To Cullen's surprise, only the day's missives sat unread. Though the stack was taller than the inkwell, he smiled to himself; appreciating everything, beyond the standard call of duty, Rylen had accomplished.

After drafting and signing a recommendation for a substantial merit increase on the former Knight-Captain's behalf, Cullen moved on to reviewing high priority operations. Try as he may, his thoughts continued to shift to Evelyn, his hands shaking from both withdrawal symptoms and worry.

She refused to see him and in truth, he didn't understand the extent of damage to her psyche, or to her person, the Lieutenant's chaos had caused. The entire situation was appalling, to have someone manipulate the mind… Considering Evelyn was as well as could be expected only brought a little comfort.

The text blurred, the black against the parchment swimming before his eyes. Pinching the bridge of his nose exacerbated the dull throb to a full pound. As the quill shook, stray droplets of ink splattered the missive until he dropped it with a huff. The liquid pooled in one spot, blotting out the date. He tugged at his hair before exhaling sharply. He would have to rewrite it entirely, costing more time and effort.

Initially, he welcomed work as a distraction, longed for it, but now wondered if he was hasty deciding to return so soon. The struggle of stopping lyrium was harder the second, voluntary, technically third, time, the symptoms more intense. If what he battled in the dungeon was bad, this was worse. Now that the adrenaline wasn't pumping through his veins during every ordeal, he had time to focus and realize how badly this hit him. After all, the symptoms never truly went away, only subsided. When the Chantry forced the Templars to take lyrium, they never meant for anyone to remove themselves from those chains. Seldom had anyone been successful once, but twice? Maker, what had he been thinking?

Well for starters, he thought it would be worth it. That lyrium would grant the abilities he sorely needed to ensure Samson paid, which he did. And Cullen would do everything exactly as he had, even though he didn't know it at the time, if it meant Evie's safe return and that they would be together.

But would they, be together? A number of questions plagued him as he struggled with the lack of answers. How would she react when he explained retaking lyrium? What about when he informed her everything that she endured was indirectly because of him? Would she understand or see him as the traitor they tried to make him out to be, the monster he currently felt like? The last he checked, it wasn't the road to the Maker that was paved with good intentions.

Hours passed as he immersed himself in work. Or tried to. He found the stack of missives not nearly as comforting as he had hoped. Regaining some semblance of normalcy in duty proved more challenging and the ability to focus on directives, issuing relocation instructions, as well as sending and receiving ravens to their designated areas, seemed a colossal chore.

Cullen didn't look up when the visitor entered. The thud of the door against the stone was his only indication of another's presence. Assuming it was a scout sent to bring more reports, he muttered under his breath, "I'm expecting someone."

"Cullen," Evelyn said, voice trembling.

He stilled. The name, not the title, Cullen noticed. Spoken in her melodic, normal voice. The same one he missed so completely during her absence, then reappearance. Looking up, he saw her standing in the doorway, sunlight streaming behind her and gave her almost an almost otherworldly glow. Fearing a trick of the mind, lyrium or perhaps both— he rubbed his eyes, positive she wouldn't be there when he reopened them.

But she was.

He forced himself to stay in place, to ignore the sudden aching desire to run over and lift her off her feet, pressing his lips to hers. With her state of mind in question, he erred on the side of caution. Fighting every impulse, he remained seated.

Then a thought occurred to him, one that hadn't before: it was more than possible that their relationship would not endure this. Silently, Cullen reminded himself of everything they had endured: the abduction, his frantic search, everything —it was all too much for even a love like theirs. He hung his head, chiding himself for foolishly expecting things to return to normal. Their relationship before felt like a fairy story, but this was no such tale.

She walked forward, slowly closing the distance between them. With parchment clutched in her fist, her shoulders slumped and she exhaled. "Forgive me," Evelyn whispered as their eyes locked.

What in the Maker's name did she have to be sorry for? None of this had been her fault. It was all his men in a revenge plot by jealous people he once hailed as brothers from the Order. Everything that happened since had been because of his delegations or past decisions. "Forgive you." He stated, dumbstruck. Confusion caused an inadvertent increase in the volume of his voice.

She winced at his tone and Cullen cringed, fearing he added to her discomfort.

Mouth agape, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'll go." Evelyn fidgeted with the letter, smoothing the wrinkles out against her thigh before turning away.

