Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cullen is between her thighs again. A few months ago, it would have been a strange sight: the inquisitor spread out across his bed, her strange Dalish robes still hiding the softest parts she’d hate to show him. Cullen knows not to cross their boundary of cloth. Perhaps the touch of bare skin is too real, too vulnerable. 

His fingers glide along her thigh, tracing the slight curve of it, perhaps committing it to memory. She shivers, head buried into a pillow, the tips of her sharp ears ever so red. Cullen aches to thread his fingers between those white curls, the white of Andraste's light, to weave himself in the tapestry of her embrace but makes do with the heat of his mouth against her sex. She does not care for him. He knows this, has known it this entire time. His tongue caresses against her lips, slow and steady. There will be another time, in a tenday or even tomorrow, but can’t suppress the urge to memorise her, for the lonely nights where she won’t come to him. 

Use me, he told her. His tongue laps away at her warmth for the good of Thedas. Lavellan murmurs her approval between clenched teeth, ever so ashamed for her nature. She would perhaps rather die than admit she enjoys it. Cullen can only assume there is pleasure by her consistent return to his bedchambers at the dark hour. The cool, distant look in her eyes, looking somewhere he cannot follow. His grip tightens, thinking of the other she wants, the one she cannot have. 

A pair the two of them make. The Dalish mage caught up in the mess of Thedas and her Templar commander, hopelessly pining for the scraps of her affections she would rather toss to the dogs. 

“Cullen-” She begins, a hushed whisper of surprise. His fingers dip into the smooth muscle of her thighs, not as toned as the rest of her. The remnants of her life before this hellhole. Perhaps there will be small bruises, pin pricks of the shallow emotions he can muster for her. He reinvents his hurt and frustration into focus and is rewarded with a stifled moan. 

The inquisitor does not like to display her pleasure so easily and Cullen is not shy of hard work.

After a few minutes or so, her thighs begin to buckle against his head and a boldness overtakes him. He lets his fingers reunite themselves with the only weakness in her armour Cullen can find, her lust, and begins his attack. At first, he kisses her clit as he gently caresses her thighs once more. It must throw her as she rushes to bite back another shy groan. His middle finger lingers for a second or two before slipping behind her defences. He presses his kisses, hot flashes of a confession he cannot make, along her skin. 

Lavellan cannot hide the infliction he gives her, not for all the cold stares or distant greetings in the world, and a whimper escapes her fortress of feelings. She shifts along the bedsheets, mouth opening to perhaps condemn him but Cullen curves his fingers upward, his only weapon in their silent exchange. Perhaps he should’ve exhausted his emotions before sundown. He can’t contain them here, and she is certainly not equipped to understand them.

Only when his second finger enters the fight does Cullen understand he has won the battle, never the war, as her fingers find themselves gripped in his hair. Each cry choked back only emboldens him in his cause and so he begins his last offence. He quickens his pace, allowing himself the slightest comfort in those humble kisses against her skin, breathing hot and heavy against her sweat. Her name repeats in his mind, almost as intoxicating as the feel of her around his fingers. She’s babbling unintelligibly now, half cursing his name or muttering phrases in a language he cannot understand. And then her hips buck, tense and shaky. He saves his last kiss for this moment, feeling the warmth of her against his brow bone. How he aches to have her embrace him like this, like an alliance instead of a fight to the death.

Her breathing slowly steadies and he removes his hand, not before licking himself clean of her. His chin is coated in her and the evidence cannot be hidden so quickly. No, this he does for himself.

She sighs, covering her face with the marked hand. It emits a soft, inoffensive glow, outlining the brown tattoos across her forehead. Cullen looks at his breeches: strained and perhaps somewhat soiled with his own desire.

“Thank you.” She says after a few minutes. He forces his attention elsewhere: his armour lying discarded in the corner of the room. “I should return to my chambers.”

Each word is clipped. Does she hate him for it, or herself? Cullen doesn’t have the heart to ask her, too scared to watch her trample over his fumbling feelings. Much like the lightning that crackles through her, she takes the easiest path. And Cullen is a sick, masochistic stepping stone made for delicate footwork like hers.

“Rest well Inquisitor. I shall prepare for the report tomorrow.” 

There will be no rest for him, only the torture of his own hand and her name on his tongue.

Sunlight sneaks through the broken stone like children running between the legs of their parents. A mage with stacked books, scrolls and even a stone slab in their arms scuttles past him and passes a missive to a tranquil woman to their left. Cullen assesses the hall, picking out Mother Giselle discussing news of Val Royeaux with a chantry sister. Their eyes flick up to him and pass. He blinks the interaction away and continues to his left, slipping into a hallway where Josephine has set up her new office. She smiles nervously, and the reason soon becomes clear.

When he comes to the door of the new war room, he hears the Herald and Cassandra engaged in lively debate. The words are clear; only slightly muffled and scuffed by the dark wooden doors. Then it thickens with raised voices and he considers it a little too lively to interrupt. He stalls outside the door with gloved fingers ghosting the handle.

“You have a duty, a calling-”

“The only calling I seem to recall, Seeker, was of your own making. I never asked for this! An agent, I could understand, but Inquisitor? Have you gone mad?”

“We need you! Thedas needs you. You are a beacon of hope, a chance at stability amongst the people. You could be so much more. How can you not see that? I know you are not this selfish!”

Lavellan’s breath catches in her throat. The sound sucks in air, the world becoming void at the lack of her response. He is outside the door but the look on her face manifests sharply in his mind. The lines that streak her forehead in exasperation, the curling knuckles around a chair for stability, not to mention the pursing of her lips, ready to bite at ankles for the crime of her displeasure.

They are well written signs of a sour temper quickly worsening. One Cullen is unfortunately well acquainted with.

“I can see just fine. I seem to be the only one to see at all.” She spits.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“I’m an elf! A Dalish elf. You saw exactly what they thought of me in Val Royeaux, the looks- they practically called me a heretical omen. You label me divine when they consider my very being a sinful thing. I don’t want the mantle of your maker, of Andraste! You have shackled them to me for life. How can you not see that? My personhood is against the very premise of what you have made me and I am expected to simply give in once you’ve shackled the collar around my neck.”

Josephine moves to join him, mouth downturned in a frown. Her eyebrows scrunch the skin along the bridge of her nose so much that Cullen almost asks if she’s alright. She glances at him then, motioning to the door with a hand, and he shakes his head in clear response. They should give them their… moment. What can they achieve when the two of them are like this? Leliana might be able to stay their tempers, if she wasn’t otherwise engaged with Varric’s mysterious contact. She has a way with them: Lavellan seems to feel a sense of guilt or obligation to the spymaster and Cassandra has known Leliana for too long to not value her opinion highly.

“The people will believe regardless. This way you might wield that power for good! You must compromise what you are for the good of the world, there is no other way- Where are you going? Inquisitor!”

The two advisors jolt when the door swings open, a furious Inquisitor at the handle. They slam against the walls and a small stone skims down the unstable bricks of the hallway. Cassandra stands just ahead of them, face pink and not pleased. Cullen and Josephine stand unprotected in the route of a storm eager on leaving all in her wake little more than rubble. Lavellan jumps in surprise at the two of them, then quickly returns to simmering with contempt. When he meets her gaze her expression turns especially dark.

“Fuck! Dhava ‘ma masa, delavir’shems.” No translation is needed for the general message. The words do not sting like a slap, but they leave a bitter taste on Cullens tongue. Like rotten apples stirred into a pot of honey. He’s usually not one for such thoughts but the sweetness her voice brings does strange things to him. He shakes the image from his mind and returns to the present.

She shoulders past them. Well, him. Josephine is spared her physical reckoning. It is only Cullen who feels the ripples of her wake as he almost tumbles backwards with force. The ambassador turns to Cassandra with surprise across her face, whose own forehead creases with guilt. It’s a stark difference to her pink faced frustration seconds earlier.

“What was that?”

“A disagreement.” Cassandra says plainly.

Josephine moves into the room, displacing her ever growing ledger. This might be the first time he’s seen her so far from it. “I would sooner call a tornado an afternoon drizzle.”

“She is not happy with her appointment.”

Cullen turns back to the hallway where Lavellan disappeared. “That much is clear.”

It had been exceedingly unkind. The gambit had Leliana’s handiwork gilded in its hilt, but the seeker had been the one to deliver the blade. Literally. Lavellan’s hand had clasped around the Inquisition's reins with a single raised arm. Cullen understands though, perhaps more than most, that power given comes with a cost.

At the time, the three of them atop the stairs had stood entirely still, just long enough that murmurs had begun to spread below throughout the crowds. They’d murmured and chattered with anticipation whilst watching from below. Lavellan had turned away from them as she plucked the sword from Cassandra’s grasp. Leliana described her hidden face simply a few hours later: Furious.

“We cannot afford to argue anymore, there is so much to be done. Cassandra, I must insist you go after her. Apologise. The inquisitor is necessary for the work today. We must operate as one.”

“Me? Why should-”

Enough of this. He is sick with the lack of action they talk themselves into.

“I will speak with her.” He turns on his heel.

“Cullen no, you will only make it worse.” Josephine starts.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

He makes off after her, not keen on hearing anymore on a topic he considers himself pretty educated on. He is not like Cassandra or Josephine, who are tucked by the hearth of her heart, but Cullen is a tool that has welded itself to her grip. Tight, uncomfortable, but working and useful. He is her commander and perhaps, an empathetic advisor. He will usher her to action.

If he finds her, he will become the void where her anger can seep and bubble.

She is half way down the stairs to the courtyard when Cullen matches her pace, white hair whipping in the wind. It furls and snarls, clawing at her nape and nestling in a fur lined cloak, seemingly made just to bury her. Most give her a wide berth and he can’t fault them. Looking at her hurts. Her anger is made for the heat of an anvil.

“Inquisitor!”

Lavellan continues on despite his call. Her feet press each stair with a purpose, a mindful thing that promises direction. A string is embedded in her chest, tugging her to the drawbridge with such fierceness that he might call her an unstoppable force. She doesn’t care to reply, nor does she acknowledge his next call.

Cullen fumbles down the stairs after her, less sure of his feet and filled with a wariness of death, giving her a head start. He maps out the upcoming conversation in his mind as he goes:

‘Inquisitor, speak with me for a moment.’

‘I assure you, Cassandra meant no harm.’

‘There’s no one more suited to the position.’

‘It is only through the merit of your actions at Haven that we chose you.’

She comes into view again, standing still along the bridge that connects Skyhold to the frostbacks. Her hands grip the side, welding themselves to stone, her brows furrowed in thought. The sight almost steals his breath away.

Something about the moment is too intimate, too close for comfort, and he wants to break into it like a thief. Her shoulders rise and fall, her grip tightening again and again, like she might break the stone with her will.

A gust brushes past him, urging Cullen to return to the castle but her grip on his thoughts is tighter than any other force could be. If he turned away, he’d only find himself back here, looking across the bridge, glimpsing across the endless expanse he wants to cross.

