The Herald's mortality sinks in after Haven. Some part of Cullen that has believed too many falsehoods already, that struggled through prayers into the dark and silent air through magic splitting his mind like hot iron through lyrium fog and a bloodless, breathing murder called tranquility, is willing to reach only so far and no further. Cullen believes in the Bride and the Maker and their plan for Thedas. It is enough.

A Dalish elf stepped from the Fade without any recollection of how he got there, his palm marked to bar heaven from mortals once more. Hair, eyes, and tattoos all ran the same ink-black color over skin like faded parchment, staining a traveler who knew more than forests or mountains. In practice though, Lavellan seemed like nothing so much as an ordinary person at the mercy of some greater power. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was convenience. Maybe it could have happened to anyone.

With all the chants and ceremonies it's still easy to get lost in this story. Cullen makes a point to keep his feet on the ground and his head as clear as he can keep it.

With Lavellan kneeling in the snow, trembling so violently he can no longer speak, Cullen finds himself incapable of imagining Andraste's prophet back from the dead. This is a man who nearly fell alone, frozen and afraid, desperately relieved to be safe.

Leliana calls it miraculous. Cullen wraps his cloak around the elf and says, "We've got you, you're alright. Just stay awake a little longer. We'll have you feeling better in no time."

Lavellan manages to nod, mutely. His eyes fail to focus. The Commander carries him back to camp as fast as he can.

It surprises him, discovering the Inquisitor knows how to play chess. City elf, he wouldn't have blinked. It just isn't a typical game for Dalish camps.

Cullen doesn't ask, doesn't know how. Instead, he tells Lavellan how he learned, how he and his brother practiced for weeks to match his sister. The real strategist in his family.

"Andraste preserve us if Mia ever decides to take up conquest," Cullen laughs, "I'm pretty sure she could take all Thedas if she wanted to. Fortunately, she prefers baking."

There is a lull, and eventually Lavellan says, "I learned from an Antivan sailor." He has a way of balancing his chin on his knuckles during thought. "It could be I was… twelve? Thirteen? Before my vallaslin, at any rate. A few years early for speaking with outsiders," he smiles, "but I was curious."

"Would you have gotten in trouble?" asks Cullen, fixing his eyes on the board. Lavellan still has a move to make.

"Oh, I'd have been scolded," the Inquisitor replies, "my parents would have been furious. Maybe enough to put me with the hahren again. I suspect Istimaethoriel knew… but then being on positive terms with humans was useful enough that I think she didn't mind."

"Well, that's fortunate," says Cullen. "You wound up something of a negotiator, right?"

"We managed to sell our wares around the Free Marches," says Lavellan, "avoided conflict more often than not. When we needed supplies from locals they would trade. Maybe it made us less frightening." Lavellan shifts one of his crowns. "The Antivan showed me ways to skew the board in my favor though, if it ever came to gambling. Would you like to see?"

"Maker," says Cullen, and then, "yes. Please."

Josephine has taken it upon herself to teach the Inquisitor a traditional Nevarran dance. It involves several pairs forming a circle that spins, then spinning each partner in synchronized but seemingly random directions before rotating to add yet another dimension of spinning. All of this must be accomplished without stepping on anyone's toes or bruising a single kneecap. Men are expected to wear dark, draping tunics with impractically long sleeves while women's dresses are straight, embroidered, and topped with the most elaborate ruffles Cullen has seen in his life.

No wonder Cassandra hated it there.

King Marcus, Josephine explains in the great hall over breakfast, expressed interest in inviting Lavellan to the capital for negotiations. While Nevarra is hardly so grueling as Orlais, it remains crucial for the Herald to demonstrate competence in any foreign court he should attend.

"The poor man must be begging for death," Cullen laughs, "I don't know how he keeps up."

"Well," the lady ambassador replies, "I will be happy to inform you that he is better than he was last week." She pauses, nibbling a biscuit before her lips slowly begin to curl. It's an expression soon covered by delicate fingers, and although she doesn't giggle there is a definite waver in Lady Montilyet's voice when she speaks again. "He crashed into one of the scullions. There was cheese all over the floor. The room stank of despair for two days. I thought his apologies would never end."

"Andraste," grins Cullen, "I really should keep him in my prayers."

This time, Josephine does laugh. "He is a work in progress," she admits. "There are occasional missteps and the lifts can be… harrowing, but we haven't had a true disaster in some time. We must count our blessings."

