A/N: OMG, it's been almost three months since the last time I posted a chapter for this story! Sorry, my dears, but real life has been really sucky lately—the time I can use for writing has been reduced drastically. Good news, however, I did finish my Skyrim fic, so I only have the two Dragon Age stories to divide my writing time between. Posting will still be slow due to that other world outside of fan fiction, but I will never abandon this fic! (Hey, you can trust me; I've just proven that I can finish a fic, so chances are good that I'll finish these two, too.) :'D
As an apology, here is a lovely little bit of Cullen-awkwardness. Possibly a bit OOC and definitely not necessary to the story, but I simply could not resist the visions it put in my mind. I hope you enjoy…
Chapter Twenty: A Kind Act
It had been a long night, and not just because it had started so early in the afternoon of the day before.
Peredura had had dreams, she was sure of it. She could vaguely remember them, like looking through a mist at night, indistinct shadows and washed-out colors, muted voices and indiscernible sounds. Yet every time she started to whimper or moan, every time she began to feel fear creeping into her visions, someone would appear. A knight would come into the dream, stand between her and that which she feared, brandish his sword and vanquish her nightmare without a word and hardly any effort. Then he'd turn to her, show himself to be Cullen, wrap his arms around her, and rock her back to sleep.
She wasn't sure how much of that was her dream, and how much actually happened, but it was comforting to imagine he had kept his word. He had stood guard over her during her sleep and chased the nightmares away.
It was with a smile that she woke in the morning, a small thing, a gentle thing, and a short-lived thing. As soon as her eyes opened the smile vanished to be replaced by a slightly furrowed brow of confusion. It took a moment for her eyes to focus, and another for her brain to figure out what she was seeing. Fear was lying on the bed next to her, fast asleep. He was in what had to be an uncomfortable position, lying on his back, his head and shoulders at a ninety-degree angle to his haunches. Yet he was undoubtedly comfortable, his legs relaxed and spread wide enough to show…
She looked away, not really wising to see that. What she saw instead, however, almost made her laugh. On her other side she saw Cullen, who was also still asleep, lying on the couch. He was sprawled over the cushions, limbs flung haphazardly over the arms and back, his massive form nearly swallowing the piece of furniture. She had the impish thought that he didn't look all that different from her mabari other than, of course, he was clothed.
She felt heat flush her face at that thought.
She didn't think she'd made any noise or movement, but she suddenly knew Fear was awake. He didn't move, other than to twitch one back paw and open his eyes to look at her. Seeing that she was awake, though not in any pain or danger, he closed his eyes and appeared to drift back to sleep. Peredura let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She supposed it didn't matter if she woke either of them, it was morning after all, but she knew from experience what would happen as soon as she started moving, and she wanted to take care of any ickiness without an audience. Carefully, nudging Fear slightly—who only rolled onto his side and stubbornly refused to leave the bed—she slipped out from beneath the covers and tried to stand.
Immediately she was light-headed and dizzy, causing a wave of giddiness and a fine film of sweat to burst from her pores. But she kept her feet, kept them all the way to the small closet beside the bed. There she knelt and, as quietly as she could, took care of the distasteful matter. Maker, but she didn't like this part, the sickness, the upset stomach, the way it roiled and boiled, the way it tried to heave itself up along with what little was inside it. She gave a quiet cough, spat, and wiped a bit of sick off the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
The unpleasantness finished, she took a moment to catch her breath and clear her head, her muscles aching from the heaving as well as from the withdrawal. She knew the worst was over, that things would get better, that there could only be a few more days where she'd be this sick in the mornings. But the ache would linger for a week or more, settle in her very bones and make everything hurt. She had to move. She had to distract herself. She had to keep busy. That was the best way to fight the pain; ignore it.
The door opened a crack, not far enough for Cullen to see inside, just far enough for him to pass in a small, damp towel. She had to smile again, in part due to the giddiness, but also because she loved the awkward way he took care of her while maintaining a proper amount of modesty. She leaned over and made a grab for the towel, having to try twice before her fingers could grasp it. Then she set herself against the wall and groaned softly into the towel.
"There was a bucket beside the bed," he said matter-of-factly. "No need for you to make yourself crawl halfway across the room."
"I didn't crawl," she mumbled, her words muffled by the cloth. Maker, but it felt nice and cool on her heated skin, and smelled so much nicer than what she had just been smelling. "Nor was it all that far. Besides, I didn't want to wake you."
"I woke anyway; I am a light sleeper," he reminded her. "Are you finished, do you think? Would you like some help getting back into bed?"
She hummed an answer.
He took it to mean yes.
Cautiously he opened the door a little wider, far enough for one eye to peek inside. He had been apprehensive about what he would see, what state of dress—or undress—she might be in, but his shoulders sagged a little in relief to find her still wearing her tunic and leggings. Then a thought occurred to him, something he decided to suggest before she left the relative privacy of the closet. "Would you care to undress? I mean, change your dress. Your clothes. Would you care to change your clothing into some fresh, er, clothing…"
There was a noise that slipped out from beneath the towel, something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. When her eyes came into view, he found himself hard pressed to hold her gaze steadily and not blush or duck his head. Maker, but that had come out wrong. The best thing to do, he reasoned, was to act as if he hadn't said anything that could be misconstrued as forward or scandalous. He failed miserably.
