Hello everyone! First time writing a DA fic, and so I'm properly nervous.

It's not much more than a quick character study, but after replaying DAI with my male Trevelyan I got to wondering how Cullen was dealing with his lyrium addiction without a romanced Inquisitor there to support him. And then Cole popped into my head. As he is wont to do.

Set after Perseverance but before Subjected to His Will, insofar as quests go.

Thanks for reading!

Don't bother suing, I own nothing 'cept my handsome rogue of a Trevelyan.

Blue Music

There was never a moment's peace in Skyhold. Nightfall felt like a lull in the action, the eye of the great, monstrous storm that was the hustle and bustle of Skyhold. Even in the dead of night, noises and commotions could be heard, echoing across the great stony fortress: the nicker of stabled horses, the clanking armor of changing guards, bellows from the last patrons stumbling out of Herald's Rest, and, on occasion, a high-pitched giggle from a certain Red Jenny as she stole out of the kitchens, jar of jam tucked under her arm.

Commander Cullen Rutherford heard the giggle through his open window, but just this once decided to ignore it. He wasn't in the mood to hunt down Sera and her stolen goods. Not tonight.

He sat hunched over his desk, one hand pressed to his temple, the other absentmindedly doodling on the piece of parchment before him. A fluttering wick sat in a pool of wax, the candle itself having long since melted, and every so often Cullen would shift in discomfort and grimace. The dim light, weak as it was, did nothing to alleviate his throbbing headache—a headache only exacerbated by the noisy nighttime. Each small noise pierced through his head like an arrow shaft, tendrils of blinding hot pain lashing across his vision. His throat was burning dry, but he had finished off the pitcher of water sitting on his desk hours ago. It hurt to think. It hurt to breathe.

The image of his lyrium kit flashed through his mind and Cullen winced. He renewed his concentration on the piece of scrap parchment in front of him, willing himself to forget the pain. He could do this. He would not give in to temptation, to that faint humming in the back of his mind. He would not betray the Inquisitor's trust.

Still, Cullen caught himself wiping away tears of pain more than once. And worse than the physical pain, he realized after glancing up and around at his dark, empty office, was the loneliness. There were a number of ex-Templars among the Inquisition's numbers at this point, but he was the Commander of the Inquisition. He couldn't afford to show weakness. Not even to his peers. Bad enough that he had already broken down in front of the Inquisitor, of all people. Shame knotted in his stomach, hot and heavy like a ball of iron. He should have known better, been better. Maker only knew what the Inquisitor thought of him now.

"He thinks you're very brave."

Cullen's head shot up so fast he nearly broke his neck. For one heart-stopping moment he was convinced he'd gone crazy. Then Cole materialized out of the shadows and sat in Cullen's spare chair.

Somehow Cole's presence did not alleviate Cullen's concern that he was going crazy.

Cole tucked his gangly legs into the chair and pushed his wide-brimmed hat up to better stare at Cullen. "He thinks you're very brave," he repeated.

"Who?" Cullen asked, although he already knew the answer.

"The Inquisitor. He doesn't think less of you. He can't understand, but he appreciates what you're trying to do."

A hot red blush crept up Cullen's neck—he had never been very good at accepting compliments—and he scratched at his neck in a vain attempt to hide it. Cole continued to stare at him, and a few minutes passed in silence while Cullen thought of something to say. Finally he latched onto the most logical thing. "How did you get in here? I locked the door!"

"You were hurting," Cole tilted his head to the side as he spoke.

His aching head throbbed again and Cullen bit back a gasp. "Yes," he said, as calmly as he was able, "but doesn't explain how you got through a locked door without my noticing it." The wooden door behind Cole was still shut, and Cullen was confident he would have heard the heavy groan of iron hinges even in his distracted state.

Cole looked just as puzzled as he was. "You were hurting," he repeated, "so I came to help. That's what I do. The lyrium sings a song inside you, and it burns like fire every time it does. You can't sleep when the blue music starts."

