Elena Trevelyan rubbed absently at the tattoo curling around the inside of her right wrist. The elegantly looping word was an annoyed ocher. Since it had appeared on her skin on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, it was more often than not some shade of black, grey, or, occasionally, red. In truth, she was never more worried than when it turned crimson and the ink seemed to bleed into the skin around the mark.

All the races of Thedas, save the dwarves, had the soulmarks—a tattoo displaying the first name of your one true love. It varied from person to person where and when the mark appeared on the body. Some were born with their soulmarks, while others didn't develop them until puberty or later. And they always changed color based on your soulmate's feelings.

"Cullen, Cullen, Cullen, please be alright," Elena muttered as she traced the letters with her thumb.

Cullen. Her soulmate.

Whoever he happened to be, it would seem his life hadn't been easy judging by the dark colors often displayed in stark contrast to her pale skin. Though recently it had been flashing softer colors of dove gray and light blue. She wondered what color her name turned the most often.

"Elena, child, it's time to go!" Her father, Bann Heinrich Trevelyan, called from the room beyond before the sound of his boots thumped their way down the hall.

Tearing her thoughts away from the mysterious Cullen, Elena glanced at herself once more in the mirror. Her light blue ballgown glittered as the candlelight glowed over the silver thread embroidery and tiny gemstones sewn into the silken fabric. The tight bodice showed off her figure, while the full skirt swept the floor and trailed behind her. She adjusted her silver mask before meeting her father in the waiting carriage outside their Orlesian villa.

Halamshiral loomed bright in the nighttime sky as Elena, her father, and her brother, William, neared the palatial estate. Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard's peace accords were taking place over three days at the Winter Palace, each night marked by a masked ball. Elena could hardly contain her excitement—not only would the entire Imperial Court be present, but the Inquisition as well. It was her first introduction to the Imperial Court, and if things went well, she would have a position as one of the Empress' ladies-in-waiting when the three days were over.

That, or a husband.

Bann Trevelyan, like many aristocrats, didn't hold much stock in soulmarks. Alliance, land, wealth, and political power were much more important than marital happiness, in his opinion. And if an advantageous match for his daughter was forthcoming, Elena knew he'd take it.

All she wished was the chance to meet her soulmate just once before she resigned herself to a loveless marriage.

"Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition and former Knight-Commander of the Templar Order, unable to put on a dress uniform correctly," Cullen muttered to himself, trying once again to get his sashes straight and hanging correctly.

Curse Josephine for insisting on these things. Why he couldn't just wear his usual armor and surcoat was beyond him. When he'd asked, Leliana and Josephine had burst into giggles. Cullen shook his head; sometimes it was painfully obvious that he was the odd man out among the three of them, literally.

Absently he rubbed his chest, just above his heart, his thumb stroking across the name tattooed there. It was a nervous habit, like rubbing the back of his neck, or running his fingers through his hair. Sometimes he wished his soulmark was in a more visible place, so he could see her name more easily, but the secret romantic in him liked that it was over his heart. Cullen imagined that even if he couldn't see the color the letters changed all the time, he could feel her emotions.

Elena. His soulmate.

There had been times in his life when the only thing that kept him sane and alive was the act of tracing those five letters over and over again and imagining the day he would meet her. What would she look like? Would she be older than him? Would she be studious and soft-spoken, or funny and outgoing?

Would she like him? Would she even want him?

Cullen took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves and began retying the blue sash around his waist yet again. Vivienne had designed the uniforms—black wool with silver accents and a royal blue sash over one shoulder and tied around the waist. Cullen thought it looked dower, but he wasn't about to argue with Vivienne, not over fashion and especially not over fashion for Halamshiral.

A knock sounded at the door, signaling it was time to leave for the ball. Cullen glanced at himself in the mirror for a moment, before giving his reflection a nod and turning to leave, ready to face the pack of wolves that was the Orlesian Court.

The opulence of the ballroom was staggering–though she was used to the Orlesian aristocracy and its hunger for decadence, there was nothing that could have prepared Elena for the grand salons of Halamshiral. It seemed gold dripped and glittered from every surface, save the gleaming marble floors. Rich fabrics–brocades, silks, velvets–hung from the walls as well as the guests, gems glittering like starlight dripping from their bodies. The Empress held court at the far end of the vast chamber, flanked by an army of courtiers. All along the edge of the sunken dancefloor, aristocrats watched each other with sharp, shrewd gazes.

Elena leaned forward along the golden railing, eager to see the Inquisitor–his party was about to be announced, leading to an unnatural hush in the ballroom. At her elbow, her father cleared his throat, looking pointedly at her slumped posture. With a blush, Elena straightened up, tugging at the cuff of her elbow length gloves to sooth her excitement.

