Dear Reader:
Though I enjoyed the story as told in the game, I feel that Cullen's life experiences and dark past would lend to a more complex personality that does not involve quite so much blushing or stammering. I also think a mage from the Circle could not help but distrust a man who was once part of the Order that oppressed her people. This is the story of two adults with traumatic pasts finding what they need in each other; however, since this is Thedas they don't really have the language or established healthy parameters that a relationship with even mild Dom/sub/power exchange elements requires. As such, angst and messiness ensue. This is not a guide to a relationship like this and shouldn't be taken as such. It is just a story I wanted to tell. If anything less than a perfect representation of such a relationship is upsetting to you, please move along . I would recommend AO3 in the future as they have a very helpful tag system that makes avoiding triggers easier.
"The Circles are gone! I did not fight to escape that place just to be thrown into another cage!" she shouts and her limbs tremble as the magic pools within them ready to be called.
"It would be symbolic only. Right now we are in a delicate position," placates Leliana. "Andraste, in her wisdom, chose you, a mage, as her champion. I accept this. Everyone in this room-" She gestures to the ambassador, the seeker, and the commander. "-accepts that. But convincing the Thedas at large will take time and skillful maneuvering."
"The Chantry will be more... amenable... if we keep the appearance of tradition," supplements Josephine in her smooth dialect.
Evelyn folded her arms tightly over her chest, throwing a disdainful glance at the Commander.
A templar from his short hair to his well-maintained armor and polished boots... How many mages did you crush beneath your heel? How many girls did you threaten with Tranquility in order to get what you want?
"So he is to be my keeper?" she spats, looking away from him.
"For the time being, Herald, and for appearances only. Our Seeker's presence will have to suffice while in the Hinterlands."
To his credit, Commander Rutherford looks equally displeased by the development. "I am not a Templar any longer, Leliana. Are you certain this is necessary?"
The spymaster gives one curt nod, her finger dropping to the map on the table. "My scouts have spotted a small contingent of Templars on the road to Haven. My intelligence suggests they are from the Ostwick Circle."
"Any chance they could be friendly?" asks Josephine.
Evelyn keeps her face a stoic mask though she can feel the blood drain from her already pale complexion.
"No, Josephine, there is not."
In the corner of her eye, she sees the Commander tilt his head as if he is on the verge of asking for clarification.
You already know, she wants to snap at him, but she bites down on the inside of her cheek and focuses her gaze on the glowing mark on her hand.
He says nothing and neither does she.
For her first mission in the Hinterlands, she considers it a success. Mother Giselle has returned with them and the road between Haven and Redcliff is clear of warring apostates and templars and she has improved her offensive magic by leaps and bounds in a short time.
Now if only someone would have shown her how to take off her bloody armor. Back in Haven, she is in her little room, and desperate to get out of the traveling clothes that she hasn't changed in days. But she can't because the overlapping metal plates on her gauntlets got stuck in her hair when she absently shook it out of its binding.
She has far too much dignity to leave the room looking as ridiculous as she does, one hand perpetually up in the air, and resigns herself to continued futility when the door suddenly opens.
"Herald, the council is ready for your full report-"
He pauses after he sees her, his mouth drawing down into a frown as he takes in the struggling woman, the mass of dark hair she normally keeps secure in a tight bun now a wild halo about her head, and accented with five shiny digits poking out within. She can't really see his full expression through the mess but his sigh just radiates disappointment.
"Here," he says and steps forward. But he is in his armor, and it doesn't matter that it has the eye of the inquisition instead of Andraste's flaming sword, she still backs away, pulling her magic to her, ready to defend.
Don't let them close, Ariana had warned. Don't let them get you alone. But I didn't listen... I should have listened.
There is a reason Evelyn is a quick study; she rarely makes the same mistake twice.
He halts his steps at the rise of magic in the room before slowly drawing his sword using only his thumb and forefinger, clearly meaning for her to watch, and sets it behind him against the wall. Waiting the space of a breath, he pulls a small, short dagger from his belt, flipping it so that the hilt is in her direction.
