Uncensored version found at: *AO3*/works/28044180/chapters/68703183
It was just another cold evening in Ferelden.
Cullen shifted on his seat to divert the attention. The Herald was staring, and it was making him uncomfortable.
It was futile, of course. Unless he knew how to cast an invisibility spell, it was fairly unlikely that he could will his body to vanish into thin air. He felt his face flush and vainly hoped the others would see it as an unintended side effect of having stoked the campfire too hot. It was unbelievable how intense the Herald's eyes were, considering their owner was a fresh-faced warrior nine years younger than him.
Fortunately for Cullen, the other companions were oblivious to his predicament. Varric guffawed at something Scout Harding said, to which Cassandra simply snorted in soft amusement. As far as they were concerned, Cullen and the Herald could have been sitting in an entirely separate plane of existence. Cullen judged himself feeble for averting from the gaze and decided to confront it. He sharply turned to meet the other man's eyes.
"Your worship."
The Herald beamed. "It's Tharin."
Cullen was not about to start calling the Herald of Andraste, the scion of House Trevelyan and the only chance they had to close the Breach, by his nickname.
"Your worship. What can I do you for?"
The forcefulness of Cullen's words seemed to replace the easy smile on the young man's face with a visible blush, and he stammered an answer.
"I… No, Cullen. I was just… spacing out. Forgive me if I was gawking at you." Then he fixed his eyes on the ground, suddenly finding the fallen leaves by his feet the most fascinating thing he ever encountered. After seemingly running out of any hope of finding something interesting among the leaves, he proceeded to pick up a stick and pointlessly jab the fire with it.
It was Cullen's turn to observe. The Herald was a remarkably handsome man. Barely out of his growing years, he had youthful looks that made Cullen feel old and decrepit. Despite his aristocratic lineage, his jet-black hair was cropped short, presumably so that it would stay out of the way during battles.
His cobalt blue eyes were like two alpine lakes adjoining the rugged mountain range that were his eyebrows. In between them projected a perfect patrician nose, that led down to a mouth that knew how to smile and comfort even the most distraught.
A strong jawline framed these features beautifully. Lacking the proper shaving accoutrements out in the field, the young man's face now sported thick bristles, but even those suited him. It made him look more imposing, not older.
Yet underneath the surfeit of boyish exuberance lay a solidly muscled body. He was a well-trained templar and it showed during fights. Cullen was no longer surprised to see their moves perfectly synchronized – Varric called it a templar dance recital, which elicited a wheezing cachinnation from the Herald and a scowl from the Commander.
Cullen felt camaraderie in the young man who could fight so well but remained humble to a fault. Every time the former Knight-Captain complimented his moves, the Herald's cheeks turned beet red and a faint protest surely followed. Secretly, he enjoyed watching the young man squirm, especially because such an occasion was relatively rare.
But it became increasingly clear to Cullen that he felt more than just camaraderie toward the Herald, and it worried him, not least of all because they were both men.
He was cognizant of the feelings. They reminded him of the childhood summers by the lake, heady with fragrance of wildflowers and joyful screams of young'uns jumping into the water. He watched one particular village girl emerge from the water with wet golden hair and unbridled happiness beaming from her face and prayed desperately to be bestowed with enough courage to talk to her.
These feelings reminded him of when he was assigned to the tutelage of a young templar, whose olive skin glistened with sweat and muscles thrummed with enormous power. Adolescent Cullen did not find it as difficult to talk to his mentor but lacked the courage to act on those feelings.
The feelings returned to haunt him when that mage at Kinloch Hold, a woman who could melt the most obstinate heart with just a wink, whispered sweet nothings in his ears for days and nights. But his reservation about these feelings ultimately did not matter, because she distanced herself when he was given the odious task of killing mages who failed their Harrowing.
And then the demons happened to him. Then the dark days of Kirkwall when he simply stood by as templars were reduced to prison guards and butchers. The feelings, all too rightly, never came back.
Until the world shattered, and he met the Herald of Andraste.