One of the imperial heralds announced the Inquisitor–a Dalish elf by the name of Rydstrom Lavellan. He was tall for an elf, with a lean build and thick, black hair. His face bore intricate vine-like tattoos in golden ink that piqued out the vibrant blue of his eyes. Around her, Elena could hear the scandalized whispers of the Orlesian aristocracy–the idea of an Elf as the guest of honor at Halamshiral was unprecedented to say the least.

Behind him stood three people, two women in stately black gowns with blue sashes and a handsome man in a military dress uniform of the same colors.

"Accompanying the Herald of Andraste, Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva, Ambassador of the Inquisition. Lady Leliana Nightingale, Seneschal of the Inquisition, former Left Hand of Divine Justinia. Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, Commander of the Inquisition, former Knight-Commander of the Templar Order."

Elena's spine went ramrod straight as the breath froze in her lungs. Snapping her gaze back towards the dancefloor, she hardly dared to breathe. Cullen. Could it really be? Could the handsome Commander of the Inquisition be herCullen? She looked at him closer as he made his way across the dancefloor towards the Empress. He was tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, his powerful legs encased in shiny black leather boots. To call him handsome was an understatement–everything about his face was perfect, masculine beauty, from his strong jaw and sensual lips to his high cheekbones and warm eyes. His golden hair was combed back, and Elena couldn't help but fantasizing about seeing a few errant curls falling over his forehead. Despite what polite etiquette dictated, he wore no mask.

She bit the inside of her cheek as he passed by after bowing to the Empress. What on earth was she supposed to do now? Run up to him and rip her glove off, declaring him hers in front of the entire Imperial Court? Not likely. Not only would she embarrass the everloving hell out of herself, her father would be furious.

Still, she had to speak with him–just once. She knew nothing could come of them, but if she could just hear his voice once…it might be enough to sustain her for the rest of her life, it had to be.

I must hear his voice. Then I'll leave him be. I'll be good and dutiful, and do just as father demands. She promised, though if she was speaking to herself or Andraste, she wasn't sure.

Deciding not to draw attention to her plan–lest her father become cross with her–she convinced her brother to dance with her. As she spun around the gilded room, Elena spotted the Commander–it felt strange to call him Cullen just yet, not until she was sure he was her Cullen–standing along the wall, a group of courtiers already surrounding him. Vultures, she thought uncharitably.Show them a handsome male and they circled like buzzards over a corpse.

As the song ended, she curtsied to her brother, and mumbled something about seeing an old friend she had to go speak with, before dashing off towards the stairway to the upper part of the ballroom. Heart beating hard in her chest, she approached the cluster of nobles but to her dismay it seemed the Commander had slipped away. She paused, unsure what to do; perhaps this was the Maker's way of telling her to let it go, the handsome blond man wasn't her soulmate after all. Absently she rubbed her wrist, still unable to give up hope entirely.

She turned, heading towards one of the buffet tables, when her father appeared before her. A portly gentleman with salt and pepper hair at his side.

"Elena, child, I want you to meet the Baron d'Arles," her father said by way of greeting.

Despite her trepidation for where this introduction was leading, Elena bobbed a curtsy to the man and held out her hand to him. "A pleasure to meet you, my lord."

The Baron smiled wolfishly and bowed over her hand as he brought it to his lips. "Enchanté, mademoiselle. Vous êtes très belle comme votre père a dit."

"d'Arles and I are old trade partners, my dear," her father continued, pointedly ignoring her discomfort with the conversation or the fact that the Baron had yet to release her hand from his grasp. "Perhaps you can find space for him on your dance card?"

The hard edge in her father's tone brooked no argument, and Elena nodded, plastering a smile on her face as the Baron finally released her hand.

"I'll find you for the midnight waltz, petite," d'Arles said with a greasy smile before he sauntered away.

"Father–" Elena began, fighting down the burning nausea in her stomach at the thought of dancing with the Baron, let alone marrying him.

"I will hear none of it," Bann Trevelyan snapped, gripping her wrist in an ironclad hold. He leaned in close to her ear and hissed, "d'Arles is rich and has a seat on the Council of Heralds. You are my daughter and you will do as I say. If I need you to marry a Fereldan farmer, you'll do it, and with a smile on your face. Understood?"

"Y-yes, Sir," she managed to stammer out.

With a curt lift of his chin, Bann Trevelyan stalked off, no doubt to find Baron d'Arles.

Fighting back tears Elena headed out towards one of the balconies; the fresh air would do her good, and perhaps when she returned to the ballroom, the mysterious Commander of the Inquisition would be back at his post.

Andraste, just let me speak with him once before I'm forced to wed that old man. She pleaded silently as she stepped out into the night.

