A/N: the following chapter contains descriptions of addiction and withdrawal, as well as consequences of mental cruelty.
Chapter Twelve: Chains (Part II)
The room was quiet, though anything but peaceful. A puissant danger lurked in the shadows, an intangible foe, but no less deadly for not having a physical form. It was an idea, a thought, a fear that ate at the soul like a cancer, poisoning the surrounding tissues, weakening the host.
"Kill me…" Cullen's voice grew louder, his pants heavier, as he came out of his prayer. He remained on his knees, his hands gripping his thighs, his eyes staring at the floorboards as he addressed his tormenters. "Kill me now. I will not break, and this slow suffocation is killing me anyway."
Peredura blinked from where she stood beside her mabari, Fear. She had been chewing her lip, deep in thought, trying to figure out a way to knock Cullen out of his delusion. The severity of his statement shocked her, and her lip fell free of its torment. "…suffocation…"
"I can't breathe," he moaned, "You know it. You're doing it on purpose. Like before. But it won't break me. It'll only kill me, slowly, but I will be dead and you still will not get any enjoyment from tormenting me. You might as well kill me now and get it over with."
"Cullen, it's me, Peredura, I'm not going to kill you…"
He finally looked at her, his expression too hopeless, overflowing with unending anguish. "You should. If you were Peredura, truly her and not a desire demon in her form, you would kill me. You would end my suffering. Mercifully. Quickly. Peredura would not leave me to linger a slow death. I know this! She's already done it! She would do it again!" He turned away from her and back to his prayer, "…would not see me suffer…"
Broken free of his gaze, her overwhelmed mind reeled with his words, with the remembrance of that other Cullen—suffering a slow death from red lyrium, her blade ending his life quickly and cleanly. And he was asking her to do it again. She felt like she had to sit down, her knees turning to water and her head spinning. Her hand reached out and found Fear, her fingers burrowing into his short, soft, warm fur, the connection giving her strength. Keeping her feet, she remembered what Cullen had said once, how being in a stuffy, windowless room made his skin itch. She had thought that meant his fear was being in small, airless spaces, or at least was related to it. She looked around them; her chambers were not small, nothing that should trigger this fear of his. Yet his fear was being triggered, his labored breaths confirmed it. Then again, with the fire happily consuming logs in the hearth, she allowed it could seem over-warm and stuffy in here—she did like her room to be warmer than the rest of the keep. But it was her room. And she was used to warmer climates.
And… Cullen felt like he was suffocating.
"Kaffas," she muttered to herself, knowing he was right, knowing she could not allow him to suffer. But she was not going to kill him, either. "Shit," she added as she walked over to the balcony door and turned the latch, propping it open with her helmet from the nearby mannequin. She grabbed another tunic from her chest of drawers, a nice thick and soft one, and pulled it down over her head. Next she slipped her lightweight armored jacket over her shoulders, buttoning it closed as she walked to one of the other balcony doors and propped it open.
Immediately a strong breeze blew through, chilling her even through the extra layers she had put on. She walked in front of the hearth and warmed herself there, turning every so often because for her, whichever half of her body was facing away from the flames grew very cold, very quickly.
On one spin she looked to Cullen. He seemed calmer, his pose relaxed and not quite as curled in on himself. The breeze ruffled his hair, and he lifted his face towards it, away from her. He held himself still, like a hound scenting the wind, searching the air for signs of friend or foe. He must have satisfied himself to the lack of danger, as in the next moment his shoulders slumped and his hands unclasped.
"Cullen?"
He heard her voice, but he didn't answer, and she couldn't blame him, still not sounding like herself. He turned slowly where he knelt on the floor, his gaze sweeping through the room as if trying to decipher where he was currently. He hesitated on her desk, eying his armor, and providing her with his profile.
"Cullen? Do you know me?"
He gave himself a little shake and continued his search of the room until he found her, silhouetted in front of the hearth. His brow scrunched as he tried to discern who she was, a hand coming up to block out the light of the flames. She stepped closer to him, alert for Fear's warning growl, but that never came.
"Peredura?" he asked, taking in her whole form, from the tips of her boots to her long brown hair.
She wanted to sob with relief, but settled for a smile and a slow blink. "Yes, it's me."
"What…" he still seemed confused, looking around them, looking back at her. She inched closer, but Fear continued to remain quiet. He saw the bruising around her neck and his brows curled with concern. "What happened?" his eyes locked onto her hand next, onto the darkening bruises and the stiff way she held it. "Did someone hurt you? Is there danger nearby? I'll get my sword and protect you…" he made to stand, but the chain on his wrist rattled, the sound unexpected, making him look to his wrist and lose his balance. He collapsed onto one knee and a hand while staring at the shackle. "What is this?"
"You're suffering from lyrium withdrawal, remember?" she reminded him gently, in case he was lost in another hallucination. "You came here, to my chambers tonight, so I could help you."
"I…" he started and stopped, wanting to answer, not remembering what she spoke of, not knowing what he could say. He looked back up at her, noted the cautious way she knelt down just a little beyond his reach, her feet beneath her so she could stand at a moment's notice. It was like she was fearful of… him? Guilt thrust like a hot poker through his heart, though he had no idea why. "Blessed Andraste, I… did I… who hurt you?" He lifted a hand towards her beseechingly.
Immediately he winced, the scratches on his biceps flaring into life and starting to bleed again. He frowned at his arm and tried to see how bad the damage was, pulling at his sleeve and ripping the fabric more to get a better look at the wounds. "Who did this?" he asked, his voice just as lost as it had been in the grips of his vision.
