"Is that…?"

Cullen thought he saw a rooster strut amongst the crowd of alarmed nobles. It had been a long night, and with Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons turning out to be an agent of Corypheus and mercenaries planted all over the supposedly secure palace, a live chicken in the ballroom would be the least surprising thing to happen.

But whether it was real or a mere apparition, a lone rooster would hardly be a factor that affected the outcome of the intrigue. Cullen soon turned his attention back to what mattered, which was the conference of the faction leaders and the Inquisitor.

He intently watched the balcony, to which the conferees disappeared to, trying to discern what was going on. Not that he could see anything. He was standing far away on the dance floor directing the cleanup and the security sweep of the entire palace ground.

When he was giving an order to a detachment of Inquisition soldiers to doublecheck the gardens for any harlequin stragglers, there arose gasps and sighs among the nobles. The collective murmurs became deafening.

Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons emerged from the balcony, his head sagging and several guards escorting him away. Cullen felt conflicted. On one hand, he knew Tharin kept to the Inquisition's plan of assisting Celene; on the other hand, he still believed Gaspard to be the better choice for the Inquisition. Still, the eventful night was coming to a close, and they had saved Orlais from itself.

All in all, a good night's work.

After perhaps a quarter hour, Tharin appeared alongside Celene. The Empress began another rousing speech that congratulated the fatuous nobles for their efforts to end the Civil War, glossing over the obvious fact that these people stoked the flames of the conflict.

No matter, Cullen's eyes were trained on Tharin. The man looked worn even from the distance. The full head of hair that had been coiffed into a controllable mass for the occasion looked about ready to give up on itself and return to its natural state of disorderliness. The black of the uniform made it hard to catch anything amiss, but there was a large cut running across the golden embroidery.

Tharin appeared to be surveying the ballroom, and when he looked at Cullen's direction, Cullen was certain their eyes met. Yet, Tharin moved on, his gaze never lingering on one spot.

Ever since he returned from the dragon hunt, Tharin had been distant. Cullen could count on one hand the moments they interacted outside the war council, and even those were truncated by what Tharin said were more pressing matters. The game of Wicked Grace presented an excellent opportunity for Cullen to interact with the young man, but he wasted it by making a fool of himself.

Cullen could not deny part of the fault lay in his leaving the Inquisitor's quarters without a word. He could have left a letter, a short note explaining his rationale, something, anything. But having witnessed the man kiss Dorian, Cullen fled like a coward.

And what a coward he had been.

Cullen always let the outside world dictate how to be, for good and for bad. The Chantry and the Templar Order taught him how to be a responsible, Maker-fearing man. The demons in the corridors of Kinloch Hold left him wrecked. The Gallows run by Meredith forced him to question. And the Spymaster reminded him what he owed to the world.

These past experiences gleamed as if they were embedded shards of glass on the decisions he made, especially regarding his relationship with Tharin. Yet, somehow, Cullen as a living, breathing man with wants and needs was missing in those decisions.

He told Tharin he could accept the life's uncertainties as they were. In practice, however, he acted as though he was afraid to face them. He let everything and everyone else dictate how he should be, what he must do. But no more. He desired to be a coward no more.

Cullen was done. Done with listening to the world, done with what broke him, done with Leliana's directives.

Because it was now clear what he truly wanted… what he truly needed.

The man kept his eyes on Tharin, silently vowing to make the leap.

Using the adjective "eventful" to describe tonight would have been an understatement of the age.

The Inquisitor managed to thwart the assassination plot by Grand Duchess Florianne and shed blood. He secured Orlais for Celene and reunited the Empress with her elven lover. He then staged and effected the Grand Duke Gaspard's fall from grace for good measure. My future wife will not be pleased, he thought darkly.

After the Empress's final speech, the Inquisitor was exhausted and tried to slip away for a well-deserved respite. Not that he managed to, since Celene's current enchanter ambushed him on the abandoned terrace.

