Part I.

Chapter 1.

"Cullen, if you need to—"

He surprised himself as much as he does her, turning back to her as soon as that damned runner has closed the door, pulling her to him—too rough?, he thinks, has he gone too far?—and kissing her hungrily.

For this one moment, duty, reports, the whole of Thedas be damned. It has been not just the excruciating long months since the Conclave that he has wanted this—her—but years - decades - his whole life. And now she is standing here, solid and real, saying those words…

His vision was obscured by snow and ash, smoke and steam. The air reeked of death and unnatural magic. Surrounded by demons, the screams of terror and pain echoing through the valley, the former Knight-Commander was deadly efficient, a cold tactician leading his troops to cut down another wave of the twisted, horrible creatures that poured from the wound in the sky.

He sighed at the familiarity of the scene before him—How many times can the world tear itself apart?

He could still feel the traces of lyrium in his blood. He knew his decision to stop taking it, to break from the control of the Chantry, would not be easy, even if the Conclave had gone perfectly and peace somehow managed to get a foothold in Thedas. But that is not the world he could have ever expected to live in. Even so, he prayed to the Maker that his ability to serve would not be compromised. So far, he noted, felling a demon was no harder than it might have been at the height of his service in Kirkwall.

Before his last kill even hit the ground, he was aware that help had arrived. He raised his eyes to see the nearest tear of eerie green snap closed with a crackle of electricity. The former Seeker Pentaghast stood near the site of the rift, the prisoner in tow.

"Lady Cassandra," he greeted her. "You've managed to close the rift. Well done." He nodded his head slightly at the petite warrior and scrutinized the prisoner over her shoulder.

"Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner's doing."

The prisoner. She was dressed only in worn leathers and a shabby hauberk, a bloodied bastard sword gripped in her right fist, a battered wooden shield help awkwardly in her left. Could she really be what the whispers described? And which whispers, at that? Terrorist or scion?

Yet another beautiful woman who could be either demon in disguise or timely savior…

"Is it?" His voice lost some of its edge for a moment before he steeled himself against the flicker of lightness that momentarily stirred when she met his gaze. "I hope they're right about you. We lost a lot of people getting you here."

"You're not the only one thinking that," she responded, a hardness in her Marcher-accented voice.

"We'll see soon enough, won't we?" He didn't bother to soften his tone, not caring if he sounded cruel. There were innocent lives at stake. As there always are…

He turned again to his colleague. "The way to the Temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there."

"We best move quickly," Cassandra warned the prisoner. "Give us time, Commander."

He nodded, his mind immediately focused on ensuring the small party would have safe passage to what remained of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"Maker watch over you," he said wearily, studying the prisoner as he began to turn away. "For all our sakes."

The image of the prisoner's clenched jaw and determined (blue? gray?) eyes lingered in his mind for a moment as he turned back to his duties. She almost reminded him of Solona—the Solona who returned to a fallen Kinloch Tower as a Grey Warden, not the sweet young mage who had enchanted him without using any magic.

But he had seen similar expressions on much less friendly faces - including one that looked uncannily like Solona's - and refused to discard his distrust until he saw proof.

When the Inquisition's forces carried the prisoner's limp form back to Haven, they were murmuring in disbelief about her bravery facing down the massive pride demon despite her limited combat skills, and how she managed to stabilize the growing rift at the Temple before being knocked unconscious again by the strange magic.

His remaining apprehensions about the prisoner began to thaw when he read Lady Cassandra's report of what was revealed at the ruined Conclave.

"Herald of Andraste" was a weighty title - he would prefer a real name to call her - but the hope she was inspiring in the shaken people around him, the same who'd passed along rumors that she was a terrorist and abomination just hours before, nearly justified it.

The next three days were relatively uneventful now that the Breach had been stabilized. Refugees fleeing from the intensified fighting between the rebel mages and rogue templars were slowly finding their way to the village. The "Herald" was recovering in a small home that had been left abandoned some time before the Haven chantry became the Inquisition's de facto headquarters. Apothecary Adan tended to her injuries and kept careful notes of her strange symptoms while the elven apostate watched over her, musing over the glowing mark that still remained on her hand.

