#lyrium withdrawals

[theluckywizard]

I call this Undercooked Cullen. Operating on three hours of sleep, hasn’t put himself together for the day yet.

Painted in procreate!

[snurtle]

I've been thinking about the templars lately. they were promised honor, virtue, told that they would be charged with protection of the innocent... And then those same people are systemically exploited and abused, abuse others because they're taught to regard everyone else as either sheep who need to be lead or potential threats. Never equals, except in their brothers/sisters-in-arms. They act as the guard-dogs and military arm of an entirely different organization that they're only a functionary member of but have no governing say in. Even the chantry aren't their equals- they function as the templar order's supervisors! And all this isolation and closing of ranks ends in disability, addiction, death, and abandonment by the system they spent their bodies in service of.

To top that off, retaliations against them just confirm the paranoia they were taught to embrace. It's probably a long hard road to get out of that hole.

Like, listen. the dichotomy of mage vs templars is a satisfying and easy one, but the system is tearing them apart too. have you ever heard of a retired templar?

at the end of it, mages and templars need to unite against the real threat. the chantry.

[pupkinpumpkin]

Anytime I replay DAI and I get to that first conversation with Vivienne back at Haven, I take a long inhale Everytime she asks what I think about doing with the mages.

Like I know my Inky has not thought about this too much. She just knows her clan, but I think about it constantly and no answer I am offered is good enough to assuage my long rant that I yell at the computer for like 8 straight minutes before I choose the Mages Should Be Free line and get the inevitable Vivienne Greatly Disapproves

I love Vivienne a lot, I do, even with the differing political views, but Jesus Christ girlie pop never ask me that question again because I will go off Every Single Time

[warpedlegacywrites]

Chapter 8: "A Thin Line"

Their first full day in Kirkwall is full of reminders, both pleasant and painful. And Cullen is brought face to face with a living piece of his past he'd rather have forgotten.

“So? What do you think?”  She smiles, wondering if he remembers she’s been here once before. It was a brief visit to close a rift, shortly after Varric had returned to his beloved home. Merely a short detour on the way to Wycome for an unrelated visit, only one rift out of dozens she’s closed. She doesn’t blame him if he’s forgotten.  “Well,” she says in answer, “I don’t think Varric is very good at descriptions.” Cullen laughs, his breath stirring her hair, warmer than the wind. “What?”  She nuzzles a little closer, feeling his stubble scratch pleasantly against her cheek. “His books. None of them quite do it justice. The sharp edges, the high walls, the people… It’s unique, even amongst Marcher cities.” “How does it compare with Ostwick?” There’s a slight hesitation in his tone – he rarely asks about her birthplace.  She gives a pensive hum, her fingers running up and down his forearm. “Ostwick is so austere. Aloof. And far too concerned with catering to Orlesian fashion trends. Kirkwall is rougher around the edges. More defensive. Scrappy. I prefer that.” “You can thank all the Fereldan immigrants for that, I think.” “Maybe. Or maybe that’s just why the populations have blended so seamlessly.” “I don’t remember it being seamless.” Something in his voice catches, and they fall into another prolonged silence.  “I was afraid it would remind me of Ostwick,” Theresa confesses, after a long internal debate. “The sea.”  Faxhold, her Circle, had been on the sea, jutting out on a narrow promontory like an angry fist clenching a raised dagger. An ancient Tevinter lighthouse, repurposed to imprison mages. Much of her early life was set to the relentless pulse of waves crashing onto the stony shores outside its walls.  She represses another shudder. “Now, it just reminds me of the waterfall below Skyhold.”  “Funny how fluid a thing memory can be.” 

DAFF Tag List: @rakshadow, @rosella-writes, @effelants, @bluewren, @breninarthur, @ar-lath-ma-cully, @dreadfutures, @ir0n-angel, @inquisimer, @crackinglamb, @theluckywizard, @nirikeehan, @oxygenforthewicked, @exalted-dawn-drabbles, @melisusthewee, @blarrghe, @agentkatie, @delicatefade

[tiisshu]

DA:I C/ullen/ Inquisitor (human, warrior) lyrium withdrawal fic.

This is just the setup chapter , so there is no real suffering yet. If you are sensitive to descriptions of d/rug cravings, maybe stop before chapter 3 and beyond as I don't want to upset/trigger.

I don't want C/ullen to suffer, I want him to be saved.

Also would like to add I don't know if the use of pulling rank is correct so just go with it lmao

1. Tastes like Boot

For a successful mission, this one had certainly gone bollocks up.

Things had been set with the missive for weeks on this one, with the determination that the best course of action was to split the forces sent with one detachment going to look for some of their troops that had been detained in the area..

That morning before the War party left however, The Commander delivered an alternative directive - essentially leaving the troops to fend for themselves in the meantime doubling the guard on The Inquisitor because of a rumor Red Templars had been seen in the area. A rumor their Spymaster couldn’t confirm.

The War party had set out, the directive secured, and what’s more a runner had arrived shortly after Noon with news the detained troops were spotted on the north road heading back to the keep.

The War council was fully aware of The Inquisitor’s - of Calliope’s ire that decision had invoked regardless.

When they’re in the field, in front of others, The Commander and the Inquisitor of the Inquisition maintain a very professional appearance - even if their inner circle knew what the two Warriors had going on behind closed doors.

Cullen decides this is the best decision they’ve made thus far in their relationship together because right now, across from him at the War Table, She looks ready to spit fire.

He closes the door to the War Room after everyone else enters and he leans back against it crossing his arms.His tone remains calm but has a stern undertone as his hazel eyes focus on Calliope.

“Inquisitor, I want to discuss what happened back there”.

She doesn’t immediately look up nor does she address him yet as She’s studying the Markers He had adjusted that morning.

He follows her gaze, noticing which ones have her attention. Taking a few steps towards the table, careful to maintain some distance. He speaks in an authoritative, clipped tone, when her silence spurns him.

“Look at me!”.

The air in the room suddenly feels like it’s charged with static, the rest of the council stunned into silence.

Cullen can see the way her jaw is working as she clenches and unclenches her jaw as she finally looks up into his face. Green eyes cold with fury look back at his own simple hazel with a look that can only be described as piercing.

He recrosses his arms and schools himself into his usual stoic expression trying to appear undeterred by the sharpness of her anger.

“You can be angry all you like, Inquisitor, you know I can’t standby and allow you to endanger yourself unnecessarily “. To his left, Cassandra winces slightly at his words.

Cullen notices the reaction, but he’s already got himself rolling with this and He’s just annoyed enough with this situation to lose his temper.

“You are The Inquisitor! You have a duty to fulfill and I won’t hear of you putting yourself in unnecessary, reckless danger!”.

He expects an instant rebuttal but The Inquisitor is not listening- Calliope is now looking at how stiffly Cassandra holds her posture.

Cullen glances at Cassandra, his eyes narrowing, knowing the secret they share. He understands the contradiction in his statement but continues, his voice firm.

“I understand that you want to get the job done, but you can’t compromise your safety in the process.

Calliope looks up then and speaks in a sharp tone she has never used before, it's tone even in this scarily measured way.

