"Perhaps you could use this noise as some sort of counter measure in a battle," Lana threw out. He snorted at that, then turned to her with a calculating look twisting up his lips. "I was being facetious. That would be a war crime."
Then the unexpected happened. Either by a miracle of Andraste showing pity upon them, or because it'd all been an act, the qunari and elf suddenly got good. Well, good was a reach, they became passable. The beat was solid, the cat scream went from thirty in heat down to a few annoyed you stepped on their tail. Sutherland, along with Deveny, turned fully around in his chair to watch as the elf began to march back and forth with her drum, her legs kicking high in the air.
"This doesn't seem to surprise you," Cullen leaned over towards her to whisper, his voice barely beating above the noise of a song.
"Nor you," Lana volleyed back. She glanced over at the young man and his friends but they were too enraptured in the goings on. Slyly, she dropped her hand down under the table and reached over to pick up Cullen's. For a moment it rested limply in hers, then he gripped back, sealing them together.
"I, uh," Cullen shook his head, trying to will away a creeping blush, "I know them. There is little Sera does that surprises me anymore."
"Stuff like this happened all the time during the blight," Lana said. She rose up in her chair to get a good look as a few of the people around the tavern rose up to dance to the thumping beat.
"Really?"
"When you have a swamp witch, an assassin, a golem, a qunari, a drunken dwarf, and a bard, it'd be more surprising if it didn't. We once got a crocodile stuck up a tree."
"By the Maker, where did you find a crocodile? How did you get it up a tree?"
"The tree part was easy, Zevran tried to scare Oghren with it by hiding it in his bedroll. It sort of worked and the dwarf reacted not by screaming but smashing the crocodile tail with a hammer. Unfortunately, it was off balance and the force threw the entire thing way up into a tree. I think we got it from some wizarding shop. They always have stuffed crocodiles. Though I'm having trouble remembering why."
Cullen's shoulder bounced against hers as he whisper-yelled, "I'm never certain if you're lying for dramatic effect or your life is that bizarre."
Her eyes broke away from the proceedings and she turned fully into his honey gaze. Perhaps it was the theatrics occurring down below, or being somewhere warm, but color returned to his cheeks, the frown lines smoothed down. "You've traveled with me, I lie to tone down most of my tales."
"That," Cullen smiled, his head tipped as he stared at the table, "I would believe that." A thread of silence drifted over them as they both sat enjoying the song bouncing through the rafters. Whenever Lana thought it would be reaching the end the elven woman would pick up a new beat and the qunari would match it. She wondered if this single song would last for the rest of the night, the beat continuing until neither player could stand.
"You cannot get me to dance," Cullen suddenly spoke up.
"All right?" Lana shook her head, struggling to trace where this came from, "I had no inclination to try."
"Oh?" he asked, then gestured to her toes. With her legs crossed, she kept tapping her foot to the beat, almost knocking into him on accident.
"That, uh, that's just getting swept up in the moment. Can happen to anyone," she smiled and squeezed his hand. It was silly, but she felt herself blushing from the innocent hand holding, as if they were two people as young as Sutherland there dipping into courting. Lana laughed at the idea, and Cullen turned to her.
"Yes?"
"Ah, no, it's not anything, that...um, well," she squirmed, her face growing flush at the idea of revealing to him her inner thoughts. Leaning close to his ear, she whispered, "I feel a bit like an apprentice that's snuck off to the stacks with the cutest templar." After finishing her confession, she glanced up to watch Cullen blink in surprise, then smile wide.
"Oh, I," he paused to smile again, "I can understand that feeling and might share it." Those smoldering eyes drifted closer to hers, his lips slightly parting as if he intended to kiss her right in the middle of the tavern where every strain of Skyhold could see.
"Which templar would you sneak off with?" she asked quickly, throwing him off.
Cullen paused and he leaned back from her in thought, "I would need some time to think of an answer, I'm afraid."
"You'd make a terrible apprentice," she smiled.
