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Chapter Text

“It will be alright,” Cassandra said, patting Inquisitor Trevelyan’s shoulder with a gauntleted hand. “It is merely a formality.”

Elena Trevelyan stared down at the map of southern Thedas, her stomach roiling. The voices of the rest of the war council were a buzz at the fringe of her consciousness, and she wasn’t sure if she was going to faint or throw up. Shaking her head, she tried to fixate on what was going on around her.

“A formality?! Maker’s breath! They could chop her head off!” Cullen thundered. “Hang what the Grand Clerics want; I say we go straight to Halamshiral.”

“And have the Clerics declare us heretics for flouting their decree?” Josephine returned. “the Empress would turn us out immediately.”

“We’re already heretics, according to the Chantry—what’s left of it anyway,” that singsong voice would be Leliana.

Her head swam as their voices rose. She needed air—she needed—she needed everyone to just—

“Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!” She screamed, slamming her fists on the table and sending a million little inquisition markers flying. “I can’t think will you all shouting over each other.”

Skyhold’s war chamber fell silent as all eyes turned to the normally soft-spoken Inquisitor. Elena raked her fingers through her hair, and grimaced has her normally elaborate braids snagged against her nails. She took a deep breath and turned to Cassandra.

“Are you sure this is only a formality? There’s no way the Grand Clerics will actually convict me of murdering the Divine...and execute me?”

The Seeker hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough to freeze the air in Elena’s lungs. “There is always the possibility that the Chantry will decide to show its teeth, but Leliana and I will testify on your behalf. With the Right and Left Hand of the Divine, you will be fine.”

Elena nodded, chewing over the other woman’s words before turning to Josephine. “And you’re completely sure that conceding to the Chantry’s demands for a trial is the only way we can get an invitation to the Empress’ peace talks at Halamshiral?”

Josephine considered the question longer than Cassandra had; Elena could see the Ambassador’s mind spinning through the threads of alliance and friendship they’d formed across Thedas. “Aside from marrying you into the Imperial family—which we certainly don’t have time for—it’s the only way.”

Elena looked across to the table to Cullen. He was leaning over the map, hands balled into fists but amber eyes fixed on her. The fury on his face was plain to see, though it was shaded with another emotion she couldn't read.

“What do you think, Commander?”

He straightened up and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t like the idea of handing you over to the Chantry so easily, but I fear we have little choice.”

“The decision is yours, Inquisitor,” Leliana chirped.

Elena took another deep, shuttering breath. Cassandra was right, this was just a formality. There should be no harm. But why did she feel as if she was walking up the stairs in the dark, and suddenly there were no more stairs?

"I suppose we must stop in Val Royeaux on our way to Halamshiral. If the Grand Clerics want a trial, a trial they shall have.”

~*~

Josephine saw to all the preparations. They would not appear before what was left of the Chantry as criminals, but rather a rival power. A villa was rented in the fashionable outskirts of the city, carriages were retained. Cullen and Leliana saw to it that their best people were guarding the group, and especially the Inquisitor, at all times. Vivienne even helped in her own way by packing Elena’s trunks for her—well, overseeing the packing: My darling, you’ll look so poised and polished it would be a sin to burn you.

Elena stood in the courtyard of Skyhold, waiting for the carriages to be made ready, her mount shuffling at her side. She was sure that after a day or two on horseback she would be thankful for the carriage’s cushioned benches, but right now she felt she’d go mad if she was cooped up in that box for any length of time. She turned and rubbed her horse’s velvety nose and tried not to think about the days ahead.

“Lady Trevelyan we’re almost ready leave,” Cullen’s voice rumbled from behind her.

She turned to look at him and grimaced, “so soon? I thought perhaps I would wake up by now.”

He gave a wry smile and stepped forward, offering her his arm so she could mount. “I’ve been considering the same thing. Unfortunately it looks like this isn’t the fade.”

Pity, she thought, someone usually ends up naked in the fade.

Elena took his hand, bracing herself against him as she swung up into the saddle. Though Josephine and Vivienne were no doubt scandalized, she rode astride--it was quicker that way, and besides she'd never been very good at sidesaddle. Cullen mounted his own horse a moment later, and with a nod to her, rode out before the main carriage.

Urging her horse forward, Elena set off at a trot, following the carriage. It would be along ride to Val Royeaux—perfect for her overactive imagination to conjure up all the different ways the Grand Clerics could kill her.

Chapter Text

Val Royeaux glittered in the hot summer sun as their party rode into the city limits. Elena leaned forward look out the lace covered carriage window. It appeared the residents of Orlais’ golden city had heard of their coming and were already lining the streets. Some waved banners of support while others glowered at the procession. One chevalier spat on the ground as they passed. Leliana tugged at Elena’s sleeve, pulling her away from the window.

“Be careful Inquisitor, we don’t want to start a riot.”

Elena frowned, “is that truly a possibility?”

“My sources tell me people swing from demanding your head on a pike to calling for your coronation to the Sunburst Throne and everywhere between. Regardless of how they may feel about you, the city is volatile,” the Spymistress informed.

Josephine chimed in, “the nobility too is worried. None dare openly support or challenge you—they’re all waiting to see what the Grand Clerics will decide.”

The news did nothing to quell the nerves that had been growing since their party crossed the Frostbacks. The ride through the city proper felt longer than the entire journey there—Elena didn’t dare ask to mount up herself, even with the protection of Cullen, Bull, Blackwall, Dorian, and Cassandra riding next to her. She sunk down into the carriage’s silk cushions and tried to imagine she was fighting darkspawn on the Storm Coast. Finally they rumbled into the courtyard of the rented villa.

The door to the carriage opened and gauntleted hand appeared in the doorway to help the ladies down. Elena waited for the rest of the women to exit before sliding over the seat to do so herself—perhaps trying to prolong the shock of reality from setting in entirely. She was trying to remain positive, for everyone’s sake, but her she was finding it difficult to keep her fears in check. She could lose her head, or be burnt at the stake like Andraste a thousand years ago. Shaking, her head, Elena stepped out; Cullen handed her down from the carriage, his large hand dwarfing her smaller one. It may have been the nerves but she thought perhaps he gave her fingers a squeeze of support.

She glanced up at him, a weak smile on her face. The entire ride to Val Royeaux everyone in the party had been tiptoeing around her, as if she were suddenly made of glass and would shatter at a loud noise or quick movement. Only Cullen had been his usual calm, albeit taciturn, self. She appreciated that—if she was truly going to believe that the Grand Cleric’s summons was merely a formality as everyone assured, she needed people to actually act like it.

“I believe Cassandra wishes to meet as soon as we’re settled. We’ve much to discuss before tomorrow’s proceedings,” Cullen said.

Elena nodded as they walked into the grand hall together. “Yes, I suppose so. Have you given any thought to which guards will take us through the city?”’

“I thought I would lead the honor guard with Cassandra and Blackwall taking the rear. If that pleases you, Inquisitor.”

She nodded. It would be best to show demonstrate their alliances, thin though they were. Cassandra was the Right Hand of the Divine and Blackwall a Grey Warden—though Bull would have been more intimidating, Cullen’s plan sent a better message to the Grand Clerics.

“At the first sign of trouble, my men have been ordered to close ranks. If things become really serious, well, either Ser Delrin or I will get you out. Have no fear.”

They paused at the top of the main stairs to the grand hall, the hot afternoon sunlight ending abruptly at the doorway. “It seems you’ve thought of everything, Commander.”

Cullen opened his mouth to reply, but a loud clearing of the throat caught their attention. Elena turned to see Dorian standing a few feet away, eyebrow cocked and hands on his hips. With a flush of embarrassment, she realized she was still clutching Cullen’s hand in hers. She dropped it and took a half step back from him.

"Did you need something, Dorian?" She asked.

“Josephine sent me to see what was keeping the both of you,” the Tevinter drawled, his eyes dancing between the two of them. “Lucky me to find you in the same spot.”

“Right, the war council,” Elena mumbled as she hurried past him, hoping neither man noticed her unusually pink cheeks.

The house was a maze of corridors and rooms leading to yet more rooms, and she regretted running off like that—either Dorian or Cullen were bound to know the right way. She flexed her hand, fist to fingers spayed, as pangs of embarrassment coursed through her. She hoped he didn’t think her foolish, or worse, weak, for clinging to him like a frightened child—normally she was careful to maintain boundaries between herself and her companions and advisors. She was the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. Regardless of her own wishes, she needed to set an example, and leave no opportunity for malignant gossip.Eventually, she found the rest of the war council assembled in the shaded pavilion at the center of the villa. Cullen was already there, and she tried to stop her gaze from straying to him, difficult though it was proving to be.

“Now that everyone is here,” Josephine began, giving Elena one of the looks she was so good at. “We need to discuss our strategy for tomorrow. Sister Leliana, were your agents able to find information on the case the Grand Clerics will be perusing?”

“Yes,” Leliana answered, turning to speak directly to Elena. “It seems they will be bringing you up on charges of heresy and murder of Most Holy, Divine Justinia. While the murder charge may seem the more serious of the two, I think they will focus their efforts on the heresy charge. It is much easier to, well if not prove, certainly offer doubt towards your orthodoxy. Cassandra and I will, of course, speak for you. And I’ve arranged for Mother Giselle to be a witness, if necessary, as well.”

Elena nodded, and ran a hand through her auburn locks. “Right, so all I’ve got to do is not accidently say something heretical.”

“You were a cloistered lay sister for most of your life, you will be fine,” Cassandra said in her usual brisk manner, and though she was trying to help, it came off snappish.

The Inquisitor grimaced at the reminder of her time in Ostwick’s Chantry, before the Conclave. After her mother’s death, her father had sent her there for grief. There had been some parts of Chantry life she had like—the solitude and the library, certainly. But there were more things she had chafed at, especially when she first arrived. Austere Mothers and Sisters were no comfort for a grieving, frightened seven year old who had just lost her own warm mother.

“Hopefully no one from Ostwick’s Chantry has been summoned to speak against me. I wasn’t the most…devout sister there.”

There were a few half smiles at that.

Josephine nodded, taking note of Leliana’s words before turning to Cullen. “Commander, you’ve arranged the Herald’s guard, yes?”

Cullen nodded, “Everything’s been seen to.”

“Good. Now, Lady Trevelyan, we must practice your defense. Take a seat,” she waved at one of the wrought iron chairs around the table. “This will take a while; we need to be sure you’re doctrinal knowledge is impeccable.”

Elena groaned but did as she was told. “This is exactly like being back in the Chantry.”

“Hush,” Leliana teased. “Now, tell me, how many children did Andraste have with her earthly husband, Maferath?”

~*~

The Grand Cathedral rose up to the heavens in a cluster of delicate spires and elegant buttresses. As they approached, the dawn light blazed through walls of stained glass, casting everything around it in the red hues of fire as scenes from the life and death of Andraste were illuminated. Elena gripped the reins of her horse tighter as a swell of anxiety rose up in her.

It’s only a formality. It’s only a formality. Nothing bad will happen, she told herself over and over again. Her eyes were heavy from what little sleep she had managed last night. Leliana had kept her up until she was almost in tears from exhaustion, answering questions about Andraste’s Exalted March and which Divine had finally prohibited Revered Mothers from marrying. If that was Leliana trying to help, Elena was feared what an interrogation looked like.

Their procession entered the grand courtyard and Ser Delrin helped her dismount, before handing her off to Cullen so he could escort her into the Cathedral proper. The entire entrance had been choreographed to display their might, but Elena just happy to lean against the Commander as she tried not to trip on the hem of her dress. Vivienne, Josephine, and Leliana had all insisted in her wearing a gown instead of her usual armor, and her protests were drowned in a sea of chastisement.

“You’re a lady! You must present yourself as such if you want them to take you seriously. Not as some Marcher barbarian!” Leliana had chided.

The gown itself was white with thick bands of gold embroidery along the cuffs, collar, and hem. Her waist was cinched with a golden, jeweled band of silk, the tail of which fell to her knees. The long sleeves of the gown trailed behind her as she walked. It was all utterly ridiculous, but Vivienne had gone to such trouble to have it made in time, Elena was too frightened to risk her wrath by asking for something simpler.
Cullen tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, “deep breaths, Elena. You’ll be fine. I’m—we’re all right here.”

She nodded, barely registering what he said as she tried not to trip over her skirts and keep her breakfast down. The gnawing in the pit of her stomach grew with each step towards the elaborate gold plated doors, which opened before them. She and Cullen walked down the main aisle, their party following behind. The cavernous nave—large enough, it seemed to fit half of Val Royeaux—was half empty, but there were enough Grand Clerics seated in the pews to send ice through her veins. Each woman peered at her from below their miters, sizing her up and finding her wanting. The other half of the filled pews held the nobles of the city—whom, she presumed had spent good coin to get the seats they were in. As they approached the high alter, Elena saw the first few rows on the left hand side had been reserved for their party. A single wooden stool stood before the main altar, and gilded marble statute of Andraste staring down at it from above.

