A/N: Thank you once again to everyone who has faved/followed/reviewed. You all make me so happy I could practically dance.

So I could not for the life of me find out an approximation of Cullen or the Inquisitor's age, so I just made them up. I put Cullen in his mid-thirties, thinking he was probably in his early twenties in DA:O, and I put Evanthe in her mid-twenties because the letters from her clan still refer to her as "Da'len," inferring that she is still rather young.

Also, I was playing DA:I today and while I was at the war table Cullen started talking about "calibrating" the trebuchets and Josephine started giving him shit for "calibrating" them too much. Bwahahaha, how I love the random Mass Effect easter eggs in this game.

Please review lovies, I adore your feedback!

Having decided upon a course of action, Evanthe felt her mood vastly improve. It made her feel useful again, as if her presence in this world would actually matter. Of course a journey into the deep roads held no guarantee of success, but it was better than wringing her hands and waiting for Corypheus to attack. And if they succeeded? Having Ferelden's King once more in a role of authority, his presence bolstered by the Hero of Ferelden at his side, would most certainly make what was left of the world sit up and take notice. True it would make them more of a target, but what it would mean to those nobles in hiding and their retinues far outweighed the risk. In addition to which, it would give those enslaved under Corypheus' rule actual flesh and blood heroes to believe in. All of this lifted Evanthe spirits as she made her way back out to the courtyard, Elissa Cousland in tow. The two were to decide which among the inquisitions ranks would be trusted and competent enough to accompany them, and which were invaluable to Skyhold's defenses.

As they neared the courtyard's entrance the sounds of fighting began to echo against the stone walls. Evanthe frowned, put off by the cacophony. It was not the sound of simple training matches, no, there was an undercurrent of anger to this. Voices were raised, men were shouting, and the unspoken desire to make blood run floated above the clashing of swords and the crackling of magic. Something was wrong, and Evanthe broke into a sprint, fearing the worst. When she burst into the courtyard, Elissa running close behind, she found the soldier's of the inquisition engaged in a fierce skirmish, though not with Corypheus and his army as she had feared, but with themselves.

The courtyard was chaos. Everywhere she looked soldiers and mages openly engaged in hostilities, their swords and staffs flashing through the air. Insults and threats were shouted over the clang of weapons clashing together, and in the midst of it all stood Cullen, trying desperately to restore order.

"Maker, what's gotten a hold of them?" Elissa choked out, stunned by the sudden turn of events.

"It appears they are having a difficult time grasping the concept of 'brothers in arms,'" Evanthe replied, already stomping towards the group to put an end to the glorified pissing contest. When she arrived at the edge of the fray she reached out, snatching away a staff from one of the mages and sending a blast of power at his adversary. Eyes fixed on Cullen who had gone from playing mediator to being on the receiving end of a mage's spell craft, she continued to slog her way forward, putting down those that got in her way with a well timed spell or a simple jab with her borrowed staff. She arrived at her commander's side just as the mage he was facing off against lobbed a fireball square at Cullen's head. Evanthe reacted without thought, throwing a barrier around the former templar before any harm could befall him.

"Enough!" she cried, slamming her staff hard against the frozen ground. The blast of power that radiated out from her was strong enough to knock the legs out from under a great many men and it was only then that the fighting ceased. The silence that fell was almost suffocating, and Evanthe took the time to stare down each and every man who dared meet her gaze. When at last she had taken the measure of the men who were supposed to serve at her word she turned to the mage who had thought it a bright idea to attack her commander.

"You," she commanded softly, the bladed point of her staff hovering over the man's throat, "Leave. You are no longer welcome within Skyhold's walls." The man gaped up at her, shocked at her declaration. When he began to sputter in protest Evanthe simply raised her hand, the mark upon her palm sparking green, and quirked an eyebrow upwards in an open dare. The mage scuttled back, stumbling to his feet. He quickly glanced around, searching for support among those gathered, but none would meet his gaze. Evanthe cleared her throat, making it clear that she was impatient with his dawdling, and motioned for him to be on his way. The man fled, feet tripping over one another as he scrambled towards the great portcullis that led to the outside world. When she was sure he had gone, Evanthe turned her attention to her commander, her hand thrust out in offering. Cullen grunted and wrapped his calloused hand around her forearm, hauling himself upright.

"I told you they wouldn't take well to the idea," he murmured.

