Summary: How to lose everything, and how to find it again. Greagoir/Wynne, Cullen/Amell. Greagoir + Wynne = Cullen theory. Loose companion piece to Obsession.
A/N: Special thanks to sea_of_storms (aka Crisium) for being a very speedy beta! See if you can spot the references to her own (absolutely marvelous) fics below.
Greagoir whispers the name, and thinks.
It's not what Greagoir would have named him, for sure. Cullen, to him, sounds like the name of a fairy-boy and not the name of the young Templar in front of him. No, if Greagoir had named him, he would have had a traditional Chantry name, a strong, manly name. Maybe Greagoir Jr.
He doesn't even want to imagine what Wynne would have named him.
Something silly, I bet. He snorts at the thought. Like Alistair, or Phineas.
In truth, Greagoir doesn't know why he's sitting here, thinking about a situation that never occurred over a boy that may not even be his.
But he looks like me. Actually, he looks like Greagoir's father with his eyes, but Greagoir can see himself in the boy.
He can see Wynne in him, too, but he might be the only one to look and see that their smiles are identical, or that the boy's hair is the same color Wynne's was before she got old and gray.
("Boy, didn't your mother teach you any manners?" He chides at the mess the boy has made at the table.
"Don't you know, Commander?" Cullen looks at him, curious at his statement. "I was raised by the Chantry. I never knew my mother.")
Cullen could easily not be his son.
But—his grandfather's eyes, Wynne's smile, my jaw—he could be.
He's the right age. And his son—Wynne's son—the baby the then-Knight Commander rode off with, would have been raised by the Chantry. Raised an orphan because the Chantry wouldn't want any child to know their mother is a mage, alive and well. It might make them sympathetic.
But why make him a Templar? Well, what else do they do with boys in the Chantry?
And if Cullen is Greagoir's son, then Greagoir isn't sure what to think. Surely the Maker sent him here to remind Greagoir of his sins, of the youthful discrepancy that resulted in a bastard child, the physical manifestation of every poor decision Greagoir has ever made.
Or maybe, he thinks while watching the boy fumble clumsily with a sword before going to guide him, the Maker is giving him a second chance.
The more time passes, the more Greagoir becomes almost certain that Cullen is his son.
And it's hard, because the realization makes him want to embrace the boy, to teach him the things Greagoir's own father taught him, to whisper to him words of encouragement and to let Cullen know how very proud he is of him, even if this isn't the path he would have chosen for him.
But he can't. Not really. There is no telling how Cullen would react to the news (he's only a boy, at least in Greagoir's eyes) and Greagoir does not want his son to hate him, selfish as the thought may be. Not only that, but the Tower has ears: if word got around that Greagoir had fathered a child (with a mage of all things) then Greagoir would be stripped of his position, at the very least, or executed, or sent to Aeonar. And he won't leave this place for anything, not unless the Maker absolutely wills it.
So he settles for mentoring instead, taking Cullen under his wing and teaching him the best he can. It's not the perfect relationship, but the two of them grow close and it's more than he can ask for, really.
Cullen likes books.
It shouldn't be that much of a surprise: lots of people enjoy reading books. And in a Tower, where there isn't much else to do, reading is a common hobby. Lots of people do it.
It's just such a Wynne thing to do.
He remembers their brief love affair, spending time inappropriately in her room, lying naked in her bed and teasing her about her collection.
"It's my hobby." She had told him then, fingers running through her golden red curls. "Don't make fun of me for it."
He did anyway, because at the time it was the only way he knew how to show affection. He remembers picking up a book off her nightstand and skimming through it.
"The Rose of Orlais." He had balked then, because he and the rest of his generation fought against the Orleasians and anything that came from them was worse than dirt in his eyes.
"It's my favorite."
He remembers flipping through it, words like and she grabbed his throbbing manhood and stroked jumping at him before he shut it quickly. "What garbage! I can't believe you read this for fun."
He expected her to get angry, to throw things, to kick him out of her room. Instead, she grinned (sinfully) and pounced, kissing his neck and his chest, licking and stroking and murmuring against his skin passages from the book, hoping to prove that it was a worthy read indeed.
Of course Greagoir would find his son reading that book. Cullen would inherit his mother's awful taste in literature.
