Cullen had never felt more out of place in his life. Even after… everything at Kinloch Hold, even when everyone save Greagoir had given him slantwise glances and wide berths, even when he'd eaten his dinner alone more often than not, Cullen had never felt quite so… different. At least in the Tower he'd still been a templar. A mad templar, perhaps; a rabid one, almost certainly, but a templar nonetheless. He'd had the Order to hold on to, a chain of command to follow, and routine to make even his loneliest moments bearable. He might have been broken, but he still fit.
Watching the interactions around him now, it was clear just how well they all knew each other. Even Fenris, by nature the most taciturn, belonged.
Cullen didn't belong. Oh, no one singled him out—very well, no one except Varric singled him out—but still he felt like the odd afterthought. On the fourth night, just as they were leaving the thrice-blasted mountains behind, Isabela produced a deck of cards. He'd never seen a more voracious group of gamblers. When he admitted he'd never played a game of Diamondback in his life, Varric looked disgusted, Fenris disappointed, and Amelle pitying. Isabela dumped herself so near she might very well have just sat in his lap and promised to teach him.
He was pretty sure she fleeced him. The rules she whispered in his ear seemed to change with every hand. And she always won.
He found himself almost jealous of their ease with each other. Their banter was swift and unstudied, and they spoke in a shorthand he couldn't quite follow, all inside jokes and references to adventures past that he'd played no part in. Once Varric had muttered something about, "Remember that time we came across the stick-in-the-mud templar beating his own recruit on the Wounded Coast?" but Amelle had only kicked the dwarf in the shin—actually kicked him—and warned him to stop being an insufferable ass.
"Or what, Firefly?" Varric had challenged, but with a laugh in his tone.
"I haven't decided yet. Lightning bolt?"
"Boring."
"Rain of fire?"
"Ugh, uninspired."
"Paralysis followed by sleep? Only to wake up to find your magnificent chest hair completely shaved off?"
Varric chuckled. "Better, but too wordy. You've got to compete with the way your sister can say arrow through the eye with a completely menacing, completely straight face. Scary enough to make a man's balls shrivel right then and there. Arrow through the eye. And you know damned well she could do it, too."
"I have to come up with a ball-shrivelingly frightening signature punishment?"
"Of course! Think about your image. No one ever said it was easy, being the hero of a tale. You gotta give your… biographer something to work with."
"Hero of the tale?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Please. Anyway, I know my biographer. He'll figure something out. And make me disproportionately top-heavy as an added bonus."
They needled each other, and then laughed about it. Even Fenris. If Cullen had ever dreamt of speaking the words pull your head out of your ass, Broody, you're bringing the rest of us down, he was fairly certain he'd never have lived to tell the tale. But when Varric said it—with alarming regularity—Fenris only scowled the scowl Cullen was coming to think of as 'amused scowl' and said nothing. Sometimes his lips almost twitched. Once in a while his eyebrow lifted.
But he almost always… pulled his head out of his ass. That was the alarming part.
Amelle, bless her, tried to include him. She regaled him with commentary, tried to explain the inside jokes, and even occasionally reminded the others that not everyone had been around for the past seven years. Sometimes she apologized. He hated the apologies most of all. Mostly because—even though he wasn't precisely included—he could see why the japes and jests and endless stories happened.
The closer they grew to Starkhaven, the more troubled Amelle looked. The more troubled Amelle looked, the more stories Varric told, and the more outlandish the tales became. He was trying to keep her spirits up the best way he knew how, and Cullen couldn't fault him for it, even if it did leave him feeling most decidedly like a fifth wheel.
One small relief Cullen couldn't help but appreciate was the fact that Fenris now spoke to him without a growl in his voice or murder and mutilation in his eyes. Though he still adamantly refused to call Cullen by name.
Whatever incident had transpired between Fenris and Amelle — for neither of them spoke of it — their silences seemed to grow less awkward and strained as the days wore on. They attempted to give each other a wide berth, but those attempts were thwarted more often than not by Isabela and Varric, who frequently suggested Amelle and Fenris cover dinner duty together, or collect firewood, or set up camp, or any number of little chores. And they acquiesced — probably because Varric kept the suggestions so casual it would have bordered on the absurd for them to argue. They spoke little more than a word or two directly to each other, but the general climate was better for it, and far less likely to choke them all with tension.
Now, for instance, the atmosphere was anything but tense. They were several hours out of a small village that had made a less than favorable impression on Varric and Isabela their first time through. This time, however…
"Well, that was satisfying," Isabela announced as the mare she rode snorted in what sounded very much like amusement.
"Eminently," Varric agreed.
Amelle shot them both an annoyed, wounded look. "I don't know why I had to be the mark."
"Because, Firefly," Varric explained, "you are exactly the type any pickpocket worth his salt would look for: young, cute, petite—"
Amelle snorted. "You could well be describing a kitten, you know." At that, Isabela grinned back over her shoulder at Amelle.
"Oh, we know, kitten."
"Besides," Varric went on, "It's easier for us to spot a pickpocket when he's not trying to make us his marks."
