More than Addiction

No one knows, 'tis but a secret. Only between a mage and her templar can there be peace, lyrium and magic their bond. Cullen x F!Hawke

This fan fiction might contain spoilers, canon and also non-canon endeavours and history. In response to a prompt, Knight Captain Cullen is no longer satisfied with just lyrium.

Author: Illusionary Ennui

Disclaimer: If it's not in the Dragon Age games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware.

Chapter Word Count: 3,200 (so far)

Chapter Rating: M/E

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Romance.

Beta: N/A

Edited: 09.26.2011 - Just a few little things...

Part III: Days of Doubt

An uncertainty
A taste of danger and life
More than simple greed

What am I doing here? How can she be so trusting, so willing?

Knight-Captain Cullen contemplated the decisions before him as he stared down at the quiet mage awaiting his reply. Dark eyes held him with confusion and the remnants of awakened desire, ignorant of the stain of vomit on her robes - shame wracked him, his addiction far worse than imagined. The templar's lips thinned into a firm line in an effort to deny her questioning gaze and the lingering taste of her mixed with lyrium, tainted by the bitter bile that coated his tongue. Even as he turned his focus to his own folly, the disgrace of his addiction, it was her presence that distracted him from the sickening flavour dominating his senses. Despite it all, he flushed in the feverish wake of something more primal as it clashed with withdrawal, his ears tinged bright red. From within, magic teased every nerve and demanded more, engulfed by the prospect. A delicate whisper of power thrummed at his core, a breath of renewed strength.

Maker, help me.

So close to the source, a frisson of shock shot down his spine. He asked himself the question again as though the reasoning hovered just beyond his reach. Silence filled the space between them, each lost to one another's own thoughts.

Logic provided him with few answers, each query more pressing than the last. His choice in the champion stemmed from the simple fact that she remained unchained by the Circle, protected by titles and fate. Yet, it must have been something more. Was it admiration? Compassion? Respect? Could it have been the notion of his own loneliness as the burden of duty weighed heavy upon his shoulders? He frowned, buried beneath the storm of concern and reflection. It should not have been so easy to offer his affections, bound as he was to the machinations of his responsibilities and scarred by his past experiences. Had he not promised to never again grow too close to his charge, to distance himself for duty's sake?

The sincere words had rolled with ease from his tongue, not a single thought spared for the repercussions when he spoke.They rang out from instinct, unchecked. Nevertheless, Cullen refused to rein them in, the memory of her astonishment fresh in his mind despite the guilt and bewilderment that plague him.

Once more, he questioned his sanity. Mages aren't people, he used to tell himself and the new recruits, untried and unlearned of the dangers ahead. Day after day, duty reminded Cullen of the difficulties with those who abandoned control, who consorted with demons of their own twisted volition - those named maleficar. Some claimed it as a means to an end, but deep down, only will and desire drove them into darkness. He cringed at the slightest recollection, witness to the depths which the most desperate or sinister would plunge. The appalling memories overwhelmed him and he shivered, a light sheen of sweat blossomed down his neck and on his forehead.

Marie Hawke, however, railed against the usage of blood magic, refused to defile her soul with dark promises. A part of him believed her incapable of the same unforgivable atrocities when she herself handed over those of her kind who practiced the forbidden art. Someone truly possessed would not act as such, would they? No, stalwart certainty assured him that she would never fall prey, at least willingly, to a demon's wicked call.

Yet she herself maintained an odd sort of freedom few mages ever realized, her liberty granted only at the mercy of her usefulness. Like him, she was a mere pawn in a gilded cage, blood on her hands as she endeavoured to sustain an unstable balance between the forces arrayed against her. The woman's neutrality aside, her support remained torn between both sides dependent upon the circumstance. Though she favoured her own kind, she treated maleficar the same as any templar would - was she any different than him?

