I hope that you enjoy these short stories. They will be episodic and each short story is meant to be an extension of the romantic plotlines with Cullen, Iron Bull, and potentially other romanceable characters. So, this is not one tale of the female Inquisitor; this is an exploration into many possible futures she can have.

I do not describe nor name the Inquisitor so that you can imagine your Inquisitor in the story. I think that's more fun!

These short stories will spoil content from the main game, Jaws of Hakkon, Descent, and Trespasser.

Enjoy!

He had hesitated to move in with her.

"Cullen," she had pleaded, batting those long eyelashes, "we've been together for some time now. And we've never faltered in our responsibilities to lead the Inquisition." He had glanced away, and that was when she had grabbed for his hand and squeezed it between hers.

He could not resist those eyes. Or how tightly she'd crushed his hand. How did her slender fingers hold so much power?

"Unless," she murmured, "you don't want to…"

"No," he'd blurted, "no, I do want to. I just…" Can't tell you why you shouldn't want this. She'd stared at him. "Ah—" he couldn't help a small, acquiescent smile, "—all right, then. I'll have my things moved into your quarters tonight."

She'd stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

Now, Cullen stood upon the balcony at the Inquisitor's quarters as the sun cast its last glimmering rays over the snowcapped Frostback Mountains. It had been a long day of meetings at the war table and packing up his few personal belongings. Cullen sighed as violet light washed Skyhold in a twilight glow; scattered handfuls of stars twinkled overhead. His breath clouded between his lips.

Slender arms wrapped snugly around his sides. Cullen's hand drifted from the balcony railing to slide over hers. His thumb rubbed back and forth across her knuckles.

"You're still in full armor?" she murmured. "I've divided my closet to make room for your things. There's plenty of room for it… And your books, we can shelve those tomorrow, together." Cullen squeezed her hand. He saw out of the corner of his eye that she was looking up at him, watching his silence with unmasked concern. "Cullen?" He turned his head to look down at her. "Are you all right?"

The truth was that he was not all right. The nightmares had come more often recently. The lyrium withdrawal pricked at his mind while he slumbered and warped his dreams into sweat-inducing horrors. They occurred almost every night. And in the middle of the night he would wake, thrashing, sometimes waking himself with a scream, and always cold sweat covered his skin.

Cullen did not want the Inquisitor to know that it had gotten this bad. By day, after breakfast, he was exhausted. Warmth and food brought his mind to ease, and from then on, all of his focus was upon his work. Work, and her... Thinking of her helped when he could not be kept busy. But sleepless nights left his temper short and his thoughts scattered; recruits' green mistakes provoked his anger, and it was all Cullen could stand to maintain his concentration during hours-long sessions at the war table with Josephine and Leliana, those expert interpreters of body language. Surely they both knew of his suffering. Surely they saw the lingering frown at the corners of his lips or the slight pinch of his brows when the headaches pounded at his temple.

It was enough to make Cullen nearly reconsider his decision, for tonight and onward the Inquisitor would sleep at his side, and surely his nightmares would wake her, too. Perhaps he would twist and thrash and disturb her sleep. Perhaps he would yell in a dream and frighten her awake. And then she would know…

That, no, her Commander was not all right.

Still, Cullen squeezed her hand. He looked at her and smiled. "I was just… thinking. I'm fine." Her brows quirked marginally; she didn't believe him, he could see it, but together they smiled.

"…All right, then. The bath was just warmed up, if you wanted to use it." She slipped away from him, and Cullen turned to watch her move towards the bed—their bed—clad in a plain silk shift, her bare feet softly padding upon the floor.

He could not help but watch her as the fluid fabric clung to her shoulders and hips, falling around her curves like water.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "Er, so, you…" He felt a blush warming his cheeks. "I suppose you won't be joining me, then?"

The Inquisitor turned to look at him, and Cullen saw surprise crossing her features. Ah, I'm an idiot, he thought, she's clearly tired, and I've dampened the mood with my damned withdrawal. And moving in together was change enough for one day. Of course she wouldn't want to. How could I be so stupid?

But the Inquisitor smiled coyly. "I was hoping you would notice I'd ordered a larger bath…" Cullen stared at her, feeling his cheeks grow warmer still. She brushed past him into the adjacent washroom, pushing the door just ajar behind her. "The water's just perfect," she called, "so don't be too long with your armor." Cullen heard a soft whisper of crumpling fabric and the steady splashing of stepping into water.

