"I don't know. Perhaps."

IV.

Cullen does not return her lyrium kit, but despairs to find a new one under her bed a month later.

He had just been in the area, leaving reports on her desk for when she returns from the Emerald Graves in a matter of days when he just… needed to see. Needed to know. And there it is. Small and kept neatly under her bed, amongst coats, shoes and books that she has tossed underneath. There is a part of him that is devastated to see it there, hurt and angry; but there is a larger part of him that reminds him not everyone can do it.

That hurts too.

The fact that the Inquisitor, the saviour of this world, cannot get past lyrium… It hurts to think that he, a lesser man, can; and that the greatest woman cannot.

No wonder she'd been calmer.

She is trapped in its thrall, like an Orlesian dungeon cell with its only exit in the ceiling.

He leaves and asks Knight-Captain Rylen where she got it from. If she took it from the soldiers who needed it. But Rylen just shakes his head and swears that no soldier gave the box to her, nor did she ask them for it. It leaves Cullen thinking – where? How? Who gave it to her?

His answer comes from a surface dwarf penning his latest novel.

"Why?" Cullen hisses.

"Because she needed it, Curly," Varric grits his teeth, and for a moment he grows concerned that they will shatter under the force. "You know how I feel about lyrium. I would rather burn the stuff than let it hurt another person. I saw what it did to Bartrand. I saw how it drove your Knight-Commander mad. I saw what it turned people into – mages and templars alike. But did you ever stop for a second to think that maybe, just maybe being without it now is doing more harm than good?"

"She was supposed to conquer it!"

"Well not all people can do that! And you would do well to remember it!"

"I know that! How dare you insinuate that I –"

"Cullen," Varric growls, and it's the first time Cullen can remember the dwarf using his name rather than that stupid nickname. "I'm sorry. But not everyone is as big and brave as you. Not everyone can do what you did, whether they had the chance or the support or not. You saw what it did to people as much as I have. Your own colleagues, driven mad by the need for it; starved of it when it went away. Wouldn't you rather have her as she is, forgetting, than thinking of nothing but lyrium for the rest of her life?"

"I would rather that she made the choice for herself than you simply give it to her."

"She asked me. More than once. And I relented when I saw her wandering Skyhold at night, lost and unsure of exactly where was. She thought she was somewhere in the Free Marches."

Cullen pauses at that, his fingernails chewing into the gloves on his hands. "Wandering?"

Varric rubs his temples and pushes himself away from the desk in front of the fire. It's been a long time now since Hawke died, but he still cannot bring himself to face the flames, for they remind him of the Champion too much. "It's getting worse. She won't tell you because she knows how much it'll hurt. So I gave it to her. It seems to help a bit, she's forgetting slower. She's even remembering a thing here and there. I don't want to… enable this, but… The Inquisitor needs it now. To whatever end."

"Varric, this could kill her."

"There are many things that could kill her. The lyrium will just have to get in line and wait to try after everything else."

He smiles a little at that – morbid, isn't it? – and Varric apologises again before saying he needs to resume his writing. In that moment, Cullen returns to the war room to meet with Leliana and Josephine – something about Rivain and pirates he remembers vaguely - when it really hits him. When everything finally sinks in.

The templars took too much of him. His youth. His compassion, his kindness. But he found them again in Lady Trevelyan, and now the templars have taken her too.

He wishes lyrium never existed.

Trevelyan runs into his office the moment she returns, "There's something I need to tell you –"

"I know." Cullen says, aching and exhausted. His eyes don't leave the work in front of him.

"Are you going to leave?" Trevelyan asks quietly, her voice trembling like leaves in the wind.

He looks up at her at last, hurting but no less in love with her, "I don't think I ever could."

From thereon in, the Inquisitor goes to extraordinary lengths to keep Cullen away from lyrium.

She does not mention it around him. If he asks if it's helping, she will answer honestly, but not push it further. She doesn't mention the sensations, doesn't talk about her templar abilities – they are strong again, even though they are still no longer necessary. She orders that any talk of lyrium restocking for the few mages and templars that remain under the Inquisition's banner go through her rather than the Commander. All lyrium miners are diverted from his care and into hers, not for her use but just to make sure it is away from him.