"Fear," she admitted. "He, er, had to, he didn't bite, but he, um," she couldn't continue, couldn't tell him what had happened, couldn't cause him even more guilt and anguish. "I'll just go get you a healing potion," she finished in a rush. She had to turn away, racing to her desk, not wanting to see anymore the look on his face, the horror and disgust and self-doubt and self-loathing. She rummaged in the bottom drawer until she found the bottle she wanted. Still unable to meet his eyes, she walked back until she was close enough to hand it over to him.
He didn't take it. She finally had to look at him, had to see why he didn't take the bottle, and found him staring into space, the corners of his eyes pulled down with sorrow and regret. She glanced over to Fear, but he seemed unconcerned, panting in the breeze by the door, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, facing Cullen once more. "Let's get you to bed."
"For whatever I've done … I have no right to ask this, but …" Cullen said softly, his movements slow though unresisting as she lifted him to his feet, "Please, forgive me."
"It wasn't you." That wasn't exactly a lie, not if she maintained that Cullen wasn't in his right mind, and therefore could not be held responsible for his actions. "And everyone's all right. Sit down here. Good. Now, take a sip."
"What is it?" he asked, staring at the bottle, suddenly fearful of the answer.
"A healing potion," she answered. When he didn't appear to believe her, she took a small sip herself, "See?" She could feel the potion start to take effect, calming the aches in her throat and hand, erasing the bruising, lessening the swelling. His eyes flickered to her hand, and she lifted it so he could see the healing was beginning.
Amazingly a tint of pink settled across his cheeks. "I suppose I should have believed you, it's only that…" he didn't finish, his eyes lifting to her desk.
She knew what he was thinking, and tried to distract him from the bottle on her desk. "Drink this; then get some sleep." Her voice sounded normal once more, the potion having healed the damage he had caused.
He took the bottle this time, lifted it to his lips and swallowed. He handed it back to her, feeling the rush of healing cool the burning sensation in his arm. He didn't argue when she pushed him to lie down on the bed, but he did hold out a hand to stop her from covering him with the comforter.
"What's in the bottle?"
"I told you," she answered without looking at him, setting the bottle aside, "It's just a healing potion…"
"No," his hand gripped her forearm before she could slip away. She sucked in a breath and waited, thinking she'd hear a warning growl next, but Fear remained silent. Her reaction did not go unnoticed by Cullen, and once more guilt drowned his heart. He let go of her arm just as quickly as he had grabbed it, yet he had to know, he had to ask, "The bottle on your desk."
She looked at him, soft brown eyes steadily holding his ailing hazel as she answered, "A sleeping draught. A powerful one. Would you like some?"
He scoffed, but relaxed and dropped his gaze. "I should say yes, but I won't. My sleep holds no more peace for me than my waking hours." He laid back onto the pillow again and placed his forearm over his eyes.
"Try to get some sleep, anyway. Good night, Cullen."
He didn't answer her. She didn't think he could have fallen asleep that quickly, but if he wanted to pretend, to find some solace in the quiet of his thoughts, alone, she would let him. She walked as quietly as she could over to the rug in front of the hearth—the only warm spot in the whole room—and softly called to Fear. The puppy bounded up to her, happily wagging his whole back end as well as his stub of a tail, and gave her an encouraging lick. She smiled for his exuberance; she smiled for hope for Cullen. Then side by side, she and her mabari settled down to sleep the rest of the night.
The knock was loud, but Fear's bark was louder. Right in her ear.
Peredura winced, but she pushed herself up off of the floor to look around. She and Fear where were they had been a few short—very short—hours ago, curled up together on the rug in front of the dying fire. He was alert, panting, staring at the top of the stairs and looking like he wanted to get up. She gave him a scratch and stood up, wondering why she had been sleeping on the floor with him.
She remembered with a start. Immediately her eyes flew to her bed, apprehensive, but there was no cause for alarm. Cullen was lying there as he had been earlier, practically unmoved, but in looking closer she could see his chest rise and fall in slow, deep breaths. The next moment, the knocking started up again, followed by a familiar voice filled with concern. She took a deep breath herself, and finger combed her hair while she headed down the stairs for her chamber door.
"Inquisitor!" Josephine's voice sounded through the wood, "Are you all right?"
"What?" she asked, opening the door, trying to stifle a yawn.
"Inquisitor, we were… oh!" Josephine was standing there, without her clipboard for once, her eyes sweeping up and down Peredura's form and taking note of every detail. "Peredura, are you unwell? You look like you haven't slept a wink. And still dressed in your armor from yesterday," she gently chided.
"Oh, ah, this, I, ah, yes, I was cold last night, I mean, I think I've got a bit of a cold, or something." She shuddered, a chill running down her spine, now that she was away from the fire.
"Oh, you poor dear," Josephine leaned in close and set a caring hand on her arm, "And still not used to the colder climate here, are you?"
"Ah, no," she rubbed her arms, trying to regain some warmth, "But at least it's warm enough to grow grass and trees, here in Skyhold, I mean, even if it is up in the mountains. Was there something you wanted?" The end of her question was swallowed in another yawn.
"Well, there was the meeting we were supposed to have this morning, concerning what you found at Haven…"
"Kaffas!" her hand slapped across her mouth, at both the curse and her forgetful mind. "Excuse me, Josephine, I forgot…"
"Quite understandable, since you're not feeling well," she allowed. "Is there anything I can do for you?" She stepped closer, as if she wanted to enter the room.
"No, ah, that is, I'm just…" before Peredura could think of an excuse to keep Josephine from discovering Cullen chained to her bed—how could she explain that?—Fear pushed past her knees and bounded down the next flight of steps. "No! Fear! Oh, he probably needs to be walked, but I…" she glanced over her shoulder, thinking of Cullen, not wanting to leave him alone in case he might need something.
