Chapter Text
2 Bloomingtide, 9:52 Dragon
The warm weather of Arlathan Forest was entirely different from the temperate Fereldan climate he was accustomed to. Cullen discarded his fur mantle some time ago, throwing it over the back of his horse, and beads of sweat rolled down the back of his sun-reddened neck. Armour was not meant for the heat, and neither was he, but he didn’t turn back. Not when he was so close. A letter had reached him a week ago, sent a month prior, but the reroute from Ferelden up to Tevinter had taken extra precious time. Cordelia, the woman who took up more space in his thoughts than was likely proper, had reached out to him. Concerned over the war, over his involvement, and informing him of her current work with the Veil Jumpers, whom she'd resided with for four years now.
He couldn’t fathom why she was worried about him in the South when she was far closer to the brunt of the conflict. The journey to visit Dorian in his homeland had been of a practical goal, but in part, he’d hoped to find her, too. Many months had passed since they’d last communicated—he’d been busy with his clinic, and she with her work. He'd hoped the Veil Jumpers would stay out of trouble, but he knew better than most that Cordelia was drawn towards conflict like a moth to a flame. She couldn't stop herself from helping someone in need; it was simply in her nature. That she was in Arlathan Forest and not directly at the epicentre was a relief, but only slight.
Dorian had practically pushed him out the door, grumbling about Cullen’s distractibility and preoccupation with a certain inquisitive, ginger-haired elf. The many letters Cullen had penned in reply lay crumpled in the wastebin, and he’d departed.
Had it been wise to show up unannounced? Did she even want to see him? She could have already moved on to a new place, and he’d be nothing more than a fool. But to see her again…she was worth the risk. He slowed his horse—Phillip, a fine name for a stallion as proud as he—as the hustle and bustle of a camp up ahead reached his ears, nervousness churning his gut.
Golden arches and the crumbling stone work of overgrown ruins greeted him first. Magic hummed in the air, calling to the remnants of lyrium in his blood that would never fully leave him. A headache flickered to life behind his eyes, but he barely noticed, too focused on the strangeness plucking at his skin. It was, as Cordelia said, this magic was alive.
Though the Veil Jumpers seemed largely confused by a stranger’s sudden presence, Cullen's forced-but-polite smile and good-natured wave assured them of his good intentions. He dismounted near the arches, a Veil Jumper indicating he could tie his horse in the makeshift stables. To his immense relief, he recognized one of the few other steeds in the paddock: Isenama, Cordelia's large hart.
Cullen bowed his head in a show of respect for the animal and held out his hand, lightly curled for her to sniff. Hot breath puffed from Isenama's nostrils, a vague interest in his offer, and her snout nudged his palm. Cullen smiled softly to himself, patting her neck as he slung his pack over his shoulder and scanned the surrounding area for a shock of orange curls—like honey left to crystallize in the blazing sun. Finding none, he frowned. Where was he supposed to start?
Cullen stepped out from behind Isenama's massive form, intending to ask the nearest Veil Jumper for Cordelia's whereabouts, when a flash of brown and white blotted fur darted between his legs. Blinking in surprise, it took Cullen a moment to recognize Cordelia’s trusted feline companion. He blamed his sluggishness on being travel-weary and crouched to pet her soft head, smiling as she purred.
“Hello, Lailani. It’s good to see you, too. Will you escort me to Cordelia?”
She trilled in what Cullen could only guess was affirmation, and pushed her head into his hand before strolling off, meowing to let him know he should follow her. Or so he assumed.
Chuckling to himself at both the cat's antics and how he'd managed to find two out of three of Cordelia's animals—if the cat who once belonged to Ashvalla could be counted—before he'd found Cordelia, Cullen straightened and did as Lailani bid.
It hardly seemed real. Not only was the landscape around them so vibrantly green he wondered if he’d ever seen such a shade before, but the strange artifacts that floated about or lay pulled apart on the ground were entirely foreign to him. The trepidation certainly had nothing to do with seeing the woman he’d harboured secret affection for nearly a decade.
