Two: Within, Without


Alistair:

He wasn't quite sure he was believing what he was hearing. "You're doing what, Eamon?"

His uncle's grey eyes met Alistair's. "Isolde needs to be away from Redcliffe, Alistair. She is not doing well, not after we had to send Connor away. Besides, it's time to let Teagan officially lead Redcliffe. He's been doing it in all but name for a couple of years."

"The place just won't be the same without you, but you have to know you're always welcome here," he said. "It's so strange to think of Teagan taking Redcliffe. How's that pretty girl he married?"

"Kaitlyn is doing well. She hasn't had a child yet, but none of us are worried." Eamon smiled faintly. "I'll send word to Isolde that she should join us. She should be here just in time for the height of summer. I'm hoping that the dances will be distracting."

Alistiar hoped so, too. He and his aunt had never gotten along, but she wasn't a bad person, and having to send Connor to the mages had been a blow to her. To Eamon, too. They had only ever had Connor. "The Amaranthines are hosting a masque, I'm told. A proper Orlesian one. Though I'm starting to wonder if the Orlesians haven't quite overstayed their welcome. The Grey Wardens in Ferelden number nearly a full hundred, even without them. "

"You speak as if something's happened, Alistair." Eamon was looking thoughtful, and a little surprised.

"It did." He waved his hand, trying to dispel the question he could see on Eamon's face. "It's a long story. I just…don't think the Orlesian Grey Wardens are as neutral politically as I thought they were." He sighed. "I hate how complicated sodding politics makes everything. It was all so much easier when it was all, Alistair there's a darkspawn horde and an Archdemon that need killing, be a dear and help."

"And now you've learned one of the first rules of politics," Eamon said. "There is no such thing as a neutral party. What are you going to do about them?"

"That…sort of depends. I'm hoping to get Kathil to convince them to go home."

Eamon's eyebrows rose. "Really."

"Yep." At his uncle's disbelieving look, he said, "Look, I can't actually send them away. Not without creating some Maker-forgotten law that's just going to get misinterpreted in a few years. I'm not really a Grey Warden any more." (Except for the darkspawn blood in his veins, except for the dreams, except for the unceasing hunger, except.) "Kathil never officially gave up being a Grey Warden, though. If she wants to, she can get them to leave. She could step up and become the Warden-General in Ferelden, especially since Montclair just died."

Eamon was giving him a familiar narrow-eyed look that meant I can see what you're trying to pull, Alistair. "I appreciate your faith in her, Alistair. But if she wanted to be Warden-General, she wouldn't have disappeared for years. And if she's not Warden-General, she has no more power than any other Grey Warden."

He gave Eamon a half-smile. "That's why you have to help me change her mind. She's going to be here for the summer, and Maker knows I've never been able to change her mind on anything. She trusts you, Eamon. You got her to stand up in the Landsmeet."

"I told her only the truth. You couldn't do it, I couldn't do it, and it had to be her. I don't consider that changing her mind about anything."

"You didn't hear her panicking about it for days beforehand," Alistair said. "I thought Shale was going to squish her to make her quit. I mean, don't get me wrong, she was brilliant, but there's not a lot of public speaking involved in growing up in the Tower."

"And there's another problem." Eamon folded his arms. "Seems I heard a rumor that she's highly placed in the Circle these days."

"Ah. That. I was sort of hoping…" Alistair took a breath. "I mean, it shouldn't be that much a problem, I don't think the Grey Wardens care. The Circle shouldn't care that much. Will they?"

"It's the Circle. Hard to tell what they're going to do." His uncle was giving him a dark look. "All right. I'll try. But if this sets the cat among the pigeons…"

He clapped Eamon on the shoulder. "I'm a king. Isn't that what we do? Come on, Eamon. There's a pair of mugs waiting to be filled with ale in the kitchens, and our names are on them. Possibly literally."

*****

Leliana:

She swept into Kathil's room, slamming the door open dramatically. "Kathil Amell. You are in trouble."

