#A what if Cullen & Trev formed a polyamorous relationship with Solas

[kauriart]

An Agent of Fen’Harel

An ever-so-slightly NSFW Dragon Age Fic | Cullen x Solas x f!Trevelyan | Read it on A03

Cullen stares at the report in his hand, breathing hard. Eyes unfocused. He’s standing — somehow — but the room still tilts wildly beneath his feet. Every word on the page an inconsequential blur, save for those five little letters.

S-o-l-a-s

It has been nearly two years since he’s seen that name in a report.

There had been a time, when, for nearly three months, that name had crossed his desk every day. A small footnote at the end of the every consolidated report from the Inquisition’s network of scouts. No sign of Solas.

Every day, passing with no answer.

Every day, pretending it didn’t matter.

Every night, with Trevelyan crying herself to sleep in his arms.

Then one evening, the report failed to mention Solas at all. There was just empty space beneath the update on Fairbanks’ men in the Dales. Cullen had sat for an hour looking at the blank, bottom-half of the page, the hollowness in his breast slowly turning to a furious and mounting rage.

How could they? How could they stop looking? How could they abandon Solas to his fate?

How could he let them?

He’d written new orders. A blistering command to continue the search.

The Inquisition will continue to turn its might towards finding Solas, who has been companion and confidant to the Inquisitor. We do not turn our back on our own. The search will resume, and continue for as long as it takes, until he is found. - CSR

Companion, and confidant.

The omission had made him feel hollow, though the true nature of their relationship was — if not an outright secret — not widely known. They'd been discreet, in truth, at Solas’ insistence. Asking the Chantry to overlook a Circle mage and an ex-Templar was one thing. Adding an elven apostate to the mix, was quite another.

So he didn’t write that Solas was the Inquisitor’s lover.

And his.

And he didn’t send the new orders.

Yet now, years later, there it is. Solas’ name. Printed in Carter's neat, and economic hand. Wedged between a passage outlining the gaatlok black market, and another, detailing the rotation of Inquisition scouts stationed at the Winter Palace.

Solas, formerly of the Inquisition, has been named an agent of Fen’Harel. Presumed dangerous. Orders to detain on sight with all possible caution. Eliminate if necessary.

Cullen reads the passage again. And again. And again. His eyes keep getting tugged back to those five little letters, so it takes him a moment — several, nerve-jangling moments of pure vertigo — before he comprehends the final sentence.

Eliminate if necessary.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Fear is a strangely honest creature. In the span of a single heartbeat, it makes mockery of the years Cullen has spent stubbornly convincing himself that he no longer cares for Solas. It’s a knot of anxiety bunched up beneath his breastbone, makes it difficult to breathe. Makes it difficult to not break into a run, and find Solas — find Solas now — and get his hands around the soft, fragile parts of anyone who would ever try to harm him.

Instead he jams the report into his pocket, and goes at once to find Trevelyan, a prayer on his lips, because what is he to tell her.

Solas had been…

Solas is...

Maker’s breath.

When he finds her, Trevelyan is where she’s mostly been since arriving at the Winter Palace;  sitting at her desk in the modest — by Orlesian standards, anyway — tent they shared. (Cullen still felt ridiculous calling the thing a “tent”, it was carpeted, and one of the walls was solid stone, and set with a gilded fireplace.) She’s pale, and the purple smudges that have lingered beneath her eyes since they returned to Halamshiral, are darker, like a bruise growing worse, instead of better. Her marked hand is ungloved, and cradled, palm-up in her lap. Cullen squints at it suspiciously.

There’s an open report on the desk in front of her.

A splash of tears across the page.

What a joke that they ever thought themselves capable, of moving past that elf.

“You saw.” He says inanely.

Trevelyan nods. Her expression is still, but he knows her well enough to see the desperate edges. “Are you alright?” She asks.

He moves closer, running his hand through his hair. “I hardly know.” More than anything, it feels as though someone has punched a hole in his chest. He looks up. “Are you?”

A shadow passes over Trevelyan’s face, lingers in her eyes for a moment before clearing. “I’ll be fine.”

Something cold slides down Cullen’s back. Hits every bump of his spine. Maker, he’s so afraid for her.

And for Solas.

“Go to him.” Her voice is too weak to be commanding, but it is not a request. “He needs you.”

