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My feet knew the path
We walked in the dark, in the dark
I never gave a single thought to where it might lead
The bastard was leering. Again.
That was a thought, actually. Perhaps it wouldn’t be considered leering under normal circumstances, especially given Teon had just addressed him directly, but it certainly felt like leering anyway when amber eyes lingered on him. He was aware of Cassandra scolding them both with a frothing bark, the others watching on with a shared grimace, but her harsh words were muffled and distant compared to that singular sensation of those damn eyes targeting him. Templar eyes. That’s what they felt like. There wasn’t a threat of violence to them nor the disdain he expected from someone he so regularly verbally sparred with, but there was a distrusting alertness to those bright irises that every Templar he had ever had the misfortune of meeting mirrored.
The man can leave the Order but you cannot take the Order out of the man.
He at least was able to conduct himself with some level of professionalism by lowering his cold gaze to the detailed map laid out before them when it was clear they would not find common ground, but, alas, it seemed the former Templar would never offer him that same courtesy. The worst thing about it was that he knew the blond-haired military advisor was capable of politeness; it was just that he conveniently forgot how to be polite when it came to him. Ass. In fact, the longer he simmered on it the more he realised just how often those golden-brown eyes swept over his form for one reason or another. More than a handful of times the mage had caught them staring at the glossy scar that faintly cut across his throat, too. Only, Commander Cullen Rutherford would snap them away before he could call him out on it.
Not this time, he declared stubbornly.
Having once been a mage raised in the Circle, Teon Wystan was well-trained in the art of always being aware of one’s surroundings and, determined to finally catch out the leering bastard, spent the rest of the debrief straining inconspicuous glances at the man scowling beside him. And, within the hour, his patience was rewarded as his skin abruptly began to crawl…
“If you have something to say to me it can wait until after we are done here, Commander.”
A thick silence halted the momentum of the meeting, one punctured by a disgruntled groan that sounded like it came from Cassandra as the warrior woman hung her head. Teon was acutely aware of the two other women in the room hiding smirks behind their hands, Josephine most of all voicing her entertainment regarding their rivalry in the past. Leliana, not willing to outright encourage, ever-so-slightly tilted her head. It was glimpsing at his childhood friend and ex-lover, Ewan Trevelyan, who stood leaning on his hip on the other side of the table that sealed the commander’s fate. A knowing grin stretched his freckled face, mossy eyes twinkling, and was practically egging Teon on despite him shaking his head disapprovingly.
It seemed even Cassandra did not have the energy to intervene this time. Instead she decided to straighten her spine and refereed from the sidelines with a scowl stuck to her tight mouth, like a breeder surveying two dogs scraping for dominance. Even without that, anxious embarrassment could not touch him because finally he’d snapped his head to the side just in time to catch the Commander peering at his neck. And, Teon would give the man this, Cullen did not buckle and remained motionless save for flicking those pools of hardened honey to meet the challenge of his cerulean blues.
“And what makes you think I have anything more to say to you?” He asked through gritted teeth. He was agitated, then. Good. There was even the ghost of a sneer on his face that proved promising. “It’s not as if doing so has been productive thus far.”
“Then, please, enlighten me on why you insist on staring at me like I pissed in your ale.”
That earned a giggle from somewhere, not that he cared who he yanked it out of for Cullen turned to face him fully with a thunderous expression he was sure meeker mages had cowered from. Teon, however, had sworn never to cower under a Templar’s gaze again and held firm.
Cullen’s nostrils flared. “That might have something to do with the fact you insist on debating every damn suggestion I have brought forward. Or did you think that would go unnoticed?”
“If your suggestions were actually thought out and not just brute forcing our way through whichever obstacle the Inquisition has to face this week, then perhaps I wouldn’t feel the need to debate them.”
Cullen scoffed incredulously, his hand lifting from the pommel of his sword so he could gesture wildly with it. “You do not have the experience nor the authority to determine the effectiveness of my methods.”
