***Spoiler Alert***
Mild spoilers for Before the Dawn (Cullen Advisor Quest)
An unexpected lead in the search for their enemy's general should be a cause for optimism, but yet another name from his past compels Cullen to make an uncomfortable admission to Marcus; one which he fears may change how the Inquisitor feels about him.
***Trigger Alerts***
Strong language, drug addiction, strong emotions, dubious/non-con sexual references, self-harm
****Disclaimer****
Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.
Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far
9:37 Dragon: Kirkwall City
Ralegh Samson wasn't the kind of man to spook easily. As a Templar, he'd seen his share of failed Harrowings, hunted down a few Apostates, even fought a couple of demons. After the Order shook him off like dogshite from its boot he'd done whatever it took to keep himself alive and supplied, selling his dick or his sword with equal ease. You couldn't live like that and be squeamish but the situation he was in now made his skin crawl. Once the novelty of non-stop pure Lyrium wore off, the question of what this Erimond guy wanted kept nagging him and he didn't like any of the answers. The Lyrium alone would cost a fortune in normal circumstances, to say nothing of the peril getting hold of it under Meredith's stranglehold, but he just had to snap his fingers and one of the silent servants brought him a fresh vial. He suspected they were mutes, although he'd heard Erimond address some of them in Tevene and that was when he started to get scared. Tevinter meant blood magic and all sorts of crazy shit. Maybe they were fattening him up for some ritual that needed Templar blood to work...
Erimond, or this 'Master' he kept referring to, clearly wanted him for more than a bit of knifework or a simple smuggling job; even if they didn't intend to string him up by his ankles and milk his veins. This was big time stuff, and Samson didn't like the idea of that; he was strictly small time and it felt too much like being set up for a very long drop. They might be treating him like royalty just now, but once a job was done it was easy to make a guy like him disappear. Just another loose end floating face down in the harbour.
He wished he could find some way of getting a message to Serendipity; she'd know what to do, she always did. It would have been easy for her to turn him away when he crawled to her door starving, half dead from infected wounds and Lyrium withdrawal, but she'd taken him in; found some apostate healer to purge the poison from his blood and a supplier to provide the cool blue medicine for his screaming mind. 'You're the only one who treated me like a real woman' was the sole reason she gave. She'd looked after him and he'd protected her. It wasn't love, but it was the most people like them could hope for.
She'd be worried about him, maybe even looking for him, but a Tevinter magister in Kirkwall would be very good at covering his tracks…
Erimond droned on. The prick liked the sound of his own voice, just a pity it was the same shit Samson heard time and again from any number of wild eyed street corner lunatics; raving about the Chantry's lies and corruption, at least that crazy healer down in Darktown was entertaining...
Maybe Erimond just got off on talking shite, wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd run across, or perhaps whatever they had in store needed him to be bored to death first. The knife he'd smuggled off the breakfast table and hidden in his boot made him feel better. It wasn't much of a weapon but it was a blade. If they wanted his blood they wouldn't get it without one hell of a fight
"Was it the Maker's mercy you felt when they branded your hands and tore the skin off your back with their whips? Did you sense the presence of Andraste when you slit a man's throat or some obese merchant slobbered and pawed at you?" Erimond set his glass down and sat back "The Maker, Andraste, the Chant of Light, even the Old Gods – all a lie told by men afraid of an empty heaven. You and your brothers are nothing but the slaves of that lie; slaves to be used, and cast away once their little blue potion has burned away your minds. We offer you the chance of revenge, to tear the whole rotten edifice down…"
Samson shook his head with a derisive laugh
"Out with the old lie; in with the new? Mate, if it's revenge you're offering; just give me a few hours in a room with that cunt, Rutherford, and some sharp objects."