"But why couldn't it have been Fenris? Or Cullen?"
Isabela sighed. "It's all in appearances, sweetheart. Trust me, I know. How many times do you suppose some blighter thought I'd be stupid enough to fool or easy enough to double-cross? I hate to be the one to tell you, but you just don't look like any sort of threat. And you certainly don't look the type who can shoot lightning bolts from your fingertips the moment anyone tried." To Cullen's ears, Isabela sounded wistful — almost envious.
"He groped my bottom," Amelle said, outrage making her cheeks pink.
"Well, yeah," Varric said with a shrug. "Distraction. With his hand on your butt, you're not gonna notice his fingers on your purse." He chuckled again, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "He'll think twice next time he tries to make someone's pocket lighter."
"It's not as if I shot a chain of lightning at him! It was just a little… a little shock. Because he was grabbing my backside." Amelle shot a worried glance at Cullen then, but he merely ducked his head, hiding his own grin. Amelle's magical reaction to the pickpocket had been both reflexive and defensive, but Cullen was finding it difficult to muster very much sympathy for the would-be criminal.
"You know," Isabela mused, "you'd make an excellent pirate. You could be my little secret weapon, kitten. Would you like that?"
Amelle made a face. "Isabela. I know Kiara's told you about our journey from Gwaren to Kirkwall."
But Isabela only waved a dismissive hand back at her. "So you got a little seasick—"
Here, Varric coughed pointedly. The two exchanged a look, and Isabela let out a theatrical sigh. "I tried to tell you, Fuzzy. If you stay down in the hold—"
"I won't have anywhere convenient to puke." He grinned over at Amelle. "Better to make trouble on land anyway, right, Firefly?"
Amelle was just about to answer when the chestnut gelding she rode tossed his head suddenly and jerked his entire body, prancing nervously to the side. Its dark eyes widened until Cullen could see the whites as it looked about wildly. Concerned and wary, Amelle ran one hand down the animal's long neck, but the gesture did nothing to calm him. Cullen had barely drawn breath to ask Amelle if she was all right when his own yellow mare let out a screeching whinny and turned about in a circle, hooves churning up the wet ground.
"Something is out there," Fenris said darkly, leaping easily from his horse's back and keeping a tight hold on the reins as he reached to steady Amelle's horse, still stomping at the ground, front hooves lifting up in little frenetic bursts of nervous energy. Fenris had barely grabbed the reins when the gelding reared up with a terrified, screeching whinny, sending Amelle tumbling unceremoniously from the saddle and landing with a grunt upon the ground.
"Amelle!" Cullen shouted, sliding from his mount's back just in time — the rest of the horses began to react with the same level of fear as Amelle's had, though the threat was yet to be seen.
Unhurt, Amelle pushed herself to her knees and flung out both hands, light and magic pouring forth and wrapping around the horses. The rush of magic sent every single nerve in Cullen's body on edge, every reflex pulling at him to counteract it, despite the fact Amelle's sleep spell was the only way they had to calm the horses in order to face down whatever it was frightening them in the first place. The large animals gave a shudder and sank first to their knees before collapsing onto their sides.
Varric already held his crossbow in his hands. "Everyone all right?" He asked the question generally, but he seemed to be paying particular attention to Amelle. "That was a bitch of a fall, Firefly."
"Right as rain," Amelle answered, shaking her hands out as the light faded from her fingertips. She then scrambled to her horse's side, working frantically to free one of her staves. Cullen's own hand was closed upon the pommel of his sword as he turned around, eyes closed, listening for whatever had frightened the horses so.
The sound of a deep, wet growl sent a chill chasing down Cullen's spine. He knew that sound. He'd heard it described over and over again in the days after the Blight, after the Archdemon had fallen. Then he'd arrived in Kirkwall, and on his first patrol of the Wounded Coast, he'd experienced it himself. Gritting his teeth, Cullen pulled his sword free from its scabbard and his shield from his back as Fenris and Isabela likewise armed themselves.
"I see," Fenris muttered, "you weren't exaggerating about the darkspawn, either."
Cullen had never seen so many of the monsters in one place. His rare encounters with strays on the Wounded Coast had not prepared him for the way a host could seethe. A fist of apprehension tightened in his gut, but resolve followed, and he swallowed hard.
Even Varric seemed at a loss for words. When he glanced back over his shoulder at Fenris, his face had gone pale. "Trust me, if it'd been like this when we came through last time, I wouldn't have left the details out."
Isabela grimaced, spinning her blades as if to test their balance. Her attention remained focused on the monsters in their path. "We killed two genlocks and a half-dead hurlock grunt. And we had the advantage of surprise."
A howl from one of the darkspawn made certain they knew surprise would not be an option. Nor would running. The sounds of grunts and growls and high, thin cries filled the air all around them. Varric prepared a volley of bolts; Fenris took position at Amelle's back, greatsword at the ready; Isabela's narrowed eyes took in the field as she prepared a miasmic flask, readying it for deployment.
