Archive of Our Own

There had been much to do to prepare for the Herald’s return to Redcliffe, and Cullen had continued working well beyond the point of reason. The discussion of mages had dragged Cullen’s memories of Kinloch Hold to the forefront of his mind and made them vivid once more. Images of his dead comrades and charges littering the floors and of blood and entrails splashed across the walls like some sort of macabre décor flashed behind his eyes leaving him with no appetite, but plenty of anxiety over what horrors would plague his dreams that night. He did not want to doubt the Herald or his colleagues, but he feared they were making a grave mistake.

Alone at the war table, fatigue began to take its toll as he ran out of distractions. He could no longer ignore the consistent dull ache behind his eyes or the way his hands had started to shake. The stone walls around him reminded him of those of the Circle tower, and thoughts of the tower and walls conjured memories of the cage the mages crafted to contain him while they tried to break his mind. He needed to leave that room before he was overwhelmed with fear. He needed to be somewhere open.

Cullen fled from the room and stumbled through the main doors of the Chantry into the cold night air. It eased his panic only slightly, and did even less for his other symptoms. Sweating and shaking, his head throbbing, stomach churning, and skin crawling—these were the consequences of his decision to forsake lyrium, and combined with the stress of the day’s work and his fatigue it was almost unbearable.

His mind raced with thoughts about of all the potential ways the decision to ally with the rebel mages could end in disaster. What would happen if Alexius did somehow manage to kill the Herald? Without her mark there was no hope of closing the Breach. What would happen if he was right and the magic used by the mages only made the situation worse? Would templars even be able to suppress the magic of the Breach if it grew any larger? What if there were abominations among the mages? They could wreak havoc on Haven and with so few templars among the Inquisition’s ranks to stop them…

“Commander?”

The sound of his title and the familiarity of the voice pulled him away from his thoughts, and he realized that his eyes were closed and he was leaning against the outer wall of some building. He felt the pressure of someone’s grip on his arm and then a hand cupping his cheek.

“Look at me.”

The voice was feminine and low, but Cullen still couldn’t place the owner. Whoever it was she was trying to help so he obliged the request. When he opened his eyes he found himself looking into darkness. Eyes of black and purple with split pupils stared back at him. They were eyes he knew all too well, and fear seized him as the demon’s lips curved upwards into a smirk. She moved her hand from his cheek and pressed the back of it to his forehead, and Cullen squeezed his eyes shut again.

“You don’t look well, Commander.”

There was no demon. She was not touching him or taunting him. It was in his mind. This was not a new sensation, and it would pass as it always did. He tried to control his breathing and force his thoughts towards something— anything —else, but he could still feel her hands on him, gripping his arms. It felt so real this time.

“Can you hear me? Are you all right, messere?”

Messere ? He hadn’t heard that form of address since he left the Free Marches. His eyes snapped open as the realization hit him, and he found Lady Trevelyan looking up at him.

Cullen breathed a sigh of relief, and straightened his posture as she released her grip on his arms. He felt weak and nauseous, not to mention foolish, but the fear had passed.

“It's just you,” he said.

Trevelyan scoffed.  “Yes, it's just me.”

“That's not—”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Cullen. “Thank you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head to one side. She did not call him a liar, but her narrowed eyes and raised brow suggested the accusation clearly enough.

“I will be fine.”

She sighed and shook her head, and then hooked her arm with his before he could react to protest. “Come with me.”

“Please. There’s no need for you to fuss, Herald. I ju—”

“I know something that might help,” she said as she led him towards the tavern. “It’s no trouble.”

Cullen knew there was nothing she could do to alleviate his symptoms, but he had no desire to explain his situation. They entered the empty tavern together, and she led him to a table in the corner where the room was darkest. He sat on the far side of the table so that his back was to the wall. Once he was seated and moderately comfortable he felt the aches his panic had masked before seeping into his muscles.

“It’s a headache, isn’t it?” asked Trevelyan, and when he nodded she gave him a gentle smile. “I thought so. I need to borrow something from the apothecary’s supply. Just wait here.”

“Herald—”

“My name is Cat, and if you aren’t here when I get back I’ll be forced to bring it to your quarters and wake everyone else in the process.”

Cullen rubbed his hands down his face and sighed. She was trying to help, and there was no harm in allowing it if she was so insistent. “Very well.”

