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Chapter Text

She is certain that she will never grow accustomed to being called the Herald of Andraste. The title is an overstatement that boarders on farcical. A day before she was no more than a minor emissary from the Ostwick Circle of Magi, one of many attending the Divine’s Conclave, but now she is looked upon as though she is a holy relic to be treasured. It is uncomfortable, unnerving.

“I am not the Maker’s chosen,” she says to Cassandra as they stand in the nave of Haven’s Chantry. “The very idea is ludicrous.”

The Seeker shrugs. “Perhaps, but I will not pretend that you and that mark on your hand were not just what we needed exactly when we needed it. If that is not divine providence, I do not know what is.”

She sighs, looking down at her left palm. It appears perfectly ordinary, the familiar lines unchanged by whatever magic is now bound there. It itches from time to time, though, as if to remind her that no matter what she says, there is now something quite extraordinary about her.

“What are we waiting for?” she asks.

“For the Inquisition’s advisors,” says Cassandra. “If we are to seal the Breach, we must have a strategy. There is much to plan, Enchanter Trevelyan.”

“Is it necessary that I attend such a gathering?” she says, massaging her hand absently. “I am not one of your advisors.”

Cassandra turns to her, cocking a brow. “No, but you are a part of the Inquisition, and like it or not, as Herald, you must be privy to our talks.”

“Very well,” she says, though her words are all but lost in the creaking of the Chantry doors as they swing open. A gust of icy wind sends snow swirling into the nave, though it melts quickly as it lands on the flagstones.

Sister Leliana seems indifferent to the bitter cold as she strides inside. Following close on her heels is a petite young woman with olive skin. She brushes the snow off of her gilt sleeves and runs a fretful hand over the intricate plaits in her dark hair.

“Enchanter Trevelyan,” says Leliana, “it is good to see you again. May I present Josephine Montilyet, ambassador of the Inquisition?”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Herald,” Montilyet says, dropping a shallow curtsey. Both her accent and colorful garb are Antivan.

“Lady Ambassador,” Trevelyan says, inclining her head.

“Shall we move this discussion to the war room?” asks Leliana.

“Not without the Commander,” says Cassandra, her habitual frown deepening.

“I’m here.” It is a man’s voice. He stands at the threshold, his left hand resting on the pommel of his longsword.

At first the brightness of the snowy mountainside behind him hides his face, but when the doors slam shut behind him, Trevelyan sees him quite clearly. Her heart seizes as if it has turned to ice in her chest.

“It cannot be,” she breathes.

Leliana looks over at her, brows knit, but she says nothing.

"I was detained by the soldiers returning from the forward camp,” he says as he strides toward the others. “My apologies, Cassandra.”

“We were not waiting long,” the Seeker says. “Commander, may I present—”

“Rhoslyn,” he says, his eyes widening.

It has been ten years since she last heard him speak her name.

“Hello, Cullen,” she says.

Chapter Text

Rain was falling steadily on the hood of her cloak, soaking it. It had been ceaseless since she arrived in Ferelden, and she thought that perhaps the leaden skies would never clear.

Six days before, she and the two grizzled Templars that accompanied her had sailed from Ostwick to Highever. As her boots sank into the muddy silt along the shore, it marked the first time in her life that she had set foot off of her family’s lands.

From the village of Harper’s Ford, a bleak cluster of cottages that smelled of rotting fish, they had hired horses and ridden for nearly three days until, at long last, they came to the banks of Lake Calenhad.

“It’s just a short distance to the Tower now,” said Rylan, the only one of the Templars that bothered to speak to her. The other, Oakes, was rowing the weather-worn boat across the black waters of the lake, grunting occasionally with the effort. The sun had long since set and darkness was swiftly descending.

“Though all before me is shadow,” Rhoslyn recited quietly, “yet shall the Maker be my guide.”

It was her eldest sister Eolande who had made her recite one of the canticles of the Chant of Light each day. “It will give you comfort when you are feeling lost,” she had said. Rhoslyn had not believed her then, but the verses of the Canticle of Trials in particular had meant little until this journey.

“Pious little thing, ain’t she?” said Oakes, breaking his habitual silence. “S’pose they all are, them Trevelyans. The way the father sent her off…all pretty, noble words, but not even a kiss on the brow.”

“Mind your own affairs,” Rylan snapped.

Rhoslyn took no offence; the Templar spoke true enough. While her father was not a cruel man, he had never been affectionate with his children. A goodbye kiss would not have been proper. The Trevelyans were known across the Free Marches for their upright manners and devotion to the Chantry. Their eldest children were groomed to manage the family’s trade affairs, but second sons and any daughters were unfailingly given over to the faith.

Rhoslyn was the fifth child born to Bann Trevelyan and his wife. She, like the two girls before her, would have gone into the sisterhood of the Chantry had she not started a small fire in the east wing parlor without the aid of flint or tinder. Had she dropped a candle, she would have been scolded and sent to bed without supper, but the sparks had come from her fingers as she snapped them together.

The maid had screamed when she saw it, babbling something or other about demons and evil and magic. Rhoslyn heard little of it as she was being dragged into her father’s study. He had sent the frantic maid away and asked his youngest daughter to explain herself. She said that she had not meant it to happen, that she would not do it again. She had been shaking with fear of being punished, but her had father simply sighed.

“I shall have to instruct the servants to carry pails of water when you are about,” he said. “Until arrangements can be made with the Circle, of course.”

Whatever arrangements those were, they took several weeks to put in order, but soon enough Rhoslyn found herself standing in front of her father’s desk once again.

“I’ve received a letter from the First Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle of Magi,” he told her. “There are already too many apprentices in residence there, so you will go instead to Kinloch Hold, where a place has been secured for you.”

And so she had come to damp, gloomy Ferelden, unlikely to ever see the Free Marches again. Kinloch Hold, the Circle Tower, was an imposing structure that rose from the waters of Lake Calenhad like a specter in the fog. The nearest village was Redcliffe, Rylan had told her, but the apprentices were not permitted to go there. In fact, they were not permitted to leave the Tower until they had endured their Harrowing.

Rhoslyn had heard that the mages stayed away from others in order to devote themselves completely to the study of the arcane, but others whispered that they were locked away against their will, kept under the watchful eye of the Templars.

She would learn which stories were true, she supposed, once she arrived at the Tower. Perhaps she should have been frightened, but she was not. Whatever life awaited her in the Circle, she was glad for it. Even at ten she knew that she did not wish to spend her life in prayer and contemplation as a Chantry sister.

As the boat floated up to a small dock, its boards rotting and black, Templar Rylan sprang out and held out his hand. Rhoslyn took it gratefully. As they made their way from the rocky shore, she stumbled once and nearly fell.

The big Templar laid a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Only a few paces more, lass.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. She was wet and tired, unaccustomed to long rides on horseback, and it had been days since she had had a meal that did not consist of hard waybread and dried meat. She longed for a warm fire and a change of clothes.

The door to the Circle Tower was emblazoned with the sigils of the four schools of magic. Rhoslyn recognized the flaming sun of the Primal School and smiled. Rylan had told her that if she was already kindling fires in her hands, it was likely that her studies would be focused on the Primal arts.

“You’ll learn to control the flames first,” he had said as their horses plodded along the road, “so that you don’t burn the Tower down by mistake.”

Rylan pounded his fist against the door three times and then waited. After a few moments has passed, the door opened, revealing a man with a short, gray beard. He wore dark blue robes lined with fur.

“Come in, come in,” he said, “out of the weather.”

Rhoslyn followed the Templars inside. Her footfalls echoed from the stone walls around her. Banners for each of the schools of magic hung from the lofty ceiling.

“Greetings, young lady,” said the bearded mage. “I am First Enchanter Irving. You can only be Rhoslyn Trevelyan.”

Putting back her hood, she dropped a curtsey. “I am, First Enchanter.”

“No need to stand on ceremony, child,” he said, smiling and holding out his hand. Rhoslyn looked at it for a moment before sliding her small fingers into his. His grip was firm and cool. “I am pleased to meet you, and I welcome you to the Ferelden Circle of Magi.” He released her hand, still smiling.

“Well, you are certainly quite sodden,” he continued. “Wretched weather for traveling, but we make the best of what the Maker gives us. Come with me, child, and I will see that you get some dry clothes.”

Rhoslyn waved goodbye to Rylan and Oakes, though only the former waved back. Following the First Enchanter, she wound her way up a long staircase. Her boots left wet footprints on the stones.

“You will be staying in the apprentice dormitory,” said Irving, “but we are not going there now. Ah, here we are.” He opened the door to a small chamber where a fire burned merrily in the hearth. Rhoslyn wanted only to go over to it and warm her hands, but she kept her manners and waited for instruction.

“These are the robes of an apprentice,” said Irving, lifting a garment of plain gray wool embroidered with the insignia of the Chantry. “You are not yet initiated into the Circle, but we will see to that shortly. I’ve prepared a phylactery for you.”

“A what?” Rhoslyn asked.

Irving patted her shoulder. “I will explain downstairs. Now, change your clothes quickly. I will wait for you outside.”

Once she had shed her sopping cloak, dress, and stockings, she slipped the robes over her head. They were homespun and a little itchy, but once she had cinched the belt around her waist and donned the unadorned leather slippers that were provided for her, she felt much better. The slippers fit well enough, but the long sleeves of the robes were far too long. She frowned at them for a moment before deciding to cuff them up.

Glancing down at the wet pile of her old clothes, she saw all that remained of her life in Ostwick. Taking a deep breath, she turned away from them and went out to meet Irving again. He nodded at her approvingly and ushered her away from the little chamber. She liked the way he swept efficiently through the halls of the tower, though she nearly had to run to keep up with him. He pointed out some of the rooms as they passed by them, but Rhoslyn was too preoccupied with keeping herself from tripping over her robes to recall what he said.

When they arrived at the bottom of a winding staircase, Irving paused to cast a spell over the door. Rhoslyn watched, fascinated, as his fingers glowed blue. A thrill of excitement ran down her spine at the thought of being able to do such a thing. As quickly as the light appeared, though, it was gone and a moment later, the latch released and the door swung open.

The room on the other side of the door was dark, but First Enchanter Irving conjured a flame in his right hand and went around the room lighting torches with it. Rhoslyn smiled as she watched him. She wanted to know how to do that, too. She could make sparks in her hands, but no real flames. Not yet anyway.

When the room was lit, she saw that it was bare save for a stone alter at its center. One short section of the wall, too, was adorned with small metal circlets that hung from golden chains. Going to the wall, Irving took one of them and brought it to her.

“This is a phylactery,” he said, holding it out. “It is empty now, but soon we must fill it.”

She looked the object over. It was heavy and her name was engraved in small letters on both sides of the golden circle. In the center of it was a glass vial. “Fill it with what?” she asked.

“Your blood,” said Irving.

She must have looked distressed, as Irving gently squeezed her shoulder.

“Do not be afraid, child. It is only a few drops. It will allow the Templars to find you if you are ever lost. You know that the Templars are here to keep you safe, do you not? They protect us.”

“I thought mages protected themselves,” she said.

Irving smiled. “You are a bright girl, and correct. Magic can be a most powerful protection for you, but it can also be misused. You know that.”

She nodded.

“You need not worry about that now, child. Simply know that the Templars are our allies unless we venture into the darkest of magics. Then we put ourselves and all around us in great peril.”

Heavy footfalls echoed throughout the chamber, announcing the arrival of others.

“Ah, good,” said Irving, turning to the door. “I’d like to introduce you to someone, Rhoslyn.”

She looked to the two figures crossing the room. One was a broad shouldered man in full plate armor. The breastplate was emblazoned with the sigil of the Templars. The man stood almost a full head taller than her father, who was not small in stature. Beside him walked a skinny boy of twelve or thirteen. His head was crowned with golden hair, and he wore a long knife on a belt at his hip.

“This,” said First Enchanter Irving, “is Knight-Commander Greagoir. He oversees Kinloch Hold’s Templars.” Making his way over to the boy, he laid a hand on his shoulder. “And this is Master Cullen. He is a novice of the Templar order. Cullen, meet Apprentice Rhoslyn.”

“Hello,” said the boy, almost shyly.

Rhoslyn dropped a shallow curtsey, as she had been taught by her elder sisters. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Bow, lad,” said Greagoir, chuckling. The boy swallowed, unsure, but made a passible bow at the waist.

Irving smiled at him reassuringly, but spoke to Rhoslyn: “Each mage within the Circle is paired with Templar novice throughout their training. Cullen is nearly of an age with you, so Knight-Commander Greagoir has chosen him to serve as your Sentinel.”

“The Sentinel and his charge are paired in order to learn from one another,” said Greagoir. “As you study spells, Apprentice Rhoslyn, Cullen will learn to counter them. It is his duty to watch over you and ensure that your training is progressing…properly.”

First Enchanter Irving frowned at that, though his expression softened again a moment later. “Your Sentinel will not be present for all of your lessons,” he said, “but you will cooperate with him to master certain skills. I will tell you more of it tomorrow, Rhoslyn, when you begin. For now, we have other business to attend to.”

She nodded solemnly, though from the corner of her eye she could see the boy Cullen watching her. Glancing over, she ventured a smile. His lips curled up only slightly, but his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that suggested he would have smiled bigger had he thought he could.

Turning to the altar at the center of the room, Irving beckoned both of them to approach. They took a few steps forward until they were standing side-by-side before the altar.

“It is required,” said Irving, “that all mages provide a vial of their blood so that they can be located by magical means should they ever venture away from their Circle without permission and without an escort of Templars, namely their Sentinel. The phylacteries are rarely used, but they are necessary. Do you understand, young lady?”

“Yes, sir,” Rhoslyn said.

“Good. Now, if you will hold out your wrist? It does not matter which.”

Pushing her long sleeve up her arm, Rhoslyn held out her right hand. Irving’s fingers were warm as he grasped her arm.

He said, “Your blade, Master Cullen, if you please.”

The boy drew the knife from its sheath and offered it hilt-first to the enchanter.

“Repeat after me, Rhoslyn,” said Irving. “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His Children.”

She spoke the words, careful not to stumble over them.

“Now take a deep breath,” Irving said, “and let it out.”

She filled her lungs and then, as she emptied them again, she felt the sting of the blade against her wrist. Bright blood welled from the wound.

Spinning the glass vial of the phylactery so that its opening was exposed, Irving guided the red drops into it. Once it was filled, he twisted the phylactery closed again and pressed a cloth to Rhoslyn’s wrist.

“There now,” he said. “Done.” He held the phylactery out to Cullen. “Take this and put it in its place with the others.”

The boy took it gingerly and hung it on an empty hook on the wall. Irving lifted the cloth from Rhoslyn’s wrist. His hand glimmering cobalt blue, he curled his fingers around the wound. Rhoslyn felt an odd tingling, but when he took his hand away, her skin had knit itself back together, leaving only a thin line of white.

“Welcome to the Circle of Magi,” said Irving.

Rhoslyn smiled up at him. She liked the First Enchanter and hoped that he would be the one to teach some of the lessons he had spoken of before. Perhaps those would be the lessons she attended alone, or perhaps her Sentinel would be there as well.

She cast a glance at Cullen again. He had returned to Knight-Commander Greagoir’s side and stood at attention, one hand resting easily on the pommel of his knife. Rhoslyn wondered if he had wiped it clean or if her blood still stained its edge.

Her first days at the Circle passed with startling speed. She was assigned a bunk in the apprentices' dormitory and given a bound volume filled with nothing but blank pages.

“Can you read, write?” asked Enchanter Uldred when she arrived for her first lesson.

She told him that she could, that she had been reading since she was five years old.

“Good,” he said. “Not all the new apprentices can. Some of them come from villages where there is little to do but plow the ground and stare at cows.”

Rhoslyn liked most of the mages she had met, but Uldred was not among them. He was a callous and curt, neither of which endeared him to anyone let alone a young apprentice.

After Rhoslyn and First Enchanter Irving retired from the bloodletting that first night, she did not see Cullen again for nearly a fortnight. The Templars had their own barracks, she was told by some of the older girls in the dormitory, and generally left the mages to manage their own affairs in the Tower.

“I’ve heard,” said Ellenora, “that the apprentices in Orlais must always be accompanied by their Sentinels. Can you imagine that? Always being watched? How dreadful that must be.”

“We only see ours at weekly prayers in the Chantry,” said Apprentice Lys, “and for the lessons they are forced to attend with us.”

Rhoslyn learned quickly that the Templar novices attended the best lessons, the ones in which the mage apprentices learned about conjuring and manipulating the elements, the Primal School of magic. Those were the ones she enjoyed most. She was a quick study, too. Fire came easily to her. Lightening and ice were more difficult, but she still mastered the skills before many of her fellows. The duller lessons were spent studying arcane texts and learning about the creatures of the Fade, neither of which she found anywhere near as compelling as her Primal lessons.

The Templar novices remained silent through most of the lessons they attended, though occasionally Cullen would pull a small book from his breast pocket and scribble something into it with the stub of a charred stick.

“Are you not permitted to use ink?” Rhoslyn asked him once as he was about to leave the classroom after their lesson for that morning was done.

“What?” he said, his brows knit.

“Your fingers are black from writing with that bit of burned stick,” she replied, pointing. “Why don’t you have a proper quill?”

“I can’t very well carry an inkwell about,” he said. “I might spill it and then where would I be?”

“Well, at least get a longer stick,” said Rhoslyn, “so you don’t leave soot all over your tunic.”

He frowned down at the black streaks across his clothing.

“Come on, Rutherford,” said one of the other novices from down the hall. It was unusual for one of their number to stop and talk to an apprentice. Most of the girls in the dormitory said that their Sentinels rarely spoke to them. Rhoslyn thought that rather foolish. After all, they were supposed to be learning from each other, were they not?

“Longer stick,” said Rhoslyn just before Cullen dashed off to join his friends.

“All right,” was his reply.

The next time they spoke was in the mages’ herb garden, where both apprentices and Templar novices were expected to work one day per week. It was tedious work. Only the apprentices who liked their Creation and healing lessons enjoyed working in the garden.

Rhoslyn was given a pair of gloves and told to prune the elfroot that particular day. As the garden was in a courtyard outside of the confines of the Tower, Cullen was expected to stand guard, as he would were Rhoslyn to venture outside of the Kinloch Hold.

“Aren’t you bored?” she asked after nearly an hour of watching him stand in silence.

“No,” he replied.

"Well, I am,” said Rhoslyn. “Let’s talk about something.”

"About what?” asked Cullen.

“Anything,” said Rhoslyn. “Expect perhaps plants or the weather. I hate talking about the weather. My sister Donella could not hold her tongue when it came to the rains or the sunshine." She sighed. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Cullen looked down at her and for a moment she thought he was not going to reply, but then he said, “Two sisters and a brother.”

“I have two sisters as well,” said Rhoslyn. “And two brothers. Audric is the eldest. He’ll be my father’s heir, but Wesley wants to be a Templar, like you.”

“I’m not a Templar yet,” said Cullen.

"No, but you will be when you’re older. So will Wesley. Does your brother want to be a Templar, too?”

Cullen shook his head. “He’ll take over the farm when my father is too old.”

“Where is your farm?” asked Rhoslyn, her pruning all but forgotten.

“In Honnleath,” he said.

“Is that far from here?”

He shrugged. “A few days’ ride.”

“Do you miss it?”

Another shrug. “Sometimes, but I like it here. All I’ve ever wanted to do is be a Templar.”

“Always?” said Rhoslyn.

“For as long as I can remember. My mother and father didn’t want me to go at first, but the Knight-Captain at the Honnleath Chantry convinced them. He brought me here himself.” He lifted his chin proudly. Rhoslyn stifled a laugh. Cullen was so very serious when it came to joining the Order. She told him so.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked. “It’s my duty to serve the Order and the Maker. Do you not consider it your duty to be a good mage?”

“I suppose so,” she replied, lifting a shoulder dismissively. “I want to be the best Primal fire mage in the Tower, but not because it’s my duty. I want to because it’s fun. Isn’t being a Templar any fun?”

“Of course it is,” said Cullen. “We’re learning to fight. No one in my family’s ever swung a sword before me.”

“Are you any good at it?” asked Rhoslyn.

“Knight-Corporal Jonus says I am,” Cullen replied.

“Will you show me?”

“Mages aren’t permitted in the barracks or the Templar’s practice yard."

“You have your knife,” said Rhoslyn. “Pretend it’s a sword.”

“It’s not big enough,” said Cullen.

Rhoslyn rolled her eyes. “Pretend.”

“Fine,” said Cullen. Getting up, he brushed the dirt from the knees of his trousers and drew the knife from its sheath at his waist. He took a wide stance, holding the blade in his right hand. With his left arm he pantomimed holding a shield. Lunging forward, he slashed at the air. Rhoslyn sat back on her heels and watched him.

“We’re only allowed to use blunt swords for now,” he said, “but when I’m older, they’ll give us blades with a proper edge. Knight-Corporal Jonus says that if I train hard every day, I might even get to use one next year.”

“Are swords heavy?” asked Rhoslyn.

“They can be,” said Cullen, “but not as heavy as full armor. That’s why a Templar has to be strong. I’ve heard that Knight-Commander Greagoir can lift a hundred-pound stone and throw it as far as he is tall.”

“And you want to do that?”

Cullen nodded. “I hope I grow to be as tall as he is, too.”

“I don’t care about how tall I am,” said Rhoslyn. “I just want to be able to cast spells like First Enchanter Irving.” Snapping her fingers together, she watched a spark ignite and then immediately burn out. She sighed. The older apprentices could conjure and sustain a flame in the palms of their hands. She wanted nothing more than to be able to do it, too.

“I’m sure you will,” said Cullen, glancing down at her. The edge of his knife flashed a sliver of light up onto his cheek. “I heard the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter speaking about you a few nights ago.”

Rhoslyn sat up. “What did they say?”

“I didn’t hear it all,” said Cullen, “but it was something about a strong penchant for the Primal. The Knight-Commander said he was glad it was not Entropy, like some of the others. They talked of demons, but I had to leave before I could catch the rest.”

Rhoslyn grinned. “Primal means fire. I’m good at that. Are you afraid of fire, Cullen?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be much of a Templar if I feared mage-fire, would I?”

“I suppose not,” said Rhoslyn.

“Are you afraid of the Templars? Some say the mages are.”

Rhoslyn chewed her lip, considering. “Knight-Commander Greagoir is a little frightening—he’s so big—but First Enchanter Irving said the Templars protect us. I believe him...unless you know something I do not.”

Cullen sheathed his blade and took a step toward her. “You have nothing to fear from me, and if any of the others ever bother you, you’ll say something, won’t you? You’re my charge, after all. I’m to look after you.”

Rhoslyn planted her hands on her hips. “What about you, then? And don’t say you look out for yourself.”

“Hmph,” Cullen grumbled, clearly displeased at having his words snatched from his mouth before he could say them. Rhoslyn covered her own mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose there’s no harm in having a fire mage watch my back…if you’re as good as you think you are, of course.”

“Oh, I will be. You’ll see.”

“I imagine I will.”

Chapter Text

“You are already acquainted?” asks Cassandra, frowning deeply.

“We were,” says Rhoslyn. “A long time ago.”

Cullen stares at her, his eyes wide. Time has weathered his features, sharpening them. The edge of his jaw is more defined and there are lines at the corners of his eyes. He has grown well into manhood, the years making him into someone quite striking, especially in the fur-lined cloak he wears over his shoulders.

“Yes, we’re acquainted,” he says after a moment. “We have been since, well…it was many years ago, as she said.”

“Then we can skip the pleasantries,” the Seeker says, “and get right to business.”

Josephine gives Cassandra an exasperated look. “You think the pleasantries unnecessary, but I find them quite charming.”

“If they want to reminisce,” says Leliana, “they will have ample time after we discuss our next steps. Shall we…?”

“Of course,” says Cullen, clearing his throat. “Lead the way, Leliana.”

They go to the far end of the nave, where there is a small chamber. A massive table sits at the center of the room, its surface covered with a large map of Ferelden and Orlais. Unbidden, Rhoslyn’s gaze falls on Lake Calenhad and the tiny dot that indicates the location of the Circle Tower.

She thought her memories of the place long buried, but now they begin to reappear at the forefront of her mind. She glances over at Cullen. He is leaning over the map of Orlais, his thumb and forefinger on resting his chin. This man, whom she has not seen in a decade, is an inextricable part of her past, yet she thought him gone from her life forever. Now, however, it seems he will be part of her future in this Inquisition.

“What news from the Hinterlands, Leliana?” asks Cassandra. “Is the worst of the fighting between the mages and Templars still centered there?”

“It is,” says the spymaster, “and getting more violent by the day. The Templars believe that the mages are responsible for destroying the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and the mages believe the opposite. Neither side will see reason and the Chantry is of little help.”

“The Chantry is leaderless and floundering,” says Cullen. “With no one to guide the lesser clerics, the Inquisition can expect little support from them.”

“Indeed,” Josephine says, “and there are those in the Chantry who call us heretics for harboring the Herald of Andraste.”

“Then let us do away with that title,” Rhoslyn says.

“I doubt that will appease them,” says Cassandra, wry. “We must look to other ways.”

“There is someone in the Chantry who will perhaps hear us out,” says Leliana. “Her name is Mother Giselle and she is currently in the Hinterlands aiding the refugees displaced by the fighting. She has asked to speak to the Herald.”

“She’s asked for her by name?” asks Cullen. “Is there a chance this invitation could be a trap, an ambush?”

“I doubt it,” Leliana says, clasping her hands behind her back. “From what I know of her, she is a kind soul and not the sort to involve herself in violence. Her assistance, if we can get it, could be invaluable in winning over other Chantry clerics.”

“It seems a sensible option,” says Cassandra. “Enchanter Trevelyan, are you willing to go to the Hinterlands to meet with this Mother Giselle?”

“If it will help, yes,” Rhoslyn replies.

“A word of caution,” says Josephine. “The Enchanter is the only person in Thedas who can close the Fade rifts and, with hope, the Breach. Putting her in undue danger is a terrible risk.”

“I doubt she would encounter anything she could not handle,” says Cullen, looking over at her. She is surprised to see a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “She was, after all, the finest fire mage in the Ferelden Circle for a time.”

She can feel the others’ gazes falling upon her. Swallowing, she says, “I can hold my own in a fight.”

“I have seen that first hand,” says Cassandra. “Though I will accompany her to ensure that she suffers no serious injuries, and Varric can come along as well. Mouthy though he may be, his aim is true.”

“It is settled, then,” says Leliana. “While you are gone, Cullen and I will see to things in Haven. There are many affairs that need to be attended to between my agents and the Inquisition’s soldiers.”

“Such as they are,” Cullen says. “We lost a good many men before the Breach was stabilized.”

“We’ll make haste,” says Rhoslyn, “before you lose more.”

The corner of his mouth lifting, he says, “Thank you, Rhos,” and she is thrown back through time and memory.

Chapter Text

“Rhos!” he called from the top of the staircase.

“Cullen?” she asked in reply, turning at the sound of her name. She and a gaggle of other apprentices were leaving Enchanter Wynne’s healing lesson and she had not been expecting to see her Sentinel until that afternoon when they were to work together in the Tower’s garden.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said as he jogged down to meet her.

In the three years that had passed since they had met, he had grown nearly half a foot. He had gone through two sets of trousers and boots in the past six months alone. Though he had always been taller than Rhoslyn, he now towered over her, a fact that he didn’t often let her forget. His smugness sometimes made her want to punch him hard in the shoulder. If she did, though, she knew he would manage to get a hold of her and tickle her sides as revenge. Rhoslyn had hated being tickled, a fact that Cullen knew well.

She, too, had grown. At thirteen, her cheeks were still plump and round, but the rest of her form was swiftly leaving childhood behind. She was becoming lankier, her arms and legs longer and trimmer. She had little bosom to speak of, but she didn’t mind. The older girls in the dormitory only complained of the hassle large breasts caused. Her hair, when left hanging down, fell in long tresses down to the middle of her back, though she often wore it bound in a twist or contained within a snood.

“What’s going on?” she asked Cullen as she adjusted her grip on the heavy tomes she carried. Without blinking, he reached down and took them from her, grasping them easily under one arm.

“Enchanter Marden has sent for you,” he said.

Rhoslyn’s eyes popped open wide. “He did? Now?”

Cullen nodded. “He’s waiting for us in the training yard. Come on, we don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Without a backwards glance at her fellow apprentices, Rhoslyn lifted the hem of her robes and broke into a run. Laughing, Cullen followed her, his long strides bringing him easily up next to her.

“Did he say why he wanted me to come today?” she asked as they swept down the main spiral stair toward the ground level of the Circle Tower.

“I didn’t speak to him,” said Cullen. “Knight-Corporal Jonus pulled me from morning drills and told me to find you and take you to him.”

“At last,” said Rhoslyn.

Marden was the Circle’s one and only battlemaster, a mage trained in the art of martial spellcasting. All the apprentices studied under him at some point or another, though the focus of those lessons was self-defense. However, those students who were adept at dodging fireballs and lightning bolts were often chosen to study with him in more depth. Since the day Rhoslyn had learned of Enchanter Marden and his handpicked cohort of apprentices, she had been determined to be among them.

“I knew he’d pick you,” said Cullen, his white teeth flashing as he smiled. “No one wanted it more.”

She grinned back at him. Her being chosen by Marden also meant that Cullen’s combat training would intensify, which she knew meant the world to him. The Sentinels of the mages that Marden taught were considered to be the best fighters in the Order, as they were often pitted against their mages in training skirmishes. Of course, it would take time before they were practiced enough to actually face each other in combat, but knowing that one day they would thrilled them both.

