The templar reminds her of the puzzle box she received on her eighteenth name day.

Aerin'ahl remembers that day with startling clarity; the sun had been bright overhead, pleasantly warm against the fresh blood writing on her forehead, still tender from Deshanna's merciless ministrations with the needle. The scent of roasted rabbit and onions wafted through the encampment on the prairie breeze, making her mouth water in anticipation. Everyone in the clan had been in high spirits, ready for the celebration.

Even Theriel and Rhaenar weren't bickering—the boys had sworn a temporary truce in honor of their sister, a gesture that had warmed her heart more than any gift they ever could. The other boys of the clan had given her a myriad of things Aerin knew she would never, ever use: pouches of colored clay beads for her hair, scented oils, necklaces made of woven willow switches. It never seemed to end.

The puzzle box, however, had been a simple trinket, possibly the plainest gift she'd received from any of the boys in the clan—there were no adornments anywhere on its smooth surface, no hinges or levers, nothing to make it look like anything more than a small scrap of wood, save for her own name, which had been carved into the side. She could hear something rattling around inside whenever she shook it. A charm, maybe? A rune for her staff? She couldn't have been sure at the time, but she wanted to find out.

The boy who gave it to her, Tannyll, was the craftsman's apprentice. He had not been strong enough to be a hunter, nor learned enough to become a scholar or a healer, but he was good with his hands and crafted ironbark better than anyone else in the clan, and that was enough for Aerin'ahl. His smile, while rare, was bright and infectious in a way that made her heart flutter uselessly in her chest. Creators, how she cared for him.

And yet, a year's worth of stolen kisses in Faelyn Grove was not a promise. It did not mean he would put forth his own name for her consideration. So when Tanyll had approached her that morning, she couldn't have been happier.

He had blushed something fierce before shoving the puzzle box into her hands, murmuring, "Shathe melin dhea'him, Aerin'ahl."

She informed Keeper Istimaethoriel of her decision as soon as he was out of sight, the puzzle box still clutched in her shaking hands. Her heart was soaring in her chest—she loved Tannyll, and she could finally have him. Mythal be praised!

Their engagement lasted all of two weeks. A band of roaming templars, the scouts told her. He had strayed too far from the hunters in his search for raw ironbark and paid the price for it.

She did not cry, did not scream or tear her hair, did not curse Fen'harel or any of the Creators for her misfortunes—no, Aerin'ahl could not do anything but take the news in unflinching silence. She was First. She had to be strong for her clan, for her people.

So she buried Tannyll, planted a tree, and the clan moved on later that day.

Instead of mourning, she turned to her puzzle box, the only piece she had left of Tannyll. She'd dedicated herself to solving it and fought with it for weeks. Although simple in design, the trick to opening it eluded her at every turn; she rotated it every which way, pressing, pulling, and scratching in hope of finding the hidden release. Theriel suggested smashing it with a hammer; Rhaenar suggested smashing Theriel with a hammer. She'd considered both options, but only for the briefest of moments.

As the days passed, it became easier to endure. Aerin'ahl had resigned herself to her studies and her duties as First, choosing to focus solely on her offensive spells and spirit wards. Should the clan ever come into contact with templars again, she would be ready. No one would fall to those monsters the way Tannyll had, not again. Her hatred was like an ember—rooted deep in her chest, glowing and burning and waiting. She had to be patient.

That patience paid off the day Aerin'ahl fell out of the Fade. She was finally in the midst of templars, at the heart of the shemlen's so-called Inquisition. It was her chance to make them feel the same loss that she felt all those years ago.

Commander Cullen had been easy enough to hate at first; Cassandra's frosty looks seemed warm and comforting in comparison to the glares he sent her way during those first few days in Haven. He'd looked exactly like the templars Deshanna had described in her stories—he was tall with harsh features and was in possession of a very impressive-looking sword that could cut her in half in a heartbeat, given the chance.