The boy shuts the book quickly, obviously embarrassed at getting caught reading a girl's book. And Greagoir fights the urge to run his hand through his hair, to pull him up and drag him three floors down and introduce him to Wynne, to tell him plainly that he is so much like her sometimes it's scary.
Instead, he sighs. "The ending is awful, if I remember correctly."
And it was. The lovers were separated, never to see one another ever again. That had been the painful part, because Wynne did not sugarcoat things, even after a healthy bout of lovemaking, and he'd taken her words to mean it was time for him to leave, now, before it happened to them.
The boy looks at him, pleasantly surprised. "I know, sir. I've, ah, read it before." And the boy flushes, embarrassed and shy. "There wasn't much to read at the monastery, uh, ser."
And Greagoir looks at him, really looks at him, and smiles despite himself. "You're such an odd child."
Cullen blinks. "Uh, thank you, ser?"
Greagoir shakes his head and keeps his laughter to himself. "When you're done reading, would like to spar? You need some more practice with the shield bash, I th--"
But he doesn't finish, because Cullen has already jumped out of his seat. "Really? Of course!"
"I thought you were reading?"
"I've read it before! Come on, let's go!" He jumps up, but then remembers himself. "Uh, if that's okay with you, ser?"
That's my boy. Greagoir thinks, unable to keep the grin off his face. That's my boy.
Someday, when he is older and even grayer than he is now, when lyrium has addled his wits beyond repair, he thinks he'll find Wynne and tell her she has a son. That her son is in the Tower, a Templar he personally trained to kill her if it ever came down to it.
He wonders if she would be proud. If she would be angry, disgusted, or hurt. If she would embrace the boy, run her hand through his curls, kiss his cheek. He wonders if she would love him unconditionally, if she would have wished for him a better fate.
Mostly, he wonders if she would do as he has done: entertain fantasies about a life they never could have had, where he wasn't a Templar and she wasn't a Mage, living out on a farm somewhere with a small boy who looks as Cullen might have looked as a child.
He offered that fate to Wynne, once. But she rejected him.
"They have my phylactery. They would find and kill us." She had rubbed her stomach sadly. "And the baby."
He knew she was right. He knew, but he got angry with her anyway.
"We could run." He begged. "We could run—we can, we could—"
But Wynne would not leave the Tower for anything, not even him and their child.
He wonders now if she regrets it. If, in her old age, she wishes she had gone with him, that they had run away and raised their son, together. He wonders if she wonders about their son, because he's pretty sure she doesn't know about Cullen, who stands over her diligently, just like he taught him to.
He wonders, but he never asks.
He held the baby only once.
He'd been lucky—an hour later and it wouldn't have been his shift and then he wouldn't have seen the child at all, but he likes to think that the Maker grants small favors at times, even to sinners like himself.
He should have been watching the classroom, eyeing the young apprentices for signs of abominations or blood magic, but he didn't. Instead, he watched Wynne, her belly large and round as she stood in front of the classroom, lecturing the small children on herbalism. Now listen to me carefully, or you could really hurt yourselves!
All he could think about was how beautiful she was, with her belly sticking out, full with their child. How natural mothering seemed to come to her, in the crowd of younglings she watched over fondly.
But then she just stopped, and he grabbed his sword out of instinct. "P-petra." She whispered to the red-haired girl in front. "G-go get the Knight-Commander a-and a healer, p-please. T-tell them the baby i-is coming."
He dropped his sword and rushed to her side. The classroom erupted with squealing ten year olds, most of whom have never seen a baby before, much less a woman giving birth. He knelt before her, one hand gently resting on her back.
"What can I do?" He asked softly, one of her arms wrapped around his neck.
"A b-bed." She told him. "G-get me to a bed. A-and some w-water."
He did as she asked, and guided her to a room down the hall. By the time he got her in bed, the First Enchanter, Knight-Commander, and another healer arrived. The Knight-Commander told him he could go, but he didn't want to.
"Let him stay, Vincent." The First Enchanter interrupted. "We could use an extra set of hands in here."
So he stayed. He did not hold her hand, or push her hair out of her face, or whisper how much he loved her into her ear. But he was there that glorious moment their son came into the world, and sometimes. he wonders if that was enough.
They did not let Wynne hold the baby.
Eleven hours of labor, and the second the baby was out of her womb, the healer handed the child to the Knight-Commander. Wynne never touched him.
She screamed. She screamed and she sobbed, and in that moment Greagoir felt that the pain of childbirth must have felt like nothing compared to the pain of watching them take her son away.