“I cannot leave you.” Cullen insists, voice low. He doesn’t know what sort of magic might split a man in two. But if such a spell existed, it must feel very much like this. Strain all down the middle of his chest, as though he might split at the seams.

“There is no one else.” She reaches up, knuckles brushing against his cheek. Apologetic. “Dorian will stay and tend to the anchor. Bull too — the Qunari are involved, he has to remain. Vivienne is dealing with the Chantry. Leliana and Josephine are managing the council. I need Sara’s intel around the palace.” She shakes her head. “I’m sending Cassandra to investigate. And Cole. He’s sympathetic to Solas, but—"

“Unreliable.” Cullen sighs. “And Cassandra is likely to kill him on sight.”

“Unless you’re there.” Trevelyan says. “She trusts you. She’ll follow your lead. Take Varric, too. He’s good with Cole.”

“I can’t leave you.” He says again.

“I’m alright, Cullen.” She smiles, fingers against his jaw. “I’m not sleeping well, is all. Whatever this is...” She makes an annoyed gesture with her marked hand. “Dorian will sort it out. I trust him.”

Cullen hesitates. “Solas was always best with the anchor.”

“Then you should find him.” She hooks her hand over the back of Cullen’s neck, pulling him closer. “And when you do, give him this —”

Her lips are warm and soft against his own. Lingering. Hesitant to move on.

“— from the both us.” She finishes softly.

***

Beyond the eluvian, the world is strange. There's so much magic in the air, it makes Cullen’s teeth ache. It is like Trevelyan’s descriptions of the Temple of Mythal, come to life. An ancient, angry world laid bare. Bitter ruins that scream of loss, yet here and there, untouched. Glittering mosaics. Blossoming trees. Power the world thought gone.

On and on they press. Every twist of the road becomes stranger, and more dangerous. There are too many secrets. Too many mirrors. Cullen finds himself separated. Alone in a grove surrounded by frozen Qunari.

But he’s not really alone.

A solitary figure stands before a giant eluvian, clad in strange, golden armor, shoulder slung with pale grey fur. His back is turned, but there is only one person in all the world who stands with such an easy, almost thoughtless grace.

Solas.

Cullen feels his heart leap, and lodge in his throat.

A dozen emotions hit him all at once. Relief. Longing. Joy. Fear. And a wrath so fierce it freezes him in place.

“You.”

Solas doesn’t turn around. The line of his shoulders are tight with tension, but he inclines his head slightly. A small, strangely easy motion. “Cullen.”

It steals his breath, the way Solas says his name — it always did — but now it’s a voice he barely recognizes. Cool, and controlled. Implacable, where Cullen feels his own shaking apart. “You.” He says again, takes a wet, noisy breath that makes him sound like he’s drowning, and forces the words out from under his diaphragm. “Fuck. You.”

Solas’ head swivels abruptly away, back towards the eluvian that towers before him. The mirror is in it’s dormant state, and doesn’t reflect, so he can’t see Solas’ expression, even then. But there’s something in his posture that seems poised for flight. Again.

“How...” Cullen growls, fights to keep from stammering. “How could you?”

 “You had each other.” Solas croaks hoarsely. “You were together before we… before I...” He shakes his head.

“Go on. Say it.” Cullen can feel the breath hiss between his teeth. “Coward. Before we fell in love with you. Before we lost you.”

He’s trembling. Balls his hands into fists to stop himself. Tight enough that his greaves dig into the joints of his fingers, and he’s glad for the tiny slivers of pain that prickle at the edges of his consciousness. Anything, anything to take his attention off the searing pain that lances his heart.

Cullen makes a sound that has the shape of a laugh, but isn’t. “That’s how we always spoke of it. That we lost you. But that’s not what happened, was it? You left us.” The words come out weak, and shaky, not angry like he wanted. “You left us.”

He runs a hand through his hair, aggravated. It’s not important. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

And Solas’ fucking back is still turned.

Rage bubbles inside him again.

“Look at me!” He roars, hand flying to the pommel of his sword. For one bright instant he thinks he’ll run Solas through if he doesn’t turn around.

But he does.

