It's a long, long... looong chapter, but it's worth it.

TRIGGER WARNING! Materials that may trigger hemophobia and emetophobia, references to substance abuse, light suicidal ideation.

When Tharin heard the voice ring from the stairs to the great hall, the night was still young. Or was it later than he had thought? His cognitive faculty worked overtime, and he could tell it was the same day as the executions. Or not. Perhaps a century had passed since then.

Did it matter? Did any of this even matter now? Perhaps he was still too sober if he could hold these coherent thoughts.

The voice, whosever it was, was soft and playful. It lilted across the night air like a loosened cord on a silken robe fluttering against a gentle breeze.

"I understand it is late, but my charming self could not wait for a lively discussion about the recent events. Obviously, you could use a pair of friendly ears–"

The footsteps halted.

"Inquisitor!" the voice called out. Hasty steps were followed by the mattress sagging and the intoxicating scent of some fragrance that Tharin's addled mind could not hope to parse.

Inquisitor this, Herald that, mocked Tharin in his head. Somehow, there was a disconnect between his brain and his mouth as the words refused to come out through his dry, chapped lips. He heard himself merely grunt and laugh like a madman.

A face with an impeccable mustache came into the view. The man had clambered up the bed, knelt, and placed Tharin's head on his lap.

Tharin reached up with his bloodied Anchor hand and patted the man's cheek, to which the man made a face and pulled away. With a simper, the young man slurred, "Dorian… First time in my quarters? Welcome!" Another deranged laugh bubbled out of him.

"What is happening to you…?" Dorian's expression twisted into something Tharin had never seen on him, and it sobered him up. But not nearly enough.

Instead, the young man tried his best to cast away this unidentifiable feeling, something uncomfortable and intuitively dangerous, with facile remarks he churned out with a barely functioning brain. He slurred, "Oh? It's new décor that's all the rage in Val Royeaux. Surely, you've heard? You smear blood and vomit on everything."

"Tharin…" sighed Dorian. The mage began to wave his hand, gathering mana. "First off, you would have to make sure the hue of your vomit does not clash with the red of the blood, which I assume isn't too difficult to arrange. However, I see two immediate problems. As blood hardens, it turns brown, which then may clash with your vomitus. And I do believe that your guests may find the smell associated with your décor a tad offensive."

"Ha!" snorted Tharin.

Dorian shook his head lightly and conjured an orb of light. "Let us take a look, shall we?" He carefully examined Tharin's hands. When he managed to find the cut on Tharin's left hand, the bafflingly small source of all that blood, Dorian exclaimed, "A-ha!" and went to work.

The arcane healing always provided Tharin with a strange sensation. It was like an itch but not quite. As the magic sutured the cut and the skin closed on its own, he tittered and snorted.

"Yes, yes, it tickles. I know," murmured Dorian in a soothing tone that ought to be reserved only for fussy tots, not for the mighty Herald of Andraste. Tharin took a particular dislike to it.

He flailed his right arm and muttered, "…You shuddup."

After clicking his tongue, Dorian continued in a tone dripping with sarcasm, "Lovely. Perchance you'd like to try that again? How about a heartfelt thank you? Hm, Inquisitor?"

Tharin sharply turned his face away, obscuring his face on a lump of gathered cover. He made sure to enunciate, ensuring his voice would carry through. "Don't call me that." Well, as much as he could bring himself to in his current state.

"How shall I address you then?"

Tharin whipped his head toward Dorian dramatically, which he instantly regretted. His head spun as he spoke, "Anything but that. And the Herald. No more Herald. Or your worship."

Dorian nodded. "Fine. Lord Trevelyan it is." The mana dissipated as the mage completed healing. He lowered Tharin's restored Anchor hand, which kept fizzing, and tenderly asked, "Now, tell me what happened."

Instead of explaining, which was the last thing he wanted to do, Tharin reached for Dorian's cheek. The man did not lean away this time as Tharin caressed his smooth cheek. The young man susurrated, "You are really pretty. You know that?"

Dorian cupped Tharin's hand with his own and smiled. "As a matter of fact, I do. Now, tell me what happened."

Tharin pursed his lips and withdrew his hand. Dorian gazed at him unblinkingly. Eventually, Tharin soughed and began, "You weren't there at the executions today."

"No, I wasn't."

"I think everyone thinks me a monster now. Do you think me a monster?"

Dorian's touch was tender as he smoothed Tharin's hair. "I don't. What I think is that you need help."

The alcoholic stupor seemed to lift as Tharin felt the high of lyrium dissolve into familiar despair. "When I executed the emissary, I knew I made a terrible choice. And then, the guards dragged the assassin to the chopping block. He had completely let go of his mind in the dungeons. Using lyrium all the time to no lyrium in one breath will do that to you." Tharin squeezed shut his eyes. "Dorian, he was asking for his mummy. He was back to being a babe. And I knew I was looking at my own future. I got even more scared. I… couldn't face it. So, I killed him."

Dorian broke from the touch. There was a moment in which Tharin believed he had lost Dorian, and he dared not open his eyes. But soon, he felt a hand gently raise his chin. "Look at me." Dorian's tone was comforting. There was no hint of accusation or condemnation. "Why did you start taking lyrium again?"

Tharin persevered as his voice threatened to give out on him. "Because… I didn't want to live to face my future. But now…" His inhale was interrupted by a hitch. "Now, I just don't want to die. I don't want to lose myself. I…. need to quit lyrium…" Tharin huffed as tears traced the sides of his face. "I can't even kill myself properly. I'm a fucking coward."