"Hold him while I get my cloak." The Knight-Commander laid the child gently in his arm before turning briskly, gathering his things as quickly as he could.
He is not ashamed to admit he cried.
This is my son. He thought then, tears on his cheeks. This is my son, and this is the only time I will ever hold him.
It remains both the happiest and saddest moment of his life, and Greagoir would have given his very life if it meant he didn't have to let go.
"Where are you taking him?" He asked, rubbing his eyes as the Knight-Commander strapped the child into the bundle on his chest.
"Away." Was the only answer he got. And, "Watch the Tower. You're in charge for right now, Greagoir."
He watched the Knight-Commander disappear with his son, and wondered what sort of kind and merciful Maker he spent his life worshipping could approve of such a thing.
He went to Wynne, later, after the baby was born.
She was still crying.
Out son is beautiful. He wanted to say then. Red-hair, just like yours.
But he didn't.
"Go." She half-screams, half-sobs at him when she sees him in the doorway. "Go. Just—just leave. I can't—I can't—Not after—I can't."
He understood, and left.
They never spoke again about their child, about their relationship—about anything, really. Any time he saw her in the hallway, she was perfectly cordial, the epiphany of a Senior Enchanter and not the woman he broke his vows for. It was like their missing child became a gaping hole in their chests, one that simply could not be filled with anything other than time and agony.
The proudest moment of Greagoir's life is when he watches Cullen take his vows.
He never tells him this, but it's there, locked in his memories, along with the faded green ribbon he keeps locked in the top drawer of his desk.
Someday, he thinks, holding on tightly to the memory. Someday I'll tell him.
But someday never really comes.
And Cullen is infatuated with her.
And it's so painfully normal that Greagoir doesn't want to say anything.
In a different life, Amell is the type of girl Cullen would bring home for them to meet. In that life, Wynne would tease the girl mercilessly and tell her every embarrassing story she knew about her son.
In that life, Greagoir would gladly approve, because Amell is a sweet girl, as far as mages go. Powerful, but obedient. Mischievous, but kind.
But Cullen is a Templar and Amell is a Mage, and Greagoir knows firsthand the kind of heartbreak that comes from such relationships.
"Tread lightly if you are doing what I think you are." He warns Cullen, with a pointed look in Amell's direction. The boy flushes scarlet and Greagoir hopes that's all it takes.
(In another life, he would set his son down and give him tips, have The Talk, and relay to him stories of how he wooed, or rather, was wooed by, his mother.
But he can't, because this isn't that life, and wishing for something never made it happen.)
He hopes Cullen is happy, though, regardless of any rules that bound him.
He hopes it's enough.
The Revered Moth confronts him one day.
It's never pleasant meeting with that woman, but he does his duty and invites her in and makes her a cup of tea, like he's suppose to.
She gets right down to business.
"One of your boys," and he knows immediately who she is talking about, "is infatuated with one of the apprentices. Such attachments are forbidden among your order and a sin in the eyes of the Maker. You would do well to discourage such behavior."
What do you expect? He wants to ask. They are boys, trapped in a Tower, forced to watch pretty girls for hours on end: of course they are going to become infatuated.
But he doesn't.
"Ah, is it Marcus?" He feigns innocence. "Because he's just naturally a flirt—he doesn't mean anything by it, you have nothing to worry about."
The Revered Mother scowls at him, unimpressed. "No, it's the new one—Cullen."
And it takes all the effort he has to keep the emotion off of his face.
"He's a pious enough young man," The Cleric continues. "Ensure that he continues to be one, ser." She spits the title like a bad taste in her mouth.
Greagoir gulps. "Of course, your Grace. Thank you for informing me. I'll take care of the matter, I assure you."
And he will, because Greagoir is a dutiful son of the Chantry, even when he doesn't want to be.
Irving knows everything.
It's why he's such a good First Enchanter.
It's also why Irving is the only mage other than Wynne who Greagoir would trust with his life.
Greagoir also owes Irving his life, because when it got out that Wynne was with child the Knight Commander had interrogated Mage and Templar alike, trying to find out who the father was.
And Greagoir almost, almost confessed. Anything to stop him from yelling anymore, anything to stop Wynne from crying.
But he never got the chance, because Irving confessed first.
"I'm the father." He lied, and the Knight Commander stopped and Wynne stopped and Greagoir was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor.
