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Cullen must have used his time supervising their departure to tuck them inside her belongings, and every new glimpse of familiar writing set her heart ablaze. He'd been right about his raw writing skill, but the sincerity of every message was more than enough to make up for any lack of grace. Her favorites were those that ended with passages of the Chant that she knew so well. She could almost hear him repeating them to her, on the ship, on the road, or in the sensitive shell of her ear as she fell asleep.

It took great discipline not to tear her trunks apart looking for them all, but in a way it was nice to be surprised with each discovery, like finding another oasis across an endless desert. She wished she'd thought to do the same for him. She wrote him a letter and sent it behind her, full of the beats of her heart that he could no longer feel, but the likelihood of it making it back to Kirkwall before he left was low.

He'd even left her a physical gift, which she found pinned to her only dress a day out from Haven. When she showed it to Leliana, a small hair ornament in silver with delicate etchings over it, the bard smiled. "Cullen and Aedan must use the same merchants," she said, and pulled a similar item from her pack. She rubbed her thumb over it gently, and though her hood was up it didn't hide the sadness on her face.

"He will arrive soon," said Cassandra.

"He'll be the King," said Leliana, simply, and Cassandra reached out to grasp her free hand. Leliana shook her head quickly. "I'm being ridiculous. This is the bargain we struck, long ago, for Thedas. It does no good to regret it."

They sat in silence until Leliana forced a small laugh. "I'm surprised you're not telling me that what I'm doing is sinful. That the Maker doesn't appreciate His holy bonds being used as a tool for power and then watching them break."

Truthfully, Cassandra had thought it, but even she did not have so little tact. "I cannot tell you anything you don't already know, Leliana. You understand the Chants even better than I," she said.

"Justinia will say it when she finds out."

"She'll know nothing from me," said Cassandra. "It is not my place to confess your secrets." She paused, considering. "And Justinia may be more sympathetic than you think. She understands the expression of emotion more than most, and she would like Aedan very much. As do I."

"Thank you. It's nice to think so," said Leliana. She looked at the hairpin Cassandra still held and laughed more genuinely. "I'm very happy for you, Cassandra. You deserve a man whose face lights up so brightly when you're near. I wish you could see how he looks at you when you're looking the other way. It's breathtaking." She grinned. "And his ass really is quite impressive."

Cassandra scowled at her, but Leliana paid no mind, and eventually she had Cassandra recalling every inch of Cullen with great specificity before moving on to descriptions of Aedan's figure. The sun crawled out of the sky, and the Right and Left Hand of the Divine fell asleep under the stars. Their fingers were intertwined like children as they dreamed of the men they loved.

Haven was soothing torture when they arrived. The familiar was always welcome to her, and the presence of the Divine was comforting. Still Cassandra spent large portions of her day looking towards the distant gates and willing them to open and reveal a golden-haired warrior with the grin of a boy. She spent much of her time in the training yard, in direct sight of any visitors, and her other duties never distracted her completely no matter how vital they were. Cassandra was not one to plan social events, but this was more a war council, and only the importance of the security arrangements kept her focused at all. Even her prayers were interrupted with fear, impatience, and lust, and she despaired that her faith had fled her just when she needed it most.

She had other duties as well, as a holy emissary. Pilgrims came to Haven to seek the temple, and often they made the journey ill and frail. Not all of them made it through the harsh climate, and she presided over several death rites and ritual burnings. But even as the souls flew over the snow-tipped mountains, carried to the Maker by her words, her mind was consumed with only one man.

Fortunately she knew those rites well enough to perform them even distracted, but during a morning benediction she stumbled over the Chant, picturing the honey-brown of gentle eyes in every face in the congregation. She stopped, horrified, until Justinia gently raised her voice to begin the words again.

Cassandra continued where she led, cheeks flaming, and as soon as it was polite she left the assembly to hide against the wall behind the temple, wondering how she was ever to survive this. If she was such a mess even without him here, how would she behave with him next to her? Or worse, untouchable across the camp after he cast her aside? She was just like her mother, so far inside of another person that everything else was falling away.

Justinia found her there, shaking and lost, and to Cassandra's mild surprise the Divine tugged her down and sat on the grass, so they were both leaning back into a shadow. They sat for several minutes in silence, until Cassandra said, "Most Holy, surely you have other duties."

"I do," she said. "But there are no duties so important as the care of one's children."

"I appreciate the honor, truly, but I am fine."

