TRIGGER WARNING! Interpersonal violence and bloodshed.
"Lady Montilyet, do you have a moment?"
Josephine tore her gaze away from a fairly scandalous report on Adelia's courtship history to find Cullen peering through the doorway. His eyes were darting from side to side. There was something about this towering blond man that reminded Josephine of a little mabari pup, but she was sure he would not appreciate her suggestion one bit.
She steadied her mouth from breaking out in an unwanted titter and smoothed her tone before replying, "Yes, Commander. What can I do for you?"
"I…" The flush on his neck expanded upward to his face. The man scratched his fuzzy cheek absentmindedly. "I wonder if you can help me with something."
"Of course. What is it?"
Now he was rubbing the back of his neck. It was good that he was not a gambling man. He would lose everything, including the clothes on his back. "I would like to have a person in Hasmal check out the city's cemeteries. Preferably someone trustworthy and discreet."
Peculiar. "Does this have something to do with the expedition? You could ask Leliana to have her scouts do that for you. We certainly have enough of them posted in Hasmal." Indubitably peculiar. "But… you are still going, I assume?"
The man appeared suddenly at a loss. He squirmed momentarily and spoke tentatively, "I am, but since this is a personal business, I'd prefer to keep Sister Leliana out of it."
"Are you sure? I am certain she will be happy to help."
"Yes, let us keep this between us."
Hearing the undercurrent of insistence in Cullen's voice, Josephine relented. "Understood. Are you looking for something in particular?"
"Um…" Once again, the man hesitated.
"Commander, I can't help unless I know what to tell the person I'm supposed to hire." Josephine's eyes widened, and she stared up at the man, hoping it would make her seem more innocent, more honest. "Whatever it is, it's okay. You know I can keep secrets."
Now his hands were clasped together, his thumbs tapping. His shoulders were rounded. "I do trust you…"
"I promise, I won't breathe a word of this to Leliana." She stood up to reach out and squeeze his hand, which abruptly stopping the fidgeting.
She sat back down to retreat behind the desk and held the writing quill midair, waiting for an instruction. "Well?"
"I need to track down a grave of a Circle mage who died right before the Inquisitor left Hasmal."
Things finally clicked for Josephine. She had been wondering for some time what was happening between the Commander and the Inquisitor. She could see the two men hitting off from the moment they met, and their interactions since then only confirmed her suspicion that they were courting.
But following the painfully public fight at Haven, everything appeared to be up in the air. Perhaps another status change was afoot. Leliana might know more. She made a mental note to ask her friend later.
"All right. What is–was the name of this mage?"
Now he was running a hand through the impeccably groomed hair, mussing and letting a few odd locks to revert to their natural state of loose curls. Josephine briefly wondered if the Commander was even aware of his tells.
"Kyre… Or Kyr, as he was known. I don't know the surname."
Cullen was quiet as the Ambassador jotted down the name and some ideas for the search. When she returned the quill to the inkwell, he reached inside his tunic and produced a leather pouch. "And here's the money you would need to hire someone. There should be enough but let me know if there isn't."
The Ambassador waved her hand. "You don't need to do this. The task isn't complicated or dangerous, and the Inquisition might be strapped but we can still cover that kind of expense easily."
"I know. But I still would like to pay for it," He declared solemnly and set the pouch down in front of her. "This is something I want to do on my own terms."
Josephine knew there was no way to convince Cullen once he set his mind to do something. "I won't fight if you insist. And please do trust me. I shall be discreet."
The man's face softened, and he stopped fidgeting, finally. "Thank you. Consider this a favor owed."
"Don't worry about it. This is the easiest task I've been given during my tenure as the
Inquisition's Administrator. I should have all the details figured out before your departure. I will send you a message then." She shifted her gaze back to the report and said without thinking, "If that is all…"
She did not hear the Commander's footsteps leaving the office. After several seconds, she looked up again to find the man standing in the exact same spot as before. The nervous, blushing Cullen was back.
"Is there something else I can help you with?"
