#Need more shades of brown markers 😭

[nirikeehan]

happy friday!! for DADWC & bad things bingo, how about claustrophobia for Thalia?

YAS I love when bad things happen. 😭 I hope you don't mind that I've added Cullen because claustrophobia sure is a thing he suffers from. This scene is an extension of this, because a good angst starter needs a good angst continuation. I don't make the rules.

For @dadrunkwriting and @badthingshappenbingo

Series: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Word Count: 1928

CW: Portrayal of trauma/PTSD symptoms

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The ruined farmstead stood on the edge of a fallow field. It was difficult to imagine Cullen as a child here: everything was fetid shades of brown and grey. The walk through Honnleath had been bright and sunny, but as they arrived dark clouds blew in, threatening rain. The crisp spring air now held a rawness to it. 

Thalia could feel Cullen’s fear beside her. He had clad himself in heavy armor for most of the time she’d known him, and without it he seemed smaller, more fragile. A tension clung to him, and she wondered again if it was too soon.

The gnarled oak tree stood on the other side of the field, past a tattered scarecrow flecked with mud. As they traipsed across the muddy ground, beady-eyed crows fled from their roost atop its bony shoulders. Doing a poor job, I see, Thalia wanted to joke, but thought better of it. 

The tree was massive, wide in its trunk and multitudinous in its branches, which reached skyward as if begging for deliverance. Only the tiniest buds of green touched it this early in the spring. Underneath stood two wooden markers, decayed by time, and the faint hint of mounds beneath. 

Cullen stopped. “That’s them.” He paused, looked away, eying the darkening horizon beyond the tree line. She wondered if he might suggest they return in better weather, but the doubt in his expression hardened into determination. “Right, then.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Thalia asked quietly. “Or would you like to do this alone?” 

“I— I’m not sure.” He hesitated, then grabbed both her hands and squeezed them tightly. “I’ll go on ahead. Stay nearby?”

Thalia nodded, squeezed back. “Of course.” 

“Good. I don’t like the looks of this place.” 

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but nodded. This was his burden to carry; she only wished to accommodate him as much as she could.

Cullen dropped her hands and walked on ahead to the twin graves. Thalia wandered over to a rotting wooden fence, debated leaning against it, but worried it would no longer support her weight. Instead, she took a breath and surveyed the blighted farmstead. Wisps of mist gathered amid the distant forest, spilling out onto the barren field. The farmhouse itself was a stout stone rectangle, lichen-covered and unwelcoming. Cullen was right: the air had an unsettling quality to it, although she couldn’t name why. Maybe his anxiety was leaking into her, heightening her own. 

She had wanted to give him privacy, but her unease forced a glance over her shoulder. Cullen had sunk onto one knee in the grass, hands clasped in prayer. A forlorn feeling twisted in Thalia’s chest. She wished, at times, she could summon the sort of faith Cullen was able to maintain, despite everything they’d been through. She envied it, even though it chafed against her feeling of newfound freedom after years spent confined by the Circle and its Chantry dogma. How he’d been able to reconcile belief with the abuses of the institutions that had trapped them both marveled her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get there, but he’d never judged her, and for that she was grateful. 

In the distance, thunder rumbled. The sky seemed darker than ever. Thalia wondered if she should go to Cullen, but the stillness in his posture and head bowed in reverence stayed her. Just a few more minutes. He’s waited so long. 

Fat raindrops had begun to spatter her clothing when she felt his hand on her shoulder. Thalia looked up; Cullen’s face was damp, his eyes red and puffy, but his mouth quirked into a smile. “I think we ought to go before we get caught in this storm.” 

“Are you sure?” Lightning arched in the clouds over his shoulder.

“Yes.” Thunder crashed close, and he grabbed her elbow protectively.

They hurried through the field, boots sucking and slipping in the newly created mud. Thalia pulled up the hood on her cloak, yet the wind blew water into her face all the same. 

“I don’t think we’re going to make it back to town!” Thalia yelled above the din. 

“You’re right.” The rain plastered Cullen’s hair to his forehead. He pointed. “We must seek shelter.” 

Thalia looked past his arm to the farmhouse, its stones slimy and dark from the wet. “You want to go back into your old house?” Is that a good idea? she nearly asked, but their options were scant. Aside from the dwelling, which at least seemed intact, the property contained only an old sheepfold and a barn that had collapsed long ago.

“It will be fine. There’s nothing in there.”

Why would there be anything in there? Thalia bit her lip and sprinted to keep pace with his longer strides.

She feared the door broken or stuck, but it swung open easily when Cullen shouldered against it. Beyond was a dank-smelling common room, devoid of furniture, with a large stone hearth built into one wall. Rotted wood steps ascended into darkness, as did doorway in the far wall. 

Thalia shut the door, leaving them in a gloomy dimness. Wind howled through the rafters above. Her clothes were sopping wet and dripping. She drew her arms around herself and shivered. “Any chance we could build a fire?” 

Cullen stood with his back to her, unmoving. 

“Cullen?” She reached for his shoulder. “Are you all right?” 