Verchiel proves a disaster. The Harmond family declares outrage to any nobles who will listen and all the worst rumors of tyranny flare up once more. Nothing irreparable. Just another mess they don't need.

The Herald of Andraste returns at noon after three days travel, almost outrunning the news itself. He bids farewell to Sera, Vivienne, and Blackwall as Leliana hurries to greet him. His armor remains cracked with blood, though it fares better than Red Jenny herself.

Cullen allows six hours before visiting but finds the Inquisitor still busy at his desk regardless. No candles counteract the growing dim and a stack of missives rests beside him. His garments are filthy as when he arrived.

"Your Worship," says Cullen, "apologies for the interruption. It is my understanding that our march held some unintended consequences?"

Lavellan starts, as if pulled from a dream. "Hm? Oh… no I should have briefed you. An oversight." His quill, previously in motion, is put down.

Cullen moves to stand across from the desk. Lavellan pushes his chair back as if to rise, then smiles wryly and remains where he is. "If anyone should apologize it's me," he continues. "Do you mind doing this without formality?"

Cullen mirrors the expression. "Not at all," he replies, "I'm only here to confirm your report and see whether there's any action I should take."

With a nod, the elf looks up. Traces murals across the ceiling. "My judgment was perhaps not the best," he admits after some moments. "It was late. Lord Harmond murdered our contact after enlisting him to act as a lure. I don't want people living in fear, Commander."

"Of course not," answers Cullen simply.

The Inquisitor shuts his eyes. "It seemed like a matter of moments, before Sera killed him. She was furious and she was going to… Vivienne disagreed, but would never have interceded. Of course not. Sera doesn't like orders much."

"No," Cullen frowns. Beyond mannerisms, there is something hollow in Lavellan's face. Shadows make it difficult to pinpoint.

"She really doesn't," Lavellan persists, almost as if having a conversation with himself. "Blackwall called Harmond a worm of a man, afterward. I got the impression he wasn't opposed to this outcome either."

"And what next?" Cullen prompts. Maybe it's darkness under the eyes, tension around the jaw. Something there.

Lavellan shrugs, less of his own accord and more as though he's been tugged by strings. "We questioned him enough to clarify. Our choice was between maintaining alliance or betraying it. For a… a worm of a man. And Sera is consistent. I gave permission, so he's dead now."

Neither of them speaks for one beat. Two.

"Technically," Cullen says slowly, "you avenged the death of an agent. However, it concerns me that you think Sera wouldn't have obeyed an order to stay her hand if—"

Lavellan waves him off, dismissive. "Sera's Sera. She'll remember this."

Cullen's frown deepens. "I can have a talk with her, if you'd like."

At this, the Inquisitor tilts his head forward. Meets his Commander's gaze. Several moments of consideration pass, then he answers, "No. No, it's better for me to discuss the matter. Your intervention might suggest lack of authority on my part. I can handle it."

"But not tonight," says Cullen gently. "That can wait. It appears you've done plenty enough for one evening."

Lavellan's eyebrows knit, and after a moment he glances back to his desk. "What, this?"

"You hardly stopped during your return journey."

The elf snorts. "And risk some relative retal… retaliating? The sooner we got back, the better."

"I understand," says Cullen, "but now that you're here, there's no need to keep pushing. You'll do better with a night's rest."

Something clicks into place between them. Gradually, Lavellan begins to chuckle. "Give me an hour, mother." Cullen rolls his eyes, and the Inquisitor laughs in earnest. "Truly, I'm fine. It's just been busy of late. I'll feel better once it's done."

"You're sure?" asks Cullen, grinning.

In response he receives only a smile. Obscured by twilight perhaps, but it seems genuine as he could hope for.

Cole claims that lyrium sings through blood melodies ancient and powerful predating magic primal pure Cullen cannot bring himself to disagree the tune is a distraction comfort control older than dreams or illusions or an electric cage with foreign thoughts threading your brain like needles forcing connections severing faith lyrium is more than magic ever was or could be lyrium forges reality anchors minds in what is rather than what could be lyrium will save him this time—

No.

The box shatters against the doorframe (it is not the only one he has) and Lavellan stares where pieces fall short of his face before meeting the man who missed him.

"Maker's Breath," says Cullen hurriedly, "I didn't hear you enter, I… forgive me."

Lavellan actually manages to smile. "As long as you weren't aiming at me," he answers dryly, "I'm sure the box had it coming."

