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There used to be a small, hopeful part of him that was convinced the headaches would get better over time. That the pain that constantly coursed through his blood would fade, that the nausea would subside. He'd thought - foolishly - that the further he got from that terrible time in his life, the easier it would get. That he could finally sleep, stop grinding his teeth until his jaw clicked every time it moved.
And yet here he is, hunched over his desk with his head in his hands, gasping in pain. It's his joints today; everything seems to be stuck, convincing his limbs to move takes effort he just can't afford. Holding a quill is damn impossible, and if he had to draw his sword for any reason...
As always, the lyrium sings softly from its small container on his bookshelf.
He thinks that perhaps if he can drag himself upstairs he'll be fine. He'll splash cold water on his face, crawl into bed, and perhaps sleep this terrible affliction off. But when he tries to step away from the desk his knees buckle, sending him crashing painfully to the ground. With a feeble groan he simply curls up there on the faded stone, submitting to the fact that he doesn't have the strength to handle the latter.
There's a knock at his door, because of course there is.
"Not now," he manages to bark, pushing himself slowly to his knees. "Come back in the morning."
There's a pause, and for a moment he thinks it worked. The interloper has retreated. After a long moment though the door opens and tentative footsteps move towards him.
"Vhenan?"
Cullen looks up to the sweet, worried face of Lavellan hovering over him. The elf seems to be dressed for sleep, in little more than an oversized linen shirt and leggings. He's got his usual faded blue cloak around him, though it's not fastened properly; he left his chambers in a hurry, that much is clear. Starlight silver hair hangs around his face in gentle waves. For a moment Cullen thinks of the blessed Andraste herself, saviour of the people.
He tries to pull himself together, forcing his legs to stand. "What's wrong?" He reaches out with trembling hands, cupping the Inquisitor's face and searching him for wounds. "Are you alright? What are you doing up this late?"
Lavellan looks confused, covering Cullen's hands with his much smaller ones. "No, I...I had a dream. You were calling to me, and...well, I woke up and I had to come see you." He turns his head, kissing Cullen's palm. "Are you hurting, my love?"
Cullen immediately flushes with shame. He hates to seem weak, to...need. Lavellan has so much on his plate, the last thing he needs is to worry that the commander of his army can't hold his position. Still, this relationship between them is new. It's soft, a tender new blossom cupped in his hands, and honesty is the only way to nurture it.
"It's the lyrium," he says slowly, stroking his thumbs over Lavellan's cheeks. The elf's skin is sun kissed, freckled from his time in the sun, but so blessedly smooth. "The pain is worse than normal. I'm sure I'll be fine though, it's nothing sleep won't soothe."
A small hand raised to his forehead, feeling his skin before smoothing back a few errant curls. "You're warm," Lavellan practically whispers. "You need rest. Can you make it up the ladder?"
The task seems daunting, but Cullen decides to make an attempt. With trembling limbs he makes his way up, whispering a silent prayer of thanks to Andraste when he reaches the top and manages to stumble into bed. Lavellan snuffs the candles below before following him up.
"I want to tell you you're pushing yourself too hard, but..." The elf sighs, silent understanding passing between them. They're only option right now is to keep going, no matter what befalls them. The very fate of the world depends on it.
Lavellan gently helps him out of his armour, and then down to his small clothes. The cool air feels blessedly gentle against his skin.
"I know how you feel about magic, but...will you let me help you, vhenan? Let me soothe your ache..."
A small, nagging voice in the back of Cullen's mind insists he refuse, but he's tired. Besides, this is Lavellan. The elf knows Cullen better than Cullen knows himself, can be trusted with his well being. With a sigh Cullen nods, shifting over a bit as Lavellan undresses and joins him in bed.
Hands rest gently on his cheeks, stroking for a moment before moving up into his hair. Clever fingers massage against his scalp, and that alone begins the ease the pain that shoots from his skull down to the soles of his feet. Lavellan shifts between massaging to tickling gently, and in no time as all the tension in his muscles begin to release. And then he feels the magic.
It's nothing alarming, not really. Just a gentle sort of warmth that trickles down his spine and into his limbs as Lavellan continues to play with his hair. The sensation seems to target the pain, chasing it from his knuckles, driving it from his shoulders and the base of his neck. In mere seconds he feels better than he has in months, loose and relaxed and calm.
"Maker," he breathes, eyes fluttering closed. "That's incredible."
Lavellan smiles sweetly, dropping a kiss on his lips. "See? There's no shame in needing help, sweet boy." The hands retreat, though one moves down to rest over his beating heart. "Now sleep. If you need this again in the morning we'll do it before the War Table."
Cullen snakes his arm around Lavellan's waist, drawing him close. "Stay with me?"
Lavellan laughs, as if it's an odd thing for Cullen to say. "And where else would I rather be?"