A small, graceful movement. The strange armor Solas wears glints as he turns, catches the light of the setting sun, and the elf seems to sparkle, all tawny gold, and bronze, and was he always this beautiful? Cullen swallows around the inane urge to laugh. He tries to grasp at the tendrils of rage still coiling in his belly but they seem to slip through his fingers. Now the hand clutched tight around the pommel of his sword, is to keep from reaching for Solas. To keep from touching him.

I still love you.

He grinds his teeth to stop the reckless, useless words from spilling out. He can’t say it. He can’t say it. So instead, he blurts out the next thing that crosses his mind.

“She’s dying.”

Solas’s careful expression holds for a single heartbeat before it cracks. He makes a pained sound, doubling over. A tiny motion as he crumples inward. Solas straightens almost at once, schooling his features into something less calm, but just as blank. His eyes slide from Cullen’s. “I see.”

“She… she hasn't told anyone, yet. But... I can tell.” There it is. That old urge to confide in him. To share life’s burdens. “Her hand.” He whispers. “It’s eating her alive.”

Solas’s eyes close. He exhales slowly through his nose, the sound soft and even.

Cullen watches Solas carefully. His expression is still, almost frozen. But he’s always been so careful, and guarded with his emotions. It was only ever in bed that he —

Memories rise, unbidden. Sharp, and clear, as though it were just yesterday they’d shared each other. He can practically taste Solas in his mouth, feel the heat of him beneath his hands. The long, lean muscles of Solas’ torso flexing in spasms, breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. The sudden feeling of being overwhelmed. Of too much heat, too much sensation. The feel of Solas’ teeth beneath his thumb, as he presses his jaw down. Presses his mouth open. Holds him there, pliant, and patient. Eager for a taste. The quick, mercurial shift of heat in his loins as he jerks himself. And the guttural cry that lodges in his throat when he comes.

A splash of white across Solas’s lips.

Blue eyes turned black with desire.

Salty kisses.

Sighs.

“Fuck.” Cullen says, angry.

The last thing he wants is this. To be near Solas, and feel himself coming apart at the seams. He wants distance. Disdain. He wants Solas to hurt, and it fills him with shame. But not as much shame as knowing that what he wants more than anything is for Solas to touch him like he did that last night.

Their last night together.

Trevelyan had been off to face Corypheus the next morning, Solas at her side.

Before that night, Cullen had thought he knew what it was to make love to someone. He had bedded Trevelyan and Solas, a thousand times. Known every flavor of their touch. But nothing he had experienced — before, or since — had ever come close to the tenderness, and connection of that night. The gentle exploration of fingers and tongues memorizing the tiniest of details. The prickles of Solas’ eyelashes against his cheek. The curving smile of Trevelyan’s mouth. The thrust of bodies moving as one. A perfect fit. Tangled limbs, slick with sweat, pressed so close together it was hard to tell where one of them ended, and the other began. Whispered promises. Prayers. He’d fought back tears. Terror lingering behind the joy of their touch.

If it was the last time…

If he was to lose one of them...

But he had lost one of them. Solas had never come back. Had never planned to come back.

The memory sours.

Turns rancid in his belly.

Idiot. Fool. He was always going to leave. You were always going to lose him.

“And now… I’m going to lose you both.” Cullen gasps, suddenly overwhelmed. He trembles. Can’t catch his breath. It was always, always what he feared the most.

And Solas’ mouth finds his. Catches the sob as it leave his body, a great, tearing sound of grief that Solas pulls into himself. There isn’t any hesitation then. Or distance. Solas drags their bodies flush together, and Maker, there’s too much armor between them. Even the elf’s hands are covered. He catches Solas’ face in his palms, thumbs brushing at the high, sharp cheekbones. He can feel the clench of Solas’ jaw before it relaxes, and his mouth opens, and Cullen tastes the man who had once been his lover.

It is bittersweet, this kiss.

Desperate, and inelegant. Shades of all the nights they’d shared together, all the nights they’d shared each other. Passion. Laughter. Love. Loss…

Cullen grips one of Solas’ wrists tightly, terrified he’ll go.

But Solas is hanging on just as tightly.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t.” Cullen begs. Hates that he can’t stop the words. Hates himself.

Don't stop.

Don’t leave.

“Don’t let her die.” He says instead, desperate.

Solas pulls back, but only a little. He keeps a grip on Cullen’s hip. A steady pressure that keeps him anchored to the ground.

“Can you take me to her?” Solas asks, voice rough.

