Note: sorry for the delay! I've totally lost confidence in my writing and it was hard to post this when I keep thinking of it as total trash.

But now we have some resolution after the last chapter's dramatic end, and then Anwen and Cullen get all cute and fluffy.

Cullen remembers red.

Blood oozing from his abdomen. Warm and thick, squelching between his fingers, nestling in the lines at his knuckles.

Cullen remembers white.

A hot flash of pain as his dagger pierced through skin. A sharp prick followed by a slow, building burn as the blade had pushed further and further through flesh.

Cullen remembers black.

His eyes drawn shut, too tired to hold open, the heavy hands of unconsciousness pulling him into darkness. He'd seen Anwen's face then, in those last moments, and through the haze of his failing eyes, he'd almost thought her a vision, some spectre of the Fade come to greet him in his slumber. But her tears had fallen on his upturned face, charting hot courses down his cheeks, and then he'd known she wasn't a dream – she was real, she was here – here with him even as he was drifting off into the oblivion of sleep.

Maybe he should have been afraid, as the pain numbed into nothingness and the blood coursed from his open wound, but he wasn't. With Anwen at his side, with the strange tingling of her magic dancing across his skin, he'd felt oddly calm.

As consciousness comes back to him, the colours turn into shapes – figures and forms and Anwen's terrified face as she'd leant over him. There are sensations and thoughts and words that he hadn't had the chance to tell her – an apology, mainly, for scaring her.

With consciousness comes movement – a small wriggle of his toes, a slow curl of his fingers into the thick blanket that seems to be wrapped tightly around him. He's in his bed then; he can smell the sharpness of the breeze as it whistles through his broken roof, feel the homespun roughness of his simple bedsheets.

When he finally has the strength to open his eyes, he's met with darkness, eyes still clouded with the lingering gloom of a heavy, dreamless sleep. After a few more blinks he can start to make out the interior of his room. The sky is dark above him and he finds the sight oddly disorientating; thick, slate-grey clouds making it impossible to tell just how late it is – whether it's sun or stars being obscured by their heavy pall. The candle on his bedside table is lit, and the small, sputtering light fights valiantly to push the shadows from his room, weak fingers of light reaching out across rough, crumbling walls.

Someone's sitting beside his bed; he can just make out the back of a dark-haired head and the bright flash of colour from a high-collared jacket.

"Anni?" he asks, voice dry and heavy with sleep.

The head turns and a moustachioed face frowns at him.

"I'm afraid not," Dorian smirks, "it's just little ol' me."

"Oh," Cullen sighs.

"Yes well, try not to sound too pleased to see me," Dorian grouses, and though he rolls his eyes with exaggerated annoyance, Cullen doesn't miss the quick flash of genuine hurt that sparks behind his eyes at Cullen's reaction.

"Sorry, Dorian," Cullen manages, "I didn't mean—thank you. I'm glad that you're here."

Dorian hums in acknowledgement of Cullen's apology and a small smile starts pulling at his mouth, though there's still a hint of annoyance at the corners of his eyes. "She was here, of course – but then Cassandra insisted that she go get some rest. Although knowing her, she probably just went to check in on Sera again." He sighs dramatically, "you two are almost as stubborn as each other."

Cullen smiles – touched to know that she'd been here with him, glad that Cassandra had chased her away, and hopeful that she's managing to get some well-deserved rest.

"I don't know why you look so pleased with yourself," Dorian snaps, brows pulled low in disapproval, "you realise you're a bloody idiot, right? Maker, Cullen… stabbing yourself."

"It was the only way I could be sure which one was Anni."

"I never realised you had such a flair for the dramatic. Are you sure you're not from Tevinter?"

Cullen frowns at Dorian's suggestion – reluctant to think of himself as being overly dramatic.

"You couldn't just prick your finger, hmm? Maybe a little nick to your palm?"

"It needed to be severe enough that Anni would be forced to use her healing magic."

