Authors notes: I love Cullen so much (but not as much as Alistair... NEVER, no matter how hot they make him) so I couldn't help but write this short one-shot (which I will divide into 2 because I like being confusing). This is just a short little reunion between Cullen and the Amell mage he was infatuated with while working at the Circle. Trevelyan will also make an appearance. :) This would take place shortly after the end of Inquisition.

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR INQUISITION... And I guess, all the other DA games, but I'm sure you've already finished them if you're reading Cullen Fic. I might swear from time to time? Aside from that R&R and enjoy!

The Herald of Andraste and the Commander of the Inquisition promised themselves some time alone, away from their tongue-twisting titles and strenuous responsibilities at Skyhold. Cullen proposed a slow, drawn out trip to the Free Marches to visit Trevelyan's remaining family, but Lucretia insisted otherwise. She was eager to sample something simpler, a place where neither of their faces would be recognised. Though Honnleath had blossomed into a thriving village since its destruction during the Blight, he couldn't find fault with her reasoning to visit his old hometown. No one there would have cause to know their faces.

Grander than he remembered as a boy – with ample, bustling taverns, a rebuilt Town Hall, rows of newly erected houses and shops – Cullen still felt that surge of nostalgic bliss as he passed old, familiar trees, gnarled and twisted with age, and saw the that the little pavilion of grass that marked the centre of the town was well maintained and filled with playing children.

It was evening, and lazy streams of violet and red sunlight poured through holes in husky clouds. Tiny bugs buzzed in the humid breeze, collecting around lamps arbitrarily lit beside houses and along the streets. In his hazy recollections, Cullen's memories of Honnleath were marked by similar sights, smells and sounds. In many ways he was glad Lucretia made the suggestion, though she wasn't here to share the experience.

The Saviour of Thedas was late. The pair docked at a neighbouring village not far from Honnleath, and as fate would have it, were recognised instantly by former Skyhold residents who pleaded with Lucretia to suggest strategies to combat the increasing number of highway bandits. She could never refuse such earnest requests he knew, so they promised to meet for drinks after dark after she finished with her anointed duties. Cullen arrived a few hours early to wade through his nostalgic trip a little longer.

The tavern he chose was central – large, bustling and filled with boisterous shouts and grinning, drunk faces. Dodging gesturing hands and squeezing past crowded tables, Cullen gradually felt more at ease. Dozens of unfamiliar faces glanced up at his and not one flickered with the gleam of recognition. No one cared who he was.

Towards the back, where the din of laughter and chatter was quietest, Cullen eased himself into four-seat table and ordered a pint of ale and a glass of 'Oghren's Special Brew' – a drink named in tribute of the Dwarf that helped rid Honnleath of its Darkspawn invaders – from a passing, fair-haired waitress with a round face and ridiculous breasts. She gave him a coy simper and returned moments later, much to the disappointment of a few dull-eyed, weary customers who clearly had been waiting to be served long before him.

Giddy and perhaps a little anxious resuming such a normal role in society, Cullen drank fast, making quick work of his ale though this tavern's 'Special Brew' felt like hot coals down his throat. On his first sip he sputtered and tried to suppress the warm tears that sprung to his eyes. The second half of the cup went down easier, and Cullen smiled at the conversant alcoholic warmth that spread through his limbs and lagged his vision. When the time came to order a second round – under the misguided pretense that Lucretia would be arriving shortly – he asked the barmaid for another of the same. This time, he couldn't help but stare at the woman's heaving bosom, which swayed and shuddered as she turned to address him, that same smile etched across her lips.

"F'er you my dear, anything—maybe a little extra aft'r werk. I get off in'a few."

Cullen felt his ears flush and burn, and he stumbled with apologies, polite refusals and mentions of his partner, all while trying to find somewhere to look that wasn't infested by her chest. In the end he chose his feet and spoke to them quietly, hoping he conveyed the right message. She laughed good-naturedly and returned with his drinks though she made him wait longer this time round.

In the aching aftermath of embarrassment that followed the exchange, Cullen started on Oghren's Brew before the ale, taking constant, timid sips while he gazed round the tavern, taking in the low, uneven ceiling and myriad of unknown faces, anything to take his mind off his social ineptitude. As he listened to snippets of conversation concerning the bedding chambermaids, paying taxes, the benefits of having a new Divine, he wondered if he would ever become that type of person; whether his softening duties would inspire more episodes like this, drinking casually in some gaudy tavern, discussing senseless, meaningless things with his colleagues. Wicked Grace was still a monthly occurrence at Skyhold – though he refused Josephine the role of dealer on numerous occasions – but with a host of friends who had grown with the Inquisition, their conversations never took such a lax stance. They were too involved with Thedas' political plights to entirely relax like the common folk.

Except Sera, he thought with a wry smile, which swiftly morphed into a grimace as he polished off the remainder of his drink. She would be quite at home in this environment.

Before long Cullen's thoughts became muddled, his insecurities veiled by alcoholic nonchalance. At times he wondered how long Lucretia would be, yet his qualms were expeditiously replaced by light-hearted internal monologues, and episodes listening in on the town's gossip. Occasionally the barmaid would waddle by, the rhythmic sway of her hips a pleasant distraction to the host of male voices barraging across the tavern.

"She could slay an Archdemon with that bosom of hers," someone behind him said.

Cullen giggled despite himself and reached for the ale, pulling it towards his chest.

"I do believe you're right, Lucretia." He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, trying his best to address his love to no avail. "I'm sorry, I'm fenced in. Did you have any trouble finding your—"

Way? House? Darkspawn? Demon? Lyrium? At that moment words eluded Cullen as readily as manners do a Fereldan whore. Breathing became difficult, so he didn't and merely stared through the haze and uncertainty of his early drunkenness, trying desperately to make sense of the face before him.

Eleni Amell offered her best toothy grin and with a tender hand, touched his face. They were cold, yet soft and they stopped him from shaking.

"Hello, Cullen."