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Cullen never enjoyed sea travel, but he didn’t remember his first trip across the Waking Sea being so dismal. Perhaps it was the sense of imminent dread from the upcoming Conclave. Perhaps it was the bite of the wind cutting through his tunic. Or perhaps it was the vials of lyrium that sat untouched in his cabin. Whatever the reason, Cullen spent most of the trip sitting on deck with his back against the railings, trying (and mostly succeeding) not to be sick.
To be fair, none of them liked their present circumstances. Cassandra stomped about the deck, as if her impatience could will the ship to go faster. Varric complained loudly about his legs being too short to be “sea legs.” The crew of the ship ignored them all, for which Cullen, at least, was thankful.
On the eve of the second day, Cullen was feeling particularly miserable. He had wrapped himself up in a coat he had from years prior, the giant fur collar providing a modicum of relief from the wind. His hands were shaking too much to hold the mug of warm cider Cassandra had passed to him, so he set it next to him on the deck, its sweet aroma a contrast to the sea air. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his hands and quiet his head through steady breaths and force of mind.
“Hey, Curly. How’re you doing?”
Cullen glared, or gave as much of a glare as was possible while keeping his eyes closed.
“That good, huh?” Cullen heard shifting of fabric and a slight groan as Varric sat next to him. “You want to be left alone? You’ve been quiet.”
Cullen shrugged. “Not especially,” he said. “Just trying to collect my thoughts.”
“I get it,” Varric said. “After the whole mess in Kirkwall, there are a lot of thoughts to collect.”
“Yes.” Cullen opened his eyes, and stared up at the sky. The stars shone brightly. He tried to pick out a constellation or two, as he did so many nights when he was a child, but couldn’t find any that are familiar. Either time or lyrium had taken that knowledge away. He frowned.
“The Seeker said something nice to me today,” Varric continued. “She almost fell into me when the ship lurched, and said ‘Excuse me’ before she realized who she was talking to.”
Cullen continued to stare into the sky. Was that The Oak to the west?
“I think she’s warming up to me. Maybe by the time we get to the Conclave she’ll even smile for me! Won’t that be a sight to see.”
Or was it The Maiden?
“Ten royals that I can get her pants off before we get off the ship.”
Cullen sighed. “Only when nugs fly, Varric.”
“Ah,” Varric smiled, “so you were listening.”
“Yes,” Cullen said. He judged that his hands were now steady enough to lift his mug, and he took a careful sip of his cider. “I just didn’t have anything to say.”
“It’s okay, Curly,” Varric said, settling against the railing, “I can talk instead. I can talk for hours.”
He paused in thought. “Did I ever tell you about the time I taught Broody how to play Wicked Grace?”
Cullen shook his head, and Varric was off. He couldn’t quite follow the whole story (he had never picked up all of Varric’s names for his companions, which made following the plot a bit tricky), so he focused instead on Varric’s voice, its cadence a soothing counterpoint to the lapping of the waves against the hull. The sound drove the swirling thoughts away from his troubled mind, and he drifted off, thankful for an hour of peace.
+
It had been a month since the Conclave, and Cullen was desperately trying to find some sense of routine. Train with the troops in the morning, meet with the Herald, Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana in the afternoon. However, the Herald had taken a force to Therinfal Redoubt to investigate the templars holed up there, and so for the past two days Cullen had been at loose ends. He had taken his growing pile of paperwork into an alcove off of the main hall, and was reading a requisition request for new troop uniforms when Varric walked in, quickly seating himself in the chair across from Cullen.
“Anyone sitting here, Curly? Thanks.” He grabbed one of the nearest scrolls off of the table, and pretended to read it.
Cullen raised an eyebrow. “The rumor in Kirkwall was that you ran away from paperwork, not toward it.”
“Thankfully the Merchant’s Guild hasn’t figured out my exact location, yet, so I have a reprieve.” Varric skimmed the parchment he was holding. “Troops in the Hinterlands need more elfroot? Have they looked out a window? It grows everywhere!”
Cullen shook his head. “There’s no one there that can brew the potions.” He took the paper from Varric, and scribbled his signature at the bottom. “Should I ask why you’re hiding here?”
“Not hiding,” Varric clarified, “just hunkering down until things calm outside.”
“Calm?” Cullen stood abruptly, but Varric held out a hand before he could dash off.
“No need to upset yourself, Curly, it’s nothing major.” Varric grabbed another scroll. “Buttercup decided that Chuckles needed a hand redecorating, and so she painted his door for him. It’s… well, it’s not what he had in mind. Can’t imagine why.” He paused, reading the scroll in his hand. “Val Royeaux wants to throw the Inquisition a party? They *have* noticed the giant holes in the sky, right?”
“Apparently it isn’t as high on their list of priorities,” Cullen remarked. “So what did she draw?”
