This chapter was a monster to write. So much information. So much dialogue. It just kinda happened. Enjoy all 10,000 words of it!


She doesn't speak to him for six days.

Objectively, he knows her silence should not unnerve him so much, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't bothered by this development in their tenuous friendship. Each time she leaves Haven for a trip to the Hinterlands or the Storm Coast, Cullen has subsequently had to endure weeks without the pleasure of her company. So, in the grand scheme of things, six days should really not be that big of a deal.

It is, though. It is a very big deal.

Propriety be damned, he misses her. Now bereft of her agreeable conversation and soft smiles, Cullen feels as though he has forgotten one of his shoes, or only put on half his armor—he is off-balance, wobbling precariously in his uncertainty as he dazedly fulfils his duties around Haven.

He has grown far too accustomed to her face in recent weeks: the constellations of freckles on her tanned cheeks, the way the corners of her mouth twitch in amusement every time he stumbles over his words, the sweet softness of her voice as she asks him question after question. He has memorized the way the sunrise reflects like fire off her flaxen hair when she steps outside the main gates of Haven, drinking in the frozen vista laid before her with a wistful smile on her face that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

She is exotic, warm, bewitching—and utterly forbidden.

The Herald of Andraste. A Dalish elf. Mage. He could list a thousand different reasons why he should never allow himself to think about her, and yet he cannot help the searing heat that pools in his stomach every time he sees her bite her lip in concentration when she spars with Solas, or when her mouth quirks in a wry half-smile across the war table.

Shame gnaws at him, insidious and sickening; he knows it is improper to feel this way about her—Maker, he doesn't even know how he feels, but he knows it's inappropriate and wrong and he should not be thinking about her like this.

After the third day of aching silence, Cullen decides that she is probably mad at him for the shoes. Or perhaps she's upset with him over his advocacy for the templars. Maybe it's a mixture of both. He doesn't know. What he does know, however, is that the boots have mysteriously disappeared from her doorstep—perhaps she incinerated them, maybe she gave them away. Regardless, she still chooses to trudge through Haven's snowbanks with little more than leather straps tied around the arches of her feet. It's baffling.

Deep down, he knows he should apologize for the gift. It would be the smart, mature thing to do.

Unfortunately, Cullen does not appear to be capable of making smart, mature decisions lately.

The knowledge that Lady Lavellan is within walking distance of Cullen's tent at any given time sits at the forefront of his mind. It should be concerning, he thinks, how keenly aware of her he has become over the last several weeks—maybe the lyrium is finally starting to affect his mind the way Cassandra said it would, blurring the directions of his moral compass. (He knows that's not the reason, but he does not dare to admit why he thinks of the Herald so often, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. A slippery slope, indeed.)

Cullen groans and rolls onto his back, wincing as the stabbing pain behind his eyes worsens. He tries to focus on the flickering candlelight-borne shadows that play across the ceiling of his tent, but they swim in and out of focus, making his stomach roil like a ship at sea. He throws an arm over his eyes and grits his teeth to keep from emptying his stomach contents all over the floor of his tent—again.

Feeling momentarily brave, he cracks an eyelid and looks at the singular piece of taproot that rests on his desk nearby. He knows should save it for something more severe than this minor episode; the Herald will not be returning to the Storm Coast for another month at least, and he does not think the soldiers stationed there will know what taproot looks like to gather more, as it is a Dalish remedy. Maker knows he could never ask her for more, especially now that she isn't speaking to him.

He could go to Adan's for something to help him sleep through the night, if only for a little bit. It might be his only option at this point. The grumpy apothecary is usually awake at this hour, and he has helped Cullen before; he hadn't even asked any questions—just gave him the elfroot infusion and sent him out the door with an indecipherable grunt. The infusion hadn't been nearly as effective as the Herald's taproot, but it had sufficed for a short while.

Cullen slowly eases himself into a sitting position, pausing whenever the nausea becomes too much to bear. He eyes his leftmost desk drawer—the lyrium within tugs at the edges of his senses. It calls out with whispered promises of peaceful sleep, of a night free of fear and demons and blood, so much blood. Perhaps if he had just a small taste, he would be brave enough to apologize to her for the shoes. Just onedraught…

With great difficulty, Cullen shakily gets to his feet and reaches for his cloak, pointedly keeping his eyes glued to the ground and away from his desk. He wants—needs—to get away from the song; he can feel the shackles tightening with every second he spends in its presence. Vision swimming, he drapes his cloak over his shoulders and stumbles out of his tent into the cold night air.

The training grounds are completely empty and covered in a fresh dusting of snow that has yet to be marred by footsteps, and the moons reflect off the frozen lake, bathing the rows of tents and snowy treetops in a faint silver-blue glow. The only noise comes from the guards that stand near the gates of Haven and line the walls, patrolling as he has instructed them; the smithy down the road is dark and does not sing its familiar song of steel against steel. Instantly, Cullen feels the fire lessen in his veins and he breathes a little easier in the fresh air.

Cullen thanks the Maker it is dark enough for him to walk through the gates without his haggard appearance arousing suspicion. Several soldiers salute and murmur greetings as he passes, but he waves them off, keeping his face lowered, shadowed in the torchlight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the Herald's cabin; the windows are dark, as he expected. He is not aware of the precise time, but he knows that it is either extremely late or extremely early. He allows himself a moment of rebelliousness to wonder what she dreams about each night. Does she have endless nightmares of the horrors she's seen, like Cullen? Or does she dream of more peaceful times—years spent with her clan, training her magic amongst the trees without fear, living happily with her family? For her sake, he hopes for the latter.

He continues up the stairs and past the tavern, thoughts still lingering on the Herald, but as he approaches the apothecary, he lets out a shaky sigh of relief. The windows glow orange with candlelight from the inside—Adan is awake, thank the Maker. Hopefully he will give Cullen something to ease his pain; at this point, he would treasure a few hours of dreamless sleep more than all the gold in Thedas. He knocks twice before pushing the door open and stepping inside, already planning out an excuse to give the cantankerous alchemist.

