A/N: the following chapter contains descriptions of addiction and withdrawal, as well as consequences of mental cruelty.
Chapter Thirteen: Chains (Part III)
"What?" Peredura and Cullen stared at each other from opposite ends of the bed, identical looks of confusion on their faces.
The next moment they were talking, both of them, their sounds stumbling over each other, trying to explain, neither of them sure how to put their thoughts into words. It was Cullen who finally lifted a hand, still holding a roll, to stop both their sputtering. "Just… wait a moment."
She snapped her mouth closed and blinked at him.
In the silence that followed, he took a few breaths, trying to organize his thoughts, the beginnings of a headache forming behind his temples. "I didn't mean to shout at you," he began, feeling his way carefully through his words as he went, "I only wanted you to stop chewing your lip. You bite it so much, it's about to start bleeding again."
She looked at him for a moment as a faint shade of pink began to tint her cheeks, before she dropped her face, staring at her knee, her hair falling forwards. "I thought you meant, I mean, never mind, but you did keep pulling my lip free, a lot, over the past few days. I've kind of been wondering why you did it."
"I did what?"
"You kept pulling at my lip," she lifted her eyes without moving her head, the soft brown orbs batting at him from within their curtain of overgrown bangs. "I wasn't sure, with everything else that was going on, what you meant by doing that, or if you meant anything…"
"I…" Cullen swallowed thickly, sure the sound echoed through the entire room. He could remember, so many times he'd seen her lip abused, and the urges he felt, the obsession he suffered as a symptom of his withdrawal, and he wondered aloud, "I didn't kiss you, did I?"
Peredura dropped her eyes as her face burst into flames, thinking of how many times he had said—in his delirium over the past few days—that he wanted to kiss her. In a rare moment of impish impulsiveness, she thought of how tempting it would be to tease him, to let him think that he had kissed her. Or even better, admit to the kiss she had stolen from him. But the mischievous moment passed, and she answered honestly. "No…"
"Thank the Maker," he sighed, his voice overflowing with relief. Immediately he regretted it, thinking of how his statement could be misconstrued. He stared at his cup of broth, unable to meet her gaze, feeling his own blush burn his cheeks as he tried to excuse his slip of the tongue, "I mean, that would be highly inappropriate, for me to kiss you, when I'm the Commander of your forces, a member of your personal staff, an advisor, I shouldn't… we shouldn't…" He decided it might be best of he simply stopped and changed the subject. "What was it you thought I meant, something about your hair?" He took a bite of the roll just to have something to do, and perhaps to keep his mouth out of trouble for a while.
"Oh, ah," she started to bite her lip, thought better of it, and let it go free. She didn't know Cullen hadn't seen the act, as both of them were studying something suddenly interesting on their own laps, unable to meet the other's gaze. "You thought I was a desire demon."
The silence that followed was deafening. Peredura imagined she could see the look on his face, stricken, shocked, disgusted, ashamed. She couldn't look up to confirm, however, deciding instead to sputter through an explanation. "You didn't mean it, I know that, it was only part of your delusions, sometimes you thought you were in Kinloch, so I know you didn't mean anything by it, I know it was part of the withdrawal, so it's all right, with me, but you would get upset whenever I acted like myself, I mean whenever you thought the desire demon was acting like Peredura, so I tried not to do the things I would normally do, and one of the things that upset you frequently was looking at you through my hair, that in particular would set you off, and I thought that was what you told me to stop doing, just now, when instead you were saying I shouldn't bite my lip…"
Cullen couldn't speak, partly from the shocking words coming from her, partly because he had a mouthful of food. After her words trailed away, he finally managed to swallow, only to regret it. He could feel the bread hitting his stomach, the organ twisting and convulsing around the substance, trying to remember after days of starvation how to digest food. He had to move, to do something, anything, to get his mind off of the thought of that single bite coming back on him because his own body couldn't remember how to…
He swung his legs off the edge the bed so suddenly, he made her gasp.
"Cullen, what's wrong? You look a little green."
"I'm fine," he panted, sitting there, the roll and broth forgotten as he struggled with what she had said. He had been lost, out of his head, for three days. Three days where he could have said anything, done anything. Three days he had called her a demon, admitting his desire for her. What other secrets had slipped out? "We should never have done this."
"No, Cullen," she argued, her hand reaching towards him, "It's working. We're almost through it. Just a little longer, and it'll all be worth it. Trust me."
"Trust you," he repeated, staring across his shoulder at her without seeing her. He could feel his patience wear thin, feel the shackle bite into his flesh, and it aggravated his anger, "I have trusted you, I've been trusting you since I came here the other night. I've done nothing but trust you, put my faith and my life into your hands. I've let you chain me up like a hound. I've let you strip me of my armor—of half my clothing! I've been out of my head so much, Maker only knows what sort of advantages you could have taken of me! I've sat here and stared at that vial knowing what it is, knowing you're daring me to ask about it, testing me, tempting me…!"
His tirade stopped, seeing what he had done, what his words had wrought. Without looking he could feel his leggings were damp with the broth he had spilled, his other fist completely destroying the roll. But worst of all was Peredura; he could finally see through his anger and take note of her condition. She was sitting there, hanging her head, biting her lip all the harder, and what little he could see of her face had grown red and splotchy. He'd hurt her feelings—he'd yelled at her and unnecessarily hurt her feelings. Her, Peredura, the one who had done nothing but help him.