Her fur cloak ripples with the wind.

“Inquisitor.”

“I heard you just fine the first time Cullen.”

He comes to a stop a few feet away. “Josephine wants you to come back.”

She says nothing. Her focus remains on the surroundings. White bleeds into grey, mixing like dripping paint, though not ruined. Each stroke is purposeful, composed, and chosen. What does she see in them, he wonders uselessly, and does it help? He could ask. Though in this state, he doubts she’d respond. It’s not particularly on topic either.

A strange gnawing curls at the forefront of his mind. He wants to know what she’s thinking, to wade into the waters of her mind. Are they full and bursting or synchronised with a single thought and feeling?

What a strange train of thought, he thinks, and then wants to kick himself for the distraction.

Time to mediate. “Cassandra meant no harm.”

“It doesn’t matter what she meant,” She says quickly. “Nothing will free me from this now. I am stuck. I might as well be in chains. In fact, I’m no better off than I was on Haven’s floor, rotting in a damp cell.”

“You are by no means our prisoner, Lavellan.” He says.

“Of course you would say that.” She mutters, and then says, “I never wanted this. To have to do this.”

He sags a little at that.

“Would it really be so terrible? To lead us?”

Lavellan doesn’t respond and something quietly dislodges in his chest. It tumbles down his ribcage, clattering against each bone and the dullness of the sound echoes in his mind. It sinks firmly into the pit of his stomach. The world remains standing. She stays quiet, as if the sound had only strengthened the distaste of her anger.

He hates this, he decides quickly.

“Tell me how I can help you.”

Cullen can’t deny the patheticness in the words. He is so inept here in the space between them. He feels like a child at the pyre, wondering how to fix the wounds already shrivelling in the flames and the adults are too kind or foolish to tell him the truth.

He knows the truth. There is an itch across the expanse of his body that his fingernails cannot keep themselves from. Something in him wants to pull and pick away at the skin. He cannot define the feeling and so he plunders on without stopping to consider.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“I could make it easier.”

“Easier?” She snaps and pulls away from the wall.

She looks to skyhold behind him. “What about this could be made easier? Will you ask the chantry very nicely to revoke their sentiments or perhaps you can convince your order to stop poisoning themselves? You are so very skilled with words afterall, Commander.”

“I am not a Templar, they are not my order anymore.” He snaps back. The comment has unsettled him. He has left the order. He isn’t a Templar.

“You should leave the lying to Josephine.”

“I left-”

“You’re a Templar in all but name,” Lavellan says matter-of-factly. The words don’t bite as he thought they might. Or perhaps the cold has taken the edge away from them, or he has lost the feeling in his fingers in the cold. Is he shivering? He can’t tell.

In his silence, she takes the opportunity to unleash more of her thoughts.

“You champion the order like they’re mindless lambs for the slaughter, rife with innocence and goodwill. You treat the mages with fear and suspicion, despite the fact they have only ever sought freedom. You are less egregious than most I have met, but you are still a Templar through and through. I haven’t forgotten how you pressed for their assistance in Haven.”

He’s unsure how they got here. He came here to help.

Cullen takes a step forward. “They’re misled! The lyrium controls them, and now even more so. There are good men in the order, good men who don’t deserve the fate they’ve met.”

“Do you honestly believe that?”

“I believe no one deserves their fate.”

She pauses, and then repeats herself, clarifying, “Do you honestly think that they’re misled?”

The meaning dawns on him

“Lavellan.”

“Lyrium did not cause the mage uprising Commander.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“You defend them, regardless. The things they did, what they’ve done. The cruelty and the hurt they inflict, their actions only viable as justice under the thick blanket of your maker.”

A headache blooms at his forehead. This is progress in some strange way. She’s angry at him and not at the inquisition now, though some small part of him has gone terribly quiet, like if it were to make itself known, he would lose his edge. Frustration, an old friend that has often kept him company, makes itself known instead “It’s more complicated than that! You were not there, you did not see what I saw.”

“I was close enough. Close enough to know what ‘good’ templars are really like. They are much of the same: empty words and promises, whilst they gleefully stand back and watch mages suffer for the crime of being born.”

“They can’t leave.” He raises his voice. He thinks of those on the streets, lyrium addled and slobbering over themselves whilst they mutter and scrap for anything shining and blue. A shudder goes through him. “Even if they wanted to stand up, an example is made of them. The order is tainted but it isn’t entirely lost. I left as an example, to show them they can be better.”

To show himself he can be better.

“The principle is the same!” She shouts back. “A small corruption is still corrupt. You inherently believe we are monsters, lesser and smaller and yet still something to be destroyed. You do not even understand us! Creators, why do I bother,”

“I am sick of this,” She gestures to him and then to the empty space beside them, “of all of this! I will not be the puppet of a chantry that wants me vilified twice and lectured like a child by a Templar twofold.”

His mind is fumbling and spinning with each syllable from her lips. He cannot even deny what she says, not truthfully. It makes his stomach curl with shame. He’d believed it wholeheartedly for a time. His fingers twitch at the thought of memories buried beneath stone and a red lyrium statue in the midst of mage and Templar corpses alike, scattered around a courtyard. He is unsure what he thinks. Especially when each word she says sends his mind spinning.

“We are separate from the chantry.” He says instead. “We barely have their approval as it is.”

She stalks towards him. “Are we? We look to chantry mothers for guidance, give them a place for worship in our garden and I am the fucking Herald of Andraste! If anything, this is just one more branch of a religion that has done little but burn all it touches. We are likened to a cult, a gaggle of heretics and I am on the throne. A literal throne! Tell me Cullen, how do I make this easier?”

Her mind is quick and each word crashes against him, the ocean pushing pebbles across a beach in a storm. The wind is the salt spraying in his face and it is all Cullen can do just to remain still. He has made it worse. He was foolish for this. Truly, his reasoning was lacklustre in the first place. Why did he chase after her? Josephine should have come. She is much better at soothing tempers.

What does he say? The chantry disavows magic, it's true and it certainly holds no warmth for elves. She’s right, and rightfully angry on two accounts. A strain in his chest tightens. He thinks of Kinloch hold and red hair, a smile hidden between bookshelves.

The memories disperse and all that is left are the demons he has known and sometimes, he has feared within himself.

His eyes ghost the lines of her tattoo. He loses himself and his train of thought in the design. She stares at him with a wretchedness. He follows the curve of her cheeks and the lines against it. Beautiful is too small, too insignificant to describe her. How strange he’s never thought of that before. And words slip out, like his mouth is an incompetent jailer.

“Use me.”

The inquisitor stills. A few moments pass and it dawns on him what he just said. His knees lock into place.

“What did you say?”

“Use me.” Cullen repeats, clearing his throat and averting his eyes. He must be brainless. Why did he say that? Andraste guide him, because he feels utterly and entirely blind.

“You are my commander, how else can I use you?” The last words tilt, prodding and poking the suggestion with a false sense of naivety. The anger is there, bubbling still, beneath a thin film of incredulousness.

He reaffirms his statement. “You are angry, I understand. Use me to be rid of it.”

Her breath curls in the air, white clouds disappearing before his face and he swears it is shaking.

“I cannot believe what you are implying. To treat you like a…” Her mouth hangs open. Her fingers curl against the edges of her cloak as she pulls it tight against her. Fidgeting. “Why would I do that?”

“I am suggesting.” He corrects. The warmth creeping up his neck has spread across his cheeks. His ears are likely pink, either from the cold or the stupidly brazen attempt at offering himself to her.

He expects her to throw him from the bridge and perhaps, might welcome it readily, but Lavellan does not. She is thinking. He might add more kindling to the fire, perhaps, as he explains why he lit it in the first place.

“You are intelligent, loved, quick witted and charismatic. It was wrong of them to trap you here, they know it too.” He lowers his voice, loud enough to be heard over the wind but quiet enough it feels somewhat intimate between them. “I will help you with the anger, however I can,”

“You have plenty of people to spar with and my ability is far less adequate. I am only offering an alternative in case you… should want it. But we need you to lead us, Lavellan. There is no one else, or they would have chosen them.”

“I like someone.” She blurts. It’s an awkward mouthful and she avoids his gaze when she says it. The tone of her voice is so odd that Cullen is entirely taken back. “Someone else.”

His mind delays in its response. For a minute, he only turns the words over and over in his head. She cares for someone. What a wonderful thing to feel something for someone. Someone else.

It’s no shock she doesn’t care for him. He won’t let it show on his face or give her the illusion he expected anything. That would be unkind and stupidly arrogant of him. He has never yearned for her affection, has he? And yet his chest falls away, brick by brick, sinking and shredding itself away. He feels himself turn dizzy and then sick and then wholly fine in seconds. It repeats.

“Is it reciprocated?” He mutters quietly. Cullen feels distant from himself, like an observer moving a disquietingly detailed puppet. The words are fat and heavy in his mouth. “I would not stand between you and…”

Lavellan mirrors his distant gaze. “I don’t think so.” She licks her lips, as if stricken with a thought.

Ah. He wants to laugh but feels too cold to even try.

“Use me.” He says again, with a strengthened professionalism Josephine would compliment him for. “It needs to be nothing more than a way to release tension. I would derive nothing from it.”

She stares at the ground whilst he stares at the top of her head, following each curl, watching them slip between one another until the wind separates them and they rearrange anew. They’re woven like a tapestry, intricate and beautiful.

“I will think on it.” She replies, instead.

“Find me in my chambers whenever you feel the need. At night, preferably.” He says quietly and not without embarrassment colouring his cheeks. He waits, then adds in a stronger voice, “Come back to the war room, Cassandra will apologise, I assure you. There’s too much to do and I fear we’re losing light.”

When she walks past him, Cullen almost throws himself over the wall to be sick.

There is a knock at his door. The sky is dark and the Inquisition slumbering away. He is stripped to a shirt, trousers and his trifle heart weeping on his sleeve. The sound reverberates throughout his chambers like a bell and each ring sends a spasm through his chest. His palms sweat as if his body is trying to rid itself of the emotions he cannot define.

He opens the door. The Inquisitor stands before him: She wears layer upon layer of fabric, obscuring all skin from sight. He looks at her whilst she stares straight ahead into the darkness of his bedroom. She can’t look at him, he thinks. He wouldn’t be able to look at himself either. But there’s a desperation lingering on his doorstep that he’s never been able to deny.

Cullen steps aside to allow passage and closes the door behind her. It thuds quietly and nothing is ever quite as it was.

Chapter Text

Cullen is deeply involved with his work, the hour late and his food gone cold. He hasn’t the mind for it. Instead, he feels the ache and pain in his temples, frustration or anger. Whatever deems itself his master tonight. His office is hardly a comfortable reprieve from the hatred of his mind, the small box situated- No. This is not the time. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He is better than this. He is better than who he was.