Dorian looks distinctly unimpressed with Cullen's reasoning, although he luckily doesn't press the matter. And Cullen's glad that he doesn't – because the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that he had been pretty idiotic. But he'd been desperate, and afraid of being wrong, and he'd been keenly aware of the ticking of time, of the urgency. He'd needed to find the real Anwen and he'd needed to find her as soon as possible. Now that he thinks about it – it was rash and stupid and he's sure to get a thorough bollocking from Anwen as soon as he sees her.

It'll be worth it though – he can weather her anger as long as she's safe and happy and at his side.

"Well let me take a look then?" Dorian suddenly asks, placing his book aside and tugging at Cullen's bedsheets.

"Excuse me?" Cullen asks, still a little groggy from sleep and uncertain as to what exactly Dorian wants from him.

"Your wound," Dorian says with exaggerated slowness, "let me take a look at it."

Cullen pushes the sheets back and lifts his shirt, holding the fabric back so that Dorian can take a good look at the marred skin across his abdomen. It's not a pretty sight – skin puckered and red, silver starburst marking the point where the blade had slipped in. Cullen can't help but cringe a little at the sight of it; it looks angry at him.

"Ugh," Dorian groans with a grimace, "it's not Anwen's finest work."

There's a beat of silence as they both take in the sorry state of Cullen's stomach.

"But then you did insist that she leave you alone and concentrate her healing on Sera."

Cullen's head jolts with surprise. "I did? I said that?... I… I don't remember that."

"Yes, well you weren't really in your right mind at the time – with all that blood loss. Although I'm not sure you were in your right mind before that. Otherwise you never would have stabbed yourself in the first place!"

Cullen is surprised at the sharpness in Dorian's tone, surprised too at Dorian's unwillingness to just let it go.

He only now realises just how angry Dorian is – why he keeps needling and prodding while glaring at him with a disapproving scowl. He'd only really been thinking of Anwen when he'd taken up his dagger – worrying solely about determining which Anwen was which. He hadn't thought about how his actions would endanger his own life, hadn't thought about how his actions would upset his friends.

It suddenly occurs to him that Dorian has been worried about him.

And Cullen really is a bloody idiot.

Cullen grabs Dorian's hand from where it's fussing over the wound, elegant fingers prodding at puckered skin, and gives it a companionable squeeze. "I'm sorry, Dorian," Cullen says, holding Dorian's eyes so his friend can see the sincerity there. "I'm sorry for being an idiot. I'm sorry for making you worry. And I promise I won't do anything stupid again."

Dorian gives him an unimpressed glare.

"Fine– I might do something stupid again. But I promise I'll be suitably repentant every time."

Dorian chuckles, and this time when he smiles, none of the tension and annoyance from earlier seems to be lingering anymore.

"You are forgiven," Dorian says with an indulgent, though somewhat patronising smile, "you handsome idiot."

Anwen had meant to rest – really she had.

But after Cullen had fallen sound asleep, and after she'd been sure to check in on Sera, she'd found it impossible to just… switch off. Her mind is buzzing too much. Every time she closes her eyes, she can see everything playing through her mind again and again and again. She sees Sera hit the floor, sees her own sneering face as her doppelganger unleashes another spell. Sees Cullen's face turning gradually whiter as blood pools on the stone floor beneath them.

And so she doesn't close her eyes, instead keeping the images at bay by staring at the canopy above her bed with an unwavering intensity. She's staring so intensely that soon the images start to shift and sway, the floral pattern coming alive under the force of her scrutiny, flowers budding and blooming and dying all before her eyes.

With a sigh she pulls her body upright, swinging her legs out of bed until her toes dig into the soft pile of her patterned rug. She feels like she's going insane, images and sensations and thoughts swirling uncontrollably behind her eyes. She supposes she's just exhausted – exhausted but frustratingly incapable of sleep. She starts to pace, feet scuffing against her rug as she moves, muttering to herself as she remains completely at a loss for what to do.