The Knight-Captain recalled the wafer-thin margin he walked between kindness and ruthlessness, a line in the sand toed to the breaking point. Raised in the life, where his once accepted his lot, Cullen wondered about the actions he performed in the name of duty, the blood he spilt. All the personal suffering he spent every waking moment to reconcile became weeping sores. Each in turn exploded into blinding light, magnified by one memory: the woman he had lost, a kindred spirit that he had failed. Burned by the remembrance, he once more worried that maybe, just maybe, she had been right.

Melancholy words echoed in his sorrow-riddled mind, the faded ponderings of a ghost from his past who accepted the necessity of the Order. As a templar, his hallowed role existed to protect not only the people of Thedas from unrestrained magic, but also the mages from themselves. By his hands, his sword had been pledged to watch over them and direct them from the path that would lead them astray, to care for their safety... to care for her.

The mere thought of the lost expelled everything else, the sour taste of bile prominent. Naught but inexorable failure and agonizing loss remained, each too much to bear.

A soft, gentle touch to his ruddy cheek drew him from the pit of his buried past and he found himself thrown back into reality. All at once, Cullen's unexpected confidence since his decision to take such a path slipped through his fingers in the wake of his damned memories. The haze of desire lifted, a sense of terror-driven clarity calmed the conflagration that carried him into untested waters. Shaken, he dissolved into a broken man. Standing before Hawke was the hapless, apprehensive templar before the bloodshed of Kinloch Hold. Fear washed over him, unready for the endeavour he himself proposed as another wave of doubt overtook him. Would she reject him? Would it be all for nothing, even matter in the end when he could not even control his own fear and be the man they both needed?

"Cullen?"

Though he admired her concern as she ascertained his sudden discomfort, his head pounded to the point of dizziness while he drowned in depression and suffered from the after-effects of lyrium withdrawal. Her quite call went ignored over the rush of blood against his temples and the frantic tattoo of his heart as it berated his ribs. When she asked him for an explanation, the quivering resonance of worry tainting her voice, he proffered her lies - he cannot tell her, not yet.

In need of an escape, Cullen instead presented her with a courteous bow and begged his leave. Her expression of hurt followed him into the cool Kirkwall evening, the rain slick on the cobblestones that led away from his dishonour.

The next night found the Knight-Captain on the Champion's doorstep and then at her gracious table. Alone in her chambers, they shared a simple, pleasant meal in near silence, each reluctant to catch the other's errant gaze. Whether in response to trepidation or doubt, neither the Champion nor her guest voiced their concern. Barely a word or three filled the space between them before their repast's end save for an afterthought statement of gratitude.

Cullen broke first under the oppression of the stillness. He shifted his gaze to discover Marie bathed in firelight, the cracked mask of her false pride stripped away. The red-orange glow shadowed in soft lines of her countenance as she cast her eyes down to half-eaten portion of her plate for distraction. Roving eyes studied her frozen form to linger at the hint of skin beneath the silk, tantalizing. Brimming with hesitation, his pulse tripped beneath the tensed muscles of his neck as a chance of daring gripped him. Unbidden, his hand reached across the linen spread to graze his fingers over the back of her hand. The skin twitched at his touch and gooseflesh radiated away from the point of contact as the tingle of magic sparked between them, her ambient energies ever present. It teased and tempted him with the promise of power, strength untouched while it waited to be seized. A tiny gasp of surprise preceded the heated flush that burned across both the mage's cheeks and his own. Her nervous fingers slipped into his clammy palm without provocation and his calloused lengths, shaped by the sword, curled around them. His broad thumb stroked across her knuckles until she grew lax within his grasp, the tension eased. Another jolt of desire set his blood afire when he watched her lick her lips, the lower one worried between her teeth.

The Champion's hooded gaze snapped up to meet his, as unexpected and shocking as snow on a midsummer's day. Taken aback, he stared at her, confounded while he lost himself in their watery depths. A small, sheepish smile spread across Cullen's lips and a vibrant blush betrayed his honour when she tore her eyes away, her query unclear in her mumbling. Repeating her question only served to elevate the strained pressure among them as it hung in the thickened air, charged with her wayward magic and the heady scents of perspiration and concealed arousal. Each laboured breath brought the vapours of magic into his lungs to fuel his need, lyrium forgone in favour of the exchange.

