Chapter Text
Maegwin was surprised to see Cullen in the gardens this late at night: most of Skyhold had been asleep for some time, and dawn was still hours away. He sat on one of the scattered stone benches, facing away from her, and she only knew it was the former Templar by his blond hair and distinctive fur cloak. As she drew closer, she realized that something was wrong. Cullen was bent over, shaking hands in fists at his temples, breath pluming white in the frigid air as he murmured to himself.
"...Touch me with fire that I be cleansed, Tell me I have sung to Your approval. Oh Maker hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death, Make me one within Your glory, And let the world once more see Your favor, For You are the fire at the heart of the world, And comfort is only Yours to give." A stifled groan escaped his lips, and then he unsteadily began the verse from the Canticle of Transfigurations again. "Oh Maker hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights, Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, Make me rest in the warmest places. Oh Creator see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me, Stand only in places You have blessed, Sing only the words You place in my throat. My Maker know my heart, Take from me a life of sorrow, Lift me from a world of pain..."
Maegwin drew closer, walked around to face him, unable to bear watching her trusted advisor struggling without at least trying to help. "Cullen, are you all right?"
When he looked up at her, his face in the moonlight was bone white. "Yes," he forced out, and then doubled over, gasping. "No."
"What's wrong?" she asked gently, trying to keep the fear out of her voice as she kneeled. "Do you need a healer?"
"No healer. Tell no one," he ground out between clenched teeth. "Leave me."
Maegwin was nothing if not dutiful, but this was one order she could not follow. Leave him in the cold and the dark, with nothing but pain and whispered prayers? "Never." She didn't realize she'd said it aloud until she saw her breath fog the air. "Are you cold?"
It wasn't until she had begun to shrug off her cloak to give to him that he responded weakly, "My hands..."
"Give them to me," she commanded, and was surprised when he obeyed. She stripped off her gloves and his, clutched his icy fingers with her own warm ones, ashamed at the thrill of excitement she felt. Had she not often imagined what this would be like? Did she not feel a flutter in her stomach whenever she tried to picture his big, callused soldier's hands engulfing her own? The reality was far less pretty than her silly fantasies, but the uncomfortable warmth creeping into her cheeks could not be halted, even though she was consumed with anxiety and fear.
The tremor in his hands, which had momentarily stilled, now returned, and he clutched at her so tightly that she nearly cried out.
"Maker my enemies are abundant," he panted. "Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, Should they set themselves against me."
Maegwin had heard him recite this same prayer before, during the siege at Haven. When she had faced Corypheus, as he had held her aloft in one clawed hand like a child's doll, she had felt the words on her lips like honeyed wine. Afterward, as she lay sick and weak in the Inquisition's camp, certain she was dreaming, that she must still be staring into his dead eyes, still wandering cold and alone through the mountains, that Cullen's voice shouting, I've found her! was just a near-death hallucination, she had been unable to stop the chant pouring out. Cullen had sat at her side, repeating the Canticle of Trials with her until she had finally fallen asleep. She had assumed she had dreamed the entire thing: a Templar - even a former Templar - taking the time to comfort a Circle mage? It was absurd. She knew enough about his history to know that he had every reason to distrust mages, distrust her. It wasn't until a full month later, when Mother Giselle had made casual mention of it - seeing the two of you brought together by a shared faith in the Maker renewed my hope for a peaceful resolution to the mage rebellion - that she realized it had actually happened. Now she repeated the words with him, her heartbeat in her ears all but drowning out the susurration of their quiet voices.
"Maker though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What You have created no one can tear asunder. Though all before me is shadow, Yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light, And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost." They repeated the chant three times as his tremors eased, as did his grip on her hands, and finally his head dropped down to rest on hers, and there was nothing but stilllness. For an endless stretch of time, they stayed like that: Maegwin frozen in place like a startled hare, too afraid to move, and Cullen too wrung out. She listened to his breathing grow even, quietly thankful that whatever had held him in its clutches had finally let go.
"Are you feeling well enough to walk, Cullen? I would see you to bed." Her face grew hot. "Oh, that sounded terrible. You know what I meant."
His laugh was little more than a tired exhalation. "Are you going to magic me up the ladder, Inquisitor?"
"I could!" Hearing him joke, however weakly, made her smile. "But will you be able to get back down once I'm gone, Commander?"
"Not like this," he admitted at last.
She was already flushed and flustered, and what she was about to say would only make it worse, but she took the leap anyway: what other option was there? "Then you may rest in my room." Before Cullen could say anything, she hastened to add, "There is a couch if you prefer that to the bed, but I won't be sleeping: I haven't finished packing to leave for Crestwood at first light."
"That is... it's a-an awful idea. But I am so tired."
"You sound exhausted. Come on." Maegwin stood carefully, and when she pulled him up, he wavered on his feet until she held him steady with his arm over her shoulders. "All right?"
