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When she stumbles into the War Room, it is too cold and quiet. Dragging a slack hand across her drooping face, she circles the dark chambers with the glowing flame kissing her fingernail. Lavellan lights the candelabras one by one and tugs her thick woollen robe tighter. She stares at the busy map at the centre of the room and comes to pass it, her hip brushing against the heavy table. Her advisors won't be long behind her.
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Lavellan yawns. It was late. Or was it early? She wasn't sure of much beyond the fact she was quite deeply wandering the Fade when her Spymaster had woken her by almost banging down the door in the dead of night.
"Inquisitor." Josephine meanders in, her wavy hair pooling over her shoulders. She carries a mug in her hand, and Lavellan assumes it is something to help wake the Diplomat.
The elf tries for some tired humour. "Morning, I think?"
"I do not believe I want to think about the hour quite yet," the Antivan admits, clutching her steaming drink and breathing in the vapours. Smells something akin to the Rivaini imports that had been finding their way into Skyhold’s kitchens.
"I believe you aren't wrong there."
Josephine always managed to appear remotely prepared and presentable no matter the hour. It was a strange gift; to be so dignified and professional even in your pajamas.
Cullen comes charging in to the War Council with Leliana hot on his heels. The Spymaster had set herself the task of gathering the advisors as soon as the raven had entered her Rookery.
Latching the door shut behind her, Leliana pulls her leather overcoat tighter to hide her thin tunic from the chilly air. She strokes back her tousled hair and approaches the gathered council.
"What's happened?" Cullen looks as if he is still trapped in some dream. His well kept hair was falling about his face in a messy frame, and his armour long forgotten and replaced with a loose tunic and his hastily thrown on wrap. Lavellan assumes he were actually sleeping for once.
"It is news from Hawke." Dropping a ripped envelope onto the table, Leliana crosses her arms. "She has reached the Western Approach and found some of the Wardens gathering."
The Commander blinks in a furious attempt to wake himself, but his gravelly voice affirms that he still has some time to recover from his sleep. "Do we need to send a contingency in?" Josephine pretends not to notice when he clutches the tables lip to steady himself.
"Wouldn't that give away Hawke and her Warden friend's position?" Lavellan takes up the letter and reads its contents for herself.
Leliana frowns and shakes her head. There is a slight smudge of makeup under her left eyelid and it's presence unsettles Cullen upon noticing it. The bard was ever immaculate. "I believe you will need to go in yourself, Inquisitor."
Lavellan groans out a long and pained sigh and returns the letter to the table with a forceful throw. "I only just got back from the Emerald Graves," she spits, the hour too early to tame her tone. "Why does this have to happen right now?"
"Well we can't just leave them there, Inquisitor," Cullen bites with a finger pinched to his brow.
"I wasn't suggesting we do, Commander," the elf hisses, grinding her heels on the stone floor. She sighs again and throws her hands out beside her in exaggeration. "Am I not allowed to complain about almost two week long trips on horseback while you sit behind these walls day in, day out?"
"Please, don't argue," Josephine winces into her mug. It was too early to placate a silly spat that the two would regret later anyway. She sips her drink.
"We're not arguing," Lavellan huffs. She glares pointedly at Cullen who stares back with an empty gaze. She already feels the guilt bubbling deep in her stomach.
"No. We're not," he concurs and rakes a hand through his curly hair with shaking fingers. "I will send word to Rylen then." A haunting breeze brushes the back of his neck, but Cullen resists the shiver that rattles in his gullet.
"Sorry," Lavellan mumbles to him in an aside. She receives a simple rolling shrug in return and a grunt.
"You will need to leave sooner rather than later, judging by Hawke's report." Leliana rounds the table to approach Josephine and peers over her shoulder at one of the reports the Diplomat is so focused on pinned to the Thesodian map.
The Inquisitor stretches and presses splayed palms to her tattooed face. She grinds her teeth crudely. "Alright, alright." Running her hands back, she brushes away her hair and squints at the map. "I'll gather a team and go right away."
"Shouldn't you at least sleep a few hours more before heading off?" Josephine looks almost offended by the notion, if she went so nauseatingly composed.
The scar fracturing Cullen's thin lip draws in when he frowns, which was sadly a common occurrence. "We cannot afford extra sleep, I'm afraid, Josephine." He itches his unshaven beard and makes a note to tend to it later once the sun rose.
"It's fine." The Inquisitor shrugs, making her way to leave. "I'll catch up... somehow. I guess."
