TRIGGER WARNING! Some references to substance abuse.

The Inquisition received the news two weeks after the Commander's departure, a week after the last field report. Cullen usually addressed his reports to all members of the war council, but this one was different. In an unfamiliar handwriting, it was addressed only to the Inquisitor.

Inside was a long message from Knight-Commander Brycen, which Tharin had to reread several times to fully comprehend what had transpired.

The gist of the rambling letter, as far as the Inquisitor could understand, was that the Commander was hurt critically with a deep stab wound. The Circle healers managed to suture the wound and stabilize his condition, and several Inquisition templars were escorting him back to Skyhold on fast horses.

Tharin deduced from the slightly frayed edges of each written alphabetic letter, that the situation was dire. Though Brycen mentioned no such thing, he inferred that Cullen could have lost his life.

He could have died. And Tharin would not have known, let alone be there for him.

The next few days were like the calm before the storm. The news was kept secret to the rest of Skyhold per Leliana's suggestion and everyone went on as before, taking meetings, training, dining, carousing, et cetera. The daily routine helped Tharin push back the images of Cullen dying.

After dark, left alone in his quarters, he drank. The well-regulated pint of ale a night at Haven turned into several tumblers of hard liquor in Skyhold, which then turned into an unfettered torrent of everything he could get his hands on. Indeed, Tharin drank everything in his store to forget. He would crash into his bed half out of his mind and snicker bitterly. Like father, like son.

Tharin had to thank the divine Andraste for Cabot. The barkeep would allow the young man to refill his liquor stock frequently, though the dwarf would stare at him with those discerning eyes.

But even in an alcoholic haze, forget he could not. Since the escape from an impossible future, the specter of that Commander's demise by a swarm of Elder One's minions accosted him occasionally, though not frequently enough to necessitate a visit to Solas. Now, triggered by the letter from Hasmal, he saw it in his dreams every single night.

Every night the same vision assailed Tharin and left him breathless, the Anchor responded in kind by pulsating wildly. The verdigris light crackled, and viscid agony followed. Stripped of the nervous insulation proffered by alcohol during his slumber, the young man was forced to clamp down on the Anchor with his right hand.

Even with his whole body curled into a ball, his eyes clenched shut, and his teeth gritted, Tharin couldn't help little pained moans escape. At least the pain receded every time the Anchor went off, and the deadly combination of the nightmare and the Anchor resonance almost seemed like an appropriate punishment for his surviving Redcliffe when others died.

The other, surreal Redcliffe. Where that Cullen really died.

Even in the end the man smiled as if to say everything was all right, and everything did turn out all right. At least from the relative standpoint. Those things did occur – the end of the world, the downfall of the Inquisition, the corruption of red lyrium, and the ultimate sacrifice. To Tharin and the Cullen of that abandoned reality, they did occur.

If parallel timelines could exist independently, the withered skeletons of his unlucky companions would still be rolling around in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle encrusted with blood crimson crystals. The dipsomaniacal hebetude obviously fell far short of suppressing those images and thoughts, and neither did it offer a respite from the Anchor's reverberations, and Tharin suffered silently as he awaited for this Cullen's return.

Cullen and his templars arrived four days later. Tharin could not work up the nerve to greet the Commander in person. But he did have enough sense to order the guards to transport the unconscious man to the Inquisitor's personal quarters and bring Fiona to take a look.

Tharin thought that this was what casting a spell would be like. His position as the Inquisitor afforded him the luxury of controlling everything remotely, and all materials required for Cullen's convalescence were put in the correct places as he'd requested. A minor miracle, given that events had a nasty tendency to go against the Inquisition's favor these days, and even the most insignificant of plans could go awry.

But the Inquisitor still daren't approach his chamber. He skulked in the main hall until he saw one of the templars exit. He dove in like a hawk and took the templar aside to a shadowy corner away from sharp-eyed noble loiterers.

