My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  She only smiled and placed a delicate hand upon her soft hip, drawing his attention to a form he should not reflect upon. "A prank? Must have been interesting."

  "It was childish and I...should not be telling, I doubt you care." Sucking in a breath, Cullen steadied himself and asked properly, "What brings you here, Lady Amell?"

  Her smile dipped for a moment and she tugged upon her mage robes. They were not the blue and silver of the wardens; she still wore something similar to what was used in the circle though with a silverite sheet of chainmail over top. "I require the help of a templar. Someone in Kirkwall to assist me with a mission."

  Cullen nodded, that made sense of a kind, but did not explain why she'd need sneak around to his room like a common bandit to ask for it. People would have greeted her gladly with open arms, especially the mages who held up the Hero of Ferelden as if she was their personal accomplishment. "Do you wish to speak with the Knight-Commander? I can go and get her..." He wanted to kick himself for laying out the option, as if he feared her presence so he needed a chaperon.

  Her lips pursed as she glanced around the walls. Lowering her voice, she said, "This is a delicate matter, and I need someone I can trust."

  Through the concern at her secrecy, pride swelled in him. She trusted him? Even now after all that occurred at the tower? It seemed too much to believe. "For what purpose?"

  But she shook her head, "Not here, meet me at the...oh, what is that tavern called? The Stretched Man? I'm sure you know what I mean."

  "Why can't you tell me?"

  She wound a scarf across her lips and pulled up the hood of her cloak, blanketing her features behind a mask of fabric. "I will remain at the tavern for two days. If you do not appear within that time I shall make the journey alone." Without leaving behind footsteps, she moved towards the door. Cullen had no idea how she, a mage, intended to leave the Gallows unseen, but she had somehow gotten into his room without raising an alarm.

  "Lady Amell..." he tried to reach out to stop her, but she turned her head to him. Only the glow of those intoxicating eyes were visible through her disguise.

  "Two days," she repeated. "And, given the circumstance, I think you can call me Lana."

  He spent the night waffling from an attempt at sleep to pacing through his quarters trying to determine why she of all people would track him down. What could the Hero of Ferelden possibly need from a solitary templar in Kirkwall? As the day carried on, Cullen went from refusing her offer outright, to excitement at the prospect, to curiosity, to confusion, and then landed at dread. Meredith seemed to sense a change in her second-in-command, her crisp eyes watching him from across the yard and calling to him more than was usual. After the day's duties were finished, Cullen lost two hours sitting in his room. Prayer should have calmed him, or perhaps brought sense to his fevered mind, but when he'd turn his head he'd still see her silhouette staring out his window. She came for him and no one else.

  "Andraste, preserve me," Cullen whispered as he opened up the door to the Hanged Man. He'd attended to this establishment in the past, always under official means and usually with backup in tow. Now, in plain clothes and mostly unarmed, the denizens did not even bother to look up from their drinks at the recent addition. Two men were arguing about the nature of heroism in the corner, a deep discussion plumbing the depths of human nature only the truly besotted ever reach. Further in, towards the back row of benches, a man was engaged in his own rabid theory with whoever would listen. In this case he managed to entrap only one within his web of ramblings. Cullen could only see the man's fiery face, the nose and cheeks distended from drink as he banged his fist against the table in emphasis.

  "I bet that Hero of Ferelden didn't even fight no archdemon."

  "No!" His singular audience was turned away from Cullen so he could only see her back, a scarf knotting up her hair.

  "She couldna, because there wasn't no archdemon."

  "Really?"

  "Sure as shit," the man burped, then took another drink. "I's all Ferelden tryin'a get us to feel sorry for 'em for Orlais, but we dinna need to pull that kinda shit when we threw 'em out. They're wanting to pull a fa't one over our eyes. But I'm on to 'em, on to 'em all. No blight, ain't had one in four hundred years. Why have one now? And it finishing up so soon. Can't be."

  "Fascinating," she continued, the softest laugh in her voice.

  Cullen clapped the conspiracy theory man on the shoulder, drawing his bloated attention. "I believe you've had enough."

  "Sod off!" the man shouted, then jerked a mug to his beautiful audience. "I got company here."