Her sudden shyness baffled him when she asked him if he intended to commence their experiment in its fullness that very night. A mere touch was only a prelude to something greater, more potent. Tonight, it was the ambient magic that teased him, the uncontrolled energies that surrounded any mage, but a taste of the power they could wield. She could give him more and meant to freely. Yet he struggled to accept that promise.

Her hushed, anxious request rocked him and he withdrew his hand from hers as though scalded. The discouraged templar mourned the loss of her magic's steady strength while he lamented the crestfallen expression that marred her visage. It astonished him at how willing she seemed, so ready to please. He measured the expression of sorrow, forged over the many years of pain and loss. Denied more than pleasure, he read the whole of her existence in her countenance: a life dedicated toward the well-being of those around her, whatever the cost.

So naïve, so broken - who was he to take advantage of that without something more than the simple bond they shared? Was it wrong to want and be wanted, to love and be loved, not bound by need?

Cullen forced himself to decline. A wide hand drifted up her arm as he leaned forward and lifted her clenched jaw to meet his gaze. In her eyes, he gathered the truth mirrored in his own - he was not ready to walk this path, nor did he believe that she shared the complete conviction, regardless of the heat that left them wanton. Years of discipline preserved both their virtues for another night as he drew back, dangerously close to stealing an unearned kiss from tremulous, half-parted lips. The briefest touch lit a fire in his belly but he stayed his hands, fisted them at his sides. Through gritted teeth, he bid her a fond good night before he threw himself from her chambers and from the estate.

It was all too much, the moves made too fast.

Tossed about on the stormy seas of his troubling thoughts, the Knight-Captain paid no heed to the motion of the real ship that carried him back to the Gallows. His sickness forgotten in favour of an internal struggle, reservations and uncertainty distracted him all the way to his quarters. The course so ingrained in his mind, his feet never strayed in his uneasiness. Hardened leather boots landed with a heavy step as he disembarked the ship, its captain's eyes and disapproval of the late hour burned into his back. Footsteps sounded a hollow echo through the courtyard, the night guard silent but wary of the returning Knight-Captain. Their stares followed him into the adjacent square and up to the main gate. The gatekeeper recognized his face when he withdrew the hood of his cloak and the hapless guard ushered him into the barracks without further inquiry. A restless chance of investigate assured him that the Knight-Commander had long since sought her bed, no candlelight poured beneath her door - his unapproved absence had not yet risen an alarm. A sigh of relief whistled past his lips as he traipsed across the empty court and up the stairs. The heavy door creaked when he entered the barracks and he slipped inside. Weak torches illuminated his path while they cast long shadows down the corridor, their red-gold light bright in his dark-accustomed eyes.

Luck favoured him in his cautious progress. Not a single lieutenant heeded the indistinct rustle of his arrival, each, those not out on night patrol, sound asleep in the darkness before dawn. Another wave of relief comforted him, his strides steady and quiet until he reached his destination and locked himself away. Safe in the unlit sanctuary of his private rooms at the end of the officers' hall, Cullen sat upon the edge of his modest bed and bowed his head in silent prayer. His heart bared to the Maker, he prayed for guidance in light of the road laid before him, that his actions were born of righteousness rather than simple need. Raised in the life, he knew the truth behind Meredith Stannard's austerity, her troubled past, and often defended her against those who spoke out against her when it was by her hand the worst of the lost were brought to heel. Yet, even now, he wondered which cause he served, the divine purpose of the templars or Meredith's own design. Within his mind, the boundary painted to separate them wavered, an obscure marker between insanity and desperation. He had seen the mark of true madness before, the manic gleam in Uldred's eyes, but the Knight-Commander only hinted that sort of dissoluteness and he prayed that she would not descend to those depths. Perhaps by his hands, he might dissuade his superior from further rashness and tame her paranoia with the Champion's aid.

Though he had once promised himself to never question the purpose of the Order, each day it proved harder not to ignore the rumoured whispers, the pitiful shrieks and unwanted glimpses of something more sinister.