Dorian's thumbs wiped the tears away. "You are not a coward. You are so far from it. You decided to live. That takes courage."

"You think so?"

"Yes, it is an indisputable fact." Yet, the reassuring smile on Dorian's countenance faded away into a frown. "I must tell the advisors what happened."

Tharin's heart jumped. He felt his armpits and palms sweat. He must smell terrible. "No, don't. Please, Dorian… If you care for me at all, you wouldn't."

Dorian's brows arched in sympathy, but he did not relent. "I care for you so, so much. But you need all the help you can get. If you are to quit lyrium, I cannot be the only one to give you that help."

"Please… What happened here today, it could be our secret. Right?" Tharin clasped Dorian's hands in a last-ditch attempt to stop him.

"No, it can't." Dorian shook his head solemnly as he pulled his hands out of Tharin's grip. "For your sake, it can't."

Knowing there was nothing to convince Dorian otherwise, Tharin hid his face in his hands and closed his eyes. A small part of him wished desperately for the world to be gone when he reemerged from the flimsy cocoon he had spun for himself.

And yet… the world betrayed him as it did so many times before. The wind kept rising and the moonlight kept shining. It was utterly hopeless.

Dorian placed a lingering kiss on Tharin's forehead, which he could not help but feel self-conscious about. Every part of his unwashed face was bedecked with blood splatter, dried tears, and leftover residue of the day's grime. And yet, the mage beamed as though he did not disgust him.

"I will be back."

Tharin faced away and spat, "I fucking hate you."

The young man felt Dorian's hand smoothing his hair once again. "You can hate me all you want and banish me from Skyhold when you are better. I will gladly take my leave when you are better, Tharin."

Sneaking about in Skyhold was a tiresome task even in the middle of the night. There were a few people, nobles and guards and some such, milling around. But Dorian did all right considering he would normally go out of his way to draw attention to himself.

He collected the advisors from their quarters one by one, and as he explained the situation, their faces hardened. The Commander's reaction was the most telling. He stood up from his desk and walked over to the arrowslit of a window. For almost a full minute, the man stood there completely still with his hands clasped in his back. Dorian could only guess what his expression looked like at that moment.

Once gathered, the four made their way through the great hall to the Inquisitor's quarters quietly and discreetly. When they arrived, Josephine flitted about lighting candles. After she was done, there was only enough light for Dorian to see the creases and frowns on others' faces. The shadows accentuated them and made everyone appear worn out.

Or maybe it was simply the lateness of the hour.

The advisors agreed on holding an impromptu council in the Inquisitor's quarters. But Leliana and Josephine obviously did not want Tharin to be present for it. The Spymaster had an extra vial of sleeping potion at hand, which of course she did. In a smooth tone, she suggested to Tharin that he take it and rest.

There was a morose air of capitulation about the young man now. As though he had been thoroughly beaten down to submission. Dorian expected fierce pushback from Tharin, but he took the vial from Leliana without another word and drank it down in one gulp. He then took off his bloody tunic, tucked himself under the cover, lay down, and closed his eyes.

No one spoke until they were sufficiently certain that Tharin was asleep. And amazingly enough, it was Commander Rutherford who began. His gaze turned from a slumbering Tharin to Dorian. "So…"

The mage took a deep breath. "So."

"What were you doing in the Inquisitor's quarters this late at night, Master Pavus?"

Responding to the pointed question, Dorian emphasized, "It is none of your business. But if you must know, I just wished to converse. And a good thing I did. You three – and yes, I am counting you, Commander – were oblivious to what was happening with Tharin."

The Spymaster began in her soft Orlesian burr, "Think what you want, but we were not oblivious. We were merely weighing different options for how to assist the Inquisitor."

Dorian gave the Spymaster a sharp look and intoned, "Tharin. He does not want to be addressed as Inquisitor, Herald, or your worship right now."

Yet Leliana treated Dorian as if he were wholly invisible the next moment. She looked to Josephine and said in a low voice, "This does make our plan easier to execute, no?" Dorian thought her choice of the word "execute" pointlessly cruel.

Josephine tapped her fingers on her chin as she contemplated. After a few seconds, she shrugged. "I suppose if we are to search for a silver lining, then yes. This does make it abundantly clear that Tharin is out of control, thus validating our plan. And in this state, it is a tall order for him to resist."

Dorian blinked. "Your plan… to do what?"

With a calm voice, Leliana said an unimaginable thing, "To remove Tharin from the position of responsibility until he is free of lyrium. Until… we can trust his judgment again."

Dorian let forth an astonished "Excuse me?!" which prompted everyone to turn to Tharin. Though he did toss and turn and emitted a whiny noise, the young man remained asleep, unaware of what was being discussed.

The Ambassador then rapidly added, not giving Dorian a chance to intervene, "We should keep the news of the removal within this group. And perhaps Cassandra. Make sure no one, not even the companions, know about this. Especially the ones favored by Tharin," she looked to Dorian as she finished, "otherwise, we will be unleashing chaos upon the world."

The Spymaster nodded. "Agreed. I shall head immediately to the dungeons and release Cassandra, brief her of the situation."

Dorian would have let forth a harsh whisper to block the advisors from scheming like he had already tried to, except he was sure this was for the best. Raised as a scion of one of the most influential families in the Imperium and an heir to a magister, he was politically astute enough to see this was the best way forward for the Inquisition. He instinctively knew.

And yet, his heart tugged him toward another direction.

With Dorian holding his tongue and musing, Leliana pressed on like an uncontrollable deluge. "Let us vote and make a formal decision." She breathed forcefully before rapidly firing, "All those who agree to rescind the Inquisitor's title and attendant responsibilities and privileges until the unspecified time in the future at which point all three advisors and Seeker Pentaghast judge him fit to return to duties?"

