My Warden Read online

Table of Contents

  Table of Contents 1

  Surprise 3

  The Bronto 9

  Rabbit 14

  Dreams 19

  Stairs 22

  White 29

  Darkspawn 38

  Pillow Talk 48

  Spires 55

  Confrontation 67

  Back Where We Began 78

  Epilogue 87

  My Warden

  by

  Sabrina Zbasnik

  MY WARDEN Copyright © 2016 by S.E. Zbasnik. All rights reserved.  

  Surprise

  This is madness. I shouldn't be here. Cullen repeated the thought while watching a drunkard attempt to open the door to the Hanged Man, except the man missed by about six feet and was currently yanking upon the shutters. Either he would abandon hope, or climb in through the window. Cullen felt naked without his templar armor, having scrounged through a found box for a worn tunic and a disquieting pair of pants. How long had it been since he last wore them? The tug across this thighs felt a fresh betrayal of the order with each pace. He should abandon this foolish plan, return to the Gallows, to his room, and forget that he even saw her.

  It wasn't the first time he found an unexpected woman waiting for him in his room. The initial one was a prank from some of the other templars, which still gave him a headache to think upon. They paid one of the lady's from the brothel to sneak into the Knight-Captain's quarters and wait for him. When he confronted them later they insisted it was a gift, but as Cullen tried to get her to leave without melting through the floor, the Knight-Commander happened to walk by. Pure coincidence of course, there was no possible way the conspirators had anything to do with her interference. By the Maker's mercy, Meredith drew almost no attention to the half-naked woman sitting upon his bed. She only said that whatever she came for could wait for another time, and then gently reminded him of the visitor policy.

  The next time Cullen opened his door late at night and saw the silhouette of a woman outlined by the waning moonlight, he would not be taken by unawares. Sighing, he shook his head, and mumbled, "I am sorry, but you've been brought here under false pretenses. I have no interest in any of your, um, talents."

  "Oh? That's a shame, I do have many." The mystery woman turned to face him and Cullen's knees gave out. If it weren't for the table he hooked an elbow on, his body would have smashed to the ground. Six years took a toll on those from Ferelden, no one involved in the blight escaped its wrath unscathed, but she still radiated an ethereal glow beyond a mortal beauty. Even before she became everyone's hero, Cullen couldn't take his eyes off a vibrancy that floated off her. By the lone candle flickering on his desk, Cullen could only see the supple cheek risen in a cocky smile and one eye glittering in mischief.

  "I...you, no. I can explain. There was a prank that, um..." he stampeded through a thousand different explanations while rubbing his hands across the desk that saved him. Maker, how were his gloves already dripping with sweat?

  She only smiled and placed a delicate hand upon her soft hip, drawing his attention to a form he should not reflect upon. "A prank? Must have been interesting."

  "It was childish and I...should not be telling, I doubt you care." Sucking in a breath, Cullen steadied himself and asked properly, "What brings you here, Lady Amell?"

  Her smile dipped for a moment and she tugged upon her mage robes. They were not the blue and silver of the wardens; she still wore something similar to what was used in the circle though with a silverite sheet of chainmail over top. "I require the help of a templar. Someone in Kirkwall to assist me with a mission."

  Cullen nodded, that made sense of a kind, but did not explain why she'd need sneak around to his room like a common bandit to ask for it. People would have greeted her gladly with open arms, especially the mages who held up the Hero of Ferelden as if she was their personal accomplishment. "Do you wish to speak with the Knight-Commander? I can go and get her..." He wanted to kick himself for laying out the option, as if he feared her presence so he needed a chaperon.

  Her lips pursed as she glanced around the walls. Lowering her voice, she said, "This is a delicate matter, and I need someone I can trust."

  Through the concern at her secrecy, pride swelled in him. She trusted him? Even now after all that occurred at the tower? It seemed too much to believe. "For what purpose?"

  But she shook her head, "Not here, meet me at the...oh, what is that tavern called? The Stretched Man? I'm sure you know what I mean."

  "Why can't you tell me?"

  She wound a scarf across her lips and pulled up the hood of her cloak, blanketing her features behind a mask of fabric. "I will remain at the tavern for two days. If you do not appear within that time I shall make the journey alone." Without leaving behind footsteps, she moved towards the door. Cullen had no idea how she, a mage, intended to leave the Gallows unseen, but she had somehow gotten into his room without raising an alarm.

  "Lady Amell..." he tried to reach out to stop her, but she turned her head to him. Only the glow of those intoxicating eyes were visible through her disguise.

  "Two days," she repeated. "And, given the circumstance, I think you can call me Lana."

  He spent the night waffling from an attempt at sleep to pacing through his quarters trying to determine why she of all people would track him down. What could the Hero of Ferelden possibly need from a solitary templar in Kirkwall? As the day carried on, Cullen went from refusing her offer outright, to excitement at the prospect, to curiosity, to confusion, and then landed at dread. Meredith seemed to sense a change in her second-in-command, her crisp eyes watching him from across the yard and calling to him more than was usual. After the day's duties were finished, Cullen lost two hours sitting in his room. Prayer should have calmed him, or perhaps brought sense to his fevered mind, but when he'd turn his head he'd still see her silhouette staring out his window. She came for him and no one else.

  "Andraste, preserve me," Cullen whispered as he opened up the door to the Hanged Man. He'd attended to this establishment in the past, always under official means and usually with backup in tow. Now, in plain clothes and mostly unarmed, the denizens did not even bother to look up from their drinks at the recent addition. Two men were arguing about the nature of heroism in the corner, a deep discussion plumbing the depths of human nature only the truly besotted ever reach. Further in, towards the back row of benches, a man was engaged in his own rabid theory with whoever would listen. In this case he managed to entrap only one within his web of ramblings. Cullen could only see the man's fiery face, the nose and cheeks distended from drink as he banged his fist against the table in emphasis.

  "I bet that Hero of Ferelden didn't even fight no archdemon."

  "No!" His singular audience was turned away from Cullen so he could only see her back, a scarf knotting up her hair.

  "She couldna, because there wasn't no archdemon."

  "Really?"

  "Sure as shit," the man burped, then took another drink. "I's all Ferelden tryin'a get us to feel sorry for 'em for Orlais, but we dinna need to pull that kinda shit when we threw 'em out. They're wanting to pull a fa't one over our eyes. But I'm on to 'em, on to 'em all. No blight, ain't had one in four hundred years. Why have one now? And it finishing up so soon. Can't be."

  "Fascinating," she continued, the softest laugh in her voice.

  Cullen clapped the conspiracy theory man on the shoulder, drawing his bloated attention. "I believe you've had enough."

  "Sod off!" the man shouted, then jerked a mug to his beautiful audience. "I got company here."

  Cullen glanced towards Lana, "Should we speak privately?"

  She smiled and nodded, but the drunk man wasn't about to give up easily. "Hey! Tha's not your decision to be making there, bud." The man tried to rise out of his chair, but his shoes slipped in the special on tap, causing his elbow to smack against the table. Cursing haphazardly, he shook his fist at Cullen and shouted, "That'll cost ya!"

  Somehow, Cullen never found himself engaged in a bar brawl before, most mages wise enough to keep their fireballs away from combustible liquor and accidental backdraft. He readied his fists to dodge the attack, but he needn't have bothered. Still smiling, Lana waved her fingers and parted the fade. The man's eyelids drooped and his body fell slack, the chin smacking into the table was punctuated by snores. It was so subtle, Cullen could only taste the lingering burn of mana by concentrating upon her. To everyone else, it appeared as if the drink finally took hold.

  Solona wrapped her hand upon his arm and molded her body around him. He tipped his head up, doing his damnedest to not smell her earthy and lilac scent. The heat of her body racing up his arm was impossible to escape. She giggled and in a breathy voice whispered, "Let's move somewhere more private, shall we?"

