And so, it begins once again!
TRIGGER WARNING! Slightly suggestive contents.
PART III: AUTUMN
After over a week of mad dash to catch up, Tharin was finally given a little breather.
"Well, that is it. Congratulations, Inquisitor. You're all caught up," lilted Josephine with a proud smile before leaving him to crawl into the bed.
Wrapped tightly under the cover that was mercifully velvety, Tharin told himself never ever to provoke Josephine. She could kill him with the work alone. And then he blacked out. He was so exhausted, he couldn't even recall shifting and positioning to ready himself for sleep. He just did.
In the morning, the Inquisitor opened his eyes warily, instinctively expecting to see the Ambassador cum Administrator peering back at him, her hand steadying a tall stack of paperwork piled at the foot of his bed. It had become a typical part of the day, her presence shadowing him from dawn to dusk.
But he was only confronted with the complete absence of any other living being. No physical incarnation of the day's work ahead and definitely no taskmaster standing over him with a deceptively guileless face. On his desk was a wooden tray with covered plates. He stretched his wide frame and looked around as he shook off the last trace of sleep from his brow.
He raised himself up sluggishly and ambled to his desk. When he closed in, he noticed the clutter that was left unattended for the past week – books, scraps of paper, and unwashed teacups among others – had been cleaned and put away. The inkwell and stationery looked forlorn in the suddenly wide expanse of his desktop.
The breakfast tray sat next to them and good thing too, since he was so hungry that the mere sight of it prompted his stomach to growl rather angrily.
He pulled out a folded note tucked between two plates. It was a short message from perspicacious Lady Montilyet informing that she was rewarding him with a morning free of work and that he would not be disturbed until the war room meeting in the late afternoon.
The chrysanthemum teakettle sat on the fireplace mantel, wafting a lovely scent of black tea, no doubt an integral part of the breakfast tray. On a glossy, blue-rimmed porcelain plate laid four strips of crispy rashers, two eggs served sunny side up, and two thick slices of white toast.
It was flanked by a crystal bowl filled halfway with chunky blackberry marmalade, a sterling silver creamer, and a shiny butter pat shaped like the Inquisitor's heraldry. Sugared preserves and dairy, other than communal milk in rusted jugs, were luxuries he had rarely seen in the Circle and not at all at Haven, and their sudden appearance in the form of breakfast sides was startling enough to be disorienting.
The Administrator must have fretted about splurging like this, worrying this kind of treat might be wasted on someone like Tharin. Perhaps so, seeing as he always insisted on sharing modest fares with soldiers and workers, and how she kept emphasizing the Inquisition was only now beginning to operate with its account in the black.
Tharin's mouth watered nonetheless; his famished body could not care less about the budget. Yet he still had to take a moment to marvel at finesse and sophistication in the presentation, obviously Josephine's modus operandi. Or more likely of a cook and a maid who followed her command to a tee.
"You certainly know how to wield sticks and carrots," Tharin mumbled amusedly.
He sat down and quickly reached for the toast and the butter knife. He held the steaming bread delicately as he heaped butter and jam on top. The silverware seemed to glide, as the spread was at that perfect consistency when it was neither solid nor liquid. As he bit into it, the resulting concoction crunched merrily, and he was a changed man thereafter.
The mellifluous combination of fat and sugar was enough to make him sigh with uncontained melancholy at all the years he was forced to lead an ascetic life. No, it was enough to make him recognize that lingering sadness about forgetting how pleasurable a simple piece of buttered toast could be, especially when it was not part of an economical victual meant only for subsistence.
He put down the half-eaten slice and took a moment to savor the aftertaste. For years, Tharin guzzled down the food put in front of him unthinkingly, not expecting anything beyond attenuation of the moment's hunger. Now, he was not sure if he could accept such mindless intake of bland food.
He eventually breathed a downhearted sigh, as he realized that he would not be able to taste anything so fabulous ever again unless he was willing to deprive himself of flavors for another decade. He was downcast, but nowhere enough to stop himself from finishing the rest at lightning speed and licking his fingers clean.
After scarfing down the remainder of the meal that was not quite as scrumptious as that first bite of the buttered toast, he lazed around in a tunic and loose-fitting bottoms staring up at the ceiling thinking about nothing.
For the first time since the Inquisition started, he was idle, frittering away and accomplishing absolutely nothing. If he were a mere man, he would have chastised himself for the wasted time, ordained by the ingrained Free Marcher mores. But this Tharin, this reluctant demigod, wasn't consumed by remorse. In fact, he relished the scarce opportunity to empty his mind, to think of nothing. For several hours, anyway.