Peredura nearly giggled a second time when she saw the look on his face, and the light-headedness was not helping her keep a straight face. "That sounds like a good idea," she managed, keeping the towel in place until she could squash the smile, "Thank you."
"Oh!" He sounded surprised or caught off guard, but whether over her acceptance of his suggestion or her ignoring his slip, she couldn't tell. "Good. Well. Then. I'll just, er, leave you to it, to do it, or…"
She nodded and looked away, smoothing over the awkwardness. As much fun, and distracting, as it was to watch him stutter and squirm, the thought of feeling clean clothing against her skin was far more desirable. She shifted her feet beneath her and made to stand, but her stomach cramped, causing her to reconsider her plans. With a small grunt she fell back against the wall. "I, um, I'd rather not move around too much right now. Could you bring me a change of clothing?" she asked, "Or a bath. Blessed Andraste, but I'd love a bath right now. A big copper tub with loads of bubbles and scented soaps. Big fluffy towels warming by the fire. Then a fresh change of clothes, thick and warm and soft, clean clothes against my clean skin." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, her expression one of sheer bliss as she lost herself in the simple little daydream.
Blessed Andraste, he repeated to himself, but she could take his breath away. Here she was, first thing in the morning after a rough night, just having spent several minutes being sick, her hair snarled and her clothing wrinkled and her skin oily and slick with grime and stale sweat. But at this moment, her features in profile, her expression open and genuine, she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. "I'll see to it personally."
His answer had a somewhat alarming effect on her, as a figment Cullen entered her daydream, coming up beside her in the copper tub, wash cloth in hand. The giggle escaped this time, no thanks to the giddiness, the words quickly tumbling out before she could stop them. "Commander! Did you just offer to bathe me?"
"What?!" he started in horror, and guilt—perhaps he had been thinking along those lines, or about to think along those lines. "No-no-no-no, I don't mean me, personally. I said personally, I know, but I didn't mean I'd actually physically bathe you. I-I-I-I was going to… call the servants… that was my personal part… call the servants for you… have them draw you the bath… and the towels and anything else you wanted… I should go do that…" Quickly he tried to extricate himself, to beat a hasty retreat, falling into his old habit of Standard Tactic Number One: Retreat.
She blamed the light-headedness for making her tease Cullen. She watched him turn to run away, his face beet red, his stuttering words trailing off in embarrassment. She felt a little guilt too, knowing she had not even tried to squelch the impulse to purposefully take his words the wrong way. She began climbing to her feet, an apology on her lips, "Cullen, wait, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"
Apparently teasing Cullen was a little too distracting. She had not only managed to forget the aches in her body, she had also managed to forget how weak she had become. Her words died out as her breaths grew shallow, suddenly finding herself having to fight to fill her lungs with air. The room gave a funny lurch, as if a giant had picked up the whole of Skyhold and tipped it on its side. She became dizzy, probably due to the room tipping, and reached out for the frame of the doorway. Her fingers closed on empty air and she felt herself falling backwards into darkness.
Cullen had nearly gained the top of the stairs, his hand on the railing, when he heard Fear's warning bark. He turned around just in time to see her eyes roll up and her knees buckle. She folded like a rag doll, her body crumbling to the floor in slow motion, but not slow enough to allow him to reach her in time.
"Peredura!"
Thankfully, her head just missed the edge of the bucket she'd been using. Her hair, however, was not as fortunate. The long brown strands fell across the bucket, draping themselves over the edges before the ends puddled down into the bottom. He made a face of disgust as he fell to his knees by her side, but he lifted her inert form and carried her away.
She remained limp in his embrace, one arm dangling towards the floor, her hair dripping a trail behind them. His first thought was to place her on the bed, but he didn't think she'd thank him for that. With her head covered in sick, the mess would get all over the bedclothes. The couch was his next thought, but that, too, was quickly dismissed, the upholstery even harder to clean than the bedclothes.
"Maker's breath, what am I to do with you?"
The answer was obvious, but he stubbornly did his best not to see it. After all, that would mean… he would have to… and then…
He wasn't a man who swore. Oh, he'd often use the Maker's name in some mild curse, as he had just done a moment ago, but he rarely if ever used the harsher, more crass swear words. He'd never really felt the need to express that much emotion over anything—until now. Peredura needed to be cleaned up. She couldn't do it herself, that much was obvious; even if she was conscious, he wouldn't feel comfortable leaving her alone to bathe in a tub in case she had another fainting spell. And he couldn't very well call a servant to keep an eye her; they would see the scars and her ears—considering how badly her hair needed a wash—and her secret would be all over Skyhold by sunset. He supposed he could send for Cassandra, but it would take time to track her down and get her here before he could explain what had happened—it wasn't like he could ask a servant to find Cassandra because the Inquisitor had fallen into a bucket of sick and needed her hair cleaned! And there was no other woman Peredura was close to, no one else she trusted as much as she trusted… well… as much as she trusted… him.
"…fuck…"
All in all, he didn't think it was a bad attempt at swearing. He was sure Varric could come up with fifteen far more elaborate ways of describing what he was feeling, and probably in fifteen seconds, but he himself was a simple man. If an easy, straightforward approach would work, then why mess it up with unnecessary bells and whistles. You have an enemy on the battlefield; you run him through with your sword. You find yourself trapped in an impossibly awkward and unavoidable situation; you swear.
