Chapter Text
Minrathous was more simple to navigate than Cullen had expected.
He couldn’t say that he had ever ventured into Tevinter before, much less had cause to visit Minrathous, but the stories he had heard told of a towering city, buildings suspended in midair high above every street, magic littering every corner. The sort of place that no simple map could help any man to understand.
But by the time he had made it over Minrathous’ great bridge and into the city proper, it became like any other city. Even in the slow, gloomy drizzle of the evening, he managed to pick his way toward his destination well enough.
The stone streets twisted before him, lit only by flickering lamps. Seeking shelter from the weather, people lingered in doorways and alleys, shadowed eyes peering out at him as he passed.
He didn’t begrudge them the wariness in their looks. It wasn’t as if he didn’t make a strange figure, hood pulled low over his face, posture surely not what one would expect of a random straggler. Even with him deliberately trying, he couldn’t completely shed the years of training as a Templar that had carved his body into moving a particular way. Each step betrayed him as precisely the sort of man most of these people would have cause to mistrust.
And that would be true on a good day, which this most surely was not.
This city hadn’t had a good day since the moment a dragon had descended upon it, wreaking havoc and permitting the Venatori to gain ground.
That much was obvious from the bodies hanging in the streets, bloody and limp, that Cullen had found himself walking past since the moment he had arrived in Docktown. It was hard to say anywhere that strung up their people to be made into examples was doing well.
Ducking down another side-street, he grimaced at the lingering smell of decay and side-stepped a cat that had curled up under an awning. He wasn’t sure what all he had imagined when he’d first received a letter asking him to come here, but he was fairly sure it hadn’t been that he would be dealing with a place quite like this.
Though, in a way, that was his own fault. The request had been from the Inquisitor, one of the few people that Cullen knew wouldn’t call upon him without true purpose. He should have known from that alone that he wouldn’t find anything pleasant here.
Had it been anyone else, he would almost certainly still be in the South, assisting former Templars recovering from Lyrium addictions, and most likely preparing for the increasing risk of Darkspawn attacks and Antaam knocking at their borders. With so much going on, he couldn’t completely ignore the outside world. He just wouldn’t have joined it himself, especially not to this degree.
But the Inquisitor knew that.
Which made the letter—a humble, innocuous thing, delivered to him as any other would be, devoid of all pomp that one might expect—all the more surprising.
If anyone would know that he would be occupied in the South, far too involved to abandon his post to head for Tevinter, it would be the Inquisitor.
Yet that was precisely why he was here. Because he wouldn’t have been asked if there was a better option.
You once told me, old friend, that if I had need of you, your support would be mine, the letter had read.
Such a simple sentence. Yet it was one that, of everything in the blasted letter, had brought him all the way here.
To the North. To Tevinter.
To Minrathous.
But it wasn’t simple support this city had need of. They had power and numbers, if that was all it would take. They had the Northern Templars and the Altus mages and tricks upon tricks up their sleeves. While they might not be the Imperium of old, they weren’t the feeble, withering old society that people would like them to be, either.
According to the letter, what Minrathous needed was a Commander. An advisor.
Particularly, they needed one with experience in regards to dragons and to the Venatori, a role that Cullen was uniquely suited to fill. Not only had he led the retreat from Haven away from that monstrous beast of Corypheus’ and the recovery process, but he had been there at Adamant, then again when Corypheus and his creature finally fell, and he had certainly helped the Inquisitor defeat plenty of Venatori in the meantime.
So he had set out, despite himself. He’d made the journey and brought himself to the city gate, then to Docktown, and now he was here, taking the last turn to arrive at the location where he had been told he would find his contact, whoever they might be.
If he’d had more time, he would have tried to press for information, insist upon knowing the details of what he was signing himself up for, but this was hardly the first time that he’d had to act quickly with limited knowledge. He hadn’t always had Leliana to help him learn every last detail of a mission, nor did he always rely on her when he had.
And in this case, the best action to take was any at all. He could still learn what he needed to, but delaying further to do so would only hurt the very cause he was trying to help.
