They laid siege to Adamant.

There was no time before the battle. The forced march was grueling, and she had ridden ahead. The coordinating missives back and forth were terse. Official correspondence. He used her name; she stopped responding, and Cassandra's deliberate scrawl answered him instead.

There was no time during the battle. Amber and blue had clashed momentarily when the gates were breached, but whatever words she'd wanted to say had been left unsaid. He channeled his emotions into his fighting, leaving a trail of destruction behind him as he advanced. Her trail was even bloodier.

There was no chance when she fell through the rift. He wore a rut in the ground pacing, fists clenched around sword and shield. I should have protected her. Defeated Wardens and Inquisition soldiers alike avoided him as they struggled to figure out what to do next.

There was no time after. He couldn't even tell her how glad he was that she was alive. Instead he watched, her mask in place, offering her absolution to the Wardens. Then she'd gathered her companions to her and withdrawn.

There was no time at Skyhold. They'd ridden up minutes apart, the main bulk of the army trailing behind. She'd slipped out of the saddle and when Dorian had called to her she'd thrown her bow at him, splinters shattering against the stable wall as she stalked off.

Then, she made time. She went to all of them in turn, winding a path through the keep as she conversed with her companions. Even him. It was the first time they'd been alone since Leliana had confronted them. It was strained and awkward and he wanted to grab her hand and whisper his heart to her but she kept the desk between them. Kept it about Adamant. He still hadn't told her how happy he was to see her again, alive.

That night the blue hissed. He'd been able to push it away and focus on the battle, but now, with nothing else to occupy his thoughts, it was all consuming. He tried to dull it with ale, but Rylen was in the Western Approach and Barris was still a day or two out with the main army. So he sulked alone in a corner of the Herald's Rest, nursing his tankard and his head, watching Bull and Dorian swapping tales with the Chargers, Sera and Blackwall at the bar trying to out-drink Varric. Evelyn was absent. So were Vivienne, Cassandra, and Solas, but that was to be expected, he supposed. And Cole-

It was like he appeared out of thin air, summoned from the third floor to the table by absent thought alone. The spirit lifted his head to look at Cullen from under his hat and he smiled sadly. "I'm supposed to ask. She made me promise to ask if I wanted to know."

He glanced up at the boy, then returned to his tankard, taking a gulp before responding. "What did you want to know?"

"Not you. The blue slips out when it's loud, deafening until fury or absolution takes it away." He looked away, the hat obscuring his face. "She'll be mad. She told me to ask if I wanted to know, but when I ask her now she lies. She pushes the truth deep inside and doesn't let it surface."

"You're talking about the Inquisitor." He grunted, taking another pull of his ale. And another, for good measure. He should have ordered a stronger drink.

"She says it's more honest to talk, even when the emotions don't have words, but if it's honest why is she lying?" Cullen blinked as the spirit pushed a fresh drink over to him. He hadn't even seen him go to the bar.

"You're asking the wrong person," he muttered, draining his first drink and trading the mugs. They lapsed into silence, but Cullen could feel the boy watching him. Even with the brim of the hat covering his face and his body turned away, he could feel it. As Maryden began a new song, he turned to the rogue only to find the seat unoccupied. He grumbled out a sigh, then stiffened as a weight settled behind him. Cullen heard the voice in his mind as much as in his ears.

"She was going to stay."

He couldn't say what possessed him to follow his feet to her door. He was still angry. He was angry with Leliana, Evelyn and himself in equal measure. But Leliana was putting the Inquisition first, so he could forgive that, given time. Evelyn, however...

He'd knocked before he could think about it. What Cole said had settled deep in his gut, swirling around and reminding him of wicked grins and dull eyes. Of fists bloody from pounding the floor. Meredith, appeasing him with an extra philter, stroking his ego, banking his hate. Uldred, smirking. The faint tang of o-zone. How often had he thought about giving up? How many times had he considered making the noble sacrifice?

There was no response, and for a second he wondered if she was elsewhere in the fortress. He had been pretty sure he'd seen light in her windows on his walk from the tavern. He rapped on the wood again. She had said she was fine, had checked on everyone to make sure they were okay, delivered an official report to her advisers. But he couldn't recall seeing her outside of her tour of the grounds. And her actions once she'd gotten back to Skyhold hadn't been entirely rational. Harritt was still grumbling about having to fix her bow, and Dennet had complained that Major had cracked a hoof on the ride back, but he hadn't seen her near the stable except the one time to talk with Blackwall.

He was about to leave, his third attempt at knocking proving futile. He thought to check the Chantry, perhaps, when he heard a dull thud and the gentle tinkling of glass breaking. The door turned out to be unlocked and he moved carefully up the stairs, hand wandering to his sword.

