Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Minrathous was more simple to navigate than Cullen had expected.

He couldn’t say that he had ever ventured into Tevinter before, much less had cause to visit Minrathous, but the stories he had heard told of a towering city, buildings suspended in midair high above every street, magic littering every corner. The sort of place that no simple map could help any man to understand.

But by the time he had made it over Minrathous’ great bridge and into the city proper, it became like any other city. Even in the slow, gloomy drizzle of the evening, he managed to pick his way toward his destination well enough.

The stone streets twisted before him, lit only by flickering lamps. Seeking shelter from the weather, people lingered in doorways and alleys, shadowed eyes peering out at him as he passed.

He didn’t begrudge them the wariness in their looks. It wasn’t as if he didn’t make a strange figure, hood pulled low over his face, posture surely not what one would expect of a random straggler. Even with him deliberately trying, he couldn’t completely shed the years of training as a Templar that had carved his body into moving a particular way. Each step betrayed him as precisely the sort of man most of these people would have cause to mistrust.

And that would be true on a good day, which this most surely was not.

This city hadn’t had a good day since the moment a dragon had descended upon it, wreaking havoc and permitting the Venatori to gain ground.

That much was obvious from the bodies hanging in the streets, bloody and limp, that Cullen had found himself walking past since the moment he had arrived in Docktown. It was hard to say anywhere that strung up their people to be made into examples was doing well.

Ducking down another side-street, he grimaced at the lingering smell of decay and side-stepped a cat that had curled up under an awning. He wasn’t sure what all he had imagined when he’d first received a letter asking him to come here, but he was fairly sure it hadn’t been that he would be dealing with a place quite like this.

Though, in a way, that was his own fault. The request had been from the Inquisitor, one of the few people that Cullen knew wouldn’t call upon him without true purpose. He should have known from that alone that he wouldn’t find anything pleasant here.

Had it been anyone else, he would almost certainly still be in the South, assisting former Templars recovering from Lyrium addictions, and most likely preparing for the increasing risk of Darkspawn attacks and Antaam knocking at their borders. With so much going on, he couldn’t completely ignore the outside world. He just wouldn’t have joined it himself, especially not to this degree.

But the Inquisitor knew that.

Which made the letter—a humble, innocuous thing, delivered to him as any other would be, devoid of all pomp that one might expect—all the more surprising.

If anyone would know that he would be occupied in the South, far too involved to abandon his post to head for Tevinter, it would be the Inquisitor.

Yet that was precisely why he was here. Because he wouldn’t have been asked if there was a better option.

You once told me, old friend, that if I had need of you, your support would be mine, the letter had read.

Such a simple sentence. Yet it was one that, of everything in the blasted letter, had brought him all the way here.

To the North. To Tevinter.

To Minrathous.

But it wasn’t simple support this city had need of. They had power and numbers, if that was all it would take. They had the Northern Templars and the Altus mages and tricks upon tricks up their sleeves. While they might not be the Imperium of old, they weren’t the feeble, withering old society that people would like them to be, either.

According to the letter, what Minrathous needed was a Commander. An advisor.

Particularly, they needed one with experience in regards to dragons and to the Venatori, a role that Cullen was uniquely suited to fill. Not only had he led the retreat from Haven away from that monstrous beast of Corypheus’ and the recovery process, but he had been there at Adamant, then again when Corypheus and his creature finally fell, and he had certainly helped the Inquisitor defeat plenty of Venatori in the meantime.

So he had set out, despite himself. He’d made the journey and brought himself to the city gate, then to Docktown, and now he was here, taking the last turn to arrive at the location where he had been told he would find his contact, whoever they might be.

If he’d had more time, he would have tried to press for information, insist upon knowing the details of what he was signing himself up for, but this was hardly the first time that he’d had to act quickly with limited knowledge. He hadn’t always had Leliana to help him learn every last detail of a mission, nor did he always rely on her when he had.

And in this case, the best action to take was any at all. He could still learn what he needed to, but delaying further to do so would only hurt the very cause he was trying to help.

The good thing, at least, was that the place he was meant to meet his contact seemed to be a popular enough spot. Even at this late hour, it was well-lit and well-occupied, the double-doors open and waiting for every drunk patron to stumble out into the night.

No one here would look twice at another scruffy-faced man sitting at the bar, waiting for someone to meet him.

He took the stairs at a careful pace, glancing up at the sign as if he needed to triple-check that this was the right place, and ducked inside, the warm air of the room engulfing him within mere steps.

His first thought was that it felt almost as if he was back in the Herald’s Rest. From the low grumbles echoing around the room to the singer crooning to the crowd, it made his fingers itch for some cards, even as he instinctively grimaced at the idea of losing to Josephine yet again.

His second, however, was that he couldn’t believe his eyes.

When he had read the portion of the letter about this meeting, he hadn’t understood what it meant when it said, if you choose to say yes, then you won’t have any difficulty finding your contact. His best estimate had been that the Inquisitor had been concerned about the letter being stolen and had so chosen to protect the contact by having them approach him, eliminating the issue before it could even form.

Now, he was beginning to believe that he had overthought it entirely, and the truth was much simpler than he had tricked himself into believing.

Simpler, though not necessarily any easier to comprehend.

Because sitting at a table in the middle of the tavern was quite possibly the last man Cullen would have guessed he would find himself meeting.

“Dorian?” He asked, pulling down his hood.

And there was no doubt about it. There couldn’t be. This was Dorian Pavus of the Inquisition, in the flesh, and he looked—

That was—

Well.

He looked like Dorian.

Older, yes. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he peered up at Cullen were proof enough of that. Ten years ago, when they had met for the first time, Dorian would have been appalled by the mere idea of such a thing.

But beneath that, beneath the aged hair and skin and the clean, elegant robes that he wore so naturally, it was still clear that this was the man he had known.

It was in the way that he carried himself as he turned, all confidence and grace. In how he glanced Cullen over, curiosity and surprise hidden behind a veneer of casual superiority. In the manner in which he flicked his eyebrow up with certainty, reaching one hand to brush across his jaw, the same as he would when they played Wicked Grace with the Inquisition and he bowed out to simply watch the others suffer against Josephine. The movements of a man who was equal parts amused and calculating.

“Cullen,” he said, and his voice had hardly changed at all.

“It’s been—” Cullen started.

“—a long time.”

Art by: Maagpie!

Settling back in his chair, Dorian pressed his lips together. The subtle upwards curl at the corner was the only indication of Dorian’s opinion of the situation that he received before he managed to pull himself together enough to say anything more.

“When the Inquisitor sent for me…I hadn’t imagined…”

“Yes, well. I hardly expected to see you, either,” Dorian said. “Tell me, where have you been all these years? I’ve seen no mention of you in the Inquisitor’s letters.”

As quick to the point as always, Cullen registered distantly, forcing himself to pull out a chair. He might not have expected Dorian of all people to be here, but that surprise wasn’t an excuse to forget that he was meant to be being subtle.

Though, frankly, the fact that Dorian was here made him think that such precautions might already have been discarded. Even after so long without the Inquisition, Cullen still had contacts throughout Thedas, and they kept him informed of his former allies' movements, including Dorian’s.

It might have been out of suspicion, once. Or perhaps out of the need to have a tactical advantage. Now, as much as he didn’t revel in admitting it, he found himself reading each piece of news out of something more akin to worry.

Every correspondence with Josephine or report on the Iron Bull or new story from Varric, every tale of Divine Victoria or message from Leliana regarding Sera or Cole, it settled the part of him that couldn’t seem to stop feeling responsible for them. No matter how far he went from Skyhold or the Inquisitor’s side, the idea that he couldn’t stop one of them from being hurt still struck a sore spot in his heart. He was their Commander. The sword and shield of their organization. The habit of watching out for them was a hard-shaken one.

And Dorian—well, Cullen had received the announcement of his rise to Magisterhood with mixed feelings. He still remembered the disdain Dorian spoke with whenever the topic of his family’s expectations for him came up, but he also knew that Dorian wasn’t the sort of man who could be easily convinced to do something he didn’t want to. The fact that he had taken a seat in the Magisterium meant that he had chosen to do so.

Regardless of how Dorian or Cullen himself felt about him becoming a Magister, however, it remained true that he was one, and that a man in such a prominent role being the person Cullen was meant to speak to complicated any attempts to be discreet.

But Dorian was smart. Smarter than people gave him credit for. If he chose to come here himself instead of sending someone in his stead, then he must have had his reasons.

So Cullen sat down.

As for Dorian’s question, it was a simpler answer than he might have expected. They’d kept in sporadic contact after the Inquisition had gone its separate ways, after all, even if it had petered out through the years, and Cullen had mentioned in several of his letters that he’d been working with former Templars to help them through their own battles with Lyrium addictions. Dorian knew that was where he had been ten years ago.

Or, he had known, at least. Whether or not he remembered was another issue. It wasn’t as if Cullen could hold it against him if he had forgotten after so long.

The fact that Cullen remembered the details of the various letters he’d received from his allies in the Inquisition spoke more of the amount of excitement in his own life than it did anything about anyone else’s capabilities.

But that was the truth, wasn’t it? As fulfilling as he found it to be able to lead his brethren through the same fight that he had struggled with, it was hardly the same as becoming a Magister. He had nothing to announce, no news to rival such a development.

Dorian had grown since the end of the Inquisition.

Cullen had not.

Inhaling slowly, he leaned back in his chair, hoping to seem more calm than he felt. “I’m afraid that the Inquisitor would have few new things to say about me.”

“No? Still working with your fellow former Templars then, I expect?” Dorian asked.

“I am.”

“Have you had much success?”

“Some, yes,” he said. “It isn’t a simple task, and it’s one that has many setbacks and stumbles, but we’re doing well.”

"Well, if we learned anything from our adventures with the Inquisition, it's that tasks that aren't simple are often the important ones." Dorian glanced towards the bar across the room. "Now, before we move on to business, I would suggest that you find something to drink. This will be quite the conversation, and that vagabond look of yours won't do much to help you if you don't even have any liquor in front of you."

Cullen followed his gaze. "Must I remind you that the last time you encouraged me to drink, Josephine walked away with most of my money and I was left with no clothing?"

"As if one could forget such an event. No, Commander, I assure you, this is purely for the sake of blending in."

"Says the Magister," he said, even as he stood.

The sound of Dorian's chuckle followed him as he slipped away from his seat. Thankfully, there wasn't much of a line, and the man behind the bar didn't seem inclined to make idle conversation. It was a simple matter to get a tankard of his own.

Then he turned back, narrowly catching a glimpse of Dorian's eyes flicking away, as if he'd been watching.

The pang that ran through Cullen's chest was unnecessary, he told himself. Of course Dorian was monitoring him. He would be doing the very same thing if the roles were reversed and a mage had been sent to aid him and the other former Templars.

With a deep breath, not his first of the evening, and surely not the last, he returned to his seat as casually as he could, setting his drink down as Dorian said, "much better."

"Excellent," Cullen said. "In that case, I suppose we're ready to begin discussing the ogre in the room."

The way that Dorian's face darkened was almost imperceptible in the shadows.

"So we are."

“The Inquisition beat many dragons. They’re terrifying beasts, yes, but not inconquerable, especially in a nation with so many powerful mages. What was it that made this one such a challenge?” Cullen asked.

“Yes, that is the question, isn’t it?” Dorian asked. He set down his own drink and leaned closer, tilting his head as if he were flirting like he was once prone to doing with the Inquisitor, but from so close, Cullen could see the agitated furrow of his eyebrows. “Tell me, Commander. What do you know of the Elven Gods?”

Forcing himself not to duck away, the proximity making him instinctively itch to reach for a shield he wasn’t carrying despite the fact that it was merely Dorian, Cullen swallowed. His eyes flicked to his still untouched liquor, unable to convince himself to think clearly when his mind was occupied with how many different ways Dorian could put a knife between his ribs from this position.

How much did that say about him, he wondered? That he was so uncomfortable with the company of another that an ally getting this close simply to disguise their conversation had him so unnerved?

Likely that he ought to get out more, if he were to ask Dorian.

But a soldier’s instincts never died. Not for so long as the soldier lived.

Instead, they had to choose when to ignore it, as he did now, clearing his throat to say, “I have learned much about Solas since we discovered the truth about him, but I’m afraid that my general knowledge is lacking. It’s best that you tell me everything you feel I must know to best help.”

"Ah, Fen'harel. Our old friend. Yes, he's quite important indeed. But I refer to the others, members of the so-called Evanuris, particularly the ones by the names of Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain. I presume you remember the Temple of Mythal?” Dorian paused just long enough for Cullen to nod. “She was another.”

"I see. And they're relevant?"

"More so than you could possibly guess. You see, our friend wasn't the only myth-become-man. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain are just as real, and as of just a short while ago, just as free to wreak havoc in our world."

This time, it was Cullen's turn to take a moment, curling his hand around the handle of his drink and staring down into it. He supposed it should have been more surprising, more unsettling, to learn that some ancient Gods were running amok, but the part of him that had spent the last eight years spinning the Inquisition's adventures around and around in his head couldn't help but accept it.

If the stories of the Magisters in the Golden City were real, proven by Corypheus, and the tales of Fen'harel were that of one of their close allies, then why wouldn't it be possible for another legend to come to life?

At this point, he suspected he would be more surprised to find that such myths didn't have glimmers of truth.

"Are they aligned with Solas? Or are they working alone?" He asked instead, looking up just as Dorian's eyebrows rose.

"You believe me, then? Just like that?"

"I've already long-since accepted the truth about one Elven God. I would have to be mad to assume this is any more far-fetched."

“Then you’re already off to a better start than the Grey Wardens.” It only took a moment for Dorian's expression to shift again, a dry smile slipping into place as he scoffed. “That dreadful First Warden of theirs tried to have our best hope for stopping this threat thrown into custody. If he’d succeeded, Treviso would be in as unfortunate a state as we are. The recent fall of Weisshaupt was nearly inevitable with how he was going on.”

"Best hope?” Cullen asked.

That earned him a brief, curious look, one that he used to have aimed his direction often when Dorian was trying to pick out what move to make next in a chess match. It was the sort of look that meant he was trying to puzzle out Cullen's thoughts.

His smile didn't slip, however, even as he said, "so the Inquisitor didn’t tell you.”

"I’m afraid the letter said very little at all. Only that the Inquisitor cannot pull away from the South to help Minrathous personally and would appreciate it if I was able to do so instead.”

"Then you don't know about Rook. The merry little misfit Varric encountered, promptly took under his wing, and dragged into this whole mess with Solas.” Dorian shook his head. “If it wasn’t for the group that Rook has cobbled together, we’d have already lost. It was that lot that prevented Solas from completing his ritual to begin with.”

Cullen hummed quietly, lifting his tankard and taking a small sip as he let that spin around in his mind.

He'd expected there to be some sort of resistance against Solas, yes. Had heard word that Varric and Scout Harding would be going after him.

But he certainly hadn't known any of the details.

Maker, if it wasn't for Leliana's letters, he doubted he'd have known that much.

That was the issue with leaving the Inquisition and everything that came with it behind. A decade ago, he'd have been one of the first to hear everything about this whole situation with Solas, the Evanuris, and this Rook person, but now, he was uninformed as anyone else.

"Varric, you say," he said finally. "I suppose if it's someone he trusts, then that's enough for me. How much has he been able to gather about these Gods? Do we know what they're after? What do they have to do with the dragon attack here in Minrathous?"

Something flickered across Dorian's expression. Cullen barely even saw it before Dorian was taking a deep breath, swirling his cup like it was wine as he lowered his eyes.

"Varric has gathered very little, nor will he be giving us anything more. To be quite blunt about it—" Had it been anyone else, Cullen would have said Dorian hesitated before he said, "Varric is dead."

Cullen's stomach sank.

"Dead?" He asked faintly.

"Killed, to be precise. He, Scout Harding, and Rook managed to locate Solas and track him to Arlathan Forest, but apparently, Solas wasn't keen on having a chat with an old friend."

It took a moment for Cullen to follow the implication, his throat tightening as his mind churned.

He had known Solas and Varric had their differences in the past, but for Solas to kill him? To resort to murder to bring down the veil?

Was it truly that important to him?

Maker, of course it was. That was how they had wound up facing the threat of Corypheus in the first place. If Solas could release something like that upon the world, however unintentionally, in order to reach his goal, then there was little use in pretending he would draw a line in the sand anywhere else.

But to kill Varric..?

That would never have been something Cullen would have anticipated.

His first thought hearing it was to wonder if Varric had, if he'd expected such an ending, but if anyone would, he supposed it would be him. It sounded precisely like the sort of twist that would come from one of his stories.

His second, however, was to think of the others. Cassandra leapt quickly to mind, with their strange little rivalry-turned-nearly-friendship. Had anyone informed them? Had Leliana received word yet?

Surely Dorian had told the Inquisitor. If he was taking the time to tell Cullen, of all people, then he almost surely had to have. It wasn't as if he and Varric had been close. The most he and Varric had ever truly interacted had been when Varric insisted upon it, claiming that Cullen needed someone to help him learn that he wasn't obligated to wear a permanent scowl.

And that was nothing against him. Varric had been a good man, one of the Inquisition's finest. Always there when needed, always prepared to step up to a fight. With nothing but that crossbow of his, he had faced down threats that most men would run screaming from.

Even when Cullen hadn't agreed with his choices—like the way that he had so constantly stood up for Cole, while Cullen's experiences with demons had still been tainting his perspective of the young man—he had to admit that he at least respected how Varric stuck to his ideals. He didn't waver from what he thought was right.

Even at the expense of his very life, apparently.

What a bloody mess.

"I see." Cullen frowned tightly. It took effort to rein in his emotions, mindful of where they were and the job at hand. "Then I suppose this Rook of yours has taken over where he left off, yes?"

Thankfully, Dorian accepted the continuation without fuss. If anything, he looked almost relieved to move on, saying, "yes, along with Scout Harding and a handful of others. That lot has found quite a bit of information for us. For instance, they discovered that the dragon that attacked the city was being controlled by the Evanuris."

"Controlled? They managed to enslave a dragon? Even the Qunari had trouble with that."

"This isn't a matter of chains nor drugs, Commander. They've bound it with magic. The Evanuris were called Gods for a reason; their power is immense, making them capable of more than we could imagine, including control over the Blight itself. The poor creatures have been infected, allowing Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain to use them like puppets. The dragons are very nearly as bad as Corypheus' beast was."

The memory of Haven and the dragon that nearly killed its people flickered in the back of Cullen's mind, making him grimace.

"Then it's little wonder that Minrathous was so badly affected by its attack. Control over the Blight…Maker preserve us."

"Precisely," Dorian said. "Not to mention that the Venatori have allied themselves with these Evanuris. They were all too quick to take advantage and use the dragon as a way to further their goals here in the city."

Squeezing the handle of his tankard, Cullen glanced down at the wood of the tabletop, staring at it with all of the intensity that he had once done with the War Table in Skyhold.

"What resistance do you have here? What forces are still fighting back?" He asked.

"At the moment, very few. We used to have more influence, a larger network, safehouses, a proper hideout, but that dragon attack torched a good deal of our people, and the Venatori did their best to finish the job."

Cullen grunted, pressing his lips together.

"Even our best agents were scattered. One was badly injured. Blighted.” Dorian sighed, and Cullen’s chest twisted as he thought back to the mess that Dorian had been entangled in when they had first met. He knew little of the details regarding Dorian’s friend, the son of his former mentor, but the rumors…well. 

The people of Skyhold liked to talk.

They especially liked it when it came to Dorian, their Tevinter mage who half of them had suspected of being some sort of spy until the very end of the Inquisition. And what they said of Dorian’s friend’s illness, the bit that Cullen hadn’t been able to avoid hearing, had been that he had succumbed to something that no one could say was certainly the Blight, but that almost couldn’t be anything else.

If it was true, then Cullen couldn’t imagine that one of Dorian’s men being Blighted was bringing up any good memories for him.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Cullen said quietly.

“As was I. He was trying to protect a safehouse—always playing the hero, that one. Quite good at it, too.” With a humorless chuckle, Dorian shook his head. “The dragon took a swipe at him, his armor couldn’t take it, and that was that.”

He said it with a familiar sort of bitterness, one that Cullen knew from bygone days and a younger man, but even still, he smiled as he took another sip of his drink. Cullen said nothing in response, not sure what one could say to that.

If it had been a decade prior, maybe he would have known. He'd made plenty of impromptu apologies and post-mortem declarations of the value of soldiers' sacrifices as Commander Rutherford, especially in the wake of Haven's fall.

But Cullen—simple, plain Cullen—had spent eight long years falling out of practice, and the thought of saying the wrong thing to Dorian now made him hold his tongue.

The silence stretched on. One moment, then two.

He shifted, drawing in a deep breath in preparation to ask something else, anything else, about the state of Minrathous, but Dorian beat him to it.

"It's just you, then?" He asked. "No leftover forces from the Inquisition coming to help save the day, no heroes riding in on white steeds?"

That, at least, Cullen could answer.

"I'm afraid not."

Dorian's face flickered, not quite with disappointment, but something more like resignation. "I suspected as much."

Setting his tankard on the table, Cullen leaned in almost without meaning to.

“You recall Haven, certainly, and our trip to Skyhold," he said quietly. “Recovery is still possible even without outside aid, Dorian. With the right efforts and a bit of time, Minrathous—”

He allowed himself to be cut off, stopping short as Dorian scoffed, “Yes, I am aware, Commander. But you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not thrilled to watch my city suffer while we wait.”

And there were a million possible things to say about that, most of which probably weren't anything he ought to proclaim in a bar full of Tevinters, but he knew better than that. In all the time that he had known Dorian, Dorian had never been one of the members of the Imperium who sought suffering like a Mabari seeking a bone. Throwing that legacy in his face over one sharp comment wouldn't be fair.

And besides, Maker-only-knew how many times Cullen had defended the Templars when he was among their ranks. Even when he knew the corruption among them, he'd still never wanted to see them hurt. How could he blame Dorian for feeling the same about his home?

Instead, all he said was, "of course not."

“You see, this is the entire reason that I came home, yes?” Dorian waved a hand vaguely around. “To make things better. To bring about change, the good kind, and help my countrymen to learn from our past. Instead, those blasted Venatori are doing everything that they can to drag us straight back to where we started.”

"Dorian…"

With a shake of his head and a huffed sigh, Dorian pushed his drink away and stood.

"It doesn't matter now. It's late, you've only just arrived, and there's little that we can do to fix a mess like this all at once," he said. "We'll begin the real work tomorrow, after you've rested."

Cullen nodded, taking the change in stride as best as he could. "I assume that it's better that we don't meet at the same location twice. Where will I find you tomorrow, then?"

At that, Dorian gave him a bemused little look, one eyebrow raising elegantly.

"Commander, I'm not going to throw you to the streets of Minrathous in the dead of night. I've already had a guest room arranged."

"A guest room?" Cullen asked.

"Yes, as in a bedroom that's reserved for company? You've heard of them, I'm sure."

"You didn't even know that I would be your contact."

"Well, no, but I had assumed that the Inquisitor wouldn't send someone who I couldn't trust in my own home. It might have been some time since we were last officially allies, but I don't think I've done anything worthy of murder. Not yet, at least."

Cullen hesitated, half-certain that he ought to just decline and go find an inn or somewhere to sleep instead, if only for the sake of anonymity. Surely, his presence in the Pavus' home would raise some questions should he be spotted.

But, he told himself, Dorian would have accounted for that. He was a Magister, not a moron.

And regardless of his own thoughts, the certainty on Dorian's face made it difficult to argue.

Which was how, after a long trek to the upper parts of Minrathous, shivering in the low-hanging fog all the way, he found himself standing in Dorian's guest room as if he had any cause to be there in his dirty travelling clothes, dripping rain on an expensive-looking rug.

His first thought was that it was a nicer room than he had ever had cause to stay in. From the barracks as a Templar to his quarters at Haven, most of his life had been spent sleeping wherever he was assigned, and that had never left him in particularly pleasant places.

Even at Skyhold, where he could surely have had better accommodations had he asked, his priorities had been such that he'd never bothered.

Now, he stood in a space that felt more like some sort of museum than a spare bedroom, surpassing even the room he had been given as Commander of the Inquisition's forces during the Exalted Council. Even the thick curtains and heavy pillows seemed like they would have cost more than any normal person might see in a year.

It was enough to make Cullen think, however briefly, that it was some sort of practical joke like Sera used to pull. That the bed was coated with syrup or something similarly harmless and frustrating.

Instead, the room remained nothing but a room, and Dorian waved a hand around, as nonchalant as ever.

"Here we are. I hope it's to your tastes; I've had it utterly stripped of my family's influence, so it should lack that particular smell of blood that followed the whole lot around."

"It's quite nice. Thank you," Cullen said.

"You can thank me by bathing, Commander. If you're to stay here, it will be far less conspicuous if you appear to at least be familiar with the concept." He chuckled. "I might be able to get away with an old friend from the Inquisition paying a social visit, but the same can't be said of the sentient version of a muddy rag."

Cullen glanced down, frowning at the travel-worn state of his clothes. "I would be pleased to, if you have anything that I might change into? I'm afraid that I packed rather lightly."

He expected a quick answer to that, a yes or a no. When a moment passed without one, he looked back up to find Dorian staring at him with a vaguely disgusted expression.

"Cullen," he said, as if Cullen had asked if he happened to know what color the sky was. "Don't you ever insult me with such a question again."

"Then that would be a yes?" A smile tugged at Cullen's lips.

"Yes. I'll retrieve something for you quite easily, thank you. It will be waiting outside the door when you're finished. And don't fret about modesty; I've sent the majority of the staff away with full pay since the dragon's attack."

With a nod, Cullen laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. He had thought the house seemed particularly quiet, but had simply chalked it up to the late hour.

He supposed he should have known better. Of course Dorian would have made arrangements to let his staff focus on their families and personal lives, especially when he was also going to be bringing his more secretive work home. Two birds, one stone.

It was an excellent maneuver, all things considered, one that he himself would have orchestrated in similar situations a decade ago.

How strange it was to have Dorian be the one pulling the strings now.

The thought made Cullen glance down, awkwardly studying the rug beneath his feet. He had never been particularly good at this part, the personal communication, the elements where his training and strength failed him, but the reminder that he wasn't even the man that he used to be made it all the more difficult.

That man, he knew, would be bewildered by this turn of events. Not only to learn that Dorian had somehow become the one leading him, but also by the fact that he was even here to begin with; in Tevinter, in Minrathous, in the home of an Altus Magister.

Inhaling slowly, Cullen reached up, brushing a hand through his wet, stringy hair. When he looked up again, it was to Dorian gesturing to the hall.

"I'll take my leave, then," he said. "Tomorrow, we will begin our work."

"I look forward to it," Cullen said.

Dorian turned to go, while Cullen reached for the clasp of his cloak, his fingers still chilled enough from the biting wind outside that it took him a moment to undo it. When he finally did, he carefully, if haphazardly, folded the cloak to try to keep the rain dripping from it to a minimum.

Then he went to set it on the trunk at the end of the bed, only to find Dorian glancing back from the open doorway.

He paused as their eyes met. For a moment, Dorian only stood there in silence, watching him.

Then, finally, he gave Cullen a nod.

"It's good to see you again, Commander," Dorian said quietly.

Cullen smiled faintly, nodding back as the door closed, leaving him alone in the quiet of the guest room.

Chapter Text

When Cullen woke, he wasn't entirely convinced that he would be able to drag himself out of bed.

He could, he knew; he was physically capable. All he would have to do was sit up, swing his legs, and stand.

Actually forcing himself to do so, however, was more difficult than it ever should have been.

A part of it was that he had spent so long traveling, trekking all the way across the continent, sleeping in the dirt or in antique inn beds that made his back ache, bathing in whatever bodies of water he could find. This was the first proper rest that he'd gotten since the moment he'd left home, as well as the cleanest, and once he got up, it would be over.

He understood now why Dorian had been known to grumble about the beds in Skyhold. If this was the environment that he had grown up in, waking every morning cradled in luxury, Cullen would likely have done the same.

That wasn't the only aspect, however. Not when he knew what would be waiting for him when he finally did get up.

It had been one thing to meet Dorian at a tavern in the dead of night, especially when he hadn't even known it would be Dorian he was meeting. It was quite another to meet him in the morning in his own home, as if they really were nothing more than two old friends.

What was he meant to do at such a breakfast? Talk about the weather? Chat idly about Cullen's dog or whatever fancy animals Dorian had procured as head of House Pavus?

Even back during their Inquisition days, small-talk hadn't been something they had engaged in much. There was almost always something going on or other people around that had prevented it, or they'd been actively doing something, like when they had played chess together. And that had mostly consisted of Dorian telling Cullen how badly he was going to lose in an attempt to distract him out of noticing that Dorian was cheating.

Though, perhaps Dorian would want to jump straight into work, and he wouldn't need to concern himself about it at all. Unlike what seemed like most Tevinters, Dorian preferred action over calculation and deliberate movements. Whether it was leaping towards danger as he had reportedly done in the face of his former mentor in Redcliffe or running off to confront the person his family had sent to take him home after news of his work with the Inquisition reached Tevinter, Dorian was plenty likely to want to just get to the meat of the issue.

But that was not the case when Cullen finally made it out of bed and down the stairs.

Having paused to freshen up, putting on a second set of Tevinter-style clothes that had been left for him along with the first after his bath the night before, it took him a decent moment to make his way to the dining room. Yet, when he arrived, he was greeted not with an impatient man wanting to run right out the door, but one still in a dressing robe, leisurely spreading jam on toast.

"Ah, good morning, Commander. Sleep well?" Dorian asked, sitting back and gesturing to the chair across from him.

With a nod, Cullen pulled it out to sit, even as he found himself distracted from the actual question. A small part of him wondered if the way Dorian dressed was a new habit of his, or if Cullen had simply never had cause to see him in such a state of undress at Skyhold. It wasn't as if Dorian had been joining them in the Herald's Rest in his nightclothes and a robe.

If it was, though, then it wasn't one Cullen could say he particularly appreciated. It made it somewhat difficult to focus on what he was being asked when his eyes kept flicking back to the way Dorian's collar was slipping.

Maker, he really was out of practice at politics if he couldn't handle someone being vaguely unmodest without a sense of discomfort settling into his chest like a jar of bees buzzing around.

Especially when that someone was Dorian. The man had spent months in the Frostback Mountains wearing armor that didn't even cover his shoulder. Frankly, the Iron Bull was the only person Cullen could think of that would make less sense to be surprised by in such a manner. And Bull hadn't been nearly so distracting.

Josephine would be disappointed in him, he thought briefly, settling into his chair.

"Yes, thank you," he said eventually. "And yourself?"

More cheerfully than he should have sounded considering it was still morning, Dorian said, "quite well. Might I offer you some breakfast? We even have Fereldan cheeses, should you like a taste of the South."

Cullen glanced around the small dining room, taking in the spread of cheese, bread, and jams in front of him, hard boiled eggs in a small dish beside a handful of pastries, all laid on a table that almost looked to be of a reasonable size. It wasn't what he might've imagined if he'd been asked, at least not from the Pavus household.

Apparently, he didn't do a particularly good job of hiding that, either, because Dorian let out a chuckle.

"Were you anticipating every room to have dried blood splatters, Commander?" He asked.

"No," Cullen said quickly. "No, of course not. It's simply…less ostentatious than I might have expected.

"You would be right to think so, quite frankly. It was much worse before I got my grubby paws on my inheritance and moved to Minrathous full-time instead of back home to Ventus; this was merely a parlor until then. The true dining room is three times this size." Dorian said. "I despise it utterly."

With a small nod, not sure quite what to say to that, Cullen took the plate in front of him and added a slice of bread, then the jam. Dorian picked up his cup quite nonchalantly.

"In any case," he said, continuing as if Cullen hadn't left him without an answer. "Once you've eaten, it's to work, as we discussed."

"Where should we begin?" Cullen asked.

"You'll struggle to do much strategizing if you don't know the extent of the damages. We'll start with giving you a glimpse of the state that the dragon's attack left us in."

With a nod, Cullen bit into his toast. The jam was sweeter than he was used to, with a smoother texture that he couldn't say that he minded. "Very well. Whatever you think is best."

"Of course. It is my city," Dorian said. "But we will have to be careful, nevertheless. The Venatori have a strong foothold here now, with eyes and ears everywhere. If they notice anything amiss, we might wind up in over our heads."

"Will you be able to blend in?"

"I won't be the problem, my dear Commander. Changing your clothes may have helped some in making you look like you belong, but I'm afraid that you're still quite thoroughly Southern."

Cullen frowned, glancing down at himself. The fitted vest and flared coat that he'd been given, a sash of fabric wound around his waist, were a more elegant version of what he had seen among the people of Tevinter in his travels to meet Dorian the night before. The cut of it was angular in a way that the Imperium seemed to prefer, not to mention the dark blues and reds of it. If that didn't make him look "Tevinter" enough to pass by the Venatori, he didn't know what would.

Though, frankly, he doubted that this would be the first time that Dorian had to disguise someone. Whatever work he did in Minrathous prior to the dragon attack almost certainly involved some degree of subterfuge.

"What would you propose, then?" He asked.

That earned him a glance-over, Dorian giving him a lingering, appraising look. He tilted his head to the side and hummed quietly.

"The simplest answer would be, of course, to find a narrative which would make it sensible for you to be with me. An old friend from the Inquisition visiting works well enough here, but it would be strange for us to be off galavanting around the parts of the city that I'll need to take you to," he said.

"But it would be alright for you to be there?" Cullen asked.

"More so than it would be if I were to drag along the leader of the Inquisition's former forces, at any rate."

Cullen conceded the point with a nod, taking another bite of his food. The appraisal continued as Dorian leaned forward to rest his chin on his fingers.

A moment passed. Then another. He stared while Cullen chewed.

Then, with a snap of his fingers, he chuckled.

"You know, that might just work," he said, as if Cullen had made some sort of suggestion. "Yes, I believe it might."

"And what would that be?"

"The city is in disarray, isn't it? Such a state it is in, in fact, that most of the Magisters and Altus have sought guards to ensure their complete safety in the face of any other threats. Looting and some such nonsensical fears."

Their eyes met, something gleaming in the familiar grey sheen of Dorian's.

"I would imagine they have, yes," Cullen said slowly.

"Therefore, who would question it if I were to have a templar guard by my side?" Dorian asked, raising an eyebrow, and Cullen's stomach sank.

"A…templar."

"Yes, I'm quite sure you're familiar. A slightly different order, but not by much. It would help to disguise the way you move and to explain your overall, er…Ferelden-ness. Plenty of Tevinter templars are from the South originally."

Forcing himself to look away, too familiar with how well Dorian could see through a poker face from how he played Wicked Grace, Cullen flicked his toast to free it from stray crumbs.

"I—well. Uh." He inhaled slowly. The idea of putting on templar armor again made something in his chest feel tight, flashes of the Fereldan circle shooting through his head. "Yes. You're—yes. That would be sensible, wouldn't it?"

"You needn't worry; the Imperial templars don't use Lyrium. In Tevinter, the mages are meant to have all the power, while templars merely do our bidding. You won't have to go anywhere near it," Dorian said.

"Thank you. That's thoughtful," Cullen said. He wasn't sure if it came out as stiffly as it felt.

"Excellent, then. Our little resistance group had a spare stash of costumes and such things in the city for infiltration assignments. Assuming that it's survived the chaos until now, we should be able to find armor for you there."

Which was how, in the space of an hour or so, Cullen found himself being shepherded through a hidden back door into a small, quite dusty, stale-smelling building in Docktown, having not had the stomach to finish his breakfast.

Dorian, now dressed, led him between stacks of wooden crates and discarded white sheets, and into a dim room filled with what seemed an endless assortment of only the most random things.

"Here we are," he said, gesturing broadly, and a small light flickered to life from his palm. Magic, something that still, even after so long, made Cullen's fingers instinctively twitch for his blade. "It's hardly the selection that we would have had in our primary hideout, but it will do for our purposes."

"Should I ask how you came to have templar armor in your possession?" Cullen asked.

"Not anything so violent as I assume you're picturing. We have templars working among us, though they are rare, and several of the rest of us have connections in the order. You would be amazed how simple it is to get your hands on such a thing."

"I would be, yes. In the South, we were taught to be wary of ever losing any of our gear, much less our actual armor. It would be far too easy for a mage to use that to their advantage."

"My friend, I will remind you, in Tevinter, the mages already have the advantage. We have no need to pilfer it," Dorian said. Then he turned back around and, with a glance at the crates, added, "besides, even if we had no contacts, nor inside men, it wouldn't take nearly as much work to get a templar in Tevinter out of their armor as it would in the South. They aren't as repressed, you see."

"Well—yes. Alright." Cullen sighed, looking away before Dorian could see and tease him for his red face. "Where is this armor, then?"

"An excellent question. I'm afraid I rarely actually participate in putting things away, so I'm not certain. It might take some digging to find it."

He reached for one of the crates, while Cullen resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Thankfully, it didn't take much work. Between the two of them, they managed to search through the room quickly enough, and Dorian came up holding a breastplate after only a few minutes.