Peredura felt her cheeks burn even hotter than before, feeling guilt for having taken advantage of Cullen just as he had supposed—remembering that kiss she stole. Her wallowing in shame was broken off, her confession and apology forgotten, when he suddenly moved. She leaned back with a start but didn't leave the bed, refusing to run away at the first hint of trouble, trying to remain strong for him.
Cullen stood up from the bed, the cup falling to the floor, his fist still closed around the crumbs. He turned back and caught her peeking at him timidly, full of fear and doubt, but remaining far too close to him. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to grip her by the shoulders, dangle her in front of him, and shake some sense into her silly little head! Yet he couldn't, not when she looked at him with her deep brown eyes, softening with tears and compassion and empathy. Frustrated, hating himself, hating his weakness, he stalked away, trying to get as far as he could—since she refused to run—before he did something he could never be forgiven…
The chain jerked his wrist, stopping him, keeping him from escaping, and jarring his memory. Images flashed within his mind, jumbled and superimposed on each other: ripping her jacket, chasing her, Fear jumping on him, the chain jerking him off his feet, her body going limp beneath his power…
A dark pit of dread settled in his stomach, and this time it wasn't due to food. "I've hurt you, haven't I?" Cullen was staring at Peredura, a look of self-loathing and horror etched deeply into the lines on his face, his hands held out before him as if he were mimicking his words. "I… held my arm… around your neck and… squeezed…"
She was in the same position she'd been in when he had paced away from her. She had felt the whole bed shake when he had reached the end of the chain. The piece of furniture held, but the loud creak of protest had given her some small cause for alarm. She had to calm him down, and was ready and shaking her head even before he finished. "It was only a bruise, and easily healed with a potion, see? No harm done. Besides, Fear did more damage to your arm, getting you to let go, than anything you did to me."
"But… I almost broke your hand… and your neck, I…"
"No, Cullen, listen to me," she got off the bed and approached him, cautiously; without Fear there she was taking an awful chance, but she trusted her instincts. Right then he was focused on blaming himself, and he wasn't calling her a demon—two things she took for good signs. "Listen. It wasn't you who did that; do you understand? You were suffering a delusion. You thought I was a desire demon, and Fear a, well, fear demon. So of course you fought us."
He blinked at her, wanting to believe her, needing to believe her, but the guilt was overwhelming. "I did things. I hurt you. It was foolish, of both of us, to risk your neck like this," he paused to give a derisive laugh, "Literally."
"It was my neck to risk," she countered.
"Stop!" he commanded, "Don't make light of this. Don't excuse me. You should be questioning me, my resolve, my motives, my commitment." He turned away, making a sound of disgust, and tried once more to explain it to her. "You don't understand, do you, what it is I'm dealing with? You're in over your head. You thought, since you've dealt with addiction, that you could help me with mine. But this opeigh you were addicted to, it was nothing like lyrium! Taking it didn't make you stronger! And being without it hasn't made you less!"
He took a step towards her, feeling slight satisfaction when she flinched again, but she stubbornly wouldn't move out of his reach. She should, she had to, before he lost control… "What will it take to make you understand? What if I had hurt you, given you a serious injury, and you couldn't get to help in time? What if… what if I had killed you? Where would the Inquisition be without you? Or Thedas?" He turned away and started pacing once more, reminding her of a caged lion. Instinctively she glanced behind her to see how far she would have to go to be out of his reach.
"I should have never put you through this!" he continued. "I would have been better off chaining myself in my own chamber," he rattled his wrist, "Or locking myself in a cell in the dungeons, rather than take the risk of hurting you! I could never live with myself, if I ever allowed anything to happen to you! I would be… the Inquisition would be lost without you," he quickly corrected himself, trying to camouflage the embarrassing statement. Maker's breath, what he had nearly said…
"I was wrong," he started again, trying to distract them both from his slip. "It is obvious that this cannot be done! It may very well be that I've gotten over the worst of it, physically speaking, but I will never be free of lyrium. There remains this, this, this ability, separate and a part of me, deep inside, that needs lyrium. It's starved, and I can feel it trying to take over my body and break this chain and drink that flask…" he shook his finger towards her desk.
"No, Cullen, please," she clutched at his arms, pulling his hand down, "You're not giving up. Not now. You've come too far. I know you can do this. I know it's hard, but…"
"You know nothing!"
He threw her. It was easy, even half-starved and weakened, he was still several times stronger than Peredura. He shoved at her chest, the strength of her hands gripping him no match for the strength of his arms pushing her. She all but flew across the room to slam into the back of her desk before landing on the floor. The force shook the items on top, the bottle wobbling itself right off the edge. She looked up and reached out to grab it just in time, jabbing a finger in the process, but keeping the bottle intact.
The room grew quiet, dangerously quiet. Peredura didn't look at him, couldn't, as she carefully held the bottle in one hand while she struggled to her feet. She leaned against the desk, her free hand pressed against her ribs, as she tried to catch her breath. She wasn't hurt, not badly, maybe bruised, but the damage that was done wasn't physical. She set the bottle back into place before she turned towards him.
Cullen was lost. She could see it in his eyes, in the sad and self-loathing expression on his face, in the exhausted slump of his shoulders, in the way he couldn't meet her gaze, in the dark and defeated tone of his voice. "It cannot be done."
"…Cullen…"
"Now do you see? Now do you understand? I can't control myself. I can't trust myself."
"Cullen."
"I've hurt you. And I'll hurt you again. There is no forgiveness for such actions, for my actions… for me."
