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Evelyn’s hands trembled as she reached for the quill. She paused, flexing her fingers and trying to breathe for a moment. She needed to steady them, to sign this last letter, and then to pretend she was fine when her advisors came in for a meeting.
There were endless meetings, and even more endless letters. She had thought they would slow once Corypheus was defeated. But Evelyn was not fine. Evelyn’s body had sustained more trauma in the past few months than it had ever been intended to take. The stones falling on and around her as pieces of Skyhold tumbled back down to the ground had pelted her, leaving bruises and cuts despite her armor. And she had removed her helmet to check on Morrigan’s broken body - a mistake. What had hit her? Corypheus’s magic? A stone? Something else? She couldn't remember and it didn't matter.
Her hands had started shaking after that. The nausea came more often too, though that was easier to hide. She wondered if she was dying, if Corypheus would take a final victim even from the grave.
She wondered, too, if Solas, with all his deep healing magics, could have helped her. That, too, didn't matter.
What did matter was the sound of Cullen’s boots on the stairs. They had moved the War Council up to her room of late, as she claimed sun and air and peace were now their goal, rather than the dramatic darkness of the stained-glass light in the War Room. And Cullen always arrived first. Always held her hand until it stopped shaking. Always whispered comforts into her ear before Leliana and Josephine could follow up the stairs.
They would know, of course. Leliana knew so much - too much - and it was only Evelyn’s pride and Cullen’s refusal to betray her trust that kept Evelyn’s deterioration from becoming a subject of discussion. That was only a matter of time. Maybe today she would ask them about it. Ask them if there was a healer they knew, or an herb poultice that could be brewed. Something to stave off the nightmares or the tremors or her inability to focus properly.
She signed her name and slipped the quill back into the cup. Cullen called her name lightly as he came up, and she smiled genuinely. Perhaps it did not reach her eyes in the same way it once had. Perhaps she did not illuminate a room anymore, as they told her she had at Halamshiral. But his voice still calmed her, warmed her, and kept her safe. Maker knew that without Cullen...
She wouldn't finish that sentence. That too, had become part of her regimen of nightmares, heightened by the death she’d seen in the Envy demon’s world. She balled her hands into fists before they could start to shake again.
His hands were on her hair, smoothing over her shoulders, pressing the tension out of them without a word. She tried to relax into him and take a deep breath. His scent wound through her lungs, releasing the built up stress that seemed to live there. She wondered, perhaps, if she should have agreed, should have pursued him, should have acquiesced to the look in his eye that practically sang hymns of adoration to her. She wanted no more hymns then, and now had nothing to offer. She was broken, used up by this fight. She was a resource spent on the efforts to defeat Corypheus and the Venatori, and there were more days that she thought she was the coddled elder, respected out of old accomplishment rather than current usefulness. She saw the story of their battles written in her scars, and now in the shaky, spidery lines of her own signature.
“How is today?”
“If I have to sign another letter, I’ll scream.” She smiled weakly, the fear in her eyes never really hidden from him. “Then again, I’m not sure I could convince my hand to sign another letter at all.”
“Here, drink some of this. I had the Chargers’ healer mix this up. He’s a very discrete fellow, and I only told him it was for weakness after the fight.” He poured a bit of the tonic he had brought into her cup, then watched with a physician’s eye as her hand unballed and reached toward the glass. It shook slightly, and she felt one hand on her shoulder lift, ready to snatch the glass if it looked like she might let it fall.
She lifted it to her lips, the liquid vibrating against her mouth as her hand held the glass unsteadily. It tasted like embrium, elfroot, and something she couldn’t name. It slid down the back of her throat as though racing to get through her stomach to whatever part of her was broken. She tried to keep breathing.
“Josephine asked about you. I think she knows that not all is well.” His voice was soft, leading her to agree, perhaps, that it was finally time to confess. “You are the Inquisitor, Evelyn, regardless of the steadiness of your hands. You have a steadiness of heart, of spirit, of purpose…”
“What purpose, Cullen? That which we began to do is done. Corypheus is dead. The Venatori dispersed or driven underground. Orlais is stable under its new emperor. Fereldan, Nevarra, Antiva… even the Free Marcher cities owe the Inquisition debts. By Andraste, even the Imperium acknowledges that the fight is ours. We are done. We have no purpose.” She slumped away from his hand, petulant in her ailing. “I have no purpose.”