He set her down gently on the rug before the hearth. "This will be easiest to clean," he explained, not that she could hear him, "And the fire should keep you warm. Now stay here, I'll be right back." Cullen stood up and caught Fear staring at him, watching them both intently. "You, see to it she doesn't move. Oh," he had begun to move away, to collect the items he was going to need, but then another thought occurred to him, "And make sure I do nothing, er, inappropriate, regarding her person. Understood?"
Fear tilted his head, first one way, and then the other, his short ears perked up high, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, as if pondering what exactly Cullen had meant. Then he laid down on his belly, still on the foot of the bed, his back legs to either side, his front legs bent before him, and his head and shoulders up and alert, reminding Cullen of some mythical creature such as a sphinx.
"Good man, er, boy," he nodded in approval.
He decided the best way for him to go about this was to simply do it, quickly and efficiently, much like he would dress a wound on the battlefield. He had no plans to actually bathe her, not like she had just been teasing him—and not at all like the thoughts he'd had yesterday. No, ser, he was merely going to wash the sick out of her hair, and perhaps change her tunic.
He began by gathering the supplies he would need. He stalked over to her wardrobe and rummaged for a clean tunic, something thick and soft like she had been talking about. Next he found a bar of soap, sniffed it to make sure it smelled of lilacs, and picked up a towel he could use for drying her hair. There was a wash basin on top of a dresser; he brought that over to the hearth rug as well as a pitcher of clean water.
He knelt down next to her, studying her, planning his method of attack. "Right. Hair first, then the tunic," he decided.
Fear made some sort of approving sound.
"I'm glad you agree," Cullen deadpanned.
Fear answered with a whine, sounding a bit confused.
"I know, I asked you to keep an eye on me," Cullen responded, explaining. He poured some water into the basin before lifting Peredura up with an arm beneath her shoulders. "But you don't have to comment on everything I say."
Fear's brow wrinkled, and he set his muzzle down between his two forepaws, his big brown eyes staring dolefully at them both.
"You're a good boy, Fear, just…" Cullen let out a heavy breath, his main focus on getting her hair into the water-filled basin, "Just keep watch."
Fear's expression didn't change, much, while he continued to keep his eyes on them.
Cullen ignored the mabari for the time being, occupied with washing Peredura's hair. He didn't know how she—or any woman, for that matter—handled washing such a great amount of the stuff. The strands were so long, they easily filled the basin; luckily the water didn't spill out. The color grew darker, the subtle red highlights fading away into a deep, rich mahogany. It grew heavier, too, the water soaking into it and adding weight. He did his best, rubbing the soap over and through the tresses, fingers massaging against her scalp and along the length. When he'd gotten the mess out, as far as he could tell, he lifted her hair up out of the basin and poured more of the clean water down the strands to rinse them.
"There, I think that should do it."
Fear shifted his expression slightly, but other than that didn't comment.
Cullen didn't notice him, his hands full enough already. As he had lifted her up into a sitting position, her hair had draped itself wetly over his arm and down her back, soaking both the back of her tunic, and the sleeve of his. He made an exasperated sound while he grabbed for the towel. In doing so, he somehow knocked the side of the basin, and a fair amount of the water sloshed out onto the rug. He hissed again, scrambling back with her in his arms, trying to stay out of the wet. The last thing he needed was to soak her leggings. Or his. Either one would be bad enough, but both…
He very quickly, very firmly, broke off that train of thought.
All his harried clambering paid off, the two of them ending up safely away from the wet side of the rug. He now sat with his back to the hearth, the fire flickering warmly behind him, the towel firmly in hand, and Peredura tucked in securely on his lap. He took a peek at her face, wondering if all the jostling was having an effect on her, but she remained firmly unconscious. Thank the Maker for small favors. Yet the back of her tunic was still soaked, the clothing clinging to her skin and threatening to spread downwards into the waistband of her leggings. He pulled the shirttails out, hoping that would delay the inevitable, at least for a few moments longer.
"Well, no matter; we were going to change your tunic, weren't we?" he muttered, not expecting an answer, "I'll just finish with your hair, first."
He propped her against his chest, making sure she wouldn't slide or sway, so he could use both his hands. Then he very thoroughly, very deliberately, rubbed the towel through her hair. The single piece of fabric, thick and soft and almost as large as her, became soaked through by the time he was done. And her hair, though far less damp, became a tangle of snarls and twists. He studied the messed-up mass and felt defeated somehow, as if the simple act of kindness was getting out of hand, as if every little thing he did only made matters worse. "And I thought my hair was unmanageable."
Fear huffed a breath out of his nose but remained on the bed.
"Very well, let's get on with it. Now, where's your brush…?" He cast his eyes about the room, looking in every corner of every shelf, sweeping across the tops of tables and finally spying the brush. "Right; on the dresser. I suppose that makes sense. Let's get you into bed first, and with that clean tunic. Then we'll tackle those snarls."
