Archive of Our Own ^beta

A subtle throb rests at the base of Cullen’s skull. It knocks, constant and rhythmic along with his heartbeat, but he’s able to ignore it—enough. 

“—right, Commander?” 

Cullen blinks, eyes focusing across the war table. The Inquisitor’s right hand is spread against the map, and her left is held over it, finger poised atop a marker. Her nails are getting to the length she usually cuts them, he notices. Pity, seeing as the way they feel against his hand when he isn’t wearing gloves is near euphoric. 

“Cullen?” 

This time it’s Josephine in his left ear. He should answer them, but his mouth feels dry. So dry. 

“Alright, I think that’s enough planning for today,” Leliana says from his other side. Her hand grips against his shoulder, pressing a pointed thumb into his mantle. “Cullen, go get some rest. I insist.” 

“I agree. You look pale,” Josephine says, head dipping forward trying to meet his eyes, “You didn’t eat what was in the kitchen this morning, I hope. We’ve already had about ten soldiers with food poisoning today.” 

His eyes are still fixed on the table, watching as the Inquisitor moves back from the plans. She hasn’t spoken yet, and her voice is the one he wants to hear. The one he’ll listen to, he’s sure of it. 

“Can I speak with him alone first?” She asks. 

The others move around each side of the table without another word, both glancing back a final time before slipping out into the hall. Even with the ring of the door closing, Cullen can’t make himself move. It’s as if he’s been frozen, but the Inquisitor has cast no such spell. 

A sharp tap of her heels against the stone floor scatters around the room as she turns the corner of the table. It’s absolutely massive compared to her size, but most things are. She’s so small and lithe, with posture always held perfect. An appearance that is so easily proper, it’s as if she was strung up like a marionette. 

She’s far from being controlled, though. No, that’s Cullen himself. 

Stopping a foot away, her hand again splays against the table. This time it isn’t to get closer to the map, but rather push herself up to sit atop it. Her legs swing for a moment while she settles and when she reaches out for his hand, he moves to meet her. 

They’ve been dancing around each other for what feels like ages. Even back in Haven, Cullen swore there had to be something there, but he never acted on it. How could he when they had bigger issues at hand?

Still, she stays close. Cares more than she probably should, and he’s starting to wonder if it’s simply her nature. 

Maker, he’d die if he’s read it wrong. 

“Cullen, what is going on with you?” Lavellan asks, fingers tugging his glove off. When her palm meets his uncovered skin, she gasps sharply, lips pressed to catch the rest. “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling before the meeting? I would’ve rescheduled. You need time, you need—” 

“I need,” Cullen says, eyes drifting to meet hers, “to fight this.” 

He knows what his eyes must look like, and is grateful he can’t see them reflected in hers. Those wide, gleaming ones that hold things far beyond his reach. On days like today, to ever obtain that feels more than impossible. 

“You need,” She urges in the same tone, “to let me help you.” 

Cullen shakes his head, pulling back out of her hold. He doesn’t need her doting on him, making him feel weaker than he already feels. This is his burden to bear, the promise he made, the vows he took. 

Anger quells in his stomach, twisting and knotting over and over again. 

Oh, how his body aches for the taste of it. That bite of bitter followed by a mellowing high. It would be so easy just to go to his office and grab it. He threw that one kit, breaking it, but there is another stashed in the chest next to his bed. 

It’s beneath another tray, tucked beneath two stacks of winter clothes, but it’s there. He’s sure. 

Hands wrap around his again, pushing them to fold against his chest. Her eyes are no longer wide and gleaming—they instead shake. Looking the same way they do when she returns from battle. 

“No, no, please, don’t,” Cullen whispers, eyes pinching shut, “Don’t look at me like that, I can’t stand it.” 

“I don’t know any other way to look at you,” Lavellan presses, hands doing the same. They curl tighter into him, nails pinching at his clammy skin, and forces a blip of focus. “Cullen, please let me.” 

