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Cullen first hears her laugh in Haven’s tavern.
His muscles are aching from a day of nonstop drilling and, unbeknownst to all but a few, his body’s lack of lyrium. He usually stays as far from the tavern’s sensory overload on days like this, but news of a Ferelden beer shipment had given him a craving for something else to take his mind off of things. Besides, the night was young. If he was lucky, he could have a few drinks and make it out before a bar fight broke out.
When Cullen enters, the number of his charges he sees with full tankards gives him pause. Gregoire would have snarled some variant of “Carry on, but don’t expect me to sympathize with your hangover tomorrow.” And the soldiers would have slunk out with their tails between their legs. That is how a good leader would have acted.
But his does not. Even if Cullen wants to spend the extra energy needed to form words, he knows they wouldn’t have carried enough weight to be taken seriously. Not like they have not already guessed how decrepit he feels without speaking. As paranoid as the thought is, he feels them judging their commander’s shuffle to the bar. They see how different his posture is from less than an hour prior. They hear the way his feet clod across the floor.
Cullen lets out a small sigh of relief when he finally settles into a stool. “Whose brilliant idea was it to put me in charge?” He murmurs into his hands.
And then it happens.
Like a gust of wind having its way with a tree limb, her laugh is a high pitched rumble. It echoes from deep within her chest and Cullen cannot help but be caught off guard by how unexpected it sounds coming from her. Even more alarming is that he expected anything at all, but he pushes that worry back to his subconscious. He can ponder that during yet another sleepless night.
“I’m-“ Inquisitor Lavellan chokes back another fit of giggles. “-terribly sorry, Commander.” Her entire face is a palate of red and pink. “It’s just that, I said something similar when I sat down a few minutes ago.” Though the fit still lingers in her tone, her eyes are tinged with a wariness the Inquisitor is doing her best to hide. She shakes her head at the half-full tankard.
“Long day?”
“Aren’t they all?.”
Around that time, only weeks later, the tavern and a great many other buildings in Haven have become mere piles of debris. Rebel mages have killed a few faces he remembers wanting to chastise for drinking too much. Cullen, after seeing both Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall’s ravaging, is not as fazed by the destruction as he is willing to admit to himself. People die. Cities burn. Life goes on.
But, as he trudges through the snow in search of her, Cullen silently prays that he will someday hear that laugh again.