Cullen led her up the stairs before turning to face her. He brought her hand to lips, brushing a quick kiss to the back of her palm. He kept his warm amber eyes trained on hers, and she saw a glimmer of softness, of gentleness, in their depths that she had never seen before. Her heart slammed against her chest, and Elena wanted to grip his hand tighter and beg him not to leave her up there alone. Instead she willed herself to incline her head slightly and watch as he ll too soon dropped her hand and took his seat between Leliana and Josephine, leaving Elena to face the crowd alone.

The silence grew as those assembled stared back at her, the moment growing into discomfort. Before Elena started fidgeting, a woman garbed as a Grand Cleric appeared to her right from a side door. Without looking at the Inquisitor, she crossed the high altar, and climbed to the pulpit.

“Ladies of the Chantry, before us today is Lady Elena Trevelyan, daughter of Bann Heinrich of Ostwick, the so-called Herald of Andraste and self-styled leader of the heretical organization, the Inquisition. She is brought before you today to answer for her crimes: heresy, apostasy, and the murder of the Most Holy, Divine Justinia.”

Elena glanced at her advisors, worry clouding her gaze. Apostasy? She was not a mage—how could they charge her with that. Perhaps they meant the older meaning of the word: one who had been baptized in light but leaves the Chantry. Still, what was more troubling was that this Revered Mother was speaking as if Elena had already been found guilty.

The woman turned her gaze to Elena, who suddenly felt very small. “What have you to say in your defense, heretic?”

Elena swallowed hard. This was not going well.

~*~

Cullen watched the proceedings from his seat, his gloved hand tightening into a fist, with each moment. This wasn’t a trial, it was a sham. He watched as Elena sat before the Sunburst Throne under the cold gaze of Andraste and the Grand Clerics. She looked smaller than she was, alone up there, though Leliana’s plan of garbing the inquisitor in white to make her look innocent, to his eyes, worked. Elena looked positively virginal, like a bride on her wedding day. Not that it was going to help; from the way Mother Lucretia was speaking from the pulpit, the Grand Clerics had already come to a verdict.

He shook his head, banishing distracting thoughts, and focused on the Revered Mother’s words. “Do you have any witnesses to speak on your behalf?”

Elena glanced at the front pew, catching his gaze before shifted to the others. “Seeker Cassandra Pentagast and Sister Leliana will speak for me, Revered Mother.”

The Grand Cleric shook her head, “no I’m afraid that’s entirely impossible. Neither are ordained members of the Chantry. Only a Sister or a Mother may speak before the Grand Clerics.” “But they are the Right and Left Hands of the Divine!” Elena exclaimed, her cheeks flushing with anger for just a moment.

Cullen glanced at Leliana. A hard expression was fixed on her face, and he knew from experience that fury was brewing right below the surface.

The Revered Mother glared at Elena for her outburst, “former Right and Left Hands of the Divine. Now they are complicit in your heresy.”

Cullen could hear the crowd behind him murmuring—apparently the assembled nobles had not expected the Grand Clerics to be quite so obvious. Leliana bristled besides him; he could feel the fury rolling off of her at being called a heretic.

“Mother Giselle will speak for me,” Elena’s voice was smaller now. He could see that having her two main witnesses denied had taken what little confidence she had had earlier.

~*~

At midday the trial was convened for an hour. Elena hardly noticed as Cassandra and Josephine hurried her into an antechamber. A platter of cheese and fruit was set below yet another statue of Andraste, a jug of wine next to it. Elena didn’t feel like eating, in fact, she was quite sure she was going to throw up.

“This is a disaster,” she groaned as soon as everyone had entered and the door was kicked closed.

“We can still salvage this,” Cassandra urged.

Elena spun and glared at the Seeker, “Salvage this! Cassandra, you assured me this was mere formality.”

She had never seen anyone yell at Cassandra Pentaghast before, and she certainly would have never thought herself capable either, but here she was, lashing out at those who were trying to help her. Temperance had never been her chief virtue. The chamber fell silent as everyone waited to see how the Lady Seeker would react.

Cassandra stared at the Inquisitor for a moment, mouth slightly agape. Slowly she exhaled, “you’re right. I am sorry for leading your astray, though I…we could not have known what the Chantry had planned.”

“Regardless, what are we going to do now?” Cullen spoke from the back of the room.

They all looked at each other, the silence growing heavy.

~*~

“Do you believe to have been sent by Andraste herself?” Revered Mother Lucretia asked, peering over the pulpit at Elena.

“I believe that, yes.”

“And the Maker, as well?”

Elena glanced at her inner circle and advisors, trying to take some comfort from their presence. They had discussed some strategy during lunch, but this incessant questioning was making her nervous. “Yes, and the Maker.”

A smile spread across Mother Lucretia’s face. “But does the Chant of Light not teach us that the Maker turned his gaze away from humanity after the traitorous death of his Bride?”

Elena paused, unsure how to answer. The Revered Mother continued, “so if you say that you have been sent by Andraste and the Maker, is that not heretical?”

Another pause as she tried to think of Mother Giselle’s words to her when she had her own doubts. “The Maker’s hand can be seen in all things, Revered Mother.”

The Cleric sneered, “except heresy. And is it not true that you have proclaimed and spread this heresy through your efforts in the so-called Inquisition?”

Elena faltered, “I…”

"Tell me, Lady Trevelyan. How long were you at the Chantry at Ostwick as a lay sister?"

The abrupt change of questioning caught her off guard. Elena squeezed her hands together for a moment, trying to dispel the anxiety coursing through her veins. The Cathedral was silent as a tomb, and she was sure everyone could hear her heart pounding in her chest.

"I was sent to the Chantry when I was seven. I was there until this year, so fourteen years," she said, quickly doing the calculation in her head.

"And were you not educated in the ways of the faithful? Did you not take vows?" the Revered Mother continued.

"I was educated, yes. But I took no vows," Thank the Maker, or else I’d be guilty of breaking those too. ”My father worked out an agreement with Mother Maryanne that I was to take my official vows at twenty-five,” she paused, unsure if they Grand Clerics would want the reason behind that decision. “The hope was that an offer of marriage would be made, despite my lack of dowry, and if not, I was for the Maker.”

It hurt to say it out loud, like wrenching open a nearly healed wound afresh. Unwanted. Undesired.

"So you admit that you have been educated in the holy light of the Maker, yet still you persist in spreading your heresy?"

Her hands were shaking now, what had she gotten herself into? Heresy must be willfully and publicly professed even after correction for them to convict you, Leliana’s words rang in her ears. Dear Maker, I’ve walked myself right into it.

Chapter Text

The Grand Cathedral was freezing, despite the flames carved into the walls, swirling down every column, and etched into the windows. A full moon glimmered behind the large circular window of Andraste’s burning set above the grand doors at the front of the nave. Elena stood, head high and back straight as a group of ten Revered Mothers sat across from her on the high altar. They had finished questioning Mother Giselle, or rather, baiting Mother Giselle into speaking of her skepticism on Dorian’s influence over Elena, and her disapproval at having an adherent to the Qun within the inner circle.

“Before we adjourn to discuss your verdict,” Mother Lucretia began in a high clear voice. “have you anything final to say in your defense?”

Elena took a deep breath, and glanced at Cassandra for a moment, ready to take a plunge in a desperate attempt to avoid the fires. They had talked about this, whispered about it over the fine dinner she had been too frightened to do more than nibble at.

It could save you, Cullen had urged, the others agreeing emphatically.

She turned to face the crowd instead of the Mothers and fixed her gaze on Andraste’s serene face as the Archon thrust his sword through her heart. She took a deep breath.

“Good people of Val Royeaux, this trial is a mockery of law and order! The Grand Clerics, the remnants of our beloved Chantry, those not important enough to attend the Conclave, decided long ago that I would burn. I will get no justice here! As a free and noble woman of Ostwick, I invoke my right to a trial by combat. Only the Maker may judge me!”

A roar of surprise went up through the Grand Cathedral and the Grand Clerics across from Elena whispered and jabbed their fingers, angry, confused, unsatisfied to have their moment of victory grasped from them before they were to deliver it was an insult they had not expected.

Mother Lucretia stood, fury on her face, and with a snap of her fingers a dozen guards poured out of the side galleries and surround Elena.

“Take the heretic away!”

Many of the crowd jumped to their feet to protest as a steel encased fist gripped Elena's arm, dragging her towards a back stairway. She heard Cullen and Cassandra shouting as more guards marched in, cutting the high altar off from the rest of the nave in a wall of steel.

The men around her rushed her up the curving steps, faster and faster until the shouting of the crowds faded. Unused to her skirts and sleeves, the fabric twisting beneath her feet, Elena fell, sprawling against the flagstones. Her skull hit the top step with a resounding crack, and everything went dark.

~*~

Roughness wrapped in warmth brushed over her forehead. Another stroke. Gentle, feather light despite the rough feeling.

A sharp intake of breath. Hers.

Elena’s eyes flew open, searching her surroundings.

“I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

The room was dark, except for the mark on her hand and the blurred orange light pouring in the high windows from the street below. She could just make out his shape, sitting next to her on the edge of the bed.

“Cullen?”

He stayed his hand against her brow.

“I was examining the gash on your forehead,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of sheepishness.

She sat up a little and his hand fell to rest against her shoulder, his thumb pressed to the hollow between her collarbones. “Where am I? What happened?”

Cullen shifted a little, so that he faced her fully. “You’re in one of the rooms in the Grand Cathedral. Leliana and Cassandra just finished negotiating the terms of your trial by combat. I came to see how you were.”

Her last moments in the great nave below flashed back to her in a wave of anxiety. She ran her hand through her hair. Her trial. By combat. Yes, so the Grand Clerics had acquiesced in the end. She hadn’t been so sure as she was dragged away by guards.

“Am I being held prisoner?”

“Yes, your trial will be tomorrow at noon, on the tourney grounds outside the city.”

She could hear shouting far down below; the streets of Val Royeaux seemed to be alive. Leliana’s report from earlier that week that the city was a tinderbox ready to ignite resounded in her head. Her eyes slid from the windows to the man next to her. Elena studied her Commander in the dim light. His usually clam blond curls were a little wild, and the stubble along his jaw was thicker. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced, but in truth he always had them—Cullen wasn’t one for sleeping if he had duties to attend to. She felt guilty for being the source of his dishevelment, regardless. If life had turn out differently, perhaps they might have met under less dire circumstances. Maybe they could have…well, he was a handsome man. The scar cutting through his lip even added a hint of danger. And for all his strength and prowess, Cullen knew how to be gentle.

“If I’m to fight tomorrow, I’ll need my daggers from the villa,” she murmured trying to draw her thoughts to the situation at hand.

“That won’t be necessary,” Cullen grimaced; before she could protest, he continued. “Chantry law forbids women from defending themselves in trials—a convenient bylaw the Revered Mothers were too happy to point out.”

“Then how am I prove my innocence?” Her voice was perhaps more panicked than it she’d hoped.

None of this made sense. If she was prisoner, how was he here? Why was he here? Did the Grand Clerics truly expect her to find a champion by noon tomorrow? Questions ran through her mind as she chewed on her bottom lip, worrying over the pink flesh as she worried over her future. Cullen’s hand slipped from her shoulder to find her hand tangled in the blanket and once again she found her smaller hand enveloped in his large one. She didn’t pull away, instead studied the way the green glow the anchor cast a map of ridges and valleys of the veins and bones of his hand.

“Elena, I’ve come to offer myself as your champion,” his eyes and voice were earnest. “Let me fight for you tomorrow.”

The thought of it turned her blood to ice, and Elena gripped his hand tighter. Her words tumbled over her tongue, awkward and clumsy. She needed to make him understand what she herself didn’t understand.

“Cullen, you can’t. The fight is to the death…if you died…I don’t…I…the Inquisition needs you.”

He sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

“I’m the Commander of the Inquisition, Elena. I believe in it; I believe in you. I can’t stand idly aside while this happens.”

He stood walked to across the room, taking his hand away from hers to rub the back of his neck. Silhouetted against the window, she could almost hear the frown in his deep voice. “You are the Herald of Andraste, Elena. Sent by the Maker himself. Holy in the eyes of many. I am expendable. You are not.”

Elena stood and crossed the room to stand next him in three quick steps. The stones were cold beneath her feet, but she could bare it. Below the torch lights of the street blazed like lava flow. It looked as if the city were already alight. She placed a hand against his arm, and turned away from the window.

“You are not expendable to me.”

~*~

Her words hung weighty in the dark, a universe of nothing on the verge of its expansion into everything. You are not expendable to me. Cullen let them wash over him before he looked at the delicate woman standing beside him. He couldn’t say when he first began to love her—was it the first time he had laid eyes on her? Striding through the snow behind Cassandra? Or perhaps it had been the first time she had come running to speak with him after returning from the Hinterlands. The afternoon sun had been behind her, haloing her in light almost too bright to look at. Or one of their many long nights in council, her soft words spoken in wisdom beyond her years as she tentatively took up the mantle of leadership. No, he couldn’t say which or any of those moments it might have been that he began to fall in love with her, but Cullen could locate the moment when he knew.

