"It's possible. If you take lyrium for the rest of your life.
I've seen it happen – mostly in older templars. They start to forget. Small things at first – a misplaced item, words to a song – but more fades away over time.
I'm sorry, I… thought you knew."
II.
It's the repetition that really has Cullen see that there's most certainly a problem.
The puzzled expression when she learns that they have already been to the Arbor Wilds and done what was needed. The requests for reports she's already read. The apologies afterward. The statements she's said before, but can't remember saying, and then the worry on her face when people look at her with confusion. The annoyance of the Orlesian nobles when they have to repeat something they said only a moment ago because the Inquisitor cannot properly recall it.
"I demand you judge him!" one shouts.
The faltering look in her eyes when she can't remember what the prisoner had done.
"There are so many thoughts, too cloudy to push through," Cole says one day, appearing on his desk in his usual, ghostly fashion, "I can't push through. It's too hard to see and they are too heavy to move. Maker, I don't want to say anything. I need to seal the Breach, stitch it closed like Mother stitching the holes in my brother's shirts shut. But I – there is singing. Melodic. Sad. What was the singing? I am forgetting. What am I forgetting?"
People forget where they've put things from time to time. That's normal. But this is not.
Forgetting where you put things is one thing. The amount of times Cullen himself has forgotten where he's put his books or greaves is beyond counting. Forgetting things that were done, that happens to people from time to time too. Cullen sometimes cannot remember Meredith's rage at the mages – the final battle, he will always remember; but the little things she would do in the Gallows beforehand slip away.
Forgetting how to do something is an entirely different ordeal, especially when you've done it several times before. And it worries him, almost as much as the water in her eyes when she looks up at him, because it is unlike her.
"Would you help me, please?" she asks quietly, looking at the kit beside her bed. "I wouldn't ask, I know you're still recovering, but –"
"It's alright."
"Cullen –"
"It's alright," he repeats, sitting beside her and pulling up the sleeve on her left arm until it's past her elbow.
Trevelyan is silent after that, almost like the mice that stalk through the kitchens in Skyhold. She watches carefully, trying to commit the routine to memory, as he ties the cloth above her elbow and hunts quietly for veins. She watches carefully, seeing his hands shake as he turns back to the kit and withdraw lyrium from the tube and into the needle.
The gentle stroke of his gloves against her skin is soft. The push of the needle isn't, but the rush of lyrium afterward is sweet, like the candies she and her brother would buy from the shops; and it is relaxing, easing the storm in her mind like a long chess game with Cullen or Dorian.
"I wanted this. To be a templar," she clarifies, her voice slowing as every sentence went on. "Ever since I was small, I would watch them patrol the streets of Ostwick, careful but brave, and shining under the sun. I wanted to become one to protect my brother in the Circle. Once he discovered he had magic, he loved fire, you see; but our parents feared it, understandably so. He was happy to go, but… not happy to be there. To be away. Pleased to learn, but not to be discriminated for who he was. And every day, I would ask to begin templar training, only to be told to wait. For years that went on, even as my Father taught me how to use a sword and shield, even as I thought about going to the Circle and defending him. But he died long before I had the chance."
"Was it because of the rebellion?" Cullen asks softly, trying to steady himself as he removes the needle once the last drops of lyrium disappeared. It is amazing how many people have died because of the rebellion – it is amazing how many people have been defined because of it.
"No, the rebellion came later. I'm told he did not pass his Harrowing, but I think it may have been something else."
"I have heard that Circle is known to be particularly unfair. It is admirable that you wanted to go there to protect him," Cullen gently pulls her sleeve back down her arm, watching as she calms now that the lyrium is in her system. He misses that, knowing that he'll be calm soon because of the lyrium. But he will not become dependent on it again. "I'm just sorry that there was no chance to do so."
Trevelyan hums a little before reaching to hold one of his hands, "Your hands, they were sh –"
"Don't."
She wonders if, in time, she will be like Cullen. Off the lyrium, no longer needing it for the templar abilities; but finding it hard not to think of it. He is making great improvements, and for that Trevelyan is immensely proud of him; but it lingers, like his eyes on the container, and the way his teeth press together when he sees other templars using their talents. But she must still use it, whatever the cost; at least until Corypheus is dead and the Breach is closed.
"Do you still feel it much? The lyrium, I mean." Cullen nods, and she sighs, squeezing his hand a little before removing hers, "I'm sorry. I won't ask again."
"You will. And when you do, it's alright."
"I will?"
"This is the fifth time you have asked in the past two weeks."
Trevelyan covers her face with her hands, her nails digging into her skin, and exhales sharply. Her breath catches a little at the end when she speaks, and she feels like she's crumbling and falling all at once, "I'm sorry."
Cullen frowns a little.
