TRIGGER WARNING! References to murder and mild PTSD.
The cold fogs rolling down from the Frostbacks had all but dispersed by the time Tharin and Cullen met for their usual morning training. Despite the early hour, the young man felt invigorated by an unlikely duo of freezing alpine air and sizzling sunlight that prickled his exposed skin. It was strange to think that in this land of permafrost the sun could still shine so brightly, chasing the night away with the might of a charging horde.
Nonetheless, the blazing spring sun was not enough to blind them to the sickly swirl of cloud and magic to the west, more apparent this high in the mountains. Cullen seemed undeterred by it, but the Breach reminded the Herald of the grave responsibilities on his shoulders. It was just easier to look away, to ignore its existence. For a little while, anyway. He always faced east when they sparred.
The two men strolled to a clearing in comfortable silence, not far from the hamlet, but far enough that they could avoid prying eyes. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to concentrate. For wherever the Herald went, there were at least two curious refugees, a few enraptured Chantry sisters, or pious pilgrims gathered just to gawk, never to talk or even to touch him with reverence like some might do to the Divine.
Tharin never needed to think about it before, as he had never held a position of significance. But being watched silently, as the townsfolk were wont to do, was far more unnerving than being grilled for answers by Cassandra. For a man like Tharin who preferred to neatly demarcate the private and the public, either was a torturous prospect, which Cullen seemed to understand.
It was the Commander, not the Seeker, who made sure they would be left alone for a good chunk of every morning and the Herald could not have been more grateful for the respite. Indeed, the hours he spent with Cullen were really the only time during the day Tharin still felt like an ordinary mortal, not a demigod or an idol the Inquisition could parade around Haven and beyond.
Having finally arrived at their training ground, the men drew their swords and took battle stances. Cullen's amber eyes crinkled lightly with confidence that came from years of experience. Tharin countered the easy attitude with the intense concentration typical of a warrior and charged. The Commander, in his infinite wisdom, dodged the attack effortlessly instead of meeting it head-on.
"You mustn't be so impatient. You will get yourself killed."
Cullen was not the type to mince words or deflect using witticisms when it came to fighting. He said what needed to be said without flourish. It was entirely possible that if this were a real battle and the Herald were facing an enemy, he could have been killed from his carelessness. This was a fact that he needed to be reminded of.
Every impulsive jab was met with a corresponding reaction. The Commander dodged and parried. He waited for the young man to tire himself out and leave an opening.
Tharin soon lost steam as his sword began to waver from the pommel to the point. The fraction of a second he took to regulate his moves did nothing, and after an attack that seemed particularly tentative, Cullen saw an opportunity and seized it.
The Commander whirled around to evade the unsure offense, which left his opponent's back wide open. The practice sword in his hand drew a graceful arc in the air before roughly rapping Tharin's trapezius. The young man gasped as the strike forcibly emptied his lungs, but soon regained his foothold. Cullen's smile broadened.
"Ready?"
"...Only… if… you are…"
This time, Cullen charged and Tharin blocked. The loud metallic clangs filled the air as the world shrank, the Herald and his Commander its only inhabitants. Beads of sweat soon dotted their faces and reflected the sunrays like the frozen lake that surrounded their clearing. They were beasts. White breaths bellowed forth from their muzzles as their furs glistened with residues of the morning fog and perspiration.
"...Rats! It's the Herald!"
Their world suddenly expanded. The two men whipped around to see from where the exclamation emanated, and they found a young soldier with an austerely dressed elven girl. The couple giggled as they walked down to the lake shore, their steps tipsy with the elation of newfound affections. It was obvious they had been kissing before they ran into the men. Their embrace no doubt had to be intense to wholly drown out the clamor of the fight.
The girl's face reddened like a well-ripened apple as the men gazed. Her beau noticed this, grabbed her hand and started running, with a quick tip of the head to show respect. Tharin and Cullen held their swords at their sides as they listened to the breathless laughter become distant.
"Well, I hope that recruit learns how to fight properly before he gets sent away. We need everyone to be focused, not off their heads in some silly dalliances," Cullen complained, though not without genuine amusement in his voice.