Erimond smiled, pulling something wrapped in black velvet out of his tunic. This would be the deciding moment. There weren't many ex Templars out there and most were lunatics or burned out addicts; either too mindless to be of use, or so weak of spirit that the Red consumed them swiftly. This man was different, possessing a brutal will to survive and hardened in a cold agnosticism that would serve the Master far better than any blind faith. He would never believe but once he tasted the power offered and the potential it unlocked he would be an unstoppable force. The conflict between Mages and Templars in Kirkwall was coming to a head, before long it would burst out into violence and that would be give them the opportunity they needed.
"Such a small ambition, although I suspect it would be diverting to watch, but whether you believe in the truth of what I'm saying is irrelevant. You don't have to rely on the blind faith the Chantry demands, I can show you the power my Master wields; a power far greater than anything those wrinkled old hags suspect."
He opened the velvet wrapping and placed a vial on the table in front of Samson. The deep red liquid inside seemed to give off a subtle, hypnotic, vibration; pulsing like a heartbeat. Samson licked his lips nervously. He couldn't tear his eyes off it; the stuff was… singing… to him, a deep and distant choir promising the fulfilment of desires he'd scarcely dreamed of
"What…" his throat had gone dry and he gulped down a mouthful of wine "What is it?"
Whatever it was, he wanted it… needed it… and it wanted him…
"It is the Truth that Lyrium pretends to; the means by which you and your brothers can be transformed into a force beyond your wildest imaginings, one which you will wield in the Master's name." Erimond pushed the vial towards him "Taste; and know that everything they told you is a children's fable…"
Samson picked the vial up, closing his fingers around it. He could feel it pulsing through the glass and the song became louder, clearer; drowning out fear and doubt, banishing everything except the certainty of wanting whatever this offered. Erimond stood with a friendly smile, belied by the cold satisfaction in his eyes, certain this man could command the power of the Red long enough to be of service. If he survived this, it would be time to present him to the Master…
"…I will leave you alone; such an intimate experience demands privacy."
9:41 Dragon, Late Cassus (Haring) Skyhold
"Can you actually find the time to read all these books?" Varric's eyes wandered over the two overcrowded bookcases in Cullen's office. More books were stacked in piles on the floor and the chair, all of them well-thumbed with scraps of paper stuck here and there as placemarkers
"I don't sleep much" Cullen muttered, scribbling a note at the foot of a report "and a book is a good companion in the small hours."
When he first arrived at Kinloch Hold, Cullen could barely read and could just about scrawl his name. Education was a luxury for families like theirs; Mia, as the eldest, had been taught her letters and numbers but what little schooling Cullen received was picked up from her, or from odd moments snatched from a good-hearted Sister at the Chantry. Painfully aware of how far behind the other novices he was, some of them sons of noble families who'd had tutors since infancy, he spent every spare moment with either book or sword in hand; determined not to be found lacking in any of the accomplishments expected of a Templar. His handwriting was still abysmal, especially compared to Cassandra's precise penmanship or Marcus's flowing script, and he often stumbled over the pronunciation of a word he'd only ever read but at least he could manage to follow all but the most abstruse conversations without feeling like a total bumpkin.
"I'm not going to argue with that..." Varric chuckled, noting the copy of 'Hard in Hightown' wedged hurriedly beneath a volume of Emperor Kordilius's 'Strategies'
"Do you have something for me?" Cullen sounded sharp, and meant to, it had been a bad night and even Marcus's skilful fingers hadn't been able to completely banish the headache still gnawing at the top of his skull. If Varric wasn't brought to business right away he would take root, crack open a bottle of wine without asking and begin rambling
"Nothing about the 'private business', but one of my Kirkwall contacts has come up with a piece of news that will interest you..." It was better not to mention Merrill's name. Curly might have come a long way since his 'Mages aren't people like you and me' days but he was still a Templar in his heart and anything to do with Blood Mages was guaranteed to trigger a bad reaction.
Cullen put down his pen and straightened up, his headache briefly forgotten. The Dwarf might not have the network of agents Leliana enjoyed but he was a useful source of additional information, especially about things the commander might not want the spymaster to know about
"...Do you remember Samson's 'girlfriend'?"
