Chapter 11: Perseverance

He tried. Each day and every second he tried, but there were times when he was ready to give up.

This was one of those times.

It was the tenth instance that Cullen had awoken in his bed. This time, he was covered in cold sweat, the sheet below him damp with it, his skin burning up yet his bones frozen within him. The shakes had begun not long before he came back from the tavern and, even if there was no other thing for which to be thankful, he was grateful he had managed to slip away and ride out the worst of his withdrawal alone, without an uncomfortable question having been voiced. His hands tingled, his head ached, and the painful shocks coming in waves were effectively draining him of all strength. They reached a maximum peak that made him grind his teeth and scream in his pillow just to get through it, only to be bent over by dry heaves, eventually even having to vomit in a bucket he had procured before climbing up to bed.

From time to time, he managed to sleep a bit. He decidedly preferred to call it "sleep" instead of "fainting from exhaustion and pain", only to fall from there into his own personal Void that attacked him with all his fears and personal demons, enhanced by the delirium of his fever and the unanswered craving for lyrium. More than once he thought about going down and taking a draught, reaching the limit of his endurance, but every time he surprised himself, managing to extend that barrier even further, realizing he needed to sink lower if he was ever going to soldier through this.

He had the strength. He needed to believe he had it.

After eight hours of agonizing convulsions, incessant fever, nausea and hallucinations, greater men than he would have given up by now… and he was about to join them. At that thought, he rose from his bed, not bothering to towel down his body anymore (after the fourth time, it was useless) and tried to reach the ladder down to his office to end all of this. The box with his lyrium supply was in the desk drawer; he'd left it there earlier that afternoon when he received it as part of the delivery for Skyhold's templars. He was just a few steps away from peace.

Maker forgive me, he begged and fought to take the first step.

Later Cullen would be grateful it was the first step, and not the third, for otherwise he would have fallen from the high platform into his office, and being in the state he was, he doubted he could have done anything of substance to cushion the fall. Not even his arms responded as they should, and even if they would, he'd have broken more than one bone without a doubt. But instead of down through the hole, he found himself falling to the wooden floorboards, trembling when a particularly unpleasant and incapacitating wave of pain assaulted him. He doubled over and vomited straight onto the boards, the heaves shaking him while his body attempted to expel something that was indeed not inside his empty stomach. He screamed loudly, not sure if it was from the pain of his muscles, the kick he unintentionally gave to his bed that almost broke his foot, or from the way his head had bumped against the floor.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ended.

For a second, Cullen thought he might be unconscious, his mind taking mercy on him and sedating the pains of his body in favor of rest, shutting itself down in response to the torture. It was the coppery taste in his mouth that alerted him he was still awake. Slowly and tremulously, he moved his hand to his lips and found nothing. Then he stuck his tongue out and touched it gently. When he looked at his fingers, his suspicions were confirmed: They were covered in blood. A part of his mind, the same one that had urged him to be grateful for not falling down the ladder, told him that the tongue was good; no one will see the tongue, just as no one would notice the deep, red scrapes his nails had left in his own skin through the worst of the pain. He could simply take a bath, get dressed, comb his hair, and he would be the same Cullen he always was. No one had to know.

He got up with a groan and crossed his room to the wash basin. He would go to the baths later, but he needed to at least clean the sweat off his chest before he could put on a shirt. Besides, the water might help decrease the fever that typically lasted a few hours after the pain was gone. When he finished cleaning himself, he dressed with the same shirt he had on yesterday, donned a pair of long trousers and his favored boots, and gathered some clean clothes to take with him to the baths.

He first heard it while descending the ladder. That blasted song, that rhythm filled with promises of respite and power. One of a stronger Commander, a more precise warrior, a wiser strategist, a more useful advisor... A better Cullen. He could feel his skin tingling at its drum, his heart synchronizing with it, his blood burning with desire, his whole mind screaming for him to run the few steps to the desk, tear open the box, and let the wonderful, glowing substance flow through his veins, infusing life in its path.

Cullen buried his nails in the palms of his hands, waiting with gritting teeth for the song to die away, but it didn't… If anything it grew stronger, louder, demanding his attention, and in a desperate need to shut it out, he ran through the door, down the battlements and straight to the courtyard.

He stopped once he felt grass under his boots, and a shiver tremored down his spine. The song had quieted, but it was still thrumming in the back of his head. At least he had put enough distance between himself and the lyrium to make the song bearable..., for now. When a second shiver made his skin crawl, he realized he had forgotten his cloak. This was beyond trying to lower his body temperature; he couldn't stay here long if he wanted to stave off a cold.

