Thank you for your patience, and welcome back!
PART IV: WINTER
A cold fortnight zipped by. Swallows glided north for warmer lands.
Cravings for lyrium came back frequently. Interminable days of pain and dark nights filled with nightmares continued to consume Tharin. And Cullen remained his assiduous, attentive self through them all. He fetched healing potions and ever-decreasing portions of lyrium dust, held Tharin's hands through every incidence of withdrawal symptoms, brought books that were left unread, and retrieved tureens of restorative broth that hardly touched his lips.
At dawn, Tharin would sometimes wake from a fitful slumber to find Cullen keeping vigil while catching up on his work by the bed. The flickering candlelight would reveal the frown lines and bloodshot eyes, framed by unkempt hair and a deepening shadow of stubble.
Cullen would look up and smile. Without fail, the golden irises gleamed with forgiving warmth, but there was hardness in the corners of his lips somehow. Tharin did not feel judged by Cullen, yet it did occur to him that the man would not let him be until he was completely free of lyrium. Cullen was a mabari with a locked jaw refusing to let go.
These days and nights were spent in a limbo-like state, and whatever that could pass as normalcy was seemingly out of reach for Tharin.
Still, heedless of Tharin's health, the world moved on. While Cullen and Dorian stayed close to Tharin at all times, the rest of Skyhold celebrated Satinalia in a grand manner per Josephine and Leliana's scheme to raise general morale. It also helped that the Inquisition held the line and even pushed back against the enemies in some fronts. Once the mad festivities passed and a somber mood of the day after descended upon the hungover people of the Inquisition, it was the third of Haring.
Tharin's birthday.
The days had become blended together into a blur. Tharin vaguely knew his birthday approached with the frosty, fiercer south wind, but he thought it did not matter. It was not as though there were reasons to celebrate his birthday this year. The last time he checked, Corypheus was still loose, the rifts still bled demons, the world was still ending, and he had unquestionably ruined everything.
Thus, it was a surprise when he felt a gentle shake on his shoulder and opened his eyes one morning.
"Happy birthday!" A beaming Cullen came into his view.
"…What is happening?" Tharin rasped as he rubbed his eyes. The lone ray of light shone through the murky night. "What time is it?"
Cullen shrugged and exclaimed with a voice brimming with excitement, "It is early, but does it matter? It's your birthday!"
Tharin sighed and closed his eyes. "I think you need sleep, Cul."
There was silence before Tharin felt a hesitant touch on his right hand. Cullen susurrated, "Please. I do realize that I am being unforgivably self-indulgent, but I would like us to celebrate your birthday before… others get here."
Feeling obstinate, Tharin muttered, "There is absolutely nothing to celebrate. Corypheus is amassing an army large enough to crush the South, and I am incapacitated from my own stupidity and hubris. Today is just another day I fail as the Inquisitor." A pause and a reflection. "…The Herald, I mean." Self-loathing was reassuring in its discomforting familiarity.
Cullen's tone exuded evident disappointment as much as diffidence, "If you feel that way, we need not treat today any differently. I shall refrain from mentioning the birthday from here on. With your permission, however, I would like to present you with gifts, although… I fear they may not be to your liking."
Tharin squeezed his eyelids together and breathed harshly. Bleakness remained etched deeply within. He wondered whether this was how things would be from now on. Cullen was trying to celebrate his birthday, and he could not muster up a smidgen of enthusiasm let alone gratitude to the man. Guilt crept in and engorged on what was left of Tharin's self-regard like so much a piglet would at a slop trough. "Please forgive my intransigence."
"No apology necessary," Cullen's reply came instantly, and Tharin felt a thin sliver of relief.
As he sat up with some difficulty, Cullen fidgeted, clasping his hands together and looking away. Instinctually, Tharin followed the man's gaze to the little round table next to the sofa and saw a parcel wrapped in parchment.
Cullen did mention gifts, but it hit differently when he was confronted by one. Tharin queried with sudden pang of anticipation, "Is that… for me?"
"Yes, i-it is," stuttered Cullen with his hands still gathered.
Tharin's body reacted in a visceral way. He raised himself from the bed, strode to Cullen in deliberate steps, and hugged the man tightly.
He was tired. Maker, so tired of everything. In a dark corner away from the mundane consciousness still lay that desire to destroy oneself, to accept the oblivion as the only salvation availed to him. And yet, Cullen knew just how to convey him back to the world of the living.