All of a sudden, Cullen heard his sparring partner take hitched breaths. When he shifted his gaze, the Commander nearly gasped at the sight.
Tharin's eyes were overflowing, the tears sparkling in the rising sun. His left hand clutched at his chest, tinting his torso green.
Cullen thought the young man was breathtakingly beautiful and his heart broke a bit as Tharin began to weep in earnest.
The Herald's sword dropped to the ground with a loud clang. His wide shoulders hunched over and shook ceaselessly. Tharin nevertheless tried to hide the tears by covering his face.
"For… give… me…" He murmured through the sobs, but Cullen wasn't sure if the apology was directed at him or at someone else.
After giving the other man a minute, Cullen approached to rub his back and hummed.
"Why don't we take a break? Let's go sit over there, by that palisade."
Tharin picked up the practice sword and sat down on the only patch free of snow in the clearing. Cullen haphazardly plunked down on the snow next to him. The young man stared into the distance, and the Commander kept his eyes focused on him and waited patiently. Eventually the Herald exhaled and began quietly.
"I apologize for that display."
Cullen finally looked away. "There is nothing to apologize for."
"I know I need to be stronger. I know… I just… It's hard to control emotions sometimes, isn't it?"
"Yes."
The air hung heavy between them. The Commander did not know what to say, or rather what he should say. He again waited until Tharin started talking.
"…I fell in love. With the mage I was supposed to keep tabs on."
Cullen could feel his heart squeeze. Leliana had taken him, Josephine, and Cassandra aside to mention something to this effect a week after their half-successful expedition to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Spymaster was insistent. We must not coddle him. He may be young, but he needs to know that he must be more than a man now. He must break bonds with the past and become the Herald the world needs.
At the time Cullen didn't realize the significance of Leliana's discovery. It seemed like a youthful indiscretion more than anything. He knew trysts between templars and mages weren't all that uncommon in some more liberal Circles. But as he listened to words tumble out of Tharin like water from a tipped cup, he realized that it was something far more… painful.
"His name was Kyre, but we all called him Kyr. He was… He was my first love. He was always talking about the world beyond the Circle. Oh, he knew he could never see the places he dreamt about, there was no doubt about that. But whenever we talked about places like the deserts of the Anderfels or the jungles beyond the Korcari Wilds, I could see his eyes light up with unbound excitement.
"We planned adventures to places where there were no people. No mages or templars. It would be… It would have been just us."
Thus the interest in travel logs, Cullen noted. Tharin took a deep breath and continued in a strained voice.
"We also talked about our families, a lot. When I told him about my mum being elven, he got me books on the history of elves and tried to get me to learn Elvish. He didn't know anything about the Dalish or the City Elves, but he taught himself everything in a few weeks' time."
The Commander saw two eyes filled with equal parts of sorrow and mirth looking back. "Your reading that book reminded me a little bit of how Kyr was then. You looked so serious, just like him.
"When he spoke Elvish to me, all I could do was just laugh and tell him that he was probably more elven by that point than my mum ever was. Kyr pouted for three days after that, but he still showed up to our secret spot in the Circle library.
"Whenever I saw his face, I couldn't stop myself from grinning like a simpleton. And it became harder and harder for me to talk with him about our adventures, because I knew I couldn't make them happen for him. I knew I didn't have the power. But my pain let me know that I was in love with this man, and that I wanted to see him happy."
A genuine smile bloomed on Tharin's face, only to disappear moments later like a puddle's waves.
Cullen asked cautiously, "Did he love you back?"
Tharin snorted ruefully. "Not at first. He thought I was trying to entrap him somehow. Maybe report him to the Knight-Commander for trying to consort with a templar. But one night, when we were in our corner of the library, away from other people, I couldn't stop myself. I kissed him. And he kissed me back. Or, at least, I think he kissed me back. I was so nervous that all I could think about was whether Kyr could hear my heart pounding."