"I won't," he called, again feeling like an idiot. Like an infatuated schoolboy. But he could not suppress a boyish rush of excitement as he hurried into the large, dimly lit closet and unbuckled his feathered pauldrons. The Inquisitor waited for him just on the other side of the far wall—his Inquisitor, his beautiful lover, his steadfast companion… the woman who had captured his heart.

Cullen had felt an attraction to her from the moment he'd first met her. He had first noticed her eyes—wide, expressive, laced with confused fear then but narrowed with determination. That fire had never since extinguished from her powerful gaze. He had been immediately struck by her inner strength. And, yes, she was conventionally beautiful, and her glossy hair and lithe frame had only added to her attractiveness. Cullen had seen other soldiers around Haven looking at the Inquisitor for longer than he'd liked. But he had been surprised by the panic he'd felt during the assault on Haven when Corypheus had attacked. When the Inquisitor charged into burning buildings instead of taking shelter in the Chantry, and then faced the archdemon virtually alone, Cullen had felt a cold fear gnawing at his heart that night. What had been the last thing he'd said to her? What were her last words to him? Maker, why couldn't he remember, he had to remember, in case…

Thank the Maker he hadn't lost her that night.

Cullen unbuckled the straps at the right side of his cuirass and pulled the plate covers free from his chest; with a few tugs, his leather doublet and chain mail skirt followed, and he set these aside.

A melody wandered into his mind, slow and sweet. Cullen hummed along as he removed his leg and foot armor—the cuisse, the poelyn, the greave and saboton. All unbuckled and slid off of his body and were set neatly in place.

The dawn will come, he murmured to himself. When Cullen had sung the hymn on that frozen, blood-soaked night, as frost bit at his skin and his pauldron-feathers were singed from dragonfire, a new warmth had blossomed within his chest. He had gazed at the Inquisitor as a hundred voices rose in song around her, their victor over darkness and demons, she who had closed the breach and shepherded soldiers and refugees and chantrymen out of danger. Cullen had looked at her then with awe and admiration. The Herald of Andraste was their hope and their future.

To Cullen, she was now so much more. Her gentle touch and loving words lifted his weary spirit after long expeditions throughout the country. The very thought of her soothed him after wracking nightmares and fits of pain. She was essential to the Inquisition and to Thedas itself, but to Cullen… She was his dawn. After the long night and along the dark path, she was the light that guided his spirit to peace.

Yet they had precious few hours together. The Inquisitor often left Skyhold for weeks or months at a time to travel to the far reaches of Thedas, called to close rifts and save entire populations from the brink of extinction. She traveled to ruins, to refuges, to the pinnacles of noble luxuriance and to the lowest rotting pits of death and despair. Sometimes, the Inquisitor returned from her expeditions with that familiar determined glint in her eye, a visage of accomplished satisfaction and fierce courage; sometimes, she slipped into Skyhold without fanfare, saying nothing of what kept her tired gaze cast downward and her lips pursed in thought.

On such days, Cullen always gave the Inquisitor time alone in her quarters for however long she needed. And each time, Cole appeared sudden and silent at his desk, his huge blue eyes wide with sorrow beneath his mop of fair blonde hair, and he would whisper, "Go to her. I can help by telling you to go to her. She says she wants to see no one, but she's lying. She needs to see you."

And Cullen would knock upon her door. Sometimes he had the foresight to grab a bottle of wine or whiskey from his quarters, sometimes he did not. But it did not matter. She was happier just by his being there, though she insisted that her unease was temporary, that she would be fine, that she was just tired... But Cullen knew that she needed him. He had known what it was like to need her. And so they passed such nights together with hours of whispered stories of the Inquisitor's trials—or perhaps they did not speak at all. Sometimes the sweetest nights were silent hours of holding one another, of Cullen kissing her hair and tangling his legs around hers, of Cullen pressing her tightly to him and feeling her back rise and fall against his chest as she finally, fully fell into peaceful sleep.

Yes, those nights were the sweetest.

Cullen stopped his musing as he stood clad only in his undershirt, with chilled air stirring up goosebumps upon his skin beneath the thin cotton. A light scent of lavender drifted into the closet, and Cullen crept into the main quarters, following the aroma and a trace of flickering golden light that just teased through the crack in the doorway to the bathroom.

He pushed open the thick wooden door, and hot steam rushed over his skin. His long cotton undershirt became heavy, clinging to his collarbone and sticking at his thighs. A quiet gasp escaped his barely parted lips.