"Adan, it's—"

The greeting he had planned dies in his mouth the second he sees the familiar flash of the Herald's silver hair on the opposite side of the room, and blind panic instantly threatens to choke him where he stands.

She is bent over one of the tables against the far wall, her back to him as she works a mortar and pestle with steady, assured movements, humming a sweet tune he does not recognize. For a moment, Cullen thinks she has not noticed his entrance—but he has never been a lucky man, so his hopes are unsurprisingly dashed to pieces when she glances over her shoulder in his direction.

"Commander," she greets, her soft accent tickling his ears.

She sets the mortar and pestle down on the table and turns to face him, wiping her hands on the stained apron around her waist. Her hair is pinned up loosely instead of braided, but a few stray tresses have escaped their confines to frame her face. She tucks them behind her ear.

"I certainly didn't expect to see you up and about at this time of night." She smiles sadly. "If you're looking for Adan, I'm afraid you just missed him."

"I wasn't," he blurts out. He backtracks, trying to organize his words. "I was— I mean, this isn't… Ah, forgive me. I did not mean to disturb your work. I will take my leave."

Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. "So soon? I was not aware my presence was so repulsive."

He flushes bright red, and horror brings back his nausea with a vengeance. "No!" he stammers, taking half a step forward into the room. "I did not mean—"

"That was a joke," she assures him, smiling wryly. "Or an attempt at one, at the very least. Varric was apparently not lying when he said my timing needed some work."

"Oh." Cullen clears his throat and stares at the floor, letting out a strained laugh that sounds more like the gasp of a dying man. "I am sorry for misunderstanding."

"No need to apologize," she says, waving him off. She takes a step closer and peers up at him, emerald eyes glittering brightly, but her smile abruptly disappears when she sees his gaunt cheeks and pale face. "Commander, you are unwell."

It is not a question. Her expression holds nothing except concern; Cullen sees no resentment, no hint of a grudge of any kind in the depths of her gaze. He swallows thickly and winces when his headache sharpens in response to her proximity—her mana reserves are deep, almost endless, Maker help him—and the glaringly bright torchlight certainly does not help matters.

Still, he does not want her to see him like this. "I am quite all right, Lady Lavellan."

"You're not," she says flatly, not buying it for a second.

"Truly, I am—"

She slips her hand around his wrist before he can argue further, delicate fingers tightening in a vice-like grip that surprises him with its strength, and she pulls him toward a chair in between the two potion-crafting tables against the far wall. The room swims at the sudden change of elevation as he sinks into the chair, and he squeezes his eyes shut to keep from falling to the floor in a heap of trembling limbs.

The sudden press of her fingers beneath his chin, pleasantly hot like a sun-warmed stone; he flinches, but does not pull away. She turns his face this way and that, assessing him. "Creators, you look awful."

"You wound me, my lady."

"You wound yourself plenty without any help from me, Commander. I'm guessing a headache is not your only symptom," she murmurs, ignoring the glib comment. He can hear the frown in her voice. "Nausea? Dizziness?"

He nods once and leans his head back against the wall, clenching his jaw to quell the crushing wave of vertigo that threatens to drown him. He hears her soft footsteps shuffling against the floorboards of the room somewhere off to his left. "A moment, please," she tells him. "This may help."

The glow behind his eyelids gradually dims as she smothers the torches in the room; at the same time, the stabbing pain in his head begins to abate. Cullen cracks one eyelid open and watches her as she moves about, extinguishing torches with a wave of her hand.

She is wearing a sleeveless tunic of elven design and dark trousers that do not stop at her ankle, but rather continue downward to wrap around the arches of her foot, similar to the leather straps she usually wears. She occasionally reaches up to tuck a lock of silver hair behind her pointed ears, and Cullen's eyes follow the movement closely.

"There." She turns once the last torch has been snuffed, leaving three small candles flickering on the table closest to him. It gives them enough light to see, but not so much that it pains him. "Is that better?"

Cullen nods tightly. Wordlessly, she pads over to him and kneels in front of his chair to get a better look at him, studying his face with worry etched into her expression.

Her voice is soft. "May I check your temperature?"

Cullen swallows thickly, considering it. His instincts scream at him—no, no, no, she's a mage don't let her get that close—but a larger part of him is too ill to care. He nods tightly in assent and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall to keep from flinching away involuntarily.

The Herald's touch is soft and warm against his forehead, and her hand rasps against his stubble as she presses her other palm to his cheek, flipping over briefly to touch him with the backs of her fingers. He exhales serenely, savoring the heat that emanates from her copper skin for a moment—Maker, she is her own personal heat source, and it is wonderful—but she pulls her hand away before he can get too comfortable.

"No fever," she murmurs, clearly perplexed. She leans back on the balls of her feet and braces her elbows on her knees, balancing delicately before him. "As Varric says, I am going to 'go out on a limb' and assume you are out of taproot, yes?"

Again, he nods. She hums, and he can hear the grim undertones in her voice when she sighs, "Well, that just won't do, now will it?"

"I can endure without taproot," he insists. "I am capable of managing my symptoms well enough."

"Nonsense," she says, waving him off. "I will write to my clan in the morning and see if they can spare a few bushels, which I'm certain they can. The stuff grows like weeds in the valleys near Wycome."

"Don't," he croaks, stopping her. She raises an eyebrow curiously at his protest. Cullen forces himself to focus on her face and manages to sit up the slightest bit—he waits for the nausea to pass before finishing, "You have more pressing concerns, my lady. Please, do not let me add to your burdens any more than I already have."

"One letter won't take too much time out of my day, I assure you," she remarks wryly, a small smile curving her lips.

"But—"

"But nothing," she interrupts firmly. "Creators above, you're more of a martyr than Theriel ever was. I'm going to write the letter tomorrow and that's all there is to it, all right?" Cullen opens his mouth to argue, but she holds up a hand to cut him off and gives him a pleading look. "At least let me give you something to ease your symptoms before you leave here. An infusion of prophet's laurel, or maybe some vandal aria tea?"

