Author's Note: Warnings for mentions of Cullen's lyrium withdrawal, plus mental health issues and potential suicidal ideation.

Cullen's fingers tremble as he gets ready for bed that night. It's been a long day, both settling into his new quarters and greeting the Inquisition's new guest—among other things—and he was glad to be kept busy. But now the day is over, and he has little to keep him occupied and distract him from the headache tearing into his skull and the slight shaking of his fingers.

He knows what they mean. He knows it's only the beginning. Were he another man, he might quail at the thought of what's before him, but no—he chose this. He will endure it. He can. He only worries what it might mean for his capabilities as Commander. It's not a problem yet, but better to nip a potential issue in the bud than let it become an issue. At the same time, that knowledge is what's telling him to go back to the lyrium. As such, he can't listen to it. He mustn't.

He startles slightly at the sound of a knock on the door, but he quickly recovers himself. Thankfully, he hasn't started undressing yet, so he doesn't need to hastily run around and put his armour back on while making the other person wait. Instead, Cullen heads over to the door and opens it, revealing Ser Joanna. She looks mildly guilty at having caught him before he was supposed to get to bed, but he can't bring himself to be annoyed. He's glad for another distraction, and he does like spending time with her. In whatever capacity.

That thought, Cullen tries to ignore. "Inquisitor," he says. "Is there something you need?"

"Nothing vital," Ser Joanna says. "I, er, apologise for the late call, but I've got something on my mind that's been worrying me for hours, and there isn't anyone else I trust enough to share it with. If that's all right with you."

It makes him feel rather warm inside that she trusts him enough for him to be the only one she wants to confide this in, but again, Cullen ignores the thought. Instead, he wonders what it could be that has her so concerned, but he cannot even make an attempt at a guess. "Of course," he says. "Shall we go for a walk, or, ah…?" His face flushes, and he can't help but trail off, though he pretends he doesn't know why.

"I'd prefer to speak in your quarters, if that's all right," she says. "No chance of anybody overhearing us."

Cullen nods and steps aside. "Then come in," he says. As she enters, he shuts the door behind her, and he inclines his head in the direction of the table she can sit down at. She sits, slinging one leg over the other in her usual fashion, and he takes the other seat, watching her. She's not meeting his gaze, and in the light, her face seems faintly flushed. He doesn't consider it.

"What is it?" he prompts, eventually.

Ser Joanna looks at him. "It's about Hawke," she says. "You've spoken to him, I guess?"

He nods and says, "Of course. It was good to see him again." It was something of a relief, too, to know what had become of him, to find that he would help the Inquisition against Corypheus. After everything they did together in Kirkwall, from the Battle of the Gallows onward, Cullen will readily admit that he's looking forward to working with him again.

"Did you notice anything… off about him when you spoke to him? Anything that seemed uncharacteristic of him?" she asks.

Cullen frowns slightly and looks away. He furrows his brow as he considers. After a while he says, slowly, "He did seem rather more bitter and angrier than he was the last time we spoke. When we talked about Corypheus, he was very… self-castigating. Not that Hawke has ever had much in the way of self-esteem, I'll be the first to admit that, but he always used to hide it. Now he's making it plain."

"Did it bother you?"

He shrugs. "A little, but it's been a few years, and from what he told me, he's been on the run. I don't doubt he's changed, and if I know Hawke, he's probably taking the responsibility on his shoulders for every scraped knee Corypheus has caused. The situation is likely weighing heavily on his mind." Although he knows he shouldn't, Cullen can't help but chuckle slightly. Then he looks at Ser Joanna. "Did his behaviour bother you?"

"Quite a bit, yes," she admits. "He was quite harsh when he first spoke with me, and that was when Varric was around. Granted, I wasn't particularly gentle with him, either, but I expected one of his famous quips. I got nothing of the sort. When Varric left, he got… even worse. He spoke of how Corypheus was his responsibility, how he had to make up for what he didn't do the last time he fought him, how he was willing to pay any price to see him defeated, see it done at any cost. It sounded like… well…"

Cullen frowns. "Not him at all. The Hawke I knew would never pay any price to see something done, no matter what was at stake," he says.

