Archive of Our Own

    Magic made his hair stand on end, and he could smell lyrium—

    lyrium

    —he could smell it now, could feel all the hairs on his body stand straight out from his skin. A mage nearby. He drew his sword and glared through the haze that continually filled his mind, made his head throb.

    He spotted it, then, camouflaged among warriors as they fought monsters no worse than the mage itself. He saw the mage use fire and lightning on the beasts, then blue healing magic on the warriors. Didn't they know it would turn on them, eventually? It was an open door for a demon to enter the world, may already have let one in.

    He tightened his grip on his sword and as the last of the creatures went down he approached the group.

    Concerned with their own affairs, they did not see him until he was close. They all turned to look at him, then. He remained focused on the mage. It was smaller than the others, and female. Perhaps easier to take down, if they did not all step in to protect it. It didn't matter; they probably didn't know what it was. What it had done. What they all did.

    They would know soon enough. Confronted by an unrelenting foe, demons invariably showed themselves.

    The mage waved the others aside, and that gave him pause. Did it want to die? Or was it so convinced of its own superiority that it thought it could fell a Templar? The demon it bore was one of Pride, then. Powerful and difficult—but not invulnerable.

    It approached him cautiously and something about its gait, something about its face, its hair, something made him hesitate. He braced himself against the attack, against the transformation, but it simply stopped and watched him with Solona's fathomless eyes.

    Not hers, he corrected himself, for she is gone.

    "Cullen?" it said softly.

    "You cannot tempt me, mage," he said through his teeth. "However you have changed your appearance, I know she is gone."

    "Cullen," it said his name again. "What are you doing here?"

    "I am killing maleficarum in the name of Andraste," he said, louder, and steadied his grip on his sword. "It is my duty as a Templar—"

    "Cullen," it said, and took a step closer. "I am not a blood mage, and I have never been."

    "Magic exists to serve man," he recited, shaking, "and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond."

    The mage watched him calmly. "All men," it countered, in a clear soft voice, "are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker." It held its hands up to him to prove it was unarmed

    but a mage's hands are its weapons

    Cullen shifted his weight and raised his sword. "Do not think to sing the Canticles to me," he snapped. "You are no child of the Maker—"

    "I am no maleficar, Cullen," it continued, and took another step closer to him.

    "All mages," he shook his head, "are at risk. All mages are gates to this world from the Fade. All mages will eventually—will eventually—"

    It stood before him now, unafraid, and the sweet warm scent of its hair vied with the bitter tinny smell of lyrium about it, and the haze in his mind intensified. "I am not all mages, Cullen. Rest your sword. You will never see me bleed myself for any demon's empty promise."

    "I cannot," he said. "I will not—"

    "Your duty as a Templar includes protecting mages, Cullen," it said. "Protecting those who have not resorted to blood magic, those who have remained faithful to Andraste's teachings—as I have done."

    "You are not Solona," he said. "She is gone." He raised his sword above his head and summoned all his strength to Cleanse the mage, to drain its mana—

    The mage reached into its armour and withdrew a pendant, held around its neck by a fine leather thong. "You let me keep this, Cullen, when you found it. You let me keep it because it is a harmless thing. It was the day we met. You had only just come to Kinloch Hold. Do you remember that?"

    He stared at the tiny bauble. He had not known Solona as a child, had only taken his vows and been sent to the Circle Tower at Lake Calenhad when she'd been seventeen and he just twenty-two. He'd been assigned to watch over her as she practised certain dangerous spells with her mentor, one day when her usual guard had fallen ill. She had looked at Cullen then with those dark eyes and he had lost his heart in their depths. When her practise had been completed he had escorted her back to the apprentices' dormitory, and on the way he had caught a glimpse of the pendant, had demanded to see it. She had given it to him promptly, her eyes calm and unafraid. It was my grandmother's, she'd told him. It was just a piece of polished clear resin in which a tiny violet had been preserved; it had no magic in it, no amplifying capability, and he had handed it back to her without a word. She had dropped the necklace over her head, let the pendant settle again beneath the neckline of her robe and she had looked up at him with a smile that felt like sunshine on his face, and thanked him for returning it.

    No one had never known of that. Uldred's blood mages had ransacked his mind and his soul to find his weakness, the shame of loving a mage under his care, and they had used it to torture him; none had ever known that detail, had ever seen that moment.

    Until now.

    Cullen dropped his sword and fell to his knees. If he had grown so weak that demons could peer into the darkest safest corners of his memories and find the things he had always kept secret, then he could no longer perform his duties, did not deserve to wield a Templar's blade. "Maker forgive me," he prayed, and he closed his eyes and waited for death.

    It did not come. Instead the mage knelt before him, cupped his cheeks in its warm hands, reached up to smooth his hair. "Oh, Cullen," it murmured. "What's happened to you?"

    He opened his eyes. It still looked like her, still sounded like her, still smelled like her. "Kill me, if you will," he pleaded in a whisper. "Do not torment me further."

    It leaned up and kissed his forehead with all tenderness, pulled him down to rest his head on its shoulder. Cullen knew there was no place at the Maker's side for him, for he could not resist even this small temptation. His tears sparkled on the silver and blue pauldron of the mage's armour.

    He fell unconscious in her arms, and Solona reached up to touch his face, concentrated to see if he was ill or wounded. He was exhausted, starved, lyrium-deprived; he had some half-healed injuries but they were not life-threatening. His hair was long and matted, his beard grown out thick and tangled, and he was filthy; his armour was dented and cracked, his sword stained and its edge dull and notched. It was all entirely unlike the perfectly-groomed Templar she had so admired in the Tower. What had brought him to this?

    She ordered her warriors to carry him to Vigil's Keep. They did not protest, though she suspected they would rather have faced another group of darkspawn than touch the muttering, reeking man who had just threatened their Commander.

    Back at the Keep, she ordered Cullen stripped, his clothing sent to the laundry and his armour to Wade for cleaning and repairs; Cullen himself she left in the hands of two of the Keep's servants, while she filled Garavel in on the day's mission. The servants bathed him, dressed him in spare nightclothes from the Keep and put him into the guest room next to her own room, and there Solona joined him when her debriefing was done.

    The servants had also shaved his head and beard completely, and without them Cullen looked old and unwell. His eyes and his cheeks were sunken; his lips were pale and dry, his body thin and wasted. He trembled and twitched and muttered incoherently, and now and again threw out a shaking arm as though to push away whatever was haunting his dreams. Solona sat carefully on the edge of the bed, reached into the pouch she kept at her hip, withdrew and uncapped a lyrium potion. She slid a hand beneath Cullen's bare head and lifted it, held the vial to his lips. A little of the glowing liquid dribbled out of his mouth but he swallowed the rest instinctively. Solona wiped the drip from his cheek with her thumb and licked it away. Cullen's eyes fluttered open for just a moment before he sank into unconsciousness again. In half an hour or so, his trembling was much less pronounced.

    Solona drew a comfortable chair beside the bed and curled up in it to watch over him, as he had once watched over her. He'd carried her back to the dormitory after she'd passed her Harrowing, she had been told, had put her gently down on the bed, and had to be ordered by Greagoir to leave her side. Solona smiled faintly at that. They'd talked the next day, and he had shyly suggested that they might talk again, but before they'd had the chance Duncan had taken her away from the Tower and she hadn't seen Cullen again until—

    She shook her head. Her memories of returning to the Circle and seeing it in that state still made her ill. Seeing Cullen, broken and screaming at her from within his magical prison, having been tortured by blood mages—she had wanted desperately to comfort him afterward, to talk with him, to heal him if he'd needed it. But she was a Grey Warden and her battle against the Blight had taken precedence.

    Varel always said, very gravely, that the Maker had a twisted sense of humour. Her time as a Grey Warden and more recently as Warden-Commander had given Solona cause to agree with him. She had spent months fighting feelings of longing and regret after years of secret admiration, only to have the source of all those emotions stumble back into her life in this condition. Why now? Why like this?

    What had happened?

    She woke in the morning to find a blanket had been draped over her, and a tray had been set on the bedside table. Solona smiled and reminded herself to thank Varel.

    Cullen did not stir while she ate her breakfast, drank her tea. She opened another lyrium vial and poured the potion into him, let his head rest on the pillow again. She had healed his extensive bruising and the superficial injuries she'd sensed the day before; the starvation and lyrium withdrawal would take time to put right.

    She called Varel to the guest room and he stood alertly, awaiting orders.

    "I will be looking after Ser Cullen," she informed him. "I won't be going on any missions until he's recovered."

    Varel cleared his throat. "Commander," he said tactfully, "I am sure his own people can take care of him."

    "I don't want to send him back to the Circle until I know what drove him out here," she replied.

    "Then certainly we can simply put him into the barracks—?" He eyed Cullen with obvious unease.

    "He is my guest," Solona said firmly. "He will stay in the guest room. And I will stay with him until he recovers."

    "If indeed he does," Varel sighed. "Very well, Commander. What do you need me to do?"

    "Clear my schedule. I will not be seeing anyone unless it is an absolute emergency."

    "And what qualifies as an absolute emergency?"

    "War and or famine. Fydda can help Garavel organise teams to handle any darkspawn that stray into the farms or the city. Radulf and Nollar can handle security here at the Keep. You and Woolsey will take care of everything else. If there's anything the lot of you can't handle, then come to me. But I will be here." She looked at Cullen again.

    "May I ask, Commander, who he is to you?"

    "He protected me when I was in the Circle," she told him, and left it at that. Varel bowed politely, and took his leave.

    Cullen slept for another three days, during which time Solona left his side only for hygienic necessity. She changed out of her armour and wore a set of her own comfortable nightclothes, brought several books into the guest room and sat reading by lamplight. Sometimes she would read aloud to Cullen, though she knew he couldn't hear. She gave him water frequently and wiped his mouth gently when any of it spilled out, and each morning and evening she gave him a vial of lyrium.

    Varel brought her meals and replenished her lyrium vials without question.

    The Chantry believed it had total control of all lyrium trade on the surface but the fact was the close relationship between the Grey Wardens and the dwarves in the Deep Roads afforded the Wardens unlimited lyrium for the mages within their ranks. Solona was grateful for this, now more than ever. With each dose Cullen's nightmares seemed to grow less intense, less frequent.

    She wrote a letter to Irving, to tell him of the situation and to ask his advice. His reply was swift in coming; he told her the circumstances surrounding Cullen's departure from the Circle, and expressed his concern for Solona's safety.

    On the fourth morning she woke to see Cullen sitting up in the bed, staring at the blankets, his weight resting on one wasted arm. Solona, curled in the chair with her feet under her, swung them to the floor and leaned toward him. He turned his head to see her, and the effort he was making to keep his head raised at all was obvious.

    "Who are you?" he asked flatly. His voice was rough and cracked with each word.

    She frowned. "You know me, Cullen. I'm Solona."

    "No," he said, "you are not."

    "I am."

    His lips tightened and he scowled at her. "Solona Amell," he said quietly, "was the Grey Warden who struck the fatal blow to the Archdemon, and even I know what that means. The Archdemon dies, and the Grey Warden dies with it. It is the ultimate sacrifice for the good of the world. Solona Amell was good and pure and honourable enough to make that sacrifice and she did, so you will tell me now—who are you?"

    She moved forward in the chair and saw him tense all over, so stilled herself. "It's true," she said softly, "that if a Grey Warden strikes the fatal blow, the Archdemon's soul is transferred to the Warden, and dies with the Warden's body." He shifted as though to get out of the bed, to lunge at her; she lifted her hands to stop him. "But—"

    "But?" His eyes were still hard.

    "But there is a way. A ritual—"

    "Blood magic?" he snapped.

    "No," she said, and shook her head. "Even if it was the only way I could have survived, I would never have done any blood magic." I would rather have died than disappoint you like that, she wanted to say. The hard edge in his eyes was wavering.

    "What," he said at last, "was this ritual?"

    "I wasn't involved in it," she said with another shake of her head. "Two of my companions had to perform it. The night before the battle against the Archdemon. They did it so that when Alistair and I—"

    "King Alistair?"

    She smiled faintly. "Yes, King Alistair. There were only the two of us left in Ferelden. Grey Wardens, I mean. So it had to be us because the Archdemon appeared here. Not here. But in Denerim. We had to be the ones to face it and kill it. Because of the ritual, I didn't die."

    He stared at her for several minutes. He was angry and afraid, and the emotion was all that was keeping him upright, she was sure of it. "Prove to me that you're not—an hallucination. A Fade dream. A demon come in that form to try to seduce me."

    "I don't know how I can prove that to you, Cullen," she said softly. "Except by not doing anything, ever, to betray your trust."

    He was beginning to shake with the effort of sitting up. He lifted his free hand and pointed at her. "When I told you to annul the Circle," he said, "you did it without hesitating. Why was that?"

