AN: So the Fade is always in present tense. Hopefully that's not as confusing to read as it is to write. It's a bitch to write, let me tell you. My brain does not want to make the switch.

Thank you so much to everyone who's favorited and followed this story, and the few lovely people who have reviewed. I'd love to see some more reviews, especially as we get into the meat of this weird journey. Oh yes, it gets weird. So weird. I'm so excited to post more I have to sit on my hands to stop myself from posting early.

Enjoy!

Chapter 6: Safe Haven

"Ugh!"

Dirt and blood filled her mouth as Errol slammed into the ground.

"Stop trying to fight with your hands," Cassandra critiqued, standing above her. "The staff is your weapon. Use it."

Errol spat red and used the fake staff to hoist herself back up. The talisman Solas had given her swung from her neck, yanked free by the fall, and she saw Cassandra eye it with approval before she tucked it back under her clothing.

"I told you, if I'm trained in anything it's self defense," she growled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Hand-to-hand combat, Taekwondo, MMA."

After two weeks, Cassandra was used to her babble enough to not question it. "And I'm telling you that we have to break you of that training. If you are out of mana and an enemy gets close enough to you that you have to fight, the staff is your defense and offense. You will only use your hands if you lose the staff." She crouched, practice blade in one hand, shield in the other. "Again."

This time, Errol managed to deflect the sword with her staff and sweep her leg out, but Cassandra expertly jumped and brought the metal edge of her shield to Errol's throat. "Dead," she said. "But it was a good move. On a less skilled opponent, it might work."

Errol nodded and wiped sweat from her brow. "Okay. Let's go again."

"I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today," a sweet voice interrupted, and Errol turned to see Josephine breaking away from a small crowd of onlookers that included Cullen. "Oh Herald, look at the state of you," Josephine cooed, taking her arm and leading her away. "However are we to teach you about history and nobility with blood all over your face and clothing? I'll prepare a bath and fresh clothes immediately."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise but turned away. "Later, then, Herald."

"Count on it," Errol called back. "I'll beat you before the month is out."

Cassandra smiled, just a little. "Now that is impossible."

Cullen arrived in the war room several hours later to find her dozing, her head on the vast map. Josephine had put her in a warm green dress and plaited her hair in two thick braids on the sides of her head that met in the back. He paused, watching her in an unguarded moment, her chest moving gently in and out, before she sensed someone in the room and lifted her head sleepily.

"Oh, Cullen!" She sat up, and the difference between her now and a few hours ago, bloodied and sparring with Cassandra, was startling. The color of the dress enhanced her green upswept eyes and made them look darker, and rest, food, and activity had made her lips and cheeks pinker. Her hair was bright and soft, the color of cornsilk, and small clouds of it were already coming undone from her braids to curl prettily around her cheekbones. He stared, a slow flush creeping up his cheeks. Was this really the scared, foul-mouthed little half-dead wildcat who had stabilized the Breach?

"The dress is weird, right?" she asked, smoothing her hands along it. "I mean, it's pretty, and the fur trim is really soft, but it feels weird to be in a dress here. Josephine said nobles are going to start coming to meet the Herald. Me." She cleared her throat and looked at him in distress. "Help."

He laughed softly, stepped inside the room, and rubbed the back of his neck while staring down at the huge map of Orlais and Ferelden that lay spread before him. "It's a very nice dress," he said. "But you're right, it's not appropriate to wear around Haven on a daily basis simply because some noble might stop by. We should be prepared for battle at all times."

"Is that why you're in armor all the time?" Errol leaned back in her chair. "It's all I ever see you in. I can't imagine you without it."

Cullen's eyes widened fractionally at the thought, but she didn't seem to notice the double meaning in her words, and he relaxed. "It's… important to be prepared."

He noticed that she sat like a man, her legs relaxed under the length of the dress instead of ankles looped delicately like the ladies here, and wondered if it was another cultural difference. Solas' talisman lay on a chain around her neck; usually tucked under her clothing, the silver diamond-shaped pendant was visible just over the swell of her breasts. He looked quickly away. "You're a decent fighter for someone who comes from no formal training. Where did you learn?"

"Oh, you saw?"

"I've seen other days, too."

Errol grinned. "Sneaky." He didn't look at her so she continued. "My dad was really paranoid. His sister was killed when they were teens, back in Scotland. That's a country in my world." Now he sat and watched her speak. "He left shortly after that, moved to the US, the country where I was born. Married a Dutch-Korean army brat, though I know you don't know what any of those words mean. I have her face shape, her eyes, his hands, his temper. I don't know why I'm telling you these things."