  Cullen could only bob his head, terrified of the squeak that might tumble out if he spoke. She guided the pair of them while giving the impression he was leading her into a back room. Beds stacked two high filled the area, but no one filled them despite the late hour. The Hanged Man kept its own strange hours. Lana closed the door, then waved her hand across it again. "There, no one will be getting through that," she said and unknotted the scarf around her hair. Despite sharing the same lineage as Hawke, they bore almost no likeness - the Champion all sharp lines and cutting cheeks to go with her brand of wit, while the Hero of Ferelden was a supple wholesomeness with a round face, full lips, and bemused eyes all making her appear younger than seemed possible. The only trait they shared was the raven black hair, hers short and braided in sections around
her face.

  "You know, you're rather good at playing dumb," Lana said, dropping into a chair at the lone table.

  "I...what?"

  "With the drunk, I nearly thought it would come to blows myself."

  "Ah, yes," Cullen massaged the back of his neck, happy to pretend that he was fully anticipating her interceding. "Why did you let him speak those lies to you?"

  "If I'd called him out on it, I'd have blown my cover. What little there is here. I did not anticipate so many Fereldens in Kirkwall," she frowned.

  "But to treat the blight as if it were a lie. Why would anyone fake the destruction of the darkspawn?"

  "People'd rather chase ghosts than admit to evil in the world. It does not bother me, I know the truth. I lived the..." she shook her head to blot away a frown and continued, "there are greater beasts to slay. Have you come to hear me out, or...?" she gestured to the chair opposite her, but Cullen continued to stand.

  "I need to know, this favor you ask of me, will it go against the order or the vows I have taken?" He feared just how far he'd go for her if she but asked, but turning his back on the templars, on his duty, and spitting in the eye of what he swore upon would go against everything inside of him.

  She smiled, "I'm afraid I'm not current on all the vows a templar takes, but on the surface this is a rather simple request. So no, I would not ask more of you than what you are willing to give."

  "What is it, then? Why do you need a templar?"

  Reaching into her pocket, she unearthed a bottle. Red liquid pulsed at the bottom of the crystal glass, stoppered in the seal of the Templars. It was a phylactery. Cullen turned from the bottle back to her and she said, "I need you to help me track down a blood mage."

  "I..." now he sagged into the chair, his fingers reaching towards the phylactery. She dropped her own hand away, letting him touch it. He hadn't done the hunting aspect of being a templar often; most of his commanders keeping him back at the tower to watch over their charges, but there were some things one never forgot. Closing his eyes, Cullen ensnared his hand around the vial of blood and concentrated. The hair along his arm stood on end, and he felt a tug towards the west, the phylactery guiding him towards the original supplier of the blood.

  "Why not bring this to Meredith or Gregoir?" he asked.

  She frowned, "Gregoir is...getting on in years. We speak, but I heard he has plans to move to Denerim." She paused and stared through him. They both knew what that meant, moving a templar away from the circle back to the chantry meant he was no longer of sound mind to serve. Lyrium took its toll. "Regardless, the mage I'm chasing is in the Free Marches, and I...the fact is, the matter is delicate."

  "Yes, you said as much in my room."

  "I do not know Meredith." She chose her words carefully. She was the Hero of Ferelden, defeater of the blight, and Arlessa of Amaranthine. But she was also a mage, under more scrutiny than an average person of nobility. Someone of that background who openly questioned the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall could find herself in a dangerous situation. "But," Lana reached over, her fingers skimming across the tops of his. Her touch radiated a warmth into him, causing the phylactery to pulse harder, tugging him even more into the west. "I trust you."

  "You..." Cullen swallowed, "you do?" He only saw her once after the archdemon fell and the blight ended, when she was being paraded up and down the street along with the other heroes of the day. Cullen stood with the revelers, ordered to watch the mages that fought in the war. Were they some of the ones who survived the slaughter of his friends by luck or by siding with Uldred then switching sides? He had no time for the festivities flooding Denerim, he didn't want to celebrate anyway. The world might have been spared yet he cared not one whit. But when she passed, he couldn't help but watch her pinned up on the back of a horse, decorated as their hero. She wore a smile and waved, but it looked pinned on, her eyes blinking rapidly to maintain the illusion.

  Lana slid the phylactery out of his hands and twisted it around, watching the blood convalesce in the glass, "This is no simple blood mage, as I am certain you guessed. He is a grey warden who...summoned a demon and nearly destroyed his entire order. There were bodies...I need not tell you what destruction blood mages can cause. I've been tasked with finding and stopping him." Her fingers closed around the phylactery, and she bore into his eyes, "I trust you, because I know you despise malifecarum, your reasons to hate them. I do not need a soft heart for this, I need a strong arm."

  A voice screaming in the distance. His friend? He couldn't tell anymore. All the voices sounded the same. Sounds of teeth shredding apart muscle, a crunch of bone, more screams, then silence. Blood dripped down his face, but he didn't look up, couldn't watch the demon finish off what had once been a person.

  Cullen shook off the memory, and nodded his head at her, "Then you shall have it."

  The Bronto

  He'd never been so close to a bronto before, and he'd have died a grateful old man if he never had to know the experience. The beast snorted at the impotent human clinging limply to his bridle, and sprayed thick mucus across Cullen's back. Yellow as curd, most of it slopped off to the ground. His fingers tried to wipe the rest off, giving him an up close view of the snot as well as the revolting smell. Visions of slicing the creature from neck to navel flashed through his mind. How easy it would be to unearth his sword and send the clearly miserable animal back to where it belonged -- serving demons in the void.

  "Ha! I think ol' George here likes ya," the woman sitting primly in the driver seat called out.

  "Quite," Cullen muttered. George's eel-like tongue lolled out of his gaping mouth and slurped up the remaining mucus. It seemed an innocuous move save the lone beady eye that stared through Cullen. He caught the message 'I despise you and will do all in my power to make your life hell.' Unfortunately, Cullen was stuck in the same position as the creature, but with the added bonus of bronto snot dribbling down the back of his pants.

  Lana walked further ahead of their miniature trade caravan. Using her staff as a walking stick, she'd break ahead to spy on potential dangers, then return to report to him. Or, seeing as the only eventful moment of their day long march involved bronto sneezes, she'd check in, politely sympathize, then ask about the phylactery. She trusted him to carry it wrapped in his pocket, but every half hour she'd slip back and want to see it to make sure the templar didn't accidentally sit on it or something. He'd find it annoying if it didn't also give him an excuse to speak with her.

  "Know that I find you insufferable and would rather suffer a meal of gristly bronto stew than drag your carcass across thedas," Cullen whispered to George. The bronto snorted a fresh round, but the crafty human dodged out of the way this time.

  "You findin' yourself a friend too there?" the driver asked. Mentally, he changed her name to 'the sitter' seeing as how he was doing all the driving of the beast while she vaguely pointed in a direction from her prim spot atop the wagon. Lana hired them from some small hamlet on the outskirts of Kirkwall. He'd hoped they'd find their own horses, but she thought traveling with company would be better advised.

  "Yes, it's delightful," Cullen tried to lie, his face stone. One could hew a quarry with the sneer.

  He heard a snicker from further ahead, and turned to catch Lana standing on the hill. Her hand shielded her eyes as she watched him try and play nice with their unexpected companions. A burn inched up his legs from her attention, aiming for his cheeks. Maker, he was better than this. He was no longer some flippant young man reduced to babbling tears from the approving glance of a...no, no he was still that bad. The steel in his spine melted like wax at her innocuous smile. Twisting around to face the sitter, Cullen patted the bronto's nose hoping Lana missed the red burning up his cheeks.

  "Gettin' too much sun there, boy? Not surprising, yer as white as one of them undead types. You ever go outside?" the sitter shouted in her amplified brogue to anyone within a five mile radius.