Two hands shot up. The Spymaster and the Ambassador.

Leliana turned to Cullen with a raised eyebrow. "Commander? What say you?"

Cullen bit his bottom lip. He stuttered, "I… I cannot…" Looking pained, he nevertheless raised his hand. Hesitantly.

By this point, Tharin losing his power was a foregone conclusion, and Dorian found himself agreeing with Leliana and Josephine – perish the thought! – on the matters relating to the Inquisition. But his heart demanded he say something.

"I have read of an Archon who went senile and was controlled by several ambitious magisters. The charade continued for years until they had no more use of the Archon. He was murdered in his sleep. I sincerely hope you are not attempting to recreate such history. I hope you do not view this as a Maker-given opportunity to punish Tharin."

Neither Leliana nor Cullen spoke out. Unexpectedly, it was Josephine who stressed, "Dorian, you do not have a say in any of this. You are not an advisor."

"I am merely pointing–"

With a steel in her countenance, Ambassador Montilyet mouthed, "You. Are not. An advisor," the earthly avatar of insistence.

Dorian threw his hands up in frustration. He lobbed sharpened retorts, "All right, silence all dissent and have yourself a Tevinter kind of a day, I suppose."

Josephine rolled her eyes and drawled, "Do you disagree with any of the decisions reached here tonight?"

After a long pause, Dorian sighed and slowly shook his head. "…No."

The Ambassador raised her brows and cocked her head. "Well, then…"

Dorian knew his thoughts, many that were out of focus but generally downcast, were bleeding onto his mien. When he directed his gaze at Leliana, the Spymaster kept her eyes on him as she officially proclaimed, "Then it is settled. The Inquisitor is hereby removed from his position. We shall address him as the Herald in public from now on. The details of the new arrangement shall be formalized by Josephine by the coming dawn."

If he truly wanted, Dorian could have argued with the advisors forever. He was rather clever, after all. But he was also clever enough to recognize that Leliana and Josephine would have an answer for everything he threw at them. A veritable clash of an impregnable shield and an indestructible spear. And the content of the debate would have been meaningless. He agreed with them on their actions.

Somehow still dissatisfied but not sure where the ire was directed at, Dorian pursed his lips and crossed his arms. Crossly.

Unmoved by Dorian's gesture, Leliana serenely continued, "Now, we must decide on guardianship. Someone must mind the Herald as he makes a full recovery."

Even before the Spymaster finished her words, Cullen's hand shot up as he avowed too loudly, "I volunteer."

And Dorian added his voice. "I shall watch over him."

"I am far more knowledgeable about the templars and their lyrium usage than you are, Master Pavus. In fact, I've overcome lyrium dependency. I should be the one to look after Tharin."

Dorian scoffed. "I am certain you are swamped with your own work, Commander. I, on the other hand, am blessed with much free time. I shall make the most excellent guardian to Tharin." He conveniently ignored the fact that his free time had been used to research arcane artifacts necessary for the Inquisition's victory.

Cullen looked to the other advisors before turning to Dorian and mouthing, "Sister? Ambassador?" as if to highlight how much real power they held over the Herald and the Tevinter mage now.

Josephine chimed in instantly, "Commander should be the one in charge. You may help him out when he is not available, Dorian."

Leliana nodded. "Then, it has been decided thusly."

Yet Dorian vowed to himself not to let Tharin go, not to let the Commander control everything. He shuffled to Tharin's side, sat down on the bed, and held the slumbering man's Anchor hand protectively as the advisors surrounded them.

Only the Commander's brow was creased in apparent worry.

A full day had passed since that night when Dorian and the advisors came to Tharin's quarters. At least, that was what Tharin could recall.

Dawn had already broken when the young man woke. He rubbed his eyes as his head continued to pound. The relentless beats of a throbbing brain mayhaps too large for its skull. The hangover would torment him today, there was no doubt.

But that hangover would be a vast improvement from his previous state. Yesterday, with his mind so helplessly fragmented and his limbs heavy, Tharin's head left the pillow only once. An unknown person whose smell made him feel comforted helped him up, fed him some sort of soup, cleaned him up when he promptly upchucked it, and then gave him a vial of liquid lyrium. Other times, he just lay in the bed, his eyes spinning in their sockets and his mind pitch dark.

Tharin turned rightward to find Cullen in his full armor, arms crossed, his head tucked, and the hefty body sprawled out on the sofa. Paperwork and a quill were scattered next to him on the cushion as well as a metal candelabrum with a spent nub of a candle.

He raised himself and sat up. Dorian was sitting at the Inquisitor's desk, his body askew as he slept. Even Dorian, a fastidious man of great taste and finesse, could not be in full control when unconscious. His head was pulled back, and he snored through his ajar mouth. There was a thick tome open among crumpled scraps of paper strewn all over the desk, little notes Tharin wrote to himself to remember important things. Important things he would often forget now.

The many candles around the room had been snuffed out after having burnt brightly through the night. In the sunrise, he could see that his room had been thoroughly scrubbed and cleaned. No glass fragments, vomitus, or blood remained. Even his cover was a fresh one.

Tharin stood up, carefully enough to not produce any noise. He reached for the steel pitcher of water on a table next to the sofa and poured himself a goblet full of freezing water. He then padded to the dresser for a clean shirt. As he deliberately put his arms through the sleeves, the lingering scent of oak and lilac wafted up. His heart slowed. The past was no more. It was finally a new day. Tharin would be a better person.

Because he was finished with lyrium.