She could read, she supposes, though she's not sure what pleasure she'll get from it in her current agitated state. Part of her desperately wants to go back and check on Cullen – though she knows that Dorian will just shoo her away the moment she steps back in his room. As she paces across her quarters she catches sight of the pile of reports on her desk and… well, they're hardly the most exciting thing in the world but working through the pile of paperwork does at least seem monotonous enough to keep her mind occupied for a time.

She sits down at her desk, quickly thumbs through the stack of papers to try and estimate how many reports are there, before picking the first report from the top of the pile and starting to read.

Surprisingly, it's exactly what she needs.

Anwen normally finds reports excruciatingly dull – reading them and answering them – but she's surprisingly grateful for the mindless task right now. She reads, she answers, she moves onto the next one.

When the reports are done, she starts on her correspondence.

There's a letter to her sister in Wycome, consisting almost entirely of lies – skipping over the darker details of life in the Inquisition in favour of extolling their victories. There's a more honest letter to a friend in Starkhaven, as well as shorter missives to mage friends she'd known in the Tantervale Circle before it fell, now in hiding.

By the time Cassandra walks in, looking softer than usual in a pair of loose linen trousers and a white tunic, Anwen is on the last of her letters. It's short but… difficult, her brows knit tight as she tries to think of the right words. There's no easy way to tell a family that their beloved is dead; no easy way to express just how sorry she is. It's especially hard because the death had been so senseless – not killed in heroic battle but slaughtered by Not-Anwen as she'd escaped her cell. Normally Anwen lets Cullen or one of his Captains write these sorts of letters – but it seems different this time; these men had been killed by someone wearing her own face and it seems only right that she should be the one to write the letter.

"It's late, you should be asleep," Cassandra says without preamble.

"I was doing reports," Anwen replies, her quill never once stopping as she writes, "and now I'm writing letters."

"Can't they wait until morning?" Cassandra asks with an impatient tap of her toes against the floor.

Anwen shrugs, still not looking up. "Probably."

Cassandra lets out a heavy sigh and it's only then that Anwen stops. She realises she's being unnecessarily surly – and she's always taken particular care not to lose her temper in front of Cassandra. She puts her quill down, leaning back in her chair so she can look up at Cassandra. "I'm sorry – I don't mean to be—I'm just tired."

"That's why I said you should go to sleep."

"I can't sleep," she says, again with a little more bite than intended. Cassandra gives her a pointed glare and she ducks her head apologetically. "Sorry – is there something you needed me for?"

"I just wanted to check on you," Cassandra says, then adds, "and I thought you might be interested to know…"

She pauses, purses her lips in thought. Anwen looks at her expectantly.

"The Orlesian authorities have tried the Venatori that we captured at Maida Vallee. They were found guilty and… put to death."

Huh.

Anwen can't help but picture the tall man then – his sneering face and gleaming eyes. He'd always seemed so smug, so unshakeably certain in his own superiority and the surety of his success. It's hard to imagine that he's just… gone. Just like that.

"Good," Anwen says, trying to sound impassive.

Cassandra looks at her searchingly, curiosity evident in her expression. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"When we found you in that basement – you had the Venatori beaten. Why didn't you kill them yourself? Why did you insist on handing them to the Orlesians?"

It's a typically straightforward question from Cassandra – not intending to be nosey, of course, but just genuinely curious as to why Anwen had done what she'd done. A lot of people had seemed surprised when Anwen had insisted on handing the Venatori to the Orlesians, though no one had said anything. Of course it would be Cassandra who would eventually ask.

"It didn't seem fair," said Anwen, "to kill them when they'd already lost."

"You must have known the Orlesian authorities would execute them – it was only a temporary reprise."

"You think I should have just killed them?" Anwen snaps.

Cassandra raises a palm placatingly. "Not necessarily but… you've killed Venatori before. I was wondering what made these ones different."

Anwen sighs, shrugs. "I suppose they're not but I—"

She falls silent, shuffles in her seat uncomfortably, before rising from her chair and walking across her room, looking a little uncertain a moment before deciding to perch on the end of her bed. Cassandra simply watches, her expression curious as she follows Anwen's pacing but making no attempt to hound her for an answer.