"No. That is, yes. Yes. Is it true? That the Inquisitor is engaged to an Orlesian imperial?"
Ah. Josephine should have seen this coming. Her brilliant plan to extricate the Inquisition out of the red by marrying off Tharin was going to hurt Cullen. The injury was to be an inadvertent side effect, if she were allowed to defend herself in this mess of a situation.
Josephine had always found it more difficult than she thought necessary to reconcile the ideal of running a complex organization with the practical reality of it. In theory, discrete parts of the organization would come together organically and work as one unified unit. The organization's interest would line up perfectly with the interests of numerous different individuals working in it.
The reality, unfortunately, was far more complex. The reality was that all nuts and bolts that formed a larger unit were persons, and they all had different goals and wants not necessarily aligned with the best interest of the organization itself.
As a diplomat, she was trained to negotiate as a representative of the larger whole, whether it be a nation or an organization, and so she was guilty of overlooking the reality. Whenever she was confronted by that chasm of those divergent expectations, which was too often, she felt extremely frustrated.
She passionately believed in the cause, and she was fighting for it with everything in her arsenal. The intent of the ill-conceived memo she'd written regarding the companions was in the same logical vein. She had thought, rather idealistically, that the companions would understand, that they would see her request for their absence not as a personal affront but as serving the best interest of the Inquisition.
So when she had composed herself and thought back, she found that she cared not a whit. If the little, insignificant piece of paper ruffled some people's feathers, well, they had better just deal with it.
But this was different. The magnitude of the consequence from her action this time was larger, more permanent. She was playing god with the lives of the two men.
She did not relish the prospect of tearing apart the men who clearly liked each other, even more so because she was sure they would not oppose her. Once the plan was set in motion, they would go along and never complain outwardly, because they took their responsibilities seriously. No doubt they would suffer, but they would do so quietly and away from the others' eyes and ears.
If only Skyhold also came with a vault filled from top to bottom with gold pieces. Or at least a gold mine.
That last thought dragged Josephine's mind right back to the Inquisitor's question from before. So, you would have me sold to the highest bidder?
For now, the survival of the Inquisition had to come first. They were Thedas's last line of defense against a megalomaniac ancient magister and his army of zealots. She was not going to apologize to Cullen for putting the greater good before trivial personal feelings. If anyone could understand the paramount importance of duty, it was this golden man standing in front of her.
She had taken too long to answer the Commander's query and a sandy eyebrow was raised in a quizzical look. His slightly tilted head once again drew an undignified image of a confused mabari pup.
Focus, Josephine chided herself. She held her head high as she spoke, "That is the plan. I am currently negotiating with the party representing Adelia de Verchiel. I surmise we will have it settled before the month's end."
"I… see." Cullen's expectant face dropped. She prayed he would never ever get in his head to gamble with his savings.
"If that is all, I really must get back to work."
"Of course. Forgive me for taking too much of your time, Lady Montilyet. And thank you again for the help."
"It's my pleasure, Commander." She put on her sweetest smile, hoping to cheer up the man. It was the least she could do, really.
Cullen closed the door as he left, softly with no sound, like he was trying to muffle himself.
The Ambassador sighed. For the greater good, she repeated in a whisper.
The weather in Hasmal was nothing like what Cullen had anticipated. Wedged between the dusty wastelands of the Silent Plains and the steppes south of the Minanter, the city was hot and arid.
Drizzling rain and ethereal fogs with the turbulent waves of the Waking Sea crashing against the rocky shores, a trinity of natural elements so central to the lore of the Free Marches in Theodosian minds, had been wholly absent the entire time the Inquisition soldiers stayed in the city. In fact, they did not even see clouds in the sky. Just the burning sun relentlessly raining heat down on their armored bodies.
The Commander bitterly regretted not asking Tharin about the climate before leaving Skyhold. Or better yet, he should have listened to the Inquisitor when he – not Leliana, Josephine, or even Cassandra, surprisingly enough – argued there was no need for a person in his stature to lead this mission. Being eager to start correcting the wrongs from his past and being too stubborn for his own good, Cullen had insisted he wanted to go.
