CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Upon returning to Skyhold, Solas asked Myra to accompany him to "Var'an." Myra obliged and grabbed two horses from the stable. They rode for about half an hour before coming to the spring where they had first journeyed into the Fade together. As Solas helped Myra dismount from her horse, she thought to herself, This is where he met my Despair.
It was also where she and Solas had come together, where he had held her as she wept. The place felt sacred, their love ordained by the stars in the skies. He held her hand, leading her to the spring.
"I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me," Solas said. "Do you feel the energies of the Fade tingling on your skin?" He caressed her face. "That's how I feel when I'm with you."
He dropped his hand. Myra touched her flushing cheeks.
"I'm listening," Myra said. "And I can offer a few suggestions."
"I shall bear that in mind," Solas said, smirking a bit. "For now, the best gift I can offer is…the truth." The twinkle in his eyes disappeared, his whole demeanor turned somber. He paused and directed her gaze towards him. "You are unique. In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined."
"As you are to me," Myra said, kissing him.
Solas broke away. "Then what I must tell you…the truth…" He paused. "…Your face, the vallaslin. In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean."
"They honor the elven gods," Myra said. "Mine honor Sylaise, the Goddess of the Home."
Solas shook his head. "No. They are slave markings, or at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan."
"So this is…what? Just one more thing the Dalish got wrong?"
"I'm sorry," Solas said.
Myra breathed heavily. "We try to preserve our culture, and this is what we keep? Relics of a time when we were no better than Tevinter?"
"Don't say that," Solas said. "For all they got wrong, the Dalish did one thing right." He smiled. "They made you."
Myra started to turn away, but Solas pulled her back.
"I didn't tell you this to hurt you. If you like, I know a spell…I can remove the vallaslin."
"I'd like that," Myra said. "Cast your spell, take the vallaslin away."
"Sit." Solas knelt with her in the tall grasses. "Close your eyes."
Myra obliged. She felt the magic gathering around his fingertips, felt her face tingle as he cast his spell. When he finished, she opened her eyes to find his wise eyes staring into her spritely, bright ones.
"Ar lasa mala revas," Solas said. "You are free." He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. He kissed her gently and held her close. "You are so beautiful."
But when they broke away, his brow furrowed, and his features became troubled. Myra looked at him, fear bubbling in her stomach.
"And…I am sorry," Solas said, backing away. "I distracted you from your duty." Solas shook his head. "It will never happen again."
He slipped from Myra's grasp and headed for the horses.
"Wait!" she grabbed his sleeve. "You bring me here, take the vallaslin from my face, and now you just end it?" Her gaze pleaded with him. "Please, hahren, don't leave me."
"I'm sorry," Solas said, not meeting her gaze. "I never wanted to hurt you."
Myra's face contorted as she fought back tears. She turned away from him, fighting to maintain a firm stance, to not let him see her break apart. "Well, we don't always get what we want, do we?"
He did not speak for a moment, but Myra did not hear his footsteps leaving the spring. He stayed behind her. Finally, he spoke. "I will see you back at Skyhold."
She heard his footsteps.
Myra felt her stomach drop.
Cold.
Everything felt cold as he walked away.
She fell to her knees.
He did not stop.
She heard the gallop of his horse.
…
The tears spilled over, tears she'd held back. She sunk to the ground as the weight of his departure crushed her. Her chest heaved as sobs wracked her fragile frame.
"Don't leave…please…why?" Myra looked to the sky for answer, but it was clouded over. A storm brewed. She knew it was from the north, just as it had been the day she learned of Trewyn's death. The same questions hung from her lips.
"Why?"
But there was no Keeper to answer her questions this time, and the one person she trusted to answer her had just left.
She was alone.
The Inquisitor hadn't left her room for a few days now.
And many were starting to worry. Josephine had suggested that perhaps they should send in servants to check on her and make sure she had food, but Leliana had steered her away. Something about "no fury like a woman scorned" and it'd be best to leave any food at the door.
Any servants delegated to this task had reported back to Josephine the most disturbing information.
"All we hear is shattering glass, Lady Ambassador," they said. "I can't imagine how much liquor she's gone through with all the smashing we've heard."
It was then Josephine, worried for the Inquisitor's health, ordered a daily inventory on the alcohol stores. However, day-in and day-out every bit of alcohol, down to the last bottle of Antivan Sip-Sip was accounted for. Cullen had stayed largely uninvolved in the discussions surrounding Myra's absence. Surprisingly enough, it was he who dared to venture to her quarters first. Perhaps he didn't know this "fury of a woman scorned" well enough to know to steer clear, or perhaps he was simply a fool, but he couldn't stand this nagging worry anymore.
He knocked on the door to her quarters.
…
…
…
No response.
Shifting uncomfortably, he knocked again. "Inquisitor?" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Ahem…Y-Your Worship?"
