Uncensored version found at:
Chapter Part 1 - *AO3*/works/28044180/chapters/71011269
Chapter Part 2 - *AO3*/works/28044180/chapters/71071884
My sincere apologies for the confusing announcement last week. It was produced for AO3, since I upload contents with explicit (sexual or violent) materials there. With all the sexual and triggering materials, this chapter became a behemoth of over 11k words, which needed to be cut into two parts for AO3. On FFN, however, I follow its strict guidelines, and therefore, this chapter was short enough to upload in one wave. Again, my apologies, dear readers.
TRIGGER WARNING! Mild sexual contents, homophobic comments, and mild self-harm.
Before Cullen became fully consumed by his desire to join the templars and began to spend all of his spare time training, his pa used to take him and his older sister Mia on supply runs to Redcliffe.
It wasn't often. It would take nearly two days in their buggy each way and there was always far too much to be done at the farm. But when they did go, Pa made sure to make an excursion of it. After all, they didn't have too many chances to get away from Ma's watchful eyes and the screaming bundles of joy that were supposedly his younger siblings.
The highway to Redcliffe was a laughable excuse for a trunk road, but it was idyllic. It kept close to a shallow river and roamed the forested hills of Ferelden in unison.
The river was like a living animal. Near his family homestead it was no more than a brook, burbling and smashing against pointed boulders. As the family rode by the ravines, the brook emitted infinitesimal droplets of the purest, most immaculate water. They fogged up the air and made Cullen's face tingle.
The brook turned into a creek that ran down the rapids like a breathless pup, but it eventually reached more level terrain and matured into a calm flow that harmonized rather than struggled against the earth.
Young Cullen knew to wait for the great confluence where their river cannibalized its sister tributary. There, they would forsake the clear waters of the branch they followed and ford the muddy right branch into the mountains. From this point, they were halfway to their destination.
The very first time Pa took him to Redcliffe was at the tail end of a long, bitter winter. As they headed north, Cullen discovered thin, forked stakes jutting out in the lower reaches of the transparent river. They seemed out of place, the only visible obstacles in the smooth flow. But there they were, standing without purpose, looking desolate as they silently withstood icy waters.
Curious, young Cullen asked what they were for. Enigmatically enough, Pa's face beamed with happiness as he merely said, "You will see." Cullen wanted to pry but settled on waiting. That seemed like the right thing to do, what with his father looking so giddy.
On their return, Cullen found that the scenery had changed dramatically. The stakes were no longer deserted but were now holding up wooden beams somehow adorned with strips of the most vivid colors. On closer inspection, he realized they were fabrics floating on the river.
As the buggy neared the shallows, he saw a kaleidoscope of colors from scarlet to goldenrod to indigo, encapsulated by every known design from checks to florals to lifelike drawings of peafowls and cranes. Long swathes of gaily hued cloth swayed elegantly within the river, brightening up the landscape tyrannized by winter. Their brilliance gallantly battled the overbearing white of melting snow and the uniform browns of bare trees.
Young and green, Cullen experienced his first frustration at the baffling incapacity to express in words the sight he beheld and the emotions he felt.
When he looked back with a surprised look, Pa guffawed most ebulliently.
"That there's silk, Cul. Really fancy cloth."
He went on to explain that the textiles were destined to be sold in upscale boutiques in all Theodosian capitals, including Denerim.
His precocious sister, silent until now, chimed in, "But if they are so precious, why'd the people put them in the river?"
"That's because they have to wash off the excess dyes and starch. The icy water makes sure the colors don't bleed and it brings out the patterns more clearly. Although I guess they wouldn't want to leave them in there too long."
With that, Pa gave Cullen's tight curls a playful tousle. Young Cullen turned back and intently watched until the shimmering colors melted into the bland snowscape.
It wasn't hard for the Commander to figure out why he was suddenly reminded of this memory, why his mind decided to excavate this particular fragment of his childhood that had been relegated to deep storage.
