Chapter Text
Their first meeting was rather rushed. During their quick introduction while standing in the still-smoking rubble of what once was the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the Commander's first impression of Solas was made abundantly clear by the distrustful expression on his face the moment they locked eyes. That in of itself was not unsurprising. Apostate, mage, elf; one needs only to choose from the list of reasons to find Solas unappetizing, and one would most likely be correct. Yet despite the man's reservations and position, the commander was considerate enough to treat Solas with due respect and gratitude for his assistance. All while completely unaware that the explosion was all, in fact, very much Solas’s fault.
Now, no one knew that, and no one would ever know, if Solas could help it. Still, it was distressing to see how much chaos Solas's honest mistake was causing. The least he could do was stick around and try to fix it.
Subsequent interactions with the Commander were few and far between. The man was busy, as was Solas with his very important patient. Even more so when the so-called Herald of Andraste woke up.
Andraste. The title itself was preposterous– that human had no hand in what elvish magic had wrought. If anything, the poor soul should've been dubbed the herald of Fen'Harel. Fortunately, Solas was neither self-absorbed enough nor foolish enough to call attention to such things. Otherwise, his time with his new compatriots would be over quite quickly.
As it was, Solas was just fine with keeping his interactions with the templar to a minimum. Since his awakening, he had more than enough time to find out what such individuals were capable of, and he was in no hurry to lose his connection to the fade or feel his very soul burn away. However, what little interactions Solas had with the commander during their stay in Haven made it clear that the human was not quite like other templars.
Besides the man's reluctant but sincerely cordial cooperation with mages, it was obvious to Solas that the man was deprived of lyrium.
At first, Solas assumed it was a sad reflection of how few supplies they had for the Inquisition if even their highest-ranking soldier could not secure a steady source of the essential mineral. But as the group grew in influence and coin started regularly flowing in, Solas found it harder to believe that they were still left wanting for what was a vital tool for both templar and mage.
To test this theory, Solas put in a requisition request for five vials of lyrium and was more than mildly surprised to find it filled within the week.
If supply was not the issue, then the man had to be intentionally quitting the substance, which was admirable but ultimately foolish.
While non-mages were not meant to ingest the mineral at all, once they did for a significant time, they had to continue to do so. Otherwise, they ran the very real risk of sickness, madness, injury, or death. It was not impossible to survive through the symptoms, but it was improbable…especially given the commander's already fragile psyche. There had been rumors floating around the camp concerning the commander's past, and like most rumors, they most likely contained a grain of truth.
Unfortunately, Solas was in no position to voice his concerns. The commander's withdrawal was apparently intended to be a secret, despite the fact that any seasoned mage could smell the evidence of lyrium abuse as well as its lack thereof. Perhaps it was intended as a kindness to the man in question, a way to save face and avoid the litany of pitiable glances and fretting that seemed to go against the commander's nature. There were many aspects of humanity that Solas could not wrap his head around, but pride? Pride, he could understand.
So, he kept an eye on the templar from afar, noting the ratio of bad days to good days the man experienced.
The first month of Rutherford's assumed sobriety was the worst. The man looked half dead when he was up and about to be looked at at all. The ‘official’ story was that a terrible flu was making its rounds in Haven, and while indeed there was sickness in the air, it was clearly more than that for the commander. It was so obvious to Solas, yet no one seemed to question the commander's accompanying fainting spells or the seizures that often followed.
One such spell happened in Solas's presence, and it was fortunate that it did, as it resulted in the man nearly braining himself on the Chantry steps. It was during his early morning walk, when true dawn had not yet reached the horizon that suddenly someone was falling and just as suddenly Solas was catching them. That someone was the commander.
The moment Solas helped the convulsing man lie down onto his side, Cullen was shocked back into his senses. A horrible, shuddering gasp tore through his chest as he blinked blearily at his surroundings. The commander had a panicked look to him as he searched and finally found Solas’ face, his hand darting out and clutching the elf's own tightly. The moment their hands touched, the worry lines on Cullen's forehead eased away, and the brief instance of fear instead replaced with visible relief.
It was no doubt a result of the confusion left behind by the seizure; the commander must have mistaken him for the Herald, or perhaps Cassandra, slim as the chances may be for such a mix-up. But no, there was true recognition in the man's eyes as well as startling clarity and alertness that Solas had not seen in weeks.
“Solas?” Commander Rutherford asked, working his jaw and blinking as he slowly drew himself to sit upright, partially leaning his weight against the elf's shoulder.
“You fell ill, Commander. Quite literally.” A slight smile played on Solas’ lips, disappearing the moment the commander floundered in his attempts to bring himself to a full standing position. With his free hand on Cullen's shoulder, Solas pressed down firmly to hold him still. “I would advise against moving so soon; it would be a great misfortune to lose your life due to ice and hubris.”
A wry smirk tugged at the commander's lip, pulling at the scar there. With furrowed brow and an upward tilt of his head in subtle challenge, he gave Solas a once-over before meeting his gaze head-on.
“Advising the advisor, are we?”
Solas released his hold on the human's shoulder. “Forgive my impertinence. But if I, an elvish apostate, were to be found with the Commander of the Inquisition's army bleeding out at my feet,” Solas gestured to them both, “It would be most suspect. You could see why I may want to avoid such a situation.”