    Solona stared at him. "I didn't annul the Circle, Cullen. You told me to, but I told you I would save everyone that could be saved. You were very angry at me for that, and I—" She pressed her lips together. "I was afraid you'd always be angry at me for it. Even though we saved Irving, and the others."

    "Irving is a good man," Cullen told her. His eyes were growing dull with fatigue. "You—you were right." His arm buckled beneath his weight and he collapsed on the bed. Solona stood swiftly, lifted his shoulders and head, lay him back on the pillow. "You were right," he repeated in a whisper, "not to listen to me." He lifted his cold thin hand and his eyes drifted shut.

    Solona caught his hand in hers. "I could just as easily have been wrong," she told him. But Cullen had passed out again and did not hear her. She kissed his palm and lowered his hand to rest it on his chest, pulled the blankets up over him again. She smoothed his bare head and watched him sleep for several minutes before she returned to her chair.

    "...trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go toward Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword."

    He inhaled deeply and sighed, but he could not bring himself to open his eyes. Beside him there was movement.

    "Here," she murmured, and lifted his head and shoulders against her body. She put something to his lips and he drank down the familiar bitter taste of lyrium. Still holding him, she lifted something else to his mouth; water, this time. He drank and exhaled, and she wiped his mouth and lowered him to the pillow, tenderly kissed his forehead, moved away but not so far that he could not feel her warmth or smell the soft spicy perfume that was hers alone. He heard pages turning, and Solona cleared her throat softly.

    "O Maker," she resumed reading, "hear my cry; guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked; make me to rest in the warmest places..."

    Cullen slept.

    Each time he woke, she was there. Sometimes she was reading, quietly to herself or aloud to him. Sometimes she woke him to give him lyrium or water. Sometimes she sat behind him, her knees up to support him on either side, and she fed him soup. At first it was just a weak and salty broth; but after a time it was stronger stuff, and he felt stronger.

    He knew now that she was no demon, no hallucination of the Fade; no demon would spend time caring for him, would do anything for him without gain to itself. They were all too impatient, too greedy, even the slothful ones; they demanded, cajoled, and stole what they could not convince a human to give willingly. They promised but they did not give.

    It had been the Maker's will that he find Solona through the madness that had taken him. He'd thought her dead, sacrificed for the benefit of a world that knew nothing of the beautiful soul that dwelt within her beautiful form. And now she spent every waking minute at his side, nursing him—for what? Why? He deserved none of it.

    He decided he would renounce his vows, would remain at Solona's side for the rest of his life, in whatever capacity she chose to use him. He would never be forgiven by the Maker for the sins he had committed; he may as well serve and atone while he remained in the realm of the living.

    It was a pleasant thought.

    He slept again.

    He woke and sat up without thinking; the room spun. Cullen braced himself with his hands on the bed and took a deep breath and waited until his head cleared. He glanced around the room; it was dimly lit by a lamp on the bedside table. In a chair beside the bed Solona had fallen asleep with a copy of the Chant of Light in her lap. Her head had fallen to one side to rest half on the chair, half on her own shoulder, and she looked very much like the young girl he'd first met in the Circle Tower. Cullen's chest constricted; he forced himself to look away.

    He shifted in the bed, moved his legs toward the edge of it. He was still so weak that the effort was tiring and when at last his feet rested on the floor he needed to pause a moment. He looked down at his arms, his legs, encased in clothing far too loose for him, and when he saw how skeletal were his feet and hands he was alarmed.

    Solona inhaled, sat up, and blinked at him. "Oh, Cullen," she said, and he was sure his heart stopped briefly at the delight in her voice. She shut the book in her lap, put it on the bedside table, and knelt at his feet. "You're awake," she said. "How are you feeling?" She rested her hands on his knees, looked earnestly up into his face.

    "How long have I been here?" His voice did not sound like his own.

    "A couple of weeks," she said.

    He looked around at the solid stone walls, the heavy curtains, the simple but elegant decor in the room. "What is this place?"

    "This is one of the rooms at the Keep," Solona told him.

    "Which Keep?"

    "Vigil's Keep," she said.

    Cullen frowned. "Amaranthine?"

    "Yes."

    "How did I get to Amaranthine?"

    "I don't know." Solona shook her head. "Some of the farmers had sent a messenger to tell us that darkspawn had appeared in the area, so we went out to dispatch them. Then we turned around, and there you were." She made a wry face. "I'm glad for the darkspawn, in that case, else we might have missed you."

    "And you brought me here."

    "Well, I didn't carry you myself." She smiled. "But yes, we brought you here."

    He searched her face. "Why didn't you kill me out there?"

    Solona stared. "Why would I kill you?"

    "I tried to kill you."

    "Well, you seemed to think I was someone else."

    He watched her a moment longer. "Thank you," he said at last. "I owe you my life, for what little it's worth."

    She patted his knees. "Don't say things like that. You don't owe me anything."

    He shook his head, looked around the room again, then looked back at Solona. "What would you have me do, here, to earn my place?"

    She looked surprised. "Earn your place," she said. "Don't be ridiculous. You're here as my guest, until you're better. Then you'll—do what you want to do. Go where you want to go."

    "I will stay here, if you will allow it, and I will do what you wish me to do."

    "First of all," she said, "I wish you to get better. From what I understand, you were out there a few months, and it doesn't look like you ate much while you were gone." She patted his knees again. "So, you need to start eating again. And maybe a little walking. Just around the—"

    "Solona," he said, and it tasted foreign and beautiful on his tongue. He realised he'd never spoken her name in her presence. "I think you do not realise what I have done."

    She looked up at him, sober again. "I wrote to Irving, to tell him you were here. He said you attacked three apprentices."

    "They were children," he said, and he nearly choked on his words.

    "Yes." Her eyes were sad, but met his frankly.

    "Then you see that I can never be forgiven, and must spend the rest of my life atoning for it."

    "That's between you and the Maker," Solona told him softly. "I tend to be more practical than He is."

    Cullen frowned. "Have you abandoned your faith, then?"

    "Not at all. But the Maker gave me a mind to use, and I use it. We cannot stop living while waiting for Him to turn His face to us." She took his hands in hers. "He chose to let me find you out there, Cullen, and I will not turn my back on you."

    He lowered his head. "I don't know what I've done to earn such kindness from you—"

    "Kindness isn't something you earn," she told him matter-of-factly. "It's something you have to accept." She stood, kept one of his hands in hers, and sat on the bed next to him. The warmth of her against his side was soothing. She clasped his hand between both of hers. "I don't remember my life before I was brought to the Circle."

    "How old were you?"

    She shook her head. "I don't know. I understand that I have brothers and sisters who are also mages. Maybe the Circle took me younger than usual, because of that. I don't know. Irving's never told me." She shrugged a little. "But the Circle was all I knew, and that was my life. I was always a little afraid of Templars, but we all are, because at any time, a Templar might decide that something you're doing, or something you've said, or the way you looked at him, was a little suspicious. We're never without scrutiny at all times. It's a little stressful." She looked down at their hands together. "But it was the way life was. And then one day you came to the Tower, and you were so—kind. You talked to us, and you were gentle with us. You didn't push us around, or threaten us. You treated us like people, and not just like unruly cats you were obliged to herd."

    Despite himself, Cullen smiled at that analogy. "I took a lot of abuse for my attitude," he confessed.

    "I am sorry," she said. "But I'm not surprised. It seems the Order would prefer you be little more than animated swords, ready to strike on command." He had never considered it thus, and Cullen frowned. "But—the way you acted toward us made me realise how important it is to be kind to everyone. No matter their station. I wanted to help people to feel the way you made me feel in the Tower."

    "How—was that?"

    "Safe. Worthy of living. Trusted." She squeezed his hand again. "You know, it isn't easy being a Grey Warden, either. We have to make a lot of really difficult decisions. When I was travelling, during the Blight, that was even harder. Sometimes lives were in the balance, and a single decision by me would determine whether someone lived or died. That is never an easy place to be."

    "No," he said softly, and looked at his feet. "I imagine it would not be."

    "What helped me with those decisions was asking myself, what would Cullen think of me?" She looked sideways at him, blushing, and Cullen turned his head to look at her.

    "How did that help?"
    
    "If the answer was, he'd be disappointed, I knew it was the wrong decision."

    "But what if it was the right one in the grand scheme of things?"

    "Then then answer would have been, Cullen would be pleased."

    He shook his head, bewildered. "How could you even guess at that?" he wondered.

    "You are an upright and stalwart Knight," she told him softly. "I watched you for four years at the Circle." Cullen felt his ears grow warm. "You stood up to Greagoir when you knew you had made a right decision, even if it made him angry. You stood up to other Templars, when they were rougher with one of us than was necessary. You treated the children more gently, knowing that they shouldn't be expected to act like adults, even when their play was inconvenient, or maybe dangerous." She pressed her shoulder to his. "I knew that if I could live up to that, I would be doing good in the Maker's eyes as well."

    Cullen stared at her. "You—felt that way. Truly?"

    "I still do," she told him softly. "And if I cannot be kind to you, of all people, would that not be a failure on my part? So do not tell me that you need to earn kindness from me, Ser Cullen. Don't think you need to work to earn your place. You have a place. For now it's here. That may change, but for now, the Maker put you here and we will work on getting you back up to snuff."
    
    He looked down at his feet again, shrivelled and dry like an old man's. "I don't know how you developed such an image of me—"

    "By watching you. Listening to you. Talking with you. We didn't get to have that conversation, did we?" she asked.

    "What conversation?"

    "The day after my Harrowing, you said we could talk later. But Duncan took me away."

    "No one told me you were going," he remembered. "It was a day or two later I finally heard. It wasn't until you—came back—that I even knew you were still alive." Cullen shook his head again.

    "It's strange, how life happens," Solona said. "I spent a lot of time wishing that you would be assigned to guard me again." She smiled a little.

    "You—did?" He frowned. "Why?"

    "Because I thought you were handsome, and sweet, and I was hoping that maybe you'd tell me something about yourself that no one else in the Tower knew." She laughed. "Are you really surprised?"

    "It's wrong," he said, "for a Templar to—to have feelings for a mage."

    "Do you have feelings for me, Cullen?"

    "You know the answer to that." He closed his eyes.

    "It's nice to know it wasn't just a crush on my part, then." She ducked and leaned close and kissed his cheek, and he felt his whole head flush at that. "You need a shave," she told him, and with her nails she scratched at the bristles on his chin.

    The sound of someone clearing his throat made them both look up. The man standing in the doorway seemed familiar. "Varel," Solona greeted him with a smile. "Meet Ser Cullen, who's finally awakened. Cullen, this is Varel, the seneschal here at the Keep."

    "A pleasure," Varel said drily. "Alas, I have come to deliver a message. Mistress Woolsey has a dispute that needs resolution, and she requests that you mediate." Solona scowled. "I believe," Varel went on, "that this situation falls under the category of 'war'." He smiled faintly.

    Solona sighed. "Two weeks he's been asleep, and she picks the day he wakes up to need me." She looked at Cullen, regret clear on her face. "I have to go," she said. "Varel will get you anything you need." Cullen nodded, thoughtful. Solona slid off the bed and padded, barefoot, toward the door. Her nightclothes shimmered with every movement. Varel stood aside to let her pass.

    "Perhaps," the seneschal called after her, "you will deign to get dressed before you go?"

    Solona lifted a dismissive hand without looking back. "Yes, yes," she said cheerfully, and she was gone.

    Cullen looked up at Varel, curious. He was an older man with hair of steel grey, a resolute chin, and piercing eyes; Cullen suddenly felt as though he had shown up for inspection having forgotten to wear his armour. "I apologise for my state," he said.

    "I assure you, ser," Varel said, "you were in much worse condition when the Commander dragged you here."

    "Commander?"

    "Yes, the Warden-Commander." Varel swept a hand behind himself. "She was most adamant that you be treated as an honoured guest, and we have done our best to accommodate her wishes."

    "You mean Solona," Cullen said, disbelieving.

    "Yes, of course," said Varel, with a raised eyebrow.

    Cullen shook his head slowly. "Warden-Commander," he murmured. "She didn't say so."

    "She is often reticent about the role, and refuses to wear the heraldry. Nevertheless she has proven herself capable."

    "That part doesn't surprise me," Cullen said, and looked at his feet again. "I was present at her Harrowing."

    "Were you?" Varel said, with a sudden note of interest. "She mentioned that she'd known you at the Tower. She said you protected her?"

    Cullen smiled faintly. "I was a Templar," he said.

    "So I had gathered."

    Cullen looked up at him. "What else has she told you?"

    "Nothing else. She has only made it clear that I am to treat you, as I have said, as an honoured guest, and that we are all to do for you everything we can to make you comfortable."