The mage was sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, her back against the bedpost, reading. Her face was taking on a hunted sort of look. "What now?" Across the room, Lorn raised his head warily.

Leliana stalked forward. "Zevran told me that you had the temerity—" she poked Kathil's forehead with her index finger, hard—"to miss your appointment with the seamstress."

"I was busy, Lei. The archivist—"

"Is not about to die of old age any time soon, and if you don't have a fitting, you won't have anything to wear to any of the dances. Or have you forgotten?" She folded her arms. "I will not allow you to wear armor to a masque."

"I was going to polish it," the mage muttered.

Oh, this woman was exasperating sometimes. She looked like a little girl who'd just been scolded for stealing cookies. Reluctance, embarrassment—and was that just a little fear?

Long past time to do this, then.

Leliana gentled her voice. "Dearest. Do you forget that you are, in the scheme of this court, a bit notable? You are seen as one of the supporters of Alistair's reign, you are a well-placed Circle mage, and there are more than a few who will be hoping to gain favor with you. Everyone will be watching you. You need clothing to match your station. Beautiful clothing."

"I've seen what you consider beautiful clothing, Leliana." Kathil shook her head. "It's lovely, but it won't suit me in the least. Really. Armor, or robes if I really can't have armor."

She considered her friend. What in the name of Andraste was wrong with her? She'd gone shopping with Leliana several times and had giggled over pretty scraps of fabric, though Kathil had usually avoided actually buying anything, claiming she wanted to save their hard-won silvers for more practical things. And now money was no object…

Then Kathil's right hand was slipping towards her left shoulder, an unconscious shielding gesture.

Ah.

"Dearest." She dropped to her heels and took Kathil's hands in hers. "There are such things as sleeves. You are a lovely woman, and all beauty is a gift from the Maker. Let us celebrate it. Please?"

There was a look of such misery on the mage's face that broke Leliana's heart, just a little. "I…have no idea," she started, then stopped. "I don't even know what to look for. What if I look ridiculous? I mean…it's clothes. I'm not good at clothes, Lei."

She looked like she would much rather face down the Landsmeet again, or face another dragon, than have anything to do with picking out something pretty to wear. "But I am, Kathil. Clothes…in a way, they are like language, yes? Armor says something to everyone who sees it. Mage robes say something. You understand that, I know you do. Armor and robes won't say the proper things at all, not for these dances. You must have things that say I am a beautiful and dangerous woman, and I understand the language that nobles speak." She squeezed the mage's hands, which had gone cold but are beginning to warm now. "If you cannot trust yourself, trust me. I promise that I'm very good at this."

There was a still little moment between them, Kathil's expression opaque. Then she used her hands on Leliana's to pull her into a hug. "I trust you," she said, and ah the tension in her body, hard muscle shifting against Leliana in contrast to the other, softer parts of both of them.

She kissed the mage's hair. "Then let me do this for you," and her words had many meanings, and from the way Kathil tensed again and then relaxed into Leliana's arms she had heard them.

And this was just another bar in the music between them.

Leliana let go of Kathil and bounced to her feet, grabbing the other woman's hand and hauling her up. "I know where the seamstress's shop is, and if you're very nice to her she'll probably forgive you. Let us go!"

Panic colored the mage's expression. "But—shouldn't we get Zevran, or Cullen?"

"Zevran is busy charming the Princess Consort with stories of Antiva. Cullen is in the kennels." Which was why Leliana hadn't come to find Kathil the moment that Zevran had collared her in the hall—one did have to choose one's timing. Better that it comes from you than from me, no? Zevran had said, and Leliana had agreed. "Come along, dearest. Lorn, would you help me?"

The Mabari had been watching the two of them with a puzzled expression on his face. But now he started to wag his tail. His human was going to get new fur? That was a fine thing. He came alongside Kathil, pressing his shoulder against her hip. The singer knew what she was about. Why was his human protesting?

"Traitor," Kathil muttered without heat. "Lei, you fight dirty."