Morrigan did not disappoint: her tongue was sharp and her knowledge formidable. But he was in no mood to engage with another larger-than-life personality and ended up offending her somehow. It appeared that she did not like having her loyalty questioned by a Free Marcher upstart.

"You need all the help you can get, Inquisitor. I shall meet you at Skyhold," spat Morrigan tartly before turning and leaving without a lingering look.

Alone at last, the Inquisitor closed his eyes and breathed in the night air. The wet scent of snow made him worry about the wounded soldiers making the return journey. Winter was in full swing. Perhaps those soldiers should remain in the Orlesian care for now, after which they could head to their new posts without a detour to Skyhold.

And those the Inquisition lost tonight. He had to write their names down before sleep. He did not want to forget them.

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle, resonant voice.

"Good evening, Tharin."

"Cul…!" Tharin exclaimed in genuine surprise when he turned and saw Cullen. He had thought the Commander would be busy handling troop movements after the night's events.

Yet what surprised him more was the greeting itself. Just a simple hello, no Lord Inquisitor, your worship, or my lord weighing him down. For the moment, he was just Tharin, and the recovery of his basic identity released emotions that he did not even realize were bottled up. His heart began to beat quicker, and the blood in his body rushed to his head. It made him feel heady.

Cullen did not hesitate as he approached closer. "You must be tired. I have placed several guards by the terrace. People shan't bother you." With that gentle tone that threatened to sunder Tharin apart, he continued, "And well done. The Empire is in one piece thanks to your work."

"I know you preferred Gaspard over Celene. If you don't feel right about it, you shouldn't compliment me." The young man looked away, taking deep breaths.

"No, you did the right thing," said Cullen as he casually leaned on the balustrade and grinned softly. "Truly. Gaspard may have the support of the chevaliers, but that's all he has. Because of that he would have fueled the Orlesian penchant for wars, especially against Ferelden. I may not have much loyalty left to my homeland, but I know it's simple madness to fight amongst ourselves when we have bigger fish to fry."

"I still don't know if I made the right choice. I worry that I'm not ready to be the Inquisitor again, that every decision I make is getting us closer to total destruction," Tharin spoke dejectedly as he furiously rubbed his tired eyes. It didn't help at all.

"You need not worry. From your track record, I'd argue luck is on our side, if not the Maker."

Tharin scoffed. "Ah, the wit."

"I am completely serious. We've made great strides. Believe in yourself. Believe in the Inquisition you've helped build."

"If only you and I could guarantee success just like that…" Remembering what he had witnessed in Redcliffe Castle of the alternate future, the Inquisitor could not bring himself to be happy, so he put on a brave face instead. "Anyway, thanks for making me feel better."

He expected Cullen to leave after that, but he stayed.

In a barely audible voice Cullen whispered, "You've been avoiding me." Tharin turned sharply and stared as the Commander's face turned beet red, obvious even through the milky darkness of the terrace. It appeared the Commander was tired as well. Otherwise, the man would not have let slip something like it. Cullen seemed to trip over his own words as he rubbed the back of his neck, "Maker, that's not what I wanted to say… I mean, well, I could see… It's just something I noticed. I swear, I am not trying to put you on the spot."

"It's…" Tharin started with a witty comeback but decided he was too tired for any kind of mind games. He simply apologized, "I am sorry."

"Andraste preserve me…" Cullen sighed exasperatedly and mussed his inexplicably perfect hair. A strand reverted back to loose curls. "I do not care that you've been avoiding me. Well… Yes, I do care, but it's probably a conversation we should save for later. Right now, all I want is to make sure you are all right."

"I am fine, Cul. Really." He knew it was thoroughly unconvincing. He leaned forward, hoping to avoid the Commander's gaze.

But when Tharin turned to check discreetly, he found Cullen standing mere inches away. With completely silent steps that must have come easier with the dress uniform compared to a full suit of armor, the man had closed the distance between them.

And the young man felt two powerful arms surround him the next moment. The wool sleeves that encased them were unexpectedly warm. The movement felt sure and natural, unlike their relationship that seemed to be fraught with emotional potholes.

