Heyy! I'm back! Had some real life stuff to deal with- also I officially have my bachelor's degree kind of. So that's a thing. Anyway, I hope you don't mind this chapter being a bit disjointed. It's got all the good stuff tho.
(ALSO YOU GET A PROPER INTRO TO MIRIAM, WHO I LOVE AND CHERISH)
A soft rustle rouses Cullen from his sleep. He lets his blanket slip off of him and climbs down from his bed, careful not to disturb his fellow templars. In the Kinloch Hold barracks, they have eight templars to a room, which is as crowded as one can imagine.
He rummages around for his boots, freezing when he hears one of his roommates moan loudly in his sleep. His breath halts as he waits to make sure that he hasn't woken anyone up. If he were to get caught on his way out, he wouldn't hear the end of it. He shakes his head to get the images of Greagoir's perpetually malcontent face out of his head. No, he can't think about that now.
It takes him what seems like an eternity to creep through the room, open the door, slip through, and shut it again. The barracks are quiet, and he can hear wind howling through the windows. His shadow multiplies and dances along the walls in the dim torchlight, like the ghosts of past and future telling him to turn around and just go back to his room. But that never works -he's tried it so many times before that he's lost count.
He knew he'd be back here again, tonight, in the halls of Kinloch Hold where it all started, but knowing doesn't make it any easier. Every night, he's eighteen years old, barely even a year into his service.
Tonight, it's the circle's chapel. He locks eyes with Andraste's statue, standing at the altar, almost taunting him. He's tried calling out to her before, but she never answers. He notes that the Chant of Light normally sitting upon the altar is missing, and the bookshelves are empty.
"Cullen?" her soft voice brings him back to the present, or perhaps this lie masquerading as the present. She timidly approaches him, her face younger, less battleworn, more innocent. She's made up entirely of tight black curls that fall all the way down her back and frame her face like a giant cloud.
Then she touches him. A small hand slipping into his own.
"Evie…" he mumbles, feeling his breath catch in his throat. His tension seeps out of his body like a sack of grain bursting at the seams. He relaxes into her, lowering his forehead to hers and breathing her in. "Are you sure you weren't caught?"
She laughs, sending shivers down his spine. "You don't give me enough credit. I've done this before. Plus, Amell is covering for me."
He feels a chuckle escape his lips against his better judgement. "This is more dangerous for you than it is for me. I loathe that you're putting yourself at risk like this for me." He strokes her fingers with his thumb -they're soft, but they shouldn't be, not anymore.
"It's alright, vhenan," she whispers. "I do it because I love you." Her hands slip out of his and move slowly to his abdomen, fingers creeping under his shirt. Her touch is hellfire and he can feel his skin screaming in protest -it's torture. "Do you love me?"
"Evie, we shouldn't… It's not right."
He takes one step back, gently pushing her away.
"But we love each other. I want this."
She takes one step forward. Her face is unreadable -or perhaps that's the wrong word. It's not hard to read; rather there is nothing to read on it. Has she always looked like that?
Hands pale as death undoing the ties on her apprentice robes, letting them fall to the floor in a dark violet heap. Her body is glimmering bronze and sex, and her voluminous black hair caressing her every curve -a portrait of temptation- No. Desire. He can see the demonic horns peeking out through her messy curls. Her crimson eyes call out to him -no; that's the wrong color…
"Ar lath, ma vhenan… Cullen…"
"It's not right," he says again, his voice faltering like a drying quill scraping against parchment. He moves back again. Two steps. His legs are heavy and he knows it's her doing. Blood magic. It's blood magic. Red and thick -slimy tendrils wrapping themselves around his legs and climbing up his body, caressing his skin, touching him where it shouldn't.
"I'm not a blood mage, Cullen! I would never do that to you!" she cries out, but it's nothing more than a beautiful statue parroting the voices from his past.
He tries to close his eyes. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.
"What about your promise? You promised me, Cullen."
"It's not real," he growls, finding his voice again and dashing out of the Chantry and into the snow. There's a storm brewing above Haven and the sky is black and green; the breach is swirling overhead like a whirlwind.
He can't see anything but the icy mist ahead and blurs of thick tree trunks running past him in an endless loop. He can't see her, but he knows she's following him, just out of reach. Her voice whispers in his ear, never touching him but close enough to brush her fingers against him if she so desired.
"Cullen! Please!" she hisses, her distorted voice bouncing around him, echoing against the bark.
He doesn't bother replying -everything she says is more of the same. It's not real anyway. It's the same thing every night and he can already feel his vocal cords tighten and his windpipe narrow. He's nearly out of the thicket and prepares himself to take a sharp turn onto the bridge separating Haven from the rest of the Frostback mountains.