'Secret' being a relative term. Many more people than he'd wanted were aware of his infatuation. Dorian, for one, had not only been aware but an outstanding supporter, much to Cullen's embarrassment. He did not doubt that Leliana had known, and as a result, Josephine. They were worse than gossiping sisters, those two. Iron Bull had been rather perceptive as well, and when Cordelia was involved with the qunari's second-in-command, Cullen received more than one pointed look from the spy.
And then there was Ashvalla. The traveling barmaid and constant thorn in his side. Another elven mage, but this one with too much time on her hands. Though he supposed he was allowing his irritation at her sudden departure to cloud his opinion. They'd begun to get along before she left, like they could have been… friends. He'd nearly considered them as such. But friends didn't kiss each other in darkened corridors with the taste of their other friend's slick on their lips. The whole mess was convoluted, even to his own thoughts.
Ashvalla had known Cullen's feelings for Cordelia and had known how he'd felt a… passing attraction for the woman herself. At least when he requested it, she'd ceased throwing her intimacy with Cordelia in his face whenever she had the chance. For years, Ashvalla stuck around, coming to visit Cordelia when she worked with him at the clinic. But she'd set off to search for her sister years ago. Had she returned, he was certain Cordelia would have informed him.
Cullen shook his head, refocusing his attention on the path ahead. He need not think about the past… whatever they'd been. Not when he was so close to seeing his love once more. He made his way outside of camp and began to wonder about the wisdom of following cats. Was Lailani bringing him to Cordelia, or did she wish to show him the rodent victim of her latest hunt? But all thoughts of questioning the feline fell to the wayside when he came upon her.
Crouched over an artifact that he couldn’t even begin to understand was the woman he sought, the woman his heart beat for. Her back was to him, but he could recognize the shape of her anywhere—soft and curved but strong, honed by years in the field. Should he approach her? She appeared busy, and he was reticent to interrupt her work. But if he left now and waited, she’d be likely to scold him for it if she found out. And Lailani was quite the tattletale.
"Ha!" Cordelia exclaimed, the artifact casting a pale blue glow around her body. Her arms moved where he could not see, and the light flickered.
Lailani meowed loudly, like a bell, or an alarm, or, well, like a cat trying to attract attention.
Cordelia chuckled without turning around. "Oh, really? Let me see it then." But when her cat approached and began pawing at her, she paused.
"What, da'len?" She stroked Lailani's head, casting her a sidelong glance, Cullen just out of sight. He shifted on his feet, weighing his options. Fleeing like some new templar recruit with a crush was beneath his dignity and an insult to her. All that was left was announcing his presence. Lailani tried her best, but she had done her duty and reunited them. It was up to Cullen to take the next step.
He cleared his throat, and Cordelia jumped, twisting around, immediately alert. Her eyes widened as they landed on him, her petal-pink lips parting around a startled gasp. Maker, he hardly felt worthy of her gaze, let alone her attention. The heat of the forest in the summer stuck his clothes to his skin with sweat, and his hair curled up at his nape in an unruly manner. Whereas she… her freckles stood out with the rosy hue the sun had kissed into her skin, her curls bouncy, enjoying the humidity. A smear of grease on her cheek pulled his gaze to her watering eyes, excitement and longing shining brightly. Cordelia was beautiful like regrowth after a forest fire, full of the fresh beginnings of life and remnants of patterns blazed along charred branches.
His flush deepened the longer she delayed her response. Had he misjudged her excitement? Perhaps it had been shock, soon to give way to unease or apprehension. He opened his mouth to explain, to beg her forgiveness for his interruption, but she clambered to her feet before he could force his tongue to make the proper shapes, and ran to close the short distance between them.
Reassurance pulled his lips into a smile as she threw her arms around his shoulders, and he caught her with ease, lifting her off her feet to hold her close. To receive such an exuberant welcome had his heart racing, beating against his ribcage and begging to be freed—to return to its rightful home with her.
“Cordelia,” he breathed, muffled against her hair. Even to his own ears, he recognized the yearning with which he sighed her name. Perhaps she’d allow him the kindness of hiding his face so she could not see his abashment. Or, perhaps he should confess his love and kiss her—the thought had crossed his mind too many times to count over the years. Waiting seemed foolish now, especially in wartime, but he could never quite take the last step.
She held him tighter, weaving her fingers into the slightly damp strands of hair and pulling him closer. No, he couldn't—wouldn't be parted from her again. If the world were ending, he didn't want to be anywhere but at her side.
