My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Memory - Gold Ring

  9:43 Skyhold

  A solitary gold band rotated around Cullen's finger, plucked from the middle of his cherry custard before he bit into it. His eyes narrowed, curious which cook was missing a wedding ring, when a memory snapped back at him. He moved to wrap his fist around the incriminating jewelry, but it was too late, he'd been spotted.

  "The commander found it," Josephine cried out, clapping her hands. A few half hearted groans echoed around the great hall and almost everyone turned to the man trying to turtle inside his coat. He didn't need this, not now. Preferably, not ever. "Congratulations," she continued clapping, loving this holiday tradition with each debilitating moment, her joy drilling into his teeth.

  Somehow, Cullen staggered to his feet, the hilt of his sword smacking under the table in the endeavor, and he walked stiff legged towards the ambassador. She beamed at him with enough enthusiasm to set curtains on fire. "Madam Ambassador," he struggled to not groan out her name as he extended the palmed ring and tried to quietly hand it to her, "I don't think it's appropriate for one of us to...take away from the festivities. You should pass it on to another. Hide it in their, I don't know, drink or something."

  "Nonsense, commander. You are as eligible as any other unmarried man or woman." Her eyes softened as she gazed skyward at the flowers twisted into love knots and dangled off the tapestries to honor the day, "It's all rather romantic to think upon, don't you agree?"

  "No," he struggled to swallow, a buzzing rising in the back of his head. Glowering at the ground, he placed the ring in Josephine's hand and stomped out of the great hall. He felt the curious stares, the barely guarded whispers following him, but he was in no mood to answer to any of it - rather doubted he could form a response either beyond a growl.

  His head didn't rise from glaring at his feet until he was safe in his office, alone. Cullen followed the same rote moves he made whenever returning from a meal - he checked his in-pile to see if anything new had arrived, scoured over the rosters with a double check for any injured, and... Why did it have to be him? Out of the hundreds of people serving in Skyhold he had to be the one to find it? What sort of joke of the Maker's was this? Or worse. He mentally sneered at the pranksters moving through the ranks of the Inquisition, Sera in particular. Could one of them have planned it all to get under his skin?

  The day's work fluttered out of his hands and he gripped onto the desk. A dark urge to either rip the top off or smash his forehead into it percolated in his mind, but Cullen planned to do neither. It was tradition -- traditions were meant to be fun, playful. A lark to honor some old chantry holiday on the calendar. Why did so cursed many of them have to involve marriage? Harvest festivals, winter watches, summer days, even some of the feasts devoted to Andraste managed to work romantic love into the celebrations. As if a person who wasn't involved with another surely wanted everyone to devote the holiday browbeating them into a relationship. He wished he could purge the heart from his chest and preserve the beating organ under glass upon his desk.There, if that is what you are so interested in, have a gander. I am through.

  Cullen pulled back the bottom drawer and picked up the blue glass bottle. He frowned at a dab of wax lifting free of its hold on the glass and tried to rub it back down with his finger. At least none of the ashes had shifted out yet. Perhaps it needed to be kept in a more secure place, or he needed to stop manhandling the thing.

  A year. Thirteen months since Lana...since she walked into the fade and didn't return. Few knew about them, about their dalliances, and he was happy to maintain the secret. It meant few tried to comfort him, offer a shoulder, a pitying glance, or feel the need to mention how sorry they were in his presence. Only Leliana would stop by on occasion. They wouldn't cry together or anything soppy as such, just sit and be alone together with their thoughts. He found himself missing even that.

  Rubbing his finger over the glass, he watched his prints smudge the trail with oil and sweat. Cullen spoke aloud, "You won't believe it, Lana. I found the damn ring again. Twice in my life, no less. It feels as if I'm being punished for something, something I cannot understand. Why do people put such faith in superstitious claptrap anyway? The discovery of jewelry hidden in your food gives no credence to a person finding their one true love in a year than, than running headlong into a wall predicts a short winter. At best it forecasts a certain need for dental work in your future, or that your chef might be a secret jewel thief."