Leliana retrieves some reports from her station on the War table. "I assume you will be taking Cassandra, no?" Thumbing through the pile, she withdraws some select sheets and weasels them away in her coat pockets. "I will wake her. She has fallen asleep in the library once again."
"Thank you." Lavellan withdraws her hands into her sleeves and tucks them under her armpits in an attempt to warm the icy tips. She yawns once more and shuffles her feet towards the exit. “Cullen, if you have any letters or reports you’d like to take with me, I can pass them on to Rylen.”
It takes a moment for the man to realise he was being spoken to, for he had managed to drift during the brief gap in conversation. His nightmares were insistent tonight, they simply would not let go even though he was far from his tower. “Hm? Ah, yes.” He pinches his brow. “Come past my office before you leave.”
The Inquisitor wastes no time in locating and rousing her chosen companions for the trip. Dorian is rugged up in his quarters above the garden, and Cole conveniently appears as she exits onto the balcony muttering something about painful whispers and choking prayers.
When she arrives at Cullen’s office, she has piled her usual gear over her bedclothes to save on time. Slipping in, she busies herself with attaching her utility belt and putting on one of her two gauntlets, the other waiting patiently in her bag.
He is leaning over his desk rifling through paperwork in search of his prize. It was so bizarre for him to look so unkempt, or to let the foggy haze of sleep linger on him for so long. They had had many late meetings in the War Council, and he had always been quite composed, if not exceptionally reserved.
“Ir abelas,” she blurts and it takes a moment for her to realise his confused expression was because of the language, not the words. Tugging the strap about her forearm tight, she talks into the armour. “I’m sorry. For what I said earlier. You work very hard.”
“I do,” he grunts. “And I’m sorry for misunderstanding you.” The irritating sound of pages flipping swallows any hope of a more elaborate reply.
Lavellan watches Cullen as he sorts through the seemingly endless stack on his desk. There is something heavy weighing down his shoulders tonight, as always, but it seems to be swallowing him whole. He usually carried himself much differently. She knew that he carried a past that haunted him, but it wasn’t until this moment that she realised that there was far more density to his history than he hinted at.
“Cullen, are you okay?”
He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”
She approaches the cluttered workspace, her boots clacking on the cold floor. She flexes her left hand, making sure the gauntlet is properly in place before resting the pointed tips on the wooden surface. Lavellan swallows the dry lump that has formed in her throat.
“I appreciate how much you do for the Inquisition.” It was no lie. She admired how much he cared for each and every troop beneath him, how he saw them as people with families and lives. He was a conscientious man, even if he was irritable and short on patience at times. “You are always the rational voice in my council.”
Plucking the documents he was searching for out of the pile, Cullen is quick to hand them to the Inquisitor with a steeled expression. Or was it sad? He mutters a “thank you” that sounds barely acknowledged. Lavellan takes the papers without much thought and hides them away in her satchel, more concerned with trying to make some headway with her troubled Commander.
“Would you prefer I not bring Cassandra with me on this excursion?” She is careful to keep her tone clean and gentle, nothing accusatory or threatening. Lavellan was aware that the Seeker and the Inquisition’s Commander shared some kind of secret council, although the topic of it was not known to her. The two warriors had a close bond, and she understood that Cassandra served as something of a mentor to Cullen. If he was having a hard time right now, it might not be best to leave him without his confidant.
The white knuckles of his clenched fist startle Lavellan, but she doesn’t allow her passive expression to change. “Why would you suggest that?”
“I’ve noticed whenever things appear to be bothering you, you will speak with her,” the Inquisitor tilts her head slightly. She opens her mouth to elaborate, but decides that may be asking for trouble that she doesn’t want.
“It’s fine,” Cullen growls, “I’ll be fine.” He still hasn’t looked at her once since she walked in the room.
Taking a chance, Lavellan reaches across the desk to place her ungloved hand atop his fist balled against the table’s lip. Her fingertips graze the hairs on the back and his scarred knuckles. She pats his hand in a sign of assurance before withdrawing back into her own space.
Turning her attention to her bag, she takes out her glove and begins applying her other gauntlet. “Ma nuvenin.” She glances back up but he continues to bore into his desk with his eyes alone. “I will leave you to your work. Or rest,” she shrugs, understanding that it is time for her to go.
Backing up a few spaces, Lavellan turns to make her exit. Working the straps on her armour, she has to pause her task momentarily to open the heavy door and a chilling breeze rushes in. “If you’d be up for it, I’d love to try another match of that shem game we played the other week,” Lavellan smiles, not expecting an answer. “Take care, Cullen.”
When the door claps shut behind her, he finds himself wishing she didn’t leave.