Cullen nods. He has no idea where the others might be, but only Cole would be willing to help sneak Solas back, anyway. It would be easy enough. Trace their steps back to the eluvian in the Crossroads. It should still be clear of any Qunari, though, judging by the ring of stone statues, Solas would have little trouble dealing with anyone they encountered. But...  

“You can’t go like that.” Cullen says, and feels his cheeks grow warm. “There are few enough elves at the Winter Palace, as is, and none dressed likethat.”

The rebuke hangs oddly in the air between them.

Solas nods, eyes lowered, and drops his hand from Cullen’s hip.

“You can wear my shirt.” Cullen offers, praying that his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.

Solas nods again, and his hands begin to work open that absurdly beautiful armor.

The body beneath is the same as he remembers. Long, and lean. Surprisingly broad-shouldered. Spattered with tiny freckles. Cullen tries to keep his eyes lowered as they undress, though it feels unnatural to do so. He knows Solas’s body as well as his own, and despite their years apart, he is unused to being strangers. His gaze keeps darting upward — the elf is too beautiful by half, and it is so, so difficult not to watch the muscles of his back flex and shift as he pries himself out of his armor, piece by golden piece.

And no, apparently, mysterious agents of sinister Elvhen Gods, do not wear smalls of any sort.

“Maker’s Breath.” Cullen feels his face flame.

Solas’s arse is the same, too.

“Perfect.” Cullen mutters to himself, as the laces of his bracer snarl into a knot.

Solas glances at him, brows raised.

“Nevermind. Shit.” He swears, and offers the elf his undertunic.

The garment is creased with wear, but clean enough, though Solas grimaces as he pulls it on. It’s too big for him. There’s extra fabric in the shoulders, and the hem falls to his mid-thigh. Solas takes a few deep breaths, and looks thoroughly disconcerted. His cheeks turn faintly pink.

Cullen frowns, suddenly worried. “It… doesn’t smell bad, does it?”

Solas’ cheeks pinken further. “No.”

Cullen makes a flat sound, unsure of what to do next. He could —

“Pants, Cullen.”

Maker’s fucking breath.

“Shit.” He says. “Yes, sorry.” And turns his back on Solas, because that makes all this easier somehow. He gets his breeches open, and around his thighs before he remembers he still needs to remove his boots.

Shit, shit, fuck.

His face flames, as he hops on one foot, working a boot off. It isn’t the most elegant of views that he presents, but it’s nothing Solas hasn’t seen before. He risks a glance back, but the elf’s back is turned, and he isn’t sure if he’s relieved or offended that Solas isn’t looking at him as he undresses. He swears under his breath as the final boot pulls free, and he steps out of his breeches, and smalls. The wind of wherever-the-hell-Solas-has-dragged-them-to tickles his balls.

He mutters a brief prayer to the Maker, thankful that he still favors the knee-length smallclothes worn by Templars. “Here.”

Solas nods in thanks, and half-turns so Cullen gets a glimpse of his cock, and the breath wheezes out of him.

Cullen steps back into his breeches as quickly as he can, face bright red, and redresses with a sort of awkward, half-aroused haste. The wool is uncomfortably scratchy against his cock and balls, and his plate feels strange against bare skin. But as long as he keeps his surcoat tucked against him, most of the gaps in his armor aren’t easily visible.

Solas looks… odd. A too large shirt, and too threadbare trousers. Bare shins, and bare feet. But if he stands behind Cullen, and doesn’t bring a staff, it is possible that no one would stop to question them. Provided it wasn’t someone who actually recognized Solas. And if it was there’d be little-to-no chance of keeping them from raising some sort of alarm. Even Leliana would likely stab first, and ask questions later.

He frowns, weighing the risk to Solas — and his own ability, as Commander of the Inquisition to protect him — against the risk of not bringing Solas.

“We should not delay.” Solas insists quietly, and activates the eluvian before them.

Cullen nods, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Andraste watch over us all.” He mutters, and steps through.

***

They exit the eluvian in the small storage room below the Winter Palace, practically into the lap of several Inquisition guards, none of whom seem to find a barefoot elf trailing behind the Commander of the Inquisition to be particularly worrisome.