He wakes less at night. The nightmares remain but they are not as bad. She wakes more and fights to return to sleep.

If she does not remember how to inject it, she calls for Varric instead. His work is clumsy, but it is the pattern that he remembers and she doesn't. Trevelyan says once as her eyelids slide downward through the rush of the lyrium, "I won't drag him down with me. I don't want him to fail because of my weakness."

Varric thinks of Merrill and how she thought the same of her Eluvian and Hawke.

That night she goes down to the tavern to drink with Varric, Dorian and… and…

Maker, no.

"The Iron Bull," Varric supplies helpfully, gesturing to the great, hulking horned figure opposite him; the one with one eye who is fighting to keep the worry from his face, "I do believe you have some stories for us about shitty times in Par Vollen. What were they again?"

Trevelyan listens, but she cannot hide her despair at forgetting one of her friends. But as she listens, she realises… that she has forgotten more than simply a name. That there are people missing, ones who have moved on from the Inquisition that… helped… that she cannot recall.

There was a man that she used to converse with, one with a great, black beard and a broad shield. Why could she not remember him? There was a girl that she used to have fun with, with haphazard, blonde hair and… arrows. Why could she not remember her? There was a woman, full of power, mystery and determination. Why could she not remember her either?

The elf mage. S-something.

Maker, no.

Pieces, important, wonderful pieces that no longer fit in her mind.

When she returns to her quarters to rest and requests that Cullen does not stay here for the night, Trevelyan ends up crying for hours.

"I wish to step down as Inquisitor."

Leliana's eyebrows, perfect and poised, nearly fly off her face, "I beg your pardon?"

They are at the rookery, amidst many black feathers and letters that need to be sent. Trevelyan didn't like coming here too often, but she knew that Leliana wouldn't judge her or immediately say no without letting her explain first. Trevelyan runs her fingers through her hair – they shake always, now – and repeats, "I wish to step down as Inquisitor."

Her mouth runs off at a mile a minute, then. She wants to step down because she cannot adequately assist those who need it. She wants to allow others the opportunity to assist. She doesn't need to be here anymore, doesn't need to help; the… mark… in her hand is shut, an ugly green scar like the one in the sky.

"If I might suggest," Leliana says, squeezing Trevelyan's shoulder, "Perhaps you should search for someone to fill your shoes. The world will always love and remember you for what you have done, for sealing the Breach; but if you feel –"

"The Breach?"

"The… The scar in the sky that you sealed with the mark on your hand. Do you not remember?"

"I scarred the sky?"

"No, you stitched it shut, you saved it."

Trevelyan exhales and wrings her hands. "That's right, I did, I think. With a man and two elves by my side; those whose names I cannot recall, and whose faces are fading away with every passing moment."

"Blackwall and Sera have moved on. I still cannot find Solas, though I am told that Vivienne is using her resources as Divine to continue the search. It has only been two and a half years, my lady. It is upsetting to hear that your mind is coming apart, like threads on an old blanket, after such a short time."

"Upsetting to you? Upsetting to you?" Trevelyan spits, lifting her chin. "It is not your mind that is fraying. You are not the one forgetting not only facts and things done, but now names and faces of those you care for."

"I only meant –"

"I will speak with Josephine about a replacement for myself."

And Trevelyan leaves, fighting to cement the faces with the names she heard.

Cullen still sees the desire demon in his mind, rummaging through it for useful information.

He still sees the way the desire demon seizes the memories of Amell, lovely Amell, and distorts them into something horrible and wrong. But Cullen knows now the difference, knows who is real and who is not; and he would apologise to Amell, deeply and profusely, if she had not sacrificed her life to end the Fifth Blight.

He still says he's sorry in his own little ways.

Trevelyan, with her warm hands and warmer heart, still shakes him from those times, trying to wake him up. Her voice pierces the nightmares. Lovelier than the sound of lyrium. And he wakes, shaking but still himself, still the man he should be, making the difference he always wanted to make.

