My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  But she came to him, searched him out, needed him. And you went and destroyed all of that for a kiss. Cullen touched his lips in the same move as Lana did before she skittered away. He could still taste her on him, the lingering undertones reminiscent of lyrium. Did all mages have that same spark against their skin or was it just her? Why was he even wondering it? It'd never affect him again. Shaking his shoulders as if it could remove the memories of the past hour, he unknotted the bedroll off his pack. Little more than a celebrated blanket, Cullen snapped it a few times against the air hoping that assaulting it would make him feel better.

  He didn't want her to need him. Many people needed him, needed him to hold that line between chaos and order in Kirkwall. Needed him to make the choices they couldn't, that they wouldn't, so blood didn't run through the streets. He wanted her to want him, and that thought made him feel even more worthless than before.

  "Cullen..."

  Twisting away from the beaten bedroll, he watched Lana step out of the shadows towards him. A determination roared in her eyes, which only made him shy away from her. He glared at the broken nub of an etching carved against the wall and spoke, "I should apologize for what I --"

  She picked up his dangling hand and threaded her fingers through his. "Don't." Her thumb rubbed the back of his hand, the same way when she didn't seem to want him to follow her into the deep roads.

  "But it was my unwanted affections that--"

  Lana slipped her body in front of him until she was only a breath away. She tossed her staff to the ground without a care and cupped his cheek. Cullen turned his gaze even lower, embarrassed by the burn inching below her fingers. "You have nothing to apologize for," she said.

  His eyes snapped up to hers, and he almost snorted in shock from a smile curling up her lips. "I don't understand," Cullen gasped, paddling to find some sense left in the world. "You, and I, it was...you left."

  Lana's smile fanned out, and her finger circled across the stubble of his chin, "I needed a moment, to steady myself. To think. It's been..." her eyes dipped down and she shook her head, "I'm afraid I'm not very good at this."

  "You're not alone," Cullen admitted, getting a chuckle from her. She raised her head and claimed his lips as her own, claimed his body, claimed his heart. He'd offered it up to her long ago without even realizing it. Now it struck in his soul how much of himself he'd abandon for her. All she had to do was ask.

  The kiss was much gentler than their first, like two young lovers struggling to see if this other person could possibly care as much. He scooped her up and lifted her body to him. Their lips softly pressed and cupped against each other, trying to find the perfect spot to meld into one. He felt Lana break into a smile below him, which broke his own concentration. Slipping away from her, he brought his forehead to hers. His eyes slipped closed and he whispered, "This is not wise."

  Lana chuckled again, "It's the deep roads, nothing here is ever wise. But, would you rather do something unwise now or regret never attempting it later?"

  "I..." Cullen's life was staying in line, minding himself as best he could, and keeping others from shattering the rules. Wrapping Lana in his arms, he lifted her up and placed her on his bedroll. It was the least romantic spot he could imagine but Maker he did not care, and she didn't seem to either. Her fingers curled up behind his jaw, pulling him in for more kisses. Lana sighed as she leaned back, her hands exploring across his body. For the first time in an age, Cullen wanted to do something stupid.

  Chapter Eight

  Pillow Talk

  If he was going to the void for that, it was worth it.

  Lana propped herself up on her side and stretched across the bedroll until her toes clipped against the cold rock. His one hand rested against her naked hip, gently massaging the curve of it. He was too terrified to touch any other part of her, even after...

  Andraste's grace, did they really do that? Did he do that? She caught his eyes and ran her fingers against his increasing scruff, knotting it against the grain. A warmth radiated off her body keeping the chill away between them, but a cool breeze still wafted against his backside. Knowing his luck, this would be when the darkspawn finally broke through their cave in - while he was bare-assed and unarmed. Cullen shook off the dour thoughts invading his mind and let his eyes drift down across Lana's body.

  He'd expected her to dress quickly after...no, he hadn't expected any of that, truth be told. But it all happened so fast, his head buzzing with a thousand different thoughts -- all of them traipsing about in an ecstatic panic -- he could only sample parts of her. Now he felt he had all the time in thedas to savor what didn't seem possible.