It was then his mischievous brain conjured up the image of Cullen instructing a fresh batch of volunteers. The other day, on his way to the forge via the great hall, Tharin saw the Commander fend off two fighters all by himself. When their eyes met, the Commander immediately called for a recess and ran to him, shirtless and sweaty.
It was a good surprise, as the gauntlet Josephine was putting him through permitted no splinters of time to chat with the man after council meetings.
The young man might as well had been the maiden protagonist of a tawdry romance novelette. He let his eyes rove helplessly, not knowing where to direct them. Unaware of the inconvenient dilemma roiling inside him, Cullen's face broke out in an upbeat smile as they exchanged pleasantries.
Nature was fickle. It was notoriously relentless and cruel, but it could be generous when its fancy struck. Cullen looked healthier than he had been for a very long time, and though his frame had a way to go before recovering the former heft, his muscles seemed bulked. Tharin recalled that the apparent healthiness was enough to elevate his mood for the rest of the day.
However… Today, right now, away from the Commander, he was feeling something else.
The young man recognized the intrinsic wrongness in using Cullen's image this way, especially after the man made it abundantly clear that he found his carnal inclination sickening, but he couldn't hold off. He hadn't had a release for weeks and even the mere image of the shirtless Commander wielding a sword was enough to arouse him.
His hand, demurring and keen at once, wandered down until he was more animal than human. He quietly mouthed Cullen's name, wishing at once that the man would and would not hear him.
After he came and felt sufficiently ashamed, he cleaned up and grabbed a tome from the bookrack behind the desk. He flopped down on the bed and lay on his stomach, settling the book on the floor. It was a biography of a prominent Tevene statesman he had asked Dorian to procure as soon as he returned from the Vimmarks. He dropped his right hand every time he had to turn the page.
Having read through a quarter of the tome, he gradually grew bored, marked his spot, and closed it. He then sat at the desk, once again dispossessed of anything useful to do.
Tharin leaned back, slung his arms behind his head, and shut his eyes. It was midmorning, and he heard Skyhold's manifold noises: merchants hawking their wares, trainees' shouts – along with Cullen barking his orders perhaps –, and neighs and whinnies from the stable. The unlikely harmony of variegated noises gave him an idea.
It was time to explore Skyhold thoroughly, leaving no corner of it unturned. Frankly, it was overdue. He needed to explore. He had been calling it his residence for months, but he had no knowledge of what the outlying areas were like.
And so, he changed and ventured out of his quarters. Lightly nodding at nobles peppering him with greetings and curtseys, he quickly made his way to the underbelly of the castle.
Down the stairs from Josephine's desk and the unofficial salon were the catacombs. True, the vault contained no graves, but it might as well have. There were two dwarven statues guarding nondescript landscape paintings and dust for the ages.
The "catacombs" were wholly lifeless. In the dungeon, at least there were guards and prisoners. Downtrodden, but living and breathing. Here the only sentient creature was himself, though he thought the fortress could have been alive. If not now, then sometime in the past.
The giant creaked and sighed, the union of masonry and timber standing above his head considerably annoyed by an unexpected group of trespassers who had the gall to claim it as their own. In the innards of a colossus, he was hoping not to be digested and atomized.
There were four doors in each corner. He had already been acquainted with the wine cellar and the kitchen, and in the other corner was the only physical conduit back to the great hall and the living. So, there was only one doorway to the unknown.
The wooden door, as heavy as any other wicket in the fortress, opened too silently. Inside was a library that Tharin thought was what magic would look like if it were to coalesce into a palpable form.
An eerily green glow steeped the breadth, just like a little piece of the Fade on his left hand. In fact, he was certain the Anchor was resonating. But as far as he could see, there were no demons haunting the recesses. Though macabrely enough, skulls of various races dotted the bookshelves.
The air was musty, but he smelled no sulfur. Maybe this appendage of the castle was touched by the Fade, but it was no Fade, fortunately. It was this colossus's Anchor hand, so to speak.
There were flying buttresses of cobwebs by every bookshelf, trapping particles of dust that were roaming listlessly and demonstrating for how long this space had been abandoned, but the books themselves were remarkably well-preserved.
Surely, anybody should be able to overlook the uncanny otherworldliness of this humongous repository of knowledge, this eclectic collection of stories, histories, semi-myths, and fantasies. And the young man could only think of one person who would appreciate all this.
