My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

Only a flicker of light managed off the hearth, which made reading the words in her book a challenge. But Lana wasn't about to lift it higher for fear of waking the man sleeping beside her. It'd been a long day as she watched him draw up lists upon lists of what'd be required to extricate himself from the Inquisition. She tried to offer suggestions, but while he was always elbows deep into running the entire army, the most she ever had to worry about were fifty or so wardens. The seneschal handled every other minor problem at the Vigil and across the Arling. While a few of the little affairs could be managed by letters sent to Skyhold, Cullen calculated that he'd need two, perhaps three weeks to fully transfer power over.

  Throughout the day, he jotted down outlines to his lieutenants and the others in power across thedas he kept in communique with, while Lana prodded into a book she kept failing to read. She was grateful, beyond grateful to think that he'd want to stay by her side, but a fact dangled over her head like a scythe about to slice away the chaff. Leliana was right, the Hero of Ferelden had to stay dead. It was Lana's only hope to remain free of anyone that would look to her for either support or revenge. Which meant she could never return to Skyhold. While she trusted the Inquisitor to keep the secret, there were far too many people who recognized her, knew her as the Hero and were there when she fell. Her secret would die the moment she stepped foot upon the mountain.

  Lana was certain that she'd never be able to return, her biggest concern was how she'd explain it to Cullen. Three weeks apart was little in the scheme of things, and yet...

  Her finger hovered over the page, tracing a sentence on transmutation of runes that she failed to read. After both of them savored another hearty meal and bathed separately, Cullen suggested she take the bed while he sleep on the divan. It was, after all, far more comfy and didn't have such a particular decor theme haunting him. She was more than willing to let his chivalry cover over for the abject terror of the room, but as he slid out to the door and Lana faced a night of walking in the fade, her heart thundered in her chest. It'd beaten so fast, she grew dizzy and gasped for air. Her hand dug into the duvet for strength, when Cullen's wrapped around hers. Without saying a word about her panic attack, he slid under the covers and held her until she fell asleep.

  Maker, she needed to get better. He couldn't keep doing that, night in and night out playing her comforting blanket and defender. It'd wear him raw. Lana lasted a few hours in the fade before either her body revolted at the idea or her mind did and she fully woke. Beside her, Cullen slumbered, his head tossed back against the pillow mercifully not shaped like any male anatomy. She watched his curls spilling off the side as he rolled around, struggling to find a comfy spot. Lana knew the feeling well. After two years in the fade, laying on the mattress was like falling into a cloud. A part of her yearned to stretch out upon the floor, the real floor that wouldn't transform into grass or ancient ruins when she wasn't looking. But she didn't want to leave him.

  Without any other options, Lana snatched up one of the books piled upon the nightstand and began to read. It wasn't the most enlightening of books, the theories having been disproven years ago, but it was interesting at times to follow the old paths of spells and what they later branched off into. On occasion, a new discovery could be made from the old bones. Her fingers darted down the spine, doing exactly what the librarians ordered her not to as she dug into it. What was she going to do with her life? No wardens, no mages, no orders...it was both exhilarating and terrifying to face an unending abyss.

  A snort drew her attention and she turned to find Cullen thrown upon his back. She expected to catch him snoring, but a sneer knotted up his features and his hands began to paw at the air. At first only growls and groans erupted from him, but they became words as the nightmare dug in deeper.

  "You will not delve into...no, please no. Don't touch it! I will not allow you to...Begone! Please," his cries faded to a whimper and his fingers dug into the mattress as if he was clinging to someone's shoulders, "please let me be."

  Lana picked up one of his hands, the nails biting into her skin but she didn't yelp at it, only locked her own fingers around his. Caressing her hand down his cheek, she whispered, "It's okay, Cullen. You're safe. You're here with me. I promise. I'll keep watch over you."

  The sneer deepened and she felt him falling further into the lyrium withdrawals. He'd often smack his lips to compensate for the dry mouth festering on his tongue. Lana tried to keep a carafe of water around, but despite Cullen refilling his glass often something told her it didn't help. She moved to grab it up off the night stand but Cullen reached out, his clawing fingers digging into her. "Don't leave me," he whimpered in his sleep. Freezing in place, Lana tipped her head back to catch a slither of tears in her eyes from the pleading in his voice.