“You tend to be able to smell a cowpat before you step in one,” Teon drawled in response. The flatness perfectly hid the triumph welling in his chest at the man stumbling so effortlessly into his trap. “But, then again, I cannot just assume you have done a hard day’s labour to recognise said smell.”
Oh, that had Cullen seething. “Do not presume to know me.”
“I presume nothing, ser. You have revealed much of your character already, knowingly or not.”
“And so far you have revealed yourself to be a nuisance rather than an asset.”
Teon snorted. Oh, he was making it far too easy. “Ah so I am a nuisance to you, Commander? An untrained pup that nips at your heels?”
“Amongst…other things, yes.”
Teon noticed the faltering pause, the slight sag to his shoulders, the way he dropped an octave and seemed surprised by his own words. It almost had him backing off, his belly uncomfortably twisted by that small change to his voice, but he shoved such discomfort aside in favour of maintaining the upper hand.
“Is that why I must suffer your eyes on my person so often? My apologies, then. I will try to be less of a nuisance to you in future. Perhaps you would do the honours of informing me how I might go about doing that?”
Cullen’s jaw clenched tight in a clear attempt to thwart the venomous insults he wanted to hastily fling at the mage and, damn it all, Teon goaded him further with a raised brow in the hopes each one spilled out. He had finally succeeded in chipping away at the man’s feigned civility and was going to make the most of it. Those golden eyes, predictably, flicked to his neck again but this time the action oddly smothered the flames blazing within them and, just for a moment, Teon swore that they softened a smidge until Cullen returned them to the map and burned a sizable hole in it. The Commander huffed a chuckle that lacked humour.
“This is absurd and exactly why I raised concerns about your appointment,” he grumbled.
“And yet, alas, I am still here.”
Cullen just sighed sharply, his lips wisely sealed beyond that. It was not the satisfying conclusion he had hoped for, but still, Teon’s chest swelled with smug glee at getting the stoic man to crack so gloriously in front of the other advisors. He decided, albeit childishly, to add insult to injury by offering sweetly. “I do not wish to derail this meeting further. So, as I said, if you have something to say then I am happy to discuss it with you afterwards, Commander.”
Cullen standing stiffly and choosing to ignore him was its own victory and, with the tips of the blond’s ears dipped in crimson from anger and embarrassment alike, Teon was content his point had been made and the debrief continued without further incident. As soon as Cassandra declared they were done for the day Cullen stormed out first, all but slamming the door in Ewan’s perplexed face. When the green-marked mage raised an accusatory finger and waggled it at Teon he just shrugged it off, unwilling to take responsibility. Cullen being in a foul mood was his own damn fault.
Except, as Teon collected healing herbs and other medicinal plants growing on the outskirts of Haven hours later, regret oddly tugged at him. Without having those eyes scalding him and forcing him to defensively put his hackles up, the harshness of his words struck deep. In fact, he found himself ashamed of them as he tore up an elfroot that simply refused to free its roots from the snow-bitten ground. Despite what he had heard said about him from Kirkwall’s mages, Cullen had tried to be civil with the mages who now called the Inquisition home. He’d been civil with him too, feigned as it was, and even genuinely pleasant on the odd occasion they crossed paths outside of War Room meetings. If Cullen just kept his eyes to himself the two would probably get along. Not well, but certainly not at each other’s throats all the time, either.
Wiping his muddy hands on his robes, a huff of annoyance fell out of Teon’s pale lips. He needed to apologise, he knew, but it took until the sun had set below the white-tipped mountaintops for him to be clear-headed enough to realise he should. It would only anger the solitary Commander more for him to intrude on his evening. Glumly, Teon stuffed what plants he could into the satchel hanging off his hip and resigned himself to trudging back towards the fortified village. As he drew closer to the frozen lake glittering in the dying light, the thumping sound of something hard colliding with metal pricked his ears. It was a common enough sound to hear most mornings and evenings, the training grounds always crowded with volunteers clashing at each other under the watchful eye of Cassandra and Cullen, but Teon heard it while battling with low-hanging branches in a patch of trees. As far as Teon knew, he was the only one who strayed that far out of the village at such late hours. However, when he finally popped out into a circled-off lumber clearing he found he was not alone at all.