She knew exactly what he was even before she saw the Sword of Mercy on his vambraces. Once a templar, always a templar, and the commander was no exception.

But she's not so sure about that anymore. He has long since stopped flinching every time she makes a sudden move, but his eyes still follow her wherever she goes, watching and waiting for her to slip up, make a mistake, cast the wrong spell at the wrong time in the wrong direction. He is more comfortable with her. Barely. He still does not trust her, nor she him.

He is like the puzzle box, she'd realized a few weeks ago, completely ignoring Josephine's instructions for her trip to Val Royeaux. She'd looked at him across the table, frowning slightly. Even then, the commander had looked exactly like a templar on the outside—from the way he would speak of mages to the way he watched her so carefully.

But the more time she spent with him, the more she discovered. Like finding a hidden lever and releasing the catch with a press of her finger, she found that he had always been more than the sigil on his vambraces. Much, much more.

He cares about his men and their families. He believes in the Inquisition so fervently it's almost annoying—Herald this and Andraste that—but his devotion to the cause is admirable, his intentions pure. Mythal preserve her, the man is kind. And after their conversation in front of the stables… well, she isn't really sure what to make of him anymore.

The day she gives him the bundle of taproot is the day she begins to think that maybe, just maybe, she's been wrong about him since the beginning.

It had taken days to find it—the Storm Coast had been a disaster zone of rain, bandits, giant spiders, and dragonlings, so getting anything accomplished took her about five times longer than it was supposed to. Thankfully, once Aerin had located the plant, it had been easy to gather enough for the commander's needs; she had made a point not to return Cassandra's questioning looks.

However, actually giving the herbs to Commander Cullen proves to be an entirely different kind of battle.

The bundle beneath Aerin'ahl's arm feels much heavier than it's supposed to be, she thinks, and her face sours as she walks toward the front gates of Haven. She presses the taproot to her chest with crushing force to distract herself—her cabin is still close by, she could turn back if she wanted to. She clenches her teeth in determination. No, she thinks. I will do this. I must.

The guards glance at her as she passes through the gate and both nod in silent greeting with a muttered, "Herald," tossed in her direction. Their eyes linger a little too long on her, glancing between her face and the bundle of roots in her hands with thinly-veiled interest; she wonders if she looks as nervous as she feels.

The cacophony of singing steel and pained grunting reaches her ears as she pads through the snow toward the commander's imposing figure. He stands in the same spot every morning with his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw set, perfectly content to scowl at the recruits until lunchtime. She focuses on sharp bite of snow and slush between her toes instead of the deafening rush of blood in her ears from her erratic heartbeat. He hasn't seen me yet. There's still time to walk away.

"…didn't know better, I'd think that you've never held a sword in your life," the commander's voice reaches her, sounding disgusted. "Again, all of you!"

Aerin'ahl stops next to the tent closest to the gate. She sees the groan from the soldiers more than she hears it and she has to bite her lip to keep from laughing; their shoulders all seem to slump in unison, their movements so in sync with one another that the display almost looks rehearsed. They all mumble some form of yes, sir and begrudgingly settle into their fighting stances.

But her ears are sensitive enough to pick up the faint, "Yes, Knight-Captain," from the soldier closest to Cullen.

Aerin'ahl does not miss the way he immediately stiffens at the title. His hand flexes over the pommel of his sword as if debating whether or not to unsheathe and use it. For a moment, she thinks he will let it slide—once a templar, always a templar. His words startle her.

"That is not my title," he spits vehemently at the recruit.

The recruit yelps as his opponent shield bashes him to the ground, taking advantage of his surprise. Aerin's eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. She's never heard the commander's voice sound so… venomous before.

Neither, apparently, have the rest of the recruits. Many of them have stopped their exercises to watch the spectacle, mouths agape and eyes wide with apparent horror. The poor man's face turns whiter than the snow as he looks up at the imposing figure of the commander. "F-forgive me, sir, I did not—"

"Rylen," Commander Cullen barks, letting go of his sword in favor of rubbing his neck. She sees him wince—another headache, perhaps?