With that Trevelyan took the kettle from the hearth and headed for the door, and left him in quiet solitude. Cullen rolled his neck and groaned at its stiffness. His headache was still worst behind his eyes, but the pain radiated through his entire skull. The sick feeling in his stomach came and went in waves, and every time it returned it brought tremors as well. He was going to need rest to recover, but he knew already sleep would not come easy and when it did he would be dogged nightmares. Even if he slept through the night he would not wake feeling refreshed.

It was not long before Trevelyan returned carrying a small container along with the kettle. Cullen turned his attention back to the insides of his eyelids as she banged around behind the bar, shushing inanimate objects and admonishing herself ( “Quiet, Cat, you useless twit.” ) for making so much noise.

For a moment he wondered if he should offer assistance, but before he got the chance she popped up from behind the bar having procured a clean mug. She glided around the bar towards the hearth and placed the kettle on its stand before going to work on lighting the fire. A look of surprise lit up her face as she managed to light it on the first attempt. She must have been accustomed to having servants take care of such menial tasks for her.

That was unnecessary , thought Cullen. He knew very little about the Herald of Andraste, but she had shown him only kindness since their first conversation. Whenever she wasn’t out in the wilds of Ferelden she often sought him out just to talk, asking him about his history, his time with the Templar Order, and teasing him about celibacy vows. He blushed at the memory of how he’d stuttered out his response to that particular inquiry.

“It won’t be long before it’s ready,” said Trevelyan, and he winced and groaned as the sudden noise sent a sharp pain through his head. “That bad?”

“I’m fine, really,” he protested.

“My brother, Gabriel, gets terrible headaches,” she said, setting the mug on the table as she sat across from him. “He taught me this remedy after I found him curled up in a pantry at our elder brother’s wedding reception.”

Hearing the name jogged Cullen’s memory, and he recalled that Leliana had mentioned that Lady Trevelyan had many family members in the Ostwick branch of the Templar Order, including a brother who was a knight-lieutenant. He wondered if Gabriel had ever told her the cause of his headaches. She might even be aware of the effects of stopping lyrium with so many family members numbering among the Templars. He decided not to ask to avoid revealing more than she needed to know.

The kettle started to whistle and Trevelyan jumped to her feet, rushing over to the hearth to snatch the kettle away from the heat before the sound became any louder.

She’s considerate , thought Cullen. And lucky she’s wearing gloves.

She returned to the table and poured some of the liquid from the kettle into the mug, and then she slid it across the table to him. “Don’t drink it yet. Just breathe in the vapor while it cools.”

Cullen pulled the mug closer and did as he was instructed. The warmth alone was pleasant, but there was something about the aroma that was soothing. It did little for his headache, however. “What exactly is this remedy of yours?”

“Tea brewed with royal elfroot and a bit of spindleweed,” she said. “It doesn’t sound impressive, but it gets him on his feet and helps him sleep.”

“Why royal elfroot? Wouldn’t elfroot suffice?”

“I certainly hope so because it’s all Adan had,” said Trevelyan. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “But to answer you question: we use royal elfroot because we’re noble fops.”

Her bluntness caught him off guard and Cullen snorted trying not to laugh. He looked to her to apologize, but stopped short as the words caught in his throat at the sight of her smile. Their eyes met for only a moment before she averted her gaze, clearing her throat and brushing a lock of her black hair behind her ear as she looked off into the darkness to her right. He looked down into the mug in front of him, but smiled to himself at her reaction.

“You know, Commander,” she said, the more familiar satisfied smirk on her lips this time. “You’re very handsome when you smile.”

“I, ah—thank you, my lady.”

Trevelyan raised her eyebrows and her grin spread wider. “My lady? Well, you certainly know how to make a girl swoon.”

Cullen started to stammer out a response, but she chuckled and leaned forward to place her hand on his forearm. This time when their eyes met neither looked away.

“I was kidding, Commander.” She leaned back in her chair, looking down at her lap then back to him. “I… I think we both should get some rest. I hope it helps.” She gestured towards the mug as she got to her feet.

“I’m sure it will,” said Cullen, his voice low. Her scowl could have been her neutral expression returning, but the way she lingered implied concern or perhaps uncertainty so he smiled before he added, “Thank you.”

Her smile spread wide enough to show teeth for a moment before she restrained herself and nodded. “Goodnight, messere.”

Cullen furrowed his brow as she turned away and started for the door, and he called after her, “You mean, ‘serah,” don't you?”

“I know what I said,” said Trevelyan, looking over her shoulder as she disappeared through the door.

A smile crept back onto his lips. Cullen had no love or patience for nobles, but Lady Trevelyan was, at the very least, not as foppish as her peers, regardless of her claim to the contrary.