Justinia hummed, which turned into a snatch of holy song. "You've been much distracted, recently."

"I apologize. I will do better," said Cassandra.

"You have already given me more than your best," said Justinia. She paused, and a less holy woman might have seemed hesitant. "Your Commander is due to arrive any day now, yes?"

Cassandra flushed and looked at her feet. "He will be your Commander."

"But for now, he is yours, is he not?" Her eyes were knowing, and Cassandra didn't pretend not to understand.

"Yes. For now," said Cassandra quietly.

Justinia nodded, as though something had finally made sense. "Leliana tells me that he required little persuasion to accept the post you offered, even though the post does not yet exist. To leave a comfortable situation for uncertainty takes great dedication. To a cause, or to a person."

"He is very devout," said Cassandra. Justinia smiled, and Cassandra felt the weight of her comforting nature strike her like a sword. She had no shield to block it, and the truth spilled out unbidden. "Dedication fades, and I am easily forgotten."

"Cassandra, that is one thing you will never be," said the Divine firmly. "You have a gift, the gift of Andraste, to inspire loyalty in your followers."

She stared at the older woman, baffled. "I have no followers."

Justinia laughed. "The seal of my position prevents me from recounting the number of petitioners who have requested merely to sit in your presence. It's fortunate I'm not the jealous sort." She sobered. "And your nature is fortunate in other ways. It has brought Ser Rutherford to our cause, taking on a role that might have wasted your talents. While Marian Hawke may have been correct politically, I believe you are the one most suited to lead what may need to be."

"No," said Cassandra, shaking her head. "You cannot give me so much." She'd barely made it through a benediction unscathed. She would be hopeless at leading a cause.

"I can. But not yet. The Maker may reveal other paths. Nevertheless, were He to let me choose, you would be my choice. I only refrained from telling you before you left because I sensed you needed to journey to Kirkwall," said Justinia. She smiled conspiratorially, and the years fell way from her face. "At least, that's what the Divine is supposed to say when an action turns into more than she could have ever hoped."

Cassandra mumbled thanks, and Justinia laughed a little too much like Leliana for comfort.

Justinia looked off into the distance. "I am anxious to meet this man. I've heard much of him that surprises me, and Leliana tells me yet more that startles. Yes, he will be an interesting visitor," she said. "And I've been told he's very handsome."

The faint questioning tone had Cassandra blushing again. "Yes, many say so." She frowned and pulled out a tuft of grass to scatter in the wind. "But he is not here yet."

"Not yet," said Justinia, rising slowly to her feet. "But take care when he is to leave yourself open, my child. It would please an old woman to see you find the peace of the heart alongside the peace of the Maker."

On the third day after the group from Kirkwall had been due, Cassandra gave up even the thin pretense of indifference and went to pace in front of the gates. She made the half-mile loop from the guard post to the nearest peak and back again until Leliana came out to reprimand her for making everyone nervous.

Cassandra ignored it. "Where are they?" She touched the silver hairpin that she'd woven into her hair every morning since she'd found it to reassure herself of its presence. Leliana stared at her bemusedly, and Cassandra snarled. "How can you be so calm?"

"The Maker gives me strength."

The laughter in her voice betrayed her. Cassandra whirled around and demanded, "What do you know, Left Hand?"

"A great many things, Right Hand." But she must have seen something in Cassandra's face, because she added, "Including the fact that a large group of travelers in Templar armor is nearing Haven."

"A large group? There should only be two of them." Maybe a handful more, if they'd brought squires, but certainly nothing too large.

Leliana shrugged, and Cassandra made her circuit once more, this time searching for a caravan instead of lone riders. With her new focus, she spotted it easily. "I see them!" she called down, not bothering to conceal the excitement in her voice. Leliana covered her mouth with her hand, but Cassandra chose to ignore it. She watched the group for a time, willing them closer, before scrambling down to pace once more.

What was taking them so long?

She was considering running to the stables to saddle her horse when the group finally rounded the last bend and the horns sounded for unknown visitors. The protocol was for all non-guards to retreat inside the gate until the strangers had been inspected, but the guards wisely didn't even broach the issue with her. She would have defeated them in no uncertain terms, because Cullen was there.

He sat straight and tall on his charger, a beautiful horse she hadn't even known he owned, with his armor gleaming like a prince of legend. He was so handsome. Had he always been that handsome? His blond hair caught in the constant swirling winds of the mountain, dancing above him temptingly, and she couldn't wait until he was in her arms so she could smooth it back to order with her fingers. Would the Divine understand if she delayed his introduction for an hour? More importantly, would she be able to limit herself to just an hour?