"I shouldn't be asking you, I should be asking Vivienne or someone else. Not you," Trevelyan looks up at him, eyes glittering a little, and with a frown that he wants to smear from her face with his thumb. "You're recovering and I keep stuffing the thing you are trying to get away from in your face, all because I can't remember how to operate the damn thing. It's not fair to you. I'm sorry."
He pulls her close for a moment, an arm around her shoulders, and presses his scarred mouth to the top of her head, waiting for her to settle. Once she does, he speaks, "There is something wrong, and you're not telling me what it is. I respect your decision to be silent, but there are times where shouldering the burden yourself will not benefit anyone. Please remember that the next time you consciously choose to keep the problem inside."
"You know I love you, right?"
"Yes, I know. And I you."
"As long as you know."
They are quiet for a few moments, save for the occasional shuffle and for the sound of the lyrium kit being shut. Trevelyan pulls away and tucks it underneath the bed, away from her Commander, and she notes how he visibly relaxes once it is out of his sight.
"The next time I ask you to help me with the lyrium, say no, alright?"
He smirks, "I can't say no to you."
"…Well, I walked into that one."
Cullen nods a little, chuckles and kisses the top of her head again. As he begins to leave, he tells her that Varric and the others are waiting for her in the tavern, and that he won't be joining them for a repeat performance; but that he wishes her a good time all the same and would like to hear of it the next spare moment she has.
There is a scrap of paper on his desk in the morning.
'The lyrium is making me forget.'
"Forgetting," he says idly, fiddling with the small items strewn across his desk.
Trevelyan's arms are folded across her body, her fingernails digging into her elbows. She doesn't trust her voice, so she nods. If her brother were alive and she told him the truth, he would have exploded, demanding that he stop her foolishness, that he was okay, and that she needed to protect herself.
She expects the same of Cullen. He is a former templar, after all, and he knows what lyrium can do. He loves her, and it is much in the same vein as her brother's protective kind of love. But all she sees his sadness, maybe even disappointment, and it is an uncomfortable and upsetting thing to see. Sharper than the cuts the Red Templars try to leave on her. Burning harder than the stray Venatori's spells.
"I'm sorry, I should've told you earlier. I'm just… afraid. I thought you should know."
"But this is not supposed to occur until you're older," Cullen says, rubbing his temples. He begins to pace his office, uncomfortable in his armour and with the fact that his Inquisitor is forgetting because of lyrium. "You're… too young."
"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. Maybe lyrium doesn't care about how old I am."
"Does anyone else know?"
"I think Cassandra suspects, and I am sure that Leliana has discovered it for herself. But I've not said a word to anyone. I don't want to burden anyone. I want to do my job, do it well, help those who need it and move on. My problems are not an issue."
When Cullen looks at her, with her sparkling green eyes and certainty in her words, he can see somewhere in there a shadow of the man he used to be. Keeping his problems and nightmares close to himself, for they were his to own and conquer, not anyone else's; and because he did not want to burden anyone else. But then he sees her and her posture, slumped and pulling inward. She is scared of what could happen.
"You told me you wanted to become a templar to protect people too," she begins, fiddling with her hands. She stares at the Anchor in her palm, sickly and glowing; she is unaware of how it illuminates her face and bounces from her eyes, "I would have thought you'd understand."
"I understood. That doesn't mean I'm not afraid for you."
"I can't remember my own brother's birthday. I'm worried about what else I could forget, especially before Corypheus."
Cullen's eyes flick to a particular door and then back to Trevelyan, who seems to be standing a little better, a little more open now that her concerns are out. "An accomplice of mine could not recall his own name before the lyrium took him violently to his grave. I don't want you to suffer the same fate. Could you see someone about it? Perhaps Solas? He is wise and knowledgeable, and he cares about you. He may be able help. He will not say anything to others."
Vivienne would be able to confirm the case, but perhaps not be as helpful. She would probably tell others. Dorian would not have any idea on what to do, but he would be silent. Solas is a nice mixture of both – of knowledge, experience, silence and friendship – so she nods and asks softly, "Would you come with me?"
"I'll fetch him now and bring him here. If we were to visit him in his study, I am sure the conversation would carry, and others would hear of it. I'll be back shortly. Please make yourself at home."
The journey to Solas' area of Skyhold is short. Convincing him to come back is a little harder – he is still grieving for the loss of his… spirit-friend – but when he hears the Inquisitor needs him, the elf is all smiles and follows wordlessly.
When he returns, she is pacing anxiously. Cullen is about to ask what the matter is when Trevelyan announces, "I have something to tell you."
"What is it?" he asks hesitantly. Behind him, Solas is watching with wolf-like precision.
And again, despite the hesitance at Solas' arrival, she tells him that the lyrium is making her forget – another repetition. But he already knows. They have already had the conversation. Cullen would repeat everything he has said – that he understands, that is afraid for her and that something must be done – but she looks like she is going to jump out of her own skin, now more than before.