And then, beneath it all, Cullen felt the faint hum of magic so vile, so wrong, it made every hair on the back of his neck rise, and the fear in his stomach was twisted instead into nausea. He cast about, trying to sense the origin of such foul magics, but by that point Amelle's hands and staff were aglow with power, and the thrum of energy in the air confused his senses for a moment. He felt both, and his instincts screamed at him to incapacitate both, but after only a fraction of a moment, he felt the differences between Amelle's power and the fouler, corrupt magic curling through the air, like whistles set at different pitches.
He felt and saw Amelle — Fenris still kept his back to her, pushing back any of the darkspawn that encroached too closely — summon her mana and close her eyes, staff and hands flaring impossibly, blindingly bright for a moment before she flung both arms skyward. And then fire descended upon the battlefield, filling the air with furious shrieks and snarls, and the stench of burning, corrupted flesh. But Amelle was already summoning a second storm to work along the first, and soon the crackle of lightning made the charged the air around him and made Cullen's ears pop.
Steeling himself, Cullen turned his mind away from the high, clear, true feel of Amelle's magic and focused himself upon seeking out the source of malevolence. It was a short search.
Tt the end of the thicket they were passing through, protected by two muscular genlocks wielding massive spiked shields, another darkspawn — an emissary, his mind supplied — floated, its features distorted, its arms too long and spindly, tattered robes giving the fiend a ghostlike appearance. And magic poured from it, every bit as foul as the creature itself.
Cullen broke into a run as the creature lifted its arms, summoning a spell. There wasn't time enough for a smite, there wasn't time—
He loosed a rush of cleansing energy in time to see the spell gutter out, and with a hideous roar, one of the genlocks rushed forward, pushing its shield, sending dirt and earth and mud splattering everywhere as the ground rumbled beneath them all.
Cullen raised his own shield, bracing for impact, and from behind him came a shout, and a rush of cold as thick spikes of ice erupted from the ground — it did not stop the genlock, but slowed it slightly. The force of its shield against Cullen's still sent him reeling back, and when he looked up, he could see the thing watching him from around its shield, smiling horribly, thick spittle dripping from its too many, too sharp teeth.
It never saw Isabela. Maker's breath, even Cullen couldn't follow how quickly the pirate moved. One moment the genlock was grinning at him, and the next its head was toppling from its gnarled shoulders, severed by a sweeping twist of Isabela's twin blades.
The pirate's grin was nearly as unnerving as the genlock's. Then, with a wink, the woman was gone again, and Cullen had just enough time to scramble to his feet and get in position before the second monster descended upon him, snarling its rage and blood-lust.
The second genlock heaved its spiked shield toward Cullen, and again he was forced to block with his own. The metal creaked and held, but the scrape of the spikes against it created a jarring scream that set his teeth on edge. He couldn't find purchase, and the monster's shield was so big it left no easy opening for Cullen's blade. Grimacing as sweat trickled into his eyes, he blinked to clear his vision. The genlock howled, and though the sound had no words, Cullen was certain the sound was meant to call reinforcements.
The emissary was casting again, but this time Cullen could not spare the will necessary even for a cleanse. Still, he attempted to unravel the creature's spell as it loosed. He thought he felt it weaken, but behind him Varric grunted and Cullen heard Amelle shout.
Cullen couldn't turn, couldn't look to see what had happened. The genlock snarled again, but this time when he tried to thrust his shield at Cullen, he dropped to the ground, kicking out and catching the darkspawn off-guard. The monster fell, and Cullen removed its head… if not with Isabela's finesse, at least with equal proficiency. The end result was the same.
The battle still roiled on behind him, and the sounds of shouting, of clashing blades, of inhuman howls filled the air, but Cullen dared not look. He raised both his sword and his nearly-ruined shield against the emissary — he had barely enough will for a smite. But then the air twisted and shimmered, and as Cullen swung his sword forward the darkspawn conjured a barrier, catching his blade and trapping it as if it were caught in molasses. With a grunt, Cullen pulled, and when his sword came free he stumbled back a step. The emissary looked down dispassionately at him as it drew its hand back, energy coalescing around its fingertips.
"Cullen!" Amelle's voice. He turned his head just a fraction in time to see the mage awash in blue-white light. She knelt by Varric, who looked too still, too pale, and Fenris and Isabela were locked in battle against two hurlocks and another genlock, trying to push them back and give Amelle the space she needed to work. But for all Isabela's speed, sweat darkened her headscarf and made her hair plaster wetly to her head, and even Fenris — his markings astonishingly bright — seemed to be flagging. Amelle set her jaw and flung one hand out, sending tendrils of pale light out toward them.
Incongruous warmth flooded his limbs, washing away every injury, every strain, and as he turned back to the emissary, he felt his own diminishing reserves return. He found himself standing up a little straighter, a little taller, and he could feel his will swirl beneath his skin, as easy to gather and focus as a thought.
Behind him, there was another wave of magic as Amelle cast again and Cullen was fairly sure he'd never been so happy to hear the dwarf's voice: "Really, really need to learn to parry."