"And I told you to make them," she snapped, eyes blazing. Turning once more to regard those assembled she let out a snarl of disgust, the sound wicked enough to make not a few men flinch. "It is not enough that I am thrust into the losing side of a war, but now I am tasked with separating brawling children angry at having to follow orders. You are all, each and everyone of you, an embarrassment. I no longer care what your reasons are for distrusting one another. It ends now. Simple as that. If we are to have any hope at all of coming out the other side of this whole you will put aside your differences and fall in line. If you find yourself unable to do so, then by all means join your former companion, I'm sure he'd be glad of the company." Not a word, not a cough, not even a breath met her statement, and most of the men had the grace to look abashed by their actions. Evanthe raised her staff, swinging it around to point at a soldier clad in patched together armor. "You. You need to learn to angle your shield better, you keep it upright and you'll lose your eyes." When a snicker came from one of the mages she swung upon the woman, eyes narrowed, "And you! Why did you just let him swing upon you? Did it never occur to you to block?" The woman's blank stare confirmed to Evanthe that it, indeed, had not. Sighing in exasperation she whirled back around towards Cullen, letting the staff fall from her hand as she began to shrug out of her long leather coat. "Pair them off commander," she ordered. "One mage to one soldier. And give the spell casters a blade a piece."

"Evanthe?" Cullen questioned, his voice wary and confused.

"We are no longer running them as separate battalions. You will teach the mages to wield a blade and you will teach the soldiers how to recognize the first call signs of a spell so as to better deflect them. Our forces will be cohesive, skilled, and fully capable of keeping themselves alive. They will spar together, they will eat together, and they will bed down together. This self-imposed segregation ends now. Pair them off, commander, that's an order." Cullen nodded tightly and began to call out names, the groupings of which were met with varying levels of grumbling and complaining. A sharp look from Evanthe had them swallowing their protests and within minutes the courtyard was once again filled with neat rows of soldiers awaiting orders. Nodding in approval she strode to stand before Cullen and reached out to unsheathe his sword.

"You're with me," she murmured softly, examining the weapon with a curious eye. "Teach me what to do with this blasted thing." Cullen stared at her as if she had sprouted a second head, but slowly a smile spread across his face and Evanthe could see he approved immensely. She would see her order enforced by being the example, and woe unto anyone who complained in her presence.

"Lesson the first," Cullen murmured, reaching out to reposition her hands, "try not to hold it as if you are scared to death by it."

"Easier said than done," she replied tartly, earning her a small chuckle from the man. And with that quiet noise of mirth, the soldiers and mages surrounding them began to slowly, grudgingly, work together.

~oOo~

"Ow! Why do you insist on torturing me?" Evanthe demanded, shooting a reproachful glare over her shoulder at the man who was indelicately patching her up. Cullen grunted and continued his ministrations, threading a needle through her skin once more.

"I told you time and again to roll with the fall," he replied.

"And I told you time and again to duck when you heard the first syllable of that blast spell. And yet all you have to show for your mistake is a manly bruise while I'm bleeding out before your very eyes."

"You're not bleeding out," he huffed, though she could hear the smile in voice, "it's a minor laceration. Hold still...I'm already doing a bad enough job of this as it is."

The two of them were perched on the end of Cullen's bed high in the rafters of Skyhold's one remaining tower. Night had begun to fall and the hazy purple of twilight cloaked the green of the sky, creating a swirling kaleidoscope of color that was actually quite beautiful if one didn't stop to think upon it long. After hours of exhaustive training Cullen had insisted upon tending to Evanthe's many wounds, seeing as he was responsible for most of them. She had instructed her commander not hold back, despite her lack of education when it came to melee battle. He had complied, and when she was pitched to the ground almost immediately, everything around her had come to a halt. Those that were gathered had held their breath, waiting for the reprimand they were certain was coming. When she merely struggled to her feet and growled "again" some of the tension in the courtyard eased and the training continued on. Evanthe gave as good as she got, though Cullen had fared better overall than she. He was a templar trained warrior and as such already had prior experience battling against magic. Evanthe had no such luxury and by the time Cullen had called the training session to an end she was covered in scrapes, bruises and more than her fair share of cuts. Most were surface wounds but one deep laceration lay above her shoulder blade, the result of her inaction and Cullen's too slow reflex It could have been a lot worse, luckily Cullen had corrected in time to avoid running her through, but she was still cut deep none the less.

