If Hawke fights like fire, brutal and wild, Solona is as dynamic as water: quick-moving, evasive, but more than powerful enough to kill. The air that swirls around them is thick with their magic, a sizzling blanket of energy that she's certain has every Templar for miles at attention. But Evelyn doesn't care. She trusts the ones at Skyhold and she pities anyone that would come across them with harmful intentions.
Despite her mark, despite her almost certain fate, she feels free.
Her blade clashes against Solona's metal one and though her knees buckle as Hawke's dispel washes over her, she smiles.
"Much better," says Hawke as they break apart to look up at the sun traversing the sky while Solona wipes the perspiration from her brow.
"Any place to get a drink around here?" she asks, leaning on the hilt of her sword, and Hawke's face lights up.
"Ah, now I see the family resemblance. Knew you had some Amell in you somewhere."
They push their way into the Herald's Rest moments later, their weapons clacking and clanging as they prop them up against the wall that borders their table.
"I'll grab the first round," says Hawke and jabs a finger in Solona's direction. "What are you having?"
"Whatever ale is most palatable."
The finger swings to Evelyn. "A Golden Nug."
Hawke nods once and pushes her way through the people to Cabot. Alone now, Evelyn can feel Solona's eyes on her before she speaks. "I'm happy to see somewhere outside of the Wardens has mages and soldiers working so well together."
"It wasn't always that way. At first, we were just a place for refugees from both sides, and clashes were common, but now we've been through enough together, there's a solid trust there."
"Helps that your leadership is diverse. The right and left hands of the Divine, a circle mage, and a Knight Commander, all from the varying regions of Thedas working together efficiently and effectively. That is no small feat. "
"Says the woman they credit with ending the last Blight," replies Evelyn, and Solona smirks.
"Few know exactly how desperate that entire situation was." She rubs her brow with one hand. "After Ostagar, it was just Alistair and myself left of the Wardens. I'd just completed the Joining and he had only been with them for a few months. We had no guidance beyond our duty to slay the Archdemon."
Solona looks up and meets Evelyn's gaze. "It felt so hopeless. There were so many times... so many bloody times I thought it was the end and we had failed. And Alistair, while lovely and brave, was uncomfortable leading and so it fell to me. We were so young... I mean, I get the credit but in truth it was all of us, together, just putting one foot in front of the other over and over again until it was done."
They exchange a look of understanding just as Hawke plops down three brimming tankards and Evelyn recoils, the vapors from the liquor making her eyes water.
"Hissing Drakes, Marian?! Really? "
"Pfft. Those drinks you two wanted are little more than piss water," she scoffs and kicks her muddy boots up on the table. "It's the end of the world, ladies. Let's drink."
The sun has dipped below the horizon and Evelyn's vision has taken on a hazy hue when Hawke suddenly grins and throws her arms wide.
"Varric!" she yells across the din of the tavern.
The dwarf looks amused as he sidles up to their table, his gaze passing over Hawke, then Solona, and Evelyn.
"Well," he says in a stage aside to the Champion, "Curly definitely has a type."
Hawke huffs a laugh. "Yeah, no shit. What are you up to, Varric?"
"Looking for some bodies to play a round of Wicked Grace."
"I'm in. Evelyn? Solona?"
Both women shake their heads.
"I don't play drunk," says the Warden. "I lose far too much money."
"And I don't know how to play."
"We'll teach you," says Varric to Evelyn but she just shakes her head.
"I'll take Solona's word for it that playing drunk is not a wise course."
"Suit yourself," shrugs Hawke before using Varric's shoulder for balance to stand.
"Smart move, Inquisitor," says Varric, watching his friend bounce off the other patrons and a few table ledges as she makes for the door. "She's gonna lose her ass tonight."
He bids goodnight to the two women while Solona drains her tankard.
"I should call it a night. The Taint makes hangovers hell," she says, setting down her drink and pushing up from the table. "You good?"
Evelyn stretches her arms, enjoying the warmth that is drowning out some of the burning pain in her left hand. "Yep, just going to finish my drink."
Solona gives her a slightly wobbly salute and then it is just Evelyn in her dark alcove. Most of the Tavern has emptied at this point with a few of the Iron Bull's compatriots passed out on the tables. With a sigh, she lifts her tankard to drain the rest of the contents and dreads the long walk back to her cold bed.
She stumbles once outside while her eyes adjust to the black of night, the usually steady ground suddenly twisting and uneven. Her hand shoots out to catch... something, anything, really to steady herself.
Instead, there is the unmistakable feeling of hands at her waist and the body heat of another.
"I've got you."
His voice is as warm as his grip and she can't help the smile that stretches her features upon seeing him.
"Cullen."