"I heard he was living with a prostitute..." it had been further proof, if such was needed, of how deep Samson's corruption went "I didn't pay a great deal of attention to his... career, after his expulsion..."
After I betrayed him and stood by while he was branded, flogged and thrown out to die...
If Varric read anything in Cullen's shifting expression he gave no sign and continued on
"Well she got a letter from him recently…" He held up a warning hand at Cullen's exclamation of eager surprise "Nothing too exciting, standard lovey-dovey stuff, no secret codes or 'by the way I'm helping a crazy Darkspawn Magister become a god and this is my forwarding address'; it's the messenger I thought you might be really interested in…"
"Another Templar?" Cullen barked impatiently. Varric loved to spin out his stories, making you beg for the juicy ending. Varric shook his head
"A Tranquil…" The Dwarf waited for this to sink in before delivering the coup-de-grace "Remember one called Maddox?"
###
"So, this Maddox is working for Samson now? That is interesting…" Leliana stared down at the map, deep in thought "and you say he's a skilled artificer?"
"It's possible he may be the one maintaining Samson's armour" Cullen excused himself past the spymaster and shifted a marker a fraction of an inch to his satisfaction "Varric's source said he was buying some quite specific supplies."
Kirkwall had always been a centre of the black market for all sorts of commodities, especially magical, with the current anarchy in the city it was almost the mainstay of its economy.
"Then his trail may lead us to wherever Samson has his base" Leliana was quietly impressed, perhaps she ought to have a chat with Varric about combining forces "The information we already have suggests this area here as a likely prospect."
She gestured at a large territory along the Tevinter-Nevarran border
"That is desert…" Cassandra informed her "Blightlands from the First Blight mostly…"
"But with a lot of Tevinter ruins from the Old Imperium" Marcus looked up from the large book he'd been apparently engrossed in "What? I can read and listen you know…"
He got up and joined the at the table, bringing the book with him
"Ossleman's Geographica Nevarrica, nice edition; Markham University sent it along with some of the other volumes retrieved from the Circle Library… Listen to this…" He placed in down on the table and began to read aloud
"…A number of these remains are of religious or magical origin. It would appear that, under the Old Imperium, this was an area of considerable ceremonial importance for reasons that are now obscure; possibly some local thinning of the Veil which made it easier for the Mages of that period to communicate with their false gods… followed by several paragraphs of religious polemic; a bit out of place in a geography, but that's Ossleman for you… then this …principal among these, and still largely intact when viewed from a distance, is a shrine purportedly dedicated to the false god Dumat; head of their pantheon… and a couple more paragraphs of polemic …the remoteness of its location and the superstitious hostility of the peasants made further investigation impossible and I do not believe it unlikely that some of the more credulous inhabitants of this region still fear the power of… blah blah blah!"
"That account is over three centuries old…" Cassandra reminded Marcus as he closed the book with a self-satisfied smirk
"True…" he conceded "But a building that's survived over a thousand years and four Blights is unlikely to have crumbled to nothing in a mere three hundred years…"
"It is worth looking in to…" Leliana agreed "Corypheus has shown he has a sense for the theatrical and using an abandoned sanctuary of Dumat certainly fits with that…"
Cullen leaned over to Marcus as the two women immersed themselves in a logistical discussion
"Marc… might I…?"
"Yes, you can borrow it..." Marcus sighed "But I will want it back."
Books lent to the Commander had a habit of never making their way home to the point of origin. Cullen's eyebrows lifted in surprise
"Oh! Thank you… but, that's not…" he dropped his voice even further "Can we talk, privately, after the meeting?"
Despite the sense of triumph at having a definite lead on Samson there was something a bit off about Cullen, Marcus noted, he seemed anxious and fidgety; this worried him. Cullen's nightmares had been worse than usual recently, possibly signalling the start of a new withdrawal crisis.