Cullen's going to love this, thought Tharin excitedly as he scanned the spines of thousands of texts that were waking from centuries of slumber.
It unfolded exactly the way the good Commander had expected, but the situation was no less frustrating. Well, things just could not go too smoothly for the Inquisition, could it?
Cullen was at his desk when a scout delivered more bad news out of Orlais.
At this stage of the Civil War, the conflict had become desperately personal for even the most unwilling of the conscripts, and consequently, both sides no longer thought twice about visiting atrocities on civilians.
His desk was overflowing with grisly reports of refugee caravans ransacked and pillaged by Celene's mercenaries, and then massacred by Gaspard's troops. Merchants with official documents were not spared as they were often suspected of spying for the other side, and now even the most enterprising was unwilling to enter the Dales on behalf of the Inquisition, interrupting the shipment of dawnstone, everite, and silverite to Skyhold.
As if that was not enough, there were rumors of the Red Templars establishing a base of operations in Emprise du Lion. For what reason, only the Maker knew.
The loss of the Orlesian mines stung. With the Commander at the helm, the Inquisition's forces had been preparing for a war, but now there were no more ores to fashion armors and weapons out of.
Cullen deduced that they would have to rely on Fereldan iron until the Empire sorted itself out. There were simply not enough soldiers to extend the Inquisition's influence beyond the western reaches of the Frostbacks to stop the fighting and save people.
But there were two fundamental problems with the plan: first, iron by itself made for much too friable plates; second and more importantly, permission from Denerim was not a guarantee after the Inquisition took in rebel mages evicted from Redcliffe. He hated having to trouble Josephine, but without diplomacy, the Inquisition could come to a literal standstill.
Cullen heaved a deep sigh. The scout must have taken a peek at the message, like a few of her peers who habitually did. She shifted uncomfortably and kept looking over her shoulder for an escape route. After bidding her dismissal, which she took gratefully, he covered his face and groaned loudly.
Expecting to hear the door swing shut, he instead heard a blithe chuckle.
"Looks like you could use a break. What say you, Commander?"
The Commander looked up to find Tharin leaning on the door frame against the sunlight, only the outline of his figure standing out clearly.
Cullen rubbed his eyes hoping to chase the weariness away. It still hung on, heavy and unmoving.
"I really can't. I need to find another source of primary metals for our forge."
The Inquisitor tsked and scolded like a nursery minder, "What did I say about taking care of yourself?" which was predictable. But the unusual blend of half-jocundity and half-seriousness still pulled the sides of Cullen's lips upward.
The Commander immediately looked down to hide the grin. Words of the grim message sharply came into focus, yet the stupid grin would not stop seeping out. The templar in him was not happy about the lighthearted gaiety and made its displeasure known. Guilt, like mold, spawned more of its kin.
"…That you will have me surveilled if I don't."
"Correct. So what should you do now?"
"Take a break." The Commander tried to put on his stern face with little success. "But no more than half an hour."
"That's plenty of time. Come with me." The young man beamed and motioned urgently. Dutifully, Cullen followed.
They walked in silence over the ramparts and through the great hall, Cullen trailing the Inquisitor with an unsuitably wide space between them. It did not elongate further, but neither did it close, as if to represent the certain uncertainty that defined their current relationship.
Apologies, laments, and hordes of explanations galloped inside Cullen's head, as they were apt to do when the business of the Inquisition did not occupy his mind to the fullest. The distance put a stop to them from bursting out. Thus marched the two men in total silence.
When they reached the basement, the Inquisitor made Cullen close his eyes. He obliged, though he felt not a little silly.
It occurred to Cullen that Tharin was more excited than usual. Whatever that waited him had to be good.
The air shifted as something weighty slid open. Tharin giddily exclaimed, "Ta-da!" Taking it as a cue, Cullen opened his eyes to find the man holding a wooden door open. "This is it."
Cullen approached carefully and looked around without actually stepping over the threshold. "It's… What is this place?"
With his hands on his hips and looking rather pleased with himself, the young man explained, "I don't think anyone else knows. I call it the Forgotten Study."
"Did you just come up with the name?"
"I think you know me too well." A smirk adorable enough that made Cullen to want to pinch.
The chamber seemed to be replete with displaced mana, and the Commander hesitated. But when the young man beckoned, he was pulled in. And Cullen did not regret it. As soon as he was on the other side, he found himself goggling at the sheer volume of books. He eagerly searched for titles he was familiar with and those he had been meaning to read, quickly cataloguing in his mind and worrying that he may not remember them all.