  With their hands locked in place, Lana eased down back into bed. She curled her body around his, her head resting upon his shoulder. Perhaps it was the warmth or the pressure, but Cullen calmed, his tense muscles slacking. Even the sneer faded back to the sweet man she knew. "I have you," she whispered into his ear, "and I'll never leave. I promise."

  Chapter Three

  Letters

  To: The Beautiful Woman Stuck Traveling with Commander Sullen

  C/O Divine Victoria, who's probably already read this anyway, so why bother sealing it?

  Lanny! I hope you made it to Val Royeaux and filled Leliana in on the details or I'm going to be getting a flock of ravens and the potential for an Exalted March showing up on my doorstep because of this letter. Not that it's beyond the realm of surprises from our bard given the big hat considering what happened in Seheron and then... I hope the Divine in all her mercy is aware that invading Ferelden isn't wise because we've got big slobbery dog that'll ruin all your fancy furniture. Just putting that out there.

  How are you? Please tell me you've already eaten your way through the never ending banquets of the Grand Cathedral and have now raided Celene's cheese room. I hear it's guarded by a Gouda Golem, very dangerous and messy unless you come armed with a slab of crackers.

  After my return, I only got berated for fifteen hours by Arl Eamon, Teagan, Bann Cyril, and then Eamon again for good measure. All things considered, I'd say I came out ahead in that. I thought it'd last for a few days. It wasn't as if I missed much of anything. Let's see, there's talk of food shortage because there's always talk of food shortage. Don't bother to clear out the brambles crowding around the roads? That's how we get bandits. It's so damn simple you'd think someone here would remember to do it. And there's been a bit of fallout from the Exalted Council, a few Banns think we're in some position to go declare war on the Qunari (right, shall we throw sticks at them and ask nicely if they give up? It'd work about as well). As if that's not enough, people are not happy about the Inquisition getting busted down to chantry guardians. On one side are those who have hearts in their eyes for the old Inky and on the other are people pissed that the chantry's gained that much power. Can't say I blame them given their handling of the mage rebellions and how they spectacularly failed their templars, but all I get is headaches on both sides as people argue without offering any solutions.

  So, that's been my week so far. What about you? Let me guess, you've dumped the templar, fully healed, convinced Leliana to abandon the chantry to run off with you, and together you're now famed assassins in Antiva. Any of that close? Oh right, I almost forgot, on top of the tongue lashing from Eamon I got one from our most illustrious Queen Bea (she hates it when I call her that). Now that one damn near blew my muddy socks off. I no more than crawl through the door reeking of horse and she flounces over looking like she was trying to smuggle a helmet under her dress, jabs a finger in my face, and demands to know where I've been.

  I was so impressed with her fortitude, I broke out into laughter and hugged her. Didn't realize the Queen could blush like that, then again I've been operating on the assumption she's actually some kind of animated wet blanket for a few years. We've been talking beyond the usual "Hi," "Hello,"
"Please stop doing that." Baby stuff is okay, as much as it can be. Ah yeah, consider this the official announcement to Val Royeaux that there's gonna be a little sire for a tiny throne. We can do that, right? Make a miniature version of the throne for the kid to sit on? I'll ask Wade about it, I'm sure he can whip something up out of dragon's teeth.

  You wanna know something funny? I actually met the real father of whatever's knocking about in Bea's stomach. Total accident, I had no idea who it was. Random meet and greet, shaking hands with a total stranger, and the poor guy was quivering in his boots, melting into the floor in a panic. I remembered his strange reaction after learning the truth because it made no sense, I'd bathed that day. Okay, that's not the best part. You're never gonna guess what he is...