"Of course I do." She smiled prettily at Kathil and kept her hand on Kathil's arm, pulling the protesting mage away from her room.

By the time they reached the side gate of the palace, Kathil had mostly stopped sputtering. Once they got to the market district, she had stopped trying to get away. Progress!

While Kathil was getting undressed for her fitting, Leliana had a quick word with the seamstress, whose eyes lit up in anticipation of a challenge. Lorn settled in a puddle of sunbeams that were coming through the western window and watched as the seamstress used a knotted string to take all sorts of measurements. Leliana sat down next to him.

"You are a handsome dog," she told him. "Once we know what colors she'll be wearing, we'll have some new collars made for you to match."

Lorn looked up at her with those melting brown eyes of his. And would his human's elf and her dust-knight have new collars too?

"Yes, but probably not matching." She scratched Lorn behind the ears, and he closed his eyes and scooted so he could lean against her. In the center of the room, Kathil made a strangled noise as the seamstress prodded her shoulder, running her string down the length of the scar.

"There, that's done," the seamstress said. "Now. I have some designs, and some fabric samples—just stay there, my lady, I'll bring them."

And then there was the most lovely confusion of paper and fabric and after an hour or so even Kathil started to relax. After two hours, Leliana thought that her friend might actually be having fun. The seamstress had access to a quantity of Nevarran silk in delicate dyes. The fashion right now was for deep, rich colors—colors that would wash out Kathil's pale skin and hair. So it was against fashion they would be working.

They left that afternoon with a promise by the seamstress that the first of the dresses would be ready for a final fitting in three days, with the rest to be completed over the next few weeks. "Let's go to the Gnawed Noble," Leliana said, glancing at the sinking sun. "Shoes can wait until tomorrow."

"Shouldn't we—I don't know—get back to the palace? Won't we be missed?"

Leliana looped an arm around the mage's waist and pulled her close. "I have just pried you out of the palace. I'm not taking you back yet. Tavern. Now."

Kathil gave in, and they went to the tavern, which was far more respectable than most taverns Leliana had ever spent time in. Fortunately, after sundown it became slightly less respectable, and there were musicians and space to dance in.

The mage was a terrible dancer.

Well, at least she was until Leliana managed to get her to drink half of a mug of the sweet cider that was the Gnawed's specialty. Then she managed to forget that there were people watching and stop tripping over both of her feet. She had no idea of any of the steps, of course, but Leliana had taught Alistair to dance. Kathil wasn't going to be nearly a challenge, after him.

She pulled Kathil over to the bench they were sharing, minding Lorn who was lurking under the table, lying in wait for someone to drop something to eat. The mage's cheeks were flushed, and when they sat down she promptly wriggled around, hooked one of her legs over Leliana's, and snuggled down into her shoulder. "I'm having fun," she said, her voice muffled by Leliana's shirt and nearly inaudible over the music. "Has anyone ever told you that you smell nice?"

"You, dearest," Leliana said, amused. "Many times."

"Well, it's true. Why didn't we ever…"

And the answer to that question was rather complicated.

By her very great fortune, Leliana was rescued from having to answer. "Look who's here," she said. Coming through the crowd were two familiar figures. Zevran had his usual narrow-hipped swagger and a smile on his face that Leliana suspected hid a bit of worry. Cullen, next to him, was trying to dodge dancers and serving girls and not having much luck, and the worry on his face was much more open.

Then Zevran spotted them, and nudged Cullen with an elbow. There was a speculative light in the elf's eyes, and Cullen, when he saw Kathil curled with her face in Leliana's shoulder, looked like he didn't know quite what to think.

There was just enough space on the bench by Kathil for Zevran to fit himself into, which he promptly did. "Ah, fair Leliana, my bunting dove, here is where you have stolen our Grey Warden away to. It is a good thing we decided to look here first, no?"

"You're the one who told me that I needed to get her to the seamstress," she pointed out.

"That I did, that I did."

Kathil raised her head and beamed at Zevran. "We've been dancing."

