Cullen was quiet the rest of the night, lost in thought. He was obviously upset by what he had discovered, the frown rarely leaving his face. Elya continued to quietly complete her tasks, letting him have time to think, time to consider all the repercussions of now knowing who had betrayed him.
She couldn't imagine what he must be feeling right now. He had trusted this Samson, and it had led to deaths that now weighed heavily on his conscious. Elya didn't know if there had been signs that had pointed to Samson's betrayal, but she knew that Cullen would not forgive himself easily regardless. He just was that kind of man.
She wished she could do something for him. After he had told her, Elya had stayed kneeling next to his side for a long span of time. He had been completely lost in thought, holding on to her tightly. She had been happy to be there for him, would have stayed as long as he needed her. Unfortunately, her legs had started to ache, and she had shifted slightly. That small movement had surprised him and he had instantly released her hand. "I'm sorry Elya. Please, get up, I will be fine," he had faked a smile and waved away her questions before she had asked them. She had reluctantly stood, feeling old and stiff as she moved. She could have tried to stay, but she didn't think that Cullen would have let her.
Elya suppressed a yawn that was hard on the heels of others tonight; she just couldn't seem to stop. She wasn't able to cover it, her hands currently occupied with pouring a new type of tea; a beverage that she hoped would make Cullen sleep more easily. She refrained from pouring some for herself; she was going to have no issue with that. Their almost silent dinner had brought a halt to her productivity, and if she had any of this tea she was going to fall asleep standing up.
She brought the steaming mug over to Cullen and softly spoke, "Here. Drink this, please." Cullen's golden whiskey eyes drifted from the mug to her face, the far-off expression easing slightly. "It will help you sleep tonight. And heal." She tacked on; suddenly aware he was probably even more anxious to leave now than ever before.
A swift pull of darkness hurt her chest. Her stomach clenched unpleasantly, and she looked away, smoothing her face to show nothing of what she was feeling. She was… unhappy with that realization. Saddened by the inevitable loss of a friendship she was only just starting to realize or enjoy. It was painful; more painful than the last time she had lost friends. They had all backed away, afraid of the scandal, afraid that they would be tainted by association. She hadn't known them long, just about six months, but it had hurt to see them turn away. Cullen she had known for far shorter of a time, and yet the looming emptiness ahead of her was more powerful than any of the losses she had faced besides the deaths of her parents.
Cullen remained silent, saying no words of thanks as his fingers brushed hers accepting the cup. She could feel his eyes on her, a coaxing to look at him. Tension thickened in the air, and she couldn't resist his pull any longer. She turned and met his gaze, trying to keep her emotions off her face. His darkened eyes saw far too much, a curious look she did not understand shimmered in their magnetic depths. It made her heart thump, her chest growing somehow both warmer and tighter.
She shied away from it, felt too fragile to let him know the confusing mix of what she was feeling. So she pretended. "What is it?" She touched her fingers to her cheeks, "Is there something on my face?" She almost winced; too exaggerated.
There was a shift in his eyes, understanding taking over that slightly frightening look. He knew what she was doing… and he was going to pretend with her. For her. He shook his head slowly, reforming the words he had been going to say. "No, there is nothing on your face," He paused for a moment before he asked, "How long has it been since you had a proper night's sleep?"
Heat rushed to her cheeks, flushing at the words. She looked exhausted, didn't she? She shifted away, pressing her palms fully to her cheeks, uncharacteristically flustered. "I have been sleeping perfectly well, thank you. I am just a little tired, that is all."
Cullen's voice was gentle and chiding, "You don't need to hide it from me."
Elya heard the truth behind his words: she could tell him anything. Her hands slipped down to hang at her sides, a hot rush of emotions conflicting in her chest. That he would listen to her, would talk with her about anything she wanted to confide.
But there was more to it, wasn't there? He also didn't want her to lie to him.
After what he had just been through, he would want truth. These small lies were not ones that truly mattered, little white lies to conceal private emotions. But what about everything else she was concealing? She had never spoken an untruth about herself to him, but she had held back from revealing almost anything. Would he hate her for hiding it from him? Would it matter if he never found out? He would be in her life for so short a time.
Should she tell him? Common sense and her personal pride protested mightily. No, she just couldn't tell him. His friendship would turn to disgust and anger, and she couldn't bear the thought.
In this matter, though, this little white lie, she could come clean.
She pivoted and faced him again, her lips pressed together. Haltingly, she forced herself to speak. "It has been… a few nights. Since before you arrived, I suppose."
Cullen's jaw firmed, and his eyes narrowed. He bit back his initial response, struggling to find the right words. Finally, he commanded. "Tonight, you will sleep on your bed."
"Cullen," she protested, shaking her head. "No. You need the rest more than I do. Your hip-"
His hand sliced through the air, cutting off her protest. "My hip will be fine. I will stay in this chair for tonight."
Elya couldn't deny the wave of longing that rolled over her. To sleep on a real bed, to lie down. It was so tempting, something that she wanted to give into, but Cullen's needs came first. "Really, Cullen. I will be perfectly alright spending a few more nights sleeping upright."
Cullen's face softened, his voice gentled as well. "Please Elya. I will not be getting much sleep tonight, in spite of your magical tea. Somethings will just not come easily." Elya pressed her lips together again. She knew the truth of that, had experienced it for herself for seeming years when she had been younger.
