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The Maker, who has truly turned His back on His children, has cursed the day with a warm wind of early spring that makes him squirm on his armor. The sun blazes too brightly on its way to midday, and every single noise seems to echo into his skull, infinitely louder than they should be; he can hear his dose of lyrium singing softly all the way from the bright blue pool of broken glass and elfroot base by his door, and he does his best to ignore it.
He should be looking for someone to clean it - he doesn’t trust himself - but he feels that would require explanations he’s not entirely ready to give.
Inquisitor Lavellan had left him in a hopeful mood, and Cullen feels guilty of how glad he is to be alone again with fiddly paperwork. It could be perceived by anyone else as an unbecoming lack of gratitude on his part, he supposes, but there’s still some semblance of dignity he’d like to maintain around her. Distracting himself with work would, at least, keep him useful.
It would keep him useful if he could actually do his job, he means. Cullen shuffles his papers with a groan, stabbing pain shooting through his arms and shoulders every smallest movement and keeping him from focusing; he’s sure half the letters in his desk could have gone straight to the requisitions office if he had not been so ken on overextending his reach, and the other half seem far too delicate for the moment. He cannot conjure the willpower to list their losses at Adamant with a fogged, lyrium-addled mind.
“This doesn’t have to be about the Inquisition”, she’d said, voice warm and eyes soft. It renewed his disposition, but not his strength, and he feels burning the last of it low in his chest, aching and creaking under pressure. The air gets progressively heavier as lunchtime approaches, and Cullen has been hunched over the same page for what seems like an eternity, the burning under his skin worse with each passing breath.
It only becomes unbearable hours later. His body shivers violently in alternating cold and heat flashes, spine bent over itself and twisted, arms and legs weak as sickness washes over him. His breath comes ragged, in coughs and fits choked with bile, the lyrium song getting stronger, louder, and the noise and the craving and the pain make him dizzy, his steps unsure as the stone seems to shift under his feet.
Old demons lurk in the edge of his vision as he drags himself all the way up the ladder to his quarters and they rush after him, trying to pull him down and rip him open; he grits his teeth, digs his nails into the rough palms of his hands, takes a deep breath of air clogged with the smell of blood and brimstone and rotten flesh and smoke and debris and lyrium and doesn’t let imaginary demons have him - not when the real demons couldn’t. He feels their eyes burning holes in his skin, feels their words dancing in his mind, their noses sniffing for secrets and desires and hungers and hopes they can twist, hoping they can twist him from the inside out, and the beam of light that comes from the ceiling looks for a frightening moment too much like the cell where Uldred kept him; he reaches outside with a weak hand, stumbles forward when his fingers slip through the walls of light and he crashes hard forward.
He can hear the lyrium even after he’s sprawled on the floor on top of the ladder. He feels the need for it running through his veins when he gulps for air, feels it as he felt when he scrapped the soles of his boots on the cold stone at Adamant, bracing himself for another demon, for another blow, for Andraste's holy, righteous fury in a desperate push to take as many of them down with him now that he’s sure the Inquisitor had been lost to the Fade forever - Maker, no, he can't think about that, not when he held her hand and promised to keep her safe. Can't stand think about all the things he should have said since -
What was that she had said before leaving the Chantry in Haven? A Dalish prayer for the dead, she’d told him later, offering a translation he remembers with chilling clarity.
"O Falon'Din
Friend of the Dead
Guide my feet, calm my soul,
Lead me to my rest."
He watches a corrupted warden grab an Inquisition soldier by the gambeson and it's another casualty, another one lost as her dagger slips across his throat, blood bubbling, hissing, glowing with power; Cullen is faster and reaches, pierces and pulls and plugs, each time more difficult as his body aches with the strain of withdrawal, searches for the lyrium in his blood and finds there's not enough. The mage's face is covered in blood and gore, eyes red and emptier than anything he’s seen since the abominations in Kinloch Hold running over the few Templars trapped in their quarters; empty eyes that lacked even the intent to kill, and became all the more frightening for that.
Cullen fears Surana could have been there, somewhere; He remembers her, Surana-demon with soft black curls and wine-red lips moaning his name; Surana-hero, the real her, his savior, clad in blue and silver robes with edges charred by a thousand dead abominations, her eyes heavy with concern and regret and that was part of the torture too, back then.
He groans, cannot think of things that should have been left unsaid either, not right now, and the demons creep closer when he thinks of her as an abomination, as a Venatori puppet.