"I fear what you could do as a templar," he answered truthfully. Taking a deep breath, Cullen turned out of their cozy corner to gaze around the tavern now into full on rapture, bodies undulating to the beat in something approximating dance. "Thank you, for bringing me here. It's...I feel better."
"Cullen," now she ached to kiss him, to run her fingers over that stubble and rough up her palm upon it. "Anytime."
He turned towards her, his gaze falling upon her hair expanded beyond capacity. Gently, he trailed his fingers against it, then down her collar. "Why is this wet? I thought you had your hood up."
"I did when I went from the great hall to your office, room... What do you call it?"
"When you..." he tapped his finger against her wet hair then pulled it down to rest upon the table. Sure, she used the hood to protect the parchment from leaking, but before that she trekked all over Skyhold sometimes splashing in a puddle or two. After a life in the tower, dancing in the rain was a small joy for her.
A doleful smile knotted up Cullen's face, "You like the rain."
Lana leaned into him, her wet hair overflowing off his cheek and down to his chest. "Yes, but...I like you more."
As Lana woke up, she breathed in dirt, her cheek pressed against the final flagstone before the grass moved in. The spirit's tendrils lagged away from her brain now burning from its machinations, while a dead pit sank in her stomach. She knew she should rise, look around at what changes the spirit caused in the fade, jot them down and any other observations, but that seemed impossible. Her hand wobbled on the flagstone, a finger tracing the griffin imprint because it was all she could do.
Despair, depression, the darkness. She never talked about it to anyone. The enchanters, they'd speak of the despair demons - twisted creatures with withered faces that blanketed their victims in ice. It was hard for a twelve year old to not look at her own hand that fired icicles and wonder if that wasn't her future, her curse. The bad turns were...ignored: by her teachers, by the templars, by the wardens, by Lana herself. To wallow in her own misery wouldn't help anyone - who could she save if she couldn't save herself? And yet...
"Something is amiss," the spirit spoke, its form zipping in and out above her head.
She got through this exile in the fade, as horrible as it sounded, by not thinking about him. By convincing herself that Cullen was a distraction, a fun one, a sweet one, but nothing more. She never wanted to hurt him, to hurt anyone -- yet you kept at it, Lana. Kept prodding into his affairs, found reasons to visit him, to talk to him, help him, kiss him, love him.
Maker... The throbbing in her chest ached and a slither of tears dripped onto the flagstone, washing away the dirt. She'd wanted to die before, before Alistair and Seheron, before Amaranthine, before she ever left the tower - the darkness overwhelming from the depths of her soul. That shame, that despair would forever taint her, mark her as unworthy, a danger to anyone who dared to draw close, and yet...
"I'm so sorry," Lana whispered, her lips fogging up the freezing cold stone. Her words barely slipped past her mouth.
"What was that, dear?"
She dug deeper into the stone, her fingernails scratching against the griffin relief. Why didn't she realize it before? She went to her death leaving him with only a promise that one day she might care for him. Might love him. Andraste's tears, how could she be so cruel? It was right there, plain as day. If he'd have asked her to give up the wardens she would have. If he'd begged for her to hide away with him away from the politics, from the world powers jockeying for position, every creature and murderer in thedas trying to
kill them both, she would have.
Ice rolled off her palm, coating first the flagstone then reaching like spilled water across the ground. The grass itself cracked in half, caught in surprise from the frost. Lana could pretend to be normal, forget she was ever a warden, a hero, an Arlessa, but she'd always be a mage, always be corrupted with magic. How could he love that? How could anyone?
"My dear," the spirit whined above her, "what are you doing?"
Lana curled up tight pressing her knees to her chest and gripping hard to try and will away the regret stinging her every thought. What if she hadn't been born a mage? Then could he trust her? Could she trust him?
Oh, Maker... She sat upright as the truth landed square upon her head. Wiping the muddy tears from her cheeks, Lana blinked and stared out at the horizon. Something was wrong. The once calm tan-green skies wobbled, ripples echoing across the horizon like a breaking down barrier. "What is...?" she began, turning to the spirit. Only a whisper of its form remained hovering in the air before the rest of it zipped away leaving her alone.