“ People’s lives are at stake. Time is not a luxury we have, and you reroute us so…what? You can spare me a hypothetical?”.

She begins to tap different markers with clipped angry movements.

“Tell me, Commander, How will you advise on the next mission - Western Approach? Can’t have the Inquisitor risking a sprained ankle running through sand dunes, better extend the mission by three days to walk the perimeter”.

She taps a marker in The Fallow Mire. “ Hmm, better hold off on this one too until the rainy season passes, better not risk “The Inquisitor” a head cold”.

Cullen takes in a deep breath, his jaw clenching as he struggles to keep his own frustration in check, “Yes, people’s lives are at stake, and that includes yours. I intervene to keep you safe”.

He gestures to the markers She tapped in her tirade.

“ I’m not asking you to just… sit around, I’m cautioning against needless danger and as The Commander, it is within my duty to adjust accordingly”, he explains as he shifts his posture to square his shoulders the way the title demands.

Belatedly, Cullen has a moment to realize he’s made some grave error before he notices a muscle jump in her cheek and he’s looking into startled, affronted green eyes.

“..are…are you pulling rank on me?”

The others in the room are staring at the edges of the War Table now as if idly wondering what kind of wood it's made from.

There is an imperceptible hint of regret that flickers across his face, realizing that perhaps pulling rank wasn’t the best choice, but she’s being flippant with his concerns and He was getting a headache for all his trouble.

“Yes. I.. am”.

He holds her gaze, unflinching, despite the tense atmosphere in the room.

“As Commander, it is my responsibility to ensure the safety of our forces and that includes you. It's done, I won’t speak on it any further ”.

Calliope stands there with her jaw clenched, looking like there is a wealth of things She wants to say to him, before she promptly slips on her more detached, impartial “Inquisitor” mask and gives him a curt, “Commander” and leaves the room.

Cullen watches her leave, with fresh frustration etched on his face. The others in the room exchange glances, the tension thick in the air.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Maker’s breath…

He shakes his head and turns to the rest of the council, his voice laced with resignation.

“Let’s…continue with the other matters at hand…”

...

No one moves to speak first.

Cullen notices the differing reactions from the others.

He can feel the disapproval from Cassandra, Josephine’s unease, and Leliana’s practiced neutrality.

He straightens his stance, trying to maintain his composure. He resists the urge to rub the back of his neck again and decides he better address this…

“I know you don’t approve of my decision, but I … -The Inquisition can't risk losing her”.

Cassandra turns to Lelianna and Josephine and in an even tone says, “Leave us”.

Once they’ve both made their retreats Cassandra crosses her arms across her chest and demands, “ What, in the Maker, was that, Commander?”.

[zahra-hydris]

the amazing @camelliagwerm did this for their inquisitor, arthur, and I couldn't stop thinking about how some of the lines would go for daewen so I *had* to do it too

template from HERE

explanations/notes/etc:

cassandra and daewen do not get along right from the start, and their relationship only disintegrates further throughout act 1. daewen is open about her hatred for the chantry (as an institution), her disdain for andrastianism (as a faith), her distrust of humans, and her rage at being labelled the herald of andraste. having being given power, she wields it against a lot of what cassandra holds dear. she literally drives cassandra to drink. daewen, meanwhile, sees cass as dogmatic, rigid, and ultimately just yet another chantry stooge. yet, after the destruction of haven, both of them soften a bit. daewen allows herself to finally consider the perspectives of those she previously dismissed. cassandra recognises that the chantry and andrastianism more broadly have made enemies for valid reasons. with this opening, they start to see that they're more similar than they thought. they're both passionate and fiercely loyal. they both believe in doing the hard work of bettering the world themselves. they're both unlikely romantics. they come to respect each other and - as cassandra moves into daewen's tank spot after blackwall is kicked out of it - they eventually become close friends.

blackwall is a tragic story. initially, he's daewen's Good Human. she likes him in spite of her distrust of humans in general. she can't help it. he's grounded. he's funny. he seems to give a shit. and he likes her: she's funnier than she initially appears, she's passionate, and she gives a shit. she inspires him to finally come clean. but coming clean completely ruins their relationship. she's furious. she's vindictive about it. she's grown enough by this point to accept that he truly is repentant, so she lets him stay (but insists he join the wardens afterwards) but she completely ices him out.

act 1 is really daewen's antagonism tour, but some relationships (see cass, above) improve while others are simply soured beyond repair. she immediately argues with dorian with slavery and does not trust him in the slightest. but dorian - to his credit - does not let this deter him and through those daewen does trust more quickly (solas, varric), he slowly builds up a rapport. he eventually wins her over through humour, his knowledge of magic, and his insistence on working to change tevinter.

she also immediately argues with vivienne, but this relationship only worsens. vivienne simply will not play daewen's game (nor should she), and daewen won't play viv's. so they become increasingly antagonistic towards each other over the course of the game, with vivienne being much more subtle in her shade and daewen just openly insulting her.

in contrast to dorian and viv, daewen actually tries to get along with sera. she knows that the relationship between the dalish and their city brethren has been tense, but she believes that reaching out will overcome it. it's honestly partly a very arrogant perception that city elves are just waiting for a chance to join the dalish. sera, of course, is not that kind of elf. daewen doesn't write her off entirely until the end of the game, still hoping that maybe she can bring sera around. but sera's response to the temple of mythal is daewen's breaking point.

[nirikeehan]

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

---

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.” 

[inquisimer]

some days I am angry

sneaking today's @febuwhump in under the wire! For "too weak to move" - lyrium withdrawal gives Cullen a Bad Time™️and Acacia is not around to help ;-;

read it on ao3 here

Cullen Rutherford & Male Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan | Rated T | 1113 words | CW: drug addiction/withdrawal, lyrium addiction/withdrawal, nausea, vomiting

-

The hastily scrawled script of a field report swam before Cullen’s eyes. He struggled to pull the words into focus, straining against the steady beating inside his skull. His fingers clenched around the parchment as he reread the same sentence for a third time, to no avail.

Defeated, he dropped his head to the desk. Sweat seeped from his skin into the parchment but he had no care left to shift it aside. His limbs were heavy and hollow, like stones dragging him to the bottom of the sea. Except the sea was a little too bright and it hummed with electricity and sang to him the siren call of lyrium.

He glanced at the bookshelf, ashamed at how he effortlessly found the false tome that hid his kit. Perhaps just half a dose…enough to focus on these troop movements…

Claws of guilt raked through his chest. It would be so easy, painfully easy, to dull it. Why was he making things harder for himself again? Wasn’t the world troubled enough without any help?

Disgusted by his own weakness, Cullen hauled himself upright with a grunt. He circled the desk, one hand against it to keep his balance. Warily, he eyed the distance to the door. He could shout—it wouldn’t be the first time—but the last thing he needed in this state was word getting back to the Seeker.

Or perhaps that was exactly what he did need, he thought guiltily. Surely it was time for a replacement, if he felt the need to hide the state of things from her?

With shaky steps, he crossed the floor. His fist and forehead pressed against the door frame and he heaved, swallowing back bile so he could catch his breath. He unlocked the door and cleared his throat, startling the freckle-faced runner stationed there. The boy snapped to attention and Cullen winced as sunlight bounced off the too-big helmet and seared itself into his sensitive eyes.