The good thing, at least, was that the place he was meant to meet his contact seemed to be a popular enough spot. Even at this late hour, it was well-lit and well-occupied, the double-doors open and waiting for every drunk patron to stumble out into the night.
No one here would look twice at another scruffy-faced man sitting at the bar, waiting for someone to meet him.
He took the stairs at a careful pace, glancing up at the sign as if he needed to triple-check that this was the right place, and ducked inside, the warm air of the room engulfing him within mere steps.
His first thought was that it felt almost as if he was back in the Herald’s Rest. From the low grumbles echoing around the room to the singer crooning to the crowd, it made his fingers itch for some cards, even as he instinctively grimaced at the idea of losing to Josephine yet again.
His second, however, was that he couldn’t believe his eyes.
When he had read the portion of the letter about this meeting, he hadn’t understood what it meant when it said, if you choose to say yes, then you won’t have any difficulty finding your contact. His best estimate had been that the Inquisitor had been concerned about the letter being stolen and had so chosen to protect the contact by having them approach him, eliminating the issue before it could even form.
Now, he was beginning to believe that he had overthought it entirely, and the truth was much simpler than he had tricked himself into believing.
Simpler, though not necessarily any easier to comprehend.
Because sitting at a table in the middle of the tavern was quite possibly the last man Cullen would have guessed he would find himself meeting.
“Dorian?” He asked, pulling down his hood.
And there was no doubt about it. There couldn’t be. This was Dorian Pavus of the Inquisition, in the flesh, and he looked—
That was—
Well.
He looked like Dorian.
Older, yes. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he peered up at Cullen were proof enough of that. Ten years ago, when they had met for the first time, Dorian would have been appalled by the mere idea of such a thing.
But beneath that, beneath the aged hair and skin and the clean, elegant robes that he wore so naturally, it was still clear that this was the man he had known.
It was in the way that he carried himself as he turned, all confidence and grace. In how he glanced Cullen over, curiosity and surprise hidden behind a veneer of casual superiority. In the manner in which he flicked his eyebrow up with certainty, reaching one hand to brush across his jaw, the same as he would when they played Wicked Grace with the Inquisition and he bowed out to simply watch the others suffer against Josephine. The movements of a man who was equal parts amused and calculating.
“Cullen,” he said, and his voice had hardly changed at all.
“It’s been—” Cullen started.
“—a long time.”
Settling back in his chair, Dorian pressed his lips together. The subtle upwards curl at the corner was the only indication of Dorian’s opinion of the situation that he received before he managed to pull himself together enough to say anything more.
“When the Inquisitor sent for me…I hadn’t imagined…”
“Yes, well. I hardly expected to see you, either,” Dorian said. “Tell me, where have you been all these years? I’ve seen no mention of you in the Inquisitor’s letters.”
As quick to the point as always, Cullen registered distantly, forcing himself to pull out a chair. He might not have expected Dorian of all people to be here, but that surprise wasn’t an excuse to forget that he was meant to be being subtle.
Though, frankly, the fact that Dorian was here made him think that such precautions might already have been discarded. Even after so long without the Inquisition, Cullen still had contacts throughout Thedas, and they kept him informed of his former allies' movements, including Dorian’s.
It might have been out of suspicion, once. Or perhaps out of the need to have a tactical advantage. Now, as much as he didn’t revel in admitting it, he found himself reading each piece of news out of something more akin to worry.
Every correspondence with Josephine or report on the Iron Bull or new story from Varric, every tale of Divine Victoria or message from Leliana regarding Sera or Cole, it settled the part of him that couldn’t seem to stop feeling responsible for them. No matter how far he went from Skyhold or the Inquisitor’s side, the idea that he couldn’t stop one of them from being hurt still struck a sore spot in his heart. He was their Commander. The sword and shield of their organization. The habit of watching out for them was a hard-shaken one.
And Dorian—well, Cullen had received the announcement of his rise to Magisterhood with mixed feelings. He still remembered the disdain Dorian spoke with whenever the topic of his family’s expectations for him came up, but he also knew that Dorian wasn’t the sort of man who could be easily convinced to do something he didn’t want to. The fact that he had taken a seat in the Magisterium meant that he had chosen to do so.