"Cullen," she says, "It's alright. You're fine. You're…"

Cullen sees it in her eyes before she registers it herself – the trapped expression. Trevelyan doesn't remember where she is. She knows she is safe here with him, but not where she is. She begins to pull away, fingers curling into her palms as her eyes dart around the room, trying to make sense of it.

"This isn't Ostwick –"

"Lady Trevelyan –"

"Where am I?"

"You're here," he rasps, grabbing her hands and trying to blink away the drowsiness and the sadness that threatens to swallow his heart – because she should not be like this, and he cannot do anything about it. "You're here with me. We are in Skyhold. We are safe, and we are well."

Trevelyan clutches his hands so tightly that he fears letting go will send her into a downward spiral. So he sits up a little more and holds them, waiting for her to recognise her surroundings and settle down. He watches her green eyes dart about, taking in the desk and the heraldry; and when she relaxes at last, recognising her surroundings, he draws her body close to him and holds her.

"You are in Skyhold with me," he murmurs.

"In the Frostback Mountains," she says; and then she adds with a rare moment of clarity, "We came here after Haven was destroyed. Solas led us here."

"Yes."

"Corypheus is dead."

"Yes."

"Sometimes… I feel like he is still here, calling me and desperate for…" she tightens and loosens her left hand repeatedly against his chest, trying to recall the name, "the… Anchor. I feel like he is still speaking to me in the Fade, telling me how worthless this entire endeavour is – was – and that I will ultimately fail. I feel like he will take away those I care about. I feel like he is still here, that I still see him."

"He is dead. You slew him yourself. He cannot come back. He will not come here."

Trevelyan, to an extent, still feels like Corypheus won. Yes, the world is not in turmoil. Orlais is stable. He is gone, as is his dragon, and the Breach is sealed. But her mind is still falling apart, just as he promised. She is still forgetting, and there are times where she cannot recall the efforts of the Inquisition to subdue him.

She remembers the monster but not the men who fought him – and in that sense, he still lives.

"Go back to sleep," Cullen says, still holding her close against him. "I will be here."

Trevelyan tries to fall asleep again but she never really does.

All this because she wanted to become a templar.

Trevelyan and Josephine go over their options for a new Inquisitor. It takes months and lots of do-overs because of Trevelyan's memory problem; but they reach a decision, one that they both agree on, even as she gradually stops writing in her thick, green book.

"Don't stop writing in it, please," Josephine begs.

"It is hard now," Trevelyan answers with finality.

The other advisors and the companions who remain are frustrated with the decision, but they understand. Trevelyan believes this is the best option, and so they will support her. Trevelyan cannot be the woman they need her to be anymore – that doesn't mean that they will cast her aside so easily, or that she is a different person.

It also doesn't mean that the new Inquisitor, a surface dwarf from House Cadash, forgets her contribution nor appreciates his selection. Cadash runs everything by Trevelyan and continues her steady supply of lyrium using his connections to the trade; and he ensures that she is safe and that no criminal will come near her. Cadash is nothing like his brethren – Varric validates this.

Cadash tries hard to include Trevelyan in everyday things. They go over reports together. Cadash asks why the Commander is not so fond of him, and Trevelyan just shrugs and smiles. She asks him about how things are out on the field, seeing as she now doesn't trust herself, templar abilities or otherwise, to go out there. Cadash says that things are well. Her – their – companions confirm it.

It is Cadash who finds her wandering Skyhold at night, more than once, and always unsure of where she is. And like those around her, he reminds her that she is in Skyhold with the armies and followers she amassed.

But this time it's not working.

Cole appears, still ghostly and haunting, and says how she wants to go home but she doesn't know where that is anymore. Cole tries to remind her using flashes of her memories that he once had been privy to – except no, she cannot recall her brother's birthday, or the time that they ate so many sweets that their stomachs ached. But that doesn't work either, and it sends Cole into a panic.

"I don't know where I am," Trevelyan chokes, rubbing her eyes. "I don't know where I am."

"I want to help," Cole says, pulling down on one side of his hat. Cadash has long run off to get Cullen. "Let me help you, my lady. Let me in – why won't you let me in to help?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Cole," he exhales, frustrated but no less determined to assist, and in no less pain.