When the door opens, Cullen has half the mind to order them away. Though most likely it is a report he asked for, something he needs for tomorrow or the day after. Skyhold has been ever so busy lately. “Leave it by the desk.” He gestures to his side, next to the forgotten plate.

“What report are you expecting at this hour?”

The voice is a cold, almost unwelcome shock through his system. He rises and the chair makes a truly awful noise as it scrapes against the floor. Maker’s breath. “Inquisitor- Apologies for my tone.”

Inquisitor Lavellan stands at the entrance, face serene and unbothered. She’s wrapped in fur, bundled like she might blow away across the ramparts. He shivers as memories collude in the back of his mind. These aren't his chambers. Nothing will happen here. He almost wants to weep. Her beauty is not so dissimilar to the skyhold countryside. At first, you can’t quite believe what you are seeing: Something so divine, crafted and placed only by fate, cannot exist. Not here. Not now. And yet she does; eyes like honey, wide and all seeing. Her gaze is encompassing and Cullen feels sick that she can never truly see him.

Never truly see what he wants.

She raises an eyebrow. Her earlier question unanswered. Perhaps she does see. Perhaps she just does not care.

“I’m not so sure myself.” Cullen says and stifles the urge to go to her. For all the discipline in the world, there is nothing like the promise of pain to spur him on. “I am so used to receiving word at all hours of the…”

He trails off as Lavellan latches the door, the small click so suffocatingly loud. She does not react to his surprise, only moving to the other door. “I can sympathise. The other day Josie shook me awake before the sun had risen just to inform me of several Orlesian nobility arriving at skyhold. They’d demanded the proper introduction, Inquisitor and all.”

Her fingers find the latch once more.

Maker have mercy.

“Hardly fair of them.” He breathes, daring not to move a muscle. He is half convinced he has fallen asleep at his desk and this a dream. “Surely Josephine could have held them off till morning.”

She shakes her head, leaning against the doorframe. Observing. Watching. “You know what they say of me, in Orlais. The chantry. I cannot afford any misgivings.”

Come to me, Cullen wishes to whisper. Let me soothe you, find comfort in me. Allow me to be gentle, to be soft, where else I cannot. Let me taste you. Hate me for it, or perhaps pity me. He swallows despite the pit in his throat. What is this game they play?

“We are improving the situation already.” He offers and she laughs, though it is cold and not genuine. It leaves him feeling sick. He has heard her real laugh: it’s home is the rotunda, not his ears.

Neither of them speak. Cullen watches her as though he were a templar again, aching to understand the mechanics of her mind, to combat the strangeness he cannot understand. It would be so easy to give in and default to violence, as if he were freshly young. He has always ached for something he cannot have. Is it his nature to hurt? To be hurt?

Lavellan regards him like a nearby Halla, eyes deep and rich, filled with knowledge she cannot or does not wish to tell. Otherworldly and not known, or welcome, to him. It is as if their worlds are different colours that cannot coalesce to form connection.

Her fingers rise to her fur cloak and gently pull at the broach holding it together. It falls to a pile at her feet. The world suddenly becomes quite dizzy and he grips the table for stability. She has gone mad. Utterly, thankfully, mad.

The inquisitor is bare, save for her smallclothes. The candles flicker around them and expose stretches of skin he has only dreamt about. His mind begins to count the freckles along her stomach, only to lose itself at her collarbone. Cullen wishes to know what cruelty is this and how he can beg for more.

She glances to his desk. “I would not disturb your work.”

Work. No one could think of work like this.

“There is nothing to disturb.” He says, voice light of breath. He cannot maintain this. Beneath his breaches he knows he is already hard and wanting. She has trained him like a dog. And yet she does not come closer. Has he misspoken, played the wrong piece?

Lavellan shakes her head. “It would not do for our commander to shirk his duties. I insist.”

Death is preferable. Cullen considers dying on his sword that very moment. But he calms himself, allows his fingers to relax against the wood. They are white to the knuckle and extremely uncomfortable. There is a method to her madness, and so, Cullen plays along.

He seats himself at his desk. He picks up the discarded ledger detailing names and unimportant matters like supplies or training regiments. He finds his pencil. And begins to work.

Methodically. Quietly.

After a moment or two, she approaches. Cullen feels the warmth of her beside him, the magnetic pull she seems not to notice. Her fingertips graze the curve of his ear and he bites back the groan in his throat. Her touch is new and unfounded, entirely electric on his spine. The words blur together on the page. Those elegant hands meander downwards. Down, down, down.

“Blessed are they

She positions herself over his knee, her chest pressed against his shoulder and the curve of her cheek against the crux of his neck. She is straddling him. In his office. Barely clothed. Cullen may be sick, be that excitement, dread or some other emotion he’s never cared to learn. He can feel her, hear her, like never before.

“Who stand before,

She is trembling. Unsure or filled with terror he cannot say. His eyes remain on the parchment and paper before him, though the words have all but blended together. He flips to the next page to feign attentiveness. Lavellan is warm enough that he can feel it through his armour, not to mention her hot breath along his skin. It spreads and in the brief moment she breathes in, coldness takes its place. It is too much, and yet he must focus. For whatever reason, she cannot have him face her.

“the Corrupt and the Wicked

When Cullen believes there is a moment of peace between them, she betrays their silence. Her hips stutter, small and unconfident but the whine she makes is anything but. His hand stills its writing and air evades him. She cannot do this, but she will. He will let her and dream of kissing her tonight. She drags herself along his thigh. Slower, harder. He can feel her lungs grasp for more air and imagines his hips meeting her pace. Her hand comes to muffle her own mouth as she rides him. He grips the pencil tighter.

“and do not falter.”

The inquisitor debases herself on his thigh and Cullen does his paperwork. No, Cullen does not do his work. He burns holes in the walls, his mind hellbent on preserving every other part of this moment. How can he preserve the glide of her against him, or the shaky moan she cannot hold back? And when he believes himself steady, her hands wrap around him for safety as she increases her speed. Soft moans and fatalistic efforts to hide them.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers,

Will she climax here, against him, cradling him like a lover? His work is all but discarded now, Lavellan far too gone in her pleasure to scold him for his failure. A hand grips her waist, his knee pushing against her where he can. He meets each of her meagre thrusts and allows himself a weak moan of his own. More, he wants more. Maker, he prays, allow him this.

“the Champions of the Just.”

“Cullen.” Her voice is weak and vulnerable, everything he’s wanted for months. How sweet his name is on her lips. How terrifying this power must be. She pushes her forehead against the bare skin of his neck and he almost sees stars. A sick, masochistic sense of greed takes him. In one swift motion, she decorates his desk with clutter spilling across the room. She makes a small noise of confusion until Cullen replaces his thigh with his hand. His fingers trail the wet fabric slick against her thighs, pawing at it with a desperation only found in the faithful. And faithful he is.

“Blessed are the righteous,” He murmurs to himself. His finger meets the part of her where they see each other, at last, and he pushes. The inquisitor writhes against him. Eager. Warm and welcoming, like home. He shifts his weight to the hand beside her head, gripping the desk for support as he works. Lavellan turns away, still unable to see him as he is. “The lights in the shadow.”

He brings himself closer, acquainting himself with the slope of her neck. It is speckled with sun kisses and time. No jewel on earth could replicate its worth. And so he presses a chaste kiss to her skin. He feels the heat along his lips, even where the scar has taken away any feeling. His hand works without instruction. Her pleasure and his wrist are close friends, after all. Her breath hitches at the touch. He will take another, then, and then once more. No man can afford to waste a meal at the maker’s behest.

Cullen has not always been the wisest man and she makes him foolish.

She was close on his thigh and his fingers have only made her desperate. He has memorised the signs, although they are usually from a slightly lower angle. Attentiveness, he decides. He must observe her thoroughly. A battle won is still a victory celebrated. Her back arches, her brow furrows and her breath uneasy, shaky gasps of overstimulation. In this moment, he will steal a look, take a piece of her she might yet offer him. His hand gently cups her cheek, guiding her face to him. Her eyes flutter. But they are open. They see him.

“In their blood the Maker's will is written.”

Neither of them look away as she climaxes, open mouthed and decadent on his deck. Cullen does not blink, dares not to, and only watches. He fingers her throughout her climax, hard and fast till he hurts. And when she whines, he slows, languidly spreading her despite the spell wearing off. He cannot bear for it to end, not yet. She has not glanced away, mumbled an excuse or mentioned his work.

She is looking at him.

Chapter Text

He sends her off to her death.

It is an odd sentiment. Off to your death. Cullen stands, arms gripping the hilt of a sword like he might gain any semblance of control from it. Not even the maker could lie to him, not about this. His armour is covered in viscera, be that demons or warden, covered it is. He pants like an overworked Mabari. His men stand behind him, shouting orders to the warden defectors.

And the inquisitor is gone.

They’d not spoken before the battle. They do not speak. He’d not said goodbye, or felt the brief warmth of her smile. Nothing. The blood has been sapped from his body and his fingers tremble coldly against the metal. Lavellan, divine and unyielding Lavellan, was dead.

Or close to it, at least. Lavellan, Cassandra, Bull and Solas. She’d reached for him as they fell, Cullen saw the aching stretch of those fingertips as they’d plummeted. And now they are all gone.

Cullen knows little of the fade save for it crawls with creatures beyond the maker’s gaze and that no one has been there since he cast his gaze away. Not for centuries. But he knows they’ll die there.

The tears wouldn’t come. He suspected he couldn’t cry at all, she’d taken that with her too. So Cullen stared up at the place where she’d stood, and then fell, and then died. Dead. No body, no blood. There and then gone. Another night spent in his bed, gone by morning. A hoarse laugh rips from his throat and ends up as a strangled cry that echoes across the roof of his mouth.

A sick thought crosses his mind. What a dream it would be if she’d been the one to torture him in that circle. If a demon had licked the skin from her bones and worn it like jewellery, kissed him with hunger and passion only found in the fade. How sweet the torment of her love would be, something he could never have and yet craves. His own home grown lyrium, mined from the depths of his mind and refined in her touch.

Cullen stands there for hours. Just watching. Staring. Praying.

When the inquisition returns from Adamant, Cullen is taken with his work and the management of whatever they took from the fortress. He takes categorical interest in their trebuchets, the broken armour, equipment and morale of his men. He tends to them like a garden, hands firm but guiding. He speaks like he is placing his pieces on the board, though Dorian is much too busy to advise his moves. Lead. Direct. He moves through his men with a smile of a Fereldan fireplace and bickers with Leliana like a squabbling child. She softens his words for him. He doesn’t want to know why.

He and the Inquisitor have not crossed paths, miraculously. She does not grace his office nor his bedchambers. He gains an aversion to the war room. Josephine spends half her time with him nagging and he shakes off the words like an old coat. The other half is spent sighing.