The tunic was lying on the floor where he had left it, thankfully off of the rug where it had avoided getting soaked. He scooped Peredura up, the towel caught between her back and his arm, and walked on his knees over to the tunic. After snagging it with the fingers of one hand, he pushed himself to his feet and carried her to her bed, sweeping past the dresser on the way for the brush.
On some level, way deep down inside his very soul, he noted how featherlight she seemed to be in his arms. And how easily she fit against him. And how holding her—having her so near—simply felt… right.
Though his brain continued to focus on the difficulties of his current situation, this other part of him had a different agenda. He could have laid her down on her bed. He could have propped her up against the pillows. Instead he sat down on the side of the bed and, cradling her once more against his chest, he began working the tunic off her torso.
She was half-lying on his lap, her body limp, her breaths slow and easy. It wasn't too hard to pull on the wrists of her tunic, sliding her arms up and out of the sleeves. From there it was a simple matter to lift the loose-fitting garment up and over her head, the towel dropping to the bed beside them, and toss the soiled shirt to the side. He had picked up the fresh tunic and was turning his attention back to her when he realized something—something very wrong and very unexpected.
That subconscious level of his soul, that deeper part of him with its separate agenda, had kept him so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed until it was too late that Peredura wasn't wearing any, erm, well, any 'thing' beneath her shirt.
Cullen froze, a rare and uncharacteristic moment of indecision gripping his brain. He should move. He should finish what he had intended, place the fresh clothing over her person, and put her back to bed. But for the life of him he couldn't move, he didn't dare risk it. She was fast asleep, fully unconscious, completely unaware of what was happening—if he moved, he might wake her, and if she woke up right now to find herself half naked and sitting on his lap…
That expletive came to mind once more, but he didn't waste time on it. Instead he forced himself to assess the situation, and come up quickly with a new plan. She had remained asleep, lying against his chest, head tucked beneath his chin, arms limp and crossed on her lap, her back slightly curved as she hunched forwards. Truthfully, he couldn't see anything, not from this angle, except her back. And if he was careful, very, very careful, he could do what he intended to without, um, coming into contact with anything, er, too personal.
The problem was: he could see her back. He knew she had scars, she had described them before and even showed them the ones on her stomach when they were still in Haven. But these, the ones on her back, these she couldn't have done herself, even under duress and within the grips of opeigh addiction. These had been drawn—carved through her skin and into her flesh—solely by Vicici. His hand shook as his fingertips lightly brushed them, remembering what Varric had said that day, how the patterns of the lines and curves reminded him of another former elven slave from Tevinter. Cullen remembered the man—Fenris, he thought the name was, a companion of Hawke's. He scoffed, thinking of the rather eclectic group of adventurers Hawke had collected over his years in Kirkwall. Then he had to scoff again, supposing he and the Inquisition were collecting their own rather eclectic group.
Yet it wasn't only the scars that came to his attention. He could feel the skin beneath his fingers was both slick and sticky with old sweat, melted snow, dried blood, caked mud, and the Maker only knew what else. He closed his eyes for a moment; the poor girl had been knocked from her horse, tied up on the floor of an abandoned cabin, fallen down a ravine, left near comatose for more than a day… And he doubted she would have had a chance to get cleaned up since. No wonder she acted sometimes as if she felt her skin crawling. No wonder the thought of a simple bath filled her with such ecstasy.
Cullen opened his eyes with newfound determination. He could do this for her, he told himself. He could do this one more, small favor. After all, it wasn't as if anything sexual or inappropriate would occur. She was dirty and too sick to take care of herself; he was merely giving her a hand. Making up his mind, refusing to consider his motives any further, he carefully shifted her damp hair over one shoulder and, picking up the towel still soaked from drying her hair, he began to wipe off her back.
He was sure he could have done a better job, given fresh water and the bar of soap, but he knew even a little effort would make her feel so much better. As he drew the damp cloth across her skin, he took another look at the scars. They were almost mesmeric in their patterns, long and thick in some places, thin and curved in others. They seemed to mimic something important, something ancient, like long-forgotten magic from when the world was new. Like the ebb and flow of the tide. Like the rise and fall of the sun. Whatever these lines were meant to represent, it was something powerful and primal, something dangerous and not fully understood.
Something he wanted gone from her person. He began to imagine it, that every swipe of the towel erased those scars, that he was cleansing the stain of blood magic from her body, that when she awoke it would be to find herself not only rid of the marks, but rid of the memories. Maker, what he wouldn't sacrifice to be able to give her that!
Instead, he settled for giving her the feel of clean skin and a clean tunic. Finished with the towel, he tossed it towards the soiled rug and picked up the fresh shirt. He eased the soft material over her head and slid her arms down the sleeves. He draped the hem around her waist before he carefully leaned her away from his lap and onto the mattress. He hovered over her for a moment, his hazel eyes studying her features, and he found himself longing for her doe-like eyes to open and see him, to recognize he was near and she was protected, to confirm her faith in him. She continued to remain asleep, however, her expression relaxed and open and oh-so-very trusting.