…
Still nothing.
Maybe if he had sharper wits or a harder heart, he would have left then, thinking that he'd at least tried and finally gotten a good night's rest. However, he didn't leave. He turned the door knob, and finding it unlocked, entered.
At first sight of the room, Cullen's eyes widened in horror. Glass shards strewn the entire room with paint splashed in large globs: on the floors, the walls, Maker's breath, even the ceiling. Most of all, the blighted ceiling. Whatever it once looked like he could not distinguish under the layers and layers of haphazardly thrown, multi-colored paints. The Commander was grateful he was wearing his armored boots so he could walk safely across the layers and layers of broken glass.
"Inquisitor?"
The bed sheets lay in a far corner of the room, along with a small pile of books and a music box. Her bed was stripped bare to the mattress and a pillow, only one, was ripped open, feathers around the bed.
It was shortly thereafter, in his rapidly escalating fear, that the Commander finally laid eyes on her.
"Shit. Myra," he rushed over to her and scooped her into his arms. Her hair was matted with a layer of paint and glass shards, her hands and arms covered in cuts. She didn't respond, deep in slumber. He held her tight and began to carry her out, pieces of broken paint bottles clinking to the floor as he rushed out.
"Hang on, Myra. I'm getting you help."
He felt fear bubble inside of him. "Maker's breath, I'm getting you help."
"She'll need a couple stitches, but with some elfroot the rest of the smaller cuts should heal quickly enough," the healer said.
Cullen stood with his arms firmly crossed, holding the fear inside of him.
"We had to extract glass shards from some of the deeper wounds, but there are many that may be too small for us to get out," the healer said. "That part of the process may require some magic to mitigate any damage that might cause."
"So she'll be alright?" Cullen asked.
"She should make a full recovery."
"Thank the Maker." Cullen let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Besides the injuries, she seems to be malnourished and dehydrated, but that's nothing we can't handle."
"Thank you. Keep me updated on her recovery, alright? And…let me know when she's awake. I want to speak with her."
"Yes, Commander."
After seeing that Myra was cared for, his next matter of business became clear. He stormed into Solas's study, and slammed the door behind him.
The elf stood, staring at the wall. If Cullen's insides weren't boiling, he may have noticed how empty and melancholy the elf seemed. However, the Commander was seething. If there was no fury like a woman scorned, then there was no fury like the man who cared about the woman scorned.
"Commander?" Solas said. He didn't even look at him. The blighted bastard didn't even look at him.
Cullen grabbed the elf by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall. "What did you do?" he growled.
The elf seemed genuinely shocked at first. "I'm afraid I don't know—"
"Don't give me that bullshit. What did you do to her?"
The color drained from his face. "Myra? What happened to her? Is she alright?"
"Don't act like you care, bastard. If you cared she wouldn't have been starving herself in her room for the past three days. She wouldn't be in the fucking infirmary with glass in her blighted arms!"
"Tell me what happened to her." The Solas's voice bellowed, filling the room with such command that Cullen nearly obeyed from pure instinct alone. He shook the feeling off quickly, remembering Myra's red, puffy eyes and blood-caked arms, the glass layering the floor of her quarters. In a fit of rage, Cullen threw Solas across the room, into his desk. It toppled over. Books and papers scattered across the room. The apostate caught his footing and stood defensively.
"Tell me what happ—" he began to speak again but Cullen punched him with his plated glove. Solas fell to floor and lay still for a moment. Cullen clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling all the frustration pent up from his lyrium withdrawal powering his rage.
After a few moments, Solas picked himself up and he began to chuckle. "I never realized you cared so much for her, Commander."
"Shut. Up." Cullen went in for another punch only to be blocked by the apostate's barrier. "What did you do to her?" He punched again. The barrier still stood.
"I betrayed her trust." Solas said. His eyes filled with sadness. "I hurt her without intent, and she could not handle that hurt."
The Commander snarled, but he began to understand. "Fix it. You. In the infirmary. Now."
"I am not your soldier," Solas said. "But I will go. I know the meaning of the word, 'honor,' Commander. I will repair what damage I can."
Solas left, leaving the Commander to stand in the center of the room. As his inner fire died down, his gaze drifted across the room, taking in the overturned desk, the scattered papers, and the droplets of blood staining the floor.
Cullen took a deep breath and heaved a sigh.
"Shit."
The next few days seemed to pass in a sleepless blur. Cullen went through the motions of monitoring training, determining troop movements and patrol paths, writing reports of completed missions for the Inquisitor to read once she recovered. Yet, his nerves clawed him from the inside out. The lyrium withdrawal didn't help either. The frustration would bubble so strongly within him that not even the most strenuous training regimes could whip it back down.
Finally, the day came when his worries calmed.
"Commander."