Cullen exhales sharply and rubs the back of his neck, looking down at her in disbelief. Isn't she supposed to be mad at him? She is acting like the six days of silence didn't even happen. He wonders if perhaps this entire exchange is a dream—an excruciatingly painful, wonderful dream. He half expects the walls of Adan's apothecary to shift at any moment and melt into the curving stone hallways of Kinloch Hold, or the towering spire of Kirkwall's chantry.

But he knows this is real. There are too many details, no fuzzy edges. The tantalizing warmth that emanates from her body is real. The stabbing pain behind his eyes is real, pricking like icicles and sharper than steel arrowheads. The way she had touched him when she checked his temperature—softly, almost reverently, like she didn't want to move too quickly and frighten him—was real.

To the Void with propriety—he wants to stay here. With her, the Dalish apostate who could turn him to ash in half a second. It might be selfish to crave her time as he does, but Cullen is a selfish man.

"I… yes," he replies hoarsely. "Yes, I would like that. Thank you."

The Herald's lips twitch in amusement at his stiff answer and she gratefully inclines her head. "I am glad. I really wasn't looking forward to tying you to that chair and spoon-feeding you a healing potion; you seem like the type to fight back."

Cullen chuckles airily through his nose and leans back in his chair, massaging his temples. "You would be correct, my lady. Is that what you had to do for your brother?"

"Oh, yes," she replies heartily, stepping over to the potions table at his elbow. She begins uncorking several small bottles with a wistful smile on her face. "He and Rhaenar would argue for hours whenever he refused to drink his tonics. Said they tasted bad and gave him stomach cramps or something, but we never believed him. Once, we even tied him to a tree to get him to calm down and take them—there were some nights I thought the shouting would never end. Theriel is far too stubborn for his own good, I'm afraid."

She pauses, and glances at him with a smirk, looking him up and down purposely. "You are quite similar to Theriel in that regard, Commander. Should you ever be so unfortunate as to cross paths with my brother, I have a feeling the two of you would get along splendidly."

"Really?"

"Of course," she says, turning back to her work. "I think you would be fast friends—after he tries to kill you at least once, of course. He holds little love for humans. Rhaenar is a little more progressive, thankfully."

"Is Rhaenar your—"

Cullen stops short, the words sticking in his throat as sharp as a knife as he realizes what he's done; he has slipped a toe over the invisible line between them, testing, prodding. Sweet Maker, he should know better. He looks up at her, apology ready to spill forth, but the words die in his throat when he meets her piercing gaze.

The amusement has faded from her eyes and she is watching him carefully, eyes glimmering in the faint candlelight with an emotion he cannot place. He watches as a lock of silver hair falls free of its confines, softly brushing one of her elegant cheekbones on the way down; the urge to tuck it behind her ear comes sharp and fast, but his arms feel strangely numb all of a sudden and he cannot move.

"It is all right," she murmurs, and inclines her head. "You may finish your question, Commander. I believe I owe you that much."

Her gaze is warm and unguarded as she studies his face, but Cullen feels like he doesn't deserve such an expression, not after this past week. "You don't owe me anything."

She snorts softly. "You have been very patient with my questions these past few weeks—probably more patient than anyone else in Haven. It is only fair that I give you the same treatment, yes?" She reaches for a jar of dried herbs and peers down at the label with a furrowed brow. "Do you recall what I said to you the first time we spoke?"

He winces at the foul memory. "You said it in your language, but I… caught the gist of it."

Her ears twitch and her cheeks redden; she looks mortified. "Creators, I'd forgotten about that," she mutters. She waves him off. "Forgive me. First impressions have never been my strong suit. No, I meant the day I gave you the taproot, when we were out by the training grounds. Remember?"

He exhales in relief, and he nods. "Of course. How could I forget?"

She laughs softly, uncorking the bottle of herbs, and she fishes out a few pale green leaves of vandal aria, which she then drops into her mortar. "Then you remember that I promised you a little bit of transparency after I heard from my clan. Now that I have finally received word from Keeper Istimaethoriel, I intend to keep my promise to you. It's the least I can do, seeing as you have subjected yourself to my questions for quite some time now."

He frowns. "You make it sound as if I don't enjoy our morning talks."

"I can't imagine it is fun to be cross-examined every morning, regardless of who is doing the examining," she says wryly. Her hands still and she rolls the stone pestle between her fingers, suddenly looking very unsure of herself. Her gaze flicks up to his hesitantly. "Do you enjoy our conversations?"

"Of course," he says. He wants to tell her they were the best part of his day, but he refrains. "The troops appreciate your presence more than you realize, my lady. You bring out the best in them. I hardly ever have to correct them when you're around."

Her face sours, and she looks especially unimpressed. "I… see. You are too kind, ser," she says flatly.

Cullen's eyes go wide. "No!" he sputters. "That's not what I— I mean, you do improve morale, but that's not the only reason I enjoy speaking with you." He rakes a hand through his hair and winces as his headache surges painfully. "Your questions take my mind off… things."

"Things," she repeats, mashing more leaves into her mortar.

"It's nice to speak of something other than the Inquisition," he clarifies. "It seems I speak of little else these days. Your questions have always been a welcome distraction, Lady Lavellan, and I-I enjoy your company." The last part is little more than an embarrassed murmur, but she hears it nonetheless.

The Herald's lips twitch as she fights off a smile. "Thank you. I enjoy your company as well." She scrapes out the mashed contents of her mortar into a small jar, corks it, and sets it aside. She begins to add more leaves to her mortar, eyes glued to her work. "Still, a promise is a promise. Ask me what you will, Commander. I may not answer everything, but I will do my best to be as honest with you as you have been with me."

Cullen stares at her, speechless. Surely she cannot be offering this to him so blithely. After all his mistakes, all he has done to upset her, she would set everything aside for the sake of upholding a bargain he didn't even know they had made? A million questions flood his mind all at once, warring viciously with one another for the privilege of being spoken aloud.

"Either you are too surprised to speak or you are suffering an aneurism," she says amusedly, flashing him a small smile. "I certainly hope it's not the latter."

"I think I have too many questions," he admits, massaging the knotted muscles in his neck. "It's hard to find a good starting point."