Tharin was being embraced from his left side, which was positionally uncomfortable as all side hugs went. But he did not feel awkward. He focused on Cullen's heat and scent. The aroma of elderflower and oakmoss, the familiar aroma that harkened him back to when he was more carefree in his affections, in his emotions. He felt like crying, but mercifully no tears came. Maker… He was so tired.

Cullen's forehead bumped against the Inquisitor's left temple lightly. His curled lock of hair brushed against Tharin. With his lips so dangerously close to the young man's ear, Cullen susurrated, "I am here for you. Always. Just… remember that."

Tharin turned to face those intense amber eyes, and all he could do was to nod in assent. "I-I will…"

When the Commander's scarred lips turned upward and the whole face lit up from puzzlingly unrestrained happiness, Tharin had to press down the urge to kiss. Affectionate gestures, big and small, were unwanted. He was unwanted. They were just colleagues, maybe friends. He chanted these three phrases repeatedly in his mind, counteracting any sort of desire that may have taken him over if given the chance.

But the Commander, possibly the most serious man he had ever encountered, was sending mixed signals, and they tormented Tharin ruthlessly. Right before Haven was lost, the Commander let the Herald know his advances were not welcome. The "truth" that the Cullen of Redcliffe spoke of notwithstanding, this Cullen categorically denounced Tharin's affinity for male company as something vile and revolting and reaffirmed his conviction in Val Royeaux.

Yet, everything this Cullen did for Tharin after he quit lyrium again was not just kind, but tender and affectionate. The days and nights he stood vigil as Tharin cleared his system of the toxin, the books and the dinners he fetched, the gifts of Cullen's lucky coin and the gloves. They were almost loving gestures, which had to be impossible, right? Was it pity? Was it some sort of misplaced paternal or fraternal instinct?

And now, he was confronted by the embrace that would not end.

The love Tharin held for this man, the love that was unwanted, scorched his insides. The burn spread through every organ, every cell, every molecule of his body, and he felt pained. It was enough to drive him mad, and he sought to soothe himself in the only way he knew.

Tharin began to resist fiercely. After he managed to wrest himself away from Cullen's embrace, he hung his head low and whispered defeatedly, "Forgive me, please."

Oh, but Cullen still smiled his reassuring smile, still stood tall and unbothered, as though everything was going to be all right. No, that was not to be. After tonight, things were going to be broken again.

Because Tharin had to confess. Every single thing he had stowed away in his heart, chained to the dungeon of his own making, he suddenly found he had to let out and confess.

"What for?" asked Cullen, his countenance still bright. For a man who was victimized by demons and the Templar Order, his innocence was untainted. Mysteriously so.

The mighty Inquisitor, one of the most formidable warriors of this generation, trembled at the Commander's steady gaze. It refused to waver, and Tharin's body refused to still. He knew tears would fall soon.

Tharin barely held himself together to whisper.

"I am in love with you."

Tharin lifted his head and looked at Cullen with progressively blurring vision. It was becoming harder to tell what the other man's expression was like.

Failing to stop his voice from quivering, Tharin emphasized, "I am in love with you… most ardently. I know you find what I am disgusting, so I did not want to bring it up. That is why I was avoiding you."

Each word burned a hole in his heart, each significant enough to release every emotion and every thought that had been relegated to the circumscribed space within him. Relying on those escaped feelings as they freely swam across the starry night sky, Tharin continued, "I swear to the Maker, I wasn't planning on telling you, but… I just can't keep quiet anymore."

Tharin's deep inhale was hindered by a hitch.

"I love you, Cullen Ruther–"

Before Tharin finished his declaration, Cullen stepped forward, grasped his hands, and overlapped their lips together. He felt his sobs ring across their mouths.

The kiss was anything but docile. It broke Tharin down, atom by atom, and remade him so that he was unfit for any other man who was not Cullen Rutherford.

Tharin was speechless. He was content to let the passion drive his reaction, which amounted to nil.