Cullen felt the corners of his mouth turn upward despite himself. Though inexperienced, he was not totally unfamiliar with how intoxicating a growing love could be.
The Commander had inferred from his previous conversations with Tharin that he was stationed in Hasmal when he was a templar. He knew it to be far less oppressive than other Circles, like the Gallows – a nightmare of a place for him and all the other unfortunate souls stuck there – for instance.
And that Tharin and Kyr were both men. There was no good reason for the Chantry to deliberately break them up so long as the couple kept quiet. Their union couldn't produce the children with magical powers that the Chantry was so deathly afraid of.
So, Cullen could not fathom the reason behind Tharin's loss of Kyr. But he knew it was coming. The Spymaster left out the gory details, but she told them how it ended. It ended terribly.
"We weren't very good at keeping our courtship secret. We were too young and too idealistic, I think. We believed in the goodness of everyone. He didn't hesitate to tell his mage friends, and I mentioned it to my trusted comrades. And then the story spread. I think everyone in the Circle knew about us by the end of the first month.
"But there was this brute: Leland. He always had issues with the fact that I was half-elven and that I wasn't ashamed of it. He and his brutish friends would taunt me whenever they could and when no one was watching, they would beat me up roundly."
Tharin suddenly grinned sheepishly as he tightly gripped his sword. "That's why I got good at fighting. I know I will never be as good as you or Cassandra, but… I was able to take care of myself against Leland and his cronies." Then his face darkened. "Not Kyr though."
Sweet Andraste, what did they do? Cullen thought.
As if to answer his thought, Tharin paused for no more than a couple seconds. "Leland was frustrated that he couldn't get to me, so he got to Kyr. He was a great scholar but not a capable mage. He constantly lit things on fire by accident. And that was the excuse they used."
Tharin's grip on the hilt became even tighter and his knuckles whitened.
"I cannot tell you how it happened exactly, but I know Leland's goons cornered Kyr in the Circle courtyard. That much is clear. Even with two-dozen templars and mages shuffling about, no one intervened to help the young mage in distress.
"They stabbed Kyr in the daytime, in the middle of that Maker-damned courtyard. I ran toward Kyr and they were all smirking, holding blood-spattered daggers. They lied that Kyr was trying to set them on fire, that he became possessed."
The Herald's face started to betray emotions again, but he firmly closed his eyes and bit his lower lip.
"I held Kyr's head on my lap as he died. They stabbed him so many times that he did not get the chance to say goodbye. He couldn't even hear me say… that I loved him one last time. I know us templars can't feel anything magical, but I felt it, Commander. I felt Kyr's soul leave this world.
"I found out later that the Knight-Commander at the time did not view our relationship favorably and purposefully did not intervene in time to save Kyr. And the First Enchanter had no real power. Kyr and I were the only ones truly unaware of the general mood, and everyone else who knew did nothing."
Cullen roughly swallowed a lump back down his throat. Every muscle in his body was taut with the anger and sorrow that he felt for this young man.
But his mind had another agenda. It drew a scene in which Cullen saw himself holding a dagger, merrily stabbing Kyr. That was what he did in Kinloch and then again in Kirkwall. All those poor souls who failed their Harrowing, and those who dared to voice their dissension, struck down by him and his templars. Was his righteous anger at the young man's plight justifiable? Guilt spread like oil, ruining everything in its way.
The Commander's mind would not free him without further torment. Every part of his past connected and fused into a tapestry of horror. If he had been more sympathetic, if only he had listened more, if he didn't act like such a coward, then neither Kinloch nor Kirkwall would have happened. He was a brute. A thug. The lone survivor. He did not deserve clemency.
Cullen realized that they sat there in the clearing for what seemed like an eternity in complete silence, but he could not utter a word. He vainly tried to not cry out by forcing his mind to some inane task, like counting the number of mountain peaks he could see from their position. One, two, three, four, five…
The specters of carnage and destruction, demons and abominations interrupted the laborious task as they rapidly flashed in Cullen's head. He could hear echoes of screams.