“It’s a picture of Solas stepping in nugshit, with bees hovering around his head, and above is a caption saying ‘The veil stings here.’” Varric laughed. “It’s a pretty good likeness.”
Cullen smiled. “I’ll have to head down to the tavern later and take a look.”
“Did I ever tell you about when I helped to stop the Carta from smuggling paintings out of Kirkwall?” Varric leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on Cullen’s table. “That’s when I developed an appreciation for the arts.”
“No,” Cullen said, leaning back in his own chair, “but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
Varric tapped his finger to his nose, as though about to impart a great secret, and then began to weave his tale, which involved a corrupt art historian, two nimble-fingered Carta dwarves, and Varric riding in to save the day. Cullen was quickly aware that the story was almost entirely fictional, although perhaps it started as a kernel of truth. He couldn’t find the strength to care, however, as he laughed along with Varric, once again saved by the sound of his voice.
+
A week after the fall of Haven, Cullen found himself sharing a campfire with the Chargers. The Herald has returned alive, and they were supposed to get to their new home, Skyhold, sometime tomorrow. Cullen knew he should be more relaxed now, with their destination visible on the horizon, but all he could think of is logistics and planning. Moving the entire Inquisition to a new home, getting everyone situated… it was going to be just as stressful as the attack on Haven was. Maybe even more so, since now they had the dubious luxury of time to overthink and overplan. Cullen stared into the fire, hoping the leaping flames would give him some sort of guidance.
“Keep that look on your face and it’ll stick like that,” Bull advised. Cullen rolled his eyes in response, but Bull just laughed. “That’s the spirit, Commander.”
“Curly’s just a ray of sunshine.” Cullen turned to find Varric sitting down next to him. “Hey Tiny, Kremcake.” (Cullen distinctly heard Krem, who was sitting on the other side of him, mutter, “One of you with the nicknames is bad enough.”) “I, for one, am excited to be in a place with a roof again. Camping with you all has been delightful, but it’s involved a bit too much nature.”
“A little snow never hurt anyone,” Bull said.
“Maybe if you’re the size of a mountain, Tiny, but when the snow comes up to your shoulder….” Varric makes a vague gesture between the two of them. “Well, I’d rather not get left behind because no one can see me, is all I’m saying.”
“Next time the snow gets too high, let me know.” Bull pats Varric on the shoulder. “I can carry you.”
“Great,” Varric said flatly.
“Hey, I’m very gentle,” Bull said. “Just ask Grim.”
Everyone turned toward Grim, who just shrugged. “Yeah,” Stiches said, “not touching that one with a long pole, Chief.”
“Tell us a story, Varric,” Krem said, “to shut the Chief up, if nothing else.”
“Hmmm.” Varric tilted his head in thought. “There was the time we snuck into the Gallows to deliver a birthday present to Hawke’s sister…”
Cullen choked on his drink. “I’m sorry,” he said incredulously, “but you did what?”
“Prefer not to know what rules we broke behind your back?” Varric asked?
“Maker’s breath.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
“Don’t worry, Curly, I’ll make sure to paint you in a positive light.” Varric patted Cullen’s knee. “It was at night, so you weren’t on duty.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Cullen asked.
“Now,” Varric continued, ignoring him, “Hawke’s sister, Bethany, had been in the Gallows for a few months when her birthday arrived, and Hawke’s mother was fretting about her not being able to send her a gift. So Hawke decided we could sneak it in using the tunnels that the mages were using to escape.”
“I am not hearing this,” Cullen muttered.
“We roped Anders into helping us, since breaking into the Gallows was Blondie’s hobby --”
“Andraste preserve us.”
“--and Isabela, because….” Varric paused. “I don’t think there was a reason she came, come to think of it. She was just bored. Anyway, the entrance to the tunnels were down the alley from Blondie’s clinic, so we met there, and headed out shortly after the first bell.”
Cullen decided it was best to pretend that this was entirely a work of fiction, and that any relation to any locations or persons (living or dead), was purely coincidental. That way, he could focus on enjoying Varric’s gift for spinning a tale, instead of focusing on how he’d have to kill him after.
+
When the historians wrote about the Inquisition in the years to come, Cullen hoped that they skipped the Great Upset of Dragon 9:41, wherein a hapless courier mixed up the herb requisitions to the infirmary and the kitchens, and then an even more hapless cook made stew with an herb normally used to induce vomiting. The resulting “meal” incapacitated a third of Skyhold. The healers assured everyone that there was nothing to do but sleep it off, so everyone took to bed.
On the third day, Cullen was feeling good enough to sit up, but not good enough to venture outside of his room. He summoned a runner to bring him some tea (“the weakest tea you can find,” Cullen had instructed), and then attempted to get out of bed. He was still attempting when Varric poked his head through the hole in Cullen’s floor. “Room service!”
“Since when are you a runner for the kitchens?” Cullen asked. With one more heave, he managed to get himself into something resembling an upright position.