"Start with something simple," she suggests. "My favorite color, perhaps, or a list of my hobbies. You will need to ease me into this, Commander—I'm afraid I am not very good at sharing my personal life with others."

Aerin'ahl wipes her hands on her apron and reaches for a small cup; she drops a few pinches of leaves into the bottom and pours a vial of clean water over them, swirling the contents until she is satisfied. Then, with a soft whisper of a spell, her fingers begin to glow like embers against the outside of the cup.

The spell dies as quickly as it starts, and she holds the cup out to him, steam curling into the air from the dark liquid within. "Drink this," she says. "It will dull the pain. Perhaps it will also help clear your head."

Cullen gingerly takes the cup with a murmured thanks. He sips at it—the metallic taste hits the back of his tongue like a razor blade, but softer, more subtle floral notes make it almost bearable. Much better than the taproot, in any case. It takes a moment, but the throbbing in his head drops off sharply, and the room begins to settle into focus. The relief is so wonderful that he almost slips out of his chair. "Maker's breath," he exhales, relishing the feeling.

The Herald watches him out of the corner of her eye as she walks to the other side of the room, flipping through pages in a small, tattered, leather-bound journal she'd produced from a pocket in her apron. "Better?"

"Much better, yes. Thank you."

"You are very welcome," she says, and turns toward a shelf near the door lined with neatly-labeled jars of all shapes and sizes. "Oh! I know where you can start—before we got sidetracked, I believe you were inquiring after Rhaenar, yes? I could tell you about him, if you'd like."

He nods, then realizes embarrassedly that she can't see him with her back turned. "Yes, of course. Is he a friend from your clan?"

"Actually, Rhaenar is one of my brothers," she answers, rising to her tiptoes to closely examine one of the labels on a large, oddly-shaped jar. She looks back and forth between her journal and the shelf, frowning. "It's just the three of us now," she continues distractedly. "Theriel is oldest, Rhaenar is the middle child, and I am the youngest. We are very close."

"You must miss them."

"More than anything," she admits. "We have had to look out for each other for quite a long time, now. That letter from my Keeper had a short message from my brothers attached to it, thankfully. Theriel is furious that I am with a human organization so far away from home. He has always tried to protect me, even if it does get annoying sometimes. Rhaenar is more upset about being left alone with Theriel—they fight like cats and dogs, I swear." She pauses, thinking. "I do hope they have not killed each other in my absence."

"They sound like my siblings. I used to have to mediate their arguments all the time," he tells her, smiling at the memory. He takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair, getting more comfortable as he sips at his tea. "Tell me about them—your brothers, I mean. What are they like?"

Aerin'ahl chuckles, pulling a few jars off the shelf to set them aside. She wipes a few of them on her apron. "Well, you already know a bit about Theriel; he has always been a handful. He's stubborn and has far too many opinions, but he is also very passionate about what he believes in. He is a dead shot with a bow—his aim is even better than Sera's, but you had better not tell her I said that. She'd probably put bees in my pillow.

"Rhaenar is much quieter than Theriel, and much more polite. He enjoys learning from the humans whenever we trade with them, but I think he mainly does it to make Theriel angry. He's apprenticed to the clan's alchemist, last I saw. Oh, and he has the loveliest singing voice!"

Cullen drains the rest of his tea and sets the cup aside, leaning forward to brace his elbows against his knees. He steeples his fingers, asking solemnly, "You have no other family?"

She shrugs. "Theriel is bonded to the hahren's youngestapprentice. Her name is Arilya, and they have a son named Cammet, who should be coming up on his third name day quite soon. Rhaenar is bonded to the Halla Keeper's oldest son." She pauses, and frowns. "Fenedhis, I cannot recall his name at the moment. They were joined so recently, I never had the chance to spend very much time with the boy."

"And your parents?" he asks, prodding gently.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before shaking her head. "My father was led into the Beyond before I was born. My mother joined him several years ago."

"I'm sorry," he says, and means it. Cullen knows that kind of loss all too well.

She looks at him over her shoulder and gives him a sad smile. "Thank you, Cullen. She passed shortly after Theriel's bonding ceremony, but she never had the opportunity to see Rhaenar take that step. I miss her very much." She turns back to the shelf to peruse more ingredients, sighing. "My apologies. Don't let my sadness deter you from your questioning. Please, continue—I am finding this to be more therapeutic than I anticipated."

"You mentioned bonding," he says, steering the subject toward a happier topic. "Is that anything like marriage?"

"I believe it's essentially the same thing," she replies. She pulls a jar from one of the shelves and squints at the label, looking back and forth between it and her journal. "We Dalish bond for love, though. I think most people in Ferelden and Orlais bon—sorry, marry for things like political advantage and wealth, but our clans do not have caste systems like that. We bond because we want to bond with a person; their political position does not enter into it. You simply find a person you wouldn't mind sharing the rest of your life with, bond with them after your eighteenth name day, and have children before you die."

"Eighteen is rather young," he murmurs, giving her a brief once-over—she cannot be any younger than twenty-five, maybe twenty-three at the very youngest, and even that is a stretch. A cold feeling settles in his chest as he realizes the implication. "Are you—"

"No," she says quietly. "No, I am not."

"May I ask why?"

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and glances over her shoulder at him briefly, sorrow reflected in the jade depths of her eyes. "Ir abelas. Please, Cullen, I— I would rather not speak of him. Might we change the subject?"

Him.

Oh, Maker, how could he be so foolish? Of course there would be someone in the Herald's life—or there had been at one point, anyway. Cullen feels his cheeks flush with shame as he thinks of all the inappropriate thoughts he's had of the Herald since they started conversing regularly by the training grounds, and suddenly he feels like he does not deserve to be in the same room with her, much less ask her personal questions.

"Forgive me," he says in a rush, rubbing the back of his neck. "I should not have… I did not mean to pry."

She smiles, but he can see the strain around her eyes. "It is all right. You could not have known. Perhaps I will tell you of Tannyll someday, but this evening hardly feels like the time for such a conversation." She turns back to the shelf and gestures toward him over her shoulder. "Please, feel free to continue."