His fingertips stroked a half-dried snarl off her cheek, reminding him of what he was supposed to be doing. "Right, your hair," he sighed. He gently rolled her onto her front, slid a pillow beneath her and turned her face to the side so she wouldn't suffocate. "How do you go about doing this?" he hummed, surveying the lengthy mass of curls and snarls. He picked up the brush in one hand, the hair in the other, and was nearly confounded yet again. "If I start at your scalp, all I'll be doing is pulling the snarls from there, down onto the snarls below. I should start at the ends, shouldn't I? Rather like working burs out of a horse's tail. I wonder," he continued, knowing she wasn't going to reply any time soon, but feeling the need to speak calmly just in case she did wake up, "If that's the reason they call that style a ponytail? You know, the way you like to wear your hair, pulled back and tied with a bit of something. It does rather resemble a horse's tail. Not that, er, I'm saying your hair—or anything about you—reminds me of a horse. Just that, oh," he shook his head at himself, realizing he was getting flustered over something awkward he said that nobody heard.
He cleared his throat and started talking about the weather, something safe and mild and decidedly not-awkward. He had reached the point where he could pull the brush down the full length of her hair, before he realized something. His hand paused, the brush falling to the pillow, as his words ground to a halt in the face of what he had done—earlier when he was cleaning the grime off of her, he had washed her front as well as her back. He gave a guilty swallow and looked up at Fear. The mabari was unconcerned; though he had shifted around to keep them in view, he remained lying and panting and waiting for something to happen. Cullen felt his face practically combust, so ashamed he had done what he had done. Yet he could honestly admit, nothing untoward had entered his mind while he'd done it. He had been thinking of her scars, of how wonderful it would be if he could wipe those away along with the stale sweat and grime, and hadn't taken any notice of her feminine form. That wasn't to say he couldn't remember them now, those parts of her body, and the way they reacted to his touch…
He gave another guilty swallow. "Andraste's bridal veil," he whispered, turning her over and settling her gently against her pillows, "But you tempt me, woman." And she did. She tempted him as no desire demon ever had, not even as much as the memory of those two desire demons from Kinloch. Yet she was no desire demon. She was a woman, flesh and blood and alive. And what he felt towards her—what emotions she stirred within his being—was not sinful or depraved or corrupt.
It was something new.
All his life, all he had ever wanted or desired had been to be a Templar. And he'd had that, for a time. Yet that dream was over, forever removed from his reach, the door firmly closed on that future. He could easily let himself think the Maker was punishing him for some sin or another, taking away everything that he ever wanted because he had been deemed unworthy, but that wasn't true. He may no longer be a Templar, but he continued to serve the Maker. And, as impossible as it seemed, he was being rewarded. With a relationship. With a chance to dream a new dream. With Peredura.
"I never wanted this," he admitted, "And I don't really know what to do with it, but I promise you, Pere," he leaned over to tap her lips lightly with his own, "I will do my best. For you. For us. For whatever may come."
She didn't answer. She didn't respond to his words. She didn't accept his vow. She remained fast asleep, unaware of what had just occurred.
A knock sounded at the door, and he gave another guilty start. Maker's breath, but this day was going to end up taking ten years off of his life! He glanced down at Peredura's face, but she was still unconscious. Feeling like he was getting away with some minor mischief, he spread her hair out across the pillows to finish drying and covered her thin frame with the thick comforter.
Fear shifted a little, mostly to allow him to adjust the covers. His movement brought himself to Cullen's attention. The Commander turned and fixed the mabari with his darkest, sternest glare. "Not a word of this," Cullen warned him, grabbing his coat to cover up his damp sleeve before making for the stairs, "To anyone. Especially Peredura."
The mabari tilted his head, but didn't comment. He liked Cullen. He liked the way Cullen talked, and the tender way Cullen cared for his partner. She was a thin girl, strong in spirit though weak physically, and needed a lot of protection, which he would provide of course, but it was nice to know she had others like Cullen to help protect her. And she was always calmer when Cullen was around, stronger, more confident. He liked the effect Cullen had on her; so much so that he sometimes wondered if he could have two partners, both Cullen and Peredura. That would be nice.
He listened to the man's heavy footsteps as he went down the stairs. Oh, how he longed to go with him, but further, all the way down those stairs to the outside where the sun was rising and the breeze had all those interesting smells and there was the courtyard where that squirrel like to forge for nuts. His paws flexed, thinking of how many times already he had chased that squirrel. He could catch it if he wanted, of course, but he always let the squirrel get away and climb the tree. Now, if he could learn to climb a tree, then he'd really have fun chasing the squirrel. He practically quivered, his front paws kneading the comforter…
He grew still, suddenly remembering he was supposed to be guarding his partner. He flicked his eyes over to her, but she was sleeping, her chest rising and falling in soft and steady breathes. Then the door below opened, and new sounds reached his ears, distracting him yet again. There were two voices, both male, both known to him. He shuddered with anticipation, listening to the sounds of two sets of feet coming up the steps, one shod in heavy boots—that would be Cullen—the other bare and lightweight. Their voices were muted but discernible, speaking as if not to wake anyone. When their heads came into view, he could no longer restrain himself. He stood up, jostling the bed, and let loose a very happy, very well-meant, very-good-morning bark!
"Fear! Be still!" Cullen hissed. "You'll wake Peredura."
"Don't scold him, Commander," Solas said in a much milder tone, "He was just saying hello. Besides, he doesn't know any better; he's only a dog."