It doesn't register in her mind nor across her face. She stares at him, wide eyed and unsure. She looks at his hat. His face. At his dishevelled, patchwork clothes and at the way the spirit then literally vanishes before her eyes; and then she forgets what she was looking at.

She ends up at the tavern, looking around for familiar faces. None of them register. The horns on the man in the back frighten her so much – remind her so much of a dragon that keeps popping up in her mind – that she begins to back out.

"Lady Trevelyan."

Her head snaps around, easily recognising the deep sound. Cullen is behind her, cloaked and caring and familiar. So she rushes to his side, not noticing his pained expression nor the way Cadash shakes his head.

Why is the world so unfamiliar?

It is four years to the day since Corypheus was defeated, and the Herald of Andraste herself remains in her bedroom in Skyhold, a shadow of who she had once been.

Varric ascends the long-and-bastardly-endless-for-dwarf-legs stairs, ignoring the sounds of celebration behind him, armed with some sweets he has smuggled from downstairs. It took a lot of patience, waiting for Cassandra to turn her back and for Josephine to be too engaged in conversation, but he managed. It's the least he can do for Trevelyan; as it is, it's time for lyrium.

When he opens the door, she is sitting on her bed and looks right through him.

He knows now that she has lost him too.

"Hello, Lady Trevelyan. How are you this morning?" he tries.

"I'm sorry but, do I know you?"

"Of course you do. You just can't remember right now, and that's alright. But look," he hides the pain and approaches her, holding out a wide hand with some sweets sitting atop them. It seems to calm her, "I've brought you these from downstairs. Cadash is taking care of everything, you don't need to worry; but I couldn't let you stay up here without at least trying these."

Trevelyan's guard falls slowly. It is down completely when she takes the sweets from Varric's hands and begins to unwrap them, almost childlike. As he sits next to her on her bed and draws the box out from beneath it, she says, "You look familiar, but I don't know why. Are you a friend of Cullen?"

"He and I go way back," Varric laughs a little, and that seems to please Trevelyan, who relaxes entirely. "It's time for lyrium. Could you roll your sleeve up for me?"

"Lyrium?"

He waits for her to recognise the box and its contents. For the name to drop into her head – but it never does, and that surprises him. For something she had become so dependent on, for something that she… needed, and now she cannot remember it. Varric doesn't know if this is a good sign or a bad one; the bastard lyrium has all but destroyed her mind anyhow, or made it worse.

They never did find out what made her memories go – her genetics, the Anchor or the lyrium. But whatever the answer, it has trapped her, and they lose her more every day.

He thinks for several moments on how to approach the situation – to give it to her, or not to give it to her. He doesn't know what else to do – he thought it helped, and maybe it did slow the memory loss over time, but the lyrium did not stop it. In the end, Varric places the kit back under her bed and tells her not to worry about it; and he asks with genuine interest, "How was your day today? Do anything interesting?"

She answers him while chewing on sweets, "I met two new people today. One was a woman, she had an eye on her armour. Her name… Her name…"

"Cassandra," Varric supplies, taking one of the sweets from her hand to have for himself.

"Yes, that was it. And another man, with fabulous black hair and he was so charming."

"Dorian."

"Yes, Dorian, that was it," Trevelyan furrows her eyebrows and asks, "Are they yours and Cullen's friends too?"

"Well my lady, we're all friends here," Varric grins. "And we all care about you, whether we remained in Skyhold or moved on to other places in Thedas."

He remains, with Cassandra, Dorian, Cullen, Josephine and Leliana. Blackwall is with the Wardens at Weisshaupt, where he ought to be. Sera is… somewhere, doing things for her little organisation. Vivienne remains Divine, and they fear her as they should. The Iron Bull left with the Chargers, but they remain in contact and act as Inquisition soldiers of sorts, assigned to places here and there. Cole has moved on, unable to bear the fact that he cannot help Trevelyan. And Solas is still nowhere to be found, dissipated like a wolf's howl on the wind.

There is silence – uncomfortable, horrible silence, unlike the times before when they were wandering Haven or the Hinterlands – as Trevelyan finishes up the sweets Varric brought for her. But she stares at a particular one before devouring it, minty fresh and encased in dark chocolate. She stares at it like she remembers something, so Varric tries, "Have you had that one before?"