Cullen looked up from his desk to find one of the infirmary staff standing in his doorway. He stood up immediately. "Is she awake?"
"She is, Commander. She says she'll see you."
It took a great deal of discipline not to run to the infirmary. Cullen worked his way through the various peoples of Skyhold, heading down from the battlements until he finally reached the Courtyard. He saw Cassandra slicing into a training dummy only for her gaze to meet his. She knew where he was heading and her smile and nod informed him of her appreciation. With how close she and the Inquisitor were, he could only imagine Cassandra would be one of the first to see Myra after him.
When he entered the infirmary, he was greeted by the sharp smell of blood and elfroot. As his eyes adjusted from the bright sun to the dim lighting, his blood began to boil. Solas stood beside the Inquisitor, a hand hovering over her arm and glowing green. They talked in low voices. Myra gave him scathing looks as he healed the wounds that he had caused, damn it. Cullen tried to reel himself back in. Easy now, he told himself, let's make this visit pleasant.
He made his approach known by walking a little heavier than normal, his armor clanking loudly. Solas looked up from his work and held his gaze.
"Commander," he said.
"Solas," Cullen replied. Neither wavered in their gaze. Cullen looked at the bruises he'd inflicted on the apostate's face with a haughty pride. He knew he'd done wrong in physically confronting the elf, but Maker's breath it had felt so good.
After a moment that seemed drag on forever, Solas looked away. "It appears I am being relieved of my duties." Solas turned to Myra. "Dareth shiral, lethallan."
Myra crossed her arms and snarled at him as he walked away. Petty, immature. Cullen almost laughed. It was so unlike her. As Solas left, Cullen moved past him and sat on the edge of Myra's bed. Her shoulders relaxed once the elf left the infirmary, but she looked down embarrassedly once Cullen sat.
Cullen almost began to reach for her hand, but he stopped himself. No, that wasn't quite right. Maybe he should pat her leg? No, no, he didn't want to give the wrong impression. Maybe just holding her shoulder, or a hug? For goodness sake, how hard was it to convey he cared without letting on exactly how much?
She rubbed her forehead as though it ached. "All of this has been so inappropriate."
Cullen's heart caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to apologize for his behavior only to be interrupted as she continued to think aloud.
"I shouldn't have responded like a child. Throwing paint bottles like temper tantrums…" Her brow furrowed. "I quite liked that fresco he painted for me…It made Skyhold feel less alien." She heaved a sigh. "But I couldn't stare at it the night after he…ended it. It didn't bring its familiar comfort, it tormented me." She twisted her betrothal ring around her finger, and in her eyes, Cullen could see the most profound sadness. "So…I spiraled into madness. Him leaving felt all too familiar. Everyone has a breaking point, I suppose."
"Myra…" Cullen said. He tried to meet her gaze, but she refused to look him in the eyes. "I can't say I understand why all this happened, but I want you to know, you have nothing to be ashamed of." He looked down. "I only wish I had come sooner."
Myra shook her head. "You couldn't have known. I shouldn't have acted in a way that required you to rescue me. I should have been strong enough to forego the spiral altogether."
"No, none of that." Cullen reached over and caressed her face, guiding her gaze towards him. He felt his heart skip a beat, meeting the gaze of those bright eyes. They sparked when staring into his. He saw it. For a moment, he wondered if maybe she returned his feelings all along. If maybe, they could be…
Cullen's mind blanked, and he flushed, jerking his hand back to his person and staring down at his feet. Maker's breath, why must she be so beautiful? He couldn't think straight around her.
His mind only reeled faster when she reached out to him, caressing his cheek as he had hers. She guided his gaze, just as he had. His heart pounded in his chest so hard he wondered briefly if it might explode.
"Kiss me," she whispered.
"I—I can't, I—people might—" His face burned.
"Please?" she said.
She didn't really pull him to her so much as her eyes beckoned him and he responded. He leaned towards her, closer, and closer. So close he could smell her. Maker, she smelled like the forests after it rained. His heart leapt in sweet anticipation, overjoyed that the moment he'd been dreaming of was finally happening.
He stopped mere inches from her lips, his conscience calling out to him. Was this right? It had barely been a week since these same lips were kissing that apostate's, and now she wanted him? How could anyone possibly move on that quickly?
But Maker, when she opened her eyes, all he could see was the forest and all he could breathe was the storms of Ferelden. He tasted her sorrow without having to taste her, and he wanted nothing more than to dress her wounds and kiss her demons away.
She seemed to dislike his hesitancy because finally she closed the space between their lips and kissed him deeply. Their lips moved in a perfect harmony, as though practiced for years.
And in that moment, even if only for a moment, Cullen felt the cravings inside of him cease and the torrents inside himself still. His heart shone as bright as the sun.
Yes, this was it.
Peace.