What he was about to do, it was not unlike washing off the dyes from the silk. The only difference was that it would be Tharin that needed to be scoured off of his heart. He lamentably did not have the luxury of letting the gentle currents of time work their way. He had to plunge into the river and wring the feelings out himself until his hands were cold and raw, the threads pilling. Surely, he couldn't demand the love that was so ardently melded to the core of his being to let go and fade away without at least that much travail.
Yet fade it would, to be transmuted into something unknown. Like how the colors before and after washing were two different shades identified by their own distinct names.
At the same time Cullen couldn't turn a blind eye to the truth, however inconvenient. He knew that even after the colors faded, the outlines of the pattern would still remain, a constant reminder of what he had stowed away. That, much like the twists and turns of his past, could not be helped. He had to remember that what he was determined to do was for the good of everyone. He could vacillate no more.
Three days. Just three days. That was all he was willing to allow himself. One day to savor the young man's companionship for the last time, one day to vent his anger at himself for being so bloody worthless for it, and one day to accept what he couldn't change. After those days, he would excise Tharin and every scrap of comfort the man offered from his wretched life.
The Commander was all too familiar with the process, having undergone it in several other comparable occasions. He had to erase the little blonde whose smile rendered him speechless before he left Honnleath for the Order; to erase the mentor whose arms he wanted to be held by before he left for Kinloch Hold; and before Uldred broke him, to erase the mage whose sweet overtures buoyed his spirit ceaselessly. He now found it easy to converse and laugh and kiss as before. At first anyway.
To his chagrin, he found that things were unfolding rather differently this time around. The biggest challenge turned out to be his own flagging will to keep up the appearance of normalcy, however this notion of normalcy may actually be interpreted as.
Maybe that was the problem now. Cullen wasn't sure what his normal was anymore. The careful equilibrium he had achieved since the disaster in Kirkwall, attained from the paralyzing guilt and assured by his isolation from others, had been thoroughly shattered. His impossible love made him avaricious, thirsting after all that life could offer. And in avarice, there was no balance. That optimistic yearning threatened to overrun the sensible resignation, hence no equilibrium.
Nonetheless, Cullen could proudly declare that he had never forgotten his obligation to the Inquisition. No one could accuse him of being willfully ignorant of what he was supposed to do. So he decided to rely on this invariable, with an implicit understanding that the duties he executed as Commander of the Inquisition's forces could form a pillar that would prop up what he considered his normalcy. A homing beacon for him to find his way back to the reassuring equilibrium from before.
After spending two days quietly obsessing over that balance and consecutively trying to impose some semblance of self-possession, he only realized Tharin was closely studying him on the last morning. Cullen figured he had been wearing a troubled expression and was able to flash a smile as a diversion, though he worried it came out crooked and prayed for it not to be so.
After their training the young man approached and asked cautiously, "Is everything all right?"
Cullen's heart was beating like a hummingbird's, but he managed to keep his hand from quaking as he wiped his forehead. He spoke in the steadiest voice he could muster, "Why wouldn't everything be okay?"
The young man seemed taken aback by the indifference in the Commander's voice. If only his love could see that it was taking him so damn much to hold back the tumult within and achieve that indifference.
Timidly, Tharin ventured, "You just seemed a bit preoccupied. I want to help." He was almost cowering, sounding apologetic for having stirred up trouble.
To that unequivocal candor, there was nothing Cullen could say. He busied himself with a towel even though he had worked it over his face and neck already. Soon he could no longer deny that he was merely dabbing phantom beads of sweat, but he carried on.
When there was no reply, Tharin once again inquired in a low voice, "Are you sure you're all right?"
The Commander finally replied, though it came out in a terser tone than he'd wanted, "I'm fine."
He took a deep breath and said in what he thought was a gentler voice, "I am fine. I swear."
Tharin wore a telling frown. The young man was not convinced. "You would tell me if there was something wrong, right?" He sounded so incredibly vulnerable that the Commander had to press down the urge to engulf him in a tight embrace and confess everything. And those depthless sapphire eyes. They would be the death of him.
"Cullen?"
Barely able to catch his breath, the Commander heaved weightily, "Of course I would." Another phony smile from Cullen, another empty promise.