    He nodded. She knew what he had done, knew how dangerous he could be, but had told no one else. "If I've been here two weeks," he said, "I suppose I need a bath."

    "There is plenty of hot water. Is there anything else?"

    He reached up and touched his beard. Two weeks' growth wasn't too bad. "A razor, I suppose."

    "The necessary toiletries are already here." Varel gestured past Cullen, toward the far side of the room.

    With an effort Cullen pushed himself to stand; he swayed. In a flash Varel was near, one strong hand on Cullen's shoulder to steady him. "Thank you," Cullen sighed.

    "This way, ser," Varel said calmly, and walked with him around the bed, to a door on the other side of the room. Through the door was a small but tidy wash room. A sink was built into a small cabinet, and two taps stuck out of the wall, over the sink. Similarly, the tub had been built into a cabinet against the wall, with two more taps extending over it. "After the battle with the darkspawn," Varel went on, "when he was making repairs, our man Voldrik went ahead with a plan he'd apparently had for some time, to pump water all the way up here." He reached out and opened one of the taps over the sink; in a moment, water poured out. "This one," Varel said, and opened the second tap, "is hot." Steam rose from the water pouring into the sink.
    
    Cullen stared. "How—?"

    "The pump draws water through a boiler that's kept hot by the forge. Ask Voldrik to show it to you, when you're up to it. He loves to talk about his work." Varel smiled. "Now, this stopper—" He lifted a thick piece of rubber from the side of the sink. "Put it into the drain, to fill up the sink." He demonstrated, and the sink quickly filled. "When you're done, just pull the stopper and the water drains out." He set the stopper aside, closed the taps. "There's one in the tub as well."

    Cullen shook his head, awed. "That's very handy," he said at last.

    "It is," Varel chuckled. "The servants are pleased not to have to haul water up the stairs, I can assure you. Well, ser, I think you have everything you need. There's a bell here—" He indicated a cord that went up into the ceiling. "If you discover you need anything else, ring it, and someone will come."

    "Thank you," Cullen said. Varel inclined his head and left Cullen alone.

    He moved to the sink, looked at his reflection in the glass that hung above it. "Maker," he muttered. His skin looked as though it had been pulled too tightly over his skull. His hair was short and stuck straight up; his beard, too, had grown in bristly. Both had more grey in them than he remembered. Dark circles around his eyes looked like he had been punched twice. He looked away, disturbed.

    On a shelf near the sink had been set a shaving cup and brush, a new razor, soap, a washcloth, a brush and comb, and a stack of several towels. He looked at the tub, crouched beside it and stuffed the rubber stopper into the drain. He opened one of the taps, discovered it was cold water; he opened the hot water tap as well, and watched in fascination as the tub began to fill.

    He turned his attention to the sink and filled it with hot water. He reached for the shaving cup and brush, let a little water run into the cup, and he stirred vigorously with the brush to work up a thick lather. When the sink was full he closed the taps, checked the tub to ensure it wasn't over full, and turned his attention to carefully lathering his face.

    Solona dressed quickly in the armour Wade had made for her in Grey Warden colours. The silverite weave was light and flexible and, ever the perfectionist, Wade had ensured it fit her exquisitely. Dressed, she examined herself in the mirror, made a face, and reached back to unfasten the braids that looped around the sides of her head. She brushed her hair, re-braided and tied the sides to keep them away from her face. Satisfied, she left her room. She heard water running in the guest room as she passed the door and she smiled as she descended the stairs. She wondered what Cullen thought of Voldrik's invention; she would have to ask him, later.

    In the Keep's long and echoing throne room, Mistress Woolsey stood with her head high and her arms folded. Near her were two clearly disgruntled merchants: one an elf, one a human. The two women glared at one another in silence. Solona did not recognise them, and felt mildly guilty. Woolsey insisted on her meeting every new resident within the walls, which meant she had forgotten these two.

    "Mistress Woolsey," Solona greeted her cheerfully. "What seems to be the problem?"

    "I still don't believe that this child—" began the human.

    "The Commander," Woolsey interrupted coolly, "is the Hero of Ferelden, who downed the Archdemon single-handedly—"

    "Not entirely," Solona said, "I had help."

    "—so you will afford her the respect she has earned." Woolsey's tone left no room for argument—or further interruption.

    Both merchants shifted their weight uneasily.

    "Commander," Woolsey went on, "let me introduce to you once more Sharra—" She inclined her head to the elven woman. "—and Vervain." She nodded to the human woman.

    "A pleasure," Solona said, and nodded to both of them. She looked at Woolsey again. "Details?"

    In her efficient fashion Woolsey proceeded to explain a dispute between the two merchants over selling practises in the Keep's little market area. Accusations of trespass and shady dealings had brought the two into the throne room for resolution. Solona shook her head when Woolsey had finished. "What's your recommendation, Mistress?" Solona asked.

    "I suggested the pair of them grow up," Woolsey said, with a sharp look at the two women.

    Solona chuckled. "Yes, it sounds like we need to separate them. Is there space beside the forge where we can stick one? I'm sure Herren would love to have someone to chat with when Wade is occupied—"

    "I can't be near the forge," Sharra protested. "My merchandise would catch fire—"

    "Everything would dry out," Vervain chimed in.

    "Well, we have need of both of you," Solona said. "So sending one of you away entirely is out of the question. Separation seems to be the only solution, and the only space that's left—" She shrugged.

    "Commander," Woolsey said tactfully, "perhaps Voldrik could erect a partition between the two stalls. It would take him little time, and would prevent any concern of merchandise crossing over." The two women opened and shut their mouths, looked at one another, then back at Woolsey. Woolsey looked at Solona for confirmation.

    "I believe he has some free time in the next few days, and would be happy to assist. If that would be satisfactory, would you arrange it, Woolsey?"

    The women grudgingly admitted that the solution was satisfactory, and Woolsey dismissed them. They bickered all the way to the great double doors. When those slammed shut, Solona turned to Woolsey. "You didn't need me for that," she said sternly.

    "No," Woolsey admitted. "But you have been spending far too much time away from your duties. The First Warden expects you to be not just a fine Warden-Commander, but a politically savvy arlessa as well."

    Solona rolled her eyes. "If taking care of childish spats makes me politically savvy, I fear for Ferelden."

    "As do we all. How is your friend?"

    "He's awake. If you don't need me right now, I think I'll—"

    "Oh, no, you don't," Woolsey said, and caught her arm. "You aren't getting away from me that easily, Commander. You have paperwork and decisions that have been piling up for two weeks."

    With a disappointed moan, Solona was dragged back into her daily routine.

    A shave and a hot bath had done wonders for him—though he'd been more than a little disconcerted to discover that his head was not the only part of him that had been shaved. He wanted to know who had done it and why, though he knew that such knowledge would not make him feel better about it. He had slept through the itchy part of regrowth, at least, but still it was a little unnerving.

    Varel had left him some clean clothing, including a pair of sturdy boots. Washed and dressed, Cullen sat at a little table near a window of the guest room and ate the food that one of the Keep's servants had brought him. Eggs and cheese and fruit were hardly a meal that would have satisfied him in the past, but he supposed he would eventually work up to proper meals. When he had finished eating he sat for several minutes, suddenly drowsy. Varel appeared with yet another servant—how many were there?—who began to clear away the dishes.

    "Would you care for more tea, ser?" the servant asked in a low voice.

    "No, thank you," Cullen said, and looked up at Varel. "I would like to go outside." The servant vanished on silent feet.

    "I am not sure you are ready for three flights of stairs," Varel said.

    "I'll have to be ready sooner or later."

    "Later will have to do, I'm afraid." Varel paused. "Though, if you simply want fresh air, I could confer with the Commander. There is a terrace on this level."

    "That would be all right," Cullen agreed.

    Varel nodded. "I'll return shortly." He turned and marched out of the room. For a steward, Cullen noted thoughtfully, Varel moved very much like a soldier.

    He stood cautiously, but did not grow dizzy. He took a few careful steps and was pleased that he did not stumble or fall. He supposed he had been on his feet for those months of wandering, so though he had not fed himself, he had maintained some level of muscle tone and balance.

    He made it across the room and sat down in the chair that Solona had occupied for two weeks. It was comfortable, and he imagined it was still warm from her presence, still smelled of her fresh clean hair and skin. Cullen closed his eyes, leaned back, let his head fall to the back of the chair. He remembered her sitting behind him, his back against her soft body, as she fed him spoonfuls of broth—

    He lifted his head, looked down at himself. His body was starved and shrunken, barely strong enough to support his own weight; apparently his genitals hadn't gotten that message. Cullen shifted his position in the chair and willed his erection away—or tried to. At least the heavy denim trousers Varel had brought him didn't reveal much; he rearranged his tunic anyway and tried to think about anything, anyone but Solona in her silken nightclothes, sashaying away from him in her bare feet—

    Varel appeared in the doorway. "If you care to come this way, ser, to the terrace?" he said.

    In a moment Cullen realised why Varel had needed permission; the terrace was part of the Warden-Commander's apartment. He was led through a sort of foyer-cum-drawing-room, filled with comfortable furniture and its walls lined with bookshelves. They passed the bedroom and Cullen glanced in and saw the great four-poster where Solona slept—alone? he wondered, and he was surprised to find himself bothered at the thought that she might not in fact sleep alone.

    As though it's your business, he told himself. As though you have a right to an opinion in the matter!

    Wide glass doors led out of a little dining area, to the terrace; Varel unlocked the doors and led Cullen outside. The air was sweet, and the sun was high and warm. Birds twittered nearby; voices drifted up from around the building. The terrace itself was large, enclosed by a solid stone balustrade. Part of it was covered by a heavy canopy, beneath which had been placed a low couch and several chairs, set around a table.

    Who sits out here with her? Cullen wondered.

    In the open area of the terrace was another table, with four chairs set around it. Varel paused and looked at Cullen. "Sunshine or shade, ser?" he asked.

    "Sunshine, please," Cullen said. "For now."

    Varel moved to the sunny table; with a cloth he began to wipe down one of the chairs. "The Warden-Commander rarely comes out here," he explained. "When she's home, she is either working or sleeping."

    "That's a shame," Cullen lied. "She should have time to bring her friends up here."

    Varel chuckled. "Her friends are the other Wardens, all of whom are under her command, and fraternisation is discouraged." He gestured to the clean chair, and began to wipe down the table. "It's not all solemnity, though. She makes sure everyone gets to celebrate the feast days, and if anyone's on a mission for a feast day, or has to work here at the Keep, he gets double pay. She also makes sure that no one has to work two consecutive feast days."

    Cullen sat down. "That's thoughtful," he said.

    "It's very politic," Varel agreed. "No sense fostering resentment. Hard enough to recruit these days, without a Blight going on to inspire them." He straightened. "I'll bring you some refreshment in an hour or so, shall I?"

    "Thank you, Varel," Cullen said. The seneschal inclined his head politely and left Cullen alone once more.

    Cullen stretched out his legs beneath the table and promptly fell asleep in the sunshine. Varel woke him some time later, having brought him tart lemonade and some dainty crustless sandwiches. Cullen eyed these askance. "Cook likes to entertain," Varel explained with a wry smile. "She doesn't get to show off her skills often." Despite his doubts, Cullen found the sandwiches were tasty, filled with some sort of fish paste and dried fruit, and he ate them all, washed them back with the lemonade. His belly full—probably for the first time in months, he realised—he eyed the couch beneath the canopy.

    He stood and made his way across the terrace; he was pleased to see the couch was quite clean, having been protected from the elements by the canopy. He stretched out on it and went to sleep once more.

    A jingling noise woke him and Cullen opened his eyes to see round thighs smoothly encased in tight blue-and-silver trousers. Solona crouched in front of him to put her eyes at his level, rested her arms on her knees and smiled. "Did you have a good nap?" she wondered.

    "Where did you get that armour?" he asked.

    "Wade made it for me, when I was made Warden-Commander." She held out one arm to show off the flexible mail. "It's sort of my formal wear. I was wearing it when we found you."

    "I don't remember that," he told her. "It's kind of—" He hesitated.

    "You don't like it?"

    Cullen sat up and looked down at her. "I didn't say that. I just—can you move in it?"

    Solona laughed. "Of course. Wade wouldn't have let me have it, if it wasn't perfect." She stood and pirouetted to show it off, stopped when she faced him again and rested her hands on her hips. "Full range of movement, and the silverite is excellent protection."

    Cullen covered his face with his hands for a moment, ran his palms up over his head, tried to forget the curve of her hips; he stood and sighed. "If you say so," he said.

    She frowned. "Are you all right?"

    "Oh, I'm fine," he assured her, cursed his groin, silently thanked Varel once again for heavy trousers and a tunic.