  Her graceful neck sported a birthmark shaped like a melting flower that bloomed down into her collarbone. He only saw the barest hints of it peeking out below her robes before. The mark of hers fevered his imagination since the days when she was an apprentice and he wished to kiss it endlessly. She'd laughed at his attempts during, almost taking the top of his head to her chin when he tried, but he loved it. Loved the scoop of her shoulders, the muscle chiseled below her skin from years carrying her staff across thedas. And...a blush burned up his nude neck as his eyes drifted down to her breasts. Each handful cup rested atop themselves, the depths of her cleavage inviting him. Freckles dashed up the side of her breast and under highlighting the part that was called...

  "What is it?" She spoke for the first time since they'd disentangled.

  "Hm?" he snapped his head up trying to wipe away any guilt across his face, but Lana had to see it. He was a horrible liar.

  She chuckled, her finger twisting through the knotted curls above his ear while her other arm propped her head higher. "You were thinking something so profound your lower lip jutted out in concentration. I have to know what drew it from you."

  "Oh, that, it was..." Cullen tried to scrounge for anything deep or philosophical from the depths of his brain. Unfortunately, that organ was still short on blood and refused to offer assistance. "It's not important, I was only...it is trivial, foolish, and. I was tying to think of the word people use for the part of your, um, body that..." he mumbled his sentence to death, terrified to continue on.

  But Lana rose up, curiosity burning a sparkling focus in her eyes. She broke her hand away from his hair and pointed at her nose, "Is it this?"

  "No," Cullen sighed, aware of how this would go. He wished for once a poet would inhabit his skull instead of his usual fumbling.

  "Oh," Lana gestured to her collar bone, her fingers rolling across the birthmark. "How about this?"

  "No."

  "This part?" she patted her stomach, her fingers prodding against an old scar bisecting up her hip. Cullen shook his head, chuckling from the game, when her hand slipped in between her thighs, "It cannot be this bit. You seemed to be well acquainted with that one."

  An unmanly squeak erupted from his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. "It's the breast," he cried, cutting off her game before he embarrassed himself into a puddle, "there's a term for the part of it that's...I was thinking of it, trying to think of it. The word I mean. And I don't know why I'm still talking."

  Lana laughed with such strength her in question anatomy bounced, the hypnotic jiggle drawing his attention like a moth to a flame. "Swell!" the word dawned in his jumbled brain as if by magic.

  "You're not so bad yourself," she responded, still chuckling.

  "They call it a swell, the swell of the breast."

  "Who's they?" she shook her head, knocking around her knotted braids.

  "I don't remember where I read it," Cullen exasperated, not wanting to be on trial. "People who describe breasts often, I suppose," he grumbled. Someone was taking the piss from him and he feared it was himself.

  Lana ran her fingers down his shoulder and onto his bicep. Her own attention into his interrogation waned for a moment as she squeezed his muscle. Cullen thought he might be free before she shook her head and asked, "Do templars often describe breasts?"

 
The blush charred up his cheeks and moved towards the forehead. He remembered where he'd first read it, and there was no way he would confess it to her. The chantry could be strict about what it expected from future templars, but even the patrician sisters knew that a pile of adolescents trapped together with rampaging hormones needed a guiding hand once in awhile, and a feigned ignorance the rest. The book was terrible and trite, but every recruit passed it from one to the other, often emphasizing the dirtier parts.

  "We, I..." He floundered, gritting his teeth to will away the guilt and shame when Lana pressed her lips against his. It took a moment before he thought to kiss her back.

  She settled back onto her hand and said, "I'm sorry, you're rather adorable when you're stewing. I couldn't help myself."

  Cullen's head dipped down but the shame evaporated in a breath leaving a goofy smile in its wake. How did she manage to calm him with a single kiss? He gazed down at those swell of breasts or however one classified them in groups. Despite decorating the deep roads in scattered clothing, Lana kept on her long necklace. The pendant dangled above her pressed cleavage, a quartz cylinder with a dark thick liquid lapping inside.

  He blinked at it and lifted his hand off her hip to reach for it. "Is that your phylactery?"