The struggle came after that, when Cullen actually had to change into the bloody thing.

How long had it been since he'd last worn a templar's uniform, he wondered? Had it truly been nearly ten years?

Yet he still knew precisely how to do it. Even with the differences between the armor of a Southern templar and one from Tevinter, it felt the same as it had as a younger man, back in Kirkwall and in Fereldan.

So similar, in fact, that his fingers were trembling when he finally settled the last pieces into place.

It was a miracle that he got by without every inch of him giving away how uncomfortable he felt. It should have been obvious, at least in his mind. But then, Dorian had little cause to recognize that a templar uniform would be uncomfortable. He had every right to assume that Cullen's issue would be with the idea of Lyrium.

If it weren't for what had happened in the Fereldan circle, then Kirkwall after, he was sure that Dorian would be correct, after all. And his time there wasn't something that he advertised to anyone. Even the Inquisitor only knew of it because Cullen had a moment of weakness in his fight against the Lyrium withdrawals.

The idea of Dorian knowing—Maker's breath, it made Cullen feel sick to his stomach.

Especially now. Now, when he had come all this way and seen Dorian as he was, a Magister, a man who had moved on from the Inquisition and the pain of his life before it to become the sort of person who threw himself headlong into a fight against Gods.

Dorian had always been a stronger man than people wanted to give him credit for, but that had only seemed to become more true over their decade apart. If Cullen hadn't wanted to tell him about Kirkwall or the Fereldan circle then, then he certainly didn't like this.

With a deep breath, Cullen shoved such thoughts away as best as he could. Carefully, he folded the spare clothes Dorian had given him the night before, made sure that his sword was properly settled on his hip, and stepped out from the shadowed corner where he'd retreated to change.

He could do this. It was merely armor, not considerably different from what he had worn as Commander of the Inquisition.

It was just armor, he told himself, catching Dorian's eye.

"Oh, wonderful! You do look the part, don't you?" Dorian clapped his hands together. "Comfortable, Commander?"

"Quite." Cullen forced out.

"Good. And you can set aside the helmet, if you'd prefer. No one will question you so long as you're by my side."

Well, that was something at least. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stomach actually having to act the part of a templar again should someone press.

Even setting aside the memories of the Fereldan circle…that part of his life was a chapter that he had long-since closed, and it wasn't one that he had any interest in opening again.

He did as Dorian suggested, setting the helmet atop one of the unopened crates with a deep breath. Then he stretched his hands at his sides as best as he could with the metal gloves on and followed Dorian back towards the entrance, only half-catching whatever it was that Dorian was saying about what their next step would be.

Or, he tried to, at least. The weight of the armor as he walked wasn't something he was used to anymore. It was strange, trying to adjust to it after ten years.

What made it worse was that he wasn't as young of a man as he used to be, either. He might not have been gray-haired and complaining of the youth of today, but years of training and working as a templar had left their toll on his body. He could feel his knees protesting the extra burden already, old wounds and injuries not doing anything to make it easier for him.

But he had hardly come all this way to be bested by a suit of armor, had he? Especially not after they'd gone through the effort of finding the thing.

And at least without the helmet, he could still feel the wind on his face as they stepped back into Dock Town's narrow streets. That went a long way to letting him handle the situation and to keeping away memories of the past, of the cage in the Fereldan circle, of those weeks of visions interspersed with the cruelty of what was happening around him.

The thought of it alone was enough to make him feel ill. He didn't know how he'd have fared if he'd had to deal with his own breath puffing back against his face, stale and too-warm in the strange helmet these templars wore.

As it was, he managed to follow along as Dorian started down the street. Instinct had him a step behind, old training as a guard coming back more easily than he might have expected, though he'd usually been leading a mage somewhere back in the circle, not being led by one.

They walked for a few minutes, perhaps, down and up and around, Cullen's eyes scanning the way as they would have had he truly been guarding Dorian, despite the urge to let them sink to the floor and stay there. Long enough that he could begin to truly see the city as it was.

Dock Town, in the light of day, was far worse than Cullen had known.

He'd caught a glimpse, of course, while traveling through the night before. He'd seen the bodies in the hastily built gallows, the heavy templar presence, the fear in the people he passed.

But that had been while he'd been playing the part of a wary, weary traveler. He'd kept his head down and hadn't looked too closely, and nothing had leapt out at him in the dark.

Now, though, it was hard not to see the carnage, or at least what was left of it.

It was everywhere. It was in the rubble that they side-stepped, in the pools of drying blood that had seeped into the stones, in the Venatori banners hanging as they once had tried to in the South before the Inquisition had sent them scurrying away.

Overhead, scavenger birds cawed, wings fluttering as they searched for carrion. Over to the side, a man surrounded by floating racks of scrolls called, amid a flurry of other headlines, "Archon Radonis missing in the aftermath of Minrathous dragon attack!"

He continued, but Cullen didn't listen, ducking ahead to murmur to Dorian.

"The Archon..?"

Dorian nodded grimly. "Dead. Someone new will need to be instated once we rid ourselves of the Venatori."

"Maker," Cullen said. The repercussions of Divine Justinia's death in the South flashed through his mind, memories of the chaos it caused still fresh, even ten years on. "That can't be making any of this any simpler."

"Oh, you don't even know the half of it, Commander."

They slipped down another street, Dorian making no efforts to disguise his face or to hide his identity. More than a few of the people that they passed took note of him, but none seemed particularly awe-inspired by a Magister in their midst.

If anything, a few seemed to shy away, tucking themselves back into the shadows.

It made Cullen's stomach twist.

Dorian, for his part, did a good enough job at playing the Altus highblood, ignoring everything and keeping an air of complete apathy for everything going on around him. It was strange to see, considering the version of him that Cullen had once known. That man had tried to be aloof, but his emotions had shone through bold and bright, especially in the face of things he thought unfair.

He supposed that becoming a Magister had likely taught Dorian quite a bit about holding his tongue, though. A part of him wondered if he'd ever sent letters to ask Josephine for diplomacy advice.

Eventually, though, they came to a busier area, where no one seemed to care about Dorian's identity, people quietly clustering together or heading hurriedly in one direction or another. In the middle stood a statue, but whatever beauty it might once have had was overshadowed by the Venatori banners that had been planted in front.

It hardly seemed as if anyone wanted to stick around, much less draw attention to themselves while there, and Cullen couldn't blame them for it.

Dorian didn't seem to have any such qualms, however. He looked around, confident as ever.

"We're to meet another contact of mine here. He'll have more information for us about the state of things," Dorian said. "Hopefully, enough for us to do something with."

"What does this contact look like? Any defining features?" Cullen asked, looking the other way as if he could possibly pick this man of theirs out of the crowd.

"Doubtful. He'll be dressed plainly. Black beard, long hair, hardly the type to stick out."

"Well, isn't that helpful? You very well could have been describing yourself."

Scoffing, Dorian rolled his eyes. "Please, Commander. I couldn't blend in if I tried."

Then, before Cullen could even react to that, Dorian snapped his fingers and nodded across the square.

"There he is," he said.

Cullen followed his gaze. There were several people in that direction, but only one fit the description; a tall fellow, nondescript as promised, with a pointed black beard and long hair that was braided at the temples. He was, in fact, somewhat similar in appearance to Dorian, from his hair to his build, though even just from a glance, it was easy to tell that this wasn't some Altus mage they were dealing with.

He stood with the undeniable posture of a military man. That much, Cullen could spot from a mile away. And the way his arms were resting was more than familiar; Cullen had seen plenty of men who were used to wearing a sword at their hip hold that same stance.

"You might have mentioned we were looking for the only person here who looks like he ought to be in a soldier's uniform," Cullen said quietly, following Dorian as he began to close the distance with their contact.

"I'm afraid it hadn't occurred to me, Commander. I've never looked that closely at his posture; he's not my type."

Eyes widening, Cullen nearly misstepped on the uneven stones, before quickly recovering. The startled chuckle he let out was entirely accidental, his hand lifting to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck.

It wasn't as if that was the first time he'd had similar jokes tossed his way—far from it, in fact. In his days in the Fereldan circle, there had been a young mage who had noticeably caught his eye, much to his embarrassment, and he couldn't say that he'd never had someone poke at him about the Inquisitor. Varric in particular had never missed an opportunity.

That just didn't stop it from flustering him every time.

Before he could say anything, however, they found themselves on the other side of the square, face-to-face with the other man.

"Hello, my friend. I do hope you haven't been waiting too long," Dorian said as they drew near.

"Only twice as long as you said I'd have to." The man muttered. He gave Cullen a wary, narrow-eyed look, grimacing at his armor. Cullen couldn't exactly blame him; he felt much the same about it. "Who's this, then?"

"Tarquin, this is Cullen Rutherford, former Commander of the Inquisition's forces," Dorian said. "Cullen, this is Tarquin, a key member of the Shadow Dragons, our resistance organization."

Grimacing, Tarquin crossed his arms. "Which is a great thing to be shouting about in the middle of the city."

"Tarquin is one of our inside-men among the templars."

"Is that so?" Cullen asked.

"Yes, which is why I've brought him here. If anyone will have the information that we need, it's him," Dorian said.

"I doubt I've got everything, but it ought to be enough, at least for now." Tarquin held out a bundle of papers, and Dorian quickly took them. "You already know the state of the Magisterium, but there's plenty more. Venatori sightings, corruption among the templars, reports of citizens disappearing, a couple notes about darkspawn in the catacombs, all that shit."

"And the Shadows?" Dorian asked, pulling back one of the pages to glance at the next.

"Yeah, there's stuff about us in there, too, what little there is to say. Most of it's straight from the Viper."

That earned him a tight frown, Dorian glancing up as the skin beside his eyes crinkled. "Ah. Yes…how is he?"

"How do you think? Bastard got blighted. Refuses to go to the Wardens," Tarquin said stiffly, and Cullen was reminded of the conversation he'd had with Dorian the night before—the one regarding one of his men who had been blighted. Always playing the hero, that one. Quite good at it, too. "Says he's got duties here, first."

Dorian sighed. "Of course he does. Perhaps I can speak with him, though I doubt it. If he didn't listen to you, then I suspect he won't listen to anyone."

"The one thing the blight hasn't changed is how bloody stubborn he is."

"I'm not sure anything could, to be quite honest."

With a wry chuckle, one that finally managed to get the slightest twitch out of the corner of Tarquin's lips, he shook his head. "You and your friend just be careful, yeah? Last thing we need is more people getting themselves killed."

Cullen glanced at Dorian, who nodded, and by the time that he'd turned his attention back to Tarquin, it was to the sight of his back as he began walking away.

He hadn't seemed the type for goodbyes anyway, Cullen supposed.

But even as Tarquin turned the corner and vanished, Dorian didn't move. He simply stared down at the papers in his hands, frowning deeply.

A moment passed, then another. Dorian seemed only to grow more lost in thought as the seconds stretched on.

Eventually, Cullen reached out, tapping his finger against the edge of the bundle.

"Are you alright?" He asked quietly.

With a quick look over, as if he'd nearly forgotten Cullen was there, Dorian raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yes, of course I am. And we have what we came for, now, don't we? Tarquin's the reliable sort, assuming you can get past that gruff exterior. Everything that we need will be in these papers."

He said it well enough, if a bit too fast and a bit too much to be genuine, but the look on his face, that strange expression, was enough to make Cullen's chest pang for him.

The last thing he imagined Dorian would want, though, would be to be confronted about his issues here, in the middle of the street. It was a fine enough place to make a casual exchange of information, but that was a far cry from a serious conversation.

So Cullen let it go, despite the urge to cling like a mabari with a bone.

"Then it's back to Hightown for us?" He asked instead.

"Yes, though we'll be taking a different route. There's yet more of our shining city for you to see," Dorian said.

Shining, he said. The only shining thing Cullen had seen so far was the fresh blood splattered on the stones.

But they continued onwards anyway, ducking away from the square and up a hill. Cullen kept his spot just slightly behind Dorian's side and, as they went, his careful scan of the path, as well. Every shadow that fluttered in the midday sun made him twitch for the sword at his hip.

The good news was that they went unbothered. No Venatori leapt out as they walked, no templars made issues of themselves, no blood mages announced their presence.

The bad, however, came when they arrived at their destination.

And however bad Cullen expected it to be, this was worse.

Of everything that he'd seen the night before, the effects dimmed by the dark and his efforts to focus on where he was going, this had to be the sharpest difference.

It was one thing to have seen the gallows. It was quite another to actually look up and watch the bodies hanging limply, the cloth of their burlap masks rippling in the wind in a mockery of life.

"Examples. Some are our people, members of the Shadow Dragons. Others were merely picked at a whim." Dorian murmured grimly.

"Why are they still hanging? Should someone not have gotten them down by now?" Cullen asked, staring in mounting horror at the state of their decomposition. He'd seen soldiers' bodies in the battlefield before, he knew what a fresh corpse looked like, but this…

Maker preserve him, they must have been up there since the dragon attack itself.

"If we did, the Venatori would just string up another set. They don't care how many lives they take, only that we see what happens to those who don't comply." With a small scoff, Dorian shook his head. "We might not have been able to save the people hanging here, but by leaving them where they are, we can at least prevent others from being killed as replacements."

The thought made Cullen's stomach turn, even as Dorian drew his attention past the gallows with a subtle, elegant point of his finger.

Between short stacks of crates and a jumbled mess of things, beyond more blood splatters and an aggressively barking mabari, stood a doorway. From such a distance, it was difficult to make out much, but Cullen could vaguely make out the shape of a counter and shelves, just as ruined as everything else in the area.

"A shop?" He asked quietly, a sour taste lingering under his tongue.

"Not just a shop," Dorian said. "It used to be run by the Shadow Dragons. Behind it, hidden by magic, was our hideout."

Eyebrows raising, Cullen gave the shop another look, as if he would suddenly be able to see some hint of what was within. "I see."

"It was a direct target of the Venatori. They wanted to cause as much chaos as possible, to eliminate any hope Minrathous had of fighting them off. No better way to do that than to methodically strike every organization that's worked against them, yes?"

Sludge settled in Cullen's chest, sympathy twisting it around his ribs and squeezing.

"Were you there?" He asked.

"No, and that's something I'm quite confident I'll regret for the rest of my days," Dorian said. "Perhaps if I was, I might have been able to make a difference, turn it from a slaughter into a proper fight. At the very least, I might've been able to give more of them time to run; even throwing themselves blindly through the Eluvian would have been better than the alternative."

And there were many things to say to that, things such as you could've been killed too or they would have been glad to know you're still fighting now, but they fizzled out on the back of Cullen's tongue in favor of—

"An Eluvian? A working Eluvian?" He asked. "That—that mirror from Skyhold that led us to Corypheus?"

"Precisely. It's in there, even still. Quite large, and heavier than a dragon's corpse, so we have yet to be able to retrieve it. At the moment, our best hope is to simply leave it there until we can run out the Venatori and make those templars find a new post," Dorian said.

"I had no idea that we knew of the existence of any others. I thought that Morrigan and Solas were the only ones with access."

"They were, until Morrigan deemed it suitable for us to be looped in. It's been especially useful for Rook and that lot." He grimaced. "Not that it did us any good when it counted."

With another glance at the shop, Cullen ran a hand over his hair. The gloves of the templar uniform were clunky, but the movement still helped him to think as he took a deep breath.

An Eluvian. Right there in Minrathous.

His first thought was distrust, just as it had been all those years ago. Corypheus was dead and gone, but the Maker only knew what else might be able to travel through it. Especially after the Exalted Council, where Solas had taken back control. They had no way of knowing that he hadn't done something to the mirrors.

But…Maker's breath, that could be invaluable to their efforts, couldn't it? To have something that allowed them to so easily access other areas of Thedas?

And more than just that was the fact that the mirror in Skyhold was still standing, assuming that nothing had happened to it since Cullen had last left the keep, and Leliana had written some short time ago that the demons which had apparently taken up occupancy there in the Inquisition's stead had been vanquished. If both things were true, then he and Dorian could use that their advantage.

He doubted Skyhold would have much in the way of supplies after so long, but if nothing else, they could use it to store supplies from the city to keep the Venatori from destroying them. They could take the wounded and the sick, Minrathous' most vulnerable, through the mirror. It was a risk, considering the Blight ravaging the South, but Skyhold was an isolated place, so far up in the mountains that he doubted any threat to it would come before the rest of Thedas fell anyway.

They would have to be able to access the Eluvian, of course, would need to find a way past the templars without bringing the whole of the order down on their heads, as well as hope that there wouldn't be some horrific beast waiting on the other side, but he was sure that they would be able to find something. They might even be able to convince some members of the templar to cooperate, if not the order itself.

This could genuinely help, he realized. Could be a substantial leg up against the Venatori if used wisely enough.

He turned his attention back to Dorian, readying to begin his speech on the matter, only to realize too late that Dorian's attention was entirely elsewhere.

Following his gaze, Cullen found the templars standing by the gallows.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Merely considering how best to distract them," Dorian said.

"Distra—why? What are you planning?"

"I haven't been to the shop since the attack, and I should like to see it for myself. Reports only tell you so much, you know."

"You're going to risk being noticed just to torture yourself?"

"It's hardly torture, Commander. I'm not the one who was butchered." Rubbing his hand over his chin, Dorian frowned at the shop's open doorway. "Let's see…yes, I believe that would work."

"Dorian, do you truly think this is the wisest choice?" Cullen asked, keeping his voice low, even if it didn't matter much, considering the nearby templar's Mabari still determinedly barking itself hoarse. "You made it sound as if we were meant to be avoiding danger, not diving headlong into it."

Without so much as a glance back, Dorian flicked his wrist and narrowed his eyes. Light gleamed in his hand.

A moment later, the brazier sitting atop the gallows across the square flared, catching the wooden stool beside it aflame.

It didn't take long for it to catch the attention of the templars. Within seconds, everyone nearby was looking, exclaiming as the entire structure went up, the flames only barely slowed by the dampness of the wood.

"Now. This is our opportunity," Dorian said, as if it had just so happened to have been granted to them, and ducked towards the shop.

Cullen, eyes stuck on the two bodies that hung above the fire, watching them dangle so close to the blaze, muttered a quick prayer to Andraste's name and the flames that took her before reluctantly following.

He knew, of course, that the Imperium didn't share his faith in Andraste, but he hoped that she would help guide them to the Maker's side regardless. Such a fate meant they deserved that much.

But he couldn't let himself linger on it. Especially not when Dorian was already vanishing through the doorway ahead, the two of them unnoticed amid the chaos.

Instead, he followed Dorian in, where they found the absolute ruins of what used to be the Shadow Dragon's shop.

Seeing it from a distance hadn't told him anything of the true damage, he realized quickly. From outside, it might have just been a bit messy, things overturned, some bits and bobs damaged. But standing in the midst of it, it was clear that something had gone very, very wrong.

The broken furniture. The puddles of blood. The carnage everywhere he looked. It might very well have been a scene from the Fereldan Circle or the battle at Adamantine Fortress, not a quaint little shop in the middle of a city.

He stepped carefully around a small collection of forgotten papers, glad at least that it seemed no bodies had been left to rot among the debris and cracked trinkets, as Dorian approached a bookcase near the back wall.

"Dorian, exactly what is it that you hope to see here?" He asked. "Surely nothing good can come of this."

Whatever answer Dorian might have given, if any, was interrupted by the abrupt sound of grating stone and a deep rumble. Cullen's hand flew to his sword hilt, only to realize a moment later what it was.

The bookshelf itself was moving.

Lit by a blue glow, it was slipping to the side, revealing a passageway and a small set of stairs hidden behind it.

Maker's breath, Cullen hadn't known this was what Dorian had meant when he'd said the shop had been hidden with magic. A second entrance, tucked away so easily…

But he supposed he ought to get used to such casual displays of power. He was in Tevinter, now; there was likely more magic on every street corner than he would expect from any individual apostate back in the South.

Dorian didn't even seem to blink at it. He stepped wordlessly through before the shelves had even finished moving.

Warily, Cullen followed, watching the entrance for any sign of it beginning to close again. Only once he was completely clear, certain that it couldn't slam shut on him, did he turn his attention forward.

What he found, though, nearly made him wish that he hadn't.

This hideout of theirs was in an even worse state than the shop itself.

He wouldn't have thought it was possible, if not for seeing it with his own eyes. Not even a full step inside, he found his boots splashing down into another puddle of blood. When he dragged his eyes up from watching it ripple, it was to the sight of dust billowing through a dim, debris-crowded room.

Amid it all, Dorian already stood, shoulders tense and the papers Tarquin had given him clutched tight in his fist.

The blue light of glowing lanterns hanging from the ceilings lit him in a ghostly halo. The dust made it feel as if he was unreachable, like if Cullen tried to climb the steps to touch him, he'd only find air.

And Dorian's voice, when he spoke, was a quiet tremble, his expression twisting at the boulders blocking what might have once been another doorway. "It's all rubble. They've destroyed it. It wasn't enough to attack us here, no, they had to trap our people in like pests. Probably crushed half of them!"

"Dorian," Cullen said, somewhere between worry and a warning.

With an angry, breathless splutter, Dorian shook his head and moved deeper into the hideout, disappearing around the corner.

As quickly as he could in the heavy templar armor, Cullen followed. He would have regardless, he knew, but something in Dorian's voice and in his posture made Cullen's stomach sink with dread at the thought of what he might do if unattended.

He turned the corner at the top of the steps. Caught a glimpse of the brazier in the middle of the room, burning brightly as if no one had ever left, and yet more rubble crowding the doorways, before he saw Dorian kneeling by an overturned, broken table.

When Cullen reached his side, it was to Dorian holding a half-burnt book from the wreckage, loose pages fluttering out, Tarquin's papers tossed aside. He watched him flip to a random place, shaking fingers brushing at the blood-soaked edges.

"Dorian," he said again, more quietly this time.

The sound of Dorian's ragged breath echoed through the room. "I had known it would be bad, of course. But this…"

Not for the first time since coming to Minrathous, Cullen found himself wishing for Josephine's company. Hers, for her diplomacy and skills with emotions, or perhaps Varric's, for his talent with words. Even Cole's, for he would at least understand how best to fix this.

Cullen, however, could only flounder for something to say that wouldn't make him sound like a bumbling idiot and upset Dorian even more.

Maker, it wasn't as if he had anything to draw on. Everything that anyone had told him after what had happened in Fereldan and in Kirkwall had been empty words, useless at best and even more frustrating at worst. He couldn't see how this would be any different. No amount of talk would bring back the lives lost or stop Dorian from feeling that guilt.

And the comfort that Cullen found from the people around him throughout their time in Skyhold while dealing with the issues of the templars and Samson and his problems with Lyrium, it had come from friends.

Not…whatever he was to Dorian now. An ally. An acquaintance. A convenient way to help his city.

He still intended to try, of course. No matter how certain he was of his failure, he wouldn't give up and leave Dorian with no help at all.

But before he could even reach out, so much as set a hand on his shoulder, Dorian was pushing himself up to stand with a trembling huff.

"The rot in this city, in the Imperium as a whole, goes to the very root. Every attempt made to excavate it has failed. For aeons." He pressed his lips together. "Seeing it like this…it only reminds me of how much there is left to fix."

Cullen forced himself to speak, this time. "You're trying, Dorian. That's all that anyone could ask of you."

"Oh, yes, I am. I'm trying. And look where that got us."

Shaking his head, Dorian gestured broadly to the room in front of them. The bitter scoff he let out sounded deafening in the quiet stillness of the ruins around them.

"You can't blame yourself for this. You're one man, not an army. And what happened here, it isn't your fault."

"Isn't it?"

"Of course not. No more than anything that happened to Redcliffe or Haven or anywhere else in the South was the Inquisitor's. No more than what's happening in the South now is anyone's."

That, as if someone had snapped their fingers and made it so, sent Dorian spinning on his heel away from Cullen.

"Those are terrible comparisons, Cullen. Dreadful, truly."

"Dorian—"

"This is my home!" He flung the book aside, where it slammed against the wall with a thick thud. "And these Venatori bastards are working to undo everything I have ever done to try to help it!"

Cringing, Cullen shot a look back towards the door. The bookcase had already rumbled back into place, but he doubted even that would be enough to muffle Dorian's voice.

"I understand, Dorian, but we needn't shout. We'll have the real Templars on us in moments like this," Cullen said.

"I am not shouting!" Dorian shouted.

For a moment, Cullen just stared at him, watching with a raised eyebrow as Dorian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The sigh he let out was heavy, and he scrubbed his knuckles across his eyes as if that might settle his temper.

It was strange, seeing him so frazzled. For the last twenty-four hours or so, Cullen had grown almost used to this person Dorian had become, but in the moment, it was quite difficult not to see the younger man who used to rant verbose circles around half of Skyhold.

A part of Cullen could only think of one of the Inquisitor's missions to Emprise du Lion, where Dorian and the others had trekked out into the snow, only to return shivering, icicles in their hair, and burn marks on their armor.

It was a bloody beast! Dorian had snapped when Varric made one of his usual comments. A dragon in the snow! Who would possibly expect a sneak-attack from a dragon in a glacial wasteland?

Cullen, forcing himself not to laugh, had said, I'm not sure that Emprise du Lion counts as a wasteland, Dorian.

The way Dorian had whirled on him then had looked quite like he did now. All quick, jerking movements and wide eyes, like a cat with its tail puffed in indignation.

It will certainly do until a wasteland gets here, won't it? Kaffas, you try going out there, Commander! See if you care for semantics when a dragon has tried to make an afternoon snack from your flesh and a toothpick from your weapons!

But that Dorian had made no attempt to calm himself. He'd gone stomping off, muttering under his breath about the South and its weather, the state of things, and spectator commentary.

This Dorian, after a long, stretching moment, smoothed his hair back and looked up.

"Apologies. This—it's a sensitive topic, as I'm sure you've gathered," he said.

The look on his face made something in Cullen's chest twist. For a beat, he looked utterly exhausted, eyes wrinkling, brows drawn together, lips down-turned.

It would have made sense for anyone else, but even amidst all of this, he hadn't expected it from Dorian.

He supposed that he should have. Even the strongest men had their breaking points.

And Dorian…well. He had been pushed more than far enough.

Quietly, softly, Cullen murmured, "Dorian. We will fix this."

"Well, I suppose at least one of us sounds confident." Dorian let out a wry, helpless chuckle.

This time, when he turned away, it was far less theatrical. He moved towards the middle of the room, brushing a hand over the ornate edge of the brazier in the middle of the room, then made his way towards the far doorway.

Cullen, for lack of anything else to do, followed silently.

"I do try to keep a brave face, but to be frank, if it weren't already clear, I worry for my city. For what the Venatori will do, for the plans of the Evanuris, for how we'll fare even if the worst has already passed," Dorian said with a shake of his head, clenching his fist. "I came home to try to fix things, yet everything has only grown worse."

They passed through a small hall, rubble to one side and training dummies to the other. Beyond Dorian's shoulder, Cullen caught a glimpse of a gaping hole where there might once have been a wall, the midday sun dimming as clouds moved in from the sea.

"You're trying to fix an entire nation from the roots up. It will take time," Cullen said.

"Yes, of course it will. I suppose that in the face of all of this death, I just wonder, is that time that I have? My father was killed for his opinions and politics. Considering how keen he was to send me away, I can only imagine that I should have been, as well."

"You killed the men responsible for it, yes?"

"But there will always be more. Particularly for me. I'm everything that they hate; a charming, handsome man who's both smarter and better dressed than them. It's a dangerous thing to be in Tevinter."

"Yet surely you can protect yourself. You're one of the most powerful mages I've ever met."

"Says the Southerner," Dorian said. "But you're right, of course. I can handle myself well enough, at least right until I can't. It's just that the likelihood of can't coming sooner rather than later seems to be growing by the day."

"Dorian…"

"Yes, yes, I know. Others will pick up the cause when I'm gone, Tevinter will always have its rebels and its progressive voices, etcetera, etcetera. Maevaris has already told me of it all. Perhaps if I had any faith that that was true, I wouldn't worry so. But with the Shadows all either dead or hidden away to lick their wounds, I'm afraid I can't be so certain."

Dorian paused, stopping just shy of the crumbling edge of what used to be the floor of the room, staring out at the clouds on the horizon. His hair fluttered in the breeze, his expression somber.

"You never seemed the type to be afraid of death before," Cullen said quietly. "How many times did you throw yourself into a fight for the Inquisition for the thrill of it?"

"Oh, I'm hardly afraid. Wary, more like. I spent too long training in Nevarra to let death frighten me now."

"Then what is this?"

"I've been home for ten years. Ten years, and this is all I have to show for it. An occupied city and the ashes of my friends." Dorian closed his eyes. "Even if I do survive until I'm old and gray, I still shudder to think of how little I will have truly accomplished."

Something in Cullen's chest twisted at that, the same part of him that panged every time that he thought about the thirteen year old with scraped knees and calloused hands that had left home to be a templar, and how bitterly disappointed he would be to see Cullen now.

But he was hardly a proper example, was he? It had never been him who was responsible for fixing things or making change. He had been there to see the Inquisition through their battles, not to choose which ones to take on.

Dorian was here making every choice, confronting his home head-on, in a way that few dare would. In a fight like that, every victory counted.

With a shake of his head, Cullen said, "no one truly dedicated to doing good ever believes that they've done enough."

"Oh, I quite disagree. There's a reason that it took so much effort for us to find the Hero of Fereldan ten years ago, yes? And it wasn't just Varric's meddling."

"I mean it. You're a good man, Dorian. Your accomplishments speak for themselves, even if you can't see them."

Tossing a smile that would have been forced on anyone else over his shoulder, Dorian chuckled. "Are you trying to fluster me, Commander? I wouldn't suggest it. I've been told it can be quite difficult, even for a strapping man such as yourself."

And that, after a moment's pause, sent heat through Cullen's face.

"Oh—Maker's breath." He muttered.

"Ha-ha! You ought to see the look on your face. It's always such fun to see you turn as red as that old cloak of yours."

Crossing his arms, Cullen glanced away. "I should have expected that you couldn't be serious for more than two minutes. It goes against your nature."

"Would you prefer that I was a complete bore?" Dorian asked. He brushed a hand across his front, voice slipping into something almost dismissive, though there was a rough edge to it. "And beyond that, it's far less about me and more about how long we've been here. We can't stand here all day talking about my failures, can we? Those templars have almost certainly put out that blaze by now."

"Well, perhaps that wouldn't be an issue if you hadn't gone completely rogue and lit it in the first place."

"It's as you said. It's simply my nature."

Cullen rolled his eyes, even as he nodded towards the entrance. "Then it will be your nature's responsibility to find us a way out that won't result in us being exposed."

That earned him another chuckle, Dorian joining him by the doorway and giving him an elegant half-bow.

"After you, my dear Commander," he said.

It shouldn't have been amusing, particularly not when they were about to have to deal with sneaking past the templars and anyone else the fire had drawn, but Cullen couldn't help how his lips twitched up.

If nothing else, at least this was better than before, when he was busy throwing books.

Cullen—he knew how that sort of angry grief felt. Anger at the world and at himself, grief for what he couldn't save. He'd nearly hit the Inquisitor with his lyrium philter in Skyhold because of it.

He never wanted to see that sort of pain in anyone, but especially not in Dorian. So even if he was decently sure that this was just an exaggerated act to move on from a difficult conversation, it was still better than watching him blame himself for something he never could have prevented.

With a shake of his head, he slipped past Dorian and made his way past the crumbling rubble, into the cold main room of the hideout.

And it was cold, he realized after a moment. A frigid breeze wafted over his exposed face the moment he stepped in, one that he didn't remember having been there before.

They had just been standing by the broken wall, where the heat of the day would be stronger than the chill of a stone hideout that had been abandoned for some short time now, but he didn't remember it being this jarring of a shift, did he?

Surely he would have. It might have been some time since he'd last properly been in the field himself, but his skills hadn't become so rusted over that he would miss such an obvious change. Not even while distracted by Dorian's pain.

Stopping short, Dorian nearly bumping into him from behind, Cullen cast a glance around the room.

It took him a full second longer than it should have to realize what the change was.

The brazier in the center of the room had gone dark.

"Well, that isn't supposed to happen," Dorian said. "It's magic. It doesn't simply go out."

Cullen fixed his eyes on it, staring as if it would begin to explain why it was abruptly without a flame, or why it going out had caused his breath to begin to fog in front of his face, but, unsurprisingly, it stayed as silent and cold as death.

Instead, as his gaze slipped up from the twisting metal, he found the reason itself hovering in the doorway opposite them.

A cloaked figure, tattered and grim, with teeth like daggers instead of a face.

Fog poured from its skeletal frame as he watched. Milky, waxen, paper-like skin, stretched taut over bone, stretched as it twisted its head unnaturally to the side.

It had no eyes of its own that he could see, yet seemed to feel the moment that he noticed it; throwing its gaunt arms wide, it let out a piercing shriek that rattled Cullen to the bone.

"Demon." He breathed, instinctively reaching for his sword with one hand, even as the other jerked to pull Dorian further behind him.

Yet even as he did it, he found himself stumbling back. There was no attack, no reason for him to be retreating, but he was.

His chest ached, thrumming with pain like he hadn't felt since he had led the abandonment of Haven, running from a home he'd never expected he'd have again, leaving bodies of people that had trusted their lives to him behind. Eyes stinging, lungs squeezing, he gripped his sword all the tighter.

"Despair." Dorian choked. "A perversion of hope. Kaffas, of course it's here."

Naming it, it seemed, only served to anger the creature. The temperature dropped, Cullen's eyelashes frosting over where tears had clung milliseconds before.

Another shriek. He forced himself not to flinch away, raising his sword higher.

For perhaps the first time all day, he was grateful for the templar armor, even as he was still bothered by the weight of it. The thought of being faced with something like this without such protection was bad enough, but to add to it, he wasn't even sure if he'd have had his sword otherwise, and if he'd had to stand aside and letting Dorian take it on alone—he shuddered to imagine it.

He'd seen creatures like this before, after all. At Adamant, primarily, where Pride and Despair had dominated the battlefield. They'd been dreadful to fight, constantly dancing away and creating explosions of ice from a distance, out of reach of any sword and too fast for most spells to land properly.

Dorian might have been a powerful mage, but any one man alone against this thing would struggle. It was dangerous enough when its focus was divided.

But as it was, with the two of them, that might very well be the key to making it out alive.

Swallowing hard, Cullen muttered over his shoulder, "go to the left. The other doorway. I'll keep its focus, you do whatever you must."

A hand pressed against Cullen's back, barely-there through the bulk of the armor.

"Don't do anything foolish." Dorian's breath was warm as he leaned forwards to murmur in Cullen's ear.

Then, just as quickly, he was gone, darting to the side just as Cullen had directed.

Across the room, the demon gnashed its teeth, a chatter filling the air, before swinging out one clawed hand with a fresh wave of fog.

Chapter Text

Cullen barely saw the ice coming before he was throwing himself out of the way, hiding behind the wall to his right. Rubble shifted beneath his feet, nearly twisting his ankle, as blue and white filled his vision.

He shouted, shielding his face as best as he could from the spray of the ice that exploded where he'd been standing. It succeeded, at least enough to reduce the blast to one that was more alarming than it was painful, and his borrowed armor took the brunt of the frost. Other than a dusting of snow in his hair, he was unscathed.

As quickly as he could, he shoved himself back into the fray.

Usually, he would be more deliberate against a long-range enemy while armed only with his sword, but he couldn't afford that while also keeping its attention. If he was meant to give Dorian an opportunity, he would have to prioritize speed over caution.

So he did. Deliberately, he scraped the tip of his sword against the stone floor and made every step a stomp, armor clinking as he ducked around the corner and charged the creature.

It hadn't moved far, giving him a clear shot at it, at least for the moment. To his left, Dorian had done an excellent job of circling towards it without drawing any fire, stave in hand and ready for a fight. Just as he began to ready a spell, so did the demon, and Cullen threw himself forwards.

The good thing about a Despair demon was that, because they so liked to keep their distance, it was possible to herd them in a particular direction if done carefully enough. When Cullen moved, it danced back, further out of reach.

That didn't stop it from hurling its next shot of magic, but it did mean that the blast of ice went wide. It exploded somewhere past Cullen's right shoulder, the barest hint of frost stinging the back of his neck.

He didn't let up to brush it away. Instead, he forced the demon further in, through the next doorway and into the larger room beyond.

It would've been easier had he had a shield, he thought briefly, but he ignored the thought in favor of watching as a barrage of green magic slammed into the demon one after another.

A glance to the side confirmed the assumption that it was Dorian's doing. Swirling his staff as Cullen watched, Dorian expertly launched another shot.

The demon hissed violently as it landed, more fog pouring from it in a wave that left Cullen with goosebumps beneath his armor.

"We nearly have it!" Dorian shouted. "Corner it, Commander!"

Gritting his teeth, Cullen swung his sword out. The demon twirled away, retreating with a chatter of its horrible teeth, but not before he managed to land a half-decent hit.

