Cullen had seen her sneak by hours ago, sticking close to Haven's outer wall as she skirted the training grounds, clearly meaning to evade his notice. She might have gotten away with it too, had the townsfolk of Haven had been willing to allow the Herald to pass with a little less regard. But a crowd of whispering gawkers had amassed by the time she'd exited the main gate, trailing her shamelessly until she'd finally vanished into the old barn and pulled the doors shut behind her. He had discreetly stationed one of his men outside shortly after, though it appeared that no one actually had the nerve to disturb her.
A sharp wind was rising from the west and a sudden gust of it lay stinging upon his cheek as he circled his newest recruits, knocking a leg into a wider stance here, a shield up there, with the flat of his sword every so often. His forces had swelled only four days prior, following a sharp influx of redirected Templars who'd been fortunate in arriving late to the disastrous Conclave, and they had maintained a steady trickle of new enlistments ever since. The majority of these latest were farmers and stable hands from outlying properties, better used to wielding pitchforks and flails than swords and shields. But they were good strong men. And the desire to protect one's house and home lent a certain fervor to their efforts at training that offset what they might lack in talent and experience.
As if to prove his point, the sickly wheeze of a pair of lungs being divested of all air sounded to his right. Cullen turned in time to see one of his youngest recruits thrown face-first to the ground. "Guard up soldier! You'll rest at the Maker's side, not on my battlefield!"
The boy nodded weakly, looking green but picking himself up hurriedly to stand at attention nonetheless. "Yes, sir!" He hoisted his shield high and turned back to his opponent, readying himself for the next assault.
Cullen's mouth set in approval. It had been like that all week—even the most unassuming of his men displaying the determination and fearlessness of seasoned soldiers. Squinting against the setting sun, his gaze drifted to the barn down the path and his thoughts, to the woman within.
Perhaps home wasn't the only thing his men were fighting for.
It was sometime later before Cullen set off from the training area, stopping at the smithy to trade a bit of small talk and hand a few coins to the gruff, but kindly blacksmith in exchange for a slim roll of leather.
"To your likin' Commander?" Harritt asked, wiping dirty hands on an even dirtier rag as Cullen inspected the contents.
Cullen clapped him on the shoulder. "Indeed. Lothering must be sorry to have lost you."
The smith shrugged. "Not much need for fine metalworkin' thereabouts. There will be 'round here though. With the troops and all." He cast a suspicious look at the sky as Cullen rewrapped the bundle with a grim nod and the two men said no more. The ever-present clang of a hammer striking an anvil rose up again as Cullen made his way down the path towards the old barn.
"Dismissed Randall," Cullen called out, seeing the lone figure shivering as he approached. "Go get yourself some stew before you freeze out here."
"Back on active tomorrow Commander?"
Cullen looked at the soldier he'd stationed outside the barn doors appraisingly. The young man's face was expectant in the dim glow of the day's last rays. "How's the arm?"
"Better." Randall rolled his shoulder forward and back in eager demonstration. "Please sir, I'll go mad on another day of light duty."
Cullen chuckled at the desperation in his voice. "You know the rules. Active duty when Adan signs off on it."
"I swear that man wants to drown me in potions before he'll say I'm healed," Randall muttered.
Cullen tended to agree. They'd lost their last two medics in demon skirmishes after the explosion and the old alchemist tended to dole out foul and questionable concoctions with malicious glee. He made a mental note to ask Josephine to look into finding a proper replacement before turning back to the task at hand. "Any trouble out here?"
The soldier shook his head. "One lot tried to scale the barn wall at one point. But they were drunk off their asses and I'm not sure what they could have accomplished from the roof anyhow." He shrugged. "Entertaining, at least."
"Good. After the week she's had, the Herald deserves some peace."
"Doubt she needed my help with that Commander. The ruckus that woman made in there was enough to frighten away a herd of druffalo. Thought you said she was a noble?"
Cullen opened his mouth to reply but was stopped short by a wild cry followed by a series of violent crashing noises from within the barn.
"See?" Randall turned to take himself back toward the village. "Only noblewoman I've ever heard make sounds like that is Seeker Pentaghast."
Curiosity piqued, Cullen ignored the retreating soldier. The lady certainly did sound fierce. Likely, her trainer had instructed her in the importance of a good show he decided, easing the latch and sliding one side of the heavy doors open with surprising silence. Where sparring was concerned, bravado could be a valuable weapon. But as his new pupil was about to learn, that tactic was of decidedly less use during actual combat. He struggled to suppress a smirk as the myriad ways in which he might show her this tonight unfolded before him, feeling the expression freeze on his face the moment he looked up.