"Of course," he stroked Cullen's cheek, feeling surprise at the way he flinched "I have to see Mother Giselle about a couple of things, but come up to my chambers in an hour or so…"
###
Cullen paused at the foot of the stairs; listening to the music drifting down from Marcus's chamber. He played all too rarely and this wasn't a tune Cullen was familiar with; plaintive and haunting, filled with a sense of loss but touched with hope. He leaned against the wall, letting the notes flow over and through him; trying to find some peace of soul in the deep, rich, sound of the Viol. Eventually the last phrase faded into silence.
"What would you like me to play next?" Marcus called down with a smile on his face. Even if he hadn't heard the door, a man in half-plate can't be stealthy no matter how hard he tries. Despite his anxiety, Cullen found himself smiling as he came up into the room…
"Musical appreciation didn't exactly feature in my training… Did you learn to play in the Circle?"
Marcus shook his head, laying aside the bow and randomly plucking notes with his fingers
"I started getting lessons before being sent to the Templars…" It was an integral part of a well-born child's education, especially in Ostwick where the Antivan influence ran strong. Being unable to play a musical instrument was as unthinkable as being unable to wield a sword "But I kept up my studies in the Commandery, and then in the Circle; it was deemed an 'appropriate' pastime. Would you like to hear something else?"
Cullen nodded, sitting down on the couch with his hands clasped in front of him, fighting the compelling urge to claw at his neck. Marcus picked up the bow and adjusted the tuning pegs. Whatever Cullen wanted to talk about clearly affected him deeply, it would be best to allow him space to broach the subject in his own time.
The tune was light, almost frivolous, chosen to combat the growing apprehension he felt as much as to set Cullen at his ease. It had been one of Lydia's favourites, she'd taught it to him one hot summer afternoon when 'Geometric Structure and the Dynamics of Energy Barriers' had been too exhausting a subject for both of them
"It's based on an old Orlesian air... 'Love's Sweet Regret'..." He explained, as he began to play. There seemed to be more sweetness than regret, Cullen thought, but that was Orlesians for you. He could tell it meant a lot to Marcus though. Strange, he could easily imagine Marcus as a Templar Novice, like the ones he used to be in awe of at Kinloch Hold; high-born, full of the confidence engendered by their rank and ancestry – even though that technically counted for naught in the Order – they made it look so effortless while he struggled every day to keep up.
Some of them sneered down their noses at the lout from Honnleath and his bastard friend but he doubted Marcus would have done that; he was too kind, too intrinsically aware of the worth of others despite race or rank. He wanted, almost needed, to see the best in people; he'd even managed to find a little compassion for Anders at the end. That just made it worse; Cullen knew what he had to say would hurt, and hurt deeply even if Marcus denied it, but he couldn't keep it hidden any longer.
Cullen realised the music had stopped a little while ago and Marcus sat watching him, quietly, the viol resting across his lap.
"There's something I-I need to tell you…" He clenched his hands to try and stop them trembling, taking a couple of deep breaths to steady his racing heartbeat "You r-recall I t-told you about how I shared qu-quarters with Samson when… when I f-first arrived at K-K-Kirkwall?"