There was always a better way, he swore. Possessed of nothing more than an ideal, Cullen marshalled himself against the threat ahead and asked for strength to overcome his doubts. He kissed the thumbs of his clasped hands as he ended his appeal, consoled by the age old practice. It comforted him, at least for a time.

In the dimness of quarters, he stripped off his clothes while he measured the tightness of his muscles and the stiffness of his joints. A tired eye spared but a glance for the polished armour of his station, the heavy plate glinting in the corner from its stand. A fleeting thought, that for one night Cullen lived free of its shadow, filled him as he lay on the soft mattress of his bunk.

It was not to last. To his dismay, the sweet oblivion of dreams evaded his wounded soul, unable to sleep as old memories sought to consumer him. To expect any different one night out of many was a foolish notion, not after years of suffering. With every set of the sun until its rise, she visited his red-washed nightmares. Bloodied, broken and bruised, her empty eyes haunted him even after he closed them in eternal darkness. Each and every time, he held her lifeless hand and swore that she would be the last. It was that loss that spurred him into focused dedication. From that moment, all personal thought driven into exile, he avowed his might into single-minded servitude... until now.

The broken image of the lost morphed into the Champion at his behest. His imagination formed her into lucid detail and her sad eyes flashed with the same glimmer of lust that he chained away in his mind, the very same they fought to deny. Her enigmatic smile washed away the pain and replaced it with released longing, a wondrous taste of freedom beyond the weight of obligation and origin. Far different from his past, she deserved so much more than half-hearted promises and insincere actions.

I must be mad, he imagined with a sigh, but it seems I am not alone in this.

On the other hand, some piece of him shuddered with hesitation. Cullen dared not to commit himself completely for fear of reprisal. Despite the inherent ache of loss and the acceptance, she proffered support without regard for his position, a nightmare for her kind. Stricken, the templar within rationalized away the infectious indecision before he devised and pursued a remedy for the qualms that denied him the hope of reprieve and gratification.

All her life, people used her and she willingly gave herself to their needs, their causes. If a mage of her circumstance could serve the Maker's children as she did, maybe he was wrong to judge others according to standards set forth by his blood- and magic-stained past. Although she bore the gift since birth, Marie turned her curse toward the betterment of those around her instead of personal gain. All the while, she condemned the abusers of the same mould to contain the threat posed by the reckless – she refused to neither suffer the sins of blood magic nor weather those who sought it. That alone warranted his respect, but it was so much more than that.

Though she shared far too much with another, their memories intertwined, the Champion proved herself worthy time and time again. In her company, he exuded confidence and found some semblance of peace in the comfort of her presence. For her sake and his own, he banished the remains of the rambling mess of a lad from the Fereldan Circle and that of the insecure soldier who once attempted to interrogate the ladies of the Blooming Rose while he tried to ignore their wiles. A part of him owed her a great debt for her gifts: the best of his heart brought to light, the inner strength not stolen through her magic.

But what did he have to offer in return? A thousand thoughts hastened across his mind, a thousand possibilities. As slumber began to welcome him into its embrace, Cullen pressed two fingers to his lips to hold onto the lingering impression of her petal-soft mouth against the most sensitive skin on the entirety of his body. By the time the Fade claimed him, a balance between duty and desire was struck only to be washed away in a flood of anguish and blood.

Until the morning bells woke him, the unchanging, unyielding nightmares tore through his shattered spirit. Each one the same, night after night since that fateful day in the Circle, 'twas the day he watched her die...

To be continued...

Author's Note: All right, I admit that that last chapter was a bit shite, but I hope I've made up for the awkwardness... if only slightly. Fun fact: yes, the skin of your lips is the most sensitive on your entire body - thank you, Nathan Wournos. *sighs* That aside, I'm done setting the scene for the most part - all story from this point save for a flashback, if my notes are to be believed, in the chapter after next... I hope. Even so, I do apologize for taking so long - I'll get this beta'd when I can.