"I knew you'd like it," said the young man with an easy chuckle.
Cullen mumbled without turning, "Is it that obvious?"
"Only because you look like a kid in a candy shop."
The Inquisitor sauntered into his vision and reached for a thick tome. He dusted its sides and held it out. "You can find the complete works of Brother Genitivi, even the ones from just a decade ago. Strange, isn't it? Skyhold's supposed to have been left abandoned for centuries."
"Did you… uh–" Unable to suppress the bad habit, Cullen began without having thought through what he should and shouldn't say. "Did Solas tell you any more about the fortress?"
With a knowing smile, the young man replied, "No. And it didn't seem right to press him." And then he turned and changed the subject effortlessly. "But I thought you might find Genitivi's travelogue fascinating. Here's one on my hometown if you're interested."
The Commander accepted the offering and opened to the table of contents. Having located the entry on Ostwick's history, he flipped through the pages rapidly. But as he skimmed through the first page of the chapter, he was interrupted by a voice clearly overtaken by nerves.
"Cullen, the truth is…" He looked up to find Tharin squirm. "Andraste preserve me, this is hard…" The young man mussed his raven locks and loudly cracked his neck before beginning again. "The truth is, I was hoping we could talk about what happened. From before, I mean."
Cullen had come to terms with the fact that they had to work through the inescapable discomfort and clear the air, but he did not expect either of them to come forward and broach the subject so directly. But then, one of them had to, right? Or else they would forever be circling each other, waiting for the perfect moment.
The Commander tentatively laid down the book, leaned against the antique bureau for support, and breathed deeply. "I know that I must ask for your forgiveness.
His carefully curated words were met with a blank stare that soon metamorphosed into naked bewilderment.
"Why would you need my forgiveness?"
He could have counted so many things to atone for, especially for their shared past, but for now he was allowed to state only the most obvious. "I had no right to argue about the… the Orlesian plan."
The confusion gave way to a hollow smile that crept like a veil over the young man's face. "No, you don't need to apologize for that. You tried to stop me because you care. That's more than I can say about myself."
It was Cullen's turn to be perplexed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I attacked intentionally to hurt you when we were still at Haven. That's what I was hoping to talk to you about."
Cullen felt his cheeks heat up and his heart beat heavier. He preferred to relegate that particular incident to the void if possible. In that one abominable and so completely irrevocable moment, he let the primal fear of mages manipulate him yet again. The weight of self-inflicted humiliation was magnified by the knowledge that he made a public spectacle in front of the very people he respected the most: the other advisors, the Seeker, and even the Tevinter mage.
Knowing full well what the subject of their stilted dialogue was, he nonetheless inquired to confirm, "Is this about that meeting after Redcliffe?" and received a couple shallow nods. He muttered crossly, "You already apologized for that."
Tharin looked lost for a second before hanging his head low. "It cannot be a good memory for you, and I am sorry for dredging it up. But I want to make sure that… my words are not forcing you to put yourself in harm's way." The sad smile lingered. It had become a habitué of the young man's visage and the Commander absolutely detested its increasing frequency. "Listen to me. As if I have that much influence over you. It's arrogant of me to assume, isn't it?"
Cullen was instinctively aware that his irritation wasn't directed at Tharin but at the sequence of past events and decisions that led to this moment. The tension in his face bled out as he concentrated on his breathing. He could be more honest, just enough, and the fact that he could be honest with his feelings for Tharin's sake made him happy, just a tiny bit.
"I don't think you understand how great and positive your influence has been on me. You have helped me become a better man. So perhaps I do take more risks now, but they aren't unnecessary. How shall I explain this…?" Cullen touched the young man's elbow gently. The shoulders remained drooping regardless. "Sometimes those risks are necessary. For me to defend our values and protect people, mages and non-mages alike. And I am proud to serve you this way."
Tharin replied with his intense, pleading sapphire eyes. "But if there is any part of you that chooses danger because of me… I do know how much you are striving, how much you've endured. And I'm so furious at myself for having disparaged everything you worked so hard to achieve."
"It's all right. I have not thought about that meeting for some time." A white lie.
"It isn't all right. I want to make it up to you."
"I think nursing me back to health and bringing me to this library more than makes up for whatever fault you think you may have."
"You are worthy of much more than this."
The sepulchral aura around the man kept darkening despite his protests and Cullen could not let it stand. More than anything, he wanted to enfold the young man in an embrace but knew he could not. Instead, he laid both hands upon the rounded shoulders and declared in the most confident tone he could rally.