One of the crudely stitched-together sack dummies they used for practice was jammed into the frozen ground at an angle and Teon watched curiously, thin-lipped, as Cullen hacked at the poor thing. The Commander was not dressed in his usual colours as he sported a white cotton shirt and plain breeches, perhaps choosing to sneak away to train alone after being unable to sleep. He had his tension-afflicted back to the mage; it was difficult to tell his mood but the big tuffs of straw fluttering in the air with every swing of his relentless iron sword was a pretty clear indicator it was likely foul still. Teon made to leave him be, in the process having to embarrassingly drag his gaze away from his muscular arms as they flexed on each skilled motion, but as soon as he took a step a twig snapped loudly beneath his boot.
The following events happened with a dizzying speed as Cullen whipped around, sword poised to strike, and, startled, Teon fell backwards to land hard on his backside. Fear threaded between them, the Commander’s mouth set in a snarl while the mage looked up at him wide-eyed. For a moment Teon didn’t see Cullen shakily brandishing his sword and instead saw the violent image of another Templar looming over him as he threatened to slice his throat open. And then, before he could even think to summon fearful magic to crackle at his fingertips, Cullen jumped back with his sword slipping from his grip — all but forgotten as the biting breeze attempted to bury it in a thin layer of snow.
“Maker’s breath! You…you…”
Cullen’s chest heaved so heavily thick clouds of frosted smoke billowed from his mouth with every breath. He seemed at a loss for what to do, his chapped lips flapping with no more words falling out and his body seemingly paralysed, but then he made the poor choice to stumble forward with his hand outstretched. Teon shrunk away from him, his own breaths coming faster as panic squeezed his lungs. He actually crawled backwards in an effort to put distance between them and only stopped with a whimper when the smoothed edge of freshly-cut lumber pressed against his back. Cullen retracted, his pink-tinged face creasing deeply in confusion.
“I’m not…I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured.
It tumbled out of him strained, almost as if Teon’s terror actually pained him. Cullen swallowed thickly, squeezed his disquieted eyes shut, and the next time they fluttered open there was that golden softness to them that had been briefly present in the meeting earlier that day.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated, offering his hand again. “Please, allow me to help you to your feet.”
And again, Teon flinched away from it.
“Don’t touch me,” he hissed.
Teon attempted, stupidly, to leap to his feet but his shaky legs crumbled beneath him at the last second. He would have suffered a nasty bloody nose if not for strong arms catching him before he fell to the frost-hardened ground. His robes spared him from skin contact but it did not save him from the small amount of pressure that meant he could feel the hard grooves of Cullen’s sword-callused fingers as they wrapped around his arms. For a reason he dare not interrogate, it stole the remaining air from his lungs and with what measly strength that existed within him he thrashed wildly.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cullen insisted, grunting as he struggled to maintain his grip. “Even if that means I have to stop you from hurting yourself.”
Teon’s fear only spiralled upon being trapped by a broad chest with wood pressed into his spine. Not even the cold nipping at his nose could stop his body from reliving the nightmare of an alcohol-soaked tongue shoved into his mouth as a pommel dug threateningly into his hip. Tears stung the corner of his eyes. He didn’t fight his abuser back then but he would now. He did not do so with magic, knowing well that reaching for the Fade in such close quarters with a Templar would only end in him being weakened by a Silence, and so swiped with his nails. It was a tangle of limbs pulling and pushing in a clumsy tug of war until Teon saw an opening and, with a dirty kick to the shin that resulted in a buckling knee and a pained grunt, he shoved hard at the chest smothering him. Cullen stumbled back, releasing him, and lifted his palm in surrender while his other hand slid to his abdomen as if winded.