"Your worship, the whole day was strange… You must know it's not like Commander Cullen to take a personal day, and he just walked off from the Circle without so much as a word to anyone."

"Do you know where he was going?"

"No clue. I apologize."

"That's all right. It was probably for a private business."

The templar hesitated a moment before speaking out. "I hope I am not out of line for saying this, but… please do not reprimand the Commander. I think what he did was very brave."

"Why would I reprimand him? Protecting a little girl from street thugs, that was very brave."

"It's not just that." A shallow frown surfaced. "Apparently the child is magically gifted.

The people attacking her were angry because she'd set fire to the market."

"On purpose?"

The templar shook his head, but there was an air of uncertainty about him.

It was then Tharin recognized Cullen's expedition to Hasmal as what it truly was. It was the man's effort to make amends, a brief stop in his endless quest for redemption.

Tharin should have reassured Cullen that he was good enough, that he need not prove himself again and again. The Commander was indeed contributing more than his expected share to the creation of a better Thedas, but he wasn't even cognizant of it. All because the young man hurled those barbed words back at Haven, accusing him of hypocrisy and declaring he would never change.

Confronted with the direct consequence of his spitefulness, Tharin felt fiery anger scalding his insides. Trying to sound calm and dreading that he was failing, he inquired, "Do we know who the perpetrator is?"

"No ser. By the time we got to the market, the merchants had already closed ranks. And we couldn't really detain them. We've no jurisdiction and we didn't want to snub the city officials. And since the Commander survived the attack…"

"Very well. Thank you for taking care of him. You may go."

After pacing the length of the main hall several times and checking to make sure the small retinue of templars and healers had all left, he was able to use the momentum to carry his body through the door to his loft. Once he was on the other side, it took a surprisingly small amount of goading to make himself climb upstairs.

Cullen looked inordinately small in the wide expanse of the Inquisitor's quarters. Illuminated by the blinding light of the sun at its quotidian zenith, the man looked paler and more spent than Tharin had remembered.

The young man thought the cheekbones and the lightning of the scar that struck Cullen's upper lip were standing out more clearly than before, even as the inadvertent beard valiantly attempted to obscure and soften the harsh lines.

Muscles in the man's shoulders and arms were lean and beggared, the manifold veins left unprotected after the silken layer of fat had retreated. The clavicles and the lump of cartilage near his larynx so urgently made their presence known.

The fact of the matter was that in spite of the muscles that had accumulated over the years and were still populating much of Cullen's body, one would be hard pressed to find any part of the man that could be described as fleshy, healthy. Alive.

At least the expression on Cullen's resting face was peaceful, content even. The Circle healers must have prescribed a sleeping potion. No nightmares from the abyss, just a lights-out coma as the body fought to heal itself.

Cullen was tucked in the bed with opulent duvets that partly obscured the bandaged part of his torso, totally oblivious of the world around him. The only chair in the room, normally situated behind the desk, was now by the bed. No doubt Fiona had been there ministering her healing spells. Tharin approached quietly and took a seat.

The young man's sorrowful eyes scanned every inch of the Commander's battered body. He was determined to commit to his memory every cut, every strip of blood-stained dressing, every lasting evidence of the hardship, so that he would remember this whenever his resolve faltered. To remind himself that his being sold into bondage was not without any personal gain, that he was paying for the damage he had wreaked.

He sighed miserably, "Will you ever forgive me…?"

If Tharin overlooked the bandages, a feat that was entirely too challenging, he could pretend he was sharing the quarters with the Commander. Like they had planned to many, many moons ago.

In truth, the Inquisitor had never felt at home in the Inquisitor's quarters. The gilded flourishes all over the walls and palatial furnishings, courtesy of Josephine and her Orlesian decorators, were too rich for his modest taste. Even so, he had been thinking that this grotesquely ornate room was an apt metaphor for his odd and twisted life.

But with Cullen here, Tharin finally felt at ease. It was beginning to feel more like a sanctuary than a whimsical parody of Theodosian upper-class life he became inexplicably trapped in. Not that he was profiting from the man's injury, Tharin was nonetheless thankful for the presence that apparently made the chamber just right. The man was a salve.