And so here he was, on the surface of the blooming sun apparently trying to play hero.
The temperature spiked to hazardous levels during the day, and Cullen repeatedly reminded his soldiers not to stay outdoors for more than a half hour without potable water at hand. Not that he kept to that rule himself.
As a compromise, the Commander lost the fur-lined surcoat and the russet velvet tunic he had grown so fond of and picked up the habit of covering his head with a wet washcloth. It made him look ridiculous, but it got the job done. Plus, he could dispense with styling his hair every morning, which in the oppressive heat was a tedious task with no obvious benefit.
He still found his shoulders sunburnt and painful after the first day. Steel pauldrons, though lifesavers in battlefields, were not designed to keep their wearers cool and ventilated.
The Circle healer, a graying woman in her early sixties, was kind enough to see to them, but after three days of his coming to her with the same malady she began to grumble. He apologized copiously, but it was not as though he could do without the armor. After all, he was tasked with guarding the mages in the midst of a population bent on stringing them all up.
Knight-Commander Brycen, who had written to Cullen directly asking for help with transporting loyalist mages to Skyhold, was more than happy to relinquish control of the Circle to him. Now burdened with the responsibility of protecting hundreds of mages from ages twelve to seventy-two as well as the thirty honorable templars who stayed for them, the Commander divided his time equally between trying to devise the safest way out of the city and patrolling the Circle walls.
When Cullen ultimately grasped how tenuous the relationship between the citizens of Hasmal and the Circle was, his irritation at the general awfulness of the weather evaporated, and he found himself glad for having volunteered. At least he could personally guarantee the safety of all Circle residents, and he would have been anxious if he wasn't here to oversee the mission anyway.
He allotted a week before departure, giving time for the Hasmal templars to sweep the Circle for potentially dangerous materials – lyrium potions and poisonous herbs to start with – and help the mages pack up their worldly possessions.
At the same time, a week was plenty of time for the harsh climate to negatively affect his health and morale.
The Commander felt his body reaching its limit by the fourth day. So used to the cold of the Frostbacks, he sweat like a washrag being wrung dry. Every item of clothing he brought had went through the wringer already and now stank to high heavens.
By the fifth day, he knew he had had enough. He decided to put Brycen in charge while he took a half day. In any case, he needed to as he wanted to visit Kyr's grave before he left Hasmal for good.
He fished out the only shirt that could pass off as clean and odor-free, and he put it on along with light-colored cotton trousers and a pair of casual leather boots.
He was bringing only a dagger tucked under his belt and the trousers. He wanted to blend in, but not quite enough to get caught without at least one means of defense. With a bit of luck he would not encounter hostiles, though in this heat he had serious doubts as to anyone's inclination to stage an ambush.
As he left the Circle behind, he could feel his pulse beating strong and fast. It was unexpected, as he was not anticipating a deep soul-searching conversation with anyone living.
Yet he had to admit, he was nonetheless excited and restless. He was a pilgrim who had traveled a great distance to connect with his love's past. What he would find at the end of the road, only the Maker knew.
Cullen first stopped by the market to speak to the man Josephine had hired on his behalf. The man, a squirrely creature with shifty eyes, gruffly handed Cullen a little piece of parchment with the directions written in tiny, barely legible scripts. The Commander deduced that the Ambassador expected the man's temperament and apparent paranoia to safeguard his secret. Clever woman.
As he exited the curmudgeon's abode, it suddenly struck him that he should bring something to the grave. A man who made Tharin feel loved and valued, amidst juvenile thugs and rigid Chantry rules, deserved a small token of appreciation.
Plus, Cullen was templar. He could not have faced the shame if he did not at least bring something as a peace offering to the young mage. So, what object could serve those functions?
He trod over to a flimsy booth decked out with all kinds of flowers for sale, with no clue as to what would be considered appropriate for a visit to the cemetery.