Maker's breath. She was…
Terrifying.
Strong.
Beautiful.
As was appropriate for his station, the noble was ignoring him— No. She hadn't heard his entrance, he realized. He glanced at the doors behind him, shut tight once more, and felt oddly pleased knowing that they would have no audience.
Firelight glinted off one of the old blades she held. A bit of a miracle really, considering the half-rusted state of the daggers now flipping expertly in her palms and then, plunged swiftly into poor, battered training dummy. Much of the heavy cotton batting, once lending it some semblance of the shape and substance of a man, had been spilled out onto the ground making it appear as though Lady Trevelyan was now gruesomely abusing an overly large potato. She unsheathed her weapons from within the dummy with a swift jerk and spun, launching a series of kicks at the inanimate foe. Cullen remained motionless, studying her.
Her form was excellent, as was her figure, Andraste forgive him. The lines of her body shifted smoothly with every move, never unbalanced, never faltering, even as she twisted and spun through the air. It was a fighting style uncannily reminiscent of the Champion's. Not quite as graceful as Leliana, who made slitting a man's throat look like a caress, until you noticed all the blood. But powerful, certain, and captivatingly deadly. He must have made some noise because before he knew it, the Herald had turned to him fully, eyes wide at the intrusion.
"Oh." She relaxed as recognition hit her. "Is it that late already?"
Cullen strode toward her with a nod. "You've been in here for hours. Practicing I see." He gestured to the gutted dummy.
The Herald said nothing.
This close, he could see that her eyes were not simply blue, as he'd originally thought, but admixed with threads of green and flecks of gold around the dark centers. Her heavy lashes were… suspiciously narrowing. He blinked and realized that she was glaring at him.
"Here." He unwrapped the leather roll and held out what he had brought for her, hoping to ease the tension that had formed between them yesterday. "Cassandra told me you had lost your own and considering the state of whatever those are…" he glanced disgustedly at the rusted pair she still clutched, "...I'd say a proper set of weapons is definitely warranted."
Her mouth fell open a little in surprise. "Thank you." She stepped closer to pull the new daggers from his hands and gave them an experimental twirl before falling into a set of forms as she learned the feel of the new grips.
Sensing that it would be wise to take advantage of her momentary distraction, Cullen pressed on. "So, I'd say you've exhausted training on the equipment for today. Why don't we start with some sparring. I'd like to get a better sense of where you stand."
The quick arcs the Herald's daggers had been cutting through the air stopped short at this and she turned to face him with a sweet smile. "Of course, Commander."
It was not often that Cullen felt thankful for having sisters specifically, but this was one of those times. The disconnect between Lady Trevelyan's tone of voice and expression was eerily similar to Mia's mannerisms before she was about to exact some form of revenge. And the last time that had happened, his dear sister had locked him in an abandoned grain silo with a skunk. It was a formative experience really. One could hardly forget the dangers of a woman's insincere smile after having paid for it by spending an entire week alternately bathing and slathering oneself with salves in an effort to be tolerable to society again.
He rested his hands on the pommel of his sword and gave the Herald a long look, unsure of how to best handle a woman he barely knew. What was clear was that this animosity between them could not stand. For this sort of training, he needed her trust.
An apology then.
He moved to her side and knelt, ignoring her startled protest as his fist crossed his heart. "Your Worship, I wish to apologize for the words which transpired between us in the war room."
"Dear Maker, what are you doing?"
Cullen chanced a glance upward to find Lady Trevelyan biting her lower lip in horror. "Apologizing," he said carefully. He brushed aside her attempts to drag him to his feet. "Truly, I did not mean to offend you."
Color rose high in her cheeks as she straightened and looked away, the graceful curve of her neck exposed to him. The top buttons of the plain camisole she wore had been undone and the sheen of still drying skin was visible below. Cullen swallowed, realizing only then that she'd divested herself of several layers of clothing over the course of her exertions.
"You are the Herald of Andraste." The statement was more of a reminder to himself than anything else. And one does not fantasize about the breasts of Andraste's chosen.
"Well, that's up for debate still isn't it?" she said, crossing her arms beneath said breasts with a huff.
"Fantasizing?" His voice cracked a bit. Sweet Maker, had he said that last thought out loud?
Lady Trevelyan looked at him in confusion. "The title."