Tharin whispered, "I want to. I want to celebrate my birthday. With you." Cullen was warm and smelled like spring grass.
There was no requisite awkwardness borne of the surprise embrace, which Tharin was eternally grateful for. Instead, Cullen reciprocated and kept holding him, like the man so often did nowadays. With voice that had a hint of quiver, Cullen susurrated in his ear, "Happy birthday, Tharin."
In the bosom of the man he had stopped loving, Tharin decided to forget the inconvenient truth. That he could not remember what date today was supposed to be. He just knew it was the month of Haring.
Tharin could not remember his exact birthdate.
After they broke from the embrace, Cullen reached into his pocket and held out an old Fereldan silver with Andraste's visage engraved on it.
"First, take this."
"What is it?"
"My brother gave it to me. He found it on the village thoroughfare and gave it to me on the day before I left for the Order. He said it was for luck. Not that I believed Bran at the time, but now, looking back on everything that's happened…" He hesitated momentarily, but his voice never retreated from its characteristic earnestness. "Humor me. We don't know what you'll face before the end. This can't hurt."
Cullen's furrowed brow seemed to implore. Saying no would have been cruel. Tharin decided not to argue, though it felt like he was stealing a family heirloom. He took the coin and promised, "I'll keep it safe."
"Good. I know it's foolish, but… I'm glad."
In the preceding months, it had become progressively difficult to maintain steady eye contact with Cullen. Unbidden guilt, willing lies, and baseless bluster had been Tharin's modus operandi during his blighted past with lyrium. But now, standing on the other side of the deluge, Tharin thought it necessary to be brave. And so, he looked to Cullen as the man looked back with searching eyes.
When Tharin sighed and finally looked away, Cullen turned to fetch the parcel on the table. He held it out as he spoke, his countenance sheepish and his gaze now upon the floor, "And these… should be useful now."
No effort had been spared to decorate the parcel in any way. Even the string, albeit festive red, was there to hold it together rather than to embellish. The plainness actually made Tharin keen, and he tore the string apart. When he unfolded the parchment, he found a pair of fur-lined leather gloves. The left glove was missing two digits at the end, patched at the knuckles. Tharin looked up and asked, "Did you commission to have them made?"
Cullen's cheeks bloomed scarlet as he explained, "Not quite. The smith let me take scraps of druffalo hide and nug fur."
"Wait, you… made these?"
Cullen shrugged, seemingly determined not to make much fuss about it. "I had one of the new volunteers show me. I already knew how to sew, and the whole thing turned out to be not all that complicated."
As he listened to Cullen's quiet explication and ran his hands upon the leather, Tharin realized he would remain ignorant of how Cullen managed to keep this a secret. It was like Cullen to keep quiet about how he managed to spend all the nights here watching over his recovery, carry out every little duty that came with the Commandership, and still sew and mend gloves surreptitiously.
With the weight of that recognition on him, Tharin repeated in a hushed, reverent tone, "You made these. For me…"
Cullen added hurriedly, "I pray you find them satisfactory. If not, I could find you another pair. I'm sure our contacts could procure much better ones from Val Royeaux or somewhere else."
Tharin tucked his head and hugged the gloves tightly. "I love them." He looked up and whispered, "I don't know what to say other than a thank you, and it just seems so… inadequate."
Cullen beamed, the grooves on his face accentuated by the breaking daylight. "It's not necessary. I want you to keep warm. Here…" He reached for the gloves and gently took ahold of them. "Give me your hands."
Folding his arms, Tharin chuckled genially. "I can put them on myself."
Yet, Cullen's expression turned solemn, and he repeated in a placid but unyielding tone, "Give me your hands."
There was nothing severe about Cullen's countenance, and the man's demeanor was as tender as Tharin had ever seen, but the firmness returned to the corners of his mouth. The same firmness he saw after waking from fever dreams, the one which marked the man's determination to see this through.
The Commander would brook no dissent, no disagreement, no resistance. He commanded in his quietude and sureness, and Tharin nodded as if he had been hypnotized.
The young man held out his right hand first. Cullen softly grasped at the wrist and pulled on the glove with his other hand. Tharin bit his lower lip, worried Cullen may catch onto his quickening pulse. With hard thump, thump, thumps echoing in his eardrums, bit by bit, the supple fleece hugged his skin. His thumb first and then his other digits were fitted inside the glove until it enveloped the whole hand.