    Solona patted his chest with both palms. "Let's go have something to eat, then. I'm starved." She beckoned to him and he followed her inside, forced himself not to stare at her behind as she walked. "That's my room," she said breezily, with a wave of her hand as they passed it. "I sleep there, when I'm not taking care of guests." She smiled at him over her shoulder and Cullen's libido snarled to full life, made him imagine sweeping her into his arms, carrying her into the bedroom, tossing her down on that great empty bed—

    Where in the Void had that come from? She had spared his life, and he owed her servitude, not shameful lust.

    But the lust was there.

    It was there when he watched her eat her supper, swiftly and neatly tucking back more than he could eat in a single sitting when he was healthy.

    It was there when she put on her shimmering silky nightclothes and joined him in his room for coffee.

    It was there when she bid him a regretful good night and retired to her own room.

    Cullen lay awake in his bed and stared at the ceiling and wondered if, perhaps, this was a Fade vision after all. If he was being tempted by a Desire demon that was teasing him with Solona's body—

    —when had she gotten that body?

    Of course he had only ever seen her in Circle robes, which would obscure even the shapeliest forms. But surely her breasts had not been so full, her hips not quite so soft and round, when he had known her.

    And why would a smith make armour that fit her like that?

    It was ridiculous. Ridiculous!

    In his mind she twirled in front of him again, showing off the sweet flare of her bottom—

    It wasn't right. He shouldn't be thinking of her this way. He was—

    no longer a Templar, and she was unbound by Circle rules

    Nevertheless he should not—

    Cullen sighed and thrust a hand between his legs and with only a few swift movements and a flash of memory her thighs at his eye level he came, painfully. He cursed and threw off the blankets with one hand, wrestled his trousers down over his hips and squirmed out of the bed. He walked awkwardly to the wash room, cleaned himself, pulled up the trousers and stalked back to the bed.

    "Idiot," he said aloud, and fell asleep almost immediately.

    He saw Solona only sparingly after that, as she was kept unrelentingly busy performing her duties as Warden-Commander.

    Every day he ate and he slept and he grew stronger; within a week he managed to get down the stairs of the Keep under his own power, and walked outside. The little village that was housed inside the walls was teeming with life; Wardens walked and talked and laughed, and some practised their martial arts. Servants and their spouses and children were always moving about, working and playing; cats slept in the sunshine, out of reach of playful mabari. Some of the residents tended gardens and a few lazy cattle; some ran back and forth with messages within the walls, and some ran through the gates and didn't return for hours or a day.

    He found it comforting to be unnoticed in the rush of people going about their lives, though he missed, briefly, having work of his own to do. He watched some children speed past, laughing, scolded by their mother for some prank, and his chest hurt in memory of the children he'd slain. It was a lifetime ago and their faces were ghosts in his dreams; he was grateful not to remember their actual deaths. Still, he prayed daily for forgiveness, expecting none.

    He discovered that the smith had repaired his armour.

    "And made a few improvements," Wade said smugly.

    "How can you improve on it," Cullen wondered, "when it's already been smithed?"

    Wade glowered at him, turned a wounded expression to his partner. Herren sighed. "Please don't ask, ser," he said wearily. "His pride aside, Wade is in fact the best non-dwarven smith in Ferelden."

    "What?" Wade was horrified.

    "And," Herren went on with another sigh, "probably as good as, or better than, the dwarven smiths." He was reciting, Cullen realised with amusement. He considered what it must be like to live with such a temperament as Wade's, and was grateful he was not in Herren's position. He would have no patience for a diva.

    He inquired politely about his sword, but Wade turned his face haughtily away. Herren made a shooing motion at him, mouthed the words, Come back later, and Cullen sidled away from the forge, nearly ran into two merchants at one another's throats with accusations of thievery. He backed cautiously away.

    He didn't envy Solona the job of juggling all this.

    One morning he was approached by Captain Garavel, who directed him to the armoury. Cullen moved instinctively to the greatswords but found to his disappointment that his arm was no longer accustomed to such a weight. Garavel recommended he try a longsword instead, and couple that with a shield for balance, until he had regained some of his muscle. Garavel was a patient sparring partner and in time Cullen discovered he preferred the longsword and the combined offensive and defensive capabilities of a shield, even over the massive reach of the greatsword.

    Fydda was Garavel's strong right arm, an elven rogue with a mind like a trap; he spotted her training recruits with a firm and disciplined hand. The dwarven twins Radulf and Nollar, who were drunken berserkers—did dwarves come in any other flavour? Cullen wondered—were apparently trusted with the Keep's own security. Cullen watched them over a period of several days, noted that though they seemed continually, childishly drunk, they were perfectly able to dodge Fydda's quick fists whenever they pissed her off—which they did, it seemed, a great deal. Cullen supposed he didn't blame her for lashing out at them. He wouldn't want someone's sweaty hand smacking his behind every five minutes either.

    Voldrik kept Cullen a captive audience for hours one afternoon, describing the masonry in the walls, the techniques he'd used to reinforce them, and how he'd devised the ingenious water system that he'd installed throughout the Keep. Cullen's head had reeled after that, but later he overheard Voldrik telling Varel what a polite young man Cullen was, and how he knew an engineering genius when he met one. That made Cullen laugh.

    His days were filled with meals and exercise and helping with chores around the Keep; it was all a blur to him. The only crystal clear moments came in the evenings—Solona insisted on having supper with him every night, and it was always a quiet and peaceful time. She spoke little of her work; he soon realised that she actually disliked the administrative part of it, and did it simply because it was her responsibility. "I didn't want to be a Warden, you know," she told him one night over coffee, in the little dining area in her chambers.

    "Why did you join, then?" he asked. He stirred sugar into his coffee, slowly, and watched her face.

    "I wasn't given a choice." She sipped her own coffee, black and unsweetened. "Irving sent me with Jowan and—what was her name? Some plant. Heather or Rose or something." She shook her head. "Lily, that was it. Sent me with the two of them to get Jowan's phylactery. He wanted Lily's complicity exposed, not just Jowan's attempt at escaping."

    "Jowan," Cullen remembered. "You were good friends with him, weren't you?"

    Solona scowled. "I thought I was. But he was practising blood magic behind everyone's back. He's dead now, in any case." She shook her head. "Greagoir was furious, absolutely furious about the whole thing, even when Irving told him that he'd made me do it—go with them into the repository, I mean." She sighed. "Duncan was there, and between him and Irving they sort of coerced me into joining the Wardens. Maybe to avoid any punishment by Greagoir, I don't know." She watched him sadly over her cup.

    "It was probably best that you did go," Cullen told her quietly. "You wouldn't have wanted to have been there when Uldred attacked."

    "Wynne told me what happened," she said. "I still wish—" She frowned into her cup.

    "Wish what?" He licked his spoon, set it in his saucer.

    "I wish," she said softly, "that I hadn't had to leave you behind. After."

    "After I screamed and cursed at you and told you to kill everyone you knew?" he said sharply.

    Her dark eyes lifted to him again and he regretted his tone. "You were hurt, Cullen, and I wanted to help you."

    "And look what I did after that," he said, cross at himself but still speaking harshly. "I might have attacked you, too. I almost did."

    "Greagoir," Solona said, "is a good Templar. But he's not a very nice person. I knew he wouldn't give you the support you needed, after what happened to you."

    "You wouldn't have been permitted to do anything," Cullen told her.

    Solona shook her head. "I suppose not. But the Maker puts us where he wants us. Maybe—as awful as this has been for you, maybe it was the only way you could get away from Greagoir." She set down her cup and watched him over the table. "And maybe getting recruited by the Wardens was the only way I could." She smiled faintly. "And look at us—the Maker brought us together again." His ears grew warm, and Cullen fiddled with his cup. Solona sat back in her chair. "Tomorrow," she said, "is the summer solstice."

    "Oh," he said.

    "We usually have games on feast days. I would be pleased if you joined in."

    He tried not to make a face. "What kind of games?"

    Solona shrugged. "Bowls, horseshoes, archery. The children do more than we adults. Mostly, it's an excuse for the lot of us to eat and drink too much without doing any work."

    "I don't do any work," Cullen said wryly.

    "Nonsense," she said. "I saw you splitting wood the other day, all shirtless and sweaty."

    He blushed furiously. "Why were you watching me?"

    "Why wouldn't I?" she countered. "And I wasn't the only one, I can assure you."

    "Well," he said, his cheeks still burning, "that's not really work. It's just chores."

    "Then you don't have any excuse for not joining in." She smiled sweetly.

    He drank his coffee and they watched one another over the table. There had been a time he hadn't been able to talk to her without stammering like a lovesick boy; now here he was having coffee and discussing daily life with her, like—

    —like a couple.

    Like friends, he corrected himself sternly. Nothing more. He was a disgraced former Templar and she a Grey Warden and an arlessa and no less than the Hero of Ferelden; nothing more could be between them.

    "More coffee?" she asked.

    "No, thank you," Cullen said distantly. "I should—" He frowned.

    "Should what?"

    He shook his head, looked down at his cup. "Thank you," he said again. "For everything."

    Solona smiled. "You're welcome to everything, Cullen," she told him.

    A servant entered to take away the dishes. Cullen stared at Solona, unsure how to take her words, unsure if she expected a response. She smiled up at the servant and thanked him for his assistance, and when he left she looked down at Cullen again. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Cullen?" she asked softly.

    "No," he said. It was not strictly true; but she couldn't help what his accursed body did to him in her presence.

    "Sometimes it seems you want to run away from me, that's all," she went on, and her dark eyes were suddenly wide and sad and Cullen was afraid he might drown in them. "If I ever say or do anything—"

    "You don't," he interrupted, and stood, pushed his chair against the table. "I—need to go."

    She stood as well and her eyes kept him pinned in place. "There you go again," she said, "running."

    Cullen gripped the back of his chair. "I'm not running," he said, too defensively. "I just need to—"

    "Need to what?"

    "Need to go," he finished lamely. "It's not something I can explain."

    "Why not?"

    "Good night," he said with a regretful sigh as he tore his eyes from hers and left the room.

    The next day dawned sunny, and the mood around the Keep was jovial. Only the most basic maintenance chores were performed as everyone prepared for the feast day celebration. The civilian women of the Keep spent the morning putting up flags and flowers to decorate the courtyard, and at noon everyone gathered to hear Solona speak.

    Radulf handed her an enormous tankard of ale and Solona laughed. "You're not here to listen to me talk," she said. "So I will just thank the Maker on behalf of all of us for the beautiful solstice weather, the safety and fertility of our homeland, and for all our friends and loved ones brought together." She raised the tankard and the crowd cheered loudly and immediately began to mill about, separating as everyone joined a group to take part in whatever games they preferred.

    Food had been set out on long tables and everyone grazed as they passed. Cullen sampled a few things and drank a mug of ale he'd been given, and stood to watch the archery. He'd never been interested in fighting from a distance, himself; then again, he was a strong man, and had no need to avoid powerful attacks when he could simply deflect them.

    As the sun crossed the sky he was coaxed despite himself into a game of bowls, and discovered he was terrible at it. He was teased and jostled and his shoulders smacked by half-drunk Wardens, and for a moment he felt that he belonged there among them. He declined another game, left his mug on a table and moved to stand watching the children at their sack races.

    A warm hand slipped around his elbow and he looked down into Solona's face. "Enjoying the day off?" she asked with a smile.

    "It feels very indulgent," he agreed.

    "There's nothing wrong with a little indulgence."

    "I suppose not." He returned her smile at last, and Solona leaned her head on his shoulder. They watched as the children stumbled and fell and picked themselves up laughing to continue.

    "They have no fear," Solona said quietly. "They know that if they fall, they can still get up and keep trying, and that in the end, it's not who gets there first that matters."

    "It's a race," Cullen told her. "Of course who gets there first is what matters."

    She shook her head. "Not on a day like today. Today what matters is that they all make it there sooner or later. Watch them." Indeed, those who had finished were cheering for the others. Cullen opened his mouth but Solona lifted her head with a gasp. "It's Woolsey," she whispered. "She's coming for me."

    He stared down at her. "What?"

    "Work," she groaned, and looked frantically around. "I have to hide. She's going to make me do work today—" She grabbed his hand and pulled him with her around the side of the Keep.

    "Aren't you the Commander?" Cullen asked. "Can't you just say you'll do it another time?"

    "You don't know Woolsey," Solona informed him. "Over there." She dragged him to a little gardening shed, shoved him inside and stepped in after him, pulled the door shut and turned the latch. The shed was tiny and Cullen had no room to move; Solona's backside was pressed against him. Dim light filtered through cracks in the shed's construction, and Solona's skin gleamed in the dark.

    Nice, said the part of him that very much enjoyed this sort of thing.