Cullen hangs his head over the ramparts one night. The ache will not subsided tonight, though he suspects the pain has more than one source. Instinctively he turns his gaze to the balcony that overlooks skyhold. The doors are closed, though a warm light shines through them. Pain aches in his chest. It is corrosive. it is eating away at him like he’d willingly put himself on the table.

He would. If he could.

Movement stirs in the light and her frame comes into view. Her hair is down, frizzy from a day's work, and she is reading bundles of paper. An emotion tugs at the corners of her mouth. He is too far away to see it with clarity. He’d place his thumb along the curve of her chin and smile. Ask her how it offended her and how he might carry her judgement. In his dreams she’d lean into his touch and laugh.

Realistically, she’d baulk and call him a fool. He’d eat it up and call himself the fool commander.

He groans into his hands. This cannot continue. This arrangement was supposed to… he’s unsure what. Originally, he’d been keening for her, desperate for anything. If a tool, at least she would hold him. He saw the rage bubbling in her throat in Haven, the anger and the hurt she refused to let go. It was an outlet. For Thedas.

Could he justify this any longer? It has begun to impact their work. He is certainly less efficient when he spends half his time feeling sick at the very thought of her. She is the Herald. She is everywhere. Likewise, when she avoids them their work is nearly halted. Their troops will have half-baked orders that lead them to ruin. He scrunches his hair in his hands.

He wants her.

Cullen wants her so badly it feels like a sin.

He gazes up at the sky, the moon towering over him. He counts the stars like they’re giving him air and wonders. Is this what the maker felt when he saw Andraste singing? He feels torn asunder without her and yet, when she is near he feels worse.

Those hours in Adamant when he thought her dead are indescribable. His mind was not his own again. Though this was different. He was not consumed by rage or blind loyalty. There was simply nothing, as if the sun had slipped away from the world and left him stranded in the lonely dark. He’d known then he could never love again. Love, if that is what this was.

It is a cruel parasite and he hates it and feels like he can never be without it again. Who could compare to the grace of her knuckles? What could eclipse the sound of her footsteps? For all the beauty and horror in Thedas, Cullen knows that there is nothing like her. When a miracle has kissed your eyelids and left you burnt, what salve can you apply to wash the pain away?

What does he do?

The question takes his mind by storm, so much so that he cannot stand still. His body repeats it with each footstep, each quicker and faster than the last. His mind repeats it, to himself, to the maker and to her. What does he do, Lavellan? What would she have him do?

Tell me. Use me. Take me.

His feet are quick and sure throughout the hallways, brushing past the patrols and servants still awake. They leave him be, though he is sure that his demeanour leaves no room for pleasantries. Before he knows it, he has climbed the stairs and is staring at her door.

Cullen has never seen her chambers, has never let her take him here. She has always afforded her losses on her terms, on his lands. What pieces of herself does she lock away here, he wonders, before feeling the dread hit his stomach.

He shouldn’t be here. This is foolish. And yet he is the fool commander.

The knock rings loud and clear. Rustling behind the door comes to a halt and footsteps grow louder. They ring intime with the beating of his chest. He has not nearly thought about this enough. He should have prepared more, should have written down his thoughts as they’ve all but leaked through the pitiful gaps of his mind. There’s still time to run. To leave and never come back. He hears that Redcliffe is always in need of work. The door swings open.

The Herald sighs, putting her weight onto the door frame. “Not tonight, Josie. Whoever- Oh.”

It has been weeks. Cullen’s mind had stifled her beauty for the sake of his sanity, he sees.

“Cullen.” She says. Her voice doesn’t betray a thing and he hates her for it. The moment he opens his mouth, she will know each drop of his heart.

“May I come in?”

Lavellan nods, stepping aside to allow him space. He enters and hungrily absorbs the room. It is messier than he thought it would be. Books are piled over almost every surface, most open and covered with sheets of paper. There are stacks upon stacks in the corner, not to mention the bookshelves along the far wall. On her desk sits several small statues: a Hart, dragon and a wolf. The wolf faces the door. He meets its gaze. He knows them. They are elvish gods.

The inquisitor coughs and draws his attention away from her private space. Though it is a mistake. Looking at her is entirely too much for his mind and his mouth. He is tempted to beg, as he always is, and he would beg well.

She is in… Pyjamas. They are a deep blue and he is instantly filled with a fondness for the colour. It suits her entirely too much. His mouth is dry.

“Is everything alright Cullen?” She asks and this time, there is concern in her voice. He must look outright mad. He feels it.

He shakes his head. “No, Inquisitor.”

She tenses and takes a step toward him, face settled. “Quickly, what has happened? Has there been another attack?”

Cullen shakes his head again. “No.”

“Then what-”

“I love you.” He breathes. The words tumble out of him. Small. Insignificant. But the room warps around them. Lavellan looks up at him and he meets her gaze. Her eyes are the sweetest brown, golden and warm, flecked with amber and life. She is utterly dumbfounded.

Neither of them move. “What?”

“I love you.” He repeats.

“What?” She is copying him.

He raises a hand to her cheek and when she does not move away, allows his finger to touch the curve as he’d imagined earlier. There’s a small scar, entirely hidden from sight without the help of touch. “I love you, Lavellan.”

“I don’t understand.” Her voice shakes and he feels himself unravel.

“When you fell into the fade,” Cullen starts. She steps back and he draws his hand away. She is watching him entirely, eyebrows knitted together like she’s dismantling a trap he’s laid out. “I realised I could never be with any other, or without you. I… I cannot speak my mind as I should. But I know I love you. And you-”

She shakes her head, eyes shut tight. “Cullen, I can’t, not now-”

He nods and smiles as sweetly as his grief can let him. “I love you.”

“Stop.” The inquisitor’s voice wobbles. Her shoulders shake and she goes to hide her face. In reckless abandon, he gently takes her wrist in his hand. She lets him, though she will not meet his gaze. He presses a kiss and feels his shaky breath along her skin. She shudders.

“I love you.” Is all he says. The words are a chant of their own. I love you, he will say, and the maker understands. It hurts her and he knows it.

A sob tears through her body. Her words sound like veilfire in the air. “I don’t love you.”

Cullen cups her face with both hands and wipes away a tear along her cheek. “I know.” He says with a terrible softness. He hates it. He hates her and she’s the only thing that matters to him.

“I don’t love you.” She repeats. The sound is hoarse and entirely new to him. He swallows the sound with a smile.

“I know.” He says once more before drawing her in for a kiss.

It is one thing to kiss along her thighs, or her wrist, or even her neck. The skin is soft, vulnerable. But to kiss her lips, to feel the brush of them against his own, is its own form of magic. She burns hot against him. She’s so cold that freezing feels like warmth. He is slow and greedy, humming into her mouth as she returns his efforts. Her hands reach up to his own and dig into the skin, pulling him closer. She is hungry and he is a glutton for her.

His entire life, Cullen has served a maker that may never cast his gaze upon him. He has devoted his life to a god that will never love him as he does them. What is one more?

The kiss does not remain so chaste long. She pulls him closer, he falls willingly, and then she is pulling him away. He lets her, though he softly bites at her lower lip as she does. Tears still line her cheek and she chokes back another sob. He is plentiful with his attention, kissing each drop still present. Her hands move to his armour and he understands.

He lets her work the buckles as his hands follow the curve of her jaw, fingers gently swiping the edge of her ear. She gasps and hurries her work. He presses the pad of his finger to the point. It is deceptively soft, the sharpness a visual defence only. Her knees are buckling. A pauldron falls to the floor, followed shortly by his cape and chest piece. He does not regret wearing armour. He drinks in her touch like he has every goblet at his disposal.

Cullen follows the line of her ear to the curls of her hair. It tangles and untangles between his fingers, soft and fine as silk. He is entirely enamoured with it. Would she give him a lock to keep? Most likely not without his tongue and fingers present. His hand bunches and pulls slightly, testing her weight against him.

“Creators.” She whines, burying her head into his now free neck. He smiles and runs his hand through her hair again. She has disrobed him enough, he thinks, though he is not eager to pull away from her.

“Lavellan.” He replies and brings her face back for another kiss. Heat flames their embrace and she bites his lip in response. He groans, deep and hurt, feeling her words in the air. He loves her. She doesn’t love him. The maker may not love you, but you must love him. Servitude is all he knows.

There is only so much he can do without the presence of a bed and so Cullen takes it upon himself to lift her into his arms. She does her best to be difficult, refusing to leave his mouth alone for a second and he tightens his grip with each kiss or nip. He reaches her bed with ease and spreads her legs with his knee. She is splayed out beneath him like blasphemy incarnate and Cullen eager to sin.

“Tell me you don’t love me.” He moans into her mouth, refusing to give her air. She writhes against him and guides a hand to her breast. It is soft and fits within his grasp perfectly. He does his best to pet and pull at her like a lute, although this is new to him.

She hides her face in her pillow. “I don’t love you.”

Arousal takes him like possession.

“Again.” He whispers as his hand travels down her stomach, past her navel and between her legs. They are soaked wet to her legs. His fingers slip as if she’d freshly washed.

“I don’t love you Cullen.”

He presses his ring finger inside her, gasping at the words and the heat of her against him. His forehead meets hers and she still refuses to meet his eyes. It is its own type of cruelness. She will denounce him without the pain of her gaze. She pants and he pulls her face to him again.

He might die if they cease to kiss more.

Cullen fingers her religiously, soft and slow when she pushes against him, hard and fast when she pulls away. She is a mess on his hand and against his lips. He is a disaster atop her. He curls his fingers and she chokes. He brushes her lips with his tongue.

“I can’t- Creators help me, Cullen, please.” Her words are the tears he kissed away. They flow, disjointed and entirely senseless. She is close and he is kissing her.

“I love you.”

She moans, compressing her body against his. She must feel his erection along his thigh and heat burns his ears. Her silence cuts more than her rejection.

“I love you.” The words are raw and ebb away at his defences. He can hear the tears in his own voice, though he has kept the tears at bay for now. Maybe she might lick them away.

She crests and he drinks it in. He continues to finger her slowly and she looks up at him through hooded eyes. An endless sadness takes him. This may be the last time. He feels himself sob and she brings him into her embrace. Her fingers trail through his curls and Cullen sulks into her chest like a child. This is a mess. This is not worth anything.

They are half naked and entangled and sobbing. Neither of them want any of this, and yet.

Yet.

He finds himself kissing her once more. Her climax has dulled the heat behind her mouth. This is slow, languid. She sips him like wine and he tastes her like the changing of the seasons. As they kiss, she slips her forgotten bottoms away. He retracts his hand and brings it to her mouth. Lavellan accepts him readily.

Her tongue wipes away at her taste, and when he pulls his fingers away, she hollows out her cheeks to keep them there. He almost finishes in his pants again. She plays with him like no Chantry has dared.

His breeches are freed and he shuffles out of them awkwardly. Lavellan continues to watch, legs spread and heart closed.

It is a quick moment to align himself, to feel the tip brush against where his fingers once lingered. “Are you sure?” He murmurs. He doesn’t hide the sadness in his voice.

