The ceremony was lovely - or so everyone with nothing else to say insisted upon afterwards. Held in the gardens, only the elite of Skyhold gathered because there wasn't room to house all the mourners. Everyone, regardless if they were from Ferelden or fought in the blight, or even knew her name, wanted to be there to...to do what one did at funerals. To be seen sharing in a sorrow whether it truly touched them or not. Mother Giselle prepared a heart wrenching sermon she delivered while standing in the middle of the crowd circling around her. He couldn't remember if Lana ever spoke to her. She'd been skittish around the subject of the chantry and her own faith. Understandable given the mages involvement with...it didn't matter.
Josephine timed it to begin as the sun's last rays cast an ethereal glow across the garden, almost alighting the trees themselves on fire. A golden haze gave the entire thing an unreal quality, as if they'd slipped into a nightmare of their own. He'd overheard that an even larger funeral was planned in Denerim, one Leliana intended to attend for...someone's sake. All of Ferelden mourned their lost savior. The streets would wash clean from tears. Cullen couldn't remember where he heard that, but it felt right. Lana could...had touched lives, whether she meant to or not. Whether she wanted to or not. Still, the Nightingale was here now and for her fallen friend she offered up a song. It wasn't a funeral dirge, but a sliver of hope to find faith against the dying light, to embrace your fellows as neighbors and discover the spark of life in all.
It was the only time Cullen feared he would lose his grip. Lana would have gritted from the corniness of it, but she'd smile along and by the third verse be carrying the chorus in her own alto. The advisers had to stand at attention around the...pyre, in view of everyone. He felt Leliana sneaking furtive glances his way, the Spymaster gauging if he was up to the task to present a sad but strong temperament in the face of a sea of heartbreak. Cullen blanketed his mind, his eyes staring across the darkening horizon. The ceremony drew on while people gave speeches and offered up pointless anecdotes, everyone certain they knew what Lana wanted in death, praising her for her sacrifice, saying she died well. Maker, that was the worst of them all. He slipped away from every word, his focus upon the rising night sky while watching each star emerge. When a new one hatched from the dark field, he'd try to draw the name of it from his memory. The game kept him from noticing Varric's somber frown, Dorian glowering into his hands, Cassandra's staggered breath, the witch from the Winter Palace haunting around the back with her son tight in her arms, and Hawke... She wouldn't step into the gardens, as if the survivor - the reason Lana wasn't here - couldn't be welcome. But she kept watch on the battlements above, unable to face the rest of them. Even still, her never-ending, heart-wrenching sobs carried across every beam, every stone. It sounded as if all of Skyhold was crying.
He'd made it through the ceremony, the lighting of the pointless pyre, even gritted through the receiving line - as if some Duke or Count of Orlais knew anything about Lana. He knew that she would have rather ran barefoot through the snow than have to sit through this funeral. Knew that she would have hidden a book up her mage's droopy sleeves and tried to sneak a few pages in when no one was looking. Knew that she was always trying to slick down a tuft of hair at the back of her head that refused to obey. Knew that...
Everyone was sad, but he doubted they knew the real loss. How could they understand, how could they smile again knowing they faced a colder world? It was at the reception after, when people exhausted and hungry from mourning gathered in the great hall to stuff their bellies. That was when Cullen snarled at someone's incompetent question, his resolve shattering into full anger. He'd had few good moments since she fell, and never a full hour. Keeping it in check proved impossible with every passing minute, his skin itching to break free, his tongue snapping against any and all. Leliana interceded before he ripped off...he didn't even know whose head it was. Didn't care.
"Commander, would you like to join us? Varric was about to read from one of his books about the Hero of Ferelden. Apparently, she annotated it for him."
They'd huddled around a side table: Cassandra, Hawke, Vivienne, Dagna. Dorian and the Inquisitor clasped hands, their heads bowed together in an intimate prayer of sorts. Even Iron Bull was there with Sera perched upon his horns trying to get a better look. In the middle of it all was Varric, stomping around with boots on the table so everyone could see him. With his biggest voice he shouted out, "And then the prick mage said he didn't care about 'Who killed who' and turned into a giant pride demon!"
"No," Cullen shook his head, "No, I...should return to my work. We have yet to find Corypheus and..." He didn't bother to finish his sentence and left Leliana and the rest to celebrate and remember her life. The walk to his office was hollow.
What was the point? What was there to celebrate? She'd gone into the fade same as the rest, fell into that forlorn and endless place along with the Inquisitor, Hawke, Cassandra, Dorian, and Varric. But out of them all, she was the only one to not come out. No! Cullen slammed shut the book he hadn't been reading and flung it against the floor. No, she chose to stay behind. She...she gave up on everything, on him, on herself, on- Maker, damn her.