What if the Inquisitor became an abomination, too? What if she stepped out of the Fade again, skin covered in blisters and shards and a demon wearing her body?
The mage in front of him barely reacts as she takes a shield to the face, as Cullen runs his sword through her gut and he can't leave them to bleed out or they will call more demons, he should have brought a club, not a sword. Seeing Idrilla like that would have been worse than losing her to the Fade forever.
"Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."
He knew she wouldn’t falter, and he told the demons scratching at his skin with razor-sharp nails that he wouldn’t either.
The deliriums and flashbacks are an unwelcome new discovery about the lyrium withdrawal process, and in-between seconds of lucidity he blames it on himself for going too far, but who is Cullen if not a man that always goes too far? He walked by her side all the way back to Skyhold as she guided a small contingent of Warden warriors, ignoring the lead on his bones just to make sure she is still Idrilla, still whole, still alive, still…
Still his, and Cullen had thought himself a fool for thinking that. It all came crashing around him halfway through the Dales, regardless of his will, but by then he could not afford to be weak.
He's only vaguely aware of someone removing his armor, of trying to fight against the hands on his shoulders because he can see demons in the corner of his eyes waiting for an opening, wearing faces that don't belong to them. He's only vaguely aware of the damp rag against his skin the chill and the draft and then he's ten again, standing in the mist and the mud, watching the Templars on parade during First Day and wondering how would it be like to be among them.
When he wakes up - barely - his body aches like he has been trampled by a horde of ogres, his head feels several pounds too heavy, and there's a burn in his chest he can’t pin on any specific location, but Cullen assesses himself otherwise intact and a little cold. He tries to sit on his bed, head spinning and still not entirely alert, when something stirs on his left.
"Oh, Cullen. You're awake." Idrilla whispers, squeezing his hand. She's sitting on the floor beside him, bundled in furs and quilts, and in the milky-white light coming from the hole in the ceiling he can see the grooves left in her cheek by the folds of his covers, the strands of rust-red hair slipping from her usually tight bun; she’s beautiful. Cullen's brain hiccups, stutters when she pulls herself up and sits on the edge of his bed, lazily rubbing her eyes with her free hand, the other still holding his.
His throat burns when he speaks for reasons not entirely to do with illness. "H-How long have I--"
Idrilla interrupts him with a yawn. "The better part of the day, I think." She says, cranking her neck back to look at the sky beyond the largest hole. "It's almost dawn. How are you feeling?"
"Embarrassed." He admits, and that makes her chuckle. "I have been a nuisance, Inquisitor. I apologize."
"There's nothing to apologize for, Commander." she says, letting go of his hand to wrap one of her blankets around his shoulders. "Or be embarrassed about. Some of the soldiers told me how hard you fought at Adamant, your... situation is perfectly understandable."
"Still, you were sleeping on my floor, and that is hardly appropriate. You didn't have to stay, Inquisitor, I should not... I hope you have not been distracted from your duties."
"Not at all. I wanted to be here with you, Cullen." she says. "I- I mean, I had some training as healer during my studies as First, and I didn't... I couldn't... It's my..." she trails off, clears her throat, assumes her Inquisitor voice. "Cassandra said it would be better if we kept this within the Inner Circle, and we were worried about your... development, so the presence of a healer was required until you awoke. Cassandra says fever and terrors are not expected of someone who stops taking lyrium." She looks at him under her lashes, smile loopsided, and leans her head closer. "And honestly, I thought it was better to spend the day here taking care of you then to have yet another afternoon tea with Fifi de Launcet."
Cullen laughs as he reaches for her hand, blaming his boldness on how tired he feels. "Thank you.", he says, and she squeezes back, lacing her fingers on his. "Honestly, I had no idea this could happen. It's not like many templars have tried to come clean before and succeeded. The pain and the cravings I can manage, but this...? Maker, and you and Cassandra thought I was still fit for my position."
"My opinion on the matter hasn't changed, Cullen, and I'm certain Cassandra's hasn't either." Her tone leaves no room for arguing back, so he doesn’t try to. "We have faith in you, I can think of many reasons why quitting lyrium is the best decision for the future of the Inquisition and Creators deliver me, I will demote you and give the command of the armies to Sera if you so much as think that you should start taking it again." She inhales slowly, letting go of her annoyance. "You still haven't answered my question - how are you feeling?"
Cullen wonders if it is actually possible to love someone more than he loves her. "Much better." he says. Because you are here, he wants to add, but he's not brave enough. Idrilla scoffs.