The recruit looks between the commander and Knight-Captain Rylen with a horrified expression, almost like he expects to be executed on the spot for his mistake. Aerin presses her fingers to her mouth to hide her smile.

Rylen sidles past a few dumbstruck soldiers, his face impassive. He stands at attention. "Yes, sir."

"Supervise the remainder of the morning drills," Cullen tells him, his voice oddly strained. "I… I have to prepare for the war council later this afternoon."

Rylen doesn't question it. "Of course, Commander."

As the commander inclines his head in thanks, an emotion flashes through Rylen's eyes—respect, maybe? It's gone too fast for her to be certain, but something is definitely communicated between the two. Cullen straightens and turns on his heel, boots crunching in the snow as he lowers his head and walks directly toward the tents—toward her.

The second she sees his pinched brow and the lines of strain around his eyes, Theriel's face appears in her mind with brutal clarity—the shadows of sleeplessness and the tightly-set mouth are almost too familiar. She feels her heart squeeze agonizingly at the sight of the familiar look in his golden eyes.

The taproot suddenly feels wrong in her hands. She should give it to him now; it's her chance to help. She could take away his pain and rid him of that tortured scowl, if only for a little while—but doubt creeps, slithers, slips under her skin like the claw of a demon. What if he refuses? Turns his barbed words on her? It would be humiliating.

Before she knows what she's doing, she is speaking. "Son vhellem, Commander."

He stops so sharply that she almost casts a barrier to catch him, but he miraculously manages to keep his balance. The tips of his flat ears turn pink in mortification when he realizes that it's her. "Lady Lavellan," he sputters. "I— how long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," she says tightly, bunching her fist into the soft fur of her cloak. "Don't worry, I'm not here on Inquisition business." Wordlessly, she holds up the bundle of taproot.

The sudden movement of her arm appears to startle him, and though he tries to hide it, she does not miss the way his eyes immediately dart toward the staff on her back. "I'm here to keep my promise—not transform you into a toad, if that's what you're worried about," she says exasperatedly. "Lucky for you, I left my clan before I learned that particular spell."

The joke seems to catch him off-guard, but it has the desired effect; the stiffness in his posture gradually melts away, replaced with thinly-veiled curiosity as to why she's here, talking to him, of all people. He frowns and peers closely at the bundle of roots in her hand, his face uncomprehending for several seconds.

I finally dawns on him, and his cheeks flush an incredible shade of scarlet. "Is that—"

"Taproot, yes," she finishes wryly. "An old Dalish remedy for headaches and other minor pains." Aerin'ahl wrinkles her nose in distaste, turning it over in her hands. "Tastes absolutely awful, but it works faster than elfroot tea, that's for certain. In your case, I believe it will also help you sleep through the night."

He says nothing, choosing instead to look at her with the strangest mix of curiosity and wonder she's ever seen; his eyes suddenly look less like sharpened bronze and more like honey in the soft morning light as he studies her. Cautiously, Cullen holds out his hand for the bundle of herbs; Aerin'ahl meets him halfway. When their fingers brush softly, it takes every ounce of willpower she has not to rip her hand away and conjure a wall of ice between them.

Aerin'ahl's heart pounds in her chest, though she isn't entirely certain why. This is the least threatening he's ever been around her. She should be jumping for joy at what diminutive progress that they have made together, not contemplating how long it would take to steal a horse from Dennett and ride for the Free Marches, Orlais, even sodding Tevinter. Just as long as it's anywhere except here.

The commander stares down at the bundle of taproot in his hands, one side of his mouth curling up in a smile as he runs his gloved fingers along the length of the leather strap that encircles it. She wonders if he can sense its magic, as slight as it is. He hasn't dashed the herbs against the ground yet, so Aerin'ahl takes that as a good sign.