    You shouldn't be here, said the part of him that usually won.

    Solona straightened and tried to stand back, realised she had stepped on his foot, tried to move aside and discovered she had no room, squeaked and nearly fell; Cullen caught her shoulders with his hands and steadied her. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, her breath coming fast. "Thank you," she whispered.

    He was about to ask if she had really heard Woolsey, when the unmistakeable voice of that fine personage called out for the Commander. She drew close, and Cullen listened as she questioned the children, who laughed and said they had seen the Warden-Commander riding a white griffon, chasing an ogre. Woolsey scolded them for making up stories, and the children simply laughed again and tried to pull her into their games. Eventually Woolsey's voice faded away and the children resumed their play.

    Solona sighed and leaned against him. "She'll keep looking for a while," she murmured. She tilted her head to look up at him over her shoulder and her hair fell forward, revealing the curve of her neck. Cullen's hands tightened on her arms, and he leaned down and prayed in advance for forgiveness as he pressed his mouth to her smooth skin. Solona inhaled sharply, and Cullen lifted his head, his face burning.

    "I'm sorry," he muttered.

    "Don't be sorry," Solona whispered. "I just wasn't expecting it." She squirmed around in the tiny space so that she was facing him, her eyes shining in the faint light. "Why have you never kissed me before, Cullen?"

    "Because I know better," he told her.

    "I wish you'd stop knowing better," she told him, and her hands slid up over his chest, behind his neck, pulled him inexorably down.

    Her mouth was warm and soft and tasted of spicy ale and something sweet. She lifted herself on her toes and leaned against him and Cullen wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. Her tongue darted into his mouth, touched his, and Cullen groaned. He cupped her bottom with both hands and lifted her, pressed her back against the door of the shed; Solona wrapped her legs around his waist, looped her arms around his head and made soft sounds into his mouth. He squeezed her thighs, thrust against her, pulled his head back to catch his breath, ducked down to kiss her neck, her collarbone.

    "Oh, Cullen," she whispered, and he ground their hips together, hard.

    this isn't right

    "This isn't right," he gasped and lifted his head.

    "Please don't stop," she pleaded, and tightened her legs around him.

    "No," he said, ignoring the haze in his mind, the protest of his body; he stepped back and pushed her legs down, made her stand. "No, this is wrong," he said.

    "Cullen," Solona protested, and reached up with both hands; he caught them in his and held them tightly.

    "You deserve better than this," he said. Holding her hands in one of his he fumbled behind her for the latch and the door swung open. As sunshine spilled in he saw such emotion on her face that he thought his heart would shrivel and die.

    That's what you deserve, he told himself.

    Solona stared at him for an eternity, then spun on her heel and walked rapidly away. Cullen closed his eyes and sighed, and waited until she had disappeared around the corner of the Keep. He shut the shed door and walked slowly back to the courtyard.

    As he turned the corner he was confronted by Fydda, whose wide green eyes were furious. "What did you do?" she demanded.

    Cullen pulled up, alarmed. "What?"

    Fydda pointed behind her. "The Commander just sped through here like her ass was on fire," she told him. "What did you do?"

    "I—" He reddened. "I didn't do anything."

    Fydda glowered. "You did something," she said. "She doesn't get upset like that over nothing."

    "I didn't mean to upset her," he said.

    "So you did do something."

    "Fydda!" Nollar trotted toward them, a tankard in each hand. "Fydda, did you just see—" He paused and looked up at Cullen. "Oh," he said. "He did somethin', then," he said.

    "Yes, it was him," Fydda said. "I'll go talk to her."

    "Good luck," Nollar said, and watched as Fydda turned to jog back toward the Keep. He looked up at Cullen and grinned. "So, did you do it?"

    "Do what?" Cullen snapped.

    "You know. Give the Commander a little—" He made an exaggerated thrust with his hips, and grinned again.

    "That's disgusting," Cullen informed him. "And none of your business."

    Nollar shrugged. "Well, she is ugly," he said, "but she's got a nice ass for a human. I wouldn't say no to a piece of that myself."

    "Don't you ever touch her," Cullen snarled, and jammed a warning finger into the dwarf's face. He stalked away and Nollar's bawdy laughter followed him.

    He could not bring himself to rejoin the festivities, so made his way into the Keep and up to the guest room. He kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bed and tucked his hands behind his head.

    What had he been thinking?

    He hadn't, obviously. This was not some sort of extended leave of absence for him; he was a fallen Templar, and he had no right to touch her, no right to—

    Why have you never kissed me before, Cullen?

    He rolled to his side, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to scour his memory of the look on her face before she'd walked away from him.

    He needed to leave this place. He needed to leave, to gather his things and return to the Circle, to be sent to prison in Val Royeaux and submit to court-martial.

    A rumble of thunder sounded outside, and he heard disappointed cries from the revellers. How appropriate that it would start to storm now, when his mind was in turmoil. He lay quietly and listened as the thunder grew closer; daylight vanished from the windows and was replaced by periodic flashes of lightning.

    Footsteps pounded up the stairs in the hall, and he heard the doors to Solona's chambers being opened, then voices in the hall.

    "She's on the roof, then," Varel said.
    
    "Shit," Fydda sighed. "I'm not going out there."

    "There's nothing for it, but to wait."

    "Woolsey is going to throw a fit." Their voices faded as they descended the stairs.

    Cullen sat up. Why would Solona be on the roof during a thunderstorm? Mages were not immune to catching cold; nor were they immune to being struck by lightning. He pulled on his boots.

    He slipped out into the hall and to the narrow door at the end of the corridor; he looked up the staircase that led to the roof, at the black sky above, and he made a face. He took the stairs two at a time and before he had set foot on the roof proper he was soaked to the skin. He shaded his eyes with one hand to see through the heavy rain.

    Solona stood in the middle of the roof, wearing her armour and simply staring up at the black sky. Cullen moved toward her and she turned her head to look at him. "Go away, Cullen," she said quietly. "You've made your feelings clear."

    "What are you doing up here in the middle of a storm," he countered, "wearing metal armour?"

    "Silverite isn't conductive," she told him flatly, and looked up at the sky again.

    "You can still catch cold," he pointed out.

    "What do you care?"

    He paused and stared at her. "What do you mean?"

    She closed her eyes and addressed the sky. "I mean, what do you care if I catch cold? What difference does it make to you?"

    "Why would I want you to get sick?"

    "Why do you care if I do?"

    He strode around to face her. "This is ridiculous," he said. "Come inside."
    
    "I'll go in when I'm done."

    "Done what? What are you doing?"

    "What do you care?"

    "Stop saying that, Solona," he snapped. "You bloody well know how I feel."

    She opened her eyes and looked at him. "I don't," she said. "I thought I did, but I don't. I always thought you cared for me in the Circle. I thought that—since we've been getting to know one another better, that you still felt that way."

    "I do."
    
    "Then why are you afraid to touch me?"

    Thunder rumbled behind him.

    "What do you want me to say, Solona?" he asked, and threw out his hands to his sides. "Do you want me to tell you that I was assigned to kill you because your Harrowing was as much a test for me as it was for you? Do you want me to tell you that Uldred was able to torture me with the fact that I loved you from the moment I saw you in the Tower? Or should I tell you that learning that you'd died for Ferelden—"

    "I didn't die."

    He held up a finger to silence her. "It was the last straw for me," he said, louder. "Irving should have protected you, not sent you running off to fight darkspawn. Greagoir should have protected you. I—I should have protected you, Solona, and I failed. I failed and it shattered me, and I am no longer worthy of wielding a Templar's blade, because my love for you has proven greater than my love for the Maker, than my devotion to my duty. I have killed innocents in the sight of the Maker and I am not fit to wash your feet." He spun and stalked to the balustrade and leaned over it and tried to fight the choking sensation that had risen in his throat. The rain pelted him relentlessly.

    He felt her warmth on his back as she moved close to him, and he dreaded her touch as much as he desperately wanted to feel her hands on him.

    "Who did you kill?" she asked softly, puzzled.

    "The children," he groaned, and dropped his head to his arms. "I killed the children, in the Circle, before—Maker, I ran, like a coward."

    "You didn't kill anyone," Solona told him. "At least, not at the Circle."

    "I did," he sighed. "There were three of them."

    "You frightened them half to death," she agreed. "You accused them of being possessed, and you threatened them. But Irving told me that one of the other Templars was able to stop you before you hurt anyone."

    "I see their faces in my dreams," he said. "I can hear them crying."

    "Do you see them dying?"

    "I've blocked that out."

    "It didn't happen. There's nothing to block."

    He straightened, turned to face her. "There is only so far even your kindness can go, Solona," he told her sadly.

    "Do you think I would lie to you about something like that?" she said, and shook her head. "I can show you Irving's letters."

    He stared. "What?"

    "Irving and I keep in touch. He's not supposed to, but Greagoir lets it pass."

    "I didn't—kill them?"

    "No."

    "But the others—"

    "What others?"

    He leaned back on the balustrade. "Apostates. I hunted them. After I left the Circle—" He looked up at the sky, let the rain wash his face. "I killed them."

    "Well," she said, "I don't know about that. But if they were apostates then they were not living as Andraste instructed, and your grief over them is needless." She looked up into the sky again, took a few steps back and held her hands out to her sides. They glowed slightly. Cullen watched, fascinated despite himself; he hadn't seen Solona perform magic in some time.

    There was a flash and Cullen jumped as twin lightning bolts streaked toward her; they struck her hands and Solona stood still watching him. He continued to stare, awed, as the lightning seemed to melt, to pool around her hands. Blue energy trickled up her arms, over her body, until she was surrounded by a shining halo. She smiled at him from within it. "Come and feel it," she said.  

    He pushed away from the balustrade and approached her cautiously. "I don't want to be zapped," he said.

    "I would never let anything happen to you, Cullen." She held out her hands to him and he stretched out his arms, touched her hands with his fingertips.

    A thrumming, ticklish energy made his hands tingle, and he snatched them back, startled. Solona laughed and beckoned, encouraging. He reached out a second time, took her hands in his and Solona stepped close to him. "Feel this," she murmured, and he shuddered with pleasure as she transferred some of the blue glow to him. It was warm and it tickled and it felt as though a thousand tongues were licking him all over.

    "Maker," he muttered, as his cock rose once more to attention.

    "It feels good, doesn't it?" Solona asked softly.

    "Yes."

    "I have control over the elements," she told him. "I can make a storm gather above. I can cause a mountain to crumble or to form. I can set a city on fire and then freeze that fire into nothing. I can heal a man on the brink of death." She leaned against him. "I have never hungered for more. The Maker saw fit to give me what He has given me. I have never understood the need for more." The thrumming grew more intense as their bodies touched. "But what is all that power worth, if I cannot have the one thing that I want?"

    "Solona—"

    "What does it matter what I might deserve, if it is not what I want?"

    He touched her upper arms, gingerly, held her. "Solona."

    "You told me that you would have killed me, if I had failed my Harrowing and become an abomination," she went on. "Is that not true?"

    "Yes," he whispered. "Maker knows it would have killed me but I would have done it because it was my duty."
    
    "Then your love for me has not exceeded your love for the Maker, and you have not sinned."

    The rain had begun to let up. He smoothed her wet hair away from her face and looked into her eyes. "I want to think," he said, "that perhaps you're right."

    "Of course I'm right," she told him, and four years of his life flashed before his eyes, watching a confident young apprentice grow into a confident and powerful and beautiful mage, who stood before him still faithful and beautiful and powerful.

    Cullen shook his head and laughed and suddenly hot tears mingled with the cool rain on his face and he pulled her close to him and he held her there. She threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest and as the lightning dissipated around them Cullen felt—free.

    He felt forgiven.

    He pulled back and kissed her again and she closed her eyes and sighed against him. "Not out here," he murmured against her lips. He scooped her into his arms as he had done after her Harrowing and he carried her inside, down the narrow staircase, along the corridor; he bypassed the guest room and entered Solona's quarters, locked the doors behind them, and carried her, still dripping, to the wide four-poster bed that he now knew she had never shared.

    He helped her out of her wet armour and stripped out of his clothes and suddenly they were standing naked together and Cullen stood back a moment to admire her. "Turn around," he said softly, "and let me see you." Solona lifted her arms and turned, looked back over her shoulder at him. Cullen stepped forward and caught her hips, pulled her swiftly back against him, let her feel him hard and hot against her damp skin. Solona inhaled and gripped the bedpost with one hand, rose up on her toes and pushed back.