Regardless of how Dorian or Cullen himself felt about him becoming a Magister, however, it remained true that he was one, and that a man in such a prominent role being the person Cullen was meant to speak to complicated any attempts to be discreet.
But Dorian was smart. Smarter than people gave him credit for. If he chose to come here himself instead of sending someone in his stead, then he must have had his reasons.
So Cullen sat down.
As for Dorian’s question, it was a simpler answer than he might have expected. They’d kept in sporadic contact after the Inquisition had gone its separate ways, after all, even if it had petered out through the years, and Cullen had mentioned in several of his letters that he’d been working with former Templars to help them through their own battles with Lyrium addictions. Dorian knew that was where he had been ten years ago.
Or, he had known, at least. Whether or not he remembered was another issue. It wasn’t as if Cullen could hold it against him if he had forgotten after so long.
The fact that Cullen remembered the details of the various letters he’d received from his allies in the Inquisition spoke more of the amount of excitement in his own life than it did anything about anyone else’s capabilities.
But that was the truth, wasn’t it? As fulfilling as he found it to be able to lead his brethren through the same fight that he had struggled with, it was hardly the same as becoming a Magister. He had nothing to announce, no news to rival such a development.
Dorian had grown since the end of the Inquisition.
Cullen had not.
Inhaling slowly, he leaned back in his chair, hoping to seem more calm than he felt. “I’m afraid that the Inquisitor would have few new things to say about me.”
“No? Still working with your fellow former Templars then, I expect?” Dorian asked.
“I am.”
“Have you had much success?”
“Some, yes,” he said. “It isn’t a simple task, and it’s one that has many setbacks and stumbles, but we’re doing well.”
"Well, if we learned anything from our adventures with the Inquisition, it's that tasks that aren't simple are often the important ones." Dorian glanced towards the bar across the room. "Now, before we move on to business, I would suggest that you find something to drink. This will be quite the conversation, and that vagabond look of yours won't do much to help you if you don't even have any liquor in front of you."
Cullen followed his gaze. "Must I remind you that the last time you encouraged me to drink, Josephine walked away with most of my money and I was left with no clothing?"
"As if one could forget such an event. No, Commander, I assure you, this is purely for the sake of blending in."
"Says the Magister," he said, even as he stood.
The sound of Dorian's chuckle followed him as he slipped away from his seat. Thankfully, there wasn't much of a line, and the man behind the bar didn't seem inclined to make idle conversation. It was a simple matter to get a tankard of his own.
Then he turned back, narrowly catching a glimpse of Dorian's eyes flicking away, as if he'd been watching.
The pang that ran through Cullen's chest was unnecessary, he told himself. Of course Dorian was monitoring him. He would be doing the very same thing if the roles were reversed and a mage had been sent to aid him and the other former Templars.
With a deep breath, not his first of the evening, and surely not the last, he returned to his seat as casually as he could, setting his drink down as Dorian said, "much better."
"Excellent," Cullen said. "In that case, I suppose we're ready to begin discussing the ogre in the room."
The way that Dorian's face darkened was almost imperceptible in the shadows.
"So we are."
“The Inquisition beat many dragons. They’re terrifying beasts, yes, but not inconquerable, especially in a nation with so many powerful mages. What was it that made this one such a challenge?” Cullen asked.
“Yes, that is the question, isn’t it?” Dorian asked. He set down his own drink and leaned closer, tilting his head as if he were flirting like he was once prone to doing with the Inquisitor, but from so close, Cullen could see the agitated furrow of his eyebrows. “Tell me, Commander. What do you know of the Elven Gods?”
Forcing himself not to duck away, the proximity making him instinctively itch to reach for a shield he wasn’t carrying despite the fact that it was merely Dorian, Cullen swallowed. His eyes flicked to his still untouched liquor, unable to convince himself to think clearly when his mind was occupied with how many different ways Dorian could put a knife between his ribs from this position.
