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Chapter Text

The congrats are weighing and the praise nearly suffocates her. Her eyes are empty and very few seem to respond. And yet her smile is vibrant, illuminating the room as the Herald of Andraste, instilling hope in the eyes of those who chose to follow. Josephine nods as though proud. Leiliana sets a hand upon her shoulder in firm recognition. And Bull has yet to meet her gaze. He carries the same paleness, attention as adrift as the Dreadnought, seemingly aimless.

A quniari alliance. A worthwhile investment and an exceedingly impressive feat. They say it was worth the lives; worth Bull's Chargers. But it's empty. The tavern is empty. And the bar keep looks to her with an unusual countenance, and the singer plays no songs. The corner Krem had once occupied houses only an empty keg. Bull nods at her, accepting and loyal. He would have approved of her decision either way, supposedly. Feelings are not spoken. It's all bitter reprieve and calloused stares, looking through her and never at her. Recognizing her presence, but never acknowledging it. The Inquisition needed this, she says. Her excuses. Her chicken-shit politics. The want for more forces, even temporary.

She nods back, expression hardened. Because she cannot show regret or weakness. She cannot let this facade fall. Solas had held her hand and examined her eyes, pressing the need for a leader of no emotional weaknesses. Stating her stature and consistent strength. He feels sorry for her, she sees it. Her closest friend pities her in more ways than one. But he tightened his grasp and nodded approvingly, like a guide...far wiser than she ever hoped to be.

"Lethallan, expressions are better left behind closed doors. Their hope parallels your visible strength, as well as your ability to lead." She had remained silent, her eyes surveying the many papers littered across his desk. The runes and relics collected through their journeys lay in organized grace. Her lips are dry.

"I see you faltering. I understand it is difficult. But you cannot allow yourself the privilege. Not as the Inquisitor."

When did she last break? The stress consumed her. Haven still weighed heavily upon her shoulders. The fires and conflagration haunted her tirelessly. The deaths of men and women. The corruption of spirits so vividly wise and accepting. The corpses that lay at her feet in the Hinterlands. The decayed rot surrounding aged bone in the Fallow Mire. The constant fear of attack.

Sera slaps her on the back and jovially complains of her stiffness. Vivienne insists upon knowing her state of mind. Cassandra and Varric had formed a temporary alliance in finding ways to lift her spirits. Dorian was the only one that left her to recover, with small sarcasms on the side. This was a breaking point.

"The choice of a Qun alliance versus Bull's Chargers. Not much room for a morally good outcome." She can hear their conversation. Envisioning Varric's arms crossed and Cassandra's expression unamused. These walls are not thin. Her people are simply loud.

"She will be fine. She always is. I imagine these decisions weigh heavily. It is about time she felt their impact."

"I hate to see her upset over uncontrollable conclusions. When Hawke stayed in the fade...she barely expressed herself. This is probably the straw that broke the bronto's back. Maybe she'll finally cry it out."

"It concerning that she hasn't already."

Solas would be proud. Not a single falter while under the scrutiny of all of Thedas. Not a semblance of a tear when sentencing so many to their death. She dreads the stairways. Her calves burn nearly as much as her lungs when she reaches the top. The solitude of her personal chambers is somewhat relieving. The rain spits sprinkles from her balcony inside. The bits of snow in between collect as though meant to be. She releases her hair from the confines of her pinned braid. She sheds her attire and sits in Cullen's coat to force comfort. It smells of that infuriating man and reminds her that he's away.

She curls into herself and the unnecessary amount of fur, arms enveloping herself for security. The blanket confines her to the sheets and spread, encasing the woman as though a child. It's heavy like the many burdens, pressing downward over such a small frame, fatigued and worn by impressions and leadership. Bull's Chargers. Their remains. Hawke. His sacrifice. The dead. The deceased of Haven. The consuming fire. The Templars. The mages. The suffering of the people. All of Thedas, looking to her. His pain from withdrawals. Her aching hand, stinging like a lightning spell. Demons. Love. Despair. Rage. Fear.

The Inquisitor holds the coat to her lips, inhaling as though shaken. Her hands curl into the fabric, and she cries.

Chapter Text

"Numbness. She cannot feel. The new magic aches her arms. She tires. I need distance...I need distance."

Solas sets his hand to the desk, awoken from the fade abruptly. His eyes find Cole, standing in the hall to the right, looming in the open doorway heading outside to the bridge. He recalls the words in a slow manner, attempting to rouse quickly as though having been shaken awake. Cole speaks of the Inquisitor, elaborating on her confusion. The spirit must learn privacy, in dire need of some discretion. He's staring across the way through his hair, hands fiddling with a dagger as he eyes Cullen's office.