“I want-”

He refuses to let her answer, instead choosing to ease himself into her. Her head tips back, mouth open and moans silent. It is a stretch, he must admit, but it is no fault of their own. He takes her inch by inch, heat curling around him like a vice. Cullen pants into her mouth as he bottoms out.

His mind is blank. He cannot think. Nothing.

Lavellan seems as bad as him. She blinks and whimpers at the feel of him. He shudders. They’re really doing this. Really.

He is scared to move and she is impatient. She pushes her hips against his and he voices his pleasure accordingly. He has to move at some point.

Cullen drags himself away, looking down at his love and sighing. He feels whole. He feels empty of everything. Nothing is right and he can’t be anywhere else. “I love you.” He says again and thrusts.

“I don’t love you.” She shakes her head, each word catching on her moans. She mewls like a cat in heat, so famished for him that he almost doubts her words. He thrusts again, harder.

“I love you.”

“I don’t-”

He fucks into her hard and her eyes roll into the back of her head, fingers gripping the sheets till her knuckles turn white. He loves her like he kisses her, soft and gentle until he can’t bear it any longer. The sound of his hips slapping against her thighs fills the room and possibly lingers outside the door. He doesn’t care.

“I love you.” The words have no air and he doesn’t care.

She is too overcome with pleasure to deny him and he doesn’t care.

Once they have started, the words can't stop. Months of pining, of aching and hurting and wanting and nothing, yet everything. “I love you. Lavellan, I love you.”

Each word is punctuated with his hips. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” He says, finding himself overcome with stupor. He is the fool commander and she is gripping him like she needs him and wants him. The words are nonsensical, empty at times, but they are there. He says them as she climaxes again. Her fingers dig into his shoulder blades and he knows she will leave scars. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He cannot maintain himself any longer. He is exhausted and lost in the throes of lust and hurt. Cullen brings her face to him again, trapping her mouth against his. His hips stutter, once, twice, and then he slams hard into her. He shakes all over as he finishes inside her. Is he still crying? He is covered with sweat and sex that he can no longer tell.

His body goes weak and he places himself beside her. The two of them lie there, panting and aching and raw. She has soaked through her pyjama top and his back stings red. Cullen wipes the sweat from his forehead and sighs.

Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

For all that he is afraid to lose.

Chapter Text

They’re standing in the great hall, all that the inquisition holds dear, as they prepare for the final fight. Lavellan stands in front of her throne, eyes curving around the wood, as calm as ever. Her face is unchanging. You would not think she were to face a would-be God, practically alone. A squire is fitting her with leather armour. She needs to be able to move, she says and the hall carries her words. No one mentions the lack of protection, the risk, the danger. You can feel the overlapping thoughts in the room.

Cullen has nothing left to feel. He has cast it aside today.

They’ve not been with one another since. The feel of her lips still rubs him raw, drowning his mind and his heart. Specifically, they’ve not been alone since that night. Josephine or Leliana have made themselves brilliantly useful in that regard. Cullen has returned once more to the war room. She has stayed clear of his bedchambers, not that she had been there for some time. They’re cordial with one another. Some words are clipped. It is almost as if he hadn’t wept into her arms as he took her, professing pointless and meaningless love into pitiful arms. No, what trite fantasies. There’s nothing between them now. There were nights of weakness. One of servitude, pleasure and pain.

Which is good, because Cullen must send her to death again.

Her face is bare, empty of the markings that used to line her cheeks. He does not miss the way she stares at the Elven apostate across the room, who conveniently looks away when she turns to him. He almost pities the man, if he did not envy him like he were the colour green itself. She is colder, distant than usual. He wouldn’t have suspected a thing: that is his normal, after all. She has been colder and distant with all of them. Blackwall, Rainier rather, mentioned a spat between the two elves when he and Cole joined them for a survey in Emprise Du Lion. Maybe except for Dorian and the aforementioned spirit who she is endlessly fond of, her tone has been rather terse as of late.

“If you stare any harder, she may speak to you.” Leliana smiles beside him. She has appeared from nowhere, like a ghost, to give unsolicited advice. He sighs. She can be ever so meddlesome.

“I am not staring.”

Her voice is light and airy. Like cake. “And I am not Leliana! What wonderful things we are learning today.”

Cullen tries not to scowl at her. She’s just as worried as he is, she only hides it better. She has done this before with the warden. Perhaps sending your loved ones into an endless nightmare is a muscle you can train. “Alright, you’ve made your point. I’m just… I want to remember her as she is. Before it is too late.”

“She’s not going to die, Cullen. They’ve faced him before. You are grieving a living, breathing woman.”

He shakes his head. “We cannot know that for sure.”

The spymaster, soon to be divine, turns to face him and he finally pulls his attention away from the Inquisitor. She raises an eyebrow disapprovingly. “For a commander, your outlook is dismally low.”

“You mean I'm not an optimist like you.” He says.

“Precisely.”

“It’s almost over.” He states matter-of-factly. Neither of them point out what he truly means. Once Corypheus is dead and the breach sealed at last, what ties her to them? What will hold the Inquisition together? He pushes aside the guilt for wishing it to continue. Thedas is suffering. People are dying. His trifle emotions are not above their safety.

“Not necessarily,” Leliana says in her endless wisdom. She has returned to smiling like she has caught every canary. “We need to rebuild and stabilise. There is still much to be done, Commander. Your men need you yet.”

“Great.” He says, not feeling particularly comforted. More paperwork. More nights of headaches and anger and frustration.

She sighs and waves at Josephine from across the hall, who begins to make her way to them. Her face is set tight. She is worried and wears it on her sleeve. “What I mean is, you still have time.”

Love cannot be bought with time, Cullen wishes to say, but Leliana would provide too many logical arguments for his liking. He turns back to the Inquisitor in his quest to catalogue her form. She is choosing from an inane assortment of staffs, each dreadful and wonderful in their own magical ways. She twirls each one in her grip, testing the weight and height. Dorian laughs and mocks her strange display with his own weapon. She halfheartedly laughs back, bumping her fellow mage with her shoulder. Solas stares at her, gaze burning and his knuckles white, his jaw set. The Iron Bull watches all three of them. Cullen knows he does not belong.

Not when her love was never there for him to begin with.

Skyhold is filled with life.

“Cullen! Here, have a cup of this.” The iron bull presses a drink into his hands, drawing out his name like a song. The Qunari, or Tal-vashoth as he calls himself, is quite drunk already. They’ve been at this for a few hours now and no one seems ready to stop. In fact, the merriment only seems to leap, noisy and warm. The two of them are quite friendly and Cullen feels himself merry enough to accept this mystery drink.

It is a rich amber and Cullen almost comments on the colour until he thinks better of it and stops himself. No more of that. “What is it?” He asks before taking a sip. The liquid is fire, burning his throat and he splutters. It dribbles down his chin and half soaks his shirt, likely to stain. Josephine will be livid. Bull laughs heartily, clapping hard on his back. Cullen is coughing endlessly. His throat cannot wretch the liquid fast enough. It is disgusting and he regrets ever speaking with the man.

Bull grins devilishly. “Maraas-lok!”

Cullen deadpans. He has no idea what that is or what he just swallowed.

“Amatus!” Dorian’s voice comes into earshot, his cheeks red and smile wide. Bull instantly turns to greet him. Cullen is envious of their connection, uncomfortable with his own emotions. “Are you poisoning our strapping young commander with your… whatever it is!” He frowns unhappily at the smell of the alcohol.

“It’s Maraas-lok, Drink of champions!” Bull defends, taking another swig. His voice slurs terribly as he speaks. “Which we are, of course. It is not my fault you prefer Fereldan drivel, Kadan."

Cullen shakes his head. “Fereldan ale is not drivel.” And both of them snort in reply. It’s clear he’s the outlier here.

Dorian tuts, fingers twirling his moustache. “Commander, It is exactly that. It is why I like the stuff so much.” He is grinning and drunk. Cullen won’t hold the slight against him. The mage steps closer to the Qunari and looks up at him through his eyelashes.

The second Dorian arrived, Bull began making eyes at him and Dorian is far too pleased to remember Cullen is here. Regardless of his inept social ability, he can take a hint. He smiles and bids them both goodbye, instead seeking out someone else to cling to, lest he be descended upon by dozens of nobles eager to trap him into meaningless conversations.

Varric catches his eye and he makes a beeline for the dwarf. Cole sits on the table beside him, likely the reason Varric has maintained a space of peace.

“Well well well, if it isn’t Curly. Care to join me?” Varric is lent over a blank notebook, pencil in hand. His handwriting scrawls across the page and led coats his hands. There’s a mark by his chin. He seems entirely engrossed with his work, though he notices Cullen staring and flashes him a quick grin. “I’m chronicling everything. Might put it in a story someday, who knows.”

“People on the pages, fighting with you and their emotions against the words. They are real and you know them, yet you can never reach them as they once were.” Cole hums, kicking his feet into the air. He’s looking Cullen in the eye. The boy unnerves him to no end, but he can feel the kindness there. Normally.

Varric chuckles. “That’s right kid. Mostly fighting with me though.”

Cullen takes a seat. “How do you even write down what happened here? I mean, I can scarcely believe it, and I have been here from the start.”

“With a pen.” Cole replies happily for him.

“With plenty of time and lies.” Varric corrects, knocking his pencil against Cole’s hat. The boy scrunches his face in response. It’s heartwarming enough that Cullen smiles at the exchange. “Either about you or to my Editor.”

He turns the writing implement on Cullen. “Now, what I need from you curly, is a better look at our dear Inquisitor.”

Maker’s beard, Cullen curses to himself, can he not escape this, not even for a night? He has avoided her so far and quite successfully at that. Cullen must not hide his displeasure well because Varric laughs to himself. The dwarf is keen on laughing, and always has been.

“You’re friends with her. Close friends.” Cullen counters. It’s true: Varric and Lavellan spend enough time together that he shouldn’t need his opinion. He doubts Varric respects it much. “We’re barely colleagues.” Shit. That’s too defensive; He can hear Josephine chastising him about his words already. This is why he should never get involved with politics. They talk circles around him. “What I mean is, I could tell you about her debating skills and little else.”

Cullen has known Varric long enough that he sees the small changes in his face that give away the obvious; The corner of his mouth twitches, just so, and his eyebrows lift accordingly. He leans back, opening up his body, splayed out across the chair with a foot on his knee. He’s caught him and both of them know it. Cullen is mid groan when the questions begin.

“How are her debating skills, Curly?”

“They’re perfectly fine-” His voice cracks and heat builds on his cheeks.

“Just fine? Oh Books will love hearing that.” Varric lifts his goblet and takes a swig. “Perfectly adequate, he says. Run of the mill. Average and Everyday.”

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose. “Varric!”