Their lips broke too soon, and Tharin reluctantly accepted the parting. Cullen's breath was irregular, as though the man was attempting to hold back something far wilder. Their fingers entwined smoothly, and it was like they had always belonged together. The dam had burst open, and everything flooded back until Tharin remembered in his bones – how to touch Cullen and in return be touched by him.

The Commander directed his gaze downward, making his forehead kiss the Inquisitor's. In a tone that barely concealed a smile, Cullen whispered, "I know I should not have done that, but… I cannot bring myself to care anymore. And I'm done trying to beat myself down for wanting things I must not. This is my truth, Tharin. I love you."

At the threshold of weeping openly, Tharin only managed to rasp, "Cul…"

"I am sorry… for everything I have done. I lied to you, broke your heart. But I've always… always loved you." Cullen kept whispering in the soft voice that felt like a balm to the wounds he had inflicted so long ago.

This time, it was Tharin who took a step forward and kissed Cullen. With tears leaving wet trails on his cheeks, Tharin wanted to drown in Cullen's lips and never reemerge. To live and die in Cullen's arms.

Their hands never let go, not once. Their bodies were fused together like jigsaw puzzle pieces that had found their rightful places.

Yet this time, it was obvious that Cullen was only passively responding to Tharin's movements. There was unanticipated tenderness in every stray movement that defined Cullen's large, sturdy body. It was as though he was patiently waiting for Tharin to open himself up, trusting that such moment was not too far away.

Even after all the waiting, all the moments the man must have tortured himself with the love that could not be uttered, Cullen was releasing the pent-up energy in the gentlest way possible, letting Tharin take the reins. If the Inquisitor had wished for space, the Commander would have stopped and backed away with no objection. If the Inquisitor had wished the Commander gone, he would have left without any protest. Everything was up to Tharin.

Recognizing the man's considerate demeanor, Tharin's heart squeezed and his tears flowed anew. He felt Cullen's quavering breath through their mouths and knew the man was tearful as well.

The cold, wet air that portended snow reminded Tharin of Haven. The Herald and the Commander were happy there, weren't they? There was a sense of "us" that made every day a precious gift from the Maker, Andraste, or whomever else that was looking out for them.

And the snow would fall again. Could they be together and happy if they tried?

Neither broke from the kiss unilaterally. The two did at the same time. Tharin could not direct his gaze away from the wildflower-honey eyes that seemed to overflow with hope.

Tharin sniffed and rubbed his own tears away. He then softly stroked Cullen's bestubbled face, lingering at every beginning wrinkle that made the man that much more beautiful.

"I… I missed you, Cul. I know you never left, but I just… missed you." Why was his voice breaking still? Tharin was certain he was happier than he had ever been.

Cullen cooed, "I missed you too." He leaned against the young man, bringing his scarred lips to trace the muscle from Tharin's neck to the left ear. He whispered, "I love you so much."

But suddenly, Tharin was scared. He thought that the fear was meaningless, and yet he had every right to be afraid. The speed at which the conversation about the general state of Orlesian politics evolved into confessions of love was dizzying. So, he stepped back, let his left hand untangle from Cullen's right hand, and gathered his hands as though he were praying. He guardedly asked, "What about that Orlesian girl you were dancing with before?"

Cullen furrowed his brow. He was silent for several seconds, apparently perplexed by Tharin's inquiry. Then, an understanding spread through his visage. He asked deliberately, "Are you worried about the debutante in a ruby dress? Renée?"

"Yes, her. Don't you want to be with a woman?"

"No, Tharin. How can I when you are the only person I could think of?" Cullen sighed and once again gently grasped Tharin's Anchor hand to bring it to his lips. He declared in a strained tone, "I love you… I will always love you."

Tharin mindlessly played with Cullen's digits. He asked, "What about a family of your own? Sons and daughters who look like you. I can't give you any of that. You were right. I am useless."

Cullen shook his head and proclaimed adamantly, "Don't say that about yourself. Being with you would be more than enough for me. It would be everything I've wanted."