As they reached the bottom of the staircase, Cullen unlatched the door and pushed it open so that Rhoslyn could go through first. The large courtyard without was bright with the afternoon sun. Several straw dummies stood on poles in the far corner opposite a few scarred blocks of wood with the crude images of men painted on them. There were black scorch marks and puddles of half-melted ice on the dusty ground near them.

In the center of the courtyard stood a barrel-chested mage with a thatch of black hair and a bushy beard. His robes were unkempt and had clearly been patched more than once, but he smiled broadly when he spotted Rhoslyn and Cullen.

“Apprentice Trevelyan,” Enchanter Marden boomed, “Novice Rutherford. I’m very pleased to see you.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Rhoslyn. “You wished to us?”

He nodded. “I did. I’ve heard good things about the pair of you. First Enchanter Irving has told me that you, Trevelyan, are a natural with pyromancy. I look forward to seeing what you’re capable of.”

“As do I, sir,” she said.

“And Rutherford, Knight-Commander Greagoir has only good things to say about your prowess in the training yard. He tells me you are agile and swift with both shield and blade.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Cullen, lifting his chin.

“Well,” said Marden, clapping his hands together, “shall we not jump right in? Rutherford, I’m afraid this part will be a little tedious for you. I must assess Trevelyan’s skills before we can begin in earnest.”

Nodding, Cullen took a step back. Leaning against the stone wall, he drew out his tattered notebook and a narrow stick, its tip charred at the end, to write with. It would blacken his fingers, but Rhoslyn knew better than to say anything of it. Cullen’s detailed notes from the lessons they attended together had been of help to her many times as she tried to master a spell. As she learned, she often didn’t have the time or the patience to scribble down notes of her own, but he could always be relied upon to record something of value.

“Let’s start with a simple flame,” said Marden, drawing her attention back to him. Holding out his left hand, he snapped his fingers and a small ball of fire formed there.

Rhoslyn brushed her two middle fingers against the skin of her right palm, kindling a flame of her own.

“Well done,” said Marden. “But how well can you throw it?” Turning on his heel, he shot the fire away from him and into one of the targets. It stuck it at the center.

Taking a deep breath, Rhoslyn extending her hand and the ball of fire sprang away from her. It hit the target as well, though a little lower.

“Excellent,” Marden said. “How about this?” Drawing up a flame in each hand, he fired them at two targets on separate sides of the courtyard.

Rhoslyn did not wait for him to turn back to her this time. Instead she aimed for the targets just behind his. Her fire struck them just a moment later.

Marden grinned at her. “The First Enchanter was right about you. You’ll do very well here.”

“Thank you,” said Rhoslyn. “I’ve waited a long time for this, sir.”

“I imagine you have,” he replied. “Some mages are wasted on the books in Circle Towers. We can’t be of use cloistered in here. We are warriors.”

“You think I’m meant to be a warrior?” Rhoslyn asked, her cheeks beginning to ache from smiling so wide.

“I do indeed,” said Marden, waggling his eyebrows. “You’ve a rare talent for immolation. I look very much forward to working with you these next few years.” Turning to Cullen, he gave him a wink. “You, my boy, will have to be quite the soldier to serve as Sentinel for this one. It will be no small task to keep pace with her.”

Cullen gave him a curt nod. It was a simple, honest acknowledgement that he understood his task. His seriousness had not worn off with age and it still made Rhoslyn laugh sometimes, but this was not one of them. Cullen considered it his duty to be the better than all the other novices and she never poked fun at him for it. She would not have appreciated his glibness were it turned on her skill with magic.

“I wouldn’t worry about him, sir,” she said to Marden. “He’s going to be the best swordsman in the Order.”

Cullen’s eyes crinkled at the corners in a half-smile, though he set his mouth in a dutiful line as he puffed out his chest and squared his shoulders proudly.

“Is he now?” said Enchanter Marden. Clasping his hands behind his back, he walked up to Cullen. “Swordsmanship may look grand, but it will help you little against a cleverly cast freezing spell or fireball, Rutherford.”

“A good Templar is as quick with his shield as with his blade, sir,” said Cullen.

Marden nodded, his good-natured smile somewhat strained. “Right you are. I imagine that you will one day be a good match for Apprentice Trevelyan.” He turned away, but Rhoslyn was certain that she heard him say, “Maker guard her,” under his breath.

The gardens were quiet the next day as Rhoslyn knelt in the bed of elfroot. She was picking some of the dead leaves away from the stems to make room for others to grow.

“Look to the sky,” she hummed to herself, “for one day soon, the dawn will come.”

“Singing again?”

Rhoslyn did not need to look up to know it was Cullen.

“You’re getting quite good at it,” he said.

“The songs are the only bearable part of Chantry prayers,” she replied. “The rest I could nap through.”

“You have napped through them before,” Cullen said. “Don’t you remember last week? You were drooling on my shoulder.”

“I was not!” Rhoslyn said, though she knew it was a lie. She had never been overly fond of Mother Elvina’s long recitations of the duller parts of the Chant of Light. “Oh, leave off,” she grumbled.

Cullen chuckled.

“Well,” said Rhoslyn, “are you going to help me or not? These elfroots won’t prune themselves.”

“All right,” he said as he stepped out into the sunshine. Rhoslyn’s eyes widened when she saw him. His face was pale and drawn. His hair and face were damp with sweat despite the autumn chill in the air.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, springing to her feet to go to him. “Are you ill? Should I fetch Enchanter Wynne?” She laid a hand to his forehead. His flesh was burning.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Rhoslyn shook her head. “But you’re not. You—”

“It will pass,” said Cullen. “Or so I’m told.”

“Well, come and sit down until it does,” said Rhoslyn, taking his hand. She guided him to the small bench that stood between two trellises of arbor blessing vines. Grimacing, with a hand on his stomach, he eased himself down onto it.

Rhoslyn went to the fountain at the center of the garden and filled a bucket halfway with cold water. Taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her robes, she wet it and pressed it to Cullen’s brow.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asked as she bathed the sweat from his face. He had not shaved in several days, she saw. The blond hair had just begun to grow on his chin in the past year and he was fiercely proud to have to shave it away.

Cullen sighed. “The stomach pains are to be expected when one first takes a draught of lyrium. That’s what everyone in the barracks says. But they will pass with time as I grow more accustomed to it.”

“They finally allowed you to take lyrium,” said Rhoslyn. “You’ve been waiting for this for years. Why now? Did you pass some sort of test?”

“I didn’t,” he replied, wincing. “It was you.”

“Me?”

“It’s just as Enchanter Marden said yesterday. You’re learning battle magic and I must be able to keep pace with you, wield the counters to your spells.”

“But why is it making you ill?” asked Rhoslyn. “I have drunk lyrium before and I’ve never felt poorly for it. Quite the opposite.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Cullen. “Your body is attuned to it, accustomed to being a vessel for magic. Mine is not. But as I said, it will pass. It has to.” He pinched his eyes shut and groaned. “Oh, Maker’s breath, it hurts!”

“It’s all right,” said Rhoslyn, refreshing the cool handkerchief and pressing it to his brow again. “Just rest.”

“Our duties…”

“Fade take our duties,” she snapped. “The herbs will keep.”

Cullen frowned down at her. “You shouldn’t curse like that. Mother Elvina would make you recite the Canticle of Mercy…twice.”

“Fade take the Canticle of Mercy, too,” Rhoslyn muttered. He gave her a wan smile. She returned it, though she looked down a moment later. “Cullen, if I weren’t so keen to learn to fight, would you not have had to take the lyrium?”

“This isn’t your fault, Rhos,” he said. “All Templars must take lyrium, though most do not start until they are a little older, eighteen or nineteen. I’m only sixteen and I’ve already gotten to take it. It’s an honor.”

“A painful one,” said Rhoslyn. Cullen opened his mouth, but she preempted him: “‘It will pass,’ I know.”

He nodded. “And when it does, I’ll finally be able to take you down a peg in the training yard.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Enchanter Marden said we’ll make a good match,” Cullen said. “I believe him.”

Rhoslyn grinned. “I do, too. Now, stop talking and rest.”

Chapter Text

“Perhaps, then,” says Leliana, “your prowess on the battlefield, Enchanter Trevelyan, will convince the rebel mages to help us to close the Breach.”

“What do you mean?” asks Rhoslyn as her memories fade and she finds herself standing in the war room of the Haven Chantry once again.

“Your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good,” says Cassandra. “The mages can provide that.”

“The Templars could serve just as well,” says Cullen. His voice is deeper now than it was when he was a boy, Rhoslyn thinks, as well it should be. She remembers the days when it was cracking. She had teased him some, but never in earnest. And he had always teased her right back, whether it was about how short her robes were now that she was growing taller or about the faces she made when she dozed off during Chantry prayers.

“We need magic, Commander,” says Cassandra, frowning. “Raw power.”

“And the Templars are capable of that,” says Cullen.

“Some of the Templars perhaps,” Rhoslyn says, glancing over at him. “Not all were as good as you.”

Cullen looks down, though the corners of his mouth lift just the slightest bit. Leliana looks between him and Rhoslyn, her brows lifted.

“Unfortunately,” says Josephine, glancing down at her notes, “neither the Templars nor the mages will speak to us yet. We must get Enchanter Trevelyan to the Hinterlands to speak to Mother Giselle.”

“We cannot leave tonight,” Cassandra says. “It is nearing dark and the paths are too treacherous. We will go first thing in the morning.”

“Then I suggest you get some rest, Enchanter,” says Leliana. “A tent has been prepared for you. I can take you there if you like.”

“I will show her where it is,” Cullen says.

Cassandra crosses her arms over her chest. “If Leliana is going now—”

“Cullen will see to it,” says Josephine, reaching out to take the Seeker’s arm. “After all, I believe he and the Enchanter have some things to discuss. Come on, Cassandra.”

“Don’t stay up all night,” Leliana says as she follows Cassandra and Josephine out of the war room. Rhoslyn winces as the door closes loudly behind them. Cullen, who stands across the table from her, rubs the back of his neck.

“Are they always like that?” Rhoslyn asks, her brows raised.

“Yes, I’m afraid,” says Cullen. “Do you dislike them?”

“On the contrary,” says Rhoslyn, “I think I like them very much. I much prefer being on their side, though, than standing against them. They’re formidable, though each in her own way.”

“You’re right about that,” he chuckles. “When Cassandra asked me to join the Inquisition, I was all but helpless to refuse.”

“I didn’t have much choice in the matter, either,” says Rhoslyn.

“Indeed,” Cullen says as he picks up a troop marker on the map and carefully replaces it.

Rhoslyn watches him for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. She wants to know how he came into the service of the Inquisition, how he came to be in Ferelden again at all, but she cannot seem to find the words to ask. They had once shared everything with each other, their hopes and interests, their fears and desires, but now it feels as if there is a chasm of secrets between them. Ten years’ worth. They are all but strangers to one another.

“So,” she says, though she has to stop and clear her throat. “So, Cassandra brought you into the Inquisition?”

“Yes,” says Cullen, looking up at her. “She arrived in Kirkwall not long before the mage rebellion began. I met her there. She wished to find Hawke, the Champion, and recruit her to the Inquisition, but she got me instead. Not really a fair trade, but I no longer wished to remain in Kirkwall after…well, after.”

“The fighting was bad there, I heard,” says Rhoslyn. “It was not so terrible in Ostwick, though the Knight-Commander of our Templars was not so…driven to stand against our Circle.”

“You were in Ostwick?” asks Cullen.

Rhoslyn nods. “I lived there for a decade and it strangely did not feel like home. Were you fond of Kirkwall?”

“Not particularly,” says Cullen. “Knight-Commander Meredith and I never saw eye to eye, though I was her Knight-Captain.”

“Knight-Captain?” says Rhoslyn, smiling slyly. “You did well for yourself, Rutherford.”

He laughs. “I suppose I did, though, if you were among the senior enchanters summoned to the Conclave, Trevelyan, so did you.”

“I believe they brought me along out of obligation more than anything,” says Rhoslyn. “There was no one else in the Circle who could hold off a pack of Templars quite like I can.” She runs a hand over the long braid that falls over her shoulder. “We ran across some on our way here, but they were not…right. The lyrium they were using, it was red.”

“Deadly stuff,” says Cullen. “It drove Knight-Commander Meredith to do terrible things, things that I…that I chose to overlook at the time.”

Rhoslyn sees his eyes flash with disgust as he tightens his fist around the hilt of his sword.

“In the end, though,” he says, “I could not stand by and let her slay innocent mages. Blood magic is one thing, but to sentence them all to die…no. That I could not abide, so I chose to go with Cassandra.”

“You left the Order,” says Rhoslyn, hearing the surprise in her own voice.

He nods. “I had no other choice. I would not put another mage to the sword in the Maker’s name.”

“No,” Rhoslyn says as a memory she wishes she could forget comes washing over her.

Chapter Text

The topmost chamber in Kinloch Hold was reserved for one purpose: the Harrowing. For five years Rhoslyn had watched as the elder of the apprentice mages had gone up final stair in the Tower, their expressions ranging from sober to fearful. Most of them returned a few hours later, looking weary and drained, but some never came back. Their things were quietly cleared from the dormitories and their names were only spoken in hushed whispers.

From time to time, apprentices were called to witness a Harrowing, though they were sworn to secrecy upon leaving the chamber. Rhoslyn had never had any particular desire to bear witness, but that morning First Enchanter Irving had requested her presence in his study on one of the upper levels of the Tower. When she arrived, Cullen was waiting for her outside the door. He looked relieved to see her.

“What’s going on?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“I don’t know,” he replied, stooping so that he could speak into her ear. “It feels like I’ve been waiting here half the day and I haven’t heard a single thing from inside.”

Rhoslyn bumped her shoulder against his, shooting him a chastising look. Cullen was not the most patient young man she knew. He shrugged, pushing a hand through his yellow curls.

“Handsome,” was the word the girls in the dormitory used for him, though it was most often paired with “reserved” or, as one of the apprentices had said, “wholly oblivious to everyone but scrawny Rhoslyn.” She had laughed at that.

Several weeks before, she had asked him if he thought one of her fellows was pretty, to which he had replied, “Who?” Rhoslyn had described her, but Cullen had only shaken his head, saying, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re taking about.” The subject had been dropped forthwith.

“Did the Knight-Commander send you up here?” she asked him as they stood close outside the First Enchanter’s door.

“He did. Said there was something of import to discuss. If we’re not kept waiting all Fade-touched day.”

“Cullen.”

He made a face at her, the tip of his nose brushing hers. “Fine, I’ll be patient.”

“I doubt that word is in your vocabulary,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I think I just proved it is,” he teased, chucking her under the chin with his forefingers.

She brushed his hand away, sticking her tongue out at him. She hated when he did that. It was what fathers and older brothers did, and Cullen was neither. She did not wish to be treated like a child by him; she was fifteen years old after all.

He wrinkled his nose at her and she shoved his chest. He laughed and grabbed her arm, pulling her against his side so he could tickle the spot under her ear that he knew was particularly sensitive.

“Stop it!” she hissed, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

“Make me,” said Cullen, pressing his fingers into her sides as well. She stamped her heel hard onto his toe. “Ouch! You little demon…”

“Let go of me,” Rhoslyn said, “and I won’t have to do it again.”

“Oh, you’ll not escape so easily,” he said, though before he could make good on his threat, the clicking of the door latch sent them jumping apart. First Enchanter Irving appeared in the doorway.

“There you are,” he said. “Did you forget how to knock?”

They both muttered apologies.

“Never mind that now,” Irving sighed. “Come in, the pair of you.”

The study was lined nearly wall-to-wall with books and various objects, few of which Rhoslyn recognized. A large lantern burning with strange green fire hung from the low ceiling. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but Cullen, at the edge of her vision, gave her a subtle shake of his head. She settled for waiting in silence as First Enchanter Irving closed the door.

“Thank you for coming,” he said as he swept around to face them. “I will not keep you from your lessons long. However, tonight I must request your presence at the Harrowing of Apprentice Clifton.”

“Why us, sir?” said Cullen. “If I may ask.”

“It is time you were made aware of what you will experience when Rhoslyn is ready to face her own Harrowing.”

“Will that be soon, sir?” she asked. None of her instructors had suggested anything of the sort and the idea both excited and frightened her.

“No, my dear,” Irving replied. “You have considerable talents, but you have several more years of study before you will fully prepared. Still, there is a place for you both in the gallery tonight after sunset. I expect you know your way there?”

Rhoslyn nodded. “Is there anything I must do…before…”

“You are only to watch,” said Irving. “Bring nothing.”

They were dismissed then and said little to each other as made way their way back down to their lessons. They were subdued throughout the rest of the day as well, neither of them able to focus very well on their studies. Even Enchanter Marden noted their distance.

“Whatever is the matter with you today?” he asked, ducking easily under one of Rhoslyn’s barrages of ice crystals. When they explained, he nodded solemnly. “I know that there is to be a Harrowing tonight, though I did not know which apprentice would be facing it. Do either of you know Clifton well?”

They did not.

“That is, perhaps, for the best,” he said. “Witnessing a Harrowing is difficult, but watching a friend go through it is another matter altogether.” He waved a hand. “We are done for today. Get your suppers and steel your wills for tonight.”

Cullen and Rhoslyn exchanged a dark look at that, but bid the Enchanter good day and departed.

The Templars and mages supped separately, but neither Rhoslyn nor Cullen ate much. Apprentice Clifton, Rhoslyn saw, took nothing at all. He sipped at a cup of water, reciting verses from the Chant of Light to himself.

After sunset, Rhoslyn and Cullen met at the foot of the staircase outside of the girls’ dormitory.

“Are you all right?” he asked as they made a slow ascent toward the top of the Tower.

Rhoslyn shrugged. “Well enough.”

“Do you have any idea what this is going to be like?”

“None.”

“Right.”

When they reached the door to the Harrowing chamber, it was open. It was dim within, what little illumination there was coming from a chandelier hanging from the domed roof. Rhoslyn’s mouth fell open as she looked up at the dome. It was fashioned entirely of glass, providing a view of a purple-black sky. The stars were just beginning to appear. She recognized the shape of the constellation Judex above them.

“This way, if you please,” said Enchanter Wynne, drawing her attention down from the heavens. Wynne was a snowy-haired matron who taught the Creation and healing lessons. She was kind and a good teacher, but Rhoslyn had always found the material to be dull in the extreme. She was not a particularly good healer, either, though she could manage a few minor magics.

She and Cullen followed Wynne to a small gallery in the shadows, out of the way of the main chamber.

“You will stand here,” the Enchanter said. “Please do keep quiet so as not to disturb the ritual.” She glanced at First Enchanter Irving, who stood at Knight-Commander Greagoir’s side at the northernmost part of the chamber. “We are about to begin.”

Cullen stood at ease, his hands clasped behind his back and his feet apart. Rhoslyn folded her hands into the pockets in the sleeves of her robes.

Clifton entered a moment later, looking pale. Beside him was his Sentinel, a newly made Templar called Darby. It was tradition that the Sentinel was made a full Templar before his mage charge’s Harrowing so that he could serve as part of the guard for the ritual.

There were five other Templars in the room in addition to Darby and Greagoir, and each of them was wearing their full plate armor and helm. Their hands rested on their sword hilts.

“Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him,” spoke Greagoir, his deep voice booming out across the chamber. “Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin.” He paused to take a breath. “Apprentice Clifton, your magic is a gift, but also a curse, for demons of the Fade are drawn to you, and seek to use you as a gateway into this world.”

“This,” Irving said, “is why the Harrowing exists. The ritual sends you into the Fade, and there you will face a demon, armed with only your will. It is a test of your fortitude, for if you cannot withstand the demon’s power, you will be transformed into an abomination and the Templars will have no choice but to strike you down. Do you understand your task?”

“I do,” said Clifton, his voice quavering only slightly.

Irving nodded and took a step forward. In his hand was a pewter cup, its contents shining with eerie azure light. Lyrium. With steady hands, Clifton took the cup and drank the potion down.

Rhoslyn watched with wide eyes as his knees buckled and he began to fall. His Sentinel, Darby, caught him under the arms just in time and laid him carefully onto the floor.

“What now, Knight-Commander?” he asked.

“We wait,” Greagoir replied.

Rhoslyn watched Clifton’s motionless form raptly for the first few minutes, but when nothing about him changed, she allowed herself look about the room a little more. The glass ceiling was supported by massive arms of wrought iron. They met at the apex of the dome, blocking out the starlight. She watched as the stars outside become brighter and brighter as the heavens darkened. It was now full night and Clifton had been lying immobile for nearly an hour.

Tapping Cullen’s hip with her elbow, Rhoslyn lifted one shoulder, questioning. He blinked his tawny eyes at her. She wondered if his back was beginning to hurt, as hers was.

Suddenly, Clifton’s body contorted and a terrible keening tore from his lips. Rhoslyn gasped as she watched his back arch away from the floor. He pitched forward, his limbs twitching as a terrible, rasping laughter began to fill the Harrowing chamber.

“Foolish boy,” said a voice far deeper than the young mage’s had been. “He thought he could vanquish me.”

“Abomination, you will go no further,” cried Knight-Commander Greagoir, his hand going to his sword. “Darby, slay it before it reaches its full strength!”

Rhoslyn’s heart jumped into her throat. To kill an abomination one had to kill the body it had possessed. By commanding Darby to slay the demon, Greagoir was ordering him to murder the mage. Her gaze turned to the young Templar. He stood frozen to the spot for a moment, his eyes wide, but when he heard his name again, his training took over and he drew his blade.

“Get back, Templar filth!” hissed the abomination. Clifton’s eyes rolled back into his head and his jaw hung lax.

Darby wavered for a moment as he looked into the twisted face that had once belonged to his charge, but then he lifted his sword.

“Oh, Maker,” Rhoslyn breathed.

“Don’t watch this,” Cullen said, drawing her against his chest. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed her face into his shoulder. A moment later she heard the sickening crunch of steel into bone. The demon’s howl was mixed with the higher wailing of Clifton as he died. It rang in Rhoslyn’s ears as she clung to Cullen. He held her tight against him, his cheek pressed to the top of her head. His tunic soaked up her tears.

There was a clatter of steel upon stone and then the sound of quiet weeping.

“It’s all right, lad,” Knight-Commander Greagoir said, presumably to Templar Darby. “You did you duty. We cannot suffer an abomination to live.”

“Yes, sir,” was the tearful reply.

“Come on, lad. The Enchanters will see to him now. You need a stiff drink, or several. I’ll see to it that you get them.”

Rhoslyn descended from the Harrowing chamber leaning heavily on Cullen’s arm. Enchanter Wynne had sent them away after a shroud had been laid over Apprentice Clifton’s body. It was black, but Rhoslyn could see the dark stain of blood spreading across it as they passed.

“Take her back to the dormitory, Master Cullen,” said Wynne, “and see that she gets some rest.”

“I don’t want to go back there now,” she said to him once they were out of earshot. “Come to garden with me. Just for a little while.”

“All right,” he said, squeezing her hand.

The moon was high in the sky when they arrived in the courtyard garden. Rhoslyn drew in a deep breath of cool air, though it did little to steady her. Going to the fountain, she trailed her fingers in the water.

“What are you thinking?” asked Cullen, coming to stand behind her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and squeezed.

“Nothing,” she said. “Everything. I don’t know. What are you thinking?”

“What Enchanter Marden said earlier, about it being for the best that we were not Clifton’s friends. He was right. It was terrible enough to witness him like that when I hardly knew him.” He swallowed heavily. “Rhos, his Sentinel was the one who had to kill him.”

She turned her face up to look at him. “You’re thinking of me.”

“How can I not?” he asked. “If you go into the Fade and cannot withstand the demons…”

“I will survive my Harrowing,” she said, laying a hand over his where it still rested on her shoulder.

“You can’t know that,” said Cullen.

“I can!” she said. “I’m already studying magics far beyond the skill of most of the others my age. Enchanter Marden says I’m the finest Primal mage he’s seen in years. I can do it and I will.”

“If anyone in this blighted Tower can, it’s you. I just don’t want to have to consider…” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I could do it, is all.”

“Cullen,” she said, touching his cheek, “I promise you won’t have to. I’ll be fine.”

“You’d better be,” he said, pulling her into a crushing embrace. “If I lost you…”

“You won’t. I swear it.”

Chapter Text

A hand on her shoulder startles Rhoslyn back into the war room in Haven. Cullen stands at her side, his brows drawn together.

“Are you all right?” he asks, releasing her.

She nods. “Yes. Perhaps a little tired.”

“Let me take you to your tent,” he says. “It’s not far.” He places a hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the door. She breathes in scents of wood smoke and leather, both of which cling to him.

“Haven has little to offer by way of comfort,” he says as they make their way through the Chantry, “but there’s a cot and warm blankets for you.”

“That’s all I require,” Rhoslyn says. “And it certainly sounds more inviting than a cell.”

“You’re not the Inquisition’s prisoner,” says Cullen, looking displeased. “Well, not anymore.”

“Indeed,” she says, the corners of her mouth turning up.

It is snowing when they step out into the night. A layer of white tops most of the tents surrounding the Chantry. Cullen leads her to one of them, pulling back the flap. It is meagerly appointed, but as he said, there is cot piled high with furs. It is no warmer inside than without, but at least it is out of the wind.

“Will it do?” Cullen asks.

“Perfectly,” Rhoslyn replies, stifling a yawn. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” he says, though he makes no move to go. He stands at the edge of the tent and Rhoslyn just inside it. Expectation hangs in the void between them, though of what, she does not know.

“I shall leave you here, then,” he says, inclining his head. He begins to back away, to let the flap of the tent fall closed, but Rhoslyn reaches out and catches his hand in hers.

“It’s good to see you, Cullen,” she says, squeezing his fingers through the gloves.

“And you, Rhos,” he says as he disappears into the dark.

She and Cassandra spend three days in the Hinterlands searching for Mother Giselle. When they do find her, she is outside Redcliffe Village. Rhoslyn cannot help but feel a thrill when they arrive, as if she is trespassing on forbidden soil. As an apprentice in the Circle Tower, the idea of visiting Redcliffe was tantalizing and illicit. The young mages often whispered about what it would be like to slip away under the cover of darkness and find a way into the village. They spent many nights deciding what they would do if they could reach the place, though they knew full well that none dared incur the wrath of the senior enchanters or Templars by trying it.

In those girlish fantasies, Redcliffe was as grand as Val Royeaux and filled with untold delights and mysteries. In reality, it is as unremarkable as any other lakeside town in Ferelden, and it bears the scars of both the Fifth Blight and of recent skirmishes between the Templars and the rebel mages.

“There has been much suffering in these last days,” says Mother Giselle, “and there is certainly fear. So many good people senselessly taken from us at the Conclave.” She shakes her head. “Is it true that only you, Herald, survived the slaughter? That you were among the others but did not perish as they did?”

“My memories of the Conclave are not clear,” says Rhoslyn. “But I was there in the Temple with my fellows from the Ostwick Circle of Magi, of that I am certain.”

“And you possess the power to seal the rifts in the Fade?”

Rhoslyn nods. “I do, though I cannot tell you how. Why…that is a matter of debate as well.”

“So, you do not believe yourself to have been chosen for this task?” asks Giselle.

“I am not certain I can know,” says Rhoslyn, closing her fists. She has turned the notion over and over in her mind and has resolved nothing.

“And you need not be,” Giselle says, touching her arm.

“But what of the Chantry’s denouncement?” asks Cassandra. “There are some who have suggested she is an abomination.”

“It is clear she is not that,” Giselle replies, “and it should be apparent to anyone who looks upon her. I suggest you go to Val Royeaux and show them.”

“But if they believe I am a demon,” says Rhoslyn, “will they not simply try to have me executed?”

“Not when you are under the protection of the Inquisition,” Giselle says, looking to Cassandra. “The Chantry has forgotten that the ancient Inquisition was a force for good in this world, but you can remind them of that. I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana the names of those who would be amenable to a gathering. The rest, I’m afraid, falls to you, Herald.”

When they arrive back in Haven, there is a crowd outside of the Chantry. On one side stand a number of mages and on the other a pack of Inquisition soldiers.

"Your kind killed the Most Holy,” snarls a young soldier, battered armor marked with the insignia of the Templars.

“Lies!” says a mage, his head bare despite the cold. “Your lot left her to die.”

The solider reaches for his blade, but before he can draw it, Cullen appears in the shadow of the Chantry. His face is dark mask of fury.

“Enough!” he snaps, pushing the mage and the solider away from each other.

“Knight-Captain,” says mage, taking a step back.

“That is not my title,” Cullen says, his eyes flashing with indignation. He turns to the young solider. “Neither you nor I are Templars any longer. We are all a part of the Inquisition.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?” asks Chancellor Rodrick, a Chantry cleric and certifiably pompous ass. “I’m curious, Commander Rutherford, as to how your Inquisition and its ‘Herald’ will restore order…as you’ve promised.”

“You,” says Cullen, scowling. “Are you responsible for inciting this?”

“Certainly not,” Rodrick replies. “What could I possibly gain from a riot?”

“I will not stand by and watch you sow dissent among my troops,” Cullen says. “Nor will you challenge the Inquisition or Enchanter Trevelyan in my presence. Do I make myself clear, Chancellor?”

“You haven’t the right to order me to do anything, Commander,” says Roderick. “I am not a part of your army or your Inquisition.”

“Then you have no reason to be here,” Cullen growls, leaning in. He is nearly a full hand taller than Roderick and half again as broad. The cleric draws back, blinking up at him.