But he could not stand the idea of going back to his office, near that lyrium… So, steeling himself against the wind, he walked to the main door of the fortress.

The baths were empty, as he had thoroughly expected. It would have been terrible luck if they weren't, considering the hour. The dawn had not yet shone its first light, although it would not take long now. Cullen opened a hatch in the wall that contained the cool water, and it began to pour with vigor into the tub carved in the stone floor. After a second thought, he activated the rune that magically heated the water. Common sense dictated that he shouldn't bathe with hot water while he had a fever, but experience told him that no matter what he did, at least with the methods he'd tried in the past..., this fever would not be going anywhere. Usually, he did not indulge in this kind of luxury, in part because he did not truly trust those contraptions (even when, if asked, Dagna could talk for hours about the safety and advantages of her designs) and also because he normally did not have the spare time to spoil himself, preferring a quick, albeit cold bath to a warmer and slightly longer one. But today he truly needed it. His body felt as though an ogre had performed multiple Orlesian dance steps over him, and at the same time his muscles felt like they were made of solid rock, even in terms of flexibility. The moment his foot touched the water he felt better, more relaxed, and when all his body was submerged, save for his head, he felt like he was melting... It was sheer bliss.

Perhaps he dozed for a moment, for when he awoke the water was slightly chillier, but still held some degree of warmth. Enjoying this break but unable to fully give in, Cullen began to review the errands he had to accomplish that day. After he was done with this bath, he would have a quick breakfast with his companions, and then he could begin his daily chores. Idly, he wondered if Knight-Commander Gregoir had found the time to read that report about the disturbances that had occurred yesterday at the library. Apparently one of the newly-arrived mages, an exiled Tevinter from a noble Family (Pavus, was that his name?) had made a scene when he realized most of the books he wanted (or needed, according to him) where not in the Circle's collection, or were strictly forbidden by the Chantry. After a wealth of heated discussion, a few templars had taken him aside to the apprentice quarters and had given him a stern warning, but considering it wasn't his first offence, they left him in the hands of the Knight-Commander to see whether the mage would receive a punishment for his behavior.

In spite that, it wasn't Pavus that had Cullen the most worried, but rather a certain bald elf that had openly admitted to exploring the Fade and befriending more than one spirit. He had consulted with Enchantress Vivienne, and she had told Cullen, though they were rare, other like-minded mages existed and were called "dreamers", or Somniari in the ancient Tevinter tongue, and were (if this was even possible) the most dangerous of mages, due to the fact that they eventually became indifferent to distinguishing between spirits and demons, and refused to catalog any creature of the Fade as the latter, claiming each spirit adapted to its surroundings and, if controlled and treated respectfully, were no more dangerous than any other benevolent spirit. Aside those particular cases, Cullen had, thank the Maker, only one other charge: Apprentice Trevelyan. She had been at the Circle for just six months, and...

For a moment, he couldn't remember what he was meant to report about her, so he used a simple technique he'd devised for when faces and names scrambled together in his mind. He tried to visualize Trevelyan, with her blonde hair pulled back in a bun, barring those two rebellious strands that always found a way to fall over her face; her hazel eyes, and a decisive look that reflected her strong confidence, the same she possessed in all her movements. He tried to see her in his mind's eye, dressed in her blue apprentice robes and in line with the other mages, but somehow he couldn't place her among them... The best he could manage was an image of her in leather armor, a pair of daggers in her hands...

Cullen shook his head forcefully and realized with a cold panic what had just happened. He had confused time and space, his mind convincing him he was still in Kinloch Hold and using the images and personalities of the Inquisitor's companions to shape an intricate fantasy that had him completely immerse in a different reality.

That was it: The final stage of one of the possible side-effects to which lyrium withdrawal led.

Dementia.

He needed to make things right. He either had to go back on the lyrium, or resign himself to madness. Being as it may, there was one thing that was undeniable: He most definitely could not be the Commander of the Inquisition Forces anymore. Not this way, not when one of his delusions could cause his men to suffer or die, or worse, the Inquisition to fail…

With a heavy heart but a steeled resolution, Cullen stepped out of the tub and dried himself, dressing with trepidation to perform his last hours as Commander of the Inquisition.

oOo

It was mid-morning when a fatigued Cullen arrived at the armory. The few hours since his bath had been a new kind of torture. The fever had vanished, but the pain had returned. Not in waves this time, but in excruciating muscle spasms that made him contract his body more times than not, bracing himself with anything in reach to halt a fall to his knees.