She presses the bridge of her nose against his neck and curls her fingers around the lapels of his cloak. It is relief she didn't know she was seeking, and she breathes him in (she thinks about this later, the two of them in full view of all who are passing by, but more importantly, that he doesn't move away.)
Sandalwood. Smoke. And not a fucking hint of lyrium.
"Come on," he whispers into her ear, his arm looping over her as he turns them toward the castle.
They walk the entire way back to her rooms like this, his arm over her shoulder and hers about his waist, the silence of the late hour only punctuated by gentle instruction.
(with her eyes closed, and her cheek pressed to his chest, she appreciates his occasional 'here's a step' or tug closer when they round a corner)
His grip goes slack when he pushes open her door, his palm, gently urging her forward. The drink in her veins makes her bold and she turns to face him, her hand tugging at his cloak to pull him closer. Colors swirl in her peripheral vision as she watches him, her gaze focused on his lips while her own tingle in phantom demand. She wants to taste him, drink him in, feel him in her blood, and her bones.
Her focus is broken when he speaks.
"Your encouragement… is usually…" he pulls his lower lip between his teeth before continuing haltingly, "...isolated… in its occurrences."
The words bring her up short and she leans back a little to get a clearer look at his face, confused. "Isolated?"
"I go to you," he clarifies, his gaze suddenly unwavering. "And only when you are alone. And I initiate. But other than that… you…" His Adam's apple bobs and he looks curious, she decides. "I don't want to overstep. I don't wish to make you regret… anything, for whatever reason."
"I don't," she replies, her eyes now on the thin scar of his upper lip, the only flaw in the perfect symmetry of his face. "I haven't."
A muscle in his jaw clenches in her peripheral vision when she presses her chest to his and whispers her words against his lips. "I won't."
There is a sharp inhalation and his hands gently push her back. "That's… not a good idea, Evelyn. You've been drinking."
"That was me encouraging, or giving encouragement, or whatever," she replies, tone far more petulant than she wishes it to be.
His fingers squeeze where they hold her against her hips. "You're very drunk, Evelyn," he says gently. "You can't reliably tell me no or to stop. And you might feel differently about this decision in the light of day."
I just want you to kiss me, she thinks but all she manages is a jerky nod before turning away and stumbles towards her bed. She busies herself with removing her armor, ignoring the man still watching from across the room. But her uncoordinated fingers keep sliding off the complicated latches on her greeves and she huffs, the flyaway curls from her bun fluttering around her face. Soon, much larger hands are batting away her own, and there is a flurry of metallic clicks as the metal gives way.
It reminds her of months ago in Haven when he had freed her hair from her gauntlet.
I still don't know what to make of you.
The hands at her calves still and he glances up. "You don't?"
She blinks a few times before it occurs to her that she had spoken out loud.
"How did you end up in the chantry?"
The faint hurt in his expression is replaced by surprise. "Well... I grew up in Honnleath. My family, we were farmers."
It is Evelyn's turn to be surprised, as she tries to imagine Cullen's regal bearing steering a plow behind a mule and finds it near impossible. He regains her attention with a slight tug as he starts to undo the clasps at her forearm.
"But I wanted to do something... more, be something more. To do good and help." His last words are clipped, their bitterness evident. "I thought the Templar Order was the best way to do that. We had no money but my sister had found me a battered practice sword somewhere and the Templars at the local chantry humored me by teaching me the basics." His fingers drag along her palms as he pulls off one gauntlet before turning his attention to the other. "When I was thirteen, a visiting Knight-Commander saw me practicing and thought I held promise and offered to sponsor me. My parents agreed and I left."
"You have siblings?"
His eyes flick up to her and he smiles. "Yes. Three. Mia is the oldest, then myself, Branson, and Rosalie. They're in the South Reach now. " His smile fades as he removes her other gauntlet. "Did you have siblings?"
Evelyn heaves a sigh and reaches up, tugging at the tie that binds her hair, frowning when she can't find the loose end. "I don't know."
"You were the first born?" he asks, taking over her task
"Don't remember. Was taken by the Chantry when I was four."
He pauses as her hair comes undone. "Four? Truly?"
Evelyn hums a confirmation, her eyes closing as his fingers slowly press into her scalp. "That's uncommonly young," he remarks but she barely hears, her body feeling heavy and she just wants to burrow herself into the furs on her bed but his fingers are still buried in her curls.
She forces her eyes open to see him watching her, gaze intense and contemplative as they flick over her face. She can't muster the energy to suss out the meaning behind it, and instead reaches up, covering his hands with her own to extricate them from her hair. Later she will remember and wonder what demon possessed her to do so, but she turns her face towards his right hand, his sword hand, to press a kiss against his wrist.
And drops them to slide face down onto her bed without seeing his reaction.