From there, it was a matter of finding a rhythm with Dorian. Him dashing in, keeping the demon in the furthest part of the room as best he could, while Dorian shot spell after spell from a safer distance.

It began to weaken eventually. He could see it flagging with every hit it took.

As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he closed the distance, throwing himself forward with as much power as he could. Spit flew as the demon wailed, the miasma of its very existence clutching at Cullen like it could stop him with the weight of his mistakes alone, before he drove the sword through its vaporous ribs.

Then he jumped back, dropping the hilt just in time for Dorian to hurl a ball of fire that caught the creature's tattered robes with a burst of heat and another brain-melting shriek.

The aching grief in Cullen's chest tightened as he stumbled out of its reach. His eyes prickled, his mind flooding with memories; the horrors of the struggles at Kinloch Hold, everything that happened in Kirkwall, abandoning Haven, the demons, the dead, the pain and the loss and the torture.

And then it froze.

The demon was done for.

With one more rattling wheeze, a hiss like death itself, the demon faded into nothingness.

Stray embers fluttered through the air, his sword falling to the stone floor with a clatter.

Just like that, the icy hand squeezing his lungs dissolved, and with it went the pressure of the memories.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, neither of them wanting to break it, before Cullen shook his head to clear it and forced himself forward.

Kneeling to pick up his sword, his fingers trembled. He chose to blame it on the cold, despite the evidence to the contrary. Between the damage to the city, the templar armor clanking with his every step, and the arrival of the demon, Cullen was amazed he hadn't yet collapsed to the ground like a child.

He certainly felt like a child, exhausted and weak, so rattled by a fight against one lone demon. What would Cassandra say, he wondered? Or any of the instructors who had once seen such promise in him?

Somewhere behind him, boots scuffed against the floor and Dorian's breathless voice echoed in the empty room. "Are you alright, Commander? I must admit, that was…more excitement than I had expected from the afternoon."

Cullen, not sure how to answer that, or even if he wanted to, glanced around the room.

"What was it doing here?" He asked quietly, sheathing his sword.

"Maker only knows. It might have been drawn by the suffering of the Shadow Dragons as they were slaughtered. The Venatori might have summoned it to do their dirty work. It might even have simply wandered in through what used to be a wall." Dorian shook his head. "What's important now is that we got rid of it before it killed us."

Inhaling slowly, Cullen made it halfway through a nod before his eyes caught on Dorian's arm.

His arm and the sleeve of his robes, which were tattered, red blooming along his skin where frost was just beginning to melt.

"You're hurt," Cullen said, and Dorian looked down with a raised eyebrow. Upon seeing the damage, his expression flickered with surprise.

"So I am," he said. "No matter. I didn't care much for this outfit anyway."

A sickly sweet taste filled Cullen's mouth as he reached for Dorian's elbow. Gingerly, he tugged him towards one of the magical lanterns still flickering away overhead.

For his part, Dorian let it happen with little more than a sigh.

The good news was that the cuts weren't deep. Cullen could only assume that he'd been caught by one of the demon's blasts, that these were from icicles being hurled through the air like knives, but they looked worse than they truly seemed to be.

The bad news was that looking at them made Cullen feel vaguely sick.

It had been his responsibility to draw the creature's fire. Not only had he failed, but he hadn't even realized it.

And it had been Dorian who was hurt for it.

He swallowed hard, smoothing his thumb unthinkingly over Dorian's skin where the sleeve had been torn apart. Even through his glove, it was still warm.

Still warm, he reminded himself. Alive and safe.

"Are you quite finished?" Dorian asked, voice almost amused, making Cullen's eyes snap up to his. "I know that I'm easy to look at, but we should retrieve those papers and be heading back, yes?"

"Uh—yes. Of course. We should find you a potion, as well." He dropped Dorian's arm.

"I'll handle it, Commander. This is far from the first time I've found myself on the wrong side of a demon attack."

That was far from reassuring, but Dorian walked away as if it was meant to be, ducking back through the doorway on the opposite side of the room and scooping up the papers that he'd dropped when he'd found the book.

When he returned, he gestured towards the entrance with his chin. "Shall we?"

"You're going to walk through the city with your arm covered in blood?" Cullen asked.

"Considering the general state of things, I hardly think it will stand out much."

And with that, he started down the stairs, Cullen trailing behind. The door rumbled open as they got close, making the puddle of blood ripple unpleasantly.

Outside, it was easier than Cullen had expected to sneak past the templars again. Dorian didn't even have to light anything else on fire, the lot of them still standing around the first one, watching the mabari sniff through the burnt wreckage and two workers pull the corpses from the ashes.

Then it was just a matter of making their way back across the city. Without having to go out of their way to the square where they had met Tarquin, it was quicker, a straight-shot back to Hightown. Dorian didn't suggest stopping to swap Cullen's borrowed armor back for his borrowed clothes, nor did Cullen bring it up, even with as much as he'd like to be free of it.

It was more important to make it safely back and to see to Dorian's arm. Cullen's own discomfort could wait.

And it did, all the way to the front hall of the Pavus' home. The door shut behind them, Cullen still in the armor, and Dorian frowning down at the wounds.

"I'll take these papers to my study, then go clean myself up, while I suggest that you find something more comfortable to wear, Commander," he said. "Would you rather discuss everything tonight or wait for the morning?"

The acknowledgement that it was over, that Cullen was free to go rid himself of the weight, made something in his chest ache. He grimaced against the wave of exhaustion that crashed over him.

It wasn't as if it were that late, he knew. Putting it off until the morning would be a waste of valuable time when there was still daylight left, even if it wasn't much.

But knowing that and being able to actually bring himself to do anything more were two very different things.

"I think it's best if I retire for the evening. I'm quite tired." Cullen muttered.

"Of course," Dorian said with a lingering glance. "Would you care for dinner first?"

The words nearly stuck in his throat, but Cullen managed to force them out, even as clunky as they were. "No. Thank you."

They parted there. If they said anything more, Cullen hardly seemed to remember, too busy with the thrumming at the base of his neck as he climbed the stairs.

It grew louder as he went, until he could feel his pulse in his ears. One gloved hand found the door handle to his room, the other already beginning to fumble for the first of many clasps.

He shoved the door open, ducked inside, and kicked it shut behind him. It had barely clicked before he was properly yanking everything off.

Even with how weak his trembling fingers felt, it didn't take much to get them to get to work peeling him out of the armor. It was different from what he had worn in Fereldan, yes, but the bones were the same, and not even ten years away had eroded that muscle memory.

A good thing, too; he wasn't sure if he'd have managed it otherwise. As it was, by the time that he had successfully undressed, he felt as if an iron fist was squeezing his lungs.

The final piece met the floor with a clank. Wearing nothing but his small clothes, he sat heavily on the trunk at the end of the bed. His eyes found the floor beneath his bare feet, settling there blankly.

He didn't know how long he sat there, breathing unsteadily, heart in his throat, with the templar armor strewn around him like the remnants of a one-sided battle. Only that, by the time he felt as if he could breathe again, his lone window had gone dark, the sun having sunk below the horizon.

It took even longer for him to calm his trembling enough to actually stand. Gathering the discarded pieces of the armor required effort, but he forced himself to do it, shoving it all into the corner and tossing one of his blankets over the pile.

Then, with a shiver, he turned his attention to what was next.

Tevinter might not have been as cold as Fereldan, but he could still feel the demon's frost in his bones, a mental consequence that he suspected wouldn't be leaving him anytime soon.

Thankfully, the clothes he'd worn the night before were still where he'd left them. It was reassuring, not just because he had something to put on rather than trying to sleep in such an unfamiliar place in nothing but his underclothes, but because, surely if any servants had come through, they would have taken the clothes and replaced them.

And he knew logically that there was no true risk from anyone in Dorian's home. He'd have vetted them all too well. As a Magister whose own father had been assassinated and whose political positions so frequently went against Tevinter's traditions, he would have had to.

That just didn't settle the itching dread that had sunk under Cullen's skin the moment that he considered how long he'd been gone, the room left sitting empty for anyone to do what they pleased.

Maker's breath, it wouldn't even have to be a servant. Anyone might have taken advantage of the master of the house being gone and come in.

They could even still be there, Cullen too exhausted and rattled from the events of the day to even notice.

Swallowing hard, he slowly dragged his eyes across the room.

It was still and quiet, everything just as he'd left it, but there were many people who could manage to make it look that way. All Cullen could think about was the Iron Bull, a man so large, yet capable of catching anyone in Skyhold by surprise, and Leliana, who had taught him never to assume that she or her network weren't watching.

Just the thought of her made him jerk his head up, scanning the roof. No one was there, which should have been some reassurance considering how he had seen her spies clinging to the rafters in wait, but only truly served to be the final straw in his resolve.

Gritting his teeth, he crossed the room and yanked the curtains aside. They went cleanly, revealing nothing but empty space.

Beneath the bed was much the same. As was the inside of the wardrobe on the other wall, the space underneath it, and anywhere else someone might possibly have been able to squeeze themselves into.

But, his mind whispered, how many other methods were there to use? Could he truly be sure the bed sheets didn't have something slathered on them to kill him in his sleep? That the clothes themselves hadn't been given the same treatment?

What about some form of magic that had been cast somewhere in the room to be triggered when he stepped on it? He'd seen area of effect spells before. He knew what damage they could do. A skilled enough mage wouldn't need to linger in order for it to stay active, and he was in Tevinter, by the Maker. Such mages could hardly be rare.

Anything could be trapped. Everything could be. He couldn't stay there, couldn't—

He inhaled sharply.

No, he told himself. He wouldn't let his mind keep going down this road. It was one thing to check the space, but—this?

Maker, it wasn't sensible. Wasn't logical. He was letting old fears worked up by a day of templar armor and demon fighting get the best of him.

If anyone ought to be concerned of assassination attempts, it was Dorian, not Cullen. Who even knew that Cullen was there? The Inquisitor? Dorian himself? Unless Dorian had neglected to mention something, no one else had yet heard of his visit.

And even if someone did know he was, then what would cause them to target him specifically?

He was a templar from the South, once upon a time. That could easily cause someone in a place like Minrathous to want him dead, yes, and his efforts with the Inquisition could easily cause the same, considering how willing Tevinter had seemed to be to let the Inquisition fall at the Exalted Council.

But the likelihood of them actually attempting to eliminate him was slim. That of them managing to do it was even slimmer.

Cullen was safe.

He might not feel it, but he was.

"Maker's breath." He mumbled, pressing his face into his hand.

All of this over a set of armor and a demon. Humiliating.

The only saving grace of the entire ordeal had been that he'd at least managed to drag himself to his room before utterly losing his self-control. Had Dorian seen him…

He didn't even want to think of it.

It was one thing for the Inquisitor or Cassandra to have seen him at his lowest, but Dorian? To have Dorian look at him with sympathy or pity?

Or worse, to be judged by him, to see his expression twist with disgust at Cullen's weakness?

And that wasn't fair in the slightest, he knew. Dorian wasn't a cruel person. He wouldn't blame someone for being haunted by old memories.

Yet he couldn't stop the dread sinking into his stomach at the idea. He didn't even understand why Dorian specifically was what made him feel so small, only that he would rather fight Corypheus all over again then let himself be seen like this.

Though, at least a small part of that was easily rectified. Exhaustion, weakness, it couldn't be fixed with a snap of his fingers, but if he got dressed, he wouldn't feel so exposed. That would be something.

Cullen took a deep breath, picking up the clothes that had started his complete spiral, and forced himself to set them on the bed.

Then he pulled them on, the trousers, then the shirt, even if he paused briefly to rub his fingers against the fabric and to smell it for anything that might be poisonous. It wasn't any more sensible than anything else he'd done since returning, but he hoped that it would help to settle the worry gnawing at the back of his mind.

From there, he gathered his sword from where it had been discarded in his scramble and carefully leaned it against the bed, where he could grab it in an instant if need be, and pulled back the covers.

Laying down did little to stop his racing thoughts, unsurprisingly. He had to resort to old training to get a handle on them, slowing and controlling his breathing, emptying his mind as best as he could. The templars methods of staying calm in any situation had always helped him when he found himself struggling, but tonight, they were an extremely welcome relief.

It took less than fifteen minutes for him to forcibly slow his heart to a reasonable pace. Less than twenty for him to put his thoughts in a box and seal the lids, where either they would wither or he would address them at another time.

By thirty, he was beginning to drift off, his adrenaline fully gone, making room for his mind and body to sink into exhaustion.

Some short time after that, he fell asleep.

And then he sat up, sucking in an abrupt breath, in the middle of Kinloch Hold.

There was no doubt in his mind, the certainty of it buried deep under his skin. He knew this place, even after so long away.

More than anything, he knew it like this, the tower swarming with shadows and danger and the oppressive weight of magic running wild. Everywhere he looked, his brothers were racing with their swords and shields raised, shouting into the dark.

None seemed to notice him. Even as he stumbled to his feet and plunged blindly forward, he was alone amid the horrors.

But it wouldn't be for long, not with what he already knew was lurking all around him.

Then they were there. Demons, more demons—clutching at him, claws digging into his skin, forcing him to watch as templars were cut down in droves. It was a slaughter, bathing him in the metallic tang of blood. He could taste it on his tongue, smell it hanging thickly in the air.

He opened his mouth to shout, but it was silent in the midst of so many screams overlapping, the chaos slicing at his mind.

It felt like he spent an eternity there, trapped in their embrace, head held fast so that he couldn't even look away. Struggling only made it worse, the demons' grip tightening until his entire body was locked in place.

All he could do was brace himself for the worst that was still yet to come. Grit his teeth against the torture that would strain his brain until he was on the brink of snapping.

The demons. Their promises and their manipulations. The pain.

They would try to make him turn against his oaths, to destroy the man that he was, breaking him utterly.

Or they would have, had they not been interrupted by the slam of a door flying open.

Cullen's heart leapt into his throat, even as he jerked upright and wrenched his arms away from the demons' hold. His shout caught in his chest, legs tangling in something he couldn't see amid the deep shadows.

Instinct drove him to shoot a hand out for his sword, his body aware while his muddled mind struggled to catch up.

But, before he could do more than yank it towards himself with a white-knuckled grip, prepared to fight until he drew his last breath, a bright light flared from near the door.

He shuddered hard, staring blankly as his eyes began to adjust, barely making out the very human form holding a glowing ball of magic in one hand and a mage's staff in the other, which only made his pulse echo under his skin. The figure was across the room, now illuminated by their magic.

Across the room.

His room.

His guest room. The one in Dorian's house, in Minrathous, so very far from Kinloch Hold.

Cullen shot a look around. Every corner was lit now, none of them twisting with the presence of a demon, and there was no magical prison holding him in place. Nothing stopped him from dragging his legs over the side of the bed, still tangled in the sheets.

Feeling the cold floor beneath his bare feet, then clumsily yanking the sheets away, helped more than it should have. Especially as the human form shifted out of its defensive stance.

"Ah." Dorian huffed a breath. "Kaffas, you frightened me with your shouting, Commander. I half-expected to find another demon."

Chilled sweat slipped down Cullen's neck. He couldn't find any words, shaking his head as he pressed his trembling hand to his face, the other still clutching his sword.

Footsteps echoed quietly around the room as Dorian moved closer, his staff clanking like a walking stick. "You look like you've seen a ghost, but I'd have thought I'd have long since startled any lingering spirits of my ancestors away. My mere existence should have done the trick."

It took significant effort for Cullen to manage to gather enough coherency to get out any words at all, and they were still little more than a jumbled mess when he did.

"No. No, not—it wasn't—" His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he forced himself to say, "just a dream."

"Hardly sounded like it. You might have said you were being mauled or murdered, that would be more believable. I heard you from all the way down the hall."

That earned no answer, despite the ones that tried to spill from Cullen's tongue; I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, please don't leave.

Instead, he found himself turning away, squeezing the hilt of his blade all the tighter, as if his white knuckles might give him a way to settle the raging beast in his chest demanding that he move, fight, do something other than stand there like a fool waiting for his death.

There were no more demons to do battle with. Kinloch Hold was well over a decade in the past. He had no enemies here, no matter how the sight of a mage's stave made him feel.

He told himself that, but it did little. Nor did telling himself that it would be easier once Dorian left, reassured that his home was safe, because Dorian made absolutely no move to leave in the first place.

Instead, he grew closer still, stepping just into view with a quiet clear of his throat.

"How would you care for a decent bottle of wine, Commander?" He asked. "I have a cellar-full."

Cullen swallowed hard. His mind refused to fully focus on what was happening around him, wobbling like a newborn Halla in the wake of his nightmare, just as it always did.

Usually, that wouldn't have been an issue, but usually, he didn't have an audience for it.

"Forgive me. What did you say?" He asked with some work.

"Wine. You have heard of it, yes? A drink of the alcoholic variety?"

"No. Yes. Yes, I've heard of it, no, I don't—no thank you."

"It might help."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Cullen shook his head. Dorian gave him a soft, acknowledging hum, before allowing the room to fall back into silence.

Or, what should have been silence, he supposed, but didn't feel like it. Not when he could still hear the horrific shouts and screams of the templars and the mages of the tower in the back of his mind, a roar that never quite went away, but was louder now than it had been in what felt like years.

He needed some sort of noise. Something to listen to, to focus on, besides death.

But what could he say? What could he possibly talk about like this? Not his nightmare, not out loud.

It felt like grasping blindly into dark waters, trying to find a topic that was safer, but he managed eventually.

"Your—uh. Your arm?" He asked stiltedly. "Have you healed your arm?"

"I have. Good as new," Dorian said.

That, at least, helped to settle something in Cullen's chest. He rubbed at it with his free hand, unthinkingly pressing against the complicated mess of emotions still left within.

He still didn't know why the thought of Dorian being wounded was so distressing. He'd seen it before, worse than this, and it wasn't as if Dorian was frail or weak. It would take far more to truly affect him.

Yet Cullen found himself almost wanting to reach out and look again, just as he had in the Shadow Dragon's hideout earlier. To smooth his fingers over warm, whole skin.

It would be a useless thing to do. If Dorian said that it was healed, then surely it was. Him seeing it or not would do nothing to influence that.

But if he just looked, it would prove that Dorian was alright, wouldn't it? That Cullen hadn't failed him the same way that he'd failed his fellow templars or the people of Haven?

Because as it was, it was more than a little difficult to honestly believe it.

Cullen had rarely, if ever, been so lucky before. With the Inquisitor, he supposed, after the avalanche at Haven, but that had been closer to Divine intervention than anything else. Andraste's Herald couldn't simply die, unlike the rest.

Why would this be different? Why would Dorian be safe?

It wasn't as if Cullen had done anything to make it so, no matter how much he wished that he had.

Maker's breath, how he wished it.

If he'd been the one to be hurt, he likely wouldn't even be thinking about it anymore. That was his job; to be the shield and the sword in equal parts, to protect and to defend, to take every hit and give as good as he got.

He'd failed in it.

Had failed Dorian.

That wouldn't be allowed to happen again.

Swallowing the sour saliva seeping between his teeth, Cullen dragged his gaze up and towards where Dorian was still standing, watching him with furrowed eyebrows.

And for the first time since waking, he got a good look at the state Dorian was in.

Not his arm, unfortunately. That was covered, though only loosely, by a haphazardly tied robe. Dorian's hair was flowing freely over his shoulders, his hands and throat bare of his usual jewelry. It was clear from a glance that he had been either asleep himself or well on his way to it.

Forcefully, Cullen set aside any notion of seeking comfort in the proof of Dorian having been healed. He'd clearly already inconvenienced the poor man enough by dragging him out of bed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Please—just return to your rest. I'm alright."

"Yes, of course. That must be why you're clutching your sword like a teddy bear," Dorian said dryly, though it carried little of his usual snark.

The worst part was that he was right. Cullen was holding it tight, still gripping it at his side like he was a child with a toy.

He reluctantly loosened his hold, inhaling through the fresh jolt of panic it sent up his spine. "I'm fine. It was just a dream. Nothing more."

Dorian, raising an eyebrow, didn't seem convinced.

"Well, regardless, I can assure you that I won't be going back to sleep now. Having someone scream bloody murder through your house isn't conducive to proper rest," he said. "You aren't required to indulge in any wine, but you should at least come to keep me company."

"Company?" Cullen asked.

"Yes, in my study. It's quite nice. Better than sitting alone in the dark, at any rate."

It took Cullen a brief moment to realize that the pointed glance around that Dorian gave with that comment was directed at him. That he was talking about the way the room would be left when he left, taking his magic with him.

Once he did, it was almost too easy to find himself nodding along, even as his logical mind reminded him that he had been intending not to seek comfort from Dorian.

"Excellent. This way, then," Dorian said. "You may bring the sword if you'd like."

He said it genuinely, but Cullen didn't take him up on the offer. It felt stupid to wander around in sleep-clothes clutching a sword. Stupider still when he knew, if he truly asked himself, that there was no danger in the Pavus' home.

Yes, he would feel better if he had it, but that didn't make it make any more sense.

So he left it, setting it back where it was when he woke up. With it leaning carefully against the bed, he and Dorian headed for the door.

Dorian led the way down the stairs. Cullen followed a few steps behind, wordlessly watching the quiet shadows of the house around them. After only a brief pause where Dorian stopped a member of his staff and murmured something about tea, they made their way to a large, ornate door.

Inside was precisely what Cullen would have imagined had someone asked him what a Magister's study might look like. A large, intricately decorated room with towering windows and a heavy wooden desk, a place perfect for anything from writing a letter to cutting out someone's tongue.

He slowed, lingering in the doorway as Dorian continued towards the desk. His gaze slipped over the bits and bobs covering it, a half-melted candle here, a figure of a snake there, with a stack of papers, a quill, and ink waiting like Dorian had paused in the middle of his work.

Thick red curtains hung above the doors behind it, fluttering in the night breeze coming in from the terrace. He could smell the distant salt of the sea even through the city's stench.

Slowly, Cullen pulled his eyes away, glancing around the rest of the room. The next thing that he spotted was to his left, where bookshelves that were absolutely filled to the brim took up one wall, something that he imagined to be Dorian's doing. It certainly hadn't seemed a coincidence that he'd made a space for himself out of the library in Skyhold, not with how often he could be found there, nose buried in a book.

After that, to his right, he found a fireplace blazing with a warm flame, held back by a golden gate, a portrait hung above the stone. Plush high-backed chairs and a circular table sat in its light.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at Cullen's lips as he found himself drifting towards the fireplace, where a familiar hexagonal game board sat idly on the tabletop, the pieces neatly arranged for their next bout.

Gently, he picked up one of the two kings, smoothing his thumb over the intricate detailing of the bust.

Dorian's love for books wasn't the only thing that had stayed the same, it seemed.

Though Cullen was hardly one to talk. Chess was something that he still played when he could, most often with his sister's children. It wasn't a common occurrence that he saw her or them, but it was more so than it had once been. At least now he didn't have to struggle just to remember the shape of his sister's smile or the sound of her voice as he had when he'd let them drift apart.

They even visited him, on occasion. His nephew was twelve now and quite insistent that he be allowed to spend time with Cullen, something that Mia claimed to be because he viewed Cullen as a hero, the great Commander of the Inquisition. That he had grown up on the stories of the Inquisition's triumphs and Cullen was somehow his favorite part of the tales.

Cullen couldn't bring himself to believe that it was completely true—or, if it was, that his nephew wasn't the victim of exaggerative story telling that gave Cullen far too much credit—but the memory of the boy trying on his old cloak and using a broom as a sword were still enough to make him chuckle hoarsely, nightmare or no.

He moved to place the king back into its place, but before he could, Dorian spoke up from by the desk.

"I should have known that would catch your attention," he said, and Cullen glanced over his shoulder.

While Cullen had been distracted, Dorian had picked up a slightly crumpled, dirt-smudged set of papers. It took a moment for Cullen to recognize them as the very ones that they had collected from that Tarquin fellow that afternoon.

Any mirth Cullen might have felt from seeing the board fled him with a measured inhale.

"Yes. Old memories, you know," he said.

"Well, then; fancy a game?" Dorian asked, flicking his hand towards the board. “You do remember how to play, yes?”

It caught Cullen off-guard, perhaps more than it should have. His mind immediately leapt to the work they had yet to complete, of the damage to the city and the threats of the Venatori. His eyes fell back to the papers.

Then he thought of the weight that had been lingering on Dorian’s shoulders since he'd arrived and the ache still curled tight in his own chest from the events of the day, his focus shifting to the games that they’d played in Skyhold—in those days, when he’d felt like he was going to drown from the pressure of so many problems, little moments like playing chess with Dorian or the Inquisitor, or their card nights with the others, had been what kept Cullen’s head above water more than anything.

Who was he to deny them an opportunity such as that now?

A hint of his smile returned as he slipped into one of the chairs. “As if I could forget.”

The laugh that pulled out of Dorian was well-worth saying yes by itself, he thought wordlessly, watching him drop the papers back onto the desk.

"Do try to keep that fire, Commander. It will make it all the better when I completely crush you."

He sat across from Cullen a breath later, already reaching for a piece to begin the match. Bold, to leap straight to action, but that had always been Dorian's primary tactic in this game.

Cullen, on the other hand, preferred a more calculated approach. He knew what people said of him, how they viewed him, a blunt instrument charging through the battlefield, but he hadn't been one of the Inquisition's advisors for nothing.

It took him a moment just to choose his first piece to move. By then, Dorian was already prepared with his next choice.

The speed of it all was almost enough to distract Cullen from his dream, though it could only last for so long. Within a handful of moves, they were both forced to be more considerate, and as he waited for Dorian, it was all too easy to find himself watching the waving curtains for any hint of a stranger hidden among them or the flames for the presence of a demon.

Maker, he had hardly even been in Minrathous for a full day, and yet he was already struggling as he hadn't in years.

At least he wasn't alone, he supposed. He'd thought Dorian had been asleep and woke at the sound of Cullen's shouting, but now, seeing his desk set up as if in use, with the doors to the terrace still wide open as well as the staff being awake…it painted a particular picture.

Not to mention what he had said earlier, standing in the hideout. What he'd confessed about his fears and worries for the future.

Cullen had to assume that he had his own issues that he was facing, beyond just what had happened to his city.

Quietly clearing his throat, he watched as Dorian moved one of his mages across the board.

“Dorian…what you were saying earlier, about your accomplishments, about worrying what will happen after you’ve gone…”

“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind,” Dorian said.

“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Cullen's eyes stayed on the game. “All the same, though, I would like to say…you’ve impressed me. For what little that’s worth.”

Something flickered across Dorian’s face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don't assume that sappy words will distract me, Commander. I've no intention of allowing you to win this time."

With a small, huffed laugh, another shadow dissipating from his chest, Cullen made his own move.

“You know, it’s been some time since I last held that title. You can simply call me Cullen. Everyone else does."

“Oh, but I’m so dreadful at change.”

“Is that how you became a Magister? By staying precisely the same?”

“Of course it is. That’s the best way to frustrate all of those decrepit old fools, yes? By refusing to pretend to be someone you’re not as they all do?” Dorian's smile widened into a grin. “Besides, if my own father couldn’t convince me to play make-believe as his perfect little heir, I highly doubt any of them could manage.”

And it was a joke, Cullen knew, but one with an honest edge to it. Those were Dorian's favorite kinds.

"Well then, I respect your resolve," he said. "I wish I had a fraction of it when I was a younger man."

“Oh?”

Watching Dorian nudge one of his pawns forwards, Cullen glanced at his king to ensure it was still well guarded. “If I had…perhaps I would have left the templars sooner. Seen the truth of it all before it took so much of me.”

Then he began to plan his next move, half to distract himself from the conversation, even as Dorian's gaze fell heavily on his face. No matter how Cullen focused, he could still feel it.

But what was worse was when he spoke. How his voice dropped, more of that honesty coming through, the humor receding. It was enough to make Cullen pause mid-move to meet his gaze.

"I believe you have plenty. Not just anyone could have left the templars to begin with, much less quit Lyrium," Dorian said.

"I have." He didn't know why it came spilling off his tongue, why he abruptly felt as if he needed Dorian to know, but he did. Quite strongly. "Quit, that is. It's been years now."

“Yes, I can tell."

“Of course. My abilities against that demon likely weren’t comparable to how I used to fight,” Cullen said, more quietly. “When we met, I had only just stopped taking it. The withdrawal symptoms were…quite detrimental, yes, but it still took time for me to lose the extra strength that the Lyrium once gave me. Such things have long-since gone now.”

With a chuckle, lightening once again, Dorian gestured towards him. “Oh, no, Commander. What I meant was—your smell.”

Cullen paused. His expression twisted, confusion distracting him from the chess piece in his hand.

“I’m sorry?” He asked.

“Templars. Southern ones who take Lyrium. They smell like the moment after lightning strikes.”

“That’s…quite specific. You say that I smelled of it?”

“In the Inquisition, yes. Not now, of course. If anything, you smell of Tevinter soaps at the moment,” Dorian said. He chuckled. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. That templar smell is distinctive and very attractive, yes, but it’s always nicer to have a good-looking man who smells of you.”

With a splutter, Cullen’s hand finally managed to unfreeze, only for him to manage to knock over three of his own pieces and two of Dorian’s, all of them clattering to the side as his face went red. 

Dorian, sitting back and pressing his hand to his chest, laughed so loudly that it rang in Cullen’s ears.

“That’s—well, that’s—thank you, I suppose—” Cullen dropped the piece entirely, just to make room to bury his face in his hand. “Maker’s breath, Dorian.”

“You knocked over your king, Commander; I do believe that means that I’ve won.”

“It means that you cheated.”

“Ah, but I cheated successfully. If I couldn’t outwit you, then what was I to do but find an alternative?”

“Lose!” Cullen couldn’t help the way that his lips flicked up. “You’re supposed to lose. That’s what happens when you meet your match.”

“Well then, would you care to try again? Perhaps this time, I’ll see if I can't shock you so badly that you knock over the whole table."

"Or perhaps you could try winning out of skill. My twelve-year-old nephew has beaten me honestly more times than you."

With a roll of his eyes, Dorian sat back, clearly moving to say something that Cullen would wager would have been either completely scathing or another comment with intent to make him flush.

Either way, he never found out. There was a quiet knock on the door before Dorian could so much as open his mouth, and then it was being pushed open, a middle-aged woman scooting her way in with a tray held carefully in her hands.

Cullen instinctively moved to stand, meaning to take the tray to help her, but she didn't appear to need it. She set the tray on the desk and picked up one cup with a little saucer, bringing it over as he sat back down.

"Ah, here we are. Thank you," Dorian said, motioning to the space beside the board. As the woman moved to set his cup down, he glanced at Cullen. "You still like yours with extra sugar, yes?"

And Cullen, who had always taken his food and drinks in Skyhold with extra flavor to counteract the way he had never seemed to stop tasting lyrium in the back of his throat, raised an eyebrow. "How in the Maker's name do you remember that?"

"It was such a stark contrast to everything else about you. What would you care for, Ser with the muscles, the scars, and a voice like thunder who's never seen without his armor? Oh, yes, four lumps, please."

"I do not sound like that."

"Not now, perhaps."

"I have never—"

"You most certainly did."

"Dorian," Cullen said, huffing a laugh.

"Cullen," Dorian said in return, teasing and light, and something in Cullen's stomach twisted.

His smile twitched, expression freezing for the barest millisecond. It felt like his mind had skipped a beat, if not his heart too, before he forced himself to look down at the cup clinking into place beside him.

That look in Dorian's eye…it was so warm. The sort of warmth that had Cullen reaching up to rub at his neck, swallowing a cough as he watched the woman retrieve a small dish of sugar from the tray and hold out the spoon for him.

When he took it, then the bowl, it was with the knowledge that Dorian's eyes were still on him. He didn't quite understand why the thought made him feel so flustered.

It must have been because Dorian's comment was still fresh in his mind. He'd always been prone to making such jokes, most commonly about Cullen and the Iron Bull respectively, but with Cullen exhausted from a long day followed by such a gutting nightmare, it had taken him more fully off-guard than usual.

Nor did it help that here, in the flickering golden light of Dorian's study, Dorian's objectively winning smile and fluttering eyelashes were more visible than ever. It made it difficult not to take such jokes seriously when he said it with a face that could start wars.

Perhaps that should have made Cullen uncomfortable, but it didn't. The only thought that he truly had about it was that he hoped he wasn't making a complete fool of himself in response.

The last thing that he wanted was for Dorian to look at him and see some bumbling idiot, especially now that they were finding their footing together after so long apart.

Chapter Text

Days, Cullen learned, turned to weeks quickly in Minrathous.

Or at the very least, they did when one was trying to fight back the threat of the Venatori.

His first few days spent in the Pavus household were fairly standard. That very first one was long, stretching into the darkest hours of the night as he and Dorian played three games of chess and chatted quietly, while the next was slightly shorter, devoid of any more nightmares, and the next was similarly inconsequential.

From there, however, it had spiraled.

The papers that they got from Tarquin were all they needed for that to happen. They had more than enough information for Cullen and Dorian to put their heads together in order to begin formulating a plan for how to proceed.

It wasn't a true plan, not yet, but it was the start of something. And a start was better than what they'd had before.

Better, though no less full of hard work. Cullen frequently found himself elbows-deep in supplies meant to be taken here or attacks on Venatori the remaining Shadow Dragons had found in the catacombs there. He woke up early and went to bed late more often than not, usually having had to bathe away the stench of blood.

News traveled to them as they worked, as well; news from Rook, the one Varric had left in charge of stopping Solas and the Evanuris upon his demise, and from Arlathan Forest regarding a ritual that had left Dorian muttering darkly to himself about the Old Gods. With Elgar'nan's Archdemon revived, his immortality was cemented, and they only needed an eclipse to continue their plans.

There was little that Cullen or Dorian could do about it, but it did mean an increase in Venatori presence in Minrathous. While many of them had apparently been sacrificed in lieu of the Dalish prisoners, plenty had returned from Arlathan to escape Elgar'nan's wrath. That, the two of them needed to contend with.

Which, in turn, meant Cullen had to throw himself into his work with twice as much resolve.

He spent most of his days trying to help Dorian cobble together what remained of the Shadow Dragons. Dorian couldn't be spotted personally working freely against the Venatori without risking his power in the Magisterium, for what little it was still worth, so Cullen needed others to assist him.

And he got them eventually. Not nearly in the amount that he'd have liked, but more than he might have expected. With the help of those former Shadows who were still standing and able to work, they focused most of their efforts towards preventing the Venatori from gaining any more ground.

Primarily, that meant undermining their tactics and targeting their strongholds, like an old warehouse they had been using to store many of their weapons or by freeing what groups of slaves that they could to put a dent in the Venatori's manpower in the city, but it also meant taking advantage of every opening that presented itself.

Their largest of which came from Rook, along with Neve Gallus, a woman who had frequently helped the Shadows before Varric called on her to help with Solas, at least as Dorian had told it. The two of them managed to stop a key Venatori blood mage, weakening and disorienting the cult's Docktown members enough to warrant more being called in from Hightown, leaving the Hightown Venatori vulnerable in turn.

Cullen organized a strike on them nearly a month into his stay in Minrathous, mere days after the blood mage's death. Aided by Tarquin, who could apparently do much more than just deliver papers, they and a few of the remaining Shadows infiltrated the home of a Magister who had allied herself with the Venatori.

Which was precisely how Cullen had come to find himself here, slashing his blade across the jugular of a Venatori foot soldier in the cellar of a Magister's house late one evening.

"That's the last of them!" He called over his shoulder as the soldier crumpled. "Hurry, now, before any more arrive!"

The Shadows darted past him, racing to do what they'd planned. The sounds of wooden barrels splintering open echoed off the stone in mere moments.

Inhaling deeply, more winded than he should have been, Cullen moved towards the cellar stairs to stand guard.

The information Dorian had given them regarding the Magister's whereabouts for the night had been solid, he reminded himself. There was no reason to believe that she would be back before they had time to finish their work.

When they left this house, it would be a blazing flame, and the Venatori would have lost supplies, weapons, men, and one of their primary hideouts in Hightown.

Fortunately, the Shadows knew how to move quickly. It took a matter of minutes for the barrels to be upended and alcohol to begin pooling across the floor. Their boots splashed through it, liquor mixing with the blood of the Venatori they'd cut down, as they joined Cullen by the steps.

All it took then was for one of their group, a young woman with a mage's staff, to light the first spark.

The effect was instantaneous.

In the dim light of the cellar, the flame was a sun, blindingly bright. It caught with a whoosh, the heat flaring violently.

"Time to go," Tarquin said sharply.

Cullen nodded, grabbing the shoulder of one of the Shadows and pushing them up the stairs, shepherding the lot of them ahead. They reached the top just as they heard the sound of the wooden steps beginning to groan.

Upstairs, he shut the door behind them to slow it down as best he could. It was a clear shot from the cellar's entrance, out of the kitchens, and to the rear of the house where they had broken in, one that they should clear with ease, but he had learned some many years ago to never take too many chances.

A lesson that served them well mere moments later as they cut through the main portion of the house, with the heavy slam of a door from somewhere above and a guttural shout.

"Keep moving!" Cullen ordered, risking a glance back to see the extent of the reinforcements.