He slams his fists into solid gate, fumbling around for the gate mechanism to the side of the door. It doesn't budge or even move, almost like it's just a fixed decoration in the wall, no different than the stone holding the ancient bridge together or the sturdy arch towering above him. Defeated, he turns around, pressing his back against the gate and waits, doomed to his fate like the oily subject of a tragic painting.
At first he sees nothing and hears nothing, but then his eyes land on her at the far end of the bridge. This one is no longer young; her skin is no longer smooth and her hair is not as soft. She's lying on her stomach, the fabric of her robes is dyed black with her own blood. Her approach is agonizingly slow as she uses her arms, hands digging into the floor, and drags herself across. Then she picks up speed, her arms zealously working her towards him, her mangled legs trailing after her like dead weight.
His chest folds into itself and it gets harder and harder to breathe. He's long since lost the ability to speak or scream or move. All he can do is violently heave his chest, begging his lungs to work and listen, counting how many times her robes loudly chafe against the stonework; each scrape is a gash in his lungs, letting all the air out. He's desperate for oxygen now, but he knows it will all be over soon.
Her boiling hot claw latches on to his ankle, nails digging into his skin as though he were made of dough. A hoarse, high-pitched moan forces itself through his lips in place of a scream. He blinks and she's right in front of him, her nose and lips brushing against his own, a disgusting mockery of intimacy.
"Is this real enough for you?"
The oppressive heat of the druffalo skin blanket and the sweat making his trousers cling to his legs bring him back to reality. Cullen pulls an arm out from under the covers to comb his fingers through his slick curls. He's still in his tent; he never left.
His heart slams into his ribs when he hears the leather flaps of his tent move, and he reflexively sits up, his hand fumbling for the blade he keeps by his bedroll. His hand wraps around the sturdy handle, but he feels unexpected resistance when he attempts to pick it up and swing it across the tent.
"Easy there, Commander. It's just me."
Cullen blinks his aching eyes slowly until they adjust to the darkness. "Cedric? Maker's breath. I half expected you to be Amell, or something worse."
Cedric raises his brows, frowning deeply. "Are you sleeping with my wife, commander?"
"Andraste's mercy! No!" Cullen sputters, wanting desperately to take his words back. What he had meant was that, ever since arriving at Haven, Amell has been 'mommying' him (for lack of a more precise word). She'd appear unannounced whenever he was alone and begin to tidy up his hair or give him unsolicited advice about his hygiene or his diet. He's sure she means well, but he is a man of thirty years now and can take care of himself.
The hurt expression on Cedric's face breaks, and he lets out a hearty laugh, laying his hand on Cullen's shoulder. "I'm joking; don't worry! Rough night?" he asks, removing his boot from the tip of Cullen's sword. "You were talking in your sleep."
Cullen frowns. "I didn't realize. What time is it?"
Cedric tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear. "Just before dawn, Commander."
With a drawn-out sigh, Cullen slicks his hair back and begins to reach for his clothes. "Duty calls, I suppose."
Cedric gives him an apologetic smile before saying, "I'll start waking the troops up."
Areina's still not accustomed to human culture. They're loud and they smell funny, and she's not entirely sure if it's on purpose or not (both their voices and their scents). They see a hole in the sky and their first impulse is to drink as much ale as they can without passing out or dying. And all the touching! She can certainly do without people grasping at her shoulder to ask whether or not she's the Herald of Andraste whenever she steps out of her quarters.
She's scarcely left her small shack when she's confronted by a very tall human woman, with a halo of enviable golden hair and robes made of black and gold brocade that showcase her breasts and flatter her curves, of which she has plenty. She's not a refugee or a villager, and Areina is certain she's seen her before, but never interacted with her.
"Lady Herald, may I steal a moment of your time?" the woman says; her voice is more mature than Areina expects, and gives off a very matronly lilt.
"Of course," Areina replies, holding the woman firmly in her gaze. Areina counts herself as quite tall, even by human standards, but this woman completely towers over her.
The woman then smiles, offering her hand in greeting. "My name is Miriam Cousland -formerly of the illustrious Amell family. I am currently in the employ of Her Majesty, Queen Anora of Ferelden, as court enchantress and advisor, and I was to be Her Grace's proxy at the… ill-fated conclave."
Areina accepts the handshake, offering a smile of her own. "It's nice to meet you, Lady Cousland. You can call me Areina."
"Aren't you delightful!" Miriam laughs as if at a secret joke, her grip on Areina's hand lingering for a moment before she lets go. "I've heard that Sister Nightingale intends to send you to the Hinterlands to speak to a Chantry Mother by the name of Giselle."
Areina's eyes widen. "I- I wasn't aware that was public knowledge, my Lady."