"Your compassion is far more than I deserve. And I will always be grateful to you."
Tharin reached out with trembling hands. Somehow, they managed to grip the corners of Cullen's surcoat firmly. The young man asked in a voice barely audible, "Could you forgive me?"
Cullen let go and crouched. With his gaze focused on the wavering cobalt irises, he solemnly answered, "Yes, always."
When he saw relief wash over the young man's brow, he could finally believe that they were going to be all right. He extended the right hand and offered, "So, friends?"
Tharin sniffed, laughed choppily, and accepted the hand. "Friends."
"And I need you to stop blaming yourself for what happened to me in Hasmal."
"…Okay."
The reply was too weak to be convincing, and the Commander could not stop the concern soaking through his mien. "I mean it. You must believe it when I say you've been good for me through and through."
Presented with a sincere affirmation, the young man seemed to calm down and his vermilions curved slightly. So Cullen returned the smile. He was glad to see the easy companionship restored, like a sating downpour alleviating the drought.
Nevertheless, they were badly out of practice in their companionship. They stood in awkward silence until Tharin sheepishly volunteered, "If we are going to be good mates, you might as well start calling me Tharin always."
The suggestion came as something of a distasteful déjà vu for him, but the Commander was able to ignore it. He raised an eyebrow and grinned in a roundabout refusal. "I don't know about that."
After rolling his eyes and sighing theatrically, the Inquisitor continued in an affected tone, "Would it help if I threatened to call you Commander C. Stanton Rutherford for the rest of your life if you don't?"
Cullen's mouth hung open at the ambush, yet no sound escaped. He squeaked after a long pause,
"How did you…?"
"Come on. You don't honestly think your middle name would be mentioned not once in one of the reports?"
Laughter bubbled up and burst out from Cullen for the first time since the end of the spring. "Fair enough. I will do as you ask." He placed his right fist over the chest and declared facetiously, "I swear on my middle name."
"And when we are in the war room?"
"I shall address you in a casual manner if you prefer."
The Commander was surprised that sarcasm felt so natural to him when he was not racked with nerves. Perhaps humor and good cheer were luxuries in and of themselves that were not guaranteed to the likes of him.
Taking advantage of what was surely a fleeting moment, he finished in a mocking tone, "But I reserve the right to use more formal titles if the situation calls for it: Herald, Inquisitor, milord, our prophet and savior, et cetera, et cetera."
The vaulted chamber echoed with the young man's booming laugh. The air of boyish exuberance seemed to have returned for now, if not permanently.
As Cullen carried on, his heart began pounding harder once again. The beats vibrated his eardrums. "And…" He swallowed hard. "You can call me C–Cul. It's how my family addresses me."
Tharin's brow furrowed but the rest of his face was still relaxed. "You sure it's not too familiar?
I don't want to be disrespectful to you, especially not in front of the council."
"Not at all. The thing is, since everyone in the village called me Cul, I actually thought until I was three that it was my full name and Cullen was a nickname my parents would call whenever they were cross with me."
To this confession, Tharin burst out laughing and added, "Seriously?" Cullen merely shrugged, trying not to add to his own humiliation.
When the Commander recently recovered his childhood sobriquet from the murky depths of the Rutherford clan's collective memory, nostalgia washed over him.
By his early teenage years, Cullen came to loathe the sobriquet and the immaturity it seemed to represent, which gave his siblings another reason to keep on using it. They indeed delighted in his ire, teasing him relentlessly.
Nearly twenty years passed since then: enough time for two soaring peaks to erode and grand rivers to change their courses twice over, as older Fereldans liked to say. During those years, the correspondence with his remaining family dwindled to nonexistence along with his sense of purpose in life. So now, he longed to be called Cul, to be reminded of how blameless and idealistic to a fault he used to be.
And Tharin was the only person in his life right now he could dare to ask for that favor without the unspoken expectation of the Inner Circle's detached civility standing in the way. However turbulent their relationship had been for the past months, the young man was still his closest friend.
Cullen was about to start voicing these thoughts, but quickly decided not to. It would have come as naught but a superfluous detail to the young man.
There was much more they needed to discuss. Not just about the matters of personal nature, but also of the Inquisition. For obvious reason, the communication between them – as the Herald and his Commander – had become unacceptably sparse even before the Breach's closure and it was good for none but Corypheus.
Cullen intoned in his usual soft voice, "I would like to stay and keep talking, but I do not want to intrude upon your day. I ought to get back to my responsibilities too. Maybe we can meet back here for a… quick supper? If you don't have to entertain."