Marcus laid aside the viol and got up, walking over to sit beside Cullen; alert to his stumbling words and aware of what that meant, the struggle between will and tongue to unlock some pain-filled secret, yet another demon that haunted the former Templar's nights. An uncomfortably obvious possibility arose in his mind
"Did you and he ever...?" Marcus didn't want to finish that sentence
Cullen nodded, shame at the memory and guilt at keeping it from Marcus colouring his cheeks a deep crimson
"A few times... at his insistence…"
Traumatised, surrounded from strangers in a dark and hostile place; his friends either dead or mad and him all but accused of complicity in their suffering, uncertain if anyone he cared for had survived the chaos of the Blight… The young Templar had needed someone like Marc, an understanding friend who would comfort and encourage him; offering the solace of companionship without claiming more than he was able to offer. Instead, he got…
...the shifting of the mattress waking him… The heat of Samson's chest pressing against his back, pinning him to the bed; knee nudging his legs apart, the hand snaking downwards – demanding, predatory, without any of Marcus's tenderness... Biting down on the pillow to stifle his cry at the searing pain of that first thrust; the hoarse, snide voice in his ear as the older man pushed deeper 'Relax, Cully-boy! Sam knows what you need... This'll take your mind off the night terrors'
"It wasn't... I... I... I mean I let him. He... He n-never f-f-forced..." the stammer was getting worse. Cullen stopped, taking several deep breaths as Marcus waited for him to continue. Cullen couldn't look at him, afraid of the revulsion and rejection he'd surely see "I… I was alone, afraid; I needed something... someone... to hold on to, even if it meant..."
Even if it meant letting Samson use me whenever he couldn't get to the Rose
He'd jumped to the darkest possible conclusion when he saw Samson and Maddox slipping off together, remembering all the friendly little exchanges with the Mages back at Kinloch Hold; the same ones that penned him and his friends in that place and laughed as the demons tortured them. He'd panicked, it was easy to imagine the same nightmares being unleashed in this grim fortress and Meredith more than ready to listen to his denunciations. Samson was already a marked man in her eyes, she was just looking for an excuse...
That it was just letters, soppy little love notes to and from a tradeswoman in the city, made no difference; the very innocence of the messages rendered them doubly suspicious in the Knight Commanders eyes. What could he say, 'I thought Samson was fucking Maddox as well as me so I got jealous and scared'? It wouldn't save Maddox, or Samson, and might just taint him with the man's corruption, earning him the same punishment. Perhaps making them share quarters had been a test, Meredith's way of discovering whether she could rely on him
It won him his first promotion, Knight-Lieutenant Cullen Rutherford, while the Mages and less favoured Templars learned to be extra cautious around the young Fereldan…
Cullen sat there; still unable to look at Marcus beside him, elbows on his knees and forehead resting on his hands. All he could hear was the other man's breath, deep and slow as he tried to come to terms with what he'd heard. After a silence that felt like it lasted for hours, Cullen got to his feet. It wasn't fair on Marc to drag this out, he had to take responsibility for what happened next…
"I… I understand if this changes things between us, Inquisit…"
Marcus grabbed hold of his wrist
"Cull… whatever you're going to say; please… please stop…" his voice was strained with the effort of controlling his conflicting emotions, as he fought down the scream building inside. The grip on Cullen's wrist tightened "I... I need some time alone... to think about this..."
"Of course, my Lord, I... I understand…" Marcus silently released his grasp and Cullen walked slowly towards the stairs. He always been afraid that someday, some part of his past would be too much even for Marcus's forgiving heart. He'd almost expected it, believing this happiness to be more than he ever deserved. He paused at the head of the stairs, unsure if he would be welcome to ascend them ever again
"You will always have my loyalty, and my love..."
Marcus got to his feet as he heard the door closing, pacing the floor with increasing agitation. Anger boiled in him without any clear target. Was it Samson who'd earned his fury, or Cullen? Cullen might not think Samson had raped him, but he'd had taken advantage of Cullen's vulnerability for his own selfish needs and driven him further down the path of paranoid isolation that made him easy prey for Meredith. It was Maddox's fate that made him sick with rage, though, and he couldn't deny Cullen's culpability in that even though he could understand the fear behind the denunciation...
...or was the anger at himself? Had Anders been right and sad amber eyes was all it took for a man's actions to be excused? Had he been so desperate to fill the aching void left by Aidhan's death that he'd clung onto Cullen despite everything he'd done? Had he used Cullen like Samson did, only less blatantly...?
The scream that had been building up came roaring out of his mouth and Marcus's fist slammed against the wall again and again, until the stone was stained red...
