Reading material

I want to give you everything you deserve, and relieve you of those pressures that you take/

Irritable didn't cut it.

Cassandra had thrown more than one knowing quirked-brow in his direction in response to his more ill-tempered than usual barking at his recruits. To the fade with them all, he thought, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate his cranium-splitting migraine.

He longed to feel the slow ebb of relief course through his veins, the cold power settle in his gut as the Lyrium took hold. He needed to feel that sense of purpose again, the illusion of total control. May if he took just a little…

An errant arrow, blunted for training, but still dangerous nonetheless, embedded itself in the fencing post not inches from his thigh. The recruit who had misfired was turning rather pale, and not without reason – he had seen his commander lose it before at some of his comrades, but never had he had a cause before this moment to direct it at him.

Sure enough, Cullen unloaded a barrage of demeaning and disparaging comments about aim and being the son of a half-wit farmer, feeling his throat burning from the raw ire that spewed from his lips. He felt a dull ache in his fist, noting that he had punched the nearest wall in frustration.

How, in all Thedas, was he expected to provide the Inquisitor with battle-ready troops to face the biggest threat the Kingdoms had ever seen, if they couldn't tell friend from foe when firing arrows?

How in the name of the Maker were they expected to face Red Templars, Corrupted Grey Wardens, demons and whatever else the Void threw at them, if his troops didn't train seriously?

How was he supposed to give the Inquisition his whole self, if piece by miniscule piece was sapping away as each day went by, all because he wanted to sever himself from the Templars? No, not the Templars, but what had taken place on their account. What he hadn't been able to forget, in every waking moment since.

He was fighting against the calling of his blood, as the night stole what resolve and energy he needed to get through each day, replaying each of his failures, weaknesses, worst memories…

He should be taking it!

"You're dismissed for the day," He heard himself say, hoarse and defeated. "You'd better be ready for training tomorrow, or I'll duel you into the dirt myself."

He trudged from the training yard, unaware of Cassandra's worried eyes fixed on his retreating back.

As the sun sank over the mountains, setting the snowy peaks alight, a tap at his door brought him from his trance staring out the window.

"Not now!" He called out, rubbing his thumb along the threatening-to-become-permanent crease in his brow.

"Sorry Sir, I have a message for you from the Inquisitor. She requests your presence for a meeting immediately."

-0-

"You sent a messenger for me, Inquisitor?" He lingers at the top of the stairs, realising that this is the first time he has been inside the Inquisitor's chambers. They are pleasingly humble, for someone of noble origins, and he notes jealously the intact ceiling and beautiful glass windows leading to a balcony.

"Ah, Commander Cullen, thank you for coming. Won't you take a seat? I'll be with you momentarily." She is installed behind her desk, a quill furiously scribbling across parchment with a rather satisfying staccato of scratches. A fire pops merrily in her fireplace, bathing the room in a warm amber glow.

The messenger who had brought him here hovered by her desk, doing an excellent job of blending into the stonework. A young female elf, with dark brown hair tugged back at the base of her neck. He seen her many times before, dashing to and from across the keep. He was ashamed to say he couldn't recall her name.

He takes the aforementioned seat somewhat awkwardly. The upholstery looks rather too expensive.

Signing her final message with a flourish, her inkpot closes with a pleasing pink sound. "Elsa, would you be so kind to take these messages to Lilliana as your final duty of the evening. Thank you for being so insistent with the Commander, especially in the face of his recent ill temper." The lilt of teasing in her tone was punctuated by the tinkle of coins. "For your trouble- just don't spend it all in the Tavern, will you?"

He watched the young girl smile brightly at the Inquisitor, before hurrying dutifully from the room. Ysabel waits, leaning against the edge of her desk, ear cocked for the closing click of her door. When it sounds, she gives a satisfied sigh, smiling brightly at him.

"Inquisitor…?"

"Now, first thing's first. I've invited you to my private chambers and we are, as of now, off duty. Please – at least call me Ysabel." She pivots at the waist to reach for a demijohn stood waiting at the edge of her desk, pouring the contents into two simple earthenware vessels. She moves across the room to join him seated amongst the cushions on the padded bench, handing him a glass of what turned out to be wine – rather excellent wine.

"Marvellous, isn't it?" She remarks, turning the cup in her palm. "I persuaded our dear Dorian to grant me some of his Tevinter stash – don't worry, you can't turn into a blood mage just by drinking wine, I assure you."

"Did you just invite me here to drink wine?" He had intended to sound teasing (Maker's breath, who knew flirting could be dangerous), but he knew he had expressed bitterness and disgruntlement instead. He tugs free his gloves with his teeth, to better massage at his temple.

"Actually, yes. Is that… a problem?" A gentle furrow forms on her forehead and he regrets himself even more. She had enough worries without his own, trivial by comparison.