"Of course, I would love to." He was certain he misheard Tharin's voice shaking. It was scarcely perceptible, in any case.
"I shall see you then." Before putting the Forgotten Study behind him, Cullen gave an earnest smile and whispered, "I thank you. For everything."
After the Commander left, the Inquisitor unhurriedly climbed the stairs back up to the Ambassador's office. She smiled at him when he emerged.
"How are you enjoying your day off?" asked the woman without any specific tone. Tharin was thankful, since anyone less tactful than Josephine would not hesitate to intimate a more interesting theory for the handsome blond joining him in the underbelly of the castle.
"I am doing nothing and thinking of nothing, which is a refreshing change."
Josephine covered her mouth with the back of the left hand as she chortled. The right hand never stopped, and the sound of a quill scratching continued to emanate. "Good to hear." The woman's gaze was now fleeting across a new sheaf of letters.
He repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists on the sides. After staring fixedly at her, he hummed, "Josephine?"
"Yes, Inquisitor. Do you need help with something?" She had undoubtedly known he was watching her. The woman had an expectant face as the question rolled off her deft tongue.
"I want to hear your opinion on a plot I came up with."
"A plot?"
"A caper. A conspiracy. I am not set on what to call it."
She looked mystified as he took out a folded piece of scrap paper from an inside pocket and handed to her. A multitude of hasty scribbles and underlined musings occupied the margins.
The Ambassador cursorily skimmed at first, but her eyes soon widened. She looked up at the young man and then dove back down. The paper was now hovering a mere inch from the tip of her nose.
The Inquisitor turned his attention to the surroundings, nonchalantly wondering how many stones were commandeered to build this part of the fortress. He then attempted to calculate how much gold it would take the Inquisition to fix up Skyhold properly and promptly gave up.
The forced hush stretched long until his mind was devoid of even the most frivolous thoughts. Only after he began to space out did Josephine say with an uncharacteristically edgy tone, "This is… diabolical. Are you sure about this? There will be no going back from this. Your family will hate you."
Tharin sneered. "I've no doubt you know about Lucilla's animosity toward me, and the new Bann is no prize either. Whatever the loss, it will be on their end, not mine."
"You are sure, I see." She ended up obscuring her mouth by propping her chin in the hollow of her left hand, yet her voice rang clearly through. "It's just that the plan is so radical. But good. It's an interesting plan. Really interesting…"
"Obviously, my dear relations underestimate me, thinking I am incapable of such plots. Believing a half-elven mongrel like me–" Josephine scowled, her entire face clouding for a second, "–couldn't possibly understand the intricacies of the Game." She nodded curtly. "Though I suppose this is the first and the last time I could surprise them like this."
"Oh, for sure. No doubt about it. But if we manage, it will be just… spectacular. I don't even know what to say other than that." Crossing her arms, Josephine leaned back looking contemplative. "I am… not exactly proud, but I am–"
With a wan smile blotting his countenance, Tharin cut her off. "I know, Josephine."
The Inquisitor spirited a pheasant pie from the kitchen. It was piping hot, and the pastry cover was elaborately decorated, no doubt to please the slew of indolent vulgarians in the main hall. Tonight, they would have to go without the pie and the Inquisitor's ears.
Cullen was already in the study, engrossed in a ledger that was obviously his work. It was predictable, given the man's propensity to eschew life's pleasures in favor of burdens and tasks. But this secret chamber was not meant to be another place to conduct Inquisition business for the Commander. If only our habits were so easy to change, Tharin noted wryly. He closed the door gently, and the man looked up and flashed a welcoming smile.
As they shared the loot, Tharin noticed a spot of spiced green sauce from the filling on the side of Cullen's mouth. When their eyes met, the young man snickered. He wiped his hands on a napkin and coolly pointed. "You have something on your lips."
The other man stopped in midbite and began to feel around perturbedly. "Where? Here?"
"On the left side."
"Left?" The wandering hand moved farther away from the smudge.
"Ah, sorry. Your right side… On your upper lip." The young man would have mentioned the scar there if not for the fact that he thought it inappropriate to bring it up, especially since its origin remained a mystery to everyone in the Inquisition. So instead, he pointed again lamely.
When Cullen continued to fumble with no avail, Tharin chuckled and extended his hand. As his thumb was about to wipe off the offending smear, the Commander recoiled with an incredulous look and snapped, "What are you doing?"
Tharin froze. The room shrank until everything was too close.