“On the contrary,” says Rhoslyn, pushing her way through the crowd, “it seems he has a great talent for spectacle.”

Rodrick shoots her a poison look. “Enchanter Trevelyan, back from the Hinterlands, I see. I trust you were successful in your venture, whatever that may have been.”

“I was, thank you,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Chancellor, I believe you are acquainted with Mother Giselle.” Rhoslyn holds back a triumphant laugh as she watches his eyes widen. “As the senior cleric, she will be overseeing the spiritual needs of the Inquisition from now on.”

Giselle, her hands clasped before her, inclines her head in greeting. Many of the soldiers—Cullen included—bow their heads with due reverence. Roderick grudgingly mutters a greeting.

“Chancellor,” says Giselle, “will you do me the honor of showing me to Andraste’s alter? I would very much like to pray.”

He nods, though his cheeks are still red with anger. “If you will follow me.”

When they have gone into the Chantry, the soldiers and mages too begin to trickle back to their duties.

“Well,” says Rhoslyn, turning to Cullen, “you have certainly been busy in our absence.”

“Rodrick has been stirring up trouble since you left,” he says.

“It seems he’s not the only one,” says Rhoslyn. “There is still bad blood between the mages and the other soldiers. I can only assume most of them are former Templars.”

“Not as many as you might think,” Cullen says, “but yes, there are some, and many were on the front lines when the mages began the rebellion. They may stand under the same banner now, but they have spent too many years hating each other to mend fences just yet.”

“It wasn’t always so bad between us,” Rhoslyn says, though her expression darkens as the memories—one in particular—return to her.

Chapter Text

She was searching for a codex in the Circle Tower’s lower library after supper. It was a manual of pyromancy written when the Tevinter Imperium was at its apex. Most of the copies had been destroyed or lost, but this one had been preserved by one of the mages of the ancient Inquisition and brought to Kinloch Hold for safekeeping.

“The prose is nearly impenetrable,” Enchanter Marden had told her, “but if you are interested enough, you can manage it.”

She was nearing the shelf where he said it would be when she heard a muffled cry from a nearby alcove. As she turned to look, a swarthy Templar novice stepped out of the shadows. His face was flushed, his tunic askew. He all but looked through Rhoslyn as he strode past her, his boot heels thunking loudly on the stones. His exit hid, for a moment, the sound of quiet weeping emanating from the alcove.

Slipping down to it, Rhoslyn conjured a flame in her palm. It cast a dim light onto the girl cowering there. She was shaking all over, her knees pulled tight against her chest.

“Amia, what’s the matter?”

The apprentice mage was of age with Rhoslyn—sixteen—though they were not in the same lessons. Still, their paths crossed often enough in the dormitory where all the female apprentices slept. Kneeling at her side, Rhoslyn brushed a lock of knotted hair from her sweat-soaked brow.

“Are you ill?”

Amia shook her head, her gaze fixed on the flagstones before her. She was a pretty young woman, her hair light and curly, and she was usually quick to laugh and to joke with the other apprentices. Rhoslyn had more than once heard the Templar novices talking of her and how they might have liked to kiss her, or perhaps more than that. Her stomach tightened with sudden dread.

“Amia,” she said, gently, “did he do something to you?” The girl looked up, her eyes wide and frightful, but she shook her head again.

“It’s all right,” said Rhoslyn, drawing the girl to her.

Amia pushed back, scrambling away. “Don’t touch me,” she sobbed.

Rhoslyn held up her hands. “I won’t, if that’s what you wish. I only want to help you. We can go back to the dormitory together. You don’t want to stay here.”

Amia looked out into the library. “Is he gone?”

“Yes,” said Rhoslyn. “There’s no one here but us.” When Amia made no move to get up, Rhoslyn sank down onto the floor across from her. She waited in silence, hoping the girl might say more. Gradually, her tears stopped.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Rhoslyn asked quietly.

Amia swallowed heavily, but she nodded. “He’s been following me about for days, saying things…nice things. That I’m lovely, that I have fine eyes…lips.” Her voice trembled. “This was the first time he found me alone. He put a hand over my mouth, told me that good girls were quiet, and…and…”

Rhoslyn clasped her hand. “He forced himself on you.”

Amia nodded, pinching her eyes shut. She threw her arms around Rhoslyn, hiding her face in her shoulder. Rhoslyn stroked her back gently, though fury burned in her breast. The Templars were meant to protect the mages, not to…do this.

“Come on, Amia,” she said. “Why don’t we go and get you washed up? Then I’ll bring you a cup of tea to help you sleep.” Allowing the girl to lean on her, Rhoslyn helped her to her feet.

Rhoslyn was pacing in the garden the next day when Cullen arrived. He was freshly bathed, his golden hair hanging in damp waves around his ears. At nineteen, the worst of his growing was already done, but he still stood half a head taller than Rhoslyn. He was broad, too. If they stood back-to-back, his shoulders were nearly a handbreadth wider than hers on each side.

As he strode into the courtyard, he noticed her agitation at once.

“Rhos,” he said, touching a hand to her cheek, “what’s wrong?”  

“One of the apprentices,” she said. “Her Sentinel…he took her against her will.”

Cullen glanced around them for prying ears and eyes before backing her into the hidden corner behind an arbor. “You’re certain of this?”

“I didn’t see it,” said Rhoslyn, “but she said it happened and I believe her.”

“Who?” he snarled.

“A novice called Elan.”

Cullen’s fist struck the stone beside her head, making her jump. “Of course it was,” he spat.

Rhoslyn narrowed her eyes. “What do you know of it?”

“Nothing, though I’ve had reason to question Elan’s character before. The way he speaks of the mages... I nearly hit him for it not three days ago. He was speaking in great detail about what he would do if he ever caught one of the apprentice girls alone. It was lascivious and crude, but I thought it all talk. I should have hit him.”

“I doubt that would have stopped it,” said Rhoslyn, squeezing his arms. “We must tell the Knight-Commander.”

“Come on, then.” Entwining his fingers with hers, Cullen pulled her behind him. His hands were calloused from six long years of wielding sword and shield. Rhoslyn was accustomed to it, though, and found that she quite liked the roughness of his skin against her softer mage’s palms.

Elan’s hands must have felt like this, too, she thought, frowning deeply.

Once they left the garden, Cullen released her. In the past years, as they had grown, there had been whispers among the apprentices about just how close they were. Romance between Templars and mages was expressly forbidden. So, too, was sex, whether consensual or otherwise.

Rhoslyn had always laughed when her fellows had suggested that there was something more than friendship between her and Cullen. While she had never thought him a brother to her, neither had she considered him a potential lover. Still, she wasn’t a fool and she wasn’t blind; Cullen was handsome, but he was her Sentinel and her best friend. She was not willing to compromise what they had for the sake of a few hurried kisses shared in shadowed corners. If such a dalliance was discovered, it was likely one or both of them would be sent away to a different Circle. Neither saw any reason to take such a risk.

Under most circumstances, mage apprentices were not permitted to venture into the barracks of the Templars, a fact Cullen reminded her of as they crossed from the Tower to the nearby cluster of outbuildings. Rhoslyn had seen the barracks and training yard from above many times. Occasionally she had sat on the window ledge in the dormitory and watched the novices at training. She always kept an eye out for Cullen’s bright head, though more often than not the combatants wore helms.

The training yard and the armory were at the center of the Templars’ milieu, and the barracks was just to the east, a long building with a slate roof that housed the thirty-or-so Templars and novices. Knight-Commander Greagoir’s study was at the far end of the barracks, Rhoslyn learned as they arrived outside the plain wooden door. Cullen rapped curtly on it.

“Enter,” said the Knight-Commander from within. He was seated at a massive desk, its top strewn with papers. He looked up from the letter he was reading, his brows rising as he saw Rhoslyn. “Master Rutherford, Apprentice Trevelyan. What can I do for you?”

“There is a serious matter that has come to my attention, sir,” said Cullen.

Greagoir set down the parchment and folded his hands expectantly. “Oh?”

“I have reason to believe that Novice Elan has…” He hesitated. “That he has violated one of the apprentice mages.”

Greagoir’s gaze turned to Rhoslyn. “Do you have proof of this incident?”

“I saw him leaving her,” she said, “and helped her in the aftermath. She was bruised, and there was a bit of blood.” She looked down, unwilling to say that it had been between Amia’s legs. She hoped the implication was clear enough.

Greagoir cleared his throat. “I will speak to the lad about it and see what he has to say for himself, but if he denies it, I’m afraid there is little I can do.”

“But, sir,” said Cullen, “any such…conduct between an apprentice and her Sentinel is forbidden. He should be punished accordingly.”

“And he will be, if he admits to the transgression,” said Greagoir.

“But he’ll just lie!” Rhoslyn cried. “This is rape, Knight-Commander, not a minor infraction. He abused her terribly.”

“Then let her come to me and tell me the truth of it,” he said.

“She could barely speak of it to me,” said Rhoslyn. “Please, sir, I implore you. Do not make her recount the event again.”

“Apprentice Trevelyan,” said Greagoir, “do you believe this is the first time such an accusation has been made? Several years ago, a mage leveled just such a charge at one of my novices. I locked the boy up and questioned the girl. Under pressure, she confessed that she had fabricated the entire tale in order to get back at the lad for spurning her affections.”

“I know what I saw, Knight-Commander,” Rhoslyn growled between clenched teeth. “This was not a fabrication.”

Cullen shot her a warning look. “We will speak to the girl, sir,” he said. “If we can convince her to tell you her story, you will hear her out?”

“Certainly,” said Greagoir.

“How can he let this stand?” Rhoslyn demanded when she and Cullen were alone again. “Amia will not speak to him, I know it, and I cannot force her to go to him.”

“I know,” Cullen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But if the Knight-Commander will do nothing, then we must.”

She looked sharply over at him. “What are you suggesting?”

“We don’t need to hurt Elan much,” said Cullen, “just enough to scare him.”

Rhoslyn chewed the inside of her cheek. “Do you really think that will stop him?”

“What else can we do?” asked Cullen.

“All right,” said Rhoslyn. “We’ll need to get him to the garden…”

It was frigid that night, and snow had begun to fall by the time Rhoslyn arrived in the garden courtyard. Her breath fogged up in a halo around her head as she waited for Cullen and that bastard Elan to appear. She wondered what Cullen would say to him to get him to come out after hours, but it made no matter as long as he managed it. The sound of muffled voices reached her ears and she smiled grimly. He had done it.

“It’s bloody freezing out here,” grumbled Elan. “This had better be good, Rutherford.”

“Oh, it will be,” said Cullen. “You there, Rhos?”

“I am,” she said, stepping out into the moonlight. She put on a sweet smile. “Hello, Elan. I’m so pleased you decided to come.”

He grinned rakishly at her, taking a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefingers. “Rutherford said you wanted to see me, that you had a surprise for me. You’re a pretty thing, Trevelyan, and you’ve got my attention.”

“Good,” she crooned, leaning close to him, “because I’ve been waiting to do this for quite a while.” Sliding her arms around his neck, she blinked up at him once before thrusting her knee savagely into his groin. Elan doubled over in pain, groaning and clutching at himself. But Cullen was behind in him an instant, pinning his arms behind his back.

“Rapist,” Rhoslyn said, spitting on the ground at his feet. “I saw what you did to Amia, and now you’ll answer for it.”

“She wanted it,” he sputtered. “She asked for it.”

Rhoslyn slapped him hard. “Hold your lying tongue! You have no right to speak here.”

“Ah!” he cried as Cullen twisted him around.

“You’re a blighted scoundrel,” he snarled, landing a solid blow to Elan’s stomach, “and if you so much as look at her or any other apprentice again, I’ll break your arms.”

“You can’t do this,” Elan whined. “I’ll tell the Knight-Commander and he’ll throw you in the hole for a week.”

Cullen hit him in the mouth. “What do you mean? You had such a terrible fall down the stairs. You saw it, didn’t you, Rhos?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was frightful indeed.”

Elan stumbled, his nose bleeding. “You little bitch,” he said. “You’ll pay for this, both of you.” Reaching for his belt, he drew the long knife he wore. With a growl, he lunged for Cullen.

Cullen grunted and pulled back, but not fast enough. The knife cut through the skin of his lip, sending a bright rivulet of blood running down his chin. He fell back a step, clutching a hand over his mouth.

Rhoslyn’s vision blurred red and before she could think to stop herself, she had conjured a flame in her right hand. Releasing it with a cry, she sent it careening toward Elan. He screamed as his tunic began to burn.

The moment the spell left her fingers, Rhoslyn went to Cullen, pushing his hands out of the way so that she could see the extent of his wound.

“Oh, blessed Andraste,” she said as her fingers slid against each other, slick with blood. “I should have paid more attention in Enchanter Wynne’s healing lessons.” Fumbling, she tried to recall the spells for knitting flesh. Her hands flashed a feeble blue for a moment, but it helped little. “Dammit, I’m no good at this!”

“What’s going on here?” boomed Knight-Commander Greagoir from the other side of the garden.

“That blighted bitch tried to kill me!” Elan roared. Rhoslyn would have shot him a glare, but she refused to take her eyes off Cullen. He was blinking up at her, his face contorted in pain.

“Let me tend to him,” said First Enchanter Irving. “Step away, young lady.”

Cullen sank down onto a bench and allowed the First Enchanter to work a spell over him. Rhoslyn watched, wringing her hands. A few moments and whispered words later, Irving stepped back and offered Cullen his hand.

“You’ll have a scar,” he said, “but the wound is healed. Wash it clean and you will see.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter,” said Cullen, though the words sounded odd, halting.

Irving nodded to him, rounding on Rhoslyn. “What happened?” he demanded.

“It was a mistake, First Enchanter,” she said, doing her best to come up with an excuse. “A misunderstanding. I…cursed at Novice Elan. Yes, I cursed him most terribly. He took offense and made to push me, but Cullen stopped him. Blows were thrown and all of a sudden, Elan drew his knife. I tried to stop him, but it was too late.”

“He cut you, Master Cullen?” asked Irving.

“He did, sir.”

The First Enchanter’s frown deepened. “And you chose to defend him, Rhoslyn, by using your magic?”

She swallowed heavily, but stood her ground. “I did, sir. It was a stupid scuffle and Elan should never have drawn his blade.”

“You’re right about that,” said Irving, “and he will be held accountable for his actions, as shall the both of you.”

“Yes, sir,” they intoned.

“Cullen, go get cleaned up. Rhoslyn, you are to go to the dormitory and remain there until I decide what to do with you.” He turned and strode back toward Greagoir and Elan.

“Are you—” she started, looking up a Cullen. His chin and neck were covered in drying blood.

“I’m fine,” he said, cutting her off. Then, more gently, “Do as the First Enchanter says, Rhos. I’ll find you later.”

It was not until the next morning that she saw him, however. He was already in the Chantry, kneeling on the cold stone floor before the image of Andraste, when First Enchanter Irving marched her in.

“You will stay here and pray for forgiveness,” he said sternly. “In silence.”

“Yes, sir,” Rhoslyn said, bowing her head.

“You are not to leave until the sun has set,” Irving continued. “Do I make myself clear?”

Rhoslyn nodded and sank to her knees. With a disgruntled, “Hmph,” Irving swept back out of the Chantry.

The silent contrition lasted for an hour at most before Rhoslyn could stand it no longer. “What happened to Elan?” she asked Cullen.

He gave her a long-suffering look, but whispered, “He’s got armory duty for the next three months. He has to clean and oil every piece of armor and blade until they shine.”

“He should have been flogged,” Rhoslyn said. “Publically.”

“He lost two teeth,” said Cullen. “And I broke his nose.”

“Good,” said Rhoslyn, smiling.

Cullen’s mouth turned up. “How does Amia?”

“As well as can be expected. She’ll be all right, but I do not envy her having Elan as a Sentinel.”

“Nor I, though I doubt he’ll bother her again.”

Rhoslyn nodded. “She said that he was sweet to her once, that he told her how pretty she was. She was supposed to trust him and now she never can again.”

“I know,” said Cullen, looking down. “I forget sometimes that no matter what oaths some men swear, they’ll never uphold them. He promised to protect her and he betrayed that trust in the most egregious of ways. Yet he’ll still be made a Templar someday.”

Rhoslyn took his hand. “You’re not like him. The other novices aren’t either. For each depraved man in the Order, there are twice as many good.”

“Am I good?” he asked, squeezing her fingers. “I did just beat someone rather severely.”

“You did it for good reason,” said Rhoslyn. “And if you are wicked for doing it, so am I.”

“At least we’re in it together,” said Cullen.

“Always.”

Chapter Text

First Enchanter Fiona stands in the war room in Haven looking somewhat bewildered by the array of brass markers scattered across the maps of Ferelden and Orlais. Many more have appeared in the past weeks as the Inquisition’s influence has grown. Rhoslyn is responsible for some of them, as the pieces of parchment on which her name is scrawled denote. The letters are far cleaner and more elegantly formed than if they had been written in her own hand however; they are the work of the ever-industrious Josephine.

“You have our thanks once again,” the ambassador says to Fiona, “for coming to the Inquisition’s aid, First Enchanter.”

“It was you who did us the service,” she replies. “If it weren’t for your intervention, we would be bound to the will of Magister Alexius. If we can lend our hands to help close the Breach, we will do it gladly.”

“We will convene tomorrow,” says Leliana, “and make our attempt. I assume you have been introduced to Solas, Fiona.”

“Yes, though he wishes to speak to me again this evening.”

“I will accompany you,” says Rhoslyn, curling the fingers of her left hand into a fist. It does not go unnoticed by the others. “There are some matters I must address to Solas as well.”

“Then let us adjourn for now,” Josephine says, her pen scratching furiously across the parchment she holds. “There are a great many things to see to before morning.”

As she and Leliana depart, Rhoslyn says, “Fiona, I’ll be just a moment.”

“There is no hurry,” she replies. “I wish to speak with Mother Giselle. I knew her well during my time in the Circle.”

Rhoslyn thanks her as she goes out, closing the door in her wake.

“I assume you’d like me to stay, then,” says Cullen, leaning a hand against the table. His fingers span the Free Marches.

“I don’t mean to keep you long,” Rhoslyn says. “I wanted to thank you.”

A line appears between Cullen’s brows. “For what?”

“For not speaking your mind as openly as you might have wanted to,” she says. Picking up the marker that stands over Redcliffe, she sighs. “I know you are not convinced that my alliance with the mages was the right course, but you chose not to speak out against me when the others were here. That was…considerate.”

“Ah,” says Cullen, “I had hoped that you might still have considered the Templars, but I understand why you did not.”

“Do you?” she asks.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, I assumed—perhaps wrongly—that you supported the rebellion against the Circles.”

“I wasn’t sure what to make of it when it began,” Rhoslyn says, “but now...” She pauses, searching for the words. “I was content in Ostwick and in Ferelden before it, but here I wake every day with a vigor I've never known. I am using my magic as it was meant to be used: on the battlefield. I want the bloodshed of this rebellion to end, but I will never be able to return to a Circle when I have enjoyed such freedom.”

“Nor should you have to return,” says Cullen, catching her by surprise. “I saw firsthand what the Order did in Kirkwall. I was a part of it. I could never, in good conscience, take up the mantle of a Templar again.”

Rhoslyn lays a hand over his, but he draws away from the touch.

“After Uldred, after what happened at Kinloch,” he says, “I began to see why so many Templars called for tighter control, for a greater use of force. But each time I found myself getting swept up in the tide of Meredith's crusade, you would invariably come to my mind. Had you been standing next to me as I did some of the things I was ordered to, you would have hated me, and you would have been right to.”

“What happened in Kirkwall was terrible,” she says. “The blood mages, destruction of the Chantry… You were forced to make difficult decisions. I could not fault you for that.”

“You should,” he growls, the leather of his gloves groaning as he fists his hands.

“But you disavowed Meredith when she went too far,” Rhoslyn says, strident. “You left the Order altogether. We’ve all done things we regret—”

“Regret does not excuse my transgressions,” he says, interrupting her. “It does not absolve me. I put mages to the sword for the Chantry without question. And I was too blind to see what I had become. Whatever trust you—and any other mage—once had in me, I betrayed in Kirkwall.”

Rhoslyn can plainly see the anguish in his face, the guilt and self-loathing that eats at him. She imagines, for a moment, embracing him as she might once have as a girl. They would have held tightly to one another then, the solid presence of the other a comfort. But a decade apart hangs between them like a veil, keeping them at the courteous distance of near strangers.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she says. “Perhaps you did act inexcusably in the Free Marches, but in recognizing the wrongness of it, it is clear that you are not, at your core, wicked. You seek to atone and that is admirable.” Rhoslyn dislikes the formality of the speech, but it conveys her meaning all the same.

“I doubt I will ever truly redeem myself,” Cullen says, his jaw still clenched tightly.

Pushing the imagined veil aside, Rhoslyn skirts the table and goes to him. She lays a hand on his cheek. He tenses under her fingertips.

“Cullen, you’re a good man,” she says, holding his gaze. “Ask anyone in the Inquisition. A precious few other commanders could have made the inroads we have with so few men at their disposal. You’ve earned the respect of your troops and your fellow advisors. Is that not enough?”

He raises his hand to hers, moving it away from his cheek. “I do not think it will ever be enough, but thank you for saying it.”

“It’s the truth,” says Rhoslyn, falling back a step. “I am only telling you what you are unable to see for yourself.”

“And what of you?” he asks, deftly redirecting the conversation. “Can you, too, not see what you are?”

She frowns at him. “Meaning?”

“You stand at the very center of the Inquisition,” he says. “Without you, I have no doubt that it would fall to its knees, hobbled and powerless.”

“Hardly,” says Rhoslyn. “Leliana and Cassandra would never let us crumble.”

“And you would?”

“Of course not. We’re doing good in Thedas and I would not see us fail.”

“See?” Cullen chuckles. “Inspired words from the Herald of Andraste. The soldiers may take their orders from me, but it's you they follow.”

She shakes her head. “And if I lead them astray? If I can’t close the Breach after all?”

“You can,” Cullen says. “And you will. You’re a formidable woman, Rhos.”

“‘Formidable?’” she asks, making a face. “Like the battlements of a fortress?”

Cullen rubs the back of his neck, looking abashed. “Ah, well…perhaps I could have chosen a better word. I meant only to say that you’re a force to be reckoned with. Maker’s breath, that sounds equally foolish.”

Rhoslyn laughs. “What I wouldn’t have given to have heard you say that back when we were in Enchanter Marden’s training yard.”

“I never would have admitted it then,” says Cullen, smiling crookedly, “but it was true enough.”

Chapter Text

The final fireball ricocheted off the corner of his shield, dissipating as it hit the stone wall of the mages’ training yard. Rhoslyn cursed in exasperation, and her opponent dared to smirk at her as he lowered his arm.

“Well done,” said Enchanter Marden from where he stood at Rhoslyn’s back. “You may come in now, Master Rutherford. That’s enough for today.”

The summer sun glinted off of the battered training armor Cullen wore as he strode toward them. Rhoslyn narrowed her eyes at him as he continued to grin.

“Just a little slow on the release that time?” he said as he set his shield down and reached for the skin of water that hung around the neck of one of the dummies in the yard.

When Rhoslyn had started her training four years before, she had only been permitted to attack the straw men, but once she had become proficient at conjuring not only fireballs, but lightning bolts and ice shards to send careening into the targets, Marden had pronounced that she was ready to face a live opponent. Of course, it was Cullen he meant.

The Templar novices were trained from the moment they entered the Order to handle a shield. Many were said to be fonder of their shields than of their swords, though Cullen always claimed he had an equally healthy respect for each. He was agile and swift with both, Rhoslyn quickly learned. He almost never failed to block her spells and sometimes even sent them zigzagging back toward her so that she had to jump out of the way to avoid being burned, frozen, or shocked. He was a good match for her, just as he had said he would be. It was frustrating most days, as neither of them could gain the upper hand on the other, but when Rhoslyn did manage to get a spell past him, it made the victory all the sweeter.

“Slow enough for you to counter, yes,” she replied, planting her staff firmly on the ground for emphasis.

Cullen rolled his eyes and pulled the cork out of the water skin with his teeth. He drank deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each pull. When he had had his fill, he emptied the rest of the cool water over his hair and down the back of his neck.

Rhoslyn made a face as he shook his head like a dog, showering her with fine mist. “For Andraste’s sake,” she grumbled, though it felt good against her sweat-soaked brow. Battle casting was no small effort and the leathers she wore grew warm in the afternoon sun.

Cullen, too, was wet with perspiration, the shirt at his back soaked through. He had been running across the yard, diving to avoid splinters of ice and sprinting out of the path of snapping bolts of lightning. At twenty, he was among the tallest of the Templar novices, but he rarely boasted of it to anyone but Rhoslyn, and even then it was only playful gloating to get a rise out of her.

Two days before, she had celebrated her seventeenth birthday. There were few festivities for such events in the Circle Tower, but Enchanter Marden had given her the finest gift she had ever received: a staff of her own. It was dark oak topped with an orb of glass as orange as the sunset. Ecstatic, she had nearly hit him in the nose with it as she embraced him.

Cullen had given her a pair of kidskin gloves that he had bought in Redcliffe. “I had them enchanted,” he told her. “Immolation, of course.”

She had donned them and shot a few fireballs at the wooden dummies in the training yard. The enchantment seemed to hone the flames so that they flew with even more ferocity. Rhoslyn adored them. However, Enchanter Marden forbid her to wear them in combat with Cullen in case they gave her an advantage and put him in undue danger.

He had suffered a few minor burns over the years of their training, but nothing of consequence. He was too quick with his shield to allow for that.

Wiping her face with her sleeve, Rhoslyn snatched the empty water skin from Cullen. “I would have liked a drink, thank you,” she said.

“I’m certain you would have,” he replied, smiling one-sidedly. The wound on his lip had healed well, just as First Enchanter Irving had said it would. All that remained of the bloody mess inflicted by Novice Elan the year before was a narrow scar. Rhoslyn once feared that it would mar his face, and that he would dislike it, but it had done quite the opposite. If it was conceivable for him to have become comelier, he had.

Rhoslyn swallowed, tamping down the odd feeling in her stomach. In the past few months it had been happening more and more. When she thought Cullen was occupied with other things, she would watch him out of the corner of her eye, a small smile quirking at her mouth. Once or twice he had caught her at it, and to her chagrin, she had flushed under his gaze like a swooning maiden in a song. He had said nothing of it, fortunately, only looked away with an expression that Rhoslyn could not read.

Of late, a few of the Templar novices had taken up with girls in Redcliffe. They often spent their free days in the village and when they returned they bragged of the romantic afternoons they spent on the lake, alone with their sweethearts in cramped rowboats.

“Close quarters never did no harm,” Rhoslyn had heard one novice telling his companion, “especially when you’re of a mind to have a tumble.”

“In a boat?” scoffed the companion. “It’s a wonder you didn’t roll over into the lake.”

Cullen, though, never spoke of any of the village girls the way the others did. Once, another of the novices had asked him about the “pretty lark of a girl with raven hair” that had said she fancied him. He had shrugged and said that he didn’t even recall her face. Rhoslyn, who had been eavesdropping on the exchange, felt the knot in her stomach release.

“Come on, then, Rutherford,” said the novice, a boy called Rolland, shaking his head. “We don’t swear an oath of chastity. A girl might do you some good. A good lay would loosen you up, I’d wager.”

“What’s this about loosening Rutherford up?” asked a novice with a shock of red hair, smirking. “Andraste’s tits, he could bloody well use it.”

“Let’s go a few rounds in the yard, Henrik,” Cullen replied, calm as ever. “Schooling you always puts me a fine mood.”

Red-haired Henrik shrugged. “You’re all work, Rutherford. If you’re not in the yard with us, you’re off with your mage dodging fireballs. Where’s the joy in life?”

“Trevelyan’s your charge, isn’t she, Rutherford?” asked Rolland. He whistled through his teeth. “She’s grown up quite nicely. A fine looking piece, eh, Henrik? Is it really all fireballs with her, or are you two slipping away for a snog—oof!”

Even from around the corner where she stood, Rhoslyn heard the deep thump of Rolland’s back hitting the stone wall.

“Watch your mouth,” Cullen snarled. “Trevelyan is not your concern, and if I hear you speak of her like that again, I promise you you’ll regret it.”

“All right,” said Rolland, his voice strained as if something was pressed against his neck. “It was only a bit of fun.”

They scurried off a moment later. Rhoslyn, too, was about to leave when she heard Cullen say, “You can come out now. I know you’re there.”

Swallowing guiltily, she turned the corner to face him. He stood with one hand braced against the wall, his face still flushed with anger.

“I was just passing by,” said Rhoslyn. “I didn’t hear it all.”

“It’s better that you did hear it,” he growled. “That’s not the first time I’ve told someone off for talking of you like that.”

Rhoslyn’s brows knit. “That’s what you’re upset about? What they said of you wasn’t particularly kind, either.”

“I don’t care what they say about me,” he said, turning and gasping Rhoslyn by the shoulders. “You, though…I won’t let what happened to Amia happen to you.”

“It’s just talk,” she said, though a chill ran down her spine as she thought of how Elan had forced himself on the apprentice Amia.

“Words beget action.”

“Cullen,” Rhoslyn sighed, reaching up to touch his cheek, “I can protect myself. Not everyone can block a flame like you can, especially in close quarters.”

“I know that, Rhos. It’s just…the way they talk of you in the barracks…”

“Like I’m a horse for auction?” she asked. “All lean flanks and a fine mane?”

“It’s not a joke,” said Cullen. Brushing of a lock of hair back from her brow, he sighed. “You do understand that if you’re beautiful, you’re in danger?”