"Has the Commander returned yet, Dread Wolf?"

Solas looks at him, eyes suddenly ablaze with something unspecified. His lips part to speak, but the question of the Commander suddenly heeds far more information than that of Cole's knowledge. And he shakes his head as though distraught, searching for answers within his own reasoning. He ignores his own title and rather advances to the question at hand, admittedly annoyed.

"The Commander passed to meet the Spymaster some time ago." His curiosity is exposed as nosiness. His interests seemingly mirror personal affairs. "Do you need him?"

"Empty. Smells of him. Leading in the snow without his coat. He'll catch a fever out so long. He must return. He must."

He pauses, continuing between cracked lips.

"You warned her of love and now she bites her tongue. She blames herself. She holds his coat. He insisted she take it. He'll freeze half to death because she took it. Commanders should not freeze."

And the realization displays itself plainly upon his face. The boiling of his blood heats his neck in a fit of rage, fists immediate despite his calm demeanor. He stales his expression, legs crossed and back slouched further into the chair. All of those visits. She would approach him and inquire of his day or dreams. She would sit beside him briefly and discuss both culture and logic. Expose herself to him mentally, in a beautiful and elegant fashion. He voices his opinions and she takes all he says into consideration. What they shared, he thought, was beyond understanding. A relationship built beyond their world. Yet she would leave through that door every day. She'd walk to that man's office...every single day. And he was only just now realizing it, likely due to denial. Solas did not bring the fluster to her cheeks. He did not beckon the mild excitement in her voice. It was not their conversations that brought a warming red to the delicate freckles spread across the bridge of her nose. And he does not know if this feeling is annoyance, outrage, or perhaps both. This feeling of bitter reprieve at knowing it was never him. It was a brute. A Templar brute, raised and sculpted to control her magic. The one he knew would never understand her.

But he thinks back to her lips against his. His aggression of impulse. His brief loss of control, pulling her to him. And how quickly he made an excuse, disregarding her advances at an alarming rate. And now she was simply his beloved friend, and she lay in the arms of another man...not even of her kind. A man whom Solas was certain would never see beyond her identity as a Mage.

Cole watches him brood. Watches the frustration grow. Listens to the very hectic mind of an elven god warp all he assumed into anger. The spirit grips his dagger, mouth moving despite himself. Whispers rising in tone and volume, confidence risen and eyes piercing towards the Dread Wolf.

"Regret. More regret to distract. She moved from the rejection swiftly. Now out of reach. Empty. Alone. You will not die alone."

"Stop it."

"I'm sorry. It's so clustered, in your mind. I was trying to sort. I was trying to help."

"Find the Commander. Help our Inquisitor. She needs it more than I."

"You intended to leave her..." He frowns, eyes diverted to the carpet. He glances upwards, anxiety evident in his demeanor. "...even though you love her."

"I did."

"Why? She is kind. Kinder than any I know. She makes hard decisions and it's not fair. But she's still right inside. Who you are has no bearing. Who you were should not outweigh what you want."

"I know."

"She loves you, Solas. Not in the way you want, but in a way that works. In a way you can accept."

"Indeed." He's still looking away, knuckles pressed against his lips in contemplation. His brow is knitted, frustrated.

"I'm sorry. I was trying to help."

"Compassion. Never apologize...not for what you are."

"I could give the same advice to you." He leaves up the stairway, seeking Cullen. The wide brim of his hat catches the door frame, and Dorian shakes his head, humored, as they pass by.

"Certainly the life of the party. No wonder our darling Herald decided to keep him around." The accent fills the room obnoxiously, loud with his presence.

"She sees him as youthful. A child seeking help and to help in return," Solas replies, unwelcoming.

"He's far from that." A dry laugh.

"She's naive."

"In a good way. We've stumbled upon a rarity."

"Indeed."

The silence is long. Longer, forced. Neither breaking stale air, neither fond of the other's disposition.

"From one Mage to another, both equally despised by practically everyone, you should tell her."

Leave it to a Tevinter to spy upon a private conversation.

"I'd think you'd know her personal affairs before anyone."

"Is that supposed to mean something? Or just be insulting? Maybe both?" Dorian laughs, arms crossed, body lax. He takes nothing seriously.

"This Inquisition's Commander can offer her more than I."

"Commander? As in...Cullen? Interesting. I can see the appeal, but she didn't even tell me! Tsk tsk." He's stroking his facial hair, consumed in selfish thought.

"Despite the stifling arrogance that seethes from Vivienne, she's correct in saying you take nothing seriously unless it is of personal concern."

"A lover once thought of me in the same way. However, he never voiced it. The humiliation of being deceived was far more detrimental than the heartbreak. Nonetheless, I try my best." A coy grin, unconcerned.