“She is splendour spread out beneath him, twisting and turning like roots in his heart,” Cole’s eyes shine bright as he toys with a fork left on the table. Cullen blanches. Andraste’s teeth, he isn’t doing this. He cannot be doing this. He stares through Cullen as he speaks, continuing to expose his futile defences. “You worship and she hurts, bleeding and rotting, like a self inflicted wound found by taking you-”

“Kid, have you noticed that Maryden keeps looking at you?” Varric chimes in, leaning towards him. They talk like a tavern tale. Cole pauses and the two of them share a look Cullen hasn’t the mind to decipher. He’s too busy reeling, sick and disgusted that his heart is so well known. He is a self-inflicted wound.

The spirit disappears off into the crowd.

“You’re welcome.” Varric says, his tone sing-song and bright. He has returned to his notes but a steady eye is trained on Cullen. It is strange he can write without looking.

Cullen lays his face flat against the wood. “Thank you.”

“So, you and Books, Curly?” Varric is smiling into his drink. One day. One day without her being the epicentre of his world would… leave him feeling empty. Endless. Ill. The table is a welcome cold against his skin.

The room is far too warm and the conversation has made his temperature soar. “Not anymore, not that we ever were.”

“The kid seemed to disagree.”

“You heard him,” Cullen gestures to where Cole once was and presses his forehead into his forearm. “It was just….” His voice catches. Just sex. For her. He knows that. He does.

“It’s never just anything.” Varric says at last. “For one, there are far finer Dwarves one could choose for mindless sex.”

He laughs. “Like yourself?”

“Exactly.” Varric agrees.

Cullen sits up and glances around the room. Lavellan is dressed in a dark green dress, embroidered with what he’s come to recognise as Dalish imagery. She’s laughing, though she winces when she stretches a new cut on her cheek. His heart sinks glumly to his stomach. Sera is hanging off her arm and Cassandra is to her left. The three of them are enthralled in a strange conversation, by the face the seeker is making at the two elves.

She seems to be enjoying herself. Seems to be.

There’s an ache in her gaze, looking, searching. He feels his insides wretch and then flip once more. She isn’t avoiding him, he isn't worth that much. He knows he’s not the one she’s looking for. He’s a grown man, sitting love sick at the edges of the room while she does not think of him.

He wishes he could hate her in earnest but no one could. Look at her. It’s a defensive hate, the same metal as his shield or his blade. Beneath her smile or foot they would melt and become yielding fields, flower filled meadows. Where she goes, love naturally follows. He is simply bitter and crestfallen.

Leliana said there was still time. Cullen wishes they had anything but. Less time makes them reckless, prompting more night visits and more kisses that aren’t meant for him.

“She is in love with another.” He says sadly, to no one in particular. He has never said it out loud before. He expected to feel worse when it materialised in his mouth, like a childhood home burnt to the ground. Save for the fact it has always been his reality. It feels like normal. Like falling asleep in bed.

“Chuckles.” Varric supplies.

“Yes.” Cullen murmurs, returning to his self pitying state at the table. “I was a willing placeholder. I need no pity, not from you at least.”

“Then you won't receive any.” He says, and then pauses. A sharp look enters his eye. “He's gone and from what nightingale has told me, no one can find him. He has taken nothing, save our Inquisitor’s heart.”

“He makes off with the most valuable treasure in Skyhold.” His words are not cruel. They are sad and true, and perhaps that is awful enough.

Varric turns to look at Cullen entirely, holding his gaze. “You can love more than one person, Curly. I should know.” His fingers graze a red scarf hidden in his pocket. His crossbow leans against the table.

Cullen does not wish to know. He wishes to drink.

And so he does. After a few more ales, the occasional interruption from a very sloshed Leliana and a frantic Josephine pouring outlandishly expensive wine into his cup, he decides to slip away from the hall to steal a breath. He shuffles past diplomats and drunken servants, the social ties severed for the night. A Fereldan Arl stares smittenly at a Bard dancing with bells around her wrists. It smells like a brewery, both his clothes and the room, and a sickly sweetness sticks to the top of his tongue. He’s never done well with others, less so when they’re talking to him. Which suddenly seems to be every person’s goal. So isolation he shall take.

An unassuming door, he can’t remember where it goes, becomes his target. A side effect of his inebriation. He disappears and is instantly greeted with a kind breeze. Skyhold blesses him with its age and lack of insulation tonight. Cold, clear air surrounds him. The noise is a distant hum and he sags against the wall: His body is all but bones and jelly, like the ones Josie ordered in from Val Royeaux. How in the void did she manage that?

He meanders for a while, letting his feet carry him rather than his mind. Cullen is glad for the moment to think, to consider. All he has thought of until now has been the inquisition, the inquisitor, Samson and then the inquisitor some more. He has yet to reply to his sister and the longer he leaves it, the harsher she shall reprimand him, he knows. She asked when he was coming home. The path leads to a set of winding stairs and he takes a moment to sit. His mind swirls.

He is tired. So, so very tired. He is unsure where home is. Who it is anymore.

Not ten minutes later, footsteps echo throughout the hall; they’re fumbling and clearly from someone intoxicated, though there is a sure pair that matches the beat. Voices are whispering, too quiet for him to make out. Cullen suddenly finds himself ridden with a horrific headache. It takes immense focus not to slam his fist against the wall. He isn’t that man anymore. He isn’t. He does not miss the irony that the noise has followed him into his respite.

The figures stumble around the corner and his face goes blank.

It is Lavellan and Dorian.

Her face is comically flushed and she is sprawled across him like a deer hide. She blinks and smiles, so bright that Cullen tenses up. She has never looked at him so. He swallows the bile in his throat. It feels so unnatural it has knocked him sick.

“Commander!” Dorian happily calls, dragging the poor inquisitor after him. He has a gleam in his eye that Cullen only knows as trouble and he has no mind to indulge it. “I have a small request.”

“Dorian I don’t think-”

He nods. “Yes yes, that rather is the issue with you Templars. Now! Our lovely Lavellan here agreed to a rather stupid drinking game with one idiot Qunari, so they are quite Inebriated. They both require attention and I have left him without chaperone.” He rolls the words around on his tongue, like he’s tasting them. “Be a dear and take her back to her chambers.”

Cullen is cursed. It is the only explanation and apparently, it is a good enough explanation for Dorian. “Listen, this isn’t a good idea.” He tries to say.

Lavellan hums and nods her head, albeit very wobbly. “Commander’s got… a point. Good one.” There’s a hiccup at the end of her words. He loves her. He might swoon at her recklessness. He is as smitten as the Arl. Her breaths are the bells around the Bard’s wrists.

“Nonsense! It’s my idea and therefore, perfectly sound.” He dumps her in his arms. She fits so nicely and he had forgotten how it had been to hold her. “Now, I must be off. Qunari to drag home and whatnot!”

He marches back the way he came and Cullen is left alone with the Inquisitor. Thankfully, It’s awkward only for him. She’s almost as bad as Leliana was when he last saw her, and the bard had been dancing on the table. He coughs and she shuffles in his lap. His thoughts are ceasing to function and the alcohol is not doing wonders for his state of mind.

“Hi Cullen.” She murmurs, sounding like sweet berries and kisses.

“Evening, my lady.” He says in response. He sounds like a fool.

He distributes her weight across his body, displacing her on the step beside him. She sinks naturally into the stone, exhausted and pliant like she has been drugged. How drunk is she? She clings to his torso for balance, face pressed into his shoulder. Is it habit to hide there? He ruminates on the idea that she enjoys it. And then chastises himself for his presumption. He has forsaken it. Her. They have sworn off one another.

“Good night?” She asks quietly.

Cullen nods, once again angry with his mind when he has the depraved thought of rubbing circles into her shoulder with his thumb. When she doesn’t reply, he realises. Right. She can’t see his face. “Yes, quite. Did you win your game against Bull?”

She becomes entirely a fit of giggles, nectar sweet and soothing on the ears. He finds himself laughing with her, though it means nothing other than her joy. Their sounds echo around the hallway like a choir, drowning out the main hall. “Not at all!”

“Maraas-lok?”

He feels her nod against him. “Thought ‘cause I’d tried it before, it’d be easier. I was sorely mistaken. I suspect he gave me more than him! Or my goblet was larger. It’s hard to tell with him, his hands make everything look small.”

“I’m sure he did.” Cullen laughs. He never wants it to end. They have never shared a moment like this, even when she rode his face or his fingers speared her like a sacred mission. “It tastes foul. How ever did you manage to drink it?”

She pulls away to look at him and he denies himself the thought of kissing her. He can feel it in his mind. He can taste her and he’s entirely intoxicated on her happiness. He rarely sees it. It has been exceedingly rare these past few weeks. “I’m the Inquisitor Cullen. I must be able to manage anything.” She says with a seriousness that prompts an involuntary laugh.

“Forgive me.” He says when she frowns and she returns to leaning against him.

They sit in silence. He stops himself from picturing anything, from dreaming or hoping or even smiling too wide. He focuses on her tears and memories of lust filled kisses that showed no sign of affection. Time, Leliana told him. He hears the word in her accent, the Orlesian grandeur. Time.

“Inquisitor.” He whispers as she sags against him. He fears she’s fallen asleep on the stairs.

She stirs and blinks up at him. He’s taken aback by the look on her face, the unfocused gaze and her lips parted. “You are too handsome for your own good.” She says softly, delicately, enchantingly. They are drunk. She isn’t in her right mind. She means none of this.

“It did me no favours at the winter palace.”

Lavellan hums her agreement. “Bad place. Awful. I hated it.”

“In that, we entirely agree.” He says.

A curl sticks to her cheek, sodden with sweat. Without thinking, he tucks it behind her pointed ear, fingers clumsy and ill advised. She keens to the touch, cheeks red and breathing laboriously. When his fingers brush against her lobe, she murmurs a curse he doesn’t understand.

His cheeks heat. Her ears. They are aptly sensitive. He’d forgotten. “I apologise, I didn't mean to.” He stammers. He is entirely embarrassed and feels sick to his stomach. He is far too hard in his breeches already and it took a single muttered curse. He is not some lust driven fiend, he has tact. Or at least, he normally isn’t. He is drunk and in love at this moment.

“Kiss me.” She says. His heart skips a beat.

“I shouldn’t.” Cullen’s voice breaks and the halls echo each sad word back to him. He denies her over and over, skipping stones bouncing across lake Calenhad.

Lavellan nods. “You should not.” He knows what she is doing and it is terrifyingly persuasive. She is the charisma of desire, the allure of pride. The drive of hunger.

His voice cracks as he speaks. “I want to.” This is pathetic. Nothing has changed. Their distance, his resolute determination, crumbles, just as he thought it would.

She is looking at him, eyes wide and open and like Maraas-lok, they are fire in his throat. He cannot tell if he wishes to sip more or choke on them. He cannot deny her when he needs to, he cannot chase the thought of her kissing another from his mind. He has had her and yet she will never be his. He will always want to kiss her. He should never have known her.