Closing his eyes, Cullen flung his arms out, feeling the rush of energy funnel forward, slamming a bright column of light into the emissary, throwing it back, dazed. It wasn't perfect—the emissary was deceptively strong—but it was enough. Cullen cast aside the ineffectual remains of his shield, and gripped his longsword with two hands, wishing for the greatsword he'd used in Ferelden. The emissary hissed at him, and uttered a cry so shrill and eerie it bored straight into Cullen's skull. Even the sound was filthy, and he had to shake himself so as not to give in to it. The darkspawn mage raised its clawed hands, but before it could cast, Cullen swept his blade in an arc, taking the creature's hands off at the wrists. The shriek grew louder, madder, drenched with dark power, but it wasn't enough. Pain had stolen its ability to conjure, and another vast, two-handed strike brought Cullen's sword down, cleaving through the beast from shoulder to groin.
With the emissary's magic gone, Cullen was once again inundated by the purer call of Amelle's power. He followed it like a beacon, slaughtering three more darkspawn foolish enough to get in his way. It felt odd to have no shield, and his sword was too short and narrow to be wielded the way he was attempting. It wasn't until he was back at Amelle's side he realized his left arm was aching from shoulder to fingertip, and tingling in a way not simply borne of fatigue. He ignored it, focusing on the battle. Corpses lay high around them, but the focus and drive of the darkspawn seemed to have gone out of them when the emissary died. Killing them now was a matter of hunting them down and picking them off.
When the last creature had fallen—sliced in two by a whirling, two-handed strike of Fenris' Cullen only wished he could emulate—Cullen sank to his knees in the blood-drenched, muddy ground. His left arm was completely numb, and his blade hung limp from the right.
He saw Amelle's feet first, as she stopped in front of him. He thought she was speaking to him, but the words sounded strange and distant. "Hurt," was one of them, and "blood" another. Then she crouched down and looked up into his face and shook her head, answering a question he hadn't heard, then he felt himself get hefted to his feet — Fenris on one side, Isabela on the other, both looking grim — and half-carried, half-dragged to a spot untouched by the battle.
"There," Amelle said, her voice sounding faint and far away. "Set him there. Carefully, now."
He felt her hands on him, felt his armor — too light for a battle such as this, but he'd never have made the trip in heavy plate — loosen as it was pulled away. Amelle swore under her breath, and then he felt the tension as the fabric of his tunic was pulled tight until it tore. Gentle fingertips prodded at his shoulder and suddenly a burst of throbbing pain shot through his back and down his arm. He wanted to groan, but it would have taken too much effort.
The hum of Amelle's magic pushed forward and sounded clearer than even her voice had. He felt her hands upon his back and shoulder, followed by a wave of something that felt both hot and cold — agonizingly so. It hurt, and despite the darkness creeping over his mind, he felt years — decades — worth of training rail against the magic.
Then he heard Amelle Hawke's voice by his ear — Maker, he hoped it was Amelle and not a demon, not another of Uldred's demons, whispering and promising—
"Cullen, if you don't stop fighting my magic right now, you are never getting the opportunity to smite me. So knock it off, you big dummy."
Definitely Amelle Hawke, Cullen decided. Exhaling a soft breath, he allowed the healing magic to sink into bone and sinew. After an eternity, the magic faded, and the ache left behind was only the usual exhaustion of hard-fought battle. Blinking, he pushed himself upright.
"Easy," Amelle said softly. "You—"
She was interrupted by Varric. "Maker's nuts, kid! You didn't have to go all sodding hero on us."
Isabela snorted lightly. "Says the man who called him Turnip after the last battle."
Varric had the grace to look chagrined. His color was better, Cullen noted, and whatever damage had been done seemed to be well on its way to mended. "Are you injured?"
Varric's eyes widened ever-so-slightly. "You know you were the one who was dancing around in the middle of a battlefield, tainted blood flying every which way, with an open wound just begging to be used against you."
Cullen frowned, and Varric clapped him on the unwounded shoulder. "I'm fine. Firefly got to me quick." Varric jumped, as if he'd been elbowed from behind, but Isabela, the only person standing behind him, adopted an expression of complete and utter innocence. Gruffly, Varric added, "You did good out there, templar."
Blinking, he felt the weight of the praise. "Does that mean you'll stop… you know. Turnip?"
The dwarf grinned. "Not on your life, kid."
Somehow? Somehow it was this—the smiling dwarf and his adherence to the ridiculous nickname—that made Cullen feel he might not belong quite yet, but at least he had a chance of one day doing so.
#
It took a perfectly quiet night for Amelle to realize how long it had been since they'd had one, and how nice it was to finally get one. A day outside Starkhaven, they were finally free of the bitter wind and chill of the mountains. Tonight the sky above was clear, there was no need to seek shelter in caves, and a neat circle of tents surrounded the warmth of the fire. All that remained of dinner was the carcass of a boar roasted over the fire, picked nearly clean.
It was a good night. And tomorrow, they would reach their destination.