"A pointless tale, but I suppose it brought you here today. You make Lethallan happy; I'm grateful of your presence."

"He has great hair. I wonder if he's great in bed? That has to be it. Great with a sword but better with his-"

"How vulgar." Solas makes a gruesome face, repulsed.

"The sneering! My mother once said my face would stay stuck that way if I held it for so long. She stated such with disdain and disgust but, you surly understand the cold, brittle love of a woman forced to bear an unwanted child. Either way, I don't think I've ever seen you smile; you must be living proof of Mother's superstition." He chides such and gestures tauntingly with the other arm still crossed. His smirk is haughty enough to ward off the Chantry.

"The point of my conversation? The one of heartbreak, rather than Mother: If you intend to hide things from the one you admire, don't admire them at all." Dorian knows. Not precisely...but he's aware of the deception. He knows it's unusual. He can sense it as a mage and as a dramatic Tevinter. It's probably like humidity in the air, noticeable yet not distinct.

"Perhaps there is wisdom in your pointless tale."

"Perhaps there is." He smiles, straightening up with haughty confidence.

"Her resolve is wavering. Your intolerably dry sense of humor could possibly lighten her mood. I seem unable to."

"Then we've both already tried and failed. Gave it my best shot. She smiled pitifully and claimed she needed 'rest'. I'd have rather been told to fuck off."

"Then Commander Cullen is our last hope."

"Great. The moral of our Inqisition's Leader in the hands of a man who stumbles over mere flirtation. Should bode well."

It's the first time Solas is made to laugh by a Tevinter. He holds nothing back.

Chapter Text

"She likes the rain. Nearly as much as he hates it. Wish he were there. Wish she were here. Insufferable man. He worries so often. She's just as bad."

Josephine sets the tips of her fingers to her lips, puckered from surprise. Her eyes glisten with assumption, poisonous with taunting. Leliana's smile broadens a bit too large, even as she sets a marker upon the War Table. She crosses her arms, haughty in her knowledge. Her stare is concise, fixated on Cullen's hand as he nervously sets it upon his neck. Habitual tendencies. Poor man.

"Does Cole speak of an admirer, Commander?" Josephine is still in the dark. Her eagerness to know is humoring, considering her attempts at matchmaking for their beloved Herald. Noble sons would provide leverage, she'd declared. Their Inquisitor had taken a step back at the statement, elven ears having sunk low at the mere idea. She'd coward behind the Spymaster as though a child. But she realizes, at such a young age, that she is indeed only a child. At least in comparison to her elderly advisers.

"One would think so." He mumbles it, arms crossed to prevent a fidget. His expression is uneasy and rivals Leliana's smug demeanor. He's collecting his belongings from the table, then decides rather to leave them in a pile.

"Well this lovely lady obviously desires your company. Judging by Cole's timing, she has no inkling of your return. It's best to...satiate her concerns."

"Who said it was a lady?" Cullen jokes dryly and Cole offers the most confused of expressions. His arms hang to his sides and he takes a moment of fully visible consideration. Leiliana conceals a chuckle behind her glove, humored over his attempt at dodging.

"I know you too well, Commander." Josephine raises a stern eyebrow with the visual authority of the Empress herself. She taps her quill to the paper in a strained manner, unamused. "Unless you and Captain Rylan are tossing in the sheets, I doubt any man could catch your attention."

"Makers breath, really?" He cringes at even the briefest of a thought, eyebrows knitted in disapproval and uneasiness. He hadn't anticipated such a loaded response, said without falter.

"She has a point. You do speak highly of him very often. The only individual you speak of more would be our darling Inquisitor." She sneaks a peek at Josie, eyes scanning the documents upon her board. The noble has yet to catch on. Perhaps she wasn't paying attention.

"Well, now that what I once held personal and sacred is publicized, I should take my leave."

"Wise, Commander." She would need to discuss the newly formed issue of age at a later date. She had never considered the massive gap, not counting his depleted years due to lyrium. Quite a few, she thinks as he waves the two off, departing through the War Room doors. Cole is gone. Eerie child.

"You know who it is," narrowed eyes and a charming scowl. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, adjusting her appearance.

"I've not a clue, Josie."

Some things are better discovered than told.

Chapter Text

"She needs someone. Efforts useless by so many. Good intentions bring her suffering. She's tired. She needs strength." Cole is left outside of her room, staring at the doorway, content with his work.

Cullen is about her instantly. His weight upon her bed causes her to slightly rouse. His armor is thankfully piled upon the floor and she feels comfort in his embrace. He does not pity her. He does not examine the tears and wipe them away. Cullen does not baby her as many have attempted to do. Does not treat her like a child or a porcelain doll. He simply lets her cry, supporting her all the while.

