My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  A gentle fire slumbered in the hearth, barely a flicker of orange light. She relied upon a fat candle dribbling wax near the nestle of holly wrapped around it in the spirit of the day. Smiling, Lana ran a finger over the greenery, its waxy edges wafting across her skin. She swaddled herself in a nightdress that on a normal person would come to their knees but for her nearly reached to her toes. Even then, she kept her feet and legs curled under her for warmth.

  "Lana?"

  Twisting in the chair, she spotted a shadow that sounded like Cullen stumbling from the bedroom. "Did I wake you?" she asked, her voice in a whisper despite no one else being in the apartment.

  "No, I was..." he paused beside the candle highlighting his hair mashed skyward, the curls forming their own fortress from his sleep. Wearing only a pair of soft tan breeches, she watched the flames flicker shadows across his pale skin, deepening the lines of his muscles. "Are you all right? Was there a bad dream?"

  Smiling, she twisted further in the chair to gaze up at him. "No. I could not sleep, but it had nothing to do with the fade." He paused beside her chair and clung fingers tight to the high back. Reaching out, she caressed his side, digging into his hip. "I wanted to watch the snow."

  Chuckling, he turned his own amber gaze out the window. No one stirred in the streets, the solitary night when all of Val Royeaux found lodgings. Soon the Grand Cathedral would be full to bursting with all the citizens coming to worship and celebrate, but for now it slumbered on silently watching over the empty streets hushed by a blanket of snow. "It is lovely," Cullen mused.

  Leaning forward, Lana traced her fingers across the window pane. Dipping into the fade she drew forth the ice that clung tightly to her soul and, with slow movements, traced a pattern onto the glass. A snowflake took form below her finger, the edges jagged from the crystals that created it. Proud of her work, she said, "I used to do this every winter. We'd challenge each other to draw more and more elaborate things with ice but snowflakes were my favorite."

  Sensing eyes upon her, she glanced up into Cullen covering her in what could only be described as a loving gaze. His amber eyes glittered by the candlelight while he stared at her as if she'd just performed a complicated spell that saved the empress' life instead of etching a drawing on the window. How could one man heap so much praise upon her without saying a word? She felt a blush digging into the base of her skull from the idea, and as a distraction, Lana grabbed onto his hand.

  "Sit with me?"

  "Gladly," he said, his eyes darting around the room to find the other gilded chair far on the other side. "Hm, I have a better idea." Scooping his hands under her thighs, Cullen lifted her up into the air in his arms. She felt an urge to laugh and insist that he was being silly, but so much of his skin touched hers. Instead, she snuggled her cheeks against his chest, her hands wrapping around his neck to hold her safe. After he pecked a kiss upon her hair, Cullen eased over and sat into the chair with Lana in his lap.

  "Now I can't see the snow," she pouted, her eyes locked upon his handsome face. By the soft glow of the moon he looked scrubbed clean, the frown lines smoothed away and, for once, he'd even tamed his stubble - though she objected to the latter.

  "Shall I describe it to you?" he said seriously, before an eye darted down to her followed by a whisper smile.

  Giggling, she lifted herself higher by her arms and sighed, "Let me guess, white stuff continues to fall in flakes and sometimes clumps."

  "On occasion there are even specks, though they're harder to see at this distance."

  Unable to help herself, Lana nuzzled her cheek against his neck, a warmth enveloping more than just her body. It wrapped up her heart. She felt as if she could lay there all night listening to him describe the snow in his husky voice. Tipping his chin down, Lana raised up, her lips aiming for his. Cullen caught on to what she wanted and he helped to lift her higher. No stubble prodded into her top lip and she took advantage of it by sliding her mouth higher, letting him nibble upon her bottom one with the tips of his teeth. Cupping his cheek, she was about to tangle her tongue into his mouth when a hundred voices rang out from below them. Those were joined by more scattered throughout the Grand Cathedral, each one singing in an enchanting harmony until the song spilled out into the streets reaching beyond the borders of Val Royeaux, even Orlais to encompass all of thedas.