  He slumped down in his chair, grief chewing through his sarcasm and leaving exhaustion in the wake. After the war ended, he finally put away the last of his books and relied upon sitting to get through the doldrum days. "I wish you were here. You'd laugh at this small gold band haunting me. Toss it into a well to be rid of it. Or, or..." Or he'd give it to her, as a promise, a token, a... That thought burned away to ash. No, there'd never be anything of the sort because she wasn't here, she'd never be here again.

  The first ring he found wasn't in a hall surrounded by people serving under him, wasn't when he was thirty three and showing it with each passing day, wasn't with a heart that weeped alone in the dark abyss of the night. The ring wasn't even gold, but a cheap piece of tin one of the other young templars shoved into a loaf of bread carefully sliced for them all to share before patrols. When Cullen found it, he was a fresh faced eighteen and blushed so bright a healer mage paused to ask if he had a fever. Of course the others jibbed him - asked incessantly when the wedding would be and to whom. He'd passed it off as nonsense, he had his duty to the order, certainly no time for love or the stuff that came with it. Yet, he kept that piece of tin in his pocket for years, secretly hoping to be proven wrong.

  Conveniently enough, the day after he found it the tower was celebrating "Nob Day," as the other templars coined it. Nob Day was when all the nobility in the area stopped by the tower to check upon the mages on their land. They thought they were owed their due and, for the sake of transparency, the chantry allowed them minimal access into the tower.

  The older templars despised it, having to polish their armor to an ungodly shine and smile politely at Banns for hours instead of fulfilling their vows. The younger ones were ecstatic with the new. "I heard there were going to be two dozen this round. At least half of them have to be girls, right?"

  "And not just any girls, the fancy ones with the soft skin white as dandruff from all their carriage riding and glove wearing," Caroll glowed, his eyes skipping around the room never able to land on anything for long.

  "Maybe Cullen will finally meet his one."

  He paused in lacing up his tunic and tried to bury the smile rising to his cheeks, "I will not. That's...we're not supposed to talk to the gentry."

  "No, the mages aren't supposed to talk to them. We can flirt all we want, provided the Knight-Captain's not looking."

  "You're going to get him into trouble, Frederick."

  Frederick shrugged, he was the type who courted trouble when he wasn't sniffing around almost all the female templars and - if rumors were to be believed - a few mages. The idea caused Cullen's stomach to flip. He'd had it drilled into his head since he was thirteen that mages were beyond them. To touch one would be like fondling Andraste, as one older templar liked to drone. That was enough to scare the young and pious Cullen. For three months he refused to even be in the same room as the few mages working in Denerim for fear the Maker would suspect he dared impose ill thoughts upon His bride.

  "Let's get down there fast before the best ones are scooped up," Frederick called, waving his fellow Knight-Recruits after him. Cullen was about to reach for his helmet when Freddy chuckled. "Nah, leave it. You need them to see your pretty face. Though, in your case, maybe it's best to stick with the helmet."

  A burn inched along his fingers, but Cullen left the helm on his bunk. Less excited than before, he trundled after the rest of the templars down towards the foyer. Overnight, the Tranquil transformed it from bland marble in need of repairs int
o a gilded dream. Cushioned chairs sat in threes or fours with small tables at the side should anyone need to rest their drinks. Tapestries Cullen had never seen before hung off the columns with banners tacked below those. They bore each Bann's family crest, trying to corral the nobility into easily documented clumps. He recognized the one for Honnleath further inside, but he'd never met the Bann himself. Not that the Bann would have time for some random farmboy turned templar. It was doubtful any of the nobility would look askance at him. The Tranquil, dressed in freshly pressed robes, wandered through the groups carrying mugs of their finest brew.

  In all his life, Cullen had never seen such finery in one place. Pearls, sapphires, rubies, a smattering of diamonds glittered off every finger and exposed neck -- and there were plenty. Deep necklines were popular for women, nearly every lady sporting one that either skimmed straight across their bulging chest area, or some that dipped deep down like an arrow pointing to where he shouldn't look. The men wore their own ruffled version, the necklines relaxed but nowhere near as revealing.