The Inquisitor reclined in an oval steaming tub of scrubbed white Orlesian cultured marble; the stone was set aglow by sconces on the walls and by dripping candles gathered on one corner shelf between the rim of the tub and the back walls. The tub was nearly as long as Cullen's height, and deep enough that the Inquisitor was able to sit and recline so that only her collarbone and shoulders touched the water's surface. Steam swirled off of the crisply clear water, and clouds of lavender foam drifted in lazy circles upon its surface. The bathtub itself nearly filled the washroom, with a demure stone step inviting one to safely enter the deep tub.

Cullen shut the door behind him, and the Inquisitor turned to look at him and smile. She sat up and folded her arms upon the rim of the tub, settling her chin upon her forearms. "This is the first time I've used this tub, you know," she confided. "It was just installed this morning."

"Oh?" Cullen pulled the undershirt over his head, feeling the dampening fabric cling to the small of his back and kiss the backs of his shoulders before it slithered free from his body, licking askew his blonde hair. "But you'd only just asked me to move in this afternoon."

The Inquisitor chuckled. "Mmhmm. I was treating myself to the bathtub, I'd only hoped you would make it less… lonely." He adored the way her eyes wrinkled at the corners when she smiled so broadly.

Cullen chuckled. He stepped up and into the tub—Maker, it's hot!—and he pressed one hand against the gritty stone wall for support. The Inquisitor watched him enter the bathtub and sit down; the hot water shocked his skin as he lowered himself to the smooth floor, but after that… it was pure, cozy-warm luxuriance. Cullen extended both arms to settle atop the cool rim of the tub and closed his eyes.

He sighed; it was surprisingly loud in the otherwise silent washroom. He blinked with surprise. The Inquisitor giggled and slid towards him, pushing away from the edge of the tub. She twisted to sit next to Cullen, her hip bumping his, her shoulder nudging his chest. Cullen dropped his right arm to drape around her shoulders and pull her against him. A moment of quiet, of looking, passed before he dipped his head and kissed her. A slow kiss to the heartbeat of water gently lapping against stone. Her fingers pressed against his jawline and cupped his cheek. They parted and gazed at each other only a breath away, and Cullen saw droplets glittering upon her eyelashes.

Cullen stared at his Inquisitor. I should tell her. I should tell her now, tonight, before we go to bed. Before I wake her in the middle of the night. She deserves to know. Deserves a chance to… back out of this. "Darling," he started, "I… have to tell you something."

She traced the tip of one thumb along his lower lip, but her brows drew together. "Is something wrong?"

Cullen looked at her and sighed. "No. Well, yes. Well—it's not you, it's me. Oh, no," he cringed at her panicked expression, "no, I didn't mean it like that. What I mean is—" Cullen sighed again, but with a burst of exasperation, "—what I'm trying to say, is… I need you to know something about my withdrawal from lyrium."

The Inquisitor stared at Cullen. Her hand drifted from his jaw to his collarbone, settling like a lover's whisper upon his dampened skin. Cullen gazed at her, dread settling heavy upon his shoulders. "You should know that it has gotten worse. I have headaches during the day, my temper is testy at times, and during the night, I…" He shook his head, looking away from her. "I have terrible nightmares. Visions that cause me to toss in my sleep until I wake. I hate to tell you this, for you to know this about me. I should be stronger." His voice lowered to an angry growl. "I should be stronger. For you, for the Inquisition… I should not be as compromised as I am. Cassandra is still watching me. She may tell me at any time when I am no longer fit to serve the Inquisition. And if she does, I will step down from my duties." Cullen fixed his gaze upon the Inquisitor. She watched him, silent, her almond-shaped eyes riveted and full of concern, firelight dancing in their bold hues. "But I needed for you to know this. Since… you've asked me to move in with you. So that you are aware. If you want me to leave…" Cullen tried not to show the dismay he felt, "I'll understand."

His Inquisitor was terribly silent. There was a slight shift in the waters as she turned onto her side to face him, and for a long moment the only sound was warm water lapping against their still bodies. "Cullen…" Her voice pitched, and Cullen felt somehow sick. His heart lurched cold in his chest. "I don't want you to leave. Of course I don't." Her hand squeezed the hollow between his neck and shoulder. "I won't care if you wake me up during the night. Then I'll be able to tell you that everything is all right. I'll be able to hold you until you relax again. I'll be right there, next to you, and you'll never be alone with your nightmares again." Her eyes widened with pleading. "Just stay with me, please."

