Disclaimer: All characters and lands belong to BioWare. I own nothing.

Author's Note: Hello all, and thanks for stopping by this little fic. It's a deviation from my usual style, and usual pairing preference, but that is because I wrote this as a birthday gift for my friend and fellow author, Kateriel79. She has given me the honor of beta-reading for her, and has been such an encouragement and blessing in my life that I feel like this small contribution is too small of a way to say "thank you," and "Happy Birthday." Without further ado, Kat, and all others, I hope you enjoy.

Bright Blessings,

~Raven

Haven

It was rumored that red lyrium could sing. That those who touched it, or who remained near it for too long, would begin to go mad from its music. Cullen had been there when Meredith took leave of sanity, when she declared the Rite of Annulment, and when the streets of Kirkwall ran red with blood the color of the lyrium that had stolen Meredith's mind. Cullen had heard Varric speak of red lyrium and watched the implacable dwarf shudder at the remembrance of its influence.

Cullen sighed as he watched his recruits spar with each other. They were preparing for the battles ahead, but it did not seem like enough. They had too much fear in their hearts for any amount of training to compensante. He had listened to the soldiers whispering to each other of the red lyrium deposits in the mountains. How even walking near it had sent malevolent whispers shuddering down their spines. Cullen frowned. Yes, red lyrium was strange and terrifying…but it was not the only lyrium that could sing.

The commander of the Inquisition's forces could always hear another song in the back of his mind. The melody was one he remembered from when he was a young man. It burned in his chest and dried out his mouth. It shivered through his body, stealing his heat and plaguing his dreams. Alas, it was not red lyrium that tempted the man. Instead, it was the lyrium that Thedas had known, dwarves mined, mages drank, and templars used, for ages.

At first, it had been a tool for Cullen to use. Nothing more. Now, it lingered within him as a craving, gnawing need; a memory that grew sweeter with distance, dearer with time, more pressing with absence. The burning in his blood would overwhelm him soon, and he could not afford that. The Inquisition could not afford that. He had made a promise and a pledge. He would keep it, no matter the cost.

"Elias!" Cullen called out to one of his recruits. "Your shield is neither decoration nor a tool of simple defense. It will and must be as important to you as your blade when you face battle. I have told you this many times, and if you will not listen to my words, then I will show you. Put away your sword."

"Commander Cullen, I do not see what good relinquishing my blade will do me. I would not abandon it on the battlefield. Therefore I will not on the training field." Elias stood straight, proud in his ignorance, a firm grip kept on the hilt of his flashy, costly weapon.

Inside himself, Cullen flushed an angry red and shouted the young man into submission. Outwardly, he just sighed. While the Inquisition needed the men and the gold given by noble families eager to do the Maker's work, he had drunk his fill of the younger sons of noble houses being sent as fighters. Many of them were barely decent duelists, but thought themselves soldiers born. Cullen's eyes burned every time he watched them attempt to wield a longsword as they would a rapier, or hold their shields as Elias did now: as an encumbrance rather than a viable defense and weapon.

"Do not be so hasty to dig your grave, Lord Whitton. Listen to the commander." an austere, authoritative voice moved closer.

Cassandra Pentaghast stepped out from the early morning fog and the young nobleman clutched his sword tighter at the sight of her. The young man's shoulders squared, his back straightened, and the look of pride he wore became a mask of blank ignorance…on purpose.

Cullen frowned, but he could not blame Elias for his reaction. The Right Hand of the Divine is a much more commanding presence than a templar past his prime who was taken captive by abominations during the Blight; who failed to see his knight commander losing all control. A templar who failed to stop a monster…who did not save the lives that were lost that day, needlessly.

"Yes, Lady Pentaghast." Elias agreed, planting his gleaming blade in the rocky, muddy soil of Haven.

"Now raise your shield and defend yourself." Cullen ordered, drawing his sword against the raw recruit.

Elias' eyes widened and he backpedaled as Cullen struck; the boy scarcely evaded the blade. Cullen arrested the downward movement of his blade, turning its momentum into a slashing force from the right side. Elias blocked the blow with his shield but did not deflect the force of the blow and Cullen watched pain bloom across the young lord's face as his arm was jarred. However, it was not yet time for the lesson to end. Cullen lunged, aiming his sharpened sword directly for Elias' heart.

The young noble brought up his shield and Cullen's blade lodged in the wood. Cullen saw the fear in Elias' eyes and decided to press the attack. Shifting the position of his arms, Cullen speared his blade upwards, applying just enough pressure to tilt the shield and drive the edge of it into the bridge of the boy's nose.

Elias cried out in shock and pain as he fell backwards, landing on his rump in the mud. Cullen stood over him and wrenched his sword from the shield. Elias wiped at the blood seeping from his nose, wincing at the pressure his sleeve and arm placed on the offended organ.

"If you would pay attention to your instructors," Cullen spoke, his voice hard and sharp as the steel he carried, "you would have been able to disarm me when my blade lodged in your shield. Swords are deadly, elegant, and beautiful, but weapons alone will not strike fear in the hearts of your enemies. Skill alone will intimidate, and a true warrior can lay waste to their foe with naught but a bulky practice shield. Get off the ground, turn your weapons in to the quartermaster, and ask for a wolfsbane poultice for your bruises. Think about your failure here, Lord Whitton, for your title will offer you no protection here, and even less on the battlefield."