These thoughts eventually overwhelmed his better judgment. He recognized it was improper, but he could not, would not stop. With an unmistakable shaking in his right hand, Tharin reached out and smoothed Cullen's hair. The soft curls gently brushed against his skin. He continued down, grazing the fine lines by the eyes and coming to rest on the bearded cheek.

And with that one illicit yet preposterously casual touch, Tharin knew. No other proof was necessary.

The contact distilled everything down to the unqualified quintessence and it yielded absolutely no room for an alternate interpretation. He had to accept that which he had been fearing all along.

Tharin slowly pulled away and veiled his eyes with the hand that caressed and remembered. His shoulders rounded as he huddled. Before too long he was weeping gracelessly as fat tears streamed down and stained his creased face. It was an indescribable mixture of hopelessness and gratitude that seized his tight chest.

Dreams are a funny thing. Even for a veteran wanderer like Cullen, it was difficult to tell that the landscape he was seeing was only in his mind.

He could see a humble cottage sitting atop a rolling hill. It was flanked on one side by a forest and by green waves of farmland on the other. When he opened the front door, he saw a handsome man in a creased shirt and overalls, making what appeared to be a loaf of bread. His sunburnt face was covered in flour and he was smiling. He had ten fingers.

"My dearest!"

With an eager yelp, the man dropped everything and jumped at him. Cullen was greeted with a bone-crushing hug and a deep kiss, and it then finally dawned on him that this was too good to be true. He was journeying through the twilight zone, the nowhere between the Fade and the consciousness, where all fantastical things were possible. He didn't want to leave it. Not yet anyway.

His reluctance notwithstanding, he gradually slid out of slumber, and the surroundings attacked his senses with their exacting corporealness. When consciousness finally overtook him, he could no longer recall the dream. He only remembered that he was unbelievably happy in it.

The air felt cool and pleasantly humid. He smelled the tang of citrus and cinnamon. He heard a hushed sound of two people conversing, a man and a woman.

At first, Cullen thought he was back in Honnleath, in his family's cozy cabin. His ma and pa talking softly, so as to not wake their pups, to enjoy the peace and quiet a moment longer with the aroma of breakfast tea wafting through the room. The ritualized ordinariness that occupied so much of his childhood, replaying like it did countless times over.

Then memories of the present rushed back.

He heard the woman take her leave with a strident salute of "Inquisitor" and understood he was home. His heart began to palpitate as muted but weighty footsteps approached near.

"You've neglected to tell me how awful the weather in Hasmal is," murmured Cullen with his eyes still closed.

There was a soft snort. It was followed by a voice he had been longing to hear. "I guess I have. And you picked the worst season to go too. The summer heat is unbearable."

"Tell me about it."

But Tharin sounded puzzlingly hoarse. When the Commander opened his eyes, he could see the young man's face hovering almost directly above. A wan smile greeted him, and he could see that the delicate cobalt eyes were bloodshot, and the rims were incarnadine. His heart skipped a beat.

He tried to sit up. A sharp pain struck the wounded side immediately and knocked the breath out of him. Tharin hurriedly put his arms on either side of Cullen and helped him up. Winded from the exertion and feeling like an invalid, it took the Commander a fair bit to recover. He absolutely detested that his voice sounded feeble as he began to speak. "Forgive me."

"What for?"

"For… needlessly upsetting you, I… I'm thinking… Or it looks like that's what I did…" he croaked. He then looked around the Inquisitor's quarters and added, "And… imposing on you like this."

"Oh, it's nothing," said the young man as he rubbed his eyes. "I just haven't been getting enough sleep. After all, you are in my bed." There was a hint of tension in the guffaws.