"I could find someone to see to that," Josephine offered. "I know Commander Cullen has grown quite fond of your hound. I'm sure he'd be willing to watch him while you're indisposed."
"He, ah, can't," Peredura's sluggish mind raced to remember what excuse she had already thought up to explain Cullen's absence. "Commander Cullen is on a mission, away from Skyhold, I sent him out yesterday, there was a contact in the templars he wanted to try to get in touch with, to see if he could find out what was going on, with the red lyrium and all that…" Her voice trailed away. She could feel her cheeks start to burn, thinking the excuse was flimsy and Josephine would see through her lie and start to wonder where Cullen was…
"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," Josephine spoke a little louder so she could be heard over the scratching noises Fear was making, "But of course he would have acquaintances in their ranks. Quite a good idea, Inquisitor."
"Oh, um, thanks, but it was his idea. I only approved it."
Josephine looked at her closer again, but Peredura forced herself to hold her gaze steady. Fear whined and scratched at the lower door more insistently.
"Then perhaps Ser Blackwall would be willing to keep Fear occupied for a few days, while you're indisposed. I know Grey Wardens often work with mabari."
"That isn't necessary," Peredura shook her head. "I mean, if he wanted to walk Fear or play with him for a bit, give him some exercise, but I prefer having Fear with me. He's… comforting," she finished, thinking of his ability to tell when Cullen was sane and when he was lost in a delusion.
"Of course. I'll take Fear to him now, shall I, and return him to you in an hour or so. In the meantime, is there anything else you require? I could have the servants bring you something to eat, if you think you're able."
"Ah, yes, please, thank you," she sighed, thinking of Cullen as well as herself. "Nothing too heavy, or flavorful, I think my stomach is a bit upset, but perhaps some rolls, or a cup of broth, I'm not really sure."
"I'll have them bring up a selection, see what tempts your appetite. You must keep up your strength, Inquisitor; all of Thedas is relying on you."
This time Peredura kept the sigh to herself, thinking she could barely handle one man's problems, she could hardly be expected to handle half a world's worth of problems. "Again, thank you, Josephine. Could we, do you think, could we postpone the meeting for another day? Tomorrow, maybe, in the afternoon? I think I might be feeling better by then."
Fear barked, growing more anxious by the moment.
"I'll see to it. Excuse me, but I think I should take care of Fear before he either tears through the door or leaves a mess on the stairs."
"Yes, of course. Until later." Peredura spoke to her back, Josephine hurrying to catch up with the very insistent mabari puppy. The lower door opened before she reached it, and Leliana's voice could be heard, though Peredura couldn't make out what she said.
"Oh, just a cold or something, nothing serious, at any rate," she heard Josephine answer. "Poor girl is flushed and shivering and has bags under her eyes; I think it would be best if we let her recover first. We do have Iron Bull's written report…" The lower door closed, shutting off the rest of the conversation between Josephine and Leliana.
Peredura closed her door and leaned against it, taking a selfish moment to indulge in a relieved sigh. She had managed to convince Josephine that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on; Josephine would handle the others. Now all she had to deal with was Cullen. Right. A man twice her size with deadly skills suffering from violent delusions.
She climbed back up the steps as quietly as she could, just in case he was asleep. He appeared to be, though he had rolled from his back onto his side, lifting his scratched arm off the bedclothes. Though the wounds were healed, there remained the dried blood on his skin and shirt. She should clean up the mess, but she wasn't sure it would be safe. Looking closely, she saw his features beneath his stubbled cheeks were calm and relaxed, his lips parted slightly as he breathed. To her eyes he looked harmless, normal, almost like a little boy, and definitely not within the grips of a delusion. But she knew she shouldn't take any chances, not without Fear to warn her. She stood there, at the foot of the bed, frozen in indecision.
"It's not considered polite to stare, you know."
To her credit, she resisted the impulse to jump and scream. Cullen hadn't stirred, the only movement from him being the little hairs turned frizzy around his ears, swaying in the breeze. She edged around the corner of the bed, but didn't approach any closer. "Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat? The servants are bringing a tray in a few moments…"
"I can't stomach anything, not right now," he moaned softly, a furrow appearing between his brows. He had yet to open his eyes.
"Some water, perhaps?"
"No! Nothing!" he panted, his hand coming up to rub at his face. When he pulled it away, he finally looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot, watery, hardly able to focus on her. "Peredura?"
"Good morning, Cullen."
He swallowed, feeling like he had a mouth full of cotton. He lifted his head and looked around the room, but didn't recognize his surroundings. "Where…?"
"Don't you remember?" she asked, feeling like they had had this conversation only a short while ago. "You came here, to my chambers, last night, so I could help you through your withdrawal."
He stared at her, struggling to comprehend her words. He was suffering from… withdrawal… "Withdrawal from what?" He pushed himself to sit up on the bed, feeling like he had to get away from the covers before they could entangle his limbs and smother him. Something on his left wrist jangled and pinched his skin. He lifted his hand up to stare stupidly at the shackle. "What is this?" He rubbed his free hand over his face again, felt the fresh sweat and the dried, felt his shoulder and arm pull at his tunic. He looked at his sleeve, saw the tears and the blood sticking the fabric to flesh, and knew he had been injured. His memory returned, though jumbled and unclear and filled with more dream than actual events. "I know what this is," he acknowledged, his voice cruel and dark. "Torture. You'll not break me, demon! You didn't before, remember? You held us captive… harassed us… denied us peace or sleep for days! You… scooped out our thoughts… replaced them with visions… horrors… the others gave in… turned into monsters… no longer themselves… but I remained faithful! I remained strong! I alone remained!"