His voice is softer than fennec fur. "I don't— I mean, it's…" He exhales slowly as he collects his thoughts. "I didn't think you'd actually find the time to do it. I had hoped, certainly, but…" he trails off, at a loss for words. "I do hope you'll forgive my ineloquence on the matter. My words always seem to fail me when I need them most. I am in your debt, my lady."

She digs her bare toes into the snow, relishing the bitter cold. "Ma're vhalla, Commander, but you are not indebted to me. We Dalish value deeds over words. You needn't repay me for a gift." She pauses, hesitating. "If it makes you more comfortable, you may think of it as a… a peace offering, of sorts."

At this, Cullen looks confused. "A peace offering?"

"I fear that we—oh, what is it you humans always say?" she murmurs, biting the inside of her cheek. The words are on the tip of her tongue, barely out of reach. "Fenedhis, this is going to bother me. It's one of the stranger phrases I've heard your countrymen use. 'Get off a foot' or something like that?"

This earns an amused snort from the commander and a small smile that stretches the scar on his lip in the most fascinating way. She decides that she much prefers his smile to his scowl, even if it is at her expense.

She can't quite keep the amusement out of her voice. "Laugh all you want, Commander. I am not the one who uses such ludicrous aphorisms."

"My apologies," he tells her, amusement still twinkling in his eyes as he looks up. "It never occurred to me that elves may not share all of our idioms." Patiently, he explains, "If I understand correctly, I believe you're trying to say that we did not get off on the right foot."

"That's it!" she chirps. "Varric always says that to Cassandra when they argue about— well, everything, really. It took me weeks to figure out what he was talking about."

He shakes his head in disbelief, one corner of his mouth still lifted in amusement. "You have my deepest sympathies."

"It could've been worse, I suppose. It made for some quality entertainment, at the very least. I think I'd better tell Maryden she has competition." Aerin'ahl looks past his shoulder wistfully, remembering their trip to the Storm Coast—their bickering had reminded her of Theriel and Rhaenar's endless spats, so she hadn't minded it all that much.

Cullen laughs softly; it is a pleasant sound, low and smooth and sweet; Aerin'ahl wishes she could hear it again. Almost sheepishly, he says, "I feel like I owe you an apology for the last… well, since the beginning, really. I doubt I have been especially welcoming."

"You are not the only one at fault," she assures him. "My personal feelings about templars blinded me. I imagine you have similar issues with mages."

"That's one way to put it," he murmurs.

This is her chance. Mythal preserve me, I cannot believe I am doing this. She takes a deep breath. "I have always been willing to admit to my mistakes, Commander. We may not see eye to eye on much of anything, but that is no excuse for my horrid behavior these past few weeks," she says quietly, eyes falling to the snowy ground at her feet. "I fear I may have misjudged you, and for that, I am deeply sorry."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, an invisible weight disappears from her shoulders; the morning light feels warmer against her face as she looks at him, not with fear and suspicion as she has for the last several weeks, but with confidence. Cullen's eyes soften at her words, his fingers still absentmindedly playing with the leather strap around the taproot bundle as he studies her.

Slowly, the commander inclines his head and looks up at her through his lashes, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You continue to surprise me, Lady Lavellan. I accept your apology… and I hope you will accept my own. Perhaps we can start over?"

Aerin'ahl releases the breath she'd been holding, allowing herself to smile brightly at him. "Yes, of course! I would like that a great deal, Commander. Ma serannas." She allows her shoulders to finally shoulders slump in relief. "Creators, I feel so much better now. I was terrified to come and talk to you."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Terrified? Of me?"

"Oh, yes," she replies eagerly. "I sat in my cabin for an hour and came up with a long list of reasons against the idea. I thought you'd still hate me even if I gave you the taproot. I'm not sure if you are aware of this, but you're a rather scary man when you want to be. I mean, it never even occurred—"

"Wait, what?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

She closes her mouth so abruptly her teeth clack together. She raises an eyebrow—had she said something in Elvhen and not noticed it? It wouldn't be the first time. "I said you can be rather scary when—"

"No, before that," he insists, shaking his head. He looks incredulous. "You thought I hated you?"