“Maker, Solas.” He growls under his breath as they head towards the Inquisitor’s tent. “You could have warned me.” While he’s glad enough to skip any encounter with Qunari forces, he’s more than a little unnerved that an agent of this Fen’Harel — even one as presumably high-ranking as Solas — could have waltzed into Halamshiral anytime they wanted.

It rankles that he might be putting his own feelings for Solas ahead of the safety of the Inquisition. And he makes a mental note to double the guard at the eluvian, and send soldiers out to retrieve Cassandra, Varric, and Cole.

He steers the elf around the outskirts of the courtyard, carefully avoiding the clusters of nobles, and guardsmen that gather here and there. There aren’t any guards stationed outside the Inquisitor’s tent — at Trevelyan’s insistence — and for once, Cullen is glad for their absence.

Inside, the tent is dark and quiet, but the Inquisitor isn’t alone. Dorian is with her on the bed, bent over the glow of the anchor. The look of hopelessness on Dorian’s face is nearly as terrifying as the state of her hand.

Maker, her hand…

It glows. A near constant spill of light. Not just from her palm. Her entire hand is lit up, and garish, it barely looks like a hand. He’s never seen it like this, not even in the most desperate moments of battle.

It takes a moment for the pair on the bed to notice them. Trevelyan’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and Dorian is absorbed with the mark, muttering to himself in Tevene, and sending half-hearted pulses of magic into the air around her hand. Dorian notices them first, and stands abruptly, mouth twisting so the curl of his mustache is askew. Shock, anger, and then, a profound relief flickers across his face as his eyes light upon Solas.

“How…” Dorian blinks.

Her eyes flutter open, bright with pain, but her expression clears when she sees them.

“Solas…” She breathes.

Solas is  at her side in an instant, and there is no hesitation in the way he kneels at her bedside, the backs of his fingers stroking her cheek. He whispers her name, low, and rough, and wrecked. His brows crease.

So do Cullen’s.

She’s worse. Dramatically so.

Maker, if something had happened to her, and he wasn’t there…

“I…” He shakes his head. Looks to Dorian for some sort of reassurance, but the mage’s face is lined with only fear and exhaustion.

And resignation.

Dorian stares down at Solas down for a moment, grey eyes intense. “I feel compelled to remind you that the world cannot do without her.” He says, voice tight. “And neither can I.” He shoots Trevelyan a last, agonized look, squeezes Cullen’s elbow briefly in passing, and is gone.

And they are alone together, for the first time in two years.

Together.

Perhaps for the last time.

Cullen feels his chest constrict, watching the way Solas and Trevelyan have tangled their fingers together, hanging on, as though the other might slip suddenly away. She murmurs something to him, too quiet for Cullen to catch, and Solas nods, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. Her eyes are bright, and wide, like she’s too hungry for the sight of him to blink.

“You look well.” She says softly to Solas, brushing her fingers down the side of his face. Her thumb lingers in the dimple on his chin.

“You should have seen him before.” Cullen says, kneeling at the opposite side of the bed. “He looked a bit like Abelas. Head to toe in gold nevarrite. Ought to be leading armies dressed like that, not — what?”

Trevelyan and Solas are still looking at each other, but their expressions have shifted. Cullen frowns.

“What?” He says again.

“Cullen.” The way she says his name, soft, and tender like she’s being careful not to bruise him, all but freezes him in place. “He's Fen’Harel.”

Cullen blinks. “No, that’s impossible. I’ve read all the reports. The Qunari we encountered…” He shakes his head. “He's an agent of—"

“Clever, isn't it?” She seems almost proud.

Solas looks a bit like she’s punched him.

“It’s —”

The anchor flares suddenly, sparking gouts of vibrant, green magic. Trevelyan closes her fist around it, tucks her hand tightly against her gut, as if trying to contain it by sheer force of will. She isn’t very successful. Emerald light and sparks of magic bounce off Solas’s face, but he doesn’t let go of her. His gaze is fixed, and focused, and he murmurs something that sounds like Elven. A spell, perhaps. It doesn’t seem to work — or it does. The light shifts. It doesn’t dim, but it seems less green for a moment. Less wild.

Then all at once, the light dies out completely.

Trevelyan lies perfectly still upon the bed. Her eyes are closed, and slightly sunken, and there’s a greyish cast to her skin now. Her lower lip is swollen, and bloodied where she’s bitten through it, and her hand… her hand. That unsettling light has spread. The glow resumes, trails across her wrist, and halfway down her forearm.