Cullen mulled this over, thinking of the words he didn't understand. There were still so many of them peppered throughout her speech. "Maybe you just need someone to talk to."

She looked a little nervous. She always looked a little nervous around him. "Maybe. Anyway, I was his first kid. A girl. He wanted me to be safe in a big bad world so he had me take fighting classes, shooting classes, everything. He just wanted me safe."

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you. Your world seems incredibly technologically advanced. Perhaps, if we could come to understand some of that weaponry, it might give us an edge in this fight—"

"No."

Cullen looked over, surprised. Errol was sitting ramrod straight, her hands clenched tight over her knees. "Why not?"

"You're already tearing your world apart and you want more firepower?" she asked incredulously. "No. You have magic. That's your weaponry. That's what you get to kill yourselves with. That and swords and trebuchets. That's it."

"But—"

"No buts," she said firmly. "I will not see gunpowder turn into rifles turn into AK-47s and landmines on the field in this world. I will not be responsible for that." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Cullen, I know you want to win this war. We did once, too. Imagine a weapon that could cause an incident like the Conclave, whenever you want. Whole cities leveled. Except it's worse, because there's also chemicals that are carried in the wind, infecting everyone for hundreds of miles, killing them slowly from the inside."

Cullen stilled. Just what was her world? "Maker's breath. How have you not destroyed each other yet?"

"We're at a stalemate. If one fires, the other retaliates, we all go boom."

"That can't last forever."

"No, it can't. We don't need magic. We're killing each other just fine without it. I won't add to that, not even in the smallest way, because we started like you, and we ended like us."

"Point taken," he said, then, softer, "I had thought perhaps your world a happier place."

"I think in parts it is," she said, tracing a mountain ridge on the map with her index finger, her hand perilously closer to his. "But it has its fair share of war, poverty, and death. Just no demons. I was lucky enough to be born in an area that was safe and clean, where I could go to school and be treated equal to men in a lot of ways."

"That is lucky." He moved his hand. "Had you been born here with your magical talent, you would have been confined to a Circle from a young age."

"So I hear." She looked at him, clearly troubled. "What about you, Cullen? What was being a templar really like?"

"I'd… rather not discuss it right now."

She looked upset, and he couldn't blame her. Here was someone who suddenly knew magic, and all she knew about the world was that templars locked up and hunted down mages. She had never seen an abomination, she didn't know what they could do. She didn't know what he had been through, and he couldn't imagine telling her. Not now.

Suddenly, her eyes glazed over, just for an instant. Then she blinked, looked at him, and she didn't seem upset anymore.

"Okay," she said simply. "If you ever want to talk about it, let me know."

"All right," he said, uncertain as to what had just happened but relieved. "Now, we should probably resume where we left off on tactical advancements in the field. Did you draw up the examples I asked?"

Her father is wearing padding over his whole body. "C'mon, hit me as hard as you can!"

She giggles, her hair in pigtails. "Daddy, I don't want to hurt you!"

"I'm not Dad, I'm a bad guy!" He makes a face. "Now hit me hard, like we practiced!"

He grabs for her. She hits him hard in the solar plexus, then stomps his foot and kicks him in the balls. "Don't forget to scream!" he says. "Get angry! Howl like a wolf. Screech like an owl! Show him you won't be hurt!"

She screams, screeches, hits him, and he smiles.

The overhead light is flickering. Errol presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose and groans. She's told the tech guys about that damn light a thousand times now.

The computer glow is bright in the dim room, and Errol realizes she is the last to leave again. Sighing, she gathers up her stack of paperwork and her empty lunch bag and logs off, before shrugging on her coat and tote and heading out into the packed city streets toward the bus stop.

Standing on the crowded bus, she stares blankly ahead, her headphones pumping a tinny version of Florence & the Machine into her ears.

Regrets collect like old friends, here to relive your darkest moments
I can see no way, I can see no way
And all of the ghouls come out to play
And every demon wants his pound of flesh
But I like to keep some things to myself

The streets are emptier now and the city air is stale and smells like exhaust. She only has Taekwondo classes on the weekends now; she's too tired during the week, too worn out, and she's started getting headaches, her eyes strained from staring at the computer all day. She drops her bag by the door of her studio apartment and kicks off her shoes. She's too exhausted to cook. Chinese tonight? Everything looks so grey. It's raining outside. She can hear it pattering on the windows. It's always raining in Seattle. She's always here. It's always raining.

It's so desperately empty she wants to scream.

"I think I understand."

She gasps, and there a brutal, beautiful knife-edge moment when she doesn't know what's happening. Then understanding washes over once again, like it always does now, and she straightens.

"You understand what?"