He saw the demon—Maker, of all the forms it had to take, why did it have to look like Peredura, the one who would cause him the most anguish?—he saw the demon step back, pull away from him, fearful and timid, acting so like the real Peredura. If only she were here… If only he could find the courage to speak to her… If only it was more than obsession he felt towards her…
Obsession…
Withdrawal…
Lyrium…
He was no longer taking lyrium…
His stomach tightened into a knot. His hands shook. He gripped the edge of the bed, but he didn't think he could remain sitting up, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. "I… I think… I'm going to…" His words ended in a moan, unable to articulate his need. The room spun, the floor and wall exchanging places. He felt a sharp pain in one knee, another on his shoulder, a third on his cheek.
Then his whole body curled and convulsed around his midsection, as he tried to empty an already empty stomach.
Time passed, lost beneath an onslaught of pain and sickness. The only relief he felt was the occasional sensation of something cool against his skin, wiping his cheek or mouth, pressing against the back of his neck, letting some small part of him feel fresh and normal. It faded all too quickly into sweat and pain, but the coolness would always return.
He knew he was sick. He knew why he was sick. He needed lyrium; it was the only thing that could ease the illness. He opened his eyes, tried to make sense of what he saw, but only shapeless color and diffused light filled his vision. "Lyrium… please…" desperately he tried to make himself understood to the seemingly benevolent presence attending him, "I… I need it… I need lyrium…"
"I… I can't, Cullen," a woman's voice answered, tender and merciful and empathetic, like the voice of Andraste herself, "You're not taking lyrium any longer, remember?"
That didn't make any sense. Of course he was taking lyrium; he was a templar—he'd been taking lyrium for over a decade. It was what gave him power over mages. He could feel it, that part inside him, that power which hungered for lyrium, which was weakened and nearly worthless without it, which clawed at his insides in an attempt to escape his mortal form and find lyrium on its own. And he knew there was lyrium nearby; he'd seen it! Earlier! Glowing blue, so temptingly close, just out of his reach… "…over by my armor… there's a bottle… please… for the love of the Maker!"
"No."
What was this thing, this spirit, that went from nursing him to tormenting him? Why couldn't he make her understand what he needed, why he needed it? "I'm a templar," he pleaded, trying to reason with her, pushing himself up onto one elbow, "Templars need lyrium."
"You're not a templar, not anymore. And you've struggled for too long, fought too hard to make it this far. I won't let you fail now. Be strong, Cullen, please, for my sake."
A face floated before him, the edges blurred and indistinct. He reached up to her, to that beautiful being hovering nearby. His heated fingers touched her cool cheek and felt the scars he couldn't see. He blinked, and long brown hair came into focus, falling like curtains from either side of a pair of soft brown eyes. "Peredura?"
The eyes blinked, shedding tears, one of which trailed a path down her cheek next to his thumb. He brushed it away, feeling the change in texture across her skin, moving from scar to smooth and back to scar.
It couldn't be her, Peredura, trapped in this Maker-forsaken place with him.
His thirst for lyrium was forgotten in the face of his confusion. "What are you?" he whispered, his eyes flickering over her features, studying her, searching for the truth, seeking some nonexistent flaw that would prove her a trick, "A dream? A memory? A fear? Something sent here to help me, or keep me captive?"
"A little of both," she offered a sad sort of smile. "And I'm sorry for this, for all you're going through. I wish I could make it easier for you, but I can't. No one can. You have to suffer."
"A demon, then?" he concluded, "Is that what you are?" He closed his eyes and let his hand fall away. "I should have known. Of course, you would pick her form."
He heard a sound, like a sob, broken off almost before it started. He looked back up to see her, a little more in focus this time. As soon as she saw he was looking at her, she pulled her fist from her mouth. She tried to appear calm, he could tell, but there were more tears threatening to spill from her bloodshot eyes. Dark circles were beneath them, making the brown appear deeper, softer, far too kind for this world, for all that Peredura had been through, for all that she had to endure. "Is it you?" he wondered, with no idea that he had spoken out loud. "Maker… if only… if it could be you… if I could tell you…"
"What?" she squeaked, her voice garbled with emotion and hope and frustration and tears. She swallowed and tried again, "What would you tell me?"
He shook his head. "I can't. I can't tell her; and I won't tell you. Pluck it from my thoughts—I know you can—but I won't speak it. I will not be broken!"
She turned away from him, her arms wrapping around herself, and disappeared into the shadows.
"I will not be broken!" he called after her, after the demon of desire that was causing his agony. His abdominals clenched when he shouted, the abused muscles aching and giving him cause to moan. Grimacing he eased himself onto his back and saw he was lying on the floor, though cushioned on a thick comforter. He didn't think it odd, truly didn't care, only thankful that he was being allowed to rest.
His gratitude was short-lived. He felt her presence when she returned, the desire demon, like electricity in the air, like a magic spell about to be cast, like a storm cloud about to break. "What do you want?" he demanded without opening his eyes.
"Are… are you hungry?" she asked, hesitantly. He opened one eye to find her kneeling next to him, a small tray in her hands. "I have some food here…"
He lifted one eyebrow at what she set down beside him, a small platter and cup. "Bread and water?"
"You shouldn't have anything too difficult to digest," she responded, "Not right now, not until you're feeling better. But it's a hearty bread, dense and filled with nuts and berries. And the broth is quite good. I've been keeping it warm by the fire for you."