"Cullen," she croaked, the ghost of her lips brushing his neck, weakening his knees. "I—You're here..."
Reluctantly, he placed her back on her feet. It would do neither of them any good to drop her when her lips flirted with his skin and sapped the last of his strength.
“Yes, I am.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I came as soon as I could. I was already up North by the time your letter came to me. I apologize for the delay in my response.” A pause. “I hope I have not overstepped by coming here unannounced. I simply… couldn’t wait to see you.”
Cullen blushed in earnest now, and he prayed for the earth to swallow him whole. He was forty years old; for Andraste’s sake, he should be able to talk to a woman he fancied without his face turning as red as a tomato. Her hands resting on his chestplate did not help in suppressing his blush, but he did not ask her to remove them.
She shook her head. "There's no need to apologize. Getting to see you is... a far better treat than a response to my letter." She raised a hand to touch his flushed face, trembling ever so slightly—but he noticed. Every hitch in her breath, every twitch of her lips, captivated him completely. "You're a very nice surprise." Her gaze flicked between his amber eyes and his mouth.
He was… a nice surprise? And the way she watched his lips… he could hardly think straight when all he wanted was to close the distance and kiss her. Let her know how he had longed for her all those years, the burning adoration he felt whenever she crossed his mind. He leaned in a little closer, wanting to count every single freckle that adorned her face.
"I'm glad to hear it."
Her breathing shallowed, and she tilted her head back farther, as though presenting her mouth for the taking. A hot spike of desire pierced his chest, begging him to slant his lips against hers and stake his claim. She stroked his cheekbone, and all rational thought trickled from his mind.
"Cordelia!" They froze, a statue of two almost-lovers, interrupted. To their right came a young man in Veil Jumper colours, and Cullen startled back from Cordelia, his cheeks aflame. "Who's your friend?"
A grimace shadowed her face as she took a step away from him. "This is Cullen Rutherford," she said, gesturing to him but avoiding his gaze. "He's visiting from Ferelden."
The spell that ensnared them shattered, and she swiftly turned away and gathered her things, deactivated the artifact, and stuffed it in her satchel. If Cullen hadn’t wanted to make a good impression on Cordelia’s fellow Veil Jumpers, he might have snapped at the intruder. But he reined back his impulses, certain his reddened ears told a story he'd rather keep private—bashful like two teenagers caught kissing behind the village Chantry.
“Well met.” Cullen inclined his head, his voice hoarse, and he cleared his throat for the second time in as many minutes. “I apologize for my unexpected visit, but I was… in the area.” His eyes fell to Cordelia, and worry overtook him.
Was she… embarrassed for her peers to see them together? She was a kind, beautiful, unendingly intelligent, and powerful mage, and he was just… him. Cullen, a former templar whose demons kept him awake more nights than not, who still craved lyrium even after a decade free of it. Cullen shook himself. He, too, had been embarrassed at being caught seconds from kissing, hadn’t he? Andraste's grace, he'd been about to kiss Cordelia.
She slung her bag over her body with a huff and shot her colleague a narrow-eyed stare. "Did you need something? Or are you just here to stick your nose into other people's business?" The young man stammered something about it not being important and that it could wait before he retreated, giving them space to breathe.
Irritation deepened the lines on her face as she squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her forehead. "I'm sorry about that. He's clever as a whip, but wants to know everything about everyone."
Cullen pursed his lips to keep from laughing—in the end, Cordelia snapped, not him, and she spoke with dismay about qualities that she, too, possessed. “I see.”
While she closed her eyes, he took a moment to observe her. Her hair was tied back out of her face to allow for maximum concentration, the lines of her vallaslin accentuating her cheekbones, and—had her ears wiggled just now? He’d noticed it only a handful of times, typically when she laughed heartily or received a sweet gift, like a flower picked by a child in thanks for one of her healing potions.
Were there… other ways to make her ears wiggle? He knew one person who would have that answer, but he cut off the thought before it could make the heat from his cheeks rush to his groin. Though her lack of grime made him feel like some wild beast, panting and drooling over her divine presence, if she’d truly minded, he doubted she would touch him so eagerly.