  I'll pretend you threw out some ideas. He's a brother in the chantry. Or was a brother. Turns out when you knock up a Queen it's a good time to turn in your tonsure and take up a cushy job as royal baby baker. Maker, how did that one happen? Sweet, boring Beatrice down on her knees in the confession booth with the Brother while a few Mothers politely tried to not listen in? That's not the chantry I remember, but I wish it was. Bea wasn't excited about the idea of us meeting after I learned the full of it. No idea why, the guy's not bad, as exciting as grey paint splattered over stone walls, but he seems genuine and they get on without talk of poison and someone faking their own death. In the great game of king and queen checkers it's probably the best outcome.

  Tell me you're okay. That you're happy, please. I know, look at that Alistair being selfish again. Someone warn the criers, it's never been seen before. I worry about leaving you alone. Fine, I know you're not alone-alone, but I remember what it's like being trapped in a bed for weeks without anything to do but try to throw darts through a window. And you don't have a cast to drive you mad and busy with itching. If your templar's being all stoic warrior on you, stiff upper lip and what not, you can complain to me. Or at me. I've had enough of that I'm pretty much immune.

  I made certain that any letters from you will be sent directly to me, no clerks reading over my shoulder and pronouncing the big words for me. There hasn't been any word yet of a miracle of Andraste returning the Hero of Ferelden back to us, so I'm guessing you're still not ready yet to give your big debut. Don't worry about me, I can keep a secret.

  Sort of keep a secret.

  If it'll in anyway hurt you, I'll never tell. Ever. Cross my heart and hope for pie.

  This is probably long enough for a first message. I have a good four or five page letter filled with all my deepest thoughts and darkest hopes but I don't want to bore you with the details. Here's a hint, rain; both cleansing and sorrowful. Really makes you think, I know.

  Heal, smile, even - Maker help me - love that stick in the mud, if you must. Be happy, and for the love of Andraste, send me an update on that Dowager before I break down and hunt out a copy of the book for myself.

  His Irrelevancy,

  King Alistair of You Know Where

  To Ali,

  C/O Her Most Entrusted Letter Carrier of Divine Victoria

  By the Maker, how did you get a letter off so quickly? We'd only been in Val Royeaux for a week before it appeared. Don't tell me you have access to your own Eluvian because the last thing Ferelden needs is another parade of demons leaping across it. Life has taken some adjusting. You'll be happy to know I had nearly an entire pie all by myself. It was a bit of an accident on my part as I'd only meant for a slice when that taint hunger kicked in and before I knew it oops, all gone. Walking is difficult and I can, at best, carry perhaps five pounds. Most of my time is spent sliding from one section of the apartment to another grumbling about the cold.

  I should tell you about the apartments. Leliana has us in one of the guest wings of the Grand Cathedral, a fact that I can tell wears upon Cullen even if he won't admit it. Nearly every speck of the place is gilded or bejeweled and what isn't is made out of marble or silk. It feels as if I fell inside of a ballgown and can't escape. A few curious Mothers have tried to prod in to see what's going on inside here behind locked doors, but Leliana keeps shooing them away. The chantry's clerics are growing weary with how much time the Divine spends with me, all but breaking down the door after her scheduled hours are finished to whisk her away.

  I never thought life would feel strange outside of the fade, but I keep catching myself at an impasse. Often, I'll speak to the spirits as if they're remaining beside me, curt dismissals that were subconscious before. I feel foolish whenever one slips past my lips, aware that they're not here, but I'm still wrapped up in the past. My mind is all wound up like used wire poorly re-spooled. Sleeping is difficult, and a few nights I've forgone the bed to lay upon the floor. Once I even left wards, which Cullen woke to find scattered across the apartment. I didn't even remember doing it, my mind always falling back to that place if I don't keep a constant vigil. I nearly wrote down that I should not complain, but you did ask for the full of it. You reap what you sow, I suppose.

  After speaking with Leliana, I've decided that the Hero of Ferelden should remain dead. I'm not in any shape to run head first back into the politics of wardens much less the mage dilemma that's been cooled but could boil over at any moment. And if either group received word of my resurgence well, it'd be right back to the grindstone and damn the consequences. There are few I will trust with this secret. You -- obviously -- Leliana, Cullen, Hawke's been made aware to try and negate some of her guilt. I don't believe anyone else knows for now, but for the sake of discretion keeping the list small is preferable to... Why am I trying to talk you into this? If you haven't told Eamon and the rest by now you're not going to.