"What are you saying?" she demanded, tired of being his ally. Perhaps, like he had suggested she do with Fear, perhaps she needed to be more firm with him, act as the Inquisitor—his superior—rather than his friend.
"Unlock me, and I'll leave the Inquisition."
"No," she stated firmly, her hands crossed over her chest, her legs braced shoulder-width apart.
"There's nothing else to be done." He finally looked at her, and she repented her wish earlier that he would, the haunted look in his eyes too terrible for the light of day. "There's nothing that can forgive my actions."
"Forgiveness?" she pressed, "Is that what concerns you, forgiveness? What is it you think you've done that can't be forgiven? What terrible sin have you committed, because I can tell you right now, Cullen," she moved in close, daring to stand toe-to-toe with him, "I can trump it!"
Her words were angry, harsh, and full of emotion. He could see it on her face, her guilt, her self-blame; that was why she chewed her lip so much, apprehension over her own sins. The thought caught him off guard. He had no idea why she felt guilty, what she might have done to warrant such self-damning behavior. He stared at her in confusion, something of his thoughts showing on his features because she started talking again.
"You don't remember," she shook her head, turning aside with a soft sigh, "I suppose not. Doesn't matter. I never really wanted to tell anyone, anyway." She walked behind the desk, hugging herself tight, hating the way she seemed unable to feel warm. She faced her bookshelves, the four slim volumes lying on them looking so lonely. It was all right, she told herself, if Cullen didn't remember her confession. After all, they were focusing on his problems right now, not hers. But then he did remember.
"Blood magic," he said softly. "Vicici used you to perform blood magic. No, Peredura, you were not to blame for what happened while you were a slave."
"I knew what I was doing."
"You were a child…"
"Only for part of it."
"You were drugged, coerced, under duress…"
"I was a willing participant!" she shouted back, her temper flaring as his flagged. She marched around the desk, her face lifted up as she vented all her pent up anger and impotence at him. "I had a lot more control over my actions for all those YEARS, than you did during your delirium these past few days. I knew what I was doing. I took a knife and I sliced into my own flesh, reopened my scars, spilled my own blood, knowing what Vicici was going to do with it, knowing what sort of horrors and abominations he was going to commit, things so dreadful I can never speak of them, and never forget them! Does any of that sound familiar?"
Her whole body heaved with her breaths, daring him to answer, daring him to excuse her. He remained silent, but she did not, walking towards him slowly once more. "I watched people being tortured to death and felt no remorse. Each and every time he performed blood magic, I allowed the power to come through me. Never once did I stop him. I could have. I could have taken my own life, rather than let things continue as they were, but I didn't. I bled and I took opeigh so I could forget those things that I let happen just so I could have more opeigh…"
It was a circular hell she had been trapped within, caught in an endless cycle of blood magic and opeigh and back again.
"No, opeigh does not make me stronger when I take it," she agreed with his statement from earlier, "But it does change me. It creates a world I can live with, one where I don't have to feel guilty for my actions. One where I don't have to hide from my past. Since I've stopped taking it, I can't look at my reflection and feel good about the person I am. I KNOW how much easier my life would be if I started taking opeigh again, but I also know I cannot do such a thing. I have to stay strong. I have to stay away from opeigh. And not just for Thedas or the Inquisition," she was right in front of him again, far too close into his personal space, but he couldn't move, "But for myself."
He stared at her, barely able to catch his breath. He saw, in her hands, the blue bottle from her desk. She lifted it up, gestured with it, and waited for him to speak. To ask about it. To reach for it. To do something—anything…!
He couldn't.
There was a knock on the lower door, and an expectant bark quickly following. "That's quite enough of that, Fear," Solas' voice floated through the wood. "She may be resting; we wouldn't want to disturb her, now, would we?"
Fear barked again, sounding as if he very much would like nothing more than to disturb his partner.
Still Cullen refused to move, refused to speak, refused to make any sort of answer to her unspoken question. After Fear's third bark, she turned away, her face slightly disappointed, and set the bottle back on the desk. "I have to get the door."
Cullen stared at the bottle. He couldn't have taken his eyes off of it of his own will if his life depended upon it. He had wanted to take the bottle from her. He could feel the tension in his muscles, still trembling even though the lyrium was once more out of his reach. Maker, he prayed silently in his heart, how could he endure this?!
Something nudged his leg. When he didn't respond right away, a pair of overlarge paws planted themselves on his thigh, staggering him and knocking his gaze off the bottle. He looked down finally to see Fear's face, the puppy's tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth and his eyes bright with life and love. Slowly sound and light and thought returned to Cullen, opening the world to him, a world beyond lyrium.
"I think I could handle something a little more substantial than broth for supper, yes," Peredura's voice floated up the stairs like a gentle mist.
"Good. I was hoping you would say that. I took the liberty of bringing a tray, just in case. Shall I…"
"Oh, thank you, I'll take it." There was the clatter of plates and cups.
"Are you sure you can handle this? I could bring it up the stairs for you, at least."
"No, no, Solas, my chamber, it's kind of messy right now. I'd rather not, well, let anyone see it."
"Very well, Inquisitor. Shall I inform Josephine and Leliana that you will be down in the morning for that meeting you've been postponing?"
"Um, make it the afternoon. I think by then I should feel up to making the climb down the tower and back up again."
"Of course. If there's nothing else I can do for you? No? Then I shall say good night."
"Good night, Solas, and thank you again. For everything."
