The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees, casting long shadows across the road as the convoy made its slow way north. The journey from Halamshiral to Skyhold was a long one, but Grace welcomed the distance. The more leagues between her and that blasted ballroom, the easier it would be to shake the heat still lingering under her skin.
Not that it was working.
Every hoofbeat seemed to echo with the memory of his hands on her waist. His breath, hot against her throat. The low growl in his voice when she'd kissed him back like she was going to tear his armor off right there in the corridor.
Maker, she nearly had.
Grace exhaled sharply through her nose, drawing the reins a little tighter as Eluvia flicked her ears.
"You're brooding," came a too-casual voice from beside her. Dorian, of course, riding with one leg slung lazily over his saddle, perfectly composed despite the muddy roads.
"I'm not brooding," Grace replied, perhaps a bit too quickly.
He arched an elegant brow. "Mmm, no, of course not. You're simply riding in sullen silence, refusing to look behind you, and trying very hard not to set your cloak on fire with residual embarrassment."
"I will set you on fire with a ball lightning if you don't stop talking."
Dorian smirked, eyes glittering with amusement. "Touchy. I wonder why."
Grace shot him a look, but said nothing.
The truth was, she had looked back. Once. Maybe twice. Okay—more than twice. And each time, Cullen had been there, just behind her in the column, sitting straight in the saddle, reins in hand, wearing that godsdamned unreadable expression.
But once—just once—she caught him watching her.
It was a brief glance, maybe half a heartbeat, but his eyes had lingered. And when she met them, when her storm-grey gaze locked with his amber one, he hadn't looked away immediately.
Neither of them smiled.
Neither of them spoke.
And then he turned his head, said something to Cassandra, and that was that.
The rest of the day passed in complete silence between them.
Now, as the sky deepened toward twilight and they made camp along a ridge overlooking a frozen river, Grace dismounted stiffly, tossing her cloak over her arm and trying to ignore the pulse at her throat.
Behind her, she heard Cullen dismount as well. His boots hit the earth, armor creaked softly, and still, not a word.
She wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or shove him into a tree and demand to know what the hell they were doing.
Instead, she helped set up her tent in silence.
Later, sitting near the fire, Grace caught his profile again. His jaw was clenched, his brow furrowed slightly. He was watching the flames, but not really seeing them.
Dorian handed her a mug of tea and sat down beside her, brushing some dirt from his sleeve with a sigh.
"Well, if you're not going to kiss him again," he said, "I might start placing my bets elsewhere."
Grace didn't answer. She just took a sip and let the silence stretch.
The fire cracked softly, sending golden sparks into the growing darkness. Around them, the camp had settled into its usual rhythm—soft murmurs, the occasional clink of armor being removed, boots thudding against the frozen earth. Somewhere, Varric was already spinning a half-drunken tale to a few scouts. Cassandra was sharpening her blade, expression grim. Vivienne had retreated to her tent with a cup of spiced wine and a disdainful remark about "the rustic charm of field accommodations."
Grace didn't move. Her hands curled around the warm tin mug like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.
"You're quiet," Dorian said at last, glancing at her from over the rim of his own cup.
"So are you. Miraculous."
He smiled faintly. "Touché. But I know that look, my dear. You're chewing on something—metaphorically, of course. If it were literally, you'd have stormed off to kick something by now."
Grace stared into the fire. "Fine. I thought kissing him would make things easier. There. You have it."
Dorian blinked. "Easier? Oh, Gracie. You beautiful, naive creature."
"Don't."
"No, no, I mean it. You've got the emotional strategy of a mabari charging a rift."
She gave him a dry look.
He sipped his tea, unbothered. "It's not your fault. You're just so used to being the one in control. You fight demons. You shut rifts. You boss entire crowds around like chess pieces. But feelings? Love? Lust? Maker forbid someone take your breath away."
Her throat tightened. "I'm not in love."
He hummed. "You're certainly not sleeping, either."
Grace looked down, jaw clenched. "I almost pulled him into my room. After the kiss."
"Almost?" Dorian grinned. "How tragicallyrestrained of you."
"It wasn't funny, Dorian. It was… It was stupid. I had no idea what I was doing."
"And yet, I imagine you did it very well."
She gave him a shove, but it lacked real force. Her face was burning. "I nearly ruined everything."
"Oh, come now. One passionate kiss isn't going to collapse the Inquisition."
"No, but—what if he regrets it?" Her voice dropped. "He hasn't looked at me the same since."
Dorian was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
"Grace… men like Cullen, they live in absolutes. Discipline. Control. Their own emotions terrify them. And then there's you—magic and defiance and thunder bottled into a woman. He kissed you back, didn't he?"
Her heart skipped. "Maker, did he ever."
"Then stop punishing yourself for wanting something good. Even if it's complicated." He stood, dusting himself off. "I'm going to harass the bard into learning a Tevinter ballad. Come find me when you're done brooding."
He walked away, leaving her alone with her thoughts—and that cursed firelight.
Across the camp, Cullen still hadn't looked at her again.
But Grace didn't miss the way his shoulders stiffened when she stood to leave. Or how his gaze, unyielding as stone, flicked toward her just as she turned her back.
Still not a word.
They reached Skyhold the next afternoon after leaving Orlais. The gates yawned open before them, welcoming them with the familiar chill of the Frostbacks and the clang of busy soldiers. The towers stood sharp against the icy sky, dusted with snow like a half-forgotten dream.
The journey had been long, and tense, in its own quiet way. Grace had stolen glances more than she cared to admit—finding Cullen's eyes on her once or twice again, before he'd quickly looked away. They hadn't exchanged a single word since… that night. She could still feel the imprint of it when she closed her eyes—the way her fingers had twisted into his hair, how his hands had moved over her waist…
She winced now at the memory. Not because she regretted it—she didn't. But because she hadn't known what to say since. And he clearly hadn't either.
Skyhold buzzed with the energy of their return. Josephine was already halfway through organizing the next round of meetings before Grace had dismounted. Leliana disappeared into the rookery. Dorian smirked too knowingly, and Bull simply gave her a raised brow and a casual, "Have fun in Orlais, boss?" that she chose not to respond to.
She didn't see Cullen again that day. Or the next.
On the second morning, she spotted him on the ramparts, arms crossed as he overlooked the courtyard. She paused in the archway, watching him in silence. He looked… normal, maybe a bit tired. Back to routine. Back to duty.
She hated that it stung.
She walked away before he could turn and see her standing there like some moon-eyed fool.
By the third day, they still hadn't spoken.
Grace buried herself in her work. Reports from the forward camp in Western Approach. A newly-discovered rift near Emerald Graves. Disciplinary issues among the newer recruits. Anything to keep her hands busy and her mind off the way his voice sounded when he growled her name against her throat.
He didn't avoid her, not obviously—but he didn't seek her out either. They passed in corridors once or twice. Nodded. Said nothing. The meetings went that way too. Professional.
And yet, his eyes began to found hers first. And every time, she felt it. That spark. That memory. That something neither of them seemed brave enough to name.
On the evening of the fourth day, she sat alone in the vacant alcove overlooking the broken battlements, the sky outside bruised with snow-heavy clouds, despite the ongoing spring. Her fingers drummed against the cold stone, lips pressed into a frown. She was tired. She was busy.
And still, all she could think about was him.
Was he pretending it hadn't happened?
Or was he just waiting for her to make the first move?
She didn't know what scared her more.
By the fifth day, Grace had enough.