  Lana frowned and picked up the vial in her palm. He stopped short of touching it, watching the liquid in the haunting light of the dwarven ruins. "My phylactery?" she sighed, shaking the bottle back and forth, "This tiny?"

  She was right, the mage's blood was preserved in bottles at least seven centimeters tall. The bottle itself would change with time and tower but they would all fit comfortably in the hand. The templars wanted them to be easy to carry, but not something small and misplaced.

  "What is it then? That is blood, isn't it?" Cullen asked.

  And with that, a wintry draft wafted between them. Her frown etched deeper as she cupped the pendant in her hand. "It is, but it's not what you think. It's from the joining, my joining into the wardens. It's the blood of the darkspawn I killed, the blood I...how I became what I am. I wear it to remember."

  "Remember what?"

  She stared into the liquid he now realized was black as ink and bore no resemblance to the pulsing glow of a phylactery. And he'd jumped right to the most deadly conclusion, unable to imagine a mage would have any other reason to wear a pendant of blood outside of being a malifecarum. Lana's eyes snapped up to his and she dropped the vial to her breasts, "That there's no going back."

  He expected her to shy away from him after he all but accused her of consorting with demons, but Lana slid over to him. Burying her head into his chest, she dipped a hand across his hip, her fingers drifting towards his bare ass. Cullen wrapped his free hand around the small of her back and pulled himself tighter to her. Days traveling, even in the depths of the darkspawn horde, and her skin somehow smelled of rose water and a sweet musk. Maker only knew what he reeked of after struggling through the depths of the world in the grey armor. He planted a kiss against the top of her head and she sighed.

  "You probably have your phylactery stored somewhere else, of course," he spoke his internal thoughts aloud. "If the chantry has no control over grey wardens they have no reason to keep it."

  "I...they did gift it to me, but I didn't keep it. It's in the hands of someone else. So he can find me if I should ever vanish or know if I fall." Her warm breath ruffled the downy hair across his chest, but the words were cold and aloof.

  "Only a templar can track a phylactery," Cullen continued, unable to leave the thread alone.

  Lana snorted, "Despite his years sitting on the...out of the game, I don't think he'll forget how to do that."

  There were rumors that placed the Hero of Ferelden in damn near everyone's bed, even some tracing her as Empress Celene's arcane lover. They all grew increasingly outlandish with each new romance, to the point it was a wonder she had any time to stop the blight in between all the snogging. One even suggested Lana seduced Loghain and then his daughter to end the civil war in Ferelden. Through the were-dragons and demon lovers there was one that repeatedly bubbled up, the new King of Ferelden. It fit; he a grey warden, she the newest recruit, alone together in the world turned against them fighting to save it from impenetrable odds. Only a true idiot would not notice Lana, and despite the rumors about king Alistair it was doubtful he was that brainless. It was a few years after the blight that Cullen remembered he met the man who would be king during the lowest stage of his life. Maker, he'd even confessed his affections for Lana while her possible new lover stood there. That churned up his guts for a few months no matter how hard he tried to shake it off.

  His jealousy was unfounded regardless if the rumors were true or not. He'd had no right to act as if he had any claim to her. The fact it bothered him burnt his shame brighter for too many years. And now she was here with him, all of her. She pressed her body against his, her hip bones knocking into his own. Cullen curled his leg up around her hip, enveloping her deeper. It was hard to say who sighed from the move, perhaps both. The warmth of their bodies yanked them deeper into the fade. Maker, he never dreamed he'd sleep with her wrapped up in his arms.

  "I should let you sleep," she murmured, but didn't break away from his hold.

  "What of you?" he asked, struggling through the fog of exhaustion. The smart thing to do would be to rise and re-dress, but his body cried for him to give in to the uncomfortable bedroll.

  "I told you, I don't sleep in the deep roads."

  "I thought you couldn't hear the darkspawn anymore," he continued, struggling to understand what drove the grey wardens.

  "That's not how it works, I..." She burrowed deeper into him, her words so muffled by his own skin he couldn't understand her.

  "I'm sorry, I missed that," he said. Lana slid away, and Cullen started from tears brimming in her eyes.