His hand reached around her to touch her cheek, and she caught his face in the corner of her eye before Leliana’s voice lifted from the landing below. “Inquisitor? May we come in?”
“Of course,” Evelyn called, forcing herself to look away from Cullen’s frustratingly concerned face. She was broken, didn't he understand that? “The Commander and I were just discussing some of the developments in the Marches.”
Cullen knew his cue. When she called him the Commander, he stepped back into that role. He stepped away from her, stacking the letters she had signed into a pile that he added to his own stack of paperwork.
“Of course. Ostwick, has, of course, been leading the way in the continued purge of Venatori influence from the region. Your family has some of your qualities, Inquisitor.” Josephine’s voice was soft. Evelyn was disgusted with herself for making the ambassador use a voice that she would use with a child. She did not want their pity. She did not want to need their help.
“Any news from the Frostback Basin, Leliana?”
“I’ll forward you the report, Inquisitor. The researcher there has been very thorough, and of course the gratitude of Orlais, though unofficial, has made itself known in other ways.”
“Good. Ameridan left many secrets, some of which could transform Thedas. We want those secrets in the right hands.”
“Of course, Inquisitor.” The meeting droned on, with Evelyn pretending that she could keep everything in order, her hands carefully in her lap and her eyes sharply evaluating what her body could not investigate. Agents were dispatched where before she would have tread. Alliances were leveraged, and troops moved. And the Inquisitor stayed in her great capital.
“One last thing, Inquisitor, if I may. We received word that a dispatch from King Alistair is on its way from Denerim. We do have some documents drawn up that it may be wise to send on the messengers return trip, if you might sign them.” Josephine’s voice held concern that Evelyn wanted none of.
Evelyn had always been a prideful creature. She was her father’s mistake - a final insulting girl to add to a line of other girls - and the scorn she had received had only sharpened her edge. There was no physical limitation she would not challenge in front of others. Even this small thing, this tiny request to press a quill to paper, to put her name to something… she could not refuse. “Of course. Let me see them.”
She held her hand out, using every ounce of her training to keep it steady as she snatched the paperwork out of Josephine’s hand. It barely shook as she set it on the desk. Her eyes scanned it quickly, in truth feigning attention to the review while she breathed to calm her jolting nerves. She could sign this in front of them, make them believe she was alright. Her hand extended to the inkwell, her fingers stretched…
It was only Cullen’s quick reflexes that prevented her tremor from knocking over the inkwell. He said nothing, only righted the tilting container, but they had seen. They had all seen. “I’ll sign it later this evening. The messenger will at least stay overnight. He can take it with him when he returns to Denerim. I’ll speak to you all later.”
Her advisors were dismissed, they knew, and Josephine and Leliana departed. They had always known, she realized. She had been a pompous fool to think she was keeping it from anyone, especially them. She stood from her chair and walked to the balcony. Cullen kept a distance, lingering in the shadows of her room as she stepped into the sunlight. “Ameridan died alone.” She said simply. It hung in the air, a prophecy, a pronouncement.
Cullen’s body was warm as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. Her fingers traced the lines of his arm, feeling his heartbeat through the layers between them. He was so perfect, couldn't she just… No, he was better than her weakness. If anyone could succeed her, he could. He could take up the mantle of Inquisitor, if it was necessary. He had close ties to Cassandra - Divine Victoria, now - and had the trust of the thousands of faithful that the Inquisition had amassed. He was a good man, and the world could do worse than Cullen Rutherford wielding the power of the Inquisition.
“You are not Ameridan.” The words were against her hair, light and warm and full of promises she couldn't accept or keep.