"He's not a dog, he's a mabari. A far more intelligent and intuitive animal than a mere dog. In fact, I'd say he's more intelligent than some humans I know. Or, er," he stammered, realizing Solas wasn't human, "Or elves. Oh! Or, um," he stammered again, thinking he might have insulted the man, "That is, not that you, I mean, present company excluded, I just meant…"
"I think I understand," Solas graciously let him off the hook. He turned to the mabari next and inclined his head, "And I apologize to you. I meant no offense."
Fear gave him a happy couple of pants and sat down on his haunches. He liked Solas, too, though not quite in the same way as he liked Cullen. Solas was a sad man, a lonely man. Fear didn't know why the others couldn't see this as well as he could, but he often wished Solas could find someone to be his partner. Oh, well, maybe at another time, in another world…
"…Solas…?"
The voice was thin, wan, drifting from behind the hound to reach the men's ears.
"Good morning, Peredura," Solas answered, walking around Fear so she could see him. He sat down on the side of the bed and asked, "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Fine," she answered automatically, shoving herself to sit further up on the pillows. She blinked her eyes as if trying to clear them, "Where's Cullen? I thought he was…"
"I'm right here," Cullen came up on her other side, though he remained standing. He crossed his arms and looked down on her a bit sternly. "Do you remember what happened?"
"No, what happened?" she asked.
"What happened?" Solas echoed.
"She fainted," he tattled on her. "She was sick first thing this morning, and when she stood up afterwards, she fainted dead away."
"Is that so?" Solas looked from the Commander to the Inquisitor, but she was studiously avoiding his gaze. "Any other symptoms you are having?"
"I'm fine, Solas," she tried to reassure him, "Really. I just need to get up and start moving…"
"She'll only faint again," Cullen direly predicted.
"Why would you say that?" Solas turned his attention back to him.
"She's too weak."
"I'm not weak, I'm only tired…"
"She didn't eat anything at all yesterday," Cullen went on as if she hadn't spoken, "Other than the tea you brought, which I don't think counts."
"It wouldn't," Solas agreed.
"I'm not that hungry right now…"
"And before that, she was under the effects of the sleeping potion," this time it was Solas who continued over her feeble protests. "I suppose that means she hasn't eaten since the day of the incident."
"I'm right here," she practically growled, "Stop talking as if I can't answer for myself."
"Very well," Solas calmly turned back to her, business-like and solemn, "When was the last time you had anything to eat?"
She felt her cheeks turn a little warm, "I… I'm not hungry… I just need to…"
"That's not what I asked," he interrupted her. "When was the last time you ate?"
She became very concerned over a piece of dust on the blanket, picking at it with her fingertips as she gave her bottom lip a brief chew. "The night before," she finally admitted in a very small voice. "I couldn't eat anything that morning, I was too nervous." Her cheeks were definitely growing hot. She must be bright red by now, and her emotions would be obvious to Solas. He had to know that she had a crush on Cullen, and if he figured that out, how long before he figured out that Cullen was feeling something towards her, and then he'd tell the others and their little secret would be out…
"Ah, yes, you're not used to riding, are you," Solas patted her hand, "And horses are a rather large sort of animal, quite intimidating to someone who's inexperienced."
"Yes, that's it," Cullen agreed a little too loudly, "Exactly."
"So that makes it, what, three, four days since you had any food? No wonder you're fainting. In fact, I'm surprised you were able to be sick at all this morning."
"It wasn't pleasant," she mumbled.
"It never is," Cullen leaned a shoulder against one of the bed posts.
"Well, that's the second order of business for this morning: have breakfast," Solas decreed.
"What's the first?" Cullen asked.
"Have some tea. I've been thinking," he began, rummaging in a pack he'd brought, pulling out a small leather pouch, "About your symptoms from the last time, when you'd first gotten the mark. Though we didn't know it at the time, you were suffering through opeigh withdrawal that first week we met, weren't you?"
She nodded.
"How much of that illness was from the mark, and how much from your withdrawal, do you know?"
Her teeth returned to gnawing on that poor bottom lip. Cullen felt the impulse to go to her side, to pull the lip free and wrap her in his arms and make her feel safe. But he couldn't, not with Solas there, so he had to stand back and will her to be strong, strong enough to tell Solas what she had barely had the courage to tell him yesterday.
She didn't disappoint him. "I do know." Once again her voice was small, like that of a child, but she made herself lift her chin and look Solas directly in the eyes. "Vicici would put me through withdrawal, sometimes as a punishment, sometimes to see what it would do to me, sometimes just because he was bored. The worst of it is over, I think; maybe I slept through that part, or it was milder because I'd only had a single dose."
"Or perhaps because you're in better health," Solas nodded. "You're no longer the malnourished slave kept in a cage, remember. But go on. What are these symptoms?"
When she realized Solas wasn't upset or disgusted over the latest dark secret from her past, she grew a little more bold. "First I… I get a feeling like there are bugs crawling all over my skin. And sometimes I have chills, and can't stop shaking. And I tear up. A lot. I can't control that. I might get a sore throat. Sweating, too."
"I see," he nodded again, encouragingly, and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. "Hmm, there doesn't seem to be any abnormal sweating or uncontrolled shaking going on right now. Any of these other symptoms? No? Then I concur; you are safely past that stage of your withdrawal. But what comes next? The upset stomach, I assume."