There were three of them, all arriving at the top of the nearby grand staircase. Mercifully, all three held blades, not a mage's staff; if they'd had to have gotten the attention of Venatori still left in the upper floors of the house, it was better they be these manageable enemies than any amount of blood mages.

All the better was the fact that Cullen and the Shadows were closer to their exit than to their new opponents. By the time that the Venatori had vaulted over the railing and landed, swords ready, the first several of the Shadows had already made it out.

Yet it wasn't all of them, and the Venatori were getting closer, leaving Cullen little choice but to turn to face them, raising his own sword in return.

Not for the first time since coming to this city, he wished that he had his old shield.

Then his blade clashed with the first Venatori's, and he was too busy trying to keep from being cut down to concern himself with what-ifs.

He grunted, shoving the cultist back with as much force as he could. They stumbled, just in time for Cullen to dodge backwards out of the way of another Venatori's swinging blade.

Distantly, he registered the third of them racing past him towards the Shadows, but there was only so much he could do to keep them all occupied. Two were manageable, especially because these two seemed about as coordinated as halla trying to ice skate, but against all three, he suspected that he'd find himself quickly overpowered and they'd move on to the Shadows regardless.

Not that it mattered, in the end. He heard the sharp clang of another set of swords, along with Tarquin's gritted huff, that meant the Venatori had been engaged without him needing to do anything at all, and turned his attention in full back to his two foes.

The second had already recovered from their missed swing and was coming at him again. The first, red blades gripped tightly, lunged forwards.

Cullen planned to attempt to dodge around them, gaining distance from one while attacking the other, but before he could plan out his timing, the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up.

The lightning that sailed past his left shoulder and slammed into the first Venatori seconds later should have been something he expected.

It nearly blinded him, sparking violently mere feet away. The Venatori that it hit went rigid, eyes nearly popping out of his head, as the lightning continued on in a chain to blast the second cultist.

Glancing back, Cullen saw the young mage who had lit the cellar's fire preparing another spell, Tarquin shoving the third Venatori's limp body to the side.

"Come on!" The mage shouted.

Not one to argue with someone who had just electrocuted someone half to death, much less two Venatori, Cullen turned on his heel and bolted for the others.

He tried to, at least. It was hindered when, with a coughed wheeze, one of the two Venatori grabbed at his robes.

Their grip was strong considering how badly they were shaking. He had to kick their arm away to try to get them to let go, and even still, they managed to yank at his belt and his sword frog, very nearly tearing it away.

It wouldn't have been nearly so much of a rush to dislodge them if the seconds hadn't been ticking incessantly away in the back of Cullen's mind, the smell of smoke becoming stronger with every moment they spent fighting.

As it was, he slammed his knee into their jaw, gripping their wrist tightly to make them release him, and the Venatori finally let go with nothing more to show for it than one of the pouches from Cullen's belt.

And at the same moment, from behind him came Tarquin.

"For fuck's sake, move! That flame's gonna start burning through the whole bloody place any minute!" He grabbed Cullen's arm and yanked.

Together, along with the young mage, they spilled out of the house and back into the fresh evening air. Wisps of smoke chased them as Cullen sucked in a breath.

The good news was that it wasn't difficult to get away. They cut across a nearby street, through a very clean alley, and back towards Docktown, where they had agreed to meet after the job, without so much as a shout from behind them. If there were any more Venatori lurking in the Magister's house, then they either hadn't been quick enough to follow or had preferred to stay behind to deal with the mess the Shadows had caused.

What was even better was that they'd all made it out unscathed. Cullen still had all of his fingers, hadn't suffered any burns, and hadn't lost any men, and he counted that as more of a win than it could have been.

Truly, the only loss he'd suffered had been his pouch, which contained only a handful of coin, a small map he'd been using to help navigate Minrathous, and a handkerchief that Dorian had lent him the other night after an evening of lugging crates of relief supplies around the Pavus' own cellar in preparation to distribute them in the city. He'd meant to return it after washing it free of his sweat, but he supposed that Dorian wouldn't have much use for the pile of ashes it would have been reduced to by now.

Well, the pouch, along with his borrowed robes. If the smell of smoke ever came out of them, Cullen would be thoroughly shocked.

That was a small price to pay, however, for putting a dent in the Venatori's operations. So long as it worked as well as he'd planned and served as a proper blow, he doubted Dorian would mind having sacrificed an outfit or a handkerchief.

And in just a few hours, he'd find out for himself. Dorian had said that he'd meet them once he concluded his own business dealing with an unofficial meeting that some of the Magisters had called, an assembly he hadn't seemed to relish the thought of. The Magister whose house was caught in a blaze would be there as well, which he'd claimed would give him the only highlight of his evening; that he'd get to see her face when someone brought the news.

Yet, in the meantime, he had other things to focus on. As soon as they reached the safehouse that they would be using as a temporary hideout, he got to work updating their map and intelligence on Venatori activity.

The pin they had placed over the Magister's house on the map had to be removed, now that it was going to be temporarily nonfunctional as a location for the Venatori to gather. Then, he had to see to making notes regarding the loss of numbers from the Venatori they had taken out, the supplies that they had seen to destroying, and the weapons that would be utterly useless after the flames were done with them.

He might not have had precise numbers for any of it—especially not the supplies or the weapons—but it was better to have some decent estimate than to be completely unaware of what they were fighting against.

Then, after that was done, the evening having fully settled into the quiet of the night, Cullen turned his focus to planning their next move.

There were only so many of these sorts of attacks that they could organize before the Venatori began to make changes in order to better protect themselves. Had Rook and Neve Gallus not caused such a fuss in Docktown by eliminating Aelia, they wouldn't have gotten this opportunity at all. They couldn't afford to simply try to do the same thing to another Venatori-aligned Magister and get away so cleanly.

Which meant that they needed to find a different target, along with a different method.

In fact, he considered, it might be best to turn their sights away from Hightown entirely for the time being.

There were other places in Minrathous with high concentrations of Venatori activity, much of which was reeling in the wake of Aelia's defeat. Without her leadership and with the Gods busy elsewhere, the cultists were floundering.

He could see his way to trying to discover more of their long-term plans, of course. If they were to carefully infiltrate one of the Venatori's main hideouts, which they had been slowly beginning to uncover over the course of the last month, they might be able to learn more about what the Venatori's goals were in the city. Yes, they wanted to "return the Imperium to it's former glory," but how?

Or, perhaps it would be wiser to focus on learning how deep the rot of the Venatori went among the Magisters and templars. If they put enough effort into it, they could very well discover who the Venatori's primary allies were and find ways to remove them from the board. That would serve to weaken the Venatori's hold.

It was a difficult thing to try to decide, even with the occasional input of the Shadows. This wasn't like his days as an advisor to the Inquisition, where he, Leliana, and Josephine all worked together to come up with strategies, then let the Inquisitor choose.

This was entirely on him. Many decisions had been since his arrival, but usually, he could at least rely on Dorian's assistance and expertise.

Which made it all the more a relief when familiar, quiet footsteps echoed through the safehouse hours before he'd expected them to, Dorian's voice echoing off the walls.

"So! I see that we pulled it off," he said brightly, stepping into the flickering light of their candles strewn around the room.

"Dorian." Cullen began to stand instinctively before he was waved back down.

Bypassing the others to sit in the chair opposite from Cullen, a grin spreading across his face, it was clear that Dorian had just returned from his meeting. His outfit alone would have been evidence enough, a more elegant and ornate look than Cullen had seen him in since his arrival in Minrathous, even without what he said next.

"An excellent job as always, Commander. I must say, I'm not sure if I've ever seen someone's face turn such a wonderful shade of purple as Magister Contos did when they informed her of what happened."

"You can thank your Shadows for that. They did good work," Cullen said.

"Tell me, are you allergic to accepting a compliment?"

"Not any more so than you are to stripweed."

Dorian, who had made a point more than once of incredulously spluttering through a sneeze that he did not have allergies while with the Inqusition, gave him a dry look. The corner of Cullen's lips twitched up, even as he turned his attention back to the maps and papers in front of him.

"Back to work already?" Dorian asked a moment later, leaning forwards to poke at his work with a ring-heavy finger.

"This is a victory, but it's still only one. There's work yet to be done."

"Yes, of course. And no one wants these Venatori out of my city more than I do, I assure you. I only mean to ask if it isn't late enough to send these people home and find you some dinner."

Glancing up again, Cullen raised an eyebrow. "I have no intention of staying here all night. Only a short while longer."

"Tell me, Commander, when did you last eat?"

"That's hardly relevant."

"How about sleep, then? I do seem to recall you being awake before I was this morning."

"Dorian, you slept until nearly midday, of course I was up before you," Cullen said.

"Semantics." Dorian scoffed. "My point, which you so rudely continue to dodge, is that this will all still be here tomorrow."

"This is the closest that we've come to having an advantage. We need to press it while we can."

"Or, the both of you can leave and we can all stop listening to this." Tarquin called loudly from across the room.

With a sigh, setting his quill down with a clink, Cullen shot a look over his shoulder. "What I mean is that I'll be done shortly. If you'd like to go, be my guest."

"I'll remind you that you are my guest. What sort of a host would I be if I were to leave you here? No, I'm quite sorry, but I simply must stay," Dorian said. "In fact, I should entertain you. Have you ever heard of the song—"

"Fine!" Cullen pushed back his chair and stood. "Fine, alright. There's no need to move on to threats."

"Excuse me? I have a wonderful voice."

"I've heard you drunk in the Herald's Rest, I'm very aware that that isn't true."

Dorian joined him, rolling his eyes as he led the way towards the door, Cullen only a few reluctant steps behind. "I will not be judged for my intoxicated behavior from a decade ago."

"Too late." Cullen muttered.

With a nod of goodnight to the others, he followed Dorian through the next room to the back door that they were using for their comings and goings. It was out of sight enough to protect them from most accidental notice, with a good choke-point should someone try to break in to attack them, something that he appreciated in comparison to the very public front door.

Ahead of him, Dorian was saying something, likely about what they should have for dinner. He'd been trying to show Cullen some of Tevinter's most common foods ever since his arrival, and the next thing on the list had been fish skewers, but he'd also had several other ideas left. At this late hour, Cullen imagined it would be something at least semi-reasonable.

He wasn't actually listening to know, though. Dorian's words were rolling right off of him as they stepped out into the quiet, slim road behind the safehouse.

Instead, he was watching Dorian, eyes trailing across his face.

It had been a month since he'd come to help Minrathous. A month full of small victories, of little blows to their opponents. It would have made sense for Dorian to be upset about how slow their progress was going.

Yet, instead, he seemed almost hopeful.

When they spoke of what they'd done, he was happy with it. When they talked of the future, Dorian was quick to say what they'd do when they fixed this or when they recovered that.

Cullen wasn't sure how much of that was his involvement, exactly, but he wanted to believe that some of it was. If nothing else, he hoped that he had taken some of the weight from Dorian's shoulders.

And, if all went according to plan, he hoped to take more. With the right luck, the hard work of the Shadows, and Rook's efforts to defeat the Evanuris, they might even manage to unhook the Venatori's claws from the city completely; now that Aelia was gone, they were leaderless, at least for the time being. Removing Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain from the board before the Venatori were able to stabilise themselves would leave them wide open for a proper attack.

But that was still some ways away. For now, Cullen was just glad to see Dorian smiling.

Though, he had to admit that he was still caught off guard whenever it was directed at him. Such as right now, Dorian glancing over his shoulder with a wide grin and falling into step beside Cullen, hands clasped behind his back.

"What is it?" Cullen asked.

"Oh, nothing at all," Dorian said in a voice that meant quite the opposite. "Merely considering how you might feel regarding a proper seafood dinner."

"Would that be different than fish on sticks?"

"Only in every way. You did hear me say proper, yes?"

And that, unsurprisingly, began an explanation into the difference between fried chunks of skewered fish meat and fresh fish with the right marinade and herbs, one that continued as they approached the end of the street.

From there, Cullen knew, they would start up a larger road that would lead them to Hightown. It was more populated than this little side-street, and it wouldn't have been a surprise to see anyone walking past had it only been a few hours earlier.

But at this hour, hardly anyone was around. It was just the two of them, their quiet voices echoing off the buildings on either side, boots tapping against stone.

It was, at least, until someone slipped from the shadows a dozen meters ahead.

Cullen saw them first. Saw their form, tall and lanky, and the familiar colors of their red and black robes. Saw their arm pull back, a bow in hand.

Most importantly, he saw the shine of metal in the dark just as Dorian stopped sharply, mid-rant about where to go to find the freshest fish in Minrathous.

There was a split-second where Cullen's mind flashed back to the wound Dorian had received from the demon attack a month prior. To how Dorian had trusted him to keep the creature's attention, yet Dorian was the one who was hurt.

And then he shoved Dorian out of the way.

Cullen Rutherford, Dorian had learned long ago, was a bold, brave, and heroic man, virtues that made him utterly endearing, yet had never once prevented him from being an utter idiot.

Today, he learned, hands stained red and Cullen’s face draining of color, that some things never changed.

It had happened in an instant. He hadn't even had time to react to the sight of a Venatori stepping out of the shadows before he'd been pushed aside, and then he'd been too busy stumbling uselessly to do anything but watch as Cullen collapsed backwards in a spray of blood.

The shout that had torn itself out of Dorian had been incoherent and guttural, even as he'd finally steadied himself enough to thrust out a hand. Ice erupted from it, filling the space between them and his would-be assassin to keep them at bay, and he had lost sight of them in the explosion of chilled fog.

Not that he had minded; his focus couldn’t be any further from whoever they were. It was impossible to care about some pathetic stranger while the Commander was bleeding out.

Some distant, miniscule part of his mind had known that was foolish. Thankfully, he was saved from the consequences by a door bursting open from the direction they'd come in, and the Shadows flooding into the street.

"Venatori!" Dorian had bellowed. "The Commander is down!"

Then he had ducked towards Cullen, knees hitting the stone floor with a painful jolt, where he found himself now. Blood gushed from his shoulder as Dorian tried to assess the damage.

It was difficult with the arrow still embedded in him, but Dorian didn't dare remove it. Not without a healer there, not without a way of knowing if the arrow was barbed or would do more damage on the way out, not without some evidence that it wouldn't hurt more than help.

Cullen himself wasn't being particularly cooperative, either. The moment that Dorian was within reach, his hand grasped for Dorian's robes, trembling fingers clutching tightly. Dorian refused to consider why the other was just laying there so limply, twitching and spasming.

"Are you—you're—?"

"I'm fine, you foolish man! Be concerned with yourself, for once," Dorian said sharply, squeezing his wrist as the Shadows ran past him after the attacker. "We're going to get you a healer, alright? Just keep still."

But if anything, that just made Cullen's chest hitch, the wound gurgling as the arrow was jostled.

His eyes were wide, but not nearly as focused as they should be, not nearly so focused as that of the Inquisition’s famous Commander, and his words slurred together in a pained, panicked mess as he squeezed tighter.

“Don’t—” He choked breathlessly. His fingers twisted, Dorian leaning in closer to spare his clothes and Cullen’s hand from the strain. “No lyrium, no blood magic, no—”

“Lyrium?” Dorian asked, eyebrows raising.

“Whatever happens—whatever state I may be in—don’t let them—”

“Cullen, my dear, what purpose could lyrium possibly serve here?”

“I don’t know—Tevinter, you all, your magic—” Cullen jerked his head to the side in a shaky huff. “Please.”

"Fine. Fine, I promise, now just, please, try not to make it worse. Stay still, yes?"

Somewhere behind Dorian, he heard the sound of blades clashing and a blast of magic. Shouts echoed off the stone, the Shadows fighting viciously.

But he could only focus on the way that Cullen was groaning, eyes fluttering up. His grip on Dorian's robes tightened, then went slack.

The sight of Cullen slipping towards unconsciousness was enough to make Dorian's heart feel as if it was being strangled.

“Commander, wake up, if you would.” He pressed his hand down on the wound as best he could without disturbing the arrow still sticking out of his chest. "Kaffas, wake up!"

Yet Cullen only seemed more distant. His breathing stuttered, head lolling to the side.

Dorian, swallowing hard, pressed his lips together and gripped the arrow shaft.

He hadn't wanted to remove it—didn't trust himself to do so without making it worse—but he needed to stop the blood flow. Someone pulling out the thing intact with less damage to Cullen wouldn't do him any good if he was already dead.

As quickly as he could, he pulled one of the knives that Cullen kept on his person from its place tucked away at his side.

“If you die, so help me, I will find a way to bring you back just to murder you myself.” Dorian muttered. “Kinloch, Kirkwall, Haven, Adamant, you survived it all, and I will not be what finally kills you!”

Then, with silent gratitude that between his training in Nevarra and his days in the field with the Inquisition, he'd learned some tricks, he planted his knee on Cullen's working arm to keep it in place and began to slice the skin where the arrow had gone in.

Cullen twisted away sharply, expression tightening and a stuttered gasp slipping past his lips. Keeping him pinned as best he could manage, Dorian continued his work.

It didn't take long, thankfully, even if it felt like an eternity. Within a minute, he'd managed to make enough of a bloody gash that the arrow practically fell right out of him.

But then came the difficult part—the blood that came spewing out, Dorian slamming his palm down over it with a deep croak from Cullen. He'd never been as suited for healing as other types of magic, at least in his own opinion, and unless the subject he was healing happened to be a skeleton, but he knew more than enough to start channeling his magic into the wound to force the skin to begin knitting itself back together. That just didn't make it any easier on Cullen.

Whatever sort of peace he might have found when he fell unconscious was completely undone by Dorian's magic. His eyes flew open, rolling up as his entire body shuddered.

Dorian ignored it as best as he could. He couldn't afford not to.

Cullen couldn't afford for him not to.

He had to stay focused, to make sure that he pulled and plucked and nudged at his magic in just the right way to be sure that it sunk beneath Cullen's skin and fixed any possible damage the arrowhead might have caused.

If he let himself see how much pain he was causing his friend, he might not be able to continue. His leniency and guilt could very well be what killed him if he wasn't careful.

So he poured more and more of his magic, of himself, into it. He forced the skin beneath his touch to stitch itself together, speeding up the process by hours, days, and weeks.

Moments or minutes ticked by, he wasn't sure which. His mana strained the more he called on it, no longer used to this sort of draw after years of living as a Magister where his biggest tricks were usually no more than lighting lanterns from across the room. Perhaps in his Inquisition days, it might have been more simple, but not anymore.

At some point, someone sank down to crouch beside him, pressing down on Cullen's other shoulder to help keep him in place. Dorian shifted, putting more of his weight on the wound in turn. There was more shuffling around him, the other Shadows returning, he expected, and he spared the briefest glance back to see that the Venatori's body was laying prone further down the street.

As they deserved, Dorian thought, teeth gritted. If anything, he would have given them a much worse end than whatever the Shadows had done.

Then he returned with twice as much effort to his work.

By then, the skin was mostly healed. There was only so much that Dorian could tell about what was below it, but with the amount of magic that he was putting towards healing Cullen, he could only hope that there was nothing left that was truly dangerous.

He sat back on his heels with an exhausted breath. Cullen shivered, his robes sticking to his skin with sweat and blood, face twisting weakly.

"He needs a proper healer." Dorian muttered to whoever was listening. "Get him inside and someone run to fetch one. We're exposed here."

Tarquin, the one who had been crouched beside him, it seemed, nodded. As Dorian shifted away, he and one of the others grabbed Cullen's arms and pulled them up, over their shoulders, lifting him between them.

The two of them began to drag Cullen inside, another running off—to find a healer, Dorian assumed distantly—while he shoved himself to his feet with bloody hands.

His first inclination was to follow Cullen, but as his eyes slipped down the slim street towards the Venatori's body, he grimaced. Abandoning that plan, he headed towards it instead.

Usually, he would have assumed that the Shadows would have known to search the Venatori's pockets for any information on what they were doing there, but he imagined that wouldn't have been the case here. Not with how quickly they returned to him.

And if his hands were already such a mess, then there was nothing to even make him hesitate in kicking the body until it rolled over upright, crouching beside it, and rifling through their things.

Most of their pockets were empty, unfortunately. There were no letters to give away anything about who specifically had sent them or why. He could make assumptions, considering most anyone who knew of his positions in the Magisterium and in politics had likely assumed that he was against the Venatori's plans, but he had hoped to find something that laid it out in plain words.

What he found instead, making his stomach twist violently, was a familiar square of fabric.

A handkerchief.

His handkerchief, to be precise, white with blue detailing, the symbol of the Pavus family carefully embroidered into the corner.

The taste of metal filled the back of Dorian's throat as he stared down at it. His fingers rubbed the familiar fabric between them before he clenched it in his fist.

These Venatori—

They'd had his handkerchief. The very same one that he had lent to Cullen some days ago now.

Swallowing hard, he lifted it to inspect it more closely. The white was closer to a gray than he had initially thought, small streaks of ash worked into the fabric. When he lifted it, the smell of smoke was clinging to it so thickly that he might as well have licked it.

A Venatori had found one of his handkerchiefs, one Cullen had borrowed, and brought it here, covered in the marks of a fire.

Well.

He couldn't ask for a more plain answer than that, could he?

Turning on his heel, he marched into the safehouse, heart in his throat.

When he reached the room where the others had laid Cullen down, his head pillowed on a spare blanket someone had pulled from the safehouse's supplies, he found them doing their best to clean him up. There wasn't much that could be done about his clothes, but there was blood on his hands and splattered across his face that they were trying to wipe away.

Cullen might not have appreciated it, considering how much of a physical distance he seemed to keep from people. Dorian, however, was more than a little relieved; the only red he liked to see on the Commander were that fetching old cloak of his and the red in his cheeks when Dorian made one of his many comments.

More than anything, though, he was relieved just to be able to see the slow rise and fall of Cullen's chest.

Now that he'd been moved and the immediate pain of the arrow, then Dorian's healing, had passed, he seemed to have fallen into a decently peaceful rest. Instead of a ragged, hitching thing, his inhales were steady and calm, and instead of coming out in horrid huffs, his exhales were even.

And his expression, oh, it was a far cry from the pained, twisting thing he'd worn in the street, eyebrows furrowing and teeth gritting as he'd made futile attempts to squirm away.

Dorian's eyes lingered on it, even as one of the Shadows brushed a rag over Cullen's beard to rid it of every little drop of blood. He couldn't bring himself to look away.

Eventually, he had to. A proper healer arrived, one that the Shadows had worked with before. As he set about checking Dorian's work, Dorian had to explain the extent of the damage and what he'd done, which required him to turn his attention to the hole in the shoulder of Cullen's robes and the faintly scarred skin below it.

But it was worth it, for with some small amount of extra work and a deep breath, hardly even ten minutes going by, the healer confirmed that the only danger Cullen was in now was of a few days of his body recovering from the physical trauma of what had happened.

It was incredible what a weight that lifted from Dorian's chest. He hadn't realized just how much it felt like there was an ogre sitting on him until it lumbered away.

But rather than sitting on the floor and crying like a child from relief in the way that he wanted to, he settled for thanking the healer, brushing a hand self-indulgently against Cullen's wrist, and turning to the Shadows.

They were the ones who helped him move Cullen to the Pavus' home that night. Under the cover of darkness, when no one was in the street, they took him along the most direct possible route.

Perhaps it was foolish, trying to move him when he was still freshly healed, but Dorian couldn't trust the safehouse. Not only was it a horrible place for Cullen to get any decent rest, but it wasn't nearly as defensible as Dorian had ensured that his home was. And he refused to allow anyone else to be granted the opportunity to hurt Cullen again.

They shouldn't have had one to begin with, he thought harshly, watching Cullen be settled into his bed in Dorian's guest room. Had it not been for Dorian—

Kaffas, it wasn't even just the handkerchief that had done it. It was him, his direct actions mere minutes before Cullen had been shot.

How differently might their night have gone if he hadn't pushed Cullen to retire early? Had they stayed there, tucked away in the safehouse?

Even if the Venatori had attacked them there or waited in the street for them to come out, perhaps Dorian wouldn't have been so distracted. Perhaps he'd have seen the cultist coming or Cullen moving to shove him. Perhaps he might have done something, rather than letting it happen like a lummox.

And it went deeper than that. Much deeper. A month deeper, in fact.

If Cullen had still been in Fereldan, where Dorian couldn't reach him, then he would never have been in danger from the Venatori at all.

It hadn't been Dorian who had called on him, no, but he hadn't rejected the help. He'd even thanked the Inquisitor for offering to send someone.

Then, when Cullen had arrived and he'd seen who it was, he'd accepted it, despite knowing that Cullen had left the Inquisition behind, his life on the front lines long-since over.

He should have known better. Refused his aid and sent him away.

It had been almost inevitable that something like this would happen.

Especially the longer that Cullen stayed in the city, with Dorian's affection for the Commander rekindling as if they'd hardly spent any time apart. He didn't know how Cullen felt about him now, nor truly how he had felt in the Inquisition, but Cullen was someone that Dorian had never been able to stop himself from caring for.

That shouldn't have been an issue, yet for Dorian, it always seemed to be one regardless.

How many people that he cared about wound up in situations like these? In such horrid states?

His father was assassinated, yet he'd been left unscathed.

Felix had been Blighted, while Alexius had been dragged through a cult and driven to the brink of madness to try to save him, and Dorian had merely walked away.

The Inquisitor had lived in pain for years before losing an entire bloody arm and was now being put right back on the front lines against Gods, but Dorian could leave at any moment if he so chose and be none the worse for it personally beyond his grief for his city.

Perhaps he was cursed. Or maybe it was just his natural rotten luck. Either way, four decades into living like this, he ought to know better than to let someone get close.

With a deep breath, Dorian tore his mind away from his tumbling thoughts just as the Shadows finished getting Cullen settled. The poor man had hardly even seemed to notice he was being moved, much less actually woken up properly, and it wasn't any different now that he was laying snugly under the covers of his bed.

His bed—that was precisely the sort of thought Dorian shouldn't be allowing himself to have, wasn't it? The sort of thought that led to attachment, which led to pain, for him and for others.

He shook it away, nodding his gratitude to the helpful Shadows as they made their way towards the door. One of the members of his household staff was lingering behind him to lead them out, but he didn't give it much more thought than that, nor did anyone seem to think that he would.

Instead, he waited until the door clicked closed, then he approached the window and drew the curtains shut. Cullen had been changed out of his clothes and into something fresh, so Dorian didn't need to concern himself with that, at least. He merely put out the candles, set the handkerchief on the nightstand, gently tugged the covers higher over Cullen's broad chest and shoulders, and allowed himself one, brief moment of watching Cullen's calm expression before he slipped from the room himself.

The very next thing he did was go to take a bath, intent on scrubbing his skin until there wasn't a single fleck of Cullen's blood left on his person, and then doing it twice-over to be sure.

Cullen was awake.

It was the first thing Dorian was told in the late-morning when he woke from a fitful, useless sleep. The first staff member that he met when he finally stumbled his way out of bed was quick to inform him of it.

And he, in turn, was quick to leave them standing there without so much as a word, teeth gritted.

Of course Cullen was awake, he told himself. The true damage was gone. He'd been healed. There was absolutely nothing keeping him asleep.

Yet when he opened the door and saw Cullen for himself, that hollow certainty crumpled into the same relief that he'd felt when the healer had confirmed his safety to begin with.

The fool was already sitting up, something Dorian might have expected had he not half-believed that he'd find the Commander a cold corpse instead. Thankfully, it didn't seem as if he'd tried to stand or anything similarly idiotic, but he was, it appeared after a long second of Dorian staring blankly, quite shirtless.

He hadn't been the night before when Dorian had left, he was certain. And his shirt was laying on the bed in front of him, on top of the covers still draped across his waist and legs, so it wasn't a figment of Dorian's imagination.

Cullen just wasn't wearing it.

It was a sight Dorian would have appreciated under normal circumstances. But not like this, when Cullen was prodding gingerly at where the wound had been, nothing but a faint scar left to show for it. A larger one than it might've been, had Dorian not carved away at his shoulder like an overzealous butcher.

Instead, his relief faded, something bitter and guilty flooding through him in its place.

In the same moment, Cullen glanced up, their eyes meeting as he lowered his hand with a quiet breath. "Dorian."

"Commander." It slipped from Dorian's tongue before he was prepared for it to. "How are you feeling?"

"A popular question this morning."

"It tends to be after someone nearly dies," Dorian said, drifting slowly across the room, and Cullen rubbed the back of his neck wearily.

"Yes, I suppose—yes. I'm quite well, thank you."

"Good. I would hate to have had all of my hard work been for nothing."

That tugged a small smile from Cullen, his tired eyes crinkling at the corners.

He said nothing, however, leaving Dorian to lean against one of the posts of the bed with his hands clasped in front of him. Glancing Cullen over, he held in a sigh.

If he hadn't known what had happened just last night, he might have thought Cullen had just slept particularly poorly. That was what it looked like, his skin pale and waxy, the skin beneath his eyes dark, his body language so unnatural.

As it was, all he could see was the body he'd clutched close in a mess of blood less than half of a day prior.

And that must have come across in whatever his expression was doing, because eventually, Cullen cleared his throat and let his smile slip.

"Your staff didn't have any answers for me, but I was wondering what we had learned from the Venatori? If we found out why they attacked?" He asked.

Something panged in Dorian's chest. That bitter feeling only strengthened as he shook his head, reaching for the nightstand where he had dropped his crumpled handkerchief the night before, if only to get it away from himself.

Now, he tossed it towards Cullen. It landed on his lap in a flutter.

Cullen, as exhausted-looking as he was, picked it up and stared at it for a moment before realization began to dawn across his face.

"Your…but I lost this. In the flames."

"Yes, well, apparently, the Venatori didn't."

"The Pavus…" Cullen rubbed it between his thumb and finger. "That's…is that why? Because they thought you were responsible for the fire?"

"You say that as if they're wrong."

"You know what I mean, Dorian. Maker…"

Face flickering, Cullen set the handkerchief to the side. He reached for his shirt, pulling it on with only a small hiss of discomfort, then paused once it was on to breathe for a moment.

Once he'd recovered from the strain of lifting a piece of fabric and his own arms, he immediately pivoted to throwing the covers back.

He was moving before Dorian could even register it, legs slipping out from beneath the blanket and gingerly swinging out of bed. This sound was much more than a hiss, and Dorian moved to grab his shoulder before he could try to stand.

“Precisely where do you think that you’re going, Commander?” He asked sharply.

The way that Cullen had to pause again just from shifting that far was more than enough proof that he ought to stay in bed, but that didn't stop him from muttering, "there's work to be done."

“Work!” Dorian scoffed. “You were shot and you’re still thinking of work!”

“You said that it was the Venatori. If they were willing to target you in public, that means that they’re even more bold than I had thought. We must act.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? But you’re in no state—”

“—I am perfectly fine, thank you—”

“—to be gallivanting all over Minrathous.”

“There's hardly even a scar, Dorian.”

“That doesn’t mean that you don’t need rest.”

With a groan, Cullen pushed Dorian’s hand aside and stood. He hardly even wobbled, yet Dorian’s heart leapt into his throat regardless.

Rightfully so, he realized a second later, as Cullen faltered.

He might have recovered had he been left to his own devices, but instead, he managed to stumble directly into Dorian. Their chests collided, Cullen's chin clipping off his shoulder.

Dorian hardly managed to catch his full weight, hands moving to his arms instinctively to steady him, even as Cullen's head bobbed and his legs moved as if beginning to buckle.

"Yes, you're truly showing me, aren't you?" He managed to spit. "Excellent work, Commander. Now will you please—sit down?"

Slumping closer, Cullen shuddered. Dorian awkwardly shuffled closer to the bed, the backs of Cullen's knees bumping against it, then pushed him down.

Only once Cullen wasn't pressed against him did Dorian see the way that his eyes were squeezed shut or feel his fists clutching at Dorian's sleep-clothes. Both, along with the way that Cullen was wavering from one side to the other, told him the fool had managed to make himself dizzy.

A part of him was just grateful that was all it seemed to be. The other, the petty part, wanted to push a finger against his forehead and see if he toppled backwards.

Instead, he found himself lifting a hand, cupping Cullen's cheek to steady him.

He didn't fully intend to do it, not truly, not when he'd spent so much time through the night tossing and turning with regrets about letting Cullen get so close. But even if he had, he doubted he'd have meant for Cullen to lean into it with a huffed breath.

Yet the feeling of Cullen's stubble pressing against his palm, the warmth of Cullen's skin…it settled something in Dorian that hadn't felt right from the moment that Cullen had taken that arrow.

Dorian swallowed hard. Cullen's eyes fluttered open, weakly peering up at him.

Neither of them made any move to pull away, something Dorian chose not to inspect further.

"Commander," he said. He forced his voice to come out stronger the second time. "You need more rest."

"The Venatori…"

"If they show themselves here, then I am more than capable of handling it. The rest can wait until you've recovered."

The way that Cullen's eyebrows furrowed made it clear that he wanted to argue, but he was quickly undermined as he began to straighten up, only to have to freeze again, eyes slamming shut as his chest hitched.

Dorian, ever the mature one, did not say I told you so, no matter how strong the urge was.

One moment stretched on as Cullen breathed through his vertigo. Then another, with him slowly leaning back into Dorian's touch.

Finally, when he cracked one eye open again, it was with a grimace.

“One more day. No more.” Cullen muttered.

“If you insist, then very well. But should you collapse again, know that I won’t be catching you,” Dorian said, ignoring the way his chest ached at the memory of staring blankly down at his hands as he’d washed them clean.

“Nor would I ask you to.”

Cullen shifted away, Dorian's hand prickling with the loss of his warmth, and reluctantly laid back.

Clearing his throat, Dorian stepped away. He stretched his hand against the lingering, phantom feeling of Cullen's presence. "Have you eaten?"

"No, not yet."

"I would ask if I could trust you to stay here while I go find breakfast, but it doesn't seem as if you have much choice in the matter. Just…try not to do anything foolish?"

The sigh Cullen gave him was all the answer that he received, and it was one that echoed in his mind as he left the room, heading downstairs. He couldn't help but let his thoughts linger on the pinch between Cullen's eyebrows as he'd settled back into bed.

Fortunately, as he reached the ground floor, then the kitchen, his attention was dragged away by having to speak to the cook—a new, carefully vetted addition to his staff.

Before Cullen arrived, he'd never bothered, not with him being the only person in the house most of the time. He hadn't minded if the man who usually dusted the bookshelves made him the sandwich that he ate in two minutes without so much as moving away from his desk.

But with Cullen there, he'd found that they were having actual meals. The two of them would sit together in the dining room and talk while they ate, both about the food and about everything else. Sometimes their breakfasts felt like the Inquisitor's old war table with how they would discuss their plans regarding the city, but others, they wouldn't mention it at all, instead blabbering on about anything and everything under the sun.

Hiring a cook had been a small price to pay to have such time to enjoy with his guest, especially considering how often their paths diverged during the day. Dorian was limited in what he could do physically against the Venatori without risking his standing as a Magister or targeted attacks like the one just last night, so too often, he was forced to stay behind while Cullen went out with the Shadows to do the real work.

Their meals were a way to ensure that he saw Cullen outside of just passing notes and making new plans for striking back against the cult. He would be a poor host indeed if he let that be their only meetings, much less if he didn't make sure the man doing all this work for him and his city was at least properly fed for it.

Besides, Dorian had come to appreciate having someone else taking up space in this old, empty house with him. The staff were there, yes, but they didn't sit with him to eat or join him in his study to play a game of chess or grimace with him at Minrathous' frequent rain. Cullen did, and having a cook to make them actual meals made it all the more common.

Was that selfish? Possibly. But it had given one more person a job and had made sure that Cullen was eating rather than relentlessly burying himself in his work, so Dorian didn't particularly care, either.

He might in a few months time, assuming things went well and the Gods were beaten and Minrathous was beginning to heal. Cullen would leave then, would return to Fereldan, meaning Dorian would be once again alone with empty halls and private meals that would be all the more lonely for having experienced the alternative.

But there would be ways around that, he told himself. Once Minrathous was in a better place, he could always go back to finding casual partners to share his bed with. They might only help make the nights less quiet, but he had rarely spent much time there during the day until Cullen's arrival anyway. There hadn't been any true reason for him to.

Of course, that wouldn't do anything to change the fact that he'd have to walk past an empty guest room that had once been occupied by his friend. It wouldn't change the ghost of Cullen's presence at the other end of the dining room table. It wouldn't make the chess board collect any less dust.

They were small issues, though. Pangs in his chest and little more.

He would manage.

And that was assuming that they didn't all die in this battle against the Evanuris anyway. There was always the potential of it being a moot point, considering he doubted the building would stay standing just for his Blighted corpse to live in.

With that happy thought, Dorian found the cook reading a serial in the corner of the kitchen, feet propped up on an old bucket.

It only took a minute or so to make a vague request for some sort of breakfast to be brought up to Cullen's borrowed room. Then, as the cook began his work, Dorian went back upstairs to dress himself in something that at least resembled a real outfit for the day.