By the Maker, he marveled. Cullen cupped her cheek with his palm. "I'll stay. I want to be with you, Maker, you don't know how—" She closed his lips with hers. He coiled his right arm around her shoulders and pulled her tightly to him. Her kisses came quick and soft, steady like the water beating against them, saccharine as the lavender sweetening the air. Each kiss ebbed away at the worry that had tensed Cullen's body and mind. Each kiss flared ever greater his adoration for the Inquisitor. It roared within his chest and lit his soul afire. He held her tightly; his fingers squeezed upon her soft, wet skin. Goosebumps rose where her fingernails pricked. A familiar fire boiled in his belly. He knew that she felt that same blaze when her legs straddled his, when she sighed against his lips as his hand slid from her shoulder down the curve of her back, to the swell of her hip.

They paused. They breathed. He squeezed her. She pressed her forehead to his. They looked at each other, and Cullen's lips quirked upward in a crooked smile. "…You make a very convincing argument for me to stay," he whispered.

The Inquisitor bit her lower lip and smiled. "I can think of ways to be more convincing." He heard her hand slip under the water, and his breath seized in his chest—her fingertips brushed against his abdomen, dancing lower…

Cullen interrupted her with a brief, light kiss. "I love you." He sighed softly. "And… I've realized that that's all the reason I need to be here with you. I don't regret joining you in your quarters. I only hope that in time… that the withdrawal won't grow worse, that neither of us will regret this."

The Inquisitor continued to smile, and she shook her head. "We won't. I promise, Cullen." Her palm planted against his abdomen, and Cullen traced circles upon her hip with his thumb. "I will never regret any part of loving you."

Cullen smiled. "Nor will I." He kissed her again, this time fiercely, firmly. He pulled her to him and then twisted around so that her back pressed against the wall of the tub. The water pushed against them; he pushed against her, and she drew him close…

Red light glimmered in his vision. It pulsed, it screamed, it shattered. His mind burned.

Cullen watched Haven drown in fire. The archdemon soared over the snowcapped settlement, spewing streams of flame. The apothecary's abode caught and soon after exploded with a roaring blaze. Cullen ran towards the structure as ashes spit forth and blackened walls crumbled. "Adan!" he called. No answer. Cullen turned around. More panicked citizens and soldiers ran about, praying or weeping or both. "Get to the Chantry!" he yelled.

Something else crashed behind Cullen, something farther away and heavy. The archdemon beat its black wings and shrieked as it clawed at the earth. Cullen drew his sword. Something raced past him; The Herald!

"No!" he heard himself call. "No, don't! It's too powerful!" You'll be killed! The Inquisition can't lose you!

She sprinted towards the monster, drawing her weapon. Cullen ran after her at full tilt, his armor an impeding weight when once it was reassurance. As they neared the beast, a deep laugh caught the Commander's attention.

Corypheus grinned crookedly from his position some yards away from the snarling archdemon. "Do you think of helping her, Commander? Don't you realize that I have already won?" His voice boomed within Cullen's mind, every syllable a booming crash, and a sense of helplessness washed over the Commander. That voice, the Elder One, why do I fear it, why…

"Because you know that you cannot possibly thwart me," Corypheus replied. "The lyrium bids that you obey, templar."

"I do not take lyrium, monster!" Cullen gripped his sword. He charged, and came within strides of Corypheus as the Herald and her companions tore into red templars around them to reach the trebuchet.

All at once he jerked to the right, away from Corypheus's sneering lyrium-cracked visage. His sword swung for another target. It cut into the back of an Inquisition soldier.

No!

The man crumpled. Cullen slashed again; another good man fell. The pounding in his head increased in pain and volume, red light tinted his vision and gleamed from his sword, his thoughts screamed.

What am I doing!? Stop, I've got to stop!

I can't stop…

Corypheus laughed as Cullen cut down a handful of Haven's finest soldiers. They stood no chance against the templar's enhanced speed and strength. Cullen's blade dripped with evidence of his unwilling betrayal. His heart lurched with horror. His mind hummed with lyrium's maddening song.

I never took red lyrium. I never took it!

"Who's to say what lyrium you took and what you didn't?" Corypheus cackled. "It does not matter. You have become what you most fear. You are a slave to what you could not resist. You are mindless. And you are mine."

Mindless. Monstrous. His. Cullen did not stop as the last man fell. He kept his blood-quenched blade unsheathed. He turned to the last Haven combatant standing.

She stopped turning the trebuchet and looked at him. "Cullen, stop!" Her voice trailed as a blade pushed into her stomach, slid out of her back and cut into the trebuchet behind her.