“Is she —”

“No.” The sound Solas makes is harsh denial. “She’s exhausted.”

Cullen swallows down a bubble of hysteria. “It’s true? The orb she found… the anchor… it’s yours?” He takes a ragged breath. “Your relic. Your magic.” His face feels hot, like his skin might just burst into flames. “Your fault.”

Solas meets his gaze, eyes glassy with pain. “Yes.”

“For a long time, she was certain you were dead.” Cullen says softly. “She couldn’t believe that you would have ever left like that, without a word. Just… gone. Watching her realize that you were willing to walk out on us like that… was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to see.” Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, and he shakes his head, annoyed with himself.

His fingers brush against his own lips. He can still feel the ghost of Solas’s kiss. And Solas… has never looked so lost, or alone.

Cullen’s heart thumps heavily.

“It wasn’t the same, after you left.” He clears his throat, trying to steady the tremble in his voice, and draws closer. “We weren’t a pair anymore. We were just...” A hollow laugh as his palm finds the bare skin of Solas’ cheek. “Incomplete.”

Solas makes a small sound of pain, and tucks himself closer against Cullen’s palm.

“Maker, Solas.” He says, voice low. “Whatever this is, whatever you need… She would have helped you with it, I would have —”

“No.” The word is bitter, and sharp, and Solas turns and presses a tiny kiss to his palm to ease the sound. “You couldn’t. Neither of you would have ever—”

“We can!” Cullen insists fiercely, and Solas smiles. Small, and strained, and sad.

“You know who I am.” He reminds Cullen, softly.

Cullen’s brow furrows. “Fen’Harel.” The name is strange in his mouth. He’s not sure he’s ever said it out loud before.

“There was a war once, long ago.” Solas says, eyes gone dark with memory. “When it was won, the generals who had led their people, the Evanuris, ascended to godhood. But they were false gods. Petty and cruel. They enslaved their own people for the sake of glory. They were ageless, endless. The Evanuris would have destroyed the entire world, if given the chance.” When his eyes open, they flicker with blue light for the barest moment. “I created the Veil to stop them, and in doing so, divided the Fade from the waking world.”

“I… yes. I saw. In the library. A spirit… a memory…” Cullen makes an awkward sound. “They said Fen’Harel killed them.”

“The Archivist. There were many like it, once. Spirits of Wisdom. Connection. Curiosity. Torn from this world, because of me.” Solas’ brows draw together, a deep, ancient pain in his eyes.

How often has Cullen seen that look? A terrible grief, and loneliness he never understood, and could never hope to reach. This. This is why.

He slides his hand against Solas’s, heart aching, and weaves their fingers together. “Because of the Veil.”

“Yes.” A muscle in Solas’ cheek leaps, and he turns his face away, but he doesn’t pull his hand back. “Magic was like air. It was everywhere, in everything. And then it wasn’t. There wasn’t enough magic, and there wasn’t enough air.” His fingers clench around Cullen’s, the grip almost painful. “My people starved, hundreds of thousands of them. Our world was built for beauty, not utility.” Solas’ voice takes on a sharp and bitter edge. “The Elves slaughtered each other for what was left after the collapse. Food. Shelter. Knowledge. Without magic… they were not themselves. Altered, in every sense of the word. The Evanuris were gone… but the Veil took everything from the Elves.”

It is a struggle. Cullen’s concept of magic has been his backbone since he was a child — that magic is as rare as dragon bone, and those who possess it are inherently dangerous. A world where spirits roam freely, and magic is a part of everyone is both terrifying, and terribly hard to imagine.

“Solas, I… You were trying to stop the Eva — the False Gods.” He says, fumbling with the strange Elven word. “You can’t blame yourself for —”

“The ruin of my people?” He says bitterly, and shakes his head. “No. The Veil was the only answer. There was… a miscalculation. What happened was preventable. It is still preventable.”  

One by one, the hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stand up. “Preventable, how?”

Solas stands, and turns away. There is something in his demeanor, in the stiff line of his shoulders that reminds Cullen of how he looked standing before the eluvian. Distant. Half a stranger.

“I will tear down the Veil, and restore the world to what it once was.”

“You…” Cullen’s heart skips a solid beat. “You want to bring magic back to this world? All magic?”