All together, between the one task, then the other, Dorian couldn't have taken more than ten minutes to do everything that he did before returning to the guest room. Ten mere minutes.

Yet when he returned, it was to the Commander already asleep again, laying over the covers, breathing evenly.

Dorian sighed.

He fully supported Cullen getting more rest, of course. But he'd hoped that he'd at least do so on a full stomach, especially considering he had never eaten dinner the night before, and possibly not even lunch.

This man was going to work himself to the bone for Dorian's city, and had the absolute gall to thwart Dorian's attempts to help him.

It was enough to make Dorian briefly consider just throttling him in his sleep.

Instead, he retrieved a chair and a handful of documents that needed to be dealt with, plunking himself down by Cullen's bedside. The nightstand made a decent makeshift desk, while sitting there satisfied the part of Dorian's mind that was sure Cullen was going to find some way to stumble himself out of bed and face-first down the stairs or out a window any minute.

Breakfast came shortly after. Dorian ate alone, Cullen's portion set aside to get cold. He slept soundlessly as Dorian scratched away at one document, then the next, only occasionally shifting with quiet mumbles.

The instinct was there for Dorian to cover him with one of the blankets still folded at the end of the bed, but he forced himself to ignore it.

What he couldn't ignore, however, was the sight of Cullen's peaceful face.

It was a word that he would rarely use to describe the Commander. Usually, his expression was one of concentration, even if all he was focusing on was a simple conversation, but he still fluctuated often between emotions. His feelings showed easily for someone who had been in positions of command for so long.

Now, it was the only word for him. There was no furrowed brow, no frown, no crinkles beside his eyes. Apparently, all it took was to actually get him to sleep for once.

Dorian's gaze lingered, trailing over Cullen's unclenched jaw, over his closed eyes.

He might've sat there for hours if it weren't for the quiet sound of someone knocking at the door. He might've liked to.

But a member of the staff entered, tearing his attention away. The young man inclined his head as he said, "Maevaris Tilani is here to see you, master Pavus."

Maevaris, he said, and Dorian stood up as if he'd been struck by lightning.

Maevaris.

After he had taken his scalding bath the night before, skin nearly rubbed raw to be sure he'd rid himself of Cullen's blood, Dorian had put on a robe and made his way to his study. He'd been exhausted, but knew he wouldn't be able to sleep until he'd sent a particular message out.

Now, it seemed to have proven itself to be the right choice, as Maevaris had already arrived to give her reply.

With a hurried thank you, Dorian abandoned his documents, the remnants of his breakfast, and Cullen's sleeping form in favor of making his way out of the room like fire was nipping at his heels.

She was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, as gorgeous as ever, blonde hair curled and outfit pristine, some papers held in one elegant hand.

“What have you found for me?” He asked, starting down towards her, and she gave him a smile.

“Hello, my dear,” she said. “How is the Commander?"

"Horrendous. The fool nearly collapsed trying to push himself straight out of bed this morning. What have you found for me?"

The look that she gave him said that her patience for his impatience wasn't eternal, but as he joined her, she just held out the stack of paper with a nod. "Everything that I could find on such short notice about who ordered this attack is in here. It took some digging and a few people going without sleep, but I can tell you that it's legitimate."

Usually, Dorian would say something about how frequently that disclaimer accompanied bad news, but he was too busy flipping through the pages.

Each one gave him another piece of the puzzle. A letter from someone who had infiltrated Magister Contos' guards the night before as she'd looked at the remnants of her house, explaining that she had reported it to the templars. A note from a templar who declared that a Venatori's body had been found holding a crisp, yet intact leather pouch. Another that said the pouch had been emptied and evidence was found inside of another Magister's involvement.

But the worst of it came at the very end, stamped with an official seal, a letter that Dorian didn't want to ask Maevaris how she'd managed to get away with having someone steal.

“Knight-Commander Lenos,” Dorian said, sneering.

It was his, he knew. Lenos' seal, Lenos' letter, Lenos' orders to have a Venatori dispatched to do away with him.

Cullen, laying in a pool of his own blood, in agony as Dorian had cut open his shoulder flashed through his mind again. He turned sharply, heading for his study.

“No snark, Dorian? No mention of how you've been assuming he was dirty for months?” Mae asked from behind him. “How unlike you.”

“A dear friend of mine was shot in order to save my life, so no, I’m not particularly in the mood to make light of the situation."

"Then what are you going to do? Go on a rampage against the Venatori? You'll be killed."

“I’m going to find Knight-Commander Lenos and remind him that I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be, a nice man,” Dorian said. “And once he has suffered half as much as Cullen, I might consider killing the bastard.”

Mae grabbed his shoulder, effectively stopping him short in the doorway. Reluctantly, Dorian allowed himself to be pulled around to face her. “Dorian, you cannot run off without a plan. Lenos is the leader of the templars. Now that we have proof that he's allied with the Venatori, it's imperative that we take him down, something that you can't do alone."

"He tried to have me assassinated and Cullen nearly died for it. I have to do something."

The way that Maevaris' expression softened made Dorian's chest twist. He wanted to pull away, to put distance between them before she could see his feelings bubbling up in his throat, but he knew her better than that. Knew that she knew him better.

"We'll find a way. Give me more time, let me pull a few strings. I might not be a Magister anymore, but you know that I still have my contacts," she said. "And while you wait, stay here. Look after Cullen."

Swallowing his protests, inhaling through his burning anger towards Lenos, Dorian managed to shake his head. "Maevaris, you know how I hate waiting."

"Then it's good practice."

He crumpled the papers in his hand, and when he did finally shrug her away, she allowed him to. Without much care, he went and shoved the papers into one of his desk drawers.

"Hurry, please," he said, shutting it tightly.

"I'll do everything I can." She promised.

And then she left, slipping back out the door and towards the rear of the house. No one could see the disgraced former-Magister Maevaris Tilani at his home without affecting his reputation, so she would leave out the back door like a scandalous affair partner, just like always.

Meanwhile, he would have to find something to occupy himself. The documents in Cullen's room felt abruptly meaningless, as did all the rest of the ridiculous tasks that came with being a Magister and had yet to be removed from his plate despite the chaos Minrathous was facing. Apparently not even the Archon's death and a hostile Venatori takeover could stop busy-work.

What else was there for him, though? He had no intention of sitting at Cullen's bedside all day like he was holding some heartbroken vigil, and leaving the house didn't seem the wisest choice when he could only assume that there was still a standing order to the Venatori to kill him.

He might have just stayed in his study some other time, but the papers he'd shoved into the drawer felt as if they had a gravity to them, constantly reminding him of what Lenos had done. If he were to stay, he wasn't confident he wouldn't just ignore Mae's plans entirely and go to find him.

That shouldn't have felt so limiting as it did. It was a large house, after all. Two rooms being out of the question hardly left him trapped.

Yet, when he took a book from one of his shelves and retreated to his room with a huffed breath, it felt akin to being shoved into a tower with a dragon lurking outside the window.

And perhaps it was childish to resort to hiding himself away when he still had other responsibilities, but he found that he didn't particularly care.

It was easier to stew in his feelings than it was to confront them. Especially when they were so tangled up in each other, one ginormous mess of string that would take days to sort out and pull apart.

When the door to his room clicked shut behind him, it dimmed things somewhat, at least. Without the obvious reminders, the desk the papers or Cullen's room, in his line of sight, he could do a decent enough job at pretending they didn't exist.

He turned his attention to what was in front of him instead, tossing his book onto the soft settee at the foot of his bed.

When he'd dressed earlier, he hadn't done much; there was no jewelry to pry from his fingers or from his throat, no layers to his clothing that he could strip away. The thought had been that he would spend his late morning and onwards by Cullen's side while they ate and discussed this or that, then leave to see to his work. Nothing that required anything fancy.

Now, he was wishing that he'd bothered anyway, if only so that he could yank it all off and toss it to the corners of his room in a tantrum. That at least would have been satisfying, rather than him simply flopping back onto his bed with a sigh.

Most of his afternoon was wasted there. He was still exhausted from having not slept well the night before, which made it far too easy to slump down into the mattress.

Unfortunately, it was no more restful than his tossing and turning the night before.

He tried twisting this way, then that. He tried more pillows, then less. With a blanket, without one, tugged the sheets over himself, kicked them away.

He tried thinking of nothing, then tried to recite boring old lessons from his magic tutors from distant memory, which had never failed to make him tired in those days. When neither worked, he allowed his mind to wander towards counting nugs. That only served to disturb him.

He even tried simply not moving at all, burying his face in his pillow and forcing his limbs to stay still as the moments ticked past. That worked the best, though he found his face started itching the very moment that he began to believe he'd succeeded.

If anything, it was only when he gave up on sleep entirely and resigned himself to laying there, wide-awake in silence, that he finally drifted off.

When that was, he didn't know. Only that, somehow, between his various methods and his actual nap, he woke up again after his windows had already gone dark.

But waking up and dragging himself from his bed were two very different things.

One happened to him. The other he had to choose, in spite of the fact that he felt even worse than he did before laying down.

He groaned, reluctantly rolling over and swinging his feet over the side. His head was thick, his face aching in a way that they only did when he found himself sleeping in the middle of the day.

It used to be that too much indulgence was the culprit. Wine and good company, that was what would leave him facedown in bed, wrapped in a blanket even as he sweated, head thrumming with the consequences of his actions. If said company was truly that good, they would occasionally even bring him some water for it.

Otherwise, or if like today, he was alone, he'd go to do it himself. Even if he'd rather just pretend that he hadn't woken up at all.

Especially now. Forty was not thirty, much less twenty, and he couldn't afford to simply let his hangovers—from drink or from restless nights—go unattended in the same manner as he once had.

So he stood, grumbling wordlessly as he made his way towards the door. The hall was dark, Cullen's door shut, and Dorian had to be deliberate with where he placed his feet to avoid tripping over them as he slipped down the stairs.

The ground floor wasn't much better, either, to the point that he was so busy staring at the path in front of him that he nearly didn't notice that his study door was sitting open.

That, he registered through the dull pang behind his eyes, was not how he had left it.

He curled his fingers tightly, reaching for his magic and tugging it into reach. Creeping closer, he considered his options, from an ice spell to freeze any possible intruder in their tracks to a blast of lightning to knock them out entirely.

The door opened the last few inches under his light touch. He frowned at the dim light that was spilling out of the room, more than familiar enough with what his study looked like at night to recognize that it was from the moonlight that streamed in whenever the exterior doors were tossed wide.

Whoever it was had opened the terrace.

Or…they had entered from it.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder, then forward. If there was no one in his study, then that meant they were almost certainly loose in the house, with Cullen and his staff none the wiser.

Lifting his hand into the air with magic at the ready, he strode boldly into the room to see for himself.

A millisecond later, he found that he didn't need it, for the only person there with him was a familiar one.

"Commander?" He asked, eyebrows raising sharply.

Cullen turned, stiffening as he stood from where he'd been leaning against the terrace railing across the room. His expression was weary, his body language closed-off, as if he was expecting to be fussed at for being there.

It was warranted, frankly. Between the sparks in Dorian's fist and the fact that the last thing they had agreed upon was that Cullen would stay in bed, he had every reason to think Dorian had an issue with his actions.

Yet the relief of it not being another assassin was enough to make Dorian drop the spell easily, sighing. When he spoke, it was without reproach.

"What are you doing out there? It's the middle of the night."

"I was seeking some air," Cullen said. He turned away again, resuming his stance. "I woke up a short while ago and couldn't fall back asleep. Being inside for too long, it can be…restricting."

Dorian, instead of pointing out that he might have gone to any number of other spots for air, merely joined him at the railing, his quest for water forgotten with the notion of an intruder. Together, they stared out at the city, watching little sparks of light in the distance.

That was one of the things that Dorian had always appreciated about the Pavus' Minrathous home. It might not have been a floating manor high above the ground, but it gave them a good view regardless.

Especially at night, when everyone else was asleep and the city was quiet.

Though, he had to admit, it had its drawbacks. The late hour carried a chill, every breeze slicing through the thin layers of his clothes to cool his skin.

It was nice now, calming his headache some. But he still found himself asking, "are you cold, Commander?"

"I'm from Fereldan, remember? This is a pleasant summer's night to me." He glanced over with a small frown. "You, however…have never liked the cold, have you?"

"I despise it."

"Then we should go in. I wasn't intending to freeze you."

Shifting, he moved as if to follow through, but Dorian didn't even twitch. His eyes stayed trained on the stars above them, the moons drifting so peacefully across the sky.

It was gorgeous.

Nearly enough so to make him forget what was happening to his city. What people like the Knight-Commander and the crooked Magisters and the Venatori were plotting somewhere in the distance.

But Cullen's presence beside him, slowing, then pausing in confusion as if waiting for Dorian to speak, was enough to make forgetting impossible.

Quietly, Dorian said, "you're trembling."

The way that Cullen went rigid told him everything that he needed it to.

Couldn't fall back asleep. Kaffas.

He'd always been a poor liar to those who knew him.

Seconds stretched by, silent except for the distant sounds of a city at night. Cullen shifted, opening his mouth, then closing it, before he finally let out a soft sigh.

"It was a dream." He admitted. His voice went low, nearly inaudible. "Another nightmare."

He said it as if he didn't want to, turning his face away as if embarrassed, and Dorian instinctively stood to reach out. The feeling of Cullen's face cupped in the palm of his hand from that morning was strong, making his chest feel warm in a way that went quite contrary to the wind still slipping through his hair.

If he were another man, he might have acted on that warmth. Reached out. Held Cullen.

If he were another man, he might have admitted that he hadn't slept soundly either. It wasn't the same, but perhaps it would have helped Cullen to at least know he wasn't alone.

But he wasn't. He was Dorian Pavus, and he could never be that man.

He looked back towards the night sky, instead.

"Is there anything that I can get you? Tea, perhaps?" He asked.

"Ah—no. Thank you." Cullen shifted again. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to bother you with this again, Dorian. I assumed you would be asleep."

"Yet you still came to my study. "

"It was—that is, I—"

Pressing his lips together, Dorian glanced down to the darkness below the terrace. Fancy another game? was on the tip of his tongue.

Then he thought of Cullen, laying bloody in the street.

He swallowed the words.

Whatever reason Cullen had for seeking this particular spot to find comfort, it wasn't his business. He couldn't let it be his business. He'd watched enough friends die since the dragon attack, and he refused to let this attachment grow only to see Cullen join them.

"Come along," he said instead. "I was just going to the kitchen. You should have something to eat, if you only just woke up."

And that was that they did; went to the kitchen, Dorian leading the way, Cullen trailing quietly behind. Dorian finally got his water, while the Commander, with a bit of prodding, made himself a jam sandwich.

To Dorian's surprise, he'd made a spare and pushed it towards Dorian, too.

"I doubt you've eaten," he said.

"I'm perfectly fine," Dorian said, even as he pulled the plate closer and frowned down at it. There was less jam, something he wouldn't have expected Cullen to know to do for him.

"As am I." At Dorian's doubtful glance, Cullen shook his head. "I've rested and I'm stronger now. There won't be any more collapsing. Tomorrow, I'll be ready to return to my work, just as we agreed."

The images from before flooded back, filling Dorian's mouth with the taste of dust.

Cullen, an arrow in his shoulder and blood gushing down his front. Cullen, skin pale and waxy, fingers clutching shakily at Dorian's robes. Cullen, falling unconscious, leaving Dorian unsure if he would ever wake up again.

With a shake of his head to try to clear such thoughts away, Dorian tore his sandwich into two separate pieces. He took a small bite of one half, if only to satisfy Cullen and to rid himself of the dust.

But he said nothing more, and eventually, Cullen asked, "have you found anything else about your would-be assassin? Or about who sent them?"

A wonderful topic for a meal. Precisely what Dorian wanted to discuss.

Though he couldn't deny that it rekindled his frustration from that afternoon, making him squeeze the sandwich until jam nearly exploded out of it.

“We discovered that Knight-Commander Lenos is a Venatori,” Dorian said. “Brilliant, isn’t it? Not only did they breed corruption among the templars, but they managed to completely bridle the beast by making one of their own its leader.”

"A Knight-Commander?" Cullen asked.

"Yes, I thought you might be familiar with the title. He's the leader of the entire templar order here in Minrathous. It's little wonder how the Venatori have made such strides in the city with his aid."

"Maker preserve us, the damage that someone with power like that can do—there must be some way to stop him."

"We have the beginnings of a plan. An old friend, the former Magister Maevaris Tilani, is working on it as we speak."

Cullen's expression flickered. "I remember that name. We worked with her during the Inquisition."

"We did, and we're doing so again now. With any luck at all, her contacts will be able to find out precisely what we need to find him and put an end to his schemes," Dorian said, setting his strangled sandwich down and moving to fetch a towel to clean his hands.

"That sort of loss would destabalise the entire templar order. We could very well use that to strike against the Venatori again."

"We could."

With a small frown, Cullen stared down at his food, looking every part the Commander despite his sleep-ruffled hair. "If we attempt this, we can't fail. Getting one chance at a figure like that would be difficult enough, but should he learn our goal and what we know, he won't give us a second."

And he said it so certainly, we and us and our, as if it could never be anything else. Their fight, their opponent.

It made Dorian feel vaguely ill.

He wanted, instinctively, to stop Cullen from joining him. Wanted to order him back to bed, if not out of Minrathous entirely, and demand that he stop putting himself in danger when Dorian had already lost so much.

But he couldn't. To be that honest—it was a sort of vulnerability that he couldn't display. Cullen deserved better than to have to carry the weight of Dorian's feelings, and Dorian couldn't face him with his fears unmasked.

"A second chance won't be necessary, Commander," he said instead. "I have no intention of letting Lenos escape."

Chapter Text

It took two full days for Maevaris to bring them the news of the Knight-Commander that Dorian had asked for.

She arrived in the evening, returning to the Pavus' home through the rear door just as it was getting dark. Cullen, tucked away in his room, reading and annotating what he had of his notes regarding Venatori in the city, was retrieved by a member of the staff and asked to meet Dorian and Maevaris in the study.

When he made his way there, they were already engrossed in conversation. He pushed his shoulders back, the lingering phantom ache of his healed wound thrumming, and slipped inside.

Maevaris, or who he assumed was she, at least, glanced over when he entered. She was a blonde woman, dressed all in blue, a nice outfit but clearly worn, seated in one of the chairs by the fire.

Dorian, sitting behind his desk with his entire focus on what Maevaris had been saying, did not.

Cullen wished he could say that it was the first time that he'd felt the slight, bitter sting of being ignored in the last several days.

It might have been, if Dorian had only missed breakfast the other morning after their late dinner together, when Cullen had assumed he'd slept in late. Or that afternoon, when he'd skipped lunch to finish looking over some documents in his study, since Cullen knew that he'd neglected his work in the last several days.

Then he'd missed dinner, leaving Cullen sitting alone in the dining room with nothing but the sound of his own utensils scraping against the plate, then skipped breakfast again, and—well. It wasn't hard for him to notice that the chair opposite him was empty every single time he sat down.

It wasn't just the meals, either, not truly. If everything else had been normal, he might have just assumed that Dorian had lost his appetite in the wake of what had happened. Cullen certainly couldn't say that his stomach didn't turn every now and then when he remembered the grim sight of Dorian's blood-covered hands or the feeling of the arrow in his shoulder moving whenever he did.

But it was everything about Dorian, from the meals to how little they'd spoken to the fact that he hadn't made any of his usual comments since the attack. Not so much as a, why, Commander, that outfit is so dashing that it would almost be a shame for me to help you out of it, when Cullen saw him after putting on the new robes Dorian had given him after that would-be assassin had ruined one of his others. Not even one little joke. Not one.

Cullen couldn't believe it, but a small part of him was beginning to miss them.

Not the comments themselves, persay. Those still made him splutter like a school-boy, face going red, head ducking. He didn't mind them—he even thought they were funny, though it was strange to have them all be directed at him instead of spread across the various men of the Inquisition—but he also didn't care to inflate Dorian's ego any more than it already was by ever admitting so.

No, what he missed was the easy companionship that they'd fallen into over the last month, before he'd been wounded and Dorian had pulled away.

The meals had been part of that, of course. But there had also been the simple things, like Cullen asking him for advice on particular plans or for knowledge about the Venatori. How they had sat in Dorian's study in the evenings, reading their respective notes or maps or what-have-you regarding their efforts to help the city, only occasionally mumbling something to the other from across the room. The way they'd learned how to fall into step again.

He'd almost been hoping that he could count Dorian as a friend once more, if he ever was to begin with back in the Inquisition.

Instead, they were right back where they'd begun—distant and unfamiliar.

With a quiet clear of his throat, Cullen pushed away his thoughts, and Dorian finally glanced up.

"Ah. Commander, you're here," Dorian said. "Maevaris, this is the former Commander of the Inquisition, Cullen Rutherford. Commander, this is the Shadow Dragon's own Maevaris Tilani."

"It's a pleasure to finally put a face to the name," Cullen said, inclining his head as he sank into the chair opposite hers.

"And the same to you, Commander. It was good to hear that you've recovered."

She said it genuinely, even as Dorian's expression flickered. Cullen met her eyes instead of allowing himself to inspect what that meant.

"I was told that you've found something?"

"I have." Maevaris gave him a half-smile. "It took us poking about a bit around the Cobbled Swan, not to mention dodging what remains of a certain crime syndicate, but we managed to collect enough information to give Dorian what he wanted."

"Yes, which you still haven't actually done," Dorian said pointedly.

"Patience, Dorian. I have it right here."

She picked up a small bundle from beside her in the chair and placed it on the empty table, the chess board absent for once. From within it, she pulled one particular piece of ragged, water-stained paper.

"Is that it?" Dorian asked.

"Everything here is relevant. This note, however, will give you your specific answer regarding Knight-Commander Lenos, which is what I assume you'll be most interested in."

Moving to stand, Dorian reached out a hand as if to take it, but Maevaris held it out across the table to Cullen first. He glanced between them before shifting forwards in his seat to take the paper.

The way that Dorian slid closer to peer over his shoulder positioned him closer to Cullen than he had been since he'd stopped him from collapsing the other morning. It was nearly enough to distract Cullen from actually reading what he had been handed.

Nearly.

Instead, he focused even more intently, refusing to acknowledge the warm presence at his side.

It still took him an extra moment to actually see what was there. Once he did, though, it was clear that the collection of roughly drawn lines was some form of a map. Cullen didn't know the streets well enough to be able to tell precisely of where, but that didn't stop him from reading the text below; Blight and Darkspawn released. The city yields to the horde.

Dorian's eyebrows shot up.

"The Blight? Darkspawn? They plan to unleash those beasts directly into Minrathous? On purpose? Vishante Kaffas, this can't be true. What would they do, bury the city just to ensure that no one gets it?" He demanded. "What could Lenos hope to achieve with this?"

"You said that these Evanuris have control over the Blight. More than likely, Lenos believes that they'll spare him and the Venatori, and that they'll be given glory, power, and coin for their hard work," Cullen said.

"I knew that the Risen Gods wanted to cause chaos in Minrathous, but this…"

"It's terrible, yes," Maevaris said, "but there's still time for us to stop them. And with this map, we know where to begin looking."

Glancing back down at it, Dorian tapped his finger against one corner. It fluttered in Cullen's grip. "The waterworks. We should head there immediately. There's no telling when they'll begin this idiotic plan of theirs."

"Dorian, rushing in might very well get people killed," Cullen said, twisting to look up at him. The dark look he got back seemed to have very little to do with whatever had been keeping him at a distance.

"Not rushing might do worse."

It was a grim statement, but not an untrue one.

Cullen frowned tightly. "How quickly can we gather the Shadow Dragons?"

"We won't be doing that," Dorian said, taking the rest of the papers from Maevaris and moving hurriedly towards his desk. "It's a needless delay that will risk more lives."

"You can't simply go alone," Maevaris said.

"Can't we? Lenos won't have many people with him. He'll want to keep whatever this is that he's doing hush-hush, at least until his plan succeeds and the city is too Blighted to give half a shit about finger-pointing. If we hurry, we can catch him and his lackeys off-guard before they have any additional help."

"I'll fetch my sword. Lady Tilani, do you have a more accurate map of these waterworks?" Cullen asked.

With a sigh, she stood, joining Dorian where he was still rifling through the different papers. From within them, she pulled out a particularly large one. "For what good it will do us, yes. They're old, Commander, and half of it has fallen to ruins."

Taking the map, Dorian set a hand on Maevaris' shoulder.

"No, Mae." He murmured, voice softening for the first time since the conversation had begun. "The Commander and I will go, but you must remain here. Whatever occurs, we need at least one leader of the Shadow Dragons to survive. With the Viper Blighted…"

"Then it should be you. You're still in good standing with the Magisterium. They need those connections," Maevaris said quietly.

"There are many fights where I have accepted that as a worthwhile reason to stay behind. This won't be one of them."

"So you'll simply go and get yourself killed instead?"

"You know I won't make it that easy for him."

She frowned, squeezing his wrist. "Just…be careful, my dear. If Lenos manages to release these Darkspawn as he plans, you'll be the first to face them."

Nodding, Dorian stepped back and glanced at Cullen, gesturing with his chin towards the door. Cullen, taking the cue for what it was, slipped away to go fetch his sword and ready himself for their mission.

It didn't take long. Not compare to what it would have in the past, when he had to dress himself in full armor for the templars or for the Inquisition. He felt less prepared, but it was still better than being choked by the weight of the past as he had been that first day in Minrathous when he'd disguised himself.

That was the last thing he wanted to have happen now, when he had to be focused on the job in front of them. Especially when he already knew that he was going to be distracted enough by the twisting mess of feelings in his gut regarding this particular opponent.

This wasn't the first time that he'd had to side against templars in order to do what was right, he knew, but that didn't make it any easier for him to stomach.

The order, that of Tevinter or Fereldan or otherwise, was meant to be an organization that helped people. They were meant to fight for those who couldn't, to be a shield for whoever needed one. That was why he had wanted to be one himself; eight years old, standing by the lake with his siblings, declaring his purpose in life as if it could never be anything else, because he had faith in the tales of the grand templar order.

But this Knight-Commander Lenos, like too many others that Cullen could now name, were shoving those ideals into the dirt and using them as a stepping stone to glory and power.

That wasn't what the templars stood for. It wasn't part of the oaths Cullen had taken so sincerely.

And if no one else would stand up against it, then Cullen would, before this spiralled as Knight-Commander Meredith's plans for power once had. She might not have been motivated by greed in the way that Lenos seemed to be, she was still proof that overstepping in such a way could spell disaster, even for a city as grand as Minrathous.

He'd allowed her corruption to grow too deep before he'd interceded. Perhaps if he'd done something differently, if he'd acted sooner, seen the truth rather than being blinded by his own nightmares and hatred, then maybe—

Maker, he could only imagine what might've changed.

That couldn't be allowed to happen again, not when he could see the path stretching out before them and where it might lead.

Especially not knowing what he did now of the city, what he'd come to learn since arriving, and had come to appreciate about it.

There were still old instincts thrumming in the back of his mind that said he couldn't relax completely in a place so full of magic, of course, even more so than Kinloch Hold or Kirkwall, but that didn't mean that he couldn't see how the good parts, like the strength in Minrathous' citizens coming together to fight back against the Venatori. The stories of Tevinter that painted it so badly rarely spoke of the common people, just as stuck underneath the weight of the Magisterium and the Imperium as anyone, but it hadn't taken much to see it with his own eyes.

He would hardly be saddened to see people like Lenos succumb to the Blight, having brought it upon themselves, but there were plenty of people in Minrathous who had no such part to play in it. Those were the people whom he would gladly pick up his sword and fight for.

Which was how he came to find himself standing in the dim, flickering light of two braziers, staring up at a wide set of double-doors that led into the city's waterworks.

"What should we expect to find inside?" Cullen asked.

Dorian, standing at his side with his stave in hand and a grim expression on his face, only frowned more. "The Venatori will almost certainly have guards placed throughout. Foot soldiers, primarily; anyone disposable who they don't mind having sit around to twiddle their thumbs."

"And Lenos?"

"He's a strong fighter, quite capable in battle. He wasn't made Knight-Commander simply for his thick head and ability to follow orders without thinking to question them. That was merely a happy benefit."

Then Dorian pushed open the doors, Cullen falling into step behind him, watching a cavernous expanse of old stone structures and rushing water emerge into view.

He'd been right about the Venatori. Almost instantly, they found the first handful of guards, and it hardly even made them blink.

What caught Cullen by surprise was instead how easily Dorian thrust his staff out, ice exploding outwards to slam against the Venatori so harshly that they were sent over the edge of the cliff without Cullen even having the opportunity to raise his blade.

"Well," he said, even as Dorian froze another.

They made their way through the room quickly like that, moving beneath a rickety old scaffolding and between large pillars, Dorian's magic flying every which way.

By the time that they were left with nothing but the sound of Venatori groaning and the quiet hum of magic, Cullen was beginning to wonder if his presence had even been necessary.

He supposed it should have been expected. Dorian had been a prodigy, at least according to Leliana's research into him when he had first joined the Inquisition, even among the Altus. The man had helped create time travel. Beating up a handful of Venatori without so much as earning a hit in return for it could hardly be that much of a challenge in comparison.

But Maker's breath, knowing it wasn't the same as seeing it. And he hadn't before, at least not like this. On the rare occasion that Cullen had witnessed Dorian fighting, it had been as a group; his magic hadn't stood out much in the battle for Adamant or the final fight against Corypheus, not with so much magic in the air already. And against the demon a month prior, he'd hardly had to resort to a display like this to fight it off.

Here, there had been nothing but him, the full might of an Altus mage and of a Magister put against foot soldiers.

It didn't even seem as if he was sweating as he approached a glowing red barrier, lowering his staff.

"It appears that this is the only barrier crystal. I suppose they weren't expecting much company," he said as Cullen joined him.

"But why bother? If it's so easily shattered, then why place it here?"

"Why do the Venatori do anything? Let's release darkspawn and the Blight upon the city, shall we? Surely this won't have any negative consequences for us. Our tyrannical Gods will save us, I'm sure!" Dorian pulled his staff back like a club. "Kaffas, if only they had learned their lesson from their dear Elder One."

With that, he swung, and the crystal exploded with a sound like glass. The barrier had hardly even finished fizzling out of existence before Dorian was stepping through it.

They made their way down a set of slick stairs together, down to another set of double doors and a crumbled bridge. Dorian didn't bother checking his map, but merely bypassed the doors entirely, and Cullen followed with his sword drawn.

Below the bridge was another barrier and a red crystal. The bridge itself had no easy way down, nor did the wooden one someone had built to stretch over the gap where the stone had fallen away, but Dorian hardly paused before he found the least-steep bit and slid his way down as if he didn't care about his own neck.

Cullen, for lack of a better way, followed.

Dirt and dust skittered below his boots, making him stumble at the bottom, recovering only narrowly.

He thought his own lack of balance was what made it seem as if the ground was shaking. The large metal form rising from the nearby rubble quickly proved him wrong.

"A construct." Dorian warned. "Keep out of its reach!"

"Maker's breath." Cullen muttered, watching the metal twist to life, a deep red glow pulsing like a heart from within it.

This, Dorian couldn't simply swing his staff at and send into the nearest chasm. It was too large, too heavy, and too strong.

But he could slow it, hurling ice at its legs so that Cullen had time to duck in close. Whether or not bashing it in with a sword did any good considering the size of the thing, Cullen didn't know, but it was at least enough of a distraction to give Dorian uninterrupted time to conjure up another barrage.

Then the ice shattered. Cullen dove out of the way, shards of it spraying wildly, just as the construct swung its mace-like weapon.

Dorian shouted, and the next thing Cullen knew, the metal monster was shuddering, its glow dimming, and the crash of a towering construct crumpling to the ground echoed off the stone.

He huffed a breath, glancing around for any other dangers. Dorian, gripping his staff tightly, strode straight towards the barrier.

"That's a dead-end," he said, peering through the magic. "The other way, then."

"Hold a moment. We're no use if we don't catch our breath, first."

"Oh yes, of course, because Lenos will surely wait for us to release the Blight. Please, take your time, Commander."

It was a valid point, Cullen supposed, even as he shot Dorian a dark look and muttered wordlessly under his breath. He supposed if this was ten years ago and he was chasing an enemy in the South, their positions would be quite reversed. He could hardly blame Dorian for putting aside his natural tendency to fuss over not getting a moment to rest under the circumstances.

Straightening his shoulders, he gestured onward. His lungs squeezed, but he ignored it.

When Dorian started down a nearby set of aging steps, Cullen followed.

The immediate path was thankfully clear of any other obstacles. They climbed down a few large stone platforms to an old bridge without encountering any more Venatori, much less another construct.

Here, the smell of water and sewage was stronger. Rain dripped down upon them in places where the rocky ceiling high above gave way to the cloudy sky.

"We must be close. The waterworks don't go much deeper than this," Dorian said.

Cullen, peering across a criss-crossing collection of wooden planks, grimaced. "I hear something."

They both went quiet. Distantly, over the rushing water, the noise grew louder. Clearer.

A guttural roar.

"That must belong to whatever beast tore through these gates." Dorian murmured, nodding towards twisted, crumpled metal gates that had been abandoned on the ground across the bridge.

"Wonderful."

Together, they made their way across the planks, then the gates, all of it slimy and damp. Rubble spilled over the ground ahead, and beyond it stood arching doorways that might have once belonged to an actual structure.

Framed within one stood a creature with a waraxe bigger than Cullen himself.

The noise Dorian let out was one of boiling anger. He raised his staff, and in an instant, the beast was pierced through the chest with a wave of jagged, yard-long icicles.

More darkspawn, albeit smaller ones, replaced it quickly.

Cullen tore through the ones that got close. Dorian, a hurricane of power out of the corner of his eye, cut down the rest like they were made of paper.

Then he stormed away, down the outcroppings of the cliff they had found themselves on, without so much as a word.

Scrambling to follow before he was left behind, Cullen passed columns that were wider than he was tall, the bodies of a dozen darkspawn twitching and hissing with their last breaths all around him. They made their way quickly towards a twisting wall of dead Blight.

"How are we meant to get through this? I doubt even an axe would do much," Cullen said.

The only response that he got was a blast of magic from Dorian, one that pierced a glowing bubble of Blight clinging to a nearby wall. The boil exploded, a rancid smell leeching into the air as the glow traveled up a tendril of Blight and towards the mess blocking their path.

As soon as it reached it, the entire wall lit up in a deep, sickly red.

Dorian held up a hand to gesture Cullen back, even as he sent another blast towards the newly revived Blight. It burst too, with a shriek that curdled Cullen's stomach.

With the way cleared, they pressed on. More and more darkspawn emerged from the shadows, frothing with Blight, claws outstretched. Dorian's magic flung them aside or froze them to the spot, wasting no time.

Upwards they went, then down another path. Through an open doorway, past more rubble and overturned remnants of what might once have been furniture. More Blight boils stood in their way, but as before, Dorian burst them without issue.

By the time that they reached a narrow staircase spiraling up towards a brightly-lit landing, they could hear the distant sound of an unfamiliar voice.

Unfamiliar to Cullen, at least. Judging by the way that Dorian tensed, hand clenching around his staff, the same could not be said for him.

They climbed the steps hurriedly, Dorian leading the charge. At the top, a circular room waited, lit by magical lanterns and occupied by a Venatori soldier, a mage, and a man in templar armor.

Cullen would have had a decent idea of his identity even without Dorian's immediate shout of rage.

"Dorian Pavus? How did you find this place?" Lenos demanded, only to be cut off by a cloud of thick, green fog hurling towards him in the shape of an open-mouthed skull, Dorian immediately following it up with a burst of flame.

With him so focused on Lenos, Cullen turned his attention to the Venatori.

The soldier was the one who met him first. Their blades clashed, while the blood mage slammed the butt of their staff against the ground. Cullen narrowly dodged the explosion of jagged crystals it caused, him and the soldier both side-stepping, metal shrieking against the material of their swords.

"Venatori! To me!" Lenos ordered.

Shoving Cullen's sword with their own, the Venatori turned quickly to return to Lenos' side. He retaliated, hardly pausing to recover before shooting his blade out to cut across their side.

The thickly padded coat that they wore was enough to save them from being badly injured, but it still sent them stumbling, one sword clattering to the floor for them to clutch the wound. The blood mage pressed closer, hurling more dagger-sharp blood crystals.

He responded by dodging to the side, swinging his sword in a wide arc, and narrowly missing the blood mage.

Shouts and yells echoed from across the room as Dorian and Lenos fought, but Cullen ignored them both as best he could, focusing on his own dance.

The biggest priority for him was ensuring that neither the soldier's blades nor the blood mage's magic cut him. He couldn't give the mage anything with which to control him, not without risking near-instant death or becoming a flesh-puppet to be dragged around like a child's toy.

What that meant, however, was that he had to focus on dodging and defense nearly as much as he did on finding openings. While he was still grateful for the fact that he hadn't worn armor and given himself even more to think about, he had to admit that it was making this more difficult, even if it did give him more speed. With armor—or even just a shield—he could make quicker work of them both.