The temperature plummets and she feels herself instinctively take half a step backwards—Creators, had she been wrong to tell him that? She can't decide if he is angry, upset, or hurt; maybe all three, she does not know. Aerin'ahl is suddenly very aware of the distance between her hand and the staff on her back.

"You—" she stammers, not quite sure how to proceed. "Well… yes. I'm not sure how many other ways your behavior could possibly be interpreted." She looks at him with wide, uncertain eyes, her voice hesitant as she continues, "Are you—I mean, did you hate me?"

"Maker's breath, of course not," he insists, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. The lines of strain have returned to his face and his brow is creased deeply, his eyes stormy and conflicted. "I was skeptical of your intentions when you first joined us, naturally, but I have never hated you. Not for a second." Sighing wearily, he pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. "Josephine is going to murder me this time. I'm sure of it."

Aerin'ahl is entirely speechless. She searches for words; unfortunately, all of the ones that come to mind are Elvhen, and most of them too obscene to ever be spoken aloud, even to someone who wouldn't understand them.

"I beg your forgiveness, my lady." Cullen's voice is strained, stretched tighter than a bowstring. He drops his gaze to the snowy ground at his feet in shame. "I bear no ill will toward anyone in the Inquisition, least of all you. I— oh, Maker, I am so sorry. It's no wonder you've been glaring at me during war room meetings."

She wants to stop him from apologizing again in that voice, the one that reminds her of broken glass—it isn't necessary, it's all just a big misunderstanding, please don't make a big deal out of this, we were doing so well—but the commander reaches out before she can form a single syllable. She stiffens has his calloused fingers encircle her delicate wrist.

Her heart is pounding in her chest because a templar has a firm hold on her wrist and he could kill her at any given moment—it is certainly not because the templar happens to be a very attractive man with large, warm hands and eyes the color of amber. Her ears twitch nervously as he pulls her hand close, palm facing the sky.

Softly, Cullen presses the small bundle of taproot in her hand and closes her fingers around it; he touches her with surprising gentleness. "You must forgive me, my lady," he murmurs. "I'm afraid I am unworthy of such a generous gift. I do not deserve such kindness."

She gawks at him, still not entirely sure how their conversation got to this point so sodding quickly. Aerin longs to explain it to him, tell him that it's fine and she has been just as foolish as he, but she waits one moment too long to speak; she feels him release her hand, he bows stiffly, and he turns to leave.

Before she knows what she's doing, words are spilling out of her mouth faster than her mind can translate them. "Ahn ane'ma felasil? Ar'ame lasal ma a enansal lanun, ma elana't telir sul'ema ra!"

Oh. Oh, Creators, no.

She claps a hand to her mouth and flushes scarlet when she realizes what she's done. Deshanna would scold her for using so much Elvhen around humansdisgraceful to the Old Ways, our language is our secret, da'len, you should know better. The commander stops in his tracks and turns around to stare at her, clearly puzzled by her foreign words. All thoughts of Keeper Deshanna vanish as soon as he captures her gaze.

"L-Lady Lavellan?" he inquires lowly, shifting uncomfortably in the snow. His gaze darts over his shoulder in the direction of his own tent as if gauging whether or not he might be able to slip away unnoticed.

She doesn't want him to leave, not like this. She has to do something. Aerin's free hand drops from her mouth to cover the bundle of taproot he had returned to her; she squeezes it tightly like it's the only thing anchoring her to this spot.

"I said," she begins slowly, taking a step forward, then another, "that I gave you a gift, Commander. You cannot simply return it." She can see the conflict written plainly across his features as she draws closer, finally coming to stand directly in front of him. Nerves flutter in her chest and she inhales sharply. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but is it not rude to refuse a gift in your country—especially one from a lady?"