Amelle rolled onto her stomach and stretched out on the patch of soft grass, basking in the warmth of the flickering campfire. She had the Chantry map unfurled in front of her and she propped herself up on her elbows, examining it — it really was horrible. Everyone else was similarly occupied: Varric cleaning Bianca with his usual level of meticulous care; Isabela shuffling a deck of cards with increasing flair; Cullen, whose injury was healing cleanly and had not suffered the darkspawn taint, sitting quietly, reading from the Chant of Light; and Fenris perfectly still upon his back, arms folded behind his head, watching the night sky, lost in his own thoughts.
Amelle wondered for a moment what those thoughts were.
"I'm bored," Isabela announced.
Amelle lifted her head. "You're… bored."
Varric barely looked up from Bianca's mechanisms, but he gestured in one direction with the cloth he held. "Whole bunch of darkspawn, about a day's walk thataway. Have fun, Rivaini."
Isabela scowled. "Don't tell me any of you lot aren't bored."
"We fought darkspawn," Fenris said.
"Got stabbed," Cullen added.
"Ditto that," muttered Varric.
"Healed them both," Amelle said, arching an eyebrow at her.
"I'm not looking for a fight. I'm just… twitchy." She sighed. "Anyone want to play cards?"
"No," Cullen said, glancing up from his book long enough to send a dark look Isabela's way.
The pirate sighed and pulled a card from the deck, taking it between two fingers and flicking it at Cullen. It fluttered onto the open book and he looked up slowly, arching an eyebrow at her. Isabela flashed him her most winning smile.
"Oops. Slipped."
He looked down at the playing card and shook his head.
"There, now, Handsome, give us the card back and—"
"Unorthodox as it is, I think this will make a most excellent bookmark."
"Hey! That's from my mar— my very special deck."
Amelle shook her head and sighed. "We all know your cards are marked, Isabela."
"I didn't," grumbled Cullen.
"Which is why you kept losing to her," Fenris remarked. "You'll learn."
"Like you did, elf?" Varric chuckled.
Fenris exhaled a soft snort, the faintest ghost of a smile curved at his lips, and Amelle wondered suddenly what memory was amusing him. She shifted on the grass, propping her chin in one hand, pretending to examine the flawed map while she watched Fenris through her lashes. He was within arm's reach again, and the urge to reach out and touch him was nearly impossible to ignore — but ignore it she did, tamping down on her sigh. Denial was supposed to feel virtuous; all Amelle felt was lonely… and vaguely cheated, since she didn't even feel virtuous.
"I have rum," Isabela supplied helpfully.
"You always have rum, Rivaini."
"We could drink round the campfire and share… bosom tales."
"I didn't realize there were quite so many tales about your bosom," Amelle quipped, tipping her head a bit to grin up at the pirate.
"I'll have you know there are any number of tales about my bosom," Isabela retorted. "And they are all epic."
"And they're all ones you wrote?"
Isabela's face froze mid-smirk. "I didn't—"
"Allow me to amend that: are they all ones you or Varric wrote?"
"You're a spoilsport, kitten." Isabela stretched out her long—once again bare—legs and sighed as she crossed them at the ankle. "We could play a drinking game?"
"Why do I feel like we'd all come out losers in that one?" Cullen remarked mildly, turning a page.
"The word you're looking for is winners, actually," Isabela opined. "But your reluctance is noted, Handsome. In that case I'm sure the no-holds-barred orgy is out?"
Cullen lifted his chin and regarded Isabela calmly. To his credit, he no longer even blushed when the pirate indulged in her increasingly risqué flirtations. "I don't know about that," he replied, utterly composed. "I could be convinced."
Isabela gaped, for once rendered altogether speechless.
Fenris shifted onto his side and propped his head on his hand, sending a smirk Varric's way. "You owe me, dwarf."
"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean, elf."
It was so rare to see Fenris simply smilethat Amelle realized she was staring. Recollecting herself, she glanced back down at the map, glad the glow of the fire hid the blush at her cheeks. "What was the bet?" she asked.
"Whether or not Isabela could be rendered speechless by the templar," Fenris explained, lifting a meaningful eyebrow at Varric. The dwarf rolled his eyes and scrubbed at a perfectly shiny spot on Bianca. Fenris waved a hand in Isabela's direction. "Clearly I have won."
Amelle snickered, but it was Cullen who replied, "And what's my cut?"
"I hate you all," Isabela griped. "Every last one of you."
Amelle grinned. "What did I do?"
A bit plaintively, Cullen added, "So you're saying there's not going to be an orgy, then?"
Varric laughed, pointing a thumb in Cullen's direction and raising his eyebrows. "Who is this guy, and what'd he do with Turnip?"
Amelle grinned up at Cullen and felt a strange flush of pride. It had been a rocky — an incredibly rocky start, but now Amelle couldn't imagine having made the trip without him. She rolled onto her back and looked up at Varric. "You might have to change his nickname whether you like it or not, Varric."
"Nah. I think Turnip suits him now."
"And why is that?" she asked, resting her arms beneath her head, mimicking Fenris' earlier position. "I do believe you called him a hero yesterday."
