Chapter Text
He remembered her only as that pretty girl that he used to find by the lake all of the time, digging in the mud and always missing her shoes. Not that there weren’t plenty of other things about her. She liked reading, for example, and she’d learned to shoot a bow when she was three, making her the best shot in Honnleath- not that most of the boys would admit it. He’d always admired her for it, though, the same way he liked the curls in her hair and the bells of her laughter.
He’d been a foolish boy, all those years ago, so wrapped up in the honor of becoming a Templar that he’d ignored the feeling growing inside of him. The way, when he was eight and she’d wrestled him to the ground on a dare, he’d looked up at her straddled across his chest, grinning, and gotten this odd warmth in his stomach. He thought about it for days afterward, weeks, even, wondering why the weight of her across his chest had made him feel so strange.
When he was nine, she’d told him that she had a secret fort down in the woods beside the lake, and she asked him if he wanted to come see it. He’d agreed, and she’d laced her fingers in his, dragging him along. She’d been giggling and chatting constantly, her excitement spilling into every word, but all he could think about was the warmth of her hand in his. As they squeezed into her “fort”- really just some bent branches covered in vines- he remembered feeling guilty, like being so close to her, alone, was something he shouldn’t be doing. Still, he followed her each time she asked, sitting with her in that cramped space, and never telling a soul about it.
The Templars at the Chantry began training him in earnest when he was ten, taking up hours of time that had once been spent roaming the woods. He rarely saw her then, just glances as she snuck away to spend her time by the lake alone. He missed her, and told her once as they’d crossed paths on the way home. The next day, she showed up by the Chantry, leaning against the wall with a book that she left open on her lap, but rarely looked at. Instead, she watched him, smiling when he was complimented, and clapping in admiration when he’d finished for the day. The Templars he’d been working with smiled at each other knowingly, making comments he paid no attention to at all. He was too busy smirking, his chest swelled with pride. That small round of applause kept him going for weeks.
By the time he was eleven, training had begun to shape his body, broadening his shoulders and toning the muscles of his arms and legs. He had much more control over his body than most of the other boys, who were all limbs and feet, tripping over themselves when they moved. When they had free time, the girls often gathered to watch the boys at their rough games, playing at war and conquest. Sometimes the games got carried too far, and someone got hurt, but it was always worth it if the girl of their choice came to fuss over them, wiping their bloodied noses and putting cool cloths against their scrapes.
Cullen never participated in these games. He didn’t have to. He was training for real battles, ones that would pit him against archdemons and abominations. Often, he was teased for his focus on training, but he wouldn’t waver, and he didn’t care.
Soon enough, the village girls began taking notice of his new form, the grace of his movements and the honor in his words. They began lining up beside the Chantry to watch him, abandoning the other boys. Jealousy had those boys teasing him every day as he walked home, trying to goad him into fights they would never win. He refused to take the bait, which only infuriated them further, until, finally, they surrounded him one afternoon, intent on beating him and trying to make him look the fool. Still, he refused to fight back, letting them do as they wished while he only tried to protect himself from harm.
An arrow whizzed by the ringleader’s head, then another, tearing a hole in the arm of his tunic. When he looked up, there was the figure of a small, barefoot girl, her feet muddy, her face that of a vengeful goddess. She growled her anger at them, chastising them for their cowardice, and promised that if she ever saw it again she wouldn’t miss. They ran home, never telling a soul, because their fathers and brothers would laugh at them for running from a girl. Once they were gone, she kneeled beside Cullen, tending his bruises with her soft hands, and he understood for the first time why the others were so willing to accept defeat at each other’s hands. The next day, the boys were gone, and so were the girls, replaced by a lone figure with muddy feet and a bow.
The summer he was twelve was the hottest any could remember, at times too hot for the Templars to train him. These days he spent in the cool shadows of the woods, or beside the lake, away from his siblings. When he found her there, it was no longer the easy play it had once been. Instead, he found himself stealing glances at the way her tunic strained against her new form, tight in places that made his throat dry and his stomach flutter in warm ripples that trailed downward between his legs. She’d return his glances beneath her dark, lush eyelashes, her lips bitten pink, and smile in a way that made him feel suddenly as if he couldn’t breathe.
The afternoon he’d caught her swimming in an abandoned offshoot of the lake, he’d wondered for a few moments if he might actually die. She’d stripped down to her thin linen top and pants, nearly sheer when soaking wet, and clinging to every inch of her skin. A hot blush crept up his neck, but he couldn’t make himself look away. He knew it was wrong to be so focused on her, taking in the curve of her thighs and the dark buds at the center of her breasts, but, Maker above, nothing had ever held his attention this way before.
When she called for him to join her, he did so partially to hide the awkwardness making itself known between his legs, terrified of how she’d react if she knew. The strangest urges were overtaking him, confusing, yet somehow thrilling all the same. He wanted the silk of her skin against his, the warmth of her arms. To know if the swell of her newly arrived breasts were as soft as they looked, and if her mouth would taste sweet or salty against his.
That night, he dreamed the answers to his questions, and woke panting, his pants full of a damp stickiness that filled him with shame. It wasn’t the last time it happened, and despite the embarrassment that followed, he couldn’t help but enjoy the satisfaction they brought. Before long, he was intentionally imagining the scenarios his dreams often depicted as he lay in the dark, shamefully wishing the dreams would come. Often, for days afterward, he’d find himself unable to look her in the eyes, blushing furiously at the memories of his fantasies. Yet when she came to watch him practice, he stood taller, fought harder. The Templars still whispered among themselves, but now he understood their references to his infatuation, his showing off. They spoke of fated couplings and future marriage, breeding a strange resentment within him, yet he still looked to her with a fondness in his heart, wondering if they spoke truth.