These feelings always bewildered Cullen. He had read books and heard songs that unashamedly celebrated these feelings. There were even one or two odd ones in which two men, not a man and a woman, harbored the feelings toward each other. But these emotions were so distracting. How could amorphous entities that interfered with competent execution of his duties ever be construed as something good?
It was not that he hated these feelings. He simply didn't understand the reason for their existence. They were intense but ephemeral like spring blossoms. That last bit of knowledge at least comforted Cullen as he regarded the young man's countenance.
More importantly, there were countless Fade rifts vomiting out hordes of demons and an enormous magical hole in the sky to boot. Attending to private affairs seemed like an unaffordable luxury for the Commander of the Inquisition's army. Not that he ever required a valid excuse to dismiss private emotions for himself.
He decided not too long ago to stuff these feelings in a tiny box, put it in the attic of his mind, and ignore it until later. By the time this uncertain later came around, the feelings would be long dead, just like what happened before. He would then go on and continue to perform his duties as he had always done, and that would be that.
Satisfied after going over the determined course of action in his head, Cullen joined the fireside chat. He could even laugh freely in spite of the Herald's piercing gaze once again drilling a hole on his face. I will deal with it later, he thought.
It was obvious the Commander was not interested. He said, "I would value your friendship. I'm afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you will understand." His arms were tightly crossed. No entry possible, they seemed to say.
Yet Tharin could not stop staring at him. He knew he was making the other man uncomfortable and felt like a predator stalking prey, but he couldn't take his eyes off. He had not met such a handsome and fascinating man since his templar days.
Cullen was an amazing array of contradictions. His mouth, highlighted by a scar on the upper right side, was determined, tenacious, stubborn even. But his amber eyes sparkled with warmth and empathy far beyond his years. On rare occasions when he let his guard down, he would curl his lips to reveal his mischievous side, normally reserved for private company that most definitely did not include casual acquaintances from the Inquisition. Still, he didn't seem to have a close friend other than Cassandra, and even that relationship was somehow stilted.
The Commander seemed unapproachable, someone who enjoyed his own company. Yet he was without fail the first to enter the war room and the last to leave. He always listened to Tharin's concerns and made sure to answer all his questions, even the most asinine ones.
He could lead a charge and shout a battle cry that would topple down mountains, but whenever Tharin dropped by to chat his voice took on a soft, melodic tone. A soft chorus of consonants and vowels. He always ended their conversations with "Should you require anything, I'll be here" and "Another time then," never a goodbye imbued with the conclusiveness of a completed transaction.
It was not just his rugged good looks that gravitated Tharin to the Commander. True, it was hard not to immediately notice his attractiveness, but the young man did not think much of it at the beginning.
The more and more time Tharin spent with him, the more he wanted to know Cullen Rutherford, the man who would guide the Inquisition's forces to victory yet sought no glory for himself. What was he like away from the responsibilities of the command? What kind of family did he have? What made him laugh? What was his story so far? What kind of future did he want for himself? These were the kind of inquiries Tharin wanted to raise but did not dare.
Instead, the young man kept prolonging their strategy meetings and random chats, talking about this and that without hitting anything substantial. Every time Tharin left Cullen after a conversation, he kicked himself for not having the courage to ask the questions he desperately wanted to ask. Even if courtship proved to be just a pipe dream, he at least should be able to ask the Commander more personal questions. But he just couldn't.
The party killed the campfire before settling down for the night. They had been battling continuously for days, fending off bandits, hostile apostates, rogue templars, and demons, in addition to a variety of aggressive fauna. While Tharin and his party were fighting, Cullen and his band of elite soldiers went ahead and set up numerous campsites around the Hinterlands. Now the Inquisition would be able to monitor and halt the pointless violence between mages and templars in the region. The expedition had been fruitful, if grueling.