"No!" Cullen ordered, growling internally at himself for still using his Commander tone. Softening his voice, he insisted, "Please stay." Swift steps carried him to the other side of his desk as he closed the distance before thinking better of it and halted. She wanted to leave, he should let her, no matter how badly it would break his heart. Perhaps too much had happened. Picking up where they left off and resuming their lives as they once had was indeed a fool's wish.

Eyes downcast, Evelyn halted in place. "You are no traitor. You deserved better, the benefit of doubt, at least."

He feared she had given credence to the words of a madman. Blood boiling, he clenched his fists. Their enemies, his enemies, had pieced together a compelling argument, and her apology proved the belief of those lies, even if only briefly. "I have always endeavored to be worthy of you." A true statement and one meant wholeheartedly.

Evelyn turned to face him, tears falling down her cheeks. "I know," she breathed.

Compelled to do something, he reached out to touch her arm before withdrawing. His chest ached. There was a bridge between them, manmade but strong. A question rested at the forefront of his mind.

He debated with himself, curious as to the appropriateness and validity of the inquiry. "What convinced you of the truth?"

"Your letter."

Eyes widening, he hadn't realized he'd spoken. His brow furrowed, and he rubbed the stubble on his face.

"When you wrote this," she held out the parchment, "I had sentenced you to die. Most traitors would gloat over their success, perhaps adding a final slur or insult. Praise their accomplishments in the destruction as they'd planned. Or countless other things. But none of that is here. With an execution scheduled, you had no reason to lie. There was no benefit by pretending to love me."

"Death makes all men honest." Speaking of honesty, in the interests of full disclosure: how would he go about explaining everything she endured directly resulted from his own actions? Moreso, how would he tell her about resuming lyrium and the withdrawal symptoms? Was it possible to cross the aforementioned bridge together or had too much damage been done?

"But not you. Though we've disagreed on matters, you've always been honest. Even when it proved the unpopular opinion." She took a step forward before looking to the floor. Her cheeks turning pink. "I should have known better. I'm sorry."

Unable to hear an apology from the victim, or in her case, the survivor, he stuck his hand in the air, silencing her, "Don't. I'm not angry with you."

"Why wouldn't you be?" Evelyn spat, fidgeting with the parchment. "I almost, I nearly…" Her tone increased. "You were going to be executed!"

The time to disclose the full truth was now or never. If their relationship were to end because of this, it would be best for all involved to be done with it. "You suffered," His nose scrunched, and he snarled. " You suffered because of me." He sighed, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword. "As far as the sentencing, you were not yourself." Cullen shifted his weight. "I know that."

"I don't understand," Evelyn whispered.

"I'm the reason all of this happened." Rubbing his forehead, he shook his head. "We need to have a lengthy conversation." The words hung between them, making the awkward silence almost deafening. If they could not endure this, the enemy would have won and all of Dorian's efforts would have been for naught. The men responsible wanted to break him, used her to do it, and could still succeed.

His heart ached, hurt washing over him in waves, a stone of uncertainty settling heavily in his stomach.

"Cullen." If the use of his name was meant to reassure him, it had not. "They changed me."

A while ago, he remembered confessing his time in Kinloch to her, how long it had taken him to recover. He could hardly be upset for her requiring certainty of his innocence and time to cope, especially when he knew firsthand how the brink of reality and fiction so often still blurred his dreams.

"There are so many things I don't know. I'd appreciate, no I need an explanation."

With her words, a glimmer of hope sparked within his chest. She was willing to listen. He exhaled sharply in relief, releasing the tension in his shoulders. "How are you not angry? I'm enraged, confused, exhausted... relieved." Cullen massaged the back of his neck.

"I am." Evie clenched her fists at her sides before wiping a stray tear away. "But not towards you."

After everything he had been tested with as of late, he'd have wagered that her showing any emotion at all would have been a welcome comfort, but standing idle watching her cry ate at him.

Despite his attempts at restraint, he couldn't maintain the facade. All thoughts were laid bare shown by his facial expressions no longer concealed by the guise of the Commander. He needed to comfort her, longed to show her he was no demon to be feared. She was giving him the benefit of doubt and he would not squander that.

With one stride, Cullen embraced her as though his life depended on it. Fingers weaved within her hair, noting its silky texture and shine. She melted into his arms as he cradled her head, mentally thanking the Maker that she was safe. As it was, he held Thedas' beauty within his hands. He'd known what it was to believe he would have to go on without her, how dim and dreary the outlook on his life turned, darker than the days at Kinloch or Kirkwall.