"I have a better respect for your skills commander," she offered, wincing as he began another stitch. "I'll admit, you make it look so effortless I thought swordplay would be an easy lesson. My mistake."

"If it appears effortless it is only because I've spent the better part of two decades making it so. Believe me when I say it takes a great amount of effort to effectively wield a blade." Evanthe grunted at this, almost pouting and her commander chuckled at bit at the sentiment. "It was well done, what you did today," he offered quietly after a time. "We can no longer separate ourselves on the field of battle as we once did. If we are to be considered any sort of threat to Corypheus we can no longer abide by the strictures of war as we once used to. I am...impressed, Evanthe."

"You seem to be the only one," she muttered. "I have the distinct impression that I earned myself no favors with the troops."

"You are changing the nature of the game, Evanthe. You are fighting against centuries of ingrained battle tactics and creating new ones. It is difficult to adapt to, I'll admit, but eventually everyone will see that it is the right course."

"And the forced solidarity?" she questioned. "I have a feeling that will be quite the sticking point for not a few of the men, both soldiers and mages alike. Ow!"

"I am sorry," he offered for what must have been the hundredth time; apologizing not for the pain of the mending but for the existence of the wound in the first place.

"And I told you don't be. You did exactly as I asked. It does me no favors to be coddled. Corypheus and his army will show no hesitation, and as such neither should you. Besides, I'll now have an ever present scar to remind me to 'roll with the fall.'"

"Even so," Cullen murmured, "I hate that I was the one to give it you. That should never be the nature of our relationship. I am supposed to be your sword, not the one wielding it against you."

"That's quite the chivalric sentiment," Evanthe replied softly. "I thought such things had gone out of fashion what with the imminent apocalypse at our doorstep."

"Some habits die hard, I suppose," he replied, tugging softly upon the needle. Evanthe hissed at the sensation, her muscles tensing, and Cullen absentmindedly placed a comforting hand across the expanse of her back, idly rubbing soothing circles until she relaxed once more. "Besides," he said after a moment, "I'm not so chivalrous. After all I have a barely clothed woman perched upon my bed. I'm sure the lay sisters in the Chantry would be appalled if they could see me now." Evanthe couldn't help but laugh, glancing down at her half-clothed form. She had stripped down to her breeches and breast band so as to give him easier access to her injury. She hadn't thought twice about it at the time, but now that Cullen had mentioned, it became painfully obvious. A light blush stained her cheek and she became suddenly aware of his close proximity. It didn't matter that she had never before thought of her commander in that fashion, she was suddenly very cognizant of the fact that she was a woman and he a man, and were anyone to stumble upon them in such a state it would be very easy to infer certain assumptions about their relationship. Cullen must have realized it to, his hands stilling above her and for a moment neither spoke, a tension seeping between them.

"I think they'd be more appalled at you caring for mage," Evanthe supplied at last, clearing her throat in an effort to erase the awkwardness "I thought there were rules governing such a thing."

"Yes, well, the Chantry isn't in a position to be ruling over much of anything as of late," he replied, suturing her once more. Evanthe could feel the tug as he knotted off the thread. "And even if they were, I gave up that life long ago."

"You may not wear the armor, but the ideology is still there," she countered, arching her back carefully so as to test the give and pull of her stitches. "Much as it might pain, you are still a templar, Cullen, just one a bit lapsed on his vows." She turned then to regard him, but he quickly leaped from the bed, striding away with his back to her.

"Can we perhaps speak of other matters?" he asked softly, reaching out to pluck a jar of balm from off a nearby shelf. When he turned to face her his countenance was guarded, formal; nothing more than a commander tending to one of his soldiers. Any thread of familiarity between the two had seemingly been cut in that moment, and Evanthe realized she had touched upon something that unnerved the man. It seemed everywhere she turned she was to be set upon by people suffering from crises of faith, making it clear that not all casualties in war were of a mortal nature. She sighed wearily before pushing herself off the bed and striding over to him. Dutifully turning her back she said not a word as he applied the unguent to her stitches, a foul smelling concoction that reeked strongly of elder moss. When he was done she snatched the jar from his hand and took a step back, eying him critically.

"Your turn," she commanded after a moment and he blinked rapidly at the words.

"Pardon?"

"You may not be bleeding, least not that I can see, but in between sword play I dealt you my own fair share of damage. Don't think it escaped my notice that your breathing is a touch shallow. If I had a coin to my name I'd wager I'd cracked a rib or two."