Seemingly leaden silence sat between the two. After cleaning his face and nervously clearing the throat, Cullen peeped, "Um, thank you. I can manage."
Tharin managed a brittle smile, wishing he had not been so impulsive. The resolution of the months-long tension had lured him into unwitting complacency. With Cullen's pleasant disposition, it was admittedly far too easy to forget that the Commander found his attraction to men disagreeable, if not downright repulsive.
But the young man could not avoid that intrinsic conflict anymore, which of course was the cause for another set of unpleasant truths: that they were nothing more than mere friends and that he had violated the boundary of a fragile relationship still in recovery.
Tharin recalled the day Cullen returned from the north. Sitting by the unconscious man battling for his life, he caressed the haggard face without permission. The blatant immorality of that action had been festering in his conscience and though he would make the same choice given another chance, he felt nothing but shame as the present intertwined with the near past.
The young man sat discouraged, watching his share of the pie chill and congeal. Not daring to lift his gaze to the Commander, he murmured, "My apologies."
"No, it's… I overreacted. I am sorry." And it was back to Cullen's warm and amiable tone as though nothing had happened.
Directionless wrath, a byproduct of guilt and stewing resentment, erupted within and vexed Tharin. But he pressed down till he could hold no more. Leaping to his feet, he proclaimed, "Stay here. I am going to go fetch us a bottle of something."
The Commander hesitated, looking nonplussed, and conjured a smile that was not quite believable.
A bottle of Abyssal Peach beckoned him in the storage cellar. Its cork bore a small label of warning like a necklace. The strip of parchment had its edges painted crimson, and on it were Josephine's stern words that came off as a challenge rather than a deterrence.
This was one of the strongest, the most lethal liquors in Skyhold. Yet the lucent, lightly pink liquid sloshed around in the bottle so innocuously.
Back in the study, Tharin watched Cullen being none the wiser, take huge gulps until the whole glass was empty. Instead of stopping the Commander, he joined in, pouring himself a glassful and knocking it back in one go. His tormented esophagus burned ferociously, and he winced, as did the other man.
The alcohol gradually buoyed their moods until the residual strain was forgotten and they began to talk more like close friends that they were supposed to be. The young man complained about Josephine's work ethic and recounted what had transpired in the morning while he was asleep. Looking distinctly reddish, Cullen guffawed.
Now having slowed down to take small sips, and with the core of his body warmed and numbed, Tharin set the glass down rather violently and asked casually, "So what's happened that has you so down?"
"I would not want to bore you with the dreary details."
"I'm sure you can make them interesting."
"Truly, it's not worth your time."
"Well, I decide how I spend my time, and I would like to spend it helping you." Slightly annoyed by the Commander's stubbornness, the young man raised his eyebrow. "So please, do enlighten me."
Cullen watched Tharin's determined expression till he came around and reluctantly yielded. The man exhaled a faint sigh before proceeding to expound quickly, "To put it shortly, Skyhold relies on ores from mines across the Frostbacks. That of course includes Emprise du Lion. Now the Civil War and… whatever else that is going on are stopping merchants from getting there. And when merchants do not get in, we do not see the metals here."
As his mind raced, excitement swelled unexpectedly, and the Inquisitor interrupted with his booming voice at full volume, "This I can help with. I am certain. Both Leliana and Josephine have been coming to me about Red Templar activities in the Dales and the Frostbacks, so I will be heading out there soon enough."
A modicum of confidence granted by the prospect of his usefulness allowed the young man to ease into modest levity. "Besides, Emprise is our backyard. We can't have the Red Templars running the show there, can we?"
"No, suppose not," replied Cullen with a crooked grin. "Will you be going with a full retinue?"
"I don't think so. Just the usual party of four."
The Commander scoffed and swigged a mouthful of the liquor. "What exactly is the use of my training your recruits if you aren't going to take them into battle?"
"I don't expect some epic battle."
"Nonsense. Emprise will be dangerous. You should have at least five experienced warriors accompany your expedition, but… your decision to make, I know," continued the Commander offhandedly with a languid shrug. Contradicting the apparent indifference in his tone, however, his fierce amber eyes were fixed on the Inquisitor.
The alcohol was making its way back upward and fanned the pulsing heat on Tharin's forehead. He felt beads of sweat forming around the hairline and wondered whether it would seem too obvious if he were to try to wipe his brow. With a diminutive slur, he asked glibly, "Is that your expert opinion?" A nervous hiccup escaped.
An easy smile, the sureness of which was oddly infuriating, spread across the Commander's flushed visage. "It is my personal opinion, as your friend," answered the man serenely, keeping the piercing gaze on the young man, nonetheless.