"What?" Irving sassed as the Knight Commander glared. "It's not forbidden for mages to do it. I didn't think it was a big deal. Leave her alone."
And he helped Wynne off the floor and carried her back to her room, and as he passed Greagoir he whispered you owe me, big time.
Greagoir doesn't even want to know how Irving knew, he's just grateful.
He shouldn't be surprised then, when Irving comes up to him one day and notices.
"They shouldn't let you train the young Templars." Irving comments, grinning in a wily way that has come with his old age. "They start to look and act like you."
"What makes you say that?" Greagoir scowls, because scowling is the one thing he's really good at.
"Oh, I don't know. That boy, Cullen—"And Irving knows because he's Irving and he knows everything—"He's a lot like you, isn't he? If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was your son."
Greagoir scowls again and resists the urge to hit him. "It's a good thing you know better, then."
"Indeed." Irving says expectantly, and Greagoir breathes, in and out, his mind racing through a million different scenarios, fully expecting Irving to blackmail him and what exactly he will do if it happens.
But it doesn't.
"You know, I slept with a prostitute once," Irving instead continues, and Greagoir looks at him like he's grown an extra head, where is he going with this? "I was in Redcliffe for business, and she was quite lovely."
"Do you have a point?"
"I'm getting there." Irving grinned. "After that night, I left and returned to the Tower, thought nothing of it. Sometime later I received a letter from that same woman, claiming I had a daughter and that I should take responsibility for my actions."
Ah. "What did you do?"
"Nothing. I threw the letter in the trash. I figured it was just a scheme to get money out of me." He shrugged, as if it didn't matter all that much. "But…I do remember the woman's name…Amell, if I recall correctly."
Amell. The same surname as the girl Cullen likes.
The Maker has a sense of humor after all.
"What do you do?" Irving whispers conspiringly as they watch a group of apprentices play. "Do you tell them the truth? Do you lie? Do you wait until you die alone and leave a letter? What are you suppose to do? What can you do?"
"I don't know." Greagoir confesses. "I just don't know."
There are three times Greagoir almost tells Cullen the truth, but doesn't.
The first time is minutes after he informs Cullen that at Amell's Harrowing, Cullen will be the one to give the killing blow if it comes down to it.
And the boy looks so distraught that Greagoir wants to explain things, that it is the Grand Cleric's will, not his own, to wrap his arms around him and tell him that he is not the first Templar to be infatuated with a mage, that's its perfectly natural to like a girl, that Greagoir himself broke that rule, and the Maker forgave him (he hopes).
But, protocol dictates that he cannot. And the Tower has ears even Greagoir cannot see, so he doesn't.
The second time is after Amell leaves.
The boy just seems so alone, lost and hurt and betrayed, and Greagoir wants, more than anything in the world, to let him know that he's not alone. That there are still people in this world who care for him. That the situation surrounding Amell is horrible and heartbreaking, but it's not the end of the world, even though it might feel like it is.
But he can't.
The third time is when the Tower falls.
(He remembers little when the Tower breaks.
Mostly, he just yells. Yells at Marcus and Corinth to shut the door and for the Quartermaster to stay put and for John to try and find the younglings and for Cullen to—
Where is Cullen?
Amidst the chaos, he stops. "Marcus, where is Cullen?"
For that matter, where is Kirk, and Joan, and Ellis, and Simon, and Keith, and Alex? Where is Peter, Mal, Xander, Torinth?
Where are his boys?
Marcus's mouth gapes open at the thought. "T-they were upstairs. Near the Harrowing Chamber."
Amidst chaos, Greagoir prays. Maker, bring them back safely.)
Later, Greagoir watches as Cullen stumbles down the stairs, one arm half-dragging Irving beside him, with Amell the Warden and her team and Wynne and the younglings behind them and they are all alive, and it's more than Greagoir could have ever hoped for. He barely stops himself from grabbing Wynne and kissing her, even though it's been years since they've even looked at one another, but the happiness that comes from knowing she's alive is almost too much for him to control.
(She does look at him, though. And the way her eyes sparkle makes him think she's rather glad he's safe and alive, too, even if she doesn't say as much.)
He wants to hug Irving, to tell him that he loves him like a brother and that he is so very grateful the old coot is still alive, because the Tower is so very broken and he doesn't know if he can fix it by himself.