###
"I hope the masonry learned its lesson?" Enchanter Ellendra smiled thinly at Marcus as she examined the damage to his hand "There are a couple of fractures I can do something about. Salve and a bandage will suffice for the abrasions."
"I don't think it's going to be giving me any more trouble" he stared down at his raw, bloody, knuckles as Ellendra selected what she needed from her medicine chest, feeling incredibly foolish and embarrassed
"It can be difficult, loving a Templar, can't it?" she placed the bottles and bandages on the table. Taking Marcus's hand, she began to feel for the location of the fractures "Even with the most sympathetic, there will be times their obligations require them to do things a Mage might find hard to accept"
"Was that the case with you and Matrin?" Marcus winced as she found the damaged bones. It was rare for either of them to touch on personal matters, although Marcus had found himself turning frequently to Ellendra as both magical advisor and occasional mentor since she joined the Inquisition back at Redcliffe Crossroads. Their previous conversations had stuck largely to the professional and technical but she was an insightful, experienced, woman and it was plain her diagnosis extended deeper than a fit of temper and a convenient wall…
"Of course! He was true to his vows, hunting Apostates, Blood Mages and abominations as any Templar must. I cannot deny there were times his actions gave me cause to question and I imagine you must face similar challenges, given the Commander's personal history…" She paused and took a breath "Now be quiet, I need to concentrate…"
She closed her eyes and Marcus felt a slight numbness penetrating his injured hand; tasting the Mana as it crystallised in the air about him. He'd tried to explain it to Cullen and Cassandra once; like the feel of sea air on your tongue. It appeared to be something only Mages were aware of, one of the surest signs of magic being worked nearby.
"There! You'll have a slight 'pins and needles' sensation for a day or so as the bones knit, but it shouldn't be too bothersome" She let go of Marcus's hand and took the bottle of salve "Hold out your hand and bend your fingers slightly while I put this on…"
Marcus hissed a little at the sting of the ointment. Why was stuff that was meant to heal always so painful? Perhaps it was some form of subtle punishment for being careless enough to get hurt.
"How did you deal with it?" he asked cautiously "There must have been times when you wondered if it was possible to continue?"
Ellendra smiled again, but with a touch of sadness, thinking of the hazel-eyed Templar; captivating and infuriating in equal measure. If he hadn't been so determined to recover her phylactery, to protect her from ever being hunted down by their enemies, he might still be with her today…
She began fastening the bandage around Marcus's hand
"I would think about what my life would be like without him and that always gave me my answer. Love isn't easy, perhaps it isn't meant to be; if it were, we wouldn't value it so much..."
"I just wonder..." Marcus hesitated, afraid that voicing his fear would make it true "I'm afraid that I'm using Cullen as a replacement for Aidhan... That feels... cruel… unfair on both of us."
She finished pinning the bandage in place and stepped back, arms folded and head cocked to one side, looking at Marcus carefully and remembering her own youthful passions and uncertainties
"Do you think you are?"
Marcus shook his head; Aidhan hadn't lived long enough for the fire and excitement of their love to burn down into something steady and mature, no great crisis had forced them to question their feelings for each other; perhaps life in the Ostwick Circle had been a little too easy and sedate for that to have happened. With Cullen it was different, like they were exploring a dangerous territory with unknown perils around every turn; ordeals that couldn't be shrugged off with a laugh and a friendly tussle…
"No, but that doesn't stop me worrying about it..."
Ellendra placed a gentle hand on Marcus's arm; it was a rare display of physical affection from her and the smile he gave in return showed his deep appreciation.
