Cullen deals with lyrium withdrawal.
Pairing: Hints of Cullen/Trevelyan
Inspired by the Chant of Light and angsty Cullen posts on Tumblr.
As the rest of Skyhold slumbers, Cullen remains awake.
He does what he can to keep himself busy—pacing the length of his room, skimming a few pages of his favorite novel, polishing his armor—but this only works for a couple of hours. His body aches from morning training and his eyes are heavy with exhaustion but there is crawling and itching beneath his skin and he just needs to move.
Cullen sweeps a shaky hand across his sweaty brow as he drags his tongue over his cracked lips and swallows, wincing at how badly it stings to do so. Thirst overcomes him like a ship being swallowed by the sea and he nearly dives for the basin as he drowns himself in the thought of water, water, water—where is the water? The basin is bone dry, but he remembers just filling it before he retired to his quarters and Maker when will the itching stop?
The kitchens! The kitchens will have water! Then his thirst will be quenched and he will finally be able to go to sleep.
The walk is quiet and Cullen is accompanied by no more than the sound of soft summer breezes and his own footsteps. He brings his shirt to his face, once again wiping the sweat from his brow. The heat of Bloomingtide is unrelenting, even in the evenings. Another gust of wind dances by with a trail of whispers behind it that stop Cullen in mid-stride. His forehead creases in annoyance. It is the third time this week he's caught mages meandering the halls past curfew but they never listen, even after he's given them more warnings than they deserve. His head swivels from side to side and behind him, but there is no one there and it has fallen silent again.
"Who goes there?" He calls, his eyes searching. "I demand you show yourself!"
Silence.
A sharp pain spears through his head, but he has a duty to fulfill and Cullen puts one foot in front of the other, continuing on… on to… where is he going again? Judging by the position of the moon it is very late and Cullen groans inwardly because he has to get up early for morning prayers and help Greagoir with the new recruits and what in Andraste's name is he thinking being up so late—
"Cullen?" A voice floats from behind him and he spins around in surprise, almost losing balance. His vision goes blurry, but he can still make out familiar long brown hair and deep blue robes. "Maker, aren't you freezing?"
"Freezing?" Cullen presses the heels of his palms to his eyes in a desperate attempt to regain proper vision. He should not be having casual conversation with a mage—especially with her. He has already been lectured on controlling his affections by Greagoir and he was not ready to have that conversation again.
"It's the middle of Wintermarch and you're in nothing but a tunic and simple trousers." Her voice is low and worried, and she shifts her weight uneasily. "Cullen, are you alright?"
"Enough!" he snaps, a bead of sweat dripping down the bridge of his nose. His vision has not yet cleared, his skin is burning, and when he swallows it as if his sin is clawing its way out but his training dictates that he cannot lose face. "I am a knight of the Order and you will address me as such, apprentice. It is past curfew and…" He must report it to both the Knight-Commander and Senior Enchanter but the words never find their way to his mouth. "And I must escort you back to your quarters immediately."
"Cul—Ser Cullen," she begins, voice gentle but halting, "Do you know who I am?"
"Of course," he replies. She's as familiar to him as the feel of a blade in his hand. The mage who enjoys keeping to herself and reading the thickest volumes in the library. The apprentice he sneaks short conversations with when no one is watching and who greets him every time she passes, although she knows he must remain silent when on duty. The girl with the kind smile and brilliant grey eyes and curves that make him pray for forgiveness each night.
But something snaps within him and soon the winter air bites at his skin, and his vision and mind are clear as the question is repeated, "Do you know who I am?"
"Not her…" he whimpers so softly that she must gingerly lean closer to him.
"I'm sorry, I can't understand you."
"Evelyn," he manages to rasp out, frowning. "Your name is Evelyn Trevelyan."
"Where are we?" she asks, taking a step closer. Her expression is of concern mixed with doubt.
"We are at Skyhold. It is the fifth evening of Wintermarch and I was…" He stops to think for a moment and notices how rough his tongue is on the roof of his mouth. "Water. I was going to get water."
The words roll from Cullen's tongue, long and familiar, as if he has said them many times before.
Evelyn unties the waterskin at her waist and hands it to him. "Here, take mine. I have more in my quarters."
