A/N 1 - By request, I've working on some stories set in the Claimed universe. These are independent from the main storyline and will have no impact on it. Most of these will be explicit and NSFW. The first one is about how Knight-Captain Rylen ended up with two Claimed mages. If you're interested, you can find it on my profile page under "Claimed - The Side Stories".

A/N 2 - The original plan for this chapter was to get all the way through to them departing Amaranthine. I decided to stop much earlier because 1) it would have been much to sprawling, with too much going on, and I didn't want to draw emphasis away from Cullen and Evelyn's conversation, and 2) my work is very seasonal in nature and my super busy time starts in a few days. I wanted to get out something before that happens so hence a rather short chapter. I don't know when I'll have time to post another part - 14 hour days/7 days a week leaves little time or energy for writing. Please be patient. I promise to work on the next chapter as much as I can in the coming months.

OOO

Cullen took a sip of water, letting the sweet-tasting liquid rinse away the acrid bile. He dropped the scoop back into the water barrel as another crash of a wave had him rushing to lean on shaky arms over the ship's side. There was nothing left to come up but his treacherous stomach refused to settle down. His head pounded in counterpoint to each roll of the ship, his skin radiating heat despite the teeth-chattering chill of the strong night breezes. His throat was parched. His back ached with each motion, even shallow breathing sending tremors of intense pain across the overworked muscles.

He sank back into the recess formed by the provisions lashed to the ship's decking. It provided him privacy, some slight relief from the winds but also created a chasm of isolation. Despite having a few of the ship's crew moving around the deck in the quiet of the night, even knowing that Sula, Declan, and Evelyn slept not far away below deck, Cullen felt as if he were marooned on a desolate island, an impenetrable separation from everything and everyone.

It was not an unfamiliar feeling, the loneliness that had descended, he realized. Without the masking cloud of lyrium euphoria, he felt lonely and lost. Lyrium and the need for it had overshadowed everything else in his life for decades. Since his very first sip of the bitter blue liquid, it seemed as if he had been falling into an abyss with nothing to break his fall. It had become his moral compass. Be the obedient Templar the Chantry expected and get your daily dose. Follow orders, no matter how appalling, or have it withheld. His life, until the moment he left the vial on his desk that morning, had revolved around the glowing icy blue fluid. That incredible tang he tasted each morning. The counting of hours until he could savor it again. The clamoring for extra duties and promotions that would ensure him increasing dosages. Lyrium had been the foci of his existence yet it had estranged him from life as well.

Sula often teased him about his awkwardness around women but his social ineptness went beyond that. He could issues orders to be sure. Follow them, not always with ease but follow nonetheless. He could discuss training techniques and debate how best to utilize troops on the field of battle. But with few exceptions, he always felt a disconnect with others, an inability to understand their drives, motivations, passions. Lyrium was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that should matter. That people could care about anything beyond how to get more of the icy fluid mystified him. Where others could heartily and easily laugh, he always felt his laughter to be hollow and lacking. Aggression he could understand. Fury, hatred, disgust all seemed natural but joy, happiness, contentment were emotions he mimicked without truly experiencing. Now, in the early throes of withdrawal, he was realizing just how stunted his emotions had become, how much he had used lyrium to suppress his internal despondency. He had felt entirely detached from everything and everyone, including himself, for too long.

As alien an emotion as it was, he had been so hopeful just a few hours ago. He had broken the Chantry's leash, proclaimed his independence, become his own man, made the decision to forsake lyrium. Optimism had flowed through him, drowning out the doubts. Yet now, a shroud of misgivings was beginning to choke him. He was terrified. Hopelessness and helplessness taking hold. His mind was a fog, his thoughts dark and confusing. He was fatigued yet agitated. A worthless disappointment promoted far beyond his means. He just knew that everything was about to come crashing down around him. Cassandra, Leliana, and Most Holy would soon realize the momentous mistake they had made in putting their trust in him.

Cullen leaned back, rubbing his palms against his painfully dry eyes. He tried to will his headache to abate, the pounding beginning to feel like daggers plunging into his skull. He felt a shift of air, heard the soft pad of steps, sensed the presence of someone too close. Instinct took hold and he lashed out, seizing, in a crushing grip, the hand that was reaching for him.

He heard a low cry of alarm. Blinking to clear his blurry vision, he saw Evelyn, her mouth twisted in a wince, brown eyes rounded in surprise. He immediately loosened his grip and tried to apologize, instead a large wave crashing against the hull sent him scrambling to the railing. He felt her hand rubbing soothingly on his back as his empty stomach tried to purge itself once again. Cullen gratefully took the water scoop from her, rinsing his mouth before taking a cautious sip. He croaked out his thanks as he passed the scoop back to her. Suddenly weak limbs had him slumping over the railing.

"Let me help," her soft voice offered as she lifted his arm around her shoulder.