Elias' face changed; his mouth twisted in an expression of ugly disdain so common in the supposedly well-bred.

"Lady Pentaghast," Elias beseeched her, noble speaking to noble, "he cannot speak to me in this manner. My family supports the Inquisition and if I spoke to them of this, you would surely risk the loss of that support. Make him see reason."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "I would rather see our coffers emptied than a boy in our ranks who refuses proper training because it bruises his pride. You will find no refuge by interceding with me, Elias Whitton. Commander Cullen was kinder in the lesson he gave you than I would have been."

Elias, who had, judging by the bewilderment stamped on his features, thought to have Cassandra take his side, stammered. "Wha…what do you mean?"

Cassandra's eyes were as cold as the ice that covered the lake. "I would have broken your nose." the Right Hand informed the boy.

The absolute contempt in Cassandra's tone brought Elias to his feet. He lifted his sword from the ground and left the training field, his pride far more damaged than his face, though he would carry the bruises for at least a week.

"What an idiot." Cassandra muttered, following Elias' departure with her eyes. "I wish that those who desire to aid us would send true help instead of foisting their privileged spawn upon our ranks. We are warriors, not wet-nurses."

"I agree." Cullen replied, but his eyes were no longer on his troops. Instead, they lingered on Cassandra Pentaghast, his friend, his confidant, and, on occasion, his very sanity. "We are fighting demons that descend from a tear in the sky. We need soldiers, not children with pillowy hands who seek glory and validation. There are days I envy the Hero of Ferelden. At least, during the Blight, she was able to recruit hardened warriors and skilled hunters. We are saddled with this lot."

Cassandra nodded. "It would seem the Maker sees fit to add more to our personal trials."

The Seeker's words struck a chord in Cullen. He had been struggling, fighting his personal battles, trying to forget the song that haunted every waking moment, and the dreams that disturbed his rest. Still, he had suffered and struggled through, unwilling to place his burdens on another's shoulders. The woman standing beside him had found him in despair, and had asked him to break from the templars and join the Inquisition, to help restore order in a chaotic world.

Cullen had agreed…not out of a want to begin the Inquisition, not because he sought the company of the powerful, but because he had seen true faith shining in Cassandra's cinnamon eyes; faith that he had lost when Meredith's giant blade had carved a bloody swath across the throat of a child…a mage-child. Cullen needed faith, for he had lost his belief in the templar order. He had lost his belief in the capability of men to be humane, compassionate, and kind.

Cassandra's very voice carried the faith that Cullen had lost. Thus, he had agreed, searching for his own faith and finding it again, piece by piece. Even after the explosion at the Conclave and the death of Divine Justinia, Cassandra had kept her faith. She had been the first to believe in the Herald, to silence the voices that wished judgment to be swift and harsh on the unfortunate mage. Though perhaps she did not know it, Cassandra had sustained Cullen's faith, given him patience, and encouraged him to attempt to defeat his own demons.

However, those demons were eating at him. They hounded him with memories, dreaming, and that damnable, damnable song.

Cullen looked to Cassandra and the sun broke through the clouds, casting a warm, gentle light on the Seeker's face. Cassandra turned her countenance to the sun, closed her eyes, letting the warmth and luminescence bathe her features. She did not feel Cullen's eyes resting upon her, but they were. They were roving over the fine angles of Cassandra's features, the proud cheekbones, straight nose, and generous, supple lips. They were examining the scars that gave the woman's face character without taking away her beauty.

Cullen's eyes were admiring the woman beneath the armor: the woman he caught reading scandalous literature in the garden, the woman who kept a rosewater scented handkerchief tucked in her left bracer…the woman whose eyes filled with longing when she saw two hearts in love, two bodies hand in hand, two lives joined as one.

Yes, Cullen realized, there were three who were the backbone of the Inquisition. That was how Thedas needed to see them. It could not be, however, the way in which they began to see each other. More than ever, they needed to trust each other. And now, more than ever before, Cullen needed someone he could trust. Someone that knew about the song crawling across his flesh and around his eyes and into his mouth. He needed to be able to trust another, because he could not trust himself.

"Lady Pentaghast," Cullen solicited her attention, his chest burning as those dark, glittering eyes landed on him, "if you have a moment, there is a matter of great importance that I need to speak with you about."

"Does it concern the questionable abilities of our high-blooded soldiers?" Cassandra asked, smiling.

Cullen did not know it…but later, he would name that as the moment he began to live to place that expression on the Right Hand's face.

"No, milady." Cullen shook his head. "It is a personal matter, but it does stand to affect the Inquisition."

"Walk with me." Cassandra nodded in the direction of the road that led out of Haven. "Where ears are not wide open and belonging to tongues with loose hinges."

"Very well." Cullen agreed, extending his arm in courtly fashion, surprised with the stoic, pragmatic woman took it…more surprised when they fell in step with each other…a harmony, that, for a moment, drowned out the song that haunted him.