And so they discuss it, with as much civility as Cullen can manage (he was never so unprofessional with Meredith or even Greagoir before her), and past memories of mage bodies stretching rippling bloating tumorous masses eyes he saw every day over dinner gleaming with alien intelligence the same voice that shared lewd jokes a demon promising trust promising his words mattered promising he was a better templar than his friends snapped into impossible shapes organs strung through orifices by blood and bone and heat if he agrees even once it will be him too…

(Where was the Maker? Where was the Maker? He chanted perfectly and then imperfectly and then in whispers weeping as if any merciful god or abomination cared to listen.)

…past all this, he hears Lavellan tell him to try.

Lyrium will kill the dreams in his skull. Lyrium will kill the rest of him too, if he lets it. Trade a demon for a demon.

So he holds on.

Later, Cullen will ask the Inquisitor what he makes of all this. Their organization, their mission, what's become of himself. And the man who spars in the courtyard whenever their schedules match, who wordlessly tucks books into his office from across nations, who offers lessons in composure for Wicked Grace, who gifts countless other distractions when memory threatens to drag him somewhere he can't surface…

Lavellan is terrified.

They cross paths again on a cold morning. This time, the Herald announces tragedy to Skyhold. He does not stray from the Right Hand but takes her arm upon dismount. They whisper to one another and Cassandra nods without making eye contact. She walks away with a heavy book.

Lavellan lingers. With grooms leading away mounts and his companions distracted, it's a peculiar sight. From Cullen's office the elf seems washed-out. Lost. A heartbeat later and he's gone.

Varric knows heroes, has stood by heroes in moments of triumph as well as grief. He assures Cullen that this is normal, that he's being neurotic for no reason.

The Herald of Andraste has divine bad luck, but he's meant for it. He's a fade-walker, a pilgrim of time, a sworn enemy to monsters from Chantry tales.

An ordinary man.

Heroes, Varric says, are tougher than you think. The most important thing is to stick around. Offer a shoulder to lean on if need be. Act normal.

Hawke lost her father, her brother, her home. Hawke held a patchwork corpse to kiss her dead mother's forehead. When Hawke executed Anders the Mad, she did it not for justice but mercy.

Yet Hawke is proud and ruthless passion. Hawke bares teeth to smile in diplomacy less than she does in battle. Hawke fought tooth and nail for power then used it without remorse.

Whatever qualities they share, Mahanon Lavellan will never be Hawke.

Before anything else, the Inquisitor performs judgment on Alban Poulin of Sahrnia.

Winter has taken the castle. Even fires scattered throughout the great hall cannot banish cold completely. Still, breathing frost is better than the ice-locked rivers of Emprise du Lion. Everything there is Red Templars, victims of experimentation, demons running rampant. Cullen does not regret missing that venture, no matter how many snowfleur pelts they have to show for it.

Somewhere along the way, Lavellan has acquired a tremor. According to Bull he's been blazing through health potions lately with all his mistakes. There is a grayish cast to his skin and even with vallaslin his eyes look bruised.

When Lavellan passes his sentence (Poulin will direct her funds to the reconstruction efforts), his voice is hoarse. Nonetheless, as promised and scheduled he turns directly afterward to the war room. His strides are long, quick, and purposeful.

A show.

"Emprise du Lion," says the Inquisitor in private, "still holds three nesting high dragons. We'll need to repair the bridge in order to reach them, and there are likely more templar encampments on the other side." Lavellan's hands are tight on the edge of the table, his knees rigid. Even tone. "Cullen, could you…?"

"Certainly," replies the Commander, "my men will set to work right away."

A nod. Leliana and Josephine are shifting pieces, raising questions over resource distribution. Supplies must be delivered to villagers. Metals, leathers, and herbs can be harvested without undue harm. Alternate routes will have to be be secured for caravans. Lavellan keeps his vision fixed on the board.

He blinks. Blinks again. Grimaces, brings a hand to his temples, then twists the expression to something more sheepish.

"I'm afraid that's all I can do for the moment," says the Inquisitor, stepping back. "Will you be able to carry on without me?"

"Of course!" Leliana replies, reaching for a distant figure. "We'll send for you if there's anything else. Now, it will take at least a month to…"

Lavellan turns on his heels.

"Excuse me," murmurs Cullen to both women before following suit.

The door shuts behind them.

"Are you alright?" he asks, moving to walk beside his superior.