He eyed it suspiciously as he rolled onto his side, but he knew he had no strength to resist this temptation. Maker, but how the sight of such a simple meal could make his mouth water. He reached out for it, his hand shaking, his fingers crumbling the bread as he broke off a morsel. Half of it fell before he could get it into his mouth, but he didn't care. The flavor was blissful, though the mechanics of eating made his jaw sore. He swallowed the mouthful half-chewed, having to push the dry food past an even dryer throat. Part of a nut got caught on the way down and made him cough, his abdominals aching again, but he refused to let the food come back up.
He was reaching for the second bite before he had finished forcing the first bite down.
"Try some broth," the desire demon/benevolent spirit/Peredura suggested. Her hand took hold of his, the cool touch startling him. He looked up at her, crumbs clinging to his lips and stubble, but allowed her to guide his hand to the cup of broth. It was warm in contrast to her skin, and he felt his hand being held between her coolness and the cup's warmth, like he was being held between Thedas and the Fade.
He continued to stare at her, watching her, allowing her to bring his hand to his mouth, tip the cup, grant him some small sip of enlivenment. All too soon the broth was taken away, not too far, but far enough to encourage him to swallow what was in his mouth. "Take it slowly, or you'll only make yourself sick." She helped him take another sip, her eyes focused on making sure they didn't spill the broth.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, unable to comprehend the concept of a good demon. Maybe he had been wrong; maybe she wasn't a desire demon, but something closer to Cole—a spirit that by its own will entered the world and took on the form of a person. Yet why would she torment him by taking on Peredura's shape? Tears stung his eyes, and he hated himself for showing such weakness in front of anyone. He looked down at the tray before she could see his shame.
"I'm doing this, because I can," she answered, unaware of his inner torment, her attention on helping him drink. "Because you need my help. Because I'm possibly the only one who can help you." She took the cup from his hand so he could try some more bread. The second bite went down easier, thanks to the broth moistening his throat. He leaned over the tray, his pride forgotten before the onslaught of his hunger. He finished the meager amount of food quickly, taking care to also pick up whatever crumbs he could manage with his trembling fingers.
"You should try to sleep for a bit," she suggested, taking the empty tray away with one hand while encouraging him to lie down with the other.
"I can't sleep," he sighed, but he didn't fight her touch. She was too tempting, too impossible to resist, not for any length of time. And he was too weak, without lyrium, without any power over her. He couldn't even stand on his own two feet, much less stand her torment. "Maker have mercy on my soul," he whispered, his lidded eyes watching her movements halfway across the room, unaware that she could hear him—unaware that he had spoken out loud, "But if you asked, I would kiss you, if only you were Peredura."
He saw her move, a shift of shadow, her head tilting, and he knew—Blessed Andraste how consummately he knew!—she was looking at him, over her shoulder, peeking from behind those overgrown bangs. A perfect imitation of Peredura. "I can't stand it!" he groaned, his face scrunched up in pain, his eyes squeezing shut against the vision, his fist clutching the comforter with frustrated fatigue.
"What is it?" Immediately she was by his side, her cool hands on his face, his shoulders, his chest. "Did you eat too much too quickly? Are you going to be sick again? Cullen, tell me: what's wrong?"
"It's you!" he ground out between his teeth. "Fine. I'll admit it. I look at you and I see her. And your imitation is too perfect, too real, I could almost believe you were her. But she wouldn't torment me like this. She wouldn't tempt me with lyrium—the one thing that would ease my suffering—keeping it just beyond my reach. She wouldn't keep looking at me that way, over her shoulder, with her hair hiding her face!" He pushed himself up onto one elbow again, staring at her, spittle flying from his lips as he finished, "Be gone, demon! Leave me!"
He collapsed, exhausted, back down onto the comforter. He closed his eyes and lost himself in prayer. It had always worked before, closing his eyes and praying; and when he was finished the demon would be gone for a time. He knew it wasn't a permanent fix, but it would grant him some peace, give him a reprieve, let him garner his strength for the next attack.
"…though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence…"
Something familiar in those words struck a chord within Peredura. She listened to his prayers for a time, but it felt too much like she was intruding into something private, personal, between him and the Maker. She got up as quietly as she could and slipped away to puzzle through her own thoughts. He had said he thought her a demon of desire, that she was using Peredura's habits to torture him. She'd have to be careful, watch herself, and not do those actions that caused him pain, that exacerbated his anguish, like looking at him through her hair. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared into the flames in the hearth, fearful that this may prove too hard for her.
Fear, however, had other ideas. He crawled up to Cullen with his head bowed, hesitantly, timidly, but when the man didn't appear to notice his presence, Fear grew emboldened. He stepped onto the comforter, walked right up to Cullen's hip and sat down. Still his minor misdemeanor was going unnoticed, and in looking over his shoulder he saw his partner was lost in her thoughts, staring into the fire and hugging herself. He turned back and gave a soft whine, hoping to get Cullen's attention, but the prayer continued uninterrupted. Fear decided he had pushed the limits enough, that it would be all right if Cullen didn't scratch his ear, as long as he could stay on the soft blanket. He curled up against Cullen's side, his muscular body thumping Cullen's ribs, and immediately the intensity behind the whispered prayers eased. Fear lifted his eyes and perked his short ears, expectant and alert for any change, but when Cullen took a deep and relaxed breath in sleep, Fear knew things would be all right.
He was floating.
He was floating on a sea of clouds, their soft and billowy surfaces buoyant beneath his weight.
Every once in a while there was a breath of wind, something gentle, that stroked his heated skin like a lover's caress.
He must be dreaming, he thought to himself, dreaming of that life that comes after death, that journey to the Maker's side, that blissful realm of aether and serenity.
