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The end sneaks up on them. There was a time when each bed would fill as soon as it was vacated; now only two beds in the center remained occupied. When two months pass without any new arrivals and the inquiries stop coming, the change is both welcome and disorienting. Even the assistants seem pleased to be relieved of their duty, no doubt proud of achieving a worthy goal.
Cullen occupies his increasing amount of spare time by writing and reading letters to and from his former – well, he isn’t sure what to call them. She suggests they are his patients but he rejects the nomenclature. He wouldn’t dare compare himself to a healer. For the first time in his life titles are meaningless, he feels comfortable rejecting them. Calling them former guests seems the most appropriate. They called him all sorts of terms of endearment, his favorite being “Commander Dad”.
He remembers them all, every single one, and his chest never tires of swelling with pride when he reads that they are well, that they remained on the path, and that they in turn are helping other former Templars to leave lyrium behind. He tries not to dwell on the letters that don’t come, no matter how many times Ingrid tells him not to read too much into it. Cullen knows why they don’t reply, and even after all the success stories that he helped to write, it still breaks his heart. Thanks to the Maker those cases are few and far between.
When the last “guest” leaves the Pentaghast Center, a brawny Fereldan lad with an infectious laugh and a voracious appetite, Cullen finds himself embracing him a bit longer than the others. He can scarcely believe that ten years of work has possibly come to an end. Ten years of sleepless nights, of testing limits of every sort, of giving a piece of himself to help others, just as Cassandra and the Herald did all those years ago. He knows he shouldn’t feel disappointed – this was his goal, was it not? – but as he walks through the large, empty house, he misses them. Is this really it? Has he truly helped everyone he could? These are questions without answers.
That night their lovemaking is loud, intense and rough; they both take advantage of the empty house by holding nothing back. It had been a while and apparently some frustrations needed their release. He brings her into his arms after they catch their breath, and feeling her warm body against his, the curve of her back under his fingers, her soft curls that always tickle his face, smelling her sweet scent, he still can’t believe this is his life. He would have been content with her passing through his existence just as the Inquisitor, would have considered himself lucky just to know such an incredible, beautiful person. For reasons he still doesn’t understand, divine or otherwise, instead of retiring comfortably with some noble in the Free Marches, she chose him. Years later she’s still here, his wife, dedicating her world to his cause without hesitation, and sometimes it drives him mad to know that there is nothing he could ever do to repay her. So he loves her with all of his soul, every moment of every day, as best as he can.
Just before he drifts off, she touches her lips to his and shifts out of his arms and they assume their usual sleeping positions. There are many more letters to write in the morning.