Enough pretending. Enough silence. Enough of this maddening standoff like they hadn't kissed like they were both starving.
She slammed her reports shut, stood up so quickly her chair scraped against the stone, and strode out of her tower chambers with single-minded purpose. Her boots echoed through the corridors of Skyhold as she marched toward the training grounds, cloak snapping behind her like a banner.
If he was going to avoid her, then she would come to him.
And Maker help them both if he pretended he didn't know exactly why.
The clang of steel and the steady rhythm of sparring reached her ears as she rounded the final stair. And there he was—Cullen, stripped of his cloak and in his training leathers, instructing a pair of younger recruits. His hair was tousled from the wind, a bit damp with sweat. He looked like he belonged there, surrounded by the scent of snow and steel, posture coiled with focus.
Grace didn't pause.
She marched straight across the grounds, her boots crunching on the still partially frozen dirt, and stopped a few paces from him.
The recruits hesitated, mid-swing. Cullen's eyes lifted—and then she saw the moment he realized.
Something flickered behind his gaze. Surprise, then caution. He stepped toward her, slowly.
"Inquisitor," he said, voice guarded. "Is everything—?"
"I'm here to cash in," she interrupted, arms folded across her chest. "You made an offer. In Orlais. Training. Close combat, wasn't it?"
His brows lifted just slightly. "You're serious?"
She tilted her head, smirking just enough to hide the flutter of nerves in her gut. "You're not backing out now, are you?"
Cullen studied her for a long, unreadable moment, then turned and barked an order at the recruits to take a break. As they scampered off, he turned back to Grace, nodding once. "Very well. Grab a practice weapon."
She was already moving before he finished speaking. She pulled a staff from the nearby rack—light, made for drills—and stepped into the sparring circle as Cullen did the same with a practice sword.
They circled each other slowly.
"Rules?" he asked, tone light but careful.
"No lightning," she said dryly. "I don't want to get accused of cheating."
"I appreciate the mercy."
Their eyes locked. She moved first—quick, sharp slashes with the staff that he parried with frustrating ease. His form was controlled, measured, which only made her swing harder, push faster.
They both knew it wasn't just about training.
He swept low and forced her to backpedal. She parried, spun, caught him on the side—not hard, but enough to earn a twitch of his mouth that could've been a smile.
"So, I am supposed to consider this venting?" he asked with mock politeness.
"Would you rather I vented on you?" she shot back, breathless.
His grin, when it came, was quick and devastating. "I am saying you already are."
They sparred like that for a while—clashes of wood and breathless jabs, the sound of effort and footsteps in the snow. He was good. Frustratingly good. But so was she. The rigorous training she's been going through ever since she joined the Inquisition - courtesy of Cassandra mostly, was finally put to use fully.
And beneath the rhythm of it all, something unspoken sizzled between them—waiting.
Few rounds later, Cullen returned to the ring with his shield in hand, sword gleaming under the spring sun. Grace arched a brow. He looked a little paler, maybe tired.
"Oh, we're doing that now?"
"You asked for close combat," he said mildly, strapping the shield onto his forearm with practiced ease. "I assumed you didn't want me holding back."
She rolled her shoulders, the staff light in her hands. "Wouldn't dream of it."
They circled again, the snow crunching under their boots. Grace darted forward first, jabbing at his shoulder—blocked. She spun, feinted low, and struck toward his side. He deflected the blow with the shield, absorbing the shock like he'd done this a thousand times.
He probably had.
"You've gotten faster," Cullen said, voice calm but breath already starting to come a little shorter.
"Are you calling me slow before?"
"I wouldn't dare." He parried a particularly hard strike. "Though your footwork still needs work."
"Oh, Maker save me from backhanded compliments," she muttered, twisting to duck a quick counterstrike. His blade came dangerously close to catching her arm, but she slipped under it, momentum carrying her around his side.
She tapped his ribs with the end of her staff. "Gotcha."
He turned with a grunt, eyes sparking with challenge. "Lucky."
"Oh, now we're lying?"
That earned a low chuckle from him—and then he came at her with a little more speed.
Grace's pulse jumped. The sudden shift in his stance, the way he used his shield to press into her space—it was less about striking and more about crowding, forcing her back, testing her balance. She gritted her teeth and met it head-on, driving the staff into the ground to brace as he bore down on her.
They locked, shield against staff, eyes meeting.
Neither of them moved.
His breath misted the air between them.
"Careful now Commander, this feels personal," she said, low.
Cullen's gaze didn't waver. "Is it?"
Her heart slammed once in her chest.
Before she could answer, he twisted his shield, and she stumbled—but recovered fast. She spun, came around with a hard jab at his shoulder. He grunted, taking the hit. His sword dropped a little, and she pressed, relentless, attacking from different angles—quick bursts, enough to push him on the defensive.
He blocked everything, but she could feel it in his rhythm— surprisingly enough, he wasn't unaffected.
Finally, she lunged again, aiming high. He met her halfway with his shield—and then, with a smooth pivot, he knocked her staff wide and stepped in. Close. Too close.
She froze.
Their bodies didn't quite touch, but the shield pressed lightly against her ribs, his breath was hot against her cheek, and Maker, he smelled like steel, leather, and something warmer.
His eyes searched hers. Her pulse thundered.
But still—neither of them spoke.
And then Cullen took a deliberate step back, lowering the shield.
"Enough for today," he said quietly.
Grace said nothing, just nodded once, pretending her heart wasn't beating fast enough to crack her ribs.
She turned to leave the ring, the staff still in her grip.
But as she reached the edge, she glanced back—and found him watching her again.
Like he had during the journey. Like he had at the Winter Palace.
And still, they said nothing.
Grace didn't look back again, even though she felt his eyes on her all the way across the training grounds. She busied herself brushing snow from her shoulders, ignoring the way her pulse still pounded in her ears.
She'd sparred before—plenty of times. But never like that.
The few soldiers and lieutenants present were clearly trying not to stare, but Grace caught their puzzled glances more than once. She didn't blame them. The Inquisitor didn't usually step into the ring with the Commander—and certainly not with that kind of focus. Or heat.
As she passed a pair of younger officers whispering near the weapon racks, she raised a brow.
"Something on your mind, gentlemen?" she asked, casually enough.
They straightened like they'd been caught stealing from the mess hall. "No, Inquisitor. Just… surprised, is all. Didn't know you and the Commander trained together."
"We don't. Usually," she replied, voice dry. "Today was an exception."
She left them blinking as she walked away, the faintest smirk curling on her lips.
She was halfway across the courtyard when Cullen's voice stopped her.
"Inquisitor."
She hesitated. Turned just enough to glance over her shoulder.
He was standing where she'd left him, sword still in hand, shield slung over one shoulder. The golden light caught in his hair, and even at this distance, she could see how intently he was watching her. Still composed. Still unreadable. But something else, too—something under the surface.
"I'm free again tomorrow. Same time," he said.
Grace raised her brows, fighting the heat that threatened to return to her cheeks. "Is that a challenge or a warning?"
He shrugged. "That depends. Are you planning to bruise me some more?"
"I don't recall you minding," she shot back without thinking, then immediately regretted it.
Cullen blinked—once—and then smirked. A small, dangerous thing.
"I'll be there," she added quickly, before she could dig the hole deeper.
And with that, she turned and walked away, her pace steady, her heart doing something entirely opposite.
The tension didn't fade. If anything, it lingered—like a fine mist clinging to the skin, impossible to shake.