As soon as Tharin hit his bedroll, he began to fade. Even with Varric's snoring and Cassandra's thunderous outbursts – the woman even fought in her sleep – Tharin felt his consciousness gradually shutting down for the night. Suddenly, the tent flap opened, and he could hear Cullen coming in after his watch. There was no way it could have been two hours already, could it?
Cullen shook Cassandra awake. The Seeker's groan was heavy with sleep, but in less than ten seconds she was fully alert. They whispered.
"Evening, Seeker. I'm sorry to wake you."
"It's my turn, I know. Anything seem off?"
"No, but I could see the glow of a rift not far from here. Hopefully, the demons are feeling tired too."
"Should we wake the Herald up? It's better that we deal with this now."
There was a pause. Then Cullen spoke softly.
"Leave him be. He's had a long day. Besides, it's unfair to treat him like a weapon you can brandish at the Fade."
"I didn't mean to… That is… Ugh, I'm going."
Tharin could hear Cassandra yanking open the tent and stomp off, obviously not caring whether she might wake the others. In her exasperation she left without her sword and armor. She would have to come back to retrieve them.
Cullen chortled quietly, tiptoed to his corner of the tent, and started to take off his chest plate. Tharin didn't even realize he was holding his breath. When he exhaled, the sound of metallic clinking instantly ceased.
He sensed Cullen gingerly kneeling down next to him. He then felt the Commander's hand on his back, the palm flat against the surface. Its gentle warmth comforted him. A moment later, the hand was gone, and Cullen was wrestling with his armor once again.
Finally free of the cumbersome parts, Cullen lay down in the bedroll next to Tharin and sighed in relief. In no time, the Commander was snoring away.
Tharin, on the other hand, was now wide awake. The physical distance between them had shrunk to nothing, and everything about the Commander overwhelmed his senses.
The heat radiating from the other man's side put goosebumps on Tharin's back and he was sure everyone in the camp could hear his heartbeat. If he had the courage to turn, he could touch the dark blond stubble on the other man's face. Would it be as coarse as he imagined it to be? Would it tickle? How would it feel pressed on his neck, aided by the Commander's heavy breaths grazing his sensitive skin?
The most powerful of all, however, was Cullen's scent. A mixture of healthy sweat with subtle notes of tree saps, sweet flowers, and wild grass all coming together in aromatic bliss. None overshadowed the other and it could not have been more perfect. It was a siren song that beckoned to Tharin and he was devastated he could not answer its call.
No matter, even if every aspect of the Commander kept him awake. Tharin had to remind himself that the man was not interested. All he could do was start a mental list of all the ways he could punish Cullen for keeping him awake.
The Herald did manage to fall asleep eventually, but not before the approaching dawn had dyed the eastern sky mauve.
The next morning, the party slept in. After four days of near-constant skirmishes, the companions and soldiers deserved a morning off. The sun was already high up in the sky when Tharin woke up.
It looked like Scout Harding had been out of the campsite for hours, busy completing the reconnaissance of the Hinterlands. Tharin marveled at the woman's diligence. If he were the head scout, the Inquisition would be clueless of anything that happened beyond the gates of Haven. Good thing I'm the one with the glowing hand, Tharin thought glumly.
Varric and Cassandra were still soundly asleep, but Cullen's bedroll was cold and empty. Tharin opened the tent to see where the Commander had gone.
The man was sitting by the creek, absorbed in a book. His location made a certain strategic sense. The Commander had the view of the entire camp. The waterfall was on one side and on the other, he could keep eyes out for potential intruders coming up the hill. The image of Cullen quietly surveying the land made Tharin's lips curve upward. For the Commander, strategic thinking must be an occupational hazard that had become second nature by now.
"Good morning, Cullen."
Wide-eyed and flustered, the man abruptly closed the book and hid it behind his back. He croaked, "Oh, hello. You're up early."
"It's not even remotely close to 'early.' What are you reading?"
Cullen hesitated and grinned sheepishly. When Tharin gave him a questioning look, he surrendered the book. The title surprised the young man.