Ser Joanna grimaces. "I amend. At any cost to himself. He explicitly told me he didn't want any more innocents, or anyone connected to him hurt as a result of this. That does sound more like Hawke, but…"

There's a long silence. While Cullen has to agree that that is more characteristic of Kirkwall's Champion-cum-Viscount, the terms are oddly intense for Hawke, who he remembers was once so bound by the constraints of law, morality, and faith—constraints that he submitted himself to willingly. He wonders what has happened in the intervening years to make him willing to go to such extremes, even if they only apply to himself, then realises that it may well not be something ingrained in him, but his guilt over the situation at hand. Hawke always did insist on doing penance for his sins—and if he thinks Corypheus' release his responsibility, then it logically follows that his guilt must be enormous.

Bad enough as it is, for the man has enough problems as it is without adding that on, but there's more to it, isn't there? Cullen trains his gaze on Ser Joanna and watches her as she seems to struggle with her words for some time. Finally, she comes out with it, saying, "To be honest, Cullen, I think Varric made a terrible mistake bringing Hawke here."

Cullen's eyebrows bounce. "Truly? Why is that?"

"The man's in no state for a fight, if you ask me," she says bluntly. "He was so bitter and so angry, but all of that rage seemed directed at himself. He spoke of being willing to pay any price to defeat Corypheus, see it done at any cost to himself, and he… said that he came alone because he couldn't have any of the people he cared about stopping him from doing what had to be done. Most of all, I said that he was treating it as a suicide run, and all he said was that it could be if things turned out that way. When you put all of that together…" Ser Joanna grimaces. "Cullen. The man sounds suicidal. He sounds like he wants to die."

Immediately, Cullen shakes his head. That is beyond what he can and will believe. "He won't kill himself," he says in a flat voice. "Suicide is a sin in the Maker's eyes, and Hawke is nothing if not religious. However he may feel now, he will pull himself up. I have no doubt."

"Going into something like this hoping to die is as much a sin against the Maker as actively turning one's blade on oneself," Ser Joanna protests. "It may not violate the letter of His law, but it does violate the spirit. I'm sure Hawke is no danger to those around him—but to himself? If you held yourself responsible for unleashing the being that threatens the world and killed thousands of people at the Conclave, wouldn't you feel just a tad overwhelmed?"

Cullen considers. He thinks of the guilt that he has carried since Kirkwall: not doing or seeing enough, passively standing by and turning a blind eye to what was happening, supporting Meredith even almost until the end. All those people who died because he did nothing or not enough. The stains on his soul that will never and can never leave. Just the thought of it makes his heart sink in his chest. The burden of his guilt is a heavy one on his shoulders, as it should be, and he would be lying if he did not admit that in his darkest moments, he has felt that his own death might be the only sufficient penance he could do for all that he had thus far failed to do.

Ah.

It's not suicide they have to worry about in Hawke's case, is it? It's penance. Hawke was always so obsessed with righting his own wrongs, with making atonement for his sins in the eyes of the Maker. He always blamed himself for so much, far more than could ever possibly be his fault—and even when he was reasonably at fault, his level of blame was almost always disproportionate. Often, he would not even allow others to bear a similar responsibility but take it all on himself—to spare them, no doubt. And now, here he is, blaming himself, and possibly not without cause, for unleashing Corypheus and causing the deaths of thousands of people. For a man who has suffered so much over the past decade, who already had such problems with guilt and self-hatred…

"Andraste's blood," he breathes. "Yes. I see what you mean."

Too dangerous for Hawke to be here—not because of any threat he poses to the Inquisition, only that which he does to himself. At that moment, another realisation hits him, and Cullen quickly glances back at Ser Joanna. "Varric must have told him, mustn't he? In his letter. Maker, you may be right. Well-intentioned though Varric was, perhaps it was not such a good idea to drag him into this. Shouldn't he have been able to plausibly predict how Hawke might react?"

Ser Joanna shrugs. "That's what I would have thought, but I didn't ask," she says, shaking her head slightly. "That reminds me. Cassandra was… angry, as you might imagine. I caught her confronting Varric about it. He defended himself by saying that he was protecting Hawke, and as he was leaving after I calmed things down, he said that 'you people'—the Chantry—'have done enough to him.' But…"

Cullen wonders if that's technically true. How much in Hawke's life has gone wrong because of the Chantry? How much of it has gone wrong because of things that Varric got him involved in? Somehow, he suspects the latter outweighs the former, but he daren't voice that aloud. "But?" he prompts.