The door closed, her steps sounded on the stairs, the tray rattled, and then Peredura's head popped into view behind the railing. She didn't look at Cullen, either too disappointed in his actions or too focused on her task. She walked around the hearth to set the tray on the bed. "Let's see what Solas brought for supper. Maybe there's something in this you might like to try eating."
Cullen approached her from behind, but she didn't turn around to face him, letting him have the advantage, trusting Fear to let her know if it wasn't safe. It was safe. She felt the heat from Cullen's body as he came to stand beside her. He didn't speak, perhaps he couldn't, so she let him have more time. Without turning around she picked up a piece of fruit and brushed it against her jacket. "You can have the apple, but I'm taking the pear; they're my favorite." She took a bite and stepped away, towards the hearth.
He watched her retreat, his hands clenching into fists. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, what he was supposed to say, that would grant him freedom from the chains. He wanted to throttle her again, the frustration building inside him like a tidal wave. The next moment he felt drained, defeated, and more lost than before. Fear gave him push, away from the bed and towards the hearth, towards Peredura, towards the papers spread out over the floor. He looked down at the hound, who panted at him as if he was saying something. He looked back at her and her little mess. Clearing his throat, he picked up the apple and started after her.
"I believe, er, I had offered, that is, if you wanted, I mean…" His words trailed away when she turned to look at him, a curiously confused look on her face. Instead he blurted out, "I could teach you to read. Now. Well, not now, not right away, it takes time, but we could start now, this evening, if you're willing… Why do these things always sound better in my head?"
She smiled at him, her shy little smile, before she tilted her head and it slipped behind her long brown hair. "I'd like that."
"Good," he agreed quickly. "Good. Well. Let's get started, shall we? What hymn are you copying?"
"I don't know," she sighed, picking up the book and flipping through the pages randomly. "But, um, there is one I'd like to learn first, if I could."
"Of course. Which one is it?"
"I don't know the name of it, but in the mountains," she handed over the book, thinking he'd have a better chance of finding the right one, "Mother Giselle started singing one evening, and others started singing with her. It was like the whole camp was a part of this… great… single voice. Everyone together. Everyone in unison. Everyone in agreement. But I was left out, because I didn't know the song. That's the one I'd like to learn first, so next time I can be a part of that. It was something about the dawn…"
"Yes, I know the one your thinking of," he answered, sticking the apple in his mouth so he could use both hands to flip through the pages. "Hm, here," he handed it back, talking around a mouthful of fruit, "The Dawn Will Come. We'll start there, shall we?"
They walked back to the bed and sat down, the tray off to the side, the book open and on her lap. It was hard for Peredura, not because she had never learned to read, not because Cullen kept eating and talking around mouthfuls of food. It was because every so often his hand would brush hers as he pointed out a letter. Because his thigh would bump hers whenever he shifted on the bed. Because even after all the arguing this evening, he seemed at ease in her presence. Because he was half-dressed, and her eyes kept wandering away from the pages to peek through her bangs at his scars.
She remembered Dorian's advice, of laying siege to Cullen's heart, and knew she had to work slowly, gain his trust, nurture his friendship, open his mind to the idea that they not only had some things in common, but some feelings as well…
But damn it this was going to take a long time.
The fire crackled low in the hearth. Peredura lay on the cushions, huddled beneath a freshly cleaned blanket, her eyes staring unseeing at the back of the couch. Fear was on the bed next to Cullen, something he protested but she and her hound overruled him. She got the feeling Cullen didn't object too strongly, despite his earlier lecture.
It was late, the two of them having spent the entire evening working through the hymn. Peredura had grown cranky and tired, wanting the words to start making sense right away, and feeling angry and cheated when the letters refused to behave. She huffed to herself, still slightly miffed; why have a letter 'c' if all the sounds it could make were already made by other letters? And it was nearly impossible—at least to her way of thinking—to tell which sound it was supposed to make and when. And putting it next to another consonant only added more sounds and confusion…
The bed creaked, startling her from her thoughts. Immediately she was wide awake and focused on Cullen, on Fear, on any sign that something was amiss. Slowly she peeked over her shoulder to see what was happening. In the dim firelight she could see Fear was lying on his belly, his front paws stretched towards Cullen. He didn't seem too concerned, but he was awake and alert and staring at Cullen.
There was a soft moan, followed by slurred and indistinct words. She knew Cullen was speaking, dreaming, talking in his sleep, and though she couldn't understand what he was saying, she knew the intent behind his mutterings. She had heard just such pleas, countless times before, while bleeding for Vicici's magic. She couldn't let him suffer through whatever nightmare he was facing. She threw off the covers and went to the bed to wake him. She touched his shoulder, felt how cold and sweaty his skin was, and gave him a little shake.
"Cullen. Cullen, wake up. It's only a dream. Cullen!"
She nearly landed on the floor, she had to pull back so suddenly. Cullen woke with a gasp, sitting straight up in bed, his eyes wide and unseeing, his heart racing so strongly she could feel it though her hand on his shoulder. "Cullen?"
He took a breath, his whole chest heaving with the motion, and choked on a cry. His hand clamped down over hers, and for a moment she thought he was going to use his hold on her to again try to coerce her into getting him the key. But Fear didn't seem concerned, and Cullen didn't move to hurt or twist—he only held her close, kept her in contact with him, while he battled off the last wispy shadows of his nightmare.
When his breathing finally eased, when his eyes focused on her face, she offered him a brave little smile. "Better?"
