She greeted him personally when he arrived at the Inquisition stronghold.

She rode her mount expertly, dashing in the sand with a ferocious speed, and tugged on the reins at the last moment. Hooves skidded to a halt, spraying sand around their ankles. Her long, ebony hair whipped around her shoulder when she stopped, but the wide-brimmed hat didn't move at all.

"Welcome, Knight-Commander," she said. "We're honored to have you among our ranks."

Trevelyan was striking, if not conventionally attractive. Tanned skin, dark eyes under thick brows, distinct cheekbones, and a full, pretty mouth. Two scars, irregular but smooth with maturity, slashed across her lips and chin.

Cullen didn't stare. He was all too familiar with scars.

"That's not longer my title," he corrected her too harshly, but she didn't flinch. "Just 'Cullen,' if you'd please, and the honor is mine."

He followed her to the stronghold, straining mentally and physically to keep his horse in pace with hers. She was all business when they reached the fortress. She gave a tour of the essentials: the stables, his room, the kitchen, the wine hall, the baths, the library, and the conference chamber she dubbed the war room.

"We have a cook who makes breakfast and supper. You're on your own for a midday meal, or if you don't want to eat with the rest of us. I'd like you to join us tonight, however, so I might introduce you."

Cullen agreed, although he didn't much care to be formally introduced. He kept his preference to dine in solitude to himself.

The introductions were fine, uncomfortable, mostly tolerable. He already knew Pentaghast-she was his point of contact-and Varric, of course, the loquacious dwarf who aided Hawke. Terse nods straining to be polite were exchanged, and Cullen could tell who knew about him. Or at least thought they new about him.

Drinking seemed as large a part of dinner as the meal itself. A few of his new companions retired early, but the Inquisitor herself remained. She indulged in a small glass of wine and listened to a few stories before rising from the table. Cullen took that as a cue for him to leave too, although no one else followed suit. He felt awkward, but committed to his decision. He didn't drink and he didn't want to get sucked into conversation with Varric and he didn't like that Warden calling him "templar" after Cullen explained he was no longer with the Order.

Sleeping was never easy. It wasn't easy after Kinloch Hold, it wasn't easy in the Gallows, it wasn't easy with lyrium (although it was significantly harder without), it wasn't easy with booze, and it wouldn't be easy here.

He eased under the blankets and sank into the mattress. It was the softest bed he'd ever had.

Maybe sleeping would be a little easier here.

He still woke before dawn.

She took advantage of his early rising the next morning. One of the neighboring towns had been attacked by a pride demon and a swarm of abominations, and she didn't have time to wake the others. Cullen and the enormous Kossith met her in the armory where she told them to pick their weapons. He found a nicely weighted sword and shield, and he was unsurprised when she snatched a bow and quiver of arrows. There was a quick agility to all her movements befitting of that talent.

And a talent it was, he realized with a controlled awe. He almost was uncertain why she had him come along, as her arrows took down most of the abominations before they reached the town proper.

Then he saw the towering pride demon, who swatted at her arrows like gnats, and his presence was understood.

It felt good to fight again. It felt good to tear down an enemy, a true enemy whose death didn't leave him sick with moral ambiguity. It felt good to be victorious and to feel like that victory was well-earned. It felt good to work with a team with a clear goal.

She gave him a friendly slap on the back. "Well done, Cullen."

He nodded and kept his smile to himself.

It was the first time he had felt good in a long time.

Cullen found comfort in routine. They had their missions and tasks, of course, both planned and surprised, but on quieter days, he settled into a schedule. Everyone was quiet at breakfast, and he liked being around his comrades without the pressure of conversation. The Inquisitor would read her reports in the morning, usually until lunch, and call on various individuals for counsel. Afternoons were filled with training, dinner, and then revelry.

One night she lingered and had an extra glass of wine, so Cullen stayed, too.

"You gonna give us the real story about those scars yet?" Varric asked.

Cullen liked the way she propped her still-armored boot up on the table, took a coy sip of wine, and winked.

"I already told you. I had a vicious cat as a child. Mother said 'don't pick at the scabs, they'll never heal!' I should have listened."

"No domestic cat could have done that," Cullen blurted out. He flushed when he felt eyes on him, and immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut.

"Pay them no mind," Cassandra whispered to him. "This is just some foolish game they play."

"Even the templar knows you're lying, Trevelyan!" the Warden bellowed.

Cullen flinched at the moniker, but he saw her smile warmly.

And he liked her smile, too, he decided.

One afternoon she called him into the war room. It had been a hot day so she had stripped out of her light armor, wearing only a thin tunic and leather leggings. Her hat rested on one corner of the massive table, and her hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun that bounced as she walked back and forth.