How much did that say about him, he wondered? That he was so uncomfortable with the company of another that an ally getting this close simply to disguise their conversation had him so unnerved?
Likely that he ought to get out more, if he were to ask Dorian.
But a soldier’s instincts never died. Not for so long as the soldier lived.
Instead, they had to choose when to ignore it, as he did now, clearing his throat to say, “I have learned much about Solas since we discovered the truth about him, but I’m afraid that my general knowledge is lacking. It’s best that you tell me everything you feel I must know to best help.”
"Ah, Fen'harel. Our old friend. Yes, he's quite important indeed. But I refer to the others, members of the so-called Evanuris, particularly the ones by the names of Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain. I presume you remember the Temple of Mythal?” Dorian paused just long enough for Cullen to nod. “She was another.”
"I see. And they're relevant?"
"More so than you could possibly guess. You see, our friend wasn't the only myth-become-man. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain are just as real, and as of just a short while ago, just as free to wreak havoc in our world."
This time, it was Cullen's turn to take a moment, curling his hand around the handle of his drink and staring down into it. He supposed it should have been more surprising, more unsettling, to learn that some ancient Gods were running amok, but the part of him that had spent the last eight years spinning the Inquisition's adventures around and around in his head couldn't help but accept it.
If the stories of the Magisters in the Golden City were real, proven by Corypheus, and the tales of Fen'harel were that of one of their close allies, then why wouldn't it be possible for another legend to come to life?
At this point, he suspected he would be more surprised to find that such myths didn't have glimmers of truth.
"Are they aligned with Solas? Or are they working alone?" He asked instead, looking up just as Dorian's eyebrows rose.
"You believe me, then? Just like that?"
"I've already long-since accepted the truth about one Elven God. I would have to be mad to assume this is any more far-fetched."
“Then you’re already off to a better start than the Grey Wardens.” It only took a moment for Dorian's expression to shift again, a dry smile slipping into place as he scoffed. “That dreadful First Warden of theirs tried to have our best hope for stopping this threat thrown into custody. If he’d succeeded, Treviso would be in as unfortunate a state as we are. The recent fall of Weisshaupt was nearly inevitable with how he was going on.”
"Best hope?” Cullen asked.
That earned him a brief, curious look, one that he used to have aimed his direction often when Dorian was trying to pick out what move to make next in a chess match. It was the sort of look that meant he was trying to puzzle out Cullen's thoughts.
His smile didn't slip, however, even as he said, "so the Inquisitor didn’t tell you.”
"I’m afraid the letter said very little at all. Only that the Inquisitor cannot pull away from the South to help Minrathous personally and would appreciate it if I was able to do so instead.”
"Then you don't know about Rook. The merry little misfit Varric encountered, promptly took under his wing, and dragged into this whole mess with Solas.” Dorian shook his head. “If it wasn’t for the group that Rook has cobbled together, we’d have already lost. It was that lot that prevented Solas from completing his ritual to begin with.”
Cullen hummed quietly, lifting his tankard and taking a small sip as he let that spin around in his mind.
He'd expected there to be some sort of resistance against Solas, yes. Had heard word that Varric and Scout Harding would be going after him.
But he certainly hadn't known any of the details.
Maker, if it wasn't for Leliana's letters, he doubted he'd have known that much.
That was the issue with leaving the Inquisition and everything that came with it behind. A decade ago, he'd have been one of the first to hear everything about this whole situation with Solas, the Evanuris, and this Rook person, but now, he was uninformed as anyone else.
"Varric, you say," he said finally. "I suppose if it's someone he trusts, then that's enough for me. How much has he been able to gather about these Gods? Do we know what they're after? What do they have to do with the dragon attack here in Minrathous?"
Something flickered across Dorian's expression. Cullen barely even saw it before Dorian was taking a deep breath, swirling his cup like it was wine as he lowered his eyes.
"Varric has gathered very little, nor will he be giving us anything more. To be quite blunt about it—" Had it been anyone else, Cullen would have said Dorian hesitated before he said, "Varric is dead."
Cullen's stomach sank.