Rhoslyn felt a strange and sudden tightness in her chest. Did he mean to say that he thought her beautiful? She studied her reflection in the mirror each day and found her appearance to be pleasing, but not without its flaws. Cullen was far more handsome than she was pretty, or at least she thought so. She had not considered what he might see when he looked at her. Was it really beauty, she wondered.

“I’ll be all right,” she had said, albeit haltingly. “I have you to look after me, don’t I?”

Cullen had nodded, his expression stern.

“Come on, Rhos,” he said as they stood in the mage’s training yard, “let’s get out of here.”

They waved to Enchanter Marden as they made their way to the small armory that sat just off of the courtyard. A selection of staves hung from the walls alongside shields of several sizes. There were only one or two blunted swords in a barrel in the corner. More often than not, the Templar novices were only armed with their shields when they trained with the mages. Only Cullen and one or two of the others were permitted to wield both blade and shield. They could be trusted not to cleave their mage partners in the heat of battle.

Rhoslyn hung her staff with the others and began to release the ties on her leather coat. It was not heavy enough to deflect a blow from a sword, but it afforded her some protection from the heat and cold of her own spells. Slipping out of it, she hung it from a hook labeled with her name.

Across the room, Cullen was removing the breastplate of the light armor he wore. He had already discarded the gauntlets and would soon turn to the greaves. It was practice armor only, and he would have a finer set when he was made a Templar. He would look very well in a full suit of plate.

Once he had hung the breastplate up on its hook, he pulled his shirt over his head with one hand. Rhoslyn should have looked away immediately, but her eyes lingered on his bare back. His broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow, strong waist. She could see the smooth movement of the muscles beneath his skin. She wondered, not for the first time, what it might be like to trace the lines of his back with her fingertips.

“It was a good match today,” he said as he toweled his hair, making it stick up at odd angles.

“Mmhm,” she said, quickly turning her back to him. She exchanged her soiled shirt for a linen shift that fell to her ankles. Unlacing her breeches, she pushed them down her legs without exposing her flesh. Pushing them away with her foot, she slipped her heavier robes over her head and belted them at her waist.

“You’re quiet,” said Cullen, turning to her with raised brows.

“My throat’s dry,” she replied, glancing pointedly at the empty water skin.

“A likely excuse,” he said. “Not upset that I countered that last spell?”

Rhoslyn shrugged. “I’ll get you back tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he said as he tickled the sensitive spot behind her ear.

She whirled, slapping his hand away. Laughing, he caught her wrist and pinned her against him.

“You won’t get away so easily,” he said, the scarred side of his mouth lifting as he set to tickling her ribs. Rhoslyn struggled, protesting out of habit, but when she made to push back from him, she stilled. Her hands were not fisted in his tunic, as they usually were, but lay against his bare chest. On his shoulder was a slivery patch of skin that had healed after he had taken a burn the year before. Rhoslyn had been proud of making it past his defenses that day, but the joy had faded immediately when she saw that he was in pain. It was a cruel reminder that even if their matches in the yard were fought in good spirits, they were meant to be training for when they would have to face battle, perhaps even on opposite sides of the field. Gently, she laid her hand across the scarred flesh.

“If you’re thinking about how sorry you are,” said Cullen, “you needn’t. I was sloppy. I got what I deserved.”

Rhoslyn frowned up at him. “I don’t ever mean to hurt you. Not really.”

“I know that.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen either.” Reaching up, she traced the scar on Cullen’s lip. She had done it many times before, but this time, as she grazed his lips, she didn’t immediately draw her hand away. She studied the bow of his mouth, her index finger trailing along his bottom lip. His expressions were often stern and focused, especially when he was fighting, and his lips would be set in a firm line, but whenever he laughed, the corners of his mouth turned up and his white teeth flashed brightly. Cullen did not smile often, but when he did it was resplendent. He was so very handsome when he smiled. In that moment, Rhoslyn wanted very much for him to smile at her.

He had frozen under her scrutiny, the only movement the steady rise and fall of his chest. His breath was warm against her fingers. Looking up, she met his gaze. He was staring down at her, his tawny eyes bright and intent. Feeling heat across her face and neck, she lowered her hand. As she did, Cullen bent his head close to hers, their noses just touching. Her heart thudding loudly in her chest, she made to pull back, but he crossed the distance before she could get away. She made a soft sound of surprise as his lips met hers.

She had, more than once in the past years, imagined what it might be like to be kissed. Love ballads told of a joyful union that made the heart sing and the head whirl, but they said nothing of the way all the world around her faded away until all she could see, taste, and feel was Cullen. She was supposed to close her eyes, she remembered, but she could not seem to force her lids closed. If she could not see him, perhaps she would wake and find all of this a dream.

But his arms around her waist were real enough. He was drawing her against him. He had held her before, but she had never clung to him as she did now. His mouth was so warm that she was startled when he drew away and the cold air struck her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice husky in way she had not heard before.

“You are?” she breathed.

He blinked. “No.”

“Nor am I,” said Rhoslyn, venturing a small smile.

“Oh,” he said, lifting his fingers to her cheek. “Good.”

“Your heart is thundering,” she said, pressing her palm to his chest.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” he said. “It’s rather…well, it was very nice.”

Her smile broadened. “Have you wanted to?”

“Yes,” he said, looking down at her lips. “For a long time.”

Rhoslyn felt a pooling heat in her belly and she could not seem to draw in enough air. The teasing tone was gone from her words as she asked, “How long?”

“Months,” he said. “Years. What difference does it make?”

She cupped his cheek, feeling the beginnings of his afternoon beard. “It is forbidden.”

Cullen closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. “You think I don’t know that? It’s kept me from you for this long. I didn’t dare speak. Not until…” He sighed. “I did not think it was possible that you might see me as anything more than your Sentinel.”

“I’ve been afraid to,” she said, the truth crashing down on her with sudden fierceness. “If the First Enchanter were to find out, we would be separated, and I could not bear that.”

“Nor could I,” he said, his hands against her neck.

“Then,” said Rhoslyn, her throat tightening, “we should go on as we have. I can see no other way.”

Cullen swallowed, though he nodded in silent assent. He took a step back from her. He wore resignation like a hooded cloak; it weighed his shoulders down and cast a shadow over his face.

Rhoslyn’s chest burned as she watched him turn away. She hugged her arms to her chest, feeling her eyes begin to sting. It was the only thing they could do and she knew it. The Circle Tower was too full of prying eyes and keen ears for a liaison to go unnoticed. To even consider it was beyond foolish. It was—

“Cullen.”

She was across the room in a moment, her arms encircling his neck. He lifted her to his mouth, pulling her against him. Sliding her fingers into his hair, she parted her lips in hopes that he would deepen the kiss. Cullen made a contented sound in his chest as his tongue met hers. Framing her face with his hands, he broke the kiss, only to return a moment later.

By the time they could bear to part, both were breathless and their faces flushed. Rhoslyn could barely hear for the rushing of the blood in her ears. Drawing her hands up, Cullen kissed both of her palms.

“This is madness,” he said.

Rhoslyn nodded, standing up on her toes to press her lips to his again. “No one can know.”

He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, giving her a small smile. “No one but us.”

“Mm,” she said, resting her head against his chest. And for a while, she put the thought of what might happen out of her mind, content to let him hold her in his arms.

Chapter Text

The memory of the kiss is so vivid that when she opens her eyes, Rhoslyn does not recognize where she is. She expects to find herself in her bed in the Kinloch Hold dormitory, but instead she is lying on her back in a tent, the air heavy with the smoke from oil lanterns.

The thick leather coat and woolen tunic she had worn into battle against the host of red Templars in Haven are gone. Beneath a heavy fur coverlet under which she is tucked, she wears only a soft shirt and breeches. Her feet are swaddled in thick socks, but her boots are nowhere to be found.

Slowly, her more recent memories begin to return to her: the flight from Haven, the misshapen form of Corypheus, the bitter cold as she slogged through snowdrifts, searching in vain for any sign of the Inquisition’s forces. She had collapsed when her strength had failed her, resigned to the inevitability of death. Yet here she is, alive and whole. Though where, she does not know.

Rhoslyn blinks as the flap of the tent swings open, the brightness from outside blinding her for a moment. Dimness returns, though, as a figure passes into the tent and lets the flap fall behind him.

“Maker’s breath! You’re awake,” says Cullen. He looks tired, though his face brightens as he goes to her bedside. “How do you feel? Shall I send for Solas?”

“I’m all right,” says Rhoslyn, sitting up on her elbows. “At least I think I am. Where are we?”

“In the Frostbacks a few leagues from Haven.”

“Leagues?” says Rhoslyn, her eyes wide. “Did I come that far?”

Cullen nods. “We found you in a small snow cave not far from here. You were half frozen and weak. I—we thought we might lose you for a time, but Solas was able to work a healing spell that brought the warmth back to your limbs. Had you not found shelter in that cave, you might have died.”

“I thought I did,” she sighs, though she does not tell him that in what she thought to be to her last waking moments, her mind had turned to him, to her recollections of the first kiss they had shared.

“Thank the Maker we found you when we did,” says Cullen. His hand moves toward her cheek, but he seems to think the better of it and lets it fall to his side again.

Easing herself out from under the furs, Rhoslyn asks after the men.

“We lost a good number,” Cullen says, “but those who remain have been asking for their Herald. They say that it was Andraste’s blessing that saved you once again.”

Rhoslyn looks down at her left palm. “Yesterday I would have said that it could not be, but now…” She shakes her head. “If Andraste has chosen me, I still cannot understand why.”

“If you had stood on the field yesterday and watched yourself close the Breach,” says Cullen, “you would. It was an honor and privilege to stand at your side against Corypheus.”

“We never really had the chance to fight as allies, did we?” she says, one side of her mouth turning up. “We were always opponents in the training yard.”

“I’m far happier to be on the right side of your fireballs,” says Cullen. He offers his hand to help her stand.

Laughing, she takes it. “I, too, am glad to be behind your shield rather than in front of it.”

Cullen smiles down at her then, and she realizes that she has not yet let go of his hand. They are standing little more than a handbreadth apart. When she breaths, her breast nearly brushes the folds of his cloak.

The tattered edges of the past and present blur together in Rhoslyn’s mind, and for a moment the smoky tent fades away and they are once again standing in the mages’ armory in Kinloch.

She lifts her free hand to Cullen’s mouth, tracing the scar there. He lets out a stuttering breath. It passes over Rhoslyn’s fingers in warm bursts. His grip on her opposite hand tightens as he takes her by the waist and closes the distance between them. She can feel his armor, cold through her thin shirt, but she ignores it. It is far warmer where his left hand is pressing gently into the small of her back. She studies his lips, as uncertain as she had once been as a girl.

“Rhos,” he says. “I…”

From outside the tent, she hears a single, strong voice begin to sing. A moment later, others join it.

“I know this,” she says, looking up and meeting Cullen’s eyes. There is a flash of annoyance there, displeasure at the interruption, but it fades quickly as he takes a step back from her. He keeps a hold of her hand, however.

“I do as well,” he says. “Come. They will be glad to see that you’ve woken.”

“The night is long,” sing the soldiers of the Inquisition as Cullen pushes back the flap of the tent and leads Rhoslyn out into the daylight, “and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come.”

Leaning only slightly on his arm, she looks out over the men and women who stood alongside her at Haven and would now follow her down a new path. A few of them kneel as they see her. To her surprise, the gesture does not bother her. She accepts it gratefully, inclining her head.

Turning to Cullen, she lends her voice to the song. After a moment, he joins her.

They walk for nearly six days, following Solas high into the Frostback Mountains. Their supplies are dwindling and their spirits have sunk by the time they arrive at a cleft in the rocks ahead. Calling Rhoslyn to his side, Solas points down to the valley below.

“Skyhold,” he says, leaning against his staff.

Her mouth drops open as she gazes out at the massive fortress. It appears as though its battlements and towers have been carved from the rock of the mountains themselves, that it is as natural to the place as any other snowcapped peak in the range.

“It’s wonderful,” she says to Solas, touching his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“It will serve your Inquisition well, Herald,” he says.

“I believe you mean ‘Inquisitor,’” says Cassandra, striding up to them. Her boots are caked with snow, but her expression is warm. Rhoslyn looks at her, brows raised in question.

“The Inquisition is in need of a leader,” the Seeker says. “I can think of none better than you. You have taken us this far.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I will do as best I can.”

“That is all we can ask you for,” says Cassandra. Turning to Cullen and Leliana, who stand a few paces away, she calls, “Sound the march. We follow Inquisitor Trevelyan to Skyhold!”

Rhoslyn spends little time in the fortress during the first weeks of the Inquisition’s occupation. She is called to Orlais to deal with unrest in the provinces. When she does return to Skyhold, it is a hive of activity. Several hundred women and men work to make it livable.

Of course, the tavern is among the first of the outbuildings to be outfitted and put to use, but great attention has also been paid to the main hall. A towering chair has been placed on the dais, meant for use by the Inquisitor alone. The stained glass windows that rise behind it have been cleaned and light filters through them, bathing the flagstones in an array of bright colors.

To Rhoslyn’s surprise, quarters have been furnished for her as well. At first, she protests the grandeur of the bedchamber:

“There must be a better use for all this space,” she tells Josephine as they stand at the foot of a bed that could easily sleep three.

“Certainly not, Inquisitor,” the ambassador replies. “Skyhold must display the power and wealth of the Inquisition if we are to receive honored guests in these halls.”

“I should hope I won’t be entertaining anyone in my bedroom,” Rhoslyn says.

Josephine laughs, covering her mouth demurely. “Official visitors, no, but you are welcome to host any personal callers at your discretion.”

“Are you suggesting that I take a lover, Ambassador?” she asks, cocking a brow.

“I would not presume to do any such thing, Inquisitor,” Josephine replies. “But I doubt anyone would object if you did. The Iron Bull, for instance, looks at you with…what shall we say? Great interest? Yes, that’s it.”

Rhoslyn’s eyes widen. “You can’t be serious.”

“Well,” Josephine teases, “if he does not suit you, perhaps there is another who does. Dare I suggest Warden Blackwall?”

“Certainly not.”

“Very well. Do your tastes run more to the Dalish? What of Solas?”

“Josie!” Rhoslyn cries. “What happened to not suggesting such things?”

She shrugs. “It’s all in good fun. And I promise you, if you confide in me, I shall guard your secret as I would one of my own.” She taps her chin contemplatively. “If not our esteemed scholar of the Fade, perhaps Varric has stolen your heart with his love poems?”

“I can’t believe you,” says Rhoslyn, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Varric writes prose. He’s not a poet.”

“You are hardly giving me anything to work with,” says Josephine, pouting. “I have to guess blindly.”

Rhoslyn crosses her arms. “I’m not dropping any hints, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Ah! So, there is someone.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Josephine smiles. “Oh, you didn’t have to. Hmm, let’s see…if you don’t care for the quiet, scholarly type, the Grey Warden, the brash mercenary, or the silver-tongued dwarf, who does that leave? Well, I had not considered Sera…”

“And you need not,” Rhoslyn says. “I’m not inclined to women. That’s the only hint you’ll get.”

Josephine nods. “Then I’m afraid I’m at a loss, Inquisitor. Unless…” A sly smile tugs at her lips. “There is Commander Cullen.”

“What of him?” asks Rhoslyn, looking down at her hands.

“You knew him when he was a Templar in the Ferelden Circle of Magi. He told me some time ago that you were once friends, yet you do not often speak to him. Unless it is around the table in the war room, of course.”

“He is occupied with the Inquisition’s forces,” Rhoslyn says, “and I with my duties. There is little time for pleasantries.”

“That is true,” says Josephine, “to a point. You always come to visit me when you are here in Skyhold. Cassandra and Leliana have said the same. Even Master Dennet tells me that you go to the stables when you have a quiet moment. But Cullen is not among those you seek out. Why is that, if I may ask?”

Rhoslyn sinks down onto the edge of the bed. It is true enough that she has not been to the tower where Cullen has taken up residence. She has considered going to see him more than once, but each time she does, she cannot think of anything to say that does not sound entirely foolish or contrived.

She does not wish to ask him about his time in Kirkwall, as it brings up unpleasant memories, and her years in the Ostwick Circle are hardly worth recounting; they were so dull. The time they spent in Kinloch Hold seems like a different life, and the memories of their friendship are indelibly fused with those of their deeper affection for each other. Recalling the passionate moments of their youth seems far from appropriate for their current situation as Commander and Inquisitor. So, she has simply stayed away.

Looking up at Josephine, she wonders how she can begin to explain.

“We were little more than children when we last saw each other,” she says at last. “The closeness we once enjoyed is…no longer present.”

“But friendships can be rekindled,” says Josephine. “Do you not want try?”

“I’m afraid it is not so simple,” she sighs.

Sitting down at her side, Josephine takes her hand. “Inquisitor—Rhoslyn, as your chief diplomat, I am skilled in perceiving things that others are unable to see. Forgive me if I am mistaken in this, but was there once something more between you and the Commander?”

Rhoslyn blinks slowly, running her hand over the fur coverlet. “What makes you think that?”

“Well,” says Josephine, her brows drawing together, “when you are together in the war room, you tend to…watch him, especially when he is occupied with something and would not see you looking. And the Commander…he is somewhat taciturn in most situations, but when you are in his presence he smiles more. He even made a joke about the Orlesian court yesterday. Did you not hear it?”

“I did,” says Rhoslyn, smiling to herself. “It wasn’t particularly funny, if I recall.”

“No, not really,” says Josephine, “but when you laughed—and you did—he grinned, perfectly pleased with himself. I have never seen him behave like that before. It was extraordinarily endearing.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Rhoslyn chuckles. “The Commander of the Inquisition is certainly not to be perceived by the men as ‘endearing.’”

“I will keep it in confidence,” says Josephine, winking. “But, you must tell me once and for all, were you sweethearts?”

Rhoslyn squeezes her fingers. “Once we were.”

Chapter Text

After Rhoslyn and Cullen parted on the day that he first kissed her, she did not see him again for two days. She attended her lessons with the other apprentices and did her best to focus on her tasks, but her mind would unfailingly stray to how it felt when he held her, how his taste remained in her mouth long after their parting embrace. She wondered what he was doing, where he was, and if he was thinking of her as she was him. She relived the brush of his lips on hers each night as she drifted into sleep, a sly smile spreading across her face.

When, at last, she was assigned duties in the gardens, she could not keep her stomach from knotting with excitement. It was tinged, though, with a bit of fear, for it was possible that he might have reconsidered in the past days. A liaison did put both of them in danger.

The garden courtyard was empty when she arrived, which did little to assuage her uneasiness. Fretfully, she fumbled with the weeding around the rashvines. When she heard the crunch of footfalls in the gravel, her hands began to shake. Forcing air into her lungs, she willed herself to remain calm. If she could not control her nerves, they were sure to be found out. That being contingent, of course, upon how Cullen felt after their time apart.

Humming a few strains of a Chantry hymn in a feeble attempt to appear unruffled, she saw the toes of Cullen’s worn boots appear at the edge of her vision.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” she echoed, managing to keep her voice steady. She plucked idly at the rashvine to keep her fingers occupied.

“It’s…ah, good to see you.”

She glanced up at him. He was rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand, his gaze darting from the ground to the sky and back. It fell anywhere but on her.

She said, “You, too,” as she glanced away from him again.

“Do you need help?”

“I’m almost done here,” she replied. “Though you can toss these weeds over the wall if you like.”

“Weeds. Right.”

As she handed him the basket their fingers met. A spark, like that which ignited mage fire in her hands, snapped against her skin as she touched him. Startled, she looked up and caught his eye. He looked her over, searching her face, though for what, she did not know.

The basket of weeds fell to the ground as Cullen’s hand encircled her wrist. He lifted her to her feet. Unspeaking, he pulled her in his wake as he strode toward to the shadowed corner of the garden behind the trellises of arbor blessing.

Taking her face between his hands, he said, “If you’ve changed your mind about me, Rhos, tell me now. I’ve been in agony these past two days thinking that you might have.”

She covered one of his hands with hers. “I haven’t. Have you?”

“Never,” he said as he swooped down to kiss her. She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him to her mouth in desperate relief. He held her tightly around the waist, his arms warm and solid.

“Maker,” she breathed when they drew apart. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you,” he said, holding her against his chest. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head. “I’ve thought of almost nothing else. It was excruciating to be parted from you. It’s never been like that before.”

“We’d never done this before,” she said between brief kisses.

He sighed, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “How I waited this long, I’ll never know.”

Tracing the line of her jaw, he tipped her face back up to his. He kissed her softly for a time and then harder as he pressed her back against the courtyard wall. She opened her mouth when he sought entry by tracing her bottom lip with his tongue. He tasted of mint, as if he had been chewing the leaves. The thought that he had come to the garden intending to kiss her like this sent a pleasant thrill down her spine.

How long they remained there, concealed behind the tall trellises, Rhoslyn did not know. She lost all track of time as he held her, his hands grasping her shoulders and sliding down the length of her back. He stopped, though, at the small, leaving the rest of her form unexplored for the moment. She was glad of it, for she was still shy and unaccustomed to being touched so freely.

Cullen, too, was unsure. He would draw back from her lips every so often and ask, “Is this all right?” or “Do you like that?”

She invariably answered with, “Yes,” as every caress, every kiss made her heart pound happily. She was eager to lose herself in him, letting her concerns of how well he was enjoying her kisses fall by the wayside. He seemed pleased enough, making small contended noises in his chest as they renewed their efforts after pausing to catch their breath.

Eventually, they stepped apart, though their hands were still clasped between them.

“As much as I want to,” said Rhoslyn, smiling, “we can’t hide back here all afternoon. If the embrium doesn’t get pruned, I’ll have to answer to Enchanter Lorent.”

“I’ll help you do it quickly,” said Cullen. “I’m not through with you, yet.”

“Then come on,” she said, pulling him out of the shadows. “Let’s make swift work of it.”

Chapter Text

After Josephine leaves her, Rhoslyn paces the length of the chamber, glancing every so often at the sun setting over the edge of her balcony. She chews her thumbnail absently. Its edge is ragged by the time she descends the stairs into the great hall of Skyhold. Flames in the cauldrons at the edges of the room flicker as she strides past.

There are few people about when she arrives in the upper courtyard. Dusk is falling and warm light from the windows of the tavern pools on the grass at her feet. She is tempted to abandon her current path, duck inside, and take a pint of ale with Iron Bull and Krem.

Coward, she thinks, admonishing herself. With a sigh, she continues on toward the staircase that leads to the battlements.

She passes through one crumbling tower, its roof long ago collapsed, before she arrives at the door to Cullen’s study. Taking a breath, she raps soundly on the sturdy wood.

“Come in,” she hears from inside. Lifting the latch, she pushes the door open and steps across the threshold.

He sits at a massive desk at the center of the room, which is cheerily lit with a number of candles. His golden head is bent as he scrawls on a sheet of parchment. He holds the quill at a peculiar angle.

“What is it?” he asks, his eyes still fixed on the papers before him.

“Ah, is this a bad time?”

Cullen’s quill falls from his hand as he stands. “Inquisitor! Forgive me, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Please,” she says, “don’t get up on my account.”

“It’s no trouble,” he says, stepping out from behind his desk. “I was just looking over Scout Harding’s reports from the field. Is there something I can do for you?”

“I hope Harding wrote with good news,” Rhoslyn says.

“For the most part, yes,” he replies. “The Inquisition continues to gain a foothold in the Exalted Plains, though your presence has been requested.”

“I’ll make plans to leave first thing tomorrow,” she says. He nods, though he remains silent. Rhoslyn chews her lip as she searches for something more to say. She curses inwardly, having known full well that this was a foolish idea.

Then Cullen asks, “Did you need something else, Inquisitor?”

“There’s no need to call me that,” she replies. “Not when we’re alone.”

“Of course,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “Rhos.”

The corners of her mouth turn up at that.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” she manages to say. “I was just stopping by to…talk. But I can come back later, if you’d prefer.”

“No,” Cullen says sharply. Then softer, “Please, stay. I would like very much to talk.” He pulls a wooden chair out from beside one of his bookshelves, offering it to her.

“Thank you,” she says as she sinks down onto it.

He drags his own chair around so that it faces her.

“So,” she says, folding her hands in her lap, “how do you find Skyhold? Do you have all the supplies you require?”

“Trade was sparse for the first few weeks,” he says, “but the soldiers want for little now. We have bows and blades aplenty. And there’s a good stock of ale and wine in the tavern. It requires little more than that to keep their spirits up.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” says Rhoslyn. “I wouldn’t want morale to suffer for lack of drink.”

Cullen chuckles. “The stories they bring back of your forays into the countryside are certainly a source of cheer as well.”

“According to Varric, I’ve slain dragons and giants singlehanded,” she says, shaking her head. “I should hope those aren’t the tales making the rounds of the barracks.”

“There are a few overstatements, I imagine, but that makes for good legends, and soldiers are always keen to be a part of legends.” Resting his hands on his knees, he asks, “What of you? How do you like the Inquisition’s stronghold?”

“It’s beautiful here. Solas tells me that this place was once sacred to the elves. I can see why.”

“It is remarkable indeed. And positioned ideally to withstand a siege, should it come to that.”

“Do you think it will?”

“I doubt it,” he says. “We dealt Corypheus a heavy blow at Haven, and that after we stole the mages out from under him. If we don’t yet have the upper hand, we soon will.”

Rhoslyn smiles. “You’re good at this, you know.”

“What?” he asks. “Conversation?”

“Command, Cullen,” she replies.

He looks down almost bashfully. “Thank you. I admit, I didn’t think I would come to enjoy it as I do. There is always something to address, of course, but I like that. It keeps me occupied.”

“I don’t doubt that,” says Rhoslyn. “You’re happy here, then?”

“Strange as it sounds in the middle of a war,” he replies, “yes. I am.”

“Good.”

Cullen smiles one-sidedly. “This life, it seems, suits you, too. You look very well these days. Not that you weren’t always lovely, I mean.”

“I believe that was a compliment,” Rhoslyn says, “so I will thank you for it.”

“Yes,” says Cullen, pushing a hand through his hair. “It was meant to be, though I fear I made a mess of it.”

“The sentiment was there,” she replies, holding back a laugh.

“You’re mocking me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He cocks a brow. “Oh, I very much doubt that.”

They grin at each other and for a moment Rhoslyn feels that she knows him again, that the Cullen that was her Sentinel and her best friend is there once more. She silently thanks Josephine for prodding her to go to him.

“Well,” she says, getting to her feet, “it’s late and I’m certain you still have dispatches to write before you can turn in.”

“The missives will keep,” he says, “if you would like to stay.”

She shakes her head. “If I’m to leave for the Exalted Plains in the morning, I should get some rest. And so should you.”

“As the Inquisitor commands,” he says. He bows from the waist, his eyes flashing with mischief.

Rhoslyn’s stomach does a small flip. Feeling a little giddy, she clears her throat and says, “Goodnight, Cullen.”

“Goodnight, Rhos,” follows her as she leaves him.

She is in the Exalted Plains for just over a week. When she returns to Skyhold she is exhausted and in need of a bath. She spends a good part of the evening soaking in a brass tub in her quarters, remaining in the water long after it cools. When she finally gets out, she is loath to dress, choosing to wrap a blanket around herself instead. She curls up in the wide chair behind her desk and reads over the reports that have accumulated in her absence.

Josephine’s letters are filled with detailed accounts of her meetings with various dignitaries from across Thedas. Rhoslyn appreciates the meticulousness of the records, though she decides that she does not have to know how well the guests liked their suppers or what their opinions of the draperies were.

The messages from Leliana are much more to-the-point, sometimes only a few words. That is enough, Rhoslyn finds, to communicate the intricate movements of the spymaster’s many agents. As Inquisitor, she doesn’t need to know everything, and even if she wanted to, Leliana would not volunteer such information. It is for the protection of her agents, she says. Rhoslyn doesn’t question her.

Folded neatly at the leftmost corner of her desk are the missives from Cullen. Written in his hurried way, the ink smudged a bit by the heel of his hand, they recount the movements of troops across Ferelden and Orlais. At the bottom of each message, he writes, “CSR.” Rhoslyn traces the letters with her forefinger. Cullen Stanton Rutherford.

Smiling to herself, she rises from the chair and goes to her wardrobe. Dressing hastily, she laces up her boots and makes for the battlements. As she passes by the forge, however, she hears raised voices. Brows knit, she slips inside and peers at the two figures standing before the fire.

“You’ve asked for my opinion and I’ve given it,” says Cassandra, her arms crossed over her breast. “Why would you expect it to change?”

“I expect you to keep your word,” Cullen growls. “This feeling, it’s relentless! I can’t—”

“You give yourself too little credit,” says Cassandra.

“If I’m unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this,” he replies. “Would you rather save face than admit—”

The floorboard creaks under Rhoslyn weight, drawing Cullen’s attention. Sighing, she steps out of the darkness. As she approaches him, she sees that there are dark circles under his eyes, that his countenance is drawn. She opens her mouth to ask him what’s going on, but he brushes past her, saying only, “Forgive me,” as he disappears into the courtyard. Rhoslyn stares after him until the darkness outside swallows him.

“And people say I’m stubborn,” says Cassandra. “This is ridiculous.”

“What’s the matter?” Rhoslyn asks.

“So he didn’t tell you,” the Seeker sighs. “When I asked Cullen to join the Inquisition, he decided that he would leave the Templar Order and all it entailed behind. That includes the draughts of lyrium.”

“He’s not taking it?” Rhoslyn says, her eyes wide. “That could kill him.”