The next morning dawned colder than the last, wind biting at exposed skin and turning the stone corridors of Skyhold into icy passageways. Grace stood at one of the battlements just past the smithy, arms crossed, the collar of her coat pulled high as she watched the sun rise over the mountains. Steam curled from the mug of tea clasped in her hands, untouched.
She hadn't seen Cullen since yesterday's spar.
Not that she saw him in the morning anymore —they'd said they'd meet on the afternoon, and that was still true—but her thoughts had wandered there all the same. To the ring. To the press of his body against hers. To the heat in his eyes. To what might've happened if she hadn't stepped away.
She took a sip of tea, grimaced at the bitterness, and muttered under her breath, "Maker, what are we even doing?"
Just then, she heard familiar footsteps approaching—measured, confident, and too well-known to be mistaken for anyone else. She didn't turn, but her fingers tensed around the cup.
But it wasn't Cullen. It was Cassandra.
"Should I be worried?" the Seeker asked, coming to stand beside her with a scrutinizing glance. "You have a particular look this morning."
Grace exhaled. "That's probably because I'm thinking."
"Dangerous."
"You've no idea."
Cassandra looked at her for a moment longer, then nodded toward the empty sparring yard below. "I heard you were training with Cullen."
Grace didn't respond right away. "It was… long overdue."
Cassandra arched a brow. "And was that the only thing it was?"
Grace's lips twitched. "Careful, Cassandra. You're starting to sound like Dorian."
"I take that as an insult."
"You should."
They stood in silence a moment longer. The wind pulled at their coats, and the sun crept slowly over the Frostbacks.
Grace finally broke the silence. "It's complicated."
"It always is," Cassandra said, not unkindly.
And neither of them said anything else. They fell into steady walk instead.
Grace let the silence linger between them a little too long, and she wasn't quite ready to keep prodding at emotional bruises—especially not her own. So she let her eyes wander the courtyard, anything to shift the mood.
That's when she spotted it.
Tucked under Cassandra's arm was a rather familiar-looking book—well-worn, leather-bound, and unmistakably dramatic in its cover design. Grace blinked, then did a double take.
She slowed, arching a brow. "Is that Swords and Shields?"
Cassandra faltered mid-step. "No."
Grace blinked, then smirked. "Cassandra. I know that cover. That's the second volume. The one with the ridiculous brooding pose and the strategically torn doublet."
Cassandra looked as if she'd rather be anywhere else. "It is a well-written series," she muttered, trying to tuck the book more discreetly under her arm as she resumed walking.
Grace fell into step beside her. "Oh, I'm not judging. I just never pictured you as the type to get tangled up in forbidden liaisons and dramatic betrayals. I thought you'd be more into, I don't know, war memoirs. Tactical manuals."
"I do read those," Cassandra snapped, but her cheeks had gone a little pink. "But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate something with… character development."
"Right," Grace said, biting back a grin. "Character development. And the training sequences. The very detailed training sequences."
Cassandra shot her a glare sharp enough to wound and groaned. "Don't make me regret this more than I already do. Taking this book with me to breakfast."
"I'm just saying, there's nothing wrong with liking it. It's kind of sweet, actually. Except…" Grace narrowed her eyes. "Isn't the series unfinished?"
The Seeker made a sound of deep, long-suffering irritation. "Yes. And I've been waiting for the next volume for far too long."
"Have you asked Varric about it?"
"Absolutely not!" Cassandra said, aghast. "He must never know. It would be… intolerably embarrassing."
Grace snorted. "You mean to tell me you'd rather march into battle with a dragon than admit you enjoy his writing?"
Cassandra gave her a flat look. "Correct."
Grace was laughing now. "Maker's breath, this is the best thing I've learned all week."
"I should have taken another way," Cassandra muttered, adjusting the book under her arm.
Grace flashed her a sly grin as she veered toward the library. "Too late. Your secret's safe with me. Probably."
"Grace."
"I said probably!"
She stopped at her quarters, her conversation with Cassandra easing some of the heaviness on her shoulders. She needed to gather some reports from the forward camp in Western Approach. They were to depart the next morning, so today's briefing had a clear topic.
As she was marching through the war room hallway, Grace picked on the rolled parchments absently.
The heavy doors of the war room creaked open as Grace stepped in, her boots echoing across the stone floor. The long table was already set with maps, reports, and fresh intelligence—though one chair sat conspicuously empty.
Josephine looked up from her seat with a polite smile that didn't quite mask her concern. Leliana nodded a greeting from the far end, her expression unreadable as always. Cassandra was already standing near the map, arms crossed, eyes flicking between marked locations like they were potential threats she could beat into submission.
But Cullen wasn't there.
Grace slowed her steps, scanning the room once more as if he might have slipped in unnoticed. "Where's the Commander?"
Josephine shook her head. "He hasn't sent word. I assumed he would be here by now."
"He's never late," Cassandra added, her brow furrowed. "Not without reason."
"He didn't mention any new patrols yesterday," Leliana said softly, fingers laced before her. "Nor did he request leave or downtime."
That knot of unease twisted tighter in Grace's stomach. "Has anyone checked on him?"
There was a pause—brief but telling. They hadn't. Not yet.
Josephine glanced at her with an apologetic frown. "We assumed he was… preoccupied. Perhaps something personal."
Cassandra made a small sound of disapproval. "He's still recovering. From the lyrium. If he's had a setback, he wouldn't keep it to himself… would he?"
Grace's gaze dropped to the table for a moment. Yes, she thought. He would.
She tried to school her expression, but the memory of how pale he'd looked a few days ago—how carefully he'd masked it—snuck back into her mind. And then the kiss. And how distant things had become since.
"Shall I have someone sent to his quarters?" Josephine asked.
"No," Grace said quickly, too quickly. "I'll… I'll check on him myself. After the meeting."
She felt the others glance at one another but ignored it, trying to refocus on the map, the strategy, the real reason they were here. But it was hard not to feel the tug of worry at the back of her mind, and the ache in her chest she hadn't quite managed to name yet.
Cullen Rutherford did not miss war room briefings.
And if he did, something had to be wrong.
——-
The meeting had been underway for several minutes before Cullen finally entered, his steps deliberate, almost measured. As the door creaked open, Grace's gaze snapped to him, and she couldn't help but notice the change. There was an undeniable weariness in his posture, his shoulders slumped just a little more than usual. The bright, confident spark that usually gleamed in his eyes was dull, and his movements were slower than they should have been. His lips were pressed in a thin line, and though he tried to maintain his usual composure, there was something in the way he held himself that made her stomach tighten with unease.
"Apologies for the delay," Cullen said, his voice rougher than usual, though he managed to mask it with a polite, though somewhat strained, smile.
Grace's heart skipped, her mind racing as she watched him take his seat beside her. She quickly averted her gaze, not wanting to stare, but the concern was there, persistent and pressing. His face was drawn, the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than ever. It seemed as though sleep, or any sort of rest, had evaded him for days. And his hands—Grace couldn't help but notice the slight tremor in his fingers as he straightened his cloak and adjusted his armor, as though even the simple motion required more effort than it should. How coul she not notice it yesterday? Or earlier… right… because she was so preoccupied with the kiss they shared at the ball. She felt a pang of guilt pulse in her chest.
The others didn't seem to notice either. Josephine, Cassandra, and Leliana continued discussing the matters at hand, their voices filling the room with their usual ease. But Grace? Her mind kept wandering back to Cullen, her thoughts circling around the obvious exhaustion she was trying to ignore. She bit her lip, trying to focus on the meeting, but it was almost impossible.