    Cullen lifted her to the bed, turned her to lie on her back and with trembling hands he touched her everywhere, worshipful. She was warm and smooth all over, her skin unmarred. He knelt between her thighs and leaned over her to kiss her mouth again and Solona lifted her hips to him, pressed her soft belly against his, and as he rocked forward he felt the intense heat of her, so tempting, so close—

    "Not so fast," he breathed. "Not so fast—"

    "We can always do it again," she told him, and thrust a hand down to guide him into her and Cullen's body took over, left his mind floating somewhere in a haze of joy, as Solona enveloped him with her body, arms and legs and mouth touching and clutching and biting and demanding. They rolled together so she was atop him and with her fingertips on his belly for balance she arched her back, her face flushed and her expression rapturous. Cullen sat up and caught her to him again, slid his hands down to grip her bottom and his hips pumped rapidly, involuntarily, as he came. He pushed Solona to her back and let his weight fall on her and he thrust, hard, several times more, his fingers digging firmly into her flesh; at last he ground one last time, slowly, and Solona arched up with a cry, drove her heels into his back, and with a sudden exhalation she lay panting beneath him.

    "That was too fast," Cullen muttered, as he tried to push himself up, to give her room to breathe. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

    "Oh, Cullen," she said with a sigh, and leaned up to kiss him, loving. "But it was wonderful."

    "Was it?" he asked. "I—"

    "Sh," she said, and kissed him again. She fumbled to one side and grabbed the edge of the coverlet, threw it over them for warmth, and together they slept, entangled.

    When they woke Cullen made her lie still, explored every curve of her body once again with his fingers, his tongue, fascinated by Solona's reactions. When he reached her bottom he closed his teeth gently on one cheek and she squealed a little, twisted to look back at him, her eyes shining. Cullen grinned. "What," he said shyly. "It's nice."

    "It's huge," she said.

    "It's very distracting. Particularly when you're in that armour of yours. Why did he make it so tight?"

    "It's not tight," she protested, and tried to roll to her back. Cullen pushed her back down to her belly, kissed her bottom and slid his fingers along the backs of her legs. When he touched the backs of her knees, she kicked up her feet and her toes curled.

    "It's tight," he said. "It shows off everything."

    "It fits me," she protested. "I can move in it."

    "So I've seen."

    "You've had your fun, Cullen, now it's my turn." Solona wriggled to her back again. "I always dreamed of what you looked like under all that armour and those skirts—"

    "They're not skirts," he laughed. "They're called bases. There's trousers beneath, you know."

    "I bet they'd still make things easier," she said, and sat up. Her breasts bounced with the movement, and Cullen resisted reaching out to catch them.

    "Easier for what?" he wondered.

    "For quick trysts in a corner."

    He stared at her. "You have a filthy mind," he said, delighted despite himself.

    She swung a leg over him and Cullen obliged by lying back on the bed. Solona knelt straddling his thighs, stroked his chest and belly with her fingertips, admiring. "I do," she admitted. "I used to dream that you'd come along and find me in a quiet corner of the Tower and push me up against the wall and just—take me." She closed her eyes for a moment, and a flush rose over her breasts, up to her neck, her cheeks. She looked down at him again and smiled.

    "Did you," he said, marvelling. "But it's forbidden for a Templar and a mage—"

    "That made it even better," she said, and leaned over him. Her breasts pressed against him and her lips settled on his, softly. "It would have been our secret," she murmured. "In front of Greagoir and Irving we would be formal and proper but as soon as they were gone you would lift my robes and throw me over a table and make passionate love to me and then make me walk back to the dorm, still wet, pretending nothing had happened—"

    He reached up and drew his hands along her back, over her bottom, pushed up to let her feel how hard he was. She smiled. "Oh," she said with a little laugh, "but it's forbidden, isn't it, Ser Cullen?"

    He rolled to pin her to her back and she gasped, looped her arms around his neck. "That's why," he murmured, "you can't say a word to anyone about it. Understand?"

    Breathless, she nodded. "Yes, ser," she whispered, and arched eagerly up to him.

    She let him read Irving's letters to her and his relief was so great that his eyes actually grew moist. Solona pretended not to notice.

    They bathed together in the wash room attached to her bedroom. Cullen was impressed by the size of her tub. "You could swim in there," he exclaimed, as he watched it fill up. She washed his back for him, ran her fingers through his hair. It was getting long enough to show its slight curl, now. He needed a trim. When Cullen moved around the tub to wash her back Solona closed her eyes and savoured every gentle stroke of the sponge. He treated her as though she was fragile and precious, and she liked that. She wasn't, she knew, but it was nice that he felt that way.

    It couldn't last forever; she knew that, too. She was a Grey Warden, and he—he was a Templar, sworn to Andraste's service. He needed to return to his duties, sooner or later, and he would have to leave her side.

    But for now, she let herself be comfortable in Cullen's embrace, and laughed at his less-than-subtle proposition as he reached around to 'wash' the front of her with the sponge.

    "Flirt," she accused him, and turned easily in the water to straddle him.

    Unofficially, he had moved into Solona's room with her, by simple dint of sleeping there every night. He made no overtures toward her in front of the others, never held her hand or touched her unnecessarily. He simply wasn't comfortable with open affection; he wondered if that was his Chantry upbringing, or if it was his nature. She liked to tease him sometimes, knowing he wouldn't act when others were about; she would deliberately walk ahead of him while dressed in her Warden armour, or she would 'accidentally' let her breasts touch his arm as she squeezed past him in a hall or while he was standing in the middle of the courtyard.

    He was pleased that he was able to resist in the daytime.

    Nights were another matter.

    Nights were exhilarating, exhausting romps as they experimented, discovered new ways to please one another, talked afterward until they drowsed in one another's arms.

    Now and again Solona would be required to leave the Keep to encounter darkspawn or nobles—which was worse?—and Cullen would sleep alone in her bed, awaiting her safe return. He didn't like that she had to go into battle; as the Warden-Commander she should be exempt from minor skirmishes, he felt. But she was the only mage at Amaranthine, at the moment, and she needed to be along to heal the others.

    One day when she was away, and Cullen was crossing the courtyard in front of the Keep, Wade called out to him, demanded to know why Cullen wasn't wearing his armour. The question surprised him.

    He supposed he didn't need it, here; and he wasn't acting as a Templar.

    Why not?

    Why not, indeed. He went into the Keep and up the stairs and up to the roof; he leaned on the western-facing wall and imagined he could see the top of the tower at Kinloch Hold.

    "You're here as my guest, until you're better. Then you'll—do what you want to do. Go where you want to go."

    She had told him that—months ago. But what did he want to do? Where did he want to go?

    He liked being with her here; he liked the lazy days filled with easy chores and pleasant company. He loved the nights of sweaty, passionate lovemaking. But that wasn't his purpose in life. Still, Solona couldn't just leave her position, and he didn't want to leave her behind.

    He rested his chin on his arms, thoughtful.

    That afternoon he went down to the armoury, where his gear had been neatly racked. He touched the smooth surface of the chestplate, lifted the mended base—laughed to himself at Solona referring to it as a 'skirt'. He had made vows and he wanted to abide by them.

    He put on the armour, let its weight settle on him. It felt right, in a way that made him feel guilty for not wearing it for so long. He looked down at himself, turned and picked up his sword and shield. He remembered receiving his arms after his vigil, when he'd first taken his vows, remembered the pride he'd felt in having chosen to serve; he felt a little of that again, now.
    
    But Solona...

    He left the armoury with his gear on, went back up to the roof and practised his moves. Even with the weight of his armour, he found that the sword and shield balanced better than his greatsword ever had, and he was grateful that Garavel had suggested it to him. He let muscle memory carry him through all the forms, adapted for the sword and shield, concentrated on his magic-dampening spells—

    "Well, that's nice to see."

    He spun to see Solona watching him; behind her the sun was setting. Cullen flushed. "I just wanted to see," he said. "If—how it felt."

    She approached him. "How does it feel?" She crossed to stand before him, drew a hand down the front of his chestplate.

    "Surprisingly good," he confessed.

    "Do you think you're ready?" she asked, and took a few steps backward.

    "Ready for what?"

    "To resume your duties," she said. "Do you think you're ready?"

    "I'm sure I am," he said. "But—"

    Solona held out her hands, and magic glowed in her palms. "Prove it, then," she said. "Take me down."

    He stared at her. "What? No." She flung a ball of energy at him and he deflected it with his shield. "Stop that," he snapped.

    "Take me down," she said again. "Silence. Cleanse. Smite. Whatever you prefer." She threw another, stronger blast at him and again he deflected.

    "Solona," he protested.

    "You said you would have killed me," she reminded him, "if I'd failed my Harrowing. What if something happened now? Would you be able to fulfill your duties?" She slammed him with more magic. "Do it, Cullen."

    "Stop it," he shouted, his shield up. "Don't make me do this—"

    "If it was necessary," she said sharply, "could you do it?"

    "Yes, I—"

    "Then prove it." She held up her hands and began to draw more power into them. She looked into his eyes and he knew—he knew she knew—any mage, any time, could go wrong. She knew it and she needed him to know it. Needed him to know that as much as he loved her, she could not be an exception.

    He raised his sword and summoned his will, felt the lyrium stir in his blood, and as he sped forward he struck her with the flat of the blade. The power of his strike, enhanced by the lyrium, threw her hard, and she was slammed back against the balustrade. The glow of her magic faded and she sagged to the rooftop, senseless and bloodied.

    Horrified at what he'd done, Cullen dropped his sword and shield and sped to her side, lifted her against his body, cursed himself. "Solona, love," he murmured, "I'm so sorry." He kissed her face and cradled her against him, angry that his armour was between them, angry at himself for hurting her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry."

    Her dark eyes fluttered open and focused on him, and she lifted a weak hand and skritched the whiskers on his chin. "I knew you could do it," she whispered. "Maker, but it hurts." Tears rolled from her eyes and Cullen gathered her up and carried her inside. He set her on the bed and withdrew a potion from the stash she kept at her bedside table, held her tenderly and helped her to drink it; he gave her a vial of lyrium. Even with these drunk she was still dizzy and weak, and as he put a hand to her head he realised she'd cracked it against the stone balustrade. Cullen emptied the drawer and rummaged in its contents until he found a little injury kit. He applied its contents and soon Solona was able to sit up without swaying.

    He knelt at her feet, clutched her hands in his. "I am so sorry, love," he said. "I will never hurt you like that again." She leaned down and kissed his mouth.

    "If you ever had to," she said softly, "I know you could. That's all that matters." She cupped his cheeks in her hands and she looked sad. "I suppose you'll be leaving, then."

    "I—hadn't thought of it," he lied. "I mean, I hadn't decided on anything."

    She nodded. "Maybe we can—talk about it." She kissed his forehead and stood, peeled off her armour.

    Cullen turned away, returned to the roof and picked up his sword and shield. The sun was down and the first faint stars were visible. Cullen closed his eyes and for the first time in months, prayed aloud to the Maker. There was, of course, no response. Cullen opened his eyes and smiled, and went back inside.

    In the guest room he removed his armour and set it solemnly aside. He stood staring at the image of Andraste's sword for a long time. He put his own sword and shield atop the dresser and turned to see Solona watching him from the doorway, wearing only her robe, her eyes wide and dark.

    "I'm going to drown in those eyes one of these days," he told her, and moved to embrace her.

    "Why are you in here?" she wondered, sober.

    "I was just putting my armour down," he said. "Out of the way." Out of sight, out of mind, for the meantime.

    She took his hand and led him back to her room, and he heard the tub filling up. She released his hand and slipped into the wash room, turned off the water, and returned to the bedroom, sat down on the side of the bed. Cullen sat next to her, sober.

    "Do you want to go back to Kinloch Hold?" she wondered.

    "No," he said. "I think—there are too many bad memories there."

    She nodded and fiddled with her hands in her lap. "Maybe—you can write to Greagoir and find out where you're needed."

    "That's a possibility." He slid his arm around her and she let him hold her. "Why are you so sad about it? Less than an hour ago you were demanding that I prove myself ready."

    She pressed her face to his chest. "Because knowing you're ready means I have to let you go, Cullen. And I only just got you."

    He kissed her hair. "You will always have me," he told her softly. "I've never wanted anyone else."

    "What if they send you to the Anderfels? Or Antiva?"

    "I'll go where the Maker wills me to go."

    "I want to go with you."

    "You don't belong to the Chantry anymore," he said. "Wherever I go, you can come visit me as a Grey Warden." He stroked her cheek, wrapped both arms around her.

    "I want—" She sighed and slumped. Cullen pulled her into his lap and held her there for a long time.

    "Why don't we," he said at last, "get ready and go to bed, and then we can talk about it tomorrow when we've rested." Solona nodded against his chest but made no movement to stand. "Shall I drop you in the bath, robe and all?" She nodded again. He stood with her and carried her to the tub, pretended to drop her; she squeaked and clung to him and laughed despite herself. Cullen set her on her feet and she watched him get undressed. He tossed his clothes across the room, unfastened the belt of her robe and let it fall to the floor, then stepped into the tub and held her hand to help her in.

