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nirikeehan · 1 year ago

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Happy Friday! I'm here to help you fill up bad things bingo! For Cullen and Thalia-- black eye AND loss of eyesight. Maybe something in Nightmare AU?

All right, I can only pick one prompt per square, so I went with "loss of sight" for this one. I will circle back around to "black eye," don't worry 👀

I went with canonverse for this, because of course I need another one-shot that doesn't feel like a one-shot in my life. Enjoy the pain!

For @dadrunkwriting and @badthingshappenbingo

Series: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Word Count: 2269

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Cullen’s chair was empty. Thalia’s gaze continued to drift to it throughout the entire meeting, tuning out Leliana’s lilting tones and Josephine’s gentle remarks over the scribbling of her quill. The war room felt too big without his sturdy presence.

“Are you quite all right, Inquisitor?” Leliana finally asked, when Thalia made her repeat herself for the third time.

“I’m fine.” Thalia worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Where’s Cullen?”

Josephine frowned. “The Commander wasn’t feeling well this morning. He requested the day off.”

Thalia bit back a barbed response, that Cullen would not request a day off if the world itself was ending. Apprehension crawled up her spine, little tendrils of doubt and worry. “He was fine when we spoke last night.”

By “spoke” she meant they spent time on the battlements together, kissing softly and watching the golden hour melt away into an icy blue twilight. She felt her face warming and averted her gaze to her own clipboard, scribbled with notes she barely remembered taking.

A silence followed, during which Thalia dared not speak. The secret she harbored for Cullen felt at times like a glowing orb she’d swallowed whole. Often it seemed precious, something sacred he’d entrusted her with, that she tended and kept safe. But right now she could feel it, burning in her chest. She pressed her palm there, over the rich blue samite and ornate eyelets of her collared tunic, as if that could calm it.

“The Commander has suffered from headaches from time to time,” Leliana offered, barely louder than a murmur.

Thalia squinted at her. Does she know? She found Leliana’s face eminently unreadable, which she supposed was a good trait in a spymaster. Still, there were times when she found it unnerving, and aggravating besides.

“Of course,” she said carefully, glancing from Leliana to Josephine. “I just worry about a sickness spreading through Skyhold, that’s all.”

It was, of course, more than that. Cullen went through bouts of tumult without lyrium to steady him, and with every upswing Thalia worried about the oncoming down turn. She still remembered the strained look on his face when he’d explained it all to her: it was impossible to know if cutting lyrium from his system entirely would kill him. He’d wanted her guidance, perhaps as the leader of the Inquisition — but more so, she’d sensed, as a friend.

Thalia had reeled from the stark nature of the confession. Through her mind ran every encounter she’d ever had with a Templar while at the Ostwick Circle. She’d known, vaguely, that they’d used lyrium, but it was to her just another alchemical substance. Mages often used it to aid spells. She’d never thought about what it might do to people without the gift for magic. She’d had no idea it chained them for life.

She’d been able to see the benefits to suggesting — ordering? — Cullen continue to take the lyrium. A military leader should always be clear-headed and strong, at his best. And part of her was selfish: if he died, then what? He was her mentor and her friend. How could she go on knowing she’d sanctioned his self-destruction?

But she’d seen the desperation in his eyes and been unable to say it. Despite his words, she’d known what he had wanted.

And she was a bit more than a friend to him now.

“I’m sure Cullen will be fine, Lady Thalia,” Josephine said, touching Thalia’s hand soothingly.

The meeting adjourned shortly thereafter, as they’d covered all they could without Cullen’s input. Thalia left the war room as the first few snowflakes drifted by the window. By the time she’d made it through the Main Hall to the courtyard, the sky was a leaden grey and the snow fell in earnest.

Thalia shivered. Skyhold often ran warmer than the surrounding mountains; surveyors speculated there might be hot springs running throughout the ground beneath the keep. Solas scoffed at the idea and suggested there was likely powerful warding magic at work. Whatever the reason, the grass grew and the trees kept their leaves even in winter, but today the forces that guarded the keep could not withstand the oncoming storm.