  Cullen glanced towards Lana, "Should we speak privately?"

  She smiled and nodded, but the drunk man wasn't about to give up easily. "Hey! Tha's not your decision to be making there, bud." The man tried to rise out of his chair, but his shoes slipped in the special on tap, causing his elbow to smack against the table. Cursing haphazardly, he shook his fist at Cullen and shouted, "That'll cost ya!"

  Somehow, Cullen never found himself engaged in a bar brawl before, most mages wise enough to keep their fireballs away from combustible liquor and accidental backdraft. He readied his fists to dodge the attack, but he needn't have bothered. Still smiling, Lana waved her fingers and parted the fade. The man's eyelids drooped and his body fell slack, the chin smacking into the table was punctuated by snores. It was so subtle, Cullen could only taste the lingering burn of mana by concentrating upon her. To everyone else, it appeared as if the drink finally took hold.

  Solona wrapped her hand upon his arm and molded her body around him. He tipped his head up, doing his damnedest to not smell her earthy and lilac scent. The heat of her body racing up his arm was impossible to escape. She giggled and in a breathy voice whispered, "Let's move somewhere more private, shall we?"

  Cullen could only bob his head, terrified of the squeak that might tumble out if he spoke. She guided the pair of them while giving the impression he was leading her into a back room. Beds stacked two high filled the area, but no one filled them despite the late hour. The Hanged Man kept its own strange hours. Lana closed the door, then waved her hand across it again. "There, no one will be getting through that," she said and unknotted the scarf around her hair. Despite sharing the same lineage as Hawke, they bore almost no likeness - the Champion all sharp lines and cutting cheeks to go with her brand of wit, while the Hero of Ferelden was a supple wholesomeness with a round face, full lips, and bemused eyes all making her appear younger than seemed possible. The only trait they shared was the raven black hair, hers short and braided in sections around her face.

  "You know, you're rather good at playing dumb," Lana said, dropping into a chair at the lone table.

  "I...what?"

  "With the drunk, I nearly thought it would come to blows myself."

  "Ah, yes," Cullen massaged the back of his neck, happy to pretend that he was fully anticipating her interceding. "Why did you let him speak those lies to you?"

  "If I'd called him out on it, I'd have blown my cover. What little there is here. I did not anticipate so many Fereldens in Kirkwall," she frowned.

  "But to treat the blight as if it were a lie. Why would anyone fake the destruction of the darkspawn?"

  "People'd rather chase ghosts than admit to evil in the world. It does not bother me, I know the truth. I lived the..." she shook her head to blot away a frown and continued, "there are greater beasts to slay. Have you come to hear me out, or...?" she gestured to the chair opposite her, but Cullen continued to stand.

  "I need to know, this favor you ask of me, will it go against the order or the vows I have taken?" He feared just how far he'd go for her if she but asked, but turning his back on the templars, on his duty, and spitting in the eye of what he swore upon would go against everything inside of him.

  She smiled, "I'm afraid I'm not current on all the vows a templar takes, but on the surface this is a rather simple request. So no, I would not ask more of you than what you are willing to give."


  "What is it, then? Why do you need a templar?"

  Reaching into her pocket, she unearthed a bottle. Red liquid pulsed at the bottom of the crystal glass, stoppered in the seal of the Templars. It was a phylactery. Cullen turned from the bottle back to her and she said, "I need you to help me track down a blood mage."

  "I..." now he sagged into the chair, his fingers reaching towards the phylactery. She dropped her own hand away, letting him touch it. He hadn't done the hunting aspect of being a templar often; most of his commanders keeping him back at the tower to watch over their charges, but there were some things one never forgot. Closing his eyes, Cullen ensnared his hand around the vial of blood and concentrated. The hair along his arm stood on end, and he felt a tug towards the west, the phylactery guiding him towards the original supplier of the blood.

  "Why not bring this to Meredith or Gregoir?" he asked.

  She frowned, "Gregoir is...getting on in years. We speak, but I heard he has plans to move to Denerim." She paused and stared through him. They both knew what that meant, moving a templar away from the circle back to the chantry meant he was no longer of sound mind to serve. Lyrium took its toll. "Regardless, the mage I'm chasing is in the Free Marches, and I...the fact is, the matter is delicate."