  "I, uh..." His work kept him in the shadows of the statues looming over all who passed through the gallows. At least he didn't wear the helmet. Most templars suffered a familiar strip of darkened flesh across their eyes from the helmet's slit. It made them instantly recognizable anywhere outside the gallows.

  "It's not often we have Grey Wardens traveling with us," one of the other wanders pipped up. This one was young, in that not quite a man nor a boy stage. His eyes drifted down Cullen's armor. No, it was her armor, he was just the one wearing it. Not that he was wearing the armor she wore, that would be, uh...not a prudent thought to have. It was some warden set Lana unearthed from her belongings in the damned tavern. "Templars would draw too much attention on the back paths. I don't want to alert White early. And people tend to offer assistance to Grey Wardens."

  "Then why do you wear none?"

  "Grey Warden mages are the exception. If anyone asks, I'm a scribe of yours moving with you to Adament."

  So while the real Grey Warden slipped in and out of the periphery, Cullen played the part and did a Maker-awful job of it. It did not help that the chest plate pinched his sides, and the hem of the pants cut off at his lower calf, exposing most of his shins to the switch grass. Who was this armor designed for, an emaciated dwarf?

  The sitter squared up, twisting the limp reins in her hands, "Nice to have a bit of protection on this run, especially from the Grey Wardens."

  "When they're around, so are darkspawn," the third traveller spoke. He wore more leather than seemed wise given the heat, and kept a hat tugged so far over his eyes he was doomed to walk blindly into bronto dung. Dipping in and out of the shadows when possible, the man put Cullen in mind of the apprentice mages who learned just enough of a fire spell when attempting to show off to set their bed clothes aflame.

  "Hold yer tongue, Martin," the sitter chided, "don't you go invoking those horrible creatures name here."

  "At least our esteemed Grey Warden will warn us if we're in any danger. That is how it works, right?" Martin turned his snake grin on Cullen and eyed him up and down. Cullen tried to not turn back to the real Grey Warden skipping over the dunes, so he patted the damn bronto instead.

  "Who was the last one we traveled with, Ser...Something?" the sitter continued.

  "Ser Branaugh," Martin said, while picking at a strap haphazardly thrown over the wagon full of --probably illegal -- goods bound for Orlais.

  "Aye, that was it. Nice chap. Did those bandits up a treat."

  "He had no troubles steering the bronto, either," Martin continued, his gaze cutting deeper into Cullen's skin, "and he was handsomer, too."

  "Oh no, no...well," the sitter attempted to come to Cullen's rescue, then backed down instantly. "He did have that thick rugged hair, and those sparkling blue eyes. Like crystal ponds they were."

  His fingers tugged on the bridle, almost dragging the beast's head with him while the sitter rhapsodized about Ser Branaugh - the most dashing Grey Warden in all of thedas. The chantry needed to rewrite some of their history seeing as how the sun itself rose and fell from Ser Branaugh's backside. It was a wonder he did not defeat the blight with just his radiant smile.

  "Getting along?" Lana's sweet voice caused Cullen to jump clean out of his borrowed boots. Sweet Andraste, did she hear all that? It burned his heart to wonder where her opinion stood in the 'how did Cullen's looks rank amongst traveling Grey Wardens' discussion. The mages would have them often, debating the attractive merits of each templar, some going so far as to draw up charts and lists. It did nothing to the ego to stumble across one and find you fell somewhere in the middle.

  "Yes, it's...we're fine," his voice jumped an octave before settling back down. Martin glared a bit more before sliding towards the end of the cart. That's right, disappear back into your hole. Cullen thought, sneering in the unimpressed man's wake.

  If Lana noticed it, she paid it no heed. With one hand she patted the bronto's nose, trifling her fingers through a strip of white hair. With the other she reached close to Cullen's pocket. "Are we still on the right path?"

  He dipped in for the phylactery, not that he needed to bother. That close to his skin he could feel the pull of the blood without needing to concentrate. It was a difficult sensation to describe to non-templars, a bit like a book needing to return to its proper place. You could set it down on a different shelf or another table entirely, but the world felt wrong until it was returned home. Lightly thumbing his finger across the glass, he nodded his head, "Yes, it still feels west, but..."

  "What is it?"

  "No matter how far we move, the distance never decreases."

  She puckered her full lips together in thought before speaking, "He could be keeping pace with us."

  "Then we should move quicker than him, and abandon this...caravan of horrors."

  Lana giggled at his shudder, and it was so sweet Cullen's bad mood broke - at least for a breath. "They provide excellent cover, and..." she leaned closer into him, placed her hand upon the blue linen stretched over his upper arm, and whispered, "someone in the caravan likes you."

  "What?"

  She didn't explain, only lifted her eyebrow in conspiracy and smiled brighter. How did she seem to be enjoying this? Was it a fresh delight in traveling incognito as an average Ferelden and not the conquerer of the blight, or did she find a perverse joy in his discomfort? Maker knew plenty of other mages got their jollies from trying to make his life miserable and mages had more ample means than the average person. Even the word prank made his teeth grind. All he wanted was to find this blood mage, finish the job, and return to the Gallows. Meredith was less than pleased with his request for a sabbatical, and suspicious of his need for no other templars to accompany him. But Cullen had proven himself for five years in her stead. If she could not trust him, who could she? The city was quiet, surprisingly, having fallen into a summer stupor silencing the eternal templar versus mage debates. Plus, it now had a Champion to look over it. One measly templar missing for a week would not go noticed.

  "Wait a moment," Cullen stumbled in his steps. He reached deeper into his pocket, trying to unearth the phylactery. Upon skin contact he knew with certainty what he'd felt in his gut; the direction had changed. "It's moved," he whispered to Lana.

  "Where?"

  Cullen closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the vague feelings crawling up his skin, but the message was muddled. He whipped his head around, trying to scour the landscape of little more than farmland followed by untamed thickets of trees. "This makes no sense. He should be here, right here. The direction keeps altering from east to west, even north or south. I don't understand."

  He'd expected her to look as concerned as he felt, but she only rolled her eyes and sighed, "I feared as such. Well, you have your wish. We'll need to be leaving the caravan."

  "What? I don't understand."

  She smiled, and patted George again, "Don't look a gift bronto in the mouth." Then, raising her voice to the sitter, she said, "I'm afraid the Grey Warden has sensed a darkspawn nest that must be destroyed for the sake of the local populace and his duty to the order. You'll have to carry on alone. We thank you for your hospitality."

  "Oh, that's a real shame," the sitter said. "But we understand. Don't want those filthy creatures chasin' after us and givin' us all the blight. Your time and company was much appreciated!"

  Lana slipped her hand around Cullen's arm and guided him away from the wagon. He tried to rein in his slack jaw, but the relief was tempered by confusion. As the travelers pulled away, it was Martin of all people who looked back at him with a strange sorrow and then winked. Returning to the Gallows had never sounded more enticing.

  "I do not understand..." he began, expecting Lana to remain watching the caravan rattle off. But she tossed off her own facade of bumbling scribe, strength shoring up her bones as she strode towards the north.

  "The reason the phylactery keeps changing position is because our blood mage is below us," she explained over her shoulder.

  Cullen jogged to keep up, trying to close the gap between them. He had no idea she could move so quickly. "Are you saying that..."

  "Yes," she stopped and turned around, "he's in the Deep Roads." Lana frowned, and placed both hands on her hips. "Cullen, I can't ask you to follow me. The Deep Roads are not safe to travel, they barely are during a blight much less so many years after."

  "And you expect me to let you walk through it alone." He couldn't believe what she was saying. After all that time she took collecting him, to abandon him now a days walk outside of Kirkwall.

  Lana only shrugged, "I've done it before."

  "Maker!"

  "I prefer to have someone watching my back, but you will not be able to sense the darkspawn the way I can, and you will not be..." she reached over and caught his hand. Her eyes pleaded through a pain he couldn't read. With her thumb, she massaged the back of his hand -- the intimacy throwing Cullen off guard, "the blight could kill you."

