Author's Note: This holiday gift fic is for AgapeErosPhilia, who I admire for being able to write sweeping, plot-filled romances that are beyond my capability. Please read her stuff, after finishing this story, of course!
One
One foot after another.
His vision was fuzzy and everything seemed to rock back and forth as if he were on the deck of a ship in rough seas. His left hand held onto the stone railing tightly, while he brushed the sweat off his forehead with his right hand.
Cullen had made it halfway down the stairs from the wall, but he had to stop. He was so dizzy that he feared if he tried another step he would miss and tumble down into the yard. There were soldiers patrolling the walls.
They couldn't see their commander stumble.
He lifted his head, pretending to survey the defenses. The light and the haze made him nauseated and he honestly couldn't tell if the indistinct figures moving on the walls were sentries or abominations. The hole in his gut was churning. In his ears, he could hear a loud, constant but distant humming. His blood pulsed through his veins but his entire body felt hollow.
Eight. Today was day eight.
His breakfast had tasted like ash. He knew he had poured an entire pitcher of water down his throat this morning but his lips were still parched with thirst. The letters on the reports from his commanders in the field had all run together as he tried to concentrate. He tried to focus, but his eyes felt crossed and the page spun until he coughed and heaved, his stomach lurching painfully.
He stumbled across the room, grabbing the non-descript wooden box from the shelf. His fingers fumbled with the latch, throwing it open, panting.
It was empty.
He had forced Cassandra to take the small vial of lyrium and the tools away from him to prevent such a momentary lapse in his judgment. Cullen tossed the box to the floor, the hinge breaking as it collided with the floor.
The office was spinning as he stumbled toward the door, catching himself on the frame, trying to catch his breath and trying to stop the world from twirling around him. He was sweating, but his entire body felt chilled as shivers ran through him. He pushed the door open, straightening up as best as he could muster and made for the stairs.
His stomach lurched again now and he could feel his mouth filling with saliva. Cullen closed his eyes, slowing his breathing and willing himself not to vomit. He dared not try to swallow, knowing that the temporary lapse in his breathing and the effort of trying to force his spit down his throat would surely cause him to hurl. Just as it had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that one. He leaned to the side, turning his head away from the closer patrol on the battlements and opened his mouth, letting the drool drip between his lips in long, thick strands. He shivered again and coughed, spewing more slimy saliva over the edge of the stairs.
He could not carry on like this.
He had once thought that he might be able to withstand the cravings and the sickness that he knew was to come. No one needed to know that he intended to break once and for all from the Templar Order, from the Chantry and from his oaths. No one except for him, Andraste and the Maker.
At first it hadn't been too bad. Headaches. Sensitivity. A slight fever and a little fuzzy vision. And then all of those symptoms had grown exponentially worse. And Cullen found himself unable to focus, his mind drifting. He couldn't follow a conversation. He couldn't read a report. He second-guessed every decision he tried to make, because he couldn't be sure whether he was making an informed call or not. It quickly became apparent that he was becoming compromised. That he could not do this alone.
He sought out Cassandra.
Of all the souls in Skyhold, she would know best the struggle and torment he willingly chose to face. She would not be afraid to tell him the things he needed to hear or speak words he refused to accept and force him to accept them, if needed. She was strong, trustworthy and stubborn to a fault. If there was anyone in Skyhold who could objectively weigh his desires against his well-being and make an objective decision, it was she.
But most all, Cullen knew that between one servant of the Chantry to the next, there was no one more trustworthy and no one who commanded more of his respect in Skyhold than Cassandra. Not even the Inquisitor.
Cullen only needed to make it down the stairs and across the yard. He prayed that she was where she usually was at this hour, swinging her frustrations out on one of the stuffed training dummies near the quartermaster's tower. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a slick streak of spit running across his wrist as he started down again.
One foot after another.
His foot slipped on the third step after his restart and his left arm barely managed to hold his weight as he nearly lost his balance. He closed his eyes again, pulling his foot back onto the step, taking a deep breath before continuing.