He takes it from her hands, restraining himself from snatching it because his thirst was becoming unbearable, and drinks greedily from it. The water soothes his aching throat all the way down to his knotting stomach. "Thank you," he sighs, wiping the few drops that dribble down his chin.
"You're welcome," she smiles, although it never reaches her eyes. She walks up to him and rests a hand on his shoulder, her fingertips trailing pinpricks down his arm. "Goodnight, Cullen."
"Inquisitor," he replies with a slight bow, eyes never leaving the floor as he begins the walk back to his room.
Exhaustion finally takes Cullen when he catches sight of his neatly-made bed, but he knows he will not sleep tonight. The candle on his nightstand threatens to burn out, its pathetic light flickering across the two other empty waterskins that lay side-by-side. He lay the third one down beside them before falling to his knees.
"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure…"
And until the rays of morning warm his face, Cullen prays.
-oOo-
Cullen has never seen so much death.
The bodies of Templars, mages, abominations, and demons litter the floor, spilling warm crimson that pools at his feet. He can see nothing around him but thick, black smoke that drips to the floor like tar, lapping at the corpses that surround him. He tightens the grip on his blade, clinging to hopeless faith as the screams of his fallen brothers and sisters tear through his mind and the Chant spills from his lips, begging the Maker for strength, for forgiveness, for help.
"Cullen…"
And then all falls silent. The air that fills Cullen's lungs escapes him. Her voice is honey that fills him to the brim and he drifts, eyes closing as disbelief swells in his chest because she left so many months ago but he can feel her. Her magic is like sheet music whose notes are carved into his memory, but no this can't be real, it isn't real.
He finds the courage to open his eyes, to drink in the sight of her. Maker, did he miss her smile. She steps closer and the silk of her robes sighs against his armor. Cullen grows uncomfortable and tries to retreat but he's rooted in place and the tympanic rhythm in his chest beats to her magic. Her fingertips trail across his jawline and whisper across his neck as she leans into him, gently pressing her lips to his. At first he does nothing because this is wrong, so very wrong, and every fiber of his being wants to fight against this wickedness, this atrocity.
No, she left for the Grey Wardens and she is never coming back.
But the doubtful thoughts are silenced once more by the temptation, the need, the hunger that courses through him and soon his hands are tangled in her hair, pleading for more. She moves like water against stone and her scent drowns him, sinking him ever so slowly in a sea of want. The kiss deepens as his hands find the lacing of her robes, and her magic is no longer a soft adagio but an erratic allegro and the notes are wrong, her scent is wrong, everything is wrong—
Cullen screams himself awake. His pillow is drenched in sweat and his bones ache with fear but he rushes from his bed as if it will swallow him whole.
His door bursts open, shattering the lock and splintering the aged wood. People—all kinds of people—rush into his room, expressions laden with worry.
"Who are you!" he demands, throat raw and burning. Sweat seeps into the raw, itchy flesh of his arms and chest and stings him all over.
A woman who makes his blood hum steps forward, eyes wide and searching. "Cullen, you need to take deep breaths—"
"Maleficar!" He roars at the top of his lungs, "Abomination!"
Cullen hastily makes for his sword, but before he can reach it he is greeted by a hard blow to the head and darkness consumes him. When he stirs again, it is to the darkness of his room and he is restrained—ropes tied around his sore wrists and ankles. The back of his head throbs with agony. Across the room, the Inquisitor and Blackwall lean against a wall, exchanging concerned glances and low whispers with the moon beaming across their faces and stretching onto the floor.
Cullen delves into his memory as far as it will allow, but he can't discern what memories are real or not real and that churns his stomach.
The Inquisitor nods, which seemingly displeases Blackwall. He sighs, draping a fur-lined cloak around her shoulders before hesitantly exiting the room. Cullen watches as the Inquisitor slowly walks to the window and looks up, filling her lungs with cold midnight air. She brings her hands together and presses them to her lips in anguished prayer.
"O Maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights …" She recites the Chant as if the words are branded on her skin and continues until the whole of Transfigurations 12 has graced her lips.
Cullen tries desperately to remember something—anything—of his actions before. He rummages through his thoughts and tries to string together any memories he can make sense of because he knows this is his fault, but he must state his offenses and apologize to her properly because the silent tears streaming down her face and the buckling of her knees take more than a simple "I'm sorry" to repair.