After tugging at the glove cuff, Cullen did not wait for Tharin to hold his left hand out. Instead, he clasped, though with care, and began the process yet again. Tharin felt the fur tickle his sensitive skin. The Anchor hummed, but Cullen did not halt his movement. One by one, with his meticulous ministrations, Tharin's fingers entered and filled the glove.
Cullen held the left hand, giving it a good squeeze. "There," he susurrated.
Feeling his whole face heat up and thankful that the day was still dark enough to obscure his incarnadined cheeks, Tharin murmured, "They are… really nice. Thank you, Cul. I… honestly don't know how I can repay your generosity."
With his hands still holding onto Tharin's Anchor hand, Cullen looked away. When his eyes focused on Tharin again after a moment of contemplation, there was a pronounced crease on his brow. "There is one thing."
"What is it?"
"Promise me. Don't ever hurt yourself again. Remember you can always come talk to me." A long sigh followed. "Or Master Pavus."
In spite of the shame and misery he felt, or perhaps because of them, Tharin vowed, "…I promise." It came easily. Unexpected but good.
Looking content, Cullen curved his lips.
Tharin was not sure who ascertained his birthday and informed everyone in the Inner Circle. He imagined it was the Spymaster. Regardless of who it was, the companions were enthusiastic about celebrating his birthday, though much of it had to be a leftover from the collective delirium proffered by Satinalia.
He still had a hard time believing anyone would want to celebrate his birthday. After all, he wasn't worth the hassle.
With the morning sun came Dorian. The Commander prepared for another busy day and shared a few brusque words with the mage on the stairs before leaving, and soon enough, Dorian emerged with a breakfast tray and a ring box.
Inside the box was an onyx ring. To a flabbergasted Tharin, Dorian flashed a self-satisfied smile and explained, "I did due diligence. The magic imbued in it solidifies the metal of your armor further." It was an unexpectedly practical gift from a man who flouted the practical with style and much flourish.
Similar to what Cullen had done, Dorian gestured for Tharin to hold his hand out. He obliged, watching the mage put the ring on his right hand.
"There. You should be… invincible now. You're welcome."
Tharin admired the sleek, understated design of the ring as he intoned, "I am not sure what I have done to deserve this."
What was most certainly an alien behavior from the man, Dorian dawdled and twiddled his fingers as he avoided eye contact. After staring toward the balcony for a moment too long, Dorian spoke in a low voice, "Well… You did stand beside me as I shared that almost too pleasant chitchat with my most illustrious father. And you returned the Pavus family amulet from that vulture of a man in Val Royeaux."
Quickly, Tharin's face heated up. He stared at the breakfast tray with triangles of toast and marmalade as he whispered, "I… wanted to make you happy…"
Dorian chortled. "Then, consider it a mission accomplished because I am happy. And in turn, I am trying to make you happy and safe."
And Dorian would not accept anything other than a simple thank you for the gift.
Next came Leliana with a couple congratulatory words and sheaves of letters to sign, followed by Vivienne with a list of interior decorators she had befriended in Orlais because "sprucing up your quarters could do wonders for your health, my dear." Knowing her and her scheming ways, there was some ulterior motive, but Tharin smiled and said his thanks. Meanwhile, Dorian naturally bickered with Vivienne on her choices.
Sera visited with a couple biscuits she had swiped from the kitchen. The two shared the treat as she rapidly fired off nonsensical musings and giggled, to which Dorian simply rolled his eyes as he sat askew at Tharin's desk reading his arcane tome. Varric came with Blackwall, and he regaled Tharin with a choice few tales he was planning on including in his book on the Inquisition.
After their visit, Tharin found a plate of warm pasties, his favorite, sitting on top of his dresser. For some inexplicable reason, he did not feel the need to question its provenance. The Iron Bull and the Chargers came by after lunch with a bottle of rare and expensive Rivaini wine and proceeded to drink all of it in one sitting when Tharin refused to partake.
These visits came one after another like a series of whirlwinds, and they boosted Tharin's mood considerably. Even if he did not believe he deserved that much attention and affection, he could not deny he enjoyed them.
This was a good birthday.
The sun was starting to edge toward the western horizon when Cassandra came. Ever the warrior, the woman barged in looking like she was ready for a battle. And ready was the Seeker, for she wanted Tharin to join her in her midday training. Her plate armor jangled as she held out a practice sword.
"You took too many days off," Cassandra declared curtly.
Looking peeved, Dorian protested, "He is still recovering, and it is his birthday on top of everything. Would you please leave him be?"