As it was, he merely did what he could. His blade met flesh twice more, once in the blood mage's shoulder, drawing a gush of blood that sent them reeling, and another in the soldier's leg.

It reduced both of their abilities significantly, evening the odds of their two-on-one. With the blood mage's dominant arm wounded, they could hardly attack properly, while the soldier was left limping so badly that Cullen was easily able to dodge every swing of their blades.

Which made it all the more surprising when something ripped across his upper arm, a faint breeze cooling the skin before erupting into a boiling pain.

He cried out, staggering away from the spray of crystalized blood that had managed to catch him off-guard.

"Cullen!" Dorian shouted.

There was a cracking sound, sharp and explosive, that cut through the air.

A burst of wind whistled after it, chased by a cloud of fog that left Cullen's exposed skin damp and chilled, and so abruptly that it was disorienting—

The room froze.

Quite literally, he realized with a shiver, barely managing to right himself.

It took him a moment of staring blankly back at the blood mage for it to register, somewhere in the distant reaches of his mind, how the crystals had frozen in midair between them, much less that the blood mage themself was encased in ice.

Once the pieces finally clicked into place, he whipped around towards the other side of the room just as Dorian reached his side.

"What is this?"

"Are you alright?" Dorian asked sharply.

"I—Maker's breath." His breath fogged in front of his face as he let out a jagged breath. "What did you do?"

Voice rising, Dorian squeezed his shoulder. "Commander—"

"I'm fine. I'm fine. Just—you froze them."

He glanced around, catching glimpses of the soldier and of Lenos in their own glacial prisons, then back to Dorian, meeting his gaze as his eyebrows furrowed. Concern melted into something harder, Dorian's jaw clenching.

"Don't put on a brave face for their sake. You're bleeding. Again."

"It's only a cut."

"Yes, and the last one was only an arrow. The Venatori use poisons, you know."

"Then if I keel over, you'll know why. Are they dead? Or will they break free?"

"Not yet, and no," Dorian said. "Let me heal this."

"Dorian, you just turned an entire room into Emprise du Lion, do you not believe you might be better off taking a moment before you pull off any more feats of magic?"

"You're worried about me?"

"Someone has to be!"

With a sharp roll of his eyes, Dorian dropped his hand and turned away. "Vishante kaffas, you never stop, do you?"

Something twisted in Cullen's chest, even as he stowed his sword and glared at Dorian's back.

"I don't know what that's supposed to mean," Cullen said. "Concerning myself over my allies? You're the one fussing like a mother hen over what's hardly more than a paper cut. And I will remind you, that's after days of hardly acknowledging that I exist!"

That earned him no response except for a shake of Dorian's head, him stomping away across the frost-covered floor. Cullen inhaled deeply, carefully tamping down his mounting frustration.

He might have stayed there and let Dorian handle whatever it was he was doing by himself, if the muffled sound of the blood mage shrieking from within the ice hadn't pierced the quiet left in Dorian's wake. With it, following at least seemed like the option less likely to haunt his nightmares for the rest of his days.

Carefully, he shuffled off, not trusting there not to be patches of ice wherever he stepped. He watched, but didn't help, as Dorian scanned the room, checking the nearby table and a handful of other places before approaching a set of double-doors.

When he pushed them open, Cullen reluctantly trailed after him, crossing into a long, wide hall guarded by two posed wolf statues.

A coincidence, he told himself silently, even as he swore he could feel their eyes settle on him. Nothing to do with their former ally.

"What are we doing here?" Cullen asked, if only to shake off the sensation.

When Dorian finally replied, it was with a voice as icy as the room they had just left. "Looking to find out what Lenos was doing. This space has nothing to do with releasing darkspawn or the Blight, which means there must be something else."

He paused, slowly casting a look around the hall. Towards the furthest end, Cullen spotted a high-backed chair and a collection of barrels, crates, and what might have been a makeshift desk, just as Dorian started towards it.

"What is all of this?" Cullen muttered.

Dorian grunted, stooping to pick up a note. "The Gods, magic, an eclipse—absolutely nothing new."

Tossing the paper aside, he searched the desk and pulled a nearby portrait forward, checking behind it to see if anything was attached to the frame. Then he turned, heading past Cullen towards the other side of the room.

There, he found another small collection of papers. Judging by how he tossed them back down with a disgusted huff, they were no more helpful.

It wasn't until he'd made almost a complete circuit of the place that he finally crowed triumphantly. "Oh, the cocky old bastard! I would have thought the Knight-Commander himself would know better than to leave his plans out like this."

Cullen raised an eyebrow, joining him despite himself. He held out his uninjured arm, and it said something about how much of a victory the papers were that Dorian didn't give him any sort of snark before passing them over.

The note on the top said little. It was what they'd already known—the Magisterium is ours. The templars are ours. The palace can no longer hide that Archon Radonis is dead. The city's spirit will soon break, and the Venatori shall rise.

What was beneath it, however, said everything.

The Venatori's goals. Their ambitions. Their allies. Maps, detailed plans, everything that Cullen could possibly have asked for in his endeavors to help the Shadow Dragons. It rivaled what Leliana's best spies might have found for him, once upon a time.

"This is enough to doom the Venatori's plans. We can derail them at every turn, prevent them from gaining another inch of ground," Dorian said. "Do you understand, Commander? This lists every corrupt Magister, who backs them, their ties to illegal slavery. Don't you see what this means?"

Cullen, surprised to see the grin spreading across Dorian's face not two minutes after being fussed at, just shook his head.

"It's power." Dorian took the papers back. "With this, we could instate an Archon who could do away with every one of these fools. After they've spent years hurting the people, they'll finally be hurt back."

"The Archon?" Cullen asked. He frowned, glancing down at Dorian's hands.

He had been anticipating more of what they'd already been doing; him, Dorian, and the Shadow Dragons targeting the Venatori. That they would handle it themselves, not hand it over to someone else.

Though he could see the appeal. Strategically, it made sense. If the Shadow Dragons were to take down corrupt Magisters, then they would risk them becoming political martyrs. If the Archon did it, however, then few could or would dare to argue.

"It would mean real change. Proper change. Exactly what I came home for," Dorian said.

"And who would you trust for this?" Cullen asked. "If that was a list of all of the corrupt Magisters, then I can't see how there could possibly be many left who are trustworthy."

"I haven't given it any thought, not yet. Maevaris, perhaps? She's disgraced for now, yes, but the Magisters who ensured that she was viewed as a traitor are here in this list. We could manipulate the situation to bring her back into the city's good graces and seat one of our own on the Archon's throne with one move." He shook his head. "We'd need to work together, of course. She'll simply try to repeat the failures of the Lucerni otherwise."

"The failures?"

"The Lucerni was our group before the Shadow Dragons. A political one, rather than a resistance. We tried to expose the truth, only for Mae to be framed for treason and us to end up working out of a cellar in Docktown anyway. Working within the political machine gave us nothing but grief."

That, Cullen could understand. He'd seen corruption in leaders before. Knew how deep those roots could grow.

The Lucerni sounded like a good, hopeful attempt, one that might have worked if the situation hadn't already been so dire. But as it was now, it sounded to him like the sort of plan that even a diplomat like Josephine wouldn't suggest without being absolutely certain she could place the right glove on the right table to set things in motion.

"What would you have her do, Dorian?" He asked.

"Me? Why, I would begin by catching them off-guard. Give them no time to conjure a defense or worm their way out. No blubbering about being controlled by blood magic, no swearing to the Maker that they were threatened into it, no hiding and destroying evidence. With a forceful approach, we could put an end to all of this, decimating them and their networks utterly."

"That's bold."

"Bold is what we need, no? You recall how many prisoners the Inquisitor judged. How many of them had defenses, excuses, all sorts of reasons for why it simply wasn't their fault that they were slaughtering innocents or aiding Corypheus. That is Tevinter in microcosm. Nothing is ever anyone's fault."

"I would expect a more subtle approach from someone raised in that environment," Cullen said.

"Commander, when have I ever done as my countrymen would like? And besides, I'll have you know, I learned half of these tactics from watching you lot in the South."

That tugged a small chuckle from Cullen, even as he reached out to nudge the papers closer to Dorian's chest. "If that's the case, and you know so much regarding how best to lead Minrathous out of this mess and into a new era…then perhaps you would be best suited for the position?"

Any mirth that finding the papers had brought about faded, slowly dimming as Dorian stared at him.

"Are you quite mad?"

“You said that you wanted to make a change in Tevinter. That you were worried that you might never be able to look back and be proud of your accomplishments,” Cullen said. “But this—you could truly make an impact.”

“How? By becoming Archon? By being precisely the man that I swore that I would never be?” Dorian asked.

“Taking the position doesn’t mean that you need to change yourself. You’ve already proven that by becoming a Magister, yes? You said so yourself.”

"There is a difference between a Magister and the Archon! Especially now, with the Venatori circling like Rivani sharks after an entire ship has walked the plank."

"That's the point, isn't it? To stop their hunting?"

"Commander, I've already lost enough. I refuse to put anything else on the line. Not like this."

“We've had this conversation. You've never shied away from putting yourself in danger before," Cullen said.

"It's not my neck that I'm concerned with."

"Then who's? What would you be endangering?"

With a frustrated toss of his hands, the papers rustling, Dorian said, “anyone near me would be at risk! Everyone that I care or have ever cared about, regardless of the relevancy, would become a target for those who would despise seeing me in power."

“The people that you care about can handle themselves."

“Oh, yes, because that helped you so very much, didn’t it? You were completely capable of keeping yourself from being shot?” He asked sharply. "It kept my father from being assassinated? And saved all of the Shadow Dragons that those blasted Venatori have taken?"

He said it with a rage that Cullen wasn't sure he'd ever heard from him before, bitter and jagged, but all he could hear was the wavering layer of fear beneath it.

Neither sounded right coming out of Dorian's mouth.

It took more effort than it should have for Cullen to pull himself out of his surprise, straightening his spine as he reached out to squeeze Dorian's shoulder. A small part of him was all the more stunned when Dorian didn't pull away; he was hardly the type to appreciate comfort like that at the best of times, too quick to brush away his own feelings, much less in the wake of an argument.

But he pushed that away too, sighing quietly. "Dorian…you can't let what you've lost stop you from saving what you have left. You can't let fear keep you from progress. Change will happen no matter what choices you make, but if you make them, then you may at least guide your own future."

"And you're suggesting that I guide myself towards grief and suffering," Dorian said.

"I'm suggesting that you don't place yourself in a cage of your own making because you're scared of the consequences of leaving it."

Dorian's expression twisted, tensing beneath Cullen's hand. There was a brief, brief moment where Cullen was sure that he was about to be shoved away, assuming that he hadn't managed to overstep to the point of earning an outright punch, before Dorian did something that caught him even more off-guard.

He reached up, gripping Cullen's wrist, and closed his eyes as tears began to slip own his cheeks.

It was nearly enough to make Cullen rip his hand away, only narrowly managing to stop himself.

In all the time they'd known each other in the Inquisition, no matter how Dorian had been hurt or what their enemies did or even after Dorian's father had been assassinated, Cullen had never once seen Dorian do this.

"Maker preserve me." He muttered, his grip twitching, the other hand jerking towards Dorian, then back, as Dorian's eyes fluttered open again. "Dorian…"

"Oh, kaffas, look at you. You weren't this unsure when you were facing certain death in Haven." Dorian chuckled wetly.

"That was entirely different."

"Yes, the dragon wasn't crying, it was merely attempting to melt your face."

"I could fight that with trebuchets. I'm assuming you don't want me to try the same tactic here."

"Please do refrain."

"You know that I didn't mean to—"

With a roll of his eyes, Dorian squeezed his wrist. "Yes, yes, I know. If you wanted to hurt me, I imagine you might have just let me take the arrow, rather than go through all this fuss."

Cullen inhaled, shifting in place as he lifted his other hand to rub at his neck. The warmth of Dorian's fingers brushing over his skin didn't do anything to rid him of the guilt prickling in his chest.

But before he could say anything more, before he could so much as apologize, Dorian was using the back of the hand holding the papers to wipe his damp face, something that, for some inexplicable reason, Cullen found himself nearly moving to assist him with.

"I'm not sure I've ever had someone so bluntly encourage me to be myself. The Inquisitor, perhaps." Dorian took a shaking breath. "It's quite different coming from you though, I'm afraid."

"Why? Because I don't have the same tact?"

"Your words. Not mine."

"It's not something I'd take offense to, there's a reason that Josephine was the ambassador and I was in charge of the troops."

"Well, if nothing else, you do have a tactical mind. And a point. I'll…consider the role."

Eyebrows raising, Cullen moved closer. "You will?"

"The Inquisitor brought you here to act as an advisor. I would be doing that kindness a disservice if I rejected you out of hand," Dorian said. "I've done enough towards that end these last several days."

Something twisted inside Cullen's chest. He glanced away, thinking of an empty seat and a quiet dining room, even as he shook his head.

"I'm a grown man, Dorian. I can handle a bit of the silent treatment."

And at that, Dorian's expression flickered.

"Is that what you think it was?" He asked.

"Well, given the silence…"

"No, no, that's—" Clearing his throat, Dorian tapped his fingers against Cullen's wrist, then the papers against his shoulder, where the arrow had embedded itself. "This. You see? It was this. It's a bad habit of mine, pulling away when frightened."

Too late, his movements made Cullen realize how close they'd come to each other. The papers were between their chests, Dorian's presence a weight against his front, a mere few inches between them.

He swallowed hard. "You healed me yourself. What was there to be frightened of?"

It took a moment to get a response. Dorian's eyes flicked across Cullen's face, half-lost in thought, and Cullen very nearly repeated himself before the urge died in his throat, slain by the way that Dorian's gaze slipped down to his lips, then back up to look him in the eye.

Or, well. That was what he'd thought he'd seen, at least.

But the way that Dorian squeezed his wrist one last time before stepping away was far too casual for that to be true.

"It hardly matters now. You've recovered, I've gotten all of my feelings out by killing darkspawn and corrupt templars, and we both even lived! I consider that a victory, yes?"

"Dorian—"

"We should be going. Maevaris will be fretting, and I've had more than enough of this place."

He gave Cullen a broad grin, starting back towards the entrance, and after a moment of just staring at his retreating back, Cullen began to trail after him.

Maker's breath, sometimes he felt as if he and Dorian were locked in a perpetual chess match, one where Dorian never failed to be four steps ahead. While he was still trying to decide his own move, Dorian was already plotting a path to checkmate.

But at least Dorian seemed to be in a good mood, now that they'd put a stop to Lenos' plans.

And, frankly, to Lenos, considering the state they found him in back in the other room.

He was right where they'd left him, the ice statue that he'd become only just beginning to drip, a shallow puddle forming beneath his frozen boots.

"He'll be dead by the time this all melts, if he's not already," Cullen said.

"A fate that he more than deserves," Dorian said cheerfully. "It's about time that the city has some revenge, not to mention the fact that he was the one who ordered the attack that had you shot."

"I doubt many people will be pleased with you for killing him."

"Even if they were to somehow learn that I had, I do believe that's judgement that I can live with."

Cullen looked around, eyes slipping towards the two Venatori who are equally as imprisoned on the other side of the room. His boots splashed lightly through the melted ice and frost on the floor as he made his way over.

It was difficult to see much more than the vague colors of their robes beyond the remnants of Dorian's magic. The ice completely shielded everything but black and red blobs.

But that just made him all the more certain that they were as doomed as Lenos.

With a grimace, he stared up at the mage's stave, still held up in preparation to deliver another attack. “Whoever becomes Archon, I do hope you use it to find ways to work against all this blood magic. I’ve seen far too much of it since coming here.”

"Efforts will be made, but don't expect much too soon. That would be like asking Orlais to stop wearing their masks or Emprise du Lion to stop being a glacial wasteland."

"I'm well aware. Believe me, if I know of anything, it's how difficult it can be to stop the use of something dangerous. And at least the templars I've worked with have wanted to stop using lyrium," Cullen said dryly. "I can't imagine your Altus will be of a similar mind."

Dorian sighed, the two of them turning to meet at the far end of the room and starting down the steps leading out, the Venatori left to slowly melt in silence. "It's astonishing what people will resort to for power."

"It's a poison in its own right. It can be just as persuasive and perverting as a demon, rotting you from the inside out with withdrawal, and twisting you until you don't even recognize yourself. Power and greed are able to make ruins of empires; lone men hardly stand a chance."

They reached the bottom of the stairs, Dorian turning the papers over in his hand.

"Just so you know…" He began, his voice quieter. "Well, I'm not sure you'd remember, frankly. But during that Venatori's attack on my life, after you were wounded, you asked that I ensure no one used lyrium and blood magic on you."

The memory of a dark street flashed to mind. Pain lancing through his shoulder, Dorian's face hovering above his, panic twisting his gut into a tangled mess at the idea of some Tevinter healer resorting to such means to keep him alive, the taste of lyrium fresh on his tongue even after ten long years.

"I vaguely recall, yes."

"Then know you can rest easily. The healers kept only to what you'd have approved of yourself."

"I'd have assumed as much. I trust you, Dorian," Cullen said, and was almost surprised to realize that it was true.

He had known, of course, that he trusted Dorian. They were allies in the Inquisition, even friends, something he wouldn’t say of just anyone. There were people from those days that he would be more likely to call acquaintances or nuisances than allies.

But to say it out loud was different. And to say it in reference to blood magic or to lyrium…

Cullen hadn’t realized that he trusted anyone quite that much anymore.

The smile that Dorian gave him in return was nearly enough to calm the strange, twisting feeling that rose in his chest and followed him out of the waterworks.

Their mission to stop Lenos had taken longer than originally anticipated.

It was late—very late—when they made it back to the Pavus' home, the sky pitch-black and blanketed in storm clouds. Thunder chased them through the door, rain dripping from their robes.

Despite the way that Dorian had clearly been itching to begin scribbling notes, sending letters, and organizing his scheme to put Lenos' information to good use, neither of them made any effort to head for his study. Instead, they trudged their way up the stairs, where they separated with muttered good nights.

Cullen paused briefly in his room to take a sip of a potion, something he'd taken to storing in the wardrobe where he could access them without causing a fuss if he found himself battered after helping the Shadow Dragons, and to change out of his dirty, damp clothes, before collapsing into bed.

It said something about how exhausted he was from the trek and from fighting through the waterworks that he fell asleep so quickly.

For once, he dreamt of little. Not a nightmare, but a blur of soundless, distant images, nothing but the sense of warmth and the distinct smell of the soaps Cullen had been using since arriving in the city.

He woke up in the late morning, well-rested with his face buried in a pillow, arms wrapped around it, and the storm outside having calmed into a peaceful, drumming rain.

A pleasant start to a day that would, with any luck at all, mark the beginning of the end of the Venatori's hold on Minrathous.

Dorian, when Cullen found him in the dining room, his chair occupied for the first time since Cullen had nearly died, was in similarly optimistic spirits.

"Commander!" He beamed across the table. "I had hoped you might join me. I sent word to Maevaris of what we learned, but we aren't to meet her to discuss it until tonight, leaving the entire afternoon open for us to do as we'd like."

"Did you have something particular in mind?" Cullen asked, pulling out his own chair.

"First, breakfast, of course. Then I thought it might be wise to see if we couldn't go through the notes ourselves in more depth so we have a more thorough understanding."

"I certainly wouldn't say no to reading everything over. If nothing else, it could help us to learn what Magisters aren't in the Venatori's pockets. They could be useful allies."

With a glance over the table, reaching into the small collection of food that had been spread out for them for a large bowl of porridge, Cullen spooned some of it into his own bowl, while Dorian nudged a plate of bread rolls towards him.

"Speaking of allies," he said. "I've received a message from Neve Gallus. She, Rook, and their group have found the location of this ritual that the Evanuris are planning."

Cullen paused, setting the porridge down with a clank. "Did they say anything of what they intend to do with it?"

"Yes, though it was limited. Neve is nothing if not cautious, and wouldn't have included anything that could become a risk in the wrong hands. The sum total of her explanation was that the true danger lies in an eclipse, which isn't for another month. In the meantime, Rook and the Inquisitor plan to work together in order to storm this hideout of the Gods' and stop them before it's too late."

"Will they need additional fighters? If we time things properly, we can—"

Chuckling, Dorian leaned back in his chair. "Listen to you! We've taken the Commander out of the Inquisition, but you can't take the Inquisition out of the Commander. No, they won't be needing us; they have Morrigan on their side, along with the Eluvians and the Crossroads. Anything that they have need of, they'll have no trouble finding for themselves."

"I'm only being realistic. We've already lost Varric to these Elven Gods, I have no wish to lose the Inquisitor or anyone else, too."

"Nor do I, but we have our own work to focus on here, and Rook has things under control regarding the Evanuris. This is a good thing, Commander."

The certainty in his voice made Cullen relent, picking up a bread roll as he tried to push his concerns away. "I only hope that you're right. Once they make a move, they'll be exposing what they know, and if anything goes wrong, the best that they can hope for is to only lose the element of surprise."

"That was precisely what you said about Lenos, and look at how that went. Have faith in them to see this through as we did."

"You say that as if a Knight-Commander is at all comparable to two immortal beings."

"Ah-ah! Only one immortal. Ghilan'nain's Archdemon was struck down, yes? At Weisshaupt?"

That, despite himself, made Cullen snort.

"My apologies. That makes it as simple as a walk in Val Royeaux, then."

"Now you see," Dorian said. "In only a few days time, we'll be done with this whole mess and we'll all be able to go our separate ways with the knowledge that we've saved the world once more."

And that…wasn't something that Cullen had given much thought to.

"I suppose so."

"Tell me, Commander, what will you do once you're freed from Minrathous? Return straight to your work?"

If only to give himself a moment to consider it, Cullen took a bite of his bread. He spun the question around in his mind, trying to work out if he even had a plan.

When he'd first arrived, he supposed he might have. But over the course of the last month, working with Dorian, putting everything he had into fighting alongside the Shadow Dragons, he'd become almost used to the way that things were. Any thoughts of his departure had fallen to the side.

What would he do?

"I…might visit my sister. Ensure that she and her family are alright with all of the Blight and darkspawn running through Ferelden."

They should be, he knew. His whole family knew how to handle themselves, even if they weren't former templars. They knew better than to linger where there was danger.

But that didn't mean that he wouldn't feel better once he saw them with his own eyes.

"Sensible as always," Dorian said. "Meanwhile, I'll just be glad when we're done with all of this Venatori nonsense and can return to our usual drama. It's been some time since we had a proper evening of scandal, intrigue, and petty blood-spilling."

Cullen took the opportunity to turn his mind from his family with a raise of his eyebrow. "Of course. Who wouldn't miss that?"

"Mock all you'd like, but you don't know what fun it is to watch a crowd full of Tevinters and guess which one is going to pull a knife first."

"It's little wonder that you seemed so nostalgic during Empress Celene's ball at the Winter Palace all those years ago, then. There was hardly a shortage of hidden blades there."

"Oh, yes, it felt just like being home again. I might have preferred it had the weapons been aimed at someone else, but it worked out well enough."

"I believe Grand Duchess Florianne might have had a different opinion," Cullen said.

"Grand Duchess Florianne should have considered what importance she wanted her opinions to have before she went and took the losing side."

"At least with Lenos' notes, we might be able to avoid following in her footsteps."

With a grin, Dorian picked up his plate and stood. "Should we move to the study, then? We'll find you your Magister allies, I'll take a look to see if there's anything in particular that I should set Maevaris' sights on later, and we can begin making proper headway."

Cullen nodded, abandoning his porridge in favor of finishing his bread roll and grabbing an apple, then following Dorian out of the room. A proper meal could wait until after; the last thing he wanted was to ruin their efforts by dunking one of the notes in food.

Fortunately, Lenos' information made it unscathed. Dorian retrieved the papers from his desk and they sat at the table by the fireplace, poring over it all piece by piece for what felt like hours. The rain outside thrummed distantly, the only sound except for Cullen passing this note across the table, Dorian swapping that paper back, or their occasional comments on the usefulness of particular passages.

It was pleasant. More so than Cullen might have expected, given the matter at hand.

But he supposed he should've known better, considering how much he'd found himself bothered by Dorian's absence between the Venatori's attack and their trip to the waterworks.

In contrast to that, of course this—the two of them sitting here, facing no danger, no imminent threat, only the hope of Rook's impending victory and the light in the dark that was spread over the table between them—would make his heart feel light and make his lips flick up whenever he glanced Dorian's way.

And it didn't hurt that Dorian seemed so content, either. Not only had he dropped the wall that he'd held up between them the last several days, but he'd done so gladly. Even now, there was a lighter edge to his expression as he studied their evidence. All of his usual signs of stress and worry had begun to smooth once more, making him look almost as peaceful as if he was reading one of Varric's serials.

Cullen was so distracted by the sight of it that he didn't realize when he reached for the wrong note at the wrong moment, just as Dorian did the same; it was only when their hands brushed and he found his fingers twitching that he registered it, instinctively reaching out.

Reaching for Dorian.

He drew them back, eyes flicking back up as Dorian lifted the note and raised an eyebrow.

"Apologies, Commander. Did you need this?" He asked.

"No," Cullen said. "Er—yes. Momentarily. Please, continue."

"Nonsense. You had it first."

"This is your endeavor, your efforts should take precedence."

A small, amused smile tugged at Dorian's lips as he leaned forwards, the note held between them. "I could simply move my chair, if you wish? It would hardly matter which of us was holding it if we were just a tad bit cozier."

Cullen inhaled, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Yes, well, that's—uh. Entirely your decision." He forced his voice to stay steady even as his chest flipped strangely. "As I said, whatever you feel will most aid your work."

"Commander, you shouldn't say such things unless—"

Whatever he was about to say, Cullen would never know. Dorian cut off too sharply, eyes widening as he stared across the table, dropping the note without so much as a blink.

The first thought that came to Cullen's mind was that he'd said something wrong. He expected Dorian to stand, put distance between them, for his expression to twist into some sort of sneer as Cullen's words processed.

What he didn't, however, was for Dorian to spin in his chair, looking towards the balcony, and then shove himself up like the world was on fire.

Though, maybe it was.

As soon as Cullen's focus widened once more, the light filling the room made everything look as if they were being engulfed in a flame. Instead of the dim blue of the storm, an orange glow was fading into existence all around them.

He joined Dorian by the doors just in time to help him shove them open. Together, they stepped outside, where the distant sounds of confused shouts were rising into the air.

It only took a breath for them to understand what was happening. One look at the sky explained it all.

The clouds had parted, and in their place, the sun was being swallowed by the darkness of the moon.

“Maker preserve us.” Cullen breathed.

“An eclipse.” Dorian whispered grimly. “The next stage of the Evanuris’ plan."

Chapter Text

The first tendrils of Blight sprouted in the city mere hours after the sky began to change.

Cullen didn't want to believe his own eyes at first. He knew the Blight, knew what it looked like, perhaps better than he ought to, but he told himself that he couldn't be right. That the Blight couldn't have spread so quickly.

And ordinarily, that would be true.

But there was very little about the situation that was ordinary.

It came from the waterworks. From the catacombs. It exploded into existence, fueled by Elgar'nan's powers, bursting through walls and unfurling through the city streets.

All of Minrathous seemed to be covered in it, from the lowest reaches of Docktown up to the tallest spires of Hightown, and it was only continuing to grow, stretching like grasping hands to consume everything that it could.

The Pavus' home was infiltrated by a tendril that shattered a window to make its way inside through a rear room. Cullen and Dorian, who had spent every moment since the eclipse's arrival waiting with their breath held for Rook's victory, sent the staff away, gathered what they could of their weapons, Lenos' notes, and a handful of potions that seemed as if they would inevitably be needed, and left.

Finding a place to go, however, proved more difficult than it should have.

Their first obstacle came in the form of people crowding the streets. Cullen's chest twisted when he saw all of them, shouts and screams filling the air as people were driven from their homes by the Blight's arrival.

The second, demonstrated by the way that people were clinging to each other and gesturing towards the red sky, was the silhouette of the Archon's Palace against the red sky, already utterly consumed.

Even if Dorian hadn't let out a gasp like he'd been stabbed the second that he saw it, Cullen still would have understood what the Palace being taken meant.

It was one of the elements of Minrathous that he had studied in order to help the Shadow Dragons make their plans. He'd been concerned that it might be turned against them, that the Venatori might be able to manipulate the Magisterium into firing on any exposed Shadow that showed their face in the city.

But at no point had he thought that it might be taken off of the board entirely, leaving Minrathous even more defenseless against the darkspawn.

Had it been active, armed and ready to fire, they might have made it to Docktown, at least. The Palace would surely have concentrated its efforts on protecting Hightown and those clustered there.

As it was…Cullen could only drag his eyes back down to the street ahead of them, grabbing Dorian's arm with a sharp order. "We have to move!"

He was more than strong enough to yank Dorian forwards, but Dorian didn't make it easy for him. Even as he began to follow Cullen towards a less crowded side-street under his own power, his tone twisted with rage.

"The Magisterium was in session," he said. "A meeting was called abruptly this very morning by one of the corrupt Magisters. I should've known—"

Biting his tongue against the thought of what that might have meant had Dorian gone to the Palace instead of staying home to work with him, Cullen ignored how it made his chest ache. "We can't worry about that now. We have to focus on finding the rest of the Shadow Dragons."

Thankfully, Dorian said nothing about how futile that effort would almost certainly be. He didn't point out that, with the Palace out of commission and the Blight flooding through the city, they would be lucky if they found anyone at all.

Especially in Docktown. With the catacombs and the waterworks being one of the primary sources of the Blight growths, it was nearly entirely overrun by the time that they arrived.

It was made worse by the fact that it had still been recovering from the dragon attack and from the effects of Solas' ritual before that. While Hightown had been quick to rebuild, Docktown had struggled a good deal more, and Cullen had no doubt that it would be more vulnerable to something like this.

From the people he constantly saw sitting in the rain with nowhere to go to the amount of damaged buildings there still were, any chance that people might have of being able to hide from the Blight's infection until—until, he thought, not if—the danger passed were slim.

But they should have known that the sort of people who made up the Shadow Dragons wouldn't be put down so easily. Should've assumed that they would find them already out in the streets, doing whatever they could.

"Inside! Hurry!" A vaguely familiar voice was the first sign of them Cullen was given, shouting as he and Dorian rounded yet another corner. "Don't touch it, just move!"

"Tarquin," Dorian said sharply.

They spotted him a moment later, planted in the center of an open square, waving people towards a nearby shop that was sitting with its door thrown wide open. A Blight tendril taller than Cullen laid straight across the center of the square, slowly pulsing as smaller offshoots reached for the people clutching each other and rushing for the shop.

One nearly reached a young couple with a screaming infant clutched to their chests as Cullen watched, too far to do anything but stare. But before it could, Tarquin was there, cleaving the thing in two.

The couple nearly stumbled over each other scrambling to get away, while he barked, "get going!"

Gritting his teeth, Cullen drew his sword, running into the square just in time to slice down another sprout that was aiming for an older woman. A burst of magic shot past him, setting a larger portion of the tendril ablaze before it could sweep through a small cluster of shivering young people.

Dorian, lowering his staff as Cullen glanced back at him, called, "anyone who doesn't wish to die ought to try hurrying!"

The ripple of fear that sent through the stragglers wasn't ideal, but it did spur them on, the lot of them ducking into the shop as quickly as they possibly could. Cullen shut the door behind them, hoping at least that there was a cellar or somewhere for them to tuck themselves away.

When he rejoined Dorian, Tarquin was with him, the two of them already gesturing towards different parts of the city.

"I already checked, there's too many bloody boils on the docks. We'd never get anyone out that way," Tarquin said.

"The catacombs and the waterworks will be overrun, riddled with Blight and darkspawn," Dorian said.

"S' not like we can just charge straight across the bridge. We'll be lucky if this Elgar'nan bastard doesn't just destroy it."

"There must be another option. I didn't spent all of this time fighting the Venatori just for their God to swoop in and kill us all anyway."

Anything that anyone might have said to that was cut off by a horrendous, screeching roar, razor-sharp as it cut into Cullen's ears. The beating of thunderous wings was impossible to ignore, especially as the sky darkened overhead, the red of it deepening until it was the color of fresh blood.

He ducked instinctively, sucking in a breath, just as a man's elegant voice echoed across the stones.

"I am Elgar'nan," it said, radiating through the air as if it had a physical presence. Magic buzzed against Cullen's skin, making his hair stand on end, and the Blight surged violently. "First of the firstborn. Last of the Evanuris. Come to reign over you with fine and gentle hand."

"How the bloody—?" Tarquin started.

"The last of the Evanuris? What about Ghilan'nain?" Cullen asked.

Dorian frowned. "I can only assume that means that Rook and the others actually managed to kill her. Not that it helps us now, considering Elgar'nan clearly lives."

The Blight around them trembled, curling like serpents as the voice said, "citizens of Minrathous, give yourselves to me."

Somewhere in the distance, screams cut through the dark. Cullen tightened his grip on his sword, taking a step forward until he could feel Dorian's presence at his side.

High above them, barely visible between the rooftops, the sky flared with power.

"Together, we shall release magic so glorious…so limitless…" Elgar'nan trailed off. "That all the world will be transformed."

His speech was punctuated by a dark shape swooping overhead, a gust of wind buffeting them as it nearly blotted out what remained of the moon and the sun.

Stomach dropping, Cullen felt bile rise in his throat.

It was another dragon.

A corrupted, horrific beast of a dragon, casting its long shadow across terrified innocents, led by a monster that sought power and death.

The scene was far too familiar. For a second, Cullen could smell the smoke of Haven burning, could hear the screams of people he'd sworn to protect, could taste ash and bitter regret on his tongue.

Then he was dragged back to the presence by Tarquin's sharp voice. "Come on. We've got a safehouse not far. If Elgar'nan's here, then we need to regroup."

He darted away without waiting for them, something Cullen couldn't particularly fault him for. This wasn't the sort of situation that allowed for hesitation, he knew.

That just didn't stop him from pausing for long enough to meet Dorian's gaze, his own grim fear reflected in every line of Dorian's face, before he forced himself to follow.

The decent news was that Tarquin at least hadn't been wrong that it wasn't far. They only had to make two brief detours to avoid walls of Blight that had blocked their paths, and even so, it was hardly even ten minutes before Tarquin was slowing to a stop in an alley tucked deep into a corner of the city.

The good news, however, came in the form of what they found when he rapped at one of the shadowed doors and the sound of locks being undone came from inside.

Nearly twenty Shadow Dragons were crammed into the handful of rooms behind the door. It was more than Cullen had dared to hope they would find, much less together, one of whom was a particular relief to see, standing by a table laden with a map of the city and more books than Cullen could easily count.

"Mae!" Dorian's eyebrows rose. "What are you doing? I would have expected you to find refuge with the Dwarven embassy or something of the sort, not here!"

Standing up straight and giving them a tired smile, the only sign of the chaos outside on Maevaris was a slight blackened tinge to the shoulder of her cloak.

"This is where the fight is, Dorian. Or where it will be, at least, once we pull ourselves together."

Someone at her side cleared his throat, a tall man wearing a leather mask and thick armor. Even without the help of the various serpents scattered across his clothes, Cullen imagined he might have been able to guess the man's identity.

They hadn't crossed paths yet, not even with how much time Cullen had spent working with the Shadow Dragons, but he had heard stories of the Viper before.

A glance at the black ooze clinging to his skin, barely visible between his low-tipped hat and the top of his mask said that one, at least, was true; he had been Blighted.

If it were anyone else, that would make him question why they were still there. A person who had been Blighted had no place on a battlefield unless they were a Grey Warden, nor even in the war room.

But from what he'd been told, it was clear that the Viper hadn't let the Blight stop him yet. Even in the face of being captured and nearly killed by the Venatori, he'd pressed onwards.

Cullen doubted that he would quit now, no matter what anyone said.

"We've managed to gather what Shadows we could. Most, if not all of our remaining members are here," the Viper said. "We'll need a plan in order to stop Elgar'nan, but there's still plenty to do in the city."

"The Blight is already sweeping through the streets, putting people in grave danger. We should prioritize helping civilians and finding a way to contact Rook, the Inquisitor, and the others. Has anyone heard anything from Morrigan?" Cullen asked.

"No. She left the Cobbled Swan hours ago and hasn't returned since. The Inquisitor was with her, according to our sources," Maevaris said.

"Kaffas, of course." Dorian dragged a hand through his hair. "We'll have to just assume that we'll be without their aid until or unless either of them return."

"That will severely limit our options. Her magic might have been able to help us reach anyone trapped by the Blight, not to mention the use of such power against Elgar'nan himself," Cullen said.

"I can help with the first part," the Viper said. "I've already been Blighted. It poses no risk to me that I'm not already facing. If we can find those that need help, I—"

"—can risk your neck for everyone again. 'Course." Tarquin muttered.

Ignoring the interruption as if it was completely commonplace, entirely disregarding the look the Viper sent Tarquin, Dorian shook his head. "It's good to have ideas for how to get to people, yes, but we still don't know how we would even begin to get them out of the city. All of our usual methods will be completely unavailable within hours, if they aren't already."