Cullen kissed her like a desperate man on borrowed time, needy and starving. But he regained his wits, taking a step back and distancing himself. Once Evelyn knew, and realized the full extent of why things happened, would she still want this, want him? Better question, was he taking advantage of her now? Using the situation and horrible circumstances to give himself one last sweet memory before the illusion shattered?

He frowned, worry overwhelming him. "There are things we must discuss, in depth. But only when you are ready." A knot settled in his chest.

"Yes," she bit her bottom lip, "we need to talk."

Such a simple sentence with massive implications.

Emotions ran high, but he remembered to be patient. He wanted to ensure that once she decided to be with him, she did so of her own volition, not out of guilt or because of the enthralling moment. He would wait, as long as it took, allowing her the time necessary to heal and recover, as she once did for him. Confident as long as they were together, it hardly mattered what they faced.

Cullen closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender and honey before it dissipated. Taking another breath, he opened them. His brow furrowed as he looked around. The candles illuminated the area, but it was just him, sitting alone at his desk. Sitting in front of him was the unsigned relocation request. The very one he was certain he'd penned his signature on moments before Evelyn arrived.

But had she, arrived?

His hands shook, trembling while grabbing the quill. Again, his head was filled with a painful staccato of sharp pain and beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. Squeezing his eyes closed, he breathed deeply. Back in the tower during his first lengthy and forced withdrawal from lyrium, all he had to do was close his eyes and when he opened them, the demons were gone. Any illusions were gone, albeit temporarily. But this time had been different and despite him reopening his eyes, the vision hadn't dissipated.

Heart sinking to his stomach, he swallowed thickly. The entire thing was a trick of the mind. Of course it was, he should have known better.

The door thudded. Pinching his brow, he muttered under his breath. "I'm expecting the Inquisitor."

But was he? In truth, he did not know if she would come see him or not. Wishful thinking, perhaps.

"Commander," Evelyn said.

He stilled. His title, not his name. Cullen's chest constricted. Tension weighted the room by one word. A forceful pinch to his thigh proved reality this time. Evelyn stood in front of him. Her mannerisms in stark contrast to that of the illusion. Tugging at the edge of her tunic, her fingers fidgeted with the fabric. She appeared professional, put together, despite her tinted cheeks that suggested otherwise. The puffiness in her face revealed she'd been crying, and it trailed to her lips —which were pressed into a hard line.

"We should speak." Cullen gestured to the chair opposite the desk.

She nodded, lips curving into a frown. Though she didn't go to sit. Opening her mouth, no words came before closing it.

He braced himself, trying to prepare. Clearly, whatever she had to say, it wasn't good.

"I loved you."

Past tense. The throb in his head banged like a drum, a counter beat to his heart. No doubt, she was about to do as he feared. His eyes threatened tears, but he forced them back. He replaced the concerned lover with the Commander persona to endure. Or at least, he hoped it possible.

Her voice was soft, understanding. And somehow, that made him feel worse. She could have been cruel, even mean, and after everything she'd been through, he couldn't have blamed her if she had been.

"I know how I felt about you," she said, visibly swallowing, "I want to believe all could be as it was and none of it is true. But," she paused, looking down at her knotted fingers and taking a deep, shuddering breath. "There is doubt, and until-" She broke herself off, almost choking on the word. "If—"

He stilled, listening as her gaze met his. Sympathy reflected from her. It was no easier for her than it was for him; and though he didn't want to believe it, he understood it.

Looking towards the floor, she fidgeted with her hands. "I'm not the woman you love any more." Her tone begged him to understand. "She's gone."

More than anything, he wanted to interject that she didn't get to tell him he couldn't love her. But his mouth closed, teeth clacking before he could muster a word. She couldn't be gone, she was standing in front of him. He'd fought, as much as possible, anyone who would dare to bring her back. She couldn't simply be gone.

"I need time to reflect, to sort things out." Evelyn sighed, "And I need to do it alone."

Cullen stared, quiet. It was all he could do. The throb in his head overpowered by the ache of his shattering heart.

"Perhaps one day, we can try to be friends." A whisper, as if the tone of her voice would lessen the blow if delivered softly.

She may as well have run him through with his own sword. The world slowed, and he inhaled deeply, running his tongue along the inside of his teeth. He nodded curtly before standing. Forcing his steps, he made it to the eastern door. Without speaking a word, he allowed himself a look behind him. Her head was low and shoulders hunched, and even in the flickering candlelight, he couldn't help noticing how pretty she was. It pierced through him, salting the wound.

Pushing the door open, he left his office and her standing within.