The Commander decided to deflect, thinking how cowardly he was being. "Come, you have a busy day ahead. Let's get some food in you." Giving no time for a proper response, Cullen threw his arm around the other man's sturdy shoulders and pulled closer. He pecked the rose-tinted cheek and whispered teasingly, "Does that sound okay, Tharin?" He took those little gestures that ought to be proof of a true affection and corrupted them into a means of deception.
With a soft noise of surprise, the young man grinned. A candid expression of fondness that the likes of Cullen did not deserve to receive. Feeling like a heap of garbage, Cullen quickly turned away from the trusting eyes.
At the gate, the Commander was met by a runner who loaded him up with papers from Josephine's office. They consisted of the usual busywork like approvals for troop assignments and supply purchase orders. He was grateful for the work, since it would help hide his thoughts as he shared a breakfast with Tharin.
In the crowded tavern, Cullen found himself growing taciturn as he listened to Tharin talk animatedly. He cursorily glanced at the documents and mechanically inscribed his signature to each leaf as the pleasantly bass voice filled his ears with nothing particularly important. Mostly terrible impressions of other advisors that were comedic all the same.
But when Cullen finally dared to lift his gaze from work, he saw a thoughtful face with searching eyes and a brow accented by a slight dimple in the middle. Cullen's chest was suddenly hit by a tide of something overwhelming. Quite troublesome, really.
His errant hand relinquished the quill and reached out. He watched as it grasped Tharin's left hand and their fingers weaved in one smooth motion. The Anchor fizzled unexpectedly, and he could feel the magical energy pulse, but his hand held on. Surrounded by a sea of unintelligible chatters, the two men sat in their private island, unmindful and uncaring of others.
Mesmerized by the sheer force of the sensations that crashed through him, Cullen murmured, "…I love you."
The Commander knew he had done wrong right away and chastised himself for a slipup that was not so insignificant. But the genuine happiness those words let loose from the abyss of his conscious completely circumvented the sharp rebuke and swaddled him whole.
Tharin halted abruptly and sputtered, "Oh. I…" A protracted moment of silence followed. As comfortable awkwardness filled the vacuum, the young man raised his thick eyebrows, and his cheeks were dyed rosier. Tharin's hand relaxed, the very one that made him the Herald of Andraste and brought the two of them together. The young man's eyes sparkled despite the palpable sheepishness and he peeped, "I care for you too."
Cullen smiled.
Because he knew that his gratuitous I love you was the last scintilla of total honesty he could give.
But with that small exchange he felt his resolve erode further. It might be that even his fastidious devotion to the shoulds and the musts in his life was not sufficient for him to surrender Tharin. So Cullen decided to do something so heinous, so cruel, that he could not possibly hope to be forgiven.
The night was windy and clouds with sharp edges traversed the sky one by one. They kept obscuring the moons and stars momentarily, and it was like the heavens could not decide whether to keep the lights on or off. Cullen wanted to extinguish all the light above, to hide the ugliness of his battered soul.
Like in a dream, he was standing in front of the Herald's cabin once again, dressed in his best ensemble. He had come to a certain decision earlier and tonight he was going to carry out that deed.
After compelling himself to knock on the door, the man surrendered all control. He would let his ravenous body, not his distressed mind, guide his actions hence. The warm light from the cabin flooded and his vision reverberated with each percussive beat of his heart.
Before him stood his personal icon of happiness and sorrow, imparting an ingenuous smile. "Cullen! It's good to see you. Come on in."
Cullen's hefty body lurched forward, obediently following the command like one of those golem horrors – created from molten lyrium ironically enough, he mused for a fraction of a second – of yore. The young man walked back to allow his entrance. But he dared for more. He made sure to grasp the doorknob as he entered and swung his arm back to shut the door. He watched with effervescent concupiscence the man whose bright cobalt eyes widened at the loud bang.
Tharin was trying to talk, but the effort did not amount to a corresponding result. There was no hesitation in Cullen's steps as he closed what little space that remained between them. In a split second his palms held the young man's face, their warm bodies were pressed together, and his lips were reunited with their rightful companions.