"Dead?" He asked faintly.
"Killed, to be precise. He, Scout Harding, and Rook managed to locate Solas and track him to Arlathan Forest, but apparently, Solas wasn't keen on having a chat with an old friend."
It took a moment for Cullen to follow the implication, his throat tightening as his mind churned.
He had known Solas and Varric had their differences in the past, but for Solas to kill him? To resort to murder to bring down the veil?
Was it truly that important to him?
Maker, of course it was. That was how they had wound up facing the threat of Corypheus in the first place. If Solas could release something like that upon the world, however unintentionally, in order to reach his goal, then there was little use in pretending he would draw a line in the sand anywhere else.
But to kill Varric..?
That would never have been something Cullen would have anticipated.
His first thought hearing it was to wonder if Varric had, if he'd expected such an ending, but if anyone would, he supposed it would be him. It sounded precisely like the sort of twist that would come from one of his stories.
His second, however, was to think of the others. Cassandra leapt quickly to mind, with their strange little rivalry-turned-nearly-friendship. Had anyone informed them? Had Leliana received word yet?
Surely Dorian had told the Inquisitor. If he was taking the time to tell Cullen, of all people, then he almost surely had to have. It wasn't as if he and Varric had been close. The most he and Varric had ever truly interacted had been when Varric insisted upon it, claiming that Cullen needed someone to help him learn that he wasn't obligated to wear a permanent scowl.
And that was nothing against him. Varric had been a good man, one of the Inquisition's finest. Always there when needed, always prepared to step up to a fight. With nothing but that crossbow of his, he had faced down threats that most men would run screaming from.
Even when Cullen hadn't agreed with his choices—like the way that he had so constantly stood up for Cole, while Cullen's experiences with demons had still been tainting his perspective of the young man—he had to admit that he at least respected how Varric stuck to his ideals. He didn't waver from what he thought was right.
Even at the expense of his very life, apparently.
What a bloody mess.
"I see." Cullen frowned tightly. It took effort to rein in his emotions, mindful of where they were and the job at hand. "Then I suppose this Rook of yours has taken over where he left off, yes?"
Thankfully, Dorian accepted the continuation without fuss. If anything, he looked almost relieved to move on, saying, "yes, along with Scout Harding and a handful of others. That lot has found quite a bit of information for us. For instance, they discovered that the dragon that attacked the city was being controlled by the Evanuris."
"Controlled? They managed to enslave a dragon? Even the Qunari had trouble with that."
"This isn't a matter of chains nor drugs, Commander. They've bound it with magic. The Evanuris were called Gods for a reason; their power is immense, making them capable of more than we could imagine, including control over the Blight itself. The poor creatures have been infected, allowing Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain to use them like puppets. The dragons are very nearly as bad as Corypheus' beast was."
The memory of Haven and the dragon that nearly killed its people flickered in the back of Cullen's mind, making him grimace.
"Then it's little wonder that Minrathous was so badly affected by its attack. Control over the Blight…Maker preserve us."
"Precisely," Dorian said. "Not to mention that the Venatori have allied themselves with these Evanuris. They were all too quick to take advantage and use the dragon as a way to further their goals here in the city."
Squeezing the handle of his tankard, Cullen glanced down at the wood of the tabletop, staring at it with all of the intensity that he had once done with the War Table in Skyhold.
"What resistance do you have here? What forces are still fighting back?" He asked.
"At the moment, very few. We used to have more influence, a larger network, safehouses, a proper hideout, but that dragon attack torched a good deal of our people, and the Venatori did their best to finish the job."
Cullen grunted, pressing his lips together.
"Even our best agents were scattered. One was badly injured. Blighted.” Dorian sighed, and Cullen’s chest twisted as he thought back to the mess that Dorian had been entangled in when they had first met. He knew little of the details regarding Dorian’s friend, the son of his former mentor, but the rumors…well.
The people of Skyhold liked to talk.