"Oh, Maker's breath… I'm beginning to tire of myself of late. Inqui- Ysabel… I apologise. That came out all wrong."

"I thought you could use a drink. With a friendly face." She tucks her knees up alongside her, wine balanced in one hand, her cheek resting in the other, fingers buried in her ebony hair. "That is… if I am such to you. I wasn't proud of how we left things the last time we spoke."

He doesn't quite know what to say to that, though she seemed content enough with the silence he left, her gaze skimming the ceiling as if in thought. He takes a mouthful of wine, allowing the palette of florals and spices to ensnare his senses. Not that a man from such humble beginnings could detect them all to the same alarming accuracy the aforementioned dear Dorian could.

"I sent the Templar specialist away, did you hear? I felt if I chose to be trained by him, after everything we have discussed it would be… hypocritical of me. I have no wish to take Lyrium, especially not now."

He hadn't heard about that, actually. He silently reminded himself to drop a scathing thank you for nothing in during his next briefing with Josephine. Not least because he had made an ass of himself for loudly criticising the decision at the War table (and also privately to Cassandra). Not to mention the silent grudging resentment that had been building within him for weeks.

"That's… I appreciate it. I would not have spoken so if I felt it would have truly benefited you… A-and the Inquisition. I… Thank you, Inquisitor."

She reaches across the short space between them to place a cool fingertip on his forehead, poking him gently with each word. "Ysabel. Say it. Ys-a-bel. I want to hear you say my name, Cullen Stanton Rutherford."

A distant voice in the recess of his mind supplies a rather unhelpful dirty joke – had he truly been spending too much time with Dorian? "I think it might take more wine for the habit to break, Inquisitor." With a quirk of his lip that distorts his scar slightly, he tips his empty cup.

Somewhere after the second refill of the demijohn (he'd lost count of the refills of his cup by then) he notices she seems distracted by something, worrying her bottom lip as she did in the War Council, when a particular moral quandary was being mulled around in her mind.

"Is something troubling you, Inquisitor?"

Her shy smile catches him of guard. "You're troubling me, Cullen. Since we met last and we discussed your withdrawal symptoms I… I checked out every book in that damn library about Templars." She rises, suddenly agitated, pacing around the small table where the detritus of their drinking lays abandoned. "I consumed everything I could on Lyrium, Templars, history of The Circle… I read too many research tomes about the effects of Lyrium withdrawal I… I almost scared myself enough to march right over to your office with a vial of the stuff to beg you to take it myself."

Sure enough, with a quick appraisal of her desk area, he notes carefully stacked up tomes, some with reference sheets sticking out at various points, loops of her handwriting visible as she made notes here and there.

"I learned that if trauma was suffered during a previous period of Lyrium withdrawal, then those memories return to the forefront of your consciousness. I requested a detailed copy of your dossier, to try and learn more, but… I didn't read it. It felt unfair to treat you like that, like a… like a target I needed to know about to exploit weakness. I wanted to give you an opportunity to share it with me, if you trusted me enough."

He opens his mouth, and then closes it. She had spent time learning how she might be able to help him. She wanted to know more about him. He was equally touched and filled with revulsion at the notion.

"I… I have done things I am not proud of in my life. In service to the Templars, and, so I thought, to the Maker himself. I did not live up to the ideal of the Templar I wanted to be." He sighed heavily, shoulder plates heaving. Standing, he wanders toward the desk, picking up and turning in his hands a volume about famous Templars of the ages. "I left the Templars with bloodied hands and I…"

"We've all done things we're not proud of, Cullen. You should not allow your mistakes to define you." She follows, leaning on the desk beside him, placing her palm on the book's cover, steadying its movement in his hands. With nothing to busy himself with, he is forced to look into her face. Such compassion, desire to understand, to forgive…

"You don't understand! I knew what had to be done! I knew that what was going on in the Circle at Kirkwall was destined to end in disaster, in bloodshed! But I did nothing!" He takes the volume and hurls it at the wall above the stairwell. The binding splits apart on contact, the pages drifting about like oversized confetti. The gentle swish swish as they fall is a blanket of sound over his heaving breaths.

"What happened to me at the Circle in Ferelden…" He continues, his body closing up to her as the memories return to haunt him anew. "I was tortured. They tried to break my mind and… all my compassion turned to hate. I became a person you would not recognise." Cullen's voice had taken on a soft quality, visibly fighting to form the right words to articulate what must have been extremely painful for him to recall.

He runs a hand across his visage, pinching at his throat in agitation.

"Cullen…" She is closer, stepping into his guard before he can protest, before he can consider all the reasons why he shouldn't be. "You are a good man. An honourable man."

"What about you? You're the Herald of Andraste, The Maker's Chosen. Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick. You don't get to make mistakes." He was giving her signals, loud and clear. He was one such mistake she could make, if she continued to place her trust in him like this. He wasn't worthy of the Inquisition.