To fill the silence between them, he said, “What is that object you were working on?”
Cordelia opened her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips at his interest, and victory filled his chest. "It's a star map. That's what it looks like, anyway. I didn't recognize any of the constellations, though. I—people, in general—always thought that the constellations we have now were passed from Elvhenan to Tevinter when they were overtaken... and maybe they were, but... so much time passed, maybe the stars themselves have changed since this map was made?"
She shrugged, and he was pleased to see she did not attempt to apologize. Cullen had reassured her enough over the years that her ramblings never bothered him. Though he'd kept it to himself how they soothed him, the lilting cadence of her voice a comfort after so long without. He understood the gist of what she said, and he nodded along—he was well-read, after all, no matter what Morrigan implied.
"Anyway, let's get you settled, shall we?"
She brushed past him, her ring-adorned fingers grazing his gloved ones. The sun beat down on them, but without her warmth against him, a terrible chill plucked at his bones. His large hand grasped hers, different in size, but they fit together like they were made for each other. She stopped in her tracks, looked down at their joined hands, then up at his face.
“Wait, I—" he stopped and shook his head with a sigh. They could not restart what the interruption had taken from them, at least, not yet. “No, you’re right, I should get settled. I appreciate your aid.”
His grip began to loosen, aiming to release her, but she held fast. "I'm happy to help." Without another word, she tugged him along, back to camp, back to his horse, where he had to release her hand to retrieve his saddlebags—much less enjoyable than touching her, but her smile made it bearable. Her joy was infectious, and his lips curved upwards in response. He felt her eyes on him, but said nothing, and once he’d grabbed his packs, he motioned for her to lead the way.
Luckily, there was space near Cordelia's tent for the two of them to pitch Cullen's. If she had it her way—if she could be brave and free herself of the shackles that had held her back for years—he wouldn't get much use out of it, but they should prepare it all the same. Lailani hopped up on the nearby ledge to observe them.
"Let me put my bag down," Cordelia said, unslinging it from across her chest and flashing him a smile. She ducked into her tent and dropped her satchel on the table, but she hesitated before returning outside.
They had been so close. It was fine. She was fine. She ran her hands over her face, then took her hair out to put it up in a slightly neater manner. Ridiculously, she rifled around in her bag for her tinted lip balm and applied it to her lips, darkening—only a little—and moisturizing them. Should anyone ask, she would maintain that it didn't mean anything and was simply a part of her regular beauty routine. It was, mostly, but she could admit to herself that this was for a more pressing purpose.
With another grounding breath, she exited her tent after tossing the lip balm back on the table. Cullen had already started unpacking his materials, and she winced. Maybe she shouldn't have disappeared on him. But no, she'd said she was dropping off her bag... though she had done more than that. She held back an apology—what would she even say? Sorry for privately lamenting the fact that they'd been closer to kissing than they had been in... a long time... and still hadn't managed it?
She shook her head at herself. Stop thinking and help him.
"I'm back, I'm back," she said as she crouched to take a pair of poles from him. He looked up at her, and she caught a glimpse of a smile, albeit a faltering one, when his attention snagged on her lips. Her slight moment of vanity in her tent was worth it, then.
Cordelia smiled back at him and straightened to bring the poles to the far corners of the tent. Familiarity unfurled in her chest. "Are you still carrying around an Inquisition-issue tent, Commander?" She cast a glance over her shoulder and found him grinning bashfully as he adjusted the corners near him.
“It’s good quality. It seemed a shame to waste it.”
How practical of him. She held back a girlish giggle and averted her gaze, though she understood. When she was still with her clan, and even now with the Veil Jumpers, they used everything until they couldn't possibly be used or repurposed in any way, shape, or form. A necessity they both recognized. "You're right, of course."
It had been a while since she'd put together a tent like this, but the process came back to her easily… even though she started to sweat under the heat of the afternoon sun. Cullen made no secret that he was watching her the entire time—at least, it was no secret to her. His attention was familiar and welcome. If she purposefully bent over to give him an eyeful of her cleavage, that was her prerogative.
For Cordelia's part, she restricted herself to fleeting glances, lest she stare so long she forgot what she was supposed to be doing and crawl into the safety of his arms. Sure, she could protect herself physically, but Cullen had been sheltering her tender heart for years. Being near him again was like releasing a sigh of relief after enduring an arduous journey.