They especially liked it when it came to Dorian, their Tevinter mage who half of them had suspected of being some sort of spy until the very end of the Inquisition. And what they said of Dorian’s friend’s illness, the bit that Cullen hadn’t been able to avoid hearing, had been that he had succumbed to something that no one could say was certainly the Blight, but that almost couldn’t be anything else.
If it was true, then Cullen couldn’t imagine that one of Dorian’s men being Blighted was bringing up any good memories for him.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Cullen said quietly.
“As was I. He was trying to protect a safehouse—always playing the hero, that one. Quite good at it, too.” With a humorless chuckle, Dorian shook his head. “The dragon took a swipe at him, his armor couldn’t take it, and that was that.”
He said it with a familiar sort of bitterness, one that Cullen knew from bygone days and a younger man, but even still, he smiled as he took another sip of his drink. Cullen said nothing in response, not sure what one could say to that.
If it had been a decade prior, maybe he would have known. He'd made plenty of impromptu apologies and post-mortem declarations of the value of soldiers' sacrifices as Commander Rutherford, especially in the wake of Haven's fall.
But Cullen—simple, plain Cullen—had spent eight long years falling out of practice, and the thought of saying the wrong thing to Dorian now made him hold his tongue.
The silence stretched on. One moment, then two.
He shifted, drawing in a deep breath in preparation to ask something else, anything else, about the state of Minrathous, but Dorian beat him to it.
"It's just you, then?" He asked. "No leftover forces from the Inquisition coming to help save the day, no heroes riding in on white steeds?"
That, at least, Cullen could answer.
"I'm afraid not."
Dorian's face flickered, not quite with disappointment, but something more like resignation. "I suspected as much."
Setting his tankard on the table, Cullen leaned in almost without meaning to.
“You recall Haven, certainly, and our trip to Skyhold," he said quietly. “Recovery is still possible even without outside aid, Dorian. With the right efforts and a bit of time, Minrathous—”
He allowed himself to be cut off, stopping short as Dorian scoffed, “Yes, I am aware, Commander. But you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not thrilled to watch my city suffer while we wait.”
And there were a million possible things to say about that, most of which probably weren't anything he ought to proclaim in a bar full of Tevinters, but he knew better than that. In all the time that he had known Dorian, Dorian had never been one of the members of the Imperium who sought suffering like a Mabari seeking a bone. Throwing that legacy in his face over one sharp comment wouldn't be fair.
And besides, Maker-only-knew how many times Cullen had defended the Templars when he was among their ranks. Even when he knew the corruption among them, he'd still never wanted to see them hurt. How could he blame Dorian for feeling the same about his home?
Instead, all he said was, "of course not."
“You see, this is the entire reason that I came home, yes?” Dorian waved a hand vaguely around. “To make things better. To bring about change, the good kind, and help my countrymen to learn from our past. Instead, those blasted Venatori are doing everything that they can to drag us straight back to where we started.”
"Dorian…"
With a shake of his head and a huffed sigh, Dorian pushed his drink away and stood.
"It doesn't matter now. It's late, you've only just arrived, and there's little that we can do to fix a mess like this all at once," he said. "We'll begin the real work tomorrow, after you've rested."
Cullen nodded, taking the change in stride as best as he could. "I assume that it's better that we don't meet at the same location twice. Where will I find you tomorrow, then?"
At that, Dorian gave him a bemused little look, one eyebrow raising elegantly.
"Commander, I'm not going to throw you to the streets of Minrathous in the dead of night. I've already had a guest room arranged."
"A guest room?" Cullen asked.
"Yes, as in a bedroom that's reserved for company? You've heard of them, I'm sure."
"You didn't even know that I would be your contact."
"Well, no, but I had assumed that the Inquisitor wouldn't send someone who I couldn't trust in my own home. It might have been some time since we were last officially allies, but I don't think I've done anything worthy of murder. Not yet, at least."
Cullen hesitated, half-certain that he ought to just decline and go find an inn or somewhere to sleep instead, if only for the sake of anonymity. Surely, his presence in the Pavus' home would raise some questions should he be spotted.
But, he told himself, Dorian would have accounted for that. He was a Magister, not a moron.