Was it the withdrawal? Had his condition worsened? Had the potions stopped working? He was keeping his distance, and though Grace had no way of knowing for sure, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The way he was holding himself—so rigid, so distant—it reminded her of the first days after the Breach, when he had been at his worst, when his pain was too great to hide. The day when he finally told her. But this was different. He wasn't just in pain. He seemed withdrawn. Silent.
The meeting dragged on, but Grace barely registered the discussions. She stole quick glances at Cullen, noticing how he seemed to shrink into himself with each passing moment. His usual sharp, analytical gaze was absent, replaced with something else—something far more distant. The faint tremor in his hand had not gone unnoticed by her, and it only heightened the pit of worry growing in her chest.
Finally, the meeting came to a close. Everyone started gathering their notes, preparing to leave, but Cullen was the first to stand. He moved to leave, but something about the way he lingered at the table made Grace's chest tighten. He wasn't himself. And she couldn't just let it go. She had to know what was happening with him. She had to ask, their mutual silence and deliberate distancing be damned.
Grace pushed back her chair, her legs moving before her thoughts could catch up. She made her way over to Cullen, her mind racing with questions she wasn't sure how to ask.
"Cullen—" she started, her voice soft, but he turned to face her before she could finish.
"Inquisitor," he greeted her quietly, his expression polite but distant, as if the warmth they'd shared just a few days ago had already faded into something he couldn't quite reach. "Apologies, I need to debrief another forward party to scout the routes you will be taking tomorrow..."
Grace froze, her chest tightening as she saw the way he was standing, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the table, as though for balance. He looked as though he might collapse if he didn't steady himself. And the fact that he was so quick to brush her off only deepened her concern.
"There are matters I need to attend to," he continued, his voice steady but lacking its usual depth. "Please, don't worry about me."
She took a half-step forward, not quite knowing what to say. "Cullen, I—"
But he held up a hand, gentle but firm. "I assure you, Inquisitor, I'm fine. I just need some time alone."
His words were polite, but there was an underlying strain in his voice that made Grace's heart ache. He wasn't fine. She could see it—could feel it in the tension radiating off him, in the way his muscles were taut, as if he were forcing himself to stand straight. And yet, despite her overwhelming urge to ask, to demand that he speak to her, Cullen had already shut her out.
"I'll be fine," he repeated, his tone growing slightly firmer, though his eyes never quite met hers. "See you in the afternoon?"
Grace's throat tightened as she hesitated. She had so many questions, so many things she wanted to say. But she couldn't push him. Not like this.
"Alright," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "But Cullen—"
"I'll be sure to let you know if anything changes." His words were clipped, as though he'd said them a hundred times before, and he turned toward the door before she could say anything else.
Grace stood in the middle of the room, her chest heavy with unspoken words, her mind racing. She wanted to run after him, to demand he tell her the truth, to make him admit what was wrong, but she didn't. She couldn't. Not now. Not when he was so closed off.
Instead, she stood there, watching him leave, her heart aching with the weight of his silence. She was not the one to ignore such things however.
Later that afternoon, as sunlight slanted through the tower windows and cast warm streaks across the stone floor of her study, there was a knock at the door. Grace looked up, and one of Cullen's messengers stood in the doorway, a folded note in hand and an expression of carefully practiced neutrality.
"Inquisitor," he said, offering her the missive.
"Thank you," she said, though her voice was tight with suspicion.
The handwriting was unmistakably Cullen's—neat, deliberate, and far too polite.
Grace,
I must apologize, but I have to cancel our training session today. Some pressing matters require my attention. I hope to reschedule soon. —Cullen
She stared at the note for a moment, her brows drawing together.
Pressing matters, she thought. Right.
With a sharp scoff, she crumpled the paper into a tight ball in her palm.
"Pressing matters, my ass…" she muttered, tossing the paper toward the fireplace, not even checking if it landed in the flames.
She was already halfway to the door when her hand curled into a fist. Her boots echoed briskly through the stone corridors as she stalked through Skyhold, ignoring the glances from passing soldiers and attendants. Her expression left no room for questioning. She was done waiting. Done being kept at arm's length.
The Undercroft welcomed her with the familiar clang of metal and the thick scent of oil and dust. Grace didn't bother greeting the blacksmith; he was deep in work anyways and she just waved at Dagna.
The familiar scent of dried herbs, oils, and cool stone met her at her alchemy workspace as she started to rummage in the drawers. She moved with brisk precision, sweeping her hair back into a messy bunand rolling up her sleeves. Her movements were sharp, fueled by a storm of unspoken frustration and stubborn concern.
If Cullen wouldn't allow her close enough to talk, she'd help him in the way he couldn't refuse.
She pulled a small, cloth-wrapped pouch from a hidden drawer. Amrita Vein—one of the rarest ingredients in her stock. Golden-flecked, vibrant, and temperamental. She ground it into powder with practiced care, adding it to a refined base of elfroot, embrium, and a hint of frost lotus. This mixture would sharpen his focus, ease the pain, and—hopefully—keep him steady through the worst of it. It was tweaked version of the old one, just more potent.
Brewing took longer than she expected.
The Amrita vein was stubborn, the mix volatile when paired with certain herbs, and Grace had to discard the first batch entirely after it bubbled over in protest. Her sleeves were stained, her wrists aching, but still, she worked with gritted teeth and silent determination.
She hadn't meant to spend hours in the Undercroft. But the light had changed—noon had slipped into late afternoon, and still the potion wasn't quite right. Still not good enough.
She glanced at the sunlight changing its colour into gold, a silent reminder: they were supposed to leave tomorrow she had so little time. Again.
And she and Cullen still hadn't talked.
Not about the kiss. Not about the way her back had hit the wall when he kissed her like a man starved. Not about how her hands had fumbled against his coat, nearly dragging him past the point of return, past every line they so stubbornly held to.
And now… now he was in pain again. She could feel it in the way he looked at her in the war room this morning—pale, tight-jawed, every movement just a second too slow. She cursed herself for missing it before again.
The final potion gleamed a soft silver-blue, a cleaner variation of what she'd brewed before—soothing without sedating, potent without dulling the senses.
She didn't bother sending it with a messenger.
Bottle in hand, she climbed the stairs two at a time, the corridor to the courtyard stretching ahead like a battleground. Her heart thudded with every step, heavy with everything unsaid and unspoken.
She reached his office door.
Locked.
She knocked. Lightly at first. Then again, louder.
Nothing.
She pressed her ear to the door. No sound. No movement.
"Cullen," she called, voice low but firm. "It's me."
Still nothing.
She stepped back and stared at the door like she could will it open. Like it might answer all the questions she couldn't ask him in front of the others. Was he inside? Was he worse? He had to be worse.
As she was raising her hand to knock once more, one of Cullen's men on patrol noticed her.
"Inquisitor." He saluted. "If you were looking for the Commander, he went to see Seeker Penthagast."
Oh. So that was going on….
She swiftly nodded her thanks to the soldier and wished him goodnight. And hurried to the smithy.
The clinking of hammer on steel echoed from the smithy long before Grace reached it. She slowed her steps as she approached, the tail end of a heated conversation floating out into the courtyard.
"…you can't just decide this on your own, Cullen," Cassandra said firmly, her voice carrying that unmistakable tone of conviction.
"I'm not deciding anything lightly," he replied, his voice tight. "You've seen me. I can't command like this—not when I can barely get through a meeting without feeling like my head's about to split open."