Cullen spent the time conferring with Leliana and Cassandra and drilling the new recruits. And trying to avoid Chancellor Roderick.

The cleric's voice immediately set the Commander's teeth on edge. His shrill accusations of heresy and demands that the prisoner be turned over, to him to be dragged to Val Royeaux for execution, intensified the headaches that were becoming common. The Herald, though still unconscious, had become a target for the Chantry old guard, and Roderick had apparently set his mind to leading the denunciation as a way to gain position within what remained of the Chantry.

His vitriol only strengthened Cassandra's already intimidating resolve. The day the Herald awoke, the former Right and Left Hands of the Divine declared the Inquisition of Old reborn. Cullen took a special satisfaction in nailing the declaration to the chantry door right in front of Chancellor Roderick.

Their path was set, if the destination still a mystery.

He cut short his conversation with Leliana and the Inquisition's recently-arrived ambassador and stood straighter, taller when Cassandra brought her into their makeshift war room. She apparently hailed from a noble family from the Free Marches, though her smirk and swagger spoke of a different past he found himself wondering about.

She might have made for a good soldier: tall, powerfully built. Yet unmistakably feminine even under the clumsy armor they'd cobbled together. An observation inappropriate of his position, he caught himself.

"You've met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition's forces."

"It was only for a moment on the field. I'm pleased that you survived."

He meant it. Even if she was not Andraste's Chosen, she had an easy demeanor and quiet strength about her that was making her a welcome presence amidst the chaos. And now that he was certain she was not a threat, he indulged his curiosity about the color of those intense eyes.

Almost like the Waking Sea on a clear morning after a storm...

Cassandra wasted no time with pleasantries, turning abruptly from introductions to planning their next move. "I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good."

"Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help," Leliana stated.

"I still disagree." The thought of that much magic was... Kirkwall was still fresh, Kinloch barely faded around the edges. "The Templars could serve just as well."

Cassandra sighed. He knew she was as tired of this argument as he, but he would not let go of this. "We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark—"

"Might destroy us all." Images of his friends, crumpled and torn inside useless armor, came too quickly to mind. "The Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so—"

"Pure speculation," Leliana cut in.

"I was a Templar." The pain was audible, unhidden despite the presence of their new comrade. "I know what they're capable of."

"Unfortunately, neither group will speak to us yet." Josephine cut the tension with a lilting Antivan accent. "The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and you specifically," she told the Herald.

"Well. That didn't take long."

At least she had a sense of humor about all of this.

"Shouldn't they be busy arguing over who's going to become Divine?" Whatever faith Cullen had left in the Chantry after Kirkwall had been worn thin by Chancellor Roderick.

"Some are calling you the 'Herald of Andraste' and that frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we, heretics, for harboring you."

"Chancellor Roderick's doing. No doubt," Cassandra sneered.

"It limits our options," Josephine continued. "Approaching the mages or Templars for help is currently out of the question."

"Just how am I the Herald of Andraste?!"

"People saw what you did at the Temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard of the woman seen in the rift when we first found you," Cassandra explained. "They believe that was Andraste."

"Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading—" Leliana interjected.

"—Which we have not..."

Cassandra and Leliana narrowed their eyes at one another, silently continuing an argument he had kept himself out of until now.

"The point is, everyone is talking about you," Leliana finished.

Cullen turned to the Herald, intent on relieving the tension and bringing the decision before the person it most affected. "It's quite the title, isn't it? How do you feel about that?"

"It's..." She sighed. "A little unsettling." It showed on her face, her storm-colored eyes growing dark. He hadn't intended to upset her.

"I'm sure the Chantry would agree," he responded jovially, offering her a wry grin.

He felt a bit of pride in seeing the clouds clear from her gaze.