The Commander wondered if what Tharin felt in Hasmal was anything like what he felt in Kinloch and in Kirkwall. That gluey and nauseating feeling of guilt, separate yet equal in measure from the knowledge that he was the sole templar survivor of Kinloch, and that the Kirkwall Rebellion was perhaps entirely preventable if not for him.
But this was Tharin's story, not his. Cullen had no right to commandeer it with his stray thoughts. He turned to the Herald as he tried to suppress the images and sounds of horror in his head.
In turn, Tharin's demeanor was suddenly evocative of someone decades older than his age, as if everything was drained out of him. "On the day of Kyr's funeral I gave up on the Order. I left the Circle and quit lyrium."
"I… see." The response was feeble, but that was the best Cullen could do. At least the unending horror in his mind was beginning to subside.
"I know my purpose." The depthless anger was gone in Tharin's voice, replaced by quiet determination. It held a strength that Cullen had never heard from the young man before.
"I've been given a chance. I will sacrifice everything that I have, everything that I am, to find a way to protect those without power… For people to live without some injustice or misfortune striking down on them. They all deserve that."
But not you? Cullen thought worriedly.
Tharin was almost whispering now, "I failed Kyr. I won't fail you or the Inquisition. I will die before letting that happen."
Cullen's mind had quieted down at last, only for grief and fear for the Herald to overtake the newly vacant space. Grief for the loss that this beautiful man had to experience. Fear that this man might forfeit his life to the Maker so the world could be saved.
Cullen reached out and wrapped his left arm around Tharin, pulling him closer until the other man's head tipped and came to rest on his shoulder. He could feel Tharin relax and then suddenly start quaking, as tears started to flow again. Without another word, Cullen brought the other arm around and held the young man tightly.
The day was new, and many tasks awaited him, but Cullen stayed with Tharin in his arms.
The cold in the air settled heavily and refused to leave Haven that day. In the evening, canvases flapped violently as a gale swept away any lingering warmth from the rows of shabby military tents. Cullen was in his tent, busy with his official documents.
All of a sudden, the sound of wind was interrupted by an unexpected voice.
"Commander, are you in?" It was Tharin. Cullen's ears perked up.
"Uh… Yes, your worship. Please, come in." The Commander quickly scribbled his signature on a reconnaissance report and looked up. In front of him stood the mighty Herald of Andraste, his cheeks fiery from the cold, his back bent severely, and his shoulders hunched even though the top of his head was nowhere near the ridge.
But the young man had a good reason to try to shrink his body. His bulky frame had to share a cramped third of the tent with heaps of paperwork, books stacked carelessly, and a clutter of armor and weapons. When he tried to shift slightly in an attempt to find a better spot to stand, he immediately tripped on a creased throw rug and came dangerously close to toppling down.
Cullen was behind his desk, flanked by his tiny cot topped with a tattered wool blanket and a fur comforter.
The Commander apologized, trying not to look too obviously entertained by the Herald's clumsiness, "I'm sorry, I haven't had the chance to clear out the tent since the Hinterlands."
But it was Tharin who looked contrite. "We really ought to find you a better accommodation. I will bring it up with Josephine tomorrow."
"There's no need. I am quite comfortable here." The Commander's words were sincere, but he was confronted with a different reality as he rounded the desk and tried to tidy up some of the mess around Tharin.
Realizing it was futile, Cullen chuckled awkwardly and leaned against the desk. The tent was nowhere large enough to comfortably contain all the miscellany in addition to a full-sized desk, a cot, and two well-built warriors.
"Cullen, you should know by now there is no need to hold back. I want you to feel at home. And
I know this tent is not big enough for you. If you need anything…"
Cullen crinkled his eyes appreciatively, "You have my word that I will make fuss if something does bother me. But really, Lady Montilyet sleeps in her office and Sister Leliana has the same accommodation as I do. All our soldiers are sleeping in tents in groups of threes and fours. I cannot in good conscience ask for a preferential treatment."