"I'm fine," he muttered trying to step around her. Evanthe retaliated by jabbing him hard in the ribs. The accompanying hiss that escaped from the man proved her point and she merely folded her arms, a triumphant look upon her face. "I have been dealt much worse by far greater adversaries, herald-"

"Evanthe," she corrected.

"Evanthe...believe me when I say I shall recover without the aid of your tender mercies."

"Be that as it may, I need you at your best, Cullen. I need to know that when I set off to the deep roads I'm leaving Skyhold in the hands of the greatest warrior we can claim...not an old man who's torso cannot bear the weight of a sword."

"Old man?" he sputtered, affronted, "I am but thirty-seven!"

"Practically ancient," Evanthe teased.

"Yes, well, if I am to be suddenly resigned to ranks of the elderly, then you, my dear herald, are but a child."

"I am no such thing!" she protested. "Twenty six is a perfectly respectable age."

"Practically an infant," he mocked and Evanthe swatted him playfully.

"I'll have you know I was always considered quite and wise and mature for my age."

"Of that, I have little doubt," he replied with a smile. "It takes great wisdom and maturity to deal with the fallout of all the misadventures you seem to find yourself in.

"Enough," she chuckled, "You are distracting me from my pursuit. Are you going to let me tend to your injury, or must I force medical care upon you and disrobe you myself?" A blush stained Cullen's cheeks at that moment, and Evanthe winced, realizing what she had innocently alluded to. She was once again made painfully aware of her state of undress and hurriedly turned to retrieve her tunic. "Come now, strip," she command, followed by a curse as each word out of her mouth made the situation all the worse. She could hear the creak of leather as Cullen obeyed and she hastily donned her clothes, feeling a bit more in control once she was covered. The feeling was fleeting, for when she turned around she was greeted with the sight of Cullen's bare, and all together impressive chest. Having lived isolated with the Dalish she had never had the opportunity to see a human male laid bare before her. And although he was lean, the result of having to live hard these past months, he was still far broader than any elf she had encountered.

"Evanthe?" he prodded, voice expectant and she jumped a bit, embarrassed at having been caught out staring. Mentally chiding herself she pretended to become absorbed in the bruise that curled it's way across his torso, a pattern of blues fanning out into sickly purples.

"As I suspected," she murmured. "As soon as he's finished his assessment of Varric and Bull, I want the healer brought to you right away. We can't have you hobbled, commander. Not now."

"I'm not hobbled," he grumbled as she strode to meet him. "And there are far more dire cases than mine in the infirmary. I won't have another man dying on my account."

"A good many more will die if you are incapable of helming a defense, Cullen," she pointed out, applying a bit of the unguent to a nasty looking scrape along his clavicle. "We're at war. Sacrifices have to be made."

"We've already sacrificed more than our fair share," he replied bitterly.

"I doubt very much that fair counts for anything in war."

"It used to," he spat. "Before Corypheus there was an honor to be had in battle. No matter how vicious the skirmish there was an unspoken accord between enemies. A silent agreement acknowledging that either side refused to make war more horrifying than it already was."

"Pretty to think so, Cullen," Evanthe muttered as she searched the shelves for a roll of linen. "Those that waged the bloodshed may have told themselves that so as to better sleep at night, but there is nothing virtuous in taking a man's life at the behest of another. It is royally sanctioned murder on a grand scale and there is little that is artly or noble about the cause of it. You of all people should know that."

"Why me of all people?" he questioned as she held one end of the linen against his sternum. He automatically covered her hand with his own, helping to secure it in place as she began the slow task of tightly winding it about his torso.

"Because you served the Chantry, Cullen," she so supplied simply. "You held a position of command in a war that has been waging for centuries. You think the mage rebellion was the opening salvo of hostilities? No, it was merely the most recent. The Chantry has been openly battling the mages for hundreds of years; a holy war that has no end. A direct result of which is the nightmare we all find ourselves living."

"You cannot be suggesting that the Chantry is responsible for Corypheus' rise to power," he protested trying to step away from her. Evanthe kept him close with a firm tug upon the linen, a reproachful glare in her eye.