As the tent finally pulled together, she wiped her brow with her forearm, sweat gathering at her hairline. Cullen's hair was somehow even curlier now than it had been when he first arrived. She longed to run her fingers through it, to feel the soft strands between her fingers, to pull on it as he—
She shifted on her feet but didn't look away until he did, moving the rest of his belongings inside the tent before she could offer to help. He bent over a little to duck inside the tent. Fuck, his ass.
She swallowed. "Would you like lemonade? I keep some chilled in an enchanted ice box." He wasn't even trying to fluster her, and yet there she was. Thirty-seven years old. Blushing like a crushing teenager. And yet, it was more than that, wasn't it? More than some youthful crush. She loved him and his loyalty and his dedication and his earnestness and, ugh!
“I would be most appreciative of some lemonade,” he said from his tent, perhaps taking a similar moment of calm to the one she had earlier.
"Good." He emerged through the canvas flaps and rubbed the back of his neck. Feeling more confident, she turned to her own tent. "Do you want to find somewhere to sit outside, or... there are temperature-regulating wards in my tent? It might be nice to cool down..." Her wards did more than regulate the temperature, which he didn't need to know. Yet.
It wasn't as though they'd never been alone together before. They enjoyed solely each other's company every time she brought him tea or a tonic or worked the knots from his tight shoulders in Skyhold. Many failed rounds of chess in his tower. The… the night Solas visited her in a dream, shortly after Corypheus was defeated, when she'd woken in tears and gone up to the battlements for some fresh air. He hadn't asked; she hadn't explained. But they'd been alone, with her tears and his tentative but comforting hand on her back. Late nights in the years after the Exalted Council: talking over wine in his home on the clinic grounds, sitting at a patient's bedside, pondering treatment plans in his or her office. The months she spent at his home after Pup passed. Heartfelt goodbyes each time they parted.
Frankly, she thought they'd waited quite long enough, but she didn't want to push.
He considered her question for only a moment. “Yes, cooling down. That would be… nice.” She nodded and led him into her tent.
Once inside, she turned on her light—magic, most of it was magic—to better illuminate the space before crouching to open the icebox. Out came the bottle of lemonade, which she popped open before snagging two cups off the shelf and filling them up. Cullen's eyes bored into her as she moved about, and she did her best not to shiver.
When she turned to him, he was still standing just inside. Trouble furrowed his brow, his hands flexing at his sides. She approached slowly and held out one of the cups to him. He accepted the lemonade and frowned at the sour-sweet liquid.
"Is everything all right?" She searched his expression for an answer, for details.
“No,” he answered automatically. She straightened at his quick response. He wasn't one to mince words, but this was... sharp. She blinked at him, standing there dumbly with her cup. “I mean, yes, just that—it’s only—“ He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.
His amendment only improved things a little. Had she done something wrong? He'd come all this way. He couldn't wait to see her. And yet here he stood. Frowning.
"What, Cullen?"
One moment, he was staring at her, words caught in his throat. The next, he moved, gently taking the lemonade from her hand and placing both cups on the nearest available surface—a desk littered with tinctures and tonics. Her confusion didn't have time to take hold of her; Cullen acted first. His gloved hand cupped her cheek, and the other found her waist and tightened. Her eyes widened at the fiery intensity in his honeyed gaze.
Mere inches separated their bodies, and every fibre of her being cried for there to be less. He tilted his head down, his breathing shallow. Hesitation flickered across the shadows of his face. Not for himself, but… giving her a chance to back away? And what? Sever her heart from his?
Her lips wobbled as she tried to formulate words to say. They failed her. She swayed forward, fisting her hands in his vest and lifting her chin. He could finish what he'd started. What they'd started, all those years ago. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Cullen. Do it now. Before our time runs out. The clock had run out on another love too quickly… she hadn't even known it was ticking.
Cordelia pressed even closer, her focus flicking between his lips and his eyes incessantly. Tenderness gave way to hunger, yearning, in the instant before his lips crashed against hers. She made a small sound of surprise in the back of her throat at his fervent kiss, at the way his hand moved to the small of her back and clutched her to him. He was so warm against her… under her hands… She wrapped an arm around his neck and sank her fingers into his hair, while the other cradled his face—needing, more than anything, to feel him. To know that this was real and not some figment of her desperate imagination.