He isn’t sure when they started, but the tears collecting against the corners of his eyes break, spilling in single streams down either of his cheeks. It feels cool against his burning skin, which he was also unaware of until this moment. 

It’s worse than he thought. He can’t be here. 

“Maker, I don’t deserve—” Cullen grits out, clamping his free hand over hers. 

“No, you don’t deserve this,” She whispers, and he can feel her sway from standing on her tiptoes, “You didn’t ask for it.” 

His hands push hers down and away, firmly yet gently removing her from him. The room is too warm and is getting hotter by the second. He needs air, he needs water, he needs her gone. 

“Cullen!” Lavellan demands, as if she were stepping onto the battlefield and drawing him to charge. 

Regardless, he moves against her wishes, taking two steps back towards the window. His breathing is more shallow now, quick, and unfulfilling as he tries to gauge the distance between himself and the door. There is no timeline in which he’s faster than her, but he is stronger. 

It shouldn’t come to that. It can’t. 

“You!” Cullen fires back without looking, and starts to move towards the end of the table, “I don’t deserve you! Your help, your attention, your pity —it’s all for naught with me, Inquisitor. Cassandra knows what she must do if this gets out of hand, so please excuse me.” 

“Cullen Rutherford, if you take another step towards that door—” 

“What! You’ll dismiss me? Please do. I can’t control myself anymore, clearly. I’m just another broken Templar chewed up and spit out by the system. You knew this, and still let me continue under the advice that when it got out of hand I would stop. So let me!” Cullen argues, feet digging against stone with each shaking step. 

The door seems a mile away with a pace like this. He’ll likely collapse before he ever reaches it, but he still has to try. 

A loud clattering rings in a shattering cacophony across the room, and looking back he no longer finds her behind him. Rather she’s standing on the table, markers strewn out of place with fists clenched at her sides. A soft glow envelopes her, green and iridescent. 

“Stop, please,” Cullen gasps, arm pressing against his stomach to keep himself from doubling over, “I don’t need healing, you know it doesn’t help like that.” 

Holding a single hand out, Lavellan lets it spread between them until it too wraps around Cullen. It’s cool against his skin and draws the moisture away from it. His muscles ease, releasing the tension he unknowingly held in his shoulders and back. 

“I’m aware of what I can and can’t do,” She says, hand closing into a fist before dissipating the spell, “I know you are too. Which means you know you’re stronger than this, and don’t need the kit you’re currently thinking about.” 

Cullen’s eyes widen at the accusation. “Did you read my mind with that?” 

Lavellan doesn’t answer, only jumps down on the other side. She walks to stand between him and the door, arms folded across her chest. His route out is all but gone now. 

“Cole found it for me after you thought about it a little too hard a few weeks ago. He was walking around, muttering about ‘ things that should be left in the dark, things that are wrong, things like me ’.” She pauses, with eyes far sadder than her frown. “It's gone, Cullen,” she says and each word twists in Cullen’s stomach tighter. 

Cole has been telling her his thoughts? She found it? It’s gone? The questions jumble in his mind before coming to a sudden halt, tinged with red. 

“Y-you can’t just do that! You can’t just go through someone’s things and get rid of them,” Cullen gasps, staggering forward until his hands clamp onto her arms. It’s only then does he feel himself shaking.

She was right. 

She is right. She—

“I can do anything I need to on these grounds. I don’t like to, but I will if it means keeping my people safe,” Lavellan says, undeterred as she stares him down. Pressing up on her toes, she leans to push her forehead against his. “And you, Cullen, are more than just ‘people’. You know that.” 

Cullen’s teeth again grit as tears try to again form in his eyes, and his chest threatens to shake with the start of a sob. He does know that. He wishes he didn’t. 

“More than people,” Cullen whispers, “That’s what got me into this in the first place. No person should have the powers Templar do, not for the cost they unknowingly have to pay.” He swallows, daring to meet her eyes. “What more am I?” 