A drowning seafarer Cullen was, already wading far below the surface. Suspended in an airless, lightless, and timeless purgatory, he had accepted the slow descent into the lonely, quiet oblivion that was Leliana's directive. Frantic gasps for breath would only hasten the descent. Yet his traitorous heart beat and it incited him to grab onto the kiss, as though it were a thin rope being lowered into the ocean.
He held on to the kiss with all his might.
And through those precious lips he tasted the fragile aspiration for better things, a fleeting chance to be rescued from the ocean floor where the coldest and the barest of the currents trudged aimlessly.
As their tongues danced together he was finally able to savor a prerogative of youth that seemed to evade his grasp at every turn – the right to be carefree in his affections and the right to be loved in return. His life's assorted disappointments and the despondency at his destitute state combined to form am impure amalgam of frenzied heat that perverted Tharin's torturous choice to maintain celibacy in their courtship.
When Cullen's wayward hand reached for the front of Tharin's trousers, the young man abruptly broke from the heated osculation and backed away. His hands shot up, though they merely hung in the air rather than pushing the Commander away.
Tharin's deep voice shook and not from the nerves. "Wait, wait, wait. Are you sure you want to do this? Are you certain that you are comfortable with… us?" He overly enunciated the last sentence. The blue irises conveyed fierce desire that made Cullen's already engorged cock twitch, yet Tharin's expression was indecisive.
Cullen leaned forward, but just before their lips met again, he pulled away ever so slightly. He whispered and as the air between them vibrated, he knew the young man shivered. "Tharin, please." He felt ridiculous and desperate as he continued, "Don't you want me?"
But it was all worth it to see a smoldering gaze in return that threatened to devour the Commander whole, body and soul.
"Maker… You have no idea." With that, the young man came around, his hands now enthusiastically squeezing Cullen's buttocks.
The touch was electrifying. The Commander didn't want to stop himself from breaking out in a foolish smile. Cullen proclaimed, "Then you shall have me," hoping to counteract any remaining uncertainty in Tharin. No longer held back by the unspoken apprehension in each other, Cullen freely palmed the hardness in the young man's trousers and was gifted with a drawn-out moan of appreciation. The man approached closer and whispered in Tharin's right ear, "And I shall have you, my lord."
My lord, my prince, my bulwark.
The young man slowly nodded, biting his lower lip.
The two men resumed kissing frenetically as they pushed and pulled each other toward the young man's unmade bed. It was fairly juxtaposed against Cullen's new bed, the corners of which were made perfectly in razor-sharp perpendicular angles and remained untouched.
In spite of ragged breath, the Commander laughed unreservedly and teased Tharin, "For a full-fledged templar, you sure don't know how to make the bed."
The Herald countered easily, "Hasmal templars were known to be slobs. If you've a problem, take it up with the Knight-Commander."
Letting the stray snicker escape through his lips, the Commander pushed the Herald onto the disheveled bed. His arms slung around his only love, and they became one.
In that moment of infinite honesty and infinite dishonesty, Cullen came undone, reduced to nothing.
As they decrescendoed from the orgasmic high and the moment's varied emotions ebbed, Tharin seemed to have settled into happiness. In fact, he was practically bubbly. Despite everything in his head, Cullen could not help but smile watching a fully grown man luxuriate in his own nakedness.
The two cuddled, unconcerned with the globules of ejaculates that precariously clung to their downy chests and bellies. Eventually they left wet trails on their huddled bodies and stained the sheets, but Cullen paid no mind.
Tharin was speaking rapidly and giggling so uninhibitedly. But the unplanned physical exertion on top of the daily training and the Inquisition business must have been too much even for a fit man in his prime. He kept drifting in and out, talking in an endless, meandrous stream of consciousness that eventually became more a dreamy soliloquy than a dialogue. Cullen tenderly stroked the ebon hair until the young man fell asleep in his arms.
The unspoiled innocence weighed down the Commander's right arm comfortably and gifted him with exquisite agony. As Tharin's steady breathing tickled the tip of his nose, Cullen contemplated what the young man meant to him.