The young man approached the sleeping man and knelt. He gently shook him as he whispered, "Hey."

The eyelids retreated and the warm wildflower-honey irises focused on Tharin. Cullen flashed a soft, sympathetic smile that gripped Tharin's heart painfully. "Good morning. I am happy to see you up."

Tharin pointed to Dorian and raised his index finger to his mouth. Cullen nodded shallowly, though Tharin thought he saw the man frown for a split second. Cullen looked around and said in a low voice, "We should discuss the important things outside."

It was not entirely clear to the young man what was coming, but he was certain the advisors had a long discussion, if not a debate, two nights ago. With his mouth stretched in a thin line with apprehension, he nevertheless nodded.

The two sauntered toward the balcony in hushed, careful steps. In the Commander's case, as hushed and careful as he could with the full plate armor anyway. On the midway, Cullen took a sudden detour to the bed and lifted the cover. He held it out as he tiptoed back to Tharin's side.

As Tharin blinked, unsure how to respond, Cullen wrapped him from behind with the cover. And for a moment, the inadvertent embrace lasted.

"You will catch your death out there," susurrated Cullen, his tone inexplicably warm and tender.

"Um, thank you…" Tharin stammered like a fool.

Once they were outside, the two men stood shoulder to shoulder for a good long while, silently watching the sun climb the Frostbacks. It was another beautiful, crisp autumn morning. A morning that only those with absolutely no trouble in their lives deserved to enjoy fully. Because Tharin could already feel the thirst creeping back, and despite his best effort to curb it by concentrating on his breathing made shallow by the stuffy nose and dry air, he could not entirely deny its insistent call.

Cullen rested his gloved hands on the balustrade and breathed in deeply, inadvertently mirroring Tharin. With the softest voice and his gaze focused on the faraway peaks, he queried, "Have I ever told you the story of how I acquired the scar on my upper lip?"

"No."

"It is not a battle scar. No, it is from helping another templar quit his lyrium back in Kirkwall." Cullen turned, leaned his back against the balustrade, and crossed his arms. "After the destruction of the chantry by a rogue mage and the showdown between Meredith and Hawke, many of the city's templars left the Order. I was in the process of tapering off my lyrium consumption as well, but I somehow became the go-to man for those seeking to end their dependency."

Cullen sniffed. "Those were some… interesting days, for lack of a better word. I was the acting Knight-Commander of a Circle that had already disintegrated itself who actively encouraged templars to wean off from the one material that gave them their powers."

Feeling cold in spite of the cover Cullen swathed him with, Tharin clutched at the edges tightly and pulled them together. Cullen noticed this and slid across the balustrade and turned. He draped his armored arm around Tharin's waist and pulled them even closer. Startled by the ease with which Cullen approached him, Tharin's body involuntarily seized for a moment.

Cullen took a beat to vigorously rub Tharin's side to warm him. He started again, "Part of weaning off lyrium means constantly thirsting after the very substance that prolongs your suffering. One may be driven to extreme measures to procure lyrium. And that is what happened to one of my subordinates."

Tharin kept his stare affixed to the ashlar masonry of the balustrade and the mortar in between. Cullen's soft voice resonated as he so casually recalled a horrifying memory, "He was one of the most disillusioned, and when he left, he swore to the Maker and Andraste that he would never set a foot in the Circle again. I arranged a job for him in the city and assumed that would be it.

"But when he could not endure the thirst anymore, he came back. He begged to be let back into the Order again, which I refused. He became violent. I did not realize he had a dagger on him, and before I knew it, my upper lip was slashed through." Cullen's brow knitted and a sad smile floated on his face. "I forgave him. Compared to all the damage and destruction I had wrought, his crime was nothing. So, what choice did I have?"

When Tharin exhaled hard, the breath came out as fog. A fog of lyrium that he was trapped in, would be trapped in for the foreseeable future as he decreased his dose in an agonizingly slow pace. A fog that he craved as every minute, every second passed. The young man barely pulled away from his own mind and asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

Cullen kept his hand firmly connected to Tharin's side as he spoke earnestly, "Because I need you to know that the wrongs you have committed do not make you a villain. I assign blame to lyrium. And you will get through this. I will be here to help in any way you require." His eyes met Tharin's gaze, and the Commander added, "Assuming you are done."

Tharin hurriedly nodded. "I am. I am… really done with it." He dared not mention the name of the fearsome substance he was tethered to. Uttering the word "lyrium" himself would have been a bold thing to do indeed.

"How do you feel now?" asked the Commander, so obviously worried.

The young man lied. "Fine enough. Although I have a killer headache." The craving for the cyan poison ballooned until he began to thirst for a drink as well. He smacked his lips and added, "I think I will have a drink… That should help."

Cullen's face hardened. "That is another thing. You must stop drinking."

"…What?" Tharin gaped.

"Why do you think you suffered so much yesterday? Lyrium did not help, of course, but it was the drinks you had." The Commander was unanticipatedly forceful when he explained, "You cannot stop one and not the other. You must quit both."

Tharin pugnaciously pulled away from Cullen as he barked in response, "Did we not have the discussion before? You do not get to order me around!"

"But you do want to live, do you not? Master Pavus mentioned what you said." Despite the hard lines on Cullen, his brows were arched in a way that made him look incredibly vulnerable. "You want to live, and I am telling you this is the only way." After a pause, he added almost inaudibly, "…Please…"

Tharin saw his father, stranded like some bloated animal because he was too soused to lift himself from the floor. And the headache intensified until it reached its apogee, making Tharin's head feel like it would split open. The cravings worsened. His mind drifted toward that glass of sweet wine, that tumbler of burning whiskey, that last vial of lyrium… He would have gladly killed to get his next fix. If some evil being offered him lyrium and a drink in exchange for ushering in Cullen's demise, he would have gladly defenestrated the man right there and then. And this realization scared him beyond the ken. Tharin finally susurrated, "I… need to… stop…"

Cullen leaned in. He seemed to search for something. Tharin bit his lip and nodded.