Parting the air itself, a multitude of spiders marched towards her - an army beyond counting all aiming to kill the lone mortal in the fade. Lana wiped her hands down her robes, snatched up her staff, and prepared to fight.
Chapter Ninteeen
Belief
9:44 Tevinter-Anderfells
Cullen watched as Fenris tried to dodge away from the king's royal hand extended either in friendship or because Alistair was trying to wipe off something on his palm. Eventually, the elf gave in, a bronto like snort huffing out of his nose as Alistair pumped their joined hands up and down like a waterspout.
"This has been an excellent partnership. We are on the way to the Anderfells, right? It's past that bridge you pointed at?"
"Yes," Fenris yanked his hand back and glowered at it. On the plus side, his tattoos didn't light up so maybe even he was growing accustomed to the king's exuberant nature. "Thank you, for your help."
"What's a few dead slavers between friends?" Alistair shrugged. "We ready to head onward?" He turned to Cullen who nodded in return. It'd been a trying march west, but oddly satisfying as well. Even if...their mission did not end well, at least some good came from his visiting Tevinter.
The elf nodded tersely at his remaining crew and as one they circled back into the Imperium leaving king, templar, and mabari alone at the creaking bridge. Spanning across a vast canyon between countries, the bridge was painted in reds and golds with a griffin statue looming over the top crossbeam in the middle of the divide. Beyond wafted grassland that looked much the same to what was behind them, but the landscape itself loomed ever upward, the distant mountains jagged and imposing for anyone without wings.
"Should we draw lots to see who goes first or run it really fast together?" Alistair asked. He'd stripped off most of his armor again, but a well crafted wool cloak hung about his shoulders. The trim was done in gold thread and a mabari emblem graced the back, all but giving away the owner. It was the first sign of royalty the man had shown their entire trip.
"I will take the lead," Cullen said. Rolling his pack and shield to the other side of his shoulder he patted his leg for Honor to follow.
"Ah, I was hoping it'd come down to a game of crosses and naughts. I'm great at it, held almost all my challengers to a standstill."
Cullen snorted at the idea and eased onto the first board. Nothing crashed down around him, no planks scattered to the winding dry creek below, and the bridge itself barely even shifted. It seemed as steady as a rock to cross. He turned around to inform the king, but the man was already behind him smiling wide as he stared down at the drop below. "How far do you think that is?"
"Deep enough you'd have to take a breath in the middle of screaming," Cullen said as he began crossing to the other side.
The king hung off the bridge's guide ropes a moment longer, staring down as if he could judge the distance himself. "What do you think would hurt more, falling from a great height or being crushed by a rock?"
"I..." Cullen paused as he looked up at the griffin guarding the entrance or informing people of who ruled the Anderfells, "depends. How large is the rock?"
"Hm, big enough to crush someone."
"If death is the end point, would pain matter either way?" Beyond the bridge he spotted the beginnings of the Anderfells. It wasn't the fabled steppes that looked like the bones of the earth stripped to their flesh and exposed to the desiccating air of the west - grey and churning, each shoulder of the mountain visible with barely any foliage clinging to life. Here, yellow grass danced in the distance on ground flat as a pancake while a mountainous hill claimed the horizon beyond.
"What about being eaten by a dragon? That one's got to hurt. Or worse. What if she swallows you whole?!" Alistair's chatter continued from behind, his fingers skimming along the rope as he tried to sway the bridge.
"I doubt there are any dragons that could slurp down a grown man without taking a bite."
"You've never met Morrigan's mother," he said, a shudder in his voice.
That caught Cullen's attention and he turned around to find the man with both hands upon the guide ropes, his knees bent deep to walk as if afraid he'd smack his head on the griffin statue above. "I have, well, the Inquisitor did, but Morrigan herself served with us for a few months."
"Ouch, my condolences there, truly," Alistair grabbed at his chest. "Let me guess, she called you a sloven, crass, simpleton, then snapped her head back with a flurry of her serrated hair before trouncing out like she owned the place."
"That, uh..." was disturbingly accurate.