"I… I don't know," she answers, chewing on its remains.

Varric knows. She has. It is one of the sweets she specifically mentioned to him in camp once, when discussing brothers and how they were no longer alive. He runs his fingers through his hair, "I think you have. With your brother, back in Ostwick."

"My… brother?"

Varric's stomach falls to the floor.

Trevelyan searches his face and becomes increasingly uncomfortable when the dwarf continues to stare, unresponsive. She wrings her hands and looks to the stone floor, her eyes tracing patterns in its cracks uneasily, "Where's Cullen?"

"I'll get him for you, just wait here." And Varric hops off the bed, goes back down the stairs and wonders where on earth Trevelyan went.

It is perhaps the saddest thing Cullen has ever seen – Trevelyan's decay.

The death of Meredith was always something that struck him as unfortunate rather than sad. Despite her anger and her forthcomings, somewhere in there was a good woman who was swallowed by rage. Hawke's death too was unfortunate and most certainly regrettable. The less he thinks of Amell and how she died saving an entire, thankless nation, the better.

But Trevelyan, she has done nothing but good things, and she is… rotting away.

She scarcely recognises anyone now, except for him. From time to time she recalls Varric's name and knows how good a friend he is. It always makes the surface dwarf teary, and she always jests that he will omit that in his future tales. Her recognition for Varric occurs more than for Cadash, Cassandra or Dorian – but she at least recognises them as friendly faces. She is polite to Josephine, but uncertain. Leliana frightens her, and he can understand that. The Iron Bull came by once, and she was fascinated by his horns. Blackwall, Sera and Vivienne remain away.

She hasn't had the lyrium in a long while now, but it has done its job. Or if it were not the cause, it is certainly the reason she has cracked so badly. Just another thing that the Templar Order has taken; and it will take more, under Vivienne's command or not.

Trevelyan never does remember her brother again. A man in her memories, lost to time.

Cullen grieves for that in private, for it was someone the woman he loved missed and cared for dearly.

He wants to remember her brother's birthday, but she never said what it was.

"Could I have some more tea?" she asks him, holding out her small cup. The one with wolves dancing across it.

"Of course," he says, taking it from her and moving towards her fireplace.

There is silence as he busies himself, as Trevelyan looks at the books by her side. That is how she passes her time now, reading – but the stories within never seem to stick anymore. Stories of the Blights, of the Qunari invasions of Kirkwall, of the wars between the Tevinter Imperium and Orlais. The most recent book she is combing through is the recount of the Winter Palace, all those years ago – and she reads it as though she were a spectator rather than actually being there, actually involved in what occurred.

Cullen notes that she is particularly quite hesitant about the thick, green book she used to write in – she hasn't written in it since Cadash was appointed the new Inquisitor. She won't even open it. When Varric is here, he tries to get her to do so, but every time she refuses and she doesn't know why.

"The one who left… The elf mage…"

"Solas," Cullen says softly, looking at her from the corner of his eye as he finishes pouring some more tea for her.

As he returns to her side, he watches as the recognition literally lights up across her face, like the flames dancing across the fingertips of young mage apprentices for the first time. "Yes, Solas." And then her voice is small and hurt. "I wish he hadn't left."

"You were good friends. You taught each other much, and you bonded well," he says idly, watching as she brings the cup slowly to her mouth, trying to register the words that he had just spoken.

Cullen returns to his reports, looking over them in his lap as Trevelyan resumes her reading. It is peaceful and quiet, and he only wishes she could remember everything. And he thinks she wishes it too, because although she cannot remember every detail in her life, when she sees the pain in his face – or Varric, Cassandra, or Dorian; Cadash doesn't seem to affect her – she clearly still frowns at their sadness.

Trevelyan grabs the furs of his cloak, turning him towards her. He looks at her questioningly, wondering if he has become someone unrecognisable or threatening in her mind. But then he feels her fingers unwind and slide up his neck, tracing along his stubbled jaw line and then resting on his cheeks. She is smiling at him sweetly, "I love you."

He closes the distance faster than he can think.

It is the last time she ever says those words.

She still tastes like lyrium.