  Nudging him in the ribs, Frederick yanked Cullen further into the midst of the nobles conversing at a near deafening level. "Don't gawk on the stairs. You want to walk around. Mingle. Use your charm on them." Without a second thought, the raven haired templar spun on his heel and smiled at two women who bore the sophistication of their young twenties juxtaposed to the two gangly templars. They both extended handkerchiefs at Frederick and he in turn waved back with a wiggle of his fingers. That drew a great giggle from the pair. Pleased with his performance, Frederik turned back to his pupil, "See, that easy."

  "I..." Cullen knocked his hands together, then felt foolish for drawing so much attention from his actions and dropped both at his side.

  "Here, go talk to one of them. I'll take the one on the right, you go for the left," Frederick whispered, dragging him towards his doom. Sliding on a smile like buttering a piece of bread, he leaned towards the women, "Is the chantry missing a couple of beatifications because your beauty should be gilded for eternity."

  His wooing attempt bore no sense, causing Cullen to crinkle his nose in confusion, but the women both cooed and waved their whites again as if trying to entice Frederik to charge them. Still smiling, he knocked Cullen in the chest and extended a hand to encourage him.

  "Um, hello," Cullen began, uncertain what there was to talk about with two women he'd never met before. "It's a nice weather inside this tower to be having." Sweat dripped down his trembling palms, so Cullen gripped tighter to his greaves as if that would solve the problem.

  "Oh, why... I suppose it is, at that," one of the women tried to be kind to the young man bobbing out of his depth.

  "My friend here is quite the joker, just loves to tell his little, little jokes," Frederick hissed, the smile stagnating. "As I imagine you noticed, we're both templars."

  "We did," the right one smiled. She did bear the blinding white skin the others went on about, but it put Cullen more in the mind of a sick nug than anything to whisper about. Her blonde hair was piled high while the other's sunset-orange shade scattered across her shoulders. That was about the only difference Cullen could spot between them. Maybe they wore different dresses, he was too terrified to glance at their bodies.

  "Is it true what they say?" the left one asked. "About templars, I mean?"

  "That we're all fiendishly handsome with charm to boot?" Frederick leaned into her and she giggled at his suggestive eyebrows.

  "Well..." her eyes darted for a moment at Cullen who felt a thousand stings in that single syllable. Well, not all of you, obviously. Look upon that one. His cheeks are marked as if he's splashed acid upon his face, and that hair is as matted as a sheep's wooly hide. If he could find a solitary charming word to say, it'd sputter from his lips like drool.

  He found himself sliding further away as the woman leaned deeper into Frederick's enticing aura. The left one tried to whisper, "I heard that templars are renowned for their..." her eyes darted from one side to the other, before she added, "stamina."

  "Why, my lady, I do believe you have sussed us all out," Frederick gleamed like the cat who got the canary. Without turning back to Cullen, the one he drug into this mess in the first place, Frederick wrapped his arms around each lady and led them towards one of the store rooms. "There is something I simply must show you this way. I think you'll find it fascinating."

  Unable to watch the man sneak off to do what both terrified and fascinated Cullen, he turned away to face down the crowd. Trailing through the bubbles of nobility lost in themselves, he skirted around each group impressing upon the templars while his mind questioned everything he'd known. How could it be that easy for Frederick? It wasn't supposed to be that easy. There were steps, rules. One didn't fall in love on first sight, certainly not after only a few words were exchanged. There had to be more to it than whatever that was. Digging into his pocket, Cullen stumbled across the tin ring. No wonder they thought it so humorous that he was the one to find it - the Maker would never see fit to give him anyone, much less the one great love that came with this asinine promise.

  When he looked up, he realized his musings took him away from the crowds into an antechamber. Normally, it was a storehouse for magical items, but the Tranquil cleared it so the nobility had a place to escape to should they need a rest or fainting area. As the visit had only begun none bothered to visit it yet. Empty seemed about what Cullen deserved in his life. Treading up the stairs slowly, he pinched tighter to the ring, a hollowness filling his heart. Did he even want any of those women the others easily scooped up? He knew the answer was no, but it stung him to accept they'd never want him either. Was that to be his curse? Forever on the outside looking in? In all his life, there was only one girl to ever show him an ounce of interest and he'd had none in her. Another one of the Maker's jokes - to give Cullen a solitary chance with a girl he'd have to settle his heart for. Wonderful laugh there.