The sky was cloudless today, but the vibrant blue was looking like a muddled grey. The rays of the sun fell in long white bands around the keep. The grass swayed more slowly than it usually did in the breeze and even its green looked dull and desaturated. He walked slowly across the yard, avoiding eye contact with the Inquisition soldiers and the retainers who scurried back and forth from task to task. The sound of music coming from the Herald's Rest, the buzz of conversations, the souths of masons working on repairs of Skyhold's exterior curtain, all of it sounded muted as if his ears were submerged underwater. And the chill crept up his spine again and rattled through his limp arms and legs.
"Maker's breath, why am I so cold?" he thought as he stumbled past the Herald's Rest, the sound of raucous laughter banging through his head as if someone held a drum to his ear. Was this was dying felt like? The sun was shining. The mountains were bitter, even in the day, but inside Skyhold, the air was always warm, the remnant of some ancient magic. So why was he so cold?
"Commander," a passing soldier stopped and saluted. "Ambassador Montilyet is look-"
"No," Cullen said, placing his hand to his brow again and closing his eyes, swallowing carefully to make sure the next thing to pass his lips was his next sentence and not vomit. "I'm sorry. Tell the Ambassador… I can't meet with her right now. Tell her I will come to her office later."
He didn't know how he would make it up the stairs to the main hall in his condition. The thought of ascending the steps that doubled back on themselves seemed impossibly daunting.
"Yes, Commander. Right away!" The soldier scurried away. Thankfully.
When he opened his eyes again, his vision was fuzzier and swaying from side to side. Cullen couldn't be sure whether the world was tilting, his eyes were rolling or if his entire body swayed. He forced his foot forward. Just a little farther.
The powerful grunts and the sound of blunt steel thwacking wood were so faint they sounded miles away, but he was sure the dark silhouette in the distance was Cassandra. It had to be her. If by chance it wasn't, he didn't know what he would do. The humming in his ears was growing louder.
Cullen abandoned all appearances now, so close, shambling forward like so many of the walking corpses he had slain in his long career. His legs felt so heavy that he could not lift his feet, his wrists so burdened that he could not lift his arms. He dragged himself forward, leaning against the wall of the Herald's Rest heavily to keep from falling forward onto his face.
"Cassandra," he muttered. Her name crossed his lips so weakly that he doubted she would have heard him even if she was standing at his side. His throat clenched and a sudden blast of bile burned through his throat, his mouth filling with slimy saliva once more.
He bent at the waist, steadying his left hand against the wall and coughed loudly, brown bile and sticky spit dripping from his mouth as he hacked into the grass. His chest burned, as if something heavy had fallen across his body and crushed his rib cage. He forced himself to spit as he heaved for breath.
"Cassandra!" It came out more forcefully this time, throwing the word down at the ground because he could not lift his head. A yell, perhaps. He couldn't be sure. His own voice seemed to echo through the hollowness of his head, carried endlessly into the chasm the lyrium left within him.
Cullen shivered again, his entire body shaking as the blast of chill shot down from his neck along his spine, spreading down his arms and legs like tendrils of mage frost. When he went to inhale again, the breath caught in his throat, frozen. His heart clenched in panic, his mind racing with fear as he could not pull in the air. He coughed again, the wracking so violent that it crumpled him forward.
His hand slipped from the wall. His weightless body began fall. He could not feel the world move around him as he tumbled toward the earth. The Veil pulled back, grass and stone and dirt faded into a dull grey haze, all of creation around him becoming as soft and amorphous as if he fell into stormclouds.
As he fell, the feel of his body floating in ether, it almost felt like the sensation of the lyrium rushing through his body. Detachment. Weightlessness. The thrumming of a heavenly chorus in the ears. Maybe now he fell toward that other world, into the beyond, to the place the lyrium always stretched toward that he could never reach. He was going there now.
Cullen was going, gone.
Except for the sensation of two strong hands catching him before he tumbled into blackness.