Author's Notes:
It has been a long time, hasn't it? :)
Warnings:
Spoilers and a bit more romanc-y towards the end :)
Cullen closed the Inquisitor's door and paced down the corridor. Only after reaching the cavernous auditorium of the main hall did he stop, letting out a breath he didn't realise he had been holding.
From the alcoves and tall beams, great artworks, sculptures and tapestries leered down at him in quiet judgement. The wind hooted as it blew through rickety doors and empty hallways, a muffled, ghastly voice that seemed to cackle as it passed. Alone in the Great Hall, Cullen felt the familiar prick of fear puncture his heart and quicken his breath.
The episode between Alistair and Eleni left him shaken, a fight against his former love and his King, had been all at once, a real possibility. In his mind's eye, he pictured the mage's ravenous face and her clouded, pained expression. Another strained sigh poured from his lips.
He waded over to the Inquisitor's chair and eased himself into it, noting with vague disappointment how uncomfortable it was, how the edges cut into the ridges of his back with dull, persistent pressure. In spite of this, he leaned into it, closed his eyes, and tried to quell his frantic thoughts.
Above all things, he wanted to find Lucretia. He wanted to hold her, to share his dismay, to unpack his heart in all its confused, sordid entirety.
Blinking up at the ceiling, he mapped the crumbling murals, the fine cracks he knew were there, hidden away in the gloom. The castle creaked and breathed and shuddered and heaved, ever so slightly. As he stilled his heart and eased himself into a practiced calm, the castle swam to life before his eyes in subtle, unnoticeable ways.
In the back of his mind, Cullen wondered where Lucretia was, but fought the urge to scour Skyhold for her. It was a fruitless task; a needle in a haystack. He considered standing vigil outside her quarters in wait for her, but considered the fallout of being discovered by Alistair or Eleni. He thought of enlisting Lelianna for help, but had a sinking suspicion their omnipotent Spymaster was already aware of the situation and puppeteering from the sidelines.
With gritted teeth, he pawed at his hair and scowled, uncertain, for the first time, how he could possibly explain this turn of events without ruining the love Lucretia and him had only recently renewed — explaining how, once again, he might have to put the Hero of Ferelden first. He owed it to her. He owed it to the King. To his Kingdom — to himself. It was possible, after all. Where the King and his consort go from this point on might very well require his services. Be it at court, or on the road as Eleni's guard, Cullen had conjured a myriad of outcomes that would see him torn from the Inquisitor's side.
Eleni's manic smile plagued his thoughts again; the sullen cheeks, the empty eyes. He pictured Alistair, not as a King, but as a man, guileless, wanting, and hurt. A man strung along by life's reins with his only direction persistently out of reach.
"Seven years is a long time."
Cullen cocked his head against the chair, eliciting a muddy thump that rippled through the room. "By the Maker, seven years," he muttered, eyebrows raised in contemplation. Seven years apart, the tethers of their love pulled and pushed and frayed and torn, but never quite broken.
The stubborn whine of a door hinge echoed to Cullen's right. Peering over the tall backing of his chair, he watched anxiously as a figure manifested into view. His heart sank as Lelianna's cropped hair flashed under the light that lanced through Skyhold's painted windows.
It was a brief heartbreak. Lucretia's small frame pushed through soon after her.
"See, I told you he would be easy to find," the Orlesian drawled, her teeth a streak of pearls in the dark.
"Thank you," he heard the Inquisitor murmur as Lelianna slipped away, a knowing glance shared between the two.
Cullen pushed himself to his feet, stopping halfway as Lucretia raised her hand in gesture. He froze, bowed over his feet, before settling back down again as she approached, her measured steps giving him pause. She waded down the room and up the small, steep steps until she stood before him.
Cullen sighed and felt his body deflate, filling the corners of the chair. Lucretia said nothing. Silent and steady as a statue, her fingers gently stroked the texture of the arm rest. Cullen waited for the quiet to ebb, growing more anxious with each passing second until his heartbeat rang strong and heavy in his ears. In the end, it was him that caved.
"Lucretia, I don't know if—that is—I mean to say—" the Commander struggled to his feet again, but was met with the same gentle gesture. He plopped in his seat in a sigh.
"Eleni is here—"
"I know." For the briefest of moments, Lucretia's eyes met his, her expression unreadable. They flitted back towards her fingers, watching the armrest intently.
His breath hitched in his throat with surprise. When? How? He thought of Eleni on the bed, could still feel the silt from her hair on his fingertips. His hands balled into fists.
"Did you see—Wh-when did you find out? Is Lelianna in on this?" he stammered.
Lucretia remained impartial, favouring him with another indistinguishable glance.
In a fit of rage and confusion, Cullen slammed a fist down on the armrest, the crackle of wood thundering across the Great Hall. Lucretia retracted her fingertips and studied him.
"Damn the Maker, Lucretia, can you just—"
The Inquisitor nudged at Cullen's foot with the toe of her boot. Cullen's splayed legs cobbled together at the knees, giving rise to a soft curse from the soldier.
Cullen searched her face with a wordless question. She stared at him with dark eyes, shaded by a mesh of hair and eyelashes and unveiled longing. Her quiet passion took his breath away.
Lucretia eased herself onto his lap, her cold, delicate hands steadying themselves on his chest, pressing him into the chair.
Despite his palpable shock, Cullen's hands went instinctively to her hips. His heart was lurched in his throat, thrumming so fiercely he felt lightheaded. His fingers flexed along her body, digging into her supple leather tunic. He felt his trousers tighten underneath her, and with an increasingly dry mouth, tried to articulate his confusion before he was lost in her presence.
"Lucretia," he began steadily, drawing sharp breath as she writhed into a more comfortable position. "We need to talk."
"No," she said, drawing back to consider him more carefully. Her eyes flitted over his face, jaw, neck with deliberate precision.
"But—"
Her kiss was abrupt, messy, and passionate. He felt her teeth graze his before his lips yielded, her tongue lapping at his like a kitten thirsting for milk. He pressed up into her before retreating with a complacent moan. Cullen held her at arm's length, breathing heavily.
"Please, Eleni and Alistair are here and there's something with Varic's bloody book and—"
"Cullen," Lucretia began in a firm tone that barely swathed her annoyance. She swam her fingers through his golden curls, and pulled — just enough to hear him groan. "I appreciate you've found a sudden love for conversation, but believe me when I say, I know, and while I may not completely understand the situation, I love you, and for now, that is enough."
Cullen nodded nervously, his eyes flitting shut as Lucretia threaded her hand down his breeches, her lips at his neck.
Long into the night, Skyhold shuddered and heaved, the castle alight with creaks and groans and the gentle whistle of wind.
