The first drink of the lyrium he takes goes down harsh, burning his throat. Cullen refused to cough, passing the draught to the next recruit beside him. Alistair refuses after sniffing the drink, tossing it to the next future Templar, who drinks and vomits immediately afterwards. They laugh at Sloan, all six of them, Alistair turning to help the fourteen year old back to his feet.
Sloan says that it tastes vile and they all agree, nodding and laughing at this bit of illicit activity before they sneak back into the Chantry walls. Cullen rather likes the taste, the burning, the slight buzz still on his tongue. He does not want to seem too eager in front of the others. He says he will put the rest back in the cupboard. Later, he remembers how his hands lingered on the bottle, not wanting that feeling to stop.
The second taste of lyrium is two years later. Cullen is now a Templar, recently posted to the Circle Tower in Ferelden. Seventeen years old and sworn to a life of keeping the world safe from rogue magic. He is there less than a day before he sees her, the girl he could never even imagine to dream of. Ebony skin, dark brown eyes, pouty lips. Sixteen years old, not much more than a child herself. The elven girl smiles at him and his heart melts.
Gregoir hands him a flask and he drinks it without thought. The buzzing does not end until morning, seeping into his dreams of her. Even years later, that hum of magic in his blood makes him think of her. She tasted of it, in every kiss, in every tryst in quiet corners of the Tower. Neither had known another lover, and for four years, neither imagines they will ever be parted from each other.
The day she is taken from him, he cannot sleep. He drinks lyrium alone in his barracks and dreams again of her.
It is not long after that the mages rebel.
Cullen is trapped, watching the others tortured and corrupted. He waits, reaching out for her in vain. The lyrium is fading from his blood and for the first time, he feels the ache in his chest, the racing of his heart. He feels his muscles tense and spasm. He cannot relax, cannot catch his breath. His mind tries to think logically, tries to calm him. He is under the worst stress of his life, it is normal to feel this in his body.
But in his heart, he knows he is going into withdrawal and he cannot stop it. The substance that makes him powerful is fading. His body is falling apart.
When she is there, for real this time, he turns her away. He cannot handle this sober, he cannot let her hurt him when she leaves again. She is one of them, one who brought him to this place. He is weaker than he has ever been before in his life and he cannot reach out to her for help.
He tries to talk to Gregoir, but the two drink lyrium together in the quiet ruin of the Tower. Cullen does not cry that night, though he badly wants to. The numbness is returning now, the safety of the buzz in his veins promising that he will never be this weak again.
But even that is not enough to allow him to stay.
Cullen requests a transfer and because of the experience, is granted the status of Guard-Captain across the seas in Kirkwall. By the time it is processed, the Blight is over. She comes back to him, to ask him to reconsider. She is a hero now, the face of all that is good in this country. He cannot reconcile his feelings. He doesn't know if he can feel anymore. Lost in lyrium in dreams as he crosses the sea, he vaguely remembers how it felt to love her. But this is safer, this softens the pain. He won't be that weak again. He won't be fooled again.
Kirkwall is dry and hotter than Ferelden. In the barracks that first night, he cannot sleep. He thinks of all his new Commander has told him, of the apostates rising in power in the city. He thinks of the rebellion, thinks of his oath to never trust in mages' autonomy again. His heart races as he closes his eyes. He thinks of feeling weak. His feels his body sweat in this infernal heat. He drinks deeply and allows himself to slip off into the Fade, his blood still buzzing.
For months, he survives. He trains harder, he studies harder. He pushes his recruits, hoping they understand that he is trying to protect them. It is because he spends so much time with them that he realizes something is wrong. That is how he ends up on the Wounded Coast, threatening a fellow Templar. The magic in his blood is buzzing, warning him that there is foul magic near by. It sings to him a protective lullaby. When the others arrive, he is almost too absorbed by it to acknowledge them, not until the monster attacks.
When the battle is over, he sees the woman who has inadvertently come to his aid. Despite the hissing of the lyrium in his blood, he drops his sword. The mage has saved his life, and that is enough for the buzz to dissipate.
He thinks of her over the months. He feels ashamed that he has been foolish enough to go through this again. He throws himself further into his work and into the drink. He must not give into temptation, not when it led to such ruin before. He must be stronger, more devoted. Then he will not sin so again.
Looking back, he remembers little of those years. He remembers the taste of lyrium on his tongue, he remembers the fading of ache in his muscles. He remembers Meredith. His face haunts him while he tries to sleep, her voice echoing in his mind as he dreams of the Circle Tower, of the blood mages offering him all he cannot have.
It is in the middle of one of those dreams when the Qunari invade.
Cullen races into his armour, barely sober enough to focus as he calls his men into order. He tries to wake himself up, tries to make sure all are counted for, are equipped and ready to march out. He listens to Meredith's commands, all washing over him as the dreams creep into his waking mind.
The battle goes out into the streets, his men and women chasing down the heathens. He cannot keep his head clear, his brain mixing the past and present together. A Qunari blade nearly slices him into two until an adrenaline burst helps push him through the fog. He rolls out of the way, killing the creature before it can strike again. He looks around, seeing his dead comrades on the ground. He shakes until Meredith slaps him across the face. He stands there, holding his cheek until she commands him forward into the fray.
