A/N:You may have noticed that the rating has changed - if you haven't, please notice! It's changed for a reason, and without being spoilery-specific, the contents of upcoming chapters deal with difficult topics including the damage that people can do to themselves and each other, also, sexual situations.
"This is a job for the Chargers," Cullen said, studying a report.
"I'll tell the Bull," Killeen said.
Cullen stood. "I'll come with you," he said. "I want to ask him about these rumours of Qunari troop movements, and I've barely been outside of this room in daylight all week."
It was just after sunrise, and the weather was, for once, almost reasonable, although the breeze was chill. Locals had been talking about 'spring' for weeks and for the first time, Killeen began to believe they might be other than deluded.
She paused to look out over the valley, straining to see if the snow had receded at all, and was thus a few steps behind Cullen when he opened the door of the Iron Bull's room.
"Sorry to disturb your rest," he said, eyes on the report he held, "but there's —" Then he flinched back as if he'd walked in on a blood mage ritual. "Oh sweet Maker!"
Alarmed, Killeen began to hurry forward but Cullen shook his head at her urgently, and from inside the room she heard the Iron Bull's deep voice say casually: "Cullen. How's it goin'?"
"Is the Iron Bull awake?" Lady Montilyet asked from behind Killeen. "I thought perhaps we —" She reached the door of the room. "Oh - ah - I - "
Still turned away from the door, eyes fixed on the walkway, Cullen stammered: "I'm … so. Sorry."
"I cannot move my legs!" Lady Montilyet announced in a stunned tone.
Lady Cassandra strode past Killeen. "Is something the matt — aah!"
"Oh for fuck's sake," the Iron Bull said, and another, indistinct, man's voice muttered something that sounded similarly exasperated.
Cassandra turned to Cullen. "Do you see this?" she demanded.
"No." Cullen said firmly, gaze still averted.
"So, I take it —" Cassandra started to say.
The Iron Bull interrupted her. "Actually, he's the one who's been taking it."
That, and Cullen's not-quite-muffled laugh, gave Killeen a more complete picture of what the three had walked in on.
"I apologise for interrupting," Cassandra said.
"Nothing wrong with having a bit of fun," Cullen supplied helpfully, still with a hint of laughter in his voice.
"Who wouldn't be a little curious?" Lady Montilyet's tone held, Killeen thought, a certain curiosity of her own.
"We'll leave you be," Cullen said, ushering the two women from the doorway.
"Yes. Do enjoy yourselves," Lady Montilyet said, having apparently recovered her diplomatic aplomb.
Cullen firmly shut the door, with the three of them on the outside of it.
"Can you believe …?" Cassandra said.
"I know!" Lady Montilyet's eyes were wide. "I mean, of course, when you think about it, it's only natural …" Her hands made a vague, but unmistakable gesture.
"They're all that big," Killeen said helpfully, and at the look on the other two women's faces, "Kirkwall, remember?"
"Did you ever …?" Cassandra asked, sounding both fascinated and appalled.
"Void, no," Killeen said. "You'd walk funny for a week."
"I feel certain Dorian will be doing so," Cassandra said. "And now, if you excuse me, I may seek out the demon Cole. There are some details of that scene it would be a mercy to forget."
"I shall also take my leave," Lady Montilyet said. "I feel sure the Inquisitor will require a complete report."
Cullen waited until the two women had turned the corner of the stairs before he leaned back against the battlement and began to laugh. "Oh, Maker," he chuckled. "I never thought I'd see Josephine startled out of composure." He mimicked her accent. "I cannot move my legs!"
"Her face," Killeen said, laughing as well. "Your face."
"Cassandra's face!" Cullen said.
"I couldn't see Cassandra's face."
"Like this," Cullen said, narrowed his eyes to the Nevarran's habitual steely stare and then mimed wide-eyed shock, doubling Killeen over with laughter. "Do enjoy yourselves," Cullen snorted. "As if it was a tea party."
"I'm … so. Sorry," Killeen said in her best 'Cullen' voice.
"Some things no-one should see unprepared," Cullen said. "Although they might have locked the door."
"You might have knocked," Killeen pointed out.
"I most certainly shall in future," Cullen said with such fervour that Killeen began to laugh again.