White daisies, lilies of the valley, globe amaranths, purple lilacs, ox-eye daisies, blue violets… He knew the colorfulness and the bountifulness of the bouquet was bordering on garishness, but the young woman selling the flowers reminded him of Mia. Or at least a vision of a younger Mia that his memory still regarded as the only legitimate version of her.
No doubt his sister would look much older now, with the wrinkles that always accompanied middle age. If she knew he was in this grimy corner of the northern Free Marches, secretly tracking down the resting place of his love's first love… He chortled, relishing in the pure absurdity of the situation he'd put himself in.
When he reached the public cemetery by the obscenely huge chantry, Cullen realized he should not have stuffed the slip down his trouser pocket. The sweat had soaked through and made the ink bleed. The scripts, initially difficult to decipher, were now completely illegible.
The man angrily balled up the paper and shoved it back down in the pocket. He would have to look through each gravestone. On top of it, the flowers were already starting to wilt. This damned heat, the man cursed under breath as he used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his forehead for the umpteenth time.
Luckily, just as the Commander was done with the first section of the cemetery, he ran into a Chantry sister tending to the grave of a recently deceased. After listening to his account, she pointed him toward a section allocated to the Circle.
Unlike the tidily maintained public plots, the Circle plots were grim. Hardly any grave had a marker, much less a gravestone. No one had been minding them for quite some time, as evinced by the weeds growing about freely.
An hour after he arrived at the entrance of the cemetery, Cullen was standing in front of a tiny grave. A decrepit wooden sign stuck in the adjacent earth read, "KYRE." No date of birth, no date of death, no surname, no words of remembrance, just the first name written out crudely in charcoal.
Tears prickled behind the eyes as he stooped down and gently laid the bouquet. Cullen mumbled earnestly, "I'm sorry. You deserve better than this."
He stayed kneeling and began to speak to the grave.
"I am… not sure why I decided to come here. I suppose I wanted a glimpse of Tharin's past, though I doubt you can answer my questions. If your soul is still whole, I believe you would be by the Maker's side. If not, then… I'm speaking to the void." He took a deep breath and looked up to the clear sky. "Andraste preserve me… What in the world am I doing?"
Where does he begin?
Cullen gingerly set his palm on the grave. The black earth was soft and cool. It seemed to soothe his troubled soul. "I want you to know that Tharin is better than what any of us could have ever hoped for. And your memory helps him be… courageous and kind. So, thank you."
The saccharine sentiment tumbling out of his mouth made the man feel awkward, unbearably so. Even talking to the dead, he was self-conscious.
But it was not just self-consciousness that was making the visit difficult for Cullen. He felt like he was sitting in court, facing a judge. A dark, shapeless thought came into focus, and he realized he had come to confess, to seek penance for his inactions.
"I…" Cullen halted, searching for the right words to say. He put forth a weak apology, "I am sorry."
Yet it opened the dam. The words began to pour out like an incantation he had faithfully recited hundreds of times. There was no need for a pause, no need to think, and he was thankful for the uncontrolled deluge.
"Maker forgive me… I've failed him countless times. You wouldn't believe how much pain I've inflicted on him. And I stood by idly while Josephine and Leliana sold him to Orlais. No… I actively pushed him into it, blathering on about the duty.
"I've been telling myself this is for the best. I don't blame Josephine or even Leliana. They are just doing their best, as they should. I recognize that. But what I really want is to just embrace Tharin and steal him away from Skyhold. I just… want the two of us to leave and never look back. To never think about the world crashing around us."
Cullen smiled wryly. "I know Tharin would never agree to that. He would never abandon the people who need him. I'm a coward but he isn't." He felt his face flush, overtaking the heat.
"On top of all that, a part of me still believes Tharin and I can be together, just like before. At night before I fall asleep, I think. I think of Tharin, how his hands felt, how soft his lips were, how his voice made me shiver so unexpectedly. Then I think of you holding him close, sharing the bed, claiming his soul, and it's enough to drive me mad.
"Forgive me, I am actually jealous of you. I want everything Tharin gave you, even though I don't deserve any of it." He could at least counter that he was aware of his deficiencies and therefore would not try to win back Tharin's affections. That, or even the remotest possibility of that… wasn't part of his plan after Haven.