There's a mysterious glint in Miriam's eye as she says, "Oh, nothing escapes my notice, dear. I have come to ask if I may offer you my services. I have ties to nobility and I've lived in Ferelden my entire life. If anyone knows the people you will be interacting with, it's me."
Areina purses her lips, considering Miriam's offer carefully. "And why ask me? Why not go directly to Cassandra or Leliana."
"You're the one with the mark on your hand," Miriam points out. Sensing Areina's hesitance, she adds, "I won't lie to you, Areina. I do have my own reasons to accompany you to the Hinterlands. The mage-templar war has been a thorn in the King and Queen's sides for months. Both parties in the conflict have been endangering villagers all across the Bannorn. And we've had complaints from Arl Teagan that the rebel mages have completely overrun Redcliffe. This is a conflict near and dear to my heart, Herald. I won't get in your way; I only ask that you allow me to help you."
Areina lets out a long and deep sigh before shrugging. "I could definitely use all the help I can get. Welcome aboard, Lady Cousland. We're leaving for the Hinterlands tomorrow at dawn."
An elegant smile spreads across Miriam's lips. "My bags are already packed."
Miriam saunters away from her with the gait of a satisfied cat, and as she departs, another of Areina's associates makes his way over, greeting her in his soft, rumbling voice.
"Aneth ara, lethallan. I trust you slept well?"
She feels her cheeks heat up as she steps forward to meet him. "Solas! Good morning! I slept much better than yesterday. Thank you for asking."
Solas feels the corners of his lips tilt up involuntarily at seeing her infectious smile. "I'm glad to hear it. The mark did not trouble you throughout the night?"
She lifts up the hand with her mark and shakes it experimentally. "Not really. It stopped hurting, but I don't think it's gonna stop growing until we get the breach closed."
He nods slowly, turning around and pacing leisurely away. He stops after a couple of steps and looks over his shoulder at her. "Come. Walk with me," he says, gesturing towards her.
Curiously, she scurries over to him and matches his step, as he leads her through the village and towards the gates, where the sound of troops training, boots on the ground, steel against steel, is deafening. He doesn't say a word, and as the two of them weave through the arrays of tents, Areina's mind runs with all the things that he could wish to talk to her about.
When the sounds of the training begin to decrease in volume, she turns to Solas and asks, "Where are we going?"
He pauses for a moment before answering. "I'm running an errand for Adan and thought you might enjoy a change of pace."
The pair walk through the snow, leaving identical footprints behind them. Soon the faint sounds of Cullen's men fades into a hush of still winter air. She breathes in deeply, filling her lungs with the silence that she hadn't even realized she missed. That's not to say that her clan did not have its rowdier moments, but there was never any shortage of moments where she could sit alone in the dewy morning grass and relish in the silence.
"I never realized how much shemlen like to yell," she remarks, sighing as she feels her tension begin to deflate.
She hears Solas chuckle and reply, "Yes. Solitude has become a rare commodity."
With a sly grin, she sneaks a quick peek at his face, catching the smile on his face before it morphs back into his usual serious expression. She's reminded of the stern expressions her eldest brother, Heiron, used to give her when he was teaching her how to use a bow before her magic had manifested. He was the only one of her seven siblings who shared June's vallaslin with her.
"I apologize, lethallan, I was a bit misleading in my motives for bringing you here," he tells her, his leisurely gait slowing to a stop in the middle of a white clearing. "I noticed earlier that your technique could use some work. The Hinterlands is a battleground for the rogue mages and templars; it will be dangerous. Are you sure you can handle that?"
Areina rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "So there is no errand for Adan. You brought me here to train me?"
"To test your skill -yes."
"I didn't bring my staff with me."
He tosses his own towards her. She hastily grabs it, her hands running over the smooth texture of the staff, down to the wide grip. It's a beautifully crafted staff, topped off with a cleansing rune encased in metallic vines like branches on a tree. The blade on the bottom is also smooth and clean, glinting in the sunlight.
"What about you?"
"Don't worry about me. Worry about yourself," he says. "Now attack me."
Areina bites her lip, holding on to the staff tightly and casting a simple winter's grasp, only to see Solas shrug off the ice she had summoned with an impartial frown. He crosses his arms impatiently and says, "Was that supposed to be your best? On the field, you will meet enemies who are trying to kill you."
Feeling her heart sink in her chest, she sputters, "I know! I just-"
Her eyes widen when he straightens up and marches towards her, grabbing her by her wrists before asking, "Is your left hand your dominant hand?"
"No," she replies, feeling her cheeks burn at his proximity to her.
"Then why are you gripping your staff with your left? You're not focused."
