, but the events of Adamant interceded in Samson's favor. The Inquisition failed to confront the man.
Until now.
When the party descended the steps to the Well, Samson, grotesquely resplendent in his red lyrium armor, raised his hands and declared, "Well, well, the heroes of the Inquisition. You've got a damned long reach. We come to the back end of nowhere, and here you all are."
"Samson," Cullen replied with a curt nod.
Samson looked smug as he rolled his jaundiced whites and went off on an egotistical monologue, "You're in over your head, don't you know? Corypheus chose me twice. First as his general, now as the vessel for the Well of Sorrows." He turned his profile heavenward, confident in his eventual victory. "You know what's inside the well? Wisdom. The kind of wisdom that can scour a world. I give it to Corypheus, and he can walk into the Fade without that precious Anchor your Herald stole."
Cullen barked, "We will never let that happen."
"Oh, but where are my manners. Let's talk about you." Samson smirked as he continued his invective, "Rumor says you've become the Herald's whore, Ser Cullen." The smirk devolved into an uncontrolled snicker loud enough to be heard above the din of flowing water. "So sad for you now that your lover is trapped in the Fade forever. Why, his rotting corpse is probably tainting the air there now."
The mention of Tharin always quickened Cullen's pulse, but he remained calm. Samson's words were just that: words with no consequences. Instead, he turned to the Red Templars and beckoned, "Templars! If you are still conscious in there, stop taking orders from this lunatic! Come over to the Inquisition and save yourselves!"
Samson guffawed. "Nice try. They've been with me from the beginning. They've been working toward a new world, with a new god. What makes you think they'll turn now?"
It was a lost battle from the beginning to turn the Red Templars against Samson, Cullen belatedly accepted. He continued to glare at Samson as he murmured, "Seeker, you and the companions take the Red Templars. Samson is mine."
The Seeker replied, "You got it."
In the blink of an eye, the two sides clashed.
Drawing his sword and holding fast onto his templar shield, Cullen dashed to Samson. His armor glowed crimson from the shards of red lyrium imbued in it, and Cullen knew he had better focus his attacks on the exposed parts of Samson.
Namely, his head.
Samson's eyes, yellow and red all over, were wild with bloodthirst, and the man whirled about with his greatsword. There was no grace in it. In fact, Cullen never knew Samson to be an expert swordsman. Yet, the man was a tough opponent because of red lyrium. It did not turn him into one of those monstrosities the companions were battling, but it apparently gave him an inhuman strength. And that alone made him formidable. A fighter punching above his weight, certainly.
Aside for his initial attack, Cullen was in retreat. He was a templar fighting a battle without the assistance of lyrium. Of course, he knew some of this had to be in his head, but Cullen once again thought it had been a terrible, terrible mistake to quit lyrium. There was that feeling of impending doom, the one that sapped his power bit by bit until he felt like he was midair in the process of plummeting to his death.
That sickly sensation of the ground's gravity playing tricks on his mind. He hated that sensation.
Conversely, Samson seemed to only gain in strength. The greatsword swung so mightily and threateningly against the air only the breadth of a hair away from Cullen's chest.
But like most inexperienced swordsmen, Samson's attacks became predictable. Parrying and dodging became easier as the man's thrusts grew clumsier. The form had broken down at least three moves ago, and at this point, Samson was more akin to red lyrium monsters who seemed to have no sentience.
There was no denying Cullen was in retreat. But there was also no denying Samson lumbered in his burdensome armor like templar novitiates would. All that red lyrium had to be weighing him down.
Enough time had passed that the companions were finished with all the Red Templar cronies. And they surrounded Samson with their weapons drawn.
There was an unexpected lull in their duel, and Samson stepped back and looked around. Realizing he was the last Red Templar still alive, he roared and jumped at Cullen.
Cullen was ready to take him on with his shield placed firmly in front of him when he heard a shout in enunciated Tevene accent, "Oh no, you don't!"
A ball of fire exploded behind Samson, and it tossed him forward like a ragdoll. He tumbled until he was lying supine on the ground.
Exploiting the chance, Cullen aimed and swung his sword low. With a satisfying sound, he slashed Samson's pulsing carotid artery.
A flock of unknown birds flew away in skittish agitation.
With his hands trying in vain to stem the flow of dark puce blood, Samson rasped, "Corypheus will kill you. You'll die like your Inquisitor."