“He is long past that point in the withdrawal,” says Cassandra. “It has been months now. His life is not in danger.”

“Thank the Maker.”

Cassandra nods. “Cullen has a will of iron. I greatly admire what he has done. However, when he stopped taking the lyrium, he asked that I watch him to ensure that he was fulfilling his duties to the Inquisition.”

“And he has,” says Rhoslyn.

“I agree with you,” Cassandra says. “He does not. He has asked that I recommend a replacement for him.”

“And what did you say?”

“I refused. It’s not necessary. Besides, it would destroy him. He has come so far.”

Rhoslyn blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. “Why didn’t he come to me with this?”

“We had an agreement long before you joined us,” says Cassandra. “As a Seeker I could evaluate the dangers. And he doesn’t want to…risk your disappointment. He thinks very highly of you.”

“And I of him,” she says. “There must be a way to change his mind.”

“If anyone can it, it’s you.” Reaching out, she touches Rhoslyn’s shoulder. “Whatever it was between you before, in your pasts, he still carries it with him. Talk to him, tell him what he means to you, to the Inquisition. He can do this. I knew it when we met in Kirkwall, and you know it as well.”

Rhoslyn nods. “I will go now.”

As she enters Cullen’s study, a wooden box crashes against the doorframe, splintering into jagged pieces. She barely manages to dodge it.

“Rhoslyn,” he says, looking up sharply. “What are you doing here?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’d stopped taking the lyrium?” she asks, anger roiling to life in her gut. It irkes her that he did not think he could confide in her. Once they had shared all their secrets, but no more.

“I never meant for it to interfere,” he says. “I—” He doubles over in pain, his face contorted. Rhoslyn hastens to his side. Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, she supports him. Leading him to a chair, she helps lower him onto it.

“Is it always this bad?” she asks, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with her shirtsleeve.

“The pain comes and goes,” he replies, his teeth clenched. “It’s not been like this in a long time.”

Spotting a flagon on his desk, Rhoslyn looks into it. It is, thankfully, filled with water. Crouching at Cullen’s side, she brings it to his lips. “Drink.”

He manages to take a small sip, though some drips down his chin. Rhoslyn dabs it away.

“You should have said something,” she tells him. “I could have helped you.”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” he says. “This is something I must endure alone.”

“You’re wrong—”

“Don’t!” he snaps, slapping the flagon away. The fired clay shatters as it hits the floor. “You should be questioning what I’ve done!” He groans. “I thought this would be better, that I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won’t leave me! How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause. I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry. I should be taking it!” He buries his face in his hands.

“Cullen, stop, please,” Rhoslyn says, laying a hand gently on his damp curls. “Forget the Inquisition for now. Is this what you want?”

“I want freedom,” he says, looking wearily up at her. “Freedom like you have. You are no longer bound to the Circle. I want that, too. I need it. But, if I cannot endure this…”

She cups his cheek. “You can. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“All right,” he sighs, leaning into her fingers. Rhoslyn closes her eyes, sending up a thankful prayer.

“You should rest,” she says after a moment.

Cullen nods. Haltingly, he gets to his feet. Rhoslyn keeps hold of his arm, steadying him. Together, they walk toward the ladder that leads to his bedchamber. She sends him up first, carefully watching his progress. When the hem of his cloak disappears over the edge of the loft, she follows him up.

His room is darker than she expected, as the single window is shuttered against the cold. A trunk of neatly folded linens sits in the corner. Beside it stands a rack from which his armor hangs. At the center of the space is a bed wide enough to sleep two quite comfortably. The blankets are tidily laid out over it, the mark of a man who spent many years in the barracks setting his bed to rights before he reported for morning drills.

Groaning, he lies down on top of the blankets. He does not protest when Rhoslyn unlaces his boots and pulls them off. She bids him roll over so that she can take his cloak from his shoulders and drape it over him.

“Will you be warm enough?” she asks, touching his clammy skin with the back of her hand. He shivers a bit, but she doubts it’s from the chill in the air.

“I’ll be fine.”

“All right. I’ll leave you, then.” As she turns, though, he grasps her wrist.

“Wait,” he says. “Will you stay with me? At least until I fall asleep. It would help.”

“Of course,” she replies.

He winces as he moves to make space for her to sit. She removes her own boots and then slips onto the bed beside him. Resting her back against the headboard, she sets a goose down pillow over her thighs. Cullen lowers his head onto it, closing his eyes. Rhoslyn brushes a golden curl back from his brow. She strokes his hair until his face relaxes and he drifts into sleep.

Letting her own head fall back and her eyes close, she enters the Fade. Waiting for her is a familiar memory: it is the day Cullen was made a Templar.

Chapter Text

She was standing in the Chantry nave dressed in her finest robes. To her right, at the altar of Andraste, Cullen was kneeling before Mother Elvina. He wore a newly forged suit of plate emblazoned with the insignia of the Templars. He grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands. Its point rested on the flagstones beside his armored foot.

“Novice Rutherford,” Elvina proclaimed, “you come before us today to swear yourself to the service of the Maker and his chosen, Andraste. You kept your vigil this past night and contemplated the mysteries of the Chant of Light. Are you now prepared to forsake worldly acknowledgement and wealth and to give your life to the Maker?”

“I am, Mother,” he said.

She laid her hand on his bowed head. “Then rise, Ser Cullen and walk the path of the righteous as a knight of the Templar Order.”

He stood, sheathing his sword as he straightened.

Turning to Rhoslyn, Elvina gestured her forward. She stepped over to where Cullen waited. As his gaze met hers, his eyes shone, the corners crinkling in a furtive smile. Her heart swelled with pride as she looked back at him. He was strong and beautiful and hers.

Nearly a year had passed since they had shared their first kiss, and in those months, their affection for each other had only deepened. They were careful not to touch or to stand too close when they were in the sight of others, but when they were alone, they could barely keep their hands away from each other.

They had quickly found Kinloch Hold’s dark corners, venturing to the secluded lower libraries or finding sanctuary in the little-used mages’ armory. Inexorably, they came to the point where kisses, no matter how impassioned, no longer sated them. Their caresses grew bolder, though they fumbled clumsily at first. Timid, they explored each other, discovering the sensitive places that begged to be touched.

Rhoslyn learned that when Cullen’s lips grazed over the ticklish place behind her ear, the blood that was rushing in her head and making her giddy would drop to her stomach and then lower. She found that he would sigh deeply when she pressed kisses along his collarbone and up to his neck. Nuzzling the patch of blond hair at the center of his chest, exposed by the collar of his shirt, she would draw in his scent. It always made him laugh, but he did not stop her.

She was startled when she first felt him grow hard against her thigh, but her uncertainty swiftly faded into curiosity as she grazed her fingertips over the laces of his breeches. Cullen’s head fell back against the shelved tomes he stood against as she grasped him through the cloth. When she moved to unlace him, though, he drew her hand away, pressing a kiss to the palm.

“Not here,” he said.

Rhoslyn nodded, albeit with regret. Though the lowest stacks in the library were remote, there was no guarantee that some curious apprentice or scholar would not interrupt them. If they were caught together, they were both doomed.

Mother Elvina’s voice brought Rhoslyn’s attention back into the Chantry: “The Maker has seen fit to give you strength to face the world’s many trials, Ser Cullen. Drink now and draw power from His gifts.”

In her hands, Rhoslyn held a pewter cup. Within it was a draught of lyrium, far stronger than any Cullen had taken before. She had mixed it herself before the ceremony, while he still kept his vigil. Both First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir had watched over her as she poured the powered lyrium into the water. She stirred it briskly until it was dissolved.

As Rhoslyn approached him now in the Chantry, Cullen stooped, keeling before her. A murmur passed through the assembled mages and Templars, for he was only meant to take the cup from her and drink the draught down. But instead he waited for her to press its edge to his lips and pour the liquid into his mouth. Rhoslyn tipped the cup back slowly, careful not to spill any down his chin. His eyes were open as he drank. The memory of all the moments, the secret meetings in dark corners, and the tender caresses exchanged in those stolen hours, passed wordlessly between them.

“I love you, Rhos,” he had said to her several months before as they sat together in the herb garden courtyard. The sun was just beginning to set over the western wall. They had long ago finished their work, but neither had been willing to part yet.

Rhoslyn leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. Their hands were clasped, his thumb moving gently over hers.

“I can’t recall a time when I didn’t love you,” he said. “You are…you hold my heart in your hands. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Rhoslyn, touching his cheek. “And I love you, Cullen, with all that I am.”

When he had drunk down the lyrium draught, he got carefully to his feet. Rhoslyn did not immediately draw back from him. Tapping his breastplate lightly with the rim of the pewter cup, she smiled. He returned it, the scarred side of his mouth lifting. Both the Templars and the mages applauded as he turned to face them. Squaring his shoulders, he grinned at his fellows.

“Come on, ser,” said one of the novices who was himself not far from taking his vows. He clapped Cullen on the back. “We’ve got some celebrating to do down at the tavern in Redcliffe.”

Rhoslyn watched as they strode out of the Chantry. Part of her wished that she could join in their revelry, but as an apprentice she was still not permitted to leave the Circle Tower. Resigned, she started toward the doors.

“Apprentice Trevelyan,” called a familiar voice from the mages’ side of the pews. “May I borrow you for a moment?”

“Certainly, Enchanter Wynne,” she replied.

Gesturing for her to follow, the healing mistress started away. Trotting obediently along, Rhoslyn went with Wynne out of the Chantry, through the lower courtyard, and inside the Tower. Her study was on the second level, Rhoslyn knew, though she had not been there in several years. When they arrived she saw that the walls were adorned with towering bookshelves, each one filled with manuscripts and leather-bound volumes.

“Come, my dear,” said Wynne. “Sit.”

Rhoslyn did as she was bid.

“It was a lovely ceremony,” Wynne said, smiling. “Master Rutherford will make a fine Templar. You must be very proud of him.”

“I am.”

Wynne nodded, folding her hands on top of her desk. “You are fortunate that the two of you have remained so close over the years. That is not always the case between apprentices and their Sentinels, as I am certain you are aware. Enchanter Marden tells me that you two make an impressive pair in the training yard.”

“We enjoy the skirmishes, Enchanter.”

“I’ve no doubt.” She paused, studying Rhoslyn’s face. “Now tell me, my dear, how long have you loved him?”

An icy stab of panic pierced her heart. “What?” she sputtered. “I-I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.”

Wynne patted her back gently. “Come now, dear, there’s no need to be coy. Even an old matron like me could see it from the way you were looking at each other, how he knelt at your feet.”

"You must be mistaken,” said Rhoslyn, her hands sweaty and numb.

Wynne sighed. “My dear, you have nothing to fear from me. I wish to advise you, if I may.”

“E-Enchanter, I a-assure you,” she stuttered, her body beginning to shake as fear stabbed at her gut, “that is n-not necessary.”

Wynne took her hands, squeezing them gently. “Take a deep breath, child. I’ll not have you fainting.”

Rhoslyn forced air into her lungs, struggling to calm herself down. Fear was quickly turning to despair as she considered what might happen now that they had been discovered. But had they, really? Enchanter Wynne had not seen them in an embrace. She was making suppositions. She was correct, of course, but she had no real proof.

“Let me tell you a story,” said Wynne. “Perhaps you will feel better when I am finished.

“You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but many years ago, when I was an apprentice, I was very much like you: pretty and fair. There was a young Templar with fine dark eyes and hair. He was quite unlike your Cullen, but I could think of little else when he was nearby. I did not think that he could have fancied me, but he did. We were very much in love, and I went happily to his bed.”

Rhoslyn lips parted in surprise and flush rose in her cheeks. These were Enchanter Wynne’s most private affairs. She felt as if she was intruding.

“It wasn’t long, though,” the enchanter continued, “before I knew I was with child. And while we could hide our love from the others, my growing belly could not be concealed. When the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander asked who had fathered the child, my lover did what honor dictated he do: he told the truth.

“He was flogged before all in the Tower and then sent away to Orlais. I never saw him again. My last memories were of his flayed back.” She looked down. “When the babe came, they took him from me as well. I was too weak to stop them from sending my son away.”

Rhoslyn’s cheeks were wet with tears as she thought of Cullen being dragged, bloody and defeated, from the barracks courtyard after being whipped. The very idea sickened her.

“So, I must ask you now, dear,” said Wynne. “Have you lain together?”

“No,” Rhoslyn said, her voice thick with tears. She hung her head. “Not yet.”

“Good,” said Wynne. “I had hoped to catch you in time.” Reaching into her desk, she drew out a small clay medallion that hung from a leather string. “Take this.”

"What is it?”

“It is a talisman. A very powerful one, if used properly. It is common in the Tevinter Imperium as a means of preventing childbirth.”

Taking the medallion, Rhoslyn studied it. It was plain red clay, marked only with a spiral on each side. It was thin and just larger than the pad of her thumb.

“How does it work?” she asked.

“Both you and your lover must prick your fingers and smear a drop of blood into the clay. Yours on one side and his on the other. Then you must put it around your neck and never remove it.”

Rhoslyn swallowed heavily. “But a drop of blood…that’s blood magic. It’s forbidden.”

“Not all blood magic is meant to raise demons, child,” said Wynne. “Some spells can be used for good.” She closed Rhoslyn’s fingers around the medallion. “This will protect you. Both of you. Please, do me this favor and use it.”

Rhoslyn left the study in a haze of confusion and disbelief. Her secret been discovered, yet Enchanter Wynne had not wished to punish her; she wanted to help. But with blood magic? Rhoslyn’s head throbbed as tried to make sense of things. Clutching the clay medallion in her hand, she sought out a place to order her thoughts.

The lower libraries were deserted when she arrived. The Tevinter manuscripts were housed in these stacks, and she was certain that one of them contained the spell Wynne had described.

From the earliest days of her training, she had been taught that blood magic in all its forms was meant to do harm, that nothing good could come of dabbling in it. But in her history lessons, she had learned of the ancient Tevinters, who had practiced many forbidden magics. With that power they had created an empire.

Throwing open a tome of spells, Rhoslyn scoured the text. She found nothing in the first volume, the second, or the third. The candles that cast just enough light to read by burned down as the hours passed. The other apprentices remarked at supper that she was not there, though none of them were truly concerned, for she had missed meals in the past. Sunset came and went before, at last, she stumbled upon a crude drawing of a medallion that matched hers. Lighting a flame in her hand, she bent to read the page.

It was as Wynne had said: a simple spell worked to “impede the making of a child.” The magic was laid into the medallion as the spirals were draw into the wet clay. It was then set out in the sun to dry and would keep for months, if not years. Rhoslyn wondered how long Wynne had had it. It had certainly not belonged to her, for once it had been marked with the blood of two lovers, it would be bound to them and them alone. Opening her hand, she looked down at it.

“It will protect you,” Wynne had said. “Both of you.”

Rhoslyn jumped as she heard the fall of boot heels against the flagstones. Tucking the medallion hurriedly into her pocket, she slammed the Tevinter spellbook closed.

“There you are.”

She turned. “Cullen, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he replied. He put his arms around her shoulders from behind, planting a wet kiss on her cheek.

“You smell like a brewery,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” he said as he released the clasp at the neck of her robes. “Maybe.” Sliding his fingers beneath the wool, he grasped one of her breasts. She crooned as the pad of his thumb brushed its peak.

“Mm,” he purred against her ear as he moved his hand to her other breast. “Make that sound again.”

Arching up into his palm, she gave a quiet moan.

“Maker’s breath,” said Cullen as he pressed his mouth to hers. He tasted of ale, which Rhoslyn disliked, but she didn’t pull back right away. She loved his kiss too well not to savor it for a moment.

Taking her by the arm, he pulled until she stood up. He kicked the chair out of his way as he pushed her back into a hidden alcove. He pressed her back against the wall, his lips hungry and relentless. He brushed his hands over her buttocks and thighs. Rucking her robes up above her knees, he lifted her. She sprang into his arms, encircling his hips with her legs.

Between her thighs she could feel him, hard and straining against his breeches. Crossing her ankles to get closer, she pressed herself against him. He groaned, rolling his hips into hers. Despite the layers of clothing between them, Rhoslyn felt a pleasant tingling at her center.

It had first happened a few weeks before, when they were together in the mages’ armory after dark. She had been sitting in Cullen’s lap, her arms around his neck as their mouths collided. Slowly, but deliberately, he had slipped his hand under her robes, tracing over her knee and up to the juncture of her thighs. She gasped when he touched her. Though neither of them had much experience with lovemaking, they understood what certain caresses were meant to achieve.

“Are you all right?” he asked as he cupped her with his fingers.

“Yes,” she managed to say, though her heart was pounding so loudly that she could barely hear him.

He kissed her lightly, a look of determination on his face. Pressing his hand against her, he moved with agonizing slowness. Rhoslyn’s senses grew muddled as he worked, until all she could feel were the strokes of his fingers. Just when she thought it was becoming too much to bear, blissfulness washed over her. Her toes curled as her head fell back against Cullen’s shoulder.

“Good?” he asked when she had caught her breath.

She had nodded. “Do it again.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Rhoslyn said as he held her up against the wall in the lower library.

“It’s the lyrium,” he growled in reply as he nipped at her neck. “Everything just feels…heightened, better. Oh, I can’t explain it, but I want to have you, Rhos.”

"We can’t,” she panted. “Not like this.”

“I know,” Cullen groaned into her mouth. “But Maker take me, I want to.”

Rhoslyn kissed him fiercely, but her thoughts turned to the medallion in her pocket. Carefully, she eased herself away from him and he set her back on the ground.

“I need to show you something,” she said, taking his hand. He followed her back out to the table where the Tevinter manuscripts were scattered.

“What are you working on?” he asked, sliding his arm around her waist.

“It’s an old Imperium spell,” she replied as she flipped one of the books open.

He hugged her tight against him. “Something else to throw at me in the training yard?”

“Not this time.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked, hearing the gravity of her tone.

“No, but…” She frowned, searching for the words and failing to find them. So, she reached into her robes and drew out the medallion.

Cullen took it, his brows knit. “What’s this?”

“It’s a vessel,” Rhoslyn said, “for a spell. One to keep me from getting with child after I lie with a man.”

He looked sharply up at her. “You found this in one of those old books?”

Taking a deep breath, Rhoslyn said, “Enchanter Wynne gave it me.”

“Why would she…?” Cullen began, though he quickly realized the implication. “Rhos, what does she know?”

“Nothing for certain,” she replied. “But she asked me if we had lain together and, Maker help me, I told her that we hadn’t…yet. Oh, Cullen, I’m so sorry.” Tears stinging her eyes, she buried her face in his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he said as he stroked her back. “We’ll sort this out, I promise. I can go speak to Enchanter Wynne, tell her that it’s all a mistake, that there’s nothing going on.”

“But that’s just it,” said Rhoslyn, wiping her cheeks. “She doesn’t mean to come between us. She told me a terrible story…” She recounted Wynne’s tale for him, careful not to leave anything out. When she was finished, Cullen stared down at the medallion in his palm.

“So, this is meant to help us,” he said.

Rhoslyn nodded. “But there’s a catch. For the spell to take, we must each give a drop of blood.”

Cullen’s eyes went wide. “This is blood magic?”

“It is. That’s why I came here, to look through the books, to find out more.”

“Templars are bound to slay blood mages,” he said. “If we were to use this…I would be breaking my vows.”

“We don’t have to,” said Rhoslyn, clasping his hand. “We can go on as we have.”

He touched her cheek. “Can we? We’ve not yet lain together, but Rhos, I want you so badly it hurts. I am not certain I can stay away forever.”

“I don’t want you to,” she said, leaning into his fingers. “But the risk of a child…”

“I know,” he breathed, drawing her into his arms. They held onto each other for a time, both lost in their thoughts. It was Cullen who broke the silence.

“Knight-Commander Greagoir told me once of how the phylacteries are used,” he said. “When a mage leaves the Tower without permission, the First Enchanter can perform a spell upon the blood in his phylactery. It will show him where that mage is, no matter how far he’s gone.”

“I know that,” said Rhoslyn. “What of it?”

“It’s blood magic,” Cullen said, taking her face between his hands. “It should be forbidden, but it isn’t because it’s of help to the Templars. If the Knight-Commander can allow that, then why should I not give a single drop of my blood to keep you safe?”

Falling back a step, he drew the knife at his waist. Carefully, he spun the point on the pad of his thumb. A red drop welled up as he moved the blade away. Taking the medallion, he smeared the blood onto one side.

“Give me your hand.”

Rhoslyn held it out. The prick of the knife’s point stung a little, but only for a moment. Cullen held the opposite side of the medallion out for her. Her blood filled the spiral in the clay for a moment before it faded away, absorbed by the spell.

“That’s it, then?” Cullen asked.

Sweeping her hair to one side, she said, “I have to wear it.”

Gently, he tied the leather thong around her neck. The medallion hung just between her breasts. She tucked it under her robes.

“Thank you,” she said. “You didn’t have to.”

Cullen turned her to face him. “This is right. I know it is. The Maker brought us together and what He has wrought shall not be torn asunder.”

Chapter Text

When Rhoslyn opens her eyes, it is not the vaulted ceiling of her bedchamber that she sees, but walls of roughhewn stone, damp from a hole in the splintered beams above her. A few flakes of snow pass through a shaft of light that shines down onto the floor, but she is not cold. Quite the opposite. She is tucked pleasantly under a red blanket edged with dark fur that tickles her nose. Turning her head to escape it, she hears a sleepy groan from behind her. The warm weight of an arm falls across her waist, bringing the events of the previous night into sharp relief.

She had been running her fingers absently through Cullen’s hair as she waited for sleep to claim him. He had been shaking, his body wracked with the tremors of lyrium withdrawal. How long she had cradled his head in her lap, she didn’t know, but as the candles around the room burned down, he had stilled and slipped into the dream realm of the Fade.

She, too, must have slept, for she is still lying in his bed, nestled against him as his breath warms the back of her neck. He is like an oven, his body putting off a heat that keeps the coolness of the morning at bay. Rhoslyn notes, with considerable relief, that both of them are still clothed, though one of her woolen socks has slipped off and her foot is pressed against Cullen’s calf where his breeches have ridden up to expose the bare skin. Stretching her toes a little, she feels the soft hair that covers his legs. It’s blond, she recalls, as is the patch on his chest and at the juncture of his… She puts an end to that thought before her mind ventures further. She focuses instead on how she can slip away without waking him.

Carefully, she starts to turn onto her back. It’s slow going, but she manages it. She pauses for a moment, making sure that Cullen’s breathing is still deep and steady. Turning her head a little so that she can see him properly, she can’t help but smile. He looks younger as he sleeps, his lips slightly parted and his hair disordered. His eyelashes are so blond they are almost white. His skin is pale, though his cheeks are tinged with pink. Rhoslyn resists the urge to touch the narrow, blue vein at his temple. Instead she gently brushes a curl behind his ear. He sighs and tightens his grip around her waist, pulling her against him.

She curses silently, though her heart is not in it. It’s been nearly a year since she has lain so close to anyone. There had been a man in Ostwick—another mage—that she sometimes took to her bed, but their arrangement had been one of convenience. After a few months, neither one was particularly interested in continuing. Still, it had been good to rest her head on his chest and allow him to hold her. No matter how they denied it, all people were meant to be touched. It filled a need for comfort that no intellectual connection, however intimate, could satisfy.

Sighing, Rhoslyn allows herself to enjoy the solidness of Cullen, the pleasant musky smell of him. It is a familiar scent, nearly unchanged from what she remembers from their years in Ferelden Circle. Unbidden, contentment washes over her, tempting her to draw closer to him. She considers nuzzling into the crook of his neck and closing her eyes again. She could sleep, or… It would be so simple to ease her leg between his, gently brushing his loins with her thigh.

“Wake up,” she would whisper as she softly kissed his face.

He would open his eyes slowly. They would still be glassy from sleep, but would clear soon enough as he began to understand what she wanted. He would smile as he pulled her to him, kissing her hard.

Rhoslyn feels the blood in her belly drop between her legs, the sharp edge of desire cutting through the simple comfort of being close to someone. She wants him, and it startles her. They have been cordial enough to one another since they met again in Haven, and she is glad that it seems a renewed friendship could be in the offing, but to bed him is something altogether different. She sighs. Now is not the time to be considering such things. They have a war to fight, an ancient magister to defeat.

With care, Rhoslyn lifts his arm away from her middle and inches toward the edge of the bed. Cullen groans lightly, but slumbers on. Making sure to tuck the edges of his cloak around his shoulders, she slides off of the feather mattress. Picking up her boots, she tiptoes over to the ladder and starts down. She grimaces when it creaks under her weight, but makes as quick a descent as she can. One of her feet is still bare as she dons her boots, but it makes no matter. She laces them loosely and slips out into the crisp morning air.

It is just past sunrise and, Maker be thanked, there are few people about. Rhoslyn hurries down the stairs by the tavern and sneaks across the courtyard. She is just about to reach the steps that lead into the great hall when she hears: “Hullo, what’s this?”

She freezes, recognizing Sera’s voice. “Must you be speak so loudly?” she asks. “You’ll wake half the castle.”

“It’s time they got up anyway, lazy arses,” says Sera with a shrug. She’s sitting on a barrel, a half-eaten apple in her hand. “Unless you don’t want them to see the Inquisitor herself slinkin’ about in the mornin’. That can only mean one thing.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Whose sheets were you under last night?”

Rhoslyn manages to keep her face impassive, though barely. “That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I see. Not one to tumble and tell, then.”

“Certainly not,” she says, crossing her arms. “Not that I was…tumbling with anyone.”

“Now I’ve seen it all,” Sera laughs. “You’re blushin’. Must have them warm, mushy feelings for someone.” She sniffs dismissively. “Never been one for the sweet stuff myself, but if that plucks your strings, who I am to judge?”

“It’s far too early for this,” Rhoslyn says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“So it was a long night,” Sera says, winking. “Great. Everyone needs a hard ride once in a while.”

Despite herself, Rhoslyn laughs.

Sera grins. “See? It’s good for ya. Good for Commander Stick-Up-His-Arse, too, I’d wager.”

Rhoslyn’s mouth drops open. “What? How did you…?”

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” Sera giggles. “Got it on the first guess.” She leans in conspiratorially. “So, how’s he like it? Quick and all business or slow and honeyed?”

“I…uh,” Rhoslyn stammers, “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Hmph,” Sera scoffs. “Fine. Keep your secrets, but I know a fair bit about you by now, and I’ve never seen you flittin’ away from his high and mighty tower with your boots half on, lookin’ like the cat who got the cream. Somethin’s on.”

Rhoslyn bites her thumbnail, looking down at her feet. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you, Sera?”

The thief smirks. “It’s temptin’ to be sure, but I s’pose I can keep my gab shut this once.” Throwing the apple core over the wall behind her, she sticks out her hand. “Shake on it?”

Rhoslyn takes her hand and shakes it firmly.

Releasing her, Sera grins. “Oh look, here’s Ambassador Prissypants.”

“Inquisitor,” says Josephine, descending the steps from the great hall. “There you are. I was surprised not to find you in your quarters. Is something amiss?”

“No,” Rhoslyn says. “I was just…”

“Out for a walk,” says Sera, rocking back on her heels. “Nice mornin’ for that. Good view of the sunrise from the eastern tower, or so I’ve heard.”

“Quiet, you little snipe,” Rhoslyn hisses.

“Now, now, your worshipiness, no need to be grumpy.”

“Oh no,” says Rhoslyn. “We certainly wouldn’t want that.”

By Andraste’s good graces, Sera keeps up her end of the bargain. Over the next few days, Rhoslyn hears nothing about her early morning escape from Cullen’s chambers. No rumors, no innuendoes. Nothing.

Josephine, too, has been silent on the matter, though when Rhoslyn arrives in her study after supper one evening, she looks up at her with a sly smile and says, “The Commander was looking well tonight at table. Don’t you think?”

Rhoslyn raises a brow. “If that’s one of your elegant diplomatic segues, Ambassador, I hate to tell you that it’s a bit obvious.”

“It was simply an observation, Inquisitor,” she says. “I had heard that he was unwell for a time. If that’s true, it appears he is back in good health.”

“What else have you heard?” asks Rhoslyn, frowning.

Josephine blinks up at her, folding her hands demurely in her lap. “Nothing. Why? Should I have?”

“No.”

“Pity. I had hoped you might have something to confess. After all, you weren’t in your quarters on a particular morning and no one can place you at the Herald’s Rest or anywhere else in Skyhold that night. Did you fall asleep in the herb garden, perhaps?”

“You investigated my whereabouts?”

“I asked one or two questions, that’s all,” says Josephine, though her cheeks are burning.

Rhoslyn shakes her head. “I never would have pegged you for a gossip.”

“I’m not!” the Ambassador says. “Well, under most circumstances I’m not. And you’re right to be cross with me. I should not pry into your private affairs.”

“You could have just asked me, you know,” says Rhoslyn. “I admit it’s rather nice to have a friend to talk with about more frivolous things than the Inquisition’s business.”

Josephine smiles. “I am glad that you consider me a friend, In—Rhoslyn, though perhaps I have not been a very good one. I should not have…snooped. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Rhoslyn says, chuckling. “So, what do you want to know? I can see you’re dying to ask me something.”

“That night,” says Josephine, leaning in, “were you with him?”

“Yes,” she sighs, “but it’s not what you think.” She recounts the tale in as much detail as she is able, though she omits the sudden stab of desire she felt as Cullen slept soundly beside her. She is not yet prepared to reveal that much.