He left at thirteen, his parents finally giving their permission for him to join the order. Though he looked forward to finally fulfilling what he genuinely believed to be his purpose in life, it was tempered with the sadness of knowing she was left behind. She had no interest in joining the order, and, even if she had, she couldn’t. She was the only child her parents had, and they couldn’t risk her death, not with no one left to help with the household duties.
As the day of his departure approached, uneasiness grew within him. He knew well what happened when the older boys left girls behind as they went to seek their fortunes. Quiet evenings were spent together, alone in the darkness with soft sighs and promises of love. Tokens were often exchanged, an item of clothing or lock of hair, and letters would be exchanged for the future. When they were gone, letters came home, and were sent back. On occasion, those quiet nights alone left behind a permanent reminder, growing larger by the day, until he returned home for the wedding he hadn’t been entirely sure he wanted.
But those were older boys, ahead of him by years, and their example didn’t seem to fit his relationship with her. They were far too young for tokens of love and promises of marriage, yet he’d come to know, particularly over the last year, that she was more to him than he’d wanted to admit. The joy of becoming a Templar at last was tempered with the bitter sadness of losing something he’d only just realized was important.
The day before he left, he’d reported to the Chantry to train, as usual, and saw her waiting against the same wall she often watched him from. Her knees were pulled tight to her chest, and she looked as if she’d been crying. His heart ached for her, already missing her even though she was right near him. The two Templars looked between themselves, then at him, and the older of the two dismissed him, pushing him towards her. He ran towards her eagerly, and as soon as she saw, she stood to take his hand, leading him into the woods. They spent the entire day reliving their various adventures, smiling and teasing one another without a care in the world.
So often during that day, he would look at her, balancing on a log in her bare feet, sun streaming gold behind her, and suddenly his heart would feel full, overwhelmed with emotion. He wanted, in those moments, to pull her to him, pressing his lips to hers, but he didn’t dare. He was too afraid of ruining the last few moments they had.
As the last few hours of the day dimmed into the gold of twilight, she stopped suddenly, right in the midst of her laughter. A sadness crept into her eyes, and her hands grasped his tightly. The next thing he knew, she’d thrown herself into his arms, sobbing. She was terrified, she said, that once he left she would never see him again. It was dangerous to be a Templar, after all, and he was so brave . . . .
All he could do was hold her, wishing he was braver still, brave enough to tell her he would miss her as much as she would miss him, brave enough to ask if he could write to her. He wanted to do what the older boys did, to kiss her, to ask if she would wait for him, but he didn’t dare. It seemed far too bold. Instead, he walked her home, letting her take his arm even though he knew she didn’t need it. When he said goodbye, she hugged him one more time, tightly, and he let himself have the pleasure of burying his face in her neck, feeling her body tight against his. When she pulled away, for a moment, her face lingered near his, and the desire to kiss her was almost overwhelming. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips, and the way her body trembled in his arms. But he couldn’t seem to find the courage he needed, and then the moment was over, and she’d disappeared inside her home.
He thought of her every day for a long time. Whenever things went badly, he imagined her smile, and in times of loneliness, he remembered the warmth of her arms. But he never wrote to her. He couldn’t possibly have put into words the things he felt for her, nor the way the image of her face warmed him. Besides, as time went on, he was certain she would find someone else to be her partner, someone who wasn’t miles away. She’d probably forgotten about him. But he’d always remembered her. In his darkest, most fearful moments, she was the only light he could find, and, although he was certain he wasn’t even in her memories anymore, she remained in his.
Now here he was, back in Ferelden, no longer a Templar. He still thought of her, from time to time, though no longer as often as he once had. The passing years had clouded her face in his mind, but the memory of his feelings remained sharp, and he often wondered what might have happened if he had been honest with her. Useless, of course. Or so he’d thought.
After the events at the Conclave, recruits began flocking to the Inquisition in greater numbers, until what had once been a slow trickle had turned into a steady flow. Some were former Templars, like him, some soldiers, and some simply farmers who wanted to help bring peace. Men and women alike joined, and he welcomed them without second thought, making sure they were outfitted and fed.
And then one day, as he’d been busy going through reports, he’d heard a voice behind him.
“Maker above, look who’s in charge here!”
He stopped, absolutely certain it wasn’t the voice he thought it was. After all these years, it wasn’t possible, least of all here, now. He’d been thinking of her only moments ago, so it had to be some trick of his mind. Those were happening more often now. But then it came again, along with a tap to his elbow.
“Hello, Cullen.”
He risked a glance, expecting there to be only emptiness, but there she was. Long hair braided and thrown over her shoulder, in a green tunic and brown leather trousers. She looked every bit as vibrant as he remembered her.
“Amicia Tattersol.”
Her smile spread like wings, lifting the soft plums of her cheeks and wrinkling the corners of her eyes. He felt the corner of his own mouth twitching up in response, his arms reaching out as she stretched up to hug him. It was fierce, bracing hug, with more strength in it than he would have believed possible for her stature. Before she let go of him completely, she gave a swift ruffle to his hair.
“I thought I must be out of my mind when they told me who the Commander was, but I’d know this hair anywhere. Though I’ve no idea why you’ve given to styling it.”
“I do not style my hair.”
She raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Yes, of course. And I’m the Empress of Orlais.” Her face switched back to giddiness again in a flash. “You’re not a Templar anymore! What happened? Are you alright?”
“It’s . . . rather a long story, Micia.”
“That’s alright, Cul. You’ll have plenty of time to explain it to me.”