"We'll have to secure the Eluvian," Cullen said, a shard of dread cutting deep into his lungs.

"How? We could never move it, it's far too heavy. And trying to shephard people there will only expose them to the Blight, the darkspawn, and the Venatori," Maevaris said.

"We have to do something." He squeezed his fist around the hilt of his sword. "This cannot be another Haven."

Dorian put a hand on his shoulder, grip firm, voice sharp. "It won't come to that. I didn't come all the way back home just to see it lost."

He sounded quite certain as he said it, far more so than Cullen felt. Cullen wished that his touch could serve to transfer some of that faith, rather than just the warmth of his presence.

Not that Cullen minded the latter. It was better than feeling so uneasy and alone.

"If you want another opinion, I'd say to start with getting the lay of the land," Tarquin said, drawing Cullen's attention back to the debate. "You're a soldier, Commander. Templar, like me. You know you can't make a good plan without even seeing the battlefield."

Inhaling slowly, Cullen let his eyes settle on the table.

"Yes, that's true. We don't know where Elgar'nan is prioritizing his forces, nor where he's leaving himself weak. If we could learn that, it could give us an advantage."

"Then we divide ourselves into teams and begin with reconnaissance. Learn what we can and help those we come across," the Viper said.

"It's as good of a plan as anything," Dorian said.

And that was how Cullen found himself halfway across the city, crouching on a rooftop with Dorian at his side, staring down towards Minrathous' grand bridge.

A bridge that was crawling with Venatori, right up to where a magical red barrier was beginning to climb towards the matching sky, completely blocking any path that anyone might have taken across to the mainland.

This, Cullen realized grimly, was even worse than if they had simply destroyed the bridge entirely.

With it barred in such a way, only Elgar'nan's forces would be permitted within the city's limits. Any more minions he had out in the world could stroll into Minrathous without so much as blinking.

Assuming they even came from land, that was; from what they had been told, the Antaam had been all too happy to ally themselves with the Risen Gods. They could sail straight to the docks at any moment, bridge or no bridge.

The Shadow Dragons were cut off from any possible aid, but Elgar'nan had all of his within reach whenever he so chose.

But somehow, worse than that news, was the simple fact that the Venatori weren't alone.

They had captives.

A dozen of them, if not more. Citizens of Minrathous, it looked like, huddled together as they shivered under the watch of several Venatori soldiers.

Cullen's best guess was that they had been trying to escape the city when the Venatori arrived to take the bridge. They didn't look as if they had been there long, and the barrier itself was still being woven, two blood mages carefully doing the work to raise it. He could easily picture the Venatori dragging them all back into the city and planting them there to watch their hopes be dashed.

He pressed his lips together, frowning tightly, so occupied in what he was seeing that he nearly didn't notice when Dorian stood.

It was only at the last second that he registered it and shifted back on his heels, just as Dorian said, "if we move now, we can take the Venatori by surprise while they're distracted constructing their barrier."

"We can't defeat that many Venatori alone and keep the captives safe," Cullen said. "We would be risking their lives just by attempting it."

"What would you have me do, Commander? Their lives are already at risk. For all we know, those mages will slaughter them all any moment to take their blood," Dorian said sharply.

"That's precisely my point, we don't know!"

"All the more reason for us to take action before they make the decision for us."

With a frustrated groan, Cullen shoved himself to his feet as Dorian started towards where they'd climbed onto the roof. He already knew he would follow, just as he had followed Dorian since the moment they'd first reunited, but that didn't stop him from judging his own choices as he did it.

Be an advisor, the Inquisitor had said. Help Minrathous recover from the dragon attack and escape the Venatori's hold, he'd been told.

No one had mentioned anything about keeping Dorian Pavus from getting himself or everyone around him killed at every possible opportunity.

He reached the edge of the roof right after Dorian, trailing him down to street-level, carefully climbing as the Shadows had taught Cullen since he'd begun working with them. Dorian made no move to look back to see if he had help, focusing instead on the Venatori ahead.

The decent thing was that he was at least tactical about it; rather than storming straight into the middle of the mess, Dorian targeted the soldiers guarding the captives first, blasting them with enough magic to send them flying over the nearby balustrade and towards the sea far below.

Unfortunately, the explosive sound caught the attention of the blood mages, turning on Dorian so quickly that the barrier began to splutter and fail.

"Venatori, to arms!" One shouted.

"Kill the enemy!"

Cullen gritted his teeth, drawing his sword and charging directly towards the mages. Closer to the captives, Dorian conjured a barrier ice between him and them, blocking them from the coming danger.

One of the mages, the one that had shouted first, aimed their staff towards Dorian with a grunt, gleaming crimson spikes shooting out of the ground towards him. Cullen targeted that one, arriving to swing his blade before they could even recover from their own attack.

He didn't allow himself to be distracted by what might or might not have been happening with Dorian off to the side, but he couldn't stop the relief that zipped through him when he felt a wave of heat against his back that could only be from Dorian's magic.

Knowing that he was at least still fighting, that the blood mage hadn't hurt him too badly with that attack, made it easier for Cullen to focus on his own opponent.

It did little to calm the thoughts racing through his head, however. This was hardly the first time he'd fought against a mage since coming to Tevinter, but that didn't mean that it didn't leave him clenching his jaw as he knocked their staff aside with the flat of his blade.

They tried to jump back, dodging as if they weren't used to fighting an opponent from so close. He pressed the advantage with a swing of his sword that narrowly missed their throat.

Carefully, he readjusted and lunged. They used their staff to block, his blade biting into it just enough to lock them together and send them both staggering.

When he finally managed to yank it out, the mage grunted, pulled forwards until they nearly smacked straight into him. He side-stepped, drove his shoulder into them, and knocked them aside before he could even think, old instincts rearing their head once again.

But he didn't have much time to use the way that they sprawled across the floor. Before he could so much as raise his sword again, his attention was yanked away by a chorus of screams echoing off the stone.

Cullen whipped his head around to try to trace the source, eyes widening as he immediately realized what it was, not a doubt in his mind.

A Blight tendril larger than any that Cullen had seen yet growing out from beneath the bridge, swinging straight towards them.

With a shout, he dove for the ground. "Down!"

The collision hurt more than it ever had before, something he wasn't sure if he should blame the extra ten years he had on him now, the lack of armor, or the harsh material of the bridge, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. Not when he had to focus on keeping his arms over his head and bracing himself for the impact of the tendril.

Would it kill him immediately, he wondered? Or would it throw him from the bridge as Dorian had thrown the Venatori? Would it land on top of him, pinning him down to be smothered by its weight and drowned in the Blight, slowly and painfully?

Any of those options would be dreadful, but he hoped distantly that it would at least be a quick death. After Kinloch, being trapped again would be a torture all to itself, Blight or no.

Thankfully, he never had to learn which would have been his fate.

The Blight never made contact.

At first, he expected it was sheer idiotic luck. He was no stranger to such things. On a battlefield, you could plan and scheme and take all the precautions you'd like, but some things were completely out of your hands. He knew that.

But as he began to lift his head, gingerly peering up past his own arms and into the bright glow of magic overhead, it became clear that this was something else entirely.

And when he pushed himself up to his knees to stare at the Blight tendril hanging as if frozen in midair, one lone man standing against it with a grim expression on his face as he worked magic against the towering thing, Cullen couldn't be confident whether it was a rescue that he was grateful for or not.

Because the man standing there—

It was Solas.

Fen'Harel. The Dread Wolf.

Their former ally.

Sucking in a breath, Cullen shoved himself to his feet. Even from a distance, Solas' identity was obvious, everything about him too perfectly familiar as he stepped through the remains of the Venatori's barrier and into Minrathous.

His armor was different, yes, far too fancy compared to the basic apostate's clothes that he had worn in the Inquisition, and he carried himself with a sort of power that Cullen was used to seeing among military leaders, not the quiet man who kept to the shadows whenever he could, but beyond that, beyond the aura of magic swirling against his skin, it was still Solas.

It made sense in its own twisted way. Of course where Cullen's skin grew wrinkles, Solas' stayed the same, and where he grew gradually slower and weaker, Solas' power didn't wane. Regardless of what Cullen had known during their days in the Inquisition, Solas was still a God.

For someone who had lived so very long, ten years must have been hardly anything but a blink of an eye.

Though the fact that he was here now, after all this time…it made Cullen wonder if he hadn't just hit his head trying to get away from the Blight.

It was only the sound of that voice, echoing so clearly that it snapped Cullen out of his stunned stupor, that made him certain.

"See the others to safety," Solas said. "I will handle the Blight and the Venatori."

With a sharp shake of his head, Cullen glanced back to where the blood mage he'd been fighting was still sprawled out, captured in the same glow of magic that surrounded Solas. He took one hesitant step away, then another, eyes flicking up to find Dorian.

Spotting him was a relief, perhaps more than it should have been. He was still intact, though he looked even more surprised to see Solas than Cullen had been, and his grip was deathly tight on his staff when Cullen reached his side.

"Are you alright?" He asked sharply.

Dorian, expression flickering, didn't look away from Solas. His lips curled into a derisive sneer. "He is meant to be in the Fade. How can he be free?"

"Dorian, now isn't the time to be focused on grudges. We need to get these people away from here."

"Grudges? Commander, do you recall what he did? Unleashing demons on my city, letting the Evanuris escape, killing our friend? This goes far beyond petty squabbles and disgruntlement."

"I know," Cullen said. "I know. But these people are scared and in danger, and if nothing else, we can take advantage of the opportunity presented to us."

Nose wrinkling, Dorian finally glanced to where the citizens were pressing against the edge of the bridge, shrinking down to cower from the Blight tendrils. A brave few had begun to run, dashing into the shadows of the buildings a dozen yards away, but most were right where they had been since the Venatori had captured them.

Whether it was Cullen's words or the sight of their fear that finally made Dorian turn away from Solas' efforts against the Blight, Cullen didn't know. He was just glad to see it happen.

They dashed towards the Venatori's captives together, Cullen scanning for any more surprises as they went. It didn't take much to get them all to begin running; once they had pulled one or two to their feet, the others followed, stumbling and staggering over themselves with hitched breaths and hoarse, choked sobs.

It was Dorian who told them where to go. He caught one woman who seemed the least panicked, gave her the location of a safehouse that Cullen only half-knew of but would agree was likely to still be relatively untouched, and sent her away.

In the meanwhile, Cullen focused on keeping watch, sword ready. He braced himself for another Blight tendril to rear up from nowhere or for more Venatori to pour in, but nothing arrived.

Instead, he watched as Solas' magic flung the tendril away, sending it crashing through the side of the bridge. As he did it, the hold that he had on the Venatori lapsed, just for a moment, and they pulled back their staffs.

Whatever spells they were going to cast froze in midair, however, as Solas turned his attention back towards them. He raised an arm, then yanked it towards him, and the Venatori skittered forward like stones being hurled across the surface of a pond.

Then he flicked his hand up, making them stiffen, and clenched his fist.

The sound of their necks cracking was audible even from as far away as Cullen was.

As the bodies fell to the ground, lifeless without his magic to continue holding them up, Solas started towards Cullen and Dorian, just as the last of the captives disappeared into the city.

No one spoke until he began to slow, stopping three yards away, lifting his chin. Dorian shifted, his anger coming off of him in boiling waves as he moved closer to Cullen.

Solas himself broke the silence a moment later.

"It has been a long time," he said.

"Not long enough," Dorian said bitterly.

Reluctantly, Cullen sheathed his sword, hoping to at least not add to the tensions. Whatever would happen here, fighting Solas personally would only end in their deaths, something he would very much prefer to avoid.

"Ten years," he said. "What brings you here now, Solas?"

"I might ask you the same, Commander. I must admit, you've surprised me. I never suspected that you would leave your beloved Fereldan, particularly not to come here."

"It's temporary. When the Venatori took Minrathous, I was asked to lend my advice on how best to proceed."

"Well, then, you might say that we have the same goal in mind. I am here to stop Elgar'nan and put an end to this madness."

"What, so that you can replace it with your own? Don't think us fools." Dorian's voice twisted.

"My own aims are not the priority now, not while any members of the Evanuris walk free in this world."

"You expect us to believe that? That you've simply set aside your ambitions? What you killed Varric for?"

For the briefest moment, Solas' expression flickered. His eyebrows drew together, something that almost looked like regret flitting across his face. "Yes…that was my doing. It was not my intention, but I won't deny that it was nonetheless the result."

"Oh, how good of you. I did murder my friend, but I accept responsibility, so that makes it all better, no?"

"I am not seeking atonement for the pain I have caused. I know that it is beyond my reach now."

"A self-aware villain. Wonderful."

This time, when Solas' face changed, it looked closer to an expression Cullen had seen him wear often in the Inquisition, a frown that drew his eyebrows together.

"I see that you are as thoroughly aggravating as ever," he said.

"And you are even more of a bastard than I thought," Dorian said.

"Solas." Cullen interrupted, cutting them off before Dorian could somehow turn another ancient Elven God's ire towards them. "You said that you're here to stop Elgar'nan?"

"I am. I have aimed to sunder the veil, not to see the entire world Blighted and ruled by a tyrant."

"Then you're right, our goals are aligned."

"Commander!" Dorian shot him a glare.

"We can't afford to decline any aid. Not now. You know that even better than I do, Dorian," Cullen said. "Think of your city, of it's people. Of the good that you wanted to do for it."

"Think of Varric!"

"Do you truly believe he'd want Elgar'nan to win just for the sake of holding a grudge?"

Dorian stopped, eyes slipping shut as he clenched his fists. Cullen was half-convinced that he was about to just start hurling spells, though which of them he'd aim for, he wasn't entirely sure; Solas was Dorian's primary irritation, but Cullen was closer.

But after a long, stretching moment, Dorian just shook his head.

When he spoke, his voice had dropped into something low, exhausted, and bitter.

"He'd be thrilled with this development. A wonderful twist, yes? The old friend turned enemy, come back to save the day." He muttered, then tossed up his hands. "Fine. We'll put our faith in Solas once more, and I'll simply hope that when he chooses to stab us in the back, you're the one standing closer."

"Thank you. And thank you, Commander. You were always focused in the face of battle. It is good that you are here," Solas said, stepping closer.

"Just tell us what you know," Dorian said.

"I'm afraid there's likely little of the situation that I can tell you that you can't infer for yourselves. Rook struck down Ghilan'nain at Tearstone Island, but was unable to prevent the creation of their dagger, nor Elgar'nan's escape. With his Archdemon and the dagger, there's nothing in the way of Elgar'nan releasing the rest of the Blight and flooding the entire world with it."

"The rest?"

Swallowing hard, Cullen gripped the hilt of his sword. "What of Rook and the others?"

"They won't be coming. This isn't the only barrier that the Venatori will have tried to establish. Knowing Elgar'nan's ways, it's almost certain that he will have Minrathous entirely cut off from the outside world soon."

"That's what we were afraid of. What about the Eluvian? It's still in the Shadow Dragon's old hideout, surely we could use it?"

"We could not. I might control the Crossroads and the Eluvians, but Elgar'nan is not without his own influence over them. It will go dark, and we won't have the key with which to open it again until he's defeated."

"Then we're entirely on our own?" Dorian asked. "Vishante kaffas."

"Not entirely. I am here, am I not?" Solas raised an eyebrow.

Before Dorian could say anything, Cullen asked, "will Elgar'nan know that? Or will we be able to keep your presence a secret until we find a way to strike?"

"I doubt that the element of surprise remains on our side. Elgar'nan has a connection to the Blight here. He will have recognized my magic being used upon it."

"You say that as if the Blight is intelligent," Dorian said.

"It is, more so here than it should be," Solas said. "Something is controlling it. Feeding it directions. Yet that gives us an opportunity, as well. If we can get close enough to the source, we very well might be able to eliminate it."

"That would be quite the blow," Cullen said.

"How do we find the source? I imagine it would be close to Elgar'nan himself, yes?" Dorian asked.

"I would be inclined to agree. More than likely, it's near the Archon's Palace. Elgar'nan won't have been able to resist a seat of power," Solas said.

"Getting there will be quite a bit easier said than done."

"We would need to rally the Shadow Dragons, make preparations, gather weapons," Cullen said.

"Then do so. The sooner we strike, the less time that Elgar'nan has to prepare." Solas' eyes flicked upwards, towards the silhouette of the Archon's palace against the red sky.

With a glance towards Cullen, gaze blocking for the briefest second before Dorian's face settled into determination, he nodded. "We should be moving, then."

But when they shifted as if to move, Solas didn't, instead remaining right where he was.

At Cullen's questioning look, he shook his head.

"It would be best if I limited the time I spent with you all," Solas said. "The Blight is already reacting just to my presence. I do not wish to draw Elgar'nan's eyes to your efforts any more than is necessary."

"How exactly do you intend to offer your wise council and invaluable help from afar?" Dorian asked.

"I will be there when you need me, Dorian. Just as I have always been."

"Name one—"

"The Inquisitor's arm." Folding his hands behind his back, Solas' expression softened. "I had no wish to see someone I had fought alongside suffer. So I helped."

"By cutting it off!"

"I simply did what needed to be done. The Commander understands, yes?"

He cast a look towards Cullen, his gaze always a heavy, unnerving weight, since even before Cullen knew the truth of what he was. But before Cullen could begin to think of a response, Dorian scoffed.

"God or not, Cullen is twice the man that you could ever be, Solas. You could never twist him enough to make you seem less horrid."

"I am no God," Solas said, and there was an edge to his voice as he snapped. "Nor am I attempting to do anything of the sort. I am merely asking that he do what you cannot and consider things from multiple perspectives."

"Oh, as you are so skilled in doing? Tell me, is that why you tried to bring down the Veil? Because you decided that was the best option from multiple perspectives?"

Shoulders tensing, Cullen braced himself for what reaction that might bring, but as Solas raised his chin and glared, he made no move to smite them or fling them over the side of the bridge as he had done to the Venatori. He hardly even seemed to breathe for a moment.

Then, after a long, stretching second, he inhaled.

"I will find you all when it is time for an attack to be launched. Know that I will do what I can in the city in the meanwhile," he said, voice measured. "Dorian. Commander."

And then he brushed past them, heading into Minrathous, and left them standing there in the dark, listening to the distant sound of the sea crashing upon the rocks.

It was only once he'd vanished into the night that Dorian finally put away his staff.

"I hate that man," he said quietly.

Silently, Cullen squeezed his shoulder, both to offer what comfort he could and to nudge him away from the bridge.

The Blight could come back at any moment, quite possibly with the Venatori behind it, if not any number of darkspawn or Antaam. Solas was a problem, but he was one that would simply have to wait.

They needed to move while they still could.

Chapter Text

Elgar'nan's siege, the Shadow Dragons found, was just as absolute as they had feared.

Every entrance and exit to the city was guarded, no passageways left unmanned. From the catacombs to the docks to the bridge, the Evanuris' forces found their way into every crevice and nook.

The Shadows did what they could, fought where they could, saved who they could, but nothing got them any closer to breaking Elgar'nan's hold. Even Solas' advice of trying to destroy the intelligence behind the Blight was as good as useless, as they had no means of reaching their target, tucked as it was behind a giant magical construct, mountains of Blight, and more Venatori than they could hope to fight alone.

The days stretched on endlessly. Cullen lost count quickly, time bleeding together with the sun and the moon locked in an embrace in the sky, relying only on his own exhaustion to help him keep track.

At times, he imagined he actually slept through the night. Others, he was sure that he collapsed into a ragged bedroll at noon and woke at what would normally be sunset. Twice, he was fairly certain that he went without sleep entirely.

He could be more careful, he supposed, but none of it truly mattered. Knowing how long Minrathous had been beneath Elgar'nan's heel wouldn't change the bootprint digging into their spines.

What was important was pressing on, doing whatever they could think of to try to fight back at every opportunity, even if it cost him some sleep here or there.

Those opportunities were few and far between, and they did little even when the Shadows succeeded, but still—it was better than nothing.

And having Solas did help. Frankly, regardless of what he'd said to Solas and Dorian, regardless of what he had forced himself to be alright with for the sake of strategy, Cullen still didn't know what to think his aid, but it did help.

From everything that the Shadows reported and that he heard from the civilians that they managed to help, Solas was almost single-handedly stopping the Blight from utterly destroying the city and everyone in it. Everywhere the Blight tried to tighten its grip, he was there, pushing it back.

But Cullen couldn't help but hold a bitter, aching distrust in his chest for Solas' motives anyway. After eight years of knowing that he was a liar and a traitor, he struggled to see him as anything else.

He was at least grateful that Solas had stayed true to his word so far and kept his distance. It would have been difficult to focus on their war against Elgar'nan if he was constantly watching his own back, waiting for a dagger to be buried in it.

Not to mention what he imagined it would have done to Dorian. As it was, every time he turned around, Dorian seemed more agitated, constantly worried about the state of his city. Not being able to do anything but strike like bugs against a druffalo was leaving him itching to do something more direct, and Cullen could see it worsening by the day.

If Solas was anywhere nearby, he could easily picture Dorian foregoing magic entirely and just tackling him straight into the dirt to get in whatever punches he could before Solas eviscerated him.

Even without his presence, tension radiated from Dorian whenever Cullen saw him. He seemed to sleep even less than Cullen did, never taking breaks, not even to properly eat. It was only when someone shoved food into his hands that he took the time.

Which meant that when Cullen found himself being called into the other room of a small building they'd found in Docktown to use as a new base of operations, tucked away and difficult to find, he assumed that it couldn't be anything good.

A new plan, perhaps? Another objective that Dorian would grit his teeth against because it wasn't nearly enough, but at least it was something? Or news from the Shadow Dragons that they'd carefully scattered around the city, waiting for any opportunities to show themselves?

He certainly wasn't expecting Dorian to be standing in front of the thin cot where Cullen had been sleeping nestled amongst the others' cots and bedrolls, an angular shield propped against it, so familiar that Cullen's lungs squeezed at the sight.

"What is this?" He asked, freezing in the doorway.

"A templar's shield. Surely you're familiar," Dorian said.

"Yes, but—" Mind racing, old, rotten memories rearing at the back of his head, Cullen swallowed hard. He glanced from Dorian's serious expression to the shield and back again, inching forward. "Maker, what is it doing here?"

Raising an eyebrow, Dorian frowned. "You're in the middle of a war against a God and his minions, and you're asking what use you might have for a shield? Truly, I believed you were smarter than that."

"I'm to use it?"

"I had intended you to, yes. Is it similar enough to the Southern ones for your taste?” Dorian asked.

“You procured me—”

“Will it work, Commander?”

“Yes,” Cullen said instinctively. “Yes, it will do nicely.”

Something in Dorian's shoulders settled a bit at that, his expression loosening so slightly that Cullen almost didn't see it. "Good. I would hate to have gone through all the trouble to find it just for it to be useless."

He picked it up, holding it out where Cullen could take it, and as reluctant as it was, Cullen did. His hands practically moved by themselves, folding around it before he could even think it through.

And holding it, he truly couldn't deny that it was remarkably similar to the ones he would have used as a templar. The weight, the shape, the feel of it as he slid it onto his arm, it was all the same, or a close enough approximation that he couldn't tell the difference after so long.

A small part of him wanted to remove it as soon as he had it on for that precise reason, but even as he started to pull his arm free again, he paused. His eyes lingered on the metal, lips pressing together.

He did feel more…complete, he supposed, wielding both a sword and a shield. More prepared. It wasn't as disruptive as full armor, nor did it make his brain revolt in quite the same way as wearing templar armor had when he'd first come to Minrathous, but it still gave him extra protection. He could feel the prickle of unease, but it was still distant. He could handle that much.

This shield would be better than any other for his purposes, too. He knew how to use this. It was engrained in him, the muscle-memory so baked into his very being that it wasn't even a question. That, along with the fact that it was so suited for fighting mages, meant that it would serve him well.

Not to mention the simple fact that it clearly made Dorian feel better that he had it. Cullen couldn't reject something that made him lose any bit of that rigid edge that he'd had since Elgar'nan's arrival.

Forcing himself to inhale, Cullen glanced up. "Thank you."

"I should have seen to it that we found one sooner," Dorian said.

With a shake of his head, freeing his arm from the shield, Cullen carefully leaned it back against the cot.

"Don't dwell on what's already happened. That it will be useful now is what matters," he said. "We're planning an attack on a Venatori patrol by the docks in a few hours, which gives me the perfect opportunity to test it in the field."

"Might you require some support? My schedule is wide open."

"I thought that you intended to meet with Maevaris and discuss what we've learned of Hightown?"

"What we've learned? Commander, please." Dorian scoffed. "We both know that none of our spies have found anything. They can hardly even get close. Mae and I would simply be commiserating over our failures, which seems a clear waste of time when I could be killing Venatori with you."

Their eyes met, Dorian crossing his arms as he frowned, and Cullen sighed. "It will be dangerous."

"All the more reason you should want my company. Who better to have watching your back then a charming, handsome man such as myself?"

"Someone who's not meant to be leading the resistance. Who's injury or—something worse—" His tongue faltered. "—wouldn't be detrimental to the cause. You're a sign of hope for many people here, Dorian. A powerful Altus mage, a Magister, fighting at their side, leading the charge? You're important."

"And you aren't?"

"I'm a stranger to many. Your right hand, perhaps, but nothing more."

Dorian inhaled, moving as if to say something, hand twitching towards Cullen, but they were both cut off by the sound of a door slamming open somewhere in the other room.

Their heads jerked toward the sound. Cullen hardly even dared breathe.

"Magister Pavus!" A vaguely familiar voice called, and they both ducked quickly through the door.

"What? What's going on?" Dorian asked.

Standing in the middle of the small main room, eyes wide and bow in hand, stood a Shadow Dragon that Cullen had only met once or twice. Her name eluded him, but the few others who had been sitting around seemed to know her better, all waiting at attention for whatever she would say.

A glance told Cullen that she was unharmed, at least, and unblighted, from the looks of it. Whatever had sent her hurrying here, she'd escaped unscathed. Her armor was dirty, but no more than anyone else's, and her tan skin showed no cuts nor bruises, much less anything worse.

Her expression, however, was that of clear alarm.

And perhaps the slightest bit of something else. Something that looked almost like excitement.

"Something's happening," she said. "I saw Grey Wardens marching through the city towards Hightown."

"Grey Wardens?" Cullen asked, chest twisting.

"Yes, and there were others, too. I couldn't tell from a distance but it looked—there were many of them, Magister Pavus. Led by Rook."

"Rook?" Dorian's eyebrows shot up. "Surely not. How would such forces have even made it into the city? Elgar'nan's closed all of the entrances."

"I don't know, I only saw them when they were already inside, but they didn't exactly look like they were asking for permission."

"Maker preserve us. This could very well be our chance." Cullen breathed.

"We need to see to it that we take advantage of it, then. Round up all the Shadows that we can, prepare for battle, join Rook and the others," Dorian said.

"I'll make the necessary arrangements."

"Not alone, you won't. We'll split up to find the Shadows. You all, go find everyone that you can."

Without so much as another question, the Shadows in the room all sprung into motion, grabbing their weapons and heading for the door. The woman who'd brought them the news was the first to make it outside, leading the pack.

Cullen, in the meantime, ducked back into the other room to grab his shield and stow a handful of potions in his belt. He could feel his lungs squeezing as his mind raced trying to calculate all the possibilities of what they'd just learned.

Grey Wardens in Minrathous. Rook, at the front of the charge. Proper reinforcements, something he hadn't allowed himself to hope for.

But he couldn't lose sight of how much they still had to learn, either. Did these reinforcements have a plan? What were their numbers? Would it truly be enough to fight back against a monster like Elgar'nan and all of the forces that he'd brought with him?

They had to find Rook. If anyone would know all of the details and have a plan for how to best Elgar'nan, it would be the person who had been fighting the Evanuris since the beginning.

"This could be it, Commander," Dorian said as Cullen joined him at the door. "The beginning of the end of Elgar'nan's tyranny."

"We will do everything that we can to ensure that it is. You have my word."

That, for the first time in what felt like days, and what very well might have been with how skewed Cullen's sense of time felt, pulled a small smile into place on Dorian's lips.

Then he turned and headed out wordlessly, Cullen following behind, into the light of the red sky.

With the other Shadows already off, they moved quietly and quickly as a duo. They met little resistance on their way towards Hightown, only having to double-back twice to avoid paths too full of Blight.

It was strange to be traveling with the weight of a shield again, but it wasn't an unwelcome oddity. There was something almost reassuring about its presence as they got closer and closer, just as there was in Dorian's, Cullen's eyes constantly flicking between his back and the darkness all around them. They were both familiar, both something that Cullen could trust to help protect him when the fight finally arrived.

And arrive it did, even sooner than Cullen had anticipated. They hadn't even found Rook or the others when they first heard the roar of an ogre.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder. Cullen tightened his grip on his sword and shield.

The darkspawn were upon them moments later.

If he hadn't already been grateful for the shield before, then he would have been as they found themselves surrounded by Blight and screeching, shrieking darkspawn. He blocked the first spray of rot-like pus from an exploding boil, then the claws of a writhing beast.

Somewhere in the chaos, Dorian's magic flared again and again. They had been separated by that first boil, but it was easy enough to get a vague sense of Dorian's location just from the dazzling light of his spells.

Getting to him, however, was a taller task. For every creature that Cullen cut down, another appeared. For every bit of Blight he sidestepped, more seemed to bubble from the stones.

It almost seemed as if the Blight was angry with how brutally it was fighting back. He couldn't remember ever quite encountering any this persistent, so determined to clutch at his boots.

Elgar'nan's doing, he supposed. Perhaps he already knew about the enemies marching on him and it was an effort to keep them at bay, or perhaps he was just growing as impatient with this whole siege business as Cullen himself.

But in truth, the why of it hardly mattered now. He was still fighting the same battle regardless, separated from Dorian by a small horde, the both of them completely cut off from their goal.

A part of him wondered, sword slicing through a darkspawn and flinging its rancid blood, if this would be the moment that Solas arrived to their rescue as he promised.

The rest of him was hardly surprised when it wasn't.

What took him by surprise—what truly gave him pause, faltering in his steps, eyes wide—was the moment that a blast of ice exploded into existence mere milliseconds before a hulking monstrosity would have swung its club down to crush him as one might an ant.

Because Dorian, as best he could tell, was to his right, too far to have thrown the spell. Even if it hadn't come from somewhere to his left, Dorian still wouldn't have had nearly a clear enough line of sight to see the beast bearing down on him, much less to have successfully saved him.

No, this was someone else.

A familiar blonde woman in blue, wielding no stave, magic crackling at her fingertips instead.

"Maevaris!" Cullen shouted.

"Sorry for the delay!" She called back. "I was giving our friends a tour of the city."

Our friends, she said. A tour.

"You found our reinforcements?"

A blast of lightning tore through three small darkspawn nearby. She joined Cullen, falling in at his side, looking hardly any worse for wear considering the damage to the city around them as she nodded. "I did, yes. I'll tell you both everything as soon as we handle these beasts."

Thankfully, with her help, the tide of the fight began to turn. It was still a struggle, the Blight still doing everything that it could to wear them down, but Cullen could see the numbers beginning to thin.

Minutes stretched by. His shield arm ached from being used so brutally after years of unemployment. Sweat dripped into his eyes, salt on his lips.

The sound of the last Blight boil in the vicinity bursting, followed quickly by the dying wail of a darkspawn, was a welcome one.

Cullen slumped over his knees, bracing himself with a heavy breath.

"Are you both alright? Commander?" Dorian asked, sounding plenty tired himself.

"Fine. I'm fine. Maevaris?" Grimacing, Cullen forced himself to lift his head, glancing between them. "You said that you found Rook?"

"That's wonderful news. Where?"

"Not Rook," Maevaris said. "The group that I found primarily consisted of the Veil Jumpers, but you'll both be glad to know that the Inquisitor is with them. They're all going to the Archon's Palace to join Rook and take the fight to Elgar'nan."

"The Inquisitor's safe?" Cullen asked sharply.

"Alive and well."

"Then we should go with that lot. The more numbers they have, the better of a chance that they'll be able to make it through to the Divine's Manor," Dorian said.

"I agree, but we must keep in mind that there are still other enemies at work here. This was only a small collection of darkspawn and Blight." Maevaris gestured over her shoulder, as if motioning toward more opponents. "If everyone moves on Hightown, then Elgar'nan's forces will converge, and we'll be utterly overwhelmed."

For a moment, the group paused, her words hanging in the air. Maevaris and Dorian shared a look, then he frowned up towards the Blighted palace, a dark spot looming in the red sky.

The way that Dorian's expression twisted told Cullen what he was going to say, and before he could, Cullen readjusted his grip on his shield.

"I'll stay," he said. "I'll do far more good here than I will fighting a God. The two of you will be more suited for such things."

"Are you mad? What do you intend to do, fight them alone?" Dorian's head whipped towards him.

"I'll find the rest of the Shadows. We can distract some amount of the Blight's intelligence, if nothing else."

"Are you certain? It will be very dangerous," Maevaris said.

"This isn't the first time I've had to hold a line against such grim odds."

"Yes, but you don't exactly have any trebuchets handy at the moment, nor a mountain full of snow to drop on their heads, do you?" Voice raising, Dorian said, "you can't expect us to abandon you here."

"It's war, Dorian. Prioritizing sentimentality for old friends over doing what's necessary will only get us all killed."

"Sentiment—Commander, you must realize by now that this isn't just nostalgia. I care about you. Your death simply isn't acceptable."

"We have no other choice."

"What are you, speaking like this? A blood mage? A Magister? There is always another choice!"

Shoulders tensing, Cullen couldn't help but snap, "I will not lay down the lives of every good soldier in Hightown, much less risk the world being lost to Elgar'nan, simply to save myself!"

"Nor would I ask you to! I'm simply asking that you be sensible!"

"There's no more time for sensible; the Inquisitor and the Veil Jumpers are waiting, Dorian. We must go, and the Commander will help the Shadow Dragons in our stead," Maevaris said, grabbing Dorian's arm. Her voice softened. "He knows the risks. Let him do this."

He hesitated, eyebrows furrowing as he stared at Cullen for a long moment, gaze lingering as if he wanted nothing more than to spit and kick up a fuss, before something in his expression finally cracked.

It rippled through him, chin lifting, shoulders tensing.

Without looking away, he said, "you had better not die."

Cullen said nothing, merely watching as Maevaris tugged Dorian towards the nearest side-street.

The last glimpse that Cullen caught of him was him looking back over his shoulder, worry flooding through his face.

And then they were both gone.

He took a moment to himself after, pausing to finish catching his breath and decide what his plan would be without the weight of Dorian's concern. The Shadows were finding each other in the city and moving towards Hightown, that much he knew, but collecting them wouldn't be a simple task.

Time was not on their side, however. He couldn't delay any longer and still hope to be useful for Dorian, Maevaris, and the Inquisitor.

Readjusting his grip on his shield, Cullen turned, slipping down a side-street.

His best option at this point was to take action and do what he could with the knowledge he possessed, and despite what he had told Dorian, finding the rest of the Shadows would be a waste of time.

Instead, he would bring them to him.

It was a fortunate thing that he'd seen so much of the city since arriving. It made it possible for him to know the location of a particular shop, one that had been abandoned during the siege, but that would have what he needed among the rest of the deserted goods.

The shop itself wasn't far, only a few minutes away at a jog, leaving Cullen grateful for the long walks that his Mabari insisted on taking so often. He managed to maintain his careful breathing on his way, inhaling deeply as he ducked through a broken front door.

Inside, he found himself in a small place. It was dark, half-reduced to rubble, and so full of dust that it stung his eyes instantly.

Like so much else of Minrathous, it had clearly been a victim of the Blight tendrils that had torn through layers of stone so violently. One was still jutting through the furthest edge, where the rubble was thickest, and Cullen intentionally kept as far from it as he could as he made his way towards where he remembered seeing what he was seeking.

There were many things that he had to step around, the shop having been one that sold all sorts of goods, and everything having been scattered since the siege. With so much chaos, it wasn't much of a surprise that it took him a few long minutes to find the right thing.

But find it, he did; a small collection of fireworks, right there in the dust of the rubble. Some were half-crushed, some had damage to their fuses, but he managed to pull out a handful that were mostly intact.

With them held close, he abandoned the shop and hurried back towards Hightown.

Getting too close wouldn't help him, he knew. He was trying to find the Shadows, but he was also trying to draw Elgar'nan's forces away from Dorian and the others.

Instead, he veered off-course, aiming himself so that he was close enough to catch the attention that he wanted, yet far enough to fulfill his role. He walked for another several minutes before he began to hear the gurgling, acidic sound of more Blight boils.

Exactly what he had been hoping for.

He kept to the shadows, eyes peeled as he approached. Ahead, the first of the darkspawn came into view.

Cullen set his shield aside to free his hands, sword sheathed, and readied the fireworks. Sweat dripped down his temple as he gritted his teeth, braced for the moment that one of the beasts might notice him.

But it didn't come. Not until he was ready, the fireworks set precisely as he wanted, and the fuses were lit.