"The Dialectics on the Divinity of Elven Gods and Dalish Cultural Construction by Professor Emeritus Charles Devereux of the University of Orlais? Maker, that is a mouthful. Are you particularly interested in elven lore?"
"Not as a matter of fact, no. I just…"
"Yes?"
"Well, I thought… Since you are half-elven, I thought it might be good for me to understand elven culture."
Tharin suddenly felt out of breath, just a bit. "Color me impressed, Commander. But I am a little embarrassed to tell you that I am as elven as a dwarf from Orzammar."
The shy glow transformed into knitted brows filled with nerves. "Andraste preserve me, I should not have assumed. I apologize, my lord. It was not my intention to waste the Inquisition's time this way."
"Oh please. Reading can never be a waste. I enjoy books as well, though my literary diet used to consist of a hodgepodge of novels and travel logs. Nothing too intellectually stimulating as yours, I bet. Regrettably, it now consists entirely of requisition requests and some odd letters from noble houses asking for my hand in marriage."
Looking much more at ease after that exposition, Cullen chuckled cheerfully. Tharin loved making the man laugh. And what's more, this was something personal they could talk about without the young man having to completely freeze up in terror. "So, I see you have an academic hidden away in a warrior who likes slashing and stabbing things. What does he think of the book?"
The corners of the Commander's scarred lips upturned slyly. "I can tell you that this is the most convoluted book I've ever read. I usually go for straightforward memoirs and travel diaries as well." He cast his gaze downward. "Though, to be honest, philosophical essays are my favorite. The meaning of life and all that."
Tharin whistled in awe. "We should make you the head librarian of the Inquisition. We definitely need one of those."
Cullen turned away but did not look entirely displeased. "You are teasing me."
"No, really. I mean, there isn't a library at Haven if you don't count the cobweb-covered bookcases scattered all around the town, but still…"
Wanting to get closer, Tharin boldly asked, "Mind if I sat next to you?"
Cullen shook his head and gestured to a dry spot next to him. The young man sat down and watched as the sunlight danced on the ripples of water. Even amid a bloody conflict, the nature was doing what it had been doing for innumerable millennia. Streams still flowed and the sun still shined; trees rose and flowers bloomed; lives grew and withered away. The permanence of the seasons was comforting and sobering all at once.
Yet Tharin's inquisitive mind conjured a question even during that meditative stillness. "Forgive me, but may I ask how you started reading for pleasure? When I was in Hasmal, the Chantry frowned on templars getting too clever. I can't imagine it was that different in the Circles you've been to."
The atmosphere around Cullen suddenly turned gloomy. "I suppose it's a holdover from my days in Kirkwall, when… when I didn't have anyone to talk to."
Tharin knew he touched a nerve. He didn't want to ruin the moment by pushing in, but he also wanted to be caring, sympathetic. "That must have been hard. Do you want to talk about it, maybe?"
The man's expression was opaque, obscuring any emotion he might have felt. "…Perhaps another day. It's not something I enjoy discussing."
The young man found it difficult to hide his disappointment at Cullen's reticence, but he also felt selfish for even feeling that way. He never intended to upset the man, but it seemed he had done exactly that. Thus, there was no other possible answer than a simple "I understand," which he promptly offered.
The two men sat side by side silently staring at the icy water meandering through pebbles and islets of blood lotuses, and Tharin chastised himself for tarnishing a perfectly lovely moment.
The tent rustled, and Cassandra and Varric emerged looking somehow even more haggard than the night before. They were already bickering about something, which indeed portended a long and tedious day for all. It was time for the Commander to cut in and stop their nonsense.
Cullen leapt to his feet but did not immediately leave Tharin's side. His next words were so soft, the young man could hardly hear them. "Later, when you are free, I would very much like to talk to you… about the book."
There was something hauntingly lonely about Cullen's voice. Tharin's heart ached, but he could not comprehend why. "Of course. I'd like that."
A wan smile appeared on Cullen's face, only to vanish immediately. The man replied quickly before walking away.
"I look forward to it."