"You have taken care of me so selflessly, with not a word of complaint. Let me do something for you in return. It isn't much, I know, but I would feel better knowing that you were sleeping well." His eyes were darkened, his concern and worry showing through.
She sighed, and another bothersome yawn that she had been studiously ignoring broke through her control. She covered the unladylike impulse with her hand, her eyes watering with how strongly the exhaustion rolled over her. When she finally was able to, she smiled sheepishly. "Oh, very well," she complied. She spoke as if she was grudgingly giving in to his demands, but they both knew she was again acting.
A soft smile curved Cullen's lips as he relaxed against the chair's back, "Good. I am glad." His golden curls lay in soft waves back from his forehead, his big body concealed only by the blanket tucked around his waist. The impact of his pleasure was powerful and again too intimate.
Elya turned, needing to regain her composure. She breathed through the tightness in her chest, gradually letting her body come back into control. "Very well," she finally spoke. "But tomorrow, I expect you to rest while I am away." And with that, she scurried up the ladder to the relative privacy of the loft.
Cullen had slept some, he supposed. But whenever he had, nightmares had plagued him. Samson laughing over corpses, the accusing eyes of young Perkins, Harris, and Hagman staring at him. Instead he had spent most of his time watching over Elya as she slept.
The fire had quickly burned too low for him to see anything clearly, but he knew the gentle swell beneath the blankets was her, the tumble of her almost black hair stark against the pillow. She had changed into her voluminous night clothing, slipped beneath the blankets, and had promptly fallen asleep. Her even, gentle breathing had become the measure with which he followed, the peacefulness helping combat some of the twisted emotions that refused to leave him.
He needed to return to Ferelden, to get the list to the Commander. And as soon as he did, he knew what his next orders would be. To find Samson, no matter where the spineless traitor was hiding, and bring him back to pay for his deeds.
And there was a good chance that Cullen would not succeed in his task. Would, in fact, not survive it. Currently, Cullen knew everyone believed he was either missing in action or dead, and missing in action almost always meant dead. As soon as he was confirmed alive, though, Samson would widely make his identity known and Cullen would become a targeted man. All his previous anonymity would be gone.
This was his lot, though, and his punishment for letting it all happen. He was a soldier, and in recent years, his duties as a soldier had taken on more covert operations. He knew who else their Majesties could send on the task instead, but none of them had as strong of a chance as he did, despite everything. Even if he succeeded in bringing Samson to justice, every agent of Orlais would know who he was.
He calculated that he would not survive a year. Then he would join the men he had led to slaughter, killed in the enemy's lands and left to rot, nameless and alone.
Cullen sighed and dropped his head back to thud against the chair. Well, he supposed that was that. Maker knew that Cullen would never shirk from his duties. And he had too much to make up for. Had to give his friends their chance at vengeance through him. Even without that, though, he had too much ingrained honor to allow himself to back away.
For a brief moment, Cullen let himself dream. What if he did break from his responsibilities? What if, when he returned to Ferelden and gave the Commander the list, what if he sold his commission? He was trapped in this soldiering life, trapped by his abilities and valuable experience. What would his life be like if he could become just a normal man?
Longing filled him, made his chest ache and his breathing ragged. He closed his eyes and pictured home. When he had been granted his title, Bann of Honnleath, he had also gained a small keep. It was not a real keep, more a small mansion he and his siblings had renamed Rutherford Hall. It was a wonderful place, a pleasant upgrade from their family farm. But best of all, it had come with land. Fertile land, perfect for farming.
Cullen ached for that green simplicity, ached to be surrounded by life and growth and away from all the lies and death. He had been stupid and foolish as a child, not knowing just how good his life had been surrounded by a loving family and all he had needed.
His brother Branson was running the estate now, and from all accounts doing a good job. But Cullen would take over, and with the small fortune he had amassed he would buy Branson a place of his own. Or perhaps he would want to do something else, and Cullen would help how he could. Cullen would become the simple country farmer, happily living at Rutherford Hall. When he wanted a change of pace, he would go visit Mia and her husband in society, where Rosalie was just starting her first Season.
This dream was one that Cullen had held tightly to his chest, had spoken of it to no one before. His men didn't need to know that he wanted more; they all wanted more, wanted out. They each had their own dreams they secretly polished, kept secret and bright.
Cullen opened his eyes, his gaze latching on Elya's sleeping form. For the first time, he realized that his dream was missing something. Perhaps…
A sudden image of Elya at Rutherford Hall rose, perfectly complementing the fantasies he had woven. She fit seamlessly into the picture: standing next to him as he looked at the new lambs playing in the grassy meadows, riding with him as they looked over fields of wheat, in the library as they discussed new farming techniques. New pictures easily slipped into the fantasy: Elya in a work room, dried herbs hanging from the rafters and neatly organized shelves filled with bottles, and herb garden bursting with life that she tended, the Master Bedroom's closets filled with dresses and Elya asleep beneath the blankets in bed.
Cullen lifted shaking hands and scrubbed them down his face. Maker, he wanted… so much. But it was not going to be. He would never leave Ferelden to her fate while she needed him, at war with a powerful enemy. The perfect picture he had painted wouldn't come to life if Orlais overran his country.
He had his responsibilities, his duties as an officer and a gentleman, and he would never abandon them.