"What do you know about the red Templars?" she asked with crossed arms.

"Less than you'd imagine," he answered honestly.

"And that's still more than what I know. Speak."

He explained the known effects of red lyrium, its rarity, what it did to Meredith. She listened with a tight mouth, slowly pacing around the room and nodded as she absorbed the information. There was silence when he concluded, and she deliberated.

She wanted him in charge of Red Templar reconnaissance. He wanted to say no, but instead he nodded and made his leave.

Cullen had no patience for Orlesian politics. All politics were deceptive and dishonest, but theirs especially so. He told the inquisitor such, but she still insisted he join her to the ball. A ball which wasn't just a ball, but a game of intrigue and power and subtlety.

"Surely Leliana is better suited-"

"-She will be present in a different capacity. You have clout if we need it." She tossed him a gaudy gold mask and a smirk. "And that if we don't."

Cullen felt absurd in the decadent fabric draped around him. At least the mask hid the blushing.

He was doubly glad for that when he saw the Inquisitor. He thought her fighting leathers better suited her, but the bodice of the flashy gown pressed her breasts together and he caught himself staring. He thought she might have caught his staring, too.

She tied her mask around her head, the covering concealing her mouth and scars, and she flicked his elbow.

"You're supposed to offer your arm to a lady," she said with a teasing cadence.

He liked the weight of her forearm draped over his.

Cullen didn't know how to dance, and she admitted she didn't really either, which surprised him. But if they stayed close and gently rocked, no one would notice them and they could observe the room without suspicion. She placed his right hand on her waist and her right hand on his shoulder. He could smell her hair, a clean scent of juniper and pine, when she leaned in and showed him how to hold her other hand up. He soon forgot why they were there. He even forgot about the absurd clothes. He pulled her a little closer, held her a little tighter.

They kept their masks on the entire time.

But Leliana returned early in the morning, covered in blood. Cullen watched with a furrowed brow as she whispered with Cassandra.

"It's not hers," the Inquisitor said behind him.

That didn't make him feel better. Something had happened at the ball, something he should have been a part of, but he was too busy holding the Inquisitor. He was angry and was going to scold her, but when he looked at her face, her eyes were already apologetic. She touched his arm as if she shared his feelings.

The stronghold was attacked two nights later. They almost lost Sera and that Tevinter mage.

She was furious.

Ripping papers, throwing books, smashing a wine glass-Cullen had never seen her so raw before.

He wanted to console her, but he didn't know how and he didn't know if he'd be welcomed.

So when he walked by the war room, he didn't stop.

Sleeping was harder than usual that night. He finally got out of bed and walked back to the chamber.

She was still in there, slumped over her arms on the table. Cullen hesitated and then touched her shoulder. She barely roused, and he saw the empty wine bottles.

She was drunk.

He scooped her up in his arms, and she was heavier than he expected. She mumbled into his neck as he carried her to her room. He sat her down on the bed and undid the straps on her chestplate and boots before covering her with a blanket.

Cullen was surprised she was still at breakfast the next morning.

He wanted her to look at him, but she kept her eyes away. Cullen was afraid he embarrassed her for intervening the night before, and he didn't want her to feel ashamed for last night. He wanted to tell her it was okay to be angry, that he had done far worse when he had his episodes, that he had been sent to Greenfell for nearly beating a mage to death, and that drinking too much one time because she had almost lost two comrades was okay.

They barely spoke the next few days, and when they did, it was just about the Red Remplars.

Cullen was tired of talking about red lyrium and templars and the Chantry. He wanted to ask her if she was okay. But he didn't know how, and instead, his concern came out in an abrasive shout. He yelled at her for making him relive his experience with templars every time he talked about them.

She dismissed him with a coldness that stung, and Cullen suddenly found thinking about the templars, Meredith, Kinloch Hold, anything was better than thinking about her.

She came to his room nights later. It was late, but he wasn't asleep. When he opened the door, she handed him two vials of lyrium.

"A peace offering," she said with her small, sad smile. The scars glittered in the candlelight.

"Thank you." He was also grateful for the hot brush of her skin against his as he accepted the cold bottles.

"About that night..." She looked away, but he touched her chin and made her face him.

"You don't need to talk about it," he told her. Only some of the words he wanted to say reached his tongue. "No one else knows. I won't tell anyone. You don't need to explain."

She squeezed his hand when it dropped, and he was consumed with an overwhelming desire to kiss her, but she turned and left.

Somehow, they ended up the only two left after dinner. She had taken it upon herself to clean up the half-emptied steins and plates. Cullen had taken it upon himself to assist her. He wanted to talk to her more, and his mouth twitched a few times when he thought he found appropriate words to say, only to feel like they'd be foolish when actually spoken.