Cullen's mind, however, was too distracted for a small detail like that to stick at that particular moment. Most of his attention was directed at the wound. He could see that it was dressed impeccably with a pristine gauze. It was thoroughly dry, with not even a speck of blood on it. He remembered with some effort seeing putrid dressings oozing with his own blood and sweat in between the sleeping potions. Who cleaned him up and put fresh linens?

It went without saying that his upper half was exposed, which he became aware of only after he was done examining the dressing. Cullen instantly began to feel around the bed.

"What do you need?" asked the young man with clear concern in his voice.

"Ah… uh, a shirt…"

Tharin promptly walked over to a dresser and pulled out a folded white shirt. When it was handed to Cullen, he smelled lilac, oak, and a bit of the young man. He had to stop himself from burying his face in it and inhaling the scent deeply.

After he buttoned the shirt and judged himself suitably attired for the Inquisitor, he asked nervously, "Why am I here…? Sorry, I meant… What was your explanation for having the Commander of the Inquisition camped in your quarters?"

Cullen could not shake the guilt that he'd violated his agreement with Leliana. He had sworn to stay away and yet here he was, in the man's personal chamber, in the man's bed, tucked under the man's comforter, and wearing the man's shirt that smelled distinctly of its owner.

He grew uncomfortably hot.

Unaware of Cullen's predicament, the young man grinned. "I didn't want you to have to be stuck in the infirmary while you recuperated. I realize it's preferential treatment, but… you need it. And as for explaining your presence here, I didn't have to. There are literal holes above your bed. Your room can hardly be described as salubrious."

Tharin then quipped overly cheerily, "So now we've come a full circle, haven't we?"

It took Cullen a full half minute to snap out of his thoughts and figure out what Tharin meant.

But when he did, he blurted out, "Not quite. We won't be on an equal footing unless I lose…" He pursed his lips before he could finish his thoughts. Luckily, the young man didn't seem to have heard his reply.

Obviously trying to put on a façade, Tharin hummed, "By the way, the child's parents sent a letter to Skyhold. It turns out they are pretty influential and promised to convince the city leaders of Hasmal to throw their support behind the Inquisition. They then pledged to make a significant donation."

Cullen forced a broad smile. "That's great. I'm glad."

A small chink on the mask. "Not at the risk of losing you, it's not worth it."

Ridiculously enough, Cullen found himself trying to breathe new life into the forced joviality.

"We must do what we can, right?" He finished with a carefree tone, "You're sacrificing much more. All I did was to give a few drops of blood."

"It was more than a few drops."

"You know what I meant."

There was no more banter to be shared. Tharin's voice grew quiet, almost whispery, and there was no merriment. "Yes, I do. But I don't think you realize how precarious your condition was."

Cullen didn't appreciate being lectured like a brat caught doing something unseemly, but confronted with the young man's intense earnestness, there was only one reply he could give: a brusque "Sorry."

The young man sighed tiredly and stood up. As he traipsed over to the fireplace, he started to speak in a firm tone, "You need to take better care of yourself in general. You've been skipping meals and staying up late to work, haven't you." It wasn't as much a question as it was a statement.

The admonition continued, "Don't do that. You need to think of your health. From now on I want you to take proper, sit-down meals three times a day and sleep for full eight hours. I don't care whether you think you owe the Inquisition more; I will have a monitor follow you around if you don't."

As a battle-tested veteran who had reached his thirty-year mark, Cullen had honestly never expected to be nagged by the twenty-one-year-old Inquisitor and found himself at a loss for words. He quietly watched as Tharin poured hot liquid from a large copper teakettle with exquisite gold chrysanthemum inlays. Mercifully, there was no more badgering as the man trotted back toward the bed with a cup in his hand.

"Here. It's cinnamon, clementines, and cloves in honey."

So that's what the aroma was.

As Cullen grabbed the offering, their fingers touched for the briefest instant. His hand jerked involuntarily, almost spilling the tea, but Tharin gave no indication of having noticed the sudden change in his demeanor.

After a couple tentative sips, Cullen turned to look at the young man sitting by him. Tharin's expression now had such a soft quality that it could almost be mistaken for a look of consummate affection, even without the requisite smile.