Lavellan smiles. It’s small, apologetic even, and it quivers on the edges. 

“You’re my advisor.” She reaches up to wipe a tear from his left cheek, letting her thumb linger for a moment. “My commander.” Another swipe is made on his right cheek, and this time it’s held there as her hand curls around his jaw. “You’re Cullen.” 

Cullen’s hand lifts to hold her against him, and slowly they breathe in together. 

Time feels as if it stands still while they do the same. Foreheads planted against each other in a room meant for war, but that now holds resolution. Funny how she works like that, time and time again. 

“And you’re magic,” He murmurs, smile tweaking at his lips as the nausea starts to fade. 

Along with it, the thrumming is no longer loud, and the knot slowly starts unwinding. Sweat still forms and clings to his neck, and he knows he’ll still need a bath and rest after this—but he’s far from where he was only minutes ago. 

She snorts, that sharp cute one he often loves to pull from her, and the rest of him releases. “Yes, that is typically how mages work.” 

“N-no, you know what I mean, I—Maker’s breath,” Cullen stutters, eyes casting to the floor, “Why do you make talking so difficult?” 

“Magic,” Lavellan quips and Cullen feels her laugh shake through her hand against his face. She tugs against his chin, forcing his gaze back up into her eyes. “This is hard. I can’t imagine it for myself, but don’t push me out, alright?” 

Cullen sighs, lips pressing into a tight line of thought. There is simply no way he can deny her like this. Maybe if their enemies had to deal with this sight they would have far less of them. 

“Understood,” Cullen responds, and feels her forehead tighten in response, “What? I agreed!” 

“Yes, but it felt like you were simply agreeing to a strategy. It’s more than that, Lethallin,” She says, mouth clamping over the last word. Her cheeks burn red, seeping the tattoos against her skin a new color. 

Cullen’s eyebrows raise and her lips suck in further. This is why he adores her so much. The strong and talented person he follows is also still just that—a person. One that makes it far too easy for him to retaliate against. 

“Now, if I recall correctly, that isn’t a curse. If anything, it’s a rather nice word,” Cullen taunts and when she tries to jerk from his hold he tightens his grip, “Tell me. What’s it mean?”

She shakes her head, fighting the hold on it keeping her still. With his free hand, Cullen scoops up the other side of her face forcing her into place. His eyes again ask the question, and she sighs. 

It doesn’t get past him for a moment, to be holding her like this. Seemingly the entire fate of the world is in his hands right now: blushing and anxious. 

“It’s like—friend? Close friend,” Lavellan explains, eyes drifting anywhere but ahead, “But, let’s get you out of here. You need rest.” 

His hold stays tight on her and Cullen nearly laughs when she stomps her foot. She could be out of his hold in a moment if she truly wanted to be. He’s seen her fade step in the blink of an eye just so she didn’t have to walk across the courtyard at normal speed. 

“Close friend,” Cullen repeats, interest raising his voice. He pushes her towards the door slowly, only two steps before stopping again. “Well, I’m glad you consider me as such.” 

The electricity he often ignores around her heightens once more when she again meets his eyes. It’s crackling between their chests now, curling like ball lightning and ready to burst. Still, he can’t act on it. 

Not now. 

“Of course, Cullen. After everything, wouldn’t it be stupid to think of us as anything less?” Lavellan asks, her question rhetorical. She dips down, pulling free of his hands at last, and staggers another few steps backwards until her hand finds the door. “Now, let’s get you taken care of before Josephine and Leliana come back. I have a feeling their bedside manor isn’t as good as mine.” 

It opens with the same low groan as it always does with her held in its frame. He’s here for a reason. There is a job he must continue to do, a person that he has made his mission to serve—even if that means struggling to fix himself as part of it. 

Cullen smiles and steps forward after her with a nod. “To work.”