Cullen was standing across from them, a horrified look on his face. "You've been drinking."

"Only half a mug of cider, Cullen." Leliana smiled at the former Templar. "She's had more, before. Do pull over a chair."

There was a moment when Leliana thought that Cullen might actually grab Kathil, throw her over his shoulder, and make off with her in order to get her out of their evil clutches. Then he grabbed a chair and dropped down in it. "Mages—"

"Aren't supposed to drink, but a little bit does not hurt," she said. "See, there are no demons here. And she is a much better dancer when she has had a little cider. I do suppose it is time to go back, isn't it? We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

Now Cullen looked suspicious. "Why? What are you doing tomorrow?"

Leliana smiled at him. Ah, it was so much fun to make this man squirm. She did not blame Kathil for her fascination in the slightest. "Cobblers, Cullen. Several cobblers, and with any luck we will find one who can make shoes that are not these ugly things that you see everywhere in Ferelden. And I believe I saw a Navarran trader in the market today, and if it is true she will have lovely things to look at. You should come with us. You too, Zevran."

The elf glanced at Leliana, and there was that glint of wicked humor in his eyes. "Of course. Cullen will accompany us. I believe one afternoon away from his furry fascination will do him no harm."

Cullen shot a dark look at Zevran, who gave him a toothy smile in return. "All right, you two, let's go back to the palace," Leliana said. "Kathil, dearest, time to get up."

"If you insist," the mage said, and after a bit of untangling (which Cullen, from the expression on his face, did not miss) they were all on their feet.

Soon afterward, they were safely ensconced in the palace, everyone to their own rooms except for Lorn who came to visit with Leliana. He settled in front of the cold fireplace, heaving a great sigh. "That's our handsome dog," she told him, fondly. "You'll get to go in to your own room in a few hours."

She sat on the edge of her bed and retrieved from her sleeve the small bundle of rolled paper that she'd retrieved from the bartender at the Gnawed Noble. The message was in cipher, of course, but she had long practice in reading this particular code.

It is a jeu de blaireau. Your contact is the dealer in feathers. Three others in the area.

Be wary.

These little notes were never signed.

"Interesting," she murmured. She got up and crossed the room, crumpling the paper in one hand. A moment later, she'd used the lamp to ignite it and tossed it into the cold fireplace, among the ashes. The small flame flared hungrily, consuming the cipher and erasing everything except the memory.

*****

Cullen:

He found himself marking the days by how old Fiann is today, dividing his days by before the kennels, during the kennels, after the kennels. "It's an obsession when they're tiny," Emris told him. "It gets easier once they're weaned."

Fiann was eighteen days old today, and he no longer had any difficulty at all picking her out from her three siblings. She was the biggest of the puppies, and the moment she scented him now she would be wobbling towards him.

And today, her eyes were open.

The whelping box was full of puppies, stubby tails flailing, all of them looking for their humans. Yvrenne had stepped out of the box, nudged Emris, and headed out the kennel door to the yard. Cullen bent and scooped Fiann up into his arms. She wiggled enthusiastically and licked his face, her whole body saying, Mine, mine, mine, my big-voice! She paused in her wiggling to blink at him. Big-voice-two-feet-hands!

He'd been around puppies before, of course. Even though the Tower had no dogs, the Chantry in Woodson certainly had them, and he'd helped take care of more than a few litters in his time. But this was different. None of the puppies he'd ever played with had been his. And he was absolutely sure that none of them had been so beautiful.

She mouthed his chin, and he yelped a bit as one of her newly erupted teeth met his skin. She drew back, grey-blue eyes big. She hurt big-voice-two -feet?

"Your mouth does not belong on any part of me," he told her. "My skin isn't as tough as a Mabari's."

The Mabari pup blinked at him. Oh? Oh. Then, seeming to forget all about it, she snuggled down into his arms, sighing happily. "Enjoy that while it lasts," Emris said. "About a week from now, when her feet are steadier under her, the only time she'll be that still is when she's asleep. And she'll be that way for almost a year. Don't be mistaken, Warden. She is going to drive you absolutely mad."