Suddenly, Tharin's cheeks became even redder – an astounding feat, to be sure – and he twiddled his fingers nervously while he haltingly suggested, "You know… My cabin is big enough to hold one more bed, and we could… probably fit your desk in there too. Um… Why don't you… take that space? Uh, well, that is… only if you are comfortable moving in with me, of course."
After the young man cleared his throat, he became more animated. "And you know, your moving could… free up this tent for more recruits! Yes, that would be most beneficial!" He then quickly glanced at the stacks of books and finished, "If you'd like, I will also get you a proper bookcase," as if that would finalize the sale.
It was Cullen's turn to blush and stammer. "I… I am not sure… I don't like the idea of being separated from the troops. I will be inside the walls while they train and sleep outside… It seems unfair. And what if there is an emergency, and…"
"Ah, yes, right. You are absolutely right…" Tharin trailed off, looking distinctly disappointed. Cullen kicked himself in his mind as he thought, You do want this, you blundering idiot!
The wintry chill finally breached the thick canvas. White breaths mixed and formed a cloud. After he rejected the kind offer, Cullen was lost on where to direct the conversation and began to feel around tentatively. He had to figure out what Tharin was truly up to.
"Forgive me, your worship, but… I don't believe you came by just to inspect my living conditions. Is there something I can do for you?"
More fidgeting, like a child that anticipated a scolding. "Actually… I wanted to apologize for this morning."
"For what?"
"My conduct was unbecoming for a member of the Inquisition. Bawling like a babe and making you listen to my sob story, when you've been through much worse… It was extremely unworthy of me." The only thing this bout of self-criticism lacked was a deep bow of penitence. It was as though the young man was atoning for an unforgivable crime.
Cullen's love for this man, the countless tears and open wounds and all other hurts that made this man, blazed like freshly stirred embers. He inhaled deeply and straightened his back. With a purposeful stride, he closed the remaining space between him and Tharin, and hugged the young man as tightly as his plated body allowed. It was a crash, a strike, a collision of metal armor and thick fabrics and soft flesh.
The air stopped flowing, as did their breaths. With their bodies enfolded, he whispered in Tharin's ear, "Don't apologize. You are more than worthy. You are incredible."
How desperately he wanted to reassure Tharin.
But as soon as he became fully aware of what he had done, all sureness of the moment faded away unceremoniously. The Commander let go and backed away a few steps, bumping his seat into the desk. His face flushed furiously as he stuttered, "I–I've made a terrible mistake. I wasn't thinking–"
Before the nervous man could fumble his way through an apology, however, Tharin closed the distance and linked his arms around the Commander. Another tight embrace followed.
"Thank you."
Cullen could feel Tharin's warm breath spelling out the words in his ear. A chill traveled down his spine. All he could do was stroke the young man's wide back in return.
And they stood there holding each other for a while.
Cullen's impossibly cluttered tent was an entire universe in itself. It contained anything and everything the Commander might require, with the obvious exception of a fireplace. After they finally broke off the impromptu embrace, the Commander produced a well-worn kettle, two homely mugs marred by hairline cracks, and a delicate wooden box. He murmured tenderly, "Come with me," and went outside to the training yard.
Several soldiers lounged around a campfire, shooting the breeze and trying to thaw their hands. When they saw their Commander approaching, they instantly leapt to their feet, their previously relaxed postures now straight as a razor. Cullen's eyes crinkled benignly as the man motioned to ease them. The soldiers sat back down, but their eyes were still focused on their Commander, almost like war hounds waiting for orders.
After filling the kettle with fresh snow, the man hung it on a metal tripod over the fire and looked back. When he saw the Herald standing by his tent with folded arms and casually crossed legs watching him, he beamed bashfully.
Tharin had made a habit of observing Cullen, unbeknownst to Cullen himself of course, and in just two months gained an even greater respect for him. The man knew how to win over the hearts of his soldiers, and he achieved it effortlessly.
The Commander was a drillmaster, but there was no streak of the sadism often found in a typical disciplinarian. Everything he did was to make sure his recruits were prepared, to ensure they would survive in the battlefield. And the soldiers knew.