  "Hey, get a move on, will you?" a male voice echoed through the stairwell, pinched high in the nose as if the owner was eternally peeved.

  "For what reason, Jowan?" This new one plucked the very air it touched -- like a lute strummed through the lower register. Her voice bore a whisper of an accent, the r's rolling away from her tongue. Cullen stepped up another few stairs, his curiosity piqued.

  "Because they're already here, that's why," this Jowan explained.

  "Who's here?" She sounded unconcerned, and also distracted. Cullen risked rising another stair but the second floor lurked beyond him still.

  "'Who's here?' You ask that and...do you even live here?" he came back with.

  "Sometimes I wish the answer was no," she answered sardonically, causing Cullen to snort. Curiosity winning, he risked being discovered by the two and finished the climb to the second floor. This Jowan stood almost framed by the doorway though he didn't bother to look over at the templar. Barely even a man yet, thin and sloppy hair framed his watery face. His companion was hidden behind a bookcase filling the room. Cullen wished he could hang his head out to see her, but that would only draw attention to him.

  "All the nobles are down there right now, doing noble stuff. Come on!" Jowan grabbed onto her arm and tried to pull, but she was immoveable, only the edge of her sleeve visible to Cullen.

  "Why do you suddenly care about noble...? Oh Maker, is this about a girl?"

  "What? No. Of course not. Not everything in my life is about girls," Jowan sulked, both hands now holding onto her arm but unable to budge her.

  "Since when? 'What about this one? Is she pretty? I think she's pretty. You'll tell me she's pretty, yes?' I don't care. I have an entire entropic skill tree to get through today."

  She was a mage. Cullen shook his head at his own idiocy. Of course she was, she had to be. He knew all the women in the templars, and they were currently engaged downstairs or off doing the same as Frederick. It shouldn't matter in the slightest that this woman he'd only overheard a few sentences from was a mage, but...he couldn't shake
the disappointment.

  Jowan, unaware of his audience, pleaded, "That's all you ever care about. Learning how to poof bread to death can wait another day, preferably forever. That was gross." He released his grip upon her, his arms folding across his chest. Somehow that was enough for the girl; she stepped towards her friend and right into Cullen's vision.

  His breath gargled in his throat at a beauty he'd never imagined possible in all of thedas. Her sweet face was framed by curly hair as black as night. Something sparkled from within the tempting depths of hair like stars knotted inside the strands. She rolled her eyes at Jowan, brandishing the doest eyes Cullen had ever seen. He'd witnessed skin that dark shade before, but never one that glistened in such radiance as if the owner was some holy creation sent to walk amongst mortals. A great stack of books clutched in her arms obscured her body, only the curve of a hip and her, uh, ample back part visible.

  Unaware of the templar asphyxiating on the staircase beyond her, she dropped the stack of books in her arms onto the ground. Annoyed but unsurprised, Jowan tapped his shoe while she reorganized her stacks, placing a blue cover where a brown one had been. Pleased with her choices, she picked the load back up and batted at her hair to stuff a quill behind her ear. "Gross but interesting. One day the mold turned pink, which seems strange. Was it because the bread was a different variety or..."

  Jowan threw his hands up to his eyes and made gagging noises. "Please do not describe mold you found on bread. It's bad enough I know you have it." After having begged for mercy, he returned to begging for her attention, "Come on, we won't be breaking any rules. We're just heading up to the landing above to get a good look. Margie's already there."

  "Marguerite? What in thedas for?" Her lips puckered in annoyance at him. The most luscious lips Cullen ever dared to witness. He wanted to kiss them, to pull back her hair with his hands, cup his fingers agains her jaw and press his own narrow lips against hers. It had to be like falling onto a pillow.