Lavellan is still blinking rapidly, does not look up. "Headache," he replies. "Should pass in a few minutes. Worst timing. There are messengers from Antiva who could fund us, we can't afford… a little longer."

"Lavellan?" The Inquisitor hasn't dropped his pace but is drifting closer to the wall even as they approach Josephine's office. His skin isn't gray, Cullen realizes, it's chalk-white. The blood has gone from his lips entirely.

"…Three dragons in Emprise du Lion…" mumbles Lavellan, as if in a trance. Maker, his hands are shaking. Legs too. "…breeding hazard, b-bridge won't take long so we… we can…"

Cullen is already reaching when the elf's knees go, manages to catch an arm before maneuvering to get his chest. It happens soundlessly, not so much as a sigh. The Inquisitor is deadweight in his arms, eyes open but empty.

"Lavellan!" shouts Cullen. He sets him down quickly, checks his pulse. Too fast. "Lavellan, Lavellan can you hear me?"

It's different from Haven. There is no recognition this time, no response. Ragged breathing.

Voices, footsteps behind them.

"Maker!" cries Leliana. She won't be alone.

"Clear the hall," Cullen hears himself order, gathering the elf in his arms. Lavellan's head lolls, rousing him just enough to gasp. "Josie, fetch a healer. Lavellan?"

No answer. The Inquisitor seems to focus briefly on a torch for lack of other scenery, lets go as his eyes inevitably slide shut.

Later, it will occur to Cullen that had these been his last moments people would call them significant. A final burst of energy spent seeking Andrastrian fire.

Hang that.

It takes over two days for him to wake again. Not so bad as the Breach, but impressive enough without magic.

Mother Giselle sees the Inquisitor first, having volunteered to keep watch. It's a role she's accustomed to and one she's good at.

Beyond requesting an extra workload Cullen has, in Sera's words, been throwing a fit by comparison. No member of the Inquisition is safe from his reprimands. They all know Lavellan's habits, that he'll give anything they ask even if it kills him. Saying no to someone in need of a friendly ear, an ended war, a demon slain… it's arguably one of his weak points. But for Cullen, blame lies primarily with any person who saw this coming and encouraged it.

My fault.

In the meantime, he reduces the Inquisitor's load as much as possible for his return.

"The Herald is taking visitors, Commander. Sister Nightingale thought you should know."

He thanks the messenger, sits at his desk. Considers. Rises again and begins making his way across Skyhold.

Lavellan looks vastly improved since their last meeting. Sitting in bed with a bowl of stew, Cullen is relieved to find if not normal coloring something close.

The Inquisitor lowers his meal to speak.

"Don't you dare," says Cullen, smiling. "If you let me interrupt, I'm afraid I'll have to leave."

Afternoon light filters green and gold through tinted windows. Lavellan smiles back and obediently (if with more flourish than necessary) continues to eat. "Josephine was right," he comments, "you have gotten worse."

Cullen scoffs, seats himself at the mattress' edge. "Glad to see you're alright," says the Commander. "I'll do my best not to be too insufferable." Then, in a lighter tone, "You're lucky. I think I've spent myself on the rest of Thedas already."

"Do offer my sympathies to Thedas," replies Lavellan in-between bites. He glances up, amused but sincere. "Cullen, thank you."

Cullen shrugs, studies the blanket beside him. "It wouldn't do if Corypheus won because the Herald of Andraste hit his head," he says. Then, looking up, he continues, "Truly though. Don't put yourself through this again. If you kill yourself with overwork you won't be able to help anyone. I'll never forgive you, either."

Lavellan pauses in lifting his spoon. Waits.

Cullen exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've been a friend, Inquisitor. I wasn't sure I'd find that, outside the Order. It's not something I'd like to give up"

Carefully, Lavellan puts the stew beside him.

"Maker, I just said—"

"Thanks, Cullen." The elf interrupts quietly, staring at his own lap. There's a different ring to the sentiment. "I didn't expect this either. Outside my clan. It's so easy to disappear, become a... a symbol. But for what it's worth, if you get yourself killed I won't forgive you either."

They remain in silence for several moments. Then gently, without thinking, Cullen rests a hand on the Inquisitor's head. Ruffles his hair. "I suppose we'll both need to be more careful then."

They make eye contact. With only slight hesitation, Cullen presses a kiss against Lavellan's brow.

"I'll be glad to help you figure this out, Mahanon. Start by picking up your bowl."