  "This blood mage, he is dangerous?"

  "Very much so," she said, still clinging to him.

  "Then it is my duty as a templar to stop him, blight or no."

  Lana's bittersweet smile plucked upon a dangerous string in his heart, but she didn't fight him on his decision. Releasing his hand, she nodded her head and said, "As you wish. Now we just have to find an entrance into the Deep Roads."

  "That should not be too difficult, follow the darkspawn?"

  Lana frowned, her nose crinkling in disgust, "I'd prefer to avoid them if at all possible. Luckily, I set out with maps of the area. We should establish a camp and rest up, there will be little sleeping once we're in the deep."

  Rabbit

  At least she didn't laugh at him. That was Cullen's only saving grace as he struggled to skin the rabbit he'd more blundered into than snared. They had stores, but Lana thought the coney might serve them better for the night while the rest was preserved for the deep roads. He wondered how long she thought this chase would last.

  "Do you need help?" she asked, her voice airy even as she watched him like a hawk that would have made a cleaner job of disemboweling the rabbit.

  "No," Cullen knee jerked, then regretted it instantly as his knife skidded across fatty tissue and bit deep into muscle. Blood welled across the rabbit's fur, marking another failure on his part. "You already gathered water and started the fire. This seems the least I could do."

  "Well," she twisted her fingers around the jumbled wood pile. From her machinations, the metallic twang of the fade danced upon Cullen's tongue. Flames licked higher off the kindling, twisting not with the wind but her whims. "This part was a bit of cheating. It was about all I could add to traveling for...a depressingly long time. Have you ever dressed a rabbit before?" She turned from the fire to watch him, her eyes burning a hole through every poor cut he made.

  "Yes...though not since I was young." And even then most people would chase him away from any butchering, terrified of what remained to work with after he hacked away at it. There was a good reason he never planned on the farming life. "What of you? Not many opportunities to learn how to skin your own game in the tower."

  She smiled, "I am uncertain of that. Have you seen the size some of the spiders could reach? You could hollow a few out and make a nice rowboat." Cullen laughed with her from the memory. Neither mage nor templar found the source of the giant arachnids swarming through the crawlspaces of Kinnloch. It was a rare coming together moment for both sides as they decided to wall up the area and never speak of it again. "But, aside from pest control, the tower did not prepare me much for life outside it. Imagine. So, I picked up what I could here and there. It's better you're doing it, actually. I'd have sliced my thumb open by now."

  "Oh, well, that's..." he giggled at her admittance, and tried to bite down the blush crawling up the back of his neck. A spider would have been preferable. Lana must have missed his discomfort as she returned to the fire, weaving it through her fingers like a strip of grass. "Here," he lifted the gutted and skinned carcass off the stump and held it out by a still attached foreleg. That felt wrong for some reason. "Um...where do you want it?"

  "We'll have to stew it, unless you brought a frying pan with you."

  "I'm afraid I left it in my other skirt," he said, lowering the rabbit into the simmering water. While she tended to their dinner, lifting the pot away from any rising flames, Cullen wiped his knife clean of rabbit blood, then his hands. It took him so long to finish the job, the gore began to clot. Crimson globules wobbled in the grass beside his boots, which he tried to not trod through. He sheathed his knife across his chest and turned around to watch Lana sprinkle something green into the pot, her delicate fingers hovering just above the water. She shouldn't look so achingly beautiful in the tempering glow of firelight, her lips pursed in concentration with her lower jaw jutted out. A thick cloak wrapped around her body rendering it shapeless, but it didn't matter. He feared his tongue would trip away even if she were covered in dung and dressed in a burlap sack. A small part of his brain tried to remind him that she was a mage, and he a templar, but the extenuating circumstances about that arrangement sat beside her. When he wasn't wrestling with the rabbit, she pored over the maps, that same enchanting pout upon her lips.

  "Perhaps now is a good time to go into more detail about this blood mage we're chasing," he said, clinging to the first distraction he could find.

  She twisted around to him and planted a hand upon her knee to see up to his height, "That is fair. Forgive me for the secrecy, this is not easy and Wardens do not go for help lightly." Cullen crossed to his bedroll and sat down on her right. It was a good six feet away, but he still shifted upon his hip to maintain a proper distance. "He is an elven mage. Slight frame, slight even for an elf. He calls himself White, though that is not his given name."

  "Why White?"

  Lana smiled, a sentimental one that softened her face. Cullen felt a stir of something primal through his gut. What was this White to her? "When he was twenty something, he entered the fade and the experience turned his hair stark white. He's called himself nothing but since."

  "Twenty? How old is he now?"

  "Forty, I think three. That would be useful, I suppose."

  A small smile turned up Cullen's heart. Forty three was far too old...and, he caught himself. What right did he have to speculate on what she found old? "What circle was he with?"

  Lana frowned and pursed her lips, "He was not with a circle, he was a Grey Warden."

  "I understand that, but you must have some connection with a circle. Templars to watch the mages even within the wardens." She stared through him and he continued to explain her own order to her, "For protection from abominations."

  "I'm aware what templars are for," Lana cut in, the first whiff of frost between them. "White was in the circle in Nevarra. I forget which, precisely. Then he was recruited into the Grey Wardens. Mages who take the...join, fight darkspawn, but White showed skills in study and manipulating the fade beyond any of our scribes. So he was moved to the order's outpost in Ostwick to research the blight for the First Warden."

  "And that was where he became a blood mage? Where he attacked his fellow wardens?"

  Lana stared at the rabbit's mutilated muscle bobbing below the waterline. Without breaking from it, she said, "Yes, it was Ostwick. It was--"

  "You were there?"

  She lifted one shoulder, "I was not present at the time of the attack, but I had to see for myself, to...aid in tracking him. I'd prefer to not speak of it, if it's all the same."

  "I..." Cullen slunk back. The pain was fresh in her voice, the wound still weeping. He knew the same need burning inside her. People often asked him about Ferelden, especially after he first transferred to Kirkwall. They wanted fun stories about the blight -- heroics, bravery -- and all he had to tell them were horrors that kept him up at night wearing a hole through his floorboards. Rain was the worst. Not a torrent, but the slow drip as the last of the storm passed. Each plop sounded so very like blood dribbling through gaps in the floor.

  "I'm afraid dinner won't be for another hour at best," she sighed, prodding her finger into the rabbit and watching the flesh bounce back. "What shall we do 'til then?"

  "Please not charades," Cullen groaned.

  She chuckled, then wiped her hand down her face to straighten her features, "I promise no charades, no guessing games, and no miming."

  "Sweet Andraste, I forgot about that cursed invisible box that...what was his name?"

  "Rothchild."

  "Yes! Rothchild would climb into near on every meal."

  "People seemed to enjoy it," she said, always quick to defend the defenseless. But there was no excusing the man's antics. He was a senior enchanter near on fifty, yet he preferred to spend his time pretending to be caught in an unexpected windstorm, or moving down a nonexistent set of stairs much to everyone's chagrin.

  "That was the worst part, the encouragement," Cullen shuddered.

  Lana's laugh broke through the falling night, and she shook her head. Through a smile stretching her cheeks, she asked, "Was there nothing you liked about the tower?"

  Panic struck Cullen. He whipped his head away as if he spotted some animal rustling in the bushes, even sticking a hand out to follow the imaginary thing. She had to know the answer to her question. No matter how much he tried to walk it back in his mind, confessing the truth of his infatuation to her face burned through his memory like a torch. The shame and the immorality of it stung him still, a stain no amount of prayer could blot away. He'd never wished someone was actually a demon so badly before, or for the ground to open up and consume him. That didn't seem such a terrible possibility now either. But no darkspawn horde erupted from the grass, and she'd probably warn him if it was about to.

  "It seems to have gone," he said at first, sticking to his cover, before smoothly sliding to, "What did you? Oh, um, I rather enjoyed the desserts."