  "Yes, you said as much in my room."

  "I do not know Meredith." She chose her words carefully. She was the Hero of Ferelden, defeater of the blight, and Arlessa of Amaranthine. But she was also a mage, under more scrutiny than an average person of nobility. Someone of that background who openly questioned the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall could find herself in a dangerous situation. "But," Lana reached over, her fingers skimming across the tops of his. Her touch radiated a warmth into him, causing the phylactery to pulse harder, tugging him even more into the west. "I trust you."

  "You..." Cullen swallowed, "you do?" He only saw her once after the archdemon fell and the blight ended, when she was being paraded up and down the street along with the other heroes of the day. Cullen stood with the revelers, ordered to watch the mages that fought in the war. Were they some of the ones who survived the slaughter of his friends by luck or by siding with Uldred then switching sides? He had no time for the festivities flooding Denerim, he didn't want to celebrate anyway. The world might have been spared yet he cared not one whit. But when she passed, he couldn't help but watch her pinned up on the back of a horse, decorated as their hero. She wore a smile and waved, but it looked pinned on, her eyes blinking rapidly to maintain the illusion.

  Lana slid the phylactery out of his hands and twisted it around, watching the blood convalesce in the glass, "This is no simple blood mage, as I am certain you guessed. He is a grey warden who...summoned a demon and nearly destroyed his entire order. There were bodies...I need not tell you what destruction blood mages can cause. I've been tasked with finding and stopping him." Her fingers closed around the phylactery, and she bore into his eyes, "I trust you, because I know you despise malifecarum, your reasons to hate them. I do not need a soft heart for this, I need a strong arm."

  A voice screaming in the distance. His friend? He couldn't tell anymore. All the voices sounded the same. Sounds of teeth shredding apart muscle, a crunch of bone, more screams, then silence. Blood dripped down his face, but he didn't look up, couldn't watch the demon finish off what had once been a person.

  Cullen shook off the memory, and nodded his head at her, "Then you shall have it."

  Chapter Two

  The Bronto

  He'd never been so close to a bronto before, and he'd have died a grateful old man if he never had to know the experience. The beast snorted at the impotent human clinging limply to his bridle, and sprayed thick mucus across Cullen's back. Yellow as curd, most of it slopped off to the ground. His fingers tried to wipe the rest off, giving him an up close view of the snot as well as the revolting smell. Visions of slicing the creature from neck to navel flashed through his mind. How easy it would be to unearth his sword and send the clearly miserable animal back to where it belonged -- serving demons in the void.

  "Ha! I think ol' George here likes ya," the woman sitting primly in the driver seat called out.

  "Quite," Cullen muttered. George's eel-like tongue lolled out of his gaping mouth and slurped up the remaining mucus. It seemed an innocuous move save the lone beady eye that stared through Cullen. He caught the message 'I despise you and will do all in my power to make your life hell.' Unfortunately, Cullen was stuck in the same position as the creature, but with the added bonus of bronto snot dribbling down the back of his pants.

  Lana walked further ahead of their miniature trade caravan. Using her staff as a walking stick, she'd break ahead to spy on potential dangers, then return to report to him. Or, seeing as the only eventful moment of their day long march involved bronto sneezes, she'd check in, politely sympathize, then ask about the phylactery. She trusted him to carry it wrapped in his pocket, but every half hour she'd slip back and want to see it to make sure the templar didn't accidentally sit on it or something. He'd find it annoying if it didn't also give him an excuse to speak with her.

  "Know that I find you insufferable and would rather suffer a meal of gristly bronto stew than drag your carcass across thedas," Cullen whispered to George. The bronto snorted a fresh round, but the crafty human dodged out of the way this time.

  "You findin' yourself a friend too there?" the driver asked. Mentally, he changed her name to 'the sitter' seeing as how he was doing all the driving of the beast while she vaguely pointed in a direction from her prim spot atop the wagon. Lana hired them from some small hamlet on the outskirts of Kirkwall. He'd hoped they'd find their own horses, but she thought traveling with company would be better advised.