Gripping onto his hair, he collapsed into the chair, his elbows slamming against the desk. The force rattled a trio of lyrium bottles a soldier left for him to dispose of. Contraband confiscated off some merchants. Why did they think he'd have any idea what to do with them? It was the damn mages' problems and...
He didn't realize he'd picked one up until the vial was in his hand, his finger twisting around the cap as if to wedge it open. The movement was so natural to him, he shuddered. He wasn't about to give up, not now, not after... But she did. The others saw it as a heroic sacrifice. If Lana hadn't stayed behind then the nightmare demon could have infected the world, would have torn through their forces and left the Inquisition vulnerable, broken. He wanted to feel the same swell of bittersweet pride the others did, but all his mind kept playing over and over was her explaining the Calling. Admitting she wasn't... Before, when she thought there was nothing left in her life, she tried to throw it all away. And what now? Did he truly mean so little to her?
"Face hopeful despite the odds, fingers wishing to touch something soft and not sharp. Call her over and whisper your heart, 'I love you.' She smiles back, wanting to tell you what you want to hear but never lying. Not to you. 'Stay safe' she says hoping that's enough."
Cullen whipped around in his seat to find the wholesome voice. Perched upon the top of his bookcase was Cole staring intently at his gloves as if he had no idea how he was wearing them. "Get away from me, demon!" Cullen shouted. He'd reached the edge of his rope hours ago and couldn't stop from lashing out. His fingers reached for the grip of his sword but Cole only looked up, a hint of his watery eyes below the hat reaching Cullen.
"I only wanted to help, to take away the pain. To make you forget."
"You will not get inside my head," Cullen threatened, his body tightening as he moved to unsheathe his sword. He'd put up with the demon because the Inquisitor insisted, but he kept a watchful eye upon it, waited for it to touch his mind, to pollute it the way they did. The way they all did.
Cole looked more struck from Cullen's words than his obvious physical threat. Or perhaps it was his grief breaking against the compassion spirit, dragging Cole down into his own wallowing depths. The spirit patted his hands against his thighs and dug in with his fingers. Whispering to his knees, Cole said, "I'm sorry, it hurts."
Cullen's eyes screwed up tight from the madness around him and he noticed they'd begun to burn from the rage percolating through his brain. A light knock echoed off his door and he swung to that. Realizing his error, he turned back to Cole but the demon was gone, vanished as it kept doing.
"Commander," Leliana's voice called from behind the door, "may I enter?"
Releasing the grip on his sword, Cullen laid his hands out upon his desk. "Yes."
The Spymaster slipped inside without anyone wary. She'd kept her hood drawn for the entire funeral, perhaps she was playing her own game to keep from breaking. Now she pulled it back to reveal her face as if entering cleansed into a chantry's sanctuary. "May I sit?" Leliana indicated the chair piled with books. Before Cullen could respond, she knocked the stack off and placed the chair in front of him. He didn't look up at her, his focus burning through the desktop, but out of the corner of his eye he caught the three lyrium vials. Guilt churned through his stomach even though he had no intentions of using them before. He wanted to reach over and knock them all away into a drawer, but that would only draw attention.
Properly seated, Leliana reached into her pocket and unearthed a small glass bottle. It was sky blue, tapered at the top, with a crystal plug sealed in wax to keep its contents safe. Cullen grimaced from the grey powder poured into it. Seeming to not notice his discomfort, Leliana placed it upon his desk directly between his hands. "She would want you to have some."
Glowering through the ashes, Cullen tried to not snicker at the misplaced sentiment, "What's the point? It's old wood and lavender burnt to ash as a stand in? It's not her."
"There is acceptance in ceremony."
"There is idiocy in it all," he countered, still glaring at the fraudulent bottle, but he didn't knock it away or hand it back. His hands were lead against the desk, too heavy to move.
"Are you all right?" the Spymaster asked, her own crystal eyes chewing through him.
He wanted to scream that of course he wasn't. It seemed unlikely he'd ever be all right again. Sleep was impossible, only a sliver of night claimed to the fade, and even then he'd start awake with sweat dousing his skin. Even burying himself in work drew forth more weep from his soul, so much of Adamant - the wardens themselves - needing his approval, his ideas, his heart. Instead of telling the truth, he settled for, "I am...doing what I must. What of you? You knew her well, best friends I think she even claimed, and yet you seem unfazed, as still as a pond."