When Trevelyan sits behind his desk so that Solas can overlook her, she spots the scrap of paper on top of all his work. The one she wrote and left on his desk this morning. She holds it up curiously and then looks at him, even as the elf shuffles around, feeling her forehead, checking her pulse and so on. When the information sinks in, she crushes it in her hand and rubs her face, "I've already told you."
"Lady Trevelyan, please. It's alright." He watches as Solas gingerly picks up her marked hand and inspect it.
"No, Cullen, this isn't alright! Stop saying that it is. It's not helping."
Cullen silences then, because he doesn't know how else he can comfort her and that deeply upsets him more than he lets on.
"It is possible that the Anchor is accelerating the problem," Solas surmises, placing her marked hand back into her lap. "Your connection to the Breach is not as beneficial as most would hope. You were very ill as you slept and the nerve pain you have described to me in the past has an obvious link; it is possible that the Breach is affecting you negatively once again.
"It is then also probable that the problem will settle or perhaps even reverse once we have sealed the Breach and stopped Corypheus from claiming Godhood. Until such a time, I will provide whatever assistance I can. I have noticed your concentration as of late is particularly suffering in the field – it seems this is why."
Trevelyan seems satisfied with that, but adds, "I don't notice any changes when I seal a rift."
"The rifts are side effects of the Breach. You cannot treat the problem by treating its side effects. You must confront the issue at its core and fix it appropriately – and then the side effects will disappear." He gives a half bow, uncertain of what else to do, and then says he will return to his study and begin looking for answers.
Trevelyan threads her fingers through her hair. Cullen simply stands still, too afraid to approach now that he knows his attempts at comfort have been doing the opposite.
"I'm sorry."
It startles him at first, this presence at night in the garden that is none other than the Inquisitor. Cullen looks up for a moment from the royal elfroots that have been planted in the pots – he is taking calculations on what else the Inquisition needs – and furrows his eyebrows. He won't look at her, uncertain of what he'll find. The wall is safer, "Pardon?"
"I was an asshole to you the other day. I shouldn't have snapped at you as I did. You were only trying to help and I –"
"No, it's alright," Cullen says, now looking down at his feet, feeling more like that boy in Kinoch Hold than the Knight-Captain he once was, or the Commander he is now is.
They stand awkwardly in the garden, their gazes hovering on where Morrigan usually is but not for today; and they remember the anger she felt when she learnt that Mythal was her Mother. Trevelyan coughs a little and then rubs at her throat, unsure of how to progress.
She's never been good at apologies.
"You said, um, th-that it wasn't helping. I would like to know what does help, so that I may do so for the future."
She looks at him with tingling warmth in her chest, watching him watch his feet and then his hands and then the wall. And when Trevelyan reaches for his hand and holds it, Cullen at last meets her eyes.
She tells her companions and other advisors soon after that, because it is in the best interests of everyone that they know that the Inquisitor is suffering because of the lyrium. Because of her choice to become a templar. The Iron Bull tells her a little suffering is good, but mentions that this particular suffering is bad. He rubs his chin, "As long as it's only little things."
"Wouldn't want to forget how to seal the rifts," Sera adds, chewing on a cookie and secretly pleased that everyone enjoys the batch she made. "Would look like a right tit standing there in the middle of demons, wondering what the problem is. End of the world and all that, too."
"I don't want to offend some Orlesian… fancy pants because I can't remember which fork is the right one to eat with, and that I shouldn't shove it into their eye," Trevelyan spits angrily.
Noble. The word was noble, not fancy pants.
Varric laughs at that anyhow – which Trevelyan notes – and raises his mug.
The Inquisitor is very grateful that her friends have accepted the problem so easily, and that they are so supportive and ready to assist when needed. But she doesn't feel lighter for doing so, rather the opposite.
Her friends already have their own issues. Every single one of them. And now in addition to the looming threat of the end of the world, they will now worry about her and her forgetfulness. All because of a stupid thing that's mined from the ground and injected into her veins to give her the abilities she needs to help.
She frustratingly finds herself unable to say the right words or phrases for the rest of the evening, even as it slips by quietly, like the days of autumn. But being in the company of those she cares about – except for Commander Cullen, because his nose is pressed deep into his work, as usual – is settling only in the sense that she is not alone.
Just as she is going to ascend the stairs to her bedroom, Josephine catches her wrist and requests a moment of her time. When she turns and finds the ambassador is not holding paperwork or requests for aid, she pauses curiously.
"You have it, yes?" Trevelyan asks, wringing her hands.
"Of course, Inquisitor. I'm sorry it did not arrive sooner," Josephine smiles, and she holds out a thick, green book.