The room was mostly dark. Heavy drapes had been drawn over most of the curtains and they moved reluctantly in the night breeze, whispering velvet across the floor. Both balcony doors were thrown open and the moonlight reflecting off the snow outside cast a pallor on the room. The hearth was cold, but there were candles lit by the desk, flickering over a mountainscape of papers, all but one pile weighted down by random objects. The last pile was starting to disperse onto the ground, the paperweight lost. Wherever it had gone, it had taken a glass with it.

As his eyes adjusted to the inky murk, he looked around for Evelyn. He could make out the shapes of her furniture as he scanned the room, but his eyes were drawn back to the desk. That was where she sat, small and crumpled on the floor in front of the imposing piece of mahogany, knees drawn up to her chest. She was dressed but disheveled, feet bare on the stone slabs like she'd been halfway through undressing and given up. Her head hung in her hands and she hadn't noticed him. He froze, torn between his anger and compassion, blue hissing.

Compassion won, and his boots scuffed the floor as he padded over. Still, she did not stir.

"Evelyn," his voice cracked, noticing the quiver in her shoulders. Still, she did not raise her head.

He dropped a heavy hand on her crown and knelt, lips quirking into a smile as she squeaked in surprise, glancing up. The smile faded as his eyes traced the now-dry rivulets on her face and without thinking he brought his hand to her cheek, gloved thumb brushing against one of the offending trails. How long had she been sitting here, he wondered. Had the other candles burned or blown out, or had she never bothered lighting them? The room was near freezing; when was the last time she'd lit a fire?

She was staring blankly at him, unseeing, and he shifted uncomfortably. He shouldn't be here, he realized. He should have told someone else to come. Send someone to light the fire, make her tea - had she even had dinner? "Is there anyone, anything I can get for you?" he murmured, pulling his hand away. He'd never seen her like this; unkempt and shattered.

Evelyn shook her head. "Don't. Don't be real," she whispered, fragile and raw, head dropping back to her knees. "I can't take it if you're real." A tremor wracked her body, and he heard a strangled sob pass her lips.

He stilled, suspended between thoughts as he looked at her. His heart wrenched as she sobbed again, and he realized he didn't care that she'd pushed him away. She needed him, now, in this moment, Maker and Leliana be damned, he would do what he could to ease her suffering. Cullen pulled her forward into his embrace, one hand a gentle pressure on her shoulder, the other making reassuring circles on her back.

They stayed like that for a while, his chin resting on her head, the occasional shudder passing with a whimper from her. He'd settled back on the stone floor, pulling her up into his lap to keep her off the cold slabs, and he couldn't remember ever finding her so small. Or light, like she was made from gossamer threads, spun together, easily broken with enough force. A world away from the woman who could go toe-to-toe with him, or a Red Templar, or a High Dragon. Or Nightmare.

Nightmare. She hadn't told them much about the encounter in the Fade, but he could imagine. Maker, but he should have come to her sooner, should have realized what she was going through.

When she quieted, he thought maybe she'd fallen asleep. His arse was numb from the unforgiving ground and Cullen shifted as carefully as he could to adjust his sword. She stirred against his chest and he mumbled an apology into her hair, reclaiming his hold on her. But she moved, breaking his grip, hands rising to his shoulders, pulling herself up to look him in the eye, straddling him. He stared for a moment, unable to break her gaze, breath hitched in his throat.

She crashed into him, hungry and haunted, desperate. Her lips pressed to Cullen's, trembling as she pushed herself into him, starved for warmth. His eyes slid closed as he wrapped her in his arms but she squirmed in frustration at the hold, begging for control, unable to wrest it from him; too small, too weak in this moment.

But he was weak too, kissing her back. His one hand trailed up her back, tangling in the birds nest that was her braid and pulling her head back and to the side to expose her neck. She whimpered as he yanked the glove off his free hand with his teeth, tossing it aside and pressing his lips to her jawline, her cheek, the dried tears, then down, moving her jacket off her shoulder to kiss her collar bone through the fabric of her undershirt.

Evelyn exhaled, ragged, shrugging the jacket aside completely, fingers a flurry as she relieved him of his mantle, his chestplate and pauldrons, his belt and scabbard, vambraces. She hissed as she tugged his still gloved hand free from her hair, probably pulling more than a few strands from the mess in her haste, and ripped the gauntlet from him, tossing it aside to join the rest of his clothes. She'd gotten him down to his undershirt, breeches, and boots with surprising ease, like it wasn't the first time she'd stripped someone of their armor, and a growl rumbled in his chest as deft fingers worked on his laces.

Cullen slipped his hands underneath her, re-positioning the both of them before feeling the curve of her buttocks. He gave them a gentle squeeze as she wrapped her legs around him, grinding her hips down to elicit a groan. He delivered, nipping her throat and chasing it with his tongue to be rewarded with a moan in turn before grabbing her thighs, pulling himself up off the floor with her in tow, pushing her against the desk.