When she had first heard of the Grand Clerics’ designs to burn her, she had accepted it with such grace, head held high and voice steady. The thought of losing her had squeezed his heart so hard, Cullen thought it might have stopped. He couldn’t let them take her—his need to protect her rose hard and fast through his chest, a roaring, demanding desire. He had watched her carefully on their way to Orlais, looking for any notice that he need to swoop in and save her, but as he watched, he realized—Elena Trevelyan was not delicate and breakable. She was steel wrapped in silk; a hurricane lurked under that calm demeanor, ready to break free, to unleash, and reshape the world in her own image. That realization was like being a young boy back at the Chantry and learning of the endless, all consuming love Andraste bore for the world.

The Maker’s Bride may have burned; failed and betrayed by those she trusted the most—held most dear—, but Cullen would be damned before he failed Elena.

And now. Now. Her words hung in the air, thick with unsaid meaning. Could she possibly care for him the way he cared for her? Him. A man so haunted by ghosts and wracked with guilt, he had left the only thing he had ever wanted, ever cared for, ever believed in. A knight without an order; a man crippled by lyrium withdrawals so blinding it was all he could do to lay in bed and whimper some days. He had hoped, certainly. The day they arrived in Val Royeaux, and she had clutched his hand for comfort. Still…

You are not expendable to me.

Cullen turned his warm, amber gaze to her face, a wry half smile on his lips. Her creamy skin glowed warm in the firelight from below, her hair fell around her shoulders and arms in a halo of fire. Sometimes he wondered if she wasn’t Andraste rebound, heavenly as she was. “Then I must not lose.”

“Cullen—” His name from her lips sent shivers down his spine.

“Elena, please,” he murmured, taking her hands in his. Such little hands, but able to wield daggers with deadly accuracy and to reshape Thedas as she pleased. They fit so nicely between his. Slowly, keeping his eyes trained on hers, he sank down to one knee before her. “Let me protect you.”

~*~

At the sight of him--this confident, powerful man--on his knees before her, Elena felt something shift deep within her. The feelings she had denied for so long welled up in her chest, bringing a soft sigh to her lips. He was so good, like a character in one of Varric’s tales. How could Cullen be real?

Slipping one her hands from his, she began to unwind the gold silk band about her waist.

“If you are to be my champion, you must have a favor,” she spoke softly, afraid to disrupt the moment, have it shatter like a dream from the fade upon waking. She held out the band of fabric to him and hoped he didn’t see the tremor in her hand. "So all the world may know you fight for me."

Cullen stood, unfolding his large body to tower over her once again, and plucked the silk from her fingers with his free hand. Folding it, he pressed it beneath his breastplate just over his heart.

He brought her hand to his lips and brushed a gentle kiss over the back of her palm. His stubble scratched against to skin, but his mouth was warm and soft. His other hand came to rest on her waist, almost as if they were going to waltz.

“Elena, might I take one liberty before I go?” His voice was low, huskier than usual.

A flush of heat burned just under her skin, ignited by the tone of his voice. She looked up at him, meeting his warm honey gaze.

“I…I couldn’t deny my champion anything,” she swallowed hard, unsure, but oh so curious to know what he would ask of her.

A smile spread across his lips. Dropping her hand, he stroked down her jaw to hold her chin between his thumb and fingers.

“I would never presume to take such liberties, but if I were to lose tomorrow—“

“Cullen, don’t—“ she began to protest.

“Hush,” he said not unkindly, “If thing were to go badly tomorrow, my only regret would be not doing this sooner.”

Tilting her chin up, Cullen brought his lips to hers. His mouth was warm and gentle as he coaxed her lips apart to press his tongue against her own. She sighed and sagged against him, his strong arms holding her up, holding her to him. The cold and fear banished from her bones as he pored light into her.

And then he was halfway across the room, calling that he would see her on the morrow. Elena put her hand against the cold stone wall to steady her shaking legs and wait for the chamber to stop spinning.

“Cullen!” She called, but he was already halfway down the stairs.

~*~

Hands curled in to fists, Cullen blocked out the echo of his name from her lips as it reverberated down the stone corridor with him. If he turned back now, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He would throw her down and rip that white gown from her white shoulders and hold her to him until he had sunk hilt deep between her warm thighs.

She made his blood run hot, and filled him with an aching need he hadn't felt in a long time. But he needed a clear head if he was going to keep them both alive past tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Elena finally managed to drift off to sleep by the time the streets had quieted below and the cold light of dawn filtered through the high windows. She spent thenight tossing and turning, one thought chasing after the other in a neverending cycle of anxiety, fear, and, most surprisingly, elation. Despite her dire situation, she couldn’t stop thinking about the feeling of Cullen’s mouth on hers. The heat of it, the strength behind his carefully controlled movements. The way he held her against him, desperate and desirous. She had wanted him to stay. If this was to be their last night on Thedas, she wanted to spend it shattering every last ounce of his control until he unleashed the full force of his desire on her. She wanted him to be her undoing.

But no, she couldn’t think like that. She had to believe that he would prevail; that he would save them both. This was not to be their last night, she repeated to herself, over and over again. She could not live with herself if she was the reason for his death—though, truth be told in that event she would not have long to live with her anguish.

All night these thoughts chased each other, swinging her on a wild arch of emotion until utterly exhausted and spent, her eyes grew heavy. She had just managed to fall asleep, sheets damn with sweat, when Leliana and Josephine burst through the tower door toting a large cedar chest between them.

“Up up up, Inquisitor! Time to make you ready for the trial,” Leliana called as they set the trunk down with a decided thud.

~*~

His right knee had gone numb some hours ago, but he kept his stance without complaint. One knee bent to the ground, hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword as he held it before him, forehead pressed to the pommel. The chant of light spilled from his lips again, and again, and again. Cullen had spend the night emptying himself of though, of emotion, of all his hopes and fears except…except every time he closed his eyes Elena’s face greeted him. Every time he let his rigid stance slip, even for a moment, he felt the press of her sinuous body against his. Every time his voice fell silent as he reached for the next verse, he heard her voice, breathy and soft, whispering his name in the dark.

“Commander, ser?” A voice called from behind him.

Cullen sighed, eyes opening as he turned to acknowledge the salute.

“It’s time to go to the tourney grounds, ser,” Ser Delrin stood just inside the doorway of the chapel, hesitant of disturb the Commander’s vigil.

Cullen stood slowly, and slid his sword back in its sheath; though he had not slept at all, he felt refreshed, renewed. It was almost like the night before his ordination to the Templars. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair. Maker, it seemed a lifetime ago that he had taken his vows—and another gone since he’d broken them as well.

His party of soldiers was somber as they journeyed though the city to the tourney grounds, though many lined the streets to see them; some children even threw flowers across their horses’ path. Word has spread that the Commander of the Inquisition had pledged himself as the Herald’s champion. Already the bards were composing songs, sweet lilting tunes declaring it a most romantic gesture.

They’re not wrong, he thought, at least, he hoped it had been romantic. Though his victory was not so sure as singers made it out to be. Cullen wondered what the songs would say if he lost. The heretic slut and her barbarian lover, perhaps? Orlesians are nothing if not witty.

As they rode into the tourney grounds proper, Cullen surveyed his surroundings. The field itself was oblong, with a ring of stands running all the way around. There were two elite boxes shaded from the sun by purple silk canopies, usually reserved for the Empress and the Divine he assumed, beneath which were the entrances. The marble walls around the field were his height plus half, though the Imperial and Divine boxes were slightly lower—most likely so the people could look at their leaders as much as the spectacles taking place before them. It was twice the length of the great hall at Skyhold and three times as wide. At the ends of each, next to the exits, were tents for him and his opponent. People were already lining the stands, and upon his entrance a roar rose up—though whether it was in encouragement or jeering, he was too distracted to say.

Cullen pressed his heels into his horse and rode across the hard packed dirt to the tent at the opposite end. Dismounting, he handed the reins to one of his squires, before motioning Ser Delrin inside a white tent bearing the Inquisition’s mark.

“When the Herald arrives, I want to see her,” he commanded, sending the other squire hurrying to lookout for Elena’s party.

He wasn’t entirely sure they’d let her, but he had to try. He wanted to--he wanted--he didn't know what he wanted, except to see her again. One last time, perhaps.

As he waited, Cullen examined his armor, checking over for any dents or frayed straps. It had just been inspected by Skyhold’s blacksmith, but he needed something to occupy his time. When that proved an exercise in redundancy, Cullen turned to sharpening his sword. The smooth shink of the whetstone sliding over veridium blade was rhythmic, calming. It helped him block out the ever growing roar of the crowd just outside the tent. And he paid no attention as Ser Delrin entered, placing the box on the table before him, nor when the same knight left again after a sharp salute. When he was confident that his blade was sharp enough to cut just by looking at it, he sheathed it. The sunlight fell through the slit of the tent’s opening; it would be noontide soon.

Cullen stood, and rubbed the back of his neck. Casting a wary eye towards the box on the table, he felt his nails dig into flesh involuntarily, and it took more willpower than it should have to relax his fingers. He had asked Delrin to bring it, though part of him hadn’t yet resolved to use it. He should use it though—Maker knew it would make him stronger, faster, better. Cullen took a step forward, hand outstretched, ready to brush the pads of his fingers across the smooth, polished surface in a lover’s caress. He could hear its soft song, whispering at the edge of his mind.

The tent flaps opened, a startling pool of sunlight falling into his eyes. Cullen stepped back from the table, arm raised until the sudden brightness subsided.

Elena stood before him, shrouded in the warmth of the late morning sun. Cullen inhaled sharply, mouth slightly agape. She was clad in a dress of gold lace, her shoulders tantalizingly bare and bodice tight. The skirts gradually shifted to a pure white as they flared out around her hips, drawing attention to her tiny waist. Her fiery hair had been bound up in a net of gold, set with orange and red jewels, a golden half circle, like the rising sun, rested in the crown her hair. She was fire: light and heat and life itself.

Maker it was hard to breath in this tent.

“Cullen?” her voice was soft, unsure, as she looked up at him through thick lashes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he hadn’t planned to say it, but the words tumbled out of his mouth faster than he could think better of it.

“Thank you,” she murmured, hands fidgeting with her cuffs and blushing prettily at his words.

“You wanted to see me?” Her voice was still soft, but bolder than before; she took a step towards him.

He swallowed hard, “Elena, I—“ he stopped, glancing on Ser Derlin, who had escorted her into the tent. “Leave us, Knight-Captain.”

“Commander,” Derlin saluted, bowed to Elena, and left without looking back.

He watched the tent flaps flutter closed—alone, finally—he turned his gaze back to Elena. To his dismay, a frown worried at her lips as she stared pointedly at the table.

“You’re taking lyrium?”

Cullen sucked in a breath, a sharp hiss of breath scraping across his lips. He’d never heard that particular shade of disappointment in her voice before. He had told her of his intentions of giving up lyrium, of breaking all ties with the Templars and the Chantry as he could. But he thought she would understand this.

“I…haven’t yet,” he answered, voice guarded.

“But you were planning on it?” The slightest notes of anger and hysteria joined the disappointment.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Taking a step forward, he gripped her shoulders, voice raised louder than he intended, “Elena, listen to me, it would only be this once. And it would save you. I will be better with it, stronger.”

She pushed his hands away, shaking her head, “it will not save me. You will save me. Just as you are.”

“Just as I am?! That is not a risk I’m willing to take!” He roared, surprising both of them with his anger.

She squared her shoulders, a determined look on her face, “So help me Andraste, Cullen! If you take that—do you really, truly believe it would be just once?” She jabbed a finger to his chest, “because I don’t. I will not be your excuse.”

Anger simmered just below his skin, ready to lash out, but he held himself in check, taking a step back from her.

“Maker’s breath, woman! I can’t you see I’m doing this to save you?”

She threw her hands up, “If you dare take that lyrium, Maker turn his gaze upon me because I’ll forfeit the match and throw myself at the mercy of the Chantry.”

He narrowed his eyes, gripping her forearm and pulling her towards him. His other hand claimed her hip in a steel embrace.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed.

Her hands were curled into fists, buried in the fabric of his tunic, a hard frown fixed on her lips. Cullen suddenly became aware of how close they were, her slight frame pressed against him once again, the very image of his unbidden thoughts the night before. She breathed heavily, her breasts becoming fuller with each inhale, straining against her bodice and pressing against his chest. The air was heady, golden and thick around them. Slowly, he bent his head towards her upturned face. Elena’s lips had been painted red, but he was sure no one would notice if—

“Commander, Inquisitor! It’s nearly time to start,” Ser Delrin called, pushing the tent flap up, but not yet entering.