She clenched her left fist over the anchor and sighed. "Magic feels different with the mark. It's like I'm learning how to cast all over again."
His expression softens. "Da'len, poor form is a result of lack of proper practice."
She sighs. "You sound just like my Keeper, y'know."
He smirks. "And you keep making excuses." He scolds, moving her hands along the staff to the right positions before jumping backwards and moving into a defensive stance. "Again!"
Areina glares, feeling a sense of lethargy overtake her. Of course she realizes that Solas is right, but she really wishes she could be anywhere else. She sucks in a deep breath and channels her frustration into another spell -holding her staff in the correct hand this time. She feels the tingle of magic under her skin, mana seeping through her pores.
She watches as Solas casts a barrier spell at the last moment, absorbing part of her spell, but shattering under the pressure of the icy shards that sprout out of the ground and grow around Solas's legs. He struggles slightly against it, but lets out a resigned sigh in the end. "Well, you certainly did not hold back."
A pang of guilt mixes in with her shame and frustration. "I'm sorry!" she yelps, waving her staff to make the ice at his feet crumble.
He half-heartedly kicks at the remains of Areina's spell, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Why would you be? You did exactly what I asked of you." His gaze meets hers again and she feels that naked sensation she had felt a couple of days ago when she first woke up. What is he searching for when he looks at her? Does he realize he's doing that or is she reading too much into it?
"Solas?" she calls out uncertainly when his somber gaze lingers a moment too long.
He blinks slowly in response, like a tired old halla listening to its owner speak. "Yes?"
"What do you want me to do next, Hahren?" she asks, feeling like a small child again.
She can't help but notice his ears twitch upon hearing the title, almost as though he hadn't expected it. Then he began to speak again, like whatever idea had just distracted him had been completely shaken away. "Your form just now was excellent. I would like you to practice this spell until I come back."
"Come back?" She tilts her head to the side. "Come back from where?"
He straightens out his vest and smiles. "I was not lying when I told you I needed to run an errand for Adan. I will back soon, and then we will pick up where we left off."
She huffs miserably, watching him turn his back to her and leave. She's struck with a near uncontrollable urge to freeze him in place, but she knows it's only her frustration. It occurs to her that Solas doesn't actually have to tutor her like this and that he must be taking time out of more important tasks to make sure she doesn't get herself killed on the battlefield; that doesn't make it any less embarrassing, however, to essentially be told that she's a bad mage.
She was initially selected to be the Keeper's First due to her fervent dedication to the preservation of Elvhen history -her magic is secondary to that. That's not to say that she's completely hopeless as a mage -she can hold her own… most of the time. The Keeper would often threaten to have another of the clan's mages take her place as the First if she kept neglecting her training, but it was always just talk -or that's what Areina tells herself.
As she batters a dead tree with spell after spell, she can't help but become more aware of the power flowing through the anchor. While the anchor certainly isn't impeding her ability to cast like she told Solas earlier, she had been telling the truth about it making her magic feel different. She feels like she's drawing out of a boundless well of mana, like there's more power behind her spells than there usually is. She feels like she's running on ice and picking up speed.
With a loud snap, the dead wood snaps under the barrage of ice and falls over, hitting the snow with a loud thud that shakes the ground and causes a nearby nug to shriek and scurry off as fast as its stubby legs can go. Areina halts her casting, fatigue tugging at her muscles, and stares at the tree in confusion, panting heavily.
"Perhaps your next lesson may have to be on control." Partially covered feet leave tracks in the snow as they step over the branches of the fallen tree. Solas's eyes twinkle in amusement as he approaches.
"It… That was an accident!" Areina explains, hugging Solas's staff in mortification.
"A very strange accident," he teases.
"Banal alin y Fen'harel," she says with a reassuring smile, parroting an old amusing saying Keeper Deshanna would tell her whenever something happened that scared Areina. Nothing is stranger than the Dread Wolf.
Solas's face sinks, and for a moment, Areina fears she's said something wrong. She had only wanted to lighten the mood. He clears his throat and then says, "You look exhausted, da'len. Let us resume our lessons tomorrow morning. I should probably go assist Adan at the clinic."
Her eyes follow him curiously as he takes his staff from her and walks away. No farewell, no smile. Did he not understand what she had told him? Had she said it wrong? She isn't the best at speaking Elvhen, but she's much better than all the other elves in her clan -or at least, that's what she thinks. After seeing Solas's reaction, she's not so sure anymore.
Again, Solas is a complete mystery to her. There's something to him that she can't quite see, like she's descending a staircase that breaks off a quarter of the way down, leaving the treasures at the bottom undisturbed. She decides that she'll apologize tomorrow for whatever she must have said, and spends the rest of the day preparing for her trip to the Hinterlands.