"No. He needs to train. Now." Cassandra's tone was forceful, each word enunciated like sharpened razors, "You want to be a good Inquisitor again, do you not?"
"Yes." Tharin soughed and nodded. "I will go with you."
Once they arrived in the corner of the courtyard that had been taken over by practice dummies, Cassandra turned into a ruthless sparring partner. Each fight lasted mere seconds before she cut him down. Figuratively, thankfully. There gathered a handful of recruits, soldiers, and templars who quietly observed the Herald of Andraste lose over and over.
Thank the Maker the Inquisition was thriving. Otherwise, people would have taken Tharin's losses as some sort of a divine sign.
When Tharin thrust his practice sword, Cassandra nimbly avoided the tip, sidestepped, and loudly smacked his back with her heater shield.
"Come on! Too slow!" taunted Cassandra as she rapped her shield with the dull edge of her sword.
Tharin could not even expend any strength to answer her call. Instead, he leapt toward Cassandra with the tip of his sword drawn close to his body, recognizing his stance had completely broken down yet hopeful he may catch a lucky break. If he could just reach her under her fiendishly protective shield, if he could just graze her, he could eke out a victory.
Thwack!
His last-ditch effort notwithstanding, he was too slow again and Cassandra jumped out of the way to hit him on his back again. The Seeker had won this round as well. And the one after. The one following that. She kept winning.
After Tharin demonstrated he had had enough by keeling over and dry-heaving, Cassandra approached and slapped his back. "I did not hold back, so it was not the worst. But not great either."
The retching would not subside, but at least he had only a little to eat. The digested food stayed down. He laboriously turned to look at the Seeker and rasped, "Many… thanks for that."
Cassandra pursed her lips. "I am merely telling you the truth. You are to blame for this… display."
"You do not need to remind me, Seeker."
Tharin stayed bent over until the rhythm of his respiration returned to a normal pace. Cassandra extended a hand, which Tharin took gratefully as he stood up. When he felt lightheaded, Cassandra was there to rub his back. "Speaking of your fault…" Her hand stilled. "There's been some talk of giving back your powers and responsibilities. Well, Leliana and I shared a brief discussion. Cullen will be on board, of course."
Incredulous, Tharin looked to Cassandra, who huffed and emphasized, "Do not misunderstand. Have I explicitly forgiven you? I don't know if I ever will. But… you used to be a good leader. You care about our people. And I want to give you another chance."
She picked up Tharin's abandoned practice sword and sheathed it herself. "With that said, Josephine is adamantly opposed to it. You should speak to her. I assume you have not been to see her since that… night?"
Tharin shook his head, lightly to avoid feeling woozy again. "No… I will talk to her today."
After the sparring, Tharin dragged his sore and bruised body back to his quarters, took a bath while Dorian went to the library, and changed into his best. This was the first time he would see the Ambassador since that night when he lost everything, and he wanted to make a good impression. If the Seeker's assessment was correct, Josephine was the lone holdout that prevented his returning as the Inquisitor.
But as soon as he opened the door to Josephine's well-lit salon, Tharin knew he was in trouble. He had forgotten how intimidating Josephine could be when he was not foolhardily bold from the lyrium and the alcohol. Her exterior may have been soft, but she hid the steel within and had an aura to prove it. His voice wobbled badly as he squeaked, "Good evening."
Josephine was wholly focused on the letter in her hand and did not look up. Instead, she hummed and muttered, "Good evening." She held her forefinger up and mouthed along the words until she was done. When she looked up, Tharin thought he saw a flash of irritation cross her visage. "What do you need?"
"Nothing… I thought I would…" He would what? Tharin realized only then that he had not thought through what he would say beforehand. What was he supposed to do? Prostrate before her and beg for forgiveness? Confess his sins like a devout parishioner would to a Chantry sister?
There was no denying he had many things to apologize for, he noted wryly. "Josie." A deep divot appeared on Josephine's brow, and Tharin flinched. "I mean, Lady Montilyet."
"Still here," the woman mumbled.
"I don't think I have had a chance to properly apologize for everything that has happened."
Tharin was now certain Josephine had been irritated by his presence earlier because whatever it was had conflagrated into naked anger. "Everything that has happened? Everything like what?"
He began to stammer, "E-everything. Everything that I… uh… I have done."
Josephine's hands were balled into fists and shook. "No, list them. I want to hear you say them out loud. I want to know that you know what you did."
