"What will you do when this is over?"
The question is asked calmly, deliberately, and completely catches Dorian off guard. His head snaps up from his study of the chessboard, staring at Cullen who regards him quietly, face solemn. "When this is over?" Dorian repeats, trying to give himself some time to collect his now scattered thoughts.
"Yes." Cullen nods slowly. "When this is over." He nudges one of his rooks forward, a sloppy move that will put him in check in three turns. "I've heard that you plan on returning to Tevinter."
Dorian opens his mouth and takes a breath to speak, but nothing come out and he lets his mouth shut. It's not so much that he hasn't thought on it a great deal-truth be told, its consumed his thoughts when he wasn't busy working on projects for the Inquisitor-but its more that his future goals have been blurred by emotion and desire and need. Had anyone asked him months ago what his plans were, he would have regaled them with his grandiose ideas to change his homeland for the better, plans to turn Tevinter back into a nation to be proud of, one that could interact with the rest of the continent without causing another war.
But to ask him now? When the mere sight of the Commander is enough to make his heart skip a beat, when he falls asleep wondering how it will feel to have Cullen's perpetual stubble rubbing against his thighs and wakens harder than he's been since he was in his teens, when the thought of leaving, of fulfilling his dreams of reforming the Tevinter empire, fills him with panic?
Cullen still awaits his response, to both the asked question and the unasked question that they both know hangs between them: How long will this last between us? And he honestly doesn't know what to respond with, too unsure of one path and too scared to fully commit to the other. But he supposes his lack of a response is a response in itself for now, and leaves it at that.
The match finishes in silence. Dorian's not sure which one of them threw the game.
There is something to be said for all the stories calling the Fade a horrible place. Sure, in dreams it isn't too bad, but in person? In the flesh the air is thick, cloying, clinging to the skin and catching in the lungs; every steps seems insubstantial, like the ground (or what can be considered ground) will give way like sand at any moment and let the endless ocean sweep everything away into the nothingness.
But it's not the physical aspects of the void that stick.
Old wounds reopened so soon after scabbing over, old fears, old agonies and terrors and disappointments, all brought back to the surface to scramble Dorian's brain and leave him weak in the knees. All of them that had fallen into the Fade after Elena were affected in similar fashion as the nightmare demon attempted to break their minds, but it's only Dorian who remains effected after their march back to Skyhold from Adamant. That isn't to say that everyone else is exuding sunshine and shitting rainbows-quite the opposite. The mood in the hold is somber as they all process the way the world has changed after the exile of the Grey Wardens, the deaths of so many troops and, in Varric's case, the loss of a close friend.
They all stick to their quarters or their work areas. Dorian spends almost all of his time either in his bed tossing and turning from nightmares, in the library, or in the tavern trying to drink himself drunk enough to sleep through the night in peace.
But no matter how much he drinks he can't make the images of his father drawing on the floor in blood, of him commanding his slaves to take hold of him, of being tied like a fucking hog for slaughter. The words his father said to him echo in the far corners of his mind, You are a disgrace, you are a broken and useless tool, but I will fix you.
Even now the words hurt.
Dorian finds solace in his books. No tomes of research and history, but simple romance and drama and comedy; stories to laugh and weep with, stories that take him to lands unknown, fantasy worlds where who and what he is doesn't matter. Pure escapism, and he's well aware of it. One doesn't spend the majority of their life surrounded by books without the occasional escape from the pressures and pains of real life. But sometimes coping mechanisms are needed, like now.
Interruptions are few and far between. Besides the odd bird flying by too close and startling him and the servant sent daily to remind him to eat by someone they can't name who he's positive is Cullen, he's left alone. As the days turn into weeks, however, he finds himself growing… antsy. He jitters his knee when he's not paying attention, picks at loose threads in his clothing until they're frayed at the edges. There's something missing that he needs but no matter how much he thinks on it-or ignores it-the itch under his skin won't leave him.
To ease his nerves, Dorian turns to taking walks through the hold. At first the walks are just through the great hall, using studying the murals on the wall as an excuse to stretch his legs. Then they take him through the garden, sometimes stopping long enough to exchange a few words with Elena to see how she's doing. After a few days he just lets his legs take him where they will, taking the opportunity to blank his mind and concentrate only on the act of walking.
Its on one of these walks that finds Dorian wandering the battlements in the early evening hours. The wind has that cool mountain crispness that fills his lungs with vigor and vitality; Dorian can't help but take a moment to take his fill, breathing long and deep. It's like taking the first sip of water after being lost in the desert for days, satisfying and yet…
Not enough.
So Dorian lets his feet carry him onward along the battlements, past guards on duty, diplomats gossiping, and messengers carrying missives and secrets. He doesn't really pay attention to who he passes or where he's going until he finds himself standing before one of the three doors leading into Cullen's office and quarters.