He wants to shake Amell's hand, to look at her in gratitude and promise her the world, because she's brought his entire world back to him safe and sound, against impossible odds.
Mostly, he wants to embrace Cullen, to tell him the truth, to never let him go and get hurt again, because Maker above, he doesn't think he'll be able to stand it.
(He lost his son once before: he doesn't ever want to lose him again.)
He doesn't do any of this, though, because suddenly all that's left of the Tower is looking at him and he isn't entirely sure what to do, because all he really wants to do is hug his son.
He really doesn't know what to do when Cullen looks at him point blank and tells him Irving is a blood mage.
(But Irving is his oldest, best, and perhaps only friend in the Tower, and Greagoir owes him his life several times over, and Greagoir is pretty sure Irving isn't stupid enough to try blood magic. But, then again, Cullen wouldn't lie about something like that.)
The two start bickering, because Cullen is a Templar broken and Irving is a Mage of his last legs, so they are both breaking down into absolutes and stereotypes because they can't think more in-depth than that at the moment.
"Silence," Greagoir stops them, and they listen. "I am the Knight-Commander here, not you." Or you, he glares at Irving, and for a moment they both shut up and it's entirely too quiet in his broken Tower once again.
"Well, what does the Knight-Commander think, then?" Amell asks charmingly, entirely too amused for someone who just walked through hell and back and came through it virtually unscathed.
"I think," He breathes in deeply, "I think the Tower is safe for now."
Because if he cannot trust Irving and Wynne then there is no one in this world he can trust, and he's not quite willing to believe that yet.
Cullen squalls, but is silenced with a pointed look. Irving seems to deflate with relief, looking older than he's ever been. And Amell is smiling, a wide, girlish grin that seems contagious, because soon Greagoir finds himself smiling as well.
(The Tower is broken, but not permanently. It can be fixed. They will fix it.
There is hope.)
There are thirteen Templars still alive.
There is Marcus and John, who guarded the front door and remained relatively safe throughout the catastrophe.
Xander, Tornith, and Peter still live, and will tell anyone listening how they took down a demon, with each retelling becoming larger and more dangerous than it no doubt really was.
Rorschach lost an arm and was left for dead: even the Warden thought he was dead when she passed through, but he lives. Just barely.
Adrian they found suffering from lyrium withdrawl, his arms wrapped tightly around a young elf mage, buried beneath the ruins of three dusty bookshelves. (Don't hurt him, she had asked when they found them, half-broken and tangled together. Don't hurt him.)
Five other brave and noble brothers were found possessed, though with Uldred gone and the demons driven from the Tower, they were slowly beginning to be pieced back together.
Carroll, the youngest of their order, had been safely across the lake, keeping everyone, except for Amell far from harm.
And then there is Cullen, who might be better off dead.
Later, much later, he breaks down and hugs Cullen.
The Tower is so quiet. The mages are gone, fighting the archdemon at Amell's side, so it's just the younglings and thirteen Templars and it's so damn quiet. Greagoir has been in the Tower since he was fourteen, but it's never been this quiet. It's maddening.
And Cullen is fundamentally broken. There is—was—a demon in the Tower, and it tortured Cullen for days. Add lyrium withdraw and starvation and it's a wonder Cullen was able to make it down the stairs at all.
(His son is so strong, and he is so very, very proud of him for resisting the demon who would have given him everything he ever wanted and more.)
"I'm so sorry, my boy." He whispers as he holds on to the broken boy sobbing in his arms.
"I can't—I can't—" Cullen sobs. "You don't understand! You weren't there—you weren't—"
"Tell me what happened."
"I w-was there. Fighting. The blood m-mages summoned some sort of demon. We tried to fight it, b-but it was too strong. It killed the others. Joan and Alex and K-keith and—all of them. She killed them. I was the only one left. I was the only one she d-didn't kill."
Greagoir frowns. "That wasn't your fault--"
"Let me finish." Cullen blurts out. "S-she left me alive because I love Amell."
He does not sound ashamed of his confession. And Greagoir notices how he says love, not loved, and tucks that information in the back of his mind.
"S-she wanted to break me. S-she wanted me to surrender, t-to turn m-me into an abomination. She offered me everything. I could have—she looked like her, Greagoir! She looked and sounded like Amell, and it w-was so hard and—"
All he can do is hold the boy, letting him talk as long as he needs to.