He winces. The pained exasperation on his face is nothing short of comical. "You don't know classic Ferelden idioms, but you know that?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I do pay attention during those war room meetings," Aerin remarks, smiling wryly.

For a moment, it looks like he will refuse her and turn away, but she does not have the chance to fret for long. He exhales through his nose and laughs sharply, shaking his head as if he cannot believe she is really standing in front of him, saying these things—like she's something he conjured in his imagination. "Andraste preserve me," he murmurs. "Josephine will be thrilled to know she's rubbing off on you."

Aerin's face sours. "If you tell her, I'm putting rashvine nettles in your bedroll. Don't think I won't."

He tries his best to look askance at the suggestion but the curve of his lips betrays him. "I would never, my lady."

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and holds out the bundle of herbs to the commander expectantly. "I have no use for taproot, Commander; my headaches are few and far between. Please, I will not take no for an answer."

He regards her carefully for several moments, his eyes glinting with an emotion she cannot place. "No, I don't imagine you would," he murmurs. Carefully, he takes the bundle of herbs from her outstretched hand. "I— thank you."

"When you feel the beginnings of a headache, break off a piece the size of your fingertip and chew it, but do not swallow. Your symptoms should disappear within the hour," she tells him, watching his hand where he grips the bundle of taproot almost like he is afraid to drop it. "You can use more if you're having trouble sleeping, but be cautious." A memory flashes through her mind that startles a bright laugh out of her. "Theriel ate an entire root one night and slept for two days straight. I drenched him with a bucket of water, but even that did not rouse him; I'd hate to have to do the same to you, Commander Cullen."

Cullen looks sharply at her, eyes glimmering with equal parts curiosity and uncertainty. "Theriel is… one of your brothers, I assume?"

Aerin'ahl stiffens. Fenedhis lasa, she has said too much! She swallows the nervousness in her throat and smiles weakly as she tries to come up with an excuse, a lie, anything—but she cannot focus when he looks at her like that. She cannot lie to him, no matter how much she wants to.

"Yes," she breathes softly. "Theriel is— well, he is my older brother."

Cullen's face twists at the melancholy note in her voice. "I've struck a nerve. Forgive me, my lady; I shouldn't have pried."

"It's quite all right," she assures, waving him off. She fails to keep the grimace from her face. "Just… don't tell Varric, all right? I'd prefer to keep this between us. At least until I receive word from my clan." Her voice lowers, barely above a whisper. "If I receive word."

Cullen says nothing. She hesitates to look up and see the inevitable discomfort written across his features, but when she finally does, she is pleasantly surprised to find no trace of judgment or uneasiness. His eyes are warm and they shine with soft, honeyed sympathy that makes her throat tighten uncomfortably.

"A conversation for another time, perhaps," he murmurs, almost phrasing his words like a question.

His tone is not pressing, not demanding to know more—no, he is not that kind of person, she can see that now. He understands her need for space on the matter. Silently, she wonders if the commander has secrets of his own—secrets he has buried beneath mountains of paperwork just as she has buried her own beneath her duties to the Inquisition. She wonders what they are.

She wonders why she cares.

"Another time, indeed," she hums, smiling softly.


This is going to turn into four more consecutive chapters, at least. So much for "random oneshots." Idk. If you liked it, let me know. Your reviews keep me going.

Elvhen translations:

Shathe melin dhea'him, Aerin'ahl. (Happy name day, Aerin'ahl.)

Son vhellem. (Well met.)

Ma're vhalla. (You're welcome.)

Fenedhis. (A common curse. Fenedhis lasa is just an extension of it.)

Ahn ane'ma felasil? Ar'ame lasal ma a enansal lanun, ma elana't telir sul'ema ra!(Where do you think you're going? I gave you a gift, you can't just give it back!)

You all should know the basics like "ma serannas" and stuff. If you don't, what are you even doing here? Like, really.