He groaned into her mouth, sending a shiver down her spine. The leather of his glove rubbed against the sensitive skin of her neck as he moved to cup the back of it. She pulled him closer by the hair, right where she wanted him. It was... everything she wanted and more. Which felt ridiculous to think. This wasn't some fairytale. He was not a white knight, and she was not a princess, and yet... Fuck, they should've done this years ago.
She craved more. Would he let her pull him into bed, let her lose herself in the emotions that had threatened to overwhelm her for so long?
Apparently not. In a great show of restraint, Cullen wrenched his lips away from hers, breathing hard as he rested their foreheads together, his eyes closed like he was savouring the moment. “Cordelia…” His affection wrapped around her name like a prayer, a promise. “I love you.”
Had her breath not already been stolen by their kiss, it would've been by his confession. She knew, of course. She'd known for a long time, she thought, loath as she was to admit it. She knew it by his protective stance, his tender care, and constant concern. She knew it from the way he indulged her questions and her winding answers. She knew it from the way he'd clench his jaw and look away when she spoke of Krem, even long after things had ended between her and the Charger. She knew it from the way his hands curled into fists when he saw marks that Ashvalla left on her neck. She knew it, but spirits guide her, it made her heart sing to hear those words from his lips.
Cordelia slid her hand from his hair to cradle his precious face in her palms. She thumbed the thin skin beneath his eyes, urging them to open. When they did, the ardent adoration in those warm amber eyes was... devastating. Her ears wiggled with glee, just a little, and her eyes welled up with tears—in relief, in love, in years wasted on insecurities that now seemed trivial.
"Ar lath ma, vhenan," she said, loud enough that he would know she meant it, but soft enough not to break the cocoon of vulnerability that encased them. "I love you, my heart—my home... So much..." Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes to hide her unshed tears.
Her forehead pinched as he placed a featherlight kiss upon her lips. Before she could think to kiss him back, he bundled her up in his strong arms. Safe at last. She sank into his embrace without hesitation, bringing her arms down to wrap around his thick torso, her cheek squished against his chestplate. He smelled like sweat and dirt from the road, but she didn't care. Not when she finally had him.
She smiled as he kissed the top of her head, happy to be held, happy to be cherished. "I missed you," she murmured. "... Every day." Her work was a good distraction, yes. But at night, she found herself wishing they were close enough that she could visit him in his dreams. Just to see him, to speak with him... More often than not, she watched a memory or two or seven with the amulet Ash had gifted her before she finally fell asleep.
She'd soothed his nightmares more than once when they lived near each other, without his knowledge, had manipulated the Fade until the demons slipped away, and peace fell over his mind. Never had she gone inside the dreams, but she knew enough about his past to guess what he was seeing in those moments. She'd also placed enchanted satchels under his pillows to ward off malevolent spirits. She wasn't sure if he ever found them, ever figured out what they were.
He tightened his hold for a brief moment, and her breath hitched ever so slightly. “There was not a minute that went by when you were not on my mind," he said. "I… regret how long it took me to confess this to you.”
She lifted her head to look at him, refusing to put any distance between them despite the awkward angle. "I could have done the same. Confessed, that is. The fault is not fully yours..." She nudged her nose against his chin. "We were foolish, but we're here now, aren't we?"
“We are,” he said softly. She smiled and resisted the urge to reach up and touch the crinkles around his eyes, the greying hair at his temples. “This was rather unplanned on my part, and I’m afraid I don’t know where to go next.”
She hummed in consideration, and her hands ran up and down his back. "We still have lemonade to drink," she offered. "And I still don't know why you're in the North in the first place. We could sit and talk... about that... about this..." She brushed her lips against his stubbled jaw. "About whatever you like." She just wanted to hear his voice... and preferably feel it rumbling against her while they sat curled up in her little cushioned nook.
“That sounds perfect.” His voice became somewhat… distant, distracted; she hoped that was her doing. He stole one more chaste kiss and then stepped back. She missed him immediately, like a clingy baby kitten. Picking up the abandoned cups of lemonade, he motioned for her to direct him where to go, but she took her cup from him so he could hold her hand instead.