The Herald of Andraste… No, Haretharin Trevelyan was a gift to him from the Maker. A gift that could rescue him from the darkness and the nightmares. At least, that's what he wanted to believe at first. But luckily, Leliana enlightened him before it was too late. He did not deserve such a gift. He was only to act as a vessel to carry out the will of the Inquisition, the will of the Maker.
Even so, he was having a hard time ignoring his own emotions. A vessel he may be, but a vessel with all too human feelings he was. Cullen was never the one to mull over what he was feeling or give a name to its content, but it was certain that he was grieving now.
Tharin was the only person in this world who knew all the truths about him. Not only that, but he was also the only one who accepted the Commander without judgment. The only one who would affirm Cullen's humanity without reservation despite his broken mind and dirtied soul. A man who could have loved Cullen. Tharin was a light in an otherwise dark world that he resided in, and he loved the light. Never once did he say that phrase in jest. He meant it every single time.
And the Commander was about to lie and deliberately hurt his love. Because he was given an order to stand on the sidelines and let the bond most dear to him crumble from the weight of his duties and sins. It had to be enough that he was doing this to set the young man on the right path. The one that inexorably led away from him.
Some desperate part of him was glad, however, because Tharin would never forget Cullen for the indelible pain he was about to unleash. Surely, he would be remembered. And despite the intrinsic selfishness in such expectation, Cullen was not too scrupulous to reprimand himself for the sad satisfaction that would follow in the aftermath of the breakup. Any chance to be more than a passing milestone, to be more than an unremarkable blip in this man's eventful and no doubt fruitful life, he wanted to seize.
He gently laid his lips on the edge of Tharin's forehead near the hairline and left them there for a long time. He deeply inhaled the young man's scent. Fresh, masculine sweat that smelled faintly of tangy citrus with a trace aroma of sweet lilac from the sheets, as if the young warrior had raced across the verdant fields of Orlais and brought back a bouquet just for him. Individually they were ordinary enough, yet the resulting concoction was anything but trite. It bewitched him body and soul.
Cullen scrambled to store this precious kernel of olfactory memory as his heart squeezed. In between hitched breaths, he whispered helplessly, "I love you… I love you so much… I'm so sorry." After running his hand over the beginning of raven stubble on the sleeping man, he finished with a hopeful plea, "Don't forgive me."
Tharin stirred, turning to his back, but did not awake. Cullen knew from personal experience that templars were used to sharing quarters with others. He was appreciative that an entrenched tradition of the Templar Order kept the young man sleeping, since he would not have been able to proficiently explain away his face then. Unmitigated frowns and incarnadined eyes. Tharin would undoubtedly have questioned Cullen if he were to wake up.
Slowly and deliberately, Cullen pulled his arm free. Still afraid of disturbing the young man's sleep, he agilely jumped off the bed and noiselessly put on the smallclothes that had been discarded during the moment of passion. The rest of his body was left uncovered and he was naturally drawn to the heat.
Now turned away from Tharin, the Commander settled down on the ground next to the fireplace. The last of the night's timber was burning and the flame wavered as it resisted the looming death. He hugged his knees and stared until the fire was naught but a puff of smoke. Tears came again. He let them flow.
Oh, but the weeping. Cullen couldn't bear to think his moment of weakness might stir the young man awake. He squeezed his eyes shut forcefully and covered his mouth. When it did nothing in the way of stopping the plaintive sounds from escaping, he bit down hard on the fleshy base of his left thumb until they passed. The toothmark eventually turned to a shiny bruise that stood out unnervingly in the approaching morning light.
Thus was he, a man who all of a sudden found himself blessed with much to lose, peering into tomorrow as something dark and unknowable stared back.
Something was off. An indescribable sense of unease percolated into Tharin's foggy brain as soon as his eyes opened. The primal instinct in him was on high alert, and like a tormented oracle it shrieked in distance.
As the fog dissipated from his mind, he saw a shadowed figure sitting on the bed. Cullen was fully clothed, facing away. He thought that even the man's turned back was captivating.