It was her turn to nod. "Yes, as soon as I start moving around. It gets better during the day, so long as I can stay moving and distract myself from noticing it."
"Anything else?" he pressed. When it looked like she didn't want to answer, he added, "I have some medicinal herbs here that I think might help, but I won't know which ones to use until you tell me what you're experiencing. Everything you're experiencing. Please, Peredura," he took her hand in his, "There's no reason for you to suffer."
It was as if he'd known exactly what she was feeling, the guilt over the things she'd done in her past, her secret need to pay penance for her willing addiction to opeigh. The way he absolved her, so quickly and so simply, sliced through all her barriers to touch her soul. She teared up, though not from her withdrawal, and pulled her hand free of his, trying to cover her face and her shame.
The next moment, Cullen was there, his strong arms around her, his steady heartbeat in her ear. She clung to him, needing his support as she struggled to accept the forgiveness.
"I seem to have struck a nerve," Solas commented softly.
"It's alright," Cullen said over the top of her head, to both of them. "This is a difficult time, but we're getting through it. It'll just take a moment…"
It was hard—it was so very hard—letting go of the guilt. She carried years of it, heavy and gross on her shoulders, like a mantle of disgust and vileness. But she was learning—she was discovering—that she could slide out from beneath it. That she could leave it behind her, move on from it, and live a new life without the ugliness hanging over her head every day. That she could be exonerated. "I hurt…" she half moaned, half sniffed, one deep brown eye peeking out from between Cullen's arm and her overgrown bangs. "Ache… all over… even my hair hurts!"
"Your hair hurts," Solas repeated, not quite believing her. He wisely ignored her emotional storm and focused on those matters he could help her with, knowing Cullen was there to deal with the rest.
"I… yes… everywhere," she let go with one hand to touch her scalp, a little confused to find the locks damp and soft, as if recently washed and brushed. "Well… it seems like I do…"
"I understand," he hummed, pulling another pouch from his satchel. "Anything else? No? Are you sure?"
She sniffed again and nodded, pushing herself back from Cullen. "Just the upset stomach and the aches. Last time it took more than a week before they stopped bothering me."
"Well, let's see if we can shorten that a bit." He gave her shoulder a gentle pat and moved away from the bed.
She watched Solas for a moment, puttering around the kettle he had left there yesterday, humming to himself while he brewed the tea. It was easier, it was so much easier, to occupy herself with his actions than to think about… her hair being washed and brushed… and she was wearing her favorite tunic… not the one she had on when the incident occurred… someone had changed it for her… someone had cleaned her up and changed her clothes and… the only who had been with her to do such a deed was… but, Maker, he wouldn't have… would he…?
Unwillingly, like a moth drawn to the flame, her eyes lifted up to Cullen's face.
He'd been watching her, keeping an eye on her expressions, staying on the alert for any more changes in her emotional state. She appeared stable, for the most part, but he knew from personal experience that could change at any moment. His study was so intense, he could almost hear the thoughts in her head: the fingers toying with a lock of her hair, the glance down at her tunic, the shift of a shoulder feeling the cleanliness of her skin. When she looked up at him, when she lifted those vulnerable brown eyes to his, he knew she knew what he had done. Yet his actions had not been those of a lecher, merely a kind act for someone who was unable to take care of herself. And he refused to feel guilty for doing something nice.
Her eyes dropped, her cheeks turning a becoming shade of pink.
He wanted to laugh, and only part out of relief. She wasn't upset with him. Yes, she knew what he had done, the privileges he had taken, all that he had seen, but she wasn't angry or defensive. Instead she was flustered, embarrassed, grateful, perhaps even a little flattered, and oh-so-very cute. "You know something," he said softly, for her ears only, "You are very pretty when you blush."
The color deepened.
Peredura wanted to hit him. Or scream at him. Or do something—anything—other than sit there and let her cheeks spontaneously combust. She knew what he had done, all of it, from her hair to her tunic to her skin. And she knew he knew she knew… Oh, Blessed Andraste, what was she supposed to do? She couldn't say anything, not with Solas in the room. She didn't think she could say anything if they were alone, either. And every time she looked at him, every time she glanced up to see if he felt any remorse for his actions, any embarrassment, anything, he simply gave her that smirk.
"You've done the same for me." His words were just as gentle as before.
"Yes, but…" …but he didn't have breasts—she couldn't finish the sentence aloud. As impossible as it was to believe it could happen, her cheeks grew even hotter. She tried one last time to look at him, but couldn't lift her eyes further than his lips, seeing that damnable, lovable, incorrigible smirk.
Solas had paused a moment to watch the two of them, feeling badly that he was observing such a private exchange. He could tell Peredura and Cullen had feelings for each other, and was fairly sure they were figuring out the same. The mess left on the rug gave mute testimony to how far Cullen would go for her. Yet the thought saddened him; interracial relationships were hard enough, but theirs…? He pushed aside any dark forebodings of the future and cleared his throat as he returned to the bed. "Here you go, Peredura. Drink it all down, you'll feel better after a few minutes."
She took the cup eagerly, if only to avoid looking at and thinking of Cullen, and managed a healthy swallow before the taste hit her. She nearly spit it all back out, but it was already past her throat and heading towards her stomach. She all but shoved the cup away, making Cullen grab for it before she could dump out the rest of the contents.