“Why won’t you?” She demures. Her voice is so small, ploying for his attention, coyly pointing out his own wishes and laughing at his restraint. Does she truly not know?

He finds tears in his eyes and his lips loose. “Because I love you, and I want you. Because you are the only woman I shall ever love and,” Her hand comes up to his jaw, her thumb stroking the expanse of his cheek. He shudders in her embrace, breath escaping him. He begins anew. “I will never truly have you. I cannot kiss you, Lavellan, because it will destroy me, and there is so little of me left to destroy.”

Her touch falters and she almost pulls away, but Cullen chases her hand with his face. She allows him this small comfort. Her eyes flutter open and closed. “I’ve been cruel to you.” Her mouth is a thin line speaking a terrible truth.

“I want it.” He murmurs into her palm. He craves it. “But you do not want me to kiss you. So I cannot.”

The inquisitor stills. Her face becomes soul shatteringly torn, as if he has broken whatever spell she has thrown over herself. She stares at him, searching his face. Her hand slowly travels up his ear and traces the roundness of it. She is mocking him, repeating his desperation from that night. It is humbling and raw. “I want you to kiss me.” She defends. “That’s why I asked.”

Cullen shakes his head. “You want Solas to kiss you.” Lavellan jolts, stung, when he says the name. She is clearly shocked, the hurt plain in her face, and she pulls her hand away in retaliation. He bites back the anguish in his throat at the loss of her touch. They must have this conversation, there is no other way forward. He is drunk and his mind filled with a self loathing that clears his thoughts. Surely they can manage one open exchange. “You cannot have him, as I cannot have you. That is why you want me to kiss you. Because you are thinking of him and I will distract you, and I cannot fault you for it. I have known this entire time and at first, it did not matter but now-”

“I do not wish to speak of this.” She spits, breaking away from him entirely.

“You never wish to speak to me!” They have to peel back the layers of midnight trysts and longing stares, of half spoken truths and unsaid words. He cannot let her leave tonight without clearing his mind. They have too much time; the wound of their relationship will fester and rot. “Lavellan, please. This is killing me.” He lowers his voice, pleading.

“He is gone.” She says. Her tone is flat. Hollow. He recognises the notes and the tune in himself. He yearns to comfort her but you cannot douse a fire with a smile. “It hardly matters anymore.”

“It matters.” He insists. “You are hurting and It pains me.”

She sits quiet, thinking, or perhaps seething is the correct term. The anger is pressure on his skin, familiar and pointless and warm. Then her rage flickers, dimming like a candle drowning in its own wax.

“I am sorry,” Lavellan starts. Her hands bundle in her skirts, twisting and pulling at the fabric. She is immature with her emotions sometimes. Perhaps only when he is concerned, for she rarely acts so skittish when it is Cassandra or Leliana. “I have not treated you as I should.”

The words feel wrong in her voice and Cullen almost leaps to defend her, but it is clear she still has more to stay. He sheathes the blade of his tongue and rests his shield beside him. He will hear her.

Her voice catches. “I have never been so confused, lost. I am torn from myself. Nothing feels as it should, but when I am with you…”

She gestures with her hands. He shakes his head. He doesn’t wish to disrupt her but he cannot understand unless she says it plainly. He is not magic. The inquisitor bites her lip and swallows her feelings. “It is known.” She settles on. He doesn’t understand but can appreciate her trying.

“You make me feel like myself.” Lavellan adds quietly. Her voice doesn’t echo. “I hate it.”

His hand reaches up and brushes another rebellious lock of hair from her face. She stays turned away, eyes burning down the hall. The slope of her nose is so strong. Her eyes are deep and wide. He knows this. He knows her. “Is that why you cannot stand me?”

“Creators, No!” The inquisitor laughs and Cullen jumps in his seat. She has shocked him. “Do you think I hate you?”

He suddenly feels sheepish. “You don’t?”

She shakes her head. “No. I dislike you. There is a difference.”

Cullen frowns, unable to see the point she is making. One lacks passion. He almost wishes she hated him. “I am not that bad, am I? At least, I do not think so.”

A hand snakes around his wrist and pulls him closer. Her fingers trail upwards to the cuffs, busying themselves with the neatly tied laces and decorative thread, looking for sport and game. “You are not.” She hums, agreeing with him in spite of herself. “At first, it was because you are- were a templar. I do not have fond memories of them.”

Oh. He had not suspected-

“Then, your eyes.” Her fingers slip up his shoulder, losing themselves between the folds. She has cut off his train of thought and he is rapt with whatever she is doing, whatever she has to say. “They always seem to follow me. I felt watched, hunted, at first. Trapped. The rest is inconsequential.”

“I disagree.” He looks at her through lidded eyes. His voice is low and his heart heavy. He wishes to know of every reason she has thought of him, to distil the bitterness of her opinions into tea sweet enough to drink.

“Your methods are crude.”

“They are.”

“You lack grace. You often make an idiot of yourself.”

“I do.”

She looks up at him, her fingers dancing at the edge of his shoulder, fumbling with fabric in a purposeful way. “Now you are just agreeing with everything I say.” She is whispering and the breath kisses his neck like a sea breeze. They are back to heated moments, Cullen thinks and wonders if he can pull himself away in time.

“I am. I believe you are the most wonderful thing and I enjoy listening to you discuss me.”

Her eyes watch his lips move and he does not miss it. He watches her. She watches him.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” He says, voice low and tempting.

“Terribly.”

“I shall not.” Cullen murmurs, leaning towards her. Their foreheads are close enough to touch. Her hair tickles the skin above his eyebrows. She laughs breathlessly and her fingers tighten their grip on his shirt.

Lavellan smiles up at him, forgetting her earlier anger. “I would have us be friends.” She turns back to the winding, empty hallway that leads to laughter and joy. “I believe we can manage that.”

Cullen has believed worse lies.

Chapter Text

The moonlight carries itself across skyhold with grace tonight. Each wall stands tall, proud and strong, as if it speaks with one voice. Cullen might trail his fingers along the stone work and feel the castle’s hum. For a hidden fortress so undisturbed, it’s entirely too beautiful to be forgotten about as it has been.

Kinloch was unlike this. It was lonely in its construction and the walls were filled with the sad, whispered secrets of all those who lived beneath its roof. The gallows felt entirely quiet. A silent scream.

Stars are his company once more as he strengthens his sword arm. The training grounds are all but void of combatants and he is glad for it. His training has been lacking recently; the reconstruction efforts are entirely found in mountains of paperwork and civil conversations with Lords and Banns and the like. The Inquisitor has repurposed their army into a construction crew of sorts, to which Cullen is somewhat grateful. His troops have a moment of rest before the world inevitably attempts to doom itself once more as it likes to do. He hasn’t given time for his skills since… since Corypheus. It’s a bad look for an army commander, he knows.

His routine for tonight will be simple but strong. Cullen is no longer 30 but 16. The wooden sword in his hand is heavy and familiar, balancing out his gangly limbs that jut out in all the wrong places. Breathe in, Breathe out, says his instructor. Feel the weight of your weapon in your muscles, your chest, withstand it and understand you are one. He repeats the words to himself as he stands alone. His voice decorates the air like a wisp.

Of course, a wooden sword is different than a real blade, but Cullen is happy to make do whilst he gets back into the swing of things. He raises his instrument and feels the tremors along his hands, the smallest spasm in his fingers as he tries to focus on the hilt. He forces his mind to stitch flesh and wood as one. His muscles have atrophied and he has no one to blame but his choices. He will master himself though. The blade shakes and he bites his lip in frustration. Lyrium would help, naturally. He would feel his muscles knit themselves together like the oceans joining the sand and feel the pull of power as it washes over him. He knows what Lyrium would bring and cannot deny the ache for his old collar. But the blade remains high, despite his shaking hands.

He will master this.

“I thought you were supposed to hit things with swords.” A voice muses behind him.

The sword falls as Cullen scares at the sound. “Maker’s breath!” He’d been so transfixed with maintaining his posture that he’d not heard her approach. His voice is no longer a whisper but a screech that echoes tauntingly back at him.

He is sure to count at least three disgusting seconds before turning to look at Lavellan. He is training himself, in this at least, to be more discreet in his glances. The moment is tortuously long but evidently necessary. The stones take on imagined colours, dust particles freckle the air and carry his attention, or he finds himself counting the elfroot growing between stones. Minute details that would lose themselves in her gravitational pull and he does his best to give them justice.

When he allows himself to see her, she is a vision: colours were made to bring her to life, moonlight streaking across her face like it is drawn to her, not cast there naturally. She wears her hair up most days now, braided into a crown or along her nape, decorated with gold or pearls depending on her fancy. Her neck is bare today, white wisps curling where clever hands have been less careful. Gone are the days the Inquisitor bundles in furs, hiding from them in clothing made for violent pursuits. She carries the notion of peace with her shoulders, her cape secured by two matching medallions. The Inquisition’s emblem stares back at him, all seeing.

She is wearing a plain blue tunic with leather wrapped pants. He is undone with a single glimpse of the colour. Hands are slipping between sweat soaked cloth and sun-hidden thighs, soft kisses along his lips and her fingers are pulling at his hair, digging at his heart and his spend spread along her thighs. It takes a moment and the memory is gone, passing over him like water. There are ripples. He wills them to disperse.

Lavellan laughs and the sound bounces like caprice coins disappearing into bottomless fountains, endless golden riches that would sink kingdoms and unite teyrns under a faithful banner. He is sick with her and he will never recover. “What are you doing?”

“Training. I’ve gotten lazy.” He admits, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck. He has gone and made an idiot of himself again. Does she still dislike it? “I wanted to test my form but,”

He bends down and picks up the discarded blade. The wood has gone cold with the wind and it no longer feels a part of him. “I fear my best days are over.”

“Nonsense.” She says. He raises a brow in question.

Lavellan draws closer and runs her finger along the wood. He feels it on his spine, each curve dipping with a patchy, ill-advised closeness. “You were doing quite well. Here.”

She lifts the blade upwards, as it once was, and levels her gaze at him. Cullen returns to his stance and she steps closer to him. He would love to point out the inefficiency in this: Her presence unnerves him somewhat and he cannot focus with her right there. If he breathes too quickly he will find himself lost in memories too distracting to be of any use.

“Hold.” She murmurs and he follows her direction. The exercise begins anew: He wills himself to keep the blade still, to maintain the form and feel the veins in his fingers dip into the hilt. When it begins to shake, his lip tightens and frustration simmers through his mind like a warm touch. He is the commander. How can he lead men when he cannot even hold a blade steady?

When it is obvious his mind is drifting, Lavellan speaks again. “Focus.” She gently taps the centre of his forehead, which almost knocks him breathless.

“I fail to see the point of this.” He says, simply just to fill the space she leaves in his chest.

“You confine yourself to your mind.”

“And?”

Lavellan snorts beside him. “I’m helping you to come back from it.”