It was then the Commander embraced the Inquisitor, once again transferring a sense of security and certainty that Tharin did not possess. Cullen repeatedly whispered, "Please believe me."

Tharin was so exhausted. He wanted to believe more than anything, but he was simply not ready to give himself over to Cullen completely. And this self-knowledge angered him. Why couldn't he just snap out of it and do what he wanted all along? It was as though the dungeon in his heart had been opened just long enough for all the emotions to seep out, but not enough for the trust to escape.

"How did we end up here?" asked Tharin as his mind was dyed a lifeless gray from his state of despair.

Cullen squeezed Tharin hard. "Because I was a coward. And because you take your responsibility seriously, which I will never fault. It is one of the reasons why I love you."

They broke from the embrace, and Cullen put his hands on Tharin's shoulders. The Commander said ruefully, "Right. I know a mere sorry won't cut it. I made you feel horrible about what… you are. What I am too."

Cullen looked tense, and as though atoning for an unforgivable sin, he vowed, "I can only imagine the pain I've inflicted on you, but if you give me another chance, I will try my best to make it up to you. For the rest of my life, I will try my hardest. I promise.

"That is to say… I would like for us to try. It matters not that you are engaged. We will find a way out of it."

And there it was, what Tharin and Cullen both desired. Desperately so. Plainly laid out for them to examine and consume.

But Tharin felt overwhelmed. This was too much. Only several hours ago, he convinced himself that it was best for him to give up on Cullen for good, that the man would find in the Orlesian ingénue a true love. Now they were discussing resetting their relationship and starting over.

Tharin's heart, his jailer, was intransigent. If he were to remain protected and avoid the hurt, being alone was safer.

And so, it was Tharin's turn to be a coward. In his mind, he was already turning and fleeing the scene.

"I just… can't." Tharin would have looked away with guilt if he dared. But he daren't because he knew he was breaking Cullen's heart. The only brave deed of the night was for him to face the man and accept the disappointment in his eyes. "I don't know if I can do this. I love you so much that it hurts sometimes, but this, us… scares me. It's too much."

"I understand." To Tharin's infinite relief, there was no hint of hurt feelings. Cullen was an immovable pillar of strength, and the young man was thankful enough to cry out in gratitude.

The Commander moved his hands away from Tharin's shoulders and instead gripped the young man's right fingers tentatively, as if to seek permission to hold his hand. "It's probably not worth much, but you will always have me. I am yours forever, Tharin."

"It means a great deal. Whatever the circumstances are, you matter to me more than anyone else."

Cullen grinned in that reassuring way, the one in which his eyes crinkled and his vermilions curved just enough, not too much. Too much would have indicated a façade, and there was no such sign. He swiftly placed a peck on Tharin's left cheek and bid his farewell with a little hitch in his tone, "Congratulations on tonight's success. Try to get some rest. I will talk to you tomorrow morning."

It was strange how easy the farewell turned out to be. Tharin watched Cullen's back as he exited the terrace.

When he could see the Commander's dress uniform no longer, he felt like he had been awakened from a dream. A dream in which he and Cullen affirmed their love for each other. Was this real? He leaned against the stone balustrade and sighed. If only he could accept the revelation as it was and return Cullen's feelings freely.

But something was preventing him from doing so. And it frustrated Tharin.

Tharin teared up again and chastised himself, "What in the Blight is wrong with me?" He roughly wiped the moisture away using the palm of his right hand.

Eventually, Tharin decided he had to return to the grand ballroom. As the Inquisitor, he could not afford to offend Orlesian nobles who would provide political and financial assistance to the Inquisition.

As he forced himself to rejoin the party, one of Celene's ladies-in-waiting approached him and simpered. "Her Imperial Majesty requests your audience."

It was time to put the mask back on.

END NOTES

Things are happening!

Next up, the final Winter Palace chapter on Sunday, May 22!

Comments and reviews are never obligatory but give me life! Thank you for reading!