"Y-yes, of course… nevermind." He needed to get a hold of himself. " I only meant that whatever you may believe, you have accepted this role. You are valuable to the Inquisition. To all of us. And for that I would see you—"
"Placated," she finished tersely, attempting to take a step back.
Cullen's hand closed around her wrist before she could escape. "Protected."
She studied him warily. "You assume a great deal, Commander. That I need protection for one. That a woman of noble birth is a thing of frivolity, for another. My accomplishments are not decorative."
"Forgive me, my lady, but in my experience, they generally—"
She glowered. "Please, I can't wait to hear how you'll finish that sentence."
Cullen stood with a huff. The woman was infuriating. "I only meant that you are rare, my lady. In all my travels, I have only met three noblewomen whose years of training were not ornamental. My queen, the Champion of Kirkwall, and Seeker Pentaghast."
"Well, you're about to meet a fourth," she said coldly.
He was on the ground before he knew it, the flat of a newly gifted dagger pressed to his throat. The Herald blinked innocently above him, straddling his torso. "You wished to spar?"
That did it. Herald or no, Lady Trevelyan was a spoiled little— Cullen flipped her aside easily and stood. "Allow me to remove my armor first, Your Worship. I wouldn't wish to put you at a disadvantage." He gestured to her considerably more undressed state, altogether far too pleased to see her frown return. "Are daggers your usual preference?" he asked, conversationally, dropping his cloak and breastplate to the ground beside her own garments.
"I can kill a man without metal, if that's what you're asking."
He smiled at her bluster as he finished stripping down. "I wasn't." Drawing his blade, he snapped a rune into place and tossed two more her way automatically. "Blunting," he prompted, as she stared dumbly at the two small rectangles now resting in her palm. "For your blades?"
"I know what they are," she said defensively, fumbling with the stone runes in a way that made him sure that she didn't. She made a small noise of protest when he finally moved to her side to take them from her fingers. "You don't need to—"
He rolled his eyes. "I do. You've clearly never trained with proper equipment." He held up one rectangle, torchlight glinting off the cool blue runemark set into its center. "See how it closes on one edge only? You slide it over your blade, like so." He fit the stone around one of her daggers, just where the blade met the hilt. "And click it into place."
Raising the now protected blade to his own throat, he drew it quickly over his skin, trying not to smile as she gasped and started toward him, only to draw up short when it became apparent that his neck was entirely unharmed. "Blade protected," he announced formally.
She copied his motions with her remaining dagger. "Why not just use training weapons?" she asked, not meeting his gaze as she made a show of checking that both her runes were well-set. "Wood or dulled, for instance?"
"Why do you think?"
She paused for only a moment. "Better to practice with your real weapons than be misled by the feeling of practice blades."
Cullen nodded. "I'm not surprised that your prior trainer never used rune-protected blades. They really are only necessary for precision battle training. Not sparring." Seeing her cheeks heat at this he raised his sword quickly. "Shall we?"
"With pleasure," she muttered.
He allowed her to attack first. She was fiercer and faster than he expected. But her offensive tactics were unsurprising, though perfectly executed. He blocked her easily. And again. And again. Sparks glinted off their weapons where they struck. He charged. She parried, just barely managing to deflect his last blow with both her daggers before spinning out of reach. She danced around him, moving like flame itself as she worked to break through his defenses. But minutes later she still could not manage to catch him on his unprotected side. She let out a small noise of frustration as his sword came up to impede her attack once more.
"Had enough?" he asked nonchalantly.
She glared, only slightly out of breath. 'Not by half." She redoubled her efforts letting out a fierce yell as she launched into an elaborate spinning attack. Her chocolate brown hair came loose as she whirled, glinting with strands of gold in the firelight. Despite the impressive show, her daggers met only air.
He took his chance then, sidestepping the last swipes of her blades before wrapping his fist in her long tresses and pulling her against him, her back to his front. His sword pressed against her exposed throat.
She gasped as the cool metal touched her skin. "You cheat!" She attempted to turn her head to pull away and he rotated his fist once more to wind her locks further around his hand, tipping her head back more fully against his shoulder. "Cullen!"
He ignored the strange thrill that went through him at the unexpected sound of his name on her lips. "Cullen what?" he challenged. His mouth was now inches from her flushed cheek. He could see the creamy skin suffuse further with red as her anger grew.
"Let me go," she demanded.
"Do you concede, my lady?"
"What do you think?" she snapped.
She flipped her daggers, attempting to stab at his torso with her grip reversed. He dodged, keeping his firm grip on her hair while he knocked the weapons from her hands with his sword arm. He dropped his weapon as he did so in order to grab ahold of both her wrists, pinning them behind her back and stepping close again to hold them there with the weight of his own body.
