Chapter Text
She hadn't meant to lead the Inquisition. There was work to be done and she was literally the only person in Thedas who could do it. You do the work that needs doing, that was all. Then suddenly she was in charge of an army and spies and solving international disputes? The issue of the rifts was huge with disastrous potentially world-ending consequences, but it wasn't particularly complicated? It had to be done, and it had to be done by her, so she did it.
The title of Herald hadn't sat well with her - it felt like a cruel joke to be named the messenger to the mortal bride of a god she didn't believe in and whose followers had cost her people so much despite all Andraste's last elven champion had done. She wondered if she would share a similar fate as Shartan, to die for them only to have the promises made to her abandoned and the very word of her deeds become heresy. The title of Inquisitor felt less barbed, at least, but so much heavier.
The first time she had felt herself begin to freeze up in the War Room, she had abruptly dismissed herself and all but fled to the newly excavated garden. Cullen, of all people, had found her squatting against the wall behind some shrubs, burying her fingers and toes in the dirt. He had leant casually beside her and looked up at the sky as he talked about how poorly he had handled inheriting the role of Knight-Commander in all but name. How Kirkwall had been a mess so he too had done the work that needed doing, but spent most nights staring at the walls of his office just thinking one phrase: "what the fuck?" She'd never heard him swear before and couldn't hold back her burst of laughter. He had smiled then and begun to tell tales of some of the hilariously bad decisions and coping mechanisms of himself and his fellow templars; he'd even teased that she'd met one or two of them and that their identities might surprise her. He'd talked and she'd unfurled, and when he'd offered his hand to help her up she'd surprised him with a hug to accompany her thanks. Not that plate armour was ideal for hugging but he'd blushed and flustered and she'd left feeling better about her reaction, if not the feelings that had prompted it.
The next few times, she'd been able to catch herself in time to politely request they reconvene in an hour or two before asking if Cullen could spare some time to join her in the garden. He'd always responded with a reassuring smile and a soft "of course, Inquisitor."
He'd told her stories of recruit's youthful antics, occasionally taking a fondly exasperated tone that she came to believe referred to one smart-mouthed and accident prone individual; she'd wondered if he was one of those she'd supposedly met. When enough of the tension in her body had eased and she could think again without a flood of panic, she'd offered her thanks and a hug which he'd returned with diminishing hesitation. When they were back in the War Room afterwards, she'd felt more equipped to do the work that needed doing.
After the 5th time, she'd decided that she needed to be more proactive. Some of these decisions she needed to make were time sensitive. While a diplomatic missive might benefit from an extra few hours to clear her head and give a more considered response, there were just as many occasions where such a delay would cost lives.
She'd sought out Cole. Or rather: she'd thought about seeking him out and had found him cross legged in front of her fire. His particular brand of cryptic kindness had been useful in helping her make connections she would have otherwise missed, and so she'd hoped he could bring her insight into how she might prevent her panic attacks rather simply cope with their aftermath. She'd asked him not to make her forget even if he got it wrong, insisting that there were still things she could learn from mistakes. He hadn't understood, but she'd trusted that he'd abide by her wishes. Despite the misgivings of several of her companions she'd grown close to the strange spirit-boy, fond and protective; she couldn't imagine him a demon. Surely no demon would be so adamant that they be destroyed if they crossed the line?
They had talked into the night. Sometimes she'd cried and he had held her. Other times he'd laid his head in her lap, his hat on his chest, as she'd run her fingers through his hair. They'd talked about how she'd felt, why she'd felt that way, her clan and why she had really left, their companions and her advisors and her reluctance to confide in them even as she'd coaxed and encouraged them to do so with her… all the things she'd been avoided talking or even thinking about wherever possible.
By the time dawn approached, she was exhausted and emotionally wrung out: but she had a plan.
Cole slipped out, leaving her sleeping at sunrise. Her staff hadn't roused her until the afternoon, firm in the belief that she'd needed her rest though none of them could say exactly why…