With a sigh, Cullen blinked and solemnly declared, "We will then do as you have decided. No more lyrium and no more drinks. Do not misunderstand. You will suffer, and it will be heinous. But you have done it before. It is possible."

Tharin knew he would face much hardship in his near future. Yet, such an idea nevertheless had remained in the theoretical realm. It was the Commander's words that brought the coming difficulties into sharp focus, making them real. As Tharin counted the variegated symptoms of lyrium withdrawal he experienced in the past, his vision blurred. Now that he made the choice to be free, he became convinced he faced an obstacle impossible to surmount.

"You don't think… it is too late for me? Even if I am a damaged good? I forget things and my mind wanders…"

Cullen seemed to jolt at the phrase "a damaged good," but his voice was unchanged. "No. Those are problems with solutions. Even Corypheus is a problem with a solution."

Tharin snorted and folded his arms under the cover. "Oh, if you have a good plan to handle the Elder One and his horde, please do share." His head continued to throb painfully along with the cravings.

The Commander's tone was even and unaffected. "We do not stop until we neutralize him." He was, however, not adept at hiding his true feelings when it came to the internal matters of the Inquisition apparently. Cullen sighed as he hugged himself tightly. His tone grew meek. "Sister Nightingale and Ambassador Montilyet have… appointed me as your guardian for the time being."

A mirthful noise emanated from Tharin's nose in spite of himself. He was being minded like a toddler. "What does that entail exactly?"

"We talked. Uh, discussed at length…"

"Yes?"

Cullen dawdled until Tharin gazed directly into his bright amber irises. Eventually, the Commander, a hulking man in armor, averted the gaze and began, "We three have determined that your capacity to carry out the duties of the Inquisition has been compromised. Until the Seeker and we decide you are ready to resume your duties, your title and power are revoked. We will address you as Herald but not Inquisitor. We will not inform others of this… situation."

Tharin turned away and hummed. The Herald's mind may have been scrambled with lyrium and alcohol, but even he could see this was a predictable result. The way he had spiraled, the advisors had every right to make such a decision.

Nonetheless, the unsolicited fiery rage enwrapped Tharin the more and more he mulled. It was ignorant of the circumstance and his past deeds as it clung to him. It whispered seductive words. That he should not have to give up anything, let alone the title of the Inquisitor. Because he deserved to be powerful. He had done much good as the Inquisitor. His continued tenure, therefore, was for the betterment of Thedas. The advisors were trying to bring him down without a good reason.

Defiantly, Tharin lifted his face and grimaced. "I do not accept that. I shall remain the Inquisitor and continue to carry out my duties. The only change I need to make is halting lyrium and the drinks."

He was hopeful Cullen would be supportive of his endeavor. After all, they were friends. But when Tharin turned toward the Commander, he found only a pained look. "Tharin, please… Neither Sister Nightingale nor the Ambassador will hesitate to remove you by force if necessary. Please, please do not fight this."

Tharin felt his face boil, though the heat was not enough to counteract the cold of the mountains. Unmindful of waking up Dorian inside, he gripped the cover until his nails dug deeply into his palms and shouted, "I am not a bad Inquisitor! Why must I give up everything just because two people are, uh…" He could not remember what he was about to shout, what words he had strung together to protest this injustice. He racked his brain, but the lost words would not come back. He therefore defaulted to the elementary ones he could actually remember. "Just because two people aren't happy with the things I do?!" The arcane energy on his disturbed Anchor fizzled and popped.

Evidently having witnessed the momentary lapse, Cullen's quiet despondency would not dissipate. It only grew. "It is not just those two. I… agree as well. You must step down," susurrated the man. With a hitch in his throat interrupting his sonorous voice, Cullen added, "I-I… did not defend you during the discussion. I could not in good conscience."

Stinging shame began to extend its noxious tentacles from the bottom of Tharin's gut. The rage was extinguished just as easily as it had appeared. Instead, his cheeks now glowed with the surging heat of dishonor. The manifold emotions at the announcement finally caught up to him.

Tharin breathed, "I see." Leliana and Josephine's turning away from him was bearable. Though it hurt, it left but a flesh wound. But Cullen's turning his back on him… This was truly the abyss. With the air in his body whooshing out of him, Tharin let his back touch the balustrade and stared down at the balcony flooring.

The air coalesced into a ferocious gale, and it roared and broke against the high walls of Skyhold. And Tharin briefly wondered whether a fall from the balcony would be a quick and painless way to finish one's life. Still, what a moronic way to exit, he scoffed.

Cullen's soft voice somehow managed to ring through the cacophonous maelstrom. "Perhaps we shan't be friends anymore. You must detest me now. But I am here for you no matter what. Guardianship or not, I am here, Tharin." The man continued when there was no reply, "The next several weeks, if not months, will be difficult. Still, I believe in you. You can overcome this." Before Tharin could muster together a proper response, Cullen finished, "You should rest some more. I will be back with your lunch later. But for now, I shall bid my leave." He then began to walk away.

"Cul," called forth Tharin, feeling anxious about the man leaving him behind.

Cullen halted in his tracks and turned with lips unabashedly curved upward. "You… called me Cul."