Confused, she takes it.
She is even more confused when he lifts her hand to rest the edge of the blade against his neck.
"A large artery runs just there. One cut and a man will bleed out in seconds. Keep it there while I work."
He is tall enough (or she short enough) to see the damage from the top of her head and is able to work free the curls that have bunched in the joints after only a few short moments. She expects to smell the sharp tang of Lyrium but she only catches soap and hints of the trees that surround Haven.
"Take this," he says handing her the glove once he is finished and takes a step back. "Keep that." His amber eyes flick down to the dagger in her hand before he retrieves his sword by the door and waits to escort her to the others.
And, for the first time, she doesn't know what to make of him.
She is cold.
So bloody cold.
Not even when, as punishment for starting a fire, she had to endure buckets of ice water dumped over her body while Templars smirked at her sodden smallclothes did she feel this cold.
Though, she considers, perhaps this is good. For years, the only death she could imagine was at the end of a Templar's blade but recent events had expanded the possibilities in all manner of horrible. Exploding arrow, poisonous trap, dragon fire, and bear mauling were significantly higher on the list now.
So, really, freezing quietly to death is about the most peaceful option left to her. If only half her chest wasn't broken and she didn't have a gash the size of her forearm in her side, it might have been downright pleasant.
She spats the blood from her mouth into the white snow, watching as the blizzard around her buries it in seconds and wonders if they will come back for her body, and, if the anchor is still active, will they just cut off her hand and leave her to rot.
She would die a mage in the heart of the Frostbacks, her ribs broken and blood freezing to her wounds, but her fade-blasted-hand may go on to have quite the future as an artifact of the Chantry.
Evelyn suddenly wishes she would have worked harder to break the nervous habit of biting her nails.
She tries to pull on her mana from the fade to warm her blood, a final effort to save her life, but it fell away like the weakest rain and she gave into the black expanse that had been creeping at the edge of her consciousness.
She is in pain.
So much bloody pain, as someone pulls on her arm to dislodge her from the snow. But she cannot draw enough breath to scream, and it takes all her willpower to break the shell of ice that has sealed her lids together. The figure above her is an amorphous dark spot in swirling snow, save for the brightly glowing cylinder hanging from its neck.
Fur? she thinks. Maybe it'll be a bear mauling after all.
When it lifts her up from the ground, she can feel the shards of her ribs grind together, and she welcomes the dark with open arms.
She will stay on her feet. They are looking to her for hope and she cannot take that away because of uneven terrain.
They were all there when she awoke, staring at her with wide eyes and prayers falling from their lips, as their fingers reached out to brush against her robes.
Andraste's tits, they even sang.
And so she will not falter in this simple task of staying upright.
But then the snow beneath her shifts and she is too weak to counter the sudden weight displacement.
Some Herald of Andraste. Survive an ancient Tevinter magister and his dragon just to die from bashing my head on a rock.
Before white can rush up to hit her in the face, there is an arm about her waist righting her.
"You're getting on a horse."
The words are clipped, spoken right at the shell of her ear through clenched teeth. Cullen calls his steed closer with a loud whistle, and the beast trots effortlessly up to their side. She wants to argue just for the principle of it, that she will never be under a templar's order again, but she is exhausted and there is dampness on her bandages that suggest she may have torn her stitches.
With his help, she manages to get on with minimal embarrassment and tries to sit tall and straight though it is only an hour before he has to join her in the seat to keep her from falling out the saddle. She does not lean into him for a full ten minutes, not until he bends his head down.
"Rest, Herald. Your people will not think less of you for it."
You hate my people, she thinks but then he lifts the reins in his grip, his arms caging her in on either side, blocking the wind and the blinding white of the snow. For the first time in days, she feels warm.
As she drifts off, she hopes the history books will be kind and leave out the part where she drooled on the Commander of the Inquisition Forces' cloak.