  With her lips beside his cheek, Lana whispered, "I guess that means it's midnight. Happy Satinalia, Cullen."

  "Happy Satinalia, Lana." Tomorrow there would be feasts, dancing, wine in greater quantities than seemed imaginable, more dancing, dressing up the prettiest couple in ribbons, dancing due to all the wine, and somewhere in there honoring Andraste, if they had time. It was certain to be a grand holiday for everyone, and Maker knew Val Royeaux knew how to celebrate when given ample opportunity. She was looking forward to seeing what putting out all the stops meant in Orlais, a country already known for its debauchery, but right now with the calm of the snow and the warmth of his arms this was the best Satinalia she could imagine.

  "What is it?" she scoffed, watching his eyes wander away with a thousand thoughts.

  "I...no, it's silly," he shook it away. She reached up, prepared to kiss the answer out of him, but he changed tactics, "How busy do you think tomorrow will be?"

  "Today you mean?" she asked, earning a soft eye roll for her pedantry. "Very much so, Leliana's already planned me an out if it seems her 'mistress' can't handle all the excitement." Cullen grumbled at the mistress part. She wondered if it was more because he hated the fact it was a lie than people under the delusion she and Leliana were a couple. Then again, it was preferable to everyone trying to drag her off for claiming what seemed to be the most eligible bachelor in all of thedas.

  "I imagine Val Royeaux knows no bounds for celebrating," Cullen sighed.

  "Had you been here for Satinalia before, for the Inquisition?"

  "No," he shook his head, "we always had it in Skyhold. Josephine could work miracles armed with only a spool of thread and boughs cut from an evergreen if she needed to."

  Lana smiled and nodded her head, "I remember in the tower, we'd sit up all night on our beds. It was the only time the templars let us get away with it. And we'd string berries along thread to then hang up for the whole day. Inevitably, someone would be dared to try and eat them and he'd do it to disastrous results." She laughed from the memory of one apprentice turning a delightful shade of green after he made it through the fifth string.

  "Templars would..." Cullen paused and he dug his forehead into the top of her head. After breathing in her scent for a moment and curling his fingers tighter around her stomach he continued, "we'd have services in the morning."

  "Mages too," she interrupted.

  "Right, of course. And...no," he paused, shaking his head, "I'm remembering Kirkwall and how we'd always spend the day with an eye upon the minimal mage celebrations. In Kinloch, it was...more relaxed."

  She nodded her head, remembering the suits of armor standing not at attention around the doors but flitting through the clusters of robes, everyone holding a glass to toast whenever anyone called for it. "Were you there when a senior enchanter, more than likely drunk off her ass, kissed the Knight-Commander?"

  "No," Cullen shook his head, his eyes widening in shock, "I'd remember that one."

  "Oh, Maker, yes. The room went deathly still after, every mage and templar staring at each other uncertain what to do, when the Knight-Commander stands up and cries 'Happy Satinalia, everyone!'"

  "Gregoir did that?" Cullen scoffed, shaking his head.

  "Ah, right, that was the woman before Gregoir. I forgot, I was only thirteen at the time, so..."

  He shifted his lap, twisting her so he could look down at her face. Caressing a cheek, Cullen sighed, "Do you ever miss it?"

  "Sometimes," she admitted. "Holidays I think about the tower, the traditions we had all our own, or when I stumble across someone I once knew in there. It's...it was where I grew up, and now it's been
left to rot unattended into the lake. Feels strange to think the circles are no more. No more padding past the library barefoot because a single squeak of a shoe will set off the librarian. No wrapping towels on your hands and knees and crawling over the floor to scrub it. No..." her reminiscing faded away on the crisp winds, far too many 'nos' to list.

  "I remember the first Satinalia when I was transferred to Kinloch."

  "Oh?"

  "You wore a gown of gold that sparkled whenever you twirled, which you seemed to do often. No shoes, but there was a string of berries tied across your chest and holly wrapped around your..." Cullen closed his eyes and thought before speaking, "right wrist."