"Your 'much better' might as well be my 'really miserable' and no one would be any wiser." she says, clicking her tongue, and scoots closer. "Are you hurting?"
"Some." he's caught off-guard by the way her thumb brushes against his, calm and steady. "But I told you I can endure. At the moment I am just... tired."
"I will let you rest." she says in a low voice, smiling again when she brushes back the hair sticking to his face, a sad little thing that drips with warmth and makes his throat clench; when she leans closer Cullen's chest aches with a choked back please.
Her lips touch his forehead instead of his mouth, but she's so close, so warm and soft and she stays there for a long moment; when she pulls back, he lets out a breath he didn't remember holding. "At least your fever is gone." she says, voice cracking around the edges, and her face still feels close enough to kiss even as she moves to pick up something on the floor.
He can feel the blush creeping from his chest and makes a mental note to kick himself about it later, because he's thirty one years old and he absolutely does not have the time to waste acting like an infatuated child.
"I got a few things for you" she says, putting a large package on her lap and opening it. "From my clan. I wrote offering a trade for them when you first told me you were not taking lyrium, but they didn't arrive until after we left for Adamant."
She takes out a jar wrapped in a long length of cloth, a leather bag bound with wool string and a variety of little tins. “This big one is an elfroot preserve. It was originally meant for nausea, but I find chewing them somewhat soothing, so I thought... maybe they could be good for cravings too. This bark here makes a tea that is good against even the strongest headaches. And this tin, it's a balm, my father's special recipe..." She twists the lid, muttering, then rubs his palm with the balm-slick pads of her thumbs. "It's to heal minor cuts but also works for the pain he gets in his hands, and... By the Dread Wolf, I am a terrible gift-giver, am I not?"
He shakes his head. "These are nice."
"You are nice."
They fall into a comfortable silence then, Cullen enjoying her proximity and Idrilla biting her lower lip in concentration as she works the balm in circles into his skin and up his forearm with practiced ease; it smells of crushed herbs and honey, healing and sweet, and he falls back, closing his eyes as the circles turn into soft brushes on the lines of his veins. She starts to hum a song after a while, something elven he doesn't even hope to recognize, but he watches the way her face lights up as the song goes, how different she looks from the woman in armor squirming as Mother Giselle sings the Chant. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that this isn't the life she had always led.
She would almost certainly want to go back to her clan once Corypheus is defeated - he remembers overhearing her telling Josephine that - and there was almost no reason to imagine he could change her mind; he had no right to. He was no more entitled to her presence than any of the nobles who demanded her attention even as they were openly hostile to her people, and he feels bitter enough to laugh at how hopeless and pitiful he is, falling for people he knew he could never have.
Even if he thought she could like him back for some miraculous reason, Cullen wonders if he would ever work up the courage to confess, now that she's seen him in the lowest point. The way he thinks about confessing his feelings as if people actually did it embarrasses him.
He can feel the slight tickle of healing magic running through his body, a faint trace of it, barely there; it only makes him sink further into the mattress and his thoughts come through a hazy fog. It's the most unguarded he has been ever since Kinloch Hold, the most vulnerable, and despite her magic he does not feel a sliver of the fear that stunted him for so many years. What they have is nice, and he thinks it's enough - could be enough, if he tried, because he knows that despite all his failings he is determined, and he has had more practice burying his feelings than any man ought to have. She has her work, he has his, after this is over she will go back to her own life and what she doesn't know can't harm whatever good there is to be enjoyed between them while he can still have it.
Cullen rocks in and out of consciousness, almost missing it the next time Idrilla speaks, her voice barely whisper drowned out by the sounds of the rest of Skyhold awakening.
"You scared me."
"I didn't mean to."
"I know. But when Varric told me how he and Cassandra found you, I..." she releases his hand, and his skin feels cold at the lack of contact. "We're home now, so promise me you'll try to rest. Healer's orders."
He tries to laugh, but is sure it comes out more like a yawn, and he has trouble keeping his eyes open. The light has shifted to a warm glow that bounces off her skin and casts a halo around her; Cullen wants to reach and bring her close, but can't figure out how to. "If that's an order, I do." he says, weakly, and her low laughter seems to come from very far away.
"Good. I'll take my leave, then, so you can rest." He can feel her weight shifting in the mattress, the rest of the blankets that were covering her being tucked around his shoulders, and wants to ask her to stay just a little longer, but before the words can come out of his mouth he's sleeping.
For once, the nightmares don't come.