"Things I love have a way of doing that," he said, looking down at the brindled puppy. The other chosen Mabari handlers were coming in for time with their own pups, and Cullen carried Fiann off to the side, sitting down with his back against the wall.

Things I love do have a way of driving me mad, don't they?

Really, he had no idea what he was doing. After that night in Highever, Kathil was still friendly, but not overly flirtatious. They were starting to get used to each other again, and Cullen was starting to get used to Zevran and Leliana, as well. He thought the elf was the easier of the two to read, honestly—or at least, his role in Kathil's life was reasonably well defined. Lover, protector, oathbound, quite willing to kill for her—and maybe to die for her, if it was necessary.

Leliana was a different sort of puzzle.

The bard was a past master of the art of manipulation. She could keep a crowd captivated with a story or a song, fire arrows with deadly accuracy, discuss art and politics and philosophy. And she was a heretic, with her views on the Maker and the Chantry. I believe the Maker loves us and wishes us to be happy, she'd said once.

Not quite enough to get her burned like Andraste, but close.

She and Kathil were something to each other. What, Cullen had no idea. Best friends, yes. Lovers…probably not, all of the times he'd seen them snuggled together notwithstanding. Just like he and Kathil were something to one another that didn't really have many good words for it, so were the bard and the mage, it seemed.

He shifted, and Fiann rolled over onto her back on his lap. He tickled one of her enormous paws. "You are going to be a big puppy when you grow up." Her paddling paws agreed.

Yvrenne came in to claim her pups with a short bark, and Fiann scrambled off of his lap and made a wobbling beeline for her mother. Cullen got up, nodded to Emris, and headed back into the palace. Kathil would be in the library at this hour, and once he found her they could go to one of the afternoon salons that Rima was so fond of holding. The Princess Consort and the Grey Warden were still uneasy in each other's presence, but every few days Kathil dropped in on her salons to listen to the discussion. Leliana was often the center of attention, and sometimes Zevran, and sometimes another distinguished visitor.

Cullen made his way to the palace library, going directly to the back corner where she'd set up a study area for herself, much to the disapproval of the archivists. Her notes were nearly divided into stacks, newly trimmed quill pens lying in an open box to one side next to the inkstand. Kathil herself was sitting, one leg drawn up under her, staring at nothing.

And that was always an occasion for a twist in his stomach. But he could feel the Veil around them, could always feel the Veil; it was intact. She was not gone. Just thinking.

After a moment, she stirred. "Cullen," she said, and gave him a small smile. "Is it time for the salon already? And how is Fiann?"

"Yes, and well," he told her. He offered a hand to her. "Shall we go, my lady?"

Kathil unfolded herself from her chair, running a hand over her pale hair. "I'm not your or anyone's lady." She grabbed his hand, using it to pull herself close to him. "Warden, mage, hero if you must, but no lady." She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, close to his ear. "None at all."

So much for friendly but not flirtatious.

Before he could recover, she'd hooked her arm around his elbow and was hauling him out of the library with a stride surprisingly long for someone who wasn't really all that tall. They were in the royal wing almost before he could blink, waved through by a pair of guards, and walking into Rima's bower.

The bower was the one place in the household where the Princess Consort held absolute power. It was on the protected side of the palace, and its windows were large panels of elaborately colored glass. The walls were of white plaster, molded to resemble a colorless forest scene. When the sun shone, the effect was of a fever-dream woodland, all the colors of the glass shining on the plaster trees.

Rima was holding court near the two largest windows, Leliana at her side, before her an assortment of chairs and cushions upon which were this afternoon's assortment of nobility both male and female. Zevran was here, sitting off to one side, Lorn lying at his feet.

There was something wrong. The elf was only ever quite that deadly still when there was some trouble about to happen. Lorn looked relaxed, though both his ears were pricked. Cullen felt his steps slow, saw Kathil glance at him, wondering what his problem was.

