Unforgettable

Things As They Should Be

Cullen walked the paths of Halamshiral, nodding to those he passed in what he hoped was a distant and forbidding manner. He had been told he naturally possessed those traits many a time, but he felt far from forbidding now, and the effort of seeming so was ... exhausting.

He lost it entirely when he saw a sight he had never expected to see in the middle of Orlais—a man walking a mabari. Or, rather, being walked by one. Mabari went where they chose. Cullen couldn't help smiling. He'd always wondered what it would be like to have a dog, but Templars weren't allowed such ties.

"Fine animal you have there," he said, approaching the man holding the dog's leash.

"He is a nuisance." The expression on the man's face was a cross between a sneer and abject terror. "What the Fereldans see in these ... creatures, I do not know."

Cullen raised his eyebrows. "Then why do you have him?"

"My master took him in trade. His owners thought he was a status symbol. They soon learned their error."

"How much?" The question surprised Cullen even as it came from his mouth. He was so rarely impulsive, always planning as far ahead as he could reasonably see. But ... this felt right, here in this moment. The dog, abandoned here in Halamshiral, Cullen himself feeling increasingly lonely and isolated even within the Inquisition ... He saw the dog's ears perk up at the question as if he understood it—and perhaps he did, who was Cullen to deny him intelligence—and the dog-walker's eyes brighten at the prospect of soaking a member of the Inquisition for coin. "Never mind. Just send your bill to Lady Montilyet, tell her it's to come from Commander Cullen's account." He had the satisfaction of seeing the avaricious gleam fade from the man's eyes. Bilking a Fereldan turnip was one thing, but putting one over on the Ambassador of the Inquisition, well known for her sharp trading skills, was quite another.

Still, the man was clearly glad to be free of the animal, and judging from the happy wagging of the stumpy tail, the feeling was mutual. The leash was transferred to Cullen's hand and the dog-walker took off as quickly as his dignity allowed.

Cullen looked down at the animal. "Will you follow?"

There was a happy bark, and Cullen loosed the leash. There, now. He would be quite forbidding enough with a trained mabari at his heels.

"We must find a name for you, ser, and set a training regimen. I don't know what your previous masters have taught you, but don't expect to slack off under my tutelage."

Another happy bark. Good. Cullen liked anyone who was willing to work.

They found a quiet corner of the gardens to begin the training ... interrupted by many happy belly rubs, which the dog seemed to enjoy. He deserved it, Cullen reasoned. Time enough for a tough training regimen later.

A small voice, unexpected but familiar, interrupted their work. "I thought you two would find each other."

Cullen looked up and was struck speechless. Dagna. Here, at the Winter Palace. And his dog was basely abandoning him to push his muzzle under her hand for petting. "I ... Another Fereldan trapped at the Winter Palace. It seemed fated."

"I think it was. Yes, ser," she said to the dog. "Fated. Wasn't it? Didn't I tell you the two of you would get along famously?"

The dog yipped.

"You ..."

"I did nothing except make the leap that was obvious—that you need someone, and this gentleman might be the only being you would let in." There was a sharpness in her tone, an unhappiness and a bitterness that were completely foreign to the Dagna Cullen knew and—had been friends with for such a long time.