Not that that's possible, he thought unemotionally.

In spite of the omnipresent apprehension, soothing warmth spread inside him.

"How long was I out?"

The young man tipped his head searchingly. "Do you not remember entering the gate?"

Cullen shook his head.

"Then you've really been unconscious this whole time. I wasn't sure. Three days passed since your return."

He paused, feeling unduly helpless and fragile again. He took a long swallow from the mug and attempted a joke, "I hope you don't consider those personal days."

Tharin huffed loudly and reclined back. He crossed his arms and legs. "Believe me, you can take as many days off as you would like… Well, soon as our very own god-in-training is dealt with anyway."

The Commander snickered lightly before a thought entered his mind. He had abandoned his charges. He bolted up and asked in a tone startlingly urgent, even to him, "The loyalist mages?"

There was an immediate reaction on Tharin's part. The young man leaned forward and gave a reassuring look. "The mages are on their way here, under your soldiers' protection. You don't have a thing to worry about. They are good people and you've trained them well."

Feeling relieved, Cullen slumped back, nearly losing his grip on the mug in the process. "Thank you. I appreciate your telling me." A sudden spell of chalky throat hit him. He slurped the tea hastily, resulting in a slightly burnt tongue. But it was definitely preferable to a bout of dry coughs. "Don't forget, they are your soldiers first. They're a credit to you too."

Tharin only beamed kindly as a reply. For the longest time there was silence in the room, but unlike their previous encounters, there was no lingering uncertainty or desperate sense of loss poisoning the air. Cullen took this rare opportunity to enjoy Tharin's company unreservedly.

One benefit of having forsaken any hope for courtly love was that his nerves couldn't dictate the interactions with Tharin. He felt both sides of his mouth stretch, curling upward on their own.

And then Tharin had to go on and touch his shoulder, restoring the anxieties to their full force.

"You know that… you needn't prove anything to anyone, the least of all to me? You've shown time and again that you mean to help the mages, to do what is right."

The young man averted the gaze before continuing, "If I didn't make it clear before, I am so sorry. I should've made more of an effort to seek your forgiveness. I worry that… maybe you did what you did because of the vile things I said.

"You are so very important, Cullen. Not just because of what you do, but because of what you represent to… to all of us. Please don't be so quick to put your life in jeopardy."

Ruminating before speaking had grown to be a part of his character rather than a mere habit for the Commander, particularly when he was with Tharin. Especially when the nerves made his heart beat fast.

Cullen stared at the cloudless sky outside the balcony. The dazzling sun was hovering above the frozen peaks, hitting the stained glass and splintering into a thousand opalescent shards. Yet those shards failed to reach all corners of the chamber. The accompanying shadow from these corners shrouded the florid embellishments and lessened their pretentiousness. Meanwhile, the clear day's effulgence accentuated the normally understated hues that dominated the humble workspace.

In between the two doorways to the light lay the fireplace, where a tame flame danced amiably. Everything was where it needed to be, and the accidental perfection borne of functional orderliness made the chamber effortlessly beautiful, like Tharin.

Half-consciously tracing the motes of dust hazily swimming in the light, he murmured, "Watching her being attacked reminded me of Kyr. The girl at the market, I mean… Somebody had to do something."

In the corner of his eye, Cullen saw Tharin roughly wipe the face. A sound of subdued sniffles let him know what the revelation had done. He mumbled guiltily without looking, "I shouldn't have brought him up."

The young man beamed through the tears. "It doesn't draw a flattering picture of me as the almighty Inquisitor, does it? This… propensity for bursting out sobbing whenever something happens." After drawing in air deeply and wiping the tears with the back of his hand, Tharin intoned sheepishly, "No, it's okay. I'm glad. You remembered Kyr and honored his memory. I'm grateful. Thank you, Cullen."

Before the Commander could respond, the young man was on his feet, abruptly taking away the mug. "Let me freshen that up for you."