And then he saw something he knew to be as rare as a white dragon. Leliana cracked. Her lips wobbled and tears gushed from her eyes - not the pretty, solitary tear of a proper mourner, but a deluge pouring down her cheeks and crumpling her nose. Ruddiness charred up her cheeks and circled around her eyes, the poor Spymaster's pale skin an instant giveaway when she'd been crying. No wonder she kept herself in the shadows.
"I...I didn't meant to," Cullen reached out and clumsily grabbed her hand.
"We put on the show for the sake of the others, but behind closed doors..." Leliana glanced back at his making certain it was still tight. "I thought she was invulnerable, hoped she would be. Imagined her as if..." She shuddered in a breath. "I feel her loss with every pang of my heart."
That was it. That was what it felt like. Not the grief he thought he knew, the grief of losing a part of your life, of change. It was pain inside every inch of his body, his soul, as if someone drove a nail into his brain. Every thought, every breath dug the nail in deeper and deeper until there was no coming back, nothing worth coming back for. He was exhausted, his mind haunted by both sweet and harrowing memories. Either drove him to the edge of tears, his fingers digging into the bed frame in the middle of the night while Cullen fought for a grasp on reality. She was gone, she went into the fade and didn't come back. He'd never see or hear her again. And she did it of her own accord. Because...because he wasn't worth surviving for.
"I've cleaned out her belongings," Leliana spoke up, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.
"What? Why?" He hadn't gone near that side of Skyhold, couldn't face it, but to think that her books, her handful of personal effects, even that silly mechanism she never got working right... No, they couldn't be gone too. Not with her.
Leliana pinched her nose and sucked in a breath, "Lanny has...had sensitive relics in her possession, things that Ferelden could lay some claim to. I...the king asked for her staff, but..."
Of course he would. He was the one with the greatest standing of all those who knew her, the one who broke her, beat her down until she saw no escape. Couldn't find a reason to keep fighting to come back.
"Commander?" Leliana spoke, her words jarring him. He woke to realize he'd been strangling a stack of parchment upon his desk. Somehow in that time, she'd wiped away all evidence of her crying, even her cheeks back to a milky white. "There was something of hers that I thought you should have."
He bobbed his head. A part of him, the one still madly in love with her, wanted to rush into her room and pick up that borrowed grey warden tunic if only to smell her once more, to feel the final vestiges of her heat. But his steps steered him far away from her room and he couldn't bring himself to ask anyone else to do it for him.
Leliana reached into her pocket once more, but it wasn't the faded grey shirt passed through the years between them she handed over but a book. Little larger than his palm, it was bound in cheap red leather that looked as if it'd been later patched along the split seams by dragon scales. "What is this?" he sputtered, twisting the book around to try and find an explanation.
"I believe it is a journal...addressed to you."
"A journal?" She'd never said a word about it to him or anyone else as far as he knew. "And you've already read it," he said his heart sinking from Maker knew what was in there. Lana kept secrets that would turn any stomach, things that she could only whisper to him about. If any of them got out people would tarnish her, perhaps even hate her without understanding the full of it.
Leliana slipped out of her seat, rising to stretch her legs. "No, I would never invade her privacy like that. Whatever she had to say, wanted to put down, she meant it for you. I should return to the reception. You could join us later. Those of us from Ferelden are planning our own wake."
"No," Cullen shook his head, his hands still weighing the book. "No, I cannot. Not...no."
Gently bobbing her head, the stoic Spymaster unlatched his door. "I understand. And Cullen, you do not need to go it alone."
He started from her familiar words, but Leliana already slipped back into the night leaving him alone with only the flicker of the candle and his own traitorous thoughts. Grief he understood, grief was what people expected, but that wasn't what chained up his heart or knotted his stomach. After he heard the full of what happened in the fade, a blinding anger took hold of him. Tears were stemmed not from a happy thought or memory, but the wrath screaming through his soul. How could she throw herself away like that? How could she think so little of what was left of her life to-to...? How could he not be worth trying for? How could he not convince her to come back? How could he fail her?
Screaming, Cullen slammed the small book down onto his desk. The vials rattled again, all three of them twinkling like bells in the snow. Or rain against a window pane. The latter thought caused him to shudder, his memory slipping back to the tower, to blood dripping through the stones into... Blessed Andraste, make it stop. Take it all away. He couldn't handle the anger inside anymore. Not...Maker, not against her. Why was he mad at her? She hadn't done anything but be what she could with him. His entire body sagged in the chair, his forehead skimming across the surface. Slivers of tears dripped from his eyes, but he knew he wasn't mourning her but his own inability to let her be enough. She'd asked, begged that he understand what little she had to offer, that he accept he would never be enough. But would he? Could he?