“Commander, ser! At your service, ser!”

“At ease,” he said, halfheartedly dismissing the salute. “Ah, if you would, fetch Lady Acacia for me.”

“At once, ser!”

He sagged back into the blessed darkness of his office. Cupping his hands, he scooped tepid water in his palms and splashed it haphazardly onto his face. He leaned against the nearest bookshelf and sank down to his knees.

Just a little while longer. He could sit with this suffering until she came and chased the cravings, the shame, away with her gentle, knowing touch.

When the runner returned, a second set of footsteps had joined him. Cullen scrubbed at his eyes, as if he had any chance of looking presentable. He latched his fingers around one of the shelves and hauled himself to his feet.

But when the door swung open, it was not Acacia there.

“Oh—Inquisitor, I,” Cullen cleared his throat. He glared daggers past Trevelyan’s silhouette at the runner. Blasted recruits were greener than Sundermount in spring. How simple must he make his orders for them to be followed? “I apologize, I was expecting someone else.”

“My sister,” Drew said grimly. “I know. She’s…indisposed, so you get me instead.”

“Indisposed? Is she alright?”

“Probably.” The Inquisitor’s eyes shifted away from Cullen and—was that a blush rising in his cheeks? “She’s, ah, enjoying some time off.”

Oh. A matching redness colored Cullen’s face, stark against his waxy complexion. Along with it came the bitter heat in his gut. Acacia made it quite clear that their time together amounted to no more than a dalliance—he had no right to the green-eyed beast that growled in his throat. And yet, he could not tame it away.

Unbidden, he felt the softness of her against his skin, saw that easy smile she liked to press to the corner of his mouth. She set him aside with careless nonchalance and it burned, how she turned her attention to Ser Barris as if their time together was nothing more than a pleasant distraction from the end of the world.

Which it had been, for her.

He saw red. He had no right—

A wave of nausea rolled up from within and Cullen staggered away from the bookshelf. He would have fallen, if not for the Inquisitor ducking beneath him, supporting his bulk surprisingly well for such a lanky frame. Drew dragged one of Cullen’s arms across his shoulders and gracelessly deposited the commander in his chair, as one might drop a too-heavy sack of potatoes.

“You look like shit, Rutherford,” he said.

Cullen, heaving, could not answer. But he hadn’t eaten today, so the efforts of his stomach to empty itself were mostly for naught. The taste of bile and a few pathetic globs of saliva filled his mouth; he swallowed them back down, wincing, and dragged the back of his hand across his lips.

“Here, drink this.” Trevelyan offered him a cup of fresh water, but when Cullen went to take it, a spark jumped between their hands. Like floodgates opened, he could feel it, then: the lyrium, flowing through the Inquisitor’s veins with every beat of his heart. The film of it still coated his teeth and Cullen’s ravenous cravings reached their claws out to take it as Drew swore under his breath.

“Shit, I didn’t think—“

He backed away and though every fiber of Cullen’s being strained after him, the reality of his weakened constitution kept him firmly seated. The cup lay shattered between them, water seeping across the floorboards.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Drew said. He downed a few mouthfuls of water, as if that would ever be enough to erase the lingering effects of a lyrium potion. Not one so recently taken, not when Solas had ensured their alchemical recipes were as potent as possible.

“Should I—“

“—go, Inquisitor,” Cullen groaned. “Leave. I will be fine.”

Only one thing had ever helped him in this state—well, two things, but he was no longer sure the lyrium could measure up to her touch, the absolution he felt when she cared for him. Ironically, it somewhat dimmed the siren call of his addiction.

But only a little. He suspected death would find him before it ever vanished entirely.

“Go,” he repeated, for Trevelyan was hovering, uncertain, in the door frame. “Or send for the Seeker, if you believe me unfit. You cannot help me; I must endure.”

He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see the disdainful pity in the Inquisitor’s face. This suffering was his alone; that was what he had chosen, and the added pain now was the price of thinking anyone could help.

They could not.

He must endure.

[royalbstrd]

Cullen grabbing his sword hilt not just as a nervous tic but to keep his hands from shaking on bad days to keep it as unnoticeable as possible.

[endawn]

wonder if the addictiveness of lyrium would extend to pax in his undeath. it isn’t a normal substance, it has mystical properties. most things no longer a trigger a reaction in his body because it is dead. though, if given its properties, can circumvent his undeath or actually affect hunger itself, would be … interesting to consider. he has hunted templars. hunger does prefer them over elven mages. him unknowingly having gone through a sort of lyrium withdrawal multiple times. mistaking it for hunger being particularly restless and aching and voracious.

[thechildofmythal]

Feelings of Failure Part 2/3

I surprised myself and decided to continue this piece.

Read the first part here on Tumblr (there's also a link to AO3) if you like. It's the ending of the battle of Adamant Fortress. The Inquisitor returns from the Fade, is injured, Cullen is angsty and feels he has failed her.

In this second part, they're back in Skyhold and the Inquisitor is mostly recovered from her injuries. Cullen, however, has taken a turn for the worse. This is a canon-compliant but expanded view of the scenes in Inquisition where Cullen goes to meet Cassandra and then sends his lyrium kit flying across the room.

Trigger warnings: PSTD, mentions of self-harm, addiction, withdrawal symptoms, depictions of pain and trauma, body-dysmorphia.

I wasn't exactly ok with how in-game Cullen is ranting and hitting things and is generally fucking hurt, and all the Inquisitor says is, "You can" and then Cullen says "Alright", like that's it? No, that's not it.

So here's to the road to healing.

Read the second part here in AO3 (only for registered users!)

or you know, read the whole chapter under the cut because I love you guys.

Part two

words: 5183

After returning from the Adamant Fortress back to Skyhold in the back of a horse carriage, Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan had been bedridden to recover from her injuries. Healing spells and the best care the Inquisition could offer had her healing quickly, but she couldn’t help feeling useless. She was visited by her friends daily, healers a few times a day, her chambermaid Niamh took care of her and brought her food and tea, and she insisted on receiving reports on the aftermath of the battle. Josephine’s fine handwriting told of how she had informed the world about what had taken place in Adamant, Leliana’s notes were detailed in speculation, and Cullen’s neat handwriting was… not as neat as usual, she noticed.  Ellana squinted at the writing to make out the words. His report was short and very matter of fact. Cullen had not been in to see her at all in the days they had been back in Skyhold, but Ellana found a small personal note scribbled to the bottom of his report:

I hope you’re feeling better soon. It is strange knowing you are in Skyhold but not seeing you up and about.    -C

“Why don't you come and see me, then, if you miss me,” Ellana muttered to herself, drawing her fingertip over his handwriting, as if touching him instead of a piece of paper. Oh how she missed him. She hoped he was well - he hadn’t seemed well after the battle in the Western Approach, or what little she had seen of him during their journey back to Skyhold.

After a few days of rest and extensive use of healing herbs later, Ellana finally found her leg could carry her weight. The ribs still ached and were bruised, but she could breathe and move more or less normally. She was very happy to get permission to get out of bed and walk - the healer was very persistent - walk , not run or jump, around Skyhold to help the recovery.