  "Yes, the butter cookies," she jumped up, her face ripe with enthusiasm, "with that sugar on top, not a glaze or a frosting, but I could never figure it out. The cooks at the Keep can't seem to get it right."

  Right, she wasn't just a Grey Warden but the Grey Warden placed in charge of a keep in Ferelden. An entire arling, in fact. "I admit, I am surprised that you travel alone. I've never known nobility to move from one room to another without five people trailing them."

  Lana snorted at that image, then sighed. "Yes, I've been to court a few times as well, against my better judgement. One man, I think it was only a bann no less, had a servant carrying around a footstool during a dance. For hours. He never even sat down. I don't understand any of it."

  "So no servants in the wings to clean your shoes off with their lips?" Cullen asked, dragging his teasing on.

  Her pulled face told him all, but she still shook her head and volunteered a, "Maker, no."

  "There must be someone who watches out for you, to -- you know -- keep you safe for the wardens?"

  "Grey Wardens tend to be their own bodyguards, and I think I've finally gotten off the Crow's list. If Zevran is to be believed."

  He should have stopped after that. They were on polite but distant terms. No reason to go and... "You left no one behind?" his tongue wagged freely, as if loosened from drink. He wished he could blame it on intoxication.

  But Lana used the chance to make a small joke, "Only a keep full of soldiers, and wardens who can't find their own bottoms without my pointing out they sat upon them." Cullen decided it best to drop his inquiry before the awkwardness consumed him entirely when she sat higher and offered up, "but, no one else of importance. Wardens, we do not...fraternize." She managed to twist the last word from a spit to a regretful sigh. Prodding the rabbit anew, she turned her attention upon him, "What of you?"

  "Me?" Cullen pointed at his chest, roughing up the griffin across the sternum, as if someone else were present.

  "You must have enchanted some pretty thing in the echelons of Kirkwall society," her voice was genuine, but a smirk sparkled in her eyes.

  Cullen snorted at the insinuation, as if he had any time for the few nobles who thought it sport to prod into templar business. It was Meredith who dealt best with them; when they were passed off to her second-in-command she wanted a curt and tactless response.

  "Fair enough," Lana bobbed her head, "and I do not blame you for it. My seneschal has perfected the 'No, the Arlessa is not available for marriage at this time' response." She chuckled at the foolish idea of her settling down, then turned her eyes upon him, "The Templar Order's not against marriage, I thought. You're free to couple."

  "True," Cullen spoke before his mind could scamper away to form anything of a passing excuse. If any of his fellow templars had shown an interest in him, he did not see it. He did not want to see it. His life was busy enough with his devotion to the order and maintaining a balance in always precarious Kirkwall. It was also beyond the pale for him to take up with a woman underneath his command, the nobility bored him, and...there was no one else. "I would rather protect and guide the knights below me than...uh, bed them."

  He felt an idiot for saying as such, but she nodded her head as if he spun sage advice instead of terrified dribbles. She caressed her forehead, her fingers cupping her face, "I understand. They're your...children sounds dangerously patronizing, doesn't it?"

  Cullen shrugged, he'd felt the urge to call the other knights that and much worse at times. Especially given the recent crops proclivity for pranks. "It is lonely at the top," he said, then shook his head. No, that wasn't right. He wasn't lonely. He was determined, quiet, introspective, but not lonely. Sadness or grief had no place in the order, not when there was duty.

  Lana did not call him out, she only sighed again and slipped her eyes closed. A thousand emotions played across her gentle features, each a story he could only read a sentence of before it disappeared behind her commander mask. It tugged at his heart to see the steeled eyes deny her internal pain. They mimicked the same that stared out at him through the mirror each morning.

  "Ah!" she cried, her finger bouncing the correct depth into the rabbit, "dinner is done." Stabbing into the carcass with her own knife, she lifted the rabbit out of the pot, yellowed water dribbling off the pale skin. Dropping it onto the cutting log, she sawed into it. Without any hint of jocularity, Lana asked, "Are you a chest or thigh man?"

  Dreams

  Cullen picked at the ashes now barely warm hours after they'd been doused. He could sleep, she assured him it was safe of darkspawn, and bandits would find a rather unfortunate end if they tried. After a few hours of twisting upon the ground, never missing his creaky bed more, he gave up on the fruitless effort and sat beside the dead fire. Maybe it was being in an unknown location for dubious reasons, perhaps it was the incessant crying of the wild animals echoing through the trees. Or, most likely, it was due to the woman curled up on her bedroll. She had her knees almost tucked up to her chin, her cloak stretched out across her body like a blanket. It must not have been as warm as he suspected. On occasion, her arms would tremble deep in sleep, shaking the cloak like a flag in the wind. She'd grip tighter to her knees, pressing them deeper into her chest until the tremors passed.

  It was idiotic to even entertain the notion. Cullen was more certain of that fact than almost any other in his life. He'd watched countless mages sleep, or feign sleep, during night shifts counting beds. A few would glare back at him, their sullen eyes sullen daring him to say a word against them. They were technically in bed, and there were no orders they needed to be asleep in said bed. For a brief moment he was powerless against them. Those were far from the worst. It was discovering a mage missing not because he tried to escape but was in anothers bed that ratcheted up his anxiety.

  At twenty and as inexperienced as a hermit with a fascinating pin collection, stumbling upon two people becoming very well acquainted all but drew the breath from his lungs. Something of an order had tumbled from his throat, though to his ears it sounded like a goose cry. The activities froze and both heads sheepishly dug out from under the blanket. Uncertain of what to say, Cullen -- with a face as bright as a strawberry -- suggested they go to sleep. He did not let them rise from the bed or even disentangle, just sleep like that for the whole night.

  Knight-Commander Gregoir found the report humorous and gave a 'people will be people' response, but there was an announcement to the apprentices to try and contain their affections as best they could. There was no mention of Cullen's idiotic order to the pair, but somehow the mages found out, because there was nothing they loved more than gossip. It spread faster than a misplaced fire spell. They would whisper "Finish quick or you'll have to sleep like that," every time he passed. Apprentices thought they were oh so hilarious.

  Lana stirred in her sleep and she rolled to face him. Slips of dawn barely breaking up the horizon lanced across her face. She was beautiful, you'd have to be an idiot not to see that. He thought time would temper that, reveal his idolization as little more than youthful folly. She could not be as heart racing as he remembered. This trip had done nothing to shatter his fantasies, even a hard day of traveling and finding rest upon the dirt did nothing to mar her temperament or beauty. Of course, she could not care for him, he was...not good enough, for her or anyone he'd wish to spend time with. It was an oddly comforting thought to know where he stood, a shield against the traitorous parts of him that dreamed of dangerous things. Though, he could not stop watching her slumber.

  The cares of the world were erased from her brow while she traipsed through the fade in her dreams. It was her smile that shifted her from a beautiful woman into someone that knotted his tongue every time he stood near her. It took almost three weeks upon first meeting her before he could even bark out a "move along." Before that, he'd made squeaking noises and wave with his hands, which only made her smile wider and -- on occasion -- laugh. Andraste's breath, he was finished when she'd laugh.

  But that was a lifetime ago, another man, a foolish and naive man who thought mages were good people at heart. Now he knew the truth, bore their scars on his body and...elsewhere. And yet, Lana was different. Even becoming a Grey Warden, those fearsome slayers of darkspawn, she maintained her gentleness. She was one of the good ones.

  Lana stirred again, but this wasn't a soft tremble from dawn's chill. Her shoulders pivoted back and forth, slamming her sides into the ground. Whimpers vibrated up her throat.

  "Lana," Cullen whispered in the air.

  If she heard him, she gave no sign, her eyelids undulating in pain. Her calm face shattered, dragging her lips into a rictus of horror. She screamed something that sounded like a chant, the words foreign to him. Her voice hissed and snapped, giving the strange tongue a demonic turn.