He jumped at her touch.  “Yes. It’s just… strange. To be here, after so long.” He took a breath, and pointed a corner near the hearth. “There used to be a long table right there — we’d take all our meals there. Mum had a giant cooking pot she’d hang over the fire and serve from there. Her stews were legendary. Neighbors would come calling, hoping she had leftovers…” He trailed off, clearing his throat. “Never mind. What were you saying?” 

“A fire,” Thalia said gently. “I think it might be a good idea. We’re soaked to the bone.”

“Right.” Cullen ran agitated fingers through his hair, making the saturated ends stand up at odd angles. “Well, I could light one in this hearth with my eyes closed, if only…” He approached the fireplace, squinting at an irregular formation in the masonry. “Huh.” He reached up and withdrew an old tinderbox. “Right where it always was.” He gazed at it a long moment. “If we only had some wood.”

Thalia looked around the room, which proved no less bare before. “I don’t see any.”

“No. We used to keep some stacked beside the fireplace, but that’s long gone.” He looked at her. “My father would store extra piles in the cellar, to keep them out of the elements.”

The windows lit up in a flash of lightning, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder that startled them both. “Where’s the cellar?” Thalia asked.

“Off the back room.” He nodded toward the far doorway, then stepped closer and kissed her damp forehead. “I’ll go check. You stay here.” 

“You’re certain you don’t want company?” It felt silly to admit she didn’t want him going off alone, nor that she did not want to remain by herself. They’d both seen far worse than a spooky house in the middle of a thunderstorm. 

“I— could use a few moments by myself,” Cullen confessed. “There’s a lot — to remember.” 

Thalia nodded. “Of course. Take your time.” 

He disappeared through the shadowy threshold, and Thalia removed her rain-soaked cloak. She hung it on the edge of the mantel above the hearth and settled down on the floor. High above her, rain battered the sloped roof. The lightning and thunder continued at a frenetic pace.

The minutes wore on, and Cullen did not return. Apprehension turned to worry as Thalia waited. She got to her feet and paced, debating whether to go after him. She did not want to invade his privacy if he needed it, but he’d also been on edge since the moment they’d arrived in town. 

Making a decision, she steeled her nerves and plunged through the dark doorway. Thalia flexed her left hand and squinted, using the dim emerald glow of the anchor to see. It must have once been a storage room, for barren shelves lined the walls, and a heavy door stood along one wall, but that must lead outside — she could hear the wind and rain blowing against it. There were no windows, no other exits. A chill wound its way up her spine.

“Cullen?” Thalia called.

A loud bang reverberated through the floor, and she nearly screamed. 

She lowered her anchored hand: there, a trap door laid into the floor. Another thud, causing the metal ring to shake. A familiar muffled voice came from below. “I’m here. The infernal door’s stuck.” 

Relieved, Thalia sank to her knees. “Thank goodness. Did you find any wood?” 

“There’s plenty. Just please get me out of here.” 

Thalia frowned. “Are you all right?” She reached for the metal ring and pulled, but the door held fast. 

“Yes, it’s just… the ceiling is very low in here.” Cullen let out a nervous laugh. “I swear it was much higher when I was a child.” 

“That’ll happen.” Thalia grabbed the ring with both hands. She pulled again, to no avail. “I think the damn thing’s swollen from all the moisture.”

There was a long pause. “Have you ever been on a ship?”

“My father liked sailing with us on the family yacht, but that was ages ago.” Maybe if she squatted and used her feet for leverage? “In recent memory, just the ride over from Ostwick for the Conclave. Why?” 

“This reminds me of… the ship’s cabin I had to sleep in when I was sent to Kirkwall. No bloody windows… makes it difficult to breathe.” 

Oh. Oh no. “You’ve got plenty of air down there, you know.”

Another pause. “Does not… feel like it.” 

“Look, why don’t we take a few deep breaths together?” She dug her boots into the doorframe and threw all her weight against the latch. “I’ll count. One — in and out—”

She yanked as hard as she could, and the door budged slightly. Sweat broke out on her brow. This is what I get for skipping all those training sessions with Bull, she thought in dismay. “Two — in and out—”

She pulled again, and at last the door gave way. It flew open, and Thalia fell backward as Cullen burst through the opening, gasping for air. She scrambled onto her knees and wrapped her arms around him. He was shaking violently.

“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“They’re dead,” he muttered as he clung to her. “They’re all dead, and it’s my fault.” 

His words hit like a punch to the stomach. She wasn’t sure if he meant his parents, or the villagers in Honnleath, or his Templar colleagues in Kinloch Hold, or a hundred other circumstances beyond his control. “It’s not your fault.”

Through clenched teeth, he hissed in her ear, “I should have done something.” 

“What could you do?” Thalia asked. “You survived. That’s enough.” 

He hugged her tightly, as if he worried she too would vanish. “It’s not.” 

“Shhh.”

As she rubbed his back, she knew what he was thinking: the same thing she did, whenever she looked at the freed mages in Skyhold, or elves fresh from an alienage, or the war table, its map adorned with triumphal dagger after triumphal dagger, for all their battles waged and won.

It will never, no matter what I do, be enough.