  Lana glanced over at her gaunt wrist when he enveloped it in his warm hand and twisted his fingers around her like a bracelet. Sighing, she laid her head back against him and fell into the memory. "I had been learning transmutation of metals, but could only do it in small, thin layers. So, I wound up taping sheafs of gold coated vellum to my robes. It was hilariously awful to look upon."

  "I thought you glowed like a holy beacon," Cullen whispered beside her.

  Unable to shake off the blush, she gulped deeper in her chest. "I remember a templar, uncertain about what was going on, taking up patrol beside the punch bowl with the sweetest honey eyes I'd ever seen," she reached up and ran her palm across his cheek before curling into his hair, fluffing up the matted curls.

  "My previous Satinalias were either starkly religious in the abbey or, the ones at the farm. Simple but comforting. Wandering into a good two hundred mages laughing, dancing, and singing was a bit of a shock."

  "I bet," Lana nodded.

  "But, it was fun. I remember there was this one templar who placed a cauldron upon his head without realizing it was full of some green liquid which washed all down his uniform..." Cullen's sweet smile folded in on itself. He hunkered lower to his chest and pulled Lana with, drawing strength from her. "He died in the tower, during..."

  "For so many years I didn't want to remember them, any of them, because it hurt too much to," Lana said, her fingers skirting along his curls. Nodding, Cullen buried his mouth against her shoulder. "Time smoothed the wound over but it never really healed. It was my home, my family, all gone in a matter of days. Everything I'd known since I was a child. I'd..." her voice cracked, and she patted her cheeks to find a few tears upon them. "Sorry. You know it as well as I do."

  "So many of the same hurts," grumbled out of his chest, his arms locked tighter around her.

  "What," she shifted in his lap trying to pull his face to hers, "what was something you loved most about Satinalia? As a child."

  His warm breath blew across her shoulders, each gust followed by a count as Cullen pulled himself back from the dark edge. Squeezing tight to her one last time to gather strength, he lifted his head and said, "The puppets."

  "The puppets?" she scoffed, shocked to find he was the kind of person to enjoy anything so frivolous. "Wait, there are puppets?"

  Cullen chuckled, "In my family there were, probably still are. My father, he loved carving them, taking the whole year to make a new one to join the growing horde. The first few were simple, their mouths could open and their legs or arms would twitch up and down upon the strings. But each year he came up with something better, more intricate. There was this mabari named...what did Mia call it? Sprinkles? Its tail moved with a flick of my father's wrist. He'd dangle out the puppet upon a stage placed in front of the hearth and all four of us would call out whatever it was thinking or saying, spending the whole day creating our own stories."

  "That's wonderful," Lana smiled, swept up in the happy family vision he painted of a warm fire illuminating the farmhouse while all four Rutherford children shouted out orders and dreams for little, wooden people.

  "It, uh, sounds sillier now that I say it aloud," Cullen said, an embarrassed flush working its way up his cheeks.

  "What? No it doesn't. I wish I could see it in action," Lana interrupted his embarrassment, her fingers caressing his smooth cheek.

  "Well, I'm certain Mia's kept the whole bunch and...there's always next year." A hopeful wish hung in his sentence, Cullen's amber eyes pleading with hers.

  "Yes, there is," Lana agreed, and he sighed in relief. Scooping her close, Cullen's wholesome kiss curled through her stomach leaving her soul smiling.

  "What about you?" he asked, whispering against her cheek.

  "I don't remember ever being around puppets," she said, earning a glower.

  "Your favorite Satinalia memory as a child," Cullen growled getting a laugh from Lana. She adored the way his voice dropped whenever he was annoyed.

  After running her fingers over his scar which parted from its sneer into a gentle smile, she leaned back against him and thought. "I don't remember much of my family in the Free Marches. We'd do most of the same things done in the tower as everyone does for Satinalia, but..." twisting around in his lap, Lana gazed out at the snow rising in drifts along the street. Clumps clung against the window panes, slowly suffocating the stained glass Saint praying upon her ancient knees. "My mother used to make this dessert every year. It was thin sheets of dough layered on top of each other in numerous stratums. She'd often drizzle honey over it or a jam put away from summer for my brother and I. For the adults, they got the sweetened liquor we weren't supposed to know about."