But before he can say anything, before he can even utter her name or breathe a sigh, the Inquisitor falls to her knees and cradles her face in her hands. Sobs wrack her body. She is weeping.
What has he done?
-oOo-
He still can't remember their names.
Names are words committed to memory and his is unreliable and muddled, but their faces are faintly familiar and the unknown coils around him and squeezes until his bones snap—because where is he and who is he and why can't he remember? So he asks questions until his mouth runs dry and they answer.
He is told that his name is Cullen, a Templar—the woman warrior brings him a book on the subject, hoping to stir his memory— with a great military mind and impressive skill who had high expectations of himself and others. He was a fine leader, the qunari assures him, someone worthy of dying beside. He often hears words like "kind," "honorable," and "strong", and this eases him. The dwarf visits Cullen often and tells him he was—and still is—an admirable man: one who held firm in his beliefs and stood for what he felt was right. Cullen asks if that made him a good man because that is what matters to him. The dwarf nods, a fond smile smoothing the concerned lines of his face. "One of the best I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, kid."
But they also tell him that he is ill, that they are desperately trying to help him in any way they can. The man who makes Cullen's blood and bones crackle asks if he is having nightmares. Cullen denies this, but does not tell him of the shadows that lurk in his room or the bugs that crawl beneath his skin because they do not exist and he is ashamed.
It's morning and the snow has all but nearly melted away, allowing the blades of grass underneath to breathe and stretch their arms to the sun in praise. A soft knock at his door tears through the silence and he doesn't need to hear her or see her to know who she is because he still knows the thrum of magic like he knows his prayers. His Templar training runs far too deep for his illness to corrupt.
"You may come in," he calls from his usual seat at the edge of the bed.
She treads carefully, as she always does, leaving the door half-open. Cullen frowns. She fears him, and he wonders what he must have done to frighten her, but those are questions for another time and another place. There are more pressing matters, he decides.
She bids him a good morning and takes a seat across from him, just out of arm's reach. "I hope I didn't wake you."
Cullen shakes his head. "No, I've been awake for quite some time."
"Are you having trouble sleeping?"
"No, but I've been thinking, trying to remember…" He fumbles for the right words because they slip through his fingers like sand but he needs to know— "I've been meaning to ask someone, and maybe you can help, but I'm not sure if it's real." Because he sees things and hears things that aren't there and they haunt him like anxious spirits.
"You can ask me anything," she promises, leaning forward in her seat.
Cullen licks his lips, fidgeting with the frayed fabric of his trousers. "I have these memories of curved corridors and spiraling staircases," he recalls slowly, drawing out each word, reluctant. He pauses before adding, "And books. A never-ending collection of books."
These words coax a smile from her, eager and encouraging. "Your memory is getting better. Yes, you were a Templar at the Circle Tower in Ferelden."
"But there's something else," he frowns. He should be happy these memories are real because that means he's healing, but why does he not smile? "I also remember a woman."
She clears her throat, an unreadable glint in her eyes as her smile slowly fades. "What about her?"
"I remember her vividly, more than anything else. She's in all those places with the books and hallways and stairs. These memories feel whole and complete, and that's never happened before. I think," he pauses, considering his words and wondering if they are the correct ones, "I think I loved her."
Seconds pass thick and slow like sap and Cullen's craving for answers grows restless. Finally she sighs, rubbing her face with her hands. When she looks at him again her eyes brim with tears and she smiles but there is nothing happy about it and Cullen knows this is his fault.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Her laugh is humorless. "No, don't apologize. It's fine." She gets up to leave, smoothing her skirts and blinking away the tears that desperately try to escape. One manages to succeed, but she quickly wipes it away. "But I think it's best if I leave."
Cullen also stands, something in his chest pulling and aching. He sorts through memories like a blind man finding his way home but he draws nothing. "If I may ask, what have I done? If I've upset you, I don't wish to do it again."
Her hand rests on the door knob and she bites her trembling lip. "I'm sorry, I can't help you." And she leaves—rushes out before he can question what she means. The words don't make sense because she was thrilled that he remembered and now she's deeply upset. He can't help but think that he's hurt her over and over again but he can't remember how or when or why and he needs help; he needs guidance.
He does what comes naturally and drops to his knees, head bent and heart open and pleading. "My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace…"
Cullen questions if he is still a good man.