He racks his brain for another question to take her mind off things. "Y-you've mentioned that you are First of your clan—what does that mean, exactly?"

The tension in the room instantly dissolves, and her shoulders fall in relief. She continues to search the shelf for ingredients as she answers, "Basically, it means that I am next in line to be Keeper of Clan Lavellan. When Keeper Istimaethoriel steps down or—Creators forbid—she dies, I will take her place. I have spent my life learning all I can about the People, our history, and our customs so that we do not lose what we are to the passage of time. I hold all of this knowledge for the entire clan."

"Is magic a requirement for your position?"

"Yes," she answers, plucking a few smaller jars off the shelf and setting them aside. Her finger trails lightly over the labels as she studies the words, scanning for the necessary ingredients. "We use our magic to protect the clan and to move through the forest swiftly in case we are being hunted or feel threatened. From the day my magic manifested itself, I have been trained to use my powers to protect my people, as well as to prevent possession in myself and any Firsts and Seconds that will follow me someday."

He feels unease creep up his spine at her words. Cullen hates himself for it, but he cannot help the question that escapes his lips. "How exactly do you safeguard against possession? There must be some kind of system involved."

"Ah. I knew you would ask that," she answers, grimacing. She turns from the shelf and leans back against it, holding her journal to her chest as she watches him intently. "From what I understand, we do something similar to the Harrowings performed in your Circles, but ours are safer. I'm not allowed to tell you much more than that, I'm afraid—you know, Dalish secrets and all that," she tells him, smiling tightly, but lightness in her voice fades away. "Trust me when I say that our methods are quite effective, Commander. I am no blood mage, nor am I an abomination. You needn't fear me."

"I do," he blurts out. The Herald's eyebrows furrow and she opens her mouth, but Cullen backpedals. "Trust you, that is. I am aware of your level of control. I only asked out of curiosity, my lady, not out of suspicion."

The Herald nods, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "Oh, good. Many people in Haven already fear me, and I would hate for you to be one of them. I have worked hard to master my element, and I abhor blood mages almost as much as—"

"As templars?" Cullen ventures quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor.

The Herald's lips purse and she shifts her weight, fingers creeping up to toy with the loose ends of her silver hair. "It's… not that simple," she replies slowly, her words carving deeper into his chest with every syllable. She exhales deeply. "Forgive me, Commander. My opinion of the Order has no bearing on my training as First."

Cullen nods and runs a hand over his face, sighing heavily. "No, it's… fine," he says quietly, wishing to move on from this topic. He racks his brain for a swift and merciful subject changing-question. "Can you— I mean, is there anything else you can tell me about your training?"

She gives him a strange look, one eyebrow raised. "Surely you know how mages train, Commander. Of all people."

"Circle mages, yes, but I know very little about Dalish practices. You are a pyromancer?"

"How did you guess?" she asks teasingly, wiggling her fingers. Sparks sputter harmlessly and float to the floorboards; a few land on the exposed part of her foot, but she doesn't flinch or recoil, almost like she doesn't feel them at all.

She turns back to the shelf to continue her search for ingredients, flipping open her journal once again. "I mainly use fire, yes, but I'm also trained in spirit magic. Ice never came naturally to me, unfortunately."

Cullen leans forward in his chair, lacing his fingers together. "Any particular reason why?"

"Keeper Deshanna says it's because my 'rage burns brighter than the sun', but she is rather melodramatic. I like to think it's because the Creators have a strange sense of humor," she muses, fingers trailing lightly along the bottom edge of one of the shelves.

Cullen's brows furrow in confusion. "I've never seen you angry."

"And I hope you never do," she laughs, glancing sidelong at him. "The results are usually not very pretty. A great many aravels were lost to my temper after Falon'Din led my mother to the Beyond." She plucks a dusty jar of prophet's laurel off the shelf and sets it aside, shrugging.

"The people of my clan call me isenatha'lin—the blood of the dragon. Supposedly it flows through my veins and keeps me resistant to most forms of heat, but I have burned myself more than enough in the past to prove that theory wrong, believe me. I cannot say I mind the title, though. It is certainly not the worst nickname they could have given me."

"It suits you," he agrees, the scarred side of his mouth lifting in a smile.

"As much as 'commander' suits you, I daresay," she chuckles. She pops up to her tiptoes as she struggles to grasp a large opaque jar of herbs on the highest shelf. Her fingers strain uselessly for purchase against the smooth sides of the vessel, and she huffs in annoyance.

He rises to help her—really, it's the least he can do after she was kind enough to rid him of his headache. Cullen unclasps his cloak and drapes it across the back of the chair, rolling his shoulders to loosen the stiff muscles in his neck as he steps toward her.

"Allow me," he offers, coming up behind Aerin'ahl. She drops down from her tiptoes as he reaches over her head, easily grabbing the dusty jar of herbs with his now-steady hands.

She turns and takes it from his outstretched hand, careful not to accidentally brush his fingers. "I could've gotten it," she mumbles embarrassedly, and she looks up at him shyly through her lashes. A corner of her mouth quirks up. "Sal'lle caela ma serannas."

He inhales deeply at the sound of her native tongue and immediately regrets it, his heart seizing when he realizes how close she is. His tongue suddenly feels much too large for his mouth.

"What— what does that mean?"

Her eyes widen and she blinks, color rushing to her face—it's exactly like the time she'd called after him in Elvhen that first day near the training grounds, almost like she hadn't realized she'd slipped back into her own language. But after several moments, the tension eases out of her shoulders and she clears her throat purposefully, eyebrows drawing together in determination.

"It means 'I ought to thank you,'" she answers quietly, almost like she is afraid someone will hear. Her nose wrinkles a second later, and she shakes her head. "But that is a very rough translation—Solas is much better suited to play interpreter than I."

He merely hums in response, not at all willing to admit that he would much rather listen to her voice rather than Solas'. This close, Cullen can just barely make out the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose—Maker help him, she smells like pressed elderflowers and he hates himself for noticing such a thing.