"Bah." Varric waved one hand. "All that move proved was he's as dumb as a turnip for pulling a stunt like that."
"Or Varric can't be bothered to think of another more accurate nickname," Fenris said. And with that same lazy smirk at his lips, Fenris turned his head and looked down at Amelle, meeting her eyes.
Amelle's breath stopped and the seconds ticked past. It was Fenris who blinked suddenly, looking away and clearing his throat. Amelle flipped onto her stomach once more and resumed her study of the map.
"The Chantry's cartographers are quite hideous, Cullen," she said with forced brightness, cringing at the husky note in her voice. She coughed a little and stabbed at a portion of the map. "There is no mention of any of the caves along here. What good is a map that doesn't tell people where they can find safe shelter?"
Cullen sent her a long, even look, his eyes just barely flickering to Fenris, who had rolled to his feet and was checking on the horses. Amelle kept her smile fixed in place, widening it when Cullen's eyebrows lifted inquisitively. Finally he closed his book with a sigh and held out one hand. "Let me have a look."
"Ooh," Isabela exclaimed, sitting up and clapping her hands together. "I know what we can do."
"Isabela," Amelle said as she handed over the map, "if you read so much as one word of your friend-fiction, I am going to immolate you."
"Handsome will smite you if you do that."
"Actually," Cullen drawled, frowning at the map, "I could probably be persuaded to turn a blind eye — you know, Amelle, I must admit you're right. There's no— oh. Oh."
"Oh? What kind of 'Oh' is that, Cullen?"
The templar cleared his throat. "There's a bit here. Down at the bottom. Very small print."
"And it says?"
"'By the order of Divine Faustine II, 8:99 Blessed, all dens of sin and other pits of iniquity are heretofore removed from this rendering, ensuring a blessed, pious journey for all worthy pilgrims.'"
Isabela gasped, horrified. "Worst. Map. Ever."
Frowning, Cullen scrubbed a hand over his head back to his neck. "Maker. I must've been in a rush if I grabbed a map almost forty years old."
"But the caves. Caves would've still been there forty years ago," Amelle reasoned. "So… caves are… dens of sin?"
"To be fair," Varric remarked, "they might just be pits of iniquity."
"I wish," Isabela griped. "This journey's been nothing but blessed and pious, no matter how many caves we've camped in."
"That so, Rivaini?" Varric asked, his tone deceptively mild. He arched an eyebrow at the pirate and Amelle was surprised when it was enough to make the woman actually blush. "The way you've been haranguing the Turnip and all…"
A faint crease appeared between Cullen's brows as he stared hard at the map. If he heard them, he did not acknowledge it. In fact, the longer she looked at him, the more troubled Amelle felt. The easy humor had gone, replaced by… by something she didn't much like the looks of. "There are no caves and inns marked, but they didn't think to eradicate clearings." He pointed at one very near Starkhaven, but still well outside the city's limits. "You should probably wait at this one."
Amelle heard the words. And then she heard the words. "Oh no," she said. "No. Don't even think about it, Cullen."
Cullen ignored this, reaching over her to point out the clearing to Fenris. Fenris made a brief sound of approval and nodded. "That will do."
"You boys want to fill us in?" Varric asked.
"No," Amelle repeated.
"Fenris and I have come up with a plan," Cullen said. "Or at least we've come up with the first step in a plan. The rest will follow once we have the opportunity to… check the lay of the land, as it were."
Varric set Bianca down and turned his full attention on the templar. "Plan? I like plans. You want to elaborate?"
Cullen nodded once, firmly. Amelle noted he didn't look at her, and when she turned to glare at Fenris, he was pointedly staring past her as well. After a moment, Cullen explained, "Given the… climate you described, it seems like a scouting mission is necessary. You two were seen and might be known to authorities." Isabela stifled a snort and Cullen amended, "You are likely known to authorities. Amelle is a mage. Fenris and I are unknowns, and, if necessary, I believe I can… talk my way out of any potentially disastrous situation."
"You mean you'll quote magic exists to serve man and not rule over him until you're blue in the face," Varric supplied. "With a hefty dose of burn them all thrown in for good measure?"
"If necessary." Cullen rolled his shoulders in a helpless shrug, finally turning to meet Amelle's gaze. He winced at whatever he saw there. "Amelle, please. You can't take on the entire city single-handed."
"I don't want to take on the whole city," Amelle argued, getting to her feet. "I just want to find my sister."
"Who happens to be in a city that is—"
"Maker's blood, Cullen! Did you think I was just going to waltz past the city gates and start a rain of fire down on the place until someone told me where Kiara Hawke was? Do you honestly think I have no tact whatsoever?"
Cullen sighed and shook his head. "You know that's not the case, but you must be reasonable. There is no point flinging yourself into what could potentially become a dangerous situation."
She shot a hard, level look Cullen's way. "We need to contact Kiara's healer, first. I answered her last letter telling her I was on my way; she's got to know by now that I'm close. Whatever else is going on in Starkhaven, she's the woman I need to talk to."