  I'm not used to this freedom, waking every morning without an itinerary or goal. I'd been in the hands of the circle since I was six, every hour of my day planned out through apprenticehood. It wasn't until after the harrowing I'd have been free to set my schedule and, well, we all know how that one went. If you had no one to answer to, no one questioning your every decision, no weight of the world or Ferelden hanging upon you, what would you do?

  I suppose I should send this off before you blanket me in letters demanding a follow up. Enclosed is the next plot advance in the story. I've tried to summarize it as best I could, but you really should think about picking the book up. My fumbling can't do the descriptive prose justice.

  No One Of Any Importance,

  Lana A-

  To: The Secretive Creature Living in the Grand Cathedral's Bell Tower

  C/O This Raven That Managed to Shit All Over My Breakfast Plate & Is Lucky We Didn't Fry It Up

  Read through the synopsis. Shocked that she'd risk her title for someone who'd do that to a pig, but that's authors for you. If they can't stretch the plot thin with action cul-de-sacs, needless characters repeating stuff that happened chapters back, and breadcrumbs they'll stab a few dozen people, set a village on fire, and call it realism. Waiting patiently for the next set.

  Things are happening here to keep me busy, nothing for you to worry about, only headache inducing for me. Huzzah, what not and so forth. I'll write you a longer letter next time. Super promise pinkie swear.

  To answer your last question, first I'd have sex, eat a dessert in every single bakery across Val Royeaux, take a long nap, then sex again. Hope that helps.

  None of the Help, All of the Mess,

  Ali

  Chapter Four

  Unspoken Fear

  Fire burst from a woman's fingers, tendrils of flames sparking over the heads of people who -- instead of cowering or retaliating -- clapped appreciatively. Smiling, the woman dressed in a glittery red and orange dress with provocative cuts in all the right places, took a bow. Lana shifted over to Leliana and sniffed, "Am I to be impressed? I was doing that when I was ten. Not usually on purpose mind, but..."

  Leliana brought her hands together harder to try and make up for Lana's lack of clapping. "The dancers here rarely use a mage and have to rely upon more practical effects. I watched someone saw a ma
n in half."

  "You don't need a mage to do that," Lana folded her arms, still unimpressed.

  "The man remained unharmed," Leliana's crystal eyes sparkled under her drawn hood. While the incognito Divine pulled out her old spy gear, for the first time Lana wore the dress she selected hot off the seamstress' loom. It was beyond simple in a soft sky blue, with an A-line skirt and a bodice left loose for her hopeful weight regain. She insisted the pockets be deepened by another inch. Even if she was hiding her being a mage she still liked to carry things around. The only hint of a softer side to the one wearing it was trim skirting over the daring sweetheart cut. White lace rested against her sienna skin, just enough to hinder the view of her ample assets.

  "What's the point of sawing someone in half if they aren't hurt?" she said, but her jibbing tone slipped away as she fumbled for the wine glass Leliana kept refilling. They started with a biting red, astringent to match their platter of cold meats, then moved on to a slightly sweeter red, then a white, and now they were mixing every remaining bottle together to see if they could discover something new.

  "This is why you'd never make it as a bard," Leliana said. She slipped a delicate hand over her chin while watching a young woman step up to the stage armed only with a lute. It seemed doubtful the singer planned to set anyone on fire. "You don't understand the importance of spectacle."

  "I can shoot ice and lightning from my hands. How is that not spectacle?" Lana responded, perhaps a bit too loudly as a few eyes swiveled back towards them.

  Despite the winter night, she only wore a thin cloak for cover which was currently wound about her chair. The drink covered over any chill she felt, its alcoholic spell enveloping her in a warm hug. Admittedly, when Leliana first suggested a jaunt out of the Cathedral to get away from the same four walls, Lana assumed they'd head somewhere indoors. But as she gazed around at the crackling fires beating against the press of night while stars speckled through the sky, she began to understand her friend's choice. And the wine helped with that as well.