  "That's a Free Marcher dish?" Cullen asked.

  "No, it's Rivainian. Her grandmother's recipe. I didn't realize that it wasn't Marcher until I started asking around figuring Amaranthine was so close to Kirkwall something would have had to slip over. But everyone always gave me a strange look whenever I described it. I never would have considered it had a different origin because everything else I remember was strictly Marcher. There were these green nuts embedded in the center."

  "Green nuts?" he scoffed, clear disgust at the idea.

  "They're very tasty, and a bright grass green I remember."

  "If you say so..." he began, but Lana interrupted.

  "It's not as if they're moldy almonds or something. I bet you'd like it if you tried it. Not too sweet for the sour Commander," she mocked, folding her arms across her chest.

  Laughing at her summation, he pressed his lips close to her ear and asked, "What was this dessert called?"

  "No idea. I was too young to know, especially if my mother referred to it in the Rivani tongue. Anyone I ask now either only has a vague recollection of having eaten it before, or gives me that same sour look as you did."

  "Sorry," he said, pulling her even tighter to him.

  Not needing an apology, Lana rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. "It's a strange magic the hold food has over our memories. I can still remember the crackling sound the dough made from a spoon jamming through it, green nuts spilling out." Smiling from the cozy kitchen of her childhood when she couldn't reach any counters without hauling open a drawer and standing in it, Lana drifted back to those sections of her memory she kept walled off. Cullen fell silent behind her, his fingers rolling up and down her arms in what she knew was his method of thinking.

  "Don't you dare," she said.

  "Hm?" he startled out of his inner thoughts, shaking it all away.

  "I know what you're thinking, you're going to spend all of tomorrow trouncing through every bakery in Val Royeaux trying to find someone who has a clue what I'm talking about."

  "There wasn't any..." his attempt at a lie died as she glowered, her reflection bouncing against the dark panes of glass to him. "Wouldn't it be nice?" he tried again.

  "No," Lana shook her head, "I don't want to spend all of tomorrow alone waiting for you to trudge back through the snow more than likely cranky and exhausted."

  Picking up his hands and holding them tight to her stomach, Lana tipped her head back against his chest and gazed up. Cullen stared out through the window with an indecipherable expression scratched upon his face. Sliding along his smooth jaw, she walked her fingers across his cheek until they dug in
to his hollow. "I want to wake tomorrow with you wrapped around me, have the biggest breakfast the chantry has ever spread out, curl up in a warm chair while you and Honor take your morning constitutional, and when you return we spend the rest of the day in the balcony listening to the chorals reverberating from every bowed head...while holding hands. That's how I want to spend my first Satinalia with you."

  A smile lifted up his cheeks, and Cullen dipped his chin, those warm honey eyes beaming into hers. "It sounds perfect," he sighed. Straining, she tugged on the back of his head for a pert kiss, but Cullen answered with his own sugared response. After slipping away, Lana bumped her nose next to his and sighed. Two years, no, three since she'd done anything to celebrate Satinalia. While dancing and carousing were the norm, all she yearned for was being next to him.

  Slowly she spun around while Cullen locked his hands tight across her stomach. He buried his chin upon her shoulder, scrunching up to watch the play of snow slowly trickle to an end. "It seems as if the show has stopped," he said.

  "I suppose so," Lana sighed, wishing it'd lasted just a bit longer.

  "You know waking in my arms generally requires one heading to sleep first."

  "Details, details," she tried to wave it away as if she could stay up for hours watching the twinkling powdered snow crest along the empty streets. Behind her Cullen sighed, sleep catching up quickly with him. While Lana could fight it off with every breath, he seemed to succumb the moment it was suggested.

  She was about to give in, when a tuft of clouds parted in the sky and a shaft of moonlight lanced through the window to land upon them. Her skin illuminated as if a candle glowed from within, giving rise to intricate lines in a lace-like pattern up the side of her face, dipping down her throat and across her birthmark. Cullen turned towards it and started, "You have the Moon glow markings?"