"I very much doubt that." Cullen coldly looked down on Samson, doing his utmost to ignore the niggling knowledge that it could have been him in that red lyrium armor, writhing on the ground like a worm and emitting a gurgling noise of a death knell now. And to ignore the image of Tharin in the Fade, his life slowly draining out of him.
For he had duties to the Inquisition. Which Abelas, running up the stairs magically appearing in thin air to the Well, sought to thwart.
Abelas's devotion and loyalty to Mythal and her legacy were something Cullen could empathize with, which was why Cullen could not simply order him to stand aside as the Inquisition took control of the Well. He haplessly watched as Abelas summoned arcane powers to destruct the Well, the waves of the water rising high.
Morrigan, on the other hand, had no such qualms. Her loyalty seemed to lie with knowledge in service of power. Cullen was so enraptured with the rising water that he did not see Morrigan run up and knife the Sentinel in the back.
"Mythal sulevin…" muttered Abelas before crumpling to the ground. There was only an infinitesimal chance Cullen would recall the Elvish words he picked up, but by some miraculous turn, he did. Sulevin. Purpose. Mythal's purpose.
It would remain forever unknown now.
As the Well quietened, Morrigan gazed at Abelas's lifeless body and mumbled, "Stubborn fool."
Dorian stepped forward and sharply rebuked, "What would you have done, backed into a corner?"
Unrepentant, Morrigan drawled, "And what if the Well was destroyed? Or this entire temple? Are you so eager to die for sympathy's sake?"
Cullen knelt next to Abelas and closed his eyes. As he stood up, he felt rage well up. He growled, "What you've done… What we've done… That was wrong."
Morrigan sneered. "Save it for the prayers to your god, Commander. We are at war against something that is worse than a mere Archdemon. 'Tis only fair we use whatever means to defeat him."
Indeed, they were at war. They were in the middle of a protracted battle as a matter of fact. Yet, the Inquisition wasted its few precious minutes on how Morrigan was correct about the eluvian and which person could handle the power of the Well.
The impasse continued until Corypheus's enraged roar pealed across the verdant grounds. It forced all companions to turn toward him on the far end of the main temple.
The next moment, Cullen heard a splash. Morrigan had jumped in and partook the Well. In a flash, the water of the Well ascended into the air and enveloped Morrigan whole. It only took a short moment, but the pillar of water subsided and Morrigan emerged from the Well with a mysterious expression.
Corypheus dashed toward the Well, leaving a trail of dark vapors behind him. It was time to go.
Cullen pulled on a dazed Morrigan's forearm and yelled, "Activate the eluvian!" She raised her other hand and flicked it, and the eluvian began to coruscate.
The Inquisition began to run. Ever responsible, the Commander ushered everyone in one by one afore he himself jumped into the eluvian. But before he left the temple behind for good, he saw the water of the Well spiral into a vortex and a figure of woman emerge from it. It was indescribably beautiful.
Corypheus's thundering anger snapped Cullen out of the trance. He turned and let the opalescent surface of the eluvian overtake him.
After Cullen came through to the other end, Morrigan unceremoniously closed the eluvian. As his companions slumped over and tried to catch their breaths, Cullen counted them in his head. Fortunately, everyone had made through.
Cullen, Cassandra, and Morrigan marched to the war room in a quick pace. A stray thought crossed Cullen's mind that the Skyhold garden still held traces of winter unlike the Arbor Wilds.
On the way, they had to pass the Ambassador's salon and caught Josephine by surprise. "Commander, how are you back?" she asked as she stood up, the legs of her chair scraping on the stone floor with a loud noise.
The Commander motioned for the Ambassador to join them as he explained, "Temple of Mythal had an eluvian that connected to Morrigan's." Josephine promptly rounded her desk, and they began to trot to the war room together. "We must dispatch a message to Rylen and Sister Nightingale as soon as possible, make sure the Inquisition forces are informed of our whereabouts."
"Commander, wait." The Ambassador laid her hand on Cullen's arm and stopped. Everyone halted and looked at her curiously, none more so than Cullen. Josephine approached and opened the wicket gate and motioned. "We will be in. Please give us a minute."
Josephine held the door open for others. After Morrigan, who rolled her eyes most extravagantly, and a puzzled Cassandra entered the war room, she shut the door with the care of laying an infant down for a nap. The gate latched close with a miniscule click. Feeling impatient, Cullen folded his arms and stared at Josephine with hard eyes. They did not have time to dally.