He nodded gratefully, trying his best to keep most of his weight from her. With her help, he managed to return to the nook, settling feebly against the lashed equipment. All of a sudden the overheated sensation that had had him sweating for hours dissipated, leaving him aching with a bone-deep chill.

As he sat there, shivering and miserable, Evelyn settled a coarse blanket around him. "I was worried you might get cold."

He tried to thank her but his chattering teeth made the task impossible. Despite the powerful chill of his body, sweat was still sheeting off him, intensifying the cold with each slight brush of the night winds.

She dug into one of her pockets, pulling out a delicate handkerchief. She knelt down and, with a light touch, wiped his face clean before turning her attention to his slick, trembling hands. "I can make you some tea if you like."

Just the thought of putting anything in his stomach had it tightening in agonized trepidation. He was about to refuse, about to tell her to return to her bed, until he saw her face. She knelt there, staring up at him, earnest and eager. He recalled her words in Kirkwall when he realized he had no choice but to bring her on the journey to Haven. She believed herself useless, stupid, and an utter disappointment in everything. She needed to know that she could contribute, that her skills as a healer were appreciated, that he valued her efforts. Letting her fix him some tea was such a small task to allow her to start realizing her worth. He would toss it overboard once she retreated to her cabin. There was no way he was going to risk even tea in his sensitive stomach. "Yes, please."

Her answering smile burned away some of his trepidation and he found himself smiling weakly in return. If he'd the strength, he would have chuckled at her enthusiasm as she scampered away. Instead, he shut his eyes, fingers digging into his temples in an attempt to alleviate the pounding headache that was beginning to rock his entire body. Taking a deep breath turned out to be a mistake for even the briny smell of the sea had him fighting against rising nausea.

"Here, this should help."

Cullen felt something cold and wet being placed against the back of his neck. He opened his eyes in protest and began to reach up to remove the offending item when he realized that the queasiness had abated slightly. He blinked in surprise and took the tin mug Evelyn held out without comment.

"Take only a small sip at first. Let the tea start to do its work before drinking the rest."

He looked at the murky liquid, stomach churning anew at the thought of tasting it. Cullen realized that Evelyn had no intention of simply delivering the tea and departing for her cabin and he didn't want to squash her growing confidence. He brought the tin to his lips, nostrils flaring at the repugnant odor. He glanced at her questioningly.

Her look was apologetic. "I'm afraid it won't taste much better. It's chamomile with ginger, peppermint, aniseed, and turmeric. All known to help an unsettled stomach. I also put in some ground willow bark which should soothe your sore muscles and the headache. There's a touch of honey but I fear that won't help the taste much."

Cullen was surprised that she had, without being told, known his complaints went beyond simple seasickness. But, he quickly realized, Evelyn was always watching her surroundings, carefully and cautiously noticing anything of import. She had probably watched him before approaching with the blanket and, as one skilled in the healing arts, could easily have picked up on his multiple ailments.

He took a guarded sip, his tongue protesting the horrid flavor, and swallowed quickly. He fought against the impulse to retch and quickly moved the mug away from his lips to keep from inhaling more of the vile scent. Evelyn knelt in front of him again, eyes carefully studying him, fingers moving to soothingly rub at his temples.

"Take another sip," she said, her careful tone more of a suggestion than a command.

He complied, relieved to find that the tea was having the desired effect. His stomach stopped rolling in tandem with the waves. He took a gulp without any prodding. Soon he had drained the dented mug and sank back against the cargo with a relieved sigh. "It's helping. Thank you."

Though her ever-persistent mask stayed in place, her eyes glinted with intense pleasure at his clipped compliment as she tucked the blanket tightly around him. "Do you need anything else?" she inquired quietly.

He shook his head cautiously, not wanting his receding headache to flare again. "No. The tea and the blanket were exactly what I needed."

She rose before removing the damp cloth from the back of his neck. "If there's nothing else, I'll check on you in the morning." She started to turn away.

His hand lashed out again, gripping her wrist more gently this time. "Stay." His thumb rubbed lightly over the pulse point. "Please," he quickly added, not wanting her to think she had no choice. It was an impulsive act, one that he really didn't understand. Depression and melancholy loomed heavily over him and he simply didn't want to be alone with only the vastness of the open night sky for company. He released her hand before scooting over to make space for her in the little niche.

Cullen was grateful when, after hesitating for a moment, Evelyn sank down to sit beside him. They sat there, each staring awkwardly anywhere but each other. She was there, at his request, and he had no idea of how to proceed. He floundered, searching for anything to fill the painful silence. When a large wave crashed against the hull, he finally spoke. "Have you been on a boat before?" He immediately cringed. Of course she hadn't. She'd spent her near entire life in Ostwick Circle and the last thing he desired was to remind her of the apparently painful time there.