The Inquisitor’s appearance in the Grand Hall stirred mild applause and appreciative murmurs all around. As she hobbled through the Grand Hall, many congratulated her on the victory in the Adamant fortress and wished her a swift recovery. Ellana thanked every one of the well-wishers, even though she recognised very few of them.

She was eager to get outside. Ellana noticed she had gotten used to sleeping and working and eating within stone walls, but she had spent too many days trapped indoors now. The Dalish elf relished the feel of wind in her hair and fresh air in her lungs when she finally got outside to the Skyhold grounds. She was met by some of her friends near the tavern, and more surrounded her as the word got around that the Inquisitor was up and about.

Iron Bull, Blackwall and Sera gathered around and got Ellana a comfortable chair to sit on outside the tavern. Dorian appeared from the library soon enough and arrived to give his dear friend a kiss on the cheek. He even made Sera move so he could sit next to Ellana. Even Josephine and Leliana noticed the gathering and joined. Ellana felt warm and happy to be surrounded by some of the best people she had ever known, even though she noticed a few of her inner circle were not present.

“How are you doing, Boss?” Iron Bull asked her eagerly as the people were gathering.

“Better, thank you. It’s so nice to be outdoors. If I was going to spend another day inside I would have gone mad,” Ellana laughed holding her side with her hand.

“Your well-being is our top priority, Inquisitor,” Josephine reminded sagely. “I’m sure it will lift the spirits all around Skyhold to see you up and about.”

“Yeah, everybody’s been all jittery while you’ve been stuck in bed,” Sera chimed in.

“What do you mean jittery?” Ellana asked.

“Well Varric’s not himself at all,” Sera explained. 

“It’s no wonder. The loss of his dear friend hit him hard,” Leliana said softly, and everyone hanged their heads in silence for a while, respecting Hawke’s memory for a few heartbeats.

“And Cullen’s too much like himself,” Sera broke the silence by continuing.

“What do you mean?” Ellana asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You know. All shouty and pouty,” Sera explained flippantly.

“The Commander has been… rather anxious after Adamant’s events,” Josephine said, placing her words carefully. 

“The pressure of command can sometimes feel like a crushing weight on your shoulders,” Blackwall mused. “I think the operation in Adamant went as well as it could. Some losses were inevitable. Perhaps Cullen needs reminding of what a good Commander he is.”

“Indeed. Now that you’re up and feeling better, perhaps you could talk to both Varric and Cullen,” Leliana suggested.

With a worried crease on her brow, Ellana nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll talk to them both today. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

Sera and Iron Bull were there to change the subject to other, happier things, and eventually most of the troupe decided to have lunch together in the dining hall. Iron Bull carried Ellana to lunch on his shoulder like she was no heavier than a household cat, and Dorian fretted over her like a mother hen. 

*

After lunch Ellana asked around, and finally found Varric in the tavern. She joined him and sat with the dwarf for a couple of hours - mostly talking, sometimes just sitting in companionable silence. Varric downed a few pints of ale, Ellana emptied a whole pot of tea. She felt like having a drink, too, but knowing she probably had another difficult discussion ahead of her the same day, she decided to save the wine for later.

After Varric finally expressed that they had been going on about Hawke enough for now, Ellana paused and stared at the tea leaves on the bottom of her cup.

“Have you been to see Curly yet?” Varric asked, as if reading her thoughts.

“Nope,” she replied, still staring at her tea cup.

“You should.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“You really care for him?” Varric asked then.

“You know…” Ellana turned to look at him. “I think I really do.”

“He doesn’t seem like he lets anyone near him very easily,” Varric said thoughtfully. “But the way he looks at you…”

Ellana felt a flush on her cheeks. “What? How does he look at me?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” Varric chuckled and shook his head. “He looks at you like you’ve cast an enchantment on him. All starry eyed and amazed. But to be honest, the way you look at him… ” 

Ellana had to laugh a little. “Yeah? And how do I look at him?”

“Like he’s the only man in the world, Lucky. Maybe you should go and tell him that. Again. You know, we’ve had this discussion before.”

“I know. I can’t help it if my heart has decided on a man who doesn’t let me love him as easily as I would like,” Ellana sighed.

“Love? Lucky, are we up to love already?” Varric asked and actually moved in his seat to look at her with an amused expression.

“Alright, that’s my cue,” Ellana suddenly placed her palms on the table and pushed herself up. She was happy to have conjured a smile on Varric’s face, but she was also eager to escape the question.

Ellana hobbled a few steps to stand behind Varric, still sitting in the same seat she had found him in two hours earlier. She placed a small kiss on the top of his head. “Take care now, Varric.”

The dwarf watched her go, and tenderly touched his head on the spot she had kissed. A small, sad smile curved his lips for a short while. “You too, Lucky,” he said quietly after she had already gone.

*

Ellana felt she was not fully recovered from her injuries. Climbing the stairs to reach Cullen’s office was surprisingly tiring, but her eagerness to see him kept her going.

The side door was open, and to her surprise and disappointment, Ellana found inside one fidgeting messenger, but no handsome commanders.

“Your Worship,” the messenger saluted immediately. “The Commander isn’t in right now.”

Ellana leaned against the door frame and lifted an eyebrow at the messenger. “I can see that. Where is he?”

“He’s gone to speak with Seeker Pentaghast.”

Ellana’s eyes widened, and she cursed to herself. Her memories of how Cullen had come to see her in the medical tent in the Inquisition’s encampment after the battle of Adamant were a little hazy, but she knew he took it all very badly. And after everyone she had talked with seemed to be worried about the Commander… This could only mean one thing. Ellana felt a lump of fear in her throat, and she turned to leave.

“Thank you,” she said to the messenger, who saluted again. 

Outside on the battlements Ellana stopped to take a deep breath. I should have sent for Cullen to come and see me while I was recovering, she thought to herself. I knew he wasn’t well and I should have done something earlier.

“Excuse me,” Ellana stopped two patrolling soldiers who were walking by. 

“Inquisitor,” they both saluted. 

“Do you know where Commander Cullen has gone? I think he went to speak with Lady Pentaghast?”

“We spotted him leaving his office a moment ago, Your Worship, but I didn’t see where he went,” one of the soldiers said.

“Can you find out for me as quickly as you can? I’m afraid I’m not in the shape to be running around Skyhold just yet,” Ellana explained apologetically.

“Of course, your worship. We’ll ask around and inform you right away.” 

With that, the soldiers were off, and Ellana took a moment to lean against the wall and rest. She distracted herself from her worry by daydreaming about the moments she had shared with the Commander in the battlements. Not in this spot in the middle of everything, but behind the western tower. And a few times in the secluded corner of the gardens. Once alone in the War room, too, after she had returned from a mission. His hands on her waist, stubble scratching her chin, leaving her lips reddened after all the kisses they had time for. A few times they had gotten a little heated, too. He had pressed her back against the wall with his body, tilted his head to kiss her deeply, passionately. She had lifted her leg along his, felt his hand trail along her thigh and grab her bottom. They had always had to break it off pretty quickly, usually because they were interrupted. But the way he looked at her with a lopsided smile and darkened eyes - oh Creators . Ellana was dreaming about the scar on the Commander’s lip just when the two soldiers returned.