"Let Fenris and I go into the city and make some… inquiries first," he told her reasonably. Too reasonably. Which was unfortunate, since Amelle wasn't feeling particularly reasonable. "If you write a letter, we'll bring it and see if we can somehow get it delivered."
"During your… inquiries."
Cullen winced a little at her tone, hesitating a breath before answering. "Yes."
Betrayal settled cold in the pit of her stomach as she looked between Cullen and Fenris. "And when exactly were you going to tell me about this… this plan of yours?"
The two men exchanged a guilty look.
"I see."
"Hey, now, Firefly," Varric said from behind her, getting to his feet and coming to her side. "This really isn't a bad idea the guys have. Let them find Hawke first, or at least that healer. Then we'll figure out a way to sneak you into the city and you can do what you've gotta do. Or we'll sneak her out of the city. Whatever. It's, what, half a day, tops?"
"That's hardly any time at all," said Isabela, getting to her feet and moving to Amelle's other side. "The boys here do a little scouting, while we get prepared. Send your healer to meet us out here while they explore, and we'll be gathering information on two fronts."
"And the more intel we've got, Firefly," Varric chimed in, "the better off we'll all be."
Isabela nodded. "Who knows what's happened since we left, kitten. Maybe they'll be able to waltz in and out no problem. Did this healer of yours say Hawke was a prisoner?"
"No…" Amelle answered slowly.
"So let's find out what we can, and if we've got to… then we craft a plan," Varric said. "Listen to the voices of experience here. We went into Starkhaven with a plan, and things still fell completely to shit."
"It is a town full of crazy people," said Isabela darkly. "We got kicked out of an inn—"
Cullen snorted. Fenris simply shot Isabela a look utterly lacking in surprise. Isabela's eyes went suddenly wide.
"—And it wasn't even my fault. It was Princess that got us booted out on our arses, thank you very much."
Amelle opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it shut again. "Sebastian? Sebastian got you thrown out of an inn?" Isabela and Varric nodded. "Sebastian Vael?" Amelle repeated, her voice creeping higher with each syllable.
"The one and only," Varric said with a shrug. "Just goes to show — this is one place you don't want to even run the risk of a misstep. We're gonna get Hawke, Firefly. But we've got to be smart about it." He jerked a thumb at Fenris and Cullen. "These two are pretty much your best bet right now. Especially if Turnip's got a great big flaming sword there on his chest. They're your best ticket past the city gates, believe me. We send them in, they send the healer out, and we reconvene and compare notes before doing anything—"
"Rash," Amelle finished, glumly. "Reckless."
"Stupid," he corrected her. "Big difference." Varric dropped a hand on her shoulder and said softly, "Look, the idea's a good one. We… what we saw…" he shuddered; Amelle could feel the strength of it even through his hand.
"And you want me to be okay with sending them into that?"
"They're not mages."
"From what you're saying, I don't think that means much. What if they've turned on the templars? What if they don't like the look of Fenris' markings? What if—for some Maker-forsaken reason—they get taken for mages?"
"What if the seas dry up and the moon falls out of the sky?" Isabela said in a tone that seemed to think these just as likely. "If they need to fight their way out of trouble, they won't have to rely on pulling fireballs from the sky to do so. And I might remind you, they're neither of them slouches when it comes to fighting their way out of trouble."
Amelle felt the protest rising, but choked it down, bowing her head. What would Kiara do?
She'd barge in and slaughter anyone who'd laid a hand on you.
Amelle sighed. What would Kiara do if it wasn't me in danger?
She'd realize this was a sensible plan, rabbit.
"You're… right," she said at last. "It is a sensible plan. I… I don't think we'll find a better one."
"We will take no unnecessary risks," Fenris said softly—too softly, really. Emotion welled in her chest and she pressed a hand to her heart as though pressure might stop it. "We will find her, Amelle."
"What if, what if they do find her—what if she's—?"
"Other than you, Firefly? Who knows Hawke best?"
"Fenris," she admitted.
Varric made a little there you go gesture. "And let's not forget about Choir Boy. He made it so we were able to get out of the city. He's not an idiot; he's probably counting on us coming back with reinforcements, biding his time by getting kicked out of more inns. Maybe even a tavern or two."
Amelle could tell Varric was trying to bolster her and so she nodded and pushed forward a smile for his benefit. She could tell it was a somewhat wan attempt — Varric didn't look fooled in the least. But he patted her back again and went back to where Bianca lay, still only partway cleaned. She turned to Cullen and Fenris; the former met her eyes, but the latter would not.
"You ought to have told me," she said quietly to the both of them.
Fenris shifted his weight but said nothing. Cullen drew in a deep, tired breath. "We only wanted—"
"She's right. You should have let her in on the plan from the start."
Amelle jumped — she hadn't realized Isabela was still standing next to her. And the pirate didn't look entirely pleased with elf or templar.
"We only wanted to keep her—"
"Safe. Right," Isabela drawled. "And no one understands better than Varric and I what's waiting in Starkhaven, but I would recommend neither of you forget this is Amelle's errand. We're here to back her up."