Elena’s expression softened at Delrin’s words. The hardness melted away from her lips and retreated from her eyes as fear took over. She arched up, pressing closer to him, dragging her body along his hard form. It took all his strength to keep his knees steady.

“Please, Cullen,” she pleaded, her lips brushing the lob of his ear. “Just as you are.”

Elena brushed her lips against his cheek; it may have been the light, but he swore her cheek was damp with tears as she pulled away. Cullen loosened his grip, emotions chocking the words in his throat until she had left the tent, flaps settling down after a moment.

His amber gaze fell to the box on the table as he swallowed hard.

~*~

Elena sat gracefully, white skirts billowing around her legs. Cassandra and Dorian sent her wayward glances from where they sat on either side of her. She smiled, pretending her cheeks weren’t still damp with anger and frustration. She didn’t know which she wanted more: to push Cullen to the ground and ride him like a stallion or to hit him in the head with his own shield. Perhaps both. How could he dream of taking lryium? The struggle, the pain he had suffered all these months, was it all to be for naught?

Of course the wicked substance would enhance some of his templar abilities, but he would not be fighting mages—there was no way that the Chantry would choose a mage as their champion with the current political situation. He knew that. And how could he even think of it, after all he’d worked for to break his chains? And how dare he manhandle her like that! She was the Herald of Andraste, for Maker’s sake. He had no right to seize her and shake her...but oh how his body had felt against her own. His muscles had been rigid with tension, and not just his muscles.

Elena made a disgusted noise just loud enough for Dorian to raise an eyebrow at, and turned her attention to the field. Across from her, on the other side of the arena, the Mother Lucretia and her nine Grand Cleric cronies hovered together in the Divine box.

The sun was at its zenith and a herald of the Chantry stepped onto the field, trumpet sounding. The stands fell unearthly quiet, and she realized her hands were gripping the armrests of her chair so tight her nails left marks in the wood.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Val Royeaux! Distinguished guests! Today you bear witness to the Maker’s work—today the fate of Lady Elena Trevelyan, so called Herald of Andraste and leader of the heretical Inquisition will be decided. Fighting as her champion is Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, Commander and Tactical Advisor of the Inquisition and former Knight-Captain of the Templar Order.”

A cheer went up through the crowd as Cullen stepped onto the field—it seemed at least some of the masses hungered to see the fight play out in her favor. Elena’s heart squeezed tight in her chest as she beheld him. Instead of his usual armor, he was clad in golden plate and chain mail, the Inquisition’s crest emblazoned on his chest with black diamonds. Behind him, Ser Delrin carried his lion helm, a few squires trailing after him. When Cullen reached the center of the field, the herald motioned for the crowd to quiet.

“Fighting as the champion of the Chantry, Chevalier Richard de San-Germaine, Coeur de Ténèbres, Viscount de Val Aryn and Grand Marshal of the northern army!”

A roar equal to the one heard moments before went up through the stands, as the chevalier stepped out of his tent. Her stomach dropped; Elena had never heard of this Richard, Coeur de Ténèbres, but he was—perhaps besides Bull—the biggest man she’d ever seen. Thick as a tree and head and shoulders taller than Cullen, the man moved slowly in his black enameled plate mail, but the war hammer he carried in one hand looked heavy enough to crack right through a breastplate in one swing.

“Cullen has to fight that?” She exclaimed.

Leliana leaned over her seat to whisper at Elena’s ear.

“He’s a mercenary who was rewarded with lands and title for slaughtering Grand Duke Gaspard’s favorites. Utterly ruthless,” Leliana paused, noticing the rather green color Elena’s face had taken at her words. “But do not worry yourself, Inquisitor, the Commander’s an excellent swordsman. I've seen him take down bigger pride demons.”

Somehow, Leliana's words were of no comfort. Elena tried to quiet the snide, jeering voices at the back of her mind that said she was sending Cullen to his death.

“The rules of the duel are simple,” the herald called. “The Maker will show his favor by championing the just. No trickery, only honest moves. The last man standing will reveal the Maker’s judgment. Gentlemen, make your final preparations.”

Cullen turned to Delrin and the squires. A small boy walked forward, carrying the philter that held his lyrium. Elena’s pressed her lips into a tight line and waited to see what he’d do. She was fully prepared to call off the match the moment the substance touched his lips. Cullen looked at the boy and the box for a long moment; though he was too far away, Elena swore she could see the battle of emotions over his face. After the longest five seconds of her life, Cullen sent the boy away with a waive of his hand.

“He’s not taking lyrium?” Dorian asked.

“It would seem not,” Cassandra replied dryly.

Elena hardly paid attention to them; she knew the display had been for her benefit. He would do as she wished; he would forego lyrium. Her heart squeezed in her chest, and she could not stop the smile from her lips as she Watched Cullen pulled out the gold silk band she had given him, and wind it around his own waist, Elena allowed herself to admire how valiant he looked, like a hero from one of the old tales. The crowed murmured—the bards had been sure to spread an account of her trial at the Grand Cathedral, truly most recognized her belt around his waist.

Cullen donned his lion helm last, casting one final look at the box she was seated in. Elena smiled at him, though it was doubtful he could see her well enough to tell or read the fear that still hovered in her eyes. He stood, shield up and sword high, waiting.

The Viscount did not make him stand long. As soon as the trumpet sounded, he swung his war hammer in an arch over his head, bringing it down with tremendous force. Cullen blocked with his shield, redirecting the hammer’s swing to the side, and cut against his opponent’s ribs with his sword. His opponent thrust forward, tying to knock Cullen off balance, but he side stepped quickly.

Elena gasped, eyes wide, she watched Cullen and the Viscount dance around the pitch in a deadly waltz, exchanging blows and blocks as easily as courtiers exchanged flirtations. As much as she was terrified of seeing Cullen’s skull smashed in, she couldn’t bear to look away. Wringing her hands together, she winced as her champion took a glancing blow to the chest.

“Andraste’s asshole! That’s a shield in your hand Cullen, block with it!” Varric yelled from somewhere behind her.

The Viscount swung again, but Cullen twisted around, his sword flashing in the afternoon light as it came down hard on his opponent’s calf. The Viscount stumbled for a moment, and Cullen bashed the pommel of his sword into the hulking man’s helmet. Elena’s heart leapt into her throat—he was going to win!

Suddenly, the Viscount’s arm lashed out in a powerful blow, hitting Cullen square in the chest and sending him reeling back. He stumbled, landing on one knee, sword flung out of his hand.

“NO!” Elena yelled, hand flying to her mouth.

Cullen raised his shield just in time to block a hammer blow. In a swift motion, he stood, and bashed the bigger man hard enough to make him loose his balanced for just a moment. He pressed the advantage, hitting again to knock the Viscount over, before running back to grab his sword. Getting a grip on the hilt, Cullen swung round, sword up just in time to block another blow.

She couldn’t watch, she couldn’t watch, she couldn’t watch. You have to! If he died, he was hurt, oh she couldn’t bear it. Should she have let him take the lyrium? Would that have helped? No, that was madness—no matter what happened, Elena would not regret her request. Her hand pressed hard against her mouth, making her teeth ache as she tried to strangle the scream ready to burst forth.

Dorian reached over and grabbed her hand in his own and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"No need to let the vultures know you're worried," he said, jutting his chin towards the Divine box across from them.

The sun was lower in the sky now and the two champions were moving slower. Cullen had lost his helm and the Viscount was limping. They came together, clashing, before springing apart only to be drawn back together again. Anxiety coiled in the pit of her stomach, hot and slippery like a snake.

In a flash, Cullen was on the ground, shield and sword out of reach. Elena felt sick, ready to lose her scant breakfast.

The Viscount swung his hammer down; Cullen rolled out of the way just in time and sprung up, slamming the entire weight of his body into the other man. They when tumbling down in a tangle of metal, an awful wrenching sound filling the air as armor scrapped on armor. The diamonds on Cullen's breastplate popped off, scattering into the dirt. Elena held her breath, terrified that the Viscount would bring one gauntleted fist down on Cullen’s unprotected head.

“Andraste save him!” she breathed, gripping Dorian’s hand hard enough to cut off circulation.

The Viscount punched blindly, but Cullen dodged, scrambling for a weapon. Faster than Elena thought possible for a man in armor to move, he leaped across his enemy and rolled, grabbing the war hammer in both hands. Standing, Cullen lifted it over head. With a might roar, he swung the hammer in an arch overhead and brought it down with a sickening thunk into the Viscount’s helmet.

Brain and blood exploded in the air, covering Cullen’s snarling face in gore, as the stands fell dead silent before bursting into roaring, deafening applause. Cullen tossed the hammer aside as Ser Delrin rushed to him. He leaned heavily on the younger templar as they walked over to the Inquisition’s tent. Delrin began to help Cullen remover his arm.

Elena was on her feet hands clutching the marble lip of the imperial box. She wanted to vault over the edge and run to him, fling herself into his arms. But that would not be proper, no—they had to do this properly, if only to give the bards fodder for their tales. She turned to Dorian, ready to ask him to escort her down, when Josephine called her attention to the field once more.

The herald had arrived from the Divine box, trumpet in hand. He blew two short blasts, claiming the crowd’s attention.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! It has been brought to the attention of the council of heralds that though Ser Cullen killed his opponent, he did not do so with his own weapon. According to Chantry bylaws, the match is forfeit. The Maker has spoken! Lady Elena is guilty of the crimes brought before her. She and her champion will be executed immediately. Seize them!”

At his words, the stadium erupted into chaos.

Chapter Text

Several things happened at once.

The crowd began to move, surge, around the tourney grounds. Some fighting each other, others, fleeing, more moving with anger towards the Divine box. Their voices rose and fell, joining more shouts from outside the structure as those assembled beyond were told of the Chantry’s interference. The angry, simmering feeling that had left the city sweltering and uncomfortable was boiling over as news spread that the Herald would be executed despite her champion’s victory. The tinderbox had finally ignited. Only time would tell how hot the inferno would burn.

Guards marched into the Imperial box, shields held before them, blocking the exits. Elena’s companions reached for their weapons, and she found herself reaching behind her back for her daggers. When her hand met empty air, she cursed. Josephine hadn’t allowed her to arm herself over the fine dress. She back up towards the lip of the box, hands resting on the smooth marble stones behind her. Blackwall shoved Josephine behind him and Cassandra; Elena reached forward, taking the diplomat’s hand and tugging her back to the edge of the box. The guards made no move to strike, but stood, menacing around them.

Down on the field, more city guards marched in from under the Divine box, making their way rapidly towards Cullen and his men. Delrin and the others unsheathed their swords and as the Commander hurried to buckle his sword belt and scabbard back around his hips. He glanced back at the entrance under the Imperial box and cursed when he saw the crowds crushing in. Running, he swung up on to his horse, his thoughts racing to Elena. The beast shied away from all the excitement, prancing in a nervous circle before Cullen got his mount under control. He raced towards the Imperial box.

The guards around her and her companions took a step forward, swords unsheathing in one fluid motion.

“Give up the heretic and you may live,” one of them ordered from under their helmet.

Elena’s heart pounded in her chest and she wished to the Maker that she had her daggers on her.

“We will die before you lay a hand on her,” Cassandra exclaimed, raising her sword high.

“Then die!” the front guard snarled, signaling his men to attack.

“Elena! ELENA!”

She turned, looking down to see Cullen below her, arm outstretched, “jump down, quickly!”

She was torn—part of her longed to stay and fight for her life, reviled the very idea of running away. The other part of her knew she hadn’t a chance at surviving without her weapons.

“What are you waiting for?” Josephine urged, helping Elena climb atop the edge of the Imperial box.

“Hurry!” Cullen called, standing in the stirrups to reach her.

She grabbed his arm and jumped, landing in his lap in a flutter of gold and white skirt. Wrapping his arm around her waist in a vise-like grip, Cullen kicked his heels in, urging the horse to action. The beast sprang forward, bolting through the exit under the Imperial box. Elena screamed, fearful of falling off, but Cullen held her tight to him as they flew across the plain. The crowd parted around them, closing off more advancing guards to their rear. The city roiled with people, shouts and screams piercing the air with the unmistakable sounds of battle back at the tourney grounds.

Cullen steered the horse west, away from the city and towards the marshes. Body hunched forward, he drove the horse as if all the armies of hell were at their heels. She clung to him, desperate to stay ahorse, yes, but also to convince herself that he was still alive. As the leagues fell away under their thundering hooves and the city disappeared over the horizon, Cullen slowed their mount. Elena took the opportunity to ruck her skirts up around her knees and swing into the saddle properly so that she rode like a man. As she did so, she noted her golden slippers had fallen off in the chaos of their escape. Though he loosened his iron like grip on her, Cullen kept his arm snug around her hips, pressing her back into the hard planes of his body.