“Inquisitor,” they saluted again, this time breathlessly. The poor sods had been running, Ellana thought. “Commander Cullen was seen going into the Armory with Lady Pentaghast.”

“Excellent. Good work,” Ellana thanked them and started towards the stairs. 

Soon Ellana approached the Armory. Her steps slowed as she heard shouting from inside, and her gut tightened in dread. The door was ajar, and she stopped outside to listen if they really were discussing what she feared they were.

“You asked for my opinion, and I've given it. Why would you expect it to change?” Cassandra’s strong voice sounded from inside.

“I expect you to keep your word,” Ellana heard Cullen’s strained voice. It made her breathe in sharply - was she imagining it, or did he really sound like he was in pain? “It's relentless. I can't -”

“You give yourself too little credit!” Ellana nodded approvingly at Cassandra’s interruption. 

“If I'm unable to fulfill what vows I've kept then nothing good has come of this!” Cullen sounded angry, and hurt. Ellana decided it was time to walk in. 

“Would you rather save face than admit–” Cullen stopped the moment Ellana pushed the door open.

Ellana looked from Cullen to Cassandra and back. They both stared at her, first, but Cullen quickly lowered his gaze, covering his face with his hand. 

“Forgive me,” he muttered, sounding both embarrassed and weary at the same time. Ellana took a few steps in and opened her mouth to stop him, but did not have the chance. The Commander quickly left through the door Ellana left open.

Cassandra remained standing where she was, and crossed her arms on her chest. “And people say I'm stubborn. This is ridiculous.”

Ellana stared after Cullen, and saw through the window that he was returning back to his office. He had looked awful - pale, tired, his eyes sunken. But he had sounded even worse - she had never heard him so strained and spiteful.

“I see you’re feeling better,” Cassandra commented on a softer note. 

Ellana turned to Cassandra. “Yes. Thank you. But I feel like I chose the wrong moment to be bedridden.”

“There’s never a good moment to get injured. The main thing is you are healing,” Cassandra’s matter-of-fact tone voice rang true.  “Cullen told you that he's no longer taking lyrium?”

Ellana nodded her head. “Yes, I’ve known for a good while now. I think he’s incredibly brave and strong to be doing that. I respect his decision.”

“I agree. Not that he's willing to listen,” Cassandra said and paused to take a breath. “Cullen has asked that I recommend a replacement for him.”

“What? Surely it’s not -” Ellana’s voice was a bit panicked, but Cassandra cut her off.

“I refused. It's not necessary. Besides, it would destroy him. He's come so far.”

Ellana turned to look after the Commander even though he had already vanished from sight. “I was a bit out of it when I was treated after the battle in Adamant, but I remember he thought he had failed somehow. I’ve expected him to come and see me now here in Skyhold, but he hasn’t.”

“We had an agreement long before you joined us. As a Seeker, I could evaluate the dangers,” Cassandra explained, and continued in a softer voice. “And he wouldn't want to... risk your disappointment.”

Ellana felt like someone was squeezing her heart in their stone cold fist. “Is there anything we can do to change his mind?”

“If anyone could, it's you,” Cassandra said without hesitation. “Mages have made their suffering known, but Templars never have. They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash. Cullen has a chance to break that leash, to prove to himself - and anyone who would follow suit - that it's possible.”

Cassandra took a few steps to stand beside Ellana and look through the open door at Cullen’s tower.

“He can do this,” Cassandra said firmly.  “I knew that when we met in Kirkwall. Talk to him.”

*

Soon Ellana made her way back towards the side door to Cullen’s office. Before reaching it, she swallowed nervously and tried to make up her mind on how to enter. Smiling? Frowning? With a joke? With a flirt? 

She did not have to decide, because the moment she stepped in the doorway, she heard a loud roaring shout and something hit the door frame only inches from her.  

“Maker's breath! I didn't hear you enter!” Cullen breathed out sounding horrified as she turned to look towards where the projectile had come from. She realised he had thrown something at her - at the door, rather.

“I - Forgive me,” the man’s form collapsed, his head bowing down wearily as he supported himself against his desk.

Ellana took a few steps in, careful not to step on any shards of… was it his lyrium kit he had smashed to bits? 

“Cullen, if you need to talk-” she began, but Cullen waved her away.

“You don't have to -” his dismissal was interrupted by a spike of pain that had him fall against the side of his desk. 

“Cullen!” Ellana sprinted to his aid - ignoring the pain in her right leg and her side. She ducked under his arm to support him, her arms wrapping around him briefly. With her help Cullen regained his footing, and he gently pushed her away.

“I never meant for this to interfere,” he said without looking at her. 

Ellana felt a sting in her heart for having been pushed away. She looked at him - he sounded defeated and in pain. She wanted to do something, anything, to help him, to take his pain and his doubts away.

“I believe you,” Ellana said meekly, and kicked herself for not coming up with anything better.

“For whatever good it does. Promises mean nothing if I cannot keep them,” Cullen snarled and sauntered around his desk. He stopped by the window on the back wall, and Ellana saw how his hands turned into fists.

“You asked what happened to Ferelden's Circle,” Cullen said, referring back to their previous discussions. Suddenly it all came pouring out of him, and he couldn’t stop it. “It was taken over by abominations. The Templars - my friends - were slaughtered.”

Ellana had heard from other sources something of what had happened in Kinloch Hold, but now she heard the full horrifying story, and realised what it must have been like for Cullen personally. 

Cullen had his back towards her, but he continued, his voice full of hatred and hurt. “I was tortured. They tried to break my mind, and I - “ he let out a choke of disbelieving laughter, “How can you be the same person after that?”

Ellana wanted to go to him. She wanted to take him in her arms and kiss his pain away. She wanted to help him. Ellana opened her mouth to say something, but the man continued.

“Still. I wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall, I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what, hmm? Her fear of Mages ended in madness. Kirkwall's Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets.”

Cullen’s strained voice wrenched Ellana’s heart, and she took a few slow steps closer to him. 

Finally he turned to face her, his eyes ablaze with agony as he threw his hands in frustration. “Can't you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

Ellana reached to take a hold of his arm gently. “Of course I can. I - “

Cullen brushed her touch away. “Don't! You should be questioning what I've done!”

He walked away from her, leaving her to watch him helplessly as he paced back and forth in his office.

“I thought this would be better - that I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won't leave me…” Cullen held his head in his hands. “How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause! I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry.” Cullen’s words sounded like a mantra now, and Ellana suspected it was something he had told himself over and over again. 

“I should be taking it!” Cullen hissed with insurmountable frustration, and suddenly slammed his fist against the bookshelf with such force that several books fell to the floor. He remained there, his chest heaving with heavy breathing, and he whispered, sounding disgusted with himself, “I should be taking it.”

Ellana was scrambling to find the right words. The man was in shambles before her. He was so proud and so determined it had probably been extremely difficult for him to go to Cassandra. He had probably been suffering for a lot longer and a lot more than he had ever let on. Realising it made Ellana feel a terrible lump in her throat, but she swallowed the tears and steadied her voice. She needed to get this right, or this would destroy him.