Solas is standing in the middle of the room, looking around at her tiny apartment, lightning illuminating the windows behind him. "Your father trained you in violence, a soldier without a war, and left you stacking papers each day. How could you fail but to be angry at the world?"

"You're not my therapist, dude, so stop trying," Errol snaps.

"Was that an insult?"

"Which part, therapist or dude? Either way, get out of my head. I had a job, I had a life. That's all I could have asked for in my world."

"You had a job, certainly. Whether or not you had a life is debatable."

"Get. Out. These memories are private."

"You invited me in, however unknowingly. I can't go where I'm not allowed access."

"I don't believe you. I have no control here."

He cocks his head. His eyes look alien at times, and she is reminded that he really isn't human. "You have more control than you think."

"And you get off on being cryptic," she says, and he doesn't deny it, just shrugs elegantly.

"Maybe. Now, shall we?"

Errol isn't sad to leave this memory. It always starts like this: She dreams of home, and it's so real she can taste it, smell it, can't imagine it not being right there until he appears and suddenly its all false and flat and the Fade. He's seen more of her history than she ever wanted anyone to, especially him, with the way his words seem so often laced with thinly-veiled condescension, the way he believes that now he understands her and her world because of a few scattered memories.

Bullshit. He doesn't understand anything.

They are slipping away now, into another area of the Fade, a huge expanse of grassland lit by the gently rising sun, and as it shifts and settles around them Errol scrunches up her face and tries as hard as she can to retain her human shape. She thinks of her ears, smooth and rounded, her square hands roughened by training, her plump toes, how her bones and muscles and curves fit together on her body. Human. She can feel herself retain, yes, stay, even as the scenery changes, and she's confident this time it will work—

—but then like always there's something else there, even now after three weeks, a subtle shift, a pressure, a push, an ache, what is it? like an itch she can't scratch, like whispers in the dark and she loses her concentration and—

"Are you ready to begin?"

Errol looks down. Elf again. Fuck.

"Is something the matter?"

"No." She takes a deep breath and conjures her staff. They stopped meditating last week and started the fun stuff. She won't let a little issue like the sheer horror of being in the wrong body distract her. She won't let him see how much it bothers her. "Let's get to work."

He stares at her, a small frown on his face, before nodding and brandishing his staff. "You need to work on your barriers," he says. "Combat is still your strongest suit, but even that is wild, unmanageable, expending too much energy. You need to focus, first on protecting yourself while expending as little mana as possible, then casting spells with accuracy and force without breaking that concentration. You can't just fling power around with abandon." She opens her mouth, and he sighs, looking deeply pained. "And yes, I know you're going to say I can't just fling my face around with abandon. It still doesn't make any sense."

"Your face still doesn't make any sense," she mutters, then giggles a little at her own stupid joke. She likes making him frustrated. He's too serene and composed and damn smug; he gets in her head, he is somehow the reason she's in the wrong body half the time in the Fade, the least she can do is get under his skin.

"If you are quite finished," he says in a clipped voice, and then, without warning, attacks.

Errol barely has time to throw up the barrier, and it is weak and full of holes. His lightning spell blasts her back. "Again!" he calls, and continues battering her.

"Let me breathe!" she yells, trying to pull the energy up and around her body. It should fit like a glove against your skin, he had told her before. No space for air, the barrier an extension of yourself. The closer the barrier is to you, the less chance someone will be able to slip past it.

"You won't have time to breathe in a battle!" he says, and she rolls out of the way just in time to avoid being singed by fire.

"Is this because I said your face doesn't make any sense?" she shouts, rolling the other way to avoid more fire.

"Possibly!" he calls, and when she looks at him he is actually smiling.

He's enjoying this! Errol grins back darkly. Not for long!

She rolls one more time, springs up, and jumps, and as her bare feet leave the ground she feels the world slow and stop and she pulls the spirits around her —a glove against your skin — and the barrier comes in strong and tight. When she reconnects with the ground his ice spell feels like a gentle breeze and she gathers lightning on the tips of her fingers and fires right into his face.

He's gone, but her hand is still full of lightning that she doesn't release so that when he grabs her from behind, they are both electrocuted.

They stumble apart, and she can tell that he is surprised. Her toes tingle and her hair is standing straight up, but she laughs until she can't breathe.

"I knew you'd try to get past my barrier to teach me something about relying on it too much," she says, still laughing. "I know your tricks."

His clothing is slightly blackened by the force of the electricity, and he is clearly still shaking it off. "Hopefully not all of them," he says, and looks at her with an approval she hasn't seen before, and it makes her suddenly uneasy, and he takes a step towards her and then there is a knocking on her door and it is time to wake up.