Tharin's depthless blue eyes were staring into the space, absolutely refusing to betray the thoughts of their owner. But the stillborn smile that hung limply told Cullen everything he wanted to know.

He recalled that morning on Haven's training ground when their sparring was interrupted by the frolicking lovers. It was the face he saw then. All he could do to comfort the young man that day was to encase him in a clumsy hug.

It was not enough anymore.

Whatever the Maker's plan for the Herald of Andraste might be, whatever Orlais's design for the Inquisitor would be, Tharin was entitled to more. Cullen had to speak up.

He clasped the young man's forearm.

"Don't go through with the engagement."

Tharin did not hide his surprise, but the expression hardened instantly. "Cullen…"

"I want you to break it."

"I am marrying into the Orlesian imperial house. The Inquisition would be secured for posterity."

"It doesn't matter. I want you to tell them no."

"Why?" There were thorns on the young man's voice.

"Why…? What do you mean?"

"Why do you want me to break the engagement?"

The question stymied the Commander. Not because he didn't know why, but because he did not know how to present it neutrally. His selfish desires slithered their way out of the yawning trenches in his mind. Their naked, hideous bodies writhed in agony and in their wake slimed his other thoughts:

Because I don't want to see you with anyone else. Because I want you all to myself.

Because I know you don't want this.

Because, the Inquisition be damned, I would rather let Thedas burn and people be butchered than watch you suffer.

He bit his tongue. "…Because it's just not right."

Instead of walking over to the fireplace, Tharin slumped back down. The hands that held the mug were tense.

Cullen could hear exasperation as the young man explained. "I already gave my word. I was the one who proposed. It's not something I can just break. For Maker's sake, Cullen, it's not an offer to take her out for drinks at the village tavern."

The fingers whitened from the grip. "I knew this going in. You should have known it too, I tried to tell you. I said Josephine would have me married off and that's that. If you would just…" The young man dropped his gaze to the cup without completing his thought. The Commander was left to wonder.

"But Leliana said–"

"I know what she said. Still, we are talking about the imperial house of Orlais. Neither you nor I could guarantee there wouldn't be any fallout from the broken engagement. Not to mention potentially trashing our credibility among the other nations of southern Thedas."

"Tharin, you don't… l–love her, do you? You haven't even met her. And I thought that… you only want… men."

The young man scoffed. "Does any of that matter now?" His voice was filled with palpable bitterness, the pointedness of which made Cullen flinch. "Nobody wanted me, so I thought I might as well put my life to good use. For the great cause."

Words failed the Commander. He could only look into the cold eyes quietly. They seemed to condemn him.

Yet the wrath evaporated away presently and what was left were fine crystals of pain. "I'm doing this so we can have a future. You know that better than anyone. Why must you question it now?"

The Inquisitor stooped to leave the half-empty mug on the floor before standing up. The porcelain landed with a dull clatter. He coolly announced, "Excuse me. I must go make rounds." Without another word, Tharin left Cullen.

When the Inquisitor came down from his quarters, Leliana approached and leaned in to whisper.

"There's a message for you from our representative in Ostwick."

The Spymaster handed him a parchment. It was succinct:

Lord Inquisitor,

Bann Trevelyan has fallen ill and wishes to speak to you as soon as possible. I fear he may not hold on much longer.

The young man started to rip up the letter only to stop a moment later. It felt like nothing in his life was going right. He resolved to use the burning anger as a glue to keep himself together as he confronted the disappointment that was his uncle: Bann Otto Trevelyan of Ostwick.

A cold hand landed on his own, taking the letter and gently folding it in half. Leliana spoke quietly, "My agents report a definite lull in the Elder One's activities. Why don't you go? You could close the rifts and take care of Red Templar stragglers on the way there."

"Thanks. I will make the necessary arrangements and depart tomorrow," said Tharin determinedly.

End Notes:

Tharin feels that which is indispensable.

Next up, Tharin's past unfolds.

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