Cassandra tried to rein herself in, to slow her galloping heart and rising need, by glancing at the group around him. She made a poor study of it, managing only a few quick observations before her eyes went back to the man who led them. Still, what observations she did make were confusing. A group of Templars, potentially explainable, but also civilians, including someone on a small pony that almost looked like Varric Tethras. Which was ridiculous. But she would sort all of that out later.

Only when Cullen drew close enough for her to make out his features did her heart stop. He looked cold, not from the wind, but from something inside. There was no warm light of greeting, no grin on his lips, and no hint that he knew her at all.

It's propriety, she thought desperately, even though he hadn't been concerned with that in some time. Her eyes slid away in terror and lit on the figure next to him, hooded and small. She'd dismissed it as another mystery to be explained later, but they were close enough now she could see the face beneath the hood. Cassandra's hand went to the silver pin once more, this time in shock. The figure was a woman, her face beautiful ice, with piercing blue eyes full of intelligence, wariness, and danger. The kind of woman that a man would never be able to resist, and she was currently studying Cassandra with far too much interest.

Cassandra's gaze went back to Cullen's blank face, and she knew what had happened.

Leliana stepped forward to offer greetings, glancing only once at her frozen friend. The party swung off of their horses easily, and Cullen hung back as Aedan bowed over Leliana's hand with precise manners and made the pretty speeches that one made in such situations. The beautiful woman faded back into the group, and Cassandra wondered if she was tending to Cullen's mount, like a true lover would.

When Aedan turned to her to make a shorter greeting, she pushed all of the pain and loss deep inside herself with a harsh determination. There would be time for mourning later. She wasn't fifteen anymore, and she did not make such displays in public. She wouldn't shame Cullen for the inevitability of his choice, no matter how much sympathy lived in the King's eyes.

Lay sisters and brothers joined them and sorted out the logistics of quarters for the men and the horses while she waited silently, looking anywhere but at Cullen and seeing nothing. Eventually she realized people were leaving, and she made to follow them back into the gates when a hand touched her arm. She knew those fingers, far too well, and that more than anything almost broke her.

"May I speak with you, Seeker?" Still no smile, and still no warmth, and this time his voice held nothing at all. Not even the tones of a soldier, but the tones of a stranger.

"Who is she?" she asked quietly, finally looking at him. She wondered if her face showed the wound that was slowly bleeding out inside of her.

He narrowed his eyes, once, then shook his head. "Not here," he said. "Is there somewhere private?"

She led him to a nearby storage shed, disorganized and little used. As she closed the door behind them, she took a deep breath before turning around with a heart that was ready to shatter.

He spoke without preamble, as though they'd picked up a conversation they'd been halfway through.

"On the boat here, there was another group of travelers. Merchants, mostly, from all over, who'd banded together in the Free Marches but were moving on to Orlais. They were wary of a group of Templars, probably afraid we were escorting mages, but Varric could get a hurok to tell his life story, so we eventually fell into conversation."

So it really had been Varric, the mechanical part of her mind noted. She filed that away for another time, when she wasn't holding herself together with both hands.

"Of course, I say we, but I wasn't much of a conversationalist. I was distracted by my thoughts, and writing letters that I knew wouldn't be sent when I wasn't caught up in them," he said. His eyes were steady, but they flashed a strong emotion that she couldn't identify. "They asked if I was writing to my sweetheart back home. I said I was going to meet her, and Varric told them about you. Not your name, or your position - I'd warned him to stay silent in case there was need for secrecy - but one of the things he did say was that you were Nevarran.

"One of the men chimed in with his own story about a Nevarran woman he'd once loved. A beautiful woman, tall and dark, with skin like cream and a voice that shivered over a man's bones."

Cassandra raised a hand to her mouth, briefly, but she didn't make a sound. Cullen's face never changed.

"His name was Mason, originally from Rivain, and he'd met her when she traveled to his village on undisclosed Seeker business. She'd stayed for a month and spent nearly every night with him. He loved her more than the world, he said, and he'd gone so far as to buy a betrothal gift when she vanished one day without a trace, save one - a note of thanks that wished him happiness and peace."