She crunched her way across the courtyard. She really ought to return to her quarters for a cloak, but the thought of turning around dismayed her. If Cullen is unwell, he should not be in that tower by himself. Not in this weather. He hadn’t exactly invited her back to his room quite yet — not for that reason — but she’d been in it a few times. Once was to grab a report he’d left up there during their long nights in his office, spent tracking the movements of General Samson. Another was to find a poultice for the pain when he’d been too shaky to the take the ladder. Thalia had looked around the space in wonder each time. The glimpses one took into the life of someone cherished: it felt so overwhelmingly Cullen, down to the rickety roof he still hadn’t gotten around to repairing. She didn’t even think he had a brazier. He’d freeze to death up there.

Thalia wasn’t sure where she could coax him — her own quarters came to mind, with its large hearth and fire that the servants kept crackling all day long. She smirked; wouldn’t everyone talk then? No, the infirmary was probably better. He’d hate that, because then he’d have to explain what was wrong to the healers, but at least she’d feel at ease. Fear crept into her often when the worst of the symptoms gripped him, making him delicate and volatile. But no one must know, he insisted again and again. No one must find out.

Thalia cracked the door to his office and peered inside. The candles were unlit, the space dim and quiet. Snow already piled against the panes of the narrow windows, casting a sickly, muted light into the room. Thalia slipped in and leaned against the shut door. She listened to the silence. Her shallow breathing puffed white clouds in the cold air.

She kicked the snow from her boots against the doorframe and strode to the ladder that ran up to his room. It was dark up there too. Thalia swallowed. She didn’t just want to climb up unannounced.

She balled a fist and knocked against the side of the ladder. “Cullen?” she called, feeling slightly absurd. Why couldn’t he sleep in a room with a door? Why must he always be so close to his work? “Hello? Are you here?”

She heard movement above her.

“Cullen?”

“Thalia?” His voice sounded farther away than one floor.

“It’s me,” Thalia called. “Are you all right? Josephine said you were unwell.”

“Oh. I’m… fine.” He did not sound fine. He sounded the way soldiers sounded at times after battle, faint and surprised to be alive.

“Can I come up?” Nerves gripped her — did that sound too forward? If he insisted he was all right, who was she to question him?

She heard some shuffling, rummaging, and a sudden crash. Glass shattered. Thalia shot several rungs up the ladder. Cullen was cursing — “Dammit, dammit, I’m all right, you don’t have to—” but she kept climbing, her heart a bird fluttering against the confines of its cage.

She poked her head over the top of the ladder, but it was too dark to see much. As expected, snow drifted in through the hole in the roof, falling unnoticed on the floorboards. Cullen’s bed was empty and unmade. A hulking shadow hunched in a chair.

“I’m sorry if I woke you…” Thalia straightened, squinting through the gloom. He was the figure in the chair, hair unkempt. Despite the chill, he was in only a thin undertunic, none of his usual armor, hugging himself and shivering.

“Maker, Cullen—” Thalia darted across the room and immediately tripped over something. Shards shattered under her boots. Her stomach lurched, her mind jumping to the worst possibility. Was that a lyrium philter? Has he drunk it?

Bending over, however, revealed it to be the remnants of a water glass, its contents soaking the floorboards. The liquid seeped into the pages of a few toppled books, knocked from a nearby table, she estimated. Thalia snatched them up and ran them over her trouser leg to seep up the moisture. She replaced them hastily and crossed gingerly over to Cullen. He did not turn as she approached, staring instead at the unadorned stone wall.

“Why are you sitting here all alone in the dark?” Thalia pressed a hand to his clammy forehead.

He flinched away from her touch, sending a ripple of hurt through her. Does he not trust me, after all this time? Or does he just not want me to know he has a fever? The little she’d felt confirmed her suspicions.

Cullen did not answer. Thalia pressed her lips together, debating her options. “Let me get you a blanket, at least.” She couldn’t just stand by while he was feverish and shaking.