“For Maker’s sake, I yield!”
That gravelled voice, angry as it was, did not spit at him with the predatory venom he associated with Finley Orrick and Teon blinked away the red haze clouding his vision. His hands unfurled from their previous tight fists and flew to his mouth to stifle a gasp. Oh. Oh no. Panic flooded his body. He may not have marked him but physically attacking the military advisor was not something that would go unpunished.
“I thought…I didn’t mean to—I’m so sorry!”
Cullen stared at him blankly. Well, not entirely, a pale brow rose as the blond slowly processed his fumbled apology. And then, so comically out of place, he laughed. It was a broken sound, cracked, but there was no mistaking it. Cullen, in his bafflement, laughed until he devolved into a less-than-charming snort that oddly settled Teon’s frantic heartbeat.
“Why are you laughing?” He squeaked, more bewildered than anything else.
“Forgive me,” Cullen choked out. He recollected himself and straightened his spine without any evidence he had been trapped in a laughing fit, except for a rough clearing of his throat. “Forgive me,” he repeated smoothly, “during the war mages and Templars bloodied each other without remorse and here you are seeking forgiveness for such a minor infraction.”
“I could still make it a major one,” Teon muttered under his breath. It was far too bold, he knew, but relief gave way to irritation. Templars, nothing changed. He sighed, hugging himself for comfort. “I just did not appreciate having a sword brandished in my face.”
Cullen sagged, dragging cold-bitten fingers through his blond curls. “Yes…I cannot fault you for that. My apologies for reacting so inappropriately, but, I would not have hurt you. I need you to understand that, if nothing else.”
“You’re a Templar. Templars always hurt mages.” The Commander’s cutting words from before stung his body and he scoffed tiredly. “Especially those they consider a nuisance...”
Cullen’s guilt-riddled gaze lowered to his neck. Without thinking, he answered the man’s silent question dejectedly. “It was a Templar.”
“…Pardon?”
“My scar,” he said, louder. “The one you keep staring at. It’s from a Templar’s blade, if you must know.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were. You’re doing it now. Or did you think it would go unnoticed?”
They stood in awkward silence as the wind picked up and disturbed the trees surrounding them. Teon could not move despite how badly he wanted to flee and pretend they had never crossed paths as the last of the sun’s light faded from the sky. The viridescent glow of the Breach claimed the night and spread a harsh shadow across Cullen’s rugged face and that, frustratingly, only continued to keep his feet firmly planted to the spot even as his teeth chattered.
“Here,” Cullen spoke softly. He reached for a corked flask Teon hadn’t noticed was attached to his belt. “It’ll warm you up.”
Teon took it warily, careful to avoid their fingers brushing together as he did. Popping the cork was a mistake as he was instantly engulfed in the putrid smell of hard liquor. Whiskey was not the beverage he would have associated with the disciplined Commander in truth, but he supposed its rich colour did match his eyes. That was a dangerous thread to stitch and Teon unpicked it by taking too large a swig and hacked a cough as it burned his throat. Cullen watched him splutter helplessly, unwilling to close the distance between them again, but the harsh liquid eventually settled in his belly and a welcomed warmth spread through him.
A thin-lipped smile tugged unbidden at the corner of his mouth. “You know, when I once asked if you would share a drink with me this was not what I had in mind.”
“I try not to indulge too often but it helps to keep the chill at bay, if only temporarily. At least until we return to Haven.”
“I suppose I cannot argue with that.”
Cullen chuckled lightly. “Oh I trust you will find a way anyway.”
Not when you smile at me like that.
“Not this time,” Teon said instead. “Thank you.”