“I am relieved,” says Josephine when the story is done, “that he chose to remain with us. Cullen is well-liked and respected by the soldiers. It would have dealt a hard blow to their spirits to see him resign his command.”

“I know,” says Rhoslyn. “But he can’t seem to see that. I wish I had the means to show him.”

“Perhaps you do.”

“What do you mean?”

Josephine steeples her forefingers beneath her chin. “Well, we have not yet properly celebrated our victory at Adamant, which, of course, we would not have won if not for Cullen’s tactical plans. We could hold a banquet at which you could give a toast to him. The soldiers will gladly raise their cups for that. It is a simple gesture, but I believe it would mean very much to him.”

“For a moment,” says Rhoslyn, “I thought you were going to suggest holding the banquet in his honor. He would hate that. Far too much attention. But a single toast…that is lovely idea, Josie. Thank you.”

“Then it is settled,” the Ambassador says. “I will make the arrangements for a victory feast. I will refrain, however, from making suggestions for your toast.”

Rhoslyn laughs. “I might need a diplomat’s help. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“If it were anyone else,” says Josephine, “I would gladly advise you on proper phrasing and how to use just the right amount flattery, but this must come from you. You know Cullen better than any of us.”

“Do I?” asks Rhoslyn, her brows knit. “Many things can change in ten years.”

“And there is no doubt that they have,” says Josephine. “But you have been together again now for nearly half a year, and you have seen the man he has become. Certainly he is not so different from the one you knew before.”

“All right,” Rhoslyn says. “I will do what I can."

The banquet takes nearly a week to prepare, and Rhoslyn spends most of those days away from Skyhold. When she returns, though, Josephine and Vivienne quickly bustle her away to her quarters to “primp and dress.” She is put through a ritual starting with a hot bath thick with scented oils and ending in being laced into a gown of sumptuous velvet embroidered with gilt thread. Her hair, which is almost always braided away from her face, is brushed and hangs in shining tresses down her shoulders and back.

“There, my dear,” says Vivienne, guiding her to the tall looking glass in the corner of her bedchamber. “You look splendid.”

Rhoslyn regards herself with surprise. While the gown she wears simpler than the elaborate, starched confection she wore to the Orleasian Winter Palace, it becomes her far more. Running her hands along the bodice, she allows herself to enjoy the idea that tonight she’s beautiful, even if she will don her leathers and boots again in the morning.

The noise from the great hall has been gradually increasing as the soldiers, craftsmen, and traders of the Inquisition take their places at the long tables that have been brought inside. A smaller table has been placed on the dais at the top of the hall. It will seat only four: Josephine, Leliana, Cullen, and Rhoslyn.

She swallows as she thinks of what she will say when the time comes to offer her toast. She has chosen the words carefully. She is to be brief, but gracious. That, she thinks, seems appropriate for a soldier, which Cullen is, first and foremost.

Rhoslyn turns at the sound of a knock at the upper door to her quarters. Josephine goes to answer it. A moment later, she sweeps back up the stairs and latches onto Vivienne’s arm.

“Come,” says the Ambassador. “We should go see to the final preparations.”

Vivienne gives her a quizzical look, but then nods when she sees the figure standing at the threshold. “Of course we should. We will see you downstairs, Inquisitor.”

The firm closing of the door announces their departure. It is quiet for a moment and then Rhoslyn hears the scuff of boots against stone. She sees Cullen take the last few steps up into the room.

He wears the formal red coat that he had donned for the ball in Orlais, a stately sash of dark blue over his shoulder and belted at his waist. He had acquired quite the following of noble ladies, and even a few lords, that night, which was of little surprise to anyone who saw him. He had looked magnificent then, just as he did now.

“Rhos?” he asks, glancing at her desk, where she normally would have been seated.

“Here.” Stepping carefully to avoid treading on her skirt, she takes a few strides toward him. She can feel the weight of his gaze the moment it falls upon her. Looking up, she sees that he’s staring, his lips just parted.

“That bad, is it?” she asks.

“What?” says Cullen. “No. Rhoslyn, you are radiant.”

“Oh,” she says, feeling heat creep into her cheeks. “Thank you. Is there…something you needed?”

“No,” he replies. “Well, yes. Leliana sent me to escort you down to the great hall. I told her we didn’t require such formalities, but she was very insistent.” Taking a step toward her, he offers his arm. “So, will you allow me to accompany you to the banquet, Inquisitor?”

“I believe I will,” she says, giving him a small smile as she slips her arm through his.

As they start down the first flight of stairs, Cullen says, “I’ve been meaning to thank you for your counsel and your…company when I had need of it. I am ashamed of having considered leaving my post. It will not happen again.”

“Then you’re feeling better,” says Rhoslyn.

“I am. And I’m sorry you had to find out about it that way. I should have spoken to you before.”

“I understand why you didn’t,” she says. “You had stopped taking the draughts before I came to the Inquisition. There had been no reason to speak of it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he says. “But you know now, and I’m glad. I have no desire to keep anything from you.”

Rhoslyn smiles. “Thank you, Cullen. That means a great deal to me.”

“It does?” he asks as they stop on the landing above the lower staircase.

“Well, yes,” she replies. “Friends should be able to confide in each other, should they not?”

“Of course,” he says. “I was simply not certain that you considered me as such.”

“I do,” she says, though she quickly adds, “If that’s all right with you.”

“Yes,” says Cullen. “Absolutely.” His smile is wide and bright. She returns it, doing her best to ignore the way her heart jumps when he looks at her like that.

“Shall we go?” she asks.

“Certainly,” he replies, leading her down the lower flight of stairs.

As they pass through the doorway into the great hall, a barrage of delicious scents reaches Rhoslyn’s nose. The long tables are piled high with food, and the people of the Inquisition are chattering happily to each other as they dine and drink.

“Here’s the Inquisitor,” calls Dennet, the master of horse, as Rhoslyn and Cullen step up onto the dais. A cheer goes up as cups and the hilts of knives strike the tables. She waves as she takes her seat. Cullen slides her chair in for her before finding his own, at her right hand. Leliana sits on her left, followed by Josephine.

Without further ado, a plate filled with mutton, roasted vegetables, and potatoes is placed in front of her. Her wine cup is filled with a red as dark as blood.

“The cooks have outdone themselves,” she says to Josephine after the second course is cleared to make way for the third.

“I will give them your compliments,” the Ambassador says. “They will be pleased to hear it.”

“Not nearly as pleased as I am,” Rhoslyn laughs. “I haven’t eaten so well in months.”

“It is much deserved, Inquisitor,” says Leliana. “You have worked tirelessly since you joined us, and we are grateful.”

“As am I to you,” she says, lifting her cup. “To all of you. In fact, I should very much like to propose a toast.”

Getting her feet, Rhoslyn raises her arms for silence. She is greeted first by the approving clatter of cups and bowls, but a relative quiet follows.

“My friends,” she says, loud enough to be heard by all. “It is an honor to sit here with you all tonight. We have come so far since we left Haven, and none of it could have been achieved without the efforts of each man and woman in this hall. Alone, I could not have stood against the Red Templars or laid siege to Adamant. Alone, any of us would have fallen, but together we have been victorious. No matter who or what we were before, we are now the Inquisition, and we stand as one.”

A roar of approbation fills the hall.

“However,” says Rhoslyn when the clamor dies down, “tonight I wish you to raise your cups to one among us, for without his military acumen and unwavering courage, we would not have succeeded at Adamant.” Turning to Cullen, she ventures a smile. “I offer a toast to Commander Rutherford.”

A louder cheer than all those before it goes up as she drinks deep from her cup, and by the time she lowers it, everyone in the hall is on their feet. Cullen, his eyes wide, is gazing out over them. Slowly, he gets to his feet and places his fisted right hand over his heart, as the soldiers do when they salute him. Some of his men return the gesture. When he catches Rhoslyn’s eye, he turns and holds out his open hand. As she takes it, he clasps it tightly.

“Thank you,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear.

“I meant it,” she replies. “Every word. You are invaluable, Cullen.”

“And so are you,” he says, his eyes flashing fiercely. Bowing at the waist, he draws her hand up to his lips. His mouth barely grazes her knuckles, but as it does, the noise and heat of the banquet fade away. Everything around them is blurry and muted, but Cullen’s face is clear and sharp as he rises again. His gaze is warm and his face is flushed.

The din of cheers has died down some, Rhoslyn realizes. Swallowing to calm her pounding heart, she extricates her hand from Cullen’s grasp and turns back toward the center of the hall. Glancing down at the nearest table, she sees Sera with her arms crossed and a knowing smirk on her lips. Rhoslyn should be dreading the talk that will spread like wildfire now, but she finds that she isn’t.

“Let the feast continue,” she says, smiling.

The banquet puts everyone in Skyhold in a good humor. Rhoslyn, for once, is not called immediately away. She is glad for the reprieve, however brief. She spends her days among her companions. She reads in the library with Dorian, plays cards with Varric and Iron Bull, and discusses the arcane with Vivienne. For a time she sits in Solas’ tower while he paints and listens to his tales about the spirits he’s encountered in the Fade. She whittles a crude wooden bird under Blackwall’s tutelage and walks among the wounded with Cole. She takes tea with Josephine and Leliana. She even gets up to some mischief with Sera, playing pranks and causing minor mayhem.

That morning, she had allowed Cassandra to convince her to take up a sword and shield. Now she stands, heavily padded with a quilted coat and wearing a helmet a size too big, in the upper courtyard by the training dummies. Much to her chagrin, her feeble attempts at armed combat have drawn quite the crowd of onlookers. Hefting her blunted training sword, she hacks at the shoulder of one of the dummies as half—at least it seems like half—of the Inquisition looks on.

“Not bad,” says Cassandra. “Try again.”

“That’s the way, your worship,” says Krem. He and the rest of the Chargers are standing against the wall drinking pints of ale from the tavern and offering pointers.

“Lengthen your strides,” he continues. “You’ll keep your balance better with a wider stance.”

Rhoslyn complies, raising her sword for another strike. She chips off a chunk of the dummy’s wooden shoulder and the Chargers cheer.

“Well fought, Inquisitor. Though I wonder how you’ll do against a live opponent.”

Lifting the edge of her helmet, Rhoslyn looks over to see Cullen standing at the edge of the circle of onlookers. He is smiling, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Are you volunteering, Commander?” she asks.

“I suppose I am,” he replies. Some whistles and approving shouts follow him as he strides toward her.

Cassandra, cocking a brow, holds out a blunted sword. “Take this and give me your own. I won’t have you using a blade with an edge against a novice.”

“Nor will I,” he says, drawing his longsword and offering it to her hilt first. As she takes it, he unclasps the belt from which the empty scabbard hangs and tosses it to Krem. The mercenary frowns, but catches it deftly. Cullen unclasps his cloak and hangs it over one of the dummies. From the rack nearby he selects a stout wooden shield. Lifting it with an ease that Rhoslyn envies, he nods to her.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” she replies, sinking into a low guard that Cassandra had shown her. She takes a firm grip on her shield and levels her sword at Cullen’s collarbone.

They circle each other cautiously at first, Rhoslyn watching for him to make his move. She has stood across from him a hundred times before, albeit armed with her staff and in the training yard at Kinloch Hold. Still, she remembers the way he moves, guarded but powerful and swift when it is called for. She knows that he will not harm her, but her veins still thrum with the thrill of combat. Steeling herself, she takes a quick step forward and swings her sword high at his shoulder. Cullen easily catches the blow on his shield.

“Good one, your worship,” calls Krem. “Hit him again!”

Rhoslyn grins, but before she can lift her blade, Cullen closes the distance between them and lands a bone-shaking blow to her shield. Startled, she stumbles back a few paces.

“Not so hard, Commander,” says Cassandra disapprovingly.

“I’m all right,” Rhoslyn counters, sinking back into her stance. Still, the next hit she takes is far lighter.

Cullen talks her through a few drills, easily glancing her blows off his sword or shield. He tells her when to look for an opening to strike, how to move her feet, and how to carry each hit through as if it were cutting flesh. Before long, her hair is damp with sweat and her shirt is sticking to her body beneath the quilted tunic. She’ll be aching come morning.

“All right, Inquisitor,” says Cullen. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Come at me full tilt.”

Rhoslyn lunges forward and strikes his sword. Their blades flash in the afternoon sunlight as they meet and part, meet and part again. The wood of their shields receives a few more scars. Gritting her teeth against the exhaustion, she makes one final push in an attempt to make Cullen retreat a little. She could never best him, not without her staff, but if she can drive him back just a step, it will be enough for her. As she closes in on him, he gives her a devilish grin. He can see her plan, of course, and has decided not to allow it. Before she can stop herself, she charges forward. He sidesteps out of the way. Cursing, Rhoslyn loses her balance and goes tumbling into a heap on the ground.

“Are you hurt?” Cullen asks a moment later as he kneels beside her. He lifts a tuft of grass from the nose guard of her helmet.

“Only my dignity,” Rhoslyn replies.

Laughing, Cullen helps her to her feet. “Valiantly fought, Inquisitor,” he says as much to the crowd as to her. “We’ll make a foot soldier of you yet.”

Rhoslyn shakes her head. “Next time we’ll see how you do with a staff and spellbook.” The onlookers laugh, and Cullen smiles down at her.

Bathed, but sore, Rhoslyn sits in her quarters that evening looking over some of the reports that have come in. Some are troubling and she must make plans to look into them come the morrow. She will be sorry to leave Skyhold, for it has come to feel much more like a home than any other place she has resided. At least she will have the return to look forward to.

She looks up, hearing a knock at the door. A moment later the door creaks open and she hears a familiar voice: “Inquisitor, am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all, Cullen,” she replies. “Come in.”

When he steps up from the landing below, she sees that he’s carrying a long box under his arm.

“Have you brought me a gift?” she asks as she gets to her feet. She stretches her tired limbs, groaning a little as the tight muscles protest.

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. “I found this in the library and had hoped you might have time for a game.” Setting the box down on her desk, he opens it to reveal a handsome chess set carved of wood.

“Oh, I haven’t played in years,” she says, pleased. “Not since…well, not since Ferelden Circle.”

“It’s been nearly as long for me,” says Cullen. “There was little time for it in Kirkwall.”

“Set the board, then,” says Rhoslyn. “Would you like a cup of wine?”

“Please.”

Breaking a seal on bottle of Orlesian white, Rhoslyn fills two cups and carries them over to the small table that stands by the doors to the balcony. They are closed against the chill, but still afford a fine view of the darkening sky.

Cullen is already sitting in one of the chairs when she hands him his wine. He thanks her as she takes her own seat.

“Need to brush up on the rules?” he asks.

Rhoslyn narrows her eyes, albeit in good humor. “Hardly. We used to play all the time. It’s not something you forget.”

“Very well, then. The first move is yours.”

They play in silence for the first few minutes, Rhoslyn moving her pawns carefully and Cullen jumping his knights forward in response. He’s an aggressive player, if she remembers right. She will have to decide whether to go on the offensive and cut him off before he gains the upper hand or remain more cautious and defensive.

“You have a very serious look about you when you play chess,” says Cullen, leaning on the arm of his chair. “You know that, don’t you?”

“This is serious business,” Rhoslyn says. She moves a cleric diagonally across the board. “I have a reputation to uphold. As far as I know, I won the last game we played.”

“And here I was thinking that it was me who bested you,” he says, moving his queen. “I suppose we’ll never know, will we?”

“Alas no.” She captures one of his pawns.

Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, he considers his next move. “You’re relentless. Just like my sister.”

“Mia?” says Rhoslyn. “Or Rosalie?”

Cullen’s brows rise. “You remember their names.”

She nods. “You used to speak of them quite often. Don’t you remember?”

“I can’t say that I do, but my memories of Kinloch are…dominated by other things.” He looks down at the board, a smile touching his lips. “To answer your question, though, it was Mia. She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won, which was all the time. Branson, my brother, and I practiced for weeks to get good enough to beat her. I’ll never forget the look on her face the day I finally won.”

“Do you write to them?” asks Rhoslyn, sipping her wine.

“Not as often as I should,” Cullen replies. “And between serving the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years.”

“Where are they now?”

“They moved to South Reach after the Blight. Honnleath did not fare well, I’m afraid.”

“I hadn’t heard that. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, but I haven’t seen the place since I was thirteen. It’s hardly home anymore.”

“I feel much the same about Ostwick,” says Rhoslyn. “The Circle there is many leagues from my family’s estate. Even if it had been closer, I never would have been permitted to pay them a visit, not even for my father’s funeral.”

“He’s gone, then?” asks Cullen. “I’m sorry.”

“Mm,” she says absently, moving a castle toward one of his knights. “My brother Audric wrote me that it was a good ceremony. Half the city turned out for it, or so I heard.”

“He actually bothered to write? I’m surprised. I don’t recall a single letter ever arriving for you when we were in the Circle.”

“Oh, there were one or two over the years,” Rhoslyn says, “but I never bothered to read them.”

Cullen looks surprised. “You didn’t read them?”

She shakes her head. “They were both written in my sister Donella’s hand. They were most likely just lectures about some mystery she’d unearthed in her considerations of the Chant of Light.”

“You never told me of them,” he says.

“I didn’t see the need,” she replies. “I was nine when I left Ostwick for the Circle. I knew my teachers and fellow apprentices longer than I did my own parents and siblings. You were more my family than they ever were.”

Cullen blinks at her thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s true. We were…very close in those years.”

Rhoslyn glances up at him, but his gaze is distant, his mind elsewhere. She draws in a deep breath, unable to resist the pull of her own memories.

Chapter Text

The soft hiss of Rhoslyn’s robes against her legs and the snap of the flame she held in her hand were they only sounds as she passed through the lower halls of Kinloch Hold. It was after supper and few people ventured to this part of the Tower in the evenings. Most preferred to retire to the library or to their own chambers. Rhoslyn, however, was bound for the mages’ armory.

The door was open a crack when she arrived, a sliver of light cutting across the passage floor outside. Though she knew the hinges were well oiled and silent, she eased the door open slowly and stepped inside.

“There you are,” said Cullen, snaking an arm around her waist. He pulled her to him, lifting her to his lips. She slid her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck as she deepened the kiss. His mouth was as familiar to her as her own now, but she never tired of the way he tasted when his tongue met hers or how she could feel the slight break in the smoothness of his lips where he was scarred. She had trailed her own lips across the fine line of the scar countless times, memorizing its path from just below his cheek to his mouth. He always let her, often sighing as she reached its end and claimed his lips once more.

“Hello to you, too,” she said as he set her back down.

“What kept you?” he asked, pressing a brief kiss to her neck.

“Mm,” she crooned, letting her head fall back. “I had to take the long way around to ensure I wasn’t followed. I couldn’t take any chances. Not tonight. Were you waiting long?”

“No,” he said, “but it seemed like an age. I’ve thought of little else all day.”

Rhoslyn smiled. “Then let me prepare the wards.”

As Cullen released her, she drew a small sachet from the pocket of her robes. She had spent the last week studying the enchantments required for setting a mage’s barrier over a door. There were several such wards, she discovered, though some were far more complicated to cast than others. The one she chose required only a line of fine sand at the threshold and a few incantations, all of which she had committed to memory. It would not stand against a barrage of spells, but it would seal the door against unwanted visitors. It was privacy that she and Cullen required, not a safeguard against arrows or mage fire.

Carefully pouring sand at the bottom of the door, Rhoslyn began to invoke the spells. She could feel Cullen watching her as she recited the words, but she did not let it distract her. As she spoke, the air before her wavered and trembled. The barrier glimmered in the light of the torches as it took the shape of the door, filling in the spaces between the wooden planks and the stone that framed them. It bowed out slightly, like a soap bubble, as Rhoslyn finished the spell, but then settled into place. Pleased, she took a step back.

“So that’s that, then,” said Cullen.

“It is,” she said, turning back to him. He was standing just in front of a woolen blanket that he had laid out on the floor. It was not a featherbed, but it would serve.

Feeling heat creep up her neck, Rhoslyn clasped her hands in front of her, unsure of what to do with them. Cullen looked equally uncertain, his gaze moving all around the room except the space in which Rhoslyn stood.

“If you’ve changed your mind,” she said, “we don’t have to do this.”

“No! I mean, yes.” He sighed. “Maker’s breath. No, I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Oh, good,” said Rhoslyn. “Nor have I. I just…I’m not sure where to start.”

“I’m not really so certain myself,” said Cullen, taking a step toward her, “but I suppose we should just start with something familiar.” He held out his hand. “Come here, Rhos.”

She went to him, stepping into his embrace. His hands went to her cheeks as he kissed her. Her heart began to beat loudly as she pressed herself against him, encircling his neck with her arms. She felt the rush of heat between her thighs as his tongue slipped into her mouth. She sighed against his lips, her breath mixing with his.

In the weeks since Rhoslyn had tied the Tevinter medallion Enchanter Wynne had given her around her neck, she and Cullen had spoken little of what might come next, but their caresses in the dark stacks of the lower libraries had hurriedly become more urgent, their hands grasping at each other, but never able to hold onto enough to sate them. Rhoslyn reveled in the touch of his fingers between her thighs, his hands upon her skin beneath her robes, but she knew there was more she could have, and the knowing was driving her mad.

“Cullen, I want you,” she had said as they clung to each other amidst the musty books in the library.

“You have me,” he had growled in reply, taking her earlobe between his teeth.

“Then lie with me.”

He had drawn away then, his tawny eyes intent as he looked down at her. “You’re certain?”

She nodded, tracing the line of his jaw with her forefingers. “I’m done waiting.”

To her intense displeasure, however, they had been made to wait nearly a fortnight more. Plans had to be made and spells prepared, for there were many in the Circle Tower who might discover their intentions. Passions of the moment had to be set aside in order to consider the practical aspects of defying the fundamental principle that governed the tenuous peace between mages and Templars: never shall the two mix.

But all that fled from Rhoslyn’s mind as Cullen sank down onto his knees, drawing her down with him onto the blanket. Carefully, he laid her onto her back, easing himself down beside her. Their lips were never parted for more than a few moments as they arranged themselves as comfortably as they could on the hard flagstones beneath the wool. Cullen’s hands trailed over her robes, tracing across the plane of her stomach and along the curve of her breast until they reached the clasp at her neck. Releasing it, he tapped his fingers against her collarbone. She laughed despite her nerves.

“Are you all right?” Cullen asked as he brushed her hair away from her shoulders.

“Perfect,” she replied. Reaching down, she took hold of his shirt and tugged it free of his belt. She pushed it up, her palms against his skin, until he lifted the linen over his head. He tossed it aside.

She explored him with her hands, pushing her fingers through the fine, blond hair that dusted his chest. With her fingertips she followed the bright trail that led from his belly down below his belt. As she reached the fine leather, she tugged at it.

“You’re very insistent,” Cullen teased as he released the clasp and let the belt fall away.

Rhoslyn gave him a coy shrug. “You’ve never let me see you. I want to.”

“At least let me take my boots off first,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose.

As he did, Rhoslyn slipped out of her own shoes and pushed them out of the way. Taking a breath, she took the hem of her robes and lifted them over her head. Beneath she wore a long shift, but she had had it for several years and it was growing threadbare. It did little to hide her form, as Cullen quickly saw. His gaze went to her breasts, where the pink nipples stood out against the sheerness of the fabric. Before she lost her nerve, Rhoslyn rose up onto her knees and drew the shift off, leaving her bare.

Cullen swallowed heavily as he devoured her with his eyes. Reaching across the space between them, he took one of her breasts in his hand, his thumb grazing over its peak. Rhoslyn sighed, her eyes closing.

“You’re beautiful.” His words were warm on her skin as his mouth found her nipple. With a gasp, she arched into him. His hands went to the small of her back, pressing her to him. Taking his golden head in her hands, she guided him to her other breast. His tongue was hot and sweet, setting her to trembling.

Aching to see him, she reached down between them and fumbled with his laces, but she made little headway. Huffing in exasperation, she said, “I need—”

He silenced her with a kiss, though he drew away a moment later.

Rhoslyn, her heart hammering and her face aflame, watched as he released the knots in the laces and eased his breeches down over his hips. Her gaze was drawn immediately to the juncture of his thighs. He let her look him over, though his cheeks were tinged with pink.

Dragging her teeth over her lower lip, Rhoslyn carefully reached out to touch him. He jumped as her fingers brushed the soft skin.

“Your hands are cold,” he said, giving her a small smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She rubbed them together, blowing warm air against her fingers. Cullen caught them between his and drew them down.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I was surprised is all.” Guiding her, he curled her fingers around him. Rhoslyn drew in a sharp breath as she felt the hardness. Curious, she slid her hand up, feeling the full length of him. He groaned, his head falling back. Pleased, she did it again, easing the skin over the steel beneath.

“Merciful Maker,” Cullen said, his eyes pinched closed.

Rhoslyn drew her hand away. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he said, blinking down at her. “No, it felt…incredible.”

“Good,” she said. “Lay down.”

He did as he was bid, tracing her arm with his fingertips as she settled beside him and wrapped her fingers around him again. She felt a smile spread across her face as she watched him writhe beside her. Each time she traced his length, he would buck his hips up into her hand, the muscles of his thighs going taut. She was convinced she could watch him like this for hours, but after a time, he grasped her wrist and pulled her hand away.

“It’s too much,” he panted. “I won’t be able to…to go on if you keep doing that.”

Rhoslyn nodded, her hands going to his face instead. She kissed him hard and hungrily. She chirped in surprise as he flipped her onto her back, his fingers tracing the inside of her thigh. She crooned happily, though, as he ventured higher, working in quick, light circles at her center. It did not take long; it never did. Gasping out his name, her back arched and her toes curled as a blinding wave of sensation broke over her. When her vision cleared, she saw that Cullen was watching her, his eyes glassy with desire. Venturing a smile, she drew him down to her lips.

As he eased himself over her, Rhoslyn could feel him hard against her thigh. She opened her legs wider so that she could ease her hand down between them. Taking hold of him, she guided him toward her. She had to tip her hips up a little, but soon enough she felt him pressing against her. It was a strange feeling, but her instincts told her it was right.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Drawing in a breath, he pushed himself into her. She bit down on her lip as the pain set it, squeezing her eyes closed, but she didn’t cry out.

“Rhos,” said Cullen, touching her face. “Are you well? Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she said through clenched teeth. “No, don’t stop now.” She buried her face in his shoulder as he thrust deeper. It was uncomfortable and strange, but the pain had mostly gone by the time he stilled. Shifting her hips slightly, Rhoslyn let out a shaky breath as her muscles tightened in protest at the motion. Cullen gasped, thrusting his hips sharply. Rhoslyn winced.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “I’m not very good at this am I?”

She gave him a wan smile as she kissed him. “I don’t rightly know. I’ve never done this either. Just keep going.”

Nodding, he drew slowly back and then returned, filling and stretching her. Rhoslyn bit her lips as Cullen sheathed himself to the hilt, though the discomfort was beginning to fade. Letting her head fall back against the blanket, she dared to press her hips up to meet his next thrust. His mouth fell open as she did and he let out a stuttering breath. Satisfied, Rhoslyn did it again.

Their movements were unschooled and clumsy that first time, but as they held tight together, their bodies growing slick with sweat, Rhoslyn found herself falling into Cullen’s rhythm. The sounds of satisfaction he made, the moans and invocations of both the Maker’s name and hers, fascinated her. She wanted to hear each of them a hundred more times before she was ready for it to be over.

It was not to be, however, for a few moments later, Cullen’s body tensed and her name tumbled from his lips a last time. He collapsed atop her, drawing in ragged breaths. She stroked his back until his thundering heart had slowed.

In time, he rolled onto his side. Pulling her against him, he kissed her temple.

“I love you,” he said.

Nestling into his chest, she said, “I love you, too.”

She would be sore tomorrow, but the pain would fade. The memory of the blissful contentment she felt in that moment, though, never would.

Chapter Text

“What are you thinking of?” Cullen asks, drawing Rhoslyn’s attention back to their chess game in her quarters in Skyhold. He is smiling at her, and she is struck by how the years have changed him. His face is hardened, its lines sharper than when he was a young man of twenty. She finds that she prefers the unkempt shadow of his beard to the goatee he had begun to grow after he was made a Templar. He had been so proud of it then that she had never had the heart to tell him how much she disliked it.

He still keeps his hair cropped short, as he always has. Rhoslyn thinks it might look quite handsome longer, clubbed at the nape of his neck, but Cullen is too particular, too much a soldier to ever allow himself a mane of golden curls. She holds back a laugh as she envisages it.

“Something funny?” he says, sitting back in his chair.

“Nothing of consequence,” she replies. “Just a passing thought. Is it your turn or mine?”

“Yours.”

Rhoslyn moves her queen, though she keeps her eye on the knight that she will use to capture Cullen’s king. He has not seen it yet, giving her the advantage.

“This may be the longest we’ve ever gone without discussing the Inquisition,” he says, moving his remaining castle, “or related matters. To be honest, I’m grateful for the distraction.”

“As am I,” she says, drinking down the last of her wine. Her head is pleasantly muddled. “We should play more often.”

“I would like that.”

“Me, too.”

He chuckles. “You said that.”

“Well,” she says, “it bears repeating. Especially since you might not be so keen once I’ve checked your king.”

“Damn,” he says, glancing down at the board. “And it appears I have nowhere to go. This one is yours, Rhos.”

“We’ll have a rematch as soon as I’ve returned from Emprise du Lion,” she says. “Give you a chance for revenge.”

“You’re on,” he says. “However, I should retire for the evening. Thank you for the wine and for the game.” He gets to his feet, stretching his arms behind his back.

“It was my pleasure,” says Rhoslyn. “Made all the better by beating you, of course.”