She led him over to the corner, across from the pallet that served as her bed, where she'd arranged several cushions to have a soft place to read or knit or embroider that wasn't her bed—a basket nearby revealed half-finished projects of each activity. She took a seat and gently tugged his hand.
"You can take off your armour," she said, then belatedly realized that he might think she was trying to get him naked... which she wasn't opposed to, but really she just wanted him to be comfortable. "I—I can't imagine it's comfortable to keep on after such a... long journey. But..." She trailed off and shrugged, releasing his hand from her grasp.
He looked down at his chest, deep in thought for several moments. If she didn't know him so well, she might jump in, say something to break the silence. But no, removing his armour was… She knew there were considerations to be had about it. Considerations that had little to do with the level of trust he placed in her hands. A comfort he wore like a second skin and disliked shedding. Ashvalla wore a mask of flirtation, but Cullen wore his armour as both physical and emotional shield. His hands fidgeted with his nerves, and she resisted taking them in her own to soothe him. This had to be his decision.
Eventually, methodically, he removed the chestplate and set it aside, hesitating before removing his pauldrons and bracers as well. For once, she made no attempt to hide the way she watched his every move, the way his capable hands worked, the way his muscles shifted. That he removed any of it at all had to be... a great show of trust. She'd seen him without armour before, yes, but this was different, somehow.
She kept her breathing steady as he joined her on the cushions, shifting around, unsure where he should go or how he should sit. "Stop wriggling around, or I'll have to make you," Cordelia said, touching his arm. She moved so her knee was pressed to his thigh, but the sides of their bodies didn't meet. She could see him better this way.
He snorted a laugh. “I’d like to see you try.” She grinned mischievously. Upon realizing the suggestion in such a tease, he blushed, bashfully lowering his face.
Cordelia softened as she touched his cheek, urging him to look at her. "What were you doing in Tevinter?" She had a few guesses, mainly relating to Dorian Pavus.
He leaned into her palm, a movement that made her heart flutter in her chest and her ears twitch. “I had hoped Dorian would be able to provide some useful insight. He always was a wealth of knowledge. More than that, with the war centring here, I thought a firsthand witness may aid us in the South. I’m not sure how much you’ve heard, but… Ferelden is burning. I couldn’t sit there and do nothing.” A haunted look crept into his eyes, so similar to the one he wore on days when his withdrawal and his past took the reins on his mind and body.
She'd heard vague notions of what was happening in the South; it was part of why she'd been so worried for him. That he was here now... complicated things. She refused to be parted from him again. But what would they do? Would they stay here, where Cullen would feel less useful and potentially uncomfortable with all of the magic? Would they go back to Ferelden, give up her work with the Veil Jumpers—perhaps using the Crossroads, if Rook allowed—where she'd don the roll of battlemage and field medic once again? She wondered what the Inquisitor was doing, what their plans were.
"I take it he didn't know anything useful?"
“He did not.” Cullen smiled ruefully. “He all but pushed me here, actually. I think he tired of my mood.”
She arched a brow, tucking a greying lock of hair behind his ear. "Your mood? Did thoughts of me truly riddle your mind so?" Teasing him was an easy distraction from the reality of their situation, of the world itself. She was rewarded with another blush.
His hand slipped to her knee, thumb slowly rubbing above the joint. Her focus narrowed to that point of contact, though her eyes remained on his face.
“Yes,” he answered honestly. “I crumpled so many half-written letters that he threatened to enchant the trees to come after me for killing their brethren.” He rolled his eyes in good-natured humour, and she giggled. “But how have you been with the Veil Jumpers? I know little of their activities, but it appears to involve quite a few magical artifacts.”
"Things have gotten worse, as they have everywhere," she said, toying with the collar of his shirt. "I assume—we all assume the strange things happening in the forest when I first arrived had to do with Solas's various rituals and dealings with the Veil, tampering with the old magicks..." She sighed, leaning her head against the wall of the tent.