Tharin stumbled across unrehearsed words, "We are friends if you would still have me. As your friend, that is. I…" I love you. "I like you. And I need to ask a favor of you."

"Your wish is my command."

First things first. With nary a shred of pride left in him and the wrath at the advisors burnt itself out, Tharin pleaded plaintively, "Please help me speak to the Seeker. I need to beg for her forgiveness."

The Seeker did her best to focus on the tip of her sword and the practice dummy. Yet, her heart was not in it. Her usual training regimen had felt staid since the day of her sentencing.

Cassandra's appearance in the courtyard raised a few eyebrows yesterday morning, but no one questioned her. Today, most paid her no mind, though some still talked. It was not clear whether people believed the cover story spread by Leliana's agents the day before, that she received a full pardon from the Inquisitor and was to resume her duties as the Inquisition's advisor. Fortunately enough, the Seeker was not the least bit interested in appeasing the concerned looks and whispers of the general public.

The Seeker stabbed the dummy with every intention of murdering the poor thing. Stray strands of straws peeked out from the new gaping scars she had fashioned.

When she was sufficiently sweaty, her breath had grown ragged, and her muscles ached to her satisfaction, Cassandra withdrew and scabbarded her sword. Like the day before, like all the days before, the dummy remained standing. It was indeed a formidable enemy.

Just like all the adversaries scheming to bring down the Inquisition. Just like the perniciousness of lyrium.

As Cassandra shook her head to clear her mind of the seemingly intractable problem that was the Herald of Andraste, she noticed Cullen approaching. She greeted him more brusquely than she had intended, "Commander."

Cullen paused before lightly bowing and returning, "Cassandra."

"What do you need?"

The man did not approach closer as he stood rooted to his spot, looking quite lost. It was most unlike his professional deportment. Eventually, he began haltingly, "…Come to the Inquisitor's quarters. Please talk to Tharin."

Aghast, Cassandra exclaimed, "Ugh, absolutely not!"

"Please. I… I beg you." In front of Cassandra's incredulous eyes, Cullen finally approached and reached for her hands. The gloved hands felt warm against her calloused, ungloved ones. "Tharin is repentant. He wants to apologize to you. That is all."

"If he wants to talk to me, he should come to me. Why should I go to him?"

A tired sigh from the Commander. "…You know why."

"You mean, because he had dug himself into a hole and cannot face his previously adoring public?" Cassandra snorted. She did not hide her exasperation as she needled, "Honestly, don't you have better things to attend to?"

"Please." Despite the downhearted countenance, Cullen was neither looking away nor backing down. "Cassandra, please."

After what felt like an eternity of silent stares, the woman finally relented, though not before rolling her eyes and spitting, "Ugh, all right. Fine."

When Cassandra arrived in Tharin's quarters, Cullen and Dorian lingered, obviously hoping to stay. Still, Tharin asked both men to leave them in a gentle tone. And they reluctantly accepted.

With the sound of the loft door closing ringing in the cool air, Cassandra sat on the sofa littered with paper opposite Tharin. After righting his posture and turning toward her, Tharin started without a delay, "I sincerely apologize, Seeker. My actions were over the line." He bowed his head.

Cassandra folded her arms. She would not give in so easily. "If you expected my forgiveness to come with that much effort, then you are gravely mistaken. I do not forgive you. Not least for the lives you took so cruelly."

Tharin's face seemed to freeze in shock, but a shadow followed. It overwhelmed him until he hung his head low. "That is… your prerogative."

Determined to not display her already softening heart, Cassandra tersely said, "Yes. It is indeed my prerogative. Now, do you know what you want?"

A vigorous nod. Tharin was firm. "I want to be free of lyrium."

"Good. You must and can be a better person. Be the Inquisitor Thedas deserves."

Tharin tilted his head and let a corner of his lips rise, the expression hovering somewhere between a smirk and a frown, "If the war council would ever let me be the Inquisitor again."

The Seeker repeated, "If the war council ever lets you be the Inquisitor again… And do remember I have a vote in the decision."

"Of course."

Cassandra leaned away from Tharin, perching her face on her right hand. She relented and spoke in a casual tone, "As much as you deserve a good wallop to your face for the things you have done, I am… here for you." After emitting a noise of mild dissatisfaction, she finished, "I watched the Commander Cullen break free back in Kirkwall. I shall… try to assist."

A hush fell upon Tharin. Cassandra did not turn around to check his reaction but hoped he was at least a little grateful. And as she had expected, Tharin inhaled deeply and said in an unshaking baritone, "Thank you."

The Herald's condition steadily deteriorated over the course of the week. It was just as Cullen foretold. At lower doses of lyrium spread further apart every passing day and with no alcohol whatsoever, Tharin suffered greatly, as though he were repenting for all the grave sins he had committed. Nausea would not subside, as would feverish chills, body aches, and itches. In fact, the itches became so unbearable that a week into his convalescence, he scratched the skin off his left forearm. It took much out of Dorian to heal that bleeding scar.

Meanwhile, Cullen moved into the Inquisitor's quarters outright, commandeering the sofa as his bed. In the early morning, Dorian would enter the quarters with the breakfast for two and Cullen would scowl and leave for his Commandership for the day. The pattern would reverse in the evening when Cullen returned with a supper tray – along with a pile of his paperwork – and Dorian would leave with an inexplicable pout.

Ever the faithful companion, Cullen reported the comings and goings in Skyhold whenever Tharin was lucid enough to comprehend. It was not clear what Josephine had done or announced to quieten the rumors about the Inquisitor's sudden "illness," but the Inquisition was operating well enough. In fact, from what the Commander reported, Tharin concluded that the Inquisition was operating well without him, which conferred a strange sense of calm, almost as though his death would not have any lasting consequences.