“Gloating, are you?”

“Am I not entitled? I did manage to outwit the Inquisition’s finest tactician.”

“And you’re going to pay for that next game,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height.

Grinning, she takes a step toward him. “I look forward to seeing you try.”

Narrowing his eyes, Cullen reaches out and tickles the sensitive spot behind her ear. “No mercy, Trevelyan.”

“You blackguard,” she laughs, swatting his hand away. “How dare you torture your Inquisitor?”

“Are you going to drag me into the great hall to hear your judgment?” he asks. “What will it be, hot tar or the rack?”

“Perhaps I shall simply make you suffer as you have made me.”

“You know I’m not ticklish.”

She smirks. “I happen to recall that you are.”

“And just where do you think—oh,” says Cullen. Looking down, he rubs the back of his neck. Rhoslyn does not bother to stifle her laughter.

It had not been long after their first night together that she had discovered that if she ran her fingers lightly up the backs of his thighs and over the curve of his arse, he would squirm and protest, which, of course, made her want to do it all the more.

“I had forgotten about that,” he grumbles.

“I certainly had not,” she says, still grinning.

“Reminisce about such things often, do you?”

“Ah…well,” she stammers. “Not often, but… Do you not?”

“There was a time,” he says, his brow furrowing, “when I did all I could to keep from remembering Kinloch, but no longer. Seeing you again has brought to mind the fondest memories I have of Ferelden Circle.”

Taking his hand, she squeezes it gently. “Whatever else may come in this war, Cullen, I will always be glad that it allowed me to see you again.”

He looks down at their entwined fingers, and then brings her knuckles to his lips. “Be safe on your journey to the Emprise tomorrow,” he says, his breath warm against her skin. “I will await your return.”

Rhoslyn smiles. “And I will hasten back. Goodnight, Cullen.”

“Goodnight, Rhos.”

Her days in Emprise du Lion are long and cold. With Cassandra, Warden Blackwall, and Varric at her side, they liberate Suledin Keep, an ancient elven ruin, and raise the Inquisition’s colors above its crumbling battlements. Rhoslyn sends requests for reinforcements and supplies to Skyhold, wondering as she writes how long it will take the ravens to reach the rookery and the messengers to run the missives to Cullen’s tower. Though her days have been consumed with the pressing business in the Emprise, when she is in camp after sunset, she finds that her thoughts wander more and more often to him and what he might be occupied with at that moment.

As she sits by the fire in the snow-covered camp, she imagines that he is sitting behind his desk, its surface still just slightly askew from the cork Sera placed beneath one of its legs, reading over the dispatches from the day. When he sees the single note scrawled in her hand, though, he puts the others aside. He smiles when he sees the last part, which, after some deliberation, she added just before signing it: “Baron Desjardins has assured me that the region is stable and that I may make my return to Skyhold with all due haste.”

A fortnight and half again have passed since she rode out and she has spent more than a few nights thinking of what she will say to Cullen when she sees him next. Sighing, she reaches below the neckline of her thick woolen shirt and draws out a thin chain from which a silver coin hangs. Upon it is the image of Andraste.

“Family heirloom?” asks Varric, appearing at the edge of the fire’s light.

“I didn’t know you were still awake,” says Rhoslyn.

He shrugs. “Had some things on my mind. Seems you do, too.”

She glances back down at the coin and then back up at Varric.

“So, you going to tell me or what?” he says, taking a seat across from her.

“It was a gift,” says Rhoslyn, running her thumb over the coin. “Though not from my family.”

“Ah,” says Varric. “A lover’s token, then.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Hey, I’ve been there,” he chuckles. “I know that look. Who was he?”

Rhoslyn considers her words carefully, but realizes that she has no particular desire to lie. “He was a Templar,” she says, “in the Ferelden Circle where I was trained.”

Varric’s brows rise. “No shit. Oh, this has got to be a good story.”

“Perhaps,” she says, smiling slyly.

“You can’t tease me like that, Trevelyan,” he says. “At least tell me about the trinket.”

“I suppose I will indulge you this once," she says. "It was for luck. He gave it to me on the day before my Harrowing...”

Chapter Text

“Stop that!” Cullen said, twisting away from Rhoslyn’s fingers. She laughed, slapping the bare buttock that she had been tickling a moment before. They were lying together on a blanket in the mages’ armory, their bodies still slick with the sweat of their recent lovemaking.

“Spoilsport,” she said, leaning on her elbow and giving him a disapproving look.

“If you’re looking for something occupy your hands,” he said, “I can think of something far better.”

Her brows went up as she shot a pointed look at his groin. “Already? I didn’t think you had it in you, Rutherford.”

“Come here, you,” he growled, pulling her to him and relentlessly tickling her ribs. She squirmed in his arms, though he silenced her protests with a long kiss. Opening her mouth under his, she stilled. Her breasts were pressed against his naked chest, the soft hair rubbing against their peaks and bringing the nipples up hard. Sliding her fingers into his hair, she pushed him onto his back.

“Insatiable,” he said as he nipped at her bottom lip. “But you spoke true enough before: I need rest.”

“And you shall have it,” she sighed, smiling down at him. “For now.”

He stroked a hand down her face and through her hair, guiding her head down against his chest. She went happily, content to rest her cheek over his heart. In the months since they had first lain together, they had mapped the landscapes of each other’s bodies, discovering the tender places that, when caressed, elicited quiet moans and sharp gasps. They coupled with the joyous abandon of youth, exuberance making up for whatever they lacked in skill. Rhoslyn would gladly have spent whole days abed if they could have enjoyed such a luxury, but she had to be satisfied with the stolen hours on a dusty armory floor.

“Come tomorrow,” she said as she traced circles on Cullen’s shoulder with her forefinger, “I’ll have my own chamber. With a bed of my own.”

He paused in his lazy strokes along the length of her spine. “You know we couldn’t risk that. Templars have no reason to visit the private quarters of the mages.”

“I know,” Rhoslyn said, resting her chin on his collarbone as she looked up at his face. “But can I not imagine for a moment that we could share a real bed?”

He pressed a kiss to her brow. “You can imagine whatever you like, my darling. No one knows your mind but you.”

Rhoslyn’s smile was tinged with sorrow. Though she knew it was foolish, she had sometimes dreamed of what could never be: a cottage on the lakeshore, a wide featherbed piled high with furs, vows spoken before the alter of Andraste. Templars were permitted to marry with the consent of their knight-commander, but to wed a mage would be unthinkable. No, the love she bore Cullen was fated to be clandestine; they could never openly pledge themselves to each other without incurring the wrath of the Chantry.

“Are you afraid for tomorrow?” he asked. “For your Harrowing?”

“A little,” she replied. “But Enchanter Marden has told me time and again that he’s never been more confident in an apprentice’s ability to face combat in the Fade. I have to take some comfort in that, and so should you.” She brushed a damp lock of hair behind his ear. “You’re still worried.”

“Of course I am,” he said. “You must enter the Fade alone and unarmed. I can do nothing to aid you. I can only watch and wait for you to return to me. And if you do not, it is my blade that must strike you down.” He pinched his eyes shut. “Andraste preserve me, I cannot bear to lose you.”

She laid a hand on his cheek. “You won’t. I swore it on the day we witnessed Apprentice Clifton’s Harrowing and I stand by that oath now. I will come back to you.”

Cullen nodded, leaning into her fingers. “I want you to have something,” he said, reaching over into the pocket of his discarded breeches. Taking her hand, he pressed a small, silver coin stamped with the image of Andraste into her palm.

“On the day I left Honnleath to come here, my brother gave me this. It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for luck. We aren’t supposed to carry such things. As Mother Elvina says, our faith should see us through. But I’ve kept it all these years.” He closed her fingers around the coin. “Carry it tomorrow. Please.”

“A little luck can’t hurt,” said Rhoslyn. “I’ll keep it close.”

Cullen sighed, pressing his forehead to hers. “I know it’s foolish, but I’m glad.”

Rhoslyn held the coin tightly in her fist as she ascended the highest stair in the Circle Tower the evening next. The Harrowing chamber was dimly lit and appeared unchanged since the last time she had entered it. The glass ceiling afforded a view of the darkening sky, the first stars of the night winking as the sun disappeared. First Enchanter Irving, Knight-Commander Greagoir, and a number of other mages and Templars stood about the room, each one of them watching her as she took the final steps of her apprenticeship.

Her gaze, however, was anchored on Cullen. He stood at Irving’s side, wearing his full plate and helm. His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword. His expression was solemn, but Rhoslyn could see the fear in his eyes. She felt a sudden and cold stab of dread, for all that she stood to lose if she failed this test was before her now.

Maker, give me strength, she prayed. But if I am too weak to endure, then watch over Cullen and guide him through all the days of his life.

“Apprentice Trevelyan,” said First Enchanter Irving. “Are you prepared to begin?”

“Yes,” she said, managing to keep her voice steady.

“Magic exists to serve man,” Knight-Commander Greagoir intoned, “and never to rule over him.”

Rhoslyn barely heard the rest of his words. Her eyes went to the simple pewter cup that Irving held, its contents shining with a blue glow. When, at last, he approached her, she took it carefully and drank it down. She had taken draughts of lyrium before, but never one so potent. It tasted of metal as it slid over her tongue. The edges of the room blurred and she felt herself falling.

“Cullen,” she breathed as her vision went black.

She blinked once, twice, and a third time before the world came back into focus. The Harrowing chamber was gone, replaced by a hazy sort of half-light that illuminated the gray-green landscape. The path beneath her feet was narrow and wound up a hill that rose before her. Cautiously, she took a step. The ground was solid enough, so she took another. This, then, was the Fade, the realm of dreams and spirits. Was she alone, she wondered, or would she encounter other dreamers in this place? Uncertain, but seeing no other route, she started up the hill.

“What do we have here? A mageling? You’re a pretty one.”

Rhoslyn stopped, looking around for the source of the voice, but she saw nothing. “Who are you? Name yourself, spirit.”

“My, my. Get right to the point, don’t you? Oh, but you have so many things to hide. Come closer, child, and let me see what is in your mind.”

Despite the part of her that screamed not to heed a creature of the Void, she went to the crest of the hill and looked down. In the valley below, the strange crystalline landscape of the Fade was gone. In its place was a knoll of soft green grass dotted with trees. A stone cottage with a thatched roof sat in the center, smoking rising pleasantly from its chimney.

“What is this place?” she asked, as much of herself as of the spirit.

“It’s home, my darling.”

Rhoslyn whirled at the sound of a deeper, familiar voice. Standing just a few paces from her, by a pile of freshly chopped wood, was Cullen. He was leaning against the handle of an axe, its head resting on the ground by his foot. He was dressed simply, in breeches and a homespun shirt that hung open at the collar. He smiled as she met his gaze, pushing his free hand through his hair.

“There you are,” he said.

“Cullen,” she began. “What are you doing here? How are you here?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “What do you mean, Rhos? It was you who went to the village today. I’ve been here since you left this morning.”

She looked down and saw that her apprentice’s robes were gone. In their place was a pretty dress of cornflower blue over which she wore a traveling cloak. Hanging from her arm was a basket filled with herbs and what smelled like spiced meat.

“Here,” said Cullen, striking the blade of the axe into the stump on which he had been splitting logs. “Let me take that.” Striding over to her, he took the basket. As he did, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her lips. The scarred side of his mouth turning up, he said, “What, no warm embrace for you husband?”

"Husband?” Rhoslyn repeated dumbly.

Cullen’s smile broadened. “Of course. Who else did you think would be waiting for you when you returned?”

She swallowed in an attempt to find her voice. “I…I don’t understand. This is not possible. It is a dream.”

“It was,” he says, “but no longer. Come home, Rhos. Is it not everything you wanted?”

Her brows knit. “It is, but…it cannot be. You are a Templar and I a mage. We can never wed.”

Setting the basket down, he went to her side and took her hands. “But we can. We have. We are together in this place, don’t you see?”

Rhoslyn looked up into his face. She knew every feature by heart. She wanted so much to throw her arms around him, to follow him into the valley. She desired it so desperately that her heart ached.

Desire. The word rang in her head like a bell.

“No,” she said, backing away a step. “This is not real. It’s all an illusion in the Fade, trick of a desire demon.”

Cullen’s face grew sorrowful. “Don’t go, darling. Please. Stay with me. I love you.”

“You’re not him,” she said. “Relinquish his form, demon!”

“Very well,” spoke the feminine voice which she had first heard.

Rhoslyn watched as Cullen disappeared. In his place stood a voluptuous female, her breasts bare and her slender horns curling around her head.

“You have a strong will, mage,” she hissed, “to resist me. I could have given you all that you wanted: your handsome Templar and your featherbed to make love upon.”

“It would have been a lie,” said Rhoslyn.

“It would have been real enough in your mind,” said the demon. “But you refused, and now you must chose: will you brandish your spells in a feeble attempt to slay me for temping you or shall we go our separate ways in peace?”

“I cannot let you go,” said Rhoslyn, conjuring a flame in her hand.

“So be it,” the demon said. “Then you will die.” Snarling, it charged.

Rhoslyn cast a fireball, striking the demon’s shoulder. It screeched in fury, slashing with its claws. She ducked out of the way, though not before she felt a cut open on her arm. Stumbling back, she cast a bolt of lightning. The demon dodged it, but barely. Rhoslyn cast furiously as she and the demon danced around each other. Her arm stung, but she ignored it as she sought an opening to strike a killing blow. The demon’s chest was the most exposed, but it moved too fast for a barrage of fire or lightning bolt. Rhoslyn would have to get close to it and—

“Come to me, mortal,” the demon jeered. “Your soul belongs to me.”

“Never,” said Rhoslyn taking a step toward it.

The demon wavered, caught off guard. Rhoslyn conjured a thick blade of ice in her right hand. With a cry, she ran forward, closing the distance between them, and drove it into the demon’s breast. The creature howled, clutching at the blood-soaked ice.

Rhoslyn stepped back, breathing hard. The demon collapsed to its knees, gurgling helplessly as it died. She watched as its form began to disintegrate, falling into flakes that blew away in the winds of the Void. When the creature was no more, she turned her gaze to the swirling, murky sky.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked. “Have I proven myself?”

She expected no reply and she received none, but after a time the Fade began to waver and grow dark. Sitting down in the path, Rhoslyn waited to be delivered back into the physical world.

When she opened her eyes, she saw the glinting of the stars beyond the domed ceiling of the Harrowing chamber. She was lying on her back, her arms at her sides. Her head ached and exhaustion of both body and mind weighed her down.

“She’s awake,” said Cullen, falling to his knees at her side. “Thank the Maker! Rhoslyn, are you all right?”

Slowly pushing herself up onto her elbows, she searched his face for any sign that this was yet another false vision, but she found none. “I believe I am,” she said.

“So you have come back to us,” said First Enchanter Irving, stepping toward her. “Well met, Enchanter Trevelyan.”

Despite her fatigue, she smiled. At last, she had endured her Harrowing and she was a true mage of the Circle.

“Ser Cullen,” said Knight-Commander Greagoir, “will you escort the enchanter to her quarters so that she can rest?”

“Gladly,” he said, though instead of taking her by the elbow and helping her to her feet, he lifted her into his arms. She held onto his shoulder, gently squeezing. He carried her out of the Harrowing chamber and down the stairs. He said nothing as he bore her through the passages toward the room that would be her own.

It was a narrow chamber with a single window. The bed stood against the far wall, a three-legged stool beside it. There was a tall wardrobe beside the door, but nothing else. She would be given a study, too, though that would come later.

Gently, Cullen set her down on the bed. “Can I bring you a cup of water?” he asked. “You’re pale.”

“I’m tired is all,” she said.

“Then I will let you rest.”

She caught his hand as he turned to go. “Stay. At least until I fall asleep.”

He looked once at the door, but then sighed, “All right.”

Rhoslyn peeled back the blankets on the bed and slipped beneath them. Cullen drew the stool over and sank down onto it. Removing his gloves, he took her hand between his.

“Was it terrible, what you faced?” he asked.

“It was…difficult,” she replied, “but no, not terrible. It was a desire demon I faced.”

“You killed it?”

She nodded. “But not before it made me an offer. It saw into my mind and found my deepest yearnings. It was not easy to refuse.”

Cullen drew her fingers to his lips. “What did you see?”

“You,” she sighed. “Us together.”

“We are together now,” he said, brows knit. “I’ll never leave you willingly, Rhos. You know that.”

She smiled, brushing the backs of her fingers against his cheek. “I know. What the demon offered, it would have been an illusion. I chose you…the real you, I mean.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” he said.

Stifling a yawn, she said, “I will tell you of it tomorrow.”

He nodded, pressing kiss to her brow. “Sleep, my love. I will be here when you wake.”

Chapter Text

“So, what happened to this Templar of yours?” asks Varric, scratching his chin. “I can only assume that it’s not quite a happy ending?”

“After the Blight,” says Rhoslyn, “I was sent to Ostwick and he to Kirkwall.”

“Kirkwall?” says Varric. “Hawke and I met just about every Templar in the city by the time the mage rebellion broke out. Maybe I knew him. You willing to volunteer a name?”

She shakes her head. “Not this time.”

“Ah, well, I’ll just make something up. This is going to make a great book.”

“Varric! You wouldn’t.”

“You’re kidding, right? Forbidden romance, intrigue…it would sell like hotcakes. Hell, the Seeker would eat it right up. Have you told her about this?”

“No,” she says. “So, I’d thank you to keep it to yourself.”

“I’ll give you a cut a proceeds.”

“No.”

“Fine. Have it your way, but I’ll bet Hawke could find out something about him.”

“Don’t ask her.”

Varric cocks his head, his brows going up. “And why not? Don’t you want to know if he’s still in Kirkwall? There’s no reason why you can’t make a trip out there when this shit with Corypheus is all over. See if maybe he’s still carrying a torch for you. Now, that would be a great ending to the book. Nothing like a reunion and a happy ending. The noble wives of Thedas will be scrambling for copies.”

“He’s not in Kirkwall,” says Rhoslyn. “Not anymore.”

“Oh,” Varric says. “Was he killed during the rebellion?”

“No,” she sighs. “Maker be thanked.”

“Then you know where he is. How did you manage that? Get Leliana to put her agents to work?”

“Something like that,” says Rhoslyn. Tossing another stick onto the fire, she gets to her feet. “Thank you for sitting with me a while, Varric, but I think it’s time I get some rest.”

“Suit yourself,” he says. “Just tell me one thing before you go: is this Templar keeping you from letting…others win your affections?”

Rhoslyn’s mouth drops open. “Varric, I…”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about me, Trevelyan. I’m spoken for.”

“Then who?”

“A certain Commander who, in front of the entire assembled Inquisition, kissed your hand a fortnight ago? Come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Her heart jumps into her throat. “You think Cullen cares for me?”

Varric sighs. “You’re so focused on this war, you really can’t see what’s right in front of your face. Every time you’re in the room, he can’t keep his eyes off of you. I’d say it was pathetic if I didn’t know exactly what it feels like. So, while you’re here pining for your lost Templar, you’ve got someone else back at Skyhold pining for you.”

Rhoslyn grasps the coin at her neck, suddenly hoping as she has not dared before that Varric could be right, that Cullen might still feel something for her. “Did he speak to you of this?”

“Curly confiding in me? I don’t think so, Trevelyan. It’s just a hunch, but it’s a well-founded one.” He eyes her slyly. “Does that mean this is a welcome revelation?”

“It’s not unwelcome,” she replies.

“Ha! I knew it,” says Varric, grinning. “Dorian owes me a drink.”

Rhoslyn shoots him a sidelong look. “You bet on this?”

“Just a casual wager between gentlemen, but yes. I put down a few coppers in favor of you fancying the Commander. As far as I know, Dorian owes Sera a fair bit more than that.”

“How am I not surprised,” Rhoslyn mutters, making Varric laugh.

“In all seriousness, though, Trevelyan,” he says, “Curly had a rough time in Kirkwall. He took a stand against Meredith, but he didn’t do it lightly. I saw it firsthand. He could use something good in his life. And hell, so could you.”

She smiles, tucking the coin back under her shirt. “I suppose you’re right. Thank you, Varric.”

“My pleasure, Inquisitor.” He grins. “So, about that book…”

“No.”

The skies are dark with rain when they ride into the upper courtyard at Skyhold two days later. Rhoslyn’s clothes are soaked through and her skin beneath is clammy. She wants nothing more than something dry to wear, a bowl of hot soup, and a tankard of mead. Dismounting, she leads her horse to the stables.

“Fine weather for a ride, your worship,” says horsemaster Dennet as he takes the reins and pats the mare’s sodden neck. “How were the roads?”

“Like the Fallow Mire,” she grumbles. “Give the horses an extra helping of oats by way of thanks.”

“I will do,” he says as he leads the mare toward the warmth of her stall.

Striding through the muddy courtyard, Rhoslyn makes her way up the staircase and into the great hall of the fortress. Josephine is standing just inside, describing the artistry of the scrollwork around the fireplaces to four lavishly attired Orlesian nobles.

“Inquisitor,” she says. “How fortunate it is that you have returned at this precise moment. My I present Lord and Lady De Charnais and their sons Jean-Francois and Christophe?”

Rhoslyn inclines her head. “My lords and lady, it is a pleasure.”

“Lady Trevelyan,” says Lord De Charnais, bowing from the waist, “it is an honor to meet the esteemed leader of the Inquisition. Tales of your great deeds and even greater beauty are told across the empire.”

Rhoslyn, knowing full well that her windblown hair is plastered wetly to her head and her boots are coated in mud, shoots Josephine a look out of the corner of her eye. The Ambassador hides a smile behind her hand.

“That is kind of you, my lord,” Rhoslyn says. “Though if you will forgive me, I have pressing business that I must attend to. I look forward to speaking with you more at dinner this evening.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he replies.

Rhoslyn’s boots squelch as she walks away, leaving wet prints on the flagstones of the hall.

When she arrives in her chambers, she sends immediately for warm water for a bath and for something to eat. She sheds her sopping coat and breeches, pulling on a robe, which she belts at her waist. A kitchen girl arrives not long after bearing a shallow bowl filled with stew and a small loaf of bread still hot from the ovens. Rhoslyn thanks her and sits down at her desk to eat while she waits for her bath. There are a number of notes on the desktop, most of which she looks over briefly. One of them is from Josephine, who explains that the visiting Orlesians have come with an offer of an alliance with the Inquisition.

“However,” the Ambassador writes, “Lord De Charnais has suggested with little subtlety that he hopes you might consider the suit of one of his sons.”

Rhoslyn snorts a laugh at that. The noble families of Thedas consider marrying into a line with magic a step down, a pollution of their own bloodline. A year ago, Rhoslyn never would have been thought of as suitable match for anyone, especially nobility. Mages of the Circle, cloistered as they were within their Towers, seldom had the opportunity to court or be courted, let alone wed. She had long ago accepted that she would always bear her father’s surname. It seems as Inquisitor, though, her hand is something to be desired.

“I informed Lord De Charnais,” Josephine continues in her note, “that you are preoccupied with the matters at hand—namely Corypheus—and are not presently seeking a match. He seems determined to discuss the matter with you, though. I expect you will hear something of the sort at dinner tonight. Decline gracefully, if you can.”

Folding the note and setting it aside, Rhoslyn sighs. If there is no escaping De Charnais and his proposal, she will have to consider how to refuse him with giving offense. Her thoughts wander from the small talk she will be forced to make in order to skirt the issue, though, turning instead to the one man whose name she once fancied—in vain, of course—of taking.

Drawing the coin from beneath her robe, she considers what she will say to Cullen. She has several hours before she is due for dinner with Josephine and Lord De Charnais and she has resolved that if she does not speak to the Commander as soon as she can, she will lose her nerve. If Varric’s hunch proves wrong, she is about to make a complete fool of herself. But if he is correct, and Cullen still cares for her… She allows herself a smile.

For the first time since she was a girl of nine, she is not bound by the rules of the Circle. Cullen, too, is free of the mantle of a Templar. If they were to be lovers again, there is nothing to stop them from pledging themselves openly. Rhoslyn’s breast burns at the thought of such liberty. She has not dared to hope for love since her girlhood.

In the years since she had last seen Cullen, she had allowed her memories of him to fade, unwilling to dwell on what was cruelly taken from her after the Ferelden Circle was broken during the Fifth Blight. She has not thought of those few days when chaos reigned in Kinloch Hold for nearly a decade. She swallows heavily, her expression hardening, as the darkest part of her past comes hurtling back into her mind…

Chapter Text

It began when the senior enchanters returned from Ostagar. They had been summoned to aid King Cailan in ending the Blight, but the battle had ended in disaster. The king was dead, the Grey Wardens destroyed, and the darkspawn were advancing unchecked. Rhoslyn learned all of this as she sat among the assembled mages in the dining hall several nights after the Circle’s delegation arrived back at the Tower. First Enchanter Irving had called them together to hear the news from Denerim, which had arrived by raven. Loghain Mac Tir, Cailan’s general and father of the queen, had declared himself regent and called for the execution of any remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden. He wrote to the Circle requesting the mages’ support for his stewardship of the throne.

“We should stand behind the Teyrn,” said Enchanter Uldred once the letter had been read aloud. “He was Cailan’s most trusted advisor.”

“How can you say that?” Enchanter Wynne demanded, getting to her feet. “You were at the front. You saw him turn away and leave the king and the Grey Wardens to die! He is a traitor. We should denounce him.”

“Is this true, Irving?” asked the elder Enchanter Roderick, who had stayed behind at the Tower when the others had gone. “Did Mac Tir betray the king?”

The First Enchanter looked grave. “There was so much confusion on the battlefield that day, but from what I saw, Teyrn Loghain turned his back on Cailan and the Wardens.”

Cries of “treachery” and “traitor” went up as conversations erupted among the mages. Rhoslyn, who had been told—much to her frustration—to remain at the Tower with the junior enchanters, simply sat and listened. If the First Enchanter and Wynne said that Cailan had been betrayed, she had no reason to doubt them. Uldred, however, she was less inclined to believe.

“Enough!” called Irving, holding up his hands. “We will put it to a vote. All those in favor of supporting Teyrn Loghain’s regency, rise.”

“I stand by him,” said Uldred. A few of the mages who sat near him stood as well. Rhoslyn knew them all, but she had never counted them among her friends.

“It appears you are outnumbered,” said Irving. “The Circle will denounce Mac Tir and his false claims to the throne of the realm.”

“You are all fools!” Uldred snarled. “Loghain would grant us freedom from the tyranny of the Chantry, but you refuse him. I will not suffer like this any longer! We deserve better than the Circle, and if you will not see that, then I cannot stay here.”

“You are forbidden to leave this room, enchanter,” Irving said, his voice cracking like a whip. “You are bound to this Circle and to the service of the Chantry.”

A slow, dark smile spread across Uldred’s face. “Not anymore.” From the folds of his robe, he drew a long knife.

Rhoslyn watched as he drew it across his wrist, spilling his blood onto the table before him. Where the red drops fell, they began to smoke.

“Blood magic!” one of the mages screamed. “He’s summoning a demon!”

“Uldred, stop this now,” Wynne called, “or we will have no choice but to slay you.”

“Try it then, hag,” he said, though his voice was twisted into something that was barely human. His laughter grated against Rhoslyn’s ears. Brandishing his staff, he called to those who had stood with him. They followed him as he charged out of the dining hall and into the passage.

“Don’t let him get away!” said Wynne. “First Enchanter, we must stop him before he completes the ritual.”

“We cannot do this alone,” the Irving said. “Enchanter Rhoslyn, go to the barracks and bring the Templars.”

Nodding, she sprinted from the room. The howling cries of Uldred and his followers echoed in the passages as she ran. It was raining when she sprang from the Tower by the east door. The hem of her robes was soaked with dirty water by the time she arrived at the barracks outbuildings. Skidding to a stop outside the main gate, she pounded her fist against the wood.

“Help!” she cried. “Knight-Commander! Cullen! Anyone!” She nearly fell into the Templar who opened the door. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she managed to say, “There are blood mages in the Tower. Uldred is trying to summon a demon. We need you, all of you. Now!”

“What’s going on here?” boomed Knight-Commander Greagoir, appearing from within the barracks proper. “Trevelyan, is that you?”

“It is, sir,” she said. “Please, we need your help. Enchanter Uldred is wielding blood magic. We must not delay.”

“Rollins, get the others,” Greagoir barked at the Templar who had opened the gate. “Make sure they’re armed.” Turning to Rhoslyn, he said, “Take me to Irving.”

When they arrived back in the dining hall, the First Enchanter and the other mages were gone. Only Wynne remained.

“The First Enchanter has led the first wave against Uldred,” she said.

Greagoir nodded. “The others will be here shortly. They will follow Irving and put an end to this madness. But, in the meantime, we must seal the Tower.”

“Completely?” asked Wynne. “Certainly that is not yet necessary.”

“We cannot risk Uldred or his followers escaping. If he succeeds in summoning a demon, we cannot know what it will unleash. I will send to Denrerim for aid.”

“Do as you must,” Wynne said, her eyes flashing angrily, “but I will remain inside with my fellows.”

“As you say,” said Greagoir as the heavy fall of armored feet filled the dining hall.

“Knight-Commander,” said Cullen, who led his fellow Templars, “what are you orders?”

“Rutherford, take the men with you and find First Enchanter Irving. He is pursuing a pack of mages who have turned to blood magic.”

“Yes, sir,” said Cullen, though his eyes turned to Rhoslyn.

“I would go with them, Knight-Commander,” she said, taking a step forward.