“We’ll look to make camp as soon as we reach the marsh,” he murmured, lips close to her ear.

She nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. Everything had happened so quickly—surely they would be followed! That was, if the crowds around the stadium did not obscure the horse’s tracks. Somehow, Elena imagined the city guards would be more concerned with putting down the rioting than track them. The Empress would be angrier, Elena thought, if her capital city burned to the ground. She sighed, weary already from thinking of it all—right now, it would be Leliana and Josephine’s mess to sort out. Once they had put everything in order, surely they would send scouts to find the wayward Commander and Inquisitor. Hopefully, the Inquisition would find them before the Chantry, anyway. There was really nothing more she or Cullen could do except hide themselves well and wait.

She leaned back, resting her head on his shoulder. Selfish though it might be, Elena was grateful to have his strength to draw upon. He moved a little, resituating them so that she fell more squarely against his chest and snug between his muscular thighs. Elena rested her temple against his neck and listened as his heartbeat slowed, matching the rhythm of the horse’s hooves against the ground. Along the horizon, she could just make out the dark smudge that would be the marshes. It was a place of trees tall as the Grand Cathedral and thick as giants, winding trails that twisted off into dead ends and worse. A place that mothers warned their children wicked things would carry them off to, if they did not behave. But still, it was their only refuge. Val Royeaux was hemmed in by the sea to the east and south. To the north lay only flat plain, which offered no place to hide.

The miles fell away as twilight descended, and with it hear fears of being followed lessened. They had a good head start against any looking to drag them back to the headsman, and Cullen had been careful to ride through water whenever they encountered it to confuse the trail. The moon was high and ripe in the sky as the horse entered the brambled tree line of the marsh. Cullen steered them through shallow streams, in a final attempt to throw any would be trackers brave enough to follow them through the treeline. Hot though the day had been, Elena found herself shivering and pressing close to Cullen for warmth. His free hand at her waist move to rub her arm as rain began to trickle through the tree branches, causing her skirts to plaster against both their legs.

Following a stream deep into the heart of the marsh, they turned abruptly into a clearing, a small cabin dark at the center. Pulling the horse to a stop, Cullen slid from the saddle before handing the reins to her.

“Stay here,” he whispered.

Elena nodded, and watched him slowly stalk across the clearing, hand gripping the hilt of his sword. He nudged the cabin door open with his foot and disappeared inside. Elena sat up in the saddle, ready to react at the first sign of danger. The wind whistled through the trees, stirring the Nevarran moss gently. She could hear nothing save her heartbeat and the patter of rain against the ground.

A moment later, Cullen returned, walking confidently towards her.

“Empty, but just so,” he informed, tying the reins to a nearby tree branch. “A hunting cabin. Lucky for us it’s not hunting season. We can leave some gold to repay any supplies used.”

Elena nodded in agreement and made to dismount. Before she could, Cullen reached forward, plucking her from the saddle and lifting her into his arms.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, not a little surprised, and locked her arms around his neck.

Striding through the clearing, he kicked the cabin door closed behind them, and gently set her down before the hearth. He stayed close for a moment, arms still around her waist, head bent to her ear.

“I didn’t want you to walk through the muck,” Cullen explained, warm breath brushing over her cheek.

Warmth spread through her body at the nearness of him. She looked up, anticipation coiling deep in her belly. He held her gaze, the heat of his eyes sinking into her skin.

After a long moment, he reluctantly stepped away.

Elena watched him move about the cabin, pacing—he was a big man, and the space almost looked too small around him. The room itself was intersected by a wall that ran halfway through the cabin, screening the back corner where the bed was, but not closing it off completely. The front of the room was dominated by a large stone fireplace, its mantle cluttered with various pots and pans. A table and chairs were shoved into the corner. The opposite wall was covered with shelving and storage, it seemed, for various foodstuffs, herbs, and linens.

“I’m going to see to the horse,” Cullen announced, stalking outside.

A cool wind blew through the door as he left. She shivered again. Taking the tinder box from the mantle, she crouched at the hearth. She hadn’t made a fire herself since leaving the chantry, but her fingers remembered well enough. Once the larger logs had lit, Elena stood. Turning, she found Cullen regarding her thoughtfully. A frown creased her brow, as she noticed a cut above his right eye, and more bloodstains on his shirt. Her fault, a voice at the back of her head whispered. She hated that she had caused him harm, even if he had readily agreed to the trial in the first place.

“Sit down,” she ordered, indicating a chair tucked into the table.

He obeyed as she bustled about the room, gathering a bowl of water, some linens, and liquor. With him sitting, they were almost at eye level, though for once he had to look up at her. She tilted his chin up with one hand and dabbed the alcohol soaked linen against his cut with the other. Cullen hissed as the cloth touched his face, but he didn’t pull away.

“What do we do now?” She asked, gently wiping the blood off the side of his face with a different cloth, this one dipped in water.

“Wait for Leliana to send word it’s safe for us to come back to the city, I suppose,” he murmured, warm amber eyes fixed on her lighter ones.

Neither of them wanted to think about what would happen if it never became safe for them to return to the city. She pursed her lips and took inventory of any other visible wounds. He had some scrapes along his hands and forearms, but it was nothing serious. Elena took his hands in her own, first one, then the other, cleaning his knuckles. That done, her eyes fell lower. Though he still had a tunic on, she could see there was a gash along his ribs.

“Take your shirt off,” she said, motioning him up with her hands, her spine prickling at the authority in her voice.

Cullen raised his eyebrows, a slight smirk on his face. He stood, close enough to her that she could feel the heat rolling off his body as he lifted his shirt over his head, mussing his curls even more than their flight across the plains had. Tossing the tunic aside, his smirk deepened as he watched her take in his form.

Elena couldn’t quite stop her eyes from raking over his muscular body, heat pooling between her legs as she struggled to keep the blush from her cheeks. He was all broad shoulders and trim waist; a light thatch of golden hair spread across his chest, tapering and trailing down past the band of his breeches. Across the hard muscles of his abdomen and torso, and over a layer of freshly forming bruises, webbed silver-pink scars: one snaking from just below his navel to curve up under his left nipple. She felt the inexplicable urge to trace its journey across the warm expanse of his skin with her mouth.

Cullen cleared his throat and heat rose to her cheeks. Turning to the water bowl again, she hopped he didn’t see her hand shake as she wet the cloth. If she had found the courage to glance at his face, she would have seen the amusement in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Elena began to remove the crust of blood from his right side, where a shallow gash split across the skin.

Head bent, he watched her. Her rogue’s hands moved deftly, gently as she cleaned the blood from his torso, fingers brushing the hard lines of his muscles every now and again. Her lips set in a hard line of concentration, she swiped the gash with alcohol, and tried not to notice the way his muscles flexed at the pain. She made to bind it, but he stopped her, a hand against her own.

“Leave it be.”

The air was thick, heavy around them. Elena found herself painfully aware that they were completely and utterly alone with no chance of being interrupted. Her mind wandered back to the night before—Maker, had it only been one night? He had kissed her, stolen her breath and fanned the flames of her desire. She had spent all night replaying that kiss. And now, oh now, she wanted to do more than just replay it in her mind.

She didn’t just want him, she ached for him.

“Cullen—” she began.

“Thank you for your ministrations, my lady,” he held her hand against his mouth as he spoke, whispers of his lips dragging across her knuckles with each word. She took a step closer to him.

“It’s the least I can do to thank my champion,” she murmured, placing her free hand against his chest. “For saving us both.”

She glanced up at him, trying to communicate the myriad of emotions she was feeling—happiness, contentment, relief, desire. He was alive; they were both alive, and well. And no one was going to come between them. All the words she had wished to give voice to were suddenly, painfully, heavy on her tongue. Tears of relief clouded her eyes, and she struggled not to let them fall.

He gently tugged her hand around his neck, and cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb along her smooth skin. Lowering his face, Cullen pressed his lips over hers, once, twice, thrice. Elena sighed, and leaned against him, causing a shiver to run up his spine at her still damp gown against his hot skin.

“We should get you out of those wet clothes before you catch your death,” he murmured, voice rumbling deep in his chest.

Sweet Andraste. Was he suggesting…Elena took a deep breath. Yes, she wanted this, wanted it more than she could articulate.

Shy smile spreading over her lips, she stepped out of his embrace, fingers trailing down his chest as she did so. The invitation clear in her eyes, she crooked her finger at him before stepping behind the wall partitioning the room. He followed her a moment later, taking the time to unbuckle his sword belt and set the blade against the table. While she waited, she unfastened the net of gold and tiara from her hair and set them atop the dresser at the foot of the bed.

Judging by the sharp intake of breath behind her, Cullen stepped around the wall just in time to see her hair tumbling down her back.

Dragging her long locks away from her neck to hang over her breasts and stomach, Elena presented her back to him and looked coyly over her shoulder, “I need help unlacing myself.”

A ripple of longing tore through her at the raw desire on his face as he stepped towards her. Elena squeezed her thighs together, sending small waves of pleasure alight on her skin as she turn away. A moment later, she felt a tug at the stays of her gown. Cullen worked slowly, taking his time moving down the expanse of her back until she could feel his fingers against the base of her spine. The dress fell away in a soft whisper of silk. Wearing nothing but her corset, underskirt, and stockings, she listened to the hitch in his breath as he took in her undressed from. Before she could turn to him, his fingers were back between her shoulder blades, loosening the stays of her corset. This time, she could feel fingertips brush over her bare skin with each subsequent little crossing unraveled. She shivered as cool air caressed her flesh and Cullen peeled the corset open and away from her body.

It dropped to the floor, and her nipples pebbled in the cool air. Instinctively, she brought her arms to cover her naked breasts, but Cullen pulled them back down to her sides, his hands brushing against her as he did so. Elena bit her lip, suppressing a moan of surprise and desire as the rough but oh so gentle feeling of his touch on her breasts. Cullen pressed his mouth to her neck, hands pinning her wrists against her waist.

“No, don’t hide.”

“Oh,” she sighed, as his lips trailed hot, open mouthed kisses down each notch of her spine, little flicks of his tongue every now and again setting skin to fire beneath his touch.

Kissing the dimples above the swell of her hips, Cullen untied the bow of her underskirt. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of her smalls, he deftly pushed both skirt and knickers down to her ankles. His large, rough hands cradled her hips as he knelt behind her. Again lips met the curve of her bottom. Turning her, his mouth trailed to the crest of her hipbone, to the junction of thigh and the red thatch of curls between her legs, to just above the golden satin bows on the top of her silk stocking.

Elena stared down at him in awe. This powerful warrior was on his knees, worshiping her body with his hands, his mouth, his eyes. It was enough to send heat pulsing through her core, warm and burning in her belly. He peeled one stocking from her leg, his lips following its descent. A kiss against her thigh, at the divot behind her knee, her shin, the curve of her ankle. Balancing one hand against his shoulder—muscles coiled tight under her touch—she lifted her leg, obliging him to pull the stocking all the way off. He turned his attention to the other leg, repeating the slow descent of his hands and mouth.

Once she had been stripped bare, Cullen rocked back on his haunches and raked his gaze up her, traveling up her body in slow, naked adoration. It should have made her feel embarrassed, the way his eyes focused on the already wet lips between her legs before sweeping over the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the heaviness of her breasts. But she didn’t; the way he looked at her—Maker—the way he looked at her made her feel like she had always been just for him.

“Elena,” he prayed.

She closed her eyes, letting his voice wash over her. It sent shivers arching across her body. Her desire was slick and warm on her thighs.

He rocked forward again, on his knees before her. His hands cupped the crest of her hips with tenderness, as if he were afraid she’d shatter under his touch. Leaning forward, he kissed smooth, pale skin just above her curls, nipped at the lower curve of her navel, lips making their way up, up, up, to kiss the swell of her left breast, just below the nipple. His arms shifted, wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer as he stood, head bent to the right breast, kissing just above her nipple.

A high whine escaped her throat, both pleasured and frustrated, as her pebbled peaks ached for his attention. One strong hand tangled in her hair, tugging just hard enough to tilt her head up, exposing the long curve of her throat to him. Cullen kissed the dip between her collarbones, the curve of her neck, her jaw, as he unfolded himself against her. Elena could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against her stomach through his trousers. Another ripple of pleasure ripped through her at the feel of it.

Cullen searched her face, his expression serious, “do you want this, Elena? Want me?”

She studied him carefully, his handsome face—strong brow, and jaw framed by stubble, sharp cheekbones and full, expressive mouth, the scar only adding to her attraction. And his eyes, oh Maker, his eyes. Golden and so readable, always flashing with anger or sympathy, or, as of right now, lust.

A smile sprang to lips, slow and gentle as she twined her arms around his neck, “Cullen, my commander, my champion, I would have no other man but you,” she pressed her lips to his. “In my bed,” another kiss. “Claiming me,” a third kiss. “Making me your own.”