"Ugh!" she gasped, wiping her lips off on the back of her hand, far more animated than she had been all morning. "That's disgusting!"
"It's better than the tea I normally brew," Solas sniffed.
Cullen also sniffed, at the contents of the cup. "Anise?"
"Yes. I find it masks the taste of the other herbs, some of which can be quite bitter."
"I'd rather taste the herbs," Peredura pouted, "That… anise… whatever it is, reminds of these little black, chewy candies in Tevinter. They're horrible." She shuddered.
"Yes, well, unfortunately," Solas took the cup from Cullen and returned it to Peredura, "Anise also is one of the ingredients that helps calm upset stomachs. So drink up, every drop, young lady. No arguments."
She made a face, feeling like what she had already swallowed was about to come back up, but brought the cup to her lips and finished it in one go. Another sound of disgust escaped her, a hand covering her mouth, but the tea stayed down.
"Excellent," Solas approved.
Peredura resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.
"I am sorry about the taste," he allowed, "I actually like the flavor of anise. But I do understand, it's not for everyone. I've made a full kettle," he continued, talking now to Cullen, "But that should last through the morning. She'll only need a cup at a time, whenever she feels queasy or achy."
"I understand," he nodded. "If I should need to brew more?"
"Like before. Three spoons. Steep for five minutes. I'll have the servants bring up something a little more substantial for her breakfast," he picked up his satchel, fully determined to leave as quickly as possible and let the two of them have their privacy. No doubt she had also figured out what Cullen had done for her, as her hair was still damp and the brush was lying forgotten and half-buried beneath a pillow. Though it was good to see color on her cheeks, the blushing was getting a bit out of hand. "You'll need lots of nutrients to get your strength back quickly. And you'll want to. Get your strength back, that is. I just found out from Josephine; we leave for Halamshiral first thing next week."
"We?" she repeated, her voice overflowing with hope, "Are you coming with us?"
"I am," he smiled slightly, a little mischievously. "In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen the politics of the powerful many times, and it's always the same, no matter the characters or the location. But a chance to see the power, the intrigue, the danger, and the sex first hand? I wouldn't miss it!"
Neither of them knew quite how to respond to that.
"Well, er," Cullen attempted, "I'm glad at least one person will be enjoying himself."
"Quite," he agreed. "Now, if you'll excuse me. There are one or two matters I should attend to before we leave."
Fear watched Solas walk towards the top of the stairs, a tiny whine whimpering in his chest. Oh, how he longed to follow, but he had been ordered to guard his partner…
"Er, Solas, one more thing," Cullen began walking towards the foot of the bed. The elven apostate paused and looked up, curious, and found Cullen setting a hand on the hound's head. "If you could take Fear with you, let him outside, perhaps bring him to Krem for more training. I would have one of my men do it, whoever brings the morning's reports, but since you're here…"
"Of course," he quickly agreed. "I still need to make it up to him, my earlier misassumption of his intelligence. If you would like to come with me, Ser Fear, I believe we can find Krem in the tavern."
Fear started to move, knowing there was food in the tavern and his stomach was empty, but he felt slightly conflicted. His partner was still weak, sick, he shouldn't leave her just because he was hungry. He looked at her, sitting up against the pillows, but her cheeks were rosy and she was smiling, nodding for him to go. He gave her an encouraging bark, licked her face so she would know he cared for her, and bounded from the bed so hard he left it shaking. His oversized paws lost traction on the corner of the rug as he turned for the stairs, his nails having to dig deep into the fabric and bunch it into a large pile before he could find purchase. Then he was around Solas and almost tumbling down the steps ahead of him.
Peredura listened to Solas' indulgent voice as he talked to Fear, asking him to wait at least until he opened the door before racing onward.
Cullen had also been listening. He chuckled softly before commenting, "He is still a puppy."
"One who's being taught bad habits," Peredura groused, sitting up a little higher against the pillows. She felt a lot stronger—and a lot safer—having something to scold him about. "You gave him permission to be up on the bed, didn't you?"
It was more an accusation than a question. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, standing at attention, and defended himself. "I did. I believe you once said, during my, er, recovery, that I was calmer whenever Fear was near. I thought, he might do the same for you. Not that you've been out of your head with fevers or delirium, but you have been in need of comfort."
"Yes, well, fine," there he was, being nice to her, thinking of her needs. Damn, she couldn't argue with that. "But last time, it took me a week to retrain him to stay off my bed. I expect you to handle that this time. I'll be too busy recuperating."
He looked at her, not out of anger or fear or even desire. He simply looked at her to see her, to observe and digest and discern every detail. She looked back at him, and her affected anger dissipated beneath the return of her blush.
Maker, how he loved the way she blushed. He returned to her side, sat down on the edge of the bed, and leaned over her, one arm bracing itself on her other side. She was trapped, between him and the pillows, and could only sit there and feel her heart begin to race as he came even closer.
The touch of his lips was light and warm, soft and firm. He didn't pressure for the kiss to deepen, merely holding himself there, allowing her to savor his presence. When he pulled back, one hand was cupping her face, the thumb stroking her cheek. His hazel eyes warmed within her soft brown.
"I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."