“No, child,” said Wynne, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I need you to come with me. We must guard the apprentices. They cannot yet defend themselves from demons and blood magic.”

Reluctantly, Rhoslyn nodded. “As you say, Enchanter.” She exchanged only the briefest of glances with Cullen before he and the other Templars disappeared in pursuit of Uldred.

Maker guard him, she prayed.

She followed Wynne to the apprentices’ chambers and there they remained for hours, though how many, Rhoslyn could not be sure. The sounds of combat from the floors above them echoed down every so often, but for the most part it was silent.

And then the first demon arrived. It was a rage spirit, its form made almost completely of flame.

“Get behind me!” Rhoslyn had yelled to the apprentices as she conjured flames in both of her hands.

“That won’t work,” said Wynne, her own fingers glowing blue as she cast a freezing spell. “Use ice!”

Rhoslyn closed her fists, putting out the fire, and summoned a barrage of icy spears. Casting them toward the demon, they cut through it. It howled in fury and advanced.

“Together!” cried Wynne. Casting in unison, they froze the demon in place. With a flick of her wrist, Rhoslyn sent a bolt of lightning careening toward it. The bolt shattered the ice and the demon with it.

“Well done,” said Wynne, clapping her shoulder. “Marden has taught you well.”

Rhoslyn nodded. “We should seal the door. If there is one, there are more.”

“Do it, if you know the spells.”

Going to the door, Rhoslyn drew out the bag of sand she wore at her waist. She had meant to use it that night when she was set to meet Cullen in the mages’ armory, but it would serve now to barricade the portal from demons. She poured the fine grains of sand across the threshold and began to invoke the magics. She lent more strength to the barrier than she would have in the armory, whispering incantations to fortify it against hostile spells. When she was finished, Wynne nodded to her.

They could not settle again after that, but managed to get some of the apprentices to sleep for a time. Rhoslyn watched the barrier over the door, wondering what was happening to Cullen and the other Templars. If a demon had managed to get down to this low level in the Tower, did it mean that the mages and Templars had been overwhelmed? Her heart seized in her chest as she thought of Cullen falling, cut down by the thrall of a blood mage.

They hadn’t heard from the knight-commander in hours, either. The sun was beginning to rise in the eastern windows by the time she heard the doors of the dormitory creaking open. Scrambling to her feet, she leveled her staff at the three figures who strode through the doors: a dwarf in leathers with daggers at her back, a tall young man carrying a blade and shield, and a woman with short red hair armed with a bow.

“Who are you?” asked Wynne, gesturing for the others to stay behind her. “How did you get in here?”

“We mean you no harm,” said the dwarf, holding up her hands. “We’ve come to help you. Knight-Commander Greagoir sent us to put a stop to this before he invokes the Rite of Annulment.”

Wynne’s eyes went wide. “So he thinks the Circle is beyond hope. He must assume we are all dead. Those who were meant to protect us have abandoned us to our fate, but even trapped as we are, we have survived. If they invoke the Rite, however, we will not be able to stand against them.”

“He would not do such a thing,” said Rhoslyn. “Would he?”

“I pray not,” said Wynne, “but I am afraid that we are not strong enough to fend off the demons on our own. Perhaps with the help of these strangers, though…”

“I would aid you if I can,” said the dwarf, “in exchange for your own help in ending this Blight. I am a Grey Warden.”

“Then help us, Warden,” said Wynne. “Once Greagoir sees that we have made the Tower safe, I trust he will tell his men to back down. He is not unreasonable.”

“Then let’s not delay,” said the Warden, drawing the twin blades from their sheaths at her back. “Will the children be safe here?”

“Petra and Kinnon, our eldest apprentices, will watch them,” said Wynne. “As long as we slay all the demons we might encounter, they will be safe here.”

“I would come with you, if you will permit me,” said Rhoslyn.

The Warden looked to Wynne, who nodded.

“What are your names, enchanters?” the dwarf asked.

“I am Wynne. And my fellow is called Rhoslyn. May we have your name, Warden?”

“You may call me Brosca, if you wish,” she said. “Everyone else does. My companions are Leliana and Alistair.”

“Well, if we’re quite done with the pleasantries,” said the young man called Alistair, “shall we get to the demon-slaying?”

Wynne raised an eyebrow at him, but said, “Rhoslyn, if you would…”

Going to the door, she broke the fine line of sand. The barrier wavered and then disappeared.

“Be prepared,” said Wynne. “I don’t know what manner of creatures lie beyond.”

“Lead on,” said Warden Brosca.

Brandishing her staff, Rhoslyn followed Wynne across the threshold. The darkened passage beyond was empty, but as they ascended the first staircase, they encountered a pair of rage demons. They were not the last.

The Warden and her companions proved to be capable fighters. Brosca was quick and light on her feet, flitting around enemies nearly unseen, but still inflicting terrible wounds. Leliana, the archer, fired bolt after bolt without hesitation and she never missed her mark. The warrior Alistair was as capable with his sword and shield as any Templar. He would have been a good match for Cullen.

Rhoslyn’s heart froze in her breast as she thought of him. As they had been making their way up through the Tower, she had seen the corpses of many Templars strewn in their path. None, Maker be thanked, had yet been him. She would weep for them later, she vowed, when this was all over.

“What happened here,” said Alistair as he knelt by the body of fallen Templar, “is what I most feared when I was in the Order.”

“You were a Templar?” Rhoslyn asked.

“I had not yet taken my vows when I became a Grey Warden,” he replied, looking up at her, “but I was a novice in the Bournshire Chantry.”

“It shows,” she said.

“Is that meant to be a compliment or a slight? I can’t say that I’m sure.”

“Compliment. The finest warriors I know are Templars.”

“You speak remarkably well of the people who are, as we speak, planning to have you and all of your brethren killed.”

Rhoslyn bristled. “Not all Templars take pleasure in subjugating mages.” She gestured to the corpse at her feet. “And they did not deserve this.”

“That’s true enough,” he said, rising.

“Alistair,” said Brosca from a few paces ahead. “Come on.”

“Shall we?” he asked Rhoslyn. She nodded and followed him up the flight of stairs that lead to the next level.

The Harrowing chamber was in shambles when they arrived. Uldred stood at the center, two mages kneeling at his feet with knives at their wrists. But Rhoslyn’s gaze was fixed on the orb that floated near the back of the room. Its surface crackled with power and the men trapped within it were held with their arms and legs wide apart. Their faces—Irving’s and Cullen’s—were contorted in pain.

Rhoslyn cried out as she saw them.

Wynne put grabbed her shoulder, preventing her from running into the room. “No, child. Touching that prison will kill you for sure.”

“I must release him,” she pled. “Enchanter, please!”

“Foolish girl,” spoke Uldred, his voice twisted and dark. “He will die like the others.”

“If he comes to harm,” she spat, leveling her staff at the blood mage, “I swear to you, demon, you will scream for mercy long before I’m through with you.”

He laughed, his head thrown back. “Such pride, mage whelp. You will make a fine vessel when this one can no longer contain me. Uldred never thought much of you, I see, but it seems he was mistaken. If you have come this far, it means you have killed my servants. Ah, well, they are likely better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence.”

“And you shall follow them into the Void,” said Brosca, spinning her daggers deftly in her hands.

“What have we here?” said the demon that was once Uldred. “A Grey Warden. Fight if you must, dwarf, but when you fall it will only make my victory all the sweeter.” With a growl, Uldred’s form morphed into something far more terrible: a hulking pride demon with a crude blade in its hand.

“Stand together!” cried Brosca.

Rhoslyn fell back with Wynne, summoning the most powerful of her spells. She was tired from hours of fighting as they made their way up to the top of the Tower, but she would do anything to free Cullen. Her fury fueled her magic, each cast striking with greater strength than the last. The demon taunted the five fighters, sending abominations that were once Rhoslyn’s friends to wear them down, but each of them fell in turn until only their master remained.

“No!” it howled as it began to fall to its knees beneath the barrage of spells and blades. “You cannot defeat me.”

“Oh, but we can,” said Brosca as she sprang into the air. Rhoslyn watched with wide eyes as the dwarf grasped the demon’s spiked hide with her left hand and drove the dagger in her right into its neck. It roared one final time and then collapsed. As it died, the barrier around Cullen and Irving flickered out and disappeared. They fell limply to the floor.

Rhoslyn and Wynne went to them, kneeling at their sides. Cullen’s face was pale and his eyes closed. Cradling his head in her lap, Rhoslyn touched his cheek and called his name.

“Wake up, wake up. Cullen, please.”

He lay still in her arms, but she could feel his heartbeat and see the rise and fall of his chest. Maker be thanked, he lived.

“Wynne?” croaked First Enchanter Irving, his eyes opening. “Is that you?”

“It is, my friend,” she replied, brushing the hair from his brow. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better,” he groaned, “but I am thankful to be alive. How is the boy?”

“He needs healing and rest,” said Wynne, passing a blue-tinged hand over him, “but he will survive.”

Leaning up on his elbows, Irving looked to Warden Brosca and her companions. “Who is this that we have to thank for our lives?”

“Grey Wardens,” Rhoslyn said.

“They’ve come to seek our aid against the Blight,” said Wynne, “though I am afraid we have little to offer them.”

Irving hung his head. “It was terrible to see the others perish. So many Templars as well. I’m afraid Ser Cullen is the only one left.”

“Greagoir and a handful of others remain outside the Tower,” Wynne said. “They have sent to Denerim for permission to invoke the Rite of Annulment.”

“They needn’t now,” said the First Enchanter. “Only we three remain. Ferelden Circle is all but destroyed.”

Rhoslyn let her eyes fall closed. So much death. What would become of them now?

“Come,” said Brosca, holding out her hand to help Irving to his feet. “The Templars await. We must tell them that the Tower is safe again.”

“Thank you, Warden,” said Irving. “You have our gratitude and our allegiance.”

“Warden Alistair,” Rhoslyn said. “Will you help me bear my friend down to the infirmary?”

“Gladly,” he replied, lifting Cullen under the arms. Rhoslyn and the archer Leliana took his feet and they began the slow descent from the top of the Tower.

Cullen slept for three days after his ordeal in the Harrowing chamber. Rhoslyn spent what few minutes she had to spare each day at his bedside, bathing his brow and praying that when he woke, his mind would prove to be unbroken.

The Templar reinforcements had arrived on the afternoon of the second day. They had not come all the way from Denerim in so short a time, but had been dispatched from West Hill. Since there was no rite to perform, they were given quarters in the barracks while decisions were made about how to proceed.

“With only three mages and a handful of apprentices left,” said Knight-Commander Greagoir to Irving, Wynne, Rhoslyn, the Grey Wardens, and Knight-Captain Aryn, the commander of the West Hill Templars, as they sat together on the evening of that second day, “this Circle is no longer sustainable.”

“Though I hate to,” said Irving, “I must agree. We have little choice but to leave Kinloch. I must go to Denerim to gather the mages remaining in the city’s Circle to battle the Blight. Wynne, you may come with me if you wish.”

She shook her head. “I would prefer to go with the Wardens and led my staff to their cause, if they will accept my help, of course.”

“Gladly,” said Brosca.

“What will become of the apprentices?” asked Rhoslyn.

“They will be sent to other Circles in Thedas,” said Irving, “where they can continue their training.”

“And what of me, sir?”

“I recently received a letter from the First Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle,” he said. “They are seeking someone to take over for their former battlemaster. You, enchanter, would be well suited to that position.”

Rhoslyn swallowed hard. Ostwick was her birthplace, though she had not seen it in over a decade. Ferelden Circle was her home and she did not wish to leave.

“Will my Sentinel be accompanying me?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“You are no longer an apprentice,” said Greagoir. “You have no more need of a Sentinel. A place will be found for Cullen elsewhere, I’m sure.”

Despite the ache in her breast, she managed to nod.

“Then it is decided,” said Irving.

Once they had adjourned, Rhoslyn made her way to Cullen’s bedside. He slept still, but she held his hand and finally allowed herself to weep. She was being sent away from him and her heart was breaking.

When Rhoslyn arrived in the infirmary the next day, Knight-Commander Greagoir was already there. Cullen was sitting up and speaking with him.

“The Kirkwall Chantry is seeking new blood,” said Greagoir. “You’ll join them.”

“Yes, sir,” Cullen said.

Greagoir laid a hand on his shoulder. “The Maker was watching over you, Rutherford. It is by his will that you alone survived this ordeal. It has been an honor serving with you.” With that, he turned and took his leave, nodding to Rhoslyn as he went.

When they were alone, she hurried to him and pulled him tight against her.

“There you are,” he said against her ear. “Thank the Maker you’re safe.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” she said, kissing him gently as she held his face in her hands.

“And I you,” he replied, covering her fingers with his.

She smiled wanly, pulling the coin he had given her on the night of her Harrowing from her pocket. “I knew I would be all right. I had luck on my side.” She sighed. “Perhaps it is you who should have this now. To guard you in Kirkwall.”

He shook his head, closing her fingers around it. “It’s yours.”

Tears stung Rhoslyn’s eyes. “What am I going to do without you?”

“You’re to be battlemaster of the Ostwick Circle,” he replied. “I can think of nothing better for you.”

“I would copy texts for the rest of my days if it meant that you could come with me.”

He smiled. “And I would lay down my shield, but it’s not to be. Rhos, wherever I go, I will always carry you in my heart.”

“I love you, Cullen,” she said. Reaching up to the leather thong around her neck, she untied it and drew the Tevinter medallion from beneath her shirt. “Take this and remember me.”

“I will never forget you,” he said, his voice husky with sorrow. “I love you more than my own life.”

Holding tight to him, Rhoslyn sobbed as he stroked her back. Even when her tears had dried, she remained beside him in the small infirmary bed. In time, they slept. It mattered little what Irving or Wynne saw, for the next day they would part, likely to never see each other again.

Chapter Text

The storm has thankfully abetted by the time Rhoslyn is bathed and dressed. She has donned a simple dress of homespun wool with laces up the front. Her hair is still wet, but neatly braided down her back. The late afternoon sun is just beginning to sink as she steps out onto battlements. The air still smells of recent rain, but the wind is crisp and cool.

The memories of those last days in Ferelden Circle had been sharp and clear in her mind as they had not been in years. They left a dull ache in her chest, a reminder of the piercing pain in her heart as she had kissed Cullen goodbye. All the time they were apart, she had believed that she had already enjoyed her life’s love, that she would never find another man to fill the void inside her that he had left. She had been content with that, glad to have loved once so completely that it had forever marked her. But now that he is again at her side, as she never thought he would be, she cannot keep silent. She must know if he cares for her as she does him.

Resolved, she follows the path that leads to his study. The door is open when she arrives, and from inside she hears voices. Slipping across the threshold, she keeps to the shadows as she listens.

“Rylen’s men will monitor the situation,” Cullen is saying to the soldiers gathered around his desk. Picking up a piece of parchment, he reads over it briskly.

“Yes, sir,” says a guardswoman, saluting smartly. “We’ll see to it right away.”

He nods. “Good. In the meantime, we’ll send a few men to—” He stops as he looks up and sees Rhoslyn. She gives him a small smile, which he returns. “To assist with the relief effort. That will be all.”

“Inquisitor,” the soldiers say as they stride past Rhoslyn and out of the study. The last of them shuts the door firmly behind him.

“You’ve returned,” says Cullen, the corners of his mouth turning up.

She nods. “Just this morning. We rode through the storm.”

“I don’t envy you that,” he says. “Is all well in the Emprise?”

“For now,” she replies. “It is still rife with red lyrium, but we managed to recapture Suledin Keep. Baron Desjardins is staging the Inquisition’s occupation. He’s done well so far.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” says Cullen. “I will ensure that the garrison there is well supplied.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Rhoslyn says. Taking a step toward him, she asks, “Will you walk with me?”

“Of course,” he says. Going to the far door, he lifts the latch. The hinges creak as he pushes it open. He allows Rhoslyn to pass through first, following a moment later. She waits until he comes up beside her. Smiling, he offers her his arm.

She laughs lightly at the formality, but threads her arm through his, resting her fingers on his forearm. The woolen shirt under her hand is soft. He is not in his armor. Instead, over the shirt he wears a leather jerkin with silver clasps. His yellow hair is a little disordered, as if he had been running his hands through it. Rhoslyn wants to reach up and tidy it, or perhaps muss it further as she pulls him to her.

“What?” she asks when she realizes that he has been speaking.

“I said it’s turned out to be a fine day.”

Rhoslyn cocks a brow. “Cullen Rutherford discussing the weather. I didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”

She chews her lip, searching for the words. “I…well, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about Ferelden Circle of late. It’s strange to think that the Tower stands empty now.”

“Completely?” asks Cullen. “No one remained after the Blight?”

“Enchanter Fiona said that one or two stayed behind to mind the library, but no one has returned to see them since the rebellion began.”

“We could send a party of soldiers.”

Rhoslyn shakes her head. “We cannot spare the men, not when we must prepare to face Corypheus.”

“When this is finished, then,” says Cullen.

“I want to go myself,” says Rhoslyn. “If we survive this.”

He grasps her arm, turning her to face him. “We will. Corypheus will fall, and when this is over, I will go with you to Ferelden Circle.”

“You would go back?” she asks, her brows knit. “After what happened, I thought you would never want to return.”

“So did I,” he sighs. “But I called the place my home for many years, and I would like to accompany you. If you’ll have me, of course.”

“I would,” she replies. “Gladly.”

He looks down at her, still holding her arm. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it again.

Maker, give me courage, Rhoslyn prays.

“Cullen, I don’t think I’ve told you how glad I am that you’re here. I never expected to see you again.”

“I thought the same,” he says, his hands finding hers. “Having you here has been…well, the Inquisition would not have survived this long without you. The Maker could not have chosen better.”

She gives him a small smile. “You still think it was the Maker’s will that brought us both into this?”

“Perhaps,” he says, “or perhaps not. Though, I am willing to put more faith in the Maker than in sheer chance.”

“If it was the latter,” she says, “then I’m glad I had luck on my side.” From beneath her shirt, Rhoslyn draws the coin he had given her. It is warm to the touch from where it hangs just below her collarbone.

“You kept it?” says Cullen, taking it gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“Of course I did,” she replies. “I had the necklace fashioned not long after I got to Ostwick. I have not taken it off since.”

He looks at it with his tawny eyes, his expression unreadable.

“Ten years,” he says. “All that time, I thought that you would leave me, that I would find someone else. But I never did.” He shakes his golden head. “I resigned myself to loving a memory. But then you were there in the Chantry in Haven. I did not believe my own eyes at first.”

“Nor I mine,” she says, squeezing his fingers. “It was my Sentinel, come back to me at last.”

“Rhoslyn,” he says, lifting their joined hands to the level of his heart. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I’ve thought of a hundred ways to say it, but none of them ever seemed right.” He looks down at their hands, brushing his thumbs across her knuckles.

“You can always speak your mind to me,” she says. “There were once no secrets between us.”

“No,” he says, “but there was a great deal more.” He sighs. “I know that we were hardly more than children then, but what we had…it was truer than anything I’ve felt since. Maker’s breath, how do I say this? It seems far too much to ask, but do you think that you could ever come to care for me again?”

Taking his face between her hands, she says, “I love you, Cullen. I don’t think I ever stopped.”

He pulls her to him then, his mouth fitting to hers as if they had been parted for days not years. She wraps her arms around his neck, sliding her fingers into the hair at the nape. She opens her mouth under his, drawing his breath into her lungs. He tastes of peppermint, sharp and sweet. She sighs. His kiss is familiar, a homecoming, the closing of the void between them.

A pair of guards tromps by, but they are ignored. They grin at each other as they stride past, both eager to tell their fellows in the barracks of what they saw on the battlements: their Commander with the Inquisitor in his arms, so lost in each other that they did not even bother to look up.

“We’ve been spotted,” Rhoslyn says when they pause for breath. “Whatever are people going to say?”

Cullen gives her a one-sided grin. “Let them talk. We’re not in the Circle anymore, Rhos. We don’t need to hide.”

“As much as I like the sound of that,” she says, “I’d much rather have you to myself at the moment.”

Entwining his fingers with hers, he pulls her toward his study. As they cross the threshold, he shuts and bars the door behind them. He embraces her again, holding her head against his chest. She slips her arms under his cloak and around to his back.

“I’ve missed you,” she says.

He strokes her hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “These past months have been torture. I’ve wanted this so badly.”

“Why did you not say something before?” she asks, touching his cheek.

“You’re the Inquisitor,” he replies as he leans into her fingers. “We’re at war…and I didn’t think it was possible.” He smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Why did you not speak?”

She feels the heat in her cheeks as she says, “Pure cowardice, I think.”

He leans down, his lips brushing hers. “My love, you are anything but a coward.”

She kisses him hard, feeling her stomach flip as his tongue touches hers. Desire burns through her veins, searing and insistent. She wants to tear away the layers of leather and wool between them, to touch him and feel his warmth on her skin. He groans deep in his chest and she answers him with a sigh. Reaching up, she releases the clasp of his cloak.

He draws back from her. There is surprise in his expression, but it quickly fades into a darker determination. Shrugging the cloak off of his shoulders, he lets it fall to the floor behind him. His mouth finds hers again, his hands sliding into her hair and loosening the braid. He pushes her back a few steps until she is pressed against his desk.

She lets her head fall back as he trails his lips along her jaw and down the length of her neck. Moving her hands down past the small of his back, she gives his buttocks a light squeeze. She feels his laugh rumbling against her as much as she hears it.

“That tickles,” he says.

She grins. “I couldn’t resist.”

Moving his lips to her ear, he says, “You never could, but I didn’t mind, as long as you had your hands on me.”

She makes a small sound in her throat as she feels a rush of warmth between her legs. Glancing down at his desk, she raises a brow, questioning.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” says Cullen, “but I’m perfectly willing to start down here, if you are.”

Rhoslyn smiles. “Later.”

“Something to look forward to, then,” he says as he kisses her.

She laughs. “Oh, certainly.”

“Come then,” he says, leading her to the ladder that goes to his bedchamber. She climbs ahead of him. The room above is much the same as it was when she first saw it, though the hole in the timbers of the roof has been repaired.

Cullen brings a torch from below and lights the candles, brightening the space. He sets the torch in a sconce by the window.

“It’s not quite as grand as your quarters,” he says, “but it will suit.”

Rhoslyn smiles, going to him and taking his hands in hers. “It’s finer than we’ve had before. You do realize that we’ve never done this in a proper bed.”

“Well, here is our chance,” he says, setting her arms around his neck. He eases his mouth over hers, and she hums happily. His fingers trace the length of her arms, graze over her shoulders, and then find the laces of her dress. She nips at his lower lip, and he groans as her tongue enters his mouth.

She slides her hands down his chest to the clasps of the jerkin he wears. She makes quick work of them, easing her hands into the warmth beneath the leather. Cullen pulls his arms from the sleeves and tosses the jerkin away. Beneath he wears a red shirt tied loosely at the collar. Fisting her hands in the soft wool, Rhoslyn tugs it from his belt. Reaching behind him, he pulls it over his head.

“Oh, Maker,” Rhoslyn breathes when she sees the trinket that hangs from a long leather cord around his neck: the Tevinter medallion.

“I believe you should be the one wearing this,” he says, slipping it over his head and setting it around her neck. It hangs just below the silver coin.

“I did not think you would have kept it,” she says. “Not when it’s a blood magic spell.”

He sighs. “I didn’t always wear it, but I could not bring myself to cast it off. It was all I had of you.”

“Not anymore,” she says, laying a hand over his heart.

“No,” he says, touching her cheek gently, “though I can’t help but think that in a moment I’ll wake to find this all a trick of the Fade. I’ve dreamt of you so many nights, but my memory is a muted shadow of what’s before me now.”

Rhoslyn wets her lips, her heart jumping in her breast. “You’ve never said that in a dream.”

“What do I say in your dreams, Rhos?” he asks, his fingers returning to the laces of her dress.

“Sweet things, wicked things,” she replies as he works the bodice open and slips his hand inside. She sighs as he grasps her breast through her shift. He brushes his thumb over the peak. Her head falls back and she croons.

“Maker’s breath,” he says, nuzzling her neck. “I’d forgotten the sounds you make. They used to undo me.”

“And now?” she asks as she slips the dress from her shoulders.

“Now more than ever,” he says. “I’ve waited ten years to hear you again.” Drawing her against him, he pushes his hips into hers so that she can feel him.

A pleasant chill runs down her spine as she trails her hand down from his chest to cup him with her fingers. His eyes close and he groans. Aching to touch him, Rhoslyn fumbles with the laces until they release. His breeches slide down his hips, exposing the yellow curls at the juncture of his thighs.

Touching the soft hair with her fingertips, she says, “Take off your boots.”

Cullen looks down as if he had forgotten all about them. Taking a step back, he sits down at the edge of his bed and sets to pulling his feet free. As he does, Rhoslyn slides her dress down over her hips, leaving her in only her shift.

“Come here,” Cullen says, holding out his hand.

She takes it, stepping into the space between his legs. He wraps his arms around her waist, pressing his cheek to her belly. She cradles his head, running her hands through his hair.

“I love you, Rhos.”

She closes her eyes as she holds him to her.

Gently, he guides her onto the bed, sliding back to make space for her. He moves to draw her down beside him, but she lays a hand on his chest. Smiling, she lifts the shift over her head and tosses it aside.

“Beautiful,” Cullen breathes as he trails his fingertips along the curve of her breast. He cups one in his palm, kneading it gently. His touch is light at first, even a little hesitant, so she covers his fingers with hers, moving his thumb over her nipple. Lowering his head, he takes it into his mouth. When she breathes his name, she feels him tremble.

She moves her hand down until she can slip it into his breeches. He makes a strangled sound as she encircles him, tracing his length. Releasing her, he lifts his hips so that he can push his breeches down.

Rhoslyn looks over him as he lies bare before her. There are new scars on his chest, some thin and long, others shorter and more jagged. She presses a kiss to each of them, starting with the scar that she herself gave him when she caught him with her mage fire. He reclines against the pillows, watching her.

“Are these all from Kirkwall?” she asks as she traces the white line that lies across his ribs and disappears onto his back.

“Most of them,” he replies.

“I wish I could have been there,” she says.

Cullen lays a hand on her hip. “Don’t ever say that. It was a nightmare for all of us, but especially the mages. I could not have protected you. I thanked the Maker every day that you were somewhere else, somewhere safe.” With his other hand he brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “And now I thank Him that you’re here.”

Taking her by the shoulders, he guides her down onto her back. He kisses her gently as he trails a hand down her stomach. As he reaches the hair at the apex of her thighs, though, he stills. It is a question. She answers him by letting her knees fall open. His left hand goes to her breast, his fingertips moving in lazy circles.

Between her legs, he eases a finger inside her. It’s been over a year since she last took anyone to her bed and she gasps at the intrusion. He silences her with a kiss, adding a second finger. She tips her hips up, taking him deeper.

“Maker above,” he growls.

Rhoslyn reaches between them and takes him in hand. He hisses as she grasps him tightly, moving her hand slowly up and down.

“Not yet,” he says, pulling his hips back. Pressing a kiss to her lips, he withdraws from her and his fingers resume their quick, light caresses.

She grasps for the coverlet beneath her and bites down hard on her lip. None of the other lovers she has taken could ever manage to touch her like Cullen does. In the shadowed alcoves of the Circle Tower library, he had learned just how she needed him move against her to send her tumbling over into ecstasy.

Within a few moments, she can feel herself rising to him, the pressure building until she can hardly bear it. His mouth goes to her breast again.

Her cries echo around the tower as she reaches her peak, far louder than she ever could have been in the mages’ armory in Kinloch Hold. When she opens her eyes again, Cullen is looking at her intently, his eyes glassy with desire. He brushes his hand once more against her, making her shudder. He slickens himself with his fingers before he moves atop her. His mouth falls opens as he sheathes himself inside her. She clutches at his back, wrapping her legs around his hips.

He begins slowly, letting her feel the full length of him. She revels in the feeling of him filling her, having all but forgotten the wholeness of it. When she bids him go faster, he complies, his damp brow pressed against hers. His breathing grows ragged as he thrusts into her, his hands in her hair. His eyes fall closed as he reaches his end, calling out for her when his body goes taut. He rests on his elbows above her as his heart slows, kissing her gently.

When he draws out of her, he rolls onto his side and pulls her to him. She nestles against his chest, nuzzling the hollow of his throat.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Cullen asks. “And on the other nights when you’re here?”

“I will,” Rhoslyn replies, tracing his nose with her forefinger, “though I’m afraid we won’t be getting much sleep.”

“I wouldn’t dare deprive the Inquisitor of her rest,” he says.

“I can rest when I’m not at Skyhold.”

Cullen sighs. “I know you have duties to attend to, but Maker preserve me, I want to keep you here.”

“I’ve never had a better reason to stay,” she says. “Duty will keep, at least for a few days. We have a decade to make up for after all.” She can feel his smile as he kisses her.

Josephine Montilyet is sitting at the dinner table with the visiting Orelsian nobles when the note arrives. It is delivered by the hand of one of Commander Rutherford’s runners, but it is written in the Inquisitor’s hand:

Josie – Please convey my regrets to Lord De Charnais and his sons. I will not be able to come to dinner tonight. In regards to the proposal of marriage that he had intended to make, I’m certain you can explain to him that circumstances with the war will not allow for it. If he does not accept that, then you may tell him that my heart is spoken for. Cullen and I will see you in the war room tomorrow, as planned. – Rhoslyn

Josephine does not bother to hide her grin as she folds the parchment and slips it under her plate. She takes a sip of wine and prepares her most eloquent apologies.

The End