He moaned into her mouth, blunted nails raking down her back as he hauled her up against his chest. His lips were insistent, pressing against hers, coaxing her lips apart. His tongue stroked her tongue, a sensation she didn’t know she wanted until he gave it to her. They stood together, entwined in each other’s arms, lips locked in a desperate embrace, as the rain pattered heavily against the cabin roof. Cullen’s hands traveled up and down her back, stroking, and memorizing her skin as his mouth learned the secrets words hidden behind her lips and under her tongue. The heat in her belly stoked higher, sending an ache deep between her legs, making her arms heavy and her legs weak. Slowly, she pulled away, lower lip dragging between his teeth.

Elena stepped back, his hands loose about her hips, until she felt the mattress hit the back of her knees. He watched her, eyes lidded with lust. She could feel the tension rolling off of him, raw power coiled tight under his skin as he struggled to remain in control—in control of himself, in control of the situation.

“Come claim your prize, Cullen,” she whispered, crooking a finger at him.

He pounced, his lips quirked into a half-smile and a growl rumbling low in his chest as his resolved shattered. They fell backwards into the soft cocoon of pillows and blankets. Cullen pressed her to the mattress with his hard warrior’s body; there was something dominant and primal about the pressure of him above her, the slide of skin on skin, that Elena want to open her legs to him, to spread herself and welcome him into her body.

His mouth sought hers and his hands cupped her face. Their kisses were frantic, a clash of lips and tongues as he delved deeper into their embrace. She could feel the hard jut of his cock against her stomach. She rolled her hips, frantic and wanton against him. Cullen groaned as his cock twitched at the wet heat between her legs.

Breaking their kiss, he rested his forehead against hers and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Elena ran her fingers through his golden curls, something she’d had the urge to do since she met him. They were softer than she imagined, and her fingers left a few errant strands hanging down over his forehead.

“Are you…is this your first time, sweetheart?”

She shivered at the tenderness in his voice, the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Sweetheart. Not Inquisitor, or Herald, or Your Worship. Just a simple name any man might call his woman. A title just between them.

She nodded, a crease between her brows; would he think any less of her?

“Yes…I mean, I’ve used my hands, but…”

Cullen nodded, rolling off of her to lie on his side, body still tight up against her own. One hand around her shoulders, the other stroked down her throat, fingers feather light on her skin. She sighed and arched her back, craving the soft tickling feeling. Clever fingers moved lower, circling the full swell of her breast, around and around while rough thumb rubbed her nipple. Elena gasped and squeezed her legs together as a jolt of pleasure snaked down her body to the apex of her thighs. Cullen chuckled.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured before bending his head to her other breast. Capturing her pink peak between his teeth, he rolled his tongue around it, the scruff of his beard scratching against her. Mouth and hands working in concert as her breathy moans came faster and faster, and he smirked against her chest.

Maker, was it possible to come undone from this alone? The ache between her legs was stronger, more insistent than ever. She bucked her hips, desperate for attention, a whimper of frustration escaping her lips.

“Tell me what you want,” Cullen encouraged.

His hot breath contrasted pleasantly against the cool pebble of her nipple, slick from his tongue. She squirmed against him, and tired to find the words to express the fire burning below her skin.

I want you, I need you, take me, fill me, fuck me.

“Your hands, I want…use your hands on me,” she panted.

Cullen smiled, a true smile; it was the smug one he got on his oh so handsome face when he beat Dorian at chess. She could just see it, peeking out from below her chest as he looked up at her.

“As you wish,” he said, before returning his mouth to breasts, sucking the soft curve into his mouth, just to the side of her nipple.

His tongue laved over her flesh, making her breasts feel heavy and full. He tweaked her right nipple a final time, eliciting a squeal, before he slid his hand down her body, fingers splayed, to cup her sex. She groaned at the sudden, intimate contact. His middle finger nestled against her slit, and his thumb brushed over the bundle of nerves just above. Slowly, maddeningly, he stroked one finger along her seam, not yet entering, but applying just enough pressure for her to writhe under his touch.

“Cullen,” she gasped, gripping his forearm hard enough to bruise.

“Yes, my lady?” He chuckled, sinking one digit into her, sliding in and out.

“Oh, fuck,” profanity was all she could manage as the feeling of his rough, thick fingers overwhelmed her.

“Not yet,” he growled.

He worked slowly, crooking his finger up and out, stroking in just the right spot. Elena watched the muscles and cords of his forearm flex and dance under her grip, as his fingers disappeared between her legs, only to reappear, glistening and slick in the low firelight. She moaned when he added another finger, scissoring and stretching inside of her. Soft wet sounds joined her gasps as he plundered her, this thumb rubbing lazy circle around her clit. His mouth journeyed up her throat, to suck and nibbled just below her ear.

“Cullen, oh, don’t stop,” she bit her lip and bucked her hips into his hand.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispered in her ear. “Maker’s breath, you’re so warm and wet and mine.”

Elena screamed. His thumb and fingers pressing insistently into her, she clenched around his hand as waves of pleasure spread across her body. Eyes screwed closed and blood thrumming through her veins; it was so much better then when she used her own, slimmer fingers. He stroked her through her orgasm, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of her. When her heart had stopped hammering in her chest, he slowly withdrew his hand. She whimpered, suddenly empty and aching again.

Cullen lazily trailed his fingers, still slick with her pleasure, up her body, leaving a glimmering trail in the crackling light. Down her arm, he laced their hands together. She rolled on her side, pressing herself fast against him, aching for more contact, more skin against skin. His cock twitched in his trousers at the sudden warmth of her belly against it. Gently, he tugged her hand to it. She squeezed, and he bucked his hips into her touch. Maker, he felt thick and long and perfect in her grip.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded, his voice dripping with desire.

She bit her lip, squeezing and stroking him through the fabric. She’d never—Maker, she’d thought about this moment, but she’d never allowed herself to hope it would happen. To have this man, this strong, powerful man, pressed against her, thrusting into her hand, just as desperate for her touch as she was for his.

Reaching down with her other hand, she ripped at the laces of his breeches, dragging them down over his hips. He kicked them off with a grunt, muscular legs and thighs finally free to her gaze. His cock rested hard and heavy in her hand. Elena sucked her lower lip, raking it over teeth as she admired him—his length and girth, and the oh so soft feeling of his skin encasing unbelievable hardness. She dragged her fingers from the base to tip, squeezing gently. Sweet Andraste, the noise he made as she held him; his eyes rolled back into his head, and thrust into her hand again, the head of his cock hitting her stomach.

“You, I want you, Cullen. Take me, fuck me, please,” she was barely registering what she was saying; all she knew was that it was true.

Her heat was wet and throbbing, aching for his touch again. With a rumble of consent, he rolled them, so that she was on her back once again and him above her, hovering with his weight on one hand. He nudged her legs apart with his knee, and she spread them willingly. Open to him, the cool air of the cabin hit her lips, adding to her shivers of anticipation.

With one hand, his thumb stroked the curve of her cheekbone, she turned into his touch, eyes closed. The other hand guided his thick cock to her entrance. He rubbed the head of his manhood against her, coating himself with her desire, making himself slick and ready to enter her.

“Say you’re mine,” her murmured, lips brushing over her jaw, below her ear.

Elena wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her fingers in his hair, gripping his golden curls. His muscles coiled tight and hard under her touch as he strained to hold himself back. She arched into him, grinding her hips against his hard length and begging for more contact.

“I’m yours. I’m yours, Cullen. No one else, only you. My champion, my commander.”

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Look at me.”

She snapped her eyes open and sought his amber gaze as he sunk into her, as slowly. Cullen filled her, inch by inch, stretching her tight, wet heat around his cock. The pressure built insider her, tight and full, as her warm, wet walls parted at his intrusion. Cullen’s gaze bore into her own, and she could see the adoration, the desire, the love, burning bright. A moan escaped her lips and as he hilted himself in her, her body squeezed around him, trembling and shaking as she unraveled at the felling of his cock nestled snugly inside her wet cunt.

“Cullen!” she cried, fingers scrambling for purchase along the muscles of his back, nails digging into his skin.

She bucked against him, and he shook with the effort of restraining himself from simply holding her down and pounding her into the mattress. Only when she had stopped writhing, and her body had gone limp and languid did he draw himself out, admiring the gleaming slickness of her orgasm along his shaft, before snapping back into her. She moaned, and he did it again, faster and harder this time.

“Yes, oh, please,” she mewled, dragging her nails down his back.

Running his large hand down her sides, over the curve of her ass, he gripped her thighs and yanked them up, around his waist. She slid down the mattress, hair fanning around her head. He rutted into her again with a grunt, harder this time, and she arched off the bed, as each thrust of his hips rubbed his length along the sweet spot in and up.

Cullen bent down, not breaking his rhythm, to capture her lips with his own. His kisses were soft and his tongue gentle in its continued exploration of her mouth. The contrast between tender mouth and punishing thrusts made Elena’s head spin. Each snap of his hips sent another jolt of pleasure through her, building on the languid afterglow of her previous peaks.

One of his hands snaked up her body to knead and roll her breasts.

“You’re so incredibly tight,” he panted, lips pressed to her neck.

Elena shuddered at his words and dug her heels into the base of his spine, urging him deeper still. Cullen groaned at the shift, and buried himself in her again and again and again.

“Do you imagine this when you use your hands?” He demanded, voice choked with ardor. “Imagine me filling you? Spilling my seed in your womb?”

Each question was accented by a powerful roll of his hips which she eagerly met, the sounds of their bodies joining echoed through the room. He nipped at her throat, down her shoulder, laving his tongue over the little red marks his teeth left. She ran one hand down his chest, the roughness of his chest hair scratching under her soft skin.

“Yes,” she whined. “Maker, Cullen, yes!”

Had she not imagined him pressing her face down on the war table and taking her among scattered map markers? Had she not stroked herself at night, wondering what it would feel like to be held between the hard wood of his desk and his body? None of her fantasies had prepared her for how full she would feel every time his cock slid into her. How her bones would ache at each snap of his hips. How his hands would feel, rough and large but so gentle as they tangled in her hair or kneaded her breasts.

Her words left his shaking, trembling as he held back his release. He returned his mouth to hers once against, tongue gliding past her lips. Cullen’s free hand slipped between their sweat slicked bodies, down her stomach to press against where they joined together. His fingers, too unsteady to be tender, rubbed at her pearl, twisting and tweaking it.

“Come for me, Elena, let me hear you scream again,” he ordered. “Let the world know I’ve made you mine.”

Her back bowed up off the mattress, and his head fell to her breasts as he sucked a pert nipple into his mouth. Cullen’s words were an invisible chain, binding and pulling them together. His, his, his. Yes, she was his, always, forever. Her legs trembled, shook around his hips as he kept up his unrelenting pace. She could feel every inch of his cock inside her, every vein and ridge, sliding and pressing and rubbing, filling her completely. His stubble scratched against her chest as Cullen bit her pink bud, sending an electric jolt straight to her core. She gripped his arms, fingertips digging in hard enough to turn the skin white underneath her touch, bruises already blooming. Elena was desperate to hold on to something as the world burned away around her, as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.

Cullen plunged into her, faster and harder. Mine, mine, mine, he proclaimed with each new pistoning of his hips. Her wet heat squeezed around his cock, and Elena screamed out his name. He groaned; it was too much, too sweet. Cullen could feel the ache for release at the base of his cock, rising and insistent. He threw his head back, and strangled cry tearing from his throat as he came. She felt him thicken and twitch deep within her cunt. One final stroke, one final thrust, before Elena felt his hips stutter and the white hot rush of his seed spilling inside of her.

He gave a few more shallow thrusts as they both came down from their high before rolling off of her and collapsing in a tangle of limbs, breath escaping in hard pants. Cullen shifted onto his side and wrapped one arm around her waist while the other cradled the back of her head; he pulled her to him. She sighed, smile spilling over her lips as she let him arrange her lethargic body as he would. She felt like liquid gold, warm and beautiful and heavy. The tips of her toes and fingers tingled as she entwined her legs with his and slid her hand up his chest. His mouth sought hers, slow and gentle.

He pulled away after a moment, head falling back to the pillow. They stayed pressed together for a long moment, nose to nose, fingers exploring each other's bodies without the frantic urgency of moments before. As the warm glow of their lovemaking faded, something deeper and heavier spread through her limbs. Cullen stroked her hair and ghosted his fingertips across her shoulders with such tenderness she felt tears spring to her eyes.

He frowned, dismay chocking his voice. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did I—I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Elena pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes, trying to rub away her tears. Blast and damnation, she would ruin everything.

“No, no, of course not. It was wonderful, perfect. I’ve just, I’ve never felt so wanted before,” she stammered, trying to wrangle her emotions into coherency. “My father sent me to the chantry after my mother died, to be educated—I was allowed back for holidays, of course—but I never felt like it was home. I’ve never felt at home anywhere, until I joined the Inquisition, until…until I met you. The way you hold me, Maker’s breath, Cullen, the way you look at me breaks my heart,” she sucked in a shuddering gasp of air, “breaks my heart, but in a good way.”