"I wanted to die. I s-still want to die. I don't—I wanted to die, j-just so I didn't have to see e-everything, and, Greagoir, I hate her. I hate her because I love her and she's—she's a mage and the demon, the demon---"
Cullen stands, his face flushed red with anger. "I hate all of them. And I can't—I can't stop hating them, because of what happened. Because of what I've been through. I see these younglings, and I think, I should kill them now, so they won't turn into blood mages or abominations. I—I can't turn it off! I can't—"
Greagoir pulls him down, and hugs him.
"I'm so sorry, my boy." It's all he knows how to say. "If I could, I would have saved you from such a fate."
"I-it's not your fault."
But it feels like it. If he had run away with Wynne, Cullen would have never been a Templar, would have never encountered an abomination or a blood mage or a demon. He could have been happy, growing up, but because Greagoir didn't fight hard enough, he didn't.
"I'm going to fix this," Greagoir promises. "I'm going to get this fixed, you don't have to be scared. We'll figure this out. I promise."
Greagoir, it turns out, is bad at fixing things.
(He is a rock, unmovable and unbreakable, but worn away by time.)
But he knows someone who can fix things, so he does the next best thing.
"Wynne," he goes to her, once she returned, the victorious heroine he always knew she was. "I need your help."
She sits in her office, one eyebrow raised at him curiously. "Close the door and come in, Greagoir."
He does as asked, and the tension of being alone in a room with Wynne suddenly rears its ugly head, and he forgets what he came here to say.
"You know," she starts instead. "My—friend, suggested that I kidnap you."
He blinks at her.
"I told her about, well, us." She continues, amused. "And she told me I should kidnap you and run away to Orlais."
"Not Orlais." He speaks before really thinking about it, not realizing that he disagrees with leaving with her to Orlais, and it sounds like he's okay to leave.
Wynne only smiles. "Well, I hear Antiva is lovely this time of the year."
"Who's your friend?" Because the idea of being kidnapped is so very fascinating and temporarily overrides any other thought.
"Amell. You know, the Warden." He knows who Amell is. "I told her love is ultimately selfish, and she wanted to know why I felt that way. So I told her about us, and her suggestion was for me to kidnap you."
He thinks if he ever gets a chance to meet Amell again, he's going to thank her, maybe even on his hands and knees.
"But I doubt you wanted to speak with me about your future kidnapping." Though the idea is wonderfully tempting. "So what can I do for you, Greagoir?"
He blinks. "How good are you at fixing people?"
Now it's her turn to blink. "I—pretty good, why?"
"One of my Templars is…broken." And it sounds like he's talking about a child with a toy, not a grown man with mental problems. "He needs help."
Wynne simply stares. "Can none of the other healers fix--?"
"He's—disturbed. He got tortured by a demon when the Tower fell and now he's…disturbed. I don't know how else to describe it. He needs help and I'm not sure what else to do."
"Is he dangerous? To others?"
Yes. To mages, especially. "He might be, if he doesn't get help."
"Greagoir, if he's dangerous, then why, by the Maker, is he still in the Tower?" She asks, somewhat exasperated. "There are other places you could send him. Being out of the Tower would probably just do him a world of good, if you—"
"You don't understand." He blurts out, because when he's around Wynne he can't really think straight, even now. "He's my son."
"He's your—he's—" And the shock wears off, but just barely. "Is he my--?"
"I think so." It feels good to admit that. "I don't—I don't know for sure if he's our son," Our son, and it feels really good to call him that. "But Maker, Wynne, he looks like me. And he's just like you sometimes, and he's the right age, and he's an orphan, and he was raised by the Chantry, and—"
"What's his name?" She asks suddenly.
"Huh," she thinks out loud. "That's not what I would have named him."
No, you would have named him something silly, like Phineas. He wants to say, but stops himself.
"That's what I thought, too." He laughs, for what seems like the first time in twenty years. "Will you—will you help him?"
"Of course I will." She doesn't even think about it, but the chance to meet her son is too great for her to pass up.
Relief swells within him. It's going to be okay now. If anyone can fix Cullen, it's Wynne. Everything is going to be alright.
And maybe, when she's finished, they can run away to Antiva.
He knows he's looking forward to it, if anything.
A/N: Before you ask, yes there will be sequel, yes it will be from Wynne's point of view, and yes, it will be Wynne fixing Cullen. This is turning out to be a miniseries on me.