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She looks Dorian in the eyes as she crumples to the ground, run through by the sword of a Freeman soldier. Her first and last thought before she hits the ground is “Not here.”
There are fleeting moments of consciousness after that, the soft grass beneath her cheek, being carried in someone’s arms (Bull? Was Bull on this trip with her? She cannot remember.), panicked voices of soldiers and healers, the weight of her armor being stripped away by strange hands.
She dreams of her mother. She dreams of coming home for the first time in over a year, with her scarred face and unevenly cut hair. “My darling girl, what’s happened to you?” She asks, her voice sad and distant and warmer than she remembers. “I never should have let you go to the Conclave.”
Who would have taken my place? She does not ask. She figures it would have been someone more capable.
--
It is at least a three days hard ride from the Emerald Graves back to Skyhold and she does not fully wake up the entire time. The camp’s healers set up a bedroll in the back of one of the supply wagons, her party members take turns monitoring her fever, which does not seem to relent in the slightest.
On the morning of the fourth day, when the retinue finally pulls through Skyhold’s entrance, there is panic when she is not at the helm. It is the commotion that draws Cullen out of his office and down the stone stairs to join the gathering crowd. When he sees the wagon, he fears the worst; her body, cold and limp, returned to the fortress for a hero’s burial. He watches as the Chantry healers rush forward and move her onto a cot; from the distance, he sees her limbs twitch.
She is alive, for the time being. He startles when Cassandra places a hand on his shoulder, she gives him a knowing nod.
--
The soldier stabbed through the only region of her body not protected by armor, a thin sliver of exposed flesh; the blade just missed the vital organs in her abdomen, piercing right below the edge of her rib cage. At least, that is what Cullen was able to gather from the healer’s prognosis. Admittedly, his ability to process the information is compromised as he keeps glancing over the man’s shoulder to her bed.
He dismisses the healer, thanks him for the report, and shuts the door behind him. As soon as he is alone with her, he rushes to her bed side to really assess her condition for himself. She is drenched in sweat, her hair damp and matted. She’s shivering, her fever probably on the verge of breaking. The wound is covered by blankets, but he can’t imagine that it looks good.
The healers wiped the old blood from her skin and dressed her in a fresh chemise and bandages. The mark on her hand pulses and she breathes, which he is fairly certain doesn’t happen normally.
He pulls a chair up next to her bed, places the back of his hand to her forehead. Warm, but not dangerous. The fluttering of her eyelashes ceases at the contact, her head shifting to nuzzle into the feeling.
“Cullen.” She says, half-waking; not a question, just an affirmation that she knows its him.
“I’m here.” He responds, dumbly, moving his hand from her forehead to awkwardly stroke her hair instead.
She tries to open her eyes, lashes sticky and lids heavy. “S’cold.”
“I can send someone to bring you more blankets.” When he moves to get up, her hand weakly finds his, tugging at him.
“No, stay.” It takes him a moment to realize what she’s asking. “Lay with me.”
They have kissed a few times in the past, shared brief moments of intimacy, but never anything more. He’d never even seen her in her nightclothes until now. The bed is big enough for the two of them to lay beside each other without touching, he wouldn’t want to accidentally aggrevate the wound.
“Cullen,” she reaches for him blindly, “please.”
“Alright, yes…of course.” He nods to himself; he’s stared down demons and yet he’s petrified to lay next to a woman.
He begins removing pieces of his armor, anything with a hard edge that could potentially hurt her. Once he’s down to his linen undershirt and trousers, he walks to the other side of the bed, gingerly laying ontop of the blankets.
“Thank you.” She croaks, “Will you hold me?”
And oh, how he wants to. “Are you sure? You won’t overheat?”
In answer, she turns herself over onto her non-injured side. The act takes more effort than it should, her expression pained. He slowly lifts the blankets and slide under them, coming up behind her, slowly.
He isn’t quite sure what to do with himself, where to put his hands. He’s never done this before. She reaches behind herself to hold his wrist, bringing his arm over her chest. Careful to avoid the bandages covering her wound. His chest pressed gently to her back, he keeps a respectful distance from the rest of her body, moving his legs and hips as far away from her’s as possible.
She sighs contentedly, and settles once more, it is almost too much for him to handle. Theres a pang of emotion in his chest when he realizes that she sleeps in this big bed alone every night. Does she have nightmares, like I do?
After a few moments, her breathing evens once more and she is asleep. He kisses the back of her head, breathing her in. She smells of the road, though it isn’t unpleasant—smoke from nightly fires, earth and mountain air. She also smells of the soap the healers scrubbed her with, fresh linen, a hint of lavender.
Maker, he thinks, what am I doing?
The sun is setting outside the window leading out to her large balcony. His limbs are heavy, his head throbbing with a dull ache, he cannot resist letting his eyes slip closed along with her. They breathe together, and within a few minutes he slips under with her.
--
He does not dream of anything. He does not startle awake, or scream, or beg for his life. He wakes the next morning, confused for a moment at his unfamiliar surroundings, but comfortable. He shifts to make sure his bedmate is alright, and then goes into a state of panic when she is not there with him.
He frantically looks around the room, about to call her name, until he realizes that she’s standing on the balcony arms braced against the railing, looking out at the view. The wind mussing her hair even further, the sun shining through thin fabric of her chemise and making her the lines of her silhouette visible underneath.
He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. Stop thinking about her body. Just…Stop thinking.
He stands, making his way to where she is, leaning against the wall. “You should be resting.”
She turns to him, smiling. “Well, good morning, Commander.” Her voice is mostly recovered, the color returned to her face.
Despite the cool air, he feels his cheeks get warm. “Ah, um… Good morning.”
“I’m feeling much better, really. I think I just needed to sleep in a real bed for a while.”
“Does it…are you still in pain?”
“It’s an ache, really, it could be worse.”
“You almost died.”
“I promise, killing me will take much more than one brave bandit.”
He sighs, coming to stand next to her. “That’s not as reassuring as you think.”
A silence falls over the two of them and she regards him, there is a bitter taste in his mouth when he realizes that he might actually lose her someday.
“Thank you… For staying with me. I’m sure you had much more important things to attend to.”
“I didn’t,” He says, too quickly. “I, ah, I mean—”
A smirk spreads across her face and she cocks a dark eyebrow.
“Your well-being is important to me, Inquisitor, its important to all of us.”
“Do you think Cassandra would’ve lain with me, if I asked?”
He sputters, and she laughs. He loves the sound so much it makes him forget his embarrassment.
“I mean it, Cullen. Thank you.” She places a hand over his on the banister, turning her gaze back to the endless view of the mountains.
“And you’re welcome here whenever you tire of that hole in your ceiling