Papers dislodged at the impact, further destroying her filing system as he balanced her on the lip of the desktop, kicking off his boots to join the rest of his things and her jacket. He ran his hands up her sides, skimming the curve of her breasts as she mewled, desperate to recapture his mouth in her own. Cullen complied, fingers gripping her waist, growling as she nipped, drawing his lower lip in with a suck that was anything but chaste.

Her fingers returned to their earlier efforts to disrobe him, working her own knots in turn. She shoo'd his hands off her waist, humming appreciatively as one tangled back in her hair. Offering her neck to him again, she gave his breeches a tug, sliding forward off the desk to work her own off her legs, already working on the laces of her blouse, eyes drifting to his arousal.

In all the times she'd come to him, there had been an undercurrent of control to her actions. There's a frantic aspect to her now that he realizes, with a start, he recognises. He's been here before, desperate and aching, needing the release, any release.

He's never been proud of the things he'd done to get that release.

It doesn't help that he's hard, and she's licking her lips, dazed and hungry. It doesn't help that she's guiding his hand down, blouse loose around her shoulders, falling open, giving him more than a glimpse of her breasts - she's not wearing any bindings, he realizes, and has to swallow another growl. It definitely doesn't help when she glances up, catching his gaze, and her eyes are piercing blue.

It wasn't like he'd never thought about it. He'd pictured her - often, Andraste preserve me - in various states of undress. Sometimes they were fuel for the nightmares, twisting into the horrors that had plagued him since Kinloch. But often they helped, much to his shame, in the dark hours of night when frustration gripped and sleep eluded and now, faced with the prospect of the real thing, he knew he had to refuse.

He could only pray she'd understand.

Cullen pulled back to her whine of protest, extracting his hand from her hair and the other from her grip, steadying himself by holding onto her shoulders. Trying hard not to think about how easy it would be to help push aside the thin fabric with its short sleeves; trying to ignore the rather persistent stirring in his smalls. "Inquisitor-" he tried to speak, but her hands flew to his mouth, shaky.

"No," she managed to squeak out, shaking her head. "No." He could see the glint of tears in her eyes.

Her move had dislodged his hands and he noticed as his arms fell back to his sides that she was sporting a wound he hadn't heard about. Jagged and wicked down her left arm it ran, still scabbed, clearly from Adamant. In the dim light it looked raw and fresh, like it would start bleeding again at any moment. He held his breath, tracing the slash mark back up with the pad of his thumb, fingers ghosting the underside of her upper arm. The laceration intersected the pink-red-white reminder of wolf fangs on her upper arm and he traced those too, careful and deliberate.

Evelyn whimpered, bumping back against the desk as she shied away from him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" The words were harsh but their delivery was flat, and he sighed as she slapped his hand away from her arm when he reached out again.

"Inqu- Ev-" he growled, neither title nor name feeling appropriate for what he had to say. She shivered, noticing the cold of the room without the heat pressed between them, and seemed to curl into herself as he continued. "I want you, every exquisite, messed up, inconceivable part of you. Maker's breath, I have for far longer than I should admit to." His hand rubbed the back of his neck, that old familiar tick. "But not like this, Evie, not to chase the nightmares away. It doesn't work, trust me, it only makes them worse."

She worried her lower lip as she stared at him through dark lashes, one hand clutching her blouse closed, the other a fist at her side. Cullen grumbled, shuffling back a step - his breeches were around his ankles, damnit - waiting for her to respond.

She only stared.

He snapped.

Gathering himself - and his breeches - he snarled at her. "You're acting like a child."

Turning away from him, she drew a ragged breath. "It should have been me." She'd spoken so quietly he'd barely heard her over his own breathing.

Cullen was hit with the startling apprehension of Cole's words.

"Maker, no," he practically ran to her as she started sobbing. "Do you have any idea how worried I was when you fell into that rift?" He buried his hand in her hair again, needing the familiar chestnut silk in his fingers as he pulled her into his chest, holding on tight. "If you hadn't come back, I-" He ended with a strangled, guttural noise, unable to articulate.

"But, the Wardens- Hawke and the others-"

He hushed her. "Wardens live a life of sacrifice. You can't blame yourself. It was between all of you or one of you."

She hiccuped out another sob, fingers bunching in his undershirt as if she was trying to crawl into his warmth. "It is my fault though. If I had stayed- If I hadn't-" It was getting hard to breath under the weight of her admission and she crumpled. If Cullen hadn't been holding her, she would have fallen to the floor. "You don't understand, it was my decision," spoken so quietly, punctuated with sobs, fresh tears falling, marking wet spots on his shirt as she clung to him.

"Out of everyone in the Inquisition, I understand." He was calm, reassuring. Shelter from the inner storm. "And I know it wasn't an easy choice; it never is." Solid and steady. "But please don't blame yourself for surviving, because that one small fact is what keeps me going."

He wanted to say more, but it wasn't the time for it. He just stood there, holding her. After she cried herself to sleep in his arms, he carried her to the bed.