"No," Cullen admitted, "I can't."

Silence fell again. Cole remained in the chair, fiddling with the brim of his hat, and Cullen sat at his desk and drummed his fingers against the table. He wasn't entirely sure what to do about Cole. It was one thing to see him hovering beside the Inquisitor's shoulder before they embarked on another mission, and quite another to have the spirit sitting in his office chair like a regular guest. There had been a time when he would have struck Cole down without hesitation, a time when Cole would have been nothing more than a demon in his eyes. But while he was long past that time, it still didn't mean he was ready to make nice with spirits. He wasn't even sure if a former Templar could make nice with spirits. What did you say to a spirit sitting in your office chair? Did you offer it tea?

"I don't drink tea," Cole said suddenly, in answer to his unasked question. "I don't drink at all, actually. I don't need to."

Cullen flared his nostrils. "I would appreciate you not digging into my head at every turn, Cole."

Cole finally blinked. "Sorry. I was just trying to help."

"You keep saying that." Cullen made to stand, gasped when his legs trembled, and collapsed back down in his seat. "But I don't see how, exactly, this is helping me."

"The lyrium sings an old song. It's blue and pretty and strong at first, like hearing music for the first time in your life. But the more you listen the bluer it becomes, harder and colder and hungrier until it is blue all around, like an ocean without end, like bright blue sky without land. Bright, burning, blazing, it makes you forget what you are. Who you are. I understand. Or, at least," Cole frowned in sudden thought, "I think I do."

This was the last sort of thing Cullen expected to hear. A spirit? Sympathizing with a Templar's plight? Curious despite himself, he shifted in his seat and leaned forward. "Go on."

Cole took off his hat and shook his head, shaggy blonde hair bouncing as he did so. "It's hard, sometimes, staying here. I brought myself into this world to help people, to ease the hurts, but sometimes...it's hard to know who I am. What I am. Varric…keeps me in this world. He calls me 'kid' and teaches me to tie my shoes. Solas is the same, but different. It's hard to explain, but…they help me hold on. They help me find land when I'm lost."

An odd lump had formed in Cullen's throat. He swallowed hard to dislodge it, but before he could say anything Cole was off again:

"You're trying. To be different than before. To be better than before. You can't let the old you take over again. Neither can I. There are people here who care, people who will help if you ask. The Inquisitor and Cassandra, the Left Hand and the ambassador…they can help you fight the blue music. They can help you find land. There is so much noise in Skyhold, great noises, small noises, murmurs and cries and shouts. It might be enough to drown out the lyrium song."

Cole fell silent, and for a long moment it was very difficult for Cullen to breathe. The red blush had made its way up his face by now, but it hardly mattered. Slowly he realized that, as Cole had talked, the pain had been pushed to the back of his mind. His thoughts were clearer now, less scattered, and the longer he looked at the spirit curled up in his office chair the more tension seemed to seep out of his shoulders. Perhaps there was some sense to what Cole said. Perhaps he didn't have to make a go of this completely alone.

"You don't have to do it alone," Cole murmured.

"I—thank you…Cole." His tongue tripped over the name, but Cullen forced himself to say it as loudly and clearly as possible.

Cole beamed at the use of his name. He stood, dusted himself off, and raised a hand. Instantly Cullen stiffened, having seen Cole perform this particular hat trick before. He braced himself, too weak to leap to his feet, and prepared to forget this whole conversation.

Then Cole lowered his hand again. The spirit seemed uncertain, wavering almost. "Varric said that I should let people remember me. That I can help people by letting them remember me. I'm going to try it. I'm going to let you remember me, and this. That way, if the lyrium starts singing, I can help again. I want to help."

He vanished without saying another word. The weak candle flame gave one final flicker and went out.

Cullen sat alone in the darkness for a long time after that. It was only when the first gray tinge appeared on the horizon that he forced himself to stand and staggered off to catch a few hours' sleep.

It was the first time in a long time he didn't hear the blue music as he slept.