"Yes," she began slowly. "Or at least I think I have. I dream sometimes of being a young girl in a rowboat with a boy only a few years older than me manning the oars. The sun is bright and the sky is clear. There are blooming shrubs along the shore and a woman smiling and waving at us." She plucked nervously at the ill-fitting pants she wore. Finally she turned her gaze to his, a rueful frown on her pensive face. "It's probably nothing more than a silly fancy, something I created so I would have something happy to think about."

"Or it could be your family you are remembering," he offered.

She began chewing anxiously on her bottom lip. "I ... maybe. I can't be sure. It's been so long and the image has blurred and become indistinct over time."

Cullen's curiosity erupted again. She appeared barely eighteen. Her memories of her family and the time before the Circle should have at least some clarity. "How old were you when you went to the Circle?"

"Not quite seven."

He inhaled sharply in astonishment. Most mages were twelve or thirteen when they came into their power. There was a level of maturity and an inkling of the ramifications of what it meant. For a child as young as Evelyn had been, it must have been an overwhelmingly terrifying and confusing event. No wonder her memories of her family were so hazy. "So young," he whispered.

Her reply was a chocked, "Yes."

Cullen noticed her scarred hand was tightly fisting in her lap. He gently lifted it in his own, lightly rubbing the tense muscles in the hopes she would relax. At least he believed he now had the answer as to how her hand had been injured. When her magic manifested, she wouldn't have known to protect herself from it. Fear and bewilderment would have mixed in with her timidity, warring against natural instinct. "Your spells must be very fierce. Usually, the younger one comes into their magic, the more powerful they are."

She seemed to crumple in on herself, her hand fisting tightly again in his palm. "Yes." Her voice was low and full of despair. "But I never learned the precision and control necessary. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I studied and practiced, I could never control it like I must. I'm a failure. A dangerous one. That's why I'm glad ..." Her voice trailed off and she turned to stare off into the horizon.

"What are you glad about?" he prodded.

She turned back, staring intently at her scarred hand resting in his palm. "I'm glad that the night you Claimed me, you Ordered me not to use my magic. I don't want to hurt anyone and this way I can't."

In that moment, Cullen felt if they were together for centuries, he'd still not understand her. For a mage to be denied magic was like if he entered battle without sword or armor, defenseless and vulnerable. He'd been contemplating removing the restriction entirely or, at the very least, easing it somewhat. Their journey was going to be long and arduous, with unknown perils likely. He would do his best to put safeguards in place to try to protect her but had felt she should be able to defend herself.

Unconsciously, his thumb had been rubbing soothing circles on the unmarred skin above her wrist. She shivered slightly from the light touch. "Are you certain about this? I think you should at least be able to call up a barrier in case ..."

"No!" her emphatic voice interrupted him. She appeared as shock as he felt by her suddenly stubborn, authoritative tone. Timidity began to creep back in when she finally continued, "The Maker cursed me with magic and you, by Ordering me not to use my spells, have freed me from that burden. I'd rather not go back to being terrified all the time of what harm I might cause." She looked worriedly up at him. "But that is your decision. I'm not trying to make demands."

Unsaid, but clearly heard by him, was 'please don't punish me for speaking my mind'. He smiled gently, trying to ease some of her worries. "I only want you to be happy and safe. If you feel you are better off without access to your magic then we'll keep it that way." He lifted his hand, brushing a stray lock from her face. "But if you change your mind, I want you to tell me."

She smiled weakly in return. "I won't." She tried, but failed, to stifle a yawn.

"Go to bed, Evelyn. And, thank you for the tea. I just might be able to get some sleep now."

She nodded in appreciation as she rose to seek her bed. Cullen stretched out as best he could and, before too long, drifted into an uncomfortable slumber.

For the rest of the trip, Cullen kept to himself. While the seasickness was moderately under control, the withdrawal from lyrium was cresting. Fortunately, most put his symptoms down to travel sickness and left him alone in his misery. His muscles and joints were a study in agony and pain, limiting his movements around the deck. He was anxious and jittery. He vacillated between bouts of unadulterated fury to despair so deep he fought to keep from weeping. There were days he could not sleep, others he could not rouse. He scratched deep furrows in his arms though the itching never abated. His skin felt fevered one minute, achingly cold the next. He gave up trying to clean the constantly sheeting sweat from his body.

Through it all, Evelyn kept a quiet, worried watch. He appreciated that she was discrete in her ministrations. During the day, when there were many observing eyes about, she limited herself to delivering milk toast or thin broth for his meals. And she made regular rounds with that Maker awful tea that he had begun to both crave and hate as much as he did lyrium. At night, when they were practically alone on the deck, she would ply him about his symptoms, trying to deduce what was ailing him. He would endure her questioning, tolerate her poking and prying, drink the vile concoctions she forced on him, until his frazzled state could take no more. He'd snap and yell, sending her scurrying to her quarters, only to repeat the process all over again with the new day.

Finally, not soon enough in Cullen's mind, with the sun beginning to sink towards the horizon, Amaranthine's tall spires came into view.