  "Lana," Cullen tried again, leaping to his feet. "Solana!"

  Still she would not respond, her fingers clawing at the cloak around her neck while more of the unholy chanting broke from her throat. He dropped to a knee beside her bedroll, ignoring dawn's frost chewing upon his shin.

  "Lady Amell," Cullen reached out to her, prepared to catch her hand and yank her awake from whatever ensnared her. "Warden Commander!" he shouted.

  Lana's eyes snapped open and she sat bolt upright. Her fists both flared, blue light warping around her hands as magic gushed out of the fade. Ice shards erupted from the ground spearing through the sky nearly twenty feet in all directions around them. She blinked thrice, then stared at her hands. Shaking away the buildup of magic, Lana finally turned to him. It was only her that peered out through her eyes.

  "That was all the wards, wasn't it?" she asked, tapping her fingertips together "Ouch! Yep, all of them. The blowback's the worst part."

  "Are you..." Cullen's hands froze, one inches from her, the other inside his armor.

  Her fingers raked across her forehead, leaving furloughs of red flesh in their wake. "I, sorry. It's a Grey Warden thing."

  "A Grey Warden thing?" Cullen repeated, his body rigid.

  "We, uh," Lana's eyes slipped closed for a moment as she continued to claw across her skin. "On top of sensing darkspawn sometimes we hear them as part of...part of what makes us Grey Wardens. It's most prevalent in dreams."

  "You have nightmares about darkspawn?" It should not be surprising, few came back from war unchanged, but he couldn't stop the shock upon his face. She was the Hero of Ferelden, surely she was strong enough to resist the horrors of war. Somehow, despite knowing her before she became that mythic warrior, he'd bought into the hype around her. Perhaps it was because he knew her before he wanted so much to believe it, to think she was untouchable.

  Lana pursed her lips and nodded, finally pulling her fingers away from her forehead. The scratches were deeper than he expected, more reminiscent of a cat attacking than her chewed down nails. "I should have warned you."

  "Do they happen often?"

  "It's worse the closer I draw to the deep roads. Some remnant of my joining during the blight." Her eyes didn't water, but her gaze drifted past Cullen and towards the lightening horizon. For a time neither said a word, they only shared in the silence of the early morning broken by the chirp of birds. "I should probably get up, anyway."

  It wasn't until she struggled to rise to her feet that Cullen noticed how close he was to her. He staggered back to let her up, and turned his back to her. Certain that she was Lana and nothing else, Cullen released his hold on the knife hidden inside his armor. His fingers trembled and he held them close to his chest, trying to will away the rapid beating of his heart. If she noticed how close he nearly came to killing her out of fear of possession, she did not voice it, only scooped up her water skin and headed towards the creek. Any mage was vulnerable, Cullen repeated, watching her unsteady steps. Any mage was dangerous.

  Stairs

  Lana kept a close eye on the maps while Cullen was supposed to keep an eye on the trail. The fact he could not find this imaginary path only aided in him smashing his boot through every tree, puddle, and rabbit burrow along the way. "You have no idea where you're going," he chided himself as he plunged calf deep into a hole. Mud suckered up while he sneered at his bad luck.

  But it was Solana who answered, "No, I've got a fairly good handle. That pile of rocks there, the white ones. I think they were part of the old temple from before the second blight. One of those pagan ones later altered into an Andrastian pre-chantry, then burnt down during an exalted march years after."

  Cullen only saw vines and moss sprawled across a lumpy hill, but he had no reason to doubt her, she was the grey warden. "Do you do this often?"

  "Chase down blood mages?" she asked, her face buried in the map. After a moment, she pointed towards the east and nodded her head. "I'm not a templar."

  "No, I know. You couldn't be a..." he tried to rise up from his stuck boot and sighed. His leg refused to budge. "Hunting for entrances to the deep roads long lost. I wondered if this is part of the average grey warden duties."

  "Ah," she smiled and rolled up the precious maps into the pack slung across her back. "A grey warden's job is to stop blights. Which means I peaked rather early in my career, I suppose." She stepped close to Cullen, her body so near the wind ruffled the hem of her robe onto him. His heartbeat picked up from the heat of her inches away.

  "That's a shame," Cullen squeaked out. He snapped his teeth to try and hide the ecstatic terror building at the back of his brain. What was she doing?

  "Truly. So, some of my sunset years involves traveling across the land, finding darkspawn, following them to their filthy holes, and destroying them." Her tone was stark and dry, but her eyes sparkled in a dangerous mischief. Lifting half her smile, Lana dropped to her knees. His hands reached for her shoulders to raise her out of the mud and to stop her from... Maker, whatever she was doing, it could not be that. Cullen swallowed a squeak when her fingers grasped around his calf and she began to yank upwards. Andraste's tears, of course. If the blood mage or the darkspawn didn't end him on this trip, his runaway mind would. Together they worked to unstick him from the mud.

  "You don't send some of your underlings to do that?" he gritted through his teeth, trying to distract from the awkwardness blooming up his cheeks. To even think that, no, it was only a passing...Maker, when did it get so warm? His boot erupted from the sinkhole, the ground popping in rage from losing its toy.

  Lana held out her hand and Cullen took it, helping her rise. Her robes were filthy, the knees down to her feet coated in mud and moss. She paid it no mind as she grabbed up her staff. "Sinkholes are a good sign."

  "To predators looking for an easy meal," Cullen grumbled.

  "It means the ground is weak, and where the ground is weak an entrance to the deep roads is near. Come on, should be just past that hill."

  Lana strode ahead of him as she always did. On occasion she'd bang the end of her staff into the ground, listening to the noise. After a few steps and bangs, she resumed their earlier conversation. "I don't like the idea of sitting on a throne. I made a lot of sacrifices to be what I am, and I don't want to waste them."

  "I never--" Cullen began, but Lana gasped and ran up the hill away from him, her lighter steps making the climb much easier than his. He gritted his teeth and, not as excited about the fragile ground, took each step with more caution. The last thing he wanted was to force her to have to fish him out of a sinkhole by the waist. As he rounded up the hill, Lana waved her hands over a cavity dug so deep into the earth to render it essentially bottomless. Packed mud around the entrance gave way to rock chiseled away from the earth after five feet down into the pit. Further than that was inky blackness, an ominous fog drifting atop the impenetrable bottom. The hole was a good twenty feet in diameter, more where the rock cleaved away from the mountain like a cracked bone. Rotted boards were nailed up by a blind man working off the instructions of a deaf man to create a staircase for giants. The staircase circled around the edges of the pit, down into the depths beyond sight -- at least what parts of the stairs that hadn't fully succumb to time and their poor craftsmanship. Cullen tried to see to the bottom but could only spot a hint of a wood pile hundreds of feet below them. That must be where the stairs went to die.

  "Here we are," she said, waving her hands at it.

  "We'll never survive that." Cullen tried to sound optimistic, but it always turned into pessimism when possible death was involved. "Is there another entrance closer? One nearer to the ground part of the deep roads?"

  Lana shook her head, "Not for miles, and in the opposite direction. If we take it, we could lose White forever." Above the squawks of carrion birds was an eternal creaking from the staircase shifting to its inevitable doom. He leaned over the edge, trying to see if enough the stairs remained in place all the way to the bottom to insure their survival, but shadows either hid vital sections or they did not exist. He couldn't tell.

  "Cullen," she spoke so close to him, he jumped from her whisper, "you can still turn back. Once we take this, it's the deep roads and I don't think there will be any getting out."

  He nodded and reached for the sword upon his hip, the same blade he'd carried since landing upon the shores of Kirkwall. Pulling it tighter to him, he said, "I am willing to enter the deep roads, though I'd prefer to do it one piece."