He treated all of them as his equals outside the professional confines of the Inquisition, and many if not most had never experienced such positive relations with their superiors. He was a capable general who also valued the lives of his charges, and they would stop at nothing to prove themselves when the time came.
If the young man were to point all this out, Cullen would scoff. Yet there he was: Commander of the Inquisition's forces demonstrating his quiet charisma. Unintended, but real. Intuitive and guileless. It was clear to Tharin that he made the right decision. The Inquisition needed Cullen. It was made a great deal better by his dedication.
Cullen waved Tharin over when the kettle started to whistle. He set down the mugs on the ground and opened the wooden container. The tangy scent of dried ginger, sweetened with sugar, burst forth from a felt pouch inside.
The Commander took out four pieces of crystallized roots, put two in each mug, and poured the boiling water. He then handed one to Tharin, holding it by the rim. The young man accepted it gratefully.
Looking rather diffident, Cullen apologized. Unnecessary, but endearing all the same. "I am sorry. These cups are past their prime, but they are the only ones and I've had them forever… Never had the heart to throw them away."
The flickering flame highlighted every bump and groove on Cullen's face, but the contrast actually softened his expression as it brought out his apologetic glimmer in his wildflower-honey eyes. Tharin wanted to reach out and trace his finger on the sharp scar above the man's lips, but quickly shoved down the urge. He shook his head and turned to face the campfire.
The two men sat shoulder to shoulder. They sipped their tea and listened to the fire crackling cheerfully. Sugar tempered the spiciness of ginger and the warmth traveled down the throat smoothly. Both men exhaled contentedly.
The Commander stated impassively, "It would be a waste to leave a perfectly good space unoccupied, since we all live in cramped quarters… And I do miss having a proper working fireplace."
An extra heavy heartbeat thudded in Tharin. "You mean…"
"I will feel guilty for indulging myself, but… yes, I'd like to move in, if you are still offering."
"Yes! Yes, I am still offering!" The words zipped across like a sparrow and Tharin saw Cullen smirk. He cleared his throat and added with a tone he hoped was suitably dignified, "I will ask Josephine to procure a bed for you and we will have someone move your things."
"That is wholly unnecessary, your worship. I already have a bed. Plus, I will be continuing to conduct the day-to-day business by the training yard, so most of my possessions will need to stay where they are. The rest, I can move by myself."
Now was the chance for Tharin to even the score. "Commander, I don't think your cot actually qualifies as a bed. Besides, your time is more valuable than you realize. It would be better to have one of the idle Chantry sisters move your things. They will be jumping at the chance to touch the personal effects of our stunningly handsome Commander. It will be like a gift from Andraste herself."
Cullen chided, but there was mirth in his voice, "You are teasing me."
"Well, you do make it rather easy for me."
The Commander's amber eyes seemed to radiate so much warmth as they focused on Tharin. He chuckled and shook his head slowly.
In the silence that followed, it was surprisingly Cullen who spoke first. "We never got the chance to discuss that book I was reading. I've picked up some interesting tidbits."
Tharin stopped in mid-sip and looked at the Commander inquisitively. "Oh? Anything to help with the Breach?"
"Sadly, no. Nothing so worthy as that. But they are still interesting."
"Why don't you come join me at Flissa's tavern sometime? I'm there every evening." Gradually coming to the realization that he just portrayed himself as a drunkard, Tharin hastily qualified his remark. "I… I'm not there to drink most of the times. It's the only place in Haven that serves food on actual plates with silverware, and I like watching people. Their mood lets me know if I'm doing my job well."
The Commander thought briefly. "I don't believe I've set a foot inside that place."
"Truly? Then I insist. We can talk about whatever you'd like."
An unusually naughty smile materialized on Cullen's face. "Do you promise? Whatever I would like?" To this, the young man guffawed and nodded. With an easy tone, the Commander assented, "All right, I accept your invitation."
Tharin raised his mug. "I look forward to your company, Commander."
Next up, the Fallow Mire, the walking corpses, and some fish stew.
Your thoughts and feedback are always welcome! Thank you for reading!