Cassandra was inspecting the weapon requisitions as usual and, save for her and two other guards, the armory was empty. He entered, walking straight and with all the composure he could muster, and ordered the two guards to leave him alone with the Seeker. Cassandra began to talk before she ended her inspection.

-Cullen is there something you...- She looked at him then. -Maker! What happened to you?

So it was that obvious then. Well, in a way it was better that she could physically see it. This way, he did not have to tiptoe into his request.

-Cassandra, I've come because I need you to fulfill your promise and find a replacement for me.

Far from the immediate anger he expected, she looked at him with almost clinical detachment.

-And why is that?- She took a sword and held it in the air, testing its balance.

-I think you knew the answer the second you laid eyes on me.- He rubbed his forehead, fearing the explanations he suspected she would force him to give. -Last night, I had another episode. It lasted longer than usual and it ended with...- He had trouble admitting his moment of confusion, and at the same time he could not find the words to express it properly. -I thought I was in the Circle again, back in Ferelden. I was convinced of it!- He sighed, -My mind is playing tricks on me. I'm not reliable any more. I won't risk the Inquisition due to my inability to control this.

-For how long?- was her calm answer. She lowered the sword in her hands to the long table and moved to take up the next one in line.

-What?- For a second he did not comprehend what she meant.

-For how long did you believe you were in Kinloch Hold, and what did you do during that time?- She barely looked at him before taking another sword.

-I... I'm not certain; it could have been only a few moments. I was taking a bath, and I reviewed my duties to myself as if the Inquisitor's mage companions were my charges back in the Circle.

-So you didn't do anything during that moment of confusion? You were just lost in thought?

He did not understand what that had to do with anything, and the apparent disinterest of Cassandra was driving him crazy.

-No, I stayed there like a fool. What's the difference? It was a sign of the onset of dementia. Isn't that enough?

Cassandra lowered the sword in her hands and turned to him. Deep in her eyes, Cullen thought he saw relief, and his confusion grew.

-You are fine, Cullen. It won't be an easy road ahead, but you are heading the right direction.

He could hardly believe his ears.

-WHAT?!

-You heard me. Lyrium withdrawal is a difficult path, but it is also a one way track, if you are not able to withstand it.- At his perplexed expression, she clarified, -If you were falling into dementia, you would not have been able to snap out of it, and it would not have manifested itself as a misperception of time. It would have been a total delirium, Cullen. What happened is only that your mind is exhausted, nothing more. You don't need a replacement.

-You can't be serious! Have you lost your mind?

-You asked for my opinion, and I've given it. Why would you expect it to change?- She crossed her arms in front of her chest as if that would make the statement more final. He made a gesture as though discarding her opinion.

He was about to storm out, but he thought better and tried again.

-I expect you to keep your word. It's relentless! I can't...- His words failed him. How could he explain it better than he already had? If he could just make her understand what he felt, how he was feeling in that exact moment! The mere weight of his armor was a torment, his stomach a complete and utter mess, and his whole body barely kept the tremors under control, the hand squeezing the pommel of his sword turning white under the strain.

-You give yourself too little credit.

Maker! She was not going to give in easily. Why did this have to be so hard? Maybe if he could make her realize what was at stake, she would accept it.

-If I'm unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this!- His voice almost broke. He was begging her, but Cassandra seemed unfazed. He changed his strategy, aiming for her pride. -Would you rather save face than admit...

And then it happened.

If Cullen would have asked himself what was the worst thing that could have happened in that moment, this certainly would have been first on the list. The door had opened, and the Inquisitor was now standing in front of them. Cullen hoped he didn't look as disheartened as he felt, wishing some of his dignity could be saved. How much did she hear? Does she know? A part of him knew she had to know eventually, especially if Cassandra were to replace him, but he wanted to let the Inquisitor know under his own terms, when he did not resemble a vagrant mabari who had been kicked out of several places and into the rain. She looked confused, and her eyes went from Cullen to Cassandra repeatedly.

He could not bear it; he could not face her questions, her judgment… or worse, her pity. He had to get out of there, the sooner the better. He lowered his head in defeat.

That way, he did not have to meet her eyes when he would surely run off like a coward.

-Forgive me,- he muttered as he passed by next to her on his way to the door.