"You are still capable," Cassandra argued. "And you are not alone. Grace—"
"That's exactly it," Cullen cut in, frustration flaring in his tone. "The Inquisitor has enough on her shoulders. I won't add my failings to her burden."
Grace paused at the threshold, heart thudding. Her breath caught in her throat as she leaned subtly around the edge of the doorway. Cullen stood near the workbench, bracing himself with both hands as if steadying more than just his body. Cassandra stood opposite him, arms crossed and jaw clenched, refusing to yield.
"You are not failing," she said. "You are fighting. There is a difference."
Cullen exhaled sharply, then glanced toward the door—and his eyes met Grace's.
He froze for a second, then straightened, every muscle in his frame going rigid with that familiar, controlled discipline.
"Inquisitor," he said quietly, his expression guarded. "Forgive me. I didn't realize you were—excuse me." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode past her, the heat of his passing almost palpable.
Grace stood motionless, watching the sway of his cloak as he disappeared down the corridor toward his tower.
Cassandra approached her then, arms lowering at her sides. "He's convinced he's becoming a liability," she said simply. "I told him he isn't."
Grace's jaw tightened. "He wants you to find a replacement."
Cassandra nodded grimly. "He won't say it outright, but yes. He's afraid of what might happen if his condition worsens in the middle of a battle. But he's wrong, Grace. You know he is."
"I don't know what he needs," Grace said, her voice quieter now. "I only know I—Maker, I care about him."
Cassandra softened, placing a hand on Grace's shoulder. "Then go remind him he isn't alone in this. He listens to you, even if he won't say it."
Grace glanced down the empty hallway, where the echo of his footsteps had long faded.
"Alright," she said. "I'll talk to him."
The courtyard was cloaked in dusk, the sun minutes since it dipped below the Frostbacks, leaving only the afterglow of amber and rose streaking the sky. Braziers flickered to life one by one, casting long shadows across the stone paths as Grace made her way toward the tower.
Her steps echoed in the space, each one measured. There was a stiffness in her spine, a tension in her shoulders—part dread, part determination. She hadn't seen Cullen since the war room that morning. Now, moments ago, in the smithy he'd looked, exhausted, hollowed out from within.
And then there was the kiss.
The damn kiss she still hadn't found the courage—or time—to talk about. Her thoughts tangled with guilt and longing as she crossed the courtyard, the wind tugging at her cloak. It was not important right now. She needed to see if he was alright.
The narrow stairs to his tower loomed ahead, lit only by a single torch on the landing. Grace climbed them slowly, hand brushing the cold stone as she reached the top.
The door was shut. No guards, no sound.
She hesitated. Then she raised her hand and knocked.
A muffled crash came from within. Then a sharp, brittle shatter.
Her pulse spiked. "Cullen?"
No answer.
She knocked again, harder this time.
Another clatter—louder, angrier.
Without thinking, Grace shoved the door open. "Cullen, what the—!"
Something flew past her with startling force, slamming into the stone wall just inches from her head. Wood cracked, glass shattered—and the faint shimmer of lyrium dust caught the firelight as a small, battered box exploded as it fell to her feet.
She stared at it, stunned.
Cullen stood at the center of the room In front of his desk, chest heaving, hair disheveled, eyes wide with horror. His hand was still raised from the throw. "Grace—!"
She stepped inside slowly, letting the door fall shut behind her.
"You almost hit me," she said flatly, gaze still locked on the wreckage at her boots.
"I didn't know you were—" he stopped himself, pressing his hand to his temple like it hurt. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to throw it near the door. I just—I am sorry…"
Grace crouched by the ruined box, but didn't touch it. Her eyes flicked up to him. "Your philter…"
He nodded, swallowing. "All of it. I couldn't look at it anymore. I wanted it gone."
She rose slowly. "You could've told someone. I would've helped."
"I didn't want anyone to see me like this," he said quietly, not looking at her. "Least of all you."
"Well," she said, folding her arms, "that ship's sailed, hasn't it?"
His jaw clenched, and for a long moment, it seemed like he might shut down entirely. But the walls didn't come up. Not this time. His shoulders slumped. He looked at her—and then the words came spilling out, low and harsh and fever-wrecked.
"I can't do this."
Grace froze again, mid-step.
"I'm trying, Maker help me," he said, voice rough. "But I can't tell if I'm giving the Inquisition enough. I gave everything to the Templars—every order, every command, every vial they pushed into my hands. I led men into death, I stood through battles most wouldn't have survived. And it just happened. Being tortured. Resisting demon possession, watching people destroy themselves over a sliver of power. How can one remain the same after that?"
He let out a bitter, broken laugh, swiping a hand through his sweat-damp hair.
"And now? Now I shake. I forget things. I have to measure my strength just to get through a meeting. And I think—maybe I made the wrong choice. Maybe I'm too weak to lead without it. Maybe I'm—"
His voice cracked.
"—a liability."
Grace stared at him, her breath caught behind her ribs.
He didn't meet her gaze. He looked at the shattered box on the floor like it might answer for him.
"I wanted to be better than I was," he whispered. "But what if I'm just less?"
For a long moment, Grace said nothing.
The silence stretched between them like a drawn wire—tight, humming with things unsaid. The faint scent of spilled lyrium still clung to the air, sharp and bitter, curling into the low firelight like smoke from a burnt-out candle.
Her arms slowly unfolded.
"Cullen…"
Her voice was quiet, but not soft. There was iron beneath the calm.
"You are not less."
He didn't look at her.
She stepped forward. "You're not weak. You're not failing. You're not a liability. You're a man who's survived too much and kept going anyway—and now you're surviving without the one thing that's numbed all of it for years." Her tone sharpened. "Maker's breath, Cullen, how is that less?"
He said nothing, his jaw tight, fists still braced on the desk like he needed the wood beneath his hands to stay upright.
Grace stopped just beside the shattered box, looking down at it again—then back to him. "You didn't throw that because you're weak. You threw it because you were strong enough to want it gone. Because you chose something harder. And you're still choosing it, even now, even like this. And I know you can do this."
Still no answer.
So she stepped closer.
"Don't you dare punish yourself for not being perfect while clawing your way out of hell."
That made him blink.
She took a slow breath, steadied herself, then added, quieter this time, "And don't tell me you didn't want me to see you like this."
Her eyes locked with his—no pity, no judgment, just clear and stormy and tired in a way that matched his own.
"Because I did see it. And I didn't flinch. And I'm still here."
She reached up, hesitated—then rested her hand gently over one of his clenched fists.
"I don't want a perfect commander, Cullen. I want you. Exactly as you are. Bruised, raw, proud, infuriating. And still fighting."
Her fingers curled slightly against his. "So keep fighting. Don't make me stay here just to knock that into your skull."
A beat of silence.
Then: "Also," she added dryly, glancing again at the ruined box on the floor, "next time you decide to make a dramatic gesture, aim away from the door, would you?"
It broke the tension—just a little.
But she didn't step back
His breath hitched, and for a moment he looked like he might argue—but then he slumped against the edge of his desk, bracing himself with both hands. The room smelled faintly of lyrium and old wood, dim firelight dancing across his weary face.
"I came to talk," she said finally, more softly now. "About a few things. But mostly…" She glanced toward the shattered lyrium, then back at him. "Mostly to see if you were alright."
"I'm not," Cullen admitted, voice low. "But I will be."
"You look like you haven't slept in days," she said softly, her usual sharp tongue blunted by concern. "How could I not notice that yesterday…"
"I haven't," he muttered, not looking at her. "Sleep's a luxury my body seems to have forgotten how to enjoy much of recently."