Cullen took a pull from his champagne flute before scanning the crowd for any sign of–well, anything that would get him out of standing around like a statue for noblemen and -women to grope. This ball was hell on his nerves–too many people hiding behind masks, too much noise, too much danger lurking around every corner, and he had to do it for two more nights.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen saw an elderly woman in a purple powdered wig eyeing him up with a predatory glint in her rheumy eyes. Setting the delicate crystal champagne flute down, perhaps too swiftly, he quickly retreated to one of the doors along the far side of the ballroom. A cursory scan of the marble balcony showed it to be vacant, and with nary a look back, Cullen quickly slipped through the purple drapes, closing the door behind him. Eyes squeezed shut, he leaned against a thick column, thanking the Maker for a moment of peace.

Suddenly a slight sniffle sounded in the velvet blackness of the night, and Cullen's eyes snapped open. Despite first impressions, it seemed the balcony was occupied. There, deep in the shadows along the far railing leaned a woman in a light blue gown. Bright red hair was braided on her head into an elegant coronet and sparkling jewels dripped from her neck and ears. She had her mask pushed up, the back of her hand swiping at her tears.

Cullen knew he should make his presence known–clearly she wanted privacy if she were out here–but the words stuck in his suddenly dry throat. He couldn't stop staring at her, and though she was partially obscured by shadows, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. A part of him, the very instinctively male part of him, wanted to go to her, wrap her in his arms and soothe her, or, perhaps, offer to pummel whoever made her cry into a bloody pulp.

Which was complete insanity since he'd never seen this woman before in his life.

She sniffled again, and gave an endearing little hiccup as she tried to calm the stream of tears running down her face. Something sharp twisted in Cullen's gut, and took an involuntary step forward. At the sound of his bootfalls on the marble floor, the woman stiffened and spun around to face him, her unearthly green eyes wide.

Cullen held his hands out before him in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, my lady." He paused, and she continued staring at him in shock. "Are, are you alright?"

He was maybe a foot from her now; she had the sweetest face he'd ever seen. His question seemed to snap her out of her frozen state, because she quickly turned away, fumbling with her mask.

"I apologize, Ser. You're not supposed to see me like this," she mumbled, swiping again at her tear-stained cheeks.

Cullen wasn't sure if she meant he was supposed to see her crying or without her mask. Perhaps both? The Orlesian aristocracy had a dizzying code of etiquette. Though truth be told, she didn't quite sound Orlesian.

"Hey, it's alright," he murmured, his hand hovering over her shoulder for a moment, before he let it settle. With his other hand he dug out the handkerchief Josephine and Vivienne insisted he carry with him, and offered it to her.

Crying women were definitely not his area of expertise, but his chest felt tight at the sight of her tears and he needed to do something to comfort her. She took the handkerchief gratefully and dabbed beneath her eyes before righting her mask.

"Thank you," she whispered, looking up at him with such a look in her eyes, Cullen felt like he was the only other person in the world.

He rubbed the back of his neck as a flush brightened his face. She was so beautiful, and she was looking at him–him–the same way statues of Andraste gazed into the heavens towards her Maker.

"I should, I should give you some privacy. I'm sorry for disturbing you," he finally said, turning to go back into the ballroom.

"No! Wait!" She called, catching his arm. When he turned back to face her, he saw a slight blush tinge her cheeks. "I mean, I'd rather not be alone right now. If you don't mind, that is."

Cullen smiled and propped himself against the balcony railing on his elbows, his back to the gardens below them. She stood next to him, turning so that she leaned forward against the banister. He studied the curve of her lips in the moonlight, and fought the urge to kiss her.

"Why were you crying?" He suddenly asked.

She bit her bottom lip and looked down at her gloved hands. For a long moment, Cullen thought she wouldn't answer him. "My father wants me to marry a man I don't love. He's old, and…and fat. And he makes my skin prickle."

She hung her head, as if in shame and a fresh tear glimmered at the corner of her eye. His chest felt tight again at the sight of her despair. The thought of some old, fat fool leering over her made his blood boil, but Cullen kept his temper in check.

"Hey, now," he murmured, turning towards her a lifting her chin with a gentle touch. "Don't cry. You're not wed yet, perhaps plans will change."

The words felt hollow even to his own ears, but Cullen could think of nothing better to say. They were so close now, their bodies nearly touching and he still held her chin. She was looking at him again with those big, fade-green eyes. She smelled like lilacs and summer and sunshine: sweet and warm, and oh, so feminine. His heart beat faster, hammering in his chest as he wondered if her lips were as soft as they looked. Cullen licked his lips, his tongue lingering over his scar. He heard her breath hitch as her pulse jumped erratically at her throat. He bent his head, and her eyelashes fluttered, as if she were fighting not to close her eyes.