But it wasn't the same back he was used to seeing. Maybe because they had found their way into places that were the most intimate and the most private of each other, it looked different to him. It looked better, prompting even more fondness in him.
The young man rubbed his eyes and yawned. A wide smile invaded his lips in the face of the ghostlike disquiet, and he welcomed the incursion. "Good morning."
"Morning," reciprocated the Commander without turning.
The defeated freeze that lingered after sunrise permeated the skin more freely than its sterner nightly manifestation could. The chill forced a reflexive shiver. Tharin pulled the velveteen cover over his unclothed body and leapt at the other man. He hung his jaw on Cullen's shoulder and roughly scraped the grains of his bristles on the man's neck, intent on instigating a reaction.
But his wicked titter hung in the cold air alone. An agonizing quiet lingered for too long and provoked the feeling of impending doom. It merged with the nagging anxiety that had been scarcely pacified and swelled to an outright dread. He vainly tried to push down on it by enveloping the Commander in a bear hug and planting a kiss on the cool skin.
Cullen was here, here with him. Cullen was with him. Cullen and him.
Still, the man remained terrifyingly motionless. When he did speak, his voice sounded oddly flat. "We need to talk."
"That sounds rather ominous." Though Tharin managed to sound cheerful, he could hear the apprehension leaking into his own voice. Like a child holding onto a ratty blanket for comfort, the young man held on, waiting.
With a soft sigh the Commander started, "It's simple. The Inquisition is the cause I swore my allegiance to, and I cannot let personal matters interfere with its operation."
A much appreciated pause followed, as Tharin could hardly comprehend what was being said let alone what was happening. It was not at all what he expected.
But soon he was hit by a wall of irrevocable words, solemn and heavy, like a chant. "It's come to my attention that I've been neglectful of my duties as the Commander. My main priority must be to prepare our soldiers for the eventual expedition to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. So I shan't be spending time with you from now on. I will assign one of our templars to train with you in my stead, and I will no longer join you for missions that would take me away from Haven."
The end. Silence.
The young man let go of Cullen's shoulders and fell back, feeling weak. He grabbed the crumpled smalls next to him and struggled to put them on. He then arduously crawled to the Commander's side of the bed and kneeled at the edge before asking in a trembling voice, "What are you saying?"
And still the man refused to look at Tharin. The back that looked so inviting only a moment ago now looked so forbidding.
"I was mistaken. I've confused lust with… love. So, I don't think it would be wise for us to keep pursuing this… affair any further. Lest it starts to negatively affect our work even more."
This was not the Commander being too cautious or bashful. There was now an air of resigned certitude about him that Tharin couldn't put off anymore.
The young man's hands began shaking so he balled them into fists. They continued to shake regardless. He felt his mouth curling down to summon tears, but to his ephemeral relief they didn't come. Instead, a violent surge of words swept Tharin and Cullen off their feet.
"Cullen, have I done something… anything to upset you? If there is, I apologize. Is this because of what happened at the war room meeting? I didn't mean to embarrass you, I only wanted to help. I beg you, please, tell me. Am I that much of a hindrance to your work? I am sorry. I am sorry, I know how much the Inquisition means to you and I am truly, truly sorry if I kept you from doing your best… I will do better. Tell me how I can do better. Yell at me all you want for being an annoyance, but please don't say we can't be together."
When no answer came forth, the young man swallowed hard and considered what to say. He articulated the next thought that popped into his mind, "Is this because I couldn't say I love you back?"
That question made Cullen jolt and Tharin thought he had inadvertently reached the root of the problem. What a joy! A promise of salvation.
And yet it was not to be.
"You haven't done anything to upset me. I simply think this is the right thing to do."
The young man was in freefall and Cullen, who he believed was his, was nowhere to be found. "It's totally all right if you were mistaken. I understand if what you feel is just lust. But Cullen, I need you. Please." There was no glory, no pride, and certainly no dignity. Tharin, a fearless templar warrior and the Inquisition's great white hope, was on his knees pleading for mercy.
Nonetheless, the pitiable entreaty was met with another crushing silence. Cullen, or rather his back, was once again still, his true intent obscured by an impermeable barrier of clothes and lukewarm flesh.