Another breath of wind, a little stronger now that he was beginning to expect it, brushed against his cheek. He turned towards it and caught the scent of lilacs. Home. Of course paradise would smell of home, of things good, of things peaceful and comforting. He inhaled the scent deeply, allowed it to fill his lungs and from there permeate every atom of his corporeal form.
Every iota of his soul.
The vinous breeze came again, stronger, and he felt the softness of the clouds brush against his skin, the touch so light and gentle it almost tickled. He relaxed into the scent, felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh as it slid down the length of his arm, cooling the fever, cleansing the stains.
"Are you awake?" a voice called softly, feminine and familiar. His mother, perhaps? Or his older sister? Someone whom he cared about, someone whom he wanted to hear speak to him, someone whom he missed. "It's only that, well, you're smiling," she continued, and he kept his eyes closed, indulging in the tender tones. "I suppose you could be dreaming," she allowed as the breeze began to stroke down his chest, "A nice dream, for a change. I shouldn't wake you, then, I guess. Maker knows, you've earned it."
There was a sound, like the rustling of leaves, or the sigh of fabric. Then the breeze returned, taking up where it had left off in the center of his chest and blowing down his other side…
No, something wasn't quite right. It wasn't a breeze, he realized, as every so often he heard the tinkling sound of dripping water. His eyes opened, tiny slits all but hidden by his eyelashes, and saw a pair of leather-clad knees before him. Shadows moved across his limited vision, long and lithe like a limb. Then a hand picked up his own, lifted his arm, and the cool sensation ran down the length from his shoulder to his wrist. Someone was carefully and tenderly washing him with a small cloth.
"But I am lonely," she sighed, so quietly he almost didn't hear, "And I could really use a sign that you're getting better."
Getting better, he wondered to himself, had he been ill? Who was this woman, this kindhearted soul, nursing him back to health? Why was she lonely? He opened his eyes a little wider, trying to see as far as her face, but she had turned aside, hiding behind long curtains of brown hair. He knew that hair, knew that shoulder, and his lips parted with his breath. "…Pear…"
She hesitated—had she heard him?—before she very deliberately turned to face him fully. No, it wasn't Peredura, she would have peeked over her shoulder at him with her untutored coyness. But, Andraste preserve him, it did look like her, and he desperately yearned to see her. Had his imagination, famished and fevered, conjured her likeness, imposed it over whoever or whatever was taking care of him?
"Maybe you are awake," she smiled at him, "Or awake, but thinking you're dreaming? Doesn't matter, I suppose, as long as it's restful."
He didn't answer, didn't speak at all, but stared at her as if his eyes would feast on her vision for a hundred days.
She drew close once more, her hand reaching out to touch his face. Through her fingers he could sense the stubble growing there, thick around his lips and chin, sparse across his cheek. He never could grow a decent beard, other than that damned goatee. But she was speaking again, calling to him, "Can you hear me? Do you know me?" Her brown eyes grew darker, deeper, trying to draw him into their depths.
In answer, he brought his hand up to cover hers.
"Do you think…" her words stopped suddenly, her bottom lip caught between two rows of sadistic and sharp teeth. "It would be better for you, if you were lying in bed, rather than the floor. Do you think you can help me help you up?"
He didn't know what to say, his brain too sluggish and mired in tranquility. All he wished to do was lie there and stare at her. Peredura…
"Come on," she urged, "Let's get you into bed. You'll be more comfortable there." Her hand left his cheek, sliding out of his grasp, but her touch didn't leave him. She gripped his shoulders, shifting around to brace his back as she heaved him into a sitting position. He tried to help, but his arms flailed off course, his hands clutched ineffectively at empty air, his legs wobbled beneath his weight. She ended up doing most of the work, not so much helping him into bed as propping him up and tipping him onto the mattress. It worked after a fashion, and between them they managed a sort of controlled fall, but he did let out a mild grunt when he landed and rolled onto his back.
"Sorry! I'm sorry! Are you hurt? How's your stomach? You're not going to be sick again, are you?"
A sigh escaped his lips as he settled into the soft mattress. The sheets were cool and held the same lilac scent as the water she had been cleaning him with, adding to his overall contentment. He laid a hand across his chest, felt his heart beating, and seriously considered closing his eyes for a few moments.
"Oh, ah, your tunic, about that, um," she chewed her lip again, so like Peredura, "I had to take it off. You, well, I guess the bread was too much for you, or something, and you were sick, almost choking on it, got it all over the place, the blanket, your clothes, I had to cut off your tunic so I could get you cleaned up…"
That lip became captured by her teeth again, tortured and masticated until it bled. He didn't want to see that, didn't want to see her hurt, so his hand lifted off his chest to touch her face. His thumb pulled the skin on her chin until her lip popped free. Then his fingers moved, burrowing into the long, soft strands of shiny brown hair, feeling the stub of her ear. He saw her flinch, felt her try to pull away and look off to the side. But she didn't leave him, didn't remove his hand. Instead she turned those beautiful doe-like eyes back to his.
His hand grew heavy, almost too heavy to keep in place. He pulled it downwards, just a little, encouraging her head to come with it.
He wanted to kiss her.
She was so close now. It was almost comical the way first one eye would go crossways, then the other, as she looked back and forth between his eyes. If this was Peredura, if this truly was Peredura before him and not some demon or dream…
He wondered why he was predisposed to doubt his senses.
He could taste her breath in the air as she drew nearer. It was vanilla with a touch of molasses, reminding him of a sweet. There was also the scent of lilacs coming from her hand braced on the pillow beside his head. The smells were overpowering, intoxicating, overwhelming him and drowning him and… he couldn't stay awake… too exhausted… too weakened… too sick. She didn't deserve this. She deserved a proper kiss, by someone who loved her, someone who could hold her, someone who… wasn't about to… to pass out…
"…Pear…"
Peredura was shaking, though this time it wasn't from the cold breeze blowing through her chambers. She had been sure—she had been so fucking sure—that Cullen had been about to kiss her. But he was too ill, and his hand had dropped from her hair at the same time his eyes rolled up into the back of his head.