The crescendo of the orchestra jerked them out of their reverie, and Cullen took a step back, letting go of her chin least she realize that his hands were shaking. There was a moment of hushed silence before the next strains of a waltz began.

"May I have this dance, my lady," Cullen asked suddenly, holding his hand out to her; he didn't know what else to say, but he needed to do something to divert the way she was looking at him.

Because he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from kissing her if she didn't.

A flicker of disappointment might have flashed in her eyes, but it was gone before he could be sure. With a radiant smile, she took his hand.

"I'd love to."

Settling his other hand at her waist, Cullen began to lead them through the simple steps, enraptured by the woman in his arms.

"I should warn you," he began as she spun out and then back into his embrace. "I'm not particularly well practiced. Templars don't go to balls."

She laughed, and he thought she might have been trying to mask a shiver that ran through her when he whispered the last part of his warning against the arch of her neck.

"I have every confidence that you can command a dancefloor just as well as you can a battlefield," she replied with mock-seriousness.

Cullen quirked his head, a teasing smile on his lips.

"Just how do you know I'm any good at commanding an army?" He asked, a teasingly.

She licked her lips, drawing his attention to them once more, and causing his heart to race. "Well, you're the Commander of the Inquisition, aren't you?"

So she knew who he was; Cullen wasn't too surprised–the entire ballroom had been filled when they were announced, though he was surprised she had noticed him when Rydstrom was present. "You have me at a disadvantage, my lady, you seem to know who I am, but I must confess I you're a mystery to me."

Instead of answering him, she gave him an enigmatic smile.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they danced. Maker's breath but she felt good to hold onto; Cullen feared he wouldn't be able to let go when the song was finished. Who was this woman? Why did she affect him so thoroughly? A small hope rose at the back of his thoughts, but he pushed it down–it wouldn't do to get his hopes up only to have them come crashing around him.

As the music lulled around them, their steps became shorter, until they stood close together, swaying gently to the music. The song ended, but neither of them stepped away. Her hand slipped from his shoulder to rest against his chest, directly over his heart. Cullen covered her small, gloved hand with his.

"Thank you," she murmured sweetly, sadly, not quite meeting his gaze.

Cullen lifted his hand and gently tilted her chin up so that the lights of the palace behind them were reflected in her bright green eyes. He gave her a soft smile, though all his attentions were captivated by her full, lush mouth. Slowly, giving her time to pull away, Cullen bent his head, lowering his lips to hers. The first meeting was a gentle brush, nothing more of a whispered touch. He caressed her lips, once, twice, thrice, before pressing deeper, taking her mouth with his. A soft sound, halfway between a moan and a whimper, slipped from her throat into him, sending a flush of heat coursing through his body. He gripped her shoulders, her soft body and full breasts pressing into his chest as he coaxed her mouth open.

"Commander," she moaned, her little tongue flickering over his lips as she spoke.

He kissed her harder, loosing himself in her embrace.

Bells began to chime around them, eliciting shrieks of delight from the inhabitants of the ballroom. Suddenly, the woman in his arms went stiff, freezing as he pressed his tongue past the supple barrier of her lips.

Suddenly, she pushed him away, a look of panic on her lovely face.

"No, no. the Midnight Waltz. I have to–I have to go!" She cried, turning away from him, ready to slip through his fingers and out of his life.

"Wait!" Cullen called, grabbing her wrist in a futile effort to keep her near him, to keep the heady, amazing feeling she inspired rolling through his veins. "I don't even know your name!"

"Please," she begged, casting a panicked look over her shoulder at him. "I have to go!"

She wrenched away, and Cullen let go, fearful of hurting her. His hand slipped down her wrist, accidentally taking her glove with him. The delicate silk hung limply in his hand as he stared at the pale skin of her wrist. Acting on instinct, he curled his fingers around hers with his free hand, tugging her back towards him. She came easily, as though she didn't really want to leave him, either.

"Cullen, please," her voice was soft, desperate, with a hint of fear, but also, perhaps, joy.

A jolt of pure pleasure shot through him as she said his name–as she said his name and his eyes absorbed what he was seeing. There, blazing golden as the sun, his name was emblazoned on her wrist. Cullen slowly dragged his gaze up her arm, her shoulder, her long elegant neck, to her face, to her lovely, unearthly eyes.

"Elena?" he whispered, a frown creasing his brow.

Her eyes widened, emotions flitting through them so fast he couldn't identify them. She gave him a small nod, and then, while he was still in shock, she ran back into the ballroom, leaving him clutching her glove and staring at the spot where his soulmate had once stood.

Translations:

"Enchanté, mademoiselle. Vous êtes très belle comme votre père a dit" = "Pleased to meet you (literally, 'enchanted'), my lady. You are very beautiful just as (lit. 'like') your father said."

"Petite" = "little"; a term of endearment.

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