Cullen’s expression softened and he kissed the tears from her eyelashes, his lips feather light. “I love you.”

It was simple, a gentle apology and tender declaration. Simple, and true. Just what she needed in this over-complicated, mad world.

“I love you, too,” the words bubbled up from her chest and over her lips, true and weightless and right.

Cullen kissed her forehead as she settled into his arms, sleep weighing heavily on her eyes.

Chapter Text

Death and destruction rained down on Kirkwall as the bronze statues in the Gallows lurched to life. Cullen raised his sword against the woman who had been his commander for the better part of a decade, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt, of failure, and the sting of sweat dripping into his eyes. Around him abominations ran loose and the screams of the innocent echoed louder than the clash of battle. The scent of burnt flesh and hell hung heavy in the air. Maker help him, it was the Circle of Ferelden all over again.

Meredith sprang towards him, her sword, unnatural, living red, arced towards him. The sick crunch of metal on metal and a sharp, blinding pain laced up his side as she skewered through his plate mail. Meredith's face was inches away from him, twisted and leering, eyes lit with hellfire.

Cullen screamed.

He bolted up, hand clutching his chest as his heartbeat hammered against his ribs. Sucking in heavy breaths, Cullen tried to remember where he was. Eyes adjusted to the bright morning light—too bright, he thought as a stab of pain ricocheted behind his eyes—as he took in his surroundings. A cabin and a bed that were not his. A heavy, musky scent in the air, sweet and familiar. His eyes widened as the previous days came crashing back: the trial, the duel, their flight.

Cullen turned, searching the spot next to him in the bed, already sensing her absence.

Elena.

Where was she?

With panic lacing through his veins anew Cullen shot out of bed, legs tangling in the sheets. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet in haste. She was not in the bed. She was not in the cabin. Sweet Maker, had she run from him? Had she been taken?

Extricating himself from the twisted linens, he hastily pulled on his trousers, hands shaking as his mind reeled with half formed plans and the vicious stabs of an oncoming migraine. If she had been kidnapped by bandits, if she was hurt in any way, he would rip those responsible limb from limb with his bare hands.

Cullen cursed himself, his lyrium addiction, the Maker, even, as his hands fumbled with his sword belt; he was too shaken, took broken, to be of any use. Finally giving up, choosing instead to simply carry the blighted thing in his hands, Cullen turned to the door, ready to fling it open. He was halfway across the room when the door opened, seemingly on its own, and Elena appeared half dressed in her corset and underskirt, her feet slipping around in his boots and a basket at her elbow. Her bright eyes widened as she took in his frantic state.

“Cullen, are you well?” She asked, brows creased as she went to his side.

Discarding the basket on the table, she ran her hand over his forehead and cheeks, testing for fever. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his head against her shoulder. Relief flooded through him as the sweet, clean scent of her filled his nose. He suddenly felt too tired to stand. Dropping into the chair, he pulled her onto his lap, reveling in the feeling of her body curving into his own.

“I woke and you were gone. I thought…Maker’s Breath,” he sighed, unable to give voice to his frantic panics; in the light of day, with her here beside him, they felt silly.

Elena pressed her lips to his forehead and ran her fingers through his hair. He shivered at her touch.

“I’m sorry if I worried you,” her voice was soft, soothing. “I was just gathering some blackberries for our breakfast.”

He exhaled slowly, concentrating on matching his breaths to the beat of her heart as it pulsed just beneath his lips. After a moment, he tilted his head up, catching her gaze with his own. Cupping her face, he ran his thumb over the curve of her mouth. Elena’s lips were soft under his touch, and memories of the previous night sprang to his mind. He could hardly believe that this woman was currently sitting in his lap, content to be held by him. If he had not been accustomed to only nightmares, he would have thought this a dream.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have panicked…I know you can take care of yourself,” he murmured finally.

Elena smiled into his touch and kissed his thumb, “It’s alright. I should have woken you.”

Wiggling out of his embrace, she began to fix a breakfast of porridge sweetened with blackberries and honey. Cullen watched her as she knelt over the hearth, and wondered. Is this what it would have been like if they weren’t the Herald of Andraste and the Commander of the Inquisition? If he was just a farmer or a blacksmith in Honnleath, and she his wife? Would they have a brood of curly haired children? A simple life, perhaps, but would it be better? His body and mind wouldn’t be scared from battle and lyrium, and she wouldn’t have the mark and the weight of the world on her shoulders.

He sighed. No, they would have never met—she was a noblewoman from halfway around the world. She would have been married to an aristocrat, or given to the Chantry. Whatever his regrets in life, Cullen would never regret the path that had led him to Elena.

With a smile curving over her lips, Elena set a bowl in front of him before sitting in the other chair. After a spoonful of porridge, she covered his hand with hers, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

He shook his head, “nothing, sweetheart. Just waking up.”

A soft smile curved on her lips and her nose crinkled at his words, “I like it when you call me that.”

She returned to her bowl, hand still entwined with his. They ate quietly, content to sit beside each other.

“Thank you,” he murmured, after a long moment.

He meant it, too; it had been years since a woman cooked a meal just for him. It was nice, and Cullen couldn’t deny he would be happy if it became a regular happenstance. Glancing at their joined hands, his grin faltered as another wave of pain rippled behind his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Elena asked, worry edged in her voice.

He hated making her worry. She had enough to deal with, without adding his self-induced maladies.

“It’s just a headache,” he murmured, before spooning the last bite of breakfast into his mouth. He swallowed, eyes closed, fighting the wave of nausea that often came with the head pains.

They sat in silence for a minute, before he heard the scrape of her chair over the floor. A moment later Cullen felt her other hand cup the side of his face.

“Let’s go lay down,” Elena murmured, before tugging him out of the chair.

Cullen followed, letting her guide him on to the bed; he sat down, propping himself up on his forearms and hands cradling her hips as she straddled him. She smiled down at him, something soft and gentle in her bright eyes. Elena she slowly ran her nails through his hair. She rubbed the skin just above his temples and a soft sigh escaped his lips at the feeling as the tight pain behind his eyes receded. Her fingertips moved deeper into his unruly curls, rubbing little circles as she went.

“Does it help?” Elena whispered.

Cullen smiled, resting his forehead against her shoulder.

“Yes,” he groaned. “You may not be a mage, but your touch is magic.”

Elena chuckled, “Maker, that was bad. You’re lucky you’re handsome.”

He made a muffled sound of agreement against her body as her fingers moved down the back of his skull to press firm strokes into the nape of his neck. She repeated the movements, starting again at his temples and moving back. Slow and firm, the tension drifted from his body and her hands came to rest atop his shoulders. Cullen smiled, raising his head to look at her. His breath caught in his throat. Elena sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, an intense look on her face. He felt the muscles of his stomach and thighs tighten as images of the previous night flashed before his eyes. She leaned down, lips grazing his ear.

“I have another idea…something to help you relax, but…” her voice was breathy, and Cullen had an inkling she wasn’t talking about something as tame as a scalp massage.

“I’m yours. Do with me as you will,” he replied, lips brushing against the curve of her jaw, his mouth dry as anticipation coiled in his belly.

Hands resting on his thighs, she nudged his legs further apart and knelt between them. A shy smiled tugged at her lips as she ran the tip of her finger over the laces of his trousers.

“I’ve never done this before, but, ah…Cassandra lent me some of her books, and, well…I want to try,” Elena murmured, mischief glinting her bright eyes.

Cullen sucked in a breath and tried not to moan simply at the sight of her between his knees. His manhood throbbed, aching for her touch. Keeping her gaze trained on his, Elena palmed his cock through his trousers. He groaned, eyes squeezed tight and hands gripping the mattress. He was hard, and only getting harder as her clever fingers unlaced his breeches.

“Lift your hips.”

He did, and Elena peeled his trousers down his legs. Cullen watched intently as she rocked back on her knees and took in the sight of him, a wicked smile playing on her lips as her eyes fell to his hard cock. Maker’s breath, the look in her eyes—she wanted him, just as much as he yearned for her.

Leaning forward, she ran her hands up the back of his calves, before trailing her nails along the tops of his thighs. She teased the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, drawing little circles and moving closer to his length with each loop. She moved closer, letting her warm breath fan over his aching need. He groaned, eliciting a wicked smirk from her. Before he could protest her teasing, fingers grasped the base of his shaft as she kissed his chest, lips seeking the long scar that cut across his torso. Elena dragged her fingers up his length, thumb rubbing against the tip before sliding back down. Pleasure flooded through his body, burning and insistent. He watched as her mouth traced down his body. Following the silvery scar with her soft lips, she pumped him slowly. Teeth scrapped against his navel, and she pulled her head away just enough to meet his gaze. Cullen’s breath hitched in his throat; the air around them was suddenly charged and heavy. Keeping her eyes locked on his, Elena flickered her tongue over the head of his cock.

Cullen groaned, hands fisting in the sheets around him as his hips jerked at the wetness of her tongue. White hot pleasure snaked through his body as Elena pressed her lips to the tip, kissing him. Her free hand cupped him, fingers massaging gently as she kissed down the length of his shaft. A lock of hair fell in front of her face and Cullen tucked it behind her ear. Catching his eye, she smiled at him before trailing the tip of her tongue back up his length. He shuddered, eyes closing for a moment at the sweet, aching feeling she left in her wake.

Elena moved her hand to rub the head of his cock, as she pressed open mouthed kisses back down the side of his shaft. Her tongue flicked against his too warm skin, sending fire through his veins.

“Maker, woman,” he panted. “Don’t stop.”

She pulled her mouth away, and slid her hand back down his length. He groaned, whether from disappointment at her lips leaving him, or in response to the tight squeeze of her fingers, Cullen wasn’t sure. A hot look of anticipation on her face, Elena leaned forward again and wrapped her lips around his cock.

Cullen was not prepared for the divine, wet heat of her mouth, the softness of her lips as they slid up and down the head of his length. A moan shuttered out of his mouth and he found his fingers tangled in her hair. Elena’s head bobbed between his legs and her hand stroked him in rhythm with her mouth.

“Oh, Elena, yes” he moaned. “Just like that, sweetheart.”

She hummed around him, the warm velvet of her mouth impossibly tight. She slowly worked her way down, inching closer to the base, all the while her tongue stroking and swirling around him. His cock hit the back of her throat as she took him deeper. She made a little mewl of delight as his hips jerked forward again. Her tongue pressed firmly along the underside of his cock, massaging him as her fingers and mouth work in concert, pumping him with bone aching measure as her hand cupped his balls. Elena hollowed her cheeks, sucking impossibly hard, becoming impossibly tight. Cullen’s hips ached to move into her mouth.

“You’re so beautiful, love,” he murmured, chest impossibly tight as pleasure licked up his body.

She moved her attentions back to his head, lips sucking hard as her obscene little tongue lapped at the pearl of precum that had appeared. Cullen moaned again, legs shaking as her tongue darted out to swirl farther along his cock. He let his head roll back, eyes closed as he took in the feelings, pleasure snaking down his legs and up his belly. He was helpless under her touch, all he could focus on were fingers, and lip, and tongue. The wet heat of her mouth, the soft velvet surrounding his cock, just as sweet as being inside her.

“Sweet Maker, Elena, I’m going to—” He panted, unable to finish and fingers tangling in her hair.

Instead of pulling away, she increased her efforts, taking him deep into the tight heat of her throat once again. She looked up at him, and pressed her free hand to his chest, nails raking down his skin. With a cry and a thrust of his hips, Cullen found his release as stars exploded behind his eyes. Her throat constricted for a moment before she continued sucking him, taking his seed with delight. Slowly, Elena licked him clean with that sinful tongue of hers as waves of pleasure slowly receded through his body before releasing his cock with a wet pop. Delicately, she wiped the corners of her mouth with her fingers, before licking away the remains of his desire.

His body felt boneless, languid. A moment later, he felt her hand on his shoulder, guiding him down to the mattress. Elena curled up against him head pressed to his chest.

“Was that alright?” She murmured.

Cullen turned, and cupped her cheek, bringing her face towards him for a searing kiss. She sighed, and relaxed into him.

“That was…I’ve never…thank you,” he stuttered, trying to pull his thoughts into order. There was a pause as he ran his fingers gently through her hair, “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

A flush rose to her cheeks, and she pressed her face into his chest. “No…I mean, I liked it…more than I thought I would.”

Cullen raised his eyebrow, fingertips dancing down her stomach to slip below the band of her underskirt. Running his fingers against the fabric of her smallclothes, he found them damp with desire.

He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Give me a moment to catch my breath, and I’ll return the favor.”

~*~

Elena stretched her arms above her head and pointed her feet, relishing the slight burn in her muscles. Cullen lay besides, her fingers tracing shapes on her skin as he nuzzled her neck.