"Let us not pretend, Cullen. We both know that the current state of the world is our doing. The constant vilification of the mages, the templar order given free reign, and in the midst of it all a Chantry that is as archaic and outdated as it is oppressive. Not to mention the near constant hostilities between nations. Orlais and Ferelden, the Dalish and the Shems. Tevinter and everyone. We were well on our way to throwing the world into chaos all on out own, Corypheus merely took advantage of the timing."

"Sorry to barge in," Dorian announced as he climbed into the room, interrupting them and effectively cutting off what ever tirade the commander was about to launch into. When the mage took in the sight of a half naked Cullen and Evanthe pressed close to his chest, her hands reaching back to pass the roll of linen around his ribs, he drew up short, a delighted smile on his face. "It seems I have interrupted. By all means do continue, you won't even notice I'm here."

"This isn't what it looks like," Evanthe huffed, quickly tying the linen into place.

"Isn't that always the case?" Dorian bemoaned. "One of these days, just one, I'd like to stumble upon something clandestine and have it be exactly what it looks like."

"What do you want?" Evanthe sighed impatiently, her arms crossed.

"I want a great many things, Evanthe my dear. Not the least of which is a good stiff drink. But seeing as spirits are in short supply-"

"Not as short as you would think," Cullen corrected, tossing him a nearly empty bottle of brandy. "Now if that is all-"

"How very delightful of you, commander," Dorian exclaimed, popping the cork and drinking deep. "But as much as I enjoy the gift, that is not why I came. No, I came to beg permission of our lovely herald to do something rather unorthodox."

"What?" Evanthe asked warily, her mind running through everything the Tevinter mage could possibly consider "unorthodox."

"I need you to let Solas out of the dungeon," Dorian replied, sobering instantly, his voice free of any trace of frivolity.

"No," Evanthe answered immediately, throwing a hand up and turning away.

"He is an expert in the fade, Evanthe," Dorian argued chasing her about the room. "Look, I heard the stories, and he may be a right bastard, but he's a bastard with access to knowledge."

"I don't care if he has the keys to the eternal city, I'm not letting him free," she cried.

"I need him," Dorian pressed, reaching out to grasp hard at her bicep and forcing her attention. "If you ever want to leave this rotting excuse for a future, you will give me access to him. I cannot reconstruct the amulet alone. It has become abundantly clear to me that Alexius tampered with my original design. Upon further reflection I do believe that we were transported not through a rift in time, but in the fade itself."

"Solas is responsible for all this, Dorian," Evanthe hissed, yanking her arm out of his grasp. "I will not grant him is release simply because you are having a hard time sorting out a riddle."

"I thought the Chantry was responsible for the downfall of the world," Cullen mocked low, as if he did not want her to hear, but Evanthe caught it all the same.

"Do not twist my words because you are feeling pissy over tying yourself to an oppressive theocracy," she spat before turning her attention to Dorian once more. "I've made my decision, Dorian, do not ask again."

"Are you really going to let a lover's spat color your decisions in this?"

"Excuse me?" she asked softly, the words dangerous and warning all on their own.

"I only ask because one would think that as leader of our wonderful little order, you'd want every tool available to you to see yourself home to a better time. Solas is part of that. So I can only guess that your reluctance has more to do with personal matters than with practicalities."

"You son of a-" Evanthe spat launching herself at the mage only to be yanked back by Cullen, one arm securely about her waist the other with a hand clamped tight to her mouth.

"I think it best if you leave, Dorian," Cullen offered tightly, struggling to keep a hold of the royally pissed off elf.

"If you could, try and make her see reason," Dorian requested with an air of indifference as he finished off the last of the brandy. "I cannot save the future of the world without Solas' help. She must see that, and if she can't perhaps you can. Thank you for the drink, commander." When the mage had taken his leave Cullen released Evanthe and immediately ducked her incoming fist, his ribs protesting the entire time.

"Don't you ever hold me back, again, Cullen," she cried.

"You'd have regretted it had I not," he argued. "Much as he upset you, you aren't the type to lash out at those offering you help. And as infuriating as the man is, he is trying to help."

"You can not seriously be agreeing with him!"

"I despise Solas as much as the next man," he answered, turning to redress himself. "But I have to believe in a better world Evanthe. If Dorian can achieve that by unshackling the mage? Then that is the price we must pay."

"But it isn't fair, not to the men and women who are fighting for their very lives at the cost of his actions. Not when we are literally surrounded by the graves of the dead that he responsible for."

"As you said," Cullen replied with a weary shrug, "fair counts for very little when it comes to war."