    She was thoughtful and quiet as he washed her back, and as she finished washing his in turn she paused, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed the back of his neck. She looped her arms around his neck and leaned on him. "It'll be so boring around here without you," she said with a sigh.

    He held her hands. "You'll get your work done, and Woolsey won't have to chase around looking for you."

    "Maybe I'll just stay in bed all day. Make it easier for her to find me."

    "That," he said, "would not be the Solona Amell that I know." He lifted her hands and kissed each of them in turn, then lifted her arms away from him, turned to face her. "Let's go." He stood and helped her out of the tub, wrapped a thick towel around her and rubbed her shoulders; she looked up at him and he kissed her.

    Dried, hair combed, they donned their nightclothes and doused the lights and climbed into bed. Solona clung to him in her sleep, and Cullen obligingly held her close.

    When Solona woke in the morning she felt silly, and wondered if the smack to her head had caused her melancholy the night before. To make up for it, she slid down the bed and took Cullen into her mouth. He inhaled as he woke. "Good morning?" he mumbled. "What did I do to deserve this?" He lifted the blankets and peered blearily down at her. Solona slurped free, licked the tip of his cock, and was pleased as he shivered.

    "You are kind and loving and deserve it every day," she told him. "So, every day until you leave, I'll—" He sat up and slid his hands beneath her arms, hauled her up the bed and divested her of the loose trousers she wore as part of her nightclothes; he pushed her to lie on her belly, spread her legs and dropped his weight on her, thrust into her without a word. She tried to lift her hips but he was heavy and he ground her against the mattress. "Cullen," she breathed, and tried to push herself up with her hands; he laced his fingers through hers, pulled her arms out to her sides and she lay pinned as he bucked atop her, his breath ragged in her ear.

    The friction of her body against the sheets, Cullen hot and hard and forceful inside her, their skin slick as they sweated together, brought her to a sweet and rolling climax that continued for what felt like several minutes. She ran out of breath and Cullen was still moving, still hard, and she wanted nothing else for the rest of her life, as long as she could have him take her this way, the way she'd always dreamed he would when she'd been a silly teenaged girl.

    He came at last with a series of powerful thrusts and a low groan; he continued to move gently until his cock softened. He released her hand, worked his own fingers beneath her, squeezed and massaged and made her climax again, and she lay weakly beneath him, tried to catch her breath. "There," he muttered. "You don't get to be the one doing service."

    "What?" she laughed and twisted and at last he allowed her to move. "What does that mean?"

    "It means that I still owe you. You don't get to pay me back until I've paid you back first."

    "If that means you'll do that to me every day, I'll never let your debt be paid."

    He flashed a sleepy smile and pulled her against him. "Marry me," he said.

    "What?" Solona sat up and stared down at him.

    "Marry me." His eyes met hers frankly; he was serious.

    "Why?"

    He made a face. "Why does anyone marry anyone?" he asked, and sat up. "Because we love each other."

    "Yes, but you're a Templar."

    "And you're a Grey Warden."

    "And a mage."

    "But a Grey Warden. Our roles will always take us places we can't be together." He touched her face, kissed her lips lightly. "Marry me, so we can know that no matter where we are, we'll be together." He took her hand and pressed it over his chest.

    "That's terribly romantic of you, Ser Cullen," she said, and raised an eyebrow. "When did you think up this marvellous scheme?"

    "When I was swimming around in your sad eyes last night," he told her.

    "Are you even allowed to get married?"

    "There's no prohibition against Templars marrying," he said.

    "I didn't know that," she confessed, and ducked her head. "I never thought about it."  

    "It's not often permitted," he said. "It's not practical for us to marry because we have to be in the Circles or Chantries, and that makes it hard on families. But since you're a Grey Warden, and you're titled, you wouldn't exactly be sitting at home pining for me while trying to raise children on your own in poverty."

    "Just the pining part," Solona said drily. She reached up and skritched the whiskers on his chin. Cullen smiled.

    That day Cullen sent a letter to Greagoir requesting permission to return to duty and to be transferred to another location; together they composed a carefully-worded letter requesting permission for the Templar Cullen and the Arlessa of Amaranthine to marry discreetly at the Greenfell Chantry. Solona didn't want to marry in Amaranthine, where her mere presence always drew a crowd.

    The permission to marry arrived first, and without explanation to anyone at Vigil's Keep, Solona and Cullen left one morning to make the trip to Greenfell. It was a peaceful little village and the priest was a charming young Mother who seemed delighted to see them. She performed the short ceremony and pronounced them, had them sign the Chantry's register, and blessed them before they left.

    "Should we have rings?" Cullen wondered, as they walked through the village on their return to the Keep.

    "Do you want a ring?"

    "I don't know," he said.

    "Would it cause trouble with the Templars? Would they bother you?"

    "It might raise questions about who I've married," he admitted.

    "That could get awkward. Something else, then?"

    "Maybe."

    "Tattoo my name on your belly," she suggested, "so anyone who thinks they can have what's mine will see differently."

    Cullen snorted softly, not quite a laugh. "No one would ever get to see that but you," he promised.

    They left the village behind and walked quietly, enjoying the sunshine and the countryside. "Oh," said Solona. "Armour rings."

    "Hm?"

    "Armour rings. Wade could inscribe them on the inside for us. They wouldn't be obviously wedding rings, but we'd know." This brought a slow shy smile to his face and he brushed the back of her hand with the back of his. He really did want a ring, she realised; he was in fact as terribly romantic as she'd accused him of being. He'd just been raised not to show it, she supposed; probably the same reason he rarely touched her or even looked at her when other people were around.

    It was late when they returned to the Keep, but Cullen very sweetly insisted on consummating their wedding vows before they retired for the night.

    Wade stared at them when they made their request to him. "Rings," he said contemptuously.

    "Special rings," Solona told him firmly. "We want them inscribed on the inside."

    "What's this?" Herren wandered over, curious. "I have rings over here, Commander." He tilted his head in the direction of his standard merchandise.

    "They want custom rings," Wade sighed and rolled his eyes. "Armour rings. Inscribed."

    Herren looked from Solona to Cullen and back again. "Have you gone and gotten married, then?" he wondered. Cullen turned bright red and Herren put his hands on his hips and turned to Wade. "And what's wrong with making wedding rings?" he snapped.
    
    "It's no challenge," Wade complained.

    "Not everything needs to be a challenge." Herren thrust a finger at him. "You were happy enough to make our rings—"

    "That's different—"

    "It is absolutely no different, except that this time it's for the Hero of Ferelden instead of your entitled self."

    Wade opened his mouth; Herren jerked his head to one side in a challenging fashion, and Wade shut his mouth, red-faced. He cleared his throat and looked at Solona. "What material shall I use, Commander?" he asked in rather a more humble tone than usual. Satisfied, Herren returned to his stall near the forge and busied himself tidying his merchandise.

    The summons came from Kirkwall a few days later and Cullen began his preparations. Solona put aside her regular duties to help him pack the clothing and books that he'd somehow collected while living at the Keep. She also provided him a satchel containing more than enough lyrium to get him through the sea voyage. "A few extra," she told him, "in case there's a storm or you're otherwise delayed."

    She went with him to Amaranthine, to wait at the docks as he boarded the ship. He stood on the deck and watched her for as long as he could see, until she was a tiny blue speck in the distance, and then she and Amaranthine were gone.

    It was a lonely trip; most of the people on the ship were leaving Ferelden in the hope of finding a better life in the Free Marches. Though the Blight was over, the lands had still been poisoned, and darkspawn still cropped up everywhere. He thought of Solona in her sleek blue armour, fighting darkspawn with her warriors around her, and he twisted the ring he wore on his left index finger.

    His first impression of his new home was that Kirkwall was an ominous-looking city. He had read up on the history of it, but hadn't been prepared for the appalling statues of anguished slaves that filled the Gallows, where he was deposited at last.

    He presented his summons to the guard at the gate and was immediately admitted. The Knight-Commander had been awaiting his arrival and she greeted him politely if a little sternly. That was simply her demeanour, he soon learned; Meredith was a vigilant woman, faithful to the Maker and always on the alert for corruption among the mages.

    She showed him around the Gallows, introduced him to the First Enchanter—a pleasant, soft-spoken elf named Orsino—and then showed him to the Templar barracks. Cullen left his belongings in the footlocker assigned to him and, as instructed, reported to the Knight-Lieutenant to receive his duties.

    Dearest Solona,

    It is late, and I have just completed my shift, but I wanted to take the time before I retire for the night, to write to you lest you forget who I am, with such a long time between letters!

    Kirkwall is a many-layered city, literally and figuratively. You would probably enjoy exploring it for a day or two, but I am certain you would not take pleasure in it for long. A number of its elements are extremely distressing. The wealthy live in "Hightown", built well above sea level, safe from any high tides and seasonal flooding. The majority of people, however, live in "Lowtown", which is almost exactly at sea level, and does get flooded at least once a year, I'm led to understand. The most interesting people in the city tend to live in or at least spend time in Lowtown. It has the greatest variety of everything, and not all of it the worst of what is in Kirkwall. Unfortunately there is also a third level to the city; in the sewers and tunnels beneath the streets the poorest and most desperate people eke out a semblance of a living in what's known as "Darktown". It's damp and terrible, and I have spent more time down there than I care to, chasing down runaway mages and the odd apostate or two.

    You asked about my days. We generally work ten days on, five days off. During the five days we're permitted to leave the Gallows and enter Kirkwall to do as we like. Some of my fellows, particularly the younger ones, head straight for the brothel. I know it's not forbidden but it seems so crass. Maybe that's just me; I don't like to go near the place. Why would I, when I've already married the most beautiful woman in all of Thedas? I don't often go into Kirkwall for leisure, for that matter. I get what I need at the markets, and sometimes I will have a meal at one of the taverns. I like to visit the Chantry; it's very old and beautiful, and the Grand Cleric is a kind and learned woman. You would like her, I think. She always brings an aura of peace with her presence.

    The people of Kirkwall are very cold toward the Templars, however, and I don't feel particularly welcome anywhere outside the Gallows and the Chantry. There are always rumours about us and how terribly mages are treated; and I suppose some of the others are much harsher than they need to be. Harsher even than the worst of the ones at Kinloch. You would find Greagoir the embodiment of kindness compared to Karras or Alrik. The two of them actively dislike mages, and I find it difficult to believe that they have any genuine faith in the Maker or His words. It isn't our role to crush a mage's spirit, after all, but to protect the mage from forces that would use him or her to enter this world.

    The Knight-Commander believes very much as I do. She, too, has seen first-hand what can happen if a mage is possessed, and I believe she sees in me a sort of kindred spirit in that respect. She has put in a request to have me promoted to Knight-Lieutenant, which is a great honour considering I have been here such a short time.

    I should sign off and get some sleep; the morning comes quickly and I must always be alert. Please write soon and tell me of your adventures fighting darkspawn and evading Mistress Woolsey. Hello to anyone there who remembers me.

    You are ever in my heart and on my mind, and you remain to me the standard by which I judge not only mages, but all human beings.

    Your loving husband,

    Cullen

    Dearest Solona,

    I am sorry I have not written—it pains me to have worried you when all is more or less well here. As Knight-Captain I have little time to myself; I am not afforded the normal shift rotation that the other men have, and my free time is severely curtailed by my necessarily being available at any hour. It leaves little enough time for sleep, much less the smaller pleasures of life.

    We had a disturbing incident here in the Order. I will not bore you with the details, but suffice it to say blood mages were attempting to infiltrate the ranks of the Order here in Kirkwall. Were you aware that demons are capable of possessing not only non-mages, but the unwilling? It was a rather unnerving discovery for me, and my investigation into the matter is a large part of why I have had so little time lately. If you know of any reading I can do to better inform myself on the subject, please make any suggestions. The First Enchanter seems like a competent man, but his role is to watch over mages, not Templars, and he makes that very clear in his speech and actions—he has no interest in teaching Templars anything.

    Yes, I still have the nightmares, though they are not as frequent as they were. I think that you are right, that a new environment and keeping myself busy has helped me a great deal. I know that I am also helped by thoughts of you. Do you remember telling me that I am horribly romantic? There you are; I've proven it true.

    What did you do for the summer solstice this year? I hope it didn't rain; I'm sure Fydda would blame me for it even all the way out in the Free Marches.

    I must go; I am exhausted and tomorrow some new recruits are being brought in to replace those we have lost. In a way I wish you were here so I could share my every last thought without effort. I would sleep so much better with you at my side. Alas, if you were here, you would be in an uncomfortable cell and forbidden to speak to me, so oddly this is the better route, as terrible as that sounds.