The dream of death, of eternal sleep was too sweet to give up all at once. When the pain of withdrawal became too much and he was left without any energy to even grit and grind his teeth, Tharin imagined his soul leaving his body and traveling to the Fade. After all, he was now responsible for nobody in this reality. The Inquisition, a ravenous beast that swallowed up his life, was alive and sentient. With him gone, that beast would be responsible for everyone Tharin ever cared for.

The innocents of Thedas, the independent mages, the companions… Cullen Rutherford.

In the meantime, everyone thankfully steered clear of the Inquisitor's quarters. That was, everyone except for the other two advisors and the Seeker.

Tharin did not lose all attendant responsibilities as the Inquisitor. In fact, not even Josephine, try as she might with her excellent administrative skills, could will away one of Tharin's important responsibilities – lavishing his signatures on official documents to approve vital operations of the Inquisition. Because he was still the Inquisitor in public. And so, advisors took turns visiting Tharin every day with sheaves of paper. They assiduously explained the contents, but Tharin's voting power had been rendered nil. His signatures were all he was worth now.

Cassandra was the first visitor. She was cordial. Josephine came second. The Ambassador was not cordial. The woman was businesslike and distant as she made Tharin lug his weary, clammy body to his desk and sign documents after documents. It hurt to see her act that coldly toward him.

Leliana was the third visitor.

Tharin was not even aware he had fallen asleep. After a morning filled with unendurable pain, it was almost as though he had let go and passed out. Thus, it was something of a surprise when he was stirred awake by muffled whispers of an argument emanating from the steps to the loft. The sofa and the miscellaneous masonry standing between the bed and the steps made it impossible for him to understand the individual words.

Gathering all strength he had left in him, Tharin bellowed, "What is it, Dorian?"

The argument immediately halted. The Tevinter yelled back, "Nothing to concern yourself with, my friend. Go back to sleep."

The statement was appended by the familiar voice, calm yet potent, "Actually, I have some documents that need your signatures."

Tharin soughed. He was running out of somatic power to let forth a response, but neither did he have enough to sit up, make himself get on his feet, walk over, and talk to the source of the voice. After a few seconds of dithering, he shouted back with a faltering voice, "Come in, Leliana."

With Leliana and Dorian holding him by his arms, Tharin made it to the desk and laboriously lifted the quill. He could not be bothered to make the signatures look half legible.

What was more, Dorian never stopped bickering with Leliana, which elicited a headache in Tharin. About halfway through with the batch, Tharin put the quill down and looked up. "Will you please leave us for a moment?" He could not even come up with a likely excuse to appease Dorian.

"But Tharin, you need–"

The young man stressed, "Please."

After some time, Dorian rolled his eyes and spat, "All right." The mage turned to Leliana and repeated, "All right. I will go."

When the loft door slammed, Tharin squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples, trying to dispel the headache to no avail. His skin felt sticky and disgusting.

He felt the Spymaster placing her hands on the desktop and lean forward. She susurrated, "You may not believe this, but I am sorry it has come to this."

Tharin refused to look at Leliana as he kept massaging his temples. "I as well. I understand I've let everyone down." It was then when a sudden thought occurred to Tharin. The thought was something he had been pondering about on and off. But it had not had the chance to crystallize into a tangible idea until now. "I know I do not deserve anything, but Leliana, would you please grant me a favor?"

"What is it?"

"I know Seeker is already on it, but… if… if for whatever reason I am… gone… If I am no longer here, will you please make sure Cullen's taken care of? I have a tidy sum of gold my uncle left me in Ostwick. Give Cullen the money and keep him away from lyrium. Help him find a life for himself." He could not understand why he felt overwrought, as though he would break down and blubber in front the Spymaster. But there the feeling remained.

When Tharin soothed himself sufficiently and lifted his head to meet Leliana's gaze, he saw a faint grin. There was unanticipated softness about it. "I shall. And you are not going to die." Leliana enunciated with emphases, "You will overcome this. You will get better. And you will be the Inquisitor again."

Tharin had a nightmare. Or a hallucination. It had become too hard to tell those apart now. His mother, his father, Kyre, Cousin Maxwell, Uncle Otto, the murdered Venatori, and the murdered emissaries surrounded him, all pointing fingers and blaming the young man for everything that had gone wrong. A trail of destruction to attest to everything that had gone so horrifyingly wrong.

Poison coursing through mum's veins, her body consuming itself from within. Dad's head fuzzy, mind numbed. Blood running down Kyre's chest, red upon his hands never washed. A green explosion to shake the world, and a void devouring Uncle Otto's broken heart. Hollow eyes and gory tears for lives purposelessly lost. This was all Tharin's doing. The young man did not deserve to die. He deserved to struggle and suffer forever.

When he slid out of the vision in which he felt petrified, the tears were already running. He had many regrets, that was true. But somehow, his addled brain decided to lock onto the newly burgeoning guilt he felt toward the dead emissaries of the Trevelyans. He should have forgiven them when he had the chance and forget about his vile family. Perhaps he would not have fallen so spectacularly if he had done so. He could have salvaged his relationships with the advisors. Instead, he held on to the meaningless grudge and murdered two more men.

On top of everything, the Anchor decided to act up again. It began to crackle, sputter, and hiss. Every time there was another muted burst of energy, pain radiated from his hand toward the rest of his body like a cresting wave. He clamped down on his left wrist, hoping the pain would somehow stop there. In spite of his effort, it relentlessly assaulted the rest of his body, the agony heightened every time his heart beat so carelessly.