"The people are desperate for some sign of hope," Leliana spoke. "For some, you're that sign."

"And to others," Josephine added, "a symbol of everything that has gone wrong."

"So, if I wasn't with the Inquisition..."

"Let's be honest, they would have censured us no matter what." He couldn't let her blame herself for the Chantry's tantrum.

"And you not being here isn't an option," Cassandra said with finality.

"There is something you can do," Leliana offered. "A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable."

"Why would someone from the Chantry help a declared heretic?"

"I understand she's a reasonable sort," Leliana smirked. "Perhaps she doesn't agree with her sisters. You will find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands, near Redcliffe."

"Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition's influence while you're there." Even without the whole Herald business, Cullen was certain she could bring a lot of goodwill their way.

"We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley," Josephine agreed. "And you're better suited than anyone to recruit them."

"In the meantime, let's think of other options." Cassandra turned to her colleagues. "I won't leave this all to the Herald."

She rode out that morning with Cassandra, the strange elven hermit called Solas, and Varric, who Cassandra had dragged to the Conclave when she and Cullen left Kirkwall.

Cullen threw himself into training and preparing the green but enthusiastic young men and women flocking to their camp. The reports coming in from the Hinterlands had been accompanied by a slow but steady trickle of new recruits eager to pledge their services and loyalties to the Inquisition. With any luck, they would at least know which end of the sword to grip before they were called to service.

Bales of herbs and leathers, and crates of iron and drakestone followed not long after they received word that the Herald and her companions had established a second camp in the area and would be returning to Haven to recuperate after nearly a fortnight of battling not only rogue Templars and rebel mages, but bandits and demons.

He was happy to see that their new fellow was unharmed, or at least still in one piece, when they returned to the village near sunset. She dismounted her horse easily and led it silently to the stables. The others avoided eye contact, not even Varric commenting, as she wandered back to her cabin.

"What happened? Is everything alright?" he asked Cassandra when she joined him near the soldiers' tents.

"She... did well." Her words were more carefully chosen than Cullen had come to expect from her. "This was all a bit difficult for her, though. It's nothing like the life she knew before the Conclave."

He scoffed. "That's to be expected. Nobles aren't typically accustomed to much more than bloodless reports of battle."

Cassandra glared at him. "Ashara has seen and experienced more than you'd expect, Commander. She is not a gilded flower too delicate to exist outside of a palace. But even I struggle to accept the things we have seen these last days."

"Ashara?"

"Lady Trevelyan. The Herald."

Pretty name.

"You two are friends now?" The thought of the Seeker and the Herald giggling like his sisters amused him.

"And what of it? We were together almost constantly for several days, and we... have much in common."

He often forgot that this formidable woman was herself of noble birth.

"You should not be so quick to dismiss her. Her value to the Inquisition goes beyond the mark or her noble name. She acts fearlessly despite everything, and is learning quickly how to handle herself on the field."

He massaged the ubiquitous knot at the base of his neck as Cassandra walked off. He certainly wasn't dismissing Lady Trevelyan - Ashara. In fact, her face had come to mind repeatedly while she was away. He had worried about her safety in the midst of the civil war being waged in the Hinterlands, and found himself more than a little curious as to how a noblewoman seemed to be carrying herself so stoically after what she must have seen at the Conclave. And was still trying to decide what color her eyes were.

The nightmares awoke him well before dawn. He knew there was no chance of getting more sleep before the village came to life and duty called, so he dragged himself to his feet and began strapping his armor back on over the leathers he'd fallen asleep in only a few hours before.

Now that Josephine had joined them and Cassandra had returned from the Hinterlands, he had relocated to a tent alongside those of the soldiers. It was more appropriate. And the cold was almost welcome as the withdrawal symptoms began to intensify.

As he finished attaching his poleyns and greaves, he thought he heard the sound of someone being sick not far from his tent. He'd have to watch the recruits at morning drills, see who else had clearly been at the tavern too late last night. He'd been clear with them that they were expected to conduct themselves as soldiers of the Inquisition, not mercenaries or volunteers.