Anwen's head is bowed, eyes intent on her slippers – a thread has come loose, and she notices that a bead is missing – until she lifts her eyes to meet Cassandra's. There's a pause before Anwen finally continues. "When I escaped from that cave, the cave where they'd been holding me captive, I… killed… I killed a lot of Venatori."

Cassandra nods. "All right."

"And it's not just that I killed them… I… I enjoyed it. I was angry – really, really angry – and I let my magic just… burn. I didn't just want them to die, I wanted them to feel every slow, excruciating moment of their deaths. I've never cast like that before. I was… reckless. I… I wasn't in control, Cassandra."

Cassandra's face is infuriatingly blank as Anwen talks and Anwen finds that she can't bear it – she'd rather she looked furious or disappointed or afraid even. At least then she'd know what Cassandra was thinking.

"And then again in that basement – when I saw the smug bastard who'd been in charge of it all, I just lost my temper. All I wanted was to see him torn limb from limb, to see my magic rip him apart from the inside out." Anwen grimaces, lip curled disdainfully at her own imagery. "So that's why I stopped – I thought that… if I killed him, if I let my magic destroy him… I don't know… I felt like that would be crossing some sort of line…"

Cassandra is quiet for a time, watching Anwen with interest. It makes Anwen uncomfortable, her skin itching under Cassandra's gaze.

"I understand," Cassandra finally says. "They tortured you and you were angry. I too have been known to lose my temper… on occasion."

A startled laugh escapes Anwen's lips – partly at Cassandra's astonishing understatement but also because, well, she'd expected Cassandra's reaction to be… bigger, louder somehow. She thought there'd be disapproval, a disgusted noise, anything. Instead Cassandra seems perfectly contented with Anwen's explanation.

"So you're not… angry with me? Or… disappointed?"

Cassandra looks surprised then – her eyes widening for a moment before narrowing, mouth quirking sharply. "Why would I be angry with you?"

"I killed people! In really unpleasant ways!"

Cassandra shrugs. "I've killed people too. And I'm not sure my sword is any more pleasant than your magic." Cassandra turns to face Anwen more fully, holding her gaze as she continues. "If I thought you were going to lose yourself to your magic, if I thought you were going to resort to blood magic or become an abomination, I would not hesitate in striking you down. As it is, I trust you to keep your magic in check."

"Even now? After everything I just told you?"

"Even now."

Anwen finds Cassandra's words oddly comforting – even if she did just threaten to kill her. She supposes she doesn't expect anything different.

"I didn't expect you to be so… forgiving. I thought you'd be angry. I thought you'd be unnerved by the thought of a mage losing her temper."

"Yes, I am surprised also," Cassandra admits with a slow nod of her head, stepping forward until she's joined Anwen at the foot of her bed. "There was a time when I found it hard to trust mages. But being with the Inquisition has changed me; as it has you. You're more patient than you once were, more thoughtful. Even if you lose your temper, I trust you have the wisdom to control it."

Anwen can feel a little dampness at the corner of her eyes, and she gives a sharp sniff before pulling Cassandra into a tight embrace, arms curling around her shoulders to pull her tight and close.

Thank the Maker for friends like Cassandra.

There's sudden a knock at her door and Anwen startles, still a little on the edge, exhaustion adding a sharp edge to the noise. Cassandra chuckles as she extricates herself from Anwen's fierce hug, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before calling out and bidding whomever waits at the door entrance. Anwen straightens her blouse as a small, meek-looking messenger hurries up the stairs to her room, hoping she looks at least somewhat presentable and Inquisitorial.

"Dorian sent me," the messenger explains once he's reached the top of the stairs, "Cullen is awake."

Anwen immediately jumps to her feet, instinctually stepping forward to follow the messenger. But then she remembers that Cassandra is still sitting beside her.

"Sorry, Cassandra, do you mind if —? M-may I—?"