For the rest of the day, all Killeen had to say was "I'm … so. Sorry," or Cullen, "Do enjoy yourselves", to have them both helpless with laughter.
At least, that was, until further grim reports came in from Emprise Du Lion, a dying Red Templar speaking of the unendurable pain red lyrium caused. Cullen read it, grimacing, read it again.
Perhaps someone he knew, Killeen thought.
There was no joke that would help, here. "I'm going to fetch lunch," she said quietly.
"I'm not hungry," Cullen said.
"I know," Killeen said. "I'm going to fetch lunch."
She was on her way back, bread and cheese and some cold roast tucked in a basket from the kitchen, when Michel de Chevin stopped her. Having been forewarned by Fel, she was not entirely surprised when he presented her with a bunch of wild-flowers.
"Er, thank you," she said.
He bowed. "They reminded me of you," he said. "Beauty thriving even in the harshest climates."
Killeen had to work hard not to guffaw. "You're too kind," she said.
"Perhaps this evening you will do me the honour of joining me for dinner in my quarters?" de Chevin asked. "I have managed to secure some more civilised supplies, and my man is not unskilled at cooking. And he will be present, of course, so you will not be unchaperoned."
"Uh, that's very nice of you," Killeen said, mind boggling a little at the idea of her needing a chaperon, "but Ser Michel, I must tell you, I really can't help you with a posting. So it would be a waste of your, um, civilised supplies."
He smiled. "I must disagree. The company of a lovely and charming woman is always an occasion to celebrate."
Somehow, Killeen was not quite sure afterwards how, she found herself agreeing to his invitation.
And then, because she couldn't simply discard the flowers as he stood watching her walk away, she found herself standing in Cullen's office with the absurd little bouquet.
He eyed it, eyebrows up. "I know this place is sometimes a mess, Kill," he said, "but I never thought you were one for adding feminine touches."
"I'm not," she said shortly, feeling somehow vaguely insulted, despite the undeniable truth of Cullen's words — her own housekeeping could be described by words like neat and tidy and weapons. "De Chevin gave them to me, it didn't seem polite to refuse." She set the basket of food on his desk. "You need to eat something, hungry or not."
"Bribing an officer of the Inquisition for a plum posting, is he?" Cullen said, eyeing the food without interest and going back to the letter he had been writing.
"Actually, he knows I can't do anything about finding him a posting," Killeen said. "He still invited me to dinner." Somewhat defiantly, she found and empty mug and put the flowers in it.
"Meeting someone in the mess-hall is hardly an invitation to dinner," Cullen said.
"In his quarters," Killeen said. "With fancy Orlesian food." So there.
Cullen's pen paused on the paper, and he swore with unaccustomed vehemence at the resulting blot. "Well," he said acerbically, finding a scrap of paper to absorb the ink, "if you have time this afternoon, in between arranging romantic rendezvous, the quartermaster thinks there's mould in the last shipment of rye. If he's right, can you put the fear of the Maker, or at least the fear of yourself, into the merchant responsible?"
The quartermaster was right. The merchant denied responsibility, and blamed Skyhold's intemperate climate. The quartermaster insisted that no mere matter of weather could defeat his warehouses. The merchant made an indelicate suggestion about the quartermaster's warehouses.
Killeen was tempted to knock their heads together. Or lock them both in the warehouse to thrash it out.
By the time she'd sorted them out the day was fading. She checked Cullen's office and found it empty, then considered Dorian's remarks on Ferelden hygiene and braved the wash-house again. After ten minutes hunting through her quarters for a shirt that didn't have visible patches and another five in uncharacteristic dithering over what to do with her hair, she was late, but not yet fashionably so, when she presented herself at Michel de Chevin's quarters and was bowed in by a liveried servant.
De Chevin had certainly managed to secure rather more luxurious appointments than graced her own quarters, or Cullen's loft: goblets of actual glass glittered in the light of the candles on the table, the wooden plates had a lustrous gleam that promised there would be no splinters in the food, and a thick rug and heavy wall-hangings trapped the heat of the fire and made the temperature comfortably warm.
"Please, forgive the primitive furnishings," de Chevin said, gracefully taking her hand and kissing it. "Alas, my circumstances have been somewhat straightened of late, or I would provide you with better hospitality."
"It's very nice," Killeen said honestly.