Cullen would never let Cole anywhere near his mind, but he had other means to purge the anger from himself. A well practiced hand plucked up a solitary lyrium vial, the bottle pinched between his forefinger and thumb. Part of him chastised himself, he swore he'd never leash himself again, that he'd struggle to his last breath to keep what mind he had left. But that promise was made to a dead woman. What did it matter now?
Cullen stood transfixed staring at the glowing lyrium, his mind waging a war with itself. He could have been trapped there for hours, or only a few minutes; time ceased to be as he both tried to open the vial and kept it sealed tight. She wouldn't want him to, but she wasn't here. Would never be here again. Would never step into his life, would never slip her fingers into his and caress the back of his hand. A stinging rose in his eyes, and he wiped away the prickling of tears along with the candle smoke. His eyes slipped past the lyrium bottle to fall upon the book Leliana gave him. She'd said it was addressed to him, but...
Still standing, Cullen inched the book closer to himself. With one hand clinging to the lyrium he slipped open the cover. The vellum was nearly yellow from age and overuse, a few scratch marks evident from when it was last scraped clean. But he could read the words in the fading ink. Sure enough, it was meant for Cullen, but not the Commander of the Inquisition.
"To Knight-Captain Cullen,
I wished to extend to you fair greetings from across the waking sea. Amaranthine grows curious as to the current trade agreements once made in good standing with Kirkwall. Due to the lack of a Viscount and (a few scratch marks followed) Maker, I'm sorry. I am terrible at code, even worse at sounding pompous when it's supposed to be a threat. Whatever happened to 'if you do this I will bring an army and smash your walls down?' That's simple, right? People get the message and I've gone completely off topic.
This is my fifth, or perhaps sixth attempt at writing to you since you assisted me with that warden matter. Based upon the piles of mutilated vellum across my desk it grows more unlikely I will ever send this to you. Yet, I feel I should explain my ill conceived choices in the deep roads. What I wanted to convey and hoped to convince you of was that I'd never meant to (a thick swipe of ink obliterated whatever she wrote after) Sweet Andraste, this is never going to work."
She didn't bother to sign it, only dabbed a few of her ink covered fingerprints across the bottom of the paper. Curious, Cullen turned the page to find another letter, this one dated 9:37, right after Kirkwall's circle fell.
"For Knight-Captain Cullen,
Word has reached the shores of Amaranthine of the chaos in Kirkwall, and I officially extend any assistance you or the Viscount-less city might require. Refuges are struggling for shelter having fled with little upon their backs. We will not offer to (scratch marks). Given the temerity of the attack, all citizens fleeing the chaos are welcome, regardless of (Lana attacked the page with her quill as if trying to stab away what she feared to speak)
Maker, what happened? All we're hearing is snippets of wild tales; dragons, the chantry exploding, a statue of Andraste coming to life and smashing all of Kirkwall with a stone sword. I am uncertain what, if any of it, is true. If it weren't for Nathaniel I wouldn't even know that you survived. I should have written before. At least sent you something to open up communications. There doesn't seem much point now. With all of thedas braying for mage blood, my abilities to function in any official capacity are shackled. I can't imagine what you're suffering from, what all of Kirkwall is struggling against.
I wish I could be there to help.
Who am I kidding? I'm never sending this one either.
Your useless Arlessa,
Lana Amell"
Curiosity piqued, Cullen took the book up in both of his hands and he fell into his chair. Over time, the pile of letters that she never got around to sending transformed into a true journal but every entry began addressed to him. She spoke of her life, her travails trying to revive the wardens from their stupor with a candidness rarely afforded to the written word. He could almost hear her whispering her words just behind his ear.
"Please tell me you've never fought a dragon before, Cullen. Messy, foul smelling, and healing burns is about as much fun as mopping up broodmother blood..." "You'll never guess what I just found. Well, of course you won't, you're parchment. But if you could, it'd amaze you..." "Sweet Maker, I think I've almost got the old biscuit recipe down. And I did, until the oven exploded. Apparently lyrium sand can look an awful lot like sugar." He skipped around, his fingers shuffling past pages of her life he missed out on, years wasted while they were both to terrified to risk opening up to each other. Throughout the journal his brain clung to every mention of his name which never seemed too far from her thoughts. There was a lightness in her words, a joy in the simple things as she delighted in the mundane of life until the pages came to a dead stop. Flipping past two more blank entries, the words began again but the hand was cold and curt, the letters jagged as if the holder of the quill stabbed them into being.