"A lake, chilly but warm, meaningful and quiet. Please stay."

Cullen nearly leaps out of his seat at the sound. He rubs his forehead and looks across the room, finally settling on the spirit boy with the oversized hat, the one who has not been here in many months, "Cole, you startled me."

"Can't forget. I don't want to forget," Cole chokes, trying to breathe but struggling to do so, like every inhale is gradually poisoning him from the inside out. "Trapped. Exit bolted shut. I can't get out. I don't want to forget anymore."

Cullen furrows his eyebrows and begins to stand.

"Maker, not him too. Please let me have this. Only this, if nothing else at all. Let me forget my brother and his magic; Father and his strategies; Mother always said 'modest in temper, bold in deed' and I don't care to remember. Let me forget the elf mage that was my best friend. The dwarf with the stories who comforts me and never judges. The others who visit. But not him. Maker please, not my dear Commander."

He doesn't see Cole disappear. He is running to Trevelyan's room, through Solas' old room, which is still empty but adorned with the artworks of her triumph. He doesn't see that Varric is gone today, no longer by the fire penning more tragedies. He doesn't notice that Cadash has gone to Kal-Sharok for the time being, because please, don't let her forget me too.

His hands slip on the door, but once it's open, he takes the stairs up two at a time until he sees her there, sitting on her bed, with her hair tied back and away from her tired face. Maker, she looks so tired.

"Yes?" she asks tentatively.

"Lady Trevelyan," it's all he can get out amidst his huffing.

She waits for a moment, as though she is cataloguing his entrance, his appearance and his words.

He waits, his heart suspended in his throat.

And then she smiles, "Cullen."

But Maker, it is not a smile that reaches her eyes.

"Was there something you needed?" Cullen asks, approaching her with cautious steps – and he stumbles into the lyrium kit on the floor, finding it open but unused – a clear sign that she was curious but not willing to find out. But that's unimportant, as he tiptoes around other things she has pulled out from underneath the bed – she remembers. She remembers his face and his name; but he wonders if she remembers that she loves him, because he cannot see it in her eyes. He hopes she does.

Trevelyan shuffles aside and allows him to sit beside her. She fiddles behind her, going through the books that are stacking up and across one side of the bed – and then –

"Would you… read this to me?" she asks, eyes wide, trusting and almost childlike.

It is the thick, green book. The one she wrote in for so very long.

He stares at it, and then at her. He feels sick. His chest aches. His nerves demand lyrium to deal with the painful situation. Maker's breath, this is hard.

She holds it out further to him, trying to place it in his gloved hands as he sits beside her. She smiles, and it still will not reach her eyes, not like when he is above her in the dark, not like when they were by the lake, and not like when she saved the world. She stumbles over her words a few times before the sentence begins to tumble, but once it does, he listens carefully, "I can't make sense of the handwriting, but I very much would like to listen. It interests me, and you are nice, comforting and safe. What is the story about?"

Cullen takes it from her hands gently. He lays it across his lap and opens the thick, green book to the first page and sees for the first time what is inside it.

In an instant, his heart breaks.

"Please don't make me read this," Cullen begs with a shaking voice, looking back up at green eyes that register who he is, but not what he means to her. Like he is a ripple in the pond, but not the entire scene anymore. Like he is important, but not enough, not like he had once been. Not like she still is to him.

"Cullen," she sighs softly, settling back into the plush pillows, still smiling and eager to listen.

He blinks away tears and looks back at the words on the page. He flicks through the book in sections, getting glimpses into the loopy writing that adorns every single one of them; words that were confidential and not meant for him. Descriptions of things he didn't know – recounts of things most private. The way her brother was taken to the Circle. The way the Iron Bull made her laugh so hard that she choked on her drink. The way she feels when she reaches for his face and cradles it in her hands; when she kisses him and what she feels for him.

The journal that she fought to fill to the brim with her achievements, her memories, and those she cared about.

She reaches for his hand and curls her slim fingers around his wrist. And for a moment it feels like nothing has changed at all.

He never could and still cannot say no to her.

"This is the story of the daughter of Bann Trevelyan, leader of the reborn Inquisition."

END
Thank you for reading!