  "Yes, it's delightful," Cullen tried to lie, his face stone. One could hew a quarry with the sneer.

  He heard a snicker from further ahead, and turned to catch Lana standing on the hill. Her hand shielded her eyes as she watched him try and play nice with their unexpected companions. A burn inched up his legs from her attention, aiming for his cheeks. Maker, he was better than this. He was no longer some flippant young man reduced to babbling tears from the approving glance of a...no, no he was still that bad. The steel in his spine melted like wax at her innocuous smile. Twisting around to face the sitter, Cullen patted the bronto's nose hoping Lana missed the red burning up his cheeks.

  "Gettin' too much sun there, boy? Not surprising, yer as white as one of them undead types. You ever go outside?" the sitter shouted in her amplified brogue to anyone within a five mile radius.

  "I, uh..." His work kept him in the shadows of the statues looming over all who passed through the gallows. At least he didn't wear the helmet. Most templars suffered a familiar strip of darkened flesh across their eyes from the helmet's slit. It made them instantly recognizable anywhere outside the gallows.

  "It's not often we have Grey Wardens traveling with us," one of the other wanders pipped up. This one was young, in that not quite a man nor a boy stage. His eyes drifted down Cullen's armor. No, it was her armor, he was just the one wearing it. Not that he was wearing the armor she wore, that would be, uh...not a prudent thought to have. It was some warden set Lana unearthed from her belongings in the damned tavern. "Templars would draw too much attention on the back paths. I don't want to alert White early. And people tend to offer assistance to Grey Wardens."

  "Then why do you wear none?"

  "Grey Warden mages are the exception. If anyone asks, I'm a scribe of yours moving with you to Adament."

  So while the real Grey Warden slipped in and out of the periphery, Cullen played the part and did a Maker-awful job of it. It did not help that the chest plate pinched his sides, and the hem of the pants cut off at his lower calf, exposing most of his shins to the switch grass. Who was this armor designed for, an emaciated dwarf?

  The sitter squared up, twisting the limp reins in her hands, "Nice to have a bit of protection on this run, especially from the Grey Wardens."

 
; "When they're around, so are darkspawn," the third traveller spoke. He wore more leather than seemed wise given the heat, and kept a hat tugged so far over his eyes he was doomed to walk blindly into bronto dung. Dipping in and out of the shadows when possible, the man put Cullen in mind of the apprentice mages who learned just enough of a fire spell when attempting to show off to set their bed clothes aflame.

  "Hold yer tongue, Martin," the sitter chided, "don't you go invoking those horrible creatures name here."

  "At least our esteemed Grey Warden will warn us if we're in any danger. That is how it works, right?" Martin turned his snake grin on Cullen and eyed him up and down. Cullen tried to not turn back to the real Grey Warden skipping over the dunes, so he patted the damn bronto instead.

  "Who was the last one we traveled with, Ser...Something?" the sitter continued.

  "Ser Branaugh," Martin said, while picking at a strap haphazardly thrown over the wagon full of --probably illegal -- goods bound for Orlais.

  "Aye, that was it. Nice chap. Did those bandits up a treat."

  "He had no troubles steering the bronto, either," Martin continued, his gaze cutting deeper into Cullen's skin, "and he was handsomer, too."

  "Oh no, no...well," the sitter attempted to come to Cullen's rescue, then backed down instantly. "He did have that thick rugged hair, and those sparkling blue eyes. Like crystal ponds they were."

  His fingers tugged on the bridle, almost dragging the beast's head with him while the sitter rhapsodized about Ser Branaugh - the most dashing Grey Warden in all of thedas. The chantry needed to rewrite some of their history seeing as how the sun itself rose and fell from Ser Branaugh's backside. It was a wonder he did not defeat the blight with just his radiant smile.

  "Getting along?" Lana's sweet voice caused Cullen to jump clean out of his borrowed boots. Sweet Andraste, did she hear all that?It burned his heart to wonder where her opinion stood in the 'how did Cullen's looks rank amongst traveling Grey Wardens' discussion. The mages would have them often, debating the attractive merits of each templar, some going so far as to draw up charts and lists. It did nothing to the ego to stumble across one and find you fell somewhere in the middle.