Suddenly, he felt a warm, broad chest press against his forehead.

Tharin called out pathetically, "Cul…" In his nostrils spread the man's scent permeating through his shirt, rendered thicker overnight. Though he felt like he was being ripped to pieces, his heart stopped thumping so hard.

By the time the Anchor calmed somewhat, Tharin was a sweaty mess with jumbled emotions. Feeling half-mad and with his forehead still firmly attached to Cullen's chest, he chuckled hollowly. "I could really use a stiff drink right about now."

Cullen did not loosen the hold as he denied flatly, "No." After a deep sigh, he caressed the back of Tharin's mussed hair. "It is really too bad pickled eggs cannot cure everything."

Tharin burst out laughing through the new tears, and when he looked up, he saw Cullen flash a subdued grin through the purple light of daybreak. Wiping his eyes with the heel of his right hand, the young man commented, "I'm fairly sure that is just an old wives' tale."

The amber eyes crinkled further, and the lines grew deeper. "Well, at this point, I would do anything to help you."

Genuinely intrigued by all this generosity, Tharin queried without a guile, "Why are you being so nice to me?"

It took Cullen a while to answer. "…It is my duty. I am your guardian."

Tharin tried to upturn his lips to indicate he was unfazed. But he knew it came out as anything but. He muttered, "Right…"

Cullen tightened the embrace for a second. "No," he let forth a light sough, "that is not true… It isn't just that it is my duty. Actually… duty has very little to do with it. You are my closest friend. You know more about me than anyone else, and you have been incredibly kind when I needed you. And… more than anything… I would like to take care of you."

Tharin susurrated, "I don't deserve that. I have ruined everything. It would be easier if I just disappeared… Cul, all those lives I've taken…" He finally found within him to confess, "And I don't want to marry Adelia. You were right when you tried to stop me. I can't marry her. But I don't know how to get out of it. I don't know how to get out of any of this."

In his deep, assuaging tone, Cullen promised, "Do not fret. We will figure something out. We shall…" There was an unexpected hitch. "We will figure something out. I swear."

"Tharin, wake up!"

As he opened his eyes, Dorian entered his view. The mage immediately engulfed him in a bear hug and spoke in a breaking tone, "Festis bei umo canavarum, you had me so worried!"

"W-what happened?" Thoroughly lost, Tharin let the fierce embrace last.

Dorian's voice caught as he explained, "I was trying to awake you for the last ten minutes, and you were unresponsive! I didn't know what to do…"

Still somewhat disoriented, Tharin began to rub the mage's back. "I'm all right. Everything's… all right, Dorian."

And there was a tight squeeze, enough to push the air out of the young man's lungs.

More than a week had passed since Tharin began his rehabilitation. Things fell into a tolerable routine while his overwhelming resentment toward Josephine and Leliana dissolved, and his gratitude for Cullen and Dorian grew. The very worst of the withdrawal symptoms had begun to subside, even though aches still remained firmly entrenched in his limbs and the Anchor continued to plague him from time to time.

Tharin was finally lucid enough to take stock of his situation and notice things around his quarters. And he did so when he awoke before Cullen one morning.

It was, as usual, another beautiful daybreak in the sky over the citadel. The darkness began to retreat to the alpine valleys below, and the edge of the room was filled with the sun struggling to rebirth itself.

It was not necessarily that Tharin felt renewed. As a matter of fact, there was some way to go before he would feel like himself again. After all, his limbs and the Anchor still bothered him. But the change over the week had been stark indeed. Maybe it would not be a long shot to hope for more. More than merely surviving at the least.

But the peace of the morning was interrupted by Cullen's moaning.

"Mmm… No, please… Please stop hurting them… Just… take me… Take me and kill me…"

Tharin sat up and looked at Cullen's direction. The man was so clearly in pain. He thrashed on the sofa.

It dawned on Tharin only then that Cullen must have experienced the withdrawal symptoms while he was being tortured by Uldred and the demons. They certainly were not providing him with a steady supply of lyrium. So, for Cullen, every time the cravings came back, they were accompanied by the terrifying visions from Kinloch.

What a pair they made. Tharin decided that even without the arranged marriage looming closer, even if Cullen could bring himself to return just a fraction of the affection the young man held for him, he and Cullen would still not be happy together. They both needed to be with strong people who could take care of them in times like this. It was not the issue of self-esteem or confidence; it was an indisputable fact that Tharin could not take care of Cullen in his current state.

And the last thing Tharin wanted was for his helplessness to cause more suffering in Cullen, the golden man. After Haven, there had never been a shred of doubt that Cullen was out of his reach. But in some corner of Tharin's heart lurked undying hope, which gained in strength every time Cullen showed him kindness. Now, the young man learned he must stop reaching, for it would prove to be harmful to the man he loved.

Giving up was for the best.

Tharin lay down once again, gathered his hands on top of his solar plexus, and stared at the arched ceiling. Motes of dust danced their lazy yet complicated dance in the air and reflected the still sallow sunrays. They shimmered and glittered, like a reality that was fabricated by magic. As Cullen fell silent and the sound of steady breathing filled the room again, Tharin let a somber exhale escape.

END NOTE

I swear, Tharin and Cullen are not together! This still counts as slowburn. And watch out for Dorian. He's coming up fast.

Next up, the letters to and from Cullen, coming on December 12.

If you like this, please give Where the Waves Crest (波の上り詰める所) (*AO3*/works/31047788) and The Folly Upon the Sea (海の上の大愚) (*AO3*/works/35274067) a try!