They sat so close to each other, he could feel her breath fanning his skin, brushing against him like a summer breeze. "Yes," he swallowed, "Thank you."
"Would you like something to drink? Water, or some ale, perhaps? Something to help you relax?"
"No, that won't work," he shook his head. "I've been having these dreams long enough, ever since…" he stopped, unable to speak it. He had to take three deep breaths before he could continue, "I've tried every remedy you could think of, all to no effect. And now they're worse, since I've been weaning myself off of lyrium."
"But they're only dreams, you know that, right?"
Again he shook his head, sadly this time, his hand falling away to let her go. "No. They're not only dreams. Not these."
He pushed himself up from the bed, feeling the need to walk, to move, to stand at the door and look out over the world. He couldn't reach it, however, the chain a not-so-subtle reminder that he remained a captive of lyrium, of that little blue bottle that mocked him, sitting serene and innocent on her desk—he refused to allow himself to even glance in that direction. But the desk was beyond his reach, the door even further. Still he yearned for the freedom, for the fresh air, for the vast openness of the mountainous scenery. He made it as far as he could and stared, taking in what was visible through the partially opened door.
Peredura sighed. She kept the balcony doors opened a crack, not too far that the room grew cold, but far enough to make the air move. Yet it was more than air that Cullen needed; she could see that now. She got up and walked around him, walked to the door he was yearning for, and opened it as far as it would go.
Cullen took a deep breath, feeling more than gratitude for Peredura's perceptiveness. Hungrily his eyes took in the view: the bright pinpricks of light that marred the midnight black sky; the mountains bathed in moonlit snow; the silent and enduring stones of Skyhold so ancient no one knew its true name. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but when he opened them again the view remained.
"I never told anyone what happened at Kinloch," he admitted quietly. "I couldn't, not even to my Knight-Commander. Perhaps it's time I did."
"Cullen, you don't have to…"
"I know," he interrupted her. She had walked back towards him, away from the door, the moonlight silhouetting her gently from behind, a form of softened shadow and muted color. "I think… that's what will make it easier," he admitted, taking her hand and stopping her from moving past him, "That is, if you don't mind…"
"Of course not," she interrupted him. Her other hand reached up to touch his cheek, the stubble long enough now to start to feel less prickly. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes.
"Thank you. I, I need this, I think, if I talk about it, if I share it, that maybe, somehow, it'll be lessened," he paused to laugh softly, "If that makes any sense."
"It does," she admitted. "It will help to talk about it, to share the guilt and pain with someone else. Trust me."
He opened his eyes and held her gaze steadily. "I do."
Cullen pulled his head away from her hand, but held onto her other hand as he turned back to stare outside. "I was serving at the tower in Kinloch. I was so green, had only been a full templar for a year when it happened. The Fifth Blight. Most of the mages were called away to fight. Those that remained, well," he paused to swallow. "I knew most of them, even liked them well enough, but their leader, Uldred, he changed them. He used the chaos caused by the Blight to his advantage and took over the tower. Every mage that remained became possessed, or blood mages, or abominations. Our Knight-Commander had no choice; he had to seal up the tower, prevent anyone from entering or exiting, to save the citizens in the countryside.
"Unfortunately, not everyone made it out in time," he continued. "There were nearly a score of us, mostly veterans, a couple of younger ones like myself. Yet we all knew, if we wanted to live, if we wanted to make it out of there, we had to battle our way through the tower to the very top, to Uldred, and kill him. We faced blood mages every step of the way, the horrors and demons they conjured, the evils… We killed everyone we came across, but we were hopelessly outnumbered. We knew: if we stopped, we died; if we fought, we died, but at least then some of us had the chance to make it!
"It was beyond nightmarish," he kept staring outside, the dim firelight illuminating his profile, the dimmer moonlight suffusing his face, his eyes seeing nothing but Kinloch tower. "But that wasn't the worst part, not by far. In the end, there were only four of us. We'd made it as far as the Harrowing chamber, but could get no further. We became trapped—somehow—by this magical barrier. We were templars! We should have been able to break through it… But perhaps we were too weak from all our earlier struggles, too long without lyrium, I'm not sure. I only know, we couldn't break through the magic, we couldn't even break through the walls, and the air… with four of us trapped in there… the air got stale and close. Then the demons came."
His voice dropped, filled with suppressed terror, sounding like a man who had been forced to see his worst fear continually for years on end, until the fear became his expected companion, until terror seemed a normal state of mind. Peredura wanted to stop him, her own imagination filling in the details, the scene far too similar to her own past—but she couldn't stop him. He needed this, he needed to excise the memory, share the pain, before he could finish healing. He'd come too far for her to give up on him now, just because she grew a little uncomfortable. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, reminding him that she was there, that he wasn't at Kinloch, that it was over and in his past. He felt her, returned the gesture, and continued.
"There were two of them, demons. They… put visions in our heads… turned us against each other… I saw the demons change into two innocent young girls… they put ideas, thoughts into our heads… claimed the other three templars weren't who they appeared to be… changed them into monsters… abominations… who wanted to hurt the two girls… they begged us for protection… offered a pleasurable reward for killing the others… their clothing slowly disappearing as they came together…
"I knew! I knew it was a trick. My faith was strong—stronger than their lies. I resorted to prayer. I held onto my faith… but the others didn't. Two of them, Beval and Farris, they… Maker have mercy!" He had to let go, let go of her hand and pace away, the emotions of the memory bringing forward too much energy, too much of the fight or flight instinct, for him to remain still. "…they fell beneath the demons' power… they started fighting… trying to kill each other… with their bare hands… Annlise saw them… she tried to break them apart…" He paused to look up at Peredura, and she had to use all her willpower not to flinch at the expression on his face. "They turned on her, someone they'd known for years! Then they went back to killing each other."