"Since the gods were freed, it... it's just been worse. The forest is more temperamental. Anomalies are more and more common—there are new ones every day... not to mention the Blight..." Her frown deepened. "Magical anomalies, I can deal with. Puzzles, artifacts... you know... but the Blight?" She shook her head helplessly. "I'm sorry about Ferelden." It had barely been two decades since the Fifth Blight ravaged his home. She couldn't imagine the heartbreak he and his countrymen had to be feeling.
“Thank you,” he gently squeezed her leg, “I’d hoped peace would last longer this time, but I suppose that was too much to ask.” Bitterness seeped into his voice, like the lemonade growing warm in their hands. “I will refrain from my lectures on the dangers of the Blight. I know you can take care of yourself, though I worry for you regardless.”
"I worry for you, too," she said softly, then took a sip of her lemonade, but the sweetness turned to ash on her tongue when talk of death and destruction reigned. What she wanted wasn't lemonade, but simply him. She grabbed his cup and put it with hers on a table within reach to keep them from getting knocked over.
When she returned, she tucked herself into his side and interlaced their fingers. "I..." Part of her wanted to cover up her admission with a joke or tease—to say she wouldn't need a lecture at all if she had him at her side. But she couldn't. Not now. "We can take care of ourselves. We always have. But I... I can't bear the thought of—" Terror wrapped its sinewy hands around her throat, and she turned her face into his shoulder to hide her tears. "I can't bear the thought of dying without you fighting at my side or... or finding out you died through a letter. I can't—I won't do it."
Cullen released her hand and slipped his arm around her waist, his other thumb and forefinger grasping her chin and pulling her gaze up to meet his. Soft eyes and a sad smile, he brushed the tears from her cheeks.
“When the war broke out, and I did not know where you were in Arlathan, I feared the worst. It was my idea to travel to Dorian, with hopes that if you survived, someone would know something about the Veil Jumpers' whereabouts, but Josephine was more than relieved to usher me out of the keep. I've come to realize I was being… difficult. I could not rest until I knew you were alright." A small amount of mirth shook her shoulders at the thought of the ambassador all but throwing him out. "Whatever happens now, know that I’m not going anywhere without you. You will not die with or without me fighting at your side because I will not allow it, nor will you receive word of my death in a letter. I am old, and I am tired, and I want nothing more than to be with the woman I love.”
His speech only made her cry more. She grabbed his face and kissed him soundly, almost desperately. "You are—very good with words—when you—want to be," she mumbled against his lips.
His smile seeped into her skin like the warmth of the sun on the first day of spring, and he wrapped both arms around her torso, lifting her into his lap. “You bring it out in me.” She hummed and tightened her hold on him at the thrill of being perched in his lap.
"Whatever you say..." Cullen shifted a little beneath her, then tensed up, and she pulled back, brushing stray hair out of her face. "What is it?"
“My travel has rendered my smell less than pleasant,” he said with an apologetic grimace. “I hadn’t thought of it until just now, but it seems rude to subject you to my uncleanliness.”
Laughter trickled from her lips, and she ran her fingers lovingly through his hair again. "Well, then, I suppose we should bathe...?" She pecked his lips before getting to her feet. "I know a pretty little pool behind a waterfall..." The cats wouldn't like it—they were always displeased when Cordelia picked it as her bathing spot—they could not swim and therefore could not watch her. Cordelia, on the other hand, would prefer that her cats not witness… whatever went down in the pool. Not that that had ever deterred Sweetpea from staring with those big green eyes of hers. The strange cat was rather partial to sniffing women's used smalls, and the habit always baffled Cordelia.
His face went blank for a second, and she held back a giggle. “I, ah, yes. That would work,” he said stiffly, rising to his feet after her.
"I imagine there are things you need in your tent," she said as she turned and approached her chest of belongings. "We can meet outside once you have them?" Without waiting for a response, she bent over to open her trunk to retrieve what she needed—soap, towel, fresh underclothes. He didn't immediately move, which led her to believe that her backside in the air had frozen him in place.
“Yes, I… should do that.” She smiled when he stumbled over his words—she found it incredibly endearing, and always had.
He all but fled her tent as soon as he finished speaking, much to her amusement. She stuffed her things in a pack, put their lemonade in the icebox, and snagged her staff before exiting the tent. He was already waiting, looking out of place, but sweet all the same. "Shall we?"
“After you, my Lady.” Cullen motioned for her to lead the way.