    I miss you my darling.

    Forever yours,

    Cullen

P.S. I have met a rather horrible young man whose mother is apparently an Amell. It seems his sister is a mage, though he keeps her quite well hidden from our scrutiny. Is it possible that you are related?

    Dearest Solona,

    At times it is only by reading and re-reading your letters that I can believe there is a normal world somewhere. Kirkwall has begun to feel increasingly unreal to me. The Qunari I told you about are making noises—not actively threatening, but over the last three years they seem to have placed themselves strategically about the city and their menace is nearly tangible. The Viscount seems helpless against them. The Knight-Commander has grown disinterested and so reclusive of late that many of her duties have fallen to me, and I am finding it difficult to keep up with all my responsibilities.

    I shouldn't complain. Keeping busy is a good thing and I know that I am doing good work—when I can get it done. I simply do not feel I am as effective as I should be. Alrik was found murdered in a tunnel beneath the Gallows that had been apparently used to smuggle mages out of Kirkwall—to where, I do not know. It is an affront to the Order that this "mage underground" has been taking place under our very noses. I rather suspect that the First Enchanter knows something of it; how can he not? It is his role to know the mages of the Circle. Yet when one vanishes, he shrugs and says he knows nothing, and I cannot prove otherwise. In the meantime the tunnels have been closed and some of the younger Templars have been assigned to find any other similar passages.

    Even within the Order there are whispers of dissent; so many of my fellows believe that the Knight-Commander's methods are too harsh, too restrictive. While she does not condone any abuse, I fear that without her direct supervision, abuse is taking place. Of course the mages will not confide in me, as they see me as no better than the Templars taking advantage of their positions. And the First Enchanter will no longer speak to me except when absolutely necessary.

    Every day I pray for guidance and strength and every day I think of you. I cannot help but think that the two are intertwined.

    Please keep writing of normal things, of squabbles between merchants and of darkspawn heroically slain. Tell me of any scandal in Amaranthine that will distract and entertain me even for a moment; if, when reading, I can imagine you laughing while you tell it to me, that will sustain me until your next letter.

    Though my arms are empty, my heart is filled with thoughts of you.

    Happy anniversary, beloved.

    Cullen

    Dearest Solona,

    Just a quick note—I am concerned about this magic you are seeking. It isn't anything forbidden, is it? You told me once that you would rather die than use blood magic, and I hope that has not changed. You have always been so resolute in your faith and that strength in your soul has sustained me through my most difficult trials. Things have been so strange and violent here that I am frequently tempted to leap off the docks and swim back to Ferelden, just to see you smile and hear you tell me that everything is going to be all right.

    I pray every day for the Maker to turn his gaze upon you, love.

    Cullen

    Dearest Solona,

    Cullen stared at the two words on the paper.

    How was he to sum up everything that had happened in the last few months?

    He tapped his fingers on the desk—his desk, now that Meredith was gone. It made sense for him to step into the role of Knight-Commander, but he didn't yet feel comfortable in it, despite having done so much of the work in the last three or four years.

    He had found disturbing notes in Meredith's files, notes she had kept on each of the Templars at the Gallows, himself included. Toward the end it seemed she had actually wanted to send Cullen away, lest he fall victim to the blood mages she was seeing everywhere. She had begun to perceive his refusal to harm the mages in his care as a sign of weakness. She had once told him that his devotion to the Maker was nearly as pure as the Divine's; her deteriorating mind had seen something else.

    She had been a good Templar, once, a good person, but even she had fallen victim to some dark magic, something in that sword that had dissolved her sanity. What hope was there for the rest of Thedas?

    The Templars who remained were faithful, but most of them were young. The few of Meredith's cronies who had survived the fighting had refused to serve under Cullen. He had ensured they had left Kirkwall safely; beyond that, he cared little what happened to them.  

    So many good people lost to paranoia and fear—and to the demons' touch. He hadn't been present when Orsino had, at the last, turned to the blood magic he had been secretly studying, but others among the Order had, and those that had survived still suffered terrible nightmares. The mages, too, who had seen their First Enchanter's transformation and death had been traumatised. Most of those were apprentices, some of them children.

    One of Cullen's first acts as Knight-Commander was to move all the remaining mages into a single area in the Gallows, so they were close to one another and not far from the Templars. They needed to be able to see and talk to one another, to comfort one another. Though Templars were always there to watch, always vigilant, the mages were no longer denied the nearness of another person when the nightmares woke them. He had seen a reduction of the tension in the remaining Enchanters recently, and had even seen some of the children smiling, so he supposed he was doing something right.

    Cullen turned his attention to another letter, one he had received nearly a week ago. The Grand Enchanter had reluctantly agreed to send him someone neutral who could serve as First Enchanter in the wake of Orsino's death. So few fully-trained mages had survived the battle—more would have, he was sure, if Hawke had simply suggested they surrender, rather than fight. In addition, many of the more disgruntled mages had taken advantage of the chaos in the Gallows and in the city to escape. As things stood, none of the Enchanters who remained had the experience or the desire to serve as First Enchanter. The rest of the adult mages were Tranquil.

    The new Enchanter, from the Cumberland Circle, had departed immediately for Kirkwall, but Cullen didn't expect him to arrive for another day or two. He set aside the letter, rubbed his face with his palms and sighed.

    He twisted the ring on his finger, lifted it to his lips and closed his eyes.

    My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one.

    They had chosen the inscriptions for one another's rings, and she had chosen that one for him. It had provided him a great deal of comfort during the last seven years; today, however, he wanted more than the Chant of Light.

    He prayed silently for guidance and strength, as he did every day.

    A soft knock sounded, and Cullen looked up. He left his door open except when he needed to concentrate on something, and the Templars were learning to be comfortable approaching him. Paxley stood there now, his cheeks flushed. Had he been running? Cullen hadn't heard his footsteps.

    "What can I do for you?" Cullen asked.

    "Knight-Commander," Paxley said, "the First Enchanter is here." His eyes were brighter than usual and he seemed to be fighting a smile.

    "Good," Cullen said, surprised. "Send him in."

    "Ser." Paxley inclined his torso and turned. "The Knight-Commander," Cullen heard him say, "will see you."

    "I should think so."

    Cullen stood and stared as Solona entered his office. She was wearing something similar to her Grey Warden armour, though instead of blue and silver, it was all in earth tones and dark chain, and it did not fit her as snugly as her Warden armour had. Her hair had grown long, and she kept the front of it twisted into braids, tied at the back of her head. She smiled up at him and it was sunshine on his face. "Knight-Commander," she said, and bowed.

    Over her head, he saw Paxley's delighted grin, heard excited voices behind the young Templar; others had come to stare at the pretty new mage, to catch a glimpse as she bent over. Cullen shot a dark look at Paxley. "If you've nothing else," he said sternly, "I'm sure you've got duties to attend."

    "Ser!" Still grinning, Paxley bowed and backed away, and the boyish mutterings faded as the group vanished down the hall. Cullen strode around the desk and shut the door to his office and locked it, looked down at Solona.

    "What are you doing here?" he asked.

    Solona looked reproachfully at him. "is that any way to say hello?" she wondered. "It's been seven years, Cullen."

    "It's not safe here," he said. "Have you even heard what's happened?"

    "I heard," she said soberly. "I've been at the Circle in Cumberland, and news always gets there swiftly."

    "What were you doing in Cumberland?"

    She stepped toward him, slid her arms around his middle and looked up at him. "I've missed you," she said. He dropped his head to her hair, inhaled the scent of her, wrapped his arms around her and sighed. He pushed her away, then, took her hand and led her around the desk, set her down in his own chair and leaned against the desk.

    "Tell me what is going on," he said quietly.

    Solona sighed and sobered. "There's a war coming, Cullen. Mages everywhere are threatening to secede from the Chantry, and Templars everywhere are going to extreme measures to stop any rebellion. It's not going to end well."

    "I've seen its beginnings here," he said grimly.

    "I've been approached by people claiming to be agents of the Divine, who insist that I can prevent the war—that because I'm a mage and the Hero of Ferelden, that my word will have influence with the mages who are rebelling."

    "They could be right," Cullen said. "But you don't want that?"

    "I—had a dream." She shifted in the chair, crossed her legs, rested her arms on the chair's arms; she looked like nothing so much as a little queen on her throne. He felt desire rise up warm in his belly, and quelled it with a thought—or tried to. Solona continued: "A dream so clear, so vivid, it can only have been a vision sent by the Maker. In my dream I saw that the war is inevitable. Nothing I can say or do will stop it."

    He folded his arms and frowned. "Shouldn't you at least try?"

    Solona shook her head. "That wasn't the message of my dream. In my dream I saw myself unclothed, and my skin was covered in scaly black stuff, and I knew it was the darkspawn taint. I saw myself step into a pool of water and scrub at the scales, hard, until they fell away and my skin was raw, and I was free of the darkspawn taint. I stepped out of the pool and walked through a black gate into a white tower. When I woke I knew that somehow I had to be free of the taint, and come here to you." She searched his face—for what?

    "So you went to Cumberland?"

    She nodded. "Grand Enchanter Fiona used to be a Grey Warden, but she managed to remove the taint from her blood. She will never hear the Calling. I knew my only chance of doing the same was in finding out how she had done it."

    Cullen shifted his weight. "And how was it done?"

    "Old magic," she said. "And not a painless transformation." She smiled sadly. "But afterward, without the immunity of being a Grey Warden, I was obliged to remain at the Cumberland Circle or risk being labelled an apostate."

    "But the arling—"

    "Mages cannot hold titles," she reminded him. "Again, without being a Grey Warden, I lost that."

    "But how did you get sent here?"

    She laughed a little. "Your letter came, and Fiona was only too glad to be rid of me. She knows that those who remain here in Kirkwall willingly must be Loyalists, so she thought I would be a better fit than any one of her Libertarians."

    Cullen stared at her. "You didn't—orchestrate it?"

    "How could I, Cullen? Once I became just another Circle Mage, I had no authority." She smiled up at him again. "And now here I am with you, as the Maker willed."

    He could not but see that she was somehow right, that once again the Maker had brought her into his life when he needed her the most. Whatever he had done to deserve this—

    Solona stood and leaned against him and he slipped his arms around her waist. She reached up and skritched the whiskers on his chin and it made him smile, and he leaned down to kiss her, loving.

    "Shall we test your skirts?" she wondered, teasing. "See if they're as easy as they look?"

    "Base," he told her. "It's a base, not a skirt. And as much as I would love to indulge your dirty little fantasy—"

    "Oh, Knight-Commander," she said, and her hands slid down and unerringly past the sectioned pieces of the base.

    "—I have a great deal of responsibility here—"

    "Your First Enchanter has already broken the rules," she murmured. Her fingers were warm beneath the waist of his trousers. "I think she needs some firm discipline."

    His cock was inclined to agree with her, and Cullen hadn't the willpower to argue with the two of them.

    In a moment Solona was bent over the desk, her trousers down just around her knees, her knuckles white as she gripped the sides of the desk for traction. She gasped with each powerful thrust and Cullen came far too swiftly—it had been seven years, after all. He took a moment to let his head clear, then slipped a hand around her, between her legs, to stroke her with his fingers. Solona bit her lip and held her breath and thrust against his hand as she came and his half-hard cock throbbed momentarily as she pulsed and clenched around him. He dropped his head and kissed the back of her neck and sighed.

    Still panting, they separated and refastened their armour. He rearranged his base, ensured it draped properly. When he looked up at Solona she was leaning against the edge of the desk and watching him with a smug little smile.

    He shook his head. "You've been waiting a while for this, haven't you?"

    "It's not often a girl gets to live out the exact details of her fantasies."

    "As I recall, this one had to do with Greagoir and Irving daring to leave us alone."

    She shrugged. "A Knight-Commander and a First Enchanter were involved," she said. "I'm satisfied."

    "It's not going to be easy," he told her seriously. "Kirkwall is in a terrible state right now, and—yes, there will probably be war soon."
    
    She sobered. "I know."

    "I work long hours," he went on. "We don't have enough Templars for proper shifts."

    "I have been seven years entirely without you, Cullen."

    "The mages that are left—" He sighed. "What's happened to them has been a terrible thing. You have a lot of work ahead of you."

    "The Maker puts us where we're needed."

    He gripped her upper arms, leaned down and kissed her once again, tenderly. As he pulled back she caught his hand in hers and their rings touched with a faint metallic click, and Cullen smiled.

    I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder.

    It meant more to him now than it had when he'd had Wade inscribe it on Solona's ring. Together, they would restore peace and security to the Gallows, and to Kirkwall, and no one save the Maker would separate them again.

    "Come along, then, First Enchanter," he said, and opened the door to his office. "Let me show you around."