"I seem to find myself in situations where I commit the wrong first and try to make up afterward. Why am I like this? Why can't I just do right from the start?" It was indeed his pathology, and he had no clue how to cure himself. At least with lyrium addiction, the solution was straightforward: cut off the supply and carry on. Simple and effective. With this malady, he had no idea where to begin.
"I don't want to fail him again. I want to…" What could he possibly do for Tharin? "I want him to live his life. I want him to be happy, far away from the Inquisition. I want him to never again spend a night unable to sleep, wrestling in his head about the Elder One, the Red Templars, or the rogue magisters.
"What can I do? What should I do? Please… tell me what I must do."
Despite the urgency in his voice, the entreaty was apparently not enough. Nothing moved around him. There was only quiet, no improbable revelations, and no earthshattering insight.
"If the Maker would just tell me what to do…" Didn't he earn that much clarity, after a lifetime of doubts and uncertainties? Even if he did not, didn't the blessed Herald of Andraste deserve that?
Disappointingly, the heavens remained obstinately silent and the dead didn't talk. With none of his quandaries solved and words rapidly running out, Cullen quietly stood up.
After trying vainly to purge himself of the cloying powerlessness, he gave up and left behind the lone grave with flowers.
Before he departed for good, Cullen went up to the groundskeeper sister and asked her to look after Kyr's grave. The request was met with a swift refusal.
As a matter of fact, the sister distorted her face as if he had asked her to cartwheel through the streets while naked and blaspheming. She was clearly insulted he would even request her to stoop so low. Demanding that she look after a plot with a Circle mage's rotting corpse in it, was he out of his mind?
He sighed, reached into his pocket, and took out a gold piece. He plainly told her that he was affiliated with the Inquisition and that there would be more if she were to do as he bade. The sister's expression softened as she greedily grabbed the coin off his hand and enthusiastically nodded in assent.
With a sour aftertaste in his mouth, Cullen put the chantry behind him.
It seemed to Cullen that the people of Hasmal had cold hearts, but then he would remember what he was like in Kirkwall. Filled with indescribable misery and anger, lashing out indiscriminately, while telling himself that was how he was always going to be. He cringed every time he thought of the cutting words he hurled at Hawke.
Many of these people used to be Tevene slaves, abused by magisters. It was therefore not a great mystery why they hated mages.
What's more, as long as they lived in Hasmal they were never truly free of Tevinter, because the Imperium was constantly eyeing to take over the city. The people also faced a growing threat from the Qunari in the north. Hasmal was a city under siege: if its people did not have cold hearts, it could not survive, let alone prosper.
The problem was that the people's animosity toward invaders could be redirected against their neighbors who happened to be mages. If that were to happen, it wouldn't be in defense of their community, and the innocents would get hurt.
On his way back from the cemetery, he encountered a ring of angry humans and elves gathered at the market.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, I swear! Please, you have to believe me!"
He could hear a plaintive plea coming from the middle of the circle. The voice sounded young.
When he approached, he saw a girl, no more than ten, crouching on the ground. She was dressed in a plain but well-made sundress. Her face was clean, and her hair was meticulously braided. She was not nobody. She was someone. Someone who was loved and taken care of.
Yet here she was, ugly tears streaming down her reddish cheeks, being accosted by an angry mob. Completely terrified and utterly alone. She looked tiny surrounded on all sides by the snarling adults.
He saw the florist standing at the edge of the crowd. She at least did not appear to be enraged, but she was not stepping in to help the girl either. She was spectating.
"What's going on?"
Instead of replying immediately, she pointed to her corner of the market. There, next to her booth, was the charred remain of a stall. He remembered that it used to be bedecked with sweetmeats. Now, there were only embers that glowered at disinterested passers-by.
"The girl used magic to burn it down. Now the shopkeepers want to punish her."
Cullen felt a painful pang as he listened to the woman who resembled Mia talk without any pity or sympathy. "She's but a little kid! What are they going to do?"