Tharin let his head drop and intoned desperately, "I-I can't… I don't believe you would give up on us so easily. Tell me why you are doing this."
"You already know the reason."
Here they were, at the point of no return. The young man couldn't quite believe it, so he stubbornly refused to digest what the truncated announcement implied. "No, I don't know the reason, because I don't accept the reason you gave me. We can resolve whatever issue we have regarding your work. That isn't it. What is making you do this?"
With that, Cullen finally turned to face Tharin. Was it possible for gold to lose its sheen? His ochre eyes were cloudy, deflecting the light. His expression was alarmingly indiscernible. Cullen took a deep breath and his chest puffed up, as though to ready a call for charge. But instead of a shout came the sharpened daggers the young man didn't know the Commander had in him.
"Fine. You want the truth? The truth is, the very idea of us being together nauseates me now." Cullen glared with hatred seething in his eyes, the source of which Tharin couldn't even begin to try to pinpoint. That hatred was more than he could endure. He shut his eyes.
"Everything you did to me last night was so disgusting that I would have preferred to be back at the Ferelden Circle, to be the demons' plaything again."
A lightning struck Tharin and his eyes flew open. "Oh, Maker… Cullen… I'm so sorry. I did a terrible thing to you. I should've insisted we keep to the plan and take things slower. I wanted you to feel valued, to feel safe, not… this. What can I do to fix this? What can I do to deserve your forgiveness?"
But his lame attempt at amends was greeted with a venomous sneer. "You don't get it, do you? It is perfectly clear to me now that I am not what you are. All I've wanted since the Circle broke me was to start a family, have children of my own. You can't give me any of that, can you? On top of being whatever you are, you're useless too."
Tharin finally let the tears fall. He knew he sounded pathetic as he countered, "You can't… shame me for being what I am. It's just not fair. And… I didn't know you wanted all that. It's not true, what you said. I'm not… useless."
Cullen ruthlessly continued, "Everything I did with you was because of some stupid curiosity, nothing more than a momentary lapse of judgment. I wanted to see how I would like it with another man, but I just felt like a cheap whore riding your cock up and down."
Tharin felt like he was watching his own heart being ripped out and stomped on by Cullen. What's more, the man seemed to be doing it as a retaliation of some sort. How could the young man's action have been so horrendous as to provoke this kind of response? He combed through his brain for any kind of foreknowledge, but nothing came. He bit his lips, shook his head, and implored pitifully, "Stop this… Just stop… Please."
But there was to be no rest, no abeyance from Cullen's hateful ranting. "I let you defile me, and it is repulsive… Everything about you is repulsive to me. I can't stand you." Cullen stood up with his arms securely crossed and his back once again turned and stiffened. "I'm done with you."
It was over. The young man had known before, but it was only then he finally accepted it. A strange sense of calm garroted the fervent desire to salvage the relationship. Strange because it was able to easily squelch an emotion that seemed so unrelenting, as easily as snapping a nug's neck.
Tharin could not believe the evenness of his own voice with everything that rumbled within him. All seemed to change for him in that instant. He let the last drop of tears fall and took a deep breath. He felt defiant and suddenly realized that he quite liked being stubbornly defiant.
"So that's it then. I see. You might justifiably have thought and felt that way, and I respect that. But my feelings for you are genuine and you don't have the right to trample over them as if they amount to nothing."
The Herald could scarcely suppress the vitriol, but he somehow managed. He didn't want to be savage in front of the Commander and embarrass himself further. "Leave. Right now. I don't want to see you."
Unceremonious footsteps, a shrill creak, and a weighty thud of the front door. Cullen was gone. There was no "I'm sorry" and not even a perfunctory "goodbye." Apparently, Tharin wasn't even worth that. With his tightly clenched left hand the young man repeatedly punched his thigh. The Anchor fizzed. His wide shoulders convulsed violently.
The sky was excruciatingly blue up above, belying his blackened heart.
As he stumbled away, Cullen ruminated on how much the young man seemed to have suffered, but he was also having a hard time reconciling it with his assumption that he was more invested in their relationship. Anyone watching them would argue it was the other way around.