Tharin turned away, trying to focus on the glass in hand. Its surface was hazy from discoloration, and the cerise liquor sloshed around like a friendly flame of a lantern. Certainly, the outward appearance of that lustrous fluid was different from the campfires he had gotten so used to by now, those that drew moths in until their little bodies were incinerated and reduced to sooty masses. No, it was congenial.
The young man was acutely aware, however, that it was still a fire that would surely devour a man whole given the chance. And he had consumed enough of it to burn, burn savagely in him as he stared at it swirling in the glass.
Still, the all-consuming heat proved to be less diverting than a pair of golden irises.
Suddenly, the Commander's smile began to waver, and the young man became curious. What could snuff out a rare moment of assertiveness courtesy of liquid courage?
Apparently, it was now Cullen's turn to look away uncomfortably. He spoke deliberately, "Tharin… could I ask you a question…?"
"Of course. No need to be coy."
Even with the unequivocal encouragement, Cullen tarried. "Perhaps I'm reaching, but something seems to be troubling you since your return from Ostwick. Or the Vimmarks, as Leliana mentioned?"
The words cut through the vaporous stupor, and the young man sobered.
Cullen continued, "That's another thing. You haven't spoken about what happened or where you were. Do you want to maybe… talk about it?"
"You sure you want to know?" Tharin absentmindedly scratched his cheek. The stubble there reminded him that he had not shaven for days. It must show.
The Inquisitor had told himself that he had to prioritize the work Josephine was slinging. But underneath that convenient pretext, he was dimly aware that he was afflicted with weltschmerz – that uniquely Free Marcher vocabulary to describe the intractable weight of the world saddled on his shoulders.
Indeed, what with nations sliding into general anarchy and the world facing a premature apocalypse, a daily shave was something the Inquisitor just could not bring himself to care about anymore. So, he'd let the stubble grow.
Just like Cul, he observed dryly.
"I would like to help. If I could be of service to you…"
The young man shrugged. "Why not. If you are sure."
"So… that's everything that happened."
Cullen felt a rage burning white-hot in the pit of his stomach, but he did not dare verbalize even a smidgen of it. It was not proper to be more agitated than the man who suffered the humiliation firsthand, and if anything, Tharin seemed cool and collected. Well, slumped in his chair looking a tad tired, but his general appearance could still be defined as cool and collected. The Commander merely clenched and unclenched his fists, forcing himself to calm down.
"Are you okay there?" murmured the Inquisitor with that weak, melancholy smile. That damn smile. Its claws sank deep into the Cullen's skin, drawing a gory agony.
"Honestly, I do not think I could have controlled myself if I were there with you."
Unexpectedly, the young man scowled and said dubiously, "I don't see why. It isn't like you are any of the things they accused me of." It did not escape the Commander's attention that the tail end of those words was sharp, nearly reproachful, and the claws dug in deeper.
Cullen swallowed roughly, trying to disregard the prickly, niggling uneasiness dogging the back of his conscious now. "That certainly makes no difference. An offense against the Inquisitor is an offense against his Commander, his advisors.
"Here's what I think: the Inquisition must not let the insult stand. I suppose it would be counterproductive to publicize what happened, but we should have Lady Montilyet write a reprimand condemning such inhospitable reception."
The Commander felt Tharin's icy blue eyes affixed on him and briefly wondered if his innermost thoughts and wishes were altogether bared. He almost missed when the young man whispered severely, "But… you agree with them."
"Pardon?"
"Everything they said, they were right. I am an elven mongrel, and I only… sleep with men. They weren't slanders."
There was unwitting hostility in the Inquisitor's comport that Cullen could not quite comprehend. Warily, he ventured, "Tharin, they obviously meant to insult you."
"I know that."
Cullen could not decide if he was sad or relieved when those depthless cold eyes looked away.
"This is a personal problem, anyhow. Let it be… At least for now," murmured Tharin in a tone, the acrimony of which Cullen just could not understand.
"For now?"
"For now."
Cullen was struck by a sudden bout of languor and the conversation was struck by a willful demise. In taxing silence, the Inquisitor downed another glass of hard spirit.
End Notes:
One step forward, two steps back. That's how it always is.
Next up, Tharin reveals his scheme, coming on Sunday, May 30.
The Japan AU fic has started! Check out Where the Waves Crest (波の上り詰める所) - the third chapter to be posted on Sunday, May 23 - as well as the teaser fics today!
Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!