"Is there something you'd like to ask me?" she asked.

"How did you get your scars?" was the first question that tumbled out of his mouth. He flushed. That wasn't at all what he wanted to ask her.

She touched them and didn't answer immediately. Cullen felt like an idiot and opened his mouth again to apologize, but she replied, "I want to tell you, but not right now."

Cullen nodded too quickly and brought the soiled dishes into the kitchen.

She was wounded during their assault on a group of raiders. A blade had pierced her abdomen, and he was angry at her for not bringing him along. He was angry that he couldn't have shielded her. He was angry at the Warden who failed to do so in his stead. They confronted each other, and Cullen almost put his fist in the other man's nose when he called him "Templar" again. Leliana intervened.

"Go see her," Leliana told him as she tugged on his shoulders, pulling Cullen away from the Warden. "She's healing well, and I know she'd enjoy your company."

But he was afraid to see her injured, in pain, bed-ridden, her mortality revealed, even if she was going to be fine in a few days.

So he didn't visit her that day or the next.

He walked by her room nights later and saw the door was open, a candle lit. She was sitting upright with a book in her lap.

Even in the dim light he saw the relieved happiness on her face, and it crushed him because he knew he should have seen her days ago.

"Why didn't you come sooner?" Her voice was tiny, like a piercing needle.

Cullen swallowed and shook his head and looked away from her. "I'm sorry," was all he could say. "You needed your rest."

"It's mostly healed now." She put the book aside and moved the blankets and her tunic, showing the thinning scratch across her stomach.

Then he admitted his selfishness. "I didn't want to see you hurt."

Cullen stepped closer, but paused. She tossed the blankets off her legs and met him instead. She took his hands and wrapped them around her waist, like she had at the ball.

"I missed you," she whispered against his neck.

He did kiss her that time.

Soft, uncertain at first, their lips barely brushing, and then deeper and more urgent. She whimpered against his mouth when his hands tightened their grip, and he pulled back, terrified he hurt her.

She kissed him in reassurance and she stepped backwards, pulling him to her bed and then on top of her.

Cullen acquiesced when she tugged his tunic off and helped when her fingers knotted the lacing on his trousers instead of untying it. He smiled and she giggled and he helped her with her clothes.

Cullen kissed her neck, breasts, stomach, inhaling her sweet musk.

He licked between her thighs, and she tugged on his hair urgently.

She gasped when he slid inside her wetness. Their fingers interlocked over her head, their hips rocked and writhed against each other's, and when she came with a moan, he buried his face against her neck and spent himself inside her.

They laid together in her bed. She rested her head against his chest and draped an arm over his stomach. He stroked her arm and kissed her forehead.

"I want to tell you now," her voice, barely above a whisper, was loud in the otherwise silent room. "About my scars."

She rolled away from him and looked at the ceiling. He propped himself up on one elbow and watched her face with a furrowed brow.

"They're from my mother," she said after a deep breath. "She was inebriated most nights, but one night was especially... She lashed out at my younger brother, because he dropped a plate and it broke. His whole face was bloodied..."

She sighed and covered her own face. Cullen wrapped a gentle arm over her waist, holding her tenderly, listening with sad eyes.

"I hit her on the back of the head with one of her bottles. I don't think she even knew she was bleeding. She snatched the broken bottle out of my hand and slapped me across the face with it and I just... ran."

She inhaled again.

"By the time I made it to the next town, the wounds had festered. The sisters at the Chantry told me they could send for a mage to heal me, but they couldn't help with the scarring."

She looked at Cullen with watery eyes, and he didn't know what to say so instead he kissed her forehead again.

She nestled into his arms.

"i prefer Varric's stories, too," she said against his bare chest.

"I don't. They're just stories," Cullen said softly. "There's nothing honest in them."

She pulled away and frowned at him.

"There's honesty in the stories he tells about you."

Cullen scoffed. He didn't even know the dwarf told stories about him.

"Maybe not about the amount of maleficarum in the Gallows," she admitted with a smile and rubbed the stubble on his chin. "But about your bravery, you conviction, about how you stood against the Knight-Commander when she ordered you to kill the Champion, about how you helped restore order in Kirkwall."

No one had ever said any of that to Cullen.

No one had ever talked to him about what happened in the Gallows without accusations of betrayal to the Order, of a failure to perform his duty. He had been told he failed his Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter and the men and women who served them and the mages he was supposed to protect. He had been accused of being both a mage abuser and a templar traitor.

And no one had ever told him he had done the right thing.

Cullen gave her a gentle, grateful squeeze.

"When you're ready," she murmured sleepily, "you can tell me about your scars, too."