It really did not matter though, because this chapter of his and Tharin's life was closed for good. It had to be, for the sake of the Inquisition and for the Herald's future.
The Commander's head hurt, and his ears started ringing. Some lyrium would hit the spot right now. He broke Tharin's heart so completely and lost a companion and a friend in less than a quarter hour, not even enough time for a tea break. A lifetime's worth of trust and love, a lifetime's worth of generosities and possibilities, gone in the blink of an eye.
The ringing noise became deafening.
He thought bitterly that Leliana would be pleased. At least one person in the Inquisition would be happy today. Perhaps she would cackle as she read his message, maybe even turn into a raven and fly away in unconstrained delight.
As soon as Cullen reached his tent, he scrawled a short note to the Spymaster – It's done. The Herald is yours. Once he handed a courier the message, he immediately went out to train his soldiers. After all, that was one of the excuses he gave to Tharin, was it not? That the Inquisition needed his attention wholly.
Indeed, there was always more to be done and he was glad for it. Duties were like lyrium, all-consuming and all too easy to become addicted. And duties got him through that day in one piece.
Just like lyrium, however, duties could distract the man only for so long. The mind inevitably wandered, and the demons came out to play.
That night, Cullen cried like never before. What a difference three days made. He could remember himself lying in the very same cot, filled with joy and anticipation for the future he wanted to build with Tharin.
Now he was curled into a ball, silently cursing the Maker for letting him survive Kinloch and Kirkwall. His life was torturing him, and he did not see any reason why he should still be alive. Only the sweet memory of his heart going pitter-patter at Tharin's presence, and the knowledge of the debt he owed to the Inquisition and the Circle mages assuaged him.
He prayed for sleep. When it failed to come, he then prayed for his nightmares to snatch him away from the unbearableness of corporeal existence. For once, they did not come.
In a life that isn't boringly peaceful or cut too short by some unmentionable tragedy, there are a number of longest days when everything from the highest place in the heavens to the lowest point of the earth seems to disintegrate. Figuratively at least, if not literally. For Tharin, today was one of those longest days he had experienced in a good while.
All day he went through the motions, relying on the comforting knowledge that nothing required his full attention and that he didn't have to talk to the Commander. When there were no more mundane Inquisition responsibilities to keep his mind occupied, the young man trudged to the Singing Maiden and drank himself to a stupor.
Sitting at the table by the window, Tharin saw Cullen everywhere and tried to hate the man. But no matter how much effort he expended, no matter how much he reminded himself of the despicable things the Commander said, he found himself simply unable to hate. In fact, he kept arriving at the conclusion that he missed Cullen awfully.
At least the cheap booze Flissa supplied dulled his mind and quieted all the questions: was Cullen truly disgusted by what he was? Was what he did so bad that it reminded the man of his worst nightmare? What could he have done differently? Is there anything he could do for forgiveness from Cullen? And so on.
He had been given a reprieve. He would wait until later to answer them.
Sera started singing one of her bawdy favorites, goaded by Varric who probably just wanted to see the girl scandalize Vivienne. Tharin joined in, shouting at the top of his lungs in a hopeless attempt to drown out the anguish in his heart.
Afterwards, Tharin let his drunk body guide him home. But instead of reaching his cabin, his legs gave out midway and he slumped under another plum tree. From the cold, wet ground he watched as miniscule pink blossoms descended upon his face. His memory failed him after that. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.
Spring had been well on its way for months. Yet the Frostbacks were entirely too inhospitable for innocent blooms of the season. The wind and the ice were all too jealous of their liveliness and did their best to strike them down. One by one, the petals wilted, and the bright blossoms quietly dissolved into nothingness, their resistance futile and their evanescence rendered all the more wretched for it. Smothered by the void that betrayed no sound, no color, and no fragrance. Simply, gone.
I hope you've enjoyed the story so far! This marks the end of Part I: Spring. Part II: Summer begins with the next chapter, which will be posted two weeks from today on Sunday, February 7.
Next up, Cassandra intervenes and a new person shows up.
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