She looked at him as he spoke with growing distress, begging him to stop, but the words were like rocks sliding down a hill, scrabbling and inexorable, and she knew there was no escape. She remembered this man, a short, barrel-chested Rivaini who'd played a mandolin and sang to the tavern until it closed. She'd liked the way his copper eyes had touched her face with gentle curiosity. She'd liked even more the way he flirted with every woman in the room without discretion. She'd never imagined him to be serious.

Cullen's voice came on, bringing the avalanche. "Her name was Cassandra, he said. No last name given, no matter how often he asked. The man told us he'd considered all sorts of things, running after her, attacking Templars until the Seekers came to find him, even throwing the gift he'd purchased in the river to spite her. In the end he sold it instead, unable to part with the money. He got a better price than he'd given, and his new profession was born.

"Another man, one who'd just joined their merchant caravan, spoke up with a similar story. This time it came from the Anderfels, where he'/d met her while he worked for the Grey Wardens at Weisshaupt. She'd come to train alongside them for a time. To spy, the other man thought, but she never confirmed it. Cassandra Pentaghast, he said, and she carried herself like royalty even while she deigned to let a servant court her in his humble way. She left him heartbroken, wondering if he'd been a different man that she might have stayed."

His mask broke for the first time, an angry hopelessness that made her weak, before he regained control. "They wished me all luck that my lady would be more constant than theirs, and I thanked them. We parted at the dock, and I will likely never see them again."

Silence fell, and it wasn't the silence of waiting but the silence of death. Of things that would never speak again. Cassandra wondered if the death had been her soul. "I don't know what you wish me to say," she said quietly.

"Tell me it's untrue, and I'll believe you," he said, but his voice was dull and hollow. He was lying. Not a lie of deception, but a lie of aspiration. He wanted the world to be that way, but even if she told him what he wanted to hear he would only hear it in his ears. Not in his heart.

"It is not untrue. I remember them both," she said. She sighed. "I remember them all."

He didn't ask how many, and for that she was grateful. He only closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, like a man fighting back the pain of a broken limb. "Did you ever intend for me to join you here?"

"No."

"Would you have even left me a note?"

"No." The truth was supposed to be freeing, but she felt chains settling around her with every answer.

The lines were back on his face, deep furrows that traced every slice in his heart until it was nothing but a map of her own treachery. His voice cracked on the next word he spoke, and he cleared his throat. It sounded like a death rattle in the dusty shed. "Do you love me?"

And what could she say to that? That she loved him so much that being apart from him had been like walking around half-blind, half-alive? That her heart had left her body, sometime in those days in Kirkwall, and the loss of him wouldn't break her heart but steal it, forever, and leave her empty? That she'd fallen in love with him while he'd fallen in love with a woman she wasn't, and that what he'd thought were his dreams were only wishes she'd stolen for her own use?

No. He didn't deserve the dishonor of her love. Not when he knew what she truly was.

But she couldn't lie, not about this, and so she said nothing at all.

He opened his eyes when she stepped towards him, tugging the pin he'd given her from the crown of her hair. He stared at it in her palm like it was a weapon. Perhaps it was. "I have no right to this," she said. Her eyes were dry. A woman with no heart had no means for tears.

Cullen's face twisted in fury, and he grabbed it out of her hand with a violence that startled her. He gripped it tightly for a moment, as though he could crush it in his palm, before flinging it off into a dark corner to clatter away, out of sight.

"Even Hawke was never cruel enough to let me believe I could touch her heart," he said, as out of control as she'd ever heard him. She tensed, waiting to see if he would strike her. She wondered, vaguely, if she would try to stop him.

Instead the storm passed as quickly as it had come, and he found indifference once more. "I should meet the Divine," he said, looking past her to the door. His hand dripped blood, where the pin had pierced his flesh, but though it hurt her to watch the red drops forming in his fist she couldn't bring herself to mention it.

"Will you still accept the position?" It was a foolish question to ask when he was still so angry, but it was the only one she could think to ask.

"I gave my word. To Her Holiness, to my men. To you," he said, with a hint of a snarl. "I don't fail in my promises."

"I'm glad you'll be staying," she said. She lied. She told the truth. She didn't know what she did, anymore.

He shrugged and slid past her to open the door. When his arm brushed hers she bit her lip, frozen in agony. But he barely noticed, swinging out into the summer snow of the Frostbacks without another word. The ice-carved woman stood in the shadowed eaves across from them, staring with the same intense interest she'd shown before, but this time directed at Cullen.

"Who is she?" asked Cassandra again before she could stop herself.

Cullen didn't turn around. "That's Marian Hawke. I'd thought you might like to meet her."