“So I should stop thinking entirely?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard for you. Now, Quiet.”

Ouch.

They repeat this enough times that her touch is less haunting and more rejuvenating. It’s strange how she can feel him slipping away and not hesitate to bring him back. Her hands dip into the shallow pool of his consciousness and pull him back into the cold, crisp air. The two of them stand silent; two minds entwined in a single task. It’s too touching to speak of, so he dismisses the emotion readily. She taps him when he drifts and he ignores the shame in his weakness.

When at last, the blade ceases movement for a prolonged time, Cullen breaks out into a smile. His wrist aches and twinges with stiffness. He’s not sure that it wasn’t half rigour mortis that kept his hand steady, but still it was. He beams at her. Words are lost to him and none can form to show his thanks. They linger at the tip of his tongue and ripen like fruit. He feels the sickly sweetness between his teeth and the disparaging embarrassment of being so unsuited to speaking.

“See,” Lavellan says and he does not miss the way her eyes scale his face. He is tempted to blush and thinks better of it. “I told you.”

“I never doubted you.” There’s cheek in his tone.

She raises a brow. “You voiced your disbelief not twenty minutes ago.”

“My lack of knowing doesn’t mean I lack faith in you.” He says. He lowers his voice instinctively, aching for the emotions to materialise less than they already do. “I’ve always believed in you, even when I disagreed.”

Lavellan looks at him with a quizzical smile. She is a chantry mother giving pennies to the homeless and he tastes the iron on his tongue. How remarkable it is to know he has not won this, taken it without righteous cause or by battle. Her smile is freely given and radiant enough to blind him to everything else. I love you, he says. His lips don’t move.

“That’s very reassuring, Commander.” Each word is curled with her mouth. Sweat drips down his nape and he suddenly feels genuinely unwell. She doesn’t need to speak to remind him of her response but he would die to hear it once more.

“What are you doing out here?” Cullen says instead. He didn’t question her appearance before. He is all too accustomed to being snuck upon thanks to Leliana.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s not too late to try again.”

“I know I won’t sleep well.” She rectifies and fiddles with an untidy thread along the hem of her cape. It only just dawns on him that he’s barely dressed in comparison. Another thing to feel embarrassed about. “And I’ve read everything in my room, so I decided to go for a walk.”

“I’ve never asked about…” The image of her collection comes to mind.

Lavellan laughs. “My books?”

Books. It’s the nickname Varric gave her. It fits as well as she does in his arms. Cullen nods.

“I abhor ignorance.”

“And adore knowledge?”

“Something like that.” She says and continues on, pressing priceless gems of herself into his eager hands. “My clan keeps to themselves, mostly, but we travel enough to trade with shemlen when we meet. I’ve always been fond of stories and tomes are just stories with more to say.”

“Even the ones not about fiction?” Cullen thinks of Varric again. Is this why they are so close?

She nods. “Especially those. Either science or history or the arts. Those are just stories with harsher rules. The recollection of Arlathan, for example, is a story where the authors barely know the truth and must speak it anyway.”

“And the others?” He urges.

“Science is a story made simply to confound and enlighten the reader.” She jokes and Cullen can almost hear Dorian’s teasing in her tone. Something gives her pause. “You don’t want to hear about this, do you?”

Cullen shakes his head. “No, I do. It’s interesting. I’ve never read as much as I should.” His flimsy excuse is barely palatable but it’s enough.

“I find you excel in ignorance, it’s true.”

He sours. “I thought I was free of your ire.” We are supposed to be friends. He cannot bring himself to say it.

“Then you wouldn’t be you.”

“I don’t exist because you dislike me.” He argues back, making sure to soften his tone.

Lavellan shrugs her shoulders and reaches for the tip of the wooden sword. She plucks it from his hand, taking him off guard. She dips with the weight but readjusts herself and attempts to twirl it between her fingers. “Train with me next time.” She says instead.

“If you want an excuse to hit me, there are easier ways to do it.”

She laughs again and his dour mood disperses with it. “Where’s the fun in that?”

When she lightly hits him across the leg he pretends they are kissing once more.

“Commander, the shipment is here.” A messenger relays, head dipped between the door and its frame. She speaks with a rushed voice and her fingers tap along the wood. The arrival of goods must have them busy. He nods in acknowledgement and finishes his last report with a flick of his wrist. She leaves as quickly as she arrived.

He shuffles between paper till a ledger makes itself known to him, decorated in his chicken scrawl that should be outlawed. It’s clear he wrote this on a bad night. He will have to redo it once he has concurred with the quartermaster about their equipment.

The bustle below pulls him from his desk. Skyhold is flooded today. A gaggle of freshly faced merchants have arrived alongside their scouts and pre-ordered supplies. Several horses snort to one another as Horsemaster Dennet discusses with their owners. Cullen should return to work soon enough. The sight has downed his chances of an early night.

But a newcomer in particular catches his eye. It is an Orlesian merchant, signalled by her largely inconvenient hat and silver mask. She’s delegating tasks to assistants as they unload cargo onto a stall just a stone’s throw from the stables. His eyes linger on the contents.

Before he can reason with himself, he is standing in front of her. She preens at the sight of him.

“Commander Cullen!” She slathers his name with false affection and his title with a sickly smile. He cannot keep the frown from his face. “How pleased I am to see you, what can Madame Damas do for you today?”

“Have you sold at Skyhold before?” His eyes rake along each row and She wafts her hand, exaggerating.

“Non! We received our permit not three tendays ago and I found myself eager to visit the Inquisition’s welcome Bosom.”

“I see.”

“Has something caught your eye, mon chéri?” She prompts. “I shall provide a gentle price for one so captivating.”

He’s admittedly at a loss at what to look for. When he has conducted his perusal, an attendant has bagged his items in thin cotton, wrapped with a purple ribbon. Madame Damas’s smile curls beneath her mask.

He is almost pleased enough that he doesn’t faint when she details the price. Several too many sovereigns pass from his hand to hers and he shudders the guilt from his shoulders. He won’t think anymore of it.

“Enjoy, Commander!” She shouts after him.

The Inquisitor and Cullen stand opposite each other. She is bound tightly in leather, her cape and easy clothes nowhere in sight. She twirls a staff in her hand. The motion is smooth, like water dripping across skin, and it’s clear where he’s seen it before. A Habit, then. One before a fight. She fidgets.

“We’re training.” He reminds her.

He’s taken up the wooden blade once more as well as more clothing this time. A loose white shirt and leather trousers. The air is cool along his forearm.

Lavellan plants her staff into the ground, holding herself steady. “Mages must train too.”

“Magic is hardly as safe as a wooden blade.”

“I can’t believe you’re complaining. Where is your faith, Commander?” She teases.

Cullen tries not to bristle. “So be it.”

Feet shift along the ground, displacing his weight evenly. He pictures the form like a board he must press each piece into. Strength begets strength. His blade shakes in slivers instead of quakes. Each thought that might pull him from the moment is pushed away from him, sliping between the ever healing cracks of his fatigue. Focus. He must return from his mind.

Lavellan takes a similar position, though her weight is distributed to different points. Where Cullen must rely on his strength, she will make herself pliable and lithe to the wind. His fingers grip the hilt. His shoulders rise, wood warm and knotted into his hand, then fall.

She gives him a single second.

The temperature drops: It’s a warm night in skyhold and the sudden change causes the air to crackle and fizz with displeasure. He moves, twisting on himself to avoid the ice that soars past his head. The moment sends him sick and the world begins to spin. An urge to dispel the magic arises and he pushes the thought away. Come back from it.

Cullen pushes himself further, pulling from the momentum a swing that arcs towards her chest. He forgets to ease the attack, and thankfully, there is no need. Her staff collides with the blade, wood slipping against wood.

She leans into the demand of his weight. Her face is alight with a grin, knuckles white and melted to her weapon almost as if it were a blade like his. Instinct takes him like possession. Pulling away from her, she falls into the space where their weapons met. His sword completes its forgotten arc, painting a line into the ground. The moment is there: Lavellan is mid fall, vulnerable and wide open. A single swing and the first bout would be his. It is just training.

But, for one single second, they are no longer in skyhold. Cullen is not dressed for training but the heavy mantle of his templar uniform. The skirts gather at his feet, sweeping dust and old blood alike. Lavellan is not the Inquisitor but an apprentice.

She is a lamb at his feet, face bleeding into the jaws of a wolf. He cannot discern where her cheeks begin, where the lines of laughter clash with the snarl of a snout. He must strike true. The demon will bargain and plea, lie and sing for mercy. The Harrowing is necessary. He belongs to the maker. He must serve Andraste.

And he can’t do it.

The wood slips from his fingers and dust kisses his ankles. Lavellan’s form twists as the air snaps, sputtering as she disappears. She appears once more just past him. A fragmented mess of ice is left in her wake.

His shoulders fall and rise, no longer calm and collected. There is no focus. There is only the templar and the commander, the failure of his compassion and he aches for the stability of lyrium. His foundations are rotted, he is no more clean than the order. He cannot turn to her, cannot face eyes of mercy and know he will never reflect them. He could have killed her, once upon a time. Now, the mere thought makes him queasy. Uneasy breaths slip from his lips like stolen kisses in book filled chambers.

“Cullen?”

“I am fine, Inquisitor.” He replies, sounding not fine at all.

Lavellan returns to him. He refuses to look at her.

“You’re thinking again.”

His silence provokes more softness. “Calm yourself,” She urges. “You were never in danger from me.”

Is that what she thinks? Cullen shakes his head in response. “No.” The word dissipates before he can continue. He is the worst thief of Thedas, especially with the way air escapes him now.

“I promise I never meant to hit you. It was just training.”

“But I did!” His voice is rough and ragged. The words are rough and screech against his throat as he speaks. Lavellan jolts. The movement changes them both.

They both quieten. Maker save him.

“Forgive me, I am not myself.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The words are empty platitudes. She sounds hollow and gone, no more his friend than a corpse might be living. Her voice stings of apathy where only moments before, she oozed concern.

“I am scared I cannot control myself.” He whispers to the ice freckled dirt.

“Because of the lyrium?”

“Because of it all.” He spits, his hand running through uneven curls plastered with sweat. “Because of the order, what it has taught me, what I think to be right and wrong. Everything I have stood for.”

“I thought you were scared of me.”

He looks up at her. She continues to look back. “I am terrified of losing you.” He says. “And more terrified that I couldn’t bring myself to-”

The words fall short, over ripe and fat in his mouth. They obscure his jaw and clog his throat, pushing and expanding till it runs raw. She has overwritten all he knows to be truth, has displaced the urgency of his blade with the slow fear of love. He understands it as he should. That she is a mage, and is not evil, but she has conquered him entirely in spite of that.

“We should retire for the night.” Lavellan murmurs. Feelings are scarred into the training grounds. The dirt and dust of his heart swirl with the melted ice, caking them both with a mud not so easily washed away.