"Ah, but then, you are a soldier like myself," de Chevin said, offering her a glass of wine. Killeen resisted the urge to sniff it suspiciously — in the candlelight, its rich colour was almost that of blood — and instead sipped. Different. "We are used to conditions of the greatest hardship, and even the small comforts make us happy, non?"
"Non," Killeen agreed. "I mean, yes." She had not previously considered herself to have anything in common with the chevaliers of the Orlesian Empire, but de Chevin had a point: they were soldiers, even if often foolishly dressed ones. She wondered suddenly what Michel de Chevin would be like as a sparring partner.
There were a multitude of small, delicious morsels to go with the wine, which Killeen found herself getting used to — as opposed to the wine she was accustomed to, which one didn't so much grow used to as numb to. She stopped waiting for de Chevin to once again broach the subject of his posting and instead began to enjoy his company. He had entertaining stories of places he'd served, and was gratifyingly impressed when she shared a few of her own. She demonstrated the troop movements at Adamant Fortress with the empty wine bottle, the salt cellar and the cutlery. De Chevin asked surprisingly intelligent questions, and had his own accounts of sieges. He flirted, mildly, and Killeen found that after several glasses of wine, his courtly compliments seemed less absurd and rather more fun.
When the meal was finished, Killeen was genuinely sorry. Far from the ordeal of stilted conversation and awkward silences she had expected, it had been an entirely pleasant evening, and as she made her way back to Cullen's office, wrapped in the cloak de Chevin had insisted she borrow, she was surprised to hear the last watch bell.
She was more surprised to find a candle still burning in the office, Cullen at his desk staring at a report.
"You're up late," she said, closing the door behind her.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sleep eludes me."
"Try the Chant of Light, always makes me nod straight off," Killeen said.
"I did," Cullen said in a low voice, and Killeen was immediately sorry for the jest. She knew just what sort of nights saw Cullen on his knees, repeating the words of the Chant in a voice cracked with strain.
"Bad?" she asked gently.
He sighed. "Usual." He glanced up, and frowned slightly. "New cloak?"
Killeen slung it from her shoulders and dropped into a chair. "Borrowed. Some people are gentlemen when a woman's feeling the cold."
Even the old joke didn't seem to lighten his mood. "Be careful of him. He's on bad terms with the Empress Celine and wants the Inquisitor to use her influence on his behalf."
"He didn't ask me for any help with that, or with anything," Killeen said.
"Waiting to take you off guard, probably," Cullen said.
Killeen bit back a reply that, prompted by the wine she'd drunk, would have said a great deal more than she wanted to. Just because you don't want me, doesn't mean no man alive would talk to me except to get to you. "I'm going to bed," she said instead. "You should, as well."
"We know what Samson's up to," Cullen said, and Killeen, about to stand, sank back into her seat. "What makes him so strong, so powerful. Armour, made of red lyrium."
Killeen frowned. "Wouldn't that be in the realm of an incredibly bad idea?" she asked. "Just a sword made of red lyrium turned the Knight Commander into a statue."
"He has a Tranquil working for him, a very talented one. Maddox — another of Meredith's victims." Cullen shook his head. "They knew each other in the Circle. Maddox has obviously found a way to keep the armour from killing Samson. If we can find a way to destroy that armour …"
"How?"
"We know where Maddox is. If we can capture him, persuade him to give us the information —" Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, then drew his hand wearily over his face. "We leave at dawn."
"I'll pack," Killeen said.
Cullen shook his head. "No — I need you here. Skyhold can't spare both of us."
He was right, cold second thoughts told her. Still … Killeen found herself uneasy. "I hope the Inquisitor knows you're slow on your left-ward parry." And that you haven't been sleeping much, or eating properly.
"I have been a Templar since I was eighteen," Cullen said, then softened his tone with a smile. "I'll be fine, Kill. It's just — I need to do this. Finish this, myself."
"I know," Killeen said. She couldn't say be careful — fighting cautious was a good way to get killed. She settled for: "Come back with any dents in your armour and Harritt will hit you with that heirloom hammer of his."
"You'd protect me," Cullen said dryly.
"Probably," Killeen said. "It is my job."
When you let me.
Maker, if she lets him be hurt … or worse …
She'll answer to me, and Corypheus can damn well make do with whatever bits are still left.