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"I'm useless," she whispers, voice raspy and broken, and her eyes, always so vivid, are blunt and red, swollen from days of crying. They are dry now, as if there were no more tears left in her, and she's staring into the void.
"So fucking useless."
"No, no... love, you know this isn't true." But the truth is that Cullen feels useless as well. He lifts his hand to cup her chin, gently, carefully, but she turns her head away, she flees from his touch, and an almost inaudible, trembling sigh rises from her chest.
It hurts, desperation threatens to overwhelm him, and he swallows hard, trying to blink away his own tears. Relief, thankfulness, happiness about her survival, it's all replaced by pain and sorrow as he has to see her, his love–his wife–in such grief.
He doesn't know what else to say. Doesn't know how to help her, how to ease her pain. So he just sits with her, day by day, listening to her and holding her whenever she allows it. Her arm–what's left of it–is healing well, but she has barely left her chambers since they've returned to Skyhold. Returned home, but it will never be the same again. The Inquisition will change after this, he's said to her just a few weeks before, not even imagining what this words would truly mean for them.
Now, all he can do is giving her assurance that he's there for her, that he loves her, no matter what, until the end of his days, and he does, but he doesn't tell her that she's still whole for him, that her arm means nothing to him, nothing compared to her life. This isn't what she wants to hear. This isn't what she needs.
And he understands her pain, of course he does. She's been a fighter her whole life, just like himself. Now her swords are stored, hidden from her sight; get them out of here, she's screamed in anger as they've unpacked her travel bags. She's always loved being outside on the field, solving problems with her own hands, damn it, but diplomatic matters have never brought her pleasure, and even if they had–she can't write anymore.
She's been left-handed.
"Shit." Just this, a single curse, leaving his lips in a trembling whisper, and somehow it catches her attention. She turns her head towards him, eyes blinking and tears forming again, and the bluntness fades, if only for a moment, replaced by emotions, and her eyes are vivid again. There is sadness in them, but also, love.
"Yes. Shit," she answers, the smallest lopsided smile runs over her face, and he has hope again.
She'll heal. She always does. She's strong. She'll learn to use her other hand.
But then she looks away, fades away, and so does his hope as her eyes are emptying once more.
She's so broken. No... she can't, she can't be broken. Oh Maker, help us, tell me, what can I do? He runs his hands through his hair and prays, and hopes, and thinks.
And then there is... something. It's just an idea, scratching at the back of his head, slowly taking form now. But he doesn't know if it's possible, if there is any chance at all, so he can't tell her about it, not yet. He has to know first. He has to know now.
"Love, I have to go. But I'll be back soon." He leans over to kiss her forehead softly, and he's somewhat relieved that, this time, she doesn't move away from him, "alright?"
"Alright," she leans back, sinking deeply into the huge bed, closing her eyes, and he knows that she tries to flee back into sleep, into merciful oblivion.
It's hard to see her like this and even harder to leave her alone. But he smiles at her, then forces himself to get up and as soon as he's left her room, he all but runs down the stairs, heading towards the undercroft. Searching for the one who might help. If anyone might, then it's her.
"Dagna," he calls breathlessly as he rushes into the vault, and it takes all of his willpower to stay calm instead of grabbing her, shaking her as his heart pounds in sudden excitement.
"I need your help. Please."
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