She studied him—the hollow under his eyes, the way his fingers trembled slightly against the wood, the tension pulled tight in his jaw. His usual polish was gone, his armor half-unbuckled, hair tousled in a way that had nothing to do with the wind.
"Good thing I brought you a gift then," she said lightly, pulling a small vial from the pouch at her hip. "Fresh batch. Added Amrita Vein this time. Very rare, very expensive. Very much a pain in my ass to distill, so if you throw this at a wall too, I will stab you."
That got a weak smile out of him—barely. "You didn't have to do that."
"I did," she replied simply, holding the vial out to him. "Because I'm not in the habit of watching people I care about self-destruct."
He didn't take it. Instead, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his whole body recoiling inward. "I didn't ask for anyone's help."
"Oh, thank you for clarifying," Grace said, voice suddenly bright with false cheer. "Here I was, thinking we were past that stubborn 'I must do everything alone because martyrdom makes me taller' phase. Silly me."
He shot her a look—sharp and defensive. "I don't need coddling, Grace."
"No, you need rest. And fluids. And someone to tell you to stop being an arse before you collapse in the middle of the courtyard," she snapped back, stepping forward. "You think I came here to play nursemaid? Maker's breath, Cullen. I am still here because —shockingly—I still give a damn."
That last part hung in the air between them.
Grace took a cautious step forward. "You've been trying to go through hell on your own. That's not handling things poorly, Cullen. That's being human."
He let out a weak laugh. "You're surprisingly forgiving for someone I nearly brained with a box and then proceeded to drown her in a personal rant."
She smirked faintly. "Well, it would've been a hell of a headline: Commander of the Inquisition Attempts Murder by Storage Container And Chatter."
That got a real laugh from him, even if it was short-lived.
He dropped his gaze then, jaw tightening again. "It's not fair to you."
"Oh, here we go," she muttered. "Spare me the noble martyr act, please. We kissed, not signed a blood pact."
At that, he winced—and finally looked at her, eyes dark and raw. "That kiss—Grace, it shouldn't have happened. I—wasn't in my right mind."
Her breath caught. And for a moment, she hated herself for hoping. For the way her heart still tried to leap at the sound of his voice, even while it was saying exactly what she didn't want to hear.
"I see," she said coolly. "Well, that's good to know. Next time I feel compelled to throw myself at someone after preventing a civil war, I'll make sure they've had the correct potions first."
He winced again, but said nothing.
She held the vial out one more time. "Just take it."
After a long beat, he reached for it—his hand shaking ever so slightly as his fingers brushed hers.
"I'm sorry," he said, quieter this time. "I didn't mean to be cruel. I just… don't know how to do this. Any of this. I'm trying to stay in control, and I feel like I'm losing everything."
Her expression softened.
"Then let someone hold the reins with you for once," she said. "You don't have to lead every charge alone, Commander."
He didn't answer. But he didn't argue either.
The silence stretched between them, heavier now. Cullen's fingers closed tightly around the vial as if it were a lifeline. Grace didn't move—just stood there, watching him with a mixture of wariness and something softer, something she didn't want to address.
They stood in the hush of his dimly lit office, the only light coming from a half-burned candle on the desk and a dying fireplace, throwing flickers across stone and skin. Cullen swayed slightly, one hand gripping the edge of a bookcase for balance, the other pressed to his temple. His shirt clung to him, damp from fever sweat.
Grace watched him carefully, hovering just a step away, unsure whether to steady him or let him pretend he didn't need it.
"You know I'm leaving at dawn," she said quietly.
"I know." His voice was hoarse, faintly strained, like it scraped the inside of his throat to speak.
"For the Western Approach," she added, arms crossing. "It's not exactly a cozy weekend retreat."
He gave a short, unfocused laugh, then winced. "I'm aware."
She hesitated, then added, more sharply, "You're burning up."
"I'm fine."
"You look like death fell on you and got back up again just to finish the job."
His head lolled slightly toward her, one brow lifting. "That's graphic."
"Well, forgive me for being a little distressed that the man who's supposed to be my rock is currently clinging to a shelf like it's a lifeline."
Cullen pushed off the bookcase, but the motion nearly sent him reeling. Grace lunged forward and caught him by the arm before he could fully stumble, her hand gripping tightly around his forearm.
"You stubborn idiot," she muttered. "You're dizzy, sweating through your clothes, and you tried to kill me with a flying lyrium box ten minutes ago."
"It slipped, really," he mumbled, not meeting her eyes.
"You threw it."
"…It slipped with force."
She sighed, some of her fire dimming under the weight of concern. "You know, the first time you told me about the lyrium, we were barely settled here. You were pale then too. Shaky. But I had to leave right after. Crestwood. You remember?"
He nodded faintly.
"I didn't say what I should've. I kept thinking about it the whole trip. And now here we are again—you're wrecked, and I'm riding off tomorrow morning like I'm not constantly wondering if you're going to survive the week without killing yourself with sleep deprivation."
"I've been worse," he muttered, but the words held no real conviction.
"Cullen," she said, softer now, stepping in closer. "You don't have to do this alone."
"I have to," he said, finally meeting her eyes, even as they shimmered with fever. "I chose this."
"Fine," she snapped, though her voice caught a little. "You chose it. But I didn't choose to sit back and watch you unravel. So maybe let me do something before I start throwing furniture too."
At the base of the ladder, Cullen leaned against the wall, one hand braced against the stone as he tried to catch his breath. His face was pale, his hair damp with sweat, and silverite of his armor glistened faintly under the low light of the evening. He looked utterly wrung out.
Grace didn't miss the tremor in his arms or the way he flinched, ever so slightly, like the weight of the armor was suddenly too much to bear.
"Alright," she muttered, stepping closer, her hands already reaching for the clasps of his chestplate. "This is coming off."
"I can manage," he rasped, though it was barely more than breath.
"Sure," she said dryly, fingers already undoing the first buckle. "Just like you managed to nearly collapse on your way across the room."
He didn't argue. Not this time.
Her fingers were practiced, methodical. She'd seen him wear this armor every day for months—knew the fit, the lines, the way it moved with him. But she'd never undone it like this, so close, her knuckles brushing the fever-hot line of his neck as she slipped the last strap loose.
The chestpiece shifted and came away with a quiet clicking of buckles against the silverite plate. She set it aside gently, then moved to the pauldrons and arm guards, her hands brushing down his biceps, fingers trailing where buckles met cloth. Beneath the armor, his linen shirt was soaked through, clinging to him in a way that left little to the imagination.
She kept her eyes on her hands, not his face, even as the tension between them coiled tighter with each piece she removed. She was quite ashamed of the way her body reacted - Andraste's ass, he's in pain and feverish… and here I am, barely restraining myself from ogling his - oh so very glorious- muscles…
When she reached for the last bracer, their eyes met briefly. His were fevered, yes—but the heat she saw there wasn't entirely from the illness, which made her flustered even more, her fingers losing their bravery each second.
"Better," she murmured once she had everything off. "You looked like you were about to melt into the floor."
"I might still," he said, a hint of something burning and wild in his hushed voice.
Cullen swayed again, this time more heavily, and Grace stepped in before he could protest. Her hand pressed flat against his chest to steady him, fingers splaying over the fabric damp from fever. She felt the unsteadiness in his breath, the faint tremble in his muscles.
"Alright," she muttered, glancing up at the ladder that led to his lofted bed. "You're not going to make it up there on your own."