"Ah, the Senior Enchanter has decided to grace us with her presence!" Rima called. "Come, mage, sit with us. The Arlessa Isolde of Redcliffe is here, and I know she has been most looking forward to seeing you."

Kathil blanched.

There was a woman rising from her seat, anger and hope warring on her face. She was as richly attired as anyone in the room, her hair gold streaked with white. "Do you have news of Connor?" she blurted, her cultured voice strained. "Have you seen my son?"

Cullen could feel Kathil trembling. He had no idea why, but—

He thought he could make an educated guess.

It took Kathil a moment to respond. "He…I have seen him, Isolde. He is well. When I return to the Tower, he will be my apprentice."

Isolde was searching the mage's face, her eyes darting. "Does he miss us terribly? I wish I had known you were going to be here, I would have brought a few things—a few toys, one of his favorite books—the Templars didn't let him take anything—"

Kathil had a death grip on Cullen's arm now. "Arlessa Isolde. This is not the time or place for this discussion. Please, let us withdraw."

But the Arlessa's face was beginning to twist with rage. "I knew there was something they weren't telling us. Spit it out, mage. If you can tell me, you can tell everyone here."

Leliana had risen, and her hand was now on Isolde's shoulder. "My lady, please—there are chambers nearby—"

Isolde shook off the bard's hand. Her voice dropped, now low and murderous. "Tell me, mage. Tell me what the Circle has done to my son."

Kathil shuddered. Then she swallowed. There was a low, grumbling growl coming from Lorn. "You wish to know, Isolde?" Her shaking voice steadied. "They have taken his memories of his childhood and replaced them with fog. They have taken his ability to father children. They will lay obedience into him like tiles in a floor. They will teach him to control his emotions, and his magic, and when he is old enough he will join the Circle, or become Tranquil if he cannot master that control."

There was lightning leaking from her fingertips, burning Cullen's skin, and he could feel the Veil shredding around them.

Maker's Breath—

Between one heartbeat and another he gathered his will, covered her sparking hand with his own, and Kathil staggered as the cleansing robbed her of her power and her ability to speak. Isolde was screaming something, Leliana was holding her back, and Cullen had just enough presence of mind to turn and start pulling Kathil from the room. Zevran was next to the two of them, his hand on the mage's shoulder, and Lorn gave one last bark at the company in the bower before they were hurrying out and the door was closing behind them.

Kathil was crying.

Cullen had never even seen her come close to tears. But now she was sobbing, her face gone blotchy as she stumbled, and by the Maker's own fortune there was an alcove with a padded bench nearby that Zevran steered her into. She dropped down onto the bench and doubled over.

Lorn sat down by the alcove, his ears flat. Someone had broken his human. Again.

Again? Cullen wondered.

Best to let Zevran handle this. He stepped back, intending to retreat. Zevran's head came up. "Help me with her," he said, and his tone was so flat that it was nearly unrecognizable. "Sit with us."

Cullen obeyed, coming to sit down on Kathil's other side, tentatively placing one hand on her shoulder. Zevran muttered something in a language Cullen didn't speak, but he agreed with the emotion that he heard in that oath. "Connor was possessed by a demon, after the Arl was poisoned," Zevran said, almost absently. "We went to great lengths to save his life, and Isolde's. She promised to send him to the Circle. You were gone when he finally arrived. I believe Kathil was the one to remind the Arlessa of her promise, and tell Greagoir that he needed to send the Templars for him."

The mage had stopped crying, though she did not sit up. "He probably won't survive his Harrowing. If he's not made Tranquil before he ever gets there. Demon possessions, so young…they change people." Her voice was colorless, and small. She seemed to be speaking to the stone beneath her feet. "I saved his life. And for what?"

Neither of them had an answer.

"Rima knew exactly what she was doing," Zevran said. "I knew she would try something, but I didn't know what until I saw Isolde."