When the mage comes into the battle, Cullen's blood races quicker. No. She cannot be here. Not now. As a saarebas nears her, he sends out a wave of energy, cleansing the scene of all magic. He feels the lyrium buzz into him deeper, a feeling of peace entering his heart as it slows. The mage falls, coughing as the mana is choked from her. Fighting the instinct in his blood, the mad pulse, he runs to her side, picking her up with a gentleness that surprises him. He pulls out his lyrium flask, holding it to her lips until she gasps, her power returning to her. There is a moment of warmth. It is not romance, but it is a feeling of humanity. It is a feeling that bypasses the war drum pounding of the lyrium and the desperate need for security, for safety. He puts her back on her feet.
After the battle is over, the Arishok slain and order restored to the city, Meredith berates him, hits him, screams at him. She will lead the city and she will need a right hand. One who will follow her commands, who will put her word above all. He does not know if she is angrier for being so lyrium-drunk or for abandoning her side to protect the mage. Her words haunt him as the day breaks over the city. There will be much to do in the next coming days, he should rest while he can.
Yet as he watches the sun rise from the Keep, sees the dead bodies over the city, the bodies of the same recruits he has been protecting, he has even harsher words for himself. This is not the first time he has failed. Not the first time he was not strong enough. He must train more, he must listen to his Commander if they are to survive the weeks ahead. He must have more faith in their mission in this city.
It occurs to him then he has prayed since he left Ferelden. He thinks he should, but it feels a burden, feels that it may be the thing that breaks him. So instead he tries to sleep, sipping from the flask that she had drunk from. In his dreams, he confuses her with his Warden, with Meredith, with the demons, with the dead bodies of those he had failed. He sees it with a numbness that makes him feel lonelier than he has ever have been before.
Out of uniform, he wanders the streets of Kirkwall after all has been ruined. He does not know what he is thinking when he knocks on her door, he does not know why he kisses her, grabbing her hair as he pulls her into his arms. The lyrium pounds in his blood as her hands grasp at his clothes, her lips tingling against his as he feels the magic in her blood. They barely make it to the staircase before she pulls him down, lying on the steps. He cradles her head as he pushes himself into her, her legs wrapping around him as she cries into his ear. He comes quickly, burying himself into her body as she holds him. She kisses him softly, pressing her forehead against his. He knows it's wrong as she pulls him into her bedroom, wrong for him to touch her as she calls his name.
He cannot stay, it feels even lonelier lying next to her. So much hangs between them. So much that is not said. So much that cannot be felt. He does not love her. It would be wrong to say that. But she does not judge him. She does not hate him. That is enough for him. Enough to know she is just as lonely as he is.
He returns to the barracks, the Tranquil passing by him with unfeeling eyes. Perhaps it is not such a terrible fate as he once thought, perhaps it would be a blessing. To be devoted to a single purpose, to not be held back with the binds of the mortal need. He feels soiled, feels unfaithful to the Order, to himself. But it is the first time he has not immediately reached for his flask. He sits with the feeling, sits with it long enough to rest his head in his hands, sits with it long enough for tears to slip down his face.
He cannot be this weak again. This was a lapse, in judgment, in strength. He must be better. He needs to be better. He cannot be this vulnerable again.
Yet he cannot face picking up the flask again. He watches it, not knowing if he was fighting against himself or protecting himself. This was not the Circle Tower. He needed to be in his right mind…but…
In the first time since the Blight, it occurs to him that he might have a problem. It was not uncommon among his Order, it had been whispered about since he was a young recruit in Ferelden.
He puts the thought out of his mind. If this was what he needs to be stronger, then he would have to deal with the consequences.
He thinks of the mage's face beneath him, think of her lips against his.
He drinks from the flask, feeling the burn rush down his throat. After all this time, he still loves how it feels. The buzz overcomes him and he falls mercifully to sleep.
When he wakes, his throat dry and his eyes burning, he sees the high sun of the afternoon. He drinks slowly from his water, sitting with his head in his hands. He is sicker than he has ever been before from the drug, sick enough to feel something, something that even lyrium cannot help him through.
He vomits on the floor, wrapping himself in his blankets as he shakes. As the heaving stops, he lets himself feel again. He lies, eyes closed, as his body tries to rid itself of the excess, of the thing that is slowly killing him.
It is the first time he recognizes it as that. It is the first time in many years he looks around at where he is. He sees his room in the barracks, hears the song of the birds outside of his window. He feels the sun against his skin.
This is not the Circle Tower. It is over. He is safe.
That moment of peace, that moment before the anxiety and fear overswept him once more, he whispers to himself, "I can get better."
He closes his eyes again and hopes he has the strength to wake again. It is night again when he wakes. He writes a hasty note, leaving it on his bed as he walks feebly into the streets of Hightown. He makes it to her door, finding her waiting by the fire. She moves to his side, but before she speaks, Cullen takes her hands in his.
With a hoarse whisper, he says, "I need help."
She holds him like she would a child as he cries into her frame. He remembers her bringing him into her bed, tucking him in. He remembers the ache in his body fading, remembers her hand on his chest as his heartbeat slows.
"You're safe," she murmurs to him.
He does not believe it then, does not believe that this is enough to save him. But he is willing to try. He turns to the side, watching the flowers on the bedside table. She reaches out to them, the petals opening at her touch.
He closes his eyes again and falls asleep.