He handed the flask back before he impulsively guzzled the entire thing in an effort to hide the fact the warmth to his cheeks had everything to do with the handsome man thinly-dressed in front of him. And the Commander was handsome, he’d never denied it. An arrogant ass, certainly, but one that could be pleasant in character just as much as looking upon him was. If not for the fact he knew him to be the loyal Knight-Captain to the monstrous Knight-Commander Meredith Stennard then…but he was and there was no point dwelling on ridiculous what ifs. It did not matter that he had turned his back on the Order; the man could never look upon a mage and not see danger, something to fear, a liability. In his case, even unknowingly, Cullen was right to view him as such. The exact reason he hated having those eyes on him.
Cullen just stood there though and ran his thumb thoughtfully over the curve of his flask, right where his fingers had held it. “It is a rare thing to have a mage thank me. I admit, I have rarely done things to warrant them doing so.”
Teon shrugged, defeated. “It’s the least I could do.”
Cullen nodded stiffly. “Are you able to walk back to Haven?”
“Hm, not sure. You did ply me with alcohol.”
“…If I were to aid you, then?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Teon muttered, not at all able to handle any more physical contact between them. Something he was grateful Cullen understood as the blond nodded again and turned around to scoop up his fallen sword. “Do you still intend to join me?”
“I do,” Cullen replied, sheathing the blade. “It would be irresponsible of me to let you walk back alone.”
“I am capable, Commander.”
“I never said you weren’t,” Cullen countered effortlessly, even as his eyes seemed to dart about in search of danger. “You are a lot stronger than you appear to be, that much I know.” He stiffened suddenly, eyes downcast. “I do not think of you as a nuisance,” he confessed, barely above a whisper. “I lost my temper and misspoke, that was unworthy of me.”
Teon shook his head, all stubbornness drained from him as a soul-sucking exhaustion claimed him. “I do not blame you for doing so, Commander. I did purposefully goad you, after all.”
Cullen smirked slightly. “I did gather as much.”
“I will refrain from doing so in future…and will try to hold my tongue when you make suggestions, also.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” Cullen responded. Too charitable, Teon thought. “Despite my complaints, you have made some valid points.”
“Only some?”
“At a stretch, yes.”
He should not have said it so warmly, so playfully, and yet his voice dripped with both until he suddenly cleared his throat. “W-we should leave now. Come.”
Something about the awkwardness of the command possessed Teon to obey and he shuffled forward to follow Cullen as he guided them back to the dirt path, abandoning the training dummy to suffer the elements as they did. It was an odd feeling, Teon thought as he saddled up beside Cullen and jogged a little to match his long strides, to feel no fear while walking beside a Templar in the dark. The moon’s comforting glow as it collided with the vibrancy of the Breach swirling above helped, a problem they would have to deal with sooner rather than later. Teon’s thoughts drifted unhelpfully to what might happen after.
The Inquisition needed the rebel mages now, needed Ewan and the strange magic that marked his palm, but after closing the Breach? Even if Seeker Pentaghast was determined to bring this ‘Elder One’ to justice for slaying Divine Justinia and thwart Empress Celene’s assassination, there was always the possibility that the mages would be seen as too much of a risk to continue entertaining the fragile alliance Ewan had forged…
“It’s from a Templar’s blade.”
Teon, yanked from his spiralling thoughts, whipped his attention to see Cullen was smirking down at him. “Hm? I’m sorry, what?”
Cullen swept a finger along the scar that cut into his lip, the motion oddly hypnotic. “This,” he said, “if you must know.”
He did not elaborate further and Teon suspected if he asked for details Cullen still wouldn’t. It wasn’t lost on him he offered it without provocation to do so, however. An olive branch, then. Something that connected them. He shuddered again but not from the cold, no, it was Cullen mirroring his own words in a playful quip that rattled his bones.
The rest of their journey was completed in silence. The gap between their bodies never shrunk but did not widen, either. They somehow found a middle ground, an equilibrium of sorts, even if it was unlikely to last.
Swallowin’ your doubt
Like swords to the pit of my belly
I want to feel the fire that you kept from me