And yet, the woman dallied. Her face had a mixture of different emotions Cullen could not identify. Hesitantly, warily, ever so slowly, she started, "An hour ago, I received a message from one of our camps by the Waking Sea. It guards against an open rift nearby, and well…" she took a great inhale, "Tharin just came through. He's alive. He's all right, Cullen."
The news took more than several seconds to register in Cullen, but when it did, he felt faint. He extended his arm to balance against the wicket gate. He croaked, "What?"
Josephine's countenance broke out in a wide smile. "Tharin came through a rift in Ferelden. He's alive."
Cullen's heart thrummed ceaselessly. "Tharin's… alive?"
"Yes, Cullen." But a cloud passed over Josephine's face, and she hurriedly appended, "Maybe I should have waited to tell you. It hasn't been confirmed."
Please let it be real. "You think it is a false report?"
Thankfully, Josephine shook her head. "No. I don't." Even if her assurance meant nothing, it was something to Cullen. It was everything.
Unmindful of his soiled armor, Cullen enveloped Josephine in an enraptured hug. He could barely hold back as his breath turned ragged. And he prayed, If this is a dream, please let me never awake.
Cullen wanted to drop everything at Skyhold and run to Tharin. But he knew it was injudicious. He then thought to write. However, the man was on the move, journeying back to Skyhold. He would be arriving soon enough. So, instead of sending a letter, Cullen ruminated about what he would say in the moment of reunion. Testing the limits of his oratory skills, Cullen assembled the perfect, polished words to describe every feeling that gripped his heart.
A brief message arrived on the evening precisely a week after Tharin's miraculous reemergence that the man was nighting at a camp a day away. A scrap of parchment with hasty words by a lowly scout was enough to prompt Cullen to wait on Skyhold's bridge leading to the vale for hours the day after. It would have been impossible for Cullen to focus on work anyhow.
The wind of the alpine highlands, yet too cold for spring, howled past the narrow tunnel of the castle gate. No doubt stray stones jutting out on the gate amplified the whistling sound. The gale was ferocious enough to assail Cullen's face and make his eyes tear up, but he never stopped pacing to and fro, waiting.
Leliana, Rylen, and Fiona were still marching home with the Inquisition soldiers and mages, so they would not see Tharin arrive. But once the sun began to near the western horizon, Cullen was joined by Josephine, Cassandra, and Morrigan, the last of whom did not hesitate to express her disapproval of the Commander's antsy deportment, "'Tis most distracting. Must you constantly hop around like a rooster in search of its missing head?"
Cullen ignored the witch. His heart was about to explode from the anticipation. In his head flashed all the things he would say and do once he was reunited with Tharin. An unbidden grin tugged hard at the corners of his lips, and he did his best to suppress it. Somehow, showing his giddiness in front of Morrigan seemed unwise.
The waiting nonetheless continued as before. As the day neared its end, the lines of people, their mounts, and wagons filled with goods and supplies began to thin. Now, there were odd persons here and there entering and leaving, the detailed itineraries of whom were questioned by overzealous guards at the gate.
There was a moment when some unidentifiable and unfamiliar noise emanated from the general direction of the great hall, insisting on diverting Cullen's attention. He had turned to the noise with an annoyed frown when Josephine pointed the other way and yelled, "He's here!"
Cullen felt a surge of excitable frisson prickle his skin from head to toe. He sharply turned back, looked toward the vale, and saw a lone figure on horseback approaching.
He exhaled, "Tharin…" as though he had been holding his breath from Adamant to this very moment. A sense of relief, warm and mollifying, washed over him.
As soon as Tharin closed in enough for his face to be discernible, the man dismounted and began to walk toward them with the horse in tow. His visage bore a thin smile. No longer willing to wait, Cullen took a deep inhale and began to tread forward. The steps soon turned into a full dash.
And he crashed into Tharin's bosom, unrestrained and wild.
All the words Cullen had thought and rehearsed for this very moment, even the angry ones of admonition, vanished. Instead, heedless of anyone surrounding them, Cullen kissed Tharin. His love responded in kind, and Cullen felt the back of his closed eyes sting. Tears flowed anon, uncontrolled and overcome.
Everything that enfolded Cullen in a comforting embrace was so heartrendingly the man he loved. The touch, the smell, the taste… Tharin susurrated in a breaking voice, "I am so sorry, Cul. I was reckless."
Cullen shook his head adamantly. "Don't… Don't apologize. But you're back… You came back."
They stood rooted to the spot, the embrace eternal. The two men were in their own plane of existence, one much kinder than either Thedas or the Fade. That was, until someone cleared their throat.