It's been almost a month since their last game of chess, that last conversation still left unfinished between them. And it's not as if Dorian has been avoiding Cullen, not really. The march on Adamant came maybe two days after their last meeting, and both of them had put duty-Cullen as commander, Dorian as a member of Elena's core attack group-before their own personal needs. But apparently personal needs were troubling him enough subconsciously to bring him here, even while his conscious mind was busy warring with itself over his own self worth and general existence, and now he's here. At Cullen's door.
But not actually entering.
After all, what is he going to say when he walks in? Sorry I was being a total ass a good month or so ago before we washed the walls of Adamant fortress with the blood of friends and foes alike, spat in the face of the Chantry and walked in the Fade in the flesh, and essentially kicked the Grey Wardens out of the country! Or, Would you like to take a moment to be selfish with me and talk about our feelings when there are more important things to worry about than whether or not your desk can sustain both of our weight? Or maybe he could try, Remember that time you asked me a question I couldn't answer? I still don't have the answer! Isn't that fascinating? Better yet, why not just burst through the door and declare, I'm a dysfunctional mess who is incapable of having intimate relationships with people because a lifetime of believing I'm a monster doesn't disappear just bec-
Dorian hears the distinct sound of glass breaking on the other side of the door. A confrontation?
Instinct kicks in, cutting off his mental raving and pushing all his personal problems right out the window. Magic pools in his free hand as he whips open the door and barges in, fully prepared to set someone or something on fire. Instead he jumps to the side, dodging a vial thrown with force at the wall beside the door. Blue liquid splashes on the wall, splashes him, and he instantly knows it's lyrium when it comes into contact with his skin.
"Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that." The quip leaves his lips almost by rote as his eyes scan the room, searching for danger. But all he finds is Cullen standing at his desk, looking absolutely ashamed of himself.
"Dorian! I didn't hear you enter, I didn't expect-I didn't mean to…" Cullen sighs and runs one hand through his hair, leaning heavily on his desk with the other. "Please forgive my momentary outburst." He looks exhausted, haggard. Dorian dispels the magic gathering in his hand and shuts the door behind him, sidestepping the mess on the floor.
"No need to apologise," Dorian replies with a shrug, forcing what he hopes is a reassuring smile on his face despite the worry he feels coiling in the pit of his stomach. Its not the throwing things that has him worrying, everyone's allowed to have an angry moment every once in a while, but rather Cullen's appearance in general. Before the Inquisition marched on Adamant he looked healthy, cheeks full and eyes bright. But now he looks pale, drawn, cheekbones sharper than usual in a face starting to go a little gaunt. There's a tremor to his voice, in the hand still in his hair. Now that he thinks about it though, perhaps the change has been happening slowly, and he's only now noticing how bad it is since he hasn't seen Cullen for some time. But what could have happened to bring this about?
Dorian doesn't go in for the obvious question though, instead taking slow steps around the room towards Cullen, as if approaching a terrified deer. "If I may ask," he starts, running a hand along one of the bookshelves against the wall, "what exactly did the vial say to make you so angry? Did it insult your hair?"
The statement makes Cullen's huff a small laugh under his breath as he shakes his head, so easily distracted from his embarrassment by Dorian's wit. He sighs and sinks into his chair. "Its… I don't know where to start." Cullen's shoulders slump and he sags forward, burying his face in his hands.
Maker, but he looks wretched. Dorian walks around his desk and crouches down, balancing himself with a hand on Cullen's knee. "In most cases, people start from the beginning," he prompts.
Cullen takes in a deep, shaking breath and releases it, shoulders slumping further though it doesn't seem physically possible; it's like he's trying to sink into his armor and disappear. Dorian's never seen Cullen look this dispodent. Whatever it is that's going on is clearly a Big Thing, and Dorian is more than willing to wait for Cullen to find the strength to tell him.
The words come in a whisper, so soft that Dorian almost misses it. Had he not been so close he wouldn't have even known Cullen said a word.
"I stopped taking lyrium."
Ah. Dorian's mind races, digging up all the information he knows about southern Templars and their dependency on lyrium. "Withdrawal, then?"
Cullen nods, finally taking his face out of his hands to meet Dorian's concerned gaze. His jaw is clenched, the muscles in his cheeks twitching as he grits his teeth through pain Dorian can't even imagine. His hands still shake. "I haven't taken it since I joined the Inquisition."
Dorian's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "So long?"
Another nod. Suddenly Cullen is standing, shoving his chair back with enough force that it tips and clatters to the floor behind him; Dorian sits back on his heels and lets his hands fall to his sides as Cullen walks to the arrowslit window. He leans against it, staring out into the empty air, chest heaving.
Watching warily, Dorian rises to his feet, though he keeps his distance. Cullen may startle like a deer but his outbursts are much fiercer. He's a volatile cocktail of self-loathing, anger, frustration, and pain, and though Dorian knows that Cullen wouldn't do anything to hurt him on purpose, he still remains cautious.