As if he had woken up the humanity in her, the woman's face crinkled in concern. "I'm not sure. Nothing too drastic, I hope…"
As soon as the woman finished speaking, the ruffians began beating the girl. The punishment was not an orderly affair. It was an orgy of fists and openhanded slaps. Cullen's stomach burned and he gritted his teeth.
He pushed through the mob, thrusting at least one man to the ground, and enfolded the child with his hefty body. He rested his right hand on the hilt of his dagger, ready to draw at any moment.
"Cease this instant! You are attacking a child!"
An old man, apparently the ringleader, stepped forward and barked harshly, "Ain't a child when it can hurt us with a flick of its hand!" He then reached out with his filthy, creased hand and pulled the girl's braid. She yelped in pain.
"Stop! I order you in the name of the Inquisition, stop!"
The man merely sniggered and taunted, "This has nothing to do with your precious Inquisition."
Another voice rose from the crowd, "I bet that guy's one of those abominations too! We should get both of them!"
Before Cullen could respond to the accusation, a gruff voice rang, "Be careful! This fucker's got a weapon on him!"
The circle widened in the blink of an eye. Cullen drew the dagger, realizing that it was pointless to try and hide it any longer.
Holding the blade in front of him and the child, he tried to reason, "Look, let's all be rational. She clearly did not mean to burn down the stall, and I will pay for the damages, I give you my word. We should all just walk away–"
Hot pain drove through his gut. When he looked down he saw the handle of a chopping knife sticking out from his left side. How did he miss an attack by an untrained civilian? Just… how?
A high-pitched scream exploded from the child's gaping maw. Cullen listlessly patted her head, but the scream continued in distance.
It was a surreal moment. He had known for a long time and made peace with the fact that he would die in battlefield at the hands of an enemy. Preferably by an expert swordsman. But this, being felled by a kitchenware, seemed indecorous.
He recalled the legend of a fierce warrior who died from a nosebleed on his wedding night. He supposed if Cullen Maker-damned Rutherford were to be remembered for anything, this was it. His life had been one mishap after another. Why would his death be any different?
Before he could chuckle in disbelief or maybe even panic, the world began to spin. Something warm spread along his shirt. He had to keep upright, but his body was ignoring his brain.
He tried to hold onto the girl, but it would have been impossible without taking her down with him. So he loosened his embrace. With a little sound of surprise, the man collapsed to the ground, his arms divested from the child but still trying to shield her.
The florist, Maker bless her, stepped forth. Her face froze in acute terror when their eyes met, but she quickly regained composure and began to disperse the crowd. "All right, that's enough! You've had a nice show and now it's time to get back to work, all of you!"
A faint voice called out, "…Is that In–Inqui-whatchamacallit fella gonna be okay?" The pointed rage was nowhere to be found.
"I'll make sure he is. Now go, all of you!"
Cullen mustered as much of the consciousness left in him to whisper, "Thank… you…"
"Don't speak."
As the woman knelt down, he could see fear in her eyes. He knew he didn't have much life left in him. "Look after… the child…"
"I will, don't worry. Should I alert the Circle?" The woman asked while pressing her apron on the wound.
He could not reply. He only nodded once.
He directed his gaze at the woman before falling unconscious. Instead of Mia, he saw Tharin. He looked mournful, as though this was his last farewell. Tharin's mouth was moving, but no sound reached his ears.
But Cullen wasn't ready to say goodbye. Despite all the flaws and all the fiascos he played a part in, the man found that he wanted to live.
Coward.
Soon he had to let go. Darkness ensued.
End Notes:
Flustered Cullen must be a sight to behold. Someone please find me a picture of Cullen being all flustered.
Next up, Tharin confronts his feelings.
Follow me, isk4649, on Tumblr! You can find frequent updates on my new WIP, Where the Waves Crest (波が上り詰める所): Tharin/Cullen AU fic set in contemporary Japan. I've posted the summary as well.
Comments, reviews, and critiques are always welcome but never obligatory! Thank you for reading!