“This doesn't have to be about the Inquisition,” Ellana said as she walked across the room to Cullen. She slipped to stand between him and the bookshelf and sought for his eyes. “Is this what you want?” 

Cullen finally met Ellana’s gaze. She stood close enough for him to sense her scent. He was so exhausted, and ranting it all out to her had drained him. He was ashamed of his temper and of losing control in front of her. But there she still was, her earnest blue eyes meeting his. It was incredible. After all of this, Ellana’s eyes betrayed no remorse, no disgust, no pity. She was there, like the ever moving ocean is always there. Steadfast like the mountains, alluring like summer meadows, comforting like the sound of gentle rain on the roof.

He let out a long, shaky breath, and finally said, “No.”

He pushed himself off the bookshelf that he had been leaning against, and ran his hand through his hair. “But… these memories have always haunted me. If they become worse. If I cannot endure this…”

Cullen had brushed Ellana away before, but she risked reaching out for him once more. She cupped his face in her hands, holding his jaw, and made him look back at her. “Cullen. You are the strongest person I have ever met,” she said to him, every word weighed by emotion. “You have been through so much and come so far. Don’t take it. Please. You can do this, I believe in you.”

Cullen looked at her in disbelief. What did she see in him? He had bared his soul in front of her today, he had told her what he had been through, he had shown the worst of himself today. His anger, his fear, his bad temper, his weakness. To still have her kindness was unfathomable. 

Gingerly he touched her wrists with his hands. Slowly he pulled her hands away from his face and looked down at her hands, holding them in his bigger, gloved hands. 

“Alright. I won’t take it,” he said quietly, and let go of her hands. 

After a moment of silence, Cullen turned and paced back to his desk and lifted his hand to his neck awkwardly. 

“I’m sorry, I… I think I need to be alone now,” he said quietly. “I will take a breather and then return to work.”

Ellana inhaled deeply to steady herself. She knew what she needed to do next, and so she nodded in agreement. “A breather is an excellent idea.”

She promptly walked to the side door and locked it. Then she moved to the other side door and locked it as well. Cullen followed her with his eyes, his brow furrowing as he wondered what she was up to.

”What work do you have left for today?” Ellana asked, coming to stand by his desk, eyeing through the documents spread upon it.

”Please, I will take care of my -” Cullen began, but was interrupted.

”I asked, Commander, what tasks do you have left for today?”

Cullen blinked at her stern face. She had used her authoritative Inquisitor voice.

”Status update meeting with the officers, then troop training, then correspondence,” Cullen couldn’t avoid answering while fidgeting with the papers on his desk.

The Inquisitor promptly took the papers in question from his desk. Cullen was taken aback by her - he was used to seeing her exhibit her powerful and assertive side, sure, but being on the receiving end of it was rare for him.

”Alright,” Ellana said in a determined voice. “Cassandra will meet with the officers, we’ll revert your messages to Leliana and I’ll take care of troop training. An afternoon of mobility exercises will do wonders to the men  as well as myself, I think.”

”Mobility exercises?” Cullen repeated, stunned.

”What day is it today? It’s barracks inspection tomorrow morning, correct? I will ask Cassandra to take care of that too.”

”I will take care of my own work-” Cullen said in an increasingly annoyed voice.

”Yes, Cullen, once you’ve had a breather.”

”This is not neces-”

”Are you defying your Inquisitor’s orders?” Ellana asked sharply, looking at him in his eyes as if challenging him to try.

Cullen met her gaze, clenching his jaw.

Then the flash of pain and anger subsided. He took a deep breath in and lowered his gaze wearily. ”…no.”

”Good. I expect to see you tomorrow at noon at the War Room meeting, and until then you are off duty. It’s less than 24 hours. I’m sure you can manage that much free time.”

Ellana walked towards the door that still remained open.

”I will ask no one to bother you until noon tomorrow. But Cullen,” her voice softened and she turned to look at him, even though he avoided her gaze. ”I’m not telling you not to come to me. You can always come to me, today or any other day, and you need no excuse, no reason to. I want you to know that. Be it nine in the evening or two at night or first thing in the morning, I don’t mind. My door is always open to you.”

Cullen was not able to answer. He remained leaning against his desk heavily with both hands, unmoving.

”I’m proud of you,” Ellana said, her voice somehow soft and determined at the same time. Then she stepped out, pulling the door closed behind her.

When she had gone, the air stood still in Cullen���s office. He felt like a whirlwind had been through his room and his heart. He felt confused, he felt pain. He felt like an absolute failure. While Cassandra had refused to find a replacement to command the Inquisition’s armies, the Inquisitor had practically told him that he was unfit for duty and taken his work away from him.

What did he have left, if not his duty? He had nothing. An estranged and disappointed sister, and a lifetime of doing too little too late.

Cullen pushed himself off the desk, took a few tense steps around, and suddenly, with a loud angry shout, kicked his chair over with force. The chair’s backrest shattered against the stone wall, spreading the mess of broken things around a broken man.

*

Cullen spent a very difficult and painful evening by himself. The first couple of hours he had bristled with anger at himself, culminating in an urge to do something, anything, to distract himself from the derogatory thoughts and stabbing pains inside of him. He had held a fist against the stone wall, ready to punch the ungiving wall until his knuckles bled and cracked. He hadn’t - he had, instead, crumbled into a sobbing heap against the wall. 

He had held a knife, not really knowing what he was going to do with it, other than knowing that cutting would feel different to the pain that consumed him. Holding the knife and cutting himself would have him in control for once. He had ended up throwing the knife, and several more of them, at the training dummy by the wall. 

He had looked at himself in the mirror in his upstairs loft, wondering what he had done to deserve the kindness and attention of the Inquisitor. Of Ellana. What Cullen saw in the mirror was a man in shambles - a weary, tired, sad man, whose pallid complexion, dark under eyes and scarred skin could only repulse, not attract. Every time he looked at himself in the mirror he saw the scar on his lip. Every time he was reminded of the moment he had got it. Every time he remembered how he had not allowed anyone to heal him with magic. How scared he had been. He had crawled to a corner by himself, washed his face of blood, and stitched the cut on the lip by himself using a mirror. It had hurt in so many ways, and he had been sobbing all the way through. He had looked like a gargoyle with the badly stitched lip, and all these years later he thought he still did.

At some point Cullen awakened from his wallowing by a knock on the door. After Ellana’s stern words he really had not expected anyone to come knocking. He practically crawled to the door and cracked it open to take a look at who was there - thinking that maybe, just maybe, it was her . 

No one. There was no one. Cullen opened the door a bit more, and saw that someone had left a tray of food and water and tea out for him. He sighed deeply and took the tray in, then locked the door again.

An hour later he had managed to eat. Despite the nausea, food seemed to drive away the worst of the shakes. His hands were steady enough to hold a quill. 

Cullen stayed up until well past midnight, writing in a notebook. He hadn’t known what he was going to write when he had picked up the quill. As soon as he had touched the pen to paper, however, the words seemed to be flowing out like blood from a cut artery.

*

Cullen woke with a jolt. It took a while for him to remember where he was, and to calm his breathing. He was on his bed, still with clothes on, it seemed, and the morning sun was shining through the cracks in the roof. He had actually slept through most of the night. 