He stepped out into the open air. There was a dark shape against the snow, maybe a couple hundred feet away. As his eyes adjusted to the pre-dawn light and the figure stood, before doubling over to retch again, he realized it was a woman dressed in black leather breeches and a corselette. A spy? Unsure how to react, he approached slowly, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"You, there!"

She looked up and caught his eye. It was her.

"Herald? Ah... Lady Trevelyan?"

He quickened his step. What was wrong? No one had seen her leave her cabin since she'd returned, not even for the evening meal. Was she ill? Had she been poisoned?

He reached her side and could see by the moonlight reflected off the snow that she was flushed. And... steaming?

"Oh. Commander. Um. Hi."

She tried to stand up too quickly and stumbled. He reached out, grabbing her shoulders to stabilize her, looked her over for signs of injury or illness. It didn't seem like she had been drinking.

He could feel her warmth through the leather of his gloves. She was shaking, wheezing a little, her chest heaving. The last detail accentuated by the fact that she was barely covered - her bodice was little more than a breast band, revealing her abdomen and the lines of a complicated tattoo that wrapped across her waist and ended somewhere below the waistband of her tight leather breeches…

Realizing the direction of his thoughts, he released his grip hurriedly.

"Are you okay? What happened?" He looked around frantically for signs of an attacker or anything that might explain why she was out here, alone, clearly reacting to something.

"I- No, no! Nothing's wrong. I just..." She sighed heavily. "I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd try to exhaust myself until I had no choice but to sleep, and I could certainly get more accustomed to long distances and this damnably cold air, but it hasn't worked so far. The Crossroads..."

...She was steaming. "Have you been out here running? For how long?"

She nodded. "Honestly, I'm not sure. You don't keep track when you're being chased. Even if it's in your head."

Didn't he know it...

She looked down. "What we saw - what we did in the Hinterlands… I can't get it out of my head. For whatever else I've done in my life, this... I... I killed someone. Another person. People. I killed a lot of people."

She double over and retched again, dry-heaving and shaking violently.

He was flooded with sympathy and placed a hand gently on her back between her well-muscled shoulders. He remembered his first failed Harrowing. Even with all the training and mental preparation, there was no way to anticipate that feeling. And she was no soldier, no Templar.

"I understand," he said softly. "It's not an easy thing to do. And I can't say it... gets much easier."

She looked up at him, locking onto his eyes.

They're silver in this light...

She smiled weakly. "Thank you, Commander. I'm sorry you had to see this... display."

"Not at all." He helped her stand upright again and pushed locks of honey and copper-colored hair from her eyes. "You didn't ask to be part of this war, and we've thrown you into the middle of it. It's a lot to take in, even without the fighting. And killing."

Her hand gripped his and held it in place on her shoulder. "And I will see this through. Whatever it takes. You have my word."

The sudden change in tone from vulnerable and self-doubting to confident and earnest was remarkable.

He caught himself gazing at her with admiration and something he couldn't yet name, and dropped his hands from her shoulders quickly, clearing his throat.

She breathed out a laugh. "It's okay, Chantry boy. You didn't do anything wrong helping me stay upright. I'd probably have collapsed into the nearest snowdrift and been done with if you hadn't. Your touch saved my life, my knight," she added with a dramatic flourish.

He couldn't make eye contact.

She glanced down at herself. "Ah. Yes." Another laugh. "I'm guessing I look damn near naked to a Fereldan, yeah?"

That was part of it, at least. He wasn't going to tell her that if he didn't force himself to now, he'd probably never stop looking at her.

"Sorry. Again." She chuckled. "And, honestly, now that I'm not running my arse off, I probably should have put on a little more before coming out here. I'm just used to a different kind of climate, I guess. And lifestyle... Ha! I'm sure Cassandra or your spymaster Leliana told you about me, yeah?"

So he had been right that she had a different past than the noble name implied.