“No.”

A relieved breath escapes Cullen before he can stop himself.

“This world will be unmade.” Solas says, softly. “It will become future that will never exist.”

Cullen is thunderstruck. His mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again.

Solas turns, expression quiet, but desperate. “Have we not spoken of the injustices of this world, how it would feel to… unmake them? To fix them?”

“You can’t.” Cullen insists.

“No Cullen, I will be able to, soon enough.” Solas’s mouth tugs into a small, sad smile. “That is the difference between us. You regret, but are helpless to change the past. I am not.”

“That doesn’t mean — Maker, Solas. How could you even think such a thing?”

Solas shakes his head. “I cannot live with myself if I do not prevent this future from occurring. The ruinous path my people have been made to walk. The thousands that have been made to suffer. Innocents. People I’ve loved. People I’ve promised to save. The Inquisitor...” Solas’ voice breaks for the first time. “What I have done to her...”

“We are not an abstract future, Solas. You would be killing millions. You would be killing her.”

“I have already killed her.” Solas says in that soft, broken voice.

And Cullen’s heart squeezes so painfully, he clutches at his chest. His eyes close, and a single tear slips down his cheek.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

How had it all come to this?

“You’re right.” Cullen says, voice flat. “I couldn’t…” He shakes his head, voice faltering. It feels like a betrayal. Even now. “I won’t help you.”

“I do not love you less for it.” Solas says solemnly.

The words rattle in his chest, like a physical wound, sharp and tearing, and he presses a hand to his ribs, nearly expecting to find them slick with blood. “Maker, Solas.” His hands are trembling, and he digs them into the bones to steady himself.

Trevelyan is still unconscious on the bed, glowing hand draped across her chest. Magic hangs heavy in the air. Ozone lingering on the back of his tongue. And he hates it. For a moment, fierce and bright, Cullen hates magic with a passion he has not felt since his days in the Order. Maker, what does magic touch that it doesn’t ruin? If he could tear the magic out of her… tear all magic out of the world entirely… would he do it?

How could he?

How could he not?

“No.” Cullen shudders, his head drops into his hands in despair. “I can’t. Maker, a world like that… I could never belong to it.”

“You would not be alone.” Solas drops down beside him. “I will wait for you.” Solas says, tears in his eyes, and running down his cheeks. He grips Cullen’s arm. “I will find you. A hundred, thousand years —”

Cullen’s heart lifts, and collapses in on itself all at once. “And who do you think you would find?” He gapes. “You cannot think that you could change all the details of my life, all the forces that have shaped me, and yet somehow I would come out the other side the same man. I —” His eyes grow wide with realization, while horror settles heavily on his shoulders, like a mantle. But it is laughter, sharp and manic that bubbles to the surface.

Solas blinks.

“I — Maker’s Breath.” He laughs, covering his eyes. The strangled sounds have the cadence of a sob. “Only you could make me fight to keep the most terrible pieces of my life. Kinloch. Kirkwall. The Order. Even the damned lyrium.” Cullen takes a deep breath, wipes the tears from his face with an angry gesture, and glares at Solas. “I have made terrible mistakes… and yes I’ve wanted to take them all back. But that is not the way the world works, Solas.” He pauses, jaw clenching. “Fen’Harel.” He adds, tightly. “Perhaps you are capable of this, of tearing down the Veil.” Cullen shakes his head. “But do not fool yourself into thinking this is about magic. This is about your hubris.”

Solas starts, as if struck.

“I don’t know how she can stomach us, sometimes.” Cullen says bitterly.

“It is the best of her, that sees past the worst of us.” Solas bows his head. “Though, your mistakes pale in comparison to —”

“Don’t do that.” Cullen snaps. “Don’t you fucking dare. I may not be what you are — whatever you are — but you do not get to belittle the people I’ve wronged, by telling me my mistakes aren’t as important as yours. You do not get to say that their suffering matters less.”

A heartbeat of shocked silence.

And then...

“I apologize.” Solas says quietly. Then, a moment later, “For everything.”

Cullen lets his breath out through his nose. “Solas —”

There’s no warning at all. The walls of the tent are suddenly bathed in an emerald light, and Trevelyan, roused by the pain, is fighting back a scream. The fingers of her marked hand fly open with such force that the joints are bent backward, grotesquely. He’s seen her before, bent over the raging light in her palm. Teeth fixed into her bottom lip, tears on her cheeks. But he hasn’t seen this.