"I'm fine," Cullen repeated, jaw tight, but it was less conviction now and more reflex.
"Shut up," she said gently. "If you fall, I'm going to be the one dragging your broken body to Solas, and that's going to ruin my whole night."
She guided him carefully toward the ladder. He hesitated at the base of it, looking up with that same stubborn pride in his eyes.
"I can climb."
"Oh, I'm sure," she deadpanned. "But not without landing on your ass halfway through."
He started to argue again, but she was already moving behind him. With one hand on his back and the other gripping his wrist, she nudged him forward. "I'm right here. One step at a time."
It wasn't exactly graceful, but he made it up—leaning into her steadying touch more than he probably realized. She followed close behind, practically bracing him as they climbed. When they finally reached the top, he all but collapsed onto the bed, sitting heavily on the edge, chest heaving from the exertion.
"Maker," he muttered, covering his face with a hand. "This is humiliating."
Grace crouched beside the bed, reaching up to tug the damp leather glove from his right hand. "No. This is human. You should try it sometime."
He gave a weak chuckle, barely more than breath. She brushed sweat-damp hair back from his brow without thinking and felt the heat radiating off his skin. Fever was rising fast.
He didn't resist, though his jaw was clenched tight. Whether it was shame or stubbornness, she couldn't tell. Likely both.
"You could've just told me you were falling apart," she muttered.
"You have enough on your shoulders," he said, voice thick and hoarse.
"And you have this ridiculous idea that suffering quietly makes you noble," she replied flatly, reaching for the soaked undershirt clinging to his chest. "Lift."
He hesitated only a second, then raised his arms stiffly. Grace pulled the linen fabric over his head, her breath catching for just a moment when his torso was finally bared to the cool air. His skin gleamed with sweat, flushed from fever, his muscles taut and trembling. Scars mapped his chest—jagged, some faint and old, others newer, angry and pink against pale skin. She didn't stare. But she saw.
Her hands were careful as she folded the damp shirt and set it aside, though she lingered close. The heat from him rolled off in waves.
He looked up again, eyes catching hers in the dim evening light filtering through the massive hole in the roof. "You should go," he said, but the words sounded brittle. Like they hurt to speak.
She didn't budge. "Do you want me to?"
That question, light as a feather on the surface, landed like a hammer between them.
His jaw tensed, his brow furrowed like he was trying to will away the feelings pressing at the edges of his carefully built walls.
"I… don't know," he admitted, voice rough. "Part of me does. Because I know I'll say something I'll regret if you stay."
She arched a brow, arms folding across her chest. "Oh? And what scandalous thing would you possibly regret saying to me, Cullen?"
His breath caught in his throat, and she could see it—the moment the mask cracked, just a sliver more.
"That I can't stop thinking about you," he said. "That I want to see you everymoment of the day and somehow dreadit at the same time, because I know I'll mess it up. That this… thing between us is the one bright spot I have right now, and it terrifies me."
Her sarcasm fell away like a shed cloak.
She stepped forward again—slowly, deliberately—until she stood just in front of him. "I'm not some ghost that's going to vanish if you let yourself want something, Cullen."
"I already want something," he said, voice lower now. Rougher. At that, her heart started to pick up speed, threatening to hammer its way out of her chest. "I want you. But I'm also one bad night away from waking up either a lunatic or not at all, Grace. You've seen what I look like when it's bad. You just saw it."
She searched his face and took a hesitant step forward. Then Grace slowly lowered on her knees into the space between his slightly parted legs and reached up—gentle this time—and touched his jaw, brushing her knuckles along the stubble that had grown in his sleepless nights. Her voice came out tender, full of worry. "You think I don't know what pain looks like? You think I don't know what it's like to be terrified of losing control?"
He leaned into her touch, just barely, his eyes glancing at her mouth briefly.
"You're not weak for needing help. You're not broken. You're just human. And Andraste save me, I still want to kiss you again." the last part leaving her lips as a hushed whisper, her voice trembling slightly.
His breath hitched at that, but his hand came up to gently catch hers. "Grace…"
She smirked, her voice a little stronger, teasing. "And this time, I won't be the one dragging you to my room. We're already in your bed."
That pulled a rough, low laugh from him—worn around the edges, but real.
For a moment, it felt like everything stilled. Just them, and the soft hush of evening, and the tension that had been simmering now humming quietly between their bodies.
He leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed. "I am very aware of that, trust me." She felt him lightly squeeze her hand and her hear skipped a beat, heat pooling between her thighs, making her practically melt within.
After a few seconds of silence, Cullen chuckled incredulously, in disbelief, and slid his calloused hands softly up her arms. "Let me fight this. And I promise we'll figure out what this is."
Grace closed her eyes too, her breath catching as she nodded. "Alright. I guess I can work with that. But don't expect me to stop wanting to embarrass you in sparring until then."
He smiled, leaning to whisper in her ear, the curve of his lips against her skin.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They stayed like that for a while, forehead to forehead, as if stillness itself might hold them together. The hum of Skyhold in the evening—the faint clang of blacksmiths finishing their work, the muted laughter of soldiers from the mess—faded into a distant murmur. It was just them. A commander unraveling and the Inquisitor who saw right through every layer he tried to hide behind.
Grace drew a slow breath, taking in the scent of leather and steel and something warmer beneath it—him. He was still trembling, whether from pain or withdrawal or something else entirely, she wasn't sure. She didn't pull away.
"You know," she murmured, her tone dry, daring to stroke his forearms, "I half expected you to throw the box at my head on purpose."
He huffed something between a laugh and a sigh. "If I'd done that, I would've missed. You're infuriatingly fast with your fancy fade step."
She tilted her head just enough to nudge his cheek with hers and enjoyed the way his hands slid to the back of her neck, his thumbs running idle strokes against her jaw. "You're lucky I didn't return the favour with a lightning bolt." She purred.
"I wouldn't have blamed you," he said quietly. Then, after a beat: "I've been awful lately. To you. To everyone."
"You've been in pain." Her voice softened. "It's not the same thing."
"I still know what I said. How I pushed you away." He pulled back enough to look at her, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. "Maker, Grace… I didn't mean to make you feel unwanted."
Her chest squeezed, the honesty in his voice cutting final slash through every sarcastic wall she'd tried to erect.
"You didn't," she whispered, brushing her thumb lightly along the side of his face. "You scared the shit out of me, but… that's different."
She could hear the strain in his breathing, feel the tension radiating from his body. His golden amber eyes tracked her every movement, even glassy as they were from pain.
"You're boiling," she said, gently pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. "Like a stubborn stew that refuses to simmer."
"I'm fine," he said weakly.
"You're a terrible liar." She stepped away to fetch a cloth and a brass basin over from the other side of the small loft. When she returned, she knelt in front of him again, dipping the cloth into cool water and wringing it out slowly, fingers trembling just a little.
She brought the cloth to his chest, wiping gently along the lines of his collarbone, down over his sternum, her fingers following the trail in slow, careful passes. He said nothing, but she felt him watching her—quiet and still and aching.
His skin twitched under her touch.
"Your fever's climbing," she murmured.
"Wouldn't be the first time," he replied.
She shot him a look. "Not helping."
"Well, you might not be exactly helping it either right now…" he mused, his eyes darkening.
Grace shot a careful glance at him. "Oh?" Her voice a quiet whisper, as she slowly deliberately slid the cloth along the center of his chest and up again. "I think I might be doing quite the opposite right now." The cloth slid back up and behind his neck.
