#also funfact sideritis is a mountain herb that makes an excellent tea when dried

[lyanachaan]

what about sideritis?

My beloved wip of all time... Sideritis is actually a rework of an older fanfic of mine with the same title. It's more a less a comfort piece for me and I'm trying to do it justice with what I have stuck in my mind. It's about the point where Yelenas and Cullens relationship reaches the very blurry line between professional tolerance and genuien affection. It's basically a "both are pinning but are too much in denial to realise".

It's currently still a wip only because i just can't come to a satisfying end.

It was early. So early in fact that the Makers blessed light hadn’t risen over the horizon yet, dew and frost still clinging to the mountain peaks and the keep’s walls. Everything lay still at rest, no chirping of birds or howling winds, not even the boundless night sky seemed to move and most of Skyhold was still sound asleep. The cold mountain air mixed with smoke stoked by a hearth down below in the courtyard, soon it would carry the smell of fresh bread. He wasn’t sure how long he had been just lying there, staring at the hole in his room, watching the sky slowly bleed from dark ink to soft hues of blue and gray. The heat of his skin had ebbed away as he had counted the steps and shifts of the nightwatch just outside his tower, distracting his mind with whatever he could. It felt less tacky now, the sheets not clinging to him so tightly anymore. 

One, two. Then came a creak, a thud. Three, four, five, six, just below him. Another creak and thud.  The nightwatch had an hour left before they were released from their duty, as they passed through his office for the last time that night. An hour before sunrise they made their last lap across the battlements. An hour of peace he would have before the doors to his office would open and close without as much as a thought. Cullen took a deep breath before slowly sitting upright and swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. The polished wooden planks were nearly too hard against his soles, feeling as if his bones were jutting right against each other. He feared to sink down to his knees. Resting his elbows on his thighs he interlocked his fingers, head dropping between his shoulders and pressing his clammy forehead against his fist. A quick prayer left his lips in the blue hours of early morning, as most of Skyhold was supposed to be asleep, when he was supposed to be asleep. A soft sigh escaped his lips, exhaling whatever breath was left in his lungs. Sleep kept slipping his fingers like the sands of the hissing waste, memories come to taunt him in what sparse hour he would manage to catch. He was used to it by now, though he wished he wasn’t, wished this occurrence wasn't bound to normalcy.  Flexing his fingers he dared to push up from his bed, feeling his limbs tremor slightly just below his skin. He stood still for a moment before taking a careful step towards his dressing table. His body weighed heavily on his bones, almost lumbering across his small room, his feet barely lifting from the ground. The new patches of cold floor were a small relief to his bare skin with every step he took, just as much as the cold washcloth he ran across his face and down his arms. In the low light of early morning Cullen barely recognised his own face in the small mirror before him, the shadows making it look all the more sunken. The rougher than usual stubble across his jaw was partly to blame for it, yet he would only cut his skin if he tried to shave it now. Reaching across he took a small vial into his hand, even in the low light he could make out the intricate swirls of the glass, light twinkling off its edges like tiny specs of stars.  Compared to the rest of his dressing table, even compared to the rest of his room the vial seemed out of place, like it didn’t belong. Swirls etched into unmarred glass, its smooth edges felt nice against his skin as he absentmindedly ran his thumb across them. They unwillingly reminded him of the same smooth lines running across her cheeks and forehead. The little bit of light that made its way into his room through the open roof made the ornaments twinkle like a trail of stars. As he uncorked the vial the faint smell spilling from it was one of an elfroot salve mixed with a freshness of something akin to citrus. Something that was entirely her to him. It helped alleviate the pain in his joints. His fingers moved in a circular motion, massaging the liquid into his skin, just like she did when she first brought him the salve.  He was skeptical back then, he still remembered her furrowed brow and the curve of her lips as she held his hand, concentration and stubbornness etched into her face, yet her grip had been loose enough for him to take back control any moment. Even in her insistence she didn’t force him. Afterwards the Inquisitor had pressed the vial into his hand and refused to take it back and ever since it had found its place in his barren loft.  With a soft clink he put the vial back onto the dressing table. A sigh escaped his lips as he ran his fingers through his hair, the ache slowly ebbing away. With a last glance at the small mirror he straightened his shoulders, standing up taller and feigning confidence as he donned his fur coat, foregoing his armor.