Josephine's voice, emotional as well as regretful, followed, "Sorry to interrupt, but welcome home, Inquisitor."
Suddenly reminded of the world around him and with self-consciousness rising, Cullen let go and tried to make a hasty retreat. In his eyes entered the view of Josephine, Morrigan, and Cassandra, who had all joined them on the bridge, as well as curious passersby – a maiden, a grizzled farmer, and a rotund merchant – gawking. Tharin, however, grasped Cullen's hand and refused to let go. With his head held high, he bowed lightly, "Thank you. Glad to be back from the Fade."
Morrigan's arms were poised on her hips, and her posture askew. She looked quite amused. "And unscathed. 'Tis quite a stunning feat."
Cullen felt Tharin's hand squeeze and proceeded to lower his head as it grew hot. The young man cocked his head before commenting, "I wouldn't say totally unscathed. But yes, I am alive. That is more than enough."
With a sincere smile, Cassandra approached and dispensed a firm hug to the young man. "Welcome home, Tharin."
For a moment, Josephine fussed over Tharin, claiming he looked gaunt. It gave Cullen a chance to finally sniff back the tears. But then, she directed her gaze toward Cullen and made a knowing face. When she looked back to the Inquisitor, she explained, "I'd like you to write a letter to Leliana informing her of your return, but otherwise, you are free to do as you please. You and the Commander shan't be bothered for the rest of the evening."
Cullen wondered if his face could grow hotter and redder. When he turned, he saw Tharin flash a wide smile as his cheeks blossomed scarlet as well. The young man's response was short, "Understood."
Josephine touched Tharin's left cheek followed by his shoulder. She murmured, "Words fail me, but I am… so happy you are back, Tharin."
Despite his hand still twined with Cullen's, Tharin suavely pulled Josephine into a bear hug. "I'm sorry for keeping you all waiting too long."
The full moon along with its crescent companion traversed the starry sky above the Frostbacks, their pale lights reflected on the snowscape and brightening the bedchamber. It was a night when sleeplessness was a close companion. Next to a splendidly naked, asleep Cullen, whose diminutive snoring was more endearing than disruptive, Tharin in his smalls tossed and turned until he settled in a comfortable position.
Ah, sweet, sweet slumber. The ghoulish spectacles of the Fade had been stalking Tharin every night on the trail from Ferelden. Those three demons were still alive in his dreams, which probably meant that they managed to resurrect themselves in the Fade as well. But perhaps he would find himself lucky on the first night back at Skyhold and find some peace.
Well, he did get lucky with the man he loved earlier. Hopefully, the streak would continue.
He dozed off and hours disguised as an instant passed, but Tharin became wide awake when he felt the bed creak. As he opened his eyes, he saw Cullen's silhouette slowly lift itself up into a sitting position. The man turned away, and he could hear the shuffling of clothes formerly strewn on the floor.
Tharin reached out to caress Cullen's lower back and susurrated in a voice hoarse with sleep, "Hey." The man's skin felt warm against the cold air, and the fuzz there tickled Tharin's palm.
Cullen leaned against his pillow, and soon, Tharin felt Cullen's hand stroking his messy hair through the darkness. "Have I awakened you?"
"No." Tharin paused before asking, "Are you leaving?"
The question seemed to stump Cullen. He took a beat before adding, "I thought that may be for the best…"
Tharin frowned, though it was uncertain whether his concerned mien translated through the night. Doubts wafted up within him like wild smoke, and he absolutely detested its increasing intensity. "Is this your way of telling me you've tired of me?"
Cullen engulfed him in a fierce embrace and whispered, "No! Please do not think that!" He did not let go as he sighed. His breath was heavy enough to crash onto the bedsheets. "Funny thing is, my confidence just fell away when I finally realized what I had done at the gate in front of all those people. I worry that associating with me will somehow diminish your authority as the Inquisitor. And if the people in the great hall see us coming down together in the morning…"
"There would be no going back, huh?"
"Something like that."
The cool wave of relief washed over the foul smoke. Tharin hummed, fully intent on teasing, "Well now, there's something to think about."
Cullen replied in an unsteady tone, "Right, right…" disappointment so palpable.
Laughter bubbled up in Tharin, and with his shoulders shaking from it, Tharin patted Cullen's cheek. "Cul, my love, I want you. That's it, there is nothing more to it. I want you in my room, in my bed, by my side. Always." He continued, mischief unabated, "You know I will see your hair all mussed up and natural in the morning? You won't have time to fix it like you always do."