Cullen slightly leaned to the touch, exhaling raggedly and closed his eyes, tilting his head back a little. "…right, of course… You also claimed you're not here to play nursemaid…" Then he lifted his hand to brush a stray lock behind her ear and Grace's breathing turned shallow.
Her breath caught at the touch—light, careful, and so terribly tender it almost undid her. The rough pad of his thumb skimmed just beneath her ear as he tucked the lock away, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
The cloth in her hand stilled against his chest.
He was watching her again now, eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable but full of something raw—something burning slowly through the fog of fever. His hand lingered, not quite cupping her cheek, but close enough she could feel the heat radiating from his palm.
"Grace," he murmured, the word caught somewhere between a sigh and a plea. He didn't finish the thought.
She swallowed hard. Her fingers were still curled around the cloth, but she wasn't moving it anymore. Her other hand had braced on his thigh for balance, and now she was far too aware of the space between them—how narrow it was. How dangerously close they were to crossing something that could never be undone.
"You're not helping," he said again, softer this time. A whisper, almost a confession.
"I'm not really trying to," she replied just as softly, the words escaping her before she could think to swallow them back.
His hand dropped from her face, resting over hers, on his own leg, as if he didn't trust himself to keep touching her more. His eyes closed for a moment, like he needed to draw strength from somewhere that wasn't her.
Grace lowered the cloth, dumping it to the basin before leaning back just a little, enough to give them both air, but not enough to break the moment.
"You shouldn't be doing this," he murmured, voice rough, barely more than air.
"Maybe," she said quietly and traced her fingers on his brow again. "But I still am."
The silence stretched between them. He leaned into her touch ever so slightly, eyes fluttering closed.
"You're leaving in the morning," his eyes shot open, as if he just realised the fact.
She nodded. "It'll be a long deployment."
"I hate this part," he admitted. "You going. Me staying. Not knowing how you are."
"I hate it too," she whispered. "Especially now."
He cracked an eye open, fever-bright and tired. "I'm sorry I kissed you."
Her heart clenched painfully again—but she didn't flinch. "There we go again… I'm not."
That brought his gaze fully to hers.
"I'm sorry you were hurting when you did it," she added softly. "But I'm not sorry it happened."
Cullen stared at her for a long moment, like he wanted to say something—like he needed to—but couldn't find the words.
He allowed himself to savour her touch for a heartbeat more, then blinked and drew in a shaky breath. "You should go before I do something stupid."
"Like kiss me again?" Her voice was featherlight now, teasing—but not mocking.
His smile was fleeting, aching. "Exactly like that."
Grace stood back slowly, reluctantly and her body was instantly aware of the distance now separating them. "Fine," she said with a forced casualness, even as her pulse drummed in her throat. "But just so you know… if you ever do kiss me again, I expect it to be somewhere a little less dramatic than your office during a withdrawal episode."
"I'll… keep that in mind," he said, watching her as she straightened up.
"I'll get more water," she murmured, but before she could move, his fingers brushed her wrist—lightly, not stopping her, just… acknowledging.
She stilled for a moment, caught in that brief, fragile contact, then pressed the vial into his hand once again.
"I'm serious. Drink this. No skipping. No excuses."
"I didn't skip the last one," he mumbled, eyes barely open.
"No, you just conveniently 'forgot' while you were too busy trying to wrestle your demons all alone like a tragic hero."
He cracked a faint smile. "I don't recall you objecting to the hero part."
She gave him a look. "Lay down before I start objecting to a lot of things."
Cullen slowly lay back, limbs heavy and uncooperative, but he didn't argue. Not anymore. He looked down at the vial, as if it were something precious and fragile. Or dangerous. "Grace—"
"No," she cut him off, sitting on the side of his bed. "Don't thank me. Just… get better. Because if I come back from the Western Approach and you still look like a plague victim, I'm going to drown you in the mud during drills and pretend it's an accident."
Despite everything, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.
"You'll try."
"I will succeed," she said. "And I swear I'll make it a show in front of all of your Lieutenants."
She paused with her hand stroking his fingers which were holding the vial.
"I hate leaving you like this."
His voice came after a long silence, thick and low. "I know. But… thank you for coming."
Grace ran a hand through her hair and she began adjusting her clothes. Her hand paused on the clasps of her coat. She turned her head slightly before turning fully towards the ladder. "And Cullen?"
He looked up.
"I meant what I said. You're not alone. You won't ever be, not while I'm around."
His gaze held hers, and for once, there was no wall. Just raw, open vulnerability. "Thank you."
His lips parted like he meant to say something more, something important. But all that came out was a sigh as his exhaustion pulled him under.
Grace lingered just a moment longer, watching him. Then, as silently as she could, she climbed back down the ladder, the warm glow of the loft fading behind her like the last light before the dark.
Grace didn't go to her quarters.
Sleep wasn't even a consideration.
The echo of Cullen's voice followed her through the halls of Skyhold—the raspy edge to his words, the vulnerability beneath his quiet thanks. And the worst part was how still he'd looked when she left. Like something in him had finally gone quiet, not in peace, but in surrender.
She didn't want to leave him like that. Not again.
So instead of heading to bed, she turned sharply and made her way down to the Undercroft, torchlight flickering along the stone walls as her boots carried her with growing purpose. The moment she stepped into the alchemy space, she yanked off her cloak and rolled up her sleeves with a fierce kind of clarity.
If she couldn't stay with him, she'd at least make sure he had what he needed to get through the days without her.
The familiar smells of crushed herbs, oils, and metallic tinctures wrapped around her like armor as she moved into the workstation. She lit an extra brazier, tied her hair back, and cleared space on the bench with swift, practiced motions.
She gathered her ingredients: frost lotus, embrium, elfroot, and the carefully hoarded Amrita vein—what little she had. Rare, volatile, but essential. Cullen needed stability, focus, and strength—not sedation. And certainly not more suffering.
She worked through the night. Grinding, measuring, refining. Heating mixtures and waiting for the shimmer that told her the properties had fused correctly. Each batch took time. Precision. Concentration.
By the time dawn's first light brushed the tower windows above, she had brewed enough vials to last him a month—carefully labeled, sealed, and lined in neat rows in a reinforced case. The soft blue glow of the potion pulsed gently from the glass, like bottled moonlight.
She picked up a clean sheet of vellum and dipped her pen.
Stabilizing Focus Mixture — for Commander Cullen RutherfordPrimary Effects: Clarity, pain relief, reduced tremors
Dosage: Max. one vial per day - half in the morning. Half if in need of stronger effect. Dose as needed—trust your instincts.
She wrote out the full process in meticulous detail, her notes precise and annotated with warnings, alternatives, and subtle tweaks to accommodate the fluctuations of withdrawal symptoms.
Once finished, she straightened her aching spine and looked down at the pages—then rolled them tightly and tied them with a black ribbon.
"Dagna," she said aloud to no one in particular, "is going to fuss about this."
Still, she carefully placed the recipe and the first two vials in a satchel and left it labeled clearly in Dagna's corner, adding a note:
Dagna and Maeve — Please keep this mixture going in my absence. Only for Commander Rutherford. Do not share. And don't mess with the ratios (Dagna, I mean it!).
—G
Her handwriting was sharper than usual, clipped and tired, but she didn't care.
Only once everything was secured—labeled, stowed, and double-checked—did she allow herself to sit, slumping onto a stool with her head tipped back, eyes burning from lack of sleep and the ache of everything she couldn't fix with herbs and heat.
But this? This she could do.
And she would.