"You want to know the real kicker? The real reason I was at the Conclave?" She is toying with the ruby fabric draping his chest plate, agitated.

He feels cold settle in his stomach. Where was she going with this?

"I had been sent to the Conclave by my family. I was a third-born wayward daughter. I had been escorted by a small retinue to be pledged to become a member of the Chantry, and if they wouldn't have me, the Wardens."

"The Wardens? Maker's Breath, how… wayward were you, exactly?"

She laughed, fingers twitching upward, into the fur of his mantle. "Wayward enough. I was trained in swordplay from a young age- indulged by my father. He and I were close, until his death. Up until then, I was trained as a nobly boy might be, if not more. I showed promise, though to what end I wanted to take my skills, only the Maker knew. When my father passed, my Mother put a stop to my training, although she could do little to prevent me from training with the local Chantry Templars.

"Not only that- I was a black sheep in the family in more ways than one- I refused suitors, the very idea of marrying into another noble family. Instead, I favoured… well… I had a brief relationship with a young Templar named Mickhael, let's put it that way. He was sent away not long after that. I heard that he died, a few years ago."

"I'm… I'm sorry."

She half shrugged. "It was just a brief liaison, nothing more, but enough to mar my reputation to make me unmarriageable. At the Conclave… I… I had planned to run; to give the small company of guards that I came with the slip, and become… a nobody. I'd even chosen a name for myself – Bella Compton."

The gravity of what she had told him settled upon him. "Not quite what you had planned, was it? Walking into the Fade, becoming the Herald of Andraste… and then, leader of the Inquisition. You wanted to disappear, but instead you-"

"- became the most visible person in all of Thedas."

They fell into silence.

His gaze settled on the crown of her head, his height acting as a disadvantage to reading her expression. Inch by glorious inch, restless fingers had crept beneath the edge of his fur mantle, restless thumbs rubbing soothing circles at the nape of his neck. The sensation was exquisite, calm settling in his core, knots of tension that had been tied up for months threatening to come loose. He braces himself against the edge of the desk, hands either side of her hips.

"I'm sorry, Bella." He broke their companionable silence, punctuating his utterance with a deep sigh.

"You don't owe me an apology, Cullen." She tilts her face upwards toward him, delighting privately in the way his pupils constricted as he focussed on her face, in how his irises were molten in the firelight. Her palms drag upward, to cup his jaw. "I'm here to talk if you need. Whenever you need."

-0-

His Worst Nightmare

It had been Josephine who came break the news.

Her usual ubiquitous papers and quill were gone, drawing his attention to her trembling hands, how she fiddles with the cuffs of her ruffled blouse.

"What is it?" He can't help but feel nervous for what she had come to say. The hour alone did not bode well for her tidings. It was late, his candle almost burned to the base. He had been about to retire to bed, was part way through removing his armour.

"The Inquisitor's party have returned to camp earlier than we expected. They… She is…" the ambassador's voice breaks. "Her body is in the Chapel."

He passed like a ghost through corridors, stumbling through doors with his shoulder braced against the wood, unable to accept the truth. Not until it was in front of him. Tangible, undeniable. Real.

Her eyes, usually glimmering with life and energy are like still pools of water in the moonlight. He tugs off her gloves, finding her fingers cold and stiff. Her blood coats his fingertips as they tremble at her lips.

He couldn't save her. He hadn't been there this time to carry her.

He wakes with a gasp, fighting for air over the sobs that wrack his body. Sweat coats his skin, drenching his nightshirt. The cold mountain air buffeting in through the gaps in the stone does little to offer him reprieve.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Cullen shoves on his boots before slipping down the ladder, almost stumbling in his haste to reach the bottom. The moon is high in the courtyard, revealing it devoid of its usual hustle and bustle. His reality so far is echoing that of his recent nightmare and rising panic threatens to bubble to the surface.

He has opened the door to her chambers and crested the stairs, before he can think of how foolish his reasoning was for being there at this ungodly hour. He had a bad dream, and he felt the need to sneak into a woman's chamber as she slept?

The fire has all but burned to embers, giving him little light by which to navigate the room. The frame of her bed and the drapes around it are but shadows. A shaft of moonlight spills across her bedspread, blessedly guiding him to his destination and proving that indeed she lay within.

Bella lay sleeping, shoulders softly rising and falling as she breathed, hair the colour of ink spilled across her pillow.

His palpable relief terrified him in ways he didn't have the capacity to understand.

He did not sleep again that night.

/and as the cold comes and covers the mind, I want to know that your body is real.

Eaves, Timber

-0-

I want to post this onto AO3 because there is some M material planned for later on. Reviews are slow to come, so maybe I'll get more feedback there?

Anyhoo, if you're reading, I'd like to know your thoughts!