Kathil sat up. She wiped at her nose with her sleeve. "Maker's Breath. I haven't lost it that badly in forever." She glanced at Cullen. "Thank you."

And it was odd, because until right then he hadn't even thought of just how dangerous that situation had been. He also hadn't noticed that his right arm hurt and that there was a smell like burned cloth in the air. Glancing at his arm, he sucked his breath in. The fabric of his shirt was scorched in a perfect impression of Kathil's thin fingers.

Kathil spat an oath and grabbed his hand, pulling it towards her. She pushed up his sleeve, and underneath there was raised and blistered skin that echoed the burned places on his shirt. Before he could protest that he was fine and it was nothing she was muttering a word and laying her palm over the burns, and what felt like cool water drenched his arm, taking the pain. When she lifted her hand, the skin was reddened and shiny, but whole.

A moment later, she was trying to get up.

Zevran growled, and lunged forward to wrap an arm around her waist. "No, Kathil."

She rounded on the elf, her hand lifted—

Then stopped.

Her shoulders sagged, and she dropped back onto the bench. "Maker's Balls. Zevran, I'm sorry."

"It is not me who needs the apology, my Grey Warden." Zevran's voice was quiet. "I merely did not relish the idea of chasing you halfway across Ferelden when you fled."

"I would have, too." Kathil sighed, and turned to Cullen. "I'm sorry, Cullen. You have no idea how sorry. I've hurt you enough already, I shouldn't be adding anything more to the pile."

She looked like she meant it, too, and she was inching away from him, pressing herself against Zevran. The moment felt strange, like the Veil tearing but not quite the same, and he could almost see her retreating, see walls come up that had been wearing down in the last few weeks, see her becoming a thing made of blades again.

He couldn't stand it.

Cullen held a hand out to her. She stared at it, his sleeve still pushed up and the new-formed scar on his arm showing, for a moment. Then she put her hand in his.

He used that hand to pull her into a hug, and the smell of her was lightning and dust, filling his head. "You're going to hurt me," he said, keeping his voice low. "I know this. Probably a lot worse than this, some day. And I'm probably going to hurt you, sometime. That's just who we are, Kathil. And that's life."

(They were almost twenty and she was lying crumpled on the floor of the Harrowing Chamber, the moonlight was slanting in the great windows, and all he could think was it's too beautiful an evening for this. His blade naked in his hand, Greagoir at his shoulder, Irving facing him. Waiting for a demon to arise from her body.)

(Or they were fifteen and nobody had told either of them yet about the Harrowing, and in the darkness of the back stairwell she sat down next to him. It was the last time he ever remembered her smelling like a human and not a mage.)

(Or they were twenty-one and through the shadows of madness she was standing in front of him, and he had no idea what he just said but she was turning away from him, and there were spiderwebs and shadows within him and without.)

(Or they were twenty-five and there was a bloody blade protruding from her chest, and all he could see in that moment was the incomprehension on her face as she fell to her knees in the mud.)

(And they were something to each other, mage and Templar, two sides of the same spinning coin.)

She'd moved, sometime in the last few seconds as he sat with memory battering at him, and her eyes were even with his. Dark eyes. So brown they were nearly black. And for once they were entirely human eyes and he couldn't see the Fade in them.

Then her mouth was on his.

It took him a few moments to figure out exactly what was happening, that she was kissing him and he was kissing her back and Maker it had been since a child in the Chantry since he'd done this and he was probably doing it wrong—

"I am going to kill that woman so very very dead, and—oh. My."

That was Leliana.

The two of them were springing apart, and Cullen knew that he was red from ears to toes, and Kathil looked about the same way, and she was staring at him with something like astonishment on her face.

Then the moment was done, and Kathil was off the bench and throwing herself into Leliana's arms, and Cullen might have felt vaguely insulted if it hadn't been for the mad, embarrassed giggle that was coming out of the mage. He glanced at Zevran. The elf, in return, raised an eyebrow.

He wasn't exactly sure when his life had stopped making any sort of sense whatsoever, but this was clearly madness.