She isn’t simply dying.

It’s happening right, fucking now.

“No!”

Cullen’s not sure if that tearing sound of grief comes from himself, or Solas. But the elf is already casting. A faint stir of magic makes the hair on the back on his neck stand up.

And Trevelyan’s hand explodes.

Not with light.

Not with magic.

It simply disintegrates in Solas’s grasp. Vanishing under the force of the power Solas calls upon.

Maker.

Cullen feels his knees hit the floor.

The anchor hangs in the air between them, white-hot and crackling. More magic in a single place than Cullen has ever seen. He feels it rushing over his bones, the terrible, droning sound of it, and for a single, desperate moment he wishes he was a Templar still, so he could stamp it out of this world.

No one person should be able to wield so much magic.

Solas gestures, and the anchor seems to solidify, and shrink, like raw fire turned to coal. It’s effortless, the way he commands the power that had — quite literally — torn Trevelyan apart. Chilling. The way he pulls the magic back into himself, lets it sink into his skin, and his soul. The way it lights his eyes.

Maker, maybe he really is a God.

Solas kneels, sends a wash of magic over Trevelyan. And then another. Blood dots the sheets, but the ragged wound over what is left of her arm, smooths out. The skin, fragile looking, but whole enough. When the magic goes still, there is only emptiness. And the horrible, wet sound of Cullen’s own breathing.

He tries one last time. “You can’t.”

Solas’s mouth twists. It isn’t a grimace, and it isn't a smile. “You’ll stop me.”

It’s a plea, Cullen realizes. And he wants to laugh, but he’s closer to crying. He looks at Trevelyan, still, and pale, and lopsided. “We can’t stop you without the anchor.” He says.

Maker, the irony.

And then he laughs. And cries. The sounds are manic, and unhinged, and horrible.

He reaches for Trevelyan, grasps her remaining hand, feels the bones shift beneath his thumb, and the harsh laughter dissolves, and there are only tears left to him. Cullen weeps at her bedside. A creature of grief and regret in one moment, of gratitude the next.

Trevelyan’s hand beneath his, is warm. Pulse, light, and strangely easy. He’d needed no Templar powers before to sense the magic raging inside her, but now, everything is still, and quiet, and glassy as a lake.

Cullen sighs, tears suddenly spent. He feels empty, and raw, and fragile enough to shatter in a breeze. “I hope you haven’t any damning revelations left.” He says to Solas, hoarsely. “I’m not sure I can take much more today.”

“I’m sorry.” Solas says. He turns, and for a moment, seems like he wants to say more, but his jaw tightens, and instead he nods to Cullen, something final in the tiny gesture.

He turns to go.

“I still love you.” Cullen says, suddenly. “I’ll probably always love you.”

Solas freezes, hand at the door. His fist convulses at the frame, and it very much like that first night — that very first night after Adamant, when Trevelyan had invited Solas to their bed, and he had stood there in the doorway surprised, and vulnerable.

He’s still surprised, and vulnerable.

And, despite everything, Cullen feels himself fall in love with Solas, all over again.

It is the simplest thing he has ever done. Galling, and terrifying, and heart-rending, but simple.

Maker.

Cullen crosses the space between them in two long strides, seizes Solas’ face in his hands, and kisses him.

His lips are warm and soft against Solas’. Lingering. Hesitant to move on.

“She wanted me to give that to you.” He says, hoarsely. “From the both of us.”

Solas’ shocked expression shifts into something wounded, and raw. And Cullen thinks that for someone who — if not a God — certainly wields godlike power, Solas looks very much like someone who has been dealt a mortal blow.

He hesitates.

Solas hesitates, and Cullen feels a giddy hope unfurl in his belly. But the elf clenches his jaw, expression smoothing into something closed off, and unreadable, and is gone before Cullen can think to try and stop him.

Cullen stands in the empty doorway, listening to the steady sounds of Trevelyan’s breathing — easier somehow than it had been in months — and thinks that he needs to cry for a very, very long time, or punch something until his fists bleed, or until she wakes, and the hole in his heart can close.

Extra special thanks to @stardustlings who agreed to be my beta, and whose fault all this is.