Now she loomed over him, unable to move though no longer held captive by either his hand or his gaze. Hating herself for doing it, knowing she'd hate herself more if she never made the attempt, she lowered her face a little further and pecked his cheek lightly with her lips, at the last moment daring herself to touch the corner of his mouth. The short hairs of his beard were stiff and poked her tender lip, almost making her repent taking advantage of Cullen's vulnerable state.
Almost.
"Come here, Fear," she called quietly, and the puppy happily and enthusiastically jumped onto the bed. "Don't get used to this," she warned him, at the same time negating herself as she scratched his short fur, "But he's better, calmer, when you're near. Stay by him for the rest of the night. All right?"
He didn't bark in answer, somehow knowing the loud noise would not be appreciated, but he did pant in agreement. He sprawled on the sheets next to Cullen, stretching his length bonelessly beside the Commander's, burrowing slightly into the mattress.
"That's a good boy," Peredura sighed, standing up to move away. She was going to be cold for the rest of the night, curled up on the couch without Fear, but she knew Cullen needed the mabari more than she. She wrapped up the blanket and the mess, and took the smelly bundle down the stairs to leave outside for the servants to collect. So far she had managed to keep people out of her chambers, keep anyone from discovering Cullen or learning what he was going through. This was embarrassing and personal, and she knew he wouldn't want his difficulties advertised all over Skyhold.
As Cassandra had informed her: templars never made their suffering known.
After she climbed back up the stairs, her eyes automatically were drawn to him. He appeared as before, peaceful, exhausted, but one hand was now lying on Fear's side. Maybe, just maybe, she could allow herself to feel a little hope, that they had turned the corner, that things would get better.
They needed to; she was beginning to run out of excuses.
Peredura was lying on her stomach in front of the fire, pages full of careful yet unschooled markings spread around her. The book that Mother Giselle had given her was open to some random hymn, the words unintelligible to her, but she painstakingly copied the text anyway. It wasn't much, and she supposed it was childish to assume that somehow all the words would suddenly start making sense if she simply kept at it…
But she was bored. And it was a lot more productive than sitting and staring at Cullen while he slept. She nibbled at her lower lip, thinking over the past few days, and had to grudgingly admit she had probably gotten in over her head. In hindsight, the whole chaining-Cullen-in-her-room-while-he-went-through-withdrawal was not the best idea she'd ever had, the logistics proving far more difficult than she had anticipated. She probably should have chained him up somewhere away from Skyhold. She probably should have gotten someone to help her, someone like Cassandra who already understood his plight, or The Iron Bull who could overpower him if he became too violent. But it was too late now, too embarrassing to try to explain, too difficult to fix. She and Cullen had to endure this, but hopefully there wasn't much left.
She looked down at the last row of indecipherable lines and curves and swore. Somewhere among the way, she had jumped from one line of text to the next, and messed up whatever phrase she had been copying. She drew a heavy slash through her mistake and started the first line over again.
"You shouldn't encourage dominant behavior."
The voice startled her. She snapped her head up, but couldn't quite see around the mattress to where Cullen was lying. It had to be him, however, as no one else was in the room. She pushed herself onto her knees and craned her neck to see him, lifting a groggy head and blinking groggy eyes as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. "You're awake! Oh, ah," she softened her voice, unsure if he was really awake or having another one of his innumerable delusions. She stood up slowly, brushing off her hands and knees, and asked quietly, "How are you feeling?"
He had managed to wedge himself up as far as his elbows. "I'm fine. And don't change the subject, young lady. We were discussing your handling of your hound. Just because he isn't a dog, doesn't mean he should be treated like a person."
She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, as if she had no idea what he was talking about.
"You're letting Fear sleep on your bed," he said slowly, enunciating each syllable. "I can smell him on the sheets. It's a bad habit, one you should put a stop to, before he grows to his full size." He was trying to sit up, struggling to brace his arms beneath him and grimacing every time he clenched his abdominals. She started forwards, intending to help him, but he waved her off with a hand, falling halfway onto the pillows when he did so.
"Oh, right, well," she hummed, not sure if she was more discomfited over his reprimand or his refusal of her aid. She gripped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers just to have something to do, and explained, "I, er, I didn't, well, yes, I mean, I did tell him to jump up onto the bed. But it was only for your benefit. You were calmer when he was nearby."
"That's no excuse," he shook his head before her words fully sank in. "Train your puppy, from day one, the way he should behave. Be consistent. You don't have to be cruel, but you must be firm. Otherwise he'll take advantage of you at every opportunity. Understand?" He finally settled himself against the pillows and pierced her with his hard, hazel glare.
"Yes, Ser," she felt her cheeks burn and her heart drop into her boots.
He saw the disheartened look on her face, and perhaps he felt a tiny bit of remorse for having scolded her. "Where is he, by the way?"
"Oh, um, I think this afternoon it was Solas who was going to walk him. Everyone's been taking turns, watching Fear for me and taking him out for exercise, since I'm unable to."
"And why can't you?" he pressed, his earlier remorse already forgotten. "He's your mabari, your partner. You should be the one handling his training as well as his free time."