"I went to Hawke at the Chantry later and told him about it," Ser Joanna says. "He said that Varric was wrong—the Chantry has done nothing to him, or at least, nothing worthy of condemnation. But the way he said it… maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I got the feeling he's not very happy with Varric, either, for dragging him into this. He just came out of a sense of—"

"Obligation," Cullen finishes, and she nods. His mouth twists into a grimace of his own. Maker, what a mess they've landed Hawke in, and what a terrible condition he appears to be in for landing in this mess. "Why didn't Varric realise that this might be the case?"

She shakes her head. "No idea. I'll talk to him later, ask him to keep an eye on Hawke. Warn him that he might be a bit… unstable. A bit too keen on repenting for a sin that he may not even have committed. I won't drag Hawke's friends into this, but I won't leave him to himself, either."

"I'll watch him as well," Cullen says. "We should also get Leliana's people involved. Hawke will never know about them if they're as good as she claims."

"Right. Of course, it could be that you and I are just massively overthinking this, but I know what I heard, Cullen, and I didn't much like it. While he's here, I'm not going to neglect Hawke's needs. He'll be supported, just like any member of the Inquisition."

"You could try making a friend of him," he suggests. When Ser Joanna lifts an eyebrow, Cullen says, "He makes friends easily with templars and those who share his faith, and it might help him to know that the person most responsible for stopping Corypheus doesn't blame him for what happened and is willing to associate with him regardless." Admittedly, it's something of a long shot, but it's worth a try.

Ser Joanna nods. "I suppose you're right. Honestly, I don't even know what happened that led to Corypheus being released apart from a few very vague details. I won't blame him based on that."

He shrugs again. "All I know is that it happened in the Vimmark Mountains and involved the Carta and a unit of Grey Wardens," he says. "I never dared ask for more details than that. In hindsight, maybe I should have."

"Wonderful thing, hindsight," Ser Joanna remarks dryly, and he chuckles. Shortly afterwards, she rises from her seat and steps away. "Well, I should get back to it. Let you get some rest. I'll come talk to you tomorrow."

"Of course. Even despite the fact that you now have your own philtre and don't need to borrow mine anymore?" He won't complain about her seeking out his company, of course, for he does so enjoy spending time with her, but he had assumed that once she got her new philtre, she would no longer seek him out for private, personal conversations as frequently. He tries not to wonder why she continues to do so; it makes him feel all strange and warm all over again.

"Even despite that," she says with a short laugh. "I like spending time with you, Cullen, and it would be pretty fucking callous of me to just drop you now that I no longer need anything from you. So, er, so to speak."

Cullen laughs and also gets to his feet. "Point taken."

"Though speaking of the lyrium," she says, and his laughter quickly dies as he braces himself for what's coming. "How have you been today?"

He sighs and rolls his shoulders slightly. "I've been distracted. It hasn't been so terrible because of that. Right now, it's nothing more than a headache and a tremble in my fingers. Both of which I stopped noticing as much while we were talking, so clearly not awful." He smiles reassuringly at her, and she looks relieved. "More importantly, I can endure it, as ever."

"Good to hear," Ser Joanna says. "Evidently, that's another reason for me to keep coming to you. If it distracts you, what's the harm?"

He lets out another laugh and says, "I suppose so. But you needn't go out of your way to inconvenience yourself on my behalf, Inquisitor."

She shrugs, cheerful. "I refer to my previous statement. Who says it's an inconvenience, anyway? That's a debate I'd rather have on another night. Now, I really should be going." Her manner is still lively, even exuberant, as he shows her to the door. He means to open it for her, but she gets there first and shows herself out.

Her smile is bright and warm as she turns around to shoot him a parting glance, and he can't help but return it. "Goodnight, then, Inquisitor," he says.

"Goodnight. See you tomorrow," she says, blunt and plain-spoken as ever, and turns away. Cullen can't help but watch her until she disappears into the next tower.

He closes the door again and turns away. There's something inside him, even warmer than before, competing with his headache and the shaking of his fingers. It's been there for a while—weeks, maybe even months—but it's never been half so intense as this. As he prepares for and finally gets into bed for the night, part of him wonders what it is. Most of him, however, knows almost by instinct, though he shies away from the answer.

How much longer that will last is anybody's guess.