He returned to his pacing, granting her a moment to catch her breath and get her own features under control while he continued. "I finally came out of my prayer far enough to hear Annlise's final cry for help. I saw my brothers, my fellow templars, were falling prey to the demons' temptation. I thought Annlise dead, and tried to break up the fight between Beval and Farris. They turned on me, too. Knocked me out cold. By the time I came back around, they were dying, each by the other's hand, and the demons were laughing at them from beyond the barrier.
"I could do nothing for them but watch them drown in their own blood and pray for their souls. Then I heard a sound, over from where Annlise lay. She was still alive, barely, her neck broken, not far enough to kill but…" he shook his head futilely, "We didn't have any healing potions with us. And I knew none could be found in time. She was dying slowly, suffocating, unable to move or communication her needs. I couldn't let her suffer like that! I couldn't! I… I told her what I was going to do, I asked for her forgiveness, and then I finished breaking her neck." He took a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders rolling with the effort, his feet stumbling for a step before he regained his balance. "I'd known Annlise for years, we'd been in training together, and I had to kill her. I don't know if she understood, if she forgave me, but what choice did I have?!"
Again Peredura was reminded of her own past, this time more recent, of that abominable future where she'd found Cullen overgrown with red lyrium and took his life in an act of mercy.
"I was alone after that. Alone against two desire demons who tried to break my mind. They continually haunted and tormented me, refused me sleep, denied my rest, no food or water, the air growing more stale by the moment. I knew I was going to die there; it was only a matter of when. But I would not let them break me. Whatever they offered, however they tortured me, I refused to give in. My faith sustained me!
"But I didn't remain unchanged. Eventually, I was rescued. I begged my rescuers to kill every last mage in Kinloch! I wanted vengeance, for myself, for Annlise and the others, for all the templars who died in that tower. But cooler minds prevailed, and my heated words were overruled. Now I understand, I was too close to the problem, I'd been hurt too badly, of course my opinion was skewed. But back then, I felt every mage was a potential blood mage waiting for the right opportunity.
"Afterwards, my Knight-Commander didn't know what to do with me. I couldn't speak of what happened in the tower, how could I? I saw my fellow templars—my friends!—slaughtered, changed into monsters, utterly destroyed. I didn't want that stain on their memories. And as for myself, I wasn't the same after that—how could I be?! I was… damaged… but still willing to serve. So he sent me to Kirkwall."
Cullen put so much bitterness and hate into that last word, that Peredura felt a shiver of fear run down her spine. He didn't speak, he didn't move, his hand braced against a wall near the bed, his shoulders slumped in fatigue. She waited, but he'd grown so silent she thought he might be lost within his memory. She cleared her throat softly and offered, "Varric told me what happened there, about the Champion of Kirkwall and Knight-Commander Meredith…"
"Then you know," he interrupted her. "You know what she did, how she caused the circle there to fall. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what? She used me! She used my distrust and suspicion and hatred…" his words broke, but only for a moment, the force pushing them out too strong to resist, "To further her own purpose. She didn't promote me to her Captain because I was competent; she promoted me because she could use me to instill distrust between the templars and mages, to further goad the mages into rebelling!
"By the time I realized what she had done, how she had used me—used us all!—it was too late. The mages were forced to resort to blood magic. It was either that, or die. And in the end, most of them still died, along with the innocent."
He leaned his backside against the wall, too tired to pace. "All I ever wanted was to be a templar, to serve the Order. All I've ever done, is fail. My first Knight-Commander abandoned me to a slow and painful death. My second used me to purposefully incite a rebellion that nearly destroyed a city. Still I tried to serve, to assume the role of Knight-Commander, to lead the templars in Kirkwall as best as I could. I thought it was what was expected of me. Yet, after all I'd seen, after all I'd done, willingly or no…" He looked up at her, his eyes old and tired, the eyes of a man who's seen too much for ten lifetimes, much less his own. "I want nothing more to do with that life! Can you understand? Everything I wanted, everything I desired, is now tainted and repulsive to me. So when Cassandra approached me about joining the Inquisition, it wasn't too hard to walk away from all I've ever known.
"I've tried, Peredura," he watched her approach him, but he didn't move away or warn her off. "I've tried to give as much to the Inquisition as I did the Chantry, to serve as faithfully… to serve better than before! To give all of myself, to stop taking lyrium, but…" he choked on something that sounded of unending pain, "I can't break free! These thoughts still haunt me, worse than before! I… I don't know… if I can endure this… if I can succeed… I've failed so many times already… there's so much more at stake this time… if I fail again…"
She put her hand on his shoulder, felt him tremble beneath her touch, and knew the torment he was going through. "You don't have to do this alone, Cullen." Her hand moved, slowly, in a light caress, from his shoulder up the side of his neck to cup his cheek. "I'm here for you. And the others," she added in a rush, before he could get the wrong idea. "We will help you through this."
He closed his eyes again, savoring her touch, taking a few moments to simply breathe. When he looked at her again, his eyes were clearer, still bloodshot and circled with fatigue, but strong and sure and steady once more. "Yes, I think I'm beginning to get the idea."
She smiled, thinking he was making a small joke or witty comment. When he gave an answering smile, she knew she had been right. "There's still quite a few hours before dawn; you should try to get some more sleep."