His response was hoarse, hardly more than a barely audible rumble. "Not yet."
She had to resist the urge to stand on tiptoe and kiss his forehead. "Take your time, Cullen."
"I - I can't... Talk to me. Please, I..."
Dear Maker, what could she possibly talk about? The best technique for casting a defensive barrier? What did a Templar and a Circle mage talk about, after all? She tried to remember what they'd discussed over chess, but it was all a nervous blur. What did they have in common besides the Inquisition?
"The Iron Bull," she began uncertainly, and Cullen's weak chuff of laughter bolstered her confidence. "I think I mentioned Bull asked me to include him on a dragon hunting expedition? I wasn't planning on bringing him to Crestwood, because the dragon wasn't a priority, but he got his hands on the scout reports and that was it. Blackwall won't tell me what was said or how much money traded hands, but Bull is now coming with me in the morning." As she spoke, prattling on about the Iron Bull's fascination with dragons, she allowed Cullen to set the pace as they made their painstaking way across the garden and through the deserted throne room. The stairs to her chambers may as well have gone on forever, and by the time they reached the top, even Maegwin was thinking I can't.
"Not the bed, not the bed, the couch. Maegwin..." Cullen sounded as though he were fighting being sick all over the rug, and indeed, when she eased him onto the couch, he looked distinctly green. She ran for the pail that the servants kept in the storage room nearby, brought it back to him.
"Are you going to be ill?"
He closed his eyes and said faintly, "Maker, I hope not."
"Here, just in case," she told him, bending to place the bucket at his feet. "Let me take off your boots and armor, and you can lie down."
"No, you've done enough."
Looking up, she shook her head, even though he couldn't see it. "Cullen, when a woman does these kinds of things without being asked, it is a rare and precious gift."
The scarred side of his mouth quirked up in a tiny, crooked smile that, despite the circumstances, made Maegwin's heart leap. Neither of them spoke while she tugged at laces, leather straps and metal buckles, removing his boots, greaves and cloak before moving up to the pauldrons and breastplate.
"Like a child," he muttered when she was through. Sitting there limply in just breeches and a thin doublet, Maegwin had to admit that he did not look at all like the imposing figure he normally presented.
"No," she told him simply, laying the armor, cloak and leather doublet and breechs neatly on the bed nearby. It wasn't until she had gotten Cullen settled in with a pillow and blanket that she teased him by saying, "Like a lobster." Through the pallor, a blush crept over his face, and she laughed quietly to herself.
"I suppose I owe you an explanation," he sighed, gazing blearily at her. "You deserve the truth."
Though she did dearly want answers, this was not the time. "It can wait until I return. You need to rest."
"Maegwin, I have stopped taking lyrium." His words were quiet, but all the same, they sounded like a thunderclap. The silence afterward was profound, full of expectation. "You know that lyrium is what grants Templars our power, but it's used to control us, as well. After Kirkwall, I couldn't... I will not be bound to the Order, or that life, any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it. I have asked Cassandra to... watch over me. I will not allow the Inquisition to suffer because of me. If I am no longer able to fulfill my duties, Seeker Pentaghast is to relieve me and name a new commander." As he talked, she could hear the sleep creeping into his voice. Just a few questions, she promised herself, and she would let him rest.
"Is it always this bad?"
"The pain comes and goes, though normally it is not as bad as tonight. My hands get cold, sometimes they shake. I often get anxious and paranoid, start to think I'm back in the Circle Tower..." He shook his head minutely. "I... have nightmares: without lyrium, it's easier to remember all the things I'd rather forget. And yet, it's harder to think. The fatigue, I suppose."
"Cullen, if this could kill you-- "
"It hasn't yet."
"And you're willing to risk it? Quitting means that much to you?"
"It does."
"Then I respect your decision. Thank you for telling me. How-how long have you been..?"
"Several months. Since I joined the Inquisition."
Several months. Several months in which Maegwin had teased him about the dark circles under his eyes, needled him about working too hard, and begun serving tea to her advisors during the morning war councils because Cullen, at least, always seemed to need it. Several months in which he had run her through drills with a sword several times a week, only asking Blackwall, Cassandra, or the Iron Bull to take over when she went out on missions. Several months in which he had been privately dealing with - My Maker, know my heart, Take from me a life of sorrow, Lift me from a world of pain - a monstrous addiction.
"All those times I teased you! I hit you with swords!" she exclaimed, horrified. "I'm so sorry, I - "
"No," he said muzzily, already half asleep. "I-I appreciate your levity." "
Well, it's nice to know that someone besides Dorian does."
"Will you please inform Cassandra of my... that I..."
"I will tell her that you are indisposed. Sleep well, Cullen. Feel better."
The crooked smile returned for just a moment. It was enough.