  "Oh, that," Lana waved his concerns away as if they were little more than a child's insistence that the bogeyman lived in the wardrobe, "I can help with that. Come on." She stepped to the edge of the stairs and, without pausing to test it, slid two down. The entire structure groaned in pain from her addition but did not collapse.

  Her eyes bore into him and she waved for him to get a move on. After composing himself, Cullen stepped forward, "I should go first."

  Lana sighed, "No, I'll test it. With your, um, greater weight, it's more likely you'd break the stairs and leave me stranded."

  "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he asked even as he eased onto the rickey case. Amazingly, it continued to hold him upright, even with his "greater weight."

  "Grey wardens don't work in hugs and comforting lies. Though we've got a smashing pie recipe for some reason," Lana chuckled, her lighter steps twisting her deeper and deeper down the staircase. She vanished below Cullen and he increased his careful steps downward.

  "You're telling me you don't hug darkspawn to death?"

  "Not particularly," her voice carried from below. It was a strange comfort to speak to the voice. Even if he couldn't see her, at least he could still hear her. It also covered up the mournful wail of the structure supposed to be supporting him. "Do templars kiss demons?"

  "Some of them," Cullen dead panned. He didn't even notice the joke until she began to laugh below him, light as air. How was she not bothered by this? Digging his fingers deep into the wall, Cullen increased his gait while gravel scattered from his handholds. It also drew forth even more groans from the stairs. "Why Lana?" he asked, needing anything to cover over the sound.

  "Huh?" her voice was even more distant now. How far did she get below him?

  "Why do you call yourself Lana? I thought your name was..."

  "Solona," she spoke the name as if a curse. "I never liked it. No idea what my parents were thinking, sounds like an estate by the sea for addled Orlesians."

  Cullen chuckled at her rather apt description. It was days before he learned the name of the apprentice that caught his eye, and that was only from inspecting a class roster he wasn't supposed to see. Amell was good, but the given name did not fit her in the least. While the senior enchanters called her Solona, her friends all had some version of Lana or Lanny. She seemed content with either, but frowned when anyone used her proper name. Templars were supposed to call the mages their rank followed by family name but he almost called her Lana once on accident. After the tower mages and templars took the rare trip outside to stretch in the sun, she and a few other apprentices wandered off to a blueberry bush. Cullen wished to follow, but he clung to his duty and remained watching over the others tending to a haphazard garden. When thunder broke above them, the mages scurried inside all save Lana and her friends. When he ran over to them, they were gorging on the berries, their laughing faces blotted in purple juice. That was when the familiar name almost broke from him, "La...Solo...mage, there is a storm beginning!" He thought for certain he twisted his words quick enough to hide his blunder, but she didn't look him through that day. It was the first time she looked at him.

  And now she was somewhere in the depths of a certain-to-break-their-necks staircase, dragging him into the pit of a darkspawn lair. Cullen twisted around another turn of the hole and spotted Lana's back. Her hand clung to the wall to steady herself as she leaned over, peering down through the depths. He must have huffed harder than he meant to from the climb, because she twisted away from the long fall.

  "We've hit our first rough patch."

  He followed from the edge of the staircase, broken like a jagged tooth, down towards where it picked back up again. It was a neck breaking jump, no way anyone could make it. Cullen stopped five stairs above her and tried to crane down to see the bottom. Only darkness glittered back despite their moving deeper into the earth. "What do you propose we do now? Head back up?" he asked, pointing towards the climb that might hold them.

  Lana chuckled, "No, I have a better idea, but you need to get closer to me."

  "I...is this all right?" he asked, hopping down a stair. At her hand wave, he moved down another, then two more until he stood both feet on the one stair above her. It complained greatly from his weight.

  "Here, hold this..." she twisted around to pass him her staff.

  Even as he took it, he asked, "Why?" An unearthly power radiated from what looked little more than a shed branch, stripped and polished.

  "Because, I need both hands free for this next part," Lana smiled, then turned back to face the drop off. Magic twisted around her fingers as she drew them across her body. The sound of wood splintering and cracking apart echoed through the pit. Cullen reached for the wall, bracing himself for a fall, but the stairs they stood upon remained stationary. Something moved out of his field of vision and he turned to watch a small section of the staircase yank off the wall above him. Barely showing any strain, Lana guided the section of stairs lower into the pit. It drifted so close he could have reached out to run his fingers across the stripped bolts that she ripped clean out of rock.

  Carefully lining it up below her, she stepped onto the stolen stairs and nodded her head. Lana kept her hands extended, magic crackling around her fingers. He'd seen mages throw things before, a chair here, a book there, mostly out of boredom or to make some point. Even when it was little more than a cup, the tendrils of whatever fade energy they corrupted into the world would hiss and spit around the mage. But it circled Lana's fingers like a loyal dog would its mistress. She stepped down her floating stairs, increasing her light steps again.

  "Come on, Cullen," she called, already halfway down her levitating steps.

  Gripping tight to the staff, as if that would somehow protect him from falling, he eased onto the floating stairs and was surprised to find the ground as steady as any other. He expected it to bob like a ship on the sea, or pitch to the side. With a greater care, he eased downward, his eyes level with the ground and trying to not think of how they'd get back up if this part of her plan failed. A gap of three stairs hung between Lana's yanked out chunk and the continuation of the original. She paused at the drop off and turned towards him.

  "You'll have to take it first."

  "Why?"

  To demonstrate, she dipped her hands an inch and the world shifted below Cullen. His hands flailed to try and catch himself upon nothing, but before he could fall she realigned the stairs. "If I jump first, the stairs will tip," she still explained as if he wasn't very aware how much his life rested in her steady hands.

  "All right, I understand," he said. Lana tried to flatten against the crumbling railing some safety conscious person took the time to put up. It was a kind effort on her part, but the stairs were only built wide enough for one person. Cullen slid to his side, easing down the stairs while staring at her instead of the ground below him. His boot searched for a landing, hovering through empty space before moving his weight downward. He attempted to lean back to give her room, but a warning from the edge of the stairs pinned in him place. There was no avoiding crushing her fingers into his armored chest.

  "I am sorry," he said and plowed forward as quickly as possible to minimize the pain. Lana crinkled her nose and sneered as her fingers banged across the metal griffin. Cullen kept silently apologizing, but he never felt the platform dip. She hung on until he stood at the precipice.

  "Do not fall," she instructed, as if he had any other plan in mind. Eyeing up the destination, he leapt. It was not agile, his ankle fumbling in the landing, but the stairs did not collapse. Holding tight to the staff stretched across his arms, he turned back and shouted, "All right!"

  Before he finished speaking, Lana hopped from her position and smacked full on into his back. Instinctively, she cushioned the blow with her hands, breaking contact with the floating stairs. Without magic to suspend it, the structure plummeted to the depths of the pit. Lana spun around and waved her fingers just enough to slow the descent so it softly landed on the pile instead of splintering into wood and nail shrapnel.

  "Well, that was fun," she smiled.

  "Your idea of fun would send hardened generals scampering under their beds," Cullen said, peering through the cracked railing at the stairs he occupied only a moment earlier. It wasn't until he leaned back that he realized she had her hands gently splayed across his back. "I should probably continue downward."

  "That would be advisable," Lana said.

  "Right, I'll just do that then..." he took two steps down and felt her hands slip away from his body. A shudder twisted up through the spine of the staircase. "Oh, Maker," Cullen's body paused, his foot hanging above the next stair. He tried to turn his head to look up at Lana. Her face was screwed up in concentration as she stared down at still deadly fall. "What do we do now?" he whispered through a held breath.

  The staircase screamed like a forest ripped apart by turbulent winds. He reached for the railing to steady himself, but that final bit of weight started a chain reaction. Boards rattled away from their support beams, popping off the nails. Stairs rained down below them, shattering into the ground.