He nodded, looking like he knew he wouldn't succeed, but knowing he needed to try. She started to move away, her hand falling from his face, but he caught it before she could get too far. She looked back at him, wondering what he could want, hopeful and fearful at the same time.
His question was not unexpected, something she had been waiting for, something she vainly prayed he would not ask. "What is in the bottle?"
She knew he was referring to the bottle on her desk, the blue bottle that sat innocent and threatening beside his armor. She lifted her chin and held his gaze, her words steady as she answered, "It's a powerful sleeping draught. One sip, and you'll be out for at least an hour. Take the whole bottle, and you could lose a day or more. Would you like me to get it for you? It might help."
He scoffed, letting go of her to run a hand through his hair, messing the curls up even further. "That would help, if it were true," he muttered, thinking her words were a trick, "But even so, I think I should learn to make due without such things."
She nodded, not quite satisfied with him, but happier with his answer.
"Could…" he started and stopped talking, and she waited quietly to see whether or not he was going to speak. He looked up at her, then towards the opened balcony door, then back to her. "I know you're used to warmer weather, but could you leave the door open for the rest of the night. It… helps… to be able to see the outdoors."
She nodded. "Of course."
He breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Peredura, you've done so much for me, I…" He felt ashamed, unable to find the words to express his gratitude.
"Cullen," she tilted her head until she was within his line of sight, "Try to get some sleep. All right?" She waited until he nodded in answer, before she left him, leaning against the wall, staring at the night.
Peredura was tired.
Scratch that. She was beyond tired. She'd had very little sleep for the past four nights while caring for Cullen, leaving her with dark circles around her eyes, and making her nearly as clumsy and awkward as she had been when she'd first awoken with the mark. But that wasn't the extent of her troubles. She was tired mentally, and distracted, her thoughts focused on Cullen more than on the conversation of those around her. She was also in a state of feeling continually chilled. She chalked that up to Cullen, too, after having kept the balcony doors—at the minimum—cracked if not fully opened, all for his benefit. The night wind in Skyhold was freezing, and Cullen, curse him, not only liked the breeze, but the coolness. He wanted nothing more than a light blanket, while she huddled and shivered beneath her comforter, fully dressed and wearing her jacket. To top it all off, her nose had started running, just for spite she was sure. She sniffed and rubbed the offending part of her body as she climbed the stairs of her tower.
The good news was: because of her bedraggled state, everyone believed she had been sick the past few days and was only now recovering enough to leave her chambers. A small comfort, as she felt catching a cold was a poor reward for all the sacrifices she'd made these past fews days. It wasn't fair, she thought to herself, that as Cullen got better, she got worse. She sighed, paused to moan at the distance she had yet to climb, and lethargically set the next foot on the next step.
Fear panted beside her, keeping pace, but chaffing at her slowness. He'd gone with her today only because he needed the exercise, otherwise she would have preferred to leave him with Cullen. But she had had to go to that meeting with Leliana and Josephine; she'd put it off for too long already. And Cullen appeared to be getting better, had even insisted that Fear needed the outing more than he needed the company. And it was only for a couple of hours. What kind of trouble could Cullen get into in that short amount of time?
She'd reached the last door to her chambers and paused again. Damn, she was tired. She really wasn't looking forward to another night of caring for someone else. But Cullen needed her, her strength, her experience, her empathy, and her discretion. She could let herself be sick and resentful later; right then she had to set aside her pettiness and focus on helping Cullen. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and tried to put an expression on her face that was something other than bone-deep exhaustion.
"Cullen?" she called softly as she opened the door, wanting to give him warning if he was doing something, er, personal, while not wanting to wake him if he had managed to find some rest. Fear, however, had a mind of his own. He lifted his head to sniff, gave a happy-sounding bark, and bounded up the steps to disappear around the top of the railing. Peredura sighed, knowing it was too late to scold the hound, and dragged herself up after him. It was probably a good sign, she told herself, if Fear didn't seem concerned. The sight that met her eyes when she reached the top step, however, caught her off guard and froze her with shock.
"Kaffas…"
"Good evening, Inquisitor." The words were formal, strong, clear, and coming from Cullen.
"Commander," she acknowledged, forcing herself to start moving again and finish entering the room. It took even more effort to cross the front of the hearth and approach her desk, all the while staring at Cullen. He was standing before the desk, dressed in the clean change of clothing she had set aside for him, along with his boots and leather coat. His hands were braced on the desktop, and he was staring at the small blue bottle lying next to his armor while ignoring the exuberant Fear trying to gain his attention.
The drawers of her desk had been opened, a few pulled completely out and turned upside down, the chair pushed out of the way. The chain was off his wrist, one end dropped and discarded on the floor in an untidy pile. She followed the length back towards her bed to see it lying off kilter; apparently Cullen had broken off the leg to free the chain so he could make it to the desk and find the key and…
"I understand," he said, his gaze never leaving the bottle, "Finally, what it is you wanted from me, what it is you've been trying to show me. Lyrium." He picked up the bottle, held it in his fingers, his hand steady and sure. "Even though I'm no longer a templar, even though I no longer take lyrium, I still have to live with it. Every day for the rest of my life, I'm going to want this. And every day I'm going to have to say no. No matter how hard things get, no matter what dangers I may face, no matter how strong and vivid the dreams become, I can never have another drop of this." He looked past the bottle to see her, see the shocked expression on her face. He thought he knew the answer, and tried to reassure her, "Don't worry; I didn't take any."