"You are–" Before finishing the thought, Cullen pounced and pinned Tharin on the bed. He crushed his lips against the young man's. After he broke off from a kiss that felt rougher than it needed to be, he flashed a lupine smile and concluded, "–an arse."
Tharin chortled and replied, "I aim to please."
With his smile still in place, Cullen scoffed. "No, you aim to please yourself."
Tharin gasped, faking hurt. "Why, I'm flabbergasted. How could you make such a hurtful suggestion?" He thought it was a funny word.
But in a moment, the laughter petered out and Tharin turned serious. He pleaded, "Stay the night. Don't go."
Their lips overlapped once again, and the edges of the puckish mischief softened. With his lips still close enough to Tharin's to feel his breaths, Cullen whispered, "Every night. I will stay every night."
Tharin wrapped his arms around Cullen and squeezed. "I'll hold you to that," he crooned.
For the first time in ages, Cullen slept soundly. No nightmares, no memories of debilitating guilt haunting him, no lingering thoughts of roads untrodden. And he woke up refreshed.
First time for everything, he supposed.
They slept in. It was only the midmorning sun filtering through sheer curtains that awoke the two. Even then, Cullen wanted to extend their undisturbed lazy day just a little longer, and Tharin appeared to have the same idea. And so, they lingered in the bed, discussing what happened in the Fade in hushed voices.
Cullen went through a full gauntlet of emotions. He laughed at Tharin's gentle teasing, shared passionate kisses despite their dry and not entirely fragrant mouths, marveled at the good fortune of Kyre's appearance, and sniffed back tears as he ran his hands on the new, still too crimson scars Tharin had earned.
But he need not cry. Tharin came back. However much worse for the wear, in one piece.
As though to lift the somber mood, Tharin jumped from the bed, extended his hand, and upturned his lips. "Right, it's high time I went to train. Will you join me?"
The last stubborn remnants of the tears still hung on as Cullen chuckled. "Do you not think you deserve a day off?"
Tharin let forth a booming laugh. "Nonsense. I cannot think of a better way to spend the day than to defeat you in combat."
"Not likely, but I accept your challenge," Cullen said breezily as he lifted himself from the Inquisitor's bed.
Spring had a long reach, and buds flowered even this high up in the Frostbacks. There was a plum tree on the edge of Skyhold's courtyard, and light pink petals twirled about in the air. Cullen could not help but feel nostalgic.
The training ground was penned in to accommodate an audience, but it was deserted except for the Iron Bull. The man was shadowboxing as he wielded his axe. Combined with the blossoms, it looked more like dancing. There was grace and finesse to his movement.
When Tharin and Cullen approached, the Iron Bull's serious face broke in a wide smile and his hefty body relaxed. He drew close and gave Tharin a firm hug. "Welcome back, boss. You look great for a man who just escaped the Fade!" The greeting was followed by a series of hearty guffaws.
"Thanks, Bull. I do look great, don't I?" Tharin was all muscles and sinews yet looked like a child's toy in the Bull's embrace, Cullen thought with muted amusement.
"I cannot imagine being stuck in that place. I hate spirits and demons," the Bull shuddered, though that he differentiated between spirits and demons so clearly was surprising.
After trading banters, Cullen and Tharin settled in the training ground and the Iron Bull withdrew to Cassandra's corner, focusing his attention on a practice dummy now.
As the two men stood far apart on either side of the training pen, Cullen made an exaggerated show of checking his sword. When Tharin tilted his head in question, he drawled, "Just in case you've switched out my practice blade with a real one."
Tharin blushed and rolled his eyes. "I make one bad decision, and you won't let me forget it."
"Not until I am sure you wouldn't cheat."
"For Maker's sakes, I wouldn't do that to you now."
Cullen raised one corner of his lips. "Promises, promises."
For a moment, the two men circled each other, observing the minute details. Cullen noted Tharin's weak point was the man's grip on his greatsword. With missing two fingers on the Anchor hand, Tharin's control of the hilt had to be weaker than before.
Before Haven fell.
But otherwise, Tharin's defensive stance was flawless, just as Cullen had drilled into him.
Still, the man was impatience personified. With his teeth gritted, Tharin leapt at Cullen. Cullen held onto his heater shield and waited for the blade to collide against it. When it did with a loud thwack, pounding pain chilled the bones in his left arm.
Cullen admonished, "Still overeager! Let the enemy come to you."