And regardless of his own thoughts, the certainty on Dorian's face made it difficult to argue.
Which was how, after a long trek to the upper parts of Minrathous, shivering in the low-hanging fog all the way, he found himself standing in Dorian's guest room as if he had any cause to be there in his dirty travelling clothes, dripping rain on an expensive-looking rug.
His first thought was that it was a nicer room than he had ever had cause to stay in. From the barracks as a Templar to his quarters at Haven, most of his life had been spent sleeping wherever he was assigned, and that had never left him in particularly pleasant places.
Even at Skyhold, where he could surely have had better accommodations had he asked, his priorities had been such that he'd never bothered.
Now, he stood in a space that felt more like some sort of museum than a spare bedroom, surpassing even the room he had been given as Commander of the Inquisition's forces during the Exalted Council. Even the thick curtains and heavy pillows seemed like they would have cost more than any normal person might see in a year.
It was enough to make Cullen think, however briefly, that it was some sort of practical joke like Sera used to pull. That the bed was coated with syrup or something similarly harmless and frustrating.
Instead, the room remained nothing but a room, and Dorian waved a hand around, as nonchalant as ever.
"Here we are. I hope it's to your tastes; I've had it utterly stripped of my family's influence, so it should lack that particular smell of blood that followed the whole lot around."
"It's quite nice. Thank you," Cullen said.
"You can thank me by bathing, Commander. If you're to stay here, it will be far less conspicuous if you appear to at least be familiar with the concept." He chuckled. "I might be able to get away with an old friend from the Inquisition paying a social visit, but the same can't be said of the sentient version of a muddy rag."
Cullen glanced down, frowning at the travel-worn state of his clothes. "I would be pleased to, if you have anything that I might change into? I'm afraid that I packed rather lightly."
He expected a quick answer to that, a yes or a no. When a moment passed without one, he looked back up to find Dorian staring at him with a vaguely disgusted expression.
"Cullen," he said, as if Cullen had asked if he happened to know what color the sky was. "Don't you ever insult me with such a question again."
"Then that would be a yes?" A smile tugged at Cullen's lips.
"Yes. I'll retrieve something for you quite easily, thank you. It will be waiting outside the door when you're finished. And don't fret about modesty; I've sent the majority of the staff away with full pay since the dragon's attack."
With a nod, Cullen laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. He had thought the house seemed particularly quiet, but had simply chalked it up to the late hour.
He supposed he should have known better. Of course Dorian would have made arrangements to let his staff focus on their families and personal lives, especially when he was also going to be bringing his more secretive work home. Two birds, one stone.
It was an excellent maneuver, all things considered, one that he himself would have orchestrated in similar situations a decade ago.
How strange it was to have Dorian be the one pulling the strings now.
The thought made Cullen glance down, awkwardly studying the rug beneath his feet. He had never been particularly good at this part, the personal communication, the elements where his training and strength failed him, but the reminder that he wasn't even the man that he used to be made it all the more difficult.
That man, he knew, would be bewildered by this turn of events. Not only to learn that Dorian had somehow become the one leading him, but also by the fact that he was even here to begin with; in Tevinter, in Minrathous, in the home of an Altus Magister.
Inhaling slowly, Cullen reached up, brushing a hand through his wet, stringy hair. When he looked up again, it was to Dorian gesturing to the hall.
"I'll take my leave, then," he said. "Tomorrow, we will begin our work."
"I look forward to it," Cullen said.
Dorian turned to go, while Cullen reached for the clasp of his cloak, his fingers still chilled enough from the biting wind outside that it took him a moment to undo it. When he finally did, he carefully, if haphazardly, folded the cloak to try to keep the rain dripping from it to a minimum.
Then he went to set it on the trunk at the end of the bed, only to find Dorian glancing back from the open doorway.
He paused as their eyes met. For a moment, Dorian only stood there in silence, watching him.
Then, finally, he gave Cullen a nod.
"It's good to see you again, Commander," Dorian said quietly.
Cullen smiled faintly, nodding back as the door closed, leaving him alone in the quiet of the guest room.