"If it's any help, I don't think you are either… I've sometimes wondered if I could ever fall in love again, but I'm too old for all that; you're still young and the Maker has blessed you with another chance. Don't let your fear, or his, waste that chance"
###
Cullen was quick to answer the door, like he'd been waiting for the knock; clad only in shirt and breeches, his face flushed as if he'd been exercising…
"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" The words felt stupidly formal in Marcus's mouth, like calling unannounced on a new neighbour. Cullen shook his head, open the door wider
"No… no, come in, please…" He stepped to one side and Marcus could see the iron weights sitting on the floor "I… I was just working off a bit of tension…"
Marcus stepped inside and crossed to the desk, placing the Geographica down on top of the papers lying there
"I've put markers in a couple of the chapters that might be of special interest. I'm in no hurry to get it back…"
"Thank you… I… I'll take good care of it" Cullen stood by the still-open door, shifting his weight from foot to foot; uncertain what to say, or even if Marcus would be staying. As the awkward silence dragged on, Marcus walked back to the door and closed it gently.
"Let's go upstairs and talk…" he said quietly "I can't be bothered trying to clear a place to sit down here."
Upstairs, Cullen remained standing while Marcus sat on the bed. He wanted to join him, desperately needed to hold him close and beg forgiveness, but couldn't be sure if that would be welcome. He'd never seen Marcus look so haunted before, not even after Redcliffe Castle, or Adamant…
"Have you ever read 'Songs of the Hunters' by Brother Faustian?" Marcus asked suddenly. Cullen frowned, uncertain of the relevance of the question
"No, I've never heard of it…"
"It's a collection of Avvar songs and poems. Faustian was a Chanter from Hercinia; he went to the Frostback Basin as a missionary thinking that just hearing the Chant of Light would be sufficient to convert the tribes. They probably thought he was mad and it would be bad luck to kill him, but for each Canticle of the Chant he sang they would sing him one of their songs in return; a way of saying 'thank you' I suppose… He never made a single convert, but he transcribed every single song he heard together with the musical notation; it's still the most authentic compilation of Avvar lore we have…"
"I… I think I would really like to read those" Cullen was genuinely fascinated, despite still being puzzled about why Marcus was telling him all this. He usually liked the way the Mage's mind made these curious leaps but just now it was painfully frustrating, a pointless diversion from what hung between them, there had to be some way he could try to say how much he wanted to know if there was still a chance "Or… or perhaps, some… some evening you could… could read them to me?"
Marcus moved along the bed slightly, gesturing for Cullen to sit down as he continued talking, those few steps seemed to take hours…
"I've been fascinated by the Avvar since I was a boy, and get incredibly frustrated about how little we really know about them. I used to fantasise with Aidhan about getting permission for us to go on an expedition to the Frostback Basin 'for the advancement of knowledge'. It was our stupid, boyish, dream, adventuring in the wilds, but we promised each other that one day we would make it real. Maybe we might have been able to do it, eventually, if… if it hadn't been for the Rebellion..."
If it wasn't for the Rebellion where would any of them be? The disaster at Kirkwall defined all their lives, setting in motion the chain of events that led them to this place; bringing grief, loss and hope in equal measure. Aidhan's death had left him empty, torn away every future he could imagine. The Grand Cleric's invitation to join the delegation to the Conclave gave him the chance to at least do something that might make a difference but, after that…?
"I wasn't going to return to Ostwick after the Conclave, no matter the outcome; I was going to take a horse and ride south, keep riding until I found the Avvar. I didn't care if they took my head as a trophy or if I ended up a crazy warrior-mage in leather and war-paint, at least... at least I would have kept that promise... There was nothing to hold me here, nothing that made me want to keep going, even after the Breach in the sky. The world didn't matter to me anymore, I was just going to do what had to be done and then vanish, until we became friends..."
Only Cassandra, and possibly Varric, had really sensed the emptiness behind the humour and the mischief; the almost manic response of a young man cursed with a purpose he didn't want; by an ingrained sense of duty that prevented him from running away into the mountains until the wilderness claimed him. Looking back, he was thankful Cullen hadn't been able to offer the 'company' he'd first been looking for; friendship with the quiet, broken, ex-Templar had brought him more than any quick fuck in an army tent ever offered, and when that friendship turned into love…?