"I had to put up with her for a year. An entire year of that cold hearted, sneering dragon-scum witch...who, for reasons I never understood, Lanny was friends with."
"Lana and Morrigan?"
"Oh yeah, it was weird. Really weird. Like spoons on the ceiling weird," Alistair waved his hands in the air as if his simile made any sense. "I never got it, and the way Morrigan turned her bratty nose up at anything to do with the Circle you'd think they'd have hated each other."
"It's hard for me to picture anyone hating Lana," Cullen answered.
Alistair maintained his crossing the bridge towards him during their conversation, but now he paused and blinked a few times. "You do have it bad. Lanny made plenty of enemies along the way, after the way, kind of around the way too. She ever tell you about the dragon cult we stumbled across in Haven?"
Turning around, Cullen resumed his walk towards the edge, "I heard some tales of its existence before the ashes were found."
The king didn't seem to notice the pause in his voice, "Their leader, what was his name? Started with a K. Kilger? Kreager? Kittens? He was one mustache twirl away from dropping virgins in volcanoes. Drink enough dragon blood and you go a bit funny in the head, says the grey warden who drank darkspawn blood," Alistair was quick to burn himself before anyone else had the chance.
"That must have been difficult," Cullen said, his boot stepping off the bridge and into the grass. Honor barreled past him, the dog needing to stretch her legs in a run or because she saw a rabbit to chase.
"Eh," Alistair waved his hand back and forth, "as long as we were really, really mouse-like quiet, we didn't wake up the high dragon. That came later."
"When Lana broke her arm," Cullen said. He remembered her telling him, the way she ran her finger across the scar on her shoulder and shrugged it away. Then she kissed him, her lithe body tugging him into her bed because she wanted him. That felt far too long ago.
"Yeah, it was a lucky thing Wynne was with us. Turns out mages have trouble healing their own broken arms." A darkness clouded over the jolly king's face and he stood transfixed upon the precipice of bridge meeting land. "She whimpered when it happened. Not a scream, not a cry in rage or pain, just a sickening crunch and then a whimper. That whimper was..." he rubbed his hands over his face vigorously as if trying to scrub the blood off. "In the past. All of it was in the past, and we have a whole lot of g
rassland to cross."
"According to Fenris we need to head due east to make the first town. After that, it's...." Cullen gestured to the king's satchel dangling off his hip. While the man could leave his socks, shoes, sword, and even pants scattered across any part of their camps throughout Tevinter he always kept the satchel tight to the side. It never left his sight.
"Phylactery time, yeah. Got it," Alistair waved him off. "How are we going to figure out due east?" He pointed forward at the sun. "That's easty eastish, but this far north it's not the most trustworthy of directions."
Cullen tugged at his shoulders and glanced upward. A purple haze drifted around the upper echelons of the sky, waiting for the sun to finish setting so the stars could return. "We find the right claw of Draconis, that points north."
Tipping his own head back as if the stars became visible if he looked really hard, Alistair scoffed, "How do you know that?"
"Templar training," Cullen sputtered out.
"Seriously? Templar training is your answer to the man who was not only raised in the templars but at the same damn abbey as you," Alistair folded up his arms looking as if he was about to scold Cullen. "It was Lanny, right? She was always on about the stars."
Cullen dropped his head, a burn inching up the back of his neck. He tried to wipe it away while he twisted his feet around in the grass to gaze across the miles left on their journey. Sometimes he could almost hear her voice on the wind, her laugh, or when she'd sigh in consternation - which happened often when she was dealing with underlings, rarely him. For two years he woke with his head ringing of memories of Lana. He begged the Maker to lessen them, to free him from the ceaseless pain of her loss. One day, he was reading her journal and he couldn't remember the way she'd roll her r's in her almost vanished Marcher accent. Anger at his mind forgetting and fear that it'd never return pummeled Cullen's heart until a few hours later it slipped back in - her golden voice threading though his brain. He didn't know if it was the lyrium finally catching up to him, or the natural progression of memory decay, but he grew to dread the day he'd wake and not remember Lana at all.
My Love Page 71