Damn, but Cullen seemed dense today. It might be a good sign, or it might be due to his withdrawal, or he might not be in his right mind at this moment. At any rate, she decided to explain—again. "That's a little hard right now. I've got to keep people out of here, don't I, while you're, er…" she waved her hand at him, "Indisposed. So I told Josephine that I was sick with a cold, though by now everyone thinks it's something a little more serious, because it's taken so long, and there was that mess on the comforter, and then I won't let anyone in here… But, anyway, people have been very understanding, very helpful, sending me sweets to tempt my appetite, and lots of warm broth, and nearly everyone's leant a hand with Fear."
"Oh," he sighed, his brow furrowed, "I see." Actually, he didn't see, not quite, his fuzzy mind having trouble getting into gear. He could vaguely remember why he had come to Peredura's chambers, but what happened last night was taking its time coming back to him. "Ah, you said I was calmer with Fear on the bed?" He asked, hoping for a little clarification.
"Oh, yes, you were," she assured him, her eyes peeking at him from behind her bangs. Just as suddenly she got a look on her face like she had done something wrong. "Um, excuse me, I shouldn't have, I mean, oh!" She cleared her throat, giving her head a shake to move her bangs out of the way and lifted her chin to look at him fully. He had no idea why she had acted like she had done something wrong—he liked the way she peeked at him—but her words continued, "During your delirium, you were calmer whenever the air was moving, or Fear was beside you. I thought it best, to let him up on the bed, even if he shouldn't be there." She shrugged, "I was just trying to make things easier for you."
He could feel the breeze, the cool and moving air feeling good against his skin, and reassuring him that he could continue breathing. "Yes, well," he stalled for time, trying to put his finger on what exactly was bothering him. He scratched at an itch on his side, his brow furrowing deeper. "I see. Very thoughtful of you. Er, how long have I been here?"
"Let me think, it was the day I got back from Haven… right, you've been here three nights and almost three full days."
Three days, he repeated, this time to himself. He didn't remember any of it, not really. He rubbed a hand over his face and felt the growth on his cheeks and chin. He could allow, there was enough beard there to warrant that many days, but…
"Are you gonna be sick again?"
"What?" he asked, jerked out of his thoughts by her question.
"You looked like you were going to, well, never mind. Are you hungry? Would you like anything?"
"No, I… yes, thank you," he answered distractedly. He was still trying to puzzle through how he had lost so much time. It seemed to him, only one night should have passed, and yet… "What time is it?"
"Don't know, exactly, late afternoon, almost evening," she shrugged. She was standing in front of the fire, ladling something out of a pot and into a cup. "The sun's just about to go behind the mountains, but there's still some time before nightfall. Here, I've been keeping some broth warm for you. Would you want to try some bread again? I'm only asking because, well, the last time you tried to eat something, it sort of…" her words trailed off and she made a motion with her hand, imitating something coming up from her stomach and out of her mouth.
He knew she meant he had been sick, and instinctively rubbed at his sore stomach. He had noticed the ache in his abdominals when he sat up, but now he was noticing something else. "Maker's breath! What happened to my clothes?"
She felt her cheeks burst into bright crimson, but she determinedly lifted her chin, a cup of broth in one hand and a warm roll in the other, and walked back to the bed. "Kaffas, but you make it sound like I've stripped you. You still have your leggings on, for the record, but your tunic, well, we've been over this three times already," she gave a weak sort of laugh, embarrassed and really not wanting to say it again. Risking a glance up, she saw Cullen glaring at her, hard, the look he liked to use on his greenest recruits. Apparently he wasn't going to let her off the hook. "Right. Fourth time's a charm, or something like that. When you got sick the other night, you…" she stopped herself as she handed him the food, thinking that perhaps now was not the time to go into details, "Um, let's just say, things got messy, especially your tunic. I had to remove it; it was fairly well soiled and I couldn't get you cleaned up so long as you were wearing it. And with the chain still in place, I had to cut it off, your tunic," she gestured at the chain on his wrist. "But don't worry about it. I mean, I already got you a clean change of clothing, thinking that you might want one by the time this is all finished. It's over there, by my desk," she thumbed over her shoulder to the desk. "I'd get it for you, but, well, it would be kind of hard for you to put it on right now."
He barely heard her last words, his eyes having flown to the desk when she mentioned it. To where his armor lay neatly stacked. To that damnable blue bottle illuminated by a last ray of sunlight. It took every ounce of willpower—almost all his physical strength—to pull his eyes away.
Apparently she hadn't noticed his distress. She had retreated to the foot of the bed, sitting down to keep him company while he ate his meager meal. He didn't look at her, his eyes on his hands holding the food, one wrist still encased within the shackle. He could remember putting it on, the feeling of revulsion as the cold metal wrapped around his flesh, how he'd had to do it quickly—without thinking—or he would have lost the nerve. He also remembered what she said, how she explained the reasons behind her wanting him restrained.
And how her own tale of addiction had filled the room, sucked out the air and light and life and…
"Cullen?"
He cleared his throat, coming back to himself. "Ah, thank you, Peredura, for all you've done for me, but do you think we could unlock this now?" He lifted his hand, cup and all, and rattled the chain suggestively.
She didn't answer right away, but looked at him closely, her dark brown eyes a mystery, her thoughts and reason beyond his comprehension. "I'm sorry, Cullen, but I don't think so, not quite yet. Yes, you seem to be coherent and have come back to yourself, and your physical symptoms are over with, but.." she paused to bite her lip, her hair falling forwards, making her have to peek at him from behind her long bangs.
"Stop doing that!" he scolded, and knew he had overreacted when she blinked soulfully at him.
She sputtered and spurted a few times before she could string words together somewhat coherently, "I… I'm sorry… I know you don't like it… through my hair… when I look at you, I mean… I've been trying not to…"
Now it was his turn to spurt in confusion, "What?"