Amelle couldn't quite believe the words falling from Isabela's lips, and she turned to stare. Fenris looked more annoyed than shocked, and he inclined his head.
"We knew perfectly well our… plan would not please her. I am not proud of the concealment, but neither did I wish to argue the point before it was necessary."
Jutting out one hip, Isabela turned to Amelle. "What was that you said, kitten? Very sensible plan?"
Amelle stood up a bit straighter and squared her shoulders. "I did."
"Did you mean it?"
Her lips twitched. "I don't like that I'm not more… directly involved, but… it is."
Isabela's dark head whipped back around to face the two men. "Hardly a row to wake the neighbors." She folded her arms and shook her head, glaring at them both.
"You said yourself it was a good plan, Isabela," Fenris countered.
"And you're missing the point." She nodded at Amelle. "This is her show. We are rescuing her sister. You owed it to Amelle to discuss any plans with her, especially plans that leave her out entirely. She isn't a child; bloody well don't treat her like one."
If the entire situation hadn't been so serious, Amelle would almost have laughed at the expressions on Fenris and Cullen's faces; they looked—just for a moment—like children being chastised by a particularly authoritarian nanny.
Or like sailors being told where to go by the captain of their ship, Amelle mused, sliding an appreciative, slantwise glance in Isabela's direction. The woman stood with fists planted on her hips, and her expression dared them to argue with her so she could punish them.
"Thanks, Isabela," she said softly.
The pirate cocked her head, but her eyes remained serious. "Sure you don't want me to knock their heads together?"
Amelle smiled. "I'll take care of it."
Isabela's dark eyebrows twitched, but she didn't allow a smile to pull at her full lips. "See that you do, kitten." With another glare toward the men, she added, "Insubordinates never learn without proper punishment."
Fenris' eyes narrowed, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue. Cullen only nodded; Amelle supposed a life tethered to a very specific chain of command had prepared him for words like Isabela's.
But she didn't punish them. When Isabela walked away to sit next to Varric—collecting her marked card from Cullen's book as she went, Amelle noticed—Amelle turned to Cullen and Fenris and said, "Be careful. Cullen, you… you read the letter."
"We are only going to scout, Amelle," he replied. "And deliver a missive to Hawke's healer, if we can find her." Then his brow furrowed and he added, "I know how it must seem, but we… I…"
"I know. You… were there. You saw how I reacted. I can't be surprised you thought I might not take such news well. It is harder to be rational, where my sister is concerned."
Fenris met her gaze, and held it. She wished she could simply understand the complicated dance of emotions she saw there, but he was, as ever, inscrutable. He said nothing, but did not—for perhaps the first time in the lifetime since she'd healed his memories—immediately glance away from her.
"Are you almost finished over there?" came Isabela's strident voice. "I've decided in favor of the orgy after all. Aren't you glad, Handsome?"
Cullen gave Amelle and Fenris a quick, but entirely too perceptive look, and turned to Isabela. "Let me guess," he said mildly, turning and leaving them, "you've conceived an entirely new and untested card game by such a name, the rules designed to rob us all blind."
"Would I do that?" But there was laughter in her answer.
Amelle and Fenris were left on the far end of the campfire's glow.
"It was not… meant to be an insult," he said. Amelle sighed and rubbed the back of her neck.
"I realize that. And it is a good plan."
He nodded once. "But you would have prefered to be… more involved."
She gave him a little shrug. "It could just be this… this Maker's Light poison. Or Kiara could simply be suffering lingering effects from her exposure to the corrupted lyrium. I can't know until I see her. Or until I talk to this woman."
Fenris nodded, but said nothing right away. After several beats of silence, Amelle began to turn away and return to her spot by the fire. But then he cleared his throat suddenly and she turned, brows raised inquisitively.
"I…"
"Yes?"
But whatever thought he was going to express, with a shake of his head, Fenris tucked it away at the last. Again, he wouldn't look at her. Amelle tried not to sigh, tried not to let disappointment settle in her breast.
"It is not important," he said, and turned his attention to where Cullen was making a desperate and likely futile attempt not to let Isabela take him for everything he was worth.
"Ah." Amelle rocked back on her heels and waited for him to change his mind, but by that point Fenris' expression was closed off. This time Amelle did sigh and turned to join the game — or at the very least try to prevent Cullen from being fleeced too badly. She took a step, then two, and stopped. "Fenris…" she said over her shoulder.
Fenris' reply was measured. Even. Disinterested. "Yes?"
She drew in a deep breath meant to both steady and fortify her, striving to match his even tone. "Once we've got Kiara back, I think… perhaps we ought to—there are… there are things we maybe ought to—to discuss?" She hated the way her voice wavered on the last word, twitching it upwards into a question instead of keeping the pitch and tone certain and sure.
Before he could answer, Isabela's voice carried over the campfire again: "Come on, Broody — you haven't let me lighten your purse at all this trip."
A flicker of annoyance passed over his face, and Amelle couldn't decide whether it was aimed at her or Isabela. But as he passed her, she heard his reply, pitched low enough for Amelle's ears, and her ears alone.
"…Perhaps you are right."