"No, I... I haven't heard anything about you, really, Lady Trevelyan. Ah, that is, beyond your name and that you're from Ostwick."

She's cold. Offer her your cloak, Rutherford.

Another short laugh. "Well, I was from Ostwick but I haven't really seen much of the Marches in the last ten years or so. Not even a Grand Tourney." She hugged herself, goosebumps obvious in the silvery light. "And don't call me Lady Trevelyan. Please. The last person to call me that without getting hit was my Admiral, and that only under... erm... particular circumstances. I think she got a kick out of bedding a noble, honestly."

His face must have shown some of his surprise and embarrassment: she laughed again and slapped at him with the back of her hand.

"Mind out of the gutter, Chantry boy! Besides, she's in my past and that was never going to go anywhere. Not that I wouldn't take up again with another woman... I just prefer men. And, well, one at a time." She snorted. "I mean, one at a time like..." She sighed. "You know what I mean."

It took him a moment to catch up with whatever it was she was implying. His face went redder than an embrium bloom. Thank the Maker it was still dark, and the fur of his mantle covered most of his face when he lowered his head.

His cloak! He quickly slid it off his shoulders to offer it to her. "You must be cold, my Lady! Please..."

She took the cloak with a look of gratitude and wrapped it tightly around herself. "Thank you, but I warned you about calling me that." She raised one eyebrow and tilted her head toward him in a mock threat.

"Of course, my - I'm sorry, what would you prefer to be called?" Even though Cassandra had already told him, he wanted to hear her say it, to be told it was okay to call her by her given name.

"Ashara."

He nodded at her. "Cullen."

"I know."

"I mean, you should call me Cullen. If I am to call you by your given name..."

She smiled. "I'm just teasing you, Chantry boy. Cullen."

He really liked how his name sounded on her tongue...

"Um. We should... Get you back to the village so you can try to get a little sleep before the others start begging your attention."

Could she hear his reluctance to part from her?

She looked toward the lightening horizon. "You're probably right. And I'm already over-sharing and I haven't had a drop of wine. Walk with me, though? I don't want to give up the cloak yet, and you've been nice to talk to."

His breath caught in his throat. She was enjoying his company. ...Even if it was just to tease him.

"Of course, Ashara."

She smiled again - Maker... - and began moving back toward the gate.

"So, yeah, after dealing with my family trying to increase their fortunes by marrying their youngest off to some stuffy suitor twice my age, I ran away. My older sisters always teased that I'd end up marrying some Rivaini pirate. So I thought, why not? Spent the last ten years or so mostly at sea. Left that bastard the first chance I could, though. Not that we actually got married, mind. I wasn't that dumb.

"Isabela - my Admiral - " Another smile. "She showed up at just the right time. Took everything she could get her hands on and let me join her crew. We've been sailing together off and on since. ...Or had been."

"What? Really?!"

The same Isabela that ran around with Hawke? That might be where she got that swagger...

"This is why I'm surprised they hadn't told you yet. When people find out the youngest daughter of holier-than-thou Bann Trevelyan of boring old Ostwick ran off with a pirate, they tend to spread the tale. Out of disbelief or malice, I don't really care... stuck-up, self-important prigs..."

She spoke up again after a few paces. "I heard about the Conclave shortly after we put in at Denerim. My favorite cousin - the only one I bothered writing to after I left - was a Templar. Lots of Trevelyan Templars. I'd heard she would be at the Conclave. I went to see if I could... make sure she was okay..." She trailed off.

"Ashara, I'm sorry..."

"No need, Cullen. We'll find out who's behind all of this and I will personally kick their ass into the Fade... But thank you."

She gave him a brief hug when he left her at the door of her cabin. He walked back to his tent simultaneously hating that she'd called him "Chantry boy", and chastising himself for thinking about her as anything other than a colleague when he needed to be focused on the Inquisition.

Author's Note:

More exposition to come. And some sexual tension. Because why else does anyone read a Cullen fic?!