“I love you,” he murmured against her collar bone.

Elena smiled to herself, reveling in the feeling of his words washing over her.

“I love you too, Cullen.”

She sighed, relaxing her arms against his chest and turning to face him. The last few days had been…blissful. Yes, if Elena had to choose a word to describe how her time with him, it would be that. Cullen loved her. She had never thought—well, her father had made it perfectly clear not to expect to leave the chantry for the marriage bed--not that this was a marriage bed, but regardless, she had been raised not to expect such affections. Joining the Inquisition had been life changing, but there was still a part of her that didn’t expect—that found it nigh impossible—to believe that this good, strong man desired her, wanted to keep her safe.

"Do you think she ever did this?" Her voice was soft.

"Who, sweetheart?"

"Andraste...and Maferath. Do you think they ever ran away to have time together? Alone, I mean."

He shifted, turning onto his side towards her. Cullen ghosted his fingers up and down the curve of her waist.

"It's possible, though the Chant of Light is rather silent on the, ah, physical aspects of their relationship."

There was a pause as she pondered his words.

“I don’t want to go back,” she murmured, anxiety rushing through her at the thought of what awaited them back in Val Royeaux. “Can we stay here forever?”

“Mmm? Just run away? Leave the Inquisition behind?” He chuckled, hand coming to cup her cheek. “Just think of it, you’ll mind the cabin while I hunt for our food. I can make love to you every night,” he kissed her lips. “Under the stars,” another kiss. “Before the hearth,” a third kiss, longer and deeper “Up against the wall.”

She giggled, “you could do that at Skyhold, you know.”

She felt his rumble of agreement in his chest, “I could do a lot of things to you in Skyhold.” He moved his lips to her ear, warm breath and stubble tickling her skin as the fingers of his other hand slipped between her legs. “Fuck you on the battlements. Bend you over the war table. Take you in the Chantry—”

“Cullen Rutherford! That’s blasphemous!” she giggled, swatting his shoulder.

Elena’s heart seized in her chest as a loud tapping at the window caught their attention. Glancing at her, Cullen stood, retrieving his sword before cautiously opening the shudder. He jumped back as a raven flapped in, squawking.

“Maker’s breath!” He exclaimed, before snatching the note tied to its leg.

Unfurling the parchment, he frowned, brows knotting together. He returned his gaze again to where Elena sat in the bed. A sigh was heavy on his lips, as his shoulders slumped.

“Leliana is an hour’s ride away. She says to be ready to leave.”

As his words sunk in, she realized her palms were sweaty, and breaths came tight in her ches.

“Cullen, I’m scared,” it was out of her mouth before she could think on it.

His expression softened, gold eyes warm as he crossed the room to stand before her. Bending down, he kissed her forehead.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he murmured against her skin. “I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

She smiled, though she felt like crying, “I know, I know. That’s not why…It’s just…it’s been so nice, here, with you. What if that…what if we can’t—I don’t want us to end.”

He considered her for a moment, before Cullen sat next to her, one arm around her waist and his other hand seeking her own.

“Hey, look at me,” he murmured, the timbre tone of his voice infused with just a hint of Commander Rutherford.

Elena turned, meeting his warm gaze with hers.

“I love you, Elena Trevelyan, and that’s not going to change. We may have to be a bit more…private, but I’m not going to stop loving you just because you’re the Inquisitor and I command your army. I loved you before we came to this cabin and I will love you after we leave it—that’s why I offered to be your champion. I don’t—I’m not always good with words, but I thought, maybe, if I protected you, stood before all the world and proclaimed you my lady, you’d know just how much you meant to me,” He paused for a moment, collecting his courage, it seemed, as he traced circles over her hand with this thumb. Cullen bent his head, warm breath fanning against her cheek, to whisper in her ear. “And maybe, if we’re still alive and world is still intact after Corypheus is dead, we could have a cabin of our own.”

He brushed his lips over her cheek before standing. A rush of hope flooded through her as his words resonated in her heart. A cabin of their own. Yes, that was a thought that could keep her going through the long fight ahead.

Extending his hand to her, he smiled, scar tugging at his lips, “come, Leliana will have a fit if you’re not properly dressed for our grand reentry into Val Royeaux.”

Cullen helped her back into her fine dress, lacing up the back as carefully as he had unlaced it two nights before. After, she sat down at the table, wooden comb at hand to brush out her hair as he re-donned his shirt and boots. Elena shifted her hair over her shoulder to work at the ends and a moment later she felt warm hands rest on her shoulders, thumbs rubbing against her back. Smile on curving over her lips, Elena leaned back, head coming to rest against his stomach. Cullen bent down, pressing his lips to her forehead.

A sharp knock came to the door.

“Are you two quite done playing house?” Leliana’s singsong voice came from the doorway.

Chapter Text

Elena winced as one of Leliana’s underlings combed out the snarls in her hair. She was trying to focus on what the spymistress was saying,but it was damn hard to concentrate when she was naked and five people were currently rubbing her hair and body with various oils and cloths.

“The Grand Clerics have dropped all charges and issued a public apology to the Inquisition, the people of Val Royeaux, and to you and our Commander, personally,” Leliana informed, pacing around the room.

Elena sat in a wooden bathtub, in an inn somewhere outside Val Royeaux. Leliana insisted on stopping to prepare before their victory march into the city, and though she appreciated the bath, she was less enthusiastic about being naked in front of half a dozen people. She assumed Cullen was elsewhere in the building being similarly subjected. Her heart squeezed at the thought of him; she felt strange not being in his presence for the first time in nearly a week.

“All you have to do is show up and accept their apology. Josephine is already taking care of the negotiations. Commander Cullen with join of course, since we need to march our army through the city to Halamshiral.”

“Just like that?” Elena asked, sitting up much to the ire of her attendants as water sloshed over the sides of the tub.  

Leliana paused in her pacing to look out the window, her back to the woman in the tub.

“Yes. Just like that,” she paused, clasping her hands behind her back. “The city was rioting, the poorer neighborhoods on fire. Half the windows in the Grand Cathedral were smashed—five hundred year old glass work, destroyed in a fit of madness. The Clerics had to do something. The people have been losing faith in the Chantry long before this war—clearly, they want to believe in you. So, the only way for the Chantry to survive is through supporting the Inquisition’s efforts. Cassandra did well, leading Inquisition forces through the city to restore order along with the city guards.” Leliana turned to face her, a smirk on her lips. “You have captured the hearts of the people, Lady Trevelyan. Certainly our dashing Commander’s devotion to you helped inspire that admiration as well. The two of you are the talk of Val Royeaux.”

Elena felt heat rise to her cheeks—it was not so much Leliana’s words that made her blush, but the fact that she said it in front of others. The last few days with Cullen had been something that was just for them, secret and private. She didn’t like the idea of others encroaching. Or of Leliana using her relationship with Cullen to further the Inquisition’s goals. Perhaps she would have a talk with the spymistress about that, but later. Now all she wanted to do was get this ordeal over with. 

Hours later, Elena sat cross-legged at the window seat in her room. The moonlight spilled in, lighting the otherwise dark chamber. She couldn’t sleep, though whether it was nerves for the morning or something else she couldn’t say. She’d tossed and turned in her bed since nightfall; eventually giving up, she decided to watch the stars move across the night sky instead. Leliana had given her some frothy nightgown to wear to bed—it was more pretty than practical, certainly, all the bows made it rather difficult to find a comfortable position in which to sleep.

A slight knock at the door turned her head. Cullen stood, head bent under the low doorframe.

“May I come in?” He asked, keeping his voice soft.

She smiled and patted the seat next to her, “my, my, Commander. What will the servants say? You sneaking into my room at all hours of the night.”

Cullen stepped into the room and slid the bolt across the door before making his way over to her.

“I suspected they’ll say what they’re all ready saying,” he chuckled, easing into the seat behind her and pulling her onto his lap. “That we spent two nights alone, un-chaperoned.” He brushed his lips over the back of her neck and settling his arms around her waist. “That innocent Lady Trevelyan has been ruined by a Fereldan barbarian.”

She laughed, settling into his chest as one of his large hands came to cup her face.

“I rather like being ruined,” she paused, memorizing the rhythms of his breath and heartbeat. “I couldn’t sleep. I’ve only been two nights in your bed and I can’t sleep alone anymore.”

“Nor I. But I can go if you’d prefer to be discrete.”

She shook her head, unsure when they’d have another opportunity to just be, together and alone. “No, Leliana and her people know how to hold their tongues well enough.”

“I wish we didn’t have to worry about it,” he sighed. “It’s so hard not to reach over and touch you whenever I want.”

“I know,” she kissed his throat. “I want nothing more than to proclaim to all the world that I’m yours. I love you, Cullen.”

“And I you, Elena. I’ve never felt this way before; sometimes is frightens me how much I love, the things I would do to keep you safe…”

“Hush,” she murmured. “It’s alright. In private you can touch me and love as much as you desire.”

They sat quietly together for a long time, and Elena began to feel her eyelids grow heavy with sleep, the lullaby of his steady breath and heartbeat easing her into sleep. She yawned and nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck.

“Are you sleeping?” he asked, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

“Mmm? No,” she murmured against his warm skin. “Just comfortable.”

He chuckled and pulled her closer, “goodnight, sweetheart.”

~*~

The next morning saw them off to Val Royeaux at dawn, Leliana’s scouts riding ahead to spread the news that the Herald of Andraste was on her way. Elena found herself once again sharing the saddle with Cullen, nestled between the warm press of his thighs, his arm slung tight around her middle. Leiliana had insisted—it will make for a good song. Not that Elena minded, exactly. Still, she couldn’t help but worry that this was a trick somehow—that the Grand Clerics would seize her the moment she set foot into the city. That they would tear her straight from the saddle and from the protective circle of Cullen’s arms.

“Relax,” Cullen whispered into her ear, momentarily hugging her close to him. “Everything will be alright.”

She nodded, not quite convinced, and rested her head against his shoulder. 

The miles fell away under their horses’ hooves, and soon the city glimmered along the horizon. As they neared, more of Leliana’s riders peeled away, taking alternate routes into the city, until it was only her and Cullen riding through the gilded gates. The crowds were out in full, cheering and waving Inquisition banners with enthusiasm. It was a stark change from the somber progression they had made into the city not so long ago.

Elena has shifted in the saddle just before entering the city, so that she sat to the side, legs closed together. Cullen dropped their sped to a slow trot so that the crowds could take in their fill of her and make sure that she really was there. The progression through the city took a long time—the crowds growing thicker as they neared the Grand Cathedral. Entering the courtyard, she saw Mother Lucretia and her cronies standing on the steps, watching. Elena gripped Cullen’s hand tight, heart pounding in her chest. Stopping before the stairs, Cullen squeezed her hand reassuringly before swinging down from the saddle. The crowd gasped as he lifted her from the horse, gently setting her down. Taking her hand between his own, he raised it to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss over her knuckles.

“My lady,” he murmured, motioning her up the stairs.

How she managed to climb the stairs on her own—nervous as she was—was a miracle. Elena stood before the mothers of the Chantry, back straight and shoulders squared. She would not show fear before them, despite the hardships they put her through. Slowly, eyes hard with fury, Mother Lucretia dropped into an elegant curtsy, the others following suite.

“Your Worship,” they murmured. “Please forgive our wrongdoings. The Maker has revealed His displeasure, and shown you to be the agent of His will.”

Elena nodded graciously, trying to recall the way her father would hold court to unruly vassals. She motioned them up, and they stood.

“The Maker and his Bride teach forgiveness and humility,” she began, “We thank you for showing both.”

It was the closest thing to acceptance that they would get from her. The dint of her words were not lost on Mother Lucretia, whose smile was edged with steel.

“You are most magnanimous, Your Worship,” she returned. “As a token of our contrition, we’d like to present you with this,” Lucretia motioned with her hands and a squire brought forth a silk covered pillow. The Grand Cleric pinched the silk, revealing a golden coronet twisted to resemble laurels. “The Prophet’s Laurel, said to be made for Andraste herself. Kneel, Your Worship.”

Elena knelt, perfectly aware of the political message such an act sent. Mother Lucretia reverently placed the crown upon Elena’s head, and motioned for her stand.

“Now all of Thedas will know you speak the Maker’s word.”

The crowded courtyard fell silent, all eyes fixed on Elena’s white garbed figure, fiery tresses crowned in gold. She scanned the crowd, heart pounding in her chest. Slowly, her eyes fell to Cullen where he stood at the bottom of the stairs. He was gazing up at her, with a look of beatific devotion on his face. Placing his hand over his heart, he bowed to her. His movement rippled through the assembly, as more and more people copied him, bowing their heads and dipping into curtsies, spreading farther and faster through the streets, until all of Val Royeaux bent a knee to her.

Their worship and prostrations paled in comparison to the joy she found in the smile fixed on Cullen’s handsome face as he gazed up at her, eyes bright with love.