"I forgot about this journal. Things have changed, every plan I thought I had has been corrupted. Sundered. Somehow, I've found myself enmeshed with the Champion of Kirkwall, an irritatingly cheery woman who also to my absolute delight brought Anders back into my life. He is concerned that I may at any moment snap and end his life. While I doubt I am willing, it seems better if he harbors on under the delusion. What brought me back to this journal you're asking sheets of parchment? Red lyrium. I almost turned my back upon my new 'cousin' until she told me of it, asked me to find the source. Told me of its existence within Kirkwall's templars. Maker's breath, Cullen. You damn well better not be involved with this stuff."
Her admonishment startled him. She'd never mentioned that it was her hunt for red lyrium that...that was what pulled her from the Calling. Or that she was concerned for him taking it, becoming- Andraste's tears, she feared him falling into the same corruption as the other templars.
"I can sense something wrong about it, more than wrong. All I hear is talk of it turning people into statues, or it being made from a statue. I don't know, Hawke gives me a splitting headache. Please. Don't have taken it. I can't understand it, certainly can't solve it, but I pray to the Maker you're not a part of it."
He didn't realize his fingers began to shake until he moved to turn the page. Formulas, theories, even a few quick notes in code filled the margins of the page as if Lana needed to write them down quickly before she forgot. On occasion, a few more anecdotes about her trials with Hawke and Anders appeared mixed in, but every entry ended with, "You better not be a part of this." She spoke of the temple of sacred ashes attack with a solemn detachment, unable to process the massive loss of life. Something in her trying to understand grief on that scale struck deep against him and he couldn't read the passage. One day perhaps, but not now.
Flipping deeper into the book, days passed until he paused upon, "I saw you today. Never in an age did I think it would happen. Hearing about the templars, then hearing about their corruption from Therinfall, I tried to put you from my thoughts. To cling to hope that you'd been one of the smart templars to avoid Corypheus' grasp. And then there you were. Alive. Safe. It caught me so off guard, I proceeded to almost smash my face into the floor. Very heroic, I know.
"I'm sitting here in the tunic I borrowed off your gallantry. I hope you don't mind it too much, it's surprisingly soft. When we spoke, I understood why we need to keep things between us civil, fully agreed with your thoughts. I simply never expected it to sting."
Cullen yanked his head away to stare at his own door. The one he'd led her through to try and find a change of clothing. He hadn't wanted to keep her at an arm's length, but it seemed to be what she did. What she needed. He hadn't even been certain if she could feel for him what he did for her. Maker, he was such a fool. In giving her an out, he hurt her and himself in the process. There were still questions that raged in his mind about her, about them, and now...now he had the possibility of answers in his fingers. But did he want to know them? She was frank, admitted that she didn't love him, at least not yet. There could be more to the story, more to where her own loyalties lay. His hand drew down the spine of the fragile book, bending it away as Cullen weighed whether he could live with himself, live with what was contained beyond this first blush of romance.
He rifled through the book's back half with his errant finger, struggling to find answers in his own soul. So many blank pages remained, untouched by her, never to be filled with her life, her words. Because of her decision. That anger flared up anew, and he flipped backwards through the blank pages until coming upon her last entry - the final piece he could have of her beyond a faded spell and a whispered order.
"Adamant. Tomorrow we set out. I want this to be over, to be finished, to find a finality to my life. Even slaying the archdemon came with a to be continued attached. The darkspawn didn't scatter into their holes as they should have. They kept attacking, kept preying, kept needing me to be the warden. And now.
You're asleep on my bed. Maker thank Hawke for setting out early with the first of the party. She said it was for intel, but I'm certain she tried to give us time together. I wanted to dream in your arms, but my mind refuses to give up. It can't cease churning over every fear, measure every failure, wonder what will happen when this is over. I don't know, I have no answers save one: there's you. Whether the wardens fall or are redeemed, I cannot be a part of them. Not anymore. And if, after Adamant, the Inquisitor has no use of me I do not fear the endless expanse because I know I will find you waiting at the end. How our lives keep finding themselves knotted up like this, I cannot comprehend, but I am grateful to stumble upon you.
Do we keep getting the timing wrong, is this some ploy of the Maker, or are we waiting for our own minds to catch up together? I wish I could give you all of me. That sounded less dirty in my head. That I'd return your sentiments without question, but I fear opening myself up again. And until I can combat that fear, I need time. Time that we can find together, after Adamant.
For the love of the Maker, I pray and beg Andraste to keep you. To guide you back from the battle so in time I can learn to love you. Stay Safe. Please."
The book scattered from his hands falling shut upon the desk. Inside of his heart, the anger melted leaving only an endless wave of tears washing him clean. He curled up and cried every drop he'd kept locked away behind his wall of rage. The vials of lyrium lay forgotten as Cullen's breathless voice repeated her final words. "Stay safe. Maker, stay safe."