After a while he descended the ladder from his loft, and stood in the middle of the mess in his office. The broken lyrium kit still shattered all over the floor by the door, the pieces of the broken chair behind his desk, the torn and crumpled papers scattered around and the ink stains on his fingers and his desk told a story of an awful evening.

Cullen picked up the notebook, and read through everything he had written the night before. 

Then he rekindled a small fire to the fireplace, taking his time to nurture the flames. He tore the first page of the notebook away and burned it in the fireplace. The painful words on the page crinkled and burned and turned to ash. He burnt every single page he had written on, one by one, watching each of them catch fire, burn and vanish.

When Cullen was done with the notebook, he took time to clean. In an hour’s time his office as well as his private room upstairs were neat and tidy. He changed clothes, and after a moment's hesitation, stepped outside to the battlements to the sunshine and the refreshing mountain air. Cullen went on a morning run around Skyhold, taking the same route the soldiers used for training.

By eleven o’clock, Cullen had exercised, bathed, shaved, dressed in his uniform and sneaked late breakfast from the kitchens. He found Gatsi near the Grand Hall of Skyhold and asked for a new office chair. The chair was delivered to him shortly after as Cullen was opening all three doors to his office.

A little before noon Cullen concentrated on taking deep, steadying breaths as he walked from his office towards the War Room.

It was going to be alright, Cullen told himself. It’s going to be alright.

Read the third chapter here on Tumblr!

[lavenderprose]

Why have I seen two people today refer to Cullen as being a 'princely' romance. My man has been a functional addict for fifteen years and he's in ACTIVE withdrawal when Inquisition begins. He is recovering from the in-universe equivalent of a Percocet addiction and he's not doing well with it. Just because he's sweet and he ducks his head and says I've never met anyone like you doesn't mean he's a flouncy Disney prince. He also THROWS things across the room because he's in pain and yells at his friends and goes quiet and distant in the War Room. He says things like, "I never considered a future before I met you," and he MEANS that shit. Cullen Stanton Rutherford was probably going to Lay Down And Die after the Breach was closed, IF it was ever closed, before he met the Inquisitor. It's strongly implied that that's what he DOES do if you tell him to continue taking Lyrium. You definitely do not have to like his romance and you're allowed to be critical of his character but saying that he's the Princely or Vanilla romance option is discrediting all of the character development he's gone through and is in my opinion just a bad faith interpretation overall.

[warpedlegacywrites]

happy dadwc friday Duchess! How about a prompt for Cullen coping with addiction/recovery 🥺😭💖

❝ All the things that I ran from I now bring as close to me as I can. ❞

happy writing :3

Happy @dadrunkwriting! Thanks for this prompt. Here is some slightly circular narration about Cullen's withdrawal, with a focus on his early nightmares post-lyrium.

CW for torture, sleep deprivation, claustrophobia, psychological torture

Sleep isn’t a problem at first. In fact, for the first week or so, he barely notices a difference. His dreams remain blurred, unfocused. Filtered by the last filter he’d taken in Kirkwall. His last one ever, so he keeps reminding himself, though practiced hands still reach for the vial at his bedside when he wakes blearily with the dawn. Muscle memory. Habit. Conditioning.  Sleep isn’t a problem, even after the symptoms start setting in. When his reaching hands shake so hard they can barely grip the glass of water. The water he gulps greedily down, while wishing it were gleaming blue instead of clear. The water he can’t seem to keep down, retching it back up moments later. No, even when his insides are on fire and his whole body is racked with the searing pain, sleep isn’t a problem.  It’s not until the worst of the pains and the cravings subside, when the Song is little more than a half-remembered tune in the back of his skull, and his body can actually, truly rest. That is when sleep becomes a daunting, dreadful torture. 

Every night, when he lays his head down, he knows what’s coming. He’ll try to stay awake as long as possible, reflexively wincing away from the pain. But inevitably, his eyes will close, and he will open them again in the blood-stained halls of Kinloch Hold. Torchlight flickers over bodies, too many to count. 

The light is tinted by the magically manifested curtain of his cell. A slender column holding him captive. Too narrow to do anything but kneel or stand – he can’t even properly sit, let alone lie down. No matter how many hours, days, nights pass, no matter how his feet and legs and back ache. He remains standing until he can bear it no longer, and then he kneels in prayer. His knees are bruised and bleeding. He’s exhausted. More tired than he’s ever been. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understands he’s still asleep, but the fatigue is just as he remembers it. He doesn’t recall how he ever managed to sleep, if he ever did. 

His cell is round, affording him a panorama view of the carnage. Every so often, a new body will race through in an attempt to reach the stairs to Cullen’s right. They’re always cut down before they clear the first handful of steps. Every time, Cullen tries to warn them. Every time, his voice doesn’t penetrate the perimeter of his cell. He hears its echo bounce back and forth over his head, driving him mad with his own voice. Every time, the demon emerges from the shadows it hides in. Razor claws rake across torsos, drawing forth gushing red. The room is infused with the smell of blood. Fresh and stale, the stone is saturated with it. Eventually, Cullen stops smelling it. But as tortured with guilt as he is over his failure to save even a single soul, watching them die is still the lesser evil. 

Because when the demon is bored waiting for new victims, it amuses itself with Cullen. It knew his desires almost the instant it captured him. All his training was for naught – Desire is a powerful demon, and it read him like an open book. It cackled, mocking his boyish infatuation. It delighted in taking her form and parading around in front of him in her skin. Calling to him in her voice, whispering in his ear, while standing well out of reach. Sometimes wanting, willing. Others, screaming in pain. Spitting vitriolic hatred at him. But always beyond his reach. 

He can beat his hands against the curtain of magic until they bleed, scream until his voice is raw and his throat is like cracked glass. But he will never break through it. 

Until he wakes, covered in sweat and hands aching from gripping the sheets so tightly, his throat sore. Surely, he must be screaming on this side of the Veil as well, but if anyone has ever heard it, they keep it to themselves. He will wash his face with cold, clean water, drink from the canteen he keeps full at his bedside, and dress for his day. 

And the next night, it will start all over again. He will try to stay awake, and then he will fail. He will try to warn his would-be rescuers, and fail. Try to escape, and fail. No matter how he tries to outrun his failures, they follow him, relentless and tireless. 

Until one night, when he looks down at the blood-soaked bodies at his feet… and there is no cell to separate them. He reaches a hand out, tentatively, and meets no resistance. He steps forward, and is not repelled back. A sob escapes him before he can stop it, though he clamps his hand over his mouth to prevent more sounds from betraying him. Yet no demon appears. It’s only him, and the corpses of his colleagues. 

He turns to the exit, and he’s halfway across the room before his steps slow. Stop. He turns. His eyes travel up the staircase, stopping at the door at their peak. There’s no way out of that room, he knows. He’s conducted Harrowings and Rites of Tranquility from inside that room. There is no escape but the way you’ve come. 

There is no escape. 

Step by step, his feet carry him to the base of the stairs. He watches himself climb them, as if observing from the outside. He screams at himself, pounding against the rounded wall of his cell, tries to tell him no. Turn around, run away. Escape. But it’s no use. 