She moved to the desk, fumbling for the matchbox and tinder, and lit a tallow candle in its holder. Better. Despite being mid-afternoon, the storm had hastened the onset of darkness. No wonder he’d knocked things over. But his silence unnerved her. Usually he was quick with an explanation, or stubborn insistence. When the episode was very bad, he only asked for little things that might help. Saying nothing at all — what did that mean? Was it delirium? She didn’t think his fever was that high.

She pulled the extra furs from his bed, considering her next move. She draped one across his lap and the other around his shoulders. He clutched them closer, and she was pleased to note his teeth stopped chattering.

“I told you, you didn’t have to do all this.” Cullen’s voice sounded soft and far away, even though she was standing right beside him. He still hadn’t looked in her direction.

“Cullen.” She tried to pick her words carefully. She didn’t want to spook him. “You’re unwell. You’re running a fever. You may have caught something completely unrelated to the — the effects of lyrium deprivation.” She took a breath. “I think it’s better that we take you to the infirmary, instead of—”

Cullen was shaking his head vehemently. “No. No. Please.”

The despair in his voice scared her. She had kept this secret for him for months now, but she had never seen him in a position quite so dire. Maybe it had been the wrong one from the start — she was no healer, but she’d studied under enough at the Circle to know that hiding illness for the sake of pride was usually the worst thing one could do. Maybe she should have never indulged him in this particularly foolhardy endeavor. Or at the least, employed a well-paid and tightlipped healer to monitor his condition in secret. It was grossly irresponsible of her, she could see now, to have taken his word for it.

But she had so desperately wanted to believe him.

“Well, that do you want me to do?” Thalia replied, more archly than intended. “Leave you shivering up here in the middle of a snowstorm?”

Cullen startled, blinking rapidly in her direction. “It’s snowing?”

“Yes, it’s snowing. How could you not notice? It’s coming through the hole in your roof.”

Thalia gestured behind her, to the irregular-shaped ring of snow accumulating on the floorboards, but he didn’t follow her cue. He didn’t do much of anything, aside from sit there, mouth agape in surprise. His eyes were glittery and unfocused, standing out against the pale, waxen quality of his skin. He swallowed hard, and Thalia sensed, quite suddenly, that he was terrified.

“Cullen,” she said softly, “look at me.”

He canted his head in her direction, eyes searching. She silently took a step adjacent to where she had spoken, but his gaze did not follow. A dreadful understanding crept over her.

Thalia stepped closer, crouching down before him. “I’m right here,” she said, reaching for his hand. He reacted to her touch, squeezing her fingers tightly. “How long has it been like this?”

“Since this morning. I woke up, and I couldn’t… couldn’t…” He let out a shaky breath.

“It’s all right.” She tried to stay calm. Think. Think. “Have you heard of lyrium withdrawal causing this?”

“I can’t remember. There’s so few stories of anyone stopping at all, I…”

“Shh. Don’t worry about it. Have you had any other symptoms besides the fever?” Maybe it’s a separate infection? Maybe it’s treatable? Maybe—

“Just a headache, last night. I thought it was — fairly routine, for… what happens, at times.” Cullen shifted under the furs. His hand was icy cold. Another sign of the withdrawal, she knew. Was this simply the natural progression of something they never should have meddled with in the first place?

“Cullen. Please, listen to me.” Her voice sounded thick and quavering. “I know you don’t want to, but I have to ask: if you took lyrium right now, do you think that would help?”

He stiffened. She watched his shoulders straighten, his whole body tensing against the suggestion. “I don’t know. I… please, Thalia, I’ve come so far. Please don’t make me—”

“I’m not. I’m not. I’m just trying to rule out some things. I want you to be well, Cullen, that’s all.” She took his cold hand between both of hers, pressing her lips against one knuckle, then another. She blinked again and again, against the hot tears gathering behind her eyes. “We’re going to figure this out, okay? I promise you that.”

#thalia trevelyan #cullen rutherford #josephine #leliana #cullen x trevelyan #WHUMP!!#lyrium withdrawal #i can't get enough of this pain ok

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