"Argh!" she yelled. She squirmed against him to no avail.
He couldn't help a small grin at her frustration. She didn't give up easily, he'd give her that. "You must say it, you know. 'I concede'. Certainly your chevalier taught you at least that much."
Her back stiffened against him. He watched her slender, exposed throat work for a moment as she swallowed. Finally, she dropped her daggers. "I concede."
Cullen released her instantly and she bent to pick up her weapons. "What in the Void! You fight like a criminal." She turned back to face him with an angry glare.
Sighing, he rested his sword point down before him, hands crossed together over the pommel. "I fight as one does in the real world, my lady. Which, as I suspected, you seem to have been taught nothing of."
"Yes, forgive me for being trained by a war hero, and brothers who fight like men not like—"
"Like what?" said Cullen, with a disdainful snort. "Do you imagine the rogue Templars, apostates, bandits, demons out there will fight honorably?"
"This is ridiculous." She turned, stomping toward the small pile of clothing that lay near the far door of the barn. "You're incapable of admitting that I can fight."
He sheathed his sword and caught her upper arm, swinging her to face him. "And you're incapable of admitting that you have anything at all to learn!"
Her nostrils flared as she attempted to shake him off but he held firm, grasping her other arm as well, and pulling her toward him. "Let me help you," he growled.
She looked up at him in disgust. "And what could a pompous, washed-up former knight-commander have to teach me? Other than dirty tricks that is?"
Cullen felt the warmth rush from his face.
The old familiar tingle of lyrium rose up instinctually within him, fainter now that it had been months since his last draught. His mouth settled into a grim line as he struggled to control the sensation.
The woman before him seemed to sense his mood and made to pull away. A look of slight remorse crossed her face, but he blinked and it was gone. He must have imagined it. He released her and stepped back a few paces, breathing slowly and deliberately, in an effort to keep away the pounding headache that threatened to take root at his body's recollection of the drug it so sorely lacked.
When he eventually spoke, his voice was hoarse. "You have excellent form. You're quick, and strong. But you're predictable."
He paused to press his fingers against his throbbing right temple briefly, hiding the movement under the guise of brushing the hair that had fallen forward onto his brow away. "Every move you make is as if it were from a training manual. You need to learn to grapple, to be creative, and to make use of every advantage around you. You need to… fight dirty as you put it. The enemies you now face will not hesitate to use every opportunity to maim and kill you."
Lady Trevelyan kept her gaze fixed on the ground for a long while, refusing to look at him. Her knuckles were white around the grips of her daggers.
"Alright," she said finally.
"I think we're done here for today." He turned to collect his armor. "I'll see you tomorrow at sundown."
Cullen didn't see her leave. But the barn stood empty by the time he had re-dressed. He tiredly collected the scattered training dummies, stuffing their innards back in as best he could, and doused the fire, before beginning the walk back to the small quarters within the chantry that Cassandra demanded he take. His temples pounded in earnest now and a wave of nausea rose up to greet him. The hopeful outlook he'd had only an hour ago had vanished, replaced by the weight of multiple worries. Their numbers were still too small. His men were poorly equipped. Few were ready for any semblance of battle.
The doors to the chantry opened and closed with a deep groan as he entered, and Rylen's cheerful laugh echoed forth from the direction of the kitchens. Cullen stepped toward the sound for a moment, then thinking better of it. He was no longer hungry and there was simply too much to be done. Light shone from beneath the door of Leliana and their new Ambassador's shared quarters as he crossed the empty hall, noting that the same was not true of the quarters Cassandra and Lady Trevelyan shared next to his own. The Herald must have gone to dinner, or perhaps she was with the other women.
His room was dark, and cold when he entered—just large enough to contain a small, currently unlit fireplace, a single cot, a rickety armor stand, and a small writing desk. Maneuvering carefully in the cramped space, he managed to undress and stacked wood in the waiting grate before coaxing a flame to life beneath it. He warmed his hands for a moment before finally pulling the waiting stack of reports Rylen had left for him from the corner of his desk.
A small, muffled sob came from the wall to his right.
Cullen turned with a start, ears straining to catch sounds of further discomfort. He was suddenly at a loss for how to proceed with his evening routine.
The soft cries continued, and he gripped his reports tighter. A chant rose to his lips unconsciously as he sat, stock still. His eyes fixed on the stone wall that separated him from the only sign of divine intervention Thedas had seen in centuries. And he prayed.