He watches the demon emerge from the shadows, claws impossibly long and razor sharp. No matter how he screams and pounds and begs. There is nothing he can do to stop what’s about to come. Cullen watches his hand come to rest on the doorknob. Watches it turn. Watches the demon’s arm raise, and strike. He feels the burn of its claws in his flesh. 

And then he wakes up. 

He flexes his fingers, releases their death grip on the sheets. Rises with a struggle from the low cot given to him when he’d arrived at the base of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Drinks long and greedy from the canteen. Splashes his face with cold water. And pushes aside the flaps of his tent to start another day. 

Tonight, he’ll do it all again.

[tiisshu]

DA:I C/ullen/ Inquisitor (human, warrior) lyrium withdrawal fic - Part 2

Sorry it's taken a bit to get the second part out, we've suffered a tragic loss in our family and I haven't had as much time to edit as I need.

Here is the second part to my angsty C/ullen /Inquisitor sickfic... thing. Warning, there is the beginnings of descriptions of withdrawal symptoms. Please, if you are sensitive to such descriptions, unfortunately from here on out I would suggest skipping this.

Anyway, here you go...

2. Advice

Commander Cullen braces himself, knowing this conversation has the potential to be more heated than the last.

He takes a deep breath and looks at Cassandra firmly.

 “I did what I had to do to ensure her safety. As her Commander, it is my duty to protect her”.

“Just as her commander, huh?”. Cassandra’s face dares him to contradict her.

Cullen’s expression remains stoic but he recognizes the challenge in the Seeker’s tone. He straightens his stance and looks her straight in the eye.

“My personal feelings aside, my duty comes first, and I need not remind you of how stubborn She can be”.

Cassandra makes an emphatic noise of frustration. 

“Not the mission, Commander! It got done, and there were no losses- a clear victory”.

“But what I just heard…” .Cassandra gestures to where Cullen and the Inquisitor had been arguing.

“Such hypocrisy! I wouldn’t have expected that from you”.

Cullen’s jaw clenches, feeling the sting of Cassandra’s words. His voice remains stern but there is a hint of defensiveness to it now.

“You think I don’t know how it sounded? I know exactly how it looked”.

He takes a step forward to close the gap between them. 

“...when it comes to her… when it comes to her safety, I can't afford to stop and think clearly”.

“... Thinking clearly is the only thing you can afford right now, Commander. And soon, that too will waver- you still haven’t told her, have you?”.

He hesitates for a brief moment, his eyes darting away from Cassandra’s gaze. He takes a moment to choose his words carefully before speaking.

“... no, I.. I haven’t”.

He lets out a sigh, running his hand through his hair once more, frustration etched on his face.

“..You know why I can’t”.

Cassandra heaves a heavy sigh and gives him a look that he can only describe as disappointment. She comes around the war table to stand beside him. 

“You can’t keep putting yourself in unnecessary, reckless danger”, She quotes him.

Cullen stands there processing Cassandra’s words. He knows She’s right, the hypocrisy in his own actions. He lets out a sigh, feeling the weight of the situation press down on him.

Maker’s breath…

Cassandra gives his shoulder a squeeze and then excuses herself from his presence.

As She leaves, He’s left alone in the war room with his thoughts, the sound of the door closing echoing in the room.

His mind is a whirlwind. The argument with Calliope, The conversation with Cassandra, his own conflicted feelings on the matter.

He rubs the back of his neck, frustrated and on edge. After a few moments, he lets out a sigh, still trying to corral his thoughts when his blood begins its insidious call for the Lyrium.

It’s a familiar sensation, the urge to give in to the craving.

Cullen closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. He grits his teeth, fighting against the pull of the withdrawal. It takes considerable effort, but he manages to push the craving to the back of his mind, burying it beneath his discipline and determination.

“I won’t”, he says aloud to himself. A reassurance.

The intensity of his raised emotions from the argument only seems to further intensify the symptoms of his withdrawal.

He can feel a headache starting to form, a sense of weakness creeping in. His muscles tense as he fights against the physical and mental fatigue.

All of a sudden he desires nothing more than to retreat to his office, to wait out the symptoms and try and think.

With a new sense of determination, Cullen pushes himself off the table, forcing his body to move despite its growing fatigue. He heads out the door and through the hall, a bit unsteady as he tries to maintain his composure.

He’s almost to the main hall when Josephine spots him. 

“Oh, Commander! Do you have a moment?”

Cullen stops, turning to face Josephine. His expression is stoic, masking the ongoing struggle within him. He draws in a measured breath, trying to maintain his usual professional demeanor.

 “Of course, Lady Ambassador. What do you need?”.

“We have some visiting Dignitaries next week, I’ve been informed they would like to tour the ramparts, talk to the soldiers and the like. Are you amenable to this request?”

Cullen takes a moment to consider. The influx of visitors during a time of turmoil is less than ideal, but he understands the importance of diplomacy even if he detests politics.

He nods, his voice firm and steady, “ Yes, I think that can be arranged. We’ll ensure the ramparts are secured and the soldiers briefed on proper protocol for receiving dignataries”.

“Excellent, Commander. And… if I may be so bold as to add..”, She says hesitantly.

Cullen raises an eyebrow, curious what else Josephine has to say. He nods, signaling for her to continue.

“Speak your mind, Lady Josephine”.

The ambassador's face softens, “ Give her time, commander. Give both of you some”, she advises.

Cullen stiffens slightly, caught off guard by Josephine’s unexpected words. He had been expecting a comment about the dignitaries, but this was different.

He nods slowly, understanding her implication.

“I...see. Thank you for your advice, Lady Josephine”.

His thoughts are in disarray, the withdrawal and the current emotional turmoil warring within him.

Josephine gives him a friendly nod and goes back to her work, leaving him to his thoughts.

Cullen stands in silence for a few moments, trying to process his thoughts and feelings. The conversation with Josephine has only added to the complexity of his situation.

He rubs the back of his neck, sighing in resignation. He needs to clear his head, to collect his thoughts into some semblance of order.

He turns and begins to head to his office, to find solitude.

[sapphim]

my personal preference for headcanoning the contradictory alistair-templar-lyrium issue is to say that templar recruits do, relatively very late in their training—considering that most of their training is just swordplay and brainwashing—begin taking lyrium in small controlled quantities specifically to enable the practice of their magical abilities. alistair either did so as well, or he got fast-tracked for training with other fade-sensitive recruits who were able to begin this training without the aid of lyrium. either way, he obviously quit before completing his training and taking his vows, never experienced the effects of addiction and withdrawal, and then came away with the impression—being able to continue to use his abilities without lyrium consumption—that templar lyrium use is entirely a scam sold to templars by the chantry (I mean... he's right), and is thoroughly unaware of his own fade sensitivity or that it does make him somewhat unique in this regard.

[vultures-and-scavengers]

so how long was kinloch under the control of demons?

because depending on how long you think it was taken over, add in the extra horror of the triple combo of dehydration, starvation and lyrium withdrawal to what cullen was going through.

i wonder if his nightmares being worse off lyrium could be influenced by the possibility that his trauma might have a connection to withdrawals.