"I know."
The quickness and acceptance in her simple statement confused him slightly. "Yes, well," he cleared his throat, "I thought it was past time I returned to my duties. Er, sorry about your bed. I'll see to it that you get a new one."
She nodded, still staring at him.
He handed the bottle over, and she mindlessly accepted it.
"I'll be on my way, then. No doubt there's been a lot of work piling up for me back in my office. By the way, what excuse did you give everyone, regarding my absence. I didn't realize things were going to take this long, or I would have come up with something plausible myself…"
"You left Skyhold on a mission." It was so much easier, answering his questions, rather than trying to take the initiative herself. "You were going to try to make contact with a templar friend of yours, see if they knew anything about the red lyrium-infected templars."
"Ah," he sounded somewhat disappointed, but then his voice brightened, "That's… quite a good idea, actually. I think I will do that."
"You thought of it," she responded, "I mean, that's what I told everyone, that it was your idea, and I agreed you should do it, so that's where they think you've been, contacting this, um, contact, of yours."
He looked like he wanted to smile. "Yes, it would be best to get our stories straight, wouldn't it. Do you have a helmet I could borrow, something that would cover my face?"
She blinked at him. "What?"
"I'm going to have to leave Skyhold to find this contact of mine, but I was supposed to have left days ago. It would look strange if someone saw me leaving this evening. And I probably shouldn't wear my own armor—a bit distinctive, that. So if you have some extra bits laying around somewhere I could rummage through for something that might work…"
"Oh, right, of course, um, maybe in the closet over there."
"Ah, thank you," he started for the door beside the bed, trying not to feel guilty about the broken piece of furniture. "There's one more thing, Inquisitor," he called, rummaging through the odds and ends.
"What?"
"I want Abbets and Devensport to be with you, at all times." He came back out, a sturdy and nondescript helmet in his hands, a stern and no-nonsense look on his features. "I know you think you're safe, now that we're in Skyhold, and that we must have lost your assassin somewhere along the way. But I wouldn't count on it. Fear is a good deterrent; he'll make this assassin think twice before approaching you directly. But remember, we are dealing with a mage. You'll need the power templars possess to protect you. Abbets and Devensport, well, you seem to like them well enough, and they are competent soldiers. They're also moderate enough in their views to remain suspicious of mages without running around accusing every mage of being your assassin."
"I don't need…"
"You will have them with you," he countermanded, reaching out to set his hand on her shoulder, but somehow it ended up cupping the side of her jaw, "For my peace of mind, at least. Promise me?"
She didn't want to. She really did feel that since the assassin had been quiet for so long, that he must have died at Haven, or gotten lost in the snow, or even given up. But Cullen was so sincere in his request, his hazel eyes so open to her, she found herself nodding against his hand.
He saw her acquiescence, felt it through their touch. Maker, but she had the softest brown eyes, so wide and open to him. And they were so close, his face only a few inches from hers. If he leaned forwards just a little… If his hand tilted her head… But she had done so much for him, he couldn't treat her so cheaply. He let go, stifling the reluctance he felt, ignoring the disappointed way she frowned.
"I should get going. There is someone I could try to make contact with, but they are a ways off."
She nodded, her lower lip finding solace between her teeth.
"Remember, take Abbets and Devensport with you, wherever you go in Skyhold. And always take companions with you if you leave Skyhold. Agreed?"
She nodded again, following him with her eyes while he approached the stairs. He turned back one last time to look at her, saw her lost and lonely expression, and felt the need to reassure her. "Truly, Peredura, I did not take any of the lyrium."
"I know," she nodded, "Because it's not lyrium."
He was quiet for a count of three before he could find his voice. "What!?"
"I never lied to you, Cullen," she clarified. "It is a sleeping draught. I had Stitches make it up for me, and put it in a blue bottle. I wanted to be sure, well," her cheeks began to warm a little, the embarrassment helping to pull her from her shocked state, "That if you did fail, at least you wouldn't get too far."
He swallowed, shook his head, and said, "I should be angry with you, but I can't, can I? You told me the truth; I was the one who assumed you were lying." He let go with a huffed sort of laugh, "I suppose I should thank you, again, Inquisitor."
"You're welcome," she answered. He turned to go, and she found her legs moving after him. "Cullen, er, Commander."
"Yes?" he paused halfway down.
"Won't you need more armor than just a helmet?"
He stared at the battered and simple helmet before stuffing it onto his head. "Nothing else there looked like it would fit. Don't worry, Inquisitor, I'll make do. It may take some time to track down my friend, but if I'm unable to make contact within three weeks, I'll return to Skyhold." His hand was on the latch to her door, turning it, pulling the door open…
"You know," he sighed before leaving, "There's one thing I envy you." He looked up at her, his forehead and cheeks covered by steel and cloth, his hazel eyes shining from the shadows. "There's no source of opeigh anywhere near us, nor is there ever likely to be, so you won't be tempted very often. But I'll probably have to be around lyrium every day for the rest of my life, at least for the foreseeable future. Yes, I envy you."
Then he was gone.
Adverse to her earlier feelings, Peredura felt cold and alone now that she didn't have Cullen to care for any longer. Not that she begrudged him his freedom, not that she didn't think he had gotten over his addiction, but, well…
She chewed her lip, glancing around her empty-appearing chambers.
Fear nudged her hand, and she looked down at him and asked, "Who's going to teach me to read, now?"