“They’re a little short staffed at the moment,” Varric said, setting the tray on the floor before hoisting himself into Cullen’s room, “and I was in the kitchens, anyway.” He poured a cup of tea, and handed it to Cullen. “There’s some bread, too, and fruit if you’re feeling adventurous.”
“Not in the least,” Cullen said, gingerly blowing on the steaming mug of tea. Just the scent of it was doing wonders. “You managed to avoid taking ill?”
Varric pulled a chair next to Cullen’s bed and sat in it. “Dwarven constitution, I never get sick.”
“That’s not a thing,” Cullen said.
“It certainly is! Ask Scout Harding if she ever gets sick. Or Dagna!”
“I’ll pass.” Cullen took a small sip of the tea, and sighed. “Thank you for this.”
“No problem,” Varric said, pulling a sheaf of paper out of his pocket. Cullen eyed him.
“Are you… do you need something?”
“I’m trying to finish my latest serial, and it’s not working, and my editor has told me in no uncertain terms to fix it or else she’ll fix me.” Varric fumbled through the box of food that he had brought with him, until he procured a pen and ink. “Since you’re a captive audience right now, I thought you could help me out.”
“I don’t know much about writing, Varric.”
“Don’t need to know anything,” Varric said. “I’ll read this to you, and you stop me if something doesn’t make sense or sounds weird. Doable?”
Cullen settled back against the headboard. “I suppose I can try.”
“Knew I could count on you.” Varric cleared his throat, and began to read.
The story was a mystery, set in Kirkwall like Varric’s previous writings. An aspiring thief from Darktown failed to steal the purse of a noblewoman in Hightown, which spawned an unlikely friendship between the two. They would meet up at nights to show the other around their respective worlds. Cullen smiled as Varric finished reading a section about the two meeting in the Hanged Man, playing cards until the thief barely escaped with the clothes on his back.
“You miss Kirkwall a lot.”
Varric sighed. “Yeah, I do. It’s not the nicest of places, but it’s home.” He scribbled out a line of text. “I get that it’s not for everyone, though.”
“I don’t think I’d go back for all the gold in Thedas,” Cullen muttered, then colored slightly. Being sick was no excuse to be rude. “No offense meant.”
“None taken,” Varric said cheerily. “Now, in this next bit, can you pay attention to the templar’s dialogue? I don’t want it to sound too…” Varric looked up, as if the right word was above Cullen’s head, “...stereotypical.”
“Chantry good, mages bad?” Cullen asked with a smile.
“Something like that.” Varric tapped his pen to his knee, then began to read again. “‘Veronica traipsed along the path to Lowtown, lifting her skirts to avoid the puddles of mud that littered the street…’”
+
As Cullen left the war room and entered the main hall, he couldn’t help but notice that Varric’s corner, usually a hub of vibrancy and laughter, was quiet. Varric sat at the usual table, but he was silent, staring at his crossbow lying on the table. He didn’t look up as Cullen took a seat next to him. “Cullen.”
“Varric.” He gestured to the crossbow. “May I?”
Varric sighed, and kicked his feet up onto the table. “Knock yourself out.”
Cullen hefted the crossbow, as if to take aim. It wasn’t as heavy as it looked, and rested comfortably against his shoulder. “I’ve never seen her equal. She’s a work of art.”
“Bianca’s the love of my life,” Varric said, then winced and rubbed his face with a gloved hand. “Shit. Knew I should have named her Maribelle.”
Cullen excused himself, walked to Herald’s Rest, and picked up three tankards of ale. Coming back, he placed all three in front of Varric, then sat back in his chair. Varric raised an eyebrow.
“Three pints, before midday?” He slid one over in front of Cullen. “I’m sad, Curly, but not that sad.”
Cullen smiled, and raised his tankard. “To love, and the trouble that follows it.”
“Hear, hear.” Varric drank deeply, then eyed Cullen strangely. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”
Cullen paused, staring at a spot beyond Varric’s shoulder. “My first love…. Well, it was more of a crush, really…”
“Out with it, Curly.” Varric leaned forward with interest. “Who stole your young templar heart?”
“Solona Amell,” Cullen said quietly.
Varric whistled. “No shit.”
“Indeed.”
“It’s probably for the best,” Varric said philosophically. “You’d make a shit king.”
“Thank you very much,” Cullen grumbled.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Varric said. “I’m just, damn, I’m glad you’re here instead.”
Cullen wasn’t sure what he could say in response to that. He stared at the table and took a long pull of his drink. A few minutes of companionable silence followed, then --
“Tell me a story, Curly.”
Cullen opened his mouth as if to protest, but looked sideways at Varric. Hands clasped around his mug, Bianca seated on his lap -- Cullen had never seen Varric so downtrodden. He was not the best storyteller, but maybe, just this once…. Sighing, he settled back in his chair, steepling his hands in front of him. He cleared his throat, and began.