  "RUN!" Lana shouted, shoving her shoulder into his back. Cullen did just that, leaping two or three stairs at a time, as the ground raced away from them. It was like trying to run up a hill of sliding sand, the entire structure collapsing beneath him while he tried ti use it. If he ever stopped moving he'd fall dead and Lana would tumble behind him. He jumped forward just as a board vanished below his foot. Twisting to warn Lana, his eyes widened as a piece of wood rose from the wreckage to slot into place.

  "I've got it. Go, go, go," she ordered. Her arms flew like she was conducting a symphony, slapping every broken board and section of splintered staircase below them. Even as he picked up speed, the staircase gave up on its fight and the remaining boards below them smashed to the ground. There were no more stairs to ease them downward but Lana was resourceful. Debris, planks, anything she could find she lifted from the bottom of the cavern and slapped it all just below Cullen's feet. He didn't slow, having to trust that she'd put something below him just as he stepped onto it. His shoes stomped through the wood, splintering at each step. The planks were packed with mud from the old rains sloshing up the ravine. His heel cracked through something and he glanced down at a shattered skull grinning up at the boot through its head.

  "Don't mind the corpses," Lana called, lifting everything she could find.

  Cullen nodded and used her staff to balance his body as the decline steepened. Lana was running out of corpses to trod on. He was about to shout something when he spotted the ground below. It was the pile of broken stairs, not the softest landing, but Andraste knew how much longer the one mage could maintain their ramshackle descent. Bunching up his knees, Cullen launched himself off the final plank and crashed onto the pile. Splintered boards and rusted nails tried to pierce through his armor, most missing except for a chunk of stair digging into his exposed shin. He flipped around to watch Lana follow after his leap. Tossing her staff to the side, he caught her around the waist, the momentum shoving him deeper into the pile of splinters.

  "That could have gone better," she struggled through gritted teeth. Cullen could only bob his head, which almost smacked into hers. He released his grip and she rolled off him, her hands still raised as if she didn't want to touch anything. Not that he blamed her. The smell was atrocious -- fetid meat during the height of summer couldn't compare to what wafted through the exposed ravine.

  Lana nodded at her staff, "Could you pick it up for me?"

  After yanking the splinter that felt much larger than it was from his shin, Cullen nodded and procured it from the rest of its dead brethren. Without the fear of falling to his death, Cullen noticed that what he thought were notches carved into the wood were actually names, dozens and dozens of them chiseled deep into the rosewood. He tried to hand it back to Lana, but she was turned away from him, her focus on the gaping hole carved into the bowels of the earth. A solitary dwarven statue stood guard before it. Its primitive head lay at its feet, the eyeless face gazing back at its feet. Cullen's own stature came up to where the nose should be.

  "Welcome to the deep roads," Lana said.

  More of that fetid smell oozed through the gaps in the rock. Sweet Andraste, if that was what it smelled like this far from the source, what was he about to find deeper in? But Cullen agreed to this, he wasn't about to turn back now. He twisted around to glance at the ramshackle stairs hundred of feet above him and sighed. It was not as if he had any means to escape it. Nodding at the grey warden, he crossed the threshold and stepped onto the ancient roads of the dwarves. Lana followed behind him. After a few steps in, she reached out for her staff. As Cullen turned to hand it back, he watched every stair, every plank, and every corpse plummet to the ground. The sound was deafening from forests of lumber cracking into itself, and a dust cloud billowed in all directions. Most of the debris shattered into the walls of the entrance, the pair protected by the broken statue.

  Lana watched it with a cool eye, unsurprised at the damage, but Cullen couldn't stop from leaning out. The entire staircase was gone, there wasn't even a sign it ever existed. Maker's Breath, had she been holding the entire thing up while they climbed down? How was that even possible? Cullen turned back to her and a chill crawled up his spine from a power he'd never thought any mage capable of.

  She smiled at him and tipped her head into the deep roads, "Shall we?"

  White

  There was a darkspawn tale his family favored telling while Cullen was growing up. It involved a pair of siblings who chased after a wounded deer/pet dog/demon that promised them gold. The object of their pursuit changed based upon who was telling it. Mia would often shift it to the last to cause her brothers to squeal in terror, taking time to mimic the rings of razor sharp teeth in the demon's three mouths. In the story, the siblings stumble across a gap in the earth. Not a hole filled with dirt and worms, but an eternal cavity cleaved into the heart of the world with no end in sight. No light could penetrate the endless black because it wasn't shadows but evil itself that blanketed the realm of the ancient dwarves. Cullen considered it little more than childhood nonsense until he stood inside the deep roads. He'd faced mage fire bursting against his shield, watched malifecarum carve up their own arms for one more inch of power, suffered demon's claws swiping across his skin, but he'd never felt evil like this. The hair on his neck stood on end the moment they crossed past the last of the faceless dwarven statues, and it hadn't settled down since.

  Lana did not seem to notice the pervading aura as she drizzled oil across her makeshift torch and lit it with a touch of her finger. She passed it to Cullen. The heat scalded his face and fingers, but it was a welcome relief to chase away the shadows pricking about the edges of his eyes. The grey warden laid her staff to the side and ran a hand along the walls of caverns. They'd shifted so quickly from the lain stones of the ancient dwarves into the unfinished bones of the earth, Cullen missed the transition.

  "Hm," Lana inspected her fingers, "no sign of blight here."

  "I hope that's a good thing," Cullen said, gripping tighter to the torch with his left hand and keeping his blade close with the other.

  She nodded, then cranked her head to the side. It looked as if she was trying to hear a whisper far in the distance. "Nothing so far, we may be in better luck than I hoped," Lana smiled. He was overreacting, amplifying things to a greater danger than they really were. Cullen tried to return the smile, but the smoke of the torch bit into his eyes.

  "Will it be safe to travel with this?" he asked, trying to waft away the smoke curling around them like an overeager puppy. The walls pressed into them, the cavern perhaps large enough to fit three people at a time, while the ceiling dipped and bowed, nearly skimming across Cullen's head. He was grateful in the long line of things that clawed across his brain, claustrophobia wasn't one of them.

  Lana picked up her staff and turned away, not answering him. She no longer used it as a walking stick, her feet as silent as she could make them while crossing the ground. Cullen tried to mimic her, aware of every jangle and clang the armor made. For being what grey wardens regularly wore into the deep roads, it was poorly muffled. Even his breathing expanded the chest enough to draw forth a metallic bang that amplified through the echoes in the tight cavern. And grey wardens suffered this for days or weeks down here? How was he going to last?

  As sure footed as a cat stalking its prey, Lana slipped ahead of him down the dark corridor. The occasional prick of blue light from the mushrooms sprouting along the rocks gave just enough light to keep one from fearing blindness, but nowhere near enough to guide by. Yet, Lana moved with an almost terrifying certainty, as if she'd done this a thousand times before. Cullen closed his eyes against the smoke inhalation, tried to silence his ears from his own deafening echoes, and chased after her. He kept a count of his steps, as if it would be important in returning to the surface. It was probably foolish seeing as how he wasn't about to climb the pile of debris, but it kept the memories at bay.

  He didn't fight darkspawn during the blight. He wanted to, to have anything to do beyond sit in that room and watch helpless as the people who tortured and murdered his friends returned to their lives. Gregoir insisted there were no more blood mages remaining, that they'd all been killed, but that was impossible. To have found so many mage survivors when so few templars, who were trained to fight demons, made it out... And the mages cared not a whit about what happened. Three days after she rescued them, the mages were back in their rooms, still splattered in blood joking with each other. One made some quip about how if the templars were such pushovers, maybe they should put the mages in charge of protecting them. Cullen glared impotently at the betrayers chuckling, his hands metaphorically leashed. Every laugh was a fresh insult to his fallen brethren. Why should they feel joy when so many others suffered? The anger threatened to overwhelm him to a breaking point, where he couldn't hold himself back, when all the mages marched to Denerim. He remained behind, never seeing a darkspawn or the horrors of the blight itself. Cullen still wondered if in the end that was a blessing or a curse.