“No, but I’m not so far off.” She gave in, for a moment, to the deception he was weaving with his calming breath on her ear. “I never thought my life would be this. I always thought I would be sent off to be a Chantry sister, or even a Templar. I thought I would bring the Maker’s blessing to this world by force of will, word, and sword. Or children. As wife to a minor bann somewhere in Fereldan, sent far away from my father’s face to scrape a living out of harsh lands and treacherous politics. But here I am. The Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. Marked by magic that does not belong to me or my people, bound to a being of which I know nothing, and unable to wield a sword without shuddering to my core. And alone.”
“Not that.” He spun her in his arms, and her eyes cast away. There was too much there, in his eyes, and it made her chest hurt. Too many hopes and fears and possibilities and it was crushing her. “You are not alone, Evelyn. There are so many in Skyhold who would do anything for you. Not because you wield a sword or the Anchor, but because you are gracious and kind and honorable and beloved of nearly everyone you meet.” He paused. “Except the Venatori. They don’t seem to like you much.”
She chuckled, a gasping sound, despite herself. “No, I suppose they don’t. The mages of Fereldan don’t particularly like me either.”
“They will, in time.”
“Time is not in my favor, Cullen.” She lifted a trembling hand where he could see it, watching his eyes with a challenge. Her pride rose with her anger. He would see. He had to see. She was broken and beyond being Inquisitor anymore. Beyond being beloved of everyone. Beyond him.
“It is in none of our favor, Evelyn. We look back on years as though were moments, and we can only hope we’re making the most of the ones coming up.” He brushed her hair back, his forehead leaning against hers. “I… You…” He paused. “Let me help you make the most of it. Whatever time, whatever challenges come to either of us. You are not Ameridan. Don’t force me to leave you.”
Evelyn’s eyes blurred. He was close, so close, so easy to just say yes, to just disappear into this moment. To stop feeling guilty and clumsy and wrung out. He promised nothing, and so could break no promises. “You deserve more than what is left of me, Cullen. Maybe once, before I…”
His hands tightened on the side of her head, forcing her to make eye contact. “Stop. You are not a shell of what you were. You are not broken. You are beautiful. You are brilliant. You are strong and kind and even wise. There is no one better than you in this world or, Maker forgive me for blaspheming, any other. You are loved more than should be possible, and you deserve every bit of it. Understand that. Whatever you think you are, know that I would not lie to you - you are so perfectly you that no one else could compare.”
She could stay, she could sink into his arms and be safe. She knew this - who better to take care of her now? But part of her whispered she was selfish, wanting to take this man away from the rest of the world and make him hers when she could offer nothing in return. He was offering her everything, and she could take it.
“You already give up so much just to take care of me, I couldn't ask…”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” Something in his manner changed, and his spine straightened almost imperceptibly. “No, I’m telling you that I will take care of you. That I will care for you. That the woman I care for is not defined by her ability to sign documents or hold a sword.”
Evelyn raised a hand to touch Cullen’s cheek, but flinched when she trembled. He pressed it to his face, holding her gaze as he did. So rarely did Cullen take a stand like this. More often he was hesitant, vulnerable even. But he was immovable as a mountain on this, it seemed. She looked at her hand, propped up and stilled by his body. She didn't know what she could offer him, but if he wanted her - wanted her despite knowing better than anyone else how damaged she was - then she would let him have her. And she would have him.
Hadn't he once told her all his dark and terrible secrets, the things that kept him up at night, the horrors he’d seen in Kinloch Hold, in Kirkwall, and in his own mind? Hadn't she forgiven him all his darkness without a thought? She loved him, whether those words would ever trip from her tongue or not. She was not a blithe girl who declared her intentions to every attractive man. And if she said this, if she let this happen, she would die with it on her heart. “Is she defined by her affection for you?”
Cullen’s face softened, and a hint of a smile pulled his lips upward. “No, but it is a pleasant addition.” His smile turned to press a kiss against her hand. Then her wrist. She leaned into him as he touched his lips to her forehead, then her temple, then the tip of her nose. “Because my affection for her is no small thing.” He touched his lips to hers and she breathed him in. This was right. This was good. This was steady.
When she braced one hand against the balcony, she slid her fingers to Cullen’s collar. Neither hand trembled.