Things stayed normal, for a while.
Killeen knew it was only because the Inquisitor was away, tracing down the lead on Samson in Emprise Du Lion, but that it was borrowed time made it sweeter. She found herself ridiculously, absurdly happy at foolish things like watching Cullen invariably sip his tea before adding honey, grimace, and reach for the pot; or at watching him waste time trying to sharpen a pen nib that had long since passed the point of usability; or on the rare mornings when they could both escape the press of messages and reports and go out riding, Firefly and Cullen's stallion Steelheart pulling at the reins until their riders gave them their heads and let the horses race each other along the long, flat plateau to Skyhold's north.
The reports came in regularly from Sahrnia — records found at the quarry, including some letters signed by Samson himself. Cullen read them, lips thinning, let them drop and went out to thrash a training dummy or an unwary sparring partner afterwards.
Killeen picked them up and read them herself, reading of Templars no longer able to remember their officers from one day to the next, reading of pain that needed unlimited elfroot, of suffering, of faces changing until they were no longer recognisable.
Men he knew, served with, trained with.
Men he could have been, if Cassandra had not persuaded him.
She let him beat the stuffing out of her in the training ring, better me than someone who doesn't know why.
He stopped, when it was Killeen, once he had her on the ground and weaponless.
Some days, she wasn't sure that he would have, if it had been anyone else.
At least it left him able to sleep. With the Inquisitor away, Killeen had resumed her old habit of sleeping on a bedroll in his loft, waking instantly when Cullen's mutters or groans betrayed the dreams that seemed to plague him even more.
They were different, too — not that he ever spoke of them, or she ever asked. But his cries of please, don't had changed to I won't … I won't!
Killeen wanted to reassure him you'd never have become like them but she knew it wasn't true. Red lyrium wasn't a character flaw or a moral failing — it was a poison.
She found an excuse after the lunch hour one day, a book from the library that might shed light on Samson's plans, and cornered Dorian in his alcove. "Is there a cure for red lyrium?"
"A cure?"
"It's a poison," Killeen pointed out. "Most poisons have antidotes."
"Unlikely," Dorian said. "But the dwarfs would know more."
"Ask them," Killeen said.
"Is this …" Dorian asked and, uncharacteristically, paused. "Is this a personal question? Do you know …?"
Someone who has become a mindless homicidal manic, was the rest of that sentence. Killeen made herself smile. "No." Not me. "But if we could drop some kind of antidote in their camps, in the water supply maybe …"
Dorian nodded. "I'll ask Varric," he said. "We'll find out."
On her way back to Cullen's office, Killeen almost tripped over a young man in what she vaguely recognised as Imperial heraldry, as he lurked — and there was no other word for it — in the upper courtyard.
She made a rapid calculation based on the symbols embossed on his armour, the estimated cost of said armour, and how carefully he'd shaved, and saluted. "Ser. Apologies."
"Not at all," the man said, and offered his hand. "Ser Michel de Chevin, at your service, mademoiselle."
"Lieutenant Killeen Hanmount," Killeen said, giving him her hand, expecting him to shake it.
Instead, he bowed over it with a flourish, pressed his lips briefly to her knuckles. "Charmed," he said, straightening.
Killeen regarded him with bemusement. "Hello?" she ventured.
"I have sworn my service to the Inquisition," de Chevin said. "I await the Inquisitor's orders."
"Excellent," Killeen said, trying and failing to retrieve her hand. "I'm sure she —"
"Is far too busy at the moment, yes, I know." He smiled, and Killeen had to admit, it was a charming smile. "But I would wish be useful, even so, and I hear from all those I talk to, you are the woman who can make that happen."
"I'm not sure that's true," Killeen said.
"Oh, I'm entirely sure that's true," de Chevin said, and yes, his smile was definitely charming. "So you will remember, no? That I am waiting my chance to serve, when the question arises."
"I'll remember," Killeen said, managed to reclaim her hand, and made her escape.
It was not the only time she found herself cornered by the chevalier — indeed, after a few days she began to feel as if he might be waiting for her, in the courtyard, or the mess-hall, or the tavern, always with a ready smile and a courtly compliment.
"Who is that man?" Fel asked, trotting behind Killeen on the way to Cullen's office after Killeen had extricated herself from one such encounter.
"He's a knight from Orlais," Killeen said. "He works for the Inquisition too. Like you and I do."
"I don't like him," Fel said firmly.
Killeen opened the door. Cullen was at his desk, and he raised a hand in a give me a moment gesture, went on writing. Killeen turned to Fel. "Why not, honey?"
"He asks too many questions."
Cullen finished his missive, folded and sealed it. "Who's asking you questions, Fel?"
"Michel de Chevin," Killeen explained. "Questions about Skyhold, Fel? About the Inquisition?" About troop strength, supplies?
They had already had more than one spy, and Cullen was watching Fel with the same alert interest Killeen felt.
"No," Fel shook her head. "Stupid questions. Not real ones."
"Such as …?" Cullen asked.
Fel sighed. "What's Kill's favourite flower, what's her favourite food, does she have any family, is she married," she rattled off rapidly. "Stuff like that."
Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "I see. Not exactly matters of great strategic importance, then."
"I would have come straight and told you if they were real questions," Fel pointed out.
"He's been pestering me to get sent out on assignment," Killeen said. "We've nothing suitable, at the moment, but he obviously thinks I'll magically discover something if he gets on my good side."
"Oh, I think we can find somewhere suitable to send the good chevalier," Cullen said. "I'm sure Harding could use an extra body in the Hissing Wastes."
Killeen laughed. "I'm not sure anyone is quite that keen to serve the Inquisition."
"I don't like him," Fel said again. "You should send him away, Ser Bear."
"Your advice is noted," Cullen said with grave courtesy, and Fel turned pink with pride.
"As is," Killeen said, because it did not do to let Fel get too pleased with herself, especially if one was the person spending much of the day in Fel's company, "the state of your tunic. What did you do, roll all the way here?"
Fel looked down at herself. "No. We were playing kick-about keep-away and I … didn't. Two of the big boys landed on me. I didn't cry, though!"
"Which of the big boys?" Killeen demanded, and when Fel named two adolescents who Killeen very well knew to be bullies and young thugs in training, set her jaw. "I think perhaps I shall have a word."
"No!" Fel said. "You can't!"
"No, you can't, Kill," Cullen agreed. "Remember what it was like, when someone tattled to an adult?"
"I'm certainly not going to do nothing," Killeen said. "They're both far too big to be playing with the younger kids. Someone is going to get hurt."
"Oh, I don't suggest we do nothing," Cullen said, and smiled.
And so it was that in the hour before the dinner bell, the Commander of the Inquisition and his second-in-command were in the lower courtyard, stripped to their shirts and breeches, engaged in the life-or-death matter of getting a ball of knotted rags between two sacks, with the encouragement and dubious assistance of an assortment of the keep's smaller urchins.
Out of fairness, of course, they were on opposing teams, and as Killeen gathered her little troops around her for some quick pointers on the importance of situational awareness she could see Cullen at the other end of the field giving, no doubt, much the same lecture.
Then he looked over at her, and grinned. "You can forfeit now, if you like," he called. "Save time."
"Oh no," Killeen said. "Who's going to win, team?"
"We are!" piped a dozen tiny voices, and Fel added: "We're going to crush them."
It was not exactly the sort of game Killeen was used to playing. The players occasionally ran in the wrong direction, frequently got in each other's way, and were as likely to get the ball through their own goal as through their opponents'. They tackled each other, and Killeen and Cullen, with great enthusiasm but lesser technique, and occasional rolling piles of players developed — sometimes while the ball was entirely elsewhere. Killeen had to turn away to hide her laughter at the sight of Cullen standing patiently with two little boys clutching his knees ferociously, trying to explain that yes, it was a good tackle, but usually it was not necessary to tackle one's own team captain. Cullen didn't even try to pretend that the sight of Killeen going down beneath the combined weight of the entire opposing team was less than hilarious.
By the end of the hour, though, they had managed to impart at least a few useful basics to the children: how to tackle someone bigger (in Cullen's case, much bigger) than yourself without getting hurt, for example; and how to get the ball away to another player well before your opponents were in a position to tackle you.
Well, we'll work on scoring goals next time, Killeen thought, as the horde raced off to wash their hands before dinner.
"Now you look as if you've rolled the length of the courtyard," Cullen said with a smile.
Killeen glanced at her shirt, gave a pointed look at his own. "Pot, kettle, and so on." Then, on impulse, she dropped the ball back to the ground, took one short step and sent it down the field towards Cullen's team's goal. "Best of three for who buys drinks tonight?" she said.
Cullen spun on his heel and charged after the ball, tossing "You're on" back over his shoulder.
She caught up with him, not quite soon enough, swore as he scored. The second one went to her when she managed to fool him with a feint and give herself a clear run.
She was not so lucky the third time, lost the ball to him, got it back, lost it again. A short, ferocious battle ensued, elbows and knees in play, and then Killeen broke free, sent the ball up the field and ran after it, hearing Cullen close behind her.
Reaching the ball, she checked her stride, kicked — and Cullen's arms closed around her waist and his weight bore her to the ground.
She landed with an ouff as the impact drove the air from her lungs, raised her head and, seeing the ball safely between the sacks that marked Cullen's goal, gave a triumphant wheeze.
"Damn," Cullen said, seeing the same thing, and rolled off her to lie on his back in the mud. He felt tenderly at his ribs. "Ow. You've got sharp elbows."
Killeen laughed, and Cullen turned his head to grin at her. For the first time in days, she could see no lines of strain around his eyes, no tightness to his mouth. He looked entirely relaxed, almost young, as if he could be any yeoman farmer with the day's labour behind him and nothing before him but ale and a meal and a night's sweet sleep.
"We should do this again," she said impulsively.
"We should," Cullen said softly.
Then a messenger's voice came from the stairs, and Cullen got to his feet in one smooth movement, raised an arm to beckon the man over, once more the Commander of the Inquisition.