It was only after he'd ducked behind the nearest building and covered his ears against the sound of the resulting explosion that that changed. A series of blasts lit up the sky overhead, nearly blinding even against the dark red of Elgar'nan's magic. On the ground, more rocketed straight into the boils of Blight and lurching darkspawn.

Then, he had their attention, along with what he imagined was half of Minrathous, exactly like he'd planned.

Unfortunately, even an explosion wasn't enough to destroy all the darkspawn in the area.

He heard the roar of an ogre before he saw it. Drawing his sword, he bolted around the opposite side of the building.

For his plan to work and the Shadows to be able to come find him, assuming that they were as curious about abrupt fireworks as he imagined they would be, he needed to stick close. But for him to stay alive long enough for them to even get near, he needed to be careful about how he handled the remaining darkspawn.

Knowing that, he cut through a gap between two of the buildings, heading back towards where the fireworks would have crashed into the Blight.

A handful of the lesser darkspawn were still lurching out of the flames when he reached them. Cullen took advantage of the fire having caught to stow his sword, grab a remnant of what had been a wooden crate and was quickly becoming ashes instead, and swing it for the nearest beast.

It worked well enough, knocking the thing off-balance as it squealed horribly. The rest surged towards him, but as damaged as they already were from the explosion, on top of their inherent weakness to fire, it didn't take much for him to begin seeing them fall with piercing screeches.

More followed, however. The heavy footfalls of larger darkspawn echoed from somewhere too close for comfort.

He ducked away again, taking a different path than before to get a fair distance away.

In a way, this whole thing felt almost like a game of chess against Dorian, only with higher stakes. His strength was important, but only as much as his strategy.

And, much like in chess, the amount of pieces he had in play on his side of the board mattered too.

Which was what made it a very good thing when, after another several brief attacks and retreats, barely keeping himself from being cut down too early, he found himself staring across a handful of festering pools of Blight to where a group of fighters were tearing through more darkspawn.

The closest was one of the Shadows—not someone Cullen knew by name, but by appearance, a tall man with long hair and a great-axe—who was busy slicing a large beast in half.

Behind him were several others, including the woman who had told them about Rook's arrival earlier, all of their weapons flying.

"Commander Cullen!" One shouted.

He held up his shield in recognition, making his way around the Blight to meet the nearest of the darkspawn with his blade. With only a minute or so of battle, he managed to take it down, putting himself back-to-back with the Shadows.

"Was it you who set off those fireworks? We expected it to be a mage, Magister Pavus sending up a message or something," the man with the axe said.

The woman from before shot an arrow straight through an approaching darkspawn's head, then half-turned towards him, asking, "what was it for?"

"A method to get people's attention without running all across a Blighted city like a Nug with its head cut off," Cullen said. "Magister Pavus and the others are moving on Hightown, and they need at least a portion of Elgar'nan's forces to be kept busy elsewhere."

"A job for us, then?"

"That was the hope. My little trick ought to have bought them some time, but your assistance will give them far more."

"Sounds manageable enough." Hefting his axe higher, the man nodded grimly. "Whatever we can do to help, we will."

"We'll begin with me asking, are any of you mages?"

Two members of the group shifted closer, raising their staves. Cullen glanced towards the Blight boils.

"Good. Use fire to take out the Blight from a distance where you can before we're overrun. You, with the axe; there are ogres in this mess. We'll target any that should appear. The rest of you, handle the other darkspawn, but take care to avoid the Blight." He lifted his sword and pointed towards where more darkspawn were already rising out of the Blight. "We fight for Minrathous, for Tevinter, and all of Thedas, free from Elgar'nan's rule. To a new dawn!"

That earned him a cheer, one that echoed in his ears as the soldiers' of the Inquisition once had. He tightened his grip, adjusted his shield, and gestured towards where a brutish creature was beginning to emerge from the boils.

It was quickly proven that he had chosen the correct person to aid him. For how much damage they were able to do against the first ogre in a brief amount of time, it almost felt like he was fighting alongside Cassandra or the Iron Bull again. Within minutes, it was falling, and they were turning their attention to the next threat.

The others were hardly struggling in their respective tasks, either. The mages were destroying the boils almost as soon as they began bubbling into existence, while the rest were shooting and swinging and slicing through the lesser darkspawn as if they were little more than paper.

He didn't deserve to feel pride for what he was seeing, he knew, as these were not his soldiers, not anyone he had trained or given their weapons, but he couldn't help the way it warmed his chest anyway. Dorian had told him before that the Shadows weren't an organized force the way that the Inquisition was. Most had never received formal weapons training, but learned in the back of the hideout against dummies.

Yet here they were, holding their own against monsters trying to take their city from them. It made the part of him that couldn't help but continue to cradle Haven close to his chest like a bleeding wound feel an implicable sense of relief.

And soon, sooner than he possibly could have hoped, they had cleared the street of Blight and darkspawn alike, only the barest remnants of their presence lingering on the stone ground.

But relief or no, Cullen didn't give himself even a moment to rest, hefting his sword and turning towards Hightown. "There will be more ahead. We need to keep their attention divided, stop them from overwhelming Dorian and the others."

"I don't suppose you have any more fireworks we can use to get the Blight's attention?" The woman from before asked.

"Unfortunately not. I didn't dare spare any while facing those numbers alone."

"That's alright. We have our magic," one of the mages said. He jogged a bit, hurrying to catch up as they began the trek. "We can fire shots into the sky, get everyone and everything nearby to know exactly where to find us."

"Good. It's hardly a tactic I would ordinarily suggest, but these aren't ordinary circumstances. Sacrificing the element of surprise is necessary if we want Rook and the Inquisitor to succeed with whatever plan they've come up with."

Maker preserve them, he so hoped that their plan would succeed. Far more lives than just this little group relied upon it.

Hope could only do so much, however. The rest would be decided by action, knowledge that spurred Cullen onwards towards the center of Minrathous. He was tiring, muscles sore, arms growing exhausted, lungs squeezing tightly, but he refused to give in.

The look on Dorian's face when they parted flickered back to his mind. His quiet, you had better not die.

Cullen might not have agreed—might not even be truly expecting to live through the siege—but it wouldn't be because he didn't try.

Dorian deserved better than to lose more people for no good reason.

So Cullen would fight, right until he couldn't anymore, and one day, if the Maker saw fit to reunite them at His side alongside the rest of their old friends, he'd be able to tell Dorian that he had tried his best.

And at the moment, that meant finding themselves right at the edge of Hightown, fighting through another round of darkspawn.

The group kept to their previous assignments. The mages targeted the boils, Cullen and his new friend met the ogres head-on, and the others handled all the rest. It worked, perhaps better than it should have, for a time.

But that time passed. It drew itself out as far as it could, but eventually, they faltered.

It was as if there were more of the beasts than before, too many to cut through the way that they had the others. In the distance, Cullen heard the guttural roar of Elgar'nan's Archdemon, its shape swooping through the red sky far overhead, and the Blight seemed to thicken, pulsing as if enraged.

For every darkspawn that they brought down, two more took its place. For every boil that burst, another appeared, already releasing more beasts.

He felt himself lagging, could see it in the others. With every moment that passed, they were being pushed further and further back towards the Divine's Manor. It was all Cullen could do to keep swinging his sword, shouting orders to the Shadows as they struggled against the press of enemies.

Blocking a darkspawn with his shield to keep it from taking a bite out of one of the mages, he kept half of his attention on grappling with it and the other on the rest of the field as the others began struggling.

"Hold!" Cullen called, to them as much to himself. They had done well to last this long, yes, but they couldn't let Elgar'nan's forces focus entirely on Dorian and the others, not yet. "Hold!"

Saying it, however, could not fully stop them from being driven back. They merely slowed their retreat, continuing to grow closer to exactly where Cullen didn't want them to be herded, evidenced by the fallen bodies of Grey Wardens and what appeared to be Mourn Watchers that they passed on their way. It hardly seemed to take any time at all before they had been backed nearly to a set of wooden barricades blocking the Divine's Manor.

And it certainly didn't stop them from having to regroup as the darkspawn were joined by towering warriors armed with axes and flames, Antaam warriors under Elgar'nan's command.

Cullen had seen his life replay in his mind before back in Kinloch, when he'd been trapped for so long. He'd thought of all the different things he might have done if he'd known what would be coming. He'd considered how he might have changed himself, changed the situation.

That was nothing like this, a flash of memories flitting through his head quicker than he could even think, regrets and terror squeezing his ribs as he narrowly dodged an incoming attack.

Maker preserve him, he thought, because without such a blessing, he was sure to die right there.

The idea barely had the time to make it through his mind before the Maker's answer came in the form of a familiar voice echoing across the stone.

Dorian, far too close for comfort.

"Commander! Fall back to the barricades!"

Gritting his teeth, Cullen nearly stumbled as another blow from a Qunari's hammer slammed against his shield. He managed to hold it, but just barely.

A part of him—the part that had never truly left the battlefield, no matter how far he strayed from it—resisted the call. To truly fall back would be admitting vulnerability, it said. It would be an admission of weakness, one that would demoralize his troops and risk trapping them just as they had become trapped in the Chantry at Haven.

But the logical part of his mind knew two things; firstly, that they had little choice at this point. The first wave of fighting had already exhausted them, while this one was even worse. One of the most important rules of battle was to know when to regroup.

And secondly, that Dorian was more than aware of the risks, and that Cullen could place his trust in him.

"Listen to Magister Pavus! Fall back!" Cullen shouted. He grabbed the arm of a nearby Shadow as they staggered, bracing them. "Get back!"

The man with the axe joined him, covering him and the other Shadow that he was helping as they stumbled towards the barricades. The cacophony of the darkspawn behind them rang in Cullen's ears, horrid, rancid noises that his skin couldn't help but crawl at.

As soon as the injured Shadow made it to the barricades, Cullen let them manage on their own, turning to wave the others through. Two people covered in blue and gold manned the barriers, helping everyone over, and he gestured for the remaining Shadows to go straight to them. Beyond their shoulders, the darkspawn gave chase, only for a volley of arrows to cut down half of their ranks.

Only when the last of the Shadows made it over and into relative safety did Cullen allow himself to turn his back again, stowing his sword and reaching up to climb over.

He wasn't surprised when someone grabbed his wrist and heaved.

He was, however, caught off-guard when he glanced up and found that it was such a familiar face, Dorian's jaw set as he helped Cullen to haul himself the rest of the way up.

Boots meeting stone on the other side, Cullen huffed a breath. "You're supposed to be with the Inquisitor."

"I accompanied the group as far as was needed, but Morrigan, Maevaris, the Viper, and plenty of others are there now. They hardly require me."

"Rook?"

"No, Rook and the others have gone after Elgar'nan. They're climbing the central tendril and taking the fight to the Archon's Palace," he said. "Now, all we mere pawns on the ground need to do is prevent Elgar'nan's forces from following them up and killing them brutally."

"If that's what must be done, then we'll do it. What do we have at our disposal?"

Expression twisting into a grimace, Dorian reached out, brushing Cullen's shoulder off pointedly. "At the moment? One particularly brave, particularly stupid man. Kaffas, Commander, you look worse than you did after fighting Corypheus."

"I had an army to aid me in that fight. In this, I'm just relieved that we made it without losing anyone."

"You don't say? If only someone had told you it might be dangerous out there."

"Dorian." Cullen sighed.

"No, no, you're the advisor. You know what you're doing, I'm sure."

Resisting the urge to just sigh again, Cullen nudged Dorian away, opening his mouth to say something back, quite possibly, I'm glad you're alright, too.

Before he could, however, he was interrupted by the explosive sound of a building being torn apart.

It was like a bomb being set off, rattling Cullen's head violently. He grabbed Dorian to yank him close and into a crouch, lifting his shield over their heads, teeth gritted.

His mind flashed back to the avalanche at Haven. To the chaos of Kinloch Hold. To—Maker, preserve them—

But several full seconds ticked by without rubble crashing down on their heads. The only heat that he felt was that of Dorian's presence, his skin warm where Cullen's knee butted against his leg and their shoulders bumped.

When he slowly, reluctantly, began to peer out from beneath his shield, their similarly startled allies were untouched, too.

"What in the Maker's name was that?" Cullen asked, finally lowering his shield completely. His gaze flicked up to the Archon's Palace, assuming that it might have come from Rook's efforts, but it hadn't changed at all.

The only thing that had was the view that caught his attention of two figures in the distance, hulking beasts grappling each other viciously.

One was familiar enough. Elgar'nan's Archedemon, just as horrid as every other time that Cullen had glimpsed its silhouette against the sky.

The other was not, though, a ginormous wolf with gleaming blue eyes that were visible even from this far.

He imagined that it might be on their side considering its opponent, but he hadn't the slightest idea of where it would have come from. The Grey Wardens, perhaps? They had many secrets, he knew. Or maybe it belonged with the Veil Jumpers and their many stupifying artifacts. He had heard of stranger stories coming out of Arlathan Forest.

And then Dorian spoke, and Cullen's mind felt like it had been wiped blank from shock.

"That would be Solas," he said.

"Solas—?"

Staring blankly, Cullen watched as the ginormous wolf bit through the hide of the Archdemon, the both of them crashing against a building with a thunderous noise. Rubble fell, tumbling through the air as they both clambered back to their feet.

"Apparently, it's something that he can do. I was as surprised as you are."

"I—highly doubt that. What do you mean, it's Solas?" Cullen asked stiltedly.

"I mean that he transformed himself into a giant wolf. Supposedly, he intends to bring down the Archdemon so that Rook can kill Elgar'nan. Our success relies on Elgar'nan being mortal, which means that Solas must succeed as well," Dorian said. "My question is whether that form came before or after he was dubbed the Dread Wolf."

With a glance over at Dorian, who hardly even seemed phased at the sight of a former member of the Inquisition towering over his city, Cullen forced himself to take a deep breath.

He supposed that he shouldn't be all that taken off-guard, either. He had known who Solas was—what he was—for as long as anyone else. The truth of Fen'harel, the Dread Wolf, had been exposed to the Inquisitor eight long years ago, now. He'd had that entire stretch of time to make sense of the idea.

Yet he imagined that he could think about it for eighty years and still not fully understand.

“Seeing him again…it’s difficult to believe that he’s the same man, wolf or no,” Cullen found himself saying, his voice quiet.

“Isn’t it just?” Dorian scoffed. “Kaffas, where was this power when we were battling Corypheus? Or that bloody dragon of his?”

That tore a huffed, half-bitter laugh from Cullen’s lungs. “Imagine how differently things might have gone with a beast like that aiding us. We might have turned the tides much sooner."

"The only saving grace is that he didn't use it on us, either. Beating that lot was bad enough without having an encore performance of trying to stop a God from destroying the Veil mere minutes later."

"A fair point."

Dorian nodded, glancing over his shoulder towards the barricades. "It's a shame that he can't be in two places at once, too. The Lords are only going to be able to keep the darkspawn at bay for so long."

Following his gaze, Cullen turned. He caught a glimpse of the Blight beyond the barriers, the darkspawn clawing to get in, while those warriors in blue and gold shot arrows and threw axes to keep them at bay.

The thought of what had been following him and the others had nearly slipped his mind in his focus on Dorian, but it flooded back now, his hand tightening around his sword.

"We'll have to do what we can without him," he said. "Are you ready, Dorian?"

"Aren't I always?"

With that, they joined the others, Dorian stepping straight up to the barriers to begin blasting magic down into the chaos on the other side, while Cullen hurried towards what appeared to be the weakest spot, already barking orders to reinforce it.

As separated as they were, Cullen had no means of tracking Dorian as they threw themselves into the fray. They were on opposite sides of the area, defending from different hordes.

He had no way of knowing if Dorian was still fighting. If he was safe. If he was holding his own as the minutes continued to stretch on and time began to become a looser, more distant concept.

Which made it all the worst when the first Antaam warrior breached the barricades.

The sound of it was nearly as bad as Solas and the Archdemon's fight had been; a massive explosion, the sound of wood splintering and a chorus of shouts filling the air. Heat blasted against the stones as fire tore through one of the barricades, the bodies of its defenders going flying with cut-off cries.

Cullen watched the blaze in horror for a single beat, allowing himself that much time to be stunned, before the sight of the fighters around him flinching dragged his focus back.

"Hold your positions!" He held up his shield and pointed his sword down past the nearest barricade. "Don't let the rest fall!"

Then, only when the majority had returned to their efforts, did he shove himself away and towards where more of his allies were meeting the Antaam with their blades drawn.

It was more than just the Antaam, though. Many of their warriors were spilling through the new opening, but they were joined by the darkspawn and Venatori alike. By the time that Cullen made it close enough to join the close-quarters battle, it was hard to look anywhere without seeing flashes of Venatori red or rancid Blight.

He focused on that, on the immediate danger, and didn't give himself time to think of how near the fallen barricade Dorian had been the last time Cullen had seen him. He didn't let his mind pull itself in two, shoving his worry deep, deep down in favor of doing what he could to cut down every enemy that got close.

Two smaller darkspawn died at his hand. A Venatori was badly wounded by his blade, then finished off quickly by an arrow that embedded itself in the back of their head. None of it seemed to make even the slightest dent in the mob.

At one point, he found himself with an Antaam fighter in front of him, their back turned, and he sliced through the backs of their heels with heavy spurts of blood. They crumpled, howling.

In the moment that took, Cullen didn't notice the Venatori coming up behind him, not until he moved to find a new target and spotted the sword coming down towards him.

It was a close call; he narrowly managed to lift his shield high enough to save his neck, and he certainly didn't have enough time to deflect and retaliate.

Thankfully, a blast of powerful green magic slammed against the Venatori half-a-second later, knocking them straight off their feet.

"Commander!"

Cullen's head jerked toward the source of the spell, spotting Dorian just before he reached his side. "You made it."

"You didn't think this would be enough to stop me, did you?" Dorian huffed breathlessly. "I hardly came all this way just to die like this."

Pressing his lips together, Cullen half-turned, bracing his back against Dorian's as a darkspawn got close enough for him to hear its snarling. He used his shield to knock it off balance, then chopped straight through it's thin, rotting neck.

"I hope that Rook and the others are having better luck in the Archon's Palace." Cullen muttered over his shoulder.

He didn't dare glance up now, but even if he had, he doubted he'd have seen anything beyond possibly the shapes of Solas and the Archdemon. Whatever Rook was doing, it would be a mystery to them until it was far too late for it to matter.

Dorian seemed to have much the same thought, because he didn't even reply. Instead, when he spoke, it was with a particular tone that usually meant a new thought had popped to mind.

“You know—” He started, only to pause as a Venatori blade swung for his head. He blocked it with the top of his stave, grunting as he shoved the bastard away, and a green glow lit the stones below him. Whatever magic he cast, Cullen didn’t know it; he didn’t particularly care to, either, judging by the way that the Venatori screamed. “It’s occurring to me that we never had much cause to fight side-by-side like this in the Inquisition, did we? Only recently, here in the city?”

“No, I suppose not. At the fall of Haven, perhaps?”

“We might have been on the same side, but we were hardly this close. The same is true of Adamant fortress. I briefly saw you when we breached the wall and fought our way in, but that was the extent.”

“Well—” Cullen angled his shield to block a spray of fire that would have caught the back of Dorian’s robes. “—I won’t say that I’m glad to have cause to fight for our lives again, but if we must do it, then it’s an honor, Magister Pavus, to have it be by your side.”

“And the same to you, Commander Cullen!”

That was the last of their exchange, their chatter quickly giving way to focus as they fought on. It was reassuring, in a way, to have Dorian's presence at his back as they continued to do battle. Not only because of the trust that he had in Dorian to guard him the same as he would guard Dorian, but also for the proof that he was alright—it was easier to focus knowing that his old friend wasn't off lying in a puddle of blood somewhere.

Especially as their next proper opponent arrived.

A beast, towering above all the others, three times as broad as Cullen with waxy skin twisted with red, pulsing Blight.

The way that its teeth glinted as it snarled, dripping with thick, gummy saliva, would have been disturbing enough, but that had little on how it started with empty, glass-like eyes, the spikes on its back and shoulders menacing in the red-tinted light.

Cullen pushed his shoulders back, taking a steadying breath as the hurlock swung its Blighted club at a nearby Shadow.

Sharing a glance with Dorian, he nodded. Dorian raised his staff, fire flaring from the end of it.

It exploded against the hurlock's chest, forcing it to stumble back, and Cullen took advantage in order to get in close and slice his sword across the creature's chest.

Blight spewed from the wound as the hurlock shrieked horribly. It pulled back its club, but Cullen kept himself from flinching, placing his faith in Dorian while he focused on hitting the hurlock again.

His trust paid off as another blast of flames prevented the hurlock from swinging at Cullen, while he successfully drove his blade into the thing's face, embedding it deeply into its skull from below.

If the first shriek had been bad, then this one was haunting, so shrill and agonized that it made Cullen's hair stand on end. The sound of a dying beast.

But dying was not dead. And before Cullen could so much as drop his sword, the hurlock was retaliating, smacking him aside with one gargantuan arm.

He felt all of the air in his lungs explode out of him, chest squeezing painfully. His back slammed against stone, his head narrowly avoiding doing the same as he instinctively clutched his shield tighter, breathless and dazed.

It was only that shield that saved him, laid haphazardly over him while he recovered on the ground, from bearing the full weight of the hurlock's next attack on his ribs and his ribs alone.

The attack still hurt, of course. The shield dug painfully into him, the beast's punch clumsy at best, but the force of it more than enough to do damage. The way that the shield distributed the weight and power turned it from a potentially, possibly even likely, fatal blow to one that seemed comparatively manageable.

If nothing else, it gave Dorian enough time to let loose a string of flame so hot that Cullen's skin felt as if it was about to blister, sweat forming on his brow.

He was almost too stunned to be relieved when the weight disappeared, freeing his lungs to fill with air again. The hurlock stumbled to the side, another blast following the flames, as Dorian closed the distance.

By the time that Cullen had managed to shove himself up to his knees, then actually stand, the hurlock was on the ground, writhing like a dying bug.

"Alright, Commander?" Dorian asked.

As an answer, Cullen ducked forwards, gripped his sword, and yanked the blade from the hurlock's skull, sucking in a hoarse breath as it finally shuddered, the life slipping out of its body.

Then he glanced over his shoulder and lifted his shield higher, saying again, "thank you."

The smile that earned him from Dorian was distracted, but he felt it in his bones anyway, even as they turned their focus back towards the task at hand.

It was easy to fall back into a rhythm together. Once Cullen managed to shake off the last of his daze, the other enemies were much more simple to deal with than a behemoth hurlock.

Whenever Dorian struck, Cullen watched his back. Whenever Cullen lashed out with his sword or caught a hit with his shield, Dorian ensured nothing could take him off-guard. Dorian hurled spells towards ranged-opponents, while Cullen knocked nearer ones off-balance, working together as if they had been doing so since the moment they'd met ten years prior.

The beasts never faltered, the Blight never stopped spreading, wave after wave of Elgar'nan's forces tiring them through sheer numbers, but they continued to fight on, blade and staff versus the sort of monsters that Cullen had, until recently, believed were all in his past.

And they fought on.

And fought on.

And on.

Whether it would ever end, whether Rook would succeed or they would all be stuck in this dance until Elgar'nan won and they were given their coda, Cullen didn't know, lost in the need to press on until he physically couldn't anymore.

Or he didn't, at least, until the very moment that the Blight began to wither in front of his eyes like the dead branches of a burnt tree, stiffening as if turning to stone and ash in front of his widening eyes.

Vaguely, he registered the explosion of light overhead, blues and greens painting the sky by the Archon's Palace. Cullen found his gaze flicking up, half-watching as he and Dorian successfully brought down an Antaam wielding a canon of fire.

Minutes ticked by with tension so thick that Cullen could practically feel it lingering in the air. They were on a precipice, he was certain, and depending on what was going on up above, they would either fly from it with the elegant ease of a griffon or be sent hurtling far, far down, until they smashed against the rocks.

All they could do was continue to do their part as they waited, even with as much as he wanted to stare up at the Palace for any hint of which direction they might be heading for. If they hesitated, their enemies would take advantage.

But as quickly as the Blight withered, so too did the darkspawn. From the smallest of them to the ogres and the rare hurlocks, they fell, not to any weapon, but to whatever it was that had eliminated the Blight itself.

Cullen told himself not to assume. Not to lose himself to the hope that it was a good sign. The Blight was only one of Elgar'nan's tools, and stopping it did not mean stopping Elgar'nan.

What he couldn't deny, however, was what came after.

The sun.

Bright, warm, and golden, it cascaded over the horizon like the brush of a familiar hand, Cullen's eyes locking onto the sight with a heavy wave of relief.

That—the end of the red night, of Elgar'nan's endless eclipse—was more than hope or a hint. It was proof if he'd ever seen it.

Not a moment too soon, either. After so long in the dark under the bloodred skies of Elgar'nan's reign, he'd almost begun to think that he might never see another dawn.

It was only a cheer beginning somewhere in the near-distance that managed to pull his gaze away. It echoed, a shout carrying through their allies as they surged again, attacking the remaining enemies with renewed vigor, and Cullen felt his chest tighten like he had been granted new armor.

He raised his sword, joining the yells, then drove his sword through the back of the nearest Venatori.

With the darkspawn gone, there weren't nearly enough opponents left for the Antaam and Venatori to stand a chance. Arrows flew, swords clanged, and spells sparked all across the battlefield. The blood they spilled only seemed to energize them all more, while the return of the sun and what it meant left most of Elgar'nan's forces reeling.

Even in the aftermath of a siege, exhausted and struggling, Cullen's allies mustered enough strength to kill the majority, with only a few of their enemies turning tail. Whether they were persued or not, Cullen didn't see.

His attention, as soon as the fighting slowed, then died, and they were left with little more than rubble and their own men all around them, turned back towards the sky instead.

The Archdemon and Solas were no longer visible, certainly. The sky had returned to normal, the reds, blues, and greens fading in the light of the sunrise.

But there was no sign of Rook, nor any others yet.

He inhaled carefully, dragging his gaze back to the ground.

Even right where they were standing, it was obvious that the city was in a state. Assuming that they were right, that Elgar'nan was no more and the threat of his reign was truly over, it would still take an unfathomable amount of time for Minrathous to recover.

All of the broken buildings. The remnants of the Blight. The lingering enemies, from Venatori to demons. He couldn't imagine how they might handle it all.

But that was part of why he was here, wasn't it?

To help rebuild, even if the circumstances had changed? To fix what he could and lend his guidance as he once had to the Inquisition?

If he was pressed, he supposed he might be able to come up with something akin to a plan; at the very least, he could give advice on how best to begin.

Yet, before he could even pull together a coherent enough thought about it all to broach the subject, Dorian cut him off.

"Oh, no. No, no, no. I know that look. Certainly not."

Cullen paused, blinking against the light as his eyes finally seemed to finally fully adjust to the new light. "What?"

"You are thinking of work, Commander. Kaffas, everything will still be just as destroyed tomorrow," Dorian said. "For now, we should take advantage of the fact that nothing's going to try to kill us if we take a moment to breathe."

And he said it so certainly, as if it was preposterous that Cullen hadn't been thinking the exact same thing, that it almost convinced him.

"Yes, that's…I suppose so." He huffed, sheathing his sword despite how the movement made his shoulder ache from too much use.

A small part of him wondered as he did it if Dorian was feeling similarly exhausted. He almost had to be, considering how hard he'd been pushing himself all this time, and how much he'd thrown himself into fighting back Elgar'nan's forces to protect Rook's efforts up above.

But when he glanced over, Cullen was met with a strange sort of relief that lingered in his chest at the realization that, by the Maker's grace, Dorian at least appeared nearly untouched, exhausted or not.

There was evidence of a fight, of course. Dorian's hair was messy, his armor splattered in dirt and blood, boots caked with what was almost certainly Blight and would need to be burned later.

And the look on his face, that was proof that they'd just been in a battle. Cullen had only ever seen that wild grin after Dorian returned from aiding the Inquisitor with a proper enemy. Not to mention the flush to his tanned skin, nor the sheen of sweat that made him look as if he was nearly glowing in the light of this bizarre dawn.

But there was no sign of pain in his familiar grey eyes. When he swung his staff onto his back, he didn't grimace or flinch. All of the blood on him seemed to belong to their opponents.

With an unthinking breath, Cullen reached out, fingers brushing over Dorian's high-collar and adjusting it to sit properly instead of flopping to the side.

"You're safe," he said.

"Were you worried for me? Why, I'm flattered," Dorian said, grin going almost lopsided as he reached up to rest his hand on Cullen's wrist.

"I saw you in that mess, right where the barricade fell. I wasn't sure if…"

He trailed off, not willing to say it, not even after having seen the proof that Dorian was at least still in one piece. Judging by the way that Dorian chuckled, he hadn't been nearly so concerned.

"Are you quite sure that you didn't hit your head? That's the only reason I can see why you might think that I would ever be so foolish as to let myself be blown up by such idiotic rabble."

With a sigh that did nothing to wipe away his relief, Cullen dropped his hand, but Dorian's touch stayed. His fingers. "Maker, you truly are impossible."

"So I've been told." Grip tightening, Dorian tugged Cullen closer. He might not have been as strong as Cullen, but Cullen didn't resist it, only stopping himself when he wasn't sure they wouldn't just collide if he didn't. "But you aren't so simple yourself either, are you? In fact, you're such a problem that I might dare to say that I dislike you, Commander."

Raising an eyebrow, something in Cullen's chest twisted. He stared blankly for the briefest moment, one that felt more like an eternity, before asking, "you..?"

"Oh, yes." Dorian's eyes flicked across Cullen's face. "You make it very difficult, you see, not to be endeared with your every movement. And I despise being predictable."

And whatever it was that Cullen might have been anticipating, it wasn't that.

It certainly wasn't for Dorian's hand to slide up his arm, resting on his shoulder, a comforting weight despite Cullen's distinct urge to duck away out of pure confusion.

He had never really thought—never truly—

But he wanted—

Inhaling slowly, Cullen tipped his head down. A warm, puffed breath ghosted over his lips.

It was Dorian, he thought dimly, and that was all that mattered.

Then their lips met, erasing any coherent thoughts from his mind entirely in favor of focusing on the feeling of Dorian's other hand cupping the back of his hair and gently drawing him in.

If it hadn't, if he'd been considering the situation, he might have been more wary of where they were and what they'd just gone through. He'd have likely pulled away until they met somewhere without such a risk of being attacked again, especially if it had also gotten them away from the many people still nearby, surely seeing what was happening.

As it was, he merely shifted closer, eyes shut, the hand not holding his shield moving to Dorian's hip, then up to rest just beneath his ribs, as if he could keep the world at bay by cradling Dorian like this.

But as quickly as it had begun, it ended, cut off by the quiet hiss that Dorian let out through his teeth as soon as Cullen's fingers settled.

He stepped back, Dorian's abrupt absence cold on his skin.

"You are hurt," Cullen said sharply.

"Oh, kaffas—"Dorian groaned. "Bruised. Lightly. It's hardly worth fussing over."

"I beg to differ. We should find somewhere to sit, so that I can look at it."

"If I refuse, are you going to be a complete pest about this?"

Whatever look Cullen gave him was clearly enough of a message for Dorian, who dropped his shoulders and shook his head.

"Fine. Fine." He gestured towards the Divine's Manor. "The Inquisitor and the rest have set up a handful of safe spots here. If it is so vital to you, Commander, we'll find one, you may look, and we can return to more important things."

Wordlessly, Cullen grabbed Dorian's arm, tugging him in the direction he'd pointed. The sound of Dorian's huff chased him down the stone path.

The fortunate news was that it truly wasn't far to the nearest quiet, relatively private place. They passed their allies in various conditions as they went, ranging from hardly touched to shivering on the floor under the care of others, but Cullen kept his eyes ahead until Dorian nodded towards a door that was half-obscured by a fallen banner.

He nudged it open, thankfully finding nothing but an empty room. It might have been some sort of an office before all of this, he imagined, or something of the sort at least, but all that he cared about was that amidst the overturned furniture and debris, there was a chair that he was able to drag Dorian towards.

And for his part, Dorian didn't argue, letting himself be maneuvered with little more than a muffled, pained sound when he sat.

Had it been any other time, Cullen likely would have asked if Dorian would be able to conjure up some healing magic. As it was, he settled for pulling a potion from his belt, handing it to Dorian, and turning his attention to where he'd accidentally set his hand before.

With Dorian having spent so much of his mana during the fight, he didn't want to even consider letting him use more now, even to heal himself. No, Cullen could handle this part; it meant Dorian having to live with slight bruises and the remnants of his pain, but at least he wouldn't completely drain his last dregs of energy.

"This will hurt a bit." Cullen murmured, gently tugging at Dorian's robes. At Dorian's nod, he began undoing them to get to the damage. "The potion ought to help some."

With a grimace, Dorian uncorked the potion and took a swig. The way his face twisted was evidence enough of how much he disliked it, but he took it further by setting the potion aside.

When he spoke, Dorian's voice had an edge to it that made it clear his jaw was tight against the pain. "You know, Commander, I never quite imagined this would be the way you would first help me out of my clothes."

And for once, such a comment didn't fluster Cullen as much as it should have. He was too focused on the bruises already etched into Dorian's skin for a proper reaction.

But that was part of why Dorian said it, he would assume. To try to distract Cullen. To dissolve the tension and stop his worrying.

It just didn't work as he likely hoped it would.

Instead, Cullen gently brushed a hand across the worst of the damage. He knew that there would be a difference in how a severe bruise appeared on his own pale skin versus on Dorian's, but he also knew that this was too large and too deep to be anything but concerning.

"Dorian…" He glanced up, frowning.

"I don't mind it, quite frankly. Your attention."

"Well, I mind that you're in pain."

"Yes, alright, but the potion will handle a great deal of that, and anything that it doesn't, I can either fix myself or to go a healer about. I'm not nearly the damsel in distress that some seem to think, you see."

"I'm under no illusion that you're not plenty capable, Dorian, but that doesn't mean that this doesn't concern me."

"What, a bruise? You should see what I did to the ogre that gave it to me."

Rather than reminding him of what he'd said about idiotic rabble, Cullen pressed his lips together tightly, gut churning.

"Drink more," he said bluntly, and to his surprise, Dorian actually picked up the bottle again.

It took a moment, his eyes lingering on the potion inside, but he did eventually take another sip. His shoulders rose as he lowered it with the gravity of someone drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey, sighing.

When he spoke, Cullen found himself looking once again to his shadowed face.

His expression had begun to shift. Eyebrows furrowing, he seemed more tired than he had even just a moment before, the lines in his face deeper.

"It isn't so dreadful to have a man such as yourself look after me," Dorian said, far too quietly for it to be another flirty quip, though he delivered it as if he might have wanted to pass it off as one. "In fact, I imagine that there would be a great many opportunities for someone with your talents here in Minrathous. We'll need a great deal of advice and assistance in recovering."

Cullen's hand stilled, settling lower on Dorian's waist than the bruises. Even with his gloves on, he could feel Dorian's warmth, and despite himself, a bit of his concern gave way to a now-familiar sense of fondness.

After so long here in the city, working so closely with Dorian, he had come to know him all over again. He understood how to read between the lines of what Dorian was saying, especially when he was being this indirectly direct about it.

The simple truth of it was that Dorian would never outright ask him to stay. Not here in this room, fussing over him, nor in Minrathous itself.

He was far too stubborn for that. Too guarded, too wary, even now.

But he would hint and prod and poke, just as he did in their chess matches, trying to get Cullen to tip his hand and expose his own thoughts so that Dorian could feel more certain about how to proceed.

In chess, however, Cullen knew what his strategy was. He had plenty of practice at that, which was a far cry from how little he had for a situation like this.

He knew that he would eventually have to consider what this meant. Him, Dorian, them. Minrathous and Fereldan. The help he'd been able to give here versus what he'd been working for with the former templars back home.

Maker's breath, he couldn't just forget all of the progress that he'd made and the good that he'd done for the templars, but…

He couldn't forget Dorian, either.

With a deep breath, Cullen took Dorian's hand. He smoothed his thumb over warm knuckles, so soft and unmarred, unlike Cullen's own.

"I would be happy to lend the city more of my aid," he said. "You know that you need only to ask."

The city, he said. You, you, you, his heart thrummed.

Leaning in, Dorian managed to stifle any reaction to his bruised side, at least to the point of Cullen not being able to hear or see one.

His breath fogged over Cullen's lips once more. "Commander."

"You're still hurt," Cullen said, though it was half-hearted at best, and the way that Dorian's knuckles slipped beneath his chin said that he had seen straight through Cullen's protest.

"Shut up and kiss me, yes?" He murmured.

It was a simple command, a request buried under layers of hesitance and uncertainty that Cullen was sure he might someday begin to be able to properly peel back, but not today. Not here.

Later, he told himself. The specifics, the logistics, the politics, it could all be sorted later.

For now, he simply focused on the feeling of Dorian's hands cradling him, fingers pressing into his hair, and how his lips felt on Cullen's.

It was a new day for Minrathous. For all of Thedas. One that he had lived to see.

He intended to cherish it.