Cassandra doesn't seem annoyed by the interruption, instead smiling indulgently at Anwen's nervous stuttering – too much of a romantic to try and come between Anwen and a now conscious Cullen.

"Go," she says with a laugh and a nod of her head. "Tell Cullen I say hello – and promise me you'll get some rest soon!"

Anwen waves and stammers out apologies as she rushes down the stairs from her quarters, feeling guilty about abandoning her friend so unceremoniously but too eager to see Cullen to attempt a proper goodbye. She makes her way quickly through Skyhold, practically jogging as she pads across the Great Hall to Solas's rotunda and the battlements beyond. The fortress is quiet, the hour too late for people to be congregating. A few guards are eating in the Great Hall, just off their patrol shifts, and they nod at her as she passes (though no one, thankfully, tries to intercept her).

When she reaches Cullen's tower she hurries up the ladder, exhausted limbs struggling somewhat with the rungs as she climbs as fast as she can manage. She sees Dorian first, her eyes inevitably drawn toward the bright colour of his jacket, but then Cullen – propped upright in bed, face wan but smiling.

"You're awake," she says as she approaches, her own smile turning bright and radiant at the sight of him.

"I am," he says.

She sits herself down on the side of his bed, lifts one hand to run her fingers along his arm that's nearest to her. It's not meant to be a seductive gesture – just trying to reassure herself that he's here and he's warm and most definitely alive.

"Thank you so much, Dorian, for looking after him," she says.

"Yes, well, I'm glad someone around her appreciates me," he responds (and Anwen doesn't really understand why Cullen rolls his eyes so aggressively in response). "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get some beauty sleep – I don't just naturally look this ravishing."

"Scurrilous lies," Anwen responds with a smile and Dorian rewards her for the compliment with a quick peck to the forehead.

She watches as Dorian makes his way unsteadily down the ladder – like her, too tired to navigate the ladder elegantly - but once she's heard the door to Cullen's tower close, she turns to look at Cullen. He's still frighteningly pale, his usually pristine hair in a frenzied mess of curls that makes him look strangely young and vulnerable.

"You're a fucking idiot, Cullen," she says, pulling her face into a tight frown in an effort to convey the depths of her disapproval.

Cullen ducks his head to escape from her glare, a flush of pink burning up the sides of his neck. "Yes – Dorian has expressed a similar sentiment."

Her face falls into something a little softer, and while she's trying to keep her emotions in check, trying to keep images of his blue-tinged skin and his blood-smeared tunic out of her head, she can't help the slight quiver at the corners of her mouth. "You scared me."

He lifts his face to hers, eyes slanted in apology. "I know."

"Don't do it again."

"I won't."

What remains of her anger seems to dim somewhat, her lips curling into the most tentative of smiles as she considers him. "It was kind of clever, though."

He chuckles at the admission. "Thanks."

For a moment he looks weirdly proud, smug even, and Anwen gives him another hard look, warning. "But if you pull a stunt like that again, I'll stab you myself."

The smugness flees, though a small, amused smile remains. "Understood."

"I'm only small but I've got a lot of rage – I could do a fair bit of damage."

"I don't doubt that for a second," he says with a chuckle, reaching out to tug at her arm and pull her in closer.

She shifts along his bed, lifting her legs onto the bed and settling against his side, curling into his chest so that her head rests just below his chin. For a long moment they just lie there together, Cullen's chest rising and falling, Anwen feeling truly relaxed for the first time in days as she feels as much as hears his steady breathing.

The images from before are gone – no Sera writhing in pain, no doppelgänger charging to attack, no Cullen bleeding out in her arms. All she can see is her hand resting atop Cullen's chest, fingers slipping under the placket of his shirt so she can feel the warmth of his skin.

"I love you," she says a little drowsily, her body finally deciding to take Cassandra's advice and get some rest.

As her eyes fade to black and the Fade comes to welcome her, she hear Cullen's voice, weak but close. "I love you too."