"I…" Josephine had every right to demand this. Yet, it hurt. They were friends once. Dispirited and with his heart beating mercilessly, Tharin began to list his guilt, "I endangered the Inquisition by attempting to harm myself. I acted recklessly in Val Royeaux against your express guidance, endangering the Orlesian Plan. I ruined the prospect of an alliance with the Qunari. I killed people who didn't deserve to die. The Venatori prisoners and the envoys from Ostwick… And…"
"And?"
Tharin scrunched his eyes shut. "…I betrayed the Inquisition when I tried to imprison and strip Cassandra of her rights and responsibilities."
Josephine's cold voice rang, "Good. Now, if you will excuse me, I am busy cleaning up after your messes and restoring the Inquisition's good name."
Opening his eyes to find the woman facing away, Tharin began, "But Cassandra said–"
The Ambassador bade no more and whipped her head to interrupt, "The Seeker said what? What did she say?" her tone still filled with ire.
Tharin held his hands up. "Nothing bad. She mentioned the war council might be willing to consider allowing me to carry out the–"
"No."
"But–"
"No. Not as long as I breathe shall you enjoy full powers and privileges again." Josephine's gaze never wavered from Tharin as she inhaled and exhaled deeply. "Things are working perfectly well right now. In fact, things are better than before. We have made a good headway against the Elder One's forces and solid diplomatic advances."
There was a pregnant pause before Josephine continued, "But most importantly, I do not wish to inflict an out-of-control Inquisitor upon the Inquisition again. The status quo is for the best." She crossed her arms and finished, "I assume you expected this to go differently, that I would praise you for sobering up. But no, things cannot return to the way they used to be. It does not matter how much you desire so. And I for one simply do not care about what you desire."
There was nothing more to be said, no clever retorts he could dispense to convince her otherwise. Tharin was completely and utterly destroyed by Josephine's words. The cravings for lyrium and strong drinks began to extend their ugly, sticky tendrils from deep within, and Tharin felt worse than he had been feeling for a good fortnight. Helplessly, he susurrated, "Sorry for bothering you, Madam Ambassador." He turned to leave.
Josephine lobbed parting words with the precision of an archer letting an arrow loose, "Good day, Herald."
Tharin was lost. He stood somewhere dark and dank and foul. Before him stretched a narrow path surrounded by crags, the same ones he saw on the Storm Coast, he was certain. The path was riddled with caliginous puddles of green sludge that vexed all senses. But at least there was a path to follow. And at the end, there was a light. Iridescent light that felt hollow, but a light, nonetheless. One foot before the other, this was still somewhere connected to elsewhere.
He walked however long he did, yet there was no end in sight. In fact, the expanse opened up, as though the boundaries of this already vast place had been pushed farther away from him. He felt his lungs fill with noxious fumes and gave up on the light. Feeling weary, Tharin plunked down on the ground – or what passed as a ground – and sought for another exit.
That was the moment when something saw Tharin.
And Tharin saw something.
It was a dark figure, the silhouette of which shimmered like smoke. It stood on the crag overlooking the part of the path Tharin was resting on.
Tharin blinked, and the figure now stood in front of him. It cocked what seemed like its head. Grotesque, lightless veins crisscrossed its body. The presence filled Tharin with depthless dread, the weight of which was heavy enough to crush him. He wanted to yell for help, but his mouth would not open. He wanted to run, but his legs would not budge. He needed to fight, but his arms would not heed.
In fact, his left hand began to vibrate on its own.
Searing pain radiated from his left side. Tharin opened his eyes to Cullen's concerned visage dyed emerald.
"Does it hurt?"
It did, indeed. Tharin looked to the left and saw the hand alight and pulsating with the arcane power, fizzling and crackling. As another wave of pain hit him, he curled his body and clutched the Anchor hand by the wrist, willing it to recede into its usual state of vague discomfort.
Wordlessly, Cullen held Tharin and twined his hand with the Anchor hand. The man must have felt the Anchor pop and fizz, yet he kept the embrace tight, as though the arcane did not affect him in the least.
The pain would not subside, and Tharin felt little beads of sweat dot all over his skin. Yet, it was infinitely better in the Commander's embrace. "Thank… you…" Tharin murmured.
END NOTE
Here comes the last part of the fic! Lady Josephine Montilyet will not suffer fools, and I enjoyed writing her berating Tharin. Maybe too much...
Next up, how to take down a dragon with minimal to no hospitalization on Sunday, February 27!
Comments and reviews are never obligatory but give me life! Thank you for reading!