The sunset was beautiful, glinting orange and red embers over the snow. It was crisp and fresh as far as the eye could see, clean mountains covered in pines, everything perfectly still except for the whirling void of the Breach she could just see out of the corner of her right eye.

"Ah, here you are. We were wondering if you'd been carried off by a wandering wolf. What are you doing up there?"

Errol looked down from her perch at the head sticking out of the window. "It's my last night at Haven and the sunset is beautiful." She was suddenly shy. "Join me? If you're not too busy."

Cullen hesitated, and Errol felt like an idiot. "Right, your armor," she said, shaking her head. "You couldn't climb out here in all that, silly me."

"Actually," he said, and swung out of the window, pulling himself up and over the ledge. In one graceful motion he was sitting next to her on the roof.

"Oh, you're… not wearing it," she said dumbly. He was wearing a tan shirt with dark pants tucked into boots and a long coat of deep red. Out of the armor, it was easy to see the lean lines of his body, how broad his shoulders were, the narrowness of his hips. "I like your… coat. It's… red."

She hated herself.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "You leave us tomorrow to go to the Hinterlands," he said, studiously not looking at her. "I thought that it wouldn't be terrible to be a bit more… relaxed as we celebrate the end of your training and look ahead to your next chapter as the Herald."

"Celebrate," Errol said in a monotone voice. "Woo."

"Not that I'm… we're not happy about you leaving us," he said quickly, finally looking at her. "We're all… well, we're worried about you. But you've learned much and we think you're ready. You can't stay in Haven forever."

"I know." Errol watched the people below. Cassandra was still practicing; it was like she never stopped, and she had a small crowd of recruits watching her admiringly. "I didn't beat her."

Cullen followed her gaze and chuckled under his breath. "I don't think anyone expected you would. She has trained her whole life, you know. Give it a year or ten, then try again. You'll be glad to have that experience at your back in the field. She'll keep you safe."

"Mmm," Errol made a soft noise of agreement. The setting sun threw a red halo around Cassandra's head; now she was talking to Varric, chiding him in some way, her fists on her hips, and he was holding his hands up in a very who, me? gesture. "I'm lucky to have them by my side."

"And we'll do everything we can here to keep you safe as well," he said, and she turned her head to see him looking right at her. His eyes were a very warm amber, darker now in the last of the evening light. She remembered what the voice had said to her a few weeks ago, the young man that still occasional spoke in fragments in her head despite the talisman that hung around her neck: His blood used to run blue but now it's just blood, and the nightmares come and he can't stop them, he wakes sweating, scared, if he's not a templar anymore what is he?

She had been angry with Cullen before that, after everything she'd heard about what templars did to mages, but her anger had cooled. He wasn't a templar, not anymore, and there was clearly some deep struggle going on under the surface.

Yes, the voice had whispered. He hurts.

"I wish you were coming," she said, then quickly, before he could respond, "but I understand why you can't. Someone's got to keep things running around here."

"I think that would be Leliana, to be quite honest," he said, smiling his soft half-smile. "But yes, I… I wish I could join you as well. Sometimes being in the thick of it is better. It will be hard, waiting for news via raven or runner."

"I'm scared," she said suddenly, surprised by the admission.

"It will only be for a few weeks. You're more than capable."

"Oh no, I'll be fine," she said dismissively. "I'll have a warrior woman, a kickass mage, and Bianca with me. I'm golden."

"So what—"

"Demons, I'm okay with," she said. "Killing, I mean. Sealing rifts. But this mage-templar war. Bandits on the road. Humans. People. What if I… I've never…" Errol trailed off, feeling sick to her stomach.

She was surprised to feel his hand cover hers. "You'll be fine," he said soothingly. "Focus on the demons and the rifts. Let us take care of the rest."

She wasn't sure what he meant, but she nodded, enjoying the warmth of his hand. She knew there was nothing he could say that would help her, anyway. "Yeah."

"Do you play chess?"

The conversation whiplash took her a moment to process. "I, uh, yeah. I mean, back on Earth. Not sure if it's the same as your chess. I'm awful at it too, I haven't played in years, but I know the moves." She parodied a Knight moving with her left hand, her right still trapped under his. "The horsey makes an L."

He laughed at that, and she decided that she really liked his laugh. "Sounds about right. We'll play a game when you return."

She smiled at him. "Deal."

He smiled back, and the shadows fell cool over his face, leaving only the impression of him. "I warn you, I won't let you win."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

They stayed like that, his hand resting on hers, until the sun sank behind the mountains and the last of the embers and rubies went out, leaving only the moon, the stars, and the Breach.