He has learned that she prefers silence. That the hectic situations of the battlefield are enough noise. She listens despite this. Varric's stories, Cassandra's advice, Vivienne's complaints. She allows no voice to go unheard. She lacks the impatience anyone would understand her to have. She lacks the anger they'd thought would consume her. She holds no abuse of power, no matter how tempting. But her visible care for all of Thedas shows and makes her weak. And her inability to handle the blame of death and leadership causes her suffering. A leader needs to be stronger, but it seems she plays the part to those that follow. And she exposes herself only when behind closed doors.

She mutters sweet nothings in a drowsed state. Her hands are wrung into his jacket, face pressed into the fur. She's adopted nail biting in the past month. They often bleed.

He breaths into her hair and she sighs. She's falling asleep again. She dozing. She's out.

And he lay with her, silent, content. And her dreams are jaded by the fade-walker. Made to be calm by Solas as she sleeps. He does not mind it. He sees the way the other looks at her. And he compares the way she'd once looked at Solas to the way she looks to the elf now. No longer an interest, only a friend. An important one, beyond the regular binds of simple friendship. Lifelong, but nothing more. He must be grateful. Had she not been pushed away, he would not be here, embracing what he considers his cure. Though he wonders if this is what makes her happy, no matter how many times she reassures him.

He sent his sister a letter. Saying that they will marry once their objectives are complete. Once Thedas is no longer blighted and ill, and once the wars of their kin settle among the masses of dead. Marriage...something so complicated and seemingly daft. Yet it is important to her, even if it matter not to him. He writes that Mia should come meet her. He will instruct a troop to escort her into the region, as well as his mother should she be physically able. If not, they would go there. Because clan Lavellan is gone. She says the only family she has outside of the Inquisition is the family that he has now, whether she knows them or not. And his mother would have to deal with her race and culture, because he loves her and those concerns are beneath anyone with sense.

But he knows his mother will love her. Because she is not "too elfy" as Sera says, and she is humble in every sense. Compassionate, and simple. And how can anyone not love her?

A people pleaser. Too much so.

He allows her to sleep because his nightmares will surly wake her. Though he admits that he often dreams calmly when she lay beside him. He can never be sure. He struck her once, unintentionally as he roused from horrors, but he found it humorous when she struck back, being cranky when woken abruptly. And there was no guilt as they lay in the very early morning sun and laughed with one another for the redness they had on their faces. Had she not smiled an apology for punching him, holding her wounded cheek, he would have demeaned himself with grief and guilt.

But he is never truly unperturbed, no matter how elegantly they calm one another. He is so much older. Ten years. And this lyrium has shortened his time even more. And elves live longer in general. And...he worries.

He wonders if it is for her loss or if it is for his own. Will she miss him, leaving so early...and is it unfair? Or are these moments she claims to treasure so much worth such a distant risk? The moments that she sleeps in the garden and he stands at a distance, observing her downtime. The instances her lips are chapped against his, firm with intention. The minutes he spends, tracing the ink on her face with a careful thumb. Or the hours they kill, riding their unique steeds in competitive races across the courtyard. He takes her to that lake so often now, only because she asks. He sees her fiddle with the coin he gave her, ignoring the idle chat of her companions.

He can't make sense of his own thoughts, not with the way her hair smells. Wild grass and sea salt, ocean air from the Storm Coast. Her recent mission with The Iron Bull.

He supposes he should leave. He should let her rest...recover from her duties. She deserves a momentary peace in this everlasting madness. She's been crying. The mission went wrong. That's alright. Each decision comes with consequence, whether they are simple or vast. They are entirely based on what she believes to be the most acceptable or practical choice. He knows his mindset is why she needs him. No sympathies or blame, pointed at her with aggression or distaste. He doesn't tell her "there was nothing you could do", nor claim "you could have chosen otherwise". He simply tells her that it's fine. She can't change it. No one can. And when there is nothing to change, you only move forward to change more.

That simple acceptance is what draws her to him. What makes her embraces so firm and her affections so vibrant. What evokes passion in a time of passionless war, expressed in sweat and tangled limbs. His acceptance...yes. Learned as wisdom from all he has endured. One of the things she loves about him, if only a little more than everything else. She needs him, outside of this strong, emotionless Inquisitor charade, because he approves of her no matter what. He supports what and who she is, despite all of her falters and inconsistencies. He will always love and adore her, but not as the Inquisitor. He will hold her close as the childish mage who stumbled upon an accident, unready for what they say is her destiny. She needs Cullen. He is essential to her existence.

The approval of Thedas is not all that she lives for.

***

Fin.