The lyrium sang louder than ever before when he withdrew his blade and the Herald collapsed. She darkened with a different sort of red.

Maker, no… no…

The lyrium screamed in his mind.

Leave me…

Red tinged his very thoughts.

Leave me.

Everything melted into fear and rage and frantic and fight and pain, pain, pain—

LEAVE ME!

Cullen thrashed, something coiled around his legs, soft and sleek, something else grabbed his right arm and pinned it down, and his fist clenched so hard that he could feel his own palm tearing.

"Cullen!" Her voice. "Cullen, wake up!" It was her voice.

Red gave way to dark. Dark fled from rays of blue moonlight slanting through tall windows, across cool stone walls and cream-colored sheets around his legs and his bare body cold with sweat.

The hand upon his wrist squeezed hard. "Cullen?" Her voice, though whispered, cracked with fear. "Can you hear me?"

He looked at her. And saw her. Her lips pulled downward in a deep frown, and her brow furrowed with alarm. Cullen stared at her, his heart continuing to pound from lingering panic. He recognized her, and this room, and memories returned to him all at once to ground Cullen again in reality.

I am with the Inquisitor. He smelled lavender sweet and secret upon the air. Violet bubbles on rippling water colored his memory.

I am in her quarters. He remembered wet footprints darkening upon stone and carpet before dripping limbs tangled in sheets the color of lambswool.

We are now living together. He felt the firm bed beneath him, the bed they now shared, and recalled how the thick mattress had steadily quaked with their bodies' rhythm.

I've just had a nightmare. He looked into his lover's eyes and saw fear to match his own. A fear not unlike what he had seen in her during that terrible imagined sequence, when his blade had slid into her stomach and sliced the life from her.

Andraste preserve me. I've had a lyrium nightmare next to her…

Cullen blinked. His throat burned inexplicably. "I," his voice cracked with hoarseness, "I can." He swallowed. "I can hear you." He stared at the Inquisitor as she crouched over him and brought his hand to her cheek.

"Cullen…" She in turn caressed his cheek. "My love, you were dreaming."

"No," he croaked, "that was no dream. The lyrium makes horrors out of dreams." He sighed, he turned his hand to cup her cheek. "And I've woken you and worried you. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." She slid down to rest her head upon his chest, her hair fanning over his shoulder, her arm sliding around his waist. He held her tightly and turned his head towards her, brushing his nose against her hair and kissing the top of her head. "It's the lyrium withdrawal. It's not your fault."

Cullen heaved a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't… I shouldn't be disturbing you with this. You're the Inquisitor. Though I have my duties, you have so much more to attend to." His fingers rubbed and kneaded against her back, and he felt her breathing deepen.

"Cullen, I'm fine. I want to be right here with you." Her cheek pushed against his chest as she looked up at him. "You shouldn't have to endure every night alone, if it's like this." He felt her arms squeeze tighter around him. "I can't believe it's been this bad and I've hardly spent time with you—"

"That isn't your fault." Cullen looked at her. "You must travel throughout Thedas, and I must remain in Skyhold. We have no choice in those matters." He shifted and coiled one leg over hers. Cullen again sighed, yet now softly and calmly. "But I do not regret for a moment my decision to stop taking lyrium. Thank you for helping me to believe that I can do this."

Cullen heard the Inquisitor smile. She lifted her head just enough to meet his gaze, and he took in the sight of moonlight illuminating her expressive eyes, the delicious hollow of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts and the glow upon her bare skin. She pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "I will always believe in you, no matter where I must be."

He smiled slow and peaceful, his heart rolling with warmth. "Would that I could stay here forever." Now he lightly kissed her. "That a moment like this could never end." He squeezed the small of her back.

The Inquisitor sighed, ghosting her fingertips along his collarbone. "I love you so much, Cullen." She smiled warmly, her gaze fixing upon his with that familiar gleam of adoration that never failed to send a thrill through his heart.

He brought his forehead to hers and closed his eyes, feeling her breathe with him, her chest pressing against his. Her body's heat seeped luxuriantly onto his skin. Cullen felt her legs shift between his as she rested against him. He inhaled a deep breath and tasted the sweetness of lavender upon her hair, the spice of sweat upon her skin, and the delectable tang of their lovemaking further down along her body. She was comfort, she was security and peace and power and gentleness. She was perfect, and she was his.

"I love you, too."

Though all before me is shadow,

Yet shall the Maker be my guide.

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.

For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

Trials 1:14