  "I lied to you earlier. It isn't a grey warden thing that keeps me awake here. We hear them, sense them, but I can sleep if I...It's...there was an attack. I was struggling to cast a spell, low mana on uneven footing - bad luck all around," Lana explained, as if the templar knew anything about the rigors of spell casting. "When a genlock pops out of the ground and sticks a sword right through my shoulder," she pointed to a jagged white mark raised off her skin.

  "Maker," Cullen cried in sympathy and ran his thumb against the fading scar.

  Lana shrugged but watched him tend to it as if the wound was still fresh. "It wasn't the worst I've had. It didn't even stop me from casting. At the time I thought little of it. I'd been injured so many other times before and after, seen things...the arch demon, for the love of the Maker. But, I close my eyes, I lay my head down in the deep roads and it's as if someone's sat upon my chest. I feel the blade sawing through my flesh all over again."

  Lana turned down, unable to face him, "It's pathetic."

  "You're not alone," Cullen blurted out.

  She sighed into her own chest, "I know, the shock of war. I've heard it before from the old soldiers walking the battlements talking of their days on the fields."

  "Lana," he curled the back of his fingers against her cheek and felt the tears streaking down them. She hadn't made a noise to cry them. "I get them too. From the," Cullen steadied himself, "the blood mages, in the tower. And..."

  He never talked about it, not to anyone. Speaking of it could lead to lesser commands, or even a forced retirement - as much as templars retired. He didn't want to face either possibility. What he wanted was to serve, to protect others so they didn't have to suffer the same fate as he did. Save them so they wouldn't wake screaming in the night from a blood mage shredding apart their mind, slicing open every buried pain inside their head, and dangling their greatest fear before them. It wasn't noble anymore, not some great calling from the Maker like he dreamed when he was younger. He needed it, needed to be fighting against the always wearing line to protect the innocent. Some days, thinking he made a difference was the only reason he could keep going.

  Lana
slid up higher so her eyes could stare into his. He blinked, feeling the sting of smoke in them despite the torch being long doused. "Once, while asleep, I encased an entire campfire in ice from the nightmare," she said. "I have to sleep with my hands under me or I might accidentally hurt someone." Her pupils danced back and forth while she stared into him, waiting for him to condemn her.

  "The sound of rain, any water dripping, it...it's like a vice upon my heart. I, I'm back in the tower, in the cage with the blood and..." Cullen fell silent, unaware he was trembling until he felt her hand slide down the entirety of his side. She lifted it back up and continued to stroke him like he was a mabari, but it soothed him. It took some time before his shaking stopped, Lana's petting never slowing as her eyes held his.

  "Orange," she said. "It's orange for me."

  "The fruit or the color?" Cullen asked.

  For a moment she smiled, then leaned forward for a kiss. Cullen accepted it gladly, her touch grounding him. Lana leaned back so she could continue to stare into his eyes, "The smell, actually. It wasn't darkspawn but a demon. The things it did...I doubt I need to tell you, but when it reached out and gutted a man, it must have pierced an orange in his satchel. The smell wafted on the wind while it littered his intestines across the ground."

  Her voice paused and she shuddered, "I despise the things now. The smell of oranges turns my stomach and I have to get away lest I vomit all over some noble's shoes. It's rather sad to think the Hero of Ferelden can be defeated by fruit."

  She pouted after her final proclamation and Cullen giggled at the insanity of it all. The Lady Amell, Hero of Ferelden, conqueror of the Blight, laying beside him in the deep roads, both of them naked as the day they were born, confessing she could be stopped by an orange. Her lips curled into a frown, but for once Cullen didn't stumble. He cupped her cheek and pressed his forehead to hers.

  "You are the most awe inspiring person I've ever known." Despite years of denying it, he ripped back the edge of what he buried deep in his thoughts. "The things you can do even with the horrors of war in your mind, you saved the world. It gives so many hope, the Ferelden refugees in Kirkwall, the way they speak of you...you're so much more than a hero to them. You're a...they care for you," He blathered on, but not into the depths of his heart. He'd learned how to seal it off after Kinnloch.