Tharin lowered his greatsword. He smirked. "You mean like how you came on me last night?"
A flush overtook Cullen's cheeks, he could feel. He stammered, "…That's not…" After letting forth a harsh breath, Cullen yelled back, "You cannot throw me off."
Tharin remained gallingly unctuous. "I daresay I am achieving that with much aplomb, Commander." He extended the tip of his greatsword at Cullen. "Come on then, let me have it."
It was Cullen's turn to attack. He dashed forward and drove his sword at a dodging Tharin. Once, twice, thrice, the thrusts continued, yet Tharin was too fast with his nimble legs. A sly grin floated on his visage, and Cullen felt giggles bubble up from within.
Cullen's thrusts slowed as his right biceps and triceps began to ache. And when he left his heaving chest exposed and vulnerable, Tharin whirled around and lunged. Cullen barely managed to parry.
His breath running ragged, Cullen spoke in bouts, "Good… Let the enemy… tire himself out."
"Like last night how you–"
Cullen sniffed and interrupted, "Don't."
Their blades met in low clangs, their movements tentative and searching. Tharin's eyes seemed to ask if Cullen was up for more, and Cullen nodded. And so, they exchanged more rounds of charges, strikes, and counters. Cullen felt the muscles on his body throb. His skin must be bruised from all the hits Tharin managed to land on him. And yet, he felt more alive than he had ever felt before.
As their sparring continued, an audience of Inquisition soldiers gathered, and their moves turned sharper and faster. The edges of their blades whirled in the air as falling blossoms danced around them. Against the enemy yet unknown, they thrust and parried as though their lives depended on their victory.
When there was a lull, Cullen had a thought. "May I ask…?"
"Yes?" breathed Tharin.
"What was it like… fighting demons in the Fade?"
Tharin's muscular chest rose and fell in a quick interval. "Surprisingly, not that different… from fighting them here. I do wonder… just what kind of foes I'll face before… everything comes to a close…"
Cullen glanced at the Iron Bull training in his corner. Could Tharin ever fight a Qunari? Was he even physically capable of taking one on? Cullen rasped, "Maybe a Qunari one day…"
"How about a bet, Commander?"
"Yes?"
"I bet a silver the Bull would best you in a one-on-one."
Cullen feigned hurt. "Oh, ye of little faith…Do you truly believe I, your love, wouldn't be able to win?"
The very public invocation of the phrase "your love" seemed to have stumped Tharin, especially with an audience that proceeded to holler, but soon he replied suavely, "My love would better best me before trying his skills on the Bull."
Without answering, Cullen commenced his final attack. Letting the leap forward take him, his sword was mere inches away from Tharin's torso. Predictably, the man spun away. And so, Cullen spun as well, flanking Tharin and hitting his side with his shield.
When Tharin jerked and looked disoriented, Cullen knew he had to take advantage of that momentary lapse in defense. He rushed and made a sweep at Tharin's feet. The man failed to jump out of the way and lost balance, grunting as he fell heavily. And before Tharin could raise his greatsword, Cullen had his practice sword poking at his neck.
Finally, a victor had emerged. A riotous applause broke out in the throng, and Cullen let forth a jovial chortle. He scabbarded his sword. "All right, I think that is enough for today." He offered his right hand and raised Tharin off the ground.
Tharin toweled off the beads of sweat and the dirt dotting his skin while Cullen lifted a cup of clear, cold water from the pail off to the side and drank to his fill. The crowd that had gathered to watch the Commander and the Inquisitor fight began to disperse while the Iron Bull still moved in a deliberate, controlled way against the practice dummy.
As the wind picked up, the dancing blossoms showered on the two men. Cullen saw the pink petals come to a gentle rest on Tharin's tousled hair. It evoked the beginning at Haven when everything that had come to pass had yet to. And Cullen knew his heart was full.
He approached Tharin and pinched a petal out of Tharin's hair. He held it out on his forefinger and said with much mirth, "Would you like to make a wish?"
Tharin smiled. "I wish for a kiss from my handsome champion."
Cullen stepped forward, and they shared a deep kiss, their lips grazing in tandem.
"Wish granted," whispered Cullen.
That's the end of Part IV: Winter! As I mentioned, the next chapter and the beginning of Part V is coming on Sunday, November 13. The rest will be posted thusly:
* Chapter 49 - Sunday, November 27
* Chapter 50 (Finale) - Sunday, Decmeber 11, just in time for the second anniversary of this fic!
Thank you for reading!