What would his life be like without Cullen? He'd pondered that all afternoon, sitting in the Chantry garden staring at the snow-covered beds, and the same answer came back to him time and again. He would do what was demanded of him; face down Corypheus and afterwards, if the final battle didn't claim him, step off the highest battlement of Skyhold into the waiting wind.
Kirkwall may have defined everything else, but he'd made Cullen a promise at West Hill and he wasn't going to break that...
Cullen's heart skipped a beat as Marcus reached across and took his hand; was this where he said it would be better if they ended this while they could still stay friends? Would that feel better or worse than outright rejection?
"I promised you I wasn't going to let what happened in your past get between us..."
Cullen's grip tightened a little, his throat dry, but he was able to find the words he needed; the ones that would give Marcus the chance to withdraw.
"I can't hold you to that promise. There are things I've done... I can't, won't, ask you to blindly forgive, even if I thought I deserved it."
Every second of silence that followed was torment, and when Marcus spoke the words were halting, hesitant, as if each one had to be dragged from his mouth
"J-just tell me one thing… please… be honest with me... Did… did you... did you ever take… take advantage of anyone, the way some of the others did?"
A cold shock of revulsion surged through Cullen at the thought, but he could feel no offence at the question; with everything that happened in the Gallows it was almost surprising he hadn't asked this before. He knelt before Marcus, looking into his eyes and taking both his hands with the profound solemnity of a man making his last confession…
"I swear to you, My Lord, I have never taken man or woman against their will; nor have I laid unclean hands upon a child. My soul is tainted with many sins, but that is not one of them. I promise you this by everything I hold sacred."
Marcus leaned forward with a long sigh, resting his head against Cullen's
"Your soul isn't as tainted as you think; I may have the wrong bits to be a priest but even I can see that. I'm sorry I had to ask but you know that's the one thing I could never forgive... Everything else? I can't pretend that will be easy but we can deal with that as it happens, if you're willing...?"
Cullen didn't know whether to laugh or cry; he'd hoped, prayed, that the Maker hadn't sent him this love only to snatch it away again; that Marcus would find it possible to keep seeing the man he was striving to be, to love that man and have mercy on him despite the crimes for which he was atoning. His faith had faltered, but the Maker hadn't failed him… and neither had his Lord…
"I can try, my Lord, but you're right; it isn't going to be easy… there will be times…"
Marcus shushed him, and lay back on the bed; Cullen, with a heartfelt, grateful, smile rose from his knees and lay down beside him. Marcus drew him close…
"Love isn't meant to be, or at least that's what I'm told on good authority, but both of us have been given a second chance and not many people get that..."
They held each other in silence for a long time, Cullen's head resting on Marcus's chest. Through the gap in the Mages tunic he could see his lucky coin, resting next to Aidhan's Andraste on the same chain.
"The only Avvar you've met so far have either tried to kill you, or thrown goats at Skyhold." He reminded Marcus, the hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth
Marcus laughed softly, running his fingers through Cullen's hair
"That only makes me more determined, I'm still convinced Movren's clan are the Avvar equivalent of the village idiot. Perhaps one day, when all this is over, we could ride south together...?"
Cullen thought about that for a long time. Most southern Fereldan wouldn't share Marcus's enthusiasm for the Avvar of the Frostback Basin, centuries of cattle raiding saw to that, but he could understand something of the fascination the warrior tribes of the far south might hold. They lived the way their ancestors had, long before the Tevinter Imperium, or the First Blight or any of the nations that arose after. The people from whom Andraste came must have been similar…
"Sing me the songs Brother Faustian collected and I'll travel with you to the edge of the World."
Lying here, resting against Marcus, he could feel the tension and anxiety dissolving; another respite in the struggle that had become so much a part of his daily life that it's absence felt almost unnerving. Suddenly he chuckled, kissing Marcus on the throat "You do realise I'm going to spend the rest of the evening imagining you in nothing but leather and war-paint, don't you?