Cullen continues to stare out the window, using his hands to keep himself from slumping against the wall. "I'm sure you know by now that I was at Kinloch Hold when it fell," he says, pitched low as if he's talking to himself. "It was taken over by abominations. The templars, no, my friends were slaughtered." He pauses, but clearly is not looking for any sort of response. And even if he was, Dorian is unsure if he would say anything. There's something about this moment that seems cathartic for the commander, being able to say the words he's kept inside for so long. It's something that Dorian can easily relate to, and so he waits for the words to flow again, the trickle that will no doubt turn into a flood.
"I was tortured, they tried to break my mind, and I-" Cullen's chuckle is wry, his face twisted into a grimace. "How can you be the same person after that? But still, I wanted to serve.
"They sent me to Kirkwall, only for the city to descend into madness because of the Knight Commander's fear of mages and all things magic. Innocents died in the streets, and blood filled the canals. Can you understand why I want nothing to do with that life?" Cullen turns and looks at Dorian, eyes pleading for understanding, begging for reassurance.
"I, of all people, completely and fully understand wanting to distance yourself from something so negative," Dorian says, stepping closer until he's within arms length of the other man. His hand itches to reach out and grab Cullen's but he refrains.
"But how can I put my desires above the needs of the Inquisition? How can I give my all to the Chantry but not to this?" Cullen's voice rises and he pushes past Dorian, pacing back and forth on the rug stretching across the room. "I refuse to have given more to the Chantry than I do the Inquisition, Dorian. I thought to gain some control over my life, unshackle the collar around my neck, but… how many lives depend on our success? How can I swear myself to a cause and not be at my best every step of the way? How can I lead an army when my mind burns and my body aches and sleep is little more than one nightmare after another?"
Dorian doesn't know what to say. What words could ease Cullen's conscience? "Cullen, I-"
Cullen stops and swings his fist into the bookshelf; the wood rattles, a book slips and falls to the floor. "I should be taking it!" he snarls, pounding his fist again. The violence drains from his body like water down a drain, shoulders slumping as he turns and leans his back against the shelf, head tilted back, eyes closed. He breathes heavily through his nose, clearly trying to calm himself.
"Who cares about 'should', though?" The question pops into Dorian's mind and, since he can't think of anything else worthwhile to say, he runs with it. "You 'should' do this, you 'should' do that. Who cares about any of that?" He steps closer, close enough to press his palm against Cullen's chest, right where his heart would be if armor wasn't in the way. Cullen's eyes open and he looks down at the hand on his chest before meeting Dorian's stare."The only thing that should matter is what you want. Here, right here, in this overly large Ferelden bleeding heart of yours."
Dorian moves closer, so close that their breath mingles between them with each exhale; his hand on Cullen's chest now pins him against the bookshelf. He continues to stare straight into Cullen's eyes, hoping that it helps drive the point home.
"You've given yourself completely to the causes you've sworn to, and that's commendable, truly it is. But this is not your Chantry. The Inquisition does not ask for your mind, body, and soul for all of eternity and I highly doubt anyone plans on trying to make that claim. There will be a life for you once this is over, Cullen. You won't be our dear Commander forever. When that time comes, do you want to look back with regret and pain for doing what you should have done or will you look back and be proud for doing what you wanted to do?"
The question rings out in the office, and is met with startled silence. Cullen's eyes are so wide, so wonderstruck that Dorian wonders if anyone in Cullen's life has ever told him this, told him that its okay to put his own needs and desires first for once in his damn life, that is he is a human and not just a tool to be used by the powers that be.
Cullen inhales sharply then shudders, letting out the breath slowly. His grip on Dorian's hips tightens-when had he put his hands there?-and he pulls him closer until their hips press together, one hand coming to rest on the small of Dorian's back. The pressure is warm and oh so pleasant, but its more than just physical pleasure; its being completely and totally in Cullen's space, trusted with both his past and with his present, let in to see him at his most vulnerable and not being pushed away. It's another door open and inviting where Dorian is used to finding them firmly shut in his face.
Dorian swallows past the lump forming in his throat and speaks, his voice a whisper. "No matter what you choose, amatus, I will support you. You will not be alone in this."
Cullen's head dips forward. Their lips press together, slow and sweet and filled with such emotion that tears prick at the corners of his eyes. So much in such a simple gesture he's shared with countless others, but this time it's more. It's always been more.
Oh sweet, sweet benediction.
Dorian lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Candlelight flickers, shadows dance along the walls. His fingers slowly rub at his lips, remembering all that they had done today and all that they will surely do in the future.
But even with all of that, the words he spoke to Cullen repeat in his head, over and over.
Do you want to look back with regret and pain for doing what you should have done or will you look back and be proud for doing what you wanted to do?
What does Dorian truly want?
He turns over in his bed, snufs the candles with a tendril of magic.
The nightmares return, but instead of dreaming of blood and deadly rituals and imposing father figures, he dreams of making the wrong choice and regretting it for the rest of his life.