A low chuckle resounded in the commander's chest, and he reluctantly lay back down, his head cushioned by the folded vest Solas had laid down shortly after he’d caught him. The human's large, rough, and surprisingly warm hand stayed clutching Solas’s own, knuckles slowly regaining a flush of color as his grip relaxed.
Solas blinked.
In the excitement of the moment, he had not noticed that the commander's hands, usually clad in black leather gloves or metal gauntlets, were bare as the day he was born. The man's armor, in fact, was uncharacteristically absent, leaving Cullen in only his cotton and wool gambeson, leather breeches, boots, and presumably, underclothes and socks. To see the man in such undress was frankly more disturbing than witnessing his seizure.
Why was that, exactly? Disruption to routine was naturally unsettling, but nothing in the last year had been routine. It wasn't as if Solas thought the man slept in his cuirass, though he wouldn't be surprised if it did happen from time to time. Putting such ponderings aside to be forgotten, Solas decided to ask. Just out of curiosity.
“You must be freezing, Commander. Where is your usual armor and mantle?”
The question made Cullen blink owlishly, glancing down towards himself.
“Ah. I was actually on my way to get them. I typically don't don my full combat gear for my morning prayers.” A self-deprecating laugh slipped out while a pink flush colored his neck. “Though perhaps I ought to, if this is going to happen.”
Cullen reflexively squeezed Solas’s hand and hummed thoughtfully, “Although, I can't say I feel much of a chill right now.”
“Is that so?” Solas said, now even more curious. The temperature was frigid as ever, their breaths mingling as fog in the early morning air.
Nodding, Cullen took a slow breath and tilted his head up towards the sky. “It’s so peculiar. The air feels mild …temperate even. And... my vertigo is nonexistent.”
Solas frowned.
Odd .
“In fact, I…Heh.” With a weary laugh, Cullen scrubbed his free hand over his face, and when it fell away, he was smiling at the sky, relaxed shoulders sloping down. “I have to admit that I've never felt better . Like I could take down Corypheus all by myself.”
Solas's frown deepened.
Very odd.
A brief look of trepidation crossed the human's face, his eyebrows knitting together as he craned his head to look Solas in the eye. It was a familiar look, and Solas could practically see the gears turning, the question forming in the silence between them before Cullen voiced it.
“Did… you cast some sort of healing spell?”
“No,” Solas answered quickly, not wanting for a smite or a cleanse. Certainly not so early in the day, with so much left to be done. “I would ask beforehand. Truthfully, I did not consider it since you were still conscious and not in immediate danger of dying.”
Cullen nodded stiffly, still looking unsure.
“I see.”
It was then that Solas realized that Cullen's way of frowning was strangely endearing; his head cocked to the side as his gaze returned to the greying sky above. Not unlike one of those beasts that Fereldans claimed to be dogs.
What were they called again? Mabari. That's right.
Now that enough time had passed for any subsequent attacks to manifest, and fortunately none had, Solas gently pried his hand out of the Commander's grasp. It was somewhat of a challenge- for some reason, the man seemed reluctant, his fingers dragging unnecessarily across the back of Solas’ hand as he let go. It must not have been a conscious effort, for Cullen himself seemed confused by it, staring at his own hand in confusion as he experimentally stretched and curled his fingers.
Indeed, the good Commander Rutherford seemed to be a healthier pallor than before, mumbling thanks as Solas helped him stand upright. Ever a gentleman, he scooped up Solas's vest the moment he found it there at their feet and dutifully brushed off the ice crystals. He folded the garment over his arm before handing it back to Solas. Then, as if realizing that such effort was in vain since Solas was likely to slip it back on anyway, the commander cleared his throat and sheepishly rubbed at the back of his neck.
“I thank you for your assistance, Solas. Truly. And I apologize for inconveniencing you at such an early hour.”
“The time of day hardly matters when it comes to inconveniences, Commander,” Solas said dryly. Then, catching the self-flagellating look on Cullen's face, he added, “Luckily, an inconvenience this was not. I am more than happy to assist wherever and whenever I can.”
Smiling greatly softened the human's gruff features. The way it caused the distinctive scar to pull attractively at the corner of his lip drew Solas's attention for the briefest of moments, right before the man gave Solas a military standard bow, his voice warm when he replied, “For that I am most grateful.”
For a moment, Cullen stood there and stared into the middle distance, his hand flexing at his side while a pondering, nostalgic look crossed over his face. Before Solas could find out what he was thinking, Cullen seemed to catch up to the present. He again rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck.
“Well… Good day.” Commander Rutherford said awkwardly, giving Solas a half salute, a flush of red tingeing the tips of his ears following the gesture, before marching in the direction of his tent.
Solas folded his hands behind his back and offered another half smile as he bid the man “good day” in return.
The human glanced back once, the lopsided grin on his face serving to make him seem years younger. The distraction nearly caused him to barrel into Scout Harding. Thankfully, he twisted off to the side just in time, all while spouting out a series of meek I'm so sorry 's as he awkwardly continued in the direction of his quarters.
Solas arched an eyebrow, a light chuckle rumbling in his throat before he shrugged his shoulders and continued on with his own belated morning routine.
Very, very odd indeed.