Clearing his throat, he swallows thickly and making a conscious effort not to look at her lips, which are closer than they've ever been before. "Would— I mean, can you teach me how to say you're welcome?"

The fine lines around her eyes suddenly deepen, but not with mirth. Indigo shadows bleed into the lines of her blood writing and fingers tighten imperceptibly around the jar in her hands. "Why?"

Her tone is cool, guarded, and neutral—it reminds him more of the cold elves at the Circle than the pretty, free-spirited Dalish girl that tumbled out of the Fade. No, he knows that voice. It's the one she uses when speaking with Chancellor Roderick, or when Leliana asks the wrong questions about her clan, pushing, prodding too far.

She's never turned that voice on him before.

But he can't take the words back. She asked a question, and he must do his best to answer it.

"Forgive my impertinence, but… Maker, I can't imagine what it must be like to be surrounded by people who do not speak your language. It may not be much, but if I can alleviate any part of that particular burden, I would very much like to try."

She doesn't say anything right away. Her eyes glimmer with fascination as she studies his face, head tilted to one side; though she is silent, her thoughts are louder than chantry bells. He fights the urge to fidget under her scrutiny.

"It is kind of you to offer, Commander," she murmurs slowly, articulating each word carefully. Her thumb begins to rub inattentive circles against the side of the dusty jar she clutches with both hands. "I am not supposed to share the secrets of Elvhen with anyone other than my kinsmen, but… I suppose no one has to know. It is just us."

"If it's that important, you don't have to tell me."

"No, I want to," she insists, tucking a lock of hair behind her pointed ear. Her green eyes reflect jade in the moonlight that filters through the nearby window, and suddenly the oxygen in Cullen's lungs feels strangely inadequate.

She shuffles her feet nervously, and when she speaks, he almost does not hear her. "Ma'ane ir vhalla."

"Ma'ane ir vhalla," he repeats slowly.

He has barely finished the last word when the musical sound of her laughter echoes through the apothecary, sharp and sweet and completely unexpected. She presses her fingers against her lips to stifle a giggle, and Cullen's ears burn—not out of embarrassment, but shock. Her laugh is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

"I'm sorry," she manages, gasping for breath and smiling wider than he's ever seen before. "That was… very good."

He scoffs, trying to fight a smile and failing miserably. "There is no need to lie for my benefit, my lady. I can endure any criticisms you have."

"I am serious!" she objects, grinning. She sets the jar of herbs off to the side and crosses her arms, leaning a hip against the edge of the table. "For your first try, it really wasn't that bad."

"Define 'that bad.'"

"You got all the words right," she points out. "Of course, your accent would practically be considered a crime in most clans, but that can be fixed. Paint me impressed, Commander."

"Color."

The Herald stares up at him uncomprehendingly, lips slightly parted and eyebrows knit closely together. "I'm sorry, what?"

Cullen winces—were Mia here, she would box his ears for his brazenness—and shakes his head. "N-nothing. It's nothing. Forgive me, Lady Lavellan. I should not have interrupted you."

Cullen tries to step away, but she follows him, laying an herb-stained hand on his arm to keep him in place. "No, tell me," she insists, eyes wide with curiosity.

He hesitates, debating whether or not to tell her, but his resolve crumbles at the sight of her expectant face. He sighs and grimaces. "What you said a second ago. It's 'color me impressed,' not paint."

He expects her to frown, to reprimand him, something. Anything other than what she actually does.

The Herald scowls, muttering several choice words under her breath—Cullen's stomach flips, wondering if he's gone and upset her again—but she throws up her hands in exasperation before he can open his mouth to apologize for what feels like the fiftieth time.

"At this point, I think Varric is teaching me wrong on purpose. Why do I believe anything he says? Color, color, color…" She mumbles the word over and over again as she pulls the journal out of her pocket and flips to a new page. She snatches up a stick of charcoal from the table and presses it to the page to write.

Aerin'ahl's hand freezes before she makes a single mark. She peers at him over the top of her journal, gaze uncertain. She bites her lip. "Would you… I mean, I need—" She lets out a frustrated huff and squeezes her eyes closed. "Oh, Mythal preserve me, this never gets any easier—may I ask you a favor, Commander?"

He lets out a relieved breath. "Of course. Anything."

Several moments pass as she studies him with an indecipherable expression—Cullen tries not to stare at the way her teeth pull at the fullness of her lower lip, but the longer she does it, the harder it is to look away. Finally, Aerin'ahl lifts her chin and clenches her jaw, meeting his gaze determinedly.

"I need you to spell it. Please."

The room goes deathly quiet; the only sound is that of their shared breathing and the roar of blood rushing in his ears. He feels numb, his thoughts tumbling over each other gracelessly as he tries to catch up with her words.

"I— what?" Cullen inquires, thinking he has clearly misheard her.

He hasn't. Aerin's shoulders slump and her cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red that stretches all the way to the tips of her ears at the disbelieving tone of his voice, and Cullen feels his stomach drop.

She gestures lamely in his direction, avoiding his gaze. "Color," she says quietly. "I… I do not know how it is spelled in the Trade tongue. You are educated and I consider you to be a friend, so I thought you would be willing to—"

She looks up at him warily, but her expression morphs into a scowl upon seeing the shock in his eyes. She snaps her journal closed. "You know what, forget I said anything. I will ask Solas in the morning."

She slips the journal in her pocket and grabs an armful of the jars she had set aside earlier, pushing past him to return to her workstation. Cullen's hand shoots out to grasp her elbow before he knows entirely what he is doing and stops Aerin'ahl in her tracks; the tinkling sound of glass fills the room as the jars in her arms knock against one another.

it makes sense it makes so much sense

"Maker's breath," he exhales, staring at her incredulously. "You can't read, can you?"

She stares up at him, mouth set in a thin line, cheeks redder than apples. The mortification in her eyes is the only answer he needs. But before he can say anything more, Aerin clenches her jaw and sharply wrenches her elbow out of his grasp; in the same motion, a jar slips from her arms and falls to the floor, but Cullen feels a surge of magic fill the room and the vessel stops just shy of shattering on the floorboards.

With a flick of Aerin's finger, the jar whizzes through the air and sets down gently on the potions workbench; wordlessly, she walks over and sets the rest of the herbs down next to the jar, arranging them neatly in a line, labels facing outward—she takes her time so she has an excuse not to look at him.

Cullen says nothing, terrified of saying the wrong thing (as he has been known to do, especially around her). Finally, she sighs and braces her hands against the worn wooden tabletop. She hangs her head in defeat.

"I can read, just not… well," she admits dejectedly. A soft sigh. "I manage well enough most of the time—names are easy to spot, and I can piece together simple sentences that don't have a lot of large words in them. Past that, however…" she trails, shaking her head. "No. I do not understand your language. We Dalish are known for our oral traditions. I grew up speaking Elvhen and I used Trade for the humans we met during our travels, but learning how to write the language never seemed important. Until now."

Cullen crosses the room with soft steps, trying to process her words and failing miserably. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" he asks gently.

"It's hard enough being the 'knife-eared' Herald of Andraste," she muses bitterly. The slur makes him flinch. "If word got out that I'm illiterate on top of all of that, the Inquisition would never be taken seriously."

She begins to uncork jars and bottles, pulling out stalks of dried herbs; her practiced fingers pluck the leaves off the stems and sort them into neat piles. "Varric gives me lessons when we travel, and Solas helps, too. Even Cassandra reads me poetry when she isn't destroying training dummies or punching something."

She looks over her shoulder at him, her eyes lined heavily with distress. "Are you angry with me?"

"Angry?" Cullen shakes his head and laughs breathlessly as he comes to stand at her shoulder, raking a hand through his hair in disbelief. "I could never be angry at you for something like this. I'm actually rather impressed. And relieved."

Her hands falter in their movements and her lips part in surprise. "Surely you jest, Commander."

"No, really," he swears. "Not many things escape my notice around Haven. Maker, it's almost embarrassing that I never picked up on it." A thought occurs to him, and he furrows his brow in confusion. "Do Leliana and Josephine know?"

"Yes. I told Josephine a few weeks ago when she asked me to draft a letter to some pompous noble, and I'm sure Leliana knows whether I want her to or not."

"Dare I ask how you've managed to write your reports these last few months?"

The Herald swallows hard and looks up at him sheepishly. "Solas writes them for me."

He laughs breathily and turns to lean back against the edge of the workbench, facing her; their arms brush every so often as she works. Her cheeks are still pink, he notices, and she is avoiding his gaze, but she does not move away from the close proximity. Aerin'ahl bites her lip nervously as she sprinkles different dried petals and leaves into a clean mortar. Her gaze flickers up to him periodically.

"I wanted to tell you," she admits softly. "I was just so worried you would be disappointed in me. Or angry. We've only just started to get along together, Commander. I… I didn't want to ruin everything."

"My temper may get the best of me sometimes, but I would never turn it on you for something like this," he tells her, rubbing his neck. "Of course, I wish you'd told me sooner. It would've cleared up a few things. I've been wondering why you didn't accept the shoes. I thought you were angry at me, so I thought it best not to approach you. Now I wish I had."

Her hands still instantly and her ears twitch. "I'm not sure what you mean. Are you talking about that meeting? I already apologized for my behavior—"

Cullen exhales, laughing wryly. "No, this was right before that. I left a pair of boots on your doorstep with a note. I was standing close by when you saw them. Maker, you looked so angry when you read it, I simply assumed I had managed to offend you again." He peers down at her exposed toes, confounded. "I don't know how you manage—"

"That was you?" she cries, dropping a handful of leaves to the ground. Her hands shoot up to cover her mouth and she looks at him, eyes wide.

Cullen laughs self-deprecatingly. "I'm afraid so, my lady. Watching you walk around barefoot in the snow makes me shiver on your behalf. I don't know how you do it."

Her eyes glimmer with astonishment, and she slowly begins to shake her head back and forth. "Ir abelas sathan ma nadas eolasa!" Her grin is as unexpected as it is blinding, and he forgets how to breathe for a moment. "Cullen, I had no idea. I meant to take the note to Varric so he could read it to me, but I lost it before I had the chance."

He blinks and clears his throat, tearing his gaze from her smile. "I, uh. Yes. Well," he stammers, and clears his throat, "I wanted to repay you for the taproot. I should have given them to you in person like I planned, though. I could have returned them and had them made into something else that you would have liked more."

Her hands fall from her face, and she cocks her head to one side, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "You speak as if I have thrown them away. The boots are in my cabin."

"You kept them? I didn't think—"

"Cullen," she says softly. Her eyes are shimmering with such fondness that his heart constricts painfully in his chest. "Of course I kept them. When I was with my clan, I did not grow up with very many material possessions. A staff, two sets of robes, my foot wrappings, and a puzzle box. That was all I had for the longest time." She pauses, takes his hand in her own, and squeezes gently. "Believe me when I say those boots are the most beautiful things I have ever owned in my entire life. I love them."

Each one of her soft fingertips feels hotter than fresh-forged steel against the back of his hand, and his heart hammers in his chest. He swallows hard, face flushed. "Y-you haven't worn them though."

She snorts and releases his hand—he misses her warmth immediately. "Don't be absurd. Of course I have," she says flippantly. "I wear them around my cabin at every opportunity."

Cullen stares. Surely she can't be serious—but one look at her face tells him otherwise. He lets out a noise of dismay.

"My lady, the entire purpose of commissioning the shoes was so you would start wearing them outside."

"And ruin them?" Her nose wrinkles and she shakes her head. "Creators, no. They are much too nice for that."

"Too nice," he echoes, staring at her in bewilderment.

She nods eagerly. "Of course! What if I got blood all over them or tore them during a fight? I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the blood of a rage demon runs at boiling temperature."

"I don't— That's not—" he stammers, trying to wrap his head around her words. "I cannot understand how you can possibly prefer walking barefoot through the snow to wearing proper shoes."

She turns back to her work, lips curved in a small half-smile as she begins to crush the leaves in her mortar with a small stone pestle. "No, I suppose you wouldn't," she muses. "I am aware the Canticle of Shartan has been stricken from your Chant of Light for quite some time, but surely you know a little bit about the Long Walk. Yes?"

"Of course. Andraste's sons gave the Dales to the elves for their efforts in the war, so they walked there together and founded Halamshiral."

"'We walked with what little we had on our backs. Some walked without shoes, for they had none,'" she quotes, glancing at him pointedly. "That is from a scroll written by Keeper Gisharel Ralaferin. Many of the People go without shoes as a reminder of what we were promised, what we built—what was stolen from us."

"I… never thought of that." He swallows hard and lowers his gaze to the floor. "Forgive my ignorance on the subject. I'm afraid I know very little about the Dalish way of life."

The Herald reaches off to one side and grabs a small shiny container with a lid; their arms brush lightly, but she doesn't seem to notice half as much as Cullen does. She begins scooping the contents of the mortar into a small tin, dried leaves plinking musically against the bottom of the container.

"I would be surprised if you did," she chuckles, setting the now-empty mortar and pestle off to the side. "If everyone knew about us, we wouldn't need Keepers in the first place. We keep our secrets and keep them well, Commander Cullen, but we have our reasons for doing so. But I suppose some of those reasons are more logical than others."

"And what are yours?"

Her brow puckers. "What, my reasons?"

Aerin'ahl puts the lid on the tin and sets it back on the counter before turning to face him, wiping her hands on her apron. She braces her hands on her hips. The Herald does not look taken aback by his question in the slightest, instead lifting her chin to meet his gaze head-on with a thoughtful look on her face.

"How unfair of you," she murmurs, though her tone is not unkind. She raises an eyebrow. "Tell me—if I asked you the same question, would you answer truthfully?"

He wants to say yes—it would be so easy to let the word tumble past his lips, to tell her about Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall and the lyrium—but he knows he cannot tell her the truth, nor is he capable of lying to her. Not now, not ever. So he does not try.

"No," he admits shamefully. He rubs the back of his neck and drops his gaze, suddenly feeling unworthy of her presence. "I— I beg your forgiveness, my lady. It was a foolish question."

She steps closer and peers up at him, a knowing look in her eyes. The moonlight slants through the nearby window and falls across her face, illuminating the delicate lines of the tattoos on her forehead and the steep curve of her eyelashes; in the back of his mind, Cullen thinks she looks like one of the faeries from the stories Mia used to spin for him every night before bedtime—hair as pale as spider silk and eyes greener than grass, tempting passersby with her sweet, soft voice and honeyed words. He watches raptly as yet another lock of hair tumbles free of its confines, coming to rest soundlessly near the curve of her jaw.

Sadness clouds her features, and his heart constricts painfully in his chest, knowing he is the cause of it. "Not foolish," she assures him softly. "Premature, maybe, but definitely not foolish."

Hesitantly, she reaches out and rests a hand on his forearm. Cullen should hate himself for how much he relishes her heated touch. It is wrong—so wrong, and completely inappropriate for someone of his station. He presses against the edge of the workstation, choosing instead to focus on the way the wood bites painfully into his lower back.

Aerin'ahl purses her lips and studies him with a peculiar expression on her face, almost like he is a puzzle she is to put together. "We are not so different, you and I. I do not know what keeps you awake at night, but… perhaps we keep our secrets for similar reasons."

Her gaze softens imperceptibly and her index finger begins tracing small shapes into the muscles of his forearm. Cullen isn't entirely convinced she's not burning him in the process, leaving a series of looping, twisting scars for the rest of Thedas to see in the morning. Cullen's exhale is sharp, his laugh bitter.

"For your sake, I hope you are wrong about that."

"I suppose only time will tell," she says quietly, and lets her hand fall back to her side. She smiles faintly. "I have few friends in Haven, Cullen, but I count you among them. Should you ever wish to talk, I will gladly listen."

A subtle warmth begins to spread through Cullen's chest, almost as if she had reached in and squeezed his heart with her heated fingers. He inclines his head to hide the rosy stains on his cheeks. "I'm not sure I'll ever be fully comfortable talking about such matters with anyone, but I appreciate the sentiment. Truly, Lady Lavellan. It means a lot to hear you say so."

She laughs quietly through her nose and the puff of air tickles the hairs on his forearm. "After all that, you still won't use my name? And you're welcome."

"Aerin'ahl," he amends, relishing the way the foreign syllables roll across his tongue. Her ears twitch imperceptibly and suddenly he feels uncertain. "Or am I saying it wrong?"

"Uh," she trails, blinking rapidly. A moment passes before she continues. "No, you said it right. Forgive me. It's just been so long since I've heard someone say my full name," she murmurs, averting her gaze. She shuffles her feet. "You may also call me Aerin, if you like. Varric says it's easier to yell across a battlefield. I suppose he's not entirely wrong."

"Which do you prefer?"

Her gaze snaps back to his, eyebrows knitted together and eyes wide. Her lips move soundlessly before she finally says, "I think you're the first person to ask me that. Aerin is fine—when it's just the two of us, I mean. I have to keep up appearances."

"Of course," he replies, smirking. "Aerin."

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back toward the ceiling, a smile stretched across her lips. The pale column of her neck looks inviting, to say the least. "You know, for a second there, things almost felt normal again. Ma serranas, ma falon."

The words are unfamiliar but their meaning is clear, and the sleeping embers in Cullen's chest ignite into a blaze that he knows will never be extinguished. He doesn't care. For her, it is a pleasure to burn.


I hope the wait was worth it. Please review!

Also, I'm currently working on a modern AU story about the Inquisitor and Cullen. I usually hate modern AU stories, but that's probably because I've rarely ever seen them done well. Maybe I could change that. (I don't want to give it all away, but wouldn't it be interesting if my mage Inquisitor was legally required to